Kiss my ugly boots

My snowboots are ugly.

U-G-L-Y.

And really, when it comes to actual function, there probably isn't such a thing as a pair of pretty snowboots that go with a Wyoming girl's dresses and tights and don't make a clunk-clunk-clunk sound whenever she walks.

So I have ugly (but functional), clunky snowboots that look pretty goofy with red tights.

"How's that going for you?" a friend asked last night.

And the truth is, I got whispers and giggles in Albertson's last night (and I'm not even being paranoid this time). For the record, the boots weren't laced up, and they did look a little goofy, but still ...

I didn't care.

Alright. I did, but I got over it real quick.

Because while the whispering gigglers were slipping and sliding their way back to their car, I stayed upright, didn't do anything that even looked like the splits and did not fall on my plaid-skirted arse.

"Kiss my ugly, sturdy boots, y'all," I said (to my friend - not to the jerks at Albertson's ... snarkiness fails me sometimes).

Fasciculation

It's not a dirty word.

It's an involuntary twitching of muscles (my thumb, in this case), sometimes caused by a magnesium deficiency. WebMD wanted to tell me that I've got ALS. I'm going with magnesium deficiency. You continue to terrify and disappoint me, WebMD.

I'm pretty sure it's the magnesium deficiency. I can buy supplements for that. I can only cry over even the very remote prospect of ALS.

Stranded

My car heater has never worked well, and it officially gave up the ghost sometime last spring. Or so I thought.

It turned out to be two damn little pieces of plastic called a blend door and a blend door actuator buried deep in my dashboard that almost may as well have been my heater coil.

(Actually, it's not quite that bad - I'm having a tempter tantrum)

And I'm without a car overnight.

I hate being without a car. I'm an independent Wyoming gal who likes her car and the freedom it offers. Wal-Mart on the spur of the moment? Yep. I can do that. Star gazing at 2 in the morning? No problem.

I don't need to go to Wal-Mart, and I don't want to spend any more time outside looking at the snowflakes tonight than is absolutely necessary ... but it's knowing that I don't have a car that really, really bothers me.

It's like fasting for a blood draw. As soon as that minute passes when you can't eat anything for the next 12 hours, you suddenly crave a double bacon cheeseburger. And ice cream. And the craving sticks with you all 12 hours, like an itchy tag in your T-shirt that you can't take care of because you're in the middle of a crowd and it would look like you're feeling yourself up to take care of it. It just drives you bonkers, and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't have a car 'til tomorrow, and it's like not being able to stick my hand down my shirt to take care of an itch. Or something.