Friday, March 28, 2014

Things That Scare Me

Nothing scares me quite like a Google search that brings up no results. I mean fine, lots of things scare me. Emotional intimacy can be challenging, and to be honest I'm still haunted by the facial expressions that Britney Spears made during her stint as a judge on X Factor. (See below.) But other than that, empty Google searches. In the entire world there's not one thing that even looks a little bit like what I was asking for? So you're saying I'm alone in my thoughts and super weird? I'M NOT.

To be fair it's not like I'm searching for a key word like "ice cream" and it shuts me down, it's usually more like when I'm trying to find out how dangerous an antibiotic is on a scale from 9-10 and I misspell it's cute pharmaceutical name. But I'd like to think that the internet has some left field ideas for me since it knows everything and I thought we were friends. It's almost as bad as when I misspell "ridiculous" in a text and the spell check doesn't have the slightest idea of what I was trying to say. But that's what abbreviations are for. Redic.


via: celebfuck.tumblr.com

       

Friday, January 31, 2014

When Guys Flirt: Pin the Tail on the Donkey Edition

There are a lot of weird things that happen when guys on hit on women, like pretty much every part of it, but I have noticed a new bizarre occurrence in my own experience and I can't tell if I should be incredibly insulted or sort of flattered. Or some blend of both. I'll call it "the repeat". Or more colorfully "pin the tail on the donkey" for the blind and random element of it. Basically what has happened is that someone hits on me...and then on a different day they do it again...because they forgot about it the first time. WHOA BRO.

Example one: My friend and I are in Vegas minding our own business in the intimate nightlife venue that is Hakkasan. Just kidding, Hakkasan holds over 7,000 people which I obviously googled while I was there drinking my chardonnay because how can you expect me to have a good time without knowing those sort of important details. Anyway, these two guys start talking to my friend and I and we are not interested, but they're basically the most fun people we encountered so we hang out with them for a bit and dance to the extent that you can dance when you're sandwiched alongside 7,000 other people and disorienting strobe lighting or whatever.

Fast forward to a month or so later when me and my same friend are minding our own business drinking chardonnay at the Roosevelt pool in Hollywood, and would you believe the exact same guys walk up and start hitting on us! (Because they didn't remember the first time.) Now, I understand that people in Vegas can be a little drunk, and maybe I look slightly different when I'm in my hip Los Angeles clothing as opposed to my Vegas neon orange dress, but like there were TWO of us. You don't recognize either of us? Of course when I interrupted them and reminded them that we had in fact already met, it all came crashing back. What is interesting to note about this interaction is that Guy 1 hit on me both times and Guy 2 hit on my friend both times, so at least they were consistent in their approach. Could have been worse.

Example two: I'm drinking chardonnay at Warwick in Hollywood with my best friend and some guy asks for my number. I'm not interested but I give it to him anyway because I tend to forget that there are simple ways to get out of this exchange, such as saying "no". The same day of the following week I'm doing the exact same thing in the exact same place, and literally within feet of where he hit on me the first time he does it again...because he doesn't remember the first time. I'm like slow it way down guy, you got a blindfold on? Let me show you my pretend insulted face and point out that you already have my number right there in your iPhone. Look alive man. He has since texted me twice, so the best explanation I have for this example is that I must have looked way cuter the second time that he saw me for the first time.

Let's be honest, I probably don't remember half the people I made out with in college but that was 8,501 years ago. (I look great for my age.) And yes, these incidents both happened at nightclubs which are supposedly bad for meeting quality people except that I'm still seeing a quality someone that I met at a nightclub over three years ago, so also not at all. Pretty sure as a mature adult when I see a cute guy and speak even one word to him I would recognize him a mere week later no matter where the run in occurred, so I deduce that these "pin the tail on the donkey" type guys are the dating equivalent of those commercial fishing boats that use big nets and scoop up 43 different types of sea creatures that they don't need when they are just looking for one fish to sell/girl who will have sex with them. Offensive? Probably. But not more so than the fact that I basically just referred to myself as a donkey and a sea creature. I need better analogies.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

The Worst Coffee Shop

In the vein of those helpful and hip blog posts that highlight the best coffee shops in Los Angeles to sit down and pen your first hit screenplay, I'd like to suggest one that might be the worst.

I don't make it a daily habit to buy coffee out, because I drink it black like a beast and realistically I need caffeine to get out of the house in the first place, so it just makes sense to brew a cup of my own. Plus, I'm not raking in millions yet or even penning my first hit screenplay yet and you can't read any type of financial responsibility article without it pointing out how much money you waste at Starbucks. I listen.

But occasionally I run out of coffee, and then occasionally specifically go to the store to refill my stash and then forget it anyway, and I end up having to walk the half block to Hollywood Blvd to get some of the good stuff.

I usually cross the street for Coffee Bean because it seems like the most exotic choice for the neighborhood, but on this day I had already gone once at 8am and I didn't really want to go back at 2:30pm just in case anyone recognized me and held some judgements (fiscal or addiction related) about my two-a-days. It's unlikely, because I was wearing a different outfit but I had on the same groggy face, so you just never know.

To Starbucks I went. This particular Starbucks, which is about 100 ft from my apartment is quaintly situated below Madame Tussauds wax museum, next to the $10 store where everything is actually $5 as shouted at you by underaged boys pumping signs on sticks in your face, and right behind where the delusional people dress up as Hollywood characters and beg for cash in exchange for photographs.

This spot is usually hot, might be more polluted than the rest of Hollywood if that's possible, has roughly one million tourists to duck and run through at any given time, and the dance music blasting from Madame Tussauds is louder than any nightclub in the world which I know because I've been to them all or at least enough to know. I'm not sure how many tables there are outside of Starbuck's because I couldn't see straight from the aggressive noise level, but my best estimate is that there is one. One table that could be the absolute worst coffee shop table in the city to write at.

In closing, I know that it looks like Madame Tussauds is spelled wrong, but it's not. I checked.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

A Fun Day at the Doctor's Office/Clown Show

Now, I'm always in favor of trying a natural or homeopathic route when faced with some dumb health issue. But you better believe when I've been ill for over two weeks and facing challenges with working, working out, going out, or doing anything much besides reading Nicholas Sparks in bed and googling potential diseases and inflictions, eventually I will go hobbling down to the doctor.

On my first trip my litany of "mysterious" symptoms were met with a flippant (super bitch) young lady doctor who proclaimed my ailments "too much" and spat "what is it that you want me to do for you?"
Oh ok...doctor me? She suggested that I may have rheumatoid arthritis, and while I puttered about my other symptoms that don't exactly fit that diagnosis she swept me out the door to the lab for blood work.

To her credit, she put me on STAT so I got to cut 75 old women in line which was cool until they started revolting. "I have arthritis!" I imagined screaming while dodging canes. "So do we!' They'd scream back. Instead I tried to hide in my old college sweatshirt but then every nurse and technician I encountered after that tried to read the block letters and couldn't get it. "UCG?' "No..." "Oh 'UCD' is that UC Berkeley?" "Oh no, that's UC Davis." "Ohh UC Irvine?" Ok nice chat, you can take my blood now!

Three days later, and less well, I get in to see my primary doctor who seems much more focused because she has a sassy cartoon caricature of herself on her exam door. Snap! Two minutes after my arrival she slides her rolling chair across the room throwing her hands up in defeat. "I can't make any sense of this. Nothing! Could you be pregnant?" Not likely, but I'm very cooperative so sure I'll take a pee test, blood test, and repeat all of the tests I just took at my last visit.

The next stop was CAT scan. I'm feeling productive now and not pregnant, let's x ray that shit! Oh wait, I have to drink one and a half BANANA flavored barium "smoothies"? I would have stomped my foot but joint inflammation and fevers don't afford that kind of energy expenditure. So I did what anyone would do, sit on the hallway floor and drink my smoothie to avoid watching Maury in the waiting room for the two hours it takes for the gunk to work though your body.

Finally I enter the sweet oasis of the CAT scan room, reminiscent of a psychiatric punishment ward and yet also an underground alien probe bomb shelter. As standard protocol I signed my life away and then laid down for 30 minutes while my iodine-in-vein technician tried and failed seven times to get a needle in my vein. Ha ha! Each attempt was tested by an saline injection, and since the needle was not in my vein I lay there calmly growing saline mountains under my skin and leaking blood everywhere. He tried to get me to watch the whole process, I politely declined. Perhaps small veins are considered a challenge to overcome in that field, but by the time he went to get a child sized needle I was trying not to shake or let my let my eyes water. Baby needle worked on the first try. He wasn't pleased that we had to resort to that, and post scan sent me on my way with a "And I thought you wouldn't be difficult."  Thanks! I waved, holding down my bandages.

Back at my primary doctor, I thought we were getting somewhere. Doc bounds into the room with my CAT scan results and an animated "Now I understand your pain. Very unusual." Hit me. Their quick in-office diagnosis after reviewing my scan was that my bladder was dangerously large and that they immediately needed to put in a catheter for a TWO WEEK period to drain the freak thing otherwise major trouble. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Can you have sex with a catheter???

"But but..." I protested, "I had to pee during my CAT scan!"  She nodded her head no with a wild look in her eyes. Just as I started to cry and gently cradle myself she came back and said that the urologist would fit me in. He quickly determined that no, that's not the problem. I just have an unusually high capacity bladder, and that I'm quite lucky really.

So then I left, six hours later than I arrived, shaking with chills, more confused than when I went in and with less a lot less cash in my purse. This morning I messaged my doctor about some less complicated possibilities, such as deficiencies of some sort, and was that possible? She immediately ordered me back to the lab for blood cultures and said to expect a call from Infectious Disease. Okay cool. I hope they like adults with baby veins.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

The WTF Apartment Hunt

So here I am, suddenly looking for a new apartment. I know what you're thinking friends; "But Kate! You're almost 1/3rd of the way through a 90 day novel writing class where they specifically warned you not to make any large life changes like MOVE during the course!"

And you're totally right. Hilarious!! Not to mention that within the same week that my roommate gives a highly unexpected early moving notice, the guy I'm casually/longterm seeing has a resurface of a false and defamatory legal allegation, AND it seems that some of my favorite family members aren't speaking to me for reasons that remain a total mystery, without any notice! HAHA. One not-at-all distracted novelist right here!

But let's focus on one pressing issue at a time, quickly finding the perfect studio apartment in a highly competitive L.A. market. And by perfect I obviously just mean affordable with a parking spot, A/C, and laundry on site, so fine, we're looking for near perfect. But seriously the second studio I looked at was perfect. Okay it did not have a parking spot, but it did have a humungous PRIVATE YARD and a super cute totally ready for me style, in an ideal location. It even had free Wi-fi you guys.

As the place at hand hadn't even been listed at the time (and was still inhabited by three mega stoners, a dog, and some Bob Marley posters) only one other guy was there looking at the place at the same time, and by golly I was quick to vocalize that I'd take it. Well this little guy wanted the place too, so we were instructed to gather up three years of W-2's, three months of bank statements, proof of savings accounts, and a $500 holding deposit and race over to the leasing office.

I mean that's a lot to ask, but when I say I raced...I raced. Who knew that I even had all my W-2's conveniently nestled together in a file folder? I was born for this moment! I grabbed some cash and sprinted into to the leasing office. Maybe took me an hour. Bam.

But would you guess that this little guy had gotten there 10 minutes before me and gotten approved to sign and steal my beautiful apartment? Oh come on! You a magician, dickhead? Keep all your taxes and confidential paperwork in your trunk on a Saturday afternoon do you? Your first born back there too?

Well I can't say that I was pleased. But I did talk to the leasing agent again a couple days later and she made sure to let me know that she gave him a real hard time about it and even suggested that he take a different unit. He wouldn't.

She said to him: "Don't you at least feel a little guilty taking this place from a girl?" And the fastest short guy in the West said "Nope."

But don't worry you guys. I'm sure it's good for the book.

 






Tuesday, October 23, 2012

My Favorite Asshole Restaurant.

I have a favorite restaurant. Have-ish. It turned into a favorite because it came talked up and is good, but mostly because it became a habit and very familiar. (Shut up that is nothing like any romantic relationship I've been in!)

I frequent said restaurant at least weekly with my best friend, mostly because of one key item: chimichurri. (Look it up.)  We are greeted in style and presented with our chosen bottle of chardonnay before we even have to ask. They know that we're getting our delicious salads and kindly bring us some extra chimchurris to flavor them and we happy dance all the way through.

Or we did.

Last week we went twice. Day one, great. Day two all hell broke loose. We nervously ordered with a new waiter which went fine until he solemnly returned to the table sharing the news that there was now a limit on chimichurri. Three per table. A LIMIT ON CHIMICHURRI?

Our jaws hit the floor and stayed there. Which is a look that is usually specifically reserved for cartoon characters or  the faces of small children from rural Texas when you shock them with the fact that you live in the elusive land of California.

Upon further inquiry we were informed that extra chimichurris could be purchased for 50 cents a piece after the initial three. Oh, we gayly laughed, fine we'll take two.

But then I start thinking. I can't help but take this very personally. I feel stabbed in the back by a institution that seems to adore my business but then erects a glass ceiling on my enjoyment. Plus, I order my salad without half of the items it comes with and turn down the free bread like any normal skinny person does, so I'm basically saving them money. PLUS, only three per table...no matter how many customers there are? Do you get four or five then for three people? Six for four? Sounds phony, and like way too much potential math for anyone trying to enjoy life. I mentally shake my fist and then come up with a plan.

Next time, my best friend and I will just come alone 3 minutes apart and sit at different tables, secure three bowls of chimchurri a piece, do the chosen hand signal across the restaurant/to the next booth over (depending on how we're sat) and then "run into" each other, thereby getting our derserved goods while simultaneously opening up an extra table for the restaurant and basically saving the day. Don't fuck with me, LaLa's Argentinian Grill.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Short Subject: The Art Show vs Kate's Brain


In Los Angeles we might gather on a Thursday night at a local gallery such as
Lab Art for an event showcasing the larger than life Lego man that had washed
up on a Malibu beach thanks to street artist Ego Leonard.  It might rain in a humid
July, we might be run into old friends and dramatically meet new ones over plastic
cups of two-buck chuck.

We might lean in and coyly discuss business ventures while posing for event
photos, willing a creative breakthrough to kidnap our minds while we stare at each
other's outfits. We might lose our current fatigues in a loud room and tweet our
whereabouts. 

It might not be entirely unreasonable in this town to consider our friend's teasing
 that the baby running around the party dramatically jabbing his fingers on a
make-believe phone call is actually the under cover street artist Alec Monopoly
with a growth hormone disease. He might have been wearing a tell tale black
hat upon his head. 

Our wheels might turn on the logistics of a baby/small man reaching high enough
to swiftly plaster the sleeping city with his satirical grafitti as we thrill in this
fantasy. All teamwork, we might concede, and go about our night. 

A very few days later we might see a casting notice specifically seeking extremely
 athletic people under the height of 3'10". Aha, we might think. This breakdown
 is speaking to us. Although in this town we can't be entirely certain of what it's trying to say.