Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Bastard? I Thought You Said Mustard!!

Conversation from the senior citizen's home.

Me : Would you like me to get you more yoghurt while I'm shopping tomorrow? 

Him : Umm. No thanks.

Me : Custard?

Him (makes an exasperated huffy noise)

Me : What's wrong?

Him : You called me Bastard!!

Me : (in an overly-loud, voice) CUSTARD! I SAID CUSTARD!!!

This is what life's become post-children. Weird, misunderstood conversations of dessert choices. Both rejected because of the effect on sensitive, non-lactose digesting bowels. And that's exactly where the topic turned after the Bastard incident. To farts, bowel motions and coprophagic dogs. I'm pretty sure there are homes out there where conversations run to Global Warming, Politics, the Economy, Ballet, Opera and Literature but that will never be a home I live in. 

I was still giggling about my conversation with my husband The Saucepan Man (apologies Enid Blyton) the next morning when I met my posse for a run so I filled them in on the pillow talk that happens at Chez Donaldson. They were as amused as I was so to brighten their dull and boring work days I took a photo of the bastard in the refrigerator cabinet at the supermarket and posted it on Facebook.

And while I was looking closer at all of the different varieties of Bastard they have on offer I discovered something. Something that will potentially change the lives of the residents at the afore-mentioned senior citizens' home forever. There is now a Zymil Bastard!!! That's right - a low lactose bastard for all of us oldies with dodgy digestive systems. Hallelujah! 

I'm excited. Iven's excited. But the dogs are the most excited. They are going to be blamed for so many less farts. 

Who would have thought that miscommunication could change the lives of so many in such a positive way?!!

Monday, January 2, 2017

I Need a New Car

I need a new car.

People often use the word 'need' instead of 'want' and I've been known to do this myself. But not in this case. There's a very valid reason why I need a new car.

It's not because there's anything actually wrong with my current car. I LOVE my little Suzuki Swift. I've had it for coming up to 12 years and it's never given me a single problem. Yeah the battery's needed replacing. A couple of times. The tyres have been replaced too. More than a couple of times. But that might be an indictment on how I take corners more than 'they don't make tyres like they used to'. And just the other day my Katie Noonan CD got stuck in the CD player because its ejector doesn't have the oomph that it used to - but neither do I so I don't hold it against my favourite mode of transportation.

I love its colour. I love the little trail of paw prints that go up the back and onto the roof. I love the way it zips around roundabouts without having to slow down (yeah, I know - my bad about the tyres). I don't even mind that it smells a little of dog when it's wet. Or when I've got a back seat full of my furry family.

So why do I NEED a new car if I love my current one and it's driving perfectly well? Because I need a new car key of course. 

And why do I need a new car key? It's not because I've lost mine. Or the spare. I know exactly where both of them are. But I don't like to use the spare because it doesn't open the door remotely and because I've forgotten which way to turn the key to unlock the door and I hate feeling stupid every time I turn it the wrong way first. Clearly the spare is only for extreme emergencies. 

So that leaves the good key. Which, as of this morning, leaves me feeling a bit icky every time I touch it. Because this morning that key was involved in a very unfortunate incident.

I was at my first speed session of 2017. Running 600m reps with 400m recoveries. Easing into the new year and, not wanting to boast (okay, maybe wanting to boast just a little), my speed had suffered the least out of the participants present. Woohoo! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!! Not that it's a competition - except on the days when I'm in front. Or maybe I should say 'day' because by next week I'll be at the back of the pack again.

I got to the fifth rep and had that familiar feeling. That querulous intestine - fart or poop? The immediate answer was fart. But that was closely followed by the other option. Damn! Luckily I could get through rep #6 where there was a convenient toilet just around 20m away. 'Just' wasn't the right word for it though when I finished the rep. I have IBS and there was some urgency at this stage. Enough urgency that when I got to the loo I only had just enough time to wrestle my sweaty, sticky tights to the minimal clearance as to avoid embarrassment. 

Phew! All good. Except that I'd lost my lead in the non-race that is speed session. Time to get back to finish the last two reps.

I pulled up my tights and heard something disturbing. An extra plop in the toilet. WTF? 

My mind immediately went to the wristwatch that I'd misplaced yesterday. Had it somehow become tangled in the tights when I put them on? Was it now gradually sinking down into the murky depths? I like that watch. It was a gift from Iven. But I was prepared to sacrifice it to the sewerage gods because ... yuck!

I looked down into the bowl and the item wasn't as gold as I was expecting. (No seriously I do not believe that I poop out valuable metals. I'm talking about the watch). There was a lot of black. And a lot of confusion. Until I realised that it wasn't my missing watch. It was the car key that I needed to get me home after the session. 

Let us never speak of what happened next. Needless to say there's been a generous use of soap every time I think of what I had to do. I know I've put my hand up cows bums in the past but that was always with a glove on.

So that's why I need a new car. My hands aren't coping with the amount of washing that they've had to endure every time I look at, touch or think about my car key.

But the good news is that it still works. Well done Suzuki! You've made a poop-proof key. AND I found my watch.