This Blonde Didn't Have More Fun

Blondes don't have more fun, at least this blonde didn't. I tried, but fun wasn't in the cards. Blondes are a phenomenon I've never understood. I grew up a brunette, a color that received very little attention. Trust me when a brunette walks in a room, not one male head turns. Business continues as usual,blah, blah, blah, the conversations go on as if nothing happened. Enter a woman with flaxen hair and like clock work every head turns her way. The air is virtually sucked out of the place and life comes to a standstill while our little blondie strolls by. It never fails. Never. I know this because I was the girl with long brown hair who went unnoticed. I'm not trying to evoke sympathy, just seeking to understand this force of nature. "Hey I'm over here , yoo hoo...I may have brown hair but I have big blue eyes. Is that chicken liver?" But alas not much action came my way.

Ironically I've never been attracted to men with blonde hair. Nope, I liked the tall dark type; the fair haired boys never turned my head. They still don't although my man demographic has turned gray or bald so it's a moot point. I didn't become blonde to experience more popularity but to mask becoming gray. My Mom pointed out to me that perhaps I should do something about my newly arrived gray hairs as they made me look old. "Thanks, Mom, and excuse me while I go hide from public view." Before I knew it my brown locks were gone, I was blondish and also out $120 every five weeks. An expensive proposition for a person who takes back roads to avoid the toll booth. I've changed colorists 5 times but nothing changed when I walked in a room. "Hey, I'm kinda blonde, look over here!" Nothing. Had I vanished? Truthfully, after 4 years and 5 colorists I didn't care about the turning of bald or gray heads. I missed my dark brown hair. It went better with my eyes and neuroses.

I just became a brunette again.  I'm out another $120 but I'll make it back in toll booth savings. Happily I'm the brunette with the blue eyes who just walked in the room unnoticed.

Computer Exorcist Wanted; good pay

I'm a technology loser. I need the power of positive technological thinking. Is there a Dale Carnegie course for people like me? I can't Tweet, and have people "following" me who I mistake for stalkers. I still don't understand Facebook. I have "friends" I don't know and never will along with a big empty "wall" when I really want a couch. I receive text messages and have no idea how to retrieve them so I hand my phone to the nearest 8 year old for help. I am incapable of texting back so please stop sending messages. I just figured out how to plug phone numbers in my cell phone although my sister's name is spelled with a "b" instead of an "r." I have no idea how to fix it and refuse to call her "Teby."

I've also concluded that a demon lives in my laptop. This creatures sole reason for being is to ruin my life. I recently lost an entire file of book edits thanks to another carefully thought out plot by my personal computer demon. How did it vanish when I carefully clicked "save as?" I broke out in hives and ran around the house screaming and itching. An entire day of editing gone in a flash! How could this happen? I threw back a handful of Xanax and ate half a chocolate cake to calm my jangled nerves . I was calmer, had pimples and needed bigger clothes but still had no freaking idea where my work disappeared. "Come out come out where ever you are" I yelled at my laptop but was no match for the little trickster. I banged on the keyboard, clicked on all the icons, read every file and no sign of my work. Curses. I needed an exorcist and wondered if there was one that specialized in computers.

I was lost and had abandoned all hope. I would never understand the difference between "save" and "save as." It took a heroic friend to talk me through a 2 hour search of my programs to find my edits. My brain almost exploded in the process. I was drained, exhausted, and needed a nap,yet deeply satisfied that this time I had foiled the plot of my computer demon.

The Winter Olympics leave me cold

I don't have the fever. I desperately wanted it. The thrills, the chills ,the shaking and quaking just aren't there. I've checked my forehead and it's cold as ice. I stare at the TV clicker and pine for last summer. I sadly place it on the couch and consider picking up a good book. Who am I? I don't have WINTER OLYMPIC FEVER! Sorry NBC programming and all the folks making snow but I'm not a groupie for these games. It could be my fear of snow, as even though I'm in a desert , looking at the white stuff makes me a little rashy. I diligently tried watching the Combined Nordic Track guys trudging, and sweating their way across country, but got bored. I don't understand the "combined" part although rumor has it they jump at some point. Can someone tell me when , where and why? If they don't do it soon I'm turning the channel. I took a telephone poll during the Biathalon to see if anyone else was watching or cared. Not a soul, but my friend Rick burst out laughing and told me to turn on a Seinfeld re-run.

I loved the Summer Olympics in China - primarily because of the American men's swim team. I can still picture their upper and lower bodies. Now that was good programming. Maybe the Winter Olympics involve too much clothing. No skimpily clad girls playing beach volleyball although I'm miffed on how they could concentrate on the ball with all that sand and so little suit. I'm still itchy. The men's beach volleyball team was pretty fine also. I never watched the ball. I know the Winter games have little figure skating costumes but face it men spinning in sequins isn't hot. And why do they call it a "death spiral?" Is this good for children? I tried to watch the women's moguls. Ouch, ouch, and ouch girls; I downed a handfull of Advil in sympathy.

Who could stay awake during the opening ceremonies? I vaguely remember someone flying thru the air reciting a poem. Where were the Chinese drummers and acrobats? I decided to order out Chinese food thinking this would rekindle my Olympic spirit. I fell asleep after 3 egg rolls.

Valentine's Day vs. New Year's Eve

Uh oh Valentine's Day is looming. I have the feeling of dread much like I do on New Year's Eve. Are there two more pressure packed days in the year than February 14th and December 31st? I'm supposed to be happy and also have a date. Crap. With only 48 hours to go my anxiety builds. I think this feeling of dread started in grammar school. I'd have a 500 pack of tiny little valentines and spend hours addressing them to my friends . We'd hang highly decorated bags on our desks and watched with baited breath as the teacher distributed the precious envelopes. "Oh no so far I only have three and Barbara has ten!" I needed more cards in my bag or I'd die a thousand deaths. Isn't this too much pressure for a girl of eight? It got worse. What if Jimmy didn't send me one card and I sent him nine? I loved him and what if he didn't love me? I'd have to quit 3rd grade. I'd be humiliated. I don't think I knew what that word meant but you get the idea. No wonder I'm still a wreck.

There is one thing I like about Valentine's Day, the candy . I used to love getting the tasteless but colorful tiny hearts with sayings on them like "you're nice", and "you're so cute." Now I'm afraid I'm not nice, or cute and afraid one of the little hearts could break my teeth. I opt for chocolates with soft centers - ixnay to caramel, nuts and toffee. I know my Mom will send me a big frilly expensive card that barely fits in the mail box so by the time I pull it out it's practically in shreds and I spend 15 minutes piecing it back together. Regardless, I'm relieved I now only expect one card and not dozens. 

With the pressure of the 14th rising and my happiness quotient dropping I decide to spend Valentine's day under cover and ruminate about the humiliation of New Year's Eve.
BTW I finished 3rd grade.

"Mirror mirror on the wall , that can't be me"

By mistake I glanced in the hall mirror on my way downstairs. I think I briefly lost consciousness before letting out a small shriek. I surprised me. Whoa, who was that? I backed up and took a closer look. I needed emergency lipstick, eye liner, and rouge or it actually wasn't me but my mother. I quickly decided to try another mirror and ran to the bathroom . Cannily and to save myself from personal ruin at 10:15 a.m. I only turned on one of the three light switches. So much better, although I was squinting. Squinting definitely improved my skin tone and I decided not to call my therapist. Truthfully, it is a shock to "catch" myself in the mirror these days. Where did the prom girl version disappear?

I was whining to my girlfriend Jane about my mirror experience. "Oh honey, just do what I do, look at one very small part of your face at a time." I still wasn't comforted. "Do men our age feel this way? Do they ever think they look like crap?" "Lord no, they have "magic" mirrors. No matter how old, gray, bald, and wrinkled they don't see it." "I want a magic mirror too," I sobbed. "Sorry sweetie we don't get to have them. I gotta run, but like I said, one tiny part at a time." She was right, men have "magic" mirrors. I met a short fat balding 65 year old in an over sized Nike t-shirt and jeans that skimmed the top of his ankles who spent an evening telling me he only liked to date women in their fifties. Has he looked in the mirror lately? Or the guy next to me at the bar at Sullivan's with a smile on his face and a comb over. He definitely has a "magic" mirror and should never go out on a windy day or swim. I can't forget 64 yr. old Alan, a never been married retired lawyer with a hair piece dyed "burnt umber",( my least favorite color in the Crayola box), who proceeded to declare he always has sex with a woman by the third date or "good-bye." He must never look in the mirror, and should definitely get a new colorist as well as therapist.

I decided I urgently needed a "magic" mirror too and searched Google for a dealer in my area. Unfortunately, the closest I got was a magician who could pull a rabbit out of a hat but not the prom girl out of me.

I Climbed Mt Everest in my Kate Spade high heels

I had a fantasy about climbing Mt. Everest. I hate the cold, detest the sight of snow , and have a fear of heights but I could still dream.

"Chirp, chiiiiirrrrp, CHIRRRRRPP !" Holy crap, what was going on? I bolted up in bed and wildly looked around the room for a bird that must be loose. I checked the clock, it was 3:02 a.m. My first instinct was to burst into tears and my second was the same thing but that wouldn't stop the incessant chirping. Did I need a net or a gun? Having neither I summoned my trusty yellow lab to go hunting with me, after all he's a bird dog and we had work to do. I wondered if boxer shorts and a t-shirt were proper attire. Down the stairs we traipsed trying to find the source of the shrill hideous noise. I'm cursing, the dog's half asleep and not on the scent. "Elliot, where's the bird, get him boy, go hunt."

He laid down and fell asleep in the living room while I stood there trying to track the chirp. It was directly over my head , but it wasn't flying, it was a round white object - the smoke detector. Crap. The battery must have been low, but I was much lower, approx. 10 feet. I stared up at it with venom in my eyes. I had to stop it or be driven stark raving mad. Chirp, chirp, chirp! "Shut up", I screamed for no reason other than it made me feel proactive. There was no ladder so I had to make do with a chair. I scaled the chair in my bare feet and reached up.... I was 2'8" away from peace and quiet. Now what? I needed more elevation fast. A fat phone book seemed like a solution. I set the book on the chair and up I went. Damn, I wasn't even close. Two phone books had to do the trick. Nope, I still couldn't reach the freaking thing. Three phone books? I was getting dizzy and my tower of books was shaking but I was closer. Chirp, right in my face as if to taunt my effort. Why wasn't I taller? And then an "ah ha" moment struck me. I ran upstairs and put on my cute Kate Spade raspberry red 3 inch suede high heels. I knew I'd wear them someday! Fortunately no one saw me in my climbing attire: striped boxer shorts, ratty white v-neck t-shirt and heels. Look away or turn to stone! With trepidation yet determination I scaled the phone books. I had no climbing ropes mind you, or anything stable to hold onto. There I was solo, in peril, teetering on top of my man made Mt. Everest. I barely got my hand around the chirping monster and yanked it off the ceiling. Victory was mine and I did it without supplemental oxygen! Or Sherpas.

I put the detector on the counter and started to trundle back to my warm cozy bed. "Chirp....chiiirp, CHIRP!" I was going insane. How could this be happening? There it sat on the counter with no battery yet still chirping at me. I picked it up and held it in my hand, tears streaming down my face. "Chirp, chirp." Was I in Edgar Allen Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart?" I was tired and broken. My only remaining solution was to get it out of the house. I dragged myself out to my car, threw it on the front seat and slammed the door. Silence.

As I trudged back upstairs feeling victorious and like a later day Sir Edmond Hillary I realized I had fulfilled my dream of climbing Mt. Everest.  Remarkably I did it in a pair of raspberry red Kate Spade high heels.