Poison Control

OK...technically, I might have ended up poisoning myself with nicotine. I am hopeful I will survive, but I will be on medical absence until late tomorrow. 

I am certain the MD will call me an idiot and send me home with a prescription for a tattoo that says:

"Warning, Blonde...use Extreme Caution"

The Blonde needs professional help!!

Oh Tenanbaum

Oh, Tenembaum

your slowly killing me...

Oh, Tenembaum

Your sticky sap has left its mark

and I am doomed to death by allergy...

Yeah!!

It's December and I am back in Austin, which means I am beginning my mutation from normal fun loving blond to that hideous creature with half massed eyes and puffy nose with itchy hair and a groggy voice.

To spice up the true flavor of the allergy season, I bought too strong a strength of nicotine patches, to help me lose weight. The CQ 3 step program ('Good Book' not included) has given me nightmares, body aches, and lungs that breath in slump mode. My previous method of keeping the weight off was to skip dinner and have a few glasses of wine and a couple of Nat Sherman Fantasias, but since the weather has turned, it is no longer a pleasing diet plan to me. The patches, I thought, offered an inside solution until spring time, when I may sit on my beloved porch and be the decadent writer I truly love to be. Due to the unexpected side effects, I tried to remove the patch only to receive withdrawals that would usually plague someone with a two pack-a-day habit and uses heroine for night caps.

I would call CQ to complain but since I am too ill to eat, drink, or ever think of smoking again, I realize I have nothing to voice concern about. It seems the patches did work, after all, in a weird masochistic kind of way.

My cats are all to thrilled to have their surrogate slave back, even if it is in sick mode, and they have welcomed me home with the gift of cedar fever. They roll around on the ground and revel in the fallen spores as if they found a garden of catnip; they climb into my bed, sleep on my head, and need my hair until its matted to the pillow. It is out of great love for themselves they do this, ensuring their blonde quazi monstress will not be venturing out past their feeding ground of guilt any time soon, thus securing their future feasts by my hand.

This season, my Santa has an MD behind his name and will stuff my stocking with a plethora of little pills to squash those devil elves that bring stuffy nose, fever, and ache to all the naughty boys and girls on their list.

The Blonde Betty is singing the Holiday blues!!

I Left My Heart in Santa Fe

Sadly I had to leave my pilot and come home. My only regret is not having used the fireplace for a romantic ending. I was not sad to leave Santa Fe, but I could feel my throat choke up at the thought of saying goodbye to my wing man.

I left just as the snow began to blanket the desert ground. I thought to myself that without a private hot tub, balcony with a view, and my fly guy, I wouldn't have seen the the full beauty of the snow as I had it painted it in my head, anyway.

I reached Dallas just before traffic was to hit so I waited it out in a lovely story book diner before attempting my ride back to Austin. As I headed out to my auto, the cold front whipped at my hair like only the breath of Jack Frost can blow. I got into my mechanically plagued jag and headed south only to find Jack's fury escalated and he began spitting sleet. I had to pull over because when attempting to turn on my wiper, the thing flew off quicker than Donner and Blitzen and jetted 30 feet over the guard rail. I was not about to get out of the vehicle and scamper on the side of the highway for my blade so I engine crawled the car along the shoulder until the nearest hotel approached...well, the nearest nicest hotel approached. The hotel was very zen and after losing my heart and my wiper blade...I was only too happy to settle into sanctuary for one evening.

In the morning I took off for Austin only to have my steering lock up and I had to veer off the road to safety. Once again, I crawled my antiquity to the nearest station and recapped my steering and headed home. In Austin less than 10 miles from my house, a driver in a beat up-pick up side-swiped my old darling. As I pulled over onto the shoulder, the other driver hit the gas and took off. My jag, the poor girl began to cry and cry like only a British car can. I let her vent for a minute before pulling back into traffic, rolling along the last stretch of tar until we found rest at mi Casa de familia.

My British beauty needs a little more attention than most but I adore her and though we had a few troubles along our way, I just can't imagine giving her up for something new.

Blondes will always love the older models!!

Santa Fe Foto Fest

Blonde's love a visual romance!!

I Am

The Blonde dislikes being alone when traveling!!!