It was around eleven, and I was sitting on my bed looking at paint samples when my phone rang. It was my pal Slutty Mandy, who was supposed to be on a date.“Well, this evening was a complete waste of my Arbonne skin care products,” she said. “That shit isn’t cheap. If I’m going to go to the trouble of having silky touchable skin, I expect to get touched.”
“So the date with the sports writer didn’t go well?”
I’m useless in setting up my girlfriends on dates, because I don’t know any straight men. So one of Mandy’s gal pals fixed her up with the sports writer for a local paper, and apparently she was underwhelmed by his company.
“It wasn’t that he was just a sports writer, it was that he’s a sports FAN. And I’m not talking casual, oh look, there’s a game on. I mean the crazy, screaming, make a drunken ass of yourself at a bar and ignore your date kind of fan. I was not amused.”
“So what’d you do?”
“What the hell do you think I did? I grabbed my purse and went home. I’d rather be ignored by my cats than by some inebriated jackass. I don’t even think he noticed I left. Lucky me.”
The next day, Sporty sent an e-mail ASKING IF HE’D DONE SOMETHING WRONG. Tee-hee. Silly man. Seldom are we afforded the chance to give a date the bad review they deserve, and Slutty Mandy seized this rare opportunity to make her displeasure known. She sent him an e-mail detailing his actions the previous night, and closed with:
“I’m all for being silly and a bit eccentric, but there is a far cry between that and just acting a fool … unfortunately you fell into the latter category.”
Zing!
I was very proud of her. Moments like this remind me that “Slutty Mandy” does not in any way mean “Indiscriminate Mandy”, or “Treat Me Like Shit Mandy”. Also, “Ball-Busting Mandy” is more than happy to make an appearance when the situation warrants. Sporty was very contrite. He even sent flowers to her office, which I thought was a courtly touch.
Then on Sunday morning, my phone rang at some ungodly hour, like ten.
“Wake up,” Mandy said. “Get on the internet. I’m in the motherfucking paper.”
And sure enough, in the Sunday sports column, was a picture of Mandy taken on National Talk Like a Pirate Day, swiped from her MySpace page. She was wearing a little pirate hat with the appropriate “Arrgh” facial expression. And below was the following:
…regularly featured in Topher Payne’s weekly column in the local gay publication David Magazine, “Mandy’’ ain’t afraid to tell you like it is, and she did so last week in an e-mail describing my previous weekend behavior among friends…
And then he printed the text of her e-mail. He also said she was “like a lava lamp; fun to look at, but not all that bright.”
Slutty Mandy was livid. Pissed about being outed as “Slutty Mandy” in the sports section of a free weekly. Furious about the lava lamp business. And beyond words about the pirate picture. I really was truly angry for her, I was just unable to express it until I stopped laughing.
“Damn it, Topher, this is not funny.”
“Oh, darlin’. Ask me twenty years from now. This shit will STILL be funny.”
The fact is, when Mad Mandy makes an appearance, most straight boys tend to tuck their little tails between their legs and make a hasty departure. The traits I find fabulous in her tend to be viewed as intimidating or castrating by my hetero counterparts. But Sporty actually showed a little backbone, and fought back. I thought the pirate picture was a masterstroke.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “But this is the first guy I’ve seen you date in a while who might actually be able to keep up with you. I am very impressed.”
“Well. I will take that under advisement. But come on, can’t I make a single move without it being reported by some local columnist?”
Here she paused, her tension rising.
“Oh crap,” she said. “You’re not going to write about this, are you?”
Zing!
I was very proud of her. Moments like this remind me that “Slutty Mandy” does not in any way mean “Indiscriminate Mandy”, or “Treat Me Like Shit Mandy”. Also, “Ball-Busting Mandy” is more than happy to make an appearance when the situation warrants. Sporty was very contrite. He even sent flowers to her office, which I thought was a courtly touch.
Then on Sunday morning, my phone rang at some ungodly hour, like ten.
“Wake up,” Mandy said. “Get on the internet. I’m in the motherfucking paper.”
And sure enough, in the Sunday sports column, was a picture of Mandy taken on National Talk Like a Pirate Day, swiped from her MySpace page. She was wearing a little pirate hat with the appropriate “Arrgh” facial expression. And below was the following:
…regularly featured in Topher Payne’s weekly column in the local gay publication David Magazine, “Mandy’’ ain’t afraid to tell you like it is, and she did so last week in an e-mail describing my previous weekend behavior among friends…
And then he printed the text of her e-mail. He also said she was “like a lava lamp; fun to look at, but not all that bright.”
Slutty Mandy was livid. Pissed about being outed as “Slutty Mandy” in the sports section of a free weekly. Furious about the lava lamp business. And beyond words about the pirate picture. I really was truly angry for her, I was just unable to express it until I stopped laughing.
“Damn it, Topher, this is not funny.”
“Oh, darlin’. Ask me twenty years from now. This shit will STILL be funny.”
The fact is, when Mad Mandy makes an appearance, most straight boys tend to tuck their little tails between their legs and make a hasty departure. The traits I find fabulous in her tend to be viewed as intimidating or castrating by my hetero counterparts. But Sporty actually showed a little backbone, and fought back. I thought the pirate picture was a masterstroke.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “But this is the first guy I’ve seen you date in a while who might actually be able to keep up with you. I am very impressed.”
“Well. I will take that under advisement. But come on, can’t I make a single move without it being reported by some local columnist?”
Here she paused, her tension rising.
“Oh crap,” she said. “You’re not going to write about this, are you?”
