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.