Saturday, October 22, 2016

Banned from the circus

The circus is in town and I got excited at sharing the experience with theboy.

But, remembering Floriade and what happened there, it was decided best not given the noise and type of noise a circus produces. More than once an outing has been spoiled by my having an attack and being driven home early.

My injury banned me from the circus. Yet another shitty outcome from taking one for the state.

But that won't always be the case and my ability to handle unpleasant noise is getting better.

I'm just not circus ready yet is all.


Friday, October 21, 2016

Big wall gone; better barrier in place

Unlike Donald Trump our household wall-based needs are relatively easy and without moral cost—but still beyond my physicality to achieve.

thewife on the other hand is a manual dexterity wunderkind and can assemble shit and make her own as well. 

So it came to be that the unsightly, unsafe array of old doors and bamboo fencing that separated the garden-killing chickens from the garden came down and a fancy fence—with chicken wire used to fence in wiry chickens—came up in its place.

She knocked it out in an afternoon.

Like Yossarian I took immense pride in its construction without having any effort on my part invested in its creation. Not only that we reclaimed territory lost to the apocalyptic wasteland that is the dirt surface of a chicken enclosure and the washing line and back tap is ours again.

Take that, you feathered fuckers. 

On entry to the new pen to reclaim eggs the duck had another go at me. Fortunately my flappy tracksuitharem pants afforded it folds to uselessly chomp on leaving my smooth, muscled legs free from d'mage

Take that, you water-preferring still-a-fucker.

Adios "the wall" and hello "the fence".

And hopefully soon adios "The Donald". That he got to be the GOP nominee is Jasper's beard manifest in orange flesh. 

What a fuckstick.

In the beginning

Emails all have to start somewhere and always they start with a word. 

True, you could start an email with a picture but the picture would appear in the body of the email—there's words that come before that.

I'm talking subject line, y'all.

Alas my Outlook does not give me spell-check courtesy on words in the subject line—it's not designed for it. 

So that's how it came to pass that in the beginning—the first word in that subject line—I spelled that word incorrectly.

It was a fucking important word too. A word that, when spelled correctly, I'd likely search for using the find function and it may not find it if the basic find only drills subject line deep—though of course advanced find will bypass the error since I had correctly spelled every other word after that, in the subject line and body of the email, and had vigorously proofed the fucker before sending.

Except, as it turned out, the subject line.

That's a major fail. I told my boss about it—and even showed him a print out with the error shamefully marked by a scornful black oval. He told me not to worry about it but worry about it I did.

It was the first word for fuck's sake.


Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Seventy two hours of noisome reek

I was struck by severe IBS and gas pain from early Saturday morning and it didn't leave until late Monday night. 

The gas I expelled was foul, wretchedly so, and I whimpered in clouds of my own smell. 

I had pain meds, charcoal and hot water bottle on a warm day with the air con on to help manage the extreme discomfort of bloating and the unpleasant sensations blaring from my abdominal surgery scar—a fat, old school pre-keyhole kind—and beneath it.

There was also liberal use of air freshener spray. 

But it passed at last and I emerged from my fetid hollow to sniff fresh air and go out into a bright spring morning.

I'm Mole meets Johnny Fartpants.

Monday, October 10, 2016

A return battle anthem

"Get up offa that thing" by James Brown.

UPDATE: I was sprung singing it to the cold water tap in the communal kitchenette.

Machine back on

I rolled into a role and the first thing needed was training; a fuck-ton—at least six training packages needed done in three days.

Naturally my low echelon super competency restored on contact and I knocked all of that training out by mid-afternoon, did a edit sweep of a plan, reported a broken lift car and emailed a stranger with a solution to a problem they didn’t know they had—and they said thanks for the fix.

It feels amazing to be back on the horse and going full gallop. No tears, no heightened panic—not even from the multiple triggers that riddled the training.

The Mikey machine is back on and is humming with perfection.

WFT(F)W (1). 

(1) Wellness for the (fucking) win—the (fucking) is for emphasis.

G-rated cursing returns

Ahead of returning to normal life I had to shed my potty mouth and I’ve been editing as I swear to make it safe for others. 

I was at the start of a massive “FOR FUCK’S SAKE” when the editing kicked in and the “FUCK’S SAKE” became, and I shit you not, “FLIBBERTY GIBBETS”.

Flibberty gibbets. 

Gibbets is a word; flibberty is not.

For fuck’s sake.

Adieu, Stainy McStain

I had a habit of nick-naming my clothes or that worn by others. That stopped after thewife gave away a shirt she liked I called "Sergeant Pepper" for the faux epaulets on the shoulders because I kept saying "Hey, Sergeant Pepper!" whenever she wore it.

So there's a relationship tip; don't give nick-names to your partner's clothing.

I of course still have nick-names for mine and one such shirt was "Stainy McStain", a green and blue collarless t-shirt I wore with ladies PJ bottoms for post-shower-home attire and which had a permanent Mongolian-spot like stain on the front across the white section.

Each time I wore it I'd shout "I'M WEARING A SHIRT" forcing thewife to wearily rejoinder "Is it Stainy McStain?"—the only answer I'd accept.

Recently my wardrobe got thinned by thewife. All the clothes three tree rings ago plus others rarely worn went.

I noticed Stainy McStain was no longer in the t-shirt section. 

At first she lied and said I'd lost it at the coast but then confessed it was in the mini-fridge sized bulk clothing bag where all the thinned clothing had gone because she hated it.

To get it back would require diving back into the mega-bag of carefully folded to-give-away clothing and I don't have the physical capacity to do it without making a mess.

I have been checkmated. 

So adieu, Stainy McStain, you wore on me well. Good luck for when you get tipped into that machine that spits out blankets.

Sunday, October 09, 2016

Just cut out and waited until it passed

I had to get my hair and beard hacked back ahead of face-to-face activity and just as I closed on Just Cuts a toddler was screaming as their hair was cut.

I stopped, turned, and walked quickly five metres away then tested if I could hear the crying. I could so I went another 10 metres.

The attack had kicked in at this point so I stood up the corridor in the lower floor of the Hyperdome just waiting for the anxiety to pass, with tears rolling down my face and a roil of fight (slash) flight flooding my system.

The unfairness of my injury crimping normal activity washed over me for a few moments as the distress discharged but after a short while it passed, along with the crying.

The toddler left and I got called back to get my haircut. As I left the chair post cut I shouted I was freshly shorn like a lamb and frolicked around the place in a happy just-out-the-gate-and-no-winter-coat dance. The staff laughed.

That I can have an acute attack, ride it out in public without anger, then progress onto normal life and make others laugh is nothing short of incredible.

(Fist raised for resilient comrade Mikey).


Saturday, October 08, 2016

Perils of exercise biking—riding your pants into the machine

It's happened a couple of times with the new bike, and it happened sometimes with the old, that the hem of my right ladies PJ pants leg will catch in where the pedal strut meets bike and I will ride my pants into the machine. It usually takes three revolutions to realise it's happening and stop and in those three cycles you've ridden more of your pants into it.

To ride your pants back out you just go in reverse and then the hem is freed. I've yet to have to de-pant whilst on the machine then have to cut the pants free.

I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I have to.

No one mentions that risk when you buy an exercise bike, the possibility of riding your pants into the machine, but, well, now I've exposed it.

I'm like sleepwear Nader 2016.

Duck into the shed

We inherited three chickens and a duck from people who could no longer keep them.

The duck, potentially a boy, is a beakerer (i.e. pecks at you with its beak). It just had a go at my feet and legs but my slippers and ladies PJ pants preventing the beaking from doing any real harm. 

Then it tried to duck into the shed, baking in my shake as I entered and following in behind. It was only an alert from thewife that caused me to spin around and bounce it from my tin-walled establishment.

Cheeky fucking duck trying to duck into my shed. I'll have none of that.

The duck is named "Sqaishey" for the YouTube character (slash) persona. Awesome sauce (1).  

(1) ... to have with duck is hoisin.

Man meets bird

While at the coast a pair of insanely beautiful parrots came visiting. theboy and I fed them some bread. One of them hopped onto my hand to start pecking at the slice I held.

I had that rush of me > universe roil through as I beheld this amazing creature, felt its weight as it moved about on my palm and heel and which let me stare it in the one cocked eye as it ate.

I was standing at first then slowly moved to sit, keeping my hand still as I could—difficult given my fine tremour. Then I got to behold an incredible result of evolution prancing about on my palm and just absorb the experience (1). 

Feeling one with the universe; fuck me, what a feeling


(!) So a far nicer nature experience than the ATTACK OF THE GIANTS ANTS AND LAND LEECH  that came later. 

Friday, October 07, 2016

Max coke bottle

I'd successfully avoided getting my eyes tested for two years—thanks in part to the death of my mother who expired just as the text reminder came in—and so when I was tested finally my vision had worsened considerably. 

In fact so much so I couldn't have normal lenses—I needed industrial-strength ones. 

So front on, looking at my eyes, you can see the curve of my face sides in the lenses—so I've gone full maximum coke bottle bottoms. My vision is worse than Stephen King's, the king of the bottle-lens people

My new optometrist also discovered I have a lazy left eye. My older brother had it and my son has it but it was never picked up for me. So the vision in my left eye will always have a slight blur. It should have been found and corrected before I turned nine. Fortunately theboy's was discovered and his vision will be corrected.

Non-Jesus wept, I am the odds and sods drawer of minor disabilities—born with double hernia (undetected for six weeks and contributing to my mother's post-natal) and hips partially dislocated from being a breech birth leading to a deformed gait, flat-feet, water on the knees and obesity from eating feelings and not running them off. 

How awesome that, along with multiple infections then depression and anxiety onset at 10, the odds and sods all blended to make a super me. 


(Stands triumphant on failing lower limbs, heroically looking into the distance).

UPDATE: Stephen King is calming America RE scary clown sightings. Classic. I used to have nightmares about evil clowns until one dream I killed one. Never had them again.