That's me on the right in all my tweenerific glory.
When I was a tween (my word when I was a tween were we even called tweens?) it was my job to pick up dog poop in the yard. There was somewhat of a system to this...the poop was scooped with a long handled shovel and deposited in a barrel by our barn. (why we had a poop barrel to this day I am not sure... kinda gross).
One warm sunny day I was sent outside to scoop poop... sent because there is no way I would have done it on my own accord.
There I am... pile on the end of my shovel... headed to the poop barrel... but wait the poop barrel wasn't in it's regular place.
Off to the house I go... still carrying the shovel of crap... my goal? Find my mom and ask her where the poop barrel went.
Tragedy struck however, before I could reach my mother ... as I stepped from the grass onto the concrete patio my foot caught the edge of the cement and I tripped... landing with my forehead in the poop.
I ran into the bathroom... gagging and sobbing... I could hear my sisters (pictured above) belly laughing outside the door as my mother choked back her own giggle while helping me get the ponytail out of my hair so I could shower.
To this day I am totally squeamish about picking up after my pooch. Ugh.
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