What with my newfound obsession of photographing artfully clumped cathair on a baby rattle, I have forgotten there are other things to write about. Like, I have a husband! We do stuff together! Like Tuesday, when we went out on the town and I left the house in 3 inch heels. There is no photographic documentation of this, so here are some word pictures.
Taut, silky calf. Pink and white striped peep-toe heel. Smokin hot...
As in the pain radiating through my achilles and blossoming in my lower back as I stood for 2 plus hours at the Elvis Costello concert.
Sadly I never actually laid eyes on Big Mama, RJA and SAM who were mere feet from us next to the Wall of Sound, but I understand that they were similarly gussied up and crippled from sexy shoes, ugly drunk people and old age in general.
Getting old sucks.
There's also that thing that happened late last night that I swore to Caleb would never, ever end up on the blog. Because some things should remain sacred, I will honor his wishes.
It's going in the screenplay instead.
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