I woke up one day and decided to start chronicling my life.  Maybe it’s because I’m an only child, and a spinster at that, and I want to make sure I leave something behind.  I’m doing this mostly for me, but if other people want to read it, that’s fantastic, and the relative anonymity of the Web means that if I occasionally overshare, the potential consequences are far less severe than if I were to overshare to my actual acquaintances.  Heck, in a previous incarnation of this blog, I even overshared about naked squirrel wrestling, and nobody cared!

So, the name.  “Raspberry Blonde.”  Well, when I was little was a shade one might call strawberry blonde.  And, when I was little, I was violently, swell-up-and-go-to-the-hospital allercic to strawberries.  My mom taught me to announce this whenever anyone offered me something red to eat or drink, because strawberries are sneaky little buggers and can be found lurking in many red foods; therefore, then people would comment on my strawberry blonde hair, I would correct them and tell them that I could not possibly be a strawberry blonde, because I was allergic to strawberries, that I was a raspberry blonde instead, because I could eat those.

While my allergy to strawberries persists to this day, any berry shade to be found in my hair comes from a box.  But deep in my heart, I will always be a raspberry blonde.


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