Things I never thought I'd do #315

There are many things I never thought I'd do in this life:

• Lining up with the elderly and long-term unemployed to buy Take 5 and that's life! magazines.
• Buying containers to place inside containers in order to 'declutter'. 
• Pushing chunks of vomit through a plug hole.
• Trimming matted hairs from my dog's anus.
• Googling 'brush turkey mounds'. 

And apparently...taking a trip to an army disposal store while trying to appear 'normal'.

I'm not sure if it's just me (and it's a distinct possibility that it is just me), but this week I discovered that I cannot walk into an army disposal store without thinking that they're thinking that I'm a serial killer. 

This was not aided by my forced 'upbeat' demeanour as I entered the store.

Me: "I have a bit of a weird request".

Army Disposal Owner (ADO): "There's no such thing as a weird request in here".

Me: *scanning the locked cabinets full of weapons and catching a glimpse of a random, seated, bearded Old Mate straight out of Deliverance.*

Me: "I'm looking to buy a machete for my partner's birthday". (Followed by a lengthy over explanation about yard work, and living near the bush, and clearing paths and...Jesus - STOP!) 

My brain: *He thinks you look normal on the surface, but that you are actually one of those people who appears normal and then buys a machete and ends up on the news.*

ADO: "I can help you with that. What sort of machete are you looking for?" (Followed by the unlocking of cabinets and a lengthy over explanation about size, price, saw edges (*SAW EDGES!*)

At this point, ADO led me to another locked cabinet and started placing each machete in my hand so I could get a 'feel for them'. Meanwhile Deliverance Old Mate was still sitting on his stool watching.

My brain: *I am holding a machete. I am Jason Voorhees. He thinks I am Jason Voorhees. They probably sell hockey masks. Why are there SWAT team security caps in that cabinet? What else do they sell in here? Why is Deliverance Old Mate watching?*

ADO: "I have my best seller coming in in a couple of days. We've had a bit of a run on machetes lately."

Me: "You've had a run on machetes?"

ADO: "Yeah, it's all the wet weather. Things are overgrown."

My brain: *Of course they are.*

Me: "I'll just take this one - in the case, please...and if it doesn't do the job, I'll come back and get the other one" (*What am I even saying?*)

At this moment, I considered looking around the rest of the shop, but I turned and looked deep into the soul of Deliverance Old Mate and reconsidered. (*What is he even doing here?*)

I managed to get the machete safely to the house and was greeted by Miss C, "Mum, you do know that if there's a machete murder, you'll be a suspect.

I rang my mother.

Mum: "Your finger prints are all over those machetes. I would've wiped them down."

My brain: *Jesus, that's next level.*

George was suitably impressed with his new machete, and no one has been injured thus far. 

I have also added another thing to my list of things I never thought I'd do and that is utter the words, "Please remove your machete from the floor."

 

Let’s get physical…to a point.

I am a relatively fit person. Not Jennifer Beals fit, but not too bad for 34. I run around after children. I run around the office. I generate a hefty dose of adrenalin just, well…existing, which is the main reason I recently joined a gym – to harness some of the adrenalin coursing through me and to release some endorphins. Anyone else would opt for some kind of illicit substance to quell a head full of circling thoughts.

My only experience with public exercising thus far (apart from the time I decided I would ‘go for runs’ on our local bike track, which translated to ‘running to the bike track and walking the rest of the way’) was the ladies’ gym I joined a year after The Ranga was born. This supportive, 80s-music- playing, female-only environment lulled me into a false sense of security. It provided me with the confidence to publically exercise again - this time in a co-ed gym - with people who take exercising VERY seriously.

I eased myself in to my new gym with a couple of low impact classes and a few brisk walks on the treadmill. And despite the fact I lost both of my legs on the treadmill and gained two leaves of recently soaked gelatine in their place, it wasn’t enough to get the endorphins going.

In a momentary lapse of judgment I organised my free assessment with one of the gym’s personal trainers. I honestly believed that ‘assessment’ meant sitting down for an hour to have a ‘nice chat’ with the personal trainer, to the point where I asked him if I would need to bring anything with me.

It was like the time the police chased me at age 18 for speeding. When I finally pulled over and was questioned by the officer as to why I didn’t stop, I responded with, “Because I didn’t think you were after me.” Because I really didn’t think they were after me. And I really didn’t think Personal Trainer was going to make me do anything at all.

If naiveté was a sport I could represent Australia.  

Personal Trainer started by asking me what my goals were, to which I replied (with the words I would live to regret), “I wouldn’t mind a bit of toning in the thigh, butt and tummy areas.”

He then proceeded to drive his finger into the side of my thigh. “Does that hurt?” he enquired as I yelped like a Kelpie. He grabbed my hips and thrust my pelvis out to correct my posture and then started to formulate ‘a personalised program’.

It started with a cross trainer and a pen shoved just above my butt to keep me upright and continued with outrageous bursts of public skipping (I hadn’t skipped since 1988) - in front of a mirror - whilst wearing tights, which were interspersed with stepping machines and more pen poking, followed by public lunging - in front of a mirror – whilst wearing tights, and finally legs apart on the floor crunching some abdominals (did I mention the mirror and tights???)

He seemed pleased with my ability to handle the ‘beginner’s program’. I couldn’t walk for a week.

I have done some pretty undignified things in my time - slipping over on a beer soaked floor whilst dancing at a local cougar haunt springs to mind. As does lying on a bed stark naked trying to push a baby out, whilst a rotating door of medical staff filed in and out of my room to check on the status of my vagina.

However, for some reason I can’t exercise publically without thinking of Richard Simmons or “Jazzercise” or people wearing leg warmers and g-string leotards. All of which trump my previous examples.

 When I decided to ditch the humiliating solo workouts for a circuit class, I expected it to be like “Flashdance” where we would all run really fast on the spot to “Maniac”, but when I arrived for the class I discovered my teacher was Personal Trainer who gave me a conspiratorial “Never Say Die” look and proceeded to play music with the kind of frequency that induces vomiting.

Smug Girl next to me asked if I’d been before and served the pitying “You Haven’t Got a Hope” look. I hit back from the baseline with the “I’ve Had Two Kids, Lady. Don’t Talk to Me about Endurance!” look.  

And then it was on!

Personal Trainer started firing instructions from everywhere. Yelling out things like “RUNNING MAN” which translated to ’jump around using your limbs like a pair of scissors’. Then “DOUBLE GRAPEVINE TO THE LEFT WITH A LUNGE”, which sounded more like a coffee order than an exercise. 

Just when I started to coordinate myself he shouted, “GO TO THE OUTSIDE” and everyone scattered like lemmings and jumped on miscellaneous pieces of equipment around the outside of the floor. Smug Girl, sensing my horror, leant across and started pushing buttons and adjusting weights for me while Personal Trainer yelled “30 SECONDS. MAKE IT WOOOOOORRK!” And then I heard “BOXING ROOM, BOXING ROOM. GO.GO.GO.” and everyone was running everywhere.

I, along with around ten other people, burst in to the shoebox sized boxing room, which looked and smelled like an abattoir. My style, I decided, was more bovine than butterfly, and as I lumbered through the rest of the boxing session I saw Personal Trainer coming at me yelling “UPSTAIRS, UPSTAIRS, UPSTAIRS. GO.GO.GO.”

And everyone was running and switching rooms and I was running up and down and up and down and up and down a staircase with a 65-year-old man - drenched in sweat - coming up the rear shouting, “C’MON GIRL!”

Jesus Christ!!!

Then I heard “BACK TO THE FLOOR, BACK TO THE FLOOR” and I was suddenly playing tug of war with the 65-year-old man and a medicine ball. Who uses medicine balls anymore? I thought they were only used to take out the ankles of your classmates in Year 7 PE classes.  I then found myself doing Jennifer-Beals- style-running on an aerobics step and it was back to the floor for an obstacle course around the medicine balls, and then down on the ground for push ups and bizarre jump in the air and punch the floor manoeuvres, then God forbid…some public skipping!! Personal Trainer shouted, “CARDIO, CARDIO, CARDIO. GO.GO.GO.” And I ran on the spot shouting, “WHERE’S CARDIO? I AM SO CONFUSED!!”

I was directed to a rowing machine by Personal Trainer (next to man who hadn’t left the machine for a week and a half) and was told to “DO IT LIKE TONY. HE’S A MACHINE!”

My rowing with Tony was interrupted by, “BACK TO THE BOXING ROOM, BACK TO THE BOXING ROOM. GO.GO.GO”. Then it was downstairs running and medicine balls and army-esque obstacle courses and Jennifer-Beals-stepping  and Godforsaken skipping and outside machines and “Maniac”-running- on-the-spot moments and more rowing with Tony and people running EVERYWHERE.

And then it ended.

I felt like I had left my body and was hovering above myself.

I had a sudden urge to groan and vomit but unlike my birthing experiences, resisted the urge to do either.

As I hung my head between my legs – in front of the mirror – in tights, I had a moment of reflection.  This never happened to Jennifer Beals. She exercised happily in 1983. What did she do differently? Perhaps if I donned a pair of leg warmers or a g-string leotard and threw a bucket of water over my head it might be more enjoyable next time? If, of course, there is a next time. 

          

Much ado about poo

When I was a little girl I remember running to the huge gum tree in our backyard and hiding behind it with my eyes squeezed shut and my fingers jammed in my ears because my mother had taken some asthma medication that had made her dry retch.

I also remember not eating Caramello Koalas, roast chicken, scones and a myriad of other foods for years because (on one occasion) I vomited after eating them and somehow associated them with being spew-worthy.

And then there was the park I wouldn’t look at every time we drove past because (on one occasion) I ate some stale baked beans whilst playing there and proceeded to spend the night throwing up. Banned the park. Banned baked beans. You get the picture. Nutcase! 

So the fact I can now hold The Ranga’s heaving head over a bucket every fifteen minutes for an entire night and scrape chunks of vomit from the fibres of bed linen makes me mighty proud!

From the moment I witnessed my first meconium-filled nappy to the moment I wore my first projectile vomit – I realised I was going to become intimately involved with Another Person’s Bodily Fluids – For. A. Very. Long. Time.

Miss C is fairly low maintenance these days. She can use the toilet, rarely vomits and can wipe her own nose. The Ranga, on the other hand, is like a fire hydrant squirting from all orifices. If he coughs too hard, he spews. If he throws an almighty tantrum, he spews. If he eats too much, he spews. He has only just learnt to wee sans nappy (at 3.5 years) and was found recently in the kids’ toilet at a resort, naked from the waist down, and ‘ice-skating’ in a concoction of soap and his own urine!

But it’s poo he has the most problems with. When he isn’t withholding for three days, he is unloading giant brown packages in undies, in nappies, in the bath, on the floor, and occasionally, in the toilet! He has ‘issues’ with the whole bowel movement arrangement and I get where he’s coming from. Poo does not have many endearing qualities. It’s brown, it smells, and in our house, it incites more hysteria than Beatlemania (for him, not us).

If I were poo’s publicist, I would slam the door in its face!

However, because I empathise with my phobic son – having rejected spew-inducing parks and baked beans and chicken, myself - I am determined to put the positive in poo…and any assistance anyone can provide would be greatly appreciated.

The only two poo role models I have come up with thus far have been:

1.   “Mr Hankey, the Christmas Poo” from South Park. But I don’t really want The Ranga a) watching South Park at the age of three or b) fishing his faeces out of the toilet or his nappy or whatever, to engage it in conversation.

2.   A woman I saw on a documentary recently who was making sculptures out of cow manure – with bare hands – because she liked the texture!! WHAT!?!

So I Googled ‘poo’ to see what came up (as Google contains all of life’s answers) and found an array of links to poo and wee songs, poo arcade games, poo humour, stories about whale poo and climate change, Bristol stool analysis charts (with pictures!!!), more people creating art using faeces (what’s with that??) and bizarre YouTube videos that I was too afraid to click on.

And I still have nothing!!

We have always been fans of the no pressure approach to toileting, and The Ranga has willingly participated in the pooing in the toilet process three times, but he now equates defecating with losing a vital internal organ and no amount of cajoling will convince him otherwise.

The only solution I can come up with (besides bribery, nappies for life etc.) is to keep allowing The Ranga to watch people using the toilet until he learns that it is a perfectly natural and convenient human function.

Like I did on Saturday - when I was using the parents’ room toilet in a shopping centre - and he hit the button for the automatic door whilst I was mid-wee. Not sure how many people copped an eyeful, as I was too busy cutting off the stream (surprisingly good pelvic floor muscles), leaping across the room, cowering in a corner and screeching with my pants around my ankles.

The moral to this sordid tale: I may have overcome my childhood vomit phobia, but have now developed an irrational fear of my naked arse being exposed in public.

And…The Ranga has not pooed for three days!

Birthday celebrations...post-kid style

I am writing under pressure tonight as I set this personal goal to blog once a week. I thought that seemed fairly reasonable, but as it turns out…it is damn hard - made especially hard by our annual trip to Spew Central this week (which requires its own post)!

Anyway, my personal deadline passed yesterday and now I’m all antsy about missing the deadline when there really is no deadline at all.

So rather than wait to write a piece of moderate quality - I thought I’d rush and produce a piece of crap – just to meet my personal deadline.

What I should be doing is writing the piece my therapist asked me to write on guilt and sabotage (why I do it to myself, not others), which is due in two days, and which I am feeling increasingly guilty about not completing.

Is it any surprise I am seeing a therapist?

The other reason I wanted to rush this one is because today is Pineman’s birthday and we celebrated post-kid style.

Celebrating a birthday post-kid style is like waking up and celebrating a Monday. There was really nothing different about awakening today except the four squishy hands prising apart our eyelids were also thrusting presents enthusiastically at Pineman – oh, and no one was vomiting.

We washed and fed people and fed ourselves and packed lunches and packed bags and dropped kids at respective care centres and I forgot to take my lunch to work and Pineman had to drop it in and then he was home alone – on his birthday – watching a James Bond flick on DVD and eating takeaway for lunch. And then he picked up kids from care arrangements and I came home from work early – with a cake – to surprise him and he was standing at the front door, drinking mocha, and looking every one of his forty four years.  

He told me the highlight of his day was realising that Octopussy was not about a girl with eight vaginas. He later changed his highlight to witnessing my top falling down when I was dancing in the kitchen – his highlight, not mine.

He washed more people while I cooked pork chops and carrot and potato and frozen peas and corn for dinner.

 The Ranga had a tantrum because he wanted to wear the pyjamas with the robots and the tractors and the monsters.  The Ranga threw his water on the floor because he wanted the Lightning McQueen cup and not the Batman cup. The Ranga threw his pork on the floor because…well because he has issues with food and certain cups and pyjamas and etiquette. Miss C started whingeing about peas and pork, and I got worked up and started using my OUTSIDE VOICE!

Pineman asked the kids if they cared about his birthday or just the cake, to which they replied in unison, “just the cake”.

They redeemed themselves momentarily with a round of apologies and a rollicking rendition of Happy Birthday to You.  

The Ranga pulled apart his cake and squished it between his fingers because he doesn’t like cream or jam or small servings of cake.

Pineman got ready for a nightshift at work and walked out the door indicating that he might play his “birthday privileges card” when he gets home after midnight.

Well, it’s now 1:18am, no sign of Pineman – birthday privileges revoked!

Good night.