The Man Who Saved Me

Days that start off “clumsy” usually go to the toilets fast.

Such was my feeling yesterday morning, when I spilled a pile of change all over the Starbucks counter.

As I awaited the pissed-off *sighs* from the customers behind me, something weird happened:

-A muscular arm reached over my shoulder, and gathered all the change in one efficient sweep.

I managed a shy “thanks”, but couldn’t bring myself to turn around…why had he been so kind?

That’s when I remembered the special underwear I was wearing.  It’s the kind that sucks in both your butt cheeks, and spits them back out as two very cuppable “basketballs”.  Well not “regulation-sized” basketballs, ’cause that would be like “ass-fetish-convention” huge, but moreso the mini-ones…very cuppable indeed.

Once I’d established my round-butt confidence, I turned around to smile at my saviour.

He was…good-looking.  Like more good-looking than the cretins I usually wave my cleavage at.

We spent the next two minutes giggling and making small talk.  He was grade-A friendly.

So he was nice…AND good-looking?

Wow, let the vagina-giveaway begin!

But wait, there was a snag:  our coffees had been served.  Transaction complete.

I didn’t want to lose this feeling…what to do? 

I didn’t have to do a thing, because he asked for my number (boy, that doesn’t usually happen).

He called me later that day (he has a sexy phone voice…this pleases me).  And here’s the kicker: we have our first date on Saturday night.  It’ll just be a drink or two (or seven).

I’m obviously thrilled but it’s hard to show it, as I’ve been very sick all day (cue the sound of me puking up my own bile).

So I’ve got 3 days to heal, but on the flip side, I will probably lose five pounds if I feel like crap ’til Saturday.

Hmmm…stay sick, lose five pounds.  I like the sound of that (hence my intention to sniff my own vomit later…).

Only one question left:  how slutty should I dress?

***

PS: If the date actually happens I will publicize the details on Sunday, ’cause you know, I’m all about discretion…

When “Yeast” Became A Bad Word…

There was a time when I was a little girl.  It was long before the days of cleavage and menstrual flow.  Back then it was about those special Sundays, when mom would bake the homemade bread.  I would always turn on the oven light, so I could witness the magical yeast.  From flat dough to a pillow of bread, and all in a matter of seconds!

One of life’s little treasures.

A while later I heard the term ”yeast infection”.

My world turned upside down.

Bread would never be the same.

I tried really hard to keep my “bread memories” pure.  This meant ignoring “Women’s Health” topics in gym class.  Even now, I tune myself out at the doctor’s office, at even the faintest reference of “yeast”.

In other words I still don’t know what a “yeast infection” is (and I’m 27).

Despite my intentional ignorance, I saw a commercial for Canesten the other day (i.e. the #1 treatment for yeast infections—’cause Bayer Inc told me so).  In it, a mom described how yeast infections prevented her from playing tennis with her daughter.  But then she started using Canesten, and presto:  she’s been playing doubles with her child ever since.  This equals one more daughter who won’t have to hate her mom…

…So from what I gather, yeast infections will screw up your tennis skills, among other things.

I’m actually not very good at tennis, but I like my badminton…should I be worried?

I will leave that question for the female experts, but whatever the answer, I hope this isn’t one of those “rite of passage” things.  Like I will take your cramps Mother Nature, and sure I’ll rip out the hair that is your own little practical joke…I will even take the fact that you gave me more thigh than boob, and that the ratio will never be right.

But please oh please don’t give me the “yeast” thing.

Okay, good talk.

You Called Me WHAT?

It sure isn’t easy browsing through the dumpster of possible mates…chances are you’ll end up dirty, tired and diseased for your efforts.

Luckily we’ve got the help of well-meaning friends to ease the load.

I was fortunate enough to have such a friend assist me.  It was her “after work” outing, and I was invited.  There’d be guys, she exclaimed, a whole lotta guys.  And the best part?  She already knew them.

In other words, the pre-screening work was done!

…Things were going well after hour number one.  My extroverted ways had hooked in a man with a dashing smile and manly scent.

Let’s do this.

We went to the bar to get another drink, and that’s when it happened:

“Don’t worry babygirl, I got this one”.

My loins went from heated setting “5″ to refrigerator cold.

So what had done it?  A simple little word like “babygirl”?

Yes.

Who says that anyway?  And what does it mean?  I already know I’m a girl, so are you saying I remind you of a baby?  Ya?…Is that it?  Well then it’s weird, because the last time I checked, I wasn’t shitting in a diaper or suckling a teat.

And that’s not the only “are you serious?” pet name that I’ve heard.  What about pooh-bear?  I mean it’s cute on paper, but audio-wise?  All I imagine is a bear smeared with feces, and I don’t like that.

I wish we could focus on flattering pet-names, like ones that are related to our physical attributes.  I would love it if someone called me “sweet ass” all the time.  Or “velvet-boobs”.

Until then, I guess I’ll just keep messing up my chances over pet names.  That’s fine with me, but here’s a warning: if I’m still single when I’m 85, don’t even start with the “babygirl” crap, ’cause if you do…I will smear you with my pooey adult-diaper.

Redemption For The Ugly…

Actual Model Head-Shot

I grew up in a world where being “ugly” was a bad thing, a condition that could only be treated with pushing, mud-slinging, or constant wedgies.

Being on the receiving end of some of this abuse, I always believed there was no silver lining to being “ugly”, and then…today, I found this headline on MSNBC.com:

“Ugly Is The New Beautiful“

…uhh…what now?

Let me explain:

-according to this news video/article hosted by “ambassador-for-the-everyman” Al Roker himself (sure Al, that’s a compliment!), being ugly pays!

What we’re talking about is the “Ugly Talent Agency”, which hires “unique characters” for print and other media.  This is nothing new, as the London-based agency has been running since 1969.

Recently though, demand for the uggo’s has been through the roof, prompting the creation of a New York branch.

And here’s where my eyes well up with tears and my heart sings regret:

-Why didn’t anyone tell me about this!?!?!??!?!?!

I amassed a huge portfolio of “ugly” in the 20th century:  there was my ugly baby phase where I looked “half monkey/half space creature who eats puppies”; the ugly kiddie phase where I tried to distract from my “bowl haircut/Mr. Potatohead nose” with pearls and frilly dresses; and of course my ugly teenage phase, where everything was coming up “moustache/dumbo ears/mangled teeth”.

Don’t believe me?  Okay big-shot, feast your eyes on this:

I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking: I could have been the Ugly Agency’s top client!  I could have had my own conglomerate by age 18 (like the Olsen Twins)! 

And now you might be thinking THIS:

-Well why not submit a current portfolio of “ugly”?

Good idea, except that…a scientific event took place, approximately five years back.  Darwin could probably explain it better than I, but let’s just say that “survival of the fittest” instincts kicked in, and I underwent some genetic mutations.

Plain English: my appearance is no longer objectionable to society (as long as I spend an hour getting ready every morning).  Whether or not that’s an ego-driven thing to say, I’ll be moving right along…

…So if I’m not ugly enough to apply for the ”Ugly Talent Agency”, and I’m not nearly attractive or barf-focused enough to be a sexy model chick…what am I left with?

Well last time I checked there weren’t any agencies for self-obsessed women who are single-handedly depleting the world’s supply of mascara, so I guess I won’t be making it big.

This categorically sucks, but maybe I can be one of those people who (grudgingly) helps out others.

And how will I do this?

Another Actual Client/Head-Shot

Well I was just perusing the Ugly clientele, and I noticed one section for Men, one for Women, and one for “Specials” (i.e. tattooed people, circus freaks, etc.).  To be perfectly honest, 80% of the people on the client list aren’t even actually “ugly”.  They’re just…normal looking…or old.  This clearly indicates a diluted market of legitimate “uglies”, and more specifically a gaping hole in the market of “18 and unders”. 

Of course the “young ‘n gross” segment would have been addressed in the 90’s if I’d submitted my portfolio, but alas it was not to be. 

Henceforth, I’ll be starting up my own agency, called ”Ugly Youth Talent”.  Not only will I profit heavily from this endeavour (subsequently draping myself in the sort of jewels that are usually reserved for Sultans), but I’ll be helping out the youth that nature forgot.

Let them have what I never had…you know?

You’re welcome Oprah (I don’t know, I feel like she’d be proud of me for this…)

How To “Pick Up”: Clothing Store Edition

It’s amazing what you can “pick up” at a clothing store.  Yup, it’s all about the unexpected finds.

Oh right, I guess you’ll be wanting some proof…

***

…I was browsing the goods at a slightly pretentious clothier, hoping to find an “End of Summer” deal.  I don’t know about you, but nothing jacks me up like an “End of Season” sale, especially for the Summer.  It’s the perfect time to stock up on slut-gear with zero worry of ”sales associate judgment” (”60% off? Who could resist!?” (cue the shared giggles between merchant and customer)).

As I rummaged around for “night on the town” attire (quietly convincing myself that a size “small” would fit just fine), I wandered on over to the men’s section.  In this particular store the men’s part was very separate and distinct: different lighting, different decor, different music, a whole other scene.

I was completely out of my element, having never spent much time on the man’s side of a store.  Two reasons for that:

1. My time of being “single” far outweighs my time as being a ” ‘Ho on a leash” (it’s an embarrassing ratio, to be perfectly honest).  Therefore my opportunities to tell my b/f what clothes to buy have been limited

2. I’m not really the type to take a man shopping, as I’m not too concerned with what he wears.  I mean put on a velvet cape for all I care, just don’t ever leave me (genuine yes, but never needy…)

So as you can imagine, it’s pretty strange to be a solo girl at a sausage-packaging plant…did I mention that I was in heaven?

Much to my delight, I didn’t see a lot of chicks dragging their hopeless boyfriends around.

Good.

Instead it was a lot of confused male sorts, putting shirts against their frames awkwardly, trying not to pay too much attention to jean cut and wash (for the purpose of preserving manliness), in short these fellas were in need of some “Romi”.

I narrowed my focus to a man in the polo shirt aisle.  He looked old enough to make me a wife by next week (score! Let’s make some babies too!), but young enough to corrupt and dominate (shut up, I’m an Aries).

I recalled an old trick I’d seen on a television show: it was the one where a guy came up to a hot girl with a really short skirt and said:

“Hi.  I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m buying this skirt for my mom, and you look to be about her size; do you mind trying it on for me?”

I’m not sure if that’s exactly how the conversation went, but it worked for the guy in the show, so I needed to rig up the female-version fast.

I considered approaching my future hubby with a pair of pants, but I didn’t want to scare him off by honing in on his junk, so I stuck with a sensible polo shirt.

I cleared my throat, and he turned around.  I gave him 3 seconds to look me up and down (it’s only fair). 

I then started to wonder how it’s possible for 3 seconds to last so long in awkward situations.

Before he could call security, I started talking fast like a door-to-door alarm clock salesman.  Something about a socially inept brother I explained…can’t shop for himself I went on…you’re about his size I continued…it’s his birthday next week, will you please try this on?

Whatever I was dishing he was having it all and waiting for dessert…a.k.a. he tried on THREE shirts for me! The third time a corner of the shirt crawled up his side, revealing 10% of his pelvic bone (yowzers).

After the modeling session was over, I purchased the shirt and asked for his number (in case I had to return the shirt and have him try on something else).  He thought it’d be better to take MY number instead (which totally makes sense, so he can call to see how the birthday party went), and so I offered it up.

My fake brother’s birthday is this weekend, so I expect a call sometime around Sunday night.

I’ll keep you posted, and yes, these are exciting times (hope you learned something ladies).

PS: And why is this the Clothing Store “Edition“?  Because I’m still playing the field, and I fully expect to pick up more men in different situations (and of course I’ll publicize these endeavours).  I owe my confidence to some research I did much earlier in the year, on how to find men in everyday places (i.e. Super Markets, Hardware Stores, etc.).  Needless to say I’ve learned a lot, so now it’s time to get some…