Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Life on the Farm 031115: a Shoe Full of Poo

Boucher Family Farm
I want to let you know that I’m still alive and kicking. 

It’s been a while.  A long while. 

There has been stuff going on here on the farm, but nothing of note.

I write regularly, but haven’t submitted – because I’m boring myself with the particulars of daily life – staying warm, picking up after the cats, nursing a flu-sick coughing achy husband. Nursing myself after I caught his illness(es).

And then, life gave me a shoe full of shit.

Yes. You heard me right.

An actual for real shoe full of poo - because the bathroom in the cheeseplant froze up during the last horribly coldy/cold spell.

Let’s just say my husband Dan took care of it, and gave me the blow-by-blow minutia that I didn’t ask for or want to to hear.

He insisted that I listen to the entire poopy tale because ‘no one should carry that burden of knowledge alone’. 

Not that he didn’t “get it going again” – he did. 

I would have just lit fire to the room and washed my hands of it. 

I’m that way.

You know I’m kidding, right? (Not really)

In order to make everything sparkling clean enough so that I would use it again, I bought a new bowl brush, and lots of bleachy-full commercial bath products to coat every surface with, being careful not to mix the wrong ones together to make the death vapors. (Bleach and ammonia – bad idea)

It’s one thing to wash a relatively clean toidy that’s infrequented once a week – another to utilize the at-hand cleaning brush in lieu of a plunger, and then expect me to ever touch it again.

I thought – let’s throw the trusty old scrubber away, pretend this never happened, and maybe think about taking a vacation.

Big, BIG mistake.

When I lifted the brush (stuck in its holder) to throw it out, it dumped a bunch of liquid brown into my right shoe and it splattered all over the place.

There just isn’t enough cleanser to make that right again.

That was far, far worse than stepping in poo – because soles and treads are washed around here all the time - no harm done.

This was a new kind of filthy dirty.  And I’m not psychologically adjusted enough to deal with it, even at age (ummmm) 50-ish.

I will be ordering a new pair of work shoes as soon as I hang up this computer, and burning the old ones.

They will be white.