When all else fails bake: Sourdough Yeast Beast.

During my unplanned sabbatical I unleashed my creative side in many weird and wonderful ways.  There's something about creating that is soothing to the soul.  It doesn't matter what it is, but to be able to sit back and say "I made that" is better than sunshine on a rainy day.

Perhaps my most enjoyable endeavour during this period, was growing my own wild yeast and making my first loaf of fresh sourdough bread from scratch.  I know, I know.  I am walking on the wild side.

Surprisingly, I found that I wasn't alone in my slightly strange obsession with homemade bread.  The requests have flowed for recipes.  So by popular demand, I give you:

The Yeast Beast:

The basis of the Yeast Beast comes from a recipe featured on River Cottage Everyday, but has also been influenced by a recipe for a no-knead sourdough that I found on the delightful Miss Buckle's blog.  

Living the fun life of fructose malabsorption (FM) I have been experimenting with different flours (Spelt, Kamut, Oat and Rye) as normal wheat is like Draino to my innards.  Now before anyone jumps up and points out that Spelt and Kamut are in the wheat family, I know.  However, they are supposedly easier to digest that common commercial wheat flours, and some with FM can tolerate a few slices of spelt and kamut bread (kamut is sadly nolonger my friend, but a sourdough spelt is awesome).  Plus sourdough is also supposed to be more easily digested as it breaks down the fructans.  So whilst I and my youngest may be able to tolerate these, there are no guarantees that others with FM can do the same.  It's all trial and error.

As you probably know by now, thanks to my Dorothy Shoes post, I feel that a glass of wine really is essential to the creative process.  So buy a bottle of your favourite beverage so you can celebrate every step along the way.  Growing your own wild yeast from scratch is really about creating new life.  And just like children, your yeast will need to be fed on a regular basis and goes bad if ignored.  But unlike the moody teenagers you offer to strangers on a regular basis (or is that just me?) your yeast doesn't talk back or leave rancid sandwiches to liquefy under their bed.  So there are multiple reasons to celebrate with a glass of bubbly or two.

Now I am sure there are essential baking rules that I am breaking when I make my sourdough, but I am impatient and slow witted at times.  Yet despite my stupidity and poor attitude I have managed to make some damn fine bread.  Even the one that barely rose and which I subsequently decided was therefore a surprise foccocia was fantastic toasted with some chutney and chedder cheese melted on top.  So I say, "To hell with the rules!  Livin' on the edge baby" and just see what happens.  So far, so good.  

My Yeast Beast (aka sourdough starter) was of the spelt variety.  Now I did read that you should therefore only make spelt loaves with it, but I didn't read that until after I'd used a mix of flours and it still worked well.  Rules were meant to be broken people.

I should point out that the growing of the Yeast Beast is a long process.  Given that I am at home all day and have no life, that wasn't a worry for me.  For those with lives you may wish to stick with other quicker methods or go to the local bakery.  I will say that I have found it a rewarding process though.  And one of the best breads I have ever tasted.

Stage 1.  The Starter. (7-10 days)

I know 7-10 days seems ridiculously long, but trust me it's worth it.  Plus, that's 7-10 reasons to have a glass of wine!  Every new yeasty bubble should be celebrated.

Now I will admit to some trepidation when I first started, as evidenced by my FB status updates:


"Day 1: Attempting my first sourdough starter. Hoping for yeasty goodness and not a mutant hell beast bent on world domination, but really it could go either way. This time in 7 days hopefully I will hopefully be supping on homemade bread and not loading my shot gun to take down the shrieking hell spawn in my kitchen. Wish me luck.
Day 3: The Yeast Beast is looking good. Though if a lifetime spent watching Sci Fi has taught me anything, you should never get cocky as that always leads to disaster and a world taken over by zombie dogs".

But it all went well and the world wasn't taken over by my mutant Yeast Beast, yet.

Ingredients:

Thumb sized piece of fresh rhubarb.

4tbsp Wholemeal organic spelt flour

Warm water.

Clean glass jar

Day 1.  

• Pour a glass of wine.
• Put on some groovy tunes.  I've been in a Sarah Blasko phase of late, so that's been my choice.
• Go out to garden and grab a piece of rhubarb.  Realise it's a nice day and sit outside for a while and relax.  Eventually, recall that you were in the middle of creating the Yeast Beast.  Go back inside and top up glass of wine which appears to have been affected by the mystery of evaporation.
• Find a clean glass jar and fill with boiling water to sterilize.  Pour out water and let cool.
• In a bowl whisk the flour with enough water to make a batter similar to thickened cream.
• Pour into prepared jar.
• Drop in rhubarb and cover with plastic wrap.
• Put it somewhere warm. My Yeast Beast was grown in my bedroom as it was the warmest room in the house.
• Grab another glass of wine and do a little dance to celebrate your magnificent efforts.

They do say you can get bubbles within the first 24hrs, but with Winter here, it took a couple of days.

Warning: initially it can smell really foul, and resemble something that my dog threw up.  But by day 4 I started to have the first hints of a yeasty smell.  After which it went from strength to strength.  

Day 2.

• This is where the feeding begins.  
• Whisk in another 100gms of flour, with enough water to keep the right consistency.
• It will smell bad.  I recommend a glass of wine to recover.

Days 3-10. 

• Every 24hrs scoop out 1/2 the starter.  You can toss it, but I just put it into the compost.
• Add 100gms of fresh flour, with enough water to keep the right consistency.
• Repeat this each day.
• You will know it is ready for use when it has that sweet, yummy yeasty smell.  
• Throw out the rhubarb and you are ready for some baking.

I should mention that although the River Cottage recipe says to feed it each day, I, with my brain fog, forgot a day here or there and it was still fine.  You can 'refresh' your yeast this way forever.  Some Yeast Beasts are known to be nearly 100 years old.

Stage 2: The Sponge.

Yes I know, another stage.  But it's worth it.  Trust me.  Would I lie to you?  Leave overnight to ferment.

Ingredients:

2/3rd cup of your Yeast Beast.

300gm spelt flour

250ml warm water

• Mix all ingredients in a glass bowl with your fingers.
• It's very gooey, but kinda cool.
• Cover with plastic wrap and leave overnight. I make mine about 9pm and leave it till about 10am the next day.
• It's late so a nice tawny port may be more apt than wine to celebrate, but whatever suits.  A warm glass of milk is equally good in the evening.
• The next morning it will be bubbly, thick and sticky.

Stage 3: The Dough.

Almost there.

Ingredients:

300gm spelt, or a mix of other flours to make the 300gm.  Go crazy.  I don't measure and just put in a bit of each till I get the right amount.

10gm sea salt.

I have added a handful of pepitats and mixed GF grains at this point.  No real measurements, just what felt right.  Apparently you should soak them beforehand.  Again I found this out after the fact, but my bread was still good.

• Mix it with your hands again.
• The dough should be fairly wet but you may need to adjust your flour or add extra water as certain flours absorb more water than others.
• Now this is the point where my planning fell down.  Kneading.  Bugger.  When your upper body strength is measured in wet tissues and yours wrists crack and roll, kneading becomes somewhat challenging.  I swear I heard the dough snort laugh at my efforts.
• You can use a dough hook on a mixer, but I persevered much to my bodies protestations.  This is a really good point for another glass of recovery/pain management wine.
• Knead for about 10 mins until the dough is silky smooth.
• Put dough in an oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap again.
• Leave the dough to double in size.  Can take a long time.  With Winter temperatures I ended up leaving it till late afternoon (about 6-7hrs, Update: I've now increased my time to roughly 24hrs as this gives a better flavour and also breaks down more of those pesky fructans).
• Knock back the dough by punching (very therapeutic) ready for proving.
• I put a flour covered tea towel in a large bowl on which I put the dough to prove.  I have also sprinkled the tea towel with oats and pepitas.
• Leave to double in size again.

Stage 4: Baking.

I have used a few methods at this stage but the one from Miss Buckle has given me the best results.  I use a cast iron camp/dutch oven in my normal oven.  

• Heat the camp oven in the normal oven at 200C (Miss Buckle says 250C but I found I didn't need to go so high).  
• I put a piece of baking paper in the bottom and scattered more seed over that.
• Put dough in camp oven and top with more seeds.
• Put lid on and bake for half hour.
• Take lid off and bake for another 15mins.
• When golden and the bread sounds hollow when tapped, it is ready.
• Take out and let cool on a wooden board for at least 20mins before carving.
• A glass of wine and the busting of some moves, are definitely required to celebrate your creation.

(1) spelt and oat soudough, (2) kamut, spelt and oat sourdough

Then pig out on your baking masterpiece until a sourdough coma ensues.

I found the whole process to be really rewarding.  Growing my yeast from scratch using the wild yeast spores in the environment.  Knowing what is in the bread.  Seeing that final product.  Really I am easily pleased.

Happy Baking

Michelle :)

The Sourdough Companion is also a good source of information and ideas.

Uberneuro: The good, the bad, and the new party trick.

After much trepidation, nausea, and frequent pee stops, I managed to get to, and survive, my visit to the uberneuro.  I don't mind admitting I was a wee bit worried in the hours, okay days, preceding my appointment.  Would he think I was a nutter?  Would he think there was nothing wrong?  Would he find something terribly, terribly wrong?  Would he be the wearer of a colourful bow tie (the international symbol for "I'm a God complex arsehole.  All shall bow to my awesomeness")?  These are the things that go through your mind before the big appointments.

It's ridiculous that after all this time I still worry that I might end up with the nutter tag.  I know I have a genuine medical condition.  I've had it verified by a number of specialists.  I have the hard data in the reports.  Yet still that little voice in the back of my mind says, "it's all in your head, loser".  Logic and fact be damned. It's the same little voice that took up residence after my horrendous and soul destruction visit to my local condescending and incompetent General Physician when I first became sick.  Every time I think I have finally succeeded in getting rid of that voice, it raises its ugly little head once more.  The King Cockroach of the little voices in my mind.

That's one of the joys of having an invisible and unknown illness.  What others can't see they doubt.  Then if you're especially lucky, they are kind enough to share their doubt with you.  One doubt filled comment.  One judgmental look, and all your confidence crumbles.  Maybe they are right?  Maybe it is just all in my head?  I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to look like to prove I'm ill, but I still feel like I should somehow attempt to look the part.  I like to pride myself on having a pretty good attitude about this whole illness business, but times like this it all comes flooding back and all those insecurities take over.

Two and half hours after I walked into the office in the dingy old section of the hospital, I finally had answers.  All the months of waiting actually paid off.  That doesn't happen very often.  So many times I have waited and waited only to have my piss poor health confirmed, be told I was unique, that they have no idea why, and that there were no treatments to offer me.  Time well spent, not.  Always followed by a bill that required the offering of my first born, or left kidney to pay.

It was the longest and most thorough neurological appointment I have ever had.  I was poked and prodded, and even bared my naked bum to his face (thankfully no inappropriate flatulence, though for some reason I felt a sudden desperate need to vacate my gasses as soon as I dropped my undies).

I was taken aback by the fact he actually asked my opinion and made jokes.  Who was this man with the bedside manner?  Surely he cannot be a member of the neurological profession?  The words 'professor' and 'neurology' are never found in the same sentence as 'personality' and 'humour'.  Well, unless the words 'lack of' are involved.  He was a rare breed indeed.

Mr Grumpy found great humour in my body's incompetence, chuckling away to himself through out.  Is it one point or two? Is it hot or is it cold?  Can you feel this pin I am sticking in your stomach?  The physical equivalent of a Mensa test.  Unfortunately, Mensa will not be calling anytime soon.  I fear my body is not even fit to carry their pocket protectors.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the nerds would give me a swirly, and laugh derisively at my inability to identify prime numbers.  I did find out that my right-side is far more intelligent than my left, which may have an exciting career ahead as a speed hump.

So what does it all mean?  My neuropathy is spreading, and spreading faster than I thought.  I think back to early 2006 and I was relatively well.  Then my ANS went into melt down.  A few years ago the toes on my right foot started burning.  Then it was temperature sensation, pin prick, reflexes, burning my hands, the list goes on and on.  (I've written about my various progressing ANS symptoms so I wont bore you with those here).  Now I am uncoordinated and weak as a new born kitten.  Fun times.  Most surprisingly I now have a large patch of my stomach you can stick a pin in, and I simply don't feel it.

He confirmed that my version of Bob is not related to a virus as first thought, but rather an underlying genetic neuropathy.  This isn't really surprising.  I've never brought into the virus argument, it just never fit with what I was experiencing and always felt like a red herring.  He agreed and said my presentation and progression were not reflective of a viral aetiology.  It was nice to finally get an answer to 'why'.  There's something reassuring about an answer, even if that answer is progressively dying nerves and all that means for the future.  It was equally nice to have things like MSA and a variety of Parkinsonian disorders ruled out.

In the world of possible answers, it's not really the best answer I could have received, that would have been Bob is due to A, if you take B you will be cured.  But it's also not the worst.  It's an answer and frankly, that's a relief.  Uncertainty is a far worse diagnosis.  Uncertainty is a shadow being, menacing, and waiting to pounce.  It leaves you floundering, not knowing where to go or what to expect.  A diagnosis, any diagnosis gives you legitimacy.  Legitimacy in the eyes of others, and more importantly, for yourself.  It also gives you something tangible to deal with, and that is priceless.

I will admit to a moment of "why couldn't it be a tumour.  They could cut that out", because that's how your mind works when the news you get isn't all beer and skittles.  A tumour becomes a viable and more preferable option in comparison to diagnoses that involve the words 'progressive' and 'nerve death'.  Sounds crazy when you say it aloud and I know that many would be shocked, but crazy is order of the day over logic in these situations.

I still have more tests ahead to clarify if I am dealing with crap or super crap, not that it will change my treatment options greatly.  It's all still symptom management rather than treatment.  The dead nerves will continue to be dead nerves and more will join the party.  And really, the last thing I need is some form of reanimated zombie nerve roaming around my body.  I've watched enough bad scifi to know that kind of thing never works out well.

At any rate there is no one to do the biopsies I need done until next year, so my plan is just to sit back and not worry about the possibilities until they crop up.  I figure, it is what it is, and I can't do anything about it so I'm not going to waste my time worrying about 'what ifs?'.

Besides, I now have a new party trick, the human pin cushion.  Maybe I could try out for The Dudesons as the new human dart board, or join one of those freak shows lying on a bed of needles.  Oh the possibilities.

(Though I'm not sure the outfit goes with my new found sense of style)

Cheers
Michelle :)

Time to sing my favourite song and break out that old bottle of butterscotch schnapps.

Unplanned Sabbaticals

Well hello there dear readers.  Long time no see.  How have you all been?  Hopefully your days have been filled with exciting adventures involving penguins and pirates, and a swarthy guy named Big Al.  Or at the very least, good coffee and large amounts of cake.  Or maybe I am still sans brain and typing complete nonsense, who knows?  Not me obviously.

It seems I took a wee bit of a blogging vacation the last few weeks.  Like all the best adventures, it wasn't planned, it just sort of happened.  One day I was blogging away with wild abandon, and the next thing I knew my poor little keyboard was sporting a layer of dust and dog hair.  So sorry dear keyboard.  Stop with the puppy dog eyes I feel bad enough already for neglecting you and my lovely, stunningly attractive, and highly intelligent readers.

Bad blogger.  Bad.

I shall now punish myself by watching Justin Bieber's ProActive ad on loop for an hour.  Not sure if I'll make it through the whole hour, and there is a huge chance I will develop a fugue after such a traumatic event, but it's what I am willing to do to atone.

So what exciting adventures have I been up to during my unintentional vacation?   Well lets see.

I've attempted craft and ended up trying to wash the foul taste of spray paint out of my mouth.   Tip for the day: don't sit downwind when using spray paint.

I've attempted baking and fallen into a blissful sourdough coma.  Who knew so much pleasure could be derived from growing your own Yeast Beast?  I've spent hours marveling at my bubbling fermenting brew.

(I am the bread queen)

I've weeded a one metre patch of path only to discover that my youngest dog, Freyja, has decided that this is the ideal pee spot for the past few months.  I have since spent my time searing my nose hairs to try and clear the smell of old dog pee from my nostrils

I've attempted a painting only to cover my wall, window, and unsuspecting dog with paint from a flying paint brush courtesy of a madly twitching hand.  I have discovered that my creative process involves swearing and insulting the paints mother.  I'm sure that's how all the Great Masters worked.

I have been singing Olivia Newton-John tunes at physio and been lapped by my grey haired nemesis once more.  Watch out old man.  Pass me once more with that pitying smile on your face and you may find my walking stick imbeded in your silver-haired butt hole.

I have braved the feeding frenzy over the carcass of the local Borders bookstore.  Swearing and trying not pass out when all the tills stopped working at once in the stifling hot store.  Thankfully, I had a sub in the form of an angsty teenager who took over line duties and was then scared for life by discovering his mother was buying Anais Nin's Delta of Venus and Vladamir Nobokov's Lolita.

I have frolicked/stumbled in the snow in t-shirt and thongs much to the amusement of other locals and their 15 layers of clothing.

(Was a wee bit cold apparently)

Most of all, I have tried to ignore my petulant body and tantruming Bob, and follow the Little Engine That Could's philosophy of "I think I can.  I think I can".  Whilst my success may have been measured in nano-bites, it was nice to live in a land of unicorns, kittens and lollipops for a while.

As you can see I've been living on the wild side these past few weeks.  Watch out Bear Grylls, I'm coming for your job.  It'll be Rusty vs Wild, minus the pee drinking.

Normal posting shall resume shortly.

Cheers
Michelle ;)

Busy times in Rusty Town.

Well it's been a busy few weeks here at Château Rusty.   I've had a birthday, shopped till I dropped, a new haircut, danced the light fantastic, and started back at out-patient physio.  The old brain has been a bit overwhelmed, as has my body, hence the lack of posting.  Hibernation has been order of the day.

I did manage to pump out one post over at Studio 30 Plus where I was honoured to be a featured blogger.  I'm sure I have done my mamma proud by using the words "sucked donkey balls" repeatedly in a post.  I can see her sending copies to all her friends at the gardening club.

The lovely Phoebe aka Lady Melbourne has put up her post about our shopping day for the competition I won.  I will have to say it was one of the best days I've had, and both Phoebe and Jo, my stylist, were truly lovely.  I went in as a shopping tragic and left holding firmly onto my newly rediscovered mojo.  A huge thanks goes out to my gorgeous friend Kerri who came along for the ride and pushed me around in a wheelchair at the Westfield Shopping Centre for 3 hrs.   And Mr Grumpy, who took the day off work to drive me around town.  I will post about the day and pop up a few extra photos in a little while.

Well it's time for me to head back to the cave for some further hibernation.

Cheers
Michelle :)

The Ministry of Silly Walks

Walking shouldn't be hard, should it?  If my eldest could walk at 9mths, surely I should be able to walk with ease at 37.  Mind you, I am walking like he was at 9mths.  Furniture and wall walking my way through the world.  It's a good look.  What is cute and gives rises to "oohs" and "ahhs" and "who's a clever boy" at 9mths, is not met with the same enthusiasm by the general public at age 37.  Instead I am the recipient of 'those' looks.  And little whispered comments, which seem to include the word 'drunk' quite frequently.  If only, judgmental old biddies.  If only.

These past few weeks I have been walking like a drunken sailor, minus the barrel of rum in my belly.  I have found that my gait is getting wider, what in the old work days I would have thought of as a classic alcoholic ataxia.  Only I have had hardly enough alcohol to pickle an olive, let alone my cerebellum.  My muscles have been uncooperative little buggers, and my weakness increasing.  They simply feel 'wrong' when I walk. 

Can't wait to give Uberneuro that descriptor when I see him in June.  A patient's inability to explain their symptoms was always a frustration for both parties, back in my work days.  I would hand them a sheet of descriptors to pick from when they were finding it particularly difficult. Maybe I should see if I can find it again, to use for myself. Damn, that's a depressing thought.

I don't really know why it's come to a head lately.  Maybe it's just the effects of my recent back issues tipping things over the edge.  I'm not really sure.  Given that my pulse pressure (systolic minus diastolic) has also been in the toilet I think Bob is getting a bit frisky in his old age.  When 40 is optimal, 30 is considered okay, 20 is considered shock, and all I can muster is a pissy 9, well it's not a particularly good situation.  It could just be a phase, and I'm truly hoping that's the case.  All jokes aside, the past month or so has really been hard and I've had about enough.

(Was lying down at the time I recorded this)

My neuro symptoms have been getting worse overall.  I tick and shake, and have muscle fasciculations up the wahzoo.  Managed to burn myself on the stove again thanks to the reduced feeling in my hands (good old SNAFU), which is always fun.  I asked my youngest if I had burnt my finger and he rubbed it, taking off a layer of skin.  Apparently what looked like flour was a wee bit of charred skin and we both had a bit of an "oh shit" moment.  

Luckily I finally have my appointment date so fingers crossed Uberneuro will have a clue.  I used to take classes with him back in the day so I am confident he's the go-to-guy when no one else has a clue.  But seeing someone I knew on a more professional basis will be uncomfortable to say the least.  I know his current Neuropsychologist quite well.  I was on our state professional board with her, so I'm really hoping I don't bump into her.   It's moments like those that I feel really self-conscious and it all gets a bit confronting. Ugh. That's all way to serious and depressing.  Will now play my happy song in my head and settle down to a nice bowl of denial.

I have finally taken the plunge this past week, and am now the less-than-proud owner of a walking stick.  I have put it off for a very long time, despite having balance issues on and off for quite a while (okay couple of years).  I knew I needed one, but my mind screamed "NOOOOOOOOO........" every time I saw one.  Now before anyone starts saying, "well you have to be practical Michelle", you should also know I will beat you to a pulp with my stick if you even start to go there.

People need to realise that:

Logic and Chronic Illness are not friends.  

They're not even casual acquaintances.  

In fact, if Chronic Illness was to serve Logic a drink it'd probably spit in the glass and smirk, whilst they watched them drink.

It's a mind space that you are either in, or you're not.  There's not a lot of grey.  Logically I have known that I needed some form of walking aide for well over a year.  But every fibre of my body has rebelled against the idea. 

I had a similar predicament with the shower chair.  I have a shower chair now, and I love it.  It means I can shower without face planting.  It means I can have the water above tepid, and stay in for longer than a nanosecond.  And it sure as hell beats sitting in the bottom of my manky shower.  All good things.  But the lead up to getting a shower chair was not paved with lollipops, kittens and rationality.  

Buying a shower chair represented tangible proof that I was broken.  Ptooey!  I spit on 'broken'.  "That's not me," I shouted whilst raising my fist in the air in defiance.  Not that anyone was listening.  Except my dogs, and they just looked confused.  It certainly didn't help that they were sold in the 'Aged Care' section of the store.  After a long period of denial, ranting, head shaking from a long suffering Mr Grumpy, and traumatising my dogs, I purchased a shower chair.  There may have been some pouting and swearing involved.  I may also have forcefully thrown it at my shower, rather than going for gentle placement. Whatever.

I still remember sitting down for the first time and thinking to myself,

"I'll show them.  It wont make one bit of difference.  I'll be right and they'll be wrong.  And I'll say see, see, SEEEEEEEEEE I was right, losers".   

But damn it.  It was better.  And easier.  And they were right.  And I was wrong.  Bastards.   See the extreme lack of logic involved?  I think I should be studied.  Or at least better medicated.

The reality is that I am now disabled.  And at some level I acknowledge that.  But there is a very large irrational part of me that continues to rally against that label. I spent my professional life, working in neurorehabilitation.  I helped to plan ways to maximise independence, including the use of lifestyle aides like shower chairs.  I know the theory.  I've seen it in practice.  And yet I still rally against it all.  As I said, logic is not my friend.

The acquisition of a walking stick has fallen into the same category of rabid illogical thought processes.  No doubt there will be many other items that will flail beneath the sword of irrationality, before I finally reach the point of acceptance and pull my head out of my own arse and acquiesce.

I am still on the lookout for a groovy walking stick, is that an oxymoron?  I'm not sure.  I really want one of those classy silver handled, black ones that look like they should be in an Agatha Christie movie.  But will have to save up my pennies.  I do feel as though I should be wearing a top hat and a monocle when I walk with my current stick.  And saying things like "tally ho", or "jolly good show old chap".  Or at least break into a song and dance routine complete with jazz hands and spirit fingers.  But baby steps first.  Coordinating, two legs, a stick, a handbag and breathing is still troublesome at present. 

(It's grannified but it works)

I have used my stick as a light sabre, complete with sound effects.  And as an improvised guitar whilst listening to AC/DC.  It has also proven a great tool to poke cheeky children.

I did see a fantastic sword cane (think Crispin Glover's, The Thin Man in Charlies' Angels)  which I want very badly.  That way I can stab people who tell me it's greatI finally purchased a walking stick.  And muggers beware, this disabled, uncoordinated chick would take you out.  It's all very James Bond.  Maybe I can also get one of those bowler that cuts off peoples heads, like Oddjob's in Goldfinger.  Now there's an idea.  I think I'm finally starting to come round to this whole walking stick idea.

Cheers

The dapper Michelle ;)

The Ministry of Silly Walks, Monty Python (1970)

Lady Melbourne, Westfield, and Shopping Extravaganzas.

Once upon a time I was fashion girl.  I loved shopping.  I loved looking for the perfect shirt, skirt or, my greatest love, shoes.  Unfortunately my Carrie Bradshaw taste was accompanied by the salary of an allied health worker in the public health system,with a husband, two kids and a mortgage. 

Still, I was undeterred by my meager finances.  I was bargain queen.  I could smell a 70% off sale a mile away and spot a red 'sale' sign at 100 paces.  I could mix and match with ease.  I would drive across 10 suburbs to get to a great op shop that was renowned for it's treasure of vintage pieces.  I always carried my wardrobe contents in my mental filofax.  I knew exactly where a particular piece of clothing or accessory would fit.  I could shop for hours and come home with only one piece, but it would be the perfect piece, that slotted in seamlessly with the rest of my wardrobe.  My own fashion version of Tetris.

I would frock up for work each day in a killer pair of heels, carefully selected vintage or classic inspired outfit with the perfect accessories. 

Then Bob came on the scene.

Slowly, bit by bit, my fashion sense went the way of my health.  Part of it was the exhaustion.  I simply didn't have the energy to do it.  It was a case of practicalities.  Ensuring adequate coverage for everything that needs to be covered in public became the number one priority, anything more was simply in the realm of fantasy.  Mind you that didn't stop me from going to work with my top on backwards, or forgetting to iron half my shirt.  If my hair was brushed I was pretty happy, as using a hair dryer was just too much effort.  Makeup went out the window except for a quickly applied bit of lippy.  I ended up with a wardrobe filled with slacks and shirts made from that hideous no-iron material. One less step to worry about in a world where energy was in short supply.

When I stopped working I gave up on fashion all together.  I slipped into a funk that if I'm honest, was quite comfortable.  There were small flashes where I would find a moment of care and put in some effort but they wee few and far between.  When your permanently exhausted it's hard to care.  With Bob my body shape also changed.  I really have no idea what size I am now, all I know is that most of my pre-sick clothes nolonger fit.  I don't really want to know more than that. 

Now I wear the uniform of the sick, PJs and old trackie dacks (see below).  Bugger brushing may hair, whip it up in a hair band and I'm set to face the world.  When you're stuck at home for the most part, why put in the effort?  I'm pretty sure my dogs are ambivalent to my permanent fashion faux pas.  My only concession to personal grooming these days is my bottle of Chanel No. 5 that sits by my bed.  A squirt every day to remind myself that once life was different.  

 (Abandon all hope ye who enter here.  

2yrs post leaving work.  Looking chic in pasty sick, 

with hideous dressing gown, unbrushed hair, dog chewed couch,

and large Thor sized accessory).

 

 (Mixing it up with old trackie dacks, which I still wear, 

and hair pulled back in a hair band, with small Freyja puppy accessory)

 

  (Ooh look, more pj's and another dog accessory, I have it going on.  

Note carefully crafted bed hair and pasty chic look)

 

 (And yet another pj, dressing gown and dog shot.  I am serious need on the fashion front.  

Good lord, even I can't believe my lack of style.)

Lately, I've been thinking that I need to put in some effort.  My eldest monkey boy is doing his deb with his best girlfriend and I really want to not look like the bride of Frankenstein's frumpier, pasty sister, when we do the mum and son dance.  PJs are simply not going to cut it.  Bob's not going anywhere and I really need to find my mojo again.  With his recent escalation I really need to put some serious effort into locating my elusive fashion sense once more.  (Though despite my stupor even I know that jeggings aren't pants, and that orange spray tan is only acceptable if you are an Oompa Loompa.  Maybe there is a remnant of my fashion sense left after all). 

Whether it's kismet or fate or whatever, but one of my favourite fashion bloggers, Lady Melbourne, (Phoebe was the inspiration for my Dorothy Shoes post last year) ran a competition for a $1,000 Westfield shopping spree with a stylist.  And,

I WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know.  I can't believe it either.  I ran around (well stumbled around) the house yelling "I won", and doing a happy dance that may or may not have resembled the famous Elaine dance from Seinfeld.  I then took my laptop out to Mr Grumpy to ensure I wasn't delusional from lack of O2 or in the midst of a super brain fog.  But it's true I won.  My name was right there on the computer screen.  I have had emails from Lady Melbourne herself, and now have a pair of Westfield shopping centre gift cards in my hands.  No need to pinch me, it's not a dream.

Phoebe has been lovely, managing to squish me in on short notice before Monkey Boy's deb on the 14th so I will be all gussied up for the big night.

So this Wednesday, May 11th, which just so happens to be my birthday, I get to meet Phoebe, shop with a stylist and have the best birthday ever.  My gorgeous friend Kerri is coming along to help me out, carry bags or piggy back me at need.  I don't care how badly behaved Bob is on the day I am going to shop till I drop,  I don't care if I end the day being felt up by a pair of burly ambos or staggering like a drunken sailor and scaring small children and grey-haired grannies.  There will be fitting rooms, coat hangers, seams, hems, buttons, zippers and most importantly, fun.

And just think, with a stylist I will actually have a chance at avoiding the dreaded Mutton Dressed as Lamb Syndrome (at nearly 38 I am classed as high risk) or a bad case of What Was She Thinking Disorder.  Because lets face it $1000 on clothes can be spent wisely or very badly.  I think Princess Beatrice has taught us all a lesson in that money cannot be trusted to purchase style.

 (This must be avoided at all costs)

I will post photos of my new fashionable self after the big day and there will be no pjs or trackie dacks in sight!

Cheers
The soon to be re-mojoed Michelle ;)

A Word From Our Sponsor XV

With my heath in the proverbial toilet, posting has been a little slack of late.  I do apologise, but simply standing, especially when combined with the tricky act of breathing, has been challenging the last few weeks.

In.  Out. Stay upright.  In. Out.  Stop swaying.  In. Out.  Grab wall.  In.  In. In. Oh shit........

Fun times.

It appears that Bob was feeling a little ignored and he decided to throw a tantrum to get my attention.  It's worked.  All that screaming, foot stamping and dish throwing has been a little hard to ignore.  If only I could lose myself in a tasty bottle of mummies little helper, but alas that is off the cards at the moment.  I am already doing a fair impression of a slurring, staggering drunk, one little sip and I'll be on my ear, or singing Ke$ha songs.

I've been trying to catch up on some of that pesky blog administrative stuff that I always put off.  I've finally gotten around to writing an About page and added a Contact page.  Please let me know what you think.  If it makes sense.  If I look like a loon.  Or have created a grammar and spelling abomination that would make a unicorn cry.

Still working on updating my Dysautonomia Blogs list so if anyone has a blog about Dysautonomia and wants me to add it in please leave your link in the comments. 

In honour of Mother's Day I have re-edited an old post I did for 12 More Pages back in 2009, on combining motherhood and chronic illness.  It's easy to feel guilty as a mum for all the things we can't do for our children but it's time we gave ourselves a break and realise what's important.

Hope you all have a fantastic Mother's day.

Cheers
Michelle :)

I've been singing this a lot lately.  I'm thinking it would make a good Dear John song for Bob.

Basement Jaxx feat Lisa Kekaula, Good Luck, (2003)

Basement Jaxx - Good Luck on MUZU.

The View From My Couch: Tiny Umbrellas.

Well it's been a rather rough couple of weeks on the health front (hence the lack of posting).  Sad that I'm becoming rather sentimental about the 'good old days' of normal Bob symptoms.  But what's a girl to do?  Break out the tiny umbrellas of happiness, that's what.  If I'm going to walk like I just sculled a jug of margaritas, I might as well at least have the mini umbrellas.  And they are so pretty.  So here's to glasses of water, rimmed with salt and a cheery little umbrella on the side.  Though, a little medicinal tequila wouldn't go astray.

Twenty Years

Twenty years ago today Mr Grumpy and I went on our first date.

I've known him for more than half my life.

It's hard to wrap my head around that.

Then.

Nervous laughter.  Mumbled words.   Furtive glances.   Attraction.  Uncertainty.

20 years would have seemed laughable to us both.

Now...

His presence is comfort.

No need for fancy words. No need for overt demonstrations of love.

Silence is embraced, not feared.

A simple touch.  Our fingers entwined.  His hand on my leg.  My head on his chest.

He laughs at my jokes and I at his.

Even though we each know the others repertoire by rote.

We are both wider.

Grayer.

Saggier.

Youth has been replaced by 'character'.

Yet when he looks at me I'm still that 17-year-old girl, and he still that 18-year-old boy.

There are no words worthy to describe the bond created through those 20 years.

It is a creature born of time.

Of anger.  Of tears.  Of laughter.  Of love.

Thousands of fibres intertwined.

No beginning.  No end.  Ever changing.

I read an article recently about a Sliding Doors life.  About making choices too early.  About whether we would make the same choices given our time over.

As I write, there is a single, long-stemmed, red rose sitting in front of me.

20 years later, and he still remembers that first date.

There is no choice to be made.

Michelle :)

Copyright.

Being ill sucks.  It really does.  There's no two ways about it.  There's no sugar coating the joy of having an 80-year-old's body, when your only 37.  Doesn't matter your poison.  Could be Bob.  Could be MS.  Could be cancer.  Could be one of the other bazillion diseases, disorders and syndromes that pop up just to lay a large steaming nard on your life.  Nosology doesn't matter.  The result is the same.  Life turns upside down.  And where once you were tripping the light fantastic, you are now scrambling to recover your dignity and equilibrium after face planting in a big pile of the universe's fecal matter.

(Sometimes life just doesn't turn out quite like you imagined)

And when you're lying in that large pile of turds you can do one of two things.  You can cry and gag and try not to barf. You can woe is me.  And convince yourself the universe hates you.  Or, you can laugh.  Big belly laughs.  Guffaw and snort laugh, until you have tears running down your cheeks. 

That's not to say it's not okay to cry and swear at the universe.  I've been there done that and got the crappy t-shirt.  Grief and Illness are bound together.  You can't have one without the other.  You can't find the funny, or take back ownership of your life, until that grief is acknowledged, embraced, loved, slapped around, purple nurpled, and put in the naughty corner. 

And finding that funny in the most unfunny of moments is all about ownership.  About copywriting your experience.  About taking back control.  About saying this is mine, it belongs to me.  I may choose to share parts of it with you, but this is uniquely mine. And I don't really give a crap what you or anyone else thinks.

Those who aren't, or haven't been ill often find my reaction to being sick a little hard to understand.   Hell, even most doctors don't get my sense of humour.  I still remember the gynecologist who whipped out my uterus back in the day going on and on about the fact that I would no longer feel like a woman, and all I could think of was this Monty Python sketch from The Life Of Brian.  Was my reaction wrong?  Should I have been more serious?  Should I have felt less womanly?  Should I have ascribed to his belief and spent the rest of my life grieving and being 'less'?  As far as I was concerned he could take my dysfunctional and disrespectful womb and boot it up the arse.  I've never missed it.  In fact I celebrated it's removal.  Given the comically perplexed look on his face, I don't think he quite understood that. 

And so it's been since Bob came on the scene.  I've done the tears and the woe is me, and frankly it's exhausting.  Even I get sick of myself when I get like that.  I could sit back and let it consume me.  I could hand over title to my body and my life and sit back in a miserable state of perpetual helplessness.  A seductive choice at times.  That would be my right to choose.  But it's just not me. 

If I were to sit down and list off every broken bit in my body, if I were to look at my ever increasing list of diagnoses, if I were to look at my ever decreasing functioning, my ever increasing pill collection, 'tis all rather depressing.   The reality is that I can't change what is happening physically, I have no control over that.  My body will continue to go along on it's own merry way, and I'm just the unlucky side kick along for the ride. 

But I can control how I respond to what my body is doing.  I can decide how I am going to deal with what I face on a daily basis, and the rather scary unknown that lies before me.  I am going to choose how I experience this.  I am not going to act my illness, and no doubt I'll be one of those old ladies who doesn't act her age.

It's not about being brave or courageous, those words are overused these days. Instead, it's about making a choice on how to live your life.  It's about deciding to change your perspective and not letting anyone else, even your own body, dictate how you experience your world.

Illness takes away choice, it leaves you powerless, or so it would like you to think.

Those who have faced, or continue to face, illness know the power of perspective, the power of laughter.  Of finding the funny in the most unfunny of circumstances.

I will live my illness how I choose to live it.

Not how anyone else tells me I should live it.

This experience is my own and I will make of it what I will.

I will shape it and mould it.

I will alter it at need.

It is my work of art.

I will tell inappropriate jokes.  I will shock my doctors and those around me with my supposedly unconventional attitude.  I will put pink glittery feather boas around my puke bags.  I will name my doctors after Motley Crue songs and ask for my angioplasty balloon to be shaped like a unicorn.  I will make totally inappropriate glittery red Dorothy Shoes that I can never walk in.  I will laugh at the fact that my boobs are a garden or, that more recently, my lady garden has decided to grow a rather scary weed.  And I will not apologize to those who think I should be more dignified and serious.

Each of us must make our own choice as to how we deal with the cards we are dealt.

Each of us needs to ignore those who throw the word 'should' in our face.

Despite Bob and his ever increasing possee of abnormal peeps, this is still my life.

And I will live it as I want. 

Michelle ©

Alive and Brilliant, Deborah Conway 1993.