In Profile

I changed my social media profile photo recently. If you arrived here via twitter or Facebook, you know what it looks like. If you got here some other way, it's over there to the right, on my feed - pink lips, a bit of cleavage, reasonably tidy office in the background. At least one of those things constitutes fraud.

A day or two after I changed it, a guy told me he liked the new pic. I recall saying it was a little witness protection-y, but he maintained it had two of the four things you need for a good profile pic - mouth and cleavage. The other two, according to the gentleman in question, are neither a fake moustache nor a cat; they're eyes and butt, with sexy shoes coming in around 5th place. I'm still trying to work out how one gets eyes, mouth, cleavage AND butt, never mind a shoe cameo, in there without needing Nicki Minaj's choreographer and/or a chiropractor. But it got me thinking - what have my profile pics said about me?

I'm not one to change up my pic a lot. I think I've had maybe half a dozen in 4 years. There was the stylized, sort of pop-art filtered one. There was the laughing in my living room, tipsy at a party, no glasses on one. The fake moustachioed one. The photobombed by my cat one. Occasionally, a close up of my eyes, which an ex-boyfriend told me go absolutely emerald green when I'm horny or angry, so I'm sure that one both arouses and terrifies him.

And then there's the most recent one. Let's be honest  - it's hot lips and a hint of boobs. Is it sexy? I suppose. I do know this - I've had no more than a handful of comments on all other pics combined, but this one, this one was comment heavy. From people I know, people I don't know, and one person who isn't used to seeing me that way who said "Is that you in the pic?" Sorry for making you blush, Paul. Women tended to comment on the shade of lipstick. Men commented on...other stuff.

After much (not really) analysis of comments both recent and not so, here's what I've determined my various profile pics have said. I'll stick mostly to men, because comments from women tend to be of the "your skin looks awesome / Tallulah is so cute / where'd you get that pillow on the couch?" variety.

1) My eyes - without glasses, fun, possibly intense, maybe horny. With glasses, smarter than you, will likely correct your grammar. All these things are true.

2) A fake moustache - I think it says I'm fun. I think I actually look pretty good with one. But I wonder if people who don't know me think I'm trying to cover up some weird mole. Also, I've discovered a handlebar moustache is surprisingly good at bringing out my cheekbones.

3) A cat - I thought the message it sent was genuine and cute. In retrospect, it may say "hasn't seen a penis in this fiscal quarter". Sure, people who own cats have sex. But people who have regular sex don't let their cats in their profile pictures. Should probably just call it and go back to that pic, actually.

4) Hot pink lips - blow job.

5) A bit of cleavage - You know what it says? One word: "Boobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobs". Based on this, I'm pretty sure Hodor from Game of Thrones could instantly double his vocabulary if someone showed him my profile pic.

Actually, I'm not being entirely accurate. I seem to recall someone summoning enough vocabularly to say it made them think of jewellery. A pearl necklace, specifically.

6) Butt - Moot point. Never happened, never going to happen. When it comes to photos of my ass, I liken it to the famous, oft-debated photo of Big Foot:  not sure under what circumstances it was caught on camera, can kind of see some sort of  shape, if it weren't so blurry, it would either be terrifying or fucking awesome.

So, to sum up, if I want my pic to accurately represent me, I want it to say, firstly, smart, then funny, then, hopefully, cute, maybe a little sexy. So glasses, a fake moustache, a hint of cleavage are good. Hot pink lips, use at my own risk.

Tinder Dry

I haven't written regularly for a while. And in that time, it seems Tinder has exploded. Figuratively speaking. If Tinder had literally exploded, you should all probably get tested. Or at least consider one of those decontamination showers.

I know, I know - some people are on Tinder to actually meet potential romantic partners. Some people who meet on Tinder go on to date. And some people who were on the Titanic survived. Just not most of them. But, in both cases, we're talking about A LOT of people going down.

Here's what Tinder tells me about itself: Tinder's vision is to eliminate the barriers involved in making new connections and strengthening existing ones. We believe in fun and familiar experiences that are designed to emulate and advance real world interactions.

They mean boning, right?

I went out last night, and the women I was with tried to convince me to join Tinder. They showed me their profiles, they cajoled, they offered up pics of guys in the area. But none of it, not their testimonials, not the guy with the great smile, not even the guy I swear was a Village Person, changed my stance: the only thing I'm less likely to join than Tinder is one of those doomsday cults where they all wear track suits. Why, you may ask? You mean besides the fact I look really awful in track suits? Well, because I've realized I'm a semi-traditional girl. I like to meet guys the old-fashioned way - blitzed off my ass on Rockaberry coolers at a house party in the early to mid-90s.

Here's the first problem, one that flies in (sits on?) the face of the almost instant sex Tinder seems to promise: I've been known to present a DTF vibe in certain situations when, really, I'm more a DTMO (down to make out) type. I believe my love of deep v-necks, wine and rampant profanity to be responsible for this slightly skewed perception. Don't get me wrong; I've been known to kiss before the first date. But the s-e-x, it ain't gonna happen instantly. Refresher, for those who got to class late: my brain needs to be turned on, and it takes more than a few snapshots on my iPhone to give my cerebral cortex lady wood. It takes smarts, too. It may seem bothersome, even quaint, this whole "he has to have brains, too" thing. But, for me, it's less bothersome than waking up next to a really hot, complete idiot.

The second problem? I need a little easing in, a little wooing, and I don't think I'm alone. But the all-access backstage ass Tinder hints at seems to have relegated actually getting to know someone to the cheap seats. There's no opening act, no warm up. Pay attention, all you would-be suitors - you can't go from zero to you want to put what where? in 5 minutes. Maybe some women don't need the preamble, the mental flowers and candy. But I know a lot of women, and not once, ever, has any of us said "Yeah, it's pretty new, and I think I could really like this guy, but I wish he'd just hurry the hell up and talk about his cock".

One of my best friends recently read me some Tinder messages she'd received. She'd never met him, they'd chatted briefly that day, but he was saying stuff to her I MIGHT say to a guy after about 4 months. If I'd been drinking. And he'd been drinking. And it was his birthday. Unless I've had champagne, in which case I'll say that shit to my third grade teacher at an ice cream social. What's up, Mrs. Pierce?

The internet and social media have made sex easier to get than ever. Are we really that lazy, that pressed for time now, that we can't even get off our couches to meet people? It's harder to pay your Visa bill online than it is to get laid by simply swiping right. But you know what? It's not that hard in real life, either. The getting laid, I mean. Paying my Visa bill is actually fairly difficult, since I keep forgetting the answers to those goddamn mobile banking security questions. My first pet? Did I count Twinkle the cat when I answered that? I don't fucking know. Jesus.

Look, sex is AWESOME. Big fan. And sex with someone you know a little bit is even awesome-er. So what if getting to know someone takes a little longer? It's still really, really fun. I'm talking days, not weeks, so stay with me, horndogs. You know how there used to be lots of things you could only get around the holidays, and the anticipation made them just the best thing ever? And then things changed, and now you can get some of them all year round? I sometimes feel like I'm candy cane ice cream, and mini eggs are getting all the action.

Here's the irony. Tinder, by necessity, involves at least a little messaging back and forth before meeting up. In person, I'm less femme fatale and more George McFly. But, with a phone in my hand or a keyboard in front of me? I give excellent text. I'm really fucking good at it. If there's one thing I know, it's words, and I'm as comfortable in them as some women claim to be in 4 inch heels (they're lying). On more than a few occasions, I've even gone full Cyrano de Bergerac for my friends. Not for really dirty stuff, mind you - my friends are on their own for that (although I am available for suggestions). But for that first hook, that initial flirtation, that luring in? It might have been me, boys. By that rationale, I could be rocking Tinder's headboard.

But here's where it gets un-swoonworthy. Many men, it would seem, don't finesse it. There's no style, no savoir-faire. They're giving you the text equivalent of jackhammer sex, without stopping to ask if you actually like it that way, baby. And, worst of all for someone like me, maybe because they're texting with one hand, many of them are hammering away with barely literate come-ons. In my version of "It's a Wonderful Life", every time an attractive man uses the wrong form of "your" or answers a text with "k", an orgasm dies. Friends tell me I'm a word snob, and that an extra glass (or 5) of wine can compensate for language crimes. Perhaps, but why is getting turned on by intelligence deemed so off-putting? You can say you're an ass man, or you like tall guys, or beards just do it for you, and that's perfectly fine, but if you say proper grammar floats your little man in a boat, you're a snob. You know who says that? Dumb people.

I'm sure there are plenty of smart, kind, caring people on Tinder and its ilk. But those things aren't exactly in the pole position to draw you in, are they? People likely aren't swiping right because someone thinks John Hughes was a genius. And while I like a nice smile and sparkling eyes as much as anyone, it lasts for about 3 minutes. And then, what else you got? My suspicion is that Tinder not only doesn't care, it's also too busy checking its wallet for a condom to notice I've put my fuzzy socks on and logged into Netflix. 

It just seems so superficial and, honestly, kind of empty to me. I know people say it just "makes things easier", because you know for sure the people are single and looking. Or at least horny and looking. But why does it have to be easy? Easier isn't always better. See also: Kraft Dinner vs. homemade mac and cheese. As someone who isn't easy, I know what I'm talking about. And if that means the only swiping I'm going to be doing on my phone is trying to pay that goddamn Visa bill, I'm cool with that.

List it

I have writer's block. Ironically, one of the things that usually cures it is writing - about something else entirely. Stream of consciousness stuff works best. For me, that means either a very angsty "My So-Called Life"-esque diary entry, or a list. And since I'm having wine, a list is safer. It's simple - I let my mind wander, I only give myself 20 minutes, and you reap the dubious benefits.

1) The calendar in my office is still on April. The month my dad got sick. Don't need to delve too deeply into that one, hmm?

2) "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" just came on my playlist. Chair dancing has ensued.

3) I am allergic to giraffes.

4) My current favourite lipgloss is called Lollipop. Very Lolita, I know, but, damn, it looks good.

5)  I've gone a week without a burger. That ends when I hit publish on this thing.

6) Moscato is delicious (and an essential part of this evening's writing).

7) I had a Snuffleupagus puppet on my hand this afternoon. Related: I do a terrible Snuffleupagus impression.

8) My Jane Goodall autographed Far Side is right above my desk. Meeting one of your childhood idols is otherworldly, awesome, and deeply affecting. I was truly humbled by every word she spoke in my presence. In that tiny office, with a handful of people, her quiet grace enveloped me. Best day on the job, hands down.

9) I was guilted into going on the Kraken rollercoast in Florida by a 12 year-old. I retaliated by coercing him into going on Manta, the one where you hang underneath. As we tilted forward, I heard "Oh my god, Vicki, I don't know about this." You're welcome, Zak.

10) Julie Brown tweeted me a few months ago. If you loved "Earth Girls are Easy" as much as I did, you'll know why I was so stoked.

11) I was kind of checked out by a fairly big name movie star in a London cafe recently. Or, I was chatting loudly with my tablemates and he was just wondering who the boisterous Canadian was, but I prefer option A.

12) I make fucking awesome homemade mac and cheese.

13) My next tattoo will probably be an e.e. cummings quote.

14) I'm running out of time and now all I can think of are sex things you guys don't need to know.

15)  I have 4 minutes left. Um...I'm an awesome kisser.

16) I'm probably going to watch "Sliding Doors" tonight for the dozenth time and notice something I've never noticed before. Or, I'm going to watch some terrible action movie and deny it later.

17) All the women in my family on Mom's side can roll their tongues.

18) I have no idea how I got from "action movie" to rolling my tongue. Insert joke here.

19) 1 minute left. I can do an excellent cockney accent.

20) I secretly think I make better cupcakes than almost any shop in town. At least it was secretly.

Done. Don't know if it helped the writer's block, but man, I can type fast. 

Have I told you, lately?

No, I haven't. For reasons both silly and serious, I haven't posted anything here lately, in nearly a year in fact. And while I ponder what to write about in the next few weeks (Tinder, I'm coming for you), I thought I'd fill you in on what else I haven't done lately.

I haven't made out with anyone. This bums me out. I love making out. I'm excellent at making out. You know those car share things where you pay a small fee, you locate the car closest to you, you use it for a bit and then return it safe and sound? I would sign up for that, only with a makeout partner. I'd bring him back without a scratch, promise.

I haven't made dinner for anyone. When my friends and I get together, we eat 14 different appetizers and then complain about eating 14 different appetizers. But from scratch, using every pot and pan and weird kitchen appliance in my house? Nope. I paid far too much money for a cooking class in Tuscany to not be making homemade pasta once in a while.

I haven't snuggled a newborn. My little pal Henry is nearly 18 months old, so my friends need to get on that. Or, someone needs to get me a kitten.

I haven't added a tattoo. I think at least two more are likely, but I'm now both old enough and pragmatic enough to fret about placement. You start to consider things like how that beautiful peony you've been imagining is going to look after a hip replacement, for instance.

I haven't stayed up all night, drinking too much wine and telling stories I haven't thought about in years. Sure, I've stayed up all night, but insomnia and my dad being in a coma don't really count. Besides, they don't let you drink wine in the ICU, which I think should be under serious reconsideration. If you're going to pull me aside and say I should call my mom and tell her to come, you could at least hand me a nice pinot first. Dad's doing okay, by the way, lest you think I'm a massive asshole.

I haven't vaccuumed the couch in the den. So if you're coming over, for the love of fuck don't wear black pants. #cats

I haven't watched The Hunt for Red October. I know this seems random, but I love that movie. I've seen it more times than some people have seen that Trivago commercial. Seriously, dude, put a belt on. 

I'm sure there are plenty of other things, but those are off the top of my head. And don't feel like I'm missing out - there's plenty of stuff I have done. I've celebrated with a dear friend at her wedding (oh, did I celebrate), seen the fantastic "David Bowie Is" exhibition, taken a road trip through the Rockies to the Okanagan, hung out with some great new people, spent 10 days in London.

Now if I could just get that making out thing back in the rotation, that'd be awesome.

Hollywood is a damn liar

I'm a huge fan of movies and television and, with a love so strong, so unconditional, it was bound to happen. Hollywood was destined to lie to me. It's time I accept there are some things that just aren't going to be a part of my real life:


1) Frantic, can barely make it in the door, up against the wall sex.

How many times have I seen this? Pretty much every time there's a scene involving alcohol and  two people who either really like each other or pretend to really detest each other or, in some European art films, may end up being related to each other. An apartment door flies open, two people come stumbling in like they're in a perfectly choreographed but dimly-lit Greco-Roman wrestling match, clutching and grappling while so desperate to consummate their recently discovered passion that they simply CANNOT make it to the bedroom.

Look, everyone has played a little grab ass at their front door while trying to tipsily get the key in the lock, am I right, Mom? But this, the entryway orgasm, like 100 calorie snack packs that keep you satisfied until dinner, is a myth. And it's for one or more of the following reasons: roommates, pets, breakables, common decency. We've all had the "Don't mind me, guys" roommate, right? The one who doesn't announce his pantsless presence until you've already given him a coitus almostus sexy-time visual you'll be teased about for months. I've been roommate-less for years but, still, any real action is at least on hold until the living room. Why? "Shit! They're indoor cats, quick, close the damn door!" "Not on the console table -  my grandmother gave it to me just before she died!" "I don't have curtains in the entryway & besides, these are 100 watt bulbs." "Ouch - that coat rack is fucking sharp! Am I bleeding?" Just writing those is a boner killer, so imagine living it. I don't want to end up just watching a movie any more than you do, so abandon any barely in the door action plans, all ye who attempt to enter there.

2) A car chase through a cool city.

I'm a law-abiding girl with a dirty little secret. I like to drive fast. Okay, more accurately, I like to be driven fast. But here's the thing - I try my damnedest, on any given day, to not associate with anyone who might suddenly be pursued by Interpol. Also, I have no sense of direction; I once hopped in a cab outside a Paris train station and asked to be taken to my hotel. Which was about 75 yards away. So I will be of no navigational use whatsoever to any would-be Jason Bournes. Plus, my constant phantom braking and need to find an 80s station on satellite radio as soon as I get in the car are probably not the most useful qualities when one is fleeing assassins and/or all manner of law enforcement.

3) The montage.

The iconic Pretty Woman montage has been so oft-copied, I've come to expect it in a romantic comedy. If it isn't there, I start to wonder. Does she buy them online? Is she a shoplifter? If there's no montage, WHERE IS SHE GETTING HER CLOTHES?  Rest assured, at some point, our heroine will likely end up in a dressing room. She will emerge in no fewer than 8 completely different outfits, each looking fantastic and perfectly tailored even when they're just so charmingly wrong for her character.

Yeah, most stores I frequent only let you take 6 things in the dressing room. You try making eight outfits out of that. Of those 6 items, three will declare my ass an enemy combatant, one will require instructions to get into, another will give me a pallor not seen since the last diptheria epidemic, and one might, maybe, possibly look okay, if I were wearing different shoes / jeans / my 20s. I will not leave that store merrily swinging shopping bags aplenty, but I may come out swinging if I hear one more chirpy "How are things going in there? Can I get you anything?" Yes - liposuction and a double vodka. The only time my changing room forays come close to a Hollywood moment is when I'm trying to wrangle my cleavage into something clearly not designed with your safety in mind. Oh, it's not a Hollywood romantic comedy moment, mind you; it's more a preview of a Godzilla re-boot, and my boobs are about to sally forth and attack Tokyo.

And let's not forget the romantic montage: In the mid to late 90s, it would likely be set to "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel. And I feel like Lifehouse got a lot of dinners out a few years back thanks to falling in love montages. You know the ones: dinner date / stroll in the park/ through the city / tentative first kiss / adorably trying on weird hats at a street vendor / amusement park /museum/ ice cream / ice skating/ hot chocolate / closeup of hands clasping on tangled sheets / fade to black.  If my typical relationship had a montage, here's how mine might look: Awkward, uncertain flirting where I seem like I'm having some sort of nervous fit / beer followed by cheap tequila/ 35 minutes of battling other drunk people for a cab/ questionably regretful making out/ fairly enjoyable sex (it's a sliding scale) / drunk text from him 4 days later / booty call where I cut myself dry shaving my legs before he gets here / running into him the following weekend with the new girl he's dating/ who's 25/ fade to rage blackout.  Who are you guys thinking for the song? Is Rancid still together? Then them. Or Adele's "Someone Like You".

4) Hot doctors.

This medically unsound nonsense has been going on at least since the time of Marcus Welby (James Brolin was a total fox). It continued with Mark Harmon on St. Elsewhere and Rick Springfield on General Hospital and reached the apex with George Clooney's Dr. Doug Ross. Hot doctors are a central casting staple. And now the D(r)ILF fuckery has reached new heights on The Mindy Project. Not only do Chris Messina and Ed Weeks play hot doctors, they play hot gynecologists. The only thing a woman wants to see a hot doctor about is one of those sexy medical non-problem problems, like "I'm afraid hot yoga might be making me too flexible", or "I don't seem to have a gag reflex - should I worry?" You absolutely DO NOT go to a hot doctor with any sort of downtown issue. I've gone to the same (female) doctor for 20 years, and I'll still avoid eye contact with her if I run into her in the grocery store. I don't want an attractive man seeing me in stirrups unless it's the early 1900s and I'm galloping across a meadow to his English manorhouse.

God, there are so many other little ways Hollywood has let me down I can't believe we're still together: animals can't really talk (right, Tallulah?), nobody has ever chased me through an airport, catching me at the gate to profess his undying love (Baby, that's great you realized you love me, and I'm really happy,  but how did you get past security? Great, now here come the police. We'll have to start our life together with you on the no-fly list. Idiot) and I've never arrived home from a romantic dinner to find the living room / bedroom awash with the glow of 100 flickering candles. Seriously - who the fuck lit them? Is there someone else here? Is it your Mom?  Or did you light them before you picked me up? That was 2 1/2 hours ago! Jesus, you could've burnt the house down.  Yeah, not in the mood anymore. Put it back in your pants. Arsonist.

Oh, Hollywood, never stop lying to me. Except maybe about the talking animals. It's time for me to let that dream go.

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.

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.