Last night, I went to Fabulous Gala. I’m sure it sounds like all I do is go to black-tie events, but trust me, I’m more dog-hair-encrusted sweatpants than formal gowns. I just go to two fancypants events each year, and they happen to be back-to-back.
So, last night’s event? Designed and populated by the fabulous gays. The food? Divine. The people? Gorgeous. The decor? Breathtaking.
At this event, it’s my goal to just not look too schleppy. So, basically, I show some cleavage and try to wear cute shoes and call it good.
And I think I did OK. Two guys in the elevator commented on my shoes. The gays looked approvingly at my plunging neckline. The valet flirted with me. I felt marginally fabulous.
And then I got home. I walked in the door and thought, “Why does my house smell like eggs?”
There is nothing that brings you crashing down to Earth quite like the realization that your dog has had explosive diarrhea.
I let Lil’ Frankfurter and a green-looking Foxie Doxie outside. I took off my shoes, which were suddenly not at all appropriate. I struggled for three minutes to get the zipper on my dress. Then, I changed into some grubby clothes.
You know how when you’re taking care of a kid in cloth diapers, you swish the diapers around in the toilet?
Yeah. I did that with all of the bedding from Foxie’s kennel. And since he’s a dachshund and they love to burrow? He had four blankets in his kennel. Four blankets that had all been … well, let’s just say yuckified.
I cleaned. I made Foxie rice to calm his sensitive tummy. I gave him a bath. I did laundry. I cleaned his kennel and the space around his kennel and the bathroom. I washed my hands about 12 times in the hottest water I could stand.
Finally, I changed into my jammies and cuddled up to poor Foxie, who was shaking and ashamed. He melted into me. And really? That was the highlight of my evening.