BEFORE WE START: In light of the devastation in Haiti right now, I am hesitant to post a blog about wine bars, ex-boyfriends, and sleepovers with girls that are not men. Since the massive earthquake occurred, I have been glued to my television set trying to fathom the horrific event. But I can’t. If I thought I could write something that would help, I would. But instead, I have decided to share this link, which lists a number of organizations we can donate to, to assist the relief effort. Echoing the sentiment of my friend’s Facebook status update yesterday: don’t hesitate to donate! My thoughts and prayers and every loving word of support that I do not know how to write go out to all those people who are suffering because of this tragedy. – Sean Robert.

This time last year I was batting a painful case of shingles. This time this year, I am reveling in a most delightful bout of singles. Now for those of you die-hard reader(s), you will remember last summer when I diagnosed myself with chronic singleitis. The result of which landed me in a relationship with a tree. Well, I am happy to report that singles is not nearly as depressing as singleitis; for on the contrary it is actually quite the opposite.

According to the official dictionary at RuggedFox.com, singles is defined as the fabulous mental condition one finds themselves in after being free from heartache and relationship envy for more than six months. It affects primarily the central nervous system and results in a euphoric feeling of warm and coziness and a heightened self-esteem.

Just like in coupled life, we all experience times when we are happier to be locked down than others. Well, in terms of my single life, I cannot remember a time when coming home to an empty bed felt so good.

This past month I have been maximizing all the benefits of being a full-fledged singleton. Like a latte boy whore, I have been bending over backwards for every doctor at work who orders a grande Americano. That said, after a small boy-fight broke out this afternoon with me involved, it appears I am going to have to start treading a little bit more carefully. I swear it was really an innocent mistake, but apparently I barked up the wrong stethoscope when I made eyes at my fabulous assistant manager’s white-coat regular. Oops!

Next week I am planning to wear a t-shirt to work that says “CAUTION: HOT” on the front with my phone number and preferred cup size written on the back.

Carrying on with the whole single and fabulous thing, when I am not steaming lattes or scrubbing toilets, I have been hosting impromptu sleepover parties with my girlfriend Joy and catching up with the Ex. Not once, but twice this past month I have woken up in bed beside a girl. I swear, if it weren’t for the flaming picture of me to the right of your screen, and forty-three seconds every other night before bedtime, I’d think I was straight!

That is of course until I take into consideration that I am not.

Anyways, luckily I had an extra toothbrush for her the next morning because I always keep one on-hand in the advent my future husband sleeps over.

In terms of my four-month check-up with the ex, I am happy to report that I am no longer running to the nearest wine bar after our appointment is over. That said, I am still remembering to look smoking hot at all times just incase he forgets what he is missing.

Prior to meeting him downtown for drinks, I received a phone call from my girlfriend Perry who asked me what I was planning on wearing. I told her I planned on looking unavailable, which in my opinion is the most attractive quality in a man. “Because when it comes right down to it,” I confided to her, “the difference between looking desperate and unavailable is just a slight adjustment of the face.”

Sitting across from him on a couch one sky train later, I made sure to maintain my unavailable face while reminding myself not to shoot back the glass of red wine in my right hand. As it turned out, once we finished “catching-up” I ended up running to the nearest wine bar anyways. Some habits never die.

But unlike previous times, this time was different; because this time I was not alone. Receiving a text from my favourite West Coast couple just after I parted him adieu, I made plans to meet the two of them at UVA for a night-cap. Traversing the twelve blocks in my Jay Brannan cowboy boots to get to the blue-lit lounge, I walked inside and felt for the very first time like I was actually Carrie Bradshaw, without having to fake it. Spotting the two lovers in a leather booth at the back, I felt the most gigantic smile grow on my face as I sat down to join them. The lady of the two, Rose, who is a Sommelier-in-training and my Cranium Pop Five partner all-star, ordered a five-thousand dollar bottle of delicious Pinot Noir for the three of us to share. Now that I work at Starbucks and am no longer a baller, I could only contribute $10 towards the final purchase. Cheers-ing we drank, talked and laughed the rest of the night away.

Waking up the next morning, I must admit I felt the most unfortunate side effect of singles: feeling as if you were just hit by a truck. Stumbling to work for a venti-size dark roast with double-shot of espresso before starting, I prayed to Meryl Streep they did not put me on bar; but sadly, she must have been too busy filming to hear me. Because five minutes later I was gunned down by a barrage of empty white cups shooting at me from every direction.