Top of the World

I own seven pairs of black shoes. I don't think this is excessive and I think most of my female friends would agree. Life happens and there are at least seven different situations I might run into that would require a different black shoe for each one. With seven pairs, I feel covered on all my bases. It seems odd, then, that I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom at 7:15 looking for at least ONE pair of these elusive black shoes. I have one ballet flat and one boot and I can't find any of the other twelve. Where the hell are all my black shoes? Not in my closet. Not on the shoe rack. Not on top of my dresser or in the hamper or in Sam's closet. I'm mulling it over as Roz gnaws on the hem of my pants and then as MaryTodd takes a big bite out of my toe, it hits me: top of the mantle on the fireplace, top shelf of the pantry, top of the fridge.

What? these little bastards can jump.