So everyone I know is pregnant. Well, not really, but so many women close to me are expecting that my uterus is sweating profusely and tugging at her collar. More on this later, unless I’ve driven you, understandably gagging, away from this blog forever.
(Sidebar: my dog is lying on the bed watching The Golden Girls right now…I love that furry beast. Ah! Her patience is rewarded! A commercial for Purina One just aired.)
Yesterday I got to spend time with my two year-old nephew, who informed me after a moment of intense concentration that his baby doll was named “Chit.”
“Chit?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yeah,” he replied, a devilish grin developing. “Shit. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”
It was the first time I’d heard him swear (and so gleefully!), and I laughed so hard I’m pretty sure I pre-digested the dinner I ate an hour later.
I’m not supposed to be encouraging this kind of behavior, but that's what aunties do.
In related news, last week I came home from work to find two black garbage bags piled against my back porch, red plastic ties fluttering in the wind. Were they J’s? What could be in them? Was someone messing with me? Garbage bombing me?
I decided to go inside and ask J. “Are those garbage bags yours?”
He frowned. “I thought they were yours!”
“They’re not mine…we don’t even BUY black garbage bags!”
Oh God … what if there were body parts inside? Perhaps this was the work of some kind of strange stalker-vandal. My paranoia, usually already simmering steadily beneath the surface, became a full, roiling boil.
Oh, please don’t be road kill.
I began to mentally list the sins I may have committed against my neighbors. Okay, there’s really only one, and sneaking into his yard at night to drop mosquito dunks in the cesspool flower planter near his garage is actually more of a public service.
What if it’s a dead cat?!
"What's in them?"
"I don't know...you look!"
Luckily, J is braver than I am, and he poked open one of the bags with a stick. He frowned. “I think it’s shit!”
I nearly fell to my knees and sang a hymn.
You weren’t expecting that reaction, were you? But I was soooo relieved. Because this was prime, scentless, well-aged goat manure from my parents’ herd, delivered by my Dad at my request so I can have big-ass flowers and delicious tomatoes this season.
(I promise my next post won't reference fecal matter in any way, shape, or form. Really.)