December 5, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Hola!

I don’t even have a good excuse for not writing, like I’m working on some super-secret project, it’s just that I work. A lot, these days. Besides, if I were busy selling nuclear technology to the Chinese, I couldn’t really tell you about that without seriously compromising my plans for world domination, now could I?

Neal’s in town, which pretty much guarantees I’ll be annihilated at least one night this week. Should be great! I’ll try to bring you some good stories, if not the hangover. Now, onto the meaningless drivel I’m finally getting around to telling you about.

There is a special relationship between a girl and her stylist. That relationship, like any, relies heavily on trust and good communication skills, right? I thought Frank and I had that, I really did. In addition to the trust and open lines of communication, he thinks I’m the hottest thing to walk into his salon (and there are A LOT of attractive clients there), so I get what can only be described as superior service, despite the fact that I’m not the biggest spender. (Note: I tip quite well. I just don’t require expensive treatments, so the base purchase isn’t as spendy as it could be.)

So, this special relationship with Frank is what led me to — oh, god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud — request bangs the last time I was in there. Bangs. Holy crap, I don’t think I’ve had bangs since sometime in high school. But, you know, all the cool kids are doing it, so…

I told Frank I wanted long, sweepy bangs. Like Audrey Hepburn. I was thinking something like this:

Apparently Frank was thinking something like this:

because I ended up with this:

[Note to self: Next time you're feeling adventurous, maybe try that Vietnamese restaurant down the block, or pick up a bottle of white wine or something. Leave your poor, defenseless hair alone!]

Really, it’s not a bad haircut (believe me when I tell you, I’ve had much, much worse), it’s just, um, not what I had in mind. THOSE ARE BANGS! REAL BANGS! But, if bangs are good enough for Carmindy, they’re good enough for me.

It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get used to the bangs, instead of wondering who that twelve-year old girl in the mirror was. And, I don’t mind them, exactly, I’m just concerned about the youth factor. As in, I really don’t need any more youth right now, thanks. (Want to quintuple the youth factor? Pull the rest of my hair into a ponytail. Yeah. Think, Olympic gymnast. I won’t be documenting that look for you here.)

Of course, such is the joy that is my crazy-fast-growing hair, I discovered today that the bangs might be long enough to do the sweepy thing I intended in the first place. And maybe I’ll add a headband…

December 1, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

You know when someone invites you to dinner, and you’re not sure if it’s a date or not, but you don’t want it to be a date, so you unilaterally decide it’s a non-date? I do that a lot. I’ve always been a pretty solid non-dater, but I find myself non-dating a lot more out here. I know I have a tendency to exaggerate sometimes, but it is not hyperbole when I say that the only guys I know work in my industry or are gay. Seriously. (Ok, a couple of boys at BR are not gay, but they’re like 20 or something, and me dating a 20-year old is actually more inconceivable than me dating a gay man.) The beauty of the non-date is that, typically, after a non-date or two, the would-be dater figures out that this is not what he/she wants, and the relationship, as it were, fizzles.

I, however, am much more talented than that. For the past eighteen months I’ve been going on non-dates with this guy. A couple of guys. Ok, I’ve been juggling a freaking handful of them. Sheesh! You’re so particular with your fancy “math” and all. I’ve maintained a firm non-date stance, by laying out for them, in no uncertain terms, on non-date #1 that we will not be dating, ever, due to my job vis-à-vis their job and the extent to which I NEVER WANT TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH MY BOSS ABOUT WHOSE BED I MAY OR MAY NOT BE SLEEPING IN, AND HOW SUCH INFORMATION MIGHT AFFECT MY WORKLOAD. (Mental note: Do not run for public office. Or, get used to having that conversation. On camera.) Also, I cover half the check. That should kill any romantic intentions being harbored by my non-date, right?

The other night I was out on one of these little non-dates, everything was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, things were less date-y than some previous non-dates we shared. We fought over the check, as always. He walked me to my car, as always. We exchanged goodnight pleasantries, as always. Life was good.

Then I kissed him.

Which, I know. I KNOW! Not necessarily the best idea in the world, but, god, a year and a half and I just HAD TO KNOW.

And thus followed the year’s most awkward conversation. I didn’t have a transcriptionist handy at the time, but I think you’ll get the idea.

Me: [Pulling away] I’m going to go now.
Him: Good.
Me: … [Good? GOOD? I was prepared for "ok" or "no, don't" or "come back to my place," but "good?" WTF?]

I walk around my car to get in, deliberately not making eye contact. This also means I don’t realize he’s followed me from the sidewalk around to my car door. Whoops. I get in the car, barely noticing him, which he naturally interprets as me ignoring him. Before I close the door…

Him: Are you ok?
Me: Just fine, thanks! [I said, perhaps a bit more brusquely than I needed to but, DUDE, ARE YOU SOME KIND OF GIRL? Do we really need to TALK about this??? I don't WANT to discuss this. I'm following my patented rule for handling slightly awkward male-female situations, and that is WWGD? -- What Would a Guy Do? And the answer generally is, IGNORE THE EVERLOVING HELL OUT OF IT. IT'S NOTHING. NOTHING HAPPENED. MOVE ALONG. Then I shut the door.]
Him: [clearly unhappy with my response] Don’t do that.
Me: Don’t do what? [rolling down my window, since we're apparently going to have an f-ing conversation]
Him: I mean, isn’t it better? This is…[indiscernible]… better … either/or. Right?
Me: [having no earthly idea what was just said] Huh?
Him: [more words strung together that don't sound like they form complete sentences, let alone paragraphs] …and it’s better than not knowing, you know, where things stand, being in-between somewhere.
Me: You mean, like things have been for the last eighteen months? [On purpose! They were this way FOR A REASON! No, NO, NO! No reason to change anything!!!]
Him: Right! And I’ve wondered what was going on, and nearly read you the riot act on several occasions… [Me thinking, which I totally deserved, but was more than happy to avoid.] …and yes, I would like to see you, romantically, but I’m conflicted. And I know you’re even more conflicted.
Me: Yes, I am. [I've realized at this point that my left elbow is leaning on the edge of the rolled-down window, with my hand pretty much covering my mouth, and damn if my body language doesn't tell you everything you need to know right now.]
Him: So, it’s good. Now everything is out on the table.
Me: Okay. [No, everything is NOT out on the table. Primarily, we are missing that part regarding HOW I FEEL, but I will not be sharing that any time soon, so we need to wrap this up here.]

Somehow the conversation ended, on good terms, despite the fact that there was exactly zero resolution to anything.

The thing is, I can envision what a relationship would be like, with plenty of doting attentiveness and fancy dinners and champagne brunches and snowy weekends away in Tahoe and, yeah, a girl could get used to that lifestyle in a hurry. But I have to say no. And OH DEAR GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?????

The aforementioned career concerns (and those are some pretty hefty concerns for someone whose self-worth is comprised of approximately 98% career, 2% other) pretty much dictate that I won’t be dabbling in anything. If you’re the man of my dreams, I MIGHT be able to overcome those concerns. But anything short of that? Not so much.
Which is why I had to kiss him in the first place. Because I had to know. And it’s a tricky thing, because, by kissing someone, of course, they start to think they have more of a chance than they did last week, whereas actually I’m using it as something of a litmus test to determine if they have a chance, period, which pretty much serves to make me a bad person. But, you know, if one could take all of the love and lust and angst that exists among the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy and somehow translate it into something you can feel, physically, well, then you will have created what a kiss is supposed to feel like. And until I get that, I’ll continue to have a social calendar full of non-dates.

Read other Love Thursday entries here.