Blonded

 I had a busy day scheduled for myself yesterday, and I was crack in the middle of it when I came into the house and checked my phone.  My lovely beautician had called to see if I was o.k.  I was missing my beauty appointment.  I called her back right away to apologize.  It was not on my calendar.  Usually, she calls to remind me, too, but she hadn't, so. . . .

She still got me into the salon because she loves me and I am her friend.  But my workday was shot.  

Hours later. . . oo-la-la.  Looking like that blond walking by Van Cleef and Arpels. 

It was, of course, St. Paddie's Day, that unusual faux-celebration of what we hardly know.  It's a green mystery, of sorts.  After getting blonded, I stopped by my mother's and had a margarita with her while the deck lady and my cousin worked like mules putting up a new fence.  They were covered in dirt and sweat, and I was covered with freshly done hair.  It was uncomfortable, sure, but the margarita helped.  

When I left, I went to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner.  I decided to grill and sit out on my new deck with my new mosquito repelling machine and a bottle of Pinot Noir.  

And so I did.  

Everyone must have been at an Irish pub, though, for the street was empty.  I sat in my blondish glory all alone.  

Later, after dark when I stepped out on the deck to shell some pistachios, I was stunned by the moon that had just risen above the rooftops across the street, big and bright and lovely.  I took a photo and sent it all around.  That's what you do when you are alone and are not The Unabomber.  Well, not THAT kind of Unabomber.  Maybe just the kind who texts.  

Today begins the three day Faux Art Festival here in my own hometown.  I will walk up to see the crowd, I'm sure, or rather, to let them see me.

"Look at that man with the blond hair, mama."

"Uh-huh.  Stop pointing.  What have I told you about strangers?"

Perhaps I'll meet some crazy eyed beauty with painted lips and bright blue eye shadow who is looking for somebody to buy her dinner.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  The kind who like professional wrestling and places like Daytona Beach.  Fun girls with low expectations.  

Sure as shittin', if I find her, I'll bring my camera.