The Never ending Saga of Ugg Boots: Because surfers have unlimited funds, and Pamela Anderson is a faux vegetarian.

I remember it clearly from those candy-coated Us Weekly photo spreads, circa 2003: blonde L.A. Girls crossing the the street in ultra-short denim skirts, white tanks, and sand-colored sheepskin footwear; beach bunnies cavorting on the California sand wearing bikinis, their feet ridiculously encased in thick fleece. Tabloid angels sporting short-shorts and knee-high tan beauties; rail-thin reality starlets showing off bronzed gamine limbs wrapped in cream-colored sweaters and fitted suede boots.

And, like a sucker, I bought the whole thing. From that minute on, I desperately wanted a pair of Uggs. I wanted to pose adorably in knee-high flat boots that were supposedly so comfortable, one didn't even need to wear socks. (Which, I discovered later, was a complete sham. At least for my not-so-delicate feet.). I wanted to roll the cuffs down like big, fluffy marshmallows. I wanted to wear them in the airport (the measly one time of the year that I even set foot on an airplane), exuding casual-coolness. “Hey, I'm wearing Uggs. I'm fashion forward, but, as you can see, totally into being comfortable. I'm like those supermodels who claim that Chapstick is the only makeup they own.”

Trends don't get to the Midwest on a very timely basis, so I had to go through a few years, one pair of purple Target knock-offs, and a failed attempt at an eBay purchase (my Classic Tall pair in Sand arrived mysteriously from China and resembling cardboard more so than sheepskin) before I purchased the coveted real pair from a shoe store in Black Earth, Wisconsin. Said shoe store more commonly stocked Red Wing work boots and tennis shoes, but, over five years after the emergence of the style, they'd started carrying Uggs.

I discovered that the Classic Tall boot that I'd been lusting over since college didn't quite pull on over my calves (a problem I've gritted my teeth over for years), but found a shearling pair with a roomy calf circumference and winter-ready rubber soles.

I wore the crap out of them, including slogging through ankle-deep puddles during a chilly December layover in Chicago. (The resulting smell of wet wool forced me to buy cheap-o socks in the O'Hare airport). I now own two pairs, nearly a decade after the trend first began, and, ridiculously, I want more. I do, I do!

So what if they turn legions of female feet into so many cloven-hoofed blobs? Who cares if the wooden-headed Pamela Anderson claims to be a PETA spokeswoman and veggie-freak while simultaneously tramping (hee!) around all of southern CA in sheepskin? And, even though I highly doubt that Australian surf-bums had $140 to plunk down for warm after-wave footwear (if you believe the story of Ugg's humble beginnings), well, I still don't care. I'm already eyeing that turquoise knit pair on Zappos.com.