No more drama

Let us have no more drama.

A cry out to the world, a prayer on my yoga mat, an appeal to whatever god may be listening out there, a challenge to the people I bump up against in my day.

Let us not believe that what happens in a hot, dusty city far away does not affect us. Let us not continue to float, blissed out and complacent, convinced that bad things only happen in other places, that those chickens aren't comin' home to roost, that what happens in the MidEast is only going to become an issue once the price of gas soars to three bucks a gallon and we can't afford to fill up our goddamned SUV's.

Let us not be fooled and frightened by the media (CNN, I'm looking at you here, with all of your endless looped footage of Hezbollah training camps) into thinking that somehow the peoples of Iran and Syria and Lebanon are the enemy. I'm guessing most of them want what you and I want, probably even less: I'm willing to bet they're not concerned (as I am at present) with getting new Lululemon crop pants or checking out the deep shoe discounts at Shoon, but maybe with, oh I don't know, some of the more fundamental human questions. Like safety, peace, being alive to watch their children grow up, not being bombed back into the stone-age by a distant and almighty and highly unpredictable foreign power.

And the thing that makes me the most angry, the thought that torments me - greater than my fears about global warming (see the movie Inconvinient Truth, and see it now, please people), greater than my worries about moving overseas in September and selling off all of our stuff - the constant gnawing despair that I hold at bay with friends, dinners out, books, movies, smoking a bowl, drinking, dancing, and sometimes just plain fucking putting it ignore for the sake of my sanity, is this:

That I can do nothing about it.

I feel fat today, too. But I'm not going to be a drama queen about it.

Flying solo

Apparently Mrs. Clooney, my partner in crime, has locked herself out of our joint blog-child.
I am suffering seperation anxiety and weeping into my pancakes.

Until she remembers her password, good people, it falls to me to regale you all with anecdotes, amuse you with my bon-mots, and generally make an ass of myself.

Not a problem - on with the show!

As we're shortly decamping for the UK here at Casa del Burnso (mostly for the yoghurts, but somewhat to purse post-grad acting course), I've been editing my wardrobe, and have made a most shocking discovery.

I have 20 pairs of shoes.

I had to sit. I was gob-smacked. Although the person I live with regularily accuses me of having too many shoes, I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that I had no more than ten pairs. Well, I would have been a big fat liar. And I've always prided myself on be less acquisitive, less consumerist, less of a shoe-mad whore than other women. Well the blinders are off now folks. And the view ain't pretty. I see visions of this escalating until one day, I become my mother, whose shoes are currently rallying amongst themselves to be recognized as their own independant city-state.

I just took 3 pairs to Goodwill.

But the problem is, I still don't have any shoes to wear. I buy shoes like I buy clothes - as if tomorrow I have to attend the Academy Awards. The result? Tons of vintage frocks, floor length ballgowns, and sparkly, high-heeled, CFM shoes. (CFM, by the way, are the kind of shoes which my mother-in-law, white wine in hand, refers to with a wink as "come fuck me's".)

Nothing practical. Nothing wearable.

Proving yet again that I much prefer the fantasy world to the real one.