My blargh induced ennui seems determined to persist. Rather like this weeks toxic nard that took up residence in the boys' loo and sat their taunting me flush after flush, until I was reduced to the indignity of poking it with a stick to break it up. Makes me wonder what I've been feeding them in my brain fogged state? My life has been reduced to the role of toxic nard dislodger. Good God! My life has been reduced to the role of TOXIC NARD DISLODGER! I don't recall the presentation on that career option at the job expo back at high school. I will now go out back and do my little dance of joy.
I must admit it hasn't been all gloom and doom. I broke out of the Gulag of Despair long enough to get my fix of all things Tim Burton at The Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI), here in fair old Melbourne.
I have long had a love of all things Tim Burton. His aesthetic has always appealed to me. Kind of a Dr Seuss, meets Marilyn Manson, all with a touch of the opium pipe. On our first date, Mr Grumpy and I went to see Edward Scissorhands, so going to the exhibition on our anniversary just seemed right. Back to the scene of the crime you might say.
(The first exhibit was Edward's glove and Gothic leather bondage suit)
So worth it. Even ignoring the fact that it was down three flights of stairs and I wanted to alternately puke and pass out, had to pee about 38,000 times and had a full body hangover for the week, I am so glad we went. In fact I'd love to go back, this time with a pre-ordered wheel chair, as I don't think we saw half of what was there. The man is not only talented, but prolific. Even his conceptual sketches were incredible.
Mr Grumpy was lovely enough to feed my addiction and download all Tim Burton's movies when he got home. My plans for the rest of the school holidays now revolve around a marathon of my favs from Beetlejuice to Ed Wood, all from the comfort of my posturepedic. I may need an intervention by the end but I am willing to risk it.
One thing I did notice in my foray into the heart of the city was that I am a walking fashion faux pas. Apparently you are only allowed to walk in the city if you wear black. Me, in my foolhardy ignorance, wore my green dress from the Dorothy Shoes post (no red shoes though, just sensible black ballet flats). I did get many a quizzical stare. Though there is a chance that their fascination may, in part, have been due to the fact I was wearing a short sleeved summer dress when it was about 6 degree C outside and doing my hip granny shuffle. But I still like to think it was rebellious colour choice. I'm a fashion rebel dammit!
This last week I also continued my dance of death with my personality challenged dentist. Nothing like lying back in the torture chair, with various drills and metal pokers suspended an inch above your mouth, whilst your dentist stops and sits chuckling at the episode of Top Gear playing on the huge flat screen on the wall. I felt like yelling "Dude I'm down here", though with a mouth full of metal crap and anaesthetic it just wasn't worth the effort.
Luckily, his staff are lovely. They turned off the heaters, brought me ice packs to try and reduce my body temp and made me feel like it was just a normal part of the service. Dr No Personality had actually read the articles I brought in about Bob and used appropriate anaesthetics, which at least took the edge off the pain. He did inform me on my last visit that he was impressed by my super freak power and was happy to work around my issues. So although he may qualify for some sort of special parking permit for his severe personality deficit, he is good at the technical side of his work.
(Why yes Dustin, I know just how you feel)
Like all impacts to my decrepit body (which at this point can constitute someone sneezing in the waiting room), I am still paying for this visit. Exhausted, extra Bob-symptoms, jaw pain, ear pain, and headaches. Yay, for ice packs and and those lovely little pain killers with an extra shot of codeine. Hopefully, in the next couple of days I'll be back to normal crappy, and can attend my next appointment in two days fresh as the morning dew, and thus begin the ice and pain med ritual once more. Only four more visits to go. I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be milking my mind numbing stupidity for all it's worth. I'm sure I saw a plan for a new swimming pool lying around somewhere in the office. Though it will be nice to be free of tooth pain which is like a constant red hot poker in my eye socket.
So The Blargh persists, like the cockroach that it is. It has lessened from Uber Blargh to Super Blargh so that's always a good thing. How to explain The Blargh to the uninitiated? It's when your whole body feels completely weak and heavy, as if someone strapped large cartoon style weights all over your body and then told you to run up a hill. Every single physical, mental and emotional reserve is sucked out and you're left a transparent little husk on the floor. But other than that its a barrel of laughs.
(The Blargh caught in the act of sucking the life out of yet another unsuspecting victim)I did love that I also managed to fall in the shower this week I blame you, Blargh, you evil bastard. I have a shower chair but still managed to almost go arse up. I was saved by my now blackened leg that hit the side of the bath, and I will take that over a full face plant any day. Luckily no one was required to see my pasty, naked and wet body on the floor flopping on the floor, and that my friends, is a win in my book (and probably in a lot of other people's books as well).
"Death To The Blargh!"
(my new motto, must be accompanied with air fist punch)
(my new motto, must be accompanied with air fist punch)
So there you go. My last couple of weeks from poking toxic nards with a stick to badly performed naked gymnastics in the bathroom. Living the dream my friends. Living the dream.
The Blargh plagued Michelle :)
My musical interlude today has absolutely nothing to do with the post but it's my blog and I can do what I want. I've always loved this song and I always find myself grooving along on the couch without realising. Plus I always thought Pharrell Williams was kinda hot. I mean look at those abs.
She Wants To Move, N.E.R.D.