2002-12-08

Alert the media, darlings – it’s Sunday morning and I don’t have a hangover. Not even a little one! In the spirit of tightening my belt so as to be better able to spoil my loved ones over the holidays, I have actually stayed at home the last two evenings. I’m also conserving money and brain cells to prepare myself for my upcoming visit to Toronto, during which I intend to make a spectacular mess of myself. Bring it on. OK, well, I am going out tonight, but only for a civilized meal and maybe two pints. That doesn't really count, does it?

Speaking of the holidays, baby needs a brand new bag. I’m officially putting “new purse” on my wish list, so get shopping, kids. My present purse is about to give up the ghost. Well, it’s not really a purse so much as an army medic bag, which I bought at a surplus shop for twenty bucks three years ago and have been wearing the shit out of ever since. I love this bag! It’s army green with a big red cross stamped on the front, and I can fit four bottles of beer inside! Alas, it has begun to develop a hole on the back from constant use. I need to request, though, that any new bag bought for me have separate partitions and pockets and the like. My medic bag has only one big pocket, and it’s rather inconvenient, especially when I’m fumbling around trying to find my keys at two in the morning, drunk and in the dark. It’s impossible to find ANYTHING in this damn bag. Things go in and just vanish. My bag is a Jimmy Hoffa joke with a shoulder strap. In fact, I’ve been known, after a few beverages of an alcoholic persuasion, to open my bag, peer inside, and yell, “Mr. Hoffa, my fucking LIP BALM please!”

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll just patch the damn thing. Why give up the opportunity for that kind of sheer hilarity?

OK, shut up.