April 18, 2008
any old dartboard will do

Spring has sprung, and with it comes the arrival of Mean Girl politics. Mason's co-workers don't like the fact that he was the lucky man to volunteer for a chunk of my marking, so they have complained to him and to his department head. See, Mean Girls don't want any other girls taking advantage of their Nice Boy, because then he might not be free to do favours for them. They want him to stop being a sucker, as long as he shows the proper amount of gratitude to them by continuing to be their sucker. I'm torn between the desire to burn them to the ground and salt the earth, and the urge to sit as close to them as possible, sweetly and obliviously intruding on all of their conversations as if I had suddenly decided to be their BFF. I would love for them to lose patience, snap and show their hand to me instead of behind my back. I would love it.

Because even if I were to trade sexual favours for marking (which I'm not, but bear with me), it's none of their goddamn business. Bitches.

Speaking of sex, yesterday's yarn tasting quickly devolved into one of those all-female nights in which smuttiness becomes the conversation. As soon as I noticed the new Handmaiden, Amy warned me not to have an immediate orgasm. Yeah. It was good yarn, but.

Then there was the casual darts conversation. On Friday night, when Juuki expressed an interest in accompanying NotAnArtist and myself on the Unemployed Girls' Newfoundland Road Trip this July, Artist needed to make sure that the trip wouldn't involve babies now that two moms were going. "No," I said, "but do you mind if I get knocked up while we're in Newfoundland?" And of course she had no objection. How could she object?

Elizabeth was there on Friday, and she mentioned the pregnancy plan again last night at the yarn tasting. Since our entire plan for the road trip can be broken down into

  1. go to Newfoundland
  2. buy yarn
  3. get tattoos,
there was lots of room to discuss the pregnancy plan. Later on, Artist was discussing her fiancé's predicament in that he plays tournament darts but since he was knocked out, he can't find a game of casual darts. "Casual darts!" I crowed, "if we ever have a band, I'm going to call it Casual Darts." Elizabeth, who was a few seats away, heard, "when we're in Newfoundland, I'm going to call it casual darts!"

And thus, casual sex immediately morphed into casual darts. Artist shared the fact that she used to be a professional casual dart player for many years, prompting me to remark that she was a Private Dart Player. "And any old dartboard will do," I added, as we all started spraying the table with laughter.

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