Chicken, Nephrology, and Evil Velcro

Three cheers for grown-up food!  That's what I put in my belly today, and it was good.  Chicken (not puréed, but an actual slice of solid meat) with egg-fried-rice.  Udon noodles with seafood, and tofu teriyaki.  A fresh, warm crêpe with dark chocolate and strawberries.  I didn't clear my plate by any means, but heck yeah, fist pump for Real Food!

I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to eat properly again.  On Thursday night a promising experiment with two slices of very plain pizza (no cheese, just green peppers, mushrooms, a hint of tomato sauce, and a few paper-thin circles of pepperoni) went horribly wrong.  I thought I was fine, until I woke at 12:30 am with gut-twisting pain.  There was no jettisoning of pizza, however the misery in my belly kept me awake most of the night.  On Friday I felt exhausted and my spirit, broken.  I went out and bought another week's supply of tasteless mush.  Now I'm thinking the food bank box at my local supermarket is the best place for the rest of that stuff.

Today was also the first day in weeks that I got out of the house with Ken for some quality time together.  Even before I fell ill he'd been working on the weekends for a while, so it had been more than a month since our last outing.  We were in desperate need of a chance to discuss something other than house chores and the state of my digestive tract.

A friend had given us free tickets to the Everything to do with S*x Show.  We figured it would be good for a laugh, so we set off for the downtown Toronto Convention Centre.  There's an indoor tunnel several blocks long from the train station to the Convention Centre.  We walked along it surrounded by well-dressed, attractive people in the 25-50 age range.  "Look at all the perverts!" said Ken.  "They must be going to the S*x show too."  I remarked that they were dressed more in line with an outing to an upscale restaurant than anything kinky, but what do I know?

Once at the Convention Centre, we squinted at the LED notice board to determine which hall we should head for.  Let's see... The Nephrology Nurses and Technologists' Association Convention.  The Food and Wine Show.  And...  The Nephrology Nurses and Technologists' Association Convention - wait, we saw that one already.  I suggested that Ken check the tickets, which had been solely in his possession since they were gifted to us.  He did.  And guess what?  We were at the wrong convention centre.  All those "perverts" were in fact headed to the Food and Wine show.

OK, no problem.  I wasn't really all that jazzed about viewing displays of rubbery toys or watching strangers model leather gear.  It would probably have made for a fun blog post, but I can truly live without the experience and feel no poorer for it.

Instead, we took care of an errand that meant much more to me.  We walked to the nearby Mountain Equipment Co-op store.  I purchased a new winter coat.  A winter coat with SNAPS and NO VELCRO.

For the past three years I have been living with a cannibalistic coat.  It eats clothes.  It even chews on itself.  It's one of the most annoying pieces of clothing I've ever dealt with, and that's saying a lot.

The old coat fastened with a zipper, and overtop of that, a flap secured by half-a-dozen tabs of velcro.  Super-industrial-strength, no-pity-for-the-weak velcro.  No matter how I tried to avoid it, that velcro got its little hooks into all my sweaters, all my scarves, even my stockings, and tore the crap out of them.  Sometimes the damage could be somewhat smoothed over by rubbing down the frayed fabric, but other items were instantly wrecked.  It would attach itself to things while I was putting it on or taking it off, or worse, while I was carrying it around indoors folded over my arm.  Which was usually while I was shopping.  You know, for new clothes.  Brand new, previously perfect clothes.  Despite my best intentions, I may have occasionally lost control of my coat, allowing it to take get its vicious teeth into garments hanging innocently on display.  But I'm not admitting anything; the evidence is all circumstantial; and anyway it's the malls' fault for not offering lockers or a coat check.

Both cuffs of this stupid coat were totally trashed from repeatedly snagging on itself.  It looked like a dog had gnawed it.  Not attractive, trust me.

Today, I bought a similar coat, different in two important ways.
1)  It's plum-coloured, much nicer than the old one, which was depressingly black.  I only bought black last time because the alternate colour that year was a nasty shade of military green, which made me look jaundiced.
2)  NO FREAKING VELCRO!!!  It has metal snaps instead.  I can wear my favourite sweaters without worrying that they'll be destroyed.

The old coat took one more bite out of me as I squashed it into a little ball and shoved it into the "donations" bag.  It knew where it was going, and it was bitter.  That coat was a bad egg from the start.  I'm glad to see it go.  I hope that the person who ends up with it is someone who likes to wear pleather and PVC all the time.  Or I'll just be passing on the problem to someone else...  Geez.  On second thought, maybe I should burn it.

February Fashions

I went shopping with Ken on Saturday. My motivation: "I need socks!". I'm not sure what Ken was thinking, but it had something to do with an invoice he's going to submit soon and the foreshadow of that potential money already burning a hole in his pocket. That money time-travelled back from the future, passed through the hole in Ken's pocket, and miraculously landed in the cash registers of several happy retailers at the Vaughan Mills Mall.

He hadn't officially given me a Christmas gift, and Valentine's Day is rolling around soon, plus we have a first anniversay coming up in April, so we're calling this shopping spree the gifts for all those occasions rolled into one crazy bunch. Is the first anniversary gift supposed to be paper? Money is made of paper.

We started out at the sock store and I did get a whackload of socks. On sale. My toes are cheering. Yaaaaaaay!

From then on, as far as I was concerned, we were window-shopping. But then Ken spotted this cute little spring jacket in Le Chateau. He's been complaining about my "old" spring/fall jacket ever since I bought it two years ago. He says it's ugly. The fabric has a rubbery texture. I thought that meant it was waterproof, or at least water resistant. Not so much. It's just rubbery. Anyway, it was a good enough jacket, but this one is better. Not waterproof at all, not even trying. When it rains in the spring I'll get wet, and I won't mind, because I'll be so Super-Snazzy!

Isn't it cute?

The store was filled with retro-80's styles. I was right into it. Nothing says 80's fun like a romp in the mall. And no 80's-style caper is complete without a flamboyant hat.

Domo kindly offered to model the hat in order to protect my anonymity.

We really hit our stride in the Danier store. Ken loves Danier. I'm not generally speaking a Leather Girl, but Danier does have very, very nice things. Like a purple bomber jacket to match my purple cowboy boots.

See the boots? They're so nice and shiny.

I tried on the jacket just for fun. Then Ken started calling me his Purple Princess, and insisted on getting it for me. I didn't resist much. I mean, look at it!

Pretty darn sweet. And 50% off. You can't beat that.

I was worried that the collar might be too wide to keep the wind off my skinny little neck, so Ken grabbed a matching purple scarf.

And then, because my orange handbag might be a little too crazy to wear with the purple bomber (it's in the photo above, on the bench to the left), we picked out a black purse.

It's got grommets! I love grommets.

I am well and truly blessed.

I picked up a few other odds and ends on sale, like work shirts for $15 each that had been $40. But you don't want to see those. They're just boring.

Now I need to buy a bigger house, to hold all my clothes. Maybe I'll get a purple one.

Musique

Ever since we got involved with the church band, Ken and I have returned to some old loves that we thought were long past.

He unpacked his two guitars (one electric, one acoustic); had them repaired at a rather extravagant cost; and has been practicing again. I got myself a new violin, and have been practicing as much as I can without turning it into a hated obligation.

But we didn't stop there. No no. One thing I don't write much about on my blog is that Ken and I are pretty serious shoppers. We both like shiny new things: clothes, shoes, gadgets, and now, musical instruments. I could turn this into Spark and Ken's shopping blog without any fear of running out of stuff to write about or photos to post. That's not the kind of blog I want this to be, but sometimes... sometimes the shopping trips are worth sharing.

Like today. We went to Cosmo, the Musical Instrument Superstore. It's waaaaaay at the north end of the city, up where new housing developments are still breaking ground, and there are fields of corn growing between the strip malls.

We were like kids in a candy store; every section filled with delights. Our stated purpose for being there was to check out microphone booms for the church stage. (We don't have enough fully functional booms to properly mike the piano. The piano has a hand-held mike sitting inside the body of the piano on a piece of foam. It's pretty ghetto.) So we started out in the production section. Ken took in the new, compact sound boards, ten times better than the old one he runs at the church, with a covetous gaze.

Then we checked out the guitar section. Ken is scoping cool straps, but hasn't made his mind up yet. The ones he likes best have skulls and lightening bolts on them, but he's a little concerned that they might not be appropriate for church use. Hmm... For myself I can take or leave the guitars, but I yearn to own a banjo. I have promised myself that if I ever get back up to speed with the violin, I will get myself a banjo and learn to play. Don't hold your breath.

Next stop was percussion, where we banged gongs, crashed cymbals, plunked glockenspiels, clicked castenets, and said "Bubinga!" to each other with great enthusiasm. (Bubinga is a brand of drum that happened to catch my eye. You try saying it. Bubinga! See?)

We also breezed through the electronic keyboard section, where we tortured the sales guys by picking out one-finger tunes, trying out all the cool sounds on the Korgs. I was tempted to go for a hesitant, off-tempo rendition of Axel F, but I took pity on them. Luckily the keyboards were so cool they made all of our crappy noodlings sound like the makings of super-awesome Kraftwerk remixes. If I had a few grand sitting in the bank and a spare room at home, they would have had an instant sale.

We ended our exploration in the book section, where we really went to town. In the end our final list of purchases included a pitch pipe, two kazoos, an A tuning fork (I have an electronic tuner but I miss the old-fashioned way I used to tune in high school), a book of 100 songs of the 1980's for voice and guitar (yes, I will be singing 99 Red Balloons; be glad you don't live next door), a Teach Yourself Traditional Fiddle Techniques book (be doubly glad you don't live next door), and a couple of books on the ukelele.

That's right. I forgot to mention that when Ken went to get his guitars repaired, he brought home a ukelele. It was like this little baby guitar, waiting to be adopted into a loving home. Ken couldn't just leave it there in the store. Since then, in addition to practicing his two guitars, he's been learning the uke. I've got to hand it to him; he's a natural.

We need a third for an ensemble I'd like to create: ukelele, slide whistle, and kazoo. I'll play the slide whistle. Anyone who can hum can play the kazoo. Auditions will be next week. Anyone interested?

Love Handles

We're here.  The day before the wedding!

Ken picked up the cake this morning.  I didn't even get to see what it looks like because it's sealed inside a box.  We opted to leave the box closed in order not to tempt Fate - any unnecessary tampering increases the chances of DROPPING THE CAKE and that is just not worth the stress.

The church lounge is set up with chairs; fresh, white tablecloths; pink napkins (from the dollar store - shhhhh, don't tell!); a sign that says "Please Sign our Guestbook" and an assortment of rainbow markers as well as black pens by the book.

We're going back out in half an hour to pick up the flowers. I can't wait to see my bouquet!  Pretty pretty!

Although I'm trying not to get too excited, in the interests of getting a good sleep tonight.  So I will distract us all with a story:

Ken and I were out window shopping around three weeks ago.  It's our go-to activity for sunny days when we want to be out and about with no clear goal in mind.

We stopped in at Le Chateau, a trendy Canadian clothing retailer.  Poking around there, we saw a very unusual garment: a mini-dress with long, belled sleeves.  The bottom of the cuffs of the dress merged back into the hem of the bottom, for a bizarre effect which make me think of "I'm a little teapot short and stout, here is my handle..." and then here is my other handle, since both arms were attached.

Ken, who loves unusual design, was completely taken by this dress.  He asked me to try it on.  Sure, why not?  There were two versions: a cream one with black polka dots, and one which was entirely covered by a giant print of a black rose.  I preferred the cream with polka-dots, but they didn't have that in my size, so I tried the other one.

When I came out of the dressing room, Ken was instantly prepared to buy the dress for me.  But I thought it was silly.  I was like, Look - I can't raise my hands above waist level without hiking up the dress!  Ken said: wear it with leggings.  It's still undignified, was my response.  He was adamant, but I was more adamant that I would never wear it.  Also, I didn't like the giant black rose.  I said that maybe if the polka-dot one was in my size I might consider it, but that wasn't the case.

So we left it at that.

Two weeks later, we passed by the same store.  Ken checked the rack to see if they had my size back in stock, but they hadn't restocked.  He inquired at the counter: would they be getting more?  The clerk didn't know.  He checked the computer and said that there was only one more polka-dot XS in the entire city of Toronto, at the Yonge and Bloor store.  So we wandered off and I forgot about the dress once again.

On Wednesday night I came home and found a bag sitting on my bed.  What the..?

He didn't.  Yes, he did!

Here I am, modeling the weirdest dress I have ever owned.  It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself!

The bonus is I figured out if I push the sleeves up to my elbows I can raise my hands up higher, so at least I'd be able to open doors, eat, and drink wearing this.  But I won't be going out in public without my thickest black leggings, just in case.  That thing is bound to hike itself up at some point.

Grace in Small Things #5

I have a sense that Grace in Small Things is supposed to be all about the small, transcendent beauties of everyday life.  The first flowers of spring, the kiss of raindrops on one's upturned face, and the simple coziness of home.  But sometimes nothing beats the thrill of rampant consumerism.

On Saturday I set a record for pairs of shoes bought in one day.  I'm not sure what happened, except that Ken and I both had spring fever of the brain and we went a little crazy.

I set out to get a simple pair of white shoes for our wedding.  Mission accomplished:

Then I tried on some sneakers, because my old pairs are all busted up and due to be replaced.  These ones were very comfy:

The coolest part is that the white-on-black isn't a print, but a brocade, woven right into the fabric.  It's very classy.

Then I found these cute-as-a-button high tops:

Not only do I love the pinstriping around the soles, but there's also the bizarre detail of assymetrical lacing.  I couldn't say no to them.

Finally we dropped into the John Fluevog store.  We never fail to take a peek inside when we're strolling on Queen St., but we've never bought anything because the shoes are all quite pricey.

They were having a sale.  

I couldn't decide between the tone-on-tone vanilla/tobacco/mahogany slingbacks and the cherry-red t-straps.  Ken said "I'll get them both for you."  I didn't argue.

So that was all great fun.

Five pairs of shoes - that's my Grace in Small Things for today.  Next time I'll be sure to come back to heartfelt sentiments about my loved ones, moments of quirky humour, and the softness of kittens' fur.  Today, I'm going to revel in my shoes.

The Dirt on Bootleg DVDs

The first time we bought illegal movies on DVD at Pacific Mall, we were really excited. I picked "March of the Penguins" and Ken chose "Borat". We paid $2.50 for each disc.

Back at home, I went straight to the TV to watch my movie. Oh boy! There they were, tubby little penguins trudging stoically across the snow. Cue Morgan Freeman's voice-over:

"Hmmmmmnnn. Mmm nnnn-nnn, hmmm wahhh wah mwaaaaah."

I fiddled with the volume.

"Mrrrrrrm hhmn-nweh, mwaaah-ah-ah mwaaarm," boomed Morgan Freeman.

Yeah, so. Excepting the experience of those gifted, special people who can understand Charlie Brown's teacher, the audio was useless.

Borat was marginally better, as though the audio were being broadcast to us via a badly-tuned AM radio station. You had to do the aural equivalent of squinting to follow the dialogue. Ken gamely watched it all the way through, but I couldn't handle the static.

Months later, we were speaking to acquaintances at a party. We got onto the topic of Pacific Mall and all the wonders to be found therein.

"We love the illegal DVD's!" they said. "We have over 600 at home!"

They revealed to us the secrets of illegal DVD purchasing. Apparently there are several standards of DVD's, and the one we should have bought was DVD 9. Anything less would not do.

Armed with that knowledge, we returned to the mall. DVD 9's only, please! Things went much better. From then on, most of the DVD's we bought were indistinguishable from their legal counterparts.

We'll still occasionally find a disc that won't play, or one that was recorded on a handheld Camcorder from a movie theatre screen. I bought "The Queen", only to find that it was dubbed in Italian and the "English" subtitles were a random mash of non-words. But at that price, you throw a few discs in the trash and still feel that you got a fantastic deal.

Now if only I had time to watch all the movies I bought...

And I said I wasn't a joiner

If you haven't already gotten an invitation e-mail from them, you might want to check out the Verve Earth site. It's a free service that puts bloggers on a map of the earth, so that you can find blogs geographically. It's neato mosquito!



I also joined Thirty-Something Bloggers (the badge is on my sidebar), because, well, why not? We'll show those Twenty-Something Bloggers who's boss, eh? Or something.

My Saturday was spent with Ken, prowling through Ikea in search of the perfect bedside table. I felt a bit guilty being inside a windowless big box store for so much of the sunniest, warmest day of almost-spring so far, but Ikea is like a black hole that just sucked us in and wouldn't release us for two whole hours.

(That's how real black holes work, right? They spit you back out in a couple of hours? OK, good, I just wanted to make sure I had my facts straight.)

We found the table, and a cartload of other stuff that we bought completely on impulse. But hey, it was on sale, so think of all the money we saved!* And our home is going to look stunningly fantastic. As soon as Ken gets it all assembled, and the fog of swearing has cleared from the air. (Anyone who can complete assembly of Ikea furniture without resorting to cuss words should be canonized as a saint.)

Ikea is great, yada yada, my home is almost entirely furnished by their products, however I'm not a big fan of their cafeteria. We ate lunch there. I had a plate of Swedish Saltballs with nasty white "gravy". According to the menu, it was a "meatball" plate, but it was more like meated salt than salted meat. Pfeh! I ate half of them and then passed on the rest.

*I don't actually buy into this "it was on sale so we saved money" concept, unless it was a necessary item that I would have bought even if it was at regular price. The truth is, we were feeling impulsive and threw some money around, because sometimes it's fun to be irresponsible.

I luvs me some flannel

Yesterday was quite simply a happy day. For the first time in months, the sun shone in Toronto AND the temperature was relatively mild. For the first time in months, I actually felt a spontaneous urge to leave my home and go exploring outside.

I had a mission in mind. This week, my favourite pink, flannel nightgown disintegrated. First the buttons began popping off, and then, when I rolled over in the middle of the night, there was a dramatic ripping sound,

PPPPPRRRRAAAAATTTTTTCCCCCHHHHHH!!!!

and the fabric at the right shoulder gave out completely.

I'm sorry to say goodbye to this nightgown. It's so old that I can't remember where or when I got it. The print is of cartoon sheep jumping over fences. In between lines of leaping sheep, it says "Count the sheep, Go to sleep, 1,2,3,4..." Isn't that sweet? I may shed a tear or two as I slice it up for rags.

(I'll pause here for a moment to let the less sentimental among my readers recover. I should have warned you that I might be triggering your gag reflex.)

Ken and I bundled up in our parkas and set off for The Great Downtown to shop for a replacement. Our destination was The Bay, currently the biggest and oldest department store in Canada. On our way down there we strolled along Yonge St. (Toronto's central thoroughfare, lined with interesting retail and always excellent for people-watching).

As we walked, I was struck by how many beautiful people were out on the streets. Everyone seemed energetic, healthy, and colourful. Eventually it struck me: it was the effect of seeing people lit by direct sunlight for the first time since October 2007. Yes, it's been that gloomy here and I've been indoors that much. S-U-N, you say? No, I'm afraid I don't remember... How do you pronounce it again?

We made our way to The Bay, and Ken, ever the good sport, came up to the Ladies Lingerie department and held both our coats while I browsed endless racks of sleepwear. In the end I got a great deal: I picked up two pairs of cotton, flannel P.J.'s, each with a bonus pair of matching fuzzy socks, for $11.99 each. Sweet! And they're cute, too:



Oooooh, look at the details....



Sorry guys, just one more and then the shopping torture will be complete:



As we we left the store, I gloated euphorically over the bargains I had found. I said to Ken:

See! That's why it's best to shop at the end of the season. They always have amazing sales.

Ken: What season? The sleeping season? People sleep all year round!

Well, I guess he has a point. Considering he sleeps in his boxer shorts, it doesn't make a lot of sense to him that I have winter pyjamas and summer pyjamas. Such is the simplified life of men.

How I saved $50 without even trying

I would tell you the name of this furniture store, but I’m afraid of being sued for libel. Not because I’m lying, but because it’s a weird place and I wouldn’t put it past them. Ken drove me there so that I could buy two pieces of furniture for work.

We enter an enormous furniture showroom. A half-dozen desperate-looking salesmen, wearing mustaches and corduroy blazers, are wandering aimlessly around the displays. There is only one other pair of customers in the whole, vast store. On a Saturday afternoon in Toronto, especially just before Christmas, this is very unusual.

We are approached by a salesman in a tan blazer and brown plaid shirt. I show him the items that I want. The smaller piece is marked “Regular $129. Sale $99”.

Sales guy: “Oh, I think that sale is over.”

He picks at the sale sticker with his fingernails, trying unsuccessfully to remove it.

Sales guy: “This is $129. Yes, $129.”

Me, because it’s for work and it’s only $30 and I don’t care that much: “Okay.”

Ken: “That’s illegal. You have to sell the product at the sticker price. The sale isn’t over until you change the sticker.”

Sales guy: “Um. Let me talk to my manager.”

We wait. He returns.

Sales guy: “I give it to you for $79.”

Me, surprised: “Great! Thank you!”

Sales guy: “Now you can buy two!”

Of course, I didn’t buy two. Poor, sad Sales guy. He bargained himself down! He needs a sales techniques refresher course. Or maybe a self-esteem workshop.

We are then directed to the so-called “Customer Service” desk, to await the arrival of our boxes from the warehouse. Keep in mind that there are no other customers waiting for warehouse services.

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. We pace. We sigh. We inquire politely of the girl at the desk: how much longer? She gives us the stink-eye. Twenty minutes. We’re ready to go back to the sales desk and ask for a refund, just so we can get the heck out of there. After 25 minutes, a guy finally comes out with some boxes on a trolley. His excuse: he was confused because the table is packed in two flat boxes. This, he says, doesn’t look much like a table. I’m like, um, well, that’s the table-top in that box, and that other, smaller box, that’s the legs. And when we put it together, it will become table-shaped! Just like magic!

This is only my opinion, but EVEN IF IT WAS HIS FIRST DAY ON THE JOB, that is no excuse for not understanding the concept of flat-packed furniture. Since he was a nice guy, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he was actually an alien from another galaxy, trying to pass as human. At least he had mastered the basics of our language, which, if you think about it, is pretty impressive.

The goose is getting fat

I've almost finished my seasonal gift-getting. Don't think that being Jewish gets me off the hook (although granted, it helps). There are 7 people in my family who all have their birthdays in November and December. Then there are others who require holiday gifts (Ken's family, for example). So, in the end it adds up to a fair bit of shopping.

I spent most of the weekend zinging around the inside of the Eaton Centre (downtown Toronto's only big, indoor mall), hauling bags until my shoulders ached. The place was already jam-packed with holiday shoppers. It was the kind of crowded where you can't help but bump into people and their packages every few paces, as you try to maneuver from one store to the next. This tends to bring on my flight-or-fight reflex, which adds another dimension of Me No Likey to whole experience.

I like the idea of shopping online, and I do some of that, but mostly I prefer to have full sensory interaction with objects before I buy them. Dad, I'm sorry that the corner of your calendar is wrinkly, but I couldn't buy it without a little taste first. So sue me - I am thorough!

Today I picked up a couple of final gifts at Pacific Mall. If you live anywhere near Toronto and you haven't been to Pacific Mall, GO! It's the most fun mall ever. It's an all-Asian mall, and it offers dozens of tiny stores, maybe 15 feet squared each. There are no chain stores whatsoever, not even in the food court. And the whole place is filled with amazing bargains and curiosities.

If you're feeling brave, eat in the food court. Depending on where you order from, you may find yourself pointing at menu photos and holding up a number of fingers to get your point across. Ken and I have a favourite dish (some kind of savoury fried rice gluten squares), and we have never learned the name of it. Our receipt is printed in Chinese characters. Mmmm.... rice gluten. I bet you're all jealous.

Daredevil

My hat is off to the talented salesgirls at Jean Machine. One in particular saved me, yesterday, from giving up in frustration.

I doubt that there is any woman over the age of 16 who enjoys shopping for jeans. But when the jeans you own are as washed-out and baggy-assed as mine were, you just have to bite the bullet and go for it.

One of the things I like least about the experience is the overwhelming choice. There are about ten zillion styles of jeans out there and THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME! At least, they do when they're just sitting on a shelf or hanging on a rack. There are often some helpful tags attached, with symbols or a list of style features, which I can sometimes interpret, if I don't lose patience after the first two minutes of browsing. And what size am I? God help me; I have no idea. The pants in my closet range all over the map. Do I have the patience to try on three different pairs until I find the right size. NO!

So I have to send a shout-out to the lovely Librarian of Jeans, a 21-year-old salesgirl who interpreted the jean version of the Dewey decimal system for me and did all the hard work. She wrestled the jeans off the jam-packed racks; she knew which fit loose and which fit tight; she didn't lose patience with me when, after trying on half-a-dozen pairs of skinny jeans I changed my mind and decided I wanted boot-cut after all. (I'll pass along this tip: if you are old enough to remember wearing the skinny jean in high school, you probably shouldn't go back to them now. Even if you can struggle into them, that doesn't mean you should be wearing them. Unless you're like, a supermodel, or something.)

I ended up buying a style called "Daredevil", because they are "Dangerously Low Cut". I think they'll do just fine. As long as I never have to bend over, sit down, or squat while I'm wearing them. And that's what hot jeans are all about! Hurray!