ETA, SPD, ODOT

     First off, I think it’s kind of rude for people to use abbreviations. I mean, they know what it means, but does anybody else? I think they say to themselves, “Hmmm, I’ll sound cool if I use this abbreviation, and if anyone else doesn’t know it, I’ll get a good laugh when they try to guess what it means.” I think I’ve given several people a good laugh.

     One night, the unit secretary from ER called up and said they were calling Life Flight. I couldn’t exactly understand what she had said until she made helicopter noises. Anyway, I was supposed to call the police department because they come out and make sure the landing pad is cleared of pedestrians. So, I dutifully called the police and told them that Life Flight was on their way.

    “What’s their ETA?” the guy on the other end asked.

     “Their what?”

     “Their ETA.”

     I decided to assume that meant he wanted to know what he was supposed to do. I figured he should already know that, but I would try to help him out anyway.

     “I think you guys come and keep the landing cleared off,” I said.

    “Estimated Time of Arrival,” he clarified, probably thinking that I was a complete nut.

     “Uhh, right. I don’t know that, let me transfer you back to ER.” I was probably blushing over the phone because I do that often.

 

     Just yesterday, a guy called and wanted Sterile Processing. Okay, what in the world is that, and why would anyone want to talk to a department called that? Whatever. The point is, he wanted to talk to Sterile Processing and I had no idea what to do. Besides that, the phone had already rung back because another girl had already tried an extension for him and it didn’t work. Ahhh!

     “Is there another name for that department because we don’t have one called by that name,” I said, not realizing that we really did.

     “SPD,” he said giving me the abbreviations. Here we go again…

     “STD?” I asked, repeating what I heard. The girls next to me started to giggle.

     “No, SPD,” he said, and I quickly hit “transfer” to get rid of his annoying voice and to keep from embarrassing myself further.

     I was blushing again, which is no surprise, and I finally got rid of him by paging Sterile Processing overhead.

     The other girls in the office said they were glad for a laugh, so at least I made somebody’s day a little brighter although I embarrassed myself AGAIN.

 

     In conclusion, I would just like to see if anybody out there knows what ODOT stands for without Googling it. I recently learned that one too…

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother Dear

     It’s been proven that I’ve embarrassed myself plenty of times. I guess that just goes to reason because I’m blonde (at heart). A whole new dimension is added, however, when other people embarrass me. My mother is one of those people.

     Pop, Mom, and I stopped at a rest stop on my way to take my cosmetology boards in Grand Rapids, and I walked into the restroom first. I got into my stall and I heard someone else rustling about. It’s always good to be careful what you say in restrooms before you know who is there listening. At least that’s what I think.

     Mom walked in and said rather loudly, “Evangeline, do you need any hand sanitizer to wipe off the toilet seat?”

     I inwardly groaned. The unknown person just found out we were a family of fruitcakes. Cover blown.

    “No,” I muttered, trying to not make the situation any worse. Mom helped out with that.

     “Well, our society is so promiscuous that I don’t trust any toilet seat,” she said with conviction.

     That was it. I was definitely not coming out of my stall until the other person was gone. They couldn’t see me. They couldn’t know I existed.

     So I waited. I made sure they were gone, and then I came out and washed my hands. Mom came out as I was drying them.

     “Mom, there was another person in here!” I exclaimed, thinking she would feel as sheepish and embarrassed as I had.

     Mom shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s true.”

     So much for scolding her. (Somehow that doesn't seem to work on parents.) We talked a little longer about the rather comical situation, and then Mom left.

     As I was finishing drying my hands, I heard rustling. Someone else had been in the bathroom the entire time listening to the whole thing, unknown to my mom or myself!

     I left as quickly as possible, trying to gather any shreds of dignity that remained. (There probably weren’t enough shreds to make a decent pot holder.)

     The moral of the story is try to stay away from public restrooms at all costs, and do NOT take your mother unless you really do want to use hand sanitizer on your toilet seat.

     Love you, Mom!

 

 

    

 

 

 

Words from Above

This summer, my family and I were vacationing at a lake in Michigan called Long Lake. It was fun for all of us except my mom who doesn’t like lakes, but that’s another story.

     One sunny afternoon, I was diligently working on my tan (its harder work than you think) and reading my Bible on a lawn chair. After awhile my dad and brothers came out, and were headed to the boat for a ride. Being the very spiritual, godly person that I am, I left my Bible reading and jumped in the boat with them. (I promise I finished it later.)

     As we drifted away from the dock, the wind started blowing the pages of my Bible and Pete took note of it.

     “You’re gonna lose your place, Vange.”

     “It’s God’s way of showing me a verse He wants me to read,” I joked. “It’s special revelation.”

     Sometimes people open up their Bibles randomly and whatever verse they see first, they think that that is the verse God has for them. Sometimes it is, but as a general rule, that’s not the best way to hear from God. I have to admit that sometimes I do that, but let’s pretend I don’t. Anyways…

     I forgot about it, but when I got back, I looked at my Bible and began to read to Pete the first verse that I saw.

     “And this shall be a sign unto you, saith the Lord, that I will punish you in this place, that ye may know that my words shall surely stand against you for evil” (Jer. 44:29).

     Pete hooted with laughter. “Only you, Vange.”

     Thankfully, the Lord doesn’t always speak directly to us through randomly selected Bible verses or I may not have made it back from the lake that afternoon.

Have You Ever...

     Have you ever tried to pull up window blinds and have them come crashing down on you with the wood work as well?  

     Have you run into a door?

     Have you watched Legally Blonde and related to at least most of it?  (“Eeee! Road trip!”)

     Have you tried to secretly eat a caramel apple sucker at school by pulling off the stick and having the whole sucker stuck to the roof of your mouth?

     Have you had a client who wanted you to save discarded hair so they could use it to plant trees?

     Have you ordered Mulan from the library only to find it’s in Chinese?

     Have you hidden in your suitcase and jumped out to scare your friend’s boyfriend?

     Have you ever thought that tiki torch fluid was apple juice?  

 

     If so, you have lived a fun, fulfilled life. (At least, that's my take on it.) ;)

 

    

¿Mi Tio?

     At one point in my long life of 25 years (you can tell I just had a birthday because I’m feeling old), I spent eleven weeks in Mexico doing mission work.  I thought after having studied the Rosetta Stone program and having taken Spanish lessons from a teacher, that I would pick up on Spanish quite quickly. Not so.

     The little Mexican kids would babble on to me about something, and I would be like, “Your grandma ate a brick and then rented a llama? What?”

     Ok, it wasn’t exactly like that, but I could catch a few nouns here and there, and body language and hand motions were my friends.

     One fine evening, I went with the missionary family and Joanne (another single girl) to a birthday party of a young lady from the church. They did the usual tradition of smashing her face in her birthday cake as she tried to take a bite with no hands. That was exciting, and I still had yet to embarrass myself. It was a good night.

     Later on, Joanne and I were in a group of young people and the birthday girl introduced me to a young man.

     She said, “Es mi tio.”

     I figured Mi Tio was his name, so I said, “Mi Tio?” To make sure I pronounced it right.

     At that, everyone burst out laughing and the birthday girl was saying, “No, es MI tio. MI tio.”

     Finally, Joanne had calmed down enough to tell me that “tio” meant “uncle”.

     So, she had said, “This is my uncle.”

     I had said, “My uncle?”

     “No, MY uncle. MY uncle.”

     Of course I turned red, the uncle was amused, and every time I saw the birthday girl after that, she would give me a sly grin, and say, “Mi tio.”

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Proposal

I’ve had several requests for my proposal story, so here it is. J

    My proposal happened one night when I was working at the hospital. (Of course, the hospital is a highly romantic atmosphere.) Anyway, I needed to go into a patient’s room to have him sign paperwork, and a nurse and unit secretary warned me to duck because he might take a swing at me.

     “You better just not go in there,” the nurse finally decided after seeing my horrified expression. (I actually wasn’t horrified, it just sounds better to put that in there.)

     I went back to the business office and tried to get a family member of the patient to give consent over the phone, but they refused to do it. Arrrgh. Now, I really had to go in there. Well, if I died I would go to heaven, so the worst thing wasn’t really that bad. Heaven was gonna be great.

     I tried to get in the room several times, but nurses were always in there, and I didn’t want to disrupt seeing as how it was a rather delicate situation.

     Finally, I got in there, and asked my questions while trying to be as nice and nonthreatening as possible. I didn’t have to work too hard at that one because a 5’1” blonde woman who smiles a lot doesn’t tend to look that threatening anyway.

     I got back to my desk and realized that I forgot to have the patient sign the last paper. It’s nothing unusual for me to go back to the same patient a couple of times because I forget stuff, but I didn’t really want to see this particular patient again.

    I literally dragged my feet all the way back to his room. In fact, one of the nurses asked, “Why are you dragging your feet like that?” Just kidding! I only figuratively dragged my feet and no one said anything.

    Anyways, I don’t remember if it was before or after I tried to get a verbal signature (the events of that night are still hazy in my mind), but the patient turned to me and asked, “Will you marry me?”

     He’s not what I would have considered marriage material, but I couldn’t exactly tell him that because I didn’t want to upset him. I mean, a refusal to a question like that was no small matter, and this patient was liable to do anything.

     I smiled nicely. “Not today,” I said.

     “Tomorrow then?”

     This guy wouldn’t quit!

     If I said, “Not tomorrow,” we could keep going on like that and never stop, so I sort of laughed it off and made a hasty exit, leaving my heartsick suitor behind me.

     The moral of the story is never forget to have a patient sign a paper, and always remember that someone will marry you no matter how rotten you think you are. J

                                                                                The End

 

We Have a Newborn

    

     As I’ve mentioned before, I work in admissions at our local hospital, and for some reason, blonde moments abound there.

     When I was training, the unit secretary from OB (obstetrics) called down and said. “We have a newborn.” (Or something to that affect.)

     Not knowing that I was supposed to take down the information to register the new baby, I figured congratulations were in order.

     “Great!”  I said.

     She and the nurses probably laughed about that one for a week.

 

     OB must wonder sometimes about the ditsy girl in the business office because I’ve had more than just one blonde moment with that department. This time, I was not in training, but the extension that called down threw me off because I didn’t recognize it at first. I thought it was ICU.

     “We had a delivery,” the woman on the other end began.

     I immediately thought of the emails we had been receiving about what to do when instruments were delivered to the hospital. I was pretty sure we were supposed to call somebody.

     “I had a note here,” the woman continued, “That the time was 13:43, but it’s supposed to be 13:46. I just wondered if you could check that and make sure the registration is correct.”

     Now, I was thoroughly confused. “What kind of delivery?” I asked.

     “A newborn.”

      Right.

More on Gas Stations and Sweet Char

     Sweet Char (my car) is a very nice little car, but she is getting up there in years, so that always comes with health problems. Some of them I inflict on her, such as when I hit two deer and got a rock in her windshield on three consecutive school days. (I'm not unlucky at all, just zoned out when I drive.) And some of her health problems are inherent, such as a leaky tire.

     Pop was very concerned about said leaky tire, and he kept after me to check it. As usual, I forgot until Sweet Char and I were happily cruising down the road headed home from school. I suddenly remembered, and then, of course, Sweet Char started feeling weird and visions of blown out tires and me skidding all over the road came to my mind.
    
     I needed gas anyway, so I pulled in to the nearest gas station and began to fill up. I grabbed my tiny little pressure gauge and tried to take the tire pressure but it kept falling apart. After putting in the spring for the twentieth time, I noticed that there was a guy next to me that looked big and tough and had tattoos. In my mind, a guy like that would definitely have a pressure gauge, so I asked him.

     "Do you have a...a...tire gauge thingy, or whatever they're called?" I asked looking and sounding very confident.

     "I don't know, let me look," he said, probably feeling sorry for such a helpless female. Not that I was, of course, but he probably thought I was.

     "Here, I found one," he said at last. He handed me a really spiffy looking tire gauge.

     My first test read 20, then 32, and then 32. I figured the average of those scores were pretty good, so I handed it back to him and went on my merry way.

     When I got home, I proudly told Pop that I had checked my left front tire.

     "That's great," he said, "But it probably would have helped to check the front right tire, since that's the leaky one."

     Whatever. He's so hard to please.

    Can I just preface this next story with the fact that blond people sometimes have difficulty distinguishing right and left? It's not that we don't try, it's just that it's not always second nature to automatically know, just then, which is right and which is left. We just have to think about it for a split second longer, and that's probably because our minds are so busy elsewhere, it's hard to fit such a trivial thing in.

     I mentioned hitting two deer earlier in my post. Well, the second deer really did a number to my left headlight. On the way home, it was only hanging on by the wires and kept falling out when I tried to put it back in. I decided I would duck tape it when I got home and look like a hillbilly for awhile, but that's not really relevant to the story.

     Anyway, I called home and left a message about what had happened. When I got home, Pop was laughing and played my message.

     In it, I said, "My front right left headlight it falling out."

     Hey, at least I didn't say, "My front, right left tailight it falling out", right?
    
    

Let's Buy Stamps

     You know you’re really blond when you don’t get blond jokes. 

     I was at a friend’s house when she started telling me how her blond sister thought it would be smart to buy a bunch of stamps before the price went up. My friend was laughing about how absurd that was, but I didn’t get it. It made sense to me.

"Wish my Name was in a Movie"

      I have a friend named John, who is a very sweet guy. He happens to have a lot of blond moments even though he constantly teases me for mine. The one that stands out in my mind was over the topic of movies.

     No one, I repeat, no one has the name Evangeline. Ok, so there are a few, but we are such a rare and treasured species that we’re exceptionally hard to find and we hardly ever meet each other. It was nothing short of a miracle that there was an Evangeline in Disney’s Frog and the Princess. (Even though they pronounced it wrong.) I loved the movie and since it had my name in it, John and his awesome brother Ian, bought it for me.

“It’s so cool to have my name in a movie,” I gushed happily.

“Yeah, I wish my name was in a movie,” he replied.

Really, John?

Is That How You Spell Your Name?

     I work in admissions at my local hospital, and unfortunately, the blond monster rears its ugly head there, too. Sometimes it’s just downright aggravating. Here I am, trying to look like a competent professional, and then I do something stupid and the patient begins to wonder if maybe they should have gone someplace else for healthcare. I mean does everyone at the hospital eat suckers while they work and try to hide them in a cubby hole when a patient appears? How are they to know that I’m the only one that does that? I mean, come on, it’s a logical concern.

     I could also become the only person in the world fired for doing cartwheels at work. If anyone ever brings up my occasional cartwheel  in the lobby as a concern, I will point out that I make sure no one is around, particularly patients, when I perform my gymnastic feat. The only ones privileged to see my sacred ritual are my coworkers on second shift. And may I point out that they enjoy it very much.

     Older people can be very crotchety and make you feel like a fool or be very sweet and make you feel like you could do everything wrong and they would be fine with it. Thankfully, I had the latter one weekend when I was competently filling out a payment form for a nice, old lady. I kept trying to look up her name in the computer, but Dorthy Drive just wasn’t popping up.

     “Is that how you spell your name, Dorthy?” I asked, slightly smug that even if the biller had spelled it incorrectly, that I would have the skill to still find her in the system.

     I looked at the bill harder and realized that Dorthy Drive was her address. Just for the record, that COULD have been a name. In fact, I might name one of my kids that someday…

Why I Don't Like Gas Stations

     Gas stations and I have had a long, eventful history. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was eighteen, which is probably a blessing to the whole world, and I really didn’t start pumping gas until a few years later because I drove my parents’ cars, and my brother and I kept track of the miles and paid my parents in cash. My dad would usually pump, but once in a great while, I had to face the harsh reality that the car or truck would run out of gas before I reached my destination, and I would be forced to fill it up. I hated filling up. There were several good reasons for this.

     One reason was because I couldn’t get the truck’s gas cap off. I usually could eventually, but one time, I pulled up to the pump at the gas station, got out and tried and tried to get the cap off. It frustrated me so badly, that I finally gave up, got back in and drove away. If you can’t do it, give up. That’s a pretty good motto and I stick to it.

Another time, I was at the gas station battling the gas cap as usual. You know that point where you turn it to the right and it doesn’t budge and then your turn it to the left and it doesn’t budge that way, so you decide the thing must not be designed to open? Well, I was reaching that point, when I heard a voice over the loud speaker at my pump.

     “You want some help with that, sweetie?”

    “Sure,” I admitted, turning red but relieved that I actually wouldn’t have to drive away with an empty tank this time.

     The clerk came out and got the cap off with a flick of her wrist.

     “Thanks,” I said sheepishly.

     “No problem, honey.”

      When you’re blond, you learn to be humble and grateful.

     I now own my own car and her name is Sweet Char. She’s very sweet and when she’s healthy, she’s very nice. The first thing I asked when I bought her was how well the gas cap came off. Not. It was only the second thing.

     Another reason I don’t like pumping gas, other than the obvious reason that you have to empty your entire week’s wages into the tank, is the fact that there are multiple ways to pay. Some, you have to prepay before the pump will give any gas, others will let you swipe your card, and others will let you pump and then pay inside. It’s always a guessing game to decide which method the particular gas station and pump uses. It’s usually a good idea to read what is on the pump. Sometimes I skip that little detail and try to figure it out the hard way.

     There’s a gas station I visit frequently on my way to school that generally has the best prices, but you have to pay inside, which is really annoying. Anyway, I figured I had the whole method thing down since I’d been there multiple times, so I went in to prepay. I hate prepaying because I like to top off my tank and I can never guess how much that would cost. I was standing there, trying to decide how much money to put down, and the lady said, “Oh, you can just pay after you’ve pumped.” Aargh! Why didn’t I remember that from the last five times I had been there?

     Now that I’m older and much more experienced at pumping gas, I don’t have any more blond moments at the gas station. I mean, it’s not like I pulled up to a diesel pump a few weeks ago or anything like that…

The Day I Almost Hitch-Hiked

     Before I begin my hitch-hiking story, I’ll just say that everyone who gave me feedback on whether to use blond or blonde, thought I should leave it how it is. Therefore, you will not notice any spelling changes in the pre-existing posts, title, etc. J

     We have friends that live about six to eight miles away and I sometimes ride my bike over there to go swimming in their pond. It’s great exercise. A few days ago, I decided to bike there, meet my mom who was already there visiting, and go swimming with her.

     It was all fine until I got to the train tracks. A train was slowing down and didn’t look like it would clear the crossing before it stopped completely. I started to walk my bike down the way to go behind the train, when it finally stopped. Hurrying back, I made the decision to climb over the hitch of two of the cars.

     The hitch was higher than my waist, so it wasn’t easy trying to lift my bike over. The train started to creak and groan and being a little apprehensive that it might start up again, I threw my bike over and climbed over myself. On the other side was a truck with a trailer full of hay bails behind it. The person driving probably thought he was seeing things when a bike, then a girl flew over the hitch of the two cars. Anyway, I picked up my bike and realized that something was terribly wrong.

     Instead of being horizontal, the handlebars were diagonal. Undaunted, I hopped on and tried to steer using that cockeyed position. That would have been ok, but I quickly found out that my pedaling did no good since the chain was off. I nearly fell, but managed to steer clear of the truck with the hay bales, and as I went past, the old farmer inside waved amiably to me as if seeing someone throw their bike over a train hitch and then try to steer their mangled bike was an everyday occurrence. I decided not to ask him for help.

     I ended up walking my bike down the country road, trying to decide what to do. It was nearly 100 degrees in the sun as we have been going through a hot spell, and my mind jumped to all sorts of conclusions about horrible sunburns and heat stroke as I was probably a good two or three miles away from my destination. I had no cell phone or water and my flip flops kept sticking to the hot tar on the road which was really annoying.

     After awhile, I decided that I should get a start on my bucket list by hitch-hiking. I started to practice using my best hopeful, helpless expression while sticking out my thumb. A few cars went by, but I just couldn’t do it. I mean, what if the person who picked me up was just waiting for someone to murder? You have to think about these things.

     “I’ll make sure it’s a girl,” I told myself. Usually, girls don’t murder people.

     Sometimes it was hard to tell what the person looked like until they were just passing me and by then, it was too late.

     “I’ll make sure it’s a girl in a truck or SUV,” I further clarified to make sure my bike would be picked up, too. Beside, girls in trucks or SUVs are less likely to murder someone than girls in cars. I’m sure that’s statistic somewhere.

     I just didn’t have enough guts to do it, so I walked almost the whole way, until my mom came looking for me in the car, taking away my last chance to truly hitch-hike. I can’t say I really minded.

Blond or Blonde?

     My blog had not even been up and running for 24 hours until my spelling was brought into question.  Somehow, this did not surprise me. I have to admit, it was about a word that I briefly questioned in my own mind, but dismissed with little thought. The word is blond…or blonde. Of course, it had to be in the title of my blog, and my blog address, and every post I write. Oh, and in my profile. Anyway…

     I decided to look up the answer on the best authority on the subject—Wikipedia. (It’s where I pretty much get all my information.) After wading through the mumbo jumbo of English and French etymology, I discovered that the blond or blonde question is fairly simple. Blond is for men and blonde is for women.

    Wikipedia has some ideas as to why the spelling is different for each gender, but I have my own assumptions, which you can take or leave as you will.  

Reason number one:

Men are by nature blunt, to the point, and rather simple compared to women. That is why their spelling of "blond" is short and useful with no frills. Women enjoy beauty, words, and extras. We appreciate the spelling of "blonde" more than men would.

Reason number two:

I’m not positive, but I think some woman just wanted to add a little something to the spelling and decided on an “e” because it made the word look so much prettier. I’m pretty sure she lived in the 1800s, but I don’t remember the date. I do know she had blonde hair, though.  

Reason number three:

I’d rather not say because it makes me look bad.

     Apparently, the person who pointed out my spelling error wants me to leave it in. I don’t really get it, but I want to know what my readers think. That is, if I have any.

     If I get more votes for changing it, I will. If I get more votes for leaving it as it is, I will. And, if no one votes, I’ll make the decision myself! The end.

So, You Kayak?

I have other talents than being blond, believe it or not. Sometimes I’m klutzy and sometimes I just have embarrassing moments. I know what you’re thinking right now. “Wow! All of that in one person?! I’m so jealous. She must have so much fun.” I do, actually.

One day, I was returning a kayak to the store where I rented it. (The whole kayak story is very long, but it includes backing into a raccoon-ridden garage, stinging nettles, walking along the road like a homeless person, and snakes. ) The kayak story may be for another time,  but I don’t have the time or room for it now. I was returning my kayak, affectionately dubbed Sweet Pickles, and I had to take in the life vests and the paddle.

I admit that I felt pretty cool carrying these items as it made me look like I was an experienced outdoors woman, aside from the office clothes, of course. I was feeling fairly confident as nice-looking young man opened the shop door for me. Well, instead of holding the paddle vertically, I held it horizontally, and the one end hit the door frame, blocking me like a fence, and the other went up and nearly smacked the young man in the face. Thankfully, he dodged it, but he wasn’t amused. So much for my suave entrance.

I Haven't Seen That One

     Vincent is the only male student at school, but he takes it in stride and is pretty cool with all the estrogen overload around him. At first I felt sorry for him, having to be with all us girls, but now…well, I still feel sorry for him.

He and I were discussing music and I said that I would like to hear Broadway music overhead. (I usually have a deep aversion to the music we normally hear. I mean, how stupid can a song really get? Do you honestly want someone to love you like your dog does? Eww!) Anyway, he asked me what kind of musicals I liked.

I said, “Oh you know, Oklahoma!, Music Man, Guys and Dolls, My Fair Lady, and stuff like that.”

“Do you listen to them in your car?” he asked.

I couldn’t quite hear him, so I asked him to repeat himself.

“Do you listen to them in your car” he repeated.

“No, I haven’t seen that one,” I answered.

I honestly think that the root of my problem is hearing. I mean, I am pushing 25, and I think it’s all downhill from there.

Can I have a whopper, please?

Sometimes for lunch break at school, I’ll go through a fast-food drive through to grab a thrifty and healthy lunch. (If you consider a burger, fries, and milkshake healthy, which I do occasionally.)

So one day, I was going through MacDonald’s and began ordering. When I asked for a whopper, there was silence on the other end.

“Uh, we don’t have those here.”

Oops. I probably blushed at the intercom. One thing about me is that I blush whether people are looking at me or not, and yes, I do blush over the phone. It's embarrassing.

When I got back to school and shared my little adventure, Donna said she wanted to go to lunch with me because it sounded fun. She said we should go to Taco Bell and order a pizza. Not a bad idea…

Say that Ten Times Fast!

Due to my mother’s suggestion, I’ve decided to write this blog entitled “The Blond Blog”. Say that ten times fast. If you can’t, you’re blond. Gotcha!

Hi! My name is Evangeline Rupp, and although I technically have brown hair, I am blond at heart. My brother even stated in our 2009 Christmas letter that he’s pretty sure I dye my hair brown to cover up the blond. He’s wrong, of course, but I’m not giving out my stylist’s number just in case anyone gets the brilliant idea to double check.

Sometimes I hate the fact that I say or do dumb things, but this blog is my attempt to embrace my blondness and become famous and/or rich in the process.  We’ll see how that works out…

Fortunately for me, there are lots of other people in this world who have the talent of being blond, and since we need to stick together, I have added some of their moments in with mine. (This makes me look good, and also gives other people the chance to be famous, so it’s clearly a win-win situation.) I hope you all enjoy this glimpse into my flaxen world.