Definition Please

I don't know a single woman who dates in Los Angeles. Not one. It's not that I don't have single female friends. I do. But it is almost as though we've collectively put a moratorium on dating. No dating, no drama. It's the club motto. I'm having t-shirts made. ;)

But it's January. It's a new year. Bring on the drama. We WILL DATE!

There's just one thing.

What exactly constitutes a date in today's less than romantic climate?

I know a guy who had sex with a girl, but didn't consider it a date. What the hell?

Luckily for me, my first forays back into the dating world are somewhat less fraught. For instance, I've tried to get my friends to count my dinner and conversation with the guy sitting next to me on the plane as a date. So far, none of them are buying that one. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

How about this:
If a guy I've been friends with for years, but don't see often, asks me to lunch?

Normally, I'd say no, but I've been wrong before with male friends. Romance hasn't crossed my mind, but suddenly events take a turn. And I hate having to mace a friend-- tends to make things so awkward later.

Also, in the friend category:
What if a guy I've known a little bit through work says "Maybe we could get together for coffee when I'm in town?"

Date? Sounds ridiculous, but I got this one wrong, too, once. A guy asked me for coffee. My response was "you mean, like a date?" His response was "why do we have to define it". Which I've learned means "I'd like to keep my options open depending on whether or not you are as entertaining as I remember, and by entertaining I mean wearing an easy access bra".

Does this all fall to me? If I have single guy friends, are they always open to reinterpretation?

In other words, can coffee just be coffee, unless you shave your legs? ;)

I need definitions. I need rules. Guidelines. How to Manuals. Otherwise, every time a guy speaks to me, I'm going to print it here, and ask for a vote.

Kate

Cranky Rant

So, my original plan involved me hitting the new year with a bang (no, not that kind of bang, heads out of the gutter ). I get very into the whole resolutions thing, and I really do try to hit the ground running in hyper-productive mode.

Alas, I have been momentarily felled by a cold. The only thing hitting the ground running is my nose, and the only thing I'm really embracing is my blankie.

Given these things, I am willing to concede that I might be a bit cranky.

BUT

Buying my car was easier than buying decongestant today.

Seriously.

I know that the new rules mean I have to take a little card to the pharmacy. I know that they do this to regulate how much magical Sudafed they sell. I get it. Really. I’m sympathetic… most of the time. Today, I wanted my freakin Sudafed.

What I didn’t want—to stand behind the other 15 people in front of me. I’m sure they were lovely people, but they didn’t look pathetic like I did. They weren’t trying to fend off a coughing fit, and they all looked like they could breathe. There needs to be a line for currently pathetic, or serious whine-baby.

Here was the big surprise for me, though. You can make long-term investments, buy cars and homes with less paperwork than it took to get one box of Sudafed. I’m not kidding. They needed ID. They needed to swipe the ID tag. They needed to enter the codes. They needed me to not only sign for the box of Sudafed, but also write down my address and sign the book.

SERIOUSLY?

Does Homeland Security know about these procedures? If not, perhaps they should just adopt these policies and hire border pharmacists. Nothing is getting past these suckers.

You’ll be happy to know that I have prevailed, and will be slightly less cranky soon.

But, seriously???

Kate

Seriously? Hands Up for a New Rule

In keeping with my new and improved dating outlook (ie wont complain about it constantly, but rather stick to only solid, bitter recriminations intermittently), I decided to put all suggestions into play for my return flight to Los Angeles. Not only did I put on the lipstick battle armor, but the mascara and concealer. Quite clearly, I was a woman on a mission.

I even gave that positive affirmation thing a go—well, you know, mostly.

So, when fate intervened on my behalf, I was thinking this is it… I’m going in.

You see “cute boy” had a ticket for 18E. But he got mixed up and sat in 19E instead, which landed him right next to me. He could have moved when the other guy showed up, but instead the other guy just took his seat.

Fate doesn’t get clearer than this. There was practically a big neon arrow pointed to “cute boy” saying “if you don’t talk to this boy, you are officially hopeless and should just start interviewing at convents now”. Ok, it would have been a really big neon arrow to fit all that writing on it, but you get the idea.

Without even speaking to him (well, he was watching the movie and napping at first, it would have been rude to strike up a conversation right off the bat), I knew we had the potential for being very happy together.

He had the sacred set of pluses:

SSP#1: Despite him not being able to figure out the tricky plane seat numbering, the boy reads. He took out a book when he sat down. Not a “How to Shoot Your Own Girl’s Gone Wild Video” kind of book, but an honest to goodness award-winning novel. Seriously, my palms got a little sweaty when he took it out of his bag.

SSP#2: He has a job. He works for an investment bank, which means he’d understand my schedule. At least, I think he works for an investment bank. He pulled his laptop out from a bag stamped with a well-known IB’s logo. He did look young-ish, I hope it wasn’t his dad’s bag. Hmmmm Anyway, I’m going with employed.

SSP#3: Had the combo of cute and polite. He said all the appropriate please and thank you’s. Boys with manners… yum.

SSP#4: No ring. No ring tan line. Yes!

So, we shared a meal. Well, ok, he had his airplane food, and I had mine, but we were sitting right next to one another and did occasionally exchange words. This qualifies as one of my better dates, actually. In fact, it may fulfill my resolution for the year regarding dates with romantic intent. Mwhaa haa haaa

As we got closer to landing, I realized that I didn’t have much time to launch the plan. I had decided that “employed, reading, single, cute boy” was going to get one of my best moves (ok, I only have 2 moves, but work with me here).

I like to refer to this as the “clutch, and blush winningly”. Basically, I take advantage of any significant turbulence or rough landing to desperately grab my arm rest, but I miss and land somewhere on unsuspecting “employed, reading, single, cute boy”. Then, realizing my mistake, I quickly release him and blush, etc.

This has the potential for starting conversation for two reasons:

1. I am a brilliant actress, and have missed my calling.
2. I genuinely loathe flying, and tend to actually grab my armrest whenever there is turbulence anyway.

At first, I thought it wasn’t going to work—we had an unnaturally easy descent into Los Angeles. Every other time, we’re bouncing along like the wind is playing catch with the plane, but nooooooooooooooo today, smooth sailing. And you can’t just throw the move in without motivation. Then you just look like you are having a fit or something, opening yourself up to assault charges, or a serious conversation with an air marshal.

But then our landing came, and I threw the move. Success! I clutched and blushed. He laughed. I laughed. We were Mr. and Mrs. Incredibly Charming. What a great “How We Met” story for the kids.

As we taxied in, he pulled out a cell phone to let his buddy know when he’d be out. I was working on my next set of “Golly, do you work at that IB? Do you know xxxx (which would have been a completely made up name, of course)?” when he finished up his call with “See you soon. Love you, Sweetie.”

Huh? Dudes say that to other dudes, right? Could still be a buddy and not a winsome blond girl right? Right? No? Seriously??

I wasted my best move on a guy with a serious girlfriend.

There needs to be a new rule. Guys who are dating someone need to be marked in some sort of obvious way. Another kind of ring… perhaps through the nose. A tattoo on the forehead. Something obvious, and impossible to remove. No wonder he was so neat and clean—no bachelor there. I should have known. No man with that many SSPs going for him could still be in the wild roaming free.

Seriously! Hands up for the new rule!

Kate, positive dating affirmations my ass, in LA

The Man in 9D

The Man in 9D

This blog is brought to you from high above the country somewhere. I’m headed east for the holidays, and I have hit upon another little discussed pick-up place: the cross country airplane ride.

I don’t know why I wasn’t better prepared.

I blame the new security restrictions. I was confused about whether or not my lipstick would still be considered a weapon, so I just put it in a clear plastic bag and stuffed it deep inside my computer case. Everyone knows that just a little lipstick makes everything better (and by everyone, I mean people acting like Norma Desmond calling for her close-up). Repo man comes to the door—lipstick. It just makes the experience fresher somehow ;) About to be evicted—no worries, as long as you can grab that tube of “breakfast in bed”. Seriously, I’m beginning to think it should be treated as cosmetic armor. So, if you see me whip that tube out and apply generously—look out ladies, I’m going in.

Which should in part explain why I can’t find mine, Fate is laughing, again. I wasn’t prepared to be called into battle hurtling thousands of feet in the air. My armor is buried beneath my iPOD recharger, my cell phone recharger, my blackberry recharger and the computer power cord.

(On a side note, please, someone come up with a universal recharger—I’m sick of carrying around the entire contents of radio shack every time I go somewhere. I’ll be forever grateful. Thanks!)

Anyway, the reason I need full battle dress? The man in 9D. He’s not that far away though, so I am surreptitiously observing him. In fact, it is sort of difficult to type this because if I turn in the direction where I actually have room to type and see the screen, he’d be able to see the screen. And typing straight is becoming a bit of a challenge because the woman in front of me has decided to nap in my lap. FREAKIN’ reclining seats. One of next year’s resolutions will have to be “learn how to type with breasts” since that’s the only way it is going to be possible on these flights.

(How is it that they recline a fraction of an inch, and yet the person in front of me always ends up on top of me? I’m not that big. What does a full grown person do? But I digress.)

I know—you are screaming something along the lines of “I say, now would be a strapping good time to strike up a conversation regarding political risk and currency convertibility issues, or something equally beguiling”.

True.

But he appears to be asleep. What exactly is the protocol here? Do I subtly reach diagonally and across a row or two and nudge him? What’s the rule? I do have a business card on me. But it’s a tad tricky to get it to him with him snuggled into his sweatshirt and facing the other direction. You know, unless I drop it on him. You’re right… too subtle. Could fall to the cabin floor when he awakens.

Possibilities for a skilled social person—endless. Possibilities for me—maybe I’ll smile when we get up to deplane.

Next time, I’ll know better. Lipstick on for the return flight. Definitely.

Kate


P.S. Because I know you will kill me if I don’t tell you what happened—I did end up talking to 9D. If by talking you mean an awkward “Hi!” yelled just a touch too loud in the midst of a ton of people trying to get their carry-ons and off the plane. It wasn’t a scream exactly and not completely frightening, but it did get his attention. And the attention of pretty much everyone around him. Well done, me. But he did say “Hi” back.

Progress.

LA Hotspot

At this point, we all know where at least one of the nightlife hotspots is in Los Angeles. Anyone who reads TMZ.com knows that Hyde, Les Deux, Shag, Mood and the Boom Boom Room (ok, I made that last one up) are the places to be for all the action. If you want to rub elbows, or anything else, with the likes of Lohan, Hilton and Richie just head to any of those locales (or apparently, the 134 freeway).

BUT there is a magical place in Los Angeles that appears to offer a fine selection of men, and you get pampered in the process. That’s right people—I’m talking about my hair salon. I sense disbelief. Tsk tsk. Would I lie to you? Sure, you’re right, I would, but in this case, not so much.

In the last six months, I’ve met two guys at the hair salon. And not necessarily metro guys either. Why? My hair stylist is determined to set me up.

Much like the priest and bartender before her, my hair stylist seems to operate a confessional, and she is determined to toss me back into the dating world.

I’ve known her for years, so she’s heard the relationship drama. She’s also a dating world convert—she met her husband on match.com after seeing the end of her own 10 year relationship. She’s on a mission.

The first time she tried to fix me up, the timing was… well… let’s just say not optimal. It was the afternoon I caused the black-out because I found out the ex was getting married. The only thing I remember is that there was a guy coming in after me, and she wanted to introduce us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Don’t remember his name. I’m only vaguely certain that he was male. Yeah, not a whole lot of processing of new information that day.

So, she called that one a wash, and chalked it up to a bad moon.

The second time was this weekend. There was a guy in the chair before me. I was under the dryer trying to keep the hair die from dripping down my face—although I’m sure I could rock the hair dye streak face look, if I really wanted to… Again, I didn’t really pay attention to said guy. I was busy reading a fascinating article about Hillary Duff and dabbing at dye.

I’m fairly confident now that he may have had some sort of mental disorder. He told her quietly that he thought I was cute, and asked for an introduction. Cute? Is there a dripping hair dye fetish group that I’m not aware of? I’ve got a big, black drop cloth on me, my hair is mid process, and the concept of make-up was nowhere in the back of my mind. Yeah, he had to be disturbed.

Anyway, he wandered off to go do something, and we started working the magic that would make me into a supermodel (just as soon as they change those height, weight and looks restrictions, of course).

I’m at the point during the haircut where I’m sporting the “Cousin It” look, and set-up guy is back, ostensibly to pay his bill. At which point, we get introduced. He actually seemed like a very nice guy, I think, probably…yeah, I don’t actually know. He smiled and had a nice handshake. He said something like “nice haircut”, which would have been a lovely compliment—but I was still working the “Cousin It” thing (wet hair hanging entirely in front of my face). So, I laughed. And then realized he was serious. Really came out more like an awkward moment at that point than anything else.

Yeah…

0 for 2 so far, but I am confident that I have many more potentially embarrassing encounters to come—1 at least every 6 weeks. Good times!

Kate

Wingman

I decided to look for a wingman (or a wingman trainer).

Is it a wingman if your buddy is female? Wingwoman? Wingperson? Winged one?

Grant it, with me it's more like "wing-and-a-prayer"-man, but this could be important.

Do you audition for these? Put up a notice on Craig's list? Could I force one of my friends into training?

Right now, my friend B is my wingette. She sort of got trapped into the job.

I was looking fabulous... well, kind of hot... ok, appealing in an untamed sort of way... alright, fine.. sort of matronly. Let's not focus on me, here.

I was waiting for B to arrive at brunch when I spied a table featuring some appealing maleness. Being completely incapable of doing anything about this by myself, I turned to the time honored tradition of whispering to my friend, Wingette.

First, the key question-- does he like girls?
Wingette survey says: Yes!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Next question, are he and his friend waiting for girlfriends, or at least female companions that are of no blood relation?

Tricky.

We had a brief scare when a woman with a baby stroller pulled up near the table. Let's face it-- that would be my luck. If I can choose an unavailable male, I will. But in the end stroller lady was parked at a nearby table. Whew.

Of course, all of this was being observed with the utmost of care. My frantic turns to look over my shoulder with a half body twist and tilt probably went completely unnoticed. This is where B really came in handy-- she had a nearly clear view. All she had to do was occasionally pop up like a mole to get a good look.

So, I'm tilting and twisting and she's popping, when the guys were joined by more guys. Apparently, a manly brunch was ensuing.

Excellent. All systems go. Here we go... Any moment now...

Yeah, we had no idea what to do.

Now, B is a hot blond, so I thought I'd throw her into them somehow. Of course, I wouldn't have told her this first, just for the true air of authenticity. Can't have her faking the sprawl across the table. But also, she's married. So, I figured if I send her in, they'd be crushed with disappointment that they couldn't have her, and then I could swoop in and charm them with my availability.

But in reality, I wasn't sure what I was swooping in to do exactly.

She and I decided to go for a casual, slightly saucy walk by on the way out.

So, naturally, they were gone by the time we got outside.

Yeah, we need some training.

Kate

P.S. A moment of silence to mark the passing of Max, George Clooney's beloved pet pig.

The Male Pill

Ah, more breaking news from the scientific world. Seems that they are close to perfecting the male birth control pill.

My first reaction-- Sweet!! Someone else can deal with the weight gain, emotional edge, etc. Rock on! Plus, I understand that they are really working to reduce the side effects that women have been dealing with for years. Because, of course, you can't have men dealing with those inconveniences.

And then my second thought-- would I actually rely on a guy to take that thing? Even if it is only a "several hours before" kind of thing. hmmmm



Now I'm sure that there are some great, responsible men out there... somewhere... probably. And obviously, there are always the losers to look out for. But it's the third group of males in this situation that could prove the greatest problem. They seem responsible, and they are genuinely good people. But in that group:

He's the guy who says something like "uh, yeah" when you ask if he has straightened up the living room. Then you discover his definition involved taking all the papers, etc. and putting them on the dining room chair... and pushing it in under the table.

He's the guy who wont change a bandage or take the meds to fight infection because you aren't around to remind him-- even though he knows if he doesn't, there is a 90% chance his hand will fall off from gangrene.

He's the guy who fixes a hole in his jeans with a staple gun-- while he's still wearing them.

He's the guy who will OD because he lives the theory that if one works, five will work better (also true of Viagra ;) ).

He's the guy who will carry the pill in his wallet for months (or years) waiting for the right moment, only to discover that years of sitting on it, has crushed it. So, you find him frantically licking his wallet when you take him home.

And anyone who has dealt with a man's definition of "later" (ie I'll call you later meaning anytime from the same day to six months down the road) knows that time is a fuzzy concept. Tell a man he needs to take something 3 hours before anything, and you better be there to remind him.

So, while I applaud the scientific community's latest efforts... hmmmmm


Kate, still searching for prince longshot, in LA

Now what?

First off:
Happy Post-Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.

Second:
Where the heck is prince charming? Is he still out eating pumpkin pie? Is he still over the river and through the woods and the horse actually forgot the way?

I have reluctantly agreed that never leaving my apartment might, might, be part of my dating problems. And while my trips to Starbucks count as out, I’m not sure my medical insurance can cover too many more encounters with Mr. Corner Table/glass door.

So, I went out.

At night.

3 times in one week.

It is possible that this kind of momentous act caused the tectonic plates to shift in some parts of the country. If you had an earthquake, that might have been me (Whoops! Sorry!).

Two of those three times were to places that included alcohol and a festive atmosphere. The other occasion was to the theater, and I’ve made my peace with the reality that very few single straight men go to musicals.

(Which, frankly, shows a lack of imagination on the part of single men—musicals and dance class are full of women with a whole lot less competition than a bar)

The good news—the evenings were great fun.

The bad news—no prince charming. No prince maybe, or prince possibly. No prince longshot, even.

My Type-A personality aside, I have realized that I might have to do more than walk into some place and say “hello world, here I am” (though, I’m perfectly willing to be proven wrong on that front).

So, now what?

And is there anyway I can wrap it up without interfering with my television watching schedule? Priorities.

Hee

Kate

Just a Thought

I saw today that People Magazine has once again voted George Clooney the sexiest man of the year.

Well...


Duh!

:)

Kate
katedating@yahoo.com

Kate's Roman Holiday

Ok-- Not really a holiday-- more like a Roman flight of fancy.

Sure. Some people might accuse me of putting off writing my self-evaluation, which is part of my annual review at work... um...and they might be right.

It's not that I don't want to write it. I just haven't figured out if "tired of bending over and taking it" goes in the Teamwork and Interpersonal Skills section, or in the Areas for Improvement Section. Decisions. Decisions. At least that long-standing question of "does anyone ever read these things" will be answered.

Anyway...

My general work dissatisfaction, and end of the year reflection, has left me pondering a change more seriously. And then I had this fateful conversation with a friend.

Me: "ooooh, you have a Rome office. I don't suppose there are any openings there. Ha Ha"

Her: "There is. Our person there just announced he was leaving."

(insert sound effect of needle scratching across a record here)

Rome. Suddenly all things wrong with the world could be fixed with one word, "Rome".

Sigh. So, instead of rationally assessing the situation (work would be the same, I'd have to move, I don't speak Italian, etc.), my thoughts went something like this:

*Rome-- where a few extra pounds probably don't matter... in fact, I'm sure I heard they were celebrated... mandated... a requirement for your resident visa.

*Rome-- where all the men look like the ones in this picture that El sent to me (shhh... my fantasy, work with me)

*Rome-- where I'm sure I'll be paid to eat yummy food, drink wine and soak up the atmosphere (see paragraph above for atmosphere appropriate for soaking)

*Rome-- where my fabulous Italian shoes will never scuff because I'll be carried on a chaise by Romans (again, see above) through the crowded streets where I'd be admired and adored (and in no way robbed like T on the train the last time I was in Rome).

*Rome-- where my charm is so obvious that I am instantly understood and lauded for my eloquence despite not speaking a word of Italian.

Yep. It was good, but in reality I'd be fired in the first week, my roman conveyance would end up being dropped, and I'd land in a fountain with a pack of wild dogs. So, I settled for seeing "The Light in the Piazza" (which was wonderful) and appreciated the fine talents of the cast... including the very fine Fabrizio.

Ah, Rome. :)

Kate, who is rethinking the whole "I don't watch soccer" thing, in LA

Kate Talks to a Boy

This weekend Kate talked to a boy.

That's right-- you heard me. I talked to a boy. Please begin preparing-- the end is clearly near.

Picture me wearing something flowing that made me look deceptively tall (um... ok, taller... fine... not quite as short). My bizarro world hair was perfectly cascading down my back. Even had that heaving bosom thing going on. Everything I said was witty and charming. I left the man completely besotted. I expect lavish gifts any day now.

Sheyah-- or this story involves an electronic device and peril was certain.

I was helping a friend on his indie movie project (because this is LA, and that's what we do here on the weekends ;p ), and I was in charge of wrangling actors who came in for their ADR work. These actors included a fine specimen of a man who had worked on the shoot for about 2 days the previous fall. And even though he only had 2 lines, I asked him to come in. Hey, I'm single, not stupid.

So, the whole group of us are hanging outside, and I'm chatting and trying to figure out how to covertly take a photo of fine figure of man (here on known as "FFM") with my camera phone.

But for some reason, the universe decided to once again have its way with me. It refused to take the picture. No matter how many times I tried to press the little button on the little screen-- nothing. Camera phone=male. Obviously.

Let's face it-- you can only really try to take a photo covertly so many times before
a) the subject becomes aware that he's under scrutiny, and/or
b) everyone in the area wonders what's wrong with the girl who keeps mumbling, lifting up her phone, hitting it and then cursing.

I bet it was a camera phone that brought down Mata Hari, too.

Grant it, a normal person might stop trying to take this photo after... oh... the 10th no go. Not I. With extraordinary perseverance of someone truly idiotic, I kept trying. My friend had never seen FFM, and I had to send her a text message with his lovely photo. It was my mission (because in reality, text messaging has become the "passing a note in gym class" of my 30's).

I tried to play it off with the old "oh, it's so great to see everyone, I just want to grab some photos of all of you". And so moved by my sincere (uh.. yeah) efforts at capturing some would-be hallmark moments, out of the darkness (fine, afternoon sunshine) came the voice:

"maybe I can help"

uh.... help me? uh....

(ok, frantic weighing of options ensued. If he hits the wrong button, which is right next to the camera button, he will reveal all of my "he's so cute" text message ramblings. Tremendous potential for embarrassment. If I said no, it would have looked odd, after all my fussing and fuming about it not working. Plus, if he gets it working, I can get a photo).

So, after weighing my options (and hearing the imaginary cries from people who read this blog), I let him fondle my camera phone. That's right-- the man I was trying to covertly photograph ended up helping me to fix the camera so that I could take his picture.

Did he ever know he was the object of my frantic machinations? Hard to tell, but just to be certain, I set him up with my friend. That should throw him off ;)

Yeah, alright, so it all didn't go according to plan. But I did talk to a boy, so it goes into the success column. It's practically a date in my world.

And if my friend ends up marrying him, I have an amusing story to tell at the reception.

Kate, clueless with a fondled camera phone, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com

Hit? Or No Hit?

Because I've been sidelined for so long in the dating game, I'm not always good at gauging whether or not someone is actually hitting on me. So, since I've got several hours of sitting here at the DMV, I thought we should all play a game I like to call "hit, or no hit".

It's either this, or killing the woman sitting next to me testing ALL of her freakin' ring tones at full blast. So, play along, you are saving a life ;)

Situations--
1. A guy sitting next to me and a friend at lunch, wandered into our conversation. As he was leaving, he handed me his card and said if I ever needed financial planning, to give him a call.

Hit, or no hit?

I said no, Julie said yes. My reasoning-- he's probably always selling because he's on commission, plus since when is "financial planning" euphemistic for "want to date"?

2. There is a guy standing near me right now who keeps looking at my flipflops. Really intently looking. Kinda creepy, actually.

Hit, or no hit?

I say no. I think he's contemplating stealing them. Come to think of it, he'd probably look better in them than I do. Either that, or he has a toe fetish. That's right, buddy, I'm writing about you.


3. A male friend said "we should see a movie some time".

Hit, or no hit?

I think this one has to be situational. I was so thrown, I blurted out "you mean like a date?" Which then threw him into saying "uh, well, I guess if you wan..." to which I yelled out "NO!!!!!" Yep, smooth, that's me.

4. You want to go for a walk?

Hit, or no hit?

Again, situational for me. Most of the time I would assume not a hit. Could be that he's just trying to take you somewhere secluded to kill you. I try to approach these invitations with caution.

5. A guy grabs your ass and yells "want to F***???", but is completely wasted. Hmmm still ambiguous for me.


6. And finally, my favorite from today-- "Hells, yeah, yur worth smacking to. buuuu yaaaaaa." Um... ok, not only do I not know if that's a hit or not, but I don't actually know what it means. It is, however, leaving me with a slightly icky feeling.


I think it is clear that I actually need some sort of formal courting system set up. There used to be a whole set of manners for this type of thing. I say, we need to go back to the day where a man declared his intentions formally--preferably on lovely parchment and ending with "my dearest, loveliest Kate". Then after 6 weeks of notes (and one background check later), I would be better prepared to answer the "is he interested" question.

In the meantime, shoe fetish guy is lingering again.

Send me your own questionable hits, and we'll let the group decide if someone was trying some romantic moves or not.

Kate, who needs a guy to girl dictionary before she is dating in LA
Katedating@yahoo.com

Miss Ann Thropic

I may have found my true calling in life. It came to me while watching one of my hundreds of weekly news programs.

Any guesses?

Sure, you're going with the most logical options:

1) marriage counselor
2) sex therapist
3) supermodel
4) spy (aka international woman of mystery)

But who isn't doing those things? I'm not disparaging these options-- all good and clearly back-up plans if the new one doesn't work out.

Ready?

Queen of the Roller Derby.

I know. It left me speechless when I first considered it, as well.

They ran this story on a group of women called the "Orange County Demolition Divas"-- strong, highly motivated women. My new hero is a woman with the nickname "Miss Ann Thropic". She told the reporter that she found the group after her relationship of 15 years ended, and she was looking for a legal way to get out her aggressions.

Rock on sister! (or is that roll on? No, that sounds too much like I'm yelling for deodorant).
Anyway, I too would like to find a way to legally beat the crap out of people while precariously perched on a set of wheels.

I'm telling you-- this is it. I have found my calling.

(although that whole supermodel thing could be good, too)

Kate
katedating@yahoo.com

Strut Interrupted

How do you know for certain that the universe is sending you a message?

Sure, the universe actually sending me that invitation to spend the evening toasting to George Clooney could be considered a sign-- but who can blame me for missing something that subtle... for three weeks.

Besides (warning, wild justification to follow) if the universe really wanted me to be with George on Friday then it would have made him motor his little electric car to my apartment and picked me up for a proper date. I'm a lady, damnit.

(No, I've never been hospitalized for delusions. Why do you ask?)

The last few days have been busy between work, side projects and the need to read every single line in every piece of junk mail that comes to the apartment. But I was feeling adventurous this afternoon. I did have the malicious iPod with me, but it was behaving. It was time to head out and flirt.

I was looking good, well.. my sweatshirt was clean, and I was rockin the messy ponytail.

Having not yet learned the lessons of my other Starbuck encounters (yes, the knee has healed, thanks!) I decided to find the man who would love me "just the way I am". And I found several-- all construction workers, because...

(wait for it)

They gutted the Starbucks.

Huh... Given my track record, I probably should have seen this coming.

I can't decide if the universe is saving me from myself, or clearing out all the bad vibes with fire and table saws. I suppose we'll find out when they re-open (MWHAA HAA HAAA).

Kate
(katedating@yahoo.com)

(p.s. random thought-- is it wrong that I think the Ex's fiance already has the something borrowed covered? yeah, I thought so.)

Always Read Your Junk Mail

Ladies-- this is a public service announcement. Always read your junk mail. In fact, read your junk mail thoroughly and before you look at your bills.

Sure, it might look like just another advertisement listing a bunch of information you have no interest in-- and sometimes.... yeah.

I received what looked like junk mail about 3 weeks ago from American Cinematheque. They have a whole host of screenings, including showings of old movies which are often quite fun. Each year they do an award ceremony. If you are a subscriber at a certain level, you get two tickets to the event. The event typically honors an artist (actor, director or writer) in the entertainment industry committed to making asignificant contribution to the art of the motion picture (or so the ad says). Sounds great, but I never pay attention because it would involve going out, finding a date (or dragging one of my friends), a long evening full of boring speeches, blah blah blah.

3 weeks, people. This junk mail remained untouched on my desk because it couldn't possibly have been anything of interest to me. Plus, the ceremony was Friday night. Who goes out on a Friday night? I'm pretty sure I was doing something vital like watching a showing of Clue on cable.

On Sunday, I decided to clean, and I leafed through the junk mail. I saw the invitation of support and the offer of tickets.

This year's honored artist?

George Clooney.

That's right-- An evening with George Clooney.

Yeah....

Always read your junk mail.

Kate, wondering if she's done anything else stupid like not check winning lottery numbers more than a year old.
katedating@yahoo.com

The Purge

Ever contemplate just how aerodynamic your couch is? Burning questions like:

• Will it actually hit the pool if hurtled from my balcony?
• Will it clear the hedges?
• Should I warn people below?

If so, you too may have been taking part in the time honored tradition known as "The Purge" (recently memorialized on Gilmore Girls).

In the moments before I came to terms with the whole "he's getting married" thing and after I'd caused that little multi-city blackout, I realized that everything in my apartment reminded me of The Ex. And while the years of separation meant I had blessedly little that was actually his, I was still able to create overflowing mountains of "He Gave Me" and "Reminds Me of Him".

This, my dear friends, is why on the 8th day God created garage sales and good will. It's good to donate while the torrent of emotions is threatening to make you into the next Pol Pot because you tend to be at your most ruthless. As you cool down and let sanity wash back over you, you tend to get gooey.

You see the couch isn't just my couch. It was our couch, which was originally his couch. Which technically means it's now my ex couch. Thus, the contemplation of "couch in flight".

So, did I toss the couch from the balcony? No.

Was it saved because I calmed down and realized that, in fact, couches are expensive and not embodiments of hurt feelings and disappointment? um... sure. Ok. Well... you know.. that and the fact that it got stuck, and I couldn't get it through the sliding glass door.

What?

Kate

Warm and Tingly

Inventors have conceived of a wedding ring that heats up the day before an anniversary. The person gets a series of increasingly warm signals from the ring. The last reminder burn would be over 100 degrees. All this in an effort to help make sure a man actually remembers to buy some flowers (or whatever) on the big day.

It's not that I object to this idea, I just think the inventors are thinking too small.

I also propose a ring. I call it the "fidelity" ring. Instead of gradual warming, I see more of an electro-shock kind of thing. And it might not be all that gradual of an increase.

And it might not go on his finger.

I'm just saying....

Kate, Inventing in LA
katedating@yahoo.comm

Six Degrees

Some people in our lives are never meant to leave us... Which is too bad really because some people should just stay gone, damn it. ;)

I received an email today from a lovely woman in another state, who I have never met, thanking me for my "in memoriam" donation to her fine arts organization (in honor of a woman, who sadly did pass on too early, but after a full life). The organization was one that most of my friends and I were involved in way back when. It was a pleasant, lovely email from someone with a last name that made a light bulb go off. Nah... couldn't be....

You see once upon a time Kate dated a guy who, like many men, turned out to be a jerk, and it ended. I was in my late teens, and I didn't spend a whole lot of time being bummed out (unlike my current practically Guinness record holding round of mourning for THE all time ex). Years later I heard from a mutual friend that he had gotten married and then divorced to someone from back home who he had met while doing theater productions. blah blah blah. The name of his ex-wife? Let's call her "Diane Barnes".

Woman who signed my email this morning? "Diane Barnes".

Could be a coincidence, but better than even odds that my ex's ex-wife now works for this fine arts organization, and she just sent me an email. huh... small world. Very, very small...scary small, actually...

So, kids, as you shoot emails off into the world, keep in mind that the stranger you are conversing with may have been married to one of your ex-boyfriends. You could complete a transaction and discuss development goals with a stranger 3000 miles away, neither of you realizing just how much the two of you have in common.

Kate, hiding in LA
katedating@yahoo.com

Dating George Clooney

Ok, people. This is not a drill. The following story made the rounds this morning-- just to annoy the photogs, George Clooney will be dating someone different every night. Now I know in the past I have been reticent about dating actors (or... um... anyone), but I'm willing to make an exception for the delightful Mr. Clooney. You know... just to help him out with his plan. Because I'm a giver :)

One slight, very small problem, is that technically, he did say that he wanted to date a "famous" actress every night. Since I'm not actually a famous actress, there might be some difficulty getting me in this line. HOWEVER, I'm sure that we could spin me as the "reality that throws them all off" girl. Or we need to make me famous and very quickly. I mean, I can hold a suitcase like the last girl they photographed with him. I have a lot of practice holding suitcases. Sure, not a model, but I've got mad "holding suitcase" skills.

What do you think? Are you with me?

This doesn't mean I have to leave my apartment, does it? I mean, can't we just line the photogs up down by the pool and have them try to catch us on my balcony? What? Defeats the purpose you say? I'll work on it. You guys handle the other bit (getting me on his date list), and I'll seriously ponder leaving the house in the evening. Oh, the sacrifices I am willing to make for this man.

Kate, seriously thinking of dating George Clooney in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com


From TMZ.com

Clooney to Date New Starlet "Every Night"
Publicists of the world, line up your clients. The famously paparazzi-averse George Clooney has a plan to scuttle those pesky photogs: He says he's going to spend every single night for three months with a different famous actress. "You know, Halle Berry one night, Salma Hayek the next, and then walk on the beach holding hands with Leonardo DiCaprio," says Clooney in the November Vanity Fair.

The "Ocean's 13" star's thinking is that people would somehow buy fewer magazines if they weren't sure if they were being pranked or not by that serial jokester Clooney. Perhaps his appearance the other night at a Studio City sushi joint with a "Deal or No Deal" suitcase lass was the debut appearance in the series.

Mr. Corner Table

Given my tremendous near success with Mr. "Taylor, the latte boy" (ok, not really, but in my memoirs, it will be), I decided to saunter by Starbucks again today. I was looking good-- hair wild (which in fantasies is suddenly transformed into honey blond with cascading waves rather than brunette and wind-knotted), innocent, yet flirtatious top and butt-lifting jeans.

I had forgiven my iPod for being male and programmed in some attitude tunes.

I was practically strutting while going through my mental checklist:

1. Facade of confidence (check)
2. Friendly smile signaling acceptance and openness and in no way resembling the creepy smiling painting in The Black Dahlia (check)
3. Eyes up in order to invite communication (check)

Dr. Phil would be proud.

I see a lovely boy sitting in the corner by the window. It's a little nook right by the door. He's definitely alone, and he's reading the paper (wonder if he has a news obsession like I do). Frankly, the fact that he reads is all it takes for me to be interested these days.

Ok, two things that Dr. Phil may not have taken into consideration.

1. While looking down might be less inviting, it would seem to be more practical.
2. Wild hair might be amore alluring, but so is seeing that the sidewalk is uneven.

yeah.

While I was coyly looking through a curtain of out of control hair at Mr. Corner Table, my foot got caught mid strut on uneven sidewalk propelling me into the now open glass door.

No, no. Not kidding.

On the upside, neither the door, the older woman walking out of it, her dog, nor I were really damaged. On the downside, the mortification (not to mention the bruise on my knee) made it slightly more difficult to strut away convincingly. It really had more of a drunken sailor thing going for it.

Remind me to be more specific with fate. When I thought "golly, I hope he notices me", I may have left some dangerous room for interpretation. Once again, fate was laughing (or was that limited to just the patrons of Starbucks?)

Current score: Starbucks 2, Kate 0

Kate, limping in LA