Run Forest Run!

I took delivery of a u-beaut treadmill last week. Did I tell you?

It was purchased from what I thought, was a relatively reliable ebay seller in Australia. In fact, in Melbourne. I thought it would be a done deal once I finally won one of the sought-after suckers! I used my tax money, or part there of.  It seriously took over a month from when I won the item, to when the blasted thing arrived. I was unimpressed, and duly left neutral feedback, because I just couldn’t be bothered leaving negative feedback and dealing with the verbal exchange which would inevitably follow.

Anyway, I digress.

This ebay seller sells many treadmills at different speed levels, capacities and sizes. I, of course, picked the biggest, fastest and most gadgety one available. It told me I could run on it. It told me that it was rated for 200kg - well, well above my current lardness. And no, I am not sharing my current lardness in digit representation.

So, I walked on it last week. I walked and I hurt my legs.

Side note: I have Muscle Compartment Syndrome. It restricts blood flow to the muscles and it feels like my legs are burning. I’m talking serious burning, which then also affects my feet - my left foot went to sleep last week whilst I was walking. I pushed through the pins and needles and everytime I took a step, I looked like Steady Eddy with a gawky limp. Seriously, my left foot was shaking, girating and flapping everytime it wasn’t in use, so to speak.

I haven’t used my treadmill since that fateful night. Revelation, I know. Surprising, not really. I give up easily. I does that good.

Tonight, I went through my weights regime. I did sit ups. Shock horror! I hopped on the treadmill and before I could give it much thought, I pumped up the speed until I was forced to run, well a half arsed jog, at best. But it was running, nonetheless and as I was dying running, I felt good about myself. I felt proud. I decided to jog for one minute, walk for another, and so on and so forth. I did this for 10 minutes and I was suitably stuffed at the end of it.

I’m going to lose weight using the treadmill this way. I just know it. For, as I sit here, I feel my legs slowly dying and declared to Glen, not more than two minutes ago, that if he required me to get out of this chair, he would need to assist me, for I have become decrepid and incapacitated.

But I ran. (Yes, Flock of Seagulls, eat your heart out!) I ran!

Buttons

I bought this rather nice and expensive winter coat last year. It is black, woolen and lined and is adorned with fake, vintage buttons. You know, the type that look weathered, but really aren’t? They have a gold tarnished look to them that screams fake, but nonetheless, it’s a warm coat. Like with most articles of quality clothing purchased, the buttons have been slowly falling off and although I have managed to capture a couple of them to resew back on, there are others that are forever lost in the outside world, never to return home. My coat mourns their loss and has held a solemn vigile, in the hope that they would return.

Alas, they haven’t and I have had to face the harsh reality that my coat will need to throw out the old and embrace the new. So, with that in mind, I headed off to a national haberdashery chain in the city, in the hopes of finding a good assortment of buttons.

The word ‘Haberdashery’ brings back another childhood memory of growing up in BFN (trans: Bum Fuck Nowhere), where the local haberdashery had everything, from knitting supplies, sewing needles, threads, ribbons to craft goods and so on. It was run by a noisy woman who aspired to be a Christian. She failed in that regard, although she probably disagrees. Rosemary was just one of those woman who took it upon herself to dish out gossipy goodness to those she believed shared that past time. To us kids, she was a sticky beak who you felt passed judgement on you because you were out ‘urban surfing’ or merely playing ‘car tag’ on a Friday night to ease the burden of boredom, instead of pursuing good christian past times.

I digress. Haberdashery. I spent a good 20 minutes in the buttons sections, becoming more and more disillusioned by the lack of choice and quantities of buttons. If I found a button tube (yes, they come in tubes), it did not hold enough buttons for what I needed to replace the buttons on the coat. And then I had the added dilemma of finding identical buttons, but at a smaller size for the coat cuffs. That became my worst nightmare and soon it became a matter of survival, rather than choice. I hastily picked two tubes and paid for my purchase. Forty-two freakin’ dollars later and I was back to work, proud to have found some matching buttons.

During my mental dilemma in the buttons aisle, a strong memory came back to me and I stopped my search for the allusive buttons and pondered the memory.

When I was a kid, my mother was an avid sewer. She had cotton, wool, fabric and needles for almost everything imaginable. She would be what those in the industry would term, a “Bowerbird” - she never threw anything away and as a result, our three bedroom house was really a two bedroom with a junk craft room piled high with half finished projects and old toys and furniture. Amongst the rubble were bazillions of random buttons, largely kept in old-fashioned cake tins. You know the type? Those that are called antique these days, prized possessions for anyone who loved to back cakes and cookies.

During my mother’s fit of cleaning (very random and rare), she would drag out every button she could find and ask me to put them all together into one container - something that would fit them all. However, I became so fascinated with these buttons, I would set about matching them to other buttons, creating families of the same buttons and counting them. It would take me forever and it occurred to me, whilst searching for buttons yesterday, that this was a bit of a game for me, as I have more than one memory of doing this.

I remember buttons with lady beetles, butterflies and other pictures on them. I remember big fat buttons and a lot of clear buttons of many sizes. I used to sit and look at these buttons for hours at a time, appreciating their patterns and coveting them. I really don’t know why though, because thinking back on it, these buttons weren’t special and the best they could hope for, was a home on a small child’s shirt.

I don’t know what happened to all those buttons, but as I was lost in the masses of buttons yesterday in the store, the memory came flooding back to me. It was comforting and made me realise that I could, in fact, have clear and complete memories of being a kid - a rarity for me. It was nice. Makes me wonder if my kids will have similar, strange fascinations and subsequent memories.

Back to the present. I went back to the store today and returned the buttons. The coat declined to wear the buttons - the buttons were too bright and stark for the coat. I did find new buttons to replace the now old new buttons. So, hopefully when I introduce them to the coat tonight, they will hit it off instantly. Stay tuned.

I think this says it all

Aella2

Originally uploaded by Sams76.

Still don’t really feel like blogging.

One of these days, I might explain.

Right now, I’m dealing with the residue of a migraine and vomiting from yesterday. I’m fine. Just dealing with the shit of being a female who skipped her period for three months, at the suggestion of the doctor.

Funny thing is, I haven’t got my period yet.

When being female truly sucks…

This post isn’t for the fainted-hearted, or for men, so please bugger off if you don’t wish to be traumatised by feminine discussions.

Last week, whilst getting my blood pressure checked, I was subjected to the feminine pleasures of pap smears. I hate them and pleased that she did not mention it before she took my blood pressure.

So, I was subjected to the process which was pretty quick and painless. She asked for my mobile number to contact me if there were any issues, otherwise i could call today to get my results.

I didn’t need to call. She called me and left a message.

I had a feeling of dread as I began to listen to her message, remembering her saying that she’d call if there were issues. Her message said that I’d have to repeat the pap smear as there was too much inflammation and the cervical cells could not be detected.

Bah humbug. Phooey and shit.

I called her back. There was nothing to be concerned about, it was fairly common, but bugger it, I have to get another done in a couple of months. Fucken ace!

I “look forward” to these things every two years, but now I have to havce two in two years? No fair!!