What's For Dinner Mum? (12 More Pages Guest Post)

Ahhh... the joys of domestic duties when you have a chronic illness. Sometimes you have to laugh, even if the laughter is hysterical. I'm guest posting on 12 More Pages again this week. Remember to check it out for some great Dysautonomia information.

Ok I've decided to jump right into the day-to-day practical issues that haunt all of us with Bob. It's these bland and normal daily chores that often seem to cause the most grief. Making dinner. Who would have thought it could become such a drama. Yet each day when that time rocks around and that simple sentence is spoken aloud “What's For Dinner Mum?”, it's just another reminder of the obstacles we have to face. I'm sure someone without a Bob in his life would wonder at the ability of such a boring daily chore to arouse such feelings of dread, guilt and hopelessness. For those poor buggers who innocently utter these words please note that you may have your spleen pulled out through your left nostril on occasion. It's nothing personal. But those four little words can be like fingernails on a chalk board some days. So the question remains, What is it about dinner that does this to us?

The time of day: ok I know for most of us mornings are like diving head first into the bowels of hell. There's something about Bob and mornings that just doesn't mix. It's the whole oil and water thing and I'm sure Bob is one of those trans-saturated-clog your arteries kind of fats. But the late afternoons and evenings can be just as bad. By that time you've spent very available drop of energy going to work (if you still can), getting kids to and from school and after school activities, attempting household chores and generally just making it through the day. The idea of then having to prepare a meal can feel like trying to scale Mt Everest in your Sunday Best. Where's my Tenzing Norga?

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How To Spot A Sick Chicken.

I'm pretty inured to the whole "you don't look sick" line. It all becomes white noise after a while, though I will admit to often thinking, "well you don't look like a knob either", but I generally have enough tact to keep that to myself. Well sometimes. According to my loving family, I occasionally have a bowl of bitchy for breakfast, and my Mother Teresa persona is replaced by a large dose of bitch with a side of cow. Usually, this has something to do with a lack of coffee, and really if you speak to me pre-caffeine that's your own fault.

[Image: A Vintage image of a woman holding a cup of coffee. To the right of frame in black text it reads: I haven't had my coffee yet. Followed by red text which reads: Don't make me kill you.]

In many respects, I'm over what other people think. I have enough on my plate without taking on other people's issues. But recently my happy-hippy, zenness slipped. A few weeks ago I was informed by a relative who shall remain nameless (but we both know who you are and you should know better than to piss off a person with a blog) that, "You can't expect sympathy with that face".

For some reason, the bluntness of this statement hit me like a full on sucker punch to the gut. I was lost for words and just stood there with my mouth hanging open. What was I supposed to say to that? Would I have been within my rights to pick up the coffee pot and send it flying across the room at their head? Was it okay that I had a whole montage of Looney Tunes-inspired cartoons going through my head? Think lots of anvils and frying pans.

The whole idea that I was asking for sympathy was like nails on a chalkboard. I'm pretty sure the effort involved in holding my tongue, and coffee pot, did leave me with an odd twitch and a vein pulsating out the front of my forehead. But other than that I was cool as a cucumber.

Anyone who has ever read my blog or spoken to me for more than 3.2 seconds knows how I feel about the whole pity issue. I HATE pity, it sucks out your soul like a big hairy-arsed incubus (or succubus for those of you of the male persuasion). It is disempowering and frames you as a victim. If you are going to give me pity then you might as well just give me a chilli enema or poke me in the eye with that bastard offspring of a fork and spoon, the spork, and why don't you make it rusty while you're at it. To you and your pity, I say a big fat Bite Me!

Now, this isn't to say that I don't hold my own private pity parties every now and then. But its a very exclusive invite list of one, and may involve chocolate, hiding under my blankies and watching bad sci-fi or horror shows (yes I know the geek alert just went off, but until you've watched a shockingly bad sci-fi or horror show you don't know what you've been missing. If you haven't seen The Blob circa 1988 you haven't lived. The horror of Kevin Dillon's (Entourage) hair alone, is worth the effort of tracking it down). My pity parties are all infected with the Cinderella effect, so they are short-lived. After a couple of hours, I wipe the snot off my face, pick up the mounds of soggy tissues and chocolate wrappers, suck it up and move on.

[Image: a coloured still from the movie The Blob (1988). It shows a white man with glorious 80's curly long hair and a leather jacket to the left of the frame, he looks shocked. To the right a white woman with dark hair and wearing a cream top holds onto Matt Dillon looking scared.]

So in case, I haven't been clear:

NO PITY ALLOWED

So once again I am forced to revisit the question of "what does sick look like"?

If I am sick should I look like this?

[Image: a movie still from The Exorcist (1973). A close up of Linda Blairs face after her demonic possession, pale, scary, horror]

(The Exorcist is one of my all-time favourite movies. So happy when Linda Blair was on my favourite horror eye-candy show Supernatural).

Would I then appear legitimately sick? Currently the most I get is a "gee you look tired". Mind you some mornings when Bob is beating the crap out of me I would be grateful to look as well as young Linda. Problem is when I do look sick, I am usually too ill to go out in public. Conversely, if I'm out I'm feeling 'better', by which I mean instead of death warmed up, I feel like that little bit of goop you get in the corner of your eye in the morning, I look okay. I've most likely brushed my hair and put on some BO Basher, no guarantee of the dreaded shower or clean clothes but there's nothing a few squirts of Chanel No. 5 can't cover.

Not looking sick enough can create many problems. Recently a friend sent me a link about a woman who lost her health benefits because she appeared too happy in her FB pictures and therefore was deemed to no longer have Severe Depression. Damn that brain-fogged woman for trying to break through her depression to attempt some sort of life instead of succumbing to the expected levels of overwhelming hopelessness. It's a miracle. One smiley day and Depression is cured. Maybe I should burn all the pictures of me standing up and wear a disguise when I manage to go grocery shopping? Obviously, the trolley of milk and Green & Blacks mean I'm cured, just ignore the puke bag and salt sachets sticking out the top of my handbag.

Damn those invisible illnesses. I couldn't get a good illness where I look like crap, no I'm such a loser I picked dysautonomia. Way to go Michelle!

Now I did think about getting "SICK" tattooed on my forehead, but I am a wuss. I can't even pluck a rogue eyebrow hair or take off a band-aid without screeching like someone is cutting off my leg. So the tattoo plan has gone out the window. I think I need to accessorise. I'm sure that just like the right accessories can make an outfit, the right sick accessories will enable people to easily pick me for the sickie I am.

So what kind of accessories do I need to purchase and where do I get them? Is there an e-store called Sickies R' Us? Do Maybelline or Napoleon put out a line of anti-bronzers to give you the pasty sick tint? Where to start? I decided I'd google "What does sick look like?", in hopes of finding an answer to my problem. Alas, there was no answer to my question. I could find out what a sick fish looks like, or a hamster, but no answer for a sick 36-year-old woman. Just when I had given up hope I had an Oprah light bulb moment. A ray of sunlight fell upon my computer screen and I found the answer in the form of the humble chicken.

What does a sick chicken look like?

• A sick hen will usually be listless, not moving around much.
• They often sit quietly with eyes shut or partly closed.
• They may move slowly and possibly stagger or lose balance when walking.
• They do not run away when approached, they often just drop down into a crouch and wait to be picked up.
• They may have mucus around the eyes and beak.
• The vent area is often crusted and dirty (ok I did giggle at this one).

Thank you Wiki Answers, once more you have saved my life.

So there you go chicken/human its all a bit the same. Your hen may look pretty on the outside, sexy feathers and all, but look a bit closer and she is just not quite right.


[Image: a black and white cartoon of a chicken sitting in bed with a tray and bowl in from of them. Next to bed, another chicken wearing an apron stands. The text underneath reads: Quit complaining. For one thing, chicken soup is good for a cold. For another, it's nobody we know.]

So if next time you see me and my vent is a bit crusty, you will know with complete certainty that I am sick.

The clucked off Michelle :)

Harley & Rose, They Just Lost It For A While.

This post was originally written for 12 More Pages in 2010.

Relationships are hard work, just look at the ridiculously high divorce rates. Hollywood and television have indoctrinated us to seek out the fairy tale, to find our soul mate who will make us complete, slay the dragons and hold us tight for all eternity. Unfortunately, life isn't like the movies (not that I still don't wish I was Juliette Binoche in Chocolat with Johnny Depp turning up on her doorstep at the end of the movie; but hey, we're all entitled to a bit of fantasy every now and then). Relationships are filled with ups and down's, even with the best of intentions and the most perfect of circumstances. When you add a chronic illness to the mix the strain it places on a relationship can be overwhelming. Any little problems that existed beforehand tend to be amplified by the stresses associated with a partner's illness.

We agree to “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” but it is very different when you are actually faced with the situation. Whether you are the person who is ill, or the significant other who is well, what we imagine we can deal with and what will occur should a partner become ill, can bear little resemblance to the reality. Chronic illnesses like dysautonomia, can't be contained in a nice 50min House episode. Yes, House may give you a diagnosis and a drug, but unlike the dramatic life-saving, experimental brain surgery that saves the actor in the last 5 mins of the show, dysautonomia and it's impact persists long after the credits role. In fact, it can persist from Episode 1 Season 1, all the way to Episode 48 , Season 50, often with little change. No one makes a TV series like this for a reason. How does the audience keep interested and maintain compassion for the character who is permanently ill. It all becomes boring, fatigue sets in, and ratings drop. We are programed to expect a resolution to the 'crisis'. Unfortunately with chronic illness the 'crisis' may never end and can become a permanent state of living.

Being chronically ill dramatically changes intimate relations. Both individuals change, and the nature of roles within the relationship change. For the person who is ill your self-image is dramatically altered. We may see ourselves as the nurturer or provider, a leader or the go-to gal, chronic illness doesn't care . Hell, Cosmopolitan and the like continually tell me I can and should be able to do it all, why would I think otherwise. When you are chronically ill you can no longer fulfil these roles as we have them laid out in our heads. We are forced to re-examine who we really are and our place in our relationship.

It's hard to love yourself when your body betrays you and when you cannot participate in life as you want, and feel, you should. If your own self-image is so low how can you have anything to give to a relationship. How can you support your partner when you are unable to support yourself. Doubts set in. You begin to wonder why your partner would even want you when you don't even want yourself. How do you maintain an intimate relationship when you are permanently exhausted.? Nausea and dizziness are hardly conducive to getting 'in the mood'. By that I don't necessarily mean sex. The general day-to-day intimacy of simply touching, hugging and kissing, the emotional and intellectual intimacy, are often difficult when you are feeling so ill you just want to lie down in a corner and cry. These feelings begin to colour your interactions. You interpret the actions or words of your partner in light of your internal dialogue, and react similarly. Your partner has no idea why you are acting the way you are and misunderstandings can start to build.

Equally, if you are single and want to find a partner, it is easy to wonder what you have to offer to someone else, or why anyone would want to be with you and all your chronic illness baggage? How do you explain such a complex illness without making a prospective partner want to run for the hills? You cannot participate in the normal dating or relationship activities. Going to the movies, out to dinner and parties are often not an option. You can feel that you are condemning your partner to a life of isolation. You feel a burden. You attribute your feelings to your partner when in fact they may never have even considered you or the relationship is that light.

For the partner who has to watch their loved one so ill, it can be over whelming and confusing. When you love someone you want to be able to help them, you want to take away the pain. It is common for care-givers to feel impotent, or overwhelmed by the situation. With an acute illness, eg a knee surgery, you know there is an end. You can sustain the care-giver role because you understand it and know that in a couple of months the person will be back to their old self. When there is no predictability, no path, no respite, as with chronic illness, care-giver fatigue can set in. Burnout is common in those who care long term. It can be hard to understand this as the sick person. I know at times I have thought, “I'm the one who's actually sick. 'You' need to get over it and grow a pair”. It's hard to have compassion for others when you are permanently ill yourself. Even knowing logically that it is hard for my family and friends I often don't have the energy to deal with their issues. When it is your partner you do have to make an effort to understand their feelings and frustrations, as this can help the relationship and you in turn. Sometimes you need to prioritise your relationship as we do other things.

Well partners can fall into certain roles which may, or may not work. They may become the 'hands-on' carer who is involved in every step. Alternatively they may become 'over-protective' and wont let you do anything. There are also those who withdraw from the relationship because they don't know what to do or how to cope. Many carers don't want to admit that they can't cope or don't like the fact that their partner is ill. They may feel guilty because they feel their partner is a burden or that they are no longer the person they married, and don't want to feel that way. Again this colours how they interact with the sick person. In both cases, partners may feel that their feelings are wrong and that they are abnormal, when in reality they are normal reactions to an abnormal situation.

In so many cases both partners are feeling, lost, alone and frightened but don't feel they can tell the other one for fear of burdening them. Or they may be scared that giving voice to their fears will make them real. If you don't talk tensions can quickly arise and begin to fester. A simple misunderstanding may end in a huge argument. As a sick person I know I hate being fussed over. If my husband were to fuss over me and always treat me like a sick person it would change my opinion of him because he wasn't meeting my needs. I would wonder why doesn't he know I'd hate that. I would be more stressed and that would make my symptoms worse and it would become a vicious circle. However, if I don't tell him how would he know? It can be hard to be open and honest in a relationship at the best of times, and chronic illness is frequently uncharted stress-filled waters for both parties.

Dysautonomia is a particularly difficult disease to understand and explain. The unpredictability of symptoms and the way it impacts on our lives is hard for even us to understand. One important step in helping a relationship is to help educate your partner. Encouraging them to go your appointments or asking your doctor to talk to them can be particularly helpful. If your partner can understand that you may have to cancel a dinner at the last minute due to your symptoms, it can reduce the stress considerably. Conversely if your partner thinks you should “just get over it” and makes you feel 'bad' or guilty for ruining your dinner plans, stress levels can spike and make your overall health and relationship much worse.

It is important to re-negotiate your roles in the relationship. You need to set aside a time to talk, not wait till you are both upset and in the middle of a fight. In many ways this is why seeking out a professional for counselling can be the best option. No matter how much we might wish it otherwise, dysautonomia involves disability. We can no longer do it all. We need to sit down with our partners and work out who is going to do what. It might be the simple things such as who makes dinner. Or it might be the complex things like either earning a wage or organising the bills. Before being ill I worked and took care of 90% of the kids and household chores. Now I can't work and my husband and kids have to help out more. We had to re-negotiate the way things worked. Part of that process was my husband becoming aware of how dysautonomia affected me day-to-day and understanding that I now need to strictly prioritise things. We certainly don't always get it right but we are slowly getting there.

It's important for both partners to understand that a good relationship is not based on how many times you go out , how clean you home is, or if you have the latest fashions. Without fail, good relationships have good communication and find enjoyment in each other regardless of where they are or what they are doing. It is more important to prioritise the incidental intimacy of sitting on the couch watching TV together rather than going to a work BBQ because it is expected, and then being laid up for a week. It doesn't need to be complex. It can be simple things such as resting for the day, rather than doing loads of washing, so you can go out for dinner for an hour with your partner. Or going twice a year to a Gold Class cinema with foot rests and recliners, rather than failing at a normal cinema 20 times.

Most of us who are ill realise we need to have an non-health related outlet to maintain our sanity. It is equally important for the well partner to have an outlet. As the sick person we are more likely to be offered counselling or join a support group, this isn't always offered to the partner. The outlet doesn't have to be a formal support group. It may be participating in a sport or social group. Often just being in an environment totally removed from home and illness can be enough. For example, Saturday's my husband plays sport all day and then goes to the clubhouse after for a beer and 'man time'. It's his way of letting go of the stress and rebalancing. It helps keep him sane (and me) and in turn means he is more relaxed and switched on when he gets home.

In reality the things that you need to do to support your relationship when you have a chronic illness are the same as in any other relationship. If either partner feels unsupported their will be issues. If the partners don't talk there will be issues. If you don't re-negotiate roles over the years there will be issues. Having a chronic illness simply forces the issue and magnifies any existing problems. It is not easy either starting or continuing a relationship when one partner has a chronic illness, but it is possible with work, and accepting that there will be ups and downs. All relationships are a work in process. Chronic illness just gives us a different challenge.

“life is a bitter disappointment
she would hear young Harley say
if you find something more important
I will not stand in your way

like static on the dial
a look come back in style
Harley and Rose
they just lost it for a while”

(“Harley & Rose”, The Black Sorrows song :1990)

We all lose it for a while, but more importantly we mostly get a chance to find it again.

Cheers

Michelle :)

A Word From Our Sponsor X

What I am about to confess may be shocking, so you may want to brace yourself, pop a Xanax, and grab a bottle of "Mummy's Little Helper" * and chug.



My name is Michelle (dramatic pause, deep breath).........

..........and I am a little slow on the uptake.



I know you are shocked because I am always such a sharp, organised, finger-on-the-pulse kinda girl. Yet despite my keen powers of deduction, I managed to miss my own personal blogging milestone.

I have only just realised that I made it to 50 posts and cracked 3000 views, since September 2009.

Surely there's some application on Blogger that ensures fireworks, marching bands and streamers, the second the counter clicks over. Now I know I am an infant in the blogging world, barely able to hold my own head up and not yet able to roll over, but I'm excited, Big Kev excited.

Now I'm not saying that they have all been quality blogs. I'm not even suggesting that they were literate. I know many are grammatical abominations and most verge on a manic outpouring of verbal diarrhoea, but I got there. I hit 50 and that requires dedication and perseverance which are not something I am known for. I can't even commit to continuing a daily routine of cleansing and moisturising for 50 days. So I'm excited for me and am doing my own little Rickie Lake dance in my threadbare, but oh so comfy pjs, "Go Rusty, Go Rusty".

When I started this blog it really had no direction. It was going to be a place to vent my stress and insanity. I thought after the first week I'd grow bored, move onto my next chocolate bar and pursue my dream of becoming America's Next Top Model, (cause they make 36-year-old, Australian, saggy-boobed housewives top models right?). Yet here I am still taping away, exposing my madness to the world. I'm still waiting for the inevitable knock on the front door where either the men in white coats complete with over-sized novelty butterfly net, will be waiting to take me away; or the literature police will be standing there, hammer in hand to break my fingers, so I that I may never again befoul the blogosphere with my key strokes.

I had no idea anyone would ever read my ramblings. I thought I may get a handful of pity reads from friends or family (this is somewhat like pity sex where you are thankful for the effort, but really it's a bit 'meh'), though even that was never guaranteed. Yet I look over to the left and there are actually photos under the 'Followers' section and most of them are people I have never met. I am shocked that they are there. I keep glancing back over to make sure I'm not hallucinating and that they are real. I have no idea how half of you even found my blog. Was it word of mouth? Were you totally bored one day and typing random words into the 'Search' on Google? Was it written on the back of a grotty public toilet door next to "Pookie Luvs Shania" and "Call Bambi for a Good Time"? I'd love to know.

Now I'm realistic enough to accept that some of those photos probably represent people who joined but never read again, and just find the effort required to click 'unfollow' overwhelming. But hey I'm loving every single one of those little photos regardless. Would it be seen as patholoical weirdness if I were to print them out an carry them in my wallet in place of photos of my children?

The fact that the counter has clicked over 3,000 in the last 5mths amazes me. In fact I am rather lost for words. Thank you so much to everyone one of you for your little clicks. It makes a rather strange and unkempt hermit woman feel very warm inside.

For those who have taken the time to leave a comment or send a message I'm sending you big air kisses via the ether. The snazzy double-cheeked European kind. Though if that's a bit much, or you're afraid of internet Swine -flu, I can always give you the traditional Oprah double-hand hug, otherwise known as the "stay away and don't touch me you freaks" Oprah hug, reserved for non-celebrity guests. If you're a blogger you'll know that little burst of excitement you feel every time you see that someone has commented. You don't write for comments, but you treasure every one. I always try to respond, but Bob sometimes interferes with the plan. For those I've missed know your comment was truly appreciated.

So big love to all who taken the time to read, follow, comment or visit. THANK YOU.

I thought I would take this opportunity to let you now about a couple more of my favourite bloggers. Both of these ladies are fantastic, intelligent and wet your pants hilarious. (Hmmm...maybe I should hand out a free Poise pad with each review).

• The Vegetable Assassin: Veg, or The Vegmeister as I like to call her (not that she knows this or is really aware of the existence of an obscure mad woman from Australia, who nearly pees herself whilst reading her words. Too much information?), is a woman after my own heart. If sarcasm were a religion, then she would be my goddess (okay that may sound a little stalker creepy, I'm not really freaky, really). She is one who fully appreciates and uses sarcasm as an art form. Every time I see a new post in my blogroll I know I am guaranteed a good belly laugh with a touch of guffaw, which frequently scares the crap out of my dogs. She is irreverent and intelligent and always entertaining. Whether its her love of cake, vendiagrams and the humble VW or her hilarious adventures with an evil mouse or her addiction to a certain diet beverage, there is something for everyone. She is also the proud owner of one of the supreme blogs of the rant known as Central Digit, enter at own risk! The Vegmeister is also one of the rare bloggers who takes the time to respond to each comment. And not just a simple thanks. Each response is personal and unique and witty. You gotta luv that.

• Calling People Names: I have made reference to the wonderful Aly in previous posts. I love her writing. Again she is a blogger who ensures laughs. I have snorted coffee on my keyboard and I'm pretty sure I peed a little reading some of her posts. Whether its the drama of her childhood or her sexual escapades she is one funny and intelligent gal. Like the Vegmeister she is the owner of another blog, Alyce In Wonderland filled with beautiful and thought provoking poetry. She also has one of the hottest voices I have heard in a long time as evidenced in her recent vlog. For liquid, warm honey, sensuality, you can't beat that Southern drawl. Aly is also a responder who makes her readers feel treasured and you can't overlook that.

So a couple of ladies to keep you laughing no matter how shit your day may be.

As for my health.....well I think that can be best expressed by the Blood Sweat and Tears classic, 'Spinning Wheel':

What goes up must come down
spinning wheel got to go round
Talking about your troubles it's a crying sin
Ride a painted pony
Let the spinning wheel spin

(Ok so I don't get the painted pony part either, but there is a slight chance they may have been smoking some 'medicinal' marijuana, for nausea of course).

So a big thank you to all my readers you are tops. I hope you'll find it in your heart to take pity on the poor, pasty, brain-fogged and gravity challenged woman of Oz, and return to read more of my rambles.

The chuffed Michelle :)

*OK for the uninitiated, "Mummy's Little Helper" is wine. Every mummy needs a little help every now and then. Besides the way I look at it, wine comes from grapes and therefore can be classed as one serve of fruit.

Frankie Says Relax: 12 More Pages Guest Post

Guest Posting on 12 More Pages this week. Head on over for the full article on progressive muscle relaxation. Don't forget to check out the other information on Dysautonomia.

Remember the sagacious words of Frankie Goes to Hollywood in their iconic song “Relax”. OK so the connotation is not quite the same, (wow I was so innocent back then. I thought they just wanted us to sit back and smell the roses. I couldn't understand why my mum wouldn't let me get the record), and I am so showing my age, but I loved those t-shirts with their pithy message. Obviously after my last blog (“Serenity Now”) everyone will now be living Frankie's dream of relaxation and have achieved their personal Nirvana. Life is bound to be filled with lolly pops, kittens and an unlimited supply of dark chocolate just when it's at that not quite solid not quite liquid, level of gooey goodness (well the later may be my own personal idea of bliss, but you can insert your own blissful fantasy). We have all learnt to breathe our way to serenity, and that my friends, is an award worthy achievement when you live in a permanent brain fog. Now just in case any one is still having difficulty finding their bliss, here is an alternative, or addition as the case may be, you can have up your sleeve for the days when your serenity begins to slip.

Progressive Muscle Relaxation:

I like progressive muscle relaxation as it's yet another reason to commune with my couch. I never realised they had memory foam back in the early 90s when we bought it, but that perfect mould is there to welcome me each morning. At its most basic, Progressive Muscle Relation simply involves the slow and progressive tensing and releasing of muscles. Most commonly it begins at the head and works down to the toes, but this can vary. If you have a bad back, neck etc you may want to double check with your doctor about doing some of the movements. I know it's obvious but after the MacDonald's Hot Coffee Litigation I just have to add, if it hurts STOP! Also peanut butter may contain peanuts, and milk may contain dairy products (I love today's product warnings). Now you may also be concerned that you will look a little bit mad, especially doing the facial exercises, but this is the price we pay for bliss. Just remember not to hold it too long or the wind may change!

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Employment Opportunities for the Gravity Challenged.

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....

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.

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

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

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 :)