Da-dum...da-dum...

I whip into the drug store with my mother, who needs milk, and my intern, who needs hair gel. What I need is condoms. Magnum XL, thank you very much. And I *know*...I just *know* that this will be the only convenient time and place between now and when I need to actually have the condoms in my little hand ready to go.

So as Mum debates 1% vs 2%, I nip down the aisle towards family planning, located right by the pharmacy so they can watch for shoplifters and embarrassment, grab the black and gold box, dart towards the cash.

The shelving in the aisles is all just about eye level. And I can't resist.

I catch my intern's eye in the next aisle, hold the box of condoms to my head like a fin, and hum the theme from Jaws all the way to the cash register, the box seeming to float above the shelves, something big and hopefully-not-grey on the way...

I do in fact manage to get them rung up, bagged and into my purse before Mum comes up behind me. But only just.

* * *

CD's just went into the mail box yesterday. Sorry about the delay, so I tried to make them extra special. Holler if it doesn't show up in a week or so!

Bits and Pieces

Today’s Bits and Pieces brought to you by “Writing Because I Can’t Breathe When I See Her Name, Thank God for Friend Delete.”

…Just saw a locally-made-video-commercial for a strip bar, with a lady in evening dress dancing on a stage for a group of businessmen who are earnestly conferring over the paperwork on their table. She finishes and they all look up and clap appreciatively. Of course, the local beer-and-pussy bar is where I have all *my* business lunches…


...A friend asked, a few weeks ago, if I could give him some guidance on finding a girl, natural redhead, breasts like melons, creamy skin, professional. I'm just now wondering if there was a hint in there. (It's not natural, they're more like small grapefruits, I'm not that pale)...

…Still collecting names/pseudonyms and mailing addresses/secret drop locations for the Mix CD present to Gentle Readers. Note that you do not have to have been a longtime reader or a longtime commenter or even resident in North America to claim yours! As my sister-in-law said when I asked if my mother had pressured her to have me as a bridesmaid when she barely knew me, “Later, we’ll know each other better, and then we’ll be glad we did.” Could be widely-applicable advice, don’t you think?...

…I’ve finally found a legit reason to despise Cute Girl. OK, OK, I hear you all. The relationship overlap was neither her choice nor her fault. BUT (and it’s a big but), it was indeed her choice to hear my anguish from my mouth, and then 48 hours later spread her fun new thing all over Facebook and Myspace and LiveJournal where she knew I’d see it and be hurt by it. So, Cute Girl, props to you for pissing on him to establish ownership as soon as you could, because it certainly was touch and go and now he’ll be embarrassed to back out any time soon, and fuck you, I no longer have to pretend I still think you're cool. Incidentally, when you’ve broken up (and you will), I’ll be telling you exactly what ex-Lover's wager was in the pool your acquaintances have started about how long this will last. We’re all the betting type…

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.

He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

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…