Today I learned that if you ‘lug-a-rug’ to the carpet cleaner you save 20% off your rug cleaning. I also learned that you should not have a wool shag-rug in your living room if you have a vegan chocolate lab who likes to eat any meat and dairy she can get her greasy paws on when she thinks you have left her for the evening and she gets all sneaky and shit and uses her invisible opposable thumbs to open the compost.
Side-note. No, my dog is not vegan because I want to have a vegan-dog. She’s vegan because there’s something wrong with her, and when you’re left to fully support yourself, two kids, and a dog, of course the dog can’t digest meat-protein. Of course. Also side note — there is profanity in this piece. Whatevs.
Today was a day. Literally. And I say that with phonetical enunciation. Lit-er-al-ly. When I saw the pile of dog shit on said rug right before getting my kids out the door to their spring-break camp, that’s the first thing that came out of my mouth, “literally”.
So after bagging my hands in lavender-scented doggie bags and trying to pull shit out of individual rug-tendrils while simultaneously trying not to choke on the vomit in my mouth, my older son reminded me we can’t be late (or we’d risk the side-eye of the 20-somethings to whom I throw massive shade at when they remind me of the rule sheet on the wall that includes no electronic devices, and yet they literally live on Instagram throughout the duration of the camp, and I can go Nancy-Drew on their asses and time check that shit if I need to. Respect), so we put up a gate and restricted the beast to the kitchen.
I returned to the shit after dropping them off. The shit-fairy didn’t come. That’s the thing about being a single-parent — the shit falls on your lap and yours only. I texted Carina and wallowed for a bit, and then dawned the rubber gloves and had the amazing idea to haul the rug upstairs to the bath tub. Thankfully (silver-lining in full-effect) she (the dog, not Carina) managed to hit near the corner, so I could rinse much of it away — and then I decided that I needed to clean it with some anti-bacterial soap (later found out this was bad), and the only one I had near-by was the all-purpose cleaner I splurged on at the Soap Dispensary this weekend and it gushed out of the artisanal rubber-stopper-topped glass spirit bottle like a fucking $11 pour-over coffee straight down the drain. Literally.
At that point, the water in the tub also resembled coffee, the only difference being it smelled like dead animals and started to make my house smell like the petting zoo of death. Then I started to cry. I ugly cried tears for all the babies on Instagram who’s moms post photos of them while sleeping (is nothing sacred?), I shed real tears for the student who wrote in my teaching evaluation that I once sent her a “really unprofesh email” (don’t even) and I wailed against the travesty that are my ever-present frown lines between my eyebrows (born from situations like this, no doubt).
Then I had to stop. I had to stop because Carina has trained me to limit my wallows to a certain time as not to interfere with my day, and my house smelled like shit and I had work to do that someone who works from home can not do in air they can not breathe.
So this is why I know you get 20% off when you bring your own rug in for cleaning. I googled that shit and I wrapped the rug in an old shower curtain because it was too heavy to carry soaking wet and started pulling, heaving and man-handling it to the car.
I thought the shower-curtain was so smart. I felt so good for keeping it in storage for a rainy-day. It didn’t matter the rain was shit-coloured. I was a real-adult for thinking ahead. It was only when a neighbour started starring at me while I was trying to shove this shower-curtain-wrapped object into my trunk did I realize the shape not only resembled a human, it also moved like one in the early stages of rigour mortis. Literally. Also, I should mention that my truck door no longer stays up on it’s own after a recent fender bender (BTW, ICBC rules in favour of losers who pull U-turns and hit you), so at that point I had the door resting on my head and I was grunt-thrusting the rug into the trunk. Judging by the look on her face, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I arrive home to full-fledged Vancouver PD Forensics team later. FML.
The rug cleaner was surprisingly close to my house, and I was greeted by a Kiwi dude who seemed genuinely happy to have me there until I explained how my dog took a dump on the rug and I had attempted to wash it off, and he stopped me mid-sentence…
Him: “Did you use soap?”
Me: “My dog literally shat on the rug, and I have kids.”
Him: “You should never use soap on rugs, it ends up sitting in the rug and collecting more dirt.”
Me: “She’s a chocolate lab. She’s vegan, but she’s a big dog.”
Him: “You need to blot.” Then he made blotting actions with his hands.
Dude. I had take a deep breath and say to myself, “self, you do not need to listen to this mansplaining. Think self, really think. Would blotting have helped the situation? Really?”
Then I had an epiphany. My problems are not the kind that a simple blotting will remove. If-fucking-only. I can’t even fathom a universe in which any of my problems can be blotted away. I have the kind that show-up when you’re not looking in massive steaming piles and cling to the strands in which they inhabit. Literally. That is life. It’s a lot of our lives — probably most of us.
The rug will take 7-10 days to get cleaned. Hopefully my disposable income miraculously shows up today at my door ahead of the special victims unit.