despite this author's propensity to proudly display half-naked photos of said author's scars, injuries and various medical constraints; the following will contain graphic references to poop and said author's relationship to it. this may be offensive to some.
reader discretion is advised.
december 17th, 2010. a day that will live in infamy.
it was the last time i did the toilet "twirl and peek" and saw anything vaguely familiar.
for 4 months thereafter, it was a never ending cramp, sprint and release program. as my kidney failed, my bowels kicked into overdrive by default; adding to the spreadsheet of unwelcomed side effects. never quite hitting double digits, but frequenting that ceramic bowl more often than octomom pops out babies.
for over 16 years, my fantasy project has been the development of a local access tv show, with an ol' canadian bud, (eh?) : "poop talk with marcia and hen". in the tradition of another canuck, mike myers' "wayne's world", we believe a basement coven of intestinal confessions could be the biggest thing since designer cupcakes.
we are emphatic in this theory. poop is the greatest of all fetishes. it resonates deeper than the latex, whip- wielding dominatrixes. it reaches further than the louboutin-sniffing metros and kicks harder than deranged, smut film addicts.
[and c'mon. when is poop NOT funny?]
when does an indiscreet, taboo toot not instigate a stiffled giggle?
and when do those myriad, rainbowed gifts that grace our ceramic thrones not occasionally release a gasp of amusement?
and publicly, when does that worried brow, stiffly executed trot, and inward rear tuck not illicit hysteria as we desperately scan for that most welcomed of signs..."restroom"?
[and then there's the corn]
but, in my household, this has been a pilgrimage. kevin never fully subscribed to the idea that women only glow, are inherently hairless, they toot/never fart and certainly never poop. (and if they do, it doesn't stink); but he does lean upon that fence. and the dung debate and discussion has never even made it past the bathroom door...but that's just fine with this post-modern feminist. at heart, i am a hairy, unibrowed, bohemian european, who embraces it in equal measure with the glamor of lustrous hair, luminous makeup and tailored clothing that infuse me with the "power of b"...
[another marcia-ism. "the power of "b". think about it]
the beauty, strength and leverage of the va-jay-jay.
so saturday morning, after my "twirl and peek", my sharp intake of breath rivaled the ferocious panting of mel gibson's meltdown. there she lay. normalcy resurrected.
[all things divine are naturally feminine]
hey, i'm all for pleasing my man, but this fully-formed, cylindrical beauty triggered an overwhelming urge to climb the peaks of tibet and yell with tingling limbs out stretched...
"YOU ARE ONE BEAUTIFUL SHIT!"
post-surgery syndrome has it's challenges. and one of them is this:
empty yourself of poop.
a wee poop.
very strange poops.
and finally, the normal poop.
we still seesaw up and down on a daily basis, by turns nauseatingly sweet and painfully bumpy. eyes locked, clasping the figurative handles, we negotiate this daily ride.
k: "how are you feeling?"
h: "ok. how are you feeling?"
k: "crappy. did you poop?"
h: "kind of. did you poop?"
k: "nope...i don't feel good."
h: "i'm sorry. i don't feel so good, either."
k: "i'm sorry. i love you."
h: "i love you more."
but, new ground has been broken this month. poop talk is now this abode's most comfortable conversation. and as buds of new life sluggishly poke their way up through the thaw, guess what's been fertilizing it all....
and like fat bastard (myers) so eloquently declared, "everyone likes the smell of their own brand"...