Le Poo

There are places where I expect to step in dog poo. When I'm walking down McAllister St. When I'm playing Frisbee in Golden Gate Park. When I'm looking for a place to sit and read in Alamo Square. The Marin town of Ross is not one of those places. The median income for Ross is $102,000; median home value is $1.7 million. With that, fool that I am, I expect a bit of civilized behavior.

But lo and behold, we ran through lovely Ross Commons this morning, ooh'ing and ah'ing over the beautiful mansions and socialites out walking their poodles with their lattes. After the run, I switched out my sneaks for my Uggs and went to join my team for a picnic on the lawn. Only seconds after I sat down and prepared to bite into my artistically crafted sandwich did I notice the brown-green-ish blotch on my suede boots. My mostly indoor slipper-boots which really, I'd be a lesser person without.

The whole idea of stepping in dog poo is that you're not prepared for it; you don't see it coming. But the act is so insipid, it in turn causes a warm flood of hostility to course through your veins. It inspires hatred towards humanity. And, Matthes would like to add, towards dogs as well. We humans sure do have the art of talking about how great we are down. We just hardly actually live up to it. And it seems the more polished something (eg a neighborhood) is on the outside, the people inside of it are just as careless and self-absorbed as, say, the ghetto.

So, I say to all of you Ross habitants and non-poop-scoopers at large: you disappoint me. I expected more from you. I spent thirty minutes of my life cleaning your dog's poop off my beloved Uggs. You ruined a perfectly good sandwich. And the chocolate cupcake, there was no way I could even touch anything that was brown and gooey.

Thanks for that.