I’ve just cleaned what I assume is raccoon poop out of the boys’ tree house. Let me write that again in case you missed it.
I’ve just cleaned RACCOON POOP out of the boys’ tree house. Are you nauseated yet? Good, then that makes two of us.
Can I tell you how FAR outside my job description that falls? I signed on for cuddly babies who would smell like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. What I got were a bunch of projectile vomiting, poop slinging primates who have done nothing since their birth but push me far, far, FAR outside my comfort zone. I’m scarred by the things I know now. I’d love to list them in detail, but a) I don’t have that kind of time, and b) I’m afraid you’ll never read another thing I write. Let’s just say I know things only medical professionals should know. If only I could bill Blue Cross, I’d have a tidy little sum for all the medical procedures I’ve carried out within the confines of our insane asylum…I mean home. I’d go so far as to say anything involving poop, snot, vomit, or urine has become my “specialty.”
Thankfully, most issues involving blood have happened while Jason’s on the job. But I have to think he’s getting off easy. His solution for absolutely everything is superglue. Got a cut? Superglue it shut. Facial scarring? Not a problem. Chicks dig scars.
Talk about your one trick pony.
But Jason’s at work, and superglue was not an option on this one anyway. So I’m the one climbing backward out of a treehouse holding a leaky bag of raccoon poop.
Now that the worst is over, I plan to find I nice quiet corner and sniff some Johnson’s Baby Shampoo until the nausea passes.