Reality bites. Would that I could be a Hilton sister and live a life of booze, drugs, sex and designer clothes.

*sigh*

But alas, I am just a working schmuck. Living paycheck to paycheck and working my face off to keep my head above ground as I live beyond my means.

How pedestrian, I know.

Sorry for writing an entry while launching my demons yesterday. Note to self: don't write immediately after bender.

For those of you concerned, I am not an addict. I just go out more than the average person. For the record, I recently started to drink a pint of water with each drink, if that relieves anyone's mind. I know my limits.

I bought a new coat and it's just brilliant. I haven't bought a new coat in 4 years. Can you believe that?! It's amazing what a new coat can do for a person's morale. I feel like I stand taller. It's so chic! Baby-shit brown (p)leather, to the knees. Fits perfectly. I also picked out a new wool winter coat, which my mom is giving me for Christmas. It's a coat year!

I let my mom convince me into picking out a new suit. Why do I do this? I try to explain to her that I don't wear suits anymore and if I need one, I can wear one of the 10 I must have collecting dust in my closet, but she completely ignores this fact. To avoid any longer period in the dressing room staring at myself at every angle in the worst possible lighting known to mankind (can't they filter those lights?! MY GOD! How do they sell anything with that lighting!?), I just said great and let her buy it.

I drew the line at pants. She's constantly trying to buy me pants. I HATE pants. I almost NEVER wear pants. I have like 4 pairs, just to say I have them, but I hate to go there. It's just not my style.

My mother loves pants. She hates to wear skirts now, which rips me apart because she's got the best set of gams I've ever laid my eyes on. She could be a Rockette. My father and I always try to buy her skirts, but she's all done with them. She's not having it.

Skirts vs. pants may be our biggest point of contention. That, and my expanding ass, which my mother commented on and asked me how it got to it's current size. I enjoyed that. I'm trying on skirts over PANTS that I wore to appease her and she's like, "turn around, let me see. What IS that," she asks as she feels my ass.

"That's my butt," I say. "No, it's not," she says, like I'm wearing a bustle for added padding.

"Seriously, that's my ASS, Mom, it's huge!" I exclaimed.

"Well, how did it get like that?" she asks.

"Probably from sitting on it and drinking my face off," I say.

"You have to switch to light beer," she says. "That butt has to stop."

"Tell me about it," I said.

And then she gets into my financial state. "How much are you putting into your 401K now?"

How the hell should I know? Does she think I open those envelopes with statements? That shit is encrypted, I think.

"The maximum." That should keep her quiet.

"Are you fully vested now? You should be fully vested this year. They should be matching. Are they matching? Maybe they match in January. Do they match in January??"

"I'll have to look into that."

And then it comes. "You have to save for a rainy day, Partygirl, because the day is going to come when you are my age and no wants to hire you and you have bills and mortgages and college tuition. Don't get stuck. You have to save now."

I. KNOW.

"Do you have anything tucked away in your savings account? Did you get your review? Did you get a raise? So-and-so got laid off. You need enough put away to live off of for at least two months. Did you clear up your credit bills? How much do you owe?"

"If you don't want to work, you better find yourself a rich husband. What about so-and-so?"

Thankfully this last one is very short rant because my mother firmly believes I should have my own money, married or not. She also believes I should get married when I feel like it, or not get married at all if I am so inclined. Thank God for small favors.

And then we get the glorified Irish son rant. "Your brother is great saver. You watch, he'll be the millionaire next store. Everyone makes fun of him for being tight with his wallet, but he's saving for a rainy day. You could learn from him. You should ask him for a plan. Put away 20% of each paycheck. That's how you do it."

At this point in the conversation, I am usually killing myself in my mind. Cutting myself slowly on a can of Diet Coke, dreaming about jumping out of the moving vehicle, you know the drill.

This is my mother. Welcome to the reality.

And I wonder why I jump on the holiday bender bandwagon...

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