Thursday, May 17, 2012

Here's The Poop

Ever want to believe something, but you knew deep down it couldn't be?  A writing job fell out of the sky into my lap last week and I wanted to believe.  I applied and was asked to write a test article on irritable bowel syndrome using three key phrases highlighted in red.  Wasn't really taking it too seriously as you'll see below.  I got hired!  Found out the next day the whole deal was bogus.  If you find this article on the web, you'll know I was the author.

Accused of being full of it figuratively is one thing, but literally having ibs-c symptoms is no laughing matter.  Irritable bowel syndrome, left untreated, can lead to death.  Symptoms include stomach cramps, bloating and gas due to constipation, irritability, fatigue, headaches and even depression.  The human body is not meant to store its waste and when one has ibs with constipation symptoms, the result is lack of, infrequent or incomplete discharge. 

The cause of this disorder is unknown.  There are theories there may be an unidentified infection in the digestive track.  Other studies point to hormonal changes as ibs symptoms women are more commonly diagnosed.  It increases bitchiness and decreases sexual desire in women.  Of course, unscientific research indicates men are susceptible to this disorder, especially those who partake in the consumption of liquor.    

Irritable bowel syndrome is a multi-billion dollar industry annually.  One treatment is diet control, limiting lactose and fructose, while increasing fiber intake.  This helps some with metabolism difficulties, but not all.  Another treatment of ibs-c symptoms is medication including laxatives, stool softeners, anti-depressants and magnesium aluminum silicates.  Again, loosening of excrement in the intestines relieves some who suffer.  It fails others who begin to spend all their focus and energy on successfully expelling.  When they fail, they become even more obsessed with their problem, resulting in depression.  Big pharma has magic pills for that, as do mental health professionals with psychotherapy.  It does not treat the unknown cause of the illness, just another symptom of it.  Other treatments include exercise, acupuncture and naturopathy in attempts to reduce stress and improve sleep.  

It is estimated twenty percent of the America population suffer from ibs with constipation symptoms, many undiagnosed.  We all have difficulty sometimes with indigestion and  constipation.  It often appears prior to reaching thirty-five years of age and can control one’s life, even making them incapable of employment.  It is no fun and such a relief to discharge our excrement.

The colon plays a large part in successful bowel movements.  It is approximately five feet long, connecting the small intestine to the rectum and anus. It is recommended that old farts at fifty years old begin having regular colonoscopies.  So much for just a finger up your anus to check prostrate health for men.  It is an invasive procedure and they take pictures while you are sedated.  It should be called endoscopy.       

So the next time it hits the fan, you choose to shoot it, run your diarrhea mouth off, take one or accuse someone of being full of it, have some compassion for those who actually suffer from this debilitating disability.  It is chronic and uncomfortable and verbal comments only contribute to the need for further therapy and medications for those who suffer from it.  Making fun of the constipated is simply crude, rude and unacceptable behavior.  It’s about time people grew up and accepted irritable bowel syndrome as a serious condition and felt comfortable discussing it.  Do the world a favor and show some compassion for the people who can’t  give one.          

  

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Birthdays



I just collected another one and am beginning to feel like a greedy hoarder.  Started off innocently enough with the cake face in my highchair, as my Mom captured that occasion in black and white.  I progressed, with pail in hand, grabbing Easter eggs on my fourth.  If I survive another seven years, I can revert to my old ways and do that it again.
Birthdays seem to make one look forward and back.  Bought my first car on my eighteenth, a Mini-Cooper in 1971.  Transferred the title that day and when I came out of the licensing office, it wouldn’t start.  I loved that car, but it didn’t love me.  The next year, my parents bought me a gold watch, flexible band and all.  Didn’t take much time after that to get in trouble.
Got married after collecting twenty-three of them, had thirty when my mom was alive and one more before I became a dad.  My forty-eighth was big.  As the house manager for a benefit concert, the performer sang an impromptu song about me to 1,200 in the audience.  On my fiftieth, my dad was a surprise dinner guest.  Didn’t know it at the time, but we only had two more together.
Now my birthday is sandwiched between National Weed Day and Earth Day.  I fit in there somewhere and share the date with John Muir, Queen Elizabeth and my attention whore, little brother around here, the Space Needle.  Learned over the years world’s fair is a misnomer, but even so, I was flooded with love via phone calls, packages and internet messages from near and farther away than ever before. 
Don’t know how many more birthdays I’ll collect, but I was acutely aware and appreciative this time around the sun.  So, in seven years, I’ll pick up the pail and hunt for more Easter eggs.  And then eleven years after that, I’ll finally hang up my bucket of birthdays as my grandchildren, who haven’t been born yet, will take pictures on whatever the newest gadget is of me bibbed in a wheelchair getting cake faced.  Flying my own flag, I collected years like no other.  Simple, complicated and priceless.
                

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Writer Dos & Don’ts


            Writers should never do yard work.  It gives them too much time to think things like mowing the lawn must be traumatic for the bugs that live in it.  Their forest is being destroyed.  And as the rotary blades behead the dandelions, they must be stressed that their sun has been murdered.  Mole hills must be like volcanoes and earthquakes combined.
Writers shouldn’t do laundry either.  They throw whatever colors together and let them soak and spin.  When it’s time to fold things up, they seldom do it neatly and always leave the lint filter clogged with loose strings. 
Writers should never do housework.  They are good at creating a mess, but seldom clean everything up.  Sure, they dust here and there, but come on.  They never leave things spotless.  Although a writer may be a gourmet cook, never ask them to do the dishes for the same reason.
Writers should never be given ultimatums, deadlines or set bedtime hours.  Their creative time should be treated as sacred.  Never interrupt one when they are in the flow as this can be dangerous for all involved.
  All of the don’ts mentioned above are activities that tend to be slow in getting done anyway because they stop to take notes on the front porch after seeking bugs in the grass, watching the washing machine rattle in spin cycle, inspecting the parts of the vacuum closely or playing with the soap suds in the sink.  
               Writers should always have access to little people.  It is through young eyes that the wonderment of life is intended to be viewed.
Writers should always have something to drink handy.  Whether it water, juice, coffee, tea, beer, wine or hard liquor, they need something to prevent their words from becoming dry.
Writers should always be allowed to express their ideas and thoughts freely without fear of critics or authority.  It is only through this pure process can one’s truth be told.                      
Writers should always have some knowledge of their topic.  Because of that, I looked up the controversy of apostrophes or not in the title of this post.  The grammar police tell me “dos and don’ts” are plurals not possessives, thus need no extra apostrophes.  I am going with that.
Writers should be loved at all times for they are the acute observers of the human condition disseminating their wisdom through words.  They paint mental pictures, sculpt scenarios while juggling a collage of issues singing out their imagination, planting seeds for thought.  Be sure your writer always has an ample supply of pens and paper.  They get snarly otherwise.
Of course, these dos and don’t are just a partial list, but someone had to start compiling this vital information.  Just another example of how important writers are in this world.  You are welcome in advance. 

Friday, April 13, 2012

My Absence

Hello all, I've been gone for awhile.  Life has been wild, challenges galore, added up to one great big compost pile.  You probably thought I ran out of words or things to say, but I've been busy writing away.  I'm writing a book and I'm half done.  It's a lot of work and a whole lot of fun.  Will it get published?  I don't know, got nothing to sell if it's not whole.

Other stuff going on too.  Sickness came to my house and flung open the door.  It's ugly, it's sad, but to even the score, I had to learn to smile even more.  Kids left home, now an empty nest.  They still come around, they are the best.  Car got stolen ten days ago.  She came home yesterday.  Expensive joy ride for those bozos and I got to pay.  Been too busy to cut my hair, never before gone a year.  My beard aint appreciated much either around here, but I don't much care.  Been a friend coach, teaching what I can share.  Student is learning I am a bear.

So that's the latest from dandelion farm, hope my absence didn't caused you alarm.  As you can see, I haven't lost my charm.    

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Different


I recall at a vey young age being told I was special, unique and I should celebrate that.  It was pretty cool.  Then we got herded up and sent to schools with structure and rules and expectations trying to make us all the same by treating us that way.  Wear these clothes, learn this stuff and act this way.  Don’t be too weird in your uniqueness or we will have to control you in other ways, like magic pills to dull your imagination and tame your spirit.  And the sad thing is most of us buy into it.  When we grow up, it’s only okay for each snowflake to be different, but not people.  We all live in boxes, are fed the same crap by the powerful, told when to sleep, how to behave and what to look like.  Different is frowned upon.  For the most part, I played their game.  I cut my hair and painted my picket fence while I was making others richer and being led to believe this was my “happy”. 

I had buried me in their clone-ness.  But, their plan was not my dream.  I am different and darn proud of it.  When I walked away, I went through a long mourning period and then began to realize a rebirth.  I am still that special and unique kid.  I am different and it bothers others that I celebrate my uniqueness.  They aren’t me and I refuse to give the boundaries that are rightfully mine.  They have no right to shove their expectations on me.  I will groom as I please, I will love who and how I please and harm no one.  Hey, Easter people, isn’t that what Jesus did?  Our political leaders wear their clown costumes and are war mongers while they shout “peace and freedom” as the get obscenely rich.  Put me in the martyr column with John Lennon. 

Everything will remain the same until enough people wake up to the reality and question, even challenge the status quo.  I have been rich and I have been poor, it’s my turn to be happy.  Now that my friend, is different. 

Thursday, January 5, 2012

The Positive Kind

Another spin around the sun, a new year has begun.  Reflection and introspection seem to permeate as we recycle calendars.  Resolutions made and then broken.  A new concept was introduced to me in 2011 as an alternative, a simple word for the year ahead.  I liked the idea, but had no intention to choose one for myself.  I let it go, but I free write every morning to purge my skull so I can start fresh for the new day.  All of a  sudden a word chose me.  Funny how the subconscious takes over. 
You must plant a seed for it to grow.  Mine were planted unknowingly when I joined an online book blog in September.  The synchronicity of how I was invited is stranger than fiction, but the Universe meant for me to be there.  We studied a book on how to discover or recover one’s creative self.  I love to write and want to get better at it.  Seven women and me dissected a chapter a week.  I was transforming and the encouragement, kindness and open honesty, in what we call the tribe, became a safe haven to even share my words.  I have been remiss in posting here because I am engrossed in writing a novel. 
My tribe is beginning the second book of the series next week and I am anxious to study and find additional guidance with them again.   Yes, the seeds were planted and I am looking forward to sprouting this year.  My focus and word for 2012 is change, the positive kind.   

Friday, December 23, 2011

Old Folks Home

Dad fell off the ladder
Hanging the lights
Now in a body cast
It’s quite a sight
Mom sprained her ankle
Dragging the tree in the door
And they wonder why
No one will hire them anymore

Us kids are doing great
Our careers blossom
One moved away
Other’s getting married
To be young and vibrant
Is pretty awesome
So around here that’s the deal
Dad can’t write till he is healed

Sits in his chair
A grizzled grump
Mom has an ankle
With a big old lump
Don’t know who
Half of you are
And we really don’t care
Dad told us to send this
From his wheelchair