It’s funny. Well, it’s not so much funny as in “ha ha” funny. Then again, it’s not really funny in a “weird” sort of funny way. I guess it’s more of an “awkward” funny, like “wow-that-mime-is-restringing-a-tennis-racquet-while-singing-“kookaburra-sits-in-the-old-oak-tree” kinda funny. No, that analogy totally leaves out the disturbing angle. I guess it’s more of a “small-shackled-child-in-mime-makeup-restringing-a-tennis-racquet-while-singing” type of funny.
Where the hell was I?
Ah yes, it’s funny. Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) seems to be divided into A.C. (after cancer) and B.D. (before diagnosis). For some reason, there’s just this innate need to note each new “first time” in the era of A.C. – my first period, my first glass of wine, my first haircut…and now, nine months later, my first bout of diarrhea. Oh, rejoice! Is there a Hallmark card for this occasion?
(I know, Mom. This is even worse than Sticky Situation. I look forward to your phone call so we can discuss exactly why I do this and which of you passed this trait down to me. I will totally go to my room and think about what I’ve done…so long as it’s the bathroom we’re talking about.)
I haven’t eaten anything bizarro so I can only chalk this up to a PMS thing. For those of you mapping these things on your calendars, it has been exactly three weeks since the last bout o’ bloodiness. Yes, that once a month thing seems to be a thing of the past. Lucky St. Rocco gets to deal with this pleasantness and ensuing monster bitchiness every three weeks.
So if someone handed me a rusty spoon and said I could carve out only one of my offending organs, which would it be? I think my colon is winning at the moment, but I’m not really sure which one is doing the most damage. There’s nothing worse than an issue that can’t be mitigated with a glass of wine.
Fortunately I picked this week to switch to a new, more environmentally friendly toilet paper. Now that I’m halfway through my second roll (today), I think I’ve determined which papers were recycled to produce this toilet paper – industrial sand paper and corrugated cardboard. I assure you my friends; there are parts of your body that should never, ever be exfoliated.
So here I sit, house bound yet again. I would trade my autographed copy of Dreams of My Father for a nice hot soak in a deep, bubbling bath tub. I hear your unasked question, Internet. “Do you really not have a bath tub, El?” I have one. It’s true. I may (or may not) have a tendency to exaggerate. But the tub I have is so shallow I can’t even submerge my snatch, not to mention my entire raw rump. The shower will have to suffice.
I guess there are worse things than being trapped at home on a rainy, dreary day. It’s not like I was going to read a book in the park or squeeze in a few sets of tennis. In fact, this is an absolutely perfect day to get my Twilight on – but I really don’t want Edward to see me like this. Even I have my standards.
Maybe I’ll see if I can find some Imodium amongst all the chemo drugs I have lying around. Say, did I ever tell you about the time Rocco convinced our friend Tracey that Imodium was the best pill to take for a hangover? No?! That’s a doozy. Sadly that tale must wait. I have to go rule my kingdom from my own private throne.