Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated...

That's Mark Twain, not me, by the way. Alive and kicking, kids.

I abandon my munchkins for a week and get a couple of hungry enquiries. So gratifying to the Gretchy, thank you. I've learned to fatten myself on the crumbs of small interest, it keeps me going, so thank you again.

The reason for my absence, as you may have gleaned from my last post, was a much needed vacation. Vay-kay, as they say. Yes, a vacation from it all, the grind of work, the reliable routine of exercise, and the bonds of chastity (necessary where I live, as a more appalling mound of sub-human men you've never seen. We women are sad-eyed indeed but resilient, and the more savvy among us outsource the sex).

Item A: I did get my period right on regular schedule, so only had a couple of days on away time before the Hounds of Celibacy could be fully released (Go fetch! To Taiwan!) and the Kittykats of Lust could settle in and sharpen their claws. Dear Reader, I'd forgot how great fucking could be. Meow. You can't blame me for wanting it to be nice and clean and unbloody--but sure, I broke down pretty quickly and now carry a Tide pen in my purse. Take that, guilty hotel sheets!

Item B: Signs of a great holiday

B.1. Aforementioned Tide pen to deal with sudden stains
B.2. A constellation of fingerprint-sized bruises over one's body
B.3. Happy, alert sleeplessness
B.4. Unused concert tickets (who has the time?)
B.5. A suitcase full of soiled lingerie
B.6. The only clean items brought back in said suitcase are work-out gear (packed in pessimism, but fortunately in the end: who has the time?)
B.7. Chapped lips and a sex-induced yeast infection (considerately risen once back home)
B.8. A zen approach to the shitstorm which awaits you back in Normaland
B.9. General contentment
B.10. Full bowels

I will concentrate on this last item, as it really is the ha-ha-strange funniest.

Okay, look: I've booked the fancy-romancy hotels and hard-earned the money to pay for them.

I've sweated my way over many months, relentlessly, to a trim, tight bod I don't mind prancing around buck, even in the harshest light.

I've invested in decent underwear, even lacy matching bras and panty sets. That fit!

I've planned the dog-sitter and vacation messages and had the bits waxed and bought travel sizes of everything and packed with military precision.

Yet despite my logic and confidence, I knew in the back of my head I'd soon be waging a grim battle for control with my guts. I'm helpless, but am I alone in this absurd delicacy? I suspect not.

Farting, crapping. The last bastions of the liberated single woman. Now I know there are some of you who will scoff at me, who will declare themselves rectally-empowered, capable of defecating on crowded planes and in Superstore bathrooms and at friend's houses, even at work. Ladies, I do salute you.

Chances are, you are married and have at least one child. I understand. After you have been splattered by the Mach 2 projections of a 3-month old, one grows a little blase about one's own comparatively sedate movements. Also, once you sleep in the same bed with a partner for X amount of time, you get automatically entered in the contest of "the Grossest/Longest/Stinkiest Fart Ever? You Tell Me!". Passing gas may be just something you do for kicks.

However, for a single gal trying hard to impress (despite herself), admitting to sibilant and/or violent gas and twice-daily shits seems so, dare I say, unlovely. It's not like the travel gods don't conspire on this. Somehow the pressurized cabin combined with time zone changes and anticipation slows one down to a lazy burble, right upon landing.

Then you get to the romantic hotel and think, well, shoot, if you really wanted to be a couple's destination you'd put the toilet waaaaaaay down the hall--better yet, in the stairwell in a separate, soundproofed ladies' room. I can't really let it all hang out only a few feet away from a man in bed indulging in a post-coital glow.

Add to that a steady diet of restaurant food, and the fight-or-flight non-digestion of excellent and frequent sexercise, and you get one bunged-up Gretchie. You know it's alarming when even your companion is dropping gentle hints about the human need to excrete. Tee hee, whatever do you mean? Have a Tums, they're good calcium. Really.

Needless to say, my step is lighter for all sorts of reasons now that I'm home once again. Till the next time, where the true test of intimacy may just be a heartfelt crap.

G