Do you ever notice that when you learn a new word, or new concept, it suddenly turns up everywhere? You come across it in every new book you read, or the next tv show/movie you see deals with it. Most of the time, I find this coincidence to be entertaining. Well, it seems to work the same way with things you want to avoid. At the moment, I’m trying to avoid an old concept, and it just seems to be attacking me from all sides.
What concept?
Weddings.
Weddings are everywhere. Most of the season finales on TV right now are featuring weddings. Every magazine has “last minute details for your perfect wedding” taunting me. Most of my friends are getting ready to go to at least one friend’s wedding. I read this raunchy/funny blog written by a friend of mine, and I swear he’s gone to (and written about) a wedding every couple of weeks lately. Hell, even the guy who manages his website just got engaged.
It’s like I’m trapped inside a funhouse where the mirrors are tilting and demented clowns are jumping out at me while laughing hysterically.
Look, I get that it is almost June. I get that it’s the most popular wedding month. I get that I wasn’t going to be completely able to avoid the idea forever despite covering my ears with my hands and yelling “LA LA LA LA LA”.
I even understand that my sensitivity might be related to the fact that The Ex will be getting married in about a month. Maybe. Possibly. But come on!! I was doing well. I didn’t even break down and buy him a wedding present to prove how much I’ve grown. Nor have I spent much time at all dwelling at all on what he’s going to look like standing at the end of that aisle waiting for someone who isn’t me… well, I wasn’t until right now. Now, I might be dwelling just a bit, but it isn’t anything a little rocking back and forth wont take care of.
I’m not asking for a lot. I’m just asking for the universe to back off a tiny bit for just a few hours.
This has been a public service request—because the public will be served by me not having a bigger mental break.
Thank you.
Kate
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Possibilities are just… um…
Since romanticized belief in “the one” got me pretty much nowhere, I’ve decided to take a practical approach. I’m making a list—I’m very big on “to do” lists, so I’m comfortable with this concept (nothing I like better than being able to check something off!). What is this particular list of? Professions that would yield a suitable mate.
It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I have a very specific life right now. I’m up by 5am at the latest during the week. It’s incredibly hard for me to sleep beyond 7am even on the weekends. Many people make the mistake of suggesting that this makes me a morning person. Um… no. It’s a very good thing that I don’t have to have pleasant interaction with people at those hours. I tend to be very internal on my most social day, and 5am is not a social hour for me.
When I was living with my ex, he had a very different schedule, which ultimately didn’t work for us as a couple. For instance, he liked to eat dinner later than 4:30. Whatever. He’d want to stay up late on weekends and sleep-in to like… oh… 10:00am on weekends. Nuts! Clearly, he had narcoleptic tendencies. And apparently, he wanted a woman who might be awake past 9pm. He was so unreasonable.
My schedule is actual crazier now than it was when I was with him (although significantly less time is spent commuting), but it is a real issue. If someone wanted to meet me for a date at 7pm, I’d probably have a panic attack. Ok, I would definitely have a panic attack because I’d be going on a date. But beside that, I’d have a panic attack because the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is have to be up and bubbly—actually, just up really is too much for me.
I realize this makes me sound like a 90 year old, but this is my reality. Sure, if there is something really special going on, I’ll concede to later hours, but that’s not a lifestyle option for me. I’d never make it through work.
So, I’m working on a list. What kind of career would mould a man who would understand and even appreciate my lifestyle?
1. Morning news anchor. They get up earlier than I do. I’m not picky—local LA news, CNN, MSNBC, whatever. Plus, I love current events and politics.
2. Morning radio DJ. They also tend to get up earlier than I do. I’m constantly listening to music, but I’m not really into the music scene, so I might not know what they are talking about. Still, a real possibility, I think.
3. Milkman. Do they have milkmen still?
4. Paperboy. Could be potentially tricky to meet a 40 year old paperboy, but it could happen.
5. Senior Center Assistant. He’d be good with people, and he’d understand the whole eating at 4pm thing.
6. um…yeah, I’m out.
Look, if this is the current love of my life we’re talking about, I’d be willing to make concessions periodically. But starting a new relationship with someone who thinks I’m going to change, the work is going to change, or someone I have to pretend with, is not good idea.
So, options? Let me hear them!
Kate, already in her jammies at 6:30, in LA.
It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I have a very specific life right now. I’m up by 5am at the latest during the week. It’s incredibly hard for me to sleep beyond 7am even on the weekends. Many people make the mistake of suggesting that this makes me a morning person. Um… no. It’s a very good thing that I don’t have to have pleasant interaction with people at those hours. I tend to be very internal on my most social day, and 5am is not a social hour for me.
When I was living with my ex, he had a very different schedule, which ultimately didn’t work for us as a couple. For instance, he liked to eat dinner later than 4:30. Whatever. He’d want to stay up late on weekends and sleep-in to like… oh… 10:00am on weekends. Nuts! Clearly, he had narcoleptic tendencies. And apparently, he wanted a woman who might be awake past 9pm. He was so unreasonable.
My schedule is actual crazier now than it was when I was with him (although significantly less time is spent commuting), but it is a real issue. If someone wanted to meet me for a date at 7pm, I’d probably have a panic attack. Ok, I would definitely have a panic attack because I’d be going on a date. But beside that, I’d have a panic attack because the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is have to be up and bubbly—actually, just up really is too much for me.
I realize this makes me sound like a 90 year old, but this is my reality. Sure, if there is something really special going on, I’ll concede to later hours, but that’s not a lifestyle option for me. I’d never make it through work.
So, I’m working on a list. What kind of career would mould a man who would understand and even appreciate my lifestyle?
1. Morning news anchor. They get up earlier than I do. I’m not picky—local LA news, CNN, MSNBC, whatever. Plus, I love current events and politics.
2. Morning radio DJ. They also tend to get up earlier than I do. I’m constantly listening to music, but I’m not really into the music scene, so I might not know what they are talking about. Still, a real possibility, I think.
3. Milkman. Do they have milkmen still?
4. Paperboy. Could be potentially tricky to meet a 40 year old paperboy, but it could happen.
5. Senior Center Assistant. He’d be good with people, and he’d understand the whole eating at 4pm thing.
6. um…yeah, I’m out.
Look, if this is the current love of my life we’re talking about, I’d be willing to make concessions periodically. But starting a new relationship with someone who thinks I’m going to change, the work is going to change, or someone I have to pretend with, is not good idea.
So, options? Let me hear them!
Kate, already in her jammies at 6:30, in LA.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Shrek is Killing My Love Life
It’s not like I’m not trying at least a teensy bit to date. I am. For instance, periodically, I leave my apartment. And when I do so, at least 35% of the time, I have combed my hair. So, you can see that I’m really putting some effort into this whole “finding another love of a lifetime” thing.
But I’m not getting anywhere. And now not only am I am being thwarted by age, cellulite and antisocial tendencies, but now I am being thwarted by an animated green ogre.
Shrek is killing my love life.
Really, who hasn’t said that sentence before? I’m sure most people have, but this is a first for me. How is the green monster (for once, I’m not talking about envy) trashing my prospects?
I’ve been trying to put together this screening/party thing. I’ve mostly squashed my antisocial outlook, and I’ve tried to embrace this as an opportunity. So, I went out on a limb, and I issued a special invitation to a young gentleman caller (or emailer, really) with whom I’ve chatted on a number of occasions. This constitutes a bold move for me. Bold, people. Very, very bold. Sigh.
Well, the screening date and party plans that we put together have been killed by Shrek. Shrek is booked in for early screenings, so when our original date got pushed, we couldn’t go to the backup date. As of right now, we have no screening date. Which means have no party date. Which means I have no date.
Freakin’ Shrek.
Kate, who shouldn’t be planning parties to begin with, in LA
But I’m not getting anywhere. And now not only am I am being thwarted by age, cellulite and antisocial tendencies, but now I am being thwarted by an animated green ogre.
Shrek is killing my love life.
Really, who hasn’t said that sentence before? I’m sure most people have, but this is a first for me. How is the green monster (for once, I’m not talking about envy) trashing my prospects?
I’ve been trying to put together this screening/party thing. I’ve mostly squashed my antisocial outlook, and I’ve tried to embrace this as an opportunity. So, I went out on a limb, and I issued a special invitation to a young gentleman caller (or emailer, really) with whom I’ve chatted on a number of occasions. This constitutes a bold move for me. Bold, people. Very, very bold. Sigh.
Well, the screening date and party plans that we put together have been killed by Shrek. Shrek is booked in for early screenings, so when our original date got pushed, we couldn’t go to the backup date. As of right now, we have no screening date. Which means have no party date. Which means I have no date.
Freakin’ Shrek.
Kate, who shouldn’t be planning parties to begin with, in LA
Monday, April 30, 2007
Party Planning
I’ve been asked to help schedule and plan a party.
Let’s just let that sink in for a moment.
I have been asked to plan a party. Yeah, because when you think to yourself—gosh, you know who loves going to and throwing parties? Kate. Totally. She loves people. She can’t get enough of people. Social. Social. Social. She’s never home. Life is just one big party for Kate. You certainly don’t find her hiding in a corner behind a plant.
You know what aspect she loves the most—Food. Lord only knows how much she loves dining out, particularly at night. Foodie and Kate are practically synonymous. Foodie, party planning and Kate. She’s really the best person for the job.
I mean… have these people met me? Have the words “I want to throw a party” ever left my mouth? Not to my knowledge. In fact, I’m not sure the words “I want to go to a party” have often left my mouth (alright, there was that one time that involved a guy, a frat party and a toga, but that was years ago, and all the witnesses have been disappeared).
On what planet does someone expect me to have any clue how much food feeds 150 people, or how much that would reasonably cost? I go to the grocery store once a month tops. And if it is food that can’t be eaten while standing over the sink in my kitchen, it’s going to stay in my freezer a very long time.
I’ve known these people for years, but either they aren’t remotely aware of who they are dealing with, or they just don’t have time to do it themselves.
So, dear friends, expect a call. One, or more of you, will be coming very, very soon to a restaurant near you (well, near me). And you will sit down and play taste tester.
Now, any volunteers to help me test out the alcohol? Since I rarely drink, I’m going to need help on that one, too.
Dang… phone is already ringing, and I haven’t even posted this yet.
Lushes. ;)
Please pray for me. Or rather, pray for the guests. They’ve worked hard. They deserve a good time.
Kate
(Ok, go ahead and pray doubly hard for me. I may need to hibernate soon just to recover).
Let’s just let that sink in for a moment.
I have been asked to plan a party. Yeah, because when you think to yourself—gosh, you know who loves going to and throwing parties? Kate. Totally. She loves people. She can’t get enough of people. Social. Social. Social. She’s never home. Life is just one big party for Kate. You certainly don’t find her hiding in a corner behind a plant.
You know what aspect she loves the most—Food. Lord only knows how much she loves dining out, particularly at night. Foodie and Kate are practically synonymous. Foodie, party planning and Kate. She’s really the best person for the job.
I mean… have these people met me? Have the words “I want to throw a party” ever left my mouth? Not to my knowledge. In fact, I’m not sure the words “I want to go to a party” have often left my mouth (alright, there was that one time that involved a guy, a frat party and a toga, but that was years ago, and all the witnesses have been disappeared).
On what planet does someone expect me to have any clue how much food feeds 150 people, or how much that would reasonably cost? I go to the grocery store once a month tops. And if it is food that can’t be eaten while standing over the sink in my kitchen, it’s going to stay in my freezer a very long time.
I’ve known these people for years, but either they aren’t remotely aware of who they are dealing with, or they just don’t have time to do it themselves.
So, dear friends, expect a call. One, or more of you, will be coming very, very soon to a restaurant near you (well, near me). And you will sit down and play taste tester.
Now, any volunteers to help me test out the alcohol? Since I rarely drink, I’m going to need help on that one, too.
Dang… phone is already ringing, and I haven’t even posted this yet.
Lushes. ;)
Please pray for me. Or rather, pray for the guests. They’ve worked hard. They deserve a good time.
Kate
(Ok, go ahead and pray doubly hard for me. I may need to hibernate soon just to recover).
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Open Letter to the Universe
Dear Universe,
Kindly stop f’ing with me.
Your prompt attention to this matter is much appreciated.
Hugs and kisses,
Kate
I am the “anti-Secret” person.
I don’t mean that I can’t keep secrets, I mean that positive thinking book, “The Secret”. I am, apparently, the exception to the positive thinking rule. People who know me in real life are probably nodding along to the home version of the Kate game and saying “yeah, she really is”.
It’s not because positive thinking invariably leads to disappointment. Clearly, it does. But it’s because the word “never” is apparently like catnip to the universe. It can’t resist. I use the word “never”, and you can practically see the tiny universe ears perk up. Its claws come out, and they start tapping. The universe starts licking its lips (Yes, the universe has lips. I’ve seen them.). The universe’s brows knit together (not to be confused with the uni-brow, which is actually something entirely different). And you want to know what the universe says? It says “Reaaaaaaallyyyyy” in a voice sounding very much like Steve Martin in “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels”.
Think I’m kidding?
“I’m going to miss Dale so much. Brad’s another matter. I can’t wait for Brad to leave. I’ll never miss that one”. (Dated Brad on and off for 3 years following this statement, but after he enlisted and was shipped off across the country. And yes, missed him terribly in only the way a high school girl can do anything—with lots of drama!).
“We got stuck together for freshman year, but it’s not like I’d ever live with her again. Thank God! I’ll never have to room with her again” (Lived with roommate for another entire year. Didn’t speak to each other at all for the last 4 months of that. Very small room. Quite the challenge. Luckily, I have skills).
“Sure, we’re moving to New Jersey, but at least I won’t have to commute into NYC for work. I’ll never do that. I’ll never work in New York.” (Worked in NYC for slightly less than 4 years with a commute that was 1 ½ to 2 hours each way. Started that less than a month after this statement).
“Fine, so I’m working in NYC. It’s not California. You know I’ll never move all the way out there”. (Yep. Sensing a trend?)
“I’ll never stay at this job if he leaves… or him… or…” (yeah, totally trapped).
“I’ll never drink again” (ok, everyone has that one, but I think mine relates directly to the never above, or the one below).
“I’ll never find the man I want to spend the rest of my life with here”. (Evil. Found him. Lost him. Bad. Bad Universe).
“I’ll never see him, again. Why would I? It’s not like our paths will accidentally cross” (Cross? More like collided).
"Ok, last time I did see him. But that was just fate laughing. I'll never see him ag... uh... really?" (shit)
And this is just a sampling. I have millions of them (some with good results, some—not so much). The universe finds the word “never” to be a challenge. So, now I have a plan. While the rest of the people out there are thinking only thoughts of “this will happen” to get what they want, I’m finally going to put this never thing to good use.
So…
I will never date George Clooney.
I will never marry the man of my post-20 something dreams.
I will never win the lottery.
Ha! Suck it, Universe.
Kate, dodging lightning bolts, in LA
(Unless, of course, the Universe is already wise to this reverse plotting, in which case all those things immediately above… totally going to do those things).
Kindly stop f’ing with me.
Your prompt attention to this matter is much appreciated.
Hugs and kisses,
Kate
I am the “anti-Secret” person.
I don’t mean that I can’t keep secrets, I mean that positive thinking book, “The Secret”. I am, apparently, the exception to the positive thinking rule. People who know me in real life are probably nodding along to the home version of the Kate game and saying “yeah, she really is”.
It’s not because positive thinking invariably leads to disappointment. Clearly, it does. But it’s because the word “never” is apparently like catnip to the universe. It can’t resist. I use the word “never”, and you can practically see the tiny universe ears perk up. Its claws come out, and they start tapping. The universe starts licking its lips (Yes, the universe has lips. I’ve seen them.). The universe’s brows knit together (not to be confused with the uni-brow, which is actually something entirely different). And you want to know what the universe says? It says “Reaaaaaaallyyyyy” in a voice sounding very much like Steve Martin in “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels”.
Think I’m kidding?
“I’m going to miss Dale so much. Brad’s another matter. I can’t wait for Brad to leave. I’ll never miss that one”. (Dated Brad on and off for 3 years following this statement, but after he enlisted and was shipped off across the country. And yes, missed him terribly in only the way a high school girl can do anything—with lots of drama!).
“We got stuck together for freshman year, but it’s not like I’d ever live with her again. Thank God! I’ll never have to room with her again” (Lived with roommate for another entire year. Didn’t speak to each other at all for the last 4 months of that. Very small room. Quite the challenge. Luckily, I have skills).
“Sure, we’re moving to New Jersey, but at least I won’t have to commute into NYC for work. I’ll never do that. I’ll never work in New York.” (Worked in NYC for slightly less than 4 years with a commute that was 1 ½ to 2 hours each way. Started that less than a month after this statement).
“Fine, so I’m working in NYC. It’s not California. You know I’ll never move all the way out there”. (Yep. Sensing a trend?)
“I’ll never stay at this job if he leaves… or him… or…” (yeah, totally trapped).
“I’ll never drink again” (ok, everyone has that one, but I think mine relates directly to the never above, or the one below).
“I’ll never find the man I want to spend the rest of my life with here”. (Evil. Found him. Lost him. Bad. Bad Universe).
“I’ll never see him, again. Why would I? It’s not like our paths will accidentally cross” (Cross? More like collided).
"Ok, last time I did see him. But that was just fate laughing. I'll never see him ag... uh... really?" (shit)
And this is just a sampling. I have millions of them (some with good results, some—not so much). The universe finds the word “never” to be a challenge. So, now I have a plan. While the rest of the people out there are thinking only thoughts of “this will happen” to get what they want, I’m finally going to put this never thing to good use.
So…
I will never date George Clooney.
I will never marry the man of my post-20 something dreams.
I will never win the lottery.
Ha! Suck it, Universe.
Kate, dodging lightning bolts, in LA
(Unless, of course, the Universe is already wise to this reverse plotting, in which case all those things immediately above… totally going to do those things).
Friday, April 20, 2007
Quick Question About Destiny
I just have a very quick question about destiny, as we all begin to enjoy the coming weekend. I just looked up the definition of destiny. Dictionary.com has it as “the predetermined, usually inevitable or irresistible, course of events.” Cool.
Here’s my question-
If I believe that dating and marrying George Clooney is my destiny, then it really doesn’t matter what I do to achieve this, right? If it is destiny, I’m every bit as likely to see this predetermined course of events occur if I’m plucking my eyebrows, or not plucking them. Right? I could hide in my apartment, celebrating the joy of a room entirely filled with dark chocolate, and still date and marry George. Right? So, the fat sucking, eyebrow plucking, afternoons on all fours in front of a waxer are not really necessary. Total sloth and days filled with the comfort of soft cotton sweats and a blankie are as effective as hours doing ab crunches and spandex-wrapped squats.
Justification. It’s a beautiful thing.
Kate, feeling slothy, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
Here’s my question-
If I believe that dating and marrying George Clooney is my destiny, then it really doesn’t matter what I do to achieve this, right? If it is destiny, I’m every bit as likely to see this predetermined course of events occur if I’m plucking my eyebrows, or not plucking them. Right? I could hide in my apartment, celebrating the joy of a room entirely filled with dark chocolate, and still date and marry George. Right? So, the fat sucking, eyebrow plucking, afternoons on all fours in front of a waxer are not really necessary. Total sloth and days filled with the comfort of soft cotton sweats and a blankie are as effective as hours doing ab crunches and spandex-wrapped squats.
Justification. It’s a beautiful thing.
Kate, feeling slothy, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Here’s the Thing
I have two things on my mind at the moment, so you are getting them both (why does that sound like a threat?).
First:
I really like this article: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23392788-details/
I’m going to concur and say that this is 100% true. This is based on years and years of trying to eat my body weight in chocolate. It’s based on my last biology class, which was sometime last century. It’s also based on years and years of not being kissed, and the bitterness that this has caused—which I suppose has added to my original determination to eat my body weight in chocolate. See, everything comes back to the beginning. Circle of life, my friends :)
If my goal for the year (it’s actually on the sacred New Year’s resolution list) is to go out on a date, eventually there might be a kiss in my future. Right? Ok, so after 5 or 6 months of cautious hand-holding (obviously, after the background check comes back clean—I mean, I’m not easy), I could finally work up to a kiss. But if that kiss has less long-term satisfaction than something I can get now at the grocery store, couldn’t I just jump straight to the chocolate part of the relationship (the one that comes after the break-up and the rocking back and forth in the corner)? It just seems like less work. I mean, I don’t have to fill out a 27 page form in order to meet some chocolate that might be a suitable partner. I’m just saying.
Second:
This thought is for all of you who actually know men. Please pass along this little tip. Boys, don’t hit on a girl while you are complaining to your friend about your current relationship. Seriously, it tends to make the new object of your semi-affection ponder your sincerity.
I was walking through the parking lot of my dance studio when two attractive men were walking towards their cars. The dark-haired guy was quite loudly expressing to his friend that he thought the “honeymoon phase with her” has ended. In the midst of continuing his thought about his relationship, he turned to me and gave me the full-on Joey Tribbiani treatment. I’m not kidding—I got the full “how you doin’?” with the eyebrows and the grin. I couldn’t decide if I should be flattered that a guy actually noticed me, or offended for girlfriends everywhere.
I settled for confused. It’s what I do best.
Kate
First:
I really like this article: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23392788-details/
I’m going to concur and say that this is 100% true. This is based on years and years of trying to eat my body weight in chocolate. It’s based on my last biology class, which was sometime last century. It’s also based on years and years of not being kissed, and the bitterness that this has caused—which I suppose has added to my original determination to eat my body weight in chocolate. See, everything comes back to the beginning. Circle of life, my friends :)
If my goal for the year (it’s actually on the sacred New Year’s resolution list) is to go out on a date, eventually there might be a kiss in my future. Right? Ok, so after 5 or 6 months of cautious hand-holding (obviously, after the background check comes back clean—I mean, I’m not easy), I could finally work up to a kiss. But if that kiss has less long-term satisfaction than something I can get now at the grocery store, couldn’t I just jump straight to the chocolate part of the relationship (the one that comes after the break-up and the rocking back and forth in the corner)? It just seems like less work. I mean, I don’t have to fill out a 27 page form in order to meet some chocolate that might be a suitable partner. I’m just saying.
Second:
This thought is for all of you who actually know men. Please pass along this little tip. Boys, don’t hit on a girl while you are complaining to your friend about your current relationship. Seriously, it tends to make the new object of your semi-affection ponder your sincerity.
I was walking through the parking lot of my dance studio when two attractive men were walking towards their cars. The dark-haired guy was quite loudly expressing to his friend that he thought the “honeymoon phase with her” has ended. In the midst of continuing his thought about his relationship, he turned to me and gave me the full-on Joey Tribbiani treatment. I’m not kidding—I got the full “how you doin’?” with the eyebrows and the grin. I couldn’t decide if I should be flattered that a guy actually noticed me, or offended for girlfriends everywhere.
I settled for confused. It’s what I do best.
Kate
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The New Diary
Remember when you were a pre-teen/teenager and the most embarrassing thing ever would be someone finding and reading your diary? I’ve discovered the modern day, adult equivalent—the iPod.
It’s universally accepted that my iPod is trying to kill me (and by universally, I mean accepted by anyone I’ve told to agree with me on this). But I have only recently recognized the real danger that is posed by the iPod. It is the danger of my secret thoughts, desires and fears being revealed. It’s the danger of someone else seeing what is actually on my iPod.
Picture me wearing a snazzy sweat suit—something matching that speaks more to a life of Eva Longoria’s character on “Desperate Housewives” than lumpy, pillow-like comfort of the life of Kate. I love to take long walks (preferably on the beach at sunset with George Clooney), so my iPod is with me. And in between bouts of rapidly impacting my moods and trying to trip me, the iPod is my friend (so, a good 2-3 minutes of solid musical friendship).
Now picture me actually meeting a man, who actually looks in my direction, who actually decides to give me the time of day (perhaps because I’ve literally asked him the time). Obviously, this is a recipe for a love connection. Beaches in Los Angeles are practically made for this kind of scene. I think for a quarter, you can actually get the lifeguards to turn up the “beach scene soundtrack” that is constantly playing so you get a realistic swell of sound as eyes meet and hands are held.
Now picture the man who was trying to hold my hand looking down at the album art that is now glaring from the bright white iPod screen. Yeah. His first words would undoubtedly be something along the lines of “Barry Manilow?” or “Captain & Tennille?” or “Air Supply?”. Really?”
Sure, I could bluff. “uh, yeah, it was in a compilation cd, and I didn’t uncheck it fast enough, and the iPod loaded it. Stupid iPod” (followed by an appropriately adorable kick of the sand). But let’s face it, there is no good bluff for the tune in question being at the top of the “Top 25 Most Played” list. And yes, it is possible for a happy person to listen repeatedly to music that involves love, loss, meeting after years, new year’s eve, buying beer at the grocery store, sitting in the car, getting out in the rain, seeing the other person drive away, never seeing them again, etc. Shut up. It is.
I’m just going to have to be honest. I am hopelessly uncool (because the sweatband and side ponytail probably wont give it away). I’m just going to have to keep the iPod screen covered. Or try to explain how my complete lack of “cool” is actually endearing because it makes me so “real”. Yeah… that’s it. I’m just keepin’ it real. Nice. That’s the one I’m going with the very next time out.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to complete my 100 top 80’s songs nostalgia playlist.
Yep, shocking that I’m single, I know.
“don’t put another dime in the jukebox… I don’t wanna hear that song no more…”
Kate, your guide to the best in “oldies” (ugh), in LA
It’s universally accepted that my iPod is trying to kill me (and by universally, I mean accepted by anyone I’ve told to agree with me on this). But I have only recently recognized the real danger that is posed by the iPod. It is the danger of my secret thoughts, desires and fears being revealed. It’s the danger of someone else seeing what is actually on my iPod.
Picture me wearing a snazzy sweat suit—something matching that speaks more to a life of Eva Longoria’s character on “Desperate Housewives” than lumpy, pillow-like comfort of the life of Kate. I love to take long walks (preferably on the beach at sunset with George Clooney), so my iPod is with me. And in between bouts of rapidly impacting my moods and trying to trip me, the iPod is my friend (so, a good 2-3 minutes of solid musical friendship).
Now picture me actually meeting a man, who actually looks in my direction, who actually decides to give me the time of day (perhaps because I’ve literally asked him the time). Obviously, this is a recipe for a love connection. Beaches in Los Angeles are practically made for this kind of scene. I think for a quarter, you can actually get the lifeguards to turn up the “beach scene soundtrack” that is constantly playing so you get a realistic swell of sound as eyes meet and hands are held.
Now picture the man who was trying to hold my hand looking down at the album art that is now glaring from the bright white iPod screen. Yeah. His first words would undoubtedly be something along the lines of “Barry Manilow?” or “Captain & Tennille?” or “Air Supply?”. Really?”
Sure, I could bluff. “uh, yeah, it was in a compilation cd, and I didn’t uncheck it fast enough, and the iPod loaded it. Stupid iPod” (followed by an appropriately adorable kick of the sand). But let’s face it, there is no good bluff for the tune in question being at the top of the “Top 25 Most Played” list. And yes, it is possible for a happy person to listen repeatedly to music that involves love, loss, meeting after years, new year’s eve, buying beer at the grocery store, sitting in the car, getting out in the rain, seeing the other person drive away, never seeing them again, etc. Shut up. It is.
I’m just going to have to be honest. I am hopelessly uncool (because the sweatband and side ponytail probably wont give it away). I’m just going to have to keep the iPod screen covered. Or try to explain how my complete lack of “cool” is actually endearing because it makes me so “real”. Yeah… that’s it. I’m just keepin’ it real. Nice. That’s the one I’m going with the very next time out.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to complete my 100 top 80’s songs nostalgia playlist.
Yep, shocking that I’m single, I know.
“don’t put another dime in the jukebox… I don’t wanna hear that song no more…”
Kate, your guide to the best in “oldies” (ugh), in LA
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
X-Files 2
http://iesb.net/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2162&Itemid=99
X-Files 2 Negotiations Wrap This Week Says Duchovny!
Written by Robert Sanchez
Tuesday, 27 March 2007
The idea for a second X-Files film has been in the works for a long time. The IESB attended the TV Set press day today and spoke with David Duchovny about just that!
Back in 2005 Duchovny told IGN, "According to USA Today, Duchovny told reporters at the recent 10th Annual Critics' Choice Awards that he expected to shoot X-Files 2 some time this year or in early 2006. Elaborating on the project, the actor said it would not involve the alien conspiracy storyline that helped make the television series so popular. Instead, he stated, it would be a standalone supernatural horror film."
Well we know it obviously didn't happen, but things never happen quickly in Hollywood. Duchovny spoke about it briefly to the IESB today while promoting TV Set.
Duchovny says X-Files fans will have their second film after all! He revealed to the IESB that they were in final negotiations for the second X-Files film and should wrap this week. Plans are to start shooting in '08 or sooner!
If negotiations get nailed down this week as planned, it looks like he will once again fill the shoes of our favorite Special Agent, Fox Mulder.
IESB will keep you updated!
I saw this earlier, and I got a little giddy -- but in a controlled, totally non-geek, very cautiously optimistic, blase kind of giddy. Yep. That's me. Totally not even going to give this a second thought. Right now, for instance, totally not thinking about it. Not a bit. In fact, I haven't checked for any sort of official announcement from Fox in like... oh... minutes. Restraint, thy name is Kate.
I even know what the name of the movie will be: The X-Files 2: the Search for Kate's Love Life. Very scary stuff, indeed. In fact, I frequently refer to my love life as some sort of supernatural horror experience. Sure, not the stuff of Saw I, II, or III, but horror none-the-less.
So, in addition to getting me a date sometime this century, we have a new project. Get me onto this movie. Ok, two projects-- get the movie to the greenlight stage and then get me on it. I don't have to be the main love interest. I could be one of the lovely and appealing victims. Then Mulder will have to give me the kiss of life, and we can have a brief, but torrid affair. I'm completely fine with him then realizing that we can never be and moving back to Scully. That's fine. And if that doesn't work, an extra on the street as they run by is also fine. Really, one or the other-- love interest or random bystander. Both are good.
I need to get a life, you say? You forget-- this is LA. This is life out here. Unless they decide to film it in Canada. Then the movie will be called: "The X-Files 2, the Wrath of Kate".
hee
Kate
Monday, March 26, 2007
My Willful Phone
This is going to sound like a joke, but I swear it is true. My phone tried to get me a date. Not in the usual sense of me picking up the phone and asking someone out. I literally mean, the PHONE tried to get me a date. Apparently, it decided that it was time to take my social life into its own SIM card.
Despite the fact that my phone was turned off (that’s right, it was off!), somehow the keypad was engaged when I tossed the phone into my purse. This morning, I found out that my phone sent a nonsensical text message to a very cute (albeit random) boy, as soon as I turned it back on.
I am not kidding.
I know this because I got a text back from said boy that was a very flirty “who are you?” Ok, not so much flirty as deeply confused by the large jumble of random letters that my phone sent him. Which is also crazy because you’d think if the phone had decided to get me a date, it could at least learn to type.
Hmmm. I know that you are cheering my phone on, and suggesting that this is a sign for me to go for it (whatever “it” actually is). Alas, this is a guy who happened to still be in my call log from a movie I helped out on quite a while ago. He is darling, but young and technically off limits (at least for the moment). So, nice thought on behalf of my phone, but not likely to lead anywhere.
Perhaps the phone thought that if it showed me how to call/text a boy, I would learn from the observation? This is how bad my social life is, people. My phone is trying to set me up.
I keep looking at it thinking that if it were really enterprising (and if it really cared, sniff), it would get Clooney’s number and start texting him. Now, that would impress me.
Kate (and her possessed phone)
Despite the fact that my phone was turned off (that’s right, it was off!), somehow the keypad was engaged when I tossed the phone into my purse. This morning, I found out that my phone sent a nonsensical text message to a very cute (albeit random) boy, as soon as I turned it back on.
I am not kidding.
I know this because I got a text back from said boy that was a very flirty “who are you?” Ok, not so much flirty as deeply confused by the large jumble of random letters that my phone sent him. Which is also crazy because you’d think if the phone had decided to get me a date, it could at least learn to type.
Hmmm. I know that you are cheering my phone on, and suggesting that this is a sign for me to go for it (whatever “it” actually is). Alas, this is a guy who happened to still be in my call log from a movie I helped out on quite a while ago. He is darling, but young and technically off limits (at least for the moment). So, nice thought on behalf of my phone, but not likely to lead anywhere.
Perhaps the phone thought that if it showed me how to call/text a boy, I would learn from the observation? This is how bad my social life is, people. My phone is trying to set me up.
I keep looking at it thinking that if it were really enterprising (and if it really cared, sniff), it would get Clooney’s number and start texting him. Now, that would impress me.
Kate (and her possessed phone)
Thursday, March 22, 2007
If You Had the Chance…
As I get older (please note again that my profile age is ironic, not accurate), I find myself gravitating to the safe, secure and the solitary. Oh, hell, I’ve actually been that way since birth, but I’m fairly sure the impulse to not be impulsive is getting stronger. Why the other day, I almost turned down watching a new TV show because it was something just a bit too daring for me ;)
So, knowing that I’m one for avoiding, cowering, … Nay—barricading myself against drama, why is there occasional temptation to seek a situation that could possibly bring me pain? Why am I considering a situation that could potentially, possibly (remotely possible at least… Bora Bora remotely perhaps, but possible nonetheless) put me square in front of an ex? Ok, not just any ex. The ex. Why would I do that?
I have no idea why I am even considering it. He’s gone. He has moved on. Nothing would be gained by this. But the idea is there. It’s insidious. When I’m not looking, the idea creeps up on me and tries to completely distract me from things that are much more important.
(Can you believe that Izzie and George ended up in bed? And where the hell is the second X-Files movie? No woman should have to wait this long just to see Agent Mulder doing his spooky thing. But I digress).
Dr. Phil would say that I’m allowing this idea to creep into my days and nights because I’m getting something from it. I’m not sure exactly what that would be, unless, of course, he means the absolutely enormous headache I currently have.
I’ve made a ton of social progress since I made my declaration to date back in August. Ok, a ton might be an overstate. Loads of progress. Certainly a good deal of progress. A bit of progress on the social front. Fine, no progress whatsoever, but I talk a good game, and I am avidly watching the progress of others (where previously, I didn’t really care). I’ve also started leaving my apartment when forced to do so. I’ve even suggested at least two social outings so far this year.
What would be gained exactly from this possible, although highly unlikely encounter? Disappointment and heartbreak, followed by a long, flowing emotional setback? Maybe. Can I expect anything positive to come from it? No, not really. I tend to find closure a nice justification, but rarely a real event.
Would I want anything to happen? Trickier. Not really. I’m not a cheater and neither is he, so I wouldn’t want anything along those lines to occur. But I’ll admit that some sort of grand, passion-filled globally broadcast announcement of admiration might be a balm to my ego. Perhaps something along the lines of:
“I have been a selfish being all of my life. As a child I was given good principles but was left to follow them in pride and conceit. Such I might still have been if not for you, my dearest, loveliest [Kate].”
(double blogger brownie points if you can name that quote)
Realistically, I’ll concede that this type of declaration is unlikely. Realistically, I’d get nothing from even taking the chance of having this encounter. But it’s there. The potential is there. The world of possibility is distinctly apple shaped these days.
If you had the chance to see “the one who got away” again, would you take it, even though you knew nothing good would come of it? And if you didn’t take that chance, when the opportunity passes, would you regret it? Because really, exchanging “what if” for “what might have been” isn’t really an improvement.
Now if we could exchange “what if” for “George Clooney loves you”, that… that, my friends, would be an improvement.
Kate, bobbing and weaving away from temptation, in LA
So, knowing that I’m one for avoiding, cowering, … Nay—barricading myself against drama, why is there occasional temptation to seek a situation that could possibly bring me pain? Why am I considering a situation that could potentially, possibly (remotely possible at least… Bora Bora remotely perhaps, but possible nonetheless) put me square in front of an ex? Ok, not just any ex. The ex. Why would I do that?
I have no idea why I am even considering it. He’s gone. He has moved on. Nothing would be gained by this. But the idea is there. It’s insidious. When I’m not looking, the idea creeps up on me and tries to completely distract me from things that are much more important.
(Can you believe that Izzie and George ended up in bed? And where the hell is the second X-Files movie? No woman should have to wait this long just to see Agent Mulder doing his spooky thing. But I digress).
Dr. Phil would say that I’m allowing this idea to creep into my days and nights because I’m getting something from it. I’m not sure exactly what that would be, unless, of course, he means the absolutely enormous headache I currently have.
I’ve made a ton of social progress since I made my declaration to date back in August. Ok, a ton might be an overstate. Loads of progress. Certainly a good deal of progress. A bit of progress on the social front. Fine, no progress whatsoever, but I talk a good game, and I am avidly watching the progress of others (where previously, I didn’t really care). I’ve also started leaving my apartment when forced to do so. I’ve even suggested at least two social outings so far this year.
What would be gained exactly from this possible, although highly unlikely encounter? Disappointment and heartbreak, followed by a long, flowing emotional setback? Maybe. Can I expect anything positive to come from it? No, not really. I tend to find closure a nice justification, but rarely a real event.
Would I want anything to happen? Trickier. Not really. I’m not a cheater and neither is he, so I wouldn’t want anything along those lines to occur. But I’ll admit that some sort of grand, passion-filled globally broadcast announcement of admiration might be a balm to my ego. Perhaps something along the lines of:
“I have been a selfish being all of my life. As a child I was given good principles but was left to follow them in pride and conceit. Such I might still have been if not for you, my dearest, loveliest [Kate].”
(double blogger brownie points if you can name that quote)
Realistically, I’ll concede that this type of declaration is unlikely. Realistically, I’d get nothing from even taking the chance of having this encounter. But it’s there. The potential is there. The world of possibility is distinctly apple shaped these days.
If you had the chance to see “the one who got away” again, would you take it, even though you knew nothing good would come of it? And if you didn’t take that chance, when the opportunity passes, would you regret it? Because really, exchanging “what if” for “what might have been” isn’t really an improvement.
Now if we could exchange “what if” for “George Clooney loves you”, that… that, my friends, would be an improvement.
Kate, bobbing and weaving away from temptation, in LA
Monday, March 19, 2007
Minor Infractions
I spent a significant portion of yesterday in the company of some extremely well put together women during a DVD shoot (the girls were bikini models). It was really motivating. As I shoved down another girl scout cookie from the catering table, I thought, “oh yeah, I’m so going to get my shit together and look like that some day”. Oooh, and then I also thought “I will also develop and perfect my time machine” because the oldest was around 24.
(Oh, wait, that’s only 3 years younger than my ex’s soon-to-be bride. Damn.)
Anyway, I thought that I might as well get started on the new crusade to become a bikini model by becoming very, very fit and um.. yeah, whatever else you would need to do. I celebrated this decision by digging into my curly fries and big beef and cheddar at lunch today. Well, in all fairness, I did read somewhere that curly fries are actually a little known weightloss method. Seriously. I swear I read it somewhere. The all curly fry diet will be the next big thing. Any day now.
As I’m driving home with contraband food, a Santa Monica police officer caught my eye. We were both stopped at stop signs. It was his turn to go, and when I got a good look at him, I thought at first we might be on camera. He was very, very, very good looking. Did I mention he was good looking? Yeah, totally good looking. Actor good looking. Good enough to put the curly fry down kind of good looking.
This left me wondering. If you encounter such a lovely specimen, you are single, and you are interested… would a minor infraction of traffic laws be justified in order to get his attention?
I don’t mean running over someone in the crosswalk. Even I would find that just a tad bit extreme. I think even crashing into a building or a hydrant would be pushing it. I was thinking more along the lines of the rolling stop. Of course, I know this will get me ticketed (a number of my friends seem to be getting tickets these days). But getting ticketed by the attractive police office is sort of the point. Well, not ticketed exactly, but more like pulled over and verbally frisked ;)
The tricky part is, I think he’d assume that I was hitting on him just to get out of the ticket. When, in fact, I was getting into the ticket in order to hit on him. Again, if I had the vehicle flirtation device already set up, I could just write him a very large note explaining the situation. But I still haven’t gotten the white board set up in the car. So, I’m left with my charming turn of phrase, wink and hair toss (toss, toss).
All of which will clearly get me nowhere fast.
I could look at it as step 1 in a multi-step plan. Of course, I would contest the ticket. He’d have to show up in court. We’d see each other again and laugh at the situation. (By the way, by the time I get to court, I’ve inexplicably grown taller, thinner, tanner and have a dazzling strong jawline). I’d tell my story to the judge. He’d chuckle in that avuncular way of his. He’d smile down on us and bless our union.
Then I’d write the check out for $360 because he wouldn’t believe me for a second. And the whole situation would leave me more jaded, resigned and a bit poorer than before.
Yep, no one can kill a fantasy like I can.
Kate, the fantasy killer
(Oh, wait, that’s only 3 years younger than my ex’s soon-to-be bride. Damn.)
Anyway, I thought that I might as well get started on the new crusade to become a bikini model by becoming very, very fit and um.. yeah, whatever else you would need to do. I celebrated this decision by digging into my curly fries and big beef and cheddar at lunch today. Well, in all fairness, I did read somewhere that curly fries are actually a little known weightloss method. Seriously. I swear I read it somewhere. The all curly fry diet will be the next big thing. Any day now.
As I’m driving home with contraband food, a Santa Monica police officer caught my eye. We were both stopped at stop signs. It was his turn to go, and when I got a good look at him, I thought at first we might be on camera. He was very, very, very good looking. Did I mention he was good looking? Yeah, totally good looking. Actor good looking. Good enough to put the curly fry down kind of good looking.
This left me wondering. If you encounter such a lovely specimen, you are single, and you are interested… would a minor infraction of traffic laws be justified in order to get his attention?
I don’t mean running over someone in the crosswalk. Even I would find that just a tad bit extreme. I think even crashing into a building or a hydrant would be pushing it. I was thinking more along the lines of the rolling stop. Of course, I know this will get me ticketed (a number of my friends seem to be getting tickets these days). But getting ticketed by the attractive police office is sort of the point. Well, not ticketed exactly, but more like pulled over and verbally frisked ;)
The tricky part is, I think he’d assume that I was hitting on him just to get out of the ticket. When, in fact, I was getting into the ticket in order to hit on him. Again, if I had the vehicle flirtation device already set up, I could just write him a very large note explaining the situation. But I still haven’t gotten the white board set up in the car. So, I’m left with my charming turn of phrase, wink and hair toss (toss, toss).
All of which will clearly get me nowhere fast.
I could look at it as step 1 in a multi-step plan. Of course, I would contest the ticket. He’d have to show up in court. We’d see each other again and laugh at the situation. (By the way, by the time I get to court, I’ve inexplicably grown taller, thinner, tanner and have a dazzling strong jawline). I’d tell my story to the judge. He’d chuckle in that avuncular way of his. He’d smile down on us and bless our union.
Then I’d write the check out for $360 because he wouldn’t believe me for a second. And the whole situation would leave me more jaded, resigned and a bit poorer than before.
Yep, no one can kill a fantasy like I can.
Kate, the fantasy killer
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Mysteries of Life
At this moment, I am sitting by a pool and pondering life’s little mysteries. There are the standard questions “How did I get here?”, “What is my purpose?”, “Why is the world fascinated by Paris Hilton, and where did she get those shoes?”. You know, the deep ponderings of our generation. But in addition to those time honored thoughts, I’m exploring new mysteries.
1. Why doesn’t my apartment magically clean itself when I’ve clearly put it into the universe that I would like this to be so? I mean, I’ve done the Bewitched nose wiggle and the I Dream of Jeannie arms-crossed-head-bob move. Surely, it should be done by now. Is there actually a button on my TV remote that I should be pushing instead?
2. How do all those celebrities get golden perfect tan skin all up and down, and front and back? On my best day, I get random red blotches with intermittent white patches where the suntan lotion has stubbornly clung to life.
Also, not one picture of Jessica Alba shows her sporting the white stripe in that crease section between her bum and the top of her thighs. Does she prop her ass up in the air so that it all tans? Or is it that my absolutely enormous buttocks actually block out the sun? Being of unsound mind and fragile ego, I will not dwell on gigantic bottom issues and attribute flawless buttock/thigh tanning to a special secret that only the rich and famous know. Perhaps it is issued along with the Amex black card.
3. Do hot cab drivers exist? And if so, what exactly do you do when you encounter this rare specimen? I know. I didn’t believe it was possible, either. Sure, a casting director could hire an actor to play a hot cabbie, but in real life, Paul Walker is not answering my friend Chloe’s 2am bar call. And if he did, we really wouldn’t know anything about her approach because we would never find out more than what she could fit on her postcard after they eloped to Fiji.
The premise sounds like a fallacy, but a friend of mine claims to have met a hot cab driver, and he flirted, leaving her frantically trying to figure how to respond. So, she did what every red-blooded American female over 35 would do. Nothing. Well, she may have tipped him over-generously, but otherwise, nada.
So, what do you do in this situation? There’s an easy answer—slip him your phone number with the tip and bat your eyelashes.
But, really?
This guy knows where she lives. What if FHC (flirty hot cabbie), turns out to actually be more like CHC (crazy hot cabbie), MHC (murderous hot cabbie), or IMoMWTotbSHC (international man of mystery who turns out to be sadistic hot cabbie). I mean, Ted Bundy was cute, too. Do you invite the attentions of someone who knows your name, address and very possibly your credit card number before you have had a chance to get a full name, or have his fingerprints run?
It is remotely possible that my innate sense of paranoia and suspicion of most things relating to other people could be clouding my judgment. Slightly. So, I’ll leave this life mystery in your capable hands. Email or leave a comment with your thoughts, and I’ll pass them along. Should she have gone for it? Should she spend a lot in cabs hoping she “accidentally” runs into him, again? And if she spends $40,000 on cabs, can she still claim that “fate brought them together” during her wedding toast?
In the meantime, I’m going to start collecting the numbers of some of LA’s finest taxi services. No reason.
Kate.
1. Why doesn’t my apartment magically clean itself when I’ve clearly put it into the universe that I would like this to be so? I mean, I’ve done the Bewitched nose wiggle and the I Dream of Jeannie arms-crossed-head-bob move. Surely, it should be done by now. Is there actually a button on my TV remote that I should be pushing instead?
2. How do all those celebrities get golden perfect tan skin all up and down, and front and back? On my best day, I get random red blotches with intermittent white patches where the suntan lotion has stubbornly clung to life.
Also, not one picture of Jessica Alba shows her sporting the white stripe in that crease section between her bum and the top of her thighs. Does she prop her ass up in the air so that it all tans? Or is it that my absolutely enormous buttocks actually block out the sun? Being of unsound mind and fragile ego, I will not dwell on gigantic bottom issues and attribute flawless buttock/thigh tanning to a special secret that only the rich and famous know. Perhaps it is issued along with the Amex black card.
3. Do hot cab drivers exist? And if so, what exactly do you do when you encounter this rare specimen? I know. I didn’t believe it was possible, either. Sure, a casting director could hire an actor to play a hot cabbie, but in real life, Paul Walker is not answering my friend Chloe’s 2am bar call. And if he did, we really wouldn’t know anything about her approach because we would never find out more than what she could fit on her postcard after they eloped to Fiji.
The premise sounds like a fallacy, but a friend of mine claims to have met a hot cab driver, and he flirted, leaving her frantically trying to figure how to respond. So, she did what every red-blooded American female over 35 would do. Nothing. Well, she may have tipped him over-generously, but otherwise, nada.
So, what do you do in this situation? There’s an easy answer—slip him your phone number with the tip and bat your eyelashes.
But, really?
This guy knows where she lives. What if FHC (flirty hot cabbie), turns out to actually be more like CHC (crazy hot cabbie), MHC (murderous hot cabbie), or IMoMWTotbSHC (international man of mystery who turns out to be sadistic hot cabbie). I mean, Ted Bundy was cute, too. Do you invite the attentions of someone who knows your name, address and very possibly your credit card number before you have had a chance to get a full name, or have his fingerprints run?
It is remotely possible that my innate sense of paranoia and suspicion of most things relating to other people could be clouding my judgment. Slightly. So, I’ll leave this life mystery in your capable hands. Email or leave a comment with your thoughts, and I’ll pass them along. Should she have gone for it? Should she spend a lot in cabs hoping she “accidentally” runs into him, again? And if she spends $40,000 on cabs, can she still claim that “fate brought them together” during her wedding toast?
In the meantime, I’m going to start collecting the numbers of some of LA’s finest taxi services. No reason.
Kate.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Emails
Like most people with an email account, I get a ton of spam every day. Most of it, I don’t even look at. I just hit delete. But today, two emails caught my attention, and I just had to share.
The first email had a subject line featuring “Viagra Professional”. Forget for a moment that I’m not actually a guy, that I wouldn’t actually buy prescription (or any other) drugs based on an anon email, and half of it seems to be in another language in order to beat the spam filters. Let’s just focus for a minute on the subject line.
“Viagra Professional”
Hmmmmm. Was there a “Viagra Amateur” that I missed? Is that one reserved for sexual newcomers (uh… so to speak)? Is the “Professional” version reserved for the more experienced male like Colin Farrell, or Fred Durst? Do you start at the amateur level, but then get stripped of your amateur status once you accept money? And do gifts count, or are we thinking about only straight cash transactions? Maybe there is a set of judges. You send in a tape, and they judge if you’ve advanced to the all star team, and therefore, in need of professional assistance now and again?
The second email had a subject line of “Has your penis left you?” Why yes, yes it has. How perceptive of you, spam email. It has not only left me, but it, and presumably the guy attached to it, will be marrying his new special young, blond, perky friend in a few months. But thanks for bringing it up, again. Thanks for rubbing it in. Maybe the next one I get will be titled “Kate, those penises will always leave you. Can you blame them?” Freakin’ emails.
Yes, these are the things I think about.
Kate, the grumpy
The first email had a subject line featuring “Viagra Professional”. Forget for a moment that I’m not actually a guy, that I wouldn’t actually buy prescription (or any other) drugs based on an anon email, and half of it seems to be in another language in order to beat the spam filters. Let’s just focus for a minute on the subject line.
“Viagra Professional”
Hmmmmm. Was there a “Viagra Amateur” that I missed? Is that one reserved for sexual newcomers (uh… so to speak)? Is the “Professional” version reserved for the more experienced male like Colin Farrell, or Fred Durst? Do you start at the amateur level, but then get stripped of your amateur status once you accept money? And do gifts count, or are we thinking about only straight cash transactions? Maybe there is a set of judges. You send in a tape, and they judge if you’ve advanced to the all star team, and therefore, in need of professional assistance now and again?
The second email had a subject line of “Has your penis left you?” Why yes, yes it has. How perceptive of you, spam email. It has not only left me, but it, and presumably the guy attached to it, will be marrying his new special young, blond, perky friend in a few months. But thanks for bringing it up, again. Thanks for rubbing it in. Maybe the next one I get will be titled “Kate, those penises will always leave you. Can you blame them?” Freakin’ emails.
Yes, these are the things I think about.
Kate, the grumpy
Friday, March 02, 2007
Boyfriend Season
First, Maroon 5 appears to be stalking me. They were the lead entertainment at the Global Green party, and then they showed up again in my email today. Two occasions for interaction in a week—it’s clear they are now following me ;) The email was part of a casting call for their new music video. They were looking for someone hot (um… strike 1 for Kate), someone tall (ha!... strike 2 for Kate) and someone exotic (well, that’s me—if you find Laura Ingalls exotic). Needless to say, I won’t be lining up for their video any time soon. But they are still stalking me. That much is clear.
Second, according to the ads I keep seeing on myspace, Boyfriend Season is right around the corner. My immediate thought was, “Shit, as usual, I have nothing to wear”. Is Boyfriend Season like Oscar season? Do I need a dress for each event? Or is it more like the holidays, where there are parties involving copious amounts of food, drink and resolutions for the New Year? Who exactly gets the gifts during Boyfriend Season?
Or maybe it is more like hunting season. It makes sense now why I haven’t been able to pick up one of those boys in a great, long while. I didn’t know there was a season, and I must have been hunting out of season. Everyone knows you can’t hunt off season—boys are hibernating off-season. You can only get a license to date during those specific, pre-ordained, federally-mandated times.
My fear is that Boyfriend Season (from here on known as B.S.) is actually designed to be more like bathing suit season—which in Los Angeles is approximately 10 months out of the year of pure torture. I can see the similarities now: unappealing lighting, feeling fat, desperately trying to keep my top on…. I imagine trying to get a boy that fits is every bit as challenging as finding a suit that fits my ass, with all the attendant expectations that the magical “one” will make me deliriously happy (or at least make me look fitter, tanner and more engaging).
Much like bathing suit season, I fear I’ll have to work out in order to be ready for B.S. here in LA. Apparently, I’ll need to be plucked, waxed and buffed for B.S. My nails will be done. I will be lotioned. And though it could end well (or at least without incident), I will look upon B.S. with much trepidation.
So, get ready ladies, B.S. is coming ;)
Kate, prepping for B.S. in LA
Second, according to the ads I keep seeing on myspace, Boyfriend Season is right around the corner. My immediate thought was, “Shit, as usual, I have nothing to wear”. Is Boyfriend Season like Oscar season? Do I need a dress for each event? Or is it more like the holidays, where there are parties involving copious amounts of food, drink and resolutions for the New Year? Who exactly gets the gifts during Boyfriend Season?
Or maybe it is more like hunting season. It makes sense now why I haven’t been able to pick up one of those boys in a great, long while. I didn’t know there was a season, and I must have been hunting out of season. Everyone knows you can’t hunt off season—boys are hibernating off-season. You can only get a license to date during those specific, pre-ordained, federally-mandated times.
My fear is that Boyfriend Season (from here on known as B.S.) is actually designed to be more like bathing suit season—which in Los Angeles is approximately 10 months out of the year of pure torture. I can see the similarities now: unappealing lighting, feeling fat, desperately trying to keep my top on…. I imagine trying to get a boy that fits is every bit as challenging as finding a suit that fits my ass, with all the attendant expectations that the magical “one” will make me deliriously happy (or at least make me look fitter, tanner and more engaging).
Much like bathing suit season, I fear I’ll have to work out in order to be ready for B.S. here in LA. Apparently, I’ll need to be plucked, waxed and buffed for B.S. My nails will be done. I will be lotioned. And though it could end well (or at least without incident), I will look upon B.S. with much trepidation.
So, get ready ladies, B.S. is coming ;)
Kate, prepping for B.S. in LA
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Excuses
I bet you are thinking to yourself-- "Where is Kate?" and "Did her wild Hollywood lifestyle take her far, far away so that she is no longer capable of blogging?" Here are some possible reasons for my blogging absence.
1. Island Get Away. It is a possibility that I went to this place to run away from even the possibility of dating: http://www.mg.co.za/articlepage.aspx?area=/breaking_news/other_news/&articleid=299970 Who wouldn't want a paradise like this? No men. No men hassles. No men issues. No men bullshit. No "I'm going through a selfish phase". It's probably warm. The burka is very forgiving of those extra-slice-of-pizza pounds.
hmmm I'll admit, the prospect of "no man island" has periodically been enticing, but then I realized that my apartment is already a virtual no man island without some of those more restrictive rules. And if I continue to hide here, weight gain wont be noticed here either. So, nope, the island get-away was not the reason for my absence.
2. Torrid Love Affair. Another possibility is that I've finally been cast in a movie as the much sought after female lead character who becomes embroiled in a torrid love triangle-- caught between David (as in Duchovny) and George (as in Clooney). It's sure to be not only a box office sensation, but also my first Oscar nomination.
While I'm sure casting directors are frantically dialing day and night in order to locate me, alas, I have not yet been snagged. So, no, this wasn't it either. Although, seriously, cds call me.
3. Wild Hollywood Lifestyle. It is a possibility that the whirlwind weeks of Oscar parties have left me in a coma born of decadence. Not a good possibility since I hate leaving my home even for work, but technically a possibility. Oddly enough I did attend a pre-party for Global Green http://globalgreen.org/events/event_details/oscar_party_2007.html with my friend B. We were fabulous and had a lovely sustainable and organic time. Although if we find out that Wolfgang catered it, we may need shots.
Sure, Leo was obviously smitten with B, while Orlando tried valiantly to get my attention. We even tested the theory that accidentally pouring a drink down a guy's back gets you nary a scowl if you have legs for days (and proved it to be 100% true-- B, not me, as I have legs for seconds, not days). But we left them all wanting more.
4. Clooney, Clooney, Clooney. We all know that when Julia kept asking George whether or not he was dating someone, he was trying not to give our love away to the media. That was so obvious. I love that he is being discreet.
But no, George and I haven't eloped, or groped, or... um... met. Any day now.
5. A Boy Flirted. Another option is that a boy flirted with me, and I was so thrown that I was incapable of speaking, let alone writing. Yes, this is true. I'm pretty sure a boy sent me a flirty email which confused me, so I haven't responded to him yet. I'm thinking of making someone else do it. Surely, there is someone I can pay to do this for me, right?
But no, not the reason.
6. Lazy. Ding, Ding, Ding. Yes, I've been lazy. However, some friends have posed interesting dating questions and issues that must be addressed. Soon. Right after my nap.
Kate
1. Island Get Away. It is a possibility that I went to this place to run away from even the possibility of dating: http://www.mg.co.za/articlepage.aspx?area=/breaking_news/other_news/&articleid=299970 Who wouldn't want a paradise like this? No men. No men hassles. No men issues. No men bullshit. No "I'm going through a selfish phase". It's probably warm. The burka is very forgiving of those extra-slice-of-pizza pounds.
hmmm I'll admit, the prospect of "no man island" has periodically been enticing, but then I realized that my apartment is already a virtual no man island without some of those more restrictive rules. And if I continue to hide here, weight gain wont be noticed here either. So, nope, the island get-away was not the reason for my absence.
2. Torrid Love Affair. Another possibility is that I've finally been cast in a movie as the much sought after female lead character who becomes embroiled in a torrid love triangle-- caught between David (as in Duchovny) and George (as in Clooney). It's sure to be not only a box office sensation, but also my first Oscar nomination.
While I'm sure casting directors are frantically dialing day and night in order to locate me, alas, I have not yet been snagged. So, no, this wasn't it either. Although, seriously, cds call me.
3. Wild Hollywood Lifestyle. It is a possibility that the whirlwind weeks of Oscar parties have left me in a coma born of decadence. Not a good possibility since I hate leaving my home even for work, but technically a possibility. Oddly enough I did attend a pre-party for Global Green http://globalgreen.org/events/event_details/oscar_party_2007.html with my friend B. We were fabulous and had a lovely sustainable and organic time. Although if we find out that Wolfgang catered it, we may need shots.
Sure, Leo was obviously smitten with B, while Orlando tried valiantly to get my attention. We even tested the theory that accidentally pouring a drink down a guy's back gets you nary a scowl if you have legs for days (and proved it to be 100% true-- B, not me, as I have legs for seconds, not days). But we left them all wanting more.
4. Clooney, Clooney, Clooney. We all know that when Julia kept asking George whether or not he was dating someone, he was trying not to give our love away to the media. That was so obvious. I love that he is being discreet.
But no, George and I haven't eloped, or groped, or... um... met. Any day now.
5. A Boy Flirted. Another option is that a boy flirted with me, and I was so thrown that I was incapable of speaking, let alone writing. Yes, this is true. I'm pretty sure a boy sent me a flirty email which confused me, so I haven't responded to him yet. I'm thinking of making someone else do it. Surely, there is someone I can pay to do this for me, right?
But no, not the reason.
6. Lazy. Ding, Ding, Ding. Yes, I've been lazy. However, some friends have posed interesting dating questions and issues that must be addressed. Soon. Right after my nap.
Kate
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Vehicle flirtation devices
One of the things that people know about LA, even if they have never been here, is that we have traffic… lots and lots of traffic. Whether your commute takes you over surface streets or freeway, if you live in Los Angeles, you will be spending a lot of time in your car.
Therefore, it should be of no surprise that an entire dating subset has been created to better use this traffic time. It is called the “vehicle flirt”. Hey, if you are going to be stuck, might as well try your luck at the dating wheel of fortune.
You would not believe how many stories you hear about how people met their hook-up, girlfriend or spouse while stuck in traffic on the 405 (or driving 85 mph on the 405 for that matter). What does seem to be key in getting this to work, is either a suicidal traffic partner, or a method of communication from vehicle to vehicle that allows for stops, starts, lane changes, high-speed chases, cut-offs and off-ramps.
The first method is a tried and true flirtation—the eye catch and smile. I’ve tried this, and it has gotten me... um… absolutely nowhere, actually. But I’m sure that it could work for other people. I don’t know how this works for guys, but ladies, we know how to sweep for intel. Personally, I can throw out just the briefest glancing blow of eye contact and take in what he’s driving, relative height, relative weight, if he has other passengers, if there was a car seat, if there is a ring, mother’s maiden name, voting record, if he’s still hung up on his ex-girlfriend, whether or not he’s been circumcised ... You know, the basics. Theoretically, if the other driver picks up your eye pass and responds, you could be turning down a side street to exchange phone numbers.
The second method allows for not only the flirtation, but the continuation of driving. Sometimes you can’t just pull off on a side street. Sometimes you need to keep heading to your destination (like when Grey’s Anatomy is about to start). This is where the yelling witty sayings out the window while driving 85 skill comes in handy. Once you get a little banter going, you could be getting his phone number shouted at you. I think it probably works the best with the guy shouting his number—otherwise, I’m picturing a huge multi-car pile up because all the guys around the two primary flirters are also writing down that phone number the girl has just shouted. Needless to say, this method works much better when everyone is basically parked either because of a traffic jam, or because the police have shut down the freeway/street for the ongoing high-speed chase. Hell, if it is a shut-down, you could technically have your first through third dates while waiting for the all clear signal.
The third method is for the truly skilled. It is for the professional. It involves the “vehicle flirtation device” (and yes, I have actually heard of this working). The “VFD” is a series of handy white boards kept in car with pre-written greetings for your fellow drivers. It’s usually something a little saucy to inspire intrigue and maybe a laugh (hair toss, with a giggle, while driving...). For instance, mine would read something like: Yell to me your social security number so I can begin the background check. Yep, something saucy like that.
Anyway, I’m hoping that someone out there reading this has had some experience with vehicle flirtation. If it has worked for you, I want to know. And I want to shamelessly steal your material for my own white board, gaze, banter, whatever. Hey, conventional methods are not working for me. The car flirt may just be my ticket.
Therefore, it should be of no surprise that an entire dating subset has been created to better use this traffic time. It is called the “vehicle flirt”. Hey, if you are going to be stuck, might as well try your luck at the dating wheel of fortune.
You would not believe how many stories you hear about how people met their hook-up, girlfriend or spouse while stuck in traffic on the 405 (or driving 85 mph on the 405 for that matter). What does seem to be key in getting this to work, is either a suicidal traffic partner, or a method of communication from vehicle to vehicle that allows for stops, starts, lane changes, high-speed chases, cut-offs and off-ramps.
The first method is a tried and true flirtation—the eye catch and smile. I’ve tried this, and it has gotten me... um… absolutely nowhere, actually. But I’m sure that it could work for other people. I don’t know how this works for guys, but ladies, we know how to sweep for intel. Personally, I can throw out just the briefest glancing blow of eye contact and take in what he’s driving, relative height, relative weight, if he has other passengers, if there was a car seat, if there is a ring, mother’s maiden name, voting record, if he’s still hung up on his ex-girlfriend, whether or not he’s been circumcised ... You know, the basics. Theoretically, if the other driver picks up your eye pass and responds, you could be turning down a side street to exchange phone numbers.
The second method allows for not only the flirtation, but the continuation of driving. Sometimes you can’t just pull off on a side street. Sometimes you need to keep heading to your destination (like when Grey’s Anatomy is about to start). This is where the yelling witty sayings out the window while driving 85 skill comes in handy. Once you get a little banter going, you could be getting his phone number shouted at you. I think it probably works the best with the guy shouting his number—otherwise, I’m picturing a huge multi-car pile up because all the guys around the two primary flirters are also writing down that phone number the girl has just shouted. Needless to say, this method works much better when everyone is basically parked either because of a traffic jam, or because the police have shut down the freeway/street for the ongoing high-speed chase. Hell, if it is a shut-down, you could technically have your first through third dates while waiting for the all clear signal.
The third method is for the truly skilled. It is for the professional. It involves the “vehicle flirtation device” (and yes, I have actually heard of this working). The “VFD” is a series of handy white boards kept in car with pre-written greetings for your fellow drivers. It’s usually something a little saucy to inspire intrigue and maybe a laugh (hair toss, with a giggle, while driving...). For instance, mine would read something like: Yell to me your social security number so I can begin the background check. Yep, something saucy like that.
Anyway, I’m hoping that someone out there reading this has had some experience with vehicle flirtation. If it has worked for you, I want to know. And I want to shamelessly steal your material for my own white board, gaze, banter, whatever. Hey, conventional methods are not working for me. The car flirt may just be my ticket.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
hmmm
If you noticed the earth not rotating on Thursday night—my bad. Yes, totally my fault. I went out for a drink with friends after work.
That’s right. I went out. As in, I was at a place that was neither work, nor my apartment…at night...for something social.
I’m going to give you a moment to let the awe wash over you.
[wash.wash.wash.]
This was actually the second time in a week that I had gone to a festive social evening gathering featuring adult beverages. I even went to an alumni function this morning thinking that it would be good to meet people with whom I had a common background.
So, to sum up—
Social outings in one week: 3
Number of men who asked me out: 0
Number of men who approached with interest: 0
Number of men who made meaningful eye contact: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction: 0
Number of men who noted my existence on earth while gazing at one of my friends: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction because there was a clock above my head: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction because I was sitting right next to the men’s bathroom: 0
Hmmm.
It’s not that I expected that this dating thing would happen over night (ok, that’s a lie. I totally did. I thought I’d say “universe, here I am, I am ready to date” and magic would start occurring). But I didn’t think that it would be this difficult to start at least the flirting phase. I mean, according to my calculations, I should be leaving men frustrated in my wake.
In reality… um… yeah, not so much.
I couldn’t even get the cutie reading the newspaper (ooh, another reader!) at the bar to look up when I had to reach around him to get my drink from the bartender.
Is it supposed to be this difficult? Seriously, I had less trouble scaling the Berlin Wall than I’m having here.
I may need to step up my game a bit, perhaps get one of my friends to start wearing this little number: http://www.tmz.com/2007/02/03/shockers-on-your-knockers/
And if that doesn’t get a guy’s attention, I’m going back to watching TV. My remote is getting lonely.
Kate, trying and failing to date in LA
That’s right. I went out. As in, I was at a place that was neither work, nor my apartment…at night...for something social.
I’m going to give you a moment to let the awe wash over you.
[wash.wash.wash.]
This was actually the second time in a week that I had gone to a festive social evening gathering featuring adult beverages. I even went to an alumni function this morning thinking that it would be good to meet people with whom I had a common background.
So, to sum up—
Social outings in one week: 3
Number of men who asked me out: 0
Number of men who approached with interest: 0
Number of men who made meaningful eye contact: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction: 0
Number of men who noted my existence on earth while gazing at one of my friends: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction because there was a clock above my head: 0
Number of men who looked in my direction because I was sitting right next to the men’s bathroom: 0
Hmmm.
It’s not that I expected that this dating thing would happen over night (ok, that’s a lie. I totally did. I thought I’d say “universe, here I am, I am ready to date” and magic would start occurring). But I didn’t think that it would be this difficult to start at least the flirting phase. I mean, according to my calculations, I should be leaving men frustrated in my wake.
In reality… um… yeah, not so much.
I couldn’t even get the cutie reading the newspaper (ooh, another reader!) at the bar to look up when I had to reach around him to get my drink from the bartender.
Is it supposed to be this difficult? Seriously, I had less trouble scaling the Berlin Wall than I’m having here.
I may need to step up my game a bit, perhaps get one of my friends to start wearing this little number: http://www.tmz.com/2007/02/03/shockers-on-your-knockers/
And if that doesn’t get a guy’s attention, I’m going back to watching TV. My remote is getting lonely.
Kate, trying and failing to date in LA
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Found It!
http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/africa/02/01/guinea.marriage.ap/index.html
I have found it. Click on that link, and you will see my new destination. I am packing as we speak. Then all I have to do is find a fish, or build a house. Then bam—married.
Way easier than filling out the 27 page form. Way easier than actually trying to smile through a decade worth of “I’m not ready” and “in the span of human history, we haven’t been together that long” conversations.
Hell, no. Instead, here I will be revered. Note this very wise person-- "The choice of a woman is much more stable".
Damn straight.
Now.. I don’t cook. Once again, I am hindered by not embracing the whole Betty Crocker thing. Not to be deterred. I can build a house. There is nothing in this article that indicates it has to a house that will stand for life. It only has to be there long enough for me to get the dude over the threshold. I can do that.
Quick question—leaning a couple of palm trees toward each other in a tent-like structure counts as a house, right?
Sweet.
I’ve got a plane to catch… just as soon as I figure out how to get cable hooked up into the palm tree house.
Priorities.
Kate
I have found it. Click on that link, and you will see my new destination. I am packing as we speak. Then all I have to do is find a fish, or build a house. Then bam—married.
Way easier than filling out the 27 page form. Way easier than actually trying to smile through a decade worth of “I’m not ready” and “in the span of human history, we haven’t been together that long” conversations.
Hell, no. Instead, here I will be revered. Note this very wise person-- "The choice of a woman is much more stable".
Damn straight.
Now.. I don’t cook. Once again, I am hindered by not embracing the whole Betty Crocker thing. Not to be deterred. I can build a house. There is nothing in this article that indicates it has to a house that will stand for life. It only has to be there long enough for me to get the dude over the threshold. I can do that.
Quick question—leaning a couple of palm trees toward each other in a tent-like structure counts as a house, right?
Sweet.
I’ve got a plane to catch… just as soon as I figure out how to get cable hooked up into the palm tree house.
Priorities.
Kate
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Anyone?
Anyone see American Idol tonight?
Anyone else start crying uncontrollably?
Just me? Damn.
But seriously-- the man who kept his "lady (of 20 years)love's" spirits up through her cancer by getting a petition signed so he could audition on the show (I think he said he was 64). Yeah... some of you know who I'm talking about...
He just wanted to sing "You Belong to Me" as a tribute to her -- because she died two days before the auditions.
Seriously. Could not stop the waterworks.
Damn.
Kate
Anyone else start crying uncontrollably?
Just me? Damn.
But seriously-- the man who kept his "lady (of 20 years)love's" spirits up through her cancer by getting a petition signed so he could audition on the show (I think he said he was 64). Yeah... some of you know who I'm talking about...
He just wanted to sing "You Belong to Me" as a tribute to her -- because she died two days before the auditions.
Seriously. Could not stop the waterworks.
Damn.
Kate
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Get Me a Lawyer
We live in a litigious society. There is just no doubt.
*A couple decide to have sex on the subway tracks in NYC. A train comes and they narrowly manage to survive by rolling into the gutter. They then promptly sued the NY transit for not warning them that they were in danger of an incoming train. [Well, sure, who expects a train on train tracks?? ;)]
*A man breaks into a home and trips on a loose carpet runner on the stairs. The homeowners were out of town, so he spent the night at the bottom of their stairs with a broken leg. The burglar sued the homeowners for negligence. [So, be certain to keep your house up in order to be more hospitable to the criminal element.]
So, if lawsuits like this can go forward, I’m putting my case together: I’m suing fairy tales. That’s right: Kate v Fairy Tales coming to a court near you.
This is how dating goes in fairy tales—
Man meets woman. He is inexplicably drawn to her regardless of their differences. He overcomes all odds to pursue her. He declares his love and lifelong devotion. They kiss—for the first time. Happily ever after occurs about a day later.
At no point in this process is there a 27 page form that will help an electronic dating service select possible matches for you.
At no point did Cinderella have to spend 2 hours trying to figure out (for said form) if she was more adventurous or more creative, while trying not to admit that all she really wanted to do most Saturday nights was watch TV.
At no point did Sleeping Beauty have to wonder—hmmm do guys in LA expect the Brazilian wax or the playboy, since there seems to be a war on pubic hair?
While poison apples are tricky, Snow White got a vow of lifelong devotion before she had to reveal to her suitor if she was sexually traditional or adventurous, not on the 3rd freakin date.
Not one of the lovely fairy tale ladies had to analyze their emails for signs of interest. I mean, seriously, did you ever hear anyone say “What does Prince Charming mean by that? Is that Prince Charming flirting with me? How am I supposed to respond to that? Will Prince Charming think my thighs are too big if I enclose my photo?”
At no point did Prince Charming take 10 years trying to figure out if he had enough in common with his beloved to commit to a relationship.
I’ve been misled. I was promised Prince Charming. Not Prince Grope-a-lot. Not Prince Waste-Your-Time. Prince-Freakin’-Charming. And if he doesn’t show, I’m suing somebody. I don’t know who, of course, but someone is going down (and no, not in a good way).
Kate
*A couple decide to have sex on the subway tracks in NYC. A train comes and they narrowly manage to survive by rolling into the gutter. They then promptly sued the NY transit for not warning them that they were in danger of an incoming train. [Well, sure, who expects a train on train tracks?? ;)]
*A man breaks into a home and trips on a loose carpet runner on the stairs. The homeowners were out of town, so he spent the night at the bottom of their stairs with a broken leg. The burglar sued the homeowners for negligence. [So, be certain to keep your house up in order to be more hospitable to the criminal element.]
So, if lawsuits like this can go forward, I’m putting my case together: I’m suing fairy tales. That’s right: Kate v Fairy Tales coming to a court near you.
This is how dating goes in fairy tales—
Man meets woman. He is inexplicably drawn to her regardless of their differences. He overcomes all odds to pursue her. He declares his love and lifelong devotion. They kiss—for the first time. Happily ever after occurs about a day later.
At no point in this process is there a 27 page form that will help an electronic dating service select possible matches for you.
At no point did Cinderella have to spend 2 hours trying to figure out (for said form) if she was more adventurous or more creative, while trying not to admit that all she really wanted to do most Saturday nights was watch TV.
At no point did Sleeping Beauty have to wonder—hmmm do guys in LA expect the Brazilian wax or the playboy, since there seems to be a war on pubic hair?
While poison apples are tricky, Snow White got a vow of lifelong devotion before she had to reveal to her suitor if she was sexually traditional or adventurous, not on the 3rd freakin date.
Not one of the lovely fairy tale ladies had to analyze their emails for signs of interest. I mean, seriously, did you ever hear anyone say “What does Prince Charming mean by that? Is that Prince Charming flirting with me? How am I supposed to respond to that? Will Prince Charming think my thighs are too big if I enclose my photo?”
At no point did Prince Charming take 10 years trying to figure out if he had enough in common with his beloved to commit to a relationship.
I’ve been misled. I was promised Prince Charming. Not Prince Grope-a-lot. Not Prince Waste-Your-Time. Prince-Freakin’-Charming. And if he doesn’t show, I’m suing somebody. I don’t know who, of course, but someone is going down (and no, not in a good way).
Kate
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Definition Please
I don't know a single woman who dates in Los Angeles. Not one. It's not that I don't have single female friends. I do. But it is almost as though we've collectively put a moratorium on dating. No dating, no drama. It's the club motto. I'm having t-shirts made. ;)
But it's January. It's a new year. Bring on the drama. We WILL DATE!
There's just one thing.
What exactly constitutes a date in today's less than romantic climate?
I know a guy who had sex with a girl, but didn't consider it a date. What the hell?
Luckily for me, my first forays back into the dating world are somewhat less fraught. For instance, I've tried to get my friends to count my dinner and conversation with the guy sitting next to me on the plane as a date. So far, none of them are buying that one. Sure. Fine. Whatever.
How about this:
If a guy I've been friends with for years, but don't see often, asks me to lunch?
Normally, I'd say no, but I've been wrong before with male friends. Romance hasn't crossed my mind, but suddenly events take a turn. And I hate having to mace a friend-- tends to make things so awkward later.
Also, in the friend category:
What if a guy I've known a little bit through work says "Maybe we could get together for coffee when I'm in town?"
Date? Sounds ridiculous, but I got this one wrong, too, once. A guy asked me for coffee. My response was "you mean, like a date?" His response was "why do we have to define it". Which I've learned means "I'd like to keep my options open depending on whether or not you are as entertaining as I remember, and by entertaining I mean wearing an easy access bra".
Does this all fall to me? If I have single guy friends, are they always open to reinterpretation?
In other words, can coffee just be coffee, unless you shave your legs? ;)
I need definitions. I need rules. Guidelines. How to Manuals. Otherwise, every time a guy speaks to me, I'm going to print it here, and ask for a vote.
Kate
But it's January. It's a new year. Bring on the drama. We WILL DATE!
There's just one thing.
What exactly constitutes a date in today's less than romantic climate?
I know a guy who had sex with a girl, but didn't consider it a date. What the hell?
Luckily for me, my first forays back into the dating world are somewhat less fraught. For instance, I've tried to get my friends to count my dinner and conversation with the guy sitting next to me on the plane as a date. So far, none of them are buying that one. Sure. Fine. Whatever.
How about this:
If a guy I've been friends with for years, but don't see often, asks me to lunch?
Normally, I'd say no, but I've been wrong before with male friends. Romance hasn't crossed my mind, but suddenly events take a turn. And I hate having to mace a friend-- tends to make things so awkward later.
Also, in the friend category:
What if a guy I've known a little bit through work says "Maybe we could get together for coffee when I'm in town?"
Date? Sounds ridiculous, but I got this one wrong, too, once. A guy asked me for coffee. My response was "you mean, like a date?" His response was "why do we have to define it". Which I've learned means "I'd like to keep my options open depending on whether or not you are as entertaining as I remember, and by entertaining I mean wearing an easy access bra".
Does this all fall to me? If I have single guy friends, are they always open to reinterpretation?
In other words, can coffee just be coffee, unless you shave your legs? ;)
I need definitions. I need rules. Guidelines. How to Manuals. Otherwise, every time a guy speaks to me, I'm going to print it here, and ask for a vote.
Kate
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Cranky Rant
So, my original plan involved me hitting the new year with a bang (no, not that kind of bang, heads out of the gutter ). I get very into the whole resolutions thing, and I really do try to hit the ground running in hyper-productive mode.
Alas, I have been momentarily felled by a cold. The only thing hitting the ground running is my nose, and the only thing I'm really embracing is my blankie.
Given these things, I am willing to concede that I might be a bit cranky.
BUT
Buying my car was easier than buying decongestant today.
Seriously.
I know that the new rules mean I have to take a little card to the pharmacy. I know that they do this to regulate how much magical Sudafed they sell. I get it. Really. I’m sympathetic… most of the time. Today, I wanted my freakin Sudafed.
What I didn’t want—to stand behind the other 15 people in front of me. I’m sure they were lovely people, but they didn’t look pathetic like I did. They weren’t trying to fend off a coughing fit, and they all looked like they could breathe. There needs to be a line for currently pathetic, or serious whine-baby.
Here was the big surprise for me, though. You can make long-term investments, buy cars and homes with less paperwork than it took to get one box of Sudafed. I’m not kidding. They needed ID. They needed to swipe the ID tag. They needed to enter the codes. They needed me to not only sign for the box of Sudafed, but also write down my address and sign the book.
SERIOUSLY?
Does Homeland Security know about these procedures? If not, perhaps they should just adopt these policies and hire border pharmacists. Nothing is getting past these suckers.
You’ll be happy to know that I have prevailed, and will be slightly less cranky soon.
But, seriously???
Kate
Alas, I have been momentarily felled by a cold. The only thing hitting the ground running is my nose, and the only thing I'm really embracing is my blankie.
Given these things, I am willing to concede that I might be a bit cranky.
BUT
Buying my car was easier than buying decongestant today.
Seriously.
I know that the new rules mean I have to take a little card to the pharmacy. I know that they do this to regulate how much magical Sudafed they sell. I get it. Really. I’m sympathetic… most of the time. Today, I wanted my freakin Sudafed.
What I didn’t want—to stand behind the other 15 people in front of me. I’m sure they were lovely people, but they didn’t look pathetic like I did. They weren’t trying to fend off a coughing fit, and they all looked like they could breathe. There needs to be a line for currently pathetic, or serious whine-baby.
Here was the big surprise for me, though. You can make long-term investments, buy cars and homes with less paperwork than it took to get one box of Sudafed. I’m not kidding. They needed ID. They needed to swipe the ID tag. They needed to enter the codes. They needed me to not only sign for the box of Sudafed, but also write down my address and sign the book.
SERIOUSLY?
Does Homeland Security know about these procedures? If not, perhaps they should just adopt these policies and hire border pharmacists. Nothing is getting past these suckers.
You’ll be happy to know that I have prevailed, and will be slightly less cranky soon.
But, seriously???
Kate
Friday, December 29, 2006
Seriously? Hands Up for a New Rule
In keeping with my new and improved dating outlook (ie wont complain about it constantly, but rather stick to only solid, bitter recriminations intermittently), I decided to put all suggestions into play for my return flight to Los Angeles. Not only did I put on the lipstick battle armor, but the mascara and concealer. Quite clearly, I was a woman on a mission.
I even gave that positive affirmation thing a go—well, you know, mostly.
So, when fate intervened on my behalf, I was thinking this is it… I’m going in.
You see “cute boy” had a ticket for 18E. But he got mixed up and sat in 19E instead, which landed him right next to me. He could have moved when the other guy showed up, but instead the other guy just took his seat.
Fate doesn’t get clearer than this. There was practically a big neon arrow pointed to “cute boy” saying “if you don’t talk to this boy, you are officially hopeless and should just start interviewing at convents now”. Ok, it would have been a really big neon arrow to fit all that writing on it, but you get the idea.
Without even speaking to him (well, he was watching the movie and napping at first, it would have been rude to strike up a conversation right off the bat), I knew we had the potential for being very happy together.
He had the sacred set of pluses:
SSP#1: Despite him not being able to figure out the tricky plane seat numbering, the boy reads. He took out a book when he sat down. Not a “How to Shoot Your Own Girl’s Gone Wild Video” kind of book, but an honest to goodness award-winning novel. Seriously, my palms got a little sweaty when he took it out of his bag.
SSP#2: He has a job. He works for an investment bank, which means he’d understand my schedule. At least, I think he works for an investment bank. He pulled his laptop out from a bag stamped with a well-known IB’s logo. He did look young-ish, I hope it wasn’t his dad’s bag. Hmmmm Anyway, I’m going with employed.
SSP#3: Had the combo of cute and polite. He said all the appropriate please and thank you’s. Boys with manners… yum.
SSP#4: No ring. No ring tan line. Yes!
So, we shared a meal. Well, ok, he had his airplane food, and I had mine, but we were sitting right next to one another and did occasionally exchange words. This qualifies as one of my better dates, actually. In fact, it may fulfill my resolution for the year regarding dates with romantic intent. Mwhaa haa haaa
As we got closer to landing, I realized that I didn’t have much time to launch the plan. I had decided that “employed, reading, single, cute boy” was going to get one of my best moves (ok, I only have 2 moves, but work with me here).
I like to refer to this as the “clutch, and blush winningly”. Basically, I take advantage of any significant turbulence or rough landing to desperately grab my arm rest, but I miss and land somewhere on unsuspecting “employed, reading, single, cute boy”. Then, realizing my mistake, I quickly release him and blush, etc.
This has the potential for starting conversation for two reasons:
1. I am a brilliant actress, and have missed my calling.
2. I genuinely loathe flying, and tend to actually grab my armrest whenever there is turbulence anyway.
At first, I thought it wasn’t going to work—we had an unnaturally easy descent into Los Angeles. Every other time, we’re bouncing along like the wind is playing catch with the plane, but nooooooooooooooo today, smooth sailing. And you can’t just throw the move in without motivation. Then you just look like you are having a fit or something, opening yourself up to assault charges, or a serious conversation with an air marshal.
But then our landing came, and I threw the move. Success! I clutched and blushed. He laughed. I laughed. We were Mr. and Mrs. Incredibly Charming. What a great “How We Met” story for the kids.
As we taxied in, he pulled out a cell phone to let his buddy know when he’d be out. I was working on my next set of “Golly, do you work at that IB? Do you know xxxx (which would have been a completely made up name, of course)?” when he finished up his call with “See you soon. Love you, Sweetie.”
Huh? Dudes say that to other dudes, right? Could still be a buddy and not a winsome blond girl right? Right? No? Seriously??
I wasted my best move on a guy with a serious girlfriend.
There needs to be a new rule. Guys who are dating someone need to be marked in some sort of obvious way. Another kind of ring… perhaps through the nose. A tattoo on the forehead. Something obvious, and impossible to remove. No wonder he was so neat and clean—no bachelor there. I should have known. No man with that many SSPs going for him could still be in the wild roaming free.
Seriously! Hands up for the new rule!
Kate, positive dating affirmations my ass, in LA
I even gave that positive affirmation thing a go—well, you know, mostly.
So, when fate intervened on my behalf, I was thinking this is it… I’m going in.
You see “cute boy” had a ticket for 18E. But he got mixed up and sat in 19E instead, which landed him right next to me. He could have moved when the other guy showed up, but instead the other guy just took his seat.
Fate doesn’t get clearer than this. There was practically a big neon arrow pointed to “cute boy” saying “if you don’t talk to this boy, you are officially hopeless and should just start interviewing at convents now”. Ok, it would have been a really big neon arrow to fit all that writing on it, but you get the idea.
Without even speaking to him (well, he was watching the movie and napping at first, it would have been rude to strike up a conversation right off the bat), I knew we had the potential for being very happy together.
He had the sacred set of pluses:
SSP#1: Despite him not being able to figure out the tricky plane seat numbering, the boy reads. He took out a book when he sat down. Not a “How to Shoot Your Own Girl’s Gone Wild Video” kind of book, but an honest to goodness award-winning novel. Seriously, my palms got a little sweaty when he took it out of his bag.
SSP#2: He has a job. He works for an investment bank, which means he’d understand my schedule. At least, I think he works for an investment bank. He pulled his laptop out from a bag stamped with a well-known IB’s logo. He did look young-ish, I hope it wasn’t his dad’s bag. Hmmmm Anyway, I’m going with employed.
SSP#3: Had the combo of cute and polite. He said all the appropriate please and thank you’s. Boys with manners… yum.
SSP#4: No ring. No ring tan line. Yes!
So, we shared a meal. Well, ok, he had his airplane food, and I had mine, but we were sitting right next to one another and did occasionally exchange words. This qualifies as one of my better dates, actually. In fact, it may fulfill my resolution for the year regarding dates with romantic intent. Mwhaa haa haaa
As we got closer to landing, I realized that I didn’t have much time to launch the plan. I had decided that “employed, reading, single, cute boy” was going to get one of my best moves (ok, I only have 2 moves, but work with me here).
I like to refer to this as the “clutch, and blush winningly”. Basically, I take advantage of any significant turbulence or rough landing to desperately grab my arm rest, but I miss and land somewhere on unsuspecting “employed, reading, single, cute boy”. Then, realizing my mistake, I quickly release him and blush, etc.
This has the potential for starting conversation for two reasons:
1. I am a brilliant actress, and have missed my calling.
2. I genuinely loathe flying, and tend to actually grab my armrest whenever there is turbulence anyway.
At first, I thought it wasn’t going to work—we had an unnaturally easy descent into Los Angeles. Every other time, we’re bouncing along like the wind is playing catch with the plane, but nooooooooooooooo today, smooth sailing. And you can’t just throw the move in without motivation. Then you just look like you are having a fit or something, opening yourself up to assault charges, or a serious conversation with an air marshal.
But then our landing came, and I threw the move. Success! I clutched and blushed. He laughed. I laughed. We were Mr. and Mrs. Incredibly Charming. What a great “How We Met” story for the kids.
As we taxied in, he pulled out a cell phone to let his buddy know when he’d be out. I was working on my next set of “Golly, do you work at that IB? Do you know xxxx (which would have been a completely made up name, of course)?” when he finished up his call with “See you soon. Love you, Sweetie.”
Huh? Dudes say that to other dudes, right? Could still be a buddy and not a winsome blond girl right? Right? No? Seriously??
I wasted my best move on a guy with a serious girlfriend.
There needs to be a new rule. Guys who are dating someone need to be marked in some sort of obvious way. Another kind of ring… perhaps through the nose. A tattoo on the forehead. Something obvious, and impossible to remove. No wonder he was so neat and clean—no bachelor there. I should have known. No man with that many SSPs going for him could still be in the wild roaming free.
Seriously! Hands up for the new rule!
Kate, positive dating affirmations my ass, in LA
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Man in 9D
The Man in 9D
This blog is brought to you from high above the country somewhere. I’m headed east for the holidays, and I have hit upon another little discussed pick-up place: the cross country airplane ride.
I don’t know why I wasn’t better prepared.
I blame the new security restrictions. I was confused about whether or not my lipstick would still be considered a weapon, so I just put it in a clear plastic bag and stuffed it deep inside my computer case. Everyone knows that just a little lipstick makes everything better (and by everyone, I mean people acting like Norma Desmond calling for her close-up). Repo man comes to the door—lipstick. It just makes the experience fresher somehow ;) About to be evicted—no worries, as long as you can grab that tube of “breakfast in bed”. Seriously, I’m beginning to think it should be treated as cosmetic armor. So, if you see me whip that tube out and apply generously—look out ladies, I’m going in.
Which should in part explain why I can’t find mine, Fate is laughing, again. I wasn’t prepared to be called into battle hurtling thousands of feet in the air. My armor is buried beneath my iPOD recharger, my cell phone recharger, my blackberry recharger and the computer power cord.
(On a side note, please, someone come up with a universal recharger—I’m sick of carrying around the entire contents of radio shack every time I go somewhere. I’ll be forever grateful. Thanks!)
Anyway, the reason I need full battle dress? The man in 9D. He’s not that far away though, so I am surreptitiously observing him. In fact, it is sort of difficult to type this because if I turn in the direction where I actually have room to type and see the screen, he’d be able to see the screen. And typing straight is becoming a bit of a challenge because the woman in front of me has decided to nap in my lap. FREAKIN’ reclining seats. One of next year’s resolutions will have to be “learn how to type with breasts” since that’s the only way it is going to be possible on these flights.
(How is it that they recline a fraction of an inch, and yet the person in front of me always ends up on top of me? I’m not that big. What does a full grown person do? But I digress.)
I know—you are screaming something along the lines of “I say, now would be a strapping good time to strike up a conversation regarding political risk and currency convertibility issues, or something equally beguiling”.
True.
But he appears to be asleep. What exactly is the protocol here? Do I subtly reach diagonally and across a row or two and nudge him? What’s the rule? I do have a business card on me. But it’s a tad tricky to get it to him with him snuggled into his sweatshirt and facing the other direction. You know, unless I drop it on him. You’re right… too subtle. Could fall to the cabin floor when he awakens.
Possibilities for a skilled social person—endless. Possibilities for me—maybe I’ll smile when we get up to deplane.
Next time, I’ll know better. Lipstick on for the return flight. Definitely.
Kate
P.S. Because I know you will kill me if I don’t tell you what happened—I did end up talking to 9D. If by talking you mean an awkward “Hi!” yelled just a touch too loud in the midst of a ton of people trying to get their carry-ons and off the plane. It wasn’t a scream exactly and not completely frightening, but it did get his attention. And the attention of pretty much everyone around him. Well done, me. But he did say “Hi” back.
Progress.
This blog is brought to you from high above the country somewhere. I’m headed east for the holidays, and I have hit upon another little discussed pick-up place: the cross country airplane ride.
I don’t know why I wasn’t better prepared.
I blame the new security restrictions. I was confused about whether or not my lipstick would still be considered a weapon, so I just put it in a clear plastic bag and stuffed it deep inside my computer case. Everyone knows that just a little lipstick makes everything better (and by everyone, I mean people acting like Norma Desmond calling for her close-up). Repo man comes to the door—lipstick. It just makes the experience fresher somehow ;) About to be evicted—no worries, as long as you can grab that tube of “breakfast in bed”. Seriously, I’m beginning to think it should be treated as cosmetic armor. So, if you see me whip that tube out and apply generously—look out ladies, I’m going in.
Which should in part explain why I can’t find mine, Fate is laughing, again. I wasn’t prepared to be called into battle hurtling thousands of feet in the air. My armor is buried beneath my iPOD recharger, my cell phone recharger, my blackberry recharger and the computer power cord.
(On a side note, please, someone come up with a universal recharger—I’m sick of carrying around the entire contents of radio shack every time I go somewhere. I’ll be forever grateful. Thanks!)
Anyway, the reason I need full battle dress? The man in 9D. He’s not that far away though, so I am surreptitiously observing him. In fact, it is sort of difficult to type this because if I turn in the direction where I actually have room to type and see the screen, he’d be able to see the screen. And typing straight is becoming a bit of a challenge because the woman in front of me has decided to nap in my lap. FREAKIN’ reclining seats. One of next year’s resolutions will have to be “learn how to type with breasts” since that’s the only way it is going to be possible on these flights.
(How is it that they recline a fraction of an inch, and yet the person in front of me always ends up on top of me? I’m not that big. What does a full grown person do? But I digress.)
I know—you are screaming something along the lines of “I say, now would be a strapping good time to strike up a conversation regarding political risk and currency convertibility issues, or something equally beguiling”.
True.
But he appears to be asleep. What exactly is the protocol here? Do I subtly reach diagonally and across a row or two and nudge him? What’s the rule? I do have a business card on me. But it’s a tad tricky to get it to him with him snuggled into his sweatshirt and facing the other direction. You know, unless I drop it on him. You’re right… too subtle. Could fall to the cabin floor when he awakens.
Possibilities for a skilled social person—endless. Possibilities for me—maybe I’ll smile when we get up to deplane.
Next time, I’ll know better. Lipstick on for the return flight. Definitely.
Kate
P.S. Because I know you will kill me if I don’t tell you what happened—I did end up talking to 9D. If by talking you mean an awkward “Hi!” yelled just a touch too loud in the midst of a ton of people trying to get their carry-ons and off the plane. It wasn’t a scream exactly and not completely frightening, but it did get his attention. And the attention of pretty much everyone around him. Well done, me. But he did say “Hi” back.
Progress.
Friday, December 15, 2006
LA Hotspot
At this point, we all know where at least one of the nightlife hotspots is in Los Angeles. Anyone who reads TMZ.com knows that Hyde, Les Deux, Shag, Mood and the Boom Boom Room (ok, I made that last one up) are the places to be for all the action. If you want to rub elbows, or anything else, with the likes of Lohan, Hilton and Richie just head to any of those locales (or apparently, the 134 freeway).
BUT there is a magical place in Los Angeles that appears to offer a fine selection of men, and you get pampered in the process. That’s right people—I’m talking about my hair salon. I sense disbelief. Tsk tsk. Would I lie to you? Sure, you’re right, I would, but in this case, not so much.
In the last six months, I’ve met two guys at the hair salon. And not necessarily metro guys either. Why? My hair stylist is determined to set me up.
Much like the priest and bartender before her, my hair stylist seems to operate a confessional, and she is determined to toss me back into the dating world.
I’ve known her for years, so she’s heard the relationship drama. She’s also a dating world convert—she met her husband on match.com after seeing the end of her own 10 year relationship. She’s on a mission.
The first time she tried to fix me up, the timing was… well… let’s just say not optimal. It was the afternoon I caused the black-out because I found out the ex was getting married. The only thing I remember is that there was a guy coming in after me, and she wanted to introduce us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Don’t remember his name. I’m only vaguely certain that he was male. Yeah, not a whole lot of processing of new information that day.
So, she called that one a wash, and chalked it up to a bad moon.
The second time was this weekend. There was a guy in the chair before me. I was under the dryer trying to keep the hair die from dripping down my face—although I’m sure I could rock the hair dye streak face look, if I really wanted to… Again, I didn’t really pay attention to said guy. I was busy reading a fascinating article about Hillary Duff and dabbing at dye.
I’m fairly confident now that he may have had some sort of mental disorder. He told her quietly that he thought I was cute, and asked for an introduction. Cute? Is there a dripping hair dye fetish group that I’m not aware of? I’ve got a big, black drop cloth on me, my hair is mid process, and the concept of make-up was nowhere in the back of my mind. Yeah, he had to be disturbed.
Anyway, he wandered off to go do something, and we started working the magic that would make me into a supermodel (just as soon as they change those height, weight and looks restrictions, of course).
I’m at the point during the haircut where I’m sporting the “Cousin It” look, and set-up guy is back, ostensibly to pay his bill. At which point, we get introduced. He actually seemed like a very nice guy, I think, probably…yeah, I don’t actually know. He smiled and had a nice handshake. He said something like “nice haircut”, which would have been a lovely compliment—but I was still working the “Cousin It” thing (wet hair hanging entirely in front of my face). So, I laughed. And then realized he was serious. Really came out more like an awkward moment at that point than anything else.
Yeah…
0 for 2 so far, but I am confident that I have many more potentially embarrassing encounters to come—1 at least every 6 weeks. Good times!
Kate
BUT there is a magical place in Los Angeles that appears to offer a fine selection of men, and you get pampered in the process. That’s right people—I’m talking about my hair salon. I sense disbelief. Tsk tsk. Would I lie to you? Sure, you’re right, I would, but in this case, not so much.
In the last six months, I’ve met two guys at the hair salon. And not necessarily metro guys either. Why? My hair stylist is determined to set me up.
Much like the priest and bartender before her, my hair stylist seems to operate a confessional, and she is determined to toss me back into the dating world.
I’ve known her for years, so she’s heard the relationship drama. She’s also a dating world convert—she met her husband on match.com after seeing the end of her own 10 year relationship. She’s on a mission.
The first time she tried to fix me up, the timing was… well… let’s just say not optimal. It was the afternoon I caused the black-out because I found out the ex was getting married. The only thing I remember is that there was a guy coming in after me, and she wanted to introduce us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Don’t remember his name. I’m only vaguely certain that he was male. Yeah, not a whole lot of processing of new information that day.
So, she called that one a wash, and chalked it up to a bad moon.
The second time was this weekend. There was a guy in the chair before me. I was under the dryer trying to keep the hair die from dripping down my face—although I’m sure I could rock the hair dye streak face look, if I really wanted to… Again, I didn’t really pay attention to said guy. I was busy reading a fascinating article about Hillary Duff and dabbing at dye.
I’m fairly confident now that he may have had some sort of mental disorder. He told her quietly that he thought I was cute, and asked for an introduction. Cute? Is there a dripping hair dye fetish group that I’m not aware of? I’ve got a big, black drop cloth on me, my hair is mid process, and the concept of make-up was nowhere in the back of my mind. Yeah, he had to be disturbed.
Anyway, he wandered off to go do something, and we started working the magic that would make me into a supermodel (just as soon as they change those height, weight and looks restrictions, of course).
I’m at the point during the haircut where I’m sporting the “Cousin It” look, and set-up guy is back, ostensibly to pay his bill. At which point, we get introduced. He actually seemed like a very nice guy, I think, probably…yeah, I don’t actually know. He smiled and had a nice handshake. He said something like “nice haircut”, which would have been a lovely compliment—but I was still working the “Cousin It” thing (wet hair hanging entirely in front of my face). So, I laughed. And then realized he was serious. Really came out more like an awkward moment at that point than anything else.
Yeah…
0 for 2 so far, but I am confident that I have many more potentially embarrassing encounters to come—1 at least every 6 weeks. Good times!
Kate
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Wingman
I decided to look for a wingman (or a wingman trainer).
Is it a wingman if your buddy is female? Wingwoman? Wingperson? Winged one?
Grant it, with me it's more like "wing-and-a-prayer"-man, but this could be important.
Do you audition for these? Put up a notice on Craig's list? Could I force one of my friends into training?
Right now, my friend B is my wingette. She sort of got trapped into the job.
I was looking fabulous... well, kind of hot... ok, appealing in an untamed sort of way... alright, fine.. sort of matronly. Let's not focus on me, here.
I was waiting for B to arrive at brunch when I spied a table featuring some appealing maleness. Being completely incapable of doing anything about this by myself, I turned to the time honored tradition of whispering to my friend, Wingette.
First, the key question-- does he like girls?
Wingette survey says: Yes!
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Next question, are he and his friend waiting for girlfriends, or at least female companions that are of no blood relation?
Tricky.
We had a brief scare when a woman with a baby stroller pulled up near the table. Let's face it-- that would be my luck. If I can choose an unavailable male, I will. But in the end stroller lady was parked at a nearby table. Whew.
Of course, all of this was being observed with the utmost of care. My frantic turns to look over my shoulder with a half body twist and tilt probably went completely unnoticed. This is where B really came in handy-- she had a nearly clear view. All she had to do was occasionally pop up like a mole to get a good look.
So, I'm tilting and twisting and she's popping, when the guys were joined by more guys. Apparently, a manly brunch was ensuing.
Excellent. All systems go. Here we go... Any moment now...
Yeah, we had no idea what to do.
Now, B is a hot blond, so I thought I'd throw her into them somehow. Of course, I wouldn't have told her this first, just for the true air of authenticity. Can't have her faking the sprawl across the table. But also, she's married. So, I figured if I send her in, they'd be crushed with disappointment that they couldn't have her, and then I could swoop in and charm them with my availability.
But in reality, I wasn't sure what I was swooping in to do exactly.
She and I decided to go for a casual, slightly saucy walk by on the way out.
So, naturally, they were gone by the time we got outside.
Yeah, we need some training.
Kate
P.S. A moment of silence to mark the passing of Max, George Clooney's beloved pet pig.
Is it a wingman if your buddy is female? Wingwoman? Wingperson? Winged one?
Grant it, with me it's more like "wing-and-a-prayer"-man, but this could be important.
Do you audition for these? Put up a notice on Craig's list? Could I force one of my friends into training?
Right now, my friend B is my wingette. She sort of got trapped into the job.
I was looking fabulous... well, kind of hot... ok, appealing in an untamed sort of way... alright, fine.. sort of matronly. Let's not focus on me, here.
I was waiting for B to arrive at brunch when I spied a table featuring some appealing maleness. Being completely incapable of doing anything about this by myself, I turned to the time honored tradition of whispering to my friend, Wingette.
First, the key question-- does he like girls?
Wingette survey says: Yes!
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Next question, are he and his friend waiting for girlfriends, or at least female companions that are of no blood relation?
Tricky.
We had a brief scare when a woman with a baby stroller pulled up near the table. Let's face it-- that would be my luck. If I can choose an unavailable male, I will. But in the end stroller lady was parked at a nearby table. Whew.
Of course, all of this was being observed with the utmost of care. My frantic turns to look over my shoulder with a half body twist and tilt probably went completely unnoticed. This is where B really came in handy-- she had a nearly clear view. All she had to do was occasionally pop up like a mole to get a good look.
So, I'm tilting and twisting and she's popping, when the guys were joined by more guys. Apparently, a manly brunch was ensuing.
Excellent. All systems go. Here we go... Any moment now...
Yeah, we had no idea what to do.
Now, B is a hot blond, so I thought I'd throw her into them somehow. Of course, I wouldn't have told her this first, just for the true air of authenticity. Can't have her faking the sprawl across the table. But also, she's married. So, I figured if I send her in, they'd be crushed with disappointment that they couldn't have her, and then I could swoop in and charm them with my availability.
But in reality, I wasn't sure what I was swooping in to do exactly.
She and I decided to go for a casual, slightly saucy walk by on the way out.
So, naturally, they were gone by the time we got outside.
Yeah, we need some training.
Kate
P.S. A moment of silence to mark the passing of Max, George Clooney's beloved pet pig.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The Male Pill
Ah, more breaking news from the scientific world. Seems that they are close to perfecting the male birth control pill.
My first reaction-- Sweet!! Someone else can deal with the weight gain, emotional edge, etc. Rock on! Plus, I understand that they are really working to reduce the side effects that women have been dealing with for years. Because, of course, you can't have men dealing with those inconveniences.
And then my second thought-- would I actually rely on a guy to take that thing? Even if it is only a "several hours before" kind of thing. hmmmm
Now I'm sure that there are some great, responsible men out there... somewhere... probably. And obviously, there are always the losers to look out for. But it's the third group of males in this situation that could prove the greatest problem. They seem responsible, and they are genuinely good people. But in that group:
He's the guy who says something like "uh, yeah" when you ask if he has straightened up the living room. Then you discover his definition involved taking all the papers, etc. and putting them on the dining room chair... and pushing it in under the table.
He's the guy who wont change a bandage or take the meds to fight infection because you aren't around to remind him-- even though he knows if he doesn't, there is a 90% chance his hand will fall off from gangrene.
He's the guy who fixes a hole in his jeans with a staple gun-- while he's still wearing them.
He's the guy who will OD because he lives the theory that if one works, five will work better (also true of Viagra ;) ).
He's the guy who will carry the pill in his wallet for months (or years) waiting for the right moment, only to discover that years of sitting on it, has crushed it. So, you find him frantically licking his wallet when you take him home.
And anyone who has dealt with a man's definition of "later" (ie I'll call you later meaning anytime from the same day to six months down the road) knows that time is a fuzzy concept. Tell a man he needs to take something 3 hours before anything, and you better be there to remind him.
So, while I applaud the scientific community's latest efforts... hmmmmm
Kate, still searching for prince longshot, in LA
My first reaction-- Sweet!! Someone else can deal with the weight gain, emotional edge, etc. Rock on! Plus, I understand that they are really working to reduce the side effects that women have been dealing with for years. Because, of course, you can't have men dealing with those inconveniences.
And then my second thought-- would I actually rely on a guy to take that thing? Even if it is only a "several hours before" kind of thing. hmmmm
Now I'm sure that there are some great, responsible men out there... somewhere... probably. And obviously, there are always the losers to look out for. But it's the third group of males in this situation that could prove the greatest problem. They seem responsible, and they are genuinely good people. But in that group:
He's the guy who says something like "uh, yeah" when you ask if he has straightened up the living room. Then you discover his definition involved taking all the papers, etc. and putting them on the dining room chair... and pushing it in under the table.
He's the guy who wont change a bandage or take the meds to fight infection because you aren't around to remind him-- even though he knows if he doesn't, there is a 90% chance his hand will fall off from gangrene.
He's the guy who fixes a hole in his jeans with a staple gun-- while he's still wearing them.
He's the guy who will OD because he lives the theory that if one works, five will work better (also true of Viagra ;) ).
He's the guy who will carry the pill in his wallet for months (or years) waiting for the right moment, only to discover that years of sitting on it, has crushed it. So, you find him frantically licking his wallet when you take him home.
And anyone who has dealt with a man's definition of "later" (ie I'll call you later meaning anytime from the same day to six months down the road) knows that time is a fuzzy concept. Tell a man he needs to take something 3 hours before anything, and you better be there to remind him.
So, while I applaud the scientific community's latest efforts... hmmmmm
Kate, still searching for prince longshot, in LA
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Now what?
First off:
Happy Post-Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.
Second:
Where the heck is prince charming? Is he still out eating pumpkin pie? Is he still over the river and through the woods and the horse actually forgot the way?
I have reluctantly agreed that never leaving my apartment might, might, be part of my dating problems. And while my trips to Starbucks count as out, I’m not sure my medical insurance can cover too many more encounters with Mr. Corner Table/glass door.
So, I went out.
At night.
3 times in one week.
It is possible that this kind of momentous act caused the tectonic plates to shift in some parts of the country. If you had an earthquake, that might have been me (Whoops! Sorry!).
Two of those three times were to places that included alcohol and a festive atmosphere. The other occasion was to the theater, and I’ve made my peace with the reality that very few single straight men go to musicals.
(Which, frankly, shows a lack of imagination on the part of single men—musicals and dance class are full of women with a whole lot less competition than a bar)
The good news—the evenings were great fun.
The bad news—no prince charming. No prince maybe, or prince possibly. No prince longshot, even.
My Type-A personality aside, I have realized that I might have to do more than walk into some place and say “hello world, here I am” (though, I’m perfectly willing to be proven wrong on that front).
So, now what?
And is there anyway I can wrap it up without interfering with my television watching schedule? Priorities.
Hee
Kate
Happy Post-Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.
Second:
Where the heck is prince charming? Is he still out eating pumpkin pie? Is he still over the river and through the woods and the horse actually forgot the way?
I have reluctantly agreed that never leaving my apartment might, might, be part of my dating problems. And while my trips to Starbucks count as out, I’m not sure my medical insurance can cover too many more encounters with Mr. Corner Table/glass door.
So, I went out.
At night.
3 times in one week.
It is possible that this kind of momentous act caused the tectonic plates to shift in some parts of the country. If you had an earthquake, that might have been me (Whoops! Sorry!).
Two of those three times were to places that included alcohol and a festive atmosphere. The other occasion was to the theater, and I’ve made my peace with the reality that very few single straight men go to musicals.
(Which, frankly, shows a lack of imagination on the part of single men—musicals and dance class are full of women with a whole lot less competition than a bar)
The good news—the evenings were great fun.
The bad news—no prince charming. No prince maybe, or prince possibly. No prince longshot, even.
My Type-A personality aside, I have realized that I might have to do more than walk into some place and say “hello world, here I am” (though, I’m perfectly willing to be proven wrong on that front).
So, now what?
And is there anyway I can wrap it up without interfering with my television watching schedule? Priorities.
Hee
Kate
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Just a Thought
I saw today that People Magazine has once again voted George Clooney the sexiest man of the year.
Well...
Duh!
:)
Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
Well...
Duh!
:)
Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Kate's Roman Holiday
Ok-- Not really a holiday-- more like a Roman flight of fancy.
Sure. Some people might accuse me of putting off writing my self-evaluation, which is part of my annual review at work... um...and they might be right.
It's not that I don't want to write it. I just haven't figured out if "tired of bending over and taking it" goes in the Teamwork and Interpersonal Skills section, or in the Areas for Improvement Section. Decisions. Decisions. At least that long-standing question of "does anyone ever read these things" will be answered.
Anyway...
My general work dissatisfaction, and end of the year reflection, has left me pondering a change more seriously. And then I had this fateful conversation with a friend.
Me: "ooooh, you have a Rome office. I don't suppose there are any openings there. Ha Ha"
Her: "There is. Our person there just announced he was leaving."
(insert sound effect of needle scratching across a record here)
Rome. Suddenly all things wrong with the world could be fixed with one word, "Rome".
Sigh. So, instead of rationally assessing the situation (work would be the same, I'd have to move, I don't speak Italian, etc.), my thoughts went something like this:
*Rome-- where a few extra pounds probably don't matter... in fact, I'm sure I heard they were celebrated... mandated... a requirement for your resident visa.
*Rome-- where all the men look like the ones in this picture that El sent to me (shhh... my fantasy, work with me)
*Rome-- where I'm sure I'll be paid to eat yummy food, drink wine and soak up the atmosphere (see paragraph above for atmosphere appropriate for soaking)
*Rome-- where my fabulous Italian shoes will never scuff because I'll be carried on a chaise by Romans (again, see above) through the crowded streets where I'd be admired and adored (and in no way robbed like T on the train the last time I was in Rome).
*Rome-- where my charm is so obvious that I am instantly understood and lauded for my eloquence despite not speaking a word of Italian.
Yep. It was good, but in reality I'd be fired in the first week, my roman conveyance would end up being dropped, and I'd land in a fountain with a pack of wild dogs. So, I settled for seeing "The Light in the Piazza" (which was wonderful) and appreciated the fine talents of the cast... including the very fine Fabrizio.
Ah, Rome. :)
Kate, who is rethinking the whole "I don't watch soccer" thing, in LA
Sure. Some people might accuse me of putting off writing my self-evaluation, which is part of my annual review at work... um...and they might be right.
It's not that I don't want to write it. I just haven't figured out if "tired of bending over and taking it" goes in the Teamwork and Interpersonal Skills section, or in the Areas for Improvement Section. Decisions. Decisions. At least that long-standing question of "does anyone ever read these things" will be answered.
Anyway...
My general work dissatisfaction, and end of the year reflection, has left me pondering a change more seriously. And then I had this fateful conversation with a friend.
Me: "ooooh, you have a Rome office. I don't suppose there are any openings there. Ha Ha"
Her: "There is. Our person there just announced he was leaving."
(insert sound effect of needle scratching across a record here)
Rome. Suddenly all things wrong with the world could be fixed with one word, "Rome".
Sigh. So, instead of rationally assessing the situation (work would be the same, I'd have to move, I don't speak Italian, etc.), my thoughts went something like this:
*Rome-- where a few extra pounds probably don't matter... in fact, I'm sure I heard they were celebrated... mandated... a requirement for your resident visa.
*Rome-- where all the men look like the ones in this picture that El sent to me (shhh... my fantasy, work with me)
*Rome-- where I'm sure I'll be paid to eat yummy food, drink wine and soak up the atmosphere (see paragraph above for atmosphere appropriate for soaking)
*Rome-- where my fabulous Italian shoes will never scuff because I'll be carried on a chaise by Romans (again, see above) through the crowded streets where I'd be admired and adored (and in no way robbed like T on the train the last time I was in Rome).
*Rome-- where my charm is so obvious that I am instantly understood and lauded for my eloquence despite not speaking a word of Italian.
Yep. It was good, but in reality I'd be fired in the first week, my roman conveyance would end up being dropped, and I'd land in a fountain with a pack of wild dogs. So, I settled for seeing "The Light in the Piazza" (which was wonderful) and appreciated the fine talents of the cast... including the very fine Fabrizio.
Ah, Rome. :)
Kate, who is rethinking the whole "I don't watch soccer" thing, in LA
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Kate Talks to a Boy
This weekend Kate talked to a boy.
That's right-- you heard me. I talked to a boy. Please begin preparing-- the end is clearly near.
Picture me wearing something flowing that made me look deceptively tall (um... ok, taller... fine... not quite as short). My bizarro world hair was perfectly cascading down my back. Even had that heaving bosom thing going on. Everything I said was witty and charming. I left the man completely besotted. I expect lavish gifts any day now.
Sheyah-- or this story involves an electronic device and peril was certain.
I was helping a friend on his indie movie project (because this is LA, and that's what we do here on the weekends ;p ), and I was in charge of wrangling actors who came in for their ADR work. These actors included a fine specimen of a man who had worked on the shoot for about 2 days the previous fall. And even though he only had 2 lines, I asked him to come in. Hey, I'm single, not stupid.
So, the whole group of us are hanging outside, and I'm chatting and trying to figure out how to covertly take a photo of fine figure of man (here on known as "FFM") with my camera phone.
But for some reason, the universe decided to once again have its way with me. It refused to take the picture. No matter how many times I tried to press the little button on the little screen-- nothing. Camera phone=male. Obviously.
Let's face it-- you can only really try to take a photo covertly so many times before
a) the subject becomes aware that he's under scrutiny, and/or
b) everyone in the area wonders what's wrong with the girl who keeps mumbling, lifting up her phone, hitting it and then cursing.
I bet it was a camera phone that brought down Mata Hari, too.
Grant it, a normal person might stop trying to take this photo after... oh... the 10th no go. Not I. With extraordinary perseverance of someone truly idiotic, I kept trying. My friend had never seen FFM, and I had to send her a text message with his lovely photo. It was my mission (because in reality, text messaging has become the "passing a note in gym class" of my 30's).
I tried to play it off with the old "oh, it's so great to see everyone, I just want to grab some photos of all of you". And so moved by my sincere (uh.. yeah) efforts at capturing some would-be hallmark moments, out of the darkness (fine, afternoon sunshine) came the voice:
"maybe I can help"
uh.... help me? uh....
(ok, frantic weighing of options ensued. If he hits the wrong button, which is right next to the camera button, he will reveal all of my "he's so cute" text message ramblings. Tremendous potential for embarrassment. If I said no, it would have looked odd, after all my fussing and fuming about it not working. Plus, if he gets it working, I can get a photo).
So, after weighing my options (and hearing the imaginary cries from people who read this blog), I let him fondle my camera phone. That's right-- the man I was trying to covertly photograph ended up helping me to fix the camera so that I could take his picture.
Did he ever know he was the object of my frantic machinations? Hard to tell, but just to be certain, I set him up with my friend. That should throw him off ;)
Yeah, alright, so it all didn't go according to plan. But I did talk to a boy, so it goes into the success column. It's practically a date in my world.
And if my friend ends up marrying him, I have an amusing story to tell at the reception.
Kate, clueless with a fondled camera phone, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
That's right-- you heard me. I talked to a boy. Please begin preparing-- the end is clearly near.
Picture me wearing something flowing that made me look deceptively tall (um... ok, taller... fine... not quite as short). My bizarro world hair was perfectly cascading down my back. Even had that heaving bosom thing going on. Everything I said was witty and charming. I left the man completely besotted. I expect lavish gifts any day now.
Sheyah-- or this story involves an electronic device and peril was certain.
I was helping a friend on his indie movie project (because this is LA, and that's what we do here on the weekends ;p ), and I was in charge of wrangling actors who came in for their ADR work. These actors included a fine specimen of a man who had worked on the shoot for about 2 days the previous fall. And even though he only had 2 lines, I asked him to come in. Hey, I'm single, not stupid.
So, the whole group of us are hanging outside, and I'm chatting and trying to figure out how to covertly take a photo of fine figure of man (here on known as "FFM") with my camera phone.
But for some reason, the universe decided to once again have its way with me. It refused to take the picture. No matter how many times I tried to press the little button on the little screen-- nothing. Camera phone=male. Obviously.
Let's face it-- you can only really try to take a photo covertly so many times before
a) the subject becomes aware that he's under scrutiny, and/or
b) everyone in the area wonders what's wrong with the girl who keeps mumbling, lifting up her phone, hitting it and then cursing.
I bet it was a camera phone that brought down Mata Hari, too.
Grant it, a normal person might stop trying to take this photo after... oh... the 10th no go. Not I. With extraordinary perseverance of someone truly idiotic, I kept trying. My friend had never seen FFM, and I had to send her a text message with his lovely photo. It was my mission (because in reality, text messaging has become the "passing a note in gym class" of my 30's).
I tried to play it off with the old "oh, it's so great to see everyone, I just want to grab some photos of all of you". And so moved by my sincere (uh.. yeah) efforts at capturing some would-be hallmark moments, out of the darkness (fine, afternoon sunshine) came the voice:
"maybe I can help"
uh.... help me? uh....
(ok, frantic weighing of options ensued. If he hits the wrong button, which is right next to the camera button, he will reveal all of my "he's so cute" text message ramblings. Tremendous potential for embarrassment. If I said no, it would have looked odd, after all my fussing and fuming about it not working. Plus, if he gets it working, I can get a photo).
So, after weighing my options (and hearing the imaginary cries from people who read this blog), I let him fondle my camera phone. That's right-- the man I was trying to covertly photograph ended up helping me to fix the camera so that I could take his picture.
Did he ever know he was the object of my frantic machinations? Hard to tell, but just to be certain, I set him up with my friend. That should throw him off ;)
Yeah, alright, so it all didn't go according to plan. But I did talk to a boy, so it goes into the success column. It's practically a date in my world.
And if my friend ends up marrying him, I have an amusing story to tell at the reception.
Kate, clueless with a fondled camera phone, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
Friday, October 27, 2006
Hit? Or No Hit?
Because I've been sidelined for so long in the dating game, I'm not always good at gauging whether or not someone is actually hitting on me. So, since I've got several hours of sitting here at the DMV, I thought we should all play a game I like to call "hit, or no hit".
It's either this, or killing the woman sitting next to me testing ALL of her freakin' ring tones at full blast. So, play along, you are saving a life ;)
Situations--
1. A guy sitting next to me and a friend at lunch, wandered into our conversation. As he was leaving, he handed me his card and said if I ever needed financial planning, to give him a call.
Hit, or no hit?
I said no, Julie said yes. My reasoning-- he's probably always selling because he's on commission, plus since when is "financial planning" euphemistic for "want to date"?
2. There is a guy standing near me right now who keeps looking at my flipflops. Really intently looking. Kinda creepy, actually.
Hit, or no hit?
I say no. I think he's contemplating stealing them. Come to think of it, he'd probably look better in them than I do. Either that, or he has a toe fetish. That's right, buddy, I'm writing about you.
3. A male friend said "we should see a movie some time".
Hit, or no hit?
I think this one has to be situational. I was so thrown, I blurted out "you mean like a date?" Which then threw him into saying "uh, well, I guess if you wan..." to which I yelled out "NO!!!!!" Yep, smooth, that's me.
4. You want to go for a walk?
Hit, or no hit?
Again, situational for me. Most of the time I would assume not a hit. Could be that he's just trying to take you somewhere secluded to kill you. I try to approach these invitations with caution.
5. A guy grabs your ass and yells "want to F***???", but is completely wasted. Hmmm still ambiguous for me.
6. And finally, my favorite from today-- "Hells, yeah, yur worth smacking to. buuuu yaaaaaa." Um... ok, not only do I not know if that's a hit or not, but I don't actually know what it means. It is, however, leaving me with a slightly icky feeling.
I think it is clear that I actually need some sort of formal courting system set up. There used to be a whole set of manners for this type of thing. I say, we need to go back to the day where a man declared his intentions formally--preferably on lovely parchment and ending with "my dearest, loveliest Kate". Then after 6 weeks of notes (and one background check later), I would be better prepared to answer the "is he interested" question.
In the meantime, shoe fetish guy is lingering again.
Send me your own questionable hits, and we'll let the group decide if someone was trying some romantic moves or not.
Kate, who needs a guy to girl dictionary before she is dating in LA
Katedating@yahoo.com
It's either this, or killing the woman sitting next to me testing ALL of her freakin' ring tones at full blast. So, play along, you are saving a life ;)
Situations--
1. A guy sitting next to me and a friend at lunch, wandered into our conversation. As he was leaving, he handed me his card and said if I ever needed financial planning, to give him a call.
Hit, or no hit?
I said no, Julie said yes. My reasoning-- he's probably always selling because he's on commission, plus since when is "financial planning" euphemistic for "want to date"?
2. There is a guy standing near me right now who keeps looking at my flipflops. Really intently looking. Kinda creepy, actually.
Hit, or no hit?
I say no. I think he's contemplating stealing them. Come to think of it, he'd probably look better in them than I do. Either that, or he has a toe fetish. That's right, buddy, I'm writing about you.
3. A male friend said "we should see a movie some time".
Hit, or no hit?
I think this one has to be situational. I was so thrown, I blurted out "you mean like a date?" Which then threw him into saying "uh, well, I guess if you wan..." to which I yelled out "NO!!!!!" Yep, smooth, that's me.
4. You want to go for a walk?
Hit, or no hit?
Again, situational for me. Most of the time I would assume not a hit. Could be that he's just trying to take you somewhere secluded to kill you. I try to approach these invitations with caution.
5. A guy grabs your ass and yells "want to F***???", but is completely wasted. Hmmm still ambiguous for me.
6. And finally, my favorite from today-- "Hells, yeah, yur worth smacking to. buuuu yaaaaaa." Um... ok, not only do I not know if that's a hit or not, but I don't actually know what it means. It is, however, leaving me with a slightly icky feeling.
I think it is clear that I actually need some sort of formal courting system set up. There used to be a whole set of manners for this type of thing. I say, we need to go back to the day where a man declared his intentions formally--preferably on lovely parchment and ending with "my dearest, loveliest Kate". Then after 6 weeks of notes (and one background check later), I would be better prepared to answer the "is he interested" question.
In the meantime, shoe fetish guy is lingering again.
Send me your own questionable hits, and we'll let the group decide if someone was trying some romantic moves or not.
Kate, who needs a guy to girl dictionary before she is dating in LA
Katedating@yahoo.com
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Miss Ann Thropic
I may have found my true calling in life. It came to me while watching one of my hundreds of weekly news programs.
Any guesses?
Sure, you're going with the most logical options:
1) marriage counselor
2) sex therapist
3) supermodel
4) spy (aka international woman of mystery)
But who isn't doing those things? I'm not disparaging these options-- all good and clearly back-up plans if the new one doesn't work out.
Ready?
Queen of the Roller Derby.
I know. It left me speechless when I first considered it, as well.
They ran this story on a group of women called the "Orange County Demolition Divas"-- strong, highly motivated women. My new hero is a woman with the nickname "Miss Ann Thropic". She told the reporter that she found the group after her relationship of 15 years ended, and she was looking for a legal way to get out her aggressions.
Rock on sister! (or is that roll on? No, that sounds too much like I'm yelling for deodorant).
Anyway, I too would like to find a way to legally beat the crap out of people while precariously perched on a set of wheels.
I'm telling you-- this is it. I have found my calling.
(although that whole supermodel thing could be good, too)
Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Strut Interrupted
How do you know for certain that the universe is sending you a message?
Sure, the universe actually sending me that invitation to spend the evening toasting to George Clooney could be considered a sign-- but who can blame me for missing something that subtle... for three weeks.
Besides (warning, wild justification to follow) if the universe really wanted me to be with George on Friday then it would have made him motor his little electric car to my apartment and picked me up for a proper date. I'm a lady, damnit.
(No, I've never been hospitalized for delusions. Why do you ask?)
The last few days have been busy between work, side projects and the need to read every single line in every piece of junk mail that comes to the apartment. But I was feeling adventurous this afternoon. I did have the malicious iPod with me, but it was behaving. It was time to head out and flirt.
I was looking good, well.. my sweatshirt was clean, and I was rockin the messy ponytail.
Having not yet learned the lessons of my other Starbuck encounters (yes, the knee has healed, thanks!) I decided to find the man who would love me "just the way I am". And I found several-- all construction workers, because...
(wait for it)
They gutted the Starbucks.
Huh... Given my track record, I probably should have seen this coming.
I can't decide if the universe is saving me from myself, or clearing out all the bad vibes with fire and table saws. I suppose we'll find out when they re-open (MWHAA HAA HAAA).
Kate
(katedating@yahoo.com)
(p.s. random thought-- is it wrong that I think the Ex's fiance already has the something borrowed covered? yeah, I thought so.)
Sure, the universe actually sending me that invitation to spend the evening toasting to George Clooney could be considered a sign-- but who can blame me for missing something that subtle... for three weeks.
Besides (warning, wild justification to follow) if the universe really wanted me to be with George on Friday then it would have made him motor his little electric car to my apartment and picked me up for a proper date. I'm a lady, damnit.
(No, I've never been hospitalized for delusions. Why do you ask?)
The last few days have been busy between work, side projects and the need to read every single line in every piece of junk mail that comes to the apartment. But I was feeling adventurous this afternoon. I did have the malicious iPod with me, but it was behaving. It was time to head out and flirt.
I was looking good, well.. my sweatshirt was clean, and I was rockin the messy ponytail.
Having not yet learned the lessons of my other Starbuck encounters (yes, the knee has healed, thanks!) I decided to find the man who would love me "just the way I am". And I found several-- all construction workers, because...
(wait for it)
They gutted the Starbucks.
Huh... Given my track record, I probably should have seen this coming.
I can't decide if the universe is saving me from myself, or clearing out all the bad vibes with fire and table saws. I suppose we'll find out when they re-open (MWHAA HAA HAAA).
Kate
(katedating@yahoo.com)
(p.s. random thought-- is it wrong that I think the Ex's fiance already has the something borrowed covered? yeah, I thought so.)
Monday, October 16, 2006
Always Read Your Junk Mail
Ladies-- this is a public service announcement. Always read your junk mail. In fact, read your junk mail thoroughly and before you look at your bills.
Sure, it might look like just another advertisement listing a bunch of information you have no interest in-- and sometimes.... yeah.
I received what looked like junk mail about 3 weeks ago from American Cinematheque. They have a whole host of screenings, including showings of old movies which are often quite fun. Each year they do an award ceremony. If you are a subscriber at a certain level, you get two tickets to the event. The event typically honors an artist (actor, director or writer) in the entertainment industry committed to making asignificant contribution to the art of the motion picture (or so the ad says). Sounds great, but I never pay attention because it would involve going out, finding a date (or dragging one of my friends), a long evening full of boring speeches, blah blah blah.
3 weeks, people. This junk mail remained untouched on my desk because it couldn't possibly have been anything of interest to me. Plus, the ceremony was Friday night. Who goes out on a Friday night? I'm pretty sure I was doing something vital like watching a showing of Clue on cable.
On Sunday, I decided to clean, and I leafed through the junk mail. I saw the invitation of support and the offer of tickets.
This year's honored artist?
George Clooney.
That's right-- An evening with George Clooney.
Yeah....
Always read your junk mail.
Kate, wondering if she's done anything else stupid like not check winning lottery numbers more than a year old.
katedating@yahoo.com
Sure, it might look like just another advertisement listing a bunch of information you have no interest in-- and sometimes.... yeah.
I received what looked like junk mail about 3 weeks ago from American Cinematheque. They have a whole host of screenings, including showings of old movies which are often quite fun. Each year they do an award ceremony. If you are a subscriber at a certain level, you get two tickets to the event. The event typically honors an artist (actor, director or writer) in the entertainment industry committed to making asignificant contribution to the art of the motion picture (or so the ad says). Sounds great, but I never pay attention because it would involve going out, finding a date (or dragging one of my friends), a long evening full of boring speeches, blah blah blah.
3 weeks, people. This junk mail remained untouched on my desk because it couldn't possibly have been anything of interest to me. Plus, the ceremony was Friday night. Who goes out on a Friday night? I'm pretty sure I was doing something vital like watching a showing of Clue on cable.
On Sunday, I decided to clean, and I leafed through the junk mail. I saw the invitation of support and the offer of tickets.
This year's honored artist?
George Clooney.
That's right-- An evening with George Clooney.
Yeah....
Always read your junk mail.
Kate, wondering if she's done anything else stupid like not check winning lottery numbers more than a year old.
katedating@yahoo.com
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
The Purge
Ever contemplate just how aerodynamic your couch is? Burning questions like:
- Will it actually hit the pool if hurtled from my balcony?
- Will it clear the hedges?
- Should I warn people below?
If so, you too may have been taking part in the time honored tradition known as "The Purge" (recently memorialized on Gilmore Girls).
In the moments before I came to terms with the whole "he's getting married" thing and after I'd caused that little multi-city blackout, I realized that everything in my apartment reminded me of The Ex. And while the years of separation meant I had blessedly little that was actually his, I was still able to create overflowing mountains of "He Gave Me" and "Reminds Me of Him".
This, my dear friends, is why on the 8th day God created garage sales and good will. It's good to donate while the torrent of emotions is threatening to make you into the next Pol Pot because you tend to be at your most ruthless. As you cool down and let sanity wash back over you, you tend to get gooey.
You see the couch isn't just my couch. It was our couch, which was originally his couch. Which technically means it's now my ex couch. Thus, the contemplation of "couch in flight".
So, did I toss the couch from the balcony? No.
Was it saved because I calmed down and realized that, in fact, couches are expensive and not embodiments of hurt feelings and disappointment? um... sure. Ok. Well... you know.. that and the fact that it got stuck, and I couldn't get it through the sliding glass door.
What?
Kate
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Warm and Tingly
Inventors have conceived of a wedding ring that heats up the day before an anniversary. The person gets a series of increasingly warm signals from the ring. The last reminder burn would be over 100 degrees. All this in an effort to help make sure a man actually remembers to buy some flowers (or whatever) on the big day.
It's not that I object to this idea, I just think the inventors are thinking too small.
I also propose a ring. I call it the "fidelity" ring. Instead of gradual warming, I see more of an electro-shock kind of thing. And it might not be all that gradual of an increase.
And it might not go on his finger.
I'm just saying....
Kate, Inventing in LA
katedating@yahoo.comm
It's not that I object to this idea, I just think the inventors are thinking too small.
I also propose a ring. I call it the "fidelity" ring. Instead of gradual warming, I see more of an electro-shock kind of thing. And it might not be all that gradual of an increase.
And it might not go on his finger.
I'm just saying....
Kate, Inventing in LA
katedating@yahoo.comm
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Six Degrees
Some people in our lives are never meant to leave us... Which is too bad really because some people should just stay gone, damn it. ;)
I received an email today from a lovely woman in another state, who I have never met, thanking me for my "in memoriam" donation to her fine arts organization (in honor of a woman, who sadly did pass on too early, but after a full life). The organization was one that most of my friends and I were involved in way back when. It was a pleasant, lovely email from someone with a last name that made a light bulb go off. Nah... couldn't be....
You see once upon a time Kate dated a guy who, like many men, turned out to be a jerk, and it ended. I was in my late teens, and I didn't spend a whole lot of time being bummed out (unlike my current practically Guinness record holding round of mourning for THE all time ex). Years later I heard from a mutual friend that he had gotten married and then divorced to someone from back home who he had met while doing theater productions. blah blah blah. The name of his ex-wife? Let's call her "Diane Barnes".
Woman who signed my email this morning? "Diane Barnes".
Could be a coincidence, but better than even odds that my ex's ex-wife now works for this fine arts organization, and she just sent me an email. huh... small world. Very, very small...scary small, actually...
So, kids, as you shoot emails off into the world, keep in mind that the stranger you are conversing with may have been married to one of your ex-boyfriends. You could complete a transaction and discuss development goals with a stranger 3000 miles away, neither of you realizing just how much the two of you have in common.
Kate, hiding in LA
katedating@yahoo.com
I received an email today from a lovely woman in another state, who I have never met, thanking me for my "in memoriam" donation to her fine arts organization (in honor of a woman, who sadly did pass on too early, but after a full life). The organization was one that most of my friends and I were involved in way back when. It was a pleasant, lovely email from someone with a last name that made a light bulb go off. Nah... couldn't be....
You see once upon a time Kate dated a guy who, like many men, turned out to be a jerk, and it ended. I was in my late teens, and I didn't spend a whole lot of time being bummed out (unlike my current practically Guinness record holding round of mourning for THE all time ex). Years later I heard from a mutual friend that he had gotten married and then divorced to someone from back home who he had met while doing theater productions. blah blah blah. The name of his ex-wife? Let's call her "Diane Barnes".
Woman who signed my email this morning? "Diane Barnes".
Could be a coincidence, but better than even odds that my ex's ex-wife now works for this fine arts organization, and she just sent me an email. huh... small world. Very, very small...scary small, actually...
So, kids, as you shoot emails off into the world, keep in mind that the stranger you are conversing with may have been married to one of your ex-boyfriends. You could complete a transaction and discuss development goals with a stranger 3000 miles away, neither of you realizing just how much the two of you have in common.
Kate, hiding in LA
katedating@yahoo.com
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Dating George Clooney
Ok, people. This is not a drill. The following story made the rounds this morning-- just to annoy the photogs, George Clooney will be dating someone different every night. Now I know in the past I have been reticent about dating actors (or... um... anyone), but I'm willing to make an exception for the delightful Mr. Clooney. You know... just to help him out with his plan. Because I'm a giver :)
One slight, very small problem, is that technically, he did say that he wanted to date a "famous" actress every night. Since I'm not actually a famous actress, there might be some difficulty getting me in this line. HOWEVER, I'm sure that we could spin me as the "reality that throws them all off" girl. Or we need to make me famous and very quickly. I mean, I can hold a suitcase like the last girl they photographed with him. I have a lot of practice holding suitcases. Sure, not a model, but I've got mad "holding suitcase" skills.
What do you think? Are you with me?
This doesn't mean I have to leave my apartment, does it? I mean, can't we just line the photogs up down by the pool and have them try to catch us on my balcony? What? Defeats the purpose you say? I'll work on it. You guys handle the other bit (getting me on his date list), and I'll seriously ponder leaving the house in the evening. Oh, the sacrifices I am willing to make for this man.
Kate, seriously thinking of dating George Clooney in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
From TMZ.com
Clooney to Date New Starlet "Every Night"
Publicists of the world, line up your clients. The famously paparazzi-averse George Clooney has a plan to scuttle those pesky photogs: He says he's going to spend every single night for three months with a different famous actress. "You know, Halle Berry one night, Salma Hayek the next, and then walk on the beach holding hands with Leonardo DiCaprio," says Clooney in the November Vanity Fair.
The "Ocean's 13" star's thinking is that people would somehow buy fewer magazines if they weren't sure if they were being pranked or not by that serial jokester Clooney. Perhaps his appearance the other night at a Studio City sushi joint with a "Deal or No Deal" suitcase lass was the debut appearance in the series.
One slight, very small problem, is that technically, he did say that he wanted to date a "famous" actress every night. Since I'm not actually a famous actress, there might be some difficulty getting me in this line. HOWEVER, I'm sure that we could spin me as the "reality that throws them all off" girl. Or we need to make me famous and very quickly. I mean, I can hold a suitcase like the last girl they photographed with him. I have a lot of practice holding suitcases. Sure, not a model, but I've got mad "holding suitcase" skills.
What do you think? Are you with me?
This doesn't mean I have to leave my apartment, does it? I mean, can't we just line the photogs up down by the pool and have them try to catch us on my balcony? What? Defeats the purpose you say? I'll work on it. You guys handle the other bit (getting me on his date list), and I'll seriously ponder leaving the house in the evening. Oh, the sacrifices I am willing to make for this man.
Kate, seriously thinking of dating George Clooney in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
From TMZ.com
Clooney to Date New Starlet "Every Night"
Publicists of the world, line up your clients. The famously paparazzi-averse George Clooney has a plan to scuttle those pesky photogs: He says he's going to spend every single night for three months with a different famous actress. "You know, Halle Berry one night, Salma Hayek the next, and then walk on the beach holding hands with Leonardo DiCaprio," says Clooney in the November Vanity Fair.
The "Ocean's 13" star's thinking is that people would somehow buy fewer magazines if they weren't sure if they were being pranked or not by that serial jokester Clooney. Perhaps his appearance the other night at a Studio City sushi joint with a "Deal or No Deal" suitcase lass was the debut appearance in the series.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Mr. Corner Table
Given my tremendous near success with Mr. "Taylor, the latte boy" (ok, not really, but in my memoirs, it will be), I decided to saunter by Starbucks again today. I was looking good-- hair wild (which in fantasies is suddenly transformed into honey blond with cascading waves rather than brunette and wind-knotted), innocent, yet flirtatious top and butt-lifting jeans.
I had forgiven my iPod for being male and programmed in some attitude tunes.
I was practically strutting while going through my mental checklist:
1. Facade of confidence (check)
2. Friendly smile signaling acceptance and openness and in no way resembling the creepy smiling painting in The Black Dahlia (check)
3. Eyes up in order to invite communication (check)
Dr. Phil would be proud.
I see a lovely boy sitting in the corner by the window. It's a little nook right by the door. He's definitely alone, and he's reading the paper (wonder if he has a news obsession like I do). Frankly, the fact that he reads is all it takes for me to be interested these days.
Ok, two things that Dr. Phil may not have taken into consideration.
1. While looking down might be less inviting, it would seem to be more practical.
2. Wild hair might be amore alluring, but so is seeing that the sidewalk is uneven.
yeah.
While I was coyly looking through a curtain of out of control hair at Mr. Corner Table, my foot got caught mid strut on uneven sidewalk propelling me into the now open glass door.
No, no. Not kidding.
On the upside, neither the door, the older woman walking out of it, her dog, nor I were really damaged. On the downside, the mortification (not to mention the bruise on my knee) made it slightly more difficult to strut away convincingly. It really had more of a drunken sailor thing going for it.
Remind me to be more specific with fate. When I thought "golly, I hope he notices me", I may have left some dangerous room for interpretation. Once again, fate was laughing (or was that limited to just the patrons of Starbucks?)
Current score: Starbucks 2, Kate 0
Kate, limping in LA
I had forgiven my iPod for being male and programmed in some attitude tunes.
I was practically strutting while going through my mental checklist:
1. Facade of confidence (check)
2. Friendly smile signaling acceptance and openness and in no way resembling the creepy smiling painting in The Black Dahlia (check)
3. Eyes up in order to invite communication (check)
Dr. Phil would be proud.
I see a lovely boy sitting in the corner by the window. It's a little nook right by the door. He's definitely alone, and he's reading the paper (wonder if he has a news obsession like I do). Frankly, the fact that he reads is all it takes for me to be interested these days.
Ok, two things that Dr. Phil may not have taken into consideration.
1. While looking down might be less inviting, it would seem to be more practical.
2. Wild hair might be amore alluring, but so is seeing that the sidewalk is uneven.
yeah.
While I was coyly looking through a curtain of out of control hair at Mr. Corner Table, my foot got caught mid strut on uneven sidewalk propelling me into the now open glass door.
No, no. Not kidding.
On the upside, neither the door, the older woman walking out of it, her dog, nor I were really damaged. On the downside, the mortification (not to mention the bruise on my knee) made it slightly more difficult to strut away convincingly. It really had more of a drunken sailor thing going for it.
Remind me to be more specific with fate. When I thought "golly, I hope he notices me", I may have left some dangerous room for interpretation. Once again, fate was laughing (or was that limited to just the patrons of Starbucks?)
Current score: Starbucks 2, Kate 0
Kate, limping in LA
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