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Some unearned references to the moon.

The moon was awfully bright tonight, and it reminded me of missing you. Which is not to say I miss you.

But the fact is, you’re so far away.

Some impossibly expensive plane ticket away.

I wish you would call me.

We were always best like this, at a distance, exhausted, a candle burnt at both ends. It was hard to sleep without you, maybe it’s harder to sleep without you in the same city.

This is just a series of hardships, slowly decreasing in severity.

Which is to say. I don’t miss you like I used to.

But the moon makes me feel like I should be.

I’ve been saying,

We’re only still married by fault of a piece of paper,

a pair of names on the mailbox,

And another set on the doorbell.

They took our names off the doorbell.

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I had a great title for this post, but I’m saving it for a rainy day

I am burnt out, yet electric. I’m not sure what happened in the last week to set this strange collision off. Perhaps I just had a reason to be creative (the interview), perhaps I had a multitude of anxieties (the interview), perhaps my young lover…(redacted, for decency).

Perhaps I am just here to brag.
To smile, to tuck a yellow rose behind my ear.

The sexiest thing I’ve seen recently?
A screenshot of an email from the Handsome Devil
about the little trip we planned,
showing he had already arranged gluten-free meals for me.

If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, it’s: “he had already“.
If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, you’re probably a guy.

The involuntary gasps from my friends when I showed them said it all:
We love a competent man.
As I’ve said before, the bar for men is so low it’s a tavern in hell.
But we love a competent man.

As I’ve said before, I’ve been sitting at the oak-and-leather bar of the Tavern in Hell,
drinking watered down gin and pretending to have a good time.

He makes it so easy to show him off. I love a planner.
Perhaps that’s the issue: I keep showing him off.
A picture is worth a thousand words,
and the expression I make when I text him is worth at least twice as much.
“Ooooh, what’s Alessandra doing? Her face says it all.”

Everyone who loves me wants to see the queen of puppy-love in another love story.
Maybe, after the last year, everyone is rooting for the underdog.
I may be the underdog,
but I am also the Ladybug of the Christmas Market.

After all the input from my friends, I considered it.
Considered him. Considered if he was worth dating.
I hate to disappoint, but this is not a love story.
It’s a leaflet of smut, tucked beneath a mattress.
It’s not love, but it’s glorious.

“I just want to keep things like they are.”
Absolutely, Sir. Zero complaints.
Keep things as they are: without obligation.
I’m not his, he’s not mine.
I have conned my way into a gloriously good time.


So I’m still sitting at the bar, in the Tavern in Hell,
But I’ve upgraded to sherry cask whiskey.
I’m seated next to the Handsome Devil.
His hand is subtly grazing my knee.
The music on the jukebox changed, and I’m tapping my toe to the beat.

I’m sitting at the bar of the Tavern in Hell,
Still waiting for the right guy to ask me to dance.

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Health Code Violations of Hallmark Christmas Bakeries

Christmas in Love

Nick, evil CEO, is in town to buy out Ellie’s Christmas Kringle factory. He’s exchanged his Big-City-Italian-Suit for an appropriate uniform, complete with shoe covers, hair net, and gloves. Ellie, on the other hand, is in full Christmas glam- her long blonde hair free-flowing into those Christmas Kringles. Yummy. Evidently, her homespun charm exempts her from stringent health codes followed by everyone else at the factory. Oh, and those adorable Christmas baubles hanging over the mixer won’t be quite so cute crushed up in a pastry, but this is small-town America, and we like our food authentic, and absolutely riddled with adulterants.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: C, for Christmas

A Gingerbread Romance

Chef Annabelle Renard, the supposed villain of this story, is the only character who gives a damn about her clients’ health. She is also the only person in this movie capable of pulling her hair back. Meanwhile, architect Taylor and single dad/hunky baker Adam have teamed up to build a giant gingerbread house. Do they utilize child labor to do so? Yes. Do they even once don a pair of gloves? No. Does everyone get the promotion they dreamed of? You bet.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: P, for Promotion.

Ice Sculpture Christmas

Callie, an aspiring chef and future poisoner, has been unwittingly entered into an ice carving contest against her boss and his villainous sous chef. How do we know the sous chef is a villain? Her hair is pulled back. What do you think this is, a big city? We don’t believe in hair elastics around here. What we do believe is that every single room should contain at least four fully decorated Christmas trees.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: J, for Jingle.

Murder She Baked: A Plum Pudding Mystery

Hannah Swensen, baker and unlicensed gumshoe, has found herself in a caper. Well, to start off, her sous chef plates croissants for service without wearing gloves. Oh, and THERE IS A DEAD BODY. She VISITS A CRIME SCENE and then returns to the bakery, without washing her hands. Eat your heart out, Ignaz Semmelweis. Despite all this, upon entering her kitchen, Hannah actually pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

Big City Health Inspection Grade: M, for Murder.

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I knew it wasn’t working, when I had no idea what to get him for Christmas.

I went Christmas shopping with my friend D. today, in search of stocking stuffers and an escape from the confines of our respective apartments. We found ourselves in front of the Tom Ford counter, and she gave me the eye.

“Didn’t the guy wear…?”

“Yeah. He did. But I am not thinking about him. Definitely not thinking about him.”

I say, staring at the bottle of his cologne.

“Yeah, sure. Which one was it?”

“That one, the tobacco vanilla one. It’s like fucking catnip for me. When he put it on I basically just wanted to lick him.”

“And did you?”

“Actually, no. He was a little hot-and-cold in that department.”

The saleswoman grabs the bottle, and goes to spray it on a tester, but I shake my head at her and reach out my arm, pulling back my glove to reveal my wrist.

D. says, “They have it at the commissary for like half price.”

My nose is pressed to my wrist, and I mumble at her from behind my palm,

“Yeah, mmhhmm, half price of way-too-fucking-much. But, I might need you to buy me a bottle. I don’t need the guy- I can just buy the damn perfume.”

“Or you could just keep fucking him knowing you’ll go home smelling like it.”

“Yeah, that’s super practical, completely logical. No, it’s not happening. I’m through with him.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, you seem really through with him.”

“Shut up. Ugh, I can’t escape him- he said it himself. His name showed up on the Bee yesterday. That word game I play.”

“I can set you up with my investment manager, I bet he smells nice.”

“I told you, I don’t care if the guy has money- is he a good person? Not a “nice guy”- a good person.”

“Well, he seems very laid back for having such a large trust fund.”

“I really don’t think you’re hearing me: not-interested-in-rich-dudes. Just buy me the damn perfume.”

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