By popular demand

A photo of my haircut. 

Make fun of the photography if you want; self-portraits are tricky! This was the best hair/face combo, so please disregard the poor artistic composition.

PS: to reassure yourselves that I really do know my way around a camera, feel free to check out some of the shots I've been including with my Italy posts from summer 2008.

It's puppy season

It's that time of year again. The puppies have arrived. And they're cute. Damn cute. 

Everyone knows how much I love puppies. I mean, I'm in a facebook group called I really like puppies. But now they're everywhere, and I can't have one! It's torture! Some women get itchy fingers when they see babies. Not me, I'm immune. But puppies are another story. I just want to squeeze them. I know it's creepy, but I can't help it. Anyway, I just thought I'd share. Maybe someone else out there can relate. 

Pardon my French: I redeem myself

Sometimes the world finds little ways to reward me, small things that might not mean anything to the next person, but that put a smile on my face. For example, on my walk to work, I pass a men's dress shop every morning, and the proprietor owns 2 beautiful golden retrievers. Some mornings they stand in the doorway and watch me with big doe-y eyes as I pass by. It always puts me in a cheerful mood, ready to take on another day at work.  

Today, I had another pleasant occurrence. I've been looking for a place to get my hair cut in this new city of mine. I started by asking around at work but the places my co-workers go are way out of my price range. Well, I mean, I could pay $80 for a haircut, but that's just not how my priorities fall. So I went to the internet and found a cute dive in my neighborhood. It's only a notch or two above Supercuts, but it got rave reviews online, so I figured, what the heck. If I get a really botched cut, then I can go to a fancy salon and pay the big bucks to have it fixed. 

Well I was going to go yesterday, but I chickened out. Today, I was still on the fence, but somehow, without consciously making the decision, I found myself walking to the salon rather than straight home. Turns out my feet had the right idea. The place was empty, so I didn't have to wait, and the stylist was friendly, but not overwhelmingly chatty.

When we did get to talking she asked what I had studied. When I mentioned French, she immediately switched languages. Turns out she's from Morocco and her husband worked for the Moroccan embassy in Switzerland before they moved to the states.  She had and interesting story and seemed pleased to speak with me even though my French is getting rusty.

When I was living in Montreal, I used to have to psyche myself up to go get my haircut and prepare to converse in French. Funny how when I'm deprived of it, I have a whole new appreciation for it. And I never would have thought that my French hair-salon vocab would have come in handy after leaving Quebec. Just goes to show that you can never know the future has in store.

So I enjoyed some well-deserved pampering and French conversation for a very reasonable price. The haircut is adorable, and I look forward to going back. Sometimes I feel like the stars align just so to make my world a happy place. 

A note on my note on sexism...

Wow, I've been pleasantly surprised to see the show of support from my friends and readers. Thank you. Hahaha, actually, I've been pleasantly surprised to find that I actually HAVE readers! I'll do my best to keep you updated if this story has any interesting sequels...

A note on sexism

The beauty of blogging is that you can rant to your heart's content. No one can interrupt. No one can "just play devil's advocate". That said, you probably know where this is headed, but I will try to keep this reasonable. I am not a man-hater. I have a very fond appreciation for men who cultivate a balance of gentlemanly good manners and respect for women. I know that it's a charged environment in this day and age, with a plethora of double standards and trick questions. A compliment to one woman is an insult to another. My sympathies to you guys attempting to navigate these perilous waters, and big props to those of you who manage it successfully more often than not. It can't be easy.

Unfortunately there are some guys who fail miserably at this. Case in point: on my way to work this morning I was following a beautifully slender-legged woman (she was in front of me so I couldn't see her face) wearing a peacoat, skinny jeans and ankle boots, a perfectly acceptable, if casual, corporate outfit. Coming towards us, this overly buff, overly tanned 30 something guy passes her, and turns to watch her in the most obvious example of an ogle that I have seen this side of the Mediterranean. You could see on his face that he mentally grabbed her backside as she walked by. Ok, yes, so I'm reading between the lines, but if you were there, you would agree with me. This incident, repulsive as it was, was not what sparked this tirade.

My arrival at work coincided with the arrival of a coworker of mine, Zach, and we rode up in the elevator together. Conversing with this guy is a struggle for me. He's very sarcastic (and if you know me, my acknowledgment of that is saying something) and puts a spin on everything. It's exhausting trying to make small talk. As we were getting off, he looks down and notices that I'm wearing boots. These are not sexy boots. These are gritty, salt-stained, hard-worn boots. He says to me, "So I guess you don't know yet, do you?" I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me to find out from the other girls in my office. After we parted ways in the office, I asked the girls in my department what he could possibly be referring to.

Apparently none of the young women wear boots to the office because Zach will make suggestive comments. Apparently he has a thing for boots. Let me rephrase this revelation: Women in my workplace choose not to wear boots to work because a male co-worker makes them uncomfortable if they do. Excuse me? Is anyone else as flabbergasted as I am, or should I just attribute this to the inevitable disillusionment following my post-collegiate idealistic phase? 

I understand that thigh-high patent leather boots paired with a mini-skirt might lead to some comments being made. But I have a pretty good grasp of what work-place attire is appropriate, and I am going to wear boots if I so choose. Zach be damned. And you'd better believe I won't be putting up with any bullshit.

This little life of mine

The evidence is beginning to pile up. A Shaw's card and a CVS card dangle from my keychain. In the mail, not only do I receive bank statements, but also monthly IRA statements. That's right, I have a retirement account. My Sunday mornings are spent sipping cappuccino (from my very own cappuccino maker) as I leisurely peruse the morning paper. 

There's no more denying it. I'm a grown-up. A full fledged adult. No turning back now. How did this happen? I don't feel any different. I still like youthful stuff. I like to go out on weekends. Friends of mine are talking about renting a mechanical bull for Cinco de Mayo. And I think it sounds like fun. How can I be an adult and a kid at the same time, I wonder? 

I have figured out the answer. Adults have a secret club. They actually like fun stuff. They think dirty jokes are funny. They do tequila shots and dance to live music. My mom tried to tell me that adults weren't really a foreign species ( I wonder if she gets club demerits for telling an outsider?). And yet, even with a little forewarning, I am still shocked. 

My world did not come to a screeching halt the moment I got a real job. I did not cease to exist when I started bringing home a pay check. In fact, life got better! Holy leaping toadstools Batman! That's right, I have play money, and no homework. Welcome to the super secret grown-up club, no hazing required. Sweet deal!