Just one of these things

I have the mental acuity of a gumdrop right now. No real reason; end of vacation, just finished a less than stimulating book, haven't been drinking enough water (I've replaced it with alcohol). Since I don't have the capacity to think of anything too complicated, thought I'd compile a little list like the ubiquitous Facebook ones a while back. Some of this stuff may not even be true by the time I finish writing.

25 things you don't know about me - sponsored by Okanagan Pear Cider.

1) I love Okanagan Pear Cider.

2) I kind of suck at bocce. But I don't care, and love it just the same.

3) I have recently discovered I have very strong opinions on Maltesers vs. Whoppers. The former all the way. They're much maltier.

4) I love reading novels that incorporate restaurants or cooking, but then I always feel so uninspired by my dinner for weeks afterward.

5) "Cinnamon" is one of my favourite words. I think saying it has the same mouth feel as tasting it.

6) I tend to distrust people who don't like animals, unless they have a really really good reason.

7) I could happily eat nachos 5 times a week.

8) I have been in love a few times, though one may actually have been a serious case of cockstruckness. And I have no idea if the feelings were mutual. Which I'm pretty sure means they weren't.

9) I can make pasta from scratch, and near perfect risotto, but have yet to master chocolate chip cookies.

10) I was recently discussing having an old tree in my yard trimmed before more branches came crashing down, and a total stranger overheard me saying " It needs to come down; it took out half my bush".

11) I am considering paying $89 plus our crazy HST for a beautiful scarf I absolutely don't need and can't justify. Ironically, I have told myself that I can buy it on payday if I don't buy anything I don't need this week.

12) Number of cats currently on the desk: one.

13) Worst movie I have ever seen: My Own Private Idaho.

14) I hate the concept of "right hand rings". Like the left hand is sacred. If my left ring finger was waiting for Mr. Right, it would have atrophied long ago. I also hate the concept of tiger's-eye pinkie rings, fyi.

15) I once managed to kill a cactus. I didn't even think that was possible.

16) I am allergic to trees, horses, and dust mites. So living above a stable in the middle of the woods is officially off my bucket list. Drat.

17) I love chest hair. On men.

18) I have recently rediscovered Cheesies. Do they count as dairy?

19) I have a huge crush on NBC's Brian Williams.

20) I love celebrity gossip, but I hate what constitutes a true "celebrity" these days. Sleeping with half of Jersey doesn't make you a star; it makes you a slut.

21) My mother has threatened to put me out of the car within the last week.

22) I wish the hair dye they have now was around when I was younger. I totally would have had bright purple hair, instead of the British New Wave burgundy I ended up with.

23) I once had a letter published in Rolling Stone magazine.

24) My favourite body part is a toss up between my feet and my eyes. Everything in between is open for discussion.

25) I have a huge phobia about overripe bananas that borders on the pathological.

25a) Number of cats now on desk: zero, although there were briefly two. I told you some of this stuff could change fast. I still love Brian Williams, though.

Stay-cation or stagnation?

Okay, so I'm on a week off. I hesitate to use the word "vacation", with all that it conjures of exotic locales, frothy drinks, leisurely sex and a bathing suit. Here's my vacation reality - sleeping in (only to be periodically accosted by the head cat, whose appetite waits for no one, even the holidaying) doing very little, the only frothy drinks have been courtesy of Starbucks, and the only sex has been on "True Blood". And I haven't owned a bathing suit in over a decade. The most exciting thing thus far happened a short while ago, when I nearly choked on an errant piece of proscuitto. I don't even particularly like cured meats, so I'd have died for no reason.

What have I accomplished? I finally found a well-priced, realistic looking fake ficus tree for my living room. This has been harder than one might think. Some people think they're tacky, but damn it, twinkle lights make me happy. I've seen a few movies, gone out for dinner, spent the day with my mom (she bought me lunch and a much nicer container for said ficus), and played in a bocce tournament. Played badly, but won for best costume. And really - it's not how close you are to the pallino, it's how you look that counts.

So why do I feel like a vacation failure? I used to take vacations that involved museums, and new experiences, and a crying fit in the middle of Charles de Gaulle (another time...) But right now, I have neither the finances nor the energy to do anything more taxing than string lights on a fake ficus and hang pictures in my office. But I've also shared many laughs with friends, seen a great documentary, spent lovely evenings on my back deck, drink in one hand, book in the other, (hungry cat occasionally screeching her dinner bell wail through the screen door) and visited my cousin's tiny baby girls in the hospital. So even though I haven't "accomplished" much, I need to remember I've experienced alot (except for the lots of sex part), and that should be enough. My passport can always wait until next time. I'll just avoid the proscuitto so that there is a next time.

Faulkner weeps

Let me get this straight. So not only is Justin Bieber putting out his autobiography ("First Step 2 Forever: My Story"), but the Kardashian sisters are also releasing the spelling-challenged opus "Kardashian Konfidential".

A number of things trouble me. First of all, Biebs, only Prince can get away with using numbers as words. You are not Prince. And b) what exactly is left in the Kardashian family that's remotely "konfidential"? Between two reality shows, a sex tape, Kim's tit Tweets (google it) and serious oversharing in every celebrity magazine, I sadly know more about them than I do about members of my immediate family.

And not to be too elitist (which is me-speak for that's exactly what I'm about to be), but what the hell can those two books possibly have to say that is in any way relevant? Sure, if I want to hear about the first time a 16 year old millionaire saw a boobie, or know exactly what the trick is to boning a professional athlete, they'd be excellent source material. But let's assume I don't. Who in the hell is buying this crap?

Everyone, I bet. And that's the problem. Gone are the days when book deals were reserved for those who could actually, you know, write. Now, people like Lauren Conrad and Tori Spelling have chart-topping tomes. I have no hard data to back this up, but I am reasonably certain that neither Zadie Smith nor Geraldine Brooks have ever been involved in a televised cat fight. Dave Eggers, I'm not so sure.

I'm not saying you have to read fine literature all the time. I certainly don't. But would it kill people to pick up an actual novel? Or even a non-fiction book written by someone who's a) never had a show on MTV, or b) been a recipient of a Teen Choice award? This dumbing down of our culture doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and it makes me crazy. I don't want to flip to the New York Times best seller list a few months from now and see the top two spots occupied by a kid who may actually be younger than my stereo and a girl whose resume includes letting Moesha's little brother pee on her with a camera rolling. Given the option, I shall continue to prefer my authors of legal drinking age and un-urinated on. But keep that konfidential.

There's a weed whacker in my kitchen

Or at least there was; now it's in the spare room until I can figure out how to re-spool the damn thing. Just one more statement I'd never have made before I bought my house.

I can't believe it's two years since I went into debt up to my ass. And while I love my little home to pieces, there continues to be a rather steep learning curve when it comes to being a homeowner.

For example, even though their primary function is to funnel water, rain gutters apparently aren't self cleaning. Turns out all those leaves that ended up in there must make a perfect growing medium for plants, because I have a full on garden at the roof line. They're actually doing much better than the flowers on my deck. Sort of like a hydroponic grow op you need a ladder to reach.

Also - century old homes make a lot of noise. I grew up knowing this. Why, then, for the first several months, did I become convinced that every creak, groan and clank was surely a serial killer whose m.o. was to prey on the single and recently mortgaged? There was also the night I kept hearing a faint cell phone ring. Couldn't sleep. Was convinced someone had broken in, was lying in wait, sharpening his hatchet, and had forgotten to turn off his cell phone. Turns out it was MY new cell phone, trying in vain to tell me to recharge it. Note to self: "Criminal Minds" and creaky old house not a match made in a good night's sleep.

It takes a looooong time to put together a barbeque. There are approximately 9000 steps, none of which can be facilitated by cats. Freeloaders.

The real shock to the system, and the thing I don't think anyone can truly prepare you for, is that houses are damn expensive. I used to have conversations like this: "Sushi?" "Sure!" or "Sushi?" "Sorry - can't. I'm hungover / have plans / spent way too much on shoes."

Now I have conversations like this: "Thai food?" "Can't. Furnace sounds funny / I have squirrels in my attic / did you know polished nickel cabinet handles are $12.50 each and I need 14 of them?" And who knew I had such strong opinions on engineered vs. "real" hardwood?

I wouldn't trade my house for the world, nor the sense of accomplishment I felt the day I walked in, without my realtor for the first time, and it was truly mine. Followed one minute later by a complete and total "holy fuck what have I done?" moment. But sometimes, when I'm scraping silicone caulking off my fingernails, or trying to remember if the numbers on sandpaper get higher as the grain gets finer, or I'm balanced precariously on a padded barstool, standing on tiptoes trying to hang a swag lamp because I can't justify buying a ladder (which you think I would, what with the grow op and all), I wish for a landlord for about three seconds. Or at least a really hot handyman who knows his way around a weed whacker.

I've got a crush on who?

My first boyfriend was a lot older than me. Blonde hair, blue eyes, soft, almost feminine features. I was 8. He was in his 20s. His name was Shaun Cassidy, and the Hardy Boys rocked my world. When my parents got me his album "Born Late" for Christmas (he was a hyphenate before hyphenates were the standard), I swooned over the cover photo. And drove my parents crazy with the Do Ron Ron.

Then came Andy Gibb. Another pretty singer. Doomed. I don't like to talk about it. There were brief dalliances after that: Donny Osmond. Willie Aames from "Eight is Enough". The Six Million Dollar Man.

Then Rick Springfield entered my life. Another singer/actor. Even
then, I had a type. I faithfully watched Dr. Noah Drake on "General
Hospital" every afternoon. He was my idea of after school special. And
when he released "Working Class Dog", I kept wondering what Jesse's Girl had that I didn't. Well, okay, at that point, boobs.

1983. John Taylor. Now that, that was a love that lasted for years. I wanted to dye my bangs like him. Mom said no. I always felt a little bad for the girls who liked Nick Rhodes the best. It seemed rather pointless. I read Smash Hits, devouring every little morsel of info about JT. I can still remember his birthdate. I would tape Duran Duran videos off Much Music and watch them until the tape went all funny. To this day, I think I would probably throw up a little if I had the chance to meet him.

Why do we develop infatuations with celebrities? Is it because fame is so alluring, even to our 8 year-old selves? Or are the objects of our affections really that much more charming/good looking/fascinating? Really - if Colin Farrell worked at your local coffee shop, would he still be swoon material? Perhaps. Or would you just be miffed that the guy getting you your latte kept trying to look down your shirt? I can tell you, however, that if Taye Diggs was my dentist or worked at my bank, I'd be knocking my teeth out or losing my bank card just so I could go talk to him.

Even now, in my extremely late 30s (ahem), I still get celebrity crushes all the time. George Clooney is a Crush Emeritus. He's on my list. If you don't know what list I'm talking about, you clearly weren't a fan of Friends. Disturbingly, he's also on my Mom's list, or would be if she had a list. Someone call my therapist.

I also have temporary, intense, very of-the-moment crushes. Like Anderson Cooper. Several members of the World Cup champion Spanish soccer team. Scarlett Johansson. A few years back, it was the Today Show's Vatican analyst, Father Thomas someone. Yes, I had the decency to feel bad about that one. But in my defence, he's cute, smart, single, and lives in Italy.

My crushes, however, are not as unconditional, nor as pure, as they once were. Certain things will end a crush. Multiple arrests. Appearing on "Larry King". Being Larry King. I expect even my fake boyfriends to have standards. A while back, Jeffrey Dean Morgan (late of Grey's Anatomy) was tops in my books for a few months. Those eyes! That voice! Then, I saw a picture of him at a party, smoking. Deal breaker. I broke up with him. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. Now if I could just learn to apply those same exacting criteria to actual boyfriends, I might be getting somewhere.