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…

…how to walk in high heels. Trust me, she knows… But, I suppose I should back that up with an explanation.

Now, I have to begin with the fact that we are not talking about E K here. This is not to say that she doesn’t have the aforementioned talent, because she does, in spades. However, in this particular instance I am waxing poetic (as you will see) about another young lady.

As you all well know, I travel a fair bit for book tours and the like – that much is a given. And, during my travels I see things. Sometimes they are frightening, sometimes they are strange, sometimes they are interesting, and sometimes I have no clue what the hell I am witnessing.

And then, there’s Leg Girl.

The Legend Of Leg Girl began several years ago on a weekend trip to Nashville, Tennessee to do a book signing and seminar. My dear friend and fellow author, Tish Owen, also owns a bookstore called Goddess And The Moon. I’ve done several signings there, and I always have a blast hanging out with her, her clientele, her husband Patrick who is my cigar smoking and booze drinking buddy, and all of my other friends there in “music city”.

Well, as the true story goes, one Saturday night after spending the day presenting a workshop on writing, and then signing a mess of books in one of the meeting rooms at the shopping mall across from where Goddess and the Moon was then located – it has since moved – we were going back to the store for a bit of a soiree. Wine, beer, booze, cheese, crackers, munchies, etc. You know the drill. Folks were going to come by, visit, have books signed, get a photo op or two, and all that jazz. Typical book store event sort of stuff. A great chance to just chill out and relax.

Unfortunately, the day had been so hectic for poor Tish and her staff that she had not yet had the opportunity to go pick up the aforementioned noshing items and beverages. Since I had nothing to do between finishing the seminar and the start of the soiree, I volunteered to ride along with Tish and help with the toting, lifting and other such stuff at the grocery store. And so, off we went…

No more had we pulled into the parking lot and begun our search for a space than out in front of us steps “Leg Girl”… All of mid twenties, great hair, hourglass figure, and most prominently on display a set of legs that a Rockette would sell her soul to have. And, I do mean prominently on display, for you see, this entire package was wrapped in nothing more than a sheer blouse, blazer, flared miniskirt – and I do mean MINIskirt – and patent leather stiletto heeled pumps. This was despite the fact that we were at the end of November and the temperature was in the mid forties or thereabouts.

And no, she was NOT a figment of my hormone driven imagination. Tish saw her too. In fact, Tish saw her so well that she was infuriated…

Allow me to explain. You see, Leg Girl literally stepped right out in front of us and began to slowly saunter up the middle of the aisle in the parking lot. Not to the left, not to the right. She was smack dab in the middle of the lane and Tish was unable to get around her. And saunter Leg Girl did. Slowly, deliberately, and swaying with a rhythm that would bring any red-blooded heterosexual male to his knees.

Well, suffice it to say, I had no room on the floorboards in order to get on my knees, not that I didn’t try. Still, even though I was unable to assume the appropriate position of Goddess Worship, I was mesmerized. Tish, however, was most assuredly not. Somehow, and I don’t know how, through my hypnotic stupor I was able to recognize this fact and managed to persuade Tish not to run over Leg Girl – trust me, that took some doing because that was exactly what Tish was intending to do.

Ever since that day, Leg Girl has been a running joke between Tish and me. Every time she books me for a gig at the store, or at PUF, she asks if there is anything special I need, and I always reply, “I need Leg Girl to be my handler for the weekend.” (“Handler” as in liaison / gopher / assistant… Let’s keep it clean here folks…)

Fortunately for me, though always promised by Tish – followed by a healthy chuckle, of course – Leg Girl has never materialized for said duties. Not that I would complain, however E K probably wouldn’t be particularly excited by it. In fact, I’m not really sure which one of us she would kill first…

But anyway, the Legend Of Leg Girl kind of… well… ummm… the legend has legs so to speak – no pun intended. Really. Seriously… But, pun or no, the events of that evening actually inspired a lyrical parody, written by yours truly.

Maybe someday, if we happen to have someone on site who knows all the chords to the original song, I’ll get drunk enough to perform this ditty at PUF…

Leg Girl

(To the tune of Two Hangmen by Mason Proffit)

As I rolled into Nashville with my friend her name is Tish

I saw what I’ll relate to you and it was quite a pretty dish

It seems there was this woman, who had this pair of gams

They went all the way up to her neck, and that’s
where it began

The woman’s name was Leg Girl, the best that I could see

She like to show her legs off, and that’s okay with me

I guess she saw me coming, and donned that mini skirt

And stockings and stiletto heels just so she could
flirt

She walked across the parking lot, right down the center aisle

She swayed and sauntered like a dream, it really made me smile

She stopped a moment in our way and then she tossed her hair

The wind picked up and her miniskirt billowed with
much flair

The driver’s name was Tish Owen, she said this bitch is slow

I’m gonna run her over now if she doesn’t start to go

I said to Tish please don’t do that, I really like this sight

She went to all this trouble so just let her make my night.

The wind continued blowing and gave Leg Girl a goose

She moved a little faster now, but still shook her caboose

Tish was laughing hard at me, as I began to drool

Leg Girl was such an awesome treat that made me
act the fool

Tish finally found a parking space and pulled in with a squeal

Leg Girl was going into the store on teetering high heels

We followed along behind her, and then she disappeared

But I saw her again as we checked out, with a case
or two of beeeeeeeeeeeeeer…

(Chorus)

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

(Repeat Whole Bunches Of Times)

One more time!

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

More to come…

Murv