Ms. Lap Sitter

It’s that time of year again.  The Christmas season.  Time to go sit on some pervy Santa’s lap and ask him for random stuff.

Like the rest of the masses, I figured that I should take the time to put in my order with Papa Christmas.

Papa Christmas.  Is it just me, or does that sound dirty?

Ah, who the hell cares?  I’m already sitting on his lap at this point.  No turning back now.

So, Santa, let me get all nestled in here.  Why is it so comfy?  This is more than a little disturbing.

Anyway, listen up, Père Noël.  Here is what I want — nay, NEED — this Christmas:

• MOJO.  I lost it somewhere in London, and I need to get it back.  Help me before I take myself to a nunnery.  (Ms. Rock Chick in London, Ms. London Mojo)

• MATCHING UNDERWEAR SETS.  As racy and frilly as they come.  Why?  A girl’s got to be able to compete on this lacy Parisian scene.  Besides, Santa, I know that you enjoy picking out lingerie, you pervy cad, you.  (Ms. Victoria’s Secret Angel)

• MORE PANTS.  I tend to lose them when I drink.  And not in a good way.  (Ms. One Night Stand)

• GAME.  I’ve never had it.  I’m about as smooth as sandpaper.  On second thought, sandpaper is MUCH smoother than me.  (Ms. Boston Man-shopper, Ms. Mac Lover)

• And last, but not least, please send me JUSTIN LONG for Christmas.  Please wrap him up in a snuggly sweater.  No need to tie him up with ribbon.  I’ve got plenty of ribbon and accoutrements at my place.

Please deliver all gifts to the family compound in California, and I will arrange for transport back to Paris.  My stocking is the one with the obese snowman on.  Do NOT, under any circumstances, give Justin Long to either of my sisters.  As God is my witness, I will hunt you down and beat you with a stocking full of fruitcake-shaped rocks.

That is all.

Joyeux Noël.

Wait, why am I still on your lap?

 

Ms. One Night Stand

Fellow blogger, Ryan, has recently taken to bribing me to go out and get laid.  She started by promising me champagne and home-baked sweets.

I was intrigued, but not very motivated.  Sweets don’t really move me, and champagne tends to give me the hiccups.

But then she promised to show me her interpretive dance skills.

SOLD.

So last Friday night, on my quest to make Ryan showcase her infamous finger-snapping, thumb-pointing dance moves (<–), I managed to:

• lure some young man to my apartment,
• lose my pants,
• and earn fifteen euros.

Man, I WISH the Guillermos had looked like this...

The night started out harmlessly enough.  My flatmates and I met up with some friends at our regular pub.  For reasons as yet unclear, I had a bit too much to drink.  We met these guys, and somehow, I thought that all three of them were named Guillermo.  I was probably too off my face to bother with their real names.

After approximately five minutes of conversation, I pounced on one of them.

LITERALLY.

Classy, I know.  I’m not sure WHICH Guillermo it was, but I didn’t really care at the time.  I was thinking: “You’re my ticket to Ryan’s dance-a-thon!”

One thing led to another, and the Guillermos came home with us.

But then, most likely due to the fact that my blood had been replaced with alcohol, I became very, very stupid.

The true love of my life.

My decision-making process here was VERY hazy, but the end result was that I bolted out of the sitting room, ran off to bed, snuggled with my hot water bottle, drooled on it a bit, and then passed out.

Obviously, by then, I had completely forgotten about Ryan’s bribe.

When I awoke the next morning, I was disorientated, hungover, un-sexed (damn!), and very confused about the current state of affairs in my bed…

I was still fully clothed from the waist up (shirt, sweater AND scarf).

My pants!

But I wasn’t wearing any pants.

As I glanced around my room, I realized that my pants were nowhere to be found.  In fact, I checked every room in the apartment.

No pants.

“Oh well,” I thought.  “Who needs pants anyway?  My underwear is bitchin’.”

So I wandered woozily back into the sitting room, where my Guillermo had left his phone number on the table.  As I peered at it through one eye (I can only open one at a time when I’m hungover, apparently), I realized that he had signed it “N.”

I thought, “Wow, I didn’t know that Guillermo starts with an N.”

Yeah… I was probably still a little drunk.

Then, during my morning-after wallet-check, I found fifteen euros.

For the record, it was fifteen euros more than should have been in there.

Considering my inebriation of the night before, I didn’t — couldn’t — think about where it came from or what I did to earn it.  So I just mumbled, “Cool,” and shuffled back to bed.

So what have I learned from my one-night non-stand?

• I should not drink white wine.  Nothing good comes of it.
• Even at my drunkest, I am unable to follow through with a one-night stand.  So I will stick to other, tamer methods of courtship.
• I love my hot water bottle more than sex.
• I will never let Ryan bribe me ever again.
• I need more pants.
• Guillermo does not, in fact, start with the letter N.
• Guillermo, in fact, is not named Guillermo.

In any case, since I will forever associate non-Guillermo with such a disastrous night, we really have no future together.  So I must say:

NEXT!

n.b.  Special prize will go to the first person to correctly guess where I ended up finding my pants.