BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It all started with a horrible, bone-chilling shriek.

Now, you need to understand, this wasn’t an “OMG I’m frightened,” sort of shriek. This was an “OMG You Are Going To Die A Horrible Death And My Hand!” sort of shriek. However, at no point during said shrill scream (not to be confused with Brill Cream) was my name even uttered. And, since it was The Evil One doing the screeching, I wasn’t exactly sure what could possibly be going on – I mean, after all, whenever she lets out a high pitched wail such I was hearing, it usually involved me being in for a beating.

But, before we get to real reason behind the fact that I had a 5′ 4″ tall,  severely pissed-off, redheaded banshee standing in my living room, I should probably fill you in on a basic fact of life around here at Evil Kat Central…

Rule #2 ½ – You just don’t mess with EKay’s shoes if you know what’s good for you…

I mean yeah, obviously you clean them up if she steps in something.  That goes without saying. Although, if you happen to forget, she will in fact say it. Repeatedly, and – very loudly to be sure – until you have seen to the task and the results meet with her strict approval.

Honestly, you’d be amazed at what you can do with a bottle of resolve and a tin of saddle soap when you have to. I know I was. Seriously.

As a matter of fact, I’ve actually become extremely proficient at removing my own blood from her pumps. Of course, that’s more a case of  her stepping ON someone, as opposed to IN something. But, the former is pretty much a daily occurrence and done on purpose, whereas the latter is normally an accidental sort of thing. Unless, of course, she’s in one of those “moods” and steps in something just to have the pleasure of making you clean it off her shoes.  But, you get the idea.  You have to make sure you keep them spotless, polish them when necessary, bring them to her when she demands it, put them on her feet, take them off of her feet, put them away when she’s finished with them, and all the other stuff that go along with the proper care and maintenance of Her Supreme Evilness’ shoe collection.

And, we mustn’t forget – you must prostrate yourself before her and kiss her shoes when she orders you to do so. Obedience to the redhead  can save you from getting stepped on. Well… not really, but she doesn’t stomp quite as hard as she would otherwise.

Seriously.

But, even with all of that, you have to remember that you don’t mess with her shoes, be they blue suede, black leather, brown leather, red patent leather, white, blue, fuchsia, purple, ad infinitum… Pumps, sandals, boots, espadrilles, wedges, heels, flats, Mary Janes, cross trainers, ad nauseum…

Get the picture?

Don’t mess with the woman’s shoes. And, when I say you don’t mess with them, you definitely don’t roll around on the floor chewing on them. Any of them. But, most especially not her high heels.

I learned this in spades that blustery autumn evening…

At this point I am sure you are probably wondering why in the world I would be rolling around on the floor chewing on EKay’s shoes. Well, actually, were I ordered to do so it would probably be in my best interest to comply. However, we have already established that messing with her shoes is a bad thing, so obviously I wasn’t rolling around on the floor gnawing on her pumps. That would only serve to get me in trouble. So, just keep reading. In theory this will all make sense, but bear in mind that I am writing it early on a Sunday morning, so I make no guarantees…

Now, as I’ve noted in the past, E K no longer wears high heels to work on a daily basis. They’ve been relegated to special occasions, date nights, and when she is in a mood to inflict damage on someone. However, there was a time, in our younger days, when my petite dynamo of a wife not only lugged her 40 pound tool case AND an armload of parts up three flights of stairs in order to repair a printer– she did it in skirts and heels. Of course, I later found out that she would arrive at a service call, strike a pose, and all of the men present would be falling all over themselves to “carry her books” so to speak. She probably still does this on occasion even without the spikes and gams on display, but these days, even though she still has more than the necessary looks to pull that off, she actually doesn’t have much patience for drooling, untrained males. Therefore, she would much rather just carry the stuff herself.

But I digress…

The point is, she used to wear heels to work, and being the fashion plate she is, she had them in various styles, colors, heel heights, etc. Because, obviously she couldn’t wear the same pair of shoes twice in the same week. That would be… well… bordering on criminal.

So, anyway, back to that scream…

I was in the kitchen as usual, preparing dinner for Her Highness, when I heard the front door open, and the click-clack of high-heels against the hardwood. This was, of course, a sure sign that the redhead was home and I’d damn well better get her evening drink delivered to her post haste, and then see to it that the dinner I had been preparing appeared on the table shortly afterward. However, before I could even begin to mix the evening aperitif for The Evil One, I heard the bloodcurdling shriek…

More to come…

Murv

To be continued in: Lethal, But Fashionable…

So, I finally wore out my Sunday Go Ta’ Meetin’ Reeboks.

I’m a little disappointed, but I can’t really complain. After all, I managed to get better than four years out of them. I bought them on sale at a Sports Authority in Virginia of all places. Just outside of DC, as a matter of fact. I was on tour with Morrison, and after two days of standing around bookstores in my dress shoes, my feet were killing me. I knew why, of course. It was because I had bought an unbelievably cheap pair of dress shoes with no arch support whatsoever. I’d never worn them for more than a few hours at a time, so it wasn’t that big a deal. But now, I was doing some long stints on my feet and they were doing me in. I considered getting some insoles – but I’d tried them in the past and all they managed to do was make me hurt more. So, on one of our rare mornings off, when Morrison needed to run to the office supply store, I tagged along and hit the Sports Authority next door. Twenty minutes later I had a stylish pair of black Reeboks that had been ON SALE (I mention that because E K likes it when I buy things on sale), and my dawgz were feeling much better.

But, like I said, I finally killed them. The sole pulled away from the upper on one of them, and shoe glue just wasn’t doing it. They’ll work for knocking around in the yard and such, but not for Sunday Go Ta’ Meetin’ like before.

So, I went out shopping for some new shoes while we were on a “household supply run.” After checking out the on-sale Reeboks that looked like some kind of plastic & Velcro Stormtrooper shoe from Star Wars and deciding that I wasn’t interested in looking ridiculous, I wandered down another aisle. I was futzing about with some Reebok knockoffs that looked much like the pair I was aiming to replace, when E K said, “Come here, lackey!”

Well, even when you are in the middle of a store with folks all around, if E K gives you an order you follow it, lest she beat you to death right there in public. And, she’ll get away with it too. Trust me. But, well, you know… digressing and all that…

So, I dropped everything and rushed down to the end of the aisle where E K was waiting and panted, “Yes, Mistress. What may I do to serve you, Mistress?”

Quite a few women who were in the general vicinity reached out and slapped their husbands to get their attention, then pointed at me and announced, “See? HE knows how to behave.” Of course, the husbands just glared at me, but I’m used to that by now.

E K finished reading an information card attached to a pair of shoes, then handed them to me and said, “Here, lackey. Try these on.”

I looked at the shoes in the box she had handed me, then I looked at her. Then I looked at the shoes in the box she had handed me, and then I looked at her.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” she hissed and snapped her fingers. “Chop chop!”

What she had selected for me were “Therashoes“… No, not Theraflu, THERASHOES… The problem is, they looked exactly like something Herman Munster would wear. Seriously. I would not lie about something like that. But, Her Supreme Worship was glaring at me, and all of the other wives were holding their husbands by the ear and making them watch how obedient a lackey I happened to be, therefore I had very little choice.

I tried them on.

I walked around for a minute.

I almost fell down 72 times in the span of 60 seconds.

You see, not only do “Therashoes” have a platform sole like Herman Munster footwear, said sole is shaped like a rocker on a rocking chair. Again, no kidding. I wouldn’t lie about this. You can see it just a little bit in the picture, but believe me, that doesn’t do it justice. These things have as much curve as a freaking basketball (see cross section below).

I guarantee you it is easier to walk in stiletto heels – and, I’m sure you are wondering how I could possibly say that with any authority. Well, because I have walked in stiletto heels. No, not because E K makes me dress up like a French Maid and wait on her… Well… Not lately anyway… But, because in my youth I went to a costume party in drag on a dare/bet. BTW, I looked damn good and I won the bet. I certainly couldn’t pull it off now; besides, the costume was long gone, long ago. It just didn’t go with the rest of my wardrobe…

But, back to the shoes… In the end, E K decided these were the clodhoppers I needed to have. I wore them for about six hours today and I now feel like I have been hobbled by Kathy Bates wielding a sledgehammer.

It took me a few hours, but I finally figured it out. These things were designed by a Dominatrix – hell, probably by E K and the Redhead Collective – as a type of bizarre bondage gear in order to keep men from escaping during torture. I’m certain of this, because I’m here to tell you, wearing these damn things I can’t even run away from a toddler…

I can, however, pitch back and forth like a rocking horse.

More to come…

Murv