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 I am afraid of everything. But, I am not afraid to do anything. It’s funny, when Samba Days gave me the opportunity to select from its seemingly endless list of gift experiences, rather than choose from categories such as Wine, Gourmet, Getaway, Body and Soul, or Life and Culture, I found myself choosing from Explore and Adventure. Yes, I passed up the opportunity for delightful spa treatments and tasty pampering experiences to harness myself to a cable 35 feet above the hard, rocky ground, and wear (an impressively disinfected) helmet that may not have been conducive to maintaining my hairstyle, but was beneficial in making me feel like a stunt-double in a Michael Bay movie.
 It is surprising that Cosmo never runs out of ideas for non-stories. So, it isn’t surprising that I’m about to follow the magazine’s lead, since I have no idea what to write about today.
“Your 2011 Get Gorgeous Guide.”
“Is Side Boob The New Sexy Cleavage?”
“What’s He Really Thinking The First Time You Have Sex.” (Wait. Thinking? Men can do more than one thing at once?)
If all these headlines were substantiated, don’t you think the world would have far more gorgeousified (well, now it’s a word), well-adjusted women who understand men and makeup? And maybe even a little less quadruple-boobed-wrong-bra-wearing women?
 Men, I am about to let you in on a very dirty secret, exclusive to women.
And women, I do this not to hurt you, but to shame you. Yes, you should be ashamed of yourselves.
Granted, I am a woman, and like many other ladies out there, have no need for shame in this instance, but am willing to take one for the team, if it could finally help fix this horrible mess …
The zoo … The pigpen … The molto-disgusto-sicko-yucko-grosso:
The women’s washrooms.
 It’s hard to write a story about being cool when you’re not cool.
But I’ll try.
I used to be cool. I think.
Dyed my hair black. Wore green contacts. Tried to make my skin look lighter. Hey, Snow White was cool.
So, what is cool now?
Well, as someone who has been on the receiving end of the rolling-of-the-eye looks from an 11-year-old, I can tell you, I am not.
I can also tell you that eleven is the new 16.
And 16 is the new cool.
 It was fifth grade. I had always loved piano. Not so much the sound, but the keys.
The keys. I enjoyed pressing them. It made me happy.
At the time, I had not yet received lessons. Of course, on a couple of occasions I briefly tampered with the instrument, and that was all I needed.
On this particular day, I was at school. Forest Park Elementary. Mrs. Warrick, the music teacher, led us down the hall to where the piano awaited its audience as Parent-Teacher Night neared.
And I wanted to perform.
 Have you ever turned on the TV only to see some animal documentary about lions or manatees or some sort of creature you never thought you found interesting, until you started watching the show?
Have you ever been at a party or a restaurant and accidentally tasted some food you thought you never would have liked, but you did?
Have you ever made a bucket list – a list of things you want to do before you kicked the bucket?
Well, I don’t think anyone can ever make a proper bucket list, until he or she has kicked the bucket… list… to another level…
 There has been a lot of backlash over an article by Marie Claire writer Maura Kelly. Her story focuses on Mike & Molly, a sit-com about two overweight people, and her disgust in watching fat people … do pretty much anything. First, I want to congratulate Marie Claire on a successful PR strategy. Publish an unfavourable, media-grabbing, society-polarizing, controversial piece, then counter with a series of stories opposing it, siding with the public-at-large. Well played, Ms. Claire. Well played. Second, I want to take this opportunity to voice my disgust in watching skinny people, do pretty much everything on TV.
 Ban adult ads on Craigslist. Ban the sale of condoms to minors. Ban shoes for Dahlia … Heck, ban adulthood for her too. When I was a kid I couldn’t wait to be an adult. I promised myself I would eat as much chocolate as I wanted. I would have cake and ice cream for supper. And I would go out to restaurants every night (presumably ones that served cake and ice cream).
 I am a vegetarian. So, no, I do not eat fish, I do not eat chicken, I do not even occasionally eat red meat.
(I may however make an exception and bite someone’s head off if I am asked the red meat question one more time.)
For the record, the dictionary defines a vegetarian as a person who refrains from eating any meat, fish, or fowl.
Common sense defines it as such as well.
People often ask me, “If you’re a vegetarian, why don’t you eat fish?”
To which I feel like responding, “If you’re able to speak English, why don’t you understand it?”
 Would it make any difference to you if someone were to say you only had 18 months to live, 18 years to live, or you would live to be 100? What if you were just 12 years old and were asked this question? Because that is what Heather Othick asked her then 12-year-old daughter Ellie - who was terminally ill with brain cancer. To which Ellie replied, “I just want to be happy.” So Heather never told her child that she was going to die.
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