I don't understand how one can see poop and think, "That's gross, but I'll just get it later."

This morning I walked out into the living room where television reporters were excitedly talking of the space shuttle's return to Earth while an infrared camera shot images of the craft shooting back into orbit. J, on the couch, looked up and without saying a word pointed down to the floor. I looked around, but not having gained my full daytime vision or thought process capabilities yet after a night of deep sleep, couldn't get what he was after. He pointed again. "What?" I asked him. "Poop," he said, and then I saw the three little dog turds on the rug. Our Mina, after staying at my parents' house, often has this problem. The weekend of ham and peanuts and crackers and Brie and other gourmet treats that my father throws to the dogs, quickly and behind his back so that we think the hunks of food have just landed in their mouths by accident, are a lot for 10-pound Mina to handle, and since she isn't the best at letting us know when she needs to go out anyway, poop on the floor is usually the result.

You would think we would have wizened up to this occurrence and, you know, would maybe take her out more often or something after she's gained about five pounds in two days, but laziness presides. We go to sleep with happy dogs, absolutely beat from their weekend of gorging and then running around the backyard and sometimes being thrown in the pool (I'm not gonna say by who...) and then we wake up to a surprise and Mina lays on the bed wagging her tail, beating us down with her cuteness so it's never even really that upsetting.

But what does amaze me is the ability to look at poop on the floor and not immediately react. Not run to the bathroom, tear off a huge amount of toilet paper, pick up the load and dump it into the toilet to be flushed from our minds forever. Then what follows is at least a spraying and disinfecting, if not thorough cleaning, of the area affected on the rug.

I don't know if my reaction is normal, or if I'm picking up some of my dad's completely neurotic tendencies. When we were growing up, a hairbrush anywhere near the kitchen counter meant we might as while not eat any of the food in the refrigerator for a good, long while. Sightings of my mother's "snotrags," a term he used to describe the pieces of tissue she'd keep tucked away in her purse if she had a cold and needed easy access to them, were cause for not only a grimace, but full covering of his face with his hands and sometimes, having to leave the immediate area.

I don't think I'll get that way, necessarily, but I'm pretty damn sure that pointing to poop on the floor, looking up with wide eyes, and saying "poop" is not the best way to deal with the problem.

I've got an idea. How about you guys pay me to do this and I stay home and look at catalogues?

Listen. I've been playing the I-want-to-do-something-with-my-life/I-want-to-go-have-a-beer-with-my-friends/I-want-it-all game too long. Now maybe I'm not one of the best bloggers. Writing on the internet is getting to be quite the professional gig and sometimes I just spew out my thoughts. But let's say you guys paid me to do this. Or not even you guys. What if we got some strangers, people I've never heard of or from in my life, to pay me, and then we all sat back and relaxed and had a good laugh. It would be great, because: - I'd get in shape. There'd be no more of this running to the gym at 7 a.m., when I barely have time to stretch after doing a half-assed workout on the elliptical before I have to start thinking about driving back home to get in the shower, throw on some clothes and get to work with my hair mostly wet and then looking like some kind of river animal upon arriving because I chose to drive with the window down and the wind's blown that side of my head into an awesome, totally awesome, hairdo. I could get up at a decent - not late, mind you, I'd still be working - but decent hour, go to the gym, and when some poor fool looked at his or her watch and said, "Damnit! I've got to be at work in five minutes!" I'd say, "Oh man, I know how that is, but now my job is to write a blog."

- I would become much better at this because, see, it would be my job. I'd be totally pumped everyday to entertain my (five or so) readers that I'd think up the neatest shit to share with everybody. Do you have cocktail parties, readers? ShhhhhhZAAAMMMMMM! I'd be AWESOME at cocktail parties. Your guests would be all, "Oh, hi, how are you, and what do you do?" and I'd be like, "I write this blog..." and they'd say, "Oh (all knowingly), is it about politics, the war or the entertainment industry?" and I'd say, "No, it's actually just about my life and, you know, the adventures I go on. Sometimes my dogs, or about how I'm getting married." And then (this is the best part), they'd go, "You are so interesting! Can I get you a drink?" And I'd say, "Well thanks! And sure! My wine glass is looking a little empty," and then we'd chuckle and all become best friends!

- My house would be cleaner, the bills would be paid on time and I'd be a better cook, philosopher and overall person. Let's say writing a really righteous blog post, when I get really good at it that is, takes 20 minutes - or maybe half an hour if I've got to use the thesaurus and all. That leaves me a day to do all the things I'd really like to do. I would vacuum once a week and create highly specialized manila folder systems for all my credit card bills. I would grow amazing plants and, get this, I'd give them away because I'd have so many species of flora and fauna in the house, doing so well, that I'd just put a potted, flowering beauty right in your hands and say, "Hey. This is for you. Because we're friends." Then I'd hand you a homemade piece of apple pie, and go, "Here's to friendship. It's the one thing that never needs any rationalizing." We'd kick back on the porch, watch the day go by and life would be a little better in general.