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

We Wanna, We Wanna, We Wanna Wee

I had that dream again last night.

The one where no matter what you’re doing (and let’s face it, in our subconscious nocturnal wanderings we can be doing some pretty crazy stuff) your bladder butts in and you decide that you need to pee. So naturally, given the freedom of a human mind not tethered by the restraints of time and space, you simply conjure up a handy bathroom, search out a stall, and feel free to relieve yourself. If you’re lucky (or able to regain control of that wayward vision) you wake up before you actually follow through for real.

I hate that dream.

If you can believe “Zoo Weekly” magazine (and who wouldn’t seeing how it’s such a fine piece of journalistic veracity and integrity) 1% of adults wet their beds on a regular basis.

They probably had that dream.

According to much more reputable sources (scientific journals and parenting magazines- heck, even Wikipedia agrees and we all know how reliable that is!) if you’re a female of child-bearing age and you did that child bearing the way God intended, you’re twice as likely to suffer from pelvic floor muscle weakness and an occasionally leaky bladder. Especially if you laugh, cough, sneeze, exercise, are startled, or make any other sudden movement (gee you guys get it good sometimes). And it gets even worse with age (oh joy- something for us all to look forward to)!

It’s called Urinary Incontinence. What a delightful little term that is.

But it’s better than the other types of incontinence one can suffer from. And in the interests of good taste (also lest I somehow jinx myself) I am not going any further down that track in this little blog of mine (for those who really must know, read the opening par on that Wikipedia page, but don’t say I didn’t warn you).

And it’s a profitable business, this incontinence. Take a look at all the products offered in the Health & Beauty aisle at the supermarket next time, if you don’t believe me. Seriously, aside from all of us having that dream at one time or another over the course of our lives, what sort of person sits down and says “I’m going to get rich by selling diapers to grown-ups!”

It’s obvious that someone did. I mean, we all know that even Archimedes had to attend to health and hygiene, what with him having his ‘Eureka!’ moment in the bathtub and all; I just wonder what type of entrepreneur set out to make a fortune out of unfortunate bodily functions. (I'm also suspicious of the inspiration behind the Nintendo® Wii™, just quietly.)

The simple fact that I’m sitting here alone at my dining table typing a blog that may only ever amuse myself and my mother (my most loyal fan, thanks Ma!), in the vain hope that someone someday will stumble across my musings and decide I was the Next Big Thing of the literary world…shows that I have not had any such epiphany of the money-making kind. But, as usual, I digress.

It’s days like these- the morning after the night before, when one has had the misfortune to come this close to convincing their subconscious that they are appropriately placed for nocturnal encounters of the urinary kind- that I up the ante on the pelvic floor exercises, in the hope that even if the spirit is willing the flesh isn’t weak enough to follow through (or to put it terms the men in the audience might understand: the prostate doesn’t perform whilst prostrate).

And as I squeeze/hold/release, I also ponder the person who made the effort to elaborate on exercises purely designed to strengthen the muscles put into play when one pees. And consequently made their mark and their money out of it.

Some bloke by the name of Kegel, if I recall rightly.

I betcha he had that dream too.

Jx
©2010