Those of you who know me in my real life--my outside Diaryland, 3D world of excellence--know that there is no one who influences and shapes my being, my consciousness and my choice of cosmetics than the plastic fantastic Gwen Stefani. I long to emulate her in every detail, from her Dynel tresses to her perfect smile, which appears to be lacquered in several hundred coats of a high-gloss vinyl. When I look at her glossy perfection, I recall the corpse of Evita Peron, similarly preserved in coats of translucent plastic, forever on display to an adoring public (except when the body disappeared for a number of years, but it eventually returned, possibly of its own volition). I wonder who had that job--coating Evita Peron's corpse in plastic. Is that something one might put on a resume? I would like to hire him or her to preserve my own corpse, at such time that my body could be termed such, so that I can remain perfect and serene, perhaps on display in a glass case, forever and ever and ever.

And really, I'm just wasting time here today, because I've been given two reports to edit, and have no idea how to begin to fix them. I looked at their convoluted sentences for a while, flipping pages as if that might help alleviate extra words, but have not begun work toward editing them.

Instead, I am thinking about other things, in particular, the Keelhauler's good fortune with thrift store shopping. This morning, he decided to look for shoes to wear to Anthony and Lara's wedding on the 16th. He called me about half an hour later, having found a pair of beautiful, practically new Ferragamos that retail for $460. Of course they are his size. And yes, my happiness for him, while genuine, has a faint undertone of bitterness.

When I set out to buy shoes, I have the best of intentions, yet half the time, I get sidetracked by sequins or rhinestones, and end up with a basket full of shoes best suited to endeavors associated with expensive Las Vegas stage productions, which do not actually figure into my life. Perhaps I am channeling my inner showgirl. To wit, a recent purchase (see illustration):

ILLUSTRATION

If you can think of an appropriate place for me to wear these shoes, please write and tell me.

I'm going to go back to my task of editing the impossible documents. Perhaps someday, I will finish, and there will be much celebration.

And perhaps not.