It seems like such a simple concept.
Leaves on a stream.
It’s the basis of this technique in relaxation that's been suggested for people like me who can’t seem to shut down their thoughts long enough to get some decent shut-eye.
‘Mindfulness’ it’s called.
What you have to be mindful of, is that you don’t let your mind run away with you, and by imagining leaves gently floating down a stream, you’re on track for some quality meditation. When you get that going, you imagine that each leaf is carrying an unwanted or unnecessary thought, which you pop on the little bits of foliage and let them just drift away. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.
Now, the problem I have- and have always had- is that I overthink things. So what seems a simple application of imagination becomes a full-scale exercise in geography, botany, and logistics.
Here’s the thing…
I start out well enough: there’s the stream, here come the leaves, and here I am standing by to plop my errant thoughts on board.
But then I start wondering where I am to have such a verdant setting – it’s obviously not the drought-stricken paddocks I’m used to seeing here in Australia, as the area is lovely and lush and the water is running clean and fresh at a cracking pace. If I can get beyond my initial mind meanderings, I start to wonder what sort of leaves they are. What kind of trees or plants are nearby that are dropping their vegetation at a constant rate? And simply because I have that creative streak in me, I conjure up many different species of shrubbery, just for variety, which only brings me back to the original musings of where the heck I am to have such diversity?!
Can you see my problem?
OK, so if (and I do mean if) I can get through all that without totally stuffing up the whole relaxation mode I’m meant to be in, I then seem to have a bit (ok a lot) of trouble with placing aforementioned thoughts on aforementioned leaves in order to let them drift off down aforementioned stream.
The idea is, it’s ok to have thoughts pop into your head, it’s only natural in our conscious state after all…but for the sake of this exercise you need to learn to let them go again. I seem to have some issues with letting them go before I have reached some conclusion depending on what is warranted by the thought at the time. Not to mention the decision of which leaf to use (don’t want some flimsy little frond sinking under the weight of a life-changing concern now do I?)!
A good place to attempt this whole Mindfulness technique is the bath or shower, according to the good lady who gave me the exercise. Apparently the water (running or otherwise) helps create the metaphor of the stream. Unfortunately, I’m too mindful of the water bill to stay under the shower long enough to get the process going properly, and if I lay in the bath too long I start to get distracted by the renovations still required in the room. Not very conducive to relaxation, wouldn’t you agree?
You can also do it in bed. The nice lady also gave me a CD with a softly-spoken bloke talking me through the exercise. Trouble is he has a really unique accent so the first few times I heard him I was busy figuring out his ancestry and missed a whole lotta leaves. I finally decided that he was probably born in Liverpool (UK) but has spent some time in Australia. Turns out I was right. So at least the next time I laid back and listened I could put that particular idea on a leaf and wave bye-bye as it sailed off into the sunset.
Now, if only all the other thoughts that stray into play while I’m standing near my metaphorical stream could be as easily resolved and relegated, I’d be laying ‘em on leaves like nobody’s business.
I guess that’s what you’d call mind over (leaf) matter.
Jx
©2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Singing in the Car
I think adults have a lot to learn from children.
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Insect-o-cide
Insects outnumber humans by at least 100,000,000 to 1.
And I think that their bid to rule the world has begun. Right here in our home.
If it wasn’t bad enough that I recently had to stop a speeding funnel-web spider heading towards our front door, with just the tread on my car tyre... the rain and changing weather seems to have brought an onslaught of other arachnids and cockroaches into the neighbourhood.
Can I just say I am sick to death of them popping in for a cup of sugar!
I don’t know about you but I think Cockies are the worst. If it’s not bad enough that they pre-date humans by about 225 million years, they’re reportedly going to be around long after we’re gone... quite possibly the only living creature to survive a nuclear holocaust (or an avalanche of trash, if you go with the WALL•E theory).
Dirty evil little critters that they are, they have no qualms about scuttling across the kitchen when one wanders in for a glass of water in the night. And nothing says the kids have spotted one in the bathroom quite like the bloodcurdling scream they’ve both got pitch-perfect (does wonders for tinnitus in confined spaces, I can tell you).
Even my Beloved fell prey to one such killer insect last weekend while working in the backyard… he picked up some sort of shrapnel that had been laying around since the last time he was so inspired, and this rusty-coloured creature dropped straight down his shirt.
Call me cruel but the “get it off me” dance that followed was quite comedic, especially since my Beloved professes to move like an epileptic spider at the best of times. He was most definitely unamused at my mirth when he informs me that the little bugger apparently emptied its bladder on him in its fight-or-flight manouvre.
I shouldn’t have laughed. I really shouldn’t. ‘Cause, boy, didn’t it come back to haunt me.
A couple of days later, there I was in the wee small hours (literally and figuratively speaking) trying not to disturb my significant other in any significant way whilst tiptoeing to the toilet in our ensuite in the dark. I had barely assumed the position when something dropped off the ceiling directly above the commode - straight into my lap.
So startled was I that I forgot where I was and what I was doing and leapt off the lav with an involuntary shriek. The cold feeling of fear was soon almost immediately replaced by the warm trickle of something else. Yes, seems I reacted in much the same way as the bug my Beloved battled just a couple of days before.
However, recovering both my underwear and my wits at roughly the same time, I managed to flick the offending insect off and half squished it as it made good its getaway. I also managed to do so quite quietly as my Beloved slept soundly through the whole scary scenario!
But since it’s apparently true that cockroaches can live for up to 9 days without a head, I will be turning on that light and checking carefully around the porcelain before pulling down the panties, for at least another 5 days yet…
And as for the adult-incontinence thing, let’s just keep that between you, me, and the wall, mkay? We don’t need the insects knowing just how much control they have over us (or, rather, how little we have over our bladders).
Jx
©2010
And I think that their bid to rule the world has begun. Right here in our home.
If it wasn’t bad enough that I recently had to stop a speeding funnel-web spider heading towards our front door, with just the tread on my car tyre... the rain and changing weather seems to have brought an onslaught of other arachnids and cockroaches into the neighbourhood.
Can I just say I am sick to death of them popping in for a cup of sugar!
I don’t know about you but I think Cockies are the worst. If it’s not bad enough that they pre-date humans by about 225 million years, they’re reportedly going to be around long after we’re gone... quite possibly the only living creature to survive a nuclear holocaust (or an avalanche of trash, if you go with the WALL•E theory).
Dirty evil little critters that they are, they have no qualms about scuttling across the kitchen when one wanders in for a glass of water in the night. And nothing says the kids have spotted one in the bathroom quite like the bloodcurdling scream they’ve both got pitch-perfect (does wonders for tinnitus in confined spaces, I can tell you).
Even my Beloved fell prey to one such killer insect last weekend while working in the backyard… he picked up some sort of shrapnel that had been laying around since the last time he was so inspired, and this rusty-coloured creature dropped straight down his shirt.
Call me cruel but the “get it off me” dance that followed was quite comedic, especially since my Beloved professes to move like an epileptic spider at the best of times. He was most definitely unamused at my mirth when he informs me that the little bugger apparently emptied its bladder on him in its fight-or-flight manouvre.
I shouldn’t have laughed. I really shouldn’t. ‘Cause, boy, didn’t it come back to haunt me.
A couple of days later, there I was in the wee small hours (literally and figuratively speaking) trying not to disturb my significant other in any significant way whilst tiptoeing to the toilet in our ensuite in the dark. I had barely assumed the position when something dropped off the ceiling directly above the commode - straight into my lap.
So startled was I that I forgot where I was and what I was doing and leapt off the lav with an involuntary shriek. The cold feeling of fear was soon almost immediately replaced by the warm trickle of something else. Yes, seems I reacted in much the same way as the bug my Beloved battled just a couple of days before.
However, recovering both my underwear and my wits at roughly the same time, I managed to flick the offending insect off and half squished it as it made good its getaway. I also managed to do so quite quietly as my Beloved slept soundly through the whole scary scenario!
But since it’s apparently true that cockroaches can live for up to 9 days without a head, I will be turning on that light and checking carefully around the porcelain before pulling down the panties, for at least another 5 days yet…
And as for the adult-incontinence thing, let’s just keep that between you, me, and the wall, mkay? We don’t need the insects knowing just how much control they have over us (or, rather, how little we have over our bladders).
Jx
©2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
It’s Life, Gym, But Not as We Know it
Some might call it a mid-life crisis.
Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.
I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.
And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.
Now all I have to do, is go!
The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.
There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.
Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.
There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.
Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.
So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.
After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.
Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.
After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.
Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.
*sighs*
Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…
Jx
©2010
Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.
I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.
And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.
Now all I have to do, is go!
The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.
There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.
Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.
There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.
Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.
So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.
After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.
Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.
After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.
Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.
*sighs*
Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…
Jx
©2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Men oh Pause
All of us have heard the startling fact that men think about sex several times a day. Every 52 seconds, if you can believe this report.
We are all well aware that most women do not.
I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.
By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.
I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.
If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).
I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.
So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.
It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).
It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.
Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).
And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.
I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?
After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.
If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.
It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.
At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).
So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.
That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!
Jx
©2010
We are all well aware that most women do not.
I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.
By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.
I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.
If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).
I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.
So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.
It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).
It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.
Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).
And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.
I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?
After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.
If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.
It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.
At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).
So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.
That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!
Jx
©2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Ten Green Bottles
My children have enough drink bottles to slake the thirst of a thousand camels. If camels were to actually require water bottles, that is.
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
67 Friends
The world is a Global Village.
Just ask anyone who’s signed up for Facebook (or as those in the know call it, fb).
After years of being invited to join, asked if I have joined, and outright told I’ve gotta join, I finally did.
Less than 24 hours later, I have ‘67 Friends’.
Wow, I didn’t think I actually knew that many people, let alone have the kind of relationship to call them “friends”.
But there you have it. 67 people thus far have decided they’d like to be in touch with me in a virtual manner. And like The Carpenters sang, we’ve only just begun!
I haven’t managed to do any in-depth searches for long-lost buddies as yet.
Not to mention the requests from people who know people who know me, or requests from people no people I know has ever heard of!
Now, I’m kinda new at all this, but what is the protocol for confirming friend requests, I wonder…
Can you platonically rekindle old flames and run the risk of getting burned by your current S.O. (that’s significant other, for those not up on the shorthand)?
Will you suddenly become super friendly with an ex-colleague who you only ever said “G’day” to if you both happened to be by the watercooler at the same time? Or will you develop a cyber friendship with the one who stole your job?
Do you accept a relative just because you’re related? Despite the fact that you a) have never met them, or b) have not clapped eyes on them for many years- maybe since the last big family reunion or funeral. And how many generations do you go back, or forward, in the name of friendliness? (Don’t tell me that you adore every member of your extended clan…blood may be thicker than water but some folk are thicker still, if you get my drift.) (I’m speaking hypothetically of course – there’s no one in my family to which I’m referring, honest.)
And how does one go about finding people, exactly?
Just on spec, I typed in a few names, mostly of people who have been asking me when I’m going to show my face on Facebook, and darned if the search engine didn’t want me to have practically every bit of their intimate details upfront! I mean to say, if I knew that much about them, surely I wouldn’t have to resort to getting/staying in touch over the information superhighway. I’d be gas-bagging on the phone, or catching up for cuppas like nobody’s business, am I right? We’d certainly be exchanging Christmas cards, to say the very least.
As far as female friends are concerned, most of them have gone the traditional route and changed their surname to their previous (or past) partner. Some of them have done it more than once, so how’s a person supposed to keep track of what name they’re going by these days? It’s even worse if you only ever referred to someone by a nickname (or in the case of our radio pals, had a fictitious name altogether)…fb being as formal as it is, a first and last name at least is required.
So I probably won’t find a few old friends anyhow. And some I sure as hell hope don’t find me (I’d feel terrible hitting the Ignore button).
Due to work and the way my life has progressed, I have been known by a number of names. And I definitely don’t look the same at almost-40 that I did in high school (I wish)!
Oh and don’t even get me started on the barn raising, sorority parties, aquariums, and adoptions of every kind that pop up on my page whenever I find a few minutes to log on. One of the reasons I held off joining the FB revolution for so long was that I simply don’t have the time to sit at the computer for too many hours, let alone play games. My Beloved, on the other hand, has all but made a career out of it (I tell you, if those doubloons translated into cold hard cash we'd be rolling rich).
No I’m flat out figuring out how to set my privacy settings so that every Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet doesn’t get to see my every thought. And nearly every time I’ve tried to upload a photo our computer has ‘detected a malicious program’ and shut me down.
Meanwhile the rest of my 67 Friends (whoa, make that 75 now, I just checked my profile) are busily hatching sheep and building chickens and selling chocolate bars for the seahorse sorority.
*sighs*
If the world really is a Global Village, I seem to have taken up residence as village idiot.
Which reminds me, I best go update my status.
Jx
©2010
Just ask anyone who’s signed up for Facebook (or as those in the know call it, fb).
After years of being invited to join, asked if I have joined, and outright told I’ve gotta join, I finally did.
Less than 24 hours later, I have ‘67 Friends’.
Wow, I didn’t think I actually knew that many people, let alone have the kind of relationship to call them “friends”.
But there you have it. 67 people thus far have decided they’d like to be in touch with me in a virtual manner. And like The Carpenters sang, we’ve only just begun!
I haven’t managed to do any in-depth searches for long-lost buddies as yet.
Not to mention the requests from people who know people who know me, or requests from people no people I know has ever heard of!
Now, I’m kinda new at all this, but what is the protocol for confirming friend requests, I wonder…
Can you platonically rekindle old flames and run the risk of getting burned by your current S.O. (that’s significant other, for those not up on the shorthand)?
Will you suddenly become super friendly with an ex-colleague who you only ever said “G’day” to if you both happened to be by the watercooler at the same time? Or will you develop a cyber friendship with the one who stole your job?
Do you accept a relative just because you’re related? Despite the fact that you a) have never met them, or b) have not clapped eyes on them for many years- maybe since the last big family reunion or funeral. And how many generations do you go back, or forward, in the name of friendliness? (Don’t tell me that you adore every member of your extended clan…blood may be thicker than water but some folk are thicker still, if you get my drift.) (I’m speaking hypothetically of course – there’s no one in my family to which I’m referring, honest.)
And how does one go about finding people, exactly?
Just on spec, I typed in a few names, mostly of people who have been asking me when I’m going to show my face on Facebook, and darned if the search engine didn’t want me to have practically every bit of their intimate details upfront! I mean to say, if I knew that much about them, surely I wouldn’t have to resort to getting/staying in touch over the information superhighway. I’d be gas-bagging on the phone, or catching up for cuppas like nobody’s business, am I right? We’d certainly be exchanging Christmas cards, to say the very least.
As far as female friends are concerned, most of them have gone the traditional route and changed their surname to their previous (or past) partner. Some of them have done it more than once, so how’s a person supposed to keep track of what name they’re going by these days? It’s even worse if you only ever referred to someone by a nickname (or in the case of our radio pals, had a fictitious name altogether)…fb being as formal as it is, a first and last name at least is required.
So I probably won’t find a few old friends anyhow. And some I sure as hell hope don’t find me (I’d feel terrible hitting the Ignore button).
Due to work and the way my life has progressed, I have been known by a number of names. And I definitely don’t look the same at almost-40 that I did in high school (I wish)!
Oh and don’t even get me started on the barn raising, sorority parties, aquariums, and adoptions of every kind that pop up on my page whenever I find a few minutes to log on. One of the reasons I held off joining the FB revolution for so long was that I simply don’t have the time to sit at the computer for too many hours, let alone play games. My Beloved, on the other hand, has all but made a career out of it (I tell you, if those doubloons translated into cold hard cash we'd be rolling rich).
No I’m flat out figuring out how to set my privacy settings so that every Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet doesn’t get to see my every thought. And nearly every time I’ve tried to upload a photo our computer has ‘detected a malicious program’ and shut me down.
Meanwhile the rest of my 67 Friends (whoa, make that 75 now, I just checked my profile) are busily hatching sheep and building chickens and selling chocolate bars for the seahorse sorority.
*sighs*
If the world really is a Global Village, I seem to have taken up residence as village idiot.
Which reminds me, I best go update my status.
Jx
©2010
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