Tales of the glue gun

We here at Vanity Fare feel a bit like Cinderella. Why, you ask? No, we did not suddenly acquire wicked stepsisters. And no, we were not visited by a fabulous fairy godmother who offered us as many wishes as teeth in our head (I don’t know about you but my fairy godmother looks like the Tooth Fairy and doesn’t laugh when I confess my inappropriate, extremely embarrassing crush on Shia LeBeouf. It’s his eyes; they’re just so big and deep I swear you can almost see goldfish swimming around in them. And who doesn’t like a man - okay, so he may still be a boy - whose last name evokes steak and Montreal and pool and smoky bars? Okay, so that may just be me).

No, we’re feeling all Disney-like over here (we’ll forget for the moment the Grimm version with all its amputated toes and heels) because we are off to a ball! And not just any ball, a masquerade ball. You do know what they wear at masquerade balls, don’t you? Well, yes, that’s right, dresses. And shoes. And underwear and bracelets and panty hose and, now this is where the fun begins -though squeezing into a dress you wore for your grade 8 graduation could also be lumped into the same category - masks. The creation of which requires one to embrace her inner crafter and reacquaint herself with Little Ms. Glue Gun.

Venetian courtesans and drunken Mardi Gras freshmen, eat your hearts out. We’ll be careful to come home before midnight though I do like pumpkin. I could lug it home on the TTC and make a lovely orange soup that would be just the colour of goldfish.

-Andrea