The Tale Of the Wayward Button

It's never great when you hear a loud 'plop' in the toilet when you're the only one in there and you're not even sitting on it yet.

I was in the airport terminal last Tuesday - or, to be precise, in the toilets in the airport terminal when I heard a 'plop'. For a second I thought it was from another cubicle and wondered what on earth that person had been eating. But a momentary glance into the bowl before I assumed my position on the throne told me the horrible truth.

A button had fallen off my cardigan.

And it wasn't just a plain old button. It was quite a distinctive button. A feature button on one of my favourite and most-worn winter woollies. A button that would be hard to replace.

Bugger!

There are pivotal moments in life where the decisions you make are ones you can't reverse. Like stepping off a cliff. This decision was not going to have such a catastrophic consequence. Unless you count any number of communicable diseases that could be caught from just the toilet seat alone. And I'm ruling out pregnancy as something that could be 'caught' from a toilet seat in this instance because it wasn't a unisex toilet and we all know that a boy has to sit on the seat first for there to be any risk of catching a pregnancy from going to the toilet.

This decision was between wearing my cardigan without an eighth button (or replacing the entire eight)  or plunging my hand into the cold and putrid toilet water. And by putrid I mean it was actually quite clean looking and there were no skid-marks on the bowl but there was the potential of teeming, microscopic, flesh-eating bacteria lurking like barracuda waiting to tear my hand into a bloody, pulpy mess. 

And I had to make that decision quickly. I hadn't gone into the toilet just to get away from the crowds in the terminal. 

As I stared down at my button sitting right at the base of the pan, I remembered all those ads on television that are trying to imbue global mass-hysteria about germs. Those ads for products that disinfect every single surface of the house so there's no possible chance that we will become ill. Those ads that tell me quite clearly that bacteria are something to be avoided at all cost. 

Then I remembered the many Current Affair programs I'd seen that had compared bacteria counts of different surfaces. That my kitchen floor had many times more bacteria lurking than my toilet seat and I'd eaten food dropped on the kitchen floor (only ever under the 3 second rule which is how quick you have to be to eat floor food when Toby's around) and I hadn't become sick. 

And, finally, I remembered all the times my delicate little hands had been in less than ideal environments. Like the many times I'd checked my babies' nappies to see if they were wet by using the digital method and finding that they weren't just wet and that the smell method was probably better to employ before the digital method. Or the time that the shoulder-length glove I was wearing sprung a leak when I was shoulder-length up a cow. 

I've survived many close encounters of the faecal kind so there really was no decision to make. I plunged my hand down and retrieved my treasure, dried it, wrapped it in some toilet paper and stuck it in my pocket.

And then I scrubbed my hands with as much soap as I could squirt from the stingy cannister and tried to forget a less-than-pleasant interlude. And I did - until I got home and remembered that there was something in my pocket. I pulled out the little toilet-paper wrapped bundle and placed it on the jumper on the dining room table so I'd remember to sew it back on.

It must have looked a little too much like a gift for my youngest son. His curiosity got the better of him so he unwrapped it. Of course he wanted to know why there was a button wrapped in toilet paper so of course I had to tell him what had happened. And then he demanded to know if I'd washed the button. 

Oops. Sharing is caring, isn't it? Even if it is toilet water??

Great Ocean Road Half Marathon

It's hard to resist the cherubic face of my great-niece looking up at me with her lips puckered wanting to give me a kiss good-bye. That cute little three year old face haloed with burnt golden hair wanting to bestow the sweetest gift that a three year old can give. Impossible to resist - so I didn't. And I really should have. Especially since that cute little puckered mouth was bathed in snot. And that snot ended up on my mouth - ughh!! Effectively my sweet little great-niece was a biological weapon

Apparently snot is much more likely to give you a cold than spit. Or at least that's what my son pointed out to me as we were flying down to Melbourne and I was trying not to scream from the pain in my sinuses and ears. So last week I learnt a couple of very valuable lessons. Take a decongestant if you're stuffed up with a cold and you have to fly. And don't kiss your snotty great-niece on her snotty lips just a couple of days before you run a race.

It's just as well that I was never planning on racing the Great Ocean Road half marathon. The weekend was mostly about family - getting to see Sam and Hannah in their new natural habitat, spending some quality time with both of them and #2 son Josh. Getting to run along a beautiful stretch of coastline was just an added bonus.

We drove down to Apollo Bay on Saturday afternoon, checked into our accommodation and tried to get a good night's sleep. Sleep is always a little elusive the night before a race - even if it's more a run than a race. But we made it to the start line fairly rested - and, my personal little victory, unmedicated. I was actually fairly un-stressed about the run. Or maybe it was more that my head cold was a good distraction.

There was plenty of time once we were dropped off to do important things. Like take selfies. And find your team-mates (or more accurately - stand in a fairly open place so your team-mates have a chance to find you). And then find willing strangers to take more photos.

The race finally started about five minutes late and it was straight up a hill that was still going up when my watch beeped at the kilometre mark. There was a lot of people to run through so we'd either started too far back of they'd started too far forward. By the second kilometre the traffic had eased enough so  I could run at my own pace but I just didn't feel great. The pace was okay but it just felt harder than it should have. I put it down to the hills and just kept running hoping that I'd start to feel better soon.

The scenery really was spectacular - thank goodness that there was something to take my mind off the pain my body was in. I'd eased back on the pace but I still was struggling. I kept doing the maths - how much further did I have to run? That's not good when you're only around halfway through the race. My legs were heavy and the cold was taking its toll - I had nothing in the tank.

By around kilometre 17 I ran back into Josh. He'd been a bit ahead of me and I thought I'd see him next when I crossed the finish line but he was struggling with a sore leg and it was at that point that we made a pact to finish the race together. That's when the race became fun again. It didn't matter about time (even though time didn't ever really matter) and it didn't matter if we had to walk. What mattered was that we went across the line hand in hand and got a good photo.

So for the next 6 kilometres we took walk breaks when Josh didn't think he could run any more and ran when the pain eased back. I was a little surprised about a couple of insensitive runners who passed comments as they ran past us. "Look at the stragglers!" and "Don't give up - only two kilometres to go". We were hardly stragglers because we still finished in the top half of the field and neither did we give up - walking is still moving forward (BTW we passed that runner before the end and didn't say a word when we passed.)

Then, finally, we could see the finishing arch. Josh put on a bit of a spurt and I had to almost sprint to keep up. I had to remind him of our pact - and I had to do it loudly. So we're running down the last few hundred metres and basically I'm yelling 'wait for Mummy, pet!' - there's a first time for everything in running.

                                               

We got just in front of the finishing line, held hands and lifted them aloft. And the photographer missed us. So we tried it again and he missed again - and we'd run out of course. Ah well, in our heads it was a great shot. A triumphant family photo to treasure.

                                                 

We caught back up with Sam and Hannah, had a quick bite to eat and then it was back to the car. We had other plans for the day.

You can't really go to the Great Ocean Road without visiting the 12 Apostles. Especially now that they are starting to diminish in number. It was about a ninety minute drive from Apollo Bay but it was worth it to see this.

And to get a great mother-son shot. Yes, it hurt (especially after being in a car for ninety minutes) and no, I didn't wet myself.

So my final word on the race - it was a good one and I'd definitely recommend to put it on your to-do list. It was well-organised on a scenic route in a great location. It might not have been my best race ever but that can't happen every time.

When Eyes Meet Eyes

Back again on-line finally after another hiatus. More technical issues meant that our celebrations last Friday were very short-lived. But this time we've been connected for more than eight hours so I'm calling it a win.

So what's happened in my life in the last week, you ask? A lot of the same old, same old - sleeping, running, eating, working and trying to stay calm about going to Melbourne on Saturday. But the highlight of the week would have to be the 'moment' I had on a run yesterday.

Luckily this moment didn't involve any unwanted or poorly-timed bodily functions. This moment was just a fleeting encounter. A moment where eyes meet eyes and there is a connection. A moment when you feel like although you're strangers, you already know each other's hearts.

You've all heard of love at first sight. Where you glance across the room and catch sight of him (or her) and your eyes meet and suddenly you're lost. Well it was nothing like that - apart from the eyes meeting bit.

I was just running along one of my usual routes, enjoying the crisp morning air and the fact that running really helps with the pre-travel, I-think-too-much nerves when I came across a running group running the opposite direction. The path was fairly narrow but it was wide enough for us to pass comfortably if we all ran single file. All of the group seemed to understand that running courtesy dictates that you move across so your fellow runners can pass - well all of the group EXCEPT the tall, dark man at the back.

As I got closer I was waiting for him to do what his friends had done - just move a foot to the left. But no. He wasn't budging. Our eyes locked - but not in the romantic across-the-room-happily-ever-after way. They locked in a battle-to-the-death, blink-and-you-lose way.

I gave him the stink eye that said 'Shove over you uncouth Neanderthal.'

His matching glare said 'I'm sick of bra-burning feminists who think they own the world'

Then I used my death glare.' Were you raised by wolves? Whatever happened to good manners and common courtesy?'

To which he countered with a belligerent gaze  'I'm coming through. I'm bigger and faster and if you don't get out of the way you're going to get hurt.'

But I had the last word with the evil eye as I stepped off the path because he was bigger and faster. 'You might be able to outrun me but you won't be able to outrun Karma. I hope you pull a groin muscle.'

And as he ran off into the distance I went with the scathing, withering glance perfected centuries past by pragmatic school teachers the world over and had one last mental shot 'Stupid a$$hole.'

Yep, I won that battle. And without even saying a word.

And because all posts should come with a picture, here's a gratuitously cute photo of Toby welcoming me home after I'd been longer at the shops than usual. I got a two-toy greeting.

The Day I Became A Murderer

My internet was cut off this week.

Not because I didn't pay my bills. And not because I've been downloading things illegally. The company that I'd been with was going out of business. So they kindly sent me an email saying it would be shut off from the 14th of May - then they went ahead and shut us down on the 3rd. WTF?!!

Of course I'd worked off the date that they'd originally given us and organised a new connection just the morning that they cut us off, not knowing that the original date had been an approximation. And I'd been told that the new connection would take 10 days to set up. So I knew that I might be without internet for a day at the most next week. No big deal.

And then I tried to get on the internet and found it wasn't working. I thought it must have been a temporary glitch ... until I rang the company and found out the horrible truth. The voice on the end of the line was terribly apologetic and said that we should have been told the third of May and that she would send me an email. I was in no mood to be placated. Even though the debacle was not her fault I wanted to punish her just because she was the voice at the end of the line so my response to the conciliatory email was along the lines of "and how am I supposed to receive the email seeing as you've cut my internet off!!!" The word 'idiot' was not uttered but was definitely implied. With an appropriately scathing profanity.

Luckily our new internet provider (Internode, for anyone who's interested) has exceptional customer service. And empathetic staff who respond to middle-aged women who can spin a heart-rending tale of woe. The ten days I was originally quoted turned out to be only four!!

Hallelujah, I am connected again. Which is just as well because I have had something very important that I needed to get off my chest. I've been a bad girl and the guilt has been eating me up.

I became a murderer this week!

Most of you are probably shocked by that statement. Most of you would view me as a somewhat unbalanced but fairly harmless person who wouldn't hurt a fly. But some of you might have realised that there is a hidden darkness in all of us and given the right circumstance we are each capable of more evil than we could even contemplate. Those 'right circumstances' came to pass this week.

The day that I became a stone cold killer started off as many days do - an early alarm, shivering in the dark as I changed into my running clothes, eating a slightly unripe banana, hoping that the banana would act quickly so I could run without fear of PTSD (Poorly Timed, Stress-induced Defecation) and a happy and uneventful run.

You'd think that with all those endorphins surging through my veins that, of all days. that would not have been the day I would have turned homicidal. But in fact it was all those happy hormones that started off a whole cascade of events that ended up in blood and carnage.

After the run I took myself off to the shops to get a coffee. It was a particularly good coffee - hot, strong and not too bitter. It amped up my mood just a little more. I was full of caffeine and endorphins and a sense of joy that I wanted to share with the world. So the first thing I did when I got home was let our chicken out to roam around the back yard. There's nothing in the world she loves more than exploring.

If I hadn't let her out it wouldn't have happened.

But I did. And it did. Now all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. (Apologies to William Shakespeare)

It was the chicken that made me aware that something was amiss in the back yard. She wasn't cackling but her alarmed clucks told me that she was disturbed. (I'll bet that you didn't know I had the Dr Doolittle-esque ability to translate chicken-speak into English.) So being a good and caring chicken owner I went to see what was wrong and what I saw was this -

Or it would have been this if I'd had to describe him to a police sketch artist who also had a strong dislike of vermin.

A rat lurching and hopping drunkenly across our lawn in broad daylight isn't something I'm used to seeing. I know we have rats but they generally only come out at night and I generally choose to ignore the fact of their existence because I don't see them. And our rats (yes, the word 'our' implies ownership and I'm happy to 'own' invisible rats who clearly do not exist because I never see them) are scurry-ers not lurchers or hoppers. There was something very wrong with this rat for it to be brazenly cavorting out in the open and disturbing both chickens and humans alike.

I remembered that Iven had put down rat bait so this strange ataxic gait could have been caused by poisoning. But I also remembered that the Great Plague of 1665 was caused by rats. Or rather fleas that were carried by rats. So there was only one course of action I could take. I had to kill it. I'd either be kindly hastening a slow, agonising death OR I'd be preventing the deaths of millions of my neighbours.

And then I remembered that Luke was home so I may not have to kill it myself. After all why reproduce if you can't count on the fruit of your loins doing your dirty work for you?

So I called Luke down to do his 'manly duty'. He was a little horrified that the rat was still alive. His expectations were that he'd be picking up a corpse with a plastic bag and throwing it in the bin. His hesitation made me totally over-think the situation. Luke's still fairly young and impressionable. Plus he's a kind and sensitive young man. If I got him to do the deed I might be scarring him mentally for life. I may, in fact, be creating a vicious homicidal maniac. So, as much as I hate to take a life, I would be a terrible mother to make my son do what is clearly my duty.

It was me who picked up the shovel. And it was me who hit that poisoned, plague-ridden rat on the head. Twice. And it was Luke who commented that I hit like a girl and should get a better swing happening. And Luke who took the shovel off me in exasperation to deliver the killer blow. So now the guilt is not just because I'm a murderer. I've made my sweet little, 6ft 4in son a partner-in-crime.

He helped dispose of the body too. And I'm pretty sure I heard a satisfied cackle from the chicken as we triple-bagged the evidence of our blood-lust. One less rat to steal her food!

I feel so much better now I've confessed.

Farting And The Curious Dog

This post is going to delve into Too-Much-Information territory so don't say you weren't warned!

I've been eating a little bit of cheese lately. Yes, I know - mind blowing, earth-shattering news there. It's one of those foods that I had to cut down on when I developed a whole range of food intolerances while I was on Yaz. Before Yaz I'd have a bit of cheese most days and I really missed it when I had to cut it out but now, when my stomach is being well-behaved, I like to have a little bit.

And I can tolerate a little bit. Actually, that should read I can tolerate a LITTLE bit. By little I mean once or twice a week and not three days in a row. Yes, I broke my self-imposed-but-not-because-I'm-a-masochist rule. I ate cheese with my lunch on Friday, Saturday AND Sunday.

By Monday afternoon I knew that a storm was brewing. Thank goodness I work by myself and had no clients coming over. I was able to relieve the pressure without offending anyone. It's perfectly normal to fart between 15 to 25 times a day. I'd managed to produce my quota in an outstanding effort of 90 minutes - I'd like to think that I have special talents.

If only farting were as cute coming from an adult.

Unfortunately I was still going by the time I had to finish work so poor Iven was regaled frequently with the sound of a trumpet fanfare from the kitchen. We're pretty fancy about how we announce dinner in our house. But finally it started to settle and we were able to eat dinner in relative peace.

Dinner over, it was finally time to relax. I was lying on the chaise with Toby at my feet when I realised that I still hadn't played my final tune. And I'm ashamed to say that I was just too tired and Iven and I have been married too long for me to get up and be discreet. So, in the hope of not being a total bush-pig, I tried to let it out quietly and slowly. But this only made my trumpet sound like I'd used a mute. And to Toby's ears the sound was confusing and a little disturbing. He sat bolt upright. His ears went forward and his brow wrinkled quizzically. He tilted his head one way then the other trying to work out exactly where that strange noise was coming from.

Of course this made Iven and I laugh out loud which didn't help with my attempts to control the uncontrollable. And that made Toby's brow furrow even more. 

I promise I will be cutting back my intake of cheese from now on. Although if we ever need an evening of cheap entertainment I may break that promise.

PS - This post was written a full 24 hours ago. I gave myself a day to try to get Toby to replicate his quizzical, what-are-you-hiding-up-there look so I could capture it for all my loyal readers. I tried to make farty noises with my mouth. I tried an array of squeaky toys. I even went so far as to go to the shops and blow $3.00 on a bag of balloons because nothing does a weird farty noise quite like a balloon. But no luck at all. I have, however, found out that I can put balloons on the long list of things that Toby's afraid of.

Weekend Highlights

Time is not my friend at the moment. There's been way too much to do in almost impossible time frames. I've been sacrificing weekends since March and even then only just been able to keep my head above water. I feel like a duck - trying to look like I'm floating gracefully along but under the water my feet are paddling frantically to keep up.

Working a lot of extra hours per week has meant that I've had to let a couple of training sessions go. Not easily done when you like ticking off every single session and adding up the kilometres run per week. But I'm not a full-time, sponsored athlete. And I need money to support my running habit. So sometimes I have to prioritise my paying job - but if anyone is open to sponsoring a 50+ runner who's not very talented but it enthusiastic, I'm open to negotiations. (Funnily enough, though, making rocky road has made it up the priority list a little higher than running. Probably because I need some reward at the end of another long day.)

So because life's been a bit of 'all work and little play' I've had to make the most of what little play I have had. Yesterday Iven and I stole a bit of precious time to go to the movies. The movie we'd decided to see was called The Invisible Woman - about Charles Dickens mistress - and because it wasn't a blockbuster we had to go to and arthouse cinema to see it.

Arthouse cinemas are wonderful things. They give you access to some interesting, obscure and downright weird movies. They generally appeal to an older demographic so you can rest your head back on the seat without fear of being infected with head lice. But being that the audience is a little older doesn't mean that it's better behaved. Older can often mean a little hearing impaired so whispers that are meant for your neighbour's ears only can be heard by the entire congregation. I left the theatre knowing how many times the coughing lady one row up had seen her GP about her nasty productive cough - eww phlegm overshare. And about the state of someone's daughter's divorce. Thank goodness no one got onto the topic of bowels because I've heard that ranks only second to weather in hot conversational topics in the elderly.

The movie wasn't great. Maybe it was my state of being busy, busy, busy and needing to go, go, go but I found a lot of the scenes really dragged. But the outing was great because of an interaction with the ticket collector.

We'd arrived early, bought our tickets and wanted to get a coffee to enjoy while we were watching the movie. But we wanted to check that they didn't mind us bringing one in. So we asked the ticket collector. He was probably in his late 60s and obviously enjoyed having a chat and a laugh with the patrons. He told us that we could bring in a coffee as long as it had a lid and as long as we got him one too. Oh, and he took two sugars.

So we went and got our coffees. And, because he wouldn't be expecting it, we got him one as well.

His face was priceless when we gave it to him. Confusion then surprise then a big smile. Heaven knows if he drinks flat whites but it didn't really matter.

We went and took our seats and a little while later he came down the aisle saying that no good deed should go unpunished. He presented us with a discount card to the cinema. I'm thinking that he wants us back so he can get more coffees.

The other highlights of the weekend (apart from two runs which were just what my head needed ) was the 1-0 win by the Roar football team to make it through to the grand final next weekend.

Luke and Becky off to the Semi-final.

And I discovered a pretty uncanny resemblance of the US Secretary of State to a muppet. Uncanny isn't it?!

So now it's over to you. What was the highlight or highlights of your weekend?

Disappointment

Disappointments. We've all had them.

It may surprise you that I, myself have often been disappointed. Yes, I know my life seems to be a fairytale of blissful runs, perfect children (how could anything less than perfect come from this body?!), sugary confections and generally floating along from day to day on a rainbow created by a unicorn fart. But the reality is such a long way from this delusion that I like to have everyone believe. So I'm going to share a few of my disappointments - just so you can all feel better about your own.

I never got a pony when I was growing up. Unless you count the black ceramic horse that lost its leg during an unfortunate dusting incident and had to be put down. Note to all parents out there - if you give your horse-crazy daughter a ceramic horse she will probably be able to tell that it's not a real one. 

Then there was the disappointment when I was about eight when the person that I'd flung my arms around turned out not to be my favourite aunt but a stranger. That one's very memorable because of the good dose of embarrassment mingled with the disappointment.

I was incredibly disappointed the time that I noticed, halfway through eating it, that my cracker was full of weevils. And then I was incredibly nauseated. For the rest of the afternoon.

And I'm constantly disappointed that I wasn't blessed with a furnace-like metabolism. And that running a lot doesn't mean that you can eat a lot. And that chocolate isn't a low calorie, fat-burning super food.

But I would say my biggest disappointment ever came a few days ago.

It was the end of a long day at the end of yet another long week and I was enjoying a little down time in my pyjamas in front of the television with a cup of tea and a piece of rocky road. Okay, it was more like a slab of rocky road - don't judge!

At this point I need to explain a couple of things. 

First - I basically wear shorts and a singlet to bed. The singlet has a bra shelf in it - for comfort and modesty (in the past we have had young men drop around at all hours of the night so it pays to be prepared) and so things don't get too tangled up when I'm asleep.

Second - I'm not talking about any old rocky road. I'm talking about rocky road that's been custom made to please my palate. Yes it's basically chocolate and marshmallows and nuts but the chocolate is Toblerone and there's two types of nuts (toasted, slivered almonds and toasted pecans). And then there's the other mix-ins - chopped clinkers, marella jubes and, the piece de resistance, peanut M&Ms. 

So I'm lying on the chaise enjoying watching Biggest Loser with a hot cup of tea while savouring my little bit of heaven and trying to beat Toby to the crumbs that fall onto the couch. I'm relaxed and content. All's right with the world even if it's just for this moment. 

The program ended so I got up, put my dirty cup in the kitchen, sent Bubbles out for her last wee of the day (Toby either spends his days dehydrated or has an enormous bladder - either way he never needs to go) and I went to brush my teeth. Teeth-brushing done, I just glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror and noticed what appeared to be a lump - a weird deformity of my left breast.

Upon closer inspection this weird lump turned out not to be a tumour but a rather large piece of rocky road complete with nuts and marshmallows. Heaven knows how Toby missed this bit because he watches me eat like a hawk and pounces on any fallen food instantly. 

So where does disappointment come into this story? I had brushed my teeth!!!! 

I've heard that your character can be measured by how you handle disappointments. I'd like to think I handled this one with good deal of class and grace. I popped that piece of rocky road out of my bra shelf and into my mouth. Then I rinsed my mouth and went to bed. 

Please don't tell my dentist.