Booty Call

In the past few days, I've had a number of conversations with people -- conversations that they initiated, I might add -- about sex.

Those who are having it, want more of it or want it with someone else. Those who aren't having it, are hoping to have it.

I blame spring. I saw my first (non-copulating) robin the other day, so the change of seasons is definitely upon us.

Spring demands that we shed our layers. So, while we're at it, you might as well go right down to the epidermis. And while we're here, how about a little rutting for good measure? We are animals, after all.

God, even my cat seems to be a little more affectionate than normal.

I wish I could have casual consensual sex. It would make things so much easier. But the truth is that I'm not very good at it.

David Sedaris once remarked that what keeps him together with his boyfriend, Hugh, is a mutual fear of non-monogamy.

I get this.

It seems that in tenth grade when Sister Rosemary Carroll hit me on the head with a stack of test papers when I laughed at Tammy Osbourne for failing her test on the Ten Commandments, she knocked my morality gene loose.

I can only really enjoy sex in a mutually exclusive monogamous relationship. So sue me.

While I've tested the boundaries of casual sex over the years, the truth is that I have neither the energy or inclination for multiple partners. One's enough, thank you very much.

And I shudder at the thought of the booty call with someone I don't know very well. It's cringe-worth, like the "After the Final Rose" show on The Bachelor.

Anyway, I'm not judging other people's behaviour. Only observing...like a documentary on the National Geographic Channel.

In honour of this topic, I present you with this. A squirrel threesome.

It's Time to Lip Sync For Your Life

One of my guiltiest pleasures of the winter season is Ru Paul's Drag Race.

If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favour and catch up online before next Sunday's season finale.

There's no pleasure more intense than watching nine drag queens claw it out for a rather paltry prize package that includes a spread in a magazine no one's ever heard of, an Absolut Vodka ad, and $20,000 in cash.

And just so you know, I'm in Nina Flower's camp. That girl can dance.

That Scottish Play

No man or woman born can kill MacBeth, as the story goes.

But in one of the greatest plot twists in literature, we discover, along with MacBeth, the secret to the witches riddle: "Macduff was from his mother's womb untimely ripped."

I hope I didn't give too much away for you there. I figure you've had a couple of hundred years to catch the original.

It's just that I'm thinking about MacBeth this morning, because one of my Slipper friends and I are planning a summer weekend in Stratford.

She's my remarkably organized friend, so everything will be bought, done and paid for months in advance. Someone should just give her the economy and she'll have it all sorted and settled before 3:30 this afternoon.

Anyway, as part of my undergraduate degree, I read nearly every one of the plays in Shakespeare's canon. It was a joyful romp. Even the Tragedies.

And, even though I went to uni a billion years ago, I can still do all of Marc Antony's speech from Julius Caesar. You can test me. It's a party trick.

From my head to yours

I can't get this song from Wicked out of my head. So I'll do the honourable thing and share it with you. You can thank me later.

Time off for good behaviour

I've been feeling, of late, that I don't have much to say in my morning postings.

This is a fact that I'm largely attributing to over-work. I need some time off to open up my synapses. This past weekend away, while great, wasn't enough to fill up the tank.

I had a great conversation with someone about the subject of time off on Saturday night. This someone has a big job. Bigger than mine will ever be. He's the executive director of an international NGO with projects in developing countries around the world -- many of them in war zones.

His agency responds to emergencies -- natural disasters and the annoying ones created by humans -- and also works in longer term projects. He's the buck-stops-here guy for 70 staff at HQ and 3,000 in the field.

Like I said...big job.

He has five weeks of annual leave and he takes it all. More than that, he insists that the people who work for him take all their time off, too.

"You're no good to me if you're burned out," he says. "You'll be smarter, quicker and make better decisions if you've had the time to relax and unwind."

What a great example to set.

My boss recently took three weeks in a row off. A well-deserved rest.

This is almost unheard of in agency land. She needed to get a special papal dispensation to do it, and probably felt some angst in being away that long.

Imagine.

Heaven forbid that the world be without advertising for five minutes.

So, today I salute my vacation. Coming in May, to a theatre near you. And pray for the perspective a that I know comes from time off.

Home

I just spent the weekend with many good, old friends in Ottawa.

It looks like you can go home again. Or home is one of those transportable things that moves where your friends do.

This morning I'm feeling a little post-friend loneliness.

This just in

Another inspirational quote from our friend Desmond Tutu.

Nothing is too much trouble for love.

I guess he's never asked someone to get him a drink when they're in the kitchen.