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… What do you think,” I asked.

“Well,” My friend said. “He’s an Australian Cattle Dog, right?”

“Yep,” I replied. “That’s exactly my point.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he said with a nod. “It doesn’t look like Australia at all, does it?”

“Not to me. That’s why I wanted you to look at it.”

“Why me?”

“Well, I’m thinking there must be a reason, and since you play RISK a lot, maybe you’d have some insight.”

“True. There is that…” he mused.

We were standing at the doorway to my kitchen. This was several years prior to the gut remodel, so the configuration was less than stellar; not to mention that the decor was already 10 years out of date when E K and I purchased the house.

“Well, I don’t really think he’s trying to take over the world or anything… What do you feed him?” My friend asked.

“Dog food… Maybe a few table scraps,” I said.

“Spaghetti?”

“Not that I recall. No lasagna, or anything like that either,” I replied. “You don’t want to spill a beer around him though. It’ll be gone in nothing flat.”

“Foster’s?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Hmmmmm…”

Quigley, the Aussie Cattle Dog was sitting in front of us, a piece of linoleum hanging from his mouth and his tail thumping against the floor. He seemed particularly proud of himself – and, most especially, proud of the rather large map of Italy he had somehow managed to create by tearing up sections of the godawful floor covering.

“Well, if you believe in reincarnation, maybe he was Italian or something in a past life,” my friend offered. “Or, maybe he was a cartographer…”

“Or an interior designer,” I added. “That linoleum is pretty ugly.”

“True,” he agreed. “So, how long did it take him to do this?”

“Well, he did the outline this past Monday,” I said, then pointed and added, “But he just keeps going back and working on that one little section over there. “

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” my friend said with a nod.

“Why?” I asked.

“Simple. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Quigley, the Australian Cattle Dog, really did exist. In fact, Quigley the ACD in the Rowan Gant books is based entirely on the real life pup. While the preceding conversation is an embellished version of the truth, the Quigster really and truly did rip up a portion of our kitchen linoleum when he was a puppy. And, for several weeks, it looked uncannily like a map of Italy… Of course, not being one for sitting still, Quigley eventually expanded the Kitchen Atlas to look much more like Eurasia before we finally began our remodel.

More to come…

Murv