The List

Steph the Magnificent came into my office the other day and asked me if I had seen the short blurb on David Duchovny


and his apparent sex addiction.

Um, no, I hadn't seen it and thanks to Stephanie, I wasn't able to think of much else for the rest of the day. Sex addiction, eh?

The thing is, Duchovny does it for me.

Since the X-Files.

Californication, his new gig on Showtime, is absolutely delicious. Love, love, love him.

Of course, I am a married woman now and the topic of celebrity shag lists hasn't conveniently popped up in conversation as of yet but I'm pretty sure that Dallas has a few names on his.

For instance, didn't every man his age want to bed Julie on the Love Boat? Remember her? She made polyester fashionable.


Too bad about the cocaine thing.

Anyway, my top ten list looks like this and they are in no particular order and subject to change if I find out something horrible about them.

Like if they vote Republican.

1. David Duchnovy
2. Ed Burns
3. George Clooney (please God, don't let him be gay)
4. Jason Statham
5. Mark Ruffalo
6. Hugh Jackman
7. Colin Firth
8. Antonio Banderas
9. Brad Pitt
10. James Spader

And as I compiled this list of men who I consider sponge-worthy, I couldn't help but notice that it took me forever to come up with ten. And with each name that I added, I wondered:

Would he make me tea at night?
Would he fold the towels my way?
Would he fill my gas tank without me knowing?
Would he watch Gray's Anatomy with me even though he'd rather have someone beat him to death, slowly and with a blunt object?
Would he bring me coffee in bed every single morning?
Would he send me text messages during my work day to let me know that I was on his mind?
Would he read and understand owner's manuals so that I never have to decipher one again?
Would he share my passion for Harleys, rum and a good book?
Would he find me attractive in spite of the pull of gravity, the lure of dark chocolate and challenges of an ex husband?

Umm...not likely.

My husband is a hard act to follow.

Who You Calling Player?

I couldn't have asked for a better weekend. The weather was ideal, the fall colours were at their peak and my children called Daddy's house home for two days. It was a delicious little bonus that daylight savings ended this weekend because Sundays are my favourite day of the week and to get that extra hour tickled me to no end.

I rode like a crazy woman all day Sunday. In the morning, I went out to visit Tim and his class, which was fun. It was interesting to watch them because they struggled with the same exercises my group did and now, after a few months of riding, I know that those same drills would be a cake walk for me. (I think)

Tim and I also had a bit of time to catch up on a personal level and it was during this discussion that he referred to me as a "player". What? Player? PLAYER!! Ouch. But really, player? C'mon. That term usually refers to hot men who date several women at once, sleep with them all and manipulate them into believing that each one of their relationships is exclusive.

First of all, I don't think I qualify as hot. Cute? Well maybe. But I'm going to be a grandmother...automatic hot disqualification. Yes, I have dated several people, often within the same week but going to dinner or taking in a movie is not the same as a shag fest. If things progress to a relationship, I adhere to the rules. I cannot help it that I feel like a noose is tightening around my neck after a few weeks of the serious stuff. I am not ready for serious but you see, therein lies the dilemma because I am equally unable to have casual sex. I wish I was like Samantha from Sex in the City because she went out there and took what she wanted and made no apologies. But that just isn't real life.

Not to be all Lady MacBeth who doth protest too much but player?

Puhleez.

Girls Night Out

A week ago Friday night, I went out with the girls and drank entirely too much wine. We all did. When you get a group of women together, mix in liberal amounts of alcohol and remove the testosterone element (men), you create the perfect atmosphere for seriously wicked conversation. I would be forever shunned from the Sisterhood if I revealed too much of that evening but here are a few of the tame tidbits:

"My husband is eye candy."
This is from a woman who has been married for eleven years. She gushed like a newlywed. I was in awe and I badly wanted into her medicine cabinet.

"You must commit to being functional in your relationship. Understand that happiness is a choice. So is compromise."
This came from a woman in her late fifties who has been married forever. She enjoys a romantic, healthy marriage with her husband. I thought about her statement for days.

"I would love to quit my job and stay at home. I think I might want to have another baby."
This one was uttered by a thirty eight year old woman who deals with insurance issues, patients and bureaucracy all day. It's no wonder she feels this way but I just couldn't relate. For a fleeting second, I let myself contemplate the idea of pregnancy and the domestic hell that is stay at home motherhood. Those women are saints. They should be anointed with expensive oils and fed grapes by well-muscled pool boys. I would need a keg of purple Koolaid or a black American Express card to make this work for me.

"Men think that they are the only ones with a sex drive. Would they find it threatening or distasteful to know that we think about it constantly, too?"
Ummm, (cough, cough), I have no comment.

This is just a tiny peek into the conversation that took place that night but the best thing to come of it was that we decided to make it a monthly event. I had almost forgotten how great it was to spend a few hours with smart, articulate women. Next time, though, I think I'll be more careful with the vino. I need for my sensor switch to be working.

Sex and The One Horse Town

Last week, I started a "program". I'm not talking a twelve stepper or anything. I had just decided that now that I have been smoke free for over three months, I was going to have a closer look at my overall health. Below are some of my notes to self.

Dark chocolate is not a food group. I know...BUMMER, right? But the truth is that no matter how many antioxidants are present, one cannot justify replacing leafy greens with Dove squares for lunch.

Exercise should require the use of cross trainers and dumbells. Suffering through a conversation with my ex is probably not considered aerobic activity in spite of the fact that my heart rate escalates. Since I no longer clean my own house or mow my own yard, fat burning activity has been limited to running and hiding from my children.

Vegetables are good for you and should be consumed on a daily basis. I'm not sure if my apathy toward vegetables stems from the fact that as a child, I was forced to eat canned asparagus (just a whole bunch of bad) or that every single vegetable, no matter how well washed, still seems to taste like dirt. And yes, I have tasted dirt, smartypants.

Sleep. Must have it. The experts say 8 hours is the minimum required to keep the body a lean, mean, metabolism machine. Who gets eight hours, though? I haven't had eight unbroken, unmedicated hours since before my children were born. I'm hoping to exercise myself into a coma to solve this issue.

Sex. Hmmm. Apparently, this is an ingredient in a healthy life, too. The one caveat according to the experts, is that it seems to be beneficial only within the confines of a loving, monogamous relationship. I have a problem with these "experts". Most of my friends are married and they tell me that their sex life looks more like tumbleweeds in a ghost town than a tropical rainforest. So what does a single woman do? Does she throw out societal expectations and live La Vida Loca or does she turn her back on temptation and convince herself that chastity is indeed a virtue?

Since the thought of commitment causes me to have to breathe deeply into a paper bag, I have decided postpone the sex discussion with self and instead, focus on exercise, vegetables and sleep. I am determined. Very determined. I am figuring (no pun intended) that between work hours, exercise, the kids and eight full hours of sleep, there won't be a nanosecond available to ponder the fact that I am currently living like a nun.

My parents thoughtfully decided to name me Mary Elizabeth. I don't think it is an accident that "Sister" fits so well in front of it.