Number #1 floods.
Number #2 bombs (heaping and sprinkled pebble varieties).
Diarrhea (trailing across room after room).
Cat vomit and hairballs. Dog vomit. You name it, I get to clean it up.
BUT, when it comes to ticks, that is my hubby’s domain. And, if there are POOPING issues (like when it is, you know, stuck between coming out all the way and is hanging by a thread), that’s my Gary’s domain as well.
That’s why I got a chuckle (but then a huge “Ewwwwww”) from Kelly Baldwin’s I’m a writer, not a chemist article.
Man will watch a guy’s knee hyperextend on a rough hit during a football game. Then watch the replay. Again. Then again. In slow motion. And then backwards. Man will even drink expired milk just to see if it “tastes funny.”
But I’ve discovered one thing that will bring a grown man to his knees. And not in a good way. “The dog threw up again,” my husband stated bluntly.
I looked up to find him standing in the doorway of the office. Hands on hips. Look of disgust planted across his face. I shrugged and said, “So?” He snorted, “So? What are you gonna do about it?”
My fingers stilled on the computer keys as the question filtered through that part of my brain that decides just how mad I am going to get. Synapses fired. Neurons whirred. Little gray cells digested the response. And decided it wasn’t time to get huffy. Yet.
I shrugged and answered, “I’m busy. You do it. You know the rules.” I added in a sing-song voice, “He who finds it first has to clean it up.”
He squawked in response, acting like I’d just turned down giving him a healthy kidney. Again. “But I don’t know what to do,” he whined, “and it’s disgusting.” He paused and spoke slowly, “It’s dog v-o-m-i-t.” As if saying the word slower was going to get me moving any faster.
Oh, silly man. “What do I do?” said silly man queried. Sigh. The man has two college degrees, and a little dog vomit makes his IQ drop 50 points.