Prattle on
Thursday, December 15, 2005
So, Yesterday I was chatting with one of my co-workers. Her name is Meredith and she is a blast (strangely, I know another Meredith who is equally a blast, but more so as she has the kind of edge you only get after the age of 30 and a failed marriage. Meredith at work is like edgy Meredith’s apprentice). Meredith has a habit of pointing at me and saying, “Over there, is the hot zone. H.O.T.” I of course take this as true because Meredith runs that zone. She welcomes others to that territory.

Well, yesterday we were in the office and working really hard on managing our social lives. We took a bit of a break when Meredith announced that one of the party guests from Tuesday night just sent her an email asking her if she’d like to go for coffee. I happened to know that she was asked on another date on Sunday night. These are just irritating complications to a woman trying to juggle two boyfriends. Times are tough for Meredith.

So, I asked her a question I didn’t really want the answer to. “Meredith”, I said, “Meredith, how many times do you get asked out in a month? Just give me a number” She started to laugh but before she answered and explained that she waitresses as a second job and that she just meets so many people. “Just give me a number.” I repeated myself.

Are you ready for this? In a slow month, she gets asked out six times. When things are busy she gets asked out about fifteen times. I’ve done some math. Assuming the November to March are slow (a total of 30 invitation), October, April and May are moderate (Lets say 10 invitations per month for a total of 30 invitations) and June, July and August are busy (that 15 invitations per month for a total of 45). She gets asked out an average of 8.75 times a month.

This woman is a phenomenon. In fact I think we should all start praying to her.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
So, tragedy struck on the weekend when the under wire in my favourite bar snapped in two rendering the bra almost un-wearable. It was the last thing I needed. This bra is a standard and fits…well it used to fit perfectly. It is plain black satin and I can wear it with anything. It always looked perfect. I haven’t had the time to really survey the damage I just know it is no longer perfect and I have been forced to find a workable solution to this problem.

As a result I have had to force my ample bosoms into another bra, which I had abandoned until now. It’s been a year since I wore this one and as many other women know, breasts change size over the course of a year – over the course of a month - and us well-endowed women can experience significant fluctuations.

But, a good bra is a good bra and I have to say, this old girl is doing a bang up job. As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, today is the big office party and I brought more of a party shirt to change into – read more revealing (I will also be changing my hair, but I bet you already knew that). The one thing I forgot about the bra I am wearing now is that it is very, how should I say, risqué. It could be the mesh, I could be colour, but it is probably the way this particular bar seems to cup my breasts and almost hand them to passers by. Not in the “welcome to my tits’ sort of way a push-up does, but more of a “I know you wanna get in here” kind of way. It is the cut of the bra that makes it look great under a button down shirt but kind of over-the-top in the navy blue turtleneck I am wearing now. The fitting of a bra is both an art and science I always say.

Anyway, I gotta tell the interns to get the mistletoe ready. I plan to be busy tonight!
Monday, December 12, 2005
So, I sound so sexy today it’s ridiculous! I am at the tail end of yet another cold. It kept me from the gym this weekend, which I am not so broken up about. Body-wise I feel fine, but my voice has taken a beating. Last night I sounded terrible but today I have passed the “your sound terrible” exit on the winter cold superhighway and I am now safely on the sexy bitch off-ramp. I’m telling you, give me a call. You’ll want to touch me. Wait, perhaps that means I should be making the phone calls, as there are a few people who I think should be touching me. “Hello, is this Mr. Clive Owen?”

By tomorrow, the rasp of my voice will loose a bit of it’s edge and it will drop a touch deeper. Just in time for the office holiday party. We are having a shindig and basically everyone is invited. I plan to say some very provocative and complex things to free lance journalists and other Montreal hipsters. I will only open my mouth after calculating how much trouble my tongue can get me into.

Actually, I think my loquacious nature has already done some damage. I got myself into a bit of an office party pickle. Saturday night, while boasting about my sandwich making abilities to a guy who loves a good sandwich, we got into a heated debate about the suitability of sweet potato between the rye. Needless to say I was on the “pro” side and he was arguing against it. I took my argument down the “don’t knock it till you try it” path and bing bam boom, I am supposed to go to the holiday party with a sandwich for this guy. Disaster. I was hoping for a between the bread to between the sheets segue, and it looked like it was going in that direction, but he out played me. I wanted a post party squeeze and instead I got a catering gig.

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