Stairway to Heaven

For those of you who are easily disgusted or difficult to entertain, I urge you to look away now. In a few days or so, I will publish another blog about the humming bird or another exciting trip to the zoo but not today. Today, I am going to provide you with an unprecedented uncensored look into my bedroom. Again, this blog is not for the faint of heart.

Let me take you back to the afternoon in question, when I was imagining a glorious dinner of good times, laughs, and thought provoking conversation. I prepared a yuppie salad of mixed baby lettuces, fresh vegetarian chili, and corn bread muffins. Since it was a special occasion, an occasion where friends would be joining us, we pushed dinner back until at least 5:15. Don't turn away yet. This gets even more wild. As we sat for dinner, Olivia immediately dove into her cheesy beefy mac, with her own fork, mind you. Mac hit her mouth but mostly fell onto her pink skirt and lovely little striped sweater. Pretending not to notice, I dove into my salad, which sported a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. The evening seemed to be progressing quite smoothly.

Until that is, Olivia proclaimed she was finished and demanded to be removed from her highchair. Okay, I thought. She was bored and less hungry now and wanted to play. Out she came, only to request to sit on my lap. Sure, angel. Damon you just keep eating and enjoy your meal, I stated, in my usual sweet and gentle tone. Yes, my dinner was halted, but I enjoy nothing more than spending those extra minutes with my baby girl. Bread, she signed. Sure. Anything for you, Miss Olivia. She pulled the piping hot slice of sourdough bread off of my plate and began gumming it, after half was thrown onto her highchair.

In a moment of weakness, I decided that I would like to finish my dinner, while it was still room temperature. Back in her highchair she went, kicking and screaming the whole time. Should I give in? Probably, but no. Tonight I was in charge, and she was going to enjoy her beefy cheesy mac if it killed me. She was going to ignore toddlerhood and jump right into adulthood just where I needed her to be that evening. Her plate filled with uneaten fresh strawberry chunks, green beans, grapes and beefy cheesy mac was placed back again in front of her. Now don't worry blog enthusiasts. I will be getting to the bedroom part in no time at all. Once she calmed down, she took several more bites of my salad and bread and then it happened. Mama needed to be taught a lesson. Without hesitation, my child launched her plate of beefy cheesy mac directly onto the white carpet.

Now our guests, as sweet as they are, flew up and offered to help clean-up. No, no I said, as I laughed out loud about our Stanley Steamers, aka Quentin and Delilah, or for the purposes of this blog, Quentin will now be referred to as the Fartinator. That would be known as foreshadowing for those of you who didn't get it. The Fartinator and his girlfriend quickly took to the task, devouring each tiny macaroni and morsel of hamburger meat. When they were done, I remarked that I was quite pleased with their work. At this point, I had no idea what was in store for the rest of my evening. Please sit, Damon requested, as he got down on his hands and knees and began to scrub the tomato stains from the floor.

Now that our guests were gone, I had time to relax and unwind in my large and comfortable bed. For those of you who don't know me very well, I will now make a confession that might be difficult for some of you to hear. It is true. The Fartinator and his girl sleep in the bed on my side and not just in the bed but under the covers. Picture me laying the fetal position. Now picture Quentin tucked tightly next to my stomach with his head resting on my legs. As many times as I move in the night so does he. Now Delilah on the other hand is tucked on the other side of me, forming a perfect burrito, a term Damon has coined over the years.

Recently, I have come to believe that there is a magnetic force in my bedroom that pulls the dogs heads to the foot of the bed, leaving the ass ends pointed directly toward my head. With that being said, the Fartinator blew out a sample of what I had in store for the rest of the evening. Right during American Idol the gas passing, cutting of the cheese, stepping on a toad, stinkers, air biscuits, barking spiders, and rotten eggs rang out in a symphony to accompany the music of the night. Apparently, pugs have an extremely sensitive digestive system, a system that is unable to tolerate the likes of any ordinary cheesy beefy mac.

As the night continued, so did the smell. It was thick, and then came the explosive diarrhea. I know I could probably spare you the details but that would not allow me my therapeutic aspect of Who Needs Pimentos. Most people by this time would have put the dog on the floor or out of the room for that matter, but those of you who know me, know that I am a wee bit neurotic about the care of the Fartinator and his girlfriend. With each trip to the backyard, no matter what the time, I trek to the outside and make sure that no coyote is waiting to steal my Fartinator. I will try to hide the fact that our fence is quite high and has wire throughout, so even the skinniest of beasts would not be able to squeeze through.

I hate to admit this but the pugs also have their own steps leading to the bed, all to ensure that they may come and go as they please. You think it would be easy to simply move the steps away, so they could not get onto the bed, but no. If I had made that decision, I could have rested peacefully all evening scent free. But like a martyr, I endured the stench, the numerous trips to the backyard at 2:30 then 3:30, and surrendered my sleep to the Fartinator.