Crabby, cleansing and getting scoped

SHERYL IS CALLING me Mr. Crabby Pants today. She is right. She is always right, dang it. She brought me popsicles to work to keep me fed. I can't eat the red ones.

New lid for Rodney's throne.

You'd be crabby too, if you couldn't eat real food all day. You'd be crabby if you had to drink a mysterious substance that sounds and tastes like it came from nuclear waste. You'd be crabby if you are about to spend all night, well ... catching up on your reading. From your throne. Get my drift?

Men don't like talking about their health. I hate going to the doctor. I go once a year, and that's enough. I do not take my good health for granted.

But I have a serious family history of prostate cancer. I turned 50 last year. My doctor said, "You don't have a choice. We have to check you out."

So. I'm getting checked out. Tomorrow morning. The official word is the dreaded "colonoscopy." They say I'll be sedated and happy, and will hardly feel a thing. They say I will sleep all day tomorrow and eat like a king when I wake up.

I know it has to be done. I know it could literally save my life. I am crabby and tired and not looking forward to the rest of day, except for some really good guitar lessons and students.

You know what? It is what it is. Suck it up, Hoser. It's called taking care of yourself. Too many haven't and are gone. I don't want that to happen.

Being crabby for a day is worth it. I apologize in advance. Would somebody please get me a popsicle NOW?