blonde in NOLA

I am back after a brief hiatus while in New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail. Miraculously, my liver is intact. Boston showed up strong for the event and fun was had in spades.

I'll admit, it's been difficult to switch my focus from cocktail-obsessed to blonde-obsessed since I returned. I'll make best efforts, though, and share with you a story that relates to both.

While out after dinner on our very first night in New Orleans, a crew of ten New Englanders and I, including six LUPEC members, a few sig others, and our friend Jeff from New Hampshire, were enjoying PBR on the back patio of the Maple Leaf Bar. There was a seat open next to me, and it wasn't long before an absolutely hammered Orleanian sat down beside us and started blabbering. At first he seemed nice-drunk. He made an incomprehensible comment about something and when one of my compatriots, K, commented back with a light chuckle, he started going on and on about Hurricane Katrina.

"You think it's funny," he said hotly, "to have a hurricane come and destroy your entire city? Well, I don't know what's wrong with YOU because I don't find that funny. We'll see how you like it..." and on and on, agitated, drunk, and angry with us. I'm not quite sure why he started talking about Katrina in the first place.

In any event, the situation was getting very, VERY uncomfortable, when suddenly, Pink Gin of LUPEC jumped in and put a stop to it:

"Hey, you sat down with us," she said.

"Whaaa....?" he asked.

"I'm just pointing out," she explained rationally, "That YOU sat down and started talking to US. And now you're yelling at us. It's kinda rude."

"Oh...I'm sorry," he said. "Hey, it's cool, I'm not trying to be rude..." he blathered, apologetic now instead of drunk. And within minutes, Pink Gin's comments ushered him away, problem solved.

As we applauded Pink Gin's tact, a member of our group wondered exactly what it was about K's comment that made him so upset. "Well, it's Kitty's fault he came and sat down with
us in the first place," K said. "She's the blonde!"

I fail to see how being blonde has anything to do with our newfound friend, and speculate that K may have been looking to make another guest appearance here with such a comment? In any event, it was Pink Gin, also a blonde who saved the day, something that I found so impressive.

Blonde or not, all of my life I've been total crazy-person bait. My therapist used to say it was because I'm "too nice", too open, and an easy target. I wonder if I'll ever master the art of the polite dismiss as it was so perfectly modeled for all to see by Pink Gin?

the photograph

I am having my picture taken by a photographer from Stuff@Night today. They will be featuring me in this section of the May 6th issue (mark your calendars.) I am not totally sure how I convinced them that I am interesting enough for coverage here, but I'm trying to just go with it.

When the photographer called to set this shoot up, my first question was, "So what should I wear?" Instead of sounding poised and professional, I am pretty sure I sounded like a teenager wondering what to don for Spring Fling Semi-Formal being held in the high school gym. Again, though, I tried to just go with it.

His response: "Whatever you want. Whatever makes you feel most like you."

Whatever makes me feel most like me, huh? Well, that presents a problem. I feel most like me in yoga pants, slippers, and a tank top.

Whatever shall I do?

food protective behavior

So, what's up with food protective people who won't let you clear their plates, even when you know they are done?

I encounter all manner of weird food issues as a waitress: people who won't allow you to cook their food in ANY FAT WHATSOEVER ("NO! Butter, NO! Oil! Or it's YOUR ASS!"), people who demand that you hold the starch and add extra greens to everything (very common, thanks Atkins/South Beach diet-craze), people who freak if your restaurant deigns to complicate their wildly complex & totally psychotic diet-food regimen. But I have to say, one of the weirdest food issues I encounter semi-regularly is when people REFUSE to let you clear their plates, even when they are quite obviously already done eating their meal. It happened tonight and the interaction went something like this:

I realize that Table 42 has not touched their patatas bravas in a while. They seem totally engrossed in their conversation and the table looks messy and wasted beneath them-- crumbs everywhere, bits of corn and cheese all over the place. Yech, I'd love to clean that up and get them all set for dessert. I make my way over to see if I can help.

ME: May I take these plates out of the way, ladies?
WOMAN: No, we're okay. We're still working.
ME: Oh, okay. No worries...no rush.

They resume their conversation, and I smile and walk away.

Ten minutes pass. I see Lilliana, one of the backwaiters, walk over to Table 42 and ask in her broken English if they are done. They shake their heads. She leaves empty handed.

Ten more minutes pass. I go by the table again. Should I ask now? The patatas are in the EXACT same formation they were in when I first approached the table to clear. The table still looks every bit as messy and offensive to me. These ladies MUST be done by now. What if they have been done for a while, and think I'm a bad waitress for leaving them like this? I'll ask again.

ME: Can I clear for you ladies?
WOMAN: No. Thanks. I'm still working. She smiles politely, as though this is the first time this evening -- no in her LIFE-- that anyone has tried to clear her plate.

Ten more minutes pass. I'm at a lull and have nothing else to do, so I eye Table 42, wondering when I'll be allowed to clear. Even if they AREN'T done, they should be. The potatoes are definitely ice cold by now, growing mealy and awful under their fried exterior skin. Eating them now would be like biting your teeth into a weird sponge. The aioli dipping sauce is growing warm, drooping in a sad puddle on the plate. Yech, it's DEFINITELY time to get that food out of the way...But I refrain. I will wait. It is clear that these ladies have food issues and I have no interest in getting involved.

As we all know from yesterday's post, I am currently in the throes of PMS, which is making me fat, emotional, and most of all, forgetful. After my last failed attempt to clear Table 42, I promptly forget that they are in the restaurant at all. They have been here for so long and are so engrossed in their own thing and CLEARLY uninterested in the quality of the food they put into their mouths, I decide to let myself off the hook and ignore them completely until they are flagging me down and begging to be cleared.

I forget about them for, like, a really long time. So long that when I do look up and notice Table 42 again, the first thing I think is, "Oh! I have a table there! What are those ladies doing and how long have they been here?"

I think those girls sat there staring at the same plate of cold, foul patatas bravas for over an hour.

I mean what is that? That has to be a psychological issue at play there, right? Some manifestation of weird control issues? Food protective behavior, to say the least? I mean, I have my food issues like every other girl, but these issues I just don't get.

I invite anyone with a psychological background to weigh in.

welcome to fat week

Welcome to Fat Week, everybody! Fat week happens once a month and begins exactly one week before I get my period. And it blows.

Friends will tell me that I am crazy, not fat, and that this is all in my head. Boyfriends have banged their heads against the wall trying to talk me off the ledge during Fat Week. Strangers likely won't even notice it's Fat Week. The problem is that I notice. My body is kicking off Fat Week right now, with flair and celebratory style. My body is ringing it in with gusto. Huzzah Fat Week!

To some extent, the people who say Fat Week is all in my head are correct. More precisely, it's in my hormone secreting glands. Fat Week is the direct result of changes in hormone levels that happen at predictable times during my cycle. Today, for example, my progesterone levels are at an month-time high, and my estrogen and testosterone levels are also peaking for the second time this month. Estrogen & Testosterone on high? That's usually a good thing, as estrogen & testosterone are the hormones that make me outgoing, confident & feel as though I can take over the world during Thin Week (a.k.a. Week 2 of my cycle). Today Progesterone trumps the E&T card making me calm, collected, and since I am sensitive to it, a little blue.***

Tomorrow, all hell breaks loose and ALL of my hormone levels will plummet as I begin the hellish descent into PMS.

I also call this Fat Week because I literally am fatter this week. Every month I gain & lose at least five pounds over the course of my cycle (since I finally bought a scale in January I've been able to measure this for once and for all). For this duration of this glorious week I get to sport those brand new pounds like a shiny, spanking new pair of shoes. Heavy shoes. Shoes that only weigh five pounds, but feel like they weigh 25.

As you can see, Fat Week isn't just in my head, nor is it exactly real, as in just a week's time, I will lose exactly five pounds in the space of two days. But for now, Vive La Fat Week!

Welcome to my crazy, crazy world...

***All of this info was gleaned from a lovely little book by Gabrielle Lichterman called 28 Days. Pick up a copy & unlock the secrets of your cycle, especially if once a month you think you're going crazy. It's not all in your head & you are NOT alone!

blonde wisdom: texas guinan

I like noise, rhinestone heels, customers, plenty of attention, and red velvet bathing suits. I smoke like a 5-alarm fire. I eat an aspirin every night before I go to bed. I call every man I don't know "Fred" and they love it. I have six uncles. I sleep on my right side. I like carrots. I eat a dozen oranges every day and I once took off 35 lbs in two weeks. I guess that settles my personality. . . .

- Taxas Guinan, Dallas Morning News * * 6 November 1933 - just a month before her death

the pink spot

While curling my hair today I noticed what appears to be a faint swath of pink the stretches in a two-inch band across my hair.



Can you see it? Probably not, as this crappy, low-res image was taken with my camera phone.

I'm not sure if this "pink patch" is being impressed upon my hair by my curling iron (which has this weird pink blotch on it, a spritz of hairspray gone terribly awry), or if it's the natural hue of my horribly over-processed hair peeking out from beneath layers of corrective color.

When Jason made me blonde again eight months ago, there was this very precarious period between process 1 and process 2 where my hair was three different colors: albino white at the roots, orange-y blonde at the bottom, with a two inch swath stretching around the crown of my head that was salmon pink. Literally the color of a nice piece of wild Alaskan salmon.

Jason then processed the hair one more time, restoring the overall hue to a nice, normal looking ash blonde. I walked out of the salon and only people who witnessed the pink phase were any wiser. But I've wondered about that pink spot ever since. How did it get there? Why exactly did it appear? What did Jason do to make it go away?

And now, has it somehow been resurrected?

puffy coat

Each winter, when the temperature first dips below 30 degrees here in Boston and the air begins to smart with chill, I pull my puffy coat out of the closet.

The puffy is a welcome addition to my wardrobe. It is long, hits mid-calf on my legs, and is made of down, so it's very, very warm. It has a real-fur trimmed hood that looks pleasantly Eskimo when I wear it up. In addition to being warm, my coat is also surprisingly light and can squish up into an impossibly small ball. This makes it good for traveling.

It's like walking around in a sleeping bag all day long.

My puffy coat is every-so slightly too big for me (despite the fact that I bought it in the littlest size they had, extra small), and it's not exactly flattering to my mid-section. But the puffy miraculously guards against ALL elements, enabling me to wear short skirts with boots and questionably light sweaters, even when the snow drifts are high. It's like a suit of warm armor and for that reason I love it, am indebted to it, even.

Some time around mid-January I begin to get a little sick of my puffy coat. It no longer seems like a funny, practical addition to my wardrobe when I have to wear it every single day. I have other coats, sure, but none protect from ALL the elements the way this one does, with it's amorphous hood and water-proof exterior. It's an umbrella and a coat in one. It melts snow in it's tracks. So I continue to wear it, almost every single day...even though I now kind of hate my puffy coat.

And inevitably, somewhere around early-February, I begin to loathe my puffy coat. It start to feel way too hot half the time, and totally claustrophobic. I glimpse my reflection in windows and glass doors as I pass by on my way to work and I see myself as this tubby, sexless creature, schlepping along through dreary winter days. Sure, I'm warm and dry, but I definitely don't look hip or fasionable or pretty. I stomp along to my destination, either the office or Toro, and throw my puffy coay in a corner as far away from me possible, and refuse to look at it again until it's time to go back outside.

My puffy coat has become my prison.

I suppose that's what I get for living in Boston in winter. But still. How can a garment can be so good and soooo bad, all in the span of one long, dreary season?

the blondest spot

Last week I saw Jason for highlights. Instead of posting about the usually euphoric experience of becoming blonder after enduring three and a half weeks of roots, I posted about Dan who died. But today, while applying mascara I realized: there is an entire chunk of my hair that is blonder than blonde:

See it? Right there in the front?

Usually Jason does a toner rinse for me, but last Wednesday, he decided to bring the whole of my head up a notch. "How blonde do you want to be, Kitty?" he asked.

"What do you think?" I said. The guantlet was thrown.

10 minutes later, Jason was rushing me from the chair to the shampoo bowl: "It's turning grey, Kitty, go! Over to the shampoo bowl! NOW!" I threw the January issue of Shape on the floor and ran. It could rest there in a pile of hair for now. Who really cares what my "happy weight" is, anyway?

Fortunately, the almost grey spot stopped at blonde. But if you look closely, you'll see: it's a little blonde-grey. Here it is again:


The moral of the story: ladies, beware. Blonde hair = bleach + hues of purple & blue to off-set brassiness & orange. In short, when you really go for it with peroxide, grey is just minutes away.

Proceed with caution.

blonde moment of the week; or the smoke alarm Part II

So, I pouted about the smoke alarm all day yesterday.

I called up my landlord and made a fuss.

I wrote a relatably frustrated blog post about it, to which several nice blog friends have replied (thanks for the support, all.)

And when the Mathematician finally got home last night at 7 p.m., I made him get immediately up on the chair to "deal with that freaking thing." I watched from below, and barked suggestions up to him as he pulled the alarm out of the ceiling, ripped out the battery, and pushed every last button on its exterior white casing in an attempt to get it to stop beeping.

Miraculously, it the smoke alarm chirped on.

So, we left. We went to dinner, the to the movies, and while we were out, we picked up a replacement battery for the smoke alarm. We could still hear it chirping from the foyer of my building when we got home at 11:30--and we live on the fourth floor. And the minute we crossed the threshold into our apartment I forced the Mathematician back up onto the chair.

"Fix it!" I cried. "I've been hearing that goddamn thing chirp every five seconds since noon today! Fix it, goddamn it, fix it!" I stomped down the hall to the bathroom, hands over my ears. Earlier that the afternoon I felt annoyed at the smoke alarm, for how helpless it rendered me, being so high up on the ceiling and so broken. I hate feeling like a damsel in distress, I thought, waiting for my boyfriend or my paternalistic landlord to come home and fix my problems. My Sarah Lawrence friends would be ashamed. Post movie, however, these feminist thoughts were long gone. By 11:30 p.m., I felt like the kind of stark-raving mad female main character you might find in a Bronte novel. Thank god the Mathematician was there, to save me -- and the building-- from myself.

The Mathematician climbed up on the chair in his dutiful way, and commenced tinkering with the smoke alarm. He installed the new battery. The alarm chirped on.

"Rip out that white wire!" I ordered. The alarm kept chirping. "Try that one now," I snapped impatiently. The chirping could not be stopped. Finally, the Mathematician stepped down from the chair, disassembled alarm in hand, and announced:

"I don't think that sound isn't coming from this. It's coming from somewhere else...in there." He pointed to the guest bedroom.

Seconds later the Mathematician held the real culprit in hand -- a carbon monoxide monitor with a dying battery. Guess where he found it? Plugged into an outlet behind the guest bed, about a foot about the ground. Well within my reach.

I believe that qualifies as the blonde moment of the week.

the smoke alarm

chirp.

My smoke alarm is broken. Or it needs a new battery. Or something.

chirp.

I don't really know, and I don't really care. What I do know is that I can't reach it. I'm tall, so that misfortune usually doesn't happen to me. I can usually reach things.

chirp.

In fact, with the help of a chair, I can reach every tall thing in my apartment. Every tall thing except the smoke alarm. Every silent tall thing, that is.

chirp.

Don't think I haven't tried. I have dragged every chair we own into the hallway. Even the ones with wheels, which I have attempted to still with boxes.

chirp.

I have tried stacking our Ikea stepstool on top of a chair. I couldn't get it to stay up there for more then ten seconds, let alone with me on top of it.

chirp.

I even considered putting on four inch heels and getting on top of a chair. Then thought better of that.

chirp.

I then called my landlord. He is at work today, his wife told me, but he will be sure to come and fix it tomorrow.

chirp.

In the interim, I am stuck with the chirp.

Home. Alone. On a day that was intended for serious writing.

And every five seconds:

chirp.

A matter of fact, glaring chirp.

Fuck you, smoke alarm, I think.

I stuff ear plugs in my ears and keep working.

chirp.

marilyn monroe as a thing

I decided recently that Marilyn Monroe is one of my all-time favorite blondes.

I know, I know. It seems like a no-brainer. She scored the #9 spot on Forbes' Top Earning Dead Celebrities List in 2007, after all--anyone that lucrative clearly strikes the fancy of many. (She's the only woman on there, too.) But the more I learn about Marilyn, her tragic childhood, her difficult life in the spotlight, and her sad death by her own hand, the more I feel fascinated by her.

In light of this fascination, I decided, on a whim, to purchase these coasters with her image on them from Posh on Tremont Street a few weeks ago. The Mathematician and I were killing time waiting for a table at Aquitaine one Sunday, so we wandered in to look around. Posh is one of those stores that sells expensive nothing: novelties, silly cards, board games with names like "Dog-opoly". "Oooh, they have coasters with Marilyn on them!!!" I exclaimed when I saw the display. "Let's get them!" I guess you could say I got caught up in the moment. $40 and 20 minutes later, there I was eating brunch at Aquitaine, happy as a clam with two boxes full of Marilyn Monroe coasters be my side.

The thing is, part of the reason I bought the coasters because we needed them. I grew up in a coaster house, and have since been trained to use one under all beverages glasses (except those with stems, like wine or martini glasses.) And since I bought them, I've used my Marilyn coasters every day. But last night, while getting up to grab something from the kitchen, I put my glass down on Marilyn's face and it made me feel sad: there was Marilyn's enigmatic smile staring up at me. And there was my pint glass full of l'eau, on top of it. Water swished back and forth in the bottom of the clear glass as the liquid settled; her face swayed back and forth, too, suspended and submarine.

It made me feel sad to commodify Marilyn so because I believe her status as a living, breathing commodity is what drove her nuts. Feeling less a person than a thing, contrived and controlled by other people all the time--it must have been terrible. And I think it's a feeling to which many women can relate. Or at least, I can.

I love those coasters, but now they kind of make me sad.

So, where am I going to put my drinks?

friend or foe???

The scale that I bought from Target.com came in the mail today. I have avoided owning such a thing for my entire adult life, preferring to take a "don't ask-don't tell" approach to the number that is my weight. On the one hand, I realize that numbers can be deceiving, and that a person's general health can have very little to do with some magic number they conceptualize as their ideal weight. On the other, I realize that I have obsessive tendencies, and have avoided purchasing one for fear that if I did, I would torture myself with it.

However, in light of this post, I thought it might be a good idea to bring a little reality to the business of my body image issues. Who knows? Maybe having a scale in the house will be a good thing? Maybe it will help me stop worrying about the unknown so much, deter me from deciding that I have magically gained ten or fifteen pounds when I have no material reason to believe that is the case. And it might be nice to know, for once and for all, exactly how many pounds I gain from water when I have PMS (somewhere in the vicinity of 1-3 I think, but to my crazy mind, it usually feels like ten.) So, I made the Mathematician buy us a scale using his company discount on Target.com. He likes gadgets & selected a fancy one. I have been eagerly anticipating it's arrival since its purchase Sunday evening.

I unwrapped the scale and squealed with glee when I realized that it can not only measure my weight in pounds and kilograms, it also measures my total fat percentage AND the total percentage of water in my body. (I do not know why the latter is important.) I liberated it from its plastic packaging, plugged in the included batteries, and briefly skimmed the instruction booklet (so as to avoid blender-melting disasters like this one) before giving it a go. The question loomed. Would our new scale be my friend or my foe?

I then immediately weighed myself eight times in a row.

The first time I got on it, the scale told me I weighed about 2 pounds more than I thought I should. Foe I thought, and narrowed my eyes at my new enemy. Then I realized, Oh, wait. Maybe I should take off my shoes. And , while I'm at it, my clothes. Jeans are heavy.

The second time I got on, the scale reflected what I considered to be a much more acceptable number. Friend! I smiled. Welcome to your new home.

The third time I weighed myself, I was disappointed to see that it was accusing me of being 55.5% body fat. Foe, I scowled. I hate you! How dare you call me half fat!!! Then I read the instruction booklet, and realized that was the water percentage number the scale was reporting, not the fat percentage, and being 55% water is goo. Friend!

The fourth, five, sixth, and seventh time I weighed myself, it was in an attempt to decipher the body fat tabulation offered me by the scale. First it said I was 20% fat, then 23% fat, then 21% fat, then 18%fat. My reactions to all of these numbers: Foe, foe, foe, probably foe but since you're 2% less than the initial estimation and 5% less than the highest, I might like you a little better. Then I referred again to the instruction booklet, and realized that all of those numbers were on the low side of normal, with the 18% figure being below average.

By the eighth time I weighed myself, I realized: Staring at these numbers isn't going to change them. At this point, I've been playing with the scale for, like, 20 minutes. I'm naked and I just weighed myself eight times in a row for no reason, and I would never ever do this if someone else were home. So, I put on my clothes, declared a truce with the scale, and made a new home for it beside my closet.

Friend or foe? Who cares, at least this new appliance is honest. And I need something in my life that can tell it to me straight.

blonde moment

I got to thinking about the term "blonde moment" today. It's become 100% synonymous with flakiness, ditziness, and stupid, innocent mistakes. But when did we, as a culture, start using it to describe a state of mind and excuse our errors?

I started to do a little research...then got sidetracked by the plethora of jokes & videos out there that so glorious illustrate the concept. Like this one, from the '70s, with love.

Happy Friday!

how many blondes does it take to break a blender?

Answer: One. Me.

I may not have paid very much for the blender that I destroyed last night in the Great Soup Debacle of 2007, but I can't bear the thought of never using it again.

We just got it a few months ago. I used it a total of three times before melting and churning the top part into chunky little bits that bobbed about in what was supposed to be my dinner. Plus, I just dropped a third of my shifts at Toro to make more time for book writing in my busy schedule. I am on book leave, friends, and this means I am broke. I cannot afford to go around breaking blenders willy-nilly and replacing them like so many summer tank tops from H&M.

I woke up thinking about the blender last night at 4 a.m. As I lay there listening to my radiator clang and bang like a bunch of free jazz amateurs, it occurred to me: Maybe my Osterizer Classic came with a warranty! In the light of day, I looked into it. Here's what I found out:

Good news: I actually saved the instruction booklet which came with my Osterizer Classic blender! I did not read it, of course, but I did save it. (Deep down inside, I must have known I'd break the damn thing.) And, I remembered where I shoved this valuable little booklet so many weeks ago when the Osterizer Classic arrived on my doorstep from Target.com! I was not so blinded by the Osterizer's chrome-red beauty that I stashed it somewhere stupid! I put the instructions right where they belong: in the drawer beneath the blender's home on my kitchen counter. Kudos me.

Good news: The instruction booklet contains great tips for proper care and usage of your Osterizer Classic. The part that I ruined is properly named a "Feeder cap"- who knew?! The booklet even contains 30 pages of delicious recipes, from Cocktails to Baby Food to Pies and more! All of which can be made right in your home kitchen using your Osterizer Classic blender.

Bad news: The instruction booklet clearly states that the"Feeder cap" is not supposed to be used when blending hot liquids. And the recipe portion of the booklet disappoints. Dishes like "Sour Milk Pancakes" and "Ham Salad" miss the mark (and beg the question: why would I ever blend ham?)

Bad news: The magic warranty does not cover "damage resulting from negligent use or misuse of the product," (p. 39). Also, the warranty does not cover "Acts of God." If my soup experiment does not fall into the former category, it certainly falls into the latter.

Oh well. This means that when I call the authorities at Sunbeam Products, Inc. and try to convince them to give me a new "Feeder cap" for my blender, I'm going to have to lie about how my Osterizer Classic met it's maker. But, no worries. I'm not above that.

soup II

Dear Soup,

First I dreamed about you.

Then, I dreamed about you again.

Then I made you, after having several glasses of wine at a work thing with my boss. I chopped the leeks into manageable bits. I sauteed them. I added carrots--grated carrots, which required much elbow grease-- and butternut squash bits. And cooked you down in a low-sodium vegetable both bath for 25 minutes until tender.

Then, during step five of the soup recipe, it was time to blend you. And I melted part of my blender while trying to puree you. And was left with half a vat of useless, plastic-filled soup and a broken blender.

Thanks for nothing, soup.

Get out of my dreams and get out of my life.

It's solid foods for me, from here on in.

before and after blondes

Before the blonde,
before the Marilyn,
when she was still Norma Jean Mortenson...

No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl. All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't. - Marilyn Monroe

* * * * *

After the blonde,
after the star was born,
a living icon, candy for any camera lucky enough to spy her...

I knew I belonged to the public and to the world, not because I was talented or even beautiful, but because I had never belonged to anything or anyone else. - Marilyn Monroe

The fascination continues...

blonde competition

One thing I noticed about myself the first time I was blonde, when I was flirting with platinum and very excited about my new look, was that I was very competitive with other blondes. (Like this blonde in the shirtdress.) Another blonde would walk into the room, and you bet I’d notice. I would take her in very carefully, with that appraising head to toe look that judging women give each other. I’d also note how this blonde carried herself, how other people in the room reacted to her, and how she handled the attention. This kind of observation was necessary, right? It was research for the book. But I’m not going to lie. It was also guiltily competitive, punctuated with paradoxical thoughts: “Who does she think she is?”; “my hair looks better than hers, right?”; “wow, I wish I was that thin”; “she is the prettiest girl in the room and I hate her.”

When I became a brunette, this blonde competition stopped. Sure I noticed the blondes, but I was no longer threatened by them. In a way, it was probably similar to how my best friend Marissa felt as an American living in Rome. She kept up with America, of course, our trends and our politics. But she no longer lived by our rules. She drank espresso instead of drip coffee, abandoned vegetarianism because it was too hard in that carnivorous culture, and adopted a whole new way of life, with Italian rules. Her American self was still inside of her, but suddenly things that loomed large and important when on American soil became quiet and distant memories while living in the noisy city of Rome.

It was good for me to live in Brunette Land for a while, by the Brunette Rules. Now I am blonde again, but I’m coming at it from a totally different angle. Much less competitive; much more centered. But, since I am blonde again, I find that I often encounter other blondes, who give me that same once over treatment. And occasionally, I’ll find myself explaining my book to these other blondes. While most blondes get the topic, every once in a while, I’ll meet a blonde who doesn’t. They may challenge it or even criticize it, and deny that their life has been different as a blonde. I nod and listen politely, because what am I going to say? Deep down inside I’m thinking all the while:

If your life isn’t different as a blonde, why do you dye your hair blonde in the first place? You aren’t among the one in 20 adult females whose hair is naturally so—I can tell by your eyebrows and your roots. Highlights like yours cost at least $200 a pop. If it doesn’t make a difference, why do you do it?

blondes unite in face of crazy anti-blonde blog-stalker

Remember the crazy blog stalker from this post?

I was just browsing around on one of my new fave blondie-sites, Ask the Blondes, and it looks like she struck there, too. As a way of showcasing my blonde-solidarity, I thought I'd share how these smart blondes handled it with my readers. You can check it out here.

Or, if blood-boiling blog wars aren't really your speed today, you can simply enjoy this picture of the patron saint of all misunderstood blonde beauties.

Doesn't she look excited to be holding all that bling?

Happy Saturday!!!

more thoughts on self-discipline

A week ago on Tuesday I had a mole removed from my back. There were inconsistencies in the color that made my dermatologist think it suspect. As she explained it to me, there is this very wide spectrum between "potential problem moles" and "basel-cell carcinoma (a.k.a. cancerous) moles". Mine exhibited tell-tale signs, but they wouldn't know what the hell it was until they took it off and did a biopsy. (So none of you worry, it turned out to be right in the middle of that spectrum: not cancerous, but removing it was the right move.)

In any case, the doctor said I wouldn't be able to exercise for 10 days after getting the mole removed. No yoga, no jogging, nothing. "Oh, o-kay," I told her, feigning reluctance. "I guess I'll find a way to muddle through!" I was lying, though. I have definitely gone for 10 days without exercising before. In fact, I usually go for long, 10-day plus stretches without exercising. I am working two jobs and writing a book here, people--something's gotta give. Also, I figure that doing laps around Toro several times a weeks is plenty good exercise.

Yet for some reason, since the minute I learned I would not be permitted to exercise for 10 whole days, it's all I want to do. I fantasize about getting up with the sun and doing yoga. I have developed elaborate schemes about sneaking cardiovascular physical activity into my day. The other day, I walked home from Foodie's with an entire week's worth of heavy, canned-good laden groceries, huffing and puffing all the way in high heeled boots. I knew all along that I should just stop and hail a cab--but for some reason I keep walking, dressy work outfit notwithstanding.

What is wrong with me? Why is it that the minute I set my mind to something-- or in this case, am strictly forbidden from doing something that might injure me-- some naughty, rebellious part of me wants desperately to do it?

Perhaps it's not that I lack self-discipline. Perhaps I'm just destined to always want to do exactly what I am not supposed to.

on losing ten pounds

I am sitting in my doctor's office, shivering in a paper hospital gown. I am getting my yearly physical. She is great, but as per usual, I can tell she is in a rush. A long line of patients came before me and a longer line will trail after me. Now we are going over my vitals.

"Stop me if you have any of these symptoms," my doctor says, before rattling off a long list of ailments. "Headaches, dizziness, chest pain, nausea?"
"Nope."
"Depression, trouble sleeping, anxiety, irregular periods?"
"Um, no."
"Changes in weight? Sudden loss or gain?"
"Well, it hasn't been sudden, but I'm pretty certain I've gained weight."
"Really?" my doctor asks, looking puzzled.
"Yes. I'm sure I've gained ten pounds. Of course, I can't be certain because I don't own a scale."
She shuffles through her papers a minute, comparing numbers from this year and last year's charts. "You didn't," she says, finally. So matter of fact.
"Really?"
"Yup."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Exactly the same as last year," she says, looking up at me, looking tired.
"Okay," I shrug. "Well, cool. I'll take it. Hey, it's kinda like I just magically lost ten pounds!"
My doctor does not laugh. She does not seem amused by my body issues.