With all the excitement over the $500 million Mega Millions lottery drawing, I've started thinking about how I'm going to spend my winnings (since, I think it's obvious that I will win it), and reviewing how my life will change. A girl has got to be ready for this sort of thing.
You know that the changes will not just be limited to changing my phone number and moving to a remote island (though those are clearly the first ones). For instance, perhaps Colin Firth has always had a movie script in the back of his closet that he has wanted to get made, but has never found the financing. If I call him as a pauper and offer to try to help him, I'm betting that I would not receive a return call from his agent. With $500 million sitting in the bank, someone might return my phone call. The point is, a middle-aged woman with a dream and no cash is a woman with very little power. A middle-aged woman with $500 million is a woman with a dream and the means to force other people to listen to it ad nauseam.
Money would certainly help my life right now. It would mean no need to go back to employment when my year is up. It would mean the ability to focus attention on projects (commercial and non-profit) that I think are interesting or important. My travels would become more exotic (and consistent). Also, I'd go back to Macy's and buy some of the stuff I liked, but couldn't really afford because it was not on sale, and I'd reacquaint myself with Jimmy Choo after an enforced, way-too-long absence.
There's only one tiny problem: the thing I really want, I can't buy. I can't even rent it. My biggest fantasy is to have the people I admire, admire my work. I want the people who interest me to be interested in me. You could argue that the money could buy someone's notice, but that isn't the same as respect. You could also argue that the money would mean getting my work to a wider audience, and it would increase my chances of the fantasy coming true. But higher visibility is no guarantee.
Let's be clear: I will take the money when they call my numbers. It will make my life better. It could potentially make the lives of the people around me better (the line starts behind Pen). But I have a feeling that the odds of me getting what I really want are the same whether the jackpot is mine or not (it is).
So, if you were to win the lottery (not this one, as it is mine), would it buy you what you really want?
This
Which led to this:
Which led to this:
In public.
Here's how.
A kind friend has taken me in hand and is trying to help me put together some "taking a meeting" outfits in attempt to at least make me feel comfortable enough in my own skin (and wardrobe) to project a totally false sense of confidence. To this end, we went shopping, and found some accessories that I liked and that would work with our theme (picture #1). I liken my bracelets to Wonder Woman's bracelets which deflected bullets, only mine were designed to deflect disdain and my own self-doubts—practically the same thing. Also, they were purchased at Forever 21 which makes me giggle because apparently, I'm taking that "forever" thing quite literally.
Clad in my new bracelets and other perfectly acceptable casual clothing, I went back to the mall to exchange something and the clerk at a different store commented on how much he liked my bracelets. All of a sudden, I realized that these magical bracelets may have disabled my cloaking device and that I was secretly (very secretly) a super model with impeccable fashion sense (or at least borrowed fashion sense from M who suggested that I buy them).
Fresh off this tiny victory, I swaggered myself to lunch at a local restaurant. Taking my customary table in the corner, I set about trying to come up with a strategic plan for my future. I had no sooner gotten to "1" when I noticed a very attractive man enter the restaurant. He looked at me, and actually saw me. I know this because when he smiled at me, I smiled back and surreptitiously looked over my shoulder to make certain that no one was actually behind me. Nope. Just me. When he sat down, he looked over again. So stunned at the magic of the bracelets, I smiled back slightly bigger—and by slightly bigger, I might mean picture #2.
Unfortunately, when you smile that enthusiastically at someone, they might get the impression that: a) they know you, but can't place you, or b) you are crazy. By the look of confusion on his face, I'm guessing both of those things were true. His response led to picture #3.
I was clearly overwhelmed—no, not just whelmed, but over. These bracelets are powerful, and as Spiderman's dad told him: with great power, comes the great responsibility of not confusing attractive men in restaurants (perhaps that is a paraphrase).
I can only imagine what is going to happen when I don the shoes.
I come to you on this, the first day of my 43rd year of being single, ready to impart all the wisdom I have accumulated on numerous topics. I am prepared to grant you access to the profound workings of my mind—which may or may not be clouded with a sugar rush that only a birthday cake and bubbly can bring.
Ready?
I have no idea what I am doing. And neither does anyone else.
If anyone knew for certain what to do in life, there would be only one self-help book on the shelf, and everyone would have adopted those guidelines because they worked for everyone. If there was only one way to find romance, there would be only one dating site. Also, you would not have, conservatively, 9,132 books about dating available on Amazon (there are actually more, but I didn't want to accidentally double count the hardcover and Kindle versions). There would be one book. Naturally, that book would be called "Dating according to Kate." Spoiler alert: it will include formal wear, as I recently rediscovered a couture dress in my closet that I'm dying to wear.
The best thing I can say is that after all of this time, I know me fairly well. It's not that I can't occasionally be surprising, but generally, I know me.
I seem to like asking questions more than either hearing (or giving) answers.
This is not just because I'm persnickety and argumentative, though undoubtedly both are true. For me, the journey tends to be more satisfying than the destination (unless we are discussing plane travel, and then… not so much). I like open-ended stories. I enjoy topical debate—which might seem odd since I often hold absolute opinions. But I do enjoy the questioning. Perhaps this is because the answers, thus far, have not lived up to their promise?
Chocolate is my favorite food group.
I used to think it was anything with salt, but chocolate has endured. It may be the true love of my life—which makes the very real possibility that I'm developing a chocolate allergy just a little disheartening. I plan to live in denial as long as possible. Certainly getting an actual allergy test is out of the question.
Someone needs to give me a $100 million entertainment development fund.
I think we can all agree that I would produce some incredibly entertaining work with $100 million. I'd also take $10 million…or $1 million. All of my incredibly talented friends (and I know many who just need that one break) would also benefit because the fund would finance their projects—provided they agree to cast a short list of actors I'd personally like to see work more… and if they would let me visit set…often… for, you know, script consulting purposes. Whatever. I think I would make a magnificent mogul. I'm adding the title to my business card right now.
As I get older, my inner monologue filter has started to become external.
And it's hysterical… although I would not be surprised in the least if it gets me punched at least once very soon.
I still believe I could wake up tomorrow and finally be 5'4".
Shhh. Let's not kill the fantasy.
Every year I call my parents on my birthday and hope that they have lied to me and that I'm actually 10 years younger.
They've started humoring me.
Even my fantasies are a disappointment.
The other night I had a fantasy where in the middle of an intellectual discourse, Clooney and I started to kiss. It was just "eh." He wasn't bad at it, and I think I held up my end with dignity. However, the spark just wasn't there. Typical.
According to Hollywood, which is always right in these matters, the only thing a woman needs to get her confidence back (sexual or otherwise) is to have a fling with a 20-something male. I haven't done an exhaustive study, but I have a feeling that at least some of those scripts were written by 20-something males (and perhaps wishful thinking 40-something females). But here's my question: if you've been emotionally traumatized by the end of a long-term relationship either because your partner has cheated or simply decided that it wasn't working anymore, how the hell do you get enough confidence to approach any person again, let alone some 26 year old lothario?
I know what at least one of you is thinking: alcohol can play an important role in this healing process. But let's face it; that's not really confidence (or healing) talking as much as the inability to come to a cogent decision because you are so impaired you can no longer walk. All decisions made just prior to passing out in shrubbery should be treated as suspect at best. So barring alcohol or other chemically-fueled choices, what motivates you to make the approach?
Based on my own experiences, I'd have to say that starting over again after a long-term relationship (marriage or otherwise) is particularly tricky. Over time you have showed the best and worst of yourself to another person. You've said, "This is me, love me!" and they've said something along the lines of "Eh, I'm going through a selfish phase which involves red heads." Knowing that you allowed yourself the vulnerability of really letting someone see you, only to watch them walk away, why do you try again?
Obviously, people do it all the time. Somehow people convince themselves that with a different person, all their tricky bits will coalesce into something better than they had previously. And maybe they are right. Maybe the partner they were with was actually the problem and that with another person, and greater awareness, life really will be better. Logically, I know this happens. Emotionally, there's part of me that wonders what was wrong with me. I'm the common denominator in relationships that have gone off the rails, so why should I believe that the next one will magically work?
I understand that sex is a powerful motivator for some. But after years of being single, I'm not sure I could generate a "come hither" look if my life depended on it. People who know me—try to picture me being sexy. Frightening, isn't it? You can't do it, can you? The problem is, neither can I. "It's just like riding a bike," you say. It's really not—particularly not in a city like Los Angeles where sex seems to be treated like a competitive sport.
Maybe the reason I'm having such a difficult time getting my groove back is that I never had it in the first place? Maybe all I ever really had was a gentle sway, and now after all of this time I'm just frozen in place. Not moving forward. Not moving back. Just immobile with wariness wrapped in fear.
Close your eyes and try to conjure up an image of your first day of high school.
If you are my age, and a guy, you might have tried pulling off a Duran Duran (or maybe a Prince) look. Ladies, I'm feeling that a "Like a Virgin" Madonna, or "She Bop" Cyndi Lauper phase ran through you. Either way, we were all sporting some mighty funky hair that had so much Spritz the words "fire hazard" comes to mind. Just as you were feeling really good about yourself (or at least less alien), you walked into the cafeteria for the first time. Maybe you were a transfer, or maybe your high school took in kids from many other junior high schools, so you couldn't rely on having the same lunch as the friends you desperately sought out earlier in the day. You are alone. You are standing with your tray full of fish sticks and tater tots and wondering why God had forsaken you (as well as the entirety of the 10th grade).
Do you remember the panic? Your hands are sweating. Your heart is pounding. You are simultaneously convinced that everyone is staring at you and ignoring you because you are wholly inconsequential. Everyone around you seemed to have friends already. They all knew each other. Not only was there no room at their table, there was no room in their conversation. Stay, or go? Stay, or go? Sit alone and hope that someone joins you? Grab your tater tots and pretend that you have somewhere very important to be and can't waste time at such childish endeavors like lunch time?
This is me—every single day when I'm faced with a new group of people.
This was me, Thursday night. Only instead of lacy ankle socks, a million bracelets and a double-wrapped bondage belt, I looked like I was dressed to have tea with the Queen. Instead of high schoolers (or royalty), I was faced with a crowd of filmmakers (all seemingly more passionate, hip and accomplished than I). I was up north for a day trip to support a short film I had produced while still working in my corporate life. It was screening at a film festival there-- paired with a feature with talented known folks. My task was to answer questions and promote the short. What could go wrong?
As I entered an after-screening meet-up, I could hear Madonna's "Get Into The Groove" playing from somewhere outside the venue. Sadly, while I was responding nostalgically, the people around me were responding ironically. And the familiar panic set in. I tried to push through it—I exchanged pleasantries with a handful of other "artist" badge wearers. But as it was early on in the festival, none of us had seen much and most of them had worked together. I can't be the person who breaks into a recounting of war stories with "that reminds me of this time at the law firm I used to work at…"—though I have friends who can easily pull it off.
Once again, I was the outsider withdrawing by measures as each second ticked. I just didn't fit.
I excused myself shortly thereafter—not that anyone noticed my absence. I closed the door to my hotel room and felt myself crack. Nothing against the hotel (it was lovely), but if I had picked a place for emotional deterioration, it wouldn't have been there. For reference, I would have chosen Colin Firth's living room, so that he would be on hand to care for me (while no doubt rockin' a sweater like no other). I know I have to get over this. I know I have to take a deep breath (or 40), and make it impossible for people to dismiss me the next time. But right now, I'm standing with my lunch tray in hand just hoping for a spot at the table.
There is nothing quite like that feeling of seeing someone special across a crowded room (or match.com screen). You feel this connection, and despite all your reservations (which are mostly focused around you not having visited a gym in the last five years), you think that he could be the one. All you need to do is get his name and his number… and possibly his birth date. Because everyone knows that it's easier to narrow him down in the criminal offenders database if you have that information.
Very smart dating services have been using the background check for years, but apparently now it is available to the average Jane/Joe, as well. I know this because while I was running through my DVR, the commercial for BeenVerified.com kept popping up. Obviously, I approve. New people, places and things all make me slightly nervous. Also, people, places and things I've known about for a while could still be suspect. And I think we can all agree on the fact that I'm not getting in a date's car (should there ever be a date again) without knowing his criminal history, actual marital status (because I'm certainly not going to take his word for it) and his SAT scores (GREs are optional). So, places like BeenVerified.com are speaking my language.
However, I'm curious if those of you out there in blogland are also availing yourselves of the services. So… hands up if you have ever personally checked out a potential date—or had someone else do it for you.
I'm genuinely curious. Is dating more dangerous now than it was in the 1960s? It feels like it, but is it? I really don't think it would have crossed the mind of either of my parents to investigate the other. Sure, it would have been much more expensive and time-consuming in 1965, but also, seemingly unnecessary. Is it because we meet each other in much more casual and anonymous ways so we don't have the ability to judge someone's personality over time? I'd argue that is true, particularly if you are online dating. Then again, my parents met in a diner. They didn't work together. They didn't know each other before my father asked my mother out on a date. They had no friends in common. And yet, Sam Spade (or rather his 1960s equivalent) wasn't required.
Why were we willing to give each other the benefit of the doubt then, but not now? Are we ourselves more likely to lie to someone and, therefore, we assume that the people we encounter are also lying to us?
I know why I would do it—I have trust issues. No mystery. But the friends of mine, who have faced the biggest danger from their "romantic" partners, would have faced it with a background check or not because their partners had never been arrested or prosecuted. It would have saved Reb from that awkward "oh, he's still married" situation, but "separated" continues to confound. Even the dating database suggested in the novel "Insider Dating" seems like it would be too open to vindictive ex-partners and speculation.
So, what is the solution? I'd like the answer to be that we'll all just have to be really great people and make all of this unnecessary. Then again, I'd also like engraved invitations requesting the honor of my presence in a ball gown more often, so… my wants might be on the fringe of realistic.
Give me your wisdom, for I have none. I do, however, have a lovely Pinot that I'm willing to share.
I am fabulous at many things:
If awards were given in any of these categories, I would be legendary. They would have to retire my jersey in a ceremony full of pomp, circumstance and red velvet cupcakes. Sadly, I have yet to be informed of any such plans to honor me (I'm staying by my phone just in case).
Despite possessing these and other rather impressive attributes, I do falter in one significant way: I am virtually incapable of asking for help. I don't mean seeking emergency help—I'm pretty sure I would be able to dial 911 if the need arose (though I might write a "Pros and Cons" list if I was the one in need of rescue, as I nearly did here: http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/02/caprice-crane-and-final-thoughts-on.html). No, my failing tends to be on a more day-to-day level.
I was in New York last week, meeting some very nice people and chatting about the future of higher education. The social hour turned toward what I was currently doing in Los Angeles—always a little awkward when the answer is "seriously assessing my ability to be homeless while trying to become a writer/producer." So, maybe one of my other failings is excessive honesty. Anyway, a number of people gave me quite good suggestions about who to contact for advice, guidance, etc. And now the onus is on me to do reach out and touch someone (so to speak).
Which I will.
Probably.
Possibly.
I just don't know how to do it.
If you've ever read this blog before, you know I am terrible at networking. I'm abysmally bad at reaching out to strangers. While quite good at hiding in corners, I'm quite a bit less good at making an approach to someone I don't know regardless of the situation. I feel like I'm intruding on their lives if they are strangers—they didn't ask to have a random person knock on their virtual door. If I do know them, I feel like it's an imposition on the acquaintanceship, or worse—that they would feel used and awkward from the approach. Naturally, my inclination is to do nothing in order to not seem too pushy, rude or desperate. Apparently, that approach is somewhat less successful, statistically speaking. So, over the next two months I need to get better at this—much better. I have no choice (I mean, because I enjoy meeting new people).
So…
I am looking for an agent. I want to write across platforms (novels, television, film, web series, and material for your cell phones). I will take nearly all advice about getting one (or two, as the literary side of things is separate). And when I say nearly, I mean anyone who suggests anything naked will actually be fined (no, seriously). Just in case you are thinking that a blog plea doesn't count—I will be knocking on doors (so to speak). I will be emailing. I will be showing up with cupcakes, coffee or a bottle of pinot. People will be charmed despite their better instincts.
I hope.
I've returned to Los Angeles just in time to take part in a terrifying ritual known as "The Table Read." I've been writing a series of essays, monologues and conversations for the last few months, and today is the day I get to hear how it has all come together… or not. I've been told with absolute force that I should think positively and that even critical reactions can be useful.
Here's the thing—I'm a delicate flower. As we've already established, I hear a positive for about 20 seconds and a negative for the rest of my life. So imagine me trying to achieve a Zen-like state in the face of this much vulnerability. Can't imagine it? Yeah, neither can I. It has nothing to do with logic—a piece can always be better. I think it has much more to do with the life pressure that is now on me to succeed. I quit my job, in part, to write. If I walk away from a table reading of my work with "this was an abomination," that choice might seem less wise.
Even with great critical/commercial success, I know that I would still face criticism. This is why I plan to completely remove myself from the internet should I actually be employed. No one needs to read the pointed barbs of Twitter after a 16-hour day. My rational mind has accepted these things as truth. My somewhat fragile psyche—well, it's still working on it.
Deep breath.
Here we go.
I'm uncertain who was supposed to wear it, or where it was going, but it's very cute. Perhaps I was shopping in a fugue state and unaware that I'm usually much less formally attired while watching House Hunters? Perhaps someone younger and more playful bought it, and it has been buried in a time capsule for years? Of course, there is a possibility that I was having nightmares about being stuck on the set of Mad Men with nothing to wear, and quickly updated my wardrobe. In reality, the most likely explanation is that my closet is making its own decisions, and helpfully expelling in my direction hints about what my life should look like, rather than what it does.
That's fine. But it should be warned that if the next thing out the door is a wedding dress, I'm torching it and starting over.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the thoughts in my head:
I need gray boots.
Do they still make gray boots?
The 80s were a great time for gray boots.
Everyone had gray boots in the 80s.
I miss the 80s.
I feel like my mental capacity might be diminishing ever so slightly.
True Story
(aka Things About Me That Would Surprise Absolutely No One)
When I was young, I could not watch soap operas without running out of the room when the kissing started. You see, I understood that the people on television were actors and that what I saw on TV was not real. So, in my mind, because they were actors and not deeply in love, the kissing was wrong. You could not kiss someone you didn’t love (I’m not saying I still think this is true… but I might).
Then I started to rationalize: it would be ok, if they were wearing some sort of mouth guard. I remember staring very intently at some characters on One Life to Live in order to spot what was surely some sort of plastic wrap that would protect them from accidentally making mouth to mouth contact with someone they weren’t “with” in real life. Shockingly, I never found it. Those make-up artists are good.
It was mid-morning of December 30th when J and I emerged from the train in Venice. Watching the sun rise over the waters and feeling the not all together unpleasant breeze, we knew we had made the best decision possible. The day before we had been in Vienna—it was beautiful, but, as anyone can tell you, there are few places colder than Vienna in December, and we were in need of some rejuvenation. It didn't hurt that we also needed a night train. Light on cash and unable to return to our friend's apartment while her boyfriend "visited," it was an adventure too timely to reject.
As Venice woke up around us, we wandered over to the Grand Canal partaking in only the finest of breakfasts: fresh baked rolls and … Pepsi. What can I say; it's ubiquitous and easy to obtain no matter what language you are working in (and my Italian is so poor that I asked the train porter if he spoke English in what turned out to be junior high school Spanish without noticing the slip until he rolled his eyes). While probably only in the mid-50's, the rising sun gave off a welcome heat, as we took in the new city. We museum hopped much in the same way we had pub crawled not two weeks earlier—slowly, with reverence and with just a taste at each location (though I will admit to trying to absorb The Madonna and The Tempest into my brain so the memory would be vivid enough to revisit years later).
Late afternoon and the water began its siren call. We gleefully brought pizza to the dock and watched the flow from the Adriatic lap against the planks. I was at peace; something that seemed antithetical to the vagabond life I was experiencing, but there it was. Perhaps the openness of my countenance is what attracted him first, or maybe I radiated a kind of innocence that some men find appealing. It certainly wasn't my stylish attire—I was dressed for travel and warmth, not seduction. Still, when he approached with his friend, my confusion was tempered with amusement, and I found myself flattered.
He was an artist. His friend was a professor (though he didn't teach). I'd estimated he was in his early 50s. Dapper in the way of very successful Italian men, his gallery tales told in halting English were charming. Apparently, he was moved by me; so much so that he grabbed the empty pizza box from between us, in order to begin his creation immediately. My visage had inspired him to take pen to pizza box and craft a portrait of a traveler. Much to my increasing amusement, he used J's head as a table. I'm not certain she found it as entertaining. Then again, she was used to being the center of male attention more than I (she was willowy with flame red hair—quite striking even in travel gear). Perhaps he sensed this as he kept telling her not be jealous of his attentions as he continued to draw. He kept telling me to sit up.
I'll have to say, as encounters go, it was unique. He used the two grease spots to form my eyes, so I was beginning to look a bit cross-eyed in the portrait, but I could tell he was moving swiftly to flesh out the version of me he wanted the world to see. It was a natural evolution for him to invite us back to the gallery. It only momentarily startled his friend, but I'm sure the professor was used to having the artist offer to bring women back to his gallery to see his work. Other than his interest in me, there really hadn't been anything untoward, and yet I began to second guess the plan.
He asked if I was Italian, and if I had family or friends in the area. It could have been idle curiosity, but I started to get the feeling that he was checking to see if anyone would miss us if we didn't make our train. He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he was taken with me. He told me he was Italian and didn't need me because he could have any woman he wanted, but that he was honoring me, and I shouldn't be frightened. I looked into his eyes—a bit dazed by it all as he began to speak the words every woman longs to hear: "You aren't beautiful. You have no figure. You are nothing, and no one has made you more famous than I have just made you."
Much to his dismay, and growing irritation, I cut off the discussion of what wine (and other things) he would introduce me to with a quickly invented train schedule conflict (and a silent vow to avoid that particular canal area if I was to ever return). Our departure was… swift.
And that's what happens when I meet a man on vacation.
I haven't sat down with one of these random internet surveys in a while. Lucky you! Now, let's see…
Your turn.
As befitting any situation where I make great plans, the end of 2011 saw me not being uber-productive in anticipation of 2012, but rather vomiting for several days. Unlike Bridget Jones who could claim hangover status as her reasoning, I ended up with the stomach flu (I blame every single person on my flight back to Los Angeles, including that baby—reasonable or not). Joy. BUT I am determined to find the bright side of the situation. For instance:
See! Not a total loss. I am a tiny bit concerned that my body was reacting to the consideration of joining www.itsjustlunch.com dating service right before the vomiting began, but I'm going to stick with plane cooties.
In an effort to stop focusing on the tumultuous stomach, I've started reviewing my annual New Year's Resolutions. Last year my resolutions were pretty short and were headlined by one item: "Quit job." Well, I got to check that one off the list. Oddly enough "get job" isn't on this year's list, though my year of wandering and pondering will be over at the end of April. That's not to say that my list isn't career oriented—it is. In fact, this year is one of the few years that the list does not include a single body, dating or lottery winning goal (not that those things aren't still swirling around my mind). Instead, this year focuses on specific elements of what I want to do: projects I want to pursue, people with whom I want to work and writing opportunities I wish to pursue.
My success rate with these things is mixed, but in an effort to guarantee success, I succumbed to the vision board encouragements of a friend. In fact, she led a vision boarding activity just before the holidays. My board is a bit sparse. That's either because my vision is limited, or my goals are focused (let's go with that last one). What did make me laugh was the section of the board dedicated to projecting how people see you. My board has words like "smart," "fascinating," "genius," and "powerful," instead of words/images like "sexy" or "desirable" in any possible connotation. We may have narrowed down why I never date.
As you all dive headlong into 2012, did you make any resolutions? What is your normal success rate?
Happy New Year!
