Monday, June 29, 2015

Hotties are magic on my sore tummy

I endured a hideous bout of IBS, woken at 6 am in grueling pain. It wasn't until 8:30 I returned to bed but could not sleep, even with a hottie pressed deep against my aching gut.

I didn't eat any trigger foods so I put it down to ill-luck. These things happen when you dance with the IBS fairy. 

But the hot water bottle helps. I had it for most of the day and again when I tried to sleep away the pain in a torpid dose, the hottie once more pressed against my en-crueled tummer. 

It could be worse. It could be. I'm lucky to be me and to have survived the many times fate tried to take me out—30 or so at last count. If the price to pay for the human equiv of a cat to the cubed power is a little tummy grumble then, tummy, grumble away.

That's a wellness attitude, right there.


Friday, June 26, 2015

I'm humming along

I've been back to work for a few days now and I'm humming along. I slipped straight back into the seat and immediately produced high quality product for my org. 

As I left and said good night I got a cheery goodnight from my boss+ and boss+++++.

It's good to be both loved and appreciated.


Area man performs pants surgery with wallet knife in disabled toilet

I am a Harry Highpants. I am. It's just how I roll, ironically enough as my tum looks a bit like a roll. 

I am an HH because I have a sore gut much of the time and it's uncomfortable to wear pants at waist level. I also tend to wear drawstring pants, again because of comfort as a belt cinches unpleasantly on my roll-esque form. I wear my shirts hanging out instead of tucked in to hide the nature of my HH.

Coming back from a nearby café I noticed my pants were a tad loose so I stopped to re-tie it. I then discovered I'd tightly knotted the string and the only thing for it was to walk with my hand holding my sagging waist to keep my pants up until I could attend to them.

Finally, I made it to the disabled toilet—a gift to me from the people for my disabilities—and had to take my pants off to get at the knot.

I succeeded. But, as I stretched the waist out to check I managed to suck the right end of the drawstring into the tunnel at the top of the pants where the drawstring lives.


Luckily I had my trusty wallet pocket tool set and after failing to tease the end of the string out with the tweezers I reverted to the wallet pocket tool knife and managed to snag the base of the drawstring's aglet and draw the fucker out. 

It took 10 minutes. Ten minutes of mounting frustration as I stood there in my pinstripe shirt, charming sweater vest, undies and socks as I battled the forces of clothing ill-fortune.

Twas most fortunate I had my wallet pocket tool set—preparation meets opportunity meets wife-gift in action.

Naturally once I returned—now properly clothed—to my computer I emailed work friends and told them all about it. 

Sharing Mikey fails is just what I do.  

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Fixed the same day

Blessed with depression and anxiety I give a fuck about my workplace. If I see an issue that needs reportin' I report it. That's just how I roll. 

I forgot to do a couple of things before I was forced to legally depart the building on gardening leave, one of which was to get a dead light fixed. Because dead lights look fucked and they make your work environment sad. Plus it's a safety issue for peeps like me packing mad props physical limitations—artificial hip, fo nizzle.

I'd accidentally entered the workplace mid-leave to reset my out of office and saw the dead light was still dead. As I left I asked if someone could put a request in to get it fixed.

When I came back I found the light was still dead (1). So I put in a request.

The light was fixed that day.

I think it's because I give good feedback that they fix stuff so quickly. Hooray for a great way to celebrate a return to work. Awesomely enough, when I returned to work after my collapse in 2013 I also got the lights fixed at the new workplace.

Mikey's back and he gets the lights turned back on.


(1) I found out later someone had put in a request about three days after I went on leave, independently, of her own volition. Only her request got lost in the system. It was pleasing though someone else in the workplace gave enough of a shit to try and get stuff fixed.

Monday, June 15, 2015

I'm now packing twice the Oz

A year or two back my left ugg boot sprung a hole at the front. Great puffs of wool starfished out of the wound. I patched the hole with duct tape and it's been fine since. 

Last night, it was righty-boot's turn. Same place as where lefty got holed.

I've had these boots since I forget how long. Since before I stopped picking my feet—infirmity prevents my reaching them to pick—with blood stains of picking sessions past coating deep within the hollows of the boots.

But with now a pair of matching duct-taped holey ugg boots I am packing twice the Oz when I wear them up to the shops when I get my Saturday papers. 

Classic Canberra and classic Oz (1).

(1) Now at twice-strength!


Sliders was an awesome sci-fi show from the '90s about a group of people skipping through alternate versions of Earth such as a version with no penicillin or one where it's always Christmas. 

Some parallel Earths were just a touch off the reality home earth of the original protagonists—ever so slightly different—and delightfully the series story arc had cro-mags as the over-all main antagonists (1). 

The other morning I stepped into the bathroom. There was a new type of shower curtain, green and slender plastic. Within the shower's recessed soap compartment was new bar of soap—and I love new soap day—but a weird oddly tapered green thing of a type we'd never used before.

I thought for a moment that I must have "slid" into one of those slightly different parallel Earths to my home Earth.

The soap was awesome. The new shower curtain alas takes longer to dry and when the hot water is on some sort of physics thing kicks in and the still wet curtain gets sucked into the shower well and brushes up against your back part.


Sliders, a good show. But remember you have to hiss-whisper "Sliders!" when you say "Sliders!" as per the show itself which hiss-whispers "Sliders!" at the end of the intro credits.

(1) A doctor once said of me that I was a "cro-mag throwback". I like to think I took odd pride at that remark. 

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Can no longer freeball without snug-fitting pants

One of the indignities of aging for a man is gradual scrotal drop. In that as you get older the skin of your scrotum lengthens and your balls gradually descend to the knees. 

It's started happening for me. I realised this not because of a mirror examination but because my balls got in the way. 

I was down to the last of the PJs, the pairs I rarely wear because they're not as comfortable and as supportive as my gold standard ones. Since I've been on Gardening Leave I've worn PJ pants as my default daily wear and, given I ride in them as well, it means twice pairs a day. Hence getting down to the dregs.

The dreg pair I chose was old. It had a drawstring—which I detest because the PJs are not as cinched to the waist as an elasticated pair and because you can get the end of the string caught in your wee stream—and a roomy crotch.

I mounted SoTPC, my second exercise bike, and started the daily ride but got through just two turns of the pedals before my balls slipped sideways off the pointy end of the saddle then got nastily brushed in a drive-by from my pumping right thigh. The following pedal turn repeated the pattern.

So I had to dismount, dash inside to the house to put undies on for crotch support—and to prevent seat seep-through—and speedily return to the bike in time to avoid the just-started-session timing out and voiding my partial credit of 400 metres out of 20 000. 

Every metre counts, baby.

Here endeth Mikey's previous anatomical pleasure of balls that didn't get in the way. 

Aging—it's just fucked. Though I do admit I enjoy getting the +1 Middle Age boost to my Intelligence, Wisdom and Charisma (1).

(1) I just wrote this on a laptop keyboard, which I usually despise because I don't like the way my wrists rub on the computer's edge. However this time I was wearing wristbands because I'm about to ride the bike and the bands protected me from the computer. This would also work for desktop machines since I rest my wrists on the edge of the desk when typing I may have to use computers with wristbands on from now on like I'm from an '80s MTV clip about working for the man but really just wanting to dance or something.

Tuesday, June 09, 2015

Vile tummy but spirit is still willing

I am afflicted with vile IBS at the moment. It's literally a pain in the guts. But if I ride the bike and use other techniques I can manage that additional pain to the always ouch of my battered bod. 

But then there are the farts. Especially the farts. My room smells like an all-male share house. 

Poor tummy ... and poor nose.

At least this happened during gardening leave. Knowing me I would have gone to work and it would not have been fun, for me or anyone (especially those within a 20' burst radius).

I am looking forward to returning to work. I'm sure I will be back up to speed in no time.


Saturday, June 06, 2015

I did dance because I wanted to

With thanks to "Safety Dance"

I was the only dad dancing at a six-year-old's birthday. Though it was in a room horrifyingly depicted with anthropomorphic renderings on the walls of animal-hybrid versions of Michael Jackson, John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever and an unknown Kubric-esque blond ballerina in a tutu music was pumping like "Happy" and whatever-this song-is from 21 Jump Street and you couldn't but dance if you stayed within the kid swarm.

Though my hip ached my shed-honed legs took the strain and I danced most of the time we had the room—including through musical statues, without stopping, pretending I wasn't out and I still had a chance to win it.

We went on to musical chairs, trying two games. Only four children willing to play meant three chairs and it was tense from the get go. Both times the same kid lost and both times he flopped crying to the mat-room floor.

In the end it was just dancing and we grooved away the time left on the room, the finale someone in an animal costume joining the dance then posing for photos with clumps of children.

It was awesome. Yay for being well and dancing like no-one was watching. 


Friday, June 05, 2015

Garden leave date now known

My fitness assessment got brought forward and I nailed it. I get to return to work by mid-June.

The garden leave has been both fun and healing. Not only did I get to discharge the built-up anxiety I got to experience excellence in support with my workplace looking after me with provision of leave and fighting to get me back with organising a second assessment because they value my skills and experience.

It will be good to get back to work and to show my value in action.

Wellness at work for the win.

Hard as a coffin nail

I ran for the bus recently, twice on the same day. The first time was to make it to a bus stop before the bus arrived and then the bus arrived and so I flagged it down and it stopped at the bus stop I was running to so I was morally obliged to keep running as it was waiting for me.

It was also up a hill. 

Every running step was lanced with pain. Despite the fact I ride an exercise bike each day for an hour I was puffed after the run as well. It makes sense. I ran with all my weight falling on my hips, legs, knees and feet so it was bound to hurt and bound to be more instantly difficult than riding an exercise bike.

I had wobble leg for a bit afterwards as well.

Then, later that day in an effort to make a certain bus platform in Civic, I ran again. Once more afflicted with shrieking agony. I gulped breath when I got there and asked ruefully between pants if my bus had left (1).

It had. 

The following day I elected to walk to my doctor's office from home. The catch was the office was a suburb over. It took 45 minutes to get there by foot ... and 55 minutes to get home, one slow step in front of the other. I was exhausted and had to rest for hours afterwards.

Both days, in spite of bus stop running—which also included a city walk to see yet another specialist—and there and back walking I still rode the exercise bike for an hour.

I'm like a Guy Ritchie protagonist—hard as a coffin nail.


(1) No, I didn't squat down between people's clothed legs to ask.