Monday, 21 August 2017

Clumsy Chaos



I wouldn't say that I am typically clumsy. I can generally manage to haul arse about the place striding one foot in front of the other, without stumbling into furniture or falling head over tit. I can carry more stuff than would be strictly necessary to avoid making 2 trips. This drives Stevie mad cos he hovers and waits till the mountain of ill-matched shit goes tumbling out of my arms. But I am nearly always steady as she goes. I don't routinely cut myself with sharp knives and whilst I still have the scars on my left pointy pointy finger from when I was 20, learning to use a saw and I slipped - Yeh blood fountained outta that one, I am pretty safe with tools and sharpies.

But I have this theory that the wake from clumsy errors is in direct proportion to your ability to rectify any mess or disaster.

For example, if you are having a chipper smiley day and you drop a plate as you dance it out of the disher. Yeh it smashes, but you just turn the radio up louder and continue to sing as you sweep up the debris.

If all is good in your world, and you drop you keys down a drain grate, you smugly McGiver a hook from an old coat hanger and scoop 'em out, no harm done.

However, if you are a little under the weather and drop your sock under the bed, you might well sink onto the carpet and have a good old sob, after all it WAS YOUR FAVOURITE SOCK!

Or if you haven't slept well for a few nights and you break a glass, firstly it will always be a precious glass that your Nanna left you, that she drank from at her wedding in 1901, and secondly it will shatter into so many pieces that the floor looks like a sand pit.

So today after sleeping with Dog in the lounge room since Thursday, I am a bit weepy tired.

I was using the last little bit of joy I had, to cook up some filling for some wee party parcels that were a hit a few weeks ago. The cooking was done and I was up to cleaning away. Yippee.

The salt and pepper grinders were the last part of the tidying.

They stood there and just mocked me. Bastards!

They fit easily into one hand. I have carried them like that hundreds of times, maybe millions.

I casually swung 'em back to float 'em into their spot in the herbie cupboard and suddenly the fucking pepper grinder just jumped out of my hand and threw itself hard onto the concrete floor. Fucker!

It smashed into a gazzillion pieces and of course pepper corns went fucking everywhere.

I needed to get the dust pan from the garage and I worried that Dog, who has been allowed to sit out of her playpen today after her trip to the vet to have all her bandages removed, would wander over and spike herself, I was as quick as I could be - not very I'm afraid.

And then I set to cleaning it all up. Who would believe just how far shards of glass can fly?

I didn't fancy being head down bum up even once. And this was a head down bum up many times job. I swept and shovelled and then when I thought I was done, I saw a bit more of a glint a bit further away so I started again. Shit. Wet paper towels finished the job, I hope.

Stevie is never barefoot, but the Aussie girl in me sees my naked feet yomping about quite frequently and so I guess if I haven't been as thorough as I should have been, either Dog or I will be bleeding sometime soon.

Bugger. I don't fancy cleaning that up.


Sunday, 20 August 2017

Escapologist.

Dog is locked back in after her wee adventure this morning. 


Dog had settled into her confinement well, or so I thought.

Yeh she cried a bit last night, but I talked her down and she popped off to sleep, or so I thought.

We went out for a wee walk, - not productive, bugger! and she had a lovely big drink on her way back to bed, and she settled there with her nanna blanky over her cos it's delightfully chilly here this morning, and I went about the usual AM kitchen shit and left her to her slumber, or so I thought.

I washed up and clean up a little and heard a bit of noise upstairs and figured Stevie was up and at 'em. But when I turned around, there was just a pile of blanket where Dog aught to be. From a distance you might think she had burrowed in to make a little cocoon of warm air to hide in, but on closer inspection she was bloody gone! Like those movies where the kid escapes out the window but tucks shit under the bed clothes so that the parentals see a lump and think all is well.

She couldn't have gone far. All the outside doors were closed and she is only 3 days into a long recovery after getting a new knee, so I know she's not running a marathon, and whilst I call this place The Big House, there just aren't that many place for a dog to hide. So I called her and wandered around looking.

Garage - NO
Studio - No
Store room - No
Bathroom - No No
Office - No
Laundry - No

Bugger

Then I recalled the funny noise from before and ran upstairs. Well OK, for full and honest disclosure I huffed and puffed my way upstairs, and bugger me, there she was in all her broken glory lying in the sunshine checking out the comings and going of people and dogs in her park.

Panic set in quickly.

The only thing the vet had been very strict about was NO STAIRS. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck. There's a big old failure! FUCK.

Typically she takes up her position and when she sees a dog she knows who she knows will be any minute now, walking by the front gate, well she ups and scampers down the stairs, sometimes taking 'em 2 or 3 at a time and sometimes she skids down 'em on her arse, like in the cartoons and she runs like a maniac to say hello, or more often to bark like a deranged fierce maniac.

FUCK.

So I woke Stevie up - Not Happy Jan, and he had to get up and carry her down the stairs and now she is in the playpen but I have put the gates back in so she will need to high jump it to get out.

That won't surprise me.

Now I am gonna have to work out how to keep her off the stairs. To The Barricade!


Friday, 18 August 2017

Nurses - Bloody Marvels!

Just at the back of Dog you can see my pillow and blow up bed. My arm fits between the slats for a middle of the night cuddle - not very nursey  of me but the best I can do.


Yep if there was any doubt about it before there sure as shit is none now, I could not be a nurse.

I'd just wander around the ward crying and being a big dick as I tried to ease the suffering of the sick folk or I'd be pissed off and abusive towards the demanding less sick folk with undue senses of entitlement.

Nurses are efficient in their care. They notice every little thing and because of their knowledge and training and experience, they are aware of even subtle changes in a patient's condition and so act on these changes promptly and confidently. Bloody good on 'em. They know stuff and can do stuff and do do stuff that I can only imagine, unless I am watching a hospital type bit of tellie, then I can give thought to how do they do all that work in those tight uniforms and doesn't all that hairspray fall into open wounds as they re-bandage stuff, but that's only on the tellie, cos Real Life Nurses are wonderful.

Dog is being shortchanged having me as her night nurse. Oh sure in an un-nursey way I am sleeping on the floor next to her from where I can hear every little movement and moan and snore or snort. 13 times last nmight so my fitty bitty tells me. Yeh I borrowed an air bed from my girl, I mean I am not completely nuts and we have concrete floors and I am a person! but that's where my nurseyness ends.

I figure she must be thirsty and she will lick a bit of water off my fingers, but she does this only under sufferance, and she must certainly be in pain - that I can easily understand, so I am not pushing hard for her to stand up and get going like a nurse might do. I am just cooing to her and trying to be kind, but I realise that KIND might well not be the best medicine but it's all I can manage, that and fixing her some lovely yoghurt and popping a bit of chicken stock in her water bowl. Yeh I am just making shit up.

I've been in hospital more times than I care to recall and none of it has been a picnic. When I was delivered of my first new knee, and things all went a little haywire with blisters the size of my head and a migraine that made me want to call it a day, one of the nurses was so so kind, that I must have fallen a little in love with her. When I got home and I could hobble a bit, I raced out and got her this enormous Villeroy and Boch spoon bowl thing. Mary Poppins singing 'A spoon full of sugar' drove me to this.  It was a ridiculously drug driven, over the top gesture, and when I delivered it to her some 6 weeks later, when I walked in under my own steam, clear headed and cynically normal,  I was embarrassed and so was she and I did a runner cos this pressie was a sign of being a bit nutty. I guess nurses might be used to patients returning with a little thank you box of Cadbury Roses for everyone to share - at least I like to think that patients offer something in appreciation of their nursing. In any case I hope she kept it and maybe smiles when she uses it, but perhaps more likely she left it in the ward kitchen and some daft cow planted a bit of something in it that has since died.

I liked hers so much that later I went and bought one for myself.

However, there can be no doubt that Nursing is a vocation, and like teaching, if it is not a calling then the work must be horrendous. And I don't mean that looking after Dog is terrible and I hate it, but it's my dirty little secret, I am counting the days til I am back upstairs in my own bed, and she is drinking on her own and hopefully eating a little something that is good for her.  

I can only have a lame stab at being the type of wonderful that is a Nurse.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Dancing Lessons

I wonder if you can imagine this space filled all the way around with a circle of pairs dancing. Sometimes there were so many people there that there needed to be 2 circles. It was a marvellous place.


I was surprised and delighted yesterday when my Darling Boy arrived home from school with a wee stolen flower for his Mum and when he slid it behind her ear I was filled with all the joys of spring. It was such an oldie worldie thing to do. Ahhh

And then he told me about the boy - girl dance classes they were having at school and I was transported back to a simpler time, when on a Friday evening a little herd of us would make the long trek from Wynnum up to the Big Smoke, Brisvegas to dance up a storm at the now long gone iconic CLOUDLAND. 

Yeh there was the usual jumping around and flinging of arms and long permed hair, type of dancing but there was also the Progressive ballroom type of dancing where you'd waltz around or Pride of Erin about and get a look at all the fellas there. Yep it was a different time. A time of innocence - Shit I am starting to sound like a Simon and Garfunkel tune. There wasn't a fear of being slipped a ruffie or an E tab and it was not a place for drunken louts. People just came to dance and maybe meet up with someone interesting. I never met anyone I wanted to see again, but I sure as shit loved that twirling all around the cavernous hall.

My Grandie said that some of the boys were being idiots cos of 'girl germs' but that he was enjoying it. 

Then I told him a yarn about how much many people enjoy a fella who can dance. And I told him that my lovely Dad taught me to dance the old style jig and that dancing with a fella who knew what he was doing was one of the highlights of my dating life.

I was at a dinner dance at the Gabba Cricket Grounds - no not out on the pitch, but in a huge function room which may or may not still be there. It was a very formal 'DO', Black Tie and long frock and high heels, and coiffured hair.  I don't remember my date's name, but I sure do remember being dressed to the nines and having him dance me all around the floor. As soon as I trusted that he knew what he was doing, and I allowed him to lead, the dancing was just bloody marvellous. Yeh I knew what I was doing, courtesy of my Dad, but that would have been of no use whatsoever if he hadn't had a clue. I put aside my 'I'll do it myself ' persona and let him be in charge, and even though I don't remember his name I can remember how good it felt to float all about the dance floor. Yeh I do love a bit of a dance.

Yesterday, I was quite taken with the idea that amid the computers and the social media storms and all the modern technology, there is still space for simple things like old fashioned dancing.

Ah just lovely.

And then he told me of the fun he was having in another class - maybe PE or maybe Drama or Dance who knows, where they are choreographing a modern abstract dance performance and when he demonstrated a bit of the CRAB dance, well let's just say I laughed up a lung and was pleased I was already seated. I am hoping that there is not much similarity between this Crabbing and his waltzing but the balancing of it all makes me smile.




Monday, 14 August 2017

Springing.



This is today.. not bad. Some other days' results are pretty rubbish.


Spring has definitely sprung.

I popped off to the beach today to 'get in some steps' and it was warm. I popped on my silly hat and resolved not to be out at lunchtime for very much longer. The beach yomping has got to be a morning pass time as summer threatens. The water was not even the tiniest bit chilly and there were folk frolicking and fishing and yomping like me.

Out a ways passed the wave breaks was that big old shippy boaty thing that is sucking up the sand from out there and dumping it via a long boom closer in. This is quite the expensive process and I suppose it is working, but I would hardly be qualified to know. What I can say is that the sand in the wavey area where I was paddling, which is usually the 'hard sand' and therefore the best sand to walk on, especially for lazy cows like me, was not even close to 'hard' today. Nope it was sloppy and so getting my steps in was like wading through non-sticky mud. I reckon the number of steps my fitty bitty counted should have been doubled cos it was seriously hard slogging and then the steep profile of the beach, back up to the park was the final killer. I reckoned I was looking like a heart attack victim, by the time I reached the concrete path, and I can tell you I was very pleased for more than the obvious reason when my bum hit the loo.

The Fit Bit has pointed out just what a sedentary lazy tart I am. The theory is that we are all supposed to walk 10000 steps a day and I have not made that, not even once, not even on my busiest day, and some days when the tireds have slapped me around I have done very many fewer.

But it does lead me to be a bit competitive - not with anyone else, just me, and so I like to be able to tally up 300 minutes of active walking a week. Sometimes that is not easy to fit in. But a goal is a goal. Nah I am not smacking myself around too much if I fail - yeh that has happened, but it is helpful to have a record of achievement.

The walking along the beach is my favourite place, but I reckon I might have to go in search of some of that hard sand, cos as the sun is setting my legs are aching more than  my minutes of walking would indicate. Ho hum.

Saturday, 12 August 2017

Cruciate Disease


Bugger! Yep my lovely girl is broken. This Cruciate ripping is most common in dogs between 6 and 8 years old, so she should have been in the clear, but sadly that's not her story.

So after a week or maybe 2 of limping around, like I was doing before I got me some new knees, all the while, slurping up serious pain meds to no avail - her not me, it was finally off to the Vet.

He had a good fiddle - don't be rude, and gave us the verdict we had been trying very hard to ignore. We had all but convinced ourselves that the problem was the quality of the pain meds we bought online, instead of the stuff from the Vets because it was just so much cheaper. Steve was ready to have it tested to see what was in it. Yep we wanted to blame something, anything.

But it seems pretty clear that by just being herself, her leg has failed. Bugger indeed!

Next Thursday will be the start of a new life for our girl.

The operation fills me with an appalling deja vu. And I am aware that she will be in terrible pain afterwards. We need to get out heads around how we are gonna manage post surgery, because at the moment she is self moderating, well as much as a running chasing anything and everything dog can be. But after the surgery we are gonna have to set the rules and the limits and I am pretty sure that the willfulness of her is gonna prove to be problematic.

Mark the Vet, said she should be confined in a tiny room, and that would mean the downstairs bathroom, but I just can't see isolating her from her family. She would not do well not being where we are. We see that she needs to be contained and so we are gonna try to tether her to the dining table so she can be with us. Her bed can be right there too and her water and food bowl. Mark the Vet said we will need to put her on the lead to take her out for pees and poos, which she will not like cos you, know she's almost human and does enjoy a modicum of privacy when shitting.

But the biggest problem will be when we disappear up to bed. 

She will not be best pleased to be left on her own downstairs, but even if we managed to carry her up to bed - a squirming 28 kgs would be a challenge,  I couldn't trust that she will stay there. I can already hear her running down the stairs to chase a whatever, in the park. It might be that the couch will call us for a while anyway.

She will of course be sedated for the first little while, but as her leg improves, so too will her determination strengthen. She is a willful, strong minded, single minded, too often bloody minded Dog. Don't know where she learnt all that.  6 weeks of sedate, in house slothing about, will be a struggle for all of us.

I hope she forgives us. 



Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Marriage



Do you know what? I can't see any reason at all why people get married. There, I said it out loud, well at least in this sized font.

Oh sure I got married once back in the dim dark ages. I chose to and so I did it. Certainly not for any religious reasons, even though it all happened in a church, with Father Fred waving about incense and blessing the rings and all that and people singing hymns and kneeling, all the while I was wondering if my, soon to be Father-in- law was gonna pull out a riffle and shoot me dead, and if my nearly husband had remembered to take the price stickers off his new shoes.

Yep it was all an excellent excuse to get on the piss and here's the real reason why I bothered, it was the only way my father would have countenanced me moving in with a fella. I was a child bride, only 19, and I couldn't see any other way of playing house, so I donned the white frock and the Ophelia headdress and trotted on down that aisle.

But well it didn't work out, and who could say they are surprised about that? 19 years old for fuck sake! Wilful and  naive. Perhaps the government should just stick it's fucking nose in there and say NO to any marriage if the participants are younger than say, 25 or have an IQ less than their shoe size, or if there is a family history of instability and divorce, or if the folk are too fat of too thin or too ugly or if there is inequality in the attractive quotient.

Or maybe the government should just butt the fuck out of marriage altogether.

I just don't see how the fuck it is anybody's business if 2 people want to get married. Oh sure I wonder why they bother, but am happy that there are lots of strange and bizarre reasons that push folk into the wearing of the rings. Yeh it's hopefully a more considered choice than white or dark chocolate but still, shouldn't it be a choice open to us all?

And how the fuck does someone else's marriage impact on anyone else, unless it's the bunny boiler crazy cow who wants to slice up the white dress and replace the bride's face with her own, or maybe there is some financial cut throat thing going on between the 4th spouse and the children from the second marriage, but all up, it impacts on ME, not at all, not one tiny teeny weeny bit. I just don't give a shit.

Oh sure I like to be invited and weddings are usually good for a bit of a knees up and a glass of bubbles, so don't think I want to ban 'em, just cos I don't really get it. Go your hardest I reckon, so long as everyone can go at it. And nah, I don't care if you marry a man or a woman or two men and and an elephant. If you fancy splitting up all your stuff with whoever if things don't work out, go for it - yeh Ok that's cynical even for me, but you get the idea.

I just don't get why Gay Marriage is such a divisive subject. And everyone has an opinion, but the loudest shouting is coming from the people who are against it and I just don't see how they figure it's their business. How can what a couple of fellas, or a couple of gals, who these objectors have never met, how can what these folk do impact on the objectors at all?  Perhaps it'd be different if Gay Marriages went hand in hand with painting your house bilious yellow or any rainbow combo - nah it wouldn't, it just wouldn't matter at all. I just wonder what the objectors' are fearful of? I wonder how they think that a lawful agreement between 2 people they don't know, is gonna impact on them.

I am easily irritated. Bully car drivers, arrogant doctors, useless waste of space road workers, and now politicians who just refuse to say what they think and where they stand on a very simple issue.

I have asked my Federal member Steven Ciobo directly 3 times where he stands and the political mumbo jumbo`replies just gives me the shits. The latest is he reckons he 'will honour the views of his electorate' but so far he is not forthcoming with how he is gathering that information and what that view is and what he's gonna do if that view is contrary to the Party line. All just political spin for 'mind your own fucking business'. Oh Dear! How much is this sort of representation costing us?

How much is this whole unnecessary tooing and froing costing us? I liked Magda Szubanski suggestion that we just take all the cash funding this debate and roll it right over to Aged Care and make the semantic adjustment and get on with things.

All this horse shit just makes Australians look like idiots.

Come on Canberra, pull your fucking finger out.