A few days ago I couldn't find my shoes. My new, one-time worn TOMS that, as you can see, should not be easy to lose.
We're a shoes-off-in-the-house type family, with a gigantic plastic bin by our front door that we use to hold all the many shoes you might imagine four kids might have. Or, at least, four kids of a shoe addict.
Since my husband and I can usually only fit one pair of shoes in the bin, ours generally end up next to it, or somewhat near it, for the most part, save the times when I'm home alone with all the kids and in my haste I dump them in a kitchen corner or by the garage door. Never in a spot where people could trip over them. And certainly not in a place, like on a dinner plate or on his pillow, where someone should be bothered by them.
So after searching around for a good ten minutes, I asked my husband where my shoes were and he proceeded to tell me that he had put them in the garage.
And by put, he meant "carelessly tossed them the fuck out of this house" because I found not just one but two pairs of my TOMS in the garage, not neatly placed on the steps (which still, WTF?) but tossed. Angrily.
To which I sort of lost it a little, not because I actually care that my shoes, my nice moderately expensive shoes, are on the ground of our garage, after probably being smacked against the car wheels.
But because not only were they not in his way whatsoever but because he leaves his shoes out all the time. And his suitcase. And his backpack. And his dirty laundry. And...
You get the idea.
And I step over them. Or look at them and sigh. Or move them. Or just put them away. All without being one ounce of an asshole about it.
So I made note of such, in a not so pleasant manner, which was made worse by the fact that he completely denies it "WHAT IS THIS LAUNDRY YOU SPEAK OF?" and then left the house for an impromptu night out, at which point I returned home to find the laundry of which I spoke mysteriously in the hamper.
Good thing, because I was about to give my TOMS a little company in the garage.