Christmas confessions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boobs, boys and cupcakes, oh my!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Survey says...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forty isn't the new anything

Fulfilled. Confident. Content. Happy.

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

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

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

My first time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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