A Word From Our Sponsor XIII

Just a quick update to allay those pesky rumours.  I am in the Land of the Living.  Well sort of.  If the Land of the Living comprises the carpet locked nation of my bed and the small colonial island known as my couch.  I have not decided to forsake all worldly possessions and move into a cave sans internet.  Though it is tempting.  I have not been so embarrassed by Australia's pathetic political situation that I am ashamed to show my keystrokes to the world.  It does however, leave me with a hollow feeling deep inside.  Nor have I been kidnapped by Johnny Depp and been forced to do his sexual bidding (although I would not be adverse to such a situation should he be reading.  Am willing to get on board with Stockholm Syndrome on day one.  Am also willing to provide own bath products to overcome his lack of personal hygiene should this situation occur).

No no.  Nothing so interesting.  Instead it's been a case of The Blargh invading once more, life becoming way too busy, visitors, and a continuing battle of wits with Blogger for which I am woefully under resourced.

For those who have taken time to comment, which is much appreciated, I am not being a biatch and ignoring you.  Blogger has decided to give me intermittent access to moderate my comments.  Sometimes it'll show them.  Sometimes it wont.  Some days it will show me comments from weeks ago and then they will simply disappear into the ether.  I often wonder if they have been sucked into the mystical realm of odd socks, all the packets of Christmas cards I buy on special in the after Christmas sales so I'll be prepared for next Christmas but never find when December rocks around again, the elusive weapons of mass destruction, and the Amelia Earhart.  It has also decided to delete three posts I had ready to post in my drafts folder (and no, I was not bright enough to save a copy elsewhere) and told me that my blog didn't exist even though I was staring at it in another tab.    I am determined to win this battle even if it kills me, and it just might.  Well that or at least tax Eunice to the point of no return.

(I have a feeling this guy is hanging out in my Blogger account and causing all the mischief. Maybe I need to take some tips from this instructional video on how to deal with him.)

Reading has also been a bit beyond old Eunice for a while now so my list of blogs to read is now getting to unassailable levels.  I manage one every now and then but that's about it.  I may have to toss my list in the bin and begin again when I can concentrate for more than two nanoseconds. 

Okay have been staring vaguely at the screen for about 10 mins now.  Time to end.  Hopefully I can soon send The Blargh packing, will win the war with Blogger, and put together enough coherent sentences to create a post.

Until then,

.... So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, good night,
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight.
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu.

So long, farewell, Au'voir, auf wiedersehen,
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye,
I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye,
Good bye .....

Ah, The Sound of Music, you do make everything better.  Will now drag my butt to my shower chair and break out in a breathtaking rendition of How do you solve a problem like Maria.

Cheers
Michelle.

Life is an errant shower water jet in the face.

Do you ever hop into the shower and find that there is one errant little jet of water, that acts like a heat seeking missile going straight for your face?  You move left.  You move right.  You do handstands and turn your back.  Yet it still hits you right in between your eyes, hard, and has enough cast off to go into both your eyes so you stand there blinking and cursing whatever you did to deserve an annoying spit in the face from the universe?  Yes? No?  Well for me the last few days have been one shower jet watergorby in the face, literally and figuratively.

Though I like to remind myself things could be worse. 

I had the audacity to go out with my physio girls for dinner (post to come, I wont sully that fun with today's gripe) and now am being punished by my puritanical body. If I'm honest I was on the down slope pre-dinner and if it wasn't for the joy of seeing my ladies, I would normally have stayed home and crawled up in a ball to die slowly under my doona. But, sometimes it's just worth the post-fun hijinks.

The past day and a half has been unpleasant to say the least.  Stuck in bed with barely enough energy or wherewithall to be peeved that I was stuck in bed.  Well if I'm truthful I am still in bed.  But as I'm sitting up, have scoured the sickly sludge off my body, and have managed to resist the siren call of my pjs, I feel technically, I can finally be classed as up and about. 

Really bed is the only place to be if you can't reach triple digits in your bp.  I tried.  I really did.  But swearing at my blood vessels and threatening them with all sorts of nastiness just didn't seem to work.  I also tried to be positive. I repeated "I think I can.  I think I can" ad nauseum, but that also proved about as useful as a tube of SPF 30 on the surface of the sun.  I was proud to get to a decent 92/41 by about 9pm last night, thanks of course to my Uri Geller spoon bending and healing powers of positivity.  If I could've stood up, I would have danced for joy.

Haven't eaten a great deal since Friday night. Still not hungry and just a tad nauseous, so the occasional nibble of something salt laced is probably about it for now.  I am hoping this lack of intake will aid my plans to decrease the size of my ever increasing rear end.  Hell, it has to work better than my regular method of LMAO, which is simply not working and frankly I am beginning to feel like a liar every time I type those four letters.

Note to self: do not comment or message anyone whilst in this state of uselessness.  Messages may be incoherent at best, or come out the wrong way entirely.  I've heard this is how wars start.  Well that and something about Texas Tea.  At the time you think you are exceedingly eloquent and humorous.  However, this judgement is being filtered by a brain severely lacking is O2.  Really it's the equivalent of drunk dialling, minus all the "I loves yous".

I did manage a shower yesterday, which was a feat in itself.  I made it from my bed, to the shower, onto my shower chair, managed to clean off the hideous paint pealing bed funk to a tolerable level, get out, get dressed and make it back to bed without serious incident.  This is pretty impressive even on a good day.  There have been many a time where I either, didn't make it, fell off my shower chair, or missed it when I sat down.  Naked humiliation was avoided (apart from the quick glimpse of pasty marshmallow I caught in the mirror).  No new bruises were acquired.  Go me.  I did manage a minor scalding when I forgot how to use the cold tap, but that is still a good day.  I did have one of those errant spouts.  I moved left.  I moved right.  It still found my face.  Solution.  Give in and put face washer on face, lean head against wall and let the water fall.  Much easier than fighting.

(On a good day this is about how successful my showers are) 

The rest of the day was spent either comatose or watching episodes of 30 Rock. Kenneth Parcell can get me through many a tough time.  20 minute episodes are good when your brain is mush.  Even better if you have seen the episodes before and you don't have to try and follow a plot. 

One problem with sleeping so much is you dehydrate, and if you have Bob you dehydrate at light speed.  Today I have lips with cracks the size of the San Andreas and there is no lip balm that can fix that quickly.  So today's plan is to guzzle enough water to cover today and yesterday.  This also means many a pee trip from bed to loo.  I think all this to and fro classes as my cardio for the day so no need to break out the Wii.  I will now put on my headband, sexy leotard, and Olivia Newton-John's, Physical on loop, to make me really feel like I'm on my way to buns of steel.

I'm hot, and not in the good way. Well I don't actually know if I've ever been hot in the good way.  Though I did get called a MILF by some delightful teenagers last year.  Does that count as a good or bad thing?  I'm still not sure.  I do know that I am the bad type of hot at the moment.  It's a delightful Winters day here is Aus. Misty rain, soggy world, 8C if we're lucky, and I'm rocking my Summer's best of t-shirt bare feet and rolled up trackie dacks (my attempt at pretending I am cold like normal people).  The last three night's I've slept with  either a sheet or nothing, whilst Mr Grumpy had the electric blanket on max, the doona up round his ears and lay there shivering.  The rest of the house is wearing Arctic thermals, jumpers and thick wool socks and I have heat intolerance up the wazoo.  Stupid body temp is higher than usual, and it's always high.  If I sweated I'd be lying in a salty pool by now.  All in all I guess it helps with our heating bill, especially when I'm home by myself.  You know, silver linings and all.

I think I'm going to go with the whole "and on the last day He rested" plan, it is Sunday after all.  Saturday was completely misplaced.  It is obviously hanging out with my Bedazzler and single socks.  I'm thinking about requesting a do-over.  Is that possible for a whole day?  Let me know. 

Cheers
Michelle :)

Miniature Disasters - KT Tunstall, seems somehow fitting.

Fabulous Friday: MLT Time For One

Okay, which bastard thought it'd be hilarious to steal my Bedazzler?  I am going to hunt you down as soon as I can stand, and pull your spleen out your left nostril.  As some of you may have noticed my insane attempt to be perky at least one day a week has gone awry.  Not like anyone is truly surprised, well except for that tiny delusional anal portion of my mind that still thinks it can do everything.  With the absence of my metaphorical Bedazzler, these last few weeks at Château Rusty have been rather bereft of sparkly rhinestones and crystals.   I have resorted to watching hours of The People's Court, and even made it through an entire episode of Paris Hilton's reality show without retching, or doing an Elvis and shooting my TV.  Even I am scared.  An intervention may be in order.

Well as I've managed to get my bp out of the toilet for two seconds today, I thought I'd have a bash at perkiness.  "Got to be in it to win it", or so they say.  Whoever the hell 'they' are?  I'm pretty sure 'they' may be in cahoots with the pathologically cheerful purveyors of religion who keep knocking on my door at 8:30am.  I'm starting to think there must be some sign on my house indicating that I am in desperate need of salvation.  Mind you if they came after my morning sanity coffee I may actually be more receptive, well probably not, but definitely more civil regarding their message, and not set my large dog on them (good boy Thor).  They really need to get onto their market research people.  8:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and convert the heathen masses.  Hell, 11:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and covert the heathen masses.  Only the insane are open to conversion at this time. 

But I digress.

When my kids were younger we used to have MLT time one day a week after school.  MLT being Mummy, rug rat L. and rug rat T. time. We would go to a café and have hot chocolates or lime spiders and chat about their week.  Both of them had some tough times with bullies and the like so to try and refocus them from the crappy aspects of school we always ended with them picking three good things about their week.  So I thought today I should try and have MLT time for one ,and find three good things from the last few weeks (and try valiantly to live in denial about the rest).


Number one:  I had to go to a talk at the eldest rug rats school about learning to drive.  Sounds crap right?  But no.  I scored big time.  First I picked up the youngest rug rat from basketball practice next door and brought us each a chocolate Twix bar.  We won two free bars.  Now in my sad little life this was enough to make me do a little jig in front of youngest rug rats basketball mates and embarrass the help out of him (this is compulsory in every mum's KPIs).  Next we returned to the talk only to win first a little squishy toy in the shape of a VW.  For those of you who don't know I love a little VW bug and have always wanted one, though a combi comes very close in the love stakes.  Next we won a big box of chocolates.  Then we won a $25 gift voucher for a music store.  Score!!!  We made up for a lifetime of never winning so much as a used piece of gum, in one night. There may also have been more embarrassing dancing in front of eldest rug rats teenage friends.

Number two:  Some of you may know I had some excitement in my street the other day.  For some reason a rather strange man decided that he would run up and down my street for a couple of hours wearing nothing but a pair of poorly fitting jeans.  It was about 5C, being the middle of Winter here in Aus so it was bizarre from the out set.  He was possible the hairiest man I had seen in a while and in desperate need of an Epilady across his back.  I was tempted to yell "Run Forrest, run" out my lounge window but I didn't want to break his stride.  Even better was the fact that at each lap, thanks to his poorly fitting jeans, more and more of his money box came into view.  I could have lost $100 down that furry coin slot.  Alas he must have tired, and eventually disappeared.  I am hoping he comes back though as he did provide me with a couple of giggle-filled hours.

Number three:  I won a blog prize.  Mr London Street (MLS) gave me a nod as one of his three best posts for That Was The Week That Blogged (TWTWTB).  It was for The Wonder Years, which I changed my mind about posting about a dozen time.  I was lucky enough to win one of these last year for Farewell to the Brandy Hag, and I was equally chuffed this time.  When someone, whose writing you admire gives you an award it's rather exciting.  I have suggested MLS as a blog to  follow before and will again (and not just because he gave me an award and said lovely things, though I am not adverse to bribery).  As his profile says, he is "Reading's Premier Humourist. Occasional nookie ocelot. Highly conflicted purveyor of high class smut and melancholy to the masses".  If you like your humour dry and your melancholy dark, he is your man.

Okay I made it to three.  I will now focus on free chocolate, naked hairy men and bask in the glory of my accolade for a while.  Hopefully this will lead me back to my happy place and my elusive Bedazzler.  I will now attempt to drag my body out of bed (it's 3:30pm), scull water and chug salt in the hopes of getting my bp up enough to go out to dinner with my physio girls.  I may need a mule or a sturdy Sherpa to get me up the mountain to the restaurant but damn it I'm getting there.

Insert the world's greatest motivational music, ever.




Cheers
The "blame it on the lack of oxygen getting to my brain" Michelle :)

Waiting For The Storm.

(Stormy skies out the front of our house. Part of my #lookingup series)

Uncertainty has been one of the worst parts of becoming ill.  It has stalked me since the first day I realised I didn't simply have a bug, and that something more serious was going on with my body.  It fills you with an overwhelming anxiety.  An anxiety that cannot be sated through determination or hard work.  Uncertainty, is as unyielding as the hardest stone.  Might as well attempt to stay a flood with a tissue, as create order in the chaos. It's been a constant companion for the past four years, and I hate it.

Bob is not a disorder with a clear path.  Technically it is not even a discrete disorder, but a collection of symptoms for which the underlying cause frequently remains elusive.  It is unpredictable.  It waxes and wanes.  Over months.  Over weeks.  Over days and frequently, over hours.  It hides from view.  Despite search after search it can remain hidden from public view for years.  The elusive Bigfoot of the disease world.  Known only to those who keep it's company.  It is a disorder that refuses to play by the rules.  It follows no logical path and leaves patient, doctors, and the wider world perplexed.  I have lived with it for four years and I still fail to have more than a superficial understanding of it's nature.

You take on the role of plate spinner in a bizarre circus troop.  Constant alert, waiting for the first plate to show a sign of the shakes.  Never knowing which  will be the first to fall.  Rushing from spike to spike in a desperate attempt to keep all in a state of equilibrium.  Failing time and time again, no matter how hard you try or how closely you adhere to the rules.   Fear becomes your permanent state, only the degree ever varies.

Always that sense of foreboding.  Always tension.  Always exhaustion.  Waiting in anticipation for the storm that you know with absolute certainty is coming.  Always that feel in the air, the electrical tension as the atmosphere begins to change.  Ears attuned for the first rumble of thunder in the distance.  Face turned to note the slightest change in the wind.  Never knowing exactly how far away or how violent the storm to come.  

Living always anticipating the worst.  Failing to see that the sun is shining in the present.  Why allow yourself to enjoy the sun when you know it will be taken away?  Surely that pain must be worse than that with which you are familiar.  You create your own reality.  An unwanted reality, one from which it feels impossible to escape.  Without change, the storms fills your entire vision even when it is no longer present.

You cannot harness the weather.  You can't will away the thunder or stop the wind with your hands.  You are flailing against an opponent who you will never touch.  An opponent who simply is, and is totally unaware of your efforts.

There comes a time when you must end the fight.  Release a burden that you have created for yourself.  The storm will come.  But even the worst cyclone has an eye filled with peace.  A peace that needs to be seen.  That needs to be embraced for all it's wonder.  The storm will be endured.  It has come and gone so many times in the past.  Each time you have picked up the pieces, and taken the first step.  You will do it again.  To sit waiting for the storm, so much is wasted.  So much power is given to that which cares nothing for the giver.

Moments of peace, in any sense of the world, need to be cherished.  To waste such moments in fear of the unknown, is to waste a precious gift.  A sunny day in the middle of Winter is far more precious for the surrounding days of cold and rain.  The sun comes in many forms.  An unexpected kindness.  A smile from a stranger.  Coffee with a friend.  Sitting out in the garden.  A minimal symptom day.  Only you can take away the sun on those days.  A choice can be made to either wait for the storm, or to embrace the precious days of sun.  I for one am deciding to choose the latter.

Cheers
Michelle :)

(photo)

Perspective: DARE Re-post.

Having a bit of a blogging block, so I thought I'd re-post an article I wrote back in March for one of the Dysautonomia support groups I'm involved with, DARE.  

I realised today that I have spent so long trying to minimise my illness that I have lost sight of what it really is, and how sick I actually am. Why I’ve chosen this path is complex. I’m not completely sure I can identify all the reasons why I do this, but I’ll try.

I know part of it is my attempt to shake my fists at the universe and say, “You can’t beat me”. To tell my illness that it doesn’t own me and that I am still me under my compression hose and gallons of water. You need to do this to survive. It’s hard to keep getting out of bed each morning unless a part of you says I can do this, no matter the reality of the situation.

I know part of it is that I am sick of being the token ‘sick’ person. I’m over it. I don’t want people to know how ill I am.  I don't want the first question to always be about my health.  I want them to see me rather than dysautonomia.

I know part of it is my strong aversion to pity. I would rather kill myself putting on my ‘well’ mask, pushing myself to the limits and suffering for the next week, rather than get the pity look or comments.  They cut me to the quick and leave me with a sense that the word 'VICTIM' is being continually carved into my forehead.

I know part of it is that my ‘well’ baseline is now so much lower than those without chronic illness. How do you register a ‘sick’ day, when every day is a 'sick' day.  Symptoms that were so strange and frightening at the start are like white noise now. I’m permanently dizzy. I’ve had 7 years of dizzy.  I don’t really remember being non-dizzy anymore. If I didn’t wake up to nausea each morning, I think I may feel as though I’ve lost a part of myself (not that I’m not willing to give it a go).  'Normal' doesn't necessarily have to be a good situation, but it is familiar and that translates to a warped sense of comfort.

I know part of it is that I don’t look sick most of the time.  Not that I go out in public when I am really ill.  As those of us with dysautonomia have all experienced, people are happy to tell us we don’t look ill.  They might as well scream “LIAR” each time, as it is frequently clear that there is a 'look' to being sick and like jeggings, it is something that I am yet to master. 

I know part of it is that I used to work in a hospital. I know what ‘real’ sick looks like.  I've worked in palliative care. I know what these patients and their families went through and, my illness seems so petty in comparison. Basically I feel guilty for saying I am sick.

I know part of it is I can’t stand people who wallow in their illness. Who roll around in every bit of pain and discomfort and seem to enjoy the sick role. A while back I was on a forum and the topic was related to severity of symptoms. What began as a a simple exchange of what each person was experiencing, became a game of oneupmanship. Certain posters tried to out-sick each other. Bizarre, and certainly not a game I ever wish to win. 

I know part of it is that many of these same posters say, “I am super ill and yet I still manage to work, volunteer, raise my family, work on the PTA, cure world hunger, organise peace in the Middle East, and solve global warming. Those who say they can’t, have a bad attitude and are lazy”. Logically, I know they are tossers and would most likely be in every aspect of their life, but it still makes me feel less. So I fight through to try and do things that I know, in a moment of clarity, are far beyond me and fail miserably. I can’t even be sick right!

I know part of it is that growing up I was always taught to hide my true feelings. When I was ill as a child I was told I was a hypochondriac and to harden up. If things were bad we hid them and in turn hid ourselves. I was raised in a family where only the weak mentioned they were feeling unwell.

I know part of it is that incompetent and misogynistic doctor who told me it was all in my head. Thanks to a long list of cardiologists and neurologists, I know he’s wrong.  But I still have that nagging little voice saying “you don’t have an illness you are just a nutter”. Stupid I know.

I can sit back.  Put my psychologist logical hat on.  Sit my illogical emotional self on the couch and ask that part of me to tell me about my mother (oh self, lets not go there, thats years of therapy) and pull apart my illogical reasoning. But often we are driven by those little voices that tell us how we ‘should’ behave. I hate those voices with a passion but I still hold them close, they are my 'frenemies' and it is hard to part with them.

The other day I had a bit of a reality check. I wrote a post about the good old ‘simple faint‘, on my personal blog.  For those of us who experence this or even pre-syncope on a regular basis it just becomes part of the daily existance. But I was shocked by the comments and messages I received. People were truly horrified about the whole experience.  I’ve had similar comments before about posts, where people wish for me to get better, but never the shock aspect.

I was taken aback.

Am I really that sick?

Am I really experiencing something so horrible?

I mean I know it’s not pleasant, but it’s part and parcel of living with dysautonomia.

Then it stuck me. I’ve been living with this so long that I’ve lost sight of what I am going through. My normal is so skewed from reality that I have lost the ability to  see my dysautonomia with clear vision. If one of my loved ones was going through what I described I would be horrified. I would never judge them like I judge myself.

I realised that I don’t have to deny my illness to be able to live with it. It’s not about rising above it necessarily, but accepting it for what it is, and to find it’s place in the big scheme of things. I don’t need to minimise it to make it bearable, that only increases the load I have to bear. I’m going to bring it out of the shadows, not for anyone else, but for me. Admitting it does not make me weak, self-indulgent, or all the other negative names I can throw my way. It’s okay for me to be sick.

Now I’m not saying those little voices wont keep getting their way on occasion, I’m realistic enough to know that. But I also know that’s part of the process. It doesn’t have to be an all or nothing. It’s the journey to find a balance between the two.

They say that part of the solution is admitting you have a problem so I’m going to start:

“Hi my name is Michelle and I really am sick. And that’s okay”.

Cheers
Michelle :)

All This Thinking Is Making My Head Hurt: Headaches & Migraines.

The new Migraine Barbie

(photo from MigraineChick)

My alternate title for this post was going to be "All Migraines Should be Margarita Related", because damn it, they should be.  At least then you get the yummy salty, limey, tequilary goodness beforehand.  But no, instead I feel like Bob grabbed the bloody tequila bottle off the bar before I could get a sip, and whacked me in the side of the head.  And that's just wrong.  Tequila really should only be used as a force for good.  Dance on the table with your undies on your head, type of good.  This just confirms Bob's association with the Dark side of the Force.  Bad Bob.  You're a bad bad man.  Next you'll tell me that the use of glitter past age five in sad.  Evil bastard!

This last week has been a doozey.  Day after day of excruciating brain pain.  And yes, before anyone with a super tight sphincter informs me that it's not actually your brain (you know who you are 'Anonymous' perfecto with no life), and that the brain has no pain sensors, I know.  It's just easier than saying the whole blood vessel dilation, inflammation, chemical release blah blah blah.  Okay?  Okay.

I've either had a medium level headache or red hot poker through the eyeball migraines.  I swear Friday I thought my eyeballs would actually liquefy if I opened my lids.  And I'm pretty sure that all the contents of my head were trying to make a break for it through my left eye socket and surrounding pores.  Then you add the nausea and the sensitivity to touch, sound, light etc.  It's one big party.

Pain meds generally only take the edge off, and as I've said previously I'm not keen to take them on a regular basis thanks to the fact you end up feeling like you are passing a besser block each time you go to the loo.  Hmmm head pain vs butt pain, what to choose?

(Poos should never look like this)

I go through phases like this every now and then.  Storms a friend called them the other day.  A very appropriate word.  Just as fierce and impossible to control.  You just have to weather it,  and wait till the thunder stops.  Most days I have a headache, but that's just white noise at this stage.  However, every now and then something in my body says, "this chick has had it easy for a while now, lets turn the dial up to 10 and watch her dance", complete with evil chuckle and cat patting.  And considering I dance like Elaine Benes, that is not kind to anyone.

It's simply part of the joy of Bob.  Before Bob I'd be lucky to have the odd panadol now and then for eye strain headaches.  I'd never really experienced this kind of pain.  Each time I've brought it up to my neuro or cardio I get the same speech,

"We hear that from a lot of our Bob patients.  Unfortunately it's very hard to treat.  They should resolve when we get Bob under control". 

Bwahahahahaha.  Four years and a bazillion doctors visits later, and Bob hasn't changed one bit.  Somehow this does not fill me with hope that these phases of excruciating noggin pain will ever disappear.

I will admit that I'm my own worst enemy.  If I finally manage to take the edge off the pain and can open my eyes without whimpering, I try to catch up on all the stuff I couldn't do on the days I was stuck in my darkened bat cave.  Which of course means that it comes back with a vengeance.  I know this logically, I do it all the time.  Essentially, I am the dumb rat that keeps pressing the lever with the zapper, rather than the one that gives me intermittent food rewards.

Some days it's worth it.  Catching up with a friend for coffee and a laugh, is better than any little pill for maintaining sanity.  It is most definitely worth the pain that you know will follow.  Doing the shopping, leaving your trolley in the middle of the supermarket to run to the disgusting public loo to barf, not so much.  Though, scaring the crapper out of the screaming little brat in the checkout with your evil, barf face, is priceless. Unfortunately, a family doesn't stop just because you have a vice attached to your head.  You have to battle through, suck down the pain meds, do the basics and just be resigned to collapsing into a pain induced coma after.

Below is the best ever pain chart from Hyperbole and a Half. I wish I had this for my patients when I was back in the working world.

****************************************************************************

0:  Hi.  I am not experiencing any pain at all.  I don't know why I'm even here.

1:  I am completely unsure whether I am experiencing pain or itching or maybe I just have a bad taste in my mouth.

2:  I probably just need a Band Aid.

3:  This is distressing.  I don't want this to be happening to me at all.

4:  My pain is not f**king around.

5:  Why is this happening to me??

6:  Ow.  Okay, my pain is super legit now.

7:  I see Jesus coming for me and I'm scared.   

8:  I am experiencing a disturbing amount of pain.  I might actually be dying.  Please help.

9:  I am almost definitely dying.

10:  I am actively being mauled by a bear.

11: Blood is going to explode out of my face at any moment.

Too Serious For Numbers:  You probably have ebola.  It appears that you may also be suffering from Stigmata and/or pinkeye.

For the full article click here.

****************************************************************************

Man, I wish I'd thought that up.  That is truly brilliant.

Now I am in the post-OMFG pain stage.  Now it's normal headache, fatigue and weakness.  I'm pretty certain someone snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night, sucked out all my innards and replaced them with cotton wool and old marshmellows.  Stroke face is back, as are those damn walls and door jams that jump out at you. 

I will say I have slept a lot over the past few days.  Sure it maybe partly passing out from fatigue and pain, but it's sleep none the less and I'll take that at this point.  Makes for a moments respite from fully turning into a creature of the night.  Though if I could get Kate Beckinsale's body from Underworld, it may be worth the whole move to a nocturnal lifestyle.  Not sure I'd fancy all that tight leather though, that's gotta get a bit whiffy after a while.  All this cavorting with my pillow has left me with joints that ache like a bitch and muscles that feel like I have run a marathon.  I am attempting to find my happy Zen-filled place through yoga.  Though given my present level of whimpering it may be a while yet. 

Actually, I think I should make an effort to re-establish tequilas good name and crank up some margaritas, purely for medicinal purposes of course.  I did hear somewhere that a salt rimmed glass of goodness was a sure fire way to find the key to my happy place, or anyone's happy place, for that matter.  Besides if my migraine comes back I'll have at least got there via the best route possible.

Cheers
The knackered Michelle :)

In my whole quest to find my happy place I give you one of my favs Good Fortune, PJ Harvey, (2000)

Fabulous Friday: I See Red, I See Red, I See Red.

Don't panic people I'm not having anger management issues.  Well not as long as the microwave and I agree to remain in separate rooms for the foreseeable future.  It's in reference to an old Split Enz song.  Today's Fabulous Friday I am celebrating all things red in my life.

I've discovered I have a thing for red (in case you didn't pick that up from my sparkly pairs of Dorothy's).  I mean I knew I liked red, but then I started taking photos of my happy things (thanks for the inspiration lovely Em of I'm Confused fame).  And suddenly it was Redapalooza.  Photo one red.  Photo two red.  Photo three red.  Even I could notice that trend.

There is a chance I may have an unhealthy red facination.  I'll let you decide.

The walls of my lounge are a deep red.  I love the contrast of my old sliding doors with their frosted glass butterfly's.  I was told I was nuts for wanting to paint my walls red, but I love it.  So warm and inviting. Especially when contrasted against the bright green tree ferns outside out large windows.

I reclaimed this garden chair off the side of the road.  It was broken, covered in muck and painted in a sad shade of yellow.  I grabbed a stiff brush and a can of geranium red and hey presto, my morning coffee chair was born. It is surrounded by lavender and naked ladies (flowers).  A little slice of brightness every day of the week.

The pots on my front step are various shades of red.  Either thanks to that trusty can of red geranium paint, or simply that's how they came, ie my old olive oil cans which are a work of art unto themselves.

May favourite eye pillow.  It lives in my freezer ready to pop on my eyes when a migraine hits.  Also works well for TMJ pain after a dentist visit.  Tip for the day don't store near your frozen bananas, makes for a wiffy eye pillow.

Coffee tastes better out of a red machine, and this little machine has made many many double espressos.

This may be my favourite present of all time (though its a toss up between this and my 90cm Smeg oven).  I realised a lot of my kitchen gadgetry is red.  From my enamelled cast iron pot to the huge red glass jar I keep my rice in.  Red, red and more red.

If I have to have salt, this is where I want to get it from.  Stupidly expensive for what it is, I will always love my mini tagine salt and pepper doverlacky.

I found this painting in an antique store, in Olinda, that no longer exists.  I loved the painting, the colours and the frame.  It's also a bit beaten up, like me, which makes me love it even more.

Brought at an OPJ (Other People's Junk) market many a year ago this little specimen vase is still dear to my heart.

Another market find (Kallista Markets).  One of my favourite fall back jewellery pieces.

Ahh the shoes of gorgeousness.  How could I do a post about my addiction to red without a few shots of my glittery babies.

So much glitter left over, what can a girl do?  Make a broach, that's what.  So pretty and glittery.

Okay, okay.  A glittery red pear may be a tad weird but hey, I was bored.
I was going to do an apple but a pear is far more in keeping with my body shape.

Okay so maybe an intervention is required, especially with regard to the pear.  I obviously need to get out more.  But who can deny that red and a little glitter makes the whole day brighter?

Cheers
The red obsessed Michelle :)

Patience Is Over-rated.

In many ways I am a cool, calm and collected gal.  Unlike Paris Hilton I don't need to make a dull as dishwater TV show to find my new BFF,  I've already found her and her name is 'Meh'.  I'm happy to leave the dishes to get crusty in the sink.  I am happy with my ever increasing colony of dust bunnies which appear to be multiplying like, well, bunnies.  They'll still be there next week and will probably have morphed into one super bunny which I can then dispose of in one quick motion.  I can wait one week to increase my ease of cleaning.  I'm willing to wait for the lint in my clothes drier to felt up, so you can just peel it off in one quick motion.  I love lay-bys where you can convince yourself that it's okay to buy that expensive pair of shoes because you are paying them off at a measly $10 a week.  See patience.  Well patience and a dash of lazy.  But I like to think it's mostly patience.

But I have a confession to make.  Underneath my well practised cover of nonchalance and ease I have another, less patient and perhaps more psychotic, level.  There are just certain things that get under my skin and turn me into a raging, irrational, lunatic.  I'm not talking the big issues like racism, homophobia, sexism, religious intolerance, and people who are mean to waiters, all of which make my patience evaporate like water on my overheated car engine.  I have no patience for ignorance and hate, they always make me want to hit the offensive person in question with an oversized Looney Tunes mallet, repeatedly.  Instead I'm talking about those small, everyday issues, that normal people ignore, but just seem to flick a switch in my brain, and leave me frothing at the mouth like Cujo.

The Sunday drivers who have now decided to drive on the other 6 days of the week.  The people who insist on giving the checkout chick their life story and inappropriate medical information, whist 10 other people are waiting in line.  Or, conversely, the check out guy who decided to tell me his life story when all I wanted was to buy my milk and bananas and go home.  No check out guy, I don't want to know that you are lactose intolerant and had to see a gastro doc, that's way more information than I want to know about the guy handling my produce.  Please just give me my change so I can leave.  When I go to Maccas and it takes them 20 minutes for them to make new fries. That is not fast food people.  The toxic hair cream that promises to dissolve your leg hair in three minutes but always needs six, unless you want your legs look like those of a gorilla with the mange.  The list is long.  But all my petty lack of patience can be summed up by one device that never fails to bring out the worst in me.  The Microwave.

(Doesn't she look happy? Note the Xanax glazed eyes.)

I remember as a kid being so excited when my folks brought home our first microwave (yes I realise how old that makes me sound).  The miracle of heating a cup of water in 1 minute.  The childish delight of putting pieces of tin foil in to watch them spark.  Or watching eggs explode.  I was living on the technological edge, my friends, and it was good.  The microwave was a magical machine of mystery.  The world was filled with exciting cooking possibilities.  Special plastic cook wear.  Cakes cooked in five minutes.  Rubbery yes, but this was George Jetson food, and we convinced ourselves it was delicious.  Those first few weeks of wonder when we sat around as a family to watch the miracle of space age technology.  Halcyon days my friends, halcyon days.

(Promises promises)

Then reality hit and I realised we'd all been duped.  Some grand microwave conspiracy was undertaken in the 80s.  But the shine is gone and the bleakness of reality has set in.  Who knew 30 seconds could take so long?  I didn't.  Not until that stupid 10kg of plastic and metal showed me.  I was in blissful ignorance as to just how slow time really moved.  Next it'll be telling me that chocolate causes haemorrhoids and that cake is not the cure for what ails you.  Bastard!  I want my innocence back.  If medical science can re-virginate the most promiscuous of hussies, there must be some way to reinstall my blissful temporal innocence.

Now I stand there, waiting and waiting, tapping my feet, and apparently irradiating my ovaries.  Willing the microwave to hurry up and defrost a slab of meat or heat my coffee.  I find myself getting down to 5 seconds and compulsively pushing the stop button and retrieving my mug or plate.  And every time I am disappointed.  The butter isn't melted, my coffee is still tepid, the soup still has large frozen pieces in the centre, the chicken is only defrosted in two rubbery grey spots.  What the hell microwave?  You were sold to me with promises of convenience and time saving.  But in reality you are an instrument of mental torture, sent to turn me into a rabid loon or fan of Kortney and Khloe Take Miami (giving each other Brazilians in the kitchen, yep that's quality TV).  "People on the go will welcome an oven that makes cooking chores a pleasure", you lied International Microwave Ad man.

I know I wont be happy with my microwave until it works like the food replicator from Star Trek: Next Generation.  When I can go up to it and say "coffee strong, white with two" and shazaam, it's there.  Now that's my kind of technology.  That's what I expect from my microwave.  I'm sure I can be patient enough to wait the three nanoseconds for it to arrive.  Though really I'd prefer it to arrive in two nanoseconds, or even better, one.  Instead I am left with a device that doubles as a miscellaneous paper and dust depository, and kitchen bench space waster, that makes 30 seconds feel like an hour and a half, and lots of tepid, half defrosted food.

I know it's ridiculous, and really somewhere deep inside I'm sure I'm very  ashamed of my petty lack of patience.   But they do say admitting you have a problem is the first step.

I leave you with the words of wisdom from beloved Australian childhood character Blackboard from Mr Squiggle:

"Humph.  Hurry Up.  Hurry Up".

Cheers
Michelle:)

Patience is over-rated unless it's related to Guns and Roses.

Fabulous Friday: Happy 1st Birthday Dear Blog

I couldn't have planned it better if I tried.  My blog's 1st birthday falls exactly on a Fabulous Friday.  Yay, 1 year old today.  It doesn't look a day over 6 months.  Oh, and I should say up front, offers of cake and presents will be gratefully accepted.

I think I'm supposed to get all sentimental and review my year of blogging.  What has changed?  What is still the same?  What have I learnt?  What do I wish I had never, ever, exposed to the world?  What does the future hold?

What has changed?  Well after careful examination, ie sitting here for half an hour alternately staring blankly out the window and faffing about with font styles, I think a couple of things have changed.

Discussions involving my bowels seem to have increased.  But then again who doesn't find a poo or fart joke funny?  Okay maybe just me, but I'm okay with that.  I live in a house with teenage boys, a juvenile husband, and flatulent pets, plus I have IBS.  The rear nether regions are thus a prominent feature of my day-to-day existence.  Add to that, I am way too lazy to censor myself.  So odds are in favour of bowel related discussions continuing.

As recently pointed out by the Vegetable Assassin, my open appreciation of men without shirts has also increased, leading to somewhat of a bloggy theme.  But hey would you really rather me discuss my bowels or male eye candy?  I know I should probably be more mature and discuss big meaningful issues, but lets face it that is not likely to occur any time soon. 

 (Gratuitous hot shirtless guy shot.  Okay he may be a douchebag in real life,

but he is mighty easy on the eye)

I may also have gotten a tad more sarcastic over the months.  But considering that I started off on a bit of a sarcastic high it's sometimes hard to tell.  And before anyone points out that 'sarcasm is the lowest form of whit', I can tell you right now I'm okay with that.  I am also okay with my appalling grammatical skills, my ever decreasing use of the spell check function, and loathing of all things Twilight related. 

I have made a concerted effort to move beyond the sick thing, hence the idea of the Bob-free Fabulous Friday.  When you are chronically ill, being sick can become your whole world.  You live and breathe illness.  You lose sight of the rest of the world.  That's not that unreasonable as illnesses like Bob, tend to control and curtail your ability to be in the world.  But total focus, will lead to an eventual stay in crazy town.  I know.  I've been there.  I still focus on being ill when I have to, but for the most part, I now try to have a life outside of the crap.  Being sick is just one part of my life, it's not the sum total.  Okay, that sounds way too Oprah or Dr Phil, (shudder).  I refuse to have a "lightbulb moment".  I will go and sit in the naughty corner until I can get back to my usual anti- touchy feely self.

I have met a lot of equally insane and truly wonderful people over the past year, who for some reason enjoy my blogging efforts.  I'm pretty sure that there is a dot point somewhere in the DSM-IV-TR, that says liking my blog is up there with bed wetting and torturing small animals as a marker for psychopathology, but I could be wrong (please keep reading people, remember sarcasm).  Unlike me, there are some very funny and very talented people out in the blogosphere, and I feel lucky to have been able to find them.

I've gone from feeling like the only person out there with Bob, to finding a whole community of people just like me.  Good for me, but crap for them, I don't wish Bob on anyone.  It's probably the one thing I really like about the internet.  To give you some perspective there a sum total of 12 people on the Aussie Facebook site (I know there are more of us out there, but we are still few and far between). Add in the fact we are often not the most mobile people, and the internet lets you connect with people all over the world without leaving your couch.   It's also kind of nice that my feeble attempts at writing are able to help others feel not so alone.

What has stayed the same?  Lets see.  Bob is still there.  Bastard.  He continues to be the pimple on the arse of Satan, that has taken to residing in my house.  I still feel like crap on a daily basis.  Despite being poked and prodded and used as a pharmaceutical guinea pig I am pretty much still in the same state of shiteness as I was 12 months ago.  That is the joy of chronic illness.  And really that is all kinds of dull and depressing, so no more of that.

What have I learnt?  Well, the biggest would be that sarcasm does not always translate well to the written word.  There are also some issues with the whole international thing.  Little did I know that terms such as "Dutch oven", are not international.  Is 'loo' really that strange?  Or as I have recently been alerted to on Twitter and commenting on other blogs, "Bogan" and "Mexican wave" are only Australian terms.  I shall thus refrain from the use of ethnocentric terms such as "Stone the Crows", and "Strewth".   Maybe I need to develop a glossary or Dummies Guide (don't get excited, apathy will win out on that one, try this instead).

I simply don't/can't take life particularly seriously, unless I really have to.  I make fun of me and of being sick.  Call it a coping mechanism if you like, but hey as the Monty Python guys say:

"Life's a piece of shit when you look at it......

.......So always look on the bright side of life"

And to clarify for Anonymous comment person (why are they always anonymous?).  My porcelain lover, is not a reference to some albino guy I am having an illicit affair with.  This is my apparently very confusing, reference to my toilet.  If you have Bob you spend a lot of up close and personal time with your toilet.  As such, I felt it needed a new name.  So Anonymous Einstein, I don't need to go to marriage counselling and I am not looking outside my marriage for solutions.

Porcelain Lover = Toilet.  

Porcelain Lover = Toilet.  

Perselain Lover = Toilet.  

Are we all clear now?

I have also learnt that there a lot of people in the world who need a glittery pair of shoes in their life.  I thought it was just me who had a thing for glitter, but apparently not.  My one birthday wish would be for all my readers to go out and embrace their secret glitter love and make themselves a pair of heels, boots, thongs or uggs.  No crocs though.  I refuse to have beautiful glitter sullied by being associated with a pair of butt ugly crocs.  That is glitter blasphemy.

And finally, what do I wish I had never exposed to the world?  Hmmm....  I know I should probably regret something, but I don't.  I mean I'd like to have at least a Grade 2 level of grammatical prowess, but that's just not going to happen, and other than that, nothing really jumps out.  I'm not even ashamed that I outted myself with regards to my love of all things ANTM.  Generally, I push the 'publish post' button, grab a coffee and forget.  My blog is what it is, the dross from my head.  Life's to short to worry about what I put out there.  Besides there are a lot more freaky and disturbing people than me in the world.  In fact, a quick review of some of the blogs out there and I feel positively normal.

What does the future hold?  My guess is more sarcasm and a continuing dedication to mediocrity.  I shall no doubt continue to make fun of 40-year-old women with 'Team Edward' t-shirts, and anything Justin Bieber related.  Inappropriate jokes will abound and Bob will undoubtedly rear his ugly head.  I also plan to start some sort of fund raiser for the glitter deprived.  See big plans people.  Big plans.  I know you are all completely under-whelmed with excitement.

So,

Happy 1st Birthday Blog

And thanks to every one of my super intelligent, witty and dead-sexy readers.  You all have a special place in my heart.

Until next year,

Cheers
Michelle:)

Beetlejuice, Root Canals, and A Bad Case of The Blargh.

I think I've found my way back to the path, that leads to the road, that leads to the land of the living once more.  Though odds are I've brought one of those dodgy GPSs that lead people into lakes and off cliffs, so I better keep a close eye on the road ahead.   And what exciting adventures I have had on my journey back to the Highway to Health.  Where, oh where, to begin?  Lets see?

My blargh induced ennui seems determined to persist.  Rather like this weeks toxic nard that took up residence in the boys' loo and sat their taunting me flush after flush, until I was reduced to the indignity of poking it with a stick to break it up.  Makes me wonder what I've been feeding them in my brain fogged state?  My life has been reduced to the role of toxic nard dislodger.  Good God! My life has been reduced to the role of TOXIC NARD DISLODGER!  I don't recall the presentation on that career option at the job expo back at high school.  I will now go out back and do my little dance of joy. 

I must admit it hasn't been all gloom and doom.  I broke out of the Gulag of Despair long enough to get my fix of all things Tim Burton at The Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI), here in fair old Melbourne.

I have long had a love of all things Tim Burton.  His aesthetic has always appealed to me.  Kind of a Dr Seuss, meets Marilyn Manson, all with a touch of the opium pipe.  On our first date, Mr Grumpy and I went to see Edward Scissorhands, so going to the exhibition on our anniversary just seemed right.  Back to the scene of the crime you might say.

(The first exhibit was Edward's glove and Gothic leather bondage suit)

So worth it.  Even ignoring the fact that it was down three flights of stairs and I wanted to alternately puke and pass out, had to pee about 38,000 times and had a full body hangover for the week, I am so glad we went.  In fact I'd love to go back, this time with a pre-ordered wheel chair, as I don't think we saw half of what was there.  The man is not only talented, but prolific.  Even his conceptual sketches were incredible.

Mr Grumpy was lovely enough to feed my addiction and download all Tim Burton's movies when he got home.  My plans for the rest of the school holidays now revolve around a marathon of my favs from Beetlejuice to Ed Wood, all from the comfort of my posturepedic.  I may need an intervention by the end but I am willing to risk it.

One thing I did notice in my foray into the heart of the city was that I am a walking fashion faux pas.  Apparently you are only allowed to walk in the city if you wear black.  Me, in my foolhardy ignorance, wore my green dress from the Dorothy Shoes post (no red shoes though, just sensible black ballet flats).  I did get many a quizzical stare.  Though there is a chance that their fascination may, in part, have been due to the fact I was wearing a short sleeved summer dress when it was about 6 degree C outside and doing my hip granny shuffle.  But I still like to think it was rebellious colour choice.  I'm a fashion rebel dammit!

This last week I also continued my dance of death with my personality challenged dentist.  Nothing like lying back in the torture chair, with various drills and metal pokers suspended an inch above your mouth, whilst your dentist stops and sits chuckling at the episode of Top Gear playing on the huge flat screen on the wall.  I felt like yelling "Dude I'm down here", though with a mouth full of metal crap and anaesthetic it just wasn't worth the effort.

Luckily, his staff are lovely.  They turned off the heaters, brought me ice packs to try and reduce my body temp and made me feel like it was just a normal part of the service.  Dr No Personality had actually read the articles I brought in about Bob and used appropriate anaesthetics, which at least took the edge off the pain.  He did inform me on my last visit that he was impressed by my super freak power and was happy to work around my issues.  So although he may qualify for some sort of special parking permit for his severe personality deficit, he is good at the technical side of his work.

(Why yes Dustin, I know just how you feel)

Like all impacts to my decrepit body (which at this point can constitute someone sneezing in the waiting room), I am still paying for this visit.  Exhausted, extra Bob-symptoms, jaw pain, ear pain, and headaches.  Yay, for ice packs and and those lovely little pain killers with an extra shot of codeine.  Hopefully, in the next couple of days I'll be back to normal crappy, and can attend my next appointment in two days fresh as the morning dew, and thus begin the ice and pain med ritual once more.  Only four more visits to go.  I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be milking my mind numbing stupidity for all it's worth.  I'm sure I saw a plan for a new swimming pool lying around somewhere in the office.  Though it will be nice to be free of tooth pain which is like a constant red hot poker in my eye socket.

So The Blargh persists, like the cockroach that it is.  It has lessened from Uber Blargh to Super Blargh so that's always a good thing.  How to explain The Blargh to the uninitiated?  It's when your whole body  feels completely weak and heavy, as if someone strapped large cartoon style weights all over your body and then told you to run up a hill.  Every single physical, mental and emotional reserve is sucked out and you're left a transparent little husk on the floor. But other than that its a barrel of laughs.

(The Blargh caught in the act of sucking the life out of yet another unsuspecting victim)

"Death To The Blargh!"
(my new motto, must be accompanied with air fist punch) 

I did love that I also managed to fall in the shower this week  I blame you, Blargh, you evil bastard.  I have a shower chair but still managed to almost go arse up.  I was saved by my now blackened leg that hit the side of the bath, and I will take that over a full face plant any day.  Luckily no one was required to see my pasty, naked and wet body on the floor flopping on the floor, and that my friends, is a win in my book (and probably in a lot of other people's books as well).

So there you go.  My last couple of weeks from poking toxic nards with a stick to badly performed naked gymnastics in the bathroom.  Living the dream my friends.  Living the dream.

Cheers
The Blargh plagued Michelle :)

My musical interlude today has absolutely nothing to do with the post but it's my blog and I can do what I want.  I've always loved this song and I always find myself grooving along on the couch without realising.  Plus I always thought Pharrell Williams was kinda hot. I mean look at those abs.
She Wants To Move, N.E.R.D.