older man candy

"Hands!" the sous chef Mike says as he drops a dish into the window. This is how the kitchen staff informs us they've got a hot plate of food ready.

"Table?" I say.

"Table 13, Bar. Thanks, Kitty."

I squeeze between guests who are packed two-deep at the bar. It's difficult to discern bar seat numbers when it's busy like this, so I count each bar patron's head until I reach the number 13, two older gentleman in suits, talking intently over glasses of red wine.

"Skirt steak?" I say, hesitantly, hoping I've made it to the right spot. The dark haired gentleman on the right gives a slight nod, but I'm not certain he's nodding at me, so I repeat myself as I begin to lower the dish onto the bar between them. "This is the skirt steak, medium rare?"

"Yes," the dark-haired man says gruffly as though I am a bother. Then he turns around, we lock eyes, and he smiles. "Yes, thank you very much."

"You're very welcome," I say, and turn to leave. He stares at me as I walk away.

Yeesh, I think, that guy is totally old enough to be my father. But then, this is a trend I've noticed since I cut my hair short and started curling it 1950's style with rollers. This hair-do is like older man candy.

Maybe it's because the hair-do reminds these gents of the girls they chased in their youth? Or of the way their first wives looked when they fell in love? In any event, for any of you girls out there looking to snag an older man, I'd highly recommend copying my current 'do, designed to imitate this inimitable lady right here.

there I am...

...in the changing photo box, right after the pic of Tom Hanks!

Click here for the full story. Waitstaff everywhere, raise a glass!

"Hi ladies, how are you tonight?"

"Hi ladies, how are you this evening," I say as I approach table 46 on a VERY busy Thursday evening. The guest with their back to me turns around to face me and, OOPS! It's a dude.

"Umm...hi...there," I mumble. I'm mortified, but I press on with my speech, as though nothing happened. "Can I bring you a drink to get started?" It's pretty loud in here tonight, maybe they didn't hear me?

In my own defense, the dude's hair is longer than mine. And he is wearing a headband.

the dumbest blonde in the spotlight these days...

...is actually a brunette.







Here she is, wearing the other team's colors at an event in Reno, NV on Tuesday.









I have to wonder: how would America respond if Sarah Palin really were blonde, like her running mate's wife? Would it be tolerated? Or would she take even more flack for being totally vapid?

At Fenway: The Epilogue

Some of the young, drunk chodes' brethren stop by their seats while we are still 0-7 in the 7th. They leave.

Then we come back. The old chodes shut up.

And we win!

A happy Fenway ending.

At Fenway

The Sox are losing. And I'm surrounded by chodes. Beside us, two very
special guys who spilled beer on the Mathematician.

Behind us, two old timers extolling the virtues of Mitt Romney as
truly the best Presidential candidate. "Everything he touched turned
to gold."

Chodes of all ages.

Barbie

I'm closing tonight. Closing totally blows. Within minutes all of my fellow waitrons punch out, pack up all their things, and leave me here to waste away as the last two tables of the night linger on into Toro oblivion.

Table 45 just sat down and has been too busy making googley eyes at each other to notice me. Guess I should stop pouting at least try to take their order. When I approach the table, the girl has excused herself; the guy is sitting alone.

"I can come back in a minute if you like," I say.

"No, bring us two shots of Patron. With Rose's," he says.

Blech. That sounds so gross. I'm so preoccupied by the thought that I walk away without confirming whether he wants those chilled. He must...I think. The only thing more terrible-sounding than a shot of Patron with Rose's is a WARM shot of Patron with Rose's. But the bartender will be pissed at me if I'm wrong and she has to make the foul concoctions twice, so I return to the table to confirm.

"You want those shots chilled, right?" I say.

"No. Not chilled. Just Patron and Rose's lime juice. Not chilled."

Ewwww. When I approach the service bar to pick up the shots my bartender informs me that we do not, in fact, carry Rose's. Duh. I head back to Table 45 to let him know these will be coming with fresh lime & simple syrup instead.

"That's fine, he says," waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Patron, lime & whatever. Not chilled."

"Okay," I say.

"Thanks, Brb..." he says, mumbling something under his breath - did he just call me Barbie? I'm still too preoccupied by the disgustingness of his drink order to know for sure what has transpired.

I deliver the shots. By now the girl is back at the table.

"Thanks, Barbie," he says when I drop them off. Again. He mumbled it AGAIN, and I swear he just called me Barbie. I decide to ignore it.

I approach the table a few minutes later to see if they're ready to order food yet. They 'haven't even looked!' but are ready for cocktails:

"Hennessy and Diet Coke, please," the guy says. "Wait, do you guys have Hennessy? If not, Remy will do."

Hennessy of Remy? With DIET? Really? "Sure," I say, looking at him suspiciously. Who is this guy? I wonder, What planet is he from? Where is it okay to order Hennessy with ANYTHING, much less Diet COKE? "No problem."

"Thanks, Barbie," he says. This time I heard it -- I definitely heard it. He called me Barbie. I can't tell if he's laughing at me or with me and I have no idea how to respond.

By the time Table 45 is ready to order, I have decided that this guy is a total chode and I am in no mood to deal with it. He keeps ordering MTV drinks (maybe next he'll ask for Alize or Hypnotique?) and surreptitiously calling me Barbie. The aggressive shot-ordering indicates to me that he's desperate to get this girl in the sack; we'll see about that.

His date asks me what dishes I recommend, and I extol the virtues of the messiest, most garlicky items we have: I launch into a litany about the the pan con tomate, toasted bread rubbed with raw garlic and tomato, extol the virtues of the gambas al ajillo, the garlic shrimp, and tell how they haven't lived 'til they've tried the maiz asado con alioli y queso cotija, known to most as simply "the corn."

"What else is really good?" the guy asks. I repeat myself. In the end, they order every single garlicky, alioli drenched, cheese-and-corn-kernels-up-by-your-eyebrows dish.

"Thanks, Barbie," he says.

"My pleasure," I say with a smile. Garlic breath = Barbie's revenge.

BLONDE DISPATCHES: The Anti-Marilyn and the Pitfalls of Being Blonde

by TommyGirl

Sometimes I forget that I have blonde hair. That's because I've spent most of my pre-adult and adult life trying to make others ignore that fact. I've always been aware that people pre-judge me based on how I look. And every time I meet a new person I know I have to overcome their unfair expectations. No, I'm not high maintenance; I live in jeans and Chucks. No, I don't work out all the time and eat celery and rice cakes; in fact I hate the gym and eat lots of meat. No, I never cheered for sports other than when I watch my favorite football team. No thank you, I don't want a cocktail, I want a beer (and I don't want a glass for it).

I had college professors who were guilty of assigning me some societal role based on how I look. One told me that he was sure I had been a cheerleader in high school. Another said to me that I "looked like the girl who dates the quarterback." Who were they to say these things to me without knowing anything but my name and student ID number? Should I have said to them, "you look like the guy who jacks off to pre-teen internet porn every night?" Or, "you look like someone who used to be thin and now your self-loathing causes you to be unfair to the pretty girls in your class?"

The fact is, I went to a super nerdy high school that didn't even have a football team. I had an appropriate level of angst, loved rock music, played sports, and generally didn't pay much attention to my hair. Unfortunately, when I got to college I discovered I was woefully unprepared to navigate the complex social hierarchy. The girls were so unfriendly to me and I had no idea why. My mom's words echoed in my head, "They're just jealous." But I couldn't believe that they would be jealous of me. I had no style. I was clumsy, loud, and socially retarded. Truly, big boobs and blonde hair will make girls come to some stupid conclusions.

As I've gotten older, I have come to embrace my blonde hair. I don't fight it anymore. When girls meet me now, I am aware the wheels in their heads are already turning. I greet them with a big smile and a loud hello. And I burp and cuss and let my Tommy Boy sense of humor show through until they know I am not just a bubbly babe masking a cruel penchant for gossip. I think Cameron Diaz kind of saved me. When she burst onto the movie scene and became a sex symbol for embodying the anti-Marilyn, I knew I was going to be OK. I love Marilyn. I'm just so not her. Cameron briefly abandoned me for a brunette phase. I'm so thankful she came back.

Living in a society that values blondes as sex symbols and not much else forced me to rebel against the stereotype. I'm glad I have blonde hair. I think it's made me develop my personality and figure out who I am. And it has most definitely gotten me into a few concerts and out of a few speeding tickets.

TommyGirl lives, works, and defies blonde stereotypes by drinking beer and cussing in the Northeast.

A Different Kind of Undercover Blonde: An Interview with Double Agent Shallon Lester

To the casual reader of this blog, it might appear that I am a hater of the opposite sex. This couldn't be further from the truth. I love boys, I just hate it when they act like total choads.

Thankfully, there are other like-minded women out there who have set their sites on making a difference, like Shallon, a correspondent for the dude-centric website, DoubleAgent.com. In real life, Shallon is a gossip reporter for the New York Daily News, and an author. As an undercover agent, Shallon offers advice to guys on everything from dating to dressing to how not to act like a total gorilla all the time and maybe get a date with an awesome girl through frequent posts to her DoubleAgent.com vlog. And she's hilarious. I caught up with this undercover blonde recently and asked her a few questions about her blondeness.

KITTY: What do you think it means to be a natural blonde? Are you one?

SHALLON: Any blonde worth her peroxide will INSIST that yes of course she's au natural. Which I am. Of course. Scientists say that men subconsciously view blondes as more attractive because they are more rare, and thus more valuable. So ladies, since we don't have to worry about "brunette issues" like plucking our unibrow and mustache, remember to use your seductive powers for good, not evil.

KITTY: Double Agent isn't your first undercover mission – you also recently went undercover as a Swedish bikini waxer who loves yorkies and auditioned to be Paris Hilton's best friend. Did you use blondeness to your advantage for either "assignment"? How about in your role as a gossip columnist for the New York Daily News?

SHALLON: No one can resist a blonde, not even a fellow blondie like Paris Hilton. When I'm interviewing celebrities I can get away with more playing the ditz and acting like I had no clue my question might be inflammatory or offensive. But I'll just use my hair as bait, then when they least expect it, I strike! They call me the Blonde Viper. Ok fine not really. But I really wish people would.

KITTY: Have you ever dyed your hair brown, or any other color? What was that experience like for you? If you haven't, would you?

SHALLON: I am ashamed to say once dyed my hair dark brown when I lived in Italy, so I could "blend in." Pfft! What a mistake. I looked tired and washed out and...ordinary. But I did noticed that I got fewer looks from guys but the ones who did hit on me did so with more intensity. Quality versus quantity, I guess. But I went back to golden tones because I'm in to acquisition--I collect boys as some collect Fabrege eggs.

KITTY: A study published last fall suggests that men act stupider around blonde women, subconsciously mimicking what they believe to be the lesser intelligence of a blonde woman in order to "get along with her"? Has this happened to you?

SHALLON: This study is wrong. Clearly men act dumber around us because they're so beguiled by our beauty, our wholesome Nordic looks, that they can't string together a sentence. Poor things. Who can blame them? We turn even the toughest guy into babbling little butterballs. Military interrogators would be so much more effective with some strategically placed highlights.

KITTY: Your best friend is about to dye her hair blonde for the very first time. What's the one thing you think she NEEDS to know about how her life will be different before she reaches for bleach?

SHALLON: Buy stock in condoms. :)