Detox: Day 3
No comments from anyone so far. Which means that I've either driven everyone away, or stunned everyone into silence. Well, roll up your sleeves, my darling kumquats (or those kumquats who still remain). I've taken this on as a humanitarian project and you will be informed, even if it's against your will. Heh. I'm relying on the train-wreck factor to keep my readership alive.
I will try to keep the TMI assault to a minimum, so if you have any burning questions/hey-me-too's/ew-you're-gross's, feel free to e-mail me. But really, I think a lot of folks experience the same problems I have, it's just not exactly a comfortable topic of conversation. I was even embarrassed to talk to my doctor about it.
I haven't mentioned it, really, on any of my websites/blogs, but I've had a lifetime issue similar to what Heather of Dooce has described so ably and colorfully. I've tried everything - from diet to exercise to OTC remedies to doctors' intervention to prescription medication - to absolutely no avail. Which is why I'm actually excited about this detox program, and the results that I've seen so very early on. There is reason to celebrate the doodie when one is used to only going once every two weeks. Seriously. It's a problem. I'm tempted to write Heather and let her know that I think I've found something that will finally help her. I hope she'll believe me, after all the crackpot advice she's been given from "helpful" readers.
I've been sitting here trying to think of a delicate way to convey the information I wish to get across to you, my faithful (and icked out) readers. I can't - there is no delicacy in this. So I'm just going to plunge (hah!!) ahead, here. Oh dear God, I've sunk to potty humor. Hey, if you can't keep your sense of humor about the base side of life as a human... well, I guess you'll find comfort in the loving membership of the Howard Hughes Institute for the Hygenically Insane.
Day three of my adventure has seen me visiting the bathroom. A lot. With results appearing in liquid form. My strong advice is that, for the first couple of weeks of this program, you really shouldn't go on any roadtrips or lift anything heavy. Don't test my word on this one, just heed my wisdom.
There has been absolutely no discomfort - no cramps or bloating or any of those symptoms you would typically associate with "the trots", as my Grandmother used to call it... because you're always trotting to the bathroom. Yep, that's my Grandma. Always the comedian. I'm just feeling... lighter (well, duh). More... flexible? Something like that.
Now. Here's where it gets weird. And trust me, folks, Calvin is being subjected to WAY more than you guys are. So while you're regarding me with disgust, spare a sympathetic thought in Calvin's direction. The poor guy.
So this morning? Before work? I had to do my thing in the water closet. I was prompted to look (don't ask), which is something I NEVER do (note the italics, bold, and capitalization - all signs that I'm very serious). I'm more of a flush-and-bolt kind of a girl. But this morning, I looked.
And lo, there was gum. I will repeat that, my gentle snowflakes. Gum. As in, a piece that I swallowed, once. Except, I can't remember the last time I actually swallowed a piece of gum. So when "they" say that gum can't be digested? I guess "they" were right.
I'm waiting for the penny I swallowed when I was five to show up any time now.
No comments from anyone so far. Which means that I've either driven everyone away, or stunned everyone into silence. Well, roll up your sleeves, my darling kumquats (or those kumquats who still remain). I've taken this on as a humanitarian project and you will be informed, even if it's against your will. Heh. I'm relying on the train-wreck factor to keep my readership alive.
I will try to keep the TMI assault to a minimum, so if you have any burning questions/hey-me-too's/ew-you're-gross's, feel free to e-mail me. But really, I think a lot of folks experience the same problems I have, it's just not exactly a comfortable topic of conversation. I was even embarrassed to talk to my doctor about it.
I haven't mentioned it, really, on any of my websites/blogs, but I've had a lifetime issue similar to what Heather of Dooce has described so ably and colorfully. I've tried everything - from diet to exercise to OTC remedies to doctors' intervention to prescription medication - to absolutely no avail. Which is why I'm actually excited about this detox program, and the results that I've seen so very early on. There is reason to celebrate the doodie when one is used to only going once every two weeks. Seriously. It's a problem. I'm tempted to write Heather and let her know that I think I've found something that will finally help her. I hope she'll believe me, after all the crackpot advice she's been given from "helpful" readers.
I've been sitting here trying to think of a delicate way to convey the information I wish to get across to you, my faithful (and icked out) readers. I can't - there is no delicacy in this. So I'm just going to plunge (hah!!) ahead, here. Oh dear God, I've sunk to potty humor. Hey, if you can't keep your sense of humor about the base side of life as a human... well, I guess you'll find comfort in the loving membership of the Howard Hughes Institute for the Hygenically Insane.
Day three of my adventure has seen me visiting the bathroom. A lot. With results appearing in liquid form. My strong advice is that, for the first couple of weeks of this program, you really shouldn't go on any roadtrips or lift anything heavy. Don't test my word on this one, just heed my wisdom.
There has been absolutely no discomfort - no cramps or bloating or any of those symptoms you would typically associate with "the trots", as my Grandmother used to call it... because you're always trotting to the bathroom. Yep, that's my Grandma. Always the comedian. I'm just feeling... lighter (well, duh). More... flexible? Something like that.
Now. Here's where it gets weird. And trust me, folks, Calvin is being subjected to WAY more than you guys are. So while you're regarding me with disgust, spare a sympathetic thought in Calvin's direction. The poor guy.
So this morning? Before work? I had to do my thing in the water closet. I was prompted to look (don't ask), which is something I NEVER do (note the italics, bold, and capitalization - all signs that I'm very serious). I'm more of a flush-and-bolt kind of a girl. But this morning, I looked.
And lo, there was gum. I will repeat that, my gentle snowflakes. Gum. As in, a piece that I swallowed, once. Except, I can't remember the last time I actually swallowed a piece of gum. So when "they" say that gum can't be digested? I guess "they" were right.
I'm waiting for the penny I swallowed when I was five to show up any time now.
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