Hey everyone! Just a quick blog entry to wish everyone a merry Christmas! I am off to celebrate the "controversial" holiday so I won't be posting for a few days.

By the way, I was at the Eaton Centre today and it was mobbed with last-minute shoppers aimlessly zig-zagging about. Avoid it if at all possible! Wasn't good for my Christmas psyche but I promised to help my boyfriend with his shopping (I should get good girlfriend brownie points for that one!)

Have a safe, marvelous and relaxing (yeah, right) holiday everybody!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

The Canadian Press moved a story earlier today featuring Dalton McGuinty's latest take on the whole Christmas tree fiasco Read earlier blog for background:

The Ontario premier - who blasted a judge's decision to remove a Christmas tree from the lobby of a Toronto courthouse saying it might offend non-Christians - says the province doesn't need a Christmas tree policy. Personally, I think that's exactly what's needed, but hey, what do I know?

According to the article, McGuinty said Ontario needs open-mindedness.

"McGuinty, who was visiting a Mississauga elementary school, says he doesn't understand how a menorah or a Christmas tree could offend anyone," the article read.

But, as things still stand, the tree is still off in a corridor despite a massive outcry from the public. Clearly something's not working as Justice Marion Cohen (AKA, The Judge Who Stole Christmas) is standing firm in her miserable, misguided decision.

The way I see it, if a judge - a person we should expect nothing less than tolerance and open-mindedness from - can't manage to pull off the most basic of human characteristics, then legislation can get that covered.

Will Toronto's own Grinch Steal our Christmas cheer? Read Thursday's column in 24 hours

WHERE'S WINTER? BRING IT ON OLD MAN ...

So no white Christmas this year? Hmmm. A little sad, isn't it? Winter officially begins tonight but Old Man Winter is nowhere is sight.

Still, with or without snow, the seasonal winter blues have already kicked in. How could they not? It gets dark before dinner, and, even though no flakes have fallen, it's still damn cold outside.

On the bright side, the sun is out. Then again, on the dark side, the sun is almost gone each day before most of us can log off our computers for the day. Not too helpful is it?

While January 24 is considered by some the most depressing day of the year (others say it's Jan. 23), I've got to say, I am already feeling down in the winter dumps right about now.

The winter blues are here (every day generally feels like Monday) but where the heck is winter?
The way I see it if the seasonal dumps (aka, depression) has already hit, we may as well have a white Christmas to go along with it. Come on old Man Winter, bring it on! I dare ya.

There are few things I truly despise, and drunk driving tops this small list.
It is a deplorable act that we, as a society, should have zero tolerance for. It should carry the strictest of penalties.

Getting behind the wheel inebriated is as idiotic as handing some coked up guy a loaded pistol with permission to fire it off in a crowd. He may hit someone, he may not, but either way it’s a game of Russian roulette.

It might sound harsh, but it’s not the drunk driver I care about.

I am not interested in their excuses - they got in a fight with their girlfriend and drove home, battle alcoholism, they’re a teenager who made a poor decision - I don’t care. It's the public, those of us who could potentially cross paths with them, that I care about.

That’s where public humiliation comes in.

Durham Regional Police are prominently publishing the names of those charged with impaired driving during the Festive R.I.D.E. campaign on their web site.

Public shame ... now there's a start.
Durham Police Website:

The move has been considered controversial, why, I can’t understand. Should a person choose to drive drunk, public humiliation should be the least of their worries.

What is needed are tougher sentences. In cases where drunk drivers cause death, humiliation already comes with the turf. Now saddle that with a charge of homicide, and we're getting closer to what needs to happen.

Public shame won’t bring back 37-year-old Terri Callaway, who was struck and killed by an alleged drunk driver while jogging near her home earlier this month.

Her husband and four children still had to bury her. A life snuffed out and lowered into the ground.

And it won’t change the fact that just hours after Terri’s funeral, the man charged in causing her death was released on $100,000 bail.

If the threat of potentially killing someone, nor the financial cost of getting slapped with an impaired driving charge (estimated at $12,000) aren’t deterrents, perhaps then, humiliation may eventually curb that stats.

But, until that happens, I suspect the true deterrent lies in the courtroom.

AS A WRITER, J.K. ROWLING DIDN'T MAKE THE SEXIEST PROFESSIONS CUT

I’ve got to admit there were a few pangs of disappointment when I found out that writers aren’t considered sexy.

Blame it on the loner profession and not the faces behind the keyboards, but sadly, scribes didn’t make the cut for the Sexiest Professions list, released by LavaLife.

But, if you’re a guy working in the following professions, you’re in the top five of sexiest jobs around:

1. Athlete (yeah, okay, sweaty buffed men, I’ll give them that)
2. Fireman (A man in uniform, now there’s a shocker)
3. Doctor (Hmmm, I suppose if it’s McDreamy)
4. Architect (Aren’t they generally considered dull?)
5. Male Model (Brain power not required)

And for the ladies, the top five picks are (surprise, surprise):

1. Model (No food required)
2. Dancer (Now that’s original ...)
3. Air Hostess (uh, shouldn’t that be flight attendants?)
4. Athlete (As long as their biceps aren’t bigger than yours)
5. Musician (How come musician didn’t make the male cut?)

Not to dwell on some silly survey, but I can think of a few yummy writers out there. Sure some of them are no longer alive, but that’s not the point.

Okay, so writers aren’t particularly flexible, they're sometimes brainy, and they probably couldn’t save a life if their own depended on it, but, however futile, here are my top picks for sexy writer types:

TED HUGHES: Dark and mysterious, despite the long chin, Hughes was sexy in that baritone-voice kinda way.

LEONARD COHEN (who, incidentally, is still alive) had chick appeal back in the day. While not traditionally good-looking, the poet has that artist’s allure - and that will get a gal every time.

Distinguished gentleman, author TOM WOLFE. While he’s a tad long in the tooth for the younger dames, he continues to make an impression with his impeccable style and sophistication.

And, onto the ladies side ... way back in the early 1900s there was VIRGINIA WOOLF, an elegant beauty with classic, elongated features. Bass Ale even used Woolf's image in beer ad (probably the only woman ever featured in a beer ad with clothes on!)

More recently is author ZADIE SMITH, who is stately sexy, so maybe brains and beauty don't count. By the way, if you get a chance read On Beauty, do so ... it's thoroughly enjoyable.

And what about J.K. ROWLING? Not only can we thank her for creating Harry Potter but when Rowling puts on the glitter, she's no frumpy writer type.

Alright, I'll put a sock in it already, but Air Hostesses, Dancers and Firemen? How trite. Save for the doctors and architects, it seems we find brain power hopelessly unsexy. Shame, isn't it?

Well first off, the response to the blog entry "How Dare You Wish Me A Merry Christmas" so far has been amazing.

The passion that readers feel about keeping the Christmas spirit (and its traditions) alive is amazing. One can only hope that Judge Marion Cohen’s (AKA: THE JUDGE WHO STOLE CHRISTMAS) will take notice of all the attention her negative, misguided decision has garnered. So good on you all!

Just a quick note to let everyone know that in tomorrow's 24 hours, a few of these responses will be featured. I would've loved to have the room to run more of these exceptional comments, but such is the reality of a compact daily newspaper! Oh, Joy to the World!

Calling all technology hounds! Your hard work is making a huge difference.

Take note all bloggers, YouTube fanatics, MySpacers users and Wikipedia fans, Time magazine has named YOU the Person of the Year.

Seriously. It wasn’t George W. Bush (uh, gag) or some other political quack, but the public who’s nabbed the coveted 2006 title.

According to Richard Stengel, managing editor of Time mag’s U.S. edition, everyday people have made the most impact in 2006 by transforming the way information is created and shared.

The information age has come into an entirely new realm where average people are leaving their mark, making a difference and changing the Internet landscape, according the famous magazine.

So congrats to everyone out there who’s rushing home to add their two cents worth (or adorable videos of their pet snakes!) to the world of online communication!

While the magazine also named Prime Minister Stephen Harper the Canadian newsmaker of 2006, we can forgive them for that one, right?

To the techie mavericks out there, thanks for making the information age a far more interesting, and certainly more democratic, place to be!

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS TREE PIC! HOW OFFENSIVE! HOPE THE JUDGE DOESN'T ORDER ME TO TAKE IT DOWN!

Isn’t it amazing how much the removal of a Christmas tree has come to represent?

When I first read the story, it was shocking. Not in the way human violence is shocking, or the state of homelessness is shocking, but shocking because someone would react so strongly and negatively to having a Christmas tree on display.

Shocking because it’s remarkable that a beautifully decorated tree (which represents, dare I say it? Christmas …) could actually offend. Judging from the response out there, the small artificial tree being shoved out of the lobby of a Toronto courthouse has ruffled more than a few feathers.

To recap the story in more detail, check out my last blog entry, but, in a nutshell, a Grinchy downtown Toronto judge banished the tree from its annual coveted position in the courthouse declaring it might be offensive to non-Christians.

Would anyone out there be surprised if in a decade or so Christmas is wiped right off the bloody calendar?

Obviously, the tree issue is infuriating. So many of us have fond memories of Christmastime - we love the famously decorated windows at The Bay, the sight of Christmas lights dangling from houses and institutions across the country, and yes, we even love Christmas trees, I am afraid.

But, let it be said that the decorations, light bulbs and sweet pine-scented Christmas trees represent so much more than Christmas turkey with cranberry sauce.

These symbols encompass our childhood dreams, the treasured memory of having once believed in a bearded man in a big red suit. They symbolize hope, and when we slow down enough, they represent kindness and giving, and quality time spent with family (who are likely to irritate us but are loved nonetheless).

Something happens at Christmastime, and it’s almost magical really. When our country is lit up all around us, something inside of us lights up too. It’s gone in a flicker but the spirit of Christmas, however brief, cannot be denied.

The judge should haul the Christmas tree out of the corridor where it’s been hidden from view and return it to its glorious spot where it can shine on.

Every small decision, like banning a Christmas tree or turning the words Merry Christmas into a politically incorrect sentiment, takes us one step closer to quashing Christmas entirely.

Let’s not turn Christmas into a battling ground!

One of your responses asked how the public could protest Judge Marion Cohen’s decision.

Letters may be the best way to contact her (I imagine getting her on the phone would be tricky - it being so close to Christmas and all!) Oh, the irony.

The “Judge Who Stole Christmas” is based at the Ontario Court of Justice at: 311 Jarvis St. Toronto, Ont. M5B 2C4. I may even point her to my blog so she can read how the public is feeling about her spirit-squashing decision!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

WARNING: THE FEATURED CHRISTMAS TREE PHOTO MAY OFFEND SOME READERS

Every year, Christmas manages to offset tempers.

I remember when wishing someone a Merry Christmas was no big deal, just a nice thing to do. Now should you dare pass along Merry-Christmas sentiments, someone’s bound to get upset.

As political correctness so strictly dictates, we’re suppose to be kicking our old "Merry Christmas" habit and replacing it with the oh-so bland "Happy Holidays."

In a country where every holiday possible is represented, Christmas is getting kicked to the curb.

Very few TV stations even acknowledge Christmas (don’t want to offend those viewers now!) and retailers stick with Happy Holidays (don't want to offend those shoppers from spending wads of cash, do we?).

Now, here's the latest - even a Christmas tree is being balked at!

Have you guys read this story that came out in the news today?

Check it out: A Toronto judge ordered a small artificial Christmas tree removed from the courthouse lobby declaring it inappropriate. In her decision she said no one should have to be smacked with a Christmas symbol when they enter the courthouse (yes, those festive trees sure can be creepy!)

Seriously, how ridiculous can we get? It’s this kinda crap that gives comedians their best material. Bored self-righteous whiners who have nothing better to do than complain about Christmas trees.

The removal of the offending tree (which has been a seasonal fixture for years) has, quite understandably, upset staff working there.

Regardless the judge is standing by her decision.
She said the tree sends a message to non-Christians that they are “not part of this institution.'' Ah, can you say Grinch? Talk about the Judge Who Stole Christmas.

For now, the tree has been shuffled off to a corridor.

What's next? Banning Poinsettias, mall Santas, Christmas wreaths, movies with the word Christmas in the title and the colour red?

Personally, I find all of this ridiculous, and because I find it so ridiculous, this year, in a mild form of protest, I’ll be saying Merry Christmas as often as I possibly can.

If those two words offend, whatever.

After all it is in fact Christmastime that gets all of us time off work.
It is Christmas that allows us to go home and spend time with family.
And, sorry to say, it is the Christmas season, and on Dec. 25 it just happens to be Christmas day, which is really no one’s fault. It’s not just some random holiday, like it or not, it’s Christmas.

Why do we keep clamping down on this spirited holiday?
Please, let's not take the Christmas out of Christmas!

To the judge I say, lighten up. Tree or no tree, it’s still the Christmas season and there’s nothing wrong with that.

So, in closing, I would like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas!

Wow, after a year of reportedly going to Alcoholics Anonymous, actress Lindsay Lohan has put down the glass for a whole seven days. Still reports of Lindsay not getting drunk are a little sketchy.

See, last month Hollywood's regular nightlife party girl was reportedly sporting an AA sober chip (a special red badge thingy) which represents 90 days booze-free. Now the "big" news out of People Magazine is that Lindsay is seven days sober.

Hmmm. The reports don't add up.

While Lindsay's drinking (or not drinking as the case may be) is of absolutely no interest to me, it's a slow blogging day so useless dirt on this trainwreck of an actress will have to do.

I will, though, ask this: Didn't a drunk Lindsay injure her wrist in September after taking a fall? How then, was she handed the red 90-days-sober button to wear the in November?

Surely MacGyver would be able to crack this case. Then again, seven days or ninety, he probably wouldn't give a crap either.

FORMER TEACHER TERICKA DYE WAS FIRED FOR MAKING ADULT MOVIES

Okay I am fuming. The story about a high school teacher being fired for making adult movies has absolutely infuriated me. Why am I so irked about this? Because she made the porn flicks 11 damn years ago when she was 23!

The teacher in question, Tericka Dye, filed an application Friday (seven months after being let go by school officials) to return to her former job.
Will they hire her back? It’s not looking good. Talking heads at the school said Dye would be a distraction in the classroom. A message to the talking heads - GET A BLOODY GRIP!

A lot can happen in 11 years. Dye, who taught science at Reidland High School in Kentucky, has clearly made some life changes since then.

What message does killing her chances of ever teaching again send? That past decisions must dictate our current lives? That we can't begin anew? Give the lady a break!

Man, who among us didn’t make bad decisions at the age of 23? Sure, sure ... you didn’t inhale ... blah, blah, blah. Whatever.

The superintendent of the school, Tim Heller, fired Dye claiming that if she continued in the classroom, the poor kiddies would be distracted.

It’s so hypocritical. A statistic from Nielsen Net ratings in the United States found that in one month alone 17.5 million users visited Internet porn sites from their homes. There better not be any school staffers on that surfing list, boy oh boy. I suppose the education system is above all that though. Right. All I know is someone's surfer the nudy pics.

Now here’s the thing, 11 years ago Dye was a single mother struggling to make ends meet. She appeared in skin flicks for some cash. Big whoop. After some time, she found the inner strength to change directions.

Dye joined the army, put herself through school, and if support from some of her students and their parents (who have rallied on her behalf) is any indication, she went on to become a pretty great teacher.

Dye’s past should not be the judge of her present. If someone were to dig up the dusty skeletons of our pasts, I’d be amazed any one could hold down a job.

Making porn isn’t illegal and until new legislation is passed that makes it so, appearing in a skin flick is not a crime. Dye, who by the way is now a mother of four, should be allowed to return to teaching.

If not, can I suggest we start prosecuting school officials caught perusing sex sites in their spare time?

Let’s get real here- the skin flick biz is one huge money making enterprise so somebody out there’s downloading x-rated visuals. Who the heck do we think are making these X-rated films for our pleasure anyhow? They are mothers, sisters, cousins, brothers, fathers, wives, husbands, friends, neighbours, and in some cases, our teachers.

And sometimes those former porn stars change directions, and they should be free to do just that. Without stumbling and making mistakes, without altering our paths and learning from our pasts, how on earth could we ever expect true leaders to emerge in a single lifetime?

No one’s slate is clean, so let’s get out of our glass houses already.

So I went to the staff Christmas party. The day of, I arrived to work with a party outfit just in case. By the day’s end, I was slipping into impractical nylons, a strapless black dress and clicky heels that instantly began pinching my feet.
So let’s see ... what happened?

Well, it was kinda how I imagined a big staff party to be. I’ve always avoided such affairs but now I can say I’ve done my part to ward of the seasonal bah-humbugs.

There were tipsy people and then there were those who were outwardly drunk. Their logic blasted to teeny shreds from too much booze. Ah, public displays of drunkenness, always a treat - loud talkers, directionless ramblings, touchy/feely ‘I love you moments.’ I didn't understand most of what was being said to me but I nodded along anyway.

Getting drunk at the office Christmas party ... isn't that a big no on the etiquette list?

Although I averted my eyes quickly, I am pretty sure I witnessed some horribly bad dance floor moves.

I tried some guacamole dip on chips. For some reason, which I still can’t explain, whoever made the dip used fish paste. I almost hurled.

Some strange woman cornered me. I found myself stuck in a painful conversation about how amazingly stylish she was like 30 years ago. She was tispy and well on her way to becoming drunk and, come to think of it, it wasn’t a conversation, she just talked at me until I managed to squirm away. She was a major close talker.

Bad music played. Some of it was bad in a good kinda way though. Small talk. Small talk. More small talk. Only one person all night said Merry Christmas.

My friends and I scoured the room for eye candy and came up empty. Where are the hot guys? We wondered.

An extremely drunk acquaintance came stumbling over and yelled in my ear. I instantly remembered why I don’t drink booze. Another group tried to yank me toward the dance floor. I refused (Ah, geeze, nine o’clock. Time to call it a night ... yawn). The room was booze stenched ... rye I think.

I skipped out the door without saying goodbyes. No need to listen drunken goodbyes, make last-mintue small talk, or be cornered by strangers who want to relive their glory days.

Ah, the joys of office shindigs. I survived ... but my feet are still hurting like hell three days later.

RELATED LINKS:
There’s been some debate over whether this video taken of a woman delivering a drunken rant into a camera at her boss is a fake or not.
See for yourself! Drunk woman at the office party video

Are you the office party drunk? Check out this checklist to find out!

I remember a time when every night felt like Friday. No more though. Nope. That energy has been zapped. It’s flown the coup, the ship has sailed. The party has left the building, so to speak.

It's the time of year when I realize how un-festive I’ve become. When those party invites start coming in, I can barely hear a whimper of my former party-girl self. Going to parties now feels like work. Arduous because I can barely get anything done as it is, let alone have the free time or energy required for partying.

But more than anything else (including going out in the bitter cold) I dread the small talk. Every party now feels like a company Christmas party. While parties are (thankfully) no longer the slobbering drunk fests of youth, they're missing something.

Gone is that carefree, roll-your-sleeves-up zest. Gone is the energy, the youthfulness, the nonsensical blabbering of a let-your-hair-down night out on the town. There’s no party in the party anymore. It's all grown up.

Now we dress to impress. We toast politely. We make idle chit chat. We talk weather, work, and, if we dare, venture into politics, but we always have our trusty political correctness radar in tact.

We’re careful now. We don’t want to say the wrong thing or have one too many cocktails (and if we do, we’re careful not to make it obvious). We nibble food off tiny plates when what we really want to do is grab a couple of handfuls and wolf ‘em back.

It’s this social decorum, the grown-up behaviour, that has blown out the party candles. We’re older, more mature, more civilized, more refined. We’ve honed proper etiquette.

Our parties no longer come with kegs and plastic cups. What they do come with is pressure. The constant check-in we have with ourselves that reminds us to bite our tongues, smile politely, nod with interest, ask lots of questions and wipe the corners of our mouth subtly with a napkin.

It’s all rather dull really. These aren’t parties. They are get-togethers at best. Maybe functions. Gatherings, possibly, and (if we’re really lucky), they're actual events.

Tell me, will you be attending holiday parties this season? I don't know about you, but I may be a no-show.

THE BIBLE'S DAVID STRONG IN PURPLE

Man, I don’t know about little Billy but if Santa gave me a Moses or Noah action figure for Christmas, I’d be peeved.
I will say this though, man these biblical characters are buffed. Samson’s got some serious pecks!

Sadly in the creation department David didn’t fare so well. He’s stuck wearing a dorky purple outfit, holding a limp slingshot and has a completely stunned look on his face. Hopefully the other bible stars don’t pick on the poor purple fella.

Moses, on the other hand, scored. He's armed with a sword and shield and has disturbingly defined biceps.

Then there's Noah’s and his big feet. No, not just big feet, but bigger-than-his-head huge feet. How the hell does Noah walk around on those clunkers?

Anyway, Noah's blessed. He comes with a couple of animals which kind of look like a sheep and a cat, so that's nice -and a big bonus for Billy!

Touted as "Real action heroes from the Bible" picking something from the Almighty Heroes Biblical toy line is a surefire way to punish your youngsters this season.

While all your child’s friends are busy opening up cool presents like game consoles or Star Wars Lightsabers yours will have no doubt he's been a little brat this year when he finds Moses and pals wrapped under the tree.

Telling Billy he’s been naughty has never been easier. And at $12.99 a pop, it’s about as cheap as a bag of coal, but way more creative, and we like that.

Once I enter this blog, I am e-mailing my pals living in the UK. Something's happening in the water there (or so I suspect) or possibly it's the famously greasy UK pub fare that’s gone off.

Bloody hell, according to The Sun in the UK, women have voted Simon Cowell as their second favorite fantasy guy (otherwise known as the image women conjure up as they’re going at it like rabbits with their partners).

Simon Cowell? Seriously? The angry 47-year-old American Idol judge? Eek. I think I just felt my libido take a depressing dip, hitting an all-time low.

Cowell, it seems, was only beat out by gadget-savvy Bond bloke, Daniel Craig in the online poll, Criag is rather yummy, but Cowell? I must ask, what the heck do the ladies see in him? I demand a recount!

The list is rounded out by other fantasy fillers including the hunky Jesse Metcalfe, followed by soccer star David Beckham, Brad Pitt, Mark Owen, Leonardo DiCaprio, Richard Madeley, Robbie Williams and, standing at number 10, Will Young.

I tell you, if I was a guy and my lady was getting off to mental images of Cowell, I’d be yanking those Calvin Klein briefs back up pretty damn quickly.


CREDIT IT TO DADDY ISSUES OR THE THEORY THAT WOMEN LIKE DINKS, EITHER WAY, WOMEN FANTASIZE ABOUT THE VERY ANGRY SIMON COWELL

FLESH-TONED UNDIES BEATS GOING COMMANDO!

Okay, here’s my question: If male Hollywood celebs were running around flashing their “peckers” at photographers, they’d be charged with indecent exposure, non?
How is it that a rash of tarty female celebrities can get away with flashing their, um, lady parts?

Fresh from jumping off the marriage train (again) Britney Spears is reportedly the latest (washed up) star to join Hollywood’s “no underwear wearing club.”

Since shedding a bunch of pounds, the poor girl’s apparently starved for media attention. Spears reportedly displayed her naughty bits for the paparazzi while out on a recent bender.

She joins other trashy club members such as Paris Hilton (who is suddenly ... like ... ohmygod, Britney’s very, very best friend) and Lindsay Lohan (whose been caught out in public without her undies on at least four different occasions).

Come on, slip something on underneath ladies! Even if it’s just a tiny, ride-up-your-butt piece of fabric, otherwise known as the thong!

What’s happening here? Did thongs go out of style and nobody bothered sending out a memo? Or is revealing one’s nether regions just the latest ‘it’ craze among trashy Hollywood types?

Perhaps it was inevitable. Something was bound to replace Kabbalah (what the hell ever happened to that fad anyway?), Scientology, dancing on tables drunk and Hollywood sex tapes, I suppose.

So who do you suppose is next in line for a spot in this coveted club? I am putting my cash on Nicole Richie.

Who hasn’t had sex with their socks on?
Apparently a ton of Quebecers haven’t. The Maritimers, well it seems they love their socks.
Who can blame ‘em? It’s Canada for god’s sake, and here in the Great White North, things can get pretty darn cold.

Okay so tighty-whitey sport socks aren’t the stuff of flimsy red lingerie, but it seems 31 per cent of us good ‘ol Canucks have kept our trusty socks on while getting it on. Yippee! Sock it to ‘em, eh!

I’ve done it. I admit it. I’ve had romps between the sheets with my snugly feet-warmers on. But never - EVER - would I keep my socks on if it was my first romp between the sheets with someone. That's where I draw the line.

Certainly socks don’t rank high on the list of items that’ll get a guy hot and bothered (for the record they won’t get us gals hot-and-bothered either!) According to a Pollara study released today, 72 per cent of us say socks just ain't sexy. Ah well, back to the drawing board.

To sock or not to sock, that is the question ...

OTHER SEX WITH YOUR SOCKS ON FACTS:

- 51 % of Canucks said they’ve NEVER had sex with their socks on (yeah, right ...)

- Quebec folk are the least likely to have sex while socked with only 20 % admitting to it

- The study found that Maritimers have the highest rate of sock-wearing sex at 41%

Okay folks, if you haven’t seen this video yet, I am adding it to the list of ‘MUST WATCH VIDEOS!’

The dubbing is great, but the footage of over-educated women (featuring the greatest line ever “over-education leads to ugliness, premature aging and beard growth”) is priceless!

For your Tuesday giggles, check out Women Know Your Limits.

WATCH THE CLIP HERE!

What will women’s breasts be used for next? Certainly women flashing their naughty bits to draw attention to causes, products, or some other agenda is nothing new.

What is new, however, is how it’s being done in Denmark.

A video created by the Danish Road Safety Council featuring topless women aims to draw attention to speed limits in Denmark. You've probably already guessed that the video (which was posted on the web) is targeting young male drivers in hopes that they’ll slow down. Is it also pointless note that some women living in Denmark are not too pleased with the big-breast campaign? Probably.

WATCH VIDEO

Personally I think it’s long overdue. I was getting bored with the endless smorgasbord of topless movie scenes, bikini-clad models in beer commercials and giant breast-spilling lingerie billboard ads. Finally we’ve found a new way to get exposure.

Julia Pauli of the safety council told the BBC that the video has been a huge success.

"If you want to reach the young people, you have to communicate on their conditions... So, topless women are working," she said.

I don’t know about you, but I am waiting for the ‘Slow Down Penis Campaign’ myself.

You’ll laugh, possibly get offended, and then laugh some more. The beauty of Borat is that nothing is sacred.

Not feminism and not religion. Etiquette professionals, homosexuals or testosterone-fuelled road-tripping frat guys.

There’s no kid-glove treatment in this spoof documentary that follows Borat, the fictional Kazakhstani TV journalist (invented by the British comedian Sacha Baron Cohen of the HBO hit comedy “Da Ali G Show”) who is dispatched to the United States to report on the “greatest country in the world.”

I saw the flick Saturday night and at points I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

As Borat travels along the U.S. trail, few people come out unscathed - especially those with racist, homophobic and sexist beliefs who come out looking like the dumb a--es they are.

The film has sparked some major controversy, including two frat boys who are now squirming in the hotseat after making racist and misogynistic remarks on film.
Earlier this month they filed legal action claiming they were plied with alcohol and duped into appearing in the movie. How embarrassing for them.

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" is playing in theatres now. If you've already seen it, let me know your thoughts. If you haven't ... get a ticket already.

View Borat Trailer Here

Check Out The Official Borat Site Here


BORAT SHOWS HIGH-BEACH STYLE. YOU ONLY WISH YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH THIS BATHING SUIT ... NOT!

I don’t know about you, but Lil’ Kim is one of the last people I’d want my child looking like.

Okay, so I don’t have a child, but come on!
Nothing says solid parenthood quite like dressing one’s youngster up in a mop of hooker-pink hair.

Wanna create a lil’ monster? This wig oughta do it. But be warned ... by the time she’s a teen, she’ll probably be wearing lil’ else.

Check Out Toupees for Babies Here:


CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? JUST YESTERDAY LIL' BABY HARLOT WAS BALD ... OH THE WONDERS OF WIGS ...

Some are definitely disturbing - Buffalo’s “Only Want You for Your Body” album cover and BabyBird’s 1995 “Fatherhood” come to mind.

Others wildly hilarious such as the band, Boned, and their 2004 album “Up at the Crack” featuring a guitar shooting out of a pair of tight jeans where some guy’s manhood should be.

Whether they make you cringe or fall into teary-eyed hysterics, they are among the worst ablum covers ever.

It’s quite a feat really.

Take Pat Boone for instance. He loves himself, and that’s a good thing because he’s pretty much the only person who does.
His 1997 release is an example of all things wrong. Called “In a Metal Mood, No More Mr. Nice Guy” this offering from the God-lovin’ Boone blatantly screams mid-life crisis.


CHECK OUT PAT BOONE’S GLITTERING STAR-STUDDED EYE. HOW COOL IS THAT? HE WASN’T KIDDING WHEN HE TITLED HIS ALBUM “NO MORE MR. NICE GUY.” THIS ALBUM COVER WASN’T NICE TO ANYONE.

For kicks while you’re dragging your behind through the work day, check out the best of the tackiest cover art around!
Click Here To View Album Covers:


WHO DOESN’T LIKE SMURFS? ARTIST VADER ABRAHAMS IS CRAZY FOR THE LITTLE BLUE GUYS ... JUST LOOK AT HIS ALBUM COVER!

Before I recommend something as a 'MUST CHECK OUT' item, it has to be good.

I am one of those people who immediately deletes mass e-mails, chain mails, and any other junk that generally clogs up my e-mail.

But, if you have time to check out one thing in the next couple of days, put this at the top of the list.

Here is my Must Check Out item of the day. I hope you find this as bloody hilarious as I do. They are prank phone calls done by an eight-year-old girl named Rebecca who lives in Ireland. The calls run on a ton of radio stations around the world because of their popularity.

The first one you mustn't skip. To give you an idea, she places an order with a demolition company to have her school removed. Hope they make you smile!

Listen to the audio here:

He didn't mean it.
No. Comedian and former Seinfeld actor Michael Richards is not a racist, or so he told the world on Letterman. He was just mad. And of course hurling racial slurs because you're mad, well now, that's understandable. Since you put it that way ...

If Richards isn't a racist, than he's one of the biggest dumb a--es in show biz. Next to Mel that is.

The two of 'em should have a face-off on some rotten reality TV show called, Who's the Bigger Bigot. We, the audience, can vote and it'll be a good 'ol time for all.

While I am on the track of celebrity crackpots, if you haven't heard, O.J.'s book deal has been dumped.

It's hard to believe a contract was ever penned in the first place for a fake account about how he would've killed Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman (if indeed he was a killer) but nonetheless, public outrage has tackled that read right off the bookshelves.

And, lastly, in other news of high-profile trainwrecks, Britney and K-Fed are now denying any existence of a sex tape. Either way, I suspect Britney's bank account just took a big dip to keep her former big-dip partner from spreading the vid around. Don't want to ruin that sparkly reputation now.

It can’t be true, can it? The comedian behind Seinfeld’s beloved character Kramer (the kooky next-door neighbour we all adore) has come under fire after allegedly uttering shocking racial slurs during a stand-up performance.

The incident happened at Hollywood’s Laugh Factory where Michael Richards reportedly lashed out at a couple of hecklers.

According to TMZ.com, the 57-year-old Richards blew up, spewing out profanities and racially-charged insults after two black audience members yelled out that he wasn’t funny.

"Throw his a-- out. He's a n------!" Richards is caught screaming in the shocking video as audience members get up to leave, several of them yelling back at Richards that he was out of line.
“That’s what happens when you interrupt the white man!” Richard later hollers.

Richards can’t possibly think this gut-wrenching racism is comedy, can he? I am not in any way what you’d call a hypersensitive, politically correct sort of gal, but this footage is absolutely sick. An ugly side of Richards that you won’t believe.

Watch the clip here:

First Mel, now Richards, what the heck is happening in Hollywood?

Okay, maybe you won't cry, but the pal who sent me this post admitted she almost shed a few wet ones over this adorable YouTube video.

It's sad and touching ... and while my friend is feeling a little stressed these days, you'll understand the sentiment when you watch the clip about this little animated guy named Kiwi.

Watch the clip here:

As long as Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick remain happily married, there’s still hope.
But, since Ryan Phillippe and Oscar-winner Reese Witherspoon called it quits after an eternity of marriage (okay, seven, but in Hollywood, marriage kinda works like dog years), another fairytale bubble has been popped.

Fans went absolutely berserk over the Jenn/Brad split, and now, slapped with yet another marital demise, there’s really only one conclusion to be made - fairytales don’t exist!

Not for J.Lo. Not for Kate Hudson. Not for Britney (although that was less glass-slipper Cinderella and more like a bad scene from the pork and beans Trailer Park Boys). And certainly not for Reese.

But why do we give a crap that celeb marriages suck as bad as so many others?

Well I suspect that when we’re up to our elbows in dinner-plate grease and can’t remember the last time we got to wear a gloriously dramatic ballgown to a glittery affair (because we’ve never actually worn a ballgown to anything at all, much less somewhere glittery) we want to believe in the fairytale. The idea that someone else’s reality is so much shinier, so incredibly wonderful and full of passionate morning kisses and late-evening caresses. Such misguided hope.

It’s the myth behind every romantic comedy ever made, but folks, I am beginning to believe that it’s time to pop the fairytale relationship like the flimsy balloon that it is.

It doesn’t exist. All relationships come with ugly, hair-pulling glitches whether they're happening in LA-LA land or right here on planet earth.

Undeniably I too thought Reese and Ryan were different. That they’d somehow risen above the drudgery of relationships and achieved the impossible - solid, unconditional love. But we can now pop that bubble too.

Reese called it quits after allegedly discovering that her hubby was having romantic liaisons with his co-star Abbie Cornish on the film set of Stop Lost. As gossip rags go to town with the news, I wonder, are we happy that it didn’t work out? Quite possibly.

As I consider our fascination with celebrity relationships, is it possible that we’re not at all obsessed with the idea of the perfect marriage but rather that we're consumed with the very moment these seemingly perfect unions get dragged through the mud?

I think so.
We feel better when the silver-spoon privileged get duped and in knowing that those who seem to have it all actually don’t and probably never did.

We’re not craving the fairytale, but, as twisted as it sounds, anxiously anticipating the big heavy thuds that come from their inevitable falls.

Read more about their breakup in People magazine

View photos of Reese and Ryan here:

Roger Friedman of Fox News says he saw the couple’s demise first hand. Read his report here:

Buying all dignity! One company is looking for yours - and it guarantees top dollar. Possibly a million of them, in fact.
Call ‘em gold diggers or ladies just looking for some extra financial padding to help pay for their boob jobs, the Millionaire’s Club, an online matchmaking service, is on the hunt for them.

The company officially launches its Canadian branch with a nation-wide casting call at the Carlu Club (444 Yonge Street) in Toronto Friday Nov. 17.Visit the Millionaire’s Club:

Gold digging finally comes out of the closet in the Great White North. Imagine that. Anna Nicole Smith (without a doubt the most famous gold diggin’ bimbo around) would be so very proud. It should be noted that the company insists that gold diggers are not allowed membership into the "Club."
Yeah. Okay. That sounds realistic.

Interested in trying to dip into the coffers of rich guys? Head to the Carlu for your judgment from 3 until 10 p.m.

According to the company, the audition process “will embrace the discerning and selective taste of its male members, from aristocratic playboys to professional athletes, entertainment celebrities and beacons of business and industry.”
Yippee!

The Millionaires Club is free for the dames, but being a perfect 10 is a prerequisite (are you gagging yet?) in order to snag a spot in this scary online-dating world of sugar daddies and diggers.

READ MY RECENT COLUMN ON GOLD DIGGERS

O.J. Simpson’s fall from grace is getting harder to stomach.
The one-time football star, who was acquitted of the 1994 murders of ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her friend Ron Goldman, has sunk to an all-time low.
In 1997, O.J. was found liable in a wrongful death lawsuit filed by the Goldman family. He's now throwing more acid into the wounds with his latest book entitled, “If I Did It.”

The publisher of the shocking read, due out Nov. 30, describes it as O.J.’s “confession.”
If you missed Larry King the other night, Goldman’s father Fred, and sister Kim were on urging the public to “shun” the book. Fred called it “sick” and “morally reprehensible.”
Watch the video

Their outrage is justifiable as O.J. reportedly writes a detailed description about the double murder, calling his accounts “hypothetical.”

O.J. was reportedly paid $3.5 million to pen the read, which I am sure his kids will appreciate. Such a heart-warming way to honour their children’s mother.


O.J. Simpson is shown in a 1993 file photo with Nicole Brown Simpson.
O.J. is sparking outrage over plans for a book titled "If I Did It".
The Fox network plans to air an interview with Simpson on Nov. 27 and 29 in which Simpson reportedly describes how he would have committed the 1994 slayings of his ex-wife, Nicole, and her friend Ronald Goldman if he were the one responsible.

Unsure of your religion?
Not quite as easy as casting a ballot at the voting station is it? Use this quick quiz passed on to me by a pal to help you find your guiding light. Okay so you won't come with any new found spirituality, but it's worth a chuckle.

Take the quiz:www.quizfarm.com

I just filled it out ... here's how I scored (it's listed in order of religions ... or lack thereof) most fitted to my answers. The Satanism connection I don't quite get (I am apparently equally suited for Satanism and Buddhism, go figure) but hey, it's just a quiz.

Agnosticism 100%
Buddhism 79%
Satanism 79%
Atheism 50%
Judaism 50%
Paganism 46%
Christianity 25%
Islam 17%
Hinduism 8%

So Agnosticism it is. According the description "agnostics neither believe nor disbelieve in God, it is possible to be a theist or atheist in addition to an agnostic. Agnostics don't believe it is possible to prove the existence of God (nor lack thereof). Agnosticism is a philosophy that God's existence cannot be proven. Some say it is possible to be agnostic and follow a religion; however, one cannot be a devout believer if he or she does not truly believe."

A very witty friend sent along this video to me.
Ah, good ol’ ‘80s throwback bands. This video will get you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

At first I thought she was joking, but apparently my pal has the distinct honour of calling the dude in the bad Moschino shirt her friend and co-worker. Now if only I could get that close to him, I’d be as giddy as Debbie Gibson back in the day.

Also, according to my friend, this group was one of the biggest bands back in the old country (very popular in Germany and Russia).

Personally, I feel cool knowing I can say I am friends with a girl who’s friends with the Moschino-wearing guy from the band Plavi Orkestar. Six degrees, man ... six degrees.

Get ready to tear off those leg warmers ladies, this one’s hot. Watch the video at:www.youtube.com/watch?v=gITFRg8woR4a

Whether both parties are to blame for a fizzled out friendship or just one half is destined to carry the burden, the guilt can sting like sprinkling salt grains onto a freshly obtained wound.

The guilt is so bitter you can taste it, so strong-willed, it can tinker ruthlessly with your subconscious mind.

And so it happens, my dreams have taken over.

The same night I dreamt about tearing a very pretty (and apparently very fragile) ‘20s-style dress at the seam before giving a nerve-wracking speech, an old friend also happened to pop up.

In this hazy dream I am dialing the first three digits of his phone number before hanging up. Clearly I am too chicken to dial all the digits.

There, in my dream, I miss him. He was one of my first boyfriends post-high school and we stayed close long after our romance fizzled away, brewing up another relationship concoction called friendship.

In reality, I don’t miss him. In reality, I am irritated by him. Even after a year and a half of not seeing him, he’s still getting under my skin.

Why the irritation? Well, it’s difficult to wrap it up in a nutshell, but I’ll simply say it’s mostly rooted in politics.

Regardless, I don’t have to consult a dream book to know that I am feeling guilty. Guilty for not working harder at the friendship. For not calling or e-mailing. For allowing our bond to fizzle out without even putting up a fight.

These damn dreams won’t let me rest, so, in order to clear my subconscious mind of clutter, I think it might be time to drop my dear old friend a line. It’s selfish of course as I do need a good night’s sleep.

Then, there’s the other half of the equation. The part of me that is missing him. The part that is buried quite deep, hanging out somewhere among the subconscious mess with other past lovers and dreams of flying, where ripped dresses emerge and the occasional night terror so rudely jolts me awake.

You know a bad day when you see it.
The alarm clock doesn’t go off (mine didn’t) and you have 15 minutes to shower, gulp coffee and get out the door.

Groggy and grumpy, I am alerted to the fact that it’s 8:05 a.m.

Maggie-the-dog and her morning whinings caused me to stir under the duvet this morning, however reluctantly.

On these mornings you’re instantly late for everything, setting the day off into a tailspin of bad stuff.
You can’t stretch out, or take a moment to linger between the sheets. There’s no time to ponder the day ahead or take a deep breath before setting out.

“Don’t get her excited,” my boyfriend says dryly as I give Maggie-the-dog head pats as a way of thanking her for waking me up (even though Maggie hasn’t a clue that she’s helped me get up for work and is really only concerned about getting food put in her bowl and heading outside to do her business).

Still, her morning whines can be helpful. Annoying on Saturdays but useful on Mondays.
Okay, so back to Maggie and her excitement issues.

See Maggie-the-dog has a little bowel control problem. When she gets excited, she lets you know by leaving a tiny pee puddle.

It began the first day we met her at the Humane Society, and it’s been happening since. What was once an endearing nervous habit has left us endlessly rubbing out carpet stains.
Needless to say, she left a perfectly round puddle before scrambling away guilt-free for her morning walk.

“That’s yours to clean up,” my boyfriend snarled (he later insisted it wasn’t a snarl but rather a light-hearted joke at the bowel release he’d foreseen).

Either way, the morning stunk.

I left for work with my hair still drenched from the shower, with no makeup on, and feeling as though I didn’t sleep a wink.

It’s now noon and so far I’ve had a colleague call in sick, received an e-mail calling me “the Don Quixote of our times” in response to my Thursday column about the United Church of Canada, read it at:
toronto.24hrs.ca/Columnists/RelativelySpeaking, and a piece of my pasta lunch just flew across my office desk and splattered my papers with red sauce as I was cutting it. Growl.

So she’s ditched him.

K-Fed has left the building, or rather, former pop princess Britney Spears has booted him out of it.

“I feel kind of sorry for him,” a woman said to me this morning after reading about Britney filing for divorce from rapper wannabe hubby, Kevin Federline.

While I don’t share her sentiments exactly (personally I think K-Fed is a jack ass) I do feel badly for how he learned of his impending return to singlehood.
Apparently K-Fed read the bad news via text message while being filmed in Toronto for the MuchMusic reality show, Exposed.

Britney cited irreconcilable differences as the reason for the split, but it seems Britney’s lost more than just the dumpy weight of K-Fed. Apparently Britney’s bod has also been revamped.

After letting herself go for the past two years, it appears she’s eagerly preparing to bounce back into the role of naughty-girl-next-door pop tart.

Here are my predictions for what will happen next:

Remember that little girl voice she used to use in interviews? Well I suspect it will soon be making its way out of storage.
Britney will instantly try to reclaim her image and repackage her long flailing career.

Of course now she’s a mamma so she will have to play up the mommy card.
She will start doing interviews - and lots of ‘em - where she’ll yap on and on about her offspring and how wonderful they are and blah, blah, blah. Yawn. I suspect Oprah will be first on her hit list.

Now that she's lost those spare tires that had gathered around her middle, Britney will be eager to shift gears and work toward earning the title of Most Delicious Yummy Mummy around. To do that she’ll need to get busy hiking up those skirts and shrinking down those shirts again, but that shouldn’t be too big of a problem.

Then will come Britney and Madonna, the reunion. This will see them revisit their faux-lesbian escapades with some good ol’ mom-on-mom action. Ewww.

Over the next couple of weeks, Britney will be back blinking those eyelashes like a dizzy cheerleader who’s been bonked in the head one too many times and saying ‘Oh my God!’ over and over again as if she were a preprogrammed Britney Spears bobble-head doll.

Sadly, as Britney tries to leave her questionable past behind her, her biggest blow will come the moment she realizes that all those little girls who once counted themselves among her fans have all grown up.

By now they’ve realized that a Britney Spears CD isn’t worth the price of that bargain bin sticker, and that if given the choice between sticking their heads in a cesspool of toxic waste or having Hit Me Baby One More Time stuck in their heads, they’d happily choose the former.

THINK HUGH HEFNER'S DAUGHTER LOOKS LIKE THESE GALS? THINK AGAIN.

I am shocked. No, make that stunned. Okay, let me run this by you: Try and imagine what the daughter of Playboy founder Hugh Hefner might look like. What comes to mind?

Giant knockers outfitted in the tinniest bit of glittery bikini fabric? Big curls and the bleachy-est of bleach blonde hair possible? A woman with shockingly white teeth who's always flashing a gooey, cheek-dimpled smile? Not quite. Actually, not even close.

Her name's Christie Hefner, and she's anything but a doe-eyed bunny.
The business-clad offspring of the biggest playboy in the magazine biz is CEO of Playboy Enterprises - and she's all business.

Check out the interview entitled 'So What Do You Do, Christie Hefner' featured on Media Bistro today where she dishes on the famous business of bunnies, visiting the magical mansion, and whether or not her eccentric lady-lovin' pappa will ever retire.

Read the article here:mediabistro.com

THE SURPRISINGLY CONSERVATIVE CHRISTIE HEFNER

What young woman hasn’t, at one time or another, been enamored with the late writer, Sylvia Plath.

The young poet’s tragic story - including her rocky marriage to renowned British poet, the late Ted Hughes and her suicide in 1963 - is almost as compelling as her poetry and feminist novel, the Bell Jar, published two weeks before her death.

While Plath died at age 30, her life story and words continue to captivate - and at times haunt - literary types.

As it turns out, the young scribe had more words to share. An unpublished 14-line sonnet, entitled Ennui, was released today online by the Virginia-based literary journal, Blackbird www.blackbird.vcu.edu.

To read Plath's sonnet click here:
www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v5n2/poetry/plath_s/typescript-final.htm

Ennui is believed to have been written in 1955 during Plath’s senior year at Smith College. The piece was discovered by a graduate student while researching Plath Archives at Indiana University.

His nickname sounds like a bad street drug, and after coming across this photo of K-Fed, I can see why. Does this look like the type of guy that any child should have to call Daddy?
(RANT CONTINUES BELOW)


Thank-you Jesus for my bling-mama Britney

Kevin federline, the one-time Britney back-up dancer turned rapper is looking a little worse for wear these days. Whether it’s pappa-hood that’s gotten to him or the fact that no one cares to see him rap is debatable.

At just 20 bucks a pop, New Yorkers reportedly still don’t want to check out this trainwreck of a performer. Call it intuition, but I am putting my vote on K-Fed to be the next un-star to arrive the Surreal Life house.

K-Fed, who’s been the target of tabloids everywhere since sponging off ... err marrying one-time pop star Britney, is considering canceling his Nov. 4 show due to poor ticket sales.

Now get it together K-Fed fans. I can hear you sobbing over there.

So at just four years old, Gus the sour, fat cat captured in this Associated Press pic should still be frisky, happy and have a healthy dose of youthfulness to him.

Sadly, this ridiculous costume has depleted Gus's spirit.

The poor feline, who I suspect was lively and chasing balls of yarn just yesterday, is supposed to be a lobster.

Gus reportedly ripped off his Halloween lobster outfit just seconds after this photo was snapped. Way to reclaim your claws there Gus.
Happy Halloween everyone.

Okay I am going to kill my blog.

Yesterday I spent more than an hour trying to update it, and damn technology, each time I tried to post it fired back with an error message. I'd fix the problem, then it would send out another one. This blog is picking on me. It has a life of its own - posting when it wants to, and only when it wants to.

As it is, technology and I don't gel. I'd like to get along with it better, but the harder I try, the more defiant it becomes.

My cell doesn't work when I need it to.
Vonage (my phone system at home) kicks me off whenever it feels like it. Mid-conversation usually.
At work, my computer freezes daily.
At home, my computer is constantly getting disconnected. Something to do with Vonage.

Technology easier? Yeah, right. Now let's just see how many error messages I get trying to post this blog.
cheers!

A treat for the eyes? Sure.
But on Halloween night, many gals also look like they could be making a few extra bucks on the side turning tricks.

As women’s Halloween costumes continue to get skimpier, tighter and sexier with each passing year, we could easily be mistaken for working girls on a dingy street corner.



Whether you're a banker, high-level executive or renowned surgeon by day, on Halloween night, the choice is clear: you can play the role of slutty super hero, naughty nurse or horny cowgirl.

As men head out dressed from head-to-toe (typically smart for the cold weather), the dames are dressing down with the tiniest pieces of fabric barely covering their girlie bits.

When was the last time you saw a guy’s package hanging out from out of his costume anyway?

Gone are the days of clowns, ghosts and pretty princesses.
Instead we’re outfitted in platform heels, thigh-high leather boots, ass-flashing skirts and skintight corsets. It’s all far more fitting for a fetish party than a night that once centered around candy-grabbing children.

Sure, the childlike influences still come out to play.
You can see them in the barely-there Little Red Riding Hood costumes and whorishly wicked witch getups.

I agree with comedian Carlos Mencia who says that Halloween should be renamed “Dress-Like-a-Whore Day.”
Really ... why not?

I am all for leaving the white-and-beige cubical behind for a night and transforming into a devilish dominatrix, come-hither fairy, or a cleavage-flashing super hero if you want to ... but as we put on our disguises, let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on.

The fact is we’d be hard pressed to find a costume for women that didn’t have sexual overtones - or undertones - to it.

So if we must play the role of submissive mistress or slutty secretary, let’s call it what it is. That or give the night back to the kids already.

Whether you watched it on the big screen, or read it in the small print, the “fictional” portrayal of Vogue priestess Anna Wintour in the Devil Wears Prada was less flattering than a pair of low-rise jeans worn with a stringy thong.

The editrix - who’s as famous for her discerning fashion palette as she is her steely, cold people skills - was honoured this week as magazine editor of the year by Advertising Age.

If you haven’t seen the flick (released earlier this year) or read the dishy book, do so. You might cringe at how the iron-eyed woman at the helm of the New York-based fashion bible stares down at - and belittles - the fashion world’s hungry, little minions, but you’ll feel better for having experienced it.

As bad as things can sometimes get, The Devil Wears Prada is a reminder that it could be a hell of a lot worse.

For her part, Vogue’s legendary editor-in-chief led single-copy sales to a 3.5 per cent increase during the first half of the year.

"I learned many years ago to remain completely focused on what I do and not worry about what's being said or what's being written," Wintour is quoted as saying in the online edition of Advertising Age.
"The most important thing is that you work with people you respect, and hopefully they respect you. You do the best job that you possibly can, and then you go home and have dinner with your kids and play with your dog."

Now I just want to know this Does the finicky, highbrow, Prada-wearing fashion queen bend and scoop, or just leave her dog’s crap behind for everyone else to step in?

Don’t let that fabulous Fendi purse fool you, it could be dirtier than a doggie chew toy.

A friend e-mailed me the dirt on purses earlier today and the news isn’t good - especially for the anti-bacterial-soap obsessed germophobes out there.
So along with your keys, wallet and cellphone, what else is your purse storing?

According to microbiologist Shauna Lake, who tested purses for bacteria at Nelson Laboratories in Salt Lake city, the average woman’s purse is a cesspool of germs.

Lake’s study on the outer layers of our beloved treasures found disturbingly high levels of bacteria, including salmonella and e-coli. Even fecal contamination was detected.
Yeah, um, yuck. And I thought public transit was nasty.

So what’s with all these grime-riddled clutches?
Well who hasn’t set their purse down on the kitchen table or the takeout food counter?
Seems our purses are picking up the leftovers!

If you’ve got kids, those purses tend to be the nastiest with the exception of one night-club-hopping single gal whose purse picked up more contaminants than a ratty kitchen wash cloth (it contained feces and possibly vomit!)

Let this be a lesson to us all!

Noteworthy tips:

- Vinyl and leather stay the cleanest whereas cotton purses soak up the germs.
- Avoid putting your purse on your desk, floor and restaurant and kitchen tables
- Hang up the purse whenever possible
- Give those purses a good rub down regularly!

Lately all I need is a mirror. No zombie movies or ghost walks necessary.

Coming off the exhaustion of Fashion Week is frightful enough.
The fact that no amount of under eye makeup can disguise the horror of dark baggage that’s taken up residence there is Halloween enough for me. For the big night, my costume will be quite simple as the before shot for some ruthless makeover show, like Madonna wearing sweat pants post-tour.

Speaking of scary things, Madonna’s adoption of a Malawian kid has The Shining (the scariest movie ever) beat.

As the latest Hollywood “it” trend, overseas adoption has abruptly replaced those shivery, teacup pups in purses thing.


Where did all those wiry, Paris Hilton-inspired dogs go anyway? Perhaps they’re stuck at the bottoms of oversized Birkin bags along with stray sticks of gum, wrinkled up phone numbers and ratty old copies of Cosmo.

Sure they’ll poke their little heads up soon though.

But back to Madge.

The pop queen’s latest accessory - and desperate headline-grabbing move - is simply called David, which, if you ask me, seems rather bland compared with the funky-haired Maddox (from Cambodia) and squishy baby bundle named Zahara (from Africa) adopted by Hollywood's hottest couple, Angelina and Brad.

The talk now is that Madonna and lapdog hubby Guy Ritchie will return little David back to his daddy in Malawi when he’s a little older.

It’s entirely possible. Overseas adoption is bound to go out of celebrity style eventually. Damn, it could be gone by next week, lasting longer than UGG boots, footless tights and skinny jeans combined.

And, after being forced to watch Evita for the zillionth time, David will most likely book the one-way ticket home all on his own.

HELLO SCARY PURPLE LADY.. ERR ... MOM.

It’s a seat. ONLY a seat. But at a fashion show, seating is everything. For some people that is.

When it comes to fashion and the sharp-clawed elite, Toronto is, generally speaking, a pleasant and low-key city. It is incomparable to the nose up throngs of fashionistas spotted in New York or Paris, for instance.

Canadians are still finding their way in a scene that is often laden with snobbery and ridiculously arched eyebrows, which are, all in all, merely minor distractions in a sea of gorgeous couture runway gowns and heavenly fabrics.

For their part, Canuck-based designers remain humble and approachable, preferring to create wearable garments over frivolous, over-the-top unwearables.

But as the Toronto-based L’Oreal Fashion Week grows in size and popularity, the fabulous week that serves as a launching pad for emerging homegrown designers and is the high-heel stopping grounds for fashion editors and buyers - the attitude is bound to follow.
Suddenly, the true meaning of catwalk becomes clear.

“You’re sitting in my seat,” snarled a cakey-faced woman leering down at the front row spot where a colleague of mine was comfortably perched.
Swiftly the woman turned her deadly stare toward me.
Her eyes were cold and unfeeling. They could make a rattle snake shudder and slither away in fright with just one shot.

“That’s also my seat,” she barked, pointing her painted claw at me.
Just moments before, Fashion Week organizers had asked the members of the media to move up and help fill out the empty seats in the front.
“We were asked to move,” my colleague tried to explain as she politely began collecting up her coat and bags.
The woman’s eyes grew narrower.

I feared that that at any moment, the horrifying snake lady would unleash her sharp claws and take a swipe out of both of us. Her tongue, I was convinced could easily lash out and strike us with some sort of venomous liquid.
“Well, it’s my seat now,” the snake lady spat back, an evil smirk pinching at the corners of her lipsticked mouth.

Snake lady was late for the show and, much to her horror, was shocked to find that her precious seat wasn’t cold, empty and waiting for her.
I wasn’t about to argue over a seat. This is only fashion, after all, not a meet and greet with the Dalai Lama.

My co-worker and I promptly got up and scrambled to find last-minute seats. Our designated ones had by then been snapped up and disrupting other attendees just seconds before the show was scheduled to begin seemed a rather uncouth thing to do.

After all, when it comes to finicky world of fashion, being well-dressed is simply one part of the equation. Being well-mannered, on the other hand, is the intricate design work that can make a person truly fashionable.

I finally get motherhood guilt.

Well, something like it anyway.

Kids are a whole other ball game than adopting a dog, I realize.
That said, a whole new phase has kicked in. Another life is under the wing, and no longer can I come and go as I please.

Suddenly my fingers are scented with dog treats. Clothing - mostly black this time of year - is now dashed with dog fur, and those cute little fall purses - once stocked with a variety of lip glosses, a cellphone and wallet - now hold plastic poo bags. At one time those plastic bags served a simple and far more desirable purpose - holding groceries.

I am trying - and suspect failing - at being a well-balanced dog person.

It's a hectic time, and while I’d love to be one of those relaxed women you see easily walking stride-in-stride with their well-trained and impeccably groomed canine, I am far from it. Instead, I am tripping over the leash, begging for Maggie to stop pulling, and I look like a frazzled (and probably crazy) sleepy ball of mess in my oversized wool sweaters and frumpy sneakers. Far from the picture of style and grace I'd hoped to be.

Welcome to my fall from grace - and my first blog entry ever.

I’ve lost my stride. Coffee is spilling more frequently, and I am in a constant state of rushing. “Must get home ... need to walk Maggie ...” I say breathlessly racing out of work.
Poor dog, I think. She has to wait to go pee. What a nuisance. In an otherwise comfy life, how insane it is to have to wait for some human to come along and give you some relief.
But that’s a side note. And I DO feel guilty about that fact.

Just for kicks though, let's rewind to our grade school days and the deplorable situation we found ourselves in. Do you remember badly having had to take a whizz but in order to carry out that basic bodily function you had to put up your hand and ask?
“Miss Adams?” You’d begin in a pleading voice.
“Can I go to the bathroom?”

Miss Adams’ face would drop in horror. Had she taught you nothing? She wondered as a look of deadly scorn wore across her face.
“I don’t know, can you?” she’d mock.
Instantly you’d remember the rule. Can and may are hardly the same thing, but either way, there was an ocean of urine building in your bladder and this witch Miss Adams was the one obstacle standing between you and the toilet.

Dutifully you’d apologize and restate your question. Your urinary relief was all dependent upon just how grumpy ol’ Miss Adam was on that particular day. She could say yes. She could say no.
The indignity of it all, well it’s just incomprehensible.

Okay, so back to the point of this all - guilt. The dog needs to hold her bladder, I feel guilt. The dog wants to play as I am getting ready for work in the morning, the guilt builds.

Guilt has permeated my being. Maggie-the-dog has been in my life for a meager three weeks and already, the girl-about-town that I once was has left the building. She’s too busy rushing home to grab the leash (another thing I feel badly about ... I mean, a leash! Seriously?) to take dear Maggie out for a hearty stroll. And now, the strange taste of guilt is stronger than ever.

It’s Fashion Week www.lorealfashionweek.ca in Toronto. What was once a decadent and fabulously rushed week of round-the-clock work is now laden with that ‘G’ word.

Guilt, I suspect, is the sidekick for many of us. As common as coffee. Your kids forget what you look like. You forget what your boyfriend or hubby looks like, and the dog, who never seems to forget you at all, looks up at you with those big, sappy, adoring dog eyes and says ‘please don’t leave me.’ And there you have it - guilt.

It’s over. Carefree living. Selfishness. A spontaneous shopping spree after work ... it’s all done. The minute you have more than just a houseplant relying on you to survive, say goodbye to your former self.

So as Toronto Fashion Week gets underway and I watch the creations by Canadian designers for spring ‘07, my mind will likely be thinking about fur. Dog fur. And cute little pointy ears and fabulous whiskers.

Sure, for a brief moment at least, I may imagine myself heading out this spring sporting an exceptional outfit by Arthur Mendonca www.mendonca.ca or Paul Hardy www.paulhardydesign.com I suspect that won't happen. Instead I predict I will be getting pulled out the door by a small but powerful canine. I will be likely outfitted in a coffee-splattered T-shirt, horribly practical runners and carrying a purse full of doggy treats and poo baggies.

From now on, it will be up to Maggie - the unbelievably cute, adoring and unfailingly sweet nine-month-old pup (who, by the way has the best fur coat ever) - to be the stylish one. At least until I find some spare time to do some shopping.