By Naomi Neale

After spending such a lot of her twenties in limboworking at seasonal jobs and courting a chain of commutement-challenged mentwenty-eight-year-old Nan Cloutier is decided to enable cross of her previous and current hurts, discover a everlasting task, and fall in love with the fitting guy.

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Friendship hug, friendship hug," he swore, when he felt me tense up. Damien kept his hands squarely around my middle, away from any dangerous spots. "No wandering fingers," I warned. He rocked me in front of the mirror, his head over my shoulder. Fending off Damien's continual barrage of propositions over the months hadn't been easy. Fast-forwarded in my memory, all those successful deflected passes made me feel like Wonder Woman, repelling German bullets with her magic bracelets. "So why don't we break that streak sometime?

I was even luckier because Mercer-Iverson had seen fit to stuff its seasonal workers into uniforms that brought a new dimension to the word tights. The millennial fabric squeezing all oxygen from my bloodstream seemed to have been genetically modified with the DNA of a boa constrictor. Bending down to talk to little Heidi in tights two sizes too small made muscles pop to places they were never intended to go. I suddenly seemed to be wearing my bum as a backpack. My fingers clawed at the elastic while I tried to stretch a smile across my face.

He saw us when we were sleeping. He knew when we'd been bad or good. Only, in my day, if a girl played her cards right, Santa could give her a Ker-Plunk and a new doll a heck of a lot more quickly than God could cough up answers to prayers. No wonder the poor kid looked sick to her stomach. "Don't worry," I said with a squeeze of my fingers. " We had three actors playing the Seussian icon, all of them in green-face and a traditional red Santa costume trimmed with white fur. I was glad to see that afternoon's actor was Alvin.

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