Plenty of Fish... on Their Fingers

In a recent “what the hell” kind of moment, I set up an online dating profile. I mean, I don’t go clubbing, my friends all seem to be happily married, and… well, why not? The only thing I have to lose is some cool story of how we met and maybe some time (OK, and maybe a tiny bit of my dignity).

And let's face it, the closest I've come to a date in the last few years was that lovely gentleman in my Romantic Literature class (Oh, the irony!) that stared at me all semester, then wrote a somewhat-flattering, somewhat-creepy-ass poem about me. Shudder!

But with the online dating, I’ve discovered a couple of things I didn’t expect. First of all, an insane number of guys use one of two pictures. 1) The obligatory “look at this gigantic fish I caught and now have hung on my finger by its gills” pictures and 2) the at-a-loss “I guess I’ll have to take my own picture by holding up the phone to the bathroom mirror” picture. The anthropologist in me suggests that perhaps the fish pictures are a subconscious suggestion of what good providers they are and they can clearly take care of a family. Mum says that guys just don’t have their pictures taken very often, so many of them fall into one of these two categories.

I’ve also decided that online dating is like shopping at Ross. You have to dig through a WHOLE BUNCH of crap in the hope that you’ll find that fabulous blouse that makes you feel like a million bucks. In reality, you end up with a cheap dress that dissolves the first time you get caught out in the rain. And don’t even get me started on the dressing rooms…

A few tips regarding photos you should avoid (like any of you are reading my blog). First, pictures of you with a bikini-clad chick make me think you don't really need me and would probably hate me if you met me (trust me, it would be mutual). Second, pictures of you pushing your terrifying-looking mother in a wheelchair are, yes, sweet, but also make me want to run like hell. Third, (these have nothing to do with photos, but are good suggestions anyway) if you tell me how "awesome" and "hot" you are, it just makes me think that you're compensating for something. Fourth, if you message me and say "ur cute," I'm going to roll my eyes and delete it. Fifth, you better use at least some approximation of punctuation and capitalization if you want me to take you at all seriously.

I appreciate full sets of teeth, a certain amount of what I like to call "book-learnin'," and the ability to form a coherent sentence (you get bonus points for eloquence and cleverness). Also, not being a serial killer is super hot.

That being said, stranger things have happened and I'm willing to give a shot. Please, don't make me regret it.

Come All to the Fair

Apparently, I've reached a whole new level of snootiness. In the last two weeks, I've been to two county fairs and the whole thing just escapes me. I'm looking at a sign that says "Kachunga and the Alligator Show," I wandered through the animal pens, I averted my eyes from the pie-eating contest, and decided I'd hold it rather than pee in their scary restroom with two year olds peering under the stall doors. If the "psychic" was reading palms instead of tarot cards I might be swayed.

I should applaud these people for growing and raising and creating things they're so proud of. I should be able to give them their moment to shine without rolling my eyes in derision. When did I become so jaded that I couldn't enjoy this? Is this what living in L.A. did to me?

The Weber County Fair at least had a band I wanted to see. We braved insane wind and air so thick with dust you couldn't see the mountains to see an acappella group called T-Minus Five. Five guys singing harmony made up for the fact that the beer was Coors and Bud Light. You know the band is singing for a conservative county fair crowd when they change the lyrics to Brown Eyed Girl from "making love in the green grass" to "making friends in the green grass." Chickens.

I wonder if they'd let a grownup have a free pony ride.
I wonder what kind of pie they ate for the contest.
I wonder what the psychic would see in my cards.
I wonder where that asian couple got all that cheap Michael Jackson stuff.
I wonder what that cat is going to do to his mistress for making him do "tricks" on a 95 degree day. (His trick tonight is going to be barfing on mom's pillow.)
I wonder when the alligator show is.

Ooh, I really wish I hadn't seen that guy's full moon as he stood up from that table to throw away his leftover funnel cake. . .

And You Thought There Weren’t Any Great Guys in Utah

I was on the bus last Thursday after class, daydreaming about Bruce Wayne or the Doctor coming along and sweeping me off my feet, when someone out there in the universe thought it necessary to bring me crashing back to reality.

I wear my iPod on the bus specifically to keep lunatics from talking to me, but this guy was not to be dissuaded by ear buds and a little Queen. Mr. Fantastic was in his mid-twenties and banging his head along to whatever he was listening to. He turned to me and said, “I’m wearing two different boots today, cause the laces on the one broke this morning. It makes me look like a hobo.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I nodded and tried to turn back to the rainy green hills outside. No dice.

“I was kicked out of the place I was living, so I have to move into St. Anne’s on Saturday.” (St. Anne’s is a local rescue mission.) “I have a little money left that I’m going to use to buy alcohol and weed.”

This guy clearly has his priorities perfectly aligned, I thought to myself.

He kept going. “I’ve got this dragon incense burner thought that’s worth at least 30 bucks. And another little dragon figurine that’s hand-crafted ceramic and worth about 70 bucks. I’m gonna stash those, along with my TV and DVD player, at my mom’s house while I’m at St. Anne’s, cause, you know, it would suck to lose them.”

I couldn’t think of anything to do other than nod again. Were we there yet?

The inane conversation continued until I, blissfully, got off the bus and he said, “I’d give you my number, but I won’t have one until Saturday.” I expressed some sort of feigned regret at this and skipped off the bus.

He was quite the catch. Infinitely better than that sexy billionaire Bruce Wayne. What was I thinking?

A Sick Joke

So, my period starts on Friday the 13th.

Is that supposed to be funny?

I hate you all.

I Have No Good Title for This Post, Sue Me

You would think from my lack of posts lately that I was horrendously busy. In a way I have been, but nothing fun, I assure you. My world has been full of trying to find a roommate which is it's own kind of hell. Suffice it to say that (fingers crossed, knock on wood, please God) there might be an end in sight.

In between posting on Craig's List and petting my lonely cat, I've been exercising (miracle of miracles) by walking to the theatre for our many play readings, the latest of which was called Mutabilitie. Through a lack of attendance, I was called upon to read the role of Annas, a sweet Irish princess who falls for a licentious Englishman. After fairly little convincing from a character known as "The File," Annas betrays him to his bloody death.

There was also a character named William who kept talking about writing plays and poetry, being a "bard," and the river Avon. And yet, it took me a disgusting period of time to figure out that it was William SHAKESPEARE! Even after he said, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..." I STILL didn't get it. I'm losing my touch, obviously.

Coming up on Saturday is The Lieutenant of Inismore which I've been hearing about for years. My entire knowledge of it is that it involves a trained cat, two disembowellings on stage, made Barry fall out of his chair with laughter, and that we've been trying to get the rights for it for years. My morbid curiosity is killing me.

And next Monday? A Streetcar Named Desire, which I'm less than excited about. But since I've never seen nor read it, I'm reserving judgement until I can make an educated decision.

Such is the mayhem of my life.

What the Hell?!

It's been a while since I had a post entitled this and after this morning, it's time for a new one.

It all began Sunday night after the show. I was going over to my friend Dan's house cause he has a kick-ass pub in his basement and it was time for a cast party. I was sitting at a red light and hear the sound of someone hocking up a loogie (anybody know how to spell that?). I looked over my shoulder in time to see some psycho SPITTING on my car!

What the hell?!?!?!?!

And this morning, as I was getting into my car I saw an eggshell stuck on the top. Yes, my cherubs, someone EGGED my fucking car!!!! It's all over my driver's side window and my rear-view mirror. And little pieces of shell thrown in for decoration...

What did my car ever do to you people?! Why did you feel the need to exercise your dumb-ass, juvenile tendencies on random automobiles?! What the hell is wrong with the world?!

Happy fucking Thanksgiving, you assholes.

Fact: Clowns Eat People

I hate clowns. No, I mean I HATE clowns.

I think it might go back to that trip to the haunted house when I was 13. My "friends" had talked me into it and I was less than thrilled at the prospect of paying someone to scare the crap out of me. Anyway, there was a clown inside this haunted house. He was a big dude. Although, considering how small I was when I was 13, he may have been a munchkin, but he looked enormous to me. He had a baseball bat and was slamming it into the floor right next to my feet. I was trying to act non-chalant and not scared and failing miserably. (There was also a guy with a big-ass snake around his neck. Perhaps all of my phobias sprout from that one night...)

Then, again maybe my hatred of clowns comes from "The Cupcake Incident." That was in elementary and it was someone's birthday. There were clown cupcakes that had twice as much lard frosting as they did cake. I thought to myself, in my youthful naivete, "Forget the cake! Eat ALL the frosting!" And I did. And suffered the consequences an hour later.

I was thinking of clowns last night because there's a play that has rented out our theatre. Their set is a bar and one of the focal points is a pinball machine. A "fun under the big top" pinball machine. I arrived early for rehearsal (as usual) and was setting up chairs for our read-through. And the clowns on the pinball machine were ogling me, debating whether they should roast me on a spit or fillet me and saute me with garlic.

I mean, look at these clowns! They look like the type, don't they?!

Especially this one!!! With the teeth and the scary eyes.... *Shudder*

I can only imagine how terrifying it would be when it's all lit up and making circus noises. Thank God their show closes this weekend. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go make a molotov cocktail for them and their stupid little car.

I'm a Pretty Open-Minded Girl, but...

...even this is pushing it.

The dude who lives in the apartment below mine (which used to be filled with fairly charming children and their cool parents) has taken to surfing the net for porn first thing in the morning. And Saturday night. (Somebody needs a date.)

My alarm this morning, which is usually peaceful piano music from the soundtrack to Pride & Prejudice, was over-run by a woman moaning and begging for more and a large quantity of bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm music.

Sigh.

I e-mailed the management company today to find out what the proper protocol is for this sort of thing. They suggested a nicely worded letter as the first course of action.

I can think of a couple choice letters and where Mr. Frisky can shove them. I'd be happy to help.

Holiday or the Sixth Circle of Hell?

I intensely dislike Valentine's Day. Perhaps because I've never been lucky enough to have one ON Valentine's Day... Perhaps because I think it's an asinine contrivance of the greeting card and chocolate companies. Perhaps because it's another pagan holiday that has been twisted into something hardly recognizable. Whatever the reason, for me it's where hell and holidays collide. (That's what my Valentine for Robyn said anyway.)

It helps that it's my dear sweet mummy's birthday, so at least I always had someone to have dinner with. I'm trying not to be too bitter today, but I'm failing rather miserably. I asked the cat to be my Valentine this morning and he just tried to wash his nether regions. Not exactly what I was hoping for, in more ways than one.

I'm thrilled that I have rehearsal tonight. It'll serve nicely as a distraction. Maybe the men of Banshee can be my collective Valentine.

XOXO