I hate shopping.

During the annual Boxing Week consumer madness I stay away from anything remotely resembling a mall and hunker down with my Pride and Prejudice DVD to blessedly lose myself in that state of mind known as Mr. Darcy (portrayed so wonderfully by Colin Firth).

Alas, not this year. I have a New Years soirée to attend. The last proper girlie gown I bought was for my nuptials, nearly two decades ago. Even I must admit it’s time to buy something new. I trot out dutifully to purchase a Glamourpussy-type frock for the aforementioned Black Tie One On event.

First order of business is to find a Tasteful Boutique that caters to my epic proportions.

And this is the main reason I hate shopping.

It is my first thought that the fashion industry powers that be simply do not make clothes my size, but in fact they do. A quick glance around reveals I am definitely not alone. The sheer multitude of Queen Latifaesque babes milling around me means a complete sell out of decent dress sizes leaving in only sizes 6 through 12 to languish on the rack.

I am left no choice but to go to a specialty boutique.

Bovines Haute Cowture for the Excruciatingly Rubanesque.

(A division of SouthWestern Tent and Awning)

Normally, I would be thrilled to be in the lower size range - but Bovines’ accommodating fashions lack a certain elegance. I try on a few gowns only to discover that there is nothing is as uncomfortable as the combination of spandex and sequins. The deep pebbly pattern left on my squashy bosom is reminiscent of an alligator purse. In the end I choose a soft, shimmery gray outfit that does not leave such unfavourable impressions. It`s bit bland but a few accessories will help. I find a dishy shawl with sparklies and varying shades of silver and black that will help tie in the not yet bought shoes for the dress.

Oh right. Shoes. Great....

Did I mention I loathe shopping?

Once again, the ladies shoe department are only left with sizes that would, on a good day, fit the Keebler elves.

It seems that I seek the impossible. A tasteful, silver coloured, open-toed pump with a low heel. Most silver pumps are enhanced a tacky chrome finish guaranteed to blind anyone in a five mile radius. They also come armed with insanely sharp high heels. Weapon of destruction capable of stabbing a charging male Rhino to death. This must be the ultimate function of such heels, since the simple act of actually walking in them cannot be physically possible. I wonder how the ladies who wear these are initially launched into the air and what aforesaid Rhino can possibly have done to warrant being assasinated in such a revolting manner.

Meanwhile, I beg the waifish shoe-girl to find anything in my size from any era. Preferably in a matt finish and with a low heel (under 5 inches). As I wait, I wonder if I might strap a couple of largish sterling silver gravy boats to my feet, but no... that would be pushing the boundaries of good taste.

Finally, a dusty box - the interior tissue paper crumbling with age -is dug out of the backroom. My dainty size 11w tootsies are duly shod by the astonished and affronted clerk (who is, incidentally, a size zero and whose mother likely bound her feet at birth). At the cash register, I get an extra 25% off if I solemnly pinkie swear not to tell anyone I purchased them at their shop.

Hurrah! The worst is over. Shoes and Frock are found - FINAL SALE stamped decidedly on the receipts. .

A silver sequined evening bag only just large enough for a cell phone, a lip gloss and my keys is purchased. The Superform 36-Hour Heavy Duty Girdle and a pair of Extra Tall - Hint of Noir stockings completes my foray into the fashion world.

I`m all set until 2037!

Alert! Alert!
There's a Shriner in the punch!

The last time I had to go out and buy a real girlie gown was my for my wedding. For my nuptials I choose the Groom and the Dress - the rest of it was out of my control. Mom took over.

All that aside, I have to find a gorgerous outfit for New Years. Since the kids were born I haven't really been much for going out, getting inebriated and kissing complete strangers, but since one of my New Years Resolutions is to drink more, this seems like a good start.

In my experience, nobody throws a shin-dig like a bunch of Shriners, so we're heading out to one of their soirees. Who am I to say no? Fez's are totally hot. The Shriners make a damn fine Christmas fruitcake too.

A quick glance through the ol' tickle trunk reveals I possess nothing elegant enough to go with a Black Tie event. I have some nice outfits, but nothing that will scream Little Black Dress/Happy 2008/ohmygoodnessthere'sachampagnecorkinmycleavage.

Gown also means shoes, hosiery, matching bag and a funky do, and sparklies.

Hmmmm.... A quick shower, a spritze of Red Door, my standby party togs and a flippy hairclip isn't going to cut it.

Right. First thing tomorrow morning I have to know one thing.
Do Tent and Awning stores sell black velvet?

Stay tuned...

With the passing of my mother last June, and the fact I am the only daughter, I belatedly realised I am now the Matriarch of my immediate family.

So, with the help of my football playing sons and the Hub, we lugged a roast the size of Calgary and a sack of Taters up to the ol' Homestead-Condo and rustled up a Christmas dinner for my Bachelor Brother, my divorced Brother and my Bachelor nephew, and widower Dad.

Eight place settings and I was STILL the only chick in the room.

As Matriach there is a perverse pleasure in ordering a group of guys to drop what they are doing, git their fannies into the dining room and nag them into eating far too much before you've even brought out dessert.

The only hitch in my nefarious plan to dominate the Menfolk via dinner is the Matriach of the family must know the intricacies of canning Green Tomato Pickles, a succulent chutney my revered Mother was a master of.

Next summer, I must attempt this feat or face disgrace.

With great power, comes great responsibility.
Now. Where's my damn apron.

G A S P !

Cards...done...
envelopes stamped...
and in mail....
shopping almost done...
most presents wrapped...
christmas tree up...
shiney ornaments on...
outdoor lights up...

g a s p !

must bake cookies..

F A I N T
Thud!

S'Up?

Well, I have sent a short story off to the Toronto Star Short Story contest. Winners are announced June 2008. That gives me 7 months to keep busy and not think about that.

So, I have also composed a list of everything I want to write for 2008 -2010.

Next on my list is polishing and registering a horror script I've been working on for a couple of years off and on. During lunch at work, I'm editing it for the third time, finding typos and closing loopholes, generally making it as flawless as possible.

My unpublished novel, Selling Ellie Bassey is going through a title change. I'm polishing the manuscript, writing the synopsis and drafting a query while pondering what agents to send it to. I want my first queries out by January. This is going to be my birthday present to myself. No more fiddling about.

Once my babies are out into the worldm hopefully finding work and sending money home, I have a rather long list of ideas I want to get cracking on.

For 2008 my plans are:
a YA novel
Another movie - low budget thriller
The Gramps stories (5 done out of 13)
A Vampire PI novella
and, of course, something completely silly.

Wish me good luck...
Send tequila.