Workin' that last one

I have been gainfully employed in one way or another for over 30 years. It looks like it'll be another 20 before I can retire.

To say I'm officially sick of working would be to nibble primly on the tip of the most gnawed bone of the skeleton on which I hang all my truths...that is to say, it would be an understatement. Sick, I say. Si-ick.

Yes, it's the annual "daggone it I wish I could be anywhere but HERE, right now" pity party I throw for myself, to which you are invited by your sheer bad luck of reading it. The late-summer blahs. The pre-autumn melancholy. The very late indeed spring fukkits, in which the only truly productive thing to do is moan and whine about the unfairness of not being European, because THEY go on reasonable vacations and drink red wine at lunchtime and can still smoke in public while wearing impossibly tall shoes and nobody thinks anything of it, indeed, it's expected to be fabulous and full of ennui at the same time.

Speaking of shoes, because we were, if only extra-tangentially, I need some. Half the clothes in my closet go unworn because I have NO summer shoes. No cute lil' size 11's to strap onto the clodhoppers that will perfectly accent the pink floral dress that hangs forlornly in the back of the rack. No sparkly black sandals to match half of everything I won, or at the very least half of half the outfits I wear. No fun feet=-coverings, and that's a shame, because without the right shoes one isn't fully dressed.

In other words, I can't wear hiking boots or Vans with everything, though how I wish I could.

There's a woman where I work who just came back from maternity leave. She? Looks so fabulous it's criminal. The other day she had on these way tall stacked-heel pumps with a skin-tight black shirt and some fantastic blouse with all the right accessories and a CUTE NEW HAIRDO!, and in the midst of hating her because she looked so much better than 98% of the women in the world I also wanted to have the kind of style sense she does so I could up my game a little.

But me in heels that tall? No.

Skirts that tight? Also no, at least not without some steel-belted undergarments, which I do not wear or own.

Cute new hairdo? Please. I leave the house with wet hair, and it doesn't get much better than that.

So while I can admire her style and am nearly bowled over by the force of hot-shit sexy she's throwing out there, I don't believe that I'll ever vary much from the easy style of the half-hippie that I am. But, I COULD get some cute shoes. Nothing wrong with that, right? A new pair or three might kick the summer doldrums in the ass.

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To the men out there who might read this: sorry. This post was about shoes.

I'll try harder next time, honest. Maybe do a fart post or something. Or talk about boobs. Or sex. I don't know. Just come on back, because this is probably the last talk of shoes you'll read here.

For a while, anyhow.

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Also, for those who are wondering where Nibbler went.....you should read every day, and then you'd know.

Sigh.

Because you do not, I will say that the puppy is back with the rescue folks, due to a severe case of misery. Hers. She pretty much hates people. Loves dogs. Therefore, because she wasn't here, it was possible to re-adopt the older dog, who is having a total BALL at the Tiny House. Quite literally. A tennis ball is her very bestest fwiend ever, and she'll runandrunadnrun for it until she can't swallow her own slobber. Mmmmmm....

The cat is convinced we've let the devil in to the house, and is determined to try to scare off the new incursor with a tail as big as a racoon's and a low moan of molten displeasure. It's fun to watch.

So, yeah - no puppy. One new big dog. One unhappy cat, and one cat who is very glad he lives outdoors most of the time now.

Now, you know.