Bring your own bag

Last night I dreamt about walking Riley past the boundary of my apartment complex and into another neighborhood. It’s not horribly difficult to put that into context, considering that I had just spewed frustration to Tracy about these bastards yanking my rent up yet again.

So Riley and I are just beginning to wander among these darker, strange new buildings and we come across a school. It feels like Catoctin, but it’s probably like any elementary school. We’re walking up to the side, and some woman is pooping in a trash bag. I courteously look away to give her some privacy, like I do with Riley, and when she’s done, I look in the bag. It’s full of donated clothes for a thrift store, only with a turd on top now, so I pull the obligatory poop bag from my back pocket (Poop bags in my back pocket are so ubiquitous that they show up in my dreams.), and some other woman comes out of the school and gives me that teacher/mom/really good friend look that says, “What on earth are you doing?” I do the “Huh? But… Well,” and then I understand that:

1)      I see picking up my dog’s poop as my civic doody, but I am seriously overstepping my obligations.

2)      Nobody is going to want anything else in this bag now.

3)      I had really good autopilot intentions, but I have missed the bigger, more important point.

My friends just bought a house, and I went over there Sunday to help them paint. I tested my blood sugar and went to give myself a shot, and another painting volunteer became audibly upset. “Oh my god… I can’t handle it. You’re actually going to do that. I can’t look.”

I was surprised. I just watched this girl play full tackle football the night before. She’s an offensive guard. That is way more painful and impressive to watch than what I’m doing. I continued on with my shot and said as much to her. My friend Cristine immediately pointed out that this girl has about five piercings in her face. How can she have all those and be grossed out by an insulin syringe?

How did I miss that?

Sometimes, when things like this happen, I think sadly to myself: I’ll never be a detective.