Californication Q&A

I’ve gotten a couple of emails on this because of the tweets.
Yes! I hope to be attending the Californication Q&A and Screening event tonight. But I’m not a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press. Shockingly, I’m also not a member of the television Academy. I’ve not been invited to vote for the SAG awards, either. The event is sold out. My odds aren’t looking good. However, I have responded, and I’m on the Standby list.

Now, let us pray:

Oh, LA Times Envelope Series,
Which art all powerful;
hallowed be thy name;
thy capricious will be done,
in Hollywood as it is in heaven.
Give me this day, my Duchovny fix.
And forgive my blank stare and panic.
Absolutely lead me into temptation;
but deliver me from the arresting officer with minimal bail.
For thine is the panel,
the power, and the hotness,
for ever and ever.
Priority guild and association members please adopt me.
Amen.

I’d like to say that I’ll be updating this site tonight from line, but that’s likely to be difficult. I will be tweeting tonight, though. If I get in, you’ll at least get your Duchovny fashion report at @katedating on twitter. The event starts at 7:30pm, so line reports will be before that, and then minimal updates while the event is ongoing.

That was Awkward

Uh… oh my.

The afternoon started innocently enough. It was like any other late afternoon of any other work week. I was walking to the jeep parked on one of the lower levels of my parking garage at work. As usual, I was in a daze, contemplating both cutting myself at the prospect of an upcoming work debacle (please, it will be) and whether or not I’d respond to the invitation to the Global Green event (and apparently landing on, “Nah, I think I’ll call it an early night instead”).

I know I should pay more attention to the people around me. Grant it, I work in a pretty upscale area and financial districts are more known for fraud than violence -- although now that I think about it a woman was killed across the street in a parking garage going to her car in the late afternoon (sheesh, bitter soon-to-be-ex-husbands). Anyway, I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to occur. But Murphy’s Law being what it is…

I think, perhaps, possibly, that I may have, entirely inadvertently (of course) interrupted some sort of sexual act. I think.

And no, smartasses, it’s not because it’s been so long that I don’t recognize it anymore. I have a very vivid memory of elegantly scrolled parchment and vows being spoken, so I absolutely remember how these things are supposed to go—thank you very much. I’m just not quite sure what I saw. Maybe the guy was just sleepy?

Here is the back story:

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve seen these two people at work talking as I have been leaving for the day. For the most part that talking has been outside by the one restaurant. In the last two weeks, I’ve noticed the woman standing by the guy’s truck waiting for him. Then the other day, as I was pulling out (that’s what he said), I noticed that they were both chatting inside his truck.

This time, I was whistling a happy tune, and I thought I was alone in my section of the garage. I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t carrying on a one person rant (because when you live alone a long time, you do tend to start carrying on highly involved conversations with yourself… or is that just the insanity taking over? Eh, whichever). I got into my car. I turned to put my bag in the back, and noticed hair swinging—the woman had just popped forward in the passenger seat. I didn’t think anything of it—I figured she was alone in the truck waiting for him. I pulled on my seatbelt, and then all of a sudden, I see the guy sitting up with his back to the driver’s side door.

Odd. What was he… oh my.

Naturally, I very subtly snapped my head and eyes around to the front (with only a slight whiplash to show for it) and got the hell out of there.

First thing the next morning, I accosted my work colleague, J, in order to explain what I had seen to get a guy’s perspective. His exact words were:

J: So you think she was giving him a hummer? Nice! He is now my hero. He is living the dream. Tell me everything.

Kate: No, I think he was actually… uh… helping her out.

J: How would that work?

Kate: [stares blankly trying to figure out how to get this point across without actually describing this act]

[more silence]

Kate: Um, well, his head was in her lap, so…

J: Right, but that can’t be easy from that angle.

Kate: When there’s a will…

J: I’m walking you to your car tonight.

Alas, J was tied up with actual work when I was leaving, so I was under strict orders to text him immediately after leaving the garage if the dynamic duo was at it again.

But for the first time in months, the truck wasn’t parked there. It was nowhere on the lower level. I’ve scared them off. And worse, I had to dash J’s hopes of torrid tales from the parking garage. He took it like a trooper, though, when I finally told him 2 hours later what had (not) happened.

(texting)

J: Well????

Kate: Truck wasn’t there! First time in months.

J: Geez—don’t make me wait that long! Wasn’t sure if you were filming them or kidnapped into sex slavery or what!!

Kate: It was the most excitement anyone has had at work in a long time. It’s oddly disappointing

J: I’m kind of disappointed too. So, thanks for that.

Kate: That’s sick.

J: If by sick, you mean “awesome”, then yes, yes I am. Who wouldn’t want to catch people doing it in the parking garage at work.

Kate: Well, the truck is gone.

J: Damn it. You ruined it. Way to go.

Kate: Yeah, like that’s the first time a guy has said that to me.

And so ends the saga of maybe sex in the parking garage. It was easily the most interesting thing that has happened in years at my place of employ. And since I put the tight in uptight (wait, that sounds very, very wrong), I think you should all be proud of my amusement (once I got over the extreme embarrassment). I didn’t think about calling the cops once.

Of course, when I saw the guy again… well, I couldn’t look at him. Because I know that he knows that I know that… uh…

Yeah, something funky was going on.

SON OF A…

SON OF A…

I know I should have learned my lesson with the whole George Clooney event fiasco. It was an important lesson—always read your junk mail because on occasion what looks like junk mail is actually an opportunity to stare glassy-eyed at someone dreamy… and then have bouncers remove you from the room because you’re making the talent uneasy. It’s every girl’s dream.

And I did, technically, learn that lesson. I did open the mail I got from Global Green USA. They were having their annual Millennium Awards. But I then made a thousand excuses to not go. It was a large donation. I would have been alone because I would have taken B to meet Leonardo (who was there, by the way), but she has a lot of things going on right now. All I could picture was me standing alone in the corner, nursing a single drink all night, not talking to anybody (but to myself in long, rambling muttered rants that would have scared the other donors) before the crushing weight of my folly took over, and I skittered out the door.

Yes, that is seriously the scenario I envisioned when I pictured myself at this event. So, I did what I always do—I put the invitation aside, and did my best Scarlett impression, “Fiddle Dee Dee, I’ll think about that tomorrow”, and never did. What I did not adequately picture was who would be there to entertain me while I hid in the corner behind a plant.

Please enjoy these pictures of David Duchovny at Global Green USA’s event last evening. The one I didn’t go to even though I had an invitation. The one that I could have gone to instead of watching the Cavs lose last night. The one that would have put me into a room with him rather than in an audience. The one that would have allowed me to approach him as an equal (or at least not as a crazed fan). The one that would have put me into proximity with a man who I actually have something to say to now (rather than all the other occasions where I just sort of stare at him blankly as the panic grows inside me, and then I run and hide when he says, “Hi”.)

http://www.mitchpileggi.net/Duchovny/Global_Green_Awards/default.htm

Why do I do this? Why do I consistently shoot myself in the foot at every freakin’ opportunity? And maybe I wouldn’t have talked to David, but there were about 100,000 other very interesting, attractive, charitable people there (grant it, all of them probably had dates) who would have been very interesting to talk to—if for no other reason because we have upcoming charity events, and I’d like to get them involved. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. No, I couldn’t possibly do that. That would have been too easy (and by easy, I mean excruciatingly difficult, yet probably worth it).

SON OF A BITCH!

I suck. And not in an interesting way that men like.

Mini: Archie Finally Pops the Question

It took 65 years, but Archie realized that dating two women for eternity was unlikely to work. He finally asked one of his long-time girlfriends to marry him.
65 years.

Well, in the face of that perseverance, it really doesn’t make the 10 years I spent with the EX seem all that momentous. I was clearly a slacker who should have held out a little longer.

But I’m wondering what you do if you are the one he didn’t choose? “Well, we dated for 65 years, but it just didn’t work out. He said we didn’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship.” How exactly do you start over after something like that? I mean, will her friends say things like “At least you never got married, so you don’t have to get a divorce.” Or maybe the old standby, “At least you never had kids” because that one definitely makes you feel better after wasting 65 years of your life.

Anyway, I won’t spoil it here, but if you are curious where Archie finally fell in the eternal “Betty” or “Veronica” debate, here you go:

Adventure Dates

A male reader (shush, men do so read this blog… grant it, it’s usually by accident when they get a google alert for Gillian Anderson or the anal bleaching tag, but they do end up here) once sent me a link to an adventure dating package. Initially, I was confused. Honestly, my idea of adventure dating is speaking to a man in daylight after he’s accidentally doused me in Starbucks coffee (because why else would he be talking to me).

This was a bit more complicated.

Essentially, the first date involved ropes (I’m finding that’s a big element to all dating in Los Angeles), some carabiners and perhaps a harness. I’d have to rent these items, but I know some of you are now surreptitiously looking under the bed for your own. No judgments. [Oh, who am I kidding? I so judge.] You will then be rappelling down the side of a cliff-kind of thing (technical talk) into a cave or cavern type area. Presumably, you and your date are somehow spotting each other in this endeavor. Perhaps it’s a trust building exercise. Then you explore something.

Yeah.

I have trust issues and intestinal difficulty during times of stress. So, while to some people, this date would seem like an ideal way to get to know someone in a perfectly legitimate and safe way, this is what I hear:

Some strange man is going to come to your apartment. He’s going to tell you to get into his car, although you know better than to do that. He has ropes in his car. He menacingly tells you that those ropes are for you. He will then drive you to the desert without another soul in sight, throw you off a cliff-face, while you desperately cling to some twine that you hope holds your Häagen-Dazs enhanced weight. Then if you survive that, your reward is being trapped at the bottom of a crevice, with no cell signal, while the strange man who threw you down there, joins you. And there’s no bathroom.

Tempting.

But no.

Keep those suggestions coming, though.

Attention Spam Emailers

Presumably the point of sending out emails regarding penis enlargement is to make the enlargement process (or at least the result) sound a) possible and b) appealing. That has always been my assumption. What you should not do is make it sound scary.

Case in point, the subject line of the last spam I received: “Get deeper in her entrails”.

Entrails?

ENTRAILS???

Does the word “entrails” sound in any way seductive to any of you? Because, frankly, it sounds more like helpful hints for serial killers than would-be Don Juans.

Maybe they are reaching out to soothsayers specializing on the reading of entrails to tell the future? Though, sadly, if they are reading your entrails, I’ve got a pretty good idea that your “future” is looking pretty damn finite.

The word brings to mind disembowelment. Grant it, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so maybe things have changed, but “Hey, baby, let me disembowel you” is not sexy. Also not sexy -- conversations like, “I just had a procedure that will allow me to pierce your colon”. Or am I wrong? Are you guys signing up for that? Because if you are, I am so not dating again.

Also, not to be picky, but your standard, every day guy/girl action doesn’t generally involve entrails being stimulated. So, is this supposed to be some sort clarion call to anal dwellers, or is this guy so damn big now that he’s tearing through everything in the way and going straight for your viscera? Again, I’m voting no. There is absolutely such a thing as “too big” and, ladies, we have found it.

We have got to put our collective foot down. We’ve allowed ourselves to be plucked, waxed, bleached and vaginally rejuvenated. I say, we draw the line in the sand at men who want to lance our intestines in order to feel more manly.

Who is with me?

More On That

You’re thinking to yourself, “Why the hell is she on Twitter?” Or, “Yippee, we get to see endless scrolls of informative posts like, ‘Still not dating’ and ‘Really, still not dating’. These are valid concerns—concerns, I will ignore, of course.

Naturally, I think each and every one of you should be subjected to my profound thoughts as I have them. But since I don’t like people, and thus can’t have you actually around me, twitter is an excellent way to subject you to them without actually subjecting myself to real, social interaction. God bless technology.

But it’s also to help ease the torment of events like this past Saturday. I was invited to a wedding. Ooooh! I heard that. I heard you all go “Oh, oh” and “Glad it wasn’t me”. Being of (relatively) sound mind, single and over a certain age, my approach to wedding attendance has all the exuberance of someone contemplating their walk to the gallows. But had I been on twitter, I could have shared insightful messages like, “Only single girl at the table. Dancing has started. Must cut myself now.”

Oh, I joke a little. The wedding was lovely. The couple is perfect together. I even knew most of the people at my table, and had some fun (might have been champagne related, but I think the company was generally good). But with Twitter at my disposal, I could have looked busy when I was sitting alone rather than just… um… alone.

But the best news is I’m absolutely convinced that should I ever date again, Twitter is coming with me. I can’t see how sending endless updates to my followers could in any way damage a date. After all, I live to serve as a warning to others. Plus, I can ask for real time advice rather than waiting until after the date in order to endlessly rehash what went wrong with friends. I mean, what went right… of course.

I am poised for something. And sure, it’s possible that insanity is actually what is right around the corner rather than opportunity. Never fear. I’ll smuggle the iPhone into the rubber room with me to make sure you don’t miss the ranting.

Twitter

For those of you who are inclined, I am now on twitter! I'm not sure how good I'll be at it, but I'm willing to give it a go. I imagine it will be somewhere between that first failed attempt at speaking to a guy at Starbucks and my continued failures to date George Clooney. So... good times!

This is me: http://twitter.com/KateDating

Eww

http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSTRE54B61920090512?feedType=RSS&feedName=healthNews&rpc=22&sp=true

Damn it! Listen up, whores, stop ruining it for everybody else. I used to like kissing. I remember kissing. Ok, it’s a vague memory, but still I remember liking it. More than that, I think I was pretty good at it. But I don’t want to kiss somebody (after the appropriate 40 date waiting period) and have HPV and gonorrheal pharyngitis running through my mind.

Have you seen the movie “Demolition Man”? That’s where we are headed people. It’s very nearly sea shell and virtual-fondling city. There are many, many movies out there that I’d like to find coming true around me—this is not one of them.

Clearly, I long for a more refined time when all I had to wonder was, “Where did he pick up that move?” when a long-term boyfriend suddenly threw in a tongue sweep of my teeth into the mix after two years.

[Random side rant—what was up with that move? I’m sure there are people out there who are into that, but whenever that move is sprung on me, I feel like he’s trying out to be my dental hygienist. I don’t get how it’s sexy. And how are you supposed to respond exactly? There is no sensation on the front of my teeth, my head is snapping back because the guy is trying to shove his tongue into the sides of my mouth to complete the sweep, and the guy always look like they are supposed to get some sort of prize when they finally complete the maneuver. Unless I’m actually making out with a dentist, knock it off. /end random side rant]

But seriously, what more warning do people need before they start making the rampant sexually transmitted disease flow a real consideration? If there are actually open, swollen and oozing pustules on his face and penis, would that do it? Sigh. Probably not.

How do you use those sea shells?

Fight

The EX and I never fought. Or rather, we fought all the time, but did it in such a refined and appropriate manner that even people in the same room would have been uncertain as to the nature of our interaction. We made passive-aggressive behavior our bitch, and I’m proud to say I can still pick up a fight (or as we liked to call it “discussion”) mid-thought 10 years after the fact. I am skilled. I am woman. Hear me roar.

But the closest thing to a real fight (you know, one other people would actually recognize) we ever had was over an address book. An address book. The entire thing left me convinced that civilization will doom itself not by succumbing to the coming plague (although I plan to use that as an excuse to have Fridays off this summer), but because a massive war will break out over the following exchange:

Ex: I’ve asked you not to do that.

Me: No you didn’t. Had you asked me not to do that before we would have had this fight then.

The scenario seems relatively harmless, doesn’t it? Doesn’t sound like something that would house seven years of resentment in it. Oh, but you aren’t as skilled at repressed disappointment and failed expectations as we were. Don’t fret. Few people are.

How did it start?

The EX and I were going about our business. It was a normal evening. We both had long days at work. I went into his office to call a mutual friend about seeing a movie that weekend. I couldn’t remember her phone number off the top of my head, so I opened his address book to find it. I called, left a message as she was not at home, and left the office to get ready for bed.

Upon entering the bedroom, The EX was pulling down covers and tossing pillows. It wasn’t that he was being particularly violent with the innocent bedding—he wasn’t. But gone was his usual flair for elegant movement. The short jerky motions were code for, “I’m displeased, but I will go to bed harboring this resentment rather than sullying a perfectly good snit with actual discourse.” Well, too bad. So, I pushed and was rewarded with, “I’ve asked you not to use my address book without my permission”. Which I followed quickly with the rejoinder outlined above. And then there was silence. And I left the room.

I know, those of you from more “yelling” and “throwing” backgrounds are thinking, “That’s it? That was the big fight?” It was huge for us because there was direct confrontation for at least 10 seconds. But in reality, the actual fight lasted for days. I couldn’t begin to understand this boundary of his. So, I did what any other sane woman would do in this situation—I beat the issue to death and then shot it.

Naturally, I started with suspicion. Though he had never given me reason to believe that he would cheat, I started wondering what it was in the address book that he didn’t want me to see because my brain could not even begin to believe that it was as simple as a personal space issue. Perhaps in reality he had stuck a receipt for a lovely future gift in the address book and didn’t want to spoil the surprise. I’ll tell you right now, at the time, that possibility didn’t even begin to cross my mind. So, confrontation number two occurred. He became defensive, which I immediately took as an admission of guilt—even though any rational person would actually become defensive when confronted with that sort of subtle questioning. And by subtle, I mean, “What was in there you didn’t want me to see?” Yeah, yeah. I’ve since looked up the definition of subtle, thanks.

He tried to explain to me that the address book was personal-- as though this completely reasonable yet totally inadequate explanation should have been the end of it. I suggested that we had experienced quite a number of very personal things in the previous seven years and that looking up the phone number of a mutual friend wasn’t one of them. Prompting the following:

Me: I let you into my body. I think you can let me into your address
book.
EX: But that’s just sex.

And then my head exploded with the force of global, thermo-nuclear war.

Gentleman, if any of you read this blog, please understand that the “But that’s just sex” statement presented to your girlfriend of seven years is potentially more lethal than plutonium. Try to realize that before you open your mouth and insert your size 13s.

On the upside, it was the end of the fight. On the downside, it was probably one of the biggest signals that while I was on the “soul mate” train (as opposed to Soul Train) headed north, the relationship itself was on an express south. Naturally, it took another three years for me to realize that I didn’t even have a ticket for the trip.

How had we gone from the forever exchanges to “frankly, we’re not close enough for you to get use my address book”? And maybe it was just me. Maybe I just didn’t understand that he needed a boundary with the person he lived with, and he had chosen that one. But, obviously, it still remains with me years after the fact. I suppose my brain is still trying to work it out so that if I do engage in interpersonal communications ever again, I’ll see the signs faster. Or maybe I’m just thinking about it because I haven’t transferred all my contact information into my new phone.

Kate, making grudge-holding an art form for the new millennium.

Sext

Half of you reading the title thought, “Wow, it’s been so long, she doesn’t even know how to spell it anymore”. To you people, I’m thinking something snarky.

Half of you reading this thought, “I do that”. It is you people who I need to understand.

The concept of “sexting” has just recently come into my consciousness. At first, I thought it just meant a bit of harmless, sexy flirting via informal messaging medium (ie the text message).
Then I read about some 18 year old being labeled a sex offender because he forwarded to his friends naked pictures of his 16 year old girlfriend after a fight with her. There are so many things wrong with that story, but let’s just focus on the actual concept.

Sexting is not just sexy talk—it is often the exchange of naked or semi-naked photos via text. Remember when you just had to worry about those silly polaroids (or in my case, daguerreotypes) getting misplaced? Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s not just the garbage man who gets an eyeful. No, now it is the entire eastern seaboard with one erroneous click of the send button—or malicious click.

Ever start sending an email or a text to someone, but send it to the wrong person accidentally? Yeah. I’ve done that at work. I sent a personal email, and it accidentally went to one of the partners instead. I only thank God to this day that it was relatively innocent about the joys of joining the group in LA. Now picture this happening with something naked. Can you imagine the horror?

I’m involved with a group that does charity work. Let’s think for a moment if one of our phones accidentally sent a naked text to one of our stored contacts. It’s difficult to argue your professionalism after that one.

Oh, and don’t forget drunk dialing. After a couple of shots of tequila (or in my case, a quarter of a glass of white wine spritzer), all sorts of very bad ideas suddenly sound brilliant and the invention of “send to all contacts” has just made this scenario all the more devastating.

And let’s not kid ourselves here, text messages aren’t private. Your communications provider can access these things, too. So, the next time you think to yourself, “I’m going to send my boyfriend, George Clooney, something sexy” try imagining half of AT&T looking at it, too.

Of course, it is not only the fear of someone unintended seeing these photos that keeps me from doing some salacious posing. No one needs to see me naked. I try to see that as little as possible. I’m at least partially convinced that there is a very real possibility of creating a massive communications black out if tried this. Seriously. I’m just trying to save you people from the retinal scarring.

You can thank me by sending your stories of where you have already accidentally sent something embarrassing astray so I can kick back with some popcorn and properly enjoy the evening.

Kate, who will always fear the errant click, in LA

I Do That

Men don’t date their little sisters. Now, for the most part, this is a very, very good thing. In fact, in all but one particular situation, it is the response you want. Unfortunately, this sane and appropriate response, may actually keep me single forever. Confused? Let me explain.

I am every man’s little sister. Obviously, no blood relation to any of these men—I am, in fact, an only child. Nevertheless…. It’s not just because I’m short or occasionally youthful looking (if you forget the unfortunate jowl situation). It’s something that I didn’t even realize I was doing.

I make myself into the little sister.

I think because I am constantly unnerved by interactions with strangers, I go out of my way to make strangers feel more comfortable when I am forced to deal with them (unless, of course, I’m ignoring them entirely—but that’s another story). For me, comfortable means presenting a non-threatening demeanor; so non-threatening that a man never sees me as anyone even remotely intriguing.

But it doesn’t stop there. It isn’t just strangers. It appears to be all men. And I’ve started wondering if the goal is to try to make the men comfortable, or to keep them at arm’s length.

Take the following situations into consideration.

Scenario #1
There was a boy who was interested in my friend and me. Apparently, as I found out much later, he was in the middle of contemplating which one of us he would pursue (lucky us). We were getting together in a group for an event. I showed up looking casual (inspired by Laura Ashley) and talking about my personal assessment of which team had a better quarterback. My friend showed up in a mini-skirt, black stockings and tossing her hair. Yeah. I’m betting you can work out how that scenario turned out.

Scenario #2
A guy says something borderline obnoxious, but with a rakish smile. Most of my friends would do something coquettish. I am 100% more likely to stick out my tongue and/or smack him in the arm than anyone else I know.

Scenario #3
A man, who I know somewhat, offered to take me out for drinks. He’s not unattractive. Naturally, I respond with an adorably wrinkled nose and “fine, but there need to be televisions because the playoffs have started”.

So, let’s put this into a potential future context. Let’s picture me trying to have a conversation with a lovely specimen of the male gender. Who should we pick today? David Duchovny, it is. Now, despite the fact that he and I have encountered each other (purely platonic, naturally) on numerous occasions, I am colossally bad at having a conversation with him (as I believe I’ve pointed out before). If I were to encounter him at any point in the next 3 months he is in town filming, which of the following is most likely to occur:

1. We will engage in a heated exchange about how Lebron should never even consider leaving the Cavs for the Knicks, and that Dave is a tool for even suggesting it.
2. He’ll say something enchantingly wry, and I’ll yell, “I’m telling Frank!”
3. He’ll say something enchanting and just the slightest bit suggestive, and I’ll respond with “Ewwwww” and smack him on the arm.
4. Our conversation will be entirely mundane, but the highlight will be my attire—sweats and pigtails after not showering for two days, eyebrows that have taken on a life of their own and a maniacal need to keep my arms down because I’ve just realized that I forgot to shave, and I’m wearing a tank top.

Please begin voting. Not fair choosing “all of the above”.

Charity

For my readers who are X-Files fans, this one is for you. For those of you who aren’t X-Files fans— how do I know you? Kidding. Kidding. Just look away for a moment.

I Want to Believe (aka X-Files 2)
Want to own an authentic, signed piece of X-Files memorabilia? IBG is running auctions now and 100% of the proceeds will go to benefit Neurofibromatosis!

IBG is very excited to announce that a signed theatrical poster for “I Want to Believe”, donated by Fox Studios, is now available on eBay to benefit NF.

The poster is the international "snow" version and approximately 27" wide x 40" long. It is gorgeous, in great condition and autographed by Gillian Anderson (signed during her recent visit), David Duchovny (the first to sign when he was in town for the SAG awards), Chris Carter and Frank Spotnitz specifically to benefit NF. Gillian Anderson's signature is in black. Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz and David Duchovny signed in silver.

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=170317538731&ssPageName=ADME:L:LCA:US:1123

Neurofibromatosis (NF) is a genetic disorder of the nervous system which causes tumors to form on the nerves anywhere in the body at any time. This progressive disorder affects all races, all ethnic groups and both sexes equally. NF is one of the most common genetic disorders in the United States (one in every 3,000 to 4,000 births).


The Complete X-Files at Book Soup (aka How to spend an evening with Gillian Anderson, Frank Spotnitz and Matt Hurwitz Without Really Trying)

The DVD of the uncut footage of the Book Soup event to promote the release of “The Complete X-Files”, which featured a Q&A with Gillian Anderson, Frank Spotnitz and Matt Hurwitz, is now available. The DVD is available through IBG (http://allthings.inspiredbygillian.com/store) for $10 plus shipping -- 100% of the proceeds from the sale of this DVD will go to support Off The Street Kids (http://offthestreetkids.org). Your donation gives you an opportunity to be one of the initial contributors supporting the development of this vitally necessary program.

Off The Street Kids (OTSK), a start-up charity supported by Gillian Anderson, seeks to respond to the needs of marginalized youth who are forced to leave care in South Africa at the age of 18 when state funding ceases. Many of these young people return to the streets because they have neither the skills to support themselves nor a home to return to. OTSK aims to help the youth find training, further education and long term employment to prevent them from having to return to the streets.

DVD includes the complete footage (including seven additional minutes of footage not clipped on Big Light). Alison Groves has edited the DVD. In doing so, she was able to boost the sound, and add captions for the questions that were harder to hear. Alison also included a selection of photographs from the event taken by fans.

Additional DVD Details:

Matt, Gillian and Frank footage runs roughly 20 minutes (and includes about 6 minutes of footage with Gillian that was not previously posted on Big Light)

1. What was it like for you to hear from new fans (Matt to Frank)?
2. Did you have any memorable fan experiences during the ramp up to the last movie (to Gillian)?
3. How were you able to balance work and life (to Gillian)?
4. Why are you here (to Gillian)?
5. Are you going to have any more auctions (to Gillian)?
6. Were there any pictures or stories in the book that you’ve forgotten (to Gillian and Frank)?
7. What was the most challenging episode to film (to Gillian and Frank)?
8. Any guest actors that you enjoyed working with or learned from (Matt to Gillian and Frank)?
9. What was the biggest difference between filming in Vancouver and Los Angeles (to Gillian and Frank)?
10. Any word about X-Files 3 (to Frank)?
11. Question regarding the artwork in “all things” (to Gillian)?
12. Do you plan on directing more (to Gillian)?
13. What are you working on right now (to Gillian)?
14. How is the baby (to Gillian)?
15. When did you realize how big X-Files was (to Gillian and Frank)?
16. Did you guys have fans showing up in Vancouver to catch you filming (Matt to Gillian)?

Matt and Frank additional Q&A runs additional 6:30 minutes (filmed off-tripod).
1. Question about the missing end of the sentence on pg. 68 (to Matt)?
2. Any cool stories about behind the scenes things (to Frank)?
3. When does Part 2 of the book come out and what was your process (to Frank and Matt)?
4. Who did the inserts and how were they chosen (to Matt)?

And a brief cameo by Mat Beck.

* Based on our experience with the NF XF DVD, we feel confident that even fans outside the U.S. will be able to view the DVD on your computer systems. Orders will be sent out starting the week of March 30.

Victimless

I freely admit that I don’t really know how the fancy interweb works. I have some basic skills. I can type. On occasion, I’ve been aware enough to check email. However, I’m a bit fuzzy on the ramifications of certain things that should be innocuous.

For instance…

Let’s say that, perhaps, one evening you are feeling a little blue. Just for argument’s sake, pretend it was your birthday. Pretend there was some wine involved. Imagine that your computer was running and google was whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

What’s a single girl to do?

Should you be punished merely because you might have, perhaps, possibly, under the influence of a mid-life crisis and pinot noir, googled an ex-boyfriend? It’s not like it’s really wrong. I mean, Facebook is all about tracking down and spying on people you know, so it’s practically socially acceptable to google every now and again and again and again. It’s not backtracking on all your fabulous personal growth. They won’t take your chip away. It’s just… um… a tiny bit of succumbing to temptation.

So, it’s completely wrong that it can come back to haunt you. Whatever happened to the theory behind victimless crime? Live and let google!

I just found a service that allows you to find out all the people (presumably through their computer IDs) that have searched for your name—every, single person. This could be bad. This could be very bad. And not even because I have something to hide—because I don’t… you know, mostly. But a little harmless stalking of an ex is the right of every person who has ever been dumped. They should never be able to find out that you put in his name, his wife’s name and divorce in a search engine… a couple of times. Just to use a completely theoretical example, of course.

Also, what if you pay for the service and find out that no one has looked for your name—ever. I mean, I can see huge therapy bills for legions of people who consider themselves to be web famous. It’s completely disheartening to go from “legend in your own time” to “legend in your own mind”.

Sigh. I’ve learned my lesson. I guess the next time temptation strikes, I’ll just have to do the responsible, mature, adult thing.

Use someone else’s computer.

Kate

Garbage

Do you ever notice things that you don't recognize in your garbage? It just happened to me, and I was completely stumped. I must have looked it with furrowed brow for at least a minute. What was this strange empty container doing in my garbage, and how did it get there? Did it have friends? Did it have a party when I was at work? It would explain the odd looks I get from my plants when I return home at the end of the day.

Did I mention the garbage bag I was staring at was my kitchen garbage bag... still in my kitchen? It can only mean one thing: my apartment is possessed. It's the most logical conclusion.

Handprints

Just as an aside before I regale you with my latest not-so-profound observation. Today on Facebook, The Ex turned up under the always helpful for stalkers section “People You Might Know”. And, as luck would have it, today is also his birthday. That universe…what a kidder.

And onward…

I actually had a second today where I wanted to focus on cleaning the apartment. This doesn’t happen very often, so I jumped on it when the motivation hit. I opened the blinds in the bedroom, which had to be a shock for the neighbors. Don’t worry, I was fully clothed (I don’t want to be sued for inflicting that kind of trauma on people), but the room doesn’t see natural light all that frequently. I was so annoyed because despite the fact that I rarely open the blinds, there were handprints on the window. So, being in an industrious mood, I set about cleaning the window. Imagine my surprise when I couldn’t clean off the handprints… because they were on the outside of the window.

Did I mention that I live on the top floor?

Yeah.

I’m just going to assume that one of the painters or tree trimmers who has been in the complex over the last few weeks had to touch the windows for a completely innocuous and non-creepy reason.

But this was not the first odd handprint moment of my day. The first one actually occurred in the elevator at work. It started innocently enough. There were a number of people in the elevator with me. Naturally, none of us were talking to each other, and we were all avoiding anything that might resemble eye contact.

Now, I’m creative with my avoidance techniques. Some people go straight for the floor numbers. It’s safe and somewhat useful. But it’s also completely predictable. Some people try to mix it up a little bit by staring at the floor.

I decided to throw them all by staring up at the mirrored ceiling. Just as I was enjoying my walk on the wild side, I noticed that it’s entirely possible that someone else had been enjoying a much wilder ride. Again, I’m sure there is a completely innocuous reason while two female (or at least feminine) handprints were on the mirrored ceiling of the elevator. Perhaps a very tall girl was stretching? Perhaps someone decided to get out in between floors by popping open the ceiling and climbing up the cables. Or…. Eh, only the security guard at the monitor knows for sure.

Handprints—one of today’s great mysteries.

Kate

Aging

Anybody miss me? I’ve actually aged a year since I’ve written for this blog. No, seriously, I’m an entire year older even though I’ve only been gone for about 2 weeks. I’m not sure how that happened. My friend Pen posited that it had something to do with me going to a karaoke bar with a group of people on a Saturday night. She personally lost time (an entire hour from what I understand). I tried to point out that it had more to do with that DST thing, but she stands firm. We tested the theory out again the following Saturday when I attended a charity event—also at night. No lost time reported, but there was some earth shifting, so that fit.

Regardless of the whole “lost time” issue, this aging thing is confusing me. I don’t feel like an adult. I still feel about 24 only with substantially less stamina and no love life to speak of. Also, I do have somewhat less grasp on the socially acceptable uses for avocadoes, but I think that’s a California thing.

Because I feel 24, I kept hoping that my parents would call and that the conversation would go something like this.

Parents: “We lied about your age to get you into school earlier”.
Me: “So, I’m really a year younger?”
Parents: “A tiny bit more, actually.”
Me: “I see. How much younger?”
Parents: “Ten years.”
Me: “Sweet.”

It isn’t important that 10 years is awfully hard to fake. I felt that this scenario was a strong possibility. Still waiting for that call.

Because I’ve been gone so long, I’m sending you a treat. Also, I think we can all agree that I should work for “The Onion”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jd4tugPM83c

And as a teaser, my next blog is definitely (probably) going to be about this guy:

http://news.aol.com/article/man-has-two-wives/391268?icid=mainmaindl1link4http%3A%2F%2Fnews.aol.com%2Farticle%2Fman-has-two-wives%2F391268

Kate, still waiting for that call, in Los Angeles

Those Fug Girls

http://gofugyourself.celebuzz.com/go_fug_yourself/2009/03/fugmanda_bynes.html
I have absolutely nothing to add of any merit to their brilliant posting. All I can say is that I would sell at least three, if not four, of my friends (sorry guys, but you understand) to be at this seminar-- you know, somewhere in the back with ice cream, wearing sweats and laughing my ass off.

As an aside, I'm fairly certain I should be friends with these girls. Plus, I have no idea how to dress myself, and I think they could be really very helpful on that front. They, in turn, would be relieved to know that someone in Hollywood does, in fact, keep it under wraps...so far under wraps that you would need someone who played a former Indian guide to find it, but I digress.

Happy weekend. :)

That was unexpected…

That was unexpected…

http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/10/5-months-drawing.html

On October 19, 2008, I embarked upon an experiment. I left the five months that followed it up to the grab bag of fate, and hoped for the best. Admit it. You are curious how it all turned out, aren’t you? I will keep you in suspense no longer. While we still have approximately 20 days left to achieve greatness, let’s review.

1. Go Back to Dance Class.
Fate decided to get me moving again. It was a subtle nudge that simultaneously screamed “get off your fat ass”. Nice try. The ass is still firmly planted on the couch. I’ve started naming the dimples. I’ve not even dipped my toe back into the pilates pool. I’ve morphed into an actual sloth. Seriously, I hang from trees most of the time now.

Somewhat humorously, back in October I declared that this one was the easiest of the four tasks. My identity was so wrapped up in being a dancer for such a long time that it was just a given to me. I couldn’t begin to explain why it hasn’t happened. I like to point out that at heart, I’m a lazy person. Pen, my therapist friend, likes to say that I’m depressed. Well, ok, she doesn’t “like” to say it, she has just decided to diagnose me.

Points for achievement: 0. Points for effort: 0. Points for momentarily considering going back to dance class at some point in the next 20 days just to prove I can: 5.

2. Sell or Produce the Kate Dating Web-Series.
Interesting. I’ve written the first season of the web series, and now I’m re-writing it as a television series (or at least the pilot). And before March 19th, I will have submitted it somewhere. I can’t guarantee a sale, and the show will not be produced by then, but I think we’re definitely moving on this one.

Points for achievement: 0. Points for effort: 10. Champagne for everyone if this one is actually achieved in some measurable way before the end of the month.

3. At Least Once A Week, Open Mind to New Ideas (and say “yes”) and 4. Attend Charity Events and Actually Converse with Strangers at Event.
Wow. I can’t even tell you how many points I deserve for these last two. I thought these two were going to be impossibly difficult to achieve in any measurable way. I’m not a joiner by nature. I’m so narrowly focused on my life that the second I agree to something instead of excitement, I tend to feel the oppressive weight of obligation.

But I took a deep breath and said, “Yes”.

I became fully involved in IBG, a group that raises awareness and funds for start-up and underfunded charities (http://allthings.inspiredbygillian.com). That mere act of saying yes to being part of the organization required me to start talking to strangers at events. I’ve met some fascinating people, and, knock wood, so far my interaction has been pleasant—and in some cases, hilarious!

There was this event with Frank Spotnitz in December: http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/11/im-not-sure-thats-what-fate-meant.html. The event was a huge success raising much needed funds for Neurofibromatosis, Inc. While not everything went exactly according to plan, everyone seemed to have a great time, and meeting Frank was wonderful. Sure, I actually tried to hide from him during the photo call because a) he was a stranger and b) I was being forced to have a photo taken, but let’s not dwell on that battle over my more covert tendencies.

As a direct result of that event, last Saturday night at a book signing for “The Complete X-Files”, Frank introduced the IBG team to Gillian Anderson. I couldn’t begin to tell you what we said to her. Everyone in the shop was in shock. She lives in London. But there she was. Talking to us. Bizarre doesn’t even begin to cover it.


The group is a whirlwind of activity. I’ve even been forced to let some of these people into my apartment. Gasp! I know! I’m right there with you. I’ve even been known to be out at night for at least 20 or 30 minutes. We’ve got a whole host of upcoming events planned, including a concert, a movie/tv marathon (ha! You didn’t think I was going to say some sort of exercise, did you?) and more auctions. We have items from/signed by George Clooney (swoon), Jimmy Kimmel (amazingly tempting green room passes are among his items), the cast of Private Practice, Kate Walsh, Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, David Duchovny and, of course, Gillian Anderson.

Points for achievement: 10. Points for effort: 50.

It’s hard to say at this point whether or not the grab bag of fate has been successful. The goal was to let a random pick of the draw force changes in my life. While I’m still very much in the same place I was before—small apartment, hermit-like aspirations, single, not a partier—in many ways my life has become increasingly connected with the outside world. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, I am committed (or will be, once my need for a straight jacket can no longer be ignored).

Kate, fighting the good fight, in LA

News That Caught My Attention Today

And She Did
http://www.nbcchicago.com/news/weird/Indiana-Woman-Said-I-Do-23-Times.html?yhp=1

The universe, in theory, seeks a balance. According to the link above, this woman has been married 23 times. Apparently, I am the balancing force in the universe. She gets 23 men to agree to a lifetime (or 2 days, whatever appeals the most) with her. I can’t get a guy to talk to me. Nice one, universe!


Bikini Brain
http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/02/19/women.bikinis.objects/index.html

According to more fabulous scientific research, the area of the brain in men that responds to handling tools also responds to images of women in bikinis. I’m fairly certain that any garage mechanic could have told them that for much less money than what was spent on this study. There’s bound to be a joke in here somewhere about power tools, drilling and the like. But I’m tired, so make the appropriate joke yourselves. I find it shocking (shocking, I say) that we now learn that men see bikini-clad women in magazine as objects. No way! I would have never…oh, wait. On the upside, does this mean if I need a guy to do repairs around the apartment, I can just lead him to his “tools” by showing him a bikini calendar?


Interesting Decorations
http://www.wpix.com/landing/?Boys-Find-Boa-inside-Living-Room-Sofa=1&blockID=217188&feedID=1404

I can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me. I’ve thought… hmmmm is that change wiggling around in those cushions? No? What is that? OH! It’s a 4-1/2 foot, 5-pound boa constrictor in my leather couch… in New York City. Someone mark that down as reason 3,432 why I am not going back to New York—the couches will literally kill you. Good for them for having the presence of mind to get animal control on the case. I would still be standing on a table screaming, picturing my imminent demise—and naturally wishing I was wearing something cuter and had gotten my brows done for the inevitable leaked photos to the news organizations. Hey, even a girl taken out by her killer sofa has standards.


And Now For Something Serious
http://www.3angelsfund.org/events/beauty_and_soul.php

While IBG (the volunteer organization I work with) isn't directly involved in this, we are trying to spread the word about this fun event and this organization's very important work. This event is located in New York, and directly benefits research to raise awareness, diagnose and someday cure Alveolar Capillary Dysplasia (ACD). ACD is almost certainly a genetic disease of the lungs that kills infants, but much is still unknown.

For more information about the upcoming benefit in New York, as well as the organization itself, please visit: http://www.3angelsfund.org/events/beauty_and_soul.php

Also, if you could pass the link along to friends, we'd really appreciate it!

The Encounter

It has been suggested to me by loyal readers and evil friends that I am not focusing enough on trying to make even the smallest connections with the male gender. While I recognize the criticism might have some small element of validity, I’d like to point out that men don’t talk to me. They didn’t before my new initiative, and they don’t talk to me now. In fact, I’m pretty sure I said something foolish to the universe on this very topic.

Never give the universe that kind of opening.

I was downstairs yesterday trolling for food because I’m both too lazy and too lazy to ever cook anything for myself these days. While I normally stand downstairs feeling every click of the second hand on the clock resonate in my body (I hate waiting in lines), I was relatively non-hurried.

And he walked into the diner.

He was (presumably still is) tall—around 6’4”. He was clean cut, business-preppy with a little boy haircut, but broad-shouldered and just slightly in need of a mid-afternoon shave. In other words, he was danger. He was my version of the front cover of a romance novel, and if he was in my office building there was better than even chance that he was employed.

You can feel the shiver that overtook me even now, can’t you?

In normal, every day, Kate world, I would have expected my lunch to be ready immediately giving us no chance to speak. But no—the universe was going to give me what I asked for. It was going to give me a conversation with Danger.

In my fantasy world, I’m sure my hair would have been curled and blowing behind me (and I would have suddenly grown several inches taller), as he slow-motion walked toward me. As it was, he just walked toward me.

At first he didn’t see me. Of course, being smaller than your average 12 year old, this is not an unfamiliar state. Add to that my invisibility to the men of Los Angeles, and I was prepared for him to walk right by me. Instead, he got closer.

I was turned slightly, and I could feel his approach. I’m sure some part of me was glistening and/or heaving, but I can’t swear to it. Fighting all instincts to cower from a stranger, I turned slightly into him and looked up.

I smiled.

He smiled.

Angels wept, while the music in my own personal soundtrack swelled.

And he spoke.

“Have you already ordered, Ma’am?”

Wha??? Ma’am????

Ma'am!!!

I’ve entered Ma’am territory. I’m no longer “miss” or indeterminate PC approved entity. I’m a ma’am now.

You don’t date a ma’am. You don’t think soul searing and not entirely chaste thoughts about a ma’am.

In a blink of an eye, people... in a blink of an eye, potential love affair transformed to “maybe he’ll offer to help with my groceries”.

That crashing sound you heard was what was left of my ego.


Kate (aka Ma’am) in Los Angeles

You Might be Kate If…

1. You hear the words “designer vagina” and your thoughts turn not to the mysteries of cosmetic science, but immediately to where they must put the label.

2. You notice that Pen’s Barbie Magic Wand has been the victim of fluid evaporation, and proclaim it as a sign of the apocalypse—which you then have trouble spelling.

3. You are working on a proposal for a charity event, and one of the target magazines threatens to nix the project because of your clearly erroneous choice of “fanbase” instead of “fan base”.

4. You are doing data analysis at 7am, and you need the soothing background emanations from your iPod….only to hear a strange grinding noise from said device followed by an ominous on-screen warning.

5. You don’t understand how a centimeter of rain can cause mass panic in Los Angeles (followed by the inevitable “Storm Watch 2009” television interruptions), but an earthquake outside of the standard news cycle barely gets a bottom of the screen crawl.

6. You actually take time away from a busy work day to consult Pen’s Magic 8 Ball about your fantasy life (or is that Magic Date Ball, I can’t remember, but it seems to be a remarkably positive little thing).

7. You think anything airing at 9pm should be considered late night television.

8. You are horrified by any friend’s story that begins with “she was running a dominatrix operation out of the room I was renting”.

9. You had to look up the spelling of dominatrix.

10. You have a terrible habit of spending more time dwelling on what has gone wrong rather than rejoicing in the memories of what has gone right… if you could remember that far back…which you can’t.

11. You can’t figure out how people find out about orgies. Are there invitations for that sort of thing—perhaps a special section on the e-vite website? Also, are they sticklers about plus ones there? I mean, that has to be murder on a hostess if the numbers aren’t even.

12. You are shocked that orgies happen because as far as you can tell, it isn’t 1973.

13. You have been nicknamed Moral Compass while trying to keep your friends off the pole (both literally and figuratively) though you understand the reasoning that it is good exercise.

14. You find the idea of a sexually “experienced” man terrifying rather than intriguing because you don’t want sex to be about tricks so much as love. Plus, you just aren’t that flexible anymore and your ass looks bad from that angle.

15. You realize that the old theory about great cooks making great lovers means you are in big trouble as you can not even navigate the grocery store… nor do you want to do so.

16. You think that a convent might be the place for you if that whole “poverty” bit could be waved. After all, you have the chastity part covered.

17. You’ve seriously thought about using the “I’m off to a convent” line as a conversation starter when faced with a man you know you can not handle (i.e. all of them).

18. You’re so disconnected from yourself that when someone asks you what you do for fun, you honestly don’t know, but assume it has something to do with The X-Files.

19. You want to find the first person to suggest anal bleaching as a viable component of the daily beauty regimen and ask him why he hates women (because you know it was a man).

20. No, seriously, where do they put the label?

Blog Tagged Redux

I got tagged again, only this time it has something to do with answering a lot of emotionally scarring questions. Naturally, I figured this meant that I should create an entire blog out of it. No, it’s not cheating.

1. EVER BEEN GIVEN AN ENGAGEMENT RING?
Wow. So, we’re going there right away are we? We can’t warm up a little bit with a question that won’t send me into therapy? Fine. No. I have never been given an engagement ring. In fact, I’m fairly certain the concept has never crossed anyone’s mind in reference to me. Happy? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see if I can get some couch time tomorrow.

2. LONGEST RELATIONSHIP?
Depends. Do you mean the decade with The Ex, or do you mean the subsequent years mourning The Ex?

3. LAST GIFT YOU RECEIVED?
Does a drink from a single man count? Yes, that’s right. I had a drink with a single man the other night. But that’s another blog.

4. EVER DROPPED A CELL PHONE?
Oh, yes. My phone dropping skills are legendary.

5. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU WORKED OUT?
Technically, it was an hour ago. Alas, my mental exercises tend to be more regular and rigorous.

6. THING(S) YOU SPEND A LOT OF MONEY ON?
Well, Jimmy Choo and I are clearly in love. But I don’t shop there often, it’s just when I do, it tends to cost quite a bit of cash. However, if we’re talking about frequency of purchase, I’d have to say anything involving The X-Files universe.

7. LAST FOOD YOU ATE?
Bowtie pasta with organic marinara sauce (which was actually better than I thought it was going to be). Although I’m eyeing a piece of chocolate, so by the time I finish this tome, this answer could, in fact, be entirely different.

8. FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX?
I notice a person’s “presence” more than anything else. I don’t know if it’s a person’s stature or just their overall bearing, but it’s definitely a quality that’s hard to pick out in a match.com profile photo.

9. ONE FAVORITE SONG?
That’s an impossible question. I have a favorite song for every real mood, and every transitional mood.

10. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
I live in Los Angeles where it will be 77 degrees tomorrow. Look at that—I have simultaneously explained where I live and why I live there.

11. HIGH SCHOOL YOU ATTENDED:
Andrews School for Girls was honored with my presence. That’s right, I went to an all girls school. And no, I do not recall any pillow fights, nor do I recall having any friends named Tootie who hung out on roller skates all day long. Then again, I didn’t live in the dorms, so maybe I just missed her. They were so devastated when I left that they ceased to exist. Ok, that’s not true, but it feels true.

12. CELL PHONE SERVICE PROVIDER:
My life is currently mortgaged to AT&T.

13. FAVORITE MALL STORE:
I don’t think I have a favorite mall store. Banana Republic and I are close. They keep sending me mail. Although I have a feeling Dior and I are about to become intimately acquainted.

14. LONGEST JOB YOU HAD:
I have spent the last 14 years as an analyst for an international firm. Why are you yawning? Oh, wait, that’s me.

15. DO YOU OWN A PAIR OF DICE?
I don’t actually know the answer to this. I think I do, but I couldn’t possibly locate them.

16. DO YOU PRANK CALL PEOPLE?
Good God, no. I don’t like people enough to talk to them when I have to, and talking to strangers might as well be renamed “waterboarding” in my world.

17. LAST WEDDING YOU ATTENDED:
I think the last wedding I went to was CH’s wedding in Virginia/DC.

18. FIRST FRIEND YOU'D CALL IF YOU WON THE LOTTERY:
David Duchovny would be my first call. Seriously, with that kind of cash giving me false confidence, why not call him?

19. LAST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BEST FRIEND:
“Best”? Hmmm, that sounds elitist and wrong. Yes, that’s me refusing to answer.

20. FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT:
Does Pink Taco count as Fast Food? They do occasionally bring the margaritas in under three minutes.

21. BIGGEST LIE YOU HAVE EVER HEARD:
LMAO! Well, I suppose it’s possible that I’ve heard a couple of huge ones recently, but I have a 48% confidence level to date in the intel. And if I get pictures, two people are going to be $100 richer to make up for my lack of immediate faith.

(22 was not sent to me. The nerve!)

23. WHERE'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO EAT WITH FRIENDS?
Depends—have I been forced to leave my apartment? I’ve had quite a good time at Craft and Pink Taco. However, I think I’ll actually always prefer to eat in my apartment while trying to figure out why my friends keep trying to move in bunkbeds.

24. CAN YOU COOK?
The Fire Marshall has actually certified that I can not cook. Tsk… one little alarm goes off…

25. WHAT CAR DO YOU DRIVE?:
I drive a Jeep Wrangler.

26. BEST KISSER:
Sadly, The Ex still ranks at the top of that list. Not that I’ve tested this theory much. I am willing to just say George Clooney because I’m sure it’s possible that he’s quite good at it.

27. LAST TIME YOU CRIED?:
I was quite upset about the passing of Kim Manners, as well as the state of a long-term friendship, on Monday night.

28. MOST DISLIKED FOODS:
I dislike most foods.

29. THING YOU LIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
I must like my own company quite a bit given my adorable hermit-like qualities.

30. THING YOU DISLIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
I dislike my inability to talk to strangers. I need to be fearless.

(31 is also awol)

32. LONGEST SHIFT YOU HAVE WORKED AT A JOB?:
It’s probably a tie between some long days early on at the current job and a 15 hour X-Files shooting day.

33. FAVORITE MOVIE?
Right now? “I Want to Believe” ranks pretty high on the list currently. I don’t really have a favorite overall because, like music, I seem to shift according to mood.

34. CAN YOU SING?
No, I can not sing. I have a voice teacher who can attest to this reality.

35. LAST CONCERT ATTENDED?
Um… I think my last concert was Paula Cole. It ended in disaster when I humiliated myself in order to protect The Ex from scorn and ridicule. Yeah, in retrospect, I should have let him fend for himself.

36. LAST KISS?
Never. I’m not married, so it is clearly wrong to kiss anyone. What? :)

37. LAST MOVIE RENTED:
The Duchess through Netflix.

38.ONE THING YOU NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT:
My blackberry. This has got to change.

39. FAVORITE VACATION SPOT:
Rhodes, Greece. I’d love to go back to that balcony attached to our group house in Lindos on Rhodes.

(I swear to you, I don't know where 40, 41 and 42 are)

43. LAPTOP OR DESKTOP COMPUTER?:
Both. Neither works for what I currently need, so I’m shopping right now.

44. FAVORITE COMEDIAN?:
Jon Stewart, Tina Fey and Steve Martin, currently. I was a big George Carlin fan.

45. DO YOU SMOKE?
I’m deathly allergic to smoke. This is not an exaggeration. If I’m in a closed space with smoke I start to cough within minutes. In theory, I stop breathing if I don’t get into open air within a reasonable period of time. I’d prefer not to test that theory.

46. SLEEP WITH OR WITHOUT CLOTHES?
I sleep with clothing on because I live in the land of earthquakes. No need to traumatize the neighbors more than the sudden earth movement already has.

47. WHO SLEEPS WITH YOU EVERY NIGHT?:
Me, myself and I. It’s very crowded.

48. DO LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS WORK?:
Yes, I’ve made them work. Plus, bonus points in that the guy will be around occasionally, but not enough to think that he gets ownership of the remote.

49. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN PULLED OVER BY THE POLICE?
I think I’ve been pulled over as a driver once, but then I totally beat it in court, so it was expunged from my record.

50. PANCAKES OR FRENCH TOAST?Why make me choose? Oh, the humanity…

Kim Manners

It’s impossible to explain or relate the connections you feel to other people, particularly those who you don’t know well. You see their work, and you love it, and a connection grows. You have a random conversation on any given Tuesday, and for some reason it strikes a note. Maybe it’s part of a fandom’s illusion of relationships through shared experience.

Whatever it is, I can’t really explain the loss I felt when I heard that Kim Manners died of lung cancer on Sunday.

For those of you who didn’t know the man or his work, he was a prolific director on The X-Files and Supernatural (as well as an exec producer for both shows, as well as numerous other projects over a long career). Technically skilled and exacting, Kim’s sets were a fascinating experience—one I had all too rarely.

While I worked on a number of his X-Files episodes over the years, I’ll never forget the first time I actually spoke with him. I had accidentally (aka completely on purpose) crashed his 50th birthday party. It was the middle of the shooting day, but a party broke out, and as I was working as an extra, I got caught up in the moment (aka left holding area to find out what all the cheering was for). I remember the speech he gave about how much he loved his cast and crew—they were obviously family to him. He talked about how if it were up to him, the show would continue another 8 years because it meant that much to him.

As he was leaving the party to head back to work (we had another 9 hours in front of us), I wished him a happy birthday. He kissed me on the cheek, called me sweetheart, and stopped to talk to me. The conversation itself wasn’t earth shattering—mostly about if I had worked the show before, etc. The only thing that kept running through my head was, “Don’t you know who you are?” Directors don’t talk to extras. I didn’t do a lot of that kind of work, but that’s one thing I definitely knew. And yet there he was.

Eight hours later, I was standing on set with Kim, Gillian, my hot swat guy (damn, what was his name, and why didn’t I pay attention) and her manager, Connie. It was 1am. Everyone was exhausted, and we all knew that there was at least an hour or more to go. Despite all of that, Kim, who undoubtedly had a longer day than any of us, was on the move. The man’s energy was contagious, and with an entertainingly suggestive conversation with Gillian, we were off and running.

That’s how I’ll always remember Kim—a man of boundless energy, enthusiasm and colorful turn of phrase, always exhorting and inspiring people to be better.

The IBG Group has set up a donation page for people who are interested in honoring the man. All donations will be given to the American Lung Association in Kim’s honor:
http://allthings.inspiredbygillian.com/

Perception

Perception is a funny thing (and by funny, I mean evil and wrong). For instance, yesterday, I thought I was doing a gangbuster kind of workout. I pictured myself on the elliptical machine making magic happen. I pictured myself being athletic, svelte, prepossessing, or sweaty-chic.

Then I looked in the mirror.

I’m fairly sure your ass is not supposed to move that way. Seriously, the cellulite undulation was making me seasick. Like any rational person, it just inspired me to work out more.

Oh, wait… no.

It inspired me to stop every activity that could elicit jiggling of any kind. Because really… no one should see that, not even me.


A friend of mine told me a story about a recent trip to Blockbuster. She noticed several people looking at her. She knew she looked good. She was having a “that girl” moment (you know, the fantasy where people are looking at you and whispering “who’s that girl…over there… that charming creature”). At least, that was her perception.

Then she caught her reflection in the window.

Note to self, when you get your brows waxed make sure that all the wax and the bright red marks, from where the technician ripped off your skin, have faded before renting ‘I Want to Believe” at your local video store.


Every day I get up at 5 am for work. Yea. I suppose I could blame the darkness for the ensembles I put together, but that would be a lie. I think I look good when I leave my apartment. I mean, no one is going to mistake me for Gillian Anderson, but people won’t hide their children from me to avoid the horror.

So, why is it that the look that works so well at home before I leave is suddenly ill-fitting and somewhat south of chic when I see my reflection at work?

Perception is deeply misleading.

Then again, maybe reality is really the problem.

Kate

Dream Job

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090113/od_afp/lifestyleaustraliatourismoffbeat_20090113032028

Let me get this straight. They will pay me a little over $100,000 in order to play on their island? Hmmmm. Clearly the strenuous duties of sunbathing and frolicking are worth that, but I’m missing the catch. As it stands, I do believe I’ve found one of my two or three personal fantasy jobs, so I believe I’ll be getting a plane very soon.

At last a chance to truthfully yell, “You! Off my island”.

The thought of it alone makes me all tingly. It can not be a truly primitive island because you are supposed to do on camera work and web blogging—hello, internet! I already blog, and usually that’s from a place far less glorious than the one pictured there.

Frankly, I giggle at the downside—relatively few people.

Do typhoons hit this island? Is that it? Is there some sort of bomb testing going on next door? Because otherwise, I can’t figure out how there is anything bad about this. Oooooh, unless they don’t have satellite TV, then I can see how that would be a struggle. Also, Dominoes probably doesn’t deliver quite that far. While that’s a shame, it’s not really a deal breaker.

So, it’s been real. I’ll send you a postcard.

What do you mean they might not pick me? How could they not pick me? I mean, I promise not to wear a bikini on camera.

Off to buy more sunscreen.

Kate
Uh… you don’t think there is a smoke monster on this island like there is on “Lost”, do you?

Nicknames

I had a nickname. It was perky. I am not perky.

I had a nickname. It ended in an “I”, although most people who hear the nickname spell it wrong.

I had a nickname that brings to mind cheerleaders, school spirit leaders and the possibility of a role as a Stepford Wife.

I had a nickname that took years to get rid of. My parents still use it, but they are allowed because they named me, so they get a pass.

Shortly after meeting The Ex, I asked him not to use it. Most of my friends were still using it. Most of my professors still used it. But in a conversation in the library, I told him that if he wanted me to answer him, he wouldn’t use it. His response, “I wondered why someone with such a beautiful name would choose to use the nickname”. He never used the moniker again. Maybe that’s the moment I knew that he was going to be a tough one to shake off—not that I didn’t try.

I had a nickname. And now it’s back. It started slowly—a few old friends used it on Facebook. Since I never use it, I didn’t think anything of it. Then a few new friends on other forums spontaneously started to implement it. I thought it was odd, but figured if I kept signing everything with the name I use, they’d get the hint. But now it’s spreading… like a rash.

Grant it, when faced with the drama in the world—disease, famine, flood, struggling economies, the potential re-emergence of parachute pants—this seems like a small thing. It’s just so unexpected. I felt certain that my otherwise taciturn nature would stem the rising threat of perky.

Why is it then that I feel the need to start doing the “Bring It On” cheer?

I’m sexy, I’m cute
I’m popular to boot.

I’m bitchin’, Great Hair
The boys all love to stare

I’m wanted, I’m hot
I’m everything you’re not

I’m pretty, I’m cool
I dominate this school!



Ahem...Evil

Kate
Back, back perkiness!

Shy

I am an incredibly shy person. I know that this can not be a shock to many of you. It sort of fits with the whole “so, I’m a hermit, yeah, yeah” thing I have going on. It’s not so debilitating that I won’t interact at all with other human beings, but it is definitely one of the reasons that I’m not big on making approaches to strangers.

Shyness is a killer for networking. You remember that charity event that I was assisting with in December? Logically, if I saw the guest of honor on the street, I should feel comfortable enough to exchange a greeting with him—particularly since Frank Spotnitz may be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. But I know me. I’d hide from him. I’d assume that I was imposing by approaching him, or that he wouldn’t remember me (well, he does meet a lot of people). How on earth would I go about meeting strangers if I seriously thought about changing careers (and not just becoming a beach bum after I win my many, many millions through the lottery)?

But you know what else gets shut down from shyness? Dating. Thank goodness the people at Yahoo!Personals have provided me with this handy article: Dating 101: Four Ways to Overcome Dating Shyness (http://dating.personals.yahoo.com/singles/datingtips/87492/dating-101-four-ways-to-overcome-dating-shyness).

According to this article, by admitting that I’m shy, I’m accepting a negative thing about my mindset. They suggest that I say out loud that I am no longer a shy person and that eventually I will grow to believe it if I say it often enough. Yeah, because that works. Much like, “I am a millionaire” becomes accurate if I say it often enough, and David Tennant is heading to the States to sweep a certain friend of mine off her feet if I chant that in a mirror. As an aside, yes, I will definitely start chanting that in a mirror, Pen, just in case I’m wrong.

Item number three in the article tells you to realize that you are not being judged. Really? That’s ridiculous. Of course, you’re being judged. You have the power to not care about an anonymous person’s judgment, but telling yourself that a person, particularly a first date, hasn’t made immediate decisions about you, is delusional. A guy has at least judged whether or not you’re “fun” or a “3rd-dater” (or, as is my case, a “don’t bother”).

The final piece of advice is to just accept who I am—that I am shy because I’m harshly judging myself. Sound, reasoned advice, this one.

But I have a question.

What happens if accepting who I am means accepting that I’m shy?

Kate, pondering the eternal conundrum

P.S. I want you all to know that if I ever do manage to get myself on a proper date, I’ll log into twitter and bring you all along as moral support. That couldn’t possibly go wrong.

The Special Glow

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,475905,00.html

True love last forever—or at least that’s the case being made by a group of scientists in the latest love study. Romance novels (chick lit and harlequin varieties), all those movies and teenage dreams got themselves a bit of validation this week. Although I don’t remember brain scans being involved in any of those Judy Blume books. Perhaps I missed a couple along the way.

They have posited that brain scans indicate that essentially the intensity of the first blush of love can remain in couples decades later. What I need is for scientists to figure out how to get rid of that. Clearly, I’m all for forever love. I’ve had forever love (it just turns out that forever is just slightly shorter than it used to be). But what happens to one of these people if her brain is “oooh, Mr. Darcy” and his brain scan is “see ya”? Is true love only mutual? Does that make her love for him less “true” if both scans aren’t glowing in the dark?

And if she has this “true love” glow about her what the heck happens to her if she now finds herself alone? Does her glow for that long-departed person mean that she’s blocked and can’t glow for someone else—you know, barring radioactivity, of course? Does it only get triggered when she’s in the presence of the other person? So, she’s fine unless on the eve of her dating someone else, she runs into him in the dog food aisle at the grocery store—at which point you can see her from space?

These and a million other probing questions will undoubtedly be in the next study that I will personally fund. No reason. It’s just all about the science for me. Mostly.

Kate

Seduced!

I was seduced, I tell you! No, not in the romantic sense of candles, flowery talk and promises of an investment portfolio miraculously unscathed by the recent economic turndown; I mean in the sense that I foolishly believed that I was safe. Safe from the ghosts of Christmas past. Safe from the evils of the world (ie many of the people I knew in high school). Safe from the lack of drama in a town known as ex-boyfriend-ville. Safe.

Informal messaging medium (ie Facebook) seduced me into believing that only the most fun people in my life would find me. It was blissful. People befriended me (and those of you who haven’t, please do… provided I like you)—most of whom I actually knew, which is rarely the case on myspace anymore. For many, many months, I believed that it would all just remain an entertaining, sharing place.

I’m here to tell you, Facebook is not safe.

It began with friend requests from people that sparked distant, and yet distinctly uncomfortable, memories. I’m pretty sure people who didn’t like me in high school are now my “friends” on Facebook. Ok. Fine. We all grow, mature. Oh, what the hell am I saying? No, we don’t. I have no idea why they are my friends on Facebook, since I’m pretty sure we haven’t thought of each other in any sort of warm and/or fuzzy way in about 25 years. But there they are—all calling me a nickname I haven’t used since I was 20. Swell.

Next came the ex-boyfriends of friends. Now, I liked the friends, but I’m pretty sure I had absolutely no difficulty ignoring the existence of their ex’s (as any good friend would) once they firmly moved them out of the picture. Why are we all pretending to be friends now? In addition, I’m getting friend requests from the “hangers on”. You know—the guys who came with the ex’s of friends. But not only are those people reaching out beyond the high school memory graveyard, but they also want to send me things and add me to their birthday calendars. Huh? I don’t want to remember my own birthday this year—I certainly don’t want the distant hanger on friend of friend’s ex-boyfriend from 20 years ago bringing it up.

I know what you are thinking—just reject their friend request. But I can’t. That seems rude, in a way that bitching about it all here on blogspot does not. I know, I have a confusing ethical guide. Love me.

But today… the very nearly final blow occurred. My happy, drama free social networking came to a jarring halt, when I saw his name. The Ex. He commented on a photo I commented on—hell, he commented on a photo I took. But he wasn’t commenting to me.

And I froze. We haven’t “spoken” since the great text message fiasco of March ’08. I’ve been way too busy to moon about and think of him… often…as much… whatever. Still, I’ve been really good. He had his busy new, happy husband life, and I had my… um… you know… um… whatever it is that I’m doing.

But time stopped today. I’m sure you noticed it. That grinding, screeching sound was me seeing the Facebook message “________ also commented on ______’s photo”. That name. Can’t mistake it. It’s unusual. And all of a sudden, these many, many months later, there it was in front of me again.

I didn’t look him up. I didn’t do a search for him. I’m pretty sure he’s new to Facebook because he’s never had the time for this sort of thing. I’ll probably not see his name appear ever again.

And yet….

What will my reaction be when a “friend request” notice comes my way? And more likely, how will I feel when it doesn’t?

Seduced, I tell you – lulled into a belief that this particular button was done being pushed.

How ridiculous of me.

Kate

A Muddle

I’m writing this from a great distance… straight up. I’m flying home from visiting my parents in Ohio (where it was 6 degrees (!) at the start of the week and 66 when I flew out), and I began pondering the many things today that don’t make sense to me—in addition to that whole weather thing, of course, because that’s just crazy.


VIP Tickets to Parties
I don’t understand having levels of “special” at parties. This behavior would be unconscionably rude if you were throwing a party in your home, but throw a party in a club, and it’s considered de rigeur. You have the normal people, aka the people there to actually enjoy the party and occasionally gaze wistfully at the VIP section convinced that some distant day they will also be important enough to get past the rope. Then there is the VIP section. From my, admittedly limited, experience the VIP section is full of people who paid extra money to avoid the people who actually want to be there. This section is also highlighted by the dawning realization that there is a level of Really VIP that they still can’t buy into no matter what the ticket said. It is my fondest hope that one of these days someone throws a party and says “none of you are really all that important” and K-Fed has to buy his own bottle.

But that’s just me.

I will, however, begin separating my friends at any party I throw in my tiny apartment. I’m just kidding. You know I’d never have a party in my apartment.


Carry-On Luggage
Here’s a tip: just because you can physically carry it, does not mean it is carry-on luggage. If you could actually float a family of 12 down a river on it, it is not a carry-on. Also, you swearing that “last time it fit” when it has clearly never fit into anything other than a semi isn’t fooling anyone. The good news is when you crush everything around you and shove with all your might to get it into the overhead compartment, you wont have to worry about it shifting during the flight. It won’t shift. Ever. Not even when you hold up all the other passengers when you have to pry it out during deplaning. Well done.

Turbulence
Turbulence. I don’t get it. I don’t like it. I want it to stop.

Book Boy
Why is the man I’ve now dubbed “book boy” sitting in the window seat? We should clearly be sharing intellectual discourse on the meaning of… um… well, anything really, as you know what happens to me when I am faced with a boy who reads. Sadly, it appears to be beyond my ability to chat with him when he is a) reading, and doesn’t really look like he wants to be disturbed and b) there is a sleeping person in between us. Fate is cruel.

Turbulence
Again, self-explanatory and seemingly unending.

Kate, hoping that everyone had (or is having) lovely holidays!

Health Tips... Or

As many of you have heard, either because I’ve been coughing down the hall or because you’ve emailed, I have been sick. We all got through the big charity event on Saturday (which turned out well, I think), and then promptly collapsed. I’ve been philosophical about it. I’m going home for the holidays next week, so I’m glad that it is not starting as I’m getting myself onto a plane. Last week would have been a disaster. So, all in all, I’ve accepted this with only slightly more complaint than a normal week—ok, that’s a little bit of a lie because I have been whining quite a bit.

I’m not good as a sick person. I’m not one of those people who really likes a lot of nurturing attention when I’m sick. In fact, I’m more like someone who needs to find an empty cave (aka my tiny, dark apartment) and lick my wounds.

I’m also impatient which makes me an even more delightful companion—unless you actually enjoy hearing how someone’s skin hurts and then you might actually find me quite charming. I have things to do, and I have no time for sick, so occasionally, I like to pretend that I have freakishly gotten over the illness in record time.

Yesterday was one of those special pretend days.

I had to go to the store. Despite the fact that I still had a fever and had just woken up from what turned out to be a 15 hour “nap”, I decided that I just had to convince myself that I was fine and get on with it.

So, I got in the car.

Dumb. Very dumb.

I got to the store without incident. I went in, got my stuff without major drama. Technically speaking, I realized that I didn’t have to go out at all because I remembered that I had already bought the thing I was looking for, but that’s not important. Now I have two.

And then I went out to my car—and noticed that it was still running. And that the keys were, obviously, still in the ignition. But the good news is, the doors were totally locked so no one could steal it.

I swear to you, I just stood there and looked at my running car completely perplexed; as though someone else had committed this act of colossal stupidity on my behalf. I looked around. No one else seemed to be stepping forward to take the blame. And I just stared at it.

Another piece of good news—I never replaced the hardtop on the jeep after it was stolen, so it is a soft top. The bad news is because the back was locked down and still full of stuff from the charity event, getting in the back was not going to happen easily. So, I very calmly, in what I am now calling a walking sleep coma, unzipped the side window.

All good right?

Yeah. Have you seen a jeep? Or better yet, have you seen me? I’m not quite 5’3” tall. The top of the tires are above my waist. So, here I was—apparently completely loopy, with a bag in my hand with stuff I didn’t need (because it would have made sense to put it down) essentially climbing my mountain of a car. The challenge doesn’t stop there because it was a back window and there is a support bar that runs across that window. Not a problem. Apparently, sleep coma girl was very flexible. I managed to angle my body above the bar, then twist and then pull my legs into the car where I very properly shut off the ignition, grabbed the keys, and unlocked the door (admittedly, there was about a minute there where I was hanging and wiggling both inside and outside the car). I continued in my “everything is fine, nothing to see here” fashion into the front seat, out the front door, so I could then re-secure the window…. still holding the bag.

Needless to say, I drove home very slowly, and did not try again until this morning. And yes, I checked, the car is off, and I have my keys.

I think we can officially declare me awesome in every possible way.

Hey, at least I didn’t text message the Ex this time.

Kate, still coughing, but on the mend, in LA

Kizmeet

Periodically, I get asked to check out other bloggers, and I thought this site might intrigue you guys.

If you are interested in hearing from a number of different perspectives on the dating scene outside of Los Angeles, you should check out this blog: http://www.kizmeet.com/blog. The blog is an aggregate blog of sorts – it combines perspectives from different love, dating, sex, romance, etc., bloggers from around the U.S. These people actually date and are both entertaining and informative! Be sure to check them out.

The Event

And here's Elvis (aka Frank Spotnitz, writer and executive producer of The X-Files). I have to say, I've rarely been more impressed with someone. Frank is an amazingly classy guy, and it's easy to see why he is a fan favorite.

I love our volunteers. We've gone through the first part of tech and now we're working out the details of getting our beloved Elvis in the building. Here are some early pics.

Well, Sure...

http://www.wlwt.com/news/18196466/detail.html

I saw this headline, and I thought of you guys: "Man Says Wife Was Accidentally Shot During Sex".

Well, who hasn't that happened to? I mean, if I had a dime for every time a gun went off when I was having an intimate moment, I'd...um...yeah, I'd still be broke because this doesn't ever happen.

I had to click on the link just to be sure that he wasn't being euphemistic about a "gun going off".

Nope. He meant it. He "accidentally" shot his estranged wife in the chest when he reached for something on the nightstand.

That's just bad luck, that's what that is. There is nothing worse than reaching over for a condom and shooting your date instead. Obviously, there needs to be a warning label somewhere--maybe on the gun, maybe on the condom. Oh, yes, definitely on the condom: "warning: reaching for this when a loaded gun is in the vicinity of your estranged spouse who has a restraining order out against you, could result in you "accidentally" shooting her". Perfect. That should make the lawyers much happier. After all, he's probably very upset about this "accident" and is getting ready to sue somebody because of the lack of that very warning.

Yeah. Nothing suspect about this statement at all. I have absolutely no doubt that he should get over this mistake in about...oh...10 to 20.

Kate