Okay, so maybe turning (gulp) thirty hasn’t been that bad. Maybe I did overreact a tad. I’m starting to suspect that I was treating the whole situation in the way that my dogs react to going to the vet.

There was a lot of kicking and growling but I was only inconvenienced for a little while and even got a treat out of it.
For one thing, it was the perfect excuse to finally treat myself to the thing I have spent years searching for and coveting. To date, I have purchased no less than three fakes in my quest to own one. It`s been my vision, my dream—to own an authentic Louis Vuitton purse.

Well, I tried to ignore it. Pushed it to the back of my head. Pretended it wouldn’t happen. Pretty much lived with the whole “denial” thing. But the clock’s run out and I can’t avoid it any longer.

I’m about to turn thirty.

And I am not handling it well.

I have never handled my birthday well. Maybe it’s because when I was younger, my parties used to always be canceled due to snow storms. Or...

Christmas is only ten days away and I don't have any of my decorations out.

I know I should be getting into the Christmas spirit this year. I have a great job, we're practically living in the North Pole (or as close as I would want to get to it), and my parents are even making the trip up for the holidays. I should be dancing around the house in my Santa hat and ambushing my husband with Christmas decorations. (About six months into our relationship, I realized that I was dating a Scrooge and since then, have taken an enormous amount of pleasure of saving all my Christmas decorating until he goes out to run an errand. Then he comes home and BAM! Christmas City.)

I've been back at work for a few months now, and so far things seem to be going well. The only real problem I've encountered so far is my Bruce Banner-like tendency to go through pantyhose. I'm not exactly sure what it is about early mornings that turn me into the Incredible Hulk, but I've gone through eight pairs in the last two months and its worse if I'm running behind schedule. (Don't make me tardy; you wouldn't like me when I'm tardy.)

There's nothing in the dress code stating that I HAVE to wear pantyhose with skirts, but I showed up for my interview here wearing a perfectly co-ordinated dress/cardigan combination, complete with stockings, pearls and five-inch heels.

I’m a little freaked out by my new boss.

See, I recently made my triumphant return to the work force. After almost a year of unemployment, I was offered a job as the receptionist for a company here. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity. Not only was it my dream job, but I really liked the people I met during the interview process. It also didn’t hurt that the HR department Googled me before the interview and then told me how much they liked my writing. (And, yes, I told everyone I saw that day.)

One thing you have to get used to when you live in Yellowknife is the wildlife population. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived where you can be walking down the street and see a fox run out in front of you. Or hear the coyotes yipping when you take the garbage out. This summer when the weather had warmed up, the bugs made their appearance and they were monster-sized. I'm certain that if the mosquitoes had banded together they could have carried me away!

When it comes to this city, the animals own the joint; you’re just renting. And the ravens are our landlords.

My husband’s annoyed with me.

Granted, I do something at least once a week that irritates my husband, especially since I’m not working right now. Before we moved to Yellowknife, he would come home and greet me with, “How was work, Babe?” Now his first sentence when he comes home is usually, “What the heck are you doing?” And the answer can range anywhere from “moving the furniture,” to “playing air guitar.”

My husband’s annoyed with me.

Granted, I do something at least once a week that irritates my husband, especially since I’m not working right now. Before we moved to Yellowknife, he would come home and greet me with, “How was work, Babe?” Now his first sentence when he comes home is usually, “What the heck are you doing?” And the answer can range anywhere from “moving the furniture,” to “playing air guitar.”

My best friend has become a virtual stalker.

Unfortunately, in this day and age, that’s not a hard feat to accomplish. With GPS, Facebook, and Twitter, not only is it easier than ever to keep tabs on somebody, but we openly mock anyone who has not embraced these social espionage tools.

A good example of this would be my husband, who flat-out refuses to open a Facebook account because “when Skynet takes over, that’s how it’ll go down.”