Well, I am just exhausted.

First, I did my little bit to improve the economy, buying a bottle or few of wine and Calvados. The recycling bin is very happy. It has fancyass tastes and is somewhat greedy. I think we’ve been spending too much time together.

Then, I did my little bit to improve Me, having all my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and so on. Being a girl is just so much work. It seems like I’m always dyeing my hair, having it cut, washing it, styling it, putting on make-up and accessories, taking them off again, waxing, shaving, tweezing, perfuming, manicuring, pedicuring (though not curing cancer or any of my many less attractive character flaws).

Men always bitch about having to shave their teeny little faces (and I don’t know many who actually do it every day), but that’s nothing compared to the acres we girls have to shave. And just think how bad it must be if you’re a transvestite. All the girl work and all the boy work. Not to mention having to find size 12 stilettos.

Woman’s work really never is done, is it?

I’m three years old today. No wonder I’m so immature!

I managed to do something to my lower back (not, as you would suspect, by lifting the bottle-laden and oh-so-heavy recycling bin, but by pushing the sofa in a non-Erica-approved manner, and now look) and am hobbling around like an 80 year old, all bent over. I even make little involuntary noises when I sit down or get up. It’s beginning to feel like a preview for when I’m an old lady*.

Bette Davis was right: old age ain’t for sissies.

*I have this fear that one day I’ll wake up and it will all have caught up with me. Wham! I’ll look like hell and/or Keith Richards. If/when that happens, I’m heading straight to the plastic surgeon without passing Go or collecting $200 (hey, I’ll be spending waaaay more than that). And no-one can stop me. So there.

Way to go, Barry!

The recycling has really gotten degenerate these days. It consists almost entirely of wine bottles, with the occasional mineral water bottle and empty jars of olives and artichokes and other assorted delicacies. Granted, the wine is pretty good stuff - no Night Train or Thunderbird (yet) - but it’s really the quantity and not the quality that’s disturbing in this case. Garbage (and recycling) are quite revealing, aren’t they?

I wonder if the recycling collectors look at the dissolute collection with disdain, or wonder where the party is, or don’t even think about it. Probably the last option: just imagine what recycling and garbage guys must see. They’re undoubtedly some of the most jaded people on the planet.