I had a fabulous weekend. Spring is in the air, and I am always surprised when it arrives and my mood lifts and I remember that I'm not actually the grumpy bitch I am all winter - I do actually have a personality.
On Friday I had strawberry daquiris with The BFF. It was an especially good afternoon I thought. I haven't seen him for ages because he's been useless, basically, and tends to get caught up in his own misery, to the point that he forgets to look around and see all the good stuff he has, right here and now. We had a good catch-up, though, and I hope he remembers the resounding theme of it all - that he does actually deserve to be happy.
During the course of our cocktail session he brought up the programme Mythbusters, and was telling me about one they did to show that if you drop a Mentos in a coke bottle, it explodes. Of course I spent the rest of the time gently coaxing him (i.e. vociferously persuading him) that we must try this theory out. He kept telling me he had no desire to blow off one of his arms just to satisfy my lust for dangerous experiments.
Needless to say, we stopped in at the 7-eleven (I needed bread!) on our way home, and using my winning smile and never-ending charm, I persuaded The BFF to buy Coke and a roll of Mentos - it was a sign, the Mentos were in the passage on the way to the till! In a quiet cul-de-sac, our adrenaline pumping in anticipation, with me nice and far away from the test site (I don't want to lose an arm) The BFF bravely placed the bottle of Coke in the middle of the road, dropped a Mentos in and rushed back to me. I'd like to say he rushed back to protect me, but his standing behind me would negate that idea completely.
We waited with bated breath. The Coke fizzed, bubbling over disconsolately onto the tar, and stopped. We looked. And waited same more. Nada. A Coke bottle surrounded by a small puddle of Coke. Some experiment that was. The adrenaline popped, causing uncontrollable giggling, despite the disappointment of it all. Subsequent reasearch has brought to light that one needs to put the lid back on to cause a build up of pressure. It's probably lucky that we were not bright enough to realise this (really rather obvious) point as I might instead be writing about how to remove Coke bottle shrapnel from your shins...
The rest of the weekend was filled with lovely people and lovely things including Lindt hot chocolate, a drink straight from a natural spring, a long drive, two princesses-who-became-sleeping-beauties-who-became-nudists all in the space of Sunday lunch and the overwhelming feeling of the promise of new things with Spring.
Who doesn't feel like skipping about singing with the first whiff of Spring?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A mammogram and an experiment
I went for my routine mammogram this morning. While my parents blessed me with some great genes, the one that isn’t so great is the breast cancer gene. My mother had it in her early forties, I was about 10 years old at the time, and remember my father explaining to us that she was in hospital having an op that would save her life. The stress was palpable, even to a 10 year old. I had no idea then, though, what an awful time she had. Thank god she’s been clear since. My paternal grandmother had it too. Therefore my being very vigilant.
Mammograms, though, are not for the faint-hearted. I don’t, under any circumstances, want to put anyone off, but really, one would think that in this day and age of being able to speak to (and see) someone 14 000 miles away, across an ocean, some time zones, and a couple of weather systems, we would have developed something that allowed us to see our breast tissue without having to pull them as if they’re plasticine (for those of you who don’t know, they’re not!) and flatten them like pancakes between two hard pieces of plastic. For us who are, ahem, not-so-well-endowed, this is an especially trying process.
The funniest thing, though, was the Waiting Room, which was not unlike somebody’s lounge. Admittedly, somebody with fairly poor decorating style, but still – large couches, coffee tables with magazines etc. No YOU magazines though. What kind of doctor’s rooms doesn’t have YOU magazine? Tsk. I digress, the funny thing – there was a large TV sitting very loudly in the corner, set on the movie channel which had reached the end of an epic 9/11 movie and was playing tragic music. Very loudly. In a doctor’s rooms. I am here to tell you that pre-mammogram, tragic music is not ideal.
In other news, I’m conducting an experiment (possibly as a result of too-early waking – my mind wanders at 4:30am). If you were a chocolate cupcake, and could be eaten by anyone in the world, who would it be?
Mammograms, though, are not for the faint-hearted. I don’t, under any circumstances, want to put anyone off, but really, one would think that in this day and age of being able to speak to (and see) someone 14 000 miles away, across an ocean, some time zones, and a couple of weather systems, we would have developed something that allowed us to see our breast tissue without having to pull them as if they’re plasticine (for those of you who don’t know, they’re not!) and flatten them like pancakes between two hard pieces of plastic. For us who are, ahem, not-so-well-endowed, this is an especially trying process.
The funniest thing, though, was the Waiting Room, which was not unlike somebody’s lounge. Admittedly, somebody with fairly poor decorating style, but still – large couches, coffee tables with magazines etc. No YOU magazines though. What kind of doctor’s rooms doesn’t have YOU magazine? Tsk. I digress, the funny thing – there was a large TV sitting very loudly in the corner, set on the movie channel which had reached the end of an epic 9/11 movie and was playing tragic music. Very loudly. In a doctor’s rooms. I am here to tell you that pre-mammogram, tragic music is not ideal.
In other news, I’m conducting an experiment (possibly as a result of too-early waking – my mind wanders at 4:30am). If you were a chocolate cupcake, and could be eaten by anyone in the world, who would it be?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Tragedy, Part 2
So where was I? I started Part 1 and then found myself clamming up again, but I am going to open up my little clammy shell with my little clammy-shell-opener-thingy. It's not an easy thing to do I'm afraid, it's a bloody tight little clammy shell, but I think it's a good thing to do, hopefully cathartic, and hopefully not too tedious for any of you reading this. It's a disjointed story, the story of The Tragedy, mostly because I've never managed to write it down or sort it into any order. Maybe because it has no order.
This bit is about the hospital, I think. I plan on it being about the hospital but you never know where it'll go. Being in hospital is just not fun. Being in hospital for three solid months is like hell on earth. I was transferred from Small Town hospital to Big Town hospital, where I spent a night, then airlifted to The City Beneath the Mountain hospital where I spent three nights and then to another hospital, which was to be my abode for the next four months, according to the doctor. I made it three months, I was determined (and if I'd stayed any longer I may well have jumped out of the fifth floor window, if I could've... the irony.)
Ok, no, the details, I need to get out the details. This may not, yet be about hospitals. I need to go back to the car, being in the car, waiting for the ambulance. Somebody gave me a sip of coke, through a straw. It was hot, remember, and we were in the middle of the Karoo, waiting as the sun got higher and higher. The woman who gave me the coke spoke to me, gently, telling me about her Tragedy - how she'd broken her neck years before, but not completely, and recovered perfectly. I wondered at the time why she was telling me that story, not for a second thinking my neck could also be broken, just there, at the back of my head.
The car had been filled to the brim with my and D's earthly belongings - four years of university life snuggly packed in the back . In the accident our lives had flown out, scattered about on the dusty red sand between the thorn trees that had also flung their arms into the car, embracing me and planting their thorns all over me (we discovered later). Two Karoo farmers on their way to play cricket in the Tiny Town a bit further down the road stopped too and I heard them trying to gather our scattered belongings, including a large plastic dinosaur, Leonard, who I'd purloined from my First Love's younger brother. They told me they'd 'put him out to pasture' on that lovely red sand (Leonard the dinosaur, not First Loves little brother).
There are so many characters in this story, people I'd not thought of, and this is still within the first two hours. This story really may take a long time. I'm glad I'm starting, I think. Those people, the nameless ones who stopped, I hope that Karma has blessed them with all sorts of good things. They were all so nice. A good reminder of the value of stopping, and helping. I'd love to be able to write them a letter, send them bunch of lillies, if I knew who they were.
The farmer whose farm we had so rudely, and without invitation, landed on, apparently took all of our wordly belongings and kept them safe until somebody (who was it, I wonder?) collected them for us. I had a mirror in there, it didn't break.
And then M, the guy from our university who I didn't know well. I think D knew him quite well. Anyway, it's beside the point. He was there, and he stayed with us, and came with us to the hospital and was, I guess, our own little angel, keeping us together as we unknowingly fell apart, because, really, I guess, I was already starting to unravel at that point, I just didn't realise. Or was I? I was still so sure of everything. Oy, this is all-over-the-place.
The ambulance arrived eventually, from Tiny Town with a fabulous paramedic man, who also, if I remember correctly, was meant to be in the cricket match (I wonder if they still had the match). I got bundled onto a hard wooden board with a neck brace and put into the back of the ambulance. Up until that point I had been obsessively superstitious about 'crossing my fingers and touching my toes hoping to never go in one of those' everytime I'd seen an ambulance... I've stopped that now.
I have to stop this now, too. This disjointed tale. I wonder if it makes any sense at all?
This bit is about the hospital, I think. I plan on it being about the hospital but you never know where it'll go. Being in hospital is just not fun. Being in hospital for three solid months is like hell on earth. I was transferred from Small Town hospital to Big Town hospital, where I spent a night, then airlifted to The City Beneath the Mountain hospital where I spent three nights and then to another hospital, which was to be my abode for the next four months, according to the doctor. I made it three months, I was determined (and if I'd stayed any longer I may well have jumped out of the fifth floor window, if I could've... the irony.)
Ok, no, the details, I need to get out the details. This may not, yet be about hospitals. I need to go back to the car, being in the car, waiting for the ambulance. Somebody gave me a sip of coke, through a straw. It was hot, remember, and we were in the middle of the Karoo, waiting as the sun got higher and higher. The woman who gave me the coke spoke to me, gently, telling me about her Tragedy - how she'd broken her neck years before, but not completely, and recovered perfectly. I wondered at the time why she was telling me that story, not for a second thinking my neck could also be broken, just there, at the back of my head.
The car had been filled to the brim with my and D's earthly belongings - four years of university life snuggly packed in the back . In the accident our lives had flown out, scattered about on the dusty red sand between the thorn trees that had also flung their arms into the car, embracing me and planting their thorns all over me (we discovered later). Two Karoo farmers on their way to play cricket in the Tiny Town a bit further down the road stopped too and I heard them trying to gather our scattered belongings, including a large plastic dinosaur, Leonard, who I'd purloined from my First Love's younger brother. They told me they'd 'put him out to pasture' on that lovely red sand (Leonard the dinosaur, not First Loves little brother).
There are so many characters in this story, people I'd not thought of, and this is still within the first two hours. This story really may take a long time. I'm glad I'm starting, I think. Those people, the nameless ones who stopped, I hope that Karma has blessed them with all sorts of good things. They were all so nice. A good reminder of the value of stopping, and helping. I'd love to be able to write them a letter, send them bunch of lillies, if I knew who they were.
The farmer whose farm we had so rudely, and without invitation, landed on, apparently took all of our wordly belongings and kept them safe until somebody (who was it, I wonder?) collected them for us. I had a mirror in there, it didn't break.
And then M, the guy from our university who I didn't know well. I think D knew him quite well. Anyway, it's beside the point. He was there, and he stayed with us, and came with us to the hospital and was, I guess, our own little angel, keeping us together as we unknowingly fell apart, because, really, I guess, I was already starting to unravel at that point, I just didn't realise. Or was I? I was still so sure of everything. Oy, this is all-over-the-place.
The ambulance arrived eventually, from Tiny Town with a fabulous paramedic man, who also, if I remember correctly, was meant to be in the cricket match (I wonder if they still had the match). I got bundled onto a hard wooden board with a neck brace and put into the back of the ambulance. Up until that point I had been obsessively superstitious about 'crossing my fingers and touching my toes hoping to never go in one of those' everytime I'd seen an ambulance... I've stopped that now.
I have to stop this now, too. This disjointed tale. I wonder if it makes any sense at all?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Today You are You
I wonder often (perhaps too often) at the nature of people. And, of course, the nature of me. Only every now and again do I take a moment, but like in REALLY take a moment to breathe, and think about who I am. Isn't that wierd? I wonder if I'm alone in that? I usually just blame the busy-ness of everything. There's always something to do, something else to think about, somewhere to go. Maybe that's just avoidance tactics not to face The Truth of it all.
For my Other Job I have to write really cheesey stuff, some of it aimed at mothers with children (yes, I know, it's not something I know all that much about but hell, I was a child, I have a mother, my friends are breeding and... there's Google). It's schmaltzy stuff like how to get your kids away from the TV and into the garden and how to get them to eat their veggies. This month I had to write one on 'Sticking to your story' i.e. being you. I ended the piece with Dr Seuss' wise words: “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You”. The man is a genius.
That's what got me thinking. About the importance of taking that time out, to breathe, to take a quick peek at where you're going. You know, just to check that you haven't, by mistake, while you weren't looking, done a 180 degree turn and are actually rushing off somewhere you don't really want to go (maybe even... gasp... backwards). It made me realise that I'm neglecting bits of me. This is a good thing.
Isn't acknowledgement the first step? Or is it acceptance? Either way, I'm going to get it. Because nothing and nobody should feel neglected, surely, ever?
For my Other Job I have to write really cheesey stuff, some of it aimed at mothers with children (yes, I know, it's not something I know all that much about but hell, I was a child, I have a mother, my friends are breeding and... there's Google). It's schmaltzy stuff like how to get your kids away from the TV and into the garden and how to get them to eat their veggies. This month I had to write one on 'Sticking to your story' i.e. being you. I ended the piece with Dr Seuss' wise words: “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You”. The man is a genius.
That's what got me thinking. About the importance of taking that time out, to breathe, to take a quick peek at where you're going. You know, just to check that you haven't, by mistake, while you weren't looking, done a 180 degree turn and are actually rushing off somewhere you don't really want to go (maybe even... gasp... backwards). It made me realise that I'm neglecting bits of me. This is a good thing.
Isn't acknowledgement the first step? Or is it acceptance? Either way, I'm going to get it. Because nothing and nobody should feel neglected, surely, ever?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Baby skin, flocks of birds, and baby skin
It's their skin that is so incredible. And their little baby grunts and noises. And the peacefulness that fills the room when they're sleeping. And their skin. And the wonder that surrounds them when they look around. And the way they stare at things we can't (or just won't?) see. And their soft-soft skin. And the way their mothers are just completely and utterly besotted. And their tiny, perfect, fingers and toes and neat little ears and... and... did I mention their skin?
They are beautiful and I was amazed and enthralled by the calm glow my sister has. Some people are just natural mothers and she is it. And it's not just me who sees it, I'm not being biased, other people we saw over the weekend commented on it too. Her and N have taken to it like ducks to water and I'm so very, very pleased.
It was a lovely weekend, filled with baby-feeding, baby-oohing-and-ahing and, generally, just me looking at them wonderously. In-between, met up with friends for some lunch and caught up with T & G and their son, J, who is three and fabulous. He taught me how to brush my teeth on Saturday morning. He informed me very seriously that I needed to keep my head still while brushing, then demonstrated with his finger where I should brush, before running to get his (Winnie-the-Pooh) toothbrush and (Shrek) toothpaste to demonstrate the real thing. Thank god, finally, after 34 years I now know the true art of toothbrushing.
And then there were some moments of sudden overwhelmedness at the enormity of it all and, well, other moments, things about which I need to think and hopefully formulate into something I can write about and, maybe, purge, and feel good about, rather than feel a gaping hole with wind whistling through it. Again, vague, but not ready yet.
And now I'm back in the City beneath the mountain, feeling a little all-over-the-place and missing them all, but there is a twinge of Spring in the air and four (yes, four!) flocks of birds flew over me in the Spring-ley sky on my way to work this morning so it feels okay.
I wonder when my next surprise will be?
They are beautiful and I was amazed and enthralled by the calm glow my sister has. Some people are just natural mothers and she is it. And it's not just me who sees it, I'm not being biased, other people we saw over the weekend commented on it too. Her and N have taken to it like ducks to water and I'm so very, very pleased.
It was a lovely weekend, filled with baby-feeding, baby-oohing-and-ahing and, generally, just me looking at them wonderously. In-between, met up with friends for some lunch and caught up with T & G and their son, J, who is three and fabulous. He taught me how to brush my teeth on Saturday morning. He informed me very seriously that I needed to keep my head still while brushing, then demonstrated with his finger where I should brush, before running to get his (Winnie-the-Pooh) toothbrush and (Shrek) toothpaste to demonstrate the real thing. Thank god, finally, after 34 years I now know the true art of toothbrushing.
And then there were some moments of sudden overwhelmedness at the enormity of it all and, well, other moments, things about which I need to think and hopefully formulate into something I can write about and, maybe, purge, and feel good about, rather than feel a gaping hole with wind whistling through it. Again, vague, but not ready yet.
And now I'm back in the City beneath the mountain, feeling a little all-over-the-place and missing them all, but there is a twinge of Spring in the air and four (yes, four!) flocks of birds flew over me in the Spring-ley sky on my way to work this morning so it feels okay.
I wonder when my next surprise will be?
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Certifiable? Maybe
I just read my post from this morning and realised I could be diagnosed certifiably mad by anyone reading it who didn't know me (or, for that matter, anyone who did know me). That's what a lack of sleep, a feeling of lacklustreness at work, and too much coffee too early in the morning will do to you. Either I can blame those things, or I need to get out more.
Or maybe all of those things?
Or maybe all of those things?
Voices in the night
I was woken up last night by someone saying very loudly, twice, something like "Bracko". This is wierd from two angles. Firstly, what the hell does "Bracko" mean, and secondly, I was alone, except for Big Black Dog, sleeping in the lounge (who has previously never said anything in English) and The Siamese Princess, sleeping on me (ditto).
But I definitely was woken and heard it, loudly. I have a ghost, but she's never spoken before, and she's a she. This was a male voice. Again, I wonder if this was some kind of dream/sleep in-betweenness. Anyway, I decided it best for me to do some investigating as to what this "Bracko" was and if it has some deeper meaning. My searchings resulted only in things that sound similar, but aren't really "Bracko":
Dictionary.com:
Brčko District, a district in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Wikipedia:
Bačka (Serbian Cyrillic and Rusyn: Бачка, Hungarian: Bácska, Serbian Latin and Croatian: Bačka, Slovak: Báčka) is an area of the Pannonian plain lying between the rivers Danube and Tisa. It is divided between Serbia and Hungary, with small uninhabited pockets of land on the left bank of the Danube which, according to Croatian POV, belong to Croatia, but are under Serbian control since 1991 (see disputes of Croatia and Serbia).
It all seems very Eastern European - perhaps I'm adopted and I have Eastern European routes. I had imaginings of the movie "Black Cat, White Cat" and me, gypsey-like, with a wierd and wonderful family who all play the fiddle, drink too much and throw wild, love-filled parties. Then I remembered that I have my father's chin and my mother's personality and my father's temperment and my mother's disposition and I had to chuck that theory.
I decided I needed to Google it, being The Google Girl. The first three hits were:
Or, maybe one of the Bracko son's is my destiny. Now if it turned out that way, it'd be pretty bloody freaky, wouldn't it?
But I definitely was woken and heard it, loudly. I have a ghost, but she's never spoken before, and she's a she. This was a male voice. Again, I wonder if this was some kind of dream/sleep in-betweenness. Anyway, I decided it best for me to do some investigating as to what this "Bracko" was and if it has some deeper meaning. My searchings resulted only in things that sound similar, but aren't really "Bracko":
Dictionary.com:
Brčko District, a district in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Wikipedia:
Bačka (Serbian Cyrillic and Rusyn: Бачка, Hungarian: Bácska, Serbian Latin and Croatian: Bačka, Slovak: Báčka) is an area of the Pannonian plain lying between the rivers Danube and Tisa. It is divided between Serbia and Hungary, with small uninhabited pockets of land on the left bank of the Danube which, according to Croatian POV, belong to Croatia, but are under Serbian control since 1991 (see disputes of Croatia and Serbia).
It all seems very Eastern European - perhaps I'm adopted and I have Eastern European routes. I had imaginings of the movie "Black Cat, White Cat" and me, gypsey-like, with a wierd and wonderful family who all play the fiddle, drink too much and throw wild, love-filled parties. Then I remembered that I have my father's chin and my mother's personality and my father's temperment and my mother's disposition and I had to chuck that theory.
I decided I needed to Google it, being The Google Girl. The first three hits were:
- The Bracko Brothers: a furniture supplier in Calgary. They've been going for 25 years and supply both mass-produced and handcrafted furnitures of all kinds. I like a family business, but couldn't see how this could possibly relate to me. While I do need another bookshelf (mine has got to the stage where the gaps between the books and the next shelf are a being filled with books too), it seems a bit silly to order one from Calgary - one needs to be aware of one's carbon footprint!
- Bracko Kennels, also in Canada (I wonder if they're related? Maybe I'll e-mail and ask). Breeders of a very fluffy looking small dog called a Shiba Inu - apparently a Japanese breed previously used in the mountais to hunt for small animals and birds. According to them, were it not for some dedicated people in the '30's they'd have been extinct. Instead they were declared a natural monument (WTF?). I don't like small dogs so I'll leave it at that.
- Dr Bracko: sports physiologist and hockey expert. Let's just say ball skills were never, and will never, be my thing. He also lives in Calgary.
Or, maybe one of the Bracko son's is my destiny. Now if it turned out that way, it'd be pretty bloody freaky, wouldn't it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
