I will preface this post with the following statement:
I am not going to win housekeeping awards.
Yes, I've been a stay at home Mom and hausfrau (although I really prefer Rosanne Barr's descriptor "Domestic Goddess" better) most of my married life. I'm reasonably certain that one could draw all sorts of conclusions about the time and opportunity I have had to devote to my "craft," and the level of expertise I could have conceivably attained in that duration (after all, our 26th wedding anniversary is coming up this week), but alas! (exclamation added on behalf of Lover of All Things Tidy husband) I am testament to my grade-school band director's maxim, "Perfect practice makes perfect." And to be wretchedly honest, I've devoted a great deal more household time to perfecting my ability to disguise a mess rather than actually removing the mess.
Certain domestic "issues," however, demand immediate attention and remediation. For instance, knocking over a glass of red wine (yes, I have done this, not once, not twice, but actually THREE times, because I am just dedicated that way) requires swift action and plentiful clean-carpet-in-a-spray-can supplies (aka, "Spot Shot" and lots of it), particularly due to the unfortunate predilection for suburban home builders to carpet their cookie-cutter homes with Illusion of Space-inducing light beige carpeting. For all intents and purposes, it might as well be white, and it is a constant source of discomfort to the Mess Disguiser.
It's no surprise, therefore, that when our canine companion was stricken with the need to RUN for the backyard to dispose of some troubling grass he had consumed (no doubt in an admirable, yet ill-advised attempt to ingest a more balanced diet) but unfortunately failed to plan quite enough in advance in order to actually achieve his backyard goal, and instead distributed said unsuccessful nutrient in a long and supremely unattractive yellow stain across the center of my living room carpet, I deemed that immediate attention was indeed the appropriate response. And respond I did, with a thorough application of Spot Shot, assiduous blotting, reapplications, further blotting with clean water, blah blah blah.
Finally, having removed all traces of yellow and leaving the carpet to dry (unmolested, as poor Gus has been bluntly encouraged to remain in an outdoor environment by the firmly closed sliding glass door until such time that stomach contents have achieved greater stability), I stood back to congratulate myself on a domestic crisis well-handled (I'm not above patting myself on the back on those rare occasions where I do accomplish something). The trouble with self-congratulation, however, is that it often takes place before complete demonstration of success can be established, and morphs into self-humiliation with the speed of light. Because my pride in a Job Well Done failed to take into account previous domestic instances of inadequate attention to non-emergency driven housekeeping, and instead of having a yellow streak on a beige carpet...
I have a pronounced narrow light beige streak on my living room carpet. Yes. You have deciphered that correctly. I have a tiny clean spot on my carpet. How humiliating.