In life and fashion, there are no coincidences. Case in point: our growing horde of glamazons.
She’s older than an ingenue. She’s plainer than a calico. But if you think this dame’s done, you’ve got a lot to learn about one feline frau.
One day, carnival carousing. The next, dust and ashes. Such is the Lenten kickoff dance.
So let’s say you’re old — somewhere between Bernie Sanders-old and Brontosaurus-old. Let’s say you’re a little bit decrepit. OK, maybe more than a little. Where are ya gonna live?
Alright, me hearties. Belly up to the bar of joy, because your daily dose of hope is here.
If I can avoid it, I don’t like penning two sad posts back-to-back. Today, I can’t avoid it. But given who’s the source of sorrow, I can’t be too sappy, either. Not if I don’t want a certain sleek little mink of a cat to haunt me haughtily.
I’m not gonna try to drizzle this with syrup, kittens. We’ve been battered, beaten and boxed about the ears this month.