Over the past month, I've had several people who know me in real life express concern that they thought I might be almost dead because I hasn't posted in so long. (Why do people always jump to DEATH?)
Anyway, I decided to make a commitment to post more often, even if the writing sucked and the stories were pointless. But really, that isn't much different than me in real life. I'm famous for telling a long intro to a story, and then being like..."Now where was I going with that?" And the person that I am talking to has to remember and remind me what it was we were talking about before I started rambling, and I usually don't actually remember the point of my story. In middle school, my friends called me Rose, like from the Golden Girls, and I actually chose that as my confirmation name because actually researching saints and figuring out which one would be a good Christian name for me seemed like too much work.
What was I talking about??
Oh yeah. Posting more often.
So on Tuesday, we got ALL the carpets in my house cleaned. Except for the closets. Mainly because I am too cheap to pay for cleaning that little bit of carpet and also because Workaholic stacked ALL of our furniture in bathrooms and closets in order to make it as easy for the workers as possible to clean as much of the carpet in each room as possible.
It looked beautiful. It looked fabulous. It was CLEAN.
On Tuesday night, I had Yoders mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, and I had pulled out a steak from our cow. Workaholic was busy going through boxes looking for things that I have lost, and I asked him, as the resident male in the house, to grill the steak. He obliged, and put the steak on the grill, with the grill probably set on HIGH. (you know where this is going, right?) A few minutes later, I asked him if he needed to flip the steak. He grunted, and I took this as a no. Whatever. Several minutes after that, I said, "Did you check on the steak?" And his response was, "Oh shit, it is probably burnt."
Keep in mind that it was already 6:30, Charlie was absolutely STARVING, as was I. I decided it was hot dogs for dinner, and Workaholic pulled out another steak to defrost. Which about pushed me over the edge. (I won...we had that steak last night.)
You might be wondering where I am headed.
So when Workaholic went out the grill to check on the very much deceased cow he had put on there, the damn thing was on fire. FIRE! FIRE! So he grabbed it with a pair of tongs and flung it in the yard. Understandable, I suppose. But not very responsible with 5 dogs in a 2 house radius.
I went out later to grill the hot dogs and saw Kale polishing off the had-to-be-still-hot steak.
Nothing I can do now except eat my dinner and get my kids in bed. And honestly, once we ate and were in bed, I was over it.
I took the girls to daycare this morning and retreated to the basement to work. I hadn't been down there since the other night when I was drooling over the fact that the Stanley Steemer guys had gotten every. single. stain. out of my carpet.
And even though the lights weren't on, I could tell something was not right. I quickly prayed that a dead toy lay in the middle of my basement floor. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CLEAN FUCKING CARPET.
But no. Of course not. In the middle of my beautiful clean, wonderful smelling basement carpet lay not one, but two piles of oozy, fresh, dog diarrhea. And off to the side was also a lovely sized spot of pee. AND some other much smaller spots that were dropped while the offender walked, trying to get all the poop out.
Even though I have owned a dog for more than 12 years now, I still am stumped when it comes to how to clean up diarrhea. I eventually figure it out, armed with a plastic bag and paper towels and carpet cleaner and several white towels used to scrub. But there is always a spot left. Always. And Stanley Steemer wants to charge me for 3 rooms since that is how much basement carpet I have instead of just one room to clean the area desecrated by one of my beloved pooches. So yeah, that is not happening.
However, all of that is not my point. My point is that while I was cleaning one spot, I sat back to observe my pathetic attempt and sat on a wet spot. A smaller spot that I had cleaned up the poo and sprayed with the carpet cleaner, but not yet scrubbed. And even though I changed my jeans, I am still sitting here, in my office, trying to work, and I smell diarrhea coming from my backside.
And that, my friends, is why I decided to blog today. Because my butt smells and it is driving me crazy. AND IT ISN'T MY FAULT.
OK, now I am off to change my underwear.