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August 2012

July 2012

clangers

I don't know, folks, I DO NOT KNOW. Do they not have a class in Medical School called:
TALKING TO THE OTHER HUMANS, YOU KNOW, ABOUT THE HUMAN STUFF?

My GP, huffing her way through the medical report tickboxes (part of the Indian adoption pack), declaiming the "generic diseases" as Not A Real Thing, as predicted, also felt the need to explain to me that the Authority likes you to have done lots of fertility testing, so that's all resolved. (!!) Huh, I thought. Next she'll say I need closure and I'll have to kick her in the shins and run away, like a reverse leprechaun. And then we came to the HIV test and she felt inspired to remark all gossip-like:

They had to add this because so many gay men are adopting now, and you know, they're a high risk group.

I MEAN, REALLY. Sadly, as so often in these situations, my brain shut down in sheer disbelief, saying What? What? Do not compute! Do not compute! and all I could think of to say was:

So we'll get tested too, it's only fair.

Yeah, THANKS, BRAIN. What I wanted to do was make a stand in the form of an incisive diatribe on the nature of fairness and equality and ferfeckssake, DOCTOR, it's called DISCRIMINATION, and you're passing it on. Never mind the assumptions that: you know the testing criteria of India (who don't even accept gay adopters!) and that "so many gay people" are adopting, which can't even be true, because they can't! And you feel the need to gossip on that basis!

MY HEAD JUST EXPLODED. What a mess.

Before she took the blood test, she managed to fit it a quick: 
Chances are you don't have it!

Which was lovely too. Grrrr.

(As it happens, she just rang me and said the tests came back all fine.)

+++

Even Kittaloo doesn't want to know.


IMAG0215

 FERFECKSSAKE.

Okay, calmness, calmness.

++

In other news:

  • I am still a salt fiend. Except when I am a sugar fiend! Why is moderation so hard?

  • I went to visit my parents yesterday. When I left at about 11am the JB was relaxing on the sofa taking in a few swimming heats. I returned from said parental social interaction at about 7.30pm to find him in exactly the same position, but now with feverish gaze. He'd be persuaded to leave the box of extreme attractiveness for a minute but then he'd mutter oh! A FINAL! and would be gone again.  

    I admit I am enjoying it too. I find it tremendously diverting to be impressed by these extraordinary feats of human endeavour, and make dopey remarks like: My goodness! That is bendy! or Oh no! A stepback on landing! (which constitutes our expert commentary on the gymastics) and such-like. How about you? Do you know about such things?

  • OH SUCH HUGE massive relief for Valery. PHEW, PHEW. Phew.

rude question

I have an adoption-related medical this arvo. We've decided to have everything ready for India, anyway, while They (the authorities) decide WTF (to use the vernacular) they are doing. This has also involved posing for photos outside our house. (Note to self: NO MORE GOOFING in front of the camera. It makes you look like a mule that has been offered a raw onion.)
Mule

It is a very basic tickbox-style medical form this time:
Have you ever had tuberculosis/tumour/heart/liver/sexual disease, neuropathy,  mental illness/other communicable disease/alcoholism or history of substance abuse, any generic disease, any surgical operation?

Nine are no, a Certainly not! only proper, brand diseases and a yes. Then the usual tests, for HIV and blood pressure, urine, and whatnot. Then the fun part:

What is your assessment on the patient's fertility/infertility?

I know you'll all understand perfectly when I sum up my feelings with this: Bleah.

Other than this, I am concentrating on extending good thoughts to my friend Valery for tomorrow. The horrible thing is that her fear is totally natural - oh, I feel for her acutely, and yet I am so hopeful for her.

T


sugar and salt

(Warning: this post is so TRIVIAL, it may make your head spontaneously combust.)

PICT0078
The view from my shed in a brief dry moment in this the Irish monsoon season. Note, if you will, how the neglected garden has seeded itself out of desperation. When we were planning this sudio, an architect amused us greatly by solemnly informing us my studio would be "as if in conversation with the house" (HAHA!) - it being a modest, terraced solid concrete two-story dwelling, built to shelter corporation workers at the time of the formation of the State (1922). Both rinky and dinky, and not likely to have a conversation with any shed.

Well *flexes writing muscles, experimentally*. Here we are, are we not. All is ticking along. The JB is still alive, too, which I feel is a plus. Actually, facetiousness apart, it does my heart good to see how the ould fellow in such raring form again, after being in such a dire funk for so long. And we are getting along well, given the closeness of the quarters.

Be that as it may, I have somehow backed into an unfortunate discovery.  For a day or two it happened without my planning it that I ate no sugar - by accident, clearly. And, I hate to have to say this, but yes. It's true. I do feel better without. Much less moody, less tired. [Insert first world whaaaa!] My love affair with the white stuff has been in progress for.. ooh. For ever.

It seems however that I am congenitally incapable of giving up more than one thing at a time. That's it - one thing is the limit. So it is that instead of biscuits (fare thee well!) or cakes (good morrow!), or pastries (for ever and ever, sweet things!) I merely find myself eating a packet of crisps. Or some salted nuts.

That's right. I am off sugar! And on to the salt.

So now, I am thinking to get off the salt, I just need to substitute something else. Hrmm. Mojitos? Westlife?

I can see this is going to be complicated.