It’s my birthday this month. Actually, it’s this week, in the next couple days. You can guess which one. I totally haven't worn these except to take this picture. In hearing that news you’re probably already more excited about it than I am. Not because I’m all bah humbug about being a year older. I don’t actually care about being a year older. Armed with wrinkle creams, cases of makeup, yoga, hair dye, and a great hair stylist I’m not really afraid of age. (And when the time comes I won’t be afraid of Botox either). I just never really get excited about birthdays. I stopped having birthday parties sometime in high school and never looked back. I don’t take the day off, or declare a whole week or month for myself when I expect to be treated special or given nice things simply because I managed to be born (which really wasn’t up to me) and not get myself killed up to this point. But the day cannot go totally unrecognized, so the one thing I do every year for myself; shop. ...
Shoes, fashion, kids, work and snark.