I have new boots! See?
Pretty, no? Prettier even because of the boots I have worn near-daily for months, now.
(If I had more time, I’d tell you about the very young, very pretty, very fey salesboy who followed me and Rob around the Chicago shoe store, referring to Rob as my man and me as Rob’s girl. I was too tired and irritated to thump my cane and adjust my monocle and come up with some snappy one-liner about how we could outqueer him any day of the week, about how, in fact, we were in Chicago to read from And Baby Makes More: Known Donors, Queer Parents and Our Unexpected Families. At which I wore my new, hip, young, boots. And which was a totally fabulous event, by the way. Hey, I just did tell you that story. Go me!)
I’m not generally one to complain about the weather, perhaps because I so rarely leave the house. Mostly, I prefer to exist in some kind of Zen state of acceptance about all of it, except for humidity, which I bitch about with the rest of humanity.
But these boots really make me long for the end of winter.