My Life as a Lab Rat

I’ve been thinking about donating my body to science when I no longer have a need for it myself.

But as I returned home from my annual boobie-pancake-making session, it occurred to me that I pretty much already have!

See, on top of the regular XX chromosomes and other genetic bequests my parents passed on, I have been blessed with a whole lot of anomalies that have kept numerous medical folk entertained (and in business) over the years.

Here’s the CliffsNotes version:

Let’s start at the very beginning (wow, that brings back memories of playing ‘Maria’, but that’s another story for another time); while most kids are kept cocooned within their mother’s uterus for around 9 months before their official arrival, I was virtually hanging on by my fingernails inside mum’s tum. The doctors told her not to go down the procreational path any more after me either, but I’m thinking she would have come to the same conclusion herself, given the challenges I apparently presented from that point on.

Born with brown eyes instead of the regular blue, seems they haven’t been able to decide on a colour from that point on, and my kids often stand nose-to-nose with me to see what shade my irises have chosen to adopt that day. It’s a cool party trick really... if only I could control it, I could make money!

On top of the confused colouring, seems my eyes belonged to a dominatrix in a former life- each one likes to be in control, which causes no end of confusion with coordination (and makes for very interesting games of tennis, I can tell you). See generally the whole hand-eye thing relies on a clear cut dominance of one eye or the other, so while I am lucky in that I can do some things both left and right handed, there comes a point where neither eye is actually in charge, and that’s not the time you’d want to rely on me to catch anything thrown my way (might also explain why I’ve never walked away with a bridal bouquet). Mind you, it impressed the hell outta the ophthalmologist who discovered it, since he'd not actually seen this phenomenon before. Yay me.

My ears aren’t your average auricles either. I don’t mean I’d give ‘Dumbo’ a run for his money or anything, rather, these tiny little pieces of audible architecture have proven difficult for the ENT doc to do regular checkups which makes it tricky to discover the reason behind my tinnitus or so-called ‘aqua ear’ (don’t you know, with tinnitus, every voice rings a bell?). So instead of the usual advice to not put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the doctor is flat out getting his Otoscope in. (But at least I’m not really lying when I tell the kids “I can’t hear you!”)

Moving right along, I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my dentist since my jaw proved lazy in its efforts of growing teeth. Instead of the standard 32 permanent pearlers the average adult is supposed to have, I stopped 6 short, also with no 'Wisdom Teeth' lurking below the gum line (some would say that says a lot about me). I distinctly recall the day the dentist invited no less than 4 others into the room to check out the xrays of my non-existent teeth. I can only say I’m glad they weren’t all charging me for the pleasure; even the dentist declared his family would starve from the lack of services he was able to provide in my case.

I’ll save you from the intimate details of my women’s bits, suffice to say that there are ‘ladies of the night’ who’ve had less men between their legs…and the whole payment thing is the wrong way round in this case, too. I should mention though, that my ovaries have pretended to be my appendix- but only the once mind you- as the surgeon cut the alleged offender out before he realised it was not the culprit at all. And after baffling so many for so long with infertility, the aforementioned ovaries then surprised the specialists (and shocked the hell outta me, I can tell you) by spontaneously producing the goods in the shape of my second, unexpected (but warmly welcomed) child.

I am also the proud owner of the “world’s smallest kneecaps” if you believe the orthopods and physiotherapists. And even my pulse has proven problematic, with one nurse actually declaring I should be dead, such was her frustration to find a pulse to please her.

Which brings me back to my decision not to assist Science after all when that event eventually occurs.

Left with a medical file of a size to rival all 7 editions of ‘Harry Potter’ (with equally as much magic and mystery therein), I have come to the conclusion that I do not actually need to leave my body for doctors to discover once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil ... because I have given them more than enough to discuss whilst I’m still upright.

Jx
©2009

Cinderfella

I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.

I’d like to … but I can’t.

See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)

And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.

According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.

Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.

I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.

Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).

So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.

I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).

I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.

Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.

And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.

Grrrrr.

Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.

Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.

All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.

Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.

Hmmm.

Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.

Jx
©2009