Monthly Archive for June, 2010

The Pits

Published on June 30, 2010 in Over-sharers Anonymous, Queen Me and Teaching. 14 Comments

Do you know how hard it is to write on a whiteboard when you don’t want to lift your arms above chest height? As a teacher it is an integral part of my day.

It has been 7 years since I have been free of a problem that has plagued me my whole ‘adult’ (hormone-wise) life. It is not a huge deal in the whole scheme of horrible-things-that-happen, but it impinged on every aspect of my life, making me feel self-conscious, all day, every day.

I am a sweater.  I don’t mean that I am a jumper, pull-over or jersey. And like an alcoholic, just because I am not doing it, it doesn’t mean I am not one.

Back in the day I could sweat through a t-shirt, woollen jumper AND a denim jacket. I wasn’t hot (obviously considering the layers of clothes) and I wasn’t particularly nervous. But either way I had got myself into some sort of psychosomatic loop that would cause copious moisture in the armpit region. To put it bluntly, it was retarded. If I was home alone, I could wear a skin tight shirt and not sweat a drop but once I was out of that house it was on.

It affected the clothes I bought, they way I moved, and of course the way I smelled.

I went to the doctor. Botox was suggested. But on a starting teacher’s wage it wasn’t doable. Although now, with the possibilities of what I could do with the left-overs, it would be great! They also told me I could get the nerve clipped. Also not appealing.

And then Driclor became my friend. It is a special $20 ‘deoderant’ that you apply last thing at night when you are least active (NOT, I repeat, not after a hot shower) for three nights in a row. Until you wash it off the next morning, it will be burny and itchy and make your legs twitch uncontrollably at times but you will not sweat a drop for at least 2 weeks. However for me, the resulting blocked ducts were incredibly painful and made shaving difficult. The freedom of dry underarms was short lived as I couldn’t handle the pain.

Luckily I am nothing but tenacious and tried it again a couple of months later, and this time Driclor and I have been getting along famously for the last 6 or so years. I can apply it for one night in every 4-6 weeks, no sweat, and minimal duct blockage. I would say the only issue is that if I do feel the need for the psychosomatic sweat, it appears on my upper lip or lower back. Not often though.

People ask me if I am worried about any possible side effects, such as cancer and I say no. The freedom that this product has afforded me, in terms of giving me my confidence back  has been invaluable. It may sound melodramatic but sweating ruled my life.

Now I can write at the top of the whiteboard, point at things, leisurely rock back in a chair with my arms behind my head in a repose of comfort and ease, I can wear tops that gently hug my pits and if I am feeling really non-OCD I can wear the same shirt – TWICE, in a ROW!

The only sweating I do now is the hard earned kind.

The Scent of Adhesive on a Dressing….

Published on June 27, 2010 in Beloved, Nostalgia and Queen Me. 12 Comments

….for Beloved’s hernia surgery wound took me straight back to being no more than 4 years old, wearing an eye-patch for a lazy eye. However, the patch and glasses weren’t working so surgery it was. I imagine I was about 6 years old but I remember it like it was yesterday.

My parents dropped me off the night before the operation, staying quite late. I know they were far more worried about it than I was. And now that I am the age my mum was when it happened, albeit childless, I feel the fear too. I remember exactly where the bed was, I remember lying there in the gloom of the evening, after they had left, playing with the gift they gave me – a plastic tablet that you drew on and when you lifted the thin film of plastic the drawing would be erased. The plastic was pink and the drawings were neon orange. I drew my family, with the house and car and budgie called Drackie. I was comfortable and very much awake. The nurse had to come in and gently encourage me to go to sleep.

The next morning mum was back. I was given various medications to get me all doped up. Tablets? Nope, wide awake. Needle in the butt-cheek? Still perky. I got all the way into the operating theatre, mum by my side to the very last set of swinging doors. They laid me onto a padded rubber mat with 6 round indentation filled with a gooey gel. I am not sure how real or accurate that was, but it is what I recall. I was with them until I counted down from 10 with the big black mask over my face.

The anaesthetic didn’t agree with me when I woke up – I spent a lot of  time throwing up into a kidney shaped dish. And the pain. You know how when you are getting the flu and it hurts to move your eyes? Times that by about 100. The only problem with that was that my parents had brought me another gift. A sparkly red tutu, that they had placed behind my bed. It doesn’t matter how sore a little girl’s eyes are, there is no force on earth that can stop her craning her head to get a peek at a tutu.

I am not sure how long I was in the hospital, but I had lots of visitors. When mum and dad came to pick me up, I was happily engaged in a burping competition with a boy in the bed diagonally opposite. I think his name was Daniel. Or Brad.

I don’t have many memories as clear as this one, except maybe my first day at school, or the time I had to have surgery on my other eye, perhaps not much than a year later.

And a Manky Crow has Tried to Pull the Rubber off my Left Windscreen Wiper

Published on June 23, 2010 in Beloved and Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 4 Comments

I was in lengthy anger mode: stomach clenched, brow creased and eyes dead. The stormy afternoon weather matched my mood perfectly.  I had expected him to be perhaps 5 minutes late at the most. Instead I had to do a couple of laps around the block and use my credit card to buy a parking ticket.  An hour later I was still scrunched in my seat, windows misted, reading ‘On the Road’, hungry and tired; the ceaselessness of the story making me feel worse.

When he finally called to be picked up the face slid in place. He jumped in the car, tried to poke me in the side, apologised for being late; there was a ‘disaster’. I spat scant words at him and resumed the drive in silence. Along the rain and brake-light speckled road we drove.

On Albany highway canola yellow  industrial piping snaked in the long grass took me back 7 years to heart-broken country drives, where I longed to stop and wander in those electric fields.

Pulling in to the driveway I had to bring forth a saying, other than ‘Disaster my fucking arse – how hard is it to pick up a phone? Pretend you need to wee or something and call from the dunny.’ I told myself, ‘Come now Grumpy – on your death bed, will you wish you were angry at him more?’

No, There Were No Anal Probes

Published on June 20, 2010 in Depression and Queen Me. 10 Comments

The house I found myself in was an amalgamation of the house I live in now, and the house I grew up in; the house my father built. Every light was on and the back door was wide open to the darker side of dusk. I walked out onto the dampening  lawn and saw that two parallel gouges had been dug into the grass in a meandering pattern.

I walked back into the blazing light – I didn’t know who I was. I looked at myself and saw 2 razor thin cuts on each arm. They bled weakly, stinging against the whiteness of my skin.

Looking up from my damaged body I saw a lady – my mother! I knew who I was again! She was dressed head to toe  like a cat burglar, her blonde hair in stark contrast to the black hooded jumper.

I flew into her arms, crying: ‘You weren’t lying! It happened to you too, didn’t it? You know it is true!” She said it was and patted my hair. She didn’t judge me, even though I – we - had been abducted by aliens.

Waking from this dream I felt unsettled. I mentioned it on facebook and people joked ‘Was it really a dream?’ When I showered that morning, I looked for a deeper meaning and I found the blueness that sometimes hovers around, dipping and teasing.

Perhaps I need to show more understanding to those who suffer – it doesn’t mean it isn’t real, just because I don’t feel what they feel.

Maybe one day it will come to get me, take me from my bed and do things I can’t imagine.

Wipe This!

Published on June 15, 2010 in Beloved, Cranky/Dopey Bitch, Fighting the Fat and Queen Me. 8 Comments

Do you know what gives me the shits?

Windscreen wipers.

I was getting all cocky cos here in Perth it is winter and Sunday was balmy 23 degrees Celsius. (So what is that in Farhenwhatsit, about 74?) That meant that Monday and today it pissed down with rain and was bloody cold, relatively speaking.

Added to that is Beloved had a hernia operation and cannot ride his motorbike. So at 5am I was driving him to work before my 6am personal training session. (Yeah, what a hard life you whinging Stepford Wife)

5am.

Driving.

Raining.

Dark.

Monday, did I mention the Monday bit?

And bugger me if I couldn’t get the windscreen wiper rhythm right. You know what I am talking about. Too slow and the rain builds up,  too fast and the wipers start making that highly irritating ‘Screeee screee’ sound. So what level do I put my wipers on – 1, 2 or 3? No – none of them are right. Then I start fiddling with the length between each wipe on the chosen level. Of course once you have gotten yourself into a good wipin’ groove the bloody rain changes.

“Light drizzle - no wait, big fat slow drops - nah, PSYCH! back to drizzle, woah – now we are going under a big tree that just got a good gust of wind through  it – ploppity, plop, plop, plop – weeee this is fun! ”

It never ends people! If I am up, driving, in the dark on a Monday at 5am, the rain could have the effing decency to be consistent.

Missed it AGAIN!

Published on June 11, 2010 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 14 Comments

Sorry dear Blog, I missed it yet again. Time flies when you are having fun, right?

In honour of being around for 2 whole years I was thinking of a blog name change.

How does Cranky Old Bitch strike you?

Heart Starter

Published on June 8, 2010 in Beloved and Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 17 Comments

I didn’t need to go to the gym today. I mean, not that I did.

All I needed to do was look in the mirror after taking a whiz in the manky staff-room toilets, to see that my very sentimental and not-cheap necklace was not around my neck. As opposed to how it was when I last saw it.

And there went my heart rate.

You know what is not good, besides losing a diamond necklace? Running around a school, head down, eyes searching the ground muttering ‘Fuckfuckfuckfuck!’

By the time I got back to my desk I was hyperventilating, but mid-pant I saw a glimmer under my chair.

 ’Oh thank FUCK!’ I cried, until I saw it was just the chain and not the pendant. On your hands and knees, under your desk  going ‘No, no, no, bugger, bugger bollocks – oh – wait there it is!’ is also not a good look.

Beloved need not know of this, needn’t he?

I didn’t think so either.

Oh Dearie Me,You Dickhead!

Published on June 2, 2010 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch, Pop Culture and Queen Me. 16 Comments

Grumpy was heading home after a long day at work and a crappy staff meeting. She was in her warm lil car, bopping along to the sounds of Thirsty Merc. Her mate Snazzy had concocted her a playlist since they are going see them next month.

So Grumpy is grooving away and then ‘Ooh! Hello silver Corolla, just suddenly merging into my lane – no, no – that is okay, I will just apply some light pressure to my brakes so you can squeeze in there.’

Grumpy wasn’t particularly perturbed by this seeming act of stupidity – but it did make sense when she glanced into her rear-view mirror and saw the approaching ambulance. When Grumpy flicked her eyes back to the road in front of her she saw the driver of the silver Corolla make rude, impatient and even aggressive gestures towards her. Mercy me! One would think that this driver would be giving a little thank-you wave for not getting bum-jabbed after her impromptu lane swap.

‘Fuck you, you dumb bitch!’ thought Grumpy.

PS: Due to the response to my last post I can at least hear how buff the legs of the crickets around here are getting.  Thanks for not leaving me hanging Mr H ;)