I will openly admit that I've never really followed hockey. Given my New England upbringing, I have always adhered to the Celtics, Patriots, Red Sox, Bruins mantra of professional sports fandom, but hockey was definitely the lowest sport on the totem pole - even when the Bruins won the Stanley Cup.

Everything you've heard about Canadians apologizing profusely for things they shouldn't be sorry about is absolutely true. It is both sweet, endearing and worrisome at the same time. Having someone apologize for no reason actually makes me feel as though I should apologize for their need to apologize.

I'd like to think, if I was ever in a fight, I'd win, although I'd probably run in the opposite direction.

My first modeling job in Paris, the photographer said, 'Tue es belle,' which means, 'you are pretty,' and I thought he said, 'Tu es poubelle,' which means, 'you are the trash can.' I burst into tears. He was not happy about that.

I love food. I mean, I really love food. I take pictures of my finest, funniest and most fascinating dishes, post them on Twitter, and send them to friends. I treat menus like classic literature, refusing to skip even one word. I read the description of every item, regardless of whether or not I'm interested in eating it.

How come I love having an episode of deja vu? It's akin to an out-of-body experience, I would think. It sits with me, happily, begging me to delve into my memory to find its match point.

I love having wine with my meals. And if I splurge, I'm going to splurge big, because if I deny my cravings, it just ends up backfiring on me, you know?