Probably Too Much Information

So Friday, I have to race off work early to have more blood squeezed out of me, this time at the skin disorders clinic. The lovely blood sucker who depleted me of more 0- like it’s not rare enough – chatted her way through the tourniquet and confided in me how she too, developed weird skin allergies out of the blue. We compared spots and chatted about such classy topics as pustules and blisters and weeping sores and more, and compared dots on wobbly bits before I head off. No doubt we’ll meet again.

My neck is so itchy that it feels like a million squillion mosquitos have their proboscises (probosci?) embedded in my neck all at the same time and are sending electrically charged itch pulses through my skin. Sort of like an itch with a prick on the end, magnified. It covers every section of my neck from  under the left ear lobe all the way across to the right, and from collar-bone up to jaw.

All  want to do is scratch the skin off. I can’t stand anything near it, touching it, brushing it – So much so, that I have taken to walking around the house during my time at home with my hair washed morning and night, and tied away from my face, neck covered in zinc cream topped with soothing cream the consistency of dry Pavlova spotted all over the itchy bits.

Thank  goodness it’s not winter.

I have not been able to wear make up (the night I did, I paid dearly the next day), perfume, skin cream, moisturiser or  hair products since the mysterious shingles that weren’t, last month. Thank goodness, no more blisters or swelling.  Just itchy scratchy stingy burny.

Now here’s the rub (no pun intended).

I’m allergic, always have been, to 3 things.

1. Penicillin – well, OK, it’s not like I am going to have any sudden and unexpected encounters with a stray penicillin-wielding person on a street corner any time soon.

2. Bee and wasp venom. Yep – got that covered – Polarimine in the car, handbag, work 1st aid cupboard, doctor number on standby.

3. Wheat. Again, easy – although somewhat inconvenient at times, but hey.

(Side note – Oddly, I have had exposure to all three in the past 6 months. I had the loco-locum who prescribed me penicillin despite the bright red flashing box on the computer screen, Then the brave wasp who crawled into my garden glove, and the Tim Tam blowout… I digress…)

These things I have managed to avoid or deal with for the best part of the wrong-side-of-40-but-right-side-of-50 years. However, recent blood tests show that a hormone change is evident and I may have yet another allergy in the system. something quite unexpected.

Like most of life’s problems , this new problem starts with men – only this one has an ‘o’ in the middle and a pause at the end. And I am entering into the early stages.

And guess what? It appears that I may be allergic to that, too.

Harry H. Horsefeathers, how can you be allergic to men-a-freaking-pause?  

And if this is what happens in the peri- (pre-) leading-u- to-the-real-thing stages, what will happen when I am full blown menopausal?

Meeting in the Middle

How wonderful was it to meet a babe from the bush, and a trace element? The babe from the bush drove 6 hours from the north west, and trace drove 5 hours from the south, and me – well I drove a whopping 40 minutes from the North. Ahem.  Anyhow, since they were stuck in the middle with me, and since I pinched BB’s photograph, and since both of them have posted the most eloquent of posts about our get together, I owe them a small song.

Well I’m so glad that went there that night,
I have the feeling now that everything’s alright,
I was so scared in case I fell off my chair,
And I was wondering if I would fall down the stairs,
Trace is to the left of me,
Bush Babe to the right, here they are,
Stuck in the middle with me.

I guess I’m stuck in the middle between two,
And I’m wondering what it is I should do,
It’s so hard to keep this smile from my face,
18 dollar cocktails will get you right off your face,
Trace is to the left of me, Bush Babe to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Well we started out with blogging and then tweeting then we finally met,
And as we read each other’s writing, we wondered if we’d ever get…
Please…. Please…..

Time without the children to meet
arranged via email and tweet,
Is it cool to go to eat at the Mecca Bah,
Or have pre dinner drinks at the red bordello bar?
Trace to the left of me, Bush Babe to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you (two).

I have to tell you, these are two of the nicest people you could ever meet. I am glad I was stuck with you for a while :)

Creature Feature

I know I promised a while back I would take you on a tour of the *lovely* (cough) feature walls here.

Since I lack any other reno news, now is the time. Put on your sunnies.

Your first visual is from the guest room (above). This is actually a much hotter pink than is shown here. Lucky you – if you come to visit you get sleep with this ;)

The fushia purple that is in our room. (I am glad this is behind our heads, or I am sure we’d have nightmares)

Clay brown in the lounge room

Bright fushia in the family room

Bright aqua in the second bedroom

Chocolate brown in the office (There is also a wall in the garage this shade!)

And a bright yellow feature outside.

I’ll let you know when we paint – but I have to state, emphatically, there will be NO FEATURE WALLS in this house to this degree when we do!

Eye See.

In all honesty, I knew that eventually I would end up here. I mean, it happens to everyone they say, at some stage. It just depends on whether you give in to the signs and do something about it, or ignore it completely and live in the blur that you pretend is reality.

So. Here I am I am looking at racks and racks of  wire and plastic and marvelling at the options. Bling or no bling?  Trendy or conservative?  Make a statement and go with purple semi framed, or smoulder in understated class that always accompanies tortoiseshell brown and gold.

It would help if I could see.

I know. I have been putting it off. It happened quite fast and at first, I could find excuses – something in my eye, the light was bad, it was the wrong time of day, the moon was in Jupiter instead of Saturn… but of course eventually I had to cave. The defining moment? When I had to get up out of my chair at the restaurant and walk over to the bar on the pretext of reading the blackboard specials because I couldn’t read the menu. Enough was enough.

So here I am.

When the skipper came out of denial and accepted that he may need some type of assistance in reading the newspaper- assistance that didn’t involve holding it 2 meters away from his face with his toes - I chose his frames within a few minutes. I could tell the shape and colour that would suit his face, and they look great. When geek boy, who needed seeing eye dogs by the time he was 10, was in this position, I had him framed and spectacled within minutes – again, trendy specs that look kewl.

Who’s here to help me and give me an opinion? Not a bloody soul, that’s who. I look around hopefully, but apart from the staff and harassed looking mother with an out of control toddler on the loose, no one looked like they would care what type of frames I chose.  At reception, a woman with tattooed eyebrows and purple spikes offers a second opinion. She is adorned with trendy frames that look great and suit the eyebrow/spike combination. I, on the other hand, display neither tattoo nor spikes.  When the mumsy blonde with plain janes also chimes in and offers a third opinion, I nearly leap on her and drag her to the display rack. I am distinctly more mumsy than spike.

Holysnappingbatshit, who knew.

It’s veritable who’s who of the catwalk. Guess, Fendi, Elle, Prada. Nike, St Laurent, Dolce & Gabanna.  Dior. Oroton. Kelvin Klein. Armani.

Then there is the colour. The shape. The size. Arm height. Bridge design. Red? Blue? Silver? Black?  Irridescent? Pearlescent? Opalescent?  Round? Square? Oval?  Tilted? Long? Short? Nose lugs? Etched and plain and laced and shiny and matt and understated and overstated and tinted or polarised and low slung and high rise and titanium and lithium and kryptonite and  would you like fries with that?

Blimey. I just want to be able to read a menu, get lost in my book at night and remove splinters from small fingers without stabbing the kid in the eye by mistake – or worse, spend 10 minutes trying to remove a freckle from my son’s butt which I swear is a tick because I can’t see. 

 I could buy a degree for less money than it takes to buy the frames.

But pride wins. A consolation prize of sorts.  (I am being consoled by spending, yes?) I choose the frame I like sort of bestish – a middle ground choice that sits somewhere between ‘lookamelokkamelookameee Kimmy’ and ‘I am a distant relative of Nana Maskouri’ .

Then I look at the price. Close my eyes, and pay up.

I can’t afford a Fendi handbag, but I’ll  take the frames. Thanks.

*You’ll note I manage to write this whole post without the use of the word ‘glasses’ in it at all. Not in denial much am I?

She’s Still Jenni from the Block.

Jenni was my best friend in my 20′s. The first day we sat, side by side in a lecture theater, brand new first year students green as grass, we clicked. For 4 years we attended lectures, worked part-time jobs and followed the path of life that unrolls for young adults. She watched me marry my Prince Charming in our first year, I was her bridesmaid at the end of our fourth. We hosted chic 80′s fashionable fondue nights, traded shoulder pads, permed our hair.  She dabbled in other careers on the side – like modelling, while I played house as the young wife. She was single and had a cycle of young boyfriends, the names of which changed regularly and made my head spin.

We had so much fun, Jenni and I. We had so many different jobs, trying to keep afloat as students. We sold the Sunday Newspaper on Saturday nights (that’s an oxymoron for you) outside the casino carpark entrance. It was dirty job, involving unloading over 1000 newspapers a night, stacking them and selling them to  the crowd as they made their way home. But the tips were great and sometimes we made well over $100.00 for a nights work. We knew all the staff and would nip upstairs in the back wings to get roast lamb rolls, tea or coffee, and catch the gossip, then back to the paper stand. We met so many celebrities there. If someone famous purchased a newspaper, Jenni and I would have them autograph that day’s paper for us. Jenni always had some crazy idea for us to try next,  and I always went along. I can still remember her signing up us to be hairdressers models, an opportunity that offered $30.00 for the ‘priviledge’. At the last moment, I got gastro and couldn’t go.  The result saw her waist length curls cut to 1 cm all over and dyed purple.  after she cried on my shoulder, we covered her head in a canteen bandanna and went nightclubbing to commiserate.  We manned telephones at Telethons, we ran the City to Surf fun run, we collected for charities and dressed in costumes and wore red noses. She hosted cocktail parties and we’d practice gourmet meals at dinner parties like apricot chicken, beef stroganoff or flambe pineapple (that one singed my eyelashes off).  We took up knitting (failed) calligraphy (disaster) and flower arranging  (we got asked to leave for laughing too much). She decided we should learn Cantonese – I thought I was heading to cooking school and was most surprised to find myself in a classroom of people preparing to learn a different language.

When she met D she fell hard, and it was no surprise when they married with a lot of pomp and ceremony, an Army wedding. I being the matron of honour, threw the biggest hen’s night ever for women of all generations – which ended up at a male strip joint, with the mothers of those in the bridal party thrusting notes down g-strings on gyrating pelvises while we, the under 30′s, sipped cocktails and talked weddings. D was in the forces, so within a few months she was off beside her soldier to see Australia – and I can still remember our last face to face get together – we stood embraced, crying, knowing things would never be the same but excited, for she was off to the magical “Eastern States”  and I-  well, I was off to settle down. I am sure my then husband was quietly relieved to see Jenni finally settle and travel with her new husband, just so that I would be a ‘real wife’.  The year was 1992, and within months of her being gone The prince turned into a frog I was the one who was single.

For the first few years we traded phone calls, letters and postcards. Being an Army wife, she moved around a lot and sometimes it was hard to keep track. Over the years I lost track of Jenni. The last I heard from her was a quick phone call after she had child number 4, which was around 1999.

Tonight, when the phone rang, the voice from my past picked up right where it left off. “There you are!” it said. “Do you know how hard it was to find you? What the hell are you doing in Queensland of all places!?” I felt a bit like Forest Gump. It was my Jenni. My Jenni! Coming back from the past like she’d never been gone. Older, wiser , but still mad as a meat axe, and her turn to be single once again. A two hour phone call later and it was like I was speaking with her yesterday. At one point, her 15-year-old (OMG she has a 15-year-old now!)  interrupted the conversation. I hear Jen say “It’s my old friend, Rhubarb, the one who was in my wedding – you know the picture in my wallet? – the one that I made wear that horrible blue dress when I married your father.“

Thanks for finding me, Jen. Looking forward to the catch up. Love you too. xxx.