She’s Got Nothin’ On Me

If you are squeemish about bodily functions, you just might want to skip this post. Otherwise, consider yourself warned.

Dooce has nothing on me when it comes to poo. I am the queen of poo mis-adventures. In the ‘bad old days’ when I ate what I wanted and enjoyed my Pepsi’s and my Hershey bars, it was nothing to find me constipated for a week at a time. Yes, I said a week. This, I’ve come to learn, isn’t an ideal situation.

After the week of being poo-less, I would suddenly cramp up and feel as though I was trying to give birth to the Alien baby. I would “camp” on the toilet (Hub’s is sooo creative with the descriptions, isn’t he?)… and he would yell in, “Do I need to get the dynomite?” After passing the um, blockage, then floods of liquid poo would pour out of me for the next several hours. Needless to say, after the purge, I felt pretty damn good… for about another week.

Now that I’m taking such good care of myself (Yes, you skeptics, I really, truly am!) I’m finding the opposite to be occuring. I am pooing. All. The. Time. Everything I eat creates runny, foul smelling poo. I know things like raw veggies and salads will do this, but everything? I find instead of “camping” to make things move, I’m there because I’m afraid to leave! I get back to the other end of the house and whammo! Gotta go again! Yes, I eat cheese. Lots of cheese. Cheese is supposed to be um… binding. It’s not working.

Yesterday I stayed home. Again. Why? Because I couldn’t get more than five feet from the toilet. On the plus side, I’m getting caught up on my reading…

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Middle-aged. Anti-social. Mom. Grandma. Town-raised farmer's wife. Iowan. Want more? Come read the blogs.

5 thoughts on “She’s Got Nothin’ On Me”

  1. LOL! My daughter suffered from severe constipation for a very long time and it is amzing the ugliness and insanity of it all drove me just about crazy. Dooce had nothing on her. And apparently nothing on you either! LOL!

  2. I was not even fazed by your description of your tribulations with your bowels. My genteel offspring tend to discuss their bms in graphic detail, while we’re all at the table eating. It’s their idea of high good humor. The only way I can get back at them is to describe my catalogue of several-days-dead people, the guy-run-over-by-the-bulldozer, and the guy-in-parts-on-the-freeway stories. Since they’ve heard them all, it’s not so effective anymore.

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