Monday, April 27, 2015

Tiny bit in ... big result out

I can't eat cheese anymore, not since my adult-onset of allergy to the A1 protein in milk.

But theBoy had leftover grated cheese in a side bowl.

I had a pinch ... and another small pinch a half hour later. It was like taking negative medicine (do NOT take two spaced 30 minutes apart).

The onset of gas was quick and within a short time I was cooking off every two to ten minutes. I couldn't get to sleep before one am.

Then, in the morning, two shits—ironically spaced 30 minutes apart—that were both painful and fulsome. 

Cue lots of pain medication.

Oh, cheese, you sultry tummy-hurting vixen. To think that as a child I once ate an entire kilogram of you in but a single day (1).

UPDATE: Third time is a charm. Plus, when I lifted the lid in preparation for sit number three, I saw sit number two hadn't fully flushed, leaving a disgusting brown lumpy slurry behind. Why are you even reading this? That's weird...

(1) I didn't intend to. It just sort of happened. I started in the morning and by nightfall it was gone. Whilst there was no pain I do confess to remembering feeling a tad bloated. I couldn't do sport as a kid and I had depression from about age 10 onward. And yes, I ate my feelings.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Intense cat fight

theBoy had a pop-up play tent sitting in the dining room and both cats entered. They started play fighting, their melee accentuated by the confines of the tent as they bashed and thrashed against it, the tent now seemingly gone full dread gazebo and sprung to life.

"Cat fight!" I yelled with delight.

The inside tent fight ended when both cats inexplicably shot of it resuming their fight, Crouching Tiger style, in mid-air and against the walls of the corridor as their combat carried on down to the back end of the house. 

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Back into the garden

There's a term used in here in Australia and the United Kingdom by their respective public services—civil service in the UK—for when a servant is sent home on pay while issues are resolved.

It's called "gardening leave" (1).

I'm back in the garden. 

As an adult I've never been healthier in the head (2) but, well, cogs and sprockets of government and all that. I'm sure to return in a matter of weeks. 

I was allowed at least to work out the day, and I got to finish with an indepth free-ranging chat with my favourite, and soon-to-depart, senior figure about his career and passion to support his community. It was a most awesome coda to my having to go. It was great to just talk with someone who's done their level best to help as many people as they could and who keeps fighting on even though he could have retired years before.

I can only hope I still have that same level of passion and energy when I'm his age. 

WFTW. 

UPDATE: I had a "I'm in the garden!" bliss moment of rich blue sky, birds singing and a marvellous view of lights, plants, trees and metal statuary. Area man's garden rawks snot.

(1) The UK.gov website actually has a section on gardening leave.
(2) Even though I still battle the dark forces of sudden anxiety I no longer hate my body and I am not depressed. To shed those is liberation. That and I know the suffering I endured was worth it for the outcomes that suffering produced.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Like a half-naked man-deer trapped in the headlights

It was dusk and I was on a mission to the bin. The bin sits outside our gate.

I was topless, wearing just PJ pants and a headband.

I opened the gate and stepped into the full glare of headlights coming from the house opposite.

I instinctively tried to suck in my tum but it can't have been a pleasurable sighting for the occupant of that vehicle.

Maybe they thought I was off for a hearty run? I doubt it—it's nearly zero degrees. I may be insulated but I'm not that insulated.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Shitbox ~Fin~

With thanks to the French.

The shitbox, our second car, which was once our first car, has gone to the wreckers. Long it sat in our drive in a proud Canberran tradition of having an un-roadworthy car left out the front of a house. 

Goodbye, sweet old white shitbox, you served your prince well.

Healing still healing

I had a head check from a head shrink. It went well. I just have to go back for some training in coping with fight (slash) flight. I didn't cry. I didn't emote. I was even funny.

It feels good to be almost healed.

WFTW.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

It was nice to hear

Following my epic collapse then recovery I shed any former-held notions of false modesty. In the past If I got praise I deflected and instead directed it to those people who helped me. A good report was because of the design, not the content, for example, even though the content rocked snot.

Well that is done with. If I do a good job I am now mentally sage enough to accept what I did was awesome. Not only that but actively promote my triumphs to colleagues and superiors alike. 

It's been a transformative experience, learning to accept praise and being able to self-praise both.

theDad called recently. He mentioned my sibling component of theMum's eulogy at her memorial service—within the church she used to attend—and that people still talk about my four and a bit minutes. "Where did he learn to do that?" theDad said someone told him.

Indeed, where did I? A serious of unfortunate events twixt a tasty mind and the full acceptance of self as an agent of change.

I no longer have doubt, I fear not the future. I'm in my bonus round and there's joy all around.

WFTW.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Re-moistened snot lump

I honk up goobs in the shower. I do. It's not pleasant, not for anyone. I try to angle it so the lump flies downward and thus gets swirled away with the fetid soppings of my man coating but it's not always easy to tell success. You're naked, there's steam, hissing water, the lump is small and you just can't be sure if you don't see it go down that it didn't go down.

I was in the shower. There are livid cracks in the shower glass, splintered in all directions like the arcs on a plasma globe. The cracks were once but a small single crack but I angled the shower head whilst the water heated and, well, physics. 

There, in a crack, was something. It looked akin to a boil.

I picked it off. It was wet and disgusting. Then I realised it was a now re-moistened snot lump that I must have with error dashed upon the glass.

Even I was repelled—and I was the one wot made it. 

UPDATE: "Jesus, there's a crack on the monitor! Wait, no, that's a goob..."