I should have tons to write about. I should have tales of turkey and thankfulness and perhaps some wacky kitchen hijinks. But I don't. Because...
The victim: One Charles David boot.
The assailant: A rogue city curb with nothing left to lose.
A small dog was held for questioning when the broken heel went missing. She was later charged with evidence tampering and given a good stern talking to. A raspberry was then blown into her belly and she was released.
So yeah. I tripped on a curb and my heel fell off, and I had to walk like, six blocks on my tippy toes, trying to not think about how much these boots cost and how this is the second shoe-related tragedy I've suffered this month, and also trying to convince myself that I am actually a very good heel-walker. And seriously: both shoe tragedies occurred when I was stone-cold sober. Perhaps I'm a better heel-walker when I've had wine?
Either way, it was upsetting. So I went and bought myself something to ease the pain.
Audrey Hepburn had it right. Tiffany's makes everything all better.
(And yes. I bought it my own self. For myself. Because why not?)
(And here are more parentheses, followed by more random out-of-order pictures. Because why not?)
Thanksgiving with the Amalahs! Jason, Amy, Amy's Dad, Amy's Mom and Amy's Mom's Surrogate Grandchild Who Almost Ended Up In Her Luggage.
Also turkey, cheesy potato casserole, asparagus, challah bread stuffing, wine and a big ass pepper grinder.
Again: I feel like I should have interesting stories. I should have set something on fire or sliced off a finger or...or...forgotten the rolls at least. I didn't.
I need to start lying.
Tomorrow, I'll start lying. Crazified fictionalized adventures! Fires! Vampires!
(Actually, why wait? Forget what I told you earlier about Shoe Tragedy Redux, because I really broke the heel while kickboxing a gang of motorcycle vampires who stole our dinner reservation.)
CEIBA: Oh Mom, shut up! This is just embarassing.
TOMORROW: I promise to do better. Stories! Humor! Less one-word exclamations!