It's Friday the Thirteenth and I stepped in shit.
In front of the mailman.
I was shooing Finnigan away from Sophie's poo -- which he adores as a little after breakfast snack -- when I stepped in a warm pile he'd recently deposited. I was in sandals.
Warm retriever poop is impossible to get off the bottom of an over-priced Mephisto sandal noted for its traction. Running water doesn't do it. If you try to wipe it off with toilet paper, it lands on your foot. And all the rubbing in the world won't get it off.
It's like the tar the township used to put down on the dirt road when I was a kid.
Even if it looks like it's gone, you still feel it's there teasing you.
God, I almost barfed.
After the cleanup, I sat down to write this and Sophie started playing with something in the corner.
It was a piece of glass.
When I picked it up, I cut myself.
There is blood on the keyboard.
Then she decided to sharpen her falanges on my calf.
She thinks she's Freddy Krueger.
Not Edward Scissorhands.
She's too evil to be Edward Scissorhands.
I'm just waiting for Gordie, the incontinent pug to poop under my desk chair.
He does this often. Before I know what's happening, I roll over it.
Try getting sticky pug poop off the bottom of an office chair.
The smell lingers forever.
Call me superstitious but I hate Friday the Thirteenth.
Shit happens on Friday the Thirteenth and it's all over me.
That and blood.
Maybe the calendar Gods could take a page from hotels and just skip the Thirteen.
Fast forward to the Fourteen.
Until that happens, I'm going back to bed.
Hopefully, Gordie won't shit on my head.