“Kidneys are the Coolest” is the slogan for everybodypees.org. OK, maybe it’s not a real website or lost funding, because the link no longer exists. The point is that it’s a natural thing and certainly worthy of a little toilet humor. I’ve gotten carried away with bladder poetry, but challenged myself to write just one more after the phrase “it’s a pisser” came up in recent conversation with my friends. An unfriendly bladder is undoubtedly my biggest hassle in retirement. As a result, here’s another entry in the “of questionable bad taste” category:

It’s A Pisser

My bladder’s heavy,
I need relief.
Just not AGAIN,
Oh, Good Grief!

Every two hours,
Nature calls.
A little dribble,
Not Niagara Falls.

The shut-off’s missing,
Inside my weenie.
I seem to be taking,
To perpetual pee.

It’s my aging,
Urinary tract.
Non-stop action,
Like a NASCAR track.

Seems more comes OUT,
Than what GOES IN.
Excuse me please,
Need to go AGAIN.

Perhaps a clothespin,
Might stop this leak?
Relief from relief,
Is all I seek.

It’s a Pisser,
Being like me.
To carry around,
This much pee.

It’s a Pisser,
But what to do?
At least it’s not,
Number TWO.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

I remain healthy in retirement, so it’s not worth complaining about some of the minor issues of old age. I prefer to be humorous when it comes to my weak bladder. Perhaps I’ve been a bit obsessive about writing regarding my frequent trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night with the thought “Not Again?” I know you’re also probably saying, “not another poem about pee? Not Again?” I can’t honestly promise this will be my last stab at toilet humor. The first reference to this “problem” was three years ago and has been mentioned in 18 different posts. What I’ve found is that many fellow seniors can relate to this subject so it’s important to make others feel that they’re not alone. It’s worth a chuckle or two.

Senior Curse

I could once sleep ‘til noon,
Without interruption.
But now my bladder,
Is a constant disruption.

What now is a dribble,
Was once a squirt.
Instead it’s a trickle.
No longer a spurt.

Every two hours,
I have to go.
I can feel the urge,
Starting to grow.

I never pass,
A place to pee.
I no longer drink,
Coffee or tea.

Caffeine’s my enemy,
Beer’s even worse.
I’m a sad victim,
Of the Senior Curse.

If I hold it too long,
It might spring a leak.
But despite any strain,
It still comes out weak.

The Force isn’t with me,
As I step to the plate.
Even those times,
When I just can’t wait.

My tank seems full,
But no Tiger’s in there.
Sometimes old age,
Just isn’t fair.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

Last night, I cut-back on my evening fluid intake, hoping that I could reduce the number of overnight bathroom trips. The frustration of the night before fueled a drastic need for change in dealing with my overactive bladder (OAB). I got out of bed at least five times, after several late night cups of tea, two vodka tonics, and multiple Diet Cokes. First, I have to learn to manage or eliminate my caffeine, chocolate, and alcohol urges. Secondly, I’ll also strive to strengthen my pelvic floor through exercise and consciously restrict liquids. Simply cutting-back resulted in a last night’s good sleep, interrupted by only two bladder interruptions, so the goal now becomes a seamless seven hours. 

I once liked getting-up multiple times in the middle of the night. There was never any trouble getting back to sleeps, and it made me feel like I was stretching time before the alarm rang. However, now I’m not working and no longer at the mercy of a wake-up call. I like the idea of a friendlier bladder and less-disruptive sleep. To get there, I’m going to have to make changes without resorting to medication. As I contemplate this matter of the bladder, I leave you with this silly poem that will have to be filed under the category of “in questionable bad taste.”

Bladder Matter 2

Disturbing news,
It’s a bladder matter.
Urinary Incontinence,
There’s nothing sadder.

Toilet Talk,
And discharge jokes.
Uncomfortable jest,
For proper folks.

It’s a touchy topic,
Some shamed to speak.
But the last thing you want,
Is a tell-tale leak.

Input equals output,
No room for doubt.
What goes in,
Must come out.

It’s bladder-related,
Anatomy one-oh-one.
But when it fails,
It’s never fun.

If it’s overactive,
Without control.
You need something,
To plug that Hole.

It might get irritable,
Cause for panic.
Restroom closed?
Don’t get frantic.

In the Overnight hours
When you seek relief.
It can frequently be,
A sleep depriving thief.

And God forbid,
When there’s no stream.
It can make,
A grown man scream.

When the doctor asks,
For you to cough.
There’s no need,
To get pissed off.

What comes before pee,
In the alphabet?
Oooo, so soothing,
No better does it get.

When the bag gets full,
Before you need a mop.
With the urge to go,
You’re forced to stop.

Or Like a race horse,
You start to prance.
My mom called it,
“The Tinkle dance.”

When nature calls,
Don’t dare diddle.
Before you make,
A puddle of piddle.

Politely you ask,
To take care of biz.
But we all know,
You’re taking a whiz.

If you can’t hold it,
Be more than glad.
That you’re wearing,
A Maxi Pad.

As we get older,
Here’s the key:
Never pass,
A place to pee.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

For more bladder humor see Post #941. Apparently, the topic has been top-of-mind before. 

I found a couple of internet references to the words “Angels On Your Body.” It’s a cute little love phrase that my wife and I often exchange, especially if we’re traveling separate ways. Today, we had it inscribed on a gold necklace charm that will be her Christmas this year. I hadn’t heard the reference before, so I thought it might be something original – is anything anymore? Nonetheless, it’s now forever part of our secret love code, along with LM, “carrots or karats,” and QDPie (or with symbol). Adding to the necklace will be part of several special occasions in the upcoming  year.

When I Googled “Angels On Your Body,” I discovered at least two sources, including the title of a Belgium music group called Fence collection, and an old episode of Louis Thoroux. where the receptionist at an evangelical fundie TV studio in Texas closes telephone calls with the heavenly inspired words. In both cases, I think we’re talking about a lot more serious religious significance than when we utter those four little words or letters A.O.Y.B. I’ve written a little poem to accompany the jewelry gift that comes with a pricey gold chain designed to hold many more. 

A.O.Y.B.

My angel has a body,
Not the topper of our tree,
Or a messenger from God,
She’s the only girl for me.

She’s clearly seen by others,
But not in the same light.
She doesn’t have a halo,
But is a heavenly sight.

When she’s at my side,
All in the world is right.
But when she’s far away,
Life is not so bright.

She doesn’t have wings,
Or always dress in white.
She can’t play the harp,
But keeps me warm at night.

She’s the very reason,
To see tomorrow come.
When I add it up,
She’s the Total Sum.

So when she’s not around,
I begin to wish she was.
I know that I am grateful,
For everything she does.

My angel is adorable,
And I love her so.
I try to write her poems,
So she will always know.

I count on other angels,
To protect her when I’m not.
And they know she’s special,
A sunbeam that I’ve caught.

Whenever we’re apart,
We use these words of love:
“Angels On Your body,”
Safeguard us from above.

If need to keep it short,
When you’re not next to me.
I quickly spell it out,
As simply A.O.Y.B.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

My wife has a huge collection of porcelain Limoges boxes that we’ve gathered over our 20-plus years together. I try to gift her one every month accompanied by a poem. Some of those poems are admittedly very corny. I try to keep an inventory of what we have, especially because we don’t have room to display them all at once. As a result, there is a traditionally a wall-mounted box on the living room wall with twenty cubby-holes. As each holiday or special event comes along, she decorates the box with season-appropriate Limoges. 

On a couple of occasions I have bought her duplicates that might be painted differently. For Halloween I bought her a haunted house with green ghosts, for example. Ten years ago I purchased the same design with white ghosts. Once she caught the mistake, I shipped it back to my Austin dealer that is always very cooperative. He claims that I am by far his biggest customer, although I don’t exclusively use him for every order. There are antique dealers and those that specialize in Disney designs that I will work with on occasion. He exchanged the Haunted House with one painted with “Trick or Treat” ghosts. 

The Halloween display has since been replaced with Thanksgiving, and the ghosts went into storage without a poem hidden within its hinged structure. I was cautious about buying one for Thanksgiving, afraid that my list might not be accurate. We therefore shopped together on the website to find one that she would appreciate. Only 15 of the twenty cavities are filled with this particular holiday, since Christmas always seems to be the shopping priority at this time of year. Also, there are limited options for the occasion so we have to get creative. We’ve already got Pilgrims, Indians, Cornucopias, and Pumpkin Pie, along with many varieties of pumpkins and turkeys. She decided on a simple ear of corn, one of her favorite foods any time of the year. It speaks of her Hoosier roots, and living next door to a cornfield. Here’s the poem that I included, along with some make-good thoughts about the rhyme deprived “Trick or Treaters.” 

Born of Corn 

Your Limoges display,
Makes a seasonal change.
So each holiday,
You rearrange.

Twenty squares,
Each month to fill.
Each box still,
A special thrill.

Halloween full,
With “Trick or Treat.”
Thanksgiving sparse,
You’ll have to cheat.

At Christmas time,
You need twenty more.
And extra bins,
In which to store.

Birthday, Easter,
Independence Day.
Happy New Year,
Even the month of May.

Themes like travel,
And even food.
And one to capture,
Nearly every mood.

You have so many,
It’s hard to keep track.
With limited space.
It’s pack and unpack.

I’ve often misordered,
Re-bought the same.
I keep a list,
And take the blame.

To fill-up November,
You requested maize.
Served on the cob,
Among other ways.

Just like me,
You’re Hoosier born.
What that means?
You like your corn.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com