It occurs to me that my love life has much in common with Cleveland sports teams. I’m always just one step away from victory before total annihilation.
The Browns were just eliminated from the playoffs. They had good intentions, but when it came down to execution, they couldn’t make it happen for themselves. They had to rely on another’s victory—and that team didn’t come through. I also have had good intentions all year long to achieve victory (ie a date with some sort of romantic promise, semi-romantic promise, any promise at all, maybe something involving a man who showers, whatever), only to fail in my execution at the last minute. I could rely on men to actually speak to me, or nod in my direction, but much like the Colts tonight—they aren’t coming through in the clutch (not that I want to be clutched… at least not right away).
My previous endeavors look more like the seasons for the Indians or Cavs this past year. There were many small victories in my past relationship and the season was long, but in the end, I couldn’t bring the title home any more than the teams could.
What worries me is it’s been a great, long while since any of the Cleveland teams have brought the trophy home. Am I like the Cleveland Browns who, unless I’m mistaken, have never even played in the Super Bowl? Or am I more like the Indians who just haven’t won the World Series since 1948?
I sincerely hope that in 2008 I will be in the big game, making some big plays, or at least getting a chance to carry the ball (ew, wait, no). In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to look upon my love life the way many a fan looks at the Cleveland teams. There’s always next year. This could be the big one…. You know, unless it’s not… again.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
New Year's Eve
It should surprise no one that I loathe New Year’s Eve.
I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.
I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.
Think I’m kidding?
The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.
(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).
I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.
Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.
For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).
Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.
I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.
Think I’m kidding?
The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.
(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).
I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.
Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.
For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).
Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Friday, December 07, 2007
Then Again...
Then again…
Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.
Justification, kneel to your master.
MWHAA HAAA HAAAA
Kate
Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.
Justification, kneel to your master.
MWHAA HAAA HAAAA
Kate
Monday, December 03, 2007
Bathrobe Guy
Last week’s episode of Samantha Who? was all about going on a date when you have amnesia and can’t relate fun life facts to your date (or any facts, at all). I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen because while I don’t technically have amnesia, I do have dating amnesia—as in, it’s been so long, I don’t remember how to do it.
All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.
Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.
Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.
Who is “bathrobe guy”?
“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.
On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.
Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?
Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!
My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.
Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.
Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.
Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.
Who is “bathrobe guy”?
“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.
On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.
Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?
Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!
My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.
Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
Monday, November 26, 2007
I Have Found Him
I have found the one, and in true Los Angeles fashion, our eyes met while we were driving. I initially thought I was going to need to curse him. He cut me off, slightly, and it annoyed me. But really, being able to slam on my brakes like that gave me the opportunity to look at him more directly than if our vehicles had just gently glided to a stop.
“But you don’t know him” is what you are thinking, isn’t it?
Oh, but I do. I know that he isn’t bound by convention. I know he has a vast imagination. I know that he isn’t all about flash. And I know that, driving record aside, he values safety beyond all else.
And I know all this because he was wearing a helmet. He was wearing a helmet while driving his Toyota Tercel.
Now you are thinking—“so he just got off of a construction site, and he hadn’t yet taken off his hard hat”.
No, it wasn’t a hard hat. It was a helmet.
Now you are thinking—“maybe he has a seizure disorder, give him a break”.
No, it wasn’t a medical safety helmet, it was helmet.
A combat helmet.
He was wearing a camouflage combat helmet…and not much else.
This guy… this guy has a story.
So, if you are out there dark blue Toyota Tercel driving camo helmet wearing dude—shoot me an email. It is obvious we are meant to be.
“But you don’t know him” is what you are thinking, isn’t it?
Oh, but I do. I know that he isn’t bound by convention. I know he has a vast imagination. I know that he isn’t all about flash. And I know that, driving record aside, he values safety beyond all else.
And I know all this because he was wearing a helmet. He was wearing a helmet while driving his Toyota Tercel.
Now you are thinking—“so he just got off of a construction site, and he hadn’t yet taken off his hard hat”.
No, it wasn’t a hard hat. It was a helmet.
Now you are thinking—“maybe he has a seizure disorder, give him a break”.
No, it wasn’t a medical safety helmet, it was helmet.
A combat helmet.
He was wearing a camouflage combat helmet…and not much else.
This guy… this guy has a story.
So, if you are out there dark blue Toyota Tercel driving camo helmet wearing dude—shoot me an email. It is obvious we are meant to be.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Bucket List
The other day I saw a trailer for the movie “The Bucket List”. It’s a movie about two men (played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) who make a list of all the things they want to do before they kick the bucket—and then they force each other to do them. The trailer got me thinking about what my list would look like.
Naturally, since it was a Saturday night, I had nothing to do, and crawled into bed (it was late—probably 7:30) with my pad of paper and pen. I was determined to create my list. I’m good with lists. I like checking things off. I was comfy. I was ready. Totally ready. Ready, ready, ready to write.
Yeah, I had nothing. I’ve still got nothing. How can there be nothing? The guys in the movie trailer had things like “sky diving” on their lists. I almost wrote down groceries. Well, in all fairness, I did need them.
When I pose myself the question, “what do I want to do before I die, that I haven’t done”, I draw a blank. I suppose I could be crafty, and write down “enjoy turning 150 years old” just to hedge my bets, but it’s probably not in keeping with the spirit of the exercise.
I know what you are all thinking—Clooney! Sure, that would be nice, but if he stays a fantasy, I think I’m fine with that.
Those boots? Those boots are lovely, but it seems sort of, what’s the word…, shallow to not have loftier aspirations.
I have goals for other people. For instance, I’d like my friend Pen to meet Alex O’Loughlin from “Moonlight”. I’d also like more people to watch “Moonlight” so that Pen and Mich don’t have to deal with the woes of cancellation. I’d like more people to understand exactly how serious the situation in Pakistan is before they have to start dealing with phrases like “nuclear fall-out”. Also, I’d like Paul Walker to discover what an amazing person Chloe is and declare his love (You know, for her not for someone else while talking to her. That would just be rude). But these are little things, and not really personal goals. Ok, maybe that Pakistan one.
American Express had a list last year. It was something like “50 Things to Do Before You Die”. Naturally, most of the things were expensive enough to require a credit card. And while some of the things sounded interesting, most of them didn’t actually pique enough curiosity for me to do anything about them.
I’m either completely lacking in imagination (possible), or completely satisfied. Yeah, no, I’m not satisfied at all. So, if I’m not satisfied with my life, why can’t I come up with a list of things that I want to do? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints? At this rate, the first thing on the list will be “figure out what I want”. Of course, if I write that down, the universe (still being male) will take me out right after I finally figure it out.
What’s on your list? Is it cheating if I steal your lists? What is your number one thing to do, that you haven’t done, before you die?
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
Naturally, since it was a Saturday night, I had nothing to do, and crawled into bed (it was late—probably 7:30) with my pad of paper and pen. I was determined to create my list. I’m good with lists. I like checking things off. I was comfy. I was ready. Totally ready. Ready, ready, ready to write.
Yeah, I had nothing. I’ve still got nothing. How can there be nothing? The guys in the movie trailer had things like “sky diving” on their lists. I almost wrote down groceries. Well, in all fairness, I did need them.
When I pose myself the question, “what do I want to do before I die, that I haven’t done”, I draw a blank. I suppose I could be crafty, and write down “enjoy turning 150 years old” just to hedge my bets, but it’s probably not in keeping with the spirit of the exercise.
I know what you are all thinking—Clooney! Sure, that would be nice, but if he stays a fantasy, I think I’m fine with that.
Those boots? Those boots are lovely, but it seems sort of, what’s the word…, shallow to not have loftier aspirations.
I have goals for other people. For instance, I’d like my friend Pen to meet Alex O’Loughlin from “Moonlight”. I’d also like more people to watch “Moonlight” so that Pen and Mich don’t have to deal with the woes of cancellation. I’d like more people to understand exactly how serious the situation in Pakistan is before they have to start dealing with phrases like “nuclear fall-out”. Also, I’d like Paul Walker to discover what an amazing person Chloe is and declare his love (You know, for her not for someone else while talking to her. That would just be rude). But these are little things, and not really personal goals. Ok, maybe that Pakistan one.
American Express had a list last year. It was something like “50 Things to Do Before You Die”. Naturally, most of the things were expensive enough to require a credit card. And while some of the things sounded interesting, most of them didn’t actually pique enough curiosity for me to do anything about them.
I’m either completely lacking in imagination (possible), or completely satisfied. Yeah, no, I’m not satisfied at all. So, if I’m not satisfied with my life, why can’t I come up with a list of things that I want to do? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints? At this rate, the first thing on the list will be “figure out what I want”. Of course, if I write that down, the universe (still being male) will take me out right after I finally figure it out.
What’s on your list? Is it cheating if I steal your lists? What is your number one thing to do, that you haven’t done, before you die?
Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Morally Wrong, But…
Obviously, many people mistake me for a top model. Between my near midget size and my penchant for sensible shoes, it really is no wonder. Sure, sometimes it is awkward for me—people stare. I am constantly getting questions like: “are those orthopedic shoes?” or “how did you manage to find a turtleneck in every color?” I have to just take people aside and tell them—“Hey, I’m a person, just like you—just so much more fashionable.”
Yeah. Not so much. In The Devil Wears Prada world, I am the pre-transformation Andi. Anna Wintour would never give me a nod, or even a hint of a smile. Most of the time, I feel good about that. Comfort is my guiding force.
And then I saw these: aka morally wrong.
Much like the Grinch, my small heart grew three sizes that day.
Obviously, there is no good reason to spend $1250 ($1400 if you count shipping) for boots that couldn’t touch rain or snow or pavement or grass or anything but the loving caress of angels.
And yet…oh, the sudden temptation. I’d go from weeble to umm…taller weeble. I have been relatively invisible most of my life. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ignore anyone wearing these boots.
But obviously morally wrong… and I don’t have anything to wear with them. Ok, one thing, but other than that these really don’t fit into my current life. Of course, they do fit into my fantasy life rather nicely. The one where my bottom is human sized, and George Clooney drops by with a pizza.
And I’m wearing these boots.
I tried to appeal to my friends—my responsible, reasonable, level-headed friends. Surely, they would present the logical arguments against this kind of frivolous, excessive purchase.
So far, not one of them has landed on the side of “don’t buy them”. In fact, I’m now keeping a record of the most inventive justifications. I think my favorite so far is “Not only would I wear them every day, but I’d wear them to bed”.
I’m opening this up to the blog community. Would you? Wouldn’t you?
Kate
Which, of course, I wouldn’t because it’s morally wrong… you know, mostly.
cafepress.com/katedating
Yeah. Not so much. In The Devil Wears Prada world, I am the pre-transformation Andi. Anna Wintour would never give me a nod, or even a hint of a smile. Most of the time, I feel good about that. Comfort is my guiding force.
And then I saw these: aka morally wrong.
Much like the Grinch, my small heart grew three sizes that day.
Obviously, there is no good reason to spend $1250 ($1400 if you count shipping) for boots that couldn’t touch rain or snow or pavement or grass or anything but the loving caress of angels.
And yet…oh, the sudden temptation. I’d go from weeble to umm…taller weeble. I have been relatively invisible most of my life. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ignore anyone wearing these boots.
But obviously morally wrong… and I don’t have anything to wear with them. Ok, one thing, but other than that these really don’t fit into my current life. Of course, they do fit into my fantasy life rather nicely. The one where my bottom is human sized, and George Clooney drops by with a pizza.
And I’m wearing these boots.
I tried to appeal to my friends—my responsible, reasonable, level-headed friends. Surely, they would present the logical arguments against this kind of frivolous, excessive purchase.
So far, not one of them has landed on the side of “don’t buy them”. In fact, I’m now keeping a record of the most inventive justifications. I think my favorite so far is “Not only would I wear them every day, but I’d wear them to bed”.
I’m opening this up to the blog community. Would you? Wouldn’t you?
Kate
Which, of course, I wouldn’t because it’s morally wrong… you know, mostly.
cafepress.com/katedating
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Off Girl
Obviously, no one is ever going to confuse me with Elsa Maxwell. People don’t leave my home raving about my lavish and animated parties. This is largely because I live in a very small apartment—and I don’t let anyone inside.
However, on very rare occasions, I will venture outside the fortress of solitude and do something that involves socialization. This is particularly true during the holidays when office parties and friend get togethers are more frequent. Like any warrior going into battle, I am girding my loins and preparing to enter the social fray.
In my preparation, which includes watching many episodes of Sex and The City and Samantha Who?, I’ve noticed that there are two extreme types in most social situations: “The Off Girl” and “The On Girl”.
I am clearly “The Off Girl”. My social switch has not been flicked in a very, very long time. There isn’t a ficus I don’t love. My instincts are to hide, even if that means that I have to physically create a barrier with my back to anyone attempting to breach the inner circle. Even though I do acknowledge anyone who does try to talk to me, I’m unlikely to engage on my own. I’m content to chat with my friends—which means that even if I go to a party where I could meet a ton of new people, I tend to stand in the corner and talk to the one other person I already know. Luckily, after watching last week’s Samantha Who?, I’ve got the outward swivel and smile move down (swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat). I’m working on actually caring if someone approaches me. I have a feeling that one will take more time than the beckoning hair toss.
Alas, while I think I can adapt and engage with the rest of the average party goers, I’m afraid my opposite makes me want to commit murder. Oh, you’re right, that would require effort. Fine. My opposite makes me want to wall up my apartment door and just commit to never leaving once and for all.
My opposite is “The On Girl”. This girl can actually be a lovely person. She can be smart. She can even be, in the right circumstances, fun. She can also be the most annoying person on the planet. Get one drink in this girl, and everyone around her is suddenly an extra in “The On Girl” Show (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”). If you are actually talking to a guy (or a girl, or the wall), she will step up and monopolize the conversation. Volume levels are raised. Giggles do not stop. She will yell across a crowded room “Did you say Oklahoma?! OMG. That’s so funny because I went to school in Utah!” She’ll take whatever topic is out there and continue with “I did that too, only when I did it, it was snowing, and I ran in heels, uphill, both ways.” She might as well be tap dancing and singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”).
Perhaps I just wish I was more like “The On Girl”. Maybe I just wish my switch would be flicked. I could look upon these situations as valuable learning experiences. Rather than resenting her gift for insinuating herself into every conceivable conversation, I should watch her technique and strap on the tap shoes myself (swivel, smile, beckon).
Ugh. But then I’d just be annoyed with myself, and according to my Entertainment Weekly, self-loathing is so 5 minutes ago. And you know how trend conscious I am.
Kate
However, on very rare occasions, I will venture outside the fortress of solitude and do something that involves socialization. This is particularly true during the holidays when office parties and friend get togethers are more frequent. Like any warrior going into battle, I am girding my loins and preparing to enter the social fray.
In my preparation, which includes watching many episodes of Sex and The City and Samantha Who?, I’ve noticed that there are two extreme types in most social situations: “The Off Girl” and “The On Girl”.
I am clearly “The Off Girl”. My social switch has not been flicked in a very, very long time. There isn’t a ficus I don’t love. My instincts are to hide, even if that means that I have to physically create a barrier with my back to anyone attempting to breach the inner circle. Even though I do acknowledge anyone who does try to talk to me, I’m unlikely to engage on my own. I’m content to chat with my friends—which means that even if I go to a party where I could meet a ton of new people, I tend to stand in the corner and talk to the one other person I already know. Luckily, after watching last week’s Samantha Who?, I’ve got the outward swivel and smile move down (swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat). I’m working on actually caring if someone approaches me. I have a feeling that one will take more time than the beckoning hair toss.
Alas, while I think I can adapt and engage with the rest of the average party goers, I’m afraid my opposite makes me want to commit murder. Oh, you’re right, that would require effort. Fine. My opposite makes me want to wall up my apartment door and just commit to never leaving once and for all.
My opposite is “The On Girl”. This girl can actually be a lovely person. She can be smart. She can even be, in the right circumstances, fun. She can also be the most annoying person on the planet. Get one drink in this girl, and everyone around her is suddenly an extra in “The On Girl” Show (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”). If you are actually talking to a guy (or a girl, or the wall), she will step up and monopolize the conversation. Volume levels are raised. Giggles do not stop. She will yell across a crowded room “Did you say Oklahoma?! OMG. That’s so funny because I went to school in Utah!” She’ll take whatever topic is out there and continue with “I did that too, only when I did it, it was snowing, and I ran in heels, uphill, both ways.” She might as well be tap dancing and singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”).
Perhaps I just wish I was more like “The On Girl”. Maybe I just wish my switch would be flicked. I could look upon these situations as valuable learning experiences. Rather than resenting her gift for insinuating herself into every conceivable conversation, I should watch her technique and strap on the tap shoes myself (swivel, smile, beckon).
Ugh. But then I’d just be annoyed with myself, and according to my Entertainment Weekly, self-loathing is so 5 minutes ago. And you know how trend conscious I am.
Kate
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A Week (or so) in Review
Clooney v. Fabio
Clearly, I fall on the side (or the front, or the back) of Clooney here. While I’ve read differing accounts of whether or not Clooney actually pushed Fabio, would anyone really be all that bummed out if Clooney had decked him? I mean, who hasn’t thought about decking Fabio at one time or another? Sure, it seems to have started over a misunderstanding, and Clooney appears to have misinterpreted something. Again, don’t care. Plus, it appears to have been a manly response without gun play (rappers take note). Points go to Clooney here regardless of irrelevant things like facts, etc.
State of California v. Wildfires
Happily, we appear to have finally won this round. Thanks to all who inquired, but we got very lucky up here—really just some ash and smoke. It looks like the southern fires are also well in hand. Let’s not do that again, shall we?
Kate v. Possible Oscar Nominations
I’m already woefully behind on seeing movies that might get nominations. Each year friends and I print out the nominations and try to see everything on the lists. And I do mean everything. This generally means that you must pay some attention early in the year just in case something hasn’t been released yet on DVD by the time of the awards.
I’ve seen two movies in the last two weeks, and oddly enough they both featured Amy Ryan. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her before, but now I’ve seen her in two movies in a row, and I understand she is also in Dan in Real Life. Good year for Amy Ryan.
The good news—Gone Baby Gone and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead are both great movies for the actors. If you primarily go see a movie for performances, these are excellent pictures for you. Both movies present some very interesting moral dilemmas and the concept of “gray area” gets a real workout. The bad news—I’m not a big fan of violence, so I did avert my eyes a couple of times in both, so if you are really squeamish, keep that in mind. Most people probably wont flinch. Also, if the idea of watching Philip Seymour Hoffman in a very naked sex scene makes you uncomfortable, you might also want to avert your eyes from that. But damn, he’s good--- wait, I don’t mean in the sex scene (well, he appears to perform admirably, I suppose), I mean in the movie generally.
I have noticed that pacing in three of the major movies I’ve seen recently was very different from what you’d expect. For instance, in Gone Baby Gone, I actually said to myself “wait, that can’t be it”. And it wasn’t, but it felt like the movie was wrapping up. “Devil” plays with time in terms of how things are presented. Even Michael Clayton (oooh, baby) had weird pacing to it—although the end… wow, the end.
Anyway, I’m losing the battle of the numbers, but winning in that I’m seeing some great performances. But I’ve got to see a comedy soon because none of the ones I’ve seen recently have been all that warm and fuzzy. If only they would make my love life in to a comedy—now that would make you laugh until you cry. ;)
Kate v. Male Population of Los Angeles
Males seem to still be winning this one. Albert Ellis would be so disappointed in me. I was supposed to speak to 50 men—25 per month. It turned out to be far more challenging than originally planned. Apparently, my ability to turn invisible is still as keen as ever. Joy. When men do see me, my attempts at conversation seem to yield nods—not technically responses, so they don’t count. The other day I actually thought I had a live one, until I realized he was actually on his phone’s headset, and his responses were to the person on the other end. Damn Bluetooth.
The rules committee has generously allowed me to the end of this month before drastic measures will be taken. I’ve made it to 25 (and ½). I’m thinking that I might need bait in order to make this happen successfully. I need a vivacious, gorgeous, 20 year old female to reel them in. Of course, since the idea is for me to get a guy to respond to me, that might actually pose a roadblock. They might not be able to talk to me and drool over the bait, what with all their blood rushing southward and all.
Drastic measures involve me pretending to take a survey in the mall just to start conversation. It’s less likely to get me arrested than a bathing suit.
Clearly, I fall on the side (or the front, or the back) of Clooney here. While I’ve read differing accounts of whether or not Clooney actually pushed Fabio, would anyone really be all that bummed out if Clooney had decked him? I mean, who hasn’t thought about decking Fabio at one time or another? Sure, it seems to have started over a misunderstanding, and Clooney appears to have misinterpreted something. Again, don’t care. Plus, it appears to have been a manly response without gun play (rappers take note). Points go to Clooney here regardless of irrelevant things like facts, etc.
State of California v. Wildfires
Happily, we appear to have finally won this round. Thanks to all who inquired, but we got very lucky up here—really just some ash and smoke. It looks like the southern fires are also well in hand. Let’s not do that again, shall we?
Kate v. Possible Oscar Nominations
I’m already woefully behind on seeing movies that might get nominations. Each year friends and I print out the nominations and try to see everything on the lists. And I do mean everything. This generally means that you must pay some attention early in the year just in case something hasn’t been released yet on DVD by the time of the awards.
I’ve seen two movies in the last two weeks, and oddly enough they both featured Amy Ryan. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her before, but now I’ve seen her in two movies in a row, and I understand she is also in Dan in Real Life. Good year for Amy Ryan.
The good news—Gone Baby Gone and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead are both great movies for the actors. If you primarily go see a movie for performances, these are excellent pictures for you. Both movies present some very interesting moral dilemmas and the concept of “gray area” gets a real workout. The bad news—I’m not a big fan of violence, so I did avert my eyes a couple of times in both, so if you are really squeamish, keep that in mind. Most people probably wont flinch. Also, if the idea of watching Philip Seymour Hoffman in a very naked sex scene makes you uncomfortable, you might also want to avert your eyes from that. But damn, he’s good--- wait, I don’t mean in the sex scene (well, he appears to perform admirably, I suppose), I mean in the movie generally.
I have noticed that pacing in three of the major movies I’ve seen recently was very different from what you’d expect. For instance, in Gone Baby Gone, I actually said to myself “wait, that can’t be it”. And it wasn’t, but it felt like the movie was wrapping up. “Devil” plays with time in terms of how things are presented. Even Michael Clayton (oooh, baby) had weird pacing to it—although the end… wow, the end.
Anyway, I’m losing the battle of the numbers, but winning in that I’m seeing some great performances. But I’ve got to see a comedy soon because none of the ones I’ve seen recently have been all that warm and fuzzy. If only they would make my love life in to a comedy—now that would make you laugh until you cry. ;)
Kate v. Male Population of Los Angeles
Males seem to still be winning this one. Albert Ellis would be so disappointed in me. I was supposed to speak to 50 men—25 per month. It turned out to be far more challenging than originally planned. Apparently, my ability to turn invisible is still as keen as ever. Joy. When men do see me, my attempts at conversation seem to yield nods—not technically responses, so they don’t count. The other day I actually thought I had a live one, until I realized he was actually on his phone’s headset, and his responses were to the person on the other end. Damn Bluetooth.
The rules committee has generously allowed me to the end of this month before drastic measures will be taken. I’ve made it to 25 (and ½). I’m thinking that I might need bait in order to make this happen successfully. I need a vivacious, gorgeous, 20 year old female to reel them in. Of course, since the idea is for me to get a guy to respond to me, that might actually pose a roadblock. They might not be able to talk to me and drool over the bait, what with all their blood rushing southward and all.
Drastic measures involve me pretending to take a survey in the mall just to start conversation. It’s less likely to get me arrested than a bathing suit.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Ah, Romance
This is the subject of an email that came to me today and is currently in my inbox:
“your new penis is here waiting for you”
I swear to you, if this is from my blind date, I'm out.
Kate
cafepress.com/katedating
“your new penis is here waiting for you”
I swear to you, if this is from my blind date, I'm out.
Kate
cafepress.com/katedating
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
2nd Post- XFiles Is Official
I'm leaving for Vancouver now. It's a little early, but I need to become an established Canadian resident before I can work on this damn thing. Oh, and the new directions for their relationship better be naked directions, damn it. And I don't mean for Tooms or Pusher.
Happy Dance! Happy Dance!! Oh, and M, we never did get to Vancouver when it was actually shooting up there. I'm just saying... Ok, you need me to spell this out for you? VANCOUVER.
Kate is suddenly bouncy from more than sugar
===
Fox sets date for 'X-Files' sequel
Scully, Mulder return to theaters on July 25
Daily Variety
By PAMELA MCCLINTOCK, TATIANA SIEGEL
The long-awaited second "X-Files" film is finally a go, with 20th Century Fox setting a July 25, 2008 release date.
Untitled project reunites "X-Files" creator Chris Carter with thesps David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, who will reprise their signature roles as FBI agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.
Carter begins lensing in December in Vancouver from a script he co-wrote with Frank Spotnitz, a veteran scribe of the long-running "X-Files" television series, which became a worldwide hit in its 1993-2002 run on the Fox network. Spotnitz also co-wrote with Carter the screenplay for 1998 feature "X-Files."
Studio is keeping the film's logline under wraps, but stressed the pic is a stand-alone story and supernatural thriller that takes the complicated relationship between Mulder and Scully in new directions.
As of now, there are only two other titles skedded for July 25, both comedies. Sony unspools Will Ferrell-John C. Reilly starrer "Step Brothers," directed by Adam McKay, while MGM has bows untitled Ice Cube family laffer.
Bringing the "X-Files." sequel to the bigscreen was waylaid when Chris Carter brought a 2005 lawsuit against Fox over how the "X-Files" syndication profits were divvied up. Suit was later settled.
Earlier this year, the issue seemed to have been resolved, with Duchovny and Anderson both indicating the that the film was finally forward.
Released in 1998, feature film "The X-Files" grossed $187 million worldwide, including a domestic haul of $83.9 million and an international cume of more than $103 million.
Happy Dance! Happy Dance!! Oh, and M, we never did get to Vancouver when it was actually shooting up there. I'm just saying... Ok, you need me to spell this out for you? VANCOUVER.
Kate is suddenly bouncy from more than sugar
===
Fox sets date for 'X-Files' sequel
Scully, Mulder return to theaters on July 25
Daily Variety
By PAMELA MCCLINTOCK, TATIANA SIEGEL
The long-awaited second "X-Files" film is finally a go, with 20th Century Fox setting a July 25, 2008 release date.
Untitled project reunites "X-Files" creator Chris Carter with thesps David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, who will reprise their signature roles as FBI agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.
Carter begins lensing in December in Vancouver from a script he co-wrote with Frank Spotnitz, a veteran scribe of the long-running "X-Files" television series, which became a worldwide hit in its 1993-2002 run on the Fox network. Spotnitz also co-wrote with Carter the screenplay for 1998 feature "X-Files."
Studio is keeping the film's logline under wraps, but stressed the pic is a stand-alone story and supernatural thriller that takes the complicated relationship between Mulder and Scully in new directions.
As of now, there are only two other titles skedded for July 25, both comedies. Sony unspools Will Ferrell-John C. Reilly starrer "Step Brothers," directed by Adam McKay, while MGM has bows untitled Ice Cube family laffer.
Bringing the "X-Files." sequel to the bigscreen was waylaid when Chris Carter brought a 2005 lawsuit against Fox over how the "X-Files" syndication profits were divvied up. Suit was later settled.
Earlier this year, the issue seemed to have been resolved, with Duchovny and Anderson both indicating the that the film was finally forward.
Released in 1998, feature film "The X-Files" grossed $187 million worldwide, including a domestic haul of $83.9 million and an international cume of more than $103 million.
Welcome!
Welcome to my mid-life crisis. My name is Kate (Hi, Kate!), and I will be your tour guide. I find myself saying “how’d that happen” all the time these days—and I don't just mean when I look at my enormous bottom on the mirror (I know how that happened—get thee back, oh evil Häagen-Dazs. Well, not that far back, that’s just taking me far too literally. Closer. Closer. Closer. Ugh. Damn you!!).
Um, anyway, other popular questions with me these days:
Goals.
What happened to them? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints?
Career.
At what point am I going to discover what it is that I want to be when I grow up? When I was a teenager, I absolutely knew—Laura Holt. I wanted to be Laura Holt. Not a detective, but actually Laura Holt. I had the hats. I had the moxie. Sadly, did not have Remington Steele, but I was sure that one day I would have him or a reasonable facsimile. Yeah, still waiting on that one. At least I still have the hats, right?
Sex.
Look, I’ve known a lot of wonderful, caring popular ladies. Very popular. Very, very, very, very, very popular, and I have cheered them on. But these days, the overwhelming media perception about sex is that you meet someone and you immediately have sex with them and then maybe you get to know them, maybe not. Anyone see “Big Shots” the other night? The relatively chaste about-to-be-divorced guy (played by the dreamy Michael Vartan) was lamenting the loss of old fashioned girl who waited until the third date (third date? that's his version of old fashioned?) (I think the woman he met at the party had known him all of about 20 minutes before wanting to get on with it). All of his buddies told him that he should revel in the fact that women now have sex like men. Ok. Well, if that’s your thing, congratulations, but behaving like a guy isn’t really a selling point for me. I’ve spent years complaining about the way guys treat women, and now I’m supposed to be psyched that I have the opportunity to return the favor, or that now neither of us will give a shit? This is progress? Eh. Not so much. Oooh—perhaps I have found a career goal after all—nun. Clearly, these are my people.
Something Wicked.
Ever get the feeling that really big change is coming? A couple of times a year, I seem to get this overwhelming feeling that something is coming. I don’t think it’s anything particularly psychic—it’s more likely that my subconscious is picking something up that I’m not ready to deal with in any other way. The change isn’t always bad, either, but it is usually big. And I’ve never been wrong. I’m just hoping that this time it means that George Clooney will be one of my trick or treaters tonight. And if he is, I promise to seriously reconsider my stance on the paragraph above.
Kate, seemingly the last relatively old fashioned, goal-challenged girl in the world
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Um, anyway, other popular questions with me these days:
Goals.
What happened to them? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints?
Career.
At what point am I going to discover what it is that I want to be when I grow up? When I was a teenager, I absolutely knew—Laura Holt. I wanted to be Laura Holt. Not a detective, but actually Laura Holt. I had the hats. I had the moxie. Sadly, did not have Remington Steele, but I was sure that one day I would have him or a reasonable facsimile. Yeah, still waiting on that one. At least I still have the hats, right?
Sex.
Look, I’ve known a lot of wonderful, caring popular ladies. Very popular. Very, very, very, very, very popular, and I have cheered them on. But these days, the overwhelming media perception about sex is that you meet someone and you immediately have sex with them and then maybe you get to know them, maybe not. Anyone see “Big Shots” the other night? The relatively chaste about-to-be-divorced guy (played by the dreamy Michael Vartan) was lamenting the loss of old fashioned girl who waited until the third date (third date? that's his version of old fashioned?) (I think the woman he met at the party had known him all of about 20 minutes before wanting to get on with it). All of his buddies told him that he should revel in the fact that women now have sex like men. Ok. Well, if that’s your thing, congratulations, but behaving like a guy isn’t really a selling point for me. I’ve spent years complaining about the way guys treat women, and now I’m supposed to be psyched that I have the opportunity to return the favor, or that now neither of us will give a shit? This is progress? Eh. Not so much. Oooh—perhaps I have found a career goal after all—nun. Clearly, these are my people.
Something Wicked.
Ever get the feeling that really big change is coming? A couple of times a year, I seem to get this overwhelming feeling that something is coming. I don’t think it’s anything particularly psychic—it’s more likely that my subconscious is picking something up that I’m not ready to deal with in any other way. The change isn’t always bad, either, but it is usually big. And I’ve never been wrong. I’m just hoping that this time it means that George Clooney will be one of my trick or treaters tonight. And if he is, I promise to seriously reconsider my stance on the paragraph above.
Kate, seemingly the last relatively old fashioned, goal-challenged girl in the world
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Reader Mail (NSFW)
I get a ton of email every day. It’s obviously from my dear readers who have taken the time to really reflect on what has been written here over the past year. I’ve touched them. This much is clear. I feel badly that I don’t always respond immediately. Because I was working on a friend’s movie, I have been particularly remiss in not responding to reader mail in a timely fashion. So, in order to apologize properly, I think I should respond to some of it here.
Question 1: Are you good in bed?
Yes. I am very good in bed. For instance, I can sleep on my side or my back with equal comfort. While I am a blanket hog, I don’t need to sleep on any particular side of the bed. Left, right, center—it’s really all the same to me.
Question 2: Do you want a man-sized shaft?
I think the construction of this question leaves me with some scary imagery, actually. Are they literally offering me a 6 foot penis? If they are, I’ll have to politely decline. It would be like the penis that ate New York. So, thank you for the offer, but I’ll save that for some other deserving person. Of course, now I’ll be haunted that an entire city is being terrorized by a gigantic penis.
(How does a gigantic penis move, do you suppose? Does it hop? Well, that makes it much less frightening.)
Question 3: Indian man looking for American wife. Are you her?
It’s not that I doubt the obvious sincerity of this magnanimous proposal, but I’m very quirky. When I finally hear those magical words, I’d prefer it if they didn't start in an email addressed: “To Whom It May Concern”. But that’s just me. Good luck to you in all your future endeavors. P.S. Hit me up again in 6 months, and I might reconsider depending on how my blind date goes.
Question 4: I bet you look like a troll.
Playskool Weeble. Pay attention.
Question 5: We can help you with your ED problems?
Thanks! But I’m happy to report that Ed and I are getting along just fine. Really, he isn’t giving me any hassle at all these days.
Question 6: Why would anyone date someone so obviously bitter?
Please see answers to #1 and #4. How could anyone resist?
Question 7: I am a Nigerian prince. My parents were killed in a bombing, leaving me $25 million dollars that I secretly need to move to the United States. If you confidentially accept this money transfer into your bank account, I will pay you $5 million. Please click this link.
Finally, my prince has come! Let me just find that bank account info….
Yep, as you can see katedating@yahoo.com gets a lot of mail. For instance, I had 42 pages of thought provoking mail much along the lines of the above when I finally had a chance to look at it today. Out of curiosity—does spam work? It has to, right, otherwise why would it come in such high volumes? Has anyone ever responded back to them? I don’t mean to actually place an order for Megadik, but just for the heck of it.
I’m thinking about it. Dear Mr. Nigerian Prince…
Kate
Question 1: Are you good in bed?
Yes. I am very good in bed. For instance, I can sleep on my side or my back with equal comfort. While I am a blanket hog, I don’t need to sleep on any particular side of the bed. Left, right, center—it’s really all the same to me.
Question 2: Do you want a man-sized shaft?
I think the construction of this question leaves me with some scary imagery, actually. Are they literally offering me a 6 foot penis? If they are, I’ll have to politely decline. It would be like the penis that ate New York. So, thank you for the offer, but I’ll save that for some other deserving person. Of course, now I’ll be haunted that an entire city is being terrorized by a gigantic penis.
(How does a gigantic penis move, do you suppose? Does it hop? Well, that makes it much less frightening.)
Question 3: Indian man looking for American wife. Are you her?
It’s not that I doubt the obvious sincerity of this magnanimous proposal, but I’m very quirky. When I finally hear those magical words, I’d prefer it if they didn't start in an email addressed: “To Whom It May Concern”. But that’s just me. Good luck to you in all your future endeavors. P.S. Hit me up again in 6 months, and I might reconsider depending on how my blind date goes.
Question 4: I bet you look like a troll.
Playskool Weeble. Pay attention.
Question 5: We can help you with your ED problems?
Thanks! But I’m happy to report that Ed and I are getting along just fine. Really, he isn’t giving me any hassle at all these days.
Question 6: Why would anyone date someone so obviously bitter?
Please see answers to #1 and #4. How could anyone resist?
Question 7: I am a Nigerian prince. My parents were killed in a bombing, leaving me $25 million dollars that I secretly need to move to the United States. If you confidentially accept this money transfer into your bank account, I will pay you $5 million. Please click this link.
Finally, my prince has come! Let me just find that bank account info….
Yep, as you can see katedating@yahoo.com gets a lot of mail. For instance, I had 42 pages of thought provoking mail much along the lines of the above when I finally had a chance to look at it today. Out of curiosity—does spam work? It has to, right, otherwise why would it come in such high volumes? Has anyone ever responded back to them? I don’t mean to actually place an order for Megadik, but just for the heck of it.
I’m thinking about it. Dear Mr. Nigerian Prince…
Kate
Monday, October 15, 2007
Oh, Yeah????
Everyone who said I couldn’t meet a man by staying inside my apartment, I’d like you to pay me $10. Please feel free to send it to my email address via paypal.
I came home today to find not one, but two gentlemen inside my apartment. That’s right—they were already here. I didn’t even have to go out and bring them back. They were already here waiting for me.
Sure, that could sound creepy and dangerous—sort of like a home invasion, but they were clearly fans. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of them asked me where he could get one of my lovely products (click here for lovely products).
Fine, they were actually here because the pipe burst, and the management company thought that water flooding the downstairs apartment might be a bad thing. Whatever. I think it’s so obvious that they were fans. They even asked me for an autograph… on their work order, but that’s just because it is all they had on hand. And I totally personalized it with “thanks for all of your support” which will undoubtedly make an impression when they read it J
I don’t want to seem ungrateful in any way for the universe sending me men, but if it could give me some warning next time that would be lovely. You never know when I might have access to the lethal spork/chair combo, and I don’t really love surprises. We narrowly avoided a minor, yet completely defensible, sporking when I walked in the door to hear people in my apartment. Apparently no one saw the “Fortress of Solitude” sticker on the door. But that’s just a minor quibble.
Ooooh, also, with the whole “notice” thing—it would help quell the panic that rises along the lines of “shit, my apartment is a mess; I live alone, no one sees this but me; where did I leave that bra; no really, the jungle in my living room is because of the painting; I’m not really a slob; I swear the walls were painted that way when I got here”.
But other than those infinitesimal issues, I completely appreciate the universe stockpiling men in the hall for me. Nice work.
I have to go clean now. I understand the plasterer could be coming sometime in the next few days to repair the hole in the wall. I need to practice my “oh so casual” twirl into the room in my sweater set, a-line skirt, pumps and pearls so that it looks natural.
What do you mean I’m not Doris Day?
Kate
I came home today to find not one, but two gentlemen inside my apartment. That’s right—they were already here. I didn’t even have to go out and bring them back. They were already here waiting for me.
Sure, that could sound creepy and dangerous—sort of like a home invasion, but they were clearly fans. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of them asked me where he could get one of my lovely products (click here for lovely products).
Fine, they were actually here because the pipe burst, and the management company thought that water flooding the downstairs apartment might be a bad thing. Whatever. I think it’s so obvious that they were fans. They even asked me for an autograph… on their work order, but that’s just because it is all they had on hand. And I totally personalized it with “thanks for all of your support” which will undoubtedly make an impression when they read it J
I don’t want to seem ungrateful in any way for the universe sending me men, but if it could give me some warning next time that would be lovely. You never know when I might have access to the lethal spork/chair combo, and I don’t really love surprises. We narrowly avoided a minor, yet completely defensible, sporking when I walked in the door to hear people in my apartment. Apparently no one saw the “Fortress of Solitude” sticker on the door. But that’s just a minor quibble.
Ooooh, also, with the whole “notice” thing—it would help quell the panic that rises along the lines of “shit, my apartment is a mess; I live alone, no one sees this but me; where did I leave that bra; no really, the jungle in my living room is because of the painting; I’m not really a slob; I swear the walls were painted that way when I got here”.
But other than those infinitesimal issues, I completely appreciate the universe stockpiling men in the hall for me. Nice work.
I have to go clean now. I understand the plasterer could be coming sometime in the next few days to repair the hole in the wall. I need to practice my “oh so casual” twirl into the room in my sweater set, a-line skirt, pumps and pearls so that it looks natural.
What do you mean I’m not Doris Day?
Kate
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Bitter Apparel
When 25 year old blond girls with big boobs and pleasant personalities cannot get dates, you know your city has fallen into a yawning relationship chasm—a chasm so dangerously deep that only bitter apparel can save it.
Because you look to me to be your date-less leader, I took it upon myself to provide you with this lifeline of clothing.
Please click here and enjoy: http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
I’ve already market tested the tote bag on set last week, and it certainly sparked conversation. True to form, all the women who saw it actually came over to tell me how much they agreed with it. Also true to form—the guys asked for an explanation. Literally—“what does that mean?” Not one woman asked me that question. We just know.
In addition to dating horror stories from the ladies, several of the guys offered up helpful tips on dealing with men and what men are looking for. It was actually pretty sweet.
But guys, we know what your problems are and the pitfalls of actually dating a male. We get that. The problem is, all your advice started with “when you are dating a guy”—um, yeah, you are already far ahead of where most of us are. We need the bit that starts with “go here, and you might have a shot at meaningful conversation” or “go here, and you’ll get a shot at some guy giving you a meaningful nod or glance in your direction that will go nowhere but will officially be considered progress”.
Every woman involved in the conversation on Sunday asked the question “but where do you meet people” and every guy in the conversation said “What do you mean? Everywhere. Women are everywhere.”
True. Fabulous, beautiful 21 year old women arrive in Los Angeles every day by bus, plane and train. There is an endless supply of them. And every guy here seems to know this. Why pursue a relationship with an older 30 something when you know that you can have a revolving door of girls, seemingly happy to use and be used? Guys here just need to point—“I want that one”. Ladies, all you have to do is… um…
Yeah.
Kate
(Stay tuned for more exciting Kate Dating t-shirt designs)
Because you look to me to be your date-less leader, I took it upon myself to provide you with this lifeline of clothing.
Please click here and enjoy: http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
I’ve already market tested the tote bag on set last week, and it certainly sparked conversation. True to form, all the women who saw it actually came over to tell me how much they agreed with it. Also true to form—the guys asked for an explanation. Literally—“what does that mean?” Not one woman asked me that question. We just know.
In addition to dating horror stories from the ladies, several of the guys offered up helpful tips on dealing with men and what men are looking for. It was actually pretty sweet.
But guys, we know what your problems are and the pitfalls of actually dating a male. We get that. The problem is, all your advice started with “when you are dating a guy”—um, yeah, you are already far ahead of where most of us are. We need the bit that starts with “go here, and you might have a shot at meaningful conversation” or “go here, and you’ll get a shot at some guy giving you a meaningful nod or glance in your direction that will go nowhere but will officially be considered progress”.
Every woman involved in the conversation on Sunday asked the question “but where do you meet people” and every guy in the conversation said “What do you mean? Everywhere. Women are everywhere.”
True. Fabulous, beautiful 21 year old women arrive in Los Angeles every day by bus, plane and train. There is an endless supply of them. And every guy here seems to know this. Why pursue a relationship with an older 30 something when you know that you can have a revolving door of girls, seemingly happy to use and be used? Guys here just need to point—“I want that one”. Ladies, all you have to do is… um…
Yeah.
Kate
(Stay tuned for more exciting Kate Dating t-shirt designs)
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Musings on a Ron Herman Dress
While wandering over the ATM to play the lottery (come on big money!), I was momentarily distracted by a number of dresses at the Ron Herman store. In fact, one of them was very much like this one , although there was sort of a ruffle at the bottom.
I now bring to you my musings on this dress.
===
Right Kate: oooooh, pretty
Left Kate: You are way too old to wear that dress.
Right Kate: oooooh, pretty
Left Kate: Between your breasts and its lack of defined waistline, you’d look pregnant in this dress—pregnant and desperate because you are obviously too old to wear this dress.
Right Kate: oooo—that was mean—pretty. Besides, if I wear it with opaque stockings or leggings, I’d look adorable.
Left Kate: You’d look like 40 year old trying to look like a 16 year old. The mannequin in the display is standing next to school books. That should be a tip right there. If you don’t have the need for an Algebra 2 book, you don’t need this dress.
Right Kate: I’m not 40 yet. Plus, I’m sure I could buy an Algebra 2 book somewhere. Look how flirty, yet studious I would appear!
Left Kate: Just because your ex married a 10 year old, does not mean you should be marketing yourself to the nearest high school football team.
Right Kate: She wasn’t 10—12 maybe, but definitely not 10. You will not distract me. I’d look like Jessica Alba in this dress.
Left Kate: Yes, you would. If she were shorter, fatter and much older. No really, maybe Ron Herman makes a mu mu, or something with a nice cardigan more befitting your style and vintage. Oooh, how about something that covers the ass that ate Manhattan?
Right Kate: It’s not that short. As long as I don’t do anything dangerous in it, I should be fine.
Left Kate: Dangerous as in bending slightly forward? God forbid you try to sit down in that thing. You’d pull a Britney.
Right Kate: No, I wouldn’t. I wear underwear.
Left Kate: Oh, right. You’d be fine then. Have a go.
=======
But seriously—I’m too old, aren’t I? So sad.
Kate, Dating (well, shopping) in LA
I now bring to you my musings on this dress.
===
Right Kate: oooooh, pretty
Left Kate: You are way too old to wear that dress.
Right Kate: oooooh, pretty
Left Kate: Between your breasts and its lack of defined waistline, you’d look pregnant in this dress—pregnant and desperate because you are obviously too old to wear this dress.
Right Kate: oooo—that was mean—pretty. Besides, if I wear it with opaque stockings or leggings, I’d look adorable.
Left Kate: You’d look like 40 year old trying to look like a 16 year old. The mannequin in the display is standing next to school books. That should be a tip right there. If you don’t have the need for an Algebra 2 book, you don’t need this dress.
Right Kate: I’m not 40 yet. Plus, I’m sure I could buy an Algebra 2 book somewhere. Look how flirty, yet studious I would appear!
Left Kate: Just because your ex married a 10 year old, does not mean you should be marketing yourself to the nearest high school football team.
Right Kate: She wasn’t 10—12 maybe, but definitely not 10. You will not distract me. I’d look like Jessica Alba in this dress.
Left Kate: Yes, you would. If she were shorter, fatter and much older. No really, maybe Ron Herman makes a mu mu, or something with a nice cardigan more befitting your style and vintage. Oooh, how about something that covers the ass that ate Manhattan?
Right Kate: It’s not that short. As long as I don’t do anything dangerous in it, I should be fine.
Left Kate: Dangerous as in bending slightly forward? God forbid you try to sit down in that thing. You’d pull a Britney.
Right Kate: No, I wouldn’t. I wear underwear.
Left Kate: Oh, right. You’d be fine then. Have a go.
=======
But seriously—I’m too old, aren’t I? So sad.
Kate, Dating (well, shopping) in LA
Saturday, September 22, 2007
More Stuff on a Saturday
George and that Darn Motorcycle
http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/Movies/09/21/clooney.motorcycle.ap/index.html
I’ve told him time and time again to get rid of that motorcycle. Also, I’ve said “don’t pass on the right”. In addition, I’ve said “don’t date other women and take them out on the motorcycle” and “Why don’t we just elope? You could wear that Armani tux, I could wear something flowing that would make me look deceptively tall and then we could just lounge at your villa for the next decade or so”. But would he listen? No. Thankfully, he is alright. I have, of course, magnanimously offered to help in his recovery process. I have been told that I have mad sponge bath skills.
Seriously, I hope he and his friend are ok.
That Rain Thing
Ok, when I said I’d like to see rain here in California, I meant that I’d like a day where I can read curled up with my blankie while listening to the dulcet tones of rain gently pitter pattering off the tin roof above my head. What I did not mean—anything so violent that I am woken up from a sound sleep, heart pounding and grabbing my spork and chair because I think we’re under attack. That is not what I meant. You really do have to be rather specific with the universe, otherwise it takes all sorts of liberties.
I Love Spies
I love spies. James Bond—love him even though he’s often a bit of a whore. Lee Stetson (aka Scarecrow)—love him because even though he wants to be a rogue, he’s really not. Michael Vaughn—love him. Michael Westin—clearly destined for greatness. Now I realize that I’ve just described characters, and that in real life they might not be all manly and manly and manly… but I love them anyway.
Even though all these characters are fine examples of “rugged-but-look-fine-in-a-tux”-ness, I think I love them because they are so darn capable. It is blazingly obvious that I need a capable man. He needs to be able to enjoy a night (or more realistically early afternoon) out watching musical theater, and then he needs to take me home and build me something out of wood. Wait, that sounds wrong… well, not entirely wrong… uh, you get the idea.
LA, Where Dating Comes to Die
Good news! The “LA, Where Dating Comes to Die” line of merchandise should be coming soon. I’m seriously in the process of trademarking and designing. My love life is ridiculous—I should at least profit from its insanity.
http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/Movies/09/21/clooney.motorcycle.ap/index.html
I’ve told him time and time again to get rid of that motorcycle. Also, I’ve said “don’t pass on the right”. In addition, I’ve said “don’t date other women and take them out on the motorcycle” and “Why don’t we just elope? You could wear that Armani tux, I could wear something flowing that would make me look deceptively tall and then we could just lounge at your villa for the next decade or so”. But would he listen? No. Thankfully, he is alright. I have, of course, magnanimously offered to help in his recovery process. I have been told that I have mad sponge bath skills.
Seriously, I hope he and his friend are ok.
That Rain Thing
Ok, when I said I’d like to see rain here in California, I meant that I’d like a day where I can read curled up with my blankie while listening to the dulcet tones of rain gently pitter pattering off the tin roof above my head. What I did not mean—anything so violent that I am woken up from a sound sleep, heart pounding and grabbing my spork and chair because I think we’re under attack. That is not what I meant. You really do have to be rather specific with the universe, otherwise it takes all sorts of liberties.
I Love Spies
I love spies. James Bond—love him even though he’s often a bit of a whore. Lee Stetson (aka Scarecrow)—love him because even though he wants to be a rogue, he’s really not. Michael Vaughn—love him. Michael Westin—clearly destined for greatness. Now I realize that I’ve just described characters, and that in real life they might not be all manly and manly and manly… but I love them anyway.
Even though all these characters are fine examples of “rugged-but-look-fine-in-a-tux”-ness, I think I love them because they are so darn capable. It is blazingly obvious that I need a capable man. He needs to be able to enjoy a night (or more realistically early afternoon) out watching musical theater, and then he needs to take me home and build me something out of wood. Wait, that sounds wrong… well, not entirely wrong… uh, you get the idea.
LA, Where Dating Comes to Die
Good news! The “LA, Where Dating Comes to Die” line of merchandise should be coming soon. I’m seriously in the process of trademarking and designing. My love life is ridiculous—I should at least profit from its insanity.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
America's Next...
When you think America’s next video vixen, you think “Kate”. I mean that’s just a given. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard—“Kate, why do they even do the search? You are it. You are the vixen-ist”. I agree. I am the vixen-ist.
Shockingly, not everyone agrees with my conclusion.
I was helping out on a casting session today, and I was at a casting complex putting up signs to direct the actors. It turns out that auditions for “America’s Next Video Vixen", or something like that, were going on next door. In order to get everyone in the mood, one of the hip hop stations was spinning some groovy tunes at the entrance.
I, in my most merry way, skipped over to their main room to post a notice that our actors should head next door rather than wander into the wrong room. I opened the door, and I could almost hear the needle scratching across a record somewhere. The entire room turned to look at me—yes, the entire room. And there was an audible sigh of relief when they realized I was just posting up signs.
What? The Laura Ingalls look alike can’t get down? I wasn’t wearing booty shorts, but I had a lovely country floral shirt that could be quite provocative in some countries. And I have been known to bust a funky move in ballet class from time to time.
Sigh. They had the grooviest chic since Marcia Brady in their midst, and they didn’t even know it.
Kate
Shockingly, not everyone agrees with my conclusion.
I was helping out on a casting session today, and I was at a casting complex putting up signs to direct the actors. It turns out that auditions for “America’s Next Video Vixen", or something like that, were going on next door. In order to get everyone in the mood, one of the hip hop stations was spinning some groovy tunes at the entrance.
I, in my most merry way, skipped over to their main room to post a notice that our actors should head next door rather than wander into the wrong room. I opened the door, and I could almost hear the needle scratching across a record somewhere. The entire room turned to look at me—yes, the entire room. And there was an audible sigh of relief when they realized I was just posting up signs.
What? The Laura Ingalls look alike can’t get down? I wasn’t wearing booty shorts, but I had a lovely country floral shirt that could be quite provocative in some countries. And I have been known to bust a funky move in ballet class from time to time.
Sigh. They had the grooviest chic since Marcia Brady in their midst, and they didn’t even know it.
Kate
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Observations on a Thursday
Plants
My plant committed suicide.
I came home from a particularly irritating day of work to discover that the plant’s leaves/stems/stalks tried to make a run for it. Seriously, they were draped over the pot and over the edge of the counter. So close! If they had only made it all the way down to the floor, I’m sure it would have been out of here.
All I could do is look at it, and say “yeah, I hear you”.
Starbucks
Who are those people in Starbucks all day long? No, I don’t mean the people working the counters (obviously, Taylor, the Latte Boy makes sense), I mean the people hanging out during the week. What do they do for a living, and how can I get that job?
My current dream is to kick back in one of those chairs, or toil relentlessly by one of the window-side tables. I’m not sure what I’m doing in this dream, other than waiting for George Clooney or Rob Marciano to meet me. Perhaps I’m suddenly the world’s next Tolstoy, or the political pundit version of TMZ. Perhaps I’m having a conversation with Reese Witherspoon—who I believe I actually saw today at Starbucks. So many options, and none of them involve returning to my office.
Rain
I finally miss rain. It took years and years, but I finally understand the desire to see rain in Los Angeles. Friends of mine would talk about getting all excited at the possibility of rain, and I thought they were nuts. I mean, I’m in Los Angeles, in part, for the lack of weather. But now I get it. The other day it was sort of cloudy, and the weather smelled like rain. Lies. No such thing.
How are we supposed to get the weather hotties out here without some actual weather? Why does Texas get all the fun? I’m sure they feel like they are soggy straight through to their skivvies at this point. I’m betting they would actually like to avoid the random storm that turns to hurricane in under 24 hours.
It comes down to this-- Rob will never be out here in his adorable red slicker and baseball cap without some actual precipitation. And no—I don’t mean snow. I don’t miss snow. Snow is still an abomination.
Burn Notice
I’m watching a Burn Notice marathon right now as I compose fantasy versions of my resignation notice (cattle prod is never hyphenated, right?). I love this show. One of the best summer shows ever, and I’d very much like to continue through the year. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Jeffrey Donovan gets better looking every episode, or that I have a thing for spies, or that I have an intellectual curiosity about whether or not cake icing can effectively substitute for C-4. Who doesn’t?
My plant committed suicide.
I came home from a particularly irritating day of work to discover that the plant’s leaves/stems/stalks tried to make a run for it. Seriously, they were draped over the pot and over the edge of the counter. So close! If they had only made it all the way down to the floor, I’m sure it would have been out of here.
All I could do is look at it, and say “yeah, I hear you”.
Starbucks
Who are those people in Starbucks all day long? No, I don’t mean the people working the counters (obviously, Taylor, the Latte Boy makes sense), I mean the people hanging out during the week. What do they do for a living, and how can I get that job?
My current dream is to kick back in one of those chairs, or toil relentlessly by one of the window-side tables. I’m not sure what I’m doing in this dream, other than waiting for George Clooney or Rob Marciano to meet me. Perhaps I’m suddenly the world’s next Tolstoy, or the political pundit version of TMZ. Perhaps I’m having a conversation with Reese Witherspoon—who I believe I actually saw today at Starbucks. So many options, and none of them involve returning to my office.
Rain
I finally miss rain. It took years and years, but I finally understand the desire to see rain in Los Angeles. Friends of mine would talk about getting all excited at the possibility of rain, and I thought they were nuts. I mean, I’m in Los Angeles, in part, for the lack of weather. But now I get it. The other day it was sort of cloudy, and the weather smelled like rain. Lies. No such thing.
How are we supposed to get the weather hotties out here without some actual weather? Why does Texas get all the fun? I’m sure they feel like they are soggy straight through to their skivvies at this point. I’m betting they would actually like to avoid the random storm that turns to hurricane in under 24 hours.
It comes down to this-- Rob will never be out here in his adorable red slicker and baseball cap without some actual precipitation. And no—I don’t mean snow. I don’t miss snow. Snow is still an abomination.
Burn Notice
I’m watching a Burn Notice marathon right now as I compose fantasy versions of my resignation notice (cattle prod is never hyphenated, right?). I love this show. One of the best summer shows ever, and I’d very much like to continue through the year. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Jeffrey Donovan gets better looking every episode, or that I have a thing for spies, or that I have an intellectual curiosity about whether or not cake icing can effectively substitute for C-4. Who doesn’t?
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Avenue Q
Who could have been the inspiration for the musical “Avenue Q”?
1. One of the first songs is called “It Sucks to be Me”. One of the lead characters explains that the reason it sucks to be her is that she can’t find/keep a boyfriend. Did I mention that her character’s name is Kate? Yeah. Kate Monster can’t find a man. I hear ya, babe.
2. The main character is searching for a purpose in life, and can’t possibly commit to Kate until he finds and achieves his purpose. Puppet “Princeton” even looked like my ex, minus the glasses.
3. Kate Monster and Princeton have a tragic break-up, and she laments his loss in a song called “There’s a Fine, Fine Line… between love and wasting your time.” Ha! Sing it, sister. Amen. Hallelujah. (please picture me snapping my fingers in a hip kind of way).
So, I’m not saying that someone owes me royalties, but I am curious how I inspired such genius ;)
I’ll admit I was skeptical about seeing this show because it is an adult musical involving puppets. I’m not a big puppet person. I understand I was quite the Sesame Street fan as a child, and I’ve been likened in both looks and temperament to Oscar the Grouch, but since then—not so much. But I was immediately struck by how relatable the show was—you know, since it was basically about my life ;) Oh, except the puppet had more sex. Yeah, that was disturbing. Although the puppet is hotter than I am. So, there’s that.
Google Thoughts
As an aside, anyone out there with a website ever take a look at the search terms people use to land on your pages? I did this for the first time the other day for the blogspot site. Boy, the person who ran the search "my sweaty luv dating 2007" and ended up on this blog was definitely bummed out. Also, “brad pitt capri pants” was pretty interesting, too. Especially since I think if Brad were wearing capri pants, they would technically be called “manpris” pants, but I’m no expert on Brad’s wardrobe. But most of all, I’d like to meet the person who ran the search “sweatbands uncool”. You are so, so right, whoever you are.
Kate
Who is still tapping her toes to the now classic showtune “everyone’s a little bit racist”.
1. One of the first songs is called “It Sucks to be Me”. One of the lead characters explains that the reason it sucks to be her is that she can’t find/keep a boyfriend. Did I mention that her character’s name is Kate? Yeah. Kate Monster can’t find a man. I hear ya, babe.
2. The main character is searching for a purpose in life, and can’t possibly commit to Kate until he finds and achieves his purpose. Puppet “Princeton” even looked like my ex, minus the glasses.
3. Kate Monster and Princeton have a tragic break-up, and she laments his loss in a song called “There’s a Fine, Fine Line… between love and wasting your time.” Ha! Sing it, sister. Amen. Hallelujah. (please picture me snapping my fingers in a hip kind of way).
So, I’m not saying that someone owes me royalties, but I am curious how I inspired such genius ;)
I’ll admit I was skeptical about seeing this show because it is an adult musical involving puppets. I’m not a big puppet person. I understand I was quite the Sesame Street fan as a child, and I’ve been likened in both looks and temperament to Oscar the Grouch, but since then—not so much. But I was immediately struck by how relatable the show was—you know, since it was basically about my life ;) Oh, except the puppet had more sex. Yeah, that was disturbing. Although the puppet is hotter than I am. So, there’s that.
Google Thoughts
As an aside, anyone out there with a website ever take a look at the search terms people use to land on your pages? I did this for the first time the other day for the blogspot site. Boy, the person who ran the search "my sweaty luv dating 2007" and ended up on this blog was definitely bummed out. Also, “brad pitt capri pants” was pretty interesting, too. Especially since I think if Brad were wearing capri pants, they would technically be called “manpris” pants, but I’m no expert on Brad’s wardrobe. But most of all, I’d like to meet the person who ran the search “sweatbands uncool”. You are so, so right, whoever you are.
Kate
Who is still tapping her toes to the now classic showtune “everyone’s a little bit racist”.
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