What’s new, Pu$$ycat? Whoa-ohh, whoa-ooh, whoa-ohh...and I mean whoa as in halt, stop, cease and desist, down boy, down. Let’s 86 all those thoughts of pu$$y right now. Hello? What is that sudden, rapid-fire *clicking* I’m hearing? Oh, it’s the sound of a million hairy knuckles fervently tapping the “back” button faster than Samuel Morse with the D.T.s. To these types I say: ••-• ••- -•-• -•- --- ••-• ••-•! I’m not here to get laid. I am not a Cadbury egg with a creamy center, so take that massive head of yours back to Easter Island. And, if you’re sitting there wondering why, why, why, Delilah? It’s because she’s a lady, whoa, whoa, whoa, she’s a lady (Profile point to ponder #83: Who had more whoas in their career, Tom Jones, Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, or Seabiscuit? Discuss!). As for the feline part of the “what’s new pu$$ycat equation”, let’s just say, I don’t own one. Ergo, my house does not reek of “Windsong”, desperation, and urine.

Of course, all of this is written in jest (although I’m truly not looking to Hump yer dinck, Engelbert). I’d really just like to meet a LTR kind of man who is kind, extremely witty, and decent (and by decent I mean he hasn’t seen more beaver than Kit Carson). I’m not an angry, bitter shrew; I’ve just decided to update some parts of my profile. And, though I reside in Southern California, updating my profile does not mean I’m getting rhinoplasty to fix my shnozz (inka-dinka-don’t!) or injecting my lips with collagen, so that I clean algae off the side of an aquarium. As the crow flies, I like my crow’s feet (although, they do make it difficult to find shoes that fit). Plastic surgery isn’t for me. I do not want to end up with a Kenny Rogers Roaster face that’s perpetually frozen at warp speed. So, I say thanks for mammaries, and they’re staying just the way they are, down by my shins (on the bright side, I can now relate to men, because I finally have something I can tap after I urinate).

Truthfully, I think using a lot of negative prerequisites in one’s profile to try to dissuade asshats from making contact is a waste of time. Realistically, an asshat is either not going to recognize themselves as such; or even if they do possess a smattering of asshat self-awareness, because of their penchant for asshattery, they just won’t care. (Note: Please substitute baggage handler, drama queen, Rollo Tomassi, ventriloquist, play-ah, Hitler youth, Keyser Soze, Carrot Top fan, et al for “asshat” where applicable. Oh, and though I’m quite fond of Larry Hovis, most folks are not looking for a regular member of “The Liar’s Club” either).

Honestly, who amongst us hasn’t been burned before? I, myself, have dated a puppet, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king; but, hey, that’s life---at least according to the Chairman of the Board. Although, I really doubt any man who was lucky enough to have shtupped Ava Gardner; schlepped Sammy Davis Jr. around like a duffle bag; and stolen Barbara away from Zeppo, would have ever wanted to roll up in a big ball and die. (Profile point to ponder #297: What were some of Frank Sinatra’s other greatest “hits”? Answer: “I’m Gonna Kill You!!”, “Joey, Make Dat Guy a Stain in Da Road!!”, and “You Betta Believe ‘My Way’ Involves Broken Bones and a Whole Lotta Blood!!”--- Hoboken? Oooooh, I’m dyyyyyyying. Ring-a-ding-ding!).

One glance at the back of my Honus Wagner will tell you that I’m not your stereotypical woman, which I think has been a hindrance when it comes to finding my match. I thought a McSteamy was something people tried to scrape off the soles of their boots with a stick; I don’t drool over a really big shoe sale unless “The Ed Sullivan Show” DVDs are in Blockbuster’s bargain bin; and the only groove I’m looking to get back is the one on my 1926 recording of “There’s a New Star in Heaven Tonight” (tres Sheik!). I am not a Barbie either. I'm more like her creepy girlfriend, Midge. Midge was Barbie's sidekick, the one that got stuck with the ugly boy toys whenever their hunky Ken friends were hittin' on Babs. Actually, Midge DID have a boyfriend; Allan. It was back in 1964 (around the time of my last date). Sadly, with advent of "Kung Fu Grip", Allan was more interested in pleasuring himself than Midge, so their relationship came to a bitter end. Still, Allan was the best 12" of plastic to ever tickle Midge's fancy. At least he was until the invention of "Strap-On Ken", circa 1972. Hopefully, I won’t end up like Midge, (i.e., being drug naked down the street from the back of my brother's Schwinn, resplendent with a face charred by a magnifying glass and a head chocked full o' pins---ahh, good times).

Old Honus can also tell you that I absolutely love movies, especially Old Hollywood classics. Some of my all-time favorite flicks include “Somewhere in Time”; “Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind”, “Mother”; “Stranger Than Fiction”; “Defending Your Life”; “Young Frankenstein”; “A Christmas Story” (Jean Sheperd is the awesome); “What Dreams May Come”; “What’s Up Doc?”;“Big Fish”; “Tombstone”; “Ed Wood”; “South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut”; “The Sting”; “Peggy Sue Got Married”; “Sleepless In Seattle”. Hopefully, you won’t be disappointed when you learn that by “classic movies” I mean vehicles such as “Angels With Dirty Faces”, “Citizen Kane”, and “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre”; not “Larry the Cable Guy: Morning Constitutions” or “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo”. Not that there’s anything wrong with Larry or Rob (okay, that’s debatable), but as far as comedy flicks go, I garner far more guffaws from “mockumentaries” (ala “This is Spinal Tap”; “Waiting for Guffman”; “The Rutles”); Monty Python; Woody Allen; the Coen Brothers; the Marx Brothers; and the Brooks Brothers (that’s Mel or Albert, not the haberdashery). On TV, it’s shows like “Curb Your Enthusiasm”, “Seinfeld”, “The Office”, "Arrested Development", "Flight of the Conchords", and “Mr. Show” that get my laugh meter pegging. And, though I’ve been known to see a few random tasks through to fruition, I am not a “Git R Done” rosy nape kind of woman

I lean toward the older music genres, too (but only if I’m listening to it at an angle). I love soundtracks; crooners; The Beatles; classic rock; those “sedated in the 80's” tunes; Cole Porter; Dean Martin; Sinatra; Dr. Demento; etc. And, as if that isn’t old enough, I also enjoy cranking up my 1911 Victrola and spinning a few “shellacs and ground slates” on its turntable. I can tolerate country music in small dollop size servings, however I don’t put peanuts in my Coke (they get stuck in my nose); and contrary to popular opinion, I am NOT the reason God make Oklahoma.

I presently reside in the house of mirth, and have come to the realization that I’m far too tenderhearted for this online dating shtick. I’m just an odd duck with a secret “woid” who has finally dropped from the ceiling only to discover that Groucho is no longer waiting for me. Believe me, nothing is more heartbreaking than spending years getting your act together, and then realizing that there’s no one with whom you can take it on the road. I’ve come to the conclusion that finding my ideal is a pipe dream of such epic proportions it would cause the ghost of Richard Pryor to spontaneously combust.

In my heart, I’ll always be searching for the Stiller to my Meara, the Gene to my Madeline, the Sam to my Annie, the Alf to my Ralph (that’s the Alf from Green Acres, Gordon Shumway), the Morrie to my Rosie; you get the idea. Sadly, I really doubt there’s anyone out there who will truly “get me”, and I’d rather be alone than settle for someone who thinks the Algonquin Round Table is the home of garlic parmesan twists and “Montague’s All Meat Marvel” pizza. I’ve never been on a date with anyone from POF, though I’ve come close a few times. Unfortunately, the guy either ends up living on the “Dark Side” (i.e., 252,700 miles away on the surface of the moon with Eddie and the Cruisers, Darth Maul, and Alice Kramden), or once we get to the point of actually going out, he’ll pull a “Hoffa” (Profile point to ponder #347: The “disappearing act” seems to be quite a common occurrence that many encounter on The Fish. Where do all these folks *poof* to? I swear there’s got to be an island in the Bermuda Triangle where you’ll find The Missing Link, Deep Throat, D.B. Cooper, Amelia Earhart and 30,000 POFers all huddled around the Ark of the Covenant, each laughing about how they were “the one who got away”).

Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you're probably watching the Hitler Channel