When it's nobody's fault

I awoke to the unfiltered sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and thought to myself, "Wow, it's just going to be a stunningly lovely day."
Sean stirred next to me and I pushed him off of the bed.
I simply have no tolerance for stirring.

Alright, I didn't shove him off of the bed. But I did jar him from sleep and insist that we get out of bed and enjoy the day.
(By enjoy, of course I meant imbibe caffeine and heckle the barista).

Thus, we got out of bed, I showered and washed my hair (and it looks fabulous, incidentally) and both of us got dressed and headed out to the truck.
Having started on our way, I noticed that the air inside of the small cab smelled quite frankly like chunky poop.

"Did you fart," my question was direct and quasi-accusatory, "'cause if you did I'm going to rip your face off, stuff it with lettuce, and serve it up to you like a burrito!"

Alright, I didn't menacingly threaten Sean like that. I just thought it sounded comical.
So I wrote it.
Moving on...

Where were we? Oh yeah, I asked Sean if he'd farted.
He responded with a faux-indignant "no, I thought it was you."

And so we traveled on, assuming that with the passing blocks the acrid fumes would dissipate.
Not so.

It grew worse and worse and I was on the verge of asphyxiation.
"Okay, seriously, what in the world is that horrible stench?!"
I was nearing my sensory wit's end.

I continued, "did something die? Did an animal crawl up into your fan and transform into a fur smoothie upon the starting of the car? Did you leave a whole chicken under the seat a month ago?"

I was desperate to discover the source of the smell.

"I don't know, babe," Sean replied, "maybe it's something in the glove compartment. Or maybe you're a leper."

"I am NOT a leper! Maybe YOU are," I retorted with a passionate pissy disposition.

We were still pointing fingers of blame at one another when we pulled up to the coffee shoppe.
The vehicle hadn't even come to a complete stop before I threw myself from the door and gasped for fresh air. Sean employed the tuck and roll method and sustained only a few minor abrasions.
The old lady on the crosswalk wasn't so lucky but I'm sure she's on medicare so she had it coming.

And that's when I noticed the masticated salad and gravy attached with furious determination to the sole of my shoe. That's right, my foot was playing taxi to a dog shit passenger roughly the size of the middle-aged pheasant (with just as much color and sinew).

"Oh," I said with a little less emphatic tone, "I had dog poop on my shoe."
Sean looked at me. I looked at Sean.

"Well," he began, "at least I know you weren't lying about farting."