"Fiddler" on the Roof

Yesterday, I told Susan about this blog and we joked about how I should have weekly poop update. And then, appropriately, last night happened.

I was at a house party, and Preston and I went up on the roof. Preston said, "We should poop up here." Preston knew better than to say that, because of course I would. I don'’t really have to poop, though, so I don'’t produce much of anything, but I leave a little present nonetheless. Going to bed last night, I asked Preston if it smelled like poop. He didn't smell anything, so I chose to just pass out.

Waking this morning, I was greeted again by the smell of poop. Where is that coming from? I wondered. Finally, I spotted it. A poop stain on the front of my shirt. Another on the back of my shorts. I can'’t tell you when or how exactly that happened, but somehow last night karma caught up to me and I unwittingly got into my own droppings.

When Preston woke up, we had to give him a search, akin to checking a dog for ticks, because I had hugged him last night. Nothing was found, but soon enough, Preston was smelling poop on himself. Maybe it was paranoia on his part, or maybe it was indeed a hidden remnant from my Mr. Hanky-like tendencies. Either way, I'm terribly embarrassed.

Not enough to prevent me from sharing this story, however.