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To the Person Who Left a Poopy Diaper in the Home Depot Parking Lot

Hah!  You thought you were going to ruin my day.  But, guess what?  My day was already ruined before we drove to Home Depot for our monthly argument about what-color -paint-we-should-paint-the-walls-this-week.  And you know what else?  Brown was not one of our options, any way.  And it was only 104 degrees in the parking lot, so we hadn’t reached the predicted temperature of 135 degrees yet, so your little package had not attained its maximum stink level yet when I almost stepped on it.

Hey, I’ve been there before.  You’re trying to live your life, and your baby keeps interfering.  That walk from the parking lot to a garbage can is just 15 yards too long.  You’re running late, and you’ve got to tile your kitchen before Hoarding, Buried Alive airs because your husband already has the DVR set for Dog, the Bounty Hunter.  Something’s gotta give, and it looks like Proper Disposal of a Poopy Diaper is the winner.

That’s unfair, I know.  You probably had a really good reason for leaving that diaper in the 13th parking space from the front door, row 6.  You’re probably a police officer who found a crying baby sitting in her car seat in the middle of the parking lot, and you knew right away when you picked her up that she needed her diaper changed, and you changed the diaper, and then got a call on your radio that you needed to respond to a 422 or something RIGHT AWAY, and you had no choice, but to abandon that diaper right there and then.

At least you took the baby.

So, don’t you worry about me.  I’m fine.  It takes a lot more than a randomly placed poopy diaper to derail me.  I’m good.  Not bitter at all.  Not sitting here obsessing about the type of people who leave poopy diapers in parking lots and other random public areas.  Not sitting here trying to type something interesting and all I can think about is a poopy diaper.  Not judgmental.  Not trying to figure out what kind of image I can include with this post that won’t gross out my readers.

I’m fine.

Rather than leave you with the disturbing image that I had burned into my brain today, here is a photo of my dog, Wonderbutt, asking, “What’s wrong with you people?”


O.K. You Can Call Me Maybe, But Do Not Send Me a Text at 2 AM From My Mother-In-Law

Quick summary for new readers:  Cap’n Firepants is my husband, our bulldog, Wonderbutt, knows how to text, and we are currently sleeping on a killer mattress.  No husbands or 82-year-old mother-in-laws were harmed in the creation of this blog post.

Firepants Household, Master Bedroom, 2 A.M.:

Cap’n Firepants – Are you awake?

Me – I better not be.

Cap’n Firepants – I got a text earlier and I just read it.

Me – O.K.

Cap’n Firepants – It’s from my mom.

Me – O.K.

Me, sitting up – Wait a second.  What?

Cap’n Firepants – I know, weird, huh?

Me – What did it say?

Cap’n Firepants – Call you later.

Me – Huh?

The Senior Mrs. Cap’n Firepants does not text.  Even more perplexing, her phone does not have texting capability.  She prefers “dumb phones” – the less buttons, the better.


My second conclusion:  We should text her back.  Let’s text, “Later is so formal.  Why don’t you Call Me Maybe?”  Or, better yet, we could leave her a voicemail with the song on it.

Cap’n Firepants was not amused by either conclusion.

Third conclusion:  Our mattress is conspiring with the cell phone to turn us against each other.

It’s working.

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