a glass of prune juice

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Sometimes I have to laugh at my own self-congratulatory belief that I am 'smarter than a box of rocks.'

Last night, because I like a glass of fruit juice with dinner, I looked in the fridge for orange juice, my drink of choice. But we were out of OJ. So then I looked in the cupboard and spotted an unopened bottle of prune juice. OK, I'd drink that.

In my 'smart' mind, there was a grandmother's reminder that prune juice was an old-time, tried-and-true laxative, but I passed it by with a cavalier wave of the mental hand. How bad could it be? A little laxative effect wasn't anything I couldn't cope with. I was an adult, after all.

So I settled down with a bowl of pasta and chicken and peas and corn and pimento and cream of chicken soup ... and a large glass of prune juice. The caserole I had made was pretty blah and the prune juice was pretty viscous, but my stomach acknowledged that I had been fed and could rest assured I wouldn't starve to death. So far so 'smart.'

It wasn't until about an hour later that my 'smarts' received a serious wake-up call. The porcelain throne began screaming out my name. How could I rebuff such piteous cries? I walked (or perhaps sprinted) upstairs to the bathroom and did not return for a half an hour. The demands of the throne seemed to extend from my finger tips to my toe nails ... it was endless, explosive, airy and substantive by turns. My smarts dissolved in a flood of reality check and I returned to the world chastened ... and considerably lighter.

When your grandma says something works, trust her.
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