|Good God. We haven't even had the lima beans yet.|
The horror of that thought made my face hot. I turned my head to disguise what surely was my skin blushing in my own disgust. When I did, sure enough the whiff emanated from my very own butt.
It couldn't be! I'm fully in control of my faculties, and besides, it's understood that in my delicacy, I do not perform certain functions. Ever. Never ever.
My butt was a victim! Framed! In the cruelest of ways, it was a set-up.
I had sat in something foul.
On my last bite of turkey, sitting across from me on the floor at the coffee table, my host’s son crinkled up his nose and said, “Mom, did you clean up all the dog vomit that was right here?”
|He even looks a little queasy, doesn't he?|
Now that the ice was broken so to speak - I felt I could approach the subject freely.
"It's a little vomit-y over here," I said. But I was smiling. Kinda. We're friends, after all, and nurses. However, despite the conception that nurses have heard it all and don't blink at any foul topic, I draw the line at fresh vomit-y stains wafting sour bile two feet from Thanksgiving dinner. And my friend had just gone to all the trouble to prepare this lovely feast, so I naturally couldn't lodge a complaint without offering to clean it up myself.
She directed me to the baby wipes (??) and febreze Hawaiian Breeze.
For future reference? Baby wipes are not effective against vomit-y stains.
So the smell sort of went from ghastly sickening to sour-nursery with a touch of coconut.
And we liked our Thanksgiving and had fun. Maybe not the dog, who is outside trying to poo. No photo for that.
My friend just said she smelled something stinky inside, so it's time to investigate.
There are two other dogs that live here.