olfactory assault

Well, I haven't written recently because I've spent much of this week covered in crap.

Literally.

Poo, doo-doo, stinky, feces, excrement, waste, dung, swill, ordure...you name it, I've had to change it, smell it, clean it, wash it off.

I'm so tired of the smell of poop that I could just rip my nose off my face and live happily ever after.

We can't blame this all on my dear child. Most of it, but by no means all.

Firstly, there's the antibiotic that the pediatrician gave Drew for his double-whammy ear infections. Apparently, this is the strongest antibiotic known to man or animal on the planet, because not only was it so powerful that they had to give it to him in a series of injections rather than orally, it also has the added benefit of completely tearing up his stomach.

Oh yes, the ear infections are gone. And our sweet little son has been mutated into a pooping machine. Every two hours, like clockwork, my darling child emits this pile of tarry, sticky and really exceptionally foul-smelling goo.

His father and I have almost come to blows over who gets to change the next one.

OK, so then our youngest greyhound Simon apparently started to feel a little left out. His keen powers of observation revealed to him that pooping merits a whole lot of attention, so he decided to grace us with a big steaming pile of his own.

Right in the middle of his crate.

See, Simon, what you don't get is, when Drew poops, we clean him up gently and carefully, we powder him and diaper him and then we hug and kiss him because he is a real, live human baby who can't help himself and not a smelly, full-grown attention-seeking dog.

Smelly grown-up attention-whore drama-queen dogs get hosed down in the backyard. That's right! You'll think twice before you do THAT again, won't you?

And as if all that wasn't enough of an assault on our senses, this morning our septic tank decided to get into the action.

I thought Simon had left us another present, until Charles opened the door to the downstairs bathroom and stepped, barefoot, into about an inch of water.

The toilet was backed up, the bathtub was backed up, the sink was backed up  - water was everywhere and it Smelled. Really. Bad. Two cans of Febreeze later, it still reeked.

Hey! Our house is still under warranty! Think that will matter? Let's take bets on how much, dollar-wise, we're going to get screwed over on this deal.

I left Charles at home to deal with it. I simply can't take any more kaka this week.

Edit:

As soon as I hit 'publish' on this post, one of my co-workers saunters by my office and says, "Did you see what happened to the women's bathroom? One of the toilets backed up and there's about two inches of running water in the hallway."

I. Am. Cursed.