Booby-Trap

How I wish I had a story to tell about a breast getting trapped into thinking it was a pop star, like the title suggests, but I don't. Instead, I've a story that, if you've not eaten, you might want to wait.

Yesterday, the day was fair enough, especially for the middle of January. Minimal snow on the ground. The sun made an appearance for the first half of the day. Pickle, the kitty, ran in and out all day long. And so did the dogs.

Late afternoon, my wife was gracious enough to carry my basket of clean clothes down the stairs, into our bedroom. (In hindsight, she said she should have known because things went from a-okay to what's-that-smell?) The quiet was disturbed by my wife shouting, "I just stepped in shit!"

I thought, 'Dude, that sucks.'

I pictured her naked feet with squishy poop between the toes, or a wool sock with a clump of poop hanging off the bottom. My tummy started turning before I even made my way down the stairs.

Like mostly everything, my wife and I have systems. When it comes to poop patrol, I do the initial removal while she follows behind for cleanup. (Usually I'm alone, outside, picking it up with no further cleanup required.) So with a plastic bag in hand, I turtled my way into my shirt, making sure my nose and mouth were covered and with determination, made my feet climb down the stairs.

I was able to assess the situation as I made my way to the crime scene. Not bad. Not bad at all. Or so I thought. It wasn't until I stepped over the crime scene and turned that I saw it: a perfectly round poop cake, smashed into the tile.

Oh, help me baby Jesus.

I have a weak stomach when it comes to saliva, vomit, penises, and poop. And I knew I was going to have to really get all-up-in-it to get it off the floor.

Gagging. Heaving. Coughing. Almost vomit.

I didn't know what my wife was doing. All I knew was she couldn't stop talking about how there was shit on <her> slipper! Shit-on-my-slipper! Shit! On! My! Slipper! Shitonmyslipper!

I know. I know there's shit on your slipper, and they really are nice slippers--down filled, fluffy and soft--but you have to understand I can't concern myself with your slippers right now. (I will not go into removal detail--my stomach cannot relive it--but I did get through it without making a mess of my own.)

A full Febreze On the Go later (when my wife broke the seal, the smell filled the house like home-made poop cookies baking in the oven,) a Scrubbing Bubbles scrubbing, and a Swiffer Wet onceover (product placement--cha-ching!), the incriminating evidence had been erased. But questions were still asked.

No one--basset nor mutt--was talking.

With the babies' plentiful access to outside, an accident was the last thing that should have happened, leading me to believe it wasn't an accident at all. We were played like a fiddle. Perfect placement and perfect outcome. Bam! Mommy's foot lands in the poop and the babies have a laugh at our expense. Although, once the slipper was clean, we all laughed about it well into the evening.