Alright. So. Remember that time I ended up with the top half of my body inserted into an industrial-sized dumpster coated with 6-inch-thick black slime? Or that time I was driving down the highway and realized that the scent of Cheetos and death that was making me choke was coming from…me? Or the time Lucy’s dead eyeball fell out of her head and crawled across the floor (well, not exactly, but let’s not nitpick)?
This is all to say that I feel like maybe I was born to be a blogger. Because really: when you’re bent over in a parking lot while your ex-husband kneels behind you, Windex-ing poop off of the seat of your pants, it can help to think, “Well, at least I know what I’m going to write about tomorrow.”
Let me back up.
I drove to San Jose yesterday with my two children, to drop them off at Kendrick’s for the weekend. This is always its own special sort of adventure, what with the emergency restroom stops and the high-volume Dorito demands and such, but yesterday’s trip went pretty well, and ended with the three of us harmonizing on the soundtrack to A Star Is Born, which was obviously the best thing I can imagine happening as a parent (FAMILY BAND). The only outlier to the joy was Lucy, who spent the final hour of the trip making this odd sort of warbling sound, but I figured whatever, she’s over being in the car (me too), and gave her some extra pats.
(If you think you know where this is going…ok. You probably do.)
I pulled into Kendrick’s apartment complex parking lot, and started piling the kids’ stuff out of the car. We did all-four-of-us “family hugs” (aw), gave kisses all around, made plans to see Captain Marvel together on Sunday morning before the drive home, and they were off.
Such a smooth transition! So evolved! I AM GWYNETH’S INFLAMED SENSE OF SUPERIORITY!
I slid into the front seat of my car, feeling all rockstar-y and ready to speed over to Erin’s house to commence the rose-drinking…
And then I felt it. Something oddly…cold. On my butt. So I did what came naturally, and reached my hand down to suss out the situation.
And did my hand emerge covered – nay, absolutely coated – with whatever had been making Lucy warble?
It was fine, though, because of course I keep some basic cleaning supplies in my glove compartment, so I just wiped up the mess and went on my way.
I’m totally kidding. I flew out of my car like it was on fire, stood spread-eagled in the middle of the parking lot with poop of varying textures either physically attached to or dripping off of various parts of me, and screamed for Kendrick at the top of my lungs. To his credit, he heard the note of pure, aching despair in my voice, and was back outside with a roll of paper towels and the closest spray-cleaner at hand within…well, maybe not seconds. But certainly minutes.
(At this exact moment, of course, I turned to find a woman who was walking her own dog standing behind me with her jaw presently located on the ground. So I explained to her that no no, it was okay, it wasn’t mine. It was my dog’s. She definitely believed me.)
…And that is how I ended up bent over in a parking lot while my ex-husband kneeled behind me, Windex-ing poop off my butt.
On the plus side, I feel like maybe we’re kind of killing it with the whole “conscious uncoupling” thing. Oh, you and Chris vacation in Hawaii together, Gwyneth? Dooo youuuuu? I’ll see you your Hawaiian vacation and raise you some parking lot poop-Windexing, and we’ll see who fucking takes it home.