Jersey plates in the LA 'burbs
Goddammit, I love red cowboy boots
The pair my niece is wearing in that photo? I bought her those in Cheyenne, WY, while driving — no, kicking ass and taking NAMES —across country with my ex.
It was October 2005 and we were in my ‘95 Geo Prizm with shitty pick-up, outrunning ice storms and tornadoes from Washington State south and east, all across the plains. But despite the time crunch and ominous clouds, I insisted we pull into Cheyenne and stop at the cowboy store I’d been to 1993. On that trip across country — a month-long saga after college with two friends, moving to Seattle — I’d coveted a pair of green cowboy boots, but had been too broke to buy ‘em. I swore I’d come back. Twelve years later, here I was, headed back East. The store didn’t have the green boots I’d coveted years earlier, but they did have some super-cute — and CHEAPER — red boots for toddlers. And I had two brand-new baby nieces who needed christmas presents. So I bought them both the smallest possible pairs of red cowboy boots in stock and we were on our way.
I only got myself a pair recently. I love looking at them, but I still haven’t worn them. It’s hot here, and they’re sorta trashy looking. Very Britney Spears. I’m basically pure white so it’s really NOT a good look. They sorta make me throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I put them on (and then take them off before walking out the door).
But there’s just something so joyously DEFIANT about red cowboy boots that I love. I must have a pair in sight at all times.
Went to work
without taking a hit for the first time in months. OK, years.
I had a surprisingly large amount of energy. A revelation.