Maybe They Just Craved an A&F Polo Too...

Is it wrong, or odd, to have dreams about shopping? I just woke up from an extended dream about shopping at a mall store (oddly, as I've never happened to buy anything there, it was Abercrombie & Fitch...), and so it means that I spent the majority of my deep sleep thinking about sweaters, and scarves, and trying to find the girls' polos... and I think we fought off a homeless man who tried to come in. My conclusion? I'm pretty sure my brain is telling me it wants to be much shallower than I usually let it. Let's be real, that's often pretty shallow, but apparently it wants to be shallower. And hates the homeless. Who am I to argue with my own subconscious? So when I go out today, I'm going to put on earrings and cute shirt, and take absolutely no spare change in my pockets, and drive to the suburbs to see a stupid movie. So ha! Victory.

This also seems like an opportune moment to admit that I have a helpless dependency on some very shallow blogs, like the ever wonderful www.perezhilton.com, the hilarious gofugyourself.com, where I pretend that I'm in the writer's entourage because she was moderator of an X-Files internet forum I was all over back in the day (and that's a separate issue). But let's not forget the execrable but incredible www.babyrazzi.com. That's right-- a paparazzi photos website devoted exclusively to showcasing the startled snaps of helpless babies that just happened to get borned to famous people. Sweet. Celebrity mommas need to look out for me too, apparently. At least they have security details.


Who I'm Judging Right Now: The genuinely in love overweight couple sitting in front of me at the Blue Rodeo concert last night. He? Wore a stained Buffalo Sabres jersey and a baseball cap over gelled and buzz-cut hair. She? Sported an extra-long bleached-blond perm, and repeatedly nuzzled into his neck while I tried to crane my neck past her crazed and chemically altered hair tendrils to see my favourite ever over-40 country rockers. Then he kept trying to put his arm around her, and let because of its width half the arm kept draping across my upper leg, where I passive-aggressively jiggled it off and he kept on doggedly trying to replace it. When they started doing those our-faces-are-still-really-far-away-but-we're-still-going-to-
kiss-so-we-have-to make-'cute'-fishy-type-kissing-lips-which-we-will-then-
smack-loudly-on-impact-sigh-then-
gaze-lovingly-at-each-other- in-a-self-congratulatory-manner kind of kisses (you know those?), I briefly considered leaning over and informing them that I was there to watch my still slightly incestuously sexy Blue Rodeo prance around the stage with mandolins and skinny "country" jeans, not their hideous display of fish-like blubber love, thank you very much.

And now I'm judging me a little again. Oh well! Off on my trip to the suburbs now- that should kill any residual thoughtfulness and guilt. Anyone want to go with me to buy a cute sweater?