Its only 8.42 am and I want to crawl back into bed and wait for tomorrow.
The novelty of a new term has worn off. . .very quickly. I knew this when I woke up at 6.30 am instead of 6.00, and waking up late didn't encourage me to jump out of bed like it was on fire.
I just laid there.
Listened to the radio. . .songs like Sexy Chick wailing through the small, clock radio speakers, reminders from Trevor Doyle to call in birthdays and anniversaries, the news, which is never good.
I realized that I didn't wake Em to get into the shower.
I hate getting Em out of bed.
Because Em hates getting out of bed.
Em loves her sleep. Loves nesting in her bed, duvet and blankets and Reilley encircling her, fist curled underneath her chin.
But all this heavenly gloriousness disappears when I turn on the light, and speak the words she hates to hear:
"Morning Bunny! Time to get up and into the shower."
Thus releasing the maelstrom.
The only thing worse than waking Em is waking Stephen.
My husband, who is for the most part kind, patient, caring, is dillusioned, disoriented and just plain cranky most mornings.
He moans and groans about getting up: how come? what's going on?
I start the battle an hour before I want him to be out the door.
I throw pets at him in an effort to make him uncomfortable enough to get out of bed.
Frankie wags his tail, jumps on Stephen, licks his face.
Goblet walks around him in circles until she decides to park herself on his chest and suck on his earlobes.
I turn on all the lights, turn up the radio, open drawers, close drawers, open our very loud on-a-track-closet doors, and close them, repeatedly.
Everything and anything I could do to get him out. of. bed.
Mornings are one of the few times I wish we had another car. That way, Stephen could stay in bed as long as he wanted and I wouldn't have to go through my morning-symphony and pet wielding activities.
Wouldn't that be nice.
One of the things I do every morning is take the dogs out.
After a night of slumber, Frankie has accumulated a small river of pee desperately wanting release. Tikka is a bit more reluctant to do anything quickly, especially walking down the stairs and out into the cold morning air.
In fact, she is downright stubborn. She sits at the top of the stairs, staring at me, while I cajole, beg, plead, barter and outright threaten her to get her bottom downstairs.
All the while trying to control Frankie's exuberant I-have-to-go-pee-dance.
Half asleep, I negotiate myself downstairs, always amazed that I haven't tripped or fallen downstairs. Dogs are pushing behind me, the canine version of "HURRY UP I HAVE TO PEE!!!"
I snap on the leashes, and Frankie bounds out the front door ahead of me, pulling me to the side of the house in a frenzied dash to relieve himself of his waterly load.
Tikka is the COMPLETE opposite. I am dragging her out of the door and down the steps. She refuses to move any further away from the front of the house than ABSOLUTELY necessary. So, I am standing on the front walkway, arms stretched as far as physically possible, a dog in each direction, trying not to fall over or, potentially worse, be split in half.
Wouldn't that surprise Stephen!
This morning, after narrowly avoiding being severed down the middle, I get back into the house, more awake than I went out, and let the dogs off their leashes. They tear down the hallway to the kitchen like prisoners who have just been released and haven't eaten for a month.
I turn to put the leashes back on their hook. I look down at the boot tray in the front hallway, and what to my wonderous eyes did appear??????
Dog shit.
The. Motherlode.
Sitting in the heel well of Stephen's size 12 navy blue Crocs.
I see a pattern here.
My Birkenstocks.
Stephen's Crocs.
Frankie's shit.
On the upside, things could be worse. Said deposit could be on the carpet, or the laminate floor, or in a pair of shoes that can't be washed with the hose, outside the house.
So, how come such an event occurred in my house on this September morning????
Meredyth.
Okay, maybe not completely Meredyth.
Stephen was very generous in putting the left over homemade macaroni and cheese into a container for Meredyth.
She put it in her bag, which was on the floor.
At some point, Stephen came into the hallway, and saw a half-empty container of mac and cheese with the lid sitting on the floor beside the container.
And a Frankie licking his lips.
It would seem that for Frankie, a moment on the lips is not worth a lifetime on the hips.
It results in a load of dog shit in someone's shoe.
In the normal world, this would be the end of our daybreak dog doo shenanigans.
But my world is far from normal.
In any event, everyone managed to get up, get dressed, feed themselves, make their lunches, and complete their morning ablutions.
Always first in the car, I watch the other members of my family emerge from my house and head towards the car.
Keith gets in, but then remarks that he smells dog poop.
Upon investigating his shoes, he realizes that his laces are coated in fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-driveway-dog poop.
He gets out of the car in search of non-shit coated shoe laces.
Stephen starts towards the car, and then suddenly stops, lifts up his foot, and notes that he has a big ol' clump of fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-driveway dog poop.
I get out of car to help him hose off his shoes.
He's taking the dog poop on his shoes far better than I thought he would.
I get back into the car.
My nostrils are suddenly overflowing with a noxious stench.
One I am intimately familiar with.
I look down at MY shoes.
And guess what?
The bottoms are slathered with fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-in-the-driveway dog doo doo.
I get back out of the car.
Stephen is laughing.
I. Am. Not.
He hoses off my shoes, careful to not get the rest of me wet.
We both go back to the car, and we are still assaulted by the stench of dog doo doo.
Because the dog shit that was on our shoes has been transfered to the rubber floor mats of our car.
I, again, get out of the car, haul out the mat, and shake the shit off.
Stephen does the same. And then he sprays them down, to ensure that there is not one smidgin of poop left on the mats that could potentially be transfered to anyone who has the misfortune of being in our car.
Throughout the day, we found bits and peices of poo on our shoes, clothing, and other assorted personal items.
Thankfully, all that was present was the poop.
And not the smell.
Because wandering around campus, teaching two classes, meeting with people while wrapped in the wafting scent of dog shit doesn't exactly make me feel special.
I take so. much. care. to collect the fecal landmines that dot the landscape our of humble abode.
And Stephen is fanatical about making sure that any deposit made during the night time hours is collected and disposed of.
In our biodegradable poop bags, even.
Given this, I can only assume that the abundant profusion of dog shit around my house is an evil plot between my dogs to deplete my already small store of sanity.
Don't tell them, but they're doing a really good job.
Title Lyrics: (What Rver Happened to the) White Dog Poop from the 70s by Sarah Silverman
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