Parlez Vous l'Hair?

Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to get highlights and a haircut in a very small town in France? Many things moved me to hilarity during the time that I lived in France, but few things also made me cry. After all, our hair is so dear to us, so important, especially to those of us who were born with that special hair color known as, "dirty blond." A worse color is not known to man or womankind (and they certainly don't have that terrible color in France, mais non!). Neither blond nor brown, those of us cursed with this color are forced to walk the earth spending the lion share of our income on a good highlight artist or form a true and real addiction to box color. I've done both. I guess I was naive when it came time to book an appointment with the local hair salon. My friend Claude assured me that her stylist was the best in town and promptly booked me an appointment. I told her what I needed but I definitely didn't have the right words in French. What I wanted was highlights and a blunt bob. What I got was bleached white hair and a Dutch Boy bowl cut that included having my entire hair line shaved off. It was hideous. My neck was so naked that I had to wear turtlenecks AND scarves for the next two months. In hindsight, it probably was a cute short haircut, but it felt like I'd been scalped. And my hair line has never grown back right. It grows so far over towards my ears that one of my nephews was once driven to say, "Eeeeww, you have a hairy neck." Words that every 40-something spinster lives to hear. Turns out that the word for "highlights" is same as "fish net" in French. How the hell was I supposed to know that? That's the problem with French - words can mean many different things. Ridiculously hard. Needless to say, when it was time for my annual pap smear, I made Claude go with me to the doctor's office. After all, if fish nets and highlights were the same, what the hell would the word for speculum be???

Time Keeps on Ticking

Man! I can't believe it's been so long since I posted anything! Here's what's been going on since last September: new job, new car, almost bought a house, haven't lost any weight, am running a zoo at my house, burnt to a crisp at the beach, lost a couple of friends, made a couple of new ones, finally got an accountant, planning a trip to Istanbul for the fall, lucky to have such great friends, wish my parents lived in Atlanta, amazed at the Chick Fil A battle on Facebook, dealt w/ Alzheimer's in a very painful way, still afraid of sharks, counting down the days until my Maine trip (August 25!), went to see Sting in concert, read several great books and . . . turned 44! What have you been up to in the last 10 months???

How to Hit a Home Run!

The other day I started reminiscing about a few of my favorite work stories. Often, the best moments came from me and my big mouth asking the questions that no one else would ask.
There was the owner of the sports marketing agency that I worked for in the early 1990's who, at the end of every team meeting would encourage us all to get out there and do a great job by telling us to, "put our dicks on the plate and hit a home run." Since I was the only girl on the team, I wondered why Mr. S thought those words would motivate me to do anything besides pray for his imminent death.
I consulted another woman at the agency, asking her what she would do if she were me. She told me to do nothing, not to rock the boat. Balls to that, said I, and plotted the moment for my protest.
My moment came at our next team meeting. After carefully considering all of my smart ass options, I decided that innocently asking a question was the way to go. When the meeting was over and Mr. S gave us our usual dismissal line, I raised my hand, cleared my throat and said, "Mr. S?" Everyone turned my way to see what the girl had to say. "For those of us without a dick, could we put our tits on the plate instead," as I mimed holding up my breasts like a shelf, straight out in front of me. Mr. S turned bright red and managed a strangled, "uh, sure," before bolting from the room.

And guess what? He never closed our meeting with that little phrase again, although on the day I handed in my resignation, he did tell me not to let the fucking door hit me in the fucking ass. A gentleman until the end!

Oi, Canada!

On my never ending quest for cheap airfare to Paris, I booked a two-leg flight on Air Canada. That is how my generous backside came to be planted in Terminal 1 of the Toronto Airport. After my normal Departure Panic this morning, I boarded a very small tin can w/ wings (literally, a 13-row airplane! who knew they still came this small . . . that's what she said.) for the 2 hour flight to Toronto.

I haven't been on a small plane like that in at least 10 years and my god, but it's LOUD. I couldn't hear a damn thing anyone was saying except for the old lady across the way who wanted to know if bringing two cameras into Canada would be considered commercial merchandise. Bless her heart.

And here's the irony of my day in the Maple Leaf Nation: I used to work for a Canadian company, a group of very nice people, but my brutally honest, proactive style didn't mesh well with the ultra polite and (slightly) passive Canucks and we parted ways when I went to work for the soft drink company. It was a nice parting, but I vowed never to work for Canadians again. Just too nice!

So, as I was soaring up in the tin can today, I thought how ironic it would be if I were to perish in the tin can, possibly on Canadian soil. It would surely be payback for the time I told my workmate that he and his fellow countrymen were, "fence-sitting pacifists" but I wasn't ready to go today. I will confess that as the tin can hit the tarmac on landing, I almost bit my tongue in two as we slammed into the ground. Would have served me right.

I have to give the airport kudos. They've already liberated me of about $300 between duty-free purchases (mom's birthday!), a new converter and some large glasses of wine. And they have free WiFi. Maybe I should revise my opinion.
Or maybe not. I just spotted some Wannabe Cirque de Soleil performers in body builder pants, sporting mullets. Even the girls.

Oi, Canada!

Da Agony of Da Feet

I was channel surfing on Sunday when I came across an old episode of Sex and the City on E! I hate to admit it, but I know the plot line of every episode - all I have to see is the episode title and I can tell you who sleeps with whom, what kind of shoes they wear, where they have drinks and whether it's Carrie and Big, Carrie and Aidan, Carrie and Big Part 2 or Carrie and Aidan Part 2 (or Carrie and Big Part 3 or 4).

One of the creepiest episodes ever was when Charlotte went shoe shopping and didn't have enough to pay for the shoes. The creepy sales guy told her if she let him feel her feet, then he'd give them to her for free. Now, I'd heard of foot fetishes before and laughed my ass off with my friends when imagining a guy asking to fondle my foot.

Never in my life did I realize it would actually happen to me one day.

The guy in question was a friend of a friend who I'd met many times before. With his wife. The night of the Foot Incident the wife was no where to be found, but the guy (we'll call him Cheater) had another women hanging out with him (we'll call her Slut). Little did my naive heart know. After leaving a local bar, we all went to the mutual friend's house to sit by the pool and drink wine.

Pretty soon, people were shucking off their clothes and heading for the water. Not me, of course. I've only been skinny dipping once and that was with a boyfriend. Group skinny dipping? Not for me. Any way, one thing lead to another and soon they were all out of the pool and drying off (I couldn't help but look at them - I mean, they were 2 feet away from me). One woman was so hairy that the only word that came to mind was . . . pelt. Bleuch.

And that's when the other shoe dropped. Cheater sat at the feet of Pelt and Slut, one of their feet in each of his hands. I just thought he was being friendly at first. Until he took one of their feet and started sucking toes. I believe I spit wine in the face of my friend's husband at that moment. But the real highlight came when Cheater sneaked a hand under the umbrella table and inserted his index finger in between my big toe and my second toe. And started stroking me. I jerked my foot out of his grasp so hard that I hit my knee on the underside of the table. I felt violated, I felt creeped out, I had just knee capped myself!

I jumped up as Pelt, her husband Giant Schlong (I told you, I looked), Slut and Cheater all laughed at me. I tried to maintain my cool but decided it was time to hot foot it out of there.

When it comes to feet, I'd rather have mine massaged by my local pedicurist, who I know is always telling her buddies how disgusting my feet are in her sing-song-y Vietnamese.

I guess I'm just not a Foot Girl. These feet were made for walking. But not for toe sucking. Bleuch.

It's Freezing Cold and I Hate Everyone

Happy New Year!

Hope your year has gone well so far - I mean, it's been 14 whole days, so what could possibly have transpired that would be that good or that bad?

Here's whats been going on with me:

Atlanta got 7 inches of snow on Sunday night and we got Monday off from work!

Atlanta got 2 inches of ice on top of the snow and we got Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off, too.

I almost ran out of cat food on Wednesday (but not wine, ahem), so I braved the icy roads and idiots to make it to my local Publix, where I grinned foolishly at the other humans in the store, talked to all the grocery clerks and told a complaining woman in the (not very long) checkout line that if she thought this was bad, she should have seen the checkout lines after Hurricane Katrina at the only grocery store open in Uptown New Orleans. What a lightweight.

I slid my way home (who knew that you could use a Honda Element as an oversized sled!) and have been inside ever since, working on developing summer promotions for that big soft drink company in Atlanta, and yelling at the dogs when they start playing their new favorite game, "Furniture Jump."

I've cooked non-stop for the last 6 days, including Soupe a l'Oignon (Julia's recipe, of course), Chicken Biryani, omelettes, one fried egg sandwich and countless chicken breasts for les chiens. The soup and biriyani lasted for several meals and I can officially announce that I will be eating neither for a very, very long time.

Have limited alcohol intake during my time on the inside to a cocktail at 6PM and the odd glass of wine here or there. In fact, I've only put one empty wine bottle in the recycling bin all week!

On the up side, I did finally take down my Christmas tree. I know, I know, it should have been before January 5th, but who's counting?

Anyway, I'm going so stir crazy (along w/ the rest of the city) that I'm about to risk life and limb to have lunch outside of my house today. I am SICK of watching people slide down my street, sick of helping people figure out that they have to slide back down the hill if they get stuck in front of my house, sick of falling on the ice (my knee!) and sick of working in my house. I want to go to the office! Anything to get me out of here.

Now I am totally sympathetic to people who live in the snowy north. And I hope that I will soon stop being a cranky shut-in.

House Guest Part 2

Stories from the Pokey . . .

Me, having never been in jail or a cell of any kind, asks what it was like.

"Well, the bitches who checked me in were certainly full of attitude."

Yes, one would expect that the people checking you in (it's called "processing" for those of us who haven't been in the pokey) wouldn't be overly welcoming. After all, it's not the Ritz. You're IN JAIL.

"The first one was totally rude and asked me 10,000 questions so I just made shit up after a while."

"What's the highest level of education you've completed, Miss ______."

"Um, I have my MBA in English."

Yes, she really did say that.

Then B was asked to sign the documents admitting her to the pokey.

"Ladies, I can't see this document because my glasses are locked up in my car. So, unless one of you lets me use your cheaters, then I'm not signing anything."

Processor 1 looks at Processor 2: "I told you."

B is put in the general population holding cell. There were, by her description, lots of "rough looking, really skinny women." Yes B, We call them Crack Whores (CW for short).

A skinny CW sits down next to B.

"The Hef Officer coming for you."

"I'm sorry?"

"The Hef Officer coming for you. They gonna stick you."

"No one's sticking me with anything."

"Uh huh. They gonna stick you to make sure you don't have the TB. I'm not sayin' you has it, but they gonna stick you to make sure you don't get it from anybody in here who might have it."

Next, B meets a woman who's a yoga instructor on the outside. The yoga instructor does a yoga move which B copies while saying, "yeah, yoga!"

Immediately, the officer on duty throws both B and the yoga instructor in the drunk tank for disruptive behavior.

At 4:30AM, the inmates are given bologna sandwiches. Another inmate sits down next to B, who is now back in the gen pop cell (see? jail lingo!).

"You gonna eat that?" she says, staring pointedly at the sandwich in B's hand.

"Nope, here you go." B wisely hands over the tube meat and bread.

Sometime after 5AM, B's ex-boyfriend arrives and bails her out. Fast forward to my house and the long afternoon of drinking and shopping that commenced.

I really do feel sorry for the girl because she's very nice and it could have happened to anyone who has a few drinks and then blows through a stop sign while a State Trooper happens to be hiding around the corner. Of course, I think she might have been a bit argumentative, which could explain why she was given two separate tickets, minutes apart. But whatever. She's good fun and is welcome back at my house any time!

But watch out: the Hef Officer might be coming for you next.