Bob and the White Rabbit update:
Ok have started a new med. As if my Maraca wasn't big enough, now I need to buy the jumbo size. This one is a doozie. I get to increase the dose each week for 6 weeks till I get an extra 18 tabs a day. Woo Hoo!!!
Side effects (already) include vomiting, nausea and diarrhea. Most noteworthy information regarding this med is that it is implicated in Gulf War Syndrome. But on a brighter note I am more likely to survive a nerve gas attack should one occur in my living room. Now there's a bonus you don't hear every day!
And when that's all over I get to add another. Woo Hoo again!!!! Can I have the rough end of the pineapple pleaseeeeee......
As a result Bob posts may be reduced over the coming weeks.
Cheers
Superwoman aka Michelle:)
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and move faster than a speeding bullet to make it to my porcelain lover in time. Though I wish his cologne was something other than pine fresh. Would it really be wrong of me to pour my husbands cologne in the loo instead???
Monday, 31 August 2009
But Wait! There's More!
That's right. For the first 50 callers, not only do you get the fantastic, glamorous and lifechanging Bob, but you will also receive a dozen or more bonus Bobs. Yes that's right. Call now and you will receive not only Bob but also Kev, Bazza, Bruce, Macca and more, all for no extra cost. Just a lifetime of monthly payments of blood, sweat and tears. (Well not sweat in my case but I'm not going to get picky. It ruins the flow, kinda like this explanation. Damn foiled again by my fog addled brain again). Or call now and receive the limited edition "Bob With No Name" plus the bonus mates, all for a single, one off payment of your sanity.
Ok hands up who has Bob and Bob alone in their lives?? Anyone? Anyone? Dust? (sorry, obscure Little Britain reference). Let me count. Ok.......Zero. That's right zero. Well except for that strange guy over there. How'd he get in? We know you are in denial buddy!
Apparently the sick bastard who created Bob thought he needed accessories, or mates, or he'd get lonely. Listen Buddy, does Barbie really need Ken? I think not. Did she really need Dana, Dee Dee or Derek? Actually, does anyone remember Dana, Dee Dee or Derek? (Oh yes, they are real look it up. Or just be sad like me and know way to much about Barbie. Why is it I can't remember my kids names some days but can remember obscure Barbie facts? Bob is one twisted Dude. All I can think of now is Wayland Smithers and his Malibu Stacy fetish. Talk about getting side tracked. Focus Michelle. Focus!). No. Barbie does just fine on her own. She's a high maintenance chick without adding anyone else to the mix. Just like Bob.
My cardiologist calls it clustering. I call it party crashing and it was a crap party to start with. Bob has loads of mates. Everything from RA and IBS to endometriosis to name a but a few. Unfortunately I've been there, done that and got the crappy, shrink in the first wash, non-colour-fast, ruining everything else in the wash, t-shirt. The glamourous IBS being the latest instalment. I like to think of them as the free rubbery and slightly slimy prawn crackers you get when you order any Chinese food. Bob being the soggy, oily, rank lemon chicken, with way too much batter, they deliver to your door when you actually ordered chicken and cashews with spring vegetables. But they left before you checked and it's to late to exchange and they get stroppy on the phone and tell you you ordered the crap they delivered. Besides you know they'll just give you a whole cup full of the "special" suspiciously mucus like, sauce if you complain.
You know, I didn't really need Bob. Just like I don't need a Shamwow or Ped Egg, but somehow I got suckered in. Must have been one of those late nights when there is nothing else on TV so you watch the shopping channel to laugh at the ads. I'm sure I ordered one of those ab pro, flat stomach in 3mins, cardio wonder, that folds flat to conveniently fit under your bed devices, but apparently I ordered Bob in my delirium. Damn it, I am way over the 30 day money back guarantee and I tell you I am NOT SATISFIED! Damn you Danoz Direct and your annoying, poorly acted, but irresistible infomercials.
Maybe I can have a garage sale, or put Bob and his mates on ebay and palm them off to some unsuspecting sucker. You know the ones. The freaks who pay $5,000 for a bagel that looks like Brittany Spears arse, or a piece of used chewing gum that may or may not have been chewed by Paris Hilton, but was found still moist under the table she had just left. If you buy that, you'll buy anything.
Maybe I could just trade them all in for an Aerogarden and grow herbs or flowers or tomatoes, all in the convenience of my own bench top! Or the upside down tomato garden. Or an incredible Flavourwave Oven (Oh Mr T. I am embarrassed for you), or the ......
Oh God I have to stop watching TVSN before it's too Late.
But wait, there's a faux crinkle patent leather tote. OMG, only $699, just 2 left..........
Michelle:)
Off to do a cool (and totally sincere) testimonial for Bob's infomercial. Look out for it about 3am just after the apparently life changing, brings families together, remote control caddie, with patented remote spaces, the Caddio.
Ok hands up who has Bob and Bob alone in their lives?? Anyone? Anyone? Dust? (sorry, obscure Little Britain reference). Let me count. Ok.......Zero. That's right zero. Well except for that strange guy over there. How'd he get in? We know you are in denial buddy!
Apparently the sick bastard who created Bob thought he needed accessories, or mates, or he'd get lonely. Listen Buddy, does Barbie really need Ken? I think not. Did she really need Dana, Dee Dee or Derek? Actually, does anyone remember Dana, Dee Dee or Derek? (Oh yes, they are real look it up. Or just be sad like me and know way to much about Barbie. Why is it I can't remember my kids names some days but can remember obscure Barbie facts? Bob is one twisted Dude. All I can think of now is Wayland Smithers and his Malibu Stacy fetish. Talk about getting side tracked. Focus Michelle. Focus!). No. Barbie does just fine on her own. She's a high maintenance chick without adding anyone else to the mix. Just like Bob.
My cardiologist calls it clustering. I call it party crashing and it was a crap party to start with. Bob has loads of mates. Everything from RA and IBS to endometriosis to name a but a few. Unfortunately I've been there, done that and got the crappy, shrink in the first wash, non-colour-fast, ruining everything else in the wash, t-shirt. The glamourous IBS being the latest instalment. I like to think of them as the free rubbery and slightly slimy prawn crackers you get when you order any Chinese food. Bob being the soggy, oily, rank lemon chicken, with way too much batter, they deliver to your door when you actually ordered chicken and cashews with spring vegetables. But they left before you checked and it's to late to exchange and they get stroppy on the phone and tell you you ordered the crap they delivered. Besides you know they'll just give you a whole cup full of the "special" suspiciously mucus like, sauce if you complain.
You know, I didn't really need Bob. Just like I don't need a Shamwow or Ped Egg, but somehow I got suckered in. Must have been one of those late nights when there is nothing else on TV so you watch the shopping channel to laugh at the ads. I'm sure I ordered one of those ab pro, flat stomach in 3mins, cardio wonder, that folds flat to conveniently fit under your bed devices, but apparently I ordered Bob in my delirium. Damn it, I am way over the 30 day money back guarantee and I tell you I am NOT SATISFIED! Damn you Danoz Direct and your annoying, poorly acted, but irresistible infomercials.
Maybe I can have a garage sale, or put Bob and his mates on ebay and palm them off to some unsuspecting sucker. You know the ones. The freaks who pay $5,000 for a bagel that looks like Brittany Spears arse, or a piece of used chewing gum that may or may not have been chewed by Paris Hilton, but was found still moist under the table she had just left. If you buy that, you'll buy anything.
Maybe I could just trade them all in for an Aerogarden and grow herbs or flowers or tomatoes, all in the convenience of my own bench top! Or the upside down tomato garden. Or an incredible Flavourwave Oven (Oh Mr T. I am embarrassed for you), or the ......
Oh God I have to stop watching TVSN before it's too Late.
But wait, there's a faux crinkle patent leather tote. OMG, only $699, just 2 left..........
Michelle:)
Off to do a cool (and totally sincere) testimonial for Bob's infomercial. Look out for it about 3am just after the apparently life changing, brings families together, remote control caddie, with patented remote spaces, the Caddio.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
"Free the Twins"
(source)
Friendships are a weird duck. Sometimes you become friends with people who are a mirror image of you or, alternatively, are the polar opposite in every possible way, and yet others who walk the midlands, part mirror part opposite. All of them serve a purpose in your life. Sometimes you don't know what that purpose is until years later when it's long gone. They come and go, ever changing with the flow of time. Beginning and ending when you least expect it. I've never really had a huge bang up fight with someone to end a friendship, they just tend to dwindle away. It always reminds me of that poem by T S Elliot, The Hollow Men (1925):
- This is the way the world ends
- This is the way the world ends
- This is the way the world ends
- Not with a bang but a whimper
Bob has sent many of my "friends" running to the hills. Can't blame them I guess. Bob is a bit of a prick after all, but hey they get him for an hour or two I get him for life, suck it up you spineless gits! (Sorry still a little raw about a few people). I guess some people just have the constitution and moral fortitude of a wet tissue. I could bitch about the fair weather friends in my life (or no longer in my life as the case may be), but I don't want to give them any more of my time than they have given me. I will however, send one last big raspberry out into the cosmos to make contact with those fleet of foot "friends".
Feel that raspberry, FEEL IT!!!!! .......................................... Ahhhhhhh, deep breath. That feels better.
Instead I want to spend my time giving a big shout out to those who are the gold in my life. One of the biggest and best surprises friendship wise, have been my physio chicks. The "Young Women's Group", or as we are now known the "Young and Gorgeous Women's Group" (see I'm not the only one with supermodel fantasies, though in this case there is no delusion involved!). After waaaaay too many excruciating months with my grey-haired homies, my amazing physio and social worker decided to create a group for young women in their 20's and 30's.
We all have Bob's in our lives, though their's go by names like Kev or Bazza or Dougie. All of us have hit a major bump in the road which sent us off into a ditch when we least expected it. Some of us have husband's and kids, some have a main squeeze, some are footloose and fancy free, and some are on the hunt to pick up. Some work, some don't, and some write stupid blogs. We are all so different yet have so much in common and it's like I found a big bunch of my long lost sisters that I never knew I'd lost let alone existed. We laugh, we cry, we bitch and we eat chocolate, and there is always coffee. Half an hour discussing the intricacies and virtues of brazilian waxing, this is not traditional physiotherapy! Oh yeah, we do real physio too, but the true therapy happens in the coffee room afterwards or chatting on the exercise bike or making testicle jokes on the fit balls.
This is rehabilitation as it should be. It's been a long hall for all of us and for some there is a long road ahead, you have to find a way to enjoy it, or we'd all give up. We like to think outside the square for our therapy. We've had parties, and pet therapy (my beautiful dogs, smelly but good therapy). Probably, the best example of our determination to enjoy and support each other has been "Free the Twins" day. The aim of this day was to support one of the girls who couldn't wear a bra due to injuries.
So what do you do to support some one who has to be braless?
What else, we all went braless (even our social worker, now that's dedication) in support (or is that without support) of her. Rather liberating really, and I'm sure it provided a years worth of excitement for some of the old guys at the hospital. I hope we weren't responsible for any coronaries that day. For some of us we got to reminisce about perky pre-kid boobs. For some we found that we had a new, previously unknown talent "musical boobs" which kept a groovy beat with each jump of hopscotch (our physio has a wicked sense of humour). For others we were amazed as our boobs did a Harry Houdini without support. (Don't panic though found them the next day in my Mr Berlie push up underwire, phew!). There was physio involved but for all of us it was about the laughter and sisterhood. Now this is therapy. This is friendship.
I never expected to find this kind of support, and definitely not at a physio class. My past experience with Merle and Beryl and Frank and the grey-haired gang, had not given me much to go on. However, I do thank them for expanding my knowledge on lawn bowls, support hose and the blue rinse and don't forget their lengthy treatise on what happened "back in [their] day...."! All jokes aside, I have been lucky enough to meet a great group of girls who just get it, no explanation needed. A group of girls who know how to laugh. Who make you feel normal in the most abnormal of circumstances, and have a true and deep appreciation of all things Johnny Depp!
So I say, shout it from the rooftops:
"FREE THE TWINS" girlfriends, and big fat raspberries to the rest.
Michelle :)
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Hot Blooded
Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see
I got a fever of a hundred and three
(Hmmm I think I'm beginning to show my age with my song choices, but you've gotta love a bit of the old Foreigner).
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?
I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded.
Sorry got a bit carried away. This blog is not actually a tribute to the magical era of mullet rock but about the joy that is Heat Intolerance. (Though the more I think about it I may have to write a blog about my love of mullet rock just to get it out of my system).
Heat intolerance. How do you capture the essence of heat intolerance in writing? An overwhelming, all encompassing, claustrophobic, suffocating, feeling like you're about to explode from the boiling heat within your body. It works like this: hot day or hot room leads to body rapidly overheating, massive blood pooling, dehydration, blood pressure drops, body quickly cascades into meltdown. Speaking, thinking, moving, standing become akin to finding peace in the middle east. FUN!
Heat Intolerance is one of the many exciting symptoms of Bob, and it is the bane of my existence. I am permanently hot, which of course my husband has always known,(Heidi Klum delusion rears it's gorgeous head again. Stop laughing David!). Since Bob came to stay I can't really recall the last time I was truly cold. Even when it snowed I was in my thongs (the shoes not the underwear, I'm weird but not that weird) and t-shirt. I did succumb to trackie dacks but that was my only acknowledgement that the temperature had dropped below zero.
Nine times out of ten this Winter I've had the air-conditioner on in the car whilst driving. I often forget its on and it's not until I notice my passengers turning slowly blue next to me that I think perhaps I should turn it off. I apologise to everyone for creating a polar landscape in the car. A special shout out goes to my in-laws from the tropical north who tried valiantly to hide their discomfort in my icicle lined car by directing all the vents in my direction. Thanks mum and dad-in-law, it was much appreciated.
I'm always getting stares and comments about my lack of apparel. Hmmm..... on reflection I realise that sounds rather wrong. Perhaps I should explain. I am not a nudist or stripper/lady of the night (although I do quite like to belt out Roxanne by The Police). I just can't stand to wear much beyond t-shirt and shorts any more. By now you'd think people would realise it's just me, but alas this is not the case. I live in a small community. I shop at the same stores every week, I go to the same post office and chemist, the same charcoal chicken shop and petrol station. Yet each week it's the same old routine: question "Aren't you cold?", answer "No". Question, "You must be cold (chuckle, chuckle)", answer "No". It always makes me think of our dogs. Being great danes it's always the highly original "Is that a horse?" or "You could put a saddle on that". Oh ha, ha de ha ha ha, comic genius. Just one day I'd like to respond with "No you moron. I'm not cold. Just like I wasn't cold last week or the week before, or the week before that, or any other week that you've asked. I have a neurocardiogenic disorder. It craps on all areas of my life. Thank you for reminding me yet again that I am a freak", just to see how they respond. But I wont. I'll continue to grit my teeth and just suck it up. My favourite comment would have to be "You make me feel cold every time I look at you". Take that as you will. Even my Dad, bless his heart, cannot cope with my lack of jumpers in Winter and constantly tells me to put a coat on. Maybe it's just the remnants of the paternal gene kicking in again, though I did think there was statute of limitations on that. At least he has never mentioned that old adage about clean underwear because that would just be awkward.
I hardly sweat now. This does have it's benefits, no unsightly sweat marks when I lift my arms up for instance, but it also means I find it hard to cool down. Once I'm hot that's it. Can't wait for menopause! A shower can be almost claustrophobic due to the heat and I often need to have a little nanna nap on the cool tiles for a while to recover. Very elegant, especially if I shove my legs up the wall as well. Bad visual I know. So sorry, think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts. Though I do seem to remember some celebrity (scarily I think it may have been the rather bizarre though very talented, Miss Liza Minelli) commenting about all your wrinkles disappearing when you lie down. Gotta find that silver lining, though the silver is a bit tarnished coming from old Liza.
Summers here in Australia are hot,damn hot, 40+ degrees C. When I'm already wilting at 20 degrees C, these kind of temperatures mean I feel like I'm living in the bowels of hell for a minimum of three months of the year. I grew up in the Mallee where temperatures vary from -4 degrees C in Winter to 45+ in Summer (Hit 50 degrees one year, now that's liquify the bitumen on the road type of hot. Thank you Mr Safeway's man for not caring as Mum and I sat for hours in your air-conditioned heaven that day). The heat never used to faze me but now I could never even consider going back there again. My gorgeous husband installed ducted air-conditioning in our home last year and for that I will be forever grateful. Prior to the air-conditioning I was restricted to one room downstairs which was slightly cooler and had tiles to lie on. Now I can move around the house like a normal person rather than feeling like a shut in, surrounded by my boxes of crap in the rumpus/junk room. All I needed were bottles of urine, Howard Hughes style, and a manifesto to complete the transformation. Crisis averted. Thank you honey!
Whilst I am saving a fortune on jumpers and jackets being continually hot does have a downside. Even as I sleep I am pestered by my crappy internal thermostat. Currently I sleep on top of the covers whilst my husband sleeps under the doona with the electric blanket on. Romantic isn't it? Of course my husband being the caring and devoted guy that he is has suggested on numerous occasions that I would be much more comfortable sans clothing. He is always caring about my well being!
If only I could be cold just once, even for a couple of hours. Isn't variety the spice of life? I even have another Foreigner song set aside just for the occasion.
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, yes I know
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, oh yes I know
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, oh yes I know
You're as cold as ice...
A girl can dream can't she?
Well if that's not going to happen, I'll crank up the air-conditioner, put the ice pack around my neck, get the cassettes out, put on my acid wash jeans and reminisce about all those Blue Light disco's I attended in the 80's.
Rock on!!
Michelle:)
I got a fever of a hundred and three
(Hmmm I think I'm beginning to show my age with my song choices, but you've gotta love a bit of the old Foreigner).
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?
I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded.
Sorry got a bit carried away. This blog is not actually a tribute to the magical era of mullet rock but about the joy that is Heat Intolerance. (Though the more I think about it I may have to write a blog about my love of mullet rock just to get it out of my system).
Heat intolerance. How do you capture the essence of heat intolerance in writing? An overwhelming, all encompassing, claustrophobic, suffocating, feeling like you're about to explode from the boiling heat within your body. It works like this: hot day or hot room leads to body rapidly overheating, massive blood pooling, dehydration, blood pressure drops, body quickly cascades into meltdown. Speaking, thinking, moving, standing become akin to finding peace in the middle east. FUN!
Heat Intolerance is one of the many exciting symptoms of Bob, and it is the bane of my existence. I am permanently hot, which of course my husband has always known,(Heidi Klum delusion rears it's gorgeous head again. Stop laughing David!). Since Bob came to stay I can't really recall the last time I was truly cold. Even when it snowed I was in my thongs (the shoes not the underwear, I'm weird but not that weird) and t-shirt. I did succumb to trackie dacks but that was my only acknowledgement that the temperature had dropped below zero.
Nine times out of ten this Winter I've had the air-conditioner on in the car whilst driving. I often forget its on and it's not until I notice my passengers turning slowly blue next to me that I think perhaps I should turn it off. I apologise to everyone for creating a polar landscape in the car. A special shout out goes to my in-laws from the tropical north who tried valiantly to hide their discomfort in my icicle lined car by directing all the vents in my direction. Thanks mum and dad-in-law, it was much appreciated.
I'm always getting stares and comments about my lack of apparel. Hmmm..... on reflection I realise that sounds rather wrong. Perhaps I should explain. I am not a nudist or stripper/lady of the night (although I do quite like to belt out Roxanne by The Police). I just can't stand to wear much beyond t-shirt and shorts any more. By now you'd think people would realise it's just me, but alas this is not the case. I live in a small community. I shop at the same stores every week, I go to the same post office and chemist, the same charcoal chicken shop and petrol station. Yet each week it's the same old routine: question "Aren't you cold?", answer "No". Question, "You must be cold (chuckle, chuckle)", answer "No". It always makes me think of our dogs. Being great danes it's always the highly original "Is that a horse?" or "You could put a saddle on that". Oh ha, ha de ha ha ha, comic genius. Just one day I'd like to respond with "No you moron. I'm not cold. Just like I wasn't cold last week or the week before, or the week before that, or any other week that you've asked. I have a neurocardiogenic disorder. It craps on all areas of my life. Thank you for reminding me yet again that I am a freak", just to see how they respond. But I wont. I'll continue to grit my teeth and just suck it up. My favourite comment would have to be "You make me feel cold every time I look at you". Take that as you will. Even my Dad, bless his heart, cannot cope with my lack of jumpers in Winter and constantly tells me to put a coat on. Maybe it's just the remnants of the paternal gene kicking in again, though I did think there was statute of limitations on that. At least he has never mentioned that old adage about clean underwear because that would just be awkward.
I hardly sweat now. This does have it's benefits, no unsightly sweat marks when I lift my arms up for instance, but it also means I find it hard to cool down. Once I'm hot that's it. Can't wait for menopause! A shower can be almost claustrophobic due to the heat and I often need to have a little nanna nap on the cool tiles for a while to recover. Very elegant, especially if I shove my legs up the wall as well. Bad visual I know. So sorry, think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts. Though I do seem to remember some celebrity (scarily I think it may have been the rather bizarre though very talented, Miss Liza Minelli) commenting about all your wrinkles disappearing when you lie down. Gotta find that silver lining, though the silver is a bit tarnished coming from old Liza.
Summers here in Australia are hot,damn hot, 40+ degrees C. When I'm already wilting at 20 degrees C, these kind of temperatures mean I feel like I'm living in the bowels of hell for a minimum of three months of the year. I grew up in the Mallee where temperatures vary from -4 degrees C in Winter to 45+ in Summer (Hit 50 degrees one year, now that's liquify the bitumen on the road type of hot. Thank you Mr Safeway's man for not caring as Mum and I sat for hours in your air-conditioned heaven that day). The heat never used to faze me but now I could never even consider going back there again. My gorgeous husband installed ducted air-conditioning in our home last year and for that I will be forever grateful. Prior to the air-conditioning I was restricted to one room downstairs which was slightly cooler and had tiles to lie on. Now I can move around the house like a normal person rather than feeling like a shut in, surrounded by my boxes of crap in the rumpus/junk room. All I needed were bottles of urine, Howard Hughes style, and a manifesto to complete the transformation. Crisis averted. Thank you honey!
Whilst I am saving a fortune on jumpers and jackets being continually hot does have a downside. Even as I sleep I am pestered by my crappy internal thermostat. Currently I sleep on top of the covers whilst my husband sleeps under the doona with the electric blanket on. Romantic isn't it? Of course my husband being the caring and devoted guy that he is has suggested on numerous occasions that I would be much more comfortable sans clothing. He is always caring about my well being!
If only I could be cold just once, even for a couple of hours. Isn't variety the spice of life? I even have another Foreigner song set aside just for the occasion.
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, yes I know
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, oh yes I know
You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know, oh yes I know
You're as cold as ice...
A girl can dream can't she?
Well if that's not going to happen, I'll crank up the air-conditioner, put the ice pack around my neck, get the cassettes out, put on my acid wash jeans and reminisce about all those Blue Light disco's I attended in the 80's.
Rock on!!
Michelle:)
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
And Now a Word From Our Sponsor
Hi all.
Had a crappy week of flu flu and more flu. I will hopefully be up to writing more Bob influenced blogs soon. In the intermission I hope you'll enjoy the two insights into my insanity that are "Man Sick vs Women Sick" and "The Love That Dare Not Speak it's Name".
Flu + Bob = Crap with a capital C.
Michelle:(
Had a crappy week of flu flu and more flu. I will hopefully be up to writing more Bob influenced blogs soon. In the intermission I hope you'll enjoy the two insights into my insanity that are "Man Sick vs Women Sick" and "The Love That Dare Not Speak it's Name".
Flu + Bob = Crap with a capital C.
Michelle:(
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
The Love That Dare Not Speak It's Name.
All people have a passion that that they are too embarrassed to express. A love that they are ashamed to admit for fear of laughter and derision. I too have a love that dare not speak it's name. It's not quite along the same lines as Oscar Wilde's, but I too fear that the villagers will soon be outside my house with pitch forks and torches. Or at the very least my friends and family will be there ready to slap some sense into me and perform some sort of intervention, or exorcism, should I be brave enough to admit my shame.
Ok. Deep breath. Here it is......I'm...I'm...Just say it fast Michelle. For God's sake woman, like the ripping off of a bandaid, it's less painful if done quickly. Here goes. My name....My name....
"My name is Michelle and I am addicted to America's Next Top Model!"
There I've said it. It's out. I hear the gasps, the shock, the groans of horror. People turning away in disgust. Please, please before you turn me into A Current Affair or child services, for my perversion, listen to what I have to say. I know it's wrong but I can't help myself. Let me explain my affliction.
Oh Tyra Tyra Tyra. How can you not love a show that celebrates Tyra Banks and her ongoing quest to become a drag queen? I'll give the girl an A for effort. Or her "fierceness" (pronounced fe-earceness) and combined with her finger clicks dance. She has "fe-earce" eyes, "fe-earce" hands and "fe-earce'" poses. There is nothing like watching her morph from a boring pose to her "fe-earce" pose. 12 series down the track and it still cracks me up. Any one else would be given little pills to help with that problem. And who can forget her meltdown at Tiffany in season 4. An absolute fan favourite on you tube. I love you Tyra!
The judges are fantastic. Mr and Miss J (who has more poise and femininity than half the so called models) and the variety of ex-model judges from Twiggy to Janice "Queen of Nuts" Dickinson. And we can all agree that Nigel is a bit of fine ex-model turned photographer, eye candy. It's hilarious when one of the serious industry professionals comes in to judge. The look on their faces when they are trying to be polite to one of the girls after a shocker of a picture. Or their ability to hold their tongue when Tyra starts her "fe-earce" poses. My personal favourite is the look of horror they try to suppress when they realise one of these wannabes will soon be the face of their product.
How can you not love a show where a blond model wannabe says to the camera "I have to learn not to think so much. That's my problem I over think everything". Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. These chicks are hilarious. From the downright dumb, to the bitches, the nutters and the trailer trash, there's something for everyone. The makeovers are always worth watching for the complete and utter meltdown's the girls have because they get their hair cut. Hello it's season 12. Every season they cut and dye everyone's hair you can't truly be surprised. Or maybe that's why they fit so well into the brainless model stereotype. None of them seem to realise that they are getting a haircut from a guy who people wait months to see and pay $700 for such a cut. There was even a girl that left the show rather than cut their her. Drama at it's finest. Then there was the girl who didn't agree with $400 shorts and left. Again I say Hello. It's the fashion industry, you are a model wannabe, what do you truly expect? Have you not heard of Prada or Chanel? There have been so many nutters. Who can forget the infamous Jade. Now there's a girl with more than one screw loose. Then there was the girl who admitted a love of blood at her audition. You could imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her just standing at the end of your bed. Scary.
You get suckered into wanting the bitchy girls to get their comeuppances. The ones who sit there and say "I am the prettiest girl here", "I have the best walk" who then get kicked off or lose the weekly challenge they thought they were guaranteed to win. Schadenfreude at it best. Has no one ever given these girls a reality check. I swear that there is a whole group of parents who are afraid to tell their kids the reality of their talent or, in this case, beauty level (see also the auditions for Idol or So You Think You Can Dance if you don't believe me). I do like that Tyra allows in "interesting" models who wouldn't normally be classed as beautiful and "plus-sized" models (though how size 10 is plus-sized I'll never know) who actually have boobs and bums, unlike their skeletal mainstream counterparts. There you go Tyra is providing a public service to show that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes and brain volumes. See there is value in the show.
Put a group of immature, narcissistic girls in a house together, add an ultra-conservative religious girl, a lesbian, a party girl and a transsexual and let the television gold begin. I know it's scripted and edited and the girls are probably, hopefully, not as dumb or morally bankrupt as they appear on the show, but I don't care. Who cares that none of the winners have become the next big thing in the modeling industry. Are we really expecting to find a Gisele Bundchen or Cindy Crawford on this show? It's reality TV at it's finest. It's brain dead. It's shocking. It's morally repugnant on a number of levels. It's hilarious and I love it. It's suckered me in. Who wants to watch cortically stimulating TV like the West Wing or Damages when you can watch two stick thin trashy model wannabes nearly get into a scrag fight whilst wearing designer evening wear? It's pure gold!
Maybe this is where my supermodel delusions stem from. Pick me Tyra. Pick me. I may be 36 with a post-two kids body, complete with sagy butt, pancake boobs and stretch marks, but I'm "Fe-earce" too! Finger click, finger click.
Everyone has a secret shameful love, some gem of television programing that we can't admit to adoring. Those of you who love Bold and the Beautiful, or Big Brother, or Test Cricket, or secretly lust after Huey from Huey's Cooking Adventures, you know who you are.
It's time to come clean. Say it loud and say it proud. "My name is (insert own name here) and I am addicted to completely mindless and crap TV".
There don't you feel better now?
Cheers
Michelle:)
Ok. Deep breath. Here it is......I'm...I'm...Just say it fast Michelle. For God's sake woman, like the ripping off of a bandaid, it's less painful if done quickly. Here goes. My name....My name....
"My name is Michelle and I am addicted to America's Next Top Model!"
There I've said it. It's out. I hear the gasps, the shock, the groans of horror. People turning away in disgust. Please, please before you turn me into A Current Affair or child services, for my perversion, listen to what I have to say. I know it's wrong but I can't help myself. Let me explain my affliction.
Oh Tyra Tyra Tyra. How can you not love a show that celebrates Tyra Banks and her ongoing quest to become a drag queen? I'll give the girl an A for effort. Or her "fierceness" (pronounced fe-earceness) and combined with her finger clicks dance. She has "fe-earce" eyes, "fe-earce" hands and "fe-earce'" poses. There is nothing like watching her morph from a boring pose to her "fe-earce" pose. 12 series down the track and it still cracks me up. Any one else would be given little pills to help with that problem. And who can forget her meltdown at Tiffany in season 4. An absolute fan favourite on you tube. I love you Tyra!
The judges are fantastic. Mr and Miss J (who has more poise and femininity than half the so called models) and the variety of ex-model judges from Twiggy to Janice "Queen of Nuts" Dickinson. And we can all agree that Nigel is a bit of fine ex-model turned photographer, eye candy. It's hilarious when one of the serious industry professionals comes in to judge. The look on their faces when they are trying to be polite to one of the girls after a shocker of a picture. Or their ability to hold their tongue when Tyra starts her "fe-earce" poses. My personal favourite is the look of horror they try to suppress when they realise one of these wannabes will soon be the face of their product.
How can you not love a show where a blond model wannabe says to the camera "I have to learn not to think so much. That's my problem I over think everything". Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. These chicks are hilarious. From the downright dumb, to the bitches, the nutters and the trailer trash, there's something for everyone. The makeovers are always worth watching for the complete and utter meltdown's the girls have because they get their hair cut. Hello it's season 12. Every season they cut and dye everyone's hair you can't truly be surprised. Or maybe that's why they fit so well into the brainless model stereotype. None of them seem to realise that they are getting a haircut from a guy who people wait months to see and pay $700 for such a cut. There was even a girl that left the show rather than cut their her. Drama at it's finest. Then there was the girl who didn't agree with $400 shorts and left. Again I say Hello. It's the fashion industry, you are a model wannabe, what do you truly expect? Have you not heard of Prada or Chanel? There have been so many nutters. Who can forget the infamous Jade. Now there's a girl with more than one screw loose. Then there was the girl who admitted a love of blood at her audition. You could imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her just standing at the end of your bed. Scary.
You get suckered into wanting the bitchy girls to get their comeuppances. The ones who sit there and say "I am the prettiest girl here", "I have the best walk" who then get kicked off or lose the weekly challenge they thought they were guaranteed to win. Schadenfreude at it best. Has no one ever given these girls a reality check. I swear that there is a whole group of parents who are afraid to tell their kids the reality of their talent or, in this case, beauty level (see also the auditions for Idol or So You Think You Can Dance if you don't believe me). I do like that Tyra allows in "interesting" models who wouldn't normally be classed as beautiful and "plus-sized" models (though how size 10 is plus-sized I'll never know) who actually have boobs and bums, unlike their skeletal mainstream counterparts. There you go Tyra is providing a public service to show that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes and brain volumes. See there is value in the show.
Put a group of immature, narcissistic girls in a house together, add an ultra-conservative religious girl, a lesbian, a party girl and a transsexual and let the television gold begin. I know it's scripted and edited and the girls are probably, hopefully, not as dumb or morally bankrupt as they appear on the show, but I don't care. Who cares that none of the winners have become the next big thing in the modeling industry. Are we really expecting to find a Gisele Bundchen or Cindy Crawford on this show? It's reality TV at it's finest. It's brain dead. It's shocking. It's morally repugnant on a number of levels. It's hilarious and I love it. It's suckered me in. Who wants to watch cortically stimulating TV like the West Wing or Damages when you can watch two stick thin trashy model wannabes nearly get into a scrag fight whilst wearing designer evening wear? It's pure gold!
Maybe this is where my supermodel delusions stem from. Pick me Tyra. Pick me. I may be 36 with a post-two kids body, complete with sagy butt, pancake boobs and stretch marks, but I'm "Fe-earce" too! Finger click, finger click.
Everyone has a secret shameful love, some gem of television programing that we can't admit to adoring. Those of you who love Bold and the Beautiful, or Big Brother, or Test Cricket, or secretly lust after Huey from Huey's Cooking Adventures, you know who you are.
It's time to come clean. Say it loud and say it proud. "My name is (insert own name here) and I am addicted to completely mindless and crap TV".
There don't you feel better now?
Cheers
Michelle:)
"Man Sick" vs "Woman Sick"
"Man Sick", sometimes refered to as the "Man Cold" is an international anthropological phenomenon. For those of you unfamiliar with the marvel that is "Man Sick" (ie those who have never met a man and live under a rock) check out the fantastic documentary from "Man Stroke Woman" entitled "Man Cold" available on you tube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXLHWmjA5IE , thanks Kerri).
Webster defines "Man Sick" as,
.....the universal phenomenon whereby men, regardless of age, intelligence, socioeconomic status, race or religion, believe unequivocally that they are dying because they have a sniffle or a booboo, and that no one in the history of humanity has ever been as sick as they. This phenomenom can only be ameliorated by copious amounts of TLC, pillows and a blankey, provided by the wife, girlfriend or mother who simply doesn't understand just how ill they are. "Man Sick" is often characterised by men speaking in baby voices and faning patheticness. For example "Honey bunny my feet are cold can you tuck in my blankey" or, "Honey can you get the remote for me. If I move or my blankey will fall, you don't care, I'm siiiiiick"....
"Man Sick"/pronounced wah wah wah/ from the Latin "mannus wussius"/
During convalescence those afflicted by "Man Sick" are unable to move from the couch or bed due to changes in the space, time continuum which have increased gravity in the area immediately surrounding them, thus "forcing" them into the supine position . Their arms and feet no longer work and they are unable to undertake any task related to the family or household.
All women have been inoculated against "Man Sick" at some point in time (I'm starting to think that it wasn't a rubella shot they gave us in grade 6 hmmmmmm.....?). At some point it was decided (probably by men) that if you are a woman and especially a mum, the best cure for illness is housework and school runs. All mum's are familiar with dropping kids off at school whilst coughing up a lung. Or making school lunches with tissues stuck up our noses to stop large amounts of mucus dripping into sandwiches (though sometimes despite our best efforts they do get the "special sauce" for extra flavour). Snot, hacking coughs, fever, headaches, these are no impediment for we women. Dinners are made, shirts are ironed, dogs are taken to vets and dry cleaning picked up. If we do mange to get to bed there are the constant questions. "So what were you planning for tea? Where do I find the salt and pepper? Did you get to the dry cleaners today?"...... Where the hell is my damn blankey?????
As women we all know the cure for "Man Sick"; a big can of "Hardenup Princess" taken twice a day until symptoms disappear. Note symptoms may persist long beyond when the offending sniffle has actually passed. If symptoms do persist call girlfriends to commiserate and regale them with stories of pathetic husbands; sorry dearest, I mean really truly, leave us alone, stop picking on us, sick husbands.
If you are reading this and currently coughing up lungs or losing mucus from every pore in your boby, shaking or light headed, whilst ironing shirts and picking up dog poo (I'm sure that the kids agreed to do that if they could get a dog), know that I am there with you sister. We need to mount an equality campaign to ensure that we women can also be afflicted with "Man Sick" at least occasionally. We need to stand up and demand our blankey. Until that time, I toast you with my LemSip.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Webster defines "Man Sick" as,
.....the universal phenomenon whereby men, regardless of age, intelligence, socioeconomic status, race or religion, believe unequivocally that they are dying because they have a sniffle or a booboo, and that no one in the history of humanity has ever been as sick as they. This phenomenom can only be ameliorated by copious amounts of TLC, pillows and a blankey, provided by the wife, girlfriend or mother who simply doesn't understand just how ill they are. "Man Sick" is often characterised by men speaking in baby voices and faning patheticness. For example "Honey bunny my feet are cold can you tuck in my blankey" or, "Honey can you get the remote for me. If I move or my blankey will fall, you don't care, I'm siiiiiick"....
"Man Sick"/pronounced wah wah wah/ from the Latin "mannus wussius"/
During convalescence those afflicted by "Man Sick" are unable to move from the couch or bed due to changes in the space, time continuum which have increased gravity in the area immediately surrounding them, thus "forcing" them into the supine position . Their arms and feet no longer work and they are unable to undertake any task related to the family or household.
All women have been inoculated against "Man Sick" at some point in time (I'm starting to think that it wasn't a rubella shot they gave us in grade 6 hmmmmmm.....?). At some point it was decided (probably by men) that if you are a woman and especially a mum, the best cure for illness is housework and school runs. All mum's are familiar with dropping kids off at school whilst coughing up a lung. Or making school lunches with tissues stuck up our noses to stop large amounts of mucus dripping into sandwiches (though sometimes despite our best efforts they do get the "special sauce" for extra flavour). Snot, hacking coughs, fever, headaches, these are no impediment for we women. Dinners are made, shirts are ironed, dogs are taken to vets and dry cleaning picked up. If we do mange to get to bed there are the constant questions. "So what were you planning for tea? Where do I find the salt and pepper? Did you get to the dry cleaners today?"...... Where the hell is my damn blankey?????
As women we all know the cure for "Man Sick"; a big can of "Hardenup Princess" taken twice a day until symptoms disappear. Note symptoms may persist long beyond when the offending sniffle has actually passed. If symptoms do persist call girlfriends to commiserate and regale them with stories of pathetic husbands; sorry dearest, I mean really truly, leave us alone, stop picking on us, sick husbands.
If you are reading this and currently coughing up lungs or losing mucus from every pore in your boby, shaking or light headed, whilst ironing shirts and picking up dog poo (I'm sure that the kids agreed to do that if they could get a dog), know that I am there with you sister. We need to mount an equality campaign to ensure that we women can also be afflicted with "Man Sick" at least occasionally. We need to stand up and demand our blankey. Until that time, I toast you with my LemSip.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Friday, 31 July 2009
Lost. One Brain. If Found Please Return.
Brain fog moving in from the west, and it's moving fast. Time to get out the fog lamps and sound the horn to warn anyone who's in my vicinity.
What the hell has happened to my brain? I'm sure I had one at some point. Though with the way my memory has been of late I may be mistaken.
Currently I'm having a menage à trois with the pantry and the milk, and occasionally the laundry. Wait does that that make it a menage à quatre? Hmmm....too early in the morning, too much thinking involved, lets move on. Mornings are not my friend. I usually wake up in a pea souper that can last till lunchtime, and when I'm really lucky all day. For some reason I can't get it together with my milk. I'm either looking for the milk in the pantry, putting it in the pantry or even in the laundry. I don't know why it's so complex but it baffles me most mornings. This is what my brain has been reduced to.
Apparently I am only getting about 50% of the blood I require to my brain, or so the doc's tell me. I think. Maybe. Not sure. Better ask David, he's my back up brain. At least I have an excuse for my dull brain now and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth. If only my heart would beat properly as opposed to just sitting there making an arse print on the couch. Whoa, I just had an epiphany, my heart has become Homer Simpson. D'oh! Instead of bom bom bom, my heart just does a pathetic airy bluh....................bluh.....................bluh. Damn you Bob. Damn you to hell! (Sorry obscure Planet of the Apes reference, Charleton Heston one not the crappy Marky Mark version).
Everything takes so much longer to think through. Even writing this blog is laborious. What should take me 10 minutes now takes 28 bloody hours. I have the attention span of a gnat and trying to find words is about as easy as trying to find Osama Bin Laden. Multi-tasking is no longer in my repertoire of skills. Following simple conversations can be difficult some days. Should I really be confused discussing Brittany Spears? Is Madonna's love life that complex? What the hell is going on? Is my husband spiking my coffee with vodka? Is there pot in my brownies? It's bloody exhausting.
Has anyone seen the fantastic you tube video of Miss Teen USA 2007 South Carolina's speech? Oh my god that cracks me up. If you haven't seen it please get on you tube and watch it, it's a classic. Comedy Gold! Sadly this is what I can sound like on a bad day. Hmmmmm.....first I had my Heidi Klum delusions and now I'm comparing myself to a beauty queen. It may be time to call the men in white suits. "They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa".
I am so not the sharpest tool in the shed. Or as my husband pointed out I am pretty much a "rusty hoe". Yes much laughter around the dinner table when everyone realised what he said. I'm not sure, but I do think both of my kids pretty much peed themselves they thought it was so funny. Yes yes. Mum is a rusty hoe. Ha de ha ha. At least I can still provide comic relief for my family.
My brain remains MIA. If you see a pink squishy brain floating around looking lost please send it back my way. I miss it very very muchly.
Cheers
Whatever the hell my name is! :)
What the hell has happened to my brain? I'm sure I had one at some point. Though with the way my memory has been of late I may be mistaken.
Currently I'm having a menage à trois with the pantry and the milk, and occasionally the laundry. Wait does that that make it a menage à quatre? Hmmm....too early in the morning, too much thinking involved, lets move on. Mornings are not my friend. I usually wake up in a pea souper that can last till lunchtime, and when I'm really lucky all day. For some reason I can't get it together with my milk. I'm either looking for the milk in the pantry, putting it in the pantry or even in the laundry. I don't know why it's so complex but it baffles me most mornings. This is what my brain has been reduced to.
Apparently I am only getting about 50% of the blood I require to my brain, or so the doc's tell me. I think. Maybe. Not sure. Better ask David, he's my back up brain. At least I have an excuse for my dull brain now and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth. If only my heart would beat properly as opposed to just sitting there making an arse print on the couch. Whoa, I just had an epiphany, my heart has become Homer Simpson. D'oh! Instead of bom bom bom, my heart just does a pathetic airy bluh....................bluh.....................bluh. Damn you Bob. Damn you to hell! (Sorry obscure Planet of the Apes reference, Charleton Heston one not the crappy Marky Mark version).
Everything takes so much longer to think through. Even writing this blog is laborious. What should take me 10 minutes now takes 28 bloody hours. I have the attention span of a gnat and trying to find words is about as easy as trying to find Osama Bin Laden. Multi-tasking is no longer in my repertoire of skills. Following simple conversations can be difficult some days. Should I really be confused discussing Brittany Spears? Is Madonna's love life that complex? What the hell is going on? Is my husband spiking my coffee with vodka? Is there pot in my brownies? It's bloody exhausting.
Has anyone seen the fantastic you tube video of Miss Teen USA 2007 South Carolina's speech? Oh my god that cracks me up. If you haven't seen it please get on you tube and watch it, it's a classic. Comedy Gold! Sadly this is what I can sound like on a bad day. Hmmmmm.....first I had my Heidi Klum delusions and now I'm comparing myself to a beauty queen. It may be time to call the men in white suits. "They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa".
I am so not the sharpest tool in the shed. Or as my husband pointed out I am pretty much a "rusty hoe". Yes much laughter around the dinner table when everyone realised what he said. I'm not sure, but I do think both of my kids pretty much peed themselves they thought it was so funny. Yes yes. Mum is a rusty hoe. Ha de ha ha. At least I can still provide comic relief for my family.
My brain remains MIA. If you see a pink squishy brain floating around looking lost please send it back my way. I miss it very very muchly.
Cheers
Whatever the hell my name is! :)
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
My Life as Heidi Klum's Double.
No. No. I'm not Heidi Klum but I can understand your confusion. The likeness is remarkable. Ha! "I don't think so Tim".
Why must people constantly say to me "But you look so well" or my fave "I thought you'd look sicker". What the....!! How am I supposed to respond to that? Apparently I don't look sick enough for some people.
Some days I feel like I should wrap my arms in bandages or grab a cane to walk with. Then I'd look "sick".
I may look like Heidi Klum on the outside, but on the inside I'm holding it together with gaffer tape, hope and a prayer, and the gaffer tape is losing its glue. Where's MacGyver when you need him? I'm sure he'd be able to shore me up with a piece of old chewing gum, a band aid and a paper clip.
What people don't seem to realise is that many chronic illnesses, like Bob, are primarily invisible. No one sees the internal crap that goes on. Just cause my super model good looks are showing doesn't mean I'm not feeling like death warmed up on the inside. If I was a house my innards wouldn't even be classed as a renovators delight. When I'm standing talking to you at the shopping centre a whole different dialogue going on inside:
"Ok I have about 5 more minutes before I'm going to have to leave. Damn my legs are starting to get shakey. Tense my calf muscles. Tense. Release. Tense. Release. Damn there go my hands. Pins and Needles. What? Oh yeah, I hear that Jenny's mum was going to the concert. Pump my hands. Pump my hands. Oh crap nausea starting. Swallow it down, swallow it down. Tense. Release. Tense release. Ok where's the closest stacking stool to sit down on? Ok, just over there. Tense. Release. Pump. Pump. Damn, dizziness starting. Focus Michelle, focus. What did she say? Damn, keep talking, keep talking. Any words will do. Nod meaningfully. Ok nausea rising, this isn't looking good. Yep. We will be going to the concert. Ok legs hold out just a little bit longer, just a couple more minutes, you can do it. Concentrate Michelle. Damn it concentrate. Getting shakey, crap vision going, wind in the ears. Crap. Pump. Pump. Tense. Release. Tense. Release. Uh Oh. She's looking at me meaningfully waiting for an answer. Damn what were we talking about. Penguins? No. Basketball. May be. Hmmmm. Concert that's right. Ok. Ok. Need to ask her about the.... what's the word? The stuff, the what you wear, the, the, the.....costumes! Ah ha success! Stacking stool 10 steps away. Start stealthly moving toward stool. Tense. Release. Tense......
No one sees the amount of strength, will power and plain old prayer that is required to stand for five minutes chatting about the school concert.
And when you are having a shocker of day you are hardly out and about showing off you pasty faced exhaustion. If you can't stand you can't do your "So You Think You Can Dance' moves at a night club. Duh! Maybe I should start taking photos of my super bad days. Then when the next well meaning person says "You're looking well Heidi. You must be getting better" I can show them my portfolio of pasty chic pictures to prove I'm still sick. Just ask my Husband. He can tell you it's true he's seen me at my worst. Apparently I look like "a bag of shit tied in the middle" some days; and who says the romance fades. Luv you too honey.
Illness isn't always visible people. It's tough looking like a super model some days.
Cheers
Heidi.
Oops that's right Michelle, my name is Michelle. Say it 20 times my name is Michelle, My name is Michelle.......... I am not a super model, I am not a super model...... :)
Why must people constantly say to me "But you look so well" or my fave "I thought you'd look sicker". What the....!! How am I supposed to respond to that? Apparently I don't look sick enough for some people.
Some days I feel like I should wrap my arms in bandages or grab a cane to walk with. Then I'd look "sick".
I may look like Heidi Klum on the outside, but on the inside I'm holding it together with gaffer tape, hope and a prayer, and the gaffer tape is losing its glue. Where's MacGyver when you need him? I'm sure he'd be able to shore me up with a piece of old chewing gum, a band aid and a paper clip.
What people don't seem to realise is that many chronic illnesses, like Bob, are primarily invisible. No one sees the internal crap that goes on. Just cause my super model good looks are showing doesn't mean I'm not feeling like death warmed up on the inside. If I was a house my innards wouldn't even be classed as a renovators delight. When I'm standing talking to you at the shopping centre a whole different dialogue going on inside:
"Ok I have about 5 more minutes before I'm going to have to leave. Damn my legs are starting to get shakey. Tense my calf muscles. Tense. Release. Tense. Release. Damn there go my hands. Pins and Needles. What? Oh yeah, I hear that Jenny's mum was going to the concert. Pump my hands. Pump my hands. Oh crap nausea starting. Swallow it down, swallow it down. Tense. Release. Tense release. Ok where's the closest stacking stool to sit down on? Ok, just over there. Tense. Release. Pump. Pump. Damn, dizziness starting. Focus Michelle, focus. What did she say? Damn, keep talking, keep talking. Any words will do. Nod meaningfully. Ok nausea rising, this isn't looking good. Yep. We will be going to the concert. Ok legs hold out just a little bit longer, just a couple more minutes, you can do it. Concentrate Michelle. Damn it concentrate. Getting shakey, crap vision going, wind in the ears. Crap. Pump. Pump. Tense. Release. Tense. Release. Uh Oh. She's looking at me meaningfully waiting for an answer. Damn what were we talking about. Penguins? No. Basketball. May be. Hmmmm. Concert that's right. Ok. Ok. Need to ask her about the.... what's the word? The stuff, the what you wear, the, the, the.....costumes! Ah ha success! Stacking stool 10 steps away. Start stealthly moving toward stool. Tense. Release. Tense......
No one sees the amount of strength, will power and plain old prayer that is required to stand for five minutes chatting about the school concert.
And when you are having a shocker of day you are hardly out and about showing off you pasty faced exhaustion. If you can't stand you can't do your "So You Think You Can Dance' moves at a night club. Duh! Maybe I should start taking photos of my super bad days. Then when the next well meaning person says "You're looking well Heidi. You must be getting better" I can show them my portfolio of pasty chic pictures to prove I'm still sick. Just ask my Husband. He can tell you it's true he's seen me at my worst. Apparently I look like "a bag of shit tied in the middle" some days; and who says the romance fades. Luv you too honey.
Illness isn't always visible people. It's tough looking like a super model some days.
Cheers
Heidi.
Oops that's right Michelle, my name is Michelle. Say it 20 times my name is Michelle, My name is Michelle.......... I am not a super model, I am not a super model...... :)
Friday, 24 July 2009
Bob and the White Rabbit
One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall
(White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane, 1967)
I've always loved this song. It's the quintessential 60's psychedelic anthem. Since Bob came into my life that first verse has taken on a whole new meaning. Pills and Bob go hand in hand. Unfortunately I have a sneaking suspicion that the members of Jefferson Airplane were having a much more entertaining time with their pills than I am with mine.
I take Pill A to increase my blood volume, Pill B to constrict my blood vessels, Pill C to manage my heart rate, Pill D to alter the neurochemical messages in my body, Pill E to compensate for the total lack of Vit D in my body, Pill E for the chronic gastro symptoms and Pill F to counteract the side effects of Pill A.........
Then there is Pill Q for the excrutiating headaches which result from low blood pressure, Pill R to stop the chronic hayfever which also lowers my BP, and Pill S a multi-vitamin which I take in a vain hope it might help something!
It's trial and error with the medications. You get to change pills because some just don't work, some have too many side effects, you need to keep increasing the dose to try and manage your escalating symptoms, or you need to add a new drug for the new and exciting symptom that has just developed.
I have become the human maraca, if only I could keep a beat.
Prior to Bob I would have been lucky to have a panadol once a month for a headache or the occasional Telfast for my hayfever. Now I'm on a first name basis with the pharmacist at my local chemist.
The side effects of many of the drugs can often seem worse than the symptoms they are supposed to treat. I've had a delightful collection of side effects some of which have passed, some of which are very very persistent, some of which are just plain weird. The list includes:
nausea (even water can make you want to puke)
vomiting (threw up for almost 6 wks when I started one of them. Better than Jenny Craig but oh so unpleasant!)
stomach cramps
the trotts (sprinting skills much improved, watch out Asafa Powell)
headaches
weird skin changes (bruise easily, dry skin, no tone, strange dots)
hair loss (it fills the shower drain every day)
dry mouth
painful hands (up that Florinef and I can't touch my hands for about a week)
insomnia, or conversely
drowsiness.
Fun, fun, fun.
My colourful pill collection is just part of the furniture now. I keep them in a cute red Arnotts biscuit tin on the bench (the Florinef in the fridge next to my chocolate stash, it's all about developing positive associations!!). My kids know what are my morning pills and my evening pills. They are so cognisant of my brain fog that they always ask "have you had your tablets Mum?". Three years ago we used to joke when the grandparents came to visit with their plastic shopping bag filled with their medications!
What can you do? You need the pills to function so you just have to suck it up. They're not a cure but they help you keep Bob in line, at least part of the time. It's all part of the joy of living with Bob. In the sage words of Jefferson Airplane:
"When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said;
"Keep YOUR HEAD"
Luv it!
Cheers
Michelle :)
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall
(White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane, 1967)
I've always loved this song. It's the quintessential 60's psychedelic anthem. Since Bob came into my life that first verse has taken on a whole new meaning. Pills and Bob go hand in hand. Unfortunately I have a sneaking suspicion that the members of Jefferson Airplane were having a much more entertaining time with their pills than I am with mine.
I take Pill A to increase my blood volume, Pill B to constrict my blood vessels, Pill C to manage my heart rate, Pill D to alter the neurochemical messages in my body, Pill E to compensate for the total lack of Vit D in my body, Pill E for the chronic gastro symptoms and Pill F to counteract the side effects of Pill A.........
Then there is Pill Q for the excrutiating headaches which result from low blood pressure, Pill R to stop the chronic hayfever which also lowers my BP, and Pill S a multi-vitamin which I take in a vain hope it might help something!
It's trial and error with the medications. You get to change pills because some just don't work, some have too many side effects, you need to keep increasing the dose to try and manage your escalating symptoms, or you need to add a new drug for the new and exciting symptom that has just developed.
I have become the human maraca, if only I could keep a beat.
Prior to Bob I would have been lucky to have a panadol once a month for a headache or the occasional Telfast for my hayfever. Now I'm on a first name basis with the pharmacist at my local chemist.
The side effects of many of the drugs can often seem worse than the symptoms they are supposed to treat. I've had a delightful collection of side effects some of which have passed, some of which are very very persistent, some of which are just plain weird. The list includes:
nausea (even water can make you want to puke)
vomiting (threw up for almost 6 wks when I started one of them. Better than Jenny Craig but oh so unpleasant!)
stomach cramps
the trotts (sprinting skills much improved, watch out Asafa Powell)
headaches
weird skin changes (bruise easily, dry skin, no tone, strange dots)
hair loss (it fills the shower drain every day)
dry mouth
painful hands (up that Florinef and I can't touch my hands for about a week)
insomnia, or conversely
drowsiness.
Fun, fun, fun.
My colourful pill collection is just part of the furniture now. I keep them in a cute red Arnotts biscuit tin on the bench (the Florinef in the fridge next to my chocolate stash, it's all about developing positive associations!!). My kids know what are my morning pills and my evening pills. They are so cognisant of my brain fog that they always ask "have you had your tablets Mum?". Three years ago we used to joke when the grandparents came to visit with their plastic shopping bag filled with their medications!
What can you do? You need the pills to function so you just have to suck it up. They're not a cure but they help you keep Bob in line, at least part of the time. It's all part of the joy of living with Bob. In the sage words of Jefferson Airplane:
"When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said;
"Keep YOUR HEAD"
Luv it!
Cheers
Michelle :)
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