I ran in to a girl I used to work with at Starbucks in the Village a few weeks ago and we made plans to meet for dinner and catch up on the past 10 years or so; dinner was last night.  She left her husband this past February and now that both kids are out of the house and at university (she married REALLY young, like at 17) she is busy making up for “lost time” and hitting the bar and club scene hard and also sleeping with as many young guys as she can. 

Then came the kicker – she leaned in and confided that she thinks she has, you know, something “down there” and proceeded to list off her symptoms and asked for my advice as to what to do in terms of treatment, etc.

This all happened over a relatively civilized dinner at Quattro and I do believe that wine may have actually come out of my nose when she laid that one on me. 

I honestly don’t know what shocked me more:  that she was telling me all of this or that she thought I was the person from whom to seek advice.

I got home shortly thereafter, walked the mutts and chatted with a friend from Toronto who regaled me with tales of how she is scandalising her Rosedale neighbourhood by eschewing evening cocktails in favour of playing on a women’s hockey team comprised mainly of hard-core butch lesbians.

Yep, just another Tuesday night in my life …