I Am Not a Good Person

I Am Not a Good Person

OK. So.

Yes. I do see the dog barf on the floor. But I’m pretending … just for the moment … that I do not see it.

OK. So.

Joe just walked in. I had just typed the sentence above when he entered the room. I turned the laptop toward him so he could read it.

OK. So.

Here’s the thing. I can handle all kinds of grossness. I can change disgusting baby diapers. I can clean up dog poo. I can clean up kid barf. But dog barf? It’s the one thing that makes me want to hurl. As in, I will be running to the trash can with paper towel fists full of dog puke and doing that “Garowh … garowh …” noise that humans make when we’re about ready to lose our lunches all the fuck over the place.

So Joe just cleaned it up. In fact, he is continuing to clean it up. He is nice. And also, he is the owner of this dog. Like, he brought this dog to the marriage. So he kind of has to clean it up.  He’s contractually obligated.

What’s funny is that if one of the kids had thrown up – one of his kids – I would’ve jumped in to clean it up right away. Or I would’ve tended to the kid while he tended to the barf. The thing is, I would’ve been in there. That would be a no brainer. But I don’t feel so responsible for the dog barf.

I feel bad about this. That I didn’t clean it up. But … this totally skeeves me out. And I only ignored it for less than a minute. And just because I saw it first, does that means it’s MINE to clean up?

And that, campers, is how one disgusting pile of dog vomit has me questioning my entire identity.


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New-age smartass.

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