Resolution Retribution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The real 12 Days of Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not crushed

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

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

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

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

Hostess under protest?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sorry, Julie Andrews

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

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

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

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