Hot People See the Light

The last few days have been kind of a life clean-up in the aftermath of my major projects for the spring season. January to the end of May have been a series one-thing-after-another in both work and life. When I was in university, this after-the-crazy-subsides time was usually followed by a few weeks of listless depression and total lack of motivation in finding a summer job.

Well...the job keeps going (although, some days I wonder; I often take bets on Thursday for how many people booked on Friday will actually show up), so that's one problem solved. But last year, the sads had definitely set in around this time. So far this year, it hasn't happened.

So what's different?

Well...I think an obvious answer is the fact that I'm pretty comfortably attached right now. My lack of attachment was a source of major concern for me just about a year ago. But...a year ago, I kinda thought I was attached. Plus I really don't feel like it would be truthful to say that my lack of sads is entirely dependent on my being in a comfortable relationship. But it certainly helps.

No, I think that despite the fact that I've not been to the gym in an innumerable quantity of days, and despite the fact that I've not seriously worn makeup on a regular basis since...well, ever (how do people do it? I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME EVERY MORNING), I just feel more comfortable in my skin. When I first started this blog, I didn't know who I was. Without that knowledge, I couldn't really settle comfortably on anything or anyone. And I'm pretty sure that's where the sads came from. In the last year, I've found things I'm comfortable doing, and people I'm comfortable doing them with. It's awesome.

It's so awesome, I'm even doing a few things I'm not totally comfortable with. I played softball for the first time last week since I was in junior high. It went...well, about as well as softball did WHEN I was in junior high. So...pretty poorly. BUT, despite a little bit of pre-game anxiety, I always had in the back of my mind that the people I was playing with weren't hanging out with me because of my baseball skills but because they kinda want to hang out with me. And for the first time in my life, I don't doubt this (all the time).

Sure, I still have (many) moments of personality anxiety. And sometimes they're hilarious. And don't worry - you'll still get a full report of those activities. So stay tuned, kids.

***In other news, though I haven't learned to play guitar or be ab-tastic, I did have a counselling session with a client the other day almost entirely in (not entirely grammatically correct) French. Hurray me!

Hot People Don't Smell like Failure

I wish I could say my absence from the cyberwaves has been a result of my having reached my goal. I wish I could tell you I was superhot and I haven't been blogging because I haven't NEEDED blogging. However, saying any of those things would be a whole bunch of false.

I've been absent from the cyberwaves because I've been hilar-busy. And I've been absent from the cyberwaves because, honestly, I've been feeling like a big pile of turds recently. A big pile of failure turds. I have failed at being fit, I have failed at doing more, I have failed at doing less, I have failed in a house, I have failed with a mouse, etc.

And I have failed at writing actual words...to the point where my father points my failures out to me. (Normally, I wouldn't "out" an anonymous commenter, except that he already outed himself in the comment.)

...And that really is the last straw. I am nearly 30, and there are still numerous things that I can't do without my parents. This, above all, makes me feel decidedly not hot. Though I have a pretty reasonable income, I still feel as though I need to ask them for permission to do things from time to time...like take vacations with money that I legitimately earned and saved. Hell, I can't even string a sentence together without some input.

Now, I don't really know what to do about it. I've tried gently suggesting that I don't need their help. I've had screaming fights that, I think, more than gently suggest that I'd like a litte breathing room. But that's a thing I fail at also. I find it difficult to suggest to the people upon whom I was so dependent (for more than a quarter century) that I don't want their help anymore without feeling like a complete ingrate or a tantrum-throwing two-year-old screaming "No! I wanna do it."

But it's that attitude that's gotten me to this feeling of a big giant, steaming pile of failure-turds. My unrelenting attitude of doing everything that's offered to me that I have the slightest inkling that I might want to try has resulted in my having succeeded at only a few of them (since, you know, I can't be amazing at everything...like hot people would be). And now I feel like I'm frantically treading water and my limbs are burning with fatigue and all I want to do now is drown in my bedsheets. Sigh.

Hot People Feel Dirty Sometimes (and not in the good way)

So, I was absent-mindedly checking my blog analytics this morning. As some of you may remember from that cryptic post of approximately 5 months ago, my blog analytics allow me to see what search terms people have used to find me on google. Sometimes it's a no-brainer that they're looking for me - they'll search things like hotmisst or hot in 6 months blog or something like that. Sometimes, I'm not sure what they're looking for; when they search things like why did people use to ware capes and white tights male dancers, I'm genuinely unsure of what they hoped they'd find. Other times, I know exactly what they're looking for. Today, I found this (you might have to click on it to read it properly):


















But, for those of you who don't read teensy tiny writing, what you're seeing there is big boobs red bra. Someone, somewhere in North America, was looking for someone with big boobs and a red bra...and they found me. And faithful readers will know, I delivered. In conclusion, there's a very good chance that someone in North America was jerking off to my boobs.

...


Yuck.

So, guys...does this mean i'm hot? Because if THIS is what hot feels like, I can do without it. I recognize that this is partly my fault for having a picture of my big boobs in a red bra posted on the internets, but my culpability in the matter is doing nothing to relieve this slightly sticky feeling I'm encountering right now.

Because if I get right down to it, this isn't really what I had in mind when I started talking about being hot. Sure, I wanted to have some sex appeal, but I was never really interested in being an object in this way. I wanted people to desire me (or desire to be like me) because of some kind of confident je-ne-sais-quoi, not because of an accident of anatomy.

I know I sound like one of those girls who looks like a model and complains because "she can't help the way she looks...she just wishes that sometimes, men would leave her alone," but I know I don't look like a model...and once upon a time even this kind of attention would have been satisfactory to me. Well...perhaps the fact that it is no longer satisfactory (it is in fact unsatisfactory) is a good sign. No?

Hot People Clean Up Their Acts

Once upon a time, about a year and a half ago, I excused my drunkenness and the occasional resulting blackouts by saying that...hey, I remember the IMPORTANT things. I think I continue to excuse that behaviour in my slightly-younger-than-now self because it was occurring at a time in my life when I was emerging from a lengthy period of hazy mediocrity and the fun I was having on those evenings was bordering on legendary. And, to be honest, it was shortlived; I think that was the last (or at least, amongst the last) time that I blacked out.

Until last weekend. And for some reason, I'm not really inclined to excuse myself from that particular blackout. Perhaps because I'm slightly older...but probably not. It happened innocently enough. I accepted a few drinks made by a trustworthy friend (I say trustworthy to absolve him of any culpability here. Everything that happened here is my fault). I knew what was in them...including the sizeable shots of tequila. I also, in an effort to be gregarious, imbibed one or two shots of tequila. And then we cabbed to the dance bar. And then I don't remember anything afterwards. The rest of my night has been pieced together by a series of witnesses. And it causes me to shake my head. Vigorously.

A friend demonstrated my dancing (?) that evening. Face. Palm. I like to think of myself as a pretty good dancer. And when I'm in my usual state of comfortable buzz at the bar, I frequently enjoy myself by laughing at people who just haven't got it going on. Examples of this might include the cougars two-stepping to Will.i.am last Friday, or the trio of girls awkwardly grinding with each other when my boyfriend and I went to hear the final performance of one of the djs in the area we think is kinda fly. Those are the people I laugh at. And I became one of those people on that decidedly uncrowded Saturday night.

Also, I drunk-dialed my boyfriend who was sleeping soundly after a hard day of work while I pickled my liver and gyrated awkwardly. I think I did this from a snowbank I'd fallen in. I suggested that if he were awake, then he should call me. If he were not awake, then he should remain asleep and forego the phone call. Clearly, I'm a genius. I may have waited for him to call back for a few minutes. Thank goodness I gave up and walked home, because if I'd waited there all night, I'm sure the blue-haired biddies tottering off to church the next morning would have discovered a splayed-out Miss T Popsicle.

The pièce-de-resistance of the whole evening, thank goodness, was witnessed only by my cat. I vomited. But where? I'm actually too ashamed to say. Rest assured, though, that it was not in a garbage can or a toilet or any other receptacle appropriate for vomit. I don't remember the actual act of vomiting, but I was horrified to find it when I woke up. Ugh.

And this is what I KNOW happened. To whom did I speak? WHAT DID I SAY TO THEM? Gawd! When I was doing my undergrad, a guy I knew in residence produced a number of business-card-looking things. They were apology cards, with a generic apology to account for the usual amnesia associated with the binge-drinking. And I feel like I need a stack of them right now. And I don't think that's acceptable. Or hot.

Now, the general response to an evening like this is the ol' faithful "...and I'll never touch another drink ever again." I think we all know that would be false. But I think a certain amount of responsibility is in order so that I can maintain that comfortable buzz without the uncomfortable awkwardness I'm feeling every time I see someone who might have been there. I hate weeks like this.

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 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 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.

Hot People Don't Have Bad Hair

I often find myself torn between what is hot NOW and what will make me hot IN THE LONG RUN. My hair seems to have found itself in this sort of epic battle royale at the moment.

My entire life, hair-related angst has sent me into near catatonic states on an extremely regular basis. When it is curly (as it is naturally), I imagine that it kind of resembles an impressionist painting - you know...it looks nice from about ten feet away, but when you get up close to it, it's basically a mess (or at least, that's how Cher Horowitz would describe it). This "mess" problem was mitigated somewhat by the discovery of a $3 curling creme I found at the grocery store that works a ZILLION times better than anything I've ever purchased at a salon (for 5x the price), but when it rains (as it seems to be doing ALL THE TIME these days), it still definitely looks more Claude Monet than John Frieda. The advent of the ceramic straightener was a terrific boon to me. All of a sudden, if nothing else, at least my hair could be hot. Except of course, again, when it rains. Then it just looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to brush it. At that point, there's really nothing for it except to resort to an "I-give-up" hat or pony-tail holder, lest I be forced to walk around in public looking like Eraserhead.

Much of the art and science of my hair has to do with the cut, and getting a good one isn't easy. My stylist in Halifax was fantastic, but since I don't live there anymore (and neither does he), obviously I can't get cuts from him. Instead, I was referred to the stylist of a friend. This woman works out of her basement. This was obviously my first red flag. The last time I got a haircut in somebody's house it was free and it was done my friend who cut my hair with her kitchen scissors and decided to give me baby bangs without taking into account that they might curl up when my hair dried. The previous time before that, it was for my prom, and the woman curled my hair, then decided one side was longer than the other, so she CUT IT AFTER IT HAD BEEN CURLED to even it out. My experience of home haircuts has been fabulous, you can tell.

Anyway, this woman had a sort of salon in her basement. Her dog kept us company, and she spoke like a sailor. I can see why a spa setting was not a good fit for her. However, the cut she gave me was fabulous, despite my concern about the venue. Truly now, if left to its own devices, or straightened, my hair can certainly add to my hotness (or at least, it is hot on its own).

Unfortunately, there are a number of things that get in the way (yes, that battle royale I referred to in the opening paragraph!).

First of all, I'm pretty sure most hot people are gainfully employed. I'm interning with the food service management of a local hospital. This means I work in a kitchen and consequently wear a hairnet all day. All day. As a result, I seldom bother with my hair because even if it did look fabulous nobody would see it all day. Also, the hairnet has a tendency, by the end of the day, to flatten residual fabulousness so that even seeing people sans 'net after work means my hair won't be amazing. It's a difficult choice to make: continue with an internship that will lead to future employment, or have fabulous hair EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Secondly, hot people are fit (or are, at least, trying to be). I'm still cycling, only now I've parlayed my leisure activity into a handy way to get to work (I say handy...it actually takes me upwards of an hour and a half to commute each way). Unfortunately, I've moved to a city FULL of cyclists, which means that on an almost daily basis I am reminded of how very BAD (read: painfully slow) a cyclist I am. I don't mind it when twenty-somethings zip by me because I assume a. that they have schmancy bikes that I don't have and b. they've been cycling for YEARS and I've only been doing it for a few months after YEARS of neglect, but when OLD MEN are zooming past me I start to feel a little demoralised. However, I press on in the hopes that it will contribute to my goal. But, I find that the combination of bicycle helmet and sweat-inducing cardiovascular activity ALSO results in a coiff that resembles the helmet for hours after its removal. Très chic!

So this is obviously a conundrum that has taken up a significant portion of my thinking time. I think I'll probably stick with being "hot in the long run," but this WILL mean endless complaining about the state of my hair in the meantime. Fair warning.

Hot People Remember the Important Things

Ok - so I may have to take something back I said in my last post. I've had some fun in New Brunswick.

But here's the thing - I have the capacity to drink like a sailor. This does not mean that I drink like a sailor every day (because I do not). Nor does it mean that I should exercise that capacity every time the opportunity presents itself (although I do perhaps a little too frequently). It's amazing, though, what a little liquid courage will do for you (or in Saturday's case, at least a bottle and a half of wine's worth).

As we all know, I have issues with meeting people. When sober, the idea is enough to make me stay home and watch chick flicks. However, recent reports suggest that drunk Miss T was dancing up a storm with half of everyone at Le Club (I'm being French again...can you tell?). Obviously, meeting people was not an issue for me last Saturday. Some girls from work that we happened to meet there even commented on it. They suggested they didn't know I had it in me. I didn't know I did either. In fact, I didn't know I had it in me until my roommate informed me sometime midway through Sunday afternoon (post-four hour nap).

It is very important to note, though, that I distinctly remember most things about the night - the IMPORTANT things, I should say. I have no idea how we got from my roommate's sister's hotel room to the bar, but I definitely remember dancing with this man.

I have no idea when or why we left this bar to go to another bar (actually I do - it had to do with a med student my roommate met and wanted to introduce to her sister), but this remedy to a garden-variety high heel problem (see, I'm not the only one who can't hack it!) was imprinted in my memory long before I turned on my camera midway through breakfast as a means of not falling asleep in my Banana Blast pancakes.

I do not remember that the band was awful, but I do remember that some creepo followed us from the second bar back to the first in the hopes of winning the affections of one of the twins..."whichever one was single". Charmant. Good hair, though.

And I do not remember how long it was between when I wedged myself between two men at the bar (very proud of myself for this courageous move) in an effort to make new friends, and when one of them found me on the dance floor. But I do remember that I felt pretty effing awesome to know that he was looking for me, and I felt really retarded every time I asked him what he did for a living...I think by the end of the night we had reached a total of seven times.
Do you think it affects my chances at a coffee date later? Hope not.

***Also Happy Birthday to my cousin, who may not be reading this, but turns 19 today and gets to enjoy all that night life has to offer.

Hot People Don't Need to Share Everything

I was in my favourite city last weekend to visit friends, go to a house party, and more or less just bust out of here, when I asked my friends I hadn't seen in a while what they thought of the blog. Most of the responses were pretty positive, but one friend asked me about the frequency of posting...he seemed to think I had a schedule. Another friend corrected, telling him that the thing about blogs is you only write them when stuff happens.

And that's the problem with living where I live. My roommate calls it No Funswick and she's more or less correct. To put it into perspective, one of the more popular drinking establishments here is called "Cougars." To put it into even better perspective, our cougar-clubbing expedition did not include a stop at "Cougars." Yeah...that's where I live.

As much as I loved going to Calgary, and back to Halifax, it really wasn't good for me because when I returned here I realized how much I would much rather be just about anywhere else. But, for my friend who wanted more posts, I'll illustrate why I go for quality rather than quantity. Here's my last few weeks in the port city:

Happenings:

Work - this is actually going quite well. It's not actual work so much as a work term required in order to practice as a professional in my field. If this was not going well, nothing would be.

Bike Rides - continued failed attempts at getting up hills. I started this because I was going to ride in a charity bike tour (because hot people do nice things for other people) but decided instead that hot people don't embarrass themselves by attempting to ride 96 km when 20 km is a challenge, nor do they find themselves lost, alone and dehydrated on the sides of country roads. Therefore, I ride only because my roommate reminds me of my hotness goals and that bike riding is my only form of physical activity - and also because going downhill is the shit.

TV - most days I watch it. I'm particularly partial to the offerings on Slice, and Law & Order: SVU reruns.

Finding neat stuff - I realized yesterday that the ditches on the sides of the roads are full (FULL!) of wild strawberries. I ate one the other day and it was really good. I am a full-on daughter of nature. I also found $3.25 in change on the corner where the bus stop is, and nobody around to claim it. Somebody's lost bus change is now my load of laundry. Score. Today I found a cat's eye marble embedded in the dirt path to the grocery store. In my elementary school days, this would have been a prize of value second only to one of those super jumbo marbles. I'm not sure why marbles were such a prize at the time, since none of us actually knew how to play marbles. I only ever used them in our marble run, which, while awesome, did not require "special" marbles like a cat's eye to function properly.

Musings:

Is straight hair hotter than curly hair? I can have both, but straight hair requires much more work. Fewer people have really curly hair (uniqueness is hot, yes?), but I always get more compliments when my hair is straight. Is that just because it's a different style, or because it's hotter?

Is it cool that I'm a bit of an outdoorsy type (see Finding Neat Stuff: wild strawberries)? Is that a universally attractive feature, or does it appeal only to the similarly outdoorsy? Because seriously...I'm pretty proud of the fact that I know a bunch of different types of birds and butterflies, can tell you most of the time what berries are edible, and am pretty awesome at starting bonfires. I think the fact that I'm the resident bug-killer in our apartment takes away from any hotness I might have (perhaps I should start refusing...hehehe!), but I'm really not sure about that other stuff. Is reeling in a three-pound bass by myself something I should brag about? Would it be better to be more demure?

How the crap am I going to get out of here? I'm moving again (to Ottawa, this time) in a month and a half and I really haven't a clue how I'm going to get there. U-haul? Van? Rental car? Sell my stuff in a yard-sale? Stick it on the side of the road? Thumb my way? Help!

AND - is it ill-advised to look for jobs out west solely because I think I'm hotter there? My friend is moving to another city, one where his girlfriend lives, but the GF is actually his fourth-place reason for moving (meaning that really she's his first reason, but he wanted to have other very good reasons also). Hrmm...
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And now you understand my dwindling post frequency. Although THINGS are happening, and I'm having actual THOUGHTS, I'm not sure any of them are really worth writing home about. Unless you found my marble story REALLY interesting...

Hot People Get Hotter with Altitude?

I was away this weekend for a conference, and I have to say, it's pretty close in the charts to the best weekend of the year so far.

Granted, it's been a pretty rough year - obviously beginning with my previously mentioned break-up - but there have been a few other things that had suggested a continuous stream of shittiness was headed my way. Therefore, I was not looking forward to this conference. First of all, last year's conference was abysmally bad for me - I was so sick I was coughing up crunchy stuff, and a lot of people were not very nice to me. Secondly, the conference was in Alberta this year, home of big oil and our Prime Minister, with the eerily close-set eyes (clearly, he is not a hot person). I'm not a particular fan of either of these things, and automatically assumed that I wouldn't be a fan of Calgary, either. And yet...

The reason I was at this conference is because I am the outgoing president of a student chapter of a national professional association. It was a job I took reluctantly, and my bad time at the conference last year pretty much confirmed that I would hate it. While I worked hard at the job (or at least as much as I could given certain other stresses in my life), I was still pretty convinced I had done a bare minimum quality job. Awesome moment #1: Finding out I was wrong.

Granted, not all the moments were completely awesome. Most of my wake-up calls (coming no later than 7:15 a.m.) were decidedly un-awesome.

My continued loss in my battle with high heels also was not awesome (I wore them two days ago and I've not totally regained feeling in two of the toes on my right foot).

Explaining to the ladies from our professional branch that the tall drink of water (their words, not mine, though I would tend to agree...) I went to supper with was, SERIOUSLY, just my friend was also kind of sucky.

Wearing a rain poncho at Stampede Park was not awesome - first of all, because it was raining out, and secondly, because for much of that time we were actually inside - making us look like some kind of weird plastic (but patriotic) cult. The hospitality suites, hosted by branches from across Canada were not very awesome except for the copious amounts of free wine (of which I frequently availed myself), and the fact that many of the games resulted in pictures like this:

And this:And this gem, which my friends have captioned "Hot People Get Down on Their Knees (When Necessary)", which is unfortunate, since getting on my knees resulted in nothing more successful than not being on my knees had and also got me into a really stupid conversation about vector calculations and the skill involved in a ricochet (which happened by chance and involved what I like to call my anti-skill at hockey). Obviously, trying our best (which is what our team chant promised we would do), was not enough.

Other, more awesome moments, include unabashedly eating ribs and steak in the same meal, sleeping in a bed that was MADE FOR ME every morning, and of course, singing back-up on Mustang Sally for what looked like a very hard-working big band. I totally felt like a rockstar...which is awesome, because I secretly wish I was one.

The real awesome, though, is what I discovered upon partaking of some of Calgary's night-life and drinking establishments. I've been to a lot of bars before...a lot of them. And I've been dancing before, piles of times. And usually my friends, who are all totally hot (hot people hang out with other hot people?) get hit on by lots of men while I hold their purses. This weekend was definitely not the case, and it makes me wonder what exactly I was doing differently. Whatever it is, I'm totally hot in Calgary.

More awesome moments:

1. Getting hit on by (and making out with) an Irishman in an Irish bar.
2. NOT being the wing-girl who pretends our cab is here because some creepo won't go away (I mean, the creepo wasn't awesome...it's just that usually not even creepos are interested in me)
3. Getting free drinks because a friend at the conference knows the manager of basically every bar in the world.
4. No longer having erotic daydreams about the cable guy because, yes, I finally got some. A lot of it. And it was excellent. So excellent I seriously contemplated missing my plane home.

Slightly less awesome moment:

1. Doing a mirror-check after a pitstop an hour and a half into work the following Monday morning and discovering you have a hickey and no scarf. I'm totally fifteen and a half.

Hot People Definitely Don't Go Cougar Clubbing

While there's something to be said for being one of the five prettiest girls at the club, sometimes it just doesn't mean that much.

For example, last night my roommate and I were invited out by a woman nearly twice our age to go out with some of her friends. My roommate unknowingly accepted an invitation out to the club because she thought she was being invited for dinner...not one to pass up free food, she accepted before she knew what she was getting into. Since we've been pretty much caged up in our apartments for the last few weeks, I thought it would be fun to tag along anyway...you know, see the sights of our new city.

Ok, so I should start off by letting you know that we were looking pretty fine (I think so anyway...). Observe. I was pretty proud of my outfit choice and my continued makeup skillz (note my use of blending brush in this gratuitously narcissistic self-portrait)
Don't I look intense? Yeah...but anyway, I understand that I may not look hot just yet by many people's standards, but you really just have to understand where we were. First, meet our chaperone.
We were greeted first by her mushroom cloud of perfume (I say mushroom cloud because it was strong enough to knock us over when we opened the door to her car), then by her delightful hairdo. From this angle it looks almost reasonable, but let me tell you, from the back view you can see that parts of it stand a full four inches above her head. FOUR INCHES!!! It was amazing to behold...not to mention nearly impossible to smother my gleeful laughter at beholding it. She, and she alone, must be the driving force behind Vidal Sassoon's continued success in the world of hairspray.

Upon realizing who we were spending our evening with, I decided that there was really nothing for it but to get completely drunk'd. This may have been my greatest mistake. By the time we got in the cars to go from our hostess' fine abode (it really was quite nice) to "the club" I'm pretty sure walking (let alone anything that might involve any sort of gross motor skill) was more or less out of the question.

I said at the beginning that we were among the five hottest people in the bar. I think your introduction to my hostess has put that into perspective, but if it does not, perhaps the fact that the result of me trying to look sexy (at least I think that's what I'm trying to do here...the two drinks in one hand really adds to my appeal, no?) had only negligible effect on my standings in the hotness rankings.

That being said, I learned many things last night.

1. The DJs here will play anything you want if you first bait them about how the DJs where you're from do it better, then subsequently provide them with hugs (I'm not really sure that EVERY hug was worth the songs he played).

2. The stripper pole is harder to use than hoe-bags in shresses make it seem.

3. Even if you dance with the best looking single guy in the club, it doesn't really count for much if he's clad head-to-toe in denim. (I actually also danced with another man who was much better looking, but my roommate was too intoxicated to use my camera properly, so unfortunately, no record was kept of that delightful encounter). I'm not sure what we're doing here...

4. ALWAYS have a quarter in your pocket for when shit gets real (or in this case, you start to realize that you're not only among the prettiest, you're actually also among the youngest people around, by a sizeable margin). It's also helpful to remember a cab number or two.

So in conclusion, our first night on the town was a moderate success, but I think we'll try somewhere a little more age appropriate next time...and possibly will forego hearing Flo Rida's "Get Low" if it means I can keep my hugs to myself.

Hot People Don't Run After Eating Indian Food and Ice Cream

'Nuff said, I think. (But since this is a blog, I'll say more anyway)

The Indian food was ill-advised from the beginning. I've had this craving for samosas for-EVAH, and on Friday the urge was just too great. Unfortunately, living about a block away from one of the greatest Indian Restaurants of ALL TIME (possibly not ALL time, but it has take-out, so I'm not picky) does not help you resist this urge.

This would be fine if I had only ordered samosas...but since I knew I had a weekend in front of the computer banging out case studies and strategic plans, I thought "Why not? Why don't I order a full meal?" So I did...I got appetizers, bread, main and dessert. My reasoning was that, since I'm single, I can do whatever the heck I want. I only have myself to worry about. I'm not a slave to anyone else's tastes. I'm not a slave to anyone else's pocketbook, either!

(interesting fact: my pocketbook certainly can't sustain impromptu Indian food Fridays for more than...really...ever - therefore, I am a slave to my own pocketbook...a very bad slave)

Against my better economic judgement, I ordered a delicious full-course meal. Again, this would be fine - if this particular restaurant offered single servings - which it doesn't.

So I've been eating Indian food all weekend. My mouth is thanking me, absolutely. I love, love, love Indian food with its spiciness and its many, many aromas. My stomach, however, has been very angry at me all weekend.

Why I thought it would be a SUPER idea to shake up my angry stomach by going for a run is a mystery to me. Why I added ice cream to the mix is like a mystery within a mystery. A super secret mystery, if you will.

My extreme laziness over the past few weeks (see: Miss T FAILS to ride her bike EVER), as well as my relative office-chair-boundness over the weekend inspired me to go for a run this evening. When you read this and imagine my voice, it may sound nonchalant, as though I could go for a run anytime and it wouldn't be a big deal. This is not the case. When I go for a run, I work up to it. I tell people about my plan to go for a run in order to be sure that they know I'm a serious amateur athlete (if I were saying that out loud, I'd have trouble stifling my laughter - and you'd probably have to smother a giggle with a well-placed cough or two). I keep my used running clothes around until people come over in order to prove to people that I have, indeed, gone for a run (this is not true...but it is an idea I might try sometime).

While I was running, I was pondering the contributing factors to my recent purchase of the Indian food and my resulting discomfort and I realized that I bought it because nothing was stopping me from buying it. I bought it because I WANTED IT!

***Trite, uber-lame self-realization to follow - WARNING!!!***

And THIS made me realize that the only thing keeping me from reaching my goal of hotness is me, now that I only have myself to look out for. I'm the only thing keeping me from doing anything. Like with the Indian food, I can do whatever the heck I want. I just have to want to do it.

So now that I know that I am the only thing that can get in my way, nothing can get in my way (except, empirically speaking, me)! Naysayers, be damned! Laws of physics, be damned! Sleep, be damned!*



*For those of you who ACTUALLY know me...I promise not to become a speed freak so I can study all night to ace my finals while at the same time practicing for my audition for a spandex pop trio, although we all know that I would be so excited (and so scared) to do both of these things at the same time.**

**I cannot take credit for this fabulous SBTB reference. If you deserve thanks, you probably know who you are.

Hot People Wear Stilettos and Shresses?

Ok - so I was innocently making my way to the very last debate meeting of my university career (I know what you're thinking, but nerds can be hot. This is a whole 'nother post). It is awards season on campus, and I imagine some faculty of hot people (like kinesiology or public relations) was giving out their pats on the back last night. Well...on my way to nerd central I found myself in a herd of girls in high heels and dresses so short they would still be suitable for a relatively comprehensive anatomy lesson.

Although most of these girls look like what I've wanted to look like since I was a tiny, tiny zygote, I question whether it is imperative for hot people to wear high heels and shresses. Because if it's a requirement, then I might have to pack it in right now.

I actually physically cannot wear high heels. I don't think the fates want me to. Here's a story (in five parts - well, actually three): When I was six, I remember watching Mary Martin's Peter Pan. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, I definitely suggest you watch it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbQqH3c_Uwg). You might notice that it is obvious that she's being held up by some elaborate rope and pulley system. It was not obvious to my six-year-old eyes. Knowing that fairy dust is the means by which children get their bodies into the air, I asked Santa for some fairy dust (asking Santa never goes wrong - see Red Ryder BB Gun). Obviously, Santa couldn't just give me a vial of fairy dust, though - he'd have to disguise it or everyone would want some - in the bottle of perfume I found in my stocking. So, armed with my complete conviction that I had a bottle of fairy dust-infused perfume, I doused myself in it, donned my little brother's magician's cape (we had a bizarre childhood, he and I), and leaped from the top bunk of our bed with the firm belief that I would, in seconds, be floating through the air with the greatest of ease. Instead I merely fell the five or so feet from the top bunk - directly onto my ankle. The resulting EXTREME pain was fate's way of telling me that my feet were meant to be firmly on the ground, not elevated some inches above it.

I didn't listen. Every subsequent ankle-turning incident involved a set of shoes that was specifically designed to simulate levitation in some way. One summer, I tumbled down my friend's front steps wearing these:A year or so later, I slipped in my neighbour's icy driveway wearing a similar set of shoes meant for the winter months. This resulted in a sprained knee along with my ankle. I had gone too far and REALLY angered the gods.

This led me to the conclusion that I should tempt fate no more. And really, I don't need to lift myself off the ground any higher than I already am (since I'm 5'8"). Therefore, I only wear high heels of any sort for VERY special occasions.

Surely the abstention from one particular type of shoe does not exclude me altogether from, one day, being a hot, hot mama. Mamas can be hot wearing a pair of cute flats, right? Right?

I'm not even sure I believe myself.

On Shresses:

For the uninformed, shresses are dresses that could easily function as shirts, provided pants were worn beneath them. A reasonably conservative shress is shown here:

Maybe I'm ancient (I could very well be), but I don't think it's necessary to wear clothing that leaves NOTHING to the imagination. Why do people need to know that my vag is literally an inch away from the hem of my dress? Why is it ok that there's even a small possibility that it might come out to say hi to everyone if I dance extra-vigorously one night (or on a platform, or in an elevated cage)? There's also just something a little extra-trashy about the idea that NO CLOTHES need to be removed in order for access to the general vag area to be had. I mean, presumably, if someone has a chance at getting vag access, one could easily remove the vag-covering clothes in a private (or even semi-private) area, thus allowing access only to one person at a time (or two...or whatever - I don't judge - orgies aren't the same as public displays of vag).

Ok - perhaps I'm jealous that I couldn't pull off a shress even if I wanted to - but the principle still applies. And I refuse to wear them on this principle.

So do I have to give up my quest for hotness on principle? We'll see in six months, I guess.

Hot People Don't Shit the Bed

Okay - so I obviously don't mean literally (although I'm sure hot people also tend not to literally shit the bed either).

What I really mean is that hot people don't throw themselves at the first attractive guy they see on their first day out since becoming single. And they certainly don't have small, but public, meltdowns when things don't go right. I call the meltdown "shitting the bed" because really...it's all about making a stanky mess because you couldn't contain your emotional shit.

Clearly, I have recently shit the bed. It's especially bad to shit the bed when you've been drinking because you've got no sense of perspective when you're intoxicated - so you come home inconsolably upset (which is awful when there's actually nobody at home to console you because you just broke up with them), fall asleep, and then wake up hungover and TOTALLY EMBARRASSED by your public display of tragically unrequited flirtiness and subsequent emotional diarrhea. It's kind of like that pounding in your hungover brain is shouting "IDIOT! IDIOT! IDIOT!" at you. This feeling is amplified by the fact that you KNOW you've made everyone who was with you TOTALLY UNCOMFORTABLE. You know when someone you sorta know is crying, but you're not close enough with them to ask for the full details and you therefore feel totally unequipped to comfort them - so you just kind of stand there awkwardly while they cry. Yeah...THAT kind of uncomfortable.

But thinking back to a literal bed-shitting - you know...they're embarrassing, but they likely happened because something was going wrong internally and you probably feel a little better after you've had a hot, hot shower. The same is true for a metaphorical bed-shitting - while embarrassing, it's pretty cathartic - it's amazing how someone's douchebaggy decline of your advances can open your eyes to other douchebaggery (must use this word more in life) that you had been ignoring because you were blinded by his shiny prettiness. It feels kinda good to get that out of your system.