Boot saga

In the last year, I have destroyed four pairs of boots. This phenomenon is less operator error and more a function of buying cheap boots. Witness exhibit A, purchased in October and worn maybe once a week since then:



The next pair, admittedly purchased for $20 at Ross around the same time, survived three wearings before I came home from work one day and mistook them for the above pair and tried to slip them off instead of unzipping them. Then this happened:



Not pictured: my other two pairs of broken black boots. The newer of the two had heels that wore down so unevenly that I wobbled when I tried to walk in them. The first broken pair was purchased at Payless several years ago but worn sparingly. The cap broke off the heel midway through my workday, and I'm not the type to just have extra shoes lying around my office. By the time I made it home that day, those boots went straight into the trash.

With these four pairs of broken boots, I have reached a conclusion: stop buying cheap boots, for crying out loud. However, anyone who has tried to find black boots knows that every website has approximately 4,000 pairs to sift through, and 90% of them are ugly. The remaining 10% are either unbelievably expensive, or sold out in the needed size. With my last decent pair of boots experiencing an unwanted ventilation situation, and springtime nowhere in sight, I was getting desperate. Then I remembered the Doc Martens store that just moved in on Burnside St. I've had three pairs of Doc Martens in my life, two of which are still viable more than a decade later. Why didn't this occur to me sooner?

The story of me and my Docs is a long and entertaining one. In the mid-1990s, I was obsessed with grunge music. Kurt Cobain was my idol, and I desperately wanted a pair of Docs. However, hundred-dollar shoes are not exactly a practical purchase for a sixth grader. Nonetheless, after months of begging, I finally got my first pair of the coveted boots. Here I am on the first day of seventh grade, breaking them in. September in Palm Springs meant that the temperature was more than 100 degrees that day, but I have always been a believer in fashion over function.



I wore those boots through the end of middle school, when I finally outgrew them. That summer, though, my family took a trip to England. I knew that the world's first Doc Martens store had recently opened in London, and I pleaded with my parents to take me there. Not wanting to come along, my mom sent me to the store with just my dad. Big mistake. My dad isn't a shopper. Rather than try on shoes, he will hold the box up to the light and declare that they fit, throw the money on the counter, and leave. Now here he was with a fourteen-year-old girl in a four-story building that sold nothing but shoes. This was an important occasion for me, and as far as I was concerned, the whole reason we'd come to the U.K. I was taking my sweet time. My dad took a seat somewhere while I scrutinized every pair of women's shoes. I remember almost settling on a pair of lavender patent leather eight-holes before spying THE shoes. They were the most amazing boots I'd ever seen in my life, and they needed to go home with me. Happy I'd finally made a decision, my dad paid for the boots and we returned to our rented flat to show them to my mom. She'd ordered pizza while we were out, and was excited to see which pair of sensible black boots I'd chosen to complement my entire wardrobe. I gleefully pulled these shoes from their cardboard prison:



In case the ancient photo doesn't do them justice, you are looking at the world's only known pair of special-edition denim underneath, rainbow-splattered velvet on the outside, eight-hole Doc Martens. They are the coolest shoes in the history of ever, and I loved loved loved them. My mom, ever the practical one, was not amused. My dad and I were both in, as my mom liked to say, "deep and serious trouble." I think she didn't talk to us for a good half hour before lecturing my dad on not succumbing to the bizarre wishes of his teenage daughter, then lecturing me on not manipulating my shopping-hating father into buying such outrageous footwear for me. The joke's on her, of course. I still have those boots, and though they are slightly too small 14 years later, I still cram my feet into them from time to time.

By the time I was a senior in high school, the desire for a new pair of Docs returned. My brother had gone to England earlier that year, and I asked if he wouldn't mind picking up a fun and unique pair to serve as my Christmas present. After deciphering the clue that read "paradox in a box," I unearthed these:



I'm sure my mom made a face, but those boots are currently situated in my closet, right next to their multicolored cousins. It's been more than 10 years since I've had a new pair of Docs, though, and I was a little overwhelmed by the selection available to me. Finally, I set my sights on some sophisticated knee-high boots with a mid-heel and a side detail. I asked for my size, but these boots have been discontinued and only a few pairs were left in each color. Defeated, I tried on a different style. The leather was much too thick, the tops of the boots scraped the bottoms of my knees, and the size eights were much too small for comfort. I asked if they had the original boots in a nine. Sure enough, they had both the red and the black ones in that size. I asked to try them both. Hearing my mother's voice in my head, I tried to choose carefully. The stylish red ones or the practical black ones? The pair that would match nearly all of my clothes, or the pair that would stand out by matching almost nothing? Oh to hell with it. I'm a grownup and I'm sick of having cheap boots that don't last. Wrap 'em both up.



Let's face it. Momma raised a shoe queen. But you have to admit, they look pretty fabulous.



Personal note to my mom, my inner teenager told me to buy this pair instead. I told her to keep her hands off my credit card and go wait outside.

Awake! Productive!

Up by 8:15 this morning to have breakfast in NE with one of Bobby's coworkers before they went off to the car show. I have elected to relax at home for a while, as I don't care about cars and have had a long week.

Tara cut my hair and colored it red yesterday, and we met back up at Roadside Attraction for her birthday party. She had a super delicious cake, made by Kim, which had the best raspberry frosting of all time. I ate two giant slices of it.

Friday night, Bobby decided to make stew and cornbread while I finished my review of the Ra Ra Riot/Givers show. ETA: Review is up. More relaxing and lounging around, because I have had trouble sleeping lately. I hope that problem sorts itself out, as I am not the most pleasant companion when I haven't slept.

Thursday night, Milena was back in town filming segments for an upcoming TV show, and I sent Matt and Patrick to serve as production assistants for her. They came to collect me, and we had dinner at Laughing Planet, followed by frozen yogurt at Swirl. Unfortunately she was staying at a cut-rate motel out in Tigard, so I had to part ways with her prematurely.

Wednesday was Nick's big show. He was playing at the Hawthorne Theatre, which is notoriously packed with teenagers every night. This show was no exception, as Ra Ra Riot are immensely popular with the under-18 set. I wasn't really there to see them, though. Photographer Troy and I hung out together, as we were by far the oldest people in the audience. Many of the teenagers had smuggled booze inside the venue despite pat-downs and purse-checks at the door, and one attendee spent much of the night hovering over the trash can to the right of where we stood. We were prepared to grab our bags and make a run for it if anything unfortunate happened, but to our relief (although perhaps not the trash can hugger's relief), nothing did. Back in my day, teenagers could hold their liquor. Anyway, Nick's performance with Givers was amazing. My review isn't posted yet, but check out the following video as a sneak-preview. He wasn't playing with them at the time, but you get the idea:



Earlier events this week include movie night at the Ringers', where we watched the Monkees' exercise in psychedelia, "Head." Brought Jonathan and Conor along as an into to movie night before they attend the annual Rocky Horror festival with us later this year. Bobby has suggested a number of high-brow films for future movie nights, though they may not be accepted. I threw my vote behind "Children of Men," because it represents my favorite kind of so-called dystopia. Bring it on, says I. Well, perhaps without the police state.

Took Leaky to the vet on Monday. She's on some medication again because the poor old girl is down to five pounds. There's not much cat left, though she's still getting around, eating food, drinking water, and hissing at Georgia. Nonetheless, the vet has requested that we "begin discussing euthanasia." I know she's right, and that Leaky's quality of life is decreasing, but it's still a tough decision to make. She's been the one constant in my life for the last seven years. Like any responsible pet owner, though, I have to let her go when it's time to let her go. Sorry to end this post on a down note, but we are where we are. Little elderly kitty, you're still the Queen of France.

Exhausting weeks are the best weeks

Where to begin? Tuesday night, I went skating with Liz and Sarah. Something was slightly amiss as my joints were creaky and my body didn't want to move properly. My form was off, and my skating was choppy. Either I'm out of practice or it was an off night.

Wednesday was a bit of a fiasco in terms of The Head and the Heart show. I arrived, wasn't on the list, and waited a few minutes for the editor - and the night's photographer - to show up. More list difficulty sent us down the street to Ron Toms for a while in order to wait for word from the label. Back up the street at Doug Fir, we were herded in the door just as the first performer began to play. My review is posted here. I was quite tired by the end of the night, but I made it through to the encore before making my way home. The universe was kind enough to decide I don't need any sleep, so I stared at the clock for much of the night and accidentally got out of bed 15 minutes ahead of schedule the following morning.

Spent Thursday evening composing my review and trying not to pass out on my keyboard. Friday night, Lorien and I had a standing date to grab "Mexican" food (read: Laughing Planet) and go see a movie. We ended up racing down to Clackamas to watch Tangled, which was, in fact, as great as it was hyped to be. I enjoyed it quite a bit.

Got home just before midnight and woke up the next morning to bake some red velvet cupcakes for Jonathan's birthday. Left them cooling on the counter while I nipped off to a friend's birthday party for her one-year-old. Hid in the kitchen most of the time, as the living room was overrun with small children, and those make me uncomfortable in large groups. Raced back home to frost my cupcakes (buttercream frosting dipped in a mixture of purple sprinkles and red sugar sparkles) and change my clothes before heading over the river for Jonathan's birthday dinner party. Arrived at 6:32 and saw lasagna being crafted. Alas, they forgot I was vegetarian, but Jonathan's friend Shanell is an absolute culinary genius and tossed something delicious together for me. I really hate being a special-needs dinner guest and would have been happy with just the salad, but it was very nice of them to accommodate me. After dinner, Bobby and I joined Jonathan, Conor, and Shanell at the East End to see the boys' friend's band play. The band wasn't on for several hours, so we walked down to Rotture to have our hands stamped for Blow Pony and get some dancing in. This was the first time I'd been to Blow Pony, and it was totally awesome. Friendly people, good music (Lady Gaga, Le Tigre, Britney, etc.), and reasonable prices. Danced until just before 1:00 before we ran out of steam and headed home. Unfortunately we missed the band, but I couldn't stand in my party shoes anymore and had left my commuter flats in the car. Made it home and I hobbled up the driveway in my tights, showered away the sweaty club-ness, and collapsed into bed.

Today is my day to play catch-up. I slept in, lounged around watching HGTV, wandered around Lowe's looking for a kitchen rug, and have plans for stir-fry dinner. On the agenda for the upcoming week: take Leaky to the vet, movie night for Tara's birthday, go see Nick's appearance with The Givers, write the review, celebrate Tara's birthday some more, and cap off the week with Marie's birthday dinner. Busy busy busy, that's my life.

On to the reviews!

My review of the Wild Flag show is here. BRB, signing up for the Critic Protection Service to keep angry fans with pitchforks (or angry fans from Pitchfork) away from me. Hey, I calls it like I sees it, and if your show is so bad I have a headache for two days afterwards, I ain't gonna sugarcoat it.

I've had a special request to review last night's episode of Big Love (shout-out to JR!), so here goes. Don't read the following paragraph if you're a fan of the show and haven't caught up!

Sad movies and their antidotes

For some reason, last week seemed to stretch on forever. The city was covered in a thin layer of ice on Tuesday, resulting in lengthy transit delays due to chains. Bobby's bus wasn't running by the time his class ended, so he asked me to pick him up from the Woodstock Laughing Planet. It took forever to scrape the arctic blast off my windshield, but I crept along slowly but surely to fetch him.

We spent more than six hours at Bunk Bar on Wednesday night to see Wild Flag play. Bunk Bar is incredibly difficult to find, as Google Maps lists it at Bunk Sandwiches on Morrison. That's not where it is, though. It's down along the waterfont across from the hoity-toity clarklewis restaurant. Fortunately our friend Vince had been eating dinner at Bunk, and was kind enough to stay put until we arrived to take over his table. My review of the show should be up on Melophobe tomorrowish. Spoiler alert: the show was atrocious. The best part of the evening was when a pair of neuroscientists asked to share our table. They were interesting, and kind enough to share their french fries with us in exchange for the seat. Less awesome: Bunk Bar charging 8 bucks for an under-poured glass of wine. I know the neighborhood is getting gentrified and all, but there are still homeless people sleeping under the adjacent bridge. 8 bucks is not a justifiable price. I switched to beer.

I met Conor and Jonathan after work on Friday for drinks and snacks at Bridgeport. We were joined later by Lorien, who watched Blue Valentine with us. She was nice enough to let me hug on her arm during a particularly difficult scene or two. The night was still young, so the boys and I went to the Hutch for some karaoke. I sang my new standard, "Mother," and tried a Pink song. Jonathan sang "Modern Love," and he and I did a somewhat sloppy duet of Pulp's "Common People." Bobby, who had been playing poker at boys' night, came to collect me at the end of the evening.

It's been a lazy weekend in general. We had dinner at Laughing Planet last night, and spent today bumming around the house. I got an email full of recipes from my mom, including one for frittatas. Drawing inspiration from that, I chopped up some vegetables, threw them in some small baking dishes, poured eggs over that, and sprinkled cheese on top. 30 minutes later, they looked like this:



Ingredients: grape tomatoes, spinach, crimini mushrooms, broccoli, red bell pepper, four eggs, cheddar cheese (for Bobby), swiss cheese (for me). Bake at 425 for 30 minutes, and enjoy delicious dinner. Bobby also made some potato pancake-type things that were super tasty, but I ate mine too fast for photos.

Agenda for this week: The Head and the Heart and Kelli Schaeffer at Doug Fir, possibly Pub Quiz. The topic is words. I would annihilate everybody.

Celebrations all around!

Last week marked my 10th year as a vegetarian, so Bobby and I had tasty sushi at Yoko's to celebrate. We learned Milena would be coming to town for a 24-hour period, and took her with us to make some pizza and watch some True Blood with some friends upon her arrival. She's a big fancy television producer, so I never get to see her often enough. We had a nice low-key evening:



We also filmed a bit of our own ridiculous cooking show involving me punching pizza dough. Apparently that's part of the process? The video will not see the light of day, as it is rife with rude words. Rest assured, though, we are very funny cooks.

Tara met Bobby and me for breakfast at Genie's on Sunday. Genie's has me spoiled on good breakfast, and now nothing can meet my impossibly high standards. This happened in Santa Cruz with Zachary's and Cafe Brasil. Fortunately it's reasonably close to my house.

Portland was awash in college football fever last night, so Bobby and I elected to go see a movie because we don't care about sports at all. Despite the Coen Brothers' tendency to film close-ups of people being shot in the face, I liked True Grit pretty well. Also I'm pretty good at covering my eyes when necessary.

The ground outside is icy, and it took quite a while to defrost my car before I picked Bobby up from the bus stop. Getting home from downtown just after 5:00 today was difficult enough. By the time Bobby's class was over, the 17 had stopped running altogether and he had to find an alternate route. Like a true desert rat, I drove very slowly and carefully over the half mile of crackling pavement. We're both back in our nice warm house for the evening, and hoping this nasty weather is gone by tomorrow morning.

I'm scheduled to see Wild Flag again tomorrow night at Bunk Bar, and have plans to go watch Blue Valentine when it finally lands in Portland on Friday. That's the extent of my week so far. It's too cold outside to do much else.

On my list of good things today

Good friends who rescue you when you don't even realize you need rescuing.

Marginally gross but encouraging emails from across the country.

Surprise visits from chronically workaholic high school friends.

Cats that harass each other and then look incredulously at us for laughing at them.

Husbands who curl up on the couch to watch the Kurt Cobain episode of Biography with you.

This song:



Goodnight, everybody.

The final days of 2010

Wednesday ended up being a day for shopping and hanging out with my parents. Bobby, my mom, and I made a brief trip to Rebecca's house to say hello and meet her new baby. Later, we were visited by my family doctor (who is now my dad's pal, and watching the two of them interact is akin to watching a Mel Brooks movie), as well as my old friend John and his new girlfriend Victoria. John and Victoria implored us to join them for drinks later, as it was Matt Clark's last night in town. I initially agreed, until they told us it was at the Yard House. I'd never been to the Yard House, because I would frankly rather eat glass than go there. It's frequented by the Palm Springs equivalent of the Jersey Shore cast, all of whom attended my high school, and the scents of Axe Body Spray and Abercrombie & Fitch cologne jockey for position as they waft out of the building. No. Thank you. However, our guests refused to leave until we promised to go, and we had nothing better to do.

A few hours later, we loaded up and drove east toward Rancho Mirage. I wanted to spend as little time there as possible, so we decided to have dinner at In N Out first. Bobby's burger was burned, which cemented his preference for Five Guys Burgers & Fries. Whatever. While we were finishing our food, an older gentleman at the next table started chatting with us. He asked where we were from, and was excited to learn I was a PSHS graduate because he was a substitute teacher there. Uh oh. Fortunately he didn't start subbing there until long after I graduated. We entertained his questions for a bit before jetting off to The River, where the dreaded Yard House sits. Upon our arrival, I took a deep breath before walking through the door. We found our party in the cavernous restaurant, and I was shocked to spy Kizzy sitting at the table with my friends. She and I were acquaintances in high school and I haven't seen her since the last days of my senior year. It was nice to see her, though, and she asked if I still lived in the valley. "Christ no!" was my immediate reply, which meant I put my foot in my mouth because she does still live there. Oh well. I spent most of the evening chatting with her, and the service was so abysmally bad that I only had one cider before we all parted ways. I survived my first (and hopefully last) trip to the Yard House unscathed.

Thursday was yet another shopping day, which I can't complain about, until the early evening when Bobby and I went to visit Raime and Chris at their house. Raime and I, along with her sister Tianay, have been friends since we were six, and it's always a delight to see her. Ever the over-scheduled social butterfly, I had to dash away to meet Tracy for dinner at Las Casuelas. Alas this is not the greatest photo of either of us, so I've made it small.



After dinner, the three of us walked up Palm Canyon to check out the street fair, though we are much too sophisticated to loiter in front of the Starbucks anymore. We popped in at the nearest bar, which was sadly empty, and chatted a while longer before requesting a ride home from my parents. It was too cold to wander the streets. The three of us went to the neighbors' house to hang out, and I was greeted with a hug by the nine-year-old from across the street. "You're very pretty." She said. Forgetting that nine-year-olds can be quite literal, I said "You oughta tell my husband that." Before I could turn around, Bobby got a punch in the arm and a reprimand. Whoops. Sadly Tracy had to run, but the rest of us remained at the neighbors' for the rest of the evening.

The next day was New Year's Eve, and we were visited by the three neighborhood girls, who invited us to go feed horses at a nearby stable. After some arm-twisting, we agreed. Gilly bought us each a bag of carrots, and off we went. As it turns out, I am terrified of horses. Bobby and the girls were like old pros, but my horses kept dropping their carrots because I was too timid to get closer. You can't see the look of terror on my face here, and there are no shots of me jumping 10 feet backward after each horse took a carrot. I'd make a terrible farmer.



Later that evening, we met the neighbors (the grown-up ones, anyway), as well as Scott and his friend Stefan, for fancy dinner at Johnny Costa's. I had a dress that made me look like a Grecian goddess, and Gilly and my mom looked mighty fancy too.



Of course, I am making my obligatory "mommmmmmm stop taking my picture" face in this shot.



Here's a better one, but you can only see two of us:



Following dinner, Bobby and I stopped in at the neighbors' for some champagne and the New York countdown.



We were also ambushed by small children, who don't seem to be afraid of me anymore.



My parents were kind enough to drop us off at the Riviera, where I'd been told there would be a circuit-party-esque atmosphere put on my the same people who organize the White Party every year. Mom, don't look up what any of those things mean. I snapped this blurry photo of my escorts for the evening.



Drinks were outrageously expensive, so we only had one each. I recall being, er, propositioned by an Oklahoma couple who liked my dress and the fact that they overheard me say "y'all" to the bartender. I politely declined whatever it was they wanted, and we decided it was time to head back to Stefan and Lonnie's apartment for the rest of the evening. Once Lonnie, who does not drink, got home from work a little after midnight, he was greeted by four energetic revelers demanding to be taken to Del Taco. I bought everybody's food, which amounted to the price of a single drink at the Riviera, and we returned to the apartment to watch YouTube videos for a little while. Poor Scott crashed out on the couch around 1:45, and I was well on my way to joining him before Bobby tossed me into Lonnie's car to head home a little after 2:00. A fine time was had by all.

The next morning was our last in California, and we were taken to breakfast by my parents. Portland has spoiled me on Breakfast and I knew I was in for disappointment the minute I walked in the door. Here I am making the "I'm about to have a lousy breakfast, but it's ok because I'll be home soon" face.



Post-breakfast, we loaded up the car to make the drive back to Long Beach and fly home. Said goodbye to the neighbors, paused for a quick family photo, and hit the road exactly at our planned departure time. Nearing the airport, we decided to stop for dinner. As the faithful L.A. driver, I asked Bobby to find the nearest Chick-Fil-A. He ended up finding something even better:



We made it home just before 9:00 on Saturday night, hid in the house all day Sunday dismantling christmas and watching TV, and returned to our regularly scheduled lives this morning. Cheers and happy new year, everybody!