Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Ah, to be 19 again...

I knew there was a reason I never went to The Keg... you know, besides the distance, the freezing temperatures, and the fact that I was the proud holder of a real ID for most of my college career.

Of Human Blonde-age

When I was blow-drying my hair this morning, I noticed I've got some really bad blonde roots going on. Maybe it's time to make the switch back to blonde. I've had dark hair for about a year, * and now that I'm leaving Dallas, it might be a good time to go natural ** again.

It's funny, I think I wanted to be brunette when I moved back to Dallas because I thought it was a nice, subtle way of rebelling against all the shiny socialites. But really, by dying my hair, I was just engaging in a less-severe form of the self-alteration that is the Dallasite trademark. Sick.

But anyway, back to blonde? I'll have to think about it. I worry that my M.O. is becoming: can't go a year without moving between Dallas and Chicago, or without changing hair color.

Maybe my solution is to go pink. A nice Pantone 226... yeah...

* I don't think working at Black Hair had anything to do with my desire for transformation; going brunette was really just the last in a series of transformations -- new job, new (old) city, new hair color. The progression is obvious. I wasn't going to be living the Sex and the City lifestyle anymore, so I didn't want to be blonde anymore.

** Natch!

Monday, June 27, 2005

OMG, Dahlings!

Yesterday I wore my “Country Clubs: Not For Everyone” t-shirt to commemorate my survival of my first – and last – Dallas society party. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean soiree. Words can scarcely describe this experience, so, to my great chagrin, I must employ numbers. And so, ladies and gentlemen, an index:

Average age of guests at the Cosmopolitan Club’s “Latin-politan Fiesta”: 65

Average number of plastic surgeries per guest: 2

Number of men in white suits: 13

Number of men in white suits who tried to dance with me: 3

Number of men in white suits who offered to sponsor me as an Irish-American Society Dallas “Yellow Rose of Texas” debutante: 1

Number of offers for debutante sponsorship politely declined: 1

Number of real estate agent encounters: 2 (read: two too many)

Number of business cards received: 4 (all after cardholders found out I was “the press”)

Number of times I was introduced as “the press”: 3

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit: 4

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit purchased at Target: 3

Number of times I was asked my age: 5

Number of times I was told I was “so young!”: 5 (someone even had the gall to ask my photographer if I was his intern. As if!)

Number of strange men by whom I was kissed: 2

Number of strange straight men by whom I was kissed: TBD

Number of people I asked about the origins of the Cosmopolitan Club: 8

Number of people who knew anything about the Cosmopolitan Club: 0

Number of people spoken to who admitted to be recovering from surgery: 1

Number of people spoken to who were probably recovering from surgery: 5

Number of times my shoes and the deck conspired to make me almost eat it in front of Dallas’ elite: 1

All in all, it was a pretty eventful night. I got to meet some actual P-Ho* People, which makes my job seem a little more real, and that’s always a good feeling. I even met some people who read the paper. Or at least, they get the paper. Which means they’re exposed to the design. Which is all that concerns me.

I also got to meet Maria Elena Holly, Buddy Holly’s widow, who’s lived in my parents’ neighborhood since I was a kid. When I was introduced, I was all, “Yeah, I went trick-or-treating at your house 10 years ago, and you walked to the door, saw it was kids, and turned out your porch light. Bitch.” OK, I didn’t really say that. But I wanted to. And I thought it. I was actually all, “Didn’t you used to live in Highland Meadows? Me too! OMG! Small world! LOL!” It was awesome.

Also, I was introduced to Carolyn Shamis, of Sheer Dallas fame. She told me she remembers seeing me at the hoity-toity doggy beauty pageant that was featured on her episode of the show. Funny, I don’t remember being there (and I’m fairly certain Target doesn’t do black tie). But… she drives a Bentley with a vanity plate, brought an “escort” instead of a “date,” ** and has been on reality television, so who am I to argue?

I’m sure after my glimmering performance at Saturday’s shindig, I will be invited to social extravaganzas of all sorts, will become a gal about town, and will have so many to-dos in my Blackberry that I honestly won’t be able to remember all the glamorous things I’ve done. But until then, unless you think you remember seeing me driving my hail-damaged ’97 Eclipse to Jack in the Box, I’m guessing you’re mistaken.

* That’s shorthand for Preston Hollow, one of our coverage areas, for those of you not in the P-Ho know.

** There were a lot of times during the evening when I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. The worst of these times was when Carolyn’s man-friend kept suggesting different Carolyn-only shots to my photographer, then asking “Did you get her purse in the shot?” and “Are you sure you could see all of her skirt? It’s very important we see all of her skirt.”

Friday, June 24, 2005


On my way to work this morning, I was behind a maintenance truck with a bumper sticker that read: "Will Duck Hunt For Food."

Huh? Isn't that like saying, "Will Go To McDonalds For Food"?

Bumper stickers in general trip me out, but this one? Exceptionally questionable.

Side note: When I used to play Duck Hunt on old school Nintendo, I would stand with the gun actually touching the TV screen, so I never missed. I know I'm not the only one.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Everybody in the club gettin' tipsy

Remember that one time? When I was all..."Woo! I'm not going to drink at lunch anymore!"?

"How's that workin' out for ya, Erin?"

"Um... not so great."

I must must must not drink at lunch anymore. I come back with a headache, my work looks even more like crap than it does when I'm sober, and I get this weird fidgety must-check-email-every-three-seconds thing going on. Oh yeah. And I'm terrible at disguising my intoxication. Eeeee!

But I must say... it feels good to live on the edge. Just a lil' bit.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Up to no good

I know, I know. I promised greatness (that was three weeks ago.) And I promised promtale (that was probably two months ago.) What can I say? I'm suffering from the worst case of writer's block I think I've ever had. Or, rather, I'm suffering from a fairly bad case of writer's block which, when combined with my absolute burnt-outedness and my million little to-dos*, morphs into a problem of seemingly fantastic proportions.

My eyelids are heavy, and I have that jittery feeling that usually occurs between Diet Cherry Coke #4 and Diet Cherry Coke #5 (I've only had two today, thank you very much. I'm on a budget. But I've still got the shakes, darn it.) I've got a few entries started, and while showering I cook up all these wonderfully crafted metaphors and beautifully parallel sentences. But every time I sit down at my laptop the motivation plummets.

I think I'm trying too hard to extend the whole "Dallas, I'm cheating on you with Chicago" metaphor. I know I can't write about Chicago. I don't know why I can't, but I can't. So I'm hung up on that idea, and probably won't write again until I churn out something I'm at least remotely satisfied with. Until then... lists.

Like this one:

Things to write about
1. The Safety Town Bloodbath of Irony, Cleveland, OH, circa 1987
2. The 18-wheeler slash freshman year of high school debacle
3. Chicago as Urban (wait, what's the masculine for "mistress?") Oh:

[From Dictionary.com]Usage Note: English has no shortage of terms for women whose behavior is viewed as licentious, but it is difficult to come up with a list of comparable terms used of men. One researcher, Julia Penelope, stopped counting after she reached 220 such labels for women, both current and historical, but managed to locate only 20 names for promiscuous men. Curiously, many of the negative terms used for women derive from words that once had neutral or even positive associations. For instance, the word mistress, now mainly used to refer to a woman who is involved in an extramarital sexual relationship, originally served simply as a neutral counterpart to mister or master.

Ah, another roadblock. This is going to get harder before it gets easier, I have a feeling...

* I've started up with the listing again. I clean out my bag every night and find all these little scraps of paper covered in my all-caps scrawl, always in black Sharpie fine point. I must add "invest in a notebook" to my next list.