Mars

On Saturday, I found myself justifying my non-promiscuity.

The glazed but surprised eyes looked back at me as if I had just declared that I have gills and swim around in circles all day.

‘What do you mean you have never had a one night stand!?’

‘I mean I’ve never had a one night stand. Which part of that sentence didn’t you understand?’

‘But why? Do you think its slutty for people to follow their natural instincts?’

‘I don’t really care what other people do. But its not something I can do. I wish I could; it sounds like fun. But I can’t.’

I imagine that in his world, I am an alien–an alien with gills. We live in the same neighbourhood of the same city of the same country. We have mutual friends. But his is a life of rich debauchery; money, hot clubs, fast cars,  drugs and women spin on the axis of his world. My life is a stark contrast. A spinning vortex in slow motion. I write, I drink tea at my local bar while making puns with a close circle of friends. Oh! And everyone now and again I go on the odd date and have whirlwind affairs that end badly.

‘How do you expect to get into a relationship if you don’t open yourself to one night stands?’ he asked.

I burst out laughing.

‘You’re joking right?’

‘The only way for a relationship to begin is to meet, sleep together and then see if you like each other.’

‘You’re joking right?’

Now, it was my turn to look at him as if he was a visitor on my planet. He didn’t appear to see the twisted logic of his argument.

‘How about you meet, go out on a couple of dates to see if you like each other and then sleep together?’

‘You’re a prude. And single.’

I wasn’t offended. I enjoy hearing explanations of the possible reasons I am single; the crazier the explanation; the saner I feel.

‘Maybe.’ I offered.

‘Wanna do it in my car?’

‘No.’

***

So, internet, one night stands. Yay or nay?

Impressionism

If we were to ever meet; if we were to ever go out lunching or drinking or even just hanging; if I begin to  quote Southpark, or wax poetic about how much I  like Snoop Dog, Warren G and all good 90s rap; if I start talking about game consoles or Leisure Suit Larry or Asteroids I want you to carefully look around the table.

There is a man at this table. And chances are his smile doth give me the butterflies.

And so my question for today is:

What kinds of things do you suddenly remember that you ‘adore’ when in close proximity to a man you want to impress?

Doodlepalooza

In a moment of blogger camaraderie, I attempted to write my own doodle for Peter’s annual Doodlepalooza.

Check it out here.

I think it may just make you laugh.

The reason I should stop going out bra-less

Dear Old Dude,

Hi there, I’m Hope. You don’t know me by name, but I’m the girl who flashed you her left boob this morning.

LET ME EXPLAIN.

See, I woke up this morning with a phone call from my sister begging me to get my ass to the pharmacy immediately because Nephew # 1 hadn’t done his Number 2s in several days. She needed me to get a suppository.

I jumped out of bed and slipped on the first dress in my wardrobe. A strapless, maxi and off I went.

On my way home, I decided to stop at Starbucks for my usual Chai. When I exited Starbucks I was met with a pretty regular phenomenon.  A car had parked right next to me  on the driver’s side. He had parked so close that I could NOT open my door. I couldn’t even fit between our two cars to get to the door.

Old dude, I am impatient and after five minutes I was tired of waiting.

I opened the passenger door and attempted to climb into the drivers seat. Of course, as I did this my foot stepped onto the hem of my dress. As a result the top dropped and VOILA!

BOOB EXPOSURE.

Of course, I did not realize this for at least one full minute as I made myself comfortable, put my drink in the cup holder and tried to find my keys that had fallen out of hand.

60 SLOW SECONDS OF BOOB EXPOSURE

Oh.

My.

Cringing.

God.

Anywaaaaaay, all I really wanted to say was thank you for not staring.

(As much as you could have done)

Much appreciation,

Hope in a Bra

Hairy

Every couple of months I submit myself to laser hair removal.

As a long time wax-er, I find the ice-cold sensation of having my facial hair zapped pretty soothing. That’s right. Facial hair. I have it. As a proud Greek and a card carrying member of Fucked Up Poly-cystic Ovaries, my hair grows in unusual places. Laser hair removal, while not a permanent solution, appears to be working at the moment. I look forward to my appointments and have established a good rapport with the 40 something year old technician. This means that I am not embarrassed when he sticks his face in my face and we discuss the length of my moustache.

But this past  Monday Homely Hair Revomal Guy was not available. Instead, I got HOT GORGEOUS YOU COULD BE MICHAEL WEATHERLEY’S TWIN GUY.

And he zapped my facial hair.

I couldn’t help but silently scream.

“Seriously Universe?! Seriously?! You send this GOD of a man in my life TO REMOVE MY CHIN HAIR?”

Ha-fucking-ha.