It's a Date (I lost track of what number it should be)

The following mini-paragraphs are actual descriptions of four of my "perfect" matches:

I'm a man that love GOD, family, and loving 2 others as well. I attend church regularly, a member o na, drug free and continously growing.I love longs walks, gazing at the stars, and cuddling (*query*  Who are these "2 others"?  Would they be part of our relationship??)

I am looking for women to have some fun in bRIMINGHAM Al.I am 5 feet 10 tall and I am about 215 Lb Hazes eye black and gray hair.So of you are looking for a men send me a email. ( Sadly, I do not live in "bRIMINGHAM", but I am a sucker for hazes eye)

im 5 9 167 lbs s&p hair dont do drugs am on dis like camping fishing bowling im just plain ole guy likes people likes cooking out or going out some an good movies  (*query*  Do you mean "I am on dis website" or "I am on disability?  Is there a difference?)

I have been single for a long time, I guest it time to move forward in life.  (guest you'll be moving foward without me)

I know these websites are for entertainment purposes only (much like horoscopes and IRS notices), so I don't believe that real people write these.  I mean, they are written by real people, but people that are paid to do this, (like writing jaunty verses for greeting cards) not actual people looking to date actual other people. 

I've recently been on a couple of dates with guys I met online, and it ended up just depressing us both.  Which I did not find entertaining.    

So I guess I'll just stick to making quasi-witty snappy comebacks to my perfect matches. Or maybe I could get a job at one of these "top-notch" dating sites, writing this schlock:

am having been divorce loan time now and ready to moo on.  I like going out but am okey if u wont to stay homo, 2

Yup--I have found my new career. . . . .

Sixth of the Year

I often dream of joining the 21^st century.  So many of the rest of you seem to be enjoying it.

My computer skills are negligible.  I don't skype or tweet or voit or gavotte or do any other of those spiffy high-tech thingys.  I do not own a laptop, an ipad, an MP3 player or any music playing device smaller than a backpack. I do not own a Keurig coffee maker.  Even my microwave only works half the time. 

But mostly I feel old-fashioned because my workplace is in a timewarp, circa 1959.  Here are the two latest examples:

My one boss said to me today, "We have a potential intern coming in today.  Her name is Bass-Bassa--Bassi--she's really foreign."  Not, "she's from Angola" or "she's from Turkey"; because countries are irrelevant.  What matters is that she talks funny and wouldn't know who Nick Saban was if she slept with him.  (Which He would never do, of course, because she's a foreigner.)  I stubbed out my Lucky Strike in my metal ashtray, adjusted the tiny velvet bow stuck in my bouffant and said, "Gotcha, Boss! I'll keep an eye out for the gook!"  And scene.  From "Picnic".

When we remodeled our offices, I asked for a coat rack, so I could put my seedy blue coat somewhere other than the floor.  My request was ignored, so I took it on myself to order one (take that, Rick Santorum!).  I jury-rigged it together yesterday (my mechanical skills suck, #1 reason why I didn't go into technical theatre).  My other (even yuckier) boss walked by my bunker and said, "Got yourself a new rack, huh?"  This is a man who has already taken a trip or two down the Sexual Harrassment Highway, but he won't let that stop him from gunning up that on ramp.  I put down my steno pad, adjusted the seams in my nylons and said, "Oooo…good one, Boss.  Why doncha pat my ass for good measure?"  And scene.  This one's a bit more, "The Ice Man Cometh", don't you think?

Well, at least it's Friday.  Soon I can climb into my Ford Fairlane, head home, strap on my apron, pour myself and the hubby a couple of martoonis and fix a big roast beef dinner with all the trimmings.  Afterwards, we'll put a Jack Jones record on the hi-fi and hold hands sitting three feet apart on the sofa. 

Aw, fuck it, I'll just go to rehearsal.

Fifth of the Year

Okay, we open next week and I'm pretty secure on my lines (I'm sure I'll regret that statement) and I am bored, so Back to Blogging.

I just got off three days of jury duty and I recognized a phenomenon I noticed the last three times I pulled JD.  (BTW, I think I've done my Civic Duty, guys, go extort money from the sewer system or something and leave me alone.)  At the beginning of the week, the room is pretty quiet, and people don't talk to each other, but by the end of the week (i.e. two days later) chatty little groups have formed and everyone's BFF.  Not me, of course, that ain't my thing.  My few forays into the world of Smalltalk with Civilians have always ended up the same way.  I'm holding my own for a few minutes, being totally original by commenting on how bad traffic is on Hwy. 280 or Roll Tide/War Eagle and then someone will say something and I spew out a comment I think is funny.  Cue Deathly Silence and Incredulous Stares.  Civilians slowly cross downstage right and exeunt.  (God bless you.)

The fact that I'm Socially Inept bothered me for years.  I'm an improvist, for Chrissake, I should be able to talk to a stranger or two.  Granted, most of my improv scenes involve situations akin to a zombie apocalypse and me saying "fuck" a lot, but that could make for a fun conversation, too, right?  Guess not.   

Anyroad, like so many other weird aspects of my personality, I have come to accept my inability to connect with Civilians.  It gives me a great opportunity to observe people without actually having to interact (and therefore alienate) them.  Someday I will make good use of all the information I've gathered--write a novel where people are in a  zombie apocalypse and have to escape on Hwy. 280 during rush hour, or something.  Meanwhile, I feel that Overwhelming Awkwardness descending on me that happens when I can't think of anything to say. . . .

Roll Tide, Buddy.  

Fourth of the Year

A friend of mine once told me, "I am only truly happy when I'm in a show."  I feel the same way.  I think it's because acting is the only thing I can do well.  Also, I'm extremely awkward socially, and rehearsing/performance allows me to have some social interaction without a lot of the awkwardness.  Otherwise, it's just me and the Kindle on my porch.  Which is cool, but not 100% of the time.

It's taken me a while to work out this formula, but I'm pretty pleased with it. (Most days.  Some days I'm just resigned to it, but those are days where I crash my car or sprain my ankle or have a hemorrhoid lanced, which was pretty much January.)  I have been uber lucky in the past year to be able to do so many wonderful shows, and I'm hoping I'll get cast a lot this year, but, of course, there are never any guarantees.  And, just like if you're into horses, you get to enjoy(?) the smell of horseshit, I enjoy(?) the whole auditioning-getting/not getting cast process.  And if that sounds like I'm equating auditioning to horseshit, well, {snappy retort unavailable}.

Anyroad, the reason I'm boring you all with this TMI-ish crap is that rehearsing a play like Hamlet, as I am now, is wonderful and intense, but also creatively draining, as you can probably tell from this lackluster post.  So it will be a while before I'm back in the blog saddle again, fascinating you all with my brilliant insights on shit that doesn't matter and, occasionally, shit that does.  

Until then, the play's the thing.  Peace out.

Third of the Year

When I was a kid, I thought grown-ups had it made.  They could come and go as they like, they didn't have to eat peas and they had the answer to everything.

Well, I've been an adult for about 137 years now and I pretty much come and go as I like and I don't eat peas but I'm extremely disappointed in the actual number of things for which I don't have the answer.  Many of the things I do have the answer to, I learned the hard way:  don't wash new blue jeans with a load of white towels; you must go very slowly when backing in or out of a parking space; throwing money at a guy for six years does not make for a solid relationship.  But I had hoped that by now I would have had my shit together more.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only 130-something that feels the same way.  And I have an even sneakier feeling that those adults I knew when I was a kid that I thought had all the answers, didn't.  They just randomly pencilled in the little circles and hoped for the best.  Like you do.  It was just that from my 3' tall vantage point it looked like they knew what they were doing. I guess when my kids were little, they thought I had all the answers.  Now they know the truth.  But they love me anyway, because they are the BEST KIDS EVER IN THE HISTORY OF KIDS.  But, I digress. . . . .

I am becoming increasingly more comfortable with not having all the answers, knowing I probably never will.  I'm still trying to figure out Who the Hell Debbie Is and it's led me to some pretty fun and/or scary places.  But I'm okay with that, too.  Because if I end up someplace I don't like, I can always leave; I still don't have to eat peas and I have learned to embrace light blue towels.

Second and Half Blog of the Year

In which I spout forth on more shit I don't get.

I don't get why Brookwood Mall has a parking level called "Lilacs" when there are no lilacs in Alabama, at least I've never seen any in Birmingham.  I can understand "Azalea", though I'm slightly unclear on why the parking levels have flower names in the first place.  Couldn't they just be numbers (works for a blog!)?  And I'm kind of sensitive on the whole lilac issue because they're my favorite flower but I've never seen any down here.  But I guess this one comes under the category, " Who Gives a Flying Fuck", doesn’t it?

I don't get anything about taxes.  Thank goodness I don't work for an account. . .oh, wait.  

I understand why we need taxes and I understand why they have to be incomprehensibly complicated so rich people/accountants/lawyers can get richer and us less-than-rich folk can get financially screwed, but the whole system goes against my grain.  Now, granted, my grain goes in an irregular direction and is slightly warped, but none of it makes any sense to me.  Maybe the whole system is loosely based on the game of cricket, which would explain why I don't get it. 

I also don't get politicians.  Everybody, at some point, looks like an asshole, it happens.  But politicians make a living out of Constantly Being Assholes.  And they get paid big bucks and get to be on national television and say the stupidiest things imaginable (if you have an abortion, your next kid will be disabled--WTF??) and people respect these jerk-offs and vote them into offices where they can make laws.  I don't see a single part of that poorly constructed sentence that makes any sense.  Surely we can come up with a different system.  Maybe we can pick one of those post-aborted disabled kids, blindfold them, spin them around and send them out to wander around the country. Every time they run into someone, that person becomes the newest member of Congress.  (Wait, let me change that, newest member of congress.  I value my initial caps way too much to waste them on that group of useless, pretentious jerks.)  Anyway, I can't imagine the results would be much worse than they are with our current process. 

Well, now I've gone and raised my blood pressure, so I better get off my soap box and go learn lines.  Look thou character. . . . .

Second Blog of the Year

As you can tell, I'm running out of catchy titles for these missives, so I'm just sticking to numbers right now, kind of like the way the Duggars name all their 249 kids with names that start with the same letter.  Whoops--now it's 250 -- mazeltov!

I am a keen observer of life.  Ha!  No I'm not, I'm just bored today, so my mind has wandered off into Ephemera Land and caused me to think on things I just don't get. 

I don't mean the Big Things I don't get, like why anyone in their right mind would be against legalized abortion or gay marriage or watch Dancing With the Stars.   Those things are kind of obvious and way too heavy for my mood today.  It's tech week and my foot hurts and I really don't feel like making too much of an effort.  

No, I'm talking about those weird little things you run across in life that don't really signify in the Grand Scheme of Things, but you still wonder about anyway. So here are my pre-lunch musings.

For instance, I just sent an email to my castmates and ended it with "Yours in Christ", a phrase that has always irritated me.  What does that mean?  Does that mean you really like Jesus?  That's cool, but why end a letter with that fact?  I really like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, yet I never end a letter "Yours in Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young" (for one thing, it would take too damn long).  Are you supposed to end letters that way if you are a cleric?  Doctors don't end their letters, "Yours in Antibiotics", astronauts don't end their letters "Yours in Space".  (DISCLAIMER:  I'm just guessing here, never having actually ever received a letter from a doctor or an astronaut; but I did get a letter from a collection agency once and they didn’t end that letter "Yours in Vaguely Threatened Violence".)  I think Church People do it because it makes them feel important.  Kind of like it would probably make me feel sexy if I ended a letter "Yours in a silk thong".  Unless the letter was to a collection agency, then I'd just be embarrassed.  No, actually, I'd be embarrassed if I put that ending on any letter, so  I guess I'll just stick with "Sincerely".  Yeah, that's hot.  But it's better than "Yours in Christ". 

I also don't get the game of cricket, but I don't feel too bad about that one, because I don't really think anyone does.  I've had a couple of people try to explain the game to me, but I think they were both just making it up as they went along.  That's okay, I can probably spend the rest of my life without ever watching a cricket match/game/bout/whatever and my heart will go on.

Bad Steve once spent the better part of an afternoon trying to explain craps to me.  I just didn't get it.  I have trouble grasping the concept of most casino games, which is why I never go.  I love, love, love playing board games and card games but I really suck at ALL of them.  I can count on the toes of my sprained foot the number of times I have actually won a game. Of anything. Ever.  I try not to think of this as being a metaphor for my life overall, but now that I've typed that, of course I do.  Crap(s).

Meh.  I'm going to get some sesame chicken and buy a crown (head not tooth).  Catch y'all on the flip side.