Soaked. And. Pissed.

Who was that complete boob who said it was better to pissed off that pissed on?

I'd so love to wring his neck.

Now, the guy who found out there was more than one way to skin a cat? I'd love to meet him - honestly, if ever there was a Hero, he's one. (May Bitch Kitty Rest In Peace - insert sign of the cross here - no need to piss off the Greater Pet Gods any more than apparently I already have).

Fucker Up, (I'm starting to realize I may be renaming her - bless her heart, she even comes to that now) pooped on the floor last night (twice - but she cleaned up one of them herself, save for the crusty bits stuck to the floor) - irritating enough. I'd noticed, in that part of my brain that kind of has that niggling suspicion I'm missing something, but can't figure out what, registered it was only poop. Took some noodling around to light the bulb.

Yes, I realize that's bad enough.

However. When that bulb finally lit? I had only one thought:

Where was the accompanying whiz? Dropping logs that size is always accompanied by a startlingly large lake of pee. I looked. Nothing doing. Not in any of the usual spots anyway. (the ones where the floor is beginning to, uh, stain a wee tad) I put together the sofa bed, went to return the two cushions to their rightful spot, only to find that that's where the Goddamn lake lurked. The sofa cushion absorbed it. Pucker pranced right up to them to sniff them, as though they weren't hers, and perhaps, some alien dog dropped through an AC vent to besmirch her floors - she should totally check that out.

HELLO!

It's YOUR OWN pee! It smells of YOU.

Do you notice I'm yelling? Me too. Most likely, so do the neighbors. Or anyone within a five mile radius.

I'm totally pissed. Yes, I can wash these two pillow covers. They're that micro-suede they should handle anything fabric - but here's the rub: it shrinks. No one bothers to point that out. Then, the cushion itself, needs to be sprayed with Nature's Miracle, and bask in the (thankfully) bright sunlight we're lucky to see today.

There is one sliver lining to this morning:

Found out that the only way to flush (do you see J cringing? I think I do) logs the size of Yodel rolls is to allow it to soak in bog (a lovely Irish expression I picked up from some Football Moms - sounds way better than toilet) until loosened. I wouldn't recommend this method in the front powder room where everyone who visits my house stops to drop their own deposits, as everyone (and I mean everyone) who stops by here for some reason feels the urge to poop. The bog digesting process can take up to 20 minutes, and honestly, diet dog food does not produce an aroma I want to subject my lovely friends and neighbors to.

So instead, I highly suggest lugging logs to the upstairs bath of your son, who never uses it anyway, and leave the stench for someone who might enjoy finding said prizes in that bowl. Hey, I figure if he enjoys leaving them so freaking much, he clearly must enjoy finding them. Either way, heat rises. Poop is warm. Therefore, aroma of bog digesting logs remains on the second floor, bypassing the Visiting Floor entirely.

I'd have visitors. I swear I would.

Except now, thanks to Baroness von Whizbanger, they've no where to sit.