Ka-Boom.

It's been a couple of weeks since I've heard from the Bomb Tech (BT). I wasn't really surprised. Mildly puzzled, but not clutching at my chest. I'm suing the authors of "He's Just Not That Into You," for ripping off my life story, so how surprised could I really be?

Last night I ordered Chinese food with a girlfriend and insisted on having Sweet and Sour Chicken Balls just so I could say Chicken Balls. A lot. My sense of humour resembles a ten year old boy's sometimes, and that's not surprising either. Ridiculous, but not surprising.

When I told my girlfriend in between chicken balls (I even like typing it!) that I hadn't heard from BT in a while and she said that she had, as he visits her fairly often...overnight...that was a surprise. It was a huge surprise actually, although it may explain why she was OK with paying for dinner.

She assumed it was OK because I wasn't really that interested any more. Certainly, I had shared how things were going. She was the one who introduced us so there were a few times I may have declared myself done with him when she asked how things were.

I suppose being done with him could be taken several ways. Perhaps I was really done with him, or perhaps I was just frustrated at the lack of progress. Maybe we had actually ended things, or maybe I just thought we might and was trying to prepare for that time.

There really wasn't anything to do but keep eating at that point, because he and I were obviously done right then, and according to her he had really fucked it up with me. That much was really, really true.

(The irony of my friend acknowledging that the BT had really fucked it up with me just after telling me how often he comes over to fool around with her was something that only really hit me hours later.)

(When it finally did, I was really angry that I couldn't have had that example ready and waiting when my Grade 12 English teacher asked me for the definition of irony while poking my head with a ruler. I was asleep at the time. In my defense, that classroom had very poor air circulation.)

I really wanted to ask my friend if the BT made her watch him jack-off too. What could she be doing differently to feign interest and excitement while watching that I just couldn't do? Then I thought better of it. Best to stick with my chicken balls (!) and leave that subject alone.

Which brings us to another topic: Girl Code. There is a Code, and the nuances may vary due to situation and the girls in question, but one aspect of Girl Code is infallible - you don't fuck with it.

Girl Code means you hold her hair back when she pukes, grab your car keys when she calls saying everything is fine but you know it isn't, and there is never anything wrong with her, it's how they make the clothes too small these days.

Girl Code means you don't say, "I told you so." Instead, you say, "That bastard, I'll kill him." It means you're available for moral support and hand holding at clinics when it might be bad, bridal shops when it might be good, Las Vegas, roller coasters, dance floors, beaches and shoe stores everywhere just because.

Those are just some of the rules, but there's one more that should be obvious to anybody who's ever been a girl. If you're lucky enough to have good girls in your life, you don't fuck with their men. Not. Ever.

This can get tricky. At what point does a guy become off-limits? If you know your girls, you know when this is. It's not a matter of time or dating status, but emotional investment. For example, knowing your girl shaved her legs in preparation for a date may be one thing. Knowing she submitted to a Brazilian wax in anticipation is another.

This is why I'm still able to call this girl my friend, and she's lucky. I was never that invested. I was excited by the possibility of something new, happy that he wore a militaristic uniform because damn that's sexy, and satisfied I hadn't broken my streak in which I only date men with more testosterone than brains. Despite these things, I was never crazy in love.

Had the BT been Alex however, I would cut a bitch. I seriously would, even though I can't call him mine and will never get to do so. This particular area of Girl Code defies reason and logic. It's not rational, but it certainly just IS.

Somewhere in my heart Alex is mine, and therefore it's easier to explain what this means in Girl Code. The violation and the conversation would have gone very differently, so for those who don't intuitively grasp the Code, the conversation would go like this:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - So I fooled around with Alex last night...

Bambi: I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been married to Mr. December in the Fireman's Calendar for 37 years and you're still doing the pool boy on the side...shouldn't you have moved on?

Bambi: Where is my knife...?

Logic and time passing makes no difference. Whether the relationship was one-sided or not makes no difference. There is no justification. The conversation could even go this way:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - Alex is my soul mate. Jesus Christ himself returned to earth, declared my relationship with Alex will bring about world peace, the end of the cola wars, and the cure for cellulite. Also cancer and AIDS. Our saliva mixed together heals the sick and ends suffering. Also gingivitis. When we make love we single-handedly ensure global warming stays in check and that puppies aren't tortured.

Bambi - I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been a lesbian since 2013 when you said you couldn't take dating men any more and decided you were just going to stop shaving and marry K.D. Lang. That was 20 years ago! Think of world peace! Think of the children!

Bambi - Fuck the children. Where is my knife...?

See? Girl Code is pretty simple to grasp, but there are girls out there who don't get it. They can have friends, but never the friends who would join them in driving off a cliff, Thelma and Louise styles. That's sad for them, whether they know it or not. I'd always hope I'd have a friend in that passenger seat, holding my hand out of loyalty and adventure.

I'm sad it went this way with the BT, because I would have almost preferred not knowing why. More than that though, it's sadder to be the girl who realizes she may need to step out of that passenger seat some time. Tuck and roll if she has to. Steep cliff ahead.

I probably should have stopped, dropped and rolled.

So I was dancing alone in my living room to the Glee version of Don't Stop Believing, waiting for the toast I was having for dinner to pop, and simultaneously answering the questions of why I keep my living room curtains closed and why I'm still single, when alarm bells went off.

I don't mean abstract alarm bells telling me that my ass was jiggling just a bit too long after I stopped shaking it, or that perhaps I should think more seriously about retirement planning. I mean actual alarm bells. Fire alarm bells.

My first thought was that I was never, ever going to make toast again if this is what happens, but the alarms weren't coming from my smoke detectors.

Rather, these were the ear-splitting alarms for the entire building -- one a ringing bell, the other a high-pitched mechanical chirping that caused blood to ooze from my ears and dolphins to beach themselves on nearby shores.

Overall, an interesting development. There was obviously something I should be doing in response, but at the same time, this must be a mistake.

The bells would stop, whatever caused them to go off in error would be sorted and I could continue shaking my booty undisturbed. All would be well as long as I stood perfectly still, hands over my ears, waiting.

Above me people started running. I could hear the pounding footsteps, multiple doors slamming and the urban equivalent of the running of the bulls in the stairwell next to my apartment. Shit just got real. Time to officially panic.

According to my calculations and all of the expert knowledge acquired from repeated viewings of the movie Backdraft and occasional viewings of the 2010 Fireman's Calendar, I had 30 seconds to grab what mattered in my life and get out. Then I was down to 18 seconds because the first shoes I put on were not my favourites and I would be damned if those were the only shoes that made it safely out of my home.

Now 10 seconds because photographs I could never replace are in two different rooms and now 5 seconds left because I unplugged the wrong cords and can't free my laptop and I have to leave it but if the fire is on the third floor and I'm on the second I can always run back inside at the last second while three extraordinarily good looking firefighters try to stop me and the headline in tomorrow's newspaper would read, "Heroic Woman Dies Trying to Save Decade Old Laptop, Shoe."

By the time I was running down the stairs behind an elderly woman and her miniature poodle, I was wearing my favorite boots under my rattiest yoga pants, a sweater inadequate for the rain that was coming down, and carrying in my purse three picture frames and three signed David Sedaris books.

I regretted not also grabbing a piece of toast. If I was about to be homeless and wearing a blanket supplied by the Salvation Army while I watched everything I had ever worked for and bought at IKEA turned to ash, I should probably eat.

Out on the front lawn, my fellow condo owners milled about, some cradling babies, some clutching dogs. Nobody else had brought their laptop either, or any other household items that I could see. Apparently this had never happened, nobody knew what had caused it, but most were sure it was a false alarm.

Some decided to step back inside momentarily to check their mail, since the boxes were right there after all. One guy went back in to get a granola bar before rejoining the crowd. The elderly woman handed her poodle to her neighbor so she could go inside and get the dog his coat.

I used my cell phone to call one of the gays to let him know I would probably not be coming over that night to watch America's Next Top Model as planned, because my building was on fire.

The sirens blaring and getting closer in the background certainly added legitimacy to what otherwise may have sounded like a far-fetched excuse, and led to a somewhat unfortunate exchange.

Bambi: Yeah so, I probably won't make Top Model tonight.

Gay: Why the hell not?

Bambi: I'm standing outside of my building waiting for fire trucks because it might be on fire.

Gay: Really??

Bambi: Firetrucks are actually coming. Crap. I should really go fix myself.

Gay: Do not go back in the building.

Bambi: But they're actual firefighters, and they're coming to my building.

Gay: Which is probably why you shouldn't go back in.

Bambi: But I look like crap.

Gay: You're an idiot. Call me if you're coming over.

After hanging up, I went back inside to brush my hair and put on lip gloss. I sniffed for smoke first and tested the air for unnatural heat so I felt fairly confident I could do so without dying, and I was glad I did.

When all the firefighters were exiting the building, having turned off the alarm that had been tripped by old age and wiring, one young, very blue-eyed firefighter turned to me and smiled as I stood back outside on the lawn, lips freshly glossed and eating a cold piece of toast. Totally worth the risk.

The obituary will require some delicate phrasing.

A friend informed me over brunch the other day that if the bomb tech (BT) ever read this blog, I may be in a small amount of trouble. As in, I may come down with an acute case of being dead, what with his expert knowledge of firearms and explosives.

The BT is not going to harm me for several good reasons. First off, we'd likely have to be in the same room together for him to do so, and we all know that's not looking good.

Secondly, he doesn't read this blog. Should the worst happen and he stumble upon these postings by some sort of horrible, unspeakable accident...I've said worse. Really, I have. Comparatively speaking, he got off easily.

(Good LORD. That was possibly the worst unintentional pun ever. I am SO sorry.)

To clarify...I kind of like this guy, and his penis wasn't inappropriately sized. Compare my BT experience to one example I've described in this blog where I had to dig in his pants like I was looking for a quarter I dropped between the seats, and the BT looks like a porn star.

I'm now way off topic, but I wanted to make it clear that the BT isn't going to kill me no matter what, because somebody else is going to do that long before he does.

Possibly very soon.

Her name is Jillian Michaels, and she is evil.

She's also the "toughest trainer on TV," best known for yelling at really, really large people on The Biggest Loser as she pushes them to work out hard enough to cry, vomit and pass out.

I'm not sure why I thought purchasing her DVD titled, "30 Day Shred" would be a good idea, but as my four readers should know by now, good ideas are not exactly my calling card.

Obviously, this is not an advertisement for Jillian Michaels, as I'm sure she would pay good money to NOT be associated with me. Regardless, the woman is kicking my ass.

This DVD provides three levels of work-out routines that pudgy people like myself are supposed to work through daily, over the course of 30 days.

Daily.

I'm not sure I even go number two every day, so this DVD fitness adventure began by asking for a whole lot of commitment.

The first time I did Level One, I was out of breath by the time we finished the warm-up. When Jillian announced we were then ready to get started I was considerably alarmed. In my opinion, we'd started. We'd started plenty.

Pudgy people are supposed to stay at each level for approximately 10 days, and I've discovered a lot about myself and the world from being on Day Six of Level One.

The first discovery being, I really can't do push-ups. Even push-ups with my knees on the floor will eventually end with my forehead resting on the carpet when I just can't do anymore. This occurs at about push-up number 16, which is actually a significant improvement over my push-up capabilities from Day One when I maxed out at ten.

(Laying sweaty forehead to carpet in your living room is also an excellent way to gauge whether or not you should vacuum. In my case, the answer is always yes. Yes, I should. It's just not dignified to be exercising with what might once have been a frozen hash brown stuck above your right eyebrow.)

Next, I've noticed I may actually be a different species than the two women working out behind Jillian Michaels for the duration of Level One. I'm not smiling the entire time like they are.

I'm not smiling at all, mostly because I'm not having fun, and partially because lifting the corners of my mouth would take away energy that is best directed to completing one more push-up.

Unlike those two women, I don't glow prettily when I sweat. There is no sexy sheen to my legs and shoulders, but there is an icky wet spot under my pony-tail and a pool in my sports bra.

My legs do not form a perfect 90 degree angle while I'm laying on the carpet, attempting to do some ab-related exercise requiring my legs in the air and some other part of my torso to lift off the ground, that would ordinarily not come off the ground. Their legs do. My legs are more sausage-like, and therefore can't bend that way. Have you ever tried to bend a kielbasa sausage? Don't.

Despite the fact that Jillian Michaels may bring upon my untimely death because she is evil and her work-out companions are bionic fem-bots...this shit works. I'm getting stronger, and I'm doing it every day.

Should the BT ever come looking for me for any reason, he may find a totally different woman.

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.