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.


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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.

The most wonderful time of the year

For the next few weeks, I'll be spending my evenings looking for a new boyfriend. I'm going to try out several, give them an hour, maybe two, each, and see if there's a connection that'll last until spring. It could be a new guy, it may be a guy I've known for a while who's never really knocked my knees until now. Yes, for the next several days, I'm a new tv season whore.

I have a checkered history of television boyfriends, fictional characters who caught my eye and made me want to live my life in serialized chunks 22 weeks of the year, sometimes in towns I couldn't find on Google Earth. Sure, they may be only two dimensional, but when it comes to relationships, that's not exactly uncharted territory for me. Two dimensions might be an improvement. Here's a far from comprehensive list of my fictional beaux, men who had me at "a very special episode" and left me wanting more once May sweeps were over.

Nate Fisher - "Six Feet Under". He wasn't really my type: a bit too laid back, unfocused, no drive. And from the moment I met him, I knew his fucked-upness would come between us. Yet I couldn't help myself. He was incredibly hot, wore his stubble very well, and was willing to have sex in an airport, which earned him major points. He was sadly taken from me far too soon. Quite tragic - I heard it drove his brother to become a serial killer.

Ari Gold - "Entourage". I hate myself a little, and perhaps "boyfriend" might be a bit of a stretch, and I probably wouldn't tell my friends, but I so would. Ideally at the Beverly Hills Hotel, in a suite, under an assumed name, with room service champagne on speed dial. There's just something about a man in a $4000 suit spouting profanity that gets me hot. He swears really, really well. Plus, his assistant Lloyd and I could go have sushi and be total bitches on his expense account if he got caught up in a pitch meeting for Medellin II or something.

Dr. Doug Ross - "E.R.". So good-looking. So charming. His twinkly eyes and irresistible grin made Thursdays my favourite day of the week for five years. Sure, he had a problem with authority, but he specialized in pediatrics, so he liked kids. But under the charm lurked an unfaithful, emotionally withholding committment-phobe. Come to think of it, I think I did actually date him. He also looked really good wet. I briefly considered getting myself stuck in a storm drain with some kid just so he could rescue me, but with my luck it would be his ass of a colleague Dr. Benton on call.

Jack Bauer - "24". He has the hands down sexiest voice. He would unquestionably defend my honour in a bar fight, which is all kinds of hot, but I worry that instead of just punching the guy, his tendency would be to shoot him. He does that. He was away a lot, though (infiltrating a Mexican drug cartel, confined to a Chinese prison), and even though I like my alone time, those sorts of long distance relationships just don't work. Plus, style is important to me, and I got tired of him wearing the same damn thing all the time.

Luke Danes - "Gilmore Girls". It took me several years to meet him, even though my friend Julie swore we'd hit it off. Finally, I let her introduce us via box set. Such a meet cute. I'd never really been a fan of the backwards baseball cap, but his slight scruff and his way with a well-fitting pair of jeans quickly won me over. Plus, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, he owned his own restaurant, and he was perfectly capable of fixing stuff around the house, which at the time was very high on my criteria for suitable boyfriends, fictional or otherwise. And let's face it - any guy who has 24/7 access to homemade pie pretty much doesn't even need to walk me home.

Josh Lyman - "The West Wing". Ah, Josh. Joshua. Deputy White House Chief of Staff. The more I think about it, the more I think he might be my all-time, hall of fame, number one television boyfriend. His way with words, his wit, his cocky grin, and his brain, always his brain. And when was I ever going to get another crack at joining the mile-high club on Air Force One? I think his colleague C.J. Cregg and I would have become fast friends if he'd introduced us. I did spend the occasional evening worrying about him asking me to a State Dinner; I wouldn't have a thing to wear.

It's a little early in the new season to put all my affections in one basket. But there are some prospects: Steve McGarrett from the new Hawaii Five-O looks promising (Hawaii=swim trunks). And the male lead on the new show "Undercovers", which doesn't even air until later tonight, is a spy turned caterer turned spy again. He sounds like just my type. Plus - have you seen him in the promos? He's so hot he could be playing a cross-dressing tax accountant with mommy issues who dabbles in necrophilia and I'd at least let him get to second base on our first date.

So many men; so little space on the pvr. For this single girl, for the next week or so, the most important battery powered device in this house is my remote control.

Walk the line

Do you have a well-defined line? You know the one: your alcohol tolerance line, your own personal prime meridian, the point at which you need to call it a night or risk that shit going all Mel Gibson. It seems so far away at the beginning of cocktail hour, like some exotic place you've heard of, but doubt you'll ever visit. Then it sort of becomes a persistent glow in the distance, like the sun peeking above the horizon. Then, eventually, you realize that glow is actually the headlight of a runaway locomotive, barrelling towards you like the hijacked train in "Under Seige 2: Dark Territory", except instead of Steven Seagal and a bunch of terrorists, the train is full of bottom shelf liquor and room temperature domestic beer.

I know my line very well. And as long as I stop, even just one or two sips shy, all I'm left with after an evening of merriment is a slight headache and a desire for french fries. But sometimes, maybe I'm looking the other way, maybe I'm not wearing my glasses, and I end up careening over the line. Occasionally, I happily jump right over it, like an off-balance Hopscotcher. And that's when it happens. When the mood or the merlot strikes, I become Charles Bukowski (although with a cuter nose and better skin).

Random night out, sometime around the age of 20. The "draught wars" were trying to lure people into bars. Like we needed a reason - we were 20. Was with a group of people at an old bar in town called Alexander's. Their mascot was (and I'm not making this up) a taxidermied beaver named Alexander, who occupied a place of honour behind the bar. Admittedly, we went there quite a lot, but I don't know if that alone accounts for the photographic evidence that exists of me, behind the bar, draught-soaked grin on my face, arm draped around Alexander, who looks somewhat displeased. There is also a photo taken substantially later: I'm propped against a railing outside a favourite dance bar, and our group has grown, thanks to the addition of two guys I will always think of as The Russians. Maybe that's because they were drinking vodka. No clue. For all I know, they were from Regina.

House warming/birthday party at my downstairs neighbours. I was about 23. I remember having a great time at the party, knew a lot of people, was quite likely wearing a cute outfit, and may have been drinking the deceptively pretty Rockaberry coolers. Pretty sure the tide turned right around the time I was offered some birthday cake and declared a rather emphatic YES! by taking a large bite out of the until-then-unsullied confection. C'mon - that was like a frosting covered dare! When I opened my apartment door the next morning, my shoes were standing sentinel, graciously delivered by my hosts two floors below. Good thing, because I needed them to join friends at the local greasy spoon for breakfast. Shockingly,as it turns out, eggs benedict and the sight of desperately hung-over college kids eating sausage wasn't the cure-all I expected; I ordered, thought better of it, and left. Heaving ensued.

Sometime around 2000. Went out with friends for a drink or two. Stayed on with new friends after the first batch left for a drink or two more. One bar led to another led to more martinis led to more people I knew led to artichoke dip led to a gay bar. Everyone must decide for themselves when it's time to go home and, for me, on that night, my moment came when a couple of drag queens had to help me with my bank card. They were lovely. Their makeup was way less smudged than mine. Bitches. I remember lying on my bathroom floor, thankful for the cool tiles. One of my cats kept nuzzling my head. In retrospect, I think he may have been checking for signs of rigor mortis.

Work Christmas party a handful of years ago. I stand by my assertion that wearing a feather boa automatically makes for a better time. The party was held at a downtown hotel. Open bar at cocktail hour, plus wine at the table. I can honestly say I've never spent so little to get so drunk. My colleagues will tell you that, fairly late in the evening, I was sitting on the floor of the hotel mezzanine drinking directly from a carafe. Not true. I had a glass; the carafe was just the holding tank. Upon waking in the morning, there were feathers all over my apartment, it took much of the day to find one of my shoes, and I'd dumped the contents of my evening bag into the sink. I think one of my contacts may still be lodged in my sinuses. Fantastic time, even at hotel prices.

Charity wine tasting held at a friend's home earlier this year. Right around the time I found myself discussing anal sex with a friend, I took a moment and acknowledged I'd reached the point where nothing good could come of it. I last saw my line staggering out the door around 1:45, flipping me off and climbing into a cab. I stayed on, putting down my glass just long enough to fall backwards into the coat closet while trying to put my boots on. Cab ride home with friends was remarkably clear, in that eerily calm "I've accepted my fate" kind of way you see in television cliffhangers. Aside: Why in the hell did I buy a house on a hill? So many steps. Briefly thought, while brushing my teeth, that I would escape the wrath of Dionysus. No such luck.

Medical sidebar: are you familiar with a subconjunctival hemmorrhage? Sounds scary, but it's actually quite common, and simply means a broken blood vessel in the eye. Or, in my case, breaking pretty much all the blood vessels in my eyes. This is often caused by seemingly minor things like sneezing, coughing, strenuous exercising or pulling extreme g-forces. I can almost rule out the last two though, truth be told, there's a 40 minute window where I may have gone up with the Snowbirds. Anyway, I'm fairly positive my vessel popping was caused by the rather more pedestrian vomiting in my bathtub. Why the bathtub? Because I was leaning against it, and it seemed the path of least resistance. Honestly, I could've been leaning against the Mona Lisa, and I think things would've pretty much gone the same way. As for my eyes? Well, it'd happened maybe twice before (see: housewarming party), but I remember looking in the mirror on the way to bed on this night and thinking "Hmmm, guess it didn't happen this time". I don't know if it was a delayed reaction, or maybe I was looking at the wall beside the mirror, but it wasn't good. On the upside, for about two weeks afterwards, there was no danger of my getting shot, since there were no whites of my eyes to be seen.

Unfortunately, I had a baby shower to attend the next morning, approximately eight hours after I got home. Luckily, the mama-to-be knows her way around a corkscrew, and she thought my whole "Satan is my optometrist" predicament was hilarious. She envied my hangover. I have never felt so disgusting over something that was so much fun at the time.

I admit defeat. I ignored the line, and it brought the pain. And not just for me - people were recoiling at the grocery store. Yes, the wine guzzling proved emphatically, and painfully, that the line exists for a reason, and I ignore it at my peril. The only difference is I'm throwing up much more expensive booze than back in the draught war days.

Another Cosmo?

Had so much fun reading Cosmo a few weeks ago, I picked up the new issue. Because I'm altruistic, I've once again condensed the highlights into one convenient, easy-to-read post. I save you time and money AND you get to read my smart ass comments. You're a little turned on right now, aren't you? I can always tell.

Right off the bat, this cover headline caught my eye: "Own His Orgasm - What Men Secretly Want Right Before Blast Off". My immediate thought? "Cool - they're talking to astronauts about sex at Cape Canaveral." Then the only astronauts I could think of were Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong, and I got nervous. Anyway, I think my confusion was valid. Why? Because no guy, ever, in the history of orgasmic proclamations, has used the term "blast off." Sure, there's the common, and much appreciated, declarative statement ("I'm coming", "I'm going to come", etc) the men of the clergy ("Oh God", "Ooooohhhh Jesus"), the sports fan ("C'mon! That's it, fuck yeah, alright, go go go go go! YEAH! That's what I'm talking about"), and the confused ("Oh Stephanie"), but never, that I'm aware of, the aeronautical. The article itself is pretty lacklustre, though I did learn this interesting fact: the average speed of male ejaculate is 28 mph. Hmm. That's about twice as fast as the cruising speed of a kangaroo, but only half as fast as the Pronghorn antelope. Still - reigning World and Olympic record holder Usain Bolt reached a top running speed of just about 28 mph, so well done!

Then there were "100 Crazy Dirty Sex Questions". What is it with Cosmo and sex and numbers? It seems like every issue has "75 Sex Tips" or "100 Things Guys Want You to Know Before You Take Your Clothes Off" or "18 Things That Will Make a Man Weak in the Knees" (a six pack and a year's subscription to the Bacon of the Month club?). By my calculations, in the last 18 months, they've featured, let's see, 75 x 3 plus 100 plus...wait a sec...carry the one...about 1107 things I'm supposed to know, do, or say with my clothes off. Call me the Captain of the fun police, but once I weeded out things I've done, things I never want to do again, things I wouldn't say on a dare with a gun to my head, and things that would land me in traction, I'm left with about 20 things. Of those, maybe four would be worth me missing "America's Next Top Model".

My three favourites:

1) How many calories does semen have? Now, I've seen this question several times over the years. And I have to say - what the fuck? Thirty six calories per teaspoon. It takes 3500 calories to make up one measly pound. That's about 97 1/4 teaspoons. 486 mls. About one good time away from two cups. I just threw up in my mouth. Why do you people need to know this? Have we maybe taken the whole Weight Watchers points system a little too far? Are you replacing your half-and-half with a very special non-dairy creamer? Jesus.

2) "Is it okay to use an electric toothbrush as a vibrator?" Really? Did someone miss health class the day they explained exactly what "oral sex" is? First of all, let me say I believe oral health is very important. And the best thing I can do for my oral health, after flossing, is not use the Sonic Complete S-320 to get off.

3) "I've heard it's unsafe to do it on a trampoline. Why?" Okay- 100 questions is admittedly ambitious. But was there seriously not one question deemed more deserving than this one? That being said, it's simple logic, really. Trampolines are often used by acrobats. Acrobats are often found in the company of other circus performers. So why is it unsafe? Goddamn clowns, that's why.

46% of men surveyed said their favourite Halloween costume is "sexy/naughty", like a nurse or a French maid. Wow. Didn't see that one coming. Suddenly, the reason I went home alone that year I decided to go as Alice B. Toklas is so much clearer.

The "confessions" were the usual potpourri of suspect nonsense involving squeezing the wrong guy's ass, panties falling out of your desk drawer at work, etc. Sadly, no repeat appearance by Gus, the road kill sex guy. I assume this is because he was one of the lucky few this month who wasn't caught bare-assed by his landlord or his roommate's Mom while thinking about dead racoons and trying to last just a little bit longer.

In the somewhat unsavoury "How to Outsmart STDs" , it's recommended that you "give his junk a once-over." My people don't really use the word "junk". My people being women over 35, not Anglicans. This tip would be of no help to me; I see that sentence, I think it means you should check out the yard sale your latest crush is having before you decide whether to sleep with him. And if he's selling half-empty bottles of Valtrex, he may not be the guy for you.

There's the potentially useful "Easy Ways to Feel More Aroused". This is why I'm not a freelancer; I would've written "vodka" and hit send. The accompanying picture: an attractive woman, wearing a gray pencil skirt, topless, in her kitchen, holding a bag of what appears to be spaghetti, but could be fettucine, linguine, really any of your long noodles. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do to feel more aroused, but based on the photo evidence, I'm going to assume it has something to do with bringing a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil.

I can apparently burn 5 calories if I squeeze and release my butt muscles 60 times while talking to my boss. Maybe I'm lazy, but burning 5 calories, (approximately 1/7th of a teaspoon of semen), isn't nearly important enough to me to have my boss wondering why I'm clenching my ass while discussing my vacation request.

But the best, the absolute make my day fact: a new study has found that when guys look at women with rounder curves, the reward center in their brains lights up as though they were drinking alcohol or taking drugs. They waited until page 199 to tell me my ass can give someone a buzz? C'mon Cosmo - this is the stuff you should put on the cover! Sure, astronaut sex will hook some people, but finding out I've been hauling the visual equivalent of two vodka sodas and a shot of tequila around in my boot cuts will guarantee you get my $5.49 every time.

Bed bitch and beyond

It takes a lot to talk me into a bed. Well, into buying a bed. I'm picky. If furniture stores had softer lighting, martinis, and told me I have nice eyes, I think everyone involved would feel much better about themselves the next day.

My mother arrived last weekend and announced we were going shopping for a bed for my guest room. Her treat. In her words, "Mommy's tired of sleeping on the couch." Since the spare room decor consists primarily of two years' worth of magazines, a dilapidated scratching post, and a jacuzzi attachment that has very likely bubbled its last, she didn't have to tell me twice.

Beds are effin' expensive. Pound for pound, they've got to be worse than cereal. I kind of knew this going in, but wow. And most of the beds on the market are either massive or really ugly. Some are really massively ugly. Do people just like to stretch out, or is every second bed purchaser planning on group sex? Because there were some beds I'm pretty sure were a hoop and a groupie away from being part of the Wilt Chamberlain collection.

And size aside, the frames are not stylistically superb. A lot of towering wood, which, in different circumstances, I'm very much for, lovely but far too colossal for my little house. Lots of mediocre metal (just like the 80s), a cute one in the wrong colour, and a gold one so blindingly trashy I was worried for my reputation (also just like the 80s). I eliminated any bed that required a) a step ladder; b) a polygamous marriage; c) a complete lack of taste on my part. Okay - we're whittling. I knew I wanted white or cream. Nothing with too high a headboard. This left me with exactly 3 options. One that was a bit too Miss Havisham, one that was a bit too finial-y, and the one I settled on, a lovely cream sleigh bed. I felt a bit like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks had been trailed around a store by her increasingly exasperated mother, who kept threatening to count to ten and muttering about the "limited time offer".

Mattresses. Did you know you can get a "mix and match" set, which means the fabrics on your box spring and mattress may differ, for about half the price? Seriously - they're covered in sheets; who cares if they don't match? I have no first hand knowledge of this, but I used to get HBO, and I'm pretty sure the people whose beds are most often stripped bare for the world to see are meth heads, and I'm not convinced a mismatched mattress set is their biggest problem. Teeth might be their biggest problem. And a word to the wise: asking a recently retired woman with a fake knee to roll around on a bed, in public, to test its suitability will push the limits of matriarchal good will.

I ultimately settled on a plush mattress, low profile box spring, and the "Juliette" frame. I worried that the bed might come off as too feminine, but then I remembered one very important truth: god willing, if a gentleman caller has made it to the second floor, he's not sleeping in the guest room.

à la table

My homemade mac and cheese. Pad Thai. Spicy tuna rolls. Lemon tarts. I can rhyme off a list of my favourite foods - most people can - but what about truly memorable meals? Those meals that, even years later, are as present in your memory as the taste of salt on your lips, the coolness of wine over your tongue? Those are harder to determine, and yet they're as much sustenance for my soul as this morning's toast was for my growling tummy.

Paris. 1996. My first trip to Europe. Early evening, fall. Café Marly, a very trendy, recently opened spot in the Louvre overlooking the courtyard. I was horrifyingly underdressed, but nonetheless was seated at a lovely table overlooking the iconic pyramid. Fresh buffalo mozzarella and tomato salad. A crisp, cold white wine. And white and dark chocolate pots de crème for dessert. The slight resistance against my spoon before it sank into the creaminess of the custard, the lights on the glass pyramid, the feeling of a day spent surrounded in wonder. Best solo meal I have ever had.

Ontario. More than ten years ago. Visiting someone who'd recently moved away. Took a pizza from his favorite place as a surprise (they partially bake it, you pop it in the oven when you get where you're going). Kissing in the kitchen while the pizza finished cooking. Garlicky, savoury, crusty loveliness. Martinis. Eating on the floor. Perfection.

Tuscany. 2006. A friend and I took cooking classes in a centuries old farmhouse. Drinking carafes of wine made from grapes grown on the property. Our first night, learning to make pasta with four people we'd just met, then sitting down to a wonderful meal with our new friends. Ravioli with butter and sage sauce. Spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce. Turkey breast stuffed with sausage and orange peel. Fried artichokes. Apple cake. Laughter and conversation with people who'd been strangers until the pilot light was lit.

New York. 1992. My first visit to the city. A fancy dinner at the top of the World Trade Center. I remember the gust of wind that came up the elevator shaft, lifting the hem of my coat, as the doors opened at Windows on the World. Eating crème brûlée for the very first time. Happily, and drunkenly, over-tipping our waiter. I'll never forget the view. And on my trips there since, I always remember taking it all in for the first time, when the doors opened on the 107th floor.

Barcelona. 1999. The kaleidoscope landscape of the Park Güell. The visual freneticness of La Sagrada Familia. The second degree sunburn. The erotica museum. Siesta. Gothic quarter restaurant. Lining up to get in when they opened at 8:30. Sitting on the upstairs balcony, sharing a wonderfully rough sangria, paella, café con leche. Looking back, I don't think the food was anything special. But I will always remember the leisurely evening at the end of a wonderful day, spent with great friends in one of the world's great cities, as one of my favourite meals of all time.

New York. Nearly sixteen years after our evening at Windows on the World. Two older and arguably wiser friends. Lower East Side. Very late dinner at the Stanton Social. The energy was contagious, on a warm Friday night at the edge of summer. Sharing plates. Sitting with strangers. French onion soup dumplings. Possibly the best appetizer in the history of appetizers. Would happily eat them every day.

Halifax. September 2008. Lobster. Rolls. Salad. Wine. Things I've had dozens of times. Good friends sitting around an old coffee table in the middle of a living room full of boxes, in my very first house, which had been mine for all of 10 days.

Food, for me, is pleasure, and passion, and purpose. But it hasn't been the food, after all, that had made these meals so special. Though often terrific, the food has been the backdrop. It's been the company, the places, the experiences that have truly fed me. And it's those things, just like the taste of a darkly sweet custard, that I will always savour.

Never never land

I love drinking games. Quarters. Caps. Beer Pong. Okay, I've never actually played Beer Pong, but I saw Betty While play it on Fallon, and I get the sense I'd be good at it. But my favourite, hands down (bottoms up?), has to be "I Never".

You know the premise, right? You get a group together, you try and think of something you've never done that everyone else has, you make your claim, those who've done it take a drink. Example: I say I've never been to London. If you have, you take a drink. Essentially, the more you've done, or at least the more you'll admit to, the drunker you get.

I never get to play, mostly because my friends and I are getting a bit old for drinking games, so pop a cold one and keep reading.

I've never had sex in my parents' house. And quite frankly, I'm shocked at the number of people who'd take a drink on this one. Granted, this typically happens in high school, and sex wasn't really my thing then. But even if it had been, and I'd managed to get Mom and Dad off the premises and paid off my brother, we lived next door to my grandparents. My Nanny plus a rolling pin would've resulted in the type of blue balls teenage boys need rehabilitation to get over.

I've never ordered a rum and coke. Tried a sip of one once; thought it tasted like rancid sugar. If you licked that sugar off Satan's ass. I sort of judge people who claim it's their favourite drink. As an Atlantic Canadian, I realize I'm supposed to go directly from Captain Crunch to Captain Morgan, but what can I say? I've never been attracted to sailors.

I've never picked anyone up at the airport. I've never owned a car, so this isn't that unusual. I have, however, met someone at the Gard du Nord in Paris and immediately raced to a cab, saying "la Tour Eiffel, s'il vous plaît!", which I think is much cooler and a teensy bit "Bourne Identity". I suppose even without a vehicle, I still could've met people at the airport, but it's a bit less international spy if you give them a big hug and then go wait in line for the hotel shuttle.

Drunk yet? Get you another rum and coke?

I've never had a one night stand. Sidebar: we need to establish a few parameters for this one. A one night stand means sex, not just a bit of slap and tickle. Nor does it mean a drunken feel next to the coat check at the Misty Moon with a gentleman whose name may have been Gerard. Hypothetically. Anyway, not really my thing. I'd like to think this has a bit to do with the siren song of my feminine wiles. Or perhaps it's just that my milkshake brings the boys back to my yard. Seriously. I make an excellent milkshake.

I've never joined the rest of the poor, hapless single women at a wedding to catch the bouquet. I think it's a ridiculous, slightly humiliating custom. I've just spent 15 minutes talking to your cousin about his wicked costume idea for the next sci-fi convention; hitting me in the head with ribbon wrapped calla lilies seems uncalled for. If you really want to herd all the single girls like so many high-heeled cattle into the middle of a dance floor, try throwing a be-ribboned vibrator. Those little buggers are expensive. I've heard the new Jimmyjane Form 3 makes a lovely gift. My birthday's in December.

Still reading? Things a bit blurry? How many fingers am I holding up?

I'm sure my singular list of things I've never done would run out eventually, and I'd end up well and truly plastered. Hasn't happened yet, but I think there's a couple simple reasons for that: there's lots of pretty common stuff I haven't done, and my friends have done a lot of really random, probably degenerate, possibly illegal stuff. You know who you are.

Show of Hands

I'm surrounded by men masturbating. Everywhere I look, there they are. At the movies, on tv, in the book store, on public transit. Though he may have just been digging for change. I think masturbation may be the new black.

Okay - I'm not literally surrounded. Because that would be weird. And unhygienic. But it seems that lately, men and their masturbatory habits have been popping up like so much morning wood. A recent magazine article by a guy confessing to the (sometimes) shameful images he uses to get there. The new movie "The Switch", which really owes Diane Sawyer an apology. A novel I just read featuring a male character who pleasures himself while watching the comely host of a fictional children's show. Not that farfetched; I once attended a party where the fairly well-known star of a popular program for pre-schoolers got her freak on in ways that were decidely NC-17.

All this self-servicing got me thinking. Guys are visual creatures. Women get this, at least by the time we're in our mid 30s, and most of us can deal with the fact that there'll always be something about Alyssa Milano. Or Princess Leia. Or Angela Lansbury. No judgement. But what about women? Sure, we like to look at attractive men but, for most of us, the mere visual isn't enough. It takes a bit more than a glossy photo or a promo for a " Who's the Boss?" marathon to bring the quiver. Think about it - know many women who've asked guys to send them naughty pictures? Okay, in my defence, I was half joking, and shirtless doesn't count. But I can't swing a digital camera without hitting a woman who's heard something along the lines of "Oh baby, come on, no one else will see it." And I think guys are missing out on the best part: the fantasy part of fantasizing. Hugh Jackman is hot, no doubt, but a pic of him isn't enough to push my button. There has to be context, and story, and imagined dialogue, at least for me.

Don't kid yourselves, guys; those long, descriptive passages in the "historical fiction" that your mom likes to read aren't just there to accurately set the scene in 1700s England. Men might need a simple screen capture to get off; women usually need a screenplay. And more often than not, the starring role is played by someone we already know intimately. I'm not saying men don't do this; they probably do, occasionally. I'd like to think they do . But they don't seem to need to. Women, however, are a bit more detail oriented. We replay previous encounters in our heads, sometimes exactly as they happened, sometimes embellishing dialogue, sometimes rewriting the ending. Sort of like Masturbation: the Director's Cut. At the risk of making someone blush, there's one real-life encounter I've actually developed sequels for; I think the blocking may need a bit of finessing, but the dialogue is pretty much perfect (not that it needed much work). And what was it about this particular assignation that made it worthy of its own franchise? I'm getting to that.

So why the difference? When it comes right down to it, why do women want even their fantasy partners to be familiar? Because women long to be seduced (even if we're by ourselves) and, at least for this woman, nothing is hotter, and thus more seductive, than knowing someone. I'm sure some men would agree, but I have a suspicion that, in most cases, the barista who handed them their latte this morning at Starbucks has an equal shot at a featured role in their next solo production. I, on the other hand, have actually felt bad if someone else hops on board my train of thought at a critical moment, like I'm two-timing someone who isn't even in the room with someone who's only in my head. Such a slut.

It makes sense. A random sampling of my friends (conducted by Absolut) would seem to indicate that, compared to men, not many women would tell you their first time with anyone was fantastic. Well, I might, but there were special circumstances. Jet lag being one of them. But it's never the best, not with someone you don't know in that way. That takes time, and learning, and paying attention. So why would it be any different in your fantasy life? Why would you want some new guy rattling around in your brain, trying to figure out how your bra works and wondering if you like having your ears kissed?

And that, at the end of the day (or on a Sunday afternoon), is why my little mini-series is on Me-TV more often than the Sham Wow guy is on late night cable. No image of some random guy, hot as he might be, can compare to the home movies in my head. Unlike some men I know. You guys know Princess Leia didn't really like wearing the slave girl costume, right? Weirdos.

Stop, my sides!

Okay, when did Cosmopolitan become a comedy magazine? I don't read it often, mostly because I'm not exactly their target demographic; the only "walks of shame" I do these days are the ones that involve spilling coffee on myself by 10:15am. But I decided to pick one up today, and I've been laughing my head off all afternoon. For those of you who don't want to spend the $5.49, a few gems I learned from Cosmo:

In the article "Would you do this to your vagina?", I'm informed that leaving some hair down there is the new thing. Isn't that kind of the old thing? I hit puberty on the cusp of the 80s. The 70s were pretty bushcentric, so I've actually never understood why women feel the need to go all Kojak. Granted, looking like you're smuggling a hamster in your underpants might be a bit too au naturel, but completely bare? Nope. But the best part of that article was this little revelation: there's a temporary dye women can get to pink up their pussies. Sort of a new kind of lip stain, I guess. Who in the hell is sitting there thinking "You know what? My vadge is looking a little pallid?" Jesus Christ - I'm 41, and I only got the courage to dye my hair at home 6 months ago. If you want to paint something, I suggest your toes.

Next. Apparently, studies have been done, and the colour green got a 96% on something they call the Colour Happiness Scale. I briefly rejoiced, since I just bought a lovely green top. Unfortunately, I then remembered something that might suggest a serious flaw in the research: Oscar the Grouch.

I kind of suspect a lot of the "Cosmo confessions" are made up, simply because I don't think it's mathematically possible for that many people to get caught having sex by their parents/roommates/cleaning lady/ a news crew. But a contributor named Matt Meltzer apparently rounded up some real live guys and asked them how they keep from finishing too soon. Bit personal there, Matt, but okay. My favourite, and the guy I want to buy a beer, is 25 year old Gus, who says he thinks about "dead animals on asphalt". Really, Gus? Maybe I'm old school, but I'm pretty sure, all things considered, I'd rather have sex with a guy who didn't last super long as opposed to a guy who was thinking about roadkill the entire time.

Sadly, the last thing I learned today at Cosmo U is not, in fact, a laughing matter. I have a well documented fear of overripe bananas. Imagine my horror when I read that putting a piece of well-ripened banana skin pulp-side down over a splinter, then covering it with a bandage, will help draw out the splinter. I would like to go on record as stating the following: I don't care if a well-ripened banana would help draw out a samurai sword on which I was impaled, I don't want the damn thing anywhere near me.

There were also 8 new sex positions with catchy names that made my knees hurt just looking at them, and an article entitled "OMG, I'm in Love With My Stepbrother", but the banana thing did me in. Thanks for the laughs, Cosmo. I didn't know you had it in you.

Minimalist? Um...no

Hurricane Earl turned out to be mostly talk. But I didn't leave the house, got bored, and have been wandering from room to room, feeling kind of edgy. All of this wandering got me to wondering - why in the hell do I have so much stuff? And why have I kept it?

My friend J. likes lists; she's requested more lists. Which is sort of ironic, since I could probably write a fairly comprehensive list about things I saw at her bachelorette party that I wish I could un-see. Another time, perhaps. For now, and for sentimental reasons, here are 25 things you can find in my house that will be of no use whatsoever during a hurricane.

1) An ancient tin that, many years ago, held raisins from Malaga, Spain. My grandfather had it buried somewhere, stuffed with money, when I was a teenager. One day, he went and bought himself a new car, and when I went into their porch later that day, this muddy old tin was on the table, empty. I don't keep money in it, so no breaking in, please.

2) A plastic figure of Marie Antoinette. She has a removable wig and gown, and underneath she's sporting drab Conciergerie clothes and a buzz cut. When you press a button on her back, her head pops off. I realize this is in poor taste.

3) Bop-It. I've owned it for a few weeks. I'm obsessed. But you need to get to 100 to unlock the next level, and that is never going to happen.

4) Three little finger puppets of Friday Kahlo, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. I should really buy the Freud finger puppet; he'd have a field day with those choices.

5) The obligatory giant souvenir glass from Planet Hollywood New York, circa 1992. The place was hopping. Saw my very first transvestite at the bar. It was awesome.

6) Ticket stubs from every musical I've ever seen. I think "Crazy for You" was my favourite for pizzazz, but "Rent" for emotion.

7) A tiny wooden idol a friend sent me from Timbuktu. Seriously; it's a real place. It makes me a little sad, because I miss him being in my life like he used to be.

8) A copy of the book "How to Procrastinate". Haven't got around to reading it yet.

9) My childhood Raggedy Ann doll. I didn't realize until my 20s that she and Andy were apparently clowns. Fuck.

10) A vintage lime green porcelain clock with gilded gold cherubs. My aunt's sister-in-law coveted it, but my aunt secretly gave it to me years ago. Her sister-in-law hasn't noticed yet. It's rococo fabulous, and it keeps great time.

11) A painting I made at a breast cancer event by applying paint to my boob and pressing it to a card. It's quite pretty, and sort of looks like a pansy. I'd always suspected my breasts were the real talent; this confirmed it.

12) A reproduction vintage menu I bought along the Seine on my last trip to Paris. It's pretty much steak and potatoes, but it sounds so much cooler in vintagey French.

13) A framed photo of a sign shaped like a giant pig with the word "Norcineria" on it. Took it outside a shop in a small village in Tuscany. Near as I could tell from looking in the shop, "norcineria" means "we sell parts of the animal you didn't know existed".

14) A denim and metallic floral, fur-lined cat carrier. It was a housewarming gift billed as "The world's gayest cat carrier". It is.

15) Four handpainted margarita glasses (2 senoritas, 2 senors who look a bit like Juan Valdez) that my mother bought me. In Newfoundland.

16) Bone china cups and saucers that belonged to my grandmother and, likely, my great grandmother. I would love to display them, but I have them on a very high shelf because I'm terrified I'll break them.

17) A Magic 8 "Beauty Ball". You're supposed to ask it fashion and beauty questions and it'll guide you. Where was this in the 80s?

18) A giant pair of slippers that look like Grumpy the dwarf's head. They're lovely and warm, but now that I have stairs, I can't wear them; they're huge, and pose a serious safety risk. One of my old cats was absolutely terrified of them.

19) A tiny teddy bear I've had since I was about a year old. He's yellowed and long ago lost his original neck ribbon. But I love him.

20) A little metal crazy lady who comes with magnetic cats you can stick to her. I think of it as my very own action figure.

21) A pair of windup lederhosen. Doesn't everyone have those?

22) A receipt from the first night I spent with a special someone. I mean a receipt from a restaurant or shop to commemorate the evening, not from the special someone. He was cash only.

23) Barbie clothes from the 70s. From the looks of it, my Barbies spent a fair bit of time at Studio 54.

24) My Brownie Record handbook. I was apparently able, at the time, to care for and tie my own tie, sew two types of buttons on actual garments,
and keep my room tidy for two weeks. Didn't stick. However, looks like I never got around to making a terrarium or preparing a package neatly for mailing. Slacker.

25) A cheese bell. Has anyone, ever, in the history of entertaining, actually used a cheese bell?

Will I get rid of any of this? Absolutely not. But now I want cheese. And a brownie.

How do you spell "ridiculous"?

Christ - it's much harder than I thought to come up with something regularly for this thing. Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I've sort of been held in thrall to a serial killer. "Dexter" is awesome. And I should know better than to go on imdb when I'm behind in my viewing; I'm forever accidentally spoiling myself. Actually, that was a good thing with "The Wire" one time, because if I hadn't known what was coming by spoiling myself, I would likely have soiled myself.

So what's going on? What do I feel like talking about? What's got me all in a tizzy? Well, nothing and everything. Men in general. Men specifically. The impending demise of the English language. My inability to leave the house without a liberal sprinkling of cat fur. The mutinous nature of my breasts. The high cost of furnishing a spare room.

I think, for today, I have an etymological bee in my bonnet. "Shit My Dad Says" is flying off the shelves, topping the NY Times hardcover nonfiction list, and yet comes news this week that the Oxford English Dictionary will likely never publish an updated hard copy edition again. I really hope your dad doesn't use a word you don't know, because that would be quite infelicitous.

I get that you can't continue to do something if it's a waste of time and money. But the dictionary? Curt Hopkins over at www.readwriteweb.com summed up what I've been thinking, though far more eloquently (odd, since lately, disagreeing with men is kinda my thing): "Although the OED is not a narrative, not scripture, not poetry, it is, nonetheless, transportive. The idea of flipping from one entry to another, following a line of inquiry...from one page to another, even one volume to another, is a sensual experience. I don't mean it's sexy (it is), but rather that it's an experience that encompasses sight, sound and touch and even hearing (the rustle of pages, the thump of the volume hitting the desk) to create the context for comprehension."

Word, Curt. Word.

I fear for this symbolic loss of language. Too many people rely on spellcheck and text speak. As a Twitter neophyte, I concede the occasional use of "2" and "U" is necessary in a 140 character world. But other than tweets, and unless you're Prince, spell it the hell out.

I adore words. Words are the backbone of my work life and the lifeblood of my down time. I still get a thrill, a little frisson of anticipation, when I happen upon a word I don't know. As Curt pointed out, words are sexy. I've been known to hit the pause button on a romantic evening when a spirited conversation calls for a defining moment. A hook-up look-up, if you will. Maybe I was having the wrong sorts of conversations. And maybe it was more the verbal tussling than the actual verbiage that I found so compelling. Maybe it was my sparring partner. But this I know for sure: while some guys reach for your bra strap to move the evening along, I prefer a man who reaches for the bookcase. And maybe that's the answer, the saving grace. I'll just bet if you tell the online dictionary generation that owning a dictionary gives them a far greater chance of having a serendipitous libidinous interlude, the OED just might give shit your dad says a run for its money. I know it works for me.