Saturday

That which was postponed occurred Saturday. I'm proud to announce I didn't have a nervous breakdown getting ready, but it was close.

I don't like arriving late to anything and with Da Kid's, as always, absolutely fantastic directions I had a general idea of where he claimed the place was.

Herself, Da Kid's fiancé, would be riding with me. Since she doesn't like arriving late to anything either, when we agreed on 3 o'clock (to make sure we wouldn't be late if Da Kid's directions were off and we had to look for the place) I knew rather than be late getting here, she'd probably be here ten minutes early and pretend she wasn't early by just sitting out in her car.

Hair bent and gooed and war paint makeup applied, at 2 o'clock I started getting dressed. I went to the bedroom closet for the outfit and it wasn't there.

I'd put it in there! I knew I'd put it in there! It had to be there!

Ten minutes later I'd torn apart the closet in the spare bedroom and hallway, too, and still no outfit. Just as I began to reach for a suit I really don't like, the outfit's sleeve popped out, I swear laughing at me screaming, "Neener! I finished dressing a few minutes later. That's when Tank said, "I GOTTA GO! NOW!"

I'd had him out just before I started getting dressed, but when he says "NOW!" he means it. And I can't just send him out the door, either. He's been having on and off problems for weeks with . . . well, if he's too loose I have to pop an Imodium into him. Always a private dumper, he's never liked anyone watching him poop so he wanders all over hoping I'll leave him the hell alone. Except I can't.

And following him, paying far more attention to where he's going to dump — if he did — so I could see what it looked like, I stepped right in the middle of an earlier . . . deposit. Big time.

It wasn't just on one of my shoes, but in it, too.

And there I am walking around the yard still following Tank — who didn't do anything after all — holding one of my pants legs folded up to my knee until we got back to the house.

Once there, I got that shoe off and just threw it in the trash.

Still holding on to the pants leg, I hopped on the other leg to the bathroom and stuck that foot under the faucet in the tub, and then proceeded very carefully to peel off the outfit's slacks. Before tossing the panty hose. I pitched the shoe on the other foot in the trash, too. HARD.

And the clock's still running.

Back to the closet for another pair of black shoes. Two from which to choose. Strappy heels or pumps. Since I haven't worn anything but flats for years (and years) my decision was the lesser of two evils. Still, I hoped I wouldn't lose my balance and topple over in the pumps.

I pulled a pair of knee-highs out of the dresser, and putting them on promptly put my thumb through the toe off each.

Since I haven't had any reason to buy hose on a regular basis for quite some time, I didn't have much else to choose from except . . . oh pa-leeze. Don't let me wreck these while I'm putting them on. Or if I do, not so bad that anyone will notice.

I looked out of the kitchen window and Herself was just pulling up right on time, of course. The clock read 2:50.

For a change, Da Kid's directions were accurate. Herself and I arrived at the church with time to spare, meaning we sat in the car yakking so that it wouldn't look like we'd gotten there way too early.

And that's when I noticed my feet.

"Oh dear gawd."

Not only haven't I had to buy panty hose on a regular basis for quite some time, I also haven't had to buy any dress shoes, either.

The black pumps on my feet were starting to turn gray, as the black on them had begun cracking and peeling away in huge flakes.

The shoes had the good grace, at least, to hold together until I got home several hours later, when walking up the back steps, the sole on the left shoe completely separated from the shoe's top.