Faithful Reader Karen sent me these lovely photos of me at Halloween in 1992. Her brother had this annual Halloween party that was to die for. In case you can't figure it out, I was Madonna. And also Dignified.
That is my pal Sleeping Beauty's boyfriend at the time, helping himself to one of my cones. He was dressed as a TV dinner.
I'm certain everyone at the party was happy to have me LOUNGE across their coats like that.
You know what depresses me about these photos? Other than the part where I have no pride? MY TAUT SKIN. Look at it! No sags! No Panama Canal wrinkle in my forehead. Just tight tight tight skin. I was 27. I was a month away from moving away from Michigan, to Seattle.
Oh, well. Time marches on.
And speaking of time marching on, I have gotten on Twitter. I didn't even mean to. I was reading Dooce today, and she did this fabulous thing where her brand new, 8 million dollar washer broke, and even though she had a warranty they gave her a hard time about fixing it, and she has a NEWBORN which apparently requires a lot of laundry (which, why? Do they have a lot of wardrobe changes during the day? Are they all mini divas?) and anyway, she got on Twitter, where she has over a million followers, and once she complained, voila! Maytag finally fixed her machine.
Seriously? The longest sentence I ever wrote.
So all I wanted to do was go on and see her twits or tweets or twittererings or whatever and I thought I was just signing in and the next time I came to my computer I had 8,930 messages saying "So-and-so is following you on Twitter!" to which I say, why are so many of you named so-and-so?
So (and s0), I guess I have to start twatting or whatev on a regular basis, except between the hours of 7:30 to 5:30, because you KNOW my work won't let me on that Twitter. They won't let me on RESTAURANT sites, because I guess God forbid I might want to order lunch ahead so I can get back to the office quicker. So, yeah. I will be twitfree at work.
Maybe I should learn the Twitty verbiage as well, you think?