A Toe What???

By now, I’m sure you have heard that the young actress who plays Blair on Gossip Girl had a sex tape on the market. I have no idea what the actual details are—how it got out, if she knew she was being taped, what genius ex-boyfriend decided he hadn’t had his 15 minutes yet, or what publicist thought it was a good idea. [I do know that people keep saying that the tape is “several years old” – which should make you rethink the download because that girl just turned 23 year and “several” could make that little item illegal.]

Obviously, all those issues are very important, and will no doubt be handled by people more capable than I am. But let’s face it—the thing that got my attention was the headline advertising the news of the tape’s existence: “Toe Job”.

A toe what???

First, I dare you to read those words and not immediately look at your feet. Go on. I dare you.

Second, I’m confused in so many ways.

Here I thought I was only avoiding two kinds of jobs, and now I find out that there is a third? There’s a harsh reality. I feel like I should apologize to boyfriends past. I had no idea that toes were on the menu.

Because I refuse to watch the tape, I’m extraordinarily unclear as to how this works. I’m staring at my feet right now, and I’m spreading my toes as far as they can possibly go. Oh, go ahead, give it a shot—you know you are trying to figure it out, too. It’s entirely possible that my toes just don’t have her dexterity, but even between my big toe and the next toe (index toe?) there isn’t that much space. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on the young man’s endowments, but for his sake, I’m hoping that’s not how it’s done.

Are we talking two feet action? In which case, we might be able to market this as an excellent inner thigh work out routine. See—bonus points for men, and a good way to get that extra tone before August. Who says I’m not open minded? Oh, right, everyone.

Also, a side question—men, are you excited to see feet headed straight toward your balls? In my limited experience with men, I seem to remember a real reluctance to risk unnecessary collision between the feet and genitals. Maybe the men I’ve dated are just more squeamish than others.

Or perhaps I’ve made an erroneous assumption with regards to where that toe was headed. Hmmm. That’s got to put an interesting spin (so to speak) on any conversation you have with the person giving you a pedicure:

“No, no, Gigi. You better file that nail down more because I’m sticking it up some guy’s ass tonight. No, it’s Greg. Doug was the one who liked it pointed.”

Now, you have to know that I have often joked about wanting to stick my foot up some guy’s ass, but oddly enough, it was never sexual. And I’m pretty sure it was never literal. Ok, maybe that one time.

All I have to say is bravo for introducing me to yet another concept I don’t want to think about.

Kids, stay safe out there. And for goodness sake, take care of that athlete’s foot before trying this at home. You never know where that toe might end up.

Ouch.

Dating Douchebags

I got this email regarding a new show on MTV, and the title was entertaining enough for me to pass this on to you guys. Why do I have a sinking feeling that I will end up on this show?

===

I'm working to get the word out about MTV's new reality show, "Is She Really Going Out With Him?". Inspired by the popular website Hot Chicks with Douchebags, "Is She Really Going Out With Him?" is a funny docu-format show that explores the phenomenon behind beautiful and innocent young sweethearts who fall for self-absorbed, overly-tanned, tattoo covered douchebags.

"Is She Really Going Out With Him?" airs Mondays - Thursdays at 5pm/4c (Please note time change). For more info, please visit isshereally.mtv.com

Below, Adam and Jeff, take the word "douchebag" to the next level. Check out the video clips below, and please feel free to share them with your readers!

If you require additional assets, please let me know. Thanks!




This "Hustler Douche" gets surprised with a diamond engagement ring from his girlfriend at his birthday party and in return he completely embarrasses her in public.

Link: http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/401928/for-reals-bro-for-reals.jhtml#id=1614192

Embed:

Is She Really Going Out With Him? - MTV Shows

This douchebag takes his girlfriend, Chantelle, out for pizza, but needs to her to pick up the tab because his wallet is on empty till payday.

Link: http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/402263/check-my-steez.jhtml#id=1614288

Embed:

Is She Really Going Out With Him? - MTV Shows

The Experts

Ever feel like you are caught in a revolving door of advice? I feel like I’m caught there right now.

It’s been pointed out to me that I’m not making as much of a concerted effort to meet men as I have in the past. More than one email has inquired as to whether or not I’m actually under witness protection or have just given up to defeatism.

Yes and Yes—But only in my fantasies.

In reality, I’ve started pursuing various websites that provide professional dating assessments. Many of them pose many thoughtful questions (like is hooking up dangerous or liberating? Obviously, I come down on the side of lethal.). Some are just a bit on the left side of ridiculous and clearly meant for 22 year old guys with degrees in advanced alcoholism. I thought that what I was doing made sense. My methods were not working, so I thought I’d see what the experts had to say.

I’ve come to one obvious conclusion. No one has any idea.

I’ve gotten the time-honored advice: “when you stop looking, love will come to you”. I’ve also gotten: “dating is hard work so you have to prepare and pursue often in order to hit the mark” (in essence, for every 15 people you approach, maybe 1 will be a possibility). That advice was naturally followed by: “stop looking so much because you push too hard and come off desperate”. And last, “do you look hot enough for love to find you?” God bless Los Angeles.

So, I should…

Stop.

Do more.

Stop the doing more.

But I’d better look sexy no matter which path I choose, so I should have clicked on the sponsors who will chisel off that cellulite while I ponder love’s little mysteries.

Hmmm

Well, I think I can mark off the “when you stop looking” one. Seriously, no one has stopped looking more than I have. Also, the desperate one doesn’t seem to ring true because my friends are more likely to come off as desperate as they try to fix me up. I’m more likely to look alternately bored or frightened.

This only leaves the “hard work” option. It has been suggested that I need a work life balance (since currently all my energies are focused on work). So, if I’m willing to work very hard at my job then I should be prepared to work equally hard at dating—which is clearly ridiculous because I can’t get reduced hours based on the need to date, and I do need to sleep on occasion.

Also, I live in Los Angeles! It’s a land of extremes. People here hook up, have sex right away and then seem surprised when the other person doesn’t call again unless they are drunk (again). Can you hear that “how did you and grandma meet” story?

Well, kids, I bent her over a sink in the ladies bathroom about an hour after we
met at someone’s birthday party. Yep. We were wasted.

Aww. Tear.

No wonder it’s also the land of immediate marriage. If you do find someone who is willing to see you more than three times, Vegas is calling. And yes, someone is probably drunk (again).

I feel like an explorer. Not only do I have the burden (how is that for hopeful) of actually trying to date, but I also have the task of re-introducing the concept to the residents of this city. However, as intrepid as I am, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to respond to the question, “But if I can get sex any time I want, why should I date?” Because “human connection isn’t always about sex” doesn’t seem to get me anywhere.

Sigh.

June 16

One Wrong Move…

One of my favorite lines from Californication comes courtesy of Marcy who is providing sage and time-honored advice (and a bikini wax) to a porn star: "One wrong move, and you're the ass licker".

As much as it pains me, my friends, it is clear, I am the ass licker. Naturally, this isn't literal in my world because I can't lick my own ass, and I'm certainly not getting near anyone else's. But metaphorically, I have sadly embraced my new moniker.

For instance, I got into work this morning at 5:30am for a 6:00am conference call. Right away, that's bad. As part of this call, the tech people are revealing a new database in New York. But it's not up as a video conference—no, no, I'm listening to someone describe a database from 3,000 miles away, as I try to stay awake.

What are my friends doing? They are getting ready to fly to London today to enjoy a couple of weeks of travel, plays and film festivals.

Ass licker.

What was the wrong move I made? Pen, being a "Doctor Who" fan has indicated that I turned right instead of left. But when? And was there only one wrong turn? Or is it a history of not RSVPing to events that has resulted in me sitting here trying to figure out if bashing my head on the desk would do any good, or just require stitches.

Update: It's just been suggested in the meeting that I might like to fly to NYC for a day of training. Yeah. Because flying for 12 hours to get a single day of training sounds like the most fun ever.

That Seems Wrong

There are two things you should never do:

1. put me in charge of food
   
2. put me in charge of getting men to do something
   

Naturally, every film project, screening project, random side project I've ever assisted on included me dealing with catering. There is something perversely consistent about this type of thing.

And sadly, I'm currently in charge of recruiting men for a charity project.

Now I can see some of you jumping up and down and pointing at me. You're thinking, "Men! She's finally talking to men!" Calm the hell down. So far, I'm 0 for 5 on the invite list. And while the rejections have been lovely and thoughtful, and technically, in no way related to me, I'm going to take this personally. Who thinks making me get men to agree to something is a good idea? In order to do this, they'd have to agree to spend time with me. That's never going to work. That's never worked. It's been years since any guy thought that was even a vaguely good idea. It's as though they know I am kryptonite. Being in my mere presence will destroy them, so they stay as far away as possible. They'd like to wrap me in lead so that no part of my being contaminates them.

Is my island ready yet?

A Play in One Act

[Please enjoy the synopsis of my day today]

 

 

Kate: So, that's a "yes" then?

X: No.

Kate: So, the answer is "no"?

X: No.

[confused look]

Kate: So, that leaves…

X: Not a "no".

Kate: But if it's not a "no" then it's…

X: Not a "no".

[silence]

Kate: hmm.

X: Indeed.

Fantasy Guy

I'm certainly not the first person to sit around with her friends and wax poetic about the finer points of a handful of well-known handsome men. My friends and I might disagree about which "celebrity" guy floats our particular boat, but it's still not unusual for us to get girlie and giggle (even at this advanced age) just as I might have when Rick Springfield (guest starring on this season's Californication, by the way) first made me wish that I was Jessie's Girl.

It's been suggested that girls (and certain nearly middle age females we all know and love) spend time fixated on the joys of these fantasy men rather putting themselves "out there". After all, fantasy guy rarely disappoints. It's one of his most endearing qualities. I take this suggestion in stride, as it's very likely accurate. Wandering through an increasingly depressing bar scene pales even more when I can choose instead to stay home and watch "Solaris". The bar scene makes me lament the future of humanity, while certain scenes in "Solaris" makes me celebrate mankind—or at least one particular man.

But here's something that is somewhat unique to Los Angeles: fantasy guy could live down the street, be standing in your corner Starbucks, or driving by you as you wait to cross to the post office. In reality, fantasy guy is just another guy who lives in Los Angeles.

I can hear you thinking, "Yeah, but it's not like you are going to date Alex O'Loughlin or George Clooney or…".

To this I say, "Why not?"

Grant it, it's entirely likely that I'm not fantasy guy's type, but he's just another single man working in Los Angeles. There isn't a moat with a drawbridge (even in Malibu) that stops someone from introducing themselves and giving it the old college try. Now, I'm not blind to the fact that you are likely to have a heck of lot of competition for said fantasy guy, but in Los Angeles, there's a significant amount of competition for any straight, single man with a job. Plus, what are the odds of me actually introducing myself to any man and asking him out? Yeah, those odds are hovering dangerously close to zero regardless of the level of SAG dues he pays.

"But where would you meet one of these fantasy guys?" How the hell should I know? I can't meet any guys. Thus, technically my odds of meeting Clive Owen or Bob Jones are roughly the same.

I can hear your next thought, "But hot, famous actors are not going to be into faithful long-term relationships—they might hook up with you, but they'll definitely cheat".

To this I remind you that people keep telling me that most men cheat. So, if I'm going to be cheated on anyway, I'm not going to factor hot, successful men out of the equation merely by virtue of heightened probability. That's practically discrimination, and that's wrong. I'm an equal opportunity theoretical dater.

Fantasy guys—they're not just for fantasies anymore.

A Challenge

My friend Pen threw down the gauntlet today. I have been challenged to a battle of wills (because somehow a battle of apathy seems impossible). This is her contention: I will not find a date in the calendar year 2009. She thinks I've allowed myself to become distracted by work, more work and fantasy men in order to avoid (or sublimate) my natural instinct to "couple".

Now before any of you jump to my defense (no, really, you should have, but that's fine… I'm not hurt), she means well. She just knows that my propensity for alone outweighs any desire to socialize with other human beings (outside of a laminated list I keep on hand for emergencies). And the bet wasn't so much that I couldn't possibly find a guy in Los Angeles to go out with me (although that's a genuine concern), but that I would not be taking any remarkable steps to make that happen.

So, she has decided to speak in a language that I understand: the language of cash. She has bet me $100 that I will not go out on a date in 2009.

Naturally, my first instinct is to say, "Eh, whatever" and then grab another muffin from the cart. Also, I'm a little concerned that if she's technically paying me to date that somehow prostitution fits into this scenario. The old moral compass can't quite embrace that element. And the life of hermit doesn't really lend itself to bar hopping.

But I'm very competitive, and I like money.

What to do ….

Being highly analytical, I weighed my options and figured I could find a loophole. Surely a male friend could by me a drink (that I would nurse for a couple of hours without drinking, of course), and I could come away with a new shoe fund.

Sadly, Pen was ahead of me on this one. She had a list of criteria:

• Single, straight, male (although separated male is also acceptable);
  
• I must have some romantic interest in him, and (this is the tricky part) he has to have some romantic interest in me (unless this is a set-up and then how the heck would I know this);
  
• I have to find him attractive (although, again, if this is a set-up, it's not my fault if the spark isn't there);
  
• He has to take me out to an event (ie can't be fixing the plumbing in my apartment when I get home);
  
• We can't split the tab (I tried to argue this point, but we're on wait and see with this one);
  
• He must be over 18 (can't take the nephews bowling, apparently); and
  
• I must have an impure thought during the course of the date (thankfully, she didn't specify if the impure thought had to be about the date, or cursing her for getting me into this).
  

So, here we are. The bet has been made. Now the questions is will I win the bet, win the bet by getting around the rules, or fail miserably, thus allowing Pen to keep the money?

Did I mention that I really like winning even if I don't necessarily want the thing I've won?

This could get interesting.

====

My friend DM just jumped in with another of $100. That's $200 to me if I go out on a date following that criteria by Dec. 31, 2009. She's actually willing to extend it to Jan. 2. She's willing to throw in an extra $50 to kiss him on New Year's Eve.

===

And my friend Bonnie is in for another $10.

===

Mich just added $50. We're up to $260.

You realize I'm going to go out on a date just to spite you people, right. ;) Get those checkbooks out.

Happy Monday

Here are little known facts:

• If any part of your Sunday night is spent thinking, “I’m not a religious person, but if that Rapture thing happens right now, I won’t have to go to work tomorrow”, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• If you exchange texts with a friend [ahem, you know who you are] that say anything along the following lines, “Is it wrong that I don’t want to fall asleep because if I do when I wake up, it will be Monday, and I’ll have to be go to work”, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• If you start to think that winning the lottery is a more viable alternative to financial security than your actual job, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• When the power goes out forcing you to shower in the dim light of your emergency lamp, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• When the elevator in your building is also on strike because the power is still out, forcing you to walk down several flights of stairs, in heels, also by the dim light of a flashlight, on a Monday morning at 6:00am, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• When the straps on your tank bra give out, after you’ve already arrived at work at 6:30am on a Monday morning, forcing you to grab a safety pin and pray, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• When Monday morning’s next adventure involves an email telling you that you have missed a submission deadline, a deadline you were never informed of in the first place, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• When you tell yourself that it will be all ok if you can just grab a quick plain bagel and juice so you can start over, only to find that there are no plain bagels and the juice is making you sick, you know it’s going to be a rough week.
  
• If you spent any part of the weekend laughing with a friend and saying, “I swear the guy looked a lot like [fill in blank with favorite celebrity male], but there’s no way it was, so I didn’t even stress about going up to thank him for his help”, only to find out after all of this that [fill in blank with favorite celebrity male] was in fact in your neighborhood, you will start to think that alcohol on a Monday morning might be a good idea.
  

And I just got a paper cut.

It’s going to be a rough week.

Happy Monday all.

FAQ Redux

Because I've been fortunate to "meet" many new readers in the last few weeks, I thought I would repost this FAQ as sort of an introduction. Who is Kate? Read below to find out all you've ever wanted to know (or at least what I'm willing to tell you today) about Kate Dating.

*****

Periodically, I get questions about the blog and about me. Here is a small attempt to answer some of the most frequently asked questions (or statements). Well, the clean ones anyway.

1. Is the blog based on real life events, or is it all fiction?
The blog is based on real life events. Occasionally, I have altered the time frame to protect the not-so-innocent. Likewise, I’ve obscured the names of the people involved so that when their prospective employers google them, their names on this blog will not incriminate them in any way. Unless, of course, they piss me off, and then they are so busted.

2. Are you actually dating all the time and just not talking about it?
No. Trust me, if I was dating, you’d know. For instance, hell would have frozen over. Hell freezing over is actually an excellent indicator that romance is in the air for me. Sadly (or happily, I suppose) there is no need for you to run out and buy that parka just yet.

3. Do you hate men?
Absolutely not—I do not hate men. If I did, my life would probably be easier. I do, however, wish I had the manual that goes with men.

4. Do you hate The Ex?
No. I love him dearly, and I always will. He is a good man. He simply made a choice that was best for him. Someday I hope to see the wisdom of that choice.

5. Are you really doing a web series based on the blog?
It’s a real possibility. I don’t know if I’ll be playing me, though. It’s entirely possible that many different women will “play Kate” because I find the idea entertaining.

6. Do you work in the entertainment industry?
I work in the entertainment industry from time to time. It is not how I make my living. But I do live in Los Angeles, so I interact with a lot of filmmakers. I enjoy working behind the scenes. I’ve spent my life in the arts to some degree. I was a dancer in my less decrepit years. As you’ll soon find out, I’m better with a script than without one, but even then I think I’ll be producing the Oscars before I receive one.

7. How can you call yourself a hermit when I keep seeing pictures of celebrities on your blog?
I suppose I’m not technically a hermit because I do leave the apartment to work. I call myself a hermit because there is a part of me that would be entirely fine having very limited contact with other human beings—maybe not for long stretches, but definitely for shorter ones. Also, the celebrity events that I have attended have been pretty low key events meant to be more celebratory of the work than drunken, Hollywood bashes. It’s not my fault that Clooney is smitten with me. I told him I just didn’t think it would work out between us. I hope we can still be friends.

8. Ur 2 ugly 4 wrds?!
And yet you found some. Thankfully, I don’t get many of these.

9. Is your real name Kate Dating?
No, but it would certainly be ironic if it was.

Tuesday Wrap-Up

Just a few more words on the Californication event held on Tuesday. By and large the event was great fun, and I think people really did enjoy the screening of the episode and hearing a bit from the creatives/talent involved in this highly entertaining show. It was obvious that the cast has not only great chemistry, but a tremendous amount of respect for one another. Each one brings unique talent to the table, and I honestly believe that in less capable hands, the show wouldn’t work. As it is, I can’t wait for Season 3 to begin. Pamela Adlon said she thought it was going to be the best season yet, and I’m ready to kick back and enjoy a bit more of Hank Moody’s world.

If you have an opportunity to attend any of the panels/screenings that are being hosted as part of The Envelope series, you should definitely do it. Also, I think I mentioned this before, the Los Angeles Times recorded the entire event, and it should be online soon. Update: here's the link of where the clip will appear: http://www.latimes.com/extras/events/envelopescreeningseries/

Here are a few more pictures from the event. They were taken while Natascha was explaining that during the rehearsal period for the show, she thought that Karen should be French. David got quite a kick out of being called ‘ank, which was admittedly amusing, but I’m pretty glad that went the way they did.

(as usual, click on the pictures to get the bigger versions)

Californication: The Tour Continues

Updated 1:33pm Evan on the challenges of nudity and sex scenes in Californication.

Evan Handler Discusses Sex Scenes in Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Updated 12:25pm David on Directing David.

David Duchovny on Directing for Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Updated: a couple of more photos while we wait for the videos to process.

Here is a mini-clip (eventually two or three) from last night's Q&A panel. I highly recommend heading over to the LA Times website and checking it periodically. They were professionally taping the event for the web, and their footage will be a billion times better than this. But if you need a Duchovny fix before then...

(will also be posting on Big Light, so if you can't see the vids here, try over there at network.biglight.com)

A Little Tour Through Californication

For all of you who sent good vibes my way, these are for you. :)

(keep refreshing, they should show up as I add them).

In line

In line at Californication. Saw Zellie and a couple of others I recognized. About 30 people. I'm sweaty and collapsed on the floor. But I'm here! Now I just need to get in.

Update: awesome seats in 2nd live row. Not too close, but close enough. Everyone is getting in I think.

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?