sticks and stones

In middle school I was fat. I got teased a lot and it was terrible. But ultimately, being a fat kid made me a stronger, more empathetic person.

Or did it? I mean, the empathetic part is true: I remember very vividly how it felt to be called mean names and treated like I didn't matter, and now go out of my way to say positive things to people and make them feel important and at ease (perhaps this is the key to my success as a publicist?)

But I don't know if being fat as a kid has made me much stronger. For example, if mean Jimmy pushed me into a row of lockers and said, "Move it you fat cow," while walking past me in a crowded hallway, I'd pretty much just want to shrivel up and die. My faculties of reason and wit would completely desert me, and I'd just stand there, jaw open, ready to cry, like a STUPID, WIMPY fat cow.

between agreeing with mean Jimmy ("I am a fat cow and everybody knows it") and blaming myself ("why can't I just be thinner? tomorrow I'm going to try that new anorexia thing I've been hearing so much about") and imagining all of the amazing things I could have and should have said that would have put mean Jimmy in his place ("at least my mom's not my sister", "nice rat-tail, Then, I'd spend the remainder of the day obsessing over Jimmy's comment. I'd vascillatedouchebag", all manner of shameless, flagrant vulgarity.) Sometimes I'd practice saying those things in my head, imagining elaborate scenarios that ended with mean Jimmy in tears and a crowded hallway full of people applauding for me, doing their best to hoist my fat ass up in the air to parade me around the school on their shoulders as their hero.

I never mastered the art of the quick, snappy comeback, and no such thing happened.

Not to dwell on yesterday's news, but it occurred to me after I wrote of the Mystery Man that I felt the exactly same way after he called me a bad waitress as I did when getting picked on so many years ago. (And when the post got excerpted on Universal Hub and an "anonymous" commenter said means things about me, I felt the same way again. And so on...)

And I realized that I really use this blog as a way to get back at those people. It's a venue for all of the wonderful, unspoken rebuttals I have for the massive pricks out who keep on pushing me into lockers. Sure, I may stare at you blankly like a stupid fat cow in the moment, but my wrath will eventually be heard.

After all, isn't that what the Internet is for? To help those who were geeks and losers in high school to inherit the earth?

my new work spouse

Tonight a man in an eggshell colored suit waved me over from the bar to compliment me on my hair. '"I have to say, it suits you perfectly," he soliloquized. "Where do you get it cut, somewhere around here? It's beautiful, it's fabulous.

I assumed he was gay, but should have thought twice about it I suppose. As he sat there at the bar and got drunker and drunker, I noticed that each time I walked by, he kept looking at me. Eventually, after imbibing enough alcohol to be *truly* bold, he waved me over, out of my way, to tell me he 'had to tell me something': "I don't want to interrupt your work so come over again when you have a second, okay?" he said. Sure thing.

About an hour later I noticed that same man talking to Juanito at the bread table. They were conversing very quickly in Spanish - I suspect I know what this is about, I thought. Really? Tonight? Does this have to be happening to me tonight? The problem is, I really know only one way to diffuse situations like this, when the drunk man decides it's time to hit on the waitress: act flattered but not TOO flattered, lest drunk guy misinterprets your body language and decides that you love him back; politely explain that I'm not interested because I have a boyfriend but imply - obligatorily, mind you - that if I wasn't taken I'd love to share a drink because he's quite a catch!; and generally just smile and nod the whole damn time trying to pretend that I don't want to just crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment.

But when he walked away so did Juan, as though nothing had happened at all. Huh, maybe tonight I'm off the hook? I thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Juan came up to me and said, "Mona, that guy over there are Bar 4 says he is in love with you."

"Juanito, did you tell him you are my boyfriend and you're going to kick his ass if he doesn't stop staring at me?"

Juan said no, but I encouraged him to, in the future, tell people we're married when situations like this arise. Juanito jjust laughed at me, but I totally want him to be my work spouse.

picture worth a 1000 words

What is actually happening: I am enjoying a lovely, pleasant evening talking to Evan (left) and seven other unpictured guests at the World Cocktail Day celebration at Green Street. The photographer seems to have captured a different story altogether.

Your creative writing assignment: Write a caption that explains what's happening in the story/scene below. I invite you to post them in the comments section, the more creative the better.

Here are a few that came immediately to mind:

THE BLONDE: Oh dear, how long did Cleve threaten to lecture us on the history and origins of Chartreuse?

OR

THE BLONDE: This young man is awfully cute, but I wish he'd stop talking to me about his truck...

The birth of a column...

The LUPEC Boston column was born today! Look for it from now 'til the end of time each week in print in the Weekly Dig in the Boston area, or here if you live too far afield. Authorship will be shared amongst the LUPEC gals; this first foray into print was penned by yours truly, Pink Lady.

That's right, in addition to being the Undercover Blonde, I also get to be the Pink Lady, Kitty, and every bastardization of my given name (Kirsten, pronounced K-eer-sten to rhyme with beer & queer) under the sun: K-hur-sten, Kristen, Kristine, Katie, and so on.)

Cin-cin, readers!

Work Haiku

Fleet fingers flying
over tiny mac keyboard
the workday has begun.

Is this really a headline...?

81% in Poll Say Nation Is on the Wrong Track

That's the headline? In the New York Times? Really?

When I saw it on my Google homepage this morning I was instantly confused. I have my little IGoogle thingy set up with news from the NYT on the left side of the page, and "news" from the Onion on the right. Below are my horoscope, the weather, book and fashion news, celeb gossip, etc.

I mistook this NYT headline, in all its glorious vagary, as a piece of mock journalism culled from the Onion. I wasn't confident that this was a sincere article penned by real NYT journalists until, oh, paragraph three. I guess it's the absurd open-endedness of this blanket statement -- at first I didn't believe it was real.

Sadly, I think this is a definite case of "It's funny 'cuz it's true..."

I'm back!

Taking a vow of silence last week gave me a nice break, but gosh I missed having a place to air my thoughts and grievances!

I didn't realize how accustomed I've become to putting the constant monologue that jabbers on in my brain down somewhere. It's actually something I've been doing my entire life, starting with the tiny pink diaries I kept when was a little kid, with a lock and key that I was very careful to always seal. And while this blog was created to record my ruminations and experiences and my identity as I made the transition from brunette to blonde, it's become all encompassing (as most things relating to "identity" do.) I had no idea how much I've come to depend on my blog as my secret little microphone.

On the flip side, I really needed a break from the stream of constant criticism and snarkiness that blogs and the Internet fosters. My blog was excerpted on Universal Hub twice a few weeks ago, which was awesome and drove TONS of new readers to my site -- fabulous! Among those readers were some pretty creepy, sketchy people who left a potpourri of weird, mostly unintelligible and offensive comments on here -- NOT awesome. I began to feel like this whole blog experiment was...too public.

It got me thinking about the dichotomies inherent in a writing life. On the one hand, writing is a solitary act, involving a person, their research, their pen & paper or keyboard and screen, and their thoughts. To parlay that into a career of any sort, is to open yourself up to a lifetime of endless criticism, some of it constructive and in your best interests (when coming from friends, family, agents, editors) but most of it ruthless, judgmental, and insensitive and coming from strangers. It's a slightly schizophrenic lifestyle choice, no?

So, I needed a little break from the voyeurism and the sharing of my thoughts with the strangers. And it was nice.

Then I realized I missed venting to the ether as I do on Undercover Blonde. In my real jobs, I rarely get to say what I think. I can't say to my tables at Toro, "the reason your drinks are taking a long time is because the bartender is in the weeds and the bar back is slow as molasses; you're just going to have to be patient." Instead I have to say, "so sorry about the wait on your drinks, folks, I'll have them in just a moment," and smile. As a publicist it's worse: as a smart publicist, I will refrain from including an example here ; ) But in my little blog world, I get to pretty much say what I think, and I actually get to have an opinion.

But more specifically, I missed this kind of personal writing. I wrote in my journal until my hand cramped up and felt unsatisfied because I still had much more to say. I wrote my parents a letter. I noticed my work emails growing longer, more conversant (and most likely annoying to my all-business colleagues). I felt as though all of these ideas kept popping up in my head and rattling around in my brain with nowhere to go. It felt claustrophobic...

So I'm glad to be back in the blog-o-sphere, prattling on about nothing to the ether as we bloggers do, mildly hoping that someone out there will read and identify with what I say, and hoping if said readers don't have something nice to say, they won't say anything at all.

It's good to be back.