First, the update on “The 50”:
1. Conversations with delectable Duchovny: 0
2. Game over, I have totally won conversations with George Clooney: Shockingly, also 0
3. Meaningful conversations with anyone vaguely interested in me: 0
4. Meaningless attempts at starting human interaction: 2 ½.
That’s right people, after two days, I have had attempted interaction with 2 ½ strangers of the male persuasion. This is significantly harder than I thought. Part of the rules is that the guy responds back, and while meaningful interaction is not required, some sort of acknowledgement is.
You’re curious about the ½, aren’t you? I will assure you, this is not in reference to a half man. In one case, I tried to say to a man, but a truck went past at that exact moment. He either didn’t hear me, or chose to continue walking without acknowledging me (much like the delivery guy who I just encountered in the elevator). I get minor credit for the guy on the street though, because I did make the attempt, but I was interfered with. Those of you who embrace sports the way I do, will understand that if you are interfered with, you actually do get to advance in the game. I also said “hi” and “thank you” to a man who opened the door for me, and he did respond—although he responded to the three of us going through the door, so not a direct hit there, either. Thus, each man counted as a ¼.
And they said there would be no math. ;p
Now, onto my profound thoughts for the day.
Do I do ruffles?
I realize that most of you have never seen me, but just picture someone very short and reminiscent of a weeble (yes, as in “weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down”). I think ruffles may be for perky people. I put on a shirt, which I obviously bought at some point, and noticed the bottom of it had a ruffle. I put a light sweater over it because clearly August calls for sweaters—and perhaps to hide the ruffle. I’m just not sure I’m a ruffle, or at least not anymore. Maybe on talk-like-a-pirate day, I can also wear the ruffled shirt.
But if I rule out ruffle, am I also ruling out pleats? I have pleated skirts, some that are even a little bit on the shorter side. Can a woman careening into the deep end of thirty wade back into the shallows of a kicky pleated skirt? I hope so because at the moment, much like my remote, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, gnarled hands before I give them up entirely. I refuse to relegate them to the back of my closet, only to emerge on dress-like-Britney-when-she-used-to-have-a-career day.
Yes, that day does exist. Does so.
Interestingly enough, it coincides with leave-job-in-blaze-of-glory day.
One final thought to share, and it has to do with the upcoming television season (also known as Kate’s Nirvana). I’ve seen the pilot for Private Practice by the creators of Grey’s Anatomy. I love GA. I embrace it, warmly, and as often as possible. I’m uncertain about Private Practice. Sure, I’m naturally nervous about spin-offs, although it is seriously time to give Ari (from Entourage) his own show, but I think my reserve comes from part of the premise of the show. Addison’s character leaves Seattle to find a new life in Los Angeles.
I get leaving the ex (or in her case, exes). I even get the finding yourself in Los Angeles thing. But in the promos it sounds like she’s coming to LA to improve her romantic/social life.
LA is where dating comes to die.
I’m just saying.
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