Taking Charge Of Urinary Incontinence aka Leaky Bladder.
Before we get to female aging and bodily disfunctions…
One: I apologize. I apologize for not writing for so long. I’m sorry. I’m Canadian so I’m always sorry. It’s in our nature.
And yes, I am grouping all Canadians into this friendly-nature-and-polite-apologizing generality. So sue me. (Um, if you’re not a Canadian, we don’t actually sue each other in Canada, it’s only a joke. No, really, we’re just not that into it.)
Two: You’re welcome. I’m writing this after a glass of wine (Sonoma Pinot Noir) because I met a cute guy recently and foolishly gave him the link to this site. And even though he’s too young for me, I did see chest hairs poking out from his shirt and that is such. a. turn. on. But despite the man-fur, he’s still too young.
Nonetheless, it’s one thing to disclose unsexy TMI to all the sexy men reading this trashy drivel (and you sexy ladies, too, of course) but—Hello!—it’s another thing to see them in the coffee shop! (Except for Levi, but he’s used to my unfiltered disclosures. x)
Where was I?
Oh right, no writing. And I’m getting plastered whilst writing this. (Confused? Me too, but I’m a drunkard—I have an excuse!)
So, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t write in Canada. Weird. (Oh, I guess I should mention I’m in Venice Beach, California again.) Perhaps I’m mistaken, but it seems to me all my literary shenanigans occur out of country.
It’s not that shit doesn’t happen back in my hometowns—either my childhood hometown or my adulthood hometown. If you read my memoir, you know they’re only a gossips’ breath apart.
And if you didn’t read my memoir, well, you missed out because once you’re past the generous, if hard to swallow [bad pun], free preview, you will find the now forever-public and possibly humiliating chapter where I prance around naked—except for my Louboutin shoes, of course—before doing a little self-soothing …. Oh, well, your loss, my friends, your loss.
That, my friends, was a shameless plug for book sales. NAKED. SHOES.
If that didn’t work, well, Kirkus Reviews says my memoir is “consistently bold, shocking, and hilarious,” “if overwhelming,” but so what! KR even compared my writing to David Sedaris‘. To be fair, Kirkus did say my writing wasn’t quite up to Mr. Smartass Pants’ writing [utter respect to Mr. Sedaris], but still! We’re practically in the same league just by mention in the same sentence, I say!
Despite not writing a darn thing whilst in Canada, things did happen, and by things, I mean not really anything of any consequence, but noteworthy nonetheless. I shall endeavour to bring you up to speed speedily. Excuse the brevity, it has been a few months of much ado about not much.
After the old man hit on me in Nepal (see last blog), I returned home and recovered from the whole I think I’ll go to Asia and take in a new culture while getting back in shape after a couple of years of medical-related lethargy by hiking 100 miles at 18,000 feet with no hot water or ‘Western’ toilets idea. The first thing I realized upon review of the Codger On The Hill situation was that I was the cad.
Technically, I can’t be a cad because I’m a woman, but if I was a carpet munchin’ lesbian, maybe I could get away with it. And, because I’m such a devout feminist, I’m going to claim the sexist word for myself! Ha! If that doesn’t fly, then let’s just say that I was feeling bitchy.
(Side note: This whole feminist #freethenipple rave is totally fucked up, but I’ll save that topic for another instalment of my new Intoxicated Inspirations posts.)
Anyway, moving on …
I returned to Canada and stayed at my sister’s house. I had a little room that was all mine with a single bed jacked up on stilts to accommodate all my worldly treasures under it. (If you read my memoir, you’d know that I sold my house, furniture, worldly possessions, and everything else! Except my shoes. Of course.)
My sister’s house also contained her husband of foreverrr, MLM (my little mom), a foster child, two dogs, and two cats. My sister’s house is a cozy bungalow.
At the time I returned to Canada, my sister’s husband of foreverrr had recently undergone cancer surgery that removed much of his innards. As you may know, MLM has Crohn’s Disease and has also had bits of her bowels removed (twice), and me, well, I’m just prone to constipation. So, indeed, there was a lot of shit talk going on. (See blog: The Shit We Talk About At Family Dinners.)
My sister would comment: Can we get through one dinner without talking about our bowel movements?
Where upon I would sing, Jimmy crapped corn, and I don’t care!
Needless to say, our family is close—or at least familiar with each other’s crapping habits.
Added bonus: the whole lot of us is partially or wholly deaf. This conversation actually happened:
Me: Do we have any peanut butter?
My sister: What?? Penis brother?
MLM: Your brother was here today, he picked up his mail.
My sister’s husband of foreverrr shakes his head, chuckling. (He’s been mostly deaf for so long he can read lips.)
Me: Never mind, I’ll check the cupboard.
(The foster child spent a lot of time in her room. I have no idea why.)
—Potential Husband Prospects: Please Stop Reading Here. Now.—
For everyone else … I hibernated. It was the first winter in three years that I’d been in Canada, and instead of taking advantage of the sullen, tearful skies by writing rapturous melodramatic prose, I entered a state of depression accompanied by pissing myself and night sweats, the latter I’m almost positive were from the MSG I wasn’t used to consuming and so not pre-me-NO-pause! The pissing myself, well, I could only blame that on my bladder that has fallen and won’t get up, which my homo … sapien, and gay, gynaecologist didn’t find humorous. Humph.
Gyno: When I say bear down, you’re going to push down, okay?
Me (in stir-ups staring at the ceiling): Okay.
Gyno (peering in my twat): Okay, bear dow—woah! That’s enough.
Whereupon I said the aforementioned “fallen bladder” ha-ha comment and, when I didn’t receive a response, I raised my head to look at him.
Gyno: Yeah, don’t do that … Do you know what Kegels are?
And then he made me squeeze his finger.
He reassured me that I don’t have a tumour in my tiny lady-cave and that if I squeeze my cunny—like 50 times a day or something—I can avoid hiny hammock surgery. For crying out loud (literally), if I thought I was going to get anything “lifted” at this stage of the game, I didn’t think it was going to be my clam. (That be feminist lady talk for vagina.)
So I bought panty-liners and started doing Kegels. I borrowed a friend’s mini trampoline. It didn’t fit in my room, so I optioned the living room. I’d bounce for 20 bounces and then go pee, bounce for 20 bounces and then go pee, and repeat that several more times. The dogs barked at the squeaky springs and chased me to the bathroom and back. I tried to count bounces because I’m OCD about numbers—which you’d already know if you read my damn memoir!
Anyway, thank Gawwwd this wine is kicking in; I’m totally not embarrassed having shared such TMI with you. Plus, guess what, folks, my Gyno says, It happens to a lot of women [my] age. And that, of course, only further depressed me because now how am I going to find a guy at my age with “sometimes pisses self” on my resume??
Also, do I have to disclose that I had lice? Had!
Leaky bladder and lice. Awesome.
Got it from a friend’s kid, I swear. No big deal. A jar of mayonnaise in a shower cap overnight followed by nit-picking and two days of straight-ironing to fry the shit out of any remaining little nits and Bam! Best looking, shiny, silky, bug-free hair everrr.
And not to worry, Ms. J also bought a twat-bell! Not a ding-ding-ring-ring bell, but like a dumb-bell for the va-jay-jay. I only dropped it in the shower twice. And forgot it in there once. My sister found it. *blink blink* (Forgot it in the shower, people, not in my … well, anyway …)
I can tell you all this now because it’s been five months, and I have officially stopped peeing my pants! (Some exceptions apply.)
—Potential Husband Prospects: Please Resume Reading. Here.—
So, my vagina is practically almost like the Bionic Woman’s. I’m training for the Redneck Olympics in the category of Mall Parking Lot Twat Log Towing.
That’s right, bitches! Potential spouses be lining up to marry this classy lady. Oh yeah! (You know “bitches” isn’t meant as a dis’ to you, right?)
Alrighty then. Moving on.
I could tell you more, but now I’m sufficiently inebriated and in need of some shut-eye. That be my age talk for sleep.
What have I (re)learned? Wine is a fermented beverage. Fermented foods are good for you. Therefore, wine is a health food.
Homework: Drink more wine. (But maybe after hitting the “post this blog” option.)
p.s. People! I got a Bellicon mini rebounder. It’s the bestest everrrr. It has bungy cords! No springs = NO squeaks (and super gentle on the joints). I can do 1000 bounces before I have to take a pee break! Yay me! I’m working up to twat-bell rebounding—stay tuned!
pee.pee.s. If you want to sponsor a blog or buy me an overpriced latte, click here, and thank youuuuu! If you don’t, I still love you because you read my written diarrhea! Feel free to share. Sharing is highly apprecited! Or comment! Yes, I love comments, too!!
p.p.p.s. Shit, I can’t remember. Wine. Naked! (Memoir.) #shameless g’night xo
