And the Unlucky Speculum Award goes to...

Ok, you remember this and this, right? Well, the story continues.

The time had come to check up on those polycystic ovaries. I realised, with mild embarrassment, that I had not yet received my results from lasts year's every-girl's-favourite-annual-outing. So I rang up the Doctor 1's office.

"Hi, I wonder if I could hear about my pap results from December please?"

Receptionist 1 chokes on her pen. "What, you haven't had them yet? I'll check into it right away!"

Click. Line dead. I shrug. A minute passes. The phone rings. It's her.

"We phoned you. It's in our book. We sent a prescription for you. It was faxed. It's recorded in your file. I spoke to you on your cell. I wrote it down."

What? "I'm so sorry, but I never got a call. I don't know about the prescription. Am I sick? I haven't spoken to you on my cell since I was last in your waiting room. Am I gonna die?"

"It's all been noted - in ink. I told you about it. I faxed your prescription through to your pharmacy. I made a note."

"Er, can I talk to Doctor 1, please?"

"She's out. In theatre. I'll get her to call you."

Click. Line dead. I call the pharmacy immediately to check on my prescription. They check their files, their computers, under the tables, between the prozac and the Valium. Nothing. No prescription. No illness reported. 

I do a quick self examination. Heart: pounding: check. Lungs: gasping: check. Stomach: knotted: check. Blood pressure: rising: check. Girly bits: status unknown, I thought I knew, but I didn't, my ovaries may quite possibly be  quietly shriveling up and expiring unbeknownst to me.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She can't understand what happened. I'm upset. Am I sick? Am I going to make it? Will I live to see my grandchildren? She thinks I'm over-reacting. She apologises again.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Receptionist 1. She can't understand what happened. She apologises. Profusely. I'm still considering my mortality.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She wants to see me. After I've had my abdominal sonar. An apologetic follow-up of sorts. She says sorry.

Click.

I check the mail. The pathologists have not been paid. They say my medical aid doesn't recognise me as a member. They have incorrect details for me. Crap.

A day passes. I breathe. In. Out.

I have an appointment for an abdominal sonar with Doctor 2. Must have full bladder is typed on the card. I have an hour to get ready. I hop in the bath. It's the right thing to do when you're going for an intimate check-up. I drink a litre of water. Tap water. Not bath water. The doorbell rings. The garden service has arrived. I need to let them in. Hop out of the bath. Wet footprints on my wooden floor. I put on something decent. Open gate. Bring the puppy in - the lawnmowers make her nervous. The phone rings. It's the Ultimate Man. We talk. The puppy squats on my favourite carpet and starts peeing. I yell. The phone meets its demise on the kitchen tiles. Dog outside. Drink some more water. Dry the carpet. Swear. Drink water. Phone. Bath. Drink. Dammit. Gotta go.

I arrive for my appointment. Screw polycystic ovaries, I think to myself, my bursting bladder causing copius irrational thoughts to drift through my mind.

"Is Doctor 2 running late?" I ask, tears welling in my eyes. I can't remember when last I was so uncomfortable. Apparently she isn't. I perch myself on the edge of the seat trying not to think about my bursting pelvis. A gentle rain starts to pitter-patter against the window. I feel an aching spasm stretch over my abdomen. I pick up a magazine and try to focus my attention on a fascinating true-life story of a woman who grew a head in her stomach. Receptionist 2 stands up and goes to the loo. I hear it flush. I wince. The tap runs for a bit. A gentle, but annoying trickle.

I'm starting to do the butt dance. You know the one. Your bladder's so full you can't find a comfy spot to be in, so you shift from one butt cheek to the next. It's an awkward jiggle of sorts.

Doctor 2 comes out. She smiles at me. Then turns around and goes to make herself a cup of coffee. I cringe. By this stage the muscles controlling my eyelids have attached themselves to my bladder, and every time I blink, I have to pinch.

Doctor 2 ushers me into her office. She starts to exchange pleasantries. "Listen lady," I say, firmly gripping her by the arm, "let's just get this over, then we can chat." She nods and squeezes sonar gel all over my belly. A quick and agonising abdominal scan is performed. She shows me the door to the loo. Grateful, I excuse myself. 

If I had died at that point, I would have gone into the next world with a smile on my face. There is no greater pleasure than the relief I felt at being able to empty my stretched bladder. I must have spent a long time in there, because when I returned to the room, the doctor was checking her watch. She eyed me with vague recognition. "Better?" she asked and offered me an examination gown to don. "Bottom's off, please."

Step two to checking out these spongey ovaries was the vaginal sonar. She slipped the magic wand into me and quickly picked up the (much better looking than last year's) ovaries. The black and white image on the screen illuminated the room. She removed the wand. The image disappeared. a look of mild horror crossed her face.

"Oops," she said. "The image is gone, I'll have to do it again. Sorry!"

"Well, it is our second date," I giggled, "and I won't mind as long as you don't charge me double!"

She repeated the sonar.

It was over quickly. I had a device-free vagina. I asked her if she was done with me, and could I get dressed.

"Unless you want me to do it a third time," she smiled, "I'll have to charge you, though. And I may be pushing the goose that laid the golden eggs"

"If it was as good for you as it was for me, " I said, "we'll call it quits"

Anyway, the results show my abnormally large ovaries have shrunk somewhat, and, after a year of hormone treatment I'm not popping out ova at a rate of knots. Guess it's not all bad.

Girl Talk

It sort of sucks, being a girl. Sort of.

Girls have got a lot of girl stuff to deal with. And big girls have got a lot of big girl stuff to deal with. And big girl stuff can be pretty off putting and uncomfortable at times.

Like, for instance, the annual pap and pelvic. I mean really! The price we have to pay! I don't know one person who actually looks forward to their gynae visit. And it's not about the gynae either, it's about assuming the position and having this person that you're paying a lot of money to, have a good ol' squizz and fiddle around your nether-regions. Bedside manner aside, no matter how professional or at ease the fanny-checker may be, there are a million and one things I would rather be doing than having the cells on my cervix collected for testing. (Like weeding. Yes, I would rather weed a soccer field than have that procedure).

I have a lovely lady doctor who is on a first name basis with my privates. Once a year they get together, shake hands, and wish each other well until their next appointment. I'm not really part of this exchange. I just take the goods for checking - I'm the delivery girl, really. Kind of like chaperoning a play-date. In fact, when my girly bits and my doctor get together, I look the other way while they do what they have to do. I'm not all too keen on witnessing the entire exchange, anyway. Having been on the speculum side of these little social calls myself for too many years, I really feel like my presence at my own check-up is sort of irrelevant. In fact, if I could courier my vagina to her office and pick it up when she was done, that would suit me too.

I guess the main reason that I would rather not be there is that my doctor, bless her, really tries her best to put me at ease before, during and after the procedure. If she only knew how much I just want to get this thing over with, she would refrain from making polite conversation. Especially asking friendly questions about my family at the moment of speculum insertion. At this point I have my eyes locked on a sliver of paint curling off her ceiling, and I'm thinking happy thoughts, like rainbowfairiesbunniesamongstthedaisiesflyingponies.

There I am, eyes fixed, fairiesbunniesbutterflies, when she switches her lamp on somewhere between my knees. Even though I can't see it (a cloth is discreetly placed over my well and truly raised knees), I know it's on because the heat of the bulb is toasting my inner thighs. Bunnyrabbitsstrawberriescrispapplestrudel.

"The kids on holiday?" she asks.

I'm pressing my lips together in preparation for that nasty little tunnel funnel. "Uhuh," I breathe. Daisiesponiesrainbowskak.

"And how's your hubby been?" she asks it as she slips her speculum into position.

I want to be polite, really I do, but now's not the time. "Er, fine!" I squeak. Daisiesdammitflowerscraprabbitspoodlesinpastryfarkingrainbows.

A moment passes as she collects the cells she needs. I relax a little. I clear my throat. "Oh," I say, in as normal a voice as I can manage, "actually it was a rubbish year for him. He nearly died of Salmonella poisoning, and since then he's not been a hundred percent."

The playdate is over. She hands me a paper towel to clean up with. She's got what she needs. The friendly chatter changes to focus more on medical stuff.

She wants to know how I've settled on the pill she prescribed to bring those polycystic ovaries under control. I think I'm ok, I say. It's just that my boobs are really sore for about 10 days before my periods. I'm getting dragon dementia for two days before my periods. I'm bleeding for 7 days, and I'm very aware of stabbing pains in my abdomen somewhere in the middle of the month.

She nods wisely. She tells me that ovulation pains and PMS worsen as you get older. And PMS is especially aggravated in cases of melancholic or depressive personalities. The boob tenderness, spotty skin and general crap associated with the menstrual cycle is all within normal limits. I'm really bummed.

"So what you're saying," I squint at her, "What you're saying is that this is the price I pay for being a girl, and if I get 3 days a month to feel normal, that's the way it's gotta be?"

She smiles and pats me on the knee.

"You don't get it," I continue. "I never used to be like this. Sure I was as regular as a tsunami, but I never used to want to set my husband on fire, drive over the nagging newspaper seller or put my kids on the edge of the driveway with a great For Sale banner floating above them. For the better good, I mean, really, if you love mankind at all, for public safety and possibly even the future of the human species, you have got to give me something to keep it together!"

And so I left my annual check-up with a wad of prescriptions tucked into my handbag, and a fanny that would prefer to go unnoticed by my acquaintances for another year or so.

Sucks being a girl, I told you!

The Question Not To Ask

"I'm pregnant," I giggle over the phone.

"What?" says my husband, knowing how impossible this statement just is. He thinks a little and says, "With whose baby?"

"The hairdresser's." I'm bent over double. I start to relate the following story.

I'm not a fancy girl. I'm low maintenance. No frills. Plain Jane. I haven't had my hair cut in, like, forever. I needed a little spruce up before the holidays - just so those Christmas photos aren't totally disturbing. Not being a regular at any salon, I flit freely from place to place. No commitment. Just drop in, trim the edges, fly off. I like it that way. Don't start making me appointments six weeks in advance, thank you. I'm good to come and go as I please.

I drifted by a seemingly quiet salon - they looked like they might be able to mow the lawn before school came out, so I asked for a quick cut. They could do it - great!

All washed and waiting at the mirror, the hairdresser approaches. She has a tender, almost motherly look in her eyes. "Would you like a cupcake, dear?" she croons.

"Er, no thanks, just a trim, that's all."

She smiles.

"So how far is it?" she is dripping honey.

"Excuse me?" I ask, thinking that she may be talking about the length of my hair.

"Your pregnancy," she insists, "how far along are you?"

I just crack up on the inside, but then I'm faced with a bit of a dilemma - do I lie to make her feel better ie "4 months, thanks for asking, and I'm feeling fabulous!", or just come out with the truth. I can't lie like that.

"Er," I break eye contact with her reflection in the mirror, "I'm not pregnant."

Of course this ruins the rest of my visit with outrageously awkward silences to follow.

At one point she tried to make up for it by saying that she just thought, you know, because of the shirt I was wearing, well, it's such a lovely shirt (liar! it's a crap shirt!) and where did I get it from? I lie back. I can't remember where I got the shirt, I say (Pick 'n Pay on the half price sale rack). I lie because the truth would just make her feel more stupid about saying it's such a nice shirt. And anyway, are you completely dof? What kind of 'very lovely shirt' makes a slightly podgey woman look pregnant? Only bad shirts. That's it! NOTE TO SELF: burn shirt with immediate effect!

Of course, I got a pretty decent haircut out of the deal - I think if she'd screwed up it would have been a really tough pill to swallow.

But that question: How far are you? or When's your due date? These questions should be banned in ALL unfamiliar company. Even if the overdue woman is puffing and panting through her contractions and she's standing in a puddle of amniotic fluid in the queue at the bank, any strangers in the immediate vicinity should make light conversation only. Talk about the weather, for Pete's sake. Look the other way. You really can't be sure she's pregnant, can you? Whatever you do, don't ask the question until she drops the baby on the floor. Because the day will come, dearhearts, when that puffing panting woman is actually having an athsma attack, or that puddle of amniotic fluid is the result of an incontinent bladder, and wouldn't that be embarrassing for all concerned?

When I got home I changed my shirt. I stood in front of the mirror for a bit. I turned to the left. I turned to the right. I even turned my back to the mirror and wondered if the new shirt made my bum look pregnant. After all that self-examination, all I can say is: I have a tummy. Sure. My pelvic bones which used to proudly poke my waist band pre-kids have long ago been buried. But appearing pregnant? No! My tummy is way too weird shaped to be housing a bonny baby. Unless that baby was shaped like a Toblerone and half a BigMac, and the Toblerone had melted a bit.

Sigh.

Bug Food

This last week has been just louse-y. I am seriously only half the woman I was last week Thursday. In the space of five days, I have been savaged, guzzled, gnawed upon by nasty little creatures.. I have nine spider bites! NINE! WTF?!?!

All of these war wounds were picked up in the garden while I was doing my bit for mother nature and tending to the plants of the earth. These buggers have trespassed into the confines of my clothing, and munched away on my tender flesh. Damnit!

By the looks of the bites, I would have to conclude that I am particularly palatable to those bloody creatures. We're talking more than a mere flesh wound here, people! These bites swell. They blister. They ache. They ooze. (Hmmm, attractive picture I'm painting here, I know).

Last Saturday, I had to dance an evening away on a right foot that had swelled to twice it's normal size. My cankles had cankles. And bruising. And pain. But anything for a little getting down on the dance-floor, right? And then, surprise, surprise! The following morning the bite had healed, and I had suitably shaped ankles again. Guess those ballerinas hit on something after all in the Tarantella...

So I figured it would be just another notch in the belt. Me versus the arachnids. But, Tuesday comes along, bringing suitably outdoorsy weather with it, and another ravenous arachnid somehow manages to creep its way into my clothing. My shirt, this time.

Now I have a third breast. Seriously. It's quite perky and curvaceous, and it juts out of my ribcage just under my bra strap. It's also tender and inflamed. And it's beneath and slightly behind my left arm. So. Whoopee! I'm deformed. I can't even recruit this knob to some serious WonderBra activity.

The Chef suggested I go to a doctor.

"What for?" I was grumpy. And itchy. I shouldn't have snapped at her.

"An injection, or something." At least she cares.

"What? To make me taste worse to arachnids?" Seriously, that would be the only thing I'd go for at this stage. Seeing as they seem to clear up after a couple of days without an anti-biotic, and stop itching after a buttering of anti-histamine ointment, I'm good for now, thanks.

And to make matters worse, my spider bites now have spider bites. I have been double bitten on my leg. The original bite was not severe, and didn't even swell, but those buggers came back and made a right flesh feast of me. Now I have three new bites around an old one.

So I was thinking.

If this is how I am to get my super powers, should I complain?

But truthfully. I. Hate. Spiders.

Martian Mother

I'm thinking of moving. I've got my eye on Mars. I figure it would be just about right. Considering that one day on Mars is 24 hours 37 minutes long, I am particularly turned on by the thought of getting just over half an hour extra sleep every day. That's a pretty big selling point for me. That, and the fact that one year takes 687 days. That would instantaneously (just about) half my age, giving me the opportunity to explore and enjoy my youth better than I did the first time around.

Sure there's the fact that the atmosphere is about 95% carbon dioxide. I've survived many a night in bed with two farting offspring, so I figure I could handle that. I'm told that the radiation that hits our neighbouring planet tends to be a bit on the wild side too, but I'm up for wearing thick suits and masks. What better way to avoid a bad hair day than to just slip a mask over the whole toot and call it a day? And on the upside, Mars' gravitation is only 38% as strong as the earth's. Can you just imagine how perky these boobs would be in that kind of atmosphere? I could toss out my WonderBra collection and go commando! Woohoo! Some serious scientist guy pointed out that because of the lack of air pressure on Mars, your blood would boil if you went there without a pressurised suit. I say, whoopee, it's not like any mother I know has never experienced that before!

There is some suggestion that Martian weather sucks something awful, but I figure there's not a lot that could be worse than what we've been through in the last two months. So, bring it on! Besides, if you get yourself a size bigger on the anti-radiation suit, you could stuff all kinds of thermal insulation goodies in there with you to make yourself a pretty snug set of togs. I'm also kind of interested in the gale-force winds that blow for months at a time. It really er, blows my hair back. I mean, can you just imagine how many loads of washing you could get dry in one afternoon? I'd be completely stoked!

So, anyone interested in a little travel?

Birthday suit Bulges

For a change, we had a beautiful warm spring day. It didn't take much persuasion to get the princesses outside and up to their eyeballs in mud, sandpit, bunny fluff and snails. I cast an eye over the horizon and quietly noticed a mountain decked head to toe in snowy overalls. This warm weather may be too good to be true, I thought to myself.

After a little rabbit chasing, snail hunting, tree pruning, shrub transplanting and general activities of the garden variety, I called the troops in for a communal shower. Before I could say "Hop in, ladies!", my little girls were stripped and were performing ABBA in front of my over-size bedroom mirror.

"Do-n't go was-ting your commo-tion!" they crooned, back to back and involved in some very complicated wrist maneuvers.

I slipped off my garden scriubs and made for the shower. T-Bird caught sight of me in the mirror.

"Mom!" she screeched.

I turned, wide-eyed, expecting to find a missing limb, a giant spider or God. None of these things were waiting for me. Just the astonished face of my five year old, and my naked reflection in the mirror behind her. Having my kids standing before me, and seeing myself behind them, the reality of what 25 years can do to your body was clear. I winced. The walk of shame did not end there.

"What's the matter?" I asked the screecher.

"Your skin twirls!" she said, and traced an icy finger down my side, from just under my bra-strap to my waist. "When you bend, you twirl," she seemed pretty delighted with the discovery. "Do it again!"

"Er, I'd rather not, thanks," I was well aware of the fat-roll she was so excited about. I've had my eye on it for about 5 years.

We hopped into the shower, and I was grateful for the water splashing into my children's faces, blinding them from the extreme close-up of me, their mother. I used to have a better body, I thought to myself, and then these little people came along and somehow, in the chaos that ensued, I misplaced that nice bod, and have had to do with this one. And it saddened me to think that my kids will never know what I looked like when I looked better. And I could not have kept that better looking body AND have had kids. I had to sacrifice one for the other. Sigh.

And no, I don't want any advice on exercise and diets, thanks all the same. I choose to wallow in self-pity for a bit. Ta.

You say Masseur, I say Masseuse

So here's the question: when booking a massage at a REPUTABLE establishment (before you go getting any weird ideas now), and the lady on the phone asks if you'd prefer a male or female therapist, what is the correct answer? Anyone?

I mean either way, you could be making a major social feux pas, right? Whether you're a man or a woman, is there actually an appropriate answer to this question?

I mean, as a woman, if I ask for a female therapist, does she think I want a bit of girly action?Does she compare or judge my wobbly bits during the massage? Is she thinking, "Thank Heavens my cellulite only covers my thighs - this chick's hardly got a patch of flat firmament." And would I prefer for a male or a female therapist to take note of all my bodily flaws, anyway?

Or if I asked for a male therapist, well, what would my husband say, right? And what if the therapist's quite nice? And what if it feels kind of weird having some other (quite nice) guy running his hands over otherwise spoken-for territory. Call me prudish, but it does pose a mild dilemma, in my book. And anyway, isn't a masseur more like a physiotherapist, anyway?

And if I was a (straight) man, would I really ask for a male therapist? Could I really, willingly request another man to rub the knots out of my back? And if I ask for a female, does she think, "Ag shame, poor guy needs to pay a woman to touch him"? And consider for a moment (but really, JUST a moment, please) that other little matter that may arise. For a man. You know which one I mean. Yes, that one. Does the female therapist get a kick out of that? A bit of an inside joke, if you will. And the male therapist? If I were a (straight) guy getting a massage from a male therapist and I had an unplanned uprising, well, just how would I deal with that? The masseur sure as heck isn't blind, or dumb. I mean, how do you go about explaining that? Or do you go into the whole experiencing thinking, "Me nan on the bog, me nan on the bog" (Thank you, Ali G), and get so focussed on preventing it from happening, that you actually can't relax?

And, what if the tables are turned? What if the masseur has a physically apparent reaction to the giving of the massage? Look, it's not likely going to happen in my case, but if I was a perky petite 20-something, or a strapping athlete-type, and I caught the therapist's eye, well, what if I lifted my head at just that moment, and came eye to, er, eye(?) with the therapist? Which would be worse? If I was a woman? Maybe that would be like one of those highlights of your week, where you know you've got the goods. But if I was a (straight) man? No matter how comfortable in my sexuality I was, it would be quite a testing circumstance, I think. Or does the male therapist go into the massage thinking, "Me nan on the bog, me nan on the bog, Pick up some milk, blitz and toilet paper on the way home"?

Ok, ok! I hear you! They're all so professional and there isn't anything 'funny' about their therapy, but come on! People are people, and people think things all the time - the massage therapist is not a brain-dead machine performing a pre-programmed service, right? And the customer also is not comatose (although, depending on how things turn out, they might wish to be).

Fortunately, this is not a problem I have to deal with often, but it has come up recently, and I am having trouble trying to make my mind up about it...

A mid-winter tanning Session

OK. So I don't have a photo to prove it, but it is true, I swear! I was on the beach this morning in a bikini! See, it wasn't all just lighthearted ramblings, when I said that I should spend more time on the beach in my bikini. I didn't think it would happen so soon, admittedly, being winter and all, but happen it did - brave me!

I found myself sitting on a rock in the sun. The girls, much to my disgust (and amusement), had stripped off their winter woolies and were frolicking in the freezing Atlantic waters lapping at the Paternoster beach. My body cried out for a double dose of Vitamin D. (Which, I guess would be vitamin DD - how appropriate!)

I succumbed. I had put my bikini top on as it was our last day and I had run out of clean underwear - a very convenient excuse, I know. I lay my less than perfect body out on that barnacle-covered rock and roasted at a moderate temperature for a full 20 minutes, turning occasionally. I admit that I did keep an eye out for any local fishermen who may have approached to try and sell off their illegal catch of crayfish. But, keeping their distance, kept me absorbing UVA.

And what a truly magnificent way to bring a long-weekend, mini-break to an end: Paternoster rocks! Now reality and the Durbanville chill are sinking in. Back to the grindstone, folks!

PS - I don't want any comments about the lack of photo to prove this event, thank you - I did it - take my word for it. And anyway, a photo would have rather ruined the memory...

Mindnumbing Ramblings

I sit drowning my sorrows in a BIG bag of salt and vinegar chips - yip! That ol' MSG craving has struck again!

Not that I have many sorrows today - mostly just thoughts and ideas and questions.

Things like:

* Will my frozen toosh ever have feeling again?

* How the heck did I emerge from yesterday's therapy session with a multiple personality?

* Will the drip in the braai room somehow magically dry up?

* Surely Simba chips should have their own level on the food pyramid? Especially those fresh Salt and Vinegar ones.

* How can I take a long-weekend trip when I have to care for two very soft and fluffy bunnies?

* Is that the Maldives I hear calling my name?  Yip. It must be. The sound of gentle lapping waves on the shore, a coconut falling off a branch, a gentle warm breeze rustling the leaves. Sounds Maldivesy to me!

* Is Wall-E really the best animated film ever, or is Barry Ronge, film critique extraordinaire, just exaggerating?

* If I had to choose between my daughter and my camera, I would have a really perplexing decision on my hands. Does that make me a bad mother? (I could have killed her for dropping it on Saturday - Aaargh!)

* Isn't it time to be more eco-conscious? I mean, I really feel strongly that green is the new black, and all, but I should be far more active in modelling healthy, eco-friendly behaviour for my children.

* How awkward I feel for defending the emotional side, and not the logical side, of last week's tragic suicide. Sure it was wrong, but she really believed that there was not another option for herself. She honestly thought that she would be making things better for her children and her husband. Logic did not play a role in her decision.

* It sort of messes things up in my head a bit when I feel like a good 'ol cuss will do the trick to capture the moment in one four-letter word, when, at the same I just can't bring myself to do it. Why is it so hard to overcome vulgarity for the satisfaction of spitting out those descriptive and colourful phrases? Surely a healthy bit of *&#$@ couldn't hurt?

* Has my honesty frightened off a couple of role players in the bigger picture? Drat!

* Are parabens really that harmful to my hormones? 

* Since when did the STUFF move back into the study? Sure, we had two birthdays, one hospital stay, and three weeks of holidays, but is this STUFF for real?

* Did breastfeeding my children for as long as I did leave an indelible stamp of confidence and security on their wee foundations? Please say yes, please say yes!

* Will I ever again be able to pull in my tummy so that my hip bones stick out? Currently, I can suck it up all I like, and that pot-belly doesn't shift an inch!

Hmm! The crisps are finished and it's time to collect the kids...

Youth is wasted on the Young

So the big Three-Oh arrived. And I still have this strangely euphoric feeling all bubbly and jiggly inside me. It feels good to be 30. All growed up. No more silly issues. A switch has been flipped, and I am enjoying the electricity of the next decade.

Seriously.

I am even appreciating my earth suit with a new found admiration. I was told that the day you turn thirty, your body rebels, and everything drops, and your metabolism slows down and you become constipated and a number of other horrendous things happen to you. No wonder the lead-up to the day was slightly disturbing. Jeez! 

Nevertheless, the day came and went, and standing in front of the mirror taking stock of this body, I had me a little think. I thought back to when I was twenty, getting married, planning to go on holiday, and buying my first bikini ever. I remember how wearing that bikini made me feel so self conscious, and how I just didn't think I had the body for prancing along the beach front all scanty-like. Looking back now, I should have worn my bikini a whole lot more. 

Look, the package is still the same right? But, ten years and two kids later, some settling has taken place during transit, if you know what I'm saying? Still, not entirely unpresentable, mind you, just slightly more advanced.

And I reckon, that in ten years time, I'm going to think about the body I have today, and, compared to what it will be like then, I'm going to think that at thirty, I should have worn my bikini till it was threadbare! And so, in the light of living without regrets, I am going to (think about) wear(ing) my bikini a whole lot more, as of now.

Well, maybe not RIGHT now, seeing as it's torrentially down-pouring at the moment, but when the weather is a bit warmer, and the thought of soaking up some sunshine crosses my mind, I just might surprise myself in turning up in less than a t-shirt and pedal pushers... 

Porn to be Mild

Have you ever been minding your own business out there in cyberspace, browsing through virtual malls, smelling the digital daisies, when all of a sudden your PC is bombarded with the sort of things that you would never admit to your mother that you have even heard of? Of course it's happened to you! If you are reading this right now, you would be lying if you said that cyber-porn had never crossed paths with you.

So there I was thinking that my sweet little blog was floating around in a sea of equally sweet and polite collections of ramblings from around the globe, with the odd horrific incident or blasphemous retort thrown in, when all of a sudden I tripped up on a 9 inch dildo and fell face first into somebody's very naked crotch. 

Now I'm a nurse. I am not shocked by the human body. I have seen it all. I've had plenty of very intimate encounters with all manner of anatomy. If you want stories, I could regale you for hours with descriptive, sometimes disgusting, often hilarious tales of wobbly bits and other important body parts. And yet there is still something intrinsically disturbing to me about cyber-porn that floats around just waiting to poke it's horn into my Internet Explorer Cookies Folder.

Call me old-fashioned or naive or whatever, but really, couldn't they just keep all that stuff in a little Pandora's box that isn't lying around for any John, Dick or Hairy to trip over and drown in? Look, I'm not being a prude. If you want it, by all means help yourself, but please don't leave it lying around in between my blog and my kids' school's website. You know what I'm saying?

I mean there really is no value to the cyber-surfer who isn't actually looking for it, to find it. There are enough free porn sites out there that you could get so completely submerged into it without another single person actually even making a cent out of it. So where's the value of slipping a leaflet under every single virtual windscreen wiper then?

I guess that the truth of my gripe is that I'm really moaning about real estate. If you have ever spent an idle hour reading blogs, you will know that you can generally skip from one blog to the next at a randomly generated order, never knowing exactly what the next page holds. And if it all comes down to LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION, then it concerns me that in a brief moment of binary calculation I may end up next door neighbour to a Barely Legal Teen doing something Exceedingly Acrobatic to a Very Lucky Cowboy. It's just not the reputation I'm going for at this point in my life, see?

So I guess what I'm saying is, if you happen to drop in for a browse around and then shuffle on to the next site and it turns out to be a Lonely Housewife amusing herself with a Vacuum Cleaner and a Candle Snuffer, well, I had nothing to do with the town planning. OK?

Is the voice in my head bothering you yet?

I have come to the realisation that I have lost two very important components to my integral being by becoming a parent. The first is time. The second, a decent portion of my sanity (including short term memory), and the third, my waist-line. I think that the second factor has delayed my realisation of the third factor for a long time, which, thanks to the first factor, I didn't have anyway.
While taking in an episode of Dr Phil (over a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich), I was brought to a point of enlightenment like never before. The good doctor was berating some tear-stained 17 year-old for having a condition known as BDD - Body Dysmorphic Disorder - it's where this fairly attractive pubescent girl looks in the mirror and sees "an ugly, overweight cow" (Dr Phil's words, I swear).
Later, upstairs, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to out-stare my reflection. My reflection blinked first. I took a couple of steps back and had a good look at what I saw. I turned left and checked my profile. I turned right. I faced away from the mirror and craned my neck like an owl, trying to see what I look like from behind. I turned back again and smoothed my creased shirt down over my twice-gravid belly.
The penny dropped. Time stood still. My reflection blinked. Again.
I suffer from Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
The truth was, and is, that my hormone bedevilled skin, my dried out split-ends, my extra weight evenly distributed between boobs, belly and bum, my vagrant eyebrows, my years of poor personal attention leading to chipped nails and hobbit hair on my feet, well all of that stuff, I kind of didn't see. As I stood in front of that mirror, all I saw was absolutely fabulous!
So there you have it, I know what the truth is, but, due to my lack of time and increasing insanity, I just haven't really being seeing it at all.
When I get up to go in the mornings, if my shoes match, it's a good day. I apply my make-up in a poorly lit bathroom and leave home thinking that I'm good-to-go. If I happen to catch a reflection of myself in a car window or mud puddle during the day, still I'm happy with the way things are. The real problem comes into play if I happen to find myself in a change-room at Woolies or, worse still, before the mirror in the baathroom at the pre-school at Delivering or Collecting time. For some reason the mirrors in these places seem to pierce through my apparant view of the way I see me, and reveal an apparition that blinks at me through the glass. Her hair is standing up, she has tomato sauce dried on her chin, next to a whopper zit, her eyeshadow has rubbed off, but a smear of mascara is staining her cheek, primary wrinkles are appearing around her neck, her bra is far from supportive (Parents Against Early Ageing would do a better job), clothing creased, but her shoes match. Hmm! That's me!
I turn away, take my sunglasses off the top of my head and breath over a lens. Wiping the mist off on my sleeve, I tilt the shades so that I can just catch a glimpse of my face reflected in the lens. My reflection winks at me. Looking good, Baby!
Now wouldn't I just completely blow all of Dr Phil's boats out of the water?

Tricycle Tours and Gallumphing Mamas

You know how awful it is when you hear a recording of your own voice? Especially if you're not into TV or Radio and don't have to listen to yourself for a living. 

Well, I saw a video clip last night that captured me running alongside my cycling 3 year old at the Argus Tricycle Tour 2008 yesterday. Running. Me. The non-gym fanatic. The holder of the I'm-not-built-to-run excuse. How painful is that? Let me tell you.

If you think hearing your own voice is bad, try, if you can, to translate that audio response into a visual reaction linked to rapid motion, and then times that by 700. Ouch! If I knew that's what I looked like when I ran, I would ban me ever taking more than a leisurely stride. In fact, I would be sure that I never hurry anywhere. On foot. (I had to add that, because I can drive pretty well, and I'm fairly competent on roller-blades even if I haven't used them as an official form of transportation in the last 10 years or so).

But watching myself run was a personally painful experience. Not only do I think I have a "Heavy" Run (a bit like a charging refrigerator), but having to see the way my body responds to increased motion is really not aesthetically pleasing. Apart from the obvious bits that get a bit wobbly during a run (note to self: should have worn better support), I was not impressed by the strained expression on my face. I seriously looked like I was been tortured. There was this pained look in my eyes which would belong better in a dentist's chair during root-canal surgery than on a race track. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not look at all good being a bit overweight, sweating profusely and trying desperately to keep up with a very accomplished little cyclist. I guess that the real pain comes from the fact that I had secretly hoped, somehow, that I would look really fabulous beside my speedy little tyke on her bike. That the other moms accompanying their kids to the race would look at us and think "Wow - what a cool mom! Wish I could keep up with my 3 year old AND look so completely fantastic!" It was a nasty wake-up call seeing the truth captured on film. A pitiful replay, to say the least.

The real cherry-on-top of this excruciating ordeal for me was the cheerful voice I was using to mask my discomfort. "Keep it up!", "Faster! Faster! OK, not so fast!", "Don't ride into the other children, Love!" and "Wait for me, Sweetie!" when all I really wanted to do was lie down under a pine tree and throw up (well, maybe not in that order). And, having been reminded of what my voice sounds like, the thought of that all mixed up with my tragic sprint is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

But beside all that, the girls raced beautifully!