Dried Apricots Saved My Ass

Happy woman jumping in golden wheat

Joan rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week…

“If you want to visit the loo for a number two, eat dried apricots.” – Joan

These simple—yet wise, and oh so powerful—words of wisdom were passed down to me by an elderly friend of the family. She, too, had suffered the traumatic (and sometimes dire) effects of chronic constipation.

She’d known what it felt like to be anal retentive, literally. And she had believed herself to be a grumpy person by nature. But really . . . it was just poo. That uptight sourpuss was actually a peaceful ray of sunshine, stifled by the storm clouds of her predicament. And when Joan realized the power of dried apricots, she rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week.

Such a jolly old gal, she is.

Joan is very candid and open, as well. So I chatted with her about my own sufferings in the “shit department” of life. She wasn’t at all surprised when I shared with her the details of a 12 day, fecal-free, bender (that happened back in ’02). The kids had simply refused to be dropped off at the pool! Instead, they gathered together, to form one giant kid—a kid that eventually, through sweat and tears made its debut with a glute-splashing cannonball of mammoth proportions. This ordeal was like a heads up for me (and not in a turtle head kinda way). Oh no! I had been given a sneak peek into what it would actually feel like to give birth . . .

Years later, in the hours leading up to the delivery of my first baby, I drew strength from my past experiences. If I could survive the mammoth poo of ’02, I could do this. And I did!

I’m happy to report that the days of stubborn turds are history now. No longer do I writhe in pain, or pass on seconds because I barely had room for firsts. No way! My digestion knows new joys. And I owe thanks for this, and for the many carefree smiles, to Joan and her dried apricot advice.

 

*Note* – Some of this is utter BS and some of it is based on truth. It has been written for the purpose of “shits and giggles.”

 

This post originally appeared on the fabulous In The Powder Room.

Hey, you! What’s Your Style?

Tattooed woman sitting on toilet seat with her panties down

“The Performer”- A One Woman Shit-Show

 

I do it. You do it. Everybody does it. We all poop! Now that the obvious has been stated, let’s delve a little deeper and ponder just how we poop. That’s right, folks! It’s time to get introspective and reflective as we determine our own personal pooping style(s)! You’re bound to recognize yourself (and your loved ones) in one or more of the following approaches to deuce dropping and, not only that, you’ll learn what your style says about you and how you live your life!

1. Routine Dumper

Every day, like clockwork, your ass has an appointment for its ride on the porcelain bus. You like to be in control of things and your bowel’s routine is reflective of your personality. Taking a dump at the same time each day makes you feel like you’ve got your shit together, so to speak.  So much so, that if your poop-routine is somehow foiled, you feel quite unsettled. And, you vow to get your bowels (and your life) back on track.

2. The Announcer

You feel compelled to inform those who live with you (and sometimes even guests) of your intentions to go and do your business. You shout: “I’m going for a poo!” as you head off to the loo. You do it habitually and you’re not even sure why you do it. Perhaps you want to ensure your privacy or maybe you just like to keep everyone in the know. The reason is uncertain but you do it and you will continue to announce it. Every. Single. Time.

3. The Reporter

Once you’ve returned from dropping the kids off at the pool, you give a quick update on how it went. Continue reading

My Husband Hates My Lover….

Free Happy Woman Enjoying Nature. Beauty Girl Outdoor. Freedom c

Like a temperate pool’s caress…

I’ve got a new lover in my life.

She’s a dress. But, not just any old dress. Long and flowing, she wraps herself around me, gently; like a temperate pool’s caress on the booty of a skinny dipper.

Whenever I wear her, I feel fresh and full of life. Her effects, at times, transcend me to places of an almost spiritual nature. I honestly don’t think anything could be more feminine and uplifting than she.

Heavenly. She is so damn heavenly. And I feel grateful to have discovered her on a lonely sales rack last month. Continue reading

How I Met My Husband…

John and I

 

Did I ever tell you about how John and I met?  It happened late one Saturday night, in January 2003 at a bar in Hong Kong. We met. We laughed. And, yes, we made-out like crazy teenagers. When the sun came up, our rendezvous ended, and we went our separate ways with a plan to meet the following weekend. Same place. Same time.  And so we did. And the story of “us” officially began.

Now, did I ever tell you about the events leading up to our meeting?  The ones that make me question whether or not destiny, herself, may have played a small hand in our union?

Well, I wrote a short story about it and it can be found in this fab new book!  Once Upon an Expat shares an ecclectic collection of funny and heart-tugging stories told by women writers from around the globe.  And I am so excited to have my story, A Man From Another Land, within its pages.

 

It’s available on Amazon and all author royalties will be donated to Books Abroad, helping promote literacy and education in developing countries.

 

Once Upon Promo

Farewell Ironing Pile, Hello Joy

Screaming Housewife With Steam Iron

They say it takes two to tango and I agree.

I’ve been there.

I’ve done the dance.

I’ve ridden the rollercoaster.

Our relationship brought out the worst in me.

We were not compatible.

We did not click.

In fact, our union was doomed from the start. But, everyone else was dancing the same tango and they weren’t complaining. Piles of ironing to do each week was simply part of the UK way of life.

And somehow, even though I was Canadian, my British husband got caught up in the idea of you and I trying to make it work.

I mean, I was the one at home while he was out in the workforce so… you fell into the category of “shit I needed to take care of.”  But, I kinda resented you, all of you, as you gathered in a pile, waiting for my attention each week.

After a ten year–somewhat surreal–experience; and a move from the UK to Canada, I finally put my foot down!

I said: “Fuck this! T-shirts and jeans do not need to be ironed! I AM CANADIAN (proud and true) and this goes against my roots; my heritage, if you will. We do not iron this stuff, in my homeland!”

I then turned to my husband’s dress shirts, with unbreakable will, and said: “You, my pesky friends, are going to the Dry Cleaners!”

Sure, in the UK, people iron everything: jeans, underwear, pillow cases, and towels but we live in Canada now.  And here, we don’t do that. That’s what our big, spacious dryers are for. They do the ironing for us.

So now, we all wear ever-so-slightly wrinkled attire and I take my husband’s dress shirts to the cleaners. I mean, it’s only $1.87 per shirt to have them cleaned and ironed. And every time I drop the shirts off, I leave with a little extra bounce in my step and a sense of gratefulness in my heart.

No more piles, no more steam, no more annoying comments like: “you’ve missed an entire strip of fabric.”

Nope. No more bullshit.

I am proud to report that our iron is gathering dust these days. (As it should be). And we have settled into our Canadian way of life, because a few wrinkles never hurt anyone but I’m sure a housewife with a hot iron could…

 

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover

 

 

 

 

If You Give a Mom a Martini…

bigstock-Woman-hands-with-glasses-of-ma-77698307.jpg

If you give a mom a martini,

And a weekend with her friends

She’ll talk and laugh and laugh some more

Live it up, until the end!

Because a mom who’s with her girlfriends

Is a happy mom indeed.

She can just be who she is,

Let her inner-self be freed!

If you give a mom a martini

Fireside, by the lake

That mom will be so thankful

For the comfort and a break.

And if that mom does eat,

Tasty food made just for her,

A smile will form upon her face

Like a kitty cat’s gracious prrrrrrrr.

And if that weekend ends

With, say, a mom who’s stuck in traffic,

It frets her not, for she is calm

And feeling so fantastic.

And even if once home,

 “re-entry” is a bitch

She’ll  still be chillin’ inside

For in memories, she is rich

So give a mom a martini.

And a weekend away

Just give her a martini, dammit!

She, too, deserves to play.

This poem has been inspired by Moms’ Martini Getaway at Bonnie View Inn.