It should probably take two.

Remember that military bomb tech I was dating, for lack of any better word to describe it...? Well, things don't seem to be working out very well. I know, I know...it's astonishing. Please, lie down if you must. Take as much time as you need to recover from the shock.

I am just as surprised as anybody that my relationship with a guy who's spent most of his adult years being shot at, shooting other people, and or expecting to die any moment in a fiery ball of shrapnel and his related PTSD isn't progressing normally.

Even though we talk everyday, we don't see one another. I've read the first chapter of the book, "He's Just Not That Into You," and they don't explain what it means when a guy calls, texts and instant messages you all day, every day, but can't bring himself to get together in person.

(I only ever read the first chapter, because nearly all of my dating issues were covered in the first three pages. He hasn't called. He's not going to call. He's not interested. I also didn't bother reading any further because I had to contact my legal team in order to sue the authors for copyright infringement, given I deserve reimbursement for the book ripping off my life story. Bastards.)

Several of my conversations with the bomb tech have veered into the what are you wearing and this is what I'd like to do to you category, and I'm regretting this for several reasons -- one reason being I now owe an apology to the entire city of Vancouver, host of the Olympic Games, for jeopardizing thousands of people's safety.

I admit, that when the bomb tech was supposed to be investigating a possible breach in security at one of the men's hockey games he was actually on the phone with me, and I was telling him that I was naked and touching myself. I was actually on the couch, wearing sweatpants and a Winnie the Pooh tank top, eating HobNob cookies and watching an episode of What Not to Wear.

The point is, men are gullible, women can multitask, and I'm very sorry for putting so many people in danger during a Team Canada victory.

I'm also sorry for these conversations, because now he's baffled as to why we're not having sex. I'm baffled as to why he thinks we would be when the thought of sitting across a table from me for a coffee, a drink, some lunch, a dinner, a game of Old Maid - anything that may lead to a face to face conversation and getting to know each other better seems to scare him more than disarming a roadside IED in Afghanistan.

This stalemate led to a recent conversation in which I laid it out for him in terms of mathematical equations. Him + Me + Spending Some Non-Sexual Time Together Like Normal Goddamned People = Sex. On the other hand: Him + Me + Him Continuing To Be an Ass-Hat Acting Like the Thought of Hanging Out With Me Causes Him Physical Pain = No Sex.

It's extremely embarrassing to think that even when a guy is guaranteed to get some(eventually), he doesn't think I'm worth the effort. The bomb tech said this wasn't the case at all, and he's not afraid he'll die of plague if we're in the same room together (another accusation I may or not of made in a rather heated MSN exchange), but it's his current schedule making his life hell.

While it's true he's working some pretty crazy shift work hours, I wasn't moved. He said he wanted us to work on this, and I agreed, even though I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm supposed to be working on exactly.

I gave him a few days, and was prepared to tell him to go away for good when tragedy struck. Really -- it did. His best friend passed away suddenly and terribly. With good reason, the bomb tech is devastated, and I can't be the person who tells him not to call anymore just because my panties are in a knot, and I'm still wearing them when really I'd rather not be. The reason he's calling has changed right now, and I feel like I'd be a terrible person for not listening.

However, I am a terrible person, and so I need to over-share with my four readers one more reason why I'm not sure the bomb tech and I are well-suited. We've been on 3.5 dates so far, and it's the .5 that concerns me.

During one of our sexier conversations one afternoon, he suggested he pick me up from work and we spend a little bit of time together before he had to report for duty. I made it clear in my very tasteful and eloquent way how this time would be spent (Don't be late and I'm not fucking you.)

He accepted these terms with equal grace (No shit.) I was imagining a really fun make-out session somewhere, but that's not exactly what happened.

We found a very secluded place to park, I lean in to kiss him, and he asks me if I'd do something for him that he would find incredibly hot. I quickly performed a mental run-down of all the body parts I had not shaved in a considerable amount of time and how this may affect my answer, which was maybe. Then he asked me if I would watch him. That's all -- just watch him.

(For those wondering what it was he wanted me to watch him doing...God bless your sweet little naive hearts. Also, we must not have met yet -- but we should probably go for a drink some time. I have a few things to tell you.)

I said I would, because this was awesome. I would get to do nothing at all, and he would still think I was hot, sexy and willing. Bring it on. Also, what a perfect opportunity to find out exactly how excited I should be about this fairly new relationship. A preview of good times to come, if you will.

It only occurred to me about 15 seconds into this exercise that not having to do anything at all is actually much more difficult, because I'd have to find something to do. Just watching is very...awkward.

What kind of expression should I attempt to arrange my face in, because at any given moment, no matter what I'm doing, I look bored. It's my natural expression and it takes effort to look any other way.

It became really important that I try for something different, because admittedly...I was underwhelmed. I really didn't want my face to read, "Is that it?"

Do I say anything? Do I compliment his technique? Do I cheer? Go team! Do I pretend that the sight of him touching himself is making me want to touch myself when really I'm trying not to look past him out the window, trying to decide whether I think it might rain later on?

I thought about how I might look at my favourite dessert, and tried to over-exaggerate that expression. I fluttered my lashes and bit my lip, trying to imagine a half-naked firefighter preparing this dessert and bringing it to me in bed. Now I was hungry. Dammit, and the bomb tech wasn't done yet.

Obviously I wasn't encouraging enough, mostly because I was bored and very close to checking whether there was a car manual in his glove compartment I could read until he was finished. I leaned over to kiss him again, which alleviated the boredom quite a bit, until he reminded me that I wasn't watching, and he wanted me to.

For fuckssake.

Apparently he did need a cheering section. A hearty Go Team really wasn't appropriate, because I was still doing nothing but sitting there. I settled on telling him how hot he was, how much I liked it, and how I really hoped he could last this bloody long when he was doing other things. That last part just kind of slipped out.

Finally, he surprised me by being prepared with a towel he pulled somewhere from behind his seat, which should probably be incinerated for health purposes very soon. And that was our .5 date.

Naturally, any couple's first sexual experience together is probably not the best it's ever going to get. We have no other option but to improve dramatically, but at the same time...I'm still happier warming the bench for now.

My blog won an award. No, really.

This blog has not led to many awards so far, although it is often the reason I'm referred to as a hot, tranny, trainwreck mess by one of my four devoted readers. That's really less of an award however, and more of a loosely factual statement. Loosely because I'm neither tranny nor train, but hot, wreck and mess can't be denied so easily.

Apparently, the Honest Scrap Award "is for bloggers who put their heart on display as they write from the depths of their soul." Even though I've started my new diet today and my soul is currently the subject of fierce negotiations with the devil for a pack of Cadbury Mini-Eggs, whatever charred remains may be left are deeply touched, especially given who tagged my blog with this award.

Whereas I can be considered inspirational only as a cautionary tale, the blogger behind Finding My Weigh is inspirational for all the right reasons. She's a Mom, a very busy career woman, fiercely intelligent and funny, on her way to losing 50 pounds before she returns to work from mat leave, and she's not annoying about any of it. She also posts way more than I do and it makes me look bad. Bitch.

As an Honest Scrap Award Recipient (I really like how the words, "award" and "recipient" flow so nicely after my name), I have to list 10 honest, random and interesting things about myself. Failing in this shouldn't take my Award away, but I'm not taking any chances.

1. I was once escorted out of a nightclub for dancing too suggestively.


2. A woman told me last week I look like Sandra Bullock, and I hugged her.


3. Stepping on cracks still weirds me out.


4. Some times I dream with commercials.


5. I once competed in a beauty pageant, and I didn't win.


6. I recently took a Mormon girl to a sex-shop to help her pick out some items for her wedding night and beyond.


7. Said Mormon girl would totally kick my ass for telling.


8. I've set fire to something in my kitchen on three separate occasions.


9. Fresh cut grass is my favourite smell.


10. I fantasize about Jon Stewart interviewing me on the Daily Show.

My responsibilities as an Honest Scrap Award Winner don't end here though, for part of winning this award means passing it on to seven other bloggers I feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap.

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to continue basking in the glory of my award when I have to play nice and share it with others, but I'll find a way. I'm going to draw my Award Recipient status out a little bit further by listing only a few blogs I'm passing the award on to at a time, and it's going to force me to overhaul the overall look of my site. Re-thinking who I link to and why is long overdue. There are a lot of bloggers who help get me through the day, and I really should honour them properly. Stay tuned...

Why my parents must never read this blog.

Once you've published a posting about your date stealing your vibrator as I have, there's really no going back. Therefore if you're prudish, go back to whatever you were doing and forget the events I'm about to describe in this posting ever could have happened, much like I'm trying to do.

If you're not prudish however, and are in fact about to engage in some sort of sexual activity involving lubricant that you were assured would create a "gentle warming sensation," and your partner says to you that it feels like toothpaste - stop. Just. Stop.

I'm about to explain why, but I'd also be interested to know why you're reading this blog at the same time you're about to engage in sexual activity. I'm not going to pry though, so carry on.

The toothpaste comment was all the warning I had when Alex and I finally decided we'd had enough innocent snuggling and Olympic cheering for one night and decided to get down to the business. Despite our attraction to one another, geography and his redneck attitude toward travel outside of his city dictate that we only get to touch one another about once a year.

When we do see one another, I want the experience to be spectacular, because dating on an annual basis is gut-wrenching. I don't want him to forget me at all in the weeks and months in between, and sweet fancy pants, did I find a way to make myself memorable.

First, some necessary back story. Even though I love Alex, he's a man-whore. He sees more va-jay than a workaholic gynecologist, therefore dictating I can't have sex with him the way the bible intended.

While I admire the expertise fucking so many different women surely provides him, it scares the unholy crap out of me. It's difficult telling somebody you adore that you also consider him a walking cess-pool and harbinger of sexually transmitted disease, but I've tried. Several times.

I've ordered him to get tested before he sees me, he's failed to follow through, and I'm left wracking my brains on how to blow his mind without doing the actual deed. Or without a haz-mat suit.

Sometimes I wonder if my continuous refusal to have sex with him is the only reason he stays in touch with me at all. He's had nearly every woman in the province we live in, many in the U.S., the continent of Australia, and a large area of Asia.

I'm like the very last unicorn.

I was not about to give it all up for our last visit, but it's hard to wow a man with nothing but continuous foreplay, and I turned to technology for back-up. I have a very special box in my bedroom that is so private only my four readers, likely an entire moving company (please see previous posts), one or two guys I've dated, several hostesses of sex-toy parties I've attended and myself know about.

I delved into that box, removed several items requiring batteries and one bottle of lube I had not yet tried before, packed it all in my suitcase and prayed my suitcase did not start vibrating, leading to mass panic and a shut-down of the airport for security reasons. God forbid I remember to remove the batteries before travelling.

Alex was suitably impressed with my selections, and we seemed to be off to a great start. If you're prudish and still reading, this should be your cue to go away now...

I poured some lube on my hands, grabbed a hold of Alex, and I don't mean by his shoulders. We were kissing, he's telling me that feels amazing and then - "Huh. That feels like toothpaste."

Toothpaste? I was pretty sure he couldn't have said toothpaste, because what would that even mean? I had looked at the bottle before throwing it in with my stuff, and it promised a gentle warming sensation. My hands felt normal, and so I really must have misheard.

"Does that feel really cold to you?"

Me? No, it didn't feel cold. All I was feeling was him, and that was great, so why was he still talking when I'm obviously trying to be all porn-star up over here which is really hard to do at the same time as sucking in my stomach.

"Huh. It feels cold like toothpaste - I like it."

Well finally. Now maybe he can shut up, enjoy it and then we can get around to me.

We took some time out, took a lovely bubble bath, made out some more and then it was back to the stuff that would give my Dad a heart attack should he ever suspect I even know about first-hand.

Because Alex had seemed to like it so much before, I thought we'd start off with some repeat action. Wherein things went seriously sideways.

"Are you touching me?"

Of course I'm touching you. What the hell kind of question is that. Try looking down.

"Holy crap. Bambi, I can't feel you touching me. I can see you're touching me, I'm not feeling it."

Umm. What?

"It's frozen."

Sure enough, it was. He could feel nothing I tried, including poking it, which for the record, was not appreciated. He was remarkably calm for just having his dick rendered completely inoperable, and a very good sport for declaring that I wasn't going to get much more out of him anyway.

I thought for sure he must have been kidding me or exaggerating, which was why when he decided it was time to play with the other toys I brought I actually suggested he use some of the "warming" lubricant on me.

Fast forward about 20 minutes to when I'm curled into a ball, beating Alex with a pillow and yelling about my ovaries being frozen. My whole uterus actually, and he needs to make it stop, right now. Everything. SO. COLD.

I was even less impressed when he reminded me that my ovaries being frozen solid was not really a big deal because I hate children, which only made me hit him harder and then roll myself into a blanket because I was certain I was dying of acute hypothermia of the vagina.

A man will usually pick the wrong time to bring up minor details like who started what and who not only brought the lubricant, but used it first on him, and then failed to listen the first time he said it felt like toothpaste. Alex was no exception.

Then I felt miserable because I had ruined our good time, and frozen his dick. He assured me that he had a great time - the first time I used it on him but it definitely lost its novelty the second time around. It had worn off though, so he felt fine.

My dose of sexual dry ice wasn't wearing off though, likely because none of my affected parts are commonly exposed to air. My ovaries and everything nearby stayed frozen for hours.

I had achieved spectacular alright, just not in the way I'd want him to remember me. Since I've been home, Alex and I haven't spoken and the bottle of lube has been sent to an independent lab for testing and consideration as an alternative to anesthesia. Only the first part of that sentence is true, and I sincerely wish it were the other way around.

It's not stupid if it tastes good.

Back in January I resolved two things. The first was not to do anything stupid in 2010, and the second was a carry over from New Year's resolutions 1996 through 2010 - which was to lose 20 pounds.

Apparently, I need to be more specific with my resolutions. I have indeed lost 20 pounds, largely by donating some furniture and books to the Salvation Army after I moved. My personal body weight on the other hand has increased to the point where I'm afraid that should I ever be making out with a guy again, I'm going to have to stop the proceedings to point out that he is in fact, groping my belly and not my boobs. Yes, both are squishy and hanging out over my clothes. The boobs are on purpose, the belly is muffin top. Kindly re-engage at your convenience.

As an aside, I had a mortifying experience recently at an airport. No matter what I do, I set off the alarm even after taking off my shoes, jewellery, depositing my pocket change and performing the Hokey Pokey. Regardless, I always require "wanding" to ensure I really do look this bitchy all the time, and my anti-social facial expression is not an indicator of terrorist activity.

This time, the female security guard began poking at my muffin top with her magic metal detecting wand. It's muffin top. It's only dangerous to my health and self- esteem, and poking it is not going to reveal it to be an explosive device. She poked it so many times I was actually forced to be helpful, just in case she wasn't sure what she had discovered.

"Um. That's my belly."

She said she knew that, and then commented that it was quite hard, which actually forced me to say to this random female security guard that I was constipated due to stress. I felt it important to explain the source of my constipation, should she think for a second that I was trying to smuggle 82 balloons of top-grade heroin into Kelowna, that proverbial hotbed of drug smuggling activity, instead of just needing to chill-out and go number two.

She poked my muffin top and hard belly once more, perhaps confirming my story, and declared me, "all good." Many things are all good. This experience was not one of them.

However, back to my resolutions. Having completely buggered my sworn oath to lose 20 pounds, I've had equal difficulties with my resolution to not do anything stupid. While it may seem obvious what should constitute stupid, I've realized that defining stupid is really much more of a free-flowing activity.

Put in more simple terms, I find doing stupid things as hard to resist as fattening food. And so I don't. Rather than resist, I keep redefining what I consider stupid. Now about the only stupid activities I will avoid for absolute certain involve smuggling 82 balloons of top-grade heroin into Kelowna via my belly, anything to do with mimes, attempting to fix my own plumbing, and watching the TV show, The Hills. Anything else I will likely be able to justify.

It's not that I've gone completely off the rails, and in my defense...I'm pretty sure I'll remain firmly against anything to do with mimes. However, activities that may seem more questionable to polite society, my four readers, and are also safe to publish without fear of further drama are as follows:

Without Question: I told many people that I was going to look for a nice, normal, decent guy for a real relationship. (Nice, normal and decent meaning no hero complex, no adrenaline addiction, no wife, no Kevlar, no cute little firefighter uniform, no macho, no shirt, no shoes, no service.)

Questionable: I am now kind of sort of dating a military bomb tech with post-traumatic stress disorder. I say kind of sort of dating because largely thanks to the Olympics and some issues he has due in part to an ex-wife, we've only seen each other a handful of times and the rest of our dating relationship has consisted of MSN, text and phone messages. Should we upgrade to Facebook, I'll know it's really for real.

On the plus side, because we've barely had time to make-out, I've not needed to correct him on which lady lumps he should be squeezing and which should be politely ignored.

(For those wondering what a bomb tech does, I'm dating the lead character from the movie, The Hurt Locker. He only used to be a firefighter, so it's not like I'm not trying over here.)

Without Question: I told many people it was over, and spent the last couple of months preparing to have a very serious discussion with my boy Alex in which I told him that I wanted no further contact with him ever, as the contact we do have with one another is too painful for me given my feelings for him, and then one of several wonderful things would happen simply as a reward from the universe for doing something so fucking hard. I would walk away feeling liberated, I would lose 20 pounds immediately, he would realize what an ass-hat he is and declare his undying love for me, and or failing all of these things, I would be content just knowing I did the right thing.

Questionable: While I did have a serious discussion with Alex during my stay in Kelowna, the topic wasn't so much my feelings for him and how we would no longer have any contact, but rather whether we should remove an item of clothing every time Luongo stopped a goal by Slovakia during the Olympic hockey game we were cuddled in bed watching, or should we wait until commercials.

I was a coward, but I'm actually at peace with that. At some point between jumping up and down on the hotel room beds in our undies when Team Canada won, me still feeling like a sex goddess with him despite all the extra weight I've gained, terrorizing room service and laughing hysterically at which one of us room service likely thought was the hired escort, my knowing him well enough to remember his irrational fear of hotel room soap, and his knowing me well enough to remember my irrational fear of going to sleep without a glass of water I realized...I really do kind of love this guy, and that's OK.

He'll never be who I want him to be, and that's OK too. Life requires all different kinds of friendships. He owns a special category, and that may be stupid, but also...OK.

Rest assured, these are not the only stupid activities I've undertaken in the recent past. My next posting will talk about the dangers of using bedroom/intimate products without adequate safety testing. Prepare yourselves accordingly.

Nobody call 911.

As a new homeowner, it's a sinking feeling to realize that whatever may be going wrong in my new home is solely my responsibility. In order to cope, I've developed a checklist, helping me identify what the problem is and the action(s) required to fix it. The checklist is as follows:

Painting required:
Call Dad.

Taps making funny noises at night:
Obvious paranormal activity. Do nothing to aggravate the spirits.

Fridge is loud:
Open fridge door for investigative purposes. Eat something. Repeat as necessary.

Laminate flooring strip lifting:
Catch with toe. Curse. Repeat. Cover with rug. Tap in place with foot.

Light fixture needs changing:
Call Dad.

Nearly everything that can go wrong in my home is covered by similarly well-developed contingency plans, but when I walked into my bedroom late one night and smelled gas, I was at a loss.

My first instinct was to ignore the gas smell, but no matter where I stood or what angle I held my nose I could smell it. I sniffed the window, hoping that a tanker had overturned outside on the front lawn, absolving me of all responsibility. The smell wasn't coming from outside.

I sniffed my laundry pile, as perhaps my steady diet of fattening food and white wine when combined with a painfully slow metabolism and daily use of allergy meds, somehow led to my sweat glands producing gasoline. No such luck.

Next I sniffed my bedroom closet, where I was afraid the smell had been coming from all along. My hot water tank and all manner of wiring and plumbing for my washer and dryer fight for space there with my clothes and shoes. And now the whole mess smelled like I should be able to hook it up to my car and stand there contemplating whether I should run inside for a bottle of water and bag of chips, and why the goddamned price always jumps when I'm running nearly empty.

Needless to say, this was some serious shit that was not on my checklist.

I left the room, and then walked back in to determine whether the smell was simply my imagination, or even better, a sign of a stroke. At least I would know what to do if I was having a stroke. The smell was still there, and consciously so was I. Dammit.

It was 1:30 a.m., I was exhausted and in need of some serious help. I needed an instruction manual. Luckily, the previous owners left me more than just clogged drains and some really questionable carpet stains. Stashed in one of the kitchen cupboards was a stack of manuals I had been using to store my spices on.


At the very top of the pile, a manual for my washer and dryer. On the front cover in bold letters: What To Do If You Smell Gas. It was like the manufacturer was right there with me.

I wouldn't even have to turn to the table of contents - everything I needed to know was in bolded block letters in a fancy shadow box, with graphic arrows pointing to the text should the gas fumes presumably overwhelm me and my vision start to blur.


For your safety the information in this manual must be followed to minimize the risk of fire or explosion or to prevent property damage, personal injury or loss of life.

Loss of life? Explosion? Aren't they laying this on a little thick? Did I have to choose this night to stay up late watching the Colbert Report? I'm just too tired to have an explosion right now.


Do not store or use gasoline or other flammable vapors and liquid in the vicinity of this or any other appliance.

Oh. Crap. Does Febreze count as a flammable vapor? What about Spray and Wash?? Dear God, I'm going to die, all because of Spray and Wash.


Do not try to light any appliance

What does that even mean? How do I light an appliance?? I turn them on or off -- I don't light them. I don't even know what this means. I am totally screwed.

Do not touch any electrical switch; do not use any phone in your building

Any phone at all? What if the dude upstairs decides to call for a pizza? Sweet Christ on a cracker, please nobody call for a pizza.

Clear the room, building or area of all occupants

The entire building? Seriously?? I live in a condo building, and it's 1:30 a.m. I am not knocking on these people's doors. At least if they get blowed up, they won't know what hit them, and the really hot strata council president will never have to see me on his doorstep in my Winnie the Pooh boxing shorts. A happy afterlife ensues for everybody.

Immediately call your gas supplier from a neighbor's phone. Follow the gas supplier's instructions.

Well which is it, people? I can't call from my neighbor's phone because I'm supposed to be evacuating them. My building is sandwiched between an apartment complex whose residents all seem to prefer giant pirate flags covering their windows as opposed to curtains, and a house where I'm pretty sure I can purchase meth. I'm also pretty sure the residents of that house have all seen me naked, because I went for quite some time without curtains. Or a pirate flag. Also, who in the hell is my gas supplier? I suppose I could look that up, but that may mean lighting my laptop.

If you cannot reach your gas supplier, call the fire department.

Oh HELL no. For all four of my long-time readers and the legal team I should really have on stand-by...just no. Really, no. Although it pains me, because I do love a man in uniform...no.

Strong, decisive action was needed. This was my time to do the right thing in a life and death decision. I could save lives. I could be a hero, featured on the front page of the newspaper, credited with saving an entire neighborhood from certain blazing death.

Or I could open all the windows in my bedroom and go to bed, which is what I did. I may be brain damaged or dead in the morning, but I had an important work meeting to go to and death or brain damage would certainly make it more bearable. I struggled with setting my alarm clock. Would this constitute lighting the appliance? Would the alarm going off lead to me being enveloped in a fireball? I would find out at 6:25 a.m.

The alarm went off and I was alive. If there was brain damage, I really couldn't tell the difference. Even better, I couldn't smell any gas. I did hesitate before switching on my hair straightener, as this seemed an indirect violation of touching an electrical switch, but my bangs were looking really ridiculous.

I really couldn't concentrate at work, feeling that perhaps there was something more I should do about the gas leak situation. Something very important that hadn't occurred to me the night before in my exhaustion, and I left work early to take care of it in a hurry.

The insurance agent was very helpful, and it took no time at all to double the value of my possessions and increase my coverage. Finally, some piece of mind.

And yet, something still nagged at me. When I got home, it was still standing, and I took this as a positive sign. Just to be on the safe side, I had figured out which gas company to call, and was pleased when a real live person answered the special phone line to report gas leaks. I'm not sure why this task had seemed so difficult the night before, but better late than never.

I explained the situation to the woman on the other line, who wanted to know when I detected this smell. I told her I smelled it the night before, but it was gone now. But if they weren't doing anything, maybe they could still stop by. She seemed rather taken aback.

According to the woman, I should have called immediately. I really shouldn't have waited a day. I told her I understood her position, but I had some things I had to do. Silence on the other line, and then she told me to get out of the house, and go wait in the lobby. And so I did.

There's a couch in our lobby, and so I took a book and waited. The gas guy showed up very quickly, and I'm relieved to report that I don't find all men in uniform attractive.

I apologized profusely for not actually having a smell to direct him toward anymore, but it seemed prudent to call anyway. He agreed, but was dubious. It was very frustrating - like when trying to describe to a mechanic the clicking noise you keep hearing, but when he starts the car it sounds like a happy kitten.

He waved a wand at my closet - no readings. He waved a wand at the only appliance in my condo that requires gas, which is my fireplace -- in my living room, and nowhere near my bedroom. Apparently my washer and dryer can be wired for gas, but are not. Regardless, no gas. There was absolutely nothing emitting gas in my apartment. I couldn't have even passed gas if I tried at the time.

It was a relief. The crisis had been averted. I had saved the day, by doing nothing at all, which is what was required, as it turns out. Perhaps this home ownership thing will work out after all.

Muppetism.

On any given day I'll have several health issues going on that I'm unable to bring up in polite conversation, should polite conversation ever arise. I'm not a hypochondriac, even though a bad headache will lead me to think brain tumour. I don't believe that constitutes hypochondria so much as it demonstrates my extremely pessimistic nature.

(As an aside, I had a room-mate in university who was a hypochondriac. She also couldn't leave the house without making sure the fringe on her bedroom rug was uniformly straight and not touching. Her food couldn't touch on the plate either, and if it did she threw it out and went hungry. That's actually an aside to the aside.)

(The point is, bitch was crazy. One afternoon she shared with me she was having a bad day because her birth control pills were causing her to go blind, she had some kind of thread stuck up her nose and hanging down the back of her throat that she'd been trying to reach for days, and she had a rare form of arthritis in one hip that was eventually going to cause her to be able to walk only in circles.

This was all hilarious until one day I mixed some cold medication with a pint of neocitran and a dash of anti-depressants in an attempt to plow through some final papers with the flu. I collapsed in the shower, lay there for two hours with the water running, got myself up and out, crawled into the hallway wrapped in the bath mat and told my crazy bitch room-mate with a car that I had to go to the hospital.

She sighed, and said she'd think about taking me after Matlock. Yes, Matlock. I could have died because the crazy bitch had a thing for reruns starring Andy Griffith. I lay there in the hallway, covered by a bathmat, until she was suddenly shaking me awake and panicking.

She would take me now, right now, let's go, come on sweetie, please get up... While I lay there, my lips had turned blue and my face so white all the veins were glowing. I looked clinically dead.

She did take me to the hospital, but didn't speak to me for several days afterward. She was angry because she was so sick, and I was the one who "got" to go and "spend time" in the emergency room. She said this like I had won a radio contest to fly to Cabo and didn't take her. We didn't last much longer after that.)

(Bitch really was crazy.)

(Sorry for the long aside. Obviously I'm still bitter.)

Having had that experience in university, I know myself to be downright reasonable in terms of my medical concerns. For so long now, most of the attention and concern has focused on my nether regions for reasons beyond my control. Therefore, it was actually kind of a relief when my face exploded.

A few weeks ago, I woke up with arms flailing, because I was sure I opened my eyes but I couldn't see anything. After careful scientific analysis (read: freaking out in front of bathroom mirror) I determined that both of my eyes had swollen shut. They went nicely with my lips, which had puffed up to inner-tube proportions. This all may have stood out quite a bit, had the skin on my face and neck not turned red like a nuclear holocaust sunset.

Overnight, I had turned into a muppet.

I couldn't drive anywhere, so I stayed home from work. I left the house only to run to the drugstore and invest in some Benadryl and a chat with the pharmacist, who's greeting was "Holy Dinah." Dinah didn't begin to cover it.

The next day my cheeks had swollen, creating several hard creases in my face that don't normally exist, and squinting my left eye up into my forehead by about two inches. Now I looked like a muppet version of that kid from the movie Mask. I could see out of one eye so I drove myself to work. It's not that I have any kind of work ethic, but I knew the office first aid kit had an epi-pen, and if my head kept on swelling, I was going to need it.

I suppose I should mention that I hadn't eaten anything new, used any new make-up, or new products. Apparently I had taken a sudden and severe allergic reaction to nothing at all. While it's not uncommon for me to overreact to nothing at all in my life, this was ridiculous.

Nothing would bring the swelling down. People stared at me every where I went, and one little kid in the grocery store asked me what was wrong with my face. On the best of days I have no patience for children, so when I told the kid there was nothing wrong with my face, what's wrong with yours?...I'm hoping he's still thinking on it.

I went on steroids for a week just to rearrange my features to a reasonable approximation of where they used to be. The steroids caused me to sleep walk and gain weight. I had hoped the sleep walking could burn some calories and even things out, but if I can't be bothered to work-out in my waking hours then it wasn't looking good for my nocturnal wanderings either.

Several weeks after the initial outbreak, I was learning to live with one very angry looking forehead, and diseased looking cheeks and neck. The hives on my face were resistant to everything I tried - Benadryl cream, Benadryl tablets, incessant scratching, Aloe Vera, funky hats, ice water presses, chocolate, Reactine, and more than one stern talking to.

Since my face wasn't really recovering, I began seeking a referral to an allergist. I actually looked forward to these doctor visits, given the only other times I absolutely have to see a doctor I end up with my legs in stirrups for my twice a year check up to make sure nothing has closed over. This was actually refreshing.

It was also wonderful to not have to attempt to explain what's wrong. What was wrong was plainly visible. I just had to point, and the doctor(s) would haul out a prescription pad and send me somewhere, mostly so they didn't have to look at me anymore. Just seeing my face caused people to claw their own in sympathy.

Even though I had requested to see an allergist, I was sent to a dermatologist. I didn't care if they sent me to a proctologist as long as my face recovered.

I've never been a raving beauty. On a good day I would classify myself as unconventionally pretty, and on an average day I would say that I'm aspiring to average. My face had become so bad that I couldn't go anywhere without people looking at me too long, or too quickly.

For well over a week I was actually deformed, and that deformity settled into the scientific term, godawful. I was really, truly ugly. I thought twice about where I needed to go and when. How many people would be there? Was it well-lit?

Finally, I was seated in front of a dermatologist who was looking at my forehead through a giant magnifying glass. He asked me what medication I was taking to deal with it, and I said I was taking Benadryl, as the pharmacist and more than one doctor suggested.

The dermatologist said, "Stop it." He was not a man of many words.

Apparently, it's quite common to have an explosive allergic reaction, and then build up an allergy to the Benadryl being used to treat it. He prescribed an ointment to put on at bedtime, and when I woke up, my face was back to normal. Completely normal. It was also stuck to the pillow in a pool of hardened ointment, but I did not care. I had eyelids again.

Now I'm loving my new face, which is the same as my old face, only better. It's smooth and soft, with my features shrunk back down to normal. Except for my nose. That's still large, but it was large before.

I'd try snorting that magic ointment, but even then I think I'm stuck with it.

Be it resolved...

I began 2010 with only two resolutions. I make resolutions every year, out of a deep-seated fear that not setting up impossible goals for myself to fail miserably at will leave me with nothing to mope about, and this lack of moping could cause an unnecessary build up of angst, from which I will explode, like a well-beaten pinata in really great boots.

To be fair, I also began 2010 with a fuzzy hangover and a sharp regret that I had told the guy who offered me $500 to see my tits to fuck off, shortly after the 10 second countdown on the dance floor the night before.

Five hundred would have covered strata fees and groceries, and there was no good reason for choosing that moment to gain a sense of propriety.

Groceries shouldn't matter however, because I have resolved not to eat in 2010. The fact that I'm typing this with shortbread cookie crumbs in my hair should surprise nobody. I'm pretty certain I may have eaten this resolution with a Toblerone chaser last night, and it's the reason I have heartburn.

It's very important that I find some sort of compromise with regards to not eating in 2010, because there's a good chance I'm going to Kelowna for business at the end of February, and there's an even better chance I've already made my guy Alex aware that I'm going to be in his neck of the woods and would like to see him. When I do, I had better be 20 pounds lighter.

I will neither confirm nor deny that in addition to telling him what dates and what hotel I'll be staying in, I also told him what I planned to be wearing to bed and what I want him to do to me when I get there.

If I had told him such things and if I had agreed that it would be a really great idea for him to stay with me...well...those would be interesting developments, given my second New Year's resolution was to stop doing stupid things.

I'm thinking of revising this resolution to read: I will not do anything stupid on a day not ending in Y, or on the eighth day of Ramadan, between 2:00 and 2:45 pm.

One would think I'd have had my fill of doing stupid things in 2009, but I have an incredibly high tolerance for ridiculousness, as evidenced by just about every blog post I've every written.

However, I do want 2010 to be a better year. I want it to be a more honest year. I want it to be a year that I can say I missed no opportunity to express what's important to me, and to have that happen less by accident and more by design.

Perhaps that can be my third resolution.

When I see Alex in Kelowna and I'm looking amazing and 20 pounds slimmer, I'm going to tell him good-bye for good. I'll tell him how I feel about him for the first time ever, and it will be my explanation for why continuing the rather intense friendship that we have is too painful.

Telling a man that you love him too much to continue staying close may seem counter-productive, but so is being the sounding board for his sexual exploits, and even worse, the occasional warm-up act via webcam as he prepares to go to bed with somebody else.

Expressing what's important may be painful in the short-term, but so much better in the long-term. Even though I fully expect one or both of us to be naked at the time when this very important conversation takes place and that will indeed be stupid -- I'm only trying to keep a resolution here.

Becoming a fully-evolved person will have to wait until after I get home, tested for STIs and have somewhat recovered from the cheesecake coma I expect to have to medicate myself with.

It's going to be a great year!