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.