Every now and then, when all creativity leaves my body like so much intermittent rainfall on blacktop pavement at noon on a sunny, 90-degree day, I check my blog stats. I feel so sorry for the readers who came here, all psyched to learn about their pet pecadilloes, and found only my rambling tales of assorted animalia, gray hair, and optometrist appointments. It is to those unfortunate folks, unable to quench their thirst for knowledge, that I offer my sincere apologies.
Mrs. Brady Haircut
It's not here. I don't have one. I can't give one. My hairstylist, aka The Butcher of Seville, does not give them. You are split-ends out of luck.
My Lilac Bush is Sagging
Most of them do, when they are full of blooming lilacs. Mine are not, nor were they, during lilac blooming-in-the-dooryard season. The goats ate them. I have no advice. I hope this is really about lilacs. Not some euphemism for an inappropriate topic.
Backroads of Real Cats
Whatever. Like there are backroads of fake cats. What kind of person wants to know about backroads of real cats? What's to know? Where they drive? Toonces is not real. What's the deal?
Shoes with Toe Holes
Somebody's got a bunion!
I Ripped Off My Blouse
Hey! Winona Rider is found my blog! Or not. Maybe somebody violently removed her lady-shirt, and wants to commiserate, to find a kindred spirit. Which is a bit disturbing, actually. Nobody here needs the blouse off your back. Keep you blouse on, already!