Well, the good news is that I found three pair of amazing party shoes on Saturday.

The bad news is that I found them at this completely shit ass department store that used to be the only thing going in this part of the country and a lot of the sales staff still likes to think that they are the only store around.

This store is so asshat that the show department is basically self service. Twelve days before Christmas and there are two people working in the department. This means that one person is running back and forth retrieving shoes from stock and the other person is ringing up sales on both registers so they'll both get commissions for the day. Anyway, I'm getting all the shit I've been lugging around all morning in one of the chairs and getting my tennis shoes off while my mom takes the prospect out of the boxes and I pull on a footlet, which is realy just a cheap assed peice of ugly suntan pantyhose that has been stitched closed on one end. They must make those out of leftover panythose stuff.

I was just about to start complaining about this fucking department store and their stuffy staff and their fucking practically self service shoe department when I looked down at my feet.

I've got nail polish slopped all over my cuticles, and on my skin. My nails are too long, I can't remember the last time I clipped them. (Shit, I didn't clip them the last time they got clipped, the wonderful Athena did that for me.) My heels are rough and I've got some massive callouses on the sides of my big toes and I haven't shaved my legs in about eight weeks.

I actually refrained from complaining about self service shoes at that point.

My mom and I got a good laugh about it later over lunch.