Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Egged

I had eggs for breakie. I dripped a bit of yolk on my shirt pec. The stain was less than 1/2 a five cent piece in size. I asked theWife if I should change and she said yes.

Do people really fixate on a stain that small? Or am I just lazy and/or rebelling against sensible advice?

Mind you, if I'd been lucky, that stain would have looked like something from Catholic mythos and I could have flogged it off to the Golden Palace like the Mary Cheese Toast.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Dodgy daddy move redux

I've been a bit bunged up of late in the guts department. When that happens I mung pain killers and hope for the thar she blows to occur. Except ... it doesn't. What happens instead is I go to the toilet like a normal person would - only several times in the one day - when the peristalsis finally peristalsilizes.

In between these multiple toilet takes - and how much more fun would they be if I had a clapper dude with one of those boards wangle some info fore the shot in front of the stall before I dropped trou - I tend to fart lots. It's kind of like a butt triffle with layers of actual bowel movement and the air lovingly compressed between the next one.

Tonight, theNoo, being very cute, wanted kisses from his cot. He likes to press his melon against the bars and have me purse my full lips and smoosh them into the gap to lightly moisten his forehead.

It's all very cute.

It also involves bending down to his level.

So tonight I did that.

As I came up, Newtonian physics had a duet with Peristalsis and I farted. A great gush of fetid far air that powered out through my thin layer of PJ cloth.

Unfortunately for the Noo my butt was about level with his head when the fart came out.

I escaped from the room before he cried. Poor little fucker.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Aw go S&G

Sarah and Gam are preggers.

Kewl! Nicest couple I've ever met blogging.

You just know the baby's going to come out with a fist raised in a lefty power salute!

Mellow harshed

There I was, lying down and enjoying my restful repose when out in the waiting room a ring tone blared into life. Naturally, the smegwit who owned the ringing phone then answered it.

'HEY GIDDAY MATE, YOU WATCHING THE MATCH? ... REALLY? ... NAH! ... YEAH, GETTING SOME ACUPUNCTURE... etc etc etc.'

This conversation went on for fully five minutes.

Now I know the needles and their positioning are supposed to play the major part. And I know the jury is still out on the whole needles meets ying yang scene, but what I do know I get benefit from with acupuncture is the serenity of the lying down and listening to mellow music.

This then is arrested somewhat by a braying fuckwit dribbling inane pointless shit down his phone.

You'd think the fact he was there for the same thing I was would have been a fucking clue to shut the fuck up? For fuck-sake, the clinic is clearly in the cinema and library vocal atmosphere of talk only if you need to and if you do then talk in a whisper.

At point I had my fingers in my ears to drown him out.

As I left I looked for the sign that I felt sure was there regarding mobile phones. Indeed it was, pointing at the fucking door as you walk the walk into the clinic. It could not be clearer.

So in an admittedly loud voice as I looked at the sign I said 'Oh, they do ask you not to use your mobile phone'.

Of course, the sort of person who both answers then continues on to have a loud conversation on their phone at an acupuncturists is not the sort of person who feels shame at violating the social compact we have in situations like this - so I probably wasted my effort.

I felt like George in the Chinese Restaurant episode. I just wanted to yell 'You know, we're living in a society!'

Fuckwit.

Sorry Sarah

This morning I noticed theNoo had a midmorning snack of cheese-sticks and cheese.

These are special cheese-sticks just for theNoo apparently, according to theWife. Though I suspect, much like our honour system game of paper-scissors-rocks on who would get up to close the bedroom door last night, she's lying (I said I had paper, she then said she had scissors), that they're special for-baby sticks.

I had yet to have breakfast.

So ... for breakfast, I had cheese-stick bits and cheese. And happily nozzled them as I watched the US remake ("The Assassin") of La Femme Nikita.

I know, it's not exactly the breakfast start to the day that the food police say we should have. But then I don't exactly eat in accordance with the food pyramid either.

The food pyramid. It's like those yellow recommended speed limit signs on Australian roads that men like to attempt in miles per hour instead of the listed kays, just to prove a point*.

*What that is, I am not exactly sure. Men, let's face it, most of us are fucksticks.

Dodgy Daddy moves from Harrangueman

I am not au fait with much of the skills of baby-now-toddler wrangling. I admit theWife does the core duties on that front, and I get the kewl stuff of bath monitoring and story reading to do. However, on occasion, I am called on to do the minutia of said wrangling.

Last night I was on deck.

Dodgy move one - TheNoo gets a Dermeze rub after his bath. It's a gooey like substance that helps hydrate his skin because of his eczema. We get big tubs of it, and when the level has dropped to the bottom of the tub it's hard to get out. You have to dig your hand in and waggle your finger tips at the goo to get it out and the hard edges of the tub's opening dig into your skin. It's uncomfortable.

I also have issues with goo-like substances. In that I don't like handling them.

So I decided to mildly De Bono this process. In Canberra we have a thing called Goodberrys. Which is an odd name since the berries are an optional extra. Goodberrys is this delicious frozen custard. It's kind of like soft-serve ice-cream. It's fuck off amazing - I always get Vanilla with dime-bar and flake. When you get a super large serve, you get a robust long stemmed plastic spoon to eat it with.

I got a spare one of these spoons, dug it in down the bottom of the tub, got out a big gooey load, then splatted it on theNoo's chest for his rub down. Sure, I had to get goo on my hands, but I avoided the unpleasant process of extracting it from the tub's bottom.

I rule intensive care.

Dogdy move two - theNoo, like many toddlers, has foods issues. In that getting him to happily eat what's on offer is sometimes a challenge. You end up doing a Cluedo-esq process of elimination on naming the foods he's more reliable to agree to eat until you strike colour and he repeats the name of the food and indicates with a yes or a smile he'd be interested in it. Last night we got to banana. 'Banana?!' he said, looking interested, by way of response.

So naturally I took that as a yes.

TheNoo has a touch of OCD, likely from Dear Daddy, in that if he doesn't engage the way he likes with the food he will say no and reject it. With bananas he likes to peel the skin off. If you give him a naked pre-peeled banana he may very well reject it out of hand because he didn't get the delish sensation of skinning it himself. But, in order to peel it, you have to crack the seal on the skin with a partial tiny micro-peel because his little hands are not strong enough to do it. This of course breeches the integrity of the banana.

So I handed him the banana, with the seal broken, and a tiny flap of skin hanging free from the top for him to grab and peel down.

At that point he said 'Noooooooo' and pushed it away.

Cue SHIFT-Number keys.

We only had two bananas in the house, and one of them had already suffered the micro-peel and was decomposing. There was just this one left. I know you can't stick a banana in the fridge as it goes yucko - brown and slimy.

So ... I glad-wrapped up the end where I'd partial peeled to re-seal in its freshness.

When theWife got home, I told her about my two dodgy daddy moves. And, I have to say I was surprised, given her dissing of putting newspaper down when I changed his pooey arse, that she gave the moves the thumbs up.

Women! Why are you so variable?! How can a sensible lateral thinking move be considered dodgy one day then embraced as a tick in the box the next?! Make up your minds?!

I got Sean Conneried

As semi-regular readers know, I used to have a boss I call man hands. He's a giant man who has issues with touching other people. Including me.

I farewelled him and his dinner plate sized wrist ends many months ago and thought I'd never see him again.

Alas the universe had other ideas and even though man hands is in another completely separate part of my org, he now works on my floor and on the way to my desk - unless I take a long way around.

Which means of course in the communal areas of my floor I unfortunately still have to engage in social niceties like the head dip of acknowledgment when I see him.

I also have to use the same toilet segment as him.

The other day I was heading out the door of the toilets, as he was coming in. We squeezed past each other. As we did, he said 'Oh, gidday mate', then gave me a pat.

On my lower back.

If his height hadn't been so great, and mine not, that pat would have been a lower cheek arse touch - just like Connery as Bond in the 60s versions of the films.

I am not meat for the consumption of others! I reject unwanted touching - be it from man hands or any other person.

He's got to learn to keep is fucking wrist ends to himself.

We have annual 'how not to piss each other off' training that is mandatory to all. Maybe a polite suggestion to the relevant area about including a fucking slide on 'don't ogle, don't fucking touch' is in order.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Be it ever so humble...

Well back home after a mildly hellish drive. TheNoo arced up for ages this morning, sick of being in the car and letting us know about it. It was horrid. Fortunately he managed to drift off for a couple of hours later and, when he woke, was in a happy mood for the most part.

I have to say, driving a newish car on a long trip is oh so much better than a bucket of crap or aged third hand vehicle which was our normative driving experience. Actually being able to accelerate in a reasonable amount of time and ... brake in a reasonable amount of time was likewise a good thing to have in a vehicle.

So ... the big drive. As a parent, what say you?

Well, McDonald's is a godsend. Yes, I said it. It is. Not only does it have baby changing rooms, it has the cafe for coffee (and it's okay) and cakes, salads if you feel that way, as well as the normal fare. Plus its kids menu has a bunch of healthy stuff on it like apple slices. And clean, accessible playgrounds. Say what you want about the Golden Arches being a ruthless global corporation and so forth, but as far as their services go - reasonable, reliable food from a clean place with facilities for kids and babies - it is the shizzle.

We did choose at one point to stop at a Hungry Jacks. We were sorely disappointed. It was dirty, which means kids who are ambulatory may pick up rubbish and try and mung it, and their 'playland' was too hot and big for theNoo to use. Oh, and their food was still stuck in the transfat 80s of burgers and chips only.

One annoying thing happened on the drive up. I was in a carpark waiting for the others when I farted. I have IBS, farting is a big and lovely part of that. It was not a silent one, and I failed to do the 360 check for people in ear and nose shot.

So it was loudish. This fuckwit at a car next to me fired up Cletus style with a loud braying 'Haw, haw you nearly split your pants with that, haw, haw' and basically carried on like a boorish fuckstick.

If he hadn't had stayed near his car I was half tempted to do something unpleasant to it. I wish I'd said something like 'Have you got a problem?' but likely that would have led to a confrontation so it's probably good I didn't. I hate people like that.

Oh - we drove back during the dust storm that blanketed NSW. Our car was dust covered, and for much of the journey it was dimly yellow and cold. I suspect that's what nuclear winter would be like. Only for years at a time.

Anyway, back home. Good to be back. Love my house - and theNoo was pleased to trundle around his pad.

Finally, big ups to theWife. Who, bless the socks she owns which are cotton, let me sleep for the first chunks of the trips. Each time I took the wheel I was well rested and thus a lot safer behind it. So yeah, if you do get tired, then swap drivers. It really helps. Even if you're still awake as the passenger.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Bits and pieces

Up visting my folks, so getting internet time is tricky.

But ...

TheNoo threw up in our lovely newish car about 30 kays from my parent's home. He'd gone almost 600 kays before it came out. So in a way, if it was going to happen, at the end was the best way. We had to strip off his top while off the side of the road - and we couldn't get that far off as the side of the road sloped badly. So there I was, holding him half naked, flecks of vom on his cheeks (and in his hair which we found out later). The hazards were going whose blinking glow turned him red with each flash. We could see the spray of stars above us in the moonless night sky and I said 'look doodoo, stars. Like in twinkle, twinkle.'

Then, in his soft baby voice, he started to sing twinkle, twinkle. Awwwww.

* * *

Last night, I noticed theWife had undone her hair. She has very nice hair, all wavy curls. It was cascading over her shoulders.

Me?

'Aw, pretty hair.'

TheWife.

'BUUUURRRRAAAAARRRRRRP.'

Yes, the biggest monster burp I have heard in some time. I'm pretty sure I got flecked with aerated Chinese food as it came out.

* * *

My dad was changing a printer cartridge. He weighed the empty one against the new one and determined the difference was 4 grams in weight. The new cartridge costs around $20.

Cue his outrage. '$20! That's nearly as much as gold!'

* * *

I had to change theboy. We're using a spare bed as a change table. There was a stack of newspapers on the bed for recycling. There wasn't a sheet or blanket or towel I could put down in easy reach so I put down newspapers. When theWife saw she teased me about it.

For the life of me I can't see how that wasn't the ideal option. If theboy crapped on it, or had a poo bottom and crap rubbed off, then I'd just chuck the paper. Is this a man vs woman thing? Enquiring minds want to know...

Thursday, September 17, 2009

There's no comeback to that...

"You're a turnip head with a poo under it"

Retreads

Today I had a wardrobe induced first. Well, it's the first I can remember.

I ran out of clean underwear.

I had intended on doing a load the previous night, whacking it in the dryer etc, but clean forgot. So come morning, there was my undies drawer, 100% clean of clean underwear.

So ... I'm not proud to say ... I went into the hamper, grabbed a pair of used ones, turned them inside out and put them on.

Later, as I was walking along back to my car, I smelled an unpleasant odor. Sweaty mold for want of a better descriptive. I was worried it was my jacket. Nup. Hat? Possibly. I do sweat when I walk.

It wasn't until I was home and stripping over for a shower that the full power of the odor assaulted me like a challenge delivering glove slap.

It was my retread undies. In fact, it was a combination of that, and my self saucing groinal region.

In other words...

It was nut smell. Nasty, atrocious, funky nut smell. The worst case of nut smell I have ever had.

To the shower! I had to lather up that area big time. I did not smell of the dreaded NT when I stepped out so I can only assume I am freshly scented in my downstairs parts.

Nut smell. It's ... not a good smell at all.

The only time Calvin Klein perfume would emulate nut smell is if it came from the same mirror universe that gave us Evil Spock...






Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Karma, bus style

Last night, on my way to some nerd fun, I didn't realise that the form two lanes sign included the lane I was in and the one to my left. I thought, for some reason, it would be the one to my right.

So I had a sudden lane merge ... with a bus. I missed it by a metre. When we eventually rolled to a stop at the lights I scanned my side mirror to make sure the driver wasn't going to get out and remonstrate with me.

He didn't. I felt bad though.

Today, I was in the CBD. The roads are narrower there. So narrow in fact the bus in the left lane clipped my side mirror and forced it in to face the side of the car. It's one of those spring mirrors so no damage. It did freak me out and I swore blue at the near hit since there's like 8 cm of mirror before the car starts.

So there you go. Karma and public transport had a meeting and came and got me. I feel better about it now.

Also, is Karma the concept and Karma Sutra too different kinds of Karma? I wonder if the pics of the Karma Sutra are invested with a weird sans perspective version of the bearded dude from The Joy of Sex. It should have been called The Joy of Hairy Sex, given, that in addition to Mr Full beard, the missy had a well shagged welcome mat in the downstairs lady area.

The only time the word Brazilian would appear in The Joy of Sex is if it prefaced the word "edition" and the rest of the book was in Portuguese...

UPDATE: Karma is Karma. Karma Sutra is actually Kama Sutra. I did a bit of a pirate and inserted an unintentional ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

A Pirate Joy of Sex. That'd I'd like to see. Though "walking the plank" might have a different interpretation, and I shudder to think what Keel Hauling would become...

Why?!

A colleague emailed me a photo for slotting into a report. I've never met her. She mentioned she was the one in purple stockings.

Me?

'Women are so lucky with their varied wardrobe. I could wear a kilt, but I only have a tenuous link to the UK ... the closest thing I am to is Cornish ... so it'd have to have pics of pasties on it.'

What the fuck?! That doesn't even mean anything!

On a lighter note I recently had my performance review. Sigh. Got told I send emails where a nice phone call or a quick face to face is more suitable. I can see why they said that, I do send emails by preference. I much prefer email than talking with people.

With email I can track exactly what I said, when I said it, then use task management to monitor progress on a project. So I guess I use it as my main comms tool because it's the most effective tool that I have. I mentioned how in my last area they didn't know what to do with me, that I was an add on. So I sent emails by preference since it was an evidentiary trail. In this part of the org they actually have an investment in what I do so I don't need to micromanage and have bedrock proof as much now.


But I'm an email tragic. What can I say?! Email is the shizzle.

Maybe it's because A) I don't like how I sound (a bit Neil from the Young Ones esq to be honest) and B) I don't like how I look. I'm not comfortable in face to face or voice to voice because I have esteem issues.

In email I'm a distilled essence of me. I don't have to worry about what people think about my physicality or how I sound.


Distilled essence of me ... sounds like a fragrance by Calvin Klein.

I guess that's why I like blogging too. Although I cop to my physical failings in the header as a sort of truthy standard, blogging is too a distilled essence of me. It's what I think, what I feel. And it matters not what I look like, even if some of what I talk about is feeling shitty about how I look.

That's kind of ironic. Not actual ironic, but more ironic than Alanis Morrisette at any rate.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Printer FAIL

As punters know, I recently looted the desk corpse of a colleague who had dearly departed, soapie style, for QLD. And good on her, blessings on her future happiness.

Part of the loot was an older laptop. But it also had accouterments. Delicious, sexy accouterments.

To wit, it had a colour printer (A3 capable I believe) and a scanner.

Both of which turned out to be compatible with my computer.

Hooray! Many hats in the air. Of course, no drivers with them. But some quick googling soon sorted that business out.

All that was left was to test fire these bad boys.

Scanner - worked fine. Now, the printer.

Errrgghhh, horrid, horrid print result. Blotchy and gross. The pic I printed, Big Kev of all things, made it appear he had orange coins slotted in his eye sockets like a dead Roman. Then, I realised, the ink LED was glowering redly. It was out of the black. And bless her cotton socks, my former colleague had also given me replacement cartridges.

So there I was, trying to replace the cartridge. I followed the 'for stupid people' step by step hieroglyphics (Bird, bird, giant eye, pyramid, bird), but every time I pressed the fucking button they said to press, the cartridge slot holder would shoot out, zip back and forth along its track like that little wheeled box droid that runs away from Chewie in the Death Star, then snuggle back into its hidey hole.

'You fucker,' I shouted, pointing at the errant cartridge slot holder. 'Why won't you stop zipping about and let me change you?!'

I even considered grabbing it mid run and forcing it open and slotting in the box while it whined and struggled to free itself.

S came over to look. He saw me stab the button again.

'Um,' he said, after looking at the hieroglyphics for stupid people. 'You're pressing the wrong button.'

Indeed I was. Fucking Ramses II was saying press orange. I was pressing the little red one next to the out of ink LED.

Epic Printer FAIL.

S laughed and laughed. And indeed he was right to do so.

But now, in order to preserve my mild David O'Doherty-esq mystique of having above average IT knowledge, I will have to neutralize him.

S rides a motorbike to work. He's always complaining about near hits...

(Goes outside. Welds roo-bar to bumper. Adds spikes and an oil slick shooty thing. Presses red button to load oil and the fucking oil slot holder zings back and forth along the roo-bar, then hides in its fucking hidey hole...)

Monday, September 14, 2009

Dude spooning

I suppose this is a variant of Rove's 'Who would you turn gay for?'. But, if I had to be spooned by a dude ... and I am assuming its a clothed platonic thing, or, if naked, vital to my survival ... but if I had to be spooned by a dude I'd choose ...

Daniel Craig.


I think I would feel safe in his muscular arms.

Whose your dude spoon and why?


Saturday, September 12, 2009

Won't someone please think of the Liberals?!

Check out Paul Sheehan's almighty moan over the dearth of Libs on campus.

This, as part of his complaint that universities are all left leaning hell holes of Marxism. You see, the few (all sexy, see the print edition for the photos) women he interviewed happened to mention that they felt this was the case. Ergo, it is!

It's hilarious. He's interviewed what like six women out of tens of thousands and extrapolated therefore that universities are red centres of redness sending Stalin rebithers out onto the street to claim them for the collective.

I of course am indulging in hyperbole, which is Sheehan's stock in trade.

I think he's been into the magic water again.

My especial favourite is the interview with Prue. You see, because she's done the hard time with the kids from a social work perspective, and still thinks the sneering left sucks the wang.

... she was being fed rubbish by her teachers after two years of volunteer work for poor children. The work led her, after graduation, to her current job as campaign manager for Give Us A Go, a coalition of indigenous groups from Cape York. The campaign is headed by the Aboriginal leader Noel Pearson.

''I worked in some of toughest neighbourhoods in Australia in an effort to understand how the world really worked,'' she said. ''And let me tell you, that reality rarely accorded to the lessons being taught in university halls.

''The predominance of leftist thinking amongst the arts/law faculty was so strong that it took me almost two years to shirk some of its core teachings. I wasn't political at university, but I realised that the emphasis on leftist ideas divorced students from the political realities at play in the outside world.''

Two years! Holy snapping duckshit, the woman was brain-washed! Maybe they flew in one of those cult reprogrammers to retool her up for capitalism with a hint of Clockwork Orange eyeball peeling back etc.

The article is a selective snapshot of campus, and the decision to focus on hotties over like normal people, then pump in 'see, she's been working with the poor and still thinks the left is poison' is rather pathetic.

Have another drink mate. You need it.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Damn you universe

Within 10 minutes of my awesome shower, something less awesome happened.

I did my back in.

Yes, thank you universe. So, I am high on pain killers, have had my spine crunched by a giant chiro (seriously, the dude was like WWE giant), and have to spend the day lying down. I shouldn't even be doing this as chair sitting bad.

It was an intense chiro experience. I even got some fucking zappy machine on my back firing a current through me.

How did I do my back in? Well, I turned and a shock of pain lanced up my spine. That's all it takes sometimes.

Unfortunately we'd planned an awesome trip away and we were leaving this afternoon. So that's now on hold. Yay. TheWife had everything slotted ready for a tetris style car pack and everything. Needless to say, there's a general feeling of miffing lacing the household...

Post shower report

I just had my morning shower. However, unlike showers before it, this had a number of contributing factors that made it above par, dare I say exceptional.

Factor 1 - a post poo high. I was actually able to go toilet this morning. So I entered the shower with an endorphine high of partial pain relief.

Factor 2 - a new bar of soap. The slippery sliver had been binned and in its place a mighty bar of freshness.

Factor 3 - The new Surgipack Water Stop rounded ear plugs, as sourced by theWife. They look like Xmas trees. You twizzle them into your ear and you can pull them out by the shaft (Shaft! Damn right). Unlike all other ear plugs before them ... they worked! I was able to slow mo my short haired head under the water and luxuriate in the feeling of having a clean noggin.

Oh yeah.

They say one of the best ways to have a happy life is to have concrete achievable goals. Having a shower where everything goes right is a concrete goal for me. And I had it!

One of the Best. Showers. Ever.

Of course it would have trouble competing with the most awesome shower experience - when you're soaking wet and, shivering, you enter a hot shower to warm up.

That's a nica shower.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Can't fatty take a joke?!

Australian radio Wunderkind, Kyle Sandilands, is in trouble again for making a fatty crack against our Magda, who's done gone and lost herself a bunch of weight.

See the SMH story here.

Of Magda's recent weight loss, Kyle speculated there was more to be trimmed and the best way to do that was if she was in a concentration camp.

Because, you know, all those starving undesirables and whatnot. The jews, gays, gypos and ... now ... fatties!

Yes, Kyle's right. The Nazis had the right idea when they swept Europe clean of people who had a different religious upbringing / sexual preference / cultural experience. If only they'd extended it to chubbos, the world would have been a better place.

Of course that would have been bad news for that delightful cross dressing super-chunk Herman Goering, given that delightful chap tipped the scales a bit into the max speed territory of the read out, but still. Can't make an omelet yadda yadda something about eggs etc.

So radio listeners. Do not be cruel to Kyle for telling it like it is about the fatties. Don't wish him away from the radio. Who will delightfully tease Cambodian refugees by making them beg to see long lost relatives live on air, or ask 14 year olds about their sexy times with men who didn't know no meant no?

We need Kyle on that wall, we want him on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use then as the backbone of a life trying to defend something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said "thank you," and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest that you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.

And ... so forth.

Kyle, I'm in your corner. And if you end up back in the horse float again, I'll be there to spoon you as one beardy to another.

UPDATE: Oh dear, four week suspension... ouch. To the horse float!

Thanks for nothing Afrika Korps

Rommel's infamous Afrika Korps is still hurting the world nearly 65 years on.

Because they broke my laser mouse.

There I was, in the night draped desert, attempting to do my bit for king and country and root out a nest of the khaki clad Nazi sand vipers when my vigorous mouse play caused said mouse to up and die.

So now I am using the lamo mini-mouse that came with my bodgy dead laptop, a mouse that's the equivalent of the reduced spare you're only supposed to use at 80 kays an hour to get you to the nearest servo.

Damn you Afrika Korps as depicted in Call of Duty 2. Damn you to your sandy hell.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Mikey gets needled

My gut pain has been pretty bad of late. There's been entire slabs of a week where my guts have been a gurgling cauldron of yucky pain, gas, spasming and all sorts of badness.

So, following a suggestion from theWife, I decided to give acupuncture a go.

Yes, I know, it's a potentially a bit of an ear-candle esq experience, but what the heck, if it works, then it works. I care not the how it does. Well, that's not true, I do care, but I am willing to whistle and look the other way if it gives me some relief.

I've had four sessions thus far. It took until the last session to actually get a needle in the gut, my having mistakenly flashed my stomach Spring Break style at Mr Sticky when he came into the room, given the pain is there and that therefore logic to me dictated that's where the needles would go. No, first time around it was one in the back of each hand, one in the tops of my feet, and one in my bald spot.

So ... the needles go in - and they do sting a little on the way in - then I get left to lie on a spongy mattress and look at the ceiling while new-age / classical / restful musak is pumped through the centre.

I hazard that part of the acu-success is the fact that you get to lie back for 20 minutes doing just that. Listening to musak. Which on the face of it is kind of nice. Not sure if the needles help at all.

But I did find it weird that today's first needle to the stomach was located in my numb spot under my gall bladder scar. I told the dude that, that I had no sensation there, but he said it should work nonetheless. I dunno, if acupuncture is nerve influencing you'd think the needle would have to be jammed in where nerve sensations would exist.

Today's head needle, when withdrawn from the bald spot, caused some light bleeding which was a tad disconcerting. I didn't think bleeding happened with acupuncture.

But hey, it's going to take at least 10 sessions to have an impact, though I admit I do feel kind of good afterwards. Though, as noted, I have just had a nice little rest.

It's odd that I'm not afraid really of needles anymore. I suppose when you've endured a decade at least of low-mid-high grade fairly constant pain, the occasional sting from a needle if fucking absolutely nothing.

So, crossing fingers this is all going to have a positive impact. And I'm hoping my needling in the feet and hands didn't have a knock on delayed reaction and launch that fucking itch attack I subsequently had. I might ask him about that next time I see him.

The added advantage that the dude I am seeing is also a normal doc, so he can give me scripts for meds. He also loaded me up with sample boxes of the current happy pill I am on, though wisely I checked the dose and discovered the samples were twice the strength - but the pills are easily split so it's no biggie.

Oh, the centre is sort of library-esq in that there's a number of cubicles (where the walls are not flush with the ceiling) so patients and staff typically speak in hushed tones so as not to disturb the others.

I do feel bad for the lady from the last session - she was a widow, and had brought in flowers for the doc from the garden her departed hubbie had set up. But she didn't have to have a tremendously loud and long boring fucking conversation about the flowers, their colour, their origin, and her (admittedly) sad change to her fucking relationship for fucking two minutes post her treatment, because I found it all an unpleasant intrusion in my digging on the musak and lying down experience.

So there you have it, acupuncture attendees. Whilst in the place of your needling. Please, be like the movies and shut the fuck up when you're in the room.

Word of the yesterday

I was talking with a work friend who was about to go through the having a child experience. I asked if they were going the home birth, the paddling pool water thing in the lounge room.

He said that such paddling pool placement should only ever be used for jelly wrestling.

Me?

'Yeah, but when the placenta comes out and into the pool then the water will match the viscosity of the jelly.'

He then suggested I'd set up the entire conversation just so I could use the word viscosity.

I admit it is indeed an awesome word, but I swear that it was no set up.

On a side note I saw today a shiny Hilux style ute with the business name branding of Backyard Fitz.

Which to me implied they performed exclusive rear yard work for the epileptic inclined...

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Basterds

Finally got to see Inglorious Basterds - on a solo outing which is rare for me. Liked it a lot. Slow in spots, but that was a deliberate tension building thing, so fair enough.

Okay, spoiler time.















Right? You seen it? If not, look away. Otherwise come on down.

I don't know about you, but watching a movie whose climax involves a locked cinema that's on fire whilst in a cinema is a tad unsettling. I had to look around to see where the exits were...

Where the fedge did that come from?!

Today, soon after I arrived at work, my feet got itchy. Then my hands did. Within 10 minutes I was madly scratching the tops of my feet and the backs of my hands and the itching would not stop. Thankfully L had an anti-histamine and, after taking one, the symptoms died away after about 20 minutes.

Fucking hell, that came out of nowhere. The only thing new was the fact I'd drunk my iced coffee out of a cracked polystyrene cup. Maybe drinking iced coffee through the cracks did something?

At any rate it was unexpected and painful. Much like the time my mother took me to the Doctor for a "check-up" only for me to discover it was to get my chin mole taken off*.

My precious chin mole. I could grow a six inch hair out of that bad boy, no mistake.

*Or that time Dad said 'we're going to the show' and neglected to tell me we'd be stopping off at a local park where a fucking vaccination caravan was parked. I legged it and bailed myself up in some playground equipment and wouldn't come down.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

Bonus tracks

I rarely buy music. Maybe 2-4 CDs in a given year. And chances are if I do buy a CD it's because of one song that I want to listen to.

I recently purchased the Best of Talking Heads, for Once in a Lifetime and And She Was. I know, buying best of albums is a tad sad to you snooty music snobs, but hey, I just wanted to get it for those two songs.

But ... I listened to the whole thing. And now, I listen (mostly) to it from A to B. Sometimes I skip ahead to the faves but mostly listening to the whole thing. I really, really, really like the song Heaven.



It's totally tits.

So ... you people like me. What are CDs you've bought and then been pleasantly surprised by additional tracks and played them a lot?

Friday, September 04, 2009

More fail on my part

At work, we lost a colleague to a happier future. She's taking the 'could come back to the show at some point' soapie character exit of moving to Queensland.

Since she's on her way out, she allowed me to snaffle some of her stationary goodness. Yes, in the white collar world, we do in fact loot the desk corpse when a colleague goes and leaves behind their bling. I gots me an old laptop and a stanley knife. No, we don't keep it for personal use if that's what you're thinking. We simply absorb their resources into our own in the workplace.

So, there I was with the stanley knife, using it to slice up boxes to make inserts for mailing out soft cover books with (because our internal mail kills anything that isn't rigid I like to insert cardboard to ensure it makes it to the destination relatively intact).

Weeee I thought as knelt on the floor and I sliced the cardboard easily and neatly, avoiding the painful scissoring method used previously given my largish fingers don't fit in the handle holes too well.

Much chuffed I was at my Ninja'ed knife as I picked up the shaped cardboard insert to admire my work.

Yeah ... it was around that point I realised that I'd extended the blade a touch too far and had carved a series of straight lines right through the carpet.

Cue innocuous whistle and walk-away...

Bad penny now fifty cents

Whenever you're at a pub, and you start peeling a label off a beer bottle, some wag will usually pipe up and announce to one and all you're sexually repressed.

Go on, try it. It will happen.

Anyway, I had in my wallet for the longest time a fifty cent piece that someone had taken to with a bottle of liquid paper. It wasn't me - I got it in change at some point. I shudder to think what liquid papering a coin means in the repression stakes - perhaps repressing the urge to kill prostitutes or something.

So, I showed this to my colleague L, likened it (wag-like) to the beer-bottle thing, and we had a minor chortle about how no bastard would likely accept it.

A week later, still with the liquid papered coin, we went and had a coffee. It's an outrageous $3.50. I had exact change - my gold coins plus the liquid paper covered .50, and I handed over my money at the same time L handed over $4 for hers.

Without blinking the cashier handed the LP .50 back to L as her change. It didn't even make the till.

Hah! The cursed coin is Ls! She has to deal with the funny looks (and so forth) until she off loads it to some other poor sap.

Or of course simply uses it in a machine of some kind.

Why didn't I think of that?!

Epic Fail

In the NT apparently they tried to destroy some old fireworks.

Check out the right kerfuffle that then occurred here.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Sads

Sometimes, when I'm sad, I realise I'm also very hungry.

Does being hungry make me sad?

That's a zen-esq riddle for the ages.

That probably explains the fat Buddha.

UPDATE: And tired. As in when I feel sad, chances are if I sigh then it segues into a yawn. So what, sleepy Buddha? Fuck me, that's like the seven Dwarfs ... though Dopey Buddha seems a bit sacrilegious ... or a character in a sitcom.

Damned photomen arseholes

Grr. I sent a text to a colleague on a course and forgot to lock the phone. When it entered the cavernous depths of my pocket, the phone's position meant it kept hitting send.

She got 28 texts before I realised.

God-damned fucking stupid phone!

Yes, that's right, I blame my tools. You can do that when you're an adult. As anyone who works in an office environment and uses a Microsoft product can attest...