Today's phone conversation with my sister:

Oli: Okay, I've gone ahead and booked that pedicure place for me, you, the other bridesmaids, the mothers and overseas girl cousins for the day before the wedding. We have the option of food at a small extra cost per person, per platter.

Me: Yeah, they had some pretty good sounding stuff for group parties, what were they again?

Oli: Vegetables and dip, fruit, apples and caramel sauce, mini quiche, spring rolls, hummus and pita, caprese salad skewers, and rosemary crispbread with hot artichoke parmesan dip.

Me: My vote is on the rosemary arti-parma bob.

Oli: Yeah, that sounds really good. Should I have two platters instead of just one?

Me: Variety is the spice of life, and they're not expensive.

Oli: Okay, so what would you like besides the rosemary crispbread then? Pick one, whatever you want.

Me: You can never go wrong with mini quiche.

Oli: Yeah, but I don't want to have two carby platters.

Me: But that's the only other one I really like. You said I could pick whatever I wanted.

Oli: Choose another and I promise we'll take that one.

Me: Okay, the spring rolls.

Oli: Oh not that one. I don't know if they'll be to everyone's taste, especially our European cousins.

Me: They're cultured girls, they'll be fine.

Oli: Still, we can't do the spring rolls.

Me: But you said...

Oli: Pick just one more and I promise we'll take it.

Me: The hummus!

Oli: Are you crazy? Do you want everyone to be gassy at the wedding?

Me: They won't be force fed bean puree for crying out loud, it's just a bit of hummus!

Oli: No hummus. I was thinking...

Me: What were you thinking, Oli...

Oli: The vegetable platter with dip.

Me: But that's so heinously boring.

Oli: EVERYONE likes vegetables, you can't go wrong.

Me: That's what I said about the mini quiche.

Oli: So do you like the vegetable platter then?

Me: Well I really wanted the quiche...

Oli: The vegetable platter it is! That's the perfect choice, sis, I'm so glad you came up with it! Now we have to pick some drinks. I'll read you the list and you pick two of whatever you want.

Me: How about you pick two of whatever YOU want.

Oli: Don't be silly, these choices are all about you! Okay, here's the list...

Me: (sigh)

Decor update: I was so happy about the coffee table, I just added the matching end table to my invoice.

It's coming along, kidlets, it's coming along.

Don't start your new life with diet. Start it with exercise.

I know that the word "diet" is practically a nazi term and should never, ever be used. Diets are failure, change of life is success. But let's be honest: to lose weight, we must change our eating ways. And changing our eating ways can be some pretty tough business.

It's so, so hard to be a good, healthy person when we are tempted all the time, every day. We have apples, oranges, vegetables and nuts, but we also have cake, cheetos, and hot fudge sundaes. Fruit salad is always nice, but nothing, nothing says hot summer days like ice cream.

Willpower is a hard thing to have, especially when you're starving after a long day and want something quick, or you're with friends and they're all digging into a pizza. Your new lifestyle gets put off one day, then two days, then a handful of years have gone by. If you'd only been good.

Yesterday always seems easier to correct than today, no?

Here's what I've discovered: I have absolutely crappy willpower when it comes to great food. However, once I've exercised, I don't want to eat.

Why is this? Because I don't want to undo the good I've just done.

I noticed this after a good rollerblade around the block. I've always loved inline skating, and it has become part of my slimmer me program. My snacking is the worst in the evenings, I can go without almost all day, but then fill up at night. The worst thing to do.

A few nights back I went for a half-hour skate around the neighbourhood, and came back complete with sweat stains on my shirt. It was a very, very good workout. My adrenaline levels were up, and the energy was coursing through my body. I felt very, very good.

I wanted to keep feeling that way. I didn't touch another morsel that night.

Point being, that when you can really feel the difference working in you, you really try your best to keep that difference going.

Exercise I must. While exercise itself is not hard for the most part, making it a habit is.

My darling readers,

You are the wind beneath my wings. I e-mailed Tosca Reno, ass genius, with The Butt Book entry I wrote not a few days before, and here is her reply:

So well done Fat Girl Who Is Not Going To Be Fat Anymore. The little book that could, The Butt Book, has gone into its third printing. Who would have thought? I know it works because my butt was definitely non-existent and definitely wouldn’t make anyone look twice. I was laughed at for being too skinny and then too fat. Now look who is laughing. Isn’t success sweet revenge? I’m having the time of my life. I hope you discover success with my book. Let me know how it’s going and you can use this message on your blog if you would like. I invite you and your readers to write me for advice at this email address.

I’m always listening,

Tosca Reno
tosca@oxygenmag.com

Well, what are you waiting for? Start donkey kicking!

Friends, my decorating life has gotten a tiny inch easier. I have committed myself and made the purchase of the hour: a coffee table. It's a very nice coffee table, too, and best of all, I got it on SALE.

I have a sudden flurry to see my place all polished and pimped out, and here's the 411: Vicki, my friend, tenant and fellow bridesmaid, has gone off on African safari, and has returned the keys to my loft. It is empty, it is free, it is mine. Furthermore, we've just had news that a tiny slew of relatives will be coming down for Oli's wedding in September, and I am obliged to play hostess.

Do you know what this means? It means I have a rather truncated time schedule in which I must turn my little box into an eden. A spanking new contemporary loft, with just a touch of old world class.

Old world French class. First I wanted an Indian twist, a Buddha here or there. Then I thought, straight contemporary is the way to go. If anything, it's the easiest. Until I started watching the Home & Garden Network.

If you want to add some spice to your life or totally confuse yourself with a multitude of new ideas, watch some decorating shows. I guarantee your life will become all that much more complicated in the most beautiful way. I was perfectly happy doing what everyone else was doing before the Home & Garden Network came into my life: stainless steel appliances, brown everything else. And while I still have plenty of brown (can't help it, love the stuff), I want some heres and theres that will make my space come to life.

Interior design is such fire. If you're not an artist and can admit as such, decorating is your way to be one. Take me, for instance. The only way I can draw a hand is to trace my own on a piece of paper, then add some nails and knuckle creases. Even then, it always looks stupid. With decorating though, your home is your canvas. Pick a style, research some colours, and you may wind up pleasantly surprised.

For the most part, I've been pleasantly surprised. So far. I've done the "accent wall" thing and painted half my place a really, really deep chocolate brown by the name of Ebony Velvet. I'm in love with the colour. All not Ebony Velvet walls are Feather, a white with the teensiest dark orchid tinge. My bathroom has deep blue tile with white walls, about to be changed. and my den is a baby blue by the name of Blue Jacket.

At first I was enamoured with Blue Jacket, but I've decided that the jacket is out of season. I want the room pinstriped - stay tuned.

And here's the furniture I have so far - a gigantic, light brown ultrasuede sectional, and my bed. Espresso coloured wood with a chocolate brown ultrasuede headboard. I don't have a thing for ultrasuede, but then it does look nice. I promise, no more. My funky little antique armoire that I told you about awhile ago, and now add to that collection my pretty new coffee table: Back to my coffee table: two tier, meaning there's a level underneath to stack plenty of junk (books in my case), dark brown wood all, and the top overed in black leather. Less than half price for being a floor model, which I think is just swell.

My little vintagey French hotel touches? A white shag rug, a really old typewriter that I got at a garage sale years ago, a gorgeous astrolabe, a tiny little chandelier made of brushed brass and crystal beads, some old laundry signs to go on the bathroom door, and a handful of black and white photos I bought years ago on the Charles Bridge.

Charming. Thus far. It makes me nostalgic for Paris, minus the smell of cat pee.

I don't know how this will all work. It could be incredible, it could be recipe for disaster. I love uncertainty, don't you?

ADVERTISING & PUBLIC RELATIONS FIRM LOOKING TO IMMEDIATELY FILL 11 POSITIONS IN SALES, MARKETING & PROMOTIONS. APPLY NOW!

This was an ad I responded to a few days ago. I have a little marketing experience, even littler sales experience, but plenty of promotional, so I tried it out. Within an hour of hitting the "Send" button on the e-mail, I was called in for an interview. I bought me some nice brown heels, got all dolled up, then made the journey across town for the meeting.

Sign #1 that things were about to go terribly wrong: The weather. It was raining cats, dogs, monkeys and elephants. It was raining so hard that the entire left side of my body was completely soaked in the short walk from the train station to the building across the street.

Sign #2 that things were about to go terribly wrong: While I was in the lobby waiting for the elevator, a teenage girl dressed in pinstripe and glitter from head to toe says to me, "Ma'am, do you know which floor suite 462 is?"

That was where I was headed. I was tempted to ask her what summerschool class she was skipping and then read her the riot act for calling me ma'am but instead just told her, "I'm guessing it's on the fourth floor."

Sign #3 that things were about to go terribly wrong: The secretary at the reception desk was bopping to some very, very loud bhangra music.

Sign #4 that things were about to go terribly wrong: Being asked to fill out a form that asked if I'd had any prior convictions. While I can happily circle NO in such cases, these kinds of jobs usually don't have very exacting standards.

Sign #5 that things were about to go terribly wrong: Looking around the waiting room, and realizing that it is full of kids. Wearing jeans.

Sign #6 that things were about to go terribly wrong: The interviewer is also younger than I am. He leads me into his office, I have a seat, and he starts the 411 with, "So, where are you from?"

That's a first. I'd think it was pretty obvious. "I'm from here. Where are you from?"

He smiled. Lot of teeth, this boy had. "Salt Lake City, the office just transferred me a few months ago."

After hearing that, I was tempted to ask his views on polygamy and if he watched the show Big Love, but thought better of it. "I've heard Salt Lake City is very beautiful."

"Yes, it is." He flipped through my resume. "You're very well educated."

Damn straight. Probably better than you. "I find education such an integral, enriching part of life, especially in these times. My schooling was very important to me."

"Would you be able to start immediately?"

You wicked thing, we've just met! "Of course. I'm a quick learner and always eager to be hands on as soon as possible."

"Why are you looking to leave your current job?"

So the corporate underbelly that you are a part of can continue taunting and raping me. "Growth. I feel I've gone as far as I can go in my present job, and would like to really like to feel that I'm more on the path towards a career."

Salt Lake City cleared his throat and started taking notes with his shiny cross pen. "Well, that's certainly understandable. Do you consider yourself a people person?"

No, I'm a hermit. I had to be heavily drugged to even make it down here today. "Of course. I find it very easy to talk to people and they find it very easy to talk to me. As you can see, my journalism background would help enormously with this aspect, as I am experienced with interviewing people from all walks of life, and making them feel at ease in my presence."

"On a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the highest, where would you rate your people skills?"

A fucking 20, asshole! "Oh, definitely a 10. I'm very outgoing."

"Are you capable of working in a team environment?"

Once I'm severely beaten, hosed down and locked up in a straitjacket, I'm a heck of a lot of fun. "Definitely. I find it so refreshing to meet and work with others, not to mention build upon each others' ideas."

"What do you like to do in your spare time? Do you have any hobbies?"

Was he serious? Taxidermy, food fights and naked trapeze. "Well, I do love to read. I've traveled a fair bit, photography, writing and of course, spending time with my dog."

"Have you checked out the company website?"

Oops. Bad girl. I hadn't done that. Think fast. "Under normal circumstances I would have, but my computer has been on the fritz for the past few days, so I had it taken in for repairs." A little white lie couldn't hurt.

Salt Lake City kicked back, and started his schpiel. "I'll tell you a bit about the company and the job, then. While it's not exactly what you would call telemarketing..."

Shit, lord, fuck. This is telemarketing. Things have now officially gone terribly wrong.

"... it is a very sales driven, people oriented workplace. We hold events across town that we always receive free tickets for, and promote these companies by finding customers and attendees. What you would do for us is meet with people and really drive sales pitches, convince them to be a part of things. Does that make sense?"

Yeah, I get it. Glorified telemarketing. "Yes, it's all very clear."

"So what we're looking for is energetic people, and team players eager to make a difference. Are you with us?"

Honey, I jumped ship a long time ago. "You betcha!"

"That's what I like to hear! Do you have a problem starting at entry level?"

YES. "No, not at all."

"Obviously you seem very mature, and are... more ahead... of our usual employees. Since you're looking for a career out of this, we would eventually be promoting you to team trainer, and then office manager, which is my current position."

Woohoo! I get to be just like you! "That sounds very promising."

"Our starting salary is two dollars more than minimum wage. Are you okay with that?"

I am so not okay with that. "As long as I have opportunity for corporate and career growth, I'm fine with that."

"The work hours here are from 10am to 8:30pm every day. Would that be a problem?"

No, I truly plan on quitting my current job to be your slave at half the money and double the hours. The smile that is plastered on my face is fake as all hell, and I'm nodding not out of excitement, but because I can't believe what a moron you really are. "I'm a quick learner and can adapt to any work environment, hours included. I'm flexible."

"Well, I have to say that I'm pleased with your enthusiasm and it's highly probable that you'll be getting a callback. I'm looking forward to having you join our team."

And I am looking forward to my next tetanus shot. "The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for the opportunity."

I might have left the office a little too fast. Hasta la vista, Salt Lake City.

What is the moral of this story?

Check the company website and, for pete's sake, take extra band aids when you're wearing new heels.

Words of Wisdom should be cherished.

Every here and there I read a really good kids book just to free my mind from the usual grownup litany, and the latest on the shelf is Kate DiCamillo's, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.

Without giving away any of the plot, here are a few lines that tugged at me:

"Open your heart," she said gently. "Someone will come. Someone will come for you. But first you must open your heart."

The door closed. The sunlight disappeared.

Someone will come.

Love is heartbreak. Life is heartbreak.

Why should this make any difference to me, any difference at all, if there wasn't a grain of truth to it? That somehow I could learn, that we could all learn, to open our hearts and invite love back in?

If only it wasn't the hardest thing in the world to do.

The Men and the Boys: Gabriel

Gabriel, Gabriel, wherefore art thou, Gabriel?
Deny all others and embrace our flame
Cherish me over all others above
And I'll be yours forever

It didn't quite work out like that, did it?

We grew up together, you and I, seeing each other almost every day from senior kindergarten until the last hour of eighth grade. For most of that time I thought nothing more than, "Hey, Gabriel, or, "Look, there's Gabriel." You were a boy and I was a girl, but for the most part, that's all we ever were to each other. Kids.

Then it happened. Complete and utter metamorphosis, at least on your behalf. You'd spent the summer in Italy and entered the seventh grade two hours late, walking through the door not the scrawny boy of months before, but something else. You were a head taller, all shaggy hair and pouty lips, bedecked in a bomber jacket and Doc Marten boots. You brushed a rogue lock of hair off your forehead, and 16 girls collectively stopped breathing.

So cute. So, so cute. I fell for you like a ton of bricks. Along with everyone else.

Of course you paid me no attention, as you liked your girls small. I believe 5'3 was your cutoff? I didn't stand a chance. Tell that to a 12 year old hopeful though, who knew more about love through books and television, then through experience. I thought that if I stuck to my guns and showed you how great a person I was, you'd slowly start to realize that I was the one for you, fall desperately in love with me, and make me your girlfriend.

I believed and I hoped and even prayed so hard, that something wonderful actually happened. I won the needy girl jackpot when our class seating arrangement was scrambled up, and you wound up next to me. I think the teacher thought I'd be a good influence on you and your lacking GPA.

I was elated, and positive that sooner or later, you'd like me. And indeed you did. Especially when I let you copy my homework, test answers, or do your assignments at the last minute.

"C'mon, " you would say to me, "I really need your help. Please."

"I don't know, Gabriel. I really shouldn't."

"Call me Gabe," you'd say, and flash me a brilliant smile, brushing aside that hair again, that perfect, shiny, "don't hate me because I'm beautiful" hair. And I did it. I did your assignments, your book reports, and even covered for you when you were late, because I liked you that much.

I was such a dumbass. But through it all, I held on to the steadfast hope that everything I was doing would put you on the path to a golden, happy us. True love conquers all.

We all have to have our fairytales shattered sometime, right? You were it, the harbinger of doom, smashing away at my flossy convictions when, after everything I'd done, you played such a cruel practical joke on me that I ended up crying.

It was a long time ago and I regret to say I don't remember what the joke was. But I do remember sitting next to you during math, hiding my face and the tears, wondering, why? How could you? While all you did was snicker.

Bastard. Cold, sly, heartless bastard with the face of an angel. Our relationship wasn't totally with its lessons, though, and here is what I learned with you:

1) Don't judge a book by its cover. Something that looks so good on the outside, isn't necessarily all beautiful on the inside.

2) Love by service isn't love at all.

3) Revenge is a dish best served cold. I still let you copy off my tests, but made sure you had all the wrong answers.

Sucked to be you.

The Butt Book

Tosca Reno is a great piece of ass. She has a bum so perfect, so well proportioned and muscled in all the right areas, it makes me want to slide my hands up those cheeks and give a good squeeze.

It's not just an ass, it's art.

It's little wonder that after highly admiring Tosca's rear end, I purchased her masterpiece and offering to all us regular women in the hopes to achieve the same, brilliant posterior, The Butt Book.

Girls who want better butts buy The Butt Book. I want a better butt and its subtitle and claim, How to Build a Non-Cellulite and Fat-Free Butt in 9 Weeks, had me sprinting to the cash. Anything that can get me better buns in two months and some change has my attention. And, best of all, The Butt Book is basic. Eat right, exercise, and use these key moves for the behind of your dreams.

There are five plus one of these moves: kickbacks, hip thrusts, squats, walking lunges, mule kicks, and butt squeezes.

Butt Book: A Kickback, or leg raise, involves standing with your feet together, hands on hips, then lifting one leg behind you, squeezing your muscles until the leg is lowered. Repeat with the other leg. Within a couple of weeks you should be able to do three to four sets of 15 reps.

Me: Lord have Mercy, who would think something that sounded so simple could hurt so much? I got through a few of them okay, but by the time I got to ten I was teetering so badly I had to grab onto something to keep my balance. Must. Keep. Kicking.

Butt Book: With hip thrusts, lie down on the floor with your hands beside you. Draw your knees up and raise your bottom as high as you can, squeezing all the while.

Me: Once you get over the fact that you look like you're pelvicly thrusting in a Richard Simmons wet dream gone wrong, this is one of those exercises that you can't live without. Work it, girl!

Butt Book: To do squats, stand with your legs shoulder width apart, hands on hips, and sink slowly to the ground until your thighs are parallel with the floor. Back flat, head up and hold for a count of two, squeezing at all times and rising back up to your starting position.

Me: Ah yes, we all know these. Squats are evil incarnate. You look like an idiot, you feel like an idiot, you're sticking your ass out like a two-bit whore, and it burns like hell. When all is said and done, I'd better be able to bounce pennies off my cheeks after endless, accumulated hours of this.

Butt Book: To begin your lunges, stand with your legs together, hands on hips, keeping your knees soft and contracting your rear. Take a step forward with one leg, leaving that foot flat on the floor, bending the back knee of your other leg towards the floor. Return to your original position, and repeat with the other leg.

Me: If squats are evil incarnate, lunges are the minions of Lucifer. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. I need them. Ouch.

Butt Book: Let's do some Mule Kicks! Get on your hands and knees on the floor. Back flat, head up, elbows locked, feet and knees together. With one foot flexed and knee bent, lift your leg as high as you can, squeezing your behind. Hold for a couple of seconds, then draw the leg back down and under you. Do ten counts, then repeat with the other leg.

Me: I look like a friggin' donkey. I'm so embarrassed that I'm actually doing these in the basement with the curtains drawn. Did I mention that they hurt like a bitch?

Butt Book: Your mystery exercise is one that you can do anytime, and that is to give your buns a tight squeeze every time you take a step.

Me: This is all fine and dandy, and I did try these with the best of intentions, until my right cheek cramped up and I made a scene on the subway platform.

I feel great! My ass doesn't. It feels like saltwater taffy, pulled and abused in all the wrong ways. I know one day it will purr and say, "Thank you, Mommy," but right now all it can manage is a weak, pathetic, "Uncle".

Thank you, Tosca! Eight weeks and six days to go. Want. Tight. Buns. Must. Keep. On. It.

Dear Miss Universe,

I just wanted to thank you for the inspiration you gave me, during our very brief and impromptu time together at the spa.

Many things have inspired me in my quest for personal happiness, and seeing you that day was one of the biggest encouragements of all. In the short days since we've seen each other, I've managed to lose five pounds.

It may not be much, but it's a big thing for me. A great, wonderful thing that is the beginning of the path to something wonderful. As a result, I stand just a little bit taller.

May your toes always be pretty,

Sincerely,

Me

I've just woken up from the most disturbing dream.

I was walking a very crowded street, while eating and clutching onto a chocolate cream egg for dear life when, horror of horrors, I bumped into Zinedine Zidane.

Shocked, I tightened my grip on the half-eaten egg so hard that it broke, and the cream starting running down my arm. I smiled in embarassment, he recoiled with a "yuck," and when I looked into a mirror near the end of the dream, there was chocolate smeared all over my face.

If you know anything at all about soccer, Zizou is the undisputed god of the sport and currently man of the hour, after bringing the French Les Bleus to the final World Cup match against Italy.

If you know anything about me, you'll know that if I was to be given free sexual range among the players of Fifa, he is at the top of my personal list for footballers I would choose to bed.

I will never have this man and I can accept that, but why, oh why, could I not get one imaginative REM night of ecstasy, as opposed to passing by one of my favourite players with chocolate all over my face?

And I hate chocolate cream eggs!

If you want to feel inadequate and ugly, have a pedicure beside Miss Universe.

After acknowledging the tragedy of my toes, I popped into the spa for a quick ped and was barely into the preliminary soak when her majesty, Miss Universe, settled into the foot bath beside mine. I didn't notice her at first, was too absorbed in my new book Skinny Bitch, but then it's hard to ignore every customer in the spa gawking at the gorgeous creation sitting next to you, one even going so far as to comment, "How on earth did you get to be so beautiful?"

If beauty is numbing, then this woman is too magnificent for words. Miss Universe is tall with green eyes, dark brown, almost black straight hair, and a smile right out of a Crest commercial. She has a slender, perfect figure, a size four at most, and an outgoing personality to match. She is perfection brought to life.

I was the only person in the spa who didn't try to talk to her. I was too busy pretending to read, looking at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling 13, awkward and pimply again.

If this is truly the Queen of the Universe, I am its court jester.

In my defense, lots of regular girls would shy in the presence of a glamazon. This is the way women are. We can recognize beauty better than men, because we take it apart in a way they never will. And then, we will do one of three things: admire it, diss it, or pale next to it.

Next to this woman, I was paling something fierce. Maybe if it had been anyone else I wouldn't have cared so much and kept right on reading, but not this time. I have a special bond with Miss Universe because, as it turns out, she and I have a few things in common. In fact, if you put our lives on paper, the first couple of paragraphs could convince anyone that we are the same person.

Miss Universe's roots are Eastern European. So are mine. She emigrated to North America and from then on until winning her title, we lived in the same city. We graduated from the same university, are within an inch of each other in height, and have the same colour eyes & hair.

We even have the same first name.

After that, it's nothing but different. This gorgeous woman, this unbelievable creature is the winner of the world's top beauty prize. The universe, actually, as per the ribbon often slung over her shoulder. And while I won't be breaking mirrors anytime soon, next to this woman I am simply... me. Next to this icon of perfection, I felt all undereye circles, bloating and bad hair days.

It makes me wonder that if I hadn't let "surrounding tension" step in the way that I had, would I now be as glittering as this? If, now, I were to take care of myself that much, prize myself as well as she does, would I be able to stop traffic, light up a room, wear a crown?

My own crown, that is. I'm a bit of a geezer to be thinking of beauty contests at this age.

When my feet were pretty and my toes lacquered orange, I carefully manuevered back into my flip flops, paid for the pedicure, and turned to leave. But not before taking a last look at Miss Universe, who, surprisingly, was looking at me.

She smiled at me, and I smiled back. And then, simultaneously, we went back to our lives. Miss Universe went back to her magazine, and I left the spa.

If women can judge beauty better than men, we can judge expression even better. We are masters at recognizing truth and more often, manipulation. We can spot a fake smile from a mile away. Miss Universe's smile was 100% real juice. Genuine. In the admire, diss, pale categories, you can't possibly diss a woman like that.

I stopped into a cafe next door to grab some tea before running a few errands, where the slow little cashier, as usual, made me wait for my tea. And while I was waiting for my tea, the CD player started to skip on some choice K.T. Tunstall lyrics:

Suddenly I see
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me

Heaven sent.

I don't want to be Miss Universe. But I do want to feel like a winner, like everything is right with the world and with me. Because when I feel like that, I will smile like Miss Universe.

How old were you when you figured out what you would be when you grew up?

I was nine. I wanted to be a movie star.

Unoriginal. Conformist. Partial lie. I didn't really want to be a movie star, since I had no idea what the job entailed - other than memorizing lines, of course - but since every other little girl I knew wanted to be a movie star, I thought, that sounds good. Well then, I want to be a movie star too.

I had a good start. By the time I was nine years old, I was in the school choir, was the star of my ethnic language school poetry recitals & head dancing girl, and could play two instruments. Yes, I was quite the wind up toy.

The fact that I was something of a reluctant toy, though, didn't quite dawn upon me. I was in the choir because my teacher said I had to be. I was the star of poetry and dance because my parents expected nothing less, and could play two instruments because the school offered violin, and piano was played by my big sister before me.

(Not that I didn't like doing any of these things. I could definitely have skipped the poetry and wasn't too keen on dance, but I really did love piano and violin.)

If every famous actress can recite, dance, sing and play for her adoring fans, then I was well on my way. Enter the school play of 1985, The Wizard of Oz, a beacon of hope to starlets everywhere, and the perfect opportunity to showcase my skills. I would perform! I would dazzle! I would be scouted for a multi-million dollar picture, and live in a Hollywood mansion!

Not that any hotshot producers would be coming to an obscure Catholic school in northern suburbia, but we can all dream, right?

Unfortunately, my shiny dreams would be badly quashed. When I say that The Wizard of Oz was a school play, I mean that absolutely every kid attending our school was in the play. Every last one. And, with the exception of the key parts that were delegated to the older kids who tried out for them, every other role in that play was assigned according to class.

Grade one became the citizens of Munchkinland. Second grade were the flying monkeys. Third grade were the citizens of Oz, and fourth grade was the happy forest.

If you've been paying attention to this point, you know by now that I was in the fourth grade. And if you've figured anything out for yourself, a forest is full of trees. I had to be a tree. And not just any tree, but a freakin' singing and dancing tree.

And, it didn't end there. The fifth grade was a few trees short of a haunted forest, and came scouting for extra saplings. The three tallest kids in the fourth grade got to be in the happy, happy singing and dancing forest, and then do a double shift as the mean, scary, booing haunted forest.

I was the tallest kid in the class. It was a given.

If you've never been a tree, it's hard work. Being a happy forest tree is even harder. You're stuck in a cardboard tube and dancing to ridiculous choreography without being able to bend your knees, all while getting a chin rash from your face hole. And, worst of all, because your arms are branches, they have to be up the entire time. Way, way up.

Us happy/haunted transvestite trees were doubly screwed. Twirl your way offstage, give your arms a ten minute break while Dorothy converses with Oz, then back onstage, branches and defenses up while a pack of second grade flying monkeys infests the forest, bumping trunks everywhere in their wake.

Ever fallen while in a cardboard tube? It's like putting a turtle on its back. It stays that way.

The Wizard of Oz was a four show production, and three hours hours long. Trees occupied more than half the performance. From Tuesday to Friday of that week, I had at least six hours of arms up, chin rash, flying monkey kicks, and plenty of reality checks. If The Wizard of Oz gave me anything at all, it was the certainty that if actresses had to do stupid things like this, I never wanted to be one.

Funny thing was, all my fellow girl classmates seemed to love it. Sure their arms hurt too, but they just loved that spotlight, and smiled and danced their little tree hearts away.

Their enthusiasm just confused me all the more. What was wrong with me? Why didn't I love this? And if I wasn't supposed to act, just what was I supposed to do? What was my calling?

Heavy thinking for the fourth grade mind.

Every night when the show was finished, we filed back to our class to get out of our costumes. By the last night, I was in a semi-panic from overly digressing on my future, since I was positive now that Wizard was done I never wanted to act again. Someone helped me out of my trunk; I wrote my name on it and put it against a wall, where one of my assignments had been tacked up. It was a short story for Creative Writing, and there was a gold star beside the A+. That made me smile.

I helped someone else out of their trunk, and then put that costume away next to a different wall, where one of my book reports was tacked up. A+, gold star, and "Fantastic!" written across the top by our teacher.

Everyone got changed, said their goodnights, and one by one left to locate waiting parents. When I exited the classroom I noticed one more thing: above the light switch was the "Speller’s Corner," reserved for students who’d received the highest marks on their spelling tests. One test was up there. Mine. 100%, and special commendation for being able to spell "Conversational," and use it constructively in a sentence.

This was a sign. Creative writing, book reports, spelling. Words.

Was my future in words?

It had to be. It just made too much sense. A gigantic grin spread across my face, and I ran outside to find my family.

Oli and Dad had been in the audience that night, and I found Oli waiting by the parking lot. Dad had gone to get the car. Oli had just finished her first year of high school which made her, in my eyes, a very important person indeed. I ran up to her, bursting with news. "OLI!"

She turned around and smiled. I was practically swimming in one of our father’s old brown shirts, and my face was still black with stage makeup. "Yes, leafy?"

I stuck my tongue out at her. "I know what I want to be when I grow up!"

"And what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I was jumping up and down, ecstatic. "A WORD PERSON!"

I don’t know what officially makes a word person, but twenty-two years later, I’m just that much closer.

It hasn't been easy. I have strayed from this path many, many times in favour of better paying careers, but I've always come back. I don't know exactly where life will take me, but I know that with words, I'm getting warmer every day.

One thing is definitely for certain, though: I haven't missed show business.

The Calorie Chronicles: Weight Watchers

It was late 80's, early 90's ish when Sarah Ferguson, Duchess and then former Duchess of York paraded across our television screens in some sleek outfit, struck a pose, tossed that fiery red hair aside and proclaimed, in the most confident way & British way possible, "I did it, and so can you. With Weight Wotches."

To Fergie's right was a Before picture. She was post-pregnancy, some 60 plus pounds heavier, and wearing a horrific floral dress. Hidden under a straw hat and gigantic sunglasses, her ghostly complexion glared forth. The whole nine yards of it.

Real live Fergie was nothing like that picture. She was trim, she was elegant, she was a size six. At least.

Weight Watchers was my first official diet program. I was 15. Looking back, it wasn't a necessity being on this program, since I was only a size ten; it was vanity. That huge vice had finally caught up with me. I had been away from the modeling schedule for a couple of years at this point and, as expected, put on some weight. I didn't have Salmon to bark at me, but I did have Carlotta Antonioli flaunting her ruffle of a kilt, stick legs, and pouty lips fresh from various senior blowjobs.

In fact I had lots of girls around me, showing off, flirting, enjoying their bodies and just being girls. I had a kilt on too, at a modest length and when I look at pictures from those days, I looked good in it. Still, I wanted more.

I wanted to be super skinny. Super bad.

Now, that's not reason enough. Then, it was. I joined Weight Watchers.

I am not familiar with the Weight Watchers program today, but I'm sure it's not the same as the Weight Watchers of days past. I don't remember much, including my start or end weight on the program. Here's what I do remember, though: 1200 calories per day, every day, mostly in the form of proteins and vegetables. Mostly vegetables.

I only really followed the Weight Watchers regime for a few weeks, and my most vivid memory of the whole thing involved the day I came home late from school, and still had the six servings of vegetables requirement to down.

I was starving, and I wasn't prepared. Opened up the fridge and the only thing available was a bag of spinach, so, I took it out, chopped like mad, boiled the whole lot and dumped it onto a plate.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. When I sat at the table and eyed the six-cup mountain of boiled, flavourless spinach in front of me, I knew it was a bad, bad idea. No insult to Popeye, but this just wouldn't do.

I took one bite. I took another bite. I emptied the plate into a tupperware container, threw it in the fridge, and made myself a sandwich.

That was the Beginning of the End for Weight Watchers and me. There was high school to be experienced, and that didn't include three raw carrots in my lunch bag each and every day.

And, to be honest, I didn't really care. That much was evident and it still is, since its taken me even this long to even scrape up what few memories of the ordeal I have left. Maybe I just didn't care because there was need to care. Or, maybe I just wasn't ready to face myself as a fat girl.

Maybe I just wasn't a fat girl.

I may not recall my beginning and end numbers on Weight Watchers, but I do know the total of pounds lost. Seven. Hardly a dent.

I like to think that even if something didn't work for me, or I didn't stick with it, that I did manage to at least learn something. So, what did I learn from this?

Creativity. Woman cannot live on spinach alone.

Your Crowning Glory

Cheesy time. We all have our guilty pleasures, and the Princess Diaries movies are part of mine. Some things just make you feel good, and this song in particular, sung beautifully by Julie Andrews and Raven Symone, always gives me that warm, fuzzy feeling.

Today is a day for Princesses. This goes out to all big and little girls everywhere, or, everyone who still has that little girl inside.

Crowning Glory

Some girls are fair
Some are jolly and fit
Some have a well bred air
Or a well-honed wit

Each one's a jewel
With a singular shine
A work of art
With its own rare design

Dear little girl
You are terribly blessed
But it's your heart of gold
I love the best

And that will be your crowning glory
Your whole life through
It'll always be your crowning glory
The most glorious part of you

Some boys can waltz
Some guys can groove
Strike an elegant pose
With the really good clothes
Some seem to have no faults
But we never like those
No we don't
He'll praise your eyes
Your melodious laugh
Call you more lovely than others by half

The one who's right
My gorgeous prince
Will be honest and true
He'll believe in me too
And prize your heart of gold the way I do

He'll know that will be your crowning glory
Your whole life through
Your love will see that it's your crowning glory
The most glorious part of you
And you
And you
And you

That will be your crowning glory
Darling when they tell your story
They'll call your heart of gold your crown of glory
The most glorious part of you

I may still be out to lunch on kids, but if I have a daughter, remind me to take voice lessons and sing this to her. Every day.

Today, my parents asked me the inevitable, dreaded question. It happens at least once a month, and it usually comes on weekends.

"Honey, where do you think you're going in life?"

Hearing this never fails to make me want to dig my nails into the wall and claw.

My parents are worried about me. I can see it in their eyes. While they know I'm a good kid and have a decent head on my shoulders, they are concerned mainly about these three elements in my day-to-day, and in the following order:

1) After investing huge amounts into my glittering education, I don't yet have a kickass career
2) I am over the age of 30 and nowhere near marriage.
3) Because I consider my dog my child, I have absolutely no interest in having a real one. Or two.

Tell us where you think you're going in life. How can I possibly answer that?

Here is what they WANT me to say: "Mother, Father, I'm so glad you asked me that! Let's all sit at the table and have a nice, long talk. Here on this chart I have outlined my five-year plan, complete with plans B thru F in case any initial strategies fall through. You'll notice that I have added diagrams in the margins, and all emotional aspects are highlighted in pink. After the post-presentation discussion, there will be a slideshow."

Problems solved, case closed. Happy parents.

I suppose any sensible daughter would have a five-year plan. Heck, I would love to have a plan. I'd love to march into the best newspaper in the city and demand that they give me the career of a lifetime, to which they will comply. I would love to meet a devastatingly tall & handsome footballer or hockey player who has brains to spare, adores me, and wants to marry me on the spot. I would love us to have la vie en rose and for him to completely understand that, in all honesty, I'm still out to lunch on the kids issue.

The thing is, and what I've been learning is that life happens in and around the plan. I can draw up what I want to, but that doesn't mean it will happen. You can plan all you want, but the interesting stuff happens outside your file folders.

Besides, us late bloomers just need a little more time, that's all. Mom, Dad, remember how I was the last kid in school to learn how to tie shoelaces? I was the last to take the training wheels off my bike, the last to learn how to print my name, and even the last to learn to read. But once I started reading, I didn't stop. I needed a tutor in French, special help in Math, and to this day I don't get the formulas of chemistry. But I graduated in the top three percent of my class.

I do believe, with all my heart, that everything will catch up to me. It seems to be my pattern.

Why don't I tell them this? Well, it's not what they want to hear. They still want the chart, pink highlighting and five-year plan, but I can't give them that. So I just smile, and tell them what I always do: "Mom, Dad, don't worry. I'll be fine."

And I really mean it.

To know more about yourself, take a quiz. Every here and there I like to do one for a fun little reality check.

For instance, did you know that if I were a pair of sandals, I would be platform sandals? Apparently I am funky, urban, and a little downtown & Euro. Well, then.

There's more, too. If I was a superheroine I'd be Elektra, if I were a pinup I'd be Brigitte Bardo, and if I was a hat, I would be a fedora. I have never worn a fedora. How do you think it would look with platform sandals?

Every now and then comes a quiz that shocks the bejesus out of me. www.colorquiz.com offers a free personality test that just takes two screens and a few minutes. Twice, you pick from among eight colour squares, in the order they make you feel the best. I know, child's play.

The quiz is quick, it is lame, it is hokey. It is startling. My results were:

Your Existing Situation: The situation is difficult and you are trying to persist in your objectives against resistance. You find it necessary to conceal intentions as an added precaution, in order to disarm the opposition.

The objectives against resistance part, check. As for disarming the opposition, am I really that calculating? Boohaha.

Your Restrained Characteristics: You cling to your belief that your hopes and ideas are realistic, but you need encouragement and reassurance. You apply very exacting standards to your choice of partner, and want guarantees against loss or disappointment. Egocentric and quick to take offense. Able to obtain physical satisfaction from sexual activity but tend to hold aloof emotionally.

I don't always need encouragement or reassurance, but every now and again it's nice to have. The partner thing is dead on, as is the physical satisfaction. If I'm aloof it's because as you get older, relationships just get all that more ridiculous, and I'd like some feedback before pouring my heart out, dammit.

I used to take offense at the drop of a hat. That was before I learned not to give a shit about what the general populace thought of me.

Your Desired Objective: You strive for a life rich in activity and experience, and for a close bond offering sexual and emotional fulfillment.

Yes. Very much so.

Your Actual Problem: You fight against restriction or limitation, and insist on developing freely as a result of your own efforts.

Since when is that a problem?

Your Actual Problem #2: You want to act freely and uninhibitedly, but you are restrained by your need to have things on a rational, consistent, and clearly-defined basis.

Just come out with it then, I'm a consumerist hog. And how in Zeus' butthole do you come up with all this from picking out a bunch of colour tiles??

I keep all my birthday cards. Here's the one Oli got me:

Sister, you were born to be Fabulous!

Happy Birthday Pookie! I wish you an absolutely FANTASTIC year, it really is amazing being 31, believe me. And, it's going to get better. There are *huge* plans in store for you, just be patient and let it happen. You know, everything happens for a reason and even though we don't always know that reason, it is there! You're extremely gifted, just be confident in yourself and everything will fall into place. You know I'm your greatest fan, and I'll always be there for you... just as you are for me. Lots and lots and LOTS of love, hugs and kisses, Oli

We all need to hear that sometime, and you always know just how to say it. Thanks, Sis.

Dear Lancey,

Although I've already written you to express my thanks and gratitude for this gorgeous new hairstyle, I've received so many compliments of late and worn my hair down so often, I felt the need for just another quick note.

Why just today, in fact, when I was stuck in a godforsaken part of town with my mother and a flat tire, I noticed thugs and gangster wannabes from all walks of life appreciating my beautiful hair as it blew in the wind.

I got a "Wussup, wussup!" or two, and even a "Girl, you so fine," as I madly dialed and swore at Nissan and CAA. I suppose the look greatly complimented my yelling and colourful language.

In addition, I noticed the tow truck driver winking at me as he installed the spare. My word, man, you've made me irresistible! In godforsaken parts, at least.

I am beyond convinced of your scalp prowess. Count on me to refer friends near and far for, "The Lance Touch."

Divinely yours,

Me.

P.S.: Next time I really, really get to squeeze your tight ass.

Note to Self: My fabulousness is limited if I'm just another stranded, helpless girl screaming into my cell phone. Learn how to change a flat.

When Jess and I lived in Prague, we arrived at the tail end of summer. We were there all of winter and fall, and left at the dawn of spring. Not quite four seasons, but we saw them all.

I love the holidays, each and every one. Halloween is near the top of my list, mostly because the fall is my favourite time of year. The leaves are russet colours, the air is crisp, scarves and mittens come out of hiding, and apple pies are in the oven.

Halloween itself is a vault of memories for me. Getting excited every year about what costume I was going to wear, which tricks I would play, and all the candy I would get. One more night of spooky fun before the next day when, wouldn't you know it, Christmas was suddenly around the corner.

Outside of North America, Halloween is not a big deal. It's no deal at all. No costumes, no trick or treating, just an ordinary day like all the rest. The one, solitary sign of Halloween in Prague was a large pumpkin in the window of Fruits de France, a boutique Parisian grocery near Wenceslas Square.

October in Prague was when I started to get homesick, and the absence of little ghosties and goblins didn't make it better. I got mopey, and Jess noticed. It's hard not to notice someone's every changing mood when you're in such close quarters.

October 31st was on a Wednesday that year. I remember walking home from the tram stop after work, going up the building steps and opening our apartment door to a huge, orange pumpkin on the kitchen table.

I know my face lit up in a smile. He came out of the bedroom to kiss and hug me hello, and to the questioning look on my face, replied, "It's for you. I got it from the French store."

I was about to tell him how much I loved it, when I realized something. "How did you get it back here?"

"I carried it."

"Jess, the French store is at least ten blocks away. You're nuts."

He rumpled my hair. "I wanted you to have it."

Jess isn't one to express himself through words. He doesn't gush, or feel the need to tell me that he loves me every minute of the day. But, every now and again he does something so wonderful, so heartfelt, that it knocks me off my feet.

This was one of those times. He'd specifically gone out today to find the one pumpkin in Prague, and haul it all the way home, just for me. At that moment, right then, I knew the man standing in front of me would go to the ends of the earth to make me happy.

And that was good.

It is years later, several Wednesdays from that day, and our relationship has gone in a hundred different directions. We broke up in February, he said he was sorry, things have been eerily stable since, and he has pulled another rabbit from his hat: a ticket to Chicago. For me.

Do I want to go?

Yes. No. Yes.

Am I nervous to see him again?

No. Yes.

Do I still love the man?

No. Yes. Very.

Am I ready to tell him that right now?

No.

Are people capable of change?

I always liked to think so.

Can he grow?

I want to believe that.

Is there hope for us?

I want to believe that, too.

Can I handle it if things work out for us?

Yes.

Can I handle it if things don't work out for us?

Yes. I know that now.

Am I going to Chicago?

No.

No.

No.

Yes.

It was a good birthday.

I slept in a little, I enjoyed the rain a little, I enjoyed everything else a lot. The rest of the day fell into place beautifully.

Birthday Rule #1: Go Outside

The outdoors is the glory of our existence. Savour the elements on your day. After my usual one egg breakfast & birthday offering of card + present from moms and pops, I took them and Bluetooth to Dog Hill, a.k.a. the canine heaven of west end pooches. Plunk in the middle of our city's largest park, Dog Hill is a huge, sandy off leash area for any dog and owner willing to brave its happy, cartoon nature. If a dog starts talking or doing anything remotely Disney, it's likely to be here.

After the rain the day stayed gorgeous, and we all had a blast. Didn't stay for long, though - Blue is a bit of a snob and happens to prefer people to dogs. I think he thinks he is people.

I did go downtown later on, and did what I try to do for every birthday I've had since my teen years. Spend a little time alone, and do a little time shopping.

I'm lucky in that I was born in the first days of summer, which is such a great weather time of year. Looking back, I can't remember all that many birthdays without clear blue skies and happy yellow sunshine. The temperature is never too high, which I like, and the humidity usually hasn't set in yet. That's even better.

Birthday Rule #2: Alone Time

Alone time is good. I highly recommend it. Alone time on your birthday is a must, even if just for a few minutes. You've just finished a year of your life, after all, and today is the first day of the next 364. There is reflection, there are plans, there are goals and ambitions, creativity, love and dreams to be had. Even if all you can do is sneak out for a sundae, do it. You'll thank me, I promise.

When my train pulled into the city, I got off at my stop and made my way outside, where I settled myself in cafe seating beside a large fountain. I'd come here specifically for that reason, and commenced on my alone time. As for what I was thinking, I'll just have to give you a smile and a curtsey. That's for me, myself and I, younglings, me, myself and I. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

After the alone time came the shopping time.

Birthday Rule #3: Gift Thyself

For pete's sake, give yourself something. This is your day. It doesn't have to be lavish, even if you don't have a nickel to your name, just string together a necklace from macaroni noodles and dance to "Le Freak". There will be other presents, naturally, but who better to treat the star of the show, than the star of the show?

My 30th was especially memorable. I was alone, I'd just turned the fabulous age, there was a wad of cash burning a hole in my pocket and I was determined to be queen of the hour. Fifty-nine minutes and one empty wallet later, I was the giddy owner of a Virginia Johnson print blouse, metallic gold Farylrobin sandals, Me & Ro silver earrings, and fantastically strappy leather and rope Miu Mius on a 4.5 inch heel.

The Miu Mius were and are my favourite of the haul. I was so happy to find intensely gorgeous shoes that fit my duck feet, I didn't think twice about dropping the $200 for them. Imagine my shock and disbelief when, back on the train, I saw the tag with the original price crossed off, which was a rather unholy amount of $500. I suppose I could have been thinking, "Oh man, I just got $200 shoes," but exploding in my head instead was, "OH MAN, I JUST GOT REGULARLY $500 DOLLAR SHOES! THIS IS SO SEX AND THE CITY!"

Good times. Unfortunately, no massive wad this year, but still enough in the birthday fund for some special treatment. First stop: Capri pants.

My relationship with capri pants started off shifty. I hated them because they reminded me too much what of kept happening to my regular pants in the heyday of my growth spurt. Think ankle air, clam digs, Steve Urkel.

And then, in the past few months or so, I'm thinking hmm, these are pretty snazzy. They aren't pants, they aren't shorts, and they are oh so cute for summer. Hello, blue Z-Brand Nomads. I got them because I think they are supercool, and because I have never had capri pants. The were adorable, on sale, and a wee bit too small. Hey, there are goals to achieve. I'm not going to buy fat clothes forever.

After the capris came the white gold earrings. Okay, I know *exactly* what you're saying. "White Gold! You said you didn't have a lot of money to spend!" And I don't, my darlings, I don't. That is why I went to the Gold Exchange.

The Gold Exchange is where you take your gold when you want to sell it, then lo and behold, it is melted down to make something else. Secondhand, vintage jewellery in a new package, per se. The place itself is tacky, flea market-ish and sells stuff I wouldn't be caught dead in, like huge rings with the Cadillac logo.

Again, I know what you're thinking. Why would I be in such a tacky place on my birthday? Because, darlings, if you're patient and a treasure hunter, the Gold Exchange can come up with some pretty surprising stuff. And, the need for hoops outweighed the, umm, questionable ambience. I went through the entirety of high school in hoop earrings of various metals and sizes, and a number of years ago switched to ear huggies. Ear huggies are not diapers, they are hoops that hug your ears, or, fit as close to the lobes as possible.

Over the weekend I noticed that Oli had gotten some bigger hoops, and they made me wistful for my youth. Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing... *Anyway*, I didn't have to dig too long before finding my twisted white gold hoops, all of one inch in width, and I must say, they look smashing. Especially with my hair loose, which is exactly how I wore it.

Oh yes, just one more thing. The latest Donna Hay magazine, which I collect, purchased with part of Pinky's gift: certificate to be spent at big, huge bookstore. She also got me a lovely shell necklace and not one, but *three* (aieeeee!!)) Andy Warhol notepads complete with colourful little pencil! Pinky and I have a thing for paper products.

Birthday Rule #4: Friends & Family

The icky thing about Monday birthdays is the Monday itself. People are busy, the week is starting, bla bla, and so it is a difficult time. I understand that and it's always cool, but the great thing is that the people who matter most will always take the extra step for you. Even if it's just a phone call, it's a couple of minutes from their busy day to let you know you are thought of, and you are important. I like that.

I got calls from all my friends, local and worldwide, every last one wishing me well. I got texts, I got cards, I got presents. I got Oli, Raj and James, easily on Tier One of My Absolutely most Big League Peoples on this here planet taking me out to dinner and showering me with gifts.

Birthday Rule #5: One Special Meal

It's not about sitting in front of a gigantic cake, fork in hand, proclaiming, "It's my damn birthday!" and then chowing down, it's about one of the day's meals being a little better than any of the others. I requested sushi, and they took care of the rest.

James picked the restaurant. Foodie that he is, he knows all the gourmet hotspots from a five-star heaven, to a hidden hole in the wall. Raj and Oli made the plan, and we all met at the mall to go down togther. You'll be tempted to think I am a shopping diva (which I so am), but Oli and Raj both work at the mall.

I don't remember the name of the place, but I do remember the smiley Japanese waitress, James downing his Sapporo, and soup in a conch shell that I spilled all over my placemat. Happy Birthday! I also remember the incredibly fresh hamachi (yellowtail) sashimi, my absolute fave, and rolls so absurdly huge we could barely fit them in our mouths.

'Tis the insult of the sushi restaurant roll: the seaweed makes it impossible to cut or take bites, so when they're that big you're unceremoniously reduced to jaw fractures and chipmunk cheeks. Don't laugh, or you spew rice. I laughed.

Post meal, I found myself surrounded by gifts. Besides last week's hair cut & colour *and* paying for everyone's dinner, Oli got me some extra beauty products and these wowzer patio glasses with straws (aieee!) that you never throw away. I have a feeling i will never be using these straws, because they are beautiful and I don't trust my guests to not chew on them. Stupid guests. I will put them on a pedestal and use them before I die.

She also gave me Corey's gift, who couldn't be there. There was a card, an envelope with a Sephora gift certificate (aieeeee!!!) and another little note that said: "This gift card entitles you to the purchase of any paint of your choice, and all labour to be performed by your future brother in-law. Paint supplies are included." AIEEE! My walls get colour!

Raj said he didn't have time to get me a gift, so I swakked him one on the cheek. A swak is a kiss. I don't care if I get gifts or not, I was just so happy they were there. James put a book in front of me, Good Omens, and said it was a last minute little cheap thing.

Good Omens is a sci-fi book. James is sci-fi. I am not sci-fi. Because I love James, I will do my best to be sci-fi.

Raj then pulls this huge box out of his Gucci bag and says, "This followed us home too."

This is where my mouth fell open. There might even have been drool. The package Raj put in front of me was a jewellery box, from a seriously high end jewellery store, with a "From your Boyfriends" card attached to it. I was almost scared to open it.

When I did open it, no "aieee." I was too busy having a stroke.

It was a necklace. Not just any necklace either, but the silver and gold necklace I have been ogling since its launch in 2002, when some gorgeous Lithuanian model was plastered on skyscrapers and bus shelters everywhere wearing this necklace. MY necklace now. It is nine pebbles, eight in silver and one in gold, hanging down in a straight line from a silver wire around the neck. Atrocious price tag. I've been staring at it for four years and thinking to myself, when I have a better job, when I'm done decorating my place, when I clear this or that credit card, I'm going to buy myself this, just because.

Raj and James have gone ahead and done that for me. I was speechless. Not at the amazing and wonderful gift I'd just received, but that I had friends who thought so much of me, they would go out of their way like that. I can only imagine what my expression looked like. I turned to Raj and said, "Bunny, I love you no matter what you get me, but this is way too much."

He reached over to squeeze my ear and said, "You deserve it, kookoo."

And so, after suffocating them with hugs and smooshy kisses on both their cheeks, I told Raj that just for this, I would listen to his full list of complaints for one week. He laughed and told me, "Darling, I am going to make FULL use of that!"

I know he will, too.

On, the necklace looks gorgeous. I've opened the box a hundred times in the past two days, because I can't believe I have it. Raj can complain for two weeks.

Birthday Rule #6: You are the Celebration of Your Life

On the way home, Oli and I stopped off at a specialty foods store. I picked up some sparkling lemonade, and made it my toast. Happy Birthday, dear girl. You are one year older, one year more experienced, and definitely one year more backwards. It's going to be a good one.

Oh yes, before I forget, there was one more present. Jess bought me a plane ticket.

Aieee?

Happy Birthday to Me

I greeted the first morning of my 31st year on this earth with happy kisses from my dog, and the worst bedhead ever. To my happiness it was raining outside - I love the rain, and it almost never rains on my birthday - and when it stopped, the morning felt peaceful and new.

Everyone is asking me how I feel, and true to form, I answer the way I've done every single birthday before this: I don't feel any different at all. Although if I was really to look back and ponder on it all, I'm sure I feel much different today than I did on the morning of my 19th birthday. Such is life.

There have been some presents, there have been some calls, and I'm sure there will be more of both later on. It's still early. Tonight there is sushi with friends but for now, I want some fabulous time alone with my fabulous, old fart self. There's a city to discover.

The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age. - Lucille Ball

And so, Shawn's birthday party went off without a hitch.

Jinny was very happy to see me, and we did our usual, "I'll hug you really tight and you pretend you're suffocating okay!" hug, while Joy, on the other hand, was most underjoyed. Kid took one look at me and started to wail, banshee style. She's at that age where strange people are not cool, and being that I don't see her very often, I fall under the strange bracket.

She did warm up to me, though. Took some chocolate and weird facial expressions on my part, but I cracked a smile out of her.

As for the guest of honour, Shawn arrived home on his 40th birthday to 40 guests and the grand affair of a decorated backyard, wait staff dressed in black, and a casino theme. Maggie went all out; hung up lots of lanterns, lights around their pool, fired up the hot tub, open bar, classy catering and a Vegas style night with roulette, craps and blackjack tables complete with dealers.

This is where my story starts to get pathetic. I take a good look around that gorgeous scene, people drinking, chatting, having fun, and realization slaps me a good one:

I
was
the
only
person
who
arrived
by
myself.

Every other woman in that room had a husband, fiancee or boyfriend. Everyone. Everyone but me, that is. Couples were draped around each other, mingling as couples and in general, doing that disgusting couple thing.

There are times in life when you feel bad, and times in life where you feel really bad. I fancy myself a Wonder Woman sometimes, I really do, because I know that no matter where life takes me, I'll be able to make it down that road myself without help from anybody else.

I don't want to have to need anyone; I don't like it because there's too much at stake. Mainly, my heart. But there is such a part of me that wants that couple thing, as nauseating as it may sometimes be. I want to be able to lean on someone sometimes, I want to take my significant other to parties like this and laugh with other nauseating couples.

It can really stink being surrounded by that, knowing you're the only one there going home alone.

Well, fuck it. If they're going to do what couples do best, I can do what singles do best. I got me a pack of cigarettes, a handful of casino chips, and made fast friends with the bartender. I smoked like a chimney, gambled my butt off, and drank like a fish.

That's the great thing about the Singles Club. You know you're going home alone and there's no one to answer to, so behave as badly as you damn well please. Membership has its privileges.

Dear Lancey,

Just a quick note, ma petite chou, to thank you for the gorgeous haircut. As I write this, I'm tossing my chocolately chestnut curls from side to side, admiring the bounce and chi chi of it all.

I will admit that I slightly panicked when I realized it was shorter than usual, but the bounce factor is there and it flatters very nicely. Applause. I will also admit that when you told me about the "cool bleach thing" you'd be doing in lieu of highlights, I envisioned you pouring a cup of Javex onto my head and was tempted to scram. However, the funky effect that your creative splatters made are most SoHo. Well done.

As for other interesting moments, I will also confess I was completely shocked when you straddled my lap while washing my hair, then dug your hands into my scalp and moaned, "Ohhhhh YES!" for the entire salon to hear. Very When Harry met Sally. Because you caught me completely off guard, I don't remember if that was before or after you planted that gigantic kiss on my lips. Was it as good for you as it was for me?

In short, the trip was a complete success in style and comedy value, and you can count on my continued visits.

Sincerely and very cordially,

Me

P.S.: Oli told me that once you kissed her as well. Are you into sisters?

P.P.S: Give me some warning next time, poopsy, and I'll slip you some tongue.

P.P.P.S: Oli, if you're reading this, and it's about bloody time you did, thanks for the gift. I had no idea it was you calling the salon to pay for my entire visit. You're the best sister in the world, and did you ever know that you're my hero? You're everything I would like to be?

P.P.P.P.S: I only quoted that song 'cause I know you can't stand it. Yeah, well, you're a dumbass too. Much love always, darling.

What is the best way to kickstart a "Project Pretty"?

With a trip to the salon, of course. Tomorrow I am scheduled for a colour, possible highlights, and possible cut. The possibles I will leave in the hands of the master. It is the start of summer, it is just before my birthday, and it is the start (yet again) of a newer, prettier me.

I am elated. I am elated because very soon my hair will at least be a whole new colour, and that is something to get really excited about. I am also ashamed. I am ashamed because I am a slut. For the first time ever, I am cheating on my colourist AND my stylist.

Normally when I leave a salon forever, it is because hired hair person becomes overconfident and starts slacking. Pilar was my last colourist. I knew it was time to part ways when I asked her to please remove my way, way overgrown black lowlights; they were past my temples already. Pilar, exasperated, wailed, "I just don't have *time* for this!" and proceeded to do a crappy job. All she did was dye my roots bright red, still charged full price, and saw me to the door. Hasta Luego, Pilar.

Funny enough, the drama continued at the totally different place I got my hair cut. Stylist Shoji was continuing his good work, but developed the nasty little habit of talking behind my back. I don't know what he was saying or why, but sweetheart, when your salon is covered in mirrors, as salons usually are, do not point, whisper, and laugh at your clients. Backs might be turned, but we can still see you, you know. Sayonara, Shoji-san.

I am decently happy at my new place, more so because colour and cut are under the same roof. Charlie Brown, my colourist, is flaming fire gay and has a tight ass. Every visit, he sticks it out so I can put one hand in his jeans pocket and give it a good squeeze. Tasty. We talk girl talk, and dish outrageous one liners that would make a priest flail holy water. Best to date has been, "Honey, the only virgin on you is your nose, and even that's been picked."

Roxy is my stylist. Foxy Roxy, plenty of moxy, how does your garden grow? With polish and nails, and children's pigtails, and pretty curls all in a row. I adore Roxy. She is short, British, super saucy, and has hair just like mine. Curly girls, I cannot enough stress the importance of having your stylist understand your hair. It's not just about cutting the hair, it's about being the hair. I have had 58341 haircuts in this lifetime. Maybe 20 were passable, but 11 have been totally stellar. All the stellars came from Roxy.

Tomorrow, I am at least temporarily leaving these people. I should be purged, flogged, then made to wear bright yellow spandex. It's just that in this case, I can't resist.

Oh, Lance. Antsy Lancey, you're so schmancy, biting charm and full of fancy. Lance used to work in the same salon as Charlie Brown and Foxy Roxy and is, in fact, Oli's stylist. Oli looks spectacular, always, so when Lance left salon #1 for salon #2, Oli left with him.

Lance is fabulously gay. Intensely so. This explains why he is so well dressed, and has perfectly plucked eyebrows. Lance has never done anything to my head except wash it once, and what a memorable wash that was. Right when I sat down he said to me, "I give the best hair washes ever." I'm thinking, yeah I've heard that before, until he actually got started. He did this fingertip-twirl thing that made my toes curl up, and I almost climaxed right there in my seat. Heavens to Murgatroid.

Best of all, even if he did give shitty haircuts, which he doesn't, he is very easy on the eyes. The first time moms saw Lance, she dug her nails into my forearm and said, "Oh my goodness, oh my GOODNESS, what a terrible shame if he's gay!"

Sorry mom. For us, a shame it is. The boys of the world should be thanking their ruby slippers. If he was straight, though, I'm willing to bet he wouldn't be half as much fun.

And so, Lance, tomorrow I entrust my crowning glory, my glorious mane to your capable hands. Since you are a rookie in this corner and years of bad haircuts have scarred me for life, I have only a small list of requests by which you must abide at all times:

1) No intense choppage.
2) No straightening.
3) No blonde highlights.

And one more rule, just because you love me:

4) Every so often I get to pinch your tight ass.

When eventually I do run into Foxy Roxy and Charlie Brown, when they see that my curls have been treated by other hands than theirs and I am confronted with their wounded faces, I will lie. I will lie like a cheap rug. I will make up something, I will tell it to them, and it will be so convincing they will believe me. I will lie like a professional, and I will keep seeing Lance whenever my hair screams for more.

Wow. I feel so *dirty*.

Ponderables

If I wear a skirt two years before it's all the rage, am I out of style or ahead of my time?

What do you add to powdered water?

Why doesn't plum sauce taste like plums?

Did Evian know it was Naive before making those labels?

90% of the world's bathroom stalls have the cheapest, single ply toilet paper without the performations, to save money. How can money be saved when we just end up using 20 times more of it to do a clean wipe?

If people use condoms for preventative reasons, why are they sold in the Family Planning section at the drugstore?

Who exactly inspired the instructions on shampoo bottles?

Why do women open their mouths to put on mascara?

Why do singers close their eyes when they sing?

If the Italian flag is red, white and green, why does the World Cup soccer team wear blue and gold uniforms?

If so many things taste like chicken, what does chicken taste like?

If I suck at gardening but have gangrene in my hand, do I have a green thumb?

Around this time every year, I make a checklist of my life and see what's gotten better or worse in the past 365 days or so. I do this to be unnecessarily hard on myself. I also do this because in a few days, it'll be my birthday.

Birthdays for kids are fun. They are cake, presents and parties. Birthdays for adults, or, birthdays for me, have become more of a pressure-fest. I still totally dig the cake, parties, presents and nowadays, restaurant outings, sangria showers and overall good times, but my birthday has morphed into something else. It is that yearly milestone day for me to have achieved or failed certain goals, or just to be at an overall great place in life.

For example, my 21st birthday was pure suckage. I was fat, really fat, didn't have a boyfriend & wanted one, and didn't know what the hell I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I was depressed all the time, I cried all the time, and was confined to factory work for the summer.

My 26th birthday was absolutely awesome. I'd just graduated with my second degree, was skinny, gorgeous, and had a boyfriend who adored me. I'd just gotten back from an amazing L.A. trip with him, was about to go to Chicago with him and, in two months time, would be moving to Prague for my internship.

Can't get much better than that.

Last year, for my 30th birthday, I was in a rocky relationship, lived in my parent's basement, and hated my job. Getting out of bed every morning was work, pure work, because there was nothing to look forward to.

Thus, to make things easier, I had only one request of myself: 30 would be the year that I let all my issues go. Not necessarily work through them, understand them or ponder them any longer, just let... them... go.

In four days, it will be my 31st birthday. I have no relationship, live in my parent's basement, and hate my job. I haven't even come close to shedding the poundage I've wanted to, have come nowhere near finishing that freaking cookbook, my loft is bare, and my desk is a mess.

Poopy.

There is more, though. Not too long ago, I got back from the trip of a lifetime. My sister is getting married. I have the greatest dog in the whole world and, every morning when I get out of bed, things seem a little lighter.

Not to say I've found my way. I probably won't even have done that when I'm pushing up daisies, but for now, for some silly reason, it's all... good.

The Men and the Boys: Johnny

Oh Johnny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side
The summer's gone and all the roses falling
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
Its I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Johnny boy, oh Johnny boy I love you so.

I was in the fourth grade when you walked into my life. You were in the third, and so my sister teased me for months that I was "into" younger men.

You had me at the hello that never came. Dusty blonde hair, big blue eyes, and ears that stuck out a mile. I loved those ears. I wanted to pull on them, and once, built up the nerve to do just that. We were on the playground, I ran up to you, gave the left one a good yank, then bolted. In the ridiculous, stupid signals that kids send, I was saying that I liked you.

You didn't get it. Men usually don't. And so our relationship continued in its perfect, most pure form: you ignored me, and I ignored you.

Alas, it just wasn't meant to be. I didn't exactly come to terms with the fact that you weren't into me, so much as I got bored and moved on. Hey, I was a kid. Kids aren't famous for their attention spans. I'd liked you for at least a year by then, and a year to a kid is like, forever. Besides, I figured that when I was in high school, you'd still be in the eighth grade. How uncool is that?

We went our separate ways, and to separate schools. Years later, I bumped into you at the skating rink. I was with my friends, and you were with your girlfriend. She was short, had long, straight hair, and a squeaky voice. Absolutely everything I wasn't, and everything I would never be.

Oh, well. You were never mine, and so I had no right to be jealous. Every man is entitled to his tastes, right?

Every woman is entitled to her tastes, too. Can't deny that you were hot. But you didn't hold a candle to your older brother.

This was the first time I ever stood up for myself. It was the first time I ever fought the good fight, all alone, and won.

The point of telling what happened then, is to tell myself that it's not so different from what's happening now. That there is such a thing as being against the ropes, and, odds stacked against me, coming back for a win.

If Me the scrawny kid can take on the biggest Goliath in school, then Me the dissatisfied woman can take on a few stupid pounds.

Alright, it's more than a few. But I have to fight this. I have to try. I have to stop making excuses and really try to make that positive change in my life. For that dress, for my happiness, for me.

No pressure. We start slow. One cup of green tea every day; 100 situps, a couple dozen pushups. Up the proteins and vegetables, down on the carbs and fruit. Besides what's in my apples, no sugar of any kind. Eight glasses of water every day, and no eating after 7pm.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

Growing up, I was in and out of the hospital a lot. This didn't make me popular in the playground, and the stupid little things I had to do for my "own good," as my mother put it, never failed to make me a target for bullies and meanies alike.

For instance, when I was in kindergarten, I had to carry a cushion to every single school assembly, so I wouldn't catch cold from sitting on the gym floor. In later years, kids were so freaked out by the pills in my lunch bag, I had to start going home for the midday meal. They were even more freaked out by the bruises that covered my feet, which were spotted when we were all changing for phys-ed, and even reported me as a possible abuse case to the teacher. Try explaining weekly reflexology appointments to children that didn't even know about the birds and bees yet.

Best of all was the parsley juice phase. Like every parent that is desperate to help their child, moms had read up on this apparent miracle cure, and I had to drink the stuff five times a day. It tasted like burnt grass. Some kid spotted me holding my nose and gagging it down in the bathroom, and told the rest of the class how absolutely grossetating I was.

Yeah, that got me a lot of friends.

Oli was the healthy daughter, the outspoken daughter, the one that never took shit or crap from absolutely anyone. She was also the most protective older sister in the world, and during those horrible times, my guardian angel. When someone called me a name, Oli berated and cursed with such intense vocabulary, she would make them cry. If anyone pushed me around, Oli would rush out, fists blazing, in pursuit of justice for her kid sister. Once, a neighborhood kid pushed me into a mud puddle full of rocks, and my knees were cut open. Oli socked her in the nose so hard, it broke.

I wasn't strong then, not like her. Not nearly. It was years before I learned how to fight my own battles.

Imagine how awful it was for me when Oli left for high school, and I became open territory. Imagine how even more miserable it was when, right then, I developed a stutter. Can you believe it? F-f-f-or a v-v-v-very l-long t-t-t-ime, I t-t-talked l-like th-th-this.

Paula Maria Cecchi, who I'm positive is a wrestler these days, was a year older than me and a lot bigger too. In fact, she was a lot bigger than everyone, thanks to flunking a grade, and her orangutan genes. Paula Maria walked like a truck driver, and wore combat boots and a red bandana around her head. Rambo was her hero.

Paula Maria picked on everyone as a rule, and seeing as I h-h-had a st-t-tutter, I became her special favourite. Lucky me. She knew my sister wasn't around to save me, and for months, took every opportunity to knock my books out of my hands, or trip me so I fell to the ground. She would dance around me while I tried, in vain, to hold back tears, and called me a freaky freak girl. I hated Paula Maria Cecchi.

I started to withdraw, big surprise. Oli and moms noticed and wanted to know what was the matter, but I wasn't talking. I didn't talk much anymore, anyway, but moms kept on me. Mothers have that built-in sonar so they know something is wrong with their kids and, every now and then, know exactly what it takes to make it all better.

I remember I was home eating my lunch, sitting on my hands and blowing bubbles in my glass of milk, through the straw. Moms was drying some dishes when she turned to me and said, "Did you know one of your great uncles stuttered too?"

I stopped with my bubbles, and looked up. He did?

Moms nodded. "Oh yes he did. He stuttered for a very long time. He was a war hero AND a genius."

Really?

She smiled. "Really."

Wow. I was so in shock I couldn't eat my lunch. I had a great uncle who was super brave and super smart, and sounded freaky freak just like me. So maybe, just maybe, that could mean I wasn't so freaky freak after all?

That afternoon at recess, Paula Maria attacked from behind, delivering what *could* have been a painful and embarassing slap between my shoulder blades, but I was ready for her. I ducked out of the way, screamed at her to l-l-leave m-me alone, and kicked her in the stomach so hard, she fell over backwards with her skirt over her head.

Paula Maria Cecchi never bothered me again. And not long after, I stopped stuttering.

Now, what was the point of me telling this story?

My bridesmaid's dress has been chosen. My Maid of Honour, Ms. Maid to the Bride dress has been selected and, as I type this, is being sewn.

Oli was flipping through a bridal magazine and saw a stunning, simply cut Pronovias gown, and literally gasped. She held it up and said, "This would be perfect for you. " I saw it, and did my own gasp. Decision made. We based a design on the magnificence of the picture (definitely less lacy), and sent it off to Kathi, designer & seamstress.

This gown is gorgeous. It is stunning. It is a creation like no other. I am completely in love with this dress. I have a slight problem, though.

I am not in love with me in it. If the wedding were tomorrow, I would look like a sausage encased in silver silk.

My weight has not gone down at all since I've come home. In fact. it has gone up a couple of pounds. I'm not surprised, not with that food fest they put us through in Jordan, but I wouldn't change it, either. If they enjoyed taking care of us that way, so be it.

And besides, it could have been a lot worse. It is absolutely nothing to lose two pounds. It's a lot more to lose lots of pounds, which is what I have to do for this dress.

What's the matter with me? I've had opportunity and opportunity, time and again, and yet I do nothing. I don't know if it's the habit, or the laziness, or maybe I just don't want it badly enough.

The model wearing the dress on the website and magazine ads is a stick. She has no hips, no waist, no boobs, toothpick arms, a small head and plenty of hair. She is a human clothes hanger. She completely fits the attitude of this otherwise gorgeous gown that just screams, don't come at me, bitch, until you're a size four.

I don't know if I've made a grand mistake, or set myself up for a challenge I can conquer.

Looking at the calendar, if I really put my mind to it, I can do what it takes to work out, lose some weight and make a healthy life change for myself by the end of September. I could look good in this dress at a size eight. I would look great in a size six. I would be magnificent at a size four.

But then, is this the way I should be looking at things?

Our society is fucked. Half the time you are told, this is your lot and you are done with it. Happiness is self-acceptance. The other half tells you, fight! You can do absolutely anything you set your mind to! Win!

What does this say? That I made a gigantic mistake, and should have another design drawn up for me, something that will flatter *this* body more, before it's too late? Or that I can do anything I set my mind to, and be slim and devastatingly sexy enough by September 23rd to wear this incredible gown with confidence and a smile?

Accept? Fight? Which is the path to happiness?

Art dealer. Has a nice ring. Art dealer art dealer art dealer. Hello, I am your art dealer. I sell art. I am an art dealer.

Or, I could be. I have the option of a second career, and as most second careers go, it starts on the side.

During my time in Jordan, or more specifically, that wonderful day in Jerash, I didn't just see ruins and buy art. I made an acquaintance of the artist, Sinbad, and we struck a deal for me to represent him when I returned home, and pimp his work out to the many galleries available here.

It started something like this: I was absolutely amazed that I'd just picked up an amazing, huge piece of astoundingly good art, and was dumbfounded that it set me back all of 80 dinars. I was dumbfounded because it doesn't work like that in a cosmopolitan place. When you live in a large city and you buy art, good art, be prepared to pay through the nose.

Eighty dinars translated into something like, oh, $120 of my dollars, and I told Sinbad that at home, people buy chalk drawings for over a grand. A lightbulb appeared over my head, the word "Eureka!" appeared over his, and we've kept the relationship going since.

I love art. I especially love bargain art. You'll be tempted to tell me that there is no such thing, but I will seriously disagree. I own two more paintings besides this one; a cubist Romeo & Juliet that Oli bought for me from an Israeli art student walking around with a large portfolio, selling his work from door to door; the other is an abstract chandelier painted on a wooden canvas in purples, browns and whites that I picked up from an elfin blonde girl at an art exhibition. She liked me so much I got the piece for almost nothing, and even though Oli won't tell me how much the Romeo & Juliet cost, she refers to it as "cheap cheap" for such a stunning piece.

Besides, our shiniest icons in history started out as bargains. Have you seen the movie Seabiscuit? It tells you that Charles Howard bought the horse for a "rock bottom" price. Read the book, and it will tell you that was one of the cheapest transactions ever made for a champion. Before the little black dress and Chanel No. 5, Coco started out selling hats. Picasso's first contract was for 150 francs per month. A joke.

We've established that I can sniff out a bargain, but we also know that I haven't gone to art school, and I'm far, far from being an expert in this. Then again, you know I'm always willing to try something new. This should be evident from my ridiculous sojourn into the doggie biscuit world, if nothing else, and so I've been making dozens of phone calls to galleries here and there, making appointments to show off Sinbad's pieces.

Gallery directors are snobs. I always knew this, but I have a whole new respect for it now. Most of them go by the, "don't call us we'll call you" philosophy, and I was just about ready to throw the phone out the window when two galleries showed an interest. I made appointments, packed up all four paintings (mine and the three that Raj & James bought), packed out the pile of printouts Sinbad also sent me, and off I went in the rain.

Note to self and all prospective future art dealers: if you dont have a car or expensive art manuevering equipment, DO NOT take your paintings out in the rain. I'm not so dense to take bare canvases out into the elements and watch the colours distort before my eyes, I mean, I do own one of those plastic, expanding tubes, but I had no idea the piece of shit would leak. Leak! Onto my beautiful art. I'd had half a brain to wrap everything up in tissue and plastic first, so nothing was ruined. But seeing those wet spots gave me 50 coronaries right there.

I sold no art that day, but I got promises of future exhibitions. I think that's something exciting.

I never saw myself as an art dealer, and it certainly wasn't a career option I'd ever considered. Life is full of surprises though, and who knows, this just might turn into something, someday. It's all about the thrill of the treasure hunt, pursuing the ends of the earth to dig in the one special spot that *might* bring up gold. Maybe I found a treasure chest in Jerash that day; maybe I didn't. But one thing that will never change is that I got hanging on my wall is a stunning, jaw-dropping, one-of-a-kind painting that I got for 80 dinars. I'm such a smart girl.

As for Sinbad, he is so excited his work is going overseas, he has taken to calling me "Princess" in his e-mails, and gushing forth about how he knew from the minute we met, that I was a beautiful and special person that would make a paramount difference in his life.

Ten years ago, I would've wilted at the thought of a sexy, foreign artist lavishing me with such compliments, but the beauty of 30+ is, that shit just doesn't work anymore. Less talk, junior, and more painting.

I do not want to go to the bridal shower. I would rather have my wrists slit and bleed to death while consuming a Fear Factor entree.

I was going to go into tremendous detail about why I dislike the subject of this party soooo much, in fact, I went on and on. But then, that made me realize something: this is the kind of person who, if she ever discovers herself to be the subject of any kind of writing whatsoever, will take any and all of it totally out of context, and either a) drag my ass to court, where she will cry and whine, or b) drag my ass onto the Dr. Phil show, where she will cry and whine.

In addition to this, criticism is often the highest form of flattery, no? Can't be caught in that trap, no siree bob. Thus, in short, I will not say one bloody thing.

So there.

I have been invited to a birthday party, and a bridal shower. They are on the same weekend. I am going to the birthday party because the invitation came first, and because I actually want to wish my cousin's husband, Shawn, a happy 40th. Of everyone who has married into our family, he is definitely at the top of the favourites list. Plus, I get to spend the weekend with their little girls, who are five and almost two. The five-year old, Jinny, is Oli's goddaughter. Joy, the almost terrible two, is my goddaughter.

I am not a lover of children. I love being around them, on my own schedule, and I especially love when their parents take them home. Let them deal with worry and sleepless nights. But I get such a kick from being around those two kids, I can't even begin to tell you. Our times are laughter, cupcakes, shrieking, chasing, swing sets and tea parties. Around them, I can be a kid again, too.

Moreoever, there's a family joke that Maggie, our cousin, gave birth to junior versions of me and Oli. Jinny is obsessed with fashion and chocolate, just like my sister. She has dimples, twinkling eyes, and secret admirers in every pocket of the neighbourhood. Joy has green eyes, crazy curly hair that sticks up in every direction, babbles endlessly, and buries herself in books befitting her age. In fact, the first thing she says every morning she wakes up, and her last request every night is, "book book."

They are, the both of them, full of sass. For instance, last Christmas, little Joy tottered around everyone, pointing her little finger and calling us all by name. Grandma was grandma. Mommy was Mommy. Auntie Oli was Auntie Oli, and I was Sprinkle. Sprinkle is their dog. No matter how much sugar I bribed the kid with, at the end of the day she left for home calling me Sprinkle.

Being the older, Jinny is fully conversational and therefore, can be a lot more, oh, colourful.

Last summer during one of their visits, she was on my bed playing with her Polly Pockets. I don't get the full jist of Polly Pockets, but I know it involves dressing and accessorizing girl dolls. Jinny was attempting to fit on a skirt but was having trouble with it and said, "Stupid skirt won't fit on the stupid butt."

Maggie and Shawn are crazy strict with the language their daughters use. I remember saying "fart" once in front of the girls, and eyes popped out of heads. This is what led to my asking Jinny this question: "Now sweetie, is 'butt' a bad word?"

Jinny looked me dead in the eye and without missing a beat, said "No, but fuck is."

My chin hit the ground and I had to excuse myself to laugh in private. Wouldn't you?