Ow times a googolplex

So I tripped over a chair last night. No big deal, you might think.

I landed on my massively bad bone-bruised heel. 92.4 kilos of me, landing on one small area [about two square inches, if you feel like doing the math. And yes, I’m completely bipolar with metric choices] and you can guess it hurt like fuck.

It still hurts like fuck today.

I’m limping everywhere, when I have to move. I prefer not to move at all, though.

Plus point: I’m down past the 91.9 barrier to 90.5 - hooray.

Negative points: I may need crutches. This completely blows up my plans to clear the yard of debris and mow the jungle lawn. This completely blows up my plans to get some stuff at the shops. Bleh.

And to add injury to injury, the opposite knee is now protesting the extra load of work and may need a therapeutic bracer. Whee fun.

Looks like the most money I shall be spending on myself this week will be all about medical needs.

48 hours

That’s how long it took me to clear the sullage water hose so that it could be shifted for mowing. And I broke a part. Phooey.

It’s also how long I haven’t been able to do housework, because I’m red-faced and gasping for air. As well as rat-faced tired.

It is also how long it takes for my house to go to shit.

There are objects blocking the sink.

There are objects clogging the drainer.

There are objects colonising my clean countertop.

There are dirty dishes colonising strange, new places.

There is (thankfully) no drifts of clothing gathering/breeding in dark corners, but I swear that’s more due to superior effort than anything else. But yes, there is a backlog of laundry.

And now that the mower’s at least working, guess who’s expected to deal with the jungle lawn?

Yyyyyup. Me.

But first I have to restore the house to picture-probable condition. And replace the hose part. And restrain the dog so there aren’t any nasty accidents. And find some sunscreen or a long-sleeve coat I can wear without dying ‘cause I know I’m gonna BURN in the hot sun.

Ohyeah. For the first time in forever, it isn’t raining when I’m pondering the plausibility of fixing the yard. Must be the fact that hubby won’t be home when it’s getting done.

Grr.

And I have to find/buy a decent dust mask 'cause you can bet money that this will set off my asthma.

I’m gonna make quite a picture, tomorrow. Big pink hat, sunnies, dust mask, long-sleeved coat, sandshoes and bestriped socks. And only half of it will come off when it’s time to pick up the kids.

AND I still have groceries to purchase.

Gah.

It all just keeps adding up.

I am now prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse

I finally got one. The essential item for every geek’s arsenal against the nigh-inevitable zombie apocalypse.

Yes! I finally got a hold of my machete.

Good old Annaconda. The go-to place for stuff you can’t get anywhere else because it’s a bit on the weird side.

Alas, ‘cause they’re a camping gear mob, they don’t have scythes. Phooey.

On the other hand, the blokes are off fixing the ride-on mower, so the need for a scythe is lowering as I type.

I still want one. When the world runs out of fuel, all the oldie mouldie ways will come back, and I’ll be ahead of the crowd.

But, for now, I have my machete and I love it. It’s one weapon/tool that never needs reloading or refueling.

Farging roadblocks!

No, this is not about traffic.

I seem to be cursed to stay at or above 91.9 kilos.

I bounced back up into solid 92kilo turf, today. Grrr.

I’m so mad at myself and frustrated and tired and, to add insult to injury, my right knee has decided to join my wrists in the Painful Rheumatism Club.

Which means I more or less have to rely on diet alone on the days when it’s painful to move.

Days like this, I keep wondering what happened to that experiment where they turned fat, lazy mice into thin, energetic mice with some chemical cocktail. How soon is that shit coming to a chemist’s near me? How much longer do I have to wait? Has the whole project been blackballed by the diet industry?

What?

91.9

That’s my weight, today[2nd Feb].

That’s my stumbling block.

Three times, I’ve got down to 91.9 only to yo-yo back up to the next kilo bracket. since I spend a week working off roughly a kilo, I watch those decimals like a hawk. Getting down into the next “kilo zone” is fast becoming an obsession.

Better make certain it’s not a dangerous one, then.

And in the Antiprogress side of things: My bone bruises, especially the one in my left heel, have decided to make walking hell. I limp everywhere at half or less of my normal speed.

Plus: I’m not wandering about and grabbing snacks.

Minus: I’m not exactly exercising, either.

Well, I don’t need to walk to exercise. I can still pedal. And I will.

As soon as I gather the courage to walk as far as the exercise bike.

The Drops

MeMum used to call it “dropsy” when she was feeling whimsical. On other days, it was the “sadim"s [Midas spelled backwards]. Those days when everything around you seems destined to ricochet off the floor.

I prefer to call it "the drops” so people don’t look at me funny.

Mayhem has it this morning. He’s spilled seven different things towards the floor - including my morning beverage and the cat’s water - and counting.

My best advice to him, and anyone who’s having a clumsy day, is this: Slow down, take a breath, and take it carefully.

Once you start a clumsy streak, it’s easy to get agitated or angry and make even more mistakes. Which, as you might guess, starts a self-defeating cycle involving a lot of interesting new swears.

But of course, nobody ever listens to me.

I’m just a mum.

The hazards of dog-walking

Before the weeks of deluge, I alternated blocks to walk the hound around. Let’s call them Clockwise and Anticlockwise.

And a couple of times, I even managed to do both.

That was before we evicted the Carpet From Hell [it wasn’t paying rent], the subsequent stint of bad asthma, and a rainstorm just short of another effing flood.

Now I’m back to one block until I’m absolutely, positively certain that my health is up to a double circuit.

Problem is, the plovers have moved into Clockwise Path.

Plovers are one of the few ground-nesting species to survive the introduction of the White Man [and his associated pe(s)ts]. They did this through sheer bloody-mindedness and an aggressively belligerent attitude against anything else that moves. Oh, and nasty little spurs on their wings that can split your skin wide open.

They’re also one of the few native species with sharp bits that are not also venomous. Count your small blessings while you may.

Silly me, I decided to take Clockwise Path to see what’s been going on since the last time the sun deigned to shine.

I had to jog the dog past the plovers and pray neither of us got struck. Even though my pink canvas hat is nice and thick, I doubt it’s thick enough to double as a plover-proof helmet.

Good news: we made it. Yay.

Bad news: Clockwise path is now officially closed to me until such time as the plovers move out. This can take some significant time.

We once had a family of plovers nesting in our backyard for a friggin’ year. A year! Sure, they raised successive generations of adorable fluffy chicks [and the babies are adorable, just steer clear of the overprotective parents] but we had a large circle of yard we couldn’t mow.

Medaeval maps have “here there be dragons” on them to denote dangerous or unknown territory. Australia has “here there be plovers”.

If I do get up to a double circuit during nesting season, I shall go twice around Anticlockwise Path. And if the plovers move in there… four times around the inside of our fence.

Never argue with a plover. They always win.

Inevitable Entropy

Entropy is defined as the state in which things take the least energy to remain so.

Water follows the path of least resistance. So do electrons.

And, apparently, so does house-mess. It’s very simple to observe. Especially in a house containing at least one hoarder.

Five people live in our house. Only one cleans more than their own mess. When that one gets sick or incapacitated… Everything is left behind.

The “not mine” mess piles up. It gets in the road. It gets shifted about as stuff gets searched for. Things get mixed in that don’t possibly belong. Garbage bins overflow and get neglected. Rubbish mixes with stuff that should be kept. New stuff is bought to replace the old stuff that can’t be found for the ever-growing drifts of “not mine”.

And when the cleaner - in this case, me - can finally return to it all… It’s a daunting heap that intimidates them out of even starting.

And let me tell you, the last thing a recovering Designated Cleaner needs is to get back up to face a house full of weeks worth of hard work formed up into mess-mountains.

In my case, it can lead to depression that leads to me doing sporadic, token movements to at least keep the family in clean clothes, plates, cutlery and whatnot. And in the meantime it all gets deeper and more depressing.

Now that it’s currently all better, I’m deeply grateful for the help of Powerhouse. I am waiting on a hubby and Mostly Shiftless to finish what they started in Mayhem’s room - something that’s almost three weeks away.

My entire life is wobbling on the centre point of circumstances beyond my control, and I’m starting to deeply hate it.

I can’t do a lot. I can keep on top of the laundry. I can stay on top of the dish washing. I can keep the floor clear of debris. I can keep chugging along.

I can’t stop myself from falling into depressive funks because they never get anything done. But I can do the things that need doing.

Because nobody else will.

I’m tired of constantly fighting entropy on my own.

Between projects

I’m currently between projects and feeling a little doldrum-ish. So I figured some inspiration might help.

My options are:

(1) A new pony fic featuring a species from another fictional continuity (ds9). (2) Finally starting some work on the draw blog I gassed about a while back. (3) Moar fids, damnit!
Or (4) Something different (suggestions please)

I appreciate your responses?

Up and down…

I’m back down to 92.4, today. I did it by not eating very much, and yet, I also didn’t eat very much of anything that’s good for me.

I doubt I’m going to make it to 80 kilos subsisting solely on peanut-honey sandwiches, as I have been yesterday. [FYI: You mix almost-equal portions of honey and peanut paste/butter together and spread the results on a sandwich. Tasty and filling.]

I really should get into good habits.

Next time I want to sit down with a book - I shall sit down on my exercise bike and pedal whilst I read.

Next time I want something sweet - it shall be honey toast or a peanut-honey sandwich or a nice, healthy apple.

Next time I want something to chew - it shall be a carrot.

Next time I want something hot - it will be a balanced meal.

I will do my utmost to see that I don’t yo-yo straight back up again. No matter how many tempting treats Hubby-dear decides to bring home.

I must get healthy. I must be healthy. I must do all the things that are good for me.

Even when I don’t want to.