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.