Knee-deep in shit

As funny as this sounds, some readers are under the misconception that I have a glamorous life. By the end of this post, any remnant of that delusion will be completely eradicated.



I have been dealing with shit all day. Let me say that again: I have been DEALING with SHIT all DAY! Not figuratively. I have been coping with copious amounts of human and animal waste, and I am sick of this shit! Pun intended!



Flashback to last night, 10:00 pm. I am completing a 2 hour grocery run (couponing takes FOREVER, but I saved $126.00). I was carefully reading the labels of several spot cleaners, because I planned to spend part of my holiday (today) cleaning shit stains out of my living room rug. Weenie, who some of you may remember from previous posts, is still alive and well and shitting in my house. June was an EXCEPTIONALLY rainy month in Georgia, and the prissy little bitch refuses to spend any time at all on wet grass, so she has been having "accidents" in the house.



The kids woke up at the crack of dawn this morning - 5 am literally. My daughter evidently stepped in an errant dogturd, and fetched some paper towel to clean her foot. The paper towel was on the kitchen table when I got up this morning. Ewwwww.



So, I trash that, clean up the floor, and take the garbage bag out to the large collection can.



Meanwhile, my 3 year old boy, the apple of my eye, has refused to potty train. He spent the morning riding his tricycle at breakneck speed, while smushing a diaper full of godawful poop so that it went down his legs, and up his back. I threw his unsalvageable clothes away, and damn near threw him away with them.



As I am disinfecting him, I talk to him kindly about using the potty like a big boy. In his best superhero voice, he bellows, "Never!" with one finger in the air. Hey, hey - shut up, laughing only encourages him. He was squirming to get away from me, and I let him go to roam the house "al fresco", hoping that the freedom from clothing might encourage him to try the potty. Ha.



SO . . . when things begin to quiet down, I break out the spot cleaner. It works fairly well, and I am feeling hopeful.



Then, I walk into the baby's room. There I see the tee-tee tag team: the boy is delightfully pissing on the floor, Weenie beside him, squatting contendedly as she waters what I can only suppose she considers her internal lawn.



Goddamn. I need a vacation. And a hazmat crew.