Day Five: Fun With Math!

1) Word Problem
Mandy plans to fly to Eastern City to be driven by Ex-Lover to his home for “friend time”. Ex-Lover writes that she should instead fly into Midwestern City where her car is parked and drive to meet him, but he’s not sure if he will be coming home Sunday or Monday. If Mandy’s home is North of Midwestern City, and Ex-Lover’s home is South of Midwestern City, how many hours should Mandy wait in the airport for Lover to decide at the last minute whether he will leave Eastern City and meet Mandy at his home?

Bonus: By what exponential factor does Ex-Lover’s classiness decrease when he informs Mandy of this plan via email?

2) True or False?
Ex-Lover has actually told Cute Girl that Mandy has been invited to spend a week with him in a distant city, which has been planned for more than a month.

3) Graphing.
Using a standard graph, plot a parabola to represent Lover’s feelings towards Cute Girl. Plot another, opposing parabola to represent the number of conversations per week between Mandy and Lover. Label the intersections of the two lines, “I really miss sleeping next to you.”

4) Multiple Choice.
Beautiful Girl tells Mandy, “He’s not worth it, get over him.” A wise friend whose advice Mandy trusts tells her, “He is being incredibly selfish by continuing to engage with you in this way.” Power Girl tells Mandy, “Get over it already.” Mandy thinks to herself, “He wants to have the wonderful friendship we always had, but he had it when he was treating me well and now that is no longer the case. It feels good to be comfortable with him, but afterwards I’m a wreck.” Mandy will:

a) Get a fucking life, count her blessings and get over it.
b) Delete him out of her email address book, phone, Myspace and Facebook, tell him not to call, text, email, message or poke her, and try very hard to mean it.
c) Enjoy only the company of friends who do not expect her to be totally okay with being betrayed and lied to on a fundamental level that violates everything that has come before.
d) Think that anyone who describes his time with her as being a “bad person” while describing being with the new girl he lied to Mandy about and betrayed her with as a “fresh start” is a clueless puddle of insulting slime who is pretty much flat out saying that Mandy’s trash.
e) All of the above.
f) None of the above, Mandy has the self-respect of a walnut.

Extra Credit: Describe your most memorable, triumphant break-up moment.

When finished, turn in your papers and ask for a library pass. Make sure all your work is in number 2 pencil and that you have filled in the entire circle with a dark mark.

Power Girl's Guide to Getting Free* Drinks

*so long as you are a fairly attractive girl with good fashion sense and a sparkling conversationalist.


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Yes, Gentle Readers, it's time to kick off your weekend with How About Now?'s first-ever post from a guest writer. Power Girl speaks, as it were, and hopefully you will be the beneficiaries. And yes, this does work better for women, but if there are any brave Gentle Male Readers out there, I'd be curious to know what happens if you give these (ahem)well-researched techniques a shot. I turn the floor to her:


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POWER GIRL'S GUIDE TO GETTING FREE* DRINKS: TIPS


TRAINING
Have yourself a merry little workout at the gym, (the kind that leaves you with more energy vs. snoring on the beer-spilled table, and not so strenuous that you can’t move the next morning should you need to make a quick panty-grab-power-walk of shame,) then make plans to go out with your fave gal pal. The pump-up from the gym should give you a general glow that carries with you throughout the night. Make sure to shower part of that glow off before going out.

Gal Pal: Choosing the right friend is important; the dynamic between you and gal pal must be such that you can carry an intelligent conversation about nothing for several hours at a time and with ease; you don’t want to have to try too hard.

The magic number is two. You and gal pal. No dudes, no tag-a-longs. Three is intimidating, and most guys only fly with one wingman. Also, most men are TERRIFIED of women. Recent discussions with male friends and strangers have revealed that the male gender is threatened by the female gender on the basis that women have the ability to hurt men, and men are terrified by the prospect of getting their delicate little hearts broken. This had never occurred to me before, partly because I’m uber considerate of my significant others feelings and wants and desires and would never do anything ever in the world to hurt them (read: doormat), and partly because I lack general common sense. I’ve lacked it so you don’t have to. One lady is desperate, two chicks = safe and inviting, and three is a girls night out. Want drinks? Two chicks.

Physically you and gal pal should both be incredibly attractive and fulfill two different types, i.e. boobs vs. long and leggy. Great smiles and warm laughs a must. Also points if your hair is drastically a different color, so long as it’s not red. Redheads buy their own drinks. Unless they are being paid for their time (read: sex). Then they better damn well be having-their-drinks-bought-for-them-you-cheap-bastards. If you are a civilian red, grab a bottle of peroxide, stat. Blondes have more fun.

Don’t bring your Mom. She does not qualify as your gal pal, no matter how much you love her (read: no matter how much liquor she’ll pay for), and it will only lead to cock blocking later.

WARM UP
At home getting ready: while gal pal rants once again on speakerphone how she needs to just casually date someone to take her mind off ‘the one’ (you know, ‘the one’ who screws her over time and time again, when will my bitches ever learn?), pop two slices of leftover Hot-n-Ready pizza in the microwave and start the bath water so it will be scorching when you hop in. Rummage through your closet and select no less than five complete outfits, and remember to throw a timely “Yeah!” and “Uh huh.” and “He’s such a douche-bag.” to gal pal so she doesn’t catch on that you’re totally fazing her out. Don’t feel too bad about this. Hang up and hop in the shower. As you rub-a-dub your body and face, visualize the no-less-than five outfits and create quick hair and makeup schemes for each. When thoughts of your recently failed relationship creep in the shower with you, and the ghost of him haunts you about how you really blew something beautiful and true, kick it all out ASAP. While you’re at it, purge your soul of all deep thought. Let it wash down the hair-clogged drain. Tonight is about being a vapid, fun-loving hottie, and there is not enough room for you and sentimentality in your tiny, time-efficient bathroom (you know, the kind where you can BM and wash your hair at the same time). Don’t bother washing your hair; it will only smell like smoke when you get home at 4 in the morning.

A quick towel dry and you’re ready for your fashion parade. Try on several of the outfits before realizing that all of them look like you’re trying too hard, especially the almost-too-short skirt. ‘Tis the season. So DO NOT WEAR: Tank tops, halters, tube tops (never, never wear tube tops), shirts with glitter or sparkly sequins (unless a retro piece, and then you better have removed the shoulder pads), things that show too much cleavage, shirts that show midriff/midback. These fashion faux pas all scream cheap trash and date rape, and if you’ve gathered anything from Mandy’s blog, I hope it’s a sense of self-worth. You are probably worth more than the clearance rack at DEB. Remember, you don’t want to look like you’re TRYING too hard. These girls are ALWAYS trying too hard.

Dig through your recently dirty clothes and find that new top you just bought and only wore once. Give it a smell test. When it passes, grab another funky shirt and go for a trendy layering look. Change your pants. Change them back. Just wear jeans. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. Mascara, liner, shadow, designer boots (minimal, if any, heel), and, the finishing touch...


The MAGIC hat: Wear a hat. But first, rules: One and ONLY one of you should be wearing an hat on any given outing otherwise it will look like you and gal pal are exactly the same and you coordinated what you were wearing to match and that is totally trying too hard. Also, it helps if the less sparkling of the two conversationalists adorns the headpiece; don’t let ego get in the way here. The hat gets the notice, the head keeps them buying. Wearing a hat can even hide the fact that you aren’t as clever. It’s a mask, a shield, bright red wool shrouding you with mystery and rendering you all the more desirable. Trust me, trust me, trust me, I don’t know WHY the hat works, but it does. If you aren’t getting at least five “nice hat!”-s a night, you need a new hat. I recommend something brightly colored that doesn’t blend into your dark surroundings. Nothing with twinkles or jewels. Vintage ok but don’t take it too seriously. Don’t match your shirt; you don’t want to blend into yourself. I usually go for red (don’t wear purple).

The entire process, from the moment you enter your apartment to the second you leave, should take no more than 25 minutes. Any longer and it will APPEAR like you’re trying too hard.

PREGAME
Race out to gal pal’s neck of the city and rescue her from some drab engagement: bland family dinner, bad first coffee date, baby-loving-conservative-band audition hell… It’s good if your friend has a prior engagement. Creates a sense of urgency and excitement for the rest of the evening– oh, the getaway!

Go into the first dive-bar that’s open on a Monday night. Realize it isn’t as dodgy as you had hoped, and note the general lack of clientele. The fat chick and her lax beau playing KENO aren’t likely to ask what you’re drinking. It’s your turn to buy the first round. Ask gal pal what she wants, knowing you’ll end up with 2 of what you want anyway. Paying with a credit card? Close it out immediately. You’ll be on your way to somewhere else as soon as the last swig is swallowed.

When a gaggling group of already-wasted-at-9-and-a-half-pm girls comes in (most of them will be overweight and wearing ill-fitting clothes that show too much skin, all of their shirts sparkle in some way, and they are trying way, way too hard), switch tables. Do not feel bad about this; their squealing is irritating and damaging your important (read: pretentious) convo with gal pal, and their aura of desperation might be contagious.

When the first drunk man of the evening (there will be several) trips and lands at your feet, and you debate whether or not to help him back up, and he looks up and says, “Wow! What a great hat!” and you think, “Wow, what a great …straggly patch of chest hair,” actually say, in an exuberant voice to match his, “Wow! Thanks!” No sense in being ungracious. Chug the last of your brews with gal pal and hightail it out of loser central. Never stay in the first bar. It shows you settle too easy, lack taste, and have nowhere better to be.

PLAY BALL:
Drive to the new indie bar with the open mic night in the outskirts of town. Pray there isn’t a cover. Wonder why you feel a bit woozy after one beer, then remember the pizza you left in the microwave. Grab some popcorn and a table near the back. Not the very back, that’s reserved for skanks who are so drunk they make out with you AT the bar. You don’t want to try that hard. Your friend’s round, she’ll come back with the microbrew special.

Bait, set, trap. You have: No mothers, one hat, two hot chicks that are obviously having a marvelous time, and a table for four with two empty chairs in a really happening joint.


Remember, you are not looking for a good time; you’re already having a good time. Occasional eye contact/smile/nod with potential drink buyers is always encouraged, but your table, and your conversation with gal pal, is THE place to be, and THE thing to do. If you have followed these tips carefully, the rest will take care of itself, and you and gal pal will be drinking a la free the rest of the night.

The secret is in the set up; the game is gravy. Relax with your gal pal, don’t get caught trying too hard, and you’re in like Flynn. He’d buy you drinks too.

Merry Christmas!

Ahh, Gentle Readers, you suspect that Mandy has, in the post-prandial haze of the Big Day, gotten lost in the calendar. True, there was a longish celebration, starting with the pre-holiday kitchen scrub (this is the time of year when I take everything off of the shelves and out of the cupboards so as to start clean, bless my mother for taking off the back of the fridge and vaccuuming that part you're supposed to vaccuum but never do), moving through cranberry sauce, stuffing and apple pies, culminating in broccoli, roast asparagus with parmesan, mushrooms sauteed in merlot, root vegetable salad, vegetarian stuffing (yes, it can be done), mincemeat pie, a vat of gravy and a 22 pound bird, because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. All the fun and none of the stress and disappointment of That Other Winter Holiday. Plus, since we typically spend it alone, Husband and I view it as our anniversary and Valentine’s Day wrapped into one. This year there were guests, so I wore a dress with the pearls, heels, and pink gingham apron.

But on to Christmas. Or Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, La Posadas, O-Shogatsu, St. Lucia Day, Eid al-Fitr, Yule, whatever you celebrate. Probably not appropriate for Ramadan. The last time I offered a prize it went over so well that I’d like to up the ante a little and send out some holiday gifts. It's also a bit of a commemoration, given that I started writing here on Christmas Day last year...

Inside the gold-wrapped box that doesn’t rattle, light enough to hide in the branches of the tree…the Muse Mix CD. Nifty songs that inspire me, some of which have been quoted or referred to here. Some you will have heard, others will be obscure, some unreleased. There *may* be music from ex-Lover, Folk Rocker, Beautiful Girl, Famous, Man Who Loves Stars, Secret Scientist and/or Hairline Boy (I’ll never tell, you’ll have to guess). Some will make you laugh, others will make you thoughtful, one makes me cry.

Tell us, Mandy, how do we obtain such a prize? And without compromising our privacy?

Email me (see box at right. Your right. The left hand makes an L.) with an address at which you can receive your pressie. Some ideas:

1) I don’t care, send it to my real name at my real address.

2) I’m a little cagy. Send it to a fake name at my real address, or my initials at a friend’s address, or my first initial and last name or vice versa.

3) I’m willing to put in some effort. Send it to General Delivery at the big post office in my city. I’ll either give enough of my real name to show ID when I get it, or I’ll take my chances that they’ll give it to me without ID, especially if Mandy writes on it, “please, no ID needed for pickup”.

4) I’m willing to put in some effort and spend some cash. Send it to a PO Box, or a business like Mail Boxes Etc where I’ve made a deal to get one piece of mail and vanish into the night.

5) I have a better idea. And I’m mentioning it in the comments so that other people can use it, too.

I will, of course, be sending them from a city in which I do not live. Or even live near. Which means the deadline for you to get it in time for the holidays is December 5th. Requests received later will not be honored until January, in which case you may celebrate by opening your trinket on Twelfth Night.

I’m a little uncertain that there may yet be some huge snag I haven’t anticipated, or that Gentle Readers will not want to be contacted in any real way, but hey, it’s worth a shot. No-one has to play unless they want to.

Best wishes and Happy Holidays.

Oh, and around the dinner table? Somehow, “by the way, I’m a whore” never really came up…

Retail Therapy

Power Girl and I have a Theory of Retail Therapy. Not to be confused with “shopping.” Or “browsing.” Or even “hanging out at the mall.” Retail Therapy is when the list is not the point, the looking is not the point, even, to some extent, the hanging out with your dear friend who knows almost everything about you, tucks away in her own small heart the whoring and the slutting around and the desperate insecurity, is not the point. Retail Therapy is when your dog dies, your cancer comes back, your relationship is over and you’re reduced, physically and/or emotionally, to frantic dry heaving before every meal. Retail Therapy is about regaining control. Being in charge of your own life despite the forces of death, love and metastasization.

The Theory: If it is perfect, it is worth any price. If it is imperfect, it is to be instantly forgotten.

Shopping in this way, purchasing in this way, is intensely powerful. Meeting the saleslady’s eyes over your armful of potential, knowing that if the item is right, you will make her day, if the item is wrong, there will be no regrets.

Expedition One: An exclusive (how exclusive can it be when Banana Republic is there? We think it actually means “no food court”) mall on the East Coast. A grey, rainy day. Power Girl and I plunge into Bloomingdales and try on perhaps forty formal and cocktail gowns with two specific occasions in mind. Our saleslady is a treasure, one who has the guts to say, “No, that’s not you,” rather than shark us. We have her hold five dresses and head to Bebe, where we are requested to leave our clutch purses at the counter. Next! A small boutique of many designers. One dress is great, but not exactly what I need. Next! Another is smashing, but not special enough for $800 (I think I can get something similar for under $500). Next! Coffee break. Power Girl has chai and an almond cranberry pastry, I have warm milk with a splash of coffee (my new indulgence) and an orange and chocolate croissant. Ladies who lunch are lunching around us, petit fours on tiny china plates, incongruous plastic spoons. We return to Bloomingdales and end up with seven dresses. Damage: $1500, including clearances, bonus markdowns from the saleslady, and a 10% thank-you-for-opening-an-account-with-Bloomingdales discount. Not too bad considering the biggest chunk was a $785 floor-length formal, fine-pleated navy chiffon, Grecian, stunning. It’s my first formal that looks nothing like any prom from any era. Mary Pickford would have worn this before shedding it in a heap on the floor to frolic in the indoor pool, Douglas Fairbanks a slick baby seal by her side.

Power Girl hunts fruitlessly through the rest of Bloomies, Coach and Banana for a bag (we eventually find it at Target for $5 on last-chance clearance), I pick up a little red ipod and accessories, we head to Chinatown, park in the first spot we see, enter the first restaurant by the car, and plunge down rickety stairs to a room in which we are the only non-Chinese. Metaphorical chopsticks drop to the tables before the room resumes chatting among themselves in Cantonese. Jackpot! Even the college students who drift in cross the language barrier at the door, sound-sound-sound-“computer lab”-sound-sound-long syllable-“research paper”. We invite a lady waiting for her party (there’s no wait-seating) to sit with us, and she teaches us about vinegar in the soup, gives us her card, invites us to call next time we are in town. It is the best Chinese I’ve ever eaten.

Damage for the day, including parking, lunch, dinner and the airport tolls from picking up another friend and Secret Scientist who squeezed next to me in the backseat with the bags and softly held my hand the whole way home: $2135.

Expedition Two: I have measured my finances (I’m saving up for either new windows or a trip to Europe as a present for Husband, not sure if warm toes and a lower gas bill or the alleys of Amsterdam are a better birthday surprise) and decided that I will blow all of my last present/fee/ill-gotten-gains from Be-My-Real-Friend on happy shopping. I count the already-therapeutic ipod in this. Power Girl has decided her latest bonus is meant to be perfect boots and some new clothes. We head to Toronto, land of shopping, though the dollar right now is hurting rather than helping us. Screw it. It’s time to pay any price for perfection.


Esprit: t-shirts from clearance.
Roberto Couture: boots for Power Girl. More than she has ever spent on shoes.
Some Sort of Older Woman Store I Normally Wouldn’t Shop In But That Turns Out to Have Amazing, Sexy-Classy Shirts and Blouses: two blouses and a skirt. More than I would normally pay, but two weeks later I’m still getting great feedback on the shirts.
Food Court: Bagel sandwich for Power Girl, spicy tuna roll for me.
My Favorite Lingerie Store Ever (Tacky Name, Ugly Lighting, and the Greatest Bra Saleslady in the World): Four bras of a brand I love that is about to be discontinued, and cutie panties for Power Girl. The saleslady here is another wonderful woman, she adjusts everything “Put it on the second hook for trying on! Always the second hook! OK, I am sorry about my cold fingers but let me just pull you out a little here, and tuck you in a little there…good fit, but not your color, take that off and put this on” and will not let us buy a bra that doesn’t fit. Not that we want to this time.
Godiva: Chocolates for sustenance. I have a cappuccino truffle. Power Girl has dark chocolate raspberry.
H&M: The mother lode. Skirts, dresses, shirts, accessories, and finally the purse I’ve been looking for. We call to each other in the dressing rooms – “do I like this?” “God, yes.” “Hell, no.” "It's cute but not perfect." Lover calls in the middle of trying on and I am flustered enough to pick up a pair of formal shorts. The Fug Girls would be gripped by seizures, but they’ll be cute with tights and boots.

All day long, we do not agonize. We do not question our finances, worry if something truly matches, mess around to see if we can fit in the wrong size. If it is perfect, we buy it. If it is not, we hand it back without a second glance. There is no “Gee, maybe it will work if I…” If there is no medium in the back, we’re outta there. As a side effect, the money from my client transforms into a present from my friend, the means to have a good day at a time when I desperately need one, a happiness that he has made possible, a gift certificate for self-medication. Suddenly, I realize, it’s not about the money, if I can make it not about the money, if I can make it about spending time with Be-My-Real-Friend, treating him like I’m not a sure thing, letting go of the crushing sense of obligation for him to have a good time and let him treat me like a girl, it’s actually pretty fun. It’s not that a sure thing costs, it’s a fair trade – pleasure for pleasure, with the bonus of enjoying the time when I can calm my ass down and enjoy the time. Where else is there a man who is happy to talk to me, asks very little, cares what I think of him, listens to me whine and gives me a big cash present every time we meet?


Damage: under $1000. It’s a small price to pay for the perfect happiness of being better dressed, in control, and carrying four bags filled with potential. We cab back to the hotel, we try things on again, we rest. I silently thank Be-My-Real-Friend, then just go ahead and call him. For once, it’s good to be a whore.

Bits and Pieces

...I've just been interviewed by my lovely namesake Mandy Hardy, over at Sexy Blog Reviews. If you'd like to check it out (and see a fun picture that hasn't been posted here) it's here...

...San Francisco is lovely - a bit dark early for my taste, but the architecture is like nothing I've ever seen before and the activities I'm here for are challenging and fun. I'm debating whether a one night stand with some cute local boy might cure the last of my broken heart...

...I text Tourist that I'm thinking of him. He texts back, "What made you think of me?" Since "I thought of another client and that made me remember you, too, since I'll be in your state soon and I'd like to score an appointment with you, O deep-pocketed-but-boring-one," is not really the best answer, I respond with "I saw some super-high sexy heels in a shop window!" He texts back, "can i see a pic?" Fortunately, I took a photo of some shoes a few weeks ago for the boy-who-was-Lover's approval...

OK...

...we're gonna try for daily again. Or at least several times a week. It's a cheat, but here are some recommendations of things I've read lately.

Compartments is back! With a new focus (she's assembling a book) and some new stories. Always a little on the dark side, she's not shying away from the unpleasant bits, just as before. I know a lot of Gentle Readers found me through her list of Prostitution Blogs Worth Reading. That page has been updated, so maybe there's someone new you'd like to discover?

This week there is a rather intense story, The Wounded, at The Provocateur, which resonated a lot with me. I'm not kidding about intense.

I'm not normally a video porn girl, but Tom Paine's got a fun, fun short clip of cowgirl that is really sexy. Very NSFW.

Enjoy, and see you tomorrow...

(Cool calendar from a group of artists honoring the work of filmmaker Wong Kar-Wai.)

Back soon...

Sorry, Gentle Readers -

5 days of being "off" writing - not really having anything to say, not willing to write filler.

5 days of being not just heinously busy but surrounded by other people.

5 days of being in a location with minimal cell service, minimal internet, working my 'real job' all day...surrounded by other people.

So I am remiss. I have greatly appreciated the people who have checked in with me - thank you (personal thanks to come, a blog thank-you-note is lameass).

I did in that span have one long, interesting client - I've been writing it in my head and will post probably tomorrow or the next day.

Meanwhile - a little something written on a tablecloth.

Diversion: Best...Personal Ad...Ever

I'm seeking a like-minded woman to share a disasterous 3-9 month relationship with, ending in acrimony, emotional chaos, and possibly legal proceedings...

I am looking for an attractive female who will at first give me obsessive love, praise and devotion - but whose paranoia, self-loathing and fear of rejection and abandonment will eventually lead her to alternately push me away and pull me closer in a love/hate cycle that will lead to infidelity, consensual sexual violence, and the eventual emotional breakdown of one or other party - or if we're lucky - both!

(There's more.)

Oh, Miguel, if I was not halfway around the world, how I would be there for you...