Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living

As I noted at the start of this blog, crazy crap happens to me nearly every day. Today, that claim was literalized.

Arriving home from an appointment, I was greeted by Delores, who had spotted me from her habitual spot on the folding chair in front of her house. I knew something was afoot, as she usually simply waves from her throne, whereas today, she was already crossing the street as I finished parking.

"Somebody pooped in your yard!" she announced.

A dog owner, I assumed. And the dog being the pooper.

"A man in ball cap," she waved at her head, "and a long coat."

It was then that it dawned on met that she hadn't mentioned a dog.

"Wait," I said, "Did the man poop?"

Yes, she told me. He strolled up, swept his coat aside and let loose, "without missing a beat."

I think I'm safe in saying this had never happened to me before. I just laughed. She laughed. We laughed together.

Then we inspected the poop, which was distressingly not firm or easily scoopable, and quite covered in flies.

"I thought maybe some cat litter..." she suggested.

"Or sand..." I added.

I thanked her for calling my attention to this distressing and potentially hazardous situation, and indicated that I indeed would be investing in some cat litter and perhaps a nice snow shovel. She indicated that she felt it was important to warn me, as she could imagine Eamon ... coming out to work ... then she trailed off, implying in some vague way that men are more likely to trod heedlessly into poop than women. I nodded vaguely.

Meanwhile, Ann Casey, having been also informed by Delores of the poop, had sent me an email also suggesting cat litter and letting me know she and hers would be confined to the backyard until further notice.

Looking outside, I caught her just as she returned from the garden store with Jack, age 5, and James, age 2. James sputtered on about seeing wildflowers and something very large as Ann and I discussed the poop. Jack said it was not he who had pooped in the yard. Ann recounted that Delores had suggested calling the police. James insisted the police had pooped in my yard. I departed for the store to buy cat litter, after agreeing with Ann that we must purge the soil beneath the poop spot once it had been scooped.

At the store, I ran into Ruth, another neighbor, with her 6-year-old son Sam. I entertained the cashiers, Sam and other passersby by loudly proclaiming, "Someone pooped on my lawn, and it wasn't dog." Ruth commiserated.

As I pulled up in front of my house, I noticed Delores deep in conversation with another elderly neighbor and gesticulating wildly at my house. How long will the Daly house now be known as the poop house, I wondered.

She made a beeline for me as I stepped out of the car, telling me she had called 311 (Chicago's non-emergency helpline), and told the operator, with stunning candor that someone had "shit" on the lawn across the street, and that they needed to send someone to clean it up, as there were many children in the neighborhood. She did not, apparently, mention the menfolk and their penchant for heedlessly plowing through poop.

So now, here I am, having heaped litter on the offending piles, waiting to see if the mythic 311 helpers come to clean this poop, or whether I should bite the bullet and get to scooping.