August 23rd, 2007



So the comments spam on my galleries have gotten utterly out of control (mostly because I tend to forget about them). I don't *really* want to delete all comments, because there are a handful of useful ones identifying people and things (and I'm not sure it can be done anyway), but I also haven't got the time to slog through literally thousands of comments and delete most of them. I can't figure out how to make the Gallery blacklist thing work, which would obviously help, but, well. Not smart enough, or not dedicated enough, more like.

Anybody (where 'anybody' can be one person or several) want to deal with this for me? I will provide signed editions of books, name a character after you, buy you a beer, whatever, and also love you forever!

(By the way, whitewashing this here fence is real fun!)


ETA: I think I have enough of a Team Whack-A-Mole to take care of the problem now. Thanks! :)
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I have just done something completely unlike myself.

When I was in high school, I had an utterly magnificent pair of high heels. They were red leather slingbacks with a pointy patent leather toe, and the strap and heel were also patent leather. They were the most awesome pair of shoes I've ever owned, up to and including the magnificent Duo boots I've purchased over the last year. They had nearly 3 inch heels, and I'm tall enough that if you put me in 3 inch heels I suddenly become Tall. I loved these shoes with a passion hardly known to mortal man.

I outgrew them.

I kept them for *years* after they didn't fit anymore, just because I loved them so very very much. I swore that someday when I was rich I would have a new pair made to fit my quadruple-E width feet.

Today on my way to buy something to make for dinner, I breezed by a shoe store.

(You can all see where this is going, can't you?)

They caught my eye. I blew past them and stopped. I backed up. I thought, not a chance. I stepped forward.

I thought, "Well, it can't hurt to ask. I'll be disappointed, but that's nothing new." I went in, and picked one up, and thought, not a chance, but said, wistfully, "I don't suppose these come in really, really wide."

"What size?" they said, and I said, "40s, probably?" and they went up and got a pair. To my shock, they damned near fit. The arch was in the wrong place, but the depth and width for the ball was right. The heel was much too loose. "Uhm," I said, stunned, "maybe 39s?"

They fit beautifully.

"Come look at yourself in this mirror," the women said. "This is a good mirror. And you've got great legs for those shoes. You have tiny ankles."

It was a good mirror. It makes people look thinner than they are. And I do have great legs. Not so much tiny ankles as massive calves, but it all works out. The woman beamed and said, "I have really wide feet too and I have those shoes, but I didn't want to get your hopes up."

At the cash register, I said, "I *never* do this," which is very true. And then I walked out with my sexy, sexy shoes.