Resolution Retribution

I have about 24 hours. One day until I am supposed to once again come up with a list of half-assed goals, a third of which I'll likely break before the clock strikes midnight. Here's why resolutions may not be my solution:

There was the year I vowed to "be in love" the next year. Look, if wishing it into existence were all it took, I'd be Mrs. Jackman by now, after what I can only assume would have been a tumultuous breakup with my grade six pseudo-boyfriend. Hey Brian, what's up?

Having failed at placing myself squarely within Cupid's sights (over here, you myopic little bastard) I decided I was aiming too high and resolved the following December 31st to achieve the much more reasonable "start dating this year." We've discussed this; I love the flirting, I love the near-the-beginning phase, I even love the sort of mundane day-to-day stuff. But until they come up with some way to skip directly to date three, thus avoiding the silly, exhausting, hair-twirling-if-only-I-had-it-to-twirl bit, I might be screwed. Granted, they kind of have invented a way to skip directly to the good parts of date three. It's called Grey Goose.

I did pretty well with the "expand my culinary repetoire / cook more stuff" attempt. But eventually, I got tired of sourcing spices I'd never heard of that smelled vaguely of illicit drugs, eating the same thing 4 nights in a row, and having only Tallulah to admire my kitchen wizardry. She didn't particularly care for the saffron orzo, as I recall. She eats moths; I hardly trust her palate.

There's the obligatory "get in shape" entry. Some years it's been sort of okay, some years it's been a (lack of) exercise in frustration.  Inevitably, even if I start out guns-a-blazin', something happens (heartbreak, injury, fettucine alfredo), that derails me. But honestly, my gym is about to put my picture on the side of a milk carton, and I'm eating a piece of my Mom's gumdrop cake as I write this, with one of her nanaimo bars warming up in the bullpen. So let's go ahead and take this one off the short list for 2011, shall we?

I also did quite well with the whole "save money to buy a house" one. And now I am the happy owner of a soul-crushing mortgage that pretty much guarantees the only way I'm going to be able to swing my every few years trip to Europe this year is if some Albanian gang kidnaps me so they can auction me off to the highest bidder. I just really hope they don't make me wear that harem-girl outfit, 'cause I not two minutes ago decided that "get in shape" ain't happening. 

There was the year I was in a rut, so I vowed to "try new things". I'm sure there were more, but the two that stand out were taking a cooking course in Tuscany and trying ashtanga yoga. The Tuscan cooking course was always going to be a huge success: I love pasta, I love travel, and I was with my girl Robyn, who shares my believe there's no problem wine and a mixed tape can't solve. The ashtanga yoga was always going to be a huge fail: I haven't been flexible since puberty, I walked in wearing an old concert t-shirt to find pretty much a live-action version of the lululemon website, size tight, and I don't like being asked to grab my ankles by anyone who hasn't bought me a few drinks and told me my eyes are pretty. Lesson learned: less spandex, more ravioli.

So you might say it's been a rather mixed bag of resolution success. This year, I think I'm resolving not to have resolutions, per se. That being said, my lovely friends Neville and David gifted me with the wonderfully whimsical Flying Wish Paper last night. You write down a wish or a pledge, light the paper on fire, and let it burn until it lifts off its little platform, carrying your hopes out into the world.  Okay - perhaps I need one resolution: I resolve not to light the Flying Wish Paper near the sheer curtains. Happy New Year, everyone.

The real 12 Days of Christmas

Forget the golden rings (makes me look sallow)  and all those persistent drummers (like a goddamn Rush concert that never ends. Shudder). And no sign of a partridge, but there's likely a glitter-obsessed cat in the tree. Here's my 12 days of Christmas.

1) The day I buy the first Christmas gift (often in late October), thus becoming convinced this will be the year I actually get stuff done early. This does not last. I tend to peak too soon. Kind of like Taylor Swift, but without the chart-topping break-up songs. Come to think of it,  I should totally be writing country music. Nashville, call me.

2) The day I go shopping for my boyfriend. Actually, the day I go shopping for my brother and end up seeing all this awesome stuff I'd buy my boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend. The handful of men I've dated have all been quite different, but I think they'd agree on the following points: a) I give fantastic gifts; b) I'm a very good kisser,  c) I really don't think that's fair, not when you haven't heard my side of things.

3) The day I realize my jeans are a smidge tighter, and I blame it on the festive goodies. Granted, this year that happened around the third week of November, but I'm gonna go ahead and file it under "holiday season".

4) The day I finally sit down to wrap all the presents. That day is always December 23rd, and I always watch a Christmas movie while I do it. This year it was "The Polar Express". Last year it was "Die Hard". Don't think that qualifies as a holiday movie? It takes place at Christmas. And, be honest, which phrase are you more likely to use at the mall around December 21st:  "Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker" or "Happy Holidays"? Thought so.

5) The day I spend 8 hours shopping and come home with one stocking stuffer, three things for myself, and a nasty disposition. And possibly a ketchup stain from the panic fries I had at the food court in the hopes that inspiration could be found in trans-fat. You know the only thing that inspired? My ass.

6) The day I spend two hours shopping and get most of it done. Not sure why; it could be kismet, it might be desperation. But it's like the heavens open up and shine a golden light on the gifts I'm meant to buy. Granted, this might be a weird side-effect of 3 gingerbread lattes in a 4 hour period, but they're my very own Chrismas crutch. I'm like a super-caffeinated Tiny Tim with a debit card. Seriously, the Starbucks card I got for my birthday? Like giving crack to Courtney Love.

7) The day I see something I never knew I wanted and have to have. The exact timing of the day can vary somewhat, but will always take place 3-4 days after my mother has announced she's completely finished shopping. She did me a solid this year on one thing, though. We meet again, Professor Layton.

8) The day I watch "Love Actually". This is never my present-wrapping movie, because I want to be able to really enjoy it. Adore it. Notice something new every time. Always makes me laugh and tear up in equal measure. And Bill Nighy? I totally would.

9) The day, a weekend one, when I have so much to do I need to make a list and check it twice. I usually even vow to go to bed early.  This is usually preceded, the previous evening, by a "just one drink" festive bender that might see me wearing a feather boa, flirting (badly) with the d.j., and thinking I can play pool. I am only good at one of these things. And it ain't flirting. Or pool.  But I realized something this year: the laser-like focus on my to-do list kept my hangover at bay. As did the gingerbread lattes.


10) The day I attempt to do some Christmas baking. I don't have kids, and most of my friends are more the Christmas cocktail than Christmas cookie crowd, but I have to engage in creaming butter and sugar together for it to really feel like Christmas. Raspberry almond triangles, peppermint pattie bars, gingerbread men (this year they were ninja bread men, and they were awesome).  You know how, on those cooking shows, all their ingredients are laid out, pre-measured,  and even the cooling rack stands at the ready? Yeah, I hate those bitches. There's a better than average chance I'll end up fishing egg shells out of the batter, get butter on my glasses, and forget to turn off the beater before I lift it out of the bowl. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm a pretty good baker, but it's a bit like making sausages; delicious, but I wouldn't advise you to witness the process. Thank God I can foist it off on my colleagues, who will happily eat just about anything remotely cookie-like. Often before 10:30 am. See also #3.

11) Tree day. This is probably more like tree three or four days. Get the tree. Make poor man at lot hold it up so I can get a good look. Interrogate him as to the freshness of the tree. Have it delivered. Wrestle it into stand. Cut plastic netting and cross fingers while tree settles. Let it relax for a day. Check lights before placing on tree. Finally light tree. Notice one set is now not working. Curse. Figure out problem. Have drink. Vow "never again". Call tree lot to ask why they suppose tree isn't drinking (that makes one of us). Then start opening ornament boxes and remember how much I love Christmas trees.

12) Christmas Eve, or the day I arrive at my parents house, bag upon bag of gifts in my hands, to be greeted by a squeaky-obsessed yorkie, an indecisive cat (do I want to be in? out? no, in) and an incontinent husky. Every year, I plan to arrive early. I don't know what happens: I leave my house before noon, often before 11:00, and yet still can't make it through the door of my childhood home until nearly 5. It's an hour and a half drive. But there are stops to make, coffees to get, snacks to stock up on. I've come to think of my meandering journey as a new Christmas tradition. So from me, In 'n Out Cat and a bladder-compromised husky, hope your Christmas is a good one. Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers.

Happy New Year!

Monthly magazines are always a little anemic in January. They blow their loads on their December issues, and the new year finds them tapped out. Exhibit A:  on the cover of the January Cosmo, there are promises of a measly 60 Sex Tips. What? No 75? But Cosmo loves 75; it's their magic number! Couldn't eek out another 15?  This does not bode well.

Okay - 60 it is. I personally believe one only really needs about 20, maybe 25 things in one's repetoire to have a perfectly fantastic sex life; anything over 30 seems like showboating. But this is "60 Hands Free Ways to Wow Him". There's a whole lot o' lube involved in going hands free, apparently. And feet. And eye-lid licking.  Near as I can tell, lube something up and rub it on him; that pretty much covers it. I did enjoy " In a pitch-black room, have him direct a flashlight at the places on his body he wants you to lick". Okay. I'm a big movie fan, so when a  guy wants to recreate a sexy scene from a movie, I'm all in. But I'm thinking "9 1/2 Weeks", not "The Blair Witch Project". " I am so scared. I don't know what's out there." Some naked guy shining a flashlight on his nipples, as it turns out.

"What to do when your guy gets quiet". How quiet are we talking? Because I'd suggest checking for a pulse and then, depending on your findings,  either calling  911 or leaving him the fuck alone to watch the game, but I've been wrong before. Nope - apparently, silence is not golden. It may, in fact, indicate that the planum temporale, a portion of the outer layer of the brain which recognizes language cues, is thinner in men. So they get slim hips and a thinner planum temporale? I knew I should have been a dude.

Ashley Greene. She's in Twilight. Her breasts look fantastic on the cover. But she's dating the gay Jonas brother. Let's call this one a draw.

January's issue always contains the yearly  "Bedside Astrologer". I'm not much for horoscopes; I know I'm a Sagitarrius, but that's about it. But today happens to be my birthday, so let's see. Apparently, I crave passion 24/7, so what I need is a guy who is exciting yet grounded and will be there for me no matter what. If by passion they mean cupcakes, they're pretty much bang on. Sure, there was a time when I liked someone to bring the intensity, but now I'm happy for him to just bring the DVD.  And maybe some Kettlecorn. I'm also supposed to go commando on a dinner date, then "drop" something and ask him to pick it up, giving him "a peep show he won't ever forget". Couple of problems here. With my luck, my date would be on his Blackberry the whole time while I kept randomly tossing things on the floor, until eventually only a shrimp cocktail and some Sweet n' Low remained. Or, because this is my life, a poor hapless 21 year old waiter would be walking by, notice my butter fingers, insist on retrieving the fork/napkin/dinner roll and henceforth be visually assaulted. Sure, he won't ever forget it either, the day the middle-aged lady showed him her no-no zone, not even after years of therapy and a Valium prescription. The good news is, they've helpfully given me my hottest love and sex days. Note to self: shave legs on March 30.  I also have a reputation as the queen of spur-of-the-moment quickies. Really? Who wrote this? 1993?

My favourite article this month, without a doubt, is "The New Male Grooming Obsession". Seems virtually every guy on the planet is manscaping. Look, I get it, and given the insane follicular expectations guys seem to have about women these days, I suppose it's only fair. But come on; men should have hair. My fondness for chest hair is well documented, so I'm biased, but men are apparently going to salons for what is known, in the waxing vernacular, as the "back, sack and crack". It's okay, keep laughing. I'll wait....Really? These poor idiots are waxing their balls? They're supposedly doing this to make the area more "appetizing" (their word, not mine) to women. Because we all know how mouthwatering women find the recently plucked chicken look. Jesus. Adults have  hair. Even women. So unless you can reasonably expect to land a job as Sasquatch's body double, trim the hedges and call it a day. You just know somewhere right now, some horny guy is standing in a pitch-black room, shining a flashlight on his balls and hoping like hell the pain was worth it.

I'm not crushed

It's finally happened. For one of the few times in my adult life, I don't have one. A crush. An object d'affection. I'm crushless. And I don't like it one little bit.

Why? Do I miss the drama that can accompany a crush? The petty, pointless and slightly perverse sense of betrayal when you realize your crush is a) talking to another girl, b) completely unaware you cut your hair, c) gay?  Nope. But here's what I do miss - the spring in my step, the extra 30 seconds picking out a pretty top, the flirty conversation that makes having to take off volumizing mascara before bed all worth it. I miss having a good reason to reapply my lipgloss after my morning coffee.

There was the guy at the gym. It was over when I finally heard him speak; David Beckham without the accent. The bartender at my favourite bar; I eventually realized he asked everyone if he could get them anything else, not just me.  The guy I worked with; I made out with him. I've had crushes that turned into relationships, relationships that cooled into crushes and, once or twice, crushes that became relationships that became this depressing kind of horny loathing. I also had, once, a crush that turned into Erasure's "A Little Respect" within three songs of me walking into a club (hey, Al the DJ from Scoundrels! How've you been?). But right now, I got nothing. I don't even like George Clooney like I used to.

My last crush ended ugly. Bad day when I realized he wasn't worth the lipgloss. It was like he gave my expectations herpes. And yet, I miss it. Because no matter how old you are, crushes are fun. Sure, they're shallow and quite often on inappropriate people. My male colleagues are trying to figure out if I mean them. For a few of you, yes, I do.  But they make your day a little brighter, your mood a little better, your boobs a little perkier (crushes get the good bras). So step up, gentlemen. Do something to make me crush on you. My good bras are waiting.

Hostess under protest?

I love having people over.  Until I actually invite them. Then I realize I'm going to have to get my shit together, and I regret ever opening my party-loving mouth.  But I man up, badger friends for appetizer recipes, clean the house, and brace myself. Here's what I've learned after years of puff pastry and cheese dip gone awry.

The only rule you really need:  don't ever run out of booze. Ever. Sure, people bring booze with them, but sometimes, they drink it all. If they're my friends, by "sometimes"  I mean "in the first 45 minutes". People can deal with the Wavy Lays running out. Vodka is a different matter. 

Spend twice as much time cleaning your bathroom, and very little time cleaning anything else.  I once felt the need to straighten up the basement before a get-together. You know, in case someone wanted to take their empties downstairs, maybe do a load of laundry, change the furnace filter.  What a waste of time.  No one is ever going to see it.

Forget what I just said. Bold-faced lie.  Assume that someone, at some point, will need a sweater, or more hangers, or lip balm, and you'll boozily tell them "Upstairs. Just go grab it". It will be approximately 15 seconds later when you realize there's a better than average chance they have not yet found the Blistex but have found the bull whip in your dresser. True story; I can explain. But I won't.

On a related note, people like to look around. Some people call it snooping; I call it natural curiousity. It doesn't bother me in the slightest; if I've invited people over, it's because they already know and, hopefully, like me. Want to look on my bookshelves or in my medicine cabinet? Go ahead! Trust me - given the choice, I'd much rather people poke around in my nightstand than my relationship history; way less chance for humilitation courtesy of the Canesten and the sleeping pills.

When people ask if they can bring something, always say yes. Unless it's the weird guy they just started dating who creeps out your other friends. See also: kids, radishes, and anything you need to set on fire to finish cooking. 

Lighting is everything. My kitchen has two fixtures, each consisting of 5 bulbs. During party prep, they're on full blast. But first time I threw a party in my house, I forgot to dim them before guests arrived. It was less "Merry Christmas" and more Inquisition. If they'd had incandescent bulbs and sweet and sour meatballs in Spain circa 1500.

Try really hard not to have sex until all your guests have left. It's bad manners, and can lead to awkward burst-ins. This is a hypothetical. Besides, it was more an after party than the party proper.

Your cat most likely did not escape. She's in the basement, having squeezed herself into a tiny space between the ceiling boards. She's wondering who in the fuck all these people are, and planning on vomiting in your shoes after you go to bed. The other one, after spending an hour eyeballing the assortment of appetizers, is now in the living room, demanding whisker rubs from total strangers, usually the ones who're afraid of cats. She has also helped herself to some red pepper dip. And some cheese. And possibly eggnog.

No one likes veggie trays, not really.  Sure, they'll nibble them if they're there, but not once, in the history of house parties, has anyone looked at the snack assortment and said "No cherry tomatoes? Boo!"  A friend gave my prospective menu for this weekend's party a glance and, when I asked what was missing, said, simply, "Meat!"  I just have to accept that no matter how pretty and delicious my ricotta, lemon and honey crostinis are, they're not guy food. But I will make them, and you will eat them.

Now buy lots of votives, turn the lights down, and put on a low cut top to distract from any lingering dust you may have missed. Whatever you do, just don't run out of booze.

I'm sorry, Julie Andrews

Gingerbread lattes and vodka laced punches
Hot guys in sweaters, I'll shop on my lunches
Holiday parties that end when I sing
These are a few of my favourite things

Eggnog with Baileys and cheese plates a plenty
Wee yummy pastries – I’ll eat about twenty
I’ll have a paunch like that panda Ling Ling
These are a few of my favourite things

Showing my cleavage in glittery blouses
Eyes up you perverts, go talk to your spouses
I wish I had someone to buy a cock ring
These are a few of my favourite things

When the wine’s gone
When the bills come
When I'm feeling blue
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so screwed

Christmas confessions

With four weeks to go, I decided to stop stalling on the serious Christmas shopping, and headed to the mall late Saturday afternoon. Fortified with a gingerbread latte and a scone billed only as "festive"  (it had blackberries and raspberries; I assume its festiveness comes from its kicking off the annual holiday muffin-top tradition), I was pretty sure I'd get a fair bit accomplished. Which leads me to the first of my Christmas confessions:

1) I bought myself a ring and some really cute slippers with sheep on them. Looked around a bit. Then I went home.

2) Nancy Drew outed Santa for me. I was probably 9, or nearly, and was snooping in my mother's closet while she was at work. I found some Nancy Drew books. Awesome; she was my favourite.  Except come December 25th, they were in my stocking from Santa. Thanks a lot, Nancy. That's one thing I wish had remained a mystery a little longer.  Bitch.

3) My favourite scene in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" is when Max goes under the sleigh and ends up on the back, waving at the Grinch.  Cindy Lou's voice grates on me;  I know grown women Who, though much more than two, talk just like her.

4) An old boyfriend once came over and hid my Christmas gifts around my apartment. It was sweet. I do not have any of them anymore. The boy or the gifts.

5) I kind of love the chaos at the mall in December. It inspires me. Perhaps that's why Saturday was a bust; it's only November. But I'll commiserate when other people complain about the the madness, nodding politely and making appropriate remarks, even though I secretly enjoy the crowds. Unless they get in my way. I will cut you if you try and get the last Laura Secord marshmallow Santa.

6)  I have never spent a Christmas morning anywhere but my parents' house. I've arrived home well past midnight, in a snowstorm,  but I have always been there. A few years ago, my mother put the stockings out before I went to bed and I got mad at her. She was like " you know it's me, right?" Yes, thanks to that blabbermouth Nancy Drew, I do.

7) I used to buy my grandfather my favourite chocolates, even though they were probably only his third or fourth favourite. But he would open them and offer me one first, without fail. He also really loved Poppycock. My whole family loves it, too,  but it annoys my mother when I refer to it by its nickname.  Particularly when I say things on Christmas Eve like "When you went to get the Christmas groceries, did you remember how much I love 'The Cock'?"

8) When eating gingerbread persons, I will always bite their little legs off, then their arms, leaving the head and torso to savour.  Essentially, I turn them into the cookie interpretation of the title character from that awful movie "Boxing Helena". That pretty much makes me the Yuletide version of that creepy fucker Julian Sands.

9) I used to sit on the floor with my cats and sprinkle catnip on their presents to try and get them to open them. This only resulted in them rolling on the presents, oblivious to the feline treasures contained within. We've switched to gift bags, with much more success. And yes, I wrap their presents in some fashion. Don't judge me; they love it.

10) I, like many women, buy my mom's gifts from my dad. Except one year in university when I was swamped and refused. One of the things he got her was a stuffed unicorn. To quote my father: "I don't know why; I panicked". I've never made him shop for Mom since. We still refer to it as "the unicorn incident".

11) I think kissing under the mistletoe is a silly tradition, yet I'm still irked by the fact that I've never been kissed under the mistletoe by anyone who really meant it. Did you know mistletoe is a parasitic plant?  Figures.

12) People who announce on December 1st that they're "pretty much done shopping. I just need to wrap one thing and mail it." I hate you.

I'm sure there are many more, floating around the tinsel-draped corners of my subconscious, faintly illuminated by an errant strand of those goddamn blue icicle lights (one infamous Christmas party in the early 90s alone is worthy of its own list). But I shall leave you with this, for a baker's dozen of Christmas confessions: 

13)  Last year, at a mall that shall remain nameless, I found one of Santa's elves disturbingly hot. In my defense, he was probably about 21 and had really pretty eyes. Plus, his outfit was really cute, and he was surrounded by oversized peppermint sticks. Don't try and deny it; you totally would.

Boobs, boys and cupcakes, oh my!

Advice. My friends are pretty great at giving it, but it's just...sometimes you need to seek out the help of professionals. The ones at Cosmo magazine. They're like the Yoda of monthly publications. If Yoda was kind of slutty and leaned across the table mid-entrée to tell you he wasn't wearing any underwear. Here's my synopsis of what the sages at Cosmo have to say in their December issue. Consider it my gift to you.

First off, right there on the cover, the "Secrets of Male Arousal". Hmm. No offense, gentlemen, but it's not exactly like trying to decipher that big sculpture outside CIA headquarters. They've titled the article "Make Him Burn with Pleasure", which seems odd, given I've always thought a burning sensation and sex were not a match made in heaven. Anyway, they talk about nerve endings and how different parts of the body respond to rubdowns; they've even provided a helpful "heat index". Turns out the inner thigh scores high. Groundbreaking stuff. However, there was one tidbit that caught my eye. They suggest popping a pair of his socks in the microwave for 20 seconds, then slipping them on him and firmly squeezing his feet all over. There's some feet/groin connection in the brain. Look, no one loves a foot massage more than me, so I get the whole toes as foreplay angle. Just one problem: naked man + socks = my lady boner just tapped out and went downstairs to put in the dvd of "Notting Hill".

Somewhat discouraged, I move on to "75 Guy Truths". There they go again with the number 75. I'll admit I did learn one thing, thanks to the question "What's the one thing men want to hear after sex?" I'd long suspected it wasn't "Geez, you and your brother really are alike". Well, supposedly, it's "Wow". I would've guessed it was either "Can I make you a sandwich", or "Could you call me a cab?" But the funniest q & a, hands down, is "Why can't men be more subtle about looking at boobs?" Answer: "Because he'd rather get a good look and get caught than be subtle and barely see anything". This alone was worth my $5. This should be printed on the hang tag of every bra manufactured henceforth.

Oh, and speaking of boobs, apparently "[My] Breasts Called (and they're feeling neglected)". Sorry, but no, they're not. And if they did have the ability to call (I won't let them get a smart phone), they'd probably tell me their plan for world domination is proceeding ahead of schedule. Then they'd cackle maniacally and hang up. I can't fault the article, though. It's pretty much a naughty bucket list for your girls, but without the skydiving or an inappropriate friendship with Jack Nicholson.

If I cared, I'd know how to decode his "O" face. This is a fairly new term, yes? If you'd said this to me 3 years ago, I'd probably have thought you meant the look a guy gets when you tell him you've PVR'd "Oprah's Favourite Things" so you can watch it together.

I've been hearing about this trend toward "macho" sweets recently, and now Cosmo has jumped on the dessert cart and recommends making your guy a "manly" cupcake. Which involves taking a chocolate cupcake, poking a bunch of holes in it, spooning a few tablespoons of Guinness over it, then frosting it with chocolate icing. Then they recommend sprinkling crumbled bacon over it. They also suggest smashing up a handful of bar nuts and tossing them on. I'm not sure if these are three different ideas or one, three-part idea, but I do not know why anyone would defile a perfectly lovely cupcake like this. Mind you, I'd probably still eat it. But you know something? You don't need to "man up" cupcakes. I speak from personal experience when I say that men respond just fine to pretty pink ones. And I do mean cupcakes, perverts.

Finally, they did have some very helpful tips for those times when I want a man to be more than friends. I am not supposed to text him too much, I should quickly change the subject if he talks about past relationships, flirt with him and then make sure to go talk to other men, and hang out with him in a group a maximum of two times before challenging him to a game of darts. So if I'm understanding this correctly, I should severely limit communication, bat my eyes for a bit and then wander off, bulldoze his attempts to share his feelings, and then ask him to join me in a secluded corner while I'm holding several small sharp objects? Who the fuck wrote this article? Glenn Close's character from "Fatal Attraction"? Is this supposed to land me a guy or a restraining order?

So to sum up, should I want to see a guy's "O" face, I should put on a low-cut top, hand him a beer-soaked bacon cupcake, microwave his socks, and rub his inner thighs? And if this works, I'm supposed to say "Wow" afterwards. Okay, Cosmo, I'm game. I just don't know what Oprah has to do with any of it.

Survey says...

"Get to know your friends!" We've all heard the gentle chime that heralds the arrival in our inbox of yet another quiz that promises to shed new light on old friends. It'll only take a few minutes, just copy and paste, inserting your own answers in place of theirs, etc. I rarely fill 'em out. I've always thought the best way to get to know your friends is to have a conversation, but maybe I'm old-fashioned. And how does knowing which of my friend's friends are the most/least likely to respond benefit me, anyway? But mostly, I don't fill them out because people lie. I lie. No quiz will help you get to know me; it'll help you get to know the idealized version of me that I want you to see. Everyone does this. Don't believe me? Read on and see if this sounds familiar.

Three things you're wearing right now: Seven jeans, diamond studs, cashmere socks. ( Walmart yoga pants, ring I bought for $5, Tinkerbell slippers)

Two things you did last night: went to a wine tasting, worked on my proposal for my first book. (Cleaned the litterbox, sang along to "Glee")

What are you listening to right now? Billie Holiday's smoky voice on "Lover Man". (Mario Lopez's smirky voice on "Extra")

What did you have for dinner last night? Medium rare steak, green beans with garlic and lemon zest, a full-bodied South African cabernet, lemon tart. (Questionable two-day old leftover pasta, glass of milk, two mini peanut butter cups I found in the cupboard that may have been there since last Christmas)

What is your favorite drink? Dirty martini, three olives. (Toss up between Diet Coke or an extra-frothy Caramel Macchiato)

What is the last movie you watched? The beautifully shot, Italian-subtitled, tragic love story "I am Love", starring Tilda Swinton. (The jerkily shot, not subtitled, action thriller "Unstoppable", starring Denzel Washington)

How do you vent anger? I go for a workout, or take a hot yoga class and focus on my breathing. (I swear profusely and eat anything I can find with carbs/ sugar/ chocolate. I have an emergency box of Betty Crocker Devil's Food mix in my cupboard at all times. Fuck off.)

Cherries or Blueberries? What does this even mean? Are my friends clamouring to know what anti-oxidants I'm getting enough of in my diet? Are these code words for sex things? Blueberries. (Actually, that answer is true)

When was the last time you cried? During the beautifully shot, Italian-subtitled, tragic love story "I am Love", starring Tilda Swinton. (I've teared up a lot lately, but I probably cried about three weeks ago. I wish it had been over Tilda Swinton. She'd at least have been worth the puffy eyes)

What did you wear to bed last night? Silky nightgown with spaghetti straps. (Old Lilith Fair t-shirt with a spaghetti stain, mismatched fluffy socks, and a cat)

Diamonds or pearls? Hmm what? Are we singing Prince songs now? Awesome. I love Prince. Okay. "Dream if u can a courtyard / An ocean of violets in bloom..."

See - fake quiz me is way cooler than real quiz me. Unless I'm lying about that. And just one question, friends - if you've put me down as one of the people least likely to respond, why on earth are you sending it to me in the first place?

Forty isn't the new anything

Fulfilled. Confident. Content. Happy.

All words I'm apparently supposed to be using to describe my awesomely fantastic forties. You know what? Bullshit. Despite what magazines, celebrity interviews, Oprah and likely an entire self-help section at Chapters (assumption; I avoid that aisle like I avoid tapered-leg jeans) are trying to make me believe, I don't feel any of those things these days. Hey, I'm (mostly) thrilled for you if you do, but for me, forty is not the new thirty; it's the middle-aged pain in my ass.

I know the rationale. By now, at mid-life, I'm supposed to have accepted my shortcomings, embraced my uniqueness, found my bliss and learned to love my cellulite. I hadn't got around to any of that at 39, so what was my odometer clicking over to 40 supposed to do? Was I suddenly supposed to wake up feeling rejuvenated and bouncier than I had in years because of this "brand new chapter"? Still waiting. I worry that maybe I missed some epiphany (maybe epiphanies are like the cable guy, and only come between 9:30-5? Fuck. I'm never home then). I don't feel fundamentally different than I did in my late 30s, but sometimes all the messages I'm getting make me feel like a slacker for not celebrating my 40s by dancing on beaches, taking a hot air balloon through wine country, or strolling through open air markets flirting with handsome chefs. That last one might actually be a Barilla pasta commercial, but you get the idea. And let me clear something up right now: never mind today, I could live to the ripe old age of 107, be cryogenically frozen, defrosted 50 years later, and the first thing I'm going to say when I can move my lips again is "I still fucking hate my cellulite".

What's supposed to make this decade so great, anyway? I had more disposable income in my 30s, and I very much enjoyed disposing of it. I had more interesting sex, though I suppose more is relative. So's interesting, for that matter. I could still get away with calling them "laugh lines". Is there something I'm supposed to be doing to achieve this supposed nirvana? And do flax seed or fish oil have anything to do with it? I'm starting to suspect that all these women who claim enlightened contentment (contented enlightenment?) are really just too exhausted, or just can't be bothered, or are even a bit ashamed, to admit the truth - that forty doesn't necessarily equal fulfillment; sometimes, it just equals being twice as old as that 20 year old pouting out at me from the magazine cover with the headline telling me to "embrace my age"! Embrace this, you smug bitch.

My first time

You started reading thinking it would be all about that first time, didn't you? Perverts. And it is, a little, but not just that. As I was sipping my first festive coffee of the season yesterday (I know, I know, it's only the first week of November), I started thinking about firsts. And while there is indeed a first time for everything, the older you get, the fewer and further between the firsts become. So here's a random sampling of my first times, the gingerbread latte edition.

Let's get it out of the way right now. The first time I had sex. I was a bit of later bloomer, so I was in university. I wasn't really "saving it" for anyone special. Just hadn't done it. It was fine, I suppose, if a bit awkward, a little painful, and kind of underwhelming. Basically, exactly what I expected. And about two or three weeks later, the guy, who I'd been sort of seeing, decided he was going to definitely start seeing someone else. Also exactly what I expected. I've always hated the old virginity-saving mantra "why buy the milk...", but in this case I pretty much only have one thing to say. Moo.

The first time I purposefully set out to get blind drunk. It was, naturally, because of a guy. His ambivalence seemed like a perfectly good reason to drink a magnum and a half of cheap sparkling wine and head to a gay bar with my friends. Bad idea; all those beautiful boys in tight white t-shirts were even less interested in me than the guy who prompted my magnum opus. Now that was depressing, especially during the slow make out songs. I remember waking up in the morning feeling like I'd been beaten with a disco ball and having the strange sensation that I was covered in kittens. Which it turns out I actually was; I'd crashed at a friend's apartment, his cat had recently had kittens, and he was placing them on me like so many little mewling alarm clocks in an attempt to rouse me from my Baby Duck stupor.

The first time I arrived in Paris. I'd wanted to go for years, and at the age of 27 was finally there, by myself. I'm a planner, so I knew that according to my map, I'd need to grab a taxi at the train station in order to reach my hostel. So I jumped in the back seat and gave the driver the address. He looked at me strangely, said something, and gestured. At first I thought he was off duty, but that's when my high school french kicked in and it hit me. I'd read the map wrong, and the address I needed was about 100 metres away. Bonjour, no sense of direction!

The first time a man I was in love with told me he loved me, too. Yeah, still waiting on that one. I know how to pick 'em. Not quite the kind of perfect record a woman dreams of...

The first time I lost someone. The last thing my grandfather ever said to me? The evening before he died, he asked me if Melrose Place was a repeat. He loved bat-shit crazy Kimberly. I was in the room with him until shortly before he died, but I couldn't bear to stay. I kissed him goodbye, left the hospital, and went to pay my power bill. Shock disguised as practicality. Then I went to my workplace to let them know I'd be leaving town for a few days. I stayed there until I was pretty sure it was over, then I went home to meet my mom and my grandmother. I'll never forget coming down my walkway, and seeing the light on in my living room. Which meant they were back from the hospital. Which meant he was gone. Saddest walk to my door of my life.

The first time I made risotto. Seems weird that I'd remember this, since I've done a lot of cooking. But when you're single, you're much more likely to reach for a jar of Classico sauce than make something that must be stirred constantly for about half an hour while you add tiny amounts of broth. But I'd eaten risotto a few times in restaurants, loved it, and was determined to get my Julie Child on. I simmered. I stirred. I stirred some more. Then I kept stirring. And my first buttercup squash risotto was perfect. The only way I could have been more proud of myself would be if I'd invented risotto.

The first time I said "fuck" to my mother. I was about 20, and a bunch of us had driven to Toronto to hang out. I was at my friend Mike's place, in his roommate's room, talking to Mom on the phone. A phone shaped like Big Bird. We were disagreeing about something when the "fuck Mom!" slipped out. The sting of maternal disapproval was somewhat lessened by the fact that I'd uttered the curse while yelling into the feet of a much loved Sesame Street inhabitant.

I hope there are still many firsts in my future. I always thought I knew what to expect just around the bend, but the last year or so has proven me wrong. I know what I hope some of my yet-to-happen firsts will be, but who knows? As long as they're less of the "my first time appearing before a judge" and more of the " my first time in Hawaii" variety, I think I'm on the right track.

Bring sexy back

I love the word "sexy". So many people use "hot" these days, and I miss sexy. Hot seems temporary, like it'll eventually get cold. Sexy is forever; it's a state of mind. And over the years, my state of mind on what's sexy has changed. Some things have gone by the wayside (we had a good run, leather pants), others are in it for the long haul (always lovely to see you, chest hair). I once compared sexy lists with a guy. We had actual, committed-to-paper lists. Admittedly, it was foreplay, and at the time we both hit a lot of the bullet points on each other's. I've tried my damnedest to find that list; I want to compare my late 20s turn-ons to what floats my boat these days. Alas, no dice. Regardless, here's what makes the grade right now.

Facial hair. It's one of the first things I notice. Not moustaches, or stylized chin straps (really?), or a full-on playoff beard, but a little scruff. Maybe because it makes me think about what a guy looks like in the morning, but a little two day stubble is tremendously attractive. Even more so when I've only known the man to be clean-shaven. Clean-shaven is work-appropriate, and neat, and proper, but a little stubble is...not. A few years back, I had a huge hard-on for goatees. I know, I know - they're love 'em or hate 'em. I loved 'em more than I can say. And yes, probably for the reasons you're thinking.

A guy who can cook, at least a little. He doesn't have to be all Iron Chef and make a béarnaise sauce or anything, but a little self-sufficiency beyond a can opener is good. Otherwise, I'll assume he's just used to his momma doing it, and Momma's boys will NEVER be sexy to me. See also: ironing, doing dishes, knowing that whites and colours are done separately. Put a man in a kitchen, give him a knife, a sauté pan and a couple cloves of garlic, and I guarantee you I'll want to make out with him. Which I realize can be dangerous near a hot stove.

A guy who can drive well. I think this is pretty self-explanatory, but for those of you just hitting puberty, here's the deal: he has a powerful machine under him. He controls it with a few deft moves of his hands. Sometimes there's shifting. There's this whole stance a confident man assumes when he's in the driver's seat that kind of makes me giddy. Bonus points if he keeps his hand on my leg between shifting.

A guy who can wear the shit out of a pair of jeans. A well-cut suit and a tie with a dash of pizzazz is always nice, but I've always been more of a casual girl (boy, is that last part a loaded statement). I appreciate jeans, maybe a sweater or a long sleeved t-shirt, and a bit of jewellery (leather cuff, nice watch - something that draws attention to his hands) far more than fine tailoring. The exception? End of day, tie off, cuffs rolled, a couple buttons undone. My equivalent of sexy librarian. And a guy who wears an actual coat, not a windbreaker or a parka, with a cool scarf? Consider yourself eye-fucked. What's up, guy at Chapters last weekend?

I can't talk about what's sexy without the obvious physical stuff. Sure, there are the easily noticed things I like - at least 6 inches taller than me (not hard), nice hands, broad shoulders, an easy laugh. But let's face it: a lot of the really good stuff is hidden until at least the second date (used to be the third, but I'm trying to be more efficient). That vein in the forearm that just doesn't show up on girls (except maybe Madonna). The aforementioned chest hair. I know some women dislike it, but to me chest hair equals grown-up. Masculine. And it feels awesome. A smooth back (more rare than you might think). A scar or two. Not "Music of the Night" territory, but a little flaw that hints at a life lived, a story to tell. Soft lips. Ideally, soft medium to full lips, or at least the lower lip. Really thin lips are like kissing my hand for practice. Not that I've done that. Much.

A guy who doesn't always ask before he kisses you. Calm down; I'm not talking about a guy you don't want kissing you. I'm talking about my living room, second bottle of wine, it's getting late. Hint: if I've opened the second bottle, or if I've said yes when you offered to, you don't need to ask if you can kiss me. If my feet are on the couch pointing towards you, you don't need to ask if you can kiss me. If I've touched my throat or neck several times, see above. Reading my body language, and doing something about it, is sexy. More men need to trust their instincts in these situations. If you're on my couch, and I've either a) lit some candles or b) put on a movie with a racy sex scene, consider yourself cleared for takeoff.

I know there are all these theories about how a man dances and his prowess in bed. I don't believe it's always a good indicator; I saw a lot of dancing in the mid to late 80s, and yet I still chose to become sexually active. Besides, how many people actually dance anymore? You know what, for me, is a much better indicator? His curiousity. Curiousity might be the sexiest thing of all. My brain is a huge fan of foreplay, and I've found that a man who's curious about the world, and about his role in it, will be curious about other things. Second or possibly third date things.

There are many levels of sexy, and sometimes someone who starts off sexy can quickly become not, or vice versa. A guy I immediately disliked upon first impression turned out to be one of the sexiest men I've ever known. And the guy whose sexiness hit me like a ton of bricks turned out to be kind of a tool. Of course, there are some incredibly sexy things you can only discover about a man after you've taken him to bed. I'll save those for another time, since leaving you wanting more is always sexy.

The Price is Right?

I used to go through money like I was trying to outspend Nicolas Cage. Well, on a much smaller scale. And without the collection of shrunken heads and the Bavarian castle, but still. A two week trip to Italy for a cooking course. A handcrafted silver ring. A trip to New York just to see a movie. These days, thanks to my house, my spending is decidely more practical: I bought switch plates this weekend. But even with my mortgage-dictated frugality, I still have my frivolous moments. We all have them; things we'll spend a lot of money on, and things for which we refuse to pay more than the bare minimum. It might not be as unique as a fingerprint, but I think it says something about a person. Worth it or not? You decide.

I'll buy books I really want to read in hardcover; none of this waiting for the paperback or borrowing from a friend. However, I refuse to spring for hardcover thrillers, mysteries, and page-turners. Here's my logic: I read them fast, thus lessening the total hours of enjoyment I'm getting, I'll never read them again once I know who done it, and Dan Brown doesn't need the money. But first novels, or new books by writers I love - I'll happily hand over my Visa.

I'll pay a fair bit for skincare, but not for shampoo. I have two-inch long hair; how much damage can I do to it? But I have good skin and, at this point, who knows if it's genetics or L'Oreal? What if I stop using eye cream and wake up next week looking like Keith Richards? That's not a chance I'm willing to take.

I love cheese. I'd rather spend time in a fromagerie than a perfumerie. But there's home alone cheese and there's company's coming cheese. The really primo stuff, the $12 for a piece the size of my palm (and I have small hands), likely made from the milk of Alsatian albino sheep, is reserved for company. Unless it's the very limited edition, holiday season white Stilton with apricots; I will cut a bitch who gets between me and the cheese counter for the last piece of that deliciousness.

Food in general is a hard one, because I like everything. Certain things - peanut butter, orange juice, jam, and bananas - I will buy regardless of the price. But red peppers, salmon, ice cream? Sorry - not on sale means no sale. I've aborted entire stir-fries over the cost of red peppers. And I make an awesome stir fry. I don't care what my mother says; green ones do not taste practically the same.

I'm split when it comes to bubbles. I own a jar of bath cream that cost me nearly $60, but it feels like immersing yourself in a cloud. An almond and coconut milk scented cloud. However, I'm perfectly happy to drink $12 sparkling wine instead of "real" champagne. I think this might make me a floozy. A soft-skinned, almond and coconut milk scented floozy, mind you, but a floozy nonetheless.

I'll pay for sex. Or at least the promise of it. And before you call the vice squad, I mean by visiting men I've had relationships with over the years, not a getaway to Thailand. I think the most expensive bang for my buck, so to speak, was probably around $500*, but luckily he provided the food and wine, so it was like an all-inclusive. A dirty, dirty, all-inclusive.
*Fuel surcharge included; post-trip therapy extra.

I won't pay much for an every day handbag, but I own evening bags I use maybe once a year that cost easily twice what my everyday ones do. Same with shoes. I realize this makes no sense, yet I am at a complete loss to explain it. I can't even blame stupidity, since I understand the "cost per wear" concept, and I'm really good at math.

Even though I'm a huge fan of furniture design, I refuse to spring for really high-end home goods. The people who say it's worth the money because it'll last haven't met Tallulah. However, I've discovered an ingenious solution. When friends ask me for recommendations, I steer them towards something I'd love to own but can't justify. Gorgeous wine cabinet from one of my favourite stores? A very good friend asked my advice, I gave it, and then proceeded to fawn over the pictures he sent when he got it. Guilt-free shopping. It was like the furniture-purchasing equivalent of calorie-free cake.

Jelly Beans. I take care of stockings for my parents at Christmas, and my mother loves Jelly Belly jelly beans. So one year I thought I'd throw in a scooped-to-order cone of them. Pricing was per 100 grams. Let this be a lesson to you - if they're pricing something per 100 grams, it's because no one, ever, in the history of weights and measures, has eaten just 100 grams of it. $14 worth of the little fuckers. I nearly passed out at the cash register.

So to sum up, I'm apparently willing to pay a little extra to be a well-read, cheese-eating, wrinkle-free sex tourist, but not willing to cough up the coin that would make me a glossy-haired champagne-drinker in practical footwear. Yup - sounds about right.

Costume Drama

I was halfway between the feta cheese and the Lean Cuisines when I saw them. Fairy princesses. Grinning ghouls. Menacing vampires. No, not the cast of "Twilight", the Halloween costumes at the grocery store. For the next week or so, I can get cat food, granola bars and glow-in-the-dark fangs in one convenient stop. We never had store-bought costumes when I was a kid; my costumes were always homemade. Or, more accurately, cobbled together from bits of things we had in the house on or around October 29th, either because Mom was working nights or I kept changing my mind. I don't remember many of my costumes, and photo albums from my childhood don't appear to have a single picture of me in one. Unless I went as Dad's thumb a bunch of times. However, I know I went trick or treating every year, because I had the cavities to prove it.

One Halloween I do remember quite vividly was the year I went as a bat. Black leotards, black turtleneck, black felt wings with loops that went on my wrists so I could be all swoopy. Think I was about five. Granted, the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that my mother, as usual, made me wear a winter jacket over everything. Oh how I wished for Halloween to be at a more temperate time of year, say, August. How many awesome costumes have been sabotaged by Mother Nature and goose down? Thankfully, I was allowed to take the jacket off at the end of each drive, so I did get my Batgirl on between the curb and the doorstep, at least.

Starting around age nine, I pretty much had the same request every year; I really wanted to go as an only child, but Mom insisted my little brother got to go, too. Like it wasn't already bad enough that our house didn't take seniority into account when it came to candy distribution. And I was always a bit miffed that my parents refused to drop us off at the huge subdivision a six minute drive away. They thought my eternal quest for a 5 pillowcase candy haul was a bit greedy. I'm still bitter. Do you know how many extra teeny tiny Wunderbars that would have meant?

There were more than a few years when I was some sort of gypsy/fortune- teller. Basically, this involved going into Mom's closet or Nanny's fabric bag, coming out dressed like Stevie Nicks, and then adding a bandanna. Stevie's a pretty versatile starting point, truth be told. Add an eyepatch and a plastic sword and you're a pirate. Add a pointy hat and a broom, you're a witch. Add giant sunglasses and lose half your body weight, you're Nicole Richie.

I probably stopped going door to door when I was about 12, but I did go to a few costume dances in high school. Not being the sort of girl with the sort of mother who would ever let me dress as something tarty, I once went as a bag of dill pickle potato chips. If you've ever found yourself thinking "These yoga pants are comfy, but I wonder what it'd be like to put on a turtleneck and tights and then add a burlap sack that's been covered with aluminum foil", I can save you some time. Imagine you're a baked potato. Now imagine you're a baked potato experiencing a fairly severe case of hives. While standing in a dimly-lit gym listening to Debbie Gibson and REO Speedwagon. My mom's tart-free plan wasn't perfect though, because I'm pretty sure some of the guys who came to the dance stoned were checking me out.

Halloween during my late teens and early 20s was a magical time, a time when mini chocolate bars were replaced by alcohol. Admittedly, there's a better than average chance that black lipstick, stripey tights and pointy hats were a semi-regular part of my university wardrobe all-year round. One awesome costume was the Bride of Frankenstein. Luckily, I hung out with actors, so theatrical makeup was easy to come by. Unluckily, greasepaint comes by its name honestly. Know why there are so many sad clowns? Because they have lard on their faces. Greasepaint lightning bolts in my hair wasn't the best idea I've ever had. They looked great, but it took a week, about 20 shampoos and some vinegar to get the stuff out. Grunge was big then, so I hope it seemed like a stylistic choice rather than witching hour stupidity.

I've never really had the type of relationship, or the type of personality, where you dress in "couples costumes". Tarzan and Jane, Sonny and Cher, Salt and Pepper. Or Salt 'n Pepa, for that matter. I do recall one party where I went as a suspicious girlfriend and the guy I was seeing went as a cheating jerk, but I don't think it was in October. I have, however, been part of a group costume, where we all dressed as different coloured crayons. I was the purple one. Pretty easy costume to make, but take heed if you're planning on attaching lettering to your crayon. "Hot-Glue-Gun-Blister Pink" is not a colour I ever hope to see in a Crayola 64 box. And it made it really hard to hold my beer.

This year, I'm going to a party. My costume will be comfortable, topical, and hopefully easy to assemble. I can't say what it is, but my mother will be happy to know it's about as far from slutty as I can get. And if I can't find everything I need, I'll just dig out the old Stevie Nicks gear. Everyone loves a good gypsy fortune-teller pirate witch.

Sweet November

No, gentle readers, not the maudlin, unintentionally hilarious tear-jerker starring Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron. The November issue of Cosmo is out! The cover girl this month? Why, Sesame Street's very own Hester Prynne, Katy Perry. Except I'm pretty sure her Scarlet letter might be a "C", possibly a "D". Seriously, Elmo, they're just boobs.

You know the drill. I read, I pass judgement, I save you $5.49 by distilling the essential, need-to-know information I've gleaned from this month's issue. You might want to use protection; this one's a bit slutty.

The cover caught my eye straight-away. "First, Take Off His Pants". Now see, I'm old-fashioned. I always thought the shirt went first, then you work your way down. But what do I know - I've had a long standing policy of never sleeping with someone unless I have, in some esoteric, organic fashion, learned their middle name.

Anyway, the article is about hand jobs. Which Cosmo says will remind both the giver and the givee of those good old sexy times in high school. If I want to be reminded of my high school sex life, hand jobs aren't the ticket. That would be sitting in my parents' rec room, wondering if John Stamos is a good kisser. The article, I'll admit, is a pretty comprehensive how-to, if you're into that. I've never really seen the point. My real problem is the terms they use for the male anatomy. I wish I was kidding, but the phrases "throw his disco stick a party" and "give his sausage a massage" come up. Really? Dear Cosmo: "penis" is fine; "cock" is better. Say it with me: "Cock". Fun, right? Rolls off the tongue, no? Save your sausage for your pizza and your disco stick for your Lady Gaga Halloween costume.

Do we really need to talk about the Cosmo "confessions"? The usual mixed bag of public bare-assedness, roommate revenge, and hooking-up horrors. Just once, I wish there was a real confession. Something along the lines of: "I'm in a long-distance relationship, and I only get to see my boyfriend once a month. Sometimes, when I'm driving the 4 hours to see him, I like to kill a hitchhiker just to pass the time."

November marks the annual Cosmo 2010 Bachelor Blowout. A veritable directory of single men. Most of the gentlemen in question are in their early to mid 20s, but a few are a bit more seasoned. Bravo to both the Carolinas, and holy hot chef, Ohio! New Hampshire might want to rethink his answers, though. When asked how he knows he's into a woman, he replied " When I don't think about the things I'm missing out on while I'm with her". My God, he's a Lord Byron for our time, don't you think?

And then there's the quiz, which promises to tell me the "Wicked Things Other Women Do in Bed". It consists of 63 questions ("Cosmo's Naughty Sex Checklist"), and I'm meant to answer "I've done it", "I haven't, but I'm curious" or "I wouldn't". Disclaimer: I'm older than your typical Cosmo reader, so I've had more time to check things off. I kept a running tally in my head, so I might be off by a few, but I'm pretty sure the only person who scored higher than me was Charlie Sheen. Granted, some of it is pretty tame, and there aren't any questions involving really distasteful stuff, like farm animals, golden showers, or Bill O'Reilly, but still... I should probably feel dirty. And 24% of women surveyed say they wouldn't fake an orgasm during sex. Give it time, ladies. Give it time.

The Cosmo Weekend section has a few interesting tidbits. The Fun, Fearless Way to Meet a Guy? Scope out a guy on a laptop at a coffeeshop. Ask to borrow his computer to quickly Google something. When he hands it to me, I'm supposed to quickly open a blank Word doc and type in my name and number before handing it back to him. I see a few potential problems here. Girlfriend? Sexual Orientation? An unfamiliar operating system? Oh - and the fact that it's batshit crazy.

I should also apparently be playing more video games, since I'd be getting it on more if I were. I'm hitting the bullshit button. Why? Because I've spent a whole lot of DS face time with one Professor Layton these past few weeks, and not once has he looked up from a puzzle, raised a rakish eyebrow, and asked if he could see my diabolical box. Look it up; that's a funny line.

Finally, a poll of smart phone users has revealed some interesting facts about men. 42% of iPhone users, and 34% of Blackberry users, would be turned off by a woman with out-of-date gadgets, like a cell phone or computer. Holy fuck - I finally know why I'm single. It's not that I'm smarter than most guys or that I have super short hair; it's my c.d. player and my landline! Thanks Cosmo - as always, you have all the answers.

And another thing...

924. That's a rough estimation of how many things are on my pet peeve list on any given day. Annoyances big and small (mostly small) that set my teeth to grinding and my nostrils to flare. It takes a lot to make me truly angry, but very little to annoy the fuck out of me. My mother hates this about me. That annoys me.

I won't subject you to all of them, but here's a small sampling of peevery from the last few days. Let me know if I'm hitting a nerve. Or if this annoys you.

1) Cell phone ring tones of cutesy songs. Or, really, any songs. Yesterday's offender? "The Entertainer". I'm not convinced this is what Scott Joplin envisioned as his legacy. What's wrong with a simple ring or, better yet, vibrate? Vibrate is awesome. Don't take my word for it; ask my nightstand. The one exception to this rule? The theme from the Muppet Show.

2) Ed effin' Hardy. Is it not bad enough that both Paris Hilton and Jon Gosselin have been photographed decked out head-to-toe in this nonsense? They also make Ed Hardy dog outfits. C'mon - that's animal abuse. Do you think it's not hard enough just being a Pomeranian? I don't care how many skulls and roses and bedazzled daggers you put on one, it still looks like something my cat coughed up.

3) When people say "I seen". I'm kind of a pissy bitch when it comes to grammar and spelling, and I could compile a lengthy list of infractions that make my blood boil, but I'll stick to this one, since it's an epidemic. It makes people sound like their i.q. just dropped 20 points. Hugh Jackman and Blair Underwood could show up at my door right now, holding three bottles of syrah and the Miles Davis' box set, and if either of them dropped an "I seen" into the getting-to-know-you small talk, they would seen their hopes of a threesome vanish faster than my inhibitions.

4) People who bring little children to movies that don't feature animated characters, talking animals, or a Jonas brother. Seriously, Ben Affleck is not your baby sitter.

5) Clothing for women with breasts always seems to have extra-long arms. I have more than a handful; this doesn't mean I can touch my knees without bending over. If you follow the skewed logic of most clothing manufacturers, chicks with small boobs should be wearing tops with arms that look like they were made for a T-Rex.

6) Those damn jeans young guys wear with the crotch hanging down to their knees. Look, I'm sure I've committed enough fashion crimes in my day to give Cher a run for her money, but how do they even stay up? Well, they don't. I've (unwillingly) seen so much boxer-clad teenage ass I half expect Chris Hansen to show up in my kitchen and ask me to explain myself.

7) News anchors who decide on a catchphrase and use it incessantly. I'm looking at you, T.J. Holmes. Telling every damn guest/reporter/co-host that you "appreciate" them numerous times in a two or three minute segment starts to sound a little insincere, and a lot like really polite Tourette's. I'd appreciate it if you'd cut it the hell out.

8) My painting abilities. I realized this annoys precisely no one else. I thought I'd tackle the spare room; it's tiny, so how hard could it be? Very. Painting tape didn't help, two different types of edgers didn't help, swearing didn't help. Spatter everywhere. 2/3 of a gallon of Silver Shores later, I'm considering telling people Jackson Pollack got his start as a house painter.

9) The fact that I can only think of eight things right now kind of annoys me, since I'm normally in the double digits by lunchtime. Is this a sign of a more accepting, a more forgiving, me? Not a chance. I remain, now and always, peevishly yours.

My kind of town

Hey H.,

So I know things have been a bit rough for you lately. People have been saying you're not very progressive, and too meek, and desperately in need of a face lift. I've even lamented your lack of ambition lately, your complacency, your inability to get out of your own way.

But then... I spent a few days getting reaquainted with you, and I am more in love with you now than ever. Don't let them get you down. I've realized size does matter, and baby, you're perfect for me. We've been together for more than 20 years, and Halifax, I'm not going anywhere.

I love how laid back you are. There's virtually no place in town I can't go in boots and a pair of jeans. Who wants to have pizza and beer in a tight skirt and something dry-clean only? Besides, the Fireside is below ground. You try navigating those steps in heels. Before martinis it's awkward. After martinis it's medically unsound.

I love how there are, and always have been, groups of goths around, bless their angsty hearts. For a brief time, long ago, I was one of them. Or at least had the dress-up kit. Favourite gothic moment this week? A very polite and heavily eye-linered couple patiently standing in line for a smoothie at Pete's. I wonder what goes better with all those piercings: the Honeydew Bliss or the Jackie's Love Potion?

I love Robbie Burns. We've got a bunch of statues of men long dead in this town, but Robbie is my favourite. Standing watch in Victoria Park, he's firmly rooted at the intersection of "just one more drink" and "if I leave right now, and walk fast, I can get four hours of sleep". I spent many years living a few blocks south of him, and I loved being able to give directions to my place: "turn right at Robbie Burns". I also spent more than a few early mornings tiptoeing home past Robbie, shoes metaphorically in hand, and really, who better to witness my martini-fueled peccadilloes than a Scotsman with a bit of a reputation?

I love coffee. And lattes. And café au lait. And you have the best coffee shops. They're everywhere. And I don't mean Mr. Horton's. Funky or cozy, subterranean industrial chic or a sunlight warren of room after room in an old Victorian, I can get my fix any number of places. As a girl who needs her coffee, I really dig this. So much.

I love that a new wine bar is opening in our downtown, right next door to a fine purveyor of naughty literature and devices of a more prurient nature. I don't know a thing about zoning laws, but this is the kind of one-stop shopping I can get on board with.

I love how you love music. Maybe it's because you're a college town, but Ani Difranco, Wintersleep, and Basia Bulat all in the space of a couple weeks? Awesome. They no longer know my name at the doors of all the music clubs, but should I get a second wind, it's nice to know I could still get my band on. Figuratively, I mean.

I love that I can see the lights of the harbour from my front porch. And I love that the nearest lake is less than 10 minutes from my house. Some of the most memorable summer days I've spent here have been on a boat, sailing up the Arm and down the harbour, drinking wine, watching whales, and trying to remember which island is haunted, Georges or McNabs?

So you see, it's not just one thing, it's all the little things. It's your tree-lined streets, and all the great restaurants, and the film festival, and all the students every September, and your sense of history, and even, once every 18 months or so, your donairs. But mostly, it's being reminded, every once in a while, that there is no other place I'd rather be.

Job skills?

The Sunshine Girl. Are you familiar? The Sun newspapers publish a daily photo of an undoubtedly pretty young woman who is usually giving sexy face to the camera, often while wearing something silky/skimpy/see-through. A friend emailed me last week about that day's picture, a bit miffed over just who thought having the girl pull her own hair would sex things up. Now this didn't bother me nearly as much as it did her. I assume these girls, most of whom are in their late teens/ very early 20s, want to break into modelling; hair-pulling is sort of in the starter kit. The Sun isn't exactly showing pictures of journalism majors and aspiring pediatricians. Now, I would hope people buy their morning paper for the headlines, and not for a little side boob and some lip licking to go along with their large black, two sugars. But pretty girls in very little clothing isn't new. I myself own a pair of vintage nude photos from the 20s (the 1920s, not my 20s), and I think those models were probably the Sunshine girls of their day, except with real breasts. My problem with the Sunshine bunch is this: when did young women go from aspiring to seeing their bylines to aspiring to seeing their boobs in the morning broadsheet? Has taking your clothes off become step one on the career path? I always thought it was lining up really good references.

I've said it before; I was a card-carrying, asymetrical haircut-wearing member of the John Hughes generation. I grew up with the Brat Pack as my celebrity role models. Molly Ringwald interviewed John Hughes for Seventeen magazine. These days, Lindsay Lohan is interviewed by the police for a hobby. Sure, the Pack misbehaved, even got arrested (though not my Molly), but it was neither a rite of passage nor a career booster. They got in trouble and suffered the consequences. Remember when Rob Lowe was caught on videotape having sex with two women, one of whom was only 16 to his 24? It was a huge scandal, and his career and reputation took a big hit. For the most part, there were people who took their clothes off, there were actual celebrities, and there were people who broke the law again and again. We called them criminals. The lines are pretty blurry nowadays, and I don't think it's my contacts. Now, an arrest for pretty much anything short of murder is merely an inconvenience, nude photos have replaced business cards, and a sex tape doesn't hurt a career, it begins one. Case in point: Kim Kardashian. Did anyone know who she was before the sex tape that she focus grouped vehemently opposed was released? Sometimes, it seems like the only celebrity whose career trajectory hasn't benefitted from a naughty tape is Betty White.

So when did this happen? When did being kinda slutty, and possibly felonious, become an internship on the way to success? What happened to actually doing something to earn the accolades, the perks, the fan base? Mug shots and NSFW screen captures have replaced the cover of People magazine. Sometimes they are the cover of People magazine.

I think it happened right around the time Paris Hilton figured out how to turn on a video camera. Which, let's be honest, she probably needed help with. Because of her night vision know-how, young women (and probably some men) realized they didn't actually need to accomplish anything to be on every entertainment show, every magazine, every gossip website, even much of the mainstream news media. No,they merely needed to have sex with some loser while the little red light blinked, act mortified when the loser sold the footage, hire a publicist and presto - instant fame. Or infamy. They're the same thing these days. And fyi, I don't think those are the type of job skills your guidance counsellor was talking about. Granted, Paris Hilton still has to live with the fact that she's Paris Hilton, but she did get her own perfume. Which I suspect smells of spermicide and spray tanner, with a hint of chihuahua, drying down to a finish that's equal parts entitlement and self-loathing.

Paris' pal Kim Kardashian must've been taking notes. She has changed the face (and ass) of celebrity, literally parlaying her sex tape into a multi-million dollar business empire. I've mentioned her before, because I'm fascinated by her career. And like it or not, she has as incredibly successful career. I don't understand how a young woman, even one as pretty as her (or as pretty as she was, before she started Madam-izing her face) is supposed to make me want to buy something simply because she's known for being nakedly photogenic. But she has television shows, a perfume (of course), a clothing line (including booty shorts that say "a** like damn"), calendars, an upcoming book, even a cupcake mix, so clearly someone, many someones in fact, are buying what she's selling, literally and figuratively. And let's back that ass like damn up a sec. She's primarily known for a sex tape and her remarkable posterior, yes? So I get the calendar. But what in the hell does that have to do with cupcakes? The Kim Kardashian Vanilla Cupcake mix, more accurately. $13(US) will get you enough batter for 18 cupcakes. I don't know about you, but given how her whole career started, I'm a little reluctant to read the ingredient list.

I suppose I should say good for her. She's clearly turned what could have been a life-long embarrassment ( I mean, seriously, Ray J? You couldn't make the tape with Reggie Bush?) into countless opportunities. But I kind of hate that she could, so easily, with seemingly no downside. Besides, does anyone think for a second the tape wasn't the first item on her world domination to-do list? If you don't get that, I'd suggest a reality pill. If you have a problem taking pills, have someone hide it in a Kim Kardasian Vanilla cupcake.

Don't get me wrong. Pictures of sexy young women are often quite lovely, and I think making a sex tape, under the right circumstances, could be a lot of fun. I just don't think either should serve as a resume. And I worry that many young women today are aiming low, replacing a cover letter with covering their nipples and smiling coyly for the camera, stars in their eyes and their very own perfume part of their five-year plan.

The One

There's only one man I haven't slept with. Okay, before you go asking your boyfriends and husbands (and that waitress from the Flamingo) if they know me, there's technically lots of men I haven't slept with. But there's only one I really regret not sleeping with. And in case you're wondering, no, it's not you.

I really have no idea why it never happened. I can tell you, in great detail, the circumstances, even the cocktails, that led to me sleeping with every other person I've gone to bed with, the evenings or events that took us from flirtation to consummation. But I can't really tell you why this particular relationship remained chaste, except for a goodnight kiss or two. It certainly seemed like it would head in that direction. I mean, it's not like I play that hard to get.

We met in our early 20s, and very quickly took to each other like Joanie to Chachi. It may have been our mutual love of music (listening for me, playing for him). Or maybe leather (jacket for me, pants for him). We spent a ridiculous amount of time together, often with alcohol involved. We talked on the phone all the time, drove around the city (he always opened the car door for me). He was a great driver, which earned him major hot points. He was also very tall, great hands, darkly handsome, quick to laugh, with a sexy / dirty voice and great hair. He always insisted on paying. And he adored me. Still does. So what the hell? There were so many times friends ran into us at a bar and wondered what the hell was going on. Not nearly enough, much to my continuing dismay.

There was one night I thought the planets might be aligned. We were at a party in honour of the G-7. And no, he wasn't Bill Clinton, by the way. The venue was beautiful, the vibe was exciting, the beer and the booze were both free and free flowing. I remember us sidling up to the bar and asking for tequila shot after tequila shot. I do enjoy a man who'll do tequila with me. After a somewhat liquified evening, we hatched upon a brilliant plan, a plan so simple yet so perfect it seemed foretold by the gods. The plan? "Let's go back to the media centre and see if we can find Wolf Blitzer." So away we went, just the three of us; me, him and our wing man Jose Cuervo. A quick bag search, a flash of a pass, and we were in. The media centre was surprisingly busy for nearly midnight. We skulked, we slunk, we stumbled, we ran into Irving R. Levine. Not good enough. Bow-tie be damned, we were on a Wolf hunt. Just when we thought our search would be fruitless, we rounded a cubicle-maze corner, and there he was. The man himself. Wolf. We were doubly Blitzed that night. Did we introduce ourselves? Nope. We gazed upon the object of our journalistic affections from several feet away, then we practically skipped off to a quiet corner, giddy in our accomplishment. There, we slowly came down from our CNN contact high and called his Mom to tell her of our conquest. She was both impressed and, I think, a wee bit concerned for both our blood alcohol levels and Mr. Blitzer's safety. However, she'd heard a lot about me, and I'm pretty sure she knew her boy was in good hands. Or could be, if he'd just make a damn move. C'mon - could there have been a better time to finally act on it, drunk as we were on both our success and the bittersweet nectar of the blue agave plant? You'd think so, but no. Alas, our mutual satisfaction that night was limited to watching our unsuspecting hero type.

I know if I were to email him right now and ask why we never got carnal, he'd say something silly like "because, baby, I knew I couldn't handle you", or "you would have ruined me for everyone else" or something equally flattering but non-serious. Part of his undeniable charm, but not exactly illuminating.

Maybe it's that we were so young, and lord knows I wasn't a make the first move kind of girl back then. I'm still not. Unless I pretty much have an engraved invitation, I'm not going to be the first one coming up (or going down) to get the party started. And it may sound silly, but he was a gentleman. I believe without a very clear signal from me, he was not about to risk our friendship. Maybe he didn't want to use me for sex. Seriously, dude, I wouldn't have minded. Had you seen your ass? I sometimes wondered if the attraction wasn't mutual. I suppose there's always that chance, but I really don't think that was it. Being frustrated and being an idiot are two separate things.

After he moved away, we'd always get together when we were in the same city. I'd get nervous, wondering if a different setting would make the difference. Or if a fast drive on a summer night along the lakeshore would make the difference. Or if microbrewed beer and a smoky club would make the difference. Or if me having way more disposable income and an incredibly sexy hotel room would make the difference. No, no, sadly no, and fuck no.

I'll always think of him so fondly, and I'll always wonder what it would have been like (fantastic is my guess), but maybe it's better this way. I never needed to ask myself "Was that a mistake" or "I wonder if he still thinks about me that way?" or "Do these hotel sheets make my boobs look awesome or what?" Here's the thing: with maybe one exception, no one I've ever slept with has made me feel as fascinating with my clothes off as he did sitting across the table from me on many an evening, clothes well and firmly on. And that, perhaps, is enough, the reason that being The One who got away is better than being one of the ones who didn't.

And by the way, Mr. Blitzer? As a matchmaker, you suck.

If I knew then...

Wisdom: wis·dom (noun) 1. The ability to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting; insight. 2. Common sense; good judgement. 3. 1986 movie starring formerly engaged couple Emilio Estevez and Demi Moore. Unable to find work after a past felony, graduate John Wisdom and his girlfriend embark on a cross-country bank-robbing spree in order to aid American farmers.

Let's concentrate on the first two definitions. Though I bet Emilio's looking pretty good these days, huh, Demi? A while back, my favourite magazine published an article about the wisdom of women. With the benefit of hindsight, they asked, what would those who were now older and wiser tell women in their 20s? "Leggings will never, ever, be pants" comes leaping to mind, but here are a few more things my marginally wiser self would tell the 20 something me:

1) Heartbreak is not an actual medical condition. You'll get over it. You'll even kiss somebody else who makes your knees buckle and your ovaries sit up straight. Sure, you'll still stop dead in your tracks if you see HIM and perform evasive manoeuvres that may involve ducking behind a plant/ the cheese counter / an aisle full of Bic pens and Liquid Paper (for instance). But it'll make a good story later that afternoon. Or once you've stopped crying and sobered up. So take comfort in your Häagen-Dazs/giant bag of Wavy Lays/family-size Kit Kat Bar. It's temporary. And do they need to call it "family" size? I might never have a family what with all the time I wasted because of that bastard. Might want to rethink your marketing, Nestlé. Off topic, Häagen-Dazs is on half-price special this week (so only about $8.25) at my grocery store. I'm considering re-reading some old emails just so I can work up some emotional distress and thus justify a pint of Vanilla Swiss Almond making me its bitch. By the way, I'm a little sad that Facebook stalking has replaced a good old-fashioned heartbreak late-night drive-by of his house. I'm old school like that.

2) You'll probably never look as good as you do in your 20s. Sure, there are the exceptions, the late bloomers, who go from gawky to gorgeous. But the smooth skin, the fairly flat tummy, the ability to survive on 3 hours of sleep and nothing but nachos and beer for 3 days straight - ENJOY IT NOW. How much time did I waste trying to lose 5 pounds and agonizing when I didn't? If I still had the body I had then, I'd go grocery shopping in a bathing suit. I could be wrong, but I seriously doubt my bra will ever again by brought to me by the letter B. The skin is still holding up, though. I'd like to thank genetics, Retin-A and the blood of virgins.

3) For the love of Ban Ki-Moon, don't be an idiot. If you don't know who that is, skip to number four, Miss Teen South Carolina. I was lucky; my job and my upbringing dictated that I always knew what was going on in the world, even when I was chronologically predisposed to think the world revolved around me. You don't need to be able to explain the entire history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but please be able to identify a few world leaders in addition to every former star of "The Bachelor". No one likes an idiot. Well, I don't. And people like me, maybe your boss, definitely your co-workers, will judge you. Be informed, be aware. I love pop culture, but there's a whole universe beyond Perez Hilton. And no, Darfur isn't some guy on Drake's new disc.

4) It's okay to just date. This is the one I really had trouble with. Still do, but for different reasons. I wish I'd dated just for the sake of dating, and flirting, and figuring out what I wanted, instead of it always having to mean something bigger. But I grew up on John Hughes movies, back when "hooking up" still meant getting together, meeting some place, hanging out, and you only dated one person at a time who, after a prescribed number of dates, became your boyfriend. Who you then went with to see John Hughes movies. I think it would have been fun to try, although I suspect I wouldn't have been very good at it. What can I say? I'm a relationship girl in a holla back world.

5) No one has to know EVERYTHING about you. Not your mom. Not even your best friends. And especially not your co-workers. You will regret it. Especially when they're still bringing up your ex-boyfriend 5 years later. Besides, if someone knows every little thing about you, chances are much higher that you could be kidnapped and held in an abandoned warehouse by a bunch of bad guys while your arch nemesis assumes your identity. Granted, this is more of an issue if you're a spy, but still, something to think about. And fyi - my arch nemesis is the allegedly much-beloved fictional character Anne of Green Gables. Next Kick a Ginger day, I'm coming for you, little girl.

6) Tell the people you love you love them. Often. I'm thinking your family and friends more so than the guy you've had two dates with. Or worse, the guy you thought you were maybe getting back together with so you slept with him, only he was a bit distracted during your proclamation because he had a date in a few hours.

I'm sure there are dozens more ways I could've used my own advice back then. I would have been emotionally healthier, happier, and enjoying my pretty flat tummy. There are also a few things the 20 something me could have shared in return: Bono will still be sexy, there's no such thing as comfortable high heels, and you will never, ever look good in yellow.


.

Party of one

Editor's note: (I've always wanted to say that, even though I don't have an editor. Unless you count Tallulah, who likes to sit on the desk batting pens onto the floor and demanding I scratch her head. I wonder if Anna Wintour is this demanding?) I originally wrote parts of this a few years ago for another project. A few things have changed (the latitude and longitude of my ass, my unconditional love for George Clooney), but much of it still holds true.

"Why are you single?"

I’ve been asked that question more than a few times over the years. It used to make me bristle, seeming so judgy about my worthiness as a girlfriend. Now, I don’t mind it so much. Why the hell am I single?

My answer has always been that I’m better off alone. I know a few men who'd agree, and it's always seemed an easier answer than “guys don’t ask me out”. Which is true, but sounds a little pathetic. I’ve never been the girl guys approach, unless it’s to find out if my friend is single. Or to see if I'd like to switch cell phone plans. But I no longer know if I am better off as a solo act. I've cultivated this “I’m a single girl, you coupled-up suckers” image, when really I’d like to be in love. Not in a creepy, "I already have a wedding dress in my closet" way, but in a "reason to shave my legs every single day" way. I’d like to have a side of the bed instead of the middle. And I'd like to take advantage of the large pizza offers I get in my mailbox without having to justify the leftovers. Or eating an entire large pizza in one sitting.

The thing is, I think I make an excellent girlfriend. I’m not too clingy; I like having time to myself. It sometimes borders on the anti-social, truthfully, which kind of makes me wonder if the Unabomber and I would hit it off. I’m not a princess; I don’t expect a man to provide for me. I expect a man to get the lids off jars. I’m thoughtful, I give great gifts, I'm pretty open minded around the bedroom. I’m cute, possibly even attractive, when well-rested, moisturized and properly hydrated. I worry that baby's got a little too much back, but I've honestly never come close to hearing the words "you know what I really like? A bony ass". Besides, I've spent a fair bit of time at Home Depot lately (decorating as a subsitute for sex), and dimmers are surprisingly easy to install.

So what’s the problem? For starters, I'm gun shy. The reasons for this are maudlin and tragic and worthy of their own post. For now, suffice it to say that commitment phobes, cheaters, players and the emotionally comatose are kinda my thing. When it comes to accumulating tools, I'm second only to Bob Vila. Really, when I think about it, I'm sure only geography and divine intervention have kept me from waking up next to John Mayer by now. Mostly though, I don’t meet anyone. Admittedly, I don't give off "single and looking" vibes, likely because I just can't stomach all the first date nonsense where I'm supposed to dumb it down and make inane small talk and act like he's the funniest person ever and just So Damn Fascinating. No one is that fascinating when they're nervous and wondering if their deodorant has betrayed them and if that big word they just used to try and impress was actually the word they meant to use. Certainly not me. Besides, you try twirling your hair coyly when it's two inches long.

Friends ask “Wouldn’t you like to be in a relationship?” That’s like asking “Wouldn’t you like to win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar?” Sure, except I’ve never even read a screenplay, let alone written one. I'm pretty sure you have to at least make the attempt. Which reminds me - I’d love to think the screenplay of my romantic future would be akin to "Amelie"; peppered with cute outfits and well-travelled gnomes. Seems optimistic, given the screenplay of my romantic past can best be described as "He's Just Not That Into You" meets "Amityville Horror", only without the dead flies.

Sometimes, I wish I could date just for the sake of dating, but I’m not cut out for it. I think I'm too sensitive. I admire women who blithely say there are always more fish in the sea. I’m more like Santiago when it comes to dating. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and that, thus far, has been my downfall. Sometimes, I wish I’d spent more time going sleeveless. But then I remember I hate my upper arms.

I’ve had my heart broken a few times (does it count as once or twice if it's by the same guy?), maimed a time or two, manhandled occasionally. And when I was younger, that made me incredibly skittish. Now, I think it makes me a charter member of a not-very exclusive club. But I’m older, hopefully wiser, and don’t have the wide-eyed expectations that plague the 20 something crowd. I’m not likely to jump in with both feet, but life’s too short to not at least stick your toes in. Besides, I have incredibly cute toes. I just feel like I’m wasting a great time in my life.

I don't want the impossible. I want someone with humour and integrity, style and substance. Unless style for you means Ed Hardy. An artistic side (though if your band is just waiting for their one big break, perhaps not). And really broad shoulders. Someone who's curious about the world. I’d like to be having more regular sex. Or slightly irregular, if that’s your thing. And I’d like to not have only two choices when opening wine - down the hatch or down the drain. But mostly, I’d like someone to lean on. Metaphorically; I'm somewhat renowned for my anti-spooning stance.

Don’t get me wrong - I really like my life. I have a job I really enjoy most days, a not too overbearing family, a great house, and cooking skills that extend beyond finding a take-out menu. I have fantastic, funny, brilliant friends who would slay a dragon for me, should we find ourselves in an Arthurian legend. And they think I’m the cat’s pajamas. So if quality people think I’m quality people, why am I single, while many completely vapid women need to fend ‘em off with a stick? Is vapid the new sexy? Actually, never mind. I think Jersey Shore just answered that question. I've had a few guys tell me, years later, they didn’t realize what a catch I was. Is it too much to ask for someone to figure that out in the present tense?

By the way, for the broad-shouldered, single men between 36-45 who got the Hemingway reference, marry me.

Closet case

Just to be contrary, decided to buck the trend and go back into the closet last night. Or, rather, into the back of the closet. Fall showed up right on schedule, and I haven't seen my favourite sweater since April. I'm a bit fickle, so what I love today I may loathe next week. This applies to many things, but we'll limit the scope to the sartorial for now. Some of my fashion ambivalence I blame on my mixed feelings about my ass. We may have discussed this before. I have pretty awesome boobs; I'm like a particularly pneumatic Venus di Milo. But, like, with arms. My thighs, however, tend more toward the Venus of Willendorf. Luckily, none of me has the fashion sense of Venus Williams. That being said, there are some things that simply stand the test of time, thighs be damned.

My pink satin, cherry blossom embroidered, kimono style jacket. From the time I saw "Notting Hill", and Julia Roberts was wearing an Asian-inspired jacket and jeans in the dinner party scene, I wanted one. I'd like to think I was not influenced by my now shameful crush on her movie paramour Hugh Grant. I bought this in Chinatown in New York. It had to be shortened, since I'm not exactly statuesque. I love it. It makes me happy. Picks like a mother, though.

A wristful of silver bangles and cuff bracelets. These have been acquired over 20+ years. One I received from a friend a few years ago; another was a high school graduation gift; a few belonged to my grandmother. Every time I wear them, their gentle clink reminds me of the people who gave them to me. It also reminds the people around me that an armful of bracelets are noisy, so they usually end up on my desk before noon.

Red lace push-up special occasion bra. It's red. And lace. And cantilevered. Do I need to explain further? Moving on.

Brown pajamas with cupcakes on them. Well, a cupcake print, though they'll probably have actual cupcake on them by the end of the weekend. I bought these for myself as a birthday present last year. Not only do they combine two of my favourite things (flannel and baked goods), they're fantastically comfortable. Putting these on signals I am staying in. Not that I'm not usually staying in, but these make it seem like my number one choice out of many options.

A black chiffon, slightly flippy dress with illusion half-sleeves. I've had this dress for well over 15 years. I loved it from the moment I saw it. My grandfather gave me the money to buy it when I could barely afford rent. I later wore it to his funeral. I will never part with it.

I have quite a lot of evening bags, even though my evenings are pretty low-key these days (see cupcake pjs). My favourite? A small frame bag covered in cascades of black and white bugle beads that shimmer like an Art Deco waterfall. It's completely impractical, holding little more than a cellphone, a bank card and my hopes for a fantastic time. Whenever I carry it, I feel a bit like Daisy Buchanan, heading off to a party in West Egg.

A midnight blue linen tunic, with little pink chiffon flowers and embroidery around the v-neck and hem. Completely not my style, but I got caught up in the whole aging hippie, pottery making, poetry writing, ex-pat vibe of Positano during the best vacation ever. John Steinbeck famously wrote, "Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone." And every time I look at the tunic hanging in my closet, I know just what he means.

A pair of vertiginous black heels. Ankle strap, quite sexy. I practically need a sherpa to help me up them. They are two-hour shoes, and even then only if 1:50 of those two hours are spent sitting at a table, laughing coyly and sipping my drink in what I hope is a seductive manner. It's best if I don't attempt stairs in them, which may explain why I haven't worn them since I bought my house. They're very versatile, and go quite well with everything except sweatpants and more than three drinks.

It's a funny thing; I never know what's going to stay with me. I've had things I've happily worn for years that I've discarded without a second glance. And I have things like the old t-shirt I bought on vacation with an ex-boyfriend that I can't bear to part with (the shirt, not the boyfriend), even though the only thing I remember fondly about the relationship is the fact that I'm not in it anymore. I guess when it comes to my closet, sentimentality never goes out of style.