It’s not unlikely that around this time of year you may start to feel those cursed A, B, C, Ds:

Alone

Bothered

Confused and

Depressed.

The winter work crunch is on, the carefree days of summer are a distant memory and to make it all worse you have the elves, wreathes, shiny holiday bells and obnoxious carols to remind you that the financial and emotional evil that is Christmas lurks just around the corner. As the East Coast weather hops from mid-sixties, to thirties, back to sixties, you may find your constantly wearing the wrong jacket and in a kind of emotional schizophrenia. You may find yourself:

Becoming absurdly tired from a simple night out on the town…

Eating tyrannosaurus rex portions of pie…

Lying listless by an open fire…staring at a spec of chipped paint on the wall…for hours…

Curled up under your comforter in the fetal position with all your apartment lights on…for hours…

Buying leather dominatrix boots you don’t need on whim because they were Steve by Steve Madden and $100 off…

Agonizing over holiday plans and what to do on Christmas’ bastard stepchild of a holiday, New Years.

Wait. Who are we talking about again?

Anyway. Rather then deal with the fact that my emotional and mental stability is disintegrating, I’ve decided to ignore the fact that it’s winter and add some sunshine to my life by going blonde.

Super blonde.

Yes, I’m already blonde, but the ‘I-was-white-blonde-as-a-child, my-hair-got-darker, I- used-Sun In-in-middle-school, and-now-get-partial-highlights-twice-a-year-that-look- miraculously-natural’ kind of blonde, which translates to dirty blonde. I want to take the ‘dirty’ part out of the equation and return to that blinding white blondeness that is such a challenge to maintain.

Maintenance is currently the least of my concerns. I want to get high on highlights. I want to have so much tin foil in my hair that I run the risk of brain damage via peroxide.

That’s how gloriously blonde I want to be.

Hopefully, it will trigger some sort of attitude reform. Maybe I’ll get more attention. Maybe more people will treat me like I’m a moron. It’s my personal hope that my unsavory nightlife acquaintances and the drama-inducing Mr. Grey will no longer even recognize me. Maybe the peroxide will kill enough of my brain cells so that I can become an actual ditz and stop being so damn self-aware.

Who knew hair dye could be the solution to so many problems?

Since I absolutely refuse to have my hair cut by anyone who claims to be a ‘stylist’ or works in a salon (stories about my hair dresser-phobia here), and have begun mistrusting colorists as well (not to mention it’s a rip off), I’ll be getting my do-up on Friday at my wonderful Brazilian friend’s Upper East side apartment. She’s colored my hair before and does a fantastic job (note: Brazilians are really good at anything cosmetic related). It’s way more pleasurable than going to Licari for example since we chill, talk, watch TV, and gossip about our entire group of friends uninterrupted without house music blasting in the background or vodka in our hands. I shower post-treatment at her place, give her eighty bucks and we call it a day.

Reports on my transformation to blonde swan this weekend….

Yes, I realize this sounds like one of those douchey Cosmopolitan headlines. FYI, I hate those girl magazines. Who needs the folks at Redbook to teach us how to NOT have an orgasm again? Instead, I’m writing to commemorate an especially interesting conversation that took place over a recent night of sushi and way too much sake, a night in which our dinner party girls ganged up our dinner party guys and started asking some I’ve-drunk-way-too-much-to-censor-myself questions. Since we were all ‘just friends,’ no one felt the need to hold back. Here I’ve documented our evening’s ramblings, what I hope is an unbiased analysis of the two sexes and how they interact.

Somewhere around dessert, as I unabashedly bemoaned my romantic situation with comments like, “It’s just such a pity because if Mr. Grey just did X, Y, J and Double Z Squared, I think we’d both be so much happier,” when a male dinner party companion interrupted me with a solution:

“Why don’t you write all the things you wish he’d do on a piece of paper, give him the list, and tell him if he complies he’ll be rewarded with random, bonus blowjobs.”

Me: “That’s the kind of logic I’d use when interacting with a small child or pet.”

Him: “Exactly.”

Now I’m staring like a nitwit into my sake glass hoping I didn’t hear him correctly.

My friend continued: “Guys aren’t stupid. They just don’t think about all the things you girls think about. Guys forget stuff, easily! So keep it simple, write it down, and create a reward system. I think you’ll find he’ll be more than happy to comply.”

I smiled, realizing while this strategy may function for obedient American boys, my friend clearly had no idea what it was like to date the highly complex, spoiled, Lucifer-like love animal that is an Italian man. No way were lists going to work.

Next, the ladies at the table wanted to know how sex well…felt different with different women.

“How can a man claim Miss so-and-so is the best sex of his life? Aren’t all women just…well…holes?”

Gross, I know. And this statement received a strong negative reaction. The table erupted in chaos at which point I, a writer who’ll use any interesting social situation for my professional gain, instructed the boys to tell us the tangible specifics aside from chemistry that make a woman great in bed. Chemistry, pheromones, and the psychologically adrenaline inducing games couples play with one another can’t be properly explained. The inexplicable, enigmatic nature of these things is what constitutes lust. Setting these mysteries aside, the male half of our table came up with four tangible qualities that ‘the best sex of their lives’ invariably possessed.

1. Going at it HARD. Consensus from the men made it clear that the best sex was hard sex. They preferred girls who liked to pound and play rough rather than the romantic, soft, immobile, ‘dead starfish’ types.
2. Getting on all fours. According to those who possessed a penis around our West Village dinner table, men get off on doing it doggie-style. They claimed this has been man’s favorite position since the Stone Age and that any man who denied their intense fetish-like desire for women on all fours were point-blank liars. Translation: the girls who qualified as ‘the best sex’ liked to time travel to the Stone Age as well.
3. Doing it in public places. This one went a little over my head, but I think the underlying point was that men crave an adventurous partner. The guys claimed that while women may initially have inhibitions and be resistant to the idea of getting spread eagle in an H&M changing stall or bar bathroom, they grow to love it. One friend recounted a story of an ex-girlfriend who was initially terrified of the public fuck and after giving in became addicted to the insane adrenaline rush. What I took away from these comments: Be active, get creative, suggest raunchy things – it definitely won’t hurt.
4. Having an orgasm. Easier said than done. For all the boys at the table, ‘the best sex of their lives’ included a partner they could make come vaginally. “If the girl can only come clitorally, it gets complicated,” one man said. “Guys get off on knowing they made their woman come. Having her come vaginally is a massive ego boost.”

So there you have it, straight from some dudes’ sake filled mouths. Men: please feel free to correct or add onto to your drunk peers’ insights. Women: I’d take all of this with a grain of salt.

For those of you who were not raised in a red state south of the Mason-Dixon line, let me fill you in on what a Hell House is. Churches in small towns hate Halloween. It’s evil and pagan and blah blah blah. So they set up alternatives for the kids like trick or treating at the church, or maybe a haunted hayride. Or a Hell House. A Hell House is a place where awful parents send impressionable preteens and children to make sure that they love Jesus.

I was dragged to about five of these before the age of twelve. You go through different rooms and instead of being scared by witches and psycho killers, you are greeted by scenes of what happens to sinners. I remember there being a drug room scene where one girl tried to get another girl to smoke pot. The other girl does and suddenly a demon rushes in and whisks this poor experimenter off to hell. There was another room that preached the horrors of premartial sex. This girl’s boyfriend tried to convince her to have sex and she doesn’t want it so he rapes her. If she had been a good girl and hadn’t asked for it, she wouldn’t have been raped. Apparently accepting Christ as ones savior will prevent events like rape and murder from happening to you.

All in all, Hell Houses were lame experiences which my brother and I endured together only because of the promise of candy at the end of the tour which always concluded with the youth minister asked us to come to Christ. Lucky for me, I had done the whole Christ acceptance thing when I got baptized at age 7 so I felt pretty secure about my place in heaven.

Last year I went to a Hell House they staged for fun in Dumbo. It ended up being a pretty faithful re-creation . It was hilarious to me to walk through this tour which included witnessing an abortion, two suicides, a rape, a gay marriage and other assorted sins with a group of Atheist New Yorkers. I got the feeling that everyone in my little tour group had been raised with liberal parents in Northern California and the entire reason for the visit had something to do with “irony.” (There was actually a room in which hipsters sat around making fun on Jesus and they are then carted off to hell as well.) Everyone was laughing at snickering and so was I. But I remembered what it was like to go to one of those for real. To walk through those rooms, not with my jaded NYC mindset but as a ten year old girl who had been taught that Jesus was the only way for her entire life.

Which is why Hell Houses are an awful thing. You shouldn’t have to scare kids into religion and any religion that wants to implement that is not for me.

I got baptized at age 7. I was raised Southern Baptist and the church was a central part of my family’s life. My cousins had already “joined the church” which means that they had accepted Christ as their savior and believed that he had risen from the dead, was the son of God and all that jazz. My mother and grandmother had been pressuring me for awhile to join the church. But I was very shy as a small girl and the thought of walking to the front of the church in front of the entire congregation and sitting in one of the chairs they put out in front of the pulpit for people who are ready for Jesus was terrifying to me. But then, one Sunday, the reverend finished up with his sermon and launched into his “come to Jesus” speech.

“Is there anyone out there who has been moved by this message? I know there is someone out there today who thinks that there’s no where else to turn. These day to day tribulations are getting you down. But there is an answer. There is an answer to any problem you may have. And his name is Christ. He is the son of God and he rose from the dead to cleanse man of his sins. And he will cleanse you. You just have to accept him. Who out there is ready? Who out there is ready for Jesus to take you in his arms and make sure you get to the Promised Land?” The deacons brought out two chairs and they sat there in front of the pulpit mocking me.

I was sitting next to my aunt and she nudged me. “Go on up there. It’s time.”

“What? No, I don’t want to–”

“Brandy. Go. On. Up. There. Don’t make me tell you again.”

I could feel myself starting to cry. I bit my lip and started up the aisle to the front of the church. People were beginning to applaud and cheer. I couldn’t help it anymore so I started crying. I sat down in the chair and my preacher came over.

“Brandy. Little Brandy. Can I get an amen for this young girl making this decision? Crying tears of joy. A-men.”

He knelt down closer to me. “Are you ready to accept Christ as your savior and Lord? Are you ready to accept that he died so that you would be free?”

I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about. To me, Jesus was just a picture. A bearded white guy who had a lot of pictures taken with lambs in them and clouds in them.

“Praise Jesus.”

I had to sit there for awhile longer–the deacons came by to shake my hand and then my grandmother came to lead me back to my seat. She was smiling and proud. She led me to my aunt and my mother who were also smiling. I was still crying and couldn’t wait to be back with my mom. I put my head in her lap and she said, “You did the right thing, Bran.”

I was baptized the next Sunday. I wore the baptism robe that everyone in my family had worn. The baptism pool was located under the pulpit. My grandfather walked me to it and held my hand. I puffed out my cheeks and held my breath and my preacher immersed me in the water. Going underwater is one of the scariest things in the world for me, so I started crying again.

“Don’t be scared, Bran. I’m right here,” my grandfather said.

They brought me back up and my preacher proclaimed that I was cleansed in the blood of the lamb and my grandfather carried me out the back of the church so that I could get cleaned up.

I didn’t feel any different but everyone was smiling at me. I was one of Them now. One of the Saved People.

My brother asked me later if I was scared. He was only four at the time.

“What was it like, Bran?” he asked me that night. I used to sleep in his top bunk because he was afraid to sleep by himself on the bottom without anyone in the room.

“Like being put under water.”

“Did you see Jesus? Daddy says you see Jesus when you go under.” Our dad hadn’t set foot in a church since before we were born.

“I don’t think I saw Jesus. I had my eyes closed.”

“Oh. Well at least you’re going to heaven now.”

“Yeah. That’s okay I guess.” The thought of heaven was also foreign to me. When I thought of it, I imagined Care-a-lot and the Care Bears and cars made of rainbows and clouds. Hell, to me, was a big gaping hole full of fire with lots of people in chains.

I haven’t been to church since I left home for college. My brother hasn’t been since his sophomore year of high school. He’s 23 now and I’m 26 and we are living proof that you can be raised by rabid Christians and still turn out okay. And my family wasn’t a part of the Really Crazy Christian Brigade. They love Jesus, but they also love my gay cousins and if any of my teenaged cousins got pregnant, she would have a choice and wouldn’t be judged by it.

But Hell Houses are still awful and bad.

I am pleased to report that amidst all of the horrible things that have happened in the last month; I am headed back to the friendly skies at the end of this week! That’s right my little perverts; I will now be the Sex Writing Flight Attendant—or “Stewardess” as we were so affectionately referred to greasy men with handlebar moustaches in the pornos of the seventies.

Actually, I have to admit that it was the politically incorrect stereotype and portrayal of “stewardesses” that fueled my dream to become one when I was growing up. How could I not be enticed by Jack Tripper and Larry Dallas biting their hands and popping boners in their tight-in-the-crotch white slacks at the sheer mention of the word “stewardess” in episodes of Three’s Company?? There was something glamorous and downright sexy about it all, no?

The reality of the actual job itself—not so glamorous—not the duties anyway. You have to really love dealing with the public (which I do) to be okay taking barf bags or dirty diapers from the moms who are oblivious to certain child-related smells and hand them to you to dispose of. And serving coffee on a 6am flight when you haven’t even yet had the chance to get your fix?? Not fun and definitely takes a certain kinda’ wonderful to deal with. And also, going over all of the potential emergencies that may arise before you board the flight and knowing that you will need to resist the urge to jump ship and instead stick around to help others should anything go wrong? NOT for the weak or the selfish, that’s for sure! These things almost made me wonder why I would do this again but then I thought about all of the Jack’s and Larry’s of the world and felt I owed it to them and to myself to keep the stereotype alive—at least to a degree.

I vow to enjoy this time around more than the last which shouldn’t be hard now that I am in essence single. I will stay away as long as I possibly can by taking any layover I can get and not worry that I am offending anyone back home with my self-inflicted absence. I will not retire to bed early and be a good girl when the rest of my crew is at the bar enjoying a stiff drink on a cold Halifax night while on a layover and I will flirt shamelessly (and harmlessly) as I enjoy said drink(s)! I will continue to smile at the passengers even when refereed to as a “stupid bitch” or similar and will remember no matter how long and tedious the day gets that life is what you make it and nobody is responsible for your bad mood but you… not even the loud mouthed douche-bag who is somehow convinced that I am responsible for the plane having gone mechanical and decides to share her bullshit opinion with the entire cabin!

Also, to you: the Larry’s, Jacks and sporter’s of the orgy-man/Burt Reynolds-style handlebar moustaches; I vow to work my uniform and inappropriately high heels to the max and satisfy the eyes of those who like a whole lotta junk in the trunk and fancy some curves (and rolls!) in a fitted airline uniform. Yes, I vow to be what all of your perverted dreams are made of… without ever actually being more than your dream.

Good luck to all of my new classmates! xo