With the Texas Twister out of town for the last week, yours truly has been living the life of a bachelor—”batching it up,” as a bachelorette friend calls it. What does this look like, you ask–pizza boxes and beer empties, an Internet history search that would put me in jail in some states? Well, sure. But it’s also meant some meandering, hungover posts to this blog.  And hanging out with some folks whom I haven’t spent time with in awhile.

For instance, last Sunday I accompanied the Professor on her mad mission to see white Jewish bisexual former-hustler now-rapper Mickey Avalon, in Seattle. On the three-hour drive down we had plenty of time to cover our usual favourite topics, which had gone largely unattended for the past few months. (Not least of all because we weren’t talking, but that’s another story.) Because we both have an inordinate fondness for Nordstrom and Elliott Bay Book Company, as well as alcohol and the town they call Sea-puddle, our ventures down south had at one time been frequent—my admission to Girlfriendland, among other factors, had prevented any such journeys since last year, I believe it was.

However, on previous excursions, we’d both been either too heartsick to do anything but check our cell phones and email to see if our callous loves had been in touch, or wondering why they didn’t care when we did, or wondering when the next callous love would come. So it was refreshing to drive south with nothing more serious on our minds than a stop at the retail mall outlet.

Besides reconnecting with the Prof, I renewed my acquaintance with Wingy. Once the terrors of the Vancouver party circuit, he and I have both since fallen off the radar due to, yep, Girlfriendland. Me more so than he—Wingy’s still been getting out to shows, no common denominator too low (he even went to the Backstreet Boys and Celine Dion). On Tuesday night we hit the town, hard, and it was just like old times—his business card magically appearing in hands and wallets as he worked the room, as though he was some kind of he’s some kind of advertising-sales David Copperfield, him complaining I misquoted him on the blog (he should be so lucky), copping a goodbye kiss and hug from a co-worker of mine and her friend, picking up the bill at the Bin. Oh wait—that wasn’t just like old times. I suggested we pick up the tab for the four of us (me, him, Cheryl from my work and Jen M.) just to see him squirm.

Then, last night, I hit a couple of places with Cassandra W. We met last year, I think it was, at a customer appreciation night at Blushing Boutique, her friend’s clothing store, and had kept in touch since, occasionally running into each other, or meaning to. I was hoping to get some good dirt from her for the blog, but we spent the first part of the night, at Moxie’s Grill (for which I had a gift card from last week’s Bocuse d’or dinner) talking about the male ego (it exists) and PMS (you know you’re in Girlfriendland when…) The second part of the night was scarier; FHS Events, a social network, had partnered with Drambuie for something called the Drambuie Den at Bar None, a Yaletown nightclub where the men are all balding and the women all wear heels. What can you have Drambuie with, you ask? Club soda, lime juice, whiskey—the latter for a Rusty Nail. We lasted an hour, part of which was spent dancing to the frustrating mix of the DJ’s mash-ups (surely one of the worst trends to ever hit DJ culture, though what do I know, I’ve never even been to Ibiza). Dropping her off at her friend’s West End apartment, Cassandra said, “Don’t get too girlfriend-ized!” It may, however, be too late.

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