Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Denial, denial, denial

Mr X and I have a little game we play. Some would call it passing the buck, although in this case I think it's more like passing the poo. We're generally clean people, but both of us hate cleaning up after Cat X or Dog X leave a biscuit on the carpet, or puke up the sour twizzlers Mr X keeps sneaking the dog. Yes dear, I know that Dog X is not just eating his kibble. Kibble isn't bright blue. Kibble doesn't make him fart the Star Spangled Banner at 3 am.
Mr X has to clean the litter box. I claim reproductive health. Once we're done reproducing, I'll claim it's always been his job and there's no sense changing it. I am a heartless wench.
Cat X is the main culprit. He usually pukes from eating too much dog food or he gets pissed because well..... He's a cat. Does he really need a reason to get pissy? He just is.
The rule here is that whoever spots it first cleans it.
But, you have to basically catch the person finding it to get them to clean it. We've both become very adept at pretending we didn't see it.
"There was a pile of poo the size of Baby X at the bottom of the stairs? Wow! Cat X must have just done it. Tough break."
It becomes a matter of who can't stand it more first.

I know. We're childish. It's disgusting to leave it laying around. It would be a simple matter to clean it up and get over it. But we still play this game. Every. Time.

When I get stuck cleaning it up, I require an entire roll of paper towels, elbow length rubber gloves, tongs, a handkerchief to tie around my nose and mouth, plastic bag, carpet cleaner, rag to scrub the cleaner in and one to dry. As soon as I have that mess knotted up a plastic bag it gets carried to the outdoor trash followed by the gloves, tongs and rags,

Mr X, grabs whatever scrap paper he can find and throws it in whatever trash can is nearby.

I must immediately scrub my hands in hot water with antibacterial soap because that shit is nasty.

Mr X goes back to eating his tacos.

As strange as my little animal poo disposal routine is, I have no issue with Baby X's diapers. We're talking about poo that could double as military grade adhesive. Toxic. The unholiest of all things great and small. Even worse because you know that this smiling little toothy monster created that Weapon of Mass Destruction. Yet, it doesn't bother me. Mr X looks at Baby X's diapers as Olympic achievement. I can hear him in Baby X's room changing said stinky diaper.
"That's my son!" with such pride I think Baby x must have just cured cancer.
He just grunted out what looks like dog food (which is entirely possible since I caught Baby X in the dog's food bowl today).