I love shoes. I own probably over 100 pairs. Manolos. Louboutins. Valentinos. Nine West. BCBG. Target.
And I will not get rid of one pair. Not one. They all go with something.
This drives my husband bat-shit crazy.
"Your shoes are everywhere," he moans, almost daily. "It's as if you just step out of them wherever you are, and leave them there!"
Yeah? And?
When we're out shopping, and I find a cute pair of shoes, he declares, "You have to get rid of a pair you have in your closet if you're going to buy those."
The fuck I do.
He has 679 dress shirts, 10 of which he wears. And 15 silk handkerchiefs I know he'll NEVER use. And 2,347 pairs of boxes with dogs and ladies and playing cards and polka dots and stripes and paisley on them. I don't ask him to throw those out, and he leaves them on the floor.
This drives me bat-shit crazy. Not because he owns 2,347 pairs of boxers, but because his shit is everywhere too.
I could complain about this, or I could let Carrie Bradshaw complain for me:
Preach it, Carrie.
