Oz Knows Poop ...

... But he's never met Slobbie Robbie.

Rob dosen't care about the separation of manure and mayonnaise. He doesn't worry about the life cycle of a protazoa. E. Coli and Streptococcus are not his concern.

He tosses raw meat on vegetables and pounds his chest while dragging fish across my counters.

He shares an ice cream spoon with the dog.

Not me. I rant and rave and hide my desserts, but there's no escaping the dirty duo and their diabolical actions.

When I was little, Mom's dream kitchen was a lucite dome with a clear floor that could rise above the chaos. A big bubble of serenity where she could see us, but not hear us. I want one of those.

I want ...

"Oh no," I look out the kitchen window and spot the dog on the lanai, "he isn't ..."

"He is." Rob hurries out to coax our eighteen year old mutt into the grass, but he's too late, soft, viscous road apples are sinking into the outdoor carpet. He checks Simon's paws and then airlifts him over the mess and back inside. "I'll have to clean that up."

I smirk. I can't help it, last week I had a similar occurrence, only Simon had wiped out the tile floor of our bathroom. I'm grateful he missed miles of carpet, but not too happy to be first on scene. In our house, you find it, you own it, unless you can duck out of site when you hear the other guy coming.

But today? Today I'm busy with the dishes and that mess is all his.

Rob strokes his chin and when I lift the silverware out of the water, he snaps his fingers. " I could use the spatula."

"Oh no you don't." I toss the utensils back in the suds and guard the counter. I could never eat pancakes again. He grins and tries to step around me, so I thrust a finger under his nose. "Touch anything in this kitchen and I will hurt you."

He laughs and vanishes into the garage. After a minute, he reappears and trots through the kitchen dragging the wet dry vac.

Hands on hips, I narrow my eyes and watch his progress. I don't trust Rob, not one little bit, and from the expression on his face, he knows it. He hesitates.  "Keep moving Bub." I point to the back door. "Your destiny awaits."

He steps outside, but when the back door reopens, I stand at the ready. If I need to, I'll hit him with the spatula.

"Just using the plug." He says and ducks out of sight.

I grunt. When I hear the vac roar to life, I run out to the mailbox, grab the letters and race back inside. Rob is still busy and the spatula is still on the counter. I breath a sigh of relief.

Several minutes later he pokes his head in the house. "Hey, you gotta check this out."

Well that's fair. he did all the work, the least I can do is heap on the praise. "Wow Honey, nice ... hey, that's my favorite pot. You son of a ... "

"Slow down, I only used it for water."

I wish I could believe that. I'll never make popcorn again.