Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Toothpaste On Pimples.

I'm ever so grateful for Benefit's Boing today. A most sincere and humble gratitude indeed. Because when I washed my make-up off last night (I know! On a Sunday. I, too, feel like I don't know myself anymore), there perched dangerously close to suitably Roman-hooked nose, is the world's largest pimple. It's so big that I'm almost (almost, but not quite) not even embarrassed to be carrying around this shiny mammoth growth upon my face. I'm almost impressed. Almost.

But I blame the 40th. Liquor, it appears, does not do wonders for the skin.

It was a cold eve and I wasn't in the mood to get tarted up. But I've Mr Right to find - or even a hot enough Mr Right Now - so I pulled out the LBD that has worked such magic in the past, I stuffed the boob parts with a bra whose efficacy is mind-blowing (that's right, The Pant fake boobied it for the night). I made myself up. I chose a hot pair of heels. I even wore my Alexander McQueen Kingdom - a scent so effing hard to find, that I save it for special occasions.

The Pant: No, I'm not in the mood to drink. I feel like having an early night.

Both The BF and Carlos eyed me with scepticism when I ordered my third drink.

The Pant: I'll have a cane and creme soda, thanks. (Eyeballing The BF) A single. (Pause.) Oh. And a Jagermeister.

By the fifth round, I was wrapped in the warm fuzzy feeling that alcohol alone can bring and thus brave enough to remove my pashmina. Evidently, the decision to wear a bra that triples boob size while simultaneously creating a cleavage so vast that extreme sportsmen the world over would pay to abseil betwixt them puppies, was a hit. I got eyefucked. In a huge way. Even the biggest cocksucker - and only other single person at the function - approached me.

Biggest Cocksucker: I've seen you watching me.

The Pant: I beg your pardon?

BC: Look, you've been looking over here a lot and, well, I'm single, you're single, what do you say?

TP: I say: if you look behind you, you'll notice a very large screen onto which several thousand pictures of The Birthday Girl are being projected. And... How can you tell I'm single?

BC: Please! This is a 40th. You're not wearing a ring. You're single.

I hated his logic. I hated it, especially, because he was right. And nothing grates me more than having to cede to a giant fanny.

Biggest Cocksucker managed to get on my very sizeable tits in no time at all.

BC: So, baby. What d'ya say?

TP: Really, Fuckwit? I have come across sanitary towels with more sex appeal than you.

BC: So my number is 0 7 2-

TP: Don't waste your breath.

BC: blah blah blah-

TP: It's really okay, Anus-

BC: blah blah blah blah..

TP: I'm not going to call you.

BC: You know you want to.

TP: Not in this lifetime.

It was in exactly three shooters' time, while I was in the throes of thinking of something suitably clever to drunk text an ex-lover (schoolgirl error, thankfully avoided) that I, for a brief moment, wished I'd taken down Biggest Cocksucker's number. But fortunately I have The BF to act as my person rescue services.

The BF: Why is your phone out?

TP: (hiding phone between funbags) Huh?

TBF: Who are you phoning?

TP: I was texting My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire to Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

(Not strictly a lie. I did text him. Two hours before.)

TBF: Well, I think it's time to go. The wives in there are going to get angry.

TP: Why?

TBF: Almost Hot Guy has been eyeballing you and now his wife's got her posse together and they're watching your every move.

TP: But this is my favourite song! I'm about to bust out some serious moves.

TBF: No, you're not. That puppy is about to become a victim of nip slip.

TP: And anyway. How can they hate me? I'm so not that chick.

TBF: I know that but they don't know.

TP: Well, tell them!

TBF: They won't believe me.

TP: Of course they'll believe you! You're the designated driver. You're sober.

TBF: Yes. And I'm telling you that I think we should go home.

TP: My feet are kind of killing me-

TBF: Get your handbag, Hussy.

TP: Not. Even. As. A. Joke.

I woke up after a solid six hours sleep, with my make-up washed off, in my own bed, with granny panties and a very old vest and I knew I was grateful to The BF. Because I didn't even have a real hangover.

So these are the things I've learnt since Friday:

1). Because I'm single, I'm a threat (even though other women's husbands really aren't my bag),

2). Stopping after drink five units is a good idea,

3). The BF often knows best (especially when sober),

4). Toothpaste on pimples is not just an old wives' tale, and,

5). I need to get twenty more of those bras.


  1. This one is brilliant if a li'l risque ... White Bear

  2. hahahaha! Loved it!

    Oh, and I want me one of them bra's too please! :)