There are certain things that men just don’t seem to deal well with – and other times they just excel. Dealing with icky substances is not a male strong suit, I guess…
Our dog, Daisy, she of the Christmas-tree-ball-munching-Boxer-from-Hell fame, decided to have a massive upset over some new food – and so overnight turned the entire lower portion of my house into a rather nasty area full of stuff that shall remain nameless. She was immediately confined to the laundry room, which she also decorated with said nameless substances. Loverly. My house never smelled so charming.
Just as I was beginning to wonder when the madness would end, and if it didn’t end soon it was going to be vet time, her skin erupted into a mass of gigantic lumps, each about as big around as a half dollar, and a good 1/2 inch high. It was vet time, no doubt. My usual vet was in surgery, and since we didn’t think she should wait until the next morning (not while still “decorating” any space she occupied and having more of the mysterious bumps appear before our astounded and disgusted eyes) we took her to the alternate vet.
No animal is as capable of looking sorry for itself, pitiful, and apologetic all at the same time, as a Boxer. That poor dog was a pretty sorry sight when the BF hauled her off to the vet’s. Meanwhile, I got the fun of cleaning up the mess. My manly BF has a rather sensitive tummy in some cases – certain things are likely to set him to adding to the mess, and so rather than having to clean up after both man and beast, I opted to clean up after the beast only and let him do the vet duties.
And so, armed with paper towels, cleaning solutions, rubber gloves, and all of the other trappings of a massive cleaning spree, I opened every window and door, lit some scented candles and incense and got to work. I had gotten all of the major ickiness cleaned up and was ready to start in on the carpet cleaning process when I discovered that my carpet cleaner was in a semi-functional mode. As in, each time I tried to fill the water tank and then put it in place to begin cleaning, the water tank took that as the cue to spew its entire contents all over the floor – thus making the floor where I was standing a soppy mess, and rendering me incapable of steam cleaning the rest of the floor. I continued wrestling with the darn thing, figuring it was just that I had put it together incorrectly.
By the time I finally got it together with no leaking, I realized it wasn’t a matter of skill but one of luck as the gaskets were worn, I was understandably frustrated and my kitchen floor was now a swamp. Why I didn’t think to just undertake this process on the parts of the carpet that needed cleaning, I don’t know.
Meanwhile, BF comes home with the now perky dog. After much worry over the recent dog food recalls, and the similarity in symptoms – oh, and a $500 vet bill – we discover that she had an allergic reaction to something in the freaking dog food. That was it. All of this mess was thanks to allergies.
By now, I have successfully soaked the entire lower floors, because though my cleaner is now holding its water and spewing forth solution only when asked, it is not being obedient and picking up said solution. I decide that obviously, the cleaner is busted. BF, being the wonderful man he is, which means: MAN MUST FIX PROBLEM – decides to take it all apart and see what the problem might be. And of course, I explain it all, but the water spewing doesn’t happen to him. All this time, he’s trying to tell me that it’s the way I’m putting the silly thing together. Needless to say, I reached the point where I handed him the cleaner and said, “Fine, then YOU clean the carpets.” So, on the machine goes but the darn thing won’t pick up again. So he disassembles again and attempts another refilling of the water tank, this time to be greeted by the spewing action that had soaked my kitchen floor earlier. He, of course, had the sense to be doing this outside.
And so off we traipse to the local Wal-Mart to find a new carpet cleaner, since the great and mighty man of the house has decided that perhaps it wasn’t me after all, but the cleaner was, in fact, busted. I spend perhaps half of the trip grumbling because I hate it when a man (any man – and especially my BF who is otherwise not a Neanderthal) treats me like I don’t know what I’m talking about. We spend the remainder of the trip with him laughing at me for being such a silly goose and then apologizing for hurting my feelings.
Back home, new cleaner purchased and dog no longer making new deposits, the entire carpeted area of the house is treated to a full sudsy scrub, and suddenly my carpet not only looks better, but the smell in my house is much nicer as well. Ah, I can breathe!
And so, after all is said and done, I have yet another thing to add to my dog’s list of allergies, a very clean house (and I mean – CLEAN), a very apologetic BF (he hates it when I get mad at him, I do it so rarely), a pile of laundry that didn’t get folded because we were instead taking the dog to the vet and cleaning the house and a brand new carpet cleaner.