With Superman's birthday fast approaching, and Xmas monies burning a hole in my pocket, and, well, fuck it... do I ever need an excuse to shop?

Current obsession: socks and tights.

OK, we can blame Aunt D on this one, who was my hook-up with the freebies when she worked for a hoisery company. Plus, it's a really inexpensive way of spucing up an outfit, adding a pop of colour and whimsy. And it's hella cheaper than buying new shoes! It's a compromise, see!

I've been lusting after red-tights ever since I saw 'em in an editorial spread 6 months ago.

It's the little things...

On my break, I text him:

"So what was supossssed to be a 3.5 hour shift is shaping up to be an 8 hour odyssey. I'm on my 2nd break!"

I hit send, then mosey on to Tim Hortons. On my way back, I realize... "EGAD! I forgot the joke of the text... 'So what was supossssed to be a 3.5 hour shift is shaping up to be an 8 hour odyssey. I'm on my 2nd break! Mo money, mo problems!'

As I'm deciding whether to ammend the message belatedly, my phone beeps... it's him...

"Ohhh poor baby. :) more money more problems :)"

Well... there ya go... must be on the same wavelength or something...

Jingle-bell rock!

I bought panties with jingle-bells on the fanny. My butt sounds like Christmas.

I <3 Victoria's Secret semi-annual clearance sale.

Pictures to follow...? Ya, fat chance!!

A confession about Fakes...

I'm currently subjugating Superman to his weekly torture of Toddlers and Tiaras.

And without fail, each and every week, there's always some kindergartner complaining about her false eyelashes. And the complaints are always the same: they feel uncomfortable, unnatural, itchy, heavy etc. But Mom usually has a bribe up her sleeve of candy, a new toy, or let's say... even a cat to convince her progeny to suffer through, with promises that "her eyes look much prettier this way."

But on what planet are fake eyelashes appropriate for a preschooler? I used to get crap from my dad for wearing tinted lip-balm in the eighth grade!

At 26-years-old, I tried falsies for the first (and so far, only) time. And they were uncomfortable, unnatural, itchy and heavy. A few drinks in, they felt a little better. I've regulated them to very-special-occasions only, much like fake nails.

What the hell are we teaching our little girls about beauty, and this so-called "no pain no gain". Since when is fake better than natural?

These poor little girls being waxed and plucked and spray-tanned and highlighted and curled and teased and weaved and fake-nailed and false eyelashed... jeeze, these 5 year olds spend more money than I do on their appearance... and go through more pain in their beauty regimine, to boot.

I think it was a commentary on internet-culture...

Psychoanalyze this one, Freud

Last night I dreamed I was in an auditorium, lights dimmed, a quiet din of anticipation humming through the crowd. The auditorium was filling up fast, and luckily, I scored primo seats near the front.

When all of a sudden, Rosie O'Donnell came charging through, giving big air kisses to the seated crowd, and scrambling for a seat. I thought for a second I should give up my seat. But come on, give up primo seats to Rosie O'Donnell? What has she done for me lately?

She was looking all slim and svelte, wearing designer threads, looking oh-la-la Francais with a chic haircut. And just before I could tell the day-time queen that this look is better than that bull-dyke-chic look she tried to rock after her talk show was cancelled in the 90's... I woke up.

That is all. 

Like Ah-nold, I promised I'd be back...

New Years Eve is vastly over-rated. I've had many a good night, but none of them have ever been on New Years Eve. Maybe there's just too much hype.

So this year, I celebrated the ball-drop by doing something I've been threatening to do for years - I holed myself up like the hermit I aspire to be, and spent the night in the company of me, myself and I (and a drug-addled dog, but that's another story.)

With my friends a million-miles away and my boyfriend stuck at work, there was really no one I wanted to ring in the New Year with. I could have tagged along with my parents, going to a party with the cool kids. And even my old stand-by, the annual bash at my Aunt and Uncle's was cancelled with them in Ottawa for a hockey tournament (dumping their drug-addict dog with us). And, Lord knows what Bro was up to on New Years... all I know is he stumbled in at noon, demanded Gatorade, and passed out. Then I spent the rest of my afternoon afraid to wake a sleeping bear.

So after work, I fixed myself a feast of Christmas leftovers, and finished reading The Help. I helped myself to a single delight from the Pot of Gold tray, then, feeling trés Bridget Jones, helped myself to a half-dozen more. After all, isn't New Years Eve about indulgence?

After enough time had passed, I headed over to my parents' house (I mean, I didn't want my mother thinking I was a loser without big plans. I got a reputation to maintain, you know.)

I arrived at my parents' house, my tiny puppy barking her head off at me like I'm some sort of axe-wielding maniac, while the big dog barely lifted his head, in his drugged-stupor. I cranked the heat to a balmy 72 - an indulgent luxury my 67-degrees father would never allow. I ran the bath, steamy cranberry-joy foam wafting in the air, and all I needed was the champagne - some bubbly for my bubbly bath.

And wouldn't you know, I couldn't open the fucking thing. I channelled my inner-Bridget Jones, and fondly reminisced of all the champagne I drank alone when I was single. That's when I really wished Superman was here with me. He always opens the bubbly. But dammit, what I may lack in strength, I make up for in ingenuity, and I opened that fucker with a corkscrew!

I settled into my bath (which was scalding, at this point) with a copy of Generation A and my champagne. And I soaked in that tub (fully-clothed, of course, lest you are tempted to picture me au naturel). I soaked for an hour, without anyone pacing the length of the hallway, banging on the door, demanding to know what the hell I'm doing in there.

I emerged raw and red, scrubbed, pumiced and exfoliated. I felt like some sort of New Years metaphor. But time for metaphorizing was limited - I had 30 minutes til midnight, and drunk as a skunk I straitened my hair and did my nails. The irony was not lost on me - all dressed up and no place to go. But I felt ready to greet 2012.

7 minutes to midnight I turned on the TV, and flipped around before settling on the tackiest of New Years Eve regalia's - Much Music's Electric Circus. I poured myself my sixth glass of champagne, and feeling queezy, raided the fridge and scored with some cold fried chicken.

10... 9.... 8...

Picture me, on the couch, in my jammies...

7... 6... 5...

Scarfing down cold chicken, the grease melting on my tongue...

4... 3... 2...

A little woozy from the champagne, but knocking back another glass...

1!!!

Happy New Year!!

And then he called. And then, my New Years was perfect. And I refused to hug or kiss the dogs, or my parents, cause I was saving that kiss for him.

Enjoy the year, make it count!