Friday, November 20, 2009
Chillin' with the Obamas
In the last year or so, the Obamas and I have developed quite the after-hours friendship. By "after hours," I mean roughly the hours between midnight and 7:30 a.m., during which I am alseep. (As are the Obamas, it appears, given that the lights at the White House were off when I drove by at midnight the other night.)
Ever since I was given the task of packing up their family photos, the Obamas have continued to reach out to me in my dreams. A few months back, Barack attended a birthday party for my sister at the community swimming pool in our hometown (my subconscious apparently forgot that my sister's birthday falls in the swimming-unfriendly month of February), and last night, I was hanging out with both Barack and Michelle prior to some sort of press conference/town hall meeting event. We were having a lovely chat about health-care reform when Barack was called away for his appearance. "I want to continue this conversation," he told me as he got up from the couch where I was wedged between him and Michelle. "Give me a call next week." At this point, it suddenly dawned on me that I'd been chatting with the leader of the free world, and therefore probably couldn't just dial his direct line. Of course, by the time I tried to communicate this to him, he was already gone, so Michelle invited me to join them for a dinner party the following week at their house in McLean. (Apparently the dream-Obamas think the White House is way too ostentatious for a family residence, so they actually live in a nice little black-shuttered white Colonial in northern Virginia.)
I can only hope that the "Obama dinner party" episode is next in line in this little show my subconscious is putting on, because that's going to be a fun one. Plus, I didn't get the chance last night to invite Michelle and the girls to one of my roller-derby bouts.*
*This is an actual goal of mine, but sadly, I am not as tight with the Obamas in real life. The closest I've come was while passing out flyers at a Georgetown movie theater where Malia happened to be seeing Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. My league-mate, Raptor, tried to get a flyer in the hands of her Secret Service agent when she came out of the theater, but he turned her down flat. Back to the drawing board.
In the last year or so, the Obamas and I have developed quite the after-hours friendship. By "after hours," I mean roughly the hours between midnight and 7:30 a.m., during which I am alseep. (As are the Obamas, it appears, given that the lights at the White House were off when I drove by at midnight the other night.)
Ever since I was given the task of packing up their family photos, the Obamas have continued to reach out to me in my dreams. A few months back, Barack attended a birthday party for my sister at the community swimming pool in our hometown (my subconscious apparently forgot that my sister's birthday falls in the swimming-unfriendly month of February), and last night, I was hanging out with both Barack and Michelle prior to some sort of press conference/town hall meeting event. We were having a lovely chat about health-care reform when Barack was called away for his appearance. "I want to continue this conversation," he told me as he got up from the couch where I was wedged between him and Michelle. "Give me a call next week." At this point, it suddenly dawned on me that I'd been chatting with the leader of the free world, and therefore probably couldn't just dial his direct line. Of course, by the time I tried to communicate this to him, he was already gone, so Michelle invited me to join them for a dinner party the following week at their house in McLean. (Apparently the dream-Obamas think the White House is way too ostentatious for a family residence, so they actually live in a nice little black-shuttered white Colonial in northern Virginia.)
I can only hope that the "Obama dinner party" episode is next in line in this little show my subconscious is putting on, because that's going to be a fun one. Plus, I didn't get the chance last night to invite Michelle and the girls to one of my roller-derby bouts.*
*This is an actual goal of mine, but sadly, I am not as tight with the Obamas in real life. The closest I've come was while passing out flyers at a Georgetown movie theater where Malia happened to be seeing Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. My league-mate, Raptor, tried to get a flyer in the hands of her Secret Service agent when she came out of the theater, but he turned her down flat. Back to the drawing board.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
These boots were made for walkin'
Much like my ongoing search for the perfect lip gloss, I am also on a never-ending quest for the perfect knee-high black boot. The last time I undertook this endeavor was in college; the trial lasted at least a year or two (during which I compensated by borrowing Diana's size-too-small, heel-too-high boots, which my feet did not appreciate) before I finally happened upon a pair of pleather Esprit riding boots, which I purchased online for around $40. Scarred by this tribulation, I proceeded to wear those boots for eight more years, which is probably about six or seven years longer than one should be able to wear a pair of $40 pleather boots. It wasn't until last winter, when I noticed they were literally coming apart at the seams, that I had to admit defeat and prepare to start the search over again.
Fortunately, online shopping has evolved tremendously in the years since I bought my last boots, so I could undertake the expedition entirely from the comfort of my office. I initially had my heart set on another pair of Frye boots, but as much as I tried to justify the $350 price tag with cost-per-wear calculations, I just couldn't do it. (Side note: The whole cost-per-wear theory always reminds me of one of my favorite British TV shows, "She's Gotta Have It," which was entirely about shopping. They did a whole show once on the cost-per-wear theory, which involved the host going into high-end stores like Karen Millen and buying expensive items and having the following exchange with the sales clerks: "Cost for this leather jacket?" "£250." "Cost per wear?" "2p!" As if.)
Anyway, with the Frye boots out of the running, I decided to go to the complete opposite end of the spectrum and look for the cheapest boots I could find and make do with them for a year or two while saving up for the Fryes. I found a pair of faux-suede over the knee boots for $70, which the reviews assured me looked way more expensive than they were. And yeah, from a distance maybe they did, but they felt cheap as hell. It was time to have a serious talking-to with myself. "Self," I said, "you are almost 30. It's time to stop wearing fake-leather boots." And so the fake boots went back.
Finally, I decided it was time for a compromise. I definitely wanted real leather or suede boots, but there were plenty of options out there that did not cost $350. I managed to zero in on two pairs of $170 Nine West boots, one of which was very similar to the pair I had just chucked, and one that had an interesting button detail on the side. I ordered them both, and last night staged a boot fashion show to determine which pair I should keep. After much pacing around the basement to determine which pair was more comfortable, plus a lengthy consultation with my roommate Kelly on the various pros and cons of each pair, the tide had pretty much tipped in favor of the button ones. But just to be sure, I logged onto Endless.com one more time to re-read the reviews for each boot--and discovered that the button boots had been marked down by 50 percent! Thanks to Endless.com's 14-day price match guarantee, that meant a 50-percent refund for me, bringing the cost of my new boots down to $85. ("Cost per wear?" "44 cents!")
And so, another boot search has ended happily. Plus, I now have eight more years to save up for those Fryes.
Much like my ongoing search for the perfect lip gloss, I am also on a never-ending quest for the perfect knee-high black boot. The last time I undertook this endeavor was in college; the trial lasted at least a year or two (during which I compensated by borrowing Diana's size-too-small, heel-too-high boots, which my feet did not appreciate) before I finally happened upon a pair of pleather Esprit riding boots, which I purchased online for around $40. Scarred by this tribulation, I proceeded to wear those boots for eight more years, which is probably about six or seven years longer than one should be able to wear a pair of $40 pleather boots. It wasn't until last winter, when I noticed they were literally coming apart at the seams, that I had to admit defeat and prepare to start the search over again.
Fortunately, online shopping has evolved tremendously in the years since I bought my last boots, so I could undertake the expedition entirely from the comfort of my office. I initially had my heart set on another pair of Frye boots, but as much as I tried to justify the $350 price tag with cost-per-wear calculations, I just couldn't do it. (Side note: The whole cost-per-wear theory always reminds me of one of my favorite British TV shows, "She's Gotta Have It," which was entirely about shopping. They did a whole show once on the cost-per-wear theory, which involved the host going into high-end stores like Karen Millen and buying expensive items and having the following exchange with the sales clerks: "Cost for this leather jacket?" "£250." "Cost per wear?" "2p!" As if.)
Anyway, with the Frye boots out of the running, I decided to go to the complete opposite end of the spectrum and look for the cheapest boots I could find and make do with them for a year or two while saving up for the Fryes. I found a pair of faux-suede over the knee boots for $70, which the reviews assured me looked way more expensive than they were. And yeah, from a distance maybe they did, but they felt cheap as hell. It was time to have a serious talking-to with myself. "Self," I said, "you are almost 30. It's time to stop wearing fake-leather boots." And so the fake boots went back.
Finally, I decided it was time for a compromise. I definitely wanted real leather or suede boots, but there were plenty of options out there that did not cost $350. I managed to zero in on two pairs of $170 Nine West boots, one of which was very similar to the pair I had just chucked, and one that had an interesting button detail on the side. I ordered them both, and last night staged a boot fashion show to determine which pair I should keep. After much pacing around the basement to determine which pair was more comfortable, plus a lengthy consultation with my roommate Kelly on the various pros and cons of each pair, the tide had pretty much tipped in favor of the button ones. But just to be sure, I logged onto Endless.com one more time to re-read the reviews for each boot--and discovered that the button boots had been marked down by 50 percent! Thanks to Endless.com's 14-day price match guarantee, that meant a 50-percent refund for me, bringing the cost of my new boots down to $85. ("Cost per wear?" "44 cents!")
And so, another boot search has ended happily. Plus, I now have eight more years to save up for those Fryes.
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