Dark Days

I've been looking for things to keep my spirits up. I've slipped into a bit of a depression. I can't believe Dubya's back in office...for another four years. I voted my little-- ok, not so little-- ass off and feel let down. I was talking to a family member and he said that his best friend has sunk into a serious funk because of the whole thing and my mom goes "You know how those artists are, right?" while eyeing me. Yes, yes. I'm an artist with a typical artistic temperment. Yes, I'm depressed because the American public cannot be trusted to vote properly. But it's made me more mad than sad. I'm just looking for a way to constructively channel my anger. In your face, Psych 101! Who says that self-therapy doesn't work?

So looking to cheer up and all that. Been doodling and being all artsy-fartsy. Also been shopping. Well, window shopping. By window, I mean computer. Coveting. Yes, I'm a sinful girl. I'm getting back into pretty high heel shoes. That's how I stumbled upon my recent link, Manolo's Shoe Blog. The Erratic Prophet loves the fabulous shoes, the Erratic Prophet she says. The girl loves the fabulous shoes, too. She got a pair of clunky Mary Janes with some heel and she wears them constantly. Even with her pajamas. While she's sick. We can't pass a display of shoes without ooohing and ahhhing. It's a disease. But I know where we inherited this disease from. My father, of all people.

Oh, I know, you thought I was going to say my mom. No, my mom hates shopping. I only just dragged her wardrobe into this decade, with her kicking and screaming, just recently (after many years of trying, mind you). She finally wears wonderfully flat front pants that don't taper at the ankle! I got her into pointy shoes! I know, it's like I'm a messiah or something turning water into wine. She even wears these things willingly-- dare I say it?-- even eagerly.

But, no, the shopping and the shoe disease came from my father. I believe, at one point, I recall him coming home with a different pair of shoes each day in one week. Expensive shoes. Ugly shoes, but expensive. He does not know the fantastic shoes like the Manolo, no. He's semi-stuck in the '70s. I've given up on him. But he can shop with the best of them. That is something I can respect. So, really, you can't blame us. It's in our genes.

When the going gets tough, we rack up the bills! Macys, here I come.