Knee Deep in Shit

Nikki always says I should have a reality show. She says it's because I'm funny and have an interesting life. I say it's because bad luck follows me around, usually with hilarious results (well, if you're watching from the outside). I imagine it like the little black rain cloud that follows Winnie the Pooh.

But this latest installment in real-life slapstick is just too funny for me to keep to myself in some attempt to maintain any semblance of dignity.

I was driving to Mama Lo's house on Saturday and for various reasons I haven't felt quite well lately. I'm assuming that the mini-keg of beer and the pack of cigarettes didn't do me any favors, but it was a holiday weekend. At any rate, roughly 15-20 minutes from my mom's house I get a bad case of the tummy gurgles. For reference, I despise public restrooms and would frankly rather go in the woods, so I decide that I'm a grown-up type person and can hold it while I drive like hell.

By the time I got to Mama Lo's I was confident in my ability to open the door to the house I lived in from the time I was 3 until I went away to college. Yeah, well, pride goes before the fall. Apparently, my mom had her locks changed since I last got a set of keys. The rumbling being more persistent now I dash to the back door to see if the patio door is open. Unfortunately, my somewhat paranoid and overzealous uncle now lives with my mom and insists on putting the whole house on lockdown. In a vain attempt to not shit my pants, I scamper to the front door, calling my mom to see what the code to the lock box is. It's at this point that I realize that my situation is dire. Fully aware that my neighbors are having a barbeque behind the hedges, I drop my keys and run behind the garage where I drop my pants and pray that none of the neighbor's kids decide to play in the hedges where they would be treated to a view of my naked ass and the aftermath of constant stress and too much to drink.

I'm so grossed out at this point I didn't think it could get worse. But, of course, one of the reason no one poops in the wild is because there's nothing to wipe with and I wasn't willing to risk the chance that the innocent looking weeds behind the garage were poison ivy. Because that's the last thing I need this month, poison ivy all over my naughty bits. Admitting defeat, I pull up my pants and start to search for a way to get into the damn house before Holly arrives, wanting to go to the barbeque. Finally, I get a stroke of luck. Mama Lo has stacked lawn chairs under a bathroom window. I Spidey my way up onto the window ledge and squeeze my way through the half-window and manage to climb down without breaking anything. The dog comes prancing in, despite my pleas to leave me alone in my shame.

Finally, I get myself cleaned up, get a pair of pajama pants and get my pants Spray'n'washed and in the washer. And I can return to normal life. So, I let the dog out and she does her little business so I start to walk inside so I can get her a treat. That's when she gets a funny look and makes a beeline for the back of the garage. That's right. I scream "NO!" (DO NOT WANT!), but by the time I got back there, she's rolling in it. She stands up and is just covered. I slam the doorwall shut to ensure that it doesn't get worse and grab the hose. I'm sure I sounded absolutely insane to the neighbors as I hosed off Satan disguised as a 35-pound cocker spaniel while screaming, "If you're grown enough to roll in shit, you're grown enough to get the hose."

Jennie asks me why all the interesting stuff happens at my house. Yeah, crapping in your backyard and having the dog roll in it is "interesting."

The final indignity, once my mother has stopped laughing her ass off at me she says, "for future reference, there's a spare key under the 'Welcome' mat."

I think it can be summed up: Fuck. My. Life.