Holy Mackerel

Hot metal pokers in both eyes would have been more welcome than my recent double dipping experience, forever to be known as the Endoscopic/Colonoscopic Examination From the Depths of Hell. I'm still recovering, so this post will heretoforth be in point form. * 7 p.m. Sunday. I scarf down 6 oz. of Pico Salax. Not the best tasting stuff, but not god-awful either. Taste: something between lime juice, tart orange, mixed with a bit of fizz. * 9 p.m. Sunday. Who knew a butt could pee? Pico Salax = constant and extreme diarrhea. I'm still feeling pretty good. This Pico Salax stuff ain't half bad, I say to Mr. Handsome. * 9:30 p.m. Sunday. Utter and extreme nausea. They didn't warn me about this. * 10 p.m. Sunday. The migraine begins. I take five extra strength Tylenols, a couple of Gravols, and I pray for sleep. * 2 a.m. Monday. Hello toilet. * 4:06 a.m. Monday. Yo. Here I am again, bathroom. * 6:12 a.m. Monday. You know the drill. * 8 a.m. Monday. I'm due for my second Pi...

It's early Saturday night, and I just sent both kids to bed because I couldn't (and shouldn't have to) listen to their fighting and bickering any longer. And dammit, I need my peace and quiet, now that I'm a working girl. It's also interrupting my digestion. It's been a hard week, but a good week. I'm really liking my new job, although I haven't really done anything but watch for the most part. This job is challenging, interesting, exciting and worthwhile, and I can't wait until I'm actually doing something. I also can't wait until I get my very own desk! Which, guys, is probably happening next week! Then, I can decorate it with all my little doodads and thingamabobs that will make it ALL MINE! I'm territorial that way, and am also getting tired of hauling my big ass bag around with me all the time, not to mention my Starbucks thermos cup full of hot coffee to keep me awake, and my packet of Mentos. They need a home. I'm also startin...

Well, guys, it's worse than I thought it could ever be. It's so bad, I had to pre-empt my previously scheduled post for today. Yeah, I know. Reeal baaad. Yesterday, I went for my appointment with a new gastroenterologist to try and figure out what has been plaguing me all these years and making me lose all sorts of weight, and be a Type 7 most of the time. First things first. This doctor = awesome. I was worried he might be kind of weird, since who really decides to work on people's asses and intestinal inner workings? No one in their right mind, that's who. But this doctor, he was okay. Really thorough, really smart, but I honestly think he's on Quaaludes or whatever those things are that make you hyper (are Quaaludes uppers or downers?). The guy reminded me of Speedy Gonzales, or the Roadrunner. Wiiiiiing!!! Swoooosh! One moment, he's here, the next, he's gone. I need whatever he has. And yesterday please and thanks. I realize this guy is of African-Ame...

I'm a little worried, a little scared, a little concerned, because who really wants a Polish sausage down their throat? Bet you don't get asked that question every day. I'm off to my first appointment with a gastroenterologist this afternoon, to start trying to get to the bottom of my gastrointestinal malaises that have plagued me oh so much for what seems like three lifetimes, but is only really about five years. Maybe six. No more than eight. Tops. Okay, so I've been very hesitant to get this thing investigated properly. Why? Well, it's not like it's a pimple on my cheek that needs a good squeeze, or an ingrown toenail that needs trimming, or even one of my many other ailments that are not so fun to have, and yet, not as bad as my tummy woes. This, folks, this is the real thing, the honker of illnesses, the kowabunga of killers. Because I know what the doctor is going to say, and this is what I dread. He is going to say I need a very invasive procedure called...