Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I slept with Tiger Woods.

No point in being all hush hush about it now. Tiger took me in the rough, right off of the 15th hole. I have the grass stains on my panty hose to prove it. Mind you, it was over before I could yell "fore", but he was an animal, and a gentleman. Yes, he deflowered me right there in the woods. Sweet Teddy. He caddied for Daddy. I remember it like it was yesterday.

But never mind, it's Christmas, and I have to buy myself a little something for under the tree. The little bastard gets upset thinking Santa stiffs me year after year. I slept with him once, Santa. It was egg nog induced – not worth making the naughty list for. Oh, the way he used to yell, ho, ho, ho right before he came down the chimney.

I've been thinking I'd buy myself a sewing machine ever since I saw that Sarah Richardson and her sidekick Tommy, whipping up Christmas stockings on HGTV. I went to third base with Tommy before he came out of his mother's closet wearing her best dress and pearls. I recall his skin being a tad clammy.

I used to sew a lot as a young girl. Crafty I was. I made cowboy shirts right after I slept with Willie Nelson, and I was getting all excited about sewing until the little bastard said, "Mom, what exactly would you sew, besides name bars on my hockey jerseys?" and I responded, "sans-a belt slacks and a matching vest for you, you unappreciative little prick". Or maybe a nice flannel nightie for me – one that will get all twisted, as I toss and turn thinking about the night I bedded down with Ben Cartwright, or was it Hoss? Nighties can be so irritating, and I'll wake up naked except for the moist noose of flannel tucked under my breasts.

So I am asking Santa for a sewing machine and a smoke detector, because the little bastard says I put the oven on higher to make things cook faster, and as a result I burn everything – but that's what Gordon Ramsey taught me just after we made love in Tuscany. Crank it, bitch, I believe he said. Oh, such a fabulously foul mouth, maybe I'll ask for a new Gordon Ramsey pot from Thornbloom, since I burned the fuck out of my only decent pot making hot cider and rum last week. Flames were licking the ceiling before I realized the blue smoke wasn't coming from the ashtray. It'll be like a souvenir of our lovemaking, and much better than the herpes I picked up from Julia Child.

If you're heading downtown to see that adorable boy at the Port of Wines, the one who used to drink Armagnac out of my belly button, Mills Brothers have a lingerie department that makes me blush just thinking about it. Besides, with that Darrell Dexter denying seniors heating assistance – I never should have slept with him – I am drawn to Mill's Bedhead pyjamas in cozy flannel. There's a saucy leopard print that would suit me just fine. And they have silky, sexy Bedhead pyjamas, just like the pair Picasso ripped off me right before I posed for Nude Descending Staircase. Or was that Marcel Duchamp?

Oh the mind is a wonderful thing, and Christmas brings back so many special memories for me like when my great grandmother Edna used to say, "Jimmy, go fetch me my purse so I can give you a little something" and it was usually an Avon-scented handkerchief, wet with the residue of geranium pink lipstick and snot.

It's hard to believe some mornings I wake up and think, where am I?, and I have absolutely nothing to write about, but then I think, it's the thought that counts, Teddy.

Mills on Spring Garden Road have a lingerie section that will make you blush (or get you out of the dog house).
Thornbloom in Spring Garden Place have cookware that will make you warm all over.