Something happens when you become a parent. Things that once personified disgusting aren’t a big deal anymore. I mean, I don’t love poop and I would much rather avoid being confronted with someone else’s feces, but I’ve cloth diapered two kids. Poop has lost some of its power.
Same thing with snot. Once, while talking to my neighbor, a young, newlywed (at the time), guitar-player-in-a-band-guy, I reached over and used my hand to wipe the twin streams of snot off Zach’s face. That memory, one I’ve written about before, still makes me giggle every time I see him.
Then today happened. I did a little trash can diving. You see, I was trying to empty the Dyson canister, which wouldn’t normally be a huge deal. Except the sock that I had lazily vacuumed rather than picked up? Sock was stuck in the vacuum canister.
General Sock fronted a strong legion of The Dog Hair Brigade. How would I counter-attack? With a stick? With my… hand.
After all, it seems obvious that Sock lost his partner to the Canister Wars, perhaps he’s heard that I use hand-in-canister as a very last resort.
So I (gently) banged the side of the canister against the side of the trash can and waited for my victory.
Then bottom of the stupid canister fell off (I think Sock dislodged it on his way out)…settling itself against the side of the empty-except-for-an-odd-liquid-substance trash can.
I’m not tall enough to reach the bottom, even with long barbecue tongs, and instead of walking the 5 feet to get a sturdy chair, I chose instead to balance on a large, up-turned flowerpot.
No, I did not fall in, but that was the result of luck, not sensibility.
What makes any of this story notable is that it all went down sort of in front of that same neighbor. I cannot decide if these situations are coincidence, or if I’m subconsciously trying to warn the young people away from the life where one animates socks and dog hair, imagines a vendetta, and then acts it out in the driveway.