Rare Specimen Spotted

I must preface this blog with the admission that I have only heard about this specimen sighting and was not an actual witness to these statements or sentiments (and possible rending of cloth).

My friend L has met two men who were lamenting over the fact that they can never find women to date because the women they meet just want to have sex and then move on. LAMENTING! I don't know if there were actual tears, but there may have been.

Now before you make any snap judgments about these men, you should know that they are both successful men (actors) under 45 (one is actually in his late 20s), seemingly intelligent and attractive. What I found most interesting is that they felt like women didn't take them seriously as real partners, only hook-up buddies at the end of the night. I'm not saying that they haven't taken women up on these offers, but I am saying that they appear to be looking for something different-- and they aren't finding it.

There could be many reasons for this.

1. They are looking in the wrong places. It is truly rare when a loving relationship based on shared intellectual passions and respect is born from a meeting at a club. Everyone there makes the assumption that everyone else is a player. And being actors they have both perception and fame-whores working against them. So, if these guys are searching the clubs for the future Mrs, they are probably going to be finding drunk 23 year old girls rolling the dice at STD roulette instead.

2. If they are staying home because they hate "the scene" then they aren't meeting anybody. OR they do what I do and go to places that aren't conducive to extended conversation with strangers (like movies, theater, etc).

3. Women in LA decided at some point to behave like men. They saw the only women engaging with men at all were women who adapted to the casual sex environment. The problem is, I don't know a ton of women who actually respected that "come and go" behavior when men were the only ones doing it. It can't come as a shock that many men don't either. Oh, they still have sex with those girls, but now no one seems particularly fulfilled with the choice. Don't get me wrong-- a lot of people are having sex, but I just don't see a lot of people who are happy.

4. L has not yet given them the names of the 40 awesome single women she knows not looking for players or casual anything.

I wish I had the answer. I'd like to say that if both genders valued real connection over one hour stands, then the shift would occur out of necessity. But I can't see that happening as long as people think that "keeping it simple" actually keeps anything simple or creates anything real (except for those STDs, of course-- those you get to keep).

Five to One

I received an email from Natasha Chesler (writer, producer, director and choreographer) about a live show coming to the Roxy at the end of April (April 28-May 1), and I had to share with you because material that explores the lunacy of the LA dating world always grabs me. This live show was created around the claimed statistic that in Los Angeles there are five women to every guy. I have no idea if this statistic is true, but it feels true. Plus, if you look at that one guy—the odds of him also being single, straight and regularly showering are even worse (so it's more like five women to every 1/3 of a guy).

Not only does the show tell the stories of these five women, but the key art evokes All That Jazz. You know me. I'm not capable of walking away from that. It boasts an excellent creative team and outstanding cast. All this means you should buy tickets to see Five to One here: http://www.fivetoonethemusical.com/tickets.html

And I promise not to jump up on stage and join the act (though I'm already digging the embedded song on the home page, so maybe I shouldn't guarantee that).

 

Why Working Out Doesn’t Work Out

I have really good intentions when it comes to exercise—loads of them, really. I read all the yahoo and msn articles about working out. I glance at Shape Magazine at least once or twice before buying a home decorating magazine at the newsstands. I watch Judy Greer's Reluctantly Healthy. The problem is I rarely see results from exercise, and I put a lot of time into it.

Routine

1. Search for work out motivation: 3 hours each day (or at least it flits through my mind every day over the course of 3 or 4 hours)
   
2. Change into work out clothing: 1 minute to an hour (depending on whether or not I get lost along the way)
   
3. Realization that I don't really fit into my work out clothing: 20 minutes of solid depression
   
4. Stretching in preparation to work out: 3-5 seconds
   
5. Walk to the refrigerator to get water: 2 minutes or more if I'm distracted (hydration is very important, so this is time well spent)
   
6. Proper positioning for crunches: 1 minute (it takes a little effort to get me down on the ground these days)
   
7. Getting up to find iPod: 10 minutes (it takes even longer to get up)
   
8. Repositioning for crunches: 4 minutes (because I've already broken a sweat looking for iPod)
   
9. Doing crunches: 30 seconds (I like to get at least 5 crunches fully completed)
   
10. Water break: 2 minutes (again, it's important to hydrate)
    
11. Cool down: 5 minutes prone on the floor (I don't want to unduly strain anything)
    
12. Wondering if I've worked out enough to justify the pita chips in the bag I can see on the counter: 5-10 seconds (I'm a decision-maker)
    

So, you see, I don't think it's my routine. My routine is sound. I'm just not getting anywhere. Huh.

Ballerina Girl

I seem to do everything just a bit out of step with the rest of the world. I want to believe that this makes me creative and unique. In actuality, it probably makes me delusional and provides proof that I have no sense of timing.

Case in point: most girls have their first pointe class in the 12-13 year range (if they have been taking ballet class through childhood). In keeping with this tradition, I took my first pointe class at 27 after having one preliminary ballet class (I was a modern dancer in college and beyond). Naturally, this meant that I was taking class almost exclusively made up of young girls, all of whom were taller than I was. And no, that isn't awkward at all. Why do you ask?

I bring this up because I feel you won't really know me until you've seen me in a canary yellow tutu (and I expect you all to start mailing me your tutu photos). Sadly, I don't have a full-length photo of what would surely be held up as a symbol of dance as we know it. Seems like a tease, right? Do not despair. I have this photoshopped (because that poor man doesn't deserve to be blogged) half image for you. While you don't get the full effect of the tulle, you do get to enjoy the gold lamé crossing my bodice in a delightfully dreadful way.

I think it is clear here that:

a) I was dancing in Big Bird: The Early Years,

b) Dance recital costumes are never pretty, or

c) Both.

I got through the performances that year and then I immediately quit taking pointe class. It was as though I had something to prove and once I did it, I was done (or at least satisfied watching other people make their toes bleed). I feel like this impulse to prove something is shooting through me a lot these days (and then fading into a pool of lethargy somewhere around my knees). While I really doubt you'll see a repeat of that yellow number, you never can tell where that particular impulse could take me this time (hope it's somewhere green).

And the Universe Laughs Again

My year of experimentation is just days away from coming to a close. It is stunning to me how fast time has gone by and a little frightening. I had hoped that by now people would be throwing money at me because I'd already become this much sought after writer/producer/travel blogger/modern-day philosopher. I haven't given up that hope (and I do have a few days left for that to happen within the one year deadline).

But here comes the glitch… that tiny piece of temptation that the universe just loves throwing my way: a competing law firm is hiring for the job I used to do. Almost a year to the day, a job I know I can do, that would probably pay me more than I was getting paid before (and I didn't complain about my old salary), is up for grabs.

Nearly a year to the day this comes to my attention—when funds are beginning to run lower, dreams of Jimmy Choos are running through my head and opportunities for something else creatively fulfilling have not presented themselves to me.

UGH. You're killing me, universe. You're killing me.

 

 

Randoms for Thursday

Blast from the Past

Do you ever suddenly, absolutely need to hear a song that you probably haven't heard for 15-20 years? That was me last night. I was overcome with the need to hear "The Flame" by Cheap Trick. I don't remember ever owning the song before—in fact, I don't remember owning a Cheap Trick album. And yet, I had to have this song immediately. Thank goodness for iTunes.

Judy Greer

Judy always makes me smile when I see her (unless she's doing something super serious and then that would be awkward). She should be everywhere. If she were eight inches shorter, I'd have her play Kate in the series that I hope to someday make of this blog. Much to my delight, it turns out that she is in a new place I just discovered: she does a series called "Reluctantly Healthy" for Yahoo. I discovered this because I'm incapable of not clicking on a link that guarantees me a flatter belly, and kept clicking on her other pieces because her reaction to not eating sugar would also be my reaction to not eating sugar: disdain and fake vomiting. So, check out Judy and the tips here: http://screen.yahoo.com/how-to-eat-to-flatten-your-belly-28788619.html

Context is Everything

Have you ever noticed that some things sound incredibly romantic in context, but out of context actually sound creepy and slightly stalkerish? For instance, that Cheap Trick song I mentioned earlier has really lovely lyrics in context: "Wherever you go, I'll be with you." That's charming. That's swoon-worthy—unless, of course, the person singing them to you is someone you can't stand and is in violation of a restraining order. Then… not so much. Same goes for "I will find you" by Clannad (from "The Last of the Mohicans"): "No matter where you go, I will find you…if it takes a thousand years." Sure, when Daniel Day Lewis was yelling it, it might have seemed like a good idea. Otherwise, it sounds like witness protection isn't going to be the guarantee you thought it would be.

And these are the things I think about on a Thursday morning. What are you pondering?

Memories

Someone full of wisdom recently told me about a journal called "642 Things to Write." Basically, each page has a prompt for a writing assignment. Since I'm frequently staring at a blank page desperately seeking inspiration, this item seemed like a must buy. Let's just hope it becomes something I actually use because, alas, I'm quite good at finding things that seem like they are going to be wildly useful and then never touching them again (as evidenced by my closet full of clothes with tags still on and shelves full of self-help books I'll never get around to reading).

What sold me on this particular journal? Jessica Strawser wrote a review and listed her favorite entries (http://www.writersdigest.com/uncategorized/things-to-write-about-great-places-to-find-ideas), and I could not stop thinking about this one: "You can keep only one memory from your entire life. What will it be?"

It's such a simple question, and yet, despite wracking my brain for days, incredibly hard to answer. Logically, it should be a memory that includes all people I have been closest to or an astonishingly major event: a graduation, an award, an exotic vacation, a marriage (if I had one of those, which, of course, I do not). The odd thing is that the big events in my life are a little fuzzy. I only remember the small pieces of them rather than the experiences in their entirety. They've blurred by at an alarming rate and my memories of those events are really based on what other people have told me rather than any true connection to them.

I have memories that define relationships in my mind, but each one is different depending on the person sharing the moment with me. I have long ago memories of my father teaching me how to drive in the mall parking lot on a very early Sunday morning. I have memories of taking my mother to Malibu and watching her delight as she stepped into the Pacific for the first time. I remember seeing a man across a crowded theater and knowing that my life would never be the same (for better or for worse). I remember getting locked in stairwells, sneaking into a Rosie taping, a Garth Brooks concert in Central Park and meeting David Tennant using stealth clearly learned from ninjas. There are wine clubs, Soviet nights and chipping at the wall efforts before going through Checkpoint Charlie. I've met people I've admired and every once in a while there has been adventure. Christmases, birthdays and family vacations are all stored, ready to be retrieved at any nostalgic call. How could I choose only one? And without the memories of those other experiences, who would I be?

If forced by gun-toting memory stealers, I suppose, against all odds, I would choose a quiet moment: my parents and I sitting around a table putting together a jigsaw puzzle, Christmas tree in the background, Perry Como on the radio—just the three of us talking about life and sharing memories of events past as the snow fell outside. It's not a moment in a vacuum—our shared and individual histories are always at play. "Do you remember the time…?" "I can't believe that llama spit on you!" "God, it was hot that day." Keeping that memory would, in essence, be keeping our history safe.

Your turn: "You can keep only one memory from your entire life. What will it be?"

So, What You’re Saying Is…

Undoubtedly, most of you took a gander at this article today (http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/thirty-three-happiest-age-says-study-193446415.html) while trying desperately to ignore how much you hate the sound of your boss's voice, or the inane questions of the guy who sits across from you. It didn't work, of course, but it was a temporary respite, I'm sure.

I read this in my usual post-sanity/post-employment/post-contributing member of society location: my couch (while occasionally glancing up at the window to judge whether or not I'm motivated enough to go to the park). One thing came immediately to mind: I am so screwed.

You see, if you are under 33 and miserable, this article should bring you hope. Apparently, you are not yet secure enough to truly be happy. Also, if you thought you were happy, this study would beg to differ. Still, that's all good news for you. If you are actually 33 and experiencing some mild cases of joy, but with overwhelming bouts of dissatisfaction, that's ok. You've just crossed the milestone and are poised for greatness while still having the physical ability to enjoy your life. Kudos.

And then…there are the rest of us. Poor bastards. Evidently, we hit our strides 10 years ago: we supposedly had confidence, skill and reached a sexual peak. Swell. Sadly, though, I don't remember any of that actually happening. Did you guys stride? Was I sidelined reading a book somewhere? Could be. It would be like me to miss my own peaking because I was reading about someone else's. Still, I feel like I would have noticed it.

What now? Have I missed the happy boat? I'm 10 years post-happiest age, and I don't remember content. I'm not fulfilled or secure and my accomplishments seem to be getting smaller as I gaze back at them in the rearview mirror. The biggest upside I can find is that I have great shoes.

Well…that's something, I suppose.

 

 

Awkward

You know how it is. You kind of know the URL of the website you need, but you don't quite remember it. You give it a guess. Often you are right. Once in a while, things go amusingly wrong (provided your employer has very flexible content controls).

Of course, I never really thought about this issue in relation to this site… until last week when I received the following text:

Did you know when you accidentally leave the blogspot out of your address you end up on a site for Russian mail order brides?

No. No, I did not, but it does explain some of my Twitter followers (who are, no doubt, confused as to why they ended up with a nun instead).

Now despite the potential difficulty with branding issues down the road, I actually found this to be hilarious, if for no other reason than the fact that I have an academic background in that region, so the Russian aspect brings a nice symmetry. As for the "mail order brides" part: can you think of a person less likely to be associated with this type of enterprise? Though, I suppose I can see the wisdom of arranged marriage—particularly if it gets you out of the dreadful dating process.

Anyway, think of this as a PSA. Type carefully, kids (unless you are thinking of buying a wife, that is)!

Brain Tumour Research's Wear A Hat Day

She said it:

I'm doing it in support of friends who have dealt with it (and looking adorkable):




It's not too late for you to join the fun. And if you do, post your photo (and send me a link or the photo for the site)!

Updates
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Groves is doing it!


Monique is doing it!

What’s the Fantasy?

With all the excitement over the $500 million Mega Millions lottery drawing, I've started thinking about how I'm going to spend my winnings (since, I think it's obvious that I will win it), and reviewing how my life will change. A girl has got to be ready for this sort of thing.

You know that the changes will not just be limited to changing my phone number and moving to a remote island (though those are clearly the first ones). For instance, perhaps Colin Firth has always had a movie script in the back of his closet that he has wanted to get made, but has never found the financing. If I call him as a pauper and offer to try to help him, I'm betting that I would not receive a return call from his agent. With $500 million sitting in the bank, someone might return my phone call. The point is, a middle-aged woman with a dream and no cash is a woman with very little power. A middle-aged woman with $500 million is a woman with a dream and the means to force other people to listen to it ad nauseam.

Money would certainly help my life right now. It would mean no need to go back to employment when my year is up. It would mean the ability to focus attention on projects (commercial and non-profit) that I think are interesting or important. My travels would become more exotic (and consistent). Also, I'd go back to Macy's and buy some of the stuff I liked, but couldn't really afford because it was not on sale, and I'd reacquaint myself with Jimmy Choo after an enforced, way-too-long absence.

There's only one tiny problem: the thing I really want, I can't buy. I can't even rent it. My biggest fantasy is to have the people I admire, admire my work. I want the people who interest me to be interested in me. You could argue that the money could buy someone's notice, but that isn't the same as respect. You could also argue that the money would mean getting my work to a wider audience, and it would increase my chances of the fantasy coming true. But higher visibility is no guarantee.

Let's be clear: I will take the money when they call my numbers. It will make my life better. It could potentially make the lives of the people around me better (the line starts behind Pen). But I have a feeling that the odds of me getting what I really want are the same whether the jackpot is mine or not (it is).

So, if you were to win the lottery (not this one, as it is mine), would it buy you what you really want?

It All Started With…

This

Which led to this:

Which led to this:

In public.

Here's how.

A kind friend has taken me in hand and is trying to help me put together some "taking a meeting" outfits in attempt to at least make me feel comfortable enough in my own skin (and wardrobe) to project a totally false sense of confidence. To this end, we went shopping, and found some accessories that I liked and that would work with our theme (picture #1). I liken my bracelets to Wonder Woman's bracelets which deflected bullets, only mine were designed to deflect disdain and my own self-doubts—practically the same thing. Also, they were purchased at Forever 21 which makes me giggle because apparently, I'm taking that "forever" thing quite literally.

Clad in my new bracelets and other perfectly acceptable casual clothing, I went back to the mall to exchange something and the clerk at a different store commented on how much he liked my bracelets. All of a sudden, I realized that these magical bracelets may have disabled my cloaking device and that I was secretly (very secretly) a super model with impeccable fashion sense (or at least borrowed fashion sense from M who suggested that I buy them).

Fresh off this tiny victory, I swaggered myself to lunch at a local restaurant. Taking my customary table in the corner, I set about trying to come up with a strategic plan for my future. I had no sooner gotten to "1" when I noticed a very attractive man enter the restaurant. He looked at me, and actually saw me. I know this because when he smiled at me, I smiled back and surreptitiously looked over my shoulder to make certain that no one was actually behind me. Nope. Just me. When he sat down, he looked over again. So stunned at the magic of the bracelets, I smiled back slightly bigger—and by slightly bigger, I might mean picture #2.

Unfortunately, when you smile that enthusiastically at someone, they might get the impression that: a) they know you, but can't place you, or b) you are crazy. By the look of confusion on his face, I'm guessing both of those things were true. His response led to picture #3.

I was clearly overwhelmed—no, not just whelmed, but over. These bracelets are powerful, and as Spiderman's dad told him: with great power, comes the great responsibility of not confusing attractive men in restaurants (perhaps that is a paraphrase).

I can only imagine what is going to happen when I don the shoes.

Caption Me Wednesdays

Quick! What am I thinking? If you know me in real life, you've probably seen this look at least once. Feel free to post in comments, twitter, email, etc.

Birthday

I come to you on this, the first day of my 43^rd year of being single, ready to impart all the wisdom I have accumulated on numerous topics. I am prepared to grant you access to the profound workings of my mind—which may or may not be clouded with a sugar rush that only a birthday cake and bubbly can bring.

Ready?

I have no idea what I am doing. And neither does anyone else.

If anyone knew for certain what to do in life, there would be only one self-help book on the shelf, and everyone would have adopted those guidelines because they worked for everyone. If there was only one way to find romance, there would be only one dating site. Also, you would not have, conservatively, 9,132 books about dating available on Amazon (there are actually more, but I didn't want to accidentally double count the hardcover and Kindle versions). There would be one book. Naturally, that book would be called "Dating according to Kate." Spoiler alert: it will include formal wear, as I recently rediscovered a couture dress in my closet that I'm dying to wear.

The best thing I can say is that after all of this time, I know me fairly well. It's not that I can't occasionally be surprising, but generally, I know me.

I seem to like asking questions more than either hearing (or giving) answers.
This is not just because I'm persnickety and argumentative, though undoubtedly both are true. For me, the journey tends to be more satisfying than the destination (unless we are discussing plane travel, and then… not so much). I like open-ended stories. I enjoy topical debate—which might seem odd since I often hold absolute opinions. But I do enjoy the questioning. Perhaps this is because the answers, thus far, have not lived up to their promise?

Chocolate is my favorite food group.
I used to think it was anything with salt, but chocolate has endured. It may be the true love of my life—which makes the very real possibility that I'm developing a chocolate allergy just a little disheartening. I plan to live in denial as long as possible. Certainly getting an actual allergy test is out of the question.

Someone needs to give me a $100 million entertainment development fund.
I think we can all agree that I would produce some incredibly entertaining work with $100 million. I'd also take $10 million…or $1 million. All of my incredibly talented friends (and I know many who just need that one break) would also benefit because the fund would finance their projects—provided they agree to cast a short list of actors I'd personally like to see work more… and if they would let me visit set…often… for, you know, script consulting purposes. Whatever. I think I would make a magnificent mogul. I'm adding the title to my business card right now.

As I get older, my inner monologue filter has started to become external.
And it's hysterical… although I would not be surprised in the least if it gets me punched at least once very soon.

I still believe I could wake up tomorrow and finally be 5'4".
Shhh. Let's not kill the fantasy.

Every year I call my parents on my birthday and hope that they have lied to me and that I'm actually 10 years younger.
They've started humoring me.

Even my fantasies are a disappointment.
The other night I had a fantasy where in the middle of an intellectual discourse, Clooney and I started to kiss. It was just "eh." He wasn't bad at it, and I think I held up my end with dignity. However, the spark just wasn't there. Typical.

Confidence (aka Getting Your Groove Back)

According to Hollywood, which is always right in these matters, the only thing a woman needs to get her confidence back (sexual or otherwise) is to have a fling with a 20-something male. I haven't done an exhaustive study, but I have a feeling that at least some of those scripts were written by 20-something males (and perhaps wishful thinking 40-something females). But here's my question: if you've been emotionally traumatized by the end of a long-term relationship either because your partner has cheated or simply decided that it wasn't working anymore, how the hell do you get enough confidence to approach any person again, let alone some 26 year old lothario?

I know what at least one of you is thinking: alcohol can play an important role in this healing process. But let's face it; that's not really confidence (or healing) talking as much as the inability to come to a cogent decision because you are so impaired you can no longer walk. All decisions made just prior to passing out in shrubbery should be treated as suspect at best. So barring alcohol or other chemically-fueled choices, what motivates you to make the approach?

Based on my own experiences, I'd have to say that starting over again after a long-term relationship (marriage or otherwise) is particularly tricky. Over time you have showed the best and worst of yourself to another person. You've said, "This is me, love me!" and they've said something along the lines of "Eh, I'm going through a selfish phase which involves red heads." Knowing that you allowed yourself the vulnerability of really letting someone see you, only to watch them walk away, why do you try again?

Obviously, people do it all the time. Somehow people convince themselves that with a different person, all their tricky bits will coalesce into something better than they had previously. And maybe they are right. Maybe the partner they were with was actually the problem and that with another person, and greater awareness, life really will be better. Logically, I know this happens. Emotionally, there's part of me that wonders what was wrong with me. I'm the common denominator in relationships that have gone off the rails, so why should I believe that the next one will magically work?

I understand that sex is a powerful motivator for some. But after years of being single, I'm not sure I could generate a "come hither" look if my life depended on it. People who know me—try to picture me being sexy. Frightening, isn't it? You can't do it, can you? The problem is, neither can I. "It's just like riding a bike," you say. It's really not—particularly not in a city like Los Angeles where sex seems to be treated like a competitive sport.

Maybe the reason I'm having such a difficult time getting my groove back is that I never had it in the first place? Maybe all I ever really had was a gentle sway, and now after all of this time I'm just frozen in place. Not moving forward. Not moving back. Just immobile with wariness wrapped in fear.

From the Outside Looking In

Close your eyes and try to conjure up an image of your first day of high school.

If you are my age, and a guy, you might have tried pulling off a Duran Duran (or maybe a Prince) look. Ladies, I'm feeling that a "Like a Virgin" Madonna, or "She Bop" Cyndi Lauper phase ran through you. Either way, we were all sporting some mighty funky hair that had so much Spritz the words "fire hazard" comes to mind. Just as you were feeling really good about yourself (or at least less alien), you walked into the cafeteria for the first time. Maybe you were a transfer, or maybe your high school took in kids from many other junior high schools, so you couldn't rely on having the same lunch as the friends you desperately sought out earlier in the day. You are alone. You are standing with your tray full of fish sticks and tater tots and wondering why God had forsaken you (as well as the entirety of the 10th grade).

Do you remember the panic? Your hands are sweating. Your heart is pounding. You are simultaneously convinced that everyone is staring at you and ignoring you because you are wholly inconsequential. Everyone around you seemed to have friends already. They all knew each other. Not only was there no room at their table, there was no room in their conversation. Stay, or go? Stay, or go? Sit alone and hope that someone joins you? Grab your tater tots and pretend that you have somewhere very important to be and can't waste time at such childish endeavors like lunch time?

This is me—every single day when I'm faced with a new group of people.

This was me, Thursday night. Only instead of lacy ankle socks, a million bracelets and a double-wrapped bondage belt, I looked like I was dressed to have tea with the Queen. Instead of high schoolers (or royalty), I was faced with a crowd of filmmakers (all seemingly more passionate, hip and accomplished than I). I was up north for a day trip to support a short film I had produced while still working in my corporate life. It was screening at a film festival there-- paired with a feature with talented known folks. My task was to answer questions and promote the short. What could go wrong?

As I entered an after-screening meet-up, I could hear Madonna's "Get Into The Groove" playing from somewhere outside the venue. Sadly, while I was responding nostalgically, the people around me were responding ironically. And the familiar panic set in. I tried to push through it—I exchanged pleasantries with a handful of other "artist" badge wearers. But as it was early on in the festival, none of us had seen much and most of them had worked together. I can't be the person who breaks into a recounting of war stories with "that reminds me of this time at the law firm I used to work at…"—though I have friends who can easily pull it off.

Once again, I was the outsider withdrawing by measures as each second ticked. I just didn't fit.

I excused myself shortly thereafter—not that anyone noticed my absence. I closed the door to my hotel room and felt myself crack. Nothing against the hotel (it was lovely), but if I had picked a place for emotional deterioration, it wouldn't have been there. For reference, I would have chosen Colin Firth's living room, so that he would be on hand to care for me (while no doubt rockin' a sweater like no other). I know I have to get over this. I know I have to take a deep breath (or 40), and make it impossible for people to dismiss me the next time. But right now, I'm standing with my lunch tray in hand just hoping for a spot at the table.

Me vs Reality

What all the other women looked like at the screening:





What I looked like:


...only I also had a jacket and pearl earrings.

Sigh.

The Gentle Art of the Dating

There is nothing quite like that feeling of seeing someone special across a crowded room (or match.com screen). You feel this connection, and despite all your reservations (which are mostly focused around you not having visited a gym in the last five years), you think that he could be the one. All you need to do is get his name and his number… and possibly his birth date. Because everyone knows that it's easier to narrow him down in the criminal offenders database if you have that information.

Very smart dating services have been using the background check for years, but apparently now it is available to the average Jane/Joe, as well. I know this because while I was running through my DVR, the commercial for BeenVerified.com kept popping up. Obviously, I approve. New people, places and things all make me slightly nervous. Also, people, places and things I've known about for a while could still be suspect. And I think we can all agree on the fact that I'm not getting in a date's car (should there ever be a date again) without knowing his criminal history, actual marital status (because I'm certainly not going to take his word for it) and his SAT scores (GREs are optional). So, places like BeenVerified.com are speaking my language.

However, I'm curious if those of you out there in blogland are also availing yourselves of the services. So… hands up if you have ever personally checked out a potential date—or had someone else do it for you.

I'm genuinely curious. Is dating more dangerous now than it was in the 1960s? It feels like it, but is it? I really don't think it would have crossed the mind of either of my parents to investigate the other. Sure, it would have been much more expensive and time-consuming in 1965, but also, seemingly unnecessary. Is it because we meet each other in much more casual and anonymous ways so we don't have the ability to judge someone's personality over time? I'd argue that is true, particularly if you are online dating. Then again, my parents met in a diner. They didn't work together. They didn't know each other before my father asked my mother out on a date. They had no friends in common. And yet, Sam Spade (or rather his 1960s equivalent) wasn't required.

Why were we willing to give each other the benefit of the doubt then, but not now? Are we ourselves more likely to lie to someone and, therefore, we assume that the people we encounter are also lying to us?

I know why I would do it—I have trust issues. No mystery. But the friends of mine, who have faced the biggest danger from their "romantic" partners, would have faced it with a background check or not because their partners had never been arrested or prosecuted. It would have saved Reb from that awkward "oh, he's still married" situation, but "separated" continues to confound. Even the dating database suggested in the novel "Insider Dating" seems like it would be too open to vindictive ex-partners and speculation.

So, what is the solution? I'd like the answer to be that we'll all just have to be really great people and make all of this unnecessary. Then again, I'd also like engraved invitations requesting the honor of my presence in a ball gown more often, so… my wants might be on the fringe of realistic.

Give me your wisdom, for I have none. I do, however, have a lovely Pinot that I'm willing to share.

 

 

Help

I am fabulous at many things:

• Bitching,
  
• Bemoaning my fate,
  
• Being critical of my body, and
  
• Saying no.
  

If awards were given in any of these categories, I would be legendary. They would have to retire my jersey in a ceremony full of pomp, circumstance and red velvet cupcakes. Sadly, I have yet to be informed of any such plans to honor me (I'm staying by my phone just in case).

Despite possessing these and other rather impressive attributes, I do falter in one significant way: I am virtually incapable of asking for help. I don't mean seeking emergency help—I'm pretty sure I would be able to dial 911 if the need arose (though I might write a "Pros and Cons" list if I was the one in need of rescue, as I nearly did here: http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/02/caprice-crane-and-final-thoughts-on.html). No, my failing tends to be on a more day-to-day level.

I was in New York last week, meeting some very nice people and chatting about the future of higher education. The social hour turned toward what I was currently doing in Los Angeles—always a little awkward when the answer is "seriously assessing my ability to be homeless while trying to become a writer/producer." So, maybe one of my other failings is excessive honesty. Anyway, a number of people gave me quite good suggestions about who to contact for advice, guidance, etc. And now the onus is on me to do reach out and touch someone (so to speak).

Which I will.

Probably.

Possibly.

I just don't know how to do it.

If you've ever read this blog before, you know I am terrible at networking. I'm abysmally bad at reaching out to strangers. While quite good at hiding in corners, I'm quite a bit less good at making an approach to someone I don't know regardless of the situation. I feel like I'm intruding on their lives if they are strangers—they didn't ask to have a random person knock on their virtual door. If I do know them, I feel like it's an imposition on the acquaintanceship, or worse—that they would feel used and awkward from the approach. Naturally, my inclination is to do nothing in order to not seem too pushy, rude or desperate. Apparently, that approach is somewhat less successful, statistically speaking. So, over the next two months I need to get better at this—much better. I have no choice (I mean, because I enjoy meeting new people).

So…

I am looking for an agent. I want to write across platforms (novels, television, film, web series, and material for your cell phones). I will take nearly all advice about getting one (or two, as the literary side of things is separate). And when I say nearly, I mean anyone who suggests anything naked will actually be fined (no, seriously). Just in case you are thinking that a blog plea doesn't count—I will be knocking on doors (so to speak). I will be emailing. I will be showing up with cupcakes, coffee or a bottle of pinot. People will be charmed despite their better instincts.

I hope.

 

Out There

I've returned to Los Angeles just in time to take part in a terrifying ritual known as "The Table Read." I've been writing a series of essays, monologues and conversations for the last few months, and today is the day I get to hear how it has all come together… or not. I've been told with absolute force that I should think positively and that even critical reactions can be useful.

Here's the thing—I'm a delicate flower. As we've already established, I hear a positive for about 20 seconds and a negative for the rest of my life. So imagine me trying to achieve a Zen-like state in the face of this much vulnerability. Can't imagine it? Yeah, neither can I. It has nothing to do with logic—a piece can always be better. I think it has much more to do with the life pressure that is now on me to succeed. I quit my job, in part, to write. If I walk away from a table reading of my work with "this was an abomination," that choice might seem less wise.

Even with great critical/commercial success, I know that I would still face criticism. This is why I plan to completely remove myself from the internet should I actually be employed. No one needs to read the pointed barbs of Twitter after a 16-hour day. My rational mind has accepted these things as truth. My somewhat fragile psyche—well, it's still working on it.

Deep breath.

Here we go.