Oh awkwardness. She follows me like a loud lady at a Christmas party that just wants someone to tell her stories too, over and over and over again. No matter what you (and I mean I) do you just can't seem to shake her. And then as you finally think you've escaped her...she asks for a ride home. Wow cerebral high five for that metaphor. Well awkwardness, she hath struck again.
I am the pooper scooper around these parts of the McCammon household. Matt does that lawn mowing and therefore all scooping of poopings is up to me. So I'm out there, doing my job like a loyal Indie lover should, and I've got this bag where I you know....compile all of the Tootsie Rolls if you know what I'm saying. And it's getting pretty full. Not humongously full, just regular full. So as I'm continuing my pooper scooper duties this old man comes walking past and he stops, looks at me and says
"That's a lot of poop you got there."
and I just stood there and said,
And then we stared at each other for a little too long of a second, and then he just kept walking. And then I contemplated for about thirteen hours when it became socially acceptable to comment on one's canine's feces.
And then I went to Target and bought a nail polish...because it made me feel less weirded out.