Hot People Admit Defeat

Alright - so you probably noticed a considerable lack of activity coming from this little corner of cyberspace. There are a few reasons for that.

But first, I have terrible news. Plan Ab-Tastic was a failure. I cannot say that my abs were rock hard by my twenty-seventh birthday. I can't even say they were on their way. I'm certainly not ready to post pictures. Sadness.

The good news is that I know why this has happened. The bad news is that I am solely and completely at fault here. In an effort to integrate myself into this community, a community I'm still reasonably new to, I took on a little too much. And by "a little too much," I mean that over the last two weeks, I've had commitments seven days per week. As a result, I've had little to no time for a. cooking actual food for myself, and certainly no time for b. moving my body any more vigorously than is required for playing the piano. Probably this has contributed to the anti-hardening of my abs, because if I want to be really honest with myself, my abs actually got softer in the last month and a bit.

Admitting defeat is harsh. I don't like it. However, if I consider the overall cost-benefit analysis, I think I gained so much more in terms of spiritual nourishment running around to rehearsals for eight billion different concerts and performances than I ever would have by losing the fat around my middle. So many people know my name now, and that was really part of the goal. I exceeded the legal capacity of my apartment with a party I threw for my own birthday. In the past month and a half I learned to play (quite well, also) 30+ reasonably challenging pieces on the piano - a talent I'd let go to seed when I was in university. So the time hasn't been a waste, even though I did waste a month or so of my gym membership.

And, really, just because I didn't succeed right away with this ab-tastic goal doesn't mean I really have to quit it altogether. I'm planning some trips in the spring and summer. Trips where I might be wearing bathing suits. Hrmmmm.....And I've also learned some valuable lessons about time management and saying no to things that I don't absolutely want to do. I am armed for the future, and a sweet-looking midsection is headed my way. Eventually...

Hot People Are Big News

Ok - so I've been terribly errant in my posting. Please just believe that my life has been IN-SANE. I just did the dishes for the first time in about 2 weeks on Sunday, and the pile is getting big again. I found myself doing laundry after midnight last night. It's been that kind of November.

So, you can understand why sitting in front of a computer to hammer something out for you guys has been difficult. To put it in perspective, I'm totally at work right now (ok - it's a break - but I'm still at work.) To keep you all from chewing your arms off in anticipation, I have a hilarious story to break up the monotony of a lack of Miss T antics.

Big news: I have a boyfriend. A real live one. Last weekend, we had planned to enjoy the beginning of the festive season by watching the Christmas Parade in his very small hometown. We met up with a few friends and watched all the heavy machinery within a 40 mile radius of town drive down the main street decorated in lights and shrubbery while drinking heavily Bailey'd hot chocolate out of travel mugs as the first major snowfall of winter pelted down upon us. We followed this with drinks at friends', followed by drinks at the curling club, followed by drinks at the only bar in town. Needless to say, we were not in any state to drive the 40 minutes back home that night, especially given the snow. So we stayed the night at my boyfriend's parents' house.

In the morning, his mother insisted that we attend the local Christmas arts & crafts show. So, like good little children, we did.

On of the things that's making my life INSANE right now, is a play I'm performing in. My character is 9 months pregnant and, since I am not, requires some prosthetic costuming. I had a number of things planned for Saturday, and in my hungover stupor I needed to give myself verbal reminders. One of those things was to see the costume designer about my prosthetic. I told my boyfriend "Oh yeah, I need to go see that lady about my belly." The boyfriend looked at me, confused. "You know, my pregnancy belly." I remembered this AT the arts & crafts show. Beside my boyfriend's mother. Who looked at me aghast.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, realizing my tragic error, "For the play! It's for the play!"

She looked relieved. "Oh, you're in the play. The same one that he's in?" (I had roped my boyfriend into performing with me when our previous leading man dropped out).

"And do you play a couple?" We answered in the affirmative.

"And is the baby his?" We answered in the affirmative.

And then she SCREAMED "Oh my GOD! I'm going to be a grandmother!"

Six blue-haired ladies from around the arts & crafts show ran over. We tried to set them straight, but they were old and hard of hearing and we're sure that not everybody went home with the truth.

And that's the story of how an entire tiny town in Northern Ontario came to believe that I'm carrying the child of one of their favourite sons.

Further Miss T antics to come. I promise.

Hot People Unleash Their Secret Weapons

WARNING: This post contains photographs of scantily clad women (me), brightly coloured undergarments and some coarse language. Also, I'm really bad at formatting when there are lots of pics. So it's kind of a mess down there. Small children and (possibly) my parents and younger brother should exercise their discretion.
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My period started yesterday. I know, too much information. However, I think many of the ladies out there will agree that very few things can so reliably make you feel gross and fat like Aunt Flo. I am no exception. My monthly inconvenience decided to coincide its arrival with some kind of clammy-skin-plus-fever-and-sore-throat plague and the result is that I want to lay about in my not-oft-washed sweatpants and watch chick flicks all weekend. Unfortunately, I had also resolved to go dancing. The obvious answer here is an attitude adjustment.

This whole thing has been about confidence. I know it, and many of my very helpful readers have suggested the same. It won't matter how hot I look, if I don't believe it, nobody else will either. But it's really difficult to just decide to believe you look smokin'. Sometimes you need a couple of secret weapons to give your confidence a boost. Especially when you've asked yourself to dance your ass off like it's going out of style and you spent most of your day wishing you could curl up into a fetal position on the floor of your office instead of actually doing your job. This kind of emergency calls for significantly more than just a few secret weapons and happens far more frequently than I'd like. As a result, I've gathered an arsenal of "things that make me feel hot" for just such occasions. Here's my top 10, in no particular order.

1. Mascara. I have really long eyelashes, but they're skinny. Mascara is like instant sexy-eyes. I derive a certain amount of glee from complaining about how after I've applied my mascara, my eyelashes transfer it to my eyelids because THEY'RE THAT LONG. My friends and co-workers are kind of getting sick of that, actually. That's like saying my boobs are too big.

2. Speaking of big boobs, this bra is also an instant confidence booster. Almost a year ago, I'd decided I'd had enough of shitty, ill-fitting bras from Sears. So I decided to get a bra-fitting. I always knew I was well-endowed in the mammary department...but turns out I actually have REALLY BIG BOOBS. Those puppies are F cups. That's right, folks, my bra size is 34F. Bet many of you didn't know those existed. As it happens, bras in size 34F are kind of like endangered species. If you've got big boobs and a small ribcage, you can't even FIND a bra at Sears in your size. No, no - you have to go to a special lingerie store. And special lingerie stores have special lingerie prices. I nearly peed myself when I looked at the ticket price on the first right-sized bra I tried on. It wasn't until a party a few months ago to which I wore one of my old faithful Sears bras that I decided I needed a change. My bra kept making appearances in the cleavage area of my v-neck. A helpful (and very intoxicated) friend tried to rectify the situation by, ahem, fluffing my pillows. As in, she put her hands IN MY BRA and pushed my boobs together. In the middle of the living room at the party. If my bra situation was so dire that my lady friends need to PUT THEIR HANDS ON MY BREASTS, I figured that the $200 I paid for that red number up there was totally worth it. And it was. See for yourself.

<-Old bra

And new bra->







3. This dress:

I always feel fantastic wearing this dress. That's because it feels like I'm wearing a giant t-shirt, but the cleavage is fantastic and the colour is hawt. I've had men carry my catfood and potting soil to my car from the grocery store when I'm wearing this dress. I went for a walk with my friend a few weeks ago and 5 out of 6 of the men we passed paid me a compliment. This dress is confidence.

4. Also, this dress:

I recognize that this dress borders on shress territory, so I always feel a little bit guilty when I wear it. But it was the dress I was wearing on that fantastic sailboat weekend, and I think the fact that I was comfortable wearing it is a sign that I'm much more comfortable showing a little bit more leg - a body part I've never been super happy with. This dress is a milestone, is what I'm saying. And I'm proud of it. I'm slightly less proud of my modeling abilities. Is my hand glued to my hip? And where are my irises?!?

5. Straight hair. And curly hair. My greatest assets in the hair department are my (now antique) ceramic flat-iron, and a good-quality (not necessarily expensive) curling creme. And conditioner. I grew up in a house with hard water and no conditioner. I can't even begin to describe the clown-hair I had growing up. Things improved when I began to dabble with 2-in-1 shampoos, but truly, my life was changed when I discovered the glory of conditioner. Having great hair is a huge asset when it comes to upping the measurements on my personal hot-metre. It also helps to have kissed hairnets goodbye for (I hope!) forever.

6. Brownies. I got this brownie recipe from my grade 11 English teacher and they are the effing bomb. I rarely give the recipe away because they really are one of my secret weapons. Everyone's happy to see me, because I bring it with the brownies. If EVERYONE could bring the brownies, I'd lose some of my magic.







7. Lacy panties. Especially these blue ones (Don't worry, they're clean). These are really my lucky panties. I wear them anytime I want things to go well. And usually they do. Related secret weapon: brazilian waxes. Every appointment day I wonder to myself if I'm crazy. The next morning I remember why I'm not. It never fails. It doesn't even matter that I'm usually the only one who sees the results of my painful quadri-weekly appointment. I feel like a million bucks wearing those undies in the week or two after my appointments.

8. Kick-ass boots. For several years I've mourned the fact that my calves are too "athletic" to fit into most boots with a shaft that comes up much higher than my ankles. The last couple of pairs I tried actually WENT ON MY LEGS. And they're supah hot. I bought this pair in Scotland, just off Princes Street. I really dig all the buckles. Then, I bought this other pair from a local foot-covering merchant. Not bad for rural Ontario, I think. A few friends say they're fuck-me boots. I'm not so sure, but I do know that wearing these boots, even though most of the time the awesomesauce is hidden under my stovepipe pantlegs, makes me feel kinda badass. Which I, at least, think is pretty hot.








9. Dentistry. Remember that hilarious story about my tragic front tooth? Having a dental plan made everything better. Before (note that I'm making NO bones about using a totally unflattering pic for the before - I'm at once hilariously jet-lagged, unmade up and moderately intoxicated in this pic): And after: Now that I look at the pics, my front tooth didn't look so bad before. But psychologically, it's made a huge difference. You have no idea how awesome it is to be able to smile with abandon.

10. Dancing. I switch on a little motown if I'm feeling blue. If I want to pump myself up, I turn to Gaga or Ke$ha. And if I want to feel super sexy, I'll toss on some old-skool rap. And do this:

Actually no, that's a joke. The point is, though, if I'm dancing, I feel awesome-tastic. In fact, once I shook off the crusty feelings of my flu and my monthly inconvenience, dancing last night made me feel so awesome that my night was, in fact, epic. More on that later, though.

Hot People Play Along (And if at first they don't succeed, they try, try again)

Ok - so, I just commented on THIS blog because I thought I was invited to, and then got a comment back saying I had FAILED at accepting the invitation properly. I was supposed to post a selection of search terms that people use on google that wind them up here, my little corner of the blogosphere.

Most are search terms that have to do with my name or the name of the blog, which are clearly people who love me and my writing so much that they haven't added my url to their favourites. However, there are a number of super-funny ones that I'll share here.

1. Shress - Any loyal reader knows what this is. If you don't, just know it's the bane of my existence. A post about shresses early on in my blogging career brings continued traffic. Related search terms: what do you wear under a shress, wear stilettos and take it up the ass, 11 year olds wearing stilettos

2. Completely Hairless People - It makes me giggle a little to know that some poor schmuck looking for others who bear his terrible affliction of complete hairlessness happened upon my nascent concerns about waxing "down there".

3. White Tights Male Dancers - Not sure what this person was ACTUALLY looking for (or if it was academic rather than recreational interest that spurred their search in the first place), but I'm sure they were upset to find, not the answer, but the ramblings of a sexually frustrated 20-something who kept getting distracted from the skill and story involved in The Nutcracker Ballet by the bulges in the male dancers' tights.

4. Why did people ware capes - This person was so upset not to find the answer to his question that he felt the need to admonish me for my verbosity (rather than brush up on his google skills). On the up-side, talkin' ass bitch is my new favourite insult.

So...there...hopefully this time I got it right?

Hot People Keep on Truckin'

So yeah...things have been going pretty well, lately. Things going well is awesome for me...but I feel as though it's way more awesome for everyone else when things are going wrong. Because wrong usually means funny. And funny means more people are reading.

On the other hand, this "Don't Analyze, Act" deal has been working out for me. And I feel like that's going to mean more ridiculousness is on its way. I'm joining a running clinic tomorrow. That's probably going to mean a lot of doubled-over pain. Same with the weight training clinic I joined last week...with all the bodybuilders in town. It's like...8 bodybuilders and me....with 1/4 the weights and 1/16 the attitude. I'm planning on playing basketball this year too...which I haven't played in over a decade. I think things can go very wrong there.

At any rate, I think the blog is still a useful tool for me - it keeps me motivated, even if it doesn't always keep you laughing. For example, the plan ab-tastic countdown is on - I only have 74 days left. That's going to mean loads of hard work in the next ten weeks. I also have yet to learn to play the guitar with any REAL skill, or speak French without the aid of an alcoholic beverage. So there's still loads to work on...and fail at.

And if all else fails (or wait...fails to fail), I just got a kitten. I promised myself (and therefore, you) that I wouldn't be that person who writes about how their pets are retarded, but he is kind of...special. He specializes in running into things headfirst. Like, today, he jumped headfirst into the toilet. See? Special.

Hot People are ON A BOAT

It's time for some good shit, hey? I thought so too. It is for this reason that I am pleased to announce that I can conclusively say I recently experienced one of the top 20 weekends of life a few weeks ago.

So here's the deal. I have this friend. He likes to call me on the fly. This often works out for him because I frequently have very little to do. This one Saturday evening was no exception. I was all ready to settle in for ANOTHER night of DVD, wine and candy I don't need to eat. Then he called. Within 30 minutes we were speeding across the Ontario/Quebec border. Within an hour, we were eating delicious local food & wine under a giant tent.

The tent was hot, so we went for a digestive consitutional outside. My friend, while spontaneous, is also "a lifer," in that he's spent most of his life in the area. This meant we met lots of people he knew in and around the tent. One of them just happened to be a friend with a 29' sailboat. Well, you know how much I love sailboats? I love them even more when they have gallons of sangria on board.

We drank, we caroused, we went for a midnight sail...but that's really not the point of this story. I don't know if it was the sangria or my new "don't analyze, just act" attitude (probably both), but a lot of shit went down that I was really proud of.

1. I spoke French. For serious. Well...Franglais. But my friend said he was impressed with me, so I'll take it. I've discussed with my boss the possibility of keeping a jug of sangria in the insulin fridge at work so I can see our francophone clients (I think that's the magic). She's considering it.

2. I danced my ass off. I garnered what I think were genuine compliments about my dancing skill. This means I should keep doing it...which is good, because it really is my first love.

3. I made out with a delightful Quebecois stranger on the dancefloor. I saw him, he saw me, we had a moment, some skinny blonde chick (bitches!...they are my nemeses) tried to cut in on my moment and, for the first time ever, I said "NO! This my MY moment" and blocked her path.

Further to this, I declined his suggestion that we move on to more comfortable surroundings. And I'm proud of that. My usual attitude is that THIS might be the LAST guy ever to want to sleep with me so I'd better go for it (Dad, I know you're reading this and cringing...keep reading...I'm making progress!). THIS TIME I thought: what would I rather do? Have sloppy drunk-sex with an attractive guy I'm never going to see again or sleep on a sailboat? I made what I think is the obvious choice, SLEEPING ON A MOTHERF---ING BOAT! We exchanged numbers instead. Then I forgot his. I'm not waiting anxiously by the phone either, rest assured.

4. I went swimming in my underwear. The fact that I was willing to bare my midriff in front of people I just met made sleeping in my clammy undies totally worthwhile. I don't even care whether it was enjoyable for everyone around me. 6 months ago, I would never have let so many strangers at a time see so much of my skin. I guess that means I like it better. Huzzah!

...And the magic just kept on coming. Though I had to drive to Sudbury on 4 hrs sleep the next day, I got to see my cousin win gold in his event at the provincial canoe/kayak competition. Also, the radio keeps playing songs I dig.

Oh, and did I mention I went to Scotland right after that? No? Well, it was awesome. It had castles and shit. More on this later, I'm sure.

So, everything's coming up Miss T these days. Whoever's in charge of this: keep up the good work. Let the good times roll.

Hot People Like Diet Cherry Cola

I've had two things on my mind lately. Well...three things...but the third one is really more of a private conversation than a public mind-drool, so I'll wait until the time is right for that one.

1. Stuff that I want.

2. Stuff that I like.

So, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight.

***This is not the point. This is that thing I do where I talk about something mundane and then relate it to some deep part of my internal being and then blow everyone's mind (or, maybe just mine)

Anyway, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight. I was eating some homemade shortbreads (be jealous!), and they were a little too short for the hot weather and I needed to wet my whistle with something other than expired milk. As I walked over to the Mac's, I thought the good Dr. might have a delicious blend 23 flavours that would do the job. I was really hoping one of those flavours was aspartame. Unfortunately, Mac's milk could not deliver. I knew I was asking too much; who am I to think that I should be able to get a calorie-free beverage in my preferred flavour at the only retail establishment open after 10 p.m. four nights a week? I'm currently drinking the full-sugar version, which is, as we speak, boring tiny holes in my teeth and then somehow depositing the excavation materials on my waistline.

The same thing happened when I tried to make hot artichoke dip a few months ago. Canned artichoke hearts? Hilarious notion! I had to settle for hot spinach dip. It was tasty, but not exactly what I was looking for.

Ok...so, what I'm getting at, is that this town just doesn't seem to deliver on exactly what I want. I can get what-I-want-adjacent, or two complementary halves of what I want...but never the genuine article, it seems. And I think you know what I'm talking about here. I've been pretty relationship-focused lately. Even when I let good ole rational brain in to say something cogent about trying to make friends and have a good time, underneath it all, I'm really hoping that every interaction I make is going to lead to something lasting (by this, I mean, more than a few weeks) and, let's face it...coital.

Alas, I recently came to the conclusion that this isn't going to happen. At least, not in the foreseeable future. All signs point to the apparent reality that I have entered a period in my life that I've lovingly monikered the ERA OF EFFED UP PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS. A bird's eye view of my recent dealings with the opposite sex will show you this: it's LIKE we're dating...except we're definitely not dating. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described physical type looks an awful lot like me. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described personality type sounds an awful lot like me. And for a long time, this was really confusing to me. WHY would people more or less describe me, to my face, as the kind of person they really want to date, if they don't actually want to date me?

So, on the weekend, a friend of mine clarified it for me. I described one of these effed-up platonic situations, and he said, "Huh, so you're the incase of emergency, break glass girlfriend."

And then the lights turned on. And suddenly, I was enraged. I am the safety girlfriend. When all other options have been exhausted, they know I'll do a reasonable job as a pinch-hitter girlfriend. And that's why these dudes keep dangling carrots in front of me and then pulling them out of my reach just before I grab onto them.

On to the stuff I like. In particular, I mean stuff I like about me. I've been thinking a lot about that question my friend asked back when I couldn't cry (Problem solved, btw. This song did the trick. Bawled my face off).

I think it's an important question to be able to answer. So important that I was discussing it with a few members of my family. My mother disagrees. She thinks that people shouldn't be able to answer that question unless they want to admit they're full of themselves. In fact, her response was so visceral that she had to get up out of her chair, to illustrate that she hates people who haven't got a problem saying "I am SOOO great! I LIKE myself! I'm good at walking (she marched on the spot to illustrate this point), and I'm good at smiling, and I'm a good person!" And frankly, I think I wouldn't like them either. Because I'd be jealous of them.

But that's because I'm not very good at smiling. Observe. (In the interest of full disclosure, the drink beside me is mine. And it was tasty. The bottle of pills is not mine. That's cat medicine. I don't know how it tastes).

Seriously, though. I'm already full of myself. I have almost 100 pages of text broadcast through cyberspace devoted wholly to myself. Wouldn't it be great if that full-of-myself-ness had a positive spin to it?

So, instead of thinking of all the things I don't like about myself (like my smile, and my acne, and my fat ass, and...wait, right...that's what I'm NOT doing this time), I really should think about the things I like.

So, at first I thought I liked the fact that I'm 100% genuine. I do not know how to bullshit. But then I remembered how my 0% bullshit policy gets me into trouble A LOT. So, I scratched that idea. Then, I realized that the thing I like best about myself is the fact that I'm pretty effing resilient. I've had a lot of shitty life, and a particularly bad run the past few months, but I keep getting up and coming out swinging. I like a lot of other things too. I'm looking pretty curvy these days, and I have really nice eyes. And hair. And boobs. (Please ignore the mess on my coffee table. And my shitty furniture)

Ok - back to that back-up relationship thing. Yeah, that makes me mad. And I'm realizing that I ought to like myself way too much to be THAT girl. So, while a small bit of me still burns a candle for some of these dudes, when and if whatever emergency arises and they decide they want to break that glass, I've gotta think long and hard about whether being behind that glass is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

And in the meantime, I'm going to have to resign myself to going without exactly what I want. I can compromise on my chilled cherry-flavoured cola beverages every once in awhile, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to compromise on this anymore.

So, good sirs, I am pleased to be friends with you. But there's no need to continue to lead me on. I'm going a different way.

Hot People ARE your friends

Well, I finally got that label I was after.

Friends.

I saw it coming; I'm kind of an expert at it now. The key is to listen for two words: interesting and fun. Death. Knell. These words are instantly translated in my brain to "I like you, just not in the way where I want to make out with you or rub up against you or touch your boobs." This is unfortunate, because I really enjoy making out, being rubbed up against, and having my boobs touched. On the other hand, I also like having friends...and could probably use more of them. If I had more, I might actually believe that I'm interesting and fun.

And that's my problem. I don't really believe it. So, when I meet other people that I think are interesting and fun, I feel as though I have nothing to offer them, and, more often than not, self-fulfilling-prophecy myself out of the relationship.

In the meantime, because I don't like being alone (more friends might help with this too, hey?), I just go crashing into anyone that shows the slightest bit of interest, hoping that one of these days, something will stick. This always results in regret, which makes me feel even less interesting and fun.

Sigh...

Ok - who here is sick of me waxing philosophical about myself? I feel like I've been acknowledging my shortcomings for long enough, and not just a few friends & acquaintances have grown weary of it. To you, and them, I apologise. Let these be days of action. And let interesting and fun MEAN interesting and fun, and not just code for friendzone.

Hot People Don't Paint Themselves Into Corners

When I was a student, I learned a lot about behaviour change. That's basically what dietitians do, actually. We help people change one of the first (and therefore, most habitual) behaviours they adopt. If it was easy, I'd be out of a job. Or at least, that's what I tell my clients so they feel more at ease with me.

Well...the thing about hotness, I think, is that it's not really about the way I look. If it was just about that, I'd have stopped writing this long ago. Or at least, I'd have stopped around the time that I moved here...since my downstairs neighbour tells me on a semi-daily basis how good-looking I am. I do not tell him how much he looks like John Wayne's long-lost cousin from Hicksville in return, but I think it every time. Anyway, the hotness thing must really be about my behaviour and my attitude. And I know better than most how hard those things are to change.

Case in point: My discussion of my listing tendencies crossing wires with my romantic life really got me thinking about how the lists are kind of getting in the way of the rest of my life as well. Last week, I sat at home, mourning the fact that all of my friends had plans that night. In order to fill the time, I made another list. Actually, it's way more ridiculous than that. I filled in my brand-spanking new daytimer. Seriously. I spent my Thursday night planning each day of the next year of my life. And sometime midway through that evening, I realized that what I was doing was REALLY effed up. Really. This obviously made me really upset. I frequently lament the fact that I don't have the social life I wish I had. I don't think it's because I'm some socially inept creeper (although, I did spend 8 years doing intercollegiate competitive debate...so perhaps I'm entirely wrong about that). I think it could have something to do with the fact that when I get into a social situation (except, of course, when I'm already a little bit tipsy), I feel like I have nothing to add to the situation. When I realized this, I also realized that rather than keeping the daytimer as a contingency for a dry spell in my social life, I was doing it as an excuse not to get myself out there. This is a depressing notion, and I've been pretty sad lately as a result.

Let me tell you a seemingly unrelated story. I thought of it the same night, as I was chopping jalapenos to put in a delicious mango salsa. The last time (or at least the most memorable time) I was chopping jalapenos, I was home alone back in Halifax. I was making supper for me and my then-boyfriend who was working until 10 or so at a restaurant just around the corner. The knife I was using must have been kind of dull, because as I was chopping, jalapeno juice was flying everywhere. And a big juicy drop of it landed directly in my eye. I'm sure you can guess that the resulting pain was, well, excruciating. And I'm not even sure excruciating really covers it. It was...AAAAAAAUGH...pain. And I panicked. I didn't know WHAT to do. I grabbed an ice cube, stuck it directly on my eye, and staggered my way, depth-perceptionless, around the corner to the burger joint where my boyfriend was working. Since he was working for at least another half hour, and I felt as though this was something that needed to be dealt with immediately, I stole his tips for the night and grabbed a cab to emerg. I could have gotten the cab for free, as it turned out, because a girl holding ice to her eye and asking to be driven to the ER in the evening just begs to be pitied. Probably because she looks like someone's taken the boots to her, and not because she's a culinary dolt, though. When I got to emerg, the triage service asked what had happened and upon hearing my story responded with "Ouch, that's gotta suck." Yes, I thought, it sure does. Now please get me to some kind of eyewash station. Give me some kind of antidote to this burning, burning pain. I learned that night that there is, and I quote, "no medical treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye." This was the last straw. I turned, stomped out, possibly flipped the bird to the triage service for failing to take pity on me, and promptly began to sob. With the first teardrops to leave my eyes, the burning pain immediately subsided. Huh...so there's no MEDICAL treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye, but there is a perfectly natural, holistic treatment. Just start bawling.

As I was remembering this story, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I actually cried. I came very close, a couple of times, recently. Once was when a friend asked me what my favourite thing about myself was and I genuinely couldn't think of an answer. The other was when I considered that, though my current dating situation has hurled me into a kind of tumultuous tug-of-war with myself, it is immensely better than the given-up, dead-feeling person I was towards the end of my last relationship. And perhaps a good cry would be just the thing to release all this pent-up depression I've been feeling. But, I don't know if that would get to the root of the problem. I've got a (this time, emotional) burning feeling again, and I know something's gotta give if I'm going to get rid of it.

So here we are back at the daytimer. I feel like I need to break out of my protective shell of plans and lists. And I don't know how the heck to do it. I'm really not good at being impulsive, and when I am, it's usually not very good for me (I'm REALLY good at buying candy on impulse, for example). On the other hand, if I consider my romantic life - in an effort not to have that dead-feeling again I've been making a conscious effort not to do things the same way. In fact, I'm considering dating in ways I never, ever thought I would. See: not wearing the proverbial pants ALL THE EFFING TIME, and obviously, also, restraining from labeling and listing. And I think my strategies are working there, to at least some extent. Perhaps I can use this success to motivate me to change in other areas of my life. At least, that's what I'd suggest to my clients if I wanted to help them decrease their potato portion.

One thing I know for sure is that I have to break down some walls, or I'm never going to get out of this corner and get what I want.

Hot People Buck the Trend (Or, Hot People Post their 50th Post!)

I've been feeling kind of bipolar lately - kind of like my life is coming apart at the seams. This is, of course, a ridonkulous notion. If I step back, it's totally obvious that my life is pretty excellent these days. I have no pants that fit me (they're all too big!), I've lived here for 4 months and I constantly astound my coworkers with the number of friends I've made and how I've jumped right into the thick of life in this surprisingly unsleepy little town, and I've started dating (?) someone really sweet and fun in the last few weeks. I am currently lying in my backyard letting nailpolish dry while I smell clover & cut grass, and soak up the late afternoon sun. What could I possibly have to complain about?

Well...there's that niggling little question mark in the parentheses up there.

I'll tell you all my worst-kept secret. I'm a list girl. I like making lists, I like reading lists, I like sorting list items using categorical measures. My listing tendencies are a huge family joke and have been ever since my uncle discovered me reading the local phone book and the national postal code directory for fun the summer I was nine. In university, I had a job doing data entry for one of my school's faculties. My task was to standardize the lists of current students, applicants and alumni. Every day I would cackle with glee that they were paying me $12/hr to do something I WOULD TOTALLY DO FOR FREE!!!

I have lists for everything - I don't choose a movie to watch, a book to read, a food to eat without consulting a list. I have lists to tell me what item of clothing to buy next, where to get my next mascara wand, and when I lived in a city with hundreds of restaurants to choose from, I was guided by a list there too, rather than what I felt like.

Any good list-maker knows that you can't make a good list without a well-defined category or two. Action, Romance, Comedy. Fiction, Non-Fiction, Reference. Italian, Sushi, Thai-fusion. Single, Taken, Married (very taken).

The whole point of the categories, and the list-making in general, is to reduce my time spent making decisions. The reason for that is that when presented with a choice, I tend to overthink things. Like, a lot. If I don't know the answer, it's cool. I probably have a list for that.

So, you see why that question mark is causing me so much grief. I don't have a label, I can't put it in a list, and as a result, I'm overthinking everything associated with it. What are we doing together? Where is this going? IS it going? Do I say "This is my friend..." when I introduce him? While it's true, I feel like it's not a completely accurate descriptor. Do I say "This is my boyfriend..."? Well, probably not. We're not there yet either, I don't think.

But, if I give the rational part of my brain a much needed chance to contribute to my thought-soup, I know the answer is that I can't stick this whatever-it-is in a list to avoid making a considered decision. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure this isn't a decision I make on my own anyway. He isn't MY anything unless HE decides to be. The only thing I am free to label is me. And I am his...

This decision doesn't have to be made tomorrow. It's just surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly) hard to fight my natural label-and-list tendencies. In the meantime, I'll have to just enjoy the ride, even if it leaves me a bit listless.

Hot People Contain Their Glee

First of all, I'm learning that not a lot of heterosexual males around these parts share my devotion to that television show. Alas, I indulge that guilty pleasure alone, ensconced in the comfort of a throw blanket in my office staring, eyes-wide, at my computer screen.

But that's not really what I mean. I had a date last night (this time I KNOW it was a date). I was pretty effing excited about a. the date in general...cuz...I mean, well, you know how it's been, and b. the person with whom I was having the date. He's pretty cute. And pretty sweet. And I'm pretty sure the date went really well. And...well, see here's the problem.

I am having a REALLY hard time playing it cool. I feel as though my previous experience hasn't really prepared me for this "dating" thing. Having had one major relationship spanning ages 20-25, much of my formative dating years were missed. And that relationship began kind of like this: First, we didn't know each other. Then we knew each other and we were (more-or-less) in a relationship. There wasn't really that getting-to-know-you dating period where you know you like each other but you don't spend every waking minute together, which is where I'm pretty sure I am now. Since that relationship ended, sure, I've had dates, but since I think REALLY highly of myself and have super high standards (maybe THAT's why I'm still single) I really just wanted those dates to be over and never happen again. So I can't even draw from previous fledgling dating experience because it nearly always flopped from the first moment.

I'm also a little concerned about the hotness goal now. I've been as much as told that I've "attained hotness," but as I've said before, I don't feel really good about deciding that I've reached a goal because someone (even a boy I really like) else told me I'd done it. That's not to say I didn't REALLY enjoy hearing it, but I think you know what I mean.

As a result, I'm pretty much totally at a loss. I am simultaneously deliriously happy, terrified, tentative and reckless. And I'd really like all those feelings to ensconce themselves within my psyche in a manner similar to my ensconcement of myself for private Glee viewings. I think they're failing at this.

Hot People Clutch and Shift Gears

So, I may have been a wee bit dramatic last time about the world's flatulence, and more particularly, where it's been directing it. I think I really just had a whole bunch of reality check all at once and it was, as always, particularly unpleasant. I've always really enjoyed living a fantasy life.


Much of my non-work attention has been placed directly on my romantic life lately (yeah, still having trouble with that boys thinking I'm fantastic does not equal hotness deal), but I've gotta say, it's been making me kind of sad lately to focus so much of my time on that. Most of the men I've made friends with here are either taken or explicitly not interested in me, and even my attempts at booty calls with old guy friends elsewhere have turned into EPIC fails. But while all of this is kind of sad for me, and probably really entertaining for all of you, I've realized lately that I should be paying more attention to my (non-relationship-related) wins.

Case in point, I just graduated. And not only did I graduate, I did it with first class honours. And I won an award of distinction, presented to me by Halifamous person, Alexa McDonough (she shook my hand!) I don't know what makes me distinct (well...I don't know WHICH of my distinctive qualities was the winning one), but hey...sweet.

And I learned that I'm one of very of few of us graduating who has a job she's REALLY happy doing, and lives in a town she's REALLY happy with (for serious, move to Northern Ontario. Do it.) When I learned how many of the girls graduating were still looking for jobs, or were working in jobs outside of the field, it was like a huge pat on the back for me that I've managed what I have.

Most notably, plan ab-tastic has been in full swing for about two months now. A bunch of my friends made a point of telling me how fantastic I look. While my appearance wasn't the only "hot" quality I had originally been aiming to improve, I've learned that I respond really well to positive feedback, so it's nice to get that. I've lost several inches since I started sweating my ass off and pumping iron on a regular basis (the gown really shows off the results of all my hard work, no?) and I'm really proud of that - though it would be nice if I had a few pairs of pants that ACTUALLY fit. I can see my obliques now! I can say with relative certainty that plan ab-tastic is at the point of ab-tisfactoriness. Anyway, please keep noticing. It makes me feel like I'm ACTUALLY succeeding at this hotness thing, which makes me want to keep doing it.

After returning from my grad, I went to a fashion show put on by my personal trainer, featuring a bunch of ladies from our local ladies' figure and bodybuilding team (yeah, that's right, Northern Ontario is effing awesome). And while it's not as though I REALLY want to be a figure competitor or bodybuilder (two months of steamed broccoli, raw almonds and plain chicken breast is not my cup of tea, thanks very much - also, no cups of tea, which I cannot live without), watching these ladies, some of whom are grandmothers, strut the catwalk in bikinis looking TOTALLY RIPPED made me feel really inspired (although it might have been a buzz from the wine I drank and the fact that I got to merengue a little). I went on a 30 km bike ride today. Over gravel road. There were three unleashed, angry-looking dogs and a lot of very persistent bumblebees. It was really hard, but I had a new sense of determination that I've been missing for a long time. And this time it wasn't really driven by my sense of revenge, and I think that's a big step for me.

Hot People Have *Some* Principles

I know it's been a while since my last post, and there's a very good reason for that. Fear not, dear readers. Though the positive attitude exemplified the last time you heard from me may have suggested good things on my horizon, the world farts in my face yet again.

The dearth of hilarious hijynx on the interwebs has been the direct result of my hard drive eating it sometime in early May. Procrastination and a timetable tighter than my junior high figure skating costume kept me from getting it fixed until mid-week last week. Anyway, perhaps the fates were keeping me from posting so nobody would miss my latest bout of ridiclitude. Every time I tell this story I feel stupider and stupider, but I'm hoping that blogging about it will serve as some kind of cathartic reset button.

I've made a few friends recently. This is not the problem (actually, it's kind of a huge win for me). I've made most of these friends through the FIRST friend I made here - he's been really great at introducing me to people and to the wonders offered by small-town northern Ontario. A week or two ago, he invited me to a party hosted by a couple of friends on a cottage property just outside of town. As the night progressed, it became more and more clear that we would be staying the night (the strongest indicator of this being the rate at which we were producing empty bottles). Towards the end of the night, we decided to change into our swimsuits and fire up the hot tub down by the lake. This may have been the worst idea in history. Hot tubs are a great way to relax and unwind, dehydrate yourself, and then become unbearably nauseous. My friend was one of those who discovered this. The hot tub time was cut short by a significant margin.

So, we all went inside and were shown our various accommodation options. When it came my turn, our hostess looked at me and my friend and said "You guys can either sleep in THIS double bed, or you can sleep in this other room with the double bed and bunk." This immediately set off my awkward situation alarm. She clearly thinks we're together. My immediate response was to quietly wait for her to leave so I could avoid having the "Despite appearances, I'm VERY single" discussion, which I hate with every fibre of my being, and then choose the room where my friend was guaranteed to concuss himself because I'm just a generous person like that.

Awkward point number two was when we both reached for the same doorknob. Being chivalrous (and only slightly less intoxicated), I allowed my friend to go into the room with the bunk - but having already COMMITTED to that room in my mind, I didn't have a second thought about sleeping in there even though he had also obviously chosen it and there was a perfectly good, empty bed in the next room. I am a dumbass.

Awkward point number 1000, we had changed into our suits in a different building on the property. This meant that once out of wet suits, there was really nothing to change INTO. My friend was completely naked under the covers, and once I took off my wet suit, I would be, ahem, "as God intended me" as well. While I'm generally in favour of co-ed nakedness, I feel as though this was a situation rife with opportunitues for Shakespeare-esque misunderstandings and ensuing sword-fights. It was awkward.

At some point several seconds into my descent into drunk-sleep, my friend groaned. As he was above me, and as most projectiles are subject to the forces of gravity at some point, you can understand that I was concerned for my general cleanliness over the course of the night. I also had concerns about my ability to get home if my friend, who had driven us both, died in his sleep. Awkward point 1000000, my mother-hen tendencies kicked in. You know how the drunk-faces LOVE it when people try to feed them water? I ALWAYS forget that! I wrapped myself in a towel (there was NO WAY I was putting on a wet bathing suit just to get a glass of water), got a glass of water, and tried to feed it to my friend in the top bunk. Drunkenly wrangling a very drunk, very tall man whilst holding a glass of water is REALLY hard. It was hard enough that my towel slipped. Not wanting to give up on the semblance of clothedness, though, I found myself more or less just pinning the towel against the side of the bunk bed with my chest...

And that's when awkward point infinity happened. My friend was mumbling some shit into his pillow. I was at once concerned that he might smother himself and that he was saying something of great import, so I leaned closer to hear what he was saying. All of a sudden there was an urgency in his voice, and he was yelling at me to "behave yourself! behave yourself! Your nose is touching mine!" Thinking that he was delirious and therefore beyond help, I gave up on him, turned the lights off and went to sleep. It only occurred to me the next afternoon that he totally thought I was trying to kiss him. And here we have our first Shakespeare-esque misunderstanding. If he's not acting super awkward around me, I'm sure as hell projecting my awkard feelings onto him every time I see him now.

This whole situation leaves my feathers a little ruffled too. Why, you ask? Well, it could be because he seemed super-offended by the idea of my kissing him. And I guess it would be legit to be offended by his offense-taking. I'm kind of fantastic (in an adorably eccentric and bizarre kind of way), and really - if it had been a lean-in for osculatory purposes rather than auditory ones, what up - it's just a kiss. But to be honest, that's not it.

What offends me is the idea that I would try to kiss anyone in THAT situation. As if stealing kisses from half-passed-out men who can't defend themselves is how I roll. For the record, I am not from the ends-justifies-the-means school of nookie acquisition - I'm pretty sure I'd rather get it the usual, consensual way even if it means I don't get it at all (which seems to be my track-record of late). I'm just too much of a hopeless romantic for anything else and I object to the notion of anything to the contrary.

Hot People Make it Fit

I went clothes shopping on Friday - I bought some new jeans. While I love having new jeans, it was still a giant disappointment to learn that while (according to my personal trainer) my workouts have been working for me (for serious, I can see abs...well...two of them), I'm STILL THE SAME EXACT SIZE THAT I WAS THREE MONTHS AGO!

But this is like a lot of things in my life - except I'm trying to squeeze my fat life into the same amount of time as I've always had. Because of my pre-work life was disappointing, from an extra-curriculars point of view, it seems as though I'm making up for eight years of lost time. I'm also told that "being involved" is a good way to meet people, and since I don't know too many of those around here yet...but perhaps I've gone a little bit overboard.

In addition to my gym and choir obligations, I have also recently joined a film event society, committed to piano performances for a local poetry festival (and may read some of my own works...eep!), and have started accompanying a high school choir. I'm currently seeking opportunities to join a Dragon Boat team, and have recently learned how to catch frisbees (which, at one point, I would count among my greatest fears - up there with eating grapes and engaging in small talk with strangers) in an attempt to play Ultimate.

Reading over this, I am somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of activity I've engaged in. I am also, all of a sudden, not at all surprised that last week I found myself embarking on a 3 hour drive for a work function through moose country at 11 p.m. in an effort not to miss out on my social life. Perhaps you have to be just a little bit crazy to ACTUALLY work hard AND play hard. This might also be why I arrived home from a trip to Ottawa at midnight on Sunday night and slogged my way through work the next day with a smile slapped on my face despite my inability to actually form complete sentences when providing instruction to my patients.

On a work-related sidenote, though...I recently went to my first drug-rep-sponsored networking event. It is a bizarre, bizarre experience to be offered unlimited amounts of free alcohol while being pumped for business from a salesperson and being under the discerning and critical eye of your boss. Deeply weird. Especially when the discerning and critical eye of your boss is a little tipsier than you are.

At any rate, strange ethical dilemmas aside, I seem to be balancing my hard work with my hard play reasonably well. But it means a lot of late afternoon naps - which makes me wonder if I'm doing it wrong.

Hot People Have Their Reasons

Maybe it's the perpetual cycle of cruel teasing sunniness followed by inexplicable snow, rain and cloudy weather. Maybe it's the cosmic coincidence that I woke up both slightly hungover AND with my monthly inconvenience and could do little more this morning than haul my sorry ass from the bed, to the bath (standing up in the shower was just too much for me today), to the couch to watch a children's film and drink copious amounts of milky tea. Maybe it's because my new hairdresser alerted me to the presence of grey hair in my coif last week, and now every time I look at myself in the mirror, I keep thinking I see huge chunks of grey. Maybe it's the fact that, though I was invited to something party-esque last night (social life! huzzah!) and got pleasantly tipsy, tipsiness yesterday always results in feelings like this today.

I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of in an emo funk (imagine the fusion of THOSE musical genres...blech...well, that's how I feel). I've been writing this stuff for over a year now - and I think I have improved on the hotness front. I think I'm a lot more interesting than I was just over a year ago...for serious. It's been hard work, too - or at least painful - what with the brazilian waxes, unfortunate skin reactions due to experiments with makeups, face creams, and cleansers, and constant attempts to get my bicycle up hilariously steep hills in an effort to make my ass look sweet. But what am I doing this for? And for whom?

This whole thing started as a way to feel good about myself - and to a certain extent it's worked. But I still find myself feeling like this a little more often than I'd like. And what have I really got to show for it, anyway? A handful of slightly regrettable one-night stands (some only regrettable because they never got past that one night), a few pounds melted away (but really, only a few), a better handle on the application of makeup, slightly more flattering clothing and a seriously twisted co-dependent relationship with online dating sites.

And when feeling good about myself didn't seem to be motivation enough, I added spite to the mix - remember plan ab-tastic? I'm 100% sure that decision was all about making dudes who'd taken a pass on me experience palpable regret when they realize they missed out on the hot, hot bod I will, of course, one day have.

But now I'm pretty sure that I'm measuring my self-like by how much boys like me. And I think it's been that way for quite some time. AND I think that's not really very hot at all.

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Incidentally, I think I discovered, through observational study of behaviour, the secret to my not really caring if particular boys like me. Guy friends: if you suspect I'm interested in being more than friends with you and you'd like to leave that particular queue (cuz I'll be honest, there are more than a few of you out there), here's what you should do. Do something forgivably dick-ish to me. Seriously. I mean, not super dick-ish - unless you also want to stop being friends altogether. "Accidentally" tell me I look fat in those pants, then subsequently apologise. That kind of thing. I'm pretty sure this is a no-fail plan.
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So, back to the original question - why am I doing this? For whom?

I think it's kind of a cliché and sell-out-y to decide I'm hot when some guy I think is kind of cute decides I'm hot for me. It's got to be for some other reason.

In the last four months, almost 500 people have read this blog almost 1500 times. I'm not adept enough with my analytics program to know if that's a lot of people or not, but those are pretty astounding numbers to me. But why? Seriously, what are you reading this for? Because if I'm inspiring people, then I think that's hot. Even if it's just because I'm funny - that'd be ok too. Hot people are funny. Could I get some help with my crisis of conscience, or should I just pack it in?

Hot People Know the Score

Ok - so life in a small Northern Ontario town hasn't been COMPLETELY boring these days (don't get me wrong...it's still pretty boring...but I'll take it. For now).

The more faithful readers will be WELL aware of my angst about aging. This may have been exacerbated by my compulsion to be friends with people 6 years my junior. Maybe. While life as a diabetes educator has not cured me of that particular angst completely (it's more likely now that I'm even MORE scared of getting old when I see what kind of health crap these people have to deal with), I am at least assured that I am not as ancient as my previous, friend-of-twenty-year-olds self had believed.

Score 1 Miss T

To add to this reassurance, last weekend I was carded not once, but twice. The first time was the more hilarious of the two. I was at the LCBO when the lady at the counter asked me if I had ID to go with my purchase of a mid-priced sparkling wine. I laughed, hauled out my brand-spanking-new Ontario Drivers License (disgusting picture, btw...the province doesn't let you smile...one more reason I miss Nova Scotia), said it had been a while since I'd had that request, and handed it over. At this point, there were three people behind me waiting to purchase their weekend's mind-numbing solutions. The woman checked my birthdate, but no, that was not enough. She also felt it necessary to further delay the line-up of people waiting for the sweet relief at the end of their work-weeks to hold the license up to my face for comparison lest I be the kind of rapscallion who tries to use someone else's face at a BRIGHTLY LIT LIQUOR STORE AT 6 PM. This process took at least 120 seconds. I enjoyed every one of them.

Score 1 Miss T

The other id check happened when I joined one of the gyms in town. A twig-sized girl, obviously no older than 17, asked me if I was over 18 when I was filling out my PAR-Q. I'm pretty sure the force of my laughter mussed up her hair. But hey...when the kids think I'm one of them, that can't be bad, right?

Score 1 Miss T

I joined a choir two weeks ago. It a. is not completely (or even slightly) populated with blue-haired old warbling women, and b. a step in the right direction if I want to diversify my extra-curriculars so my life isn't just about failed debating. And I'm pretty good at it. One might say I'm an asset. Or at least, I might. Because I'm fly like that.

Score 1 Miss T

After the first choir practice, I had pizza with a guy in the choir. It was kind of spur of the moment, but he sprung for the pizza. We talked for about an hour and a half. We seem to have a lot in common. When we left and went our separate ways, we parted with an awkward hug.

Score...shit. I don't know.

Did I just have a date? There was food and good conversation and someone treating, but it wasn't pre-planned. Does that make a difference? If it WAS a date, how'd I do? I wasn't prepared. Can I have a re-test?

Also, what do I do with that awkward hug? The post-analysis has been shot to shit by that hug. Does it mean I'm in the friendzone (which would be fine...I'd just like to know), or what?

Here is what I know about the romance-calibre of date endings:

Kiss > Awkward Hug > Handshake > Watching him run away screaming

But THAT. IS. ALL.

Surely hot people know what dates are (I have several friends who have suggested to me that this is the case. They DO know).

Anyway, the limbo I'm feeling on the romantic front kind of echoes the limbo I'm feeling everywhere else. My life isn't super exciting right now, but hey, at least I look young and fresh, and to some people LIKE A CHILD. Huzzah?

Hot People Don't Believe the Hype (An Open Letter to E-Harmony)

This isn't my first brush with online dating. Unfortunately, it probably won't be my last either. But I've got a beef that I've just gotta get off my chest.

Dear E-Harmony,

I object to your claims about compatibility. You cannot match people up based on their personalities. At the risk of sounding ghetto, you don't know me. And I doubt you really care to anyway, as long as you can keep automatically charging $30/month on my VISA***. What you CAN do is match people up based on their own impressions of their personalities. And let's be honest, here. I'm pretty sure most people out there, especially the single ones ('cause Lord knows, we're all still single for a reason!), don't have enough grip on reality to TRULY know themselves. The result of this is that the people we ACTUALLY are is almost never the same as the people we THINK we are. Some people THINK they have a sarcastic sense of humour, but a lot of the time, people just don't really know what sarcasm is (except that they're pretty sure it's something that people find funny...and attractive in others...).

Secondly, your *claim* "When attraction is ignited by TRUE compatibility...", first of all, is not even a sentence. (Weren't you founded by a DOCTOR? Who had to go to SCHOOL?? Where you learn how to WRITE SHIT?!?!?!?). But it also requires that the average tv-watching consumer not be duped into thinking you can also guarantee that attraction. I wasn't duped by your slogan with the poor sentence structure, but I WAS duped by the pictures. And I say duped because it doesn't take a genius to know that everyone posts the MOST flattering pictures of themselves and never the ones where they've lost the game of angles. For some reason, the fact that I play the game had no bearing on my expectation of how others will play.

The only thing you CAN claim is that you're pretty ok at figuring out if people will be decent friends. And when people are desperately lonely because they live in brand new towns and don't know anyone except their co-workers and the girl at the express checkout at the grocery store, and because they quit debating because they're old ladies and are missing the National Championships for the first time in eight years and don't know what's happening there because THEIR FRIENDS DON'T TEXT THEM WHEN THEY SAY THEY WILL (ok, I forgive you guys. I know how crazy busy it gets there...I'm just sad and lonely here), making a decent friend should be good enough. But when you also show clips of impossibly beautiful people who are deliriously happy with each other and give people the impression that there was just this spark of love immediately, it makes us believe we SHOULD want more than a decent friend and it makes us sorely disappointed when that's all you can deliver.

So, I wonder, E-Harmony, what do you have to say to me in response? And more to the point, what do you have to say to the poor fellow sitting at home right now who thinks it's just great that he's met a girl that FINALLY he can have a conversation with? And what about the fact that I feel like a complete douche right now because YOU DIDN'T DO THE JOB YOU CLAIMED TO BE ABLE TO DO??? Well, I can find decent friends on my own, thanks. And I guess I can decide who I'm compatible with too. This is what I have to say to you, E-Harmony. Oh, and keep the $30.

Love,

Miss T

***In other news, apparently all those years of having a VISA limit that was exceeded whenever I bought more than a stick of gum has paid off. When I went to the bank to alert them that I was no longer a student, they told me my credit rating was like, A plus plus plus star and now I have more credit than I know what to do with. Hilarious.

Hot People Aren't So Sad and Lonely

Alright, so the title may have been a wee bit dramatic, but I've been in this new town for about two weeks, and it's been a week since I last saw someone I actually know (and I've run out of the lasagna my Mommy made when she was here. See? Sad!). This is no way to mark the approximate one-year anniversary of Hot in 6 Months.

All resolutions have been put on hold until I get my feet wet at work and, more crucially, get my first paycheque - though that's already earmarked for professional fee renewals and car payments (crippling ones!). In the interim, I've been getting practice with the manual transmission on my new automobile (Why did I think THAT was a good idea?) by going to Wal-Mart to buy odds and ends like paper towel and windshield scrapers, watching movies (note to self [and others]: Mamie Van Doren, though busty and beautiful, does not make good films. Period.), going to bed before 10 p.m. like a 73-year-old, and eating far more candy than is reasonable for a normal person, let alone a dietitian who counsels diabetes sufferers exclusively. Basically, I'm a lazy, sleepy person who eats garbage - but at least I've got a brand new
car (note that under my coat and boots, I'm wearing pajamas and haven't brushed my hair)!

No guitar-playing, no French-speaking (yet!), and only slightly better taste in music. And of course, plan ab-tastic has been put on hold once again. It's hard to get rock-hard abs if your most vigorous exercise consists of walking from the bedroom at one end of your apartment to the bathroom at the other.

And, if that weren't enough, my relative laziness has manifested itself in significantly more internet-surfing. And that's when I came upon this! Hottest Blogging Babes 2010!?!? And I'm not one of them?!!?!?! This is, truly, a failure.

Obviously, something must be done about this. Luckily, despite living in a pretty teensy town, it's relatively well-appointed in the amenities department. Apparently, there's a gym here with personal trainers. It is my plan to meet with one of these trainers as soon as financially possible. It is my further plan to relate to this trainer my quest for hotness and plan ab-tastic. I will do this by telling him or her that my fitness goal is to "look good naked." Hopefully the not-so-thinly veiled reference to one of my favourite movies will not go unnoticed.

The knowing-more-people problem is not so simple to rectify. Like I said before, I don't know what the cool kids do around here for fun and I don't know how to find out. I'm seriously considering going to church tomorrow just so I can get to know some people who HAVE to be nice to me. Has it really come to this?

Hot People Turn Over New Leaves

I alluded (ok, more than alluded) to a new job and a subsequent need to be adult, yes?

Ok - so I've moved (for the third time in the last 12 months) to a small town in Northern Ontario for this new job. And jeebus I'm scared.

Forgetting that my next paycheque is going to multiply everything I earned last month by infinity (and any paycheque I made in the last three years by a factor of approximately 25...for serious), I've had to do so much adult stuff in the last two weeks that all I want to do is sleep for the rest of time.

It's been a big jump:

Occupation

Last month: Layabout
This month: Registered Dietitian

Transportation

Last month: bus, when I could afford tickets...otherwise, feet
This month: a brand-spanking new car (but feet most of the time anyway - hot people are environmentally-conscious)

Housing

Last month: mooching off my very generous relatives in exchange for my portion of the grocery bill
This month: a two-bedroom apartment in the downtown core (ok...in the interest of full disclosure, the downtown core should just be called "town")

Finances

Last month: couldn't buy bus tickets on a regular basis
This month: just got approved for a credit card that would more than cover a year's rent in 2006.

Ok - so I think most people will agree that most of the above is pretty awesome. But moving has been scary for a few other reasons as well. It's very strange to be the only person you know somewhere. When I was a student, this wasn't such a big deal because there were social constructs in the university environment that made it very easy to make friends. So far, the most familiar face to me has been my insurance broker. I've been seeing a lot of her, but that's because getting auto insurance has been something akin to being repeatedly beaten with a blunt instrument (note: it is NOT GOOD to be 26 and never to have been insured on any vehicle).

I almost feel like I'm starting from scratch with the hotness thing. I mean - I have to learn what hot people do here (I'm hoping like hell it's Wednesday night karaoke at the local watering hole). It could take a while, especially considering that my neighbours have homecare workers and names like Duke and Smitty (not that you can't be hot with names like that...I just feel like possibly there are age categories of hotness).

Then again, I've come a long way so far. And I should never underestimate the big fish/small pond phenomenon. 'Cause this is definitely a much smaller pond than I've been in for a while, and I'm a big fish, right?

Hot People Win, Even When They Lose

I've been noticing (mostly because it is completely obvious) that the growing up/goodbye to my youth process has involved a lot of "one last debate tournament"s. I know, I know. Nerdz!

But for serious - debating has been an invaluable and defining part of my life for almost a decade (yipes, I'm old!). Many readers will know this, but my main focus is actually judging the debates, and I've gotten pretty good at it over the past few years. So this past weekend, I was strong-armed at the last minute by some friends to judge at a pretty major tournament. Although geographically, I found myself in Toronto, I also inexplicably found myself (metaphorically) in a place called, by those in the know, the bin. The bin is where the bad debates happen - the ones devoid of reason, organization or articulation, let alone any sort of panache. It's a place I haven't found myself in a few years, and I've gotta say, it put me into a bit of a tailspin.

First of all, I've had some...exchanges...with a few of the people in charge. It was almost as though they were holding something against me. Like perhaps I had written some scathing and untoward things about them on a public internet site or something...hmm...so for a while I thought it was just vengeance.

Here's where, in retrospect, it gets a little cringe-worthy and unattractive. Soon after I came to my senses and decided nobody could be so petty (right?...nobody would be...) as to seek vengeance for a blog post from months ago in which all parties (except myself) remained more or less anonymous, I started to have a small (Seriously, it was only tiny. And I definitely kept it to myself as well...) personal crisis about my skillz as a debate judge. There might have been some moist eyes threatening tears at a few moments. This is cringe-worthy for two reasons:

1. Who likes emo-girl traipsing around like a 17th century poet? I don't. I'm pretty sure I could have dealt with things a little more gracefully (although shit, I saw some bad debates this weekend). For example, I might have avoided referring to the complete injustice of my shitty weekend to everyone I met, or at the very least avoided opening every conversation with that topic. I might also have opted NOT to require everyone to list my accomplishments at top volume, in unison, before I unlocked the door to our accommodations and allowed them to enter.

2. It points to a greater problem with my life. When someone gets uppity because they've lost a debate, I go on an oft-ranted tirade about how the outcome of a debate round has no bearing on real life and nobody in real life is going to care whether you won your fifth round at the 2007 eastern invitational. Despite this firm belief, I've really made debating THE major priority in my life and I've done it for too long. Although my success in the field of debate judging (which, frankly, only a select few would even count as a REAL success) has served me well, it has been something I've cultivated to the exclusion of all other things and I think this is a little bit alarming. Like, I used to be good at other shit. I used to be an awesome lip sync artist (at high school dances, with my thumb-rophone), and I would kill at trivia contests (Reach for the Top FTW!) but I haven't done either of those things in like, forever. In conclusion, I really need to diversify my talent portfolio. Learning to be a french-speaking guitar hero is obviously already on the agenda...but I need to think of some other things to incorporate into my life so I can one day be awesome at them. Ideas? Anyone?

On the other hand, my relative abandonment of all reason and sense of purpose meant that, on balance, the rest of the weekend was pretty awesome.

First of all, I learned that I am effing amazing at playing damsel in distress (it helps when the distress is real). A number of dashing young men came to my aid. I think I only paid for half my drinks and I wasn't allowed to leave the dancefloor (in fact, I was forcibly removed from areas not technically dancefloor on a number of occasions). I also had one of the nicest and least "pressure-y to do more" makeout sessions I've ever had, and that was really refreshing.

Secondly, I drank my face off. The results of this were epic (although, recognizing that I already used my last chance to drink stupid amounts of alcohol, the hangover on Sunday was just as epic). I definitely danced like a rockstar that night. I also definitely fell out of a bunk bed. The resulting bruises (reflecting the pattern of the carpet) and rug burn are totally badass. My successful attempt at mounting the bunk bed ladder post-fall without the help of my two very concerned friends was just as badass. And I definitely spent the rest of the night spooning my friend's girlfriend to avoid a second fall.

In conclusion, while daytime Miss T wasn't very hot at all, I feel like my Saturday night was burning up just a little (at least, I felt sorta hot...). Now, how can I keep that fire ablaze?

Hot People See the Signs

No, that was not just a reference to another hilariously bad song of my youth (oh...Swedish Pop...so campy). I was back in Halifax over the holidays and over the time I spent with some of my friends I realized that I really do need to be a big girl soon. Last time we chatted, I was talking about how I really need to be a big girl...and I've gotta say, I'm off to a bad start.

Although my resolve to have better taste in music has gone well thus far (I've downloaded all but one of last installment's suggested albums...I'm listening to one now...I am such a hot music-listener), my first instinct when at HMV was to make a beeline for the Glee soundtracks. Not that Glee isn't excellent television viewing...but for serious...how many 14-year-old girls also bought not just vol. 1 but vol. 2 as well? How many? I mean...Finn's just so dreamy, so how can you blame me, but still!?!

But my hilarious taste in music isn't the only thing I've been having trouble shaking. I've spoken a few times about my penchant for debating (and also my complete acknowledgement that it's a sport for NERDS!!!). Without going into the details and the ins and outs of parliamentary debate, it is an activity that has been with me since my first day of frosh week (when I was accosted by a girl telling me I looked intelligent...she had me at hello) and has continued for the last 8 1/2 years. Some of my best and oldest friends were made through this activity and I owe it a lot. Unfortunately, the trade-off that comes with having these great friends is that I find myself the oldest person (by far) at social gatherings, telling stories of debating debauchery past, only to realize that I'm talking about a time when they were still in junior high (and increasingly, under the age of 10...eep). To illustrate, I was invited to an illicit New Year's Eve party. I only discovered the host's Mom didn't know about it the next morning, after a significant amount of destruction had occurred. It's really an "I get older, they stay the same age" kind of thing...which would be find if I was just contributing my time and expertise to the craft of competitive debate. Unfortunately, I sometimes find myself attracted to boys who make me feel, when I think about how old they are, like this:

(Get it...I'm a cougar...hilarious!).

Sometimes, it's hard to remind myself that I am not impervious to the powers of time and that I DO get older, despite my best efforts. Sometimes this results in childish behaviour in hilarious attempts to recapture my vigorous youth, like buying Glee soundtracks, or kissing boys with ABANDON.

My friends say that hot people do whatever they want, and I've gotta say that I definitely wanted to do both of those things. But I also really want to be an adult. Stat.

Last week, these colliding desires faced off in real life. It was kind of messy. I agreed to judge at a high school debate tournament hosted by my old club...you know...just one last shot in the arm. Although many of my very best old friends were there, I found myself increasingly surrounded by people reminding me of how old I was...like...I was alive when the Berlin Wall fell or I remember a time before the widespread use of cellular telephones. Truthfully, they were just being evil. At the same time, I knew that in three days I had an interview for a big girl job.

It was super difficult to reconcile my wish to stay an adolescent forever with my wish to actually grow up and do something constructive with my life. So difficult that it actually made me sorta depressed (and cranky...sorry guys...). At some point over the evening's post-tournament social, one of the party-goers reminded me of something that's just amazing for drowning ones' sorrows. This was my first of the evening:

To be perfectly honest, I don't know how much I had to drink that night, and there are some patchy parts of the evening. We know this is not a completely new phenomenon for me.

I am sure of a few things.

1. I definitely drunk-dialed my Dad's girlfriend. I did this for two reasons. For one thing, I thought it was 12:30 a.m. and not 2:30 a.m. I was wrong. For another, I thought she was out with my Dad and not at home sleeping. Wrong again.

2. Drunk Handsy Miss T made an appearance. My old friends are familiar with her; she's the me who gets in her cups and then puts her arm around everyone and stands too close and leans on people. Especially when they're boys. Typically I just cite drunkenness and an inability to control my extremities due to the extreme liquor-soakedness of the motor control parts of my brain. But let's be honest. I'm flirting. I've always been flirting. I've always known I was flirting. I've just never admitted it. On that evening, though, I was called on it. However, instead of sputtering about how it's the booze, I came clean. I said it was fun. And that it didn't mean anything more than that. And it was true. And super liberating to say it. And I felt pretty smooth (perhaps in real life it wasn't smooth at all...but my memory of it is the most important thing). I feel like hot people are unapologetically flirty, and often without an agenda. Even the grown-up ones.

3. I grossly overused a number of stock phrases. I need to stop saying the following: "You're my faves" (said to anyone who amuses me...pluralised so other faves don't get jealous...whispered to people for extra effect when I really want them to know I appreciate them) and "Fair..." (response to any statement for which I have no adequate response, or any statement with which I disagree but for which am too drunk to formulate an articulate counterargument). I hope nobody was following me around with a tape recorder that night.

I'm not entirely sure how I got home, though I'm sure it was at the hands of a very understanding and benevolent cab driver (or, at least, I was missing a cab-fare-ish amount of cash from my wallet in the morning). I'm sure you're expecting that the next day was distinctly unpleasant for me. Not so. When I awoke, I was, though a little slow on the draw, miraculously unhungover.

I take this as a sign...or a gift...or a gift-sign. That was the last time I am allowed to do that. It was my last hurrah of ridonkulous drunkenness. The powers that be are trying their damnedest to make my coming-of-age as painless as possible, despite my best efforts to make it hurt so bad.

Incidentally, when I did go to that job interview, I did act particularly adult. So adult that they offered me the job. And I'm gonna take it (resolution #2, complete within 20 days...score!). This means another move...but probably not for a few weeks. In the interim, I'm taking this time as a period of last hurrahs. Just as that night was my last night of sloppy drunk Miss T and the Glee Soundtrack was my last bad music purchase, the next few weeks will be spent enjoying the now guilty pleasures of my late teens and early twenties, so I can say goodbye to them in style and embrace my new life as an employed, adult (and hopefully, one day) hot person.