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If you are a regular reader {cough} and you actually know who I am, and you would like to know how my brother is doing, email me and I will supply reports. If you don't know my email, leave a comment and we'll see how it goes.

Yesterday, from reports, he arrived in the shit. He urges all of us to hang up and drive with both hands on the wheel, thereby being statistically as safe as him.

As Promised

Some inane photos to help you understand what my dogs are up to.

Here is probably the most upsetting picture I have of Zuma:

And likewise for Pepper:

Over at Flickr there are some pictures representing a town -->

Also: I have nothing more to say about poo. Promise.

Continued Story

It was right around the time that I realized there was poo on my face that the carpenter starting cutting up the attic with a power saw.

Super. Here I just spent ten tremulous minutes preventing this onslaught from producing any sound above a whisper, and just as I'm done, some cover arrives.

Okay. Okay. So my timing is bad. So there's poo on my face. I am accepting this information. I am moving on. I have things need doing. I need to do them. I need to get out of here, and get back to my desk, and avoid eye contact for the rest of the afternoon.

I stood to wrap up, and, turning to review the latest damage, I found another doodad to add to my shame necklace. Back of the toilet seat done had a tea stain. A tea stain from me.

It was time to remember the triage principles. What needed attending to first?

Step one: sponge down the gentleness. Done.

Step two: wash hands. Done, thoroughly.

Step three: wash the HELL out of my face. Done.

Step four: attend to the tea stain. Aww hell. I wiped it down pretty thorough with a wet paper towel, but I still discerned faint yellowness remaining on the porcelain. FUCK, that was definitely not there when I came in. Now my coworker who just heard everything will instantly connect what she's heard to this stain, and any chance of a smooth working relationship based on mutual respect will, unlike this experience, go smoothly down the toilet.

I cast about the bathroom for a good cleaning product. The closet was packed to the gills with law office supplies, but no cleaners to be found. My eyes fixed upon the air freshener, and a moment several days earlier sprung from my memory:

FLOG's BOSS {leaning in FLOG's office door}: FLOG, what are all these handprint stains on your door jamb? Is it from you leaning in to your office?
FLOG: Why would I lean in the door of my own office?
FLOG'S BOSS: You tell me! Anyway, I'm going to clean them off. Let's see . . . cleaner. {walks away; returns with can of air freshener} Way I see it, if it's in a metal can, it cleans. {scrubs down door jamb with air freshener}

So, I sprayed down the toilet seat with air freshener, and let it sit awhile as I washed my face and hands again, and reset my pants and shirt in a professional-appearing manner. Turning back to the toilet seat, I wiped it down vigorously for 20 seconds or so. The stain faded a bit, but remained. I cursed, shrugged, and left the restroom, taking a course back to my office that would avoid all potential eye contact with anyone.

FIN

Epilogue

The tea stain is still there, kind of. A couple of weeks ago, returning from lunch in a similar manner, I felt a repeat performance brewing. I muttered a lie about going to city hall and fast-walked to a public restroom in a nearby park. Them public restrooms are neat!

This Story Will End When It Needs To, And The Sun Will Shine Again

It felt like I was trying, with my colon, to keep a timpani player from sounding out his most important part in "Also Spracht Zarathustra."

Strike that: it was not merely my colon, or the timpanist, who had a part to play. If you have ever strained to keep an urgent bowel movement silent, you'll know that it involves a total-body tension replete with forehead sweat, shaking, and hoarsely cursed indictments of the lower intestine that simply won't    bow    to      reason.
Nevertheless, and gamely, I played traffic cop on the backup within, passing the clammy time by listening to nearby phone conversations and sneezes.

As soon as it began, it seemed to have run its course, and I set to tidying myself, turning to review and dismiss the damage. It was as I stood thus, that I realized certain precincts had yet to be heard from.

Wrrrplrbufuurrrg, said these precincts, some of them, while another offered PPflyarbggbg.

I sat back down. Crestfallen, I lay my head in my hands.

Then I noticed that the left side of my nose felt . . . wet. I pulled my hands away from my face. My left middle finger was brown.

OH. MY. CRAP.

To be continued!