Archive for January, 2008

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My ruby slippers had better be equipped with thinsulate.

Wednesday, January 30th, 2008

It is -47 with the windchill, which, unless I miss my guess, is the same damn degree of frozen in both Fahrenheit and Celsius.

It’s a day where the five minutes you spend outdoors waiting for the bus is like a superhuman trial. You find a little corner, behind a lightpost, against a building and you hope not to die before the bus takes your still somewhat living carcass off to work.

You think I’m kidding?

In the five minutes I spent waiting for the bus, my insulated coffee mug managed to produce ice cold coffee. The little driblets on the top of the mug froze solid and now, after sitting at my desk for ten minutes, STILL haven’t quite thawed out.

My toes, which were (as per usual) attached to my feet and encased in boots are still tingling and giving me the “maybe I’ll decide not to have frostbite” warnings. My legs, foolishly attired in only pants, feel as though they’ve been burned on the back.

My face feels pulled tight. Even my hair, which was clad in fuzzy brown hat seems to be mortally offended by the temperature.

We’re under extreme windchill warnings. They promise to continue until at least tomorrow.

This, my friends, is crazy. In fact, it’s the very definition of insanity - repeating the same thing over and over (living here, that is) and expecting different results (not feeling that death by exposure is imminent).

Be it ever so frigidly hostile and unforgiving, there’s no place like home.

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I’m telling this story, even if it makes me sound egomaniacal.

Friday, January 25th, 2008

Yesterday, T-dot and I went for a coffee run at lunch. As we sometimes do, we drove out to a Starbucks a couple of extra blocks away, so that we can have extra chat time.

When we did arrive at the Starbucks, there was a man rapidly departing the order counter. He did a bit of a double-take in my direction and said “Hey, cool hat!”

Since my hat is fuzzy and brown and I also think it’s cute, I said thanks. After a moment or three of silence as we puzzled it over, I commented “I’m thinking gay.”

And then we carried on with our chatting and ordering.* We talked about the CD they had on display, the meaning of life, and all items scatalogical. It’s our thing.

As we went to the pick-up area, I had that “eyes burning into my skull” sensation. I glanced up, and noticed that Mr. Cool Hat was smiling at me. I quickly returned my attention to my beverage.

However, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. In T-dot’s defense, I think you would’ve had to have been dead-blind like those cavern-dwelling guppies to have missed it. He was smiling. And staring.

REALLY staring.

Still trying very hard to mind my own business, I picked up my coffee and headed toward the coffee doctoring table. I could feel the man’s eyes, still trying to bore wee holes into my spine. This was confirmed by T-dot, in a running Howard Cosell-style commentary.

“He’s looking, he’s really looking. Okay he’s seriously looking. And smiling. Like he hasn’t stopped looking. Oh god, okay he’s *still* looking. And he’s getting up.”

This last little bit of commentary happened as we were heading toward the door. I glanced over quickly and sure enough, he appeared to be half out of his chair. I ducked my head again and we fled the scene as fast as our be-cupped selves could move.

Let’s be clear, okay? I don’t mind male attention. I don’t mind male attention from random folks. I don’t even mind random compliments from random males.

But this? This scrutiny was creepy. Unsettling. Not because he was leering or glaring or giving me a “protect my cup from roofies” kind of feeling, but because it was intense. Very, very intense.

I could’ve imagined him coming up and saying “I think you’re my long-lost sister.” Or, “didn’t we know each other as kids?” In fact, I hope that’s what was crossing his mind, because otherwise:

Dude,

You’re scaring the girls away. You will not get dates by looking at every girl as though they are the long-sought chewy centre of your tootsie pop.

Down, boy.

*It should be noted here that while I will drink Charbucks these days, I’m still a firm orderer. Cafe Americano, with room. I won’t give you details on the T-dot’s ordering for herself and two colleagues, largely because I couldn’t possible remember the shots/foam/misto/macchiato/machomanio combinations.

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Band of Horses - loving them, even if they make me feel a little blue and hopelessly romantic.

Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I want in a guy. Not that I’m intensely seeking anyone at this point, but it’s a general thought wandering in my mind, prompted in some part by a conversation with T-dot.

I’ve learned that I’m prepared to compromise to make a relationship work. I mean, I don’t really imagine that anyone out there will be perfect for me, any more than I’m anyone’s notion of perfect. So this little (HA!) post is more of a brain dump and a reminder for myself about what I value.

A great deal of this is based on what I most emphatically don’t want. Which, now that I think about it, might be a big part of what happens to people who are single for a long time - they end up meeting lots of duds and keep tallying up the “don’t want” list to such a degree that it’d be impossible for a mere mortal to avoid the unfavourable characteristics. Maybe that will be me in a decade, restlessly adding up all the bad characteristics offered by mankind, while feverishly trying to figure out how to keep my ten eighteen fifty cats fed on things other than my mortal remains. But I digress.

The things I don’t want are selfishness, disloyalty or lack of respect. Obvious stuff, I know, but having been round the block once or twice, I can say that things like this tend to grow over time. A preference for your own taste can become a complete disregard for someone else’s likes and dislikes, until you seem to be able to spare nothing but contempt for them.

And since I prize loyalty over most things, you’d have to grasp what that means, especially in a long-term relationship, where things aren’t always starbursts and rainbows and fuzzy kittens batting at toilet tissue. Sometimes a relationship hangs on nothing more than sheer stubbornness, though the ones who see it through seem to be happier for it.

Selfishness can be anything from money-grubbing to emotional self-absorption. Taking your bad moods out on me? Dirty pool. Punishing me for things I didn’t do or did without any awareness (and you don’t plan on enlightening me about, ever?). Very dirty pool.

On another note - love me, love my people. Or at least respect the fact that they are in my life and that’s not going to change unless they sprout a second head (and who am I to judge on this one, really?) or display the things that I have already noted above. I’m equal opportunity that way - my friends can trespass, too.

Know who you are. Because if you don’t know or are not okay with who you are, you won’t be okay with me. This fact will show itself sooner rather than later. This doesn’t have to mean that you know exactly what you’ll be doing for the rest of your natural life, but have some idea of who you want to be and moreover, aspire to be that person . Gut check yourself as often as you can stomach it.

Know how to say you’re sorry and mean it. Don’t say “well, I take responsibility for my share” and then look meaningfully at me. That’s not an apology, that’s trying to control the amount of blame you assume. Don’t give me “I’m sorry but/if”, because that’s just as lame. Don’t avoid the conversation in the hopes that you’ll never have to say anything at all. If you’ve been a shit, own it. I’ll promise to do the same.

Notice things. This doesn’t mean that I’ll have screaming fits if you don’t instantly discover that I’ve bought new shoes, or I’ve changed nail polish colour. But damnit, it pays to notice if I’m sad/angry/thoughtful/tired. Ask me about it. Listen when I’m talking about it. Don’t use it as an opportunity to grind your own axe against me or people in general. Because that’s not listening, that’s standing on my back to proselytize. Don’t give me weak generalizations or half-hearted crap in response to me pouring my heart out. Show me your mad active listening skillz. Again, I will return the favour.

Have my back. Or don’t have my back if I’m dead wrong and heading toward disaster, but be my support if I ask for it, or just seem to need it. And hey - even if I’m heading toward disaster, hold my hand. It will make the crash easier. Don’t trash me or even jokingly trash me while we’re in front of friends. That’s not funny most of the time, and it’s usually a way to introduce a personal agenda into a public forum.

When I’m excited, don’t turn the Hoover on my cloud. In fact, get off of my cloud if you can’t share it with me. I like to be excited, even if the reality doesn’t meet the expectations. Half the fun is in the anticipation.

Don’t mistake a willingness to brave out any circumstance for total independence/confidence. Here’s the flat truth about me - I’m actually a sensitive little soul. I require cherishing. I want to be with someone who’s going to get that, and NOT someone who’s going to be attracted to me because of how little I seem to need from others. That’s only going to lead to disappointment for both of us, and probably one or more of the aforementioned problems.

Sub-point to the above - don’t like me for components of me. Like me for the whole me. Or as much of me as you can. If you’re liking me because I have a big rack or I’ve got a good job or you just happen to be into grey hair and the rest is just baggage you’re willing to put up with, off you go. Don’t waste our time.

Be my friend. That’s a big one. I like friends. I’m good to my friends. I have friends who are good to me. I’d like to add my partner to that list of friends.

I’m wordy. I have an inner geek I adore. I’m passionate about the things I feel and believe. I like to discuss philosophical matters. I’m direct. I’m goofy. I love to laugh. I can be socially mobile - I blend. I know who I am. Be comfortable with these things. I don’t expect or want you to sport WELCOME on your forehead. Just don’t lose bits of yourself in the face of me, or feel that’s imminent. You can lead and I will follow. I will lead sometimes and hopefully you will follow. But let’s not fight over that position, okay?

I don’t mind phrases such as “we like”. I also don’t mind things like “I made plans for us.” Bonus points if you’re treating me to something/some place/some event that I’d never have managed for myself.

Romance is in the little things. Offering me a kiss on the forehead as you pass by, or a blanket over my shoulders when I fall asleep watching TV. Bringing me a snack because you know I like it. Giving me the last bite of the dessert we were sharing that I’m heroically trying not to eye up. Telling me to take a break when I need one.

Tell me you find me sexy. Often. Be specific. This will go a surprisingly long way to ensuring that you get laid regularly. What will not get you laid is randomly groping me while I’m elbow deep in dirty dishes, fretting about something or in some other way occupied - I’m like the bathroom on the airplane that way. You could try to force your way in, but it’s unlikely you’ll achieve any kind of desirable result.

(Tip: You’re more likely to get nookie if you grab that thar handy tea towel and use it to dry the dishes. Or better yet, grab me on the way to sending me to the couch so you can finish dishes. This is self-evident to women. It seems shocking to men. How we ever procreate as a species is beyond me.)

Please enjoy travel, new experiences, people from all walks of life, good food and little physical luxuries, like good thread count in sheets. Enjoy the nest and get into feathering it. Don’t be lazy about home - it’s my hearth and maybe yours and I’d like it to be special.

Enjoy daydreaming about growing old together. Have ideas about that. Appreciate the comfort level that will come of aging.

A final word about Rosebud - she can never, never, never feel as though she’s on the outside looking into any family I may form with someone else, be that with another child or not. She must have the same amount of love from all involved as I will give her alone. This is non-negotiable. While I can’t give her the whole family I wanted for her, this does not mean I will sacrifice what I know she has a right to, and that includes the undying adoration of whoever is in her life and her home.

And you know? I don’t *need* you. If I choose to have you in my life, then I choose to need you. But I can afford to wait until the right *you* comes along. And if the right you never does make an appearance, that’s okay, because I have no intention of putting my life on hold for any you. Here’s to a rich life with or without the mythical you.

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Monday, January 21st, 2008

An open letter to the asshole person who fed my child a lollipop at the end of a hectic day:

*slapityslapityslapityslapityslapityslapityslapityslapityslapslapSLAP*

Sincerely,

Wyliekat

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Dear lord, I am a dirty old woman.

Thursday, January 17th, 2008

I took Rosebud to her first swimming class last night. It’s possible that I should have thought very seriously about whether or not to tell her that we were going swimming in advance of actually arriving at the pool. With the water.I mean, it wasn’t that she wasn’t excited. In fact, I’d say she was extremely excited. Over the moon. Elated, even.

What she didn’t get was that there might be a process to going swimming. I’m not sure if she decided that we own an indoor swimming pool I’d been hiding under my bed all this time, or if she really does think that pools are like Schrödinger’s cat, in that we can simply open a door and voila - there it be! But let me say, she didn’t like all the futzing around that was required in advance. There were objections to eating a snack, objections to putting clothing back on after the swimsuit was donned, objections to outdoor clothing, objections to driving, objections to stopping in the changerooms, objections to the mandatory pre-shower . . .

In short, the Rosebud was not with the program.

Owing to my first-time navigational anxiety, we were early. Probably about fifteen minutes early once we’d done all the aforementioned pre-work. Which meant that we had to sit on the bench and wait our turn. Rosebud was surprisingly good at this. We snuggled and sang and talked and watched all the kids in the pool.

The place I’m taking her is a very large complex, where kids of all ages go to learn to swim or train to become competitive swimmers. Directly in front of us were a group of competitive types, having a practice. I watched them for a while, just taking in the swimming and trying to sort out the system they were working through.

Then, one of them got out of the pool. At first, I noticed the speedo. You don’t often see speedos in your daily life, so you will notice them when you see them - I promise you this. And owing to how many laughs and giggles usually emerge from speedo sporting, my first urge was to smirk. And then I realized that it’s true - speedos look good on certain body types. The ones with broad shoulders, well-developed chest muscles, ripped abs that travel down beyond the six pack to the eight pack, forming a cut against well-shaped hip muscles that dip down into the front of the swim suit, where -

HOLY CRAP!

Immediately, I wrenched my gaze from the lad and turned it assiduously to the floor. I felt all wrong. Felt ‘no’. Felt the heretofore unfelt need to say rosary.

Suddenly, I was dirty. I’d been checking out a teenaged boy, for gawd’s sake. One that I could’ve have birthed, which breaks ALL my rules of ogling. It doesn’t matter that he was nearly naked. It doesn’t matter that he was ripped to hell. It doesn’t matter that I was checking him out because of the laughability of speedos before it became something else.

Evil woman. Evil old woman, poking at muscly little boys with my cane.

*shudder*

I spent the rest of our waiting time virtuously focused on my child, which also happened to include lots of staring at floor tiles.

Which, of course, meant that her swimming instructor had to also be young, male and ripped, right?

Fortunately for all parts of my body but my ears, he lost all attractive points the moment he opened his mouth to sing.

To sing, you ask? Why on earth would he sing? It’s not like the entire class was shaped around singing songs that allowed for swimming-related activities, right?

(Right you are. The class was not shaped around singing. It WAS singing.)

And this lad . . . well, this lad was tone-deaf. Tone-deaf and permanently hoarse from being around chlorine and presumably cheering on his teammates. Imagine a boy cheerfully belting out “The WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND” with not one iota of tune.

Yeah. Amazing how quickly that can render someone unattractive.

This did not seem to stop the other mothers from clustering around him and chatting him up during the “independent play” section of the class.

Cougars. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

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Tree - 1, Wylie - several dozen

Wednesday, January 16th, 2008

As is my annual shame, I didn’t take my Christmas tree down until last night. That’s right, January 15th. This is, by incredible accident, the exact same day I took my decorations down last year. Perhaps it isn’t accident, but muscle memory. Maybe I will always have the physical craving to tear down garland and wrestle trees on January 15th. I can’t imagine what will happen the year I’m pre-emptive and take the décor down earlier. Perhaps I will find myself dumpster diving in the sub-zero temperatures, feverishly looking for other people’s discarded decorations to rip into.

I digress.

My motivation this year was simple cleanliness. After a month long hiatus, my lovely, cherished and much-appreciated cleaning fairies come today. And not only would it be somewhat embarrassing to still have these items festooning my home, it would simply mean that the clean-up detritus wouldn’t be caught until the next visit and man - I tell ya, it would be social suicide to have tree and garland shreds on the floor into February.

So anyway, after spending a great deal of time bemoaning the world’s singular lack of artificial tree storage options, I chanced upon a handy solution in the midst of the Good Ol’ Canadian Tire.* Seizing it in my clutches like it was a Cabbage Patch kid and we’d turned time back to the 80’s, I cackled evilly and took it home. Preccccioussssss.

I merrily busted the bag out last night, internally praising myself for owning such a handy thing. HOLDS TREES UP TO NINE FEET TALL! It proclaimed proudly.

You know what? It fits my eight foot tree. No problem. The problem comes in wrestling the aforementioned tree into the bag aperture, which, through some strange design error, was only about three feet across.

Now I ask you - what kind of Scroogey fiend creates a bag that requires you to wrestle an incredibly heavy, inanimate, and most importantly, POINTY object bigger than yourself into an opening like that?

Imagine, if you will, a woman hauling a rather pathetic looking dismembered tree across two rooms to a bag. Then imagine her going from one end of said bag to another, muttering and sweating as she alternates stuffing and pushing, all to make the beast fit.

Imagine this takes about a half hour.

What requires no imagination are the sheer masses of scrapes and cuts on my hands from this process.

Next year, I’m wearing oven mitts. 

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Oh Cunning, thy name est Mother.

Tuesday, January 15th, 2008

Owing to a certain someone, who shall remain nameless but has been Nom du plume’d for an unopened flower, I got very little sleep on Sunday night. As a result of this, I was mightily exhausted by the time the end of the day rolled around. Happily, I’d already planned my week’s menu* and earmarked Monday for a hearty helping of leftovers.

Since I was just that lazy, I didn’t even make the Rosebud and I the same thing. I cut up some leftover chicken and mixed hers with some broccoli, cauliflower, cheese and wild rice casserole and threw mine onto mixed greens with cheese and oil and vinegar dressing.

I had some trepidation about feeding my girl this concoction, because she’d had the casserole for lunch. (In all fairness, she wasn’t there for the original meal, so it’s not like she had it three meals in a row. Just two. See? I’m a *great* Mama.)

But I admit it folks - I was tired. And weak. And I couldn’t come up with anything more clever for a meal.

As you might imagine, she was less than thrilled with the leftovers staring up at her from her plate, despite my attempt to disguise them with cheese and chicken.

I will put in the all-important qualifier here. I’d have given her salad, too. I really would have. If I thought for one second she wouldn’t howl with rage at the many items of GREEN littering her plate and thusly tainting the other components of her meal. She is averse to green food. I get around this by simply hiding it, most times.

Or in this case, by serving it to myself and not her. Suddenly, salad appealed to my little budding rose. Salad looked like good food. It looked like Gawd, or at least some green, leafy appendage of the false and yet attractive idol known as the Jolly Green Giant.

“Some of dis!” she said/asked/demanded.

Thinking quickly (yeah, right), I automatically responded, “You can have some of mine, but you have to eat a bite of yours, first.”

After several contortions of the moue of distaste, she agreed.

I was halfway through my salad and halfway through her plate of food before it hit me.

My child was not only eating her meal, she was eating leafy greens.

Even more profound, I was *bribing* her to eat her meal with salad.

WITH SALAD!?!

You hear that, Fates of Anti-Veggie? My child was eating casserole because she knew it would allow her access to the magic of mixed greens.

In that one brief, shining moment, I was Teh Win at parenthood.

*It’s truly stunning how much mockery I get for this little habit - like . . . what? You never plan to eat?

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Randomness

Thursday, January 10th, 2008

Saw the movie Waitress last night. Gotta say, I loved it. Not because it’s plotline was unique, because it wasn’t unheard of or eerily singular. But the way they managed the story was really clever. And fun. And well-portrayed. It was like a cross between Grey’s Anatomy (in terms of dialogue) and Amelie (in terms of imagination and the like, only without the surreality - hard to pull off but very effective).

Worth viewing.

Other than that, I got nothin’.

—————————-

Except, perhaps for my daughter’s constant and ongoing urge to introduce me. To people like Our Lady of Daycare, Laddie, my sister and even my own mother. There are several things that make this fricken funny AND endearing.

a) She must flourish both her hands in my direction, so that people can clearly see who she’s talking about.

b) She starts with “Dis is mama!” If she’s not acknowledged, she’ll keep repeating it, only more abbreviated “Dis mama!” until she’s been heard.

c) She rarely sees a need to introduce herself. Rosebud needs no introduction in her world.

However, when she does, she squishes her nose flat with her finger to indicate that it’s clearly HER she’s talking about, because DUR, you might not notice otherwise. 

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In all sincerity, it wouldn’t matter if she were Gawd Almighty.

Sunday, January 6th, 2008

When the beloved Rosebud comes back from a visit with her father, I can always tell if she’s spent any time up close and personal with his girlfriend.

You know how I know?

Because when I spend time up close and personal with my daughter after the fact, I get a wicked headache.

It’s not owing to any psychic emanations or strange utero-twingings. It’s not about jealousy or anger.

It’s because this woman either a) wears a lot of perfume or b) sprays it on my child.

This wouldn’t be so bad, except that her perfume, her chosen scent of a woman has such a profound pong that it leaves me with a headache and a stomach-roll - every time.

I’ll admit, it could simply be my nasal cavities taking personal issue. Maybe others find her perfume to be as the nectar of the gods, nirvana in long-lasting mist form.

Not me. See, it carries undertones of the two scents I loathe in any perfume - baby powder and rosewater.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me put this to you. I’ve cuddled my daughter when she’s had a seriously poopy bum. More than once. In other words, I’ve managed to ignore pongy pongs from my child before. But this one? Well, I snuggle her because I love her. But I tend to avert my nose - which creates a ridiculous looking non-Rockwellian picture of mother/daughter affection.

What’s a little bit worse is my daughter’s skin doesn’t seem to like it much, either. She always has a few livid red patches around her head and cheeks, which fade as the scent fades. Not so much an allergic reaction as simply an irritation.

So, for amusement’s sake, let the scene play out in our heads, shall we? The one where I say “Um, yeah. So you know, that girlfriend of yours? The one who is in a whole other decade of life than you, who you hired and then romanced? That one you decided to end your family life for? Well, nothing against her personally, but seriously dude - her perfume is terrible.”

The response I’ll leave up to your imagination.

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Loving Care - I’m going to wash that man right outta ma hair*

Friday, January 4th, 2008

Any of you who have met me in person or have been reading me for a long time know that I have grey hair. Lots of it. The little freaks of nature started emerging when I was nineteen. The fact that my older sister has none and my father probably has less than I do at this point seems to have had no impact on the universe’s sense of justice (Wait, did I just type that with a straight face? I’m such a fricken card.). I have had these little and pernicious companions for a very long time.

And as they are wont to do, they propagate their species. They’re like rabbits that way. You think you’ve got two females together, sharing carrots and cedar shavings and suddenly WHAMMO! You’re knee deep in cute and fuzzy bunnies and trying to figure out how wrong it would be to fricassee the fat ones.

Another present from the aforementioned Red-headed Stepchild of the Decade (aka 2007) was the increasingly fevered frenzy of fornicating hares (hairs!).

In short, I got really, really much more grey - like, a lot.

Despite all that, I’ve often said that I liked my greys (or silvers, as some folks have been charitable enough to dub them). Strangely, I’ve received many compliments on them. I was in no hurry to get rid of them.

But I’m not crazy. I knew a day would come. There would be some kind of psychic tremor running along the filaments of human consciousness and I would *know* at that instant, it was time to make the change.

I imagined some kind of ephiphanic ( term totally made up for my convenience) awakening that would insist I hie myself to ye olde beauty parlor for a Cher in Moonstruck transformation.

What I did not expect was that the medium of this notice would be a lank-haired, suited, presumably stoned on mushrooms 24-year-old boy at a local pub.

Really, I thought the universe had more class than this (again, with the straight face!)

So, as you might surmise, I went out with girlfriends on Saturday night. We started out at one lounge and then moved over to another pub. A very crowded pub. A pub where tables were at a major premium.

True to form of my girlfriends, a couple of them beetled onto a table the moment others left, not realizing that the greasy haired lad in the oddly tailored suit was still staking out the table for friends ostensibly soon to arrive.

Also true to form, they decided that he couldn’t possibly mind if we “shared” (read: took over) the table while he waited. (He didn’t really ever get the table back, in truth. He had a seat and that was all.)

Anyway, as we descended on the lad, we were courteous enough to greet him with our names. Someone (It might have been me. Probably was me, now that I think of it. This is something I’d do.) asked him how old he was.

“Twenty-four.”

?!? I suddenly felt like a pedarast just sitting beside him - only, you know, female. Of course, the greasy hair and really dilated pupils also made me wish very strongly that I was sitting elsewhere, or one of my more engaging friends had the spot next to him.

This feeling increased immeasurably when he returned the favour and asked us (all of us) how old we were.

There was a sudden silence. Five women in their thirties do not necessarily want to answer this question, especially to a wet-behind-the-ears (or was that just grease?) lad still wholly unformed. Which is why it was such a cardinal sin to ask his age in the first place.

My bad.

Anyway, (and this part was *not* me, because I don’t like this game at all) someone said “guess”.

He went ‘round the table, flattering outrageously with his numbered guesses.

And then he got to me.

“Um. 37.”

Imagine the simultaneous dropping of my jaw and the raising of my chin. No idea how that maneuver actually breaks down, mechanics-wise, but that’s what I did.

See, not only does this age me by nearly half a decade, it also happened to be the highest number he guessed of everyone.

The fact that I was the second youngest (of the girls) at the table was merely the rock salt on my already raw ego.

Yeah. It didn’t take more than a nanosecond for me to take the hint. On New Year’s Eve I bought colour. On New Year’s Day, I coloured.

In all fairness, his innocent, slightly less greasy, but also suited friend offered an unsolicited and whispered “you’re gorgeous” at the end of the night. But the transmission had already been received.

*I only say this because a) it’s a South Pacific song lyric and don’t we all love those? and b) Well, look. It’s me talking. You know I can’t resist turning something perfectly innocent into something vaguely sordid. It’s in my character.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, think “There’s Something About Mary”. With me?

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