Dear Mister Contractor Man...

Foul language rant. Foul language rant.  You've been warned.  Now go ahead and laugh at my misery.


I'm sorry Mister Contractor Man who's been in charge of my renovation for the past nine months that I fired another one of your workers.  I don't do it lightly.  Really, I don't.  Matter of fact, I try to be as understanding as possible.  Really, I do. 

But when I ask one of your subs to remove their shoes in the finished part of the house that means you take off your shoes.  That does not mean you look me square in the face and say "yes ma'am, sure ma'am, I can do that ma'am" and act like you're taking off your shoes off and walk away.  With your shoes still on. 

It does not mean when I come back from that hell-can called WalMart, you still have your shoes on, now having spent an entire hour in my house tracking mud all over the tile, carpet and hardwood without a Goddammened care in the world. 

It does not mean when I ask you again to take off your dirty, muddy, twenty year old has been with me forever and a day, steel tipped man boots, you look me square in the face and say "yes ma'am, sure ma'am, I can do that ma'am," and walk away.  With your shoes still on. 

So that's one reason why, Mister Contractor Man, I turfed your sub to the side of the road. 

The fact that he blocked in my garage, again, was an added bonus.  So after I spent an hour of self induced hell at WalMart with baby Gracie, I was the one walking all my shit up to the house, from the curb.  In the rain. 

Did I mention the baby?  Thanks to you, my napping little cherub woke up from the rain and has been even more pissed off than usual. 

Thanks for that.  I owe you one.

The other reason, and might I add the real reason, I punted his ass to the curb is this:  We have a house rule.  A simple rule, really.  Everyone knows it and I have it posted on every door, banister and counter top.  You have to be illiterate, above the law or a disrespectful fucking moron not to follow it. 

And it goes a little something like this:

No Shoes In The House. 

Ever, ever, ever. 
EVER.

My little man-child has had that rule since he could walk and enforces it with the stealth of a Jedi knight.  He makes our Tae Kwon Doe instructor look tame and manageable.  And he's an eighth degree black belt. 

So now, when my little man-child comes home today, I'll have to deal with a shoe-in-the-house-meltdown after I specifically told your dumb-ass sub to take his shoes off.  Twice.

And that's the real reason Mister Contractor Man, why I punted his ass to the curb.  Because now, my little bloodhound will sniff out the shoe violation in under twenty seconds and proceed to have a meltdown of epic proportions and royally screw the rest of our evening.

And that's why I went to our local liquor store before school let out and will be drinking all of this:

And I didn't even get carded.  Not that I'll mind that horrible little fact in a few hours....