Nostalgia | thesmartlychicago.com

My new digitized normal

February 15, 2011 By Garima Nahar 2 Comments

It was just a few years back that I took pride in saying- I am on computer at work all the time, once I am home except a quick email check, I am offline completely. If I needed to get in touch, I’d call. If I needed to buy something online- I’d ask hubby trusting his deal finding skills way better than mine! I would always ‘lecture’ two of my closest friends- Get off the laptop. Ok not lecture as much but shout! I just didn’t get it.

Slowly and surely it changed. I got more and more online from home. I finally caved in and signed up for my data plan on cell and since then there is no looking back. This followed by Facebook, blogging and now really enjoying the new Android toy ‘Ok fine, it’s a phone!’!

I am online all the time via my phone or on my laptop. Simple. There was time prior to kids, we’d finish dinner and go for a walk in our area, or occasional weekday bowling or try out new hobbies like oil on canvas or read a book in the patio or just curl in couch with a good pre-selected Netflix movie. Lovely times. After kids, once V would sleep, we would continue to watch our movies, sometimes play a board games or if we had family home, we’d still go out for a walk once in a while.

Then came my digitization. Our weekday evenings are marked by tucking in V and then opening our respective laptops and being online for a bit. Only after that we’d look up and then chit chat. Only to have the laptop light shown in our faces. I now “need to” go to my daily go to sites. Of course I suffer from “every email must be read the minute its received” hence the frequency on being online is way more. That’s my new normal.

Hmm…

The good thing is we are reverting back to board games. We have increased our paper magazine subscriptions and signed up for book clubs. This is keeping us offline just a bit longer. I am defining a new normal for me.

We recently visited the Apple Store. I have been against owning an iPad, iTouch for a while now. You see I don’t want to be a net addict in denial! But I saw little V play puzzles so effortlessly on the iPad, enjoying the Coloring on Android and navigating the words so easily, I feel she will get digitized at a faster rate than you and me.

My newly defined normal might just change again!

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Tech Tagged With: Garima

How do you measure the life of a woman?

February 10, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 3 Comments

My grandma died.

The thought that keeps running through my mind is this: how do you sum up one person’s life? How do you encompass all that one person was in your thoughts and in your memories?

Daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, friend, neighbor, confidante, immigrant, citizen, church-member…

I didn’t know her in all of these roles, and I only had a partial comprehension of her in some of these roles. A focus on one particular aspect of her life seems to leave out the richer, deeper, more complex aspects of her character and person. I am at a loss in my loss.

To further complicate matters, she had Alzheimer’s so my perception of her is further clouded and obscured by the ways that she became the person she was not at the end of her life. Angry, demanding, even violent–these are things that would never have been true of my grandma in her full mental health. Of course she should not be remembered this way, but the memories are there and they persist.

We had a time for sharing with just the family the night before her funeral. The stories I heard helped me to start to understand the person that was my grandmother.

Daughter: My grandma’s mother died when she was only 13. Her father was not an easy or tolerant man.I think that she may have had a hard time under his parenthood. When she met my grandfather, her father forbid her to date him. This led the two lovebirds to carry on a relationship by mail. Like a great romance novel, the mail carrier would hide my grandpa’s letters in a designated spot for my grandma to find at her convenience. Her father eventually changed his mind and allowed the relationship, which meant that my grandma eventually became a…

Wife: Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after their marriage that trouble began brewing in Germany. My grandparents had a special hiding place in their barn for refugees passing through. They hid cheeses and other supplies in their cupboard beds. One day, my grandpa had to hide under the floorboards beneath the dining room table when German soldiers came to conscript my grandpa into their army. My grandma feigned ignorance of the language and kept saying my grandpa was out in the field. Later, she was able to win soldiers’ favor by promising them bits of cheese and tobacco. After the war, she joined my grandpa in leaving family to head to America for the promise of a better life. She brought with her three daughters born within three years of each other, who knew her as…

Mother: She may not have been the most affectionate of mothers, but she did an amazing job balancing the tasks of homemaker, farmhand, cook, housekeeper and mother of five. I wonder how it felt not to be able to give your kids everything you would like to give them, or even everything they need. One time, she determined to give her kids the vacation they “deserved” by joining a friend in borrowing a two bedroom camper for the two women and their 11 kids. Unfortunately, a glitch with the campground meant they needed to figure out a way to move that camper by themselves. Somehow, they kept everyone fed, relatively happy and, eventually, got that camper moved.

She also spent time watching Monday night football with my uncle, jumping up to get him a tissue anytime “her team” scored a point against his. She loved competition, which meant she loved winning, especially at games like aggravation. She loved winning so much, she would even do her best to win when she was…

Grandma: There was never any question that her eighteen grandchildren were welcome at Grandma’s house, where the Froot Loops, chocolate milk, popsicles, and sugar cookies flowed freely. With a barn containing furniture for playing house or just hanging out (as long as you didn’t mind sitting with mice), and a rope swing for added excitement, a huge swimming pool to cool off from summer’s heat, dress-up clothes galore, and an odd assortment of random toys,”Grandma’s house” was synonymous with “fun.” While the barn and pool had to stay behind when she sold her house, the dress-up clothes and random toys were still available when she became…

Great-Grandma: As you can imagine, eighteen grandchildren can provide a lot of great-grandchildren (nineteen with two more on the way). It may be just a little bit hard to remember all of their names (particularly when there are those of us who insist on choosing such unusual names). My daughter will remembers my grandma offering her windmill cookies. In my daughter’s mind, they will always be cookies that came straight from The Netherlands, instead of the local grocery store. I think that memory is particularly special to my daughter because “oma” insisted she have more than just the one cookie that mom said she could have.

Generous, faithful, devoted, sneaky, loving, hard, hospitable, demanding, comic, and believing. These words and these stories only begin to touch on the complex and wonderful woman that my grandma was.

I miss her.

You can read more from Melanie here.

Filed Under: Nostalgia Tagged With: death, loss, Melanie Myatt

I went to Jared … once

February 8, 2011 By Uncorked V 13 Comments

I am extremely attracted to shiny things.

They don’t have to be expensive things, though it never hurts. I am a complete sucker for a car that just comes out of the car wash, disco balls, coins, silverware, anything really. If it sparkles, it will undoubtedly get an “ohh” or an “ahhh” from me. There was this crystal saddle that served as a disco ball at a honky tonk in Texas where I went to law school.

That saddle glistened and sparkled when reflecting the light. I could stare at it for hours.

One time I remember seeing a couple two-stepping on the dance floor. They were the perfect little Texas couple. She had big, but still stylish, blonde hair, wore a cute denim mini skirt and cowboy boots. He wore Wranglers that were maybe just a bit too tight and this look of pure love and adoration on his face. Then I was temporarily blinded when her engagement ring caught the light from the saddle.

From that point on, I wanted a shiny, sparkly, potentially seizure-inducing ring of my very own. It had nothing to do with wanting to be engaged or married. Really, those were the last things on my mind. I graduated from law school, moved back to Chicago, took and passed the bar and got myself a job.

And then I went to Jared. A phrase we all know too well because of some clever marketing techniques. Bravo, Jared. Bravo.

I bought myself a right hand ring. With my first official lawyer paycheck. My entire first paycheck.

Stupid? Maybe. A waste of money? Probably. I didn’t even wear it that often, but I loved it. It was always a little reminder that I had accomplished something. Something that … well, a hell of a lot of people actually accomplish. But still.

I was proud of myself.

So who cares about this story now? Over four years later? I do. Because today I realized that I lost it and it made me really pretty sad. Leaving Mexico a few weeks ago I put all of my jewelry in a little black pouch and in my purse to carry-on the plane with me. I know for a fact that it was in my purse. I have been holding out hope that maybe for some reason I left it up in the suburbs when I was visiting my parents. No such luck. The little pouch is gone. Inside that pouch was some of my favorite jewelry, mostly replaceable but still pieces I loved, and my ring. It wasn’t the same as the one pictured above, but it was very close.

I know it’s not the end of the world. And I know I’ll be able to buy myself another one sometime, but I’m a little upset about it today. So tonight I do not go to Jared. No, tonight I go to Discount Liquor (it has the brightest neon lights) and buy some vodka. And toast myself for being able to buy it for myself in the first place. Cheers.

Photo is the property of Jared®

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Nostalgia Tagged With: jared, jewelry, law, righthandring, ring

That time all my dreams were crushed by reality (well, one of many times)

February 1, 2011 By Uncorked V 2 Comments

What little girl didn’t want to be a ballerina?

What slightly overweight and almost 30 year old woman wants to be a ballerina? This one. Right here.

A few weeks ago, before Christmas, I went to see The Nutcracker ballet. Years and years ago I was in The Nutcracker on Ice, you might remember me, I was one of the little children in the beginning skating around and picking up presents, smiling like a happy idiot. I wore a purple velvet dress with white stockings. No? You missed my long-standing gig that lasted for one night in the early 1990s at the Rosemont Theater? Okay, I’ll forgive you. It was glorious, let me tell you (she says while silently thanking god that YouTube did not exist back then, as she has thanked god so many times before for the same thing).

But that’s not the point. The point is that when I saw the ballet most recently I discovered this secret longing to be a beautiful ballerina, fluttering about the stage. Graceful. Serene.

Beautiful.

Then I came to the sad conclusion that I will never be a ballerina. Instead, I’m a no-talent, ungraceful, overweight, 29-year-old figure skating has-been. Well, never-really-was.

So of course I did what anyone in my irrationally depressed and drunken position would do. I drank a bottle of vodka and Googled pictures of horribly mangled feet and anorexic ballerinas to feel better about my own life. It worked. I felt much better about my newly pedicured feet and the fact that those ballerinas probably couldn’t eat things like mac ‘n cheese bites or french fries while downing alcohol like I did before (and after) the performance.

But I still wanted the tutu. Then my New Year’s Eve plans were hatched out of a mutual desire with a friend to drink a lot of wine and wear tiaras. New Year’s Eve then resulted in my almost 30-year old chubby self prancing around my living room in a pink tutu and pink plastic tiara while eating funfetti cupcakes, watching Disney movies and drinking my face off.

This is my reality.

It’s not terrible. Actually kind of fun, in a depressing way.

But it beats nasty toes and anorexia any day.

To read more by V visit her site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia

My Stongly-Worded Letter to Ty, Manufacturer of Beanie Babies

January 14, 2011 By Faux Trixie 12 Comments

Dear Ty:

First of all, I know you are probably shocked to be getting a letter from a consumer, much less any mail at all, considering your company has not been relevant since 1998. I’ve browsed your current product line, and I have to say, unimpressive. You’re really just ripping off old ideas and making creepy dolls. The “Ty Girlz” line disturbs me in ways you cannot imagine.

However, I am not contacting you to wax poetic about your current products. I have a bone to pick with you. To understand why I am upset, we have to travel back to the late 90s. The grunge era was coming to end, Clinton was in the white house, our country was prosperous, and I was a teenager. I think you understand the awkward tension that comes with being a teenager. I was torn between the comfort of my childhood years and the hope of things to come. I had a new-found sense of freedom when I was allowed to stay out past 10 and was given use of my parents’ old car. I was making out with boys, wearing enough make-up to make me look like a geisha, and proudly flaunting my A-cup cleavage in cheaply-made baby-doll shirts.

As a teenager, I tried really, really hard not to be d-bag. I did not do juvenile things. In my mind, I was mature and above stupid toys and stuffed animals. I was above it, that is, until you hit every Hallmark store in Northern Illinois with Beanie Babies. These adorable, pint-sized stuffed animals in every breed of animal available, complete with a signature red heart tag were the perfect gift for a friend or current love interest. At $5.99, the investment was as minimal as the depth of most of my relationships, making the allegory of the toy to my social network an ironic icing on the cake that I only really appreciate looking back 15 years later.

Right, right, I’m rambling.

What drew me into buying beanie babies was your brilliant marketing scheme: “Collect TY Beanie Babies! They’ll be worth THOUSANDS one day! MAKE SURE NOT TO REMOVE THE TAG!” I was sucked in. Sure, I had a job, but making $5.25 slathering cream cheese on bagels barely allowed me to put gas in my car and buy a soda at the basketball game. I was 16. I needed sweaters from the Gap and Doc Martens and more, cheap baby doll t-shirts my parents thought were trashy (in hindsight, they were right. This is why I always trust my parents now). I hatched a plan. I invested in Ty with the dream of one day cashing in my collection for thousands of dollars.

I was careful in what beanies I chose, picking only the really cool, somewhat rare stuffed animals to add to my collection. Mystic, the unicorn, was an obvious choice. Not only did I have a secret unicorn obsession carried over from childhood, if real life was anything like the fantasy world, the unicorn would be the rarest, most sought after beanie in a couple of years. I also bought a tie-dye fish, a squirrel, a dolphin, and a few others that I heard through the grapevine would make my life gravy.

I dutifully kept those beanies in mint condition. I left the tags on. I displayed them proudly in my bedroom, and then, my dorm room. Do you have any idea the kind of humiliation a 19 year-old girl endures when she brings a cute frat boy back to her dorm room for the first time and there is a STUFFED UNICORN on her shelf? No? You don’t? That does not surprise me. You manufacture stuffed animals for 40 year-old women. Still, those beanies were worth a lot of money.

And then, much like the year 2008, Ty’s bottom fell out. For a fleeting moment, I would have been able to make $600 a piece off my beanies. Foolishly, I did not trade them in. No, I kept them, thinking they would only continue to appreciate in value. Instead, people realized what a racket it was collecting pint-sized stuffed animals and abandoned the beanie baby craze. I was not made aware that the novelty was gone until it was too late. By the time I realized what had happened, my gravy train had rolled out of the station, and I was left holding a Limited Bag containing Mystic, his friends, and my hopes and dreams.

The bag now sits on a shelf in my closet, between workout clothes and an iron. Those beanies are still in there, tags firmly attached to their stuffed buttocks, waiting for a new home with the schmuck who will pay $1,000 a piece. However, the outlook is grim; ebay’s going rate is $.99 for each one. If you ask me, that amount will simply not compensate me for the years of dedication, toil, and, frankly, embarrassment I put into my small collection.

Therefore, Ty, I am left with no choice but to demand you initiate a new marketing plan, making those beanies worth money again. That, or you can simply write me a check for what you promised the value would be in 1996. And no, don’t try some fancy legal argument on me about breach of warranty. You’re clearly in the wrong. The money can be sent via Paypal. In return, Mystic may or may not be let out of a plastic bag.

Cordially,

The Faux Trixie

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

Is it time for a cocktail?

January 3, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 16 Comments

Growing up, I knew cocktail hour was always at 5:30 p.m. sharp. No, I wasn’t drinking as a child, but that’s when my grandparents would have their cocktails. My grandpa would get home from work at 5:30 at which point both he and my grandma would have their respective drinks. For him? Dry gin martini, rocks, with a lemon twist. For her? As long as I could remember, it was a glass of chardonnay. (Apparently back in the day, Grandma fancied a scotch on the rocks. I think this officially makes her a bad ass. As a result of that, I have bad ass in my blood. I always knew that, though.) After my grandpa retired, cocktail hour got progressively earlier in their house. I believe it is well-settled that my grandpa can have his one (yes, he only gets one) martini at 3:30 p.m. now. My grandma will drink her chardonnay. Well, unless I have brought her some Charles Shaw. She loves that Two-Buck Chuck Merlot like nobody’s business.

It is from this background that I can make the very solemn and serious proclamation: I love a nice cocktail. I also love the resurgence of restaurants and bars going back to the classic cocktails. Whether it is a Manhattan made with cherry-infused bourbon or a Moscow Mule made with house-brewed ginger syrup (word to you, Violet Hour), I love the twists on the classic cocktails. Sadly, I cannot often afford the $14 per cocktail (again, word to YOU, Violet Hour).

Therefore, I will make another proclamation, one that is just as serious and solemn as my first: 2011 will be the year that I become master bartender in my house. No one will make a better martini than I. James-freaking-Bond will want to stop by for a night-cap. My handsome partner will love me for my Manhattans (bourbon, rocks, extra cherries) that I lovingly prepare for him on a cold winter’s evening. My dad will have to give me his killer recipe for the best Grasshoppers in the world (seriously, ice cream AND liquor? That has win all over it.) so that I might conquer that spectrum of the cocktail world. You name the classic cocktail, by the end of the year, I shall be able to make it for you.

Pardon me, I have some practicing to do. Now, if I can only find some willing guinea pigs. Send ‘em my way, will you?

Photo is property of the author.

Read more from Fabulously Awkward on her site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Uncategorized Tagged With: chardonnay, Charles Shaw, cocktail hour, cocktails, grandparents, James Bond, Manhattan, martini, Moscow Mule, Violet Hour

2011 Resolutions

December 31, 2010 By Garima Nahar 2 Comments

By now, we all are stuffed with the food, we have all feasted on cookies and holiday desserts, we have met most of family and friends… and by now, most of us are ready to start considering New Year Resolutions which of course starts with loosing the pounds. Right?

Like all years, I make resolutions, think of things I really want to accomplish and at the end of year, I look back and rinse, repeat. But 2010 to 2011 transition will be different. My ‘resolution’ is to keep it different.

My resolution this coming year is to enjoy each day as it comes. It is to cherish the smaller things, laugh at the mismatched socks and really not wait to see how it all turns out. Life rushes past me, my calendar gets over booked and I struggle to balance the scale. The coming year- I will breathe more. I will learn to relax more. And that’s something I will strive to achieve. For myself and for my family.

It might be the Holiday Effect- the sugar high which is making me delirious. But I don’t think it will be that hard. Right?

So what are your resolutions? What are the small and the big things that you are looking forward to? What is it that will set 2011 different?

Filed Under: Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: Garima

Exhuming Chivalry’s Ghost

December 20, 2010 By Faux Trixie 11 Comments

Chivalry is dead – at least in Chicago. As if city living weren’t hard enough, as a 21st century, independent career woman, I am also now totally “equal” to my male counterparts. After all, I invaded their secret boy’s club by obtaining a J.D. I compete with them for jobs. I can even support myself financially.

Yay for progress.

However, being equal apparently also means I am not longer entitled to simple courtesies that were once automatically afforded to my gender. No, I’m not talking about my car door being opened for me or my meals being ordered by my date. I don’t expect all archaic traditions to survive when texting has taken over the art of conversation and Facebook is only way I know what is going on in any of my friends’ lives.

No, my request is much simpler; I’ll explain:

This morning, I had court. I had to wake up and shave my legs to wear tights under my skirt suit. I had to dry and straighten my hair and put on make up so I looked like a presentable female. I had to play the part of the coy, sweet young lawyer.

In return, during my court appearance, my male colleagues:

1) Let the outside door slam in my face, despite the fact I was literally TWO FEET behind one;

2) Cut in front of me to go through the metal detector, even though I was clearly there first, and I simply had to place my purse on the conveyor belt to go through screening;

3) Hit me in the face THREE times in the court room with a giant messenger bag while standing in front of my chair, back to me, speaking to another attorney, adjusting a bag while doing so;

4) Stepped on my foot, with no apology;

5) Grabbed the two carbon copies of a court order, detached his copy, and placed mine back on the table even though I was standing right there.

I wish I was kidding. Worse? All of this happened in the course of 30 minutes. Even worse? This is an everyday occurrence, and it’s not just attorneys. It’s every man I have encountered as of late. I can’t remember the last time a man held open the door for me, gave up his seat on the train, or even just let me in the elevator first.

Conversely, who exactly did you think I was getting gussied up for? Myself because I like to feel beautiful? Well, sometimes, but realistically? I’m doing it because of social requirements. Trust me, my life would be much easier if I didn’t have to shave my legs, wax my eyebrows, dye, blow dry, and straighten my hair, apply make-up, wear heels and skirts, and act feminine. Sure, I’d probably be pretty gross to most people; but add up all those hours, I’d probably have an extra two days a month for me.

But I do it. Why? Because I think there is still something to be said for being feminine, just like I still think there is something to be said for chivalry. So, men, taking into account that you probably don’t want to look at or touch a bunch of women with hairy legs and armpits, ratty hair, and dry, pale, worn out faces, maybe every once in awhile, you can….

hold open a door….

let us in the elevator first……….

give up your seat on the train………..

ACT LIKE GENTLEMEN.

If you don’t, well, then I guess chivalry really is dead. And I’m not wearing make-up or a dress ever again.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: chivalry, etiquette, feminism, gentlemen, men

Not so fast, Creepy Christmas Tunes

December 10, 2010 By Faux Trixie 8 Comments

I am the biggest Christmas nerd there is. I’ve decorated my house, put up my tree, and made Christmas cupcakes. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that, every year, I watch every Christmas movie ever made while drinking spiced wine on my couch with twinkling lights from the tree beside me.

As part of my seasonal nerdiness, I listen to Christmas music pretty much all day at work from the Monday after Thanksgiving until big J’s birthday. For the most part, Christmas music is festive and uplifting and generally makes everyone happy. However, while listening to my Christmas playlist this morning, a few songs streamed through my speakers and caused me concern:

Baby, It’s Cold Outside: At first listen, it’s a cutesy little song about a boy who wants a girl to stay longer. In reality, it’s kind of super creepy. He keeps enticing her with more alcohol and not letting her borrow a coat. She pleads with him: “hey, my parents are going to freak out.” The dude’s response? He moves in closer and starts talking about her lips. Then, she notices something in her drink. It’s probably a roofie. Where I come from, that’s the start of an after-school special on date rape.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas: This song really fooled all of us. We think it’s this nice song about someone traveling home for the holidays, remembering all the fond times of Christmas past. We’re singing along, feeling warm and fuzzy, and then it gets to the end: “I”ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” So, really, it’s just a song about some sad dude who is all alone on Christmas, probably eating take-out Chinese on his couch and contemplating joining Jimmy Stewart on that bridge because now his Christmas sucks.

Frosty The Snowman: He’s jolly and happy until he MELTS and DIES. This song is horrifying. We are lulled into a nice, sweet story about a magical snowman who plays with all the kids and makes merry along his way. Then he realizes that he’s going to melt so he plays with the kids one last time. While I agree that the lesson of enjoying life to its fullest is an important one, it doesn’t exactly invoke Christmas Cheer.

Blue Christmas: It’s a break up song. Plain and simple. You can really substitute any holiday into the lyrics and it’d be the same idea. I’ll have a blue Easter, blue Yom Kippur, Blue 4th of July, whatever. Nice try, Elvis. You’re not convincing me to buy yet another sad love song and add it to MY Christmas playlist. Stop trying to harsh my holiday mellow.

Christmas is a Coming: Not everyone is familiar with this tune. The lyrics teach you that, at the Christmastime, the more you give, the more you get, urging the listeners to give what they can. Now, I hate to be cynical, because I’m sure the message is that you’ll get more on the inside, but at first listen? It sounds like the more you give to someone, the more you’ll get in return, especially when you consider the list of things urged to be given: a friendly dog (if you haven’t got that, a friendly cat will do), turkey leg, and a mug of cider. Also, who are the gifts being given to? Oh, the singer, of course. So really, the whole song is about trying to make us believe that giving this singing guy a ton of stuff will get us stuff in return. THIS IS NOT THE MESSAGE OF CHRISTMAS.

You’ve been warned; listen to your cheerful holiday tunes carefully, friends.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: christmas, music

In lieu of a tip, might I wear your hair?

December 2, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 8 Comments

The other night, my boyfriend and I were out to dinner at a lovely local Italian restaurant. We dined on an assortment of bruschetta (pronounced brus-KETTA, as an angry Florentine waiter once corrected me), a delicious pizza and lots of wine. Date nights are always lovely with him. We talked about life, our jobs, our upcoming vacation and the usual date-night topics.

We also discussed our server’s hair.

I feel as though when I make a statement abut how my boyfriend and I discuss someone else’s hair, the record comes to a resounding screech and everyone looks at me. Alas, it is true. My boyfriend and I had an in-depth discussion about our server’s glorious curly hair. At the end of the conversation, my boyfriend informed I was a total creep.

The real truth is that I, a straight-haired lass, have always envied my curly-haired counterparts. Like many women, I envy those locks I do not possess. I imagine that I can just swap scalps and place that head of bouncy curls onto my head. You got a head full of long, wavy locks? I want it. How about a beautiful natural Afro? I would love that too. Basically, I will lust after anything that departs from my boring, straight blond locks.

I was born with stick-straight blond hair. When I was young, my hair was thin and fine. Of course, my mother found it prudent to keep it in line with a darling little bob cut. Sadly, even back then, I wanted nothing more than long, lustrous locks. Curls weren’t so much my desire as real length and thickness of a mane. Curls would be the icing on my green-with-envy girlish wants. My bob with bangs was not the look for which I longed. For that bob, I was certain that my mom was the meanest mom in all the land. Of course I have realized that her keeping my hair cut shorter was not a punishment. I was quite darling like that, I can now see.

In order to appease my envious and occasionally downright bratty soul, she would attempt to curl my fine crop with her trusty curling iron. Of course, within an hour, it was flat as a pancake. As an adolescent, I would spend hours of my day wrapping my straight locks around hot rollers, then furiously spraying those curls into place. Sadly, unless it was a dance competition and I was spraying the ‘do in its high pony-tailed and scrunchied glory, I was left with limp, over-sprayed hair and a head full of tangles by lunch time.

Over the years, my hair has gotten not only darker (high five if you’re rocking the dirty blond look these days too) but also thicker. Sadly, time has not produced any sort of glorious curls on my head. I now have a dirty blond color with some semblance of waves and cowlicks that prevent me from rocking any blunt bang look look. Bobby pins are my best friend. So is dry shampoo, but that is another story for another day. However, I still long after curls as evidenced by my recent date.

In my defense, our server that evening had the most gorgeous, lustrous curly mane. Her hair was so lovely, even my boyfriend commented to her about its level of gorgeousness. I nearly asked her if she’d consider trading scalps for a bit with me. What? Doesn’t everyone talk about propositioning other people for a scalp trade? Hello?

My boyfriend was right, I am a creep.

To read more from Fabulously Awkward, visit her personal site here.

Photo is property of the author.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Style Tagged With: curls, date, hair, Italian, scrunchies