The free samples were worth it.

Lately I've been having some womanly issues which culminated in me shaking a doctor by the lapels and demanding she give me either a very strong pill, a blood transfusion, a uterine transplant or a bath plug with comfort-grip applicator. She opted to prescribe me a very strong dose of hormones, which has done nothing to fix the problem.

It doesn't matter though, because I don't believe the purpose of those pills was ever to stop the period infinitas, as it's known in Latin. Instead, the ensuing emotional imbalance was meant to distract me from the original problem, because it's hard to be concerned with blood loss when you're simultaneously laughing, crying and strangling the life out of a coat rack for looking at you funny.

In this state, two days after my shocking and sad real-life encounter with my Telephone Boyfriend, I found myself in Costco. I think I was seeking the kind of comfort that can only come from knowing I won't run out of toilet paper until the 2010 Olympics.

I finished my shopping, a grueling experience in which I rammed three people's shopping carts on purpose and had a teary moment in the book section after stumbling upon a cook book on cooking for couples. And I still had my period, going on week 5. It was really the perfect storm.

Because it was a Saturday, everybody on Vancouver Island was also shopping at Costco. Shut-ins, federally protected witnesses, missing persons -- everybody was shopping, and in line behind me as I got to the cashier.

I handed over my Costco card. The cashier swiped my card, and then went very still and quiet. She leaves the till, and comes back with a manager. He swipes my card, purses his lips, blows out his cheeks, and asks me if I have another card.

It doesn't matter whether it's a Visa, a debit card or a Costco card. When your card gets declined for any reason, it's devastating. You are the lowest life form on the planet. And that's what was happening.

My Costco card was under my ex-boyfriend's name. There was nothing underhanded in me continuing to use the card after we broke up. Like a considerate and civilized person, I asked him if there would be any problem with me using that card and he told me no, there would be no problem.

Flash forward to me standing at the front of the line with fifty-seven increasingly hostile people waiting behind me. The manager informs me that Jack-Ass Incorporated (not the actual name of my ex-boyfriend's company but perhaps it should be), had requested my name be removed from the account.

Perhaps in explanation, the manager went on to give me the name of the woman who had been added in my place, probably hoping this would somehow calm the dangerous looking splotches appearing on my face.

It did not. I couldn't explain that I wasn't a disgruntled former employee of Jack-Ass Incorporated, which is how I'm sure it appears when your name is dropped from a corporate membership.

Nor could I explain that my name shouldn't be dropped and replaced by some other bitch because I was with the Jack-Ass when he was mean, when he drank, when he was nearly bankrupt and had no time for me.

She's with him now that he's sober, softened, relaxed and wealthy. At the very least I should claim the free Costco membership. I earned the right to wholesale prices goddammit.

You would think I also earned a phone call or an email from Jack-Ass Incorporated, letting me know I would need to purchase a new membership the next time I went to Costco.

This small slap in the face, combined with my hormonal imbalance, added to my depression over recent events, mixed with having some manager unwittingly telling me my ex's new girlfriend's name, and discovering she has a soap opera name like Tiffany Brooke Carrington, caused me to lose my shit in Costco.

The line-up for new memberships and customer service stretched out the door, given that it was a Saturday and everybody within a 100 mile radius had an unwanted Christmas gift to return at exactly the same time.

I started to cry. I'm not even ashamed. I didn't burst into great hitching sobs or anything, but I snivelled once. My one hand flew to my mouth and the other hand shoved my glasses onto my head so I could knuckle my eyes dry. It was a very brief crack, but apparently the Costco manager saw Armageddon.

"Wait right here! I'll fix this!" And then the manager ran, and I literally mean he ran, legs and arms pumping, to get a membership form from customer service. He was back within seconds, after ordering the cashier to start ringing through my items so I didn't have to wait any longer.

After paying for my new membership with my order, he directed me to what he called "a quiet spot" so I could fill out my membership form, and he again asked me to "Wait right here! I'll get you past the line!"

And he did. He took me past a crowd the size of the average pilgrimage to Mecca and snapped what is possibly the worst photo ever taken of me in my entire life for my new card, but really I was in no position to demand a retake.

He reassured me the entire walk over to the camera that I didn't have to worry about my shopping cart, because nobody would ever steal my groceries, perhaps out of concern that my head would start leaking again at the possibility.

He walked me back to my cart, and I thanked him. His panic, and kindness was really rather touching. He said I was most welcome, and that it was a new day. I was now "the master of my own card."

Indeed I am. I'm the master of nothing else, but I can rock my own Costco card. It's a small step, but right now I'll take anything.

The Losing Battle

A blessing and a curse to my annual New Year's resolution to lose 30 pounds is that everybody else has a similar resolution, and those who don't have at one time gained or lost weight so basically everybody I come in contact with has some advice for me.

My closest working neighbor is no exception. Over the years he's lost at least half a person in weight, he's kept it off and the diet he follows is so pure and organic his aura alone can heal acne.

I don't doubt the dude is in seriously good shape. He's actually expressed concern that his metabolism is too fast, and he has to be careful to limit some physical activities while adding some unhealthy foods so that he doesn't slim down into thin air. Just standing up twice a day can make his pants looser.

He's achieved this state through what I'm referring to as the Small Woodland Creature diet. He doesn't eat small woodland creatures, but he eats like a squirrel, assuming a squirrel will occasionally suck back a can of tuna or skinless chicken breast.

Throughout the day, he'll eat nuts, berries and other "pure" foods. Foods should be eaten in a certain order, and he takes supplements and other nutrients in tasty powder form.

He claims to fall ill if he eats any junk, and he can supposedly taste the granules of sugar should he allow himself a dessert and he finds it disgusting.

There is no question he's healthy and lean. His body is a calibrated machine, so finely tuned he probably vibrates in the presence of low noises. On the other hand, I'm constipated despite eating enough fibre to allow a normal person to poo on command. I acknowledge he and I are on a different path.

However.

I really like food. By food, I don't strictly mean items containing nutrients. By that rationale, tree bark is food. I expect my food to taste good, smell good, and in the absence of any relationship, I expect food to replace happiness and sex. I also like food with icing.

I don't expect my food to be limited to whatever is growing alongside a wooded path. To me, that's garnish. Not food.

My co-worker and I have argued over the meaning and purpose of food. To him, food is strictly fuel. While I admit food is an excellent preventative measure against starvation, it should also be a pleasure. Perhaps not all of the time, or as often as I would prefer, but the majority of meals should pass as enjoyable.

He's winning this argument even as I type. He has visible abs and I have a distended belly. My digestive system may betray me, but dessert never has. I'll always prefer my nuts and berries atop of my cheesecake.

Happy Freaking New Year.

I'm in a list making mood.

I always make lists in January, optimistically believing that if I write down what I want to achieve in the New Year, those written words will be so powerful, I'll have no choice but to achieve everything on that list.

I'll go on to a guest spot on Oprah, in which I discuss the secret of using bullet points instead of dashes as a way to bolster empowerment. Fame and fortune ensues.

The top of the list always starts with, "Lose 30 pounds." Of course by February I've usually eaten the list out of hunger so momentum gets lost. This year's list is no different, but I'm making more of an effort to diversify.

A friend described how a friend of hers has started a scrapbook for her New Year's goals. She's added headings to each blank page, so that if she doesn't pull through she's left with a pathetic empty scrapbook. No memories, just wasted headlines. Tying together self-shame with the opportunity to use a glitter stick is brilliant.

In the meantime, I've compiled a few other lists...

Things That Did NOT Happen Over the Holidays That Are Totally Surprising to Everybody Including Me:

• Bursting into flames immediately upon entering a Catholic Church for Midnight Mass
• Breaking any part of my body while skating on a frozen lake or hiking over ice in Jasper
• Permanent ass numbness as a result of performing above activities without long johns
• Hangovers

Things That Happened That Are Totally Not Surprising to Anybody Else But Shocked the F*ck Out Of Me Just the Same:

• Discovering the hard way that my Telephone Boyfriend was hesitant to meet because the picture he sent me was of somebody else entirely. Somebody attractive.
• Finding out that opening the door and seeing your Telephone Boyfriend is not the really cute guy you were expecting as per his picture, but instead somebody you've never seen before in your life can be considered a cardio workout, providing your heart plummeting to your knees is doctor recommended.
• Realizing that as much as I may think I like a guy's personality, if he physically reminds me in any way of the Dad from The Family Guy then nakedness is never going to happen, because I'm shallow. And sane.
• A man can log over 100 hours talking to a woman, and still not tell the truth once.
• Acknowledging sadness over the ending of something that never actually started with somebody that doesn't actually exist is a new personal low, for which no possible therapy is available.

And that is how my telephone relationship ended. Badly, quickly and at my doorstep. I invited him in for a bit, mostly so I could study his features and confirm I wasn't losing my mind or vision. I wasn't.

When I suggested things weren't going to work out, he was resigned. Naturally he didn't have to ask why, and when I tried to tell him he became rather upset. Apparently he had kept telling me it would be better if we could just keep it on the phone, but I didn't listen. In those moments, I felt strangely sorry for him...which may be the only reason he's still alive.

I'm trying not to be bitter over this, because I'm hoping if I continue on my current dating trajectory I'll end up with a book deal. Granted, I'll still die alone surrounded by whatever small furry creatures I end up substituting for cats, but at least my obituary will read, "published author," shortly after the phrase, "survived by no one."

Happy New Year Everybody!

True Confessions.

Having a crush on somebody who works for the same organization you do elevates routine and otherwise boring activities to boring activities suddenly requiring lip gloss. That's an absolutely huge difference.

To be clear, I have no intention of doing anything about suddenly finding a fellow staff member irresistible enough to distract me the entire time he's talking about some sort of new ad campaign...or light sabre...I really don't know what the hell he was talking about. I do know he has really strong, manly looking hands though.

I'm not going to talk to him any more than I normally would, which is to say, not really at all. He did take a great picture of me for some publication I'm going to be featured in, and I did thank him for the effort and for capturing me with my eyes fully open - no small task for any photographer.

He did blush and say that I'm he doesn't know what I'm talking about because I'm "lovely. Just...really lovely," which was nice and which I remember with total sensory recall but really, that's the last reason he and I will have to communicate. And that's fine.

It's fine because apparently he lives with someone, has a girlfriend, broke up with a girlfriend last year, might have a girlfriend, lives with an older Italian woman who looks like a young Sophia Loren, and or doesn't live with anybody but might be with somebody that nobody knows. Not that I've asked anybody.

He also smells like the outdoors and laundry detergent.

Overall, there is nothing to see here.

There might be something to see here in January though. I have a confession to make - I've been holding out on you, my three valued readers.

You see, I have an electronic boyfriend.

Let me explain. It's exactly as bizarre as it sounds, don't worry. I have this guy who I talk to every night, on the phone, for hours. We started chatting online, quickly took to the phone and there we've been for over a month. He lives approximately five minutes from me, if I was walking really slowly. We've never met.

He's younger than me, wickedly funny and he can predict my moods and behaviour more accurately than the guy I lived with for four years...who presumably met me. He may actually be smarter than me but I will commit Hari Kari before I let him know that little tidbit. I showed his picture to a girlfriend who immediately demanded to know why in God's name I hadn't seen him naked yet.

Oh yeah - he also seems to have the libido of a 26-year old Hugh Heffner on Ecstasy. He thinks we're going to sleep together within a half hour of meeting for the first time. I haven't exactly bent over in any direction trying to dissuade him of this idea. There's a small chance (read: absolute certainty) that I've been encouraging this notion.

He's very good at making me want to encourage this notion.

(In the interest of self-censorship and dignity, that's all I can say. Surely you can read between the lines. Shortly after the historical first phone call took place, the next phone call began with the words, "What are you wearing?")

There's also a small chance that I'm way more attached to a voice on the phone than any normal person should be. I may want to have little digital babies with that voice. I want to set up a conference call so that the voice can meet the voices of my parents and all of my friends. Surely, nothing can go wrong with this scenario.

The voice seems to be experiencing similar attachment issues. He admitted he liked talking to me so much he's afraid of not talking to me so meeting is scary for that reason. He says he's going to be attracted to me no matter what, because my personality will make up for any defects. He slips more frequently from naughty conversation I would die if my mother overheard to wanting to know all about my day and what I think about things, and how will we explain how we met to our friends?

We're meeting the first week of January. Until then, it's phone relationship as usual.

Overall, there is nothing to see here.

Apparently I wasn't getting enough excitement at the office.

Have you ever had the experience where you're just going along with your work every day, and by work I mean not so much working but occasionally answering the phone and replying to emails in between chatting inappropriately on MSN with a hot younger guy you met online but haven't met in real life but that hasn't stopped you from having phone sex with him which is really bizarre because...well...who does that? Ahem.

And even though you've worked at the same place for over a year and even though you've seen the guy who works in the Media department on numerous occasions before, and even though you've always sort of noticed him in a way that's different than how you notice say...potholes, you've never really, you know, THOUGHT about him.

And although you recently found yourself looking at him from across the room at the annual Christmas event where all the staff are invited to come and eat the requisite two free hors d'oeuvres per person and for some reason you were wondering what colour his eyes are up close, you've never actually THOUGHT about any part of his body. I mean, not really.

That is, until he looked over at you and you were snarfing an egg roll and there's just no sexy way to snarf an egg roll and so you turned away really fast, and while choking on the egg roll you wondered why in the hell you cared about being sexy and eating the egg roll in the first place.

And then this same guy from the Media department has to take your picture for something actually work-related and he shows up and the first words you say to each other are all excited like you haven't seen each other in so long even though you've never had a conversation and why are you giggling?

And he's really nervous for some reason and that's so cute and for some reason you're even more nervous...and then when he touches your hand to get you to move a certain way for the picture you realize that you've somehow developed the mother of all work crushes on the hot guy from the Media department and when in the hell did this happen? Seriously. When. Did. This. Happen.

Have you ever had that experience? Or is it just me?

Crap.

Things I know.

These last few weeks have been a series of lessons I think I should share. Some are completely new to me, and some lessons I'm destined to relearn over and over. In no particular order, please see my list of things I have learned so that you don't have to:

• When the airport security guard pulls a large knife from the side pocket of your purse, immediately taking the Lord's name in vain and stuttering that the knife is not a weapon, it is instead your apple cutting knife from your lunch does not make you appear less of a lunatic.
• If attending a black tie gala in honour of somebody who is recently deceased, it is never appropriate to comment on how that person was the embodiment of evil on earth. Like, not ever.
• Seeing your ex and seeing him happy with somebody else does not get easier with time. Some things get harder.
• When attempting to Crazy Glue a buckle on your favourite boot so that it doesn't jingle like a belly dance is in danger of breaking out every time you walk, it's always a good idea to ensure your finger does not become glued to said boot. I can not stress this enough.
• When your plane is experiencing difficulty landing, and you are starting to panic just a little, there may be something lacking in your life if the first thought springing to mind is how you went on a trip and left dishes in the sink, and what will anybody clearing out your apartment after your body is found think about the fact you left dishes in the sink? It may be time to reevaluate priorities.
• If you fail to attend one meeting, you will be guaranteed to be assigned all of the tasks nobody else wants, including acting as emcee for an event hosting more than 200 people.
• Control top pantyhose will make you look like a bratwurst belted tightly with piano wire. And nobody likes a bratwurst in bondage.

Overall, it's been an interesting couple of weeks. Lessons learned, and taken to heart.

A woman in need.

It's funny the things I miss as a single person. I'm mostly over missing any romantic or profound aspects of my former relationship, but it's the little things that can still get to me.

Like socks.

Having worn sandals all summer I'm making the transition to boots and I have no socks. I have some socks, but not enough to get me through a laundry cycle. I stood there this morning, wondering whether it's ever acceptable to recycle socks from the laundry pile, and at what point is it not acceptable, and by not acceptable I mean disease-carrying.

I was also wondering where in the hell my socks have gone. I used to be a woman with infinite sock choices, and now I'm barefoot. Taking into consideration the average rate of sock sacrifice to the dryer gods per year, I'm coming up alarmingly short.

And then it dawned on me. My sock deficiencies used to be taken care of by way of my boyfriend's sock drawer. I have large feet, and I was never picky. If I needed socks, his were there. Sports socks, black socks, argyle socks and a pair I particularly liked with pin-striping. All mine for the taking.

Socks are one of those things I've never had to go out and pay for directly - much like property taxes or sex (although I may be paying for both within the next couple of years.) Without somebody elses sock drawer - I'm noticing the shortfall.

Another shortage I'm noticing is spending money. Every day, I stole money from my boyfriend. There, I said it and it feels good. Every night he would dump a large amount of change on the dresser and every morning I'd swipe a toonie, a loonie...two toonies. Never more. (Not so much out of any morality issues, but more to avoid being caught.)

I would use this money to buy my morning tea, muffin, or bus fare, and I liked it. I never asked him if I could take it, and never asked if I could borrow it. Money was always a hot-button issue, mostly because he made more of it and felt this economic advantage gave him an advantage in the relationship.

Because he made more money, he got to decide where we lived and how we lived. He got to be the "manager of the relationship." If I made equal or better money I could have more say in how we lived our lives, but until then his agenda was priority.

I'm not making this up, these are the arguments we would have. Because he made more money, he would pursue his career and educational interests and I would pursue mine at a time that was more optimal. Like when he retired.

He managed the relationship, and I paid for half of the mortgage and utilities, and used my own money when I needed anything. At some point, this was decided to be a sign of good faith that the remainder of our relationship was equal. Obviously my salary and job title negotiations sucked.

And so I felt a silly amount of criminal glee every morning as I sat down to eat my ill-gotten muffin, or drink the tea I didn't earn or ride the bus on somebody else's loonie. If I was putting off getting my masters or living where I wanted until he retired, I had really better enjoy my morning muffin.

So maybe I don't actually miss stealing his spare change at all. Maybe I'm much happier knowing the loonie I scramble for every morning at the bottom of my purse to pay for my extra-large double double tea is my own loonie, and the Tim Hortons I stop at is in the city I want to live in, on the way to the job I want to be doing. And I don't have to wait for anybody.

The sock situation, remains a problem though.