Cruel Summer

So I decided to take a break from writing, figuring I should try and actually live a life instead of just writing about one. So how'd that go? Well, I'm back to writing, aren't I?  My sabbatical was a lot of effort for few results. I feel like Tom Cruise's eHarmony profile.

An open letter to the (single) men of Halifax:

Snap the fuck out of it! What the hell is wrong with you?

I know so many women, anywhere from mid-20s to early 40s, who are attractive, smart, sexy and funny, with interesting jobs and active social lives who are, quite simply, fantastic. And not one of them has been on a date in eons. Why? My money is on apathy. It's like all the single men in this town decided to sit in their living rooms, in their underwear, expecting a woman to show up and offer them a blow job while they're watching TSN. Never going to happen, gentlemen. Okay, that was one time, and it was his birthday, and do you know how long it takes to bake and frost a damn cake? Forever; you have to let it cool first, and then there's the frosting, plus who can ever find enough candles? Geez. One time.

So what happened? Not so long ago, men were still making an effort. But the effort has gone AWOL. I know there are more single women than men in this town, so the numbers are on your side, but you still gotta try.  How do you do that? Be engaged in your life, for starters. You don't have a girlfriend? Boo hoo. Are you still getting out, and doing things, and generally having a life that someone else might want to be a part of? I don't think you are. Because I had a pretty social summer, going to restaurants and out for drinks and to festivals and sporting events and plenty of things where people gather, and I didn't see you there. I saw men, sure, mostly younger, prowling loudly, and hornily, in groups, like One Direction will when they're old enough to drink. But genuine, just out enjoying life with a few friends and hoping that maybe an awesome woman would cross their paths guys? Those were in very short supply. It's like single men have two settings: gropey or mopey. Hot? Not. And when you emerge, bleary-eyed and jonesing for chicken wings, from wherever you are, be it your drawn-curtained living room or your Smirnoff sponsored bro-tastic circle jerk, you'd better be prepared, because we're going to expect you to step up.

I know what you're thinking, guys. That's a generalization! Not all single men are like that. And that's true; of course there are single guys in this town who are making a real effort and are worthy of a terrific woman. Sure there are. And if you're one of them, I sincerely apologize and you should stop reading.

Still here? If you're lucky enough to find yourself in what the kids call a "friends with benefits" situation (and make no mistake, you are INCREDIBLY lucky if you've found a woman who will sleep with you without asking you to be her date for a family wedding) you need to come when called. We're all busy, we all have days where we just want pizza and our DVR. But ask yourself this: WWTYOYD - What Would 20 Year Old You  Do? When you were 20, if an attractive girl texted you and said "I've had two glasses of wine. Where are you?", would you have EVER considered not going? Hells no! Of course not! So chug a Red Bull, put some damn pants on, and get the hell over there! Don't waste time shaving (ed. note - Seriously. Don't shave. Stubble good).

One final note, and I'd have thought this lesson would've been learned way back when, say at one of those Sadie Hawkins dances in junior high, but it's perfectly fine for a woman to ask a man out. I've heard more than a few men say it would be fantastic if a woman did just that.  It's also perfectly fine for a man to say no. But if you're asked, and you say do yes, you damn well better go. That's just good manners. If you were drafted by the NHL, and a pretty good team picked you, would you say no, even if you weren't sure how it would all work out? Of course you wouldn't. Because it's the NH fucking L. Do you want to be the Eric Lindros of dating? Didn't think so. Besides, I've seen your slapshot - you'd have a way better chance of scoring on the date. So put the damn jersey on. Plus, if you don't go, you're kind of a jerk.

Okay, boys. I hope this letter finds you well. I really do want you to succeed. But summer is over. Time to get back in the game. We're all expecting big things from you this season. Don't make us regret waiting.

Things that aren't worth it for $1000, Alex

Worth: the quality that renders something desirable, useful, or valuable; material or market value.

So we agree that worth isn't always measured in money, right? Though it certainly can be - that giant coffee at Starbucks on Saturday afternoon was definitely worth it.  In a related story -  BC shiraz is surprisingly tasty and affordable. But enough about the positive. For now, let's focus on the negative, shall we?

Things that just aren't worth it, at least to me, these days:

1) Pretty much designer anything, except coffee drinks. I like pretty things as much as the next person, maybe even a little more so. But my ass is easily suggestible - walking past a bakery makes me gain five pounds, so $250 jeans are out. And while my tastes in dream home decor can run to the crazy expensive, I just can't bring myself to actually spend two weeks salary on anything a cat can throw up on. But surely that hanging lamp you've been admiring would be a safe choice, you say? You haven't met Tallulah. Where there's a will, a hairball is sure to follow.

2) Trying to save money by refurbishing an old reliable something instead of just buying a new one. My personal Waterloo was a gym bag. Or, more accurately, about half a dozen old gym bags I decided to spiffy up in favour of buying a new one. Into the washer they went. It was only there, in the clandestine confines of my high efficiency front loader, that they revealed their traitorous natures. Or, more precisely, their hidden cardboard inserts, which turned to pulp, burned out the pump, and clogged the drain line like cement. Cost of new gym bag - $40. Cost of washer repair - $297. 

3) A 1 AM pitcher of margaritas, a 2 AM donair, and a 3 AM text to your ex asking if he's still up. Anything that leaves you dehydrated, suffering from heartburn and with a deep sense of shame can't be worth it. And that's just the donair.

4) Saffron. Look, I'm sorry,  Giada et al, I know your nipples get hard over the world's most expensive spice, but all I got was a stain on my top that cannot be Shouted out. And it only tastes slightly interesting. Not worth the time it took to track it down. Sure, it's pretty, but so's Ryan Reynolds, and ounce for ounce, I probably could've steeped him and added him to my orzo for roughly the same kind of money. And he would look awesome in my kitchen.

5) Flying more than half way across the country for sex. Sure, you fancy yourself a carnal Amelia Earhart, off on a sex adventure with a jaunt in your step and a carry-on full of unmentionables.  Oh, you can try and tell yourself it's more romantic than it is, that it's some sort of long distance relationship. Chances are, it isn't; it's a booty call that requires photo i.d. It might seem worth it at the time, especially if you're in a dry spell and there's a seat sale.  But trust me when I tell you this: you may have saved some money, but you'll be paying for it long after you get that Visa bill.

6) Convertible bras. Nearly $50, and I should have known by the name. The tag says they call them that because of all the different ways you can wear them. The tag lies. Convertible means the top goes down. Like down around your waist. Look, as regular readers will know, I love my boobs. There are days when I feel they should get their own reality show. But much like the majestic silverback gorilla, it's safest (if not the most ethically responsible) to enjoy them under controlled conditions, possibly from behind 6-inch thick reinforced plexiglass. Thanks for nothing, La Senza. And sorry, Reverend.

7) Taking a chance on something scary. I know, I know. I've written about the importance of going full Edmund Hillary, planting a flag on the summit of Mount You Only Live Once, grabbing life not so gently by the balls and not living with regret and what-ifs. Guess what? I'm an idiot. We all have our own internal chance-o-meter, a finely calibrated scale that measures risk versus reward. For some, it could be trying sushi for the first time. For others, it might be skydiving. It doesn't really matter what it is, the odds are the same: there's a 50% chance you'll end up loving spicy tuna, and a 50% chance your chute won't open. I should have stuck to the spicy tuna.

8) Chopping things into uniform size when having a dinner party. This seems incredibly random, even for me, and likely has a lot to do with how much Food Network I watched this weekend. Your friends don't care if the apples in your tarte tatin are all the same size. If they do, they're assholes. You're wasting butter pastry on assholes. Think about that. The only thing worth worrying about is running out of wine, not whether your pancetta is evenly diced.

9) Lying to your mother. She knows. Every time. Even on the phone. Especially if it's a lie about flying half way across the country for sex or how much you paid for the recently hairballed decorative pillow.

 There are lots of things in life I think are worth it - well-written hardcover books, imported tulips in the middle of winter, giving up a few hours of sleep to have a heart to heart with a friend. But do yourself a favour - just buy the damn gym bag.

Boys 2 Men

I read something recently that got me thinking. Wish I could say I've been boning up on Carl Sagan,  but I haven't and, besides, that sounds kind of pervy. It was an excerpted piece from the book by the very funny Mindy Kaling, and in it she talked about how many grown women end up dating perpetual high schoolers. Mindy has her own ideas about what separates the men from the boys (besides chest hair),  but her main philosophy is this: men aren't scared of committment. Not committment to a woman, necessarily, but a committment to their own lives. A committment, as Mindy says, to not floating around anymore. A boy floats from job to job, apartment to apartment, spontaneous road trip to spontaneous road trip, never accumulating anything that can't be sold, abandoned, or stored in his parents' basement because he just isn't the type to be tied down by material things, baby.

This is something I know a little about. It's safe to say my friends and I have known enough man child types to stock a VERY well-attended Peter Pan convention. So put down the Xbox controllers and listen up.

Grown men do what they say they're going to do. It's that simple. I'm not talking about an ill-advised, tequila driven, "Yes! We should absolutely go shark diving" plan. That's just testosterone, and you did agree it sounds like fun... No, I'm talking about the much smaller scale stuff. You're going to come help me put up that shelf?  Great. How's Saturday? You'll drive me to the airport? Awesome - my flight's at 8. You've got the first round next time? Bottoms up. Don't be the sometime guy. "We should hang out sometime." "I'll make you dinner sometime." " Let's play pool sometime." Boys sometime you. Grown men do what they said they would. If you can't commit to the smallest things, I'm not likely to trust you with the bigger things. Like my housekeys. Or my heart. And I've spent way too much of my adult life wondering just when the hell "sometime" really is. Is it Central Time? Greenwich Mean Time? Daylight savings? Fuck. 

Men own things. Grown-up things. I don't mean houses, necessarily, or really nice cars, because those things aren't important to everybody. But a grown man owns more than two plates. And sheets that match. Men have actual bookshelves. And a teakettle. You don't need to have lots of throw pillows or anything. If  you do, we probably have a lot in common. Like a dirty crush on Anderson Cooper. Men can't pack everything they own into their car "just in case". In case what, exactly? You witness a gangland killing? Little tip for you: if you do happen to witness a gangland killing, I'm pretty sure the fact that your bootleg Marillion albums are in a milk crate and ready to go won't be your biggest concern. Buying furniture tells me you aren't going anywhere, and it tells me you're happy to just hang out, somewhere warm and cozy. Which bodes well for my cleavage. "I'm only there to sleep" was a fine rationale for that skeevy hostel in Portugal in 1999, but not so great for your home. And you can only use "but your place is just so much more comfortable" for so long.  Because that doesn't make me think you have a lumpy sofa; it makes me think you have a live-in girlfriend.

Grown men expect you to call them on their bullshit, at least some of the time. It's awkward for me to bring this up. Not because I have a problem giving my opinion, but because turnabout is fair play, I can be a moody caustic bitch,  and having it pointed out is up there with dental surgery on my list of unfavourite things. But a grown man will respect you for telling him when he's being a jerk. Seriously. At least the good ones will. Because a grown man doesn't want you to be a pushover.  Many guys will tell you they hate confrontation. Who doesn't? But what they really mean is they hate being called on their assholery. Do not let this deter you. But think it through. Is a man who'd prefer to watch a hockey game instead of going to a Katherine Heigl movie really an asshole? I'd argue he might just be the only rational person in the room.  And really - you'd make him do that? Who's really the asshole here?

I know it's different for everybody. My immature, unthoughtful jerk may be your boyishly distracted dream guy. Actually, he probably is, given how quickly the men I've dated have moved on. And god knows there are plenty of women who are still floating around, too, because life does seem easier before you own occasional chairs and four types of wine glasses. But being a grown up can be pretty great too (no roommates! sex on the occasional chairs!). So really, gentlemen, isn't it time to commit to being a grown up? It's not that hard:  do what you say you will, buy a real coffee table and, whatever you do, don't let me go to the new Katherine Heigl movie. Unless that's your way of telling me I'm being a bitch,  in which case I deserve it.  Don't you feel more grown up already?

A long December

How in the hell is it January already? December was even blurrier than usual (what's up, red wine?), and I didn't even get a chance to review the December Cosmo. I wasn't going to bother, since it's long gone from newstands, so even if the review piqued your interest, you wouldn't be able to buy it. Then I remembered I'm not the New York Times Book Review; you people don't read this to see if you want to buy the book, you read this to see if I say "cock" again. So fashionably late, and sort of slutty (kind of like my old roommate), here you go.

Adele is on the cover. Unusual for Cosmo, given that she's neither a size two nor seen as a typical sexy girl. But I cannot say a bad thing about her; I have loved her since her first album. She's smart, funny, profane and emotionally wise beyond her years. Not to mention psychic; based on a couple of songs, I'm pretty sure she's dated at least two of my future ex-boyfriends. You know about the ex who tried suing her for profits from her first album because he inspired some of the songs, right? Geez, I hope that doesn't give some of my exes any ideas about suing over this blog. Have at it, sweethearts. By my count, that entitles you to half my back issues of Cosmo, a smattering of emails where my friends try to guess which late 20s / early 30s era jackass I'm writing about, and half a caramel macchiato someone bought me because they wanted to talk  about cock shots.

I'm a bit peeved. The cover trumpets "100 Best Sex Tips of the Year".  Are you fucking kidding me? I wasted all that time memorizing god knows how many useless positions and tongue flick thingies and now you're telling me I just could've waited for this issue for the best of the best? I haven't felt this resentful about reading since the Margarets Laurence and Atwood in high school.  I've read all the tips before (you're welcome), so there's really nothing new here. I did a double take when I read #71 - "the CAT doubles your "O' odds". Then I realized the uppercase CAT is an acronym (coital alignment technique, keeners).  Thank Christ, because I'm here to tell you that a lowercase cat, far from being erotically advantageous,  is actually quite the mood killer. I don't quite know how they can manage a judgy yet disinterested, disapproving yet pitying face all at the same time. It's like having sex while a furry Russian figure skating judge sits on the end of your bed.

There are at least 10 Nasty Health Situations (and their instant fixes). You're on your own, kids. I tapped out right around the time I found myself wondering, should it ever come up, just what sort of oatmeal to put on my irritated bikini line. Should it be steel cut, or is instant okay? Apple Cinnamon? High Fiber? Weight Control? Don't give me half-assed medical advice, Cosmo.

"The Fierce Sex Every Couple Must Try" caught my eye. Until I realized they were talking about "werewolf sex". For the love of  poorly written young adult novels, can we please give it a rest with the whole undead creature of the night as romantic ideal / masturbation fantasy? Look, I enjoy a good vampire as much as the next former goth girl, but I doubt I'm going to bang one, so tips on vampire foreplay or werewolf sex are kind of wasted on me. And given that they're having a moment right now, what's next - zombie orgasms? Because that just seems messy.

"When He Shouldn't See You Naked". Easy - between 9 and 6 Monday to Friday, when I'm sober, when he's sober, after I've had too much pasta, when I have Cream of Wheat on my bikini line (I'll likely be out of oatmeal, so I'm improvising). Apparently, French women have the whole seduction thing on lock because they maintain an air of mystery with their paramours. I'm all for an air of mystery (I think peeing with the door closed is the new black), but French women also spend 20% of their income on lingerie, go to Gerard Depardieu movies and fork feed their tiny dogs in restaurants. They might actually buy lingerie for their tiny dogs and then take them to Gerard Depardieu movies, so tread wisely.

5 Steps to Crank Up My Kissability. Actually, there's prep, then 5 steps. Five? Really? Here's mine: Prep - apply Blistex like a mofo.  Step #1 - buy him a shot. Steps #2-5 - repeat step #1.

I always enjoy "101 Things About Men". But boys, boys, boys - 50% of you are lying about something. No, it's not that you don't care about Katy Perry and Russell Brand splitting up (you do so care), it's that you're going full Pinocchio when it comes to the number of people you've slept with. Are people really still having this conversation? Come on! Have I taught you nothing? This is a trap! There is literally no good answer when you're talking sex numbers. This is like when your girlfriend asks if you find another woman at the party attractive.  The second the question leaves her mouth,  you've already lost, dude. As a matter of fact, you probably lost 20 minutes ago, when you didn't even notice her new earrings. You just didn't know it yet. So lie if you must; the important thing it to get out of there alive. And ladies, that goes for you, too. He does not want or need to know.* Cut the number in half, round it up (no one has slept with 3.5 people), and smile when you say it. Think of it like the sexual metric system; those conversions are never exact when you do them in your head. * This may need to be revisited if either of you has slept with Ashton Kutcher.

Apparently, some men have marriage checklists, things they feel the future missus must have. Sadly, Mom, none of the men listed "excellent baking skills" or " fairly decent knowledge of post-Impressionism", so you might not be getting those grandkids. But a willingness to send Mark, 22, dirty pictures while he's at work is a surefire way to get a ring on it. Where exactly do you work, Mark?  Your boss not around much?

Oh - infidelity alert. Guys with a strong jaw, large foreheads and thin lips are more likely to cheat. Frankenstein must've been a total player, yo.

The average weight gain from (American) Thanksgiving to New Year's Day is less than a pound. They mean per day, right?

There's a quiz to help me figure out my Stress Personality.  The potential results are compartmentalizer, internalizer and externalizer. I skipped it; any stress personality quiz that doesn't give me "become huge bitch" as an option can't be very comprehensive.

They talked to guys (most in their 20s) about pregnancy, and what freaks them out / confuses them. Oliver, 21, has a question about dilation. He knows dilating has something to do with his pupils when he's "really buzzed", but he's not quite clear on what dilates on a woman. Is it maybe the "pouch thing around the baby, is it her entire belly, or is it her lips?"  Well, Oliver, I'm not sure what the "pouch thing" is unless we're talking about a kangaroo. Anywho, it's her pupils, of course. They get really big  - when she's about to push an 8 pound human being out of her vagina. Do us a favour - read a book. And for fuck's sake, wear a condom.

That's about it, dear readers. And while I apologize for not being more timely with my review, all is not lost.  The next time you're at the doctor's office about one of those 10 Nasty Health Situations, you just might be able to swipe a copy from the waiting room.