After I wrote my post about the radical unsexiness of being dusted
(while clothed!) with icing sugar, a few of you wrote to me to a)
laugh at my folly; and b) to ask me what exactly I DID think was sexy
if laughing and having a goofy moment WASN’T.

Okay. Goofy moments CAN BE sexy. Goofy moments involving high-calorie,
high-mess items with total strangers on the STREET are NOT so sexy. If
the hipster precioussss had been someone I was dating, and if I’d been
wearing something devastatingly low-cut (odds on a workday: NIL)
MAYYYYBE we could have gone for silly/sexy. As it was, I shoved a
donut in my face and looked soiled.

But what do I think is sexy? Besides all of you *cough*?

Well. I’m glad you asked. Because I can discuss this topic AT LENGTH
(and NO, that wasn’t an innuendo, EW.)

Before I launch into yet another list, though, let me say that when I
think of sexy, I’m not automatically thinking of sex (I don’t think
about sex! Who thinks about sex! I just sing hymns and clutch my
faceless doll! Which is not a euphemism!).

I understand that this is the root of the word, but I’m going to appropriate it here for something else. What I am thinking about is allure.

Attraction.

Sensuality.

Chemistry.

And other vague terms that will make my father twitch if mentioned in
connection with the life of his youngest child and only daughter.

But here we go. Because honestly? It’s time to reclaim the word from
the scary escort ads in the backs of free weeklies.

Environmental:

* That impossibly golden light right before twilight that makes
everyone look lit from within. In that light, no one has bad skin,
everyone has a tan, and plain girls look like Salma Hayek. (YEAH,
YEAH… allow me my delusion.)
* Phosphorescence
* The smell of the earth after a serious summer rainshower
* The sound of thunderstorms
* The smell of restaurants making crazy things that you want to
try but you’re in a hurry so you just have to close your eyes and
breathe deeply
* The crisp snap of wind in proper sailboat sails
* Bright, baby blue beach skies
* Sunrises with lots of orange and violet
* Sunsets with lots of pink and blue
* Crazy high waves in a storm — from a safe distance
* Snow! Snow! Snow!

Musical:

* Acoustic bass
* Cello — ONLY played well. Bad cello is like… bad jello. All
wobbly and queasy
* Male soul and r&b singers — Donny, Gil, Al, Stevie…
* Classical piano… Chopin and Mozart especially. And jazz…
Oscar Peterson!
* Miles Davis and John Coltrane
* Astrud Gilberto songs
* Old Cuban men playing pretty much anything
* Semi-trashy r&b/hip hop… but nothing explicit. That’s a no.
* Old-school reggae
* Cheesy love songs (Chicago, James Taylor, Paul Simon) that you
know all the words to

Decorating:

* Hardwood floors
* Snow white, high thread-count sheets
* Fireplaces
* Mirrors with big wooden frames
* Big soft couches
* Chaise longue chairs on the patio
* Giant windows
* Plantation shades
* Verandahs
* Porch swings

Places (whether I have been there or not!):

* Prague
* Santorini
* Carcross
* Greenwich Village, NYC
* Big Sur
* Edmonton River Valley in Fall
* Capone’s in Yaletown
* Cannon Beach
* Denman St, Vancouver
* Stanley Park
* Madrid
* Florence
* Any field under the stars
* Whytecliffe Park

Visually (on the opposite sex to my own):

* Necks just after haircuts
* Tanned hands
* Wedding rings (only if taken seriously… and then it’s strictly
observational sexiness)
* Jeans that are neither riding up under the ribs, nor falling off
the ass, nor tight, nor pleated, nor rodeo dark
* Bare feet with flip flop tans
* Freckles
* Long eyelashes
* Bright, sparkly eyes with laughter in them (not sparkly-eyed insanity)
* Surf shorts
* A beautifully-tailored, three-button black suit
* Close clipped heads (but evenly all over, buzzed… no fades, no
high and tights)
* Ridiculously tously hair that isn’t frizzy
* Huge grins
* Wry smiles
* White t-shirts
* Black t-shirts
* Pea coats
* No fear of dancing
* No fear of laughing
* The ability to say “baby” without sounding like Barry White or
Austin Powers
* hiking boots with wooly socks and knee-zip shorts
* Seriously rumpled oxford cloth shirts
* Beautifully pressed and startched white shirts

Flavours:

* COFFEE. Illy COFFEE
* Salmon sashimi
* Fresh cut salsa
* Peas popped from their pods, straight out of the garden
* Sourdough bread dripping with good olive oil and balsamic
* Limonata gelato
* Dairy Queen Peanut Buster Parfaits
* Sun-warm blackberries
* Pomegranates
* Coffee ice cream
* A really, really, really rare steak
* Fortune cookies
* Oreos
* Freakishly hot curry
* Pad Thai
* Southern BBQ ribs
* Linguini Carbonara
* Olives
* Lemon tarts
* Keith’s IPA
* Pinot Noir
* Patron

Okay, really?

I gotta stop there.

But feel free to share your own lists.

After work today, I went to pick up a few groceries for dinner at a market not far from my home.

Just enough for supper, really… I wasn’t in the mood for a big grocery excursion.

But somehow, in the midst of the healthy, meaningful items in my basket, a box of Donettes appeared.

You know… Donettes. Tiny, icing sugar-coated cake donuts. Approximately 3,948 calories per bite.

They are not a normal weakness for me, I have to say. If I want junk, I’ll normally pick up a bag of Miss Vickie’s Lime and Pepper Chips and call it a day. And if I REALLY want to go hardcore, it’s all about the Ben and Jerry’s.

Donettes are things of my childhood, things my dad would bring home after work. Treats in the regular groceries, scarfed before dinner.

That’s a nice memory.

And Donettes are nice things. Just these little bites of sweetness and air. Mmm!

But really? Each one lodges in your heart for, like, twenty years.

That doesn’t mean they aren’t ABSOLUTE CRACK sometimes.

So. Donettes.

On special, apparently, but I knew that was no excuse as I walked out the door with them. Still, the trip down the hill to my home was basically an effort not to rip the bag open and CONSUME EVERY LAST ONE right then and there.

And two blocks before I was safely in my front door, I caved.

I continued to walk confidently down the sidewalk, all Vancouver bounce and health, but my hand was doing a violent rhumba within the thin plastic walls that held my desired object.

And then… AH!

One was loosed, and just as I went to shove it in my mouth WITH ALL THE FERVOR OF A SPY EATING THE MICROFILM, I noticed there was a man about to pass me on the sidewalk.

An attractive man.

An attractive man in those nerdy-hipster glasses and tousled hair and a witty t-shirt and sneakers and DAMMIT I didn’t want to like him in all his cliche Threadless glory but he had those rosy rugby player cheeks and I WAS SOLD.

Oh dear.

And me with a tiny handful of lard.

Not that I am adverse to eating in front of men, OH NO… not one of THOSE girls, no way. Pass the wings, Chico. AND THE BLUE CHEESE DIP.

But Donettes, unless you eat them in a single bite, have a special power. A power I had no desire to demonstrate for this man.

What power is this, you say?

They possess the power to explode all over you with a mushroom cloud of sugary goodness — a mushroom cloud all the MORE HEINOUS if you are wearing a black shirt.

Which I was.

Pulling the Donette back away from my lips at that point would have made it seem like I was ASHAMED of the Donette, though… like I was sneak-eating on the streets, hiding my addiction to baked goods beneath a THIN LAYER OF CIVILITY, waiting to crawl into an alley to shoot up with Capri Sun.

But I couldn’t shove the damn thing in my mouth, either. Because that smacked of Trilbyville Donette Eating Contest County Champ 1993, and that wasn’t really the vibe I wanted to put out there for the oncoming hottie.

So I tried for the nibble.

The NIBBLE OF DOOM.

Because as soon as my lips touched the Donette and I bared my teeth to partake, I inhaled some of the magical coating. And this, in turn, caused an immediate reaction in my nose. As my mouth opened, so did my sinuses, and all at once I felt my head explode.

I sneezed.

HARD.

My shirt looked like the opening credits of Star Wars.

Like the windshield while driving through THE GREATEST BLIZZARD OF ALL TIME.

Like the black yet white-flecked pillowcase of a man SADLY AND AWKWARDLY afflicted with dandruff.

I had no choice but to do what I did next.

In an effort to minimize the damage, I shoved the ENTIRE spittle-laden Donette in my mouth.

And then the moment was lost.

Where ONE SECOND BEFORE I’d been a normal girl in black, suddenly I was a dusty, puffy-cheeked GIT with watery eyes and a stricken expression.

(insert sound of my pride withering like an unwatered ficus)

And my hipster Adonis?

He glanced at me in my state of disarray, grimaced slightly, and said five horrible words:

“Gotta love them donuts, hey?”

DONETTES, bitch.

Someone get me a kleenex.

And another shirt.

And a GLASS OF MILK, STAT.