The shizz

7:25 PM: Ahhhh, life! Is there anything better than listening to your two children fussing upstairs while you go downstairs to purposely give yourself diarrhea?

7:30 PM: I carefully measure out 8 ounces of Golytely and toss it back like so much cheap beer. Let's get this party started. Only 112 ounces to go!

7:31 PM: Golytely tastes like salted puke. The lemon flavoring packet was filled with lies and false promises. I swish my mouth out with soda between glasses and wait ten minutes for the next dose.

8:15 PM: This isn't so bad! Yes, the medicine is disgusting, but so far I only feel mild discomfort and a bit of stomach gurgling. Let's settle in and watch some classic Buffy.

8:30 PM: As I down my seventh dose, my mother-in-law -- mercifully and gloriously in town to help out with the children -- cuts herself a slice of delicious shepherd's cheese and makes audible sounds of pleasure while munching it. Upon remembering my plight, she immediately feels badly and claims that her "mmmmm" had in actuality been a "Hmm!" of surprise as a bit of cheese fell to the floor. I inform her that she has just assured herself a mention on the blog for the first time in its storied six-year history.

8:45 PM: Wow. Still nothing coming out the other e--

8:46 PM: Oh my.

8:50 PM: I appreciate that I have invested in high-quality moisturizing handsoap and soft toilet paper.

9:15 PM: It is difficult to enjoy an episode of Buffy when it is broken up into 3-minute portions.

9:25 PM: There is no way in hell I am finishing that bottle. There is, like, an OCEAN of it left. I long for actual salted puke. Actual salted puke would be an improvement on this facsimile.

9:45 PM: I wish I had thought to put better magazines in the bathroom for the occasion. An old Bust, the husband's National Geographic, and a Hanna Andersson catalog. These are not enough to take my mind off the fear that I am turning our septic system into a toxic wasteland.

9:47 PM: This is like peeing out of the other side.

10:10 PM: Ok, one more glass.

10:20 PM: A quandary: there are at least 3 more glasses' worth in the bottle, but if I ingest one more drop the angels will throw down their halos and cry.

10:21 PM: I take one more for the team. The team, of course, being me, my remaining ovary, and Buffy.

10: 22 PM: FIN. And now, to starve myself until surgery for no logical reason other than my doctor requires it of all her patients, regardless of the procedure. Because why provide kind, gentle, and individualized care when you can just make everyone shit their brains out and then deny them food for 24 hours?

See you all in a few, hopefully with tiny scars, minimal discomfort, and a serious cheeseburger in my hand.