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.