she wants to sleep with her shoes on, afraid that someone will steal them. she hides dozens of pairs of shoes in her clothes hamper, so there’s nowhere to put her dirty clothes. you throw them on the floor in the shower.
she’s looking for the books you bought her — large print — hoping she’ll occupy herself reading. she occupies herself moving the books from place to place, hiding them so no one will steal them. when she can’t find them, she’s convinced that someone has.
you buy her wide width shoes that will not aggravate the hammertoe that she’s been aggravating for years. she insists on wearing her too-narrow but prettier shoes. in a few days, she’ll start limping, complaining that her toe hurts. aggravation aggravation.
you find the TV listings that you’ve been looking for all day in her underwear drawer. her eyeglasses are perpetually misplaced. you finally convince her to take off her shoes. she hides them and will accuse you tomorrow of taking them.
by bedtime, your head is splitting from aggravation. you go online and buy yourself a sexy pair of summer sandals — too expensive but somehow shoepremely satisfying.


as archy the cockroach says:
live so that you
can stick out your tongue
at the insurance doctor