Voice Mail Archives

I went out to see a band at a bar last night and that never happens! Live music! Sweaty young people! Psycho-surf madness! I mean, sure, some parts could have been better. After all, I used to do this whole "live-music-in-a-bar" thing for a living, right? Or did I dream that? I'm beginning to think I dreamed that. In any case, let's engage in a little constructive criticism, because I am now an old and cranky person who shakes her fist at young hooligans who ought to stay off my lawn:

Freaking somebody gave me Photoshop and I have had a headache ever since.

Oh man, am I ever a sucker for a nice, rainy Saturday. Especially in April. Rainy Saturdays in November are full of stark reminders of the winter to come, that-which-must-be-endured. Our eyes are still getting used to the lack of leaves on those blackened overgrown sticks we thought all summer were trees, and we wonder if we should get the chimney swept this year, buy batteries and water for storms, dry clean our sweaters.

It might not be the wisest move, but I have opened the windows. The weather channel says that it is 50 degrees, the house needs airing out, and anyway my cats told me to do it.

I went to some frightfully silly gathering the other night -- there were various beautiful people all in a room together, trying to help the rest of us be more like them, mostly by way of a ten-minute chair massage and a little extra hair product and eye gel, I believe. It mostly gave me hives, so I left after a few minutes, having ascertained that the only non-alcoholic beverages they were peddling there were measly little thimblefuls of Pellegrino. Thimblefuls!

The poor little house next door. All it wants is a nice relationship, someone to settle down with and celebrate the passing of the years. I've seen them come and I've seen them go, and she gives her heart to them all. And what is the first thing each and every one of them does to her?

I have large feet. Officially they are US size nines, UK size 40-ish. Add to that the high arches and unladylike width of my feet, and let's just say I am solidly rooted. Well grounded. Earth-bound.

I have decided that it is time to buy my ass some motherfecking clothes. I am honest enough with myself to know that I am not embarking on some great odyssey to make my wardrobe anew -- today's little jaunt is more than likely to yield nothing but a few more pairs of black pants, a couple more black hoodies, and maybe a couple of v-neck t-shirts. Probably black.

You know, sometimes I think that I just don't show the internet just how retarded I am quite often enough. To take the tiniest of steps in rectifying that situation, allow me to show you what I just bought online: