Sundays With Sir Poops-A-Lot and Hair Ball: Tummy Ache

Friday was the worse day of my life. I never knew miserable until that day. My stomach made the funniest sounds like a wild beast growling and snarling on the inside. My poor tummy felt as if someone gnawed on it all day long. Nothing made it stop.

I thought sitting on mummsy’s lap would make it better so I begged and begged for it, but it didn’t help. She smoothed my fur back and forth but it wouldn’t go away.

I ran down stairs and begged for my favorite chew, thinking it would help but it didn’t.

My pansy-brother, Sir Poops-A-Lot, suggested sunning. He even tried to soothe me but that didn’t work either.

I tried sitting on the stairs to get rid of it. Nope nothing. Nothing worked!

I thought for sure the monsters on the inside were going to eat me from the inside out. It was terrible. Just terrible. Death loomed at my door that day. The Grim Reaper was after me for sure.

When mummsy took me outside, pansy suggested I eat grass. Mummsy said no because of germs. She tried giving me my favorite fruit. Apples. I sniffed at them and decided not to try any. My tummy hurt really bad. I couldn’t even go poo but I tried.

I didn’t even want to play with my girlfriend, Cupcake. She didn’t understand.

So I went to my most favorite spot in the house. Awww! I sang myself to sleep.

What else could I do?The next morning I got up and did my morning walk with mummsy. I finally made poo and the growly beast left my tummy. 

I guess poo can be a lot like bad, bad monsters. Mummsy said that was my problem all along. She’s so smart. I feel so much better now.

Saturdays with Sir Poops-A-Lot: Writer’s Block and Irritable Bowel Syndrome

Sir Poops-A-Lot

Hair Ball

HB: What’re we going to talk about today?

SPAL: Don’t know. Blogger’s mishaps last week screwed up my writing rhythm. I think mummsy calls it brain constipation.

HB: Are you sick?

SPAL: No. Mummsy says it’s when the words won’t come out.

HB: Like when you can make poops and you need to eat grass?

SPAL: Yup. Something like that.

HB: Okay… I think. But, how is making words like making a poop?

SPAL: Sometimes you know they’re there…you know, like the poops, but they refuse to come out. And, sometimes…like mummsy says they can explode out of your head onto paper like poops can explode out of your bum. Mummsy calls that IBS writing or brains. It’s when she can’t keep the words from coming out.

HB: Is IBS writing good?

SPAL: Yeah. It’s better than having the other problem. It’s good to have IBS brains.

HB: Oh….only at the other end it’s not good. Right? ‘Cause I don’t like IBS poops. It makes my tummy hurt.

SPAL: Right.

HB: How are we going to get IBS brains? Eat more grass?

SPAL: Do what mummsy does. Go for a walk. Eat treats. Read a book. Read some blogs. Listen to Beethoven.

                                       

SPAL: Hoped this helped anyone having brain constipation today. My you have IBS brains, instead.

Very truly yours,

Sir Poops-A-Lot

and

Hair Ball

Writer's Block v. Constipation

There's not much difference between being constipated, at a loss for pooing, and having writer's block, being at a loss for words. The words to describe both: frustrating and painful.

It irks me when I sit down at my keyboard in front of a blank screen and I can't come up with a darned thing to write. Today, I finished chapter thirty to my novel. I it ended with some mysterious person coming through the door.

As usual I set up my page to chapter thirty-one. You know, header, page number, title, and chapter. And then, without warning my brain stopped. Maybe there's a brick somewhere hidden in the corridors and whatever thoughts I had smashed into it. I don't know.

I tried doodling. Arrows over arrows. Flowers with pretty leaves. Houses with chimneys. Okay, that didn't work. So, I wrote stuff. Stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with my novel. Okay, that didn't work. So, I went for a walk. I walked the dogs. I walked and talked to the dogs about my current dilema. Both of them plopped their butts on the pavement, tilted their heads and raised their ears but they had no clue what to tell me. I didn't have a clue what to tell me.

I go back inside. There I decide to clean my shower and then I clean my entire shower. During this event, I daydreamed about my characters hoping they'd guide me to the answer for my next chapter. Oh my God! Nothing came out. My brain literally hurt.

Read, I say. I'll sit on the great white throne and read. I remind myself that I did have a serving of flax seeds on my quinoa this morning. The bottom half shouldn't be a problem. But nothing comes out at either end.

A revelation happens. Wow! Maybe there is a brain and butt connection. Never know. Maybe this one could be the next great conspiracy theory against all writers. Maybe there should be a discussion on this.

But, I do know this, when they finally flow it's like Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It goes on and on for days. Not necessarily on the same day though.