So Jill, what did you do last night?
Well, I'll tell ya, Phil.
I did laundry in my apartment complex laundry room. I had a bunch to do. When I was finally all done with said laundry, I carried the basket from my car to my apartment door and then schlepped it up the 13 stairs to my bedroom and office. Being lazy, I put the laundry basket on my bed and got back to the music arranging stuff I was doing on my PC.
I noticed that every so often I'd detect a barely-perceptible weird smell, but I dismissed it as my dirty dinner plate sitting by my PC from earlier that evening. While it didn't really smell like curried chicken, I didn't give it much thought.
But then the smell wafted again, and it seemed to be coming from near my closet right next to my PC. I got up and stuck my nose in there, but I couldn't find the source of the smell. I dismissed it again, thinking I was nuts.
Moments later I detected it again, so naturally I smelled myself; the mystery was starting to baffle me and I had to rule out all possibilities. Realizing the smell was not Jillesque in nature, I again shrugged it off and went back to working.
An hour later, my butt fell asleep on my hard computer chair, so I crossed my legs to change positions when I casually glanced down at my foot... and I found...
dun dun DUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
...48 metric tons of dog poop all over my new running shoes.
I looked up with a blank stare and felt the cartoonish asterisk of 'wouldn't you frikkin' know it' rising over my head, as I did a take to the invisible camera surely capturing this all on film. I sighed.
Although I really didn't want to, I lifted my foot to view the underside of these new sneakers with their deeply-grooved soles, and oh yes, they had served their ground-gripping function well. These shoes held on to that poo with their vulcanized death grip, maximizing their sophisticated crap-to-carpet distribution capabilities. I now know why these shoes were so expensive; I paid for years of meticulous foot research, exhaustive engineering, vast advancements in rubber technology and the sweat of underpaid workers from Thailand so that maximum (not to mention even and smooth) square-foot poop coverage could be ensured.
My eyes slowly traced the typical entrance path to my room, and (cue atonal screechy violin music) my worst fears had come true... perfectly placed tracks of dog excrement impeccably mapped my earlier footsteps, like a little dog-shit dance routine.
So what did I do last night, you ask?
I spent 2 hours on my hands and knees scrubbing 48 metric tons of dog crap out of my carpet (specifically, my apartment entrance, living room carpet, area rug, all 13 steps upstairs, bedroom and office), inventing new and creative ways to show someone how much I hate them. I created cutting-edge curse-word combinations. I mentally devised bitter signage to post on telephone poles warning dog-owners of their cruel fate should this happen again. I planned out how I could set up surveillance cameras at the precise point of deposition, hoping to catch the cuprit in action. I imagined taking these no-good wormlings to court and suing them for the cost to clean my carpet and my area rugs. I fantasized about standing before a mighty judge who would award me a couple bucks extra "for my lost dignity" as I hand-cleaned alimentary canine discharge out of the nooks and crannies of my Nikes in my kitchen sink with a pink sponge and Antibacterial 409. I figured I would become afflicted with some flu-like disease from eating food on which a single airborne dog poo molecule had fallen, despite my neurotic germ-freak attempts at sanitizing the area. I got giddy thinking about forcibly removing the arms of my neighbors so they would now at least have an excuse not to clean up after their dogs.
Today's morning light yielded many missed spots and new expletives, not to mention crafty ballet maneuvers to avoid them. I only thank the powers that be that I coincidentally get a free carpet cleaning in October thanks to a newly-signed lease.
The end.
Love Nanny.
Drive through.