Saturday is errand day. My husband and I are in the car when I notice he keeps rolling the window up and down. Finally, he asks, “Do your feet stink?”
“What?! Of course not!” Since I’m wearing sandals, I slide my foot out of the shoe and hoist it up to my nose, to my husband’s disgust. He screams, “Stop!” looks away and hands me the wet wipes that he always keeps handy. (Yes, he’s a clean freak.) I dutifully wipe down my feet to keep the peace. I don’t smell anything.
We go to Home Depot, but once back in the car, he begins rolling the window up and down again. I promise him it is NOT my feet and I try to shove my foot in his face to smell but he fends me off and hands me the wet wipes again. This time I wipe down my shoes, feet and between my toes.
We go to lunch.
Once back in the car, it starts all over again. This time he pulls over and starts searching the car, a quest for maybe a soured rag or old food. Nothing turns up. And still I smell nothing.
At home, after all the accusatory comments, I’m humiliated into taking a bath. While sitting in the tub, Grady comes in, crosses his leg and reveals the bottom of his shoe. Are you ready for this…? He has dog poo laced through the deep tread of his shoe.
Redemption, at last!
The next night, we’re giving out candy for Trunk or Treat at our church. Grady is helping me, when he says to a little goblin, “Trick or treat. Smell my feet …” He stops, blushes, glances over at me and says, “Oops, sorry.”
Moral of the story? Don’t blame other people for your sh*t.
