Even less by the time you read this.

This weekend has been one of randomness and awesomeness.

Bek and I went to the Musée des Beaux-Arts Montreal; they have a limited time exhibit featuring a bucketful of Impressionist painters. Bek being a visual artist, me being an art lover and Impressionism being my favourite era/style of painting, we knew we had to take the opportunity to see the work of the masters.

I saw my first real life Lautrec and Degas (my favourite artists), I stood in awe and I know what when I go to Paris (someday), I am not going to be able to cope with ALL THE FEELS that ALL THE ART and ALL THE HISTORY are going to impress upon me. I'm pretty much expecting to wander around the city alternatively swooning and sobbing, followed by drinking wine and shoving the best bread in the world into my face. I'm predicting the future here, so if anyone wants to come and hold the tissue box while I spend an afternoon sitting beside Oscar Wilde's grave and sniffling, or staring, frozen up at Notre-Dame, or wandering around Montmartre, declaring that I AM GOING TO MOVE HERE AND WRITE LIKE HEMINGWAY, DAMNIT, book your seats now, advance tickets are on sale.

We polished up some Christmas shopping, and came home. I began preparations for dessert for our Sunday Christmas dinner, baking up some ginger molasses cookies for a greater purpose than being just cookies, as hard as that might be to imagine.

We finally decided at about 11 o'clock it was a good idea to go out into the world and so we hit the Ostrich Bar, which I have labelled it because of the MANY OSTRICH HEADS MOUNTED ON ITS WALLS. I do not exaggerate. While we were there, we ended up sitting beside/ spending the whole night talking to a mash of guys who all hailed from former British colonies. I was psyched because one was from Melbourne, Australia, where Jill and Steve are moving. So I set about trying to ply them for information. We had a blast.

On the way home, we got our first French Happy Meals, which I ordered in English, patiently and carefully despite the never-ending line of intoxicated people in McDonalds at 4AM. We walked home, ate our tiny cartons of fries and passed out. Or at least I passed out, not before suffering the delusion that I was totally going to read another chapter of Les Miserables before I fell asleep. (HA, right.) Culture will always suffer at the hands of pints & exhaustion.

In other news, today is our Roommate Christmas, wherein we open gifts, watch Rudolph on TV and make ourselves a nice dinner since we won't have a chance to celebrate over the holidays together. Bek got me my very own Freddie Mercury shirt which she had specially screen printed, and Tom Waits's 'Bad As Me' album on vinyl. I'm smitten, I do believe I will keep her.

According to the internet there are 8 days, 6 hours, 11 minutes and 55 seconds until Christmas. WOO! I'm actually on top of it this year! (Mostly!)