Yesterday was not as productive as I had hoped. Turns out I wasn’t as over my cold as I thought and totally crashed out early. I also ran out of butter and back-up fats, because, duh, I forgot to buy some when I was out, so baking came to standstill. I win at Christmas! I’m off to buy in a few minutes, before the crowds hit, well, every store in the city.

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My New Year’s Eve plans thus far involve watching The Apartment with a few folks from the Cinematorium. This suits me just perfectly because it’s my favourite movie, suitable to the holidays, but not treacle-y, and because New Year’s Eve is generally a load of hooey. I hate being out in the crowds and always have. My friend MF, a server in a popular bistro-y bar, refers to NYE, St Patrick’s, and Canada Day as ‘Amateur Nights’ and will not work them, regardless of giant tips, because they are just awful. I don’t blame her. I like being indoors, preferably in a private home, by 10 at the latest.

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Last night’s big dream involved my being Amy Poehler. Or, rather, Leslie Knope. A knocked up Leslie Knope. Who then miscarried. Then she wasn’t me anymore and was totally okay with the situation. Then she wasn’t, because she realised she was running out of time. Then she and Ben had a giant talk about kids, then determined that the decision could wait, and then biked around Pawnee.

I hate dreams like this because they are SO obvious. I totally want to work at the Parks Department so I can meet someone like Adam Scott!

Sigh.