Since a couple months have passed as a result of my..   tardiness, there have been majahh changes in the life of blonde. First off, I moved. Away from my friends. Away from those I’ve been closest to all my life. I now live in a place of many, many trees and far too much nature to ever be deemed appropriate. There are also wild turkeys in my backyard. They scare me.

Though moving to a smaller town of more-friendly people (most of…) my sarcasm hasn’t faultered, but rather gotten significantly more powerful. Yes, I am referring to it as a secret weapon. Because ultimately, it is. It’s lost on so many people, many can’t master it – and those that can, can sometimes take it too far. 

Here’s a sentence sure to garner me loving comments: Small towns house nicer people. In theory. Very sweet, sucralose, splenda-filled people. I would never deny that Toronto’s downtown culture made me bitchier than I probably would have been living here.  Here? Oh no. Different ball game, ladies and gentlemen. Put your kid gloves back on, wipe that smile back on your face, and shower your new found friendships with much admiration, respect and oodles and oodles of cutesy shit.

Fuck, no.

X,

Blonde

Allow me to explain:

After running two blocks in 2 1/2” heels, of which I had to do because the bus was one of those express ones that decides it doesn’t like any street except the one far, drastically out of reach, I find myself the lucky passenger who gets a golden seat near the front of the bus. (Next to this large, and seemingly sick individual who appears to be hacking up her left nut.)

Mid-bus trip, I hear.. let’s call it speaking. It wasn’t actually speaking, it was more the sound of a gerbil getting caught up in a garbage disposal and then left hanging on to a thread of life while on a tightrope. So I turn, towards the sound, and see this woman, fully looking at me having a complete conversation. 

For the sake of the matter, I try to not be frightened of people on the bus. The Incredible Hulk, however, is a different matter. This lovely woman, let’s call her Gigantean, had a tear tattooed on her cheek, directly under her eye. To decorate the remainder of her face was none other than the likely Dollarama brand of make-up, to complement her disproportioned eyes. (To properly picture this, the left was significantly more squinty than the right.)

At this point in time, I’m counting the visible distance to my destination and seriously considering the likelihood of walking. And well, if you know me, you’ll know I stayed on the bus out of principle.. and lazyness. The conversation had taken a very different turn at this point.. I had assumed that because she had been carrying on a conversation by herself while staring at me that it would be decent to put my iPod on and ignore her. After all, if all she needs is an image I was fine with that – but I didn’t feel I was required to listen.

I was wrong. Gigantean quickly became offended, apparently we WERE having a conversation much to my ignorance, and I pissed off the mammoth with the tear tattoo. Probably NOT the best person to piss off.

This is the effect I have on people.

Thankfully after, she lumbered off the bus to her destination.. which turned out to be Seductions Nightclub.) Mmmm.. delicious.

Example: Taurus’ love nature. I am a Taurus. I fucking hate nature. I would rather drive 2 hours out to a hotel than sleep outdoors in the fucking grass.

Example: Taurus’ are slow to anger but rage once they’re there. I am fucking fast to anger, dependant only on who pissed me off and what time of the month it is.

Example: I have met someone with the same, exact fucking same, birthday as me. And I’ll be damned if they were exactly like me… noooooooooooope. Polar opposite, and they also looked like the equivalent of smacking a garden gnome into a shovel.

That ends my rant. For now.

I have never wanted to smack a bitch harder in my life. Let me clarify, I have nothing against platinum blondes. I love them, in fact. But there is a bitchy quality that some platinums have, a “I’m better than you” quality that makes you want to reach over and yank out their dried out over processed hair and shove it… where the sun don’t shine.  Do you know the sort I’m talking about? They’re usually the ones with the orange-caked on faces of foundation. For the sake of all future references, they are now called the oompaloompas.

Oh and note to all fake blondes, touch up your damn roots. If you’re so fucking determined to be a hot-as-fuck blonde, don’t leave the house looking like a dried up sewer rat on crack.

And vice versa, the man you have no desire to know, frolick with or dance while singing kumbahyah in the park – appears the most interested and will do all those super romantic kissy smoochy complimentary bullshit that the other guy.. doesn’t.

I chalk this up to one simple factor… I forever will be attracted to men that are unattainable, and for the reason – Dear man, fuck you.

To me, dressing to fit your personality is crucial. You do not, ever, ever feel like yourself, unless you’re wearing clothes that fit your mood. If you put someone like me in a brightly coloured moo-moo I’d have a shit-fit and rip the thing to shreads. If you put me in a tight black tank with jeans and heels I’d be the happiest blonde you’ll ever meet.

Corporate attire is a tough one – you need to dress for them, while being happy with yourself. In business clothes, no one looks their best. Sure, you can make it look hot, pencil skirts, stiletto heels, tight blouses and blazer jackets.. but it’s really, freaking uncomfortable, and a ton of effort to get into every morning, before or after coffee.

In a male-dominated field, the concept of work attire shifts. I’m not talking corporate; let’s use a more casual non-office related field job – the more skin I show, the less respect I get. That being said, the less skin I show, the less attention I get. The happy medium between my personality/work appropriate and the battle between achieving respect or attention is dependent on what I chose to put on my body that day.

As women, we constantly deal with the battle between being seen in the workplace.

If we want to be seen as respectable, we cover up more and take ourselves more seriously. This warrants the terms ‘aggressive bitch’ and ‘control-freak’ and ultimately makes us seem unattractive.

If we want to earn attention to help succeed, maybe we pop a couple buttons and walk with more of a sway and smile a little more. This, ladies, as we all know, earns us the term of being ‘flirty’, ‘unintelligent office bimbo’.

Can we win? It’s tough. Striking that balance between the two takes a lot of careful shopping and outfit planning – not to mention a great deal of awareness of others around you.

Calling the customer service warrants no answers. In fact, they know as much as you do – that text messaging isn’t working, and they don’t know when it’ll be up and running again. Also, the messages sent to you in the downperiod are probably never going to make it through your phone, which means the message you may or may not have gotten from that cute guy you just gave your number to may never come through.

Technology is not perfect; I understand and can appreciate that. That being said… I expect results and corrections to be made within a maximum of 48 hours. THAT is fair.

Hurry the fuck up and fix your damn service.

After using it for several months, I can honestly say with complete certainty, that Twitter, is not that cool. This 140-character message thing is just frustrating.. and you get added by more porn stars and nude entertainment groups than most would care to admit.

If you are looking to get into the nightly “entertainment” circle, find out bus delays, or creep a celebrity, than Twitter is for you. But if you have a social life, don’t have the need to stalk/main a celebrity and can function without reading someone’s 140-character story of the day.. Twitter is not for you.

And clearly, clearly I am a big fan of social media. Hi, this is my blog.

Twitter just has too many twats for my liking.

Where the guy courts, swoons and caresses the girl, showering her with attention, presents, compliments and sweets.

..Ok.. I’m laying it on a bit thick, but you know what I mean.

Women want to feel wanted. Especially in new relationships, where that extra bit of security and attention is needed. Now, I’m no expert in relationships. In fact, I can honestly say that there are times where I have no fucking clue what I’m in, who I’m dating, or why I’m with them. Fact of life: Following your heart doesn’t always lead you down the road you thought you’d take.. but the road you need to take at that point in your life.

But I’ve learned a weakness that I have, a tendency to throw the future of the new relationship under a bus, or likewise, up to the man. I make it seem as if, hell.. if he really, really wants to be with me, he’ll message or call me. I shouldn’t have to do anything, he should show me he cares by making more of an effort.

This, I’ve recently learned, is both dumb and unfair. See, I looked at it from one side. Truth is, relationships are a two-way street. And playing mind games never help.  Unless you’re dating a mindreader, and a damn good one too, he’ll never know what you’re thinking when you’re thinking it.

Honestly, I’m thankful to be wrong. In this case. (Being wrong otherwise sucks, and thankfully that doesn’t happen too often/ever. No really!)