Doody Calls

Here's a little tidbit I've been saving for you. Aging it like a fine wine. Letting it ripen like artisan cheese. Allowing it to mature like a Series EE Savings Bond. Val shall tell no tale before its time. She cut her teeth on Paul Masson commercials.

Those of you who frequent this den of immaturity are familiar with my sister the ex-mayor's wife. And her grime peccadilloes. She of the cleaning man for whom she scrubs her house the day before, and exits when he arrives. She who casts aspersions on the appearance of my T-Hoe. Not just the outside, but inquired pointedly that time I asked her to ride along to the bank, "Will I get my clothes dirty?" Sis. Who revealed a week later that at the closing on Mom's house, on the parking lot of the title company, her husband the ex-mayor badmouthed my vehicle as well. After parking next to me, with Sis asking if I was sitting inside, he said, "I don't know. I can't see through the windows. They're too dirty."

As you might surmise by my lengthy intro, this is a tale of irony.

Sis let it slip on the last day of July, when we were cleaning out Mom's kitchen. She had been going round with the Social Security office over money that needed to be put back in Mom's bank account. This must have been the sixth or seventh encounter.

"Oh, yesterday was such a busy day! You know I've been keeping Babe (her 18-month-old granddaughter) while her mom is at a workshop. We spent the morning looking for a potty seat like the one she has at home. I had to go to three different Walmarts. After lunch, I put her on the potty. Might as well get her used to it. That's when the Social Security office called. I left Baby on the potty. She has a little puzzle that she works, right on the floor in front of it. I had it set up in the TV room. I had to talk to those Social Security people. They keep giving me the runaround. That Medicare premium should be put back. That's for a month after Mom was already gone. I'm going to close her checking account, and there won't be a way to get it back."

I know Sis. She's a kid person. A retired kindergarten teacher. I could picture her giving Social Security what-for while pacing around, keeping one eye on Babe.

"They DID tell me that my file was being reviewed. But that it's very low priority, and they have a heavy workload. I got her name and said I was going to call her once a week until we get this resolved. I went back to check on Babe. She was off the potty and playing with her puzzle. She was wearing this little romper with snaps at the crotch. They were undone for the potty, and flapping like tails while she toddled around. Then I saw it!"

You know this won't end well for Sis, right? And that it brings joy to my heart when I hear Sis say...

"THERE WAS POOP ALL OVER THE CARPET!"

Heh, heh. Sis's man-cleaned house was soiled!

"Of course the flaps of her romper were coated with it, too. I had to undress her and get her cleaned up, then I had to wash her clothes, then I picked up the poop. I tried to clean the carpet with soapy water, but I didn't want to use the carpet cleaner with Babe there. I didn't want her breathing the fumes the rest of the day."

"Did you get a picture of it?"

"Uh huh. Here. It's on my phone. I sent it to the ex-mayor. He said, 'What's that?' I told him, 'Our carpet and Babe's poop.' When she left, I got down on my hands and knees with the carpet cleaner. I hope it doesn't leave a stain."

"OOH! That's looks like a dog had the runs! I thought it was going to be a little turd. That's terrible!"

"I know! And she was just inches from the potty."

That did my heart good. I refrained from gloating. From telling Sis, "My car might be dusty because we live on a gravel road. But at least at our house we don't poop on the carpet."