Shit Happens - Colonoscopy (A Passage Less Photographed)

Aaah, the Colonoscopy.  Such a common procedure but if you’ve had to endure one, you will understand my angst.  The procedure itself is not as painful as it may sound…it’s the days and hours leading up to the procedure that curls toes and makes the sphincter clench involuntarily.

This simple but invasive procedure, the colonoscopy, is a photo-shoot in your waste management system.  This is usually necessary if you’ve had some additional hues or spatter pattern changes to your rectal expulsion.  Another reason for this spectacular filming of brown landscape is a history of disease located in the waste chute.

Armed with the necessary equipment (multiple sachets) and an instruction sheet, I was sent home to plan the most uncomfortable hours leading up to the procedure.  My actual appointment was mid-afternoon on a Friday.  This meant that the internal wash must begin on the Tuesday when the food ingested changed dramatically from the gastronomical delights I usually bring to the table to a boring and tasteless journey that made my upper lip twerk in an Elvis-esque manner.  “Thankyouverymuch”.  Devoid of colour, fibre and flavour; my senses were offended from the get go.  Unfortunately, clear fluids did not include wine – alcohol was off the list.  Boo!

Then, the special laxative drinks came into play the day before the invasion.  Oh my L-o-r-d!  I was advised by the Specialist to take this day off, as I would be frequently hosing the porcelain and must not venture far from the throne.  What an understatement!  The first little sachet was like an appetiser for the bowel.  Designed to stimulate the expulsion gently, I held my breath and sculled this first drink followed by a clear lemonade chaser.  Shudder.  Nothing happened.  I remained near the toilet for a full hour with absolutely no response.  That’s probably because I had been starving myself for days and there was NOTHING IN MY BOWEL TO SHIT!  An hour later I made up the first sachet of Picoprep and placed it in the refrigerator to chill (apparently it’s easier to ingest if chilled…no it aint!).  I commenced the consumption of this vile fluid, a glass at a time (the instruction sheet advised to consume it all within an hour but not in one go).  Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick.  This stuff was HORRENDOUS!  I managed to down the first glass, followed by some heavy retching over the sink, but managed to keep it down.  My bottom jaw is shuddering and my mouth is filling with saliva at the memory of this revolting solution.  I waited a full half an hour and still got no response from my lazy bowel.  Grrrr, annoying shitless tube!

Never one to remain idle, I decided to climb a ladder and mend the curtains.  We have high ceilings and so the windows are also high – and it was as I was on the top rung of the ladder getting all up in the curtain’s business when my stomach made a slight lurch.  I froze for a nano-second before it became quite clear that a mass exodus of some description was imminent.  I went from standing on that top rung of the ladder to the floor in one graceful fluid leap, miraculously not blowing a hole in my pants or spray painting the back of them on that short leap; and with my butt cheeks clenched as taught as a fish's arse, propelled myself down the hall and managed to make it to the commode in time pour my guts into the toilet.  I will mention at this point that the painful cramping and cold sweats that I was expecting were absent but the fluid was expelled at great speed, sounding much like a member of the equine class was urinating in the bowl.  Once empty, usual functionality was restored until twenty minutes later I had to have the second glass of that vile fluid.  Pinching my nose, I downed the fluid as fast as I could but vomited half of it back into the glass.  The retching continued for a few minutes before I gingerly walked to the couch and collapsed into it, fighting the shuddering jaw and urge to purge, my stomach lurching about behind my ribs.

I managed to restore my breathing to its usual rhythm before I was forced to sprint again to the toilet as fluid burst forth from my backside at an alarming rate.  Oh Dear God, I had only consumed two thirds of the first sachet – I still had to finish this lot and then go another whole round the following day.   It was at this point that I started to talk to myself out loud, to mentally slap myself on the back and tell myself that I could DO this.  Enter The Captain.

A HUGE smile adorned his face as he asked me how the ‘cleansing’ was going.  I groaned and mumbled something about the vile liquid.  He energetically blurted “Isn’t it great?  You’re so lucky.  I love the clean out.  I wish I could do it once a month”.  I looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses.  Who would want to do this to themselves on purpose?  He is a special kind of unit.  He watched with a smile on his face as I downed the last of the first sachet, throwing half of it back up as I had the previous one.  He was taking great pleasure in my discomfort.  The retching was interrupted by the need to pee through my backside again so I hiccupped and belched in a most unladylike fashion as I briskly rushed to the latrine.  Blow it out your arse you say?  I say ‘pour it out your arse’.  Oh, I felt so wretched.  It’s always rather disconcerting to purge into the loo then turn around to find only clear liquid in it.  The brain does not compute!

Finally it was over for the day and I drank water for the remainder of the day to keep my fluids up but thankfully, had no more runny bum… for now.  I went to bed early, reserving my strength for the onslaught the following day.

I was allowed a glass of water on the morning of the arse fisting as long as it was before 9am.  After that, the consumption of sachet two and expulsion of all things fluid were the rest of my day.  I was finding it more and more difficult to down the liquid shit-inducer and by the last one, hurled the whole lot back up into the sink.  I am reasonably sure my arsehole actually made it half way up my oesophagus.  It’s okay, within ten minutes it was hanging back out of my arse again as I race-horse pissed whatever fluid I had left in my body back out.  I was surprised to note that the top of my head actually hadn’t collapsed, as I had expected.

I hadn’t eaten in two days but surprisingly, was not hungry but I had the mother of all headaches caused by dehydration.  I couldn’t wait to come back out the other side of this so I could suck a tap dry and float my cerebrum in some fluid again.

A few hours later The Captain dropped me off at the surgery and wished me well.  He still had that sinister smile on his face but he had been in these shoes before and so I had no recourse.

I was taken into a room, handed a monstrously large paper bag with my name on it and a gown and some very sexy white knee highs (compression stockings?) and a pair of what looked like blue shower caps for my feet.    Woah!  Don’t let The Captain spy me in this get-up, he would most likely lose all control and just take me in the waiting room.  There were two other people in the waiting room with the same attire.  I lost myself in my novel until the nurse called my name.  They took my blood pressure, asked me a series of questions in which I was expected to describe the colour and consistency of my shit during the past few weeks and then sent me back out to the waiting room. 

Careful to keep my gown closed, I spied the girl opposite stifling a giggle.  I’m not sure if she was embarrassed to be sitting there nude with nothing but a gown on, if she’d spied my sexy get-up or if she had already had a toke on the gas; but she was bopping up and down like a loon and giggling like a little girl.  Jesus, I felt like I was in the nut house and damned if my stupid mouth didn’t quirk up at the sides and smile right back at her.   The old man on the other side of the room also had a big-arsed grin on his face.  I wanted in on the joke!  The nurse called my name and I was ushered down the corridor and into the room where I was asked to climb up onto the bed.  If I was 6ft 3 this would be fine but I’m 5ft nothing and the bed came up to my tits.  Jesus!  I took an almighty leap and gave the room full or nursing staff a twisted smile of another kind but missed my mark and almost tore myself a new one as one cheek gripped the bed but the other slid off.  The bed bounced into the nurse’s stomach and she quickly stamped her foot onto something at the base (the brake perhaps?) to stop the bed from rolling.  The male nurse came over and lowered the bed so I could climb up without exercising the vertical splits.  They rolled me on my side with my bare arse pressed up against the side of the bed and the anaesthetist inserted the cannula into my wrist.  I felt something cold and blinked and then my eyes focused on the nurse's face before me.

“How do you feel?” she queried.  I feel great, thanks.  Hey wait, are we in a different room?  Where did everybody go,  I was wondering.

 “The Doctor will be in to see you shortly to discuss her findings.  While you wait, would you like a cup of tea and something to eat?”.  Wait, what?  It’s over?  When the fuck did that happen?  Like a small animal distracted by something shiny, I felt my stomach rumble and decided I could absolutely murder a sandwich
.

The Gastroenterologist came and explained her findings blurting out “it’s not cancer!” excitedly.   We were all so very worried that my diagnosis was going to be grim and whatever else followed was just blah, blah blah.  She made an appointment on the spot for me to meet her in a fortnight in her rooms to discuss treatment.  At this point I was levitating above the bed and weak with joy (and lack of food).

The sandwiches and tea arrived.  The bouquet coming off that small little plate of quartered sandwiches on white bread with mustard, ham, cheese and tomatoes was intoxicating and the most delightful thing to touch my lips in five days.  I savoured every mouthful and inhaled every morsel.  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and saw the giggle-pot sitting in a seat near my bed with a stupid grin still plastered to her face.  She abruptly started commenting on the sandwiches and I wondered if she was waiting for the special blue bus to collect her and take her away to a special place where she could lick the windows in ecstasy.  The nurse collected my empty tea cup and spotless plate and offered to call the Captain to collect me and take me home.

All the way home I dreamily planned what I would eat for dinner.  Captain Fantastic asked if I had received the ‘all clear’.  I happily announced,  “Well it’s not cancer so I'm really happy.”  He looked perplexed, “Of course not”, like the thought had never entered his head.  She told me of the condition but I could not recollect the name let alone what it was.  I would tackle that one in a fortnight when I saw her next.

Now, I have a terrible habit of wishing ill upon people who shit me.  Nothing life threatening, of course, just a little discomfort for the rest of their lives.  I have been known to wish a severe case of knob-rot  to assail the genitals of child molesters or gonorrhoea of the throat afflict rapists.  Paedophiles, rapists, wife beaters, child abusers and those who are cruel to animals receive my harshest ill-wishes.  For people who shit me in the traffic, or just generally piss me off,  I wish them a disease in the arse.  I don’t recall how this all came about but as long as I can remember, I have been quietly casting spells and  ill-wishes on arseholes.  Imagine my surprise when I was diagnosed by the Gastroenterologist with Ulcerative Colitis – a disease in the arse.  How the hell did this happen?  It turns out this isn’t just some inflammation that can be ‘dealt with’, it’s an ongoing disease that requires the intake of six tablets daily for the rest of my life.  Buggar!  It’s not Cancer, and for that I am eternally grateful, but as I look to the future and see the vast expanse of my years containing multiple colonoscopies and that vile horse-pissing arse-purge inducing liquid, I feel a desperate fear for my state of mental health.

Colonoscopies shit me!

Doona

Shit Happens – Getting Burned is a Bitch

Being olive skinned has its benefits.  I don’t usually look pasty in winter – I retain my healthy glow all year around; I get a really good tan very easily in summer and I very rarely burn.  As a matter of fact I could probably count on one hand the number of times I have been sunburned and it hasn’t gone brown overnight.  This equates to an unexpected pain induced horror fest that continues for up to a week after the fact and gets meaner and uglier every day during that period.  Let me relay my recent experience.

Day 1

I attended the Biennial Airshow at Avalon with Boy Wonder, Sister Farrah & her two girls. After a week of gorgeous weather, the night before the event, Mother Nature decides to wreak havoc in Melbourne with gale force winds that had my hair standing vertical whilst I was sitting in my living room with a window open.  She then unleashed the mother-load of rain and had Farrah & I distressed about the carpark quagmire that awaited us at Avalon.  The forecast was for a cloudy & overcast day with a slight chance of a morning shower.  I have a message for the Bureau of Meteorology…YOU LIE!  I would have a better chance of predicting the forecast based on the bend of a hair plucked out of my arse that these pricks!  I did not pack hats or Sunscreen but big sisters think of EVERYTHING…so we slopped on some sunscreen at least, just in case.

Avalon is an airport.  There are open fields and no trees so the wind whipped up in cyclonic proportions and a hat would have been ridiculous unless you tied the thing around your throat or suction cupped it to your head (only people with a balding pate should attempt the latter).  I tightly braided my hair so I wouldn’t spend half the day getting whipped to death and consuming it.  Coughing up a fur ball is nasty business. 

Over the course of the day we watched numerous people chasing their hats – even retrieved a few for our fellow spectators and we congratulated ourselves on the no hat decision.  Now I wish I had stapled a hat to my frigging head – the sun came out and dried up all the rain and the hot wind burned the bejesus out of my head!  The wind blew against my head so much that I ended up with a furry aura surrounding my tight braid – and by the time I got home, I looked like Clive the orangutan in the movie ‘Every Which Way But Loose”.  My lips were stinging slightly and my forehead felt tight – not so bad.

Day 2

I turn on the faucets, step into the shower…and scream like a stuck pig!  Holy shit!  My forehead feels like someone has just branded it with an iron and my scalp is on fire.  My lips feel tight and sore and my eyebrows have made their presence known.  I quickly complete my ablutions, step out of the shower and ever so gently dab myself dry, emitting little ‘eeps’ and ‘oohs’ as I dabbed at my tender skin.  I then go and stand before the mirror to assess the damage.  Holy Mother of Murgatroyd!  My forehead is indeed red, so red in fact that it looks purple and makes my grey roots stand out like dog’s balls.  I solemnly declare that I will be rectifying the issue with my roots when I get home from work that afternoon and hope my boss and colleagues don’t notice the skunk like ugliness.  My eyebrows look fine but they sit atop an angry strip of ouch and my nose looks like a red beacon glowing loudly in the middle of my face.  I have a very large white area where my sunglasses sat.  My lips are dry and very sore but show no colour – they hurt enough to be purple too but remain unremarkable in colour.  I look like I have a red priest’s collar around my neck.  Where the fuck did that bit come from I wonder?  Although not really badly burned, my legs have enough colour between where my shorts ended and my socks began that I look like I am wearing red leg-warmers. I am fetching indeed.  Boy Wonder screams upstairs as the shower jets hit his burned neck (he has a burned bit of skin about a hand-span wide on the side of his neck).  I think my big boof-head shielded him most of the day.  I don’t think he will peel – his face has gone very brown.  I am very envious at this point and uncharitably mumble “lucky bastard” under my breath.

We have a staff meeting at work and everyone is in the office, nobody is absent and everybody notices.  My tight red face endures comparisons with a monkey’s arse in heat.  The woman who owns the café on the corner mentions my roots.  I smile tightly and swallow the urge to yell an expletive at her.  Back at the office I add insult to injury by giving myself a paper cut across the chin (don’t ask how – I am gifted in all things stupid – stupid is as stupid does and this stupid does it a lot).  Now I have an angry red horizontal line running across my chin – I look like a South Park character.  I kill the urge to scream ‘Kick the baby!” to my colleagues.  My day is not improving.

I cannot show any expression without hurting.  Surprise, frown, smile, laugh (just give me a reason) – they all hurt.  Applying makeup and brushing my hair makes me want scream…seeing my reflections makes me want to cry.

I exchange several text messages with my niece, who shares the same fate, and we make ourselves feel better by taking the piss out of our burned heads.  She makes me laugh and it hurts so badly that I want to slap a granny – I am feeling irrational.  Windburn turns me into a bitch.  I make it through the day without venting.

Day 3

It is like “Groundhog Day”.  Why is it still so fucking sore?  It has been days and my tolerance is limited.  Last night I nuked my scalp with hair colour to irradicate the skunk hairline and today it is burning like I set it alight.  I would not recommend allowing vanity to supersede the realms of normalcy – I should have waited…normal people would have waited.  My head is a giant ball of ouch. 

My face, eyebrows and scalp are starting to itch like a bastard but if I touch them, I scream.  I am applying Aloe Vera by the bucket load and look perpetually wet and shiny.  I really don’t want to peel but the constant itch tells me it is a given.  People around me are still verbalizing their observations, like I have no idea my face is a monkey’s arse – I’m just walking around oblivious and should be grateful that they are pointing it out.  

Boy Wonder awoke to an even darker tan and a hand span of tan on his neck.  Everyone at school asked him how the hell he got such a tan on the weekend – he’s one of the lucky ones.  I wish I had tan instead of this tight red ball of fugly.

Day 4

Finally, it doesn’t hurt anymore but the itch has stepped up to insane.  I am constantly scratching like I have an infestation of head lice and skin allergies (I just scratched my head at the mere mention of head lice…shudder).  I am deriving so much pleasure from scratching that I have the expression of a dog licking its balls with every scratch, and have to remind myself to stop scratching lest I suddenly climax at my desk.

I check my look in the mirror at lunch time and I am alarmed to see the skin on my forehead looks like dark crepe paper and when I touch it…it rustles like a dead leaf.  The skin has lifted and is wrinkled.  When did that happen?  I dare not scratch – imagine how it will look when it peels.  I look like a tribal elder – my skin dark, shriveled, leathery and mummified.  If the lid was lifted on a sarcophagus and this head was inside, no one would bat an eyelid.  My collar has gone brown but will not peel; it looks stupid.  The legwarmers won’t peel either, they too look stupid.  There are flakes in my eyebrows and I am disgusted with my appearance.

Day 5

Today I belong to the apache tribe.  I look so frigging ridiculous.  Overnight, my forehead and nose started to peel and I awoke to discover the evidence flaked all over my pillow.  I am disgusted with the dried up bits of dead skin and even though I know it is just my shedding skin, this results in my stomach roiling and my bottom jaw shudders.  

I walk into the office and immediately someone points and laughs.  The skin underneath is as pink and a new born baby’s arse and when surrounded by patches of dark brown dried up dead skin, looks hideous.  I have brown patches of skin that are not loose and will not peel and look a lot like pigmentation.  This look is fugly to the power of fugly.  My head is still itching and flaking skin is floating down all around me like dandruff.  I recall a similar situation in the 90s where my bikini line got sunburned and when it peeled, I had flakes of skin falling out from under my skirt.  This was back in the days where women sported full pubic afros so it did look a lot like I had dandruff inside my knickers.  That was wrong town.

I feel horror that this is happening to me and cannot wait for this week to end so I no longer need to endure this daily tedium.  I return home and despite all the advice about caring for burned skin, I wet a cloth and scrub the entire forehead, nose and eyebrow area; exfoliating all the dead skin away.   I am left with a very pink and glowing complexion, but no longer look like I belong in a museum.

Day 6

I enter the office to what almost seems like applause.  Everyone who has been noticing (and vocalising) the changes on the canvas of my face, see that the artwork is complete now and my head is back to resembling the bag of shit it did before I baked it silly the weekend prior.  When the Airshow returns in 2017, I will wear the headgear of a beekeeper and save myself the angst, pain and humiliation of hard baking my nut!

Doona

Shit Happens - The Middle Aged Siren

Shit Happens – The Middle Aged Siren

I am in my mid-forties and marching towards fifty.  I’m horrified by the changes in my body, no matter how hard I work at holding it all together, and concede that I am definitely losing my fight with gravity.  A far cry from the narcissist, I scream in fright if I walk past a mirror and catch a glimpse of my naked form.  I am in awe and more than a little envious of the women my age who can look in the mirror and just accept the reflection.  I am constantly shocked and surprised that it just continues to deteriorate at frightening speed.

Curves

Never accepting the label ‘curvaceous’, I have fought hard to change those curves over the years but to no avail.  Even when I have lost a decent amount of weight at one stage or another, it was still the same me running around with all of those lumps and curves, I was just a little harder to find.  And when I finally did get down to my desired weight (this has only happened on a couple of occasions), I had eaten nothing but lettuce leaves dipped in vinegar and would look longingly at a glass of wine with an unhealthy desire.  Then I got sick – my immune system shot to the shitter, taking my resolve along with it. 

Torture Classes

Spin Class:  The first spin class at the absurd hour of 6am did little to improve my body shape but it did teach me some valuable lessons in understanding the workings of an exercise bike.  Thou shalt not suddenly cease pedaling.  The very first attempt at this class had me thrown face first over the handle bars of the bike, almost tearing my mons pubis off in the process.  Face flaming, not so much from exertion as embarrassment, I caught myself just before hitting the floor and awkwardly hauled myself back over the handle bars to my seat.  The instructor asked if I was alright, drawing the attention of every person in that sweaty spin class and making me blush scarlet.  All I wanted to do was climb off the stupid contraption and go home and back to bed to start the day again. Shit!

Boot Camp: Then there were the boot camp classes that found me at 5.30am doing push-ups, burpies and commando crawling on an oval shimmering white with frost.  It was as cold as a witch’s tit out there in the dead of winter and here I was romping around in it, all in an effort to tighten my booty.  Running with 10kg weights in my hands didn’t do the ‘Boxercise’ induced shoulder injury much good either but by the time I got fed up with it, my arse was so tight and so high that I was just about getting my hair caught in the crack and getting shit stains on my collar.  Then the trainer turned out to be a fuckwit and I had to leave before I separated him from his testicles. Dick!

Gym: Back to the gym I went, continuing to do the same shit, peppering it with weights and hating every Godamned second of it.  I wasn’t losing weight and shrinking, I was turning into butch Hercules!   Getting up at the crack of a sparrow’s fart lasted for about seven consecutive years before I threw it all into the too hard basket and opted out of gym memberships.  Walking would have to suffice and I would walk at a decent time of day too.  Enough!

Pole Dancing: I seriously contemplated taking up pole dancing.  I had heard amazing things about what it does for your body.  Further investigation revealed that I would be required to turn up to these classes in high heels and hot pants.  Imagining my hail damaged fat arse squeezed into tight little hot pants with my thunder thighs squished out the bottom made me laugh so hard it resulted in an asthma attack.   Then I imagined hauling this fat arse up a pole and trying to slide down, my thighs gripping the pole; vibrating & shaking all the way down and tearing myself a new one in the process.  Or worst still, hanging upside down seductively then losing my grip and landing on my head.  I have the grace and aplomb of a baby hippopotamus on ice skates and couldn’t imagine putting myself through the class without actually dying of embarrassment.  Nope

Gravity

Boobs: Everything is heading south at an alarming rate.  My breast tissue has lost all elasticity and I have to pour them into my bra where they look amazing until I come home and rip the annoying restraint off and sling-shot it across the room, letting the prisoners run free.  There is almost an audible ‘slap’ as they flop against my body, swinging pendulously.  My raging hormones are making the bloody things get larger which is making the whole gravity issue fast forward at a rate that’s off the radar.  The last time I walked into a lingerie shop to purchase a new sports bra (I had been doing some floor exercises and as I lifted my pelvis off the floor, one of my tits hit me in the chin and almost made it to my mouth – time for a new bra), the attendant took the DDs I had taken into the cubicle with me and said “I think you’re an E cup now”.   “The Hell I am!” I bellowed at her, my face thunderous in my denial.  She patted my shoulder and condescendingly said “it happens to the best of us, we just have to accept our changing bodies”.  She was, like, twenty two years old and a B cup, if that.  Fuck off with your sage advice, bitch - surviving puberty does not equate to a mutual hormonal experience.  I marched right out of that store and went to another where I was given the same advice, but coming from a woman in her fifties in the throes of a hot flush, it wasn’t such a bitter pill to swallow.  I am not looking forward to menopause – the very thought scares the shit out of me. Aarrgghh!

Bum: My arse, despite my best efforts, is starting to droop and I can see it sagging in the back of my knickers.  Even my sexiest lingerie now looks like a sack of shit on me.  I’ve lost all interest in trying to look sexy.  At my age, I just want to be comfortable and not have four boobs or have my knickers disappear up my arse.  The backs of all my bras are at least eight centimeters wide and my knickers have to have a wide boat arse in them.  None of that ‘cheeky’ cut knickers business – they just go straight up my arse and feel like I’m wearing a thong and I am opposed to wearing bum floss.  I don’t relish spending the whole day with my fingers up my arse digging them back out again.  The Captain once asked why I have to wear bras with such horribly large and unsexy backs on them.  He doesn’t understand the gravity thing.  He bought me lingerie once and it was a total fail.  It had a one centimeter thin strap across the back, which spent most of its time up the back of my neck caught in my hair with the weight of my tits, and thin spaghetti straps which dug into my shoulders painfully.  The knickers were the kind that would look gorgeous on a Victoria’s Secret model but which made me look like an ethnic Michelin Man with a tan.   Unsexy has become my bedroom attire.  We've been doing this for a very long time husband, I'm a sure thing!  I have actually started wearing a thin cotton thing, which I bought in Thailand to throw over bathers, to bed and it looks alarmingly like a ninety year old woman’s nighty.  As unsexy as it is, it is hella comfortable!  Passion Killer.

Wrinkles

Laugh lines my arse – my face looks OLD!  Where did these crow’s feet come from?  I could give Crocodile Dundee a run for his money with this face.  I recently had my ten year Driver’s License photo taken and was horrified to see that my whole face has dropped.  What the fuck happened?  Ten years ago I had a small tight triangular face, now I’ve got a giant misshapen rectangle.  I’ve got jowls… JOWLS!!! If I dare to look down, I’ve got about 25 chins and did I mention that I’ve got JOWLS!  I flex my hand and the veins stand up on the backs of my hands like giant worms under my skin; I twist my wrist and the skin on my forearm wrinkles and Chinese burns itself, I smile and I my eyes crinkle; I frown and my forehead furrows; I look concerned and I get a second vagina between my eyebrows; I get up in the morning and there is a giant crease between my tits which goes all the way up to my throat… it’s still there at 10am; I squeeze my arse and get…. just dimples – it doesn’t wrinkle because THE SKIN IS STRETCHED TIGHT OVER ITS AMPLE FORM!

Younger Me

When I was in my twenties, I assumed you bought a plot of land when you reached forty as you were destined to meet your maker in a few short years.  Now that I’m here, I would dearly love to go back in time and shake the living shit out of that stupid twenty year old idiot.  I would tell her to stop smoking because she will regret the cat’s arse her mouth becomes in the future; I would tell her to stop hating on her body because even though she’s not a stick insect, she is lean, firm, young, fit and strong.  I would tell her to embrace her large Latino arse because in the future, huge horse arses would be highly sought after and one celebrity, who had hers augmented to look like Pharlap’s booty, would take photos of her oiled up giant arse and break the internet and another would write a song stating that anaconda’s really like butts of an equine likeness; I would tell her to enjoy her C cup bras as she’s going to reach udder status in her later years; I would tell her to wear all the beautiful sexy lingerie she can now because she’s going to look like a Shetland pony in the future and lose all desire to wear it because it hurts and looks really shit; and I would tell her to learn to love herself now so she wouldn’t be so hard on herself in the future when it really counted…when gravity and age ravage it and make it look ick.  Turn all the lights out!

 Doona

Shit Happens - Stupid Annoying Spiders

Today is Friday 13^th.  Today the spawn of Satan flew through my window and landed on my lap with a plop.  A big, fat, juicy, hairy eight legged fiend.  Today I was reminded that I really don’t like spiders.  I have had therapy for my spider phobia and I really thought I had combatted the worst of it.  I even became fascinated by them and their amazing abilities but with Funnel Web spiders constantly inhabiting the windows in my bedroom and ‘quick as lightening’ White Tail spiders falling off the light fittings in the kitchen onto my head, I feel that my phobia has come full circle again. 

Not a great start to Friday 13^th.  I’m not usually superstitious but come on!  I was driving to work and decided to wind the window down to feel a little summer breeze on my face and in my hair.  The temperature was a pleasant 20°C, on its way up to a top of 34°C.  I pulled up at the lights and was patiently waiting for them to change when out of the corner of my eye I spied movement…something large by the look of it.  Then the mother of all Huntsman spiders plopped onto my lap and I completely flipped out.  Instead of screaming like a normal human, I took my hands off the wheel and flapped about, making squeaky  “ Eeeeeeeek!” noises like a complete girl.  This HUGE fucker was just sitting there, enjoying the comfort of my lap.  I involuntarily started pushing my feet on the floor & brake pedal so hard that I was almost planking in the front seat.  Spooked by the hardening of my thighs, the spider crawled up my lap, over my stomach and over my arm at great speed.  Still sitting at the lights, I had a completely spastic fit and during the fit, the spider flicked up under the rain guard over my side window, shooting webs all over my arm and the side of my face.  My ‘Eeeeeeeh” was starting to sound like the wail of a siren to my own ears.  I didn’t want Mr Spider to die – I just wanted him outside of my car and away from me.  Hands shaking, I very slowly (didn’t want to spook the fucker again) moved my hand to the automatic window winder button … and I wound the window up.  The window went up with the speed of a sloth and the spider started to back up, but not quickly enough and three of its legs got caught in the window.   The spider sat there for a moment and then it started having its own fit.  This was like being in some horror movie, my horrified expression certainly resembled ‘Ghostface’  – it was so close to my face and my brain would not acknowledge the glass between us.  I was now squealing like a stuck pig inside my car and shaking violently like a Chihuahua with pneumonia.  To my horror, it then tore off its own legs (probably got frightened by my hideous face screaming at it in the window) and amazingly, I apologised to it in the same squealing voice I had used to scream at it.  I had gone completely mental!   Anyone looking at my car from the outside would have thought I was perhaps having exciting sex in it, such was the bouncing movement and squeals coming from within.  Unfortunately, I was alone and not enjoying the moment.  The lights turned green and I reluctantly drove on.  Spidey learned to fly.

Only a couple of months ago, I was cleaning the windows in my bedroom when I spied the tell-tale signs of a funnel web in the corner of my double hung sash window.  I rattled the window a little and out came the long, shiny front legs.  Eeeeek!  I ran for sixteen year old Miss Marvellous, who fears NOTHING, and asked her to come with me whilst I killed it.  This doesn’t sit well with her as she’d rather we didn’t kill it – but I was adamant.  So the window I had just cleaned was now white with a film of spray; the web decorated with white drops when out climbs a four centimetre evil looking, shiny maker of nightmares and just walks around like I hadn’t drowned it in spray.  These hardy bastards are hard to kill and take way too long to even LOOK affected by the spray.  I emptied another half a can on it for good measure, muttering to myself about my desire to nuke the fucker.  Then it stretches all of its legs so it almost doubles in length and I start backing out of the room, my hands wrapped around my daughter’s arm.  Miss Marvellous gives me ‘are you serious’ face, glares down at my hands strangling her upper arm and back at my face.   “Really?  And you’re how old?”  Fuck off, I’m freaking out!  The spider started walking in jerking movements and then fell off the window sill and plopped onto the floor.  I was torn between wanting to jump into my daughter’s arms and climb on top of her head to safety.  I then said “Ooh, it’s dying.  I’m sorry spidey” and she looked at me like I was completely bipolar.  It took about fifteen minutes to die and about two hours for the Heebee Jeebees to leave my body.  I still made Miss Marvellous scoop it up and put it in the bin – just in case it was pretending  to be dead. We usually don’t kill spiders in our house but White Tails and Funnel Webs are the exception to the rule because I’m petrified of them; but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel remorse.

   

Another memorable occasion prior to that was about six years ago and long before the renovation.  I was standing at the kitchen bench when I felt something drop onto my head.   I put my hand up, expecting to feel a drop of water but something moved.  So of course I started break dancing and stutter rapping all over the kitchen until the spider ran down my face and onto the bench.  Seeing it was a White Tail, I yipped like a kicked puppy and ran out of the room, arms flailing above my head like ET, to see the startled look on Boy Wonder’s face.  Yes, Mother has completely lost her marbles!  He asked what was wrong and I replied that I saw something scary.  Then the fucking terrorist crawled up over the bench and dropped onto the floor and started running as fast as its eight legs could carry it across the floor.  I leapt onto my son’s lap and told him to pull his feet up.  He looked at me like I has just stepped off a space ship.  To be truthful, I would rather have been surrounded by aliens probing every orifice with all manner of instruments than dealing with this little beastie on my living room floor.  Finally deciding to be an adult about it, I went into the kitchen, giving the little fiend a wide berth, and came back with a can of Mortein.  I sprayed the little creature, running after it with the spray, leaving a trail of white across my floor.  I then went to join my son on the couch until it had shrivelled sufficiently for me to relax.  Unfortunately, on my way back to the couch, I slipped over in the meters of slippery spray on the floor and landed like with a “Kurumph”;  the sound startlingly reminiscent of thunder, my face inches from the irate spider who had reared up and was in attack position.  I must have teleported into the kitchen because I don’t remember getting there, I just materialised before the sink.  Like the mature adult that I am, I climbed up onto the kitchen bench and sat rocking against the splashback, trying to calm my frazzled nerves.  My son was warily watching me, mirth crimping his eyes.  Little shit.  Well I am glad I can provide entertainment for my children, if nothing else.

Today’s little visitor in the car has left me with the stiffness of a pulled muscle in the shoulder and every other muscle in my body quivering like I’ve just left an aerobics tournament.   I keep shaking and shuddering all over and just a moment ago, a hair fell out of my head onto my foot and I almost performed a backflip in the office – my spidey senses are tingling.  Shudder - spiders shit me!

Shit Happens - Learning to Drive

Having recently turned sixteen, Miss Marvellous went about sitting the test for her Learner’s Permit, which she successfully obtained, of course.  Unfortunately, acquiring it so close to Christmas, both the Captain and I were exceedingly busy and unable to take her out on her first lesson so it was decided that we would wait until our arrival at our holiday destination in Bright; located in the Alpine region of Victoria.  As it turns out, this was a great decision as the surrounding towns have quiet backstreets, rural roads, rural highways and lots of quiet neighbourhoods for her to learn.

Take into account that Miss Marvellous has only sat in the driver’s seat of a car with an instructor and two other students for mere minutes, at a school arranged ‘Driving Education’ excursion.  There was silence in the backseat as the girls gripped their armrests in fear when Miss Marvellous accelerated and braked abruptly.  The Instructor stated with a grim smile "the speed that thrills is the speed that kills".  She returned home from this experience to relay that she was sure the other students and the instructor had mild whiplash due to the seconds spent in the car with her at the wheel.  This encounter had amounted to nigh on nil experience.

The Captain announced decisively one morning that it was time for Miss Marvellous to commence her learning.  Instead of driving Miss Marvellous to a quiet street to get acquainted with the car; with steering, braking, accelerating, the location of the instruments etc, The Captain, in his infinite wisdom, chose to tell her the basics (check your seat position, the angle of the mirrors, remove the handbrake, indicate and check for cars etc) and directed her to drive out of the caravan car park straight out onto a rural main road with a speed limit of 100km/hr.  The poor girl over-steered the car into some bushes, accelerated too slowly for such a big road with a high speed limit and as she braked to negotiate the roundabout at the end of the road, didn’t quite brake fast enough which had The Captain exclaiming “brake!” as he grasped the Jesus bar above his door. He directed her to return back to the caravan park again.  When they walked in, Miss Marvellous announced that she had tried to kill them both and The Captain, with his hand on his erratically beating heart mumbled that he had quite a fright as she didn’t brake early enough.  Well, derr, that would be the ‘no experience’ part coming into play.  Upon hearing where he had directed her, I almost spat my coffee across the table.  I was horrified that this had been her first experience and said as much.  The Captain executed an eye roll worthy of an exasperated teenager and condescendingly asked “Well, where would you have taken her then?”  I  commented that I would probably have taken her to the quiet backstreets of the town nearby and let her get used to steering, accelerating and braking first before I threw her to the wolves!  The Captain reluctantly agreed that in hindsight, this would have been a better introduction to driving.  You think?

The following day he did just that; taking her to a quiet country road to allow her to become accustomed to accelerating and braking and knowing when to start braking etc.  I announced that I would take the next lesson.  I asked Miss Marvellous where her father had taken her and took her to the same place.  She drove up and down the road, stopping and indicating and turning around.  She was driving really well so I swapped seats and drove to a nearby new estate with a court and driveways but no houses were built just yet.  Here I taught her to negotiate turning around in a driveway, how to hug the curb when turning tightly in a court and then I took her back to that road for another trip up and down. 

The Captain took her the following day to another country road but this one had the odd car go up and down and was good experience with sharing the road and negotiating a single lane bridge.  The day after that I took her again and this time after a trip up and down both of the roads her father had taken her on,  I asked her if she would like to drive home and she did!  Having the confidence of controlling the car she entered streets with traffic and did a sterling job of not freaking out; I noted she had loosened her ‘death grip’ on the steering wheel – an excellent indication of her how far her confidence had progressed.  The only negative was that my legs were sore from pushing them hard into the floor on my side as I braked and accelerated for her and I’m reasonably sure my pelvic floor muscles got a decent workout too.  It’s quite frightening being on the other side and calmly issuing directives with absolutely no control over the vehicle.  .

I was really hoping it would be quite a while before we encountered the arseholes who are completely intolerant of new drivers but unfortunately, our first one came on her sixth day out.  This time I had mapped out a route for her with included main roads and small stints on the highways and then the back roads etc which we completed in a loop.  On one of our trips around, and as Miss Marvellous was waiting on the main road to turn right into a back street, a cantankerous old bastard pulled right up her arse and sat on the horn.  I was so angry with him; horrified actually that the stupid old prick would terrorise a young person learning to drive.  I waited for him to slowly drive past, still sitting on the horn and glaring at us, then I put my head out of the window (almost to the waist I might add) and screamed on top of my voice “She’s a LEARNER!!!!”.  The stupid old fart continued to slowly pass with his wrinkled old mouth puckered up so I curled a lip Billy Idol style and gave him the two fisted bump together ‘get fucked’ gesture from the TV sitcom ‘Friends’.  What I really wanted to do was to get out of the car and bash the fucker to death with whatever was handy…a stick, a pole…his WIFE!  Stupid old prick.  If I had a voodoo doll handy it would have had about sixty pins sticking out of it’s arse a few in it’s throat for good measure.  Such is the fury of a protective mother.

Miss Marvellous continued to wait patiently for a gazillion cars to go by then turned carefully into the street.  Trying desperately to get my rage under control, I started to babble about everything and nothing, attempting to quell my indignant ire until we were safely at the new estate where I asked Miss Marvellous to pull over.  I then exited the vehicle and commenced to heavy breathe and execute moves like Peter Garrett in his ‘Midnight Oil’ days to calm myself enough to climb back in the car and continue calmly with the lesson.  I asked Miss Marvellous if she would like to stop and go home or do another loop and the trooper that she is, she opted to go again…right back out onto that road.

By the time we made it home I was battling a rage induced migraine headache, which took 5km of fast pace walking and about seven text messages to dispel.  I continue to have grand ideas about how Karma would repay the old bastard’s behaviour in spades.

Doona