It has been pointed out to me, not unkindly if a bit insensitively, that I lack experience when it comes to relationships. I am an anomaly given how, at the age of thirty, I've only been in two.

At this day and age when people discard partners as easily as last night's condoms, I realize I stand out like a sore thumb, a subject of condescension and even pity. In a world where love is considered a creepy and ugly word to be avoided at all costs, where sex oftentimes becomes a routine act, necessary but done with as much passion as changing one's shoes, my grand total score of two seems so insignificant a number.

But what is it that I'm missing, really? The chance to make my bed and body available to people whose existence I'd forget the next week, the next morning? The constant pursuit of the next conquest with whom I'll share everything and nothing of myself? The endless stream of partners that come and go? The casual flirtations, one-night flings, the inability to compromise and connect?

I've had two relationships. The first had given me the pain of a love that slowly died, the second the chance to fall breathlessly in love in what seemed to be seconds. One had taught me to recognize what I don't want in a relationship; the other made me realize what I never knew I always wanted. Him, I loved for who I thought he could be; the other him, I loved because of who he is. One called me his princess, the other likened me to a mythical creature from a forest. For one, I broke all rules of forgiveness; for the other, I broke the rules of pride. I learned to control and suppress and look after myself, and then I learned to throw caution to the wind and just act on what I felt. In one, I was begged to stay; in the other, I was asked to walk away. Both had taught me that while you can trust love, human nature is another matter altogether.

For every happy couple, there seems to be a dozen bitter, disappointed ones. At times, I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, relationships aren't all they are cracked up to be. I occasionally fancy myself a pragmatist and I do acknowledge that some of us may be less than fortunate and never find ourselves in that seemingly elusive state of happy coupledom, much less be in the throes of love, in all its passionate and all-consuming glory. But I refuse to believe that I'd have to settle for a bedpost full of notches and string of stilted, meaningless pseudo-relationships as an alternative to that.

A mentally-ill/super-high man followed my sister and her boyfriend home and was trying to get inside our house. They couldn't even get in because everytime they attempted to do so, he'd be a step behind them, pushing his way in.

My imagination is normally nonfunctional, but it would get hyperactive when it comes to conjuring gruesome scenarios. Too much CSI and crime books can do that to a person. I'm still shaking with fear. And anger. Because nine minutes after Jan called the cops, the boys in blue were still noticeably absent. I knew it was nine minutes because I called the station again and was rudely reminded of the fact. Hatefully, I felt like how I usually feel when I'm in expensive salons - intimidated and apologetic because I'm clearly ignorant of how things are supposed to be done. The myriad of unpleasant things that could happen in nine minutes did cross my mind, but I had faith in the good men of the service. After all, my future brother-in-law is one of them and he's pretty reliable.

FORTY-FIVE minutes later, I'm still hovering beside the front door with a can of suede protector (Don't judge, the can says it's poisonous. I figured I'd just shoot for the eyes and the mouth.) and a wine bottle, ready to be smashed on crazy person's head and be stabbed into his stomach. When I called the police again, the lady panicked when she realized that my sister and my boyfriend were still outside and the fucking crazy person was still trying to get in.

Now there's a cop in the living room, getting statements from Jan and Kris. A good hour and a half after Jan gave them the first call.

What have I learned from tonight's episode?

a) Gone are the days of utmost faith in the Toronto Police. Suck on your doughnuts, I'm through with you.

b) Still, that didn't stop me from watching them while they interrogated and handcuffed crazy man. Lesson #2: Cop shows are pretty realistic when it comes to these scenes. Good job, TV people. You still have my utmost faith.

c) The fact that I actually planned on spraying and stabbing a person to death without hesitation scares the hell out of me. When cornered, humans become vicious, blood-thirsty beasts. It's a bit unsettling to know that I am no exception to this fact.

d) I should probably take up a sport. Hockey, maybe. Or baseball. Pucks, sticks, and bats are handy things to have around the house.

Behold, the future of the world.

...

And as this incident causes us to pause and reflect on a multitude of things (The state of humanity nowadays, for one. Or how the females of the species yet again prove themselves to be the more fearsome sex.), let me just point out a fact that may be overlooked once we start pondering on the intricacies of modern parenting:

"Police seized a steak knife with a broken handle, steel handcuffs, duct tape, electrical and transparent tape, ribbons and the paperweight..."

Steel handcuffs.

Lock those bedside drawers, people. Lock those bedside drawers.

i hope this wasn't an april fool's prank.

This MTV Canada show I was half-watching earlier tonight said NKOTB and 90210 are coming back.

In case you didn't reach puberty during the late 80s and early 90s, Jason Priestley, Joe McIntyre, and Jordan Knight (and to a lesser extent, the remaining male band and cast members) were every girl's objects of affection. I, along with the rest of the female tween population of that time (Only we weren't called that. Those days, SM malls declared us to be "pre-teens". Sounds so archaic now.) slept with dreams of these, uh, dreamboats dancing in our heads.

Love, then, meant sweet notes on perfumed stationery, holding hands while waiting for ice cream, pecks on the cheek, and having songs written about and for you, preferably with words like "heart" and "forever" and perhaps best of all, "lollipop" (I do not like Googling as much as I think, so bonus points for you if you find this song I'm thinking about) in them. Love meant Joe pleading with you to please don't go, and Brandon rescuing you from his bitchy, social-climbing twin sister. It did NOT mean watching Tommy Lee bang his drums, followed by you plotting your underthings' trajectory toward him while shivering with revulsion (mostly directed to yourself) and need.

You see why it's so important that I get to see NKOTB and those 90210-ers back doing their thing? Forget about reclaiming lost youth and all that. Me, i just want to avoid getting hepatitis-C.

for rodeline

who asked why i haven't been writing.

i told her i was too lazy. which wasn't a lie.

but the real reason is because old dogs cannot learn new tricks, and i have never written anything my whole life.

i don't write.

she does. he does.

every now and then, i find myself confronted with things and words and thoughts and people so... luminous and entrancing that i don't feel like doing anything else but sit and admire and enjoy.

but don't worry, i always recover and go back to the smut and inanities and mindless drivel that define my existence (and everybody else in my small, ultimately disappointing world. except for you, rods. because you're an angel and above these things.).

like i said, you can't teach an old bitch new tricks.

From "Ten Things I Hate About You":

I hate the way you talk to me.
And the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car.
I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots.
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick --
It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh --
Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around.
And the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;
Not even close;
Not even a little bit;
Not even at all.
...

I have a feeling it's probably one of the movies he would've rather forgotten that he made, but "Ten Things I Hate About You" is still one of my best-loved movies of all time.

Ah, Heath Ledger. Hearing about these things always makes me sad.

oh, and world peace, please.

I stopped writing Santa a long time ago partly because I always knew that he didn't really exist (I was a parenting dream when I was a kid. I didn't have to be weaned away from bottles to begin with. On my first day of school, not only did I NOT cry, I even told my mom to go home and just pick me up at lunchtime. And, best of all, my parents didn't have to twist their brains trying to find the best way to explain the truth about things like tooth fairies or where babies come from. Birds and bees and storks? Pleeease, spare me. I'm trying to remember exactly when and how I knew what the baby-making pieces are and how they fit, but I can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment. It's like I knew by instinct. Kinda scary, now that I think about it.), and partly because I have painfully realized that when it comes to Christmas and birthday wishes, I never get EXACTLY what i want. I have better luck with wishes made on the other 363 (and a half) days of the year.

But at this moment, I wish there were really a jolly, rolly-polly man in red whose sole mission in life is to make Christmas morning the absolute BEST (in the most mercenary sense of the word, at least) time of the year.

So Santa, I will abandon all sense and logic present in my being and believe that you exist and are able to chute down chimneys (or enter doors and gates and windows and cave openings -I mean, there are kids outside North America and the cold parts of Europe who believe in you too, you know. Santa's not racist, right?), eat cookies, drink milk, leave a present lovingly crafted by elves from your bottomless sack of wondrous things, twinkle your eyes, and climb up again to where your sleigh and deers are parked, and repeat the process an infinite number of times, all in the span of a few hours. And yes, I've probably done my share of naughty things this year, but you and I know that I could've been a lot worse. A LOT. And I promise to bake you all the cookies that you want. Do you want cakes, too? Or even pies? Name a baked good, I promise to deliver.

Because i really, really, really want this.

You could also probably throw in a driver's license and a red Ferrari while you're at it, since you owe me, oh i don't know, twenty-odd years' worth of Christmas cheer. I'm just saying.