Do you remember the strawberries and cream post?
You know, the one that made you smile as you reminisced about your favorite scents and aromas?
Well, today’s post is the antithesis of that post.
Today, I plan to wax poetic about poop.
Now before you click to the next blog, I ask that you bear with me.
Hopefully there’s a lesson to be learned here and you’ll walk away a bit more knowledgeable; a bit wiser.
This morning, at precisely the crack of dawn, I was awakened by the foulest stench I have ever smelled.
Anxiously opening my eyes to see what the source was, I saw Roxy standing at the foot of my bed sporting a look that said, “It wasn’t me.”
However, the evidence laying just a foot away said otherwise.
Cursing the “poorer than a church mouse” status that prevented me from calling out to a maid named Helga, who would swiftly take care of the problem, I forced myself out of bed.
My knee joint made a peculiar noise but I soldiered on, unwilling to give in to the pain that has forced me to be on house arrest for the past month.
Giving Roxy a sharp glance, I asked, did you poopy?
Roxy sheepishly hung her head and swiftly exited the room, leaving me alone with her “gift.”
I thought how wonderful it would be to have a butler, a maid, or robot I could program to take care of the smelly little pile.
But alas, such is not the case.
Grabbing the wet wipes, a bottle of bleach, rubber gloves, and a plastic bag, I took a deep breath and dug in.
The wave of nausea that assaulted me alerted me to the fact that a hazmat suit would have been better suited for the job.
Opening a window, I felt the cold make its way into the room, all 20 degrees of it.
I frowned as I realized that the delicious scent of strawberries and cream that had lingered for weeks had been replaced by the toxic smell of bleach.
Looking up to the ceiling, I quietly whispered to the powers that be, why do you hate me so much?
Roxy, this time drawn to the scene by the toxic fumes, made her way to where I stood.
Sitting on my foot, she rested her head against my leg–her way of apologizing for how the day had started.
So what’s the valuable lesson to be learned here?
It’s simple: The next time you find yourself standing by the kitchen sink at midnight, quietly scarfing down a piece of “turron” your aunt Paquita sent you from Spain and wonder if you should share some with your pleading furry friend, don’t.
Unless you have a maid named Helga.
Or a hazmat suit.
And now, a shot of turron so you know what started this ordeal.
How is your day coming along?