assumed it was a rhetorical question, as I was
clearly
in the office; she had just called me there. “You need to be at my place by five thirty,” she continued, without waiting for me to answer. “Scott will be here to pick you up by seven, and we have a lot to go over before then.”
Emmie was apparently taking her job as my dating-slash--acting coach very seriously. She had decided that when Scott called me to set up our date, I was to give him her address and not mine. After all, it wouldn’t make sense for a brainless dancer to be living in a spacious Upper East Side apartment whose sale had required a patent lawyer’s salary, now, would it? Emmie’s tiny East Village third-floor walk-up was much more realistic.
“Why can’t I just arrange to meet him somewhere instead?” I had asked what seemed like the obvious question.
Emmie had sighed impatiently. “
Because,
Harper, the dumb blonde you’re pretending to be isn’t the same empowered twenty-first-century woman you are,” she had explained, like she was talking to, well, a dumb blonde. Hmm, my act was apparently already working. “Pay attention, because if you’re going to play the part, you’re going to have to do it right.”
“Okay,” I said.
She went on to run through a laundry list of dumb-blonde rules. The dumb blonde will not talk politics. The dumb blonde will not disagree with her date. The dumb blonde will not bring topics up, but she’ll cheerfully discuss anything her date brings up, to the best of her rather limited ability. The dumb blonde will always speak in breathless, high-pitched tones. The dumb blonde will speak no more than ten words at a stretch without inserting the word
like
.
Who knew that being a dumb blonde was so hard? I suddenly had new respect for the women who were cursed with too little intelligence and too-easy access to bottles of peroxide. Walking a mile in their stilettos was harder than I had suspected.
I quickly finished the remaining work on the briefs I needed to have ready for a meeting the next day and gathered my things. I was walking out the front door of my Wall Street office building by four forty-five and pulling up to Emmie’s place in a cab by five twenty.
“See, no need to worry,” I said as she opened the door and stared at me. “I’m ten minutes early.”
Emmie looked at me suspiciously. “You also look
way
too smart to be going out on your first dumb-blonde date in an hour and a half.” She shook her head in what appeared to be disappointment with me. I raised an eyebrow at her. “Come on in,” she sighed. “Luckily I brought some blue eyeshadow and bright lipstick home from the set yesterday. I
knew
you couldn’t be trusted to prepare well enough on your own.”
“Blue eyeshadow?” I asked, stepping inside. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”
“Nope!” Emmie said cheerfully as I followed her back toward her bedroom. “It’s very dumb-blonde chic. Besides, blue is back in a big way, if you believe what the fashion magazines are saying.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just when I thought we’d left the eighties behind.” As far as I was concerned, this opened the door to leg warmers, tie-dye, and those little clippy things that tied ’80s T-shirts on the side. Not to mention side ponytails. No, it was better if the door to the ’80s stayed closed. But clearly it was too late for that.
In addition to the blue eyeshadow and bright red lipstick Emmie was about to massacre my face with, she had also brought Dumb Blonde Outfit Number Two home from the set of
The Rich and the Damned.
The moment she pulled it triumphantly out on its hanger to show it to me, I was horrified. The dress was bright blue and skintight, which I was more than a bit concerned about, even after Emmie produced a Spanx girdle—a
girdle
!
—
to help hold me in. The dress was low-cut on top and short on the bottom, and I knew it would barely cover my back end before coming to an abrupt halt midway
clearly
in the office; she had just called me there. “You need to be at my place by five thirty,” she continued, without waiting for me to answer. “Scott will be here to pick you up by seven, and we have a lot to go over before then.”
Emmie was apparently taking her job as my dating-slash--acting coach very seriously. She had decided that when Scott called me to set up our date, I was to give him her address and not mine. After all, it wouldn’t make sense for a brainless dancer to be living in a spacious Upper East Side apartment whose sale had required a patent lawyer’s salary, now, would it? Emmie’s tiny East Village third-floor walk-up was much more realistic.
“Why can’t I just arrange to meet him somewhere instead?” I had asked what seemed like the obvious question.
Emmie had sighed impatiently. “
Because,
Harper, the dumb blonde you’re pretending to be isn’t the same empowered twenty-first-century woman you are,” she had explained, like she was talking to, well, a dumb blonde. Hmm, my act was apparently already working. “Pay attention, because if you’re going to play the part, you’re going to have to do it right.”
“Okay,” I said.
She went on to run through a laundry list of dumb-blonde rules. The dumb blonde will not talk politics. The dumb blonde will not disagree with her date. The dumb blonde will not bring topics up, but she’ll cheerfully discuss anything her date brings up, to the best of her rather limited ability. The dumb blonde will always speak in breathless, high-pitched tones. The dumb blonde will speak no more than ten words at a stretch without inserting the word
like
.
Who knew that being a dumb blonde was so hard? I suddenly had new respect for the women who were cursed with too little intelligence and too-easy access to bottles of peroxide. Walking a mile in their stilettos was harder than I had suspected.
I quickly finished the remaining work on the briefs I needed to have ready for a meeting the next day and gathered my things. I was walking out the front door of my Wall Street office building by four forty-five and pulling up to Emmie’s place in a cab by five twenty.
“See, no need to worry,” I said as she opened the door and stared at me. “I’m ten minutes early.”
Emmie looked at me suspiciously. “You also look
way
too smart to be going out on your first dumb-blonde date in an hour and a half.” She shook her head in what appeared to be disappointment with me. I raised an eyebrow at her. “Come on in,” she sighed. “Luckily I brought some blue eyeshadow and bright lipstick home from the set yesterday. I
knew
you couldn’t be trusted to prepare well enough on your own.”
“Blue eyeshadow?” I asked, stepping inside. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”
“Nope!” Emmie said cheerfully as I followed her back toward her bedroom. “It’s very dumb-blonde chic. Besides, blue is back in a big way, if you believe what the fashion magazines are saying.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just when I thought we’d left the eighties behind.” As far as I was concerned, this opened the door to leg warmers, tie-dye, and those little clippy things that tied ’80s T-shirts on the side. Not to mention side ponytails. No, it was better if the door to the ’80s stayed closed. But clearly it was too late for that.
In addition to the blue eyeshadow and bright red lipstick Emmie was about to massacre my face with, she had also brought Dumb Blonde Outfit Number Two home from the set of
The Rich and the Damned.
The moment she pulled it triumphantly out on its hanger to show it to me, I was horrified. The dress was bright blue and skintight, which I was more than a bit concerned about, even after Emmie produced a Spanx girdle—a
girdle
!
—
to help hold me in. The dress was low-cut on top and short on the bottom, and I knew it would barely cover my back end before coming to an abrupt halt midway
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