Maybe that's what I'm missing in my Musings - a bubbly infusion! Pink Champagne is my favorite - it goes with the streak in my hair. Each fizzy sip from a perfect flute might inspire giddy lines pertaining to subjects to which some might object - a perfect combination!  As for being gayer - well, then I'd be in esteemed company.  That's the best way to make me send a thank you note immediately.  Today's menu:  Champagne for Blondie, served with a smile and a wiggle.
 

I like guys who know how to dress - no slouchy t-shirts and backwards ball caps in their closets.  It's the natural prowler poured into a pair of perfect black slacks whom I most admire.  I salute men who have that sweet swagger - the kind that arrives below a sideways grin that says they're oh-so-lowslung and handle smooth around the curves. Give me a man who owns his sexual voltage, who never wields his sinuosity to woo swooning one-nighters or silly lost-your-numbers.  This way of walking speaks zen in the best possible sense of the sound of one man seating himself in my company at an elegant repast without straining to fit the moment because he's already unfolding into the next sequence of breath and heart and promise. I believe in well-dressed men - whether gay, straight, bi, trans, questioning - metrosexual, macho, monogamous or polyamorous - those not shy of their gleam, their own clean sheen in the candlelight where we sit together, smiling and dining.
 

I’ve always had the hips I have – in the South they’ve inspired men to ask me to have their “young’uns,” and they come in handy when I need to balance an armload of books on my way to readings. 

The hips I have won’t let me wear low-slung jeans, those hot hiphuggers, for above my hips I have an actual waist that wants a waistband around it. Hiphuggers feel like they’re sliding around on two ship prows when they’re on me, and I’m always – you guessed it – hitching them up. 

My favorite jeans are roomy, with appliqués on the legs; they stretch in all the right places so I can move and bend and breathe.  I admire the hiphugger women, those svelte size 2s with hips like gourmet cheese wedges, but my own hips won’t let me consider anything so diminutive.

That means I’m always behind the trendsetters – from the waist down, anyway, and can’t slink into my pants like I’m liquid butter.  Instead, I have to hop and twist, then inhale and zip.  My hips like to be size 8 – at least!  It’s fun to hear me shriek in dressing room boutiques – at least for me.  If I were sleek I would only whisper. 

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give me back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
"What a big book for such a little head!"

Edna St. Vincent Millay, early 20^th century

“I am not a pretty girl.
That is not what I do.”

Ani DiFranco, late 20^th century

I like to play dumb for ironical purposes;
it’s the vamp-camp thing. So many believe it
that I once created a testosterone circus. 
Whether or not I’m pretty remains to be seen,
but I am pretty funny - and feisty -
and I like to read in limousines.

The Tattooed Blonde, early 21^st century
 

What if I introduced myself as "Blonde, Just Blonde"?  Would I be as debonair as Daniel Craig?  He's blonde.  Would I discover "Blondetinis" on the menu of every chic martini bar, and would I create a shake, not a stir, when I entered?  Would I sustain phenomenal grace under pressure, drive every fast car like a panther in a prizefight, and always look good in a suit?  Best of all, would women stare me down, say things like "I'm the money" and stake me in casinos?