Step Up to Center Stage

It’s 3:00pm. I’m drinking a glass of red wine and watching the sequel to Center Stage. I’m not finished with the credits yet, but it feels remarkably like the Step It Up movies, and I’m left wondering who is going to utter the immortal words: “I am the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet Academy. Who the hell are you? Nobody.”

Spoiler alert: Bad news, kids. Cooper’s dance company went under due to lack of funds, so he’s back being snarky about ballerinas and technique (though now I’m only about 2 minutes into the movie—things could change).

Clearly, this is why I quit my job. I could have been left without ever knowing this movie existed. God bless Netflix.

Also, pointe shoes on carpet…never a good idea.

Not that I just found that out. Because I didn’t. And that would have been silly. So, I didn’t.

Recognition

I'm sitting in a dance studio-- not any studio; the studio. I can't  begin to count the hours I spent in here-- required hours, stolen hours, all hours. Sense memory took over as I walked across the floor. Same creaks. Same smell. Same sense of wonder even if age has made some of those possibilities dim.

My body remembers this place. It remembers the calluses, the hamstring pulls and the exhaustion. And it remembers joy.

 I had a life here. I knew a boy here. I was challenged, frustrated and just shy of brilliant here-- at least once or twice.

Every five years or so I make this pilgrimage. I see old friends, and we talk about the years gone by. But this place I come to alone. Even though we had rehearsals and class here, each of us had our own experience-- our own blessings and curses. Explaining it to spouses and kids seems unthinkable.

Impossible to recapture youth, I know, and yet it feels so near here. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath I'll be who I was here.

I'm sitting in a dance studio. And I'm me here.

Red

I have three red shirts in my closet. For most people, this is probably not a stunning development. For me, it is practically as revolutionary as the color associations have been. I have black clothes, and when I want to spice it up, I move to gray or tan. Seriously. I've flirted with blues, but unless they are navy, even they feel a bit daring to me. And now I've gone red.

When I was a dancer, I had a choreographer who related a theory told to him by his favorite choreographer: "If you wear red, you must dance red."

Naturally, I thought he was a pretentious git, and I did my signature move of eye-roll and dismissal. Well, I definitely did the eye-roll. Apparently, the dismissal didn't happen quite as easily. I think somehow the idea that if I wore red, I'd have to dance red (or be red in non-performance life) took permanent hold.

I can't be red. I'm not a red person. Red means "look at me." It means "passion." It means "pay attention to me, or you will wish you would have."

"On Girls" wear red. I wear the daily equivalent of camouflage.

It's not that I haven't given it consideration. There is a pair of red stilettos in my closet that I have never worn. One of the fashion gurus said something about them being too provocative unless you are streetwalker, and I hid them in my closet.

But apparently, you can only keep red inside for so long.

This weekend I took the red out for a spin.

I liked it.

Look out Los Angeles.

Kate

The Wonderful World of Kate

The Wonderful World of Kate

• If I'm faced with the option of doing anything in the world, I sit down and watch television because having all the options are almost as paralyzing as having none.
  
• When trying to decide between cleaning and reading a book, I will always choose reading a book (even if people are coming over to my apartment). In fact, I seem to be choosing "reading a book" constantly these days. And it's kind of awesome.
  
• If Judgment Day really is Saturday, I think my V (original mini-series and final battle) viewing event is oddly appropriate. However, I have a date with Mitch Pileggi the next day that I'd rather not miss—and by "date", I mean attending a charity event where he is the guest of honor.
  
• I spend a fortune on local phone, long distance and cell and 99% of the time I would prefer to send an email rather than call someone… even people I know. In fact, I think I'm developing a phone phobia. The idea of calling a stranger for any reason makes my heart start to race. I'm not sure why. I guess I feel like I might be bothering them. I think we can safely rule out telemarketer as my next job.
  
• A friend suggested that without a structure and set plan for my year off, I will fall into a perpetual vacation mode that will go by very quickly. He is definitely correct. Alas, this has not yet prompted me to make that plan. Frankly, I'm not sure my brain has adjusted to the idea that I'm not going back to my old job, to my old life. Part of me is ready to heave that sigh of resignation and find my security card for the trip back to the office.
  
• With all the time in the world, I still avoid going to the grocery store. I do love being able to do laundry whenever the mood strikes me.
  
• I keep wondering how I can make a living wage by sitting at home and opining. I know there are people who do it, but thus far, no one has sent me a check. Rude!
  
• New shows are staffing with writers at this exact moment. Hands up if you think I should be one of them. Hands up if you think I'm better suited to solitary manifesto writing. Yeah, that's what I thought.
  
• I spent a terrific afternoon at the beach with friends (I do so have them) to celebrate a birthday (thankfully, not mine). The day was splendiferous. The sunburn I have right now is slightly less so given that only one side of my face is red, as though only part of my personality is chagrined about something. I'm not sure I want quite this obvious of a manifestation of my dual nature. Best to keep that bit a secret.
  
• I feel a deep, personal attachment to the animated Lemon in the new McD's ads. He seems so bummed out that lemons have become synonymous with a whole slew of negative things. That's right—I want to give an animated lemon a hug. Go me. I haven't lost my mind at all.
  
• My apartment has no sense of style. It barely has a sense of functionality. How do I get those HGTV people to come and suddenly make this place look like a comfortable showroom? And if that's not possible, how do I get someone to come over and help me move the TV? What about that charming Emily girl? She seems like fun, and really unlikely to make fun of me.
  
• Oh, Castle. You need to air all year. I know it would probably kill your actors, writers, directors, producers and crew, but let's think about me for a minute.
  

And those are the fascinating musings of Kate on an average Wednesday night.

Charming

(A Play in One Act)

L: You can be charming!

Kate: Name one time where I have been charming?

L: Well, I'm not around you all the time.

Kate: You can't do it, can you? You can't think of one situation.

L: Yes, I can! At the wine tasting, you were um… talking to people?

Kate: And I was charming?

L: Well, you were talking to them.

Kate: Not what I asked.

L: I'm not around you that often!

Kate: If we were around each other anymore often, you'd be living here.

L: Whatever, Holt. You're charming.

Kate: Lies.

Planning and Dating

I'm finding that event planning and dating in Los Angeles are remarkably similar. In both situations, there is so much going on in the city that it's difficult to get anyone's attention in a positive way. Of course, it's still easy to get attention in a negative way, but that's rarely what you really want (unless you are a reality star, of course).

In the dating world, we keep getting sent to the internet. Everyone suggests that you try online dating. For event planning, everyone suggests Twitter or Facebook. But when you have a thousand followers, are they really paying attention to you, or are they just trying to get their numbers up? It's the same with dating, really. Do people head online to find people serious about relationships, or are they looking to get their "score" numbers over 100 (oh, Charlie Runkle…)?

Picture yourself as a young entrepreneur or philanthropist in Los Angeles. You have an event. What do you do? Where do you go? In a city of millions of distractions, how do you get noticed?

Picture yourself as a single, shy female over a certain age in Los Angeles. What do you do? Where do you go?

And if they end up being the same answer, I think I should get my own dating column or advice show on OWN.

Well, technically, I think we can all agree that this should happen anyway.

Walk on the Wild Side

This weekend I went to a club in Santa Ana to hear a rock band called Three Thirteen.

Half of you reading that sentence are thinking, "Yeah, so?"

Half of you reading this are saying, "Bullshit, you would never go to a club and certainly not all the way out in Santa Ana—prove it." Ok… maybe more than half of you. I texted Pen, and she assumed my phone had been stolen. Danielle insisted that I tweet pictures immediately. I'm pretty sure the earth shifted on its axis. So, if you felt that, I probably caused it.

The easy explanation is that my friend B's husband Randy is the lead singer and plays guitar in the band. It was the first time this particular band had ever played, and despite knowing them for years, I had never managed to get out and see him play when he was with other bands. Apparently, the key to getting me to do anything is to send me an invite text at the exact moment I'm feeling slightly adventurous. Also, I didn't really know where Santa Ana was.

What can I say? I like to keep you people guessing.

Believe it or not, I had a lot of fun. I did hang out in the pit taking pictures (in order to dissuade strangers from talking to me, naturally) and stood in the section informally designated as "for older people who aren't dressed for this club, and don't know what to do." This was opposed to the front portion by the stage where people were rocking out and appropriately eye-linered.

Is this a new club-going phase for me? Oh, sure. That's a given. I plan on being out every night. I've hired a stylist, and I'm now ready for every occasion.

Or

Most of the time, I'll still be asleep by 9:00pm.

But the next time you see me tweeting: "I can't hear you--I'm tweeting from a mosh pit" you should probably go with it.

Kate

Eagerly awaiting our foray into Club 1984 and roller disco!

Mitch Pileggi Q&A Charity Event

If you guys are going to be in the LA area, you have to come out and see this guy! He has been in everything-- from the legendary Skinner role in The X-Files to a much debated recurring role on Supernatural to a guest star on Castle this year (that had a twist that was hilarious). Of special interest to me is that he appears to have radically changed careers to become an actor. I'm always fascinated to hear how other people have come to the decision to take that leap.

So come out to the event and see Mitch (and me!).

Tickets: http://www.ibginc.org/conversationseries

----
IBG Welcomes Actor Mitch Pileggi

Summary: Actor Mitch Pileggi (Supernatural, The X-Files, Stargate Atlantis and Sons of Anarchy) answers fan questions about process, performance and his vibrant career on May 22nd in Beverly Hills.

IBG Inc is proud to announce that television favorite, Mitch Pileggi, has signed on to be the guest speaker in the new “A Conversation With” series thrown by the Los Angeles 501c3. The hour-long conversation with Pileggi will take place in Beverly Hills in the afternoon of May 22nd.

The “A Conversation With” series is designed to bring together fans and some of the most successful producers, directors, writers, and actors working today. The exclusive event will consist of both moderated discussion and open-floor questions in an intimate setting.

A limited number of tickets are available for sale leading up to the day of the event through IBG Inc’s official website, http://www.ibginc.org/conversationseries.
Television audiences know Mitch Pileggi best for his performances as FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner on the long-running hit series The X-Files. He parlayed a guest-starring appearance in its first season into a recurring role and finally a series regular position in the show's third year. Pileggi earned three Screen Actors Guild Award nominations in a row as part of the acclaimed ensemble. Pileggi also played the character in the 1998 X-Files film and, six years after the show's end, reprised the character in the film The X-Files: I Want to Believe.

Pileggi’s recent work includes playing Sam and Dean Winchester's maternal grandfather, Samuel Campbell in the TV series Supernatural, the recurring role of Larry Jennings in Grey's Anatomy and Ernest Darby, the head of the Nordics Motorcycle Club in the Sons of Anarchy, as well as Dan Burroughs in Medium. He also played the recurring role of character Colonel Steven Caldwell, Commander of the Earth Battlecruiser, Daedalus, in the second and subsequent seasons of the television series Stargate Atlantis.

His varied movie roles include the Spanish production of Río abajo (On the Line) with David Carradine and the lead in Wes Craven's Shocker, as well as performances in Paul Verhoeven's Basic Instinct, Takedown, Three O'Clock High, the crime thriller Gun Shy, opposite Liam Neeson and Sandra Bullock, HBO’s Recount, Flash of Genius with Greg Kinnear, Mega Cyclone and Man in the Chair. Pileggi starred in the TV show Tarzan and co-starring with Barbara Hershey and Oliver Hudson in The Mountain. Among his numerous guest-starring appearances are Castle, Human Target, Brothers & Sisters, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Day Break, Boston Legal, Cold Case, Reaper, The Batman, That '70s Show, Criminal Minds and Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.

Founded in late 2008, IBG Inc (http://www.ibginc.org) established a non-profit focusing on utilizing the power of philanthropy through the arts to benefit a broad range of charities worldwide. We act as a “fundraiser facilitator” for underfunded, under publicized, and start-up charities that would otherwise struggle with the logistics and costs associated with event fundraising. This work has taken on a critical importance as the economy has been slow to recover, and we find ourselves with increasingly frequent requests for assistance.

1:40AM

It's 1:40AM, and I am awake. No, awake doesn't quite cover it. There is none of that sleepy quality where I hug the pillow tight, burrow further into the covers and know that additional slumber is not out of my reach.

This is more of a jarring awareness that my body has decided enough is enough. I have a sneaking suspicion that my mind never shut down—too many plans to make, details to settle… a life to get.

You'll be pleased to know that I didn't give in to this stress-induced insomnia lightly. Never! I fought it. Fan on. Fan off. Right side. Left side. Drowsing on my back. When that failed, I gave myself a very stern lecture: "Go to sleep! You have work in the morning." You know, three weeks ago that would have done the trick.

Instead, here I sit: Zone bar in hand, water and a laptop at the ready. No doubt brilliance is about to sweep forth to dazzle each and every one of you. Once that is finished, I will be offered my own television show, book deal, film gig and the deed to a small island to finally call my own. Naturally, once I am firmly ensconced in my new state-of-the-art abode, you might have some trouble finding me as the island will move [though I will leave a key map for the wine tasting club and the 80s mini-series watchers (everybody dies, Meggie)]. But no matter—I will have left my positive mark on the world, and will occasionally send off additional material when the changing tide inspires me.

This is my current plan.

Yep. That's what is going to happen.

Any minute now.

Any time at all.

Any…

That Didn’t Take Long

It takes precisely 15 days to lose all track of what day it is and to stop registering the passage of time. I know this because this morning, it took me nearly 10 minutes to suss out what day it is… and I don't mean the date. Without my daily, highly regimented schedule, I've fallen into an "every day is Saturday" mode. Tricky because, of course, other people work on weekdays, and if I need to get something done, I should probably do it when they are around. Still, law of averages should be on my side.

This is not to suggest that the crazy panic of needing to do something has left the back of my brain. No, that is still popping up at moments. It's that insidious feeling that I've forgotten something, or that something is looming. Both could be true, but I'm hoping they aren't. Perhaps it's just the consternation that happens when after a very long time, I don't have a paycheck being direct deposited anymore. Clearly, it throws off the balance of even sane people—of which, I might be less and less of one every day.

Luckily, my focus was on when Sunday rolled around because I finally got to see the long-awaited God of Carnage downtown at the Ahmanson. I wasn't going to go because there were big May Day rallies/protests planned for that area, and that sounded far from appealing. I had nearly given up on the idea of going entirely, when I decided to check sigalert.com just to be safe (God bless the people who put traffic indicators up on a website). Much to my surprise, the freeways looked empty—hardly a normal phenomenon in LA. So, despite having less than 20 minutes to get ready, I dashed off.

If you are thinking about going to see God of Carnage, do it! It's very funny… in all the wrong ways (making it hilarious and brutal at the same time). It is not for children. The entire cast (Jeff Daniels, Hope Davis, Marcia Gay Harden and James Gandolfini) were really "on" for the Sunday performance, and the audience went crazy for it. Here's my tip: you don't need front orchestra seats for this show, so if you don't have the money for the close seats, don't worry about it. This plays to the back rows. I can't tell you my last thought when leaving the theater (spoilers), but if you email me, I'll share.

 

Awkward Moment

As you all know, I am delightfully oblivious to the people around me most of the time. Absent professors have nothing on me. However, from time to time, I will hear something during the course of running an errand (or saving the world) that just sets me off.

I thought today was one of those days.

I was waiting for the elevator this morning, when I heard a young mother calling her toddler daughter away from the display case to join her. Nothing outrageous thus far, right? Well, it would have remained that way except I heard the mother calling, "Come here, Creepy. Creepy, come here." That… seemed a little off to me. I don't know if slightly negative nicknames actually damage a child's self-esteem or not, but it felt a tad jarring. I thought it might be accurate—I celebrate honesty. But not knowing if the child was indeed creepy did leave me with the temptation to give the mom a little stink eye.

And just as I was getting ready to do that, I heard her calling to the little girl, again: "Come on, Sweet Pea. Sweet Pea, we've got to go."

In my defense, they sound really similar.

::: whistling through my unwarranted outrage:::

Who Am I Anyway?

Who am I anyway?
Am I my resume?
That is a picture of a person I don't know.

A Chorus Line

 

As I've mentioned, the process of willingly separating yourself from a job of 16+ years is a long one, and it involves an extraordinary amount of paperwork. While that is a nuisance, there is only one box on all of these forms that keeps tripping me up: Occupation.

Health insurance, life insurance, rollovers and any other form you can think of all ask for my occupation. It's a reasonable question, I suppose. Health insurance professionals certainly want to know if I'm working in coal mines rather than an office building, but for the first time in so many years, I have nothing to enter into that field. I'm not a student. I'm not an analyst. Unemployed is technically accurate, but doesn't seem right—surely that can't be me. I did this willfully, and in my mind, that seems reserved for people who have dealt with downsizing and other economic woes.

Am I my resume? I don't think I even know that person.

So, after spending a day or two in panic mode (apparently, undefined is something I'm not quite used to), I decided to look at this as a creative writing assignment. People keep telling me I should put my goals "out there," so I'm going to. The very next form will say "Writer," "Producer," "Fashion Model," "Host," "George Clooney's Wardrobe Assistant," or "Deep Sea Diver" (I know, no one will believe I'm a writer). My friend E came up with a great one today at lunch, "Celebrity liaison." Provided that isn't actually code for "stalker", I'm in! Though, naturally, I will refuse to do anything that involves sneaking someone drugs, a mistress or getting them coffee (no joke, I can't make coffee, and since I don't drink it, most drink orders still sound like gibberish).

How about "Celebrity Pillow fluffer?" And yes, the word "Pillow" needs to be in there, because as I've recently been told, people can seriously misunderstand your intentions if it's missing from that title. Sheesh. One little mistake…

 

House Hunters

Well, it has finally happened: my brain has stopped trying to process what I've done by leaving my job and just embraced Property Virgins, House Hunters and House Hunters International. I may have watched (on and off) about 7 hours of those shows on Monday.

I'm no closer to figuring out what I want to do with my life. I'm no closer to writing the great American novel, script or short-story. I have yet to executive produce a television show. I am, however, an expert at the ridiculous requirements first time home buyers have and where cheap real estate exists in the United States (note: nowhere near Los Angeles).

Here is my public service announcement for the day: You do not need stainless steel appliances in order to have a working refrigerator, stove or dishwasher—particularly if you only have $100,000 to spend on the house and you want four bedrooms, a finished basement, a backyard and a pool. The perfectly functioning white appliances do not NEED to be replaced. If I hear you say it one more time, I will slap you.

And We Want Him Why?

I received a lot of emails and some comments posted on the blog about my post regarding "The Rule of the First." What really stood out for me was how many people mentioned using the rule as a way to…um…reconnect with a man who had cheated on them. I'm wonderfully uptight, and do not generally supporting cheating (so stop emailing me Ashley Madison), but I am willing to give a little bit of leeway to the girl who is hooking up with her ex who is now cheating on the girl who he cheated with (if that makes sense). It's not good. It's not right. But I'm not sure I have a ton of sympathy.

The thing I do not understand is why is there a compulsion to pursue the man again? Why do you want someone back in your life who clearly had very little respect for you when you were together? Is it just an ego thing? Is there some sort of special validation for you if you can get a man back (however temporarily)? Is it all about winning?

Please keep in mind that I'm not talking about situations where you were both young and someone made a mistake. While I don't know if I could ever really forgive the mistake, I think people can learn from them in certain cases and move on. Also, I'm fully cognizant that women also cheat and generally behave badly. If a woman cheats on a man and leaves, does a man also pursue?

Obviously, love does not go away just because things go awry. Maybe there is a healthy mix of habit in that longing? Maybe after that kind of hurt, the one left behind just desperately wants to return to normal, and the pursuit is the only way that makes sense at the time?

Pen has had these moments. She heard a lot of encouragement on the other end: "She's not you." This, by the way, is catnip to women. She thought she would finally win when the other relationship ended, and he didn't want to be alone. But ultimately, she walked away. Why? Because the only thing she would have won was a man she would never be able to trust.

Breaking In Meets Dr. Drew

Ah, proximity—you seem to be the key to all things dating… which is tricky given how much I like to spend time alone.

This week's Breaking In featured the theory that "love is a numbers game" and that the way for one of the leads to finally get the girl of his dreams is to spend as much time with her as possible. He actually had the day broken down into "quality time spent" components, and spending the day at work with this girl meant he would be "winning" (not in the Charlie Sheen sense, but with actual positive outcome in the mix) the battle for her heart (which he might want along with her other parts).

Then much to my surprise, when I finally got through my katedating@yahoo.com email, I saw that Kelly at HLN had sent over another clip from Dr. Drew's show. Now, the piece was supposed to explore what it is that men really want from women. This scared me because I assumed it was somehow pornographic. Kidding. Kidding. Not really, but let's pretend.

Naturally, the conversation turned toward the different approaches of the sexes in meeting a potential partner. The panel and Dr. Drew came to the conclusion that Cam did in Breaking In (only they backed-it up with actual data) that proximity plays an enormous role in finding a potential romance.

I worked many, many, many years in a largely-male environment. Love did not blossom for me. No seeds were even planted. Clearly, I need to work at a place where there is a plethora of options before I can give this theory a try. But otherwise his advice did leave me a little bit stuck. He said, "Go put yourself in environments where you're about to be near people that share the kind of interests that you do." That idea is all well and good, but look at my interests: ballet, theater, museums, movies, reading and watching TV. They either involve being alone, not interacting or involve places not exactly teeming with single, straight men who have also arrived alone. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a shy, retiring type to pry a guy away from his mother at the ballet? It's not going to happen.

Also, sitting next to the guy sitting alone in an empty movie theater is creepy. Not that I've tried that. Yet.

 

Pink Pepper Thai and Other Thoughts on a Thursday

Pink Pepper Thai

Yesterday, I discovered a terrific Thai food place called Pink Pepper Thai in Hollywood. I'd like to say that I am a visionary who has unearthed this yet to be discovered hot spot in Los Angeles – and if that gets me a job writing for Social LA-type blogs, I will say that. Now, if I want to go with honesty, the place has been there since about 1989, and I just don't get out much… and my friend suggested it as a good place to meet. But other than those things, I totally discovered it. Now it's your job to go try it. Also, as a side note, Thai lunch from the day before makes for an excellent breakfast the next day.

 

Pink Taco Disco

I have figured out where men go to congregate in Los Angeles! They go to Pink Taco (and now that I think about it, it would make sense that dudes were attracted to this place). Hordes of men were there last night (and by night, I mean just as the work bell sounded at 5:30) with ties askew and drinks in hand; no doubt chatting about the deals they brokered, or the white collar clients they kept out of jail for securities fraud. Go team! Naturally, I spoke to none of them because I was busy being enormously entertained by the disco music they were playing while Pen and I were delicately sipping our margaritas and in no way descending on the bucket of free chips like wild animals. Ahem. Anyway… this discovery has brought us to a new and exciting possibility: roller disco (Courtesy of C). Again, not a new concept, as I last did this when I was about 12, BUT a totally new experience as an adult. I can't wait. I'm possibly more excited about roller disco than I have been about anything other than quitting my job. I wonder if I can find my old sparkly, blue skate laces?

 

Trapped in Apartment

Presidential street closures are happening outside my apartment today and possibly tomorrow. I understand the need for security. I support this entirely. But that does mean I am trapped in my apartment since leaving suggests the need for returning, which I may or may not be able to do depending on when and if he wanders through this area. How about this as a deal: I will vote for him, if he promises to stop coming to Los Angeles? I knew we could work something out. Seriously, I saw the President less when I was living in D.C. But the new, intriguing, possibly-sexually-willing me (nah) is going to make the best of this by declaring it Reading by the Pool Day unless the fog doesn't lift, and it really stays 65; and then it will be more like Sitting Inside the Apartment Obsessing Over Why I Don't Have a Direction in Life Yet Despite it Being Day 4 Day (which has a slightly less entertaining ring to it, and the acronym just doesn't sing).

Day 3: Reality Check

I may have expected too much from my new life—or at least I may have expected fabulousness to begin occurring with a rapidity that was unrealistic. I feel enormous pressure to find something amazing every day, for no other reason than I think I believed that to be so. I had this "look out world" moment, and so far, the world has yawned. Spielberg hasn't called. Clooney hasn't called. And I'll admit I'm still mired in paperwork.

This is what I've learned so far:

1. I am bad at being idle. I may get better with time, but I'm already looking around me wondering what I can fix, clean or organize.
   
2. I should remove the "employed" requirement from the dating wish list. Some of the most fabulous people I know don't have jobs at the moment.
   
3. I have very much enjoyed having lunch with friends and not having to worry about work waiting for me. Let's keep that one going. Though I'm unemployed, so you all will have to keep picking up the check. Sound good? I knew it would.
   
4. I'm going to be spending a lot of time in Venice over the next few months. When I'm not flustered about the problems with parking and needing to be back north at a specific time, it's a pretty groovy place with a ton of good, not always wildly expensive, restaurants. Though the person who tried to give me the pot license information was definitely suffering from some serious delusions about my being there.
   
5. Brownie bites are good for more than a week.
   
6. I'm writing more than I ever thought possible. I'm chalking that up to the fact that I don't have something else sucking every bit of energy I have out of brain through my ears. (Note: I didn't say that I was writing well, only that fingers are flying over keyboards)
   
7. I'm already having nightmares about money and ever finding a job. This is ridiculous. I've planned for this. I'm ready for this. And it just started. Clearly, my brain has not quite caught up with my new "go with the flow" attitude.
   
8. I've quite my job with relatively little waking fear, yet I'm too nervous to begin sign up for tennis lessons. Apparently, some new I can handle, and some new is just too much.
   
9. For the first time in years, I want to dance.
   

 

Penguin Joy

At some point, I would like to be as happy as this penguin. New goal!

<br/><a href="http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/penguin-loves-to-get-scratched/20o232tg?q=Penguin&amp;rel=msn&amp;from=en-us_msnhp&amp;form=msnrll&amp;gt1=42010&amp;src=v5:embed:&amp;fg=sharenoembed" target="_new" title="Penguin Loves To Get Scratched">Video: Penguin Loves To Get Scratched</a>

Review

Clearly, in order to become a wildly famous author with Pulitzer committee calls and film conversion offers waiting in the wings, I should tell you about the brilliance that was my first day in my new life. That brilliance should include a sly mention of my embarking on a torrid affair with a well-known leading man who only stays in his "Hollywood" marriage for the sake of his adorable children and to avoid a career-debilitating scandal. These pages should be full of the joy of re-discovering sexual desire and colorful descriptions of the whole new world of tabloid dodging that immediately wrapped me in its seducing tentacles. I should be at least hinting at purple prose waiting in the wings (that I will obviously try to sell as empowerment involving the shedding of moral shackles).

As I type, I'm thinking of sentences like "and so he took her, as only a man can take a woman, who yearns…"**

 

Instead…

 

I did laundry.

 

So close.

 

Well, I was seduced by a brownie. Does that count?

 

Maybe later today…

 

Kate

 

**(bonus points if you can name the origin of that sentence).

 

Day 1: But I am My Blackberry

It turns out that the first thing to throw me about my new found "adventure" was not the relatively late wake-up time (slept in until almost 6am, thank you very much!), and it wasn't the lack of frantic emails on a Sunday night about the work week. It was my missing Blackberry.

I have perfected the roll and check. Typically, the alarm would sound at around 4:30am (technically, 4:33am because I'm weird that way). After the customary round of "why God why" was completed, I would roll over and check my Blackberry to see what the day would hold. But that sounds too banal. It really was a thing of beauty. Clearly, my advanced dance background has something to do with the grace and extension involved in plucking the device from the nightstand.

Today, I woke at 5:55am without panic. Intellectually, I knew that I had nowhere to be. Instinctually, however, I executed my roll, extend, hold and… got nothing. There was a moment of genuine consternation.

I sat up.

My Blackberry was gone.

Oh, right. New Life. New world. New adventure.

But… um… who am I without my Blackberry?

Sure, I hated the incessant buzzing and flashing red lights. It interrupted everything and all the time—vacation time, sleep time, Californication set time (unacceptable!)… But I realize that it was also shorthand with people: that's right, I'm employed and "important" because only someone truly vital to their organization would be this constantly in demand and/or connected to a small, annoying electronic device. It became part of my identity. I was always checking it.

And now I'm… uh…not sure exactly…

But it's only Day 1 of the new life. One step at a time. There is bound to be some separation anxiety in this transition, right? Eventually, my hands will stop shaking, and I will find a new device to bolster my ego and hide behind—I mean, a new and better purpose…obviously.

Just out of curiosity, though, is there therapy for this sort of thing?

 

 

End of the Road

Remember this blog: http://katedating.blogspot.com/2011/04/1-year.html ? Well, the question posed there might not have been a rhetorical one.

I've found myself at the end of one particular career path. While I won't go into details, I began to wonder why I was doing the things I was doing. And while no one loves to complain more than I do (hello, I have a blog), even I couldn't listen to my complaints anymore. Deep down I knew that the only person who could make me happy was me—so I'm taking a leap.

I'm taking the next year off from my normal life.

I'm leaving my job of 16+ years. I'm leaving stability and consistency for something completely unknown.

I started pre-school at 2 ½ years old. I worked in the interim year between college and graduate school, and I've never been without a plan. But at this moment, I literally have no idea what I'm going to do. I want to travel. I want to write. I think "Executive Producer and Writer" sound like excellent titles when paired with my name. I want to take random classes on art history at the Getty in the middle of the day on a Tuesday—just because. I want to take internships to see another side of the world around me and not worry about the fact that they don't pay, or don't pay much. I want to learn to play tennis. I want to finish a book in less than two months (reading one or writing one). I want to go to an airport, stand in front of the departures board and pick a flight. I want to be invested in whatever I'm doing, and eventually, I would like to feel like I count again.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't had a moment or twenty of panic in the last two weeks. The paperwork alone has been stunning. I'm absolutely certain in the coming weeks I will have at least one all consuming desire to beg for my job back while rocking back and forth asking myself, "What the hell was I thinking?"

Ok, that's likely to happen more than once.

No one is suddenly going to knock on my door and offer me a better life (and let's face it, when someone knocks on my door, I don't answer it), so this is my attempt at taking it. If this experiment ends with me broke and begging for my old life back, I'm going to seem stupid. If this experiment is successful, I'm going to seem brave and insightful.

Today is my last day.

It's the end of the road. Or at least that road.

Stay tuned…

The Rule of the First

We all agree that cheating is bad. It shouldn't be done. It should be avoided at all costs. You never want to be the other woman (unless you were one of my friends in college who thought that a guy cheating with you meant you were special because he was risking something). And so on. I can see you all nodding and smiling from behind your computer screens right now.

We are all in agreement. We are all entirely virtuous. Almost entirely. Mostly. In theory.

But there is a secret—a little discussed, but much adhered to axiom, referred to as "The Rule of the First."

And now some of you are starting to shift uncomfortably.

You know what I'm talking about.

Under normal circumstances, you would never bed a married man—unless you had been with him first… before her… before the current wife. You had him first, and there is a little part of you that will always feel like you have a prior claim… a greater claim.

I think about my own situations—one in particular. While I have zero interest in rekindling a relationship with The Ex anymore, I recognize that he would be my greatest temptation. There is simply too much history for me to say with 100% honesty that there wouldn't be at least a moment where I would consider it. And that's crazy because I'm the most law abiding, inflexible, uptight person you are going to meet. But late at night at a friend's wedding with wine and memories flowing… danger.

I'd like to believe I wouldn't give into it. I'd like to believe he wouldn't give in to it. But that whisper of "mine" and "first" would always be there.

I've seen the normally morally sound fall to it.

"He realizes he never should have married her."

"We never should have ended it."

"They are only still together because of the kids."

"He's never been able to forget us."

"We know it's wrong, but we've never felt as connected to other people as we do one another."

"It's our second chance."

"I was there first."

There is no doubt that "The Rule of the First" leads down a path of tears and frustration—and the possible burning of his gifts on a front lawn (I may have meant that euphemistically). So why is it so powerful? Why do the generally sane fall victim to the delusion? Is it all ego? Is it winning (and not in the Charlie Sheen sense)? Will you end up feeling triumph in addition to the connection because he's choosing you (however temporarily)? Or is there really just a sense that you were there first and that the next girlfriend/wife is only an interloper who can't possibly understand the depth of what you shared?

Danger.

No Strings Attached

Kelly at HLN sent this video clip over from Dr. Drew (Dr. Drew airs weeknights on HLN at 9pm ET/PT), and I felt like I had to share because it's long been a topic of debate among my friends and I.

If you've been reading this blog for more than 20 seconds, you know where I'm going to fall in this debate: I'm not capable of having "no strings attached" sex. But honestly, I don't know why anyone would want it. All sex has risks: STDs, pregnancy, your one night stand turns out to be an axe murderer... If you think those things aren't life changing, I think you are crazy. I like to limit the number of people who might come within a vague proximity of me. I'm sure as heck going to limit the number of people wandering around inside of me.

Sure, "it's just sex" sounds like an easy approach to scratch a temporary itch. But try propositioning him this way: "It's just an act that can lead to the creation of another human being if the condom breaks—bring on the child support!" Still hot?

Why take those extraordinary risks if you don't care about someone? Literally, life and death are at issue—I'm going to need a little bit more than a wink and smile.

Now, let's pretend that the "no strings" guy isn't a stranger, but rather someone you know. If you are friendly enough with him (and attracted enough) to be able to suggest this, aren't there already feelings involved? Is this an ongoing thing? Are you honestly not going to be a little hurt if he finds someone he actually wants a relationship with and starts avoiding you at work (or at the apartment complex laundry room on Thursday nights)? I don't care how many rules are put in place—people are emotional creatures. Sex puts you in extremely vulnerable positions (so to speak). You have to trust the person you are with to some degree. Given that, I would argue that if you are even contemplating this, there is already an emotional response in play. And I know that the thinking is that you are both using each other, so it won't matter if someone wants to end it. But does anyone really cheer about being a user or being used? Is that the thing that makes you wistful on warm summer nights?

Not shockingly, I agree with Dr. Drew: "It sounds good on paper, [but] something I like to point out to my viewers -- communism looks good on paper too, it just doesn't work so good in real life when you're dealing with humans."

Kate

Blind Date

I have agreed… wait for it… to be set up on a blind date… sort of.

I know. My life is all topsy-turvy and unexpected these days. Black is white. Cats are dogs. Structure and atrophy are swapping places regularly in my mind.

As all things do that are good and pure, this idea started on a bet between a friend and I. She claims that under the right circumstances, I would succumb to a particular gentleman's charms and agree to a date (or in the case that he ends up being the reluctant one—I would then be madly intrigued and pursue him). Being open-minded, I countered that this notion was nonsense because the right conditions would never be present (and both of us are way too passive to pursue anything, let alone each other).

She believes I win by losing. I believe I win by winning because I'd be perfectly happy just being buddies with this guy—also losing seems unlikely.

She has three months to make this magic happen.

Stay tuned.

Kate

P.S. Have any of you agreed to be set up by a friend? Has it ever been anything but a complete disaster (she says with her mind still completely open and accepting of the possibilities)?

1 Year

Say that some force of nature, or your own insanity, allows you to have one year off from your normal life. In this scenario, there are no kids (probably), an easy mortgage/rent scenario and some money (not a fortune) in the bank. These are your parameters. BUT you cannot continue working at your present job (and you can't return). In other words, you are completely free for one year to try anything you want to try. What do you do?

I imagine that there are some of you reading this blog that love your jobs/careers so much that you would do them anyway—or find a way to pursue those same things, but in a different way. For some, the idea could be a bit paralyzing because there are so many things you want to do, and you aren't sure where to start. For others, the idea of not having more money coming in, even though you would be completely stable without it for that year, would mean you'd automatically seek out other paid work.

What is the thing that you would gravitate towards in this situation? I'm partial to Bewitched marathons on the couch, myself.

Could you spend your days going to museums and trying a class?

Would you stay at the beach for a year?

Would you head to Africa for a year to work with an NGO?

Would you try many different things and go from internship to internship?

Would you head to Greece and write that long-awaited novel?

What would you do?

 

More on Me

Here is another one of these fun-filled questionnaires for you to ponder, copy, paste, circulate, fondle… whatever works for you.

• Age or Ages You Would Like To Do Over? 24 or 29. These were both big decision-making years for me. I'd be curious to see what would happen if I had taken a different path—provided, of course, I could change everything back if the path led to something worse.
  
• Worst Ages? For what? Clothing? 14 though 17 so far. Actually, that would probably be true regardless of issue. Those ages are just really tough for girls (and perhaps boys, but I wasn't one, so I can't speak to that). But really, nothing says drama like a 15 year old girl.
  
• Respect or Money? Tough one. I assume this means in a job and not in a relationship because the money issue might lead me to think that illegal activities are going on. Otherwise, I'd like to say respect, but I have bills that need paying. Though it is shocking that "But my parents respect me" doesn't cover rent. I will say this, though: without respect, the money has to be a lot higher.
  
• Ever Quit a Job? What time is it? Yes, I have, but not recently.
  
• Ever Been Fired? From a job, no. From a relationship, yes.
  
• Best quality? I'm ridiculously loyal even when that loyalty hasn't been earned, or is no longer warranted.
  
• Worst quality? I'm really judgmental. Of course, I think being judgmental is a great quality because no one wonders where they stand with me. Ever.
  
• Word or Words Used to Describe You? Short. Really short. Breathing.
  
• Word or Words Never Used to Describe You? Urban. Hip. Cool. Trend-setting. Fun-loving.
  
• Do you blog? LOL um…yes, but not nearly as often as Danielle would like.
  
• Geekiest Thing Ever Done? Um… has to be a tie between flying up to Wondercon for The X-Files panel, and lining up for the I Want to Believe Premiere. I am still costume free; however, as I've never dressed up as Scully. Or Mulder, for that matter.
  
• Favorite Sexual Position? Anything that allows me to continue to watch TV.
  
• Piercings? One hole in each ear that was re-opened after about 5 years of pondering the decision.
  
• Tattoos? Nope. There isn't an image that I'd want on me forever. Plus, I hate needles—why do you think it took me 5 years to get my ears re-pierced?
  
• Career You Wanted Growing Up? I said doctor, but given my deep love for Nancy Drew, Charlie's Angels, Remington Steele and Scarecrow and Mrs. King, I think I wanted to be a detective (or spy… spy would have been good).
  
• Buy or Read Tabloids? Do entertainment blogs count? Otherwise, no. This one is a bit of a battle for me. On the one side—if you do the crime, you do the time. If you don't want to get caught having an affair with your three co-stars, then don't have an affair with them. On the other hand, I reject the idea that anyone's personal issues be made into sport. Now, the celebrities who literally call for that kind of attention, they make me uncomfortable. You can't invite that attention in and then get to be dismayed when they feel like they have a right to you. To paraphrase the brilliant War Games: "The only way to win is to not play the game."
  
• Ever Hooked Up With a Celebrity? Given that I still don't have a clear definition of the phrase "hook up" in its current incarnation, I'd have to say no. Unless it means "have a conversation with them about how you wish they would write more" and then, yes.
  
• Favorite saying? Currently, it is one coined by Claire: "Everybody dies, Meggie! Everybody dies!" It's to ward off bad decision-making. I'll let you work out the context.
  
• Starbucks or Coffee Bean? Ah, now we are getting into the deep philosophical questions. Neither. I don't drink coffee. That's right. I'm the one.
  
  
• Guilty Pleasure TV? Has to be a tie between anything on HGTV (House Hunters, Income Properties, Property Virgins, etc) and Ghost Hunters. I don't feel even remotely guilty about my other television options. Come to think of it, I don't feel all that guilty about the ones listed, either.
  

Worry

Women worry about everything. And if we have a moment when we aren't worrying about something specific, we are unsettled and worried about our lack of worry.

Somebody has to do it.

My Ex and I had an ongoing debate about worry. He never saw the point in being worried because he thought it didn't solve anything.

Maddening!

Of course worrying solves something! If I didn't worry about it, the universe (which Pen now refers to as the Taco Supreme) will see its opportunity to screw with me. Worry allows me to hope that in some small way, the Taco Supreme will be thwarted.

Unfortunately, this "must worry about everything" aspect of my personality can sometimes be paralyzing. You should see my "Pros" and "Cons" lists—they go on for miles. While I make decisions every day at work, personal decisions seem to come to me more slowly with every passing year.

How do you know when it's time to make the big changes? In relationships, when it was up to me, my rule was, "If I'm more miserable with someone than I am alone, I'm out." (As an aside, when my Ex asked, "But how do you know" to that theory; I did begin to get just the tiniest bit concerned.) But what if the list of "Pros" and "Cons" are weighted differently?

Is it possible for a constant worrier to leap—and not end up with a broken ass for her troubles?

NSFW: Thoughts for March 28

As I'm sure the case was for most of you, the weekend was far too short. I'm now faced with a Monday morning with the following thoughts racing through my brain:

1. Why God Why? This is a given. It's 7:00am on a Monday, and I am already in an office surrounded by work and the assorted debris of a life not quite reaching its potential.


2. How long does it take for toenail polish to wear off on its own? It's pretty self-explanatory. If I were a precise girl, my toenails would always be pristinely polished and buffed to a light sheen (as in glow, not Charlie). But I'm not a precise girl, so I am currently conducting a science experiment in which I refuse to remove the flaking polish and redo them. Ok, perhaps it isn't so much of an experiment, as it is a testament to how lazy I am. Also, who is looking at my feet? Nobody. Ergo, no need to contort myself in order to make "breakfast in bed" re-appear on my feet. Side question—who names nail polish? Can I do this job? I think I could do this job.


3. My birthday balloon is mocking me. I have a Mylar balloon in my office that was given to me to extol the virtues of my slow decline. There were two smaller, standard balloons with it. Those, much like hope for my love life, died a while ago, but the gigantic one is still proudly erect and swaying over my head. My reaction should be something akin to a warm glow at the lovely gesture meant to celebrate my life. Instead, I think I'm going to have to stab it.


4. Twatoo-ing. What the hell are you people doing to yourselves? My horror at the concept was only matched by the hilarity that ensued when someone over the weekend tried to explain this to me. I'm a literal person, so when someone said, "inside the vajayjay," I thought they meant inside the body cavity itself. I couldn't stop picturing some dude with a mining helmet and headlight going in with a tattoo needle. And how big is that cavern anyway? And who sees that? Is it a special message to your gynecologist? Thank goodness for T, who discreetly mouthed "labia" at me. Huh. Naturally, Sadie has a friend who has done it, and her tattoo reads "hope" in Chinese characters. Awww! That's sweet, but I think we can all agree that those Chinese characters probably actually say, "Free delivery with an order of more than $10." Also, when someone refers to a "tramp stamp" in the future, I will not be thinking about a lower back tattoo. Please tell me this is not another wave of the future. Because if I have to experience deforestation, anal bleaching, vajazzling and get "Promise Land" tattooed inside the zone (Sadie's twatoo of choice) in order to get a man interested in having sex with me, I'm out. I'm just done. I've already got one foot inside a convent, and I really think I'd rather take the veil than deal with this.


5. I wonder what kind of spam mail I'll get now that I've had to look up how to spell "twatoo."
   

P.S. For those wondering, mine would probably read:

• Keep Out


• By Invitation Only


• Coat and Tie Required

Everything Old Is Me Again

I was enjoying an inner rant this morning, and I remembered this older blog. As many of you are new readers, and possibly haven't wandered back this far, please enjoy this reposting of "Multitasking." And yes, I am playing that Berlin song right now.

Happy weekend!

http://katedating.blogspot.com/2006/08/multitasking.html

Scott

Any idea if Scott on HGTV's Income Properties is single, straight and living in the lower 48? He's cute, capable and, apparently, honorable (I know this because he looked directly into the camera and said, "I'm not comfortable with that" when someone suggested he do something that isn't entirely legal).

Also, putting new shelving into my closet would be a terrific "I'm so glad to be dating you" gift. I'm just saying.

Kate

Dictionary

The world is in desperate need of a Single to Dating Dictionary—and by "world" I mean "me." Clearly, I can't be the one to write it; largely because I don't understand modern dating language (also, most of the euphemisms used on Californication). But let's start simply. If you can help me with these three very basic ideas, I'll be one step closer to success (and let's not dwell on what "success" would actually mean).

1. Hook Up.
   What does this currently mean? When I was in college, "hook up" for my friends meant kissing and perhaps a little bit more (aka "No, we just hooked up—it was nothing serious"). There was no sex involved (Clinton definition or otherwise). Alas, now it appears to mean something far more naked. At the rate we're going, in another three years "hooked up" will mean "married with three children."
   
2. Serious.
   See above for an example. What does this mean in a dating setting? For me, any activity that could hasten my death, create life or increase my taxes equals serious. But I've actually heard someone say, "We're just living together; it's nothing serious." Wha? In that case, which dating/relationship stage does constitute serious? I mean, if I'm discussing Russian literature with a guy, and he says, "I'm married, but it's not serious" should I be fazed?
   
3. Later.
   I continue to struggle with this one. Maybe my problem with the word "later" is more of a miscommunication between the sexes. When I hear the word "later" I think that means "later that day." Men appear to mean "any time after this point, but more than likely next week…possibly." Is there a set definition for "later" in the dating world? If not, let's make up one now—and force everyone on the planet to comply in order to get me one step closer to world domination (ahem).
   
   

Next week, we'll conquer the word "date". This one is very tricky and apparently should not be used to describe a meeting for a set time period between two people who find each other attractive and have some romantic intent toward one another. Because calling that a "date" is crazy talk.

If we were to actually create this Single to Dating Dictionary, what definitions would you need?

Kate

For LA Readers: Napa/Sonoma All-Star Wines

I highly recommend hitting this event. It's a lot of fun and involves some great wineries. Hit up the link at the bottom to get more details and to buy tickets (at a big discount)!



Sunday, April 17th 2011, 1-4pm
Under the Big Top at Wally’s
Only $39.99 per person!
$50 at the door

A tasting of nearly 200 Napa/Sonoma All-Star Wines!

Baseball season will just be under way, but Wally’s will be prepared to play host to over 70 proven All-Star wineries, each of which will be fielding a pair of their finest offerings. The Wally’s Big Top will be teeming with nearly 200 Napa/Sonoma wines being poured by, in many instances, the winemaker or winery principal. In addition, All-Stars II event special pricing will be extended exclusively to those in attendance. Cheeses and bread from the Wally’s Cheese Box are included in the price of admission, highlighted by Cowgirl Creamery’s Peg Smith’s personally offering samples of her award-winning products. The popular duo of “Let’s Be Frank” and “Eduardo's Border Grill” will be on hand, so the very best hot dogs, burritos and tacos will also be available for purchase. Don’t delay, tell your friends and sign up today!


http://www.wallywine.com/p-73502-2011-all-stars-napasonoma-wine-tasting-at-wallys-sunday-april-17.aspx

10 For Thursday

Over the last few days, Twitter has been buzzing with #100factsaboutme entries (the assumed ending being: "that you don't already know"). Though I'm clearly a fascinating creature, I'm not sure any of us is really ready for you to have 100 new pieces of information about moi. I do, however, think that divulging 10 new, and potentially embarrassing, factoids is something we can all survive.

Here are your 10 for Thursday.

1. I can't stop singing "Loser Like Me" from Glee.
   
   There is just something so relentlessly upbeat about it. Even my hard-won cynicism is powerless in the face of that much hope. I'm seeking therapy.
   
2. I've already cried at the trailer for Fox's Mobbed.
   Before you judge—have you seen it? The guy loves his intended so much, he takes over The Grove, gets hundreds of people together, and they all perform an intricate dance leading to the marriage proposal. I can't get a guy to hold the elevator for me when I'm carrying a month's worth of groceries.
   
3. I'm the person the article warns you about (http://www.topdatingsites.com/blog/2011/10-signs-you-are-dating-a-workaholic).
   It's true. I confess. The first thing I do in the morning, regardless of how early the hour, is check my blackberry's email. I claim that it is because I want to know what the work day has in store for me. This is partially true. Doesn't really explain why I head to Twitter immediately following the email check, but let's pretend it's related.
   
4. I love The Broad Stage.
   Not only does The Broad Stage have amazing artists coming in every month, but the facility is gorgeous. Things people don't mention about this place—the bathroom is sumptuous, the parking is at the facility (and free) and the receptions out in the courtyard are completely worth the extra on the ticket price. I'd like to take responsibility for the facility as DM and I attended one of the first fundraisers for the construction, but something tells me that it cost more than $100. You get bonus points if you can tell me exactly how David Duchovny, Jeff Goldblum and Blair Underwood are related to the place.
   
5. I'm envious of the person with a concert hall attached to her house.
   No, seriously, I know someone who has a concert hall attached to her home. You'd never know it from the street, but it's there. They don't really advertise. The events are mostly word of mouth, but once you are on the list, it's magic. Right now there is a play reading series, featuring known actors, happening in someone's backyard addition. This is the secret Hollywood I can get behind.
   
6. The surest sign I will purchase/use something is if you hear me say incredulously, "Why would I need that?"
   See iPad, iPhone, iPod, Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. What can I say; I play almost as hard to get with technology as I do with men.
   
7. I'm obsessed with 80s mini-series watching.
   Not that long ago, I allowed some friends into my apartment (shocking!) to watch The Thorn Birds. We watched all eight hours in one sitting—that's a lot of cheese, popcorn, cupcakes and wine. And I'm not likely to stop any time soon—after all, East of Eden has arrived.
   
8. I'm never spontaneous—until I am.
   I moved to Los Angeles from New York without knowing anyone because of a vacation I took with a friend of mine. I flew to San Francisco for Wondercon one year without making any plans (including plane reservations) to be there.
   
9. I can't figure out why women want to look like porn stars.
   Nothing against porn stars—I'm sure they are all fabulous, beautiful people. But there is a particular look, and it tended to be one that non-porn industry professionals tried to avoid. The longer I'm in LA, the more it seems as though that particular industry has informed everything from behavior to body hair. Have the women of Los Angeles decided that they need to duplicate the fantasy in order to connect with the 5.6 straight, single and employed men who shower currently living in this city?
   
10. The biggest compliment I can give someone is to tell them that they interest me.
    Despite my self-professed hermit-tude, I come into contact with a lot of people. However, I'm much more likely to be perplexed or vexed than interested. It's just part of my charm.
    

Those are my 10 for Thursday. Now you play.

Kate

Quick Question

If a man said to you, "You are all round and soft in a way few women in Los Angeles are" would you feel affronted or flattered? Peevish or preening? Dropped into a never-ending pit of despair followed by six consecutive months of Bar Method, or continued gentle glides around the neighborhood?

I honestly don't know.

Go.

The Serenade

Dear Serenading Neighbor,

I understand that there are times when the music just takes you, and your soul demands that you sing "Love Will Keep Us Together" at the top of your lungs. Who doesn't love the Captain and his Tennille? There is many a drive to work that has included my stunning renditions of "Muskrat Love."

Was that a snicker? Sir, you are in no position to laugh.

Nina Simone was an amazing singer. I get that you would want to pay homage… for three or four hours…last night… when I was trying to sleep. And again at 3:25am. However, the neighbors screaming at you from below your window did not seem to feel the same degree of music appreciation that I was experiencing. Perhaps you had on headphones and couldn't hear the villagers gathering with their pitchforks? That might also explain the somewhat atonal quality of the vocal stylings.

I'd like to believe that you are preparing a serenade inspired by Lloyd Dobler himself. If that's the case, let me know. I will hold your boom box (not a euphemism).

If not, perhaps you should keep in mind that there is absolutely no sound-proofing in your apartment. And that "feeling good" becomes somewhat less thrilling the later the hour and the greater the number of times you decide to sing it.

I'm not saying that you should stop—sing on, good man; sing on. But perhaps the zeal could come on a little earlier in the evening?

Oh, and if you actually turn out to be John Cusack reminiscing, I am absolutely willing to forgive you (and I have an entire book of duets that could be perfect for us).

Kate

 

Invisibility Cloak

Do you ever have one of those days where you just want to burst into tears for no discernable reason? Yeah, me neither.

(picture me kicking the dirt with my toe, head hanging down)

Ok, that might have happened to me once… on Thursday… when my invisibility cloak came out of retirement.

It was a typical day at work. I'd gone through the standard "why-God-why" mantra when forcing myself out of bed for work. I'd arrived at work thinking something along the lines of, "There has to be more than this." I braced for impact when a particularly abrasive colleague asked for something ASAP—which naturally meant drop everything you are doing to help me because I'm stomping my foot and I said so, rather than a reflection of any actual urgency. I dealt with it with my usual aplomb: completing the request while mentally re-writing my resignation letter to exchange "regretfully" to "gleefully."

It was an ordinary day.

At lunch, I escaped to a little café near work. It was early for normal humans to be eating lunch, so there was only one other customer waiting (she had already ordered). I walked up to the counter. The woman behind the counter was on the phone taking an order, so I waited. She finished the order call and turned away from me to submit the order. I remained at the counter patiently and contemplated my life. She turned back around and picked up her cell phone. She texted. She turned to talk to the other person in the room bagging up a delivery order. She turned back around towards me. She went back to texting. Just as I was about to say something to her, a man walked into the café. She immediately looked up and asked him if she could take his order.

I looked around. Did anyone else notice that I was being totally ignored? No.

No one noticed me at all.

Normally, I pride myself for being undetectable. I like being the "man behind the curtain," so to speak. But to my dismay, I started to feel my nose get red and my eyes well up. And I just turned around and walked out. I never said a word and no one ever acknowledged that I was there.

They never saw me. I didn't count.

It was an ordinary day.

I'm not loud. I'm not brash. I don't take what I want. I'm the consequence girl who works hard and thinks that slow and steady will be enough. I'm polite—even to people I can't stand. And I don't count.

It was an ordinary day.

Kate

 

Lovely LA Times Surprise

Look what the lovely Los Angeles Times provided the city with this morning.

Click on the image to make it bigger.

White Collar

It has been a while since I've brought you a little touch of Hollywood. Tonight, I attended the "White Collar" panel as part of Paley Fest. I'm a casual viewer, but Pen is slowly turning me into a fan-- and it has made the DVR.

After tonight, I think it's going to make the DVR's consistent line-up! The cast and crew were terrific, and I loved having David E. Kelley moderate. It turned out to be a very entertaining way to welcome me back to LA after another trip to New York (more on that later).

And now... a couple of photos of the panel (alas, I couldn't get a good shot of the entire group, but my side was awfully pretty...)

Awkward

Two Stories for Friday

A Real Beauty

I was at the beauty supply store trying not to commit suicide over the extraordinary cost of the shampoo and conditioner I "should" be using when I was approached by one of the women who work there.

Woman: Do you have a sister?

Kate: No.

Woman: But you are French, yes?

Kate: No.

Woman: Really? You don't have a sister in France?

At this point, I was thinking that maybe lying would actually be better because she seemed to really want me to be French and have a sister.

Kate: No, sorry.

Woman: You look like a girl who used to come in here. Such a beautiful face.

Kate: Aw, thank you! (picture beaming, thoroughly ego-boosted smile)

Woman: She really was very pretty. She was so lovely.

Kate: (awkward pause, faltering smile, followed by the quickest purchase of hair products in the history of female-hair-product-purchasing)

You have to love the awkward that comes with accepting a compliment that was not meant for you. Still, it is heartening to know that somewhere out there, I have a much prettier, French doppelganger.

What more can you ask for?

 

It's Not that Old

It has been suggested to me that I look younger than my actual age. For the most part, I take this as a compliment because I think it is often intended that way. And since I've never seen jowls on a 10 year old, it's not like the gap between the way I look and my age is all that profound—but then this is Hollywood.

There is a very nice, cute man who works at an establishment that friends and I frequent. We were standing around having a conversation about jobs vs careers vs what we'd really like to be doing with our lives (p.s. I came up with absolutely nothing for that one). We all agreed that it was time to make some different choices. Then he asked me how old I was. I told him.

His response?

"Wow! Congratulations!"

(Awkward laughing ensued)

Ok, I'm not that old. I mean, it's not like I told him I was Nefertiti, or that as queen of a pharaoh I was about to give world domination a real go. Other than being short, I haven't really achieved anything. Also, I'm a little concerned that if I actually looked my (apparently ancient) age, I would have failed in some way. I will stage many battles in my lifetime, but I'm fairly certain the only way to win the aging one is to be excited about not yet being dead. So, that's how I've decided to take his exclamation—"Congratulations! You aren't dead yet! We have not yet set you out on the ice floe!"

Sweet.

 

Kate, awkward in LA

 

P.S. Colin Firth better win.

Precise Girls II

Following my ladies of leisure lunch on Friday, Pen and I hit Abbot Kinney for a little wistful window shopping. Wistful not because we couldn't afford some of the offerings, but because we realized that everything required far more style than either of us had. Naturally, this led back to the "Precise Girls" post and the following question, "Is it too late for us to become Precise Girls?"

As I mentioned before, I've chased this dream through most of my youth before giving it up along with other frivolous things like lacey ankle socks and hope. So, I was reluctant to revisit an idea so riddled with teenage angst. But also intrigued. Could I walk away from the seductive tendrils of precision already trying to wrap themselves around my heart? I could practically hear the whisper, "This time, you could be good enough."

When Pen and I parted, the idea had taken hold. We were very nearly excited about something. We just haven't quite figured out the how to go about this yet. I'm guessing it's going to start with some cleaning.

Precise Girls Don't…

• Go two years without painting over water stains from a leak on their ceiling
  
• Have old paint cans in a box because they couldn't find the hazardous waste recycling center
  
• Count chocolate as a legitimate food group
  
• Count pizza delivery as cooking
  
• Have to wonder what happened to their damn sunglasses! (ahem)
  
• Have pants two inches too long because they are too lazy to get them tailored
  
• Step over things strewn across the floor instead of putting things away
  
• Seriously consider sending pictures of their toenails into Ripley's
  
• Have piles of paper everywhere all the time
  
• Leave their dry cleaning at the cleaners for so long that it goes up for auction
  
• Keep broken electronics forever
  
• Don't make panicked calls to eyebrow artists because everything is properly maintained at all times
  
• Hyperventilate during bathing suit season because appropriate exercise takes place all year
  
• Don't rock back and forth when confronted with specialized dress codes on invitations—they always have just the perfect thing
  
• Live in a one bedroom apartment, unless it is their second home in a much traveled to city
  
• Wonder if they'll ever date again—they married their college sweethearts after an appropriate waiting period post-graduate education
  
• Worry about having children—they gestated a human when they designated it to be time
  

  
  

Yeah. This could be a challenge.

Kate

P.S. The name of my second book is now "Precise Girls Don't..."

A Card for You

http://www.someecards.com/

Ladies of Leisure

One of the best things about Los Angeles is the ability to find excellent restaurants with outside seating to take advantage of 74 degree February days. Now, I know that many of my readers located in the Midwest and East Coast have just moved on to a new page, but I did not mean this as a taunt. Well, I did, but not exclusively as a taunt.

I took Friday off of work, and spent two hours at lunch with Chloe and Pen at Gjelina (http://gjelina.com/) in Venice—good friends, good food, amazing weather and just enough wine to make us effusive with our compliments to our brilliance at arranging such an event.

On the off-chance that you are dying of curiosity, we went with:

• Wood Roasted Parsnips with Pistachio Gremolata
  
• Roasted Beet, Burrata, Arugula, Toasted Walnut & Walnut Oil
  
• Salt & Pepper Kennebec Frites with Aioli & Romesco
  
• Caramelized Fennel, Confit Tomato, Green Onion & Spicy Fennel Salami Pizza
  
• Flourless Chocolate Cake with Crème Fraîche & Hazelnut
  
• Butterscotch Pot de Crème with Salted Caramel & Crème Fraîche
  
• Warm Pumpkin & Bitter Chocolate Bread Pudding
  
• Roccolo Grassi, Garganega (Soave, Italy '07)
  

 

 

And yes, that is three desserts. Let's not judge—we were sharing so they barely counted as one. Also, yum, so get over it.

 

Naturally, when the three of us get together, the lore of dating in Los Angeles arises as a topic of conversation. Seriously, a person who dates in LA is a mythical creature to us—like Loch Ness only less believable and less wet (most of the time). Also, when someone does have a dating story, it generally involves indirect knowledge, aka "I know a guy, who has a friend, who has a cousin who dated once."

Not this time! Chloe knows someone personally who is actively dating in Los Angeles. He is meeting a lot of fascinating, accomplished women who are making him feel alive for the first time in years. Or at least that's what he told his wife.

Awesome. The only thing better would have been if he didn't understand why she wasn't happy for him, or blamed her for his liaisons. Oh, wait.

Relationships. Can't wait.

Kate

Precise Girls

I had an ongoing fantasy as a kid that I would someday become one of the "Precise Girls". You've seen them: clothes are perfectly tailored and starched, jewelry is appropriate (and on), hair has never known a flyaway.

I tried. I really tried. I owned Lisa Birnbach's "The Official Preppy Handbook". I even read it. Hell, I practically committed it to memory. I should have been in!

Leader of the "Precise Girls" was Aimee. Sure, she was smart, but more than that she was precise. Two turtlenecks, an oxford under a pink or green sweater topped off with a blue blazer looked effortless and chic. Or as chic as any 15 year old really looks.

I always looked lumpy. Breasts came early for me. Yippee. I know that there were some girls who pined to move on from training bras, but I just spent a lot of time trying to find a way to make my breasts and short-waisted self look less like a pink and green troll. Good thing I was also branded with an izod.

Even Aimee's hair was precise. When it was long, it fell in waves down her back. When it was bobbed, it had a razor's edge. My hair? Um… not even spritz could get my hair to behave. It's as though each individual strand wanted to leave my head in a different direction. Frankly, it still does.

I haven't seen Aimee in 20+ years, but I bet even her home is precisely perfect. And mine? Let's just say it is as lumpy and unruly as its owner.

Well, at least I have consistency going for me.

Kate

Sad Story Guy

As an award-winning blogger (shhhh—let's live with the delusion a bit longer), I feel like I should be imparting daily words of wisdom. Somehow "relationships suck" is not going to cut it anymore. Unfortunately, I have no profound wisdom. I don't even have vaguely logical wisdom. I do, however, continue to be mystified that anyone ever has a successful relationship. And I have a lot of questions.

Here is my question for today:

Why do women hook up with men after
listening to them talk about how much they love someone else?

A recent episode of Californication sparked a vague memory of college days. A friend of mine had spent the evening listening to this guy talk about how much he missed his ex-girlfriend. Seriously, every time I checked in with them, I heard snippets of what he would do to get the ex back. The last time I checked in with them, they were hooking up (1990s version of the term).

Huh? How do you go from "She's the only one I'll ever want" to "Oh, yeah, right there"?

It wasn't until much later that we discovered that the sad story was actually this guy's modus operandi. It worked for him so often that it was actually a part of his hook-up repertoire.

I'm not saying that every guy with a sad story is a manipulative bastard. But let's assume that they are. Why do women go for this? How is "I'll always love someone else" a turn on?

When I cornered my friend the next day, her response was basically, "he's cute, and he seemed so sad that I wanted to make him feel better."

Okay. Is that what is for most women? Is the rescuer in you coming out? Are you just far more generous than I would ever be? Or is there a part of you that loves the challenge so much that you'll go after someone in order to boost your own ego—thinking that if you get him (at least temporarily), you somehow win? I can appreciate all this theories, and lord only knows that I could use the ego boost, but if some guy tried this move on me, the outcome would probably be more like:

Sad guy: "and then she left me, and I
will always be in love with her"

Kate: Awww! That's so sweet. (pats sad
guy's hand) Ok, well, take care. (gets up, leaves).

Have you ever fallen for the sad story guy? Let me hear it!

Kate

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

I received an email letting me know that this blog has been named among the 50 Best Relationship Blogs (I'm #7 in the main list) by Guide to Online Schools.

Clearly, I do not deserve this... particularly since I haven't written consistently in ages. However, they have called me "witty" and I think we all know that I can be easily swayed by flattery. So, please be prepared to refer to me as "that awesome blogger", "winning blogger", "noted blogger" and "lucky #7" before bowing to me when we meet on the street (which we will obviously never do because I don't like leaving the house).

To check out their entire list, including the kind words they say about moi, head on over here: http://www.guidetoonlineschools.com/library/best-relationship-blogs


Now... who has a dating story to share?

Kate

New Invention

I have a new invention. It's called "Shower Pilates", and I do believe this one will revolutionize the industry.

I love long showers, but feel fleeting guilt about wasting water.

I hate exercising, but not being able to fit into my clothes isn't the turn on you might think it would be. I also loathe not only having to find the time to exercise, but having to find the time to shower post feeble attempt at health.

"Shower Pilates" totally solves these problems. I can stay in the shower for 30 minutes without guilt, and I don't have to waste additional time exercising. When I'm done, I will already be clean. Genius! Genius, I say!

Sure, there is some threat of slipping, falling and dying while trying this, but that's a risk for me just walking across my living room.

Cant wait to hear the Patent Office's thoughts on this one.

My Ass is Lifting

My ass is lifting.

Clearly believing that you hang on my every thought, word and action, I felt the need to bring this to you immediately. My ass is lifting. I do believe it is a result of these technologically advanced shoes from Skechers. I mean, I'd like to believe that I'm aging backwards for the next 20 years, but more a more likely cause of this miraculous occurrence is the wearing of the shoes designed to do just this.

Somewhat less miraculous, is the fact that while my backside is lifting, my front side is falling. I'm not sure if it is some sort of cosmic balance, but the stomach and breasts are heading further south—kind of like really big birds that just got the message about migrating to Florida for the winter. This I will blame on the cruelties of life, the lack of aging backwards technology and that I never got my wish of being Samantha on "Bewitched". I could blame the fact that I've been eating like I'm still two weeks pre-Christmas (complete with "what the hell—it's a holiday" attitude), but that really seems more like taking responsibility for my actions. I've already done that once this week after an unfortunate incident at work (perhaps having something to do with my review/compensation), so I've clearly met my quota for grown-up behavior.

Hank Moody would be proud. And then repulsed.

I wonder if Skechers makes girdles.

Kate