The other day I came home to find my husband in the back yard, picking up the poop of our dog, Gus. The snow recently melted here in good ole’ Montana (don’t hold your breath, we’ll see it again) and so when that happens we (he) decide that we should be good condo association owners and you know, take care of business so that the children of the complex aren’t forced to play in the equivalent of a poop land mine.
I just popped in the house for a second because I had to immediately head out to an appointment. So, I slid the screen door open, expressed my appreciation to my husband for doing “that job,” and gave my dog a squeeze, because was hanging outside watching Paul pick up his poop.
About 45 minutes later I buzz back in the house, chatting away with my mom on the phone, and see Paul still sitting on the steps outside, right by our screen door, with Gus. “Huh, I wonder. He must really be loving that fresh air.” I continue to chat with my mother.
Then I hear three knocks on the glass window, and I look up at Paul who’s giving me a look that is somewhere between “WTF” and “WTF”?
Ohhhhhhhhhhh. I see.
“MOM, IT'S AN EMERGENCY. I HAVE TO GO.” Click.
I'm sure you can take it from here.
Yes, I locked my husband outside for the duration of my appointment. WHEN HE WAS PICKING UP POOP. That last part just added insult to injury for him.
In true Paul fashion he did not freak out on me in the slightest. Instead he just reacted the same way he did when I dropped his keys – along with the garbage – in the gigantic dumpster outside of our house.
Silence seems to be best in situations like these, he’s discovered.
