Tacky Blonde Ladies

I have recently discovered a trend that has most likely spanned the course of my life without my knowledge: a particular affinity for Tacky Blonde Ladies. Wherever I am, if there is a Tacky Blonde Lady in the immediate vicinity, any demons brewing within me are instantly appeased and my mood noticeably brightens. But what classifies such an elusive creature? And why are they such a priceless commodity in my mind? So many questions, the possibility for so few answers.

The first qualifier to be a Tacky Blonde Lady is that, of course, she should not be naturally blonde. The hair should be multiply-processed, so that it achieves a consistency rather like that of straw, and if roots are visible, all the better. Makeup is overdone - I saw a stunning example last night that involved quite a liberal use of lipliner, a rare treasure. In keeping with the tacky theme, clothing should be gaudy - beaded, spangled, fringed, or bedazzled, and far too tight, too short, too low-cut. The general effect should be that on an inhabitant of the tri-state region (excepting Connecticut) with a sincere appreciation of the 1980s.

As for demeanor, such Tacky Blonde Ladies can run the spectrum from slightly overly friendly to the full-on touchy and brassy, sprinkling her conversations with an overuse of "hon". One such example witnessed in her native habitat of New York (though probably née in New Jersey, come to think of it) several months ago managed to work her waitress's name (the wrong name, I might add) into two out of every three sentences! "Oh my God, Danielle [Stephanie], this salad is amazing. Danielle, you're our favorite waitress here. You make every visit such a delight, Danielle." Ad infinitum. This fine specimen was dining with her husband who was approximately 20 years her senior, probably a doctor from the looks of him - one of those men who, in exasperation of never being able to get a word in edgewise, has simply given up. She touched and patted him constantly throughout the meal, as Tacky Blonde Ladies love interpersonal contact, and chattered at him, eyes sparkling to match her outfit.

Needless to say, much like StephanieDanielle made her meal, so she made mine. There is something about Tacky Blonde Ladies that draws me to them, making me feel like I know them, making me want to talk to them. Call it charisma, call it rubbernecking at the scene of a horrible wreck, they make me want to know more. I have no idea why they comfort me so, make me feel at home; Lord knows my own mother, though blonde, is about the farthest thing from a Tacky Blonde Lady. Perhaps somewhere buried deep in my childhood was an encounter with a Linda or a Suzanne from Hoboken or Astoria who saw a young girl in need of guidance, and so unbeknownst to me, bestowed her unending wisdom upon me, binding me to her forever. Or perhaps it was the fact that much of my formative era was spent with the New York Jew neighbors at their family gatherings. Whatever it is, my life just would not be the same without them...I would not be the same without them.