Shoes, Kelly

"Kelly! We're going out to eat tonight!"
Stomping sounds can be heard as Kelly throws herself from her bedroom to the bathroom.

"We're leaving now!"
"Arrargh!" Loud clunking noises as her hairbrush slips, and hits the wall on it's way down.

"Now."
She finally stomps down the stairs and rams her feet into a pair of flip-flops. "So we're we going?"

"You're driving."
"... Ohh..." Flip-flops get kicked off at the wall, feet get wriggled into more proper shoes.


That's generally how every evening out goes. I don't know why they rush me out the door like that. Especially when we're going someplace fancy, and I haven't been given so much as a warning that we're leaving in the first place. I'm just used to having bedhead in nice places now.

I also don't mind driving people around. Like, at all. I enjoy it to an extent--The company is usually nice and they often bring good music. But I hate driving when I'm going to a restaurant with my parents. It means that they're planning to do a a lot of drinking, and it's no fun being the only sober one in a car. They shamelessly flirt, they distract me from the road, they demand to be driven to weird places. I'd really rather hire them a taxi or hand them a bus schedule.

Though, in all fairness, the steak last night was delicious, and I enjoyed the pie.