Monthly Archives: January 2012

COME ON DOWN! You’re the next contestant…

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It’s the last day of January, which feels very strange given that, with the exception of about ten days wherein I had that feeling of doom that I would never be warm again, it has been mild.  The snow is almost melted in my backyard, which is odd.  Perhaps the apocalypse is upon us?  I can think of no other explanation. 

Other things I cannot think of an explanation for: why I thought it was a good idea to apply nailpolish five minutes before I needed to leave the house, thus ruining the nailpolish application the second I put my coat on; why I have had Pinball Wizard stuck in my head for days only to magically have it disappear and be replaced by Rasputin; why there is an audience for such shows featuring people who live in swamps, or who are crowded in their houses because they cannot stop purchasing on-sale toilet paper, or who dress their young daughters up for beauty pageants; why people take their dog-hating dogs to off-leash parks, and then become defensive when my dog-loving dog goes to greet their dogs – why not just leash your dog and walk it around the block?; and why I am insanely craving popcorn at ten in the morning and I also feel like bursting into uncontrollable tears and/or curling up in bed and wallowing in sadness?

There may be an explanation for the last one.  Rah rah Rasputin.  Lover of the Russian queen.  They put some poison into his wine.

Related: can a tsarina really be referred to as a queen?  I know that it was the Russian royal family, but is a tsarina and a queen the same thing?

Completely unrelated: when I was a kid I loved watching The Price is Right.  If I could time travel, I would totally go back to the early 80s and I would be a contestant on that show.  Ideally, I would be wearing a tube top.  I would get to play Plinko – and I would get all the chips because I would know which cost more, a case of Rice-a-Roni or an electric kettle.  I would spin the wheel – and, even if I didn’t win the $10,000, I would still be the first to choose my showcase showdown which would include: an RV, a dinette set, and a trip to lovely Myrtle Beach.  I would get inappropriately hugged by Bob Barker, and I would scream and wave my arms around a lot in excitement.  Perhaps I would even fall on the floor – I don’t know.  I haven’t gotten that far in my time-travel fantasy.

When I was a kid I used to think it would be so cool to live in the 1800’s; maybe I would work on my embroidery sampler all day, or perhaps write things on my slate with my slate pencil, and I would be excused from excessive physical activity since running or sports would put a serious strain on my corsets.  Now I just think that it seems kind of icky, living with no running water and no toilets – I don’t even like camping, at campgrounds WITH running water and toilets – and also my embroidery ability, like my ability to sew on buttons, is extremely hampered by my inability to put a piece of thread in a needle and not have it completely tangled in seconds.  Also I am unable to sew anything without crying.  So if I were to time travel, it would definitely be to be a contestant on The Price is Right.  Wouldn’t you just love a new dinette set?  Or – OR – a NEW! CAR!

While I’m at it, maybe I would time travel to be one of Barker’s Beauties!  I could walk along the stage in my super high heels with unlikely and impractical “camping wear” (i.e., Daisy Duke shorts and a plaid shirt tied at the waist) with a giant smile, showcasing the grand prize of a recreational vehicle.  Only for a day, though – I would like to blot out the whole Bob Barker creepy grossness. 

If you could time travel, where would you go?

The fashion police are coming.

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“Hey Mom!” Jake said, out of nowhere, “I’m sexy and I know it!”

I never quite know how to respond to such inappropriate statements. It’s like when two-year-old Mark told my mother that he had no money, so he couldn’t get no ho’s. Or when Jake informed my mother, in one afternoon, that a) he wasn’t going to be a chump, he was going to get a prenup, and b) “penis” was another word for “dink”. My poor mother. One would think that the solution to this problem would be for me to stop listening to such inappropriate music. Alas.

 


Also, have you actually listened to “I’m Sexy and I Know It”? It is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard. I mean really: “I work out!  I work out!”  I have no idea if this was meant to be ironic or not, but I kind of love it.



Speaking of being sexy and knowing it, I received my O Magazine the other day – do NOT judge me, we all have our vices – and there is a whole section on how to wear the new trends in denim.  Now, I have recently adopted jeggings as part of my wardrobe, which I had previously decried as a plague upon society, so I will tread lightly here.  Still, the first trend described was – wait for it – coloured denim.  Adam Glassman, I am deeply disappointed in you.  COLOURED DENIM.  The question posed was “What do I wear with the new pastel jeans?”  Here’s my answer: not applicable, since seafoam jeans are a travesty.  Some of you might raise your eyebrows in a what does she know, she lives in black and throws in charcoal for colour, but seriously.  It is not a good idea to don lilac and/or seafoam and/or peach pants of any fabric, unless you are in a retirement home and you are coordinating those with floral nylon blouses and plastic jewellery of the same colour family.  I may be biased, but I’m only trying to save others from the fate that I suffered in the early nineties, when I wore purple and/or forest green jeans to the bar, along with a black bodysuit – remember bodysuits? – and my spiral permed hair. 

Adam then goes on to recommend ways to wear coated jeans, which, for those of you not in the know, as I was prior to reading this magazine, coated jeans are a substitute for leather pants. 

Sorry, I needed to take a break for a minute, just from typing the words “leather pants”.  I don’t want to get into any rock star/ I am the Lizard King kind of discussion.  Let’s just agree that putting tight, super-shiny materials on your thighs is not a good idea, not if wearing flattering clothing is of importance.  We should have all learned this lesson in the eighties.  And even if you can pull off wearing leather pants, the question is, should you?  I mean, if you are lucky enough to be in the 1%, it is guaranteed that something else would look much better.  Just say no to leather pants or, apparently, coated jeans. 

This is not the first time I have been disappointed by Adam Glassman, nor, likely, will it be the last.  Remember a few years ago when he announced that the majority of shorts for women were hideous and unflattering and wearing them was akin to fashion suicide?  I privately agreed with this sentiment, but later he bowed under intense pressure from Oprah’s shorts-loving fans and amended his statement.  STICK WITH IT, ADAM, I thought.  I realize this is contrary to my hypocritical adoption of jeggings, but still.  Most shorts for women are hideous and unflattering.  It’s about time we realize this and demand better looking shorts for all women.  Power to the people!

All of which is to say: just say no.  Say no to coloured denim.  Say no to leather or leather-look pants.  And for the love of fashion, just say no to mix-and-match denim.

Give your mother a kiss or I’ll kick your teeth in.

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Happy Robbie Burns Day!  I was telling the boys about Robbie Burns Day today, explaining the celebratory nature – in a modified way – and about their Scottish ancestry.  Jake was getting more and more agitated and more and more defiant about it, when he burst out “We are not in Scotland, Mom!  We are in Canada.  WE ARE CANADIAN.”

Good point.  Also I have to admit the only thing I do on Robbie Burns Day is look up YouTube videos of Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer and walk around singing Bay City Rollers songs and Do You Think I’m Sexy in a Scottish accent.  I’m probably putting my ancestors to shame.  It’s not like I’m heading over to the Legion to eat haggis, get drunk on Scotch, and get into a brawl with someone from a different clan, like a good Scottish lassie. 

Haggis.  You have to hand it to the Scots, they have cornered the market on the world’s worst cuisine.  Scottish cuisine is the absolute bottom of the global barrel.  Second is probably Norweigan – and hey, I’m Scottish-Norweigan so I can really vouch for this.  Boiled potatoes!  Fish balls!  And I’m very sorry to offend all of you haggis and/or lutefisk fans, but what the hell?  Was everyone drunk and did those dishes really seem like a good idea at the time?  Someone very kindly mentioned to me recently that if I wanted, I could get vegetarian haggis, which honestly seems like the third-most-awful food item in the world. 

Do you ever wonder how kind of bizarre cultural things got their start?  Like, for example, bagpipes.  Actually, I can probably guess how bagpipe music got its start but it’s a grim picture so I won’t go there.  Do people honestly enjoy bagpipe music or is it one of those things that you intellectually think you should enjoy because of your ancestry, but emotionally and viscerally you loathe it?  Is it like the recorder – intellectually you realize that elementary aged children are taught the recorder because of its lightweight size and inexpensiveness, but the sound of it, my god, the sound of it.  There is nothing like being next door to a classroom full of recorder-playing fifth graders.  Did I mention that I’m starting to get ready for the next book fair, which is next door to the music room?  Alcoholic donations welcome.  Also?  Ear plugs.

Because of the melting streets and the filth on my windshield causing me to be actually unable to see out my windshield, which seems like a liability somehow, I washed the car today.  That is a MAN’S job, people.  Anyway, I manned up and took my filthy minivan to the carwash, and beside it an apartment complex is being erected (heh) and there was a giant, cavernous hole dug, filled with various heavy machinery.  It made me supremely nostalgic.  There was a time when I would walk my boys in their double stroller to construction sites, and they would sit there, fascinated, for HOURS on end.  Jake was one, and he would clap his little hands and say “Diggies!  Diggies!  Jake happy!  Happy!”  We spent our days that way, our endless unscheduled days, wandering around the neighbourhood looking at buses and machinery, and playing farm and blocks and trains, and now suddenly they are gone most of the day and when they are home they are involved in their own little lives that often do not involve me at all, and one day they are going to be bringing their recorders home to practice and suddenly I am wallowing in Robbie Burns Day melancholy.  Just like a good Scottish lassie.

How To Not Let Yoga Wreck Your Body

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The New York Times recently published an article entitled How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body, spurring outrage throughout the yoga community, insofar as yogis can actually be outraged.  For me, I read the article and had a number of reactions and feelings, so much so that I needed some time to organize my thoughts. The general message of the article highlights the growing number of yoga-related injuries and concludes that the vast majority of people should steer clear of yoga altogether.

I consider myself to be a yogi, no matter how pretentious that sounds.  I have practiced Mysore-style Ashtanga yoga for almost five years.  I have never sustained an injury.  My initial reaction to the article was that anything – anything – can wreck your body if you let your ego get in the way.  I’m in good shape, but I’m not a runner; if I suddenly started running 10K a day, assuming that I purchased running shoes, which I do not currently own, you can bet I would injure myself, pending my not collapsing and dying from that much cardio.  I mean, I am someone who ended up in the ER from playing recreational slo-pitch.  Any kind of physical activity can be injurious if you are not aware of your own body and your own limitations, or in my case, if you take a line drive to the throat. 

I have known people to injure themselves performing yoga postures, it’s true.  I know people with tight hips forcing themselves into lotus, blowing out their knees.  I have known people to do one of those dreadful hot yoga classes, overstretch and tear a hamstring.  Shoulders, necks, backs: I’ve known people to injure themselves doing certain postures.

If you try this in a “hot yoga” class you may tear your hamstring.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t practice yoga.

The Primary Series of Ashtanga is known as the “healing series”, something I truly believe because it healed me.  So why is yoga wrecking bodies, as the article suggests?

If you have back problems, don’t do backbends.  You can still practice yoga.

First, I think we need to address the matter of semantics.  Differences in connotations and personal interpretations can really fire up an argument.  I can tell you I used to get irrationally annoyed when people would refer to their toddlers’ daycare centre as “school”.  Honestly, did it matter what anyone called it?  Did it make a difference?  No.  But yet I would be bothered always by the switch in title.

And this is why simply using the word “yoga” in such a sweeping way bothers me.  What I think of as yoga and what the article is talking about are two very different things.

When I first started at my studio, a teacher said to me “There is a difference between going to yoga classes and having a yoga practice.”  And there, exactly, is the point.  Going to a yoga class and treating it as a kick ass workout – that is where the injuries happen.  Competition, ego, and envy are injury instigators.  Pressure from inferior teachers who don’t know individual bodies and limitations leads to injuries.  Attempting difficult or complicated postures in a crowded, sweaty room without first obtaining the proper knowledge, strength, and flexibility is an injury waiting to happen.  Turning your attention outward instead of inward, not paying attention to your body and what it is telling you, letting what happened yesterday affect your feelings about today can lead to pain and injury.

You can’t learn this in a led class.  You need a teacher to help you, one-on-one. 
But that doesn’t mean you can’t practice yoga.

In Mysore-style Ashtanga, students practice the sequence of postures at their own pace with a teacher to assist and adjust them properly.  The benefit of this style is that you do not go past your own limitations; you do not move to the next posture until you can properly and safely perform the previous postures.  The teacher deems you to be ready when you are ready.  The teacher works with you one-on-one and learns your body and your strengths and weaknesses.  As an example, here is a video showing this style of yoga (fun fact: I am wearing a pale pink top and light grey tights – can you spot me?)

But posture – or asana – is only one of eight limbs of Ashtanga.  Only one.  Of utmost importance is the limb of ahimsa, which means non-harming.  This includes non-harming to ones’ self.  My beloved teacher is known to say “Do this posture at the expense of absolutely nothing.”  Taking this advice eliminates the possiblity of yoga wrecking your body.  He also says “You want to do this your whole life.”  I do.  So I draw my attention inward.

The other limbs include breath control, inner peace and inner observation, and living ethically.  It doesn’t really matter if you can hold your leg behind your head then float back to chaturanga if you roll up your mat and resume your life as an asshole.  That’s not yoga.  Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, the Guruji of Ashtanga yoga, said that yoga is for ALL people, except for lazy people.  I really believe that.  I have a friend who is featured in this video; he is amazing, he has a beautiful practice, I am inspired to be in his presence.  But also inspiring are all the people I see every day, every morning at yoga practice, all those people in the previous video.  Our practices all look different; our bodies are all different, but we are all there, with intention.  From the very beginner who struggles through sun salutations to the very advanced practitioner who takes my breath away with their physical stamina; those people who are true to themselves and their practice, those who live an ethical, compassionate life, those who cultivate patience and kindness, those people are true yogis and are inspirational, always.

Practicing asana is important – it gives concentration, it gives physical strength and stamina, but of greater importance is to live the yoga, to take it off the mat and live a life of compassion and inner reflection and non-harming – to others and to yourself.  That is yoga, true yoga, and it cannot wreck your body.

Just settle the fuck down already, it’s just Pyjama Day.

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It’s Pyjama Day at the boys’ school today and – this may not seem significant to you, but it IS – Mark is wearing pyjamas!  Not once has Mark ever worn pyjamas on Pyjama Day.  He has always preferred to wear just regular clothes, despite the pyjama clad children everywhere.  His refusal to conform to Pyjama Day bothered me a bit when he was in preschool, then less and less with each year.  I figured, in my chillaxing way, that he as he grew he would become more interested in festively wearing nightwear to class, or if he didn’t, that was okay too.  I was pretty sure that somewhere out there were perfectly functional adults who also opted to wear jeans on Pyjama Day, so I was not too worried.  When he told me he was going to participate, I tried not to make a big deal about it.  This morning he was a bit concerned, telling me that he was worried about what the public would think – his “public”, upon further investigation, was discovered to be our neighbours.  He reassured himself that our neighbours probably would not laugh at his pyjama clad legs, and in any case, he was wearing snowpants.  In the car he fretted that no other children would be wearing pyjamas – what if it was just he and Jake? – but then we saw my friends’ children, all of them in Division Two, and all of them wearing pyjamas, and he was vastly reassured.

I have known parents to get upset if their children choose not to participate in an ostensibly fun activity at school – it’s FUN, we say, why don’t you TRY it?, just TRY IT. – but sometimes kids have reasons of their own, and what’s wrong with that?  Wearing your pyjamas to school is an odd concept, after all, and in any case, certain quirks can be outgrown.

All of which is to say, I really like my friend Nan’s plan for a parenting magazine section entitled “Just Settle The Fuck Down Already“, indicating that we cannot control every single facet of our children’s lives.  Once we all realize this, we will be much more at peace.  Not everything that happens to our children or every part of their personalities is a direct result of our actions.  We can all point to parents who, to all appearances and with all the available information, did everything right and yet their child’s life turned terribly, horribly wrong.  See also: Nancy Spungen.  We also can point to parents who adopted the “Feral Child” method of childrearing and yet produced functional adults who contribute to society.  See also: Jeannette Walls.  I’m not saying parenting doesn’t matter: of course it does.  This is not license to guzzle whiskey and smoke while pregnant or allow your toddler to watch TV for twelve hours a day or to feed your children nothing whatsoever other than Coke, Chicken McNuggets, and Pop Rocks.  I mean, that’s really going to fuck shit up.  Obviously we need to do the best job we can and use our brains and our instincts and reliable, researched information, and YET, we still cannot control and shape our children exactly to our specfications.  Nor should we want to.  They are little people, in their own right. 

I have a post on my mind right now that I want to write – not that Pyjama Day is not important stuff – but I’m just not ready.  I realize this is kind of like one of those vague Facebook statuses that people probably mean to be enigmatic but instead turn out kind of flaky.  You know what I mean.  Today was the worst (or, alternately, best) day ever!!!!! with no explanation to what happened, spurring questions and concern from all fronts.  Or an inspirational quote to show that there is drama going on in your life right now, but you are making peace with it.  Or – and this is my favourite – I’m going through my Facebook and deleting everyone who is not a true friend.  If you are NOT a true friend, GOODBYE.  Those always make me feel uncomfortable.  If you are going to unfriend me, I guess I would rather not it be part of your Facebook status, you know?  Not that I should talk.  I mean, my Facebook status today had to do with the fact that I’m wearing compression stockings and jeggings at the same time.  I’m melding the part of myself that wants to be stylish and hip with the part of myself that is next door to drinking hot water and lemon on a summer day.  WORLDS COLLIDING, OMG.  

I also really, really want to talk about the New York Times article about yoga and all the fallout from the yoga world and all that and throw Jim Fix and running into the mixture, but I have run out of time talking about PYJAMA DAY and so I will have to save that topic for next time.  In the meantime, I came across this “Shit Nobody Says” video over at Hilarity in Shoes’ blog, and I love it even more than the “Shit Vegans Say” one (is there HONEY in your bread?).  Maybe I should make my own video.  But I’m not sure what it would say.  My hands are cold.  Barkley is the cutest dog EVER, you should totally get a Labradoodle.  Please don’t fart at the dinner table.  The secret ingredient is love.  Mmm, cheese.  Please don’t talk about your penis at the dinner table.  I used to have a nice rack, now I’m totally deflated.  Chickpeas are awesome!  NO FARTING AT THE DINNER TABLE.  Inhale, exhale.  You have to use your breath.  Do not talk about poop at the dinner table.  Barkley want to go for a walk?  Walk?  Walk?  I think I’m going to have a glass of wine.  STOP TALKING AND FINISH YOUR DINNER.  NO.  NO MORE FARTING.  I made this kick ass stirfry.  Do you want to go to Costco with me?  I have a phobia about it.  Okay, just clear your plate and get started on your home reading.  Yes, it’s okay if you have to poop first.  Wash your hands.  Asana is only one PART of yoga.

There’s the foreshadowing – for the next post!  No, not the farting and pooping part.

Are you feeling sad? It’s Blue Monday!

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My very good friend reminded me this morning that today is Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year, and yet I’m not feeling sad.  That’s a win!  I am, however, feeling cold; our mild, springlike winter has suddenly ended.  The dog keeps looking at me balefully, probably trying to telepathically communicate to me his desire for a walk.  And I keep looking back at him, telepathically communicating something along the lines of “Are you out of your furry little mind?”  We seem to be at an impasse.  Perhaps if it warms up to minus twenty, we will go out for a walk, but if not, you will be stuck in the house with me for the foreseeable future, my canine companion. 

So how many of you watched football this weekend?  I cannot say I watched it, but fortunately I have a football fan of a husband, and so I am IN THE KNOW.  The first game brought much joy and excitement, the second game extreme happiness and satisfaction, the third and fourth games semi-disappointment and disgust.  Awkwardly, the team I like and my husband’s favourite team will be playing each other next week, which does not bode well for marital harmony around here.  Truly, I don’t care enough about football to really have a stake in this particular argument; I will submit in a medieval wifely way to my husband’s will and cheer for his team.  Hey, no one wants a divorce over football for heaven’s sake.

More interestingly, how many of you watched the Golden Globes this weekend?  I did, not that I have ever heard of most of the TV shows and movies that are being celebrated; in fact I don’t know most of the celebrities.  But I do enjoy Ricky Gervais and I also do enjoy me some eye candy, i.e., Johnny Depp.  I realized, alarmingly enough, that I have had a crush on Johnny Depp for twenty-five years.  That’s distressing.  Also distressing: Angelina Jolie’s arms.  I saw her sitting at the table, thought she looked elegant and beautiful, but when she stood up…eeek!  Her arms!  Her giant arm tattoo!  Normally I shy away from mentioning that someone is “too skinny” – commenting on one’s body type is rude, no matter the body type – but HER ARMS OMG.  Have some cheesecake, Angelina.  Also – and this is controversial and will probably open a big huge can of worms, but – I tend to dislike arm tattoos, unless the tattoo is an anchor and the tattooed person is an old sailor.  That’s kind of cool.  But Angelina’s big tat really detracted from the beauty and elegance of her outfit, I think.  Feel free to disagree with me!  I’m just not an arm tattoo kind of girl. 

By far the best parts of the Golden Globes for me were Seth Rogan’s comment about concealing a massive erection, Jimmy Fallon VERY ACCURATELY imitating Mick Jagger’s dance moves, disproving forever the myth that “moves like Jagger” is a good thing, and Mark Wahlberg’s extraordinarily sullen award presentation.  Why so glum, Marky Mark?  Is it a Blue Monday preview?

My dog just sat on my feet and looked up at me, tail wagging.  FORGET IT, BARKLEY.  I have been outside a few times today to do dropoffs and pickups, and I am still chilled from those brief encounters with the out-of-doors.  I was wearing jeans, turtleneck, knee high socks, thick wool sweater that doubles as a fall jacket, gigantic mid-thigh down parka with hood, Joan of Arctic Sorels, gloves AND wool mittens and I was still frozen.  When I was at the doctor’s last week, he commented on the colour of my hands and feet and suggested a) I may have a mild form of Raynaud’s disease, and b) that I am not built for this climate.  Tell me about it, doctor.  Tell me about it.

Saturday the Fourteenth, the Black Boot Edition

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I am not a very superstitious person, so I am not going to put any weight on the fact that I woke up last night and the clock read 3:16.  In related news, did you know there is a football game with very high (emotional) stakes tonight?  Things are going to be TENSE in the Boyhouse, as they often are during the playoffs when a certain New England team is playing.

I may take this opportunity to quietly update my neglected-of-late cooking blog, because watching the game may add too much stress-by-osmosis to my life.

I will tell you that I have never been so happy to see Friday the Thirteenth than I was this week.  This week really kicked me to the curb.  I was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, and my husband looked up from the – I kid you not – Enron documentary that we were watching and said “Wow, you really look worn out.”  Honestly.  I do not get sick very often so when I do I feel like I have been completely run over by a large piece of machinery. 

But!  On the cheerier side I am almost completely back to normal, enough to be able to make ribald jokes regarding vegetarianism.  Informing someone that you are a vegetarian will invariably result in the question of whether or not you eat fish, and while I realize that there is such a thing as pesco-vegetarianism, I am not of that group.  I still consider fish to be meat, so I do not eat it.  The follow up question to the fist one is, without a doubt, “But how do you get enough protein?”  And this is where I usually smile and lift my eyebrows, and intimate that my husband must be one lucky fellow, don’t you think?  Generally that ends the questions.  There’s nothing like referring to your skanky bedroom antics to get people to never ask you anything again.

Hilariously, I once told a male friend that I am a vegetarian, and his response was completely different; he exclaimed “Really?  But you seem so NORMAL.” 

While I am a vegetarian, I will admit that I do have some boots that are made from – gasp – leather.  I have some pairs which are vegan, true, but I’m not entirely convinced that the process used to create man-made shoe materials is actually BETTER than leather.  I don’t know.  It’s a complex issue.  It’s kind of like about ten years back, when everyone was on a super low-carb diet, but no one was losing weight because they were all eating highly processed low-carb substitutes for high-carb items, i.e., low-carb bread and cookies.  For the record, I was never on that diet.  It is VERY difficult to be on a high-protein, low-carb diet when you are a vegetarian; no one is THAT skanky. 

Related to perceptions of what is “better” or not, I saw a fellow being interviewed who was part of the “Occupy Calgary” movement, and he was passionately championing more electricity use as opposed to that of fossil fuels, when in fact electricity in this province is almost all coal-generated.  Heh.  Facts, people.

Anyway, I realized that I had promised to post pictures of my new boots, the ones that made the salesman tell me that I was – awkwardly enough – Puss in Boots.  I thought that in addition I would post a few pictures of my favourite boots, both vegan and, um, non-vegan.  Enjoy!

The new boots!  My mother referred to them as “hooker boots”, which I take as a compliment.  My husband takes that to mean I’m low on protein.

The same boots, but with turned down cuffs.  Puss in Boots!  These are not particularly practical, because they are not lined, but they are cute, I think.

These boots look really slutty with leggings.  I wear these when I wear a skirt or dress and I think they are pretty saucy.

This photo is specifically for Nan and for Kimberly, neither of whom believed me that Ugg boots could be even remotely attractive.  See?  They can!  I purchased these at half price in an outlet mall in Palm Desert.  Why do we not have outlet malls like that here?  Please note the gratuitous shot of my new Pandora bracelet, but please ignore my freakishly giant hands.  Seriously, my hands really are that big.  I have issues finding gloves that fit.

These are my practical, dog walking boots.  I wear these when it is cold and snowy, but not cold enough for my Joan of Arctic Sorels.  I feel very patriotic when I wear these boots, what with the maple leaves on them.  Canada – I love you.  Let’s get some of those American-style outlet malls, hmmmm?

These are my actual favourite boots; they are perfect for walking with their low heel, and they are lined to be warm for fall weather.  Sadly, they are not warm enough for winter.

These boots are comfortable, but they are really only good for dry, non-snowy sidewalks since they do not have a very grippy sole. 
That concludes a partial walk through my boot closet.  Can you tell which are leather?