If Rudolph had a bad coke habit, the red-nosed reindeer would look like I do right about now.

Just days ago I was bragging away about how many colds and flues I've managed to escape this year. Even knocked on wood, I did.

Then whack! I am hit, struck dead-on with some detestable germ, and I am totaled - tired, sleepy, achy, carrying around a head that feels heavy and disproportionate like a bobble head doll and walking around with a bright red nose that doesn't stop sneezing and running. Take note, head cold = bad thing No. 1.

But all is okay. In a few days, my boyfriend and I will be snowboarding in the interior of B.C. and relaxing with good food at night.

Yes, there is a nice happy light at the end of the tunnel. The cold will pass and fun will soon happen. Oh, but wait ... such optimism may be a tad premature.

So the other night, I run a hot bath. My head is steaming hot but nothing feels as soothing as bubbles and warm bath water when you're feeling creaky and tired and as whiny as a three-year-old.

After soaking in suds, I go to step out of the bathroom and fall. The right ankle twists and I land on both of the dogs who, as always, stand outside the bathroom door and wait until you come out again.

They're freaked, I apologize and hobble over the couch fighting back tears from the pain. The ankle starts to swell slightly and bruise like a five-day old banana. Yep, ankle twist, bad thing No. 2.

Deciding that the couch is the best place for me, I stretch out to watch a movie. Couple of hours later, my cell rings. My caller i.d. tells it's my boyfriend.

"hey baby!" I say with more energy than I have.
But, it isn't "baby," and instead it's some guy named Dave who plays hockey with my boyfriend telling me there's been an accident on the rink.

Seems my boyfriend got tripped and slammed into the boards ridiculously hard and an ambulance is on its way to take him to emergency. My heart stops or stalls, but I breathe when I learn that he's conscious and can wiggle his toes. Hockey injury. Indeed, bad thing No. 3.

A $70 cab ride later, his sister and I arrive at emerg to find him lying in a hallway and soon all doped up on percocets.

He gets x-rays and his spine is fine. At 3 a.m. we learn he'll have more x-rays on his lower back and a CT scan, but not until later on in the morning. I get home at 4 a.m., my beau's stuck in the hospital hallway.

At around 10 a.m. on Wednesday, phone rings and I learn he's cracked a lower vertebrae and the doctor strongly doesn't recommend snowboarding. In fact, he apparently looks at my boyfriend like he's nuts when he mentions it.

This series of events has me thinking that a larger force is at work here. Someone - an energy compound from the beyond or something - is trying to stop us from going. A spirit guide, perhaps? Or maybe that's just the extra strength Tylenol talking.

Trip is still up in the air, even though we're supposed to be up in the air the day after tomorrow. But with these recent misadventures, something tells me that instead of a 10-day snowboarding getaway, we're going to be stuck on the ground right here in T.O. '

Then again, if bad things happen in three, we should be all out of bad luck by now.

When a homeless guy approaches you out of nowhere to let you know where you can get a free meal, it might be time for a makeover.

Yep, it happened to me recently while leaving a coffee shop in the Beaches with a hot chocolate in my paws on my way to a dentist appointment.

I was on a cellphone chatting with a friend when I heard, "You'd rather be outside freezing in the cold eh?"

I looked up confused and perturbed for the interruption.

"Yeah," I said, nodding and returning to my call.

"You know, there are free meals every Monday night at the church up the road? It's right on Queen Street," he tells me.

"Oh yeah? Okay, thanks," I say and return to call.

"Yeah, every Monday night. Do you know where to go?"

Now I want to scream "Go away!" but instead I thank him politely and return to my call.

Then he says, "I am going there right now, so you're okay to get there? It's only Monday nights."

Internal voice screams "ENOUGH ALREADY! Leave me the hell alone! I am on the damn phone you moron!"

Outer voice says "Yep, okay, thanks."

A little more of this back-and-forward nonsense and finally he leaves.

I am wearing a three-quarter-length wool jacket and jeans. I am carrying a glossy purse, drinking a hot beverage, and clearly I own a cellphone, but it dawns on me that this guy thinks I am homeless, that I am outside against my will and have nowhere to go and nothing to eat.

Maybe I look scruffy and tired. Perhaps I look really hungry and thin and in need of a nice big meal, though I suspect that's not it.

It must be scruffy and tired, but really, so scruffy and tired that I appear as destitute as J.D. Fortune (who after recently being fired as the frontman for INXS is rumored to be homeless and living in his car)?

Seems a gal needs to spruce up before going to Country Style to pass the time. Some heels and makeup, perhaps? However this could lead to being mistaken as a streetwalker and that isn't exactly better, now is it?

So this is why folks may an extra $2 for a hot chocolate at Starbucks ...

President Barack Obama is in the building.

Well, in Canada anyway, and like groupies drawn to The Beatles circa 1960s, Canadians are hanging out in chilly Ottawa for a split-second glimpse of the U.S. leader. We've become so smitten with him that many don't hesitate to use the "L" word at the mere mention of his name.

Perhaps we wish President Obama was our own fearless leader. He is far more adored and admired than our frozen-haired, sweater-vest-wearing prime minister, who we're generally complacent about and likely wouldn't stand outside for hours to have a glimpse at.

Even journalists stationed outside waiting for the president's arrival were giddy like school kids when the official vehicles drove by.

Maybe we're hoping some of the president's charisma will rub off on Harper, which is rather unlikely.
That aside, Canada, we're selling ourselves short.

In our humble Canadian-ness, we treat ourselves like the grubby kid sister to the U.S., desperately scrambling to to keep up with our big brother, with whom we share an unhealthy, codependent relationship.

Truth is, we're not entirely dependent on the States. They too gain from this unity. Being friends with Canada is like getting a quick makeover, and for the U.S. - a nation whose popularity has long been in the slumps - there's no better image booster than rubbing shoulders with the ever-lovable Canada.

Ever notice the number of Americans who stitch Canadian flag patches onto their bags while backpacking? This coattail riding only makes sense for U.S. backpackers because we're generally we're liked everywhere we go.

While we may not have a giant military, tons of machines and pricey gadgets, we do have a pretty spectacular reputation - and that is no small thing.

Yes, Obama is walking on Canadian soil, but as honoured as we are by this cross-border act of brotherly love and to be the country selected for the president's first international visit as leader, we ought to be equally proud of our own great nation because it's certainly an incredible honour to be here.

Gale's Snack Bar is cash only, but $5 is more than enough to cover a meal, beverage and the tip, so that shouldn't be too much of a problem

A couple of things about my neighbourhood: It's home to the former Hells Angels clubhouse on Eastern Avenue, and Gale's Snack Bar, where you can get a meal and beverage for $3.50, including taxes.

When I first moved to Leslieville, a buddy recommended a little restaurant that some have dubbed 'the diner that time forgot.'

Welcome to Gale's Snack Bar (539 Eastern Ave. at Carlaw).

Wood panelling, orange counter stools and a handful of booths take up most of the space inside this tiny eatery where nothing on the menu costs over $3.70.

Among the menu items (posted on a sign hanging on the wall behind the counter) is wieners and beans, $2.50; liver sandwich with fries and gravy $3.25; cheeseburger, $1.35; toasted western $1.25; hot turkey sandwich $3.70, and my personal favorite sandwich going, the clubhouse, which I ordered for $2.50.

The decor and old-fashioned prices found in Gale's isn't a case of retro trendiness gone crazy. In fact, it's one of Toronto's earliest restaurants, remaining largely unchanged since opening up 80 years ago. You may recognize Gale's as the Hardy Har Hut featured in the feel-good movie Hairspray.

With recession-wary folks popping up everywhere, Gale's is one of the cheapest spots in T.O. for those still craving the eating-out experience.

After almost a year of passing by Gale's, which tends to always look closed from the outside, I finally made my way in on Friday.

The place draws an interesting assortment of characters. In one booth, two teenage girls chat away distractedly; a lone middle-aged woman empties her purse full of coins onto a table and then orders two western sandwiches, and three well-worn regulars sit perched on stools talking to the friendly Eda Chan, who takes the customers orders and passes them on to her dad to make.

Food is prepared quickly but there there is no rush to move along. Whenever you're ready, just walk about two-feet to the counter and pay.

Gale's is open Monday to Friday from 10 a.m. - 6 p.m.; Saturday from noon to 5 p.m. and is closed Sundays. There is no phone so just grab $5 and make your way down to this fabulous hole-in-the-wall diner.

Laughter may be the best aphrodisiacs going - even if you look like this guy.

Brad Pitt without a sense of humour = turnoff.

You can have the hair and abs, be a killer bed mate and have the face to make it as a male model, and it might be irresistible, but only for a time.

When working as a "waitron" at a greasy diner-style restaurant years ago, the large number of highly animated servers (yes, most actor wannabes), made hauling out plates of runny eggs, oily bacon and mushy hash browns tolerable

Trumping the funny folks working there was always the hiring of a hot new waiter. When a stunning fresh waiter arrived at the start of my shift one day, things were looking up. The man with the James Dean hair would be mine, I told myself. And, he almost was.

With our shift wrapping up, he asked me to go for a beer. Yes! Perfect! There was nothing better than hooking up with a hot coworker with whom you could canoodle in between coffee runs.

Heck, next to waiting for that big TV break while earning plenty of dough in tips, crushing on a coworker and making out with them is the main reason some people even bother working at a bar or restaurant.

While employees elsewhere had company cars, expense sheets and profit sharing, we had young raging hormones and a party at our fingertips as our perk.

So we went for a beer. Sadly, sitting across from him and his perfectly sculpted cheekbones, I realized half way through our drinks that he was dull, humorless and horribly monotone.

Nice enough, sure. Hot enough, absolutely, but with a personality of a pasty rice cake, my attraction flattened like a pint of stale beer - all that was hunky about him had evaporated by the time our glasses were empty.

As Valentine's Day approaches, yet another survey comes along, this one taking a glimpse into the potent aphrodisiac known as humour. Findings from the Ipsos-Reid survey (commissioned by Pfizer Canada) probably just verifies what you already know - funny wins out.

Laughter is considered the greatest aphrodisiacs among 92% of us, almost all of us believe that couples who laugh together are closer (99%), and 95% believe giggling lovers enjoy a better sex life.

Now for the grim reaper hit. While laughter may be the best relationship medicine, only 8% say they make their partners laugh once a week, which could help explain our staggeringly high divorce rates perhaps. This V-day, you may wanna get laughing.

Brad Pitt without a sense of humour = turnoff.

You can have the hair and abs, be a killer bed mate and have the face to make it as a male model, and it might be irresistible, but only for a time.

When working as a "waitron" at a greasy diner-style restaurant years ago, the large number of highly animated servers (yes, most actor wannabes), made hauling out plates of runny eggs, oily bacon and mushy hash browns tolerable

Trumping the funny folks working there was always the hiring of a hot new waiter. When a stunning fresh waiter arrived at the start of my shift one day, things were looking up. The man with the James Dean hair would be mine, I told myself. And, he almost was.

With our shift wrapping up, he asked me to go for a beer. Yes! Perfect! There was nothing better than hooking up with a hot coworker with whom you could canoodle in between coffee runs.

Heck, next to waiting for that big TV break while earning plenty of dough in tips, crushing on a coworker and making out with them is the main reason some people even bother working at a bar or restaurant.

While employees elsewhere had company cars, expense sheets and profit sharing, we had young raging hormones and a party at our fingertips as our perk.

So we went for a beer. Sadly, sitting across from him and his perfectly sculpted cheekbones, I realized half way through our drinks that he was dull, humorless and horribly monotone.

Nice enough, sure. Hot enough, absolutely, but with a personality of a pasty rice cake, my attraction flattened like a pint of stale beer. Without the ability to stir up the tickle bone, all that was hunky about him had evaporated by the time our glasses were empty.

As Valentine's Day approaches, yet another survey comes along, this one taking a glimpse into the potent aphrodisiac known as humour. Findings from the Ipsos-Reid survey (commissioned by Pfizer Canada) probably just verifies what you already know - funny wins out.

Laughter is considered the greatest aphrodisiacs among 92% of us. Almost all of us believe that couples who laugh together are closer (99%) and 95% believe giggling lovers enjoy a better sex life.

Now for the grim reaper hit. While laughter may be the best relationship medicine, only 8% say they make their partners laugh once a week, which could help explain our staggeringly high divorce rates perhaps.

You remember these guys, don't you? The ParticipACTION duo, Hal Johnson and Joanne McLeod are seen wearing their classic matching getups

Remember ParticipACTION?

The chirpy, high energy couple who often wore matching tracksuits while happily touting the benefits of exercise?

The snappy Body Break commercials starring Hal Johnson and Joanne McLeod ran as public service announcements during the '70s and through to the '90s. They were innocent, sweet, and always seemed like they were packaged for four-year-olds.

Hal and Joanne stood out for the cheese factor alone. Whenever my boyfriend wears workout gear that's the same colour head-to-toe, I can't resist belting out "ParticipACTION!" with extra emphasis on the "TION," because yes, I am mature.

Out of the slew of TV ads, a short 1973 clip showing two men running side-by-side is believed to have had a large impact on Canadians. Click here to watch:

"The average 30-year-old Canadian is in about the same physically shape as about the average 60-year-old Swede," said the ad.

Either Canucks were a horribly out-of-shape bunch or the Swedes were the poster-kids for excellent health. Either way, the message helped shake Canadians from their couches, or at least got them thinking about getting off their couches.

But, times have changed and even ParticipACTION has had to switch gears.

While the TV blurbs are long extinct, I was surprised to receive a news release from the organization recently entitled, "The folks at ParticipACTION want Canadian couples to get active this Valentine’s Day - and they’re not talking tread mills."

The release cites Canada’s Physical Activity Guide to Healthy Active Living, which recommends 60 minutes of activity daily, and "sex counts as physical activity!" it exclaims.

The ParticipACTION crew go on to point out that "physical exertion associated with sex is about the same as walking up two flights of stairs, and, as your spouse or partner can be your best exercise buddy, why not enjoy getting active together?"

They have a point. Getting horizontal is the most enjoyable way to slip in some exercise as a good romp burns fat and prompts the brain to release happy endorphins.

Says the release, "With all the health benefits, it’s surprising that only 59 per cent of Canadians have sex at least once a week. That’s a whole lot of fitness Canadians are missing out on."

Oh, sure, those long hikes in the woods are still good, but a good shag will also do the trick. Yep, ParticipACTION is all grown up.

If a cellphone's the only thing your hand will be holding this Valentine's Day, you may as well make it a pretty one

If beeping gadgets, buzzing cells and the horrible sound of your partner channel surfing is killing the romantic buzz, well brace yourself for some very sad survey findings.

A survey conducted for Virgin Mobile looking at Canadians’ attachments to their phones found that almost 40% of young Canucks would rather be rid of their partner for a week than their cell phone. .  

The findings, released in time for - you guessed it - Valentine's Day, also found that 56% prefer holding their phone to their Valentine’s hand. Surprised? Well if you're in a phone-obsessed relationship, perhaps not.

Personally, I'd rather feel the touch of a warm hand over a cold inanimate object, but hey, if a quick death to romance is the ultimate goal, keep on gripping those gadgets.

Ginnifer Goodwin (left), Jennifer Aniston and Jennifer Connelly decode & dissect strange male signals in the rom-com flick, He's Just Not That Into You

The words might've been a relief.

Or, they could've been felt like an angry bee sting when they hit the ears.

One simple line spoken in a Sex and the City episode proved powerful enough to be turned into a bestselling book and, most recently a movie, starring a big-name rom-com cast including Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Connelly, Ginnifer Goodwin, Drew Barrymore, Ben Affleck, Bradley Cooper and Justin Long.

You got it - He's Just Not That Into You. Ouch.

At an advanced screening for the film recently where the ratio of women to men was 98:2, murmurs of disapproval (guy does wrong) and thrilling 'ahhs' of delight (guy does something right) filled the theatre space.

As one character in the flick so candidly puts it, "If a guy is treating you like he doesn't give a sh--, he genuinely doesn't give a sh--. No exceptions."

Certainly we've gotten the message by now, non? Well, maybe not.

Countless women still make excuses for bad-boyfriend behaviours, waste their time on broken fixer-upers, and, the saddest reality of all, settle for less than they deserve.

"I am a wealth of relationship problems if you are ever looking for content," a good friend writes in an e-mail.
The kicker?

"My boyfriend is more interested in his Wii then me."

Is he just not that into her? Not so fast.

It could be the friend in me, or heck, even be the hopeless romantic that sometimes rears its gooey head, but I believe her boyfriend loves her, even if he's sometimes selfish (ie: touching a Wii gaming system more than one's flesh-and-blood partner, for instance).

Are we simply just trying to spare ourselves and friends from feeling the heartbreaking tinge of those six unapologetic words?
Perhaps, but not always.

Yes, if he's always out of town, only calls you for late-night booty, forgets about you come the weekend, rarely makes solid plans or returns your calls, well, you know the drill: He's just not that into you.

One woman was "dating" a man she hardly ever saw. Seems he was busy 24-7 taking care of home renos.

She was hopefully optimistic so nobody dared scream "snap out of it and smell the painful stench of rejection already!"
And why should we?

After all, our take on him was just a hunch, which meant there was a chance (albeit a microscope one) that our assessment was way off base.

Turns out, he just wasn't into her. Sigh.

Would she have wasted less time had we spoken up? Probably not.

See, the little white lies we tell ourselves work like a protective shield: They serve us until we wake up, take a deep breath, and realize we're worth more than we're accepting.

Until then, however, he's just really busy, getting over a bad break-up, going through a tough time at work and blah, blah, blah.

Turns out Michael Phelps isn't a super hero after all. Yep, he's just a human like the rest of us

So he took a hit off the party bong - big deal.

Why would any of us place eight-time Olympic Gold medal Winner Michael Phelps on a level higher than the one he's on? The one he happens to share with each and every one of us?

Yes, he too lives here on planet Earth and, as an everyday human being, this means he's bound to have moments of greatness but always, without exception, he's bound to be deeply flawed. Isn't it true that we all are?

Despite having such impressive Olympic hardware around his neck, let's remember that Phelps is a 23-year-old dude and, if we can agree that he is indeed human, there's a really good chance he's imperfect just like the rest of us.

That said, I am not convinced that he did anything wrong. It's precisely these kinds of so-called "slip ups" that make us perfectly imperfect. In other words, humans.

Phelps is not a super hero, he's a swimmer. Simply because he awed us with his performance in Beijing and stood proudly on the pedestal known as the podium doesn't mean he has to stay there frozen like an untainted and unflawed statue for us to look at.

Even so, Phelps issued an apology this week after a photograph of him smoking weed appeared in papers and on newscasts around the world.

Now there's talk of him potentially being charged, which in my view, is pure rubbish.

No, you don't have to tell me about the many archaic laws in place that one must abide by in this world. Seriously, you don't. They are on the books so they must make sense, right?

But laws aside, what we need to understand is that at age 23, it's mighty easy to forget about some of the rules, laws and bylaws governing our every waking minute and, more to the point, at 23 it's equally as hard to resist the urge to flip the bird at each and every one of them.

Seriously, the apology ought to be coming from the schmuck who saw this as a chance to cash in on a famous athlete caught in the act of puffing a bong, giving us the green light to to sit back in our recliners and wag our fingers at Phelps with such distasteful self-righteousness. Bloody hypocrisy.

The pot fiasco was the talk of the news room the other day. Most agreed it wasn't a biggie but one debater insisted he let the public down, abused his privilege as a sports hero and neglected his duty to be a role model to the masses. Wow, that's a tall order to place on a guy just because he happens to be a kick-ass swimmer.

Yes, Phelps got high. Yes, he seemed to enjoy the marijuana and yes, some horrible excuse for a human being sold him out.

Thing is, a little toke is hardly going to help his performance - unless of course it leads to a bad case of the Munchies and he can't seem to put the brakes on a Doritos binge, that is.

The majority of Greek men think they're sexy, a recent survey has found.

Perhaps it's the menu of stuffed red peppers and fresh fish, or simply the warmth and the inspired surroundings of the Mediterranean Sea.

Could be the adoring, doting mothers, the survival of ancient life-sized sculptures in which the manhood seems fascinatingly insignificant in comparison to the bold detailing of pectoral muscles, or the rich lure of mythology and Greek gods, but even Mediterranean fishermen working in slime, stench and guts to put food on the table have a noticeably appealing confidence in their movements.

Among less statuesque men, to whom the development of biceps and forearms is an afterthought, this swagger is no less apparent.

In Athens a little more than a year ago, a curly-haired man with dark patchy facial hair and a body that seemed partly mixed with Play-doh (perhaps from too much love of the drink) approached my friends and I in a bar without hesitation.

He asked if I wanted to to do the "blues" with him. Not knowing whether this meant a style of dance, a gentler way of asking for a shag, or if he was simply craving an earful of John Lee Hooker, I politely declined.

Although still uncertain about the pairing of the words "do" and "blues," in a sentence, he had a self-assuredness that made him seem interesting, if not entirely understood.

In Italy, long before the infectious term metrosexual was born, impeccably fashionable men have stood on equal footing with impeccably fashionable women. However, even as the men fuss about with their hair, perfectly pressed patterned shirts and fine Italian leather shoes, there is no aloofness about their manliness, as proud of their masculinity as they are their soccer stars. They believe they have sex appeal, and because of this, they do.

The findings of a recent Synovate survey echo these observations.

"Blessed with Adonis complexes, 81% of Greek men think they are sexy," the study of nearly 10,000 people (half of them men) from around the world found.

Meanwhile Italian men were rated the best looking by male respondents.

Could it be in the water? Climate? Rich folklore and history, the gods of wine and fertility? Whatever the reason, here in the Great White North, only 24% of respondents rated Canadian men as the best looking, and just 23% of Brits gave home-grown men their vote.

Maybe this boils down to the swagger.

In countries where we're all crumpled up and folded over combating temperatures that frequently dip below zero, mastering a sexy swagger is hardly easy.

Indeed the wavy-haired man talking blues in Greece had it down.

While not exceptionally good looking, hard-bodied or stylish, if he wasn't a distant relative of some fascinating great Greek god, his stride certainly told a very different story.

E-mail me at tanya.enberg@sunmedia.ca.