A Life of Illusion (Joe Walsh -1981)

WARNING: This post contains a graphic image of dog crap. Viewer discretion is advised.

“Appearances often are deceiving.” ~ Aesop

As we know, looks can be deceiving. Examples of this old adage are many: just look at Susan Boyle of Britains Got Talent fame, or the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Eliot Spitzer? Who woulda thunk it? Biscuits and sausage gravy — disgustingly good. Also, mermaids, marigolds, and Bernie Madoff — an additional deceptive looking few.

One week ago today, my house could have been added to this list.

Having just completed a 41 minute run — without having a heart attack, or worse, urinating on myself — I emerged from a break in the tree line behind my house. It was a hot and humid night, one of the first of an unusually cold and rainy June. With perspiration and darkness upon me, exhausted, I staggered toward home.

Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I was struck by the idyllic picture before me. My house looked like something right out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Bright, overused lighting, illuminated every window; the glow providing an almost dreamlike quality, a beacon of earthly comforts. I was reminded of how lucky I am and — dammit — how we really needed to do a better job conserving energy.

The Foo Fighters kicked in on my iPod Nano with a cover of Joe Walsh's "A Life of Illusion" — I thought nothing of it at the time, although later it would prove ironic.

As I drew nearer to our patio, the picture of life inside the house came into better focus. I could see my Mother-in-Law in the kitchen window over the sink, joyfully scrubbing — what I could only assume was — a dish. Bless her soul.

Through the sliding glass doors I could see my 7 and 3-year-old daughters sitting at the kitchen table, cheerfully eating what was surely a bowl of ice cream — probably vanilla with Hershey's chocolate syrup. Bless their little hearts.

Lastly, I could see my lovely wife through the family room windows, merrily walking toward the kitchen. My guess, to help her Mom, or join in the children’s ice cream festivities. I still can't believe she married me, God bless her soul.

I smiled, reflecting on the coziness of it all — and how easy it would be to sneak up to the kitchen window and scare the living hell out of my Mother-in-Law. I thought better of it, Thomas Kinkade would have nothing of it. Bless his soul.

I was captured by my home's apparent serenity and warmth. I imagine it's how John Walton must have felt coming home after a long day at the family lumber mill, or perhaps coming in from the outhouse, on a hot summer night on Walton's Mountain.

As I opened the sliding glass door, I took off my running headphones. The Foo Fighters still audible, but distant, I stepped into the kitchen. I was greeted by cool air and the bickering of my two youngest, Jessie and Lulu. They were sharing a kitchen chair and a leftover Portillo’s strawberry shake, and by the sound of it, not doing a very good job of it.

With the picture of warmth and serenity already beginning to fade, I announced my entrance. “Hello!”

The girls focused only on their next spoonful, were oblivious to my sweaty presense. They continued to box each other out, arguing over who’s turn it was.

Elizabeth and I arrived in the kitchen at about the same time. "You won't believe what just happened." she said.

My Mother-in-Law was at the kitchen sink, wiping a brown patent leather flat with a paper towel. "Yeah Jack, you missed all the excitement!"

The girls interrupted their regularly scheduled argument to be bring me a special announcement. "Buck pooped!" screamed Lulu.

"Dad, you should have seen it!" yelled Jessie.

"You wouldn't have believed it," said Elizabeth. "Buck pooped in my shoe."

"Buck pooped in mommy's shoe!" repeated Jessie.

"In your shoe?" I said. Well, I guess that would explain the smell.

Piling on the poopetrator (sorry, I couldn't help myself), my 13-year-old yelled down from upstairs, "Buck also pee'd up here." Damn, that’s gonna get in the padding.

"Yes, in my shoe,” said Elizabeth. “It was so gross."

Okay, I had heard of shit on a shingle, and had witnessed first hand shit on a stick, but I ain't never seen shit in a shoe. This would definitely be a first for me, and for that matter, for Buck as well. He has crapped on carpet, rugs, hardwood floors, laundered clothes, the leather couch, a book, the front seat of my car, and even once on Lauren. But never, ever, in a shoe.

As the primary crap fixer, I inquired about the whereabouts of the poop as if it were a dead body. “So, where can I find it.” Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor . . .

“It was in the hallway, but I cleaned it up already.” said Elizabeth. Excellent! “I took a picture for you.” Bonus!

The timing of my run couldn't have been any better. A grainy picture of a rather large crap, lying partially on top of Elizabeth's shoe, replaced the faded image that was my idyllic home. With this new picture burned into my mind and a smile on my face, I headed upstairs to shower and clean me some urine. Life was good.

For the past week, a lone brown patent leather flat, has sat on the dryer in the laundry room. In it is stuffed a generous number of “refreshing scented” fabric softener sheets. Next to it, sits a half-empty container of odor eliminating Febreze. Come tomorrow, no one will ever know that this shoe was once shat upon.

Appearances are often deceiving. You just never know . . .

And it comes with no warning

Nature loves her little surprises
Continual crisis

~ Joe Walsh, A Life of Illusion

Foo Fighters - A Life of Illusion (Cover)