Because you don't read about poop enough on my blog...

Before I get to that, I must tell you something. I have no idea why I can't write these days. It's like I go through periods of time when my creativity bottoms out and God is saying, just be quiet and listen. Stop writing; stop talking; stop brainstorming. Just listen. I do enjoy listening, but I enjoy storytelling, too. So, I suppose I should be blessed by the balance and not being overwhelmed in any one area all the time.

Alas, all my accident-prone friends will appreciate this next story. My photog friends will appreciate it; anyone who's ever chased kids will appreciate it. Anyone who has OCD, even just a little, guaranteed to appreciate it. So, part of this little obnoxious OCD battle that goes on in my head includes, sometimes going to crazy measures to make sure I won't get sick by way of contamination. With that said, the very sight of bird poop makes me cringe (filthy gross birds). And, therefore, I sometimes literally leap away from animal droppings. I'd rather sit on cold concrete or stand for a few hours than sit on a chair that's been graced by a bird. Anyway. The other day I was traipsing through an outdoor area, taking some family photos. I was just on a mission to rock out some great shots before the sun went down and not really paying attention to where I was walking.

All of the sudden, one of the family members says to me (with crinkled nose), "Do you smell poop? I smell poop." I sniff the air few times. "Nope, I don't smell anything." (because changing about 87,562 diapers in my life has made me immune to the smell of feces). Family member #2. "Yeah, I totally smell poop. Check your shoes, everyone." 

Right shoe, clear. 

Left shoe, completely and fully defiled with excrements from someone's dog. 

Now. WHO let's their dog poop on a walking path!?!? Come on, people of the world. The little blue poop bags you carry around the neighborhood to show everyone you're doing your civic duty by picking up dog crap also (and especially) work on paths, too. 

Come on. My shoes were nearing their end-days anyway; I threw them in a trash bag never to be seen again and went in to Jimmy John's to console myself with an Unwich and some chips - wearing my husband's shoes. 

No shame. 

Grossed out.

Use your poop bags, people.

PS. It wasn't my client's dog who left the deposit.