Sunday, August 30, 2015

The faint tingle meant it was time to go

With our longish lifespans we humans have to say goodbye to things that die. Our first two cats, for example, who died within six months of each other. Numerous toasters, phones and computers and so forth.

Today it was the turn of the bar heater. I'd been dodgy for a while in that unless the cord was bent all the way to the left the heater wouldn't turn on, indicating a connection fault. 

Tonight, as it was on but "not on" I touched the metal and felt a tingle. 

Especially given theboy was mucking with the heater as he watched me kill a dragon in Baldur's Gate II I knew it was time to go. 

I heaved the dud heatrer into the canvas trash pak we have for bulky trash and broke out the radiator instead. Fortunately it's more spring than winter here in Canberra and so I fear not the cold. I'll probably get another bar heater at some point, a cheapie from Bunnings most like.

Where else can you get a device that would amaze any cave person, heat without work, you can get a sausage on a bit of bread?

I think cave people would vote yes for a sausage. If, that is, they could understand voting and the decision didn't go down to who had the biggest club and capacity to wield it.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Back flare

My fibromyalgia from neg-grappling (1) has flared from my shoulder to across my back. I keep trying to stretch it out, as if it was a purely muscular instead of neuro-psychological and that an on-tippie-toes-fingers-to-the-sky would simply sort it all out. 

I call it back flare. I think of it as being like the burn-off of gas from a Nigerian oil-rig at night. 

That blue-black patch came on quick. 

In spite of the pain I had a meaningful day. I'm insanely lucky to do something I'm good at and that I enjoy. My body may scream, kick a tanty or shout but I stagger-crawl ever onward with purpose and pride.

That's hero shit, man.

Later, I had a walk-past from a colleague to check I was okay—and I was.

WFTW.

(1) My industrious new term for suffer-cope with negative emotion.

Wear it Purple Day

Wear it Purple Day

A long sleeved purple buttoned shirt—albeit partially concealed by a grey-tinged-with-white office-man sweater vest. 

A purple(ish) hat with the Ford logo on it.

A fluffy, purple, non-spiky wool scarf for my neck. 

I look fabulous. 

UPDATE: I shared a lift with a fellow purpler I told him I looked fabulous and he agreed. So that's battle-tested fabulousness, right there. Mind you, social nicety would have probably led him to agree irrespective of the purpleness or appeal of my attire (1).

No, I will not doubt myself. I rocked the snot out of Wear it Purple Day. 

(Mikey raises fist for his LGBTI comrades)

(1) It should be noted that he looked amazing—purple-hued David-Jones-manalogue amazing.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

If I was a mech my damage and heat sinks would be blaring red

BattleMech is a game from the '80s that I played a couple of times. The theme was giant humanoid-shaped weapon platforms operated by an onboard pilot. The game board was a battle map and in a game of two players you'd each have a couple of mechs as represented by a small white cardboard pic of your bot slotted in a plastic stand and then get to it.

In the game the more things you did or weapons you used the more the heat grew and a certain point you would suffer heat-induced system failure. On the standard terrain map were a couple of lakes. One trick was to go in "waist" deep and "keep firing, assholes" with the water hissing back a few of your marked-off heat boxes.

The robot's battle sheet was a piece of paper with a silhouette of your robot and boxes by each body such as arm, weapon mount, leg, torso or "head". When struck you you'd mark off the health boxes of a component until it becomes inoperable.  Such as if an opposing mech had pulled your mech's arm off then beat the other arm off it's body with pulled off one.

I feel like a battle-damaged mech. Pain flare and ache reports from across my agony-rid body parts with regular blaring alarm from my disparate Mikey bits. Left knee, thighs, right hip, right shoulder, left elbow, left cheek (face), abdomen and both other cheeks (lower). 

Pilots in BattleMech were jacked into their mechs but they weren't afflicted with sympathy pain from their wounded steel cocoons.

That would be nice. The ability to just be like the pilot and gapped from the pain. 

Get to it, Calico. It's not just life extension—it's quality of life extension. Get cracking on a medical implant for pain relief. Imagine the moolah you'll make. 

Guess what, other cheeks (lower)—time for more pain.

UPDATE: Yes, it was a painful ride. But I stepped out of the shower the pain was background and I was all aglow with tingly shower-fresh skin. 

I felt like a mech taking a battle bath to keep the heat down—it's resilience building, enjoyable and lowers pain and stress. 

I bet they rasp "ahhh" as they lower themselves in, like a flesh does when they sink into a delicious hot bath. 

Well-played, mechs who enjoy bathing. 

UPDATE2: I woke feeling much better and now it's just abdomen, right shoulder and, weirdly, right little finger. Like where Rimmer's charisma goes. 

At least my body repairs itself. If I was a mech I'd be in a horizontal basket cradle or even just chained to the roof and dangling like a resting marionette whilst work people busily swarmed me.

I hope though, in the universe where that version of Mikey is the mech and its pilot, that at one point the repair crew break into a "Greased Lighting" style flash mob of synchronised dancing singers who do a performance with a theme of repairing robotics and why don't they have robots to fix the robots yet and where's that work two hours every two weeks future from The Jetsons we were all promised?

Geez, they're bolishi in BattleMech Mikey's universe. I'm imagining a red flag flying being waved from atop a ruined building by a Griffin.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Wellness for the win

When you're furtling along the flying pages of your calendar there are moments of grey, black, blue, gold or white. 

I hit a gold patch, lots of positive feedback for work well done. It was gratifying. It's a gold patch I'll hug tight like a hot water bottle when the pages go more grey, blue or black. 

Sometimes work feels like a nighttime drive along an arterial road. You're alone, vulnerable, yet making progress—and you may experience a moment that later makes you smile.

WFTW.

UPDATE: The next day I hit a blue patch and had to hug on tight to the gold.

Thank fuck for past Mikey. He always looks out for future me. 

Where Poppy induces Mikey to have two shots of sambuca

I was just 20 minutes home and aboard to board the bike when Poppy induced me to have two shots of sambuca.

So, what the heck. I downed the first shot, disappointing Poppy since I missed savouring it, so I got another that I sipped. It was nice. It landed on an empty stomach, though, and I'm about to exercise. 

It was the first time I'd used my pirate-themed shot glass—a s'cret Santa pressie from 2008 from a former over-the-partition colleague. It's the size of a normal shot glass—I presume 30 mils—and has a phat pirate flag that bulges out of the side about half a centimetre and is black with the traditional white skull and crossbones. 

So, after consideration, I've decided that's a fine way to christen a pirate-themed glass—using it just before boarding a sturdy vessel (1).

Yarr.  

(1) Of course modern WHS tells us that drinking and operating heavy machinery is a recipe for a non-violence-induced accident. Just because you're a pirate doesn't mean you shouldn't be safety-conscious. Not being safe when in sailing mode is when a hand becomes a hook or a leg becomes a peg leg.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Miscellenous Items, Table J

With thanks to AD&D.

I used to draw up my own AD&D character sheets then raid Mum's scotch bottle full of five cent coins and go to the nearest photocopier so I could make up batches of characters. 

Ah, the '80s. 

I helped out a colleague in a bind. It was most enjoyable. I value added to the task and helped them meet a tight deadline. The satisfaction from an all in together job to nudge a project over the line is akin to the happy tail pat of just-dam completed beavers (1).

Thanks, beavers. 

My hip feels better. Perhaps the discomfort is muscular and not bone on bone? I'll still get it checked but I am dreading the fucking Catalina wine mixer, part deux. Probs wept, the last one nearly killed me and the recovery was brutal. 

Please let me remain less machine for longer. 

Google split itself into Alphabet Inc. with sub units named and organised by the like-grouping of things Google does. Calico is the one that is going for longer life. It got me thinking about the whole brain in a vat argument you ponder in Philosophy 101 (2) and what if I was a Calico customer far in the future re-living his most-mortal time life over as the aged remnants of my brain are supported by nano-fused cyber-brain technology and a slurry of daily-sprayed brain nutrients.

Had I been Vanilla Sky'ed

I wonder then if you rocked up to Calico and demanded to know if you were currently replaying your life in the far future and could they please confirm it and reboot to a scenario of hedonistic unbridlement. And by doing so it then turns out you won Calico because you figured it all out and now you go into a bonus level where all that unbridled pleasure seek-taking occurs. Like what that dude in The Matrix who wants back into the fake world but as a millionaire who eats steak.

Well played, people who won Calico.

As I was going for an outside walk I saw a man pop out of a tiny door. It was most unexpected. It was a regular-sized man, the door was small—metal, with slatted vents—but the smallness of the door coupled with the unexpected opening of it was a delicious oddity. It was gritty outside, sleeting gobs of small rain which added to the glorious menace of it all. The regular-sized man then drove off in a regular-sized van.

It was a man in a van who came from a tiny door, man.


Hard copies of the latest reports had come in. They lay in boxes on a trolley, undelivered. So like a reverse World War Two prison tunneller I went and got the reports and started putting them around work, monitoring take up then topping up deposit places when they went low. Over three days of reverse tunneling I'd seized all the boxes and dispatched the innards of all but one. 

I'm kind of troll-like and I like boxes.

The shed groans with the wind. It's creepy and nice. 

Well played, shed wind.

(1) Where one beaver appeared on the last day and put out just three and a bit logs but still got credit for the assist. Hooray for lazy beavers!
(2) I did the intro course to philosophy at uni. I got a pass. I wrote some somewhat non-PC papers that got rightly smacked for insensitivity. It was a learning experience. I decided against going further with the philosophy stream.

More awesome sauce

Because I stick my nose into people's affairs I get to meet people who are kewl. 

I met an Aboriginal man who paints in a contemporary Aboriginal style and I commissioned a kookaburra-themed artwork for theboy. 

I had bought theboy a burned-into-wood rendering of laughing kookaburras from an old mate selling soldering-iron-crisped artistic woodstuffs in the main artery of the Kippax shopping precinct when theboy was still in utero. It was an impulse purchase to mark theboy's impending arrival. theboy loves the artwork's origin story because it's tied in with his.

So when I met the artist and found he took commissions I asked if he could do a work for me. 

It looks fucking amazing—picture potentially to come later—and theboy loves it. 

Just after I left the artist's house up the north side of Canberra and as I furtled back home along the Parkway south I reflected on just what an awesome career I've had. 

I've had kewl adventures and have met kewl people.

That's more awesome sauce, right there.

WFTW.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Rain causes pleasing cacophany on shed roof

I'm in the shed and about to ride SoTPC, my exercise bike. The rain is slashing down upon the roof. It's soothing, soporific noise and I just want to curl up in my sleeping bag (1) by the heater and stare mindlessly at the element within (2).

It was a hard morning—my morning are always hard. But with meds and work it got better and my day was ultimately a productive and fulfilling one. 

Okay, so I don't have my "health" but I'm happy and productive. That's wellness right there.

Curse you, delicious sleepy noises upon my roof. Mikey wants snooze, snooze

UPDATE:The rain was so loud I gave up watching the laptop and listened to the rain as I rode. I used two headbands to dampen the light from the read out, an eerie future glow upon my person. 

I think I also killed my old, blood stained brown slippers because I walked their ancient vaguely Teutonic looking heraldic crested brown felt and cardboard soled form through a centimetre of pooled rain water to and from the shed.

You served me well, comrades. You did not die in vain (3).    

UPDATE2: I walked into the study and ringed around just inside the door were my ugg boots, my new brown slippers and a ladies pair I'd never seen before. 

I had not arrayed them like that. It's almost as if they got together to to bear mute witness for the loss of a treasured colleague—and to stare the one who wore the now lost pair into the rain in the face. 

I get the ugg boots and new brown slippers but the lady pair? What the fuck is that?

Old Bloody Von Brown's mistress? Unknown daughter? Mother? Kissin' cousin?

It's a mystery that's for sure. A house leisure footwear based mystery... 

UPDATE3: Mystery solved. The uggs and slippers were moved into place by theWife. The ladies pair was I think ones we had but were never worn. Given my penchant for ladies sleep wear—PJ bottoms for girls have no annoying cock hole—perhaps she thought I might like to carry on my lower half lady-wear fetish all the to ground level?

Alas, I have deformed splayed out utterly flat feet that destroy shoes in about 18 months of constant wear. I don't even think the artisans from Kinky Boots could supply a shoe fit for a fucked-up-feet Mikey. 

(1) It's in the shed. I think I got it in year eight. It has never been washed.  
(2) We had a shitty one bar element heater when I lived at home. I would lie in front of it whilst "studying" for the HSC and be lost in a drift of thought. I took it to a group house but had to bin it because a screw went lose within the innards and the heater kept blowing the flat's fuse—and it meant fuse wire, no less. RIP bar heater 1995. 
(3) Well, rain, to be honest. You died from that. 

Friday, August 21, 2015

Uno Roboto

Don't make a house rule of "a random person gets poked and poked ... and poked" in Uno Roboto.

Or you will be poked.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Swooped in

More like crawled in. It took three minutes to reach the doors from where I got dropped off about 100 metres away—all downhill. The walk was agony.

But I had lots of meds and made sure to use wellness measures at point in the day. I knocked my daily report out of the way and even did some e-filing, a job well-loathed by all who have to e-file. 

Now, I'm about to ride SoTPC, or Son of The Purgatory Cart, my second exercise bike (1), for an hour. 

It's amazing I can go from barely walking to riding lots in just the span of a day. 

That's Mikey's body adventure—a random cacophony of incapable and capability.

(1) Technically, third exercise bke. We owned one as a couple for five years that we just hung clothes on. I think I used it a half-dozen times. It got dumped when we moved house years before. Now I use 'em serious-like, fo' shizz. 

Monday, August 17, 2015

Dragged self in; self-pat to back

My hip pain was joined by chronic abdominal pain from IBS and upon waking I had gone thrice within a half hour. It did not bode well.

Crippled by pain I dragged myself in 'cos I wasn't going to let work fall on people. In the end, in spite of the pain and an unpleasant morning knock, I had a productive, fulfilling day. I got fuckloads done and sorted out assorted chores. 

I do the job of three people—even when burdened by disabilities.

Some people are toilers; I am one of them. 

WFTW. 

Sunday, August 16, 2015

I fear another wine mixer

My hip ache may just be muscular, or at least just related to something other than hip decay. I know the first hip replacement was another character defining blip on the en-rule highway but on the whole I'd rather not do a second.

theboy was excited.

"Even more machine," he breathed huskily, making marks in the small brown notepad whose scrawling within is a codex of his own creation. 

He later told a random child his age in the Bunning's playground that I was to become more robot.

The worst pain comes when seated in the car and it is agony to drive. Seated on a normal chair seems to be okay. 

We all have our nicks and burrs as we chortle through life—a Christmas sock filled with oddity and deformity stocking fillers. It could, as always, always be worse.

WFTW.

UPDATE: Did a test sit in the car, on the passenger side. It seemed okay. The car pillow was already in place to allow me to sit at an angle, left there by theWife. Aw, that's awesome. Perhaps a bald bone spot just lined up with a bald bone spot, or it was just a deep bruise? Either way probs crossed it's temporary.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Shed floor; nuts?

The other day my bowl of delicious honey cashews from ALDI tipped over and the nuts clump-scattered upon the shed floor.

I thought "how bad could they be?"

I gathered them up and returned them to the bowl.

Then I ate a nut. I detected an immediate hint of floor fluff and a scent of earth and insect part.

I spat it into the bowl and the bowl's contents went over "The Wall" to the less fussy chickens.

I know chickens aren't fussy. I once saw three of them peck the blood spattered earth in the aftermath of a weight-lifting induced nose bleed of my then chicken-owning friend who ran outside so the blood wouldn't get on the floor.

Well played, chickens.

A sock with many holes

I got rated "mostly harmless" in a recent review. That was in spite of the gardening leave and everything that led up to that. I cried a bit with the frustrations I've had to deal with. Sometimes I feel like Atlas, that I'm holding everything up. UPDATE: I got rated one less than I expected—and that was because of the gardening leave. I understand why but it still hurts.

There was an accident and two motorbike cops had partially shut down the intersection. I elected to go right and follow the car ahead of me with my using the Dirk Gently method of following a random stranger until you get where you need to go. It almost worked but they turned left to the nucleus of that suburb—in Canberra that means the IGA supermarket, a corner store and possibly a petrol station, DVD rental place and a hair dresser—and I guesstimated where I was. Based on direction I needed to go and width of the road I found my way around the blockage. I didn't resort to the digital map on my phone. I then hummed off into the night listening to that awesome mixed CD the Bevester burned for me about 15 years ago. 

My right hip aches when I sit. It's worm sign for the next Catalina Wine Mixer, I fear, our name bestowed upon hip surgery. I nearly died the last time but I'm fitter than I was and hey, it was a one in a thousand event. If I survived that tasty business once I can survive it again.

Word to the nizzle.

A report came out and my contributions were bumped. I was bummed—I got one thing in but it was a puff item. Still, it was a good read and some of my friends got stuff in. It took forever to come out.

I went to a recent lunch. It was good. I sat with interesting people who had interesting things to say. The food was awesome. I even stayed on water and did not resort to the lure of the fizzy mistress.

Take that, Fizzy Mistress (1).

I had a bus sit with a fellow traveller—vehicular and by profession—and I griped about the sad parts of our trade. He said "walk away and let it be theirs". It's sage advice but if I did I wouldn't be me. I go out feet first.

I think that deserves a repeat of word to the nizzle.

The meds have kicked in. The ache in my remaining natural hip is background. Thank the probs for pain meds. I know it's stupid to think how you would have gone in days of yore—because you're you now and you then wasn't you, it was someone else—but by Crikey's ghost it would have sucked wolf nipple chips to be a crip and have nothing to dull the ache. 

That's some nasty past pain business. 

I had a trot around outside. It was a magnificent Canberra winter's day—a chill, yes, but sun, oh glorious sun. I remembered all the good things as I brisked about on my efficient business. 

I feel better. 

WFTW. 

UPDATE: We were in a cuddle sandwich, all three of us and the black cat. Then she swished her tail through my mouth.

Well played, cat. 

(1) Because I named it I think fizzy mistress became Fizzy Mistress. 

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Have just called the ginger cat "The weakest link"

He was in my chair. He moved upon nearing and accusation of chain failure.

Cat haz bin pwned.

Can no longer be a lone wolf

For the vast bulk of my career I've been autonomous. I've been given tasks to do but not managed in how to do them. I either was trusted to get on and do it or no one gave enough of a shit to interfere.

But that old life of being a lone wolf died and I have to adjust to working in teams and taking each team's feedback.

It's hard. I'm resistant, even if the feedback is constructive and delivered in a pleasant manner. I often feel I know better and it's a challenge to not say things like that because that is not a team thing to say.

I had a recent long and sometimes robust discussion over an issue. It went for an hour until I felt I'd made my points whilst also taking on board theirs. I understood the need to change things—or at least codify an agreed way to do it—then wrote a detailed snapshot of the issue for a future discussion. I later thanked this team for taking a chunk out of their day to firmly argue me around to their position whilst giving me the opportunity to talk it out. 

It was a hard conversation but it was fair, detailed, with reference to experience and reasoned. I work in a team and they were doing exactly what good teammates do. 

Lone wolf; meet teamwork. I can still have autonomy, I just have to factor in the views of the teams as I get all the team benefits like access to mad skillz and passion.

That's a positive attitude; go me. 

WFTW.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Now that's Oz

Talking helps

Recently I saw my shrink. A psychiatrist, as opposed to a psychologist. I have now seen three psychiatrists this year, along with my psychologist several times. 

That's a lot of shrinkage.

It was good to talk—about the negative events I've experienced of late then about the positive ways I responded. That I had looked for, then implemented, constructive or robust solutions instead of just marinating in anger and hurt (1). I realised that I felt better in body and mind.

My resilience levels are strong and high. Even big whacks to the ego and Id barely put a dent in me.

He smiled, told me how well I was doing then bade me good luck. 

I see him in a few months for a catch up.

WFTW.

(1) Oh, I'm physically sore but that soreness is ebbing and soon I'll be back to mere low-grade pain. Knowing I'm getting better makes me better faster. Double WFTW.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

A day of ache

I loathe aching days, days where your body just wants to down tools and lie there gasping.

Still, in spite of the ache, I dragged myself into work and then did awesome work. I even got something off my plate from last year. 

It was difficult to walk but still I walked. Hell, it was difficult to just get up out of my chair to walk.

But each and every step was a step forward, not back.

WFTW.

Monday, August 10, 2015

Return ... of the trembles!

 With thanks to the Chiller font.

I have trembling hands that spring open of their own accord. It's from a delish combo of negative emotion being expressed physically and medication. There's a fancy name for it.

If I'm afflicted with continuing or deeper than usual negative thoughts then my trembling increases and the fingers spring open more often—usually leading me to shout "STUPID HANDS!" as if they did it on purpose when I drop what it is I have dropped.

It's a family tradition. To call something that just did something that was stupid to be stupid and to name the thing as you do so.

So, yeah, my hands are more trembly and they're springing open more often. Things I have and probably will now drop include my phone, keys, pass, margarine, milk, nuts, papers, my bag, a remote of some sort, probably another one of those, my water bottle and my Android tablet.  

At work add to that stationary—especially my only pen.The little fucker rolls under the desk forcing me to reach with my foot to scrape it back to a place where in theory I could bend to get it, but knowing that to do so will be painful (1). 

That's just one of the fun aspects of the Mikey journey. Assorted dropping of things when the pond's gone a bit dark.

Next I'll be doing unintentional smoonerpisms.

UPDATE: I found another pen. Went to the cupboard but all that's left are red pens and you can't legally sign stuff with a red pen. 

(1) Yes, I am aware I can get more pens.

I dream of Ninjeanie

In the '80s the western world was mad keen on ninjas. Popular culture, movies, comics, and of course try-hard martial arts studios—all dripping with ninja-themed tat. 

I was no exception to this would-be ninja lust. I can remember to this day being able to climb up the sides of a corridor in my house to reach the ceiling—but was in no way able to do the starfish where the ninja flattens themselves against the ceiling itself to avoid (slash) drop down and assassinate the unwary. I also left greying foot stains on both walls that I had to sponge off when the house was to be sold.

My full dreams of agility were later dashed with a realisation my lower limbs were fucked up and having functional lower limbs is typically a must-have pre-req for a Ninja.

That and my joints make a weird clicking noise so you'd always know when I was coming.

I was standing in my shed the other day. I was wearing ladies' black PJ pants, a black 5XL shirt with no markings but stretched taut upon my frame and a black headband. 

I felt most ninja.

Except instead of the infamous two-toed Ninja boots I had on my punctured (slash) patched dirty off-white uggs. 


Way to ruin the ninja mise en scéne, ugg boots. You've let us all down.

Sunday, August 09, 2015

Kids party rodeo clown

Every part of me hurts. My hair hurts!

Totally worth it.

UPDATE: I sneezed. Ow.

Friday, August 07, 2015

A second drawer post

Forgot head pills two days running
I forgot to have my morning head meds two days running and by lunchtime on both days I was pretty wiggy with head spins and a skittish mood.

When I got home yesterday I swallowed my missed morning pills but one of the pills was to be chewed, not swallowed. It lodged in my windpipe and I started choking. theWife rushed in and smashed me with heel palm strikes to the upper back until the pill dislodged.

By my count that's about the thirty-first time I have nearly died. I've nearly been shot, blown up, have survived a lead pipe to the head (1), defeated numerous infections, had a nervous breakdown and once nearly walked off a cliff with soft-core mags in my backpack.

I'm like an ice cream parlour run by a failed Grim Reaper; 31 flavours of near death.

Drive-by Boganing
I haven't had a drive-by boganing—where a car load of young male fuckwits yells or performs abuse as they drive past a stranger—for a long time. Indeed, the opportunity to do it to me has greatly reduced since I can't walk long distances and therefore rarely walking on the street.

This time they got me on the two minute walk from the bus stop to home. As I stepped off the bus my pants had snagged in my arse crack and I pulled them out just as a Rav 4 load of said bogans saw me across the road from where their street intersected mine. As they swerved out onto my road the front passenger stuck his still-clothed arse out the window as his mates egged him on with cheers and jeers

They couldn't even go the proper moon. If you're going to stick your arse out the window for fuck's sake commit to the bit and pull your pants down.

Shared origin stories
The new team shared origin stories. It was most interesting. My colleagues have all led incredible working lives, as have I, and  it was great to find out where they'd worked and what they'd worked on. I'm blessed to be in such a skill-heavy area. They've already value added with ideas to help me in the workplace. Hooray for great team mates!

Received a thank you call then made sure to mention it

There's no point hiding your light under a bushel. I got a call from an area thanking me for some work on their behalf. So I sent an email telling the team our service got praise. Hooray for praise! Sure, it was a friend who had called but it still counted.

Angry fish less in my grill
The anger and anxiety flares I've suffered of late are dimming and the anger fish in my Mikey pond is no longer getting up in my face business. I hate being lost to introspective anger—where you get trapped in a thought whirlpool of fury and hurt.  

Now I'm going to ride SoTPC and try and lose myself in my viewing poison instead of being swallowed by the anger and pain.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I rode 10 more minutes than usual because I felt so good. Joy fish all around!

(1) It happened in the kitchen. I was that close to becoming Mr Boddy.

Wednesday, August 05, 2015

Resistance met and anger ensued—then happy!

I ran into some resistance and anger ensued. Not "shouty, shout" anger but controlled, focused anger.

I could have let the anger fish swim off but I needed to deal with what caused the fish to swim my way—only to then encounter a bigger, angrier fish when I did so.

It's hard being passionate. You want to fix things and you get irked if you cannot. That includes things such as documents, furniture, fixtures and attitudes.

I have new managers. I got to tell them how supported I am and how much I enjoy my role. I also got to meet similar-trade people and talk about how I can support them as they support me.

It was just a big, lovely, fluffy marshmallow hug of encounters. I was all like "ahhhh" (hot-warm bath). 

And that meant a happy fish had swum up (1).

That pond thing has something going for it.

WFTW.

(1) The happy fish got displaced by anger fish as just before leaving I  had to deal with the original issue. I sat on the bus steaming about it. But then I wrote this and was reminded the happy fish had swum up and now I am happy again. Yet more WFTW!

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

A hooded theboy speaks of ill tiding

theboy was just out of the bath, and in his hooded white robe, when he was about to reward me with a cuddle.

But then...

theboy—"There's a problem."

me—"What?"

theboy—"You weed your pants". 

He pointed at them.

I was in my ladies grey PJ pants and sans undies just having nipped to the toot. I probably didn't shake off properly. I also noticed my pants were hanging low instead of Harry High.

me—"I'll just pull my pants up and cover that with my shirt; problem solved!"

I got my cuddle.

I feel like I just let him into special man lore that boys hear from men—in this case as to how to avoid showing an embarrassing leaky-spot when a leaky-spot has spawned.

And because I am a total selfo here's a post I prepared earlier...

Being the pond

I need to be better about being the pond. It's a wellness technique, to notice when a negative emotion has arrived, recognise it exists, but realise it will soon "swim away". In essence you're a pond filled with emotion fish. You know they're all inside you but they are not you.

It's a zen-like exercise.

I've experienced much anger of late and it expressed itself in roiling guts and fibro pain—a nasty lance of pain bursting old my shoulder at one point causing me to yell "OW!" in acute distress.

So I have to be the pond. Recognise the anger is there but not be consumed by the anger.

I hate being stymied; it cranks me up. I will always encounter resistance to good ideas but I cannot surrender to anger when resistance happens. 

After-all, I get there eventually. It just takes education, patience and time.

WFTW.

Monday, August 03, 2015

(whimper redux)

I made it into work in spite of the sheer abdominal torment roiling away. It was meds! meds! meds! and CBT to take care of it, with at least two frosty walks in the freezing Canberra air to take the edge off pain and anxiety.

I'd eaten too much comfort food again and also had munged Vallium to push away obsessive, damaging thoughts. I'm sure that exacerbated it given I rarely take Vallium.

But even though I shrieked with agony with guts churning and pain wriggling I still got through the doors, got to my desk and got to work.

It was mostly a good day, apart from the pain and negative thoughts, though I failed to turn up to a meeting which I'd completely forgotten about given my rush of anxiety. I let my cloud get to me and I shouldn't have. 

The pain ebbed about late-Afternoon—then I got to chat with a friend on the bus ride home. 

My day could have been worse. I have more anxiety to come but I know I will cope.

I am strong, I am rested and I am well.

WFTW.

Sunday, August 02, 2015

(whimper)

The flood of negative emotion has fired up my fibro and IBS. I woke in severe abdominal pain and then nature took over and it hurt when it did (1). 

Then, not 10 minutes later, away it went again. I've had to mung as many meds as I can as per directions on the box. 

One of the techniques to use when overwhelmed in the head is to lose yourself in something enjoyable that takes all your focus. 

So I chose Baldurs Gate II. I have the heater on in the shed as I play and birds are trilling outside.

That's a great way to defeat the anger monster. To battle!

WFTW. 

UPDATE: I am lying here almost crippled with gut pain. But I'm still going to get up and go to work.

(1) Last night I ate comfort foods to bursting point. That contributed. Stupid delicious comfort foods.

Saturday, August 01, 2015

You get perspective atop a tumbrel

With thanks to the French Revolution.

A side effect of passion is feeling the negative emotions as keenly as the positive ones.

Anger hit after I'd starting riding SoTPC, my exercise bike, and when I was about a tenth of the way into it. But I subsumed into the ride, heart pumping and my mind cleared. 

WFTW.