Argh

Do you ever want to run to the rooftop and shout...


"OH MY GOD - I AM SUCH AN EFFING TWAT"


Fortunately I live in low-density housing, otherwise it might elicit some agreement.

Although the events provoking this outburst are cringe worthy, they are gentle reader (and fortunately for me), quite irrelevant. They were also, in a manner of speaking, completely avoidable. And sadly, are most definitely repeatable.

I am a danger to myself and others.

And as an addendum to this tale, I recently said, OUT A LOUD, "testicles" instead of "textiles" to an industry supplier. He was not amused. Especially, as it was his company's name. Named after him. Mortified does not even come close.

Kill me now.

Better than half a worm, in half an apple

My bestest beloved linked me to this , with the tag "... and I thought of you".

After the red veil subsided and I put down the kitchen knife, I did have to admit it was familiar turf and pretty close to home. Too close.

What is it with our brains - and why do they seem to take such joy in self sabotage?

Ordinarily, under strict laboratory conditions, I am a fairly intelligent and erudite person. But its like there is a "Random" switch that gets turned on in my head which causes gibberish to fall out of my mouth. It used to happen occasionally - you know, the odd spoonerism or Freudian slip. Normal. Human.

But now it happens A LOT.

For instance - that thing that you cut grass with? I know its called a LAWNMOWER. But in idle conversation what does my brain pop out? VACUUM CLEANER.

Pretty much 99.9% guaranteed (the .01% being the times I practice before hand to get it right). I've even tried rewiring my synapses by creating and repeating appropriate word associations. No dice.

Words with similar sound and spelling and are more excusable and unfortunately therefore more common. MELON when I mean LEMON. MUSHROOM instead of MATTRESS.

Or words of a like category. HAND instead of GLOVE. CINEMA for THEATER.

"The traffic lights up ahead are BLACK, we can cross..."

Obviously I meant RED. Certainly conceptually alike in their 'don't do it' kind of way. Perhaps that explains my brain's use of FRAGMENT instead of SNOWFLAKE. Crystallization creates both?? Work with me here!

Or there is just the plain weird: SAUSAGE instead of CIRCLE (Though technically phonetically similar to begin with - and if you cut them in half...)

At least if these 'exchanges' were of a saucier nature it would be a source of mirth and amusement, not just frustration and embarrassment.

On occasion I catch myself saying the wrong word - and quickly send a message to my mouth to say the right word - and like the three stooges trying to get through a door all at once - they jam and I end up stuttering like a skipping record.

For some reason it seems to be mainly nouns.

A further regression occurs when I can't recall the desired word and so out aloud, I scroll through the ones that do make it out of my brain until I hit on the right one or Jms figures out what I'm trying to say by deduction. Its like a shopping list version of charades.

Perhaps I'm just getting old - although I'm (technically) not mid-thirties yet, so surely that's too young for dementia? Please?

It could be an overworked mind. But idle times seem to make no difference.

I muse sometimes that I have some kind of rare, degenerative brain disorder that is eating away at my grey matter - like a worm in an apple.

Or an undiagnosed tumour. Like an episode of House, there would be that A HA! moment (after the requisite dicking about) where I can explain all my tics in one foul swoop and say "I told you so" and smile smugly.

Oh wait. Fantasizing about having a brain tumour? Um. Perhaps not.

(Though if it is fantasy "House" land, it will be fixed with a simple operation and I can go on to be Secretary General of the UN. There will be no long and difficult rehabilitation)

I could be generous and blame the pain meds. But let's be honest - this might just be personality, not acquired.

If you are a regular reader here at chez Trickle, you might appreciate that words are kinda my thing. I like using them and especially like to stretch my lexicon a little (hopefully without sounding like the nob who ate a thesaurus for breakfast).

I guess I just fear being 'that guy': dazed and confused in the supermarket, getting increasingly agitated as I yell out random words till my carer collects me and apologetically escorts me home.

Maybe I should start wearing a "Please look after this Bear" sign.

Or carry around flash cards. Lawnmower, Vacuum Cleaner, Hand, Glove ...

Literally cut up

Got a call from Southern Health two weeks ago saying its been well over a year since I was put on the wait list for surgery and was I still interested..?

Interested? Not quite the word for it really. I wasn't really interested in getting the condition in the first place but there you go. But now that I've got the chance to do something about it it well - yes I am quite interested thanks for asking.

It made me wonder how many folks do say "Nah, don't think I really can fit in a heart by-pass with my schedule - what say we give it a miss!"

Admittedly mine is a condition that is neither terminal nor life threatening, and even though I do try to be very careful with the term "need", I think it does count as "needed" (But not quite like how I need a cobalt blue Kitchenaid). I know that without intervention the condition will ultimately result in increasingly debilitating pain, possible infertility and potentially ruin a perfectly good marriage.

So worth doing I'd wager.

Unfortunately as I discovered at the pre-admin clinic shortly thereafter, surgery did not necessarily prevent any of these things. But things should improve. Three cheers for qualified optimism!

The inspecting Doctor (and the cast of thousands that "needed" to inspect my most private of parts) said there had been a cancellation and would I like to be scheduled for the 27th?

Well "like" is again a term most folks don't readily associate with being cut open, but having spent so long dreading the phone call right before I started a new job or right before my wedding, I was relieved that it was finally going to happen.

I will spare you the details of "bowel" preparation for surgery, suffice to say it was both worse, and not as bad as I expected.

My poor Dad probably knows more than he would have liked about my reproductive organs and sexual history, but he was outstanding company during the long wait for theatre.

By the time I made it to the recovery ward my bits felt like the Ikea car park - with everyone having had a visit. This was not a teaching hospital but I think they shipped in a herd of 4th years just for me.

The coincidence of all coincidences is that one of my best friends was also (unexpectedly) under the knife at exactly the same time. Fortunately for her, she at least got to take home a baby. Though two lucky viewers/research organisations did get to take home a show bag of my dodgy DNA. May I serve as a warning to others.

Jms and Dad are well deserved co-recipients for the "Man of the Year" award for my post-operative care. Having become an invertebrate (delightful effect of the morphine) they had to pour me in and out of the car/bed/chair and put up with me falling asleep mid-sentence.

Jms commented the following day that my pupils were still completely dilated. That might explain how I got the glow stick (just a hallucination) and the fluro wristband. No wait - that's the "don't stick anything nasty into this already dodgy arm" band. With the matching "allergy" red hat and arm band combo (and rather humorously "Bee Stings" written on it - just in case they had an apiary problem in theatre).

And so much for not driving a car for 24 hours - its Sunday night (4 days post -op) and I am only just able to sit in a chair without falling over. Lord knows how you'd do this with a new born.

Thank goodness the last few months have me well trained for sitting on the couch. This time staring wistfully into the distance and wishing I was in Sydney. Holding the latest member of the Dobbins clan, Phoebe Arbella. All 9 pounds and 10 precious ounces of her. Our "in utero" flower girl is finally here.

Well done Bronald!

Simple pleasures

There is a microwave oven in the house. For the first time since I was a teenager and living at home. It's on loan from the relocating MIL.

Jms and I don't know how we've survived this long without one.

I've regressed to my favourite after school snack. Rice cake + cheese + 10 seconds.

Mmmm. Melty polystyrene joy. Perfect while I catch up with the interwebs.

My only nod to personal culinary development is that at least it's Emmenthaler now rather than Kraft single.

Reminds me of some vases I've seen. Perhaps the Transglass vases by Tord Boontje? Or maybe I've just eaten too much cheese.

6 unimportant things about me that involve celebrities

Thanks Claire for this little meme into the random and often goofy encounters we have with stardom (which for some strange reason we can't wait to tell everyone we know - regardless of how mundane the story is).

I didn't think I could come up with 6 (I live in an uneventful suburb) but here goes, in all their banality:

I once sold lipstick to Marina Prior - she was a pleasure to serve (and very petite for such a big voice).

I went to law school with Karen Knowles. She was completely gorgeous and friendly - quite an odd thing in the ego world that it was.

Got in Tim Minchin's way as I stepped out of a shop doorway without looking on Brunswick Street. I was quite mortified because this is one of my pet hates (he is surprisingly tall - or perhaps I am just very short)

Tex Perkins commented on how cute our dog was whilst breakfasting at Borsch on Chapel st. Obviously he has excellent taste.

I once fell asleep/passed out on Dave Hughes' couch (it was a share house so couch ownership may be in dispute). I have also witnessed Dave get heckled by random passing traffic. To me this adds to his hapless charm.

Not mine, but Jms (we are married therefore I am entitled to half credit) sent geek boy MTG cards to Delta Goodrem and she very sweetly signed them for him.



I know Jms meets a few celebs through work - but because of confidentiality can't even acknowledge their stardom, let alone talk about it later. Sadly our bragging cachet at dinner parties has been seriously hampered.

Rainbows and Unicorn chasing

The good news is I haven't been to work in over a week. Yay!

So why haven't I been posting every 5 minutes?

The bad news is I have RSI of my right arm.






















So no cutting, crafting, cooking, cleaning or computing (accept perhaps for maybe a 5 minute session once a day - consisting of pathetic left-handed mousing and painfully slow one finger typing). This missive is in fact brought to you courtesy of several days of strained and dogmatic attempts to post.















I can't surf the net, hold a book or even hold a pen. And yoga is only to be undertaken within very strict parameters.

I certainly didn't appreciate how much I would yearn for something as simple as downward dog. And how my heart almost broke when class this morning finished off with handstands (while I lay in a sad puddle on the floor).
















I am sick of watching TV and being house bound (oh yes - no driving either). Even supposedly "low impact" walking can be quite painful as every jolt seems zero in on my inflamed joints.

So blah blah blah - woe is me.














Feeling more than a little glum (and just a tad bored) last week I was reminded of the concept of unicorn chasing. I haven't googled it - but the premise as explained to me by my bestest beloved is that whenever you see or read something awful - the need to replace this ugliness in your mind's eye with something pleasant or cute is known as "unicorn chasing". So for example, after reading a news post about war atrocities one might recover by having a quick perusal of the Cute Overload archives. Or doing an image search for Unicorns (if that's your thing) - hence the name.

















Well in dire need of supplanting the idea of being out of action (or at considerably reduced capacity) for some time, and the usual kitten /puppy route not antidote enough - I thought instead of the serendipitous joy of finding a random rainbow amongst the flotsam and jetsam of everyday objects.


The refraction of light off a glass. A cluster of shiny colouring pencils. A stash of fabrics assorted by colour. Showers of rain coupled with sunshine haven't cornered the market on spontaneous gratification as far as I am concerned.

I love rainbows. How could you not?




I am sure, in the great encyclopaedia of life, its listed under the entry "to be human".


I recall a moment in high school - whilst rehearsing for our production of the Wizard of Oz.

The stage crew were assembling the set whilst around was general mayhem. School bags, scripts and instruments strewn from one end of the Alexander theater to the other. The cacophany of students, outnumbered teachers trying in vain to quell the storm. All reduced to a silent awe as the 20 meter silk rainbow was lifted to the apex of the stage.

Mesmerised. Speechless.


Pretty powerful stuff.


If I can't go back to my current job, I am seriously considering the possibility of Unicorn Chasing as career.

Goldfish, Lincoln Logs and the Misanthropic Prophet

Don't get me wrong I think Easter is great (even with the flu - 5 days and counting!)

But it always reminds me of this - one of my many favourite Bill Hicks routines.

WARNING: Some of us Hick's fans can be a little overzealous and some a little "Metal" - so try to look past the power chords and over use of bad visuals. Oh that and the extreme language, absolute adoration of pornography and illicit drugs.

But his words always remain true.

There was a time when I was offended by the blatant sexism and drug use (as a feminist teetotaller should). But I have since learned to get over myself and listen to the beauty (YES beauty) within his monologues. Yes there is rage and bitter despair, but there is also profound wisdom and love.

A soul unfortunately too sensitive to survive in this demanding world.

We miss you Bill. May your weed be sticky and your women big breasted.

Peace Out.

What do they call Brazil Nuts in Brazil?

just nuts?

(I know they're not called almonds - that jar just happened to be empty. As will it be again soon. So yummy. So expensive - damn you certified organic produce and your infinite betterness)