Misadventures on the road less travelled

I am a firm believer in the health benefits of fasting and an intrepid participant when I set my mind to it. Every three or four months, I wean off food and ride on empty for a few days to give myself what I like to refer to as a fresh start.
I make sure I do it by the book. I keep well-hydrated and also give my superpowers a rest to conserve energy. And I can say, without a doubt, fasting is one of the best personal choices I’ve ever made.
Last week, I did a four-day stint and when I was done and easing back into the world of food, I decided to include something “out of my ordinary” in my fresh start.
I was going to be less organized, more accepting—a “leave the toilet seat up” kinda gal. Maybe I’d let the dishes pile up, put my clean underwear away unfolded, and “wing it” at the grocery store without a list.
I’d even take the road less travelled—challenge superstition and get up on the wrong side of the bed. But then again, that would have been too easy.
I awoke, as usual, to the sound of whining dogs standing at my bedside with their legs crossed waiting to be let outside for their morning constitution. Pete already was up, but for some reason known only to man’s best friend, it is I who is the chosen one for doggie duty.
So I rolled over and vaulted to the floor on Pete’s side of the bed. First and second mistake of the day. I’d forgotten about the discarded scraps of clothing Pete had left in his wake, which included beer bottle caps that had jumped out of his pants pocket and were facing upwards when I landed.
And the ritual decent from my space on the bed abandoned left the dogs woefully unprepared and in need of counselling as they scrambled to find out where I’d gone to.
I bit my tongue as I held back expletives to ease the pain of the bottle cap injury to the bottom of my foot, forgetting to put on the slippers of my previously organized mind.
Blinded by a not-so-fresh start to my day, I headed for the back door.
How in the world Pete managed not to see what I was about to step in on my way to let the dogs out is beyond me. He’d been in the kitchen and made coffee, and been within sight—and smell—of what was about to become the third reason why I should have got up on my side of bed.
Dog poop. Soft and squishy, and with enough mass to cover the bottom of my foot and all the spaces between my toes.
Ownership of said doggie doo was swift and clear as “Griffon” skulked into the yard to find a cloaking device—my efforts to contain a Medusa-complex failing.
I don’t know about you but I’m going to start a college course for kids and husbands on the importance of replacing invaluable supplies when they run out, like toilet paper and the one thing I needed at that very moment—paper towels.
I managed to clean up with rags from under the kitchen sink, an area that continues to amaze the likes of an organized mind for how much junk one can shove into such a small space. But that’s another story.
Meanwhile, the trail of matter left in the night by man’s best friend didn’t end there. I found two more piles beside the couch, which I spotted well before setting another foot in the “doo.”
What gargantuan meal did that critter eat anyway?
Then, in keeping with the fresh start to my day, I walked into a widespread doggie pee spot on the tile floor. No paper towels, no rags, no choice but to leave a wet trail in my wake as I spun like the Tasmanian Devil to the bathroom for a shower, where I found the toilet seat up.
Bad timing, “buster.”

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