It's mid-January and the clock is ticking for me to complete this first month's exploit. It's ticking even more loudly on a decision as to what the deed may be.

Ideas continue to trickle in from a variety of what I believe are friendly sources: "Buy a round of drinks for the bar!," said a woman on a barstool next to me last week. "Have sex in a public place," e-mailed a married friend. "Have sex, period," she added snidely. "Quit a job you hate," said an equally embittered co-worker who knows that this is a 2006 mandate for us both, not a feat of whimsy.

I was too hungover Sunday to deal with an Evangelical Christian service. But still, I hoped to accomplish some sort of derring-do. It was an ideal weekend. My son was with his father; a good time to do something that would otherwise embarrass and potentially scar him.

So I suggested to a Sunday shopping compadre that perhaps we could visit a sex shop and knock that one off the list. However, I realized that in order for it to be considered something new and daring, I need to do that one alone. Further, I think I need to ask the clerk a question, such as: "I'm allergic to latex. Do you make this in any other material?" or "Is this one-size-fits-all?" The thought alone makes me distinctly uncomfortable, but that's sort of the point of all this - testing my own boundaries and all. Together, she and I would just be two grown women giggling over dildos. And leaving her sitting in the car alone in front of a seedy business seemed cruel, to say the least.

Sadly, I squandered the weekend drooling over men in sports bars and shopping the spring sales. My most ribald experience was passive; watching "Brokeback Mountain" at the independent downtown theater seated next to two gay men. All most fun, but definitely nothing new. And the drooling, nice in its juvenile way, did not extend to speaking to a single one of the men. Kissing a guy from all 50 states appears unlikely. At this rate, I'll be lucky to kiss a guy from an adjacent zip code.