While it is oh, so very true, that “We are what we eat” “. . . we are such stuff as dreams are made of. . . ,” it is also very true that we are made of other things as well.

I, for example, am a creature of mist and meatloaf, of whimsy and weightwatchers, of loyalty and lard, of friendship and fat, of “never too old to nurture” and “you can’t fool Mother Nature,” of XXX and XXL, of love and liposuction envy, of sharing and shit. . . .

WHAT???

You heard me.

I’ve blogged about everybody’s poop but my own, and tonight’s the night. Leave if you don’t think you can take it.

Are they gone? Good. Now, here’s my problem. I have magic poop.

Not the kind that grants wishes, mind you. I’ve tried that, but it doesn’t work. Not the kind that transforms my dowdy drudge-like clothing and demeanor into a sparkly ball gown complete with coach, and transformed mousie coachmen, either. The mice here don’t do anything except gnaw on expensive cheese that was left out overnight, and poop, themselves, in the silverware drawer. (Remind me to tell you some time why I can’t eat those chocolate cookie sprinkles.) (Or maybe I just did.) It’s not the kind that opens locks, or puts three-headed Fluffies to sleep, or makes broomsticks fly, or brings shorn lions back to life.

But it’s magic just the same.

Every time I so much as think that sometime within the next hour or so I might want to consider possibly maybe perhaps going into the bathroom, shutting the door, and staying a few minutes longer than usual (ahem) , magic things happen in my house.

The phone rings. The doorbell dings. People start shouting to me from somewhere far off in the house. The cat begins to prance at the patio door. (I sympathize totally.) The oven timer goes off. The cd player starts to make that noise that sounds like somebody running a finger up and down his lips whilst humming. The DVD player freezes. Everyone for miles around suddenly needs me desperately for important things RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

I can sit alone in this house for hours and hours and nothing.

I merely THINK about poop and all hell breaks loose.

See? Magic.

Also, if it is true that we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and also true that we are what we eat, what are we if we dream we’re standing in the high school cafeteria stark naked, and our clothes are in our locker, but we can’t get them because we can’t remember the combination, and the bell’s about to ring, and you can’t remember which class you’re going to next, and you think you might be having a test but you’re not sure, and you have to poop?

YOU think about that one for a while. Someone gave me a new magazine today and I’m going to step into the bathroom library for a few minutes more than usual, and read it from cover to cover.

When the phone rings, tell them I’m not home. Or tell them the truth, I really don’t care. I have no secrets. Bloggers have no secrets. We might have had secrets when we first started blogging, but after a while, we’ve told it all. Down to the poop.

The MAGIC poop.

I’ll be back in, um, about fifteen minutes.