My shoes are set in space.

I like shoes as much as the next person, but not overly a lot and I dislike Mischa Barton as much as the next person, usually Jo, definitely overly a lot. So I was caught of guard when Shoe Fate happened between me and a pair of Keds on Saturday. Susan and Jo both understand Shoe Fate, this I'm sure of. Apparently my grandfather and father don't; they really laughed a lot when I explained the Shoe Fate to them. They also made fun of my new purse and then laughed harder when I tried to explain to them that ten purses weren't too many for one girl.

"Are you really writing in your blog about shoes, dear Toni?", you might be asking yourselves. The more salient question is "Did you seriously take time out of your evening to take pictures of your shoes?"

The answer to both is, of course, a resounding yes.

In other bipedal news, after three long months and one long scar, my dad is walking around again, with some assistance and is terribly proud of himself. As am I. He's doing so well that he may not even need physical therapy.

I want to be Rodney Smith when I grow up.

Rodney Smith

Me

If I'd gotten Deanna a top hat, this would've been a better tribute.

Danes and Dead Cats.

Am I wrong or is Danes and Dead Cats a great name for a band?

I'm totally moving to Denmark, in an effort to capture that elusive concept, happiness. I'm told their public transit is clean there, that alone is enough to cross the Atlantic for. I think the guy that sat beside me on the bus today was rotting from the inside out. That's what he smelled like anyway.

In other news, some girl came in to work today wearing the best t-shirt ever. If you're a gigantic nerd. I told her like five times that I loved her shirt. My fellow coworkers tried to understand why I was happy about a shirt that said someones cat was dead/not dead. I tried to explain that I wasn't excited about dead cats but rather the theorem from which this awesome t-shirt has sprung. "No Pam, I'm not excited about dead cats, but about the Copenhagen Interpretation. It's about waves and particle duality and collapse ...Heisenberg...theoretical physics. I'll just be quiet over here and get some real work done instead of flexing my nerd muscles, shall I?"

Smartness

Tell me the truth, are you really surprised?

Spending 176 million dollars on abstinence only education is a crime. Give me 176 million dollars instead, I could do something with that kind of cheese.

Adopt-a-Jo.

"My name's Jo, I'm terribly adorable. I've been looking for a good home, any takers?"

I wanted to play with this in Photoshoppe, but I hated everything I did to it. I even managed to make bacon-face, which we'd theorized was only possible due to my Irish, pink-skinned roots. It's the first picture in a while that I've been really satisfied with.

Have you heard?

Susan's totally into me.

That's totally my knee.

Possibly because I'm Irish. You can tell us apart because of the green hats.

Jo is NOT down.

We don't care, we'll be happy forever. Except....gasp...what is that written on my hand?

Sorry Susan, a gaggle of men stole my heart long ago. You know it's true because it was scribed onto my hand by a mysterious stranger, in permanent marker.

DDR

Barb tells me that one of his friends is performing some sort of musical number at the eBar on Thursday with DDR mats. That's right people, Dance Dance Revolution.

Where will I be, you ask?

Working. Like a sucker! I never thought I'd work at a place where I'd be glad that there was a sheet of glass and a couple of locked doors between me and the people in the building. Did you know that bus drivers in England have their own little glassed in area? I think they do everywhere, but at the very least, this particular bus line in the East Midlands where we were working did. As a frequent taker of buses now, I wouldn't want to drive without a solid barrier between me and the crazies I was chauffeuring around.

Barb will be there at the eBar, drooling over the DDR mats. He's a fiend. One time we went to a movie, Lady in the Water (which sucked a big nutsack), I believe, and after it was finished we had some time before we could catch the bus back. Barb decided he should probably bust a move on the DDR in the arcade area of the theatre which was, as ever, occupied exclusively by the prepubescent. And ardent DDR lovers, apparently.

Some old lady stood there and stared at him while he went at it like a fiend (amazed by his talent, Barb claims) and there was some little girl crying in the corner as this red-headed monster danced his hairy little heart out.

That little girl was probably me. True story.

I can post pictures again!

It was winter and I took pictures. I haven't snapped any Spring ones yet. There've been no baby ducks walking in a row for me to capture on not-film. Not yet.

Little Children was a good movie, even though the random bloodshed near the end really grossed me out. And these two people are ridiculously good looking. Share the wealth, would you? Jeez.

My Question for You

Does the world really need another Pussycat Doll? Aren't there like, 27.2 already?

I was going to nap. I had a long day at work that started before the sun was up. So I sprawled on the couch in my oldest, grossest track suit (track suits are, by definition, old and gross) and turned on the telly. There's nothing compelling on Sunday evenings. (Except BSG. But I saw the finale for that last week. OMG, etc. And I can't squeal about it properly, because I don't think any of you appreciate it properly and Barb, who claims to be a slacker and a nerd of the highest order, has fallen behind in his BSG). So I thought I'd just turn on the Food Network and fall asleep to the always yummy, Jamie Oliver.

I made the mistake of turning on MuchMusic. That channel really has crapped it up over the last couple of years. Or is that just something you think once you pass the age of 14? Perhaps I will test my hypothesis on Deanna, who can't get enough of Much right now.

I guess The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll is a lot like America's Next Top Model: vapid whores concerned with being sexy. And, you know, I love America's Next Top Model, but hate the Search for the Next Pussycat Doll on principle.

There was, is, a marathon on. A Pussycat Doll marathon. Now, I may have watched MOST of the first episode when it was on, you know, before. I firmly maintain, however, that that was almost entirely because they all got sick and it was really hilarious watching them try to be sexy while vomiting.

I'm not a good person. You're not surprised.

But then I watched one today and no one vomited (on camera), and then I watched another one. And then I started rooting for someone and I just thought to myself, "Toni, you are becoming emotionally invested in this show with more short shorts than you like to see in an hour of television, turn it off before your brain drips out of your ear."

I shouldn't be left alone. Clearly, I can't be trusted. Also, I feel like I've been working forever and haven't seen anybody in forever. The stupid shift I was covering means I haven't seen Deanna since Tuesday and I haven't seen my ladies in a fortnight. And that just makes me sad. Paychecks are nice, but so is having a social life.