Yesterday wasn’t my best day.
A series of unfortunate events happened one by one through out the entire day. Granted they were all very trivial in their own way, but by the time Chris came home from work he found me sprawled out on the living rug screaming “Why won’t you work? Just work printer, work! It’s your job!” I might have had tears of frustration in my eyes.
If any of you own a DYMO label printer then you have a similar idea of what it’s like to work with one of Satan’s children. But I won’t bash a product online, that’s just not me… but don’t ever buy this printer.
But the worst of it happened earlier in the day. I’m nervous to talk about it just in case the victim’s parent happens to be reading. But here it goes.
It was around 5:35 p.m. when Harlow started slapping me in the face announcing that it was time for his early evening walk. And so we headed outside. Yesterday was a super windy day, like the type of wind that knocks over trash cans and sends shit flying through the air… wait for it.
We’re a few blocks away from our house, fighting our way through the hustle and bustle of post 5 p.m. walkers when Harlow starts sniffing the ground furiously and turning in circles like a mad man. His poop dance if you will.
I pick up after him no less than four times a day, so I typically don’t have much shame in this category. However yesterday felt extra busy and I hate being judged by people when they walk by and watch me scoop up my dog’s stuff. Especially young children. And yesterday there were kids everywhere. I just can’t handle the judgement in their eyes.
There happened to be this one kid on a tiny little scooter who started going really slow as he passed me. He looked like a miniature Scott Disick with a popped collar and white leather boat shoes meant for a sixty year old on a yacht. He watched me as I shamefully hunched over to pick up after Harlow and the look of disgust was smeared across his face. Lincoln Park children are the worst. They know that even at six years old they’re already better off than me.
So I picked it up as fast as I could and rather than tying the Target bag full of feces shut like I normally do, I just loosely held the bag while I went in search of a dumpster. And then the wind started up.
At this point I’m holding on just by one handle, so the other handle is starting to gain some momentum. Kind of like a parachute. A parachute of shit.
The next thing I know the wind whips the bag inside out and the shit is no longer inside the bag. Where did it go?
And that’s when I saw the back of Scott Disick’s khaki pants that were now decorated with brown spots of confetti. Harlow confetti.
So I ran. We ran all the way home. I didn’t wait around to see if the kid knew what happened, or if his mom knew, the only thing that mattered was that I knew. And I knew that at some point little Scott would notice there was shit all over his pants and he’d have that moment of panic and insecurity when he thought just for an instant, wait did I shit my pants….
And that’s the tale of the Windy Shitty.