On Trench Coats And Being Single…

I have the sexiest trench coat in the world.

It’s black, it barely hits the knee, you can dress it down with jeans, dress it up with hooker boots, it’s great.  And most importantly, it sucks in my stomach and kicks it into my ass, which by the way has the best slope ever in this coat (picture an Austrian ski hill).

So this coat is a friend and it always makes me better, but I’ve only worn it two or three times.

The last occasion was my birthday party.  It was the end of the night and my friends had dragged me over to Subway at 3am, since shoving a sandwich down my throat was supposed to lessen the impending hangover.  This turned out to be a not-so-good idea, as I barfed up the sub and everything else on the side of the street.  Some of the barf-splatter landed on my coat.

Once I’d sobered up I surveyed the damaged: there were bits of crusty barf scattered here and there, rendering the coat unwearable.  So I put it in a vacuum-sealed bag, and vowed to take it to the cleaners the following day.

As promised, I took the coat to work and stored it in a corner of my desk.  Lunch time arrived but something came up.  So I vowed to drop it off the following day.

Something came up again.

This process repeated itself, along with many days of simply “forgetting”.  Now, almost six months later, the barfy coat still sits at my desk.

Why did I let it go so far?  By now I’ve missed an entire Spring of “sexy trench coat” wearings, along with the first 2 weeks of Autumn showings.  It kind of makes you wonder what’s wrong with me, if I would willingly sacrifice a sexy appearance for no good reason.  The more I consider this, the more I’m reminded of this search to find a man…

…am I putting myself out there enough?

 Or is the barf on my coat like the past-relationship “puke” that currently stains my pathetic face? (I don’t know if my brain is warped from listening to too much Dido today, but this is sounding like the best analogy ever)

Hmm…maybe it’s time to grab a bar of soap and try a little harder.

I’ll tell you one thing: tomorrow’s Monday, and if I don’t deliver my barfy-coat to the cleaners, I might as well just donate my vagina to science.

Wish me luck…

Can You Smell Me Now?

I have long struggled with the question:  how should I smell to attract a man?

I addressed the topic a few months back, and decided then that I should smell like meat (in a bid to attract some sexy hunters).

As much as I enjoyed the attention that comes from smelling like Subway sandwiches, Canada was recently hit with a meat-related plague.  People died, meat-phobia ensued…it was terrible.  Even now, though health officials claim we’re “good”, I can’t risk further exposure. 

For weeks this was a problem…I roamed the streets like an unassigned piece of flesh, taking on the scent of pollution, rain, unbathed whores, or any other smell that found its way into the air.

But then last week, I struck aroma-gold:

-It’s not too strong, it’s not too faint, and it smells like…freshly-baked vanilla cake!

I don’t know if I told you this before, but vanilla is my favourite scent.  In fact, 2003 was characterized as the best year of my life, scent-wise.  I’d found an eight dollar bottle of vanilla lotion at a drugstore, and it turned my life around.  I won’t reveal anymore than that, except to say that male foreign exchange students rule…ahem.

Of course, drugstore “vanilla” was discontinued, and I hadn’t found anything comparable since…until now.

I can’t let you in on the brand (’cause I’m not being paid for that kind of plug), but at a price of two for eighteen dollars, maybe you can figure it out.

And here’s my favourite part: it doesn’t even taste like poison!  I know that sounds a bit odd, but guys must know that getting “up close” with a heavily-perfumed chick can sometimes taste like “skin poison”.  So take it from a girl who put on some lotion and licked her own arm several times: this isn’t “skin poison” fellas!

So I’m set.  I’ll probably pick up four more bottles tomorrow, but in the meantime I’m gonna go “lotion up” my arm and gnaw it off…mmm…(it’ll grow back…right?)

The “Old Lady” Factor…

There’s nothing like a wrinkled old broad to put your life into perspective…

***

…I was sitting on one of those subway seats, hoping that the germs from the occupant before me hadn’t seeped through my pants (I try to wear thick pants when I know I’ll be riding the subway…which is 5 days a week…yup I own a lot of thick pants).

Realizing that these pants were run-down from the squats I do on my lunch-break (gotta stay in shape), my fate was officially sealed: i.e. I would need to “Purell” my ass when I got home…

…I popped a piece of gum in my mouth and started chewing like a carrot-chomping horse on speed (to distribute the mint as quickly as possible). I never ride the subway without a piece of gum, ’cause you never know when you’ll be kissed by a sexy stranger.

Just as I felt safe in the fact that I was minty fresh, she found me:

-It was a woman of 93 (thought in subway-lighting, she looked at least two hundred).  I could see her inching closer, but before I had a chance to give her my seat, the subway jerked into motion.

And Granny Smith lost her footing.

It happened so fast…there was nothing to do but break her fall.

First, her loose-skinned hands grabbed my upper thighs.  She squeezed them as best she could, in soft massaging motions.  Then, her face crashed into my chest.  My boobs weren’t pillowy enough to offer her the necessary cushion (why did I ever stop stuffing my bra?).  And finally, when all was lost and she couldn’t hang on anymore, she fell to her knees.  Her head landed in my lap.

Some dude scooped her up and put her in a nearby seat.

So the accident was over, and life went on as before…well not for me it didn’t.  I just sat there in a zombified trance, stunned at how aroused I’d become, at the hands (and face) of a super-old lady.

I guess that means it’s “been a while” (now where’s my Golden Girls DVD?…)

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? 

Well 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 today (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.