The Smoking Contract

I've got a new man in my life.  And by new man I actually mean a guy I've dated for a while but haven't talked about.  It's not that I don't want to talk about him, it's that for some reason blogging seems to jinx my relationships.  Of course it could also have a lot to do with the fact that I've had rather horrible taste in men in the past.  Horrible, horrible taste.  Naturally, that probably leads you to question my taste this time around.  Fear not, this time I have found myself a nice guy.  I'm talking southern gentleman nice.  And he's tall.  So in tall in fact that he makes me look short even in my most towering of heels.  He is six feet, eight inches of pure tall, dark and handsome awesomeness.  Plus he was a college athlete like me.  Plus he sings.  Plus he cooks me dinner.  As far as I'm concerned he's a keeper.

But not everyone can be perfect.  Even tall, gorgeous, compatible men.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend decides to have a vice that frankly disgusts the shit right out of you.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend smokes.  And that is a major turn-off.  Once upon a time I decided I would never date a smoker.  Then Dreamy came along and I broke my rule right in half.  Now by broke my rule I really mean that I pester him relentlessly to quit smoking.  And I never kiss him after a cigarette.  Maybe that sounds mean, but he's wanted to quit.  Why not help him along a bit by withholding my sweet kisses?

So he's been trying to quit.  Not so much for me, but for himself.  It hasn't been easy for him and though he's cut back significantly he still can't seem to completely kick it.  Which is understandable; it's addictive I hear.  So what are a boy and his adorable girlfriend to do?  Well they make a contract.  Wait, what?  Yeah, they make a contract.  He quits and I do something for him.  So what does he get out of quitting?  He gets blonde Sauce.

You see, long ago in the ancient times of two and a half years ago I was blonde.  In fact though I'm now brunette I was blonde for 23 whole years.  That's a lot of blondeness.  But one day this blonde decided to become a brunette.  And then cut her once long hair into a short A-line cut.  You could call it a change.  A sexy change that got tons of compliments.  But not everyone was happy with the new brunette Sauce.  By everyone I mean my Dutch dad.  After all what is more Dutch than a tall, blonde chick?  Well maybe a tall, blonde chick in wooden shoes, but you get the idea.

Then Dreamy came along and, after seeing a few pictures, joined team dad.  He wanted to see the blonde in person and not just in a bunch of old Facebook albums.  So after some thought I decided to offer to dye my hair in exchange for him quitting smoking.  And he loved it.  If he can quit smoking and maintain it for two months - and my spies confirm - I will become blonde once again.  I think it's a fair trade. 

By Christmas we may again have a blonde Sauce on our hands.  Don't worry, I won't let all the dye go to my head.