Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 26/1/2013 (1668 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.
DEAR MISS LONELYHEARTS: A married top executive in my big company and I have been having "nooners" at my apartment from noon-2 p.m. every Friday for about three months now. The extended lunches have been noted as "annoying and irresponsible" by my immediate boss, even though I come to work an hour early every Friday and work like a trojan to get my eight hours in. The witch has recently cut my Friday lunches back to one hour, and she's checking up on me. Now what do I do? It takes 10 minutes to drive to my apartment and 10 minutes back. That leaves no time to eat, drink -- nothing but a rush through the door, get the deed done, get dressed and get back to work. We tried it twice and I felt degraded by it. Usually we drink wine, eat a lunch I prepared before work, have a lovely time, cuddle and then go back to work -- beautiful times. This week I faked up a series of three medical tests as one way to get a few two hour stretches in starting at 1 p.m. on different days. But, coming back at 3 p.m. is always dicey with her when there's lot of mid-afternoon work to be done. I don't know what to do. Please don't be judgmental! I love him and his wife is sick and never has sex with him, poor man. -- Can't Do Without Him, Downtown
Dear Can't: Europeans have long had the 5 to 7 p.m. liaisons, but that is their mate's fresh food shopping time, and dinner is much later. Canadians tend to have early morning affairs, pretending they're off to the gym when the real workout is going to happen in a warm bed somewhere else. Maybe the 7-9 a.m. slot would work for you, though it's not as romantic. At the risk of sounding a little judgmental, be aware that married men who are cheating usually say their wife is not having sex with them, but they are often double-dipping at home and elsewhere. This executive has two women in his life, so don't you be a ninny and be true to a guy who is not true to you. At least keep your eyes open the other six days of the week for a single man to see you, and perhaps take over the full-time job of loving you. Then you can go out morning, noon and night -- and sleep overnight in each other's arms. A single man is a bit like Methadone and can help you back off an addiction to a married man like your Mr. Big.
Dear Miss Lonelyhearts: I swallowed something whole and it's making me sick. I believed the giant lie my 42-year-old boyfriend told me about his lack of a past and children. Yesterday a woman came to my door holding a toddler who looked just like him. She said he had the child with her two years ago and he pays big support, though he rarely comes around. No wonder he's always too broke to take me out. I had her come in, and we got some liquor out and talked for two hours. She and I turn out to be very much alike. He was a prince to her, but refused to wear condoms or have her take the pill because he said it'd be an honour to have her carry his baby. He dropped her the minute she became pregnant and said -- get this -- that he loved the romance of thinking he could impregnate her with his son and heir, but the reality wasn't what he wanted. He was "sorry, but that's what he was feeling." (Like it is all about him.) Now we both want to kill him, not literally, but we want to devastate him. Should I pretend to be pregnant too? -- Met His Match Now, River Heights
Dear Met His Match: You're a player's nightmare, you two. How about this -- simple, but devastating. Invite him to a restaurant where you join him alone. He sits down with you and orders. You also order for a third person, who is a "surprise guest" and arriving in 20 minutes. Then she walks in and sits down. You and she proceed to tell him what a prize jerk he is in detail, and then ask him to leave as the two of you have more to discuss, since you are afraid you may be pregnant too. He'll be mad, so she must go for court-ordered and court-delivered support. You opt for never seeing the louse again, with a box of whatever he has left at your house sent to his place by courier. He's finished. Kaput!
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