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.

Only With a Best Friend

You know that someone is your best friend when you can spend a day together where everything goes to hell, nothing works the way you wanted it to, and you can still laugh about it during and afterwards.

This past summer, by best friend Jennie and I had a day exactly like that. I'm not sure why I didn't post about it at the time, actually.

The whole thing started with a U2 concert that never happened (well, it got delayed), because Bono threw his back out. We decided that since we still needed our U2 fix, we'd take the local commuter train down to Salt Lake and see the U2 laser show at the planetarium. Genius, right? In theory, yes. In practice, well...

We thought we had it planned out just so. We got down there, stopped past the planetarium to get our tickets and nipped up to the pub to get some fish and chips and beer. We cut the time a little tight and missed the train to take us back down to the planetarium, so we decided to make a run for it. Running after downing some grease-laden fish and chugging a bottle of Bass is not a very good idea. You'd think that by 30 I'd have figured this stuff out, but we were desperate. Did we make it, you ask? We came pretty close, but we looked at our watched when we were 2/3rds of the way there and decided we were too damn slow.

At this point, we looked at each other and couldn't stop laughing. Clearly, we were not meant to see U2 on that day. In hindsight, we may have just chucked the evening in there and gone to catch the train to come home. Instead, we went to a different bar, met Jennie's friend Mike, and drank some more beer.

Eventually we looked at our watches and knew we should be making our way back to the station to catch the last train back to Ogden. Jennie had specifically looked at the time, so we wouldn't miss it....

After we'd sat in the station for twenty minutes, giggling at our amusing evening and feeling good from the beer we'd consumed, we realized there were a) no people at the station and b) no trains at the station. She had looked at the time for the last Saturday train... and it was Friday. The train was gone.

It was 12:30am at this point and I called my mum (who tends to worry about her only child), informed her of the insane situation and assured her that we didn't need to be rescued. Shaking our heads and teasing each other mercilessly, we went back to bar #2, told Mike about our predicament, and accepted his gracious offer of his couch for the remainder of the night. (Thanks, Mike!) After a shared cab ride, a seriously kick-ass pickle, and a heated discussion of The Beach Boys and Bruce Springsteen, the three of us succumbed to sleep.

The next morning I blessed the stage manager in me that keeps a toothbrush in her purse and my EdPass that lets me get on any UTA bus for free. While Mike was still snoring away, Jennie and I crept outside to wait for the bus to take us to the train to take us to the other train that would take us home.

If I had been with pretty much anybody else that day I would likely have lost my mind, but because I was with Jennie it was simply funny as hell. And with our paranoia, we've been obscenely early for movies ever since.

Thanks, Babe. And Happy Birthday.

The Luck of the Draw

I was thinking about luck today. Not the leprechaun, pot of gold luck. More like the luck you make for yourself.

My literature professor was telling us how by the time he was fifteen, the farthest he had travelled was to Salt Lake City and he'd only been there twice. (Once had been with the Cub Scouts to go to the zoo and he got peed on by a liger. That has no other baring on the story, I just thought it was REALLY funny.) He was 28 before he got on an airplane.

By the time I was fifteen, I'd been to Germany and seen the remains of the Berlin Wall. I was spending every summer in L.A. with my aunt and seeing piles of excellent theatre while I was at it. By the time I was 22, I'd been to England three times, Scotland twice, France, Italy, and New York City. None of this was by chance.

The other day my dad told me the story of how my travels began. My A.P. European History class took a trip to Europe each year. My sophomore year Mr. Lane gave us the brochure for their next trip, a London "City-Stay" where they'd stay at a hotel in London and take day trips out to Stratford, Oxford, Stonehenge, Bath, etc. I got in the car that afternoon and lightly mentioned that they were doing this and what a cool idea it was. My dad asked me if I was interested and I mumbled something about money. I hear that it was my Grandmother that said something to the effect of, "We'll hock the family jewels if we need to, to make sure Kate gets to go!"

That was my first taste of the lengths to which my family would go for me. Each summer after that I remember working my butt off to earn the money for the subsequent trips. Paris during my junior year, England/Scotland during my senior year, and Italy after I graduated. The culminating trip was the trip to England and Scotland with my mom, my grandmother, and my aunt.

I wouldn't have gone in the first place if they hadn't said, "Yes, honey, you can do this and we'll do whatever we can to help." I guess that's the real luck, the family I got.

Those trips shaped who I am and made my life so much richer. I've seen the Mona Lisa and I've seen Versailles, but I've also seen the difference between life in former East Germany compared to the life in former West Germany. I've seen the beaches at Normandy and St. Peter's square in Rome. I've seen the Vatican museums, the British Museum, and all the German museums that absconded with relics from Egypt. It's been so much more than cultural literacy. It's the world I live in and I've experienced a little of it.

Here's to my trip to Gettysburg next summer!

Sing It, Boys!

When I first got to Utah, my dear Mummy told me about something called A Cappellastock. Think Woodstock, but with super cute guys singing harmony instead of Roger Daltry destroying guitars. Since I'm such a sucker for guys singing together, I thought, "What the hell? Let's go!"

Shortly after that at my TEN year highschool reunion (very weird to think it's been ten years), they were raffling off various different lame prizes. Just when I was looking for the cocktail waitress to bring me another weak gin and tonic, they mentioned two tickets to A Cappellastock. My ears perked up and then they called someone else's name. My old friend Melissa won them instead. Damn!

A couple of the more mormon heads nearby turned around at my involuntary expletive and I, reluctantly, gave them an apologetic look. Melissa, who was just passing through town, was kind enough to give me her two tickets.

After an upgrade courtesy of my dearest mommy, my parents and I were ready to go! Last Saturday, we hauled ourselves down to the Ogden amphitheatre and squatted on the grass until our seats were in the shade.

The pre-show entertainment were the Saltaire's, who are about 25 guys, singing traditional barber-shop songs and a few spiritual hymns thrown in. They were fabulous to listen, but kind of dorky to look at. I say that with all due respect, of course.

The main show started at 8pm and was fan-damn-tastic! High Fidelity was this strange little group that combined Trekkie humor with songs that ranged from Danny Boy to their own orginal Trekkie songs. They made my dad crazy, but I thought they were funny.

Thw two highlights of the evening were Tonic Sol-Fa, who kick major ASS, and XRP which is short for Ex-Rockapella. Yes, the dudes from Carmen Sandiego. Apparently, they haven't done anything in years, but they still sound pretty damn good.

We had a grand old time and I can't wait for next year! And you know what? I'm pretty sure you'd never see this kind of thing in L.A.

Turn Around Three Times and Spit

I read an article yesterday about superstitions and the theatre. I found it on wikipedia when I was wondering about the origins of calling Macbeth "The Scottish Play."

For those who don't know, it's exceedingly bad luck to speak the name Macbeth in a theatre. There have been many stories over the years of theatre's burning down and going out of business, actors and friends having accidents or even dying. Some say it started with the first production of Macbeth, when some prop knives were accidentally replaced with real ones and an actor dies. (For a very amusing time, you can watch the Blackadder III episode "Sense & Senility.")

I made the mistake, early in my stage managing days, of thinking it was all a load of crap and that no one took it seriously. I was standing on the stage setting props for our show and we were talking about that story. In my foolishness, I spoke the word itself and found a flurry of angry actors pouncing on me. They made me go outside, turn around three times, and spit over my left shoulder. Swear to God. It's supposed to exorcise whatever demons are conjured up by mentioning the Scotsman.

Just like that episode of The West Wing where Sam "tempts the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing" on election day and they make him go outside and spit too... Sorry, that's the geek in me talking.

I don't normally consider myself a superstitious person, but when I think of all my "rituals" at the theatre, I find I have to reconsider. I have to sit in the same seat for every rehearsal. Everything has to be in it's place in the booth. (This could be superstition, or it could just be because I'm anal.) We have a basket that has to be somewhere on stage for all of our productions. The one time it wasn't, the show didn't do nearly as well as all the others have. We have a St. Brigid's cross that has been on almost all of the sets.

Usually, I'm perfectly willing to walk under a ladder, but I always stop myself from doing it when I'm at the theatre.

It's amazing the crazy stuff actors do for good luck. But, I figure that if it works, who am I to call them on it?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find my four leaf clover.