Bryanna and the City

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Till Next Year November!

As I sit here on my lunch break, typing and eating my Ham & Swiss sandwhich, while waiting for my chicken noodle soup from Tim Horton's to cool down (I felt like soup today as it seems I'm getting another cold, which will be my second one since September. . .I really thought that I had been sick enough this past summer to last me a couple of no-cold-zone years, but alas it seems the cold virus had something else in mind), I think about what soon will be another November in my life coming to an end. I can't say that I'm at all sad. For me, and I suspect many other people as well, November is a very long, pointless and, as my co-worker succinctly put it just a few minutes ago, a "blah" month. It's 30 days between the beautiful transition of summer to fall known as October and the magical month of December when the world (that actually gets snow) turns white, dreams come true, and the fact that you gain ten pounds in two weeks doesn't matter because so does everyone else (it's all relative you see). I always thought that my animosity for the "N" month had something to do with school. In university, the "N" month is the most stressful month of the Fall semester. It's when most term papers are due and in the most horrid cases the month when your wicked prof. decides to schedule a late mid-term. However, as I am not attending the "Ivory Tower" this year, my November did not contain anything to do with term papers and mid-terms. . . actually, it consisted of no thinking at all. The odd thing is, however, is that my dislike for the "N" month actually turned into a relationship of loathing and hatred. Not to say that nothing exciting happened in November. . .I met a great guy and actually began writing in my blog again, but I consciously counted down every day of the week. . . with every cross I etched my hatred for the "N" month grew, but at the same time I became more and more excited as the "gain 10 lbs" month drew closer. As I am writing this, I'm wondering. . .does anyone feel the same way? or have I developed an OCD? However, as I said before, I have a suspicion that I am not alone. So, for all of those other "N" month haters out there, don't fret anymore. . .it's time for rejoicing! Time to change your calendar to a scene of snowy wonders. . .time to put your sweatpants on in anticipation of those extra 10 lbs, for when we wake up tomorrow it will be December. So farewell you month of dullness and rainy weather. . .till next year!

As Promised . . .

**From Mariah Carey's "Fantasy" remix featuring ODB (thanks Tony)**

. . . Aunty JoAnn are you in da house?
Jordan are you in da house?


Monday, November 29, 2004

Me, Me, Me

It was brought to my attention recently, by a source that will remain nameless, that my blog is somewhat "narcissistic". To this I replied, "narcissis-what?". From the tone in which it was so rudely uttered, I knew it couldn't mean anything good. I was right. The synonyms listed for narcissistic in the MS Word Thesaurus include vain, self-absorbed, egotistic, egotistical, selfish, conceited and self-important. I contemplated this for a couple of minutes. . .was this person right? Is my blog self-absorbed and vain? Then, it hit me. . .like the breaking of a wave on a sandy beach. This is MY blog and what else would I write about. . .but ME? Okay, so maybe I have embellished some of the events described in my blog and maybe I am only 21, inexperienced and absolutely clueless, but who isn't? However, I would at this time like to take a break from writing about me and thank all of the people who actually read this thing. I love getting comments. . .even if they are somewhat hurtful at times *ahem. . .D.D.* I would also like to give a shout out to my awesome cousin Tony who's been living and working in Japan for what seems like forever. For the record Tony, from 6:15 - 7:59 I have a shower, blow-dry my hair, make my bed, do my make-up, make my lunch, eat my breakfast, get dressed and if I have time, watch part of an episode of Dawson's Creek (I like to have a leisurely morning). Ack! There I go again, talking about myself. Alright, since I really have nothing to say (when I'm not talking about myself) I will end this entry by saying this: keep the comments coming and I'll keep the witty somewhat "narcissistic" postings coming as well. . . fo' shizzle (I say that now, my co-workers hate me). For my appreciation of all those who actually do comment on my blogs this is for you:

(In the tune of Mariah Carey's Fantasy Remix with some rapper dude)

Nicole's in da house, Alayne are you in da house?
Danielle are you in da house?
My mom are you in da house?
Everybody are you in da house?
Keith are you in da house?
Tony are you in da house?


Thursday, November 25, 2004

Lil' Jinx

For the first time in a long time, I can really say that I'm happy. hmm. . . that statement makes me sound like a hyper sensative "super-chick", so let me clarify a little. I'm generally a very happy, content person, however, certain things do get me down. One of these things in particular being men. Okay, not really men themselves, but what they sometimes turn me into and the chaos that sometimes accompanies them. I'm very superstitious, so in an attempt to not jinx what has just started, I will only say this: in my many dating experiences, few men have actually taken the time to really understand me. . . the me that loves the smell of the open ocean, the me that loves anything containing chocolate, the me that cries when watching TLC's A Wedding Story, the me that loves to create new and intersting things to eat and the me that sometimes wishes I could go back in time when the first sign of summer meant no shoes and dirty feet, playing outside from dusk to dawn, ice cream cakes and kick-the-can. As an eternal optimist I can't help but wonder, maybe this time? Maybe this man? Maybe? Maybe? Maybe. . .

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

My Life. . .as a Gong Show

Sometimes I think I'm the main character in a sitcom. Using my own life experiences I could probably create my own 1/2 hour prime time show with enough fresh material for a five year run. This morning would be one of those episodes . . . I was 20 minutes late for work this morning. Which isn't a really big deal because I can just make up the time during lunch, but for me it was pretty disappointing because I pride myself on getting to work every morning with at least 10 minutes to spare. So, you might be thinking to yourself. . ."what's so funny about being 20 minutes late Bryanna?". And I agree that on its own being late is not a funny matter. . .it could actually be quite serious for some people. If you're late repeatedly it could mean that it costs you your job. But, in my case it was really no big deal. . .So, I guess this episode would have to start when I arrived home from work yesterday. Nothing particularly exciting happened, I caught the #32 bus and arrived at home like I usually do. However, I did notice that the clock on the microwave and the clock in my bedroom were both flashing 12:00. Not having a watch I waited for someone to call and then used the time on the caller ID to reset the time and my alarm clock (pretty ingenious I thought). I made my dinner and watched an episode of Sex and the City like I usually do. I was pretty tired, so I decided to go to bed a bit early. By 9:30 I was sound asleep, but at 11:15 I was woken up with the arrival of my roommates. We have a small place so any noise you make inside can be heard from every bedroom. I quickly popped in my ear plugs and fell back asleep. I slept extremely pourly. I kept waking up and at one point was so thirsty that I had to get up to drink a glass of water. I woke up to the sound of my roommate in the shower. I looked at the clock. It read 7:15. I didn't think anything of it except that I noticed that my alarm didn't go off. Okay, my work day starts at 8:30. I usually get into the shower by 6:15 and onto the bus by 7:59. I have no idea why it didn't register that I was an hour late in getting up, but I just layed there until my roommate exited the shower at approximately 7:26. I leisurely had my shower like I usually do thinking to myself that I'll bring my breakfast to work with me because I was about 10 minutes later getting up. I bumped into my roommate on my way to my room. She asked me if I was going to work later today. I said no and then looked at the clock. It read 7:50 (the time I usually leave the house) and it STILL did not register in my head how late I was. I went back into my room. While I was applying the cream to my face I overheard the announcer on the radio make the comment that a lot of people's alarms would be going off now because it was 8:00. Now, at this point the camera man would do a close up of my face. My eyes would be bulging, conveying horror and disbelief. I shot up from my chair and looked at my clock. Sure enough it read 8:01. Many things raced in and out of my head. At first I was going to call work and give them the heads up, but I didn't know the number and it would make me even later. With my hair still soaking wet and my face without any make-up on (a very scary site for sure), I frantically put some panties on, a bra on, my stockings on, a skirt on, and a blouse on. I pulled my hair back into a clip and applied my make-up on in two minutes. I grabbed my lunch and some breakfast and was out the door at 8:15. This whole time thinking to myself how this could have happened? About a block down the road I felt my left stocking begin to slip down. (*side note: I bought some stockings that I thought were full nylons, but turned out to be the kind that went up to the thigh and stayed up with the help of a sort of sticky plastic lining at the top). I quickly reached down and tried to pull it up without exposing my crotch to the oncoming traffic. I took about five steps and I felt it begin to slip again. Luckily, there was a large Van parked on the side of the road. I stood behind it, reached under my skirt and gave my stocking a pretty good yank. That seemed to keep it up for about a block. . .by this time I had to laugh. I'm sure I looked pretty funny, holding my umbrella, my big pink bag, walking with a limp in the vain attempt to keep the stocking from slipping all the way to my ankle. I could see that my bus was no where in sight so I quickly slipped into an alley. This time I set my umbrella down and pulled that stocking all the way up to my crotch. When I did this, I noticed what the problem was. I had put the stocking on inside out, so that the sticky part that keeps it up was on the outside and the lacy part on the inside. I contemplated fixing this problem in the alley, but being scared that I would miss the next bus I gave it another yank and hoped to God that it would stay there until I got to the bus stop. The bus came and I sat down with no problems. However, a wave of panic swept over me as my stop came closer. What would I do if my stocking began to slip on my way to the office? There were no alleys to duck into. I limped across the street and soon felt that familiar slipping feeling. I quickly decided to enter the building through the side door. Before I entered I yanked again. Waiting for the elevator I was relieved and proud that I had made it to work only a little bit late. . . then my boss entered the lobby. "ack!" I said good morning and quickly mumbled something about my power going out. He's a very kind person and didn't even notice the time. I entered my cubicle, took off my shoe and my stocking and put it back on the right way. . . I'm not too sure how the episode would end, pehaps it could end with me noticing a run in my stocking. Any suggestions?

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

To Meet or Not to Meet? That is the Lava Life Question

Okay, I'll admit it, 7 months ago I joined the millions of other "sick of the bar scene singles" and became a member of Lava Life. It's not that I'm ashamed of this, but there still seems to be a stigma attached to meeting someone online. If you think about it though, meeting someone through an online dating service it probably a lot safer than meeting someone in the bar or while shopping for your groceries. You may be thinking to yourself, "but Bryanna, you're never really sure who you're talking with online. .. they may say that they are 28 and fit, but they could very likely be 65, balding and have a criminal record". I completely agree with that statement. So let me clarify what I mean when I say that online dating is "safer" than meeting someone on the street (*Note: I say "safer than" not safe. . .we all know dating is NEVER safe). I don't think I'm alone when I say that the world of dating can be crule, confusing, exasperating, but of course also thrilling, wonderful, and exciting. It's the last three things that keep me in the game, but it's the first three things that have made me question why I continue to be a starting player. So, when I say safer I simply mean that when you meet someone online you know exactly what they want. For example, Lava Life consists of three different sections; a relationship section, a dating section and an intimate encounter section. So, if you're looking for a relationship with someone you can make a profile in that section and meet other people looking for the same thing. This eliminates meeting somone who has different expectations and desires than you. It forces you to put all of your "chips on the table", so that when you do meet someone, they know exactly what you want and you know exactly what they want. . .plus you will also know if they like to take long walks on the beach or perhaps that they like to be spanked (for those looking for simply an intimate encounter). That being said, I took the Lava Life plunge recently and agreed to a date with a man that I had met on Lava Life in the dating section about three months ago. The date went very well. The restaurant was very unique and cozy. We spent two hours drinking wine and getting to know each other (on a side note, I have recently started to drink wine and I'm pretty sure that it gives me a huge headrush followed by a headache. . .so I think I'll stick with my Vodka). The conversation flowed effortlessly and it was refreshing to talk with a man who had something interesting and intellectual to say, whose sense of humour matches perfectly with mine. . .with the added bonus of him being pretty nice to look at. So, the moral of the story is this, even though the person at the other end of the computer may be 15 years older than they say they are, 35 lbs heavier, and have a collection of dead spiders, you will always know what they are looking for. . . so be safe when crossing the road into the online dating abiss. . .you could find the person that you've been spending your entire life looking for, but then again, you could get hit by a truck.


Friday, November 19, 2004

Fennel, O Fennel. . .Wherefor Art Thou My Fennel?

Inspired by a recipe I saw for Carrot Fennel soup which was posted on the Amateur Gourmet and being sick of my usual chicken salad or chicken stir-fry dinners, I decided to branch out a little yesterday and attempt to shock my tastebuds by making this interesting soup. My first task, however, was to get the main ingredient: Fennel. Not really sure what Fennel was, I pondered it for about half an hour and then asked my co-worker. She said that it was a celery like vegatable that tasted like black licorice. "Ahh...I see" I said...I like black licorice, but I've never had black licorice soup. However, in the pictures it looked very good, so after work I set out into the big city with Fennel on my mind and a somewhat empty stomach (I had slept in and only had time to pack a very light lunch). I knew of a produce market that I was quite confident would have this mysterious fennel. Bushy tailed and bright eyed (what? ...I don't even know what that means...anyways...) I entered the market. I noticed that they were also selling pink Gerber Daisies, but they were not as breath taking as the ones I picked up earlier that week at Buy-Low Foods...I smuggly passed them by. *sMaCk* . . ."Ouch!" I yelped...a rather cheeky Anise veggie suddenly hit me in the face on the way in. "Out of my way, you oddly familiar veggie that looks and tastes like Fennel, but can't be Fennel because you are clearly labelled Anise! I'm here for Fennel you Cheeky Devil!" The clerk gave me a funny look and so did the lady checking out the grapes, but I didn't care. . .I scoured the chilled veggie aisle. As I reached the end, I realized that there were no lables for Fennel. Hmm.."no worries", I thought, "there are other produce markets in the area". . .$10.78 later and a grocery bag containing a small container of organic yogurt, homous, a package of gnocchi, 3 tomatoes, and pita bread, I left the market still very optimistically determined to find that elusive Fennel. Safeway was just across the street. However, after a quick survey of the produce section, it was clear that Fennel was no where to be found. I was relieved nevertheless that I didn't run into Anise because my head still sort of hurt. "No problems" I said. I picked up some baby spinach leaves and sour cream. When I passed the fish market section my stomach convinced me to stop. "Stomach", I said, "I'm not here for fish I'm looking for Fennel silly". "Excuse me?" Said the fish helper man. . ." "uhh. . .don't worry about it mister" I responded. "Look closer" my stomach wispered. I did, and then I saw it. . .a beautiful bowl of mouthwatering candied smoked salmon niblets. . ."Get some!" my stomach growled. "100 grams of the candied smoked salmon" I said to the fish helper man, who by this time was pretty sure that I was crazy. I left the store. My stomach pleaded for me to open the package of smoked salmon, but my stomach just had to wait. There were more important tasks at hand..well only one, and that of course was finding some Fennel. I entered another produce market about a block down. This time I was ready for that cheeky Anise. I covered my head, however, I was suddenly on my ass. "Not you again! You crazy Anise!" I cried. It seems the Anise thought tripping me would be funny. I got back on my feet and kicked him under the counter "Take that!". I scanned the Fennel. Now, somewhat discouraged I caved in and asked the produce lady if she had any Fennel. "Fennel?" she said. "Oh yes, right there". She pointed to that prankster Anise. "Oh, I said sheepishly, Thanks". The Anise laughed at me, the produce lady laughed at me, I laughed too...just to feel better about them laughing at me. When the produce lady left I told Anise to shut-up. He didn't, so I stuffed him into a plastic bag and tied it shut..."that'll teach you". Fennel aka Anise was very cheap $0.99. I left the store, satisfied, but with a bruise on my butt. Stomach conviced me to have a few pieces of the smoked salmon while I waited for the was very, it was divine. By the time I got home. . .the niblets were almost gone...mmm those were some good niblets. I wasted no time and began prepping for the soup. The Amateur Gourmet did not share any measurements as it was not his recipe and he's scared of being sued, but he did mention all of the engredients...The lack of measurments did not scare fact I loath the measuring cup (but that's for another time). All you need to know is that this soup came together with the help of my food intuition. I chopped the Anise (try to hurt me now...snicker, snicker), I chopped the carrots, I chopped the garlic, I chopped the Sherriff (he he he)...Put them all in a pot with some water and waited 20 minutes...then into the food processor (I have a very small one so I had to do this about 7 was a bit messy too). While processing I added the sour cream. Then this went back onto the stove to heat up again. It tasted great. Light, but filling...oh and it doesn't taste like licorice. A fantastic meal for a cold November evening. . .just watch out for the violent vegetables!


Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Ode to Onzie

It is with great sadness and a lump in my throat that I announce the passage of my loyal dog of 14 years, Otis, from this crazy planet we call Earth to a better place known as "Doggie Heaven". Those of you privileged enough to have met this four pound ball of love and stinkiness will be comforted by the knowledge that this passage was necessary and not made alone. My father, a man who took some time to warm to Otis' somewhat neurotic character, stoically volunteered to be with him and hold him in his arms when the fatal injection took place. It has taken me a month to get to this point of being able to write about my loyal friend, who's been on my mind lately and very present in my dreams. Last night, I had a dream that I was in my bedroom in Kamloops, aware that Otis had passed away when suddenly he shot out from under the bed, "Yikes!" I said, looking at this creature that resembled Otis. However, I was not completely convinced that it was him until I picked him up. Definitely looks like him. . .definitely squirmy like him. . .*sniff, sniff. . . definitely smells like him...Onzie!!! Could it be you? But How? Confused, but very happy I went to my parents bedroom where I was met with more confusion, but a lot of happiness as well. I held Otis in my arms and before I woke up I said, "I'm sorry. Good-bye." Now, I firmly believe that dreams somehow help us cope with issues in our lives. Sometimes the significance of dreams are hard to decipher, but this one was quite simple. The hardest part of knowing that my dog was going to be put down, was the unavoidable fact that I would not be able to say good-bye. My mom told me that it was a blessing that I did not see him during his last few days. He was very sick. However, not being able to hold him one last time, kiss his little nose, smell his stinky breath, make sure he wasn't scared, and make sure he was wrapped in a blanket before he was buried in the cold ground (he was always cold) ate at my soul and knawed at my heart. I woke up from this dream with a feeling of contentment and peace. I had now said my good-bye and the dog I said good-bye to was healthy and happy. So here's to you Onzie! Thanks for many years of stinky kisses, walks around the block, lazy afternoons basking in the sun together and always being a loyal friend. . . no matter what.Adieu!

To Otis from Bryanna:

You may have been teenie
You may have been stinky
You may have been naughty
You may have been finicky
But you were my dog
my constant companion
my friend unconditionally
my friend oh so dear to me
So here's to a decade. . .
a decade plus four
Fourteen years of laughter
and kisses galore!
I'll love you forever
forever times three
forever my dog in my heart you will be.

(Sappy? Maybe. But necessary.)

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Pretty in Pink

I'm not exactly sure when it happened, why it happened, or how it happened, but lately I've become, obsessed....with the color pink. Some of my recent purchases include, and aren't limited to: a pair of pink shoes, a pink bag, a winter coat with pink accents, a pink scarf, and my most recent purchase 20 perfectly pretty pink Gerber Daisies. Actually, 10 were for my roommate as an early 21st birthday present, but the other 10 were just for me. Every Monday I do my weekly grocery shopping at Buy Low Foods on Fourth and Alma. I'll be the first to admit that Buy Low is not your classiest, flashiest, or trendiest place to get your groceries, but it's got what I need and it's only four blocks from my house. So, when I made my weekly venture to Buy Low last night I was completely blind sided by the absolutely gourgeous pink Gerber Daisies stratigically placed at the entrance of the store. I literally made a high-pitched noise of shear pleasure and excitement, restraining myself from clapping and bowing before these goddess like blooms. They were collected into groups of 10 and the price tag said $4.99. I thought to myself, "Self, these are very pretty pink flowers. I want these flowers. Why can't I have these flowers? I'm getting these flowers!" So, I did. I lost hope long ago that a man would ever buy me something so delightfully pretty. So, I will end this a la Carrie Bradshaw and say, sometimes a single woman needs these frivilous purchases, not to make her feel special or worthy, but just to remind herself that she still has the right to enjoy these finer things in life. . . sans a man to give them to her.

What's the Catch?

Okay, so after taking a break from writing in my blog after an unfortunate mishap concerning a very thoughtful and funny entry about the "just want to have fun guy" and the "I want to get married now guy" that got lost in the www. abiss when I attempted to post it, I'm back. I will not attempt to recollect my lost entry because then it would be contrived and frankly I forget what my point was. . . actually, I posed this question: "Can a relationship that started as mutually casual ever turn into anything more? And if so, how?" So, somehow I answered this question by not really answering it and asking more questions, but as I said. . . I don't remember what my point was. Okay, so new topic. . . If you haven't visited my recommended website and taken a look at my new boyfriend, then what are you waiting for punk? Alright, this has been something that I've been wanting to talk about for a's not really relationship focused, but it does have to do with one of my favourite things to write about and that is men. Last night, while walking home from the bus after picking up my drop-off service laundry (yeah, that's right...I pay people to do my laundry. . .the working life isn't so bad) I noticed that a man who had gotten off at the same stop as me did a 180 and began walking back in my direction. I thought to myself, "self, why is this man walking back my way. . .is he lost?" He wasn't lost. He looked at me and my big bag of freshly cleaned laundry and offered to carry it for me as it appeared we were walking in the same direction. Okay, so there have been many times that I've truly struggled with my six bags of groceries on the four blocks to my house and I've often wondered why no one ever offered to help, but when this man actually offered, I kindly and graciously refused. As a social science major who has read her fare share of Feminist literature and who believes in equal rights I couldn't let this good-intentioned man help me. However, at the same time, I did not want to give him the wrong impression and heaven forbid have him ask for my number (refer to previous blog). This, however, seemed unlikely as he was clearly in his late 30's...however, with the men I've been dating lately...maybe it wasn't so unlikely. So my point is, even though my arms hurt, I was wearing 4 inch heels, and I've bitched about no one helping me before, something in my head said "me strong woman. no need help from man" and I guess I really didn't. I made it home alright, but now he knows where I live...**note to self: keep doors locked and blinds in bedroom window closed**

A Recommendation

After purchasing a grande caramel macchiato from the conveniently located Starbcucks in the mall below my office building, I thought to myself. . . "self, what's in a caramel macchiato?". If I were in Kamloops, I would have called up my friend Theresa who I'm sure would have been able to tell me what exactly was in one because she's been working at Starbucks for quite a long time. However, I do not live in Kamloops anymore so I turned to my tried and tested true friend (yah Canada!!!). This would be a moment that I will remember for the rest of my life. . . you know, one of those things that at the time may seem very insignificant, but when you think back it was truly a turning point in your somewhat routine life. Okay, so maybe I'm exagerrating a little too much, but if you're anything like me, you'll understand what I mean. My search for macchiato answers led me like Alice down the rabbit hole to a website that at first glance may appear juvenile, but when explored further, is an intellectual, witty, hilarious, thoughtful, informative and extremely addictive delight. If you love food, big cities, and witty banter, you'll love this website. I won't say much more about it, except that I have developed a very huge crush for the author. . .oh yeah . . .a caramel macchiato is like a latte with caramel sauce, with a higher price tag. . . visit today!!!! You won't regret it, I promise.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

The Waiting Game

Patience is something I will admit to not having much of. . . especially when it comes to waiting for that guy who you had a great time with last Saturday night to call. My girlfriends can attest to the fact that I'm pretty "loose" when it comes to giving my number to men, even to men that I have no intention of ever seeing in the flesh again, let alone actually answering their call. However, once in a "blue moon" I will meet a guy who interests me greatly and this is the problem I usually encounter. . .the men you want to call don't always find the time and the one's you wish you would have been quick enough to change the last digit on always do. I've spent weeks screening my calls to avoid an awkward phone conversation or even a pity first date, but when it's a man I'm very interested in the phone takes over the next two weeks of my life and every phone call that isn't him taunts me until I finally succumb to the realization that if he has not called in a week that he probably won't call at all. As a chronic overanalyzer I've spent nights wondering why this fantastic specimen of a man would have asked for my number and never made the call. Did he drop his cell phone in a puddle, erasing all of the numbers on his phone including mine and because he didn't know my last name he had no idea how to get in contact with me? Or did he have a serious car accident on his way home from the bar and suffered so much brain damage that he couldn't remember his own name let alone mine? Or maybe, just maybe in the dense and loud environment that we were in he didn't hear my number properly and when he tried to call me two days later he was greeted with a "thank you for calling johnny's pizza"? As a woman who has been phone stalked by men and dissappointed by others and who is sick of playing the waiting game, I say it's time for this insanity to stop! The answer to this problem is quite simple. The next time a man askes for my number, regardless of whether I intend on seeing him again or not, I will give him a sweet, innocent smile and say "why don't you give me yours?" . . .eliminating the waiting game and the avoidance game. The transition may take me a while to get used to, but it's definitely worth giving a try.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Why Can't I Marry Mr. Potatoe Head?

When I was a little girl, Mr Potatoe Head was one of my favourite toys. The different combinations of ears, noses, eyes, and mouths seemed endless. As I grew older, however, these mini plastic facial add ons quickly began to disappear and what I was left with was an incomplete mis-matched spud that I soon grew out of and completely forgot about until just a few weeks ago. As a single woman living in a big city, I've dated my fair share of men (& probably more) and to this day I am still and actually quite proud to say. . . single. I may sound like an egotistical, delusional freak when I say this, but I've come to the realization that I'm not in a relationship because of any character flaw of my own. . . but because I've been dating men who, just like my Mr. Potatoe Head toy, are inherently incomplete. For Example, Tom was nice to look at, but when he opened his mouth only nonsense came out. Dick was very intelligent, but was clueless when it came to the female body (if you know what I mean. . .). Harry was a Rasputin in bed, but was a Napoleon everywhere else. I can't help but wonder if this is it? In order to gain one very desireable trait in a partner, do I have to sacrifice another one? Does a complete Mr. Potatoe head of a man actually exist or will I have to settle for one with a missing nose or a mis-matched set of ears? My parents, my friends, and the world have always told me that one should never settle, that to "settle" reflects a weakness in oneself and shows a flaw in your own character. So, that's what I've done and that's why I'm single. Why would I settle for Tom, Dick OR Harry when I could have Tom, Dick, AND Harry? So, you see. . .it's very simple. You may never find a man who resembles a Mr. Potatoe Head fresh out of the box because they stopped manufacturing them a long time ago. . . but if you hold out long enough you'll be able to find one that's been taken care of, that may be missing a few pieces, but contains a full set of matching ears, with it's corresponding mouth, eyes, nose, a full set of hair...and if you're lucky, glasses. (At least I hope so. . . )