TSB gets into a Sticky Situation (3)

This is where things went sticky.

TSB gets into a Sticky Situation (2)

If you've read the last post, you will realise that my situation was a little precarious.

TSB gets into a Sticky Situation (1)

I have an admission to make.

Vitamins and Whisky

According to the French, the way to health are these Glycerin suppositories.  Stuff them.

My Beloved (note the promotion to the full capital. Again) has said I must adopt a more healthy lifestyle.

Love, Affection and Saturated Fats

I love my Beloved.

My Beloved loves me.

Morphine is Nice

The continuing saga of me versus medicine

Hospital Tales

Reading Hestia' s Larder, with Ali's very funny account of her time spent in the clutches of the NHS getting bits removed/fixed reminds me of many encounters I've had with the NHS.

Coffee

I always used to be a Tea Drinker. All through my childhood, tea was the only available drink in most Scottish homes.  (Always made with loose leaf tea in a well warmed pot.  One spoonful for each person and one for the pot.)  It was mostly drunk with milk and plenty of sugar.  The posh would sometimes drink it with a slice of lemon.  And plenty of sugar.

Synchronised Swimming

Ever since the Olympics introduced Synchronised Swimming as an event, I wondered what type of person would want to do it.  Apart from the idiots calling it a sport, it must be decidedly unpleasant to participate.
With your head under the water for a goodly portion of the performance, water up your nose and in your ears, trying to keep your breathing timed to your surfacing must be difficult.
But why?
Are you trying to go faster?
Are you trying to go deeper?
Are you trying to be more graceful?
No.
You're just trying to be exactly the same as everyone else in your group.
What's the bloody point?
It must be the most boring and irrelevant "sporting" pursuit.

I met an ex-member of the NZ Synchronised Swimming team at the weekend.
She seemed almost normal.  No mad gleam in the eyes, no gills.  Quite ordinary really, though quite pretty.

When she told me of her participation, I felt quite proud of myself.
I didn't give a belly laugh of derision, nor did I snort in snide amusement. 
I just smiled, and said (lying) "How Fascinating".  I did say she was quite pretty, and like most men, I find it difficult to be rude or offensive to pretty girls.

She seemed keen to tell me more, but my beloved, who was sitting next to me gave me the subtle dig in the ribs I have come to love and expect. 
About two broken ribs worth of love I would judge.

I just sat quietly for the rest of the meal doing what every married (or partnered) man does in that situation  I fantasised about this pretty girl in a skin-tight swimsuit doing all sorts of synchronous activities.

Synchronised tea-making.
Synchronised vacuuming.
Synchronised dusting.
Synchronised car washing.

All in the gleaming skin-tight swimsuit.

My beloved had to give me another elbow in the ribs (Mach 2.5, I judged, grunting in pain) to remind me it was about time to leave.

I still think it's a bloody silly "sport" though.

Almost as silly as Solo Synchronised Swimming.  I mean to say, which fucking moron thought that one up.
Synchronised with what?
Move your left foot at the same time as your right foot. 10.0  10.0  10.0  10.0
My daughter could do that at age 3.

Solo Synchronised Swimming
(So difficult)

Dinner

I cooked dinner last night.
My beloved's back was still very sore, so I volunteered to buy food (our larder was getting low) and cook.
She graciously accepted, so I popped into the supermarket after work.  Now my beloved is a superb cook, in virtually any cooking style, but she excels in Chinese and most Far-Eastern styles, and while I love them, sometimes I would prefer something a bit simpler.  Something planer.  Something British.

So I bought some Lamb Steak, two bunches of Asparagus, a box of new (organic) potatoes from Oamaru and some baby carrots.

After I got home and tidyed up, I grilled the steaks, boiled the spuds and carrots, and used the microwave on the asparagus.  I made a garlic, olive oil, salt and rosemary paste in the mortar and pestle, and used that as a quick marinade for the lamb.  Everything else was cooked simply, and I just added butter to all the vegies just before serving.
I overdid the lamb a bit, and it was a bit tough, but I thought the vegies were great.

Too much butter?  Rubbish

My beloved did not agree.  I had used too much butter on the spuds (I ask you, is it possible to have TOO MUCH BUTTER on new potatoes or asparagus?  I don't think so) The asparagus had been overcooked she said.  I thought it still had a nice crunch, it wasn't overcooked until it was all wobbly.  The carrots were too watery.  I agree.  I hadn't given them time to steam off, nor had I added enough butter.

Oh, don't get me wrong, my beloved was not ungrateful, she was all smiles for my efforts.
Then she made the comment I knew was coming. 
She:  "I still haven't changed your way of looking at food, have I?"
Me:   "What do you mean"?
She:  "You still like these old foods"
Me:  "If you mean simple and plain, well sometimes. Yes"
She:  "I haven't made you think healthy"
Me:  "What"
She:  "You use too much butter"
Me:  (In slightly guilty tones) "Well, maybe.  But we don't do it very often" (ending in whine)
She:  (In an amazing mixture of benign condescension) "Someone has to worry about your health, Dear"
Me: (Defeated, and knowing it) "Yes Dear"
She: "I know you tried Dear, and it was so nice not to have to cook"
Me: "Yes Dear"
She: "I'll be fine by tomorrow, so I'll do the cooking then"
Me: "Yes Dear"
She: "Are you doing the washing up now?"
Me: "Yes Dear"
She: "You seem to have used a lot of pots and pans"
Me: (Through gritted teeth) "Yes Dear"
She: "Have you arranged any dessert?"
Me: "Yes Dear"
She: "That's nice, what will it be?"
Me: (mumbling) "Humble Pie Dear"
She: "What was that you said Dear?"
Me: "Apple Pie Dear, with Custard"
She: "Oh, that'll be nice, but we don't need the custard Dear, it's too high in fats and sugars.  Just pie on it's own will be fine"
Me: "Ffffffff.... Yes Dear"
She: "After you do the washing and drying will be fine Dear"
Me: "Yes Dear";  leaves, going to kitchen, feet dragging, a beaten man

Sometimes I really feel like going out, finding the guy who discovered Cholesterol and shooting him.
Right after I shoot the stupid bastard who invented marriage.

Itch

Why do we get itchy skin?
I can understand the need for a sensory system which picks up warnings essential for safekeeping of the body.
Temperature to warn against burns.
Pain when a sharp object is pushed through the skin.
Pressure, so we can avoid blisters and breaks
Movement, when the hair on your arms moves in a breeze, or your semicircular canals pick up 3D movement of the head.
But why an itch.

I can understand if it were a warning of a bug bite which might get infected or worse, but sometimes nothing seems to cause it.
You're just sitting minding your own business, when suddenly your scalp itches, or your elbow itches, or the back of your neck, your waist, your nose, your ear starts to itch. No obvious cause.
And why does scratching stop it? I know that physiologically and biochemically there's a cascade release of serotonins and natural histamines and antihistamines, but why is it so satisfying?
At the right time, at the right place, a really good scratch approaches pleasure levels of orgasm.
You laugh?

Think. You've had an itchy arse for at least 40 minutes. You cannot scratch it because you're doing something you cannot stop, in a public place. Teaching a class for example.
You try to ignore the irritability which ignoring an itch causes.
The class leaves, you shut the door, and flatten against the wall so nobody can see you through the window in the door.
You start to scratch. Getting to the point of itchiness is awkward, seeing where the itch is based, but you manage.
Ahhhhh, the relief, you close your eyes. More scratching gives even more relief, and waves of satisfaction emanate from the contact point.
Careful, you're approaching the point of maximum relief and the onset of pain caused by abrasion, the dreaded over-scratch.
You stop, making a mental note to wash your hands before eating or drinking.
Pushing away from the wall, to get back to your desk, you notice that through the great big bloody window between your room and the next 4 grinning and smirking kids faces, giggling and pointing at you.
Your reputation as some sort of perve is now set in stone.
Was it worth it?

Ahhh yes it was.

Flatulence

Seeing how we've become a wee bit serious over the last few days, I thought I'd change to a more light-hearted (but not better smelling) area.
Like many of the population over 40, I get my blood cholesterol checked regularly. After my last checkup, my doctor put me onto a Statin type medication, designed to reduce the "bad" blood fatty acids/triglycerides.
Unfortunately, Statins can have some side effects, and the one that hit me was excessive flatulence.

Luckily I'm a bloke. Blokes like to fart. Other blokes laugh when blokes fart. It's the way we are. We also use farting to mark our territory and possessions. Married blokes often fart in bed, to give their "mark" to their nest and to their mate. The women moan, but they really know that farting in bed is a sign of love and togetherness, and they don't really mean it.

If two or more blokes are together and one of them farts, in can often trigger off a mass fart episode, where each bloke tries to outdo his mates with a bigger, better, noisier and even smellier fart than anyone else. We might moan, hold our noses and even gag, but then we laugh or giggle (It's one of the only times a guy can giggle in public with other guys)

Being a teacher can have it's own problems however. In class, farting from the kids (especially the boys) is practically de rigeur, but it is not normally a major problem form the class-control viewpoint. (Unless the fart that is released moves into the area of toxic pollution or approximates a military incapacitating agent, necessitating evacuation of the area) But a farting teacher is more problematic. Pupils "know" that teachers are only human, and that all normal bodily processes apply, but to appear superior to the little darlings, we try to project a god-like infallibility. Farting spoils this effect.
There is however an easy solution, requiring only the mastery of the silent fart, which only requires a little practice beforehand.
(Or one of these commercially produced "Fart Silencers"

When the teacher feels a fart pressure buildup that is approaching critical levels, all he has to do is begin to wander among the pupils, making comments on their work, giving feedback and feedforward. As he passes two or more boys, let the first wisps escape. This works only when you have boys in your class. Try and time it so the release happens when you're between two of the kids, so no-one is quite sure who released the miasma of corruption. As the mutters of the unclean increase, as they begin to smell the gas, quietly turn, nostrils flaring. Allow a slightly pained look to pass across your face, direct your gaze to the two boys near the centre of the gas cloud and sigh gently. A slight mutter of "Boys, boys, please." can add a subtle hint of superiority. There are no punishments awarded, slight grins can be exchanged with all males in the area, accompanied with a small shake of the head.
Hey, it's no big deal, we're all blokes together. Works.

You'll notice that there is no mention of ladies in these notes on flatulence.
Obvious.

Ladies don't fart. They project bodily perfection at all times, and such gross metabolic functions are never mentioned or alluded to.
Ladies don't fart, they just discretely exude methanoic waste products.

Hey. Maybe when just women get together they fart, belch and make fart jokes in the same way as groups of blokes do?
Maybe.
But I don't believe it.