Oh ye gawds...

My system is recovering from anti-biotics, with stomach bacteria boosted by my taking pro-biotics again now the anti-biotic course has run its ... er ... course. 

But far out ... it's like being dragged back into abdominal pain hell that I used to experience on an almost daily basis.

I had to drop theBoy at school. He was running laps of my person as I turned in place and as the cramping pain ate at my insides. I just made it home in time to "go" again and the going was painful. Even now echoes of contraction pain spasm through my gut as my body subsides. 

And because I am driving today—I have to go see a specialist—it means no SUPERMEDS!™ so alas I cannot banish the pain as I usually would.

And that's okay. Because that used to be my life—struggling with gut pain and working and unable to have good pain relief because I was at work and driving—but it's not any more. It's just for today that this aberration of gut pain twixed with an inability to properly meet it head on with medication. 

Right ... now to struggle with loading drivers for a label maker. 

Wish me luck...

UPDATE: Still feel like shit, but a better class of shit, but I was able to get the label maker installed and working properly! Of course the USB hub it's plugged into only has one working port so that's irritating. Sigh. Oh, I saw my specialist. I get a day procedure this week. So once more Mikey has to go medically unconscious... 

Nice work, Aisha Muharrar and Alan Yang

Aisha Muharrar and Alan Yang are the writers of the "Bus Tour" episode, number 21 in season four of Parks and Recreation. 

In the ep there's a press conference after Leslie Knope has just finished reading her children's story to school children and where she then faces accompanying press questions about her recent ill-timed comments about the just-deceased town patriarch, and also about a glaring plot deficiency in her book about an ill-tempered anthropomorphic waffle.

The shouted-out question by the reporter to the departing Knope about whether the waffle swam across the syrup river cracks me up each and every time I replay the bit. It was a perfectly written scene, with a beautifully set up rule of three on the questions about the waffle book's questionable plot. It was pitch-fucking-perfect writing and beautifully executed  by cast and crew.

The men and women of of Parks and Recreation never phone it in. If you've not watched the series it's worth the time investment. Great writing, great acting, great moments of impro, great cast. And it's the best work Rob Lowe has ever done; his Chris Traeger is golden. 

Well that's this panegyric done with. Back to the shed to watch the rest of the ep.

The inner me

I've been on antibiotics for a few days due to an ear infection—I see my specialist shortly to have my damaged ear drained (I can't hear out of that ear)—and as such it has mucked up my innards. Just as I finished the end of the antibiotic run my system seized and acute gut pain set in. So many pain killers were had and hot water bottles were pressed against tummies. It was about 2 pm before my fatigue over came pain to allow sleep.

I got up around 10 am, the pain still there, and once more pain killers were taken. Thankfully, though, my system coughed back into life—think the sputtering exhaust of a Model T—and I've managed to "nothing to see here, please disperse" a fair chunk of compacted solid waste. 

Now that pain used to be my life, a daily upset. Since I've given up normal milk—I drink A2 milk with no stomach upsets—and commercially-prepared dairy tinged foodstuffs and I've boosted my exercise regime I've had a low frequency of abdominal discomfort, both in incidence and level. But on antibiotics, which kill the bacteria in my stomach that helps break down food, my system goes into full YARRRRRGH, like a pirate with a rum hangover waking up draped over a barrel like a Dali-clock within the full glare of a tropical sun. 

That's where I was at today when I went to sleep and when I then awoke. Now, a couple of hours on from waking and many visits to the toilet later, not to mention lots of pain killers, I am feeling so much better. Back to normal me and normal me, apart from my muscular skeletal crap, is one without constant abdominal pain. Because that was my life for a decade until I finally discovered it was normal dairy wot done it when it came to my abdominal discomfort.

My health trajectory is still on the up. 

Wellness for the win.  

UPDATE: Spoke too soon; ouch—though that could have been exacerbated by the ranch dressing I had with my chicken wings. But ... last day of those meds, and no more dressing, so I should be okay soon. I did spend from about 3.30 pm until theWife came home curled up on the bed in the dark with a hot water bottle pressed against my tummy. Oh, Mikey, you are a fixer-upper, aren't you? Well ... aren't we all?

An actual comment made by me to my Doctor

"I've gone from a place of no self esteem to one where I have too much of it. I need to find a happy balance."

Wellness for the win.

Where Mikey goes the Mata Hari in his man lair

Mata Hari was a famous figure from World War One. She was a Dutch woman who danced in a Javanese style in France and who also fed info to ze Germans. She was shot by firing squad some nine months after her arrest. 

That's multiculturalism for you. 

Anyway Mata Hari, as a dancer, was best known for her shedding of clothes until she was left in her near all-together with just a jewelled bra and body stocking for textile company.

My man lair is the new sobriquet for the illegal shed which houses assorted sediment from our lives together—boxes of uni tat, photo albums, keep sakes, as well as our powered garden and maintenance tools such as the whipper snipper and blow-vac. It also houses my exercise bike, a writing nook, and the inside of the walls of the shed are filled with magnet affixed papery remnants of my past life as well as photos of theWife and theBoy and assorted other goodness. Because it's a wellness engine for me—all around me are positive mementos of my university and career-to-date (so no oldwork just yet)—I hang out in there quite a bit. Sometimes I just stand in front of the heater and idly think about stuff as my gaze wanders across the back wall of newspaper front pages, comedy tour posters, doodles from from work or uni, and even a Ugandan flag, a gift from M--- from Uganda, a student who lived with us in my old town in the '80s. She used to paint her toe nails, her long legs hanging over the arm of the chair, as she hooted with delight at the antics on A Perfect Match. 

Yesterday I didn't make it into my man lair for my SoTPC session until late at night, having waited for medication to be in my possession and then delayed further to enjoy Eurovision watching goodness with the best person in the world to watch it with; theWife (saucer of milk, table one; rwwoooorrrr). 

So it was cold as fuck in the shed when I entered, and even with the heater on full power—to almost 'she cannae take it!' style Scotty levels—I still had to wear a long sleeved shirt over my short sleeved T, and since I wear over-sized shirts anyway it wasn't a restriction. 

I clambered aboard SoTPC and started riding. And as I rode I progressively got warmer. So off went the long-sleeved shirt, and then using the skeletal-themed back scratcher that I keep as a universal tool—kind of my sonic screwdriver I guess (1)—I whacked the scratcher's back fist onto the first temp button, then the second, then turned the halogen heater off completely, with just the LCD of the bike's display and glow from my tablet lighting up my form with bands of blue and red. Finally, near the end, I took off my shirt. It was just me in my trackie-daks and the headband as I rode to the finish point.

A Mata Hari move in other words, only antithetically sexy.

Today, my back was slicked with sweat. It irritated me. Since I like to fix things I paused my ride to go an get a pair of pegs. Then I pegged a sweat flannel to the skeletal back scratcher, and used the flannel wrapped non fist end to daub up the sweat that had slicked through my back fur. 

And yes ... that image did come. 

But only for a moment. For I can accept now the body I have because I am at least attempting to maintain if not improve and in the face of constant discomfort and pain. 

And because I'm Mikey and I survive.

Wellness for the win.

(1) The back scratcher is a skeleton hand in claw mode attacked to a skeletal forearm. At the end is a kind of shoe horn like protrusion. Both the fist and the shoe horn can detatch from the forearm stem and both can rotate in place. It extends my reach from atop SoTPC by about 40 cm and it comes in ... most handy...

Where Mikey ruminates about the strength of his router and of his manly form

In my man lair, our illegal shed I have turned into a roomy Orgone machine, our internet wireless router's strength is such that I can readily call up YouTube and videos buffer with a decent speed.

So as I spend my days recovering I typically hang out in my shed, with the heater on, playing songs from my found Mp3 or from YouTube, along with assorted TV shows I love like Parks and Recreation. I particularly love DAAS videos, as well as various songs of victory and defiance that accord well with my wellness-infused mental state.

It makes a hell of a difference to your psyche when you no longer look at your life for the devils that bedevil it but for all the riches and wealth you have. 

I keep thinking about all the times I've nearly died, I would have been dead within three months were it not for modern surgery, let alone accidents and illness in childhood. Not to mention some surreal moments I've had where I was also nearly set on fire, blown up, killed by flying rocks and shot (though different incidents). 

I should be dead a hundred times over but, here I am, alive and kicking—and supported and loved by scads of people, family and friends. 

Late last night (1), as I rode SoTPC, my exercise bike, a keyhole scar glinting like a nubbin below my real man nip in the ruddy light of the halogen heater, I couldn't but help realise that I am pretty fucking awesome. In that there I was, a 40-year-old man, with a hip replacement and a Magician's never-ending hankie of assorted physiological issues that have required numerous bouts of surgical intervention, cruising towards the end of a daily 40 minute exercise bike session. 

I hated physical exertion as a kid, for the simple fact that merely walking caused me discomfort, let alone running. I had to give up sport and physical education at an early age—and at an all boy's private school raised on principles of manliness and organised thuggery this proved somewhat of an emotional burden to bear such as teachers pointing to me as an example of what not to be. But then I discovered that using an exercise bike doesn't have the same pain-laced crud of walking—I walked every day for three years until I discovered I needed an urgent hip replacement—and that I finally had something I could embrace that helped.

And so there I was, 40-years-old and riddled with defects, but still exercise bike riding for 40 minutes a day.

Take that, assorted fucktardary (2) from my youth: I win. 

(1) I'd delayed my ride 'cos I was getting my SUPERMEDS™ and wasn't able to climb aboard SoTPC until after watching Eurovision with theWife, where we got to voice catty remarks to each other as theWife also shared her caustic commentary with assorted Facebook peeps. Gold. 
(2) In the last 400 metres of my ride—my current aim for point is 16 kays—I imagine sweeping around the back 400 m oval of the private school where I was sentenced as a kid, and as I close on the finish line I sideways shoot a paintball handgun at the groin of the '80s stubbie short wearing Newcombe impersonating fucktard that was one of the many bandy legged fucknards from the Physical Education component of said school. Occasionally, when I am in my former home town, I wonder what it would be like running into him. Now he'd be an aged fuck in the Winter of his life. Then I imagine snarling at him about my fucked up skeleton, his monstrous cruelty as an educator and as a human being, then power shoving that fuck so he fell over. I know ... bully revenge fantasies are not constructive. But still ... it is a nice thought to have sometimes. And it compliments nicely my gangsta blowing his nads into his body with my paintball handgun as I ride past his now supine paint-splattered groaning form.  

Where Mikey is inspired by My Big Fat Greek Wedding

The movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding is over ten years old now but it still stands the test of time. For a RomCom to succeed it needs heart as well as laughs, and something to set it apart from the rest. If you've not seen it then the movie is worth a watch. However I will now discuss plot so look away...

Those have seen it can attest to the comedic goodness of the bottle of Windex. The humble glass cleaner is used by the bride's father for all manner of stains, even injuries, spraying the offending region with Windex no matter the cause. It's basically the adage of "To a man with a hammer the world looks like a nail" applied to a cleansing solvent. 

If you ever deign to read a young full-time author's dust jacket then there's a fair chance they will brag that now they're now going to work in the pyjamas. Get it? Because they work at home; braggart-shouting cock-and-lady-cock-spanks. I won't bother naming names but it's true nonetheless. 

I haven't been writing—still too wounded—but I have been spending most of my days in PJs while I recover at home. Only here's something writers in PJs don't add; you need to wear underpants if you're going to spend all day in your PJs. Because while you're up your bowel system activates and there's a fair chance during your indolent night-time attire during the day phase that you will have to go to the toilet. And sometimes ... sometimes it can get messy. 

Combine that with a bowel system that could best be described as 'a bit tricky' with a hirsute condition around the lip of the exit area, then now and then things happen.Such as bits being trapped in man fur.

Or horrors such as a seat seep. 

I didn't notice it at first, my arse numbed from the ride, but when I did I recoiled in horror; seat seep! As in a fart had been a shart and brown goo had blown through the thin weave of my PJ pants and reverse crop-circled the top of the gel-padded bike seat. 

Aghast in horror I cleaned it all up. Except ... except the stain, the shart's outline, would not go away. Any time I came into the shed and I was at an angle to see the skylight reflected on the gel seat's surface the outline of the sharting could still be seen, mocking me with its turd Turin presence.

Shudder.

Then I saw it; an old bottle of spray on insect repellent, the bottle aged with time and exposure, but with the lemon-coloured chemical soup was still within. 

So I went the Windex method and sprayed the seat down with the insect spray then wiped it away. 

And, fuck me, it worked. The shart stain was gone; gone to wherever shart stain spirits soar. Freed by the application of the insect repellent, My Big Fat Greek Wedding style. The seat now even has a pleasing scent.

Later, I burned my finger. The insect repellent was to hand. So ... I tried spraying the burn. 

It did nothing.

You can only push movie > life thing so far I think. 

So I wrote my letter...

I was tasked by my psychologist to write a letter to the triumvirate of management that caused my collapse—three tiers above me that lined up in a perfect way to maximise stress and pain to those below them. 

Our printer died a while back and we have a new one ready to go. But I couldn't face the job of drafting a letter and sorting out a hardware (slash) software installation for a printer.

So I wrote the letter by hand. I pulled pages from an exercise book—I have a half dozen books and pads in my man lair so I can write down ideas for the future as they come to me—sat down at the desk where I'd put the old laptop (1) and started to write.

I wrote eight pages in the end. The first four pages pulled from a centre staple was a distilled essence of my mutterings low these past two months about my organisation's poor management system that encourages overwork and bullying. The second four addressed the bullying and poor treatment I received. 

I rarely write by hand now as to write by hand induces discomfort. Indeed by the end of my last exam back in 2006, where I had spent three hours writing about 30 pages of responses, my hand was an agonised claw for hours afterwards, with ink stains blotting the bottom half of my right hand from where it rubbed across the freshly scribed pen as I frantically vomited my words into paper (2).

So unaccustomed to writing by hand my hand hurts a little bit. I get a cramping feeling in my wrist and my fingers ache from holding the pen. 

But at least it's out. And, like my therapist said, writing it down instead of pacing up and down and repeating the same angry points over and over, seems to have helped. To have solidified how I felt and how I feel in paper and ink.

So that is that. Time to catch the bus and go see my therapist. The important thing is, at the end of both sets of four pages, was my stating that I will not let what happened lie. That I will get redress for the people left behind. Because what they do is important and who they look after are important. And more importantly we deserve to work in a workplace that promotes wellness; not one ruled by bullying or decree. 

Because that's what I do. I see things that are broken and I try and fix them.

I'm Mikey and I'm here to help.  

(1) I plan to start entering notes from books into the computer given my handwriting is terrible and I get worried about future me trying to decipher the scrawl. The old laptop is 2004 in age and is pre-wireless. However my tablet can pick up the wireless signal so if I need to go online to check something I can. But I have crafted a new writing nook and so hopefully I will make use of that soon. I need to get the spare keyboard to go with it, however, because I hate laptop keyboards since my writing style is to balance my forearms on a desk and two finger type the keys. The laptop keyboard does not lend itself to that style since the forearms drape over the lip of the laptop and it makes for an unpleasant tactile experience.
(2) I actually do well in exams. I can write so it helps. I even put in jokes and doodles to make the exam marker smile. Actually, I've always done that. Go Mikey for looking out for his markers!

So a report came out...

My oldwork released a report; it's the first one out since I left.  The report is a month late but at least it's out. I was not expecting them to keep going with it so when a copy turned up at home—I put myself on the distribution list from the beginning so I could track delivery times through the post—I was quite shocked and it sparked an anxiety spike; I had to have a womb shower then I hopped naked into bed with the light off and electric blanket on.

I shivered beneath the doonah and thought about it. Then theWife came in and sat in the dark. She reminded me that it's not my concern any more and whatever they do with it then they do with it; it's just not with me. She's right, of course. Then, feeling better, I repaired to my shed of wellness to contemplate further, with just the cheery red of the heater for light.  

And realised it's a win. Because the reports were and are important and oldwork have kept going with producing them; even if management doesn't want to do it now I've left. And besides, I left well-written and easy-to-follow Standard Operating Procedures and all they had to do was follow the course I charted. That and when I collapsed they'd already had received the bulk of the report's input and really only had to shepherd its being put together and sent out.

So take that, universe: I still win. And, more importantly, the people who get the reports win. Because they're fucking important and they deserve the absolute maximum support we can give them. 

Right on. 

Comrade Mikey out. 

UPDATE: I should also note there was a mistake on the front cover; delicious. 

Aw, theBoy

Ever since theWife found my old Sony Mp3 player—now about six-years-old and with but 1 gig of space—I've been basting myself in music from the Sony stick. The soundtracks to Rocky Horror and Keating!, Tripod and Tenacious D, The Fauves, and even The Rolling Stones (Emotional Rescue). And if I know the words I'll sing along; lustily and loud.

However since I hang out in the shed more—with the shed's metal interior festooned with happy thought producing tatt from my before life such as artwork, posters and memorabilia it's essentially a roomy Orgone machine—it means theBoy gets annoyed by my greater absences. He's forever clamouring at the shed door to demand I hurry the fuck up so I will play with him. Which is friggin' beautiful that my precious little man enjoys hanging with me—as I enjoy hanging out with him since he turned out to be the final puzzle piece of my life. 

So sometimes he just sits and waits for me, especially if I've told him I'll only be a few minutes. 

The other day I opened the door, as the Mp3 played on behind me. There, just beyond the sweep of the door's arc, was theBoy, dancing on the concrete ramp that leads to the shed door. 

'I've been dancing to your music,' he said happily.

Wellness for the win.

Go Casso More!

Casso got a deal on her project; go Casso!

I'm deliciously proud of her. Plus, I'm pretty sure the hot redhead is based on me.

Hooray!

Construction complete

theWife led forth a Herculean re-arrange, swapping our end (computer) room with the our bedroom, restoring in fact the balance for the end (computer) room was the master bedroom anyway. We just had a fuck load of books and figured we'd make the master bedroom a kind of second lounge (slash) guest room.

So balance is restored—though the bookshelves remain in the master bedroom (formerly end [computer] room)—and in the process the final break of association of this computer and that location with my poisonous oldwork has been made. I had done a fuck load of work at home, often whilst crippled with gut pain, this work including several extreme periods of super efforts like when I was preparing two reports of a 100 total pages simultaneously and had to get them out before Christmas mail kicked in. So after my ten days in March, the incubation period of my severe anxiety, the association of the computer in the end (computer) room with the horrors was so great I could barely send an email let alone open Microsoft Word—which is still a struggle; I can blog as it's therapeutic but using Word is still painful.

But now it's better. The master bedroom is the master bedroom and the computer room is now just the computer room instead of it being a hyper parenthestical. 

I like it. The room is cosy—the couch bed is behind me—and the rosy glow of the bar heater makes for a nice atmos. The art has remained in the room so I have a print of Kimpt's 'The Kiss' on the left wall and a spray of photos of theBoy from when he was at daycare and they had a professional photographer in to take shots on the wall to my right. The photos of theBoy—with shaggy hair, aged I think just four—are of him in various locales; behind a tree, on a tricycle, or close ups of his face. There's three close ups that stick out for me. In the first his expression is angelic; the second his expression is peaceful, composed; the third, diabolical. It's like photo pictorial triptych as per Lawful, Neutral and Chaotic from the old D&D Basic set.

Most of all though the re-arrangement is a fresh start; another association break from oldwork. And, on a nice day, I can open the curtain in the computer room and look out on theWife's gardening efforts, our kewl vine-wreathed arches, and our quirky outdoor metal art and solar lights, the lights glowing to life when the sun goes down. 

Wellness for the win. 

I was off being social this afternoon, seeing my lovely former work buds S--- and then C---, both of whom escaped oldwork ahead of me. I laughed that we were like cult survivors who'd blown clear. theWife was midway through the re-arrange when I left at 2 pm.

So I came in the door after 10 pm and found the re-arrangement was done, theWife asleep in the master bedroom, our bed in its new position with the against the left wall. Construction complete in other words (1).

Go theWife!

(1) From the Dune 3 game which theWife and I played together on her dad's PC when we hung out together during uni holidays. When an item you'd been building in the building window was ready the computer would say 'Construction complete'. So it entered our couplespeak; our lingo we share from 20 years together as partner and friend. Wellness for the win!