As of late, I have been trying to apply my reduced intellect to the task of ameliorating my financial and career woes. As most of you will know, it has been two years since I had to finish work thanks to Bob. Now whilst many of you would no doubt be ecstatic at the thought of not working for two years, I am well and truly over it. There is this pesky problem of money, which is apparently required for things like mortgages, electricity, food and doctors' golfing fees.
There are difficulties here, which to those not familiar with Bob or his like-minded mates, may seem a tad weird. What job fits my skill set? Or more importantly what job fits my current ability levels? How do you find appropriate employment when your health is never stable? At this point, I can't even competently run my own bath (yep ran it right over the side, where was that sound of running water coming from?) and even making a coffee is akin to understanding String Theory.
I have no desire to apply for a job that is beyond me. I still remember the Peter Principle from my organisational psych class. For those unfamiliar with this, it's when someone is promoted to their highest level of incompetence. At this point in time, a career as a crash test dummy may constitute my own personal Peter Principle.
If I am to be honest with myself, which is rather difficult as I live in a constant state of denial, I have some rather specific requirements.
I would prefer a job where I can remain horizontal. Gravity is no longer my friend, and may in effect qualify as one of those bitchy girls at school that makes a nerd's (me being the nerd in question) life hell. Is there a job out there that would allow me to lie down or at least have my feet up for the day? Preferably is there a job out there that I can do in bed or on the couch?*
I would prefer a job where vague and looking like death warmed up are considered highly desirable. I have a post-doc in vague, with a specialisation in confused. I can make even the simplest of conversations and tasks equivalent to solving The Riemann Hypothesis, and about as successful. I have a trademark vacant look which combined with corpse chic and I'm sure that I am the ideal employee for any organisation.
After extensive cogitations (mostly at about 3 am) I've come up with a few possible occupations:
Dead body on CSI: Now this I think matches perfectly. I could play a dead body with ease. I already have a range of dramatic floor lying poses in my repertoire. They would also save a bundle in the make-up department as my blood pools almost immediately when I sit or lie, no need to spend hours with a little brush to get the right purple effect, I always bring my own. I am also happy to travel to Las Vegas or New York. Miami is out though as David Caruso gives me the creeps. On second thoughts CSI dead bodies tend to have the before 'action' shots which reveal their grizzly deaths. Unfortunately, action and I don't exactly get along. Maybe I could just be a Law and Order dead body. They just have a token death shot and then the gurney with the sheet. I can definitely do that. Morgues are also supposed to be cold so that's a bonus with my heat intolerance.
Zombie: Given my level of brain fog, my poor motor skills and lovely shades of pasty to purple skin, zombie pretty much is a no-brainer (no pun intended). I frequently look and act like an extra from Dawn of the Dead. I do have a preference for the classic 80's horror movie Zombie over the more recent incarnations. I'm all for the classics. My talent for incoherent mumblings could not be improved by a year at NIDA or The Royal Shakespeare Company. I can moan and mumble with the best of them. This career choice also means I wouldn't have to do my hair or shower, both arduous tasks with Bob.
Speed Bump: All I have to do is lie there. I can do that. In fact, I could do that damn well. Thanks to SNAFU I won't even feel it if you run over my foot. (My delightfully witty and caring husband thinks I should add FUBAR into my posts as well, as it really in the most appropriate acronym for my current state of being. Love you honey). Hot bitumen and sunshine may pose a problem though, so I'd probably have to stick with those dank underground car parks. Luckily there is always a dripping pipe in an underground car park so water is also no problem. Brilliant.
Passed out girl at party: every party has a passed out girl at some point (okay maybe not every party, maybe that's just the parties I used to attend). At the end of a day at the races, the morning of New Years Day, music festivals or any public holiday there is the token passed out girl. It's tradition really. You just know it's been a good event when there is a dishevelled girl passed out elegantly in a gutter or out the front of the venue. I may have to insist on a comfortable place to lie, I do have some standards, but other than that I'm there.
Gurney Girl: Every medical show has dozens of gurney extras. They never walk down a clear corridor, as that's not dramatic enough. They are always surrounded by gurneys of the dead and dying, longing for their selfless ministrations. I think I could manage to lie on a gurney. Hell, I'd even be happy to be under a sheet with a toe tag on. I'm not fussy. I'd also be happy to be 'wheelchair girl' especially if I can have the fake leg casts and have those leg props up. I'm happy to perve discreetly at the hot TV doctors that don't exist in real life. In fact, I'm willing to take a pay cut if I can play one of those disinhibited patients who grabs the doctors butt. And I'm willing to snog a hot doc for the sake of the storyline.
Vomit Artist: A few years ago I saw a story about a guy who received a $20,000 government grant to drink and then vomit milk on a canvas. Ah, your taxes at work. If that's art, I am an undiscovered genius. Nausea and vomiting come naturally courtesy of Bob. I am even willing to supply my own canvases. I'm kinda concerned about who may buy such art, but hey if you are ridiculous enough to buy vomit art I'm happy to take your money. Now if I can only find the guy from the Arts Council who approved this grant I'd be set.
So that's the options generated by my highly functioning last brain cell. As you can tell I am willing to think outside the box. Any other suggestions will be considered. Especially if they are real, pay loads and allow me to live in my pjs and work from the Batcave (aka my bedroom).
The unemployed Michelle :)
Oh wow, I just thought of another job. I'm happy to work for Chanel smelling their perfumes. I'm sure you don't need to be upright for that one. I'm willing to move to France. To eat croissants and cheese. I will even force myself to drink wine. I would even fit in with that high fashion pasty death look they are so fond of on the Paris cat walks. Plus I have been faithful to Chanel No.5 for years. That has to count for something. Call me Mr Chanel recruiting man. Call me. Please. Pretty please. Super pretty please....
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Always Something There To Remind Me.
I found my last work diary today. Why I still keep it I don't know, though I do have some hoarding tendencies. In truth I've always been a bit of a masochist. Nothing like a little self-flagellation with a 365-page reminder of a life that no longer exists to pass the day. Might as well put up a side-by-side picture of myself and Heidi Klum on the fridge, to wipe out my clone fantasy. This diary, like my work bag that sits at the end of my bed gathering dust* and desk piled high with research articles, only serve to remind me that life hasn't exactly turned out how I'd planned. This of course doesn't sit right with a girl who took anal to the extreme. Okay that sounds wrong, lets go with control freak extraordinaire. I think I would have made a good despot. Plan. Control. If I want something done right I'll do it myself and you'll all do it my way. I call it Type-A. David calls it the martyr gene. Something that is autosomal dominant in the females of our family, along with big butts and no boobs.
Open up to any page and it's reveals the typical Type-A personality in all it's glory. Every minute scheduled and accounted for. Meeting A, 45 mins (why did I never feel comfortable saying 1hr to incorporate the the post-meeting chat and recovery coffee required to maintain sanity). Phone call to family of patient B, 5 mins. Phone call to Patient C's GP 15 mins, Review Patient D' MRI, 10 mins......... Lordy I was a loser. I'm surprised anything could get out of my sphincter it was shut so tight. I was the freak that would stay an extra 2 hours of unpaid overtime if a patient or their family required. I took the extra 5 referrals that I really couldn't fit in my paltry official work hours to make sure patients who needed an assessment were seen. I took on what should have been other people's jobs to make sure they would be not only completed, but completed to my anal specifications. I wish I could have been one of those staff members who arrived right on the dot, then got a coffee, checked emails and started work 30 mins later. That did the minimal work required to meet their KPIs. Had every last second of their designated lunch break each day and were out the door as soon as the hand on the clock ticked over. Stupid Michelle, Stupid.
When I look back at January that year the entries begin to jar. GP appointment 9:30am. Blood Tests 11.45am. ECG 3:30pm. EEG 4.45pm. Day after day after day. This I realise is when Bob first made his presence known. So right about now is our official three year anniversary. Happy anniversary Bob. Though if I'm honest he'd probably been lurking around the fringes of my life for a while before.
So what do you get the guy that changed your life? Leather, according to Wikipedia. That's actually probably not a bad one as it's been a three year bondage fest and I've obviously forgotten the safe word.
When I think about the last three years it's all been a bit of a blur. Varying degrees of sick punctuated by my single-handed funding of the entire medical system in Australia. It's amazing what you get used to. My health 'normal' is very different to that of the rest of my family. For those lucky enough not to have experienced the pleasantness of day-to-day living with Bob, I will try to clarify it in terms you can understand. The 'normal' or good days are akin to having the flu. The bad days are akin to having the flu, a migraine, food poisoning, conjunctivitis, haemorrhoids like bowling balls, athlete's foot, passing a kidney stone, a hangover, boy cooties, and a swim too-soon-after-eating side cramp, all at once.
Looking at those pages does bring home how sick I was. Not just sick, as in not feeling well. But sick complete with capital letters, bold font, underlining, italics and multiple exclamation marks. I thought I'd been sick before, naive fool. I had no idea what sick was.
One of my pre-Bob illness highlights occurred during a return trip from Singapore. Dodgy last meal in a little restaurant down a dark alleyway was not the smartest of moves an hour before an 11 hour flight back to Melbourne. Severe food poisoning on a cramped QANTAS flight was definitely not how I had envisioned my trip home. I had visions of me circa-1950s glamour, glass of champagne in hand, movie on screen, passing the time in witty conversation with my fellow passengers. But no, instead it was me with my own loo, rapidly ridding my body of its internal organs down the blue waters of hell.
A personal highlight was achieved during a stop over in Adelaide. The aircraft came to a halt. Passengers stood up to gather their luggage from the overhead lockers and then an announcement came over the intercom. "Excuse me passengers. This is Captain So and So. We are awaiting Quarantine's arrival to check an ill passenger. I'm afraid you will all have to take your seats until we have clearance by Quarantine services". Oh who could that be? I could feel the hatred from my fellow passengers boring through the seats behind which I was hiding with my puke bag. Despite my best attempts to crawl into a corner and die quietly, it was obvious that I was the hideous individual keeping them on the sardine can that was the plane. They looked at me like I was that little monkey from "Outbreak". Truth be told that monkey was a whole lot prettier than me by that stage. I'm pretty sure I looked about as attractive as a old piece of chewing gum that's been stuck to your shoe for a week. Quarantine finally arrived after an eternity.
Burly Quarantine man: "Have you been to a farm? Have you been exposed to poultry?"
Me: "Well just at the markets."
Burly Quarantine man: "No. Okay everyone can get off".
Sleep safe Australia, Quarantine services at their finest. I wont bore you with the details of the hour I had to drive myself home from the airport. Let's just say I made it, but I may have come close to overdosing on Imodium. I realise now this adventure was just a cake walk compared to what was to come.
That black A4 diary is a log of my voyage with Bob over that first fateful year. For some reason it makes me think of Gilligan's Island and their "3 hour tour". Initially I though I had a virus that would pass. Then I realised it wasn't passing, and was in fact, getting worse. Then it dawned on me it may actually be something serious. Not in the the usual overly dramatic hypochondriac moments where you tell everyone you are dying because you have a cold. But I actually began to realise this wasn't just a bit of a bug and started to panic about the real possibilities. I don't advise getting really sick when you have worked in neurology, not only do you think it's the end, but you know all the possible ends it can be, and how to research them.
The page where I met the doctor from hell who told me I was a just a nutter, is empty except for a single note about an 11:30 appointment. I feel like I should have written it in red pen, highlighted it and surrounded it with big arrows and line after line of, "Warning. Warning. Danger Will Robinson. Danger". Maybe the emptiness of the page reflects the total emptiness I was left with that day after I had cried myself dry.
A month in there is another innocuous entry indicating a cardiologist appointment. Again I was left with the same emptiness after being told that I could try one drug, more water and salt, and if that didn't help there was no hope. Emptiness with a side of numbness.
In between these entries are increasingly more frequent entries of one word, 'sick', simply scrawled across the page. One word to describe not being able to drive or lift my head without nearly passing out. One word to describe my body slowly descending into a cascade failure. One word to describe fear and anxiety. One word to feel hopeless. One word to scribe those soul destroying words into stone, "it's all in your head".
Flipping through the pages I see yet another one line entry. "Cardio. 2:30. Hawthorne". Three simple words that jump off the page. These three words should be scribed in gold and surrounded by stars and fireworks. Three little words that restored a little of my sanity and hope. Three little words that lead me to a gem of a doctor and a diagnosis of Bob. It probably sounds odd but I feel like I should take out that page and stick it in a frame. Not because it formally gave me a diagnosis of a weird disorder that no one had heard of or understands, or can really treat, but because uncertainty is the worst diagnosis you can have and it was finally cured.
October 31st that year was the last day I officially worked. It has the traditional anal list of what needs to be done before my plan of 4 months unpaid sick leave. All checked off of course. Anal girl would have it no other way. I was still hopeful back then that I would have a triumphant return to work on the 1st of March. I had visions of myself St George style, slaying the dragon. I'd ride back in through those sliding glass doors on my magnificent stallion, the Bob beast slain, his bloody head hanging from my clenched fist. But that was not to be.
I have tried to maintain a normal life and deal with Bob but it can become a tad tiresome. I lived by those lines by Dylan Thomas:
"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
(1951)
I raged and I raged until I was hoarse. Bob raged louder and longer and won the day. First it was work. Then it was my doctorate. Independence went by the way-side and social life, well I know I had one at one point but I can't quite remember what it looked like. When I look back at those halcyon days, I like to think I was a mix of Pearl S. Buck and Elizabeth Blackwell, with a good dose of Carrie Bradshaw (for the shoes of course), Holly Golightly (ahhh the little black dress) and Elizabeth Bennett. (Hey it's my blog and I'll be as delusional as I want).
Now it's three years later and I am still battling the Bob beast. I have had small triumphs. I rarely pass out now, always a bonus. I am no longer dating my porcelain lover due to medication side effects. Now we just get together for the occasional coffee when Bob's feeling frisky. Unfortunately, other than that it's the same old, same old.
The hardest thing for me to deal with is the brain fog. That's not to say the continual nausea, sudden bp drops, lack of blood and oxygen to the old brain, dizziness, heat-intolerance, purple feet, and the rest, are a joy to live with but the brain fog hits home for me. Brain fog reminds me like a slap across the face, that I am sick and that I am now officially disabled. Once upon a time I had a brain. I know I did. I have the certificates to prove it. I duxed my Honours year in my Psychology course. I was accepted by all the doctoral programs to which I applied. Won an international neuropsychology award for my research. Wrote treatment and medico-legal guidelines for the biggest health service in the state, whilst managing a complex case load and developing my department. Now I have trouble recalling the name of the thingy that makes the bread turn brown, and have days where I can't construct a sentence to save myself. If my body has to be broken I think it's only fair that I get to keep my brain. Regardless of the physical restraints, you can live a thousand different lives in a thousand different worlds if you have your mind. Freedom and independence reside in that rather ugly, floating blob of grey. I miss it. I don't know if I'll ever come to terms with the peat bog that now resides between my ears.
Three years down the track and I have yet to have any epiphanies like Oprah's guests. I am not flying the flag for Dysautonomia, organising dinners or fun runs. I haven't found my true path, or God, or Allah, or Buddha or any other spiritual awakening. I am not one of those sick people that other sickies should admire and aspire to be like. I am grumpy. I am shitty. I pout like a two-year-old. I refuse to accept that I am sick. I say "screw you Bob". I live in denial or avoidance, whatever takes my fancy on the day. If you offer me pity I am likely to tell you to stick it where the sun don't shine. I tell inappropriate jokes and have taken sarcasm to a fine art. If you tell me to sit down, put on a jumper, or have a lie down I will beat you to a bloody pulp with my pathetically weak arms even if takes me a year and a half. Maybe next year I'll find that bloody epiphany. Though I'm starting to think I'm doing a Moses, 40 years in the desert and all. Then again I don't know if I could live with myself if I was to become perpetually perky. Maybe I could just take some of our dogs happy pills, and live in a blissful fantasy land, stop peeing in the downstairs rumpus room and stop eating the couch cushions.
So happy anniversary to Bob. Three years of wedded anti-bliss. I think I'll buy myself a leather riding crop and saddle to celebrate our anniversary. That's gotta at least give me a fighting chance of taming him. No chaps though. I have enough on my plate without chaffing and my butt definitely needs to be covered.
The raging leather clad Michelle :)
* Finally found some of that intestinal fortitude you always hear about and cleaned out my work bag. It is now safely hidden from view, ensconced behind a wall of clothing. Now there will be no accidentally views to make me sad. Tip for the day don't leave your work bag at the end of your bed for two years because you are too emotionally enfeebled to deal with it. Muesli bars do not keep well for two years in your humid work bag. Nor do the mints that somehow managed to escape their tin and start their own little hairy mutant colony in the bottom left hand corner. Cup of Soups on the other hand will survive the nuclear apocalypse.
Open up to any page and it's reveals the typical Type-A personality in all it's glory. Every minute scheduled and accounted for. Meeting A, 45 mins (why did I never feel comfortable saying 1hr to incorporate the the post-meeting chat and recovery coffee required to maintain sanity). Phone call to family of patient B, 5 mins. Phone call to Patient C's GP 15 mins, Review Patient D' MRI, 10 mins......... Lordy I was a loser. I'm surprised anything could get out of my sphincter it was shut so tight. I was the freak that would stay an extra 2 hours of unpaid overtime if a patient or their family required. I took the extra 5 referrals that I really couldn't fit in my paltry official work hours to make sure patients who needed an assessment were seen. I took on what should have been other people's jobs to make sure they would be not only completed, but completed to my anal specifications. I wish I could have been one of those staff members who arrived right on the dot, then got a coffee, checked emails and started work 30 mins later. That did the minimal work required to meet their KPIs. Had every last second of their designated lunch break each day and were out the door as soon as the hand on the clock ticked over. Stupid Michelle, Stupid.
When I look back at January that year the entries begin to jar. GP appointment 9:30am. Blood Tests 11.45am. ECG 3:30pm. EEG 4.45pm. Day after day after day. This I realise is when Bob first made his presence known. So right about now is our official three year anniversary. Happy anniversary Bob. Though if I'm honest he'd probably been lurking around the fringes of my life for a while before.
So what do you get the guy that changed your life? Leather, according to Wikipedia. That's actually probably not a bad one as it's been a three year bondage fest and I've obviously forgotten the safe word.
When I think about the last three years it's all been a bit of a blur. Varying degrees of sick punctuated by my single-handed funding of the entire medical system in Australia. It's amazing what you get used to. My health 'normal' is very different to that of the rest of my family. For those lucky enough not to have experienced the pleasantness of day-to-day living with Bob, I will try to clarify it in terms you can understand. The 'normal' or good days are akin to having the flu. The bad days are akin to having the flu, a migraine, food poisoning, conjunctivitis, haemorrhoids like bowling balls, athlete's foot, passing a kidney stone, a hangover, boy cooties, and a swim too-soon-after-eating side cramp, all at once.
Looking at those pages does bring home how sick I was. Not just sick, as in not feeling well. But sick complete with capital letters, bold font, underlining, italics and multiple exclamation marks. I thought I'd been sick before, naive fool. I had no idea what sick was.
One of my pre-Bob illness highlights occurred during a return trip from Singapore. Dodgy last meal in a little restaurant down a dark alleyway was not the smartest of moves an hour before an 11 hour flight back to Melbourne. Severe food poisoning on a cramped QANTAS flight was definitely not how I had envisioned my trip home. I had visions of me circa-1950s glamour, glass of champagne in hand, movie on screen, passing the time in witty conversation with my fellow passengers. But no, instead it was me with my own loo, rapidly ridding my body of its internal organs down the blue waters of hell.
A personal highlight was achieved during a stop over in Adelaide. The aircraft came to a halt. Passengers stood up to gather their luggage from the overhead lockers and then an announcement came over the intercom. "Excuse me passengers. This is Captain So and So. We are awaiting Quarantine's arrival to check an ill passenger. I'm afraid you will all have to take your seats until we have clearance by Quarantine services". Oh who could that be? I could feel the hatred from my fellow passengers boring through the seats behind which I was hiding with my puke bag. Despite my best attempts to crawl into a corner and die quietly, it was obvious that I was the hideous individual keeping them on the sardine can that was the plane. They looked at me like I was that little monkey from "Outbreak". Truth be told that monkey was a whole lot prettier than me by that stage. I'm pretty sure I looked about as attractive as a old piece of chewing gum that's been stuck to your shoe for a week. Quarantine finally arrived after an eternity.
Burly Quarantine man: "Have you been to a farm? Have you been exposed to poultry?"
Me: "Well just at the markets."
Burly Quarantine man: "No. Okay everyone can get off".
Sleep safe Australia, Quarantine services at their finest. I wont bore you with the details of the hour I had to drive myself home from the airport. Let's just say I made it, but I may have come close to overdosing on Imodium. I realise now this adventure was just a cake walk compared to what was to come.
That black A4 diary is a log of my voyage with Bob over that first fateful year. For some reason it makes me think of Gilligan's Island and their "3 hour tour". Initially I though I had a virus that would pass. Then I realised it wasn't passing, and was in fact, getting worse. Then it dawned on me it may actually be something serious. Not in the the usual overly dramatic hypochondriac moments where you tell everyone you are dying because you have a cold. But I actually began to realise this wasn't just a bit of a bug and started to panic about the real possibilities. I don't advise getting really sick when you have worked in neurology, not only do you think it's the end, but you know all the possible ends it can be, and how to research them.
The page where I met the doctor from hell who told me I was a just a nutter, is empty except for a single note about an 11:30 appointment. I feel like I should have written it in red pen, highlighted it and surrounded it with big arrows and line after line of, "Warning. Warning. Danger Will Robinson. Danger". Maybe the emptiness of the page reflects the total emptiness I was left with that day after I had cried myself dry.
A month in there is another innocuous entry indicating a cardiologist appointment. Again I was left with the same emptiness after being told that I could try one drug, more water and salt, and if that didn't help there was no hope. Emptiness with a side of numbness.
In between these entries are increasingly more frequent entries of one word, 'sick', simply scrawled across the page. One word to describe not being able to drive or lift my head without nearly passing out. One word to describe my body slowly descending into a cascade failure. One word to describe fear and anxiety. One word to feel hopeless. One word to scribe those soul destroying words into stone, "it's all in your head".
Flipping through the pages I see yet another one line entry. "Cardio. 2:30. Hawthorne". Three simple words that jump off the page. These three words should be scribed in gold and surrounded by stars and fireworks. Three little words that restored a little of my sanity and hope. Three little words that lead me to a gem of a doctor and a diagnosis of Bob. It probably sounds odd but I feel like I should take out that page and stick it in a frame. Not because it formally gave me a diagnosis of a weird disorder that no one had heard of or understands, or can really treat, but because uncertainty is the worst diagnosis you can have and it was finally cured.
October 31st that year was the last day I officially worked. It has the traditional anal list of what needs to be done before my plan of 4 months unpaid sick leave. All checked off of course. Anal girl would have it no other way. I was still hopeful back then that I would have a triumphant return to work on the 1st of March. I had visions of myself St George style, slaying the dragon. I'd ride back in through those sliding glass doors on my magnificent stallion, the Bob beast slain, his bloody head hanging from my clenched fist. But that was not to be.
I have tried to maintain a normal life and deal with Bob but it can become a tad tiresome. I lived by those lines by Dylan Thomas:
"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
(1951)
I raged and I raged until I was hoarse. Bob raged louder and longer and won the day. First it was work. Then it was my doctorate. Independence went by the way-side and social life, well I know I had one at one point but I can't quite remember what it looked like. When I look back at those halcyon days, I like to think I was a mix of Pearl S. Buck and Elizabeth Blackwell, with a good dose of Carrie Bradshaw (for the shoes of course), Holly Golightly (ahhh the little black dress) and Elizabeth Bennett. (Hey it's my blog and I'll be as delusional as I want).
Now it's three years later and I am still battling the Bob beast. I have had small triumphs. I rarely pass out now, always a bonus. I am no longer dating my porcelain lover due to medication side effects. Now we just get together for the occasional coffee when Bob's feeling frisky. Unfortunately, other than that it's the same old, same old.
The hardest thing for me to deal with is the brain fog. That's not to say the continual nausea, sudden bp drops, lack of blood and oxygen to the old brain, dizziness, heat-intolerance, purple feet, and the rest, are a joy to live with but the brain fog hits home for me. Brain fog reminds me like a slap across the face, that I am sick and that I am now officially disabled. Once upon a time I had a brain. I know I did. I have the certificates to prove it. I duxed my Honours year in my Psychology course. I was accepted by all the doctoral programs to which I applied. Won an international neuropsychology award for my research. Wrote treatment and medico-legal guidelines for the biggest health service in the state, whilst managing a complex case load and developing my department. Now I have trouble recalling the name of the thingy that makes the bread turn brown, and have days where I can't construct a sentence to save myself. If my body has to be broken I think it's only fair that I get to keep my brain. Regardless of the physical restraints, you can live a thousand different lives in a thousand different worlds if you have your mind. Freedom and independence reside in that rather ugly, floating blob of grey. I miss it. I don't know if I'll ever come to terms with the peat bog that now resides between my ears.
Three years down the track and I have yet to have any epiphanies like Oprah's guests. I am not flying the flag for Dysautonomia, organising dinners or fun runs. I haven't found my true path, or God, or Allah, or Buddha or any other spiritual awakening. I am not one of those sick people that other sickies should admire and aspire to be like. I am grumpy. I am shitty. I pout like a two-year-old. I refuse to accept that I am sick. I say "screw you Bob". I live in denial or avoidance, whatever takes my fancy on the day. If you offer me pity I am likely to tell you to stick it where the sun don't shine. I tell inappropriate jokes and have taken sarcasm to a fine art. If you tell me to sit down, put on a jumper, or have a lie down I will beat you to a bloody pulp with my pathetically weak arms even if takes me a year and a half. Maybe next year I'll find that bloody epiphany. Though I'm starting to think I'm doing a Moses, 40 years in the desert and all. Then again I don't know if I could live with myself if I was to become perpetually perky. Maybe I could just take some of our dogs happy pills, and live in a blissful fantasy land, stop peeing in the downstairs rumpus room and stop eating the couch cushions.
So happy anniversary to Bob. Three years of wedded anti-bliss. I think I'll buy myself a leather riding crop and saddle to celebrate our anniversary. That's gotta at least give me a fighting chance of taming him. No chaps though. I have enough on my plate without chaffing and my butt definitely needs to be covered.
The raging leather clad Michelle :)
* Finally found some of that intestinal fortitude you always hear about and cleaned out my work bag. It is now safely hidden from view, ensconced behind a wall of clothing. Now there will be no accidentally views to make me sad. Tip for the day don't leave your work bag at the end of your bed for two years because you are too emotionally enfeebled to deal with it. Muesli bars do not keep well for two years in your humid work bag. Nor do the mints that somehow managed to escape their tin and start their own little hairy mutant colony in the bottom left hand corner. Cup of Soups on the other hand will survive the nuclear apocalypse.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Why Yes. My House Does Smell Like Cat Pee.
48G9H8NFAXKN I'm listening to Norah Jones (or "Boring Jones" as David delights in calling her) in an attempt to lull my brain into stupefying dullness that will allow me to ignore the school holiday mess growing throughout the house. Yes, I know. My music choice is more than a bit naff, but I gave up any hopes of being hip or cool a long time ago. Does it count that she is accompanied by PJ Harvey, Nina Simone, Garbage and AC/DC, on shuffle in the five stacker? Or does this simply mean that I have the attention span of a gnat, or that my multiple personalities programed the player? Lets go with eclectic, that sounds vaguely intelligent.
I pretty much listen to all styles of music except for perhaps 98% of the trash that falls under the labels electronica and gangster rap. I have a deep and abiding love for all things mullet rock. There's something about soap-challenged men with mullets and spray on jeans that is simply irresistible. The image of Bon Scott in super tight denim, an obvious attempt to squish his frank and beans up into his diaphragm, as he thrust his crutch at the TV screen will be forever burned in my memory. I often think this image was the true reason why my mum would pretty much break out the rosary and holy water when my brother cranked up the record player. This would be closely followed by me being angrily bustled away from my listening post outside his door. My 7-year-old appreciation of "devil music", like many other things were considered highly offensive to a woman who once thought the use of the word "bloody" was worthy of a wooden spoon. I still feel a sense of childhood rebellion when I listen to Jailbreak, much like the "power to the people" moment I feel when I make a conscious choice to ignore the dust blanket on top of the TV cabinet. Dusting is the domain of grown ups and I refuse to believe I'm a grown up just yet.
My new mantra for 2010 is taken from a four dollar fridge magnet. I am not ashamed. I whole heartedly agree with the magnet that declares "Dull women have immaculate houses". Who knew such Confucian wisdom could be found on a piece of playing card-sized plastic purchased on a whim at the $2 Dollar store. (Side bar question. Why do they call them $2 dollar stores when only a hand full of the products are available for $2? I know it's not exactly right up there with the deep philosophical conundrums of "Why are we here?", and "Does God exist?", but this is the kind of question that keep me up at night. Well that, and will I succeed in my campaign to get Nestle to overturn their decision to cease production of the turd-shaped, cultural icon, know as the the Polly Woffle*?) A quick inventory of my surrounds and I am reassured that I am definitely not dull. In fact I may be the world's most exciting woman.
Recently, due to my previously described encounters with walls named Bob, my mother (also known and the High Priestess of Clean) came to exorcise the dust and debris from my home. She did well hiding her motherly disappointment in my lack of attention to domestic duties. Clearly I was not meeting my cleaning KPIs but she took the softly softly manager approach and got stuck in. My oven looked like the inside of one of those industrial power plant chimneys yet she took it as a challenge. My bathrooms became an episode of survivor and damn it she was not having her flame snuffed out. She did battle with dinosaur sized window spiders in the outside cobwebs and washed a ute load of dog mud off the glass doors at the back of the house. By the end I think she was quite proud of how exciting her daughter's life had obviously become. Well at least I think that's what she meant when she said "Oh, Michelle".
One thing that she was unable to banish, despite the prodigious use of elbow grease, caustic chemical cleaners and holy water, was the underlying smell of cat pee which appears to have infiltrated our house at the atomic level. Our cat is old. Old, demented, toothless and rampantly incontinent. She is perpetually confused, or so she likes us to think. I however, believe she has created her own pussy bucket list, and top of that list is her mission to pee on every square corner of the house before she heads to the big cattery in the sky. She has met the other missions on her list including freak out the girly great danes by sitting one millimetre from their fearful faces (the cat version of "I'm not touching you"). Lull her captors (no one ever really owns a cat) into thinking she wants a pat and then ripping the limbs from their bodies. As she likes to mess with us, she follows her bloody rampage, with sedate rubbing against our legs, in a poorly veiled attempt to entice us to touch her yet again (only the foolish make that mistake twice). And of course, as far as she is concerned she rules the universe.
She pees on bags (school, sporting and shopping), pillows, clothing, towels, couches, cricket gear, football gear, dog beds and in doorways. The cat version of old lady pee is powerful stuff, reminiscent of the Lion enclosure at the zoo on a really really hot day. I'm beginning to think short of a flame thrower or nuclear blast we may be unable to rid the house completely of her rancid offerings. Months of eucalyptus oil, baking soda and expensive pet odour cleaners have not even come close to meeting the challenge. Maybe I should just resign myself to the under-note of wee that permeates the house despite oil burners, open windows and incense. Look out for a bowl of filigree Renaissance pomanders and cold war gas masks by the front door if ever you chance to visit.
Cheers
The pomander carrying, Bon Scott loving, Michelle :)
* Nothing symbolises the early 80s for me like the Polly Waffle. As a child my parents ran a corner store and I would sit out back after school each day with a Polly Waffle, Bubble Gum Paddle Pop, and a copy of Whizzer and Chips, trying to work out what the hell a "conker" was. Interestingly not one of these products still exist. I fear my apathy may impair my campaign as I am yet to write a petition, send in a letter of complaint or join the Facebook site. I did have grand plans of a nude sit-in on the steps of Parliament surrounded by a sea of Polly Waffles. However, a quick reality check and I realised that I would look like a pasty and saggy, mad woman surrounded by a sea of turds, and the plan was quickly abandoned). 48G9H8NFAXKN
I pretty much listen to all styles of music except for perhaps 98% of the trash that falls under the labels electronica and gangster rap. I have a deep and abiding love for all things mullet rock. There's something about soap-challenged men with mullets and spray on jeans that is simply irresistible. The image of Bon Scott in super tight denim, an obvious attempt to squish his frank and beans up into his diaphragm, as he thrust his crutch at the TV screen will be forever burned in my memory. I often think this image was the true reason why my mum would pretty much break out the rosary and holy water when my brother cranked up the record player. This would be closely followed by me being angrily bustled away from my listening post outside his door. My 7-year-old appreciation of "devil music", like many other things were considered highly offensive to a woman who once thought the use of the word "bloody" was worthy of a wooden spoon. I still feel a sense of childhood rebellion when I listen to Jailbreak, much like the "power to the people" moment I feel when I make a conscious choice to ignore the dust blanket on top of the TV cabinet. Dusting is the domain of grown ups and I refuse to believe I'm a grown up just yet.
My new mantra for 2010 is taken from a four dollar fridge magnet. I am not ashamed. I whole heartedly agree with the magnet that declares "Dull women have immaculate houses". Who knew such Confucian wisdom could be found on a piece of playing card-sized plastic purchased on a whim at the $2 Dollar store. (Side bar question. Why do they call them $2 dollar stores when only a hand full of the products are available for $2? I know it's not exactly right up there with the deep philosophical conundrums of "Why are we here?", and "Does God exist?", but this is the kind of question that keep me up at night. Well that, and will I succeed in my campaign to get Nestle to overturn their decision to cease production of the turd-shaped, cultural icon, know as the the Polly Woffle*?) A quick inventory of my surrounds and I am reassured that I am definitely not dull. In fact I may be the world's most exciting woman.
Recently, due to my previously described encounters with walls named Bob, my mother (also known and the High Priestess of Clean) came to exorcise the dust and debris from my home. She did well hiding her motherly disappointment in my lack of attention to domestic duties. Clearly I was not meeting my cleaning KPIs but she took the softly softly manager approach and got stuck in. My oven looked like the inside of one of those industrial power plant chimneys yet she took it as a challenge. My bathrooms became an episode of survivor and damn it she was not having her flame snuffed out. She did battle with dinosaur sized window spiders in the outside cobwebs and washed a ute load of dog mud off the glass doors at the back of the house. By the end I think she was quite proud of how exciting her daughter's life had obviously become. Well at least I think that's what she meant when she said "Oh, Michelle".
One thing that she was unable to banish, despite the prodigious use of elbow grease, caustic chemical cleaners and holy water, was the underlying smell of cat pee which appears to have infiltrated our house at the atomic level. Our cat is old. Old, demented, toothless and rampantly incontinent. She is perpetually confused, or so she likes us to think. I however, believe she has created her own pussy bucket list, and top of that list is her mission to pee on every square corner of the house before she heads to the big cattery in the sky. She has met the other missions on her list including freak out the girly great danes by sitting one millimetre from their fearful faces (the cat version of "I'm not touching you"). Lull her captors (no one ever really owns a cat) into thinking she wants a pat and then ripping the limbs from their bodies. As she likes to mess with us, she follows her bloody rampage, with sedate rubbing against our legs, in a poorly veiled attempt to entice us to touch her yet again (only the foolish make that mistake twice). And of course, as far as she is concerned she rules the universe.
She pees on bags (school, sporting and shopping), pillows, clothing, towels, couches, cricket gear, football gear, dog beds and in doorways. The cat version of old lady pee is powerful stuff, reminiscent of the Lion enclosure at the zoo on a really really hot day. I'm beginning to think short of a flame thrower or nuclear blast we may be unable to rid the house completely of her rancid offerings. Months of eucalyptus oil, baking soda and expensive pet odour cleaners have not even come close to meeting the challenge. Maybe I should just resign myself to the under-note of wee that permeates the house despite oil burners, open windows and incense. Look out for a bowl of filigree Renaissance pomanders and cold war gas masks by the front door if ever you chance to visit.
Cheers
The pomander carrying, Bon Scott loving, Michelle :)
* Nothing symbolises the early 80s for me like the Polly Waffle. As a child my parents ran a corner store and I would sit out back after school each day with a Polly Waffle, Bubble Gum Paddle Pop, and a copy of Whizzer and Chips, trying to work out what the hell a "conker" was. Interestingly not one of these products still exist. I fear my apathy may impair my campaign as I am yet to write a petition, send in a letter of complaint or join the Facebook site. I did have grand plans of a nude sit-in on the steps of Parliament surrounded by a sea of Polly Waffles. However, a quick reality check and I realised that I would look like a pasty and saggy, mad woman surrounded by a sea of turds, and the plan was quickly abandoned). 48G9H8NFAXKN
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Dust
The girl stands silently in front of the door. She shifts her feet, clenching and unclenching the pale hands by her sides. The sun shines through the window too her right. The colour is drained from all it touches. The girl moves in a world grey and colourless. She raises her hand and reaches slowly for the doorknob. She pauses. Her hand hovers over the battered brass globe. It teeters, suspended by an invisible string of fear. She is overcome by weakness and her hand drops back to her side. She knows what lies behind the dark wooden door before her. Another life. Another time. Another girl. Dust.
The door before her hides its secrets well. Bland, brown, unpainted laminate of a time long past. Immovable, impenetrable, silent. It stands as sentinel to a treasure long lost to the world of men. Yet its tongue longs to loosen under it's burden. Clues to its guardianship strive to seep through tiny cracks and flaking board. Only the girl knows the truth of what lies within. Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
She closes her eyes. The handle before her sings. Its siren song calls her and she places her trembling hand upon its icy surface. She shudders. Echoes of another time race up her slender arm, chilling her. It stops her breath. She struggles to recover her equilibrium whilst the world around her spins and heaves. The violence of the storm threatens to overwhelm her. Then. Silence. Short ragged breathes break from her throat. Her heart beats raggedly, then slows to a semblance of normalcy. The world behind the door pulses. Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
She is in union with the world behind the door. All is revealed to her minds eye. She sees into a world occupied by another. Dust motes float listlessly through the small shaft of sunlight, broken through a fallen corner of curtain. A world suspended in an impenetrable drop of golden amber. Preserved for all eternity. A museum piece behind a red rope. Untouchable. To be viewed and loved and mourned. Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
She runs her eyes over the contents of the room. Each piece preserved in a vacuumed second of time when the world ceased to be. Each piece reveals something of the nature of the girl who once lived there. The long desk near the wall holds the cipher to the life of the girl now lost. The textbooks placed in perilous piles on the edge of the desk. A jar of broken pencils and empty pens. Papers in haphazard piles that only the creator can understand. A tattered copy of Anna Karenina peeks out from between the reams. A green chipped incense holder. A pile of magnetic marbles. A paper bag from Raffles. An old tobacco tin of paper clips. Each a representation of the one long gone. Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
The girl at the door awakens from the dream. She senses the wisps of caramel, gold and sepia that strive to reach her. She is too far away. They fall back defeated, to wait for she who will never come. A tear rolls down her cheek. She knows she will never open the door. She knows she will never reach the world on the other side. It is forever denied her. The girl who lived in the world behind the door no longer exists. Only the girl in the world without colour breathes now. Sadness, Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
The girl takes her hand from the door and feels the wrench within her soul. She can bear no more. Something is broken. Her shoulders slump. She turns from the door. She lives within the pale, bleached world of grey. Memories of the golden world and the girl who lived there, begin to fade once more. The girl by the door is covered in ash and dust.
Ash and Dust.
Sadness. Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
Another life. Another time. Another girl. Dust.
Michelle
The door before her hides its secrets well. Bland, brown, unpainted laminate of a time long past. Immovable, impenetrable, silent. It stands as sentinel to a treasure long lost to the world of men. Yet its tongue longs to loosen under it's burden. Clues to its guardianship strive to seep through tiny cracks and flaking board. Only the girl knows the truth of what lies within. Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
She closes her eyes. The handle before her sings. Its siren song calls her and she places her trembling hand upon its icy surface. She shudders. Echoes of another time race up her slender arm, chilling her. It stops her breath. She struggles to recover her equilibrium whilst the world around her spins and heaves. The violence of the storm threatens to overwhelm her. Then. Silence. Short ragged breathes break from her throat. Her heart beats raggedly, then slows to a semblance of normalcy. The world behind the door pulses. Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
She is in union with the world behind the door. All is revealed to her minds eye. She sees into a world occupied by another. Dust motes float listlessly through the small shaft of sunlight, broken through a fallen corner of curtain. A world suspended in an impenetrable drop of golden amber. Preserved for all eternity. A museum piece behind a red rope. Untouchable. To be viewed and loved and mourned. Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
She runs her eyes over the contents of the room. Each piece preserved in a vacuumed second of time when the world ceased to be. Each piece reveals something of the nature of the girl who once lived there. The long desk near the wall holds the cipher to the life of the girl now lost. The textbooks placed in perilous piles on the edge of the desk. A jar of broken pencils and empty pens. Papers in haphazard piles that only the creator can understand. A tattered copy of Anna Karenina peeks out from between the reams. A green chipped incense holder. A pile of magnetic marbles. A paper bag from Raffles. An old tobacco tin of paper clips. Each a representation of the one long gone. Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
The girl at the door awakens from the dream. She senses the wisps of caramel, gold and sepia that strive to reach her. She is too far away. They fall back defeated, to wait for she who will never come. A tear rolls down her cheek. She knows she will never open the door. She knows she will never reach the world on the other side. It is forever denied her. The girl who lived in the world behind the door no longer exists. Only the girl in the world without colour breathes now. Sadness, Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
The girl takes her hand from the door and feels the wrench within her soul. She can bear no more. Something is broken. Her shoulders slump. She turns from the door. She lives within the pale, bleached world of grey. Memories of the golden world and the girl who lived there, begin to fade once more. The girl by the door is covered in ash and dust.
Ash and Dust.
Sadness. Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
Another life. Another time. Another girl. Dust.
Michelle
Friday, 1 January 2010
Happy New Years Eve (And An End To Onychocryptosis).
Today is a special day. Not because it is New Years Eve. Not because it is both the end of the year and the end of a decade. (Two for the price of one, I do like that). Not because of all the magical possibilities that are contained in the as yet unwritten year ahead. No. These events pale into insignificance to the true meaning of Dec 31st. What? You don't know? Of course you do. We have waited 365 long days, but it is finally here. Today is the big day. Today is the day of the release of the New Years Eve, Year in Review Lists (NYEYRL). YAY!
NYEYRL is the day we all wait for (you know you do). From the time the clock ticks over to 12.01am on January 1st, we long to know what will make the many and varied Top 10 lists in the year ahead. A day when we celebrate the magnificence of list making in all its glory, by creating our own listy offerings in the form of our New Years Resolutions. The day when we sit down with the newspaper to read page after page of vital lists, accessorised with a mix of pictures of various celebrities and nefarious characters who rose to prominence over the past 12 months. What will be the Top 10 Best Films of the Year? (Please, please, let it not be Twilight. I'm sorry but people over the age of 17 who class themselves as either Team Edward or Team Jacob, should not be allowed to breed. Under that I can understand. I watched The Lost Boys a bazillion times as a teenager). What were the Top 10 Celebrity Scandals of the Year? Will the reality and underwear challenged Brittany Spears take the top spot? Or will anti-soap campaigner Lindsay Lohan take the crown? Who will win the coveted number one spot on the highly influential, Top 10 Pan Pipe Solos of the Year list? Will it be Plegma Nork of Norway or Ptorkie "Pete" Petrovski of the Ukraine? List after glorious list. Where would we be without these magical lists of knowledge. Thank you anonymous list maker of wisdom, for clarifying what I should think about the year soon to pass.
Who creates these tomes of enlightenment, without which we would be left adrift in the sea of best-less ignorance. What would the job advertisement look like?
End of Year List Maker Required.
Applicant must believe that they and they alone are the most qualified person to judge best in show for every category known to man. Applicants must display tertiary qualifications in E!, (experience with E! online also accepted). Demonstrated knowledge of Entertainment Tonight and a love of all things Kardashian and Lamas a must. Ability to count from 1 to 10 desirable, but demonstrated abilities in the use of Word bullet point list maker also accepted. Applicants afflicted with mind numbing stupidity as demonstrated by the ability to quote The Simple Life seasons 1-5, welcomed.
I can think of a few potential applicants.
At this time of year no section of society can resist the temptation to celebrate NYEYRL by creating their own listy vision. This week I was emailed Top Medical News of 2009, courtesy of Medscape CME (yes I subscribe, don't judge my lack of a life). These doyens of the medical world put together an impressive list of medical advancements that have occurred over the last year.
It begins impressively with, New Test May Detect Early Alzheimer's Disease. Understandably an important advancement. Now we can find out if our future selves are going to permanently scar our teenage nephew by mistaking him for our childhood boyfriend and going the grope with our arthritic, Bengay covered hands, all whilst we can still appreciate the ickiness of the situation.
This was followed by, Single Screening Question May Accurately Identify Unhealthy Alcohol Use. What could that be? Miss X, "Have you ever woken up to discover the Kelvin Klein underwear model you took home last night has transformed into a troll man who keeps calling you Lt. Uhura and has questionable body odour?" Mr B, Have you ever thought that the tepid kebab served to you at 4am by some sweaty, swarthy, soap-challenged gentleman, was the best thing you have ever eaten? A yes to either question would suggest a need for at least an AA pamphlet.
Further along we are suitably impressed by, CDC Issues Guidelines for Early Empiric Antiviral Treatment in Persons With Suspected Influenza. Always a good thing in this time of porcine bio-warfare. I always knew pigs were evil (have you read Animal Farm?). First it was ham causing cancer and bacon blocking our arteries, now it is swine flu. Obviously the pigs of the world have had it with us making fun of their curly little tails and are bent on world domination. Revenge is a dish best served with a side of bacon.
And then a headline caught my eye:
Ingrown Toenail Management Reviewed.
Yes that's right. The management of the humble ingrown toenail was a top 10 medical news story for 2009. No story about cancer vaccines. No news about the development of a bionic eye. No no. It is the humble ingrown toenail that is up there as a shining beacon of man's ability to take on and master the plagues of humanity. Apparently, we should all rejoice in these exciting developments in halluxial health. I did find out that the official name for an ingrown toenail is onychocryptosis, so that's something. But I continue to wonder how this made it to a top 10 list? Maybe Medscape's list-maker, Barry, had a bad case of onychocryptosis and was really impressed with the new anti-fungal cream prescribed by his doctor? Maybe Barry has a toe fetish, Sarah Ferguson style? We will never know and it will remain a mystery for the ages.
Who needs to spend hours creating their own tribute to NYEYRL, when such well researched and throughout examples of list excellence already exist. My resolution for this year is to not write any New Years Eve Year in Review Lists, or lists of any sort, except for my shopping list which I shall endeavour to lose or leave at home not realising until I am standing in the middle of the supermarket with my rickety trolley, swearing like a mad woman under my breath.
Happy New Year dear readers. Wishing you all a year free of onychocryptosis.
The List-less Michelle :)
NYEYRL is the day we all wait for (you know you do). From the time the clock ticks over to 12.01am on January 1st, we long to know what will make the many and varied Top 10 lists in the year ahead. A day when we celebrate the magnificence of list making in all its glory, by creating our own listy offerings in the form of our New Years Resolutions. The day when we sit down with the newspaper to read page after page of vital lists, accessorised with a mix of pictures of various celebrities and nefarious characters who rose to prominence over the past 12 months. What will be the Top 10 Best Films of the Year? (Please, please, let it not be Twilight. I'm sorry but people over the age of 17 who class themselves as either Team Edward or Team Jacob, should not be allowed to breed. Under that I can understand. I watched The Lost Boys a bazillion times as a teenager). What were the Top 10 Celebrity Scandals of the Year? Will the reality and underwear challenged Brittany Spears take the top spot? Or will anti-soap campaigner Lindsay Lohan take the crown? Who will win the coveted number one spot on the highly influential, Top 10 Pan Pipe Solos of the Year list? Will it be Plegma Nork of Norway or Ptorkie "Pete" Petrovski of the Ukraine? List after glorious list. Where would we be without these magical lists of knowledge. Thank you anonymous list maker of wisdom, for clarifying what I should think about the year soon to pass.
Who creates these tomes of enlightenment, without which we would be left adrift in the sea of best-less ignorance. What would the job advertisement look like?
End of Year List Maker Required.
Applicant must believe that they and they alone are the most qualified person to judge best in show for every category known to man. Applicants must display tertiary qualifications in E!, (experience with E! online also accepted). Demonstrated knowledge of Entertainment Tonight and a love of all things Kardashian and Lamas a must. Ability to count from 1 to 10 desirable, but demonstrated abilities in the use of Word bullet point list maker also accepted. Applicants afflicted with mind numbing stupidity as demonstrated by the ability to quote The Simple Life seasons 1-5, welcomed.
I can think of a few potential applicants.
At this time of year no section of society can resist the temptation to celebrate NYEYRL by creating their own listy vision. This week I was emailed Top Medical News of 2009, courtesy of Medscape CME (yes I subscribe, don't judge my lack of a life). These doyens of the medical world put together an impressive list of medical advancements that have occurred over the last year.
It begins impressively with, New Test May Detect Early Alzheimer's Disease. Understandably an important advancement. Now we can find out if our future selves are going to permanently scar our teenage nephew by mistaking him for our childhood boyfriend and going the grope with our arthritic, Bengay covered hands, all whilst we can still appreciate the ickiness of the situation.
This was followed by, Single Screening Question May Accurately Identify Unhealthy Alcohol Use. What could that be? Miss X, "Have you ever woken up to discover the Kelvin Klein underwear model you took home last night has transformed into a troll man who keeps calling you Lt. Uhura and has questionable body odour?" Mr B, Have you ever thought that the tepid kebab served to you at 4am by some sweaty, swarthy, soap-challenged gentleman, was the best thing you have ever eaten? A yes to either question would suggest a need for at least an AA pamphlet.
Further along we are suitably impressed by, CDC Issues Guidelines for Early Empiric Antiviral Treatment in Persons With Suspected Influenza. Always a good thing in this time of porcine bio-warfare. I always knew pigs were evil (have you read Animal Farm?). First it was ham causing cancer and bacon blocking our arteries, now it is swine flu. Obviously the pigs of the world have had it with us making fun of their curly little tails and are bent on world domination. Revenge is a dish best served with a side of bacon.
And then a headline caught my eye:
Ingrown Toenail Management Reviewed.
Yes that's right. The management of the humble ingrown toenail was a top 10 medical news story for 2009. No story about cancer vaccines. No news about the development of a bionic eye. No no. It is the humble ingrown toenail that is up there as a shining beacon of man's ability to take on and master the plagues of humanity. Apparently, we should all rejoice in these exciting developments in halluxial health. I did find out that the official name for an ingrown toenail is onychocryptosis, so that's something. But I continue to wonder how this made it to a top 10 list? Maybe Medscape's list-maker, Barry, had a bad case of onychocryptosis and was really impressed with the new anti-fungal cream prescribed by his doctor? Maybe Barry has a toe fetish, Sarah Ferguson style? We will never know and it will remain a mystery for the ages.
Who needs to spend hours creating their own tribute to NYEYRL, when such well researched and throughout examples of list excellence already exist. My resolution for this year is to not write any New Years Eve Year in Review Lists, or lists of any sort, except for my shopping list which I shall endeavour to lose or leave at home not realising until I am standing in the middle of the supermarket with my rickety trolley, swearing like a mad woman under my breath.
Happy New Year dear readers. Wishing you all a year free of onychocryptosis.
The List-less Michelle :)
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
The Obligatory Christmas Post.
Well, you knew it was coming. There had to be a Christmas post describing the varied delights of the time of good will to all men (and women, and hermaphrodites and transgender, and all those along the continuum). No doubt there will also be an obligatory New Years post, it's a given really. I must admit I do love Christmas. There have been good bits and bad bits, and perhaps most importantly there has been ham.
Christmas has a smell that you can recognise anywhere. It's a mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, all spice, Grand Marnier, and flustered present buying stress sweat. I love the decorations and the food. The novelty of people actually making an effort to smile and be cheerful. The traditional Christmas Eve movie, National Lampoons Christmas Vacation. You know exactly what is going to happen yet you laugh every time. It's the one time of the year that I really love all the tacky trimmings. At the hospital where I used to work, we would dress up one of the skeletons with tinsel and baubles and he would sit with pride next to the front desk. It wasn't really Christmas until he was sitting out there topped with his Santa hat. No one cares how silly they look with their tinsel wrapped hair and flashing reindeer earrings. Everyone's a child, regardless of whether they are 5 or 95. Joy is in the air and the closest thing to bar humbug are those black and white lollies you buy at the sweet shop. Well at least for the most part.
Pre-Christmas Bob made his presence known. A simple trip to the den of iniquity also known as the Knox shopping centre, was punctuated by frequent trips to the rancid public conveniences to remove all traces of food from my body. I do fear I may have mislaid a liver or at least a kidney down that pungent porcelain but I was not in the mood to search and am willing to live with whatever I have lost. Whilst this does not in and of itself scream Christmas, I did get to experience all this with the joyous tunes of Deck the Halls, Jingle Bells and Joy to the World, screeching out of the tinny speakers in the water stained roof of the bathroom.
Ah the joys of Christmas shopping, the goodwill in the car park, the kindness shown to shop assistants. Oh wait a minute that's bizarro world. This is the worst part of Christmas. The time of year when people feel it is their right to screech like banshees and behave like morally bankrupt, self-centred two-year-olds all in the aim of buying a Wii or a copy of Twilight, to ensure they and only they have the Christmas of their dreams. There was the rude middle-aged woman berating a poor shaking pimple-covered shop assistant who was trying his best to maintain his composure. She ripped the receipt from his hand, screamed over him as he tried to explain and was generally a complete cow. Call me crazy but I don't think that is the best demonstration of Christmas spirit when buying Lego for your grand kids. There were the people swearing at each other in the car park because someone stole someone's car park. I do think the height of Christmas spirit are the thieves who break into people's cars at shopping centres to steal the presents in the boot. Bar Humbug! Thankfully David did the majority of shopping this year or I think I would have been emotionally defeated weeks before the big day.
I managed to bake and chop and stir and blitz with minimal damage. Though I will have to admit that my attempts at Turkish Delight ended up more comparable to 1980's version of The Blob than the delicate rosewater delight I was aiming for. It is actually possible to bake away to your hearts content with a nuclear powered air conditioner (sorry global warming but it's Christmas and there must be mince tarts), a chair in front of the oven, bucket loads of salty potato chips and a never ending supply of cold water. Collapsing, vomiting and nanna naps on tiles are optional. No? You don't believe me. Okay compulsory then.
The house managed to get decorated and thanks to the efforts of my industrious mother, the house was cleaned before the invasion of the hordes from the west, I mean the family. They know I love them, I'm just rather comfortable with our quiet and sedentary life. The addition of 7 extra people, including 3 children aged 4, 5, and 6, was like being strapped into one of those astronaut training centrifuges going at about 50 g (note that 3-6 g sustained for more than a few seconds can cause blackouts and death and you kinda get the idea).
Bob was kept relatively at bay on the big day thanks in part to a promise of gold, my left kidney, a date with a Victoria's Secret Model and my first born son (sorry Thomas, but it's just one of those things). There may have also been some influence from my rash decision to up my meds for the big day, for which I have well and truly been chastised by my very disappointed, zero-tolerance body.
My long thought out decision to wear a sleeveless baby doll top to accommodate for both the traditional Australian Christmas day heat and the obligatory ham and turkey OD was found to have a large flaw. Halfway through the day my eldest was nice enough to point out that if I bent over you could clearly see my mid-30s, 2 children, womanly pancakes. Thereby turning to stone the unlucky viewer. This is not the first time my children have chosen to inform me of my poor fashion sense at an inopportune time. Pre-Christmas my youngest decided to inform me that the maxi-dress I was wearing was completely see through. He had noticed this earlier in the day but decided to burst my blissful bubble of ignorance halfway through our weekly shop at the local supermarket.
I was very impressed with my culinary efforts on the day, so I must brag a little. There was turkey cooked to perfection. Potatoes and pumpkin baked in a bath of chicken stock, herbs, garlic and large globs of butter, which they soaked up and caramelised to gooey goodness. Warm roast duck salad with chilli, lime and general Asiany delights. I forked out for the good ham, and it was good, oh so good. Five days later I am vaguely aware through the haze of my ham induced high that I may be about to OD. A shudder of fear runs through me every time I look at the dwindling leg sitting in my fridge. Deep down I know that each slice brings me closer to the inevitable time when this pink salty nirvana will be over and the withdrawal will begin. Yet I continue to chase the porcine dragon with wilful abandon. There were other gastronomic delights, babaganoush, macadamias roasted with rosemary and sea salt, triple cream brie, smoked salmon and capers, but none truly compare to the Babe version of china white wrapped lovingly in its vinegar soaked ham bag.
I managed to have a glass of champagne, scored with the presents and overall the day went pretty well. No family feuds erupted and the kids didn't fight, scream or cry despite the ingestion of copious amounts of sugar. The good crystal survived the day, the dogs didn't attack the children despite repeated poking and even the teenager managed to speak in full sentences rather than the normal grunts. There was genuine laughter and smiles throughout the day and even after about 10 hours of family bonding we were truly disappointed that the day was over. If that's not a Christmas miracle I don't know what is.
So there you go that was Christmas for this year and we all managed to survive. The aftermath wasn't pretty but that's always the case, Bob or no Bob.
So I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas.
OK that's it I'm off to nourish my ham addiction.
Michelle :)
Christmas has a smell that you can recognise anywhere. It's a mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, all spice, Grand Marnier, and flustered present buying stress sweat. I love the decorations and the food. The novelty of people actually making an effort to smile and be cheerful. The traditional Christmas Eve movie, National Lampoons Christmas Vacation. You know exactly what is going to happen yet you laugh every time. It's the one time of the year that I really love all the tacky trimmings. At the hospital where I used to work, we would dress up one of the skeletons with tinsel and baubles and he would sit with pride next to the front desk. It wasn't really Christmas until he was sitting out there topped with his Santa hat. No one cares how silly they look with their tinsel wrapped hair and flashing reindeer earrings. Everyone's a child, regardless of whether they are 5 or 95. Joy is in the air and the closest thing to bar humbug are those black and white lollies you buy at the sweet shop. Well at least for the most part.
Pre-Christmas Bob made his presence known. A simple trip to the den of iniquity also known as the Knox shopping centre, was punctuated by frequent trips to the rancid public conveniences to remove all traces of food from my body. I do fear I may have mislaid a liver or at least a kidney down that pungent porcelain but I was not in the mood to search and am willing to live with whatever I have lost. Whilst this does not in and of itself scream Christmas, I did get to experience all this with the joyous tunes of Deck the Halls, Jingle Bells and Joy to the World, screeching out of the tinny speakers in the water stained roof of the bathroom.
Ah the joys of Christmas shopping, the goodwill in the car park, the kindness shown to shop assistants. Oh wait a minute that's bizarro world. This is the worst part of Christmas. The time of year when people feel it is their right to screech like banshees and behave like morally bankrupt, self-centred two-year-olds all in the aim of buying a Wii or a copy of Twilight, to ensure they and only they have the Christmas of their dreams. There was the rude middle-aged woman berating a poor shaking pimple-covered shop assistant who was trying his best to maintain his composure. She ripped the receipt from his hand, screamed over him as he tried to explain and was generally a complete cow. Call me crazy but I don't think that is the best demonstration of Christmas spirit when buying Lego for your grand kids. There were the people swearing at each other in the car park because someone stole someone's car park. I do think the height of Christmas spirit are the thieves who break into people's cars at shopping centres to steal the presents in the boot. Bar Humbug! Thankfully David did the majority of shopping this year or I think I would have been emotionally defeated weeks before the big day.
I managed to bake and chop and stir and blitz with minimal damage. Though I will have to admit that my attempts at Turkish Delight ended up more comparable to 1980's version of The Blob than the delicate rosewater delight I was aiming for. It is actually possible to bake away to your hearts content with a nuclear powered air conditioner (sorry global warming but it's Christmas and there must be mince tarts), a chair in front of the oven, bucket loads of salty potato chips and a never ending supply of cold water. Collapsing, vomiting and nanna naps on tiles are optional. No? You don't believe me. Okay compulsory then.
The house managed to get decorated and thanks to the efforts of my industrious mother, the house was cleaned before the invasion of the hordes from the west, I mean the family. They know I love them, I'm just rather comfortable with our quiet and sedentary life. The addition of 7 extra people, including 3 children aged 4, 5, and 6, was like being strapped into one of those astronaut training centrifuges going at about 50 g (note that 3-6 g sustained for more than a few seconds can cause blackouts and death and you kinda get the idea).
Bob was kept relatively at bay on the big day thanks in part to a promise of gold, my left kidney, a date with a Victoria's Secret Model and my first born son (sorry Thomas, but it's just one of those things). There may have also been some influence from my rash decision to up my meds for the big day, for which I have well and truly been chastised by my very disappointed, zero-tolerance body.
My long thought out decision to wear a sleeveless baby doll top to accommodate for both the traditional Australian Christmas day heat and the obligatory ham and turkey OD was found to have a large flaw. Halfway through the day my eldest was nice enough to point out that if I bent over you could clearly see my mid-30s, 2 children, womanly pancakes. Thereby turning to stone the unlucky viewer. This is not the first time my children have chosen to inform me of my poor fashion sense at an inopportune time. Pre-Christmas my youngest decided to inform me that the maxi-dress I was wearing was completely see through. He had noticed this earlier in the day but decided to burst my blissful bubble of ignorance halfway through our weekly shop at the local supermarket.
I was very impressed with my culinary efforts on the day, so I must brag a little. There was turkey cooked to perfection. Potatoes and pumpkin baked in a bath of chicken stock, herbs, garlic and large globs of butter, which they soaked up and caramelised to gooey goodness. Warm roast duck salad with chilli, lime and general Asiany delights. I forked out for the good ham, and it was good, oh so good. Five days later I am vaguely aware through the haze of my ham induced high that I may be about to OD. A shudder of fear runs through me every time I look at the dwindling leg sitting in my fridge. Deep down I know that each slice brings me closer to the inevitable time when this pink salty nirvana will be over and the withdrawal will begin. Yet I continue to chase the porcine dragon with wilful abandon. There were other gastronomic delights, babaganoush, macadamias roasted with rosemary and sea salt, triple cream brie, smoked salmon and capers, but none truly compare to the Babe version of china white wrapped lovingly in its vinegar soaked ham bag.
I managed to have a glass of champagne, scored with the presents and overall the day went pretty well. No family feuds erupted and the kids didn't fight, scream or cry despite the ingestion of copious amounts of sugar. The good crystal survived the day, the dogs didn't attack the children despite repeated poking and even the teenager managed to speak in full sentences rather than the normal grunts. There was genuine laughter and smiles throughout the day and even after about 10 hours of family bonding we were truly disappointed that the day was over. If that's not a Christmas miracle I don't know what is.
So there you go that was Christmas for this year and we all managed to survive. The aftermath wasn't pretty but that's always the case, Bob or no Bob.So I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas.
OK that's it I'm off to nourish my ham addiction.
Michelle :)
Monday, 28 December 2009
Apologies From an Errant Blogger
OK so it's been a few weeks. I'm a bad blogger I know. I will take myself out back for a bit of self-flagellation later on to atone for my poor posting efforts. But hey I'm going to pull the sick card, it's got to be good for something. So suck it up people. In my oxygen deprived state I was delusional and overly optimistic about the whole health thing. Now I have been firmly sat on my arse by reality and after a lovely little stay in rehab (aka my bed) I am able to at least attempt some coherent blogging, although there are no guarantees and what follows may be little more than line after line of dross filled waffle.
No talking about crappy health this week. No stories of migraines that threatened to liquefy my eyeballs, clumsiness that made me drop multiple vegetables onto my none too clean kitchen floor on Christmas day (30 second rule firmly in place so all OK), or nanna naps on my bathroom tiles where I was too fatigued and dizzy to remove myself from the way-too-close vicinity of a lone and shifty-looking, short, black and curly hair that I swear was slowly moving towards my face a millimetre at a time each time I closed my eyes. No! No more. Not today. Never again. Well...maybe next week.
The last few weeks I have lived vicariously through the Internet. Whilst my own output has been limited there are millions of champion bloggers out there who have been reducing their finger tips to bloody stumps in their furious attempts to keep us in their fascinating loops. I am amazed at the work ethic of some bloggers. The ones that post every day or at least a couple of times a week. I'm not talking about the ones that are just a perpetual list of crap twitter tweets disguised as blogs.
"Cleaning the fridge" Picture of said fridge pasted underneath. posted Dec 3 9:30pm,
"Off to scoop up dog poo from back yard" posted Dec 4 11:34am, ad infinitum, does not a blog make!
I am however impressed by the diversity of blogs out there. No matter what your fancy there's a blog out there for you. Check out one of those "What you Should Read" lists for an eye opener. 10 minutes scanning the list and I found everything from a blog devoted to the humble hedgehog (why?); a fellow who was happy to tell me the multitude of reasons I would burn in hell for all eternity thanks to my Godless and heathen ways (a real peppy people person); and the daily musings of a dominatrix. I had never realised the difficulties a dominatrix faced on a day-to-day basis. How do you explain a box filled with various leather apparatuses to the police at a road block? Well she can give you all manner of tips for dealing with just such a a situation. Who knows when you might just need that information?
What I do love are the blogs that demonstrate a level of conscious thought and creativity. These give me hope that there are people out there in the world who don't think Neighbours is comparable to Tolstoy, or that Lady Gaga's sagacious words "I'd like to take a ride on your disco stick" outmatch anything written by The Bard. People who remember that there was a time before "LOL smiley face heart". A mystical world where we were allowed to use whole words to express our emotions. (Okay so I occasionally resort to using these communicative abominations but I am like brain impaired, like, OK, umm, LOL).
I follow a range of different blogs which sort of represent the various little worlds (or the voices in my head) of Michelle . Health, Humour, Food, Music, Literature, whatever takes my fancy on the day. Of late I have made a deliberate move out of the health sphere to grab a little bit of the real world. Too many health blogs can make you rather depressed after a while. As anyone who has worked in mental health for any length of time knows, it gets to a point where it takes a lot to shock you, so not all of them are PG 13, but most are guaranteed to make you laugh. A case in point is a recent post by Calling People Names where she describes a shaving mishap with her "bizness" that is both graphic and hilarious. I know there are many out there who would find her topics far too graphic and what my mum would call "naughty", but her skills as a writer far outweigh any shock from her topic choices and I never fail to laugh at the descriptions of a life that is so far removed from my own. For me I like good writing regardless of the topic. Unfortunately you have to search high and low for that these days. Occasionally you get lucky and come across a couple that make you want to actually follow publicly rather than lurk on the fringe so no one finds out your dirty little secret. There are three that I've really enjoyed over the past few months (not that there aren't others I enjoy equally I just didn't feel like doing 15 blog reviews, so nothing personal to those I don't mention and if I can pull my finger out I may write about you another day). I love all three of these blogs for very different reasons and for one very similar huge flashing neon light fact; fantastic, original and creative writing. All three of these blogs make me wish that I could force my flagging brain to reliably create whole sentences, to actually verbalise what I feel and think with some semblance of intelligence. That I could remember all those tedious grammar lessons from my Grade 3/4 teacher, the post-menopausally hirsute Mrs Redfern, who could flagellate your soul at 50 paces with her spiteful tongue, or through the use of a metre long wooden ruler across the knuckles depending on her hormonal load. Basically they make me want to be a better writer.
I don't know exactly how to describe these blogs in any way that does them justice so I'll just say:
Mr London Street: you've gotta admire a guy that can write about Doogie Howser MD, Moomintroll and the joys and pitfalls of amateur wedding photography to make you laugh or think or simply feel. A truly talented writer that makes me want to journey over the pond to experience the Reading he describes so eloquently. (Recently a Blog of Note on the Blogger site, but I like to say I knew him way back when, before the fame and the glory).
My Soul is a Butterfly: In one word, Beautiful. Hannah is more artist than writer. The topic is secondary to words that simply sing. It's the type of writing you can lose yourself in.
The Imaginary Reviewer: I don't know whether it's the brilliantly dry humour of his reviews of imaginary TV shows, magazines, books etc, or the fact that there are so many bright sparks in the world who write asking what channel the shows are on or where they can buy the book, but it cracks me up.
I realised the other day I'd regressed to teenage groupie status. I went to write a comment on one of the above mentioned blogs, stopped, and thoughts racing began to panic. Will they like my comment? Will they think I am a complete loser? Is my comment witty or pathetic and sad? Write delete, write delete. I think the answer is sad loser geek, but what can you do? So there you go these three writers are up there with my 13-year-old pre-pubescent adoration of Wham (oh how I loved George Michael. I spent many a night dreaming of snogging him backstage at one of the concerts. Obviously my finely tuned Gaydar was still in the development stage at that point along with my boobs. Funny how the Gaydar developed but I'm still waiting on the boobs).
So there you go. A few blogs that would help anyone pass the time more pleasurably than my verbal detritus. I do however, apologise for my lack of blogging. Although I do think you should thank me for not boring you senseless with lengthy and incoherent mutterings of "woe is me", which would have been 10 minutes of your life you could never get back. So really my lack of blogging was truly a public service.
Apologies
The Errant Blogger aka Michelle :)
No talking about crappy health this week. No stories of migraines that threatened to liquefy my eyeballs, clumsiness that made me drop multiple vegetables onto my none too clean kitchen floor on Christmas day (30 second rule firmly in place so all OK), or nanna naps on my bathroom tiles where I was too fatigued and dizzy to remove myself from the way-too-close vicinity of a lone and shifty-looking, short, black and curly hair that I swear was slowly moving towards my face a millimetre at a time each time I closed my eyes. No! No more. Not today. Never again. Well...maybe next week.
The last few weeks I have lived vicariously through the Internet. Whilst my own output has been limited there are millions of champion bloggers out there who have been reducing their finger tips to bloody stumps in their furious attempts to keep us in their fascinating loops. I am amazed at the work ethic of some bloggers. The ones that post every day or at least a couple of times a week. I'm not talking about the ones that are just a perpetual list of crap twitter tweets disguised as blogs.
"Cleaning the fridge" Picture of said fridge pasted underneath. posted Dec 3 9:30pm,
"Off to scoop up dog poo from back yard" posted Dec 4 11:34am, ad infinitum, does not a blog make!
I am however impressed by the diversity of blogs out there. No matter what your fancy there's a blog out there for you. Check out one of those "What you Should Read" lists for an eye opener. 10 minutes scanning the list and I found everything from a blog devoted to the humble hedgehog (why?); a fellow who was happy to tell me the multitude of reasons I would burn in hell for all eternity thanks to my Godless and heathen ways (a real peppy people person); and the daily musings of a dominatrix. I had never realised the difficulties a dominatrix faced on a day-to-day basis. How do you explain a box filled with various leather apparatuses to the police at a road block? Well she can give you all manner of tips for dealing with just such a a situation. Who knows when you might just need that information?
What I do love are the blogs that demonstrate a level of conscious thought and creativity. These give me hope that there are people out there in the world who don't think Neighbours is comparable to Tolstoy, or that Lady Gaga's sagacious words "I'd like to take a ride on your disco stick" outmatch anything written by The Bard. People who remember that there was a time before "LOL smiley face heart". A mystical world where we were allowed to use whole words to express our emotions. (Okay so I occasionally resort to using these communicative abominations but I am like brain impaired, like, OK, umm, LOL).
I follow a range of different blogs which sort of represent the various little worlds (or the voices in my head) of Michelle . Health, Humour, Food, Music, Literature, whatever takes my fancy on the day. Of late I have made a deliberate move out of the health sphere to grab a little bit of the real world. Too many health blogs can make you rather depressed after a while. As anyone who has worked in mental health for any length of time knows, it gets to a point where it takes a lot to shock you, so not all of them are PG 13, but most are guaranteed to make you laugh. A case in point is a recent post by Calling People Names where she describes a shaving mishap with her "bizness" that is both graphic and hilarious. I know there are many out there who would find her topics far too graphic and what my mum would call "naughty", but her skills as a writer far outweigh any shock from her topic choices and I never fail to laugh at the descriptions of a life that is so far removed from my own. For me I like good writing regardless of the topic. Unfortunately you have to search high and low for that these days. Occasionally you get lucky and come across a couple that make you want to actually follow publicly rather than lurk on the fringe so no one finds out your dirty little secret. There are three that I've really enjoyed over the past few months (not that there aren't others I enjoy equally I just didn't feel like doing 15 blog reviews, so nothing personal to those I don't mention and if I can pull my finger out I may write about you another day). I love all three of these blogs for very different reasons and for one very similar huge flashing neon light fact; fantastic, original and creative writing. All three of these blogs make me wish that I could force my flagging brain to reliably create whole sentences, to actually verbalise what I feel and think with some semblance of intelligence. That I could remember all those tedious grammar lessons from my Grade 3/4 teacher, the post-menopausally hirsute Mrs Redfern, who could flagellate your soul at 50 paces with her spiteful tongue, or through the use of a metre long wooden ruler across the knuckles depending on her hormonal load. Basically they make me want to be a better writer.
I don't know exactly how to describe these blogs in any way that does them justice so I'll just say:
Mr London Street: you've gotta admire a guy that can write about Doogie Howser MD, Moomintroll and the joys and pitfalls of amateur wedding photography to make you laugh or think or simply feel. A truly talented writer that makes me want to journey over the pond to experience the Reading he describes so eloquently. (Recently a Blog of Note on the Blogger site, but I like to say I knew him way back when, before the fame and the glory).
My Soul is a Butterfly: In one word, Beautiful. Hannah is more artist than writer. The topic is secondary to words that simply sing. It's the type of writing you can lose yourself in.
The Imaginary Reviewer: I don't know whether it's the brilliantly dry humour of his reviews of imaginary TV shows, magazines, books etc, or the fact that there are so many bright sparks in the world who write asking what channel the shows are on or where they can buy the book, but it cracks me up.
I realised the other day I'd regressed to teenage groupie status. I went to write a comment on one of the above mentioned blogs, stopped, and thoughts racing began to panic. Will they like my comment? Will they think I am a complete loser? Is my comment witty or pathetic and sad? Write delete, write delete. I think the answer is sad loser geek, but what can you do? So there you go these three writers are up there with my 13-year-old pre-pubescent adoration of Wham (oh how I loved George Michael. I spent many a night dreaming of snogging him backstage at one of the concerts. Obviously my finely tuned Gaydar was still in the development stage at that point along with my boobs. Funny how the Gaydar developed but I'm still waiting on the boobs).
So there you go. A few blogs that would help anyone pass the time more pleasurably than my verbal detritus. I do however, apologise for my lack of blogging. Although I do think you should thank me for not boring you senseless with lengthy and incoherent mutterings of "woe is me", which would have been 10 minutes of your life you could never get back. So really my lack of blogging was truly a public service.
Apologies
The Errant Blogger aka Michelle :)
Monday, 7 December 2009
A Word From Our Sponsor IX
Well I'm back from the wilderness finally. I think. Maybe. We'll see. Fingers crossed. Touching copious amounts of wood. Oh lord, I know I've jinxed it now, might as well smash a few mirrors and seek out a couple of black cats. Here puss puss puss.
Thanks to all for the well wishes, they were greatly appreciated. I will get around to answering them but it will probably take some time as whilst the mind is willing it is also beset by a rather thick brain fog at present. So sorry all, but at least you know I'm just brain dead and not being a complete cow and ignoring you. For anyone who has been hanging out for the next exciting instalment of the Adventures of Michelle and Bob, it may be time to get a hobby cause I'm really not that exciting. Actually dull may be the best way to describe my life and mental capacities at present. I do appreciate everyone checking back to see if I've posted anything new (makes my stats look good for very little effort on my behalf), so thanks for the perseverance.
Still on the recovery from my run in with that rather vicious wall. Turns out he brought some friends along and they all decided to play a hilarious game of Stacks On Michelle, which has left me rather bruised and battered.
It's been a long rocky road over the past month. My plan to be in the Guinness Book of Records for the best impersonation of a pin cushion is right on track. I've been poked and prodded, strapped up and down, zapped, scanned and sucked dry through copious amounts of blood tests. I even managed to have needles sticking out of both arms and a leg all whilst attempting to stand. I personally think they strap you down during these procedures so you wont be able to hit them with your pathetically weak arms each time they tell you to relax your muscles. I've also played the less than pleasant game of find the vein with my cardio for about an hour and found that I could still feel pain despite a local anaesthetic. YAY!!
My collection of acronyms is growing with the edition of SFN (I have chosen to rename it SNAFU as that just seems more appropriate at this point) this last week. SNAFU is Small Fibre Neuropathy, yeah exciting I know. Well you can take the girl out of the research but you can't take the research out of the girl, so I went on my usual path of trying to find out all I can about my latest edition. So first article, first line what do I find?, "small fiber neuropathy is increasingly being recognized as the major cause of painful buring sensations in the feet, ESPECIALLY IN THE ELDERLY". That's right "especially in the bloody elderly". Yep, I have added another old chick symptom to my list. That's so depressing. I really have to stop looking crap up. Ignorance really is bliss. Oh yeah, and the major drugs used to treat SNAFU lower you bp, which means I can't use them. I also get to be idiopathic girl again as I don't have any of the known causes of SNAFU. Woo Hoo!! According to my neurologist I'm "such a medical mystery". Well fanbloodytastic, that just makes my day. But wait there's more. I also have the most pathologically abnormal reflexes she's ever seen in someone who hasn't been diagnosed with a serious neurological condition. Surprise, surprise, she has no idea why. Well Merry Christmas to you too lady. I so need a holiday right about now.
I did manage to get out for one night which was a bit of a miracle. One of my physio chicks has made it back to the real world of ballet so we all crammed into a car to watch her performance. Between the four of us we managed to form almost one whole brain and not only picked everyone up, but got there, got a great park, found our seats and got home again in one piece. A triumph for all involved. So a big shout out to Sarah and her pointe shoes. I have no idea how she stands, let alone jumps on those things, especially with such grace and ease. Rather knackered the next day but so worth it.
Speaking of physio, we have recently been forced out of the hospital to a new gym. Our class is lead by a women who I believe is the long lost sister of the Supernanny, complete with the patronising, romper room accent. Well it turns out that we are "unasseptible". We talk and laugh too much, and are wasting her and our time. Delightful. We are also "sneaky", what the hell? I feel like I'm 12 again and have been caught hiding my over-cooked peas under my mashed potatoes! Sneaky my arse. So sorry our neurological and other illnesses mean we can't get into the gym bunny vibe. I am having trouble lifting a half kilo weight because I have a neurocardiogenic disorder (and apparently now SNAFU) not because I'm being lazy! Of course we are rather horrible for trying to make it all a bit bearable by having a laugh! So I must say I am not in the least inclined to make the effort to go back except I decondition at the drop of a hat. Damn it. My bestie Kerri has introduced a new swear word to the world after a recent trip to Ikea, "fargrik" (apparently it means plate, but "plate you"just doesn't cut it ). So I have decided to say fargrik to you nasty gym lady, fargrik to you!!
Well that's about it in a nutshell. There's probably more and I've likely missed something super important that's happened, but its all really been a bit of a blur. I think it's less blurry now but I could just be delusional from lack of blood to the brain. So just read this keeping in mind that I may still be in oxygen depleted fantasy land (it's really quite a lovely land that one).
Cheers
The recently SNAFUed Michelle :)
Thanks to all for the well wishes, they were greatly appreciated. I will get around to answering them but it will probably take some time as whilst the mind is willing it is also beset by a rather thick brain fog at present. So sorry all, but at least you know I'm just brain dead and not being a complete cow and ignoring you. For anyone who has been hanging out for the next exciting instalment of the Adventures of Michelle and Bob, it may be time to get a hobby cause I'm really not that exciting. Actually dull may be the best way to describe my life and mental capacities at present. I do appreciate everyone checking back to see if I've posted anything new (makes my stats look good for very little effort on my behalf), so thanks for the perseverance.
Still on the recovery from my run in with that rather vicious wall. Turns out he brought some friends along and they all decided to play a hilarious game of Stacks On Michelle, which has left me rather bruised and battered.
It's been a long rocky road over the past month. My plan to be in the Guinness Book of Records for the best impersonation of a pin cushion is right on track. I've been poked and prodded, strapped up and down, zapped, scanned and sucked dry through copious amounts of blood tests. I even managed to have needles sticking out of both arms and a leg all whilst attempting to stand. I personally think they strap you down during these procedures so you wont be able to hit them with your pathetically weak arms each time they tell you to relax your muscles. I've also played the less than pleasant game of find the vein with my cardio for about an hour and found that I could still feel pain despite a local anaesthetic. YAY!!
My collection of acronyms is growing with the edition of SFN (I have chosen to rename it SNAFU as that just seems more appropriate at this point) this last week. SNAFU is Small Fibre Neuropathy, yeah exciting I know. Well you can take the girl out of the research but you can't take the research out of the girl, so I went on my usual path of trying to find out all I can about my latest edition. So first article, first line what do I find?, "small fiber neuropathy is increasingly being recognized as the major cause of painful buring sensations in the feet, ESPECIALLY IN THE ELDERLY". That's right "especially in the bloody elderly". Yep, I have added another old chick symptom to my list. That's so depressing. I really have to stop looking crap up. Ignorance really is bliss. Oh yeah, and the major drugs used to treat SNAFU lower you bp, which means I can't use them. I also get to be idiopathic girl again as I don't have any of the known causes of SNAFU. Woo Hoo!! According to my neurologist I'm "such a medical mystery". Well fanbloodytastic, that just makes my day. But wait there's more. I also have the most pathologically abnormal reflexes she's ever seen in someone who hasn't been diagnosed with a serious neurological condition. Surprise, surprise, she has no idea why. Well Merry Christmas to you too lady. I so need a holiday right about now.
I did manage to get out for one night which was a bit of a miracle. One of my physio chicks has made it back to the real world of ballet so we all crammed into a car to watch her performance. Between the four of us we managed to form almost one whole brain and not only picked everyone up, but got there, got a great park, found our seats and got home again in one piece. A triumph for all involved. So a big shout out to Sarah and her pointe shoes. I have no idea how she stands, let alone jumps on those things, especially with such grace and ease. Rather knackered the next day but so worth it.
Speaking of physio, we have recently been forced out of the hospital to a new gym. Our class is lead by a women who I believe is the long lost sister of the Supernanny, complete with the patronising, romper room accent. Well it turns out that we are "unasseptible". We talk and laugh too much, and are wasting her and our time. Delightful. We are also "sneaky", what the hell? I feel like I'm 12 again and have been caught hiding my over-cooked peas under my mashed potatoes! Sneaky my arse. So sorry our neurological and other illnesses mean we can't get into the gym bunny vibe. I am having trouble lifting a half kilo weight because I have a neurocardiogenic disorder (and apparently now SNAFU) not because I'm being lazy! Of course we are rather horrible for trying to make it all a bit bearable by having a laugh! So I must say I am not in the least inclined to make the effort to go back except I decondition at the drop of a hat. Damn it. My bestie Kerri has introduced a new swear word to the world after a recent trip to Ikea, "fargrik" (apparently it means plate, but "plate you"just doesn't cut it ). So I have decided to say fargrik to you nasty gym lady, fargrik to you!!
Well that's about it in a nutshell. There's probably more and I've likely missed something super important that's happened, but its all really been a bit of a blur. I think it's less blurry now but I could just be delusional from lack of blood to the brain. So just read this keeping in mind that I may still be in oxygen depleted fantasy land (it's really quite a lovely land that one).
Cheers
The recently SNAFUed Michelle :)
Monday, 16 November 2009
Oh Crap! I'm Not An 80-Year-Old Woman!
What is worse than realising you are an 80-year-old woman? Realising that you are not, and will never be, an 80-year-old woman. For the last couple of years now I've joked that I am only a blue rinse and a hip replacement away from becoming an 80-year-old woman. This is not without a basis in fact. I worked with the elderly for years. I can spot an oldie at 100 paces. I have tested my hypothesis. I have identified my variables and calculated the statistics and it is clear I have many of the features of an elderly woman.
When I first went into hospital for intensive rehab I was filled with hope. My doc said she had sent many patients before. Fool! The minute I walked in something felt very very wrong. There wasn't one young face in the corridor for the 30 minutes I sat waiting to be taken to my room. It was like walking into my Nan's nursing home, complete with hacking coughs and the faint odour of bleach and urine. I stumbled along the bland grey corridor on that first day, expecting to see my Nan come around the corner at any minute. In doorway after doorway I'd catch a glimpse of grey hair, a crocheted blanket and a wiff of Bengay. I was surrounded by room after room of Merles and Franks and Beryls and Alfreds with no hope of escape. I was to be stuck in the room between the neurology and cardiopulmonary patients. Apparently no one under the age of 80 suffers from these ailments. How stupid of me to get a disorder better suited to those who enjoy butterscotch and bingo. Night times I would drift off to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of old Stan in the next room coughing up his left lung. Morning would be heralded by the gentle rhythms of him coughing up his right, followed by the delightful sound of the nurses sucking the phlegm from his clogged and failing lungs. Sadly I was to later find that silver-haired Stan was the Lance Armstrong of the exercise bike, whilst I required training wheels.
It was particularly inspiring that first day when the physios did my baseline measurements. There is nothing more heartening than being lapped by an old chick on a zimmer frame. I'd wander up to the gym for my 3 sessions of patheticness a day, which my lovely physiotherapist was kind enough to call exercise. I'd sit in the waiting chairs surveying the large bland open space before me. One thing I learned early on sitting in those chairs was to avoid eye contact or fain death/sleep. If not you ended up with your new elderly best friend telling you her life story and complete medical history. You only make that mistake once. The gym was a site to behold. It was like some bizarre, overly elaborate hamster cage. It was filled with an army of bent grey-haired ladies in pearls and old men with pants up to their arm pits. They'd shuffle around weird wooden boxes, sit in a chair, stand up from a chair, sit down in a chair, stand up from a chair. I'd fall into a trance watching the hypnotic rise and fall of those frail grey-haired hamsters. Then the tea ladies would come and those same little old ladies and gentlemen would move with speed that bellied their age and infirmity, to be the first in line for a cup of tea coloured water and a slightly moist digestive biscuit. It was like seagulls on a hot chip. It must have been scary for those hair-netted, khaki-coloured, tea ladies as that grey-haired horde descended on mass on their cart. Maybe that's why they always looked like they had just sucked on a lemon, and had delightful personalities to match. Me in my patheticness had to be content to sit and wait for the tea ladies to bring the dregs to the smelly vinyl physio bed as I wasn't trusted not to go arse up after my oh so hectic routine of leg raises. In reality I had no desire to fight those old ladies for their cuppa. I still have a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't win in that fight.
My favourite memory of that hospital stay is lining up to vote. The corridor was filled with a long line of zimmer frames, walking sticks, wheelchairs and me. Woo Hoo inspiring! Eventually I did make my jail break. Luckily I was released so I didn't have to implement my Shawshank plan through the sewage pipe. One more day and I would have done it, turds be damned.
Then it was me and my grey haired homies at my outpatient physio. It's hard not feel conspicuous in a group when you are the only one not born during the Great Depression. I think I started to lose the plot during this period or at least developed a bad attitude. Maybe dementia is catching? Is it wrong to fantasise about tripping the 70-year-old guy with the quadruple bypass running on the treadmill, or sticking a walking stick in the wheels of the exercise bike occupied by the 80-year-old with the new stent. I would devise rather elaborate plans in my mind of what to do to the oldies who could walk faster and further than me. I'm a bad person I know, but at least it kept me entertained for all those months. One thing I do love is that the elderly turn up to physio in their Sunday best, whereas I'd rock up in my old gym gear, stained runners and my hair just barely held back in an old hair elastic. Maybe that's the secret? If I wore pearls and got my hair "set" I'd be able to walk for more than 5 minutes without wanting to pass out. I hung out with the gang for a year before I broke free. I did half expect I'd have to endure a gang beat down with their zimmer frames and walking sticks in retribution for leaving.
Now it's the Masters Games and I must truly face the fact that I am not worthy of being an octogenarian, nonagenarian or even centenarian. A news article about a 100-year-old freak of nature, who can not only pick up a shot put but also throw it 5 metres, is not a feel good story to a 36-year-old woman who is unable to open a can of tomatoes thanks to her pathetically weak arms. Damn it grandma go home sit in your rocker and complain about your arthritis, your sluggish bowel and those kids with their evil devil music. Serve up curdled cream, pickled ox-tongue and year-old lamingtons like a normal Nanna (or was that just my gastronomically challenged Nanna?). That's what 100 year-old ladies should be doing, not playing with large metal balls and wearing short shorts. This spunky old Nanna and her hipster peeps may be more husk than flesh, have skin flaps that flutter in the wind, and arses that have completely disappeared, but they still wouldn't want me in their group. No matter how much prune juice I drink or how many tubes of liniment I have on my bathroom shelf, I will never be allowed in with the cool grey-haired kids. I will remain Nigel-no-friends with my abnormal disorder.
I must face facts. As much as I may wish it I am not an 80-year-old woman. Crap!
The unfortunately young Michelle :)
- I wear compression hose. Sexy? No? When I went into my local pharmacy to purchase said compression hose, the woman behind the counter told me I needed to bring my grandma in to be measured. When I said it was for me she looked confused and slightly suspicious. Apparently I was the first under 80 who had purchased a pair for their own personal use. She did not seem to get the humour in my saying that they were what all the hookers wore to turn on their elderly clients. I personally thought I was hilarious.
- I forget what day it is. I also forget, names, if I've had my tablets, where the keys are, what I am at the grocers for, and have a fondness for repeating the same story over again and again.
- I live at the doctors. Go to the doctors during work hours, especially early in the morning and it's wall to wall elderly. Dressed in their Sunday best. The same faces time and again. This is the major social event for the week for many elderly people. They can always find a bunion or corn that needs the doctors attention along with the compulsory 1/2 hr explanation and chat. So frequent are their visits that even the counter staff know them by name. I too am on a first name basis with my doctors and their staff. My cardiologist and I even had a chat about our weights like old girlfriends. The only difference is that I detest going and given the choice I would rather spend the time scrubbing my loo than going to the doctor yet again.
- I have just given in to purchasing a dosette box for my many medications. I used to recommend these for my elderly patients with memory difficulties. Sunday through Saturday spelt out in nice big bold letters, with separate boxes for the am and pm. Lets face it a human maraca with memory problems is a recipe for disaster.
- I am now considering buying a shower chair. Sitting on the floor of my shower only serves to remind me about my poor cleaning skills and my spectacular mould farming enterprise.
When I first went into hospital for intensive rehab I was filled with hope. My doc said she had sent many patients before. Fool! The minute I walked in something felt very very wrong. There wasn't one young face in the corridor for the 30 minutes I sat waiting to be taken to my room. It was like walking into my Nan's nursing home, complete with hacking coughs and the faint odour of bleach and urine. I stumbled along the bland grey corridor on that first day, expecting to see my Nan come around the corner at any minute. In doorway after doorway I'd catch a glimpse of grey hair, a crocheted blanket and a wiff of Bengay. I was surrounded by room after room of Merles and Franks and Beryls and Alfreds with no hope of escape. I was to be stuck in the room between the neurology and cardiopulmonary patients. Apparently no one under the age of 80 suffers from these ailments. How stupid of me to get a disorder better suited to those who enjoy butterscotch and bingo. Night times I would drift off to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of old Stan in the next room coughing up his left lung. Morning would be heralded by the gentle rhythms of him coughing up his right, followed by the delightful sound of the nurses sucking the phlegm from his clogged and failing lungs. Sadly I was to later find that silver-haired Stan was the Lance Armstrong of the exercise bike, whilst I required training wheels.
It was particularly inspiring that first day when the physios did my baseline measurements. There is nothing more heartening than being lapped by an old chick on a zimmer frame. I'd wander up to the gym for my 3 sessions of patheticness a day, which my lovely physiotherapist was kind enough to call exercise. I'd sit in the waiting chairs surveying the large bland open space before me. One thing I learned early on sitting in those chairs was to avoid eye contact or fain death/sleep. If not you ended up with your new elderly best friend telling you her life story and complete medical history. You only make that mistake once. The gym was a site to behold. It was like some bizarre, overly elaborate hamster cage. It was filled with an army of bent grey-haired ladies in pearls and old men with pants up to their arm pits. They'd shuffle around weird wooden boxes, sit in a chair, stand up from a chair, sit down in a chair, stand up from a chair. I'd fall into a trance watching the hypnotic rise and fall of those frail grey-haired hamsters. Then the tea ladies would come and those same little old ladies and gentlemen would move with speed that bellied their age and infirmity, to be the first in line for a cup of tea coloured water and a slightly moist digestive biscuit. It was like seagulls on a hot chip. It must have been scary for those hair-netted, khaki-coloured, tea ladies as that grey-haired horde descended on mass on their cart. Maybe that's why they always looked like they had just sucked on a lemon, and had delightful personalities to match. Me in my patheticness had to be content to sit and wait for the tea ladies to bring the dregs to the smelly vinyl physio bed as I wasn't trusted not to go arse up after my oh so hectic routine of leg raises. In reality I had no desire to fight those old ladies for their cuppa. I still have a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't win in that fight.
My favourite memory of that hospital stay is lining up to vote. The corridor was filled with a long line of zimmer frames, walking sticks, wheelchairs and me. Woo Hoo inspiring! Eventually I did make my jail break. Luckily I was released so I didn't have to implement my Shawshank plan through the sewage pipe. One more day and I would have done it, turds be damned.
Then it was me and my grey haired homies at my outpatient physio. It's hard not feel conspicuous in a group when you are the only one not born during the Great Depression. I think I started to lose the plot during this period or at least developed a bad attitude. Maybe dementia is catching? Is it wrong to fantasise about tripping the 70-year-old guy with the quadruple bypass running on the treadmill, or sticking a walking stick in the wheels of the exercise bike occupied by the 80-year-old with the new stent. I would devise rather elaborate plans in my mind of what to do to the oldies who could walk faster and further than me. I'm a bad person I know, but at least it kept me entertained for all those months. One thing I do love is that the elderly turn up to physio in their Sunday best, whereas I'd rock up in my old gym gear, stained runners and my hair just barely held back in an old hair elastic. Maybe that's the secret? If I wore pearls and got my hair "set" I'd be able to walk for more than 5 minutes without wanting to pass out. I hung out with the gang for a year before I broke free. I did half expect I'd have to endure a gang beat down with their zimmer frames and walking sticks in retribution for leaving.
Now it's the Masters Games and I must truly face the fact that I am not worthy of being an octogenarian, nonagenarian or even centenarian. A news article about a 100-year-old freak of nature, who can not only pick up a shot put but also throw it 5 metres, is not a feel good story to a 36-year-old woman who is unable to open a can of tomatoes thanks to her pathetically weak arms. Damn it grandma go home sit in your rocker and complain about your arthritis, your sluggish bowel and those kids with their evil devil music. Serve up curdled cream, pickled ox-tongue and year-old lamingtons like a normal Nanna (or was that just my gastronomically challenged Nanna?). That's what 100 year-old ladies should be doing, not playing with large metal balls and wearing short shorts. This spunky old Nanna and her hipster peeps may be more husk than flesh, have skin flaps that flutter in the wind, and arses that have completely disappeared, but they still wouldn't want me in their group. No matter how much prune juice I drink or how many tubes of liniment I have on my bathroom shelf, I will never be allowed in with the cool grey-haired kids. I will remain Nigel-no-friends with my abnormal disorder.
I must face facts. As much as I may wish it I am not an 80-year-old woman. Crap!
The unfortunately young Michelle :)
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Lest We Forget
Without fail The Last Post makes me tear up every time I hear it played. Something about those notes, heard since earliest childhood, touch the soul. Stillness. A pure silence enveloping the crowd as everyone is united by each note. Pausing to remember those who have lost there lives in wars on foreign soils. Far from their homes and the embrace of the ones they love. For those who remain lost, missing on the field of battle in lands far removed from the dreams of youth.
As a child that silence seemed to go on for hours. I would read the long list of names on the shrine in the centre of town. So many names, so many places. Never reaching the end. Surnames I recognised as belonging to people I knew around town. Surnames that were long forgotten. Those little brass letters seemed to glow in the sunshine, almost bursting with the unimaginable loss and pain they struggled to contain. So young. Not much older than my brother at the time. I'd look at him and try to imagine him in a slouch hat, riding with Lighthorsemen, leaping the walls of Bathsheba in a hail of bullets. Would he have been able to overcome the fear screaming in his mind as his horse took that first step towards those walls? When the first bullet rang out? Would he have come home? Would he still have been the laughing boy I knew and loved? I hoped I'd never have to find out.
Those little brass letters held a thousand stories. Stories fading to the pages of history. Time slowly taking those who fought by their sides or remembered the little things that made them them. The way they held their head when they were listening or their carefree smiles as they talked with friends, before the call of war drew them to enlist. Stories that would blur and merge, to lose that which made each man unique, that made them special. Young men dead defending their country and loved ones in wars far removed from their own hearths. Young men who had never gone further than maybe a day or twos walk form their homes, agreeing to be transported to foreign lands they'd only read of in books. Drawn by the call of King and country. I often wonder what those young men thought when they first set eyes on the pyramids or walked through the poppy lined fields of France. I wonder if they could have foreseen the horrors that lay before them. I wonder what it must have felt like in that moment when the excitement of the unknown was replaced by the reality of the battlefield.
Then that never ending silence would be broken by the mournful notes from the lone bugler somewhere in the crowd. It always felt like the world stopped for the length of that song. Holding its breath in grief as it mourned it's lost sons. Even as a small child I felt the solemnity of that moment in my soul.
Today is Remembrance Day once more. A day to remember those that made the ultimate sacrifice in too many wars past and present. My grandfather fought in WWI on the battlefields of the Somme. He, like so many young men of his time, lived through the horror of war to return home heroes. Little was spoken of the true horrors they faced. They were celebrated for their heroism and sacrifice. Good and Evil were black and white. Clear for all to see. Victory easy to identify. A nation united to celebrate bravery and create heroes to be honoured for all time.
Today's wars are different. Good and Evil are no longer clear. Victory often intangible. We see the face of war on our TV screens each night. We see the human tragedy, the women and children crying in the streets over the bodies of the dead, and it all becomes grey. War is condemned and nations are no longer united is their resolve to defeat an easily identifiable Evil. We see the fluidity of war, the blurring or right and wrong, the aim of the conflict becomes lost in complex politics. War no longer has a spectacular ending where everyone can mark the day with ticker tape parades, like Victory in Europe or Victory in the Pacific. War and hatred persist and we become desensitised to the carnage we see on the news. Death of solider and civilian alike become mere numbers flashed on a screen.
Many things are different between 1915 and 2009. But regardless of whether you agree or disagree with war. Regardless of why it started or why it continues, one thing never changes. The soldiers who chose to serve their country either on the battlefields of Iraq or Afghanistan or on Peace Keeping missions in various nations around the globe, the faces are the same as those captured in photos of the Great War, WWII, Korea, Malaysia, Vietnam.....the list goes on. Different places, different times but the faces are interchangable.
They are mothers and fathers, son and daughters, husbands, wives, brothers and sisters. They are your next door neighbour or the guy or girl you went to school with. They have families that love them and pray every night for their safe return. They look like you. They are you. These men and women see unimaginable horrors which they must live with for the rest of their lives. Some come home with horrific injuries, both physical and mental. Even those that get to come home frequently live with the uncertainty of being recalled for another tour, and another and another.
So often these soldiers are barely out of their teens. Not considered responsible enough to buy alcohol, but deemed able to hold a gun and dance with death on a foreign shore. I look at my 15 year old son and I can't imagine how I would be able to watch him leave to go to war or live with the unbearable fear until he was home safe once more. To see the look of lost innocence on the faces of the returning soldiers, young faces yet so old. I look at the picture of my grandfather in his uniform, more a child than a man, and it's hard to fathom that same young face on the battlefield, facing death and destruction everyday. Killing another human being in the name of war and watching his friends killed around him. Knowing the fragility and complexity of life too soon.
It's hard to equate the disappearing lines of old men that march on Remembrance and ANZAC Day, to the young men who set off each day to the deserts of the Middleast or to a multitude of other conflicts around the world. But look in their eyes and they are united young and old. United by that knowing look in their eyes of horrors seen and friends lost, of a constant battle to understand what they did and what they saw.
You don't have to agree with war, no one in their right mind does. War brings forth the worst of humanity, but it can also bring forth the best. What is important is to remember that those endless oceans of soldiers we see on the nightly news are people. People with their own unique histories and memories. People who hurt and bleed. People who love and ache. People who show bravery and courage. People who struggle with what they see and do. People who have families and friends. People who like pizza and football and going to the pub with friends. People with parents and children. They are people who sometimes don't get the chance to return home, who don't get to say good bye to the ones they love. People who can come back so changed by their experiences that the person they were may be lost forever. The numbers of dead and injured reported on the news do not reflect the beauty of a life lost to soon, or of one changed forever.
Remembrance Day is not a celebration of war. It is not a day to debate political ideologies. It is a chance to remember the human face of war, of the men and women who risk their lives day after day, and of those who make the ultimate sacrifice.
Lest We Forget
Michelle :)
As a child that silence seemed to go on for hours. I would read the long list of names on the shrine in the centre of town. So many names, so many places. Never reaching the end. Surnames I recognised as belonging to people I knew around town. Surnames that were long forgotten. Those little brass letters seemed to glow in the sunshine, almost bursting with the unimaginable loss and pain they struggled to contain. So young. Not much older than my brother at the time. I'd look at him and try to imagine him in a slouch hat, riding with Lighthorsemen, leaping the walls of Bathsheba in a hail of bullets. Would he have been able to overcome the fear screaming in his mind as his horse took that first step towards those walls? When the first bullet rang out? Would he have come home? Would he still have been the laughing boy I knew and loved? I hoped I'd never have to find out.
Those little brass letters held a thousand stories. Stories fading to the pages of history. Time slowly taking those who fought by their sides or remembered the little things that made them them. The way they held their head when they were listening or their carefree smiles as they talked with friends, before the call of war drew them to enlist. Stories that would blur and merge, to lose that which made each man unique, that made them special. Young men dead defending their country and loved ones in wars far removed from their own hearths. Young men who had never gone further than maybe a day or twos walk form their homes, agreeing to be transported to foreign lands they'd only read of in books. Drawn by the call of King and country. I often wonder what those young men thought when they first set eyes on the pyramids or walked through the poppy lined fields of France. I wonder if they could have foreseen the horrors that lay before them. I wonder what it must have felt like in that moment when the excitement of the unknown was replaced by the reality of the battlefield.
Then that never ending silence would be broken by the mournful notes from the lone bugler somewhere in the crowd. It always felt like the world stopped for the length of that song. Holding its breath in grief as it mourned it's lost sons. Even as a small child I felt the solemnity of that moment in my soul.
Today is Remembrance Day once more. A day to remember those that made the ultimate sacrifice in too many wars past and present. My grandfather fought in WWI on the battlefields of the Somme. He, like so many young men of his time, lived through the horror of war to return home heroes. Little was spoken of the true horrors they faced. They were celebrated for their heroism and sacrifice. Good and Evil were black and white. Clear for all to see. Victory easy to identify. A nation united to celebrate bravery and create heroes to be honoured for all time.
Today's wars are different. Good and Evil are no longer clear. Victory often intangible. We see the face of war on our TV screens each night. We see the human tragedy, the women and children crying in the streets over the bodies of the dead, and it all becomes grey. War is condemned and nations are no longer united is their resolve to defeat an easily identifiable Evil. We see the fluidity of war, the blurring or right and wrong, the aim of the conflict becomes lost in complex politics. War no longer has a spectacular ending where everyone can mark the day with ticker tape parades, like Victory in Europe or Victory in the Pacific. War and hatred persist and we become desensitised to the carnage we see on the news. Death of solider and civilian alike become mere numbers flashed on a screen.
Many things are different between 1915 and 2009. But regardless of whether you agree or disagree with war. Regardless of why it started or why it continues, one thing never changes. The soldiers who chose to serve their country either on the battlefields of Iraq or Afghanistan or on Peace Keeping missions in various nations around the globe, the faces are the same as those captured in photos of the Great War, WWII, Korea, Malaysia, Vietnam.....the list goes on. Different places, different times but the faces are interchangable.
They are mothers and fathers, son and daughters, husbands, wives, brothers and sisters. They are your next door neighbour or the guy or girl you went to school with. They have families that love them and pray every night for their safe return. They look like you. They are you. These men and women see unimaginable horrors which they must live with for the rest of their lives. Some come home with horrific injuries, both physical and mental. Even those that get to come home frequently live with the uncertainty of being recalled for another tour, and another and another.
So often these soldiers are barely out of their teens. Not considered responsible enough to buy alcohol, but deemed able to hold a gun and dance with death on a foreign shore. I look at my 15 year old son and I can't imagine how I would be able to watch him leave to go to war or live with the unbearable fear until he was home safe once more. To see the look of lost innocence on the faces of the returning soldiers, young faces yet so old. I look at the picture of my grandfather in his uniform, more a child than a man, and it's hard to fathom that same young face on the battlefield, facing death and destruction everyday. Killing another human being in the name of war and watching his friends killed around him. Knowing the fragility and complexity of life too soon.
It's hard to equate the disappearing lines of old men that march on Remembrance and ANZAC Day, to the young men who set off each day to the deserts of the Middleast or to a multitude of other conflicts around the world. But look in their eyes and they are united young and old. United by that knowing look in their eyes of horrors seen and friends lost, of a constant battle to understand what they did and what they saw.
You don't have to agree with war, no one in their right mind does. War brings forth the worst of humanity, but it can also bring forth the best. What is important is to remember that those endless oceans of soldiers we see on the nightly news are people. People with their own unique histories and memories. People who hurt and bleed. People who love and ache. People who show bravery and courage. People who struggle with what they see and do. People who have families and friends. People who like pizza and football and going to the pub with friends. People with parents and children. They are people who sometimes don't get the chance to return home, who don't get to say good bye to the ones they love. People who can come back so changed by their experiences that the person they were may be lost forever. The numbers of dead and injured reported on the news do not reflect the beauty of a life lost to soon, or of one changed forever.
Remembrance Day is not a celebration of war. It is not a day to debate political ideologies. It is a chance to remember the human face of war, of the men and women who risk their lives day after day, and of those who make the ultimate sacrifice.
Lest We Forget
Michelle :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)