My husband, y'all. I swear.
On Tuesday, Trevor and I returned home to discover that one of the dogs had taken ill and exploded in the hallway. And because dogs go out of their way to get sick on hard-to-clean surfaces, the worst smelling substance in the history of the nose was globbed all over one of my grandmother's antique runners. Because OF COURSE.
(Spell check says "globbed" isn't a word.)
(It totally should be.)
Since I had a very hungry Banner in my arms (coupled with the fact that I am notoriously not good with bodily fluids), it was wordlessly decided that I would feed the baby while Trevor dealt with the Poop-ocalypse in the hallway. And by “deal with it”, all I really mean is that Trevor carried my poor, defiled rug outside and unceremoniously sprayed it off with the garden hose in the backyard. Then, after Banner was done with dinner, I passed him off to Trevor for bath time while I ventured out to do my best with the carpet cleaner and deodorizer.
Despite the team effort, it was immediately obvious that the rug would need professional cleaning. But first, it needed to dry and air out; something that was going to be difficult with the forecast calling for high winds, heavy downpours and potentially severe storms on Wednesday. We initially thought we could get away with leaving the rug outside overnight on Tuesday, but the 10 PM news shot that plan to hell. So, Trevor ran outside, grabbed the still damp rug and relocated it to the garage. Then he came back to the bedroom and hopped back in bed...WITHOUT washing his hands.
Me: “Seriously? You need to wash your hands after handling that rug. OMG, stop touch the bedding with your nasty hands! What is wrong with you?!”
Trevor: “Why? You cleaned it already.”
Me: “Not with bleach or Lysol. Just some cleaner to hopefully keep the stains at bay and to neutralize some of the odor. It is still damp with dog poo water. Trust me.”
Trevor [Getting up from bed with an exasperated look]: “Fine.”
Trevor then proceeded to walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink and rub his hands together under the water. WITHOUT soap.
Me [Just as he was reaching to turn off the water…]: “Soap.”
Trevor: “I am. Hold on.”
Me: “You were about to turn off the water.”
Trevor: “No, I just like to let my hands soak before using soap, that’s all.”
Me: “Since when?”
Trevor: “Since always.”
Me: “Ha! Since never! If you use soap, but wash it away before it even has a chance to lather. You’re supposed to hum ‘Happy Birthday’ to yourself twice before rinsing.”
Me: “Listen, I might have had Giardia in February. Humor me.”
Then we went to bed, and I forgot all about the rug until the next morning when I went to feed the dogs at 5:30 AM, opened the garage door and SMELLED it.
In the past, when we have something that needs to air dried that can’t go outside due to weather, we have draped it over one of the dog gates in the garage . So, I assumed Trevor had done something similar with the damp rug the night before when he brought it inside.
Except no. He hadn’t.
Instead he chose to hang the rug – again, still damp with DOG SH*T – on top of the baby stroller.
I just stood there staring at it for several seconds, and realized that no amount of Lysol would ever convince me that the stroller was clean again.
Then I walked back to the bedroom and quietly (Banner was still sleeping) ripped Trevor a new a$$hole.
Seriously, y’all. It was like THIS INCIDENT all over again. When it comes to poo, Trevor never fails to disgust me. It is like his own special superpower.
I just hope it isn’t genetic.