Epic Bad
We had a great New Year’s Eve. Well, some of us did, at least.
My parents offered to watch the kids so that my husband and I could go out for the first time in a decade. Being well past the expiration date for things like heading downtown with the hordes, we decided to check out a new restaurant in our area that was opening on New Year’s Eve instead.
So we got there, only to find that it was technically a private event for family and friends. No matter, said my husband, and somehow talked us in anyway. Which is how we found ourselves in the midst of a Hipster New Years Eve party, where a roomful of twenty-somethings in demure black sat quietly drinking some craft brew and staring over their black-rimmed glasses at my husband and I, resplendent in New Year’s hats from Party City, partying like it’s 1999, which they don’t remember since they were in junior high back then. We’re old enough now that we don’t care, though.
We came home shortly after midnight, me bracing myself for the now common refrain of “What did you destroy this time, Brody?” And I was so pleasantly surprised. Everything was intact. He had a bit of a bout of colitis over the last few days, no doubt in response to all the garbage he’s been chewing up, and there was nary a shredded paper bit or pile of excrement to be found. I was delighted.
My reverie was to be short-lived.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed- slowly and carefully, because I had just a wee bit of a hangover, and lurched downstairs to let the dogs out.
That’s funny, I thought, I don’t remember leaving my shoes in the middle of the carpet.
And then I saw it. I’ll warn you now: it’s gross.
Brody had had another episode of diarrhea overnight. That in and of itself is not considered a transgression, because what are you going to do, although I would have preferred he do this on any of the hundreds of square feet of hardwood or tile instead of the one tiny patch of carpet. I would have preferred even more if he had let me know he needed to go out, though for all I know he did and I was too solidly snoring to be awoken.
But then he apparently panicked and decided to try and cover up the evidence. WITH MY JIMMY CHOOS.
Normally I’m not one to photograph poop, but this was an exception. I was tipsy, but not THAT tipsy. I am quite sure I did not randomly happen to leave the shoes in a pile of dog poop and then head to bed.
I am mystified as to the inner workings of Brody’s hairy little head. Why did he think he needed to cover it up? Why didn’t he choose one of his own myriad toys instead? What could possibly have possessed him to think, hmmm, those are some nice beige stilettos over there, maybe I’ll just drag them over? And just kind of shove them into the pile? And then for good measure poop on top of them a little bit?
I don’t normally leave my nice shoes out, but it was late and I was giddy, so I just kicked them off when we got home and then went to bed. Of all the things I thought Brody might do to ruin my shoes, “stuff them into a pile of diarrhea” had never even crossed my mind.
And it’s dried and caked on now, pushed into the little creases of the braided leather and shoved between the sole and the heel. I’ve spared you from the worst of it- the underside of the shoes is a real scene. To say I am verklempt is an understatement. I love these shoes. I adore these shoes. And now they are full of poop and quite possibly destroyed in the most vile of ways. That’s just mean, Brody.
