Friday, November 30, 2007
You can all hit the comments with this, what super power would you have or which super hero would you be?
The way the wildlife is invading this house, I could turn into Spiderwoman anytime now.
And my secret power would be to have a long range invisible slap.
The thought of wrapping a sharp hand to the face of Captain Smirk makes me happy and yes, it is okay to kick a party when it's down.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Serves me right for having a laugh at her expense when I got up this morning to discover Huntzilla Rex on the ceiling. I thought the last huntsman was huge but this had it beat. I thought I might leave it until I came home but a closer look and I tell you that mother had childbearing hips. So I went to grab the pick up stick and a much much bigger bag than I usually use and even then it managed to race up the bag and start down the stick. Being an old hand at spiderwrangling, I already had the front door open and all went out with a crash. I was really brave in the open and had a poke at the arachnid which reared up with the fangs going like crazy.
So back to Nigella. One critic described her cooking style as "a heart attack on a plate". Another claimed that her new show contained "scenes of gluttony not seen since the golden age of the Cookie Monster". Then there are the website forums where commenters have been less than complimentary about the Domestic Goddess. FFS, why should Nigella take any responsibility for any adult person's obesity as one study has claimed. Cop this from a spokeswoman from the Medical Research Council who carried out the study.
"The problem is compounded because Lawson is seen as both posh and sexy, which makes people feel comfortable about eating a piece of fried eggy bread covered in strawberry sauce in bed. If it was a recipe created by Waynetta Slob, then maybe they would think differently."
Duh! I liked Ioan Gruffydds as Hornblower (a lot, drool) but it didn't make me want to run out and join the navy as a midshipman. I watched her last week and while I loved the Black Forest Trifle I didn't gallop into the kitchen and make one up. I liked last night's chicken roast and spent 5 minutes converting it to Tofu.
Her kids don't look obese and while she's no size zero, she's not obese either. While I do think adults are responsible for childhood obesity in many cases, that stops when the children are made to take responsibility for themselves. I love The Cook and The Chef and you wouldn't call Maggie Beer a size zero either but their food is fresh, it looks delicious and while I can't eat it, I can look and enjoy. I'd rather watch Nigella cook food than watch stick insects parade on a catwalk, where the only thing keeping them together is cigs, coke and the other coke.
Go here for the best rock art which has been preserved for millennia in this isolated region of the Sahara. In the southwest of Egypt across the borders of Sudan and Libya, in the mountains of the Gilf Kebir and Jebel Unweinat are images of giraffe, cattle and people from a time when this desert was a receding prairie, 5,000 to 7,000 years ago. The art belongs to a cultural heritage that is still being explored.
Rock art specialist Tilman Lenssen-Erz says that in prehistoric times the sites would have been known for thousands of square kilometres. "This was a place so highly charged with symbolism and with the world views that were fixed there in the rock art that it would have been like a huge cathedral in a European context," say Lenssen-Erz. " People from far away would know about the significance of the religious power that is collected in this place...where the supernatural powers of the world were fixed on rocks making the whole area a sacred landscape."
So why would bored tourists, who pay up to 10,000 dollars for a two-week expedition, destroy the paintings and engravings? From a giant engraving of a topless woman across ancient hieroglyphs to a portrait of Bob Marley outside a painted cave which is filled with rubbish left behind by travellers. Travellers who also like to leave their names like surburban grafitti louts.
Saad Ali, runs the Farafra Development Institution NGO and arranges trips to clean up the desert. In 2005, they collected 11 tonnes of rubbish but only 4.5 tonnes in 2006. His policy is to train the local guides but the tour operators working out of Cairo are still doing more damage than they are aware of. He is scathing of tourists who still live with a colonial mentality and of Cairo based expats who take away artefacts in 4x4s.
Egypt, Libya and Sudan have to all agree to have the area designated as a trans-boundary cultural landscape UNESCO World Heritage site but they have to first all agree to declare individual national Parks. Only Egypt has done this but a meeting in December could see the other countries do the same.
I am fascinated by this corner of the world. It was declared to have the largest impact crater field ever found in 2004 but investigations in 2006/7 have shown that these craters are volcanic but not formed in the usual way. But that is a whole other post.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Con your Mother-in-law into letting you wear his Gran's Tiara.
Throw 5 rows of diamonds worth several million pounds around your scraggy neck.
No-one will be looking at wrinkles or be able to see them through the glare of that serious bling.
Book a physio for the next morning for the neck adjustment.
Women spend up to 2 years and nine months over a lifetime to get ready for work, or go on a big night out. The poll gets right down to the nitty-gritty showing that women typically spend 22 minutes showering and shaving their legs, seven minutes moisturising or applying fake tan, 23 minutes on their hair, 14 minutes on make-up and six minutes getting dressed.
Most men say they get fed up waiting - and one in 10 has even ended a relationship because of it.
Women spend a lifetime waiting for men to put the toilet seat down. How many minutes do we wait until the last goal is kicked before we get taken out? How much time do we waste putting on an oxygen mask before the male gets the hint and uses deodorant? How many hours do we waste before he admits defeat and stops to ask for directions? How many eye-rolls can we get to the second before he realises that we don't care about the 44DD serving behind the bar?
Toughen up guys, patience is a virtue and while virtue is its own reward, you still have to wait for sex if we have a headache.
Friday, November 23, 2007
feathers but the combined colours in luscious silk had my eyes drooling (they can do that) and I was thinking that the perfect jewell for this confection would be the huge blue diamond heart from the film 'Titanic' not the tatty beads the ratty haired tart is holding.
So travelling down the page, still feasting, I come across this. My first thought was, "Why bother?" but it does look demure and sexy at the same time. Unfortunately the only bits of me that would fit are the toptits and I would need another four outfits for the rest of me. Definitely comes under the heading of complete fantasy.
(Sorry the link is broken and I hid it so well. The son took his mother to the toilet 47 times in one night but what got to him in the finish was having her say her prayers every time he put her back to bed.)
I followed some of the other stories and comments. Most of the comments were supportive but there were also the usual "you ought to be grateful, think of what she gave up for you" people.
This doesn't wash with me. Children don't ask to be born. Adults decide to become parents but children don't say when asked, "I just can't wait to grow up and become a carer to my mother/father". It's a choice and a damned hard one to make and it shouldn't be expected of any child who can't handle it, whether the 'child' is 15 or 50.
*** After the last post I asked my mother what age I was when I was taken to the hospital. It was just after my first birthday. My father was at the Repat hospital with TB and we were living with his aunt and family. I was taken in by ambulance but they refused to allow my mother to go with me. The family verbally abused her for allowing this and my great-uncle punched her, something I hadn't known until now. She was only 18, my father was dying and the doctor had told her that I would be dead if she didn't let me go and having nursed, she could see for herself that it was true. She remembered every detail of this trauma and then asked me what day it was.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
2. Give an estimate of your age at the time.
3. Tag at least three other bloggers. No names, just grab your chance to relive your own horror.
I say that because I think every memory I could dredge up was a childhood nightmare.
I really had to think hard to find the earliest one which was when we lived in Ferntree Gully so I must have been three and a half. The national park up there had huge cages for birds, really great for a national park to stick the poor buggers behind wire. I remember black cockatoos and sulphur crested cockatoos. There was a kiosk where they sold icecreams, of course I'd remember that. The children's playground was near the cages and that's where my cousin put me in a swing and swung me before I was ready. I went flying off the back of the swing at the highest point and don't remember much about anything after that.
I don't know why I went to a shrink for two years, all I had to do was discover memes. Amazing how many memories are sparked by an object, a photo or smell. I was an extremely anxious child, the shrink said it usually starts in the womb when a child has it as badly as I did. I think I tried to live in an alternate universe for years where I was a fairy queen and nothing could harm me. My mother said I was a very quiet child, of course I was. I was too frightened to breathe let alone talk to anyone.
I'm still writing down whatever comes into my mind from my childhood and it wasn't, by any means, a traumatic time. I had food, I was warmly clothed and wasn't knocked about by abusive parents, I just seem to remember all the frightening events and not many happy ones.
I might have been a fairy queen exchanged for a human child. I had an infection which caused an obstruction in the throat (I was only a baby) so the doctor sent me to Fairfield Infectious Diseases Hospital for two weeks. Two weeks in which my mother was not allowed to visit until she received a call to pick me up. Not one doctor explained to her what it was that I had or gave her any documentation as to what treatment I'd been given. No wonder I loved the X-Files, I was one. When I asked her why she didn't query this, she said that during the war you got used to being told what to do and to ask no questions. This was years after the war had finished.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Which Harry Potter Character Are You?
|You are part Ron. You're the typical sidekick. Sometimes you get jealous of your more popular friends, but that's only because you don't how much work it is to be in the spotlight.|
|You are part Hagrid. You're an outcast with a heart of gold. Despite your own problems, you always find time to help those in need.|
|Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com|
What Type of Movie Would Your Life Be?
|Your life would be a Horror Film. You question the metaphysical and are curious about the supernatural. Your imagination lures you to the dark side. You play with the idea of spirituality, but have yet to reach any definitive and absolute conclusions. While your mind constantly toys with things that seem to transcend the laws of nature, there's a part of you that remains firmly grounded in the world around you.|
|Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com|
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
He is baffled by this and by the fact that she hasn't lost any weight although we know she's lost body mass. The tests weren't looking for cancer markers, just blood salts, thyroid function, diabetes. Heart is fine, blood pressure is fine, she's just parked her brain somewhere and can't find the way back.
One sister came to see her on Sunday and thought she looked wonderful. Now we're either doing a better job than we thought or stupid beetch didn't have her glasses on. So in one week the old girl had, a doctor's visit, pathology visit, podiatrist and sister. Confusion complete and it will be another week before she's back on planet earth.
The woman has kicked Death in the balls four times now so perhaps he's given it up as a bad job.
She had a pelvic abcess in 1988. Only two out of the last 10 patients at the hospital survived this and none were as bad as she was. Because she was opened up from hip to hip and packed with sterile dressings, they decided to send her home to try to keep any golden staph infection from invading. District nurses came in every day to do the dressings but they only came in once and she had to wait, with muck pouring out, for the next dressing. The finish for me was having one nurse come in, not wash her hands on arriving, dress what was supposed to be sterile, then leave without washing her hands.
Sis and I talked it over and for the next 8 months, until that open gut closed, we did it all. We didn't care that the one nurse who came to supervise me for the first time, said we didn't have to sterilize everything, including the cottonwool, we did. I wore a simple apron, washed my hands, washed Mum's bedding and clothing in bleach and never had a single infection nor did my mother. Sis would do the early morning before her shift at the hospital, I'd do the two during the day and she'd do the last one at night. She still gets the shudders about the early Sunday morning one considering the monumental hangover she always had after Saturday night.
Halfway through, the specialist discovered the abcess kept returning, thank you shithead for not listening to the non-medical person who had her head in an open stomach and knew something was wrong. She had a colostomy which proved to be the way to full recovery. That was fun. It meant doing a sterile dressing on one half and a non-sterile wash down on the other. We stuck with the routine of washing hands and clothes, no infection. The day that hole finally closed was a celebration, subdued while we waited to see if it opened again but it stayed. Another visit from a nurse who specialized in colostomies to check up. She roared at me for mollycoddling my mother and demanded to know why she wasn't up and caring for herself. My mother burst into tears and I told her to read her notes and look for herself. The look at that just healed hip to hip hole made her our very best friend.
In 2003, she had Pneumonia and Pancreatitis at the same time. The doctors told us to go home but it was 'How soon can you get back?'. She wasn't expected to last the night but she walked out of there 10 days later. So I don't know why we are surprised that breast cancer hasn't made off with her yet. I've left out the heart attack, the broken leg and the emergency appendectomy. There was also the septic hysterectomy in her early thirties, the tennis ball sized lump out of the right breast which was benign and the consequent breast reduction.
If I could bottle the will power that woman has, I could make millions. She won't give up. As Sis said to the doc yesterday, the woman is not leaving the house except in a box which is okay with us but does she have to give us so much grief before she goes.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The house is strewn with unfinished projects. Bags for the op shop are still in the hall and I keep dropping the odd book or video in there, any pair of shoes that have given me blisters and believe me if they're still giving me blisters after two years, they're never going to be good and bits of material.
Which brings me back to the sewing. I almost threw in a beautiful piece of cotton from the after-Christmas sales last year. My autumn colours, soft and quality fabric good for at least 20 years of wear. I'm really into economic sustainability where clothes are concerned because it gives me more money to put into shoes that don't give me blisters. So this material was cut out, sewn up and put on.....eeeeeeeeek. The red roses that were so nice in the background suddenly looked like a posse of pustules in search of a disease and so it ended up in the bottom of the 'unwearable' basket. Sometimes a dress costing $15 isn't that much of a bargain.
I don't like to give up on a fabric though and I decided to re-cut it. A rummage through the patchwork stash brought a brilliant red with dark holly leaves, perfect match to tone down the roses. a remmant from Big W meant a greeny yellow flounce (holly leaves and red berries) and I was on my way to a Christmas season dress.
This isn't the only midnight to dawn article being sewn. Two nightdresses (still at the bottom of the basket), two nighties, three sundresses, two dresses, one summer, one autumn and three of these have flounces (also 6 pairs of blessed knickers which will be 'un-blessed' when I darn the holes in the interests of economic sustainability). All straight sewing which is good for boring oneself to sleep. But halfway through the glow-in-the-dark Christmas rose, I decided to measure how many metres I'm actually sewing. Bad bad idea. I'm sewing my way through enough yardage to get the Cutty Sark to China and back on the tea run. Now I've started to worry about about the bargearse which is going to stop me sleeping after all the sewing.
I might have to resort to a bit of chemical assistance to get back the sleeping pattern. A few hours a night is playing havoc with the face, the wrinkles are starting to have a life of their own. Another thing to detest about daylight saving. Walking into a bathroom flooded with sunshine really doesn't do much for early morning vanity.
Anyhow, I've tried on the dress. It fits. It is bright. Children will be looking for presents underneath my feet. Reindeer will think I'm fodder. Forget the latest comet, I can be seen from Space. Bow to me, I am the Christmas twit. (I said TWIT, you low minds)
Monday, November 12, 2007
It's slow typing with one hand, the other sort of in a sling thing.
I don't know what they do in that house with toilet paper and laundry liquid so I had to whiz up to the local supermarket which is just up the road.
Toilet rolls on special and Sorbent the brand they prefer, Dynamo, short cut Ma and get milk before she tells me she's out of it, the milk that is.
Decide not to buy Vodka because I'm already zonked and stagger towards the door where I catch my foot in the mat and "We have lift-off, Houston Control".
The only thing that saved me from hitting a parked car 15 feet away is the plastic fly curtains which wrap themselves around my neck and break my fall and nearly my neck.
My shoulder smashes into the door frame, hand is wrenched around by the heavy shopping bag and I've twisted my spine.
All this so I wouldn't fall on my tin knees because falling on concrete really really hurts.
Thank you to the sodding owner who checked that his fridge door wasn't broken before he checked me.
Cooked the old duck's dinner while sticking my head in the freezer and having a snivel. Bad move, because I didn't look at my face before going home and I've forgotten how far mascara can run during a snivelling session.
To top everything off, taxi driver lies to the control centre and says I've already left. Lying bastard. Another 10 minutes of sitting on the front fence before another cab shows up.
Now I have to go back on Wednesday for the pathology nurse to take blood from mother in case she doesn't hear the door bell and I couldn't go through another hour of trying to get a home visit from them for a blood test.
Then I get to go shopping for her on Thursday.
Friday, I may open a vein.
Update: While I was out doing good things, bitch next door cut half my tree down, in my property not just the bit overhanging her place. The tree wasn't dead, the ivy in it was but the stupid fecking troll couldn't just shake the dried leaves off, she had to cut the branches.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
I've had a weekend of meltdowns, large and small, due to mother emergencies, real and imagined.
How glad I am that I come home to the sounds of silence. No cat/dog/kid whinging to be fed. No husband/partner demanding clean underwear and cold beer. No friends wanting to know what I'm doing for Christmas. Just my little sanctuary of nothingness which is staying that way forever.
I am on the brink, ready to fall over the cliff, checking out what's left of my brain. One more phone call from the old bat and my sanity will snap.
I haven't written much about her lately because I know there are people in cyberland who actually like their mothers and would be very upset if they were to fall off the twig or who have mothers who've already gone.
Political correctness only goes so far though.
The doctor is coming tomorrow so I have to try and waylay him before he comes into the house.
Tell him to just look at the cancer lesion on her face, feel the suspicious lump in her right leg, tell him about the dizziness that we suspect is her potassium/sodium levels fluctuating but most of all tell him not to engage in any dialogue with crazylady.
All I want him to do, is listen to what's coming out of her brain but that might not work. She has the uncanny ability to pull her remaining brain cells together for half an hour to come across as normal. After all, he's only coming for a social visit as she's not really sick. This from a woman who thinks the cat is the dog that's been dead for 6 years and when I corrected her, said there wasn't much difference between the two.
She's already rung three times today for me to go over and clean up and dust for the visit. She doesn't want him to think she can't look after herself. I expect another call about 7.30 when she realises she's left the TV guide somewhere and needs to know what's on tonight.
Last week I was accused of trying to kill her with morphine. My sister tried to bump her off by cooking fresh food. My nephew tried to do her in by staying out late. Whatever we do, she wants the opposite.
This is not a dramatic weight loss, skin and bone type of cancer. It's a slow decline in all physical and mental capacities, and it's also killing us. It's like living with an emotional vampire so if I don't blog for a while just put it down to having my brain matter sucked out of my ears.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The sharks use a gel like substance on their heads to pick up electrical signals from the water.
The process is called electroreception and it blocks out the shark's other senses which is why it will go for prey that is bleeding instead of an easier target.
The gel contains various proteins and salts, so it's simular to mucus, only with a jelly like consistency. Basically it's shark snot (and you thought I was kidding) according to researcher, Dr. R. Douglas Fields.
If you want to know more before the swimming and chomping season starts take a look at
And before you lot start on the linking thingy, I tried, honest. My feet hurt too much to concentrate. I had to walk to the bus to go shopping because of all those stupid tarts taking taxis to the Oaks. Inconsiderate bimbos, I hope they all intend to go swimming with sharks.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Now I'm going to the other end of the globe to see what happened to the iceberg B_15A which crunched into the Drygalski Ice Tongue in the Ross Sea on the 18 April, 2006. It was such a good wallop the berg broke off the end of the ice tongue and I haven't checked on it since. So many satellite photos, so little time to look at them all.
Monday, November 05, 2007
I'm not thinking about the ewlection but I am thinking about nominating Ampersand Duck for an OA for that typo which sums up the current ratfest.
I'm not thinking about the Melbourne Cup because I don't want to jinx my horses and I'm not thinking of telling you what they are.
I'm not thinking about the roving huntsman. He was shoved out into the storm last night. I think the silverfish have disposed of the cockroach.
WHAT AM I THINKING ABOUT - SIX GLORIOUS YEARS OF DIVORCE.
I hope the bastard's miserable.
I don't need to hope anything else, he's already bald, fat, wears glasses and married a moron.
(not me, the Blonde)
Friday, November 02, 2007
In modern Scottish and Welsh languages, the owl, by the etymology of the word alone carries negative connotations of death and darkness. To the Welsh, the Owl is a night predator. The only bird capable of defeating the falcon and then only at dusk, its time of power. The Owl symbolizes death and renewal, wisdom, moon magick, and initiations.
Their Goddess Arianrhod shapeshifts into a large Owl, and through the great Owl-eyes, sees even into the darkness of the human subconscious and soul. She is said to move with strength and purpose through the night, her wings of comfort and healing spread to give solace to those who seek her.
A star and moon Goddess, she was also a deity of reincarnation and karma. The Mother aspect of the Triple Goddess in Wales, her palace was Caer Arianrhod (Aurora Borealis). In Celtic folklore it is considered both to be sacred and to have magical powers.
In Greek mythology the Owl was a creature sacred to Athena, Goddess of the night who represented wisdom. The Owl sat upon her shoulder revealing unseen truths to her, lighting up her blind side, enabling her to speak the whole truth.
The Ainu in Japan trust the Owl because it gives them notice of evil approaching and mediates between the Gods and men. The Zulu and other West African nations consider the bird a powerful influence in casting spells, and think that using parts of the owl give great strength to a person involved with magical incantations. In the Middle East, China, and Japan, the Owl is considered as both a bad omen and an evil spirit. For Christians the Owl traditionally signifies the Devil, powers of evil, bad news, and destruction. In the Old Testament the Owl is an unclean creature that stands alone as a figure of desolation. In an Australian Aboriginal myth the Owl is the messenger of bad news but in the Americas, the Cherokee honour the bird as sacred because of its night-time vision, and wish to draw that power to themselves to see in the dark.
The Owl can see that which others cannot, which is the essence of true wisdom. Where others are deceived, Owl sees and knows what is there. As a symbol of the Goddess, Owl represents perfect wisdom. They bring messages in dreams. The Owl is the bird of mystical wisdom and ancient knowledge of the powers of the moon.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
The bottom layer was gravel, covered by three larger mounds of chalk boulders and chalk rubble. It was, at 40 metres high, the largest artificial hill in Europe. This was in an age when survival was day to day so I can't imagine why they would take the time and effort to create this.
Jim Leary, an English Heritage archaeologist, said the original builders left the site without any man made rubbish except for the antler picks used in the building. Dating of one of the antlers proved the structure was complete almost 1,000 years before the last arrangement of the stones at Stonehenge. The top came later, carved flat to take a Saxon or Norman building.
The once sacred monument will now be cleared of modern activity and exploration tunnels sealed.
Some believe that Silbury was built to represent the mother goddess, with the mound symbolising the pregnant womb, the writer Michael Dames has identified Silbury Hill as the winter goddess and Moses B. Cotworth stated that Silbury may have been used as a giant 'sundial' to determine seasons and the true length of the year.
It could be that it provided a means of following solar activity, as shadows were cast from its summit. Silbury is also at the centre of alignments for straight prehistoric tracks which the Romans bricked over and there's evidence of ancient Ley lines (energy grids) linking key sites in the area.
Near Silbury there was another mystery. On the 2nd and 3rd of August 2004, the Mayan Calender crop circle, voted one of the best ever made, appeared. Made by aliens, electro magnetice floating orbs or men with rope and boards, it still looks fantastic until you remember it was made in two stages not in one night.
There are two good sites for crop circles http://www.lucypringle.co.uk/ Lucy Pringle explores and explains crop circles and their effects on visitors. This site has a stunning collection of photographs of the crop circles.
http://www.circlemakers.org/ is the site of England's crop circle makers, the rope and board men but even they don't claim all circles as their own.
Civilizations rise and fall but mysteries go on forever.