So my faux-Uggs have arrived, and they are incredibly ugly (F-UGGly?) and they make my calves look like heifers, and they are warm and cozy like my bedroom slippers and I may actually be in love with them.

I cannot bring myself to post a picture because of said cow resemblance. I am wearing them right now, and it is not even remotely cold. They are medicinal this morning--soothing the many blisters I got from running all over Santa Monica last night in fabulous-looking yet highly impractical shoes. Shoes made for standing, not walking. Sadly, I both stood and walked, and am now paying the price. This is the truth that chick lit novels fail to mention: shoes hurt. As my mother used to say, you have to be brave to be beautiful.

And if you while away your beauty hangovers with Fuggly boots, all the better.

In other news, my publishing dreams have finally come true.

Yes, I have received my very own invitation to the Harlequin party at the RWA National Conference! No more sneaking in with friends, crashing on the sly, and lurking about guiltily. Everyone knows that Harlequin throws the best party. Last year there were even fake trees, one of which toppled over. What's better than that?

I am not going to RWA this summer (because I have a book due approximately five minutes after the conference and I know myself well enough to know that I would not get any work done while AT the conference) but if I was, I would be legit! (Or anyway, Caitlin Crews would be. That chick has pull.)