Adventures in Feces

*caution* do not read if you are afraid of poop, or are eating.. You have been warned.

So, for those of you who know me well, you know who my arch nemesis is....that's right....poop. (boo!! hiss!!!) Ok, well, actually you don't even have to know me well. You could be someone who sat near me in Applebee's, at a movie theater, or walked by me in Wal-Mart and overheard me not-so-quietly regaling a family member with this week's tales of poop-tastrophes. Hey, if you spent your days elbow deep in other people's poo for 6 years, you would discuss it a lot too. Don't judge. I hate poop.
But, alas, at every turn, there it is. I walk through my house in constant search of it. Sniffing the air like an animal on the hunt. Searching it out and finding it in the darndest of places. I smell it..where is it? Aha. the litter box. My awesome cats decided to poo and not cover it up. Perhaps they think such an awesome smell should be shared, not hidden. Ok, clean out the litter box...and while emptying it, I accidentally miss the bag and dump the entire contents on my feet...sweet. clean it up, clean myself up....go about my busine...wait. *sniffsniff* poop. There's still poop. Where is it? Ew. Ok, guinea pigs went crazy on the carrots last night, and my reward for loving them is a thousand little pill-shaped nuggets of stench. Poop. Clean the piggy cage. Are you serious?! I still smell poop. Searching, searching. Aha. OK, WHO DIDN'T FLUSH??? Of course, no answer. Silence in a usually ear-splittingly chaotic house. No one wants to claim it. It's mom's now. No 'thanks' necessary, mum.*flush* A solid ten minutes of a poo-free home, and suddenly, there it is again. "Argggg....poooooooop" **shaking my fist**
I walk in on Abby, trying to take off her freshly pooed undies, smearing poo down her legs, and inevitably, the bathroom floor. "come here," I help her step out of them, and the motion slingshots a big lovely SLAP of poop against my pant leg. Awe-some.
Poop, you've won again. Well played.
And so, you see my pain. My life is spent cleaning up poop. Should have read the fine print. But anyway, I say all this, so that I can bring you this week's latest poo-caper:
The other night, Dean and I were laying in bed, watching t.v., romantically snuggling. Blissfully unaware poo was about to rear it's ugly head. Abby comes around the corner of the hall, her arm outstretched, devilish gleam in her eye. Something pinched between her two fingers..."what does she have?" too far away to tell...but deep down...I knew. She came a little closer. No longer could we deny. It was, of course, a morsel of turd. Dean got up to go inspect, (he knows the drill- when he's home, it's his turn to play poo-janitor), and came back with the report that she had pooped her pants, taken them off, and decided to play betty crocker with her feces. He found a few balls, and a couple pancakes. Fresh from the oven. He proceeded to 'clean up' her room and her body, and came back to give the all clear. Knowing a man's definition of 'clean' I went to inspect. There was chunks of poo on the carpet, poo smears on her little kitchen set, and the coup de gras, I found poo...in her cash register. Now, my friends, not just poo. A poo-raisin. An undigested, poo covered raisin, that perhaps, she was saving for later? I can picture her thinking about it, staring at it. "It still looks ok. I think this is salvageable..." Tucking it safely away. So I proceeded to sanitize everything, searching on my hands and knees for any stray nugs, wiping down every surface. I don't know how my husband likes to clean, but I have a strict 'No chunks of shit' policy.
So, I am sorry for any appetites I have ruined, but now you know. You can understand why I have such anger towards poo. And now you can take pity on me if you ever come to my house and it smells like poo. It's not my fault, it's just out to get me.