(un)domesticated goddess-ish is about the life of a 20 something single city girl gone *gulp* soon-to-be-wed mountain step-mom.
I used to think those little "please curb your dog" signs were so dang cute. It's like saying, hey, we get you think your dog is the cutest, most beautifully crafted creature to grace this earth. So, here's a wee little sign we stuck in the ground considerately asking you to pick up their shit with your hand pointlessly wrapped in plastic.
The signs work 50% of the time 100% of the time, which technically, isn't failure.
So what happens when you live in a city where cement runs rampant and there's nothing to stick those adorable poopie pick-up signs in? Best to keep your head on a swivel, you're constantly dealing with code: poop-suations.
It's my mantra the moment I open our building door. I'm never quite sure what I'll find when I open it. Isn't that part of New York's je ne sais quoi? From homeless people using our door to keep themselves propped up, a missing doorknob, even the occasional vomit stain, I don't just learn to live with it, it becomes part of my routine. After four and a half years, I thought I'd become desensitized.
That's until I opened my door to the sight, smell and practically emanating heat of a XXL cow pie.
It was neither pie nor was it from a cow.
I thought, no way. Who could be this blissfully ignorant? Who should be so daring and carefree? Then I looked to the bar next to me: that'll do.
I leapt out of my apartment the next few days - usually due to my unapologetic happiness over sweater weather, but no. Because of the load of literal human shit hardening outside my door. Every day a few more smears from unsuspecting pedestrians. Poor suckers.
But then finally. RAIN! Mother natures fire hose, ish!
Well a quick heads up, if you're waiting for rain to wash something away...it just smears it.