January 27th, 2008 | 29 Comments »

I was reading this post (freaking hilarious!) about colon hydrotherapy, which brought back memories of my own sessions. I was preparing for a group initiation into the energies of the Archangel Michael, and I wanted my body to be the clearest vessel possible.

What basically happens in this series of procedures is that the therapist slides a well lubed tube thingie into your backside. It has a device to connect two tubes on the outside, one for water going in to flush the system, the other for expelled matter.

Here’s the thing. I firmly believe that your backside is designed for egress, not ingress. In other words, nothing should be going in. I knew that these procedures would give me health benefits, but had a hard time getting past the method. So I paid in advance for the first four appointments. If I hadn’t paid up front for work down back, I probably wouldn’t have showed. I noticed results after that, so I showed up regularly.

The therapist was very shy, and spiritual. I expected she had heard all the jokes about what a crappy job she had, but I was determined to brighten her life with new ones. Because really? That’s just the kind of lovely person I am, making a shy woman squirm while I tell poop and fart jokes. No, you can’t reward me. I took down the donate button. Well, you could vote for me, or subscribe to my feed. I’m reliving awkward moments here, people. I can’t hear your applause, but I can see the numbers.

I used deep breathing techniques to allow the water maximum room to flush, and to alleviate the cramping that results from toxins being stirred up prior to expulsion. The toxins made me feel nauseous, but not throw up nausea, it was more in my bowel. I felt it a little with each flush. What I find funny is that my Grammie always called the indoor toilet the flush. Because she vividly remembers the other kind that did not flush.

What fascinated me most besides the bits of corn, turds, and recognizable food sloshing by in the egress tube, were the enormous air bubbles coming out the tube into the sealed container (so it wouldn’t offend your olfactory sensibilities). These things reminded me of the bubbles you get by dipping a broom handle with an attached loop into a bucket of detergent. They were That.Large. I had visions of little kids dancing in meadows, making bubbles of my farts.

I wanted to know how she could possibly deprive my family of such treasures. After all, Dances with Shrapnel had christened me Methane Mom. I had a lot to live up to. She made a choking sound, which passed for laughter masked by embarrassment. There was no getting this woman to laugh.

She was, however, very interested in the Archangel Michael group activation I was holding, and attended. She also came regularly to my group meditations/pot luck gatherings.

I often wondered if she could see those enormous fart bubbles in her mind’s eye when I was leading a meditation.

I never got a real belly laugh out of her. Doesn’t she know that poop is funny?

January 18th, 2008 | 19 Comments »

My good blogging buddy, Cookiebitch is being interviewed today at 2:09pm Eastern Time on Tropic Wave Radio on the Susan Ramon Show.
She’s known as The Crazy Radio Chick, and I am so looking forward to this.

You can tune in via the website, and you can call in and ask your own questions.

Toll Free US/CANADA: (888) 762-8153 ext. 942

I can’t wait to ask my own special questions, and hear her answers!

While you’re waiting, how about voting for me in the blogger’s choice awards?

UPDATE:

The phone-in number didn’t work for me, must be a Canuck thing, but someone in the chat room gave me the local number. I called in with questions, and put Ass Burger Boy on the phone. Now he has started his own blog. I guess he thinks he’s famous now that he’s been a caller on a radio show, heh, heh.

Cookiebitch was great! And Lotus of Sarcastic Mom
was in the chat room making us laugh too.

File this under TMI, but I laughed so hard that I sharted*. I’m blaming the antibiotics I started on to treat my killer sinus infection. No one should make you laugh that hard. I also tripped over the phone cord while checking the degree of my shartedness in the mirror. And that marked the end of the phone conversation.

*shart: a fart that goes terribly, terribly, wrong.

December 27th, 2007 | 13 Comments »

One of the characteristics of autistic behaviours is obsessions. Come to think of it, I just might be autistic myself. But this isn’t about me. Hah!

Ass Burger Boy was obsessed with toilets ever since toilet training began. I think I may have helped to fuel this obsession, since I was pretty eager not to clean up poop.

This obsession impacted my older sister, who had taken ABB to Sears and was thoroughly mortified when he demonstrated his big boy skills in the display toilet. I don’t think she praised him for it. Encouragement is critical during toilet training. It may have set him back a bit.

By sheer accident, I stumbled onto the “What’s in it for me?” method of motivating ABB. I swear I knew the instant he was toilet trained for real. I could see in his eyes the connection as he made it to being a big boy, toilet training, and another fascination of his, which was beards. Since every time he used the potty, I told him he was getting to be a bigger boy, it really clicked with him when I said that when he was bigger, he could grow a beard of his own, much preferable to feeling up the beards of random strangers. I swear I used all the creativity I could muster to motivate that chile.

During this very long period of time,we lived in a place with air in the pipes, and the toilet made a horrifying noise, which I tried to explain by telling him that the toilet needed to clear its throat. Yes, in hindsight, this was entirely stupid of me, but hey, the kid was terrified. Frankly, so was I. Terrified he would never come near a toilet again. I saw myself changing poopy diapers up to the time I might need mine changed. The noise it made sounded like a screechy ERRRRRR, so we made friends with it, and called the toilet Errr.

This led to a great curiosity about other people’s toilets. He wanted to find out if anyone else had a toilet with personality that he could befriend.

Every time we went to a place he hadn’t been to before, he would ask the inhabitants right away “What colour is your toilet?” followed by “Can I see it?” These are the questions he came up with after I had to hurriedly explain to him that only our toilet was called Errr, because of course, he asked to see their Errr, and they had no idea what the Errr he meant.

A few years after he was toilet trained, he asked less often to see people’s toilets, and he quit entirely asking them what colour their toilet was. I didn’t fully understand the perseverance of his obsessions, but was happy to let it go.

A few weeks ago, I asked him if when he goes to a new place, he makes it a point to use the bathroom.

Yes, yes, he does. He has just gotten more subtle with his obsessions as he has matured. And now, I have more mildly amusing stories, and less explanations to provide.