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.