I’ve been having some issues as of late. For the past month and a half, my bowels have become irritable. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss them off so. I guess they just think I’m a bitch and have decided to wreck my life.

Oh my. Have they! I’m exhausted, riding the edge of dehydration. I can’t think well as my intellect has been blunted by the lack of nutrition, my home skills have waned (putting it politely. This house is a half step from condemned.) and my social skills have dulled as I can’t leave my house to talk to anyone.

You now those nice adverts for incontinence underwear? My sarcastic (assholish) husband has been pointing them out to me.

“See that? You can’t even tell if they’re FULL! They look just like your panties! Maybe a little sexier.” It’s comments like this that put the shovel in my hand.

My friends have been sort of half supportive. I believe the comment I heard a few times was “We have a toilet, you know.”

That’s dear of them, but there are certain things I try not to share with any of my fellow-men and women if I can avoid  it. I actually left health care because I was fed up with other people’s shit. I’m one of those women that gets angry when I walk into a rank washroom. I do not believe in public defecation. If you are over the age of 10, you should be able to make it til you’re home.

I went to the Doc. When I told him what was going on and for how long, he gave me one of those looks. The quiet “You waited how long? You silly bitch.” See, the problem is I worked in the hospital too long. I live by the ‘If it’s not falling off, spurting blood, and if you can’t see the bone, you’re all good’ rule. Fluids and Tylenol, you’re golden, now fuck off! There is a reason I’m not a nurse now. You’re welcome.

To that end I am being tested. The likely culprits? A bacterial infection or parasites. Stop for a second. Parasites. Oh…

I’m betting on it. I’m one of those organic, raw food eating dumbasses. (Can you smell the patchouli? Would you like a glass of bong water?) Alright, I’m far from a hippie, but I just like good, real food. But with that comes this risk. Whatever. I’ve decided to name my parasites, get to know them. There is Pamela, Percy, Paul, Peter, Petunia, Poppy, Poopsy, Poopsy, Poopsy (those are the triplets)…

By my reason, If I get to know them, I may be able to coax them out. My hubby has offered to hold a sandwich by my backdoor to tempt them. (Yes. Digging a shallow grave as we speak.)

The fun part? I get to have a colonoscopy! Yay! Whee! Balloons and confetti!

So if you are having a bad day, take comfort in the fact that soon I will have five feet of tubing with a camera on the end shoved up my ass into my gut to take a look around. See what the parasites have done to the old place. I just hope he doesn’t have to shove a lamp up there first to light the way.


Head Trauma And New Toys

I have caved. Yes. Me.

I bought my son a zuzu pet. And armour.

Why, yes! I did bang my head really hard this week! On Monday. I got a goose egg and a bit of a shiner. I went to pick something up off of the floor by my kitchen table, and as I had carefully placed my black bathrobe over the back of a chair (where it is SUPPOSED to be. Duh.), the chair was invisible. I went full force, eyebrow first on the corner of said wooden chair. When I came to, I decided I should probably clean my house. And purchase some brightly coloured padded leather chairs. Maybe a helmet.

I digress.

I have made it a rule as a parent to try to keep my child creatively engaged in the world. To that end, I only allow certain video games for certain lengths of time. I also do my best to steer away from ‘mindless’ toys (toys that need no active play). There are so many ‘push the button, watch it go’ toys on the market. Not good. I need him to use his brain. I need him to be able to think, problem solve and create. I also need him to not live in my basement until he is 45, watching television, smoking pot and compulsively masturbating while bitching about how ‘you done me wrong, ma’. It seems like such a small hope for a parent, doesn’t it?

I have a dear friend, Sophie, who has a couple of kids around the same age as my boy. Sadly, she is going through a divorce. I asked her how the kids have been faring. She said, “Good, I guess. But if the police start bringing them home when they are 13, I guess I’ll know I’ve failed.” (More on the Soph at a later date.) She is a great mom. This just goes to show you how high us moms strive. Please move out, don’t get arrested. Easy.

Back to the zuzu.

If you don’t know what that is, I’ll describe it for you.

It is a battery-powered, moving, babbling, squeaking, warrior hamster.

Who, I ask you, comes up with this shit?

I hate to be one of them ‘back in the good ole days’ but back in the good ole days, my parents shoved me out the door at 7:30 in the morning with a rock, a paper clip, an elastic band and a hearty “Go have fun with your friends, Dumbass! And don’t come home til 5:00!” (Of course I made a weapon. I had to kill my own lunch.) Maybe us kids were a bit violent and had a few more broken bones than necessary but damn it, we were creative! There was no time for mischief or drugs. We were too busy trying to stave off pirates and rapists with an elastic band, for gods sake!

This toy I caved and bought for my son? Good for nothing. Unless the impending apocalypse leaves freaky talking hamsters in charge. Could happen.

It is as creepy and weird as it sounds. And as I am slightly brain injured and tend to startle easily, if it crosses my path when I am not prepared, I swear I will tap dance on that motherfucker.Then I will replace my devastated son’s toy with a nice bag of elastic bands. And teach him how to kill his own lunch. And I will know I have made the world a better place.

Parenting is so rewarding.

*tearful sniff*