Plenty Of Fish: Look Away, I’m Hideous!

Or at least I’m hideous according to the voting poll which tallies the scores for my “Plenty of Fish” mug-shot…

[DISCLAIMER: this is not a "boo-hoo" pity post, it's simply a possible assessment of what this means (seriously, I have come to grips with my appearance,  and I feel lucky given what's out there)]

..So I didn’t even know this field existed until I stumbled upon it today.  I tried to capture the screen-shot of the poll (see: voting ), but here’s the statistical summary:

-So…of the men in my typical age bracket (aged 26 to 32), I’m about a 4 out of 10.  Let me repeat, a FOUR out of ten!  That’s not just two guys who think I’m a freak, that’s twenty-one votes in total.

-On a slightly more encouraging level, men aged 33 to 40 find me agreeable, with an average 7 out of 10 rating (out of twenty-eight votes). 

-But then my agreeability drops again, with men over forty thinking I’m a 5 out of 10

So what am I to take from this?

Well first, I haven’t rated guys on the website myself, but when I typically consider a “scoring scale”, everything below a “six” involves a  bad combination of sweat/body hair/skin folds.

And also, I toss out celebrities from the equation, ’cause if they happened to be in the running, no normal guy would ever eclipse a 5 out of 10 (sorry but it’s true).

But how does this work for guys? Do they automatically toss out the “official models”?  What’s their idea of a “ten out of ten”?  This doesn’t mean I’m delusional enough to aspire for a perfect rating, or even a “nine” or an “eight” to be honest….but a FOUR?  If I had my dead twin’s fetus attached to my neck, then maybe I could see it, but even then you could learn to love me.

So here it is: if I’m searching for a guy in this online pool, and I’m viewed as borderline repulsive, is this the kind of pool I should be wading around in?

That’s my parting thought for the day, but as a final word: I understand that maybe the nice guys don’t even rate the pictures.  With that in mind, anyone I’ve emailed so far has turned out to be a freak, a pig, or as boring as my sister (one guy asked me to never cut my hair…he likes it long he says…okaayy).

Maybe it’s time to ease my way back into three-dimensions…we’ll see.

PS: and if I ever decided to try things out in ”lesbian-world”, the poll wouldn’t help me either, ’cause the chicks only think I’m a 5 out of 10…

Redemption For The Ugly…

Actual Model Head-Shot

I grew up in a world where being “ugly” was a bad thing, a condition that could only be treated with pushing, mud-slinging, or constant wedgies.

Being on the receiving end of some of this abuse, I always believed there was no silver lining to being “ugly”, and then…today, I found this headline on MSNBC.com:

“Ugly Is The New Beautiful“

…uhh…what now?

Let me explain:

-according to this news video/article hosted by “ambassador-for-the-everyman” Al Roker himself (sure Al, that’s a compliment!), being ugly pays!

What we’re talking about is the “Ugly Talent Agency”, which hires “unique characters” for print and other media.  This is nothing new, as the London-based agency has been running since 1969.

Recently though, demand for the uggo’s has been through the roof, prompting the creation of a New York branch.

And here’s where my eyes well up with tears and my heart sings regret:

-Why didn’t anyone tell me about this!?!?!??!?!?!

I amassed a huge portfolio of “ugly” in the 20th century:  there was my ugly baby phase where I looked “half monkey/half space creature who eats puppies”; the ugly kiddie phase where I tried to distract from my “bowl haircut/Mr. Potatohead nose” with pearls and frilly dresses; and of course my ugly teenage phase, where everything was coming up “moustache/dumbo ears/mangled teeth”.

Don’t believe me?  Okay big-shot, feast your eyes on this:

I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking: I could have been the Ugly Agency’s top client!  I could have had my own conglomerate by age 18 (like the Olsen Twins)! 

And now you might be thinking THIS:

-Well why not submit a current portfolio of “ugly”?

Good idea, except that…a scientific event took place, approximately five years back.  Darwin could probably explain it better than I, but let’s just say that “survival of the fittest” instincts kicked in, and I underwent some genetic mutations.

Plain English: my appearance is no longer objectionable to society (as long as I spend an hour getting ready every morning).  Whether or not that’s an ego-driven thing to say, I’ll be moving right along…

…So if I’m not ugly enough to apply for the ”Ugly Talent Agency”, and I’m not nearly attractive or barf-focused enough to be a sexy model chick…what am I left with?

Well last time I checked there weren’t any agencies for self-obsessed women who are single-handedly depleting the world’s supply of mascara, so I guess I won’t be making it big.

This categorically sucks, but maybe I can be one of those people who (grudgingly) helps out others.

And how will I do this?

Another Actual Client/Head-Shot

Well I was just perusing the Ugly clientele, and I noticed one section for Men, one for Women, and one for “Specials” (i.e. tattooed people, circus freaks, etc.).  To be perfectly honest, 80% of the people on the client list aren’t even actually “ugly”.  They’re just…normal looking…or old.  This clearly indicates a diluted market of legitimate “uglies”, and more specifically a gaping hole in the market of “18 and unders”. 

Of course the “young ‘n gross” segment would have been addressed in the 90′s if I’d submitted my portfolio, but alas it was not to be. 

Henceforth, I’ll be starting up my own agency, called ”Ugly Youth Talent”.  Not only will I profit heavily from this endeavour (subsequently draping myself in the sort of jewels that are usually reserved for Sultans), but I’ll be helping out the youth that nature forgot.

Let them have what I never had…you know?

You’re welcome Oprah (I don’t know, I feel like she’d be proud of me for this…)

To The Chicks: I Will Crush You!

Imagine this (or use the visual aid provided):

-Short skirt, long legs, cuppable bottom, and of course…mile-high, ultra-thin heels.

No, it wasn’t me, but instead a fierce-looking chick, making her way through the city. 

As for me I was stationed further down the street, sitting at the Starbucks patio, greasy hair tied and sunglasses on (to hide the previous night’s crusty mascara (what can I say it was Sunday morning…do you forgive me?)).

As the leggy hot chick made her way past my table, I could hear a distinct whisper in each of her steps:

“Bang me, bang me, bang me…“

I wasn’t the only one who heard her muffled cry.  As far as I could tell, every man with a wang and pulse was under her spell.

I was worried…what if her hot swagger distracted the passing traffic?  What if she caused an accident?  Maybe this was my cue to beat her with an “ugly stick”…

Before I could launch an attack, a different sort of accident occurred:

-She wobbled on one of her giant heels, wobbled some more, and then…tumbled to the ground like a stack of slutty “Jenga” pieces.

Every young man, old man, and small boy rushed to her assistance (you can always count on the help of a horny “small boy”, god love ‘em). 

If it had been me on the case, I would’ve helped her bring her legs together as she sat there “bottom up”, but that wasn’t really an issue for her male “guardian angels”.

The diagnosis was pretty grim; they had to call an ambulance and wheel her away on a stretcher.

As the ambulance drove off and the men waved with worry (while sniffing the trace of her perfume from their fingers…imagine men on the street sniffing their own fingers..ha), I started laughing.

It wasn’t an “evil” laugh, but it wasn’t an “I’m a good person” laugh either.

I was basically laughing at a woman who had fallen, and possibly broken an ankle.

It was a cloudy day for my moral measuring stick, and yet, my ill-advised giggles persisted.

In every other situation, I equate my laughter with some form of joy, so I can only guess that the same was true here…but why?

There’s nothing joyful about a defenseless person injuring themselves, but if you look a little closer, there was suddenly one less ultra-hot woman to compete with.

Okay then, let’s start the parade!

But wait, my conscience demands that I dig a little deeper:

-If I’m so damn pleased to see an adversary fall, where does my ill-will end?  How far will I go to eliminate the threats?

Well…I want to say that I’m perfectly happy to let fate take its course, but how many times will accidents “just happen”?  Is it wise to assume that all the hot chicks will wind up in bed-rest lockdown, without any Romi-intervention? (hmm????  Take THAT you goody-goody conscience!)

Well I’m no criminal, but the next time a hot chick walks by my table, maybe I’ll stretch my leg out…or maybe I’ll accidently toss my scalding coffee in the air leading up to her face.

Maybe.

(does this disappoint you?)

In the end you can decide if you should colour me “awful”, but finding a decent man is like playing the lottery; In other words, terrible odds, and as Billy Zane said in Titanic: “Real men make their own luck”. 

And women too.

So even though this post is NOT an account of future pre-meditated violence (insert halo), I am out there ladies, and I don’t play to lose.

(but if you’re a girl and you’re already my friend, I still like you very much! xoxo, smiley-face, wink, and other assorted shit…)

 

 

PS: So here’s a little something extra: 

-Simonne over at “Into The Quiet” was kind enough to choose me for a guest post.  I won’t say much on the story, except that sometimes it’s fun to reveal my “wtf” past to total strangers on another blog (err…I mean, it’s a totally FICTIONAL story…).  You can find that here.  And as for Simonne herself, I strongly encourage you to check out her blog (here).  I can only describe it as a wonderful variety of great writing from an extremely talented artist, and future prolific novelist of our generation (and I’m not even kissing bum)…good times.

Pimp My “Side-Profile”!

Whilst thumbing through my favourite Ancient Egypt books, something occurred to me (PS: there is no better way to spend a Sunday than reading Ancient Egypt books, ask around if you don’t believe me):

-Ancient Egyptians were all about the “side-profile” shot

Check it out:

 Even when their bodies presented themselves full-frontal, it was ”side-face action” each and every time.

I actually learned this in grade school (or “The Learning Channel”, whichever came first), but it’s a fact I’d long forgotten.  So for today, a new revelation.

Since it’s not enough to read about Ancient Egypt without applying it to my own all-important existence, I started to mull things over…

…I always grew up thinking “I hate my side-profile, I hate my side-profile, I hate it!”.  This hate for all things “side-face” was deeply ingrained in my psyche, from many years of teasing.

I wouldn’t say that I was “deformed” as a child, but you know how kittens are born with adult-sized ears, making them seem like “feline Yodas” at first?  Well same deal with me, but imagine a 12-year-old with a (BIG) adult-sized nose (in other words no stolen kisses behind the oak trees for this chick).

When looking back on my gene pool, it’s not my dad who’s to blame, what with his button-sized sniffer (or as button-sized as you can get for an Indian man), but it’s mother who’s in fact responsible.

My mom has the stern kind of lengthy nose, the one that points downward in disdain (how appropriate).

I picked up the length from mommy dearest, but instead of the downward-point, I had some crazy “outward obtrusiveness” happening.

Which brings me back to the teasing, or specifically, the nickname I was given in the awkward years:

“Wicked Witch of Southwestern Ontario”

Rather than lament the fact that I’d always be the villain in the school play, I embraced it, turning myself into a crass, insulting and acidic kind of chick.

It was awesome at first, but the angry “high” was fleeting.  I wanted to be the princess, not the wart-ridden broad with the poisoned apple.

It wasn’t a total loss, as I eventually became a woman…a.k.a. my face grew into my nose!

In fact, as I examine my photographic record of recent years, it seems that my side-face is actually WAY more attractive than the full-frontal offering (damn, can’t there just be a happy medium?).

Now of course, I’ve been around long enough to know that words alone won’t convince you, so let’s have a look:

THE GOOD:

      

THE BAD AND THE UGLY:

     

As I compare the two Romi-Murals, I’m astounded.  I mean to go from angled, hot, and cool to: 1. “I just ate a baby”, 2. “Look at me and my fish-lips” and 3. “Can someone please direct me to the “Special Bus”?!?!

Let’s just say it is not a coincidence (and some of these discrepancies are from the same night!).

And now, thinking back to those Ancient Egyptians, to them I can only tip my hat.  They understood that we’re not all blessed with nicely angled faces.  There are those who can never cut their hair to chin-length or shorter, for fear of revealing “pancake-face” (and it only took me ’till 2006 to learn that…jeez).

And so in the absence of structured jaws, we cling to our profiles to give us shape and hotness.  The only trouble is, I don’t exist in a mural, nor am I confined to the wall of an ancient tomb.

Instead I have to show myself “head on”, pretty much every day.

I wonder if there’s a way to improve things though, if not entirely cure them.  Like maybe a rogue scientist could re-bolt my head/neck combo, to give me a permanent profile (facing “right” I think).  Of course, everyone to my right would see my pancake-face, but 80% of interactions are had facing forward (that’s a fact).  Ergo, 80% of people would see my sexy-angled “side face”, vs. the original pancake/slow-kid version (I like those odds).

So umm…is Dr. Jekyll in the Yellow Pages?

I Don’t Wear The Pants

See these pants?

See ‘em?

Well then I ask you…why?

I promise not to hate on our cartoon-model friend…she actually looks pretty good, but can anybody in “human-world” pull it off?

Why yes!

Take this girl over here for example.  She looks pretty fab in those up-the-arse pants, so I guess that explains why these high-waisted pants are all the rage.

But wait: how many girls in the world look like her?   Well…considering she lost almost all of her flesh in a science experiment gone wrong (what else could it have been? the barfy-barf?), I’m gonna say not too many. 

So what’s the problem?

Am I jealous because I never got to lose any flesh to Science?  Or because I have a big butt “and I just can’t lie”?

I’m not jealous at all, but the “businesswoman” in me is having a conniption…

…I’m just wondering…why would the fashion world support a trend that can only be adopted by a tiny percent of women?  That’s like making ”half sunglasses” for one-eyed pirate folk…it’s just not a broad enough market.

In fact…the more that I ponder this obvious conflict with profit-maximization, the more and more baffled I get.

 Let’s think about this for a minute:

-Even if the profit margin on each pair of high-waisted pants is strong, (owing to the cheap labour provided by my pant-making nephews and nieces in India (by the way kids, where’s Auntie Romi’s cut?)), you’re cutting out 99.9% of women (you know, the ones who have all their flesh still attached).

So really, no matter how much profit-per-pant you can earn, you’ll never achieve “billionaire status”.

That’s poppycock.

But what about a mass-market offering at a tidy profit?

I’m thinking of a loose sack, potentially made from potato-bag material.  We could dress it up with sequins, brightly coloured dyes, maybe some yarn…lots of options.  Not only would my loose-sack be breathable, but it would never crawl up your ass like those high-waisted pants (which by the way will block all your farts and send them back up the chute…talk about a health risk).

Profit-wise, I would definitely utilize the impeccable skills and low-cost labour of the kiddie-variety.

And the best part is…one-size fits all!

So let me see if I’ve got this right:

-clothing for everyone, AND a profit…smells like a billion-dollar idea!

Wow, somewhere out there my business professor is releasing an orgasmic sigh for a teaching job well done (luckily I never had to offer my body in exchange for his wisdom (not that I wouldn’t have done him it, but his boobs were bigger than mine, and that’s no good for the ego…)

Okay then, who wants a piece of my latest venture?

Call me.