Old Americans

I have been platinum blonde for most of my adult life.

While various lapses in judgment saw me dabbling in blacks, browns and - gasp - the occasional red, i have long been, and will likely always be a blonde.

My first foray into "other colours" happened in my mid-twenties. Sick of being yet another blonde head in Orange County, CA I concluded that going dark would set me apart from the pack.

And I was right - sort of.

What I didn't anticipate was the resulting chaos that ensued the moment Miss Clairol had finished her filthy business with me.

The litany of horrors stemming from this seemingly harmless change was so overwhelming that friends began to comment it and, eventually, I wrote and self-published a comic aptly titled My Life in Brunette Hell.

There were 7 action-packed issues featuring such memorable moments as "My Maxi Pad Fell Out of My Pants While Talking To A Boy Today" and "Help! My Roommate Barfed on the Sofa With A Cock In Her Mouth" "I Think He's Dead, But His Door is Locked" - and other heartwarming classics.

Years later, I was compelled to start jotting my thoughts down again, and, like any good digital citizen, began to blog.

I was in this period of (what I like to think of as) deep introspection when, walking to work one day, I ran into the older brother of this guy I had been fucking crazy about when I was, like, 15.

Seeing him reminded me of a bunch of shit that I had filed away for what must have been close to 20 years. This prompted me to blog about it in an embarrassingly honest fashion, which is and has always been, my way.

After all, the internet is anonymous, right?

About a month ago I get an email from the subject of said blog.

It took me a moment to register where the fuck I knew the name from - I knew I knew it but from where? Ah yes. Oh fuck. Of course.

A few exchanges back and forth followed by a phone call.

And while I think I already knew the answer I stupidly asked "How the fuck did you find me? The response: "Your blog."

Oh right. That. Apparently a girlfriend of his had found it when Googling his name shortly after it was written, and now - a full six years later - my online rambling had come back to bite me in my (admittedly spectacular) ass.

Swear to god, shit like this can and does only happen to me.

Lucky, lucky me.

Granted, it’s weird talking to someone you never even really knew in the first place; the common thread being the place we grew up and a love of hashish in our formative years but he was funny, sarcastic, a little bit filthy with just a hint of dirt bag. Exactly the way you want to remember the recipient of the second hand job you ever gave to be.

We shot the shit and promised to grab a drink the next time I was out that way again.

Some people don't like to go back to the place where they grew up. Most people I know don't even like to see people they grew up with. But I fucking love it.

I left home at 15 and was spared from having to burn out in the shitty town where I was born. An unplanned pregnancy didn't find me married to someone I went to high school with. As far as I know, none of my friends ever made out with my husband at a keg party in '89. I left before I "needed" to and as a result I do not have a sense of disdain for my past and the people I used to know.

Truth be told, I like going back. It's like a surreal postcard from a former life that, while it seems oddly familiar, is also a little voyeuristic. It’s incredible to be able to catch glimpses of people and places that meant something to you at one time in your life. Things you have forgotten about or, at the very least, never thought you would encounter again when you closed a certain chapter of your life. I won’t lie, I’m a glutton for nostalgia.

And so I emailed and suggested we go for a drink in a few weeks. I had to help my mom with a few errands, and would be out that way regardless.

The whole thing was just so fucking weird I felt it warranted alcohol some degree of self-deprecation – likely mine. Of course I was looking forward to it.

The weekend comes and I drive my ass out to my Moms house, we run some errands, I meet some friends for coffee, look at a horse for a friend’s client, run a few more errands and take my Mom out for dinner at the fucking Mandarin (her choice, not mine.)

And then it dawns on me.

He is going to bail.

I got to Craig’s around 8pm and was greeted by the Mighty Hinshelwood standing in his garage smoking Marlboro Lights wearing track pants.

He ridiculed the parking job I gave my Volvo wagon and invited me in for all Jack and Diet Coke I could drink.

We spent the night with his lovely wife, eating grilled cheese and exchanging sarcastic barbs, crying with laughter as we updated each other on what had happened to whom since the last time we met. Its true, people don’t fundamentally change and I enjoy him now as much as I did when we hung out in his parent’s basement and listened to punk records from England.

On my way out the door the next morning Craig put his arms across his chest and says “So you’ll be sure to call the next time you’re in town and get blown off for drinks by some asshole who is not your husband, right?”

“Fuck off, Craig”

“We love you, Mere”

“I love you too”