Getting Gorgeous Part I: Exclusive Interview with Image Consultant Keri Blair

by Julie Robinson

 Some people get the baby bug.  Other people feel compelled to root for the Red Sox.  Still others want nothing more than to get as many Facebook friends as humanly possible. What’s my new obsession?  I want to be gorgeous.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been reasonably satisfied with how I look.  I don’t exactly check myself out in the rearview mirror at stop lights (okay, I do that) but in general I have a moderately healthy self image.

That’s all changed and I think it may surprise you how:  I had a man in my life who regularly told me I was sexy, beautiful, and hot.  Now, look at that sentence again.  Yep.  Past tense.  He’s stopped doing that.

Without that regular shot of ego-boost I’m struggling a bit with how I feel about myself.  I don’t think I look any worse now that Kenny has decided to start ignoring me, but I sure as hell feel worse.

Women who are single go to great extremes in order to change that solo status.  I know that all too well seeing that I haven’t had a real boyfriend for nearly three years.  We read books, blogs, magazines, and consult friends about what we can do to get back to girlfriendland.  I’ve done all that.  What I have NOT done until now is consult an expert.  A real live image consultant.

I may not be Demi Moore, but I’m hell bent on looking like an A-lister now that I’m officially back on the market without a twenty-nine-year-old hottie to keep me feeling all perky and shit.

I met Keri Blair a few weeks ago and knew instantly that she was going to be a very valuable fixture in my life.  Keri and her team of image consultants and stylists help their clients look the absolute best they can.  That’s my No.1 priority now (besides remembering to feed my dog) and so I signed up.

Be/Fri . . . . St/Ends

by Julie Robinson
 In some circles he would be referred to as my “work husband” except for one little detail about me not really having employment right now.  If he was gay I would be his fag hag, but alas he doesn’t swing that way (for those of you who do, I would LOVE to get a chance to interview for that role).  He calls me his “best friend,” which kinda rubs me the wrong way seeing that I never had one of those broken apart necklaces with anyone in middle school, and I doubt I could ever get him to wear his half. 

Besides, when I introduce him to the men I’m dating and Troy goes around saying that I’m his best friend it takes my love interests back a bit.  Men and women cannot just be friends.  I’ve heard this sentiment before (ugh, who hasn’t?) and I’ve never really bought into it seeing that I’m a very good test taker and choosing options with the words “never” and “always” are not typically the right answer. 

So, why is it that Troy and are I friends (and friends alone) when both of us are very single and seem so compatible?

As If I Need One More Reason Why I Want a Boyfriend this Christmas

by Julie Robinson

Hating the holidays is such a cliché, isn’t it?  Friends and acquaintances from dysfunctional families use the holidays as an excuse to completely monopolize conversations that would otherwise be entirely focused on ME.  The holidays for me churn up all sorts of nostalgia.  I don’t think wistfully of Christmas’s past—rather, I dream up holidays that will be in my future. 

Sooner rather than later (I hope) I will have a boyfriend for the holidays.  Like many single women, images of this boyfriend are what float in our heads instead of those stupid sugar plums.  Naked. 

While I have reasons all year long for why I would like to have a boyfriend—the list has grown exponentially longer now that Saint Nick will be visiting soon—‘tis the season!  

1.      My fantasy holiday boyfriend (FHB) loves cuddling by the roaring fire.  He is so sweet that when the logs burn low he heads outside with his axe, takes off his shirt so I have a view, and whacks away at the neighbor’s tree.

Is it a Sext or is it Smut?

by Julie Robinson

It is 8:30 in the morning and my phone sounds like a pinball machine—intermittent pings followed by a steady stream of bells and whistles.  They are text messages being shot off by random men and most of them contain cock shots.

“Hello?  Julie?”  I finally had to answer the phone.  The barrage showed no sign of lightening up and I had a client coming soon who needed to call me so I could let her in. 

I cut right to the chase and asked, “Where did you get my number?”  

“I saw your ad on Craigslist?  The one saying you were up for anything?  Is that true . . . . because I would really like to . . .”

Click.  I had heard enough.

These Are a Few . . . .

by Julie Robinson

Blessed may feel like an unusual word for someone who doesn’t have much of a relationship with God.  I get that.  I also understand if you read this and wonder why I’m feeling so blessed these days even though I work seven days a week, can’t pay my bills, have a roommate even though I’m well into my 40’s, am single (duh), and will be without health insurance  come spring.  Scratching your head a bit, aren’t you? 

I hate the whole cup half-full metaphor, but my world really is a lot easier to accept with an alternative perspective.  I left a career that was drowning me daily.  I LOVE my friends and family.  I live in Denver—unless you do too, that may not be an obvious one.  Bennett is my very necessary and loving companion.  And . . . .

For some reason none of us will ever really understand—you are reading this.  NOW.  And you may even come back again or search through older blog posts.  I haven’t made a cent from my writing—EVER—but I’m still writing eighteen months after I left a salaried job so that I could write.  I still love typing out crazy stories on my not-so-super-reliable computer, and I laugh a lot more at my antics than I cry.  Bonus.

The Approach: Turning Initial Attraction into the Right Kind of Attention

by Julie Robinson 

 “All I can say is, ‘WOW’,” my brand spanking new No. 1 fan says with so much enthusiasm I have to look over at my friend Troy who—surprise, surprise—is rolling his eyes to high heaven.  “You are quite a singer there, little lady—no disrespect to you,” he motions to Troy who simply shrugs his shoulders. 

“Don’t worry about him,” I say waving my hands around Troy like a flaming traffic cop.  “He’s my buddy.”

After my Biggest Fan Ever lumbers away Troy leans over obviously pissed, “What do you mean ‘Nobody’? When did I become NOBODY to you?” We both laugh at the confusion and stop abruptly as we notice Biggest Fan Ever hovering over us.

BFE:  Here’s my phone number.  I really hope you call me.  I was so incredibly impressed with your stage presence.  Call me, okay?  You’re gonna call me, right?

ME:  What’s your name, anyway?

BFE:  Ricky.  As in Ricky Martin?  Okay.  I have to go meet up with my friends—don’t forget to call me.  I really want you to call me. 

Ricky is a tall, thin, really tan and handsome man who probably—based on his level of excitement--dabbles a bit too much with crack cocaine.  That or he didn’t take his meds at all this week and is spiraling into a fit of mania.  Troy and I agree that my rendition of Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason to Stay Here” doesn’t warrant his level of euphoria, but I also question his approach:  Would I have been happy to call this man if he approached me differently?