My Heater Was Broken, But Then I Got Hell Boots, So Everything Turned Out Okay In the End
Due to the complicatedness of our 100-year-old heating system, we ended up without heat over the last two days, which is also how I and my screwy eyebrows ended up under three shirts, a bunnyhug (Saskatchewanian English for "hoodie"), a scarf, and leather gloves while I worked today.
Things started looking up, though, when the courier stuck around, instead of playing Ding Dong Ditch like they usually do, and he handed me this package in plain black wrapping. Am I the only person who thinks that this kind of wrapping looks like it conceals sex toys? I mean, this particular package did not contain any sex toys, but I felt like I was being quietly judged by the courier guy.
What was under the plain black wrapping, though, was this, my new Dr. Martens Pascal Hell boots.
This is all @MmeSurly's fault. She tweeted about these boots, and then I oohed and aahed over them, and then she lost her willpower against these beauties, which only further whittled away what sad amount of willpower I was trying to exercise, and then I found myself blowing all my dollars.
But seriously, people. These are 8-hole Dr. Martens covered in Hieronymus Bosch's creative imaginings of Hell, which makes them heavenly to mine eyes. Oh, how I love them. My heart flutters.
These babies will be on my feet for many, many moons. I'm going to wear them with dresses. I will wear them when I do public speaking to bolster my confidence. I'm going to pretend I'm super badass. Wait, no, I'm going to actually be super badass.
Also? Our boiler was fixed and running shortly after the Hell boots arrived, so you could say that they are hell-a lucky.
Ba da bum.
PS. None of the above is an ad for Dr. Martens. I bought them because I have no will and will starve for shoes and fell under @MmeSurly's terribly influence.