Rejected by a Survey

Look, I don't ask for much.

Ok, that's not true. I ask for a lot, but I don't get it, and then I pretend that I'm fine with that. But still, I'm not asking George Clooney to stop dating models for me. I'm just maybe thinking that at some point, I'd like to meet a man with whom I can have semi-interesting conversation. It doesn't even have to be often. I'm an independent woman—I'm not looking for a caregiver, a father figure or a bank roll. But there is a romantic streak deeply hidden inside me (deeply, deeply, deeply hidden). So, when I got a pop-up from another friend on Facebook that had the magic words "soulmate" and "survey" during a long morning at work, I thought, "Why not?"

So, I took the survey called "When will you meet your soulmate?"

I thought it was a valid question since I feel like I've been alive a while now, and that soulmate should be popping up any day now. Also, a girl has to be ready, and I've been putting off getting my roots done, have some upcoming charity events and work keeps threatening to bring me back to New York. I thought for planning purposes alone, I should check to see what soulmate's schedule looks like.

Naturally, I opened the survey and began at the beginning.

Question 1.

Numero uno.

It was just staring me in the face: "When do you want to get married?" Simple enough question—clearly designed by children who still have hope that they have any control over that sort of thing, but a simple enough question. Unfortunately, it was also a question I couldn't answer. You see, the survey had a multiple choice option with a set of age spans. The problem? The oldest age span on the survey was 5 years YOUNGER than I already am. In essence, it was telling me that someone as aged as I am, should have either met the man, or I never actually had shot at meeting him. Either way, I am out of luck. Thanks for playing.

Awesome.

 

Hobbies

Apparently, I'm incapable of having hobbies. If I enjoy something, I tend to pursue it, put my protestant work ethic to the test (despite not being protestant), and suddenly it's a wildly consuming semi-profession.

Don't believe me?

In college, I decided to take a class in dance in order to fulfill my fine arts credit requirement because I always did it during my work in theater, but never really trained. When given the chance to pursue it for a single class my freshman year, it should have taken up exactly 3 periods plus lab. Instead, after the first semester, I was dancing 6 hours a day and became part of the company. And no, I wasn't a dance major. I just spent as much time in rehearsals as I did in my Econ classes.

I tried to pick up dancing again when I was working in New York to get back into shape. I changed my hours in the city, so that I could make classes that I had—nearly every night. Before I left, I was dancing through auditions for everything from commercials to Broadway (which didn't go well, but was still awesome!).

I started dancing in LA, again to stay in shape, and started performing here despite having rehearsals that meant me not getting home until after 11pm—not late for normal people, but I'm up at 5am, so it wasn't the brightest move.

A friend asked me to help out on his film project—I became a producer (while still maintaining my normal day job).

You might have noticed that I enjoy a little show known as "The X-Files". For most people when they enjoy a TV show, I think that means kicking back and watching it regularly. For me it meant doing extra work on the show. For me it meant when the new movie was pending release, I went out to interview fans, editing videos and blog posting. It means I won't go to an event without a camera now because I know I'll want to "report" on the event. It means wanting to work with the people involved—and increasingly finding ways to do that.

I'm into charity work. Now what time I have left on weekends and evenings is spent on upcoming events, auctions, fundraisers, etc. Oh, and we're in the midst of incorporating. So, add another company to my list of "hobbies".

I started writing a blog to quickly deal with an emotional experience so I could process and move on. Three years later, I'm still writing with the very real possibility of turning it into a series and a book.

Maybe it's the control freak in me—I can't just enjoy an experience without it becoming another profession.

All I can say is-- it's a good thing I'm not having sex.

In Just Over a Month

In just over a month (ok, a month and a week), Californication returns. Finally. So, naturally, when I'm faced with a blank blog, no inspiration and a delightful email from a new reader who was also at the panel (small world!), I thought to myself, "Self, you should post more stuff from that Californication panel that the Los Angeles Times hosted for The Envelope Series".

The first clip features Pamela Adlon hilariously recounting her take on her sex scenes in Showtime's Californication. Also, I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've heard a panel discussion involving the words, "Horse's penis". So, there's that.

Pamela Adlon Discusses Sex Scenes on Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

In the second video, David Duchovny discusses his approach to playing Hank Moody, and his concerns about keeping Hank a sympathetic character.

David Duchovny Talks About Keeping Hank Moody Sympathetic from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Enjoy! Also, as you've noticed, emails inspire me to write (or post videos). So, if you want to inspire a blog, feel free to write to me at katedating@yahoo.com.

Too Long

It is possible that I've been in LA for too long.

Sex Tape Cynicism

When I read on Starpulse (http://www.starpulse.com/news/index.php/2009/08/17/eric_dane_aamp_rebecca_gayheart_sex_tape_1) that a sex tape was leaked involving Eric Dane and his wife (and some random woman), my first thought was not, "How shocking!" or even, "He's hot!" Nope, my reaction was "which one of them has a movie coming out?" Seriously, I just don't think the new season of Gray's Anatomy is sex-tape-leak worthy, so one of them has got to a movie coming out. Because otherwise, this is just stupid—I mean how difficult is it to keep track of your sex tapes? They don't tend to wander off on their own. Are you bringing them to parties because someone said they were showing home movies of their vacation, and you wanted to share, too? Because otherwise, they shouldn't be leaving the house. Also, you probably shouldn't mark them "Sex Tape, Please Don't Steal This and Leak It To The Press". Not only does that take up way too much room on the DVD label (and you like to keep those things pithy and neat), but it sort of seems like taunting—particularly unwise if you gave your assistant a terrible Christmas bonus.

Update: I've heard now that it's just a "naked" tape and not a sex tape. Well, sure. Who hasn't done that? That's the first thing I do when friends come over-- the clothes come off, and I grab that camera. Or, no.

Update2: Now it appears that he's not even naked. It's just the, seemingly stoned, women in bathtub. The third party insists that her computer hard-drive was stolen by singer Mindy McCready during some celebrity rehab stint after a fight. Folks, I could not make this shit up.

Odds Making

Also on Starpulse today, I learned that Robin Wright Penn is once again just saying "no" to Sean (http://www.starpulse.com/news/index.php/2009/08/17/robin_wright_penn_rules_out_reconciliati). This is a sad thing, though not really surprising given the back and forth and back and forth and…. Still, yelling out, "Who had August in the divorce pool?" really isn't appropriate.

Non-Weather

The lack of actual weather in LA has solidified my love for weather porn. I should have gone into producing weather specials. I'm fascinated with weather. I see really only one problem: I don't really like to be in weather. So, I'd have to send other people out to do the filming because tornadoes terrify me. Also, hurricanes look like they are not quite so delightful to wander in, despite how engrossing they are on TV. Oooh, also, I hate snow unless I'm inside wrapped in a blankie with the heat flowing. Ok, so technically, I should be producing special weather programming from my couch featuring Rob Marciano. Or Reynolds Wolf. Or… well, any boy with a degree in meteorology who looks good wet while trying to hold onto his baseball cap, microphone and pants all at the same time. [Note: Chloe and I decided today that Reynolds Wolf sounds like a character's name on a soap opera or Harlequin romance. He is, in fact, a delightful and intelligent man with no signs of flowing, Fabio-like locks.] Or maybe I could just write weather related novels. @Toonses88 on twitter suggested, "The night was sultry" so I'm practically writing it already. No, I'm not desperately looking for ways to do something more interesting with my life. What makes you say that?

Radar Love

Maybe not so much radar love, but missives promising me astrologically sound love caught my attention. Clearly, my only problem has been that I've been gazing at men with the wrong astrological signs. It's not that I don't talk to them, they don't talk to me, or the hiding in the apartment thing. No, the universe has been trying to send me signs. Being appropriately beaten down by the Los Angeles "what-the-hell-is-dating-oh-you-mean-sex-after-more-than-the-first-hour-of-acquaintance-but-that's-so-1950" social scene, I took a gander. Yeah. This is also not about dating. This is about finding someone erotically compatible (a word I misspelled twice, by the way). Still, for all of you who are now curious:

http://www.aolhealth.com/healthy-living/relationships/sexually-compatible-astrology-signs?icid=mainmaindl2link3http%3A%2F%2Fwww.aolhealth.com%2Fhealthy-living%2Frelationships%2Fsexually-compatible-astrology-signs

According to this, I have an "enthusiasm for all things carnal".

Yeah. I haven't stopped laughing either.

Part 2

For those of you waiting on the 2nd part of the David Tennant story, here it is. :)

http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/08/how-i-met-david-tennant-pt-2-get-in.html

New Rules

I realize this means I'm old, but if you call me, and don't leave a message, in my world that means that you didn't call me. Seriously, for like 15 days I won't know you called, until I'm scrolling through the call log looking for another number because I'm too lazy to go into contacts. It is only then, by the random chance of where your once-upon-a-time call landed, that I will know that you called. At that point, I might wonder why you called. Then I will dismiss it along the lines of "if it was important, he/she/it would have left a message", and I will keep scrolling. I will not call you back. Even if you are David Tennant (my new best friend), I will not call you back. Because as my new best friend, you should know that you must leave a message even though you kid me that the truly "with it" peeps don't leave messages. Clooney, you have been warned.

[Plus, if I found out that I missed George's call 10 days earlier, it would probably take another month just to figure out what to wear when I called him back. No, seriously—these things are important. What if he wanted to pop over to make sure that my ignoring him for weeks was just happenstance and not because I'm annoyed that he seemingly skipped over me in the dating rotation in favor of new girlfriend #1452? A girl has to be prepared.]

Kate

P.S. If you want to hear the David Tennant story, part I is up here with part 2 to follow soon (so I'm told):

http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/

 

Things to Do With Glue

I posted this link up on twitter the other day: http://www.lemondrop.com/2009/08/03/exes-3-way-smackdown-3-timing-man/

As I said on twitter, obviously this is wrong. This is not appropriate (:::chuckle::::) conflict resolution. So, before anyone tries to bring forth a lawsuit, I am in no way advocating this kind of perfectly executed retribution. It's just… ahem… wrong. No two ways about it. Krazy gluing a cheater's private bits together is not the answer. Well, actually it is an answer, just perhaps not the most mature one.

Regardless, as I was taking the article to be laminated, I re-read it. And then I stumbled on this little part: "The three women, who intricately planned the hotel beatdown, also physically attacked the three-timer and demanded to know which woman he loved most."

Ooooh. Ladies, you were so close. Here's a tip: if he's screwing all three of you, the answer is D) none of the above. The only person he loves in this equation is himself. But thanks for playing. And really, which one of you was still hoping that he'd pick you? Despite the overwhelming evidence of his ass-hattery, which one of you would still have believed him? Because you know he was weighing his odds. Maybe one of you is kind of bruiser, so if he picked you, he might have hoped that you would have turned on the other two?

Seriously, ladies, you can't embrace your inner Heather in one more-embarrassing-than-deadly-Drano moment and still somehow hope for a picket fence ending. So, pick up the damn red bow and walk out of the school… um… hotel room and face the reality (and perhaps some jail time because I'm pretty sure low-life is going to get you all locked up for assault—may you get an all female jury).

Moral of this story? It's just all bad.

Kate, who has a spinning moral compass these days

Killer Bikini Waxes From Outer Space

I thought that title might get your attention.

I've never been shy about expressing which side I'm on in the war of the pubic hairs. While I applaud some basic caretaking, I'm just not down with visually reducing me to a pre-pubescent girl. I'm a woman. If you can't get turned on by me unless I look like a 9 year old then I'm out (also, probably calling the police and leaving an anonymous tip, but that's another story).

I'm not going to lie—part of my reticence regarding the rip-it-all-out-by-the-root-and-smile approach is my naturally prudish demeanor… and the descriptions of what some of you have gone through in order to get that ready for XXX close-up. [By the way, congratulations for surviving the decision to have hot wax spackled all over the southern zone.] For instance, I've got to know you pretty darn well to be happy about a command to get on all fours and shove my ass in your face. I know. I know. I'm ridiculous. But that's just me.

On the upside, the person working the anal/pubic tweezers does possibly have a worse job than I have. In fact, when I'm at work complaining about how dissatisfied I am with my job, I think to myself, "Well, at least I'm not tweezing someone's ingrown pubic hair right now." The worst days, of course, are the days where this little mantra doesn't work.

However, regardless of my own natural reluctance in these matters, I never once seriously thought that a bikini wax could kill me—you know, unless the term "died of embarrassment" turned out to be literal. But this article is something for you all to keep in mind the next time you let someone drip hot wax south of the border.

Please consider this my PSA of the month. Stay safe out there.

http://health.msn.com/health-topics/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100240299&gt1=31036

I Know There Was Something

Apparently, in planning for a new life (new career, new love, new shoes) you are supposed to figure out what you are good at. Determine your passion and make a career of it. Determine the kind of man/relationship you want and pursue it. Figure out why you need yet another pair of black heels and buy them. On the surface, this all sounds like an excellent plan. Plus, Jimmy Choo is having another sale. So, I got out my trusty pencil (yes, it must be a pencil) and a piece of paper. I'm excellent at creating lists, and I thought this would come naturally.

What am I good at? What am I good at? Well, there was that…. Um… Oh, and that one time…oh, no, that didn't work….

Yeah, that session pretty much ended with me doodling a pair of shoes. Well, at least I'm focused.

So, I tried again. So far, this is my list:

1. Good at observing how delectable David Duchovny looks in swimwear (past and present)
   Can I make a career out of being a perv? Hugh Hefner jokes aside, probably not. Although, perhaps I have an as yet undiscovered talent as a swimsuit designer? Of course, I also find him delightful in Hank Moody black t-shirt and Mulder suit, so men's fashion designer generally might also be a possibility. Or, maybe I am destined to become a sculptor, and could actually bill this time to research of the male form?
   
2. Good at always looking on the downside of life
   I don't give myself props for much, but I have mad skills with this one. Plus, any time I can bastardize a song from "The Life of Brian" (or really any Monty Python), I'm doing to do it. This might mean I have to cross off elementary school teacher from my list of possible new careers. Well, that and the fact that children and I tend to look upon each other with mutual suspicion. But I think news anchor, stock analyst, real estate advisor and loan officer, given the overall economic and social climate, are all areas where my gift for bleak could be rewarded.
   
3. Good at watching the same films or TV episodes repeatedly without tiring of them
   Maybe I can become an editor? You watch, re-watch, re-re-watch a lot with that job. Or some sort of CIA or FBI analyst where watching footage over and over again looking for clues is a key component. Or TV analyst? Or obsessed network executive?
   
4. Good at getting irrationally angry at Emmy voters for epic failure despite not being involved in the shows
   Yeah, this has producer all over it. Or crazy person. Whichever. I've been called both.
   
5. Good at shaking my fist at the universe
   Um… politician? Tele-Evangelist?
   

That's as far as I've gotten. So far, the only possible job I see that includes all of this is "unpaid blogger". Oh, wait… I've already got that job.

Success!! They were right. Put it down on paper, and your dreams really will come true.

This seems slightly less impressive than originally hoped.

Much like my love life.

Emmy Fail

Oh, Emmy voters how you continue to disappoint. Still, I will take my cue from the infinitely more mature David Duchovny and Natascha McElhone seen here in a clip from back in June (obviously, before they knew the outcome) at the Los Angeles Times Envelope Screening Series for Showtime's Californication.

David Duchovny and Natascha McElhone on Showtime and Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

FML

A Friday should be a beautiful thing. A Friday afternoon, in particular, holds such promise. On a Friday afternoon, you should be able to look over the horizon and feel like you have days and days to do with what you will. You can stay up late and not fear that upon waking, you'll have to go to work. In short, Friday should just be joy.

You know what things don't indicate a joyful Friday?

1. You should not find out that your pilot project got rejected thus trapping you forever in a job that no longer rings your bell (Hell, I can't find the bell. Was there a bell?)
   
2. You should not then get an assignment at bell-less job that you should never have and only got because everyone else had the good sense to be on vacation and entirely unreachable.
   
3. You should not then finally find a couple of minutes to check in with Facebook looking for solace only to be cruelly taunted by "People You Might Know" suggestions. Oh, and that suggestion shouldn't be The EX, but what it really shouldn't be is your Ex's new wife using a profile photo where she is holding their new baby.
   

 

FML

While We're Waiting

It's true that my portable, 2-dimensional visualization device (or vision board) is still blank. Although I do appreciate the many comments and emails with suggestions.

But I hate a blank page.

So, instead of staring at a blank page, I bring you another short clip from the Los Angeles Times Envelope Screening Series Panel for Californication which was held in June. Please enjoy watching Natascha McElhone and David Duchovny bantering about love on Californication.

Can't wait for Season 3 to start.

(as usual, you can pop it out to full size with the vimeo controls).

Natascha McElhone and David Duchovny Banter About Love on Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

The Board

Two of my friends are creating vision boards. Scratch that. One of my friends is creating a vision board, the other one, Pen, is creating a portable, 2-dimensional visualization tool. Pen rejects The Secret even though she recognizes the possible superficial overlap of her current theories—thus, the terminology becomes important.

For those of you who are now scratching your heads in confusion—you are not alone. From what I understand, the board includes pictures, notes, articles, etc that represent things you need and want for each aspect of your life. Apparently, for The Secret followers, this helps you articulate what you want, gives you an idea of the path to achieve it, and puts it out into the universe. I'm not exactly sure what the universe does with it. For me, the universe would crumple it up into a little ball, spit on it and then stomp on it. I sincerely hope my friend has better luck.

For the non-Secret devotees, the visualization board serves as not only a way to articulate what you want and need, but, recognizing that the universe is at best an indifferent bastard, it also acts as a reminder—it's a goal board… a motivational tool…some sort of slightly non-aggressive accountability tool.

In other words, I think they are supposed to do the same thing.

I have to tell you: I'm completely fascinated by the idea. Sure, I have a slight concern that my visualization tool will end up looking like some sort of deranged George Clooney altar, but if it looks like it might be working for either one of them in any way, I'm in. Beyond the success or failure rate of these boards, I think part of my fascination is focused on these practitioners of the dark arts of hopefulness and planning. These women couldn't be more different, and yet they are both whole-heartedly embracing this technique.

Oh, and one other thing they are embracing: the idea that I too should join their ranks and start cutting up some magazines.

Hmmmm.

I did read that article about a woman who visualized a particular number (I don't remember what it was. Let's say it was 127 million). She put it on paper and put the paper under her pillow. She meditated on it. She thought about it all the time. And then she won $127 million in the lottery. It's a good story. I like this story. But let's face it, if obsessing over something made it a reality, we all know my life would look a hell of a lot different right now.

My natural proclivity to disparage all signs of positivity is not my only issue… it's not even the biggest issue. No, my primary issue remains my inability to answer the simple question, "What do you want?"

There's a certain amusement factor inherent in my inability to answer this question. Why? I used to ask this question of The Ex all the time when we were faced with complicated relationship conundrums. Invariably, he'd respond with "Why does it rest with me?" To which I always replied, "Because I know what I want." How perverse is it that I can no longer even begin to answer this question? I'm now so divorced from myself that I have no idea.

My vision board is empty.

Pen, being a Life Coach, took a pragmatic approach and present me with some completely reasonable questions. It went something like this:

Pen: "Do you want a house? Everyone in LA wants a house."

Kate: "Eh"

Pen: "Eh, is not an answer. Eh, is more of an 'I'm secretly reading Twitter and not pay attention to you because I'm in avoidance mode."

Kate: "Completely untrue" [closing out of Twitter] "Fine. The theory of a house is fine. But I have neither the inclination nor the skill to actually care for one. I also do not appear to have unlimited funds to hire staff to do it for me. Also, I'd like to point out that, technically, the bank would own the house."

Pen: "What about travel? You used to travel."

Kate: "Has teleportation been invented yet?"

Pen: "Not to my knowledge."

Kate: "Probably going to nix travel then."

Pen (admittedly laughing at this point): "Fame?"

Kate: "Ha! Yes. But Fame costs. And right here is where you start paying. In sweat."

Pen: "A shocking no!"

Kate: "Yes, it's what every hermit secretly craves—to be followed around by people with cameras and access to the internet."

Pen: "Scratch that one off. How about a new job?"

Kate: "Now we're talking!"

Pen: "What would you like to do if you could have any job in the world?"

Kate: "No idea."

Pen: "Well, your portable 2-dimensional visualization tool can't just be full of photos of George Clooney."

Kate: "Why not?"

Pen: "Because dating him is a completely unrealistic goal."

Kate: "So is owning a house in LA, but that made the list."

And then she gave me what looked suspiciously like the stink eye last seen on my high school gym teacher.

Kate: "What?"

For nearly 30 minutes I thought about what I would really want (that was also something I could work towards and achieve) and the board is still empty. I do the job I do because I'm good at it, and it pays well. I have obligations. I have responsibilities and no desire to take on more. I have commitments. These things I understand. But "want"? "Want" I'm not good at. "Want" is a specimen I circle cautiously and with great suspicion.

Mason Tateman

Sigh. I can't win.

I was leaving work today, rejoicing in the bliss of being able to leave a breathtaking hour early, when I saw a man walking into the building who seemed to be attractive. I say "seemed" because I didn't really look at him directly. It was more a surreptitious scan—you know, the scan that women perfect and men can't get down to save their lives.

Anyway, scan completed, I registered a couple of things: 1) the man was attractive, 2) he was my type, and 3) I should try to get his attention. I know—that last one is surprising. But I've been working on that whole "life plan" thing with coach Pen, and apparently, my total and complete lack of progress on the dating front can be somewhat related to my lack of action plan. [I pointed out that it was also due to lack of proper motivation, an overwhelming workload and laziness, but she appears to be having none of that.]

The problem was that by the time I processed all of this, the man who was walking toward me was, in fact, right next to me and within seconds would pass me. So, I did a very subtle double take in the hopes that he would see my blinding smile out of his peripheral vision. Well, subtle in that I nearly turned my body entirely around in order to accomplish it, but boy did I smile.

I wasn't entirely certain why the guy suddenly looked like he was braced for impact. I mean, I didn't even get close to him. I made no sudden lunging movements, and unless the smile was completely maniacal (rather than entirely appropriately perky), I think I was projecting "inviting" rather than "crazy". In the split second I had to ponder his reaction, my eyes flicked up to his face again.

Yeah, he might have been a fairly well-known actor. His name might rhyme with Mason Tateman. My entirely subtle double take may have been taken for "crazed fan reaction" rather than "entirely out of whack female flirting technique".

What do you do in this situation? It's not like I could yell, "No, I'm not a fan!" I mean, that just sounds wrong. Plus, it's sort of a lie. I do like his work; I just wouldn't approach him for an autograph. Also, running back to catch up to him in order to explain that I didn't even recognize him could also be taken the wrong way. You never know which famous person is going to find that charming and which one will take that as binge-worthy blow to their self-esteem.

[As a side note, can we finally get that electronic celeb board tracker in place? Maybe next to the name, it could give you clues to each day's preferences like "wants to be recognized", "on the edge", "likes to date non-industry types", "approach with caution", "bring cocaine" and "pretend like you've never heard of him". Could really be helpful.]

So, I did what I always do: I kept walking while carrying on a highly entertaining inner dialogue about whether or not the guy I just passed was indeed Mason Tateman. Hilarious. Seriously, if only I could market my confusion, I'd make a fortune.

What would you have done?

Can’t Decide

I was at a lovely little neighborhood restaurant grabbing a quick lunch when I noticed that one of the men entering was, in fact, in his pajamas. I can't decide how I feel about this one.

On the one hand, noon can be very early for some people on a Sunday. It's a neighborhood hangout. He was clearly a regular. So, part of me thought it was cool that he was so comfortable in his environment that his tank top and jammie bottoms made sense. Don't we all wish we could go around comfy and relaxed?

On the other hand, he could just be pretentious. He seemed to have come from yoga because he, very loudly, announced that he had just come from a "fucking amazing" yoga class, and appeared to want everyone to see him—as in "look at my awesomeness, as I air kiss the waitress and wave to another yoga classmate".

So, you need to vote on this—pjs at a restaurant at noon is a) cool and I should date him, or b) a bit much?

 

Also, an update: I still don't know what a "Toe Job" is. But the upside is most of you who wrote in, also have no idea. It does not involve toe sucking. It does not involve him shoving his big toe where it does not belong. Other than that, I have not a clue. But yes, I am still obsessively looking at my toes trying to figure it out.

 

The Club

I've just returned from the first meeting of the "ass-lickers" club. My friend Pen came up with the idea after reading the blog I posted a while ago. Her theory was that as we had all clearly taken the wrong turn at some point, we should meet and try to come up with concrete ways to get headed in the right direction.

This sounds entirely logical, right?

Mostly, we got sidetracked on a discussion of the advantages of running a cult—financially, socially, sexually… you know, the usual banter. Then we had margaritas.

Shockingly, we haven't come up with a plan that won't someday involve an FBI investigation. But you should definitely stay tuned.

I'm not discouraged. I'm really good when I have an actual goal in front of me. I'm terrible when dealing with abstract things like, "I want things to be better." "Better" is a far too nebulous concept. I like lists. I liked spreadsheets. I like to be able to check things off when I get something finished. Seriously, checking things off a list makes me absurdly happy. Not going-out-for-a-delightful-conversation-with-George-Clooney happy, but absurdly happy none-the-less.

So, I have the club, paper, pencils and a general desire. Now, all I need is a plan. Any minute now it will come to me. Any minute. Any…

Ooooh shiny.

A Toe What???

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

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

A toe what???

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

Second, I’m confused in so many ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

Dating Douchebags

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

===

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

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

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

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




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

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

Embed:

Is She Really Going Out With Him? - MTV Shows

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

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

Embed:

Is She Really Going Out With Him? - MTV Shows

The Experts

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

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

Yes and Yes—But only in my fantasies.

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

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

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

So, I should…

Stop.

Do more.

Stop the doing more.

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

Hmmm

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

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

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

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

Aww. Tear.

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

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

Sigh.

June 16

One Wrong Move…

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

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

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

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

Ass licker.

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

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

That Seems Wrong

There are two things you should never do:

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

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

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

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

Is my island ready yet?