Hoes hate the holidays. Not exactly the most subtle one liner to put on a t-shirt, but sometimes bullshit catchphrases like "I'll have your baby, Brad" don't cut the mustard in the terrain of body billboards. At the very least, I figured it would garner a chuckle or one good "Oh no, she didn't!" at the annual office Christmas party, but instead it baited me into a Charlotte's web of someone struggling with a guilty conscience. Or so she said. The back story goes a bit like this: I get a voicemail from my friend Deirdre* begging me to bail on working the late shift to go to the tree lighting orgy at Rockefeller Center. Now any native New Yorker worth limited edition tokens will tell you that events like these are geared for tourists and the resident denizens avoid this overblown foreplay session because we know the drill already. A bunch of C-list celebs, gratingly annoying NBC shills tapped to co-host and numbingly unmusical performances with skating routines straight out of Ice Wars: USA vs. The World. All of this pomp and pageantry for a phonier foreplay buildup than late night reruns of Passion Cove. Waiting and waiting...and after cutting off blood circulation to your lower extremities for the sake of getting into the yuletide spirit... the tree's lit. Oooh! Wow! A big Jersey pine covered in the entire inventory of multicolored in the tri-state! That's all, folks. If I wanted a buildup with no payoff, I'd just hook up with my ex-boyfriend instead of smushing my boobs together in a sea of assholes angling camcorders for the perfect angle of Al Roker's bobblehead. So, in exchange for gritting my teeth silently, the trade off for a couple of drinks afterward at the Whiskey seemed fair enough. Luckily tonight was pretty warm considering tomorrow's December 1st, so at least my current cold symptoms wouldn't be exacerbated. But the downside was standing through the likes of Carrie Underwood and the Goo Goo Dolls, although the sentimental nod to the children affected by Hurricane Katrina touched the softie in me.

Fast forward a half hour later lounged out and respectively cross legged with Ketel Ones on the rocks, Deirdre shoots me a screwface and asks "you wore that to work?" I looked down at the bright red and green lettering and laughed no. It was something I picked up yesterday on my lunch hour, but I forgot it my file drawer and decided to change into something a bit less insulated rather than keep on the ill-advised angora sweater that caused my forehead to glisten all day long in unseasonably 64° weather. Rather than letting the topic go, she pressed onwards.

"So what is it supposed to mean?"
"Um... exactly what it says."
"Are you trying your hand at ironic fashion again?"
"If I was relegated to clingy jumpoff status the making this time of year, I guess it would be my shot in the dark...but, fortunately no."
"Excuse me?!"

I eyed her warily and politely asked what crawled up her ass. She rolled her eyes and tried to downplay it as "just not being funny." Mmmkay. Whatever. So after bitching about the 9-to-5, bemoaning the ticking timetable of gift purchases and asking for the love life bulletins I missed since we last went out, she grew strangely quiet. Just 3 months ago Dee was basking in the afterglow of supposedly meeting Mr. Right by accident in Barnes & Noble and now nary a peep of self-congratulatory tidbits?! No eager gloating from life on cloud nine? There had to be trouble in paradise. I needed the details pronto.

"Is there a warrant out for his arrest?"
Nah.
"Mother issues?"
Nope.
"Does he play for the other team?"
Pssht. Hell no.
"Dick hooks to the right?"
Uh uh.
"Married?"
Total fucking silence.
"Is he married?"
Shifty eyes searched the carpeting for answers.
"Does he have kids too?"

Her sudden interest in picking lint off her Burberry coat sealed the deal. Guilty as charged.

And here I was taunting her subliminally the whole time without a damn clue. No wonder her Cosabellas were in such a knot. The ramifications of a little thing we call principles thrown out the window tend to have that effect on people. In spite of her being a friend or not, if the scarlet "A" fits, own it unabashedly like the willing pinch hitter that you are. She already knows my disdain for women who knowingly involve themselves with married men in defiance to the consequences, but alas her excuse was quick on the draw. I didn't know... But of course, dumpling. He wouldn't have had your legs pinned behind your head with a gleaming wedding band on, would he? Wait a minute...(mulling that premise over)... On second thought...

But anyways, now that the tarot cards of truth were laid on the table, I probed for more. Naturally I wanted to know if she was going to continue seeing him. She shrugged and answered my question with a question. Why not? I don't owe his wife anything...he took vows to her, not to me was her rationale. Ah, I could read that defense mechanism from a mile away. The crux of all reasonings from "the other woman" played out before a disapproving studio audience. But in actuality, we were both in agreement irregardless to how callous the brush-off came across. Even though the actions were incredibly selfish, the only allegiances a person truly has in this world is to me, myself and I.

So why did that sort of "get mine, get yours" strategy in the battle of all is fair in love and war ring utterly false? Was she content to sell herself short while sinking into a deeper emotional rut? Would it be worth the inevitable heartache ahead?

I knew the kind of girl Dee was...needy and starved for affection. This would be a disaster in the making because she just wasn't equipped for the "no muss/no fuss" complications of an affair. I pointedly asked her if she expected him to find time for her in the whirlwind of coming weeks and again she grew silent. The candlelit dinners and late night rendezvous would be grinding to a halt because the Mrs. would be assuming her rightful place as the one opening Christmas presents and toasting the dawn of a new year. It would be a bitter pill to swallow because in spite of how many times he'll say that the kids are the only reason for him to stay, the stark reality is while Dee could keep him fine tuned with promise-fueled pillow romps, the same idiot wife was the one planning the ski trip to Telluride while she'd likely be the one winding up face full of Godiva truffles. And so goes the script for so many "other women" who've elected to play that position once the calendar ticks past mid-November. Almost makes me want to fill the void with offshoot picker-uppers for those heartbroken lasses cast aside in the on deck circle. Stealing's greetings!