Holy Mackerel

So, my daughter informed me that my last few posts were boring, and that I had to stop talking about my feces all the time. She's so picky. And judgmental. Okay, so I'll stop. But, as I explained to Em, my blog is about me and my life, and if all that's really going on it at the time is centered around the toilet, what's a person to do? But still, I'll try and refrain from mentioning my poops or the toilet at all in this post ... although I've now mentioned them four times already. Sorry. I spent the better part of the weekend getting my brain and body ready for Christmas, because, as I'd said in a previous post, I have to take on ALL the Christmas prep responsibility this year because Mr. Handsome is working so hard. Whatever. He's just lucky I enjoy spending lots of money working so hard. As part of my preparation, I spent the better part of an afternoon shopping for gifts. I couldn't believe my good fortune since in one stop, I'd found proba...

My butt has a brain. And thoughts. And opinions, apparently. Because ever since the doctor gave me the orders to get my poop tested, my butt has refused to give up the goods. It's been six days now, folks! SIX POOPLESS days, after eight tiring WEEKS of nothing BUT poop after poop after -- you guessed it -- poop. There can be NO OTHER EXCUSE but that my badonkadonk has a mind all its own, and a sense of dignity to boot! When it gazed upon the three containers I am supposed to "fill" and return, it did an about-face and ran the other way. And although I can't say I haven't enjoyed the freedom and respite from constantly having to run to the toilet, I'm just trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. How in heaven's name can I go from 20 and more dingleberries per day to none? Just like that? And everyday, I think, 'OK, today's the day. Today, I will be disgusting and poop in little wee containers and bring them to the lab and be all embarrassed...

I have to buy a swimsuit, guys. And the only ones I've found so far are at least $100, which makes me convulse. And what makes my limbs flail about like they're attached to a marionette is this: I can't find one that kindly hides the fact that my chestuals are, shall we say, lopsided. Okay, there you have it. I've said it. Okay?! Yes, my mammaries are not the same size. Slut, will you still sleep with me in New York City? I promise to keep my lactoids unexposed. So, like I said, I need a swimsuit, because we're going to Florida in a few weeks, and although I'm sure everyone will be in the hotel pool more than a few times during our stay, I'm not so sure about myself, but I DO know I'll be in the hot tub with a plastic cup filled to the brim with cheap wine. So, I need a swimsuit. The good thing is, I probably won't much care what I look like (because of the cheap wine), so why spend $100-plus on a swimsuit, I ask you. The problem is, I don't hav...

Here I sit, brokenhearted. Paid a dime, only ... Wait! I sort of went off on a tangent there. What I MEANT to say was: Here I sit, brokenhearted, waiting for my intestines to stop cramping so that I can plan my day, seeing as I've spent the past three days prostrate on either the couch or an unmade bed, writhing in pain as I battle yet another migraine IN ADDITION to the continuing saga of the uncooperative abdominal cavity. It's quite disconcerting, really, because you see, I have so much to do in the next couple of weeks that, when I think about it too much, I get all discombobulated (even more than usual) and I end up having a panic attack, which makes me have to lie down in the fetal position and suck my thumb while I watch The Duggars on 18 Kids and Counting over and over again. It would really be enough to say that Christmas is just around the corner, and with that, all the stress. We here take the Christmas season very seriously. Let me just say that, without Christmas...

If you've read my blog for a while, you'll know all too well I try to inject a little humour (yes, that's what it's supposed to be ... now you know you're supposed to laugh) into my posts, regardless of how mundane or solemn their topics might be. Lately, however, I've been finding it kind of difficult to come up with the funnies. I can't explain it. These crazy and strange ideas usually just fly off the tip of my skull and onto the page without much effort at all, but recently, it's been a chore. A real chore. It's very hard being funny. And I don't mean funny-looking, because I do that real well. Funny-sounding, I also get top marks for. Especially lately, with my toiletting dilemmas. By the way, our upstairs toilet broke yesterday morning. And yes, I seem to have broken it, although Mr. Handsome thought it was his doing until I opened my big mouth and corrected him. If only I could learn to keep my huge gob shut once in a while and allow the ...

It's hard to keep a blog going. God help me. I only do three posts a week, for god's sake. You'd think I'd be able to at least manage that. But nooooo, I can't. That's probably because I'm still on the toilet 20 times a day . But, at the time of this writing, my explosive diarrheaic episodes seem to be waning. For the past two days, I'm down to about five explosions per day, which is a miracle of sorts, I'd have to say. Now, if I could only get the 15 nightly implosions that continue to barrage my insides as I try to sleep, I'd be one happy camper. I'm not sure why I feel so stressed lately, but I know I am, because my fingertips are bloody. Apparently, I've adopted this relatively new habit of gnawing on them until all the skin is gone and all that's left is exposed, raw flesh. It even hurts to type, which, now that I think of it, may be why I've only been posting once a week. I'm wondering if maybe it's because I'm ...

It's been a week since I last posted anything about my amazingly exciting life, and for that, I apologize profusely. I've been so crazy busy, though, that I'm surprised I'm still thinking straight. Okay, I lied. I haven't been busy at all. Not really, anyway. Unless, of course, you consider sitting on the toilet for 16 out of 24 hours every day busy, moaning as your insides are no longer inside. That awful noise you heard the other night that woke you out of your wonderfully deep sleep? Yeah, that was me. On the toilet. I'm STILL sick, and I'm sick and tired of being sick...and tired. I finally got in to see my doctor, and told him I've had this stomach thing going on four weeks now, and isn't enough enough when it comes to diarrhea? And you know what? He agreed. There is, in fact, a stomach virus making the rounds in the nation's capital, but four weeks is still an awfully long time. He told me to take some Imodium to try and settle things down...

I took great joy in watching two crows throw our garbage across our lawn last Thursday morning. Because, as I watched one crow stand on our recycling bin and gingerly pick up one piece of paper after another, and throw it off the side of the box and onto the lawn, the only thing I could think of was my wonderful neighbour coming over as soon as she had a moment and picking up all our garbage so that our lawn would look presentable to her again. And that, my friends, made my day complete. And then I wondered why the crow was doing that in the first place. The only thing I could think of was that this fine crow had, in fact, a great sense of humour. Subsequently, I wanted to meet this crow and take him out for a drink. Mr. Handsome (who spent Thursday morning at home recuperating from his workshop, which went quite well) then ran out in his underwear and shouted obscenities at the crows, and my entertainment for the day ended. He's such a spoilsport. Then I thought that perhaps thes...