Natural Cheetos: gone faster than a vial of cocaine in Lindsay Lohan's purse.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned these a time or two – or three, or five – before. Originally, they were just delicious, crunchy, powdery nuggets of sharp white cheddar awesomeness, gazing out of their crowded grocery store display shelf with the smug awareness that they, being all-natural, were better than the rest of their snack-food brethren. They would not find themselves in a cart full of Mountain Dew and Twinkies. Britney Spears had never exited a gas station bathroom, barefoot, eating them. But now, I'm seriously considering seeking help for my Natural Cheetos addiction. If the familiar orange and brown bag, with its cute little sunset-and-farmlands etching graphics (it's supposed to make us feel better – it's homey, it's comfortable, it's all-nautral, dammit!) finds its way into the Viviani kitchen, the contents are not long for this world.
Sometimes I buy the Cheetos when I run into the grocery store for completely non-food-related items: toilet paper, toothpaste, Prilosec, face wash. For some reason, my non-edible purchases always justify it. I'm barely out of the parking lot before I'm opening the bag, and five minutes into my commute home, there is telltale Cheeto residue on my fingers. Then I stash them in the glove compartment, in hopes that no one will ever find them. I'm just waiting to be pulled over, cheesy fingers and all, looking nervously at my loaded glovebox.
Officer: “Ma'am, is there anything in your car that we should know about?”
Me: “No.” Wiping cheese powder from hands. “There is most definitely NOT a half-eaten bag of Natural Cheetos in the glovebox.”
I'm not quite sure what is in those little puffs of cheese that makes them so “natural”, but my guess is something opiate-related.

Updated combat boots: Kicking ass and taking names.

When I was fourteen, I had a short, flowered spaghetti-strap dress that I wore over a white t-shirt, with a little denim vest (yeah, a vest - weird). Very Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, as Valerie Malone.
The piece de resistance that completed this whole Maurices getup - my bronze Doc Martens, most likely worn with pushed-down white socks. (Ugh. . . revulsion). I remember being so enamored with those boots: the vintage-y metallic finish, those chunky rubber soles that left beguiling imprints in the snow, that iconic yellow tag peeking out from the backs of each heel. For a small town girl, they were tres 1990s chic.
I had all but forgotten about my beloved Docs, until Mr. Steve Madden rekindled my desire for military-inspired footwear. The above-pictured "Axee" boot really has me twitterpated - I'm dying to pair them with girly dresses, leggings and boyfriend cardigans this fall. The modern combat boot boasts a more streamlined, less-chunky profile, while still managing to convey plenty of fashionable bad-girl attitude. Be still, my heart! The only remaining quandry: brown or black?