Every now and again, I have a day.
A day where gross begets…more gross. Like a stone of gross rolling down a gross-covered hill.
It started with a washcloth.
I pick it up, start washing my face. And like a flower, opening to the sun, my brain starts to awaken.
That’s when I remember what the last thing I used the washcloth for was. (And if I hadn’t remembered, the tell-tale whisps of brown, courtesy of the baby girl, would have clued me in. Eventually.)
I had soup for lunch. The label made it sound delicious. I just wished I’d skipped looking at it.
It looked every Sunday morning of my 20’s. Smelled a little like them, too, if I’m being honest.
I grabbed the banister on the way down the stairs.
And came up with a handful of someone else’s boogers.
No one would admit to it. Apparently, a disgusting race of space hobos snuck in, left their awful little alien greeners on my woodwork, erased all our memories with their ooky little ray guns, then booked.
But the best, clearly, had to be saved for last.
Owen comes out of the girl’s room.
“Um, I don’t know when or how, but I think someone took a shit in her room.”
I was able to ascertain that while no bowel movement had actually been spotted, the smell in there was nearly eye-watering.
I ask the girl: “Honey, do you know what stinks in here?”
“Ummm, maybe my ‘giner. I don’t think I washed it good in the bath.”
(Oh sweet jesus baby girl, if that smell is coming from your “‘giner”, we’re running to the emergency room, post-haste.)
I toss the place. Look in every nook. Every cranny. Every nook’s cranny.
Then, I go under the bed.
And there, in all its putrescent glory, is a sippy cup.
A sippy cup I haven’t seen for nigh on 2 weeks.
A sippy cup – of milk.