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!

Seriously, guys, they're my number four favourite...

Titles are so mainstream...

Do you know what I loathe? Tough decisions!!

Also, flying.

Let me tell ya, if you want to travel with a hair dryer and curling iron in your carry on luggage, questions are going to be raised. Also, it was a delight to have three airport officials dig through my bag, examining everything from my Spanx to my Archie comics.

And that was before I had a blog.

Who knows what kind of file the "man" has amassed on me... If you take everything I've ever looked at on the internet, every purchase I've ever made, everything I ever said on Facebook, Twitter, text, MSN, email, ICQ, Livejournal, this very blog... well...

Ya, this is going to be one of those nights where the post just goes nowhere...

And now we play the waiting game...

Aww... the waiting game sucks! Let's play hungry hungry hippos.

Today's the big day. Throw down. House jam. Box social.

I couldn't sleep last night. It felt like Christmas Eve. And this morning, I came bounding up the stairs, "Today's the day, it's finally here!!"

And somehow, miraculously, I am ready. Got my hair did, brows plucked and nails done. Called Irish, "OK, I have 2 hours to kill til Grey is in the city. How can I most effectively use these 2 hours to make this party even awesomer?"

"Grab a deck of cards," she replied.

"It's not going to take me 120 minutes to locate a goddamn pack of cards. Gawd!"

So I painted my nails, ate lunch with the parents, and realized this was probably a perfect opportunity to blog. Also, still haven't grabbed the cards!

So tonight, I shall drink my face off until I puke, in honour of Grey's and my birthdays. Your welcome.

No music today. I'm weary after crafting a 4-hour perfect party-playlist. And all the goddamn cooking. The birthday girl should never volunteer to be both caterer and deejay...

*O. I gots me a boyfriend. NBD.

Preparations must be made!

What my family is doing to prepare for the Apacolypse...

1. Mom is reading 1984 and contemplating a motorcycle licence.

2. Bro is quitting smoking and working out.

3. My Dad is building sheds on the compound.

Goddamn birthdays...

Can't sleep.

Feeling terribly insecure.

I hate myself when I feel like this.

I think I'm ovulating.

And by last night, I mean several weeks ago...

I really need more nerds in my life. I do pride myself on being a geek, and socializing with fellow dweebs, but when your computer gets infected with a virus, you quickly realize you're just pretenders, hangers-on.

What I  needed last night was a good-ol-fashioned dork, proficient in all the geek-arts.

By the end of the night, I had made up my mind to take it into a shop in the morning, and pay some geek to fix it for me. Gotta unsolvable problem? Throw money at it!!

But then Irish puts it into my head that I can fix it myself... Sure, it's a slightly complex virus, that needs more loving attention than a quick fix. But it's also a well-known virus. After sleeping on it, I awake, resolved to fix it myself. After all, why pay someone to do something you can do yourself?

It's kinda lost its timelyness...

Have ya seen {this} ??!!?

Here are some of my favourite lyrics...

Rebecca Black - Friday                                                              

7am, waking up in the morning                                              
Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs                                      
Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal                                  
Seein’ everything, the time is goin’                                         
Gotta get down to the bus stop
Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends)


Notice most narritive songs don't start with the alarm clock? There are a million-and-one boring moments in ones day. Eating cereal and waiting for the bus? Boring. You don't hear Beyonce whining about waiting in line at the ATM before going to the club.

Kickin’ in the front seat
Sittin’ in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

OK, everyone knows shot-gun is the primo spot, so really, a moot-point. And who the hell is picking up a 13-year-old chick at the bus stop? Although, I envy the girl, if this is the hardest decision she has to make all day.

It’s Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin’ down on Friday
Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend

Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin’ forward to the weekend

This sounds like it was written by someone who has never actually attended a party. Or, a three year old. Or random shit I would sing pregaming it, while doing my make up.
Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday
Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin’)
We-we-we so excited
We so excited
We gonna have a ball today

OK. She's not even using real sentences any more. "We so excited"? Seriously? How is this even remotely passable?

Tomorrow is Saturday
And Sunday comes after...wards
I don’t want this weekend to end

Now the song takes an educational twist. Yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow is Saturday. And Sunday comes afterwords. Wednesday was the day before last. Tuesday was before that. After Sunday will be Monday. Then guess what? Tuesday again. Then it's just three more days until Friday. Friday. Friday. Fun. Fun. Fun. Partyin'. Partyin'. Partyin'.

This song goes nowhere. 

Sad, hurt, angry and upset...

Originally posted in January...

So.... I'm not having sex.

Like right now for instance. I'm blogging and listening to Mr. Bruce Springstein like the hurtbag I am.

Like, I haven't had sex in a year.

OK, more accurately, I haven't had sex this year.

Let's not call this a manbbatical, but I'm def. taking a break from idiots and assholes.

Before this post turns into a BLAH, BLAH, BLAH I'm ooooolllllld, men suuuuuckkkk, will I die alllooooonnnee? Boohoo, Bridget Jones pity-party... I'd just like to point out that even the best of them with even the best of intentions, are essentially, cocks who think with their cocks.

So without further adieu (and because, shockingly, too many people read this blog for me to post details) here's another vague teaser, "Everything I need to know about men I learned in college"

Ironically posted six months later...

I've learned how to back-date posts.

Which probably means I will just procrastinate and then fill in the gaps at a later date.

I'm a busy journalist, what can I say.

Published six months after the fact...

Well. You know how it is by now. I stop posting when life gets interesting. Sorry that I'm too busy living my life to blog about living my life.

Besides. There are just certain things that a lady n'er blogs about.


And as for the report card? Exceeded expectations.

*editor's note: this is about sex! teeheehee. Aww... this was the makings of a delightful free ride...

Still accepting applications...

Good news! Tonight I assembled my "team alpha" in preparation for the end of the world. 10 people made the cut.

There are, literally, 10 people in my life that I would want to try and hack it with in a post-apocalyptic society.

(If curious... Thrifty, Irish, Brown, Grey, Silver, The Biebs, Sky, Irish Senior, Emm-double-you... you've been selected for your skills, strength, bravery, hilariousness and attractiveness)


(That's only nine, isn't it... you can assume you're the 10th ;)

In other news... I'm really into reading Mormon Mommy blogs right now.

How is this song equally awesome, whether I'm weepy and depressed or jubilant and content?



Also, need a tuxedo.

Surprised... AND delighted? I'm in...

I'm addicted to Google Analytics. I can't wait to come home and check it. I check it before Facebook even.

It's just so much delicious statistics! Hooray for math!

*Whine* why doesn't anyone comment other than Thrifty! She ain't my only reader! Maybe what I'll start doing is only blogging about half a sex-shenanigan and then will leave you hanging and unsatisfied until you coment inquiring more details.

*whoa! editor's note* that was meant to say sexy-shenanigan.

I'm really starting to feel like this is a one-way relationship. I'm doing all the work here, entertaining you and spilling my guts.

Also, Thrifty, I pledge to start responding to your comments.

Oh, so ya. It's ma beeday. I am, officially, old. It's time to put on some pants and be a grown-up.

The original stalker...

In October, election night, I signed up for a Google Analytics account. So I could monitor you scoundrels.

Then, completely forgot about it. Until last night. Where I completed the final step in the sign-up process.

So, in short, all of your moves are being tracked, as we speak.


I can seeeeee you!


Also, have double the amount of readers I thought I had... huh...