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.

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.

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.

Divided we stand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ABCs of Me, the sequel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ABCs of Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring Fling

Just like the first little crocus starting to peek up through the ground, there's the April issue of Cosmo, peeking its smutty little head out from behind that boring Good Housekeeping. I give you the highlights.

The cover promises 50 Ways to Seduce a Man (in a minute or less). Presumably not while wearing What Guys Hate for You to Wear to Bed, and likely while having some Kinky Sex (which 64% of you tramps secretly want to try). I'm in!

The 50 tips are a fairly typical grab bag of short skirts, discreet public crotch grabbing and a slutty maid costume. Not just for Halloween anymore, I guess. The one that made me laugh AND gave me pause was this: "You know those treats you used to find at the bottom of a cereal box? One morning, I hid [my] new finger vibrator in my guy's cereal for him to discover." Maybe I have a startling lack of imagination, or maybe guys are different, but this doesn't make me think of sexy times; it makes me think of questionable food safety practices. I'd be on the phone to the Superstore faster than you could say "Want to frost my flakes,  Big Boy?" And here's the thing about the dozens of monthly tips: how are you supposed to remember them? Do you pick a few and commit them to memory? Flash cards in your nightstand? Create a mnemonic device? Many years ago, I had a copy of this somewhat racy "how-to" book, along with a willing partner who agreed to hold the book while we gave the alleged number one tip a whirl.  It was called "The Firestarter". He made me promise never to read that book, or any like it, ever again.

Guys apparently would like us to stop wearing nightgowns to bed. You know the ones - usually long sleeves, a neckline, possibly a ruffle, a hemline that hits the knees.  What shocks me is that they needed an article to tell women this. Were you home-schooled? They should have to card you before you head for that rack, and if you're under 55, sorry. T-shirt. Boy shorts. Tank top. Donair sauce. Anything but a little number from the Little Women collection.

Okay, pervs, I know why you've kept reading this far. You want to know what 64% of you want to try. Turns out it's the training wheels version of S&M, the stalwart combo of a blindfold and handcuffs. There are a lot of assurances that it's perfectly okay to find this appealing, your guy won't judge you, etc. The experts suggest bringing it up by mentioning you find the video for Lady Gaga's "Alejandro" really hot, and asking him if he thinks it is, too. I admit I'm out of the loop, but if any guy I'm sleeping with has any opinion whatsoever on a Lady Gaga video, we have bigger things to discuss than whether he wants to play good cop / bad cop. Whatever happened to "hey, you know what might be fun?" I swear, this inability or reluctance to say what you want is an epidemic. And since I know you're wondering ....please. I came of age with "9 1/2 Weeks" and Madonna's "Sex" book. I'm not saying I've seen more blindfolds than a Spanish firing squad, but I could probably put together a decent  Lone Ranger costume on very short notice back in the day.

Apparently, 48% of men say they've learned pretty much everything there is to know about sex. How sad that would be, to think there's nothing new to discover. And gentlemen - no,  you haven't.

There's a whole page dedicated to "Ferosh Date Shoes!"  I didn't know what they meant. At first I thought they'd misspelled "fresh". Or "frosh". But then I realized they meant a derivative of "ferocious". This bothered me more than it should. Then I realized I was horrified over a Cosmo colloquialism, and this bothered me even more. It was like I was on one of Escher's never-ending staircases, wearing ferosh shoes and searching desperately for my dog-eared copy of Strunk & White.

Do guys have signs they look for to guess whether a girl is going to be good in bed? My guess is if she's holding a one way ticket out of town dated tomorrow morning in one hand and a jumbo margarita in the other, but I could be wrong.

Oooh - there's a bonus section they don't tell you about on the cover. It's Cosmo's Sex Fantasy Game. There are 12 cards, each printed with three words, and you're to weave those words into an erotic scenario involving you and your partner. You're supposed to describe the scenario in a sexy way, and act it out as best you can. It's like "Whose Line is it?", only with lube.  Let's see - I think my favourite word combo is this one: bar / over-the-knee boots/ phone. Maybe it's my fashion sense showing, but when I think over-the-knee boots and bar, I assume the phone would be for your clients,  since you're clearly a working girl.  And I literally cannot imagine any sort of scenario involving bench/ bra/ mints without giggling. I must admit tent/ chocolate/ camera has potential. But who am I kidding? I'm a simple girl who thinks many of the bells and whistles are fun, but unnecessary. My ideal card would say  Kettlecorn/ PVR/ Missionary. What? I have to work in the morning.

Weird fact I learned: a study by the University of New Mexico found that lap dancers earned up to 80% more in tips on days they were ovulating. I smell an awkward conversation with my boss in about 8 days.

Quiz time:  Do Guys Think You're Exciting?  Let me reflect on the weekend just past. Hmm. Yeah, I'm gonna save myself some time tallying those answers. But one question caught my eye:  "You're dying to get with (really?) your man, but he's still at work. How do you let him know you're craving him? " Answer b), worth the maximum 2 points, is "Tape your panties to his garage, so when he pulls up, he can't miss 'em".  Okay, maybe I'm overly concerned with details, but what if he lives in a building? And I'd like to address this directly to any future paramours who happen to read this:  Honey, if you ever come home and my delicates are taped to your garage, it does not mean you're about to get your world rocked. It means I've been kidnapped and the unsub is sending you a sick, twisted, lacy message. Call the police.

One final tidbit from Cosmo this month. They asked 100 guys about their dream way to end the weekend. 31% said cooking a big dinner together. Where the hell are these men? They sure as hell aren't in my kitchen on any given Sunday. If they were, they'd totally find a beer/ remote control / Lone Ranger card beside their dinner plate.

March Madness

Why hello, new issue of "Cosmo". Is this the month you change my life? From the looks of your cover, it's possible. You have "The Sex Quiz I Must Take". Time and Newsweek just have that annoying Hosni Mubarak.

So this quiz. I'm expecting a lengthy, detailed, probing list of no less than 25 questions. C'mon - it's supposed to leave me feeling "lustier than ever before". That seems like it might take a while. Nope - four questions. Four. And what does it tell me? That my "pleasure MO" is verbal. Meaning dirty talk. Hmm. Not really my first time at the rodeo, Cosmo. I sort of figured that out years ago. And speaking of the rodeo - when did "woman on top" become "cowgirl" and its no-sense-of-direction cousin "reverse cowgirl"? There was an embarrassingly lengthy period of time when I thought this was some new position, not an old stand-by. I was kind of convinced it involved a saddle. Or at least saying "Yee-haw" a lot.

I normally gloss right over the fashion stuff, because I'm not really their target audience. I haven't needed to know what's hot in da club for years. Big problem - of their "7 Sexy Must-Haves", one is high-waisted jeans, and another is a strapless floral dress. I'm gonna save you a trip, Stacey and Clinton. I did these jeans the first time. And you know what I learned? High-waisted jeans on a short-waisted girl means those aren't quarters in my pockets; they're my nipples. And strapless now equals topless shortly, at least in Cleavagetown. Where I've been acclaimed the Mayor for a record sixth term.

A super easy love booster? Sounds promising. Simply looking at photos of happy moments will reinforce pleasant memories and will make a guy feel closer to me. I'm reading between the lines here, but I think they mean a guy you're already in a relationship with, and not the poor guy across the hall you've photoshopped into the pics from your sister's wedding. Again, I'm making an assumption, but I'm pretty sure there's a fine but definite line between reinforcing pleasant memories and restraining order.

Page 112.  "Why Men in Love are Dragging Their Feet", during the five major stages of a relationship. Stage One: asking you out. Apparently, men's fear of being turned down is extremely heightened these days. Something to do with the recession. Great - even my chances of getting to second base are tied to the housing market. I'm told I need to learn how to encourage a guy to step up by giving him a strong "go" signal, because guys want to feel needed before they make a move. The article isn't overly helpful on how to accomplish that, though.  Am I supposed to stand around by a puddle and hope some guy pulls a Walter Raleigh? See if he can open this jar of pasta sauce I have in my purse? I don't think I can play helpless very well. I'm going to die a virgin. Okay, virgin-ish.

Stage two:  guys are waiting until after the fifth date to sleep with us these days, at least if they're really interested. Not just their feet they're dragging, I guess. I can't fault this; I think this is mostly awesome. It's purportedly because women are so sexually confident now and guys feel extra pressure to wow us. Judgy bitches are advised to make it clear  to a guy we don't consider sex to be a test of his merit. Um, some of us don't, not the first time out. We're too busy trying to make our thighs look thinner. It isn't American Idol, for Christ' sake. There is no golden ticket. And in the vast majority of cases, Steven Tyler isn't in the room. There's more talk that guys want to be the ones to make the first move towards the bedroom; they just need a big ol' green light.  So my take away from these first two stages is that guys and subtlety don't mix, and that you pretty much need to drop a piano on a guy to let him know you're interested. I have a piano. Coincidence? I think not. I didn't bother with the other three stages; I have to go Wile Coyote that bitch and bide my time. And who are these women who are seriously grading men the first time out? You're giving the rest of us blue balls. I bet it's the same women who hate chest hair.

23 Great Places to Meet Men actually had some useful tips. Or they would be useful,  if I was willing to hang out at a guitar shop or at the finish line of a 5K run. Which I'm not. But one caught my eye: go to the website of a local real estate company and check out the agents' names and photos. Email a few and set up appointments to see their listings. Doesn't matter if you're not looking to buy. This might be the real reason the housing market is in trouble. This is so sleazy. Look,  I asked a lot of stupid questions when I was buying my house ("Do you think it's haunted?"), but I think most agents would know something was up if you didn't notice the appliances but you did ask if he worked out and what he liked to do for fun.

Finally, we have "The touch that will melt his boxer briefs". Apparently, it's a light one. Except I could have sworn it was a firm one about two issues ago. Damn you, Cosmo - make up your mind. Here's what's going to happen:  I'm finally going to meet some guy when I'm hanging out at the hospital cafeteria (I can't make this stuff up), we'll make it to five dates, and then I won't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do. Rough? Featherlight? What?  And I'll be wearing high-waisted jeans and carrying a lasso while I'm trying to figure it out.

You know you want it...

Wasn't feeling inspired this week. Post Christmas blahs? Maybe. Sugar crash? Probably. Then, like a gift sent by angels from heaven (slutty angels who are likely commando under their feathery wings), there it was. At the checkout. The February edition of Cosmo. And just like that, I was inspired.

Okay - it's back, baby! The magic number. 75. As in "Bad Girl Sex. 75 Very Naughty Moves to Try on a Man." Bring it. The usual assortment of role playing, public nudity and something involving a spatula. Although, one girl referred to her "inside knuckles". Do you suppose her hands are on backwards?  I had two  favourites: first, whip out an old Halloween costume and put it on. The costume in question was a (no doubt slutty) police outfit. Seems easy, fun, a bit silly. I have two old costumes in my house. The track-suited Sue Sylvester from "Glee", complete with hacked-up wig of questionable fiber content, and a giant purple crayon. You're getting hot just thinking about it, am I right? Pervs.

My second favourite tip was from a girl who suggested buying vibrating underwear that your boyfriend can operate via remote control, and wearing them to the movies. True, the warning at the beginning of the movie doesn't specifically mention turning off your lingerie, so they probably can't throw you out. But I can hear a cell phone vibrate 3 rows over, and  I have to assume there's some sort of buzzing sound associated with remote-controlled underwear. Do you really want to explain to the usher how that wasn't a text you were getting during "Yogi Bear in 3D?"  Hey, Boo Boo, indeed. And how does one launder those? My washer is a pretty swank, front-loading, energy-efficient number that practically makes me waffles, but I don't think it has a "Vibrating Panties" setting.

Russell Brand is this year's Fun Fearless Male. I think he's incredibly funny and, as a result, quite sexy. And he's smart; any man who refers to himself as " a simpleton of sexual semiotics" gets my attention. Plus, he says the worst pick-up line he's ever used was "Get in the van". That's just funny. Me likey.

"10 Romantic Moves That Guys Actually Dig." Always useful information. Except for one thing. The tips are courtesy of Brian Austin Green. 90210's David Silver. Who spent like 19 seasons trying to get into Donna Martin's pants. Are we entirely sure we want to take his advice?  Thought so. He does have one good tip, though. Loading the fridge with his favourite snacks and drinks is romantic. I have to agree. Any guy who either shows up with, or stocks up on, Popcorn Indiana Kettlecorn, a six-pack of Stella or a bottle of bubbles, and KitKats is pretty much gonna get french-kissed within an inch of his life. As soon as I have some kettlecorn.

What a guy really wants to do on Valentine's Day. Nothing. Word.

Oh dear. Page 85. The new ad for Katy Perry's celebrity perfume, Purr. Now, I like Katy Perry. I think she's cute as a button, she took on Russell Brand, and she's sweet in interviews. Except, um...



I know enough about marketing to know ads are supposed to make the consumer aspire to what they're seeing. So this'll really grab the would-be tranny jungle aerobics instructor hooker crowd by the disposable income.  And Katy, clearly cockstruck because of all the Russell Brand brand sex, agreed to this mess. My fear, of course, is that someone, meaning well, and knowing my love of both perfume and kitties, will think this is just the gift for me. Let me put it this way: I don't care if it's the best-smelling thing since Hugh Jackman's neck, if any guy walked into the master bathroom and saw this on the vanity, I would expect (nay, insist) that he leave immediately, never to return because of my shame.

"How to Make Him Better in Bed." They refer to the sexual style they call the "human jackhammer". Here's a tip. Don't love having sex that way? Stop sleeping with guys you meet at keggers. I think you'll find there's a very high concentration of jackhammer enthusiasts at your average frat party. Subtlety comes with age. Problem solved.

"The A-Cup Revolution" regrets to inform me that a University of Vienna study found that smaller breasts are more sensitive than larger ones. When contacted for comment, my ample bosom has this to say: "Fucking liars, the Viennese". Complicated dance moves as well.

In the article "25 Fun Things to Do With Your Guy", they suggest logging onto the site Pandora, picking your favourite group, then your boyfriend's favourite, and the site will mash the two styles together to come up with music that has attributes from both bands. This sounds cool, but can't possibly work all the time. What if I love The Pussy Cat Dolls and my boyfriend loves Rush? Wait - bad example. This would never happen. I could never date a Rush fan. But I am absolutely logging on later and trying it. If the site crashes, it was me. Trying to see what happens when a Pantera fan and a Belieber find true love.

I don't always do the Cosmo Quiz, but this one caught my eye. "Can He Read Your Sex Signals?" Most of the questions presume you have a boyfriend so, being single, I had to reflect on my previous relationships. And then once I got back from the therapist, I took the quiz. Oh dear. Turns out, and I'm quoting, 'there's no way in hell an average dude could [figure out my] super-vague signals. Out of a possible 10, I scored a 2. As someone who would like to date again, this is worrisome. Because if I suck at giving off signals to an actual boyfriend, how is some poor guy who barely knows me ever going to know I'm game? Balls. Maybe alcohol makes me a little more obvious. I'm going to do a few shots and take the quiz again. Granted, the quiz does give maximum points for trying to meet a guy by "adjusting" my shoe while sticking my bottom in the air, so perhaps I need a second opinion. Maybe Seventeen has a quiz this month...

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sorry, Julie Andrews

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

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

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

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

Boobs, boys and cupcakes, oh my!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Survey says...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet November

No, gentle readers, not the maudlin, unintentionally hilarious tear-jerker starring Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron. The November issue of Cosmo is out! The cover girl this month? Why, Sesame Street's very own Hester Prynne, Katy Perry. Except I'm pretty sure her Scarlet letter might be a "C", possibly a "D". Seriously, Elmo, they're just boobs.

You know the drill. I read, I pass judgement, I save you $5.49 by distilling the essential, need-to-know information I've gleaned from this month's issue. You might want to use protection; this one's a bit slutty.

The cover caught my eye straight-away. "First, Take Off His Pants". Now see, I'm old-fashioned. I always thought the shirt went first, then you work your way down. But what do I know - I've had a long standing policy of never sleeping with someone unless I have, in some esoteric, organic fashion, learned their middle name.

Anyway, the article is about hand jobs. Which Cosmo says will remind both the giver and the givee of those good old sexy times in high school. If I want to be reminded of my high school sex life, hand jobs aren't the ticket. That would be sitting in my parents' rec room, wondering if John Stamos is a good kisser. The article, I'll admit, is a pretty comprehensive how-to, if you're into that. I've never really seen the point. My real problem is the terms they use for the male anatomy. I wish I was kidding, but the phrases "throw his disco stick a party" and "give his sausage a massage" come up. Really? Dear Cosmo: "penis" is fine; "cock" is better. Say it with me: "Cock". Fun, right? Rolls off the tongue, no? Save your sausage for your pizza and your disco stick for your Lady Gaga Halloween costume.

Do we really need to talk about the Cosmo "confessions"? The usual mixed bag of public bare-assedness, roommate revenge, and hooking-up horrors. Just once, I wish there was a real confession. Something along the lines of: "I'm in a long-distance relationship, and I only get to see my boyfriend once a month. Sometimes, when I'm driving the 4 hours to see him, I like to kill a hitchhiker just to pass the time."

November marks the annual Cosmo 2010 Bachelor Blowout. A veritable directory of single men. Most of the gentlemen in question are in their early to mid 20s, but a few are a bit more seasoned. Bravo to both the Carolinas, and holy hot chef, Ohio! New Hampshire might want to rethink his answers, though. When asked how he knows he's into a woman, he replied " When I don't think about the things I'm missing out on while I'm with her". My God, he's a Lord Byron for our time, don't you think?

And then there's the quiz, which promises to tell me the "Wicked Things Other Women Do in Bed". It consists of 63 questions ("Cosmo's Naughty Sex Checklist"), and I'm meant to answer "I've done it", "I haven't, but I'm curious" or "I wouldn't". Disclaimer: I'm older than your typical Cosmo reader, so I've had more time to check things off. I kept a running tally in my head, so I might be off by a few, but I'm pretty sure the only person who scored higher than me was Charlie Sheen. Granted, some of it is pretty tame, and there aren't any questions involving really distasteful stuff, like farm animals, golden showers, or Bill O'Reilly, but still... I should probably feel dirty. And 24% of women surveyed say they wouldn't fake an orgasm during sex. Give it time, ladies. Give it time.

The Cosmo Weekend section has a few interesting tidbits. The Fun, Fearless Way to Meet a Guy? Scope out a guy on a laptop at a coffeeshop. Ask to borrow his computer to quickly Google something. When he hands it to me, I'm supposed to quickly open a blank Word doc and type in my name and number before handing it back to him. I see a few potential problems here. Girlfriend? Sexual Orientation? An unfamiliar operating system? Oh - and the fact that it's batshit crazy.

I should also apparently be playing more video games, since I'd be getting it on more if I were. I'm hitting the bullshit button. Why? Because I've spent a whole lot of DS face time with one Professor Layton these past few weeks, and not once has he looked up from a puzzle, raised a rakish eyebrow, and asked if he could see my diabolical box. Look it up; that's a funny line.

Finally, a poll of smart phone users has revealed some interesting facts about men. 42% of iPhone users, and 34% of Blackberry users, would be turned off by a woman with out-of-date gadgets, like a cell phone or computer. Holy fuck - I finally know why I'm single. It's not that I'm smarter than most guys or that I have super short hair; it's my c.d. player and my landline! Thanks Cosmo - as always, you have all the answers.

Another Cosmo?

Had so much fun reading Cosmo a few weeks ago, I picked up the new issue. Because I'm altruistic, I've once again condensed the highlights into one convenient, easy-to-read post. I save you time and money AND you get to read my smart ass comments. You're a little turned on right now, aren't you? I can always tell.

Right off the bat, this cover headline caught my eye: "Own His Orgasm - What Men Secretly Want Right Before Blast Off". My immediate thought? "Cool - they're talking to astronauts about sex at Cape Canaveral." Then the only astronauts I could think of were Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong, and I got nervous. Anyway, I think my confusion was valid. Why? Because no guy, ever, in the history of orgasmic proclamations, has used the term "blast off." Sure, there's the common, and much appreciated, declarative statement ("I'm coming", "I'm going to come", etc) the men of the clergy ("Oh God", "Ooooohhhh Jesus"), the sports fan ("C'mon! That's it, fuck yeah, alright, go go go go go! YEAH! That's what I'm talking about"), and the confused ("Oh Stephanie"), but never, that I'm aware of, the aeronautical. The article itself is pretty lacklustre, though I did learn this interesting fact: the average speed of male ejaculate is 28 mph. Hmm. That's about twice as fast as the cruising speed of a kangaroo, but only half as fast as the Pronghorn antelope. Still - reigning World and Olympic record holder Usain Bolt reached a top running speed of just about 28 mph, so well done!

Then there were "100 Crazy Dirty Sex Questions". What is it with Cosmo and sex and numbers? It seems like every issue has "75 Sex Tips" or "100 Things Guys Want You to Know Before You Take Your Clothes Off" or "18 Things That Will Make a Man Weak in the Knees" (a six pack and a year's subscription to the Bacon of the Month club?). By my calculations, in the last 18 months, they've featured, let's see, 75 x 3 plus 100 plus...wait a sec...carry the one...about 1107 things I'm supposed to know, do, or say with my clothes off. Call me the Captain of the fun police, but once I weeded out things I've done, things I never want to do again, things I wouldn't say on a dare with a gun to my head, and things that would land me in traction, I'm left with about 20 things. Of those, maybe four would be worth me missing "America's Next Top Model".

My three favourites:

1) How many calories does semen have? Now, I've seen this question several times over the years. And I have to say - what the fuck? Thirty six calories per teaspoon. It takes 3500 calories to make up one measly pound. That's about 97 1/4 teaspoons. 486 mls. About one good time away from two cups. I just threw up in my mouth. Why do you people need to know this? Have we maybe taken the whole Weight Watchers points system a little too far? Are you replacing your half-and-half with a very special non-dairy creamer? Jesus.

2) "Is it okay to use an electric toothbrush as a vibrator?" Really? Did someone miss health class the day they explained exactly what "oral sex" is? First of all, let me say I believe oral health is very important. And the best thing I can do for my oral health, after flossing, is not use the Sonic Complete S-320 to get off.

3) "I've heard it's unsafe to do it on a trampoline. Why?" Okay- 100 questions is admittedly ambitious. But was there seriously not one question deemed more deserving than this one? That being said, it's simple logic, really. Trampolines are often used by acrobats. Acrobats are often found in the company of other circus performers. So why is it unsafe? Goddamn clowns, that's why.

46% of men surveyed said their favourite Halloween costume is "sexy/naughty", like a nurse or a French maid. Wow. Didn't see that one coming. Suddenly, the reason I went home alone that year I decided to go as Alice B. Toklas is so much clearer.

The "confessions" were the usual potpourri of suspect nonsense involving squeezing the wrong guy's ass, panties falling out of your desk drawer at work, etc. Sadly, no repeat appearance by Gus, the road kill sex guy. I assume this is because he was one of the lucky few this month who wasn't caught bare-assed by his landlord or his roommate's Mom while thinking about dead racoons and trying to last just a little bit longer.

In the somewhat unsavoury "How to Outsmart STDs" , it's recommended that you "give his junk a once-over." My people don't really use the word "junk". My people being women over 35, not Anglicans. This tip would be of no help to me; I see that sentence, I think it means you should check out the yard sale your latest crush is having before you decide whether to sleep with him. And if he's selling half-empty bottles of Valtrex, he may not be the guy for you.

There's the potentially useful "Easy Ways to Feel More Aroused". This is why I'm not a freelancer; I would've written "vodka" and hit send. The accompanying picture: an attractive woman, wearing a gray pencil skirt, topless, in her kitchen, holding a bag of what appears to be spaghetti, but could be fettucine, linguine, really any of your long noodles. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do to feel more aroused, but based on the photo evidence, I'm going to assume it has something to do with bringing a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil.

I can apparently burn 5 calories if I squeeze and release my butt muscles 60 times while talking to my boss. Maybe I'm lazy, but burning 5 calories, (approximately 1/7th of a teaspoon of semen), isn't nearly important enough to me to have my boss wondering why I'm clenching my ass while discussing my vacation request.

But the best, the absolute make my day fact: a new study has found that when guys look at women with rounder curves, the reward center in their brains lights up as though they were drinking alcohol or taking drugs. They waited until page 199 to tell me my ass can give someone a buzz? C'mon Cosmo - this is the stuff you should put on the cover! Sure, astronaut sex will hook some people, but finding out I've been hauling the visual equivalent of two vodka sodas and a shot of tequila around in my boot cuts will guarantee you get my $5.49 every time.

Minimalist? Um...no

Hurricane Earl turned out to be mostly talk. But I didn't leave the house, got bored, and have been wandering from room to room, feeling kind of edgy. All of this wandering got me to wondering - why in the hell do I have so much stuff? And why have I kept it?

My friend J. likes lists; she's requested more lists. Which is sort of ironic, since I could probably write a fairly comprehensive list about things I saw at her bachelorette party that I wish I could un-see. Another time, perhaps. For now, and for sentimental reasons, here are 25 things you can find in my house that will be of no use whatsoever during a hurricane.

1) An ancient tin that, many years ago, held raisins from Malaga, Spain. My grandfather had it buried somewhere, stuffed with money, when I was a teenager. One day, he went and bought himself a new car, and when I went into their porch later that day, this muddy old tin was on the table, empty. I don't keep money in it, so no breaking in, please.

2) A plastic figure of Marie Antoinette. She has a removable wig and gown, and underneath she's sporting drab Conciergerie clothes and a buzz cut. When you press a button on her back, her head pops off. I realize this is in poor taste.

3) Bop-It. I've owned it for a few weeks. I'm obsessed. But you need to get to 100 to unlock the next level, and that is never going to happen.

4) Three little finger puppets of Friday Kahlo, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. I should really buy the Freud finger puppet; he'd have a field day with those choices.

5) The obligatory giant souvenir glass from Planet Hollywood New York, circa 1992. The place was hopping. Saw my very first transvestite at the bar. It was awesome.

6) Ticket stubs from every musical I've ever seen. I think "Crazy for You" was my favourite for pizzazz, but "Rent" for emotion.

7) A tiny wooden idol a friend sent me from Timbuktu. Seriously; it's a real place. It makes me a little sad, because I miss him being in my life like he used to be.

8) A copy of the book "How to Procrastinate". Haven't got around to reading it yet.

9) My childhood Raggedy Ann doll. I didn't realize until my 20s that she and Andy were apparently clowns. Fuck.

10) A vintage lime green porcelain clock with gilded gold cherubs. My aunt's sister-in-law coveted it, but my aunt secretly gave it to me years ago. Her sister-in-law hasn't noticed yet. It's rococo fabulous, and it keeps great time.

11) A painting I made at a breast cancer event by applying paint to my boob and pressing it to a card. It's quite pretty, and sort of looks like a pansy. I'd always suspected my breasts were the real talent; this confirmed it.

12) A reproduction vintage menu I bought along the Seine on my last trip to Paris. It's pretty much steak and potatoes, but it sounds so much cooler in vintagey French.

13) A framed photo of a sign shaped like a giant pig with the word "Norcineria" on it. Took it outside a shop in a small village in Tuscany. Near as I could tell from looking in the shop, "norcineria" means "we sell parts of the animal you didn't know existed".

14) A denim and metallic floral, fur-lined cat carrier. It was a housewarming gift billed as "The world's gayest cat carrier". It is.

15) Four handpainted margarita glasses (2 senoritas, 2 senors who look a bit like Juan Valdez) that my mother bought me. In Newfoundland.

16) Bone china cups and saucers that belonged to my grandmother and, likely, my great grandmother. I would love to display them, but I have them on a very high shelf because I'm terrified I'll break them.

17) A Magic 8 "Beauty Ball". You're supposed to ask it fashion and beauty questions and it'll guide you. Where was this in the 80s?

18) A giant pair of slippers that look like Grumpy the dwarf's head. They're lovely and warm, but now that I have stairs, I can't wear them; they're huge, and pose a serious safety risk. One of my old cats was absolutely terrified of them.

19) A tiny teddy bear I've had since I was about a year old. He's yellowed and long ago lost his original neck ribbon. But I love him.

20) A little metal crazy lady who comes with magnetic cats you can stick to her. I think of it as my very own action figure.

21) A pair of windup lederhosen. Doesn't everyone have those?

22) A receipt from the first night I spent with a special someone. I mean a receipt from a restaurant or shop to commemorate the evening, not from the special someone. He was cash only.

23) Barbie clothes from the 70s. From the looks of it, my Barbies spent a fair bit of time at Studio 54.

24) My Brownie Record handbook. I was apparently able, at the time, to care for and tie my own tie, sew two types of buttons on actual garments,
and keep my room tidy for two weeks. Didn't stick. However, looks like I never got around to making a terrarium or preparing a package neatly for mailing. Slacker.

25) A cheese bell. Has anyone, ever, in the history of entertaining, actually used a cheese bell?

Will I get rid of any of this? Absolutely not. But now I want cheese. And a brownie.

Just one of these things

I have the mental acuity of a gumdrop right now. No real reason; end of vacation, just finished a less than stimulating book, haven't been drinking enough water (I've replaced it with alcohol). Since I don't have the capacity to think of anything too complicated, thought I'd compile a little list like the ubiquitous Facebook ones a while back. Some of this stuff may not even be true by the time I finish writing.

25 things you don't know about me - sponsored by Okanagan Pear Cider.

1) I love Okanagan Pear Cider.

2) I kind of suck at bocce. But I don't care, and love it just the same.

3) I have recently discovered I have very strong opinions on Maltesers vs. Whoppers. The former all the way. They're much maltier.

4) I love reading novels that incorporate restaurants or cooking, but then I always feel so uninspired by my dinner for weeks afterward.

5) "Cinnamon" is one of my favourite words. I think saying it has the same mouth feel as tasting it.

6) I tend to distrust people who don't like animals, unless they have a really really good reason.

7) I could happily eat nachos 5 times a week.

8) I have been in love a few times, though one may actually have been a serious case of cockstruckness. And I have no idea if the feelings were mutual. Which I'm pretty sure means they weren't.

9) I can make pasta from scratch, and near perfect risotto, but have yet to master chocolate chip cookies.

10) I was recently discussing having an old tree in my yard trimmed before more branches came crashing down, and a total stranger overheard me saying " It needs to come down; it took out half my bush".

11) I am considering paying $89 plus our crazy HST for a beautiful scarf I absolutely don't need and can't justify. Ironically, I have told myself that I can buy it on payday if I don't buy anything I don't need this week.

12) Number of cats currently on the desk: one.

13) Worst movie I have ever seen: My Own Private Idaho.

14) I hate the concept of "right hand rings". Like the left hand is sacred. If my left ring finger was waiting for Mr. Right, it would have atrophied long ago. I also hate the concept of tiger's-eye pinkie rings, fyi.

15) I once managed to kill a cactus. I didn't even think that was possible.

16) I am allergic to trees, horses, and dust mites. So living above a stable in the middle of the woods is officially off my bucket list. Drat.

17) I love chest hair. On men.

18) I have recently rediscovered Cheesies. Do they count as dairy?

19) I have a huge crush on NBC's Brian Williams.

20) I love celebrity gossip, but I hate what constitutes a true "celebrity" these days. Sleeping with half of Jersey doesn't make you a star; it makes you a slut.

21) My mother has threatened to put me out of the car within the last week.

22) I wish the hair dye they have now was around when I was younger. I totally would have had bright purple hair, instead of the British New Wave burgundy I ended up with.

23) I once had a letter published in Rolling Stone magazine.

24) My favourite body part is a toss up between my feet and my eyes. Everything in between is open for discussion.

25) I have a huge phobia about overripe bananas that borders on the pathological.

25a) Number of cats now on desk: zero, although there were briefly two. I told you some of this stuff could change fast. I still love Brian Williams, though.