“Be careful of reading health books.
You may die of a misprint.”
 - Mark Twain

I am very frustrated today.

As I’ve hinted to bluntly in the past week or so, I’m a little busy.  Work is no exception; our workload has hit a large increase over the last month.  That’s fantastic.  I really do enjoy what we’re doing. 

I leave work and haul ass to go home and feed the dogs, then Bryan meets me and we run straight to rehearsal.  We leave rehearsal, come home, sit on the couch for maybe an hour, then go to bed.  So I don’t have time to be sick.

Last night, because karma rewarded us with a blessedly short tech-night, we got home earlier than usual.  I went on a domestic binge and decided to bake sugar cookies.. a craving I had been having for almost two weeks. (Yes, I’ll clarify.  I did not make cookies from scratch.  I broke them apart, though, and did neatly arrange them on a cookie sheet.)  They smelled wonderful, and filled the house with that smell that we never, ever get.. you know, the smell of people living there.  The smell of people who are at home people.  Not ninety-mile-a-minute-theatre-people.

They tasted good, too.  I had three of them.  Sue me.

I tempted karma too much.  I knew better than to have three cookies; it would disseminate my waistline and my bowels.  I knew that.  And I did it anyway.

I spent much of the night around a toilet bowl, praying for death.  I counted my blessings that I have a porcelain, claw-foot tub that stays cool and slopes upward so I could sleep in it.  I feel stomach muscles I didn’t know I had before, and my legs are jello.  I’m empty.

And I am at work. 

I had a list of things to do today, most of which were manual labor in preparation for a large-scale employee move I’ve coordinated.  I can’t do those things today.  I just don’t have the energy.  Or, to be quite frank, the bowel control.

You know you love it.  You come here, waiting to hear about my bowel disorders.  YOU KNOW IT.

In other news, there was some random gentleman in my backyard this morning.  I, of course, was completely naked when I went to see what had set Charlie off, and there he was.  This man.  Probably counting his blessings that this rabid dog had not eaten him, and then immediately wondering what he had done to incur the bad karma that is a nude redhead after a night of severe IBS.  In any event, he left shortly thereafter.

You’re up-to-date.  Hoo-rah.