So, the stress of this week (yes, it’s only Tuesday) has caught up with me. Kenny and I were loading the dishwasher (yes, team work – go fig) and I bent over to put some forks in . . . and . . . LOW and behold . . . out slips some runs, without warning or churning or fart.
Now, had I been paying attention to Lilly, I would have known this was going to happen. After dinner, she climbed up onto me, paws on my chest and laid her full body weight on me. Then, when Kenny got up to go to the bathroom, she barked and growled at him.
So . . . that brings us back to the dishes. Out slips some poo, and upstairs I scamper, cheeks clenched in the only true exercise my ass gets. I got a couple short chapters read (I *did* manage to grab my book from my tote bag before heading for zee hillz) while black diarrhea sprayed out of my butt.
J and I managed to coin a delightful phrase this evening at work. All those of us with rectal issues were having them in full-force today . . . fighting for the privacy of the staff bathroom and gagging on the stench of each others’ poos. Yes, I yelled at one of my co-workers to get out of the bathroom as she repeatedly courtesy flushed for herself. When J got to work, she told me that she had been having the poos all day, and there was nothing left to poo, but her guts were still convulsing.
“Dry Anal Heaves.”
Although, upon further reflection (reflatulation?), “Anal Dry Heaves” rolls off of the tongue and out of the butt far better.
“Anal Dry Heaves.”
That’s where I’m at now.