Three Steps: Pull, Unlace, Remove.

Today, my IWANTTOHURTYOUCHET meter is at an all-time high on the annoyance scale. Why is that? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because of his general rudeness and lack of compassion. Perhaps it is because sex is nauseating because it's about the only thing to keep him from pawing me at night when FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I just wanted to go to sleep! Or it's possible that his Doc Martins don't know how to make it into my shoe closet and INSTEAD, he planted them DIRECTLY on my brand-new, tags still on it couch. Directly on it with snow on his feet. After he tracked mud across my freshly shampooed carpet that took me six hours to complete. (The room is 14x10, you do the math.) I'm not sure if I want to hit him with the unwashed frying pan my roommate so COURTEOUSLY left lay on the stove top or if I want to smother him with the foot-track laden pillows. Even after this conversation:
"Hey, take your boots off!"
"Why?"
(Please add a hefty dose of incredibly pissed off Miranda.) "Because you have mud and snow all over them. That's why. I don't want that in my house."
"It's just carpet."
For anyone who doesn't know my family and the way we work, here it goes. You see, there are only two rules in my home. Don't break anything and take your shoes off. THAT'S IT. You can eat anywhere, sans the bedroom mainly because that's gross, you can drink anywhere, you can piss with the door open if you want for all I care. But SHOES COME OFF. Why should you take shoes off when you are in the house? Because my three year old niece and two year old nephew play on that carpet when their mommies come to have Bailey's and coffee with me. Because I stretch out on the floor with a pillow whenever I feel the desire. Because you probably stepped in a prostitute's gum while walking across campus and then rubbed it off in unidentified fecal matter. Because I am a germ freak and a clean-o-phobe. Because my poor forty dollar sweeper simply cannot handle my demanding sweeping schedule. Because you can't bleach beige carpet. Because believe it or not, your shoes are so dirty that I would rather lick my front doorknob because I know that at least it gets Cloroxed every third or fourth day than touch your shoes.
My home runs in an impeccably clean manner. The countertops and floors get bleached, the carpet gets swept, the rugs get shaken, the bathroom gets disinfected from top to bottom. I have absolutely not a single problem in this WORLD eating something that I just dropped on my floor a second ago. But when you and your dirtily expensive Docs come in and tromp all over my pristine environment, I'm not going to be happy. All of this went through my head in about 12 seconds before I had the chance to grit my teeth and say, bitchily of course, "Take your shoes off, or I will beat you with an egg skillet."
Of course, my docile manner forced Chet to just chuckle at me and leave his damn boots on.
From now on, I am a shoe freak. When you open my front door, I will scream, "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES."
Chet's a first time offender here on my happy little cul-de-sac so far... but next time,
it's an egg skillet to the temporal lobe.

Really... She works at Hooter's.

Today, my lame life has his an all time lame. I'm sitting alone in my home listening to my microscopic television blast out some Big Bang Theory and eating my sorrows away in Pringles calories, stewing over New Year's. Let me set the scene for you... our friends were here from out of town to enjoy the New Year party being held a few blocks over. Ever heard that Ke$ha song that goes, "gotta water bottle full of whiskey in my handbag..."? Fuck the water bottle. I had the whole damn Crown bottle in my bag, with every intention of showing the boys what it meant to be a real lady. Also known as getting so wasted I call my older disapproving very proper businessman brother who lectures me about the dangers of alcohol poisoning bawling about how much I miss him and want him to move home from Minnesota. You see, Daddy never drinks anything but Crown. Only the best, top shelf, purple-bag liquor. I must have gotten his love of expensive heat, because I can't count the number of shots that I did but I can tell you that the friend taking them with me was so wasted he had to stop on the way home. Anyway, so Crown in bag, I was ready to go. Until I got a "firm talking to" about the people that I wasn't allowed to talk to or communicate with at this party. Whatever, I just brushed it off. So it WAS, after all, NYE, and I was wearing my hooker boots because that is the only time that is socially acceptable.
I didn't make it out the door without smearing my eyeliner and chucking my heels at the wall.
That aside, I wasn't going to let my night be ruined. Amongst the bragging of the night, our friend Alan was waving a piece of a napkin in front of my face. "See this? Katherine. Waitress. Hooter's. Gave us her number!"
The word "us" instantly threw me for a loop.
"Who is 'us'?" I asked timidly. Moreso pissed off, less so timid. "Well," I heard that tone in Chet's voice. "I just helped a little."
Helped a little? As soon as he was out the door his friends were squealing like pigs. He didn't just help a little, he hit on her to the point of inviting her out. Then, Alan charmed her with a little bit of his really bad jokes and she handed the number to him, but NOT until Chet had given her his number. When confronted, "It was just a waitress."
NOT OKAY.
So I got over it, reminding myself of the delicious Crown waiting for me inside of that Coach bag. Until I stepped onto the patio.
"Just show me your tits, come on! I want to see them!" To a different girl.
Do you know that feeling when your stomach drops out of your body and just makes you want to die? I experienced that feeling in the worst way I ever have. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," was a quick reply. Even still just typing about it makes me nauseous. He keeps telling me that it's the same as looking at porn or at a magazine, and it's not okay. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. It's nawing at me.
But come on.
Two girls, one night...
for the love of God, she works at Hooter's.