At least it didn’t work for me. My current theory is that there’s no way to be friends with someone you used to like in a ‘Model Behavior way’ unless you’ve moved on to the extent that you’re so sickeningly happy with someone else that the Ex couldn’t penetrate your aura of calm with a industrial strength machete. Needlessly to say, I’m a long road away from being a female relationship Buddha. In fact right now, I’m more likely to be wielding a machete myself. I’d come home from ‘friendly’ nights out with the former object of my affection and realize I was:

1. Alone
2. Angry
3. Miserably unhappy.

Not while we were out. No, in chaos of going out there was still the mirage of hope that this story might finish somewhere over the rainbow. It’s rather the moment I entered my humble residence after another failed fantasy sequence (and a ginormous waste of time) that I’d get irrevocably sad. Seeing him was essentially a fail proof way to make me more and more like someone who needs a straightjacket. Because even if during the day I could recognize that I didn’t even want him, the minute you dimmed the lights, gave us some wine, and turned on Ministry of Sound, I’d get overcome with (as lame as it sounds) nostalgia. Nostalgia for what exactly is unclear since we were never technically happy in the first place.

Plan A in coping with this problem was to pull a disappearing act. Never again take his calls, emails, texts, block his number (if only the tech freaks who created the iPhone took the time to include this break up feature) etc. I figured I’d be a master at this since men do it to me all the time. Unfortunately, I’m too soft hearted and found it eventually impossible not to respond to him. So after coming home ready to star in one of those ‘where does your depression hurt’ commercials for the ten zillionth time, I knew a drastic course of action had to be taken. I couldn’t resist his ‘friendly’ advances (which ultimately made me suicidal) so my only choice was to cut off this masochistic game at the source.

So after splitting a cab home and saying goodnight in the happiest of spirits, I sent what I like to call the ‘Death Text’ (which is sort of like the emotional equivalent of the evil Death Star in Star Wars). It’s an inevitably melodramatic and over-the-top text message that says something like, “I’m begging you please, never contact me again, EVER!” Because here’s my new analogy, guys:

Women are like a house. Get a realtor, look around, but if you don’t want to buy and move in, GET OUT. It’s not fair to live in the house when ‘you’re in town’ or when ‘you feel like it’ or to rent out a room when ‘it’s convenient to you’ if the girl has serious feelings for you. If you don’t want to invest and start a mortgage, get the Hell away and let the poor house go back on the market. Because if you’re a part time tenant the piece of real estate has zero hope of finding a true owner. And that’s just cruel, whether you do it under the guise of ‘friendship’ or ‘business partners’ or ‘hook up buddies’ is irrelevant. Be the bigger person and find a house you actually want to move into. Or just wander the streets a homeless player with no place warm to sleep at night.

Now I’m not only equating my gender to property, it seems I’ve come full circle and am asking guys to do the disappearing act (the exact thing I dreaded in college). Further proof that women are irrational and crazy.

My new motto: “I’m crazy and I like it.”

“Describe sexy,” he prompted me.

I went on to pause, gather my thoughts and illustrate sexy as:

“Confident, independent, and strong.”

“Interesting,” he replied. “Because I’d describe sexy as vulnerable, dependant and warm.”

Thus ensued a conversation in which we dissected our theories about the difference between Italo-Latin and American love.

In a nutshell, Rio made the point that Brazilian woman are experts at being feminine – they’re used to relying on men. They constantly ask men to do things for them with the charm of a child and males relish in attending to their every need since it makes men feel ‘like the shit.’ Interesting, right? Because as girls growing up in America the mantra is that we can do everything ourselves, should strive for utter independence, and never rely on men for anything. Ever. To which Rio responded:

“You’re never going to keep a man like that. Okay, you’re never going to keep a Latin man like that. Men stick with the woman who makes him feel like he’s ‘the man.’ He wants you to ask him to do things for you.”

“Wouldn’t I be bothering him?”

“Are you kidding? If he loves you and can fulfill your needs that’ll be the high point of his day. That’s the feeling he’s going to crave and come back for: Validation of his worth.”

Me: “I guess that does explain why so many guys I like end up with stupid, silent, needy lapdog girlfriends.”

Rio: “Those girls aren’t as stupid as they look. They’ve learned to use their feminine vulnerability to keep men. Again, if I want someone independent who didn’t need me I could hang out with my co-workers. That isn’t what male-female relationships are about.”

“But don’t you want a best friend? An equal?”

“Best friend, yes. An equal…”

“OMG this so wrong.”

“No, no, no. You’re misunderstanding. Yes, an equal. But American women often seem so busy proving their independence that they miss out on the whole tango of love that’s about how men and women fundamentally need each other.”

“You just said ‘tango,’ didn’t you?”

“Why would I be interested in a woman who doesn’t need me?”

“I thought men liked the unattainable. That they like to chase things.”

“True. But once he’s got you, he doesn’t want to hear about other guys and how ‘independent’ of a superwoman you are.”

“So basically I gotta get vulnerable, when my life mission since puberty has been to never appear vulnerable.”

“Yeah. And get feminine.”

I gesture to my outfit, “I am feminine!”

“You look feminine. But you don’t act it. You’re so guarded.”

“Because men are assholes!”

“You came in here and just made yourself your own tea. You never even asked me if I wanted some.”

“You were in the other room. And since when do non-British guys like tea?”

“Being feminine means focusing on the five senses. Scent, smell, touch. Slow down! Enjoy life. Be caring like a mother, innocent and playful like a little girl.”

“Gross.” I stop to think, “I have no idea how to do that.”

“Americans get divorced cause they got it all wrong. Women are meant to be feminine. Embrace it. Use it in your work life too. You’ll get ahead and manipulate men even better. Doesn’t mean you aren’t smart.”

“Does this femininity project mean I can’t talk and make jokes? I mean, that’s a big part of my personality. I verbally run a mile a second.”

“Of course, be yourself. Although at least at the beginning, with women, less is more.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“You act the way you do right now and go to where you’re going on Brasil, not one guy is going to talk to you.”

“That would be tragic.”

“Cater. Ask him to do things for you. Play along. If he loves you, he’ll feel great accomplishing your tasks. He doesn’t pull through, means he’s not into you. Men will slay lions for the woman they love. They won’t make dinner reservations, but they’ll slay lions.”

“Okay. Let’s try: Rio, will you drive me to JFK when I leave next Monday?”

Rio: “Absolutely fucking not.”

Off my twisted face –

“The asking to do stuff doesn’t include airport transfers.”

Me: “Huh. Good to know.”

Yet another theory to stuff in my carry on.

Those who want to learn more should be directed to the simultaniously ingenious and ridiculous concept of wikiHow which actually has an article about how to be feminine. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t skim it.

If you and your partner are open, stable, honest, in love and not looking for ‘the next best thing’ you’ll probably get through the holiday just fine. I know very few New York relationships that could be categorized under all these terms. In many ways, Manhattan’s an island of relationship losers. We know what we want (it’s just different Monday through Friday), we know how we feel (for the few hours after expensive weekly psychotherapy), and we believe in romance (when we’re not being spit on by people in the subway). Many New Yorkers prefer to indulge in what I like to call ‘grey relationships.’ Love stories that are exciting, non-committal, endlessly confusing, and allow us to be closet workaholics. Everything’s going along swimmingly until a calendar imposed nut-fest like Valentine’s Day forces you to snap out of the dysfunctional grayness you’ve been passively enjoying and dares you to define your relationship.

Definition very often equals death.

Let’s embark on a memory road trip to Valentine’s Day three years ago, a holiday that assassinated my extremely pleasurable grey relationship at the time. I’d been for the most part exclusively dating the object of my affection for eight or nine months. I’d been subtly pushing for weeks for us to take things to the next level (meeting parents, going on trips, engaging in activities together other than just eating, drinking, watching HBO, and sex) and decided to use Valentine’s Day as a test for him to prove he cared about me on a level beyond buying me beer and letting me keep stuff at his place.

My not-so-subtle hinting that he better do something nice for me for Valentine’s Day (or else) actually worked. He put down the cable remote control, did laundry, pulled himself together and made reservations at the nicest restaurant we’d ever been to. We actually connected over the meal. The night from start to finish went great. You’d think some sort of victory dance and ‘happily ever after’ scrawled across us in cursive would have ensued, but no. Us connecting and spending the holiday together sacred this guy shitless. It was too much, too fast. He disappeared, I stalked him, we exchanged stuff, and never spoke again.

Thanks, V Day.

Granted, we wanted different things from one another. Granted, I was being an immature crazy manipulator. Granted, he sucked. But our enjoyable, stress-free arrangement could have continued for many more months undisturbed had Valentine’s Day not forced us into defining exactly what we meant to each other – a stage, come to find out, neither of us was ready for.

Maybe I should look at V Day as my friend. Something that helps you define, dump, and move out of the dysfunctional realm onto something bigger and better, but the commercialism, pinkness, teddy bears and Duane Reade mega assortment of Sweet Tarts and cheap candy makes it impossible for me to do that.

My advice to any men in the grey area who aren’t sure what to do is to send flowers. I don’t think flowers force anyone to define anything, and flowers have NEVER made a romantic situation worse. They’re the one gift that can’t hurt, they can only help. Hell, if I had this powerful a placation tool I could send to the guys I’m dating, I’d have it in my calendar on autopilot.

Thursday’s D Day. So who has plans?

What happened to the idea of ‘girls only?’

In my life, it died somewhere after single sex summer camp. And as a hormonal teenager, ‘only girls’ is deemed brutal, bitchy and boring. In NYC, it seems women are constantly pitted against one another. We’re competing for jobs, men, attention and that last pair of size seven shoes. I’ve had fellow women in a huff try to take me out with their handbag or casually toss my jacket on the floor. When was the last time a girl was friendly to a fellow New York female at a bar? Or even engaged one another in conversation?

One of the more perverted aspects of the Manhattan clubbing circuit (and yes, there are many) is how women inevitably end up looking like accessories to men power-tripping on bottles of Grey Goose. And this isn’t just about who’s forking over the cash. Even if women were buying the liquor, if a man’s present, we automatically see it in the paradigm of ‘his table’ and ‘his harem.’

This women as ‘going-out ornaments’ mentality isn’t only degrading (yes, most of have jobs, pay our rent, and have to wake up in the morning) but fuels competition among women to be the shiniest piece of tinsel in the bunch.

Hence my overwhelming joy and approval when the woman who organized our dinner informed me that she was scheming to get successful New York women playing on the same team. Not only is she entrepreneurially launching her own nightclub in Nolita, she’s creating a social networking site for girls only. In her words:

Femme Fatale is New York’s premiere networking club exclusively for women. A femme fatal exemplifies the New York sophisticate. Our members are hand chosen because they’re the most striking, intelligent, adventurous, fun-loving spirits the city has to offer. Our goal is to indulge the ultimate lifestyle and expose cultured and accomplished women to a network of equally savvy women, while spoiling them with the extravagances provided by our luxury brand sponsors. Our mission is to inspire women to continually seek success, be independent, and provide each other with support and opportunities. There are many exclusive men’s clubs out there, and it’s about time women enjoyed the same distinct opportunity to expand their professional and social horizons.

The day women start organizing their own social activities paid for by brand spronsors will be a tragic one for the sleazy New York club promoter who feeds off women and clueless baby models to pay his rent. Watch out! Cause it looks like the system’s going to change.

The launch party takes place at Lollipop this Saturday. And make sure to bookmark the website which is coming soon, femmefatalny.com Men, don’t bother

Question: Do you think I wear stiletto boots over my jeans and a sexy lace underwear when going about my normal daily activities like grocery shopping, trekking through the city’s sleet storm, and sprinting between appointments?

Do you think I’m magically manicured and waxed all the time because I’m addicted to pain and have an emotional connection with my non-English speaking manicurist from Taiwan?

No. No, you probably do not. Because hopefully if I’m attempting to date you you’re not THAT stupid.

Why then, do men seem to think its okay to plan dates giving me two hours or even twenty minutes notice?

This is unacceptable.

Example: Saturday I received a phone call from a gentleman I’d actually like to see. The man had a plan – big dinner with mutual friends, party afterward.

Fabulous, right?

WRONG.

Because he called me at 6:30 P.M. the night of. Let me clarify that I’m a chick who’s totally open to last minute things. I hate ‘reservations’ of any kind. Especially, for brunch. I’m easygoing about where we go and I usually even offer to pay. When last minute things work out, I love it. The problem is that last minute in New York usually works out two times out of ten. If seeing each other is a priority, there needs to be a plan.

Weather factors in too. This isn’t easygoing summer anymore where you can slip on flip flops and be out the door showcasing your beautiful tan and walk to meet up with friends with ten minutes notice. Sadly, those days have passed. We’re in anal-retentive winter now. Right now, we’re in what I call the winter crunch. This period between Thanksgiving and Christmas is a whacked-out work-fest for most of us. Stress is high. Temperatures are low. Time is more precious than ever. It’s dark at freakin’ five o’clock.

So when you call me out of the blue to make dinner plans at six thirty PM on a Saturday night in December, it’s a struggle for me to just appreciate the gesture. New York isn’t the real world. I tend to plan with even my closest friends three days out. We’re all just that busy.

Doesn’t my date understand that?

He’s busy too!

And this is when I start to get suspicious. Was I number three on a list of “possible dates” he already called? Is he expecting me to be that pushover girl who’s always available at a moments notice? A girl who rushes to get ready, nicks herself shaving in the shower and shows up panting but pretending she didn’t just do the beauty equivalent of the 100-yard dash.

IS THAT WHAT HE THINKS I AM!?!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!

Men, take note: Even the simple, thoughtful task of asking a women out to dinner with you and your friends has the ability to enrage her.

Since I have a life, and by six thirty in the evening already had plans for Saturday night, we didn’t end up seeing each other. Granted, I was disappointed. But I can’t rearrange my life last second for someone who doesn’t have the common courtesy to call me at 3:30 PM instead of 6:30 PM. With the advanced notice of a 3:30 call this story might have had a happy ending. I’m sure a spectacular evening would’ve ensued.

Instead, I remain dateless, bitter, and wondering what number I was on my gentleman’s potential “push over date list.”

Get with the program guys. Women will thank you…and you’ll thank yourself when you see the hot undergarments we’ve had time to specially prepare and change into.

It’s a win-win situation.

I used to love the whole afterglow that followed great sex and that sheer bliss of reveling in the yumminess of the person lying next to me as our bodies lay there sweaty and deliciously spent. Now the moment the sex is over—no matter how great the guy is—I just wanna bolt! I’m the one who turns and says “well that was great, but I have an early day tomorrow so you better go” or the one who slinks out the moment he’s in a deep sleep with nothing more than a peck on the cheek and a quick “I’ll call you” even though I probably won’t. This is not to say at all that I am some major player who is getting a ton of action or anything; my good set of European-made morals stops me from having too much casual sex, but being with my most recent beau has just made me acutely aware of my ‘manliness‘! Do I blame a lack of worthy men or my own deep-seeded commitment phobia that I still deny more often than not?

I recall an early episode of Sex and the City where Carrie decides that she is going to try to “have sex like a man”. It worries me that I am not even trying and yet, somehow, I seem incapable of anything more these days. If I’m not mistaken though; this same episode ended with Carrie meeting Big for the first time as she left the apartment of her conquest. I guess there may be hope for me yet… or atleast a really sexy, commitment phobic male version of myself.

In the heat of the moment and considering that we’ve had several; I actually toyed with the idea of some bareback fun. Luckily he took the high road for a change and reminded me why that was a bad idea, stating ‘unwanted pregnancy’ as the worst case scenario when really the worst case would involve some nasty funk—only he knows what is likely lurking beneath the surface of his foreskin and whatever that may be; I certainly don’t want it!

Now that I am done ranting I guess I’m glad that it happened because it’s made me remember the importance of condoms no matter how long you’ve been involved with someone because sadly, you really just never know what they could be hiding from you. My momentary lapse in judgement could have left me a number of horrific little diseases! This of course got the wheels turning on the whole issue of safe sex and what a drag it may seem when you are in the throws of passion and not even with that person inside of you do they feel close enough, so I am on the quest to find the best condom(s) possible. My search led me to a place called Condom Jungle. I can’t help it; the name got me with its visions of some crazy-ass monkey-lovin’ and all. I never actually thought to order condoms online which is odd since I still get pink-faced at the thought of buying them after an incident I in Europe a few years back that left me traumatized! Let’s just say that the grocery store had microphones at each checkout station in case the cashier needed a price check. Naturally the “Playboy brand, super-ribbed condoms” weren’t priced properly… Nuff’ said.

Anyway, this site carries an endless amount of condom brands, styles, flavors, so how’s a girl to choose?? I have to be honest; I have only ever once actually bought a box of condoms since that faithful European vacation and they are my back up in case the guy doesn’t come prepared, though technically my motto is: if the guy doesn’t come prepared, then he doesn’t deserve to come at all.

Anyway, the site has so much variety that I actually feel inept as an alleged modern/sex-positive woman and so-called sex writer! Did you know that they have ‘warming condoms’?! Is this a new thing?? And lambskin condoms? Wtf?? I also found out that they really do come in larger sizes for those of us lucky to have a guy who is hung like a mule, though past experience tells me that most men who believe they need an extra large condom can usually barely fill the regular size no-name variety found in truck stop or strip joint restrooms. (Yes J, that one’s for you!)

Anyway, what normally has ended up happening is that I never really get to see the brand that is being used due to the hazy and often euphoric state that good sex leaves one in, so I really don’t know much about brands except what they say on the box though, I doubt that they all “double your pleasure” or “feel like they’re barely there”. So what I would like is some suggestions from my readers who are more condom savvy than I to email (Adrie@girlspoke.com) or leave a comment telling me what brand you swear by and why. I may even make it worth your while with a sexy giveaway to a random commenter–likely a cool sex toy)

Consider this my safe sex public service announcement as well as advice on where to order cheap condoms. In return I ask for your help on finding the best and thinnest condom ever, cuz as we know; nothing kills the mood more than a thick condom that seems to pull at your skin with each thrust! Fucken ouch!!!

Before I go into my X-Mas spiel about peace, love and all that shit, let’s get on with today’s business: boys—I mean of the 30 and up variety. It still boggles my mind that men feel that they need to lie in order to get laid. How many times do I have to go over this?? Grow up! Being honest will not only get you a lot more sex, but also sex of a far better quality if you would just fucken fess up and tell the truth already—no matter what it’s about! The effort that one needs to put into lying must be exhausting; coming up with your story, keeping said story straight, remembering all of the different lies that you have told and the fear of them all unraveling before your beady, deep-set eyes! And the fear of the wrath that will inevitably follow when the woman figures out that she is being lied to—just not worth it!

It confuses me even more when a man lies to a woman that he has an NSA relationship with. Is this because he’s just bangin’ her anyway so she doesn’t deserve the truth? Cuz’ if that’s the case; he should just shut the hell up, give ‘er and be on his merry way as opposed to opening his mouth and attempting to make conversation when all he is spewing out is a bunch of hooey anyway, not to mention taking away from the excitement of the “strictly sex” agreement! Am I right? Seriously, if a girl has entered into a hot, consensual casual sex agreement, why lie?What’s the point in going through the effort of making things up?

I guess this year I should really consider my New Years resolutions carefully, seeing as how I keep falling into the same trap with this sexy but insincere little creature. First on my list: NO more men with small, dark, deep-set eyes! They manage to piss me off every time. And totally unrelated: cut down on the caffeine intake (as I sit here enjoying some chocolate covered espresso beans and wash them down with a hot and super-delish coffee).

Anyhow, am off to wrap presents, catch up on some writing before my weekend full of flying, drink hot cocoa by a fake fire and just be overall Christmassy—fa-la-la-la-fucking-la. And before I go; click here for my present to you.

Will likely not have a chance to write until after the New Year, so to my lovely readers; I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a New Year where all of your wishes come true.

Kisses & Spanks,
Adrie

Though I have been pretty wiped out by class and some other paying writing gigs, I have managed to gather up some juicy Girlspoke-worthy stuff for you thanks to the male characters that frequent my life—even if only for 15 minutes or simply online. So let’s get right to my bitch-fest!

Facebook is finally serving some purpose as a tool to re-connect with people from my past. It’s has been incredible how many guys from my past have been in touch and how sweet they all seem to still be. I’ve been in contact with the boy with whom I shared my first kiss in elementary school. He was lovely and I remember his smile as if it were yesterday, which could be because he still has the same sweet smile. He was the cutest and most popular boy in school who made me want to wake up a whole 15 minutes early each day to make sure that my hair was just so. Still a sweetheart; he admitted to having had the same crazy feelings for me back then. Sadly our “romance” only lasted a couple of weeks—my fault—but the memories have proven priceless just the same.

I have also been in touch with a boy who sported a mullet back when they were cool. He was someone that I became friends with somewhere along the course of junior high. He was not only cute, but a genuinely good guy and oh so much fun to talk to. I can admit now that I had a crush on him, but alas, so did one of my classmates who I think may even have “gone with him” at one point. I couldn’t step on her toes like that. Damn these morals! I am pleased to report that he is divorced (bad for him, great for the female population) and looking hotter than ever!

Wondering where the dirt is? Getting tempted to send me to Oprah and tell me to fuck off? No need. Here comes the dirt…

I have also rekindled my acquaintance with someone I had a crush on for quite sometime. I remember first being drawn to his big blue eyes because they looked so sweet and had an endearing puppy dog quality to them. We had started chatting at work and I quickly came to realize that he had a naughty streak—jackpot!!! Outside factors got in the way and we never did get anywhere, but every time I would pass him in the halls over the next few years, things would get all warm and damp and the urge to know what dirty little secret lurked behind those eyes never quite seemed to go away. As you can imagine, I was tickled-in-my-pink to find him on Facebook and even more aroused to get an email from him expressing his feelings from way back when. We began doing the instant messaging thing and things quickly turned naughty with all-nighters online and having the type of cyber sex that would put the likes of Seymour Butts to shame. We all know that I love a man who can give good chat so I was pretty excited about hooking up in person. I can tell you that it never did happen… a long story… one that I am still waiting to hear. But, don’t feel bad for me my readers, oh no, cuz’ I realize now that hooking up would likely have ended in embarrassment—for him. You see, I did finally get to the bottom of the veiled naughtiness behind his eyes and he really is a highly erotic individual—possibly a little too sexually evolved even for a saucy minx like myself! How is that possible you ask? The answer is simple; two words: bodily fluids.

I get the whole spooge thing and as much as the idea makes me throw up in my mouth a little, I do understand that men have a special attachment to their spunk and enjoy watching a gal take it in as if it were the wine at the last supper. It’s the other bodily fluid that he gets off on has no place in his mouth or anyone else’s and most certainly not mine! OK wait, that was a little judgmental and I do believe that to each is own, but the idea of kissing someone who has enjoyed the occasional cup o’ pee, as I do my morning java, makes me wanna hurl!! I am open-minded. I am cool. I am pretty horny these days, but a pee-er or pee-on I am not. I’m sorry. Had he stepped up to the plate and actually had the spine to go through with a “live” date, the chances are good that our end-of-the-night kiss would have had me gagging profusely.

Bottoms up! Oops – I meant have a good weekend.

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….