Dear Santa

Dear Santa:

It's been awhile, and that's my fault. I see you in the mall sometimes, and I wonder if you still recognize me. But you're always so busy, posing for photos and ho ho hoing, and it never seems like the right time to come say hi. Anyway, I've wanted to get back in touch, but I don't think the guy on Twitter claiming to be you really is you, so I thought I'd try this.

We used to talk all the time. Well, not talk, exactly, but we had an understanding.  I'd write, and even though you didn't always respond, I always knew you got my letter, because on Christmas morning, exactly what I wanted would be under the tree! Dolls! Games! A puppy!  Most of the time, you hit it out of the park. Most of the time. I think we can both agree that the Barbie Pool Party with floating chaise lounger wasn't exactly a success. It looked awesome, but the second Barbie hopped into that lounger, she sank like the Titanic. Had it not been for Ken's quick thinking (and, let's be honest, his rockin' six pack)  she surely would have become a statistic.



I know it's my fault we stopped talking. Actually, it was Nancy Drew's fault. Of course you sometimes need to send stuff on ahead for our parents to store in the back of the closet.  Otherwise, you'd never get the sleigh off the ground. I can see that now. But I didn't understand it then. I was emotional. And felt a little betrayed.  I probably didn't handle it very well, and I shut you out.

Well, Santa, I'm back. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, and if it's not too presumpuous, there are a few things I'd really like this Christmas.

1) A bottle of something nice and sparkling. French, ideally, although I'm an equal opportunity bubble quaffer. That way, when the two weeks that encompass my birthday, Christmas and New Year's end in the lacklustre fuckery I suspect they will, at least I'll be able to toast 2011's ass out the door with something more refined than Baby Duck. Which is about what I'll be able to afford by then, since I've done approximately zero shopping.

2) I'm not big on electronics, but there is one gadget I'd love to have. Do you have some sort of little filter I can attach to my tv that, everytime a Kardashian comes on, it blocks them out with video of puppies and kittens snuggling together? Sort of like a v-chip for vapidness? That would be awesome. Also, since you have the technology, something that would change Amy Adams' voice so it doesn't make me want to puncture my own eardrums would be great, too.

3) Someone to cook dinner with. Not all of the time. Not even most of the time. But once in awhile would be awfully nice. He must have decent chopping skills and not mock how much I love my salad spinner. Should also really like good cheese and have strong convictions about pizza toppings. I don't think I trust people who say "Oh, it doesn't matter - get whatever." How can it not matter? How?

4) That new Pyrrha pendant with the hand and quill on it. My mother will lose her mind if I ask for another one, and this one is just so lovely. Some girls like diamonds, some prefer pearls, but give me a pendant made from an 19th century wax seal any day.

That's about it. Sure, there are lots of things I'd enjoy (the Complete Calvin and Hobbes, new cookbooks, a higher metabolism), but there's not much I really need. So do what you can, but don't stress out too much, okay? I know how you get. We're a lot alike that way. And hey - I promise not to look in Mom's closet, just in case. Glad we had this talk - I've missed you.

November Rain

Okay, rain has nothing to do with it, but I do love a good Guns n' Roses reference. Wow - I've been slacking off; the December issue of Cosmo is on the shelves, and I haven't even reviewed the November issue. Full disclosure: I've been busy trying to get my Cosmo Sex Ninja certification from the October issue, and I think I injured something. My self-respect, most likely.

Nicki Minaj is on the cover. She was a guest panelist on my favourite documentary show ("America's Next Top Model"), and she seems pretty ballsy and quite funny. But I only understand about every fourth word she sings and about every 10th outfit she wears. I don't have a clue what "Super Bass" is about, but I'd want Nicki to have my back in a bar fight. I would not, however, want her to do my hair.

Y'all know I've had my fill of "Cosmo Confessions", but hats off to poor Tim. Tim was walking by a store where a cute girl was handing out candy. Tim took one and popped it into his mouth. Except it was soap. Says Tim, "I was so embarrassed that I chewed it up and swallowed anyway." Isn't there a scene in Snow White where Dopey does the same thing?  You're an idiot, Tim, but good follow-through.

101 Things about Men. One of my favourite regular features. Newsflash:  it's a good idea to at least offer to foot or split the bill when you're out with a guy, or he may feel angry about being in an unfair money situation. I'd think he might also be surprised to find out he's on a date with a princess. It might be a little lonely up here on my feminist soapbox (sorry, Tim, no samples), but isn't this just polite? And normal? And how things should be done? Women who just want to be taken care of infuriate me. Mostly because they're the ones with full social calendars.

"Words He's Dying to Hear in the A.M". Cosmo suggests complimenting a guy in the morning so that your kind words stick with him all day. Sure; everyone likes to start their day on a high note.  They suggest "Your abs look so lickable right now".  Who says that? No one. "You have a sexy stomach", sure. "Is that an 8-pack?", kinda cute. But "lickable"?  I'm pretty sure the guy equivalent would be "Babe, your boobs are looking especially motorboat-able this morning". Okay, scratch that. Half the guys I know would totally say that.

I was quite excited to see "Kinky Sex - Tell your Inner Good Girl to Get Lost for the Night!" on the cover. My inner good girl defriended me on Facebook, so I'm going in without her. Turns out they may have oversold this a bit; it's actually "25 Kinky Things to Do With Your Undies". Number 5 suggests using your underwear as a scrunchie. Maybe it's partly because I have a pixie cut, but are a lot of women sitting around thinking "You know what? I paid $12 for these panties, and I just don't think I'm getting my money's worth. If only I could think of other things to do with them..."  My favourite suggestion is to use them as a blindfold on your guy. Given Cosmo's long-standing endorsement of the micro-thong, I'm trying to picture the physics of this. Is there even enough material to accomplish this? Unless you're dating a cyclops, I think you'd end up with, at best, more of a jaunty eye-patch, wouldn't you? Let me try it on the cat and report back.  And it's a moot point, but a quick mental inventory of my delicates reveals only a few blindfold worthy pairs. I do, however, have at least one pair that could probably function not only as a blindfold, but a full-on ski-mask. You know the ones - they're not in the regular drawer, they're super comfy, you wear them for "Bridget Jones" marathons. You do so have a pair.

48% of men polled in an online survey want to watch their partner "go at it solo". Only 48%? Seems low.  That's because 44 % got instant wood and couldn't finish the survey, 6% misheard it as "watch their partner go at it with Han Solo", and 2% are damn liars.

His 8 Biggest Sex Secrets. I would have thought "I Like to Dress Up as Red Riding Hood" or "Matt Isn't Just My Roommate" would be on there, but nope. Turns out guys worry about a lot of sensitive stuff when their pants are down: when they're going to finish, if we're going to finish and, when we do, if it's for real, if we think they're perverts...Gentlemen, relax. It's comforting to know that you're just as insecure as we are. We're wondering if that's a 40w or a 100w bulb, which underwear we grabbed in our mad dash this morning, and if that look just now means you're remembering the time your ex-girlfriend, the swimsuit model turned professional chef (whom you only broke up with when she left to do humanitarian work in the Sudan) looked at you and said "What's this cellulite I keep hearing about?"

The body language experts at Cosmo share this little tidbit (which, it should be noted, caused me to spit coffee I laughed so hard): if a guy scratches his nose when he first sees you, it could very well mean he's into you. Turns out there's erectile tissue in the nose, and if he's excited to be near you, that tissue will enlarge, causing his nose to itch. Maybe Pinocchio wasn't lying; he was just turned on. Cut to me, emboldened by two glasses of pinot noir and this slam dunk piece of body language wisdom, approaching an attractive man, only to slink away when it turns out I'd mistaken his seasonal allergies for an invitation to chat him up.

It's that time of year again: Cosmo's Bachelor Contest. One contender from each state. Attractive, often shirtless (barely a chest hair between them: are they breeding it out of the young ones now? Is this to make them more hypo-allergenic?). They don't ask each bachelor the exact same questions, but a few themes emerged: they all seem to think it's hot when a girl goes commando, they like lap dances, and many of them don't like when a girl swears. Uh-oh. Good thing I'm Canadian, because that just ruled out dating in large parts of the continental US, including Arkansas, Idaho, Ohio and Vermont. Fuck - dating in Vermont sounds like fun. Shane from Nashville thinks sex on the first date is skanky, but a girl making the first hook-up move is sexy. Um, Shane, you're kind of sending me mixed messages there, dude. Are we dating already? And Ryan from Virginia. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. He thinks the hottest sext a girl could send would be one "saying you're touching yourself while looking at a picture of me." Ryan, I must admit I actually did touch myself while looking at your picture. I was clutching my sides laughing. Who in the hell told you to pose like that? Be honest - it was the organizers of the gun show, wasn't it? And not to be a buzz kill, but I'm trying to work out how a girl could do that. If she's using one hand to touch herself and one hand to text you, she's not holding your picture. So is it framed on her nightstand? Propped against the pillow? Suspended above her? This attention to detail is what makes watching a movie with me difficult. And also, theoretically, phone sex. My side of the conversation:

"Mmm, that's hot. So... my hands are on the headboard...What do you mean I'm wearing an apron? I was just wearing a feather boa. Wait - are we in the kitchen now? Well, we must be in the kitchen, because I wouldn't have an apron upstairs. Well, I know it's a fantasy, but how'd you get your hands untied so fast? I double knotted them, so that doesn't make sense...Hello?"

"The Pippa Effect". This describes the friend (or sister) who always manages to outshine you. We all have one. I don't have a problem with that theory. But the author recounts her own experience with her Pippa-esque friend saving her morning-after bacon when she needed an "emergency banana bread recipe" for her still-sleeping overnight guest. I call bullshit. Sure, it's conceivable, if you're quiet, you could make banana muffins before he woke up. That's not my issue. My issue is this: who the fuck has a pile of overripe bananas at the ready, just in case. NO ONE. Unless you're Martha Stewart, you don't. Because they're revolting. So unless the dude in your bedroom is asleep for 3-5 days, you're not making him banana bread.

You can thank me later, but I skipped the article called "I Botoxed My Vagina". I'm pretty sure it had something to do with a nerve disorder, but I'd just be afraid I'd end up as expressionless as Nicole Kidman, only in my pants.

In "Lingerie He Can't Resist", I learned that maximum impact can be achieved with the following:  a sheer, red, matching set, ideally with a thong, plus thigh high stockings, revealed during some sort of slow striptease and at least partially left on during sex. Look, I get that men are visual, but the last time I wore thigh highs I nearly choked out my femoral artery, plus it's November, and my house is drafty. So I'll do red, I'll even do matching, but unless I can buy sheer flannel, that's all you get. And also - do you want sex, or do you want some sort of burlesque routine? Because I have to get up early, so you need to pick one.

Okay, November Cosmo, I'll hand it to you. I'm not likely to find too many extra uses for my underwear, and I'll very likely never get asked out in fucking Vermont, but you made me laugh my head off. Now if I could just get that damn blindfold off the cat.

Life at 350°

Chocolate espresso cookies. Rustic apple tart with salted caramel sauce. Gooey, chewy brownies. Cream cheese-stuffed pumpkin muffins with pecan streusel. Coconut chocolate chunk blondies. Most of us like to think we're good at something, great even. I'm good at baking. I even have two professional series ovens in my house. One is a stainless steel convection number. And thanks to a recent visit to my childhood bedroom, the other is avocado green, powered by a lightbulb, and 35 years old. But damn it, if I wanted to make teeny tiny cakes right now, my Easy-Bake Oven by Kenner is good to go. Seriously. It is. I tested it.

My love of baking can be traced to my grandmother. She was like Yoda with a rolling pin; she'd show me the way, but I had to find the baking force within myself. As a "that's not what the book says to do" kind of kid, I couldn't in good conscience just go all freestyle in the kitchen. Could I? Nanny showed me I could. She'd say "oh you know - just mix it until it's ready" or "add a little more". But how much more? " Some," said Nanny. She taught me to follow the rules, but to have the confidence to break them. I know experts say baking is scientific and all about precision, but I don't remember her ever owning actual measuring spoons - a tablespoon was the big spoon, a teaspoon, the little one. And even with her imprecise, often arbitrary, way with a recipe, everything came out wonderfully.  Nanny was an alchemist in an apron, but science be damned, she did it by instinct. And my kitchen is the better for it.

I've been on a bit of a baking bender these last few months. Not sure why. It's either boredom, some sort of mixing bowl-centric OCD or, according to the internet,  a batter-based substitute for the kids I haven't had. Care for a brownie, Mr. Freud? It figures I'd pick a hobby that can expand my ass. I bet those guys who make sci-fi monster models in their basements don't have to worry about that; they worry about whether they have enough snacks for the "Battlestar Galactica" marathon and whether they're ever going to get laid. Hey - wait a second...

As confident as I now am when it comes to going off (cook) book, it hasn't all been smooth sailing. There were the blueberry muffins that resembled nothing so much as little purple hockey pucks. Who swaps the salt and sugar canisters around after months of them being in the same order? Who?! There was the sour cream banana bread that just did not play by the rules. I'd made this recipe dozens of times. But this particular loaf just would NOT cook in the middle. For someone with a serious overripe banana issue, the thought that I'd touched them for nothing was inconceivable.  I kept baking and testing, testing and baking. And still, still this bitch stayed nearly raw in the middle. It would have taken an act of nuclear fission to finish it off.  Then, just last weekend, there were the tiny, seemingly perfect, mini apple pies. It was my first time making pie dough from scratch, and they showed such promise - the top crust was a beautiful, glistening, flaky gold, the filling was a cinnamon/butter/apple symphony. But then, then there was the traitorous bottom crust. Still doughy, too thick,  not completely cooked through. Disappointment, with an egg wash. I knew, instantly, the reason, and I learned a valuable lesson: don't drink wine with the neighbours and then come home and expect to roll out perfect 1/8 inch pie dough. But you know what?  Eating just the tops of three tiny apple pies is still a pretty successful way to spend a Sunday evening.

There are so many things I want to try. On my short list: chocolate blackout cake, cinnamon pull-apart bread, a coconut chiffon concoction so tall I'll need a step-stool to frost it, a lemon meringue pie for my Dad.  I'd also like to try my hand, just once, at baking without the kitchen looking like a sugar-coated crime scene afterwards. On apple pie weekend, you'd swear the Pillsbury Doughboy had met his end is some sort of ritualistic killing. There did seem to be a LOT of Saran Wrap, so maybe Dexter did it.  I don't know what happens; I get all my ingredients out ahead of time, I  have those little prep bowls, I have a cookbook stand. And then, before you can say "beat until smooth", it happens. Cream cheese on my glasses, a nutmeg-scented cat, melted chocolate on the ceiling. Every damn time, it's like Flour-pocalypse Now...

Despite my less than Martha-esque methods, I've still learned many things over the years. Sometimes, I don't even realize I know how to do something until I'm doing it, and then it's as though Nanny's hands are there, on the rolling pin or the wooden spoon along with mine, reminding me of a lesson long ago. And while I'll always tweak and change and try new things, when it comes to baking, some things will always be true: it's vital to turn off the mixer before you lift it out of the bowl, even the worst day can be made a little bit better with the smell of vanilla and brown sugar, and my colleagues will eat just about any baked good I can come up with. Oh, and not only does the Easy Bake Oven make excellent teeny tiny cakes, it's a stylish avocado green addition to any kitchen.

Hey, It's Okay!

One of my favourite features in one of my favourite magazines is an often funny, sometimes poignant, frequently bang-on list of little things we all (well, most of us) do that we tend to beat ourselves up over. Call 'em what you will - neuroses, tics, quirks, whatever. The goal of the list? To tell us all that, when it comes to our little peccadilloes, "hey, it's okay!"  Why do I love it so much? Probably because I have a championship belt in beating myself up. But, lately, I've really been trying to give myself a break.

Lately, I've realized it's okay...

...to bake an entire pan of brownies or squares just because you want one, and then pack up the rest to take to work. It's also okay for the size of  "one" brownie or square to be somewhat loosely defined.

...to sort of hate the girls who leave the gym looking all cute and presentable, with nothing more than a slight glow to show for their efforts. I look like I need an ambulance.

...to give "supermodel face" in the mirror when trying to pick new glasses. Everyone knows they look much better when you do that, even if you'll never actually make that face again once you buy them.

...to forego cleaning the basement/putting away the patio furniture/storing your summer clothes, all in favour of a cup of tea and a terrific book.

...to say a completely un-ironic "absolutely" when the barista asks if you'd like whipped cream on that skinny Pumpkin Spice latte you just ordered. I said skinny, not anorexic. Besides, it's a serving of dairy, right?

...to feel resentment every time you settle up at the dry cleaners. I feel like I'm bailing my clothes out.of the drunk tank.

...to choose not to patronize restaurants that haven't spellchecked their menus. What else are they not paying attention to? Besides the spelling of "nacho's"?

...to have one guilty pleasure tv show you are unapologetic about loving. I've said it before - I can't get enough "America's Next Top Model".

...to have one guilty pleasure tv show you couldn't be more embarrassed about if it were German scat porn. You'll always be my dirty little secret, "Vampire Diaries".

...to admit that you'd really just rather stay home on your couch.

...to have incredibly fond memories of people you never want to see again.

...to question the sanity of people who continue to find Adam Sandler funny. Holy fuck - I watched 20 minutes of "Just Go With It" last night, and it was like being felt like sensory deprivation, only the sense I was being deprived of was humour. Thankfully, I tapped out before what I assume was the obligatory Rob Schneider cameo.

...to believe 100% that the scale at the gym is rigged in a diabolical attempt to guilt you into paying a crazy amount of money for personal training. See also...to estimate the weight of your new sneakers as approximately 12 and a half pounds.

...to have two weeks off but not post a thing on your blog. Inspiration, as it turns out, cannot be found in Pumpkin Spice lattes. They should really put that on the sign; I would have saved a lot of money these past two weeks.

I should note, the "hey, it's okay" concept does have limits; it's not a get out of jail free list. For example, stabbing a co-worker in the eye with a fork because the way they pronounce "tomato" makes you crazy is NOT okay.

Thinking about it, however, is perfectly acceptable.

Powdered balls and sex ninjas

It's officially fall. No more summer frivolity, no more sandals. It's time to buckle down and get serious again. Yes, dear readers, that can mean only one thing: the "Cosmo" review is back.

Right off the bat, I'm concerned. "21 Naughty Sex Tips". 21?! What happened to 75? Is it the recession? A downturn in the global smutty index? Or maybe it's worse: maybe they've finally run out of carnal wisdom, and could only muster a final 21 gun salute. Thank fuck, frankly, because trying to remember the 1081 tips over the last year (you know, just in case)  is mentally exhausting. There's no mnemonic for that.

The lovely Minka Kelly is on the cover. Gorgeous girl; god awful new television show. No one loved the original "Charlie's Angels" more than pre-adolescent me, so I wanted to like this one. It's terrible. And I know I shouldn't judge it based on one episode. I'm not. I didn't last the whole episode. I'm judging it based on the first 18 minutes. I lasted twice as long with the second "Lord of the Rings" movie, and I fucking hate Hobbits.

Alright, let's get to those tips, shall we?  Hmm. Apparently, committing these particular tips to memory will make me an official Cosmo Sex Ninja. I'm not making that up. I was concerned at first (I don't have the cheekbones to pull off the mask, nevermind the aim to master a throwing star), then intrigued. This lasted one paragraph. And here's why:

They suggest having sex in your closet. Look, I'm all for making out in your clothes. Just not IN your clothes. First of all, I hate ironing. Secondly, I live in an old house with weirdly shaped closets. And my lack of flexibility combined with dormers just doesn't scream "sex ninja". Plus, there's usually a cat in the closet, and if my winter parka isn't a boner killer, she certainly is.

Sneak a silent quickie in a crowded house. Yeah, not as fun as it sounds. And not as silent as I thought.

This next one had me both shaking my head and rubbing my neck (sympathy kink). They suggest a new twist on that old numerical favourite, the 69. Except he should be standing, and you're sort of upside down, supported by the end of a bed, with him holding you around the waist. So you're sort of in upside down frog position, trying to balance on an unstable surface, with blood rushing to your head. Picture it. I'll wait. Does this sound hot to anybody? Because it sounds to me like a trip to the physiotherapist. I couldn't master a headstand when I took gym, and that was before puberty and my centre of gravity changed, so I sure as hell am not about to attempt a naked one on some poor guy's crotch.

Okay - the next one suggests I "whip out the sex toy hiding in his closet". Turns out they're not talking about a ball gag, so some of you might be on your own for that particular chat; they mean his old skateboard.  Now, I've admitted before I'm not exactly their target demographic, but, for the record, if any guy I date has a skateboard in his closet at this point, becoming a sex ninja will not be my biggest accomplishment. Staying off the sex offender registry will be. They suggest lying facedown on the board and sort of using it as a really rad sex dolly. The only thing gnarly about that would be my knees, afterwards. A couple of things come to mind - first off,  do you know what skateboard wheels would do to my hardwood floors? And second - anyone remember the episode of  "The X-Files" featuring the Peacock family? A homicidally incestuous clan who kept Momma (a multiple amputee) under the bed? On a board with wheels on it?  Until an unfortunate threesome scene on "Californication", the creepiest thing David Duchovny ever appeared in?  So, um, pass.  There were a few other suggestions (role playing, sex in sort of plain view, etc), but I pretty much tapped out when I realized they couldn't guarantee my certification in the use of sex nunchucks.

101 Things about Men. Um, they like boobs. And beer. Do we really need to cover the other 99 things? Kidding - I know guys are a bit more layered than that. Don't understand any of the layers, I think some of them might be unnecessary (like in a Mary Kate Olsen outfit), but that's why I have Cosmo. And apparently 36% of men list patient/nurse as their number one role-play fantasy. Great! Except my mom was a nurse. In a seniors' home. For 40 years. And she loved to tell me stories. So maybe not.

There's a worrisome new manscaping trend on the horizon. Out of a desire to remain fresh as a daisy, dudes are powdering their balls. They actually make powder specifically for this. I'm naturally suspicious, so if I see a guy take a seat and a white pouf of powder rises out of his jeans, I'm going to assume he's a drug mule, not a nut duster. I'm not even sure which is worse - felonious tendencies, or looking like your junk has been doing Kabuki theatre. And gentlemen, please -  if Miss Manners says we ladies shouldn't powder our noses at the table, do I really have to say it?

Let's see - what else? Four words that Seduce Any Man. Any Time. I hardly think this warrants an entire article.  It's four words, right?  They claim it's "I want you now." Thank god, because my old stand-by "Beer? Pizza? Nipple Tassels?" was getting a little stale, and I haven't had much luck with "I have three cats".

Watermelon is apparently a "food that boosts my mood". Specifically, it might lead to toe-curling sex. Ever do that thing in the summer where you scoop a hole in the end of the watermelon and upend a pint of vodka into it? That works, too.

The Cosmo Quiz this month pledges to tell me How Much Game I Have. Let me save you the suspense.  Not much. The only way I could have scored lower would be to not actually take the quiz.

The awfully cute Matt Czuchry, currently of "The Good Wife", formerly of Rory Gilmore's boudoir, tells me that a guy truth he wishes I knew is that men love a funny chick. Sure they do, Matt. They love to have a beer with us, and hang out with us, and maybe even flirt with us. But they don't want to date us. Now, if we could just shove down to make room for the cute, bubbly girl you just met at the bar. She'll read your emails and key your car in about two months' time, but hey, the funny girl will be here to make you laugh about it afterwards. Trust me on this, Matt - if being funny was such a prerequisite for most men, I'd be out eating watermelon and trying to do a naked headstand, not reviewing this month's Cosmo for all you would-be sex ninjas.

Five guys

No, pervs, not like that. One at a time, thank you very much. I'm talking about the five guys many women have dated, or will date. And Colin Farrell regrettably isn't one of them. You'll likely recognize a former paramour or three. And if you don't, just give it time. Because he's coming. You might want to put on your good underwear.

1) The rebounder: you'll probably meet him in a bar, with his buddies, trying to douse the fires of heartbreak with beer. He probably has a vague look of despair, he could be checking his phone incessantly, and he might  be doing shots with a group of college girls. He's forlorn, he's susceptible, and he's got disaster written all over him like an ill-fitting Ed Hardy shirt.  Naturally, you give him your number.

Here's the thing with the rebounder: it doesn't matter how great a girl you are. It doesn't matter if he swears he's over the break up. He is not. It will not last with him. But if you truly want a casual thing with someone who might burst into tears during sex, have at it. But DO NOT FALL FOR HIM. Soothe his wounds. Make him believe in girls again. And leave him better than when you found him, like a campsite, only with a nice ass. If you don't, you'll need a rebound guy to get over the rebounder, and do you remember from gym class how hard it is to get off a trampoline? Well, it'll be like that, only emotionally, and with penises.

2) The impossibly good looking one. Sigh. He often shows up in our 20s. He may be slightly younger. It's hard to catch a breath around him because every time you open your mouth, you're overcome by a desire to lick him. The first time he takes his shirt off, you'll probably praise Jesus.

If you manage to end up with one of the ones who "just doesn't know how good looking he is", let me stop you right there. Yes, he does. But it's still awesome, mostly. You do, however, need a couple things: a healthy sense of self-esteem, and an ability not to cut a bitch when she literally eye-fucks him in front of you.
There are times you'll be out, and you'll notice other women noticing him, and you'll think you're the cat's ass, because you're with him. There are other times you'll be out, and you'll notice other women noticing him, only you're having a fat/bad hair/PMS day, and you'll be convinced he's involved in some sort of community outreach program where he gives back by making out with the less genetically fortunate. He'll likely break your heart, and he may give you a complex, but he'll look awesome on your couch.

3) The Perfect, but... guy:  on paper, and according to your friends, he's perfect for you.  Perfect! But...something is missing. It's usually heat. Or excitement. Or any sense whatsoever that he'll surprise you. Ever. I don't believe in one perfect match for someone. I believe in timing, and luck, and chemistry, and taking a chance. Granted, I also used to believe in the Tooth Fairy and George Michael's heterosexuality, so I may not be the best judge on this one. 

4) The bad boy: I almost didn't include him because it's such a cliche, and because many of us have checked the bad boy off our dance card by the time we're old enough to buy beer. But bad is sort of a sliding scale. What I consider bad you might consider quirky. And what I considered bad at 23 versus what I consider bad now is pretty different. For some, bad is a motorcycle jacket and tattoos. For others, it's no discernible means of income and a reluctance to give you his phone number. Or his last name. My younger self liked the long of hair, short on integrity type. You might define bad as him not pressing his khakis. Who the fuck are you and why are you reading this?  Anyway, these days, I like my bad to largely be confined to not always eating enough leafy greens and occasionally paying the phone bill late. The tattoos can stay, though.

5) The Committment-phobe: I know, I know. We've all been there. But I'm not talking about your garden variety phobe, your not sure if he wants to get married and have kids just yet guy. That's normal. I’m talking about can’t make plans for Friday before Thursday night, and even then they’re tentative "just in case". Just in case what, jackass? You meet someone else? This guy can’t commit to anything beyond a blow job, and  even then he doesn’t have to decide right now, does he?  And don’t ask him if he likes it, because talking about his feelings makes him uneasy.

I know what you're thinking - there's way more than five! Some honourable mentions?

The Mama's boy: Everyone has their own personal limit. Mine is somewhere south of cutting up my date's meat for him.

The Basement slacker: Granted, he's pretty laid back, usually has a cool collection of ironically hip t-shirts, and always has good weed. So if Doritos and Call of Duty 4 get you hot, yay you!

 I Might be Gay guy: He will tell you if your ass looks fat in those pants, but he'll also have really good eye cream at his house if you end up staying over. Just to cuddle.

The Fixer-upper:  He's great, if only... I've heard about this guy a bunch, but I don't get it. I know some women like a good boyfriend-improvement project, but shouldn't you be attracted to someone because of who they are, not who you think they maybe could be, if only they changed a few little things? Not for me. Deal with who he is, or don't date him.  Besides, I've owned my house for three years and still haven't managed to paint the 50 square feet of my spare room, so renovating a guy seems unlikely. And really - would you want someone to think of you as a fixer-upper? Didn't think so.

And gentlemen, I know this isn't just limited to guys. I'm sure there's an ample list of girl-types out there,  and I'm betting Daddy's girls and Hot but Crazy make the cut. Just do me a favour - if Witty and Bitchy with Decent Boobs makes the top five, can someone let me know?

Indelible ink

I got my first tattoo at 21. I'd wanted one for years, and I was pretty sure I wanted one of an Egyptian symbol. No, I'm not Egyptian, but I'd been fascinated with Egyptology since I was a kid (still am), and, not being a butterflies and hearts kind of girl, it seemed the logical choice.

I'll admit, many of my friends at that time were getting tattoos like some people get flyers in their mailbox. It was still sort of alternative, kind of cool, something bikers did far more than 20 something girls who wore Doc Martens and stayed up late writing English papers. But the lurking idea, the germ of an inky committment, had, as its impetus, like so many decisions do at 21, a boy.

Specifically, a boy I had loved who loved tattoos and who now loved someone else. So what's a girl to do? I'll show him, I thought - I'll finally get that tattoo. I'll admit the thought process may have been somewhat compromised by Halifax's legendary draught wars. So, drawing in one hand and friend for moral support in the other, off I went. And it turned out perfectly. Granted, half of it had disappeared 7 years later thanks to the use of less than top-notch inks, but one re-inking later, the Eye of Horus remains on my back as a nod to both a childhood obsession and twentysomething hubris. And did the boy ever see it, you ask? Yes, but only much later, after another boy, a truly lovely boy, had fallen under its spell.

My second tattoo came about 5 years ago. It had been a particularly tough year emotionally, and things were finally starting to balance out. To honour both the year that was and the better times sure to come, I chose to have the Sanskrit symbol for "om" inked on my wrist. It means many things to many people but, to me, it has always meant "balance". And like a talisman etched into my skin, I often find myself touching it during tough times. It's my badge of strength and perseverance, and it is not lost on me that a tattoo I got for deeply personal reasons is also the only one of my tattoos that is visible to everyone.

I got my third a week ago. It was the tattoo I thought about the least, it is not the tattoo I had spent the last two years thinking I wanted, but it is the tattoo I will love the most. It means many things to me, but mostly, it is for my grandparents. Even though Grampy has been gone nearly 17 years, and Nanny more than three, I don't think a day goes by that I don't think about them. The most obvious tattoo to honour them would have been a tractor and an apple pie, but I'm not that literal. Not that an apple pie tattoo wouldn't be all kinds of awesome. Even though several people have now seen it, I'm not spilling what it is. But I think it's lovely, and personal, and sexy, and, hopefully, nearly healed, because I can't take the itching. 

I know tattoos aren't for everybody. Every one I've dated has loved them on me, I think, though, oddly, no one I've ever dated has had one, at least not until after we parted. I love them, both on me and on other people, but they are, or at least should be, a deeply personal choice. And I think the reasons people have them are as varied as the tattoos themselves. Some are markers of specific periods in one's life, some are reminders of loves past and present, some are because tequila seemed like a good idea, and some just look effin' cool. I see mine as reminders of who I am, and of who I was. They're my story, on my skin. And you can't get more personal than that.

Date? Great!

Should I ever find myself in Wonderland, my first order of business will surprisingly NOT be to check out the dessert selection at the tea party. It won't even be to tell Alice she should really think twice about wearing a skirt that length with flat shoes. No, my first order of business will be to grab the White Rabbit by his fuzzy-wuzzy bunny ears and say "Dude, I know you're late, you're late,  for a very important date, but I need you to focus. What the hell is a date, exactly?"

My Oxford Paperback dictionary is of little help:

date (noun) - an appointment to meet socially; a person of the opposite sex with whom one has a social engagement.

Not very rainbow pride of them. And, depending on your definition of social, I may have dated my dentist, a handful of gay men, and possibly a guy from Monterey named Steve I met in line at the train station in Venice. We'll always have the Grand Canal, Steve.

Several years ago, a group of friends and I had a revolving, usually booze-fueled discussion about the definition of a date. There were as many theories as there are pick-up lines, but we did manage to establish a few loose guidelines:

1) A date requires some element of pre-planning. Oddly, at least to me, guys were more adamant about this than girls. Aside: I think girls who care about this too much own a hardcover, dog-eared copy of "The Rules". It might not be on the coffee table, but oh, trust me, it's there. But both sexes generally agreed that day of, last minute, "hey, got plans this evening?" mentions don't count. That might just be boredom. Or horniness. I'm still not sure how far in advance constitutes "preplanning", though. Two days? A week? When hockey season is over?

2) A date is two people. A group date is for pre-teens, The Bachelorette, and anyone who's spent way too much time co-ordinating date night schedules with her sister wives.

3) Intention. Now, intentions can be a  little undefined early on. Do you want a casual thing?  A serious thing? A platonic stand-by emergency wedding date thing? Enter the dating dilemma:  sometimes, you don't fully know anyone's intentions, even your own, until you actually go on a date.  But if intentions are considered a tipping point, then we have a conundrum. Sort of a He's a Catch-22 situation. Unless your intentions are limited to getting all liquored up and making out with someone, in which case you can probably stop reading.

Based on these criteria, I don't actually know if I've had a date in my life. Let's delve a little further, shall we, and examine these seemingly simple guidelines.

Point # 1 - advance planning. Sure, common sense will tell you most dates are pre-booked. Something to look forward to, you can make reservations, put on the good underwear just in case. But what about the following: you run into someone. Someone you like. You're both free, you decide to grab lunch, or a coffee, or a beer on a patio. You have a great time. You don't want your lunch/coffee/beer to end. Coffee becomes dinner becomes more drinks becomes that story with the great punch line becomes a drunken walk to your door at 3am after the best day ever. But under our rules, this isn't a date. Sorry - it became a date at the second location. The exception? If you're being kidnapped. Then, according to security experts, you NEVER LET THEM TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND LOCATION.

Point # 2 - More than two people aren't a date. I agree, mostly. But I have also spent many an evening in the company of friends and a crush. Sure, there were other people around, but we spent many of those nights sitting close, talking, while our oblivious friends wondered why I never wanted to share a cab with any of them. Because he was walking me home, you morons. Not dates? Not exactly, but when it was finally just the two of us for the first time, preplanned and all official,  it certainly didn't feel like a first date.

Point # 3 - Intention. Possibly the slipperiest word in the dating lexicon. Having to state your intentions up front to make sure they're the same as your maybe date's, in addition to seeming very Jane Austen, is also a total boner killer. But if intent is everything, as some of my friends contend, how do you figure it out without just asking? You might think you're on a date and he might just be happy to talk to a girl and not spend another evening eating three day old pizza in his underwear. Or, he might think asking you to a poetry reading series is a sure sign of his dating intentions, since a guy'd only sit through that if he digs you and wants to impress you with his sensitivity, right?  You, on the other hand, might assume he's gay. Or cries after sex. Neither of which is likely what he intended. 

I know what you're thinking:  really, does it matter so much what you call it? Many people, usually men, hate to define things, resisting labels at all costs. Can't it just be "hanging out", they'll ask? Well, it can be, except for one simple reason: women often have a number in their heads. This number equals the number of dates before they'll sleep with someone. I explained this dating math to an old flame, a label resister of epic proportions. If we can't decide what is or isn't a date, I said, then how am I supposed to know when we reach the magic date number? Suddenly, he realized he liked it and he should've put a label on it. Beers and pizza? A date. A movie and dessert afterwards?  A date. That time I made dinner and he stood me up because his ex-girlfriend was in town and her flight home got cancelled?  Probably not. Actually, subtract two dates, jackass

More confusing than trying to follow a cricket match. So I think I have a few new rules.

If we're both single, it's a date. If one of us isn't single, why the hell are we having drinks?

If I've spent any time wondering if the person sitting across from me is a good kisser, it's a date.

If I'm at a poetry reading series, it's not a date. Seriously, dude, stop your damn crying.

When love comes to town

I no longer remember when I first realized I was in love. It was many years ago, when I was still a teenager, and consumed with childish things. And then, one day, probably through a friend, we met. And that was that - for many years after, U2 was it for me.

"The Unforgettable Fire" showed me that music could be about something and not just be pretty boys in pretty videos singing songs I could 80s dance to. And on a hot summer day, in my parents' rec room, their performance of "Bad" at Live Aid made me want to be the girl in the crowd more than anything in the whole wide world. In some ways, I think it's my musical litmus test - if I reference Live Aid, and that performance, and you don't understand why I feel the way I do, a tiny piece of me will always be a mystery to you. 

Oh sure, we weren't exclusive. I had flings, meaningful relationships even, with many others. The Waterboys and I had something really special, REM and I had a situation, Crowded House very nearly split us up. Even the Sisters of Mercy and I kept company for a while, until it became just too much work to take that damn eyeliner off every night.  But always, there in the background, like a favourite t-shirt, waiting for me to realize I could depend on them, were Bono and the boys.

"The Joshua Tree". My God, I loved that album. The first three songs on that record are probably my three favourite U2 songs. I cannot, to this day, hear "Where the Streets Have No Name" without picturing a rooftop, the crowds gathering below. Or without dashing to my stereo, cranking the knob, and having a sing-along, like I did about 10 minutes ago. I moved out of my parents house about six months after this album was released, and I've kind of always seen it as the soundtrack of my first taste of  independence. And my parents were probably only too happy to get a reprieve from the near constant playing. I'm pretty sure I wore out at least one turntable needle.

For a little while, with the video for  "With or Without You" fresh in my mind, and my hormones at critical mass, I was convinced the boy I had a crush on looked just like Bono did in the video. Did he? Probably only the tiniest bit. Did it get him to second base? Definitely yes.

"Rattle and Hum". I saw the movie more than once in the old art-house movie theatre, and the album was in heavy rotation at our apartment. Whenever the boy (he of the short pony tail and vaguely rock star swagger) came over, and my roommates weren't home,  he'd take out the album and set the needle to "All I Want is You". A few candles and track 17 and I could very nearly imagine I was kissing Bono. I wonder how many countless makeout sessions that song inspired? Even now, if a man were to put on that song, he'd likely have me at "You say you want/ your story to remain untold". But the combination of being 20 and the sexiness of the boy you like taking that album out of the sleeve, lifting the arm and setting the needle to just the right track? Hard to beat, even more than 20 years later. This may be the real reason behind vinyl's comeback. 
 
As I grew up, and they experimented, it was not always easy going. "Zooropa" and "Pop" left me cold, and I started to wonder if we'd grown too far apart, our young love coming to its inevitable end.  But our separation couldn't last, and we reconnected over "All That You Can't Leave Behind". It reminded me of why I'd loved them once.  

We've settled into a deep friendship now, the passion of my youth giving way to a more comfortable, and comforting, connection. I always like to know how they're doing, even if we don't have as much in common as we once did. But on Saturday night, it'll be like catching up with an old love you never quite got over, and I will be 15 again, and 19, and 23. And when I hear those jangly guitars on the opening to "Where the Streets...", I'll be singing, and dancing, and maybe even crying a little. And then, finally, I will be the girl in the crowd. I cannot wait.

O My Goodness!

Elusive. Mysterious. Shy. Tempermental.

Barbra Streisand? No. The female orgasm. At least that's what tv shows, books, and countless magazines keep telling me. You know what? No, it's not. If you're not getting there pretty much every time you have sex, you're getting ripped off. Some women are having orgasms all the damn time. And if you can't say the same, it might be your fault.

Now, calm down, ladies, and hear me out. I've said this to boyfriends, and I'll say it to you: it's not his sole responsibility to make sure I get off; in fact, it's largely mine. Where did this idea come from that it's a man's j-o-b to make sure we have an orgasm? I blame the historical fiction genre. I'm looking at you, Philippa Gregory. Look, I'm assuming you know what works for you, so why shouldn't you be in charge? Sometimes you're fortunate enough to have a partner who just knows, but not every guy is intuitive. Even the guys who are aren't, not every single time. So if you don't speak up, or shift a bit to the left, or put his hand just over there, how can you blame a guy for not getting you there when you know the way? You can't. And you know he's not likely to ask for directions. Unless he's Kreskin, a guy cannot "just know". And if he is Kreskin, um, good for you. You wouldn't expect a guy to know how to put a barbeque together without some sort of instructions, would you?

This is where I point out that some identifying details may have been changed to protect, well, me, probably.

My girlfriends tell me I'm lucky. One of them once said  "A guy touches your boob and you get off". A definite exaggeration, but I'll cop to being lucky - it's never been an issue. I've been very grateful for it, I've paid attention, and before you waste any more time on those magazine articles - here's what I've learned:

I don't get all this position switching. Different strokes for different folks, but one thing is pretty universal: the vast majority (I'm going to say a non-scientific 98%) of women need a steady rhythm to get there (the others are likely faking it), and it's hard to be consistent when you're doing a Cirque du Soleil routine. Popular culture will tell you that you need to be a gymnast, and it seems like a lot of women think they have to switch it up multiple times to keep a guy happy. You don't.  I've seen rom coms where they change positions more times in a 90 second scene than I have in 15 years. Sure, being bendy is great, but unnecessary. If I want to assume that many positions in twenty minutes, I'll go to yoga. Pick a couple of positions. If you're an overachiever, maybe three. Stick with them. And by the way - missionary gets a bad rap. Missionary rules. More on that later.

Instead of being with a bunch of people once or twice, try being with one or two people a bunch of times. For me, a serial monogamist of some renown, there is nothing boring about the familiar. You know his body, he knows what works for you, and you're probably both more relaxed, and that's invaluable when it comes to coming. New people can be awesome too, but let's face it: that's probably more because of the thrill of it, the newness of it, or the cocktails of it. I also still believe in making out at least a few times before I sleep with someone. You can learn a lot from dry humping. Like don't wear brand new, never washed, dark denim on an ivory couch, among other things.

Oral oral oral. I'm always shocked when I read about women being uncomfortable with this. I almost can't comprehend that. Seriously. I covet shoes as much as the next girl, but ladies, show of hands - if someone told you that you could be orally pleasured 3 times a week but never buy shoes again, I bet most of you wouldn't even hesitate. You'd just arrange shoe swaps with your equally satisfied friends. Oh sure, you might try and swing some sort of deal where you'd get to buy one rockin' pair of booties if you gave it up for a while, but they'd have to be really awesome booties. I know all the arguments, the reasons behind why some women can't truly enjoy it, and no smart-ass comment from me can change someone's body image or make them more comfortable. But if you have a hard time reaching heaven during sex, oral sex can take you there AND make you find religion. Except for Scientology; I don't know how you find that, but I'm pretty sure the answer isn't in your pants. Plus, there isn't as much friction as with some other NC-17 stuff, and we all know what that means: the little guy in the boat is much less likely to pull his Sou'wester over his head and refuse to take your calls.

I know someone who used to be reluctant to let herself take it to the limit with oral, preferring to save the big finish for the main event. That's like competing in the regionals on "Glee" and not giving Rachel a solo because she's saving her voice for Nationals just in case. Plus, my friend (you don't know her) didn't want a man to feel like the Big O arrived too quickly. Why, I have no idea. Making a guy stop is a bit like going to Disneyworld, getting to the entrance to the Magic Kingdom, and then leaving because you've decided you don't want to have too much fun on Space Mountain. What if Space Mountain is closed for refurbishment next time? And why on earth would a man mind if you came too quickly? It makes him feel like a goddamn rock star. Plus, you know rock stars - there's usually the option for an encore.

If you're not getting what you need to get there (and you probably aren't, every time, not exactly), then ask for it. You don't have to bark orders like Lou Gossett, Jr., but if you like slower, or faster, or Barry White,  tell him. He won't mind. The vast majority of men (an unscientific 99%) find this a huge turn on; the others are either lying or have had a bad experience with Lou Gossett, Jr. I'm kind of bossy even standing up, but asking for what you want, for what you know is pretty much a sure thing, is a win win for everyone.

And finally, and most importantly - you have to learn what gets you off. You can't ask for "it" if you don't know what "it" is, exactly. Have a meet and greet with your clit. Get better acquainted, do a little scrapbooking, maybe buy it a margarita.  It only has one job; helping you climax. Make it earn its year-end bonus. You'll figure out what works, what doesn't, what tickles. And please, ladies - don't feel like touching yourself stops if another person is in the room. You understand I mean a partner, not your accountant, right? A "hands off" policy is for museums, not your own body. Unless you're in a museum. If you ask me (and I know you were going to), missionary + a little She-Bop (yeah, that song wasn't really about dancing) pretty much guarantees a good time will be had by all.  A guy will not mind one bit that you're taking matters into your own hands: it takes the pressure off him, he can set his own pace AND he gets a pretty great visual. Plus, unless you're a total asshole, he still gets all the credit for rocking your world. The next morning, over breakfast, you'll be remembering the great time you had, you won't be thinking "well, I helped things along". And I'm pretty sure he won't be thinking that, either. What he is thinking: "Man, I'm so glad she's not a Scientologist..."

I know it's easy for me, the come early come often girl, to spout half-assed theories about owning your orgasm. I actually hate that I just typed "owning your orgasm". And I know there are women for whom it just isn't physically possible, and that must be awful and frustrating. But I really believe an orgasm is one of life's basic pleasures (along with good coffee and warm oatmeal cookies) and having one with a partner is a fantastic experience. But you need to know what works for you, that you can let yourself go, that you can put your own pleasure above everything else. And I think that's hard for some women. But you know what - any man worth your time will get off on you getting off. Even Kreskin.

What I did on my summer vacation

We didn't take a lot of big vacations when I was a kid. Both my parents worked, we didn't have a huge travel budget, and I'm sure the idea of listening to my brother mimic everything I said (everything I said) in the backseat (in the backseat) wasn't a big road trip selling point. But there was one summer vacation I still remember vividly all these years later.

Not long after my brother was born, Mom and Dad left him with my grandparents and took me on a road trip to New England. Our primary destination - Santa's Village, in Jefferson, New Hampshire. It probably should have seemed weird it was warm enough for denim short overalls (suck it, Laurie Partridge) at Santa's place, but I assume my parents told me it was his summer residence or something. Like Castel Gandolfo is for the Pope, but with elves.

I wasn't one of these kids who was scared of Santa, but I also wasn't overly interested in perching on his lap, in the summer or at any other time of the year. Photographic evidence would suggest my thoughts were a candy cane swirl of reluctance, suspicion and a keen awareness that, even though it was only July, my cooperation could make or break my Christmas.

There was, at some point, a train. This pint-sized locomotive left its quaint station and took its merry band of passengers down the track and into a wooded area. I was now five and a big sister - bring on the solo train ride! My parents agreed, and I was all aboard for adventure. Except...part way 'round the trip, somewhere deep in a glen that looked suspiciously like where Hansel and Gretel were last seen, the train stopped. I don't know if this was due to the little engine that couldn't give a rat's ass, or if this temporary standstill was merely a way to make the passengers feel like they were getting their parents' money's worth. All I knew was that I was in the middle of a creepy forest on a hunk of unmoving, brightly-painted metal. We were sitting ducks. There was only one thing to do. I went rogue.

I hopped off that terror train, and I ran. I ran away from that train like Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive".  Sobbing and flailing, I ran until I saw signs of civilization again (likely about 100 feet up the track),bursting to safety to see my waiting parents wondering what the hell I was doing. They seemed neither overly concerned about my predicament nor impressed by my dramatic return, especially when the traitorous little tank engine steamed into the station about 12 seconds behind me. They didn't know. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the things I'd seen.

As a kid, I loved monkeys. And on this trip, there was a zoo with a big enclosure full of them. Disclaimer: my father loves animals, really he does. He's brought home more dogs than Paris Hilton. It's just that, well, he loves to tease them.  He truly believes they enjoy it. He would be wrong.

This one monkey in particular kept reaching through the bars of the cage. And when someone would offer their hand, he'd slap them or grab their wrist. Dad saw this as carte blanche to beat the monkey at his own game. So when the monkey next slapped Dad, Dad pinched his little toes. The monkey, as monkeys are wont to do, went bananas. He snatched the brand new (like an hour old) baseball cap right off my father's head and pulled it back through the bars. My father tried coaxing, he tried bargaining, he tried cursing, he tried faking the monkey out. He may have tried to trade me for the hat. Mr. Monkey was having none of it: he sat just out of reach, screeching, and he ripped that hat to shit with his little teeth, eyeballing my father the entire time with a "That'll teach you, jackass" glare.  My father was incensed, the other visitors were amused, the monkey was victorious. My father learned a valuable lesson that day: just because Duke, our black Lab, thought Dad was hilarious, that did not mean all creatures great and small (and angry) agreed. I, too, learned a valuable lesson: never wear a brand new hat to the zoo.

I don't remember returning home from that vacation, though I doubtlessly had a few new freckles, at least one episode of car sickness, and several mosquito bites. But I do know this: while many people look back fondly on idyllic summers spent on a lake, or at the time they rode their first roller coaster, for me, nothing will ever say "summer vacation" quite like a runaway train and a revenge-seeking primate.

Candid Camera

I don't talk on the phone that often these days. I email, I Facebook, I text. I get videos, recipes, jokes, pictures of kitties, "How're things?" enquiries, invitations and 50% off coupons all the time. You know what I don't get? What I've never received, not once? A cock shot. And I'm fine with living a cock-shot free life.

I don't think I'm alone in this. An informal survey of women I know would support this - not a 2D penis  recipient in the bunch, and they don't feel they're missing anything. I'd ask my guys friends if they've ever sent one, but at least half of them would likely misinterpret my query and crash my inbox.

So what's up with Anthony Weiner and his numerous Kodak moments? Were these women requesting the snaps, or was he just uploading them to his entire address book, phishing with his very own pole?

Men may have the reputation of being the more "visual" of the sexes, but we gals are no slouches when it comes to  filling up on eye candy. And what we like to look at pretty much falls into two categories - David Beckham and everybody else. Some of us like chests and abs, some of us forearms or biceps, some a nice ass. But I have yet to meet the woman who heads to the latest romantic comedy thinking "I don't care if they get together at the end, but I really hope I see some cock!" Full disclosure: I have, a time or two, asked a guy to send me some pictures. But the requests were firmly along the lines of "I miss your face - send me a picture". And I was always obliged with smiling, occasionally goofy shots that made my day. Not once did I receive a picture I couldn't show my mom. And she was a nurse for 40 years, so not much phases her.

 But never in my life have I requested a below the belt snapshot. And if I had, the men I've dated would have refused. Well, except maybe one; they've likely had to stop him from unzipping his fly at the DMV. In retrospect, though, I'm pretty sure he meets the legal definition of a pervert, so it's likely I was spared only by virtue of the fact we were involved long before the unholy union of Facebook and camera phones.

So if the vast majority of women don't have the slightest interest in a naughty snapshot, not even from their beloved, where the hell did guys ever get the idea that women they don't even know might like a little crotch candid? Was there some article in Maxim's April Fool's issue that you idiots took to heart? Some sort of "Sexy Secret Revealed! She LOVES Dick Pics!" article that they meant as a joke you didn't quite get? What motivates a guy to take these pictures and send them unsolicited?  Mr. Favre? Anyone? There's such a prevalence of cock shots these days that Gawker had their "genital experts" (a term that made me laugh for five minutes) critique at least half a dozen famous phallus photos. Sadly, they reserved the highest praise for Kanye West's composition and use of props. Somewhere, Taylor Swift just threw up in her mouth. 

Look, all you would-be Mapplethorpes, I don't mean to unleash a downpour on your pantsless parade. If you're lucky enough to have a woman actually request a snap, there is a chance it's because she really does get turned on by that sort of thing. These women do exist. Somewhere.  But there's a much bigger chance she's planning on hiring Gloria Allred and scheduling a press conference. This is particularly true if you're a married, elected public official, a professional athlete, or Prince Harry.

This snap happiness can't be a new phenomenon. It's not like men just discovered their junk right around the time digital cameras were invented. So I have to assume the 70s and 80s were lousy with furtive trips to the one hour photo mart on the other side of town, hoping like hell some teenage boy was working the late shift and would give you a knowing "'Who's the lucky lady?" head nod while developing your 4 x 6 (okay 51/2, but I'm rounding up) efforts. Or perhaps Sears Portrait Studios did a booming bootleg boner business on the side?  Maybe that photo booth at the mall saw way more action than I did my senior year of high school. I spent a lot of time in that booth. Ew.

I think I speak for most women when I say we're not adverse to looking at it. Far from it; most of us are very fond of the goods, when attached to someone we find attractive. In person, I'll play paparazzi all you want; I'll even ask it who it's wearing. But if you just can't help yourself, if you won't rest until your junk has its 15 minutes of fame, at least pick your moment and your medium.  You're away for a few days, it's late at night, you know I check my email right before bed? Fine. But if I'm at the store after work to pick up a few things, my phone had better not buzz with a text from you suggesting I add your nuts to my grocery list.

I'd like to think that men, both elected and otherwise, would learn a lesson from Mr. Weiner's transgressions. But something tells me they won't. And you know what that something is? Gawker posted a helpful how-to called "How to take a dong shot" a few weeks ago (the angle is key, apparently). And as of a few minutes ago, it had 78,461 views. So ladies, the next time you get an email with an attachment, you might want to brace yourselves.

Scenes from a garden

So I haven't posted anything in well over a week. I can explain. I've been spending most of my free time trying to make my back yard look presentable, and less like the overgrown crackhouse lawn it was starting to resemble. I like gardening, really I do. Except for a couple of things. The sun, which, ironically, makes me wilt like a delicate flower. And the bugs. I know no one, except four year old boys and medical examiners on crime shows, really LOVES bugs, but I dislike them immensely. Creepy multi-legged bastards. Actually -  I've changed my mind ; I fucking hate gardening.

I started off well, sometime in mid to late April.  Did some raking. Bagged some leaves. Used a snow shovel to put leaves in bags. What? It was still leaning against my house. Oh, like yours was tucked away in the shed come March 21st. Liars.

May 6 - May 27:  Pretty much no progress.  I started so well, then rain happened. And season finales. I did buy an eensy iron gnome for the garden. So not no progress, exactly. Gnome progress. Also manage to actually poke self in eye with sharp stick. Buy some flowers. Hope they don't die before I get a chance to kill them.

Notice bees buzzing around giant bush at edge of deck are abnormally large. Remind self to google actual geographical range of "Africanized bees" later.

May 27-29: Sun, finally. Need to finish pruning, raking, pulling and generally tidying up nature. Curse self for not searching "lawn boy" on Kijiji.

Mother, a prolific gardener, visits and asks why I haven't done more weeding. I tell her it's because I wasn't sure which ones were weeds. She looks at me the way she did when I told her I was quitting band. Not having grandchildren yet she's accepted, but me not knowing astilbe from rag weed gets me a throat clear and judgement face. But she did arrive with loads of my favourite flowers, so judge away, Mommy.

Buy more flowers. Try to determine if 100 litres of potting soil is enough. Why is it measured in litres? I'm not planning on drinking it.

Despite wearing awesome bug-be-gone bracelets, get a bug bite. On ass. Gardening in ripped to shit jeans not the smartest idea I've ever had. (Mother's note: "I told you so").

May 31 - Finish rest of "clean up" before the (allegedly) fun flower planting stuff. Involves digging around in crevices in rock wall. Wonder if bats spend their downtime sleeping in rock walls?  Become convinced attack by sleep deprived bats is imminent.

Hear rustling in overgrown area at back of property. Do we have badgers? Brandish rake.

June 1 - Inform woman at gardening centre that "Calibrachoa and Million Bells are actually the same thing". Feel smug. Buy more flowers.

 Use plant stake and twine to tie up droopy bush. Giggle to self while doing so.

Take break when SPF 60 ends up in eye. Between sharp stick and sun protection, gardening had now resulted in vision impairment.

Call mother to announce "The rhododendrons are coming! The rhododendrons are coming!" Am like Paul Revere, in pink Crocs.

Put flowers in planters. Try and craft interesting yet harmonious colour combinations. Abandon this plan when back starts to ache, firing plants into pots willy nilly, aesthetics be damned. Wonder if this is how some of the outfits at Wal-mart happen? 

June 2 - Salamanders are cute. Slugs the size of a Vienna sausage are not. Buy more flowers.

June 3 - Buy new sandals. What? I have enough damn flowers.

June 4 - Try to describe the type of ivy I'm looking for to garden centre guy who, despite all signage to the contrary, does not appear to actually be "Farmer Clem". Neither of us can remember the name, but he knows what I'm talking about and no, they don't have any. Is it German? No. It's sort of like Swedish, but not. Wonder if there's such a thing as Austrian ivy.  It would be quite robust, but try to goose the housekeeper every time you turned your back.  Buy more flowers.

June 6 - I think I'm done! Dirt under fingernails may be permanent, as is back ache. But when I come up my steps after work, and everything is blooming, and smells all flowery, and there are what surely must be ten thousand different colours on my deck to greet me, it's all worth it. Except for that bug bite on my ass...

Q & A

One of my favourite magazine features is the Proust Questionnaire in "Vanity Fair". Should you ever find yourself on "Inside the Actor's Studio", James Lipton will likely accost you with his version of the quiz. However, despite what Mr. Lipton may tell you, it was not invented by Marcel Proust; it was merely popularized by him. And I'm pretty sure neither Proust nor his contemporaries would care one bit that your favourite curse word is "motherfucker".

Since Graydon Carter has yet to call (does he have my cell number?), I've taken it upon myself to provide my answers. Lucky you.

What is your current state of mind?
A bit wistful. And peckish.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
I don't know that perfect happiness actually exists, but a summer evening, just after twilight, on my back deck, lanterns lit, with a beer and people who make me laugh is pretty great. Or at the shore, summer evening, just after twilight, with a beer and one person who makes me laugh.

What is your greatest fear?
Losing my parents.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Every one always wants to answer this with "Napoleon" or "Cleopatra" or "Caligula". So what the hell - Dorothy Parker. But with less drinking and far fewer affairs. So a debauchery lite Dorothy Parker. All the bitchy wit, fewer carbs.

Which living person do you most admire?
Jane Goodall. Judy Blume. Carol Burnett.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Procrastination.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
An unwillingness to experience new things.

What is it that you most dislike?
Spiders. With one exception. See below.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My profile. Or my knees.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Kindness. A curious mind. And nice forearms.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Self-sufficiency. And a dirty laugh.

What is your greatest extravagance?
Perfect, tiny, overpriced pastries. Heaps of flowers for my deck. Sleeping in far too late on the weekends.

What do you most value in your friends?
A sense of humour and a slight tendency towards, and love of, the inappropriate. And to plagiarize from recent Questionnaire subject Albert Brooks, that they dislike the same people I do.

What is your favorite journey?
Nearly every year, my Mom and I make the drive from my house to my parents' house for Christmas, usually on the 24th. Every year, she says she want to get home early. And every year, we stop countless times: for Starbucks' holiday drinks, for a few more stocking stuffers, for a present for the dog, to see if my Aunt has good snacks and tea on. Every year, the 90 minute drive takes us at least 4 or 5 hours. And I love it.

What is your most treasured possession?
My grandfather's shaving brush and my grandmother's cameo. A distant third is the bath tray that allows me to read books in the tub.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Restraint and patience are in a battle to the death over this one. One I wish I possessed more of; you can decide which one...

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Awesome." "Fuck." "Don't bite your sister."

On what occasion do you lie?
Unfortunately for some, not often enough. But almost always when asked by an ex-boyfriend how my love life is going. And after about picture number 65 in most wedding albums.

Which living person do you most despise?
Is the guy who decided to fuck with Scooby Doo back in the day still alive? Then him.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Victor Saunders.

When and where were you happiest?
Very likely The Amalfi Coast. 2006. Before the limoncello. After the limoncello. Just perhaps not during the limoncello.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I'd be a mom.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Buying my house.

Which talent would you most like to have?
 I would love to be able to sing. Not Celine style, just in tune. Or play the piano.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
The panelling in my parents' rec room.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Leaving a hospital room for the last time.

What is your favorite occupation?
Spending hours in a large book store, with easy access to coffee.  Or exploring some place I've never been, armed with a well-written guide book and/or a witty travel companion.

What is your greatest regret?
I try not to have too many, but spending so much of my 30s doubting myself would be a big one.

What is your most marked characteristic?
My sense of humour. Or my boobs. My most unmarked characteristic is rampant sentimentality.

Who are your favorite writers?
Gabriel Garcia Marquez. J.K. Rowling. e.e. cummings. Carolyn Keene.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Charlotte, of "Charlotte's Web".

How would you like to die?
Many, many years from now, two hours past twilight, on the Amalfi Coast. After a glass of limoncello and regaling my tablemates with the dirtiest joke they've ever heard.

What is your motto?
"Life is to be enjoyed. Eat the damn cupcake". Or, occasionally,  "Just shut up and kiss me". Depends on the day. And the wine tally.

And in case Mr. Lipton is reading this, mine rhymes with "rock chucker".

Anything you can do...

My friends and I have spent a lot of time lately lamenting how things seemed better in our 20s. How many sentences have started with "when I was 25" recently? I don't think a single one of us would want to be back there; most of us were idiots. Or dating them. But we've been romanticizing it all the same. Here's the thing - I don't think there's a single thing I did better then than I do now.

1) I'm a better friend, I think. Sure, we've all been the star of our very own self-centrefold, but there's a maturity and a depth to many of my friendships that's based on more than just borrowing clothes and meeting guys. And the classic younger woman one-upmanship friendships are largely gone, which is a relief; it was exhausting.

2) I'm a better daughter. I didn't really know my father's parents, but I was 25 and then 39 when Mom's parents died, and I think losing your grandparents well into adulthood is totally different. Seeing your parents lose their parents, as an adult, really drives home how it changes a person.

3) I'm a better cook. Of course it's partly because I have more experience, partly because I discovered good cheese, and partly because I now own a mezzaluna, a food processor and a lemon zester. But mostly it's because I've realized there are few things more enjoyable than making a meal for others in your own home. Granted, there was a method to all the nacho madness: George the really hot waiter at JJ Rossy's.

4) Sex. At 25, it's often about hormones and conquest. Now it's self-confidence and self-awareness and the knowledge that some things should not be rushed. Unless you want to. Or if Anderson Cooper is on in 15 minutes.

5) Speaking of which, I'm a better girlfriend. I've figured out that wanting someone to be something they're not works about 0% of the time. Besides, I pretty much wear my own foibles like this season's statement necklace, so I can't expect anything different from a partner. Granted, this one's theoretical, since all the single men around my age want to date 25 year olds. Irony, party of one.

6) I'm smarter. I know what I don't know,and I know when I'm wrong. And believe me, in my mid 20s, I knew that I was wrong about nothing. Except guys. And clothing choices. And which types of booze should really NOT be mixed.

7) I'm better at failing. Or I'm trying to be. I've never been a perfectionist, exactly, but I used to let failure eat at me. Now, I really try to give things over to a combination of timing, luck and trying my best. Sure, there are those rare people who always get the guy, and the job, and the great concert tickets, but for most of us, that isn't reality. And that's okay. I think dealing with the little failures and disappointments (and trust me, between 25 and now, there have been many) puts the bigger ones into perspective.

I don't mean to sound like I'm done, that I've learned it all and have become the version of me I'll always be. So thanks, 25 - you were a lot of fun, but I never want to see you again. And I have every intention of revisiting this when I'm 60 and marvelling at how little I knew in my early 40s.

Divided we stand

There are some things in this life that truly divide us. Things we fervently disagree on, with no hope of ever seeing the other side. No, sillies, I'm not talking about the results of our recent election (what happens in Vegas, am I right Ruth Ellen?), or the no hits to the head in hockey debate, or even, in the case of my ex-boyfriend, the clinical definition of monogamy. I'm talking about other, far more divisive and incendiary things. I dare you not to have an unswayable opinion on at least some of these:

1) "Life of Pi". Countless fans will tell you it's a fable for the ages. Other will tell you it's punishment for something horrible they didn't realize they did. I won't say that I'd rather be on a lifeboat with a tiger than forced to read another page of that book. That would be excessive. What I'd really like is to have a time machine, so I could send Yann Martel back a decade or so. To a lifeboat. Where a tiger would eat him, thus making the book never happen.

2) Crunchy versus puffy Cheesies. This was brought to my attention this weekend. I wasn't aware this was a bone of contention, nor was I aware I had a strong opinion on it. Bonus! I say the puffy ones, since they're half air, thus taking up more space and taking fewer to satisfy me. Crunchy purists say they benefit from more condensed cheesiness. But let's face it; everyone's a winner in this debate. It's a serving of dairy, and calcium is important.

3) "The English Patient" (the movie version). Some moviegoers (hey, Mom) say this jerked their tears like no other. Here's the thing: she's dead, or nearly so. The next two hours and 58 minutes (give or take) are just leading up to how she got dead. She's still dead. And no amount of naked Ralph Fiennes will change the fact that I already know the ending five minutes in. See also: Benes, Elaine.

4) Black jelly beans. It seems as though people who love them love them more than any other colour.  We have a candy machine at work. Your .25 cents might, if you're lucky, get you seven  beans. My ideal mix would be three white, two pink, an orange and maybe a yellow. My friend Kate would be thrilled with 5 black and two green. And yet she seems so normal. What the hell flavour is green supposed to be, anyway? Pine?

5) Pineapple on your pizza. I wasn't aware this was such a line in the sauce issue until fairly recently. It seems to be loosely split along gender lines, with most men steering so far clear of a Hawaiian pizza you'd swear it causes temporary impotence. Don't get me wrong; pineapple only belongs on certain kinds of pizza. But when it's good, it's all kinds of awesome. Go on, baby - have a slice. It's good, isn't it? What? Oh, it happens to everybody once in a while. We can just cuddle.

6) Movies with Vin Diesel in them. Okay, this one may not be all that divisive. No, actually, it is. Between the 7,836,363 people who paid $11 a ticket opening weekend, and me. Fast and Furious 17 killed it at the box office opening weekend, making something like $86 million. Some would say you can't argue with $86 million dollars. No, you can't. But you can make every effort to key the cars of as many of those 7,836,363 idiots as possible while they're eating popcorn and cheering for this nonsense.

7) Nickelback. I don't need to tell you which side of the coin I'm on, right?

8) Red vs. white wine. I know what you're thinking - plenty of people like both. No, they don't. Not really. Sure, they might say they do, but they have a definite preference. Most white wine drinkers I know really dislike red wine. At least red wine drinkers will humour you and drink a glass of white if you offer it to them. But they're judging you while they do it. Think about it - you're having one of those dark nights of the soul, do you head to the kitchen thinking "Oh, hey, you know what goes well with heartbreak? Chardonnay." You do? Jesus. If I'm going to regret something deeply the next morning, I'd like the tannin headache to show for it. And red wine is just sexier. Nothing bad ever came of opening a bottle of red with a guy you're sweet on. You know what comes of opening a bottle of white with a guy you're sweet on? Blue balls. 
 
There are so many more - Tim Horton's coffee, yay or nay? Chest hair, hot or not? Thong underwear, evil or genius? And while we may disagree on those, I think there's one thing we can all agree on: Yann Martel needs to have his wrists slapped. By a tiger.

Pomp and Circumstances

I will need extra coffee to get me through the day on Friday, and it's all because of a tiny boy wearing a romper, playing on a blanket while his mother looked at him adoringly.

I was not yet a teenager when Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer nearly 30 years ago. But I was at the perfect impressionable age, where the thought of becoming an actual Princess was just about the most romantic thing ever. So I got out of bed that summer morning, probably around 5:30, and watched, my attention held rapt, while a 20 year old girl walked down the aisle towards a future that seemed, to me, to be pretty much perfect.  When she kissed her Prince on the balcony, I was sure they really would live happily ever after.

Like many women my age, I was fascinated by Diana. I have the scrapbooks at my parents' home to prove it.  She was glamourous, and beautiful and, not so very long after her storybook wedding, a mother to the cutest little boy.  I remember seeing the pictures of she and Charles leaving the hospital with their new son, she beaming as she held the tiny bundle. And I vividly recall seeing the family, when William was no more than 9 or 10 months old, posing for a photo op during a state visit, the baby determined to crawl his way off the blanket while dozens of photographers snapped away. He, as expected, stole the show, smiling and kicking and testing his chubby little legs with a step or two while Diana held his hands and smiled.

By the time I was in my late teens, I'd figured out that being a Princess wasn't all castles and tiaras. But I remained fascinated by Diana, and by the bond she so clearly had with her boys. When she finally separated from Charles, I was in my 20s, and I realized this woman, not so very much older than me, could finally have the life she wanted, instead of the life that we'd all wished for her. And then I watched, crying, as the terrible news of her death broke, thinking how those boys were far too young to lose their mother.

So I will set my alarm extra early on Friday morning. Not because I still believe in fairytales, but so I can see the young man who took his first tentative steps while holding tight to Diana's hands now take much steadier steps towards his future. I will watch because, nearly 30 years ago, I did still believe in happily ever after.  But mostly, I will watch William marry Kate because I wish his mother could be watching, too. 

The ABCs of Me, the sequel

N is for - nose. I hate mine. Always have. Straight on, it's fine, cute even. Side to, it's a different story. It resembles the ski jump at the Olympics.

O is for - (L') Orangerie. Or (D') Orsay.  My favourite museums in the world. I've realized I'm an Impressionism kind of girl; I don't even like my art to be literal. Les Nympheas take my breath away. I spent a very happy couple of hours waiting in line with hundreds of like-minded Gallic art lovers the first weekend L'orangerie reopened after a 7 year renovation. One very perturbed frenchman could not understand why I was going alone to see such beautiful art. I told him it was a long story, in any language.

P is for - photography. Photos are probably my favourite visual art form. I love paintings and sculpture and mobiles and all manner of quirky arty-ness, but the ability to exactly capture a moment in a photo is something I greatly admire. I love Man Ray, Cartier-Bresson, Brassai. Mapplethorpe, and Avedon. Diane Arbus was a genius, but she gives me nightmares. And no one does celebrity portraiture better than Annie Leibovitz.

Q is for - Queenie, my childhood collie. Lovely girl, incredibly loyal. Could have kicked Lassie's ass. I don't know if you've ever tried to get a half-blind, soaking wet collie out of a brook and up an embankment, but it ain't easy. For you or the collie.

R is for - rhinoceros. Got to feed a baby one and its mother once. Can never remember if it's black or white rhinos who are more dangerous and prone to charging. This was the non-charging kind. 

S is for - sauna. I am considering getting one of those 3 or 4 person ones for my deck. They look like a cross between a phone booth and a giant wine barrel. And what they say about drinking in a sauna? Very true. So I hear.

T is for - Tuscany. Love it. The food, the pace, the landscape, its essence. Driving around Tuscany in no particular hurry with no particular destination is a joy. The crazy quilt hills seems both familiar and like nothing you've ever seen before.

U is for - underwear. I have been guilty of spending way too much on lacy bits of impracticality in my day, and you know what I finally figured out last year?  Men don't care, not really.  Sure, they'll say they appreciate it, they may even give you an unprompted compliment, but when they look back on your relationship (and oh, they will), they will not remember the panties. But guys, if you could always wear those Calvin-esque boxer briefs, I'd really appreciate it. I promise I'll remember them.

V is for - vanilla. I love the smell of vanilla. Every perfume I've worn in the past 20 years has had vanilla in it. Maybe longer - anyone know what Bonne Bell's Skin musk had as a base note? I also remember being quite surprised at how not yummy vanilla extract is when sampled directly from the bottle. My brother was pretty surprised too, especially since I'm assured him it was a taste sensation. Seriously - who falls for that?

X is for - xylophone. One of the few instruments I can say I played decently. Granted, I think I was 11, but I rocked that mofo.

Y is for - Yaz and Alison Moyet. One of my favourite Brit New Wave bands, and one of the best voices to come out of Britain in the 80s. I'd nearly forgotten about them until recently, when someone mentioned "Only You". Fantastic song. So imagine my horror when I youtubed it and realized that Enrique Iglesias had covered it. This is not recent, apparently, but I'm not really up on his alleged career.  Song ruiner.

Z is for - Zindel, Paul. I read several of his books in my adolescent years, and I remember loving them. It's the first time I remember laughing until I cried over a book, and I loved that feeling.  His Pigman books, My Darling, My Hamburger - so good. He gave Judy Blume a run for her money on my bookshelf.

There you have it - the second half of my own personal alphabet. Some of them were really hard. A few were incredibly easy. And a few have likely changed since I started this...

The ABCs of Me

A is for - Adele. I am having such a girl crush moment with her right now. I've had "21" since the week it came out, and I've played it to death. "19" was remarkably accomplished, but this one knocks my knee socks off. Check out her live performances on youtube. She is a life raft in a skanky sea of booty shakers and ridiculous S&M videos. I don't just want a song to get stuck in my head; I want it to get stuck in my soul.

B is for - banana. I love them. Have one every day. Yet have an irrational fear of overripe bananas and banana strings that just isn't normal. My colleagues are very supportive, and often encourage aversion therapy by leaving overripe banana peels on my computer mouse. Fuckers. You know who you are.

C is for - coffee. Love the stuff. Don't need a ton of it every day, but any sort of frappamachaspressolatte brings me joy. The staff at the Starbucks by work suggested I get a part-time gig so I could get free coffee. I'm considering asking for an application.

D is for - dessert. As my ass can attest, I love it. Ideally, apples wrapped in some sort of pastry. Or maybe a lemon tart. My grandmother made the best apple pies ever, so I am constantly searching, comparing, and usually coming up just a little underwhelmed. It's like looking for the Holy Grail. A cinnamony, buttery Holy Grail.  The exception - if raspberry kuchen is on a menu (hello, Fireside!), I'm faced with a not-so-very-terrible decision.

E is for - effervescent. I love this word. I think it's one of those words that sounds like what it means. It sounds like it is made of bubbles. There are three "e" words that I would love to be described as: elegant, erudite, and effervescent. On my very best of days, the best I can hope for is 2 out of 3.

F is for - falafel. Actually, it's for L'as du Fallafel, on the rue des Rosiers in the heart of Paris' Marais district. I'd had falafel lots of times in Halifax, but many years ago, when I went to Paris for the first time, I stayed in the Marais, and I made sure to visit this place (I'd read that Lenny Kravitz was a regular). It's vibrant and a little crazy and the ordering system is sort of whack. It's awesome. About a decade after I went for the first time, the New York Times travel section dubbed it the falafel destination in Europe. I realize how pretentious that last sentence sounds, and I don't care.

G is for - gummy candy. I'm like a 4 year old. I will eat it until I'm sick, vow to never eat it again, and then find myself at the bulk barn, up to my ass in high-fructose corn syrup, debating butterflies vs. worms vs. sour soothers.

H is for - hamburgers. I love love love them. And I almost never have them. This is criminal. I'm not one of those people who barbeque all year round, so the first outdoor hamburger of the season always brings me joy. Right now, there are spiders in my barbeque. I may have to throw it out.

I is for - Italy. I love it. I've been three times, and could happily go every year. Rome is infuriating and invigorating and insane and just the most fantastic city. I shall go back soon; the Trevi fountain owes me some change. Next time you see me, ask me about the club where the d.j. wore a leather butcher apron, knee socks and black satin bikin panties. And this was a guy.

J is for- I have no sweet clue. I have been wracking my brain trying to come up with a "J" word that is a part of my life. I keep thinking of words that have no real place in my day to day - "jail", "jambalaya", "jello".  Nothing. Moving on...

K is for - Kit Kat bars. If someone were to make me choose only one type of chocolate bar to eat for the rest of my life (which is a conversation I've actually had more than a few times), this would be it. I don't like the Chunky version (the wafer/ filling/ chocolate ratio is all wrong)  and the dark chocolate ones are okay, but I'm sort of a purist. FYI - I distrust anyone who would answer the Ultimate Chocolate Bar question with "Big Turk". Weirdos.

L is for - limoncello. Prior to having it, I became a bit obsessed with trying it. I like lemon. I like alcohol. I was on the Amalfi Coast, the birthplace of limoncello. It's fucking awful. I imagine it's like drinking Pledge, only with a slightly less pleasant aftertaste. Don't get me wrong - every time I was offered some, I took it. I'm not stupid; it was free booze. But I hadn't been that disappointed since...well....booze was involved then, too.

M is for - making out. Don't get to do it these days, and I miss it. A lot. It's not doctor's orders or anything; I'm just single. Even when you're dating someone, at my age good old-fashioned making out seems to fall off the radar a little bit. I've lamented this more than once. It seems like you go from zero to "Ow! Ow! Leg cramp!" way too quickly. I like the in-between bit. And I don't even mean that in a dirty way.

This is much harder than I thought, and I'm only half-way. I'm saving N-Z for another day. I can tell you this: X is going to be a bitch. I did once Xerox my face, but who hasn't?