Diarrhea of the Non-Metaphorical Kind, aka “The Lost Brown Weekend,” and Dog Pack Dynamics

The above pic is for the benefit of friends who often accuse me of being too graphic and earthy when describing things scatological.  I will gladly provide a friendly disclaimer. I can attest that my past three day affair with the porcelain throne has not been as antiseptic and aesthetically pleasing as the above pic would imply.  Not by a long shot.  I do like the pink toilet seat cover, and if I ever become the weird old lady who lives alone and screams at kids for stealing snow, I will consider this bathroom decor.  Of course if I ever have the opportunity and the budget to pursue my own preferences in interior decor I can guarantee I will be the only one who likes it.  If I ever do live alone and have opportunity to pursue my own preferences in interior decor, my reply to others’ dislike of my incessant use of pink, bright colors, bold patterns, funky old ad art, and eclectic mixes of just plain different stuff will be, “screw you.”  I never claimed to be Martha Stewart.  As long as I like it and the dogs are comfortable, that’s all I really care about.

So after missing a day and a half at work, my church retreat which I had been looking forward to for some time, and plowing through a ghastly amount of toilet paper, (my apologies to the trees) I think I may remotely be back among the living.  Maybe.

Ok, so any excuse to post a pic of a pile of TP is a good one.  I don’t think I had to use quite this much but you get the picture.  Montezuma has been having a lot of fun with me since Thursday afternoon.  Thursday morning I thought it was just a headache until the headache moved south and then you can use your imagination from there.  So much for the Lost Brown Weekend.  The first person who makes any comment about me calling off on a Friday can kiss my rosy red ass.  I would much rather have been at work Friday than crapping my guts out all day, believe that.  I am glad that if I had to get this crud that I wasn’t already at the church retreat, 75 miles from home and at some points along the way more than an hour away from the nearest toilet.   It would have been most embarrassing to shart myself in public regardless- but I don’t want to ruin the upholstery in the car or worse, infect others with this contagion.

It would be easier for me in the battles of intestinal distress if I could puke.  It is very rare for me to be able to puke.  Sometimes I wish I could just puke so I could get the misery over with, but for me usually it all has to work its long and torturous way south on the brown agony train.

No matter how good the quality of the toilet paper is, when one has a long battle with Montezuma it gets to the point where you might as well be roto-rootering the One Brown Eye with a scrub brush, sort of like this:

I know, I should refrain from redneck jokes, out of consideration for my in-laws and for the fact that my Dad’s middle name is LeRoy.  Yeah, spelled just like that.  I don’t know what Grandma was thinking, but I’m glad she had a sense of humor.  Still, the idea of someone wiping with a toilet brush is funny.

The dogs are learning how to get along together better.  Sheena is young and stubborn which is a bit of a challenge, but she is learning the routine and proper etiquette.  Getting her to be a bit more polite at mealtimes is taking some work as well as keeping her from trash-digging.  I just hope Sheena doesn’t get in heat before her spay appointment.

 

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