I spent close to two hours picking dandelions out of our horribly infested boulevard. I thought it would be a relatively simple task. It was cooler today and there was cloud cover and a nice breeze. All in all perfect weather for what turned out to be surprisingly back-breaking work.
Or I'm just old. And a pussy.
I started off on my knees with the ancient old weed digging tool I somehow inherited from my Grandfather. We worked pretty well for a while, me and the old stick, until my knees started to get numb and my back achy. I decided to stand instead. I picked for a full hour when, hot and hungry, I decided to head inside for a snack and a break.
I'd cleared out just 1/3 of the blasted weeds.
I was going to call it a day and tackle the rest tomorrow (or, you know, sometime), but the remaining 2/3 taunted me for almost two hours until I couldn't take it anymore.
I headed back out.
I filled my plastic rubbermaid tub full of weeds. Full, I tell you. It was beautiful watching the green and yellow slowly rise to the top of the blue rim. And I started taking pleasure in the process.
I swore at the more stubborn weeds as I dug and yanked and dug and yanked. I mocked the ones that popped out easily. I gritted my teeth and took out a pretty healthy dose of aggression on the interlopers that have been quietly humiliating me since they started blooming.
Weeds blooming. Feh.
What the hell, if you're going to spend almost two hours pulling weeds you might as well get some therapeutic enjoyment out of it, right?
Anyway, when I finally came in for good I had a tub overflowing with weeds and a 90% weed-free boulevard (I'll tackle the remaining 10%, you know, some other day).
I left the tub on the boulevard, proudly displaying my accomplishment - the wilting fruits of my painstaking and painful labour. I don't really know why, expect that I was just so proud. And yes, a little vain.
But whatever. We've already discussed my longing for the yummy-mummy track suits those stroller-bearers always seem to have. If I can't have a baby, a stroller and a tight little ass to show off, I'm not above showing off my weed eliminating prowess instead.
I was happy and satisfied.
Until this evening, when I spotted something black sticking out of the tub. It looked like a tiny plastic bag - the kind of tiny plastic bag dog owners use to pick up and carry their beast's shit in.
"Nooooo," I said to My Beloved "That's....that's not a POO bag in my weeds, is it?"
He went over to the tub. He looked at the bag. He picked it up by one of it's flapping ties.
"Yup," he said, "that's poo."
Poo. Some lazy little shit left their dog's crap in my rubbermaid weed tub.
It's CLEARLY not a garbage can. Clearly. And it was clearly filled with plant matter (which, if we were more environmentally aware, might have been headed for a composter). It was clearly not placed there as a public receptacle. And above all it was clearly not meant for poo. Clearly.
It reeked. Not the shit, but the self-absorbed, self-indulgent, self-serving actions of the thoughtless beast owner who figured it was easier all around if I took care of his dog's business. Because really, obviously I have nothing else to do besides pick weeds and clean up after someone else's shitting machine.
I stood on the porch and seethed.
If only I'd seen who it was - if only there'd been some way to trace it - you can bet your ass that poo would have found it's way back to it's original owners. In flames.
But my only recourse was to pick the bag of poo out of my weed tub and drop it on the curb instead. I want the dog owner (who obviously passes by with some regularity) to see that their "gift" was not appreciated and that I did NOT throw it out for them.
I've had more than enough shit come my way. I don't need anyone else's, thank you very much.