Friday, March 22, 2013

I'm a one-man band from the knees on down

Ah the one-man band. A genuine busking-themed performance for money artform but one pilloried as a comedic trope in cartoons and film since the dawn of the moving picture. You know the sort; drum on the back, cymbals between the knees, harmonica at the ready and guitar in hand.

As regular Mikey readers know I have an unusual body. Oh not fun unusual, gross through to disquieting. Indeed on the latter it actually is a dissing of quieting in that my knees make popping or crackle noises when I walk—from either tendons rubbing on bones or nitrogen bubbles popping. I've had that happen as long as I can remember, though I think it was made worse by my muscles and bones starting their progress from almost-normal to semi in childhood (1) and thus my cruelling my when I grow up fantasy of adult Ninjadom (2).

Fast forward to just last week. I had to replace my shoes. I have a single pair of shoes on the go at any one time; universal footwear for everywhere I walk. They're always as black as they can be, so they don't stand out, but they're always sneakers; high-end ones with the greatest level of air cushioned comfort. 

I've needed to wear sneakers since I was a child and my knees went out and I endured discomfort when I walked or ran. This all started around Year Six when I was still in the single sex private school my parents decided I needed to be sent to and away from all my friends and comforts. Oh, and a very individual little boy was then thrust into a cruel manly-man environment that was incapable of supporting anyone with any physical or mental disabilities. When I was forced to wear sneakers to stop the pain lancing through my poor fucked-up little body I was openly mocked and derided by students and staff for the footwear and then excluded from any activity where my "footwear" presented an issue. For example in Industrial Design—or whatever the fuck the "let's make men of these boys and show them tools!" class was called at that miserable excremental place—I was sent down the back with a rag to clean ancient grime off foul chemical covered sinks because my "footwear" was too unsafe. That kind of shit.

Anyway, misery of youth that still poisons thirty years on aside, I traded out my dying sneakers—the shoe spread well beyond the bounds of its design due to my spread-out feet and the air support sagged from thousands of hours of being underfoot me—for a snazzy new pair. Indeed, so air supporty and snazzy they are that the air support plastic is transparent and you can see through to the other side. It's like the goldfish tank platform shoes from I'm Gonna Git You Sucka minus the goldfish.

Only, the thing is, the shoes squeak when I walk.

So there you have it, Mikey's a one-man band, knees popping or twanging and all accompanied by the rhythmic squeak of my transparent soled shoes. 

Mind you the shoes do look awesome. And they will be a fancy augmentation to my post-surgery look for when I get hip two done and I'm back to using my pimp cane for six months.

(Mikey opens notepad in his loaner iPhone; Note to self, get half-fur coat and leopard skin hat. Also, feather).

(1) I am (dis)abled in that I still have full use of my body it's just that its capabilities are reduced and I suffer mild to chronic pain from abdominal discomfort and muscular spasms—my condition severely exacerbated and/or caused by stress. Hence the need for taking time away from work the moment I can afford myself the opportunity. 
(2) In the '80s there was a narrow corridor in the house we lived in at the time. We boys discovered that you could, if you stretched your hands and feet out, actually climb your way up the walls to the ceiling. So naturally we did that a lot. Which explains the dirty column of grey that stained the wall where we did it, the grime from the sides of our bare feet where we gripped rubbing off as we ascended. Alas I never got to the Ninja starfish point.
(3) The amount of noise I put out is akin to the swoosh of George Costanza's suit!  

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Not so fast...

I celebrated the end of my having to take anti-biotics for my tooth hole, the cavity of my extracted tooth rent somewhat in the extraction and my needing to be on the meds to stave off infection. Anti-biotics for me now, thanks to my horrible IBS (which may or may not be independent of Fibromyalgia), are a literal pain in my gut as it sends my system into spasm; gas, constipation, then acute diarrhoea.

Within 48 hours, and with Probiotic supplements at work to replace my healthy gut bacteria, in theory my tum will be less roiling and spasming with pain and bloating.

Only as a last fuck you, a coda if you well, to this whole experience I just sharted. A nasty one that involved a lot of cleaning up afterwards; my clothes, my self, the toilet seat, and the floor—all with my soiled PJ pants around my ankles as I did so. 

Thanks, anti-biotics! You saved my life but at the cost of my simple dignity...

Game on, Mols

Yay for Julia! Oh, and suck it Coalition and 75 per cent of our print media in the form of News Limited, she cleared the deck well ahead of the September election.

Go, Jules!

ABC link here but the link may die since it has the word "live" in it.

Where Mikey also sees a doctor

In my time away I met with my doctor about my hip and what to do. The decision to have a replacement is mine. If I can handle the symptoms as long as I can then I will. Hell, I could go years if I manage to drop a chunk of weight through low impact exercise. He did also say, however, given the toll my workplace has taken on me that I need to take leave the moment I professionally could.

I have to meet with a workplace case manager and brief them up on it, so I will arrange that when I am back for the few days I'll be there. I'm not sure what they can do to help me, to be honest. Last time I engaged their services over long term health issues they quietly took the services off me, closing my case without letting me know and only re-opening my case before my hip operation of December 2011. 

I suspect they will tell me they cannot help. That they can only case manage those who will get well; return to optimum condition as opposed to the accidentals who carry on with physical and mental impairment and do so with minimal support. 

But hey, you never know. They could turn out to be engaging and supportive. 

Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ... and so forth. 

Well that was a fun week

I've been pretty bruised of late. I've made a decision to try and find a new job but the horrors of the current one hang over me. I've had moments of stress crying and hectoring the back end of my shed as I rage impotently at the imaginary, delivering hoarse hushed rants at those I wish I could yell at. Still, I did manage to combine a stress cry with a ride on the SoTPC, tears merging with sweat to runnel down the convex of my tum. Not only is that awesome multi-tasking it is, as Fleety as once said, all great material (1).

So I plan to finish what I need to do and then take some leave to get better. And, when I feel a bit better, I can start the process of hunting for work. I worry about my marketability but then I remember all that I've done. Thankless, unrecognised and unsupported work, but real demonstrable work nonetheless. I have mad skillz dripping out my pores, y'all. 

I went to theBoy's swimming lesson the other day but I was pretty teary and had to go for a walk before I could go in. I ended up mindlessly pacing on a gravel covered indent from the road, a place to park for visitors I presume as the subdivision was one of those narrow curvy ones that didn't afford roadside parking. A elderly women came out to ask me if she could help me; polite elderly owner code for 'get the fuck off my lawn', though lawn in this sense being somewhat granular. I said sorry, and that I was going for a walk, and walked up the hill. I found a corner and started wheeling once more in an angry circle as I hissed with muttered hurt and anger. It took a good 15 minutes before I could front up to watch the lesson. 

That's what I hate about a horrid work life. How it poisons your real life and sticks its slender venom tipped claws into your body. 

The important thing is, though, I realise I cannot go on in my current role. I've loved what I've done, even as I lay gasping under its burden, but I just cannot go on. It's a high stress, highly visible no-power job and I am an accidental human. It's a too much a burden for a normal let alone me.

At least the frequency of the stress cries is decreasing. And I'm going to talk to someone about it all, making use of one of the support systems we public servants can access. 

Thank the probs for theWife, though. I can't imagine what it would be like to be alone and going through this miserable pox. 

In a couple of weeks we spend some days at the coast at an awesome place we've stayed twice before. There's a covered pool there—it has a high curved roof—and you can just drift along in the water if you so wish. I'm looking forward to that. 

So here's to a recognition of a need to seek change. I'm going to celebrate with a shower! 

BANK: 549

(1) Greg Fleet talking to Marc Maron when he confessed that even in his horrible moments of crying and sads he can laugh and still see it as great material. See Alas that interview is now in premium service land.  Totally worth it, however! 

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Thar he blubs!

Yeah, there was light blubbing. I finally boiled over at mid morning and suddenly faced with critique of my performance I stood up, said I was too stressed to be there and walked out the door. I stalked around the picnic table under the tree just up from where the smokers lurk and stood there steaming mad and tears welling. As I went back in I then had to spend 10 minutes hissing out that I was beyond stressed and that I did the job of two people. theBoss complained it was because I'd taken on work that wasn't mine even though that work wasn't being done and if it was it was done poorly and someone had to step in and fix it then pump it out due to time issues. That and my tooth hole blazed with pain from the yanking not less than a day before and it added to the froth of stress.

I was told by theBoss to go home and de-stress but before I could I was dragged into the meeting, now a monthly effort, where we typically endure 90 minutes of work talk laced with occasional banter but as I sit there I'm in the presence of people who either don't like me or don't like what I do. It's a pretty brutal atoms to be in. About 15 minutes in two stress tears leaked off my eyes, having welled as I sat in saddened hunched anger. 

At the end, a blissfully short meeting since theBoss stressed we had business to do, I anger-saddened walked back to my desk. I should have just packed up and left but there was still some must do stuff to complete before I could hand it all over. I finally embedded the last of the report edits then tagged out midday, sending an email with a quick link to where the document sat.

After I left I drove off to try and sort out my credit card issue—it kept being declined—only to be told by the bank of two people that I needed to call telephone banking to sort it all out. So I left and went home and then I called the bank and found out my tele-banking rights had been suspended four years before when I'd tried to tele-bank and couldn't prove who I was. So in order to fix my card so I could tele-bank it meant another trip to a bank to sort it. I went in and they re-activated it and unblocked my tele-banking rights, gave me a three digit pin, and directed me to a self-serve phone from which to tele-bank with, my needing to log in right away to reset the temporary pin. After seven minutes I got through only to fail once more to prove my identity—I needed to know what branch the account was set up at over 16 years before or what our credit card limit was—and the person immediately blocked my tele-banking rights even after I'd told her I'd literally just had them unblocked not seven minutes ago. 

All up it meant four separate queings for assistance over the space of an hour, including a test run at a supermarket to discover my card still didn't work. In the end they reported the card damaged and shipped me a new one—eight day wait—but I suspect that card will still have the issue where my card is declined. 

I'm trapped in a drowning bureaucracy of madness. I couldn't prove who I was with my date of birth but only by knowing what my fucking credit limit was. As if that's common fucking knowledge? Jesus, fuck. 

But I ended the misery of my horror day with an awesome sit in a café with theWife and theBoy with coffee, milkshake, diet coke and chips and a session of frantic scribbling where theBoy and I competed at doodles. I drew a totally awesome car. I should get my mum to send it to NASA! (1).

BANK: 487 (2)

(1) That. Happened. Year three, drew pics of rocket planes and my mum sent them to NASA (to their design department). I got a packet that had a 'hey, kid, nice pics!' letter and a stack of kewl cardboard info sheets about the moon and rockets (and shit). This was the '80s; cardboard info sheets from actual NASA were kewl. 
(2) You know what? Credit where due. Here I am, a brutal horror of a day (admittedly a first world one; my actual real needs met), and I still rode my allotted time plus another five. Take that, genetic destiny. 

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Second meat lump

I'm sad at work. The atmosphere is somewhat poisonous and my job is just too fucking hard to do. I finally confessed to delays in my core role because of a swarm of lessers but with closer deadlines that attacked us. A multitude of additional things stacked upon me that kept me from doing what I am supposed to do. 

It's because I'm a fixer. I see things that are broken and I try and fix them. So I absorb work because I refuse to let shit go out or to put up with shit. So it means fixing up mistakes made by others because to let those mistakes go uncorrected is a professional fail and a reputation risk. 

So I fix these things and I absorb all this work and now it's gotten to the crying in the garden point. I talked it all through with theWife. I'll just have to meet with theBoss and lay it on the table. Only I'm loathe to do so because I'm worried I'll emote, start unmanfully blubbing, or I'll rage. And that rage that dwells within the men of my family will bubble out and I will say things I will regret. I have to work with these people so getting angry and venting only hurts me in the long run.

Of course it didn't help that this was also running concurrently with my tooth being extracted. A tale whose tale will now be told. 

It took about 20 minutes all up. To her credit my new dentist—chosen for her being on a private health fund list and for being near where I live—was a deft hand at the needle ("After 22 years I am quite good at it" I think was her response). But the pressure of pliers working my tooth loose, and the downward thrust of her arms and tool driving my head into the head rest was intense. I also got to see her fingers, coated up to the finger base in my mouth blood.

So now there's a gaping hole where my tooth once was. I have to avoid brushing teeth or gargling for a couple of days to avoid disturbing the blood clot that needs to form and for a few weeks it will be tender as the healing occurs. I'm on antibiotics as well for the wound until I finish the full course.

I tried to pay by credit cart but my newly activated cards misfired. The left side of my lower face still numb I had to power walk to the nearest ATM to see if at least cash withdrawal worked and then scuttle back to pay for it. She not only gave me my cleaned up tooth to take away but she knocked two dollars off the bill so she didn't have to make change. What a good egg!

But now it's hours later and the anaesthetic has worn off. My aching jaw is aflame with pain though ingested meds have at least reduced this flame to embers.

So tomorrow the work yuck commences once more. And I have to put on my big boy pants and have uncomfortable discussions that tinge on critiques. I like the immediate people I work with, and I like my theBoss, but our workload is insane and the people above us make it far worse. There's only so much a sick man can take and I will have to broadcast this need for assist. 

Now to abed. To take my pain wracked mouth hole to sleep and in the morn perhaps I will be less sore. 

Oh, life, you do tickle us so. 

Ah, the second meat lump. It's my phrase I utter when I think about work and how something so stupid affects me so much. Sometimes we invest so much in what we do, and consider it important, that this emotional investment means pain when things go horrid. Remember those social hierarchy pyramids about the past? The European tribal one was a chief on top of the pyramid and then the next level down was warriors then it was craftsmen then everyone else. So sometimes I imagine the warriors sitting in a round hall around a fire, the chief doling out great ladles of stew in bowls for his men and then a warrior sees a rival gets a second meat lump in his ladle worth when he the warrior only had one lump. So does that warrior then spend the rest of dinner thinking the chief must hate him and that the chief must think his axe work is fucked and all that effort he spent shining his shield boss was wasted because the chief can't see the value in a shiny boss? Does he? I doubt it. Seriously, it's pathetic how much we let this stuff matter and it's just all second meat lump at the end of the day.  

BANK: 482 (1)

(1) I had to check my exercise diary to see where I was at with that. I'm so drained of energy by work I barely have time to do my stupid riding let alone blog, write, read or sit. But things will change for the better. They just have to.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Blood, Piss and Enamel


I had a blood test the other day. I think I was first into that clinic that morning. The nurse was most nice. She even laughed at my crappy banter. She was also quite deft since I didn't really feel anything apart from the initial prick on entry. So it could have been worse. I am looking for various things and seeing whether I've avoided being still considered pre-diabetic. When I was last there they asked me to fill out a 'are you at risk of Diabetes type II?' analysis and if you cracked 10+ you're at risk; I was a 13. 


I know, fucking thing. But since the first blood test of 2013 I've been hurtling along in stasis on the exercise bike at 40+ minutes a day, so who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I can stave off yet another horrid medical whack by sheer dint of effort? I know, first world blues. In the third world I'd have been dead either just after birth or within two years of it. Here I am whining about my accidental existence. Suck it up, Buttercup (1).

I find out my results later in the week, after I have my x-ray and ultrasound (2) checked as well for other parts of my body that need a damn good medical seeing too. 


theWife was miffed at my wee spot just near the shed door, the place I pause to piss if I happen to be outside. It started to get a little funky and the grass died like a crop circle formed by space acid. Instead if I must wee outdoors then please onto the orange tree, only there's maintenance involved; I have to water the wee in. There's a can with water on stand-by, though I will have to shift to a lidded container to prevent the skeeters from spawning within. 

I went outside and yelled I was going to try it. theBoy has a wee tree of his own; a lemon one three pillars along on the outside patio. As he heard my announcement he dashed out to do a wee as I did. And that's how it was my son and I performed synchronised urination each upon a potted citrus fruit tree.

and Enamel.

My holed tooth soon gets taken out. It's either having the tooth extracted or three hours of root canal, at one hour per session, and a four figure cost for the probable chance of keeping the tooth intact in place even as it is killed, its innards replaced with resin fill. I presume having the tooth pulled will change the way I eat, with my likely favouring the right-side of my mouth for careful mastication. Mastication needed to avoid tummy stick issues for globules of chewed intake falling down my stomach tube.

Oh, Mikey, you and your silly body. You're such a little trouper (3).

Anyway, we spent a delightful day of a last days together. We walked hand in supernumerary root in the park, leaves tumbling by. A ride on the carousel at the centre of town, laughing gaily as we spun. A memory of tooth ahead of me, laughing, the sun glinting off its anatomic crown as it raced gaily for the lake's shore. Oh, tooth, you were too beautiful for the cruel environs of my moist face hole. Rest now in your liquidy embrace in the sample jar ... 'cos I is keeping you! (rattle, rattle) (4).

(1) Rooney eats it. 
(2) I had an ultrasound of my right shoulder. There I was, in the middle of a work day, sitting alone for ten minutes half-naked in a room, gel on my shoulders, waiting for the doctor to have a post scan-chat with me. Conclusion: they can't see anything. So it's back to the doc for an MRI; yah-hoo! 
(3) Until recently I thought "trouper", as in the show must go one style cast member of as dramatic production, was "trooper" as in the troopers who chased down the Swaggie; one, two three. It was a saying my mother often used when one of us boys was injured, along with "you're in the wars" and "my little soldier". So given the military-tinge of the latter two, it's really only fair that I had that presumption in place until the "trouper" discovery made earlier this year. Stupid brain. 
(4) I have my gallstones and my wisdom teeth still. I'm crotching the lot for when I get sent to the freezer for science ... or longevity...

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Pwned at night

"Goodnight ... and don't forget you have a 'gina!"

Friday, March 08, 2013

Winger, Jeff Winger

I hold views some find unpalatable. But, as a wise short man strapped in next to me on an aeroplane once said 'it makes all types to make a world' (1), Once such view is that for me the very best of the Bonds is and will forever be ... Roger Moore.

Here's another. My favourite character in Community—perhaps one of the finest shows ever to blossom from the great fracture from viewers choosing what to watch as opposed being forced to watch what's on (2)—is Pierce Hawthorn. There, I've said it. And I won't resile from it. Pierce, the elderly son of a moist towelette empire, who has been attending community college for a decade in an endless pursuit of friendships in spite of the obstacle of his assorted eccentricities and malicious evil streak.

I've been re-watching the series from the beginning. I typically watch an ep when I can't get a The Daily Show or Colbert Report fix. And having seen these eps now at least a dozen times I can't but help love Pierce and I can't but see his portrayal by Chevy Chase, a man whose comedic skills are in no doubt, as being the finest work he has ever done. SNL, the Fletch movies, Funny Farm, all of that. It all pales to what Chase has done with the Pierce character. 

Chase has a gift, a fucking magical gift to make the slightest shake of a hand or twitch of the mouth to add nuance and depth, a subconscious cue of the clumsiness and aging of his character. Even at 70 odd, Chase's physical comedy skills are undimmed. If anything they're sharper. Witness all the pratfalls his character endured over the first season. 

So that's it, off my chest. My favourite character is Pierce. Knowing there's trouble afoot given production issues that have afflicted the series, I am saddened to realise that Pierce is likely to leave or somehow be faded out over the course of the fourth season. Which is a massive shit. Because, like I said, it's I think it's the best work he's ever done as an actor and comedian. Both those roles are not for the faint of heart and he's consistently delivered on both over his entire career. Whatever happens next for Chase then I hope he takes solace in leaving a glorious comet trail at an age when many are long retired south for their eternal Winter.

(1) Or something like that. He said it when I apologised for squeezing in next to him, my being somewhat heavy set. 
(2) Fuck you, Dan Harmon, for creating such a thing of fucking beauty; cast, writing, long-arc character development—actual fucking develoment where the character's personalities and beliefs change over the course of the series as opposed to the nothing much changes fare of yesteryear—and rich layered texture where every episode can stand on its own yet blends into a greater whole. You suck goat balls. You know you do, you talented-as-all-fuck hateful mother fucker. 

A threat from theBoy

"I'm going to connect our bottoms together and then I'm going to poo in your bottom."

There's no comeback to that.

Thursday, March 07, 2013

Beeswax, yours

Some assorted business that's occurred o'er these past few days. 

The bug
When I was about 13 one night I felt a spider crawling along my back, under my pyjama top, as I lay there in the dark near sleep. I cried out for help, not wanting to move and eventually my annoyed father turned up to demand I tell him why he was being dragged up to my end of the house. I slowly peeled up my top and as I recall a spider ran off my back and into my bed clothes. It wasn't that big, maybe a five cent piece in size, but to a terrified child in the dark it felt fucking enormous. My unfortunate memory is my then still pissed of dad stomping back into the dark and my feeling crap inside because I'd dared ask for some help from people that by rights should really be giving it. 

Yes, it's pathetic that near 30 years later I can still feel a sting. Ironic considering it wasn't the spider that stung me. 

Anyway, I was riding SoTPC, my replacement exercise bike out in the shed. I was topless, I usually am unless it's the dead of Winter, and thus exposed to the environment within. 

About midway into the ride I felt it. Something, on my back, walking around within or on my man fur. To my credit I didn't fritz. I stopped riding and carefully clambered down from the bike (1). Then, while trying to move with as smooth a gait as possible so as not to disturb whatever it was. I called out to theWife who quickly came to my aid. She saw me there, the skeleton handed back scratcher held in my flesh right hand. 

"There's something on my back. You may need to remove it," I said, offering the scratcher in case she needed to flick it off.' 

To her absolute credit she looked to see what it was as I rotated in place like the ye olde Playschool Rocket. 

It was a grasshopper. Small, inoffensive. She flicked it away. But it could have been a spider and whilst I am well carpeted in a monstrous down upon my back I do not have fine acuity on my tactile receptors. It felt like it could have been not only a spider but a big one.

Hooray for a good memory replacing a bad!

The x-ray
I had to have an x-ray of my remaining natural hip. I started the process in a medium-sized admin room, went to a small-sized waiting room room, and then went to a tiny room; the dressing room, called that I presume with cruel irony because there's not enough room to comfortably dress or undress. A couple of days later I got my results. Moderate osteoarthritis with an exterior rotation of the hip. I now have to find out what this all means. But what I am pinning my hopes on is the use of the word "moderate". I can after-all put up with a surprising amount considering all that bedevils me as an accidental human (2). If moderate means I can put off an operation for as long as I can then, baby, I'm puttin' it off!

The tooth
I had to go to a dentist to have a tooth seen to. It's a tooth second from the back. It's either root canal to probably save it with three hour-long visits with a gap of $1500 or an extraction for a couple of  hundred. I'm going to get it yanked. You won't be able to see it from the front and in time I'll get used to the absence. I've gone 40 years with most of my teeth, with only my wisdom teeth removed post-childhood. I can afford to lose this one. Besides, in the future; robots! So I won't care! Take me to the hydro-bath, Sexy Pseudo Bot Orderly Companion 9000.

You'll probably get away with crucifixion
I was riding along on SoTPC the other day when I was really in the mood to not be riding SoTPC. I was hating it, aching right through my body as I strained out the dying gasps of my 40 minutes. At one point I was looking up at the shed roof, sweat dripping from my black headband and into the inside of my glasses and stinging my eyes and my beard-ringed mouth was agape in a mournful manner. It was then I realised I was totally going the go-to expression as seen etched on the face of a typical crucifixion victim (3). Only in this case it have looked like they'd crucified Tobias Fünke...

The Chinese solution
I had a sudden brain wave about how to protect my junk from being sprayed on when applying muscle soothing spray to my aching thighs. I'd screen my business with an upended Chinese container. I was halfway bragging to theBoy about my sudden Eureka moment, and about to apply the treatment, when I realised theBoy shouldn't probably see this. I told him to buzz off but he stayed, grinning, trying to watch. Eventually theWife called him away and it enabled me to attempt my spraying, a Chinese food container screening my groin. Only ... I forgot to put underwear on first. The moment I took away the container my pain mist moistened to the point of glistening thigh then made contact, Titanic V Iceberg style, with my danglies. 

The resulting discomfort was somewhat in excess of mild.

Ouch for theDad
My dad had a fall. He's in his mid-'70s when falls can be dangerous things indeed. he wrenched his knee and fractured his arm. I keep forgetting he's old . He's fit for his age but he's still that age. Fortunately he has a large social circle that leaped in to assist him. Including a delivery of a whole cake! Now that's recuperation.

Ouch for theMikey
theWife and I raided theBoy's Kinder Surprise Easter eggs. We split the haul. I decided my risk of dairy exposure was low if I ate my take. This despite the use of the word "milk" in the words "milk chocolate". The next day was a wild abdominal abandon of acute gas and misc. other that left me stunned to submission with both pain and pain medication for the entire next day. I'd hoped my system could cope with that great an injection of dairy. All that injected was a post-dairy arse slurry into my poor sainted toilet. 

Work is horrible
Work is horrible.

For a steaming good time call Mikey...
I have to start using hydro-baths. I recently applied to join one of the places that has one. Hooray for my resulting self-esteem boost from being the youngest and hottest person at the baths who doesn't actually work there!

My thumb!
I lost one of our two 32 gig flash drives that we use to store teev on. I looked on and off for it for over two days. Then, just by chance, I saw where it was. It had fallen between the wall of the shed and the concrete slab the shed sits on, for there is a gap between where the wall ends above the ground and the shed's slab begins. I crouched down and fished through the gap with my straightened fingers. At one point the drive slipped under the slab itself and I had to ferret around for a while before I could snag the drive with my fingers. I blew leaf litter out of the drive's mouth and it seemed to work fine. Fortuitous!

BANK: 462

(1) theBoy loves to use the word "clambered" in Storyverse.  
(2) My newly adopted descriptor for people who should have died in infancy were it not for modern medicine. Hooray for a neologism born from disability! Now that's strengths-based, mother fucker. 
(3) There's nothing typical about crucifiction!

Tuesday, March 05, 2013

Monday, March 04, 2013

Blah ... just blah

I've been blah of late. When I'm "blah" it means other stuff curbs off like this and my nerdy endevours as well as other stuff I have racked in line to do when I have the energy, will and time to do it. 

Changes at work are afoot. Annoying, fiddly changes. Plus I don't feel the love any more and I'm too tired from doing what I've done for so long. I need a change but finding the energy to drive that change is the hard part. 

Tests, tests, and more tests. I have three more lined up—shoulder, hip and blood. Another triumvirate of scans.

But it's what you do when you have a (dis)abled bod. It's funny how I've managed to find acceptance of my physiological state. That my early middle aged body is riddled with infirmity and reduced capability because said body by rights of nature should not have lasted beyond immediate infancy with all the ills that befell my baby body.

Aw, poor Mikey. But seriously, I feel empowered by that revelation. I'm not meant to be here; everything for me is gravy. A new lease on life gained when you realise you shouldn't be alive; that sort of affirming goodness. And that does help when you feel the ache of simply existing, a constant weariness on body and bone.

On Saturday I put my body through the ringer. I was out and about and needing to squat to get to things. It happened more than once over a two hour period. At the end of it I felt tired but okay. On the Sunday I woke to discover I could barely move, so stiff was I from the previous day's exertions. But despite being in discomfort and moaning at every stand or sit I still did my riding, and added to the bank of extra time no less. Today, when I arose, I found my body whilst still stiff was nowhere near the discomfort the previous day. I've never bounced back that quickly before so perhaps my stupid 40 minutes minimum exercise bike riding a day is actually paying dividends, endurance wise. Even if I don't lose weight. Ah the joys of packing a body that by rights shouldn't be around. We're through the Looking Glass here, people!

BANK: 452 (1)

(1) I have to keep an exercise diary only I couldn't read my scrawled notes since I last worked out my total. As best I can reliably tell I've advanced a proven 21 minutes since last I scored it. Which is a shit because I think I've diddled myself out of a good 23 additional minutes. Stupid shonky writing. Better record keeping, Mikey!