Who am I kidding? No, I won't.
Last night I had a lovely time at a joint birthday for friends, who are a married couple the Dude and I know and love. It was meat, cheese, wine and an amazing dance game on the X-Box that the Dude did surprisingly well in. Me, not so much, but I burned some calories, which alleviated my guilt in eating a quarter wheel of brie. Plus it was amazing fun. I love my friends.
We got home late and were in bed by 2:00 and I never was able to fall asleep, despite being tired. My moon time started and woke me up around 5:00 with aching cramps. I had to make several unrelated-to-moontime trips to the bathroom. Sprinkles caught me up around 6:00 and by 8:00, I had no choice but to go upstairs and feed her and Bea. I went back to bed and sweat under the covers and that woke me up, too. Now it's noon, I've been officially up since... I'm not sure, and I feel mentally disconnected.
I have a manicure/pedicure appointment soon, which will be nice. But then the Dude and I are going to the Eaton Centre because we both need shoes/boots. And that won't be nice. It's a Sunday a couple weeks before Christmas at the largest mall downtown Toronto. We're talking zoo central. But I have no winter boots. My only pair, which were three or four years old, developed holes in them by the end of their second winter. I kept wearing them and avoided puddles.
Some women love new shoes. I... don't. I look at every new pair as something new and pinchy that will hurt my feet and scrape skin off my toes or heels. My feet are also 1/2 a size different from each other, so finding a comfy and attractive pair I can afford, which fits both feet properly is a pain the ass. So I hang onto footwear as much as humanly possibly, mostly until they disintegrate off of my feet. And that's what happened to the boots. The soles broke off the front and were catching on escalators. And I looked like a hobo in them.
So before the snow comes, I must get a new pair. And I have to venture out there into the hell that is Christmas shopping season. Quel dommage.
Maybe a movie would be good after all this. My aunt called me to leave me a message telling me that the child in Hugo reminded her of me very much. Call me narcissistic, but now I'm intrigued.