Monday, December 18, 2006

One for the Blonde Jokes

It's okay to laugh at oneself. Better to laugh at oneself first, have people join in that laughter, than someone start by pointing out something about you, then starting the round of laughter. Self-directed laughter is somehow easier on the ego.

Okay, so I know I can laugh at myself in now.

And do realize that I am a natural brunette, have never been a blonde, nor do I aspire to be. But for a couple of minutes last week I became one of "them."

Now, I haven't talked about it on the blog, aside from a quick reference on the "what is sexy?" post, but I am working toward getting skinny, or at least skinnier than I am. After three weeks of a very stringent diet, under a doctor's care, I've lost between 18-20 pounds. You don't really see the change on my body yet, as you do on my face...but it's there. And as long as I can discipline myself (it's DAMN hard) to stick to the diet and not cheat, I'll be on it a few weeks longer, to get to my ideal weight.

That's the backstory. Here's where my temporary blondness came into play.

Last week, I was filling in a passport application because my Canadian passport had expired. I was busy printing away my address and then my vitals, and came to a sudden S T O P when I reached: WEIGHT. I did not know what to write. Do I write my current weight? Do I write what my goal weight is? If I write my current weight, the next time I travel, will they give me a hard time at customs because I am much skinnier than what I wrote? Will the customs agents be confused, looking at the picture of me taken around now, then looking at my face as I stand there before them?

I stopped filling in the application, ready to confer with my husband that evening, as to what to write for weight. Based on his reaction, I knew that my blond roots were showing!

Okay, everyone, on the count of three -- ONE...TWO...THREE -- now laugh with me. WITH ME, I said. Not AT ME!

Six and a Half Years Wise

"Don't forget to brush your hair," I called out to my 6 1/2-year-old this morning, as he was in the other room getting ready for school.

"I don't need to," he declared with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "It isn't picture day*!"

* Two weeks ago, I prepared him for picture day at school, putting mousse in his hair and combing and brushing his hair in place.