So long and thanks for all the fish

My computer went on strike this last week-but I was rushing around and doing my due diligence, as it were, so that was pretty much okay.

I felt really down on Saturday-and it took me awhile to figure out the reason why: two years ago (almost to the day) I had the horrible cancer surgery. It was so brutal that I can remember just about everything-and it's two years later. So I wallowed in that for awhile, and then decided to go sit in the park, since it was one of those rare sunny days. First I went to Starbucks. I figured that if I was going to make myself miserable, I might as well do it with a Mocha Frappuccino. Then I would feel fat and miserable. So I sat with my drink and idiot watched for awhile. It's still amazing to me that these people actually survived past puberty. Yikes!!

I woke up on Sunday and found that I felt better. Not only did I feel better-but I realized that this was my first Sunday as a free woman. I had no more obligations to the Unitarian Church-and no obligations to the Age UK people. The new CEO hired someone full time to work on fundraising, so I was able to go next door and tell my elderly neighbor that I couldn't do any more for her. She was happy that I had put myself out in the first place-so that was a job (almost) well done.

I decided to do something constructive-so I started going through all my books. Amazing what you find when you haven't looked at a bookshelf for a long time. I found the Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which I haven't read in years-and so many other books that brought back memories of the past. I must admit I felt a bit sad: I had good memories and not so good memories, but I didn't want to just get rid of books-I might just want to read some of them again (or not. I'm such a hoarder!).

I was talking to another patient when I was in the clinic yesterday. Actually, I was talking to the nurse,this old guy overheard and just had to put his two cents in. You know the type: nosy, so very nosy. And he asked why I would want to have reconstruction at all, unless I was doing it for some man (cheeky, eh?). So I looked at him and asked how he would feel if someone had to cut off his penis. After all, I said, you could always use a tube, couldn't you? Oh, but that is different. And, I asked, how is that different? Women seem to be defined by our chest size (by men, certainly). The bigger, the better. Why else would women have implants to give them torpedo tits? I've seen some whose breasts are so big they enter a room ten minutes before the woman does. And you see old men with young women-all of whom have huge breasts. The brains of a Hostess Twinkie, but huge breasts. The breast size is what counts. And the age, of course. And the men! Obviously they have money-why else would a 30 year old even look at someone in his-60s? 70s? Someone who doesn't even have his own hair and teeth, and who probably has a lifetime supply of Viagra to go with his fake tan and his testicles that are probably the size of raisins.

I said this to Steve, the other patient, and I thought he was going to have apoplexy. Meanwhile, the nurse had to turn away, she was laughing so hard. She did turn and look at me and give me the thumbs up, so I knew I was on a roll. He began to splutter, and said "Well I think.." and I cut him off and said nobody gives a crap what you think. And it serves you right for eavesdropping, doesn't it?

Ah, there is nothing even remotely PC about this blog, as you have figured out by now. You get to a certain age (middle age, if you must know), and you can (must) express your opinions-especially if you are talking to a moron. There is a lot more to middle age than CRS (can't remember shit), and lines and wrinkles, grey hair, breasts heading south toward the knees (one thing I don't have to worry about. Yet.), wobbly bits that have more wobbly bits...don't I make middle age sound grand! And the memory starts to go, too. Oh joy.

Listen-if the men can find adolescents to make them feel better, we can find toyboys to do the same. If that is what we want. Men are allowed-but there is such a rampant double standard: we become "cougars" and "baby snatchers". I'll be a cougar or baby snatcher any day-rather than hook up with some old guy who expects me to be his nurse (or worse: nanny).

Go hunting, ladies. Go hunting. I may not be a spring chicken-but I'm no old broiler, either!!

These boots are made for walkin'

My computer heard "boots" and "walkin" and decided to go on strike for a few days. Grrr,,,I would have kicked it hard and thrown it out the window-but I probably would have hit some poor passerby on the head and given him a fractured skull. So much for a bit of IT violence.

In between eating-or, rather, stuffing my face-since Wednesday, I took some time to sit and decide what to do on Sunday. I've been sitting on the fence for months. As you know, the minister showed what kind of person he really is on several occasions-not the least on the day he sat in front of me and interrogated me about making my funeral plans. Scuse me?? What kind of minister is that, exactly? And he wouldn't let up for an hour. He just kept pushing. As you do. Or, rather, as he does. Or-did.

I received a group email on Friday-before my system went on strike. Andy send a message to about a dozen people, informing them that there will be a social justice focus group that will meet once a month. He proceeded to say that if anyone wanted to run this group, they should let him know. I'm obviously missing something. I distinctly recall him asking me to lead the social justice team.

So what did I do? Well, I was pissed off, to put it bluntly. In fact, I have been pissed off for several months-at his attitude, his lack of sensitivity, his total ineptitude as a minister. So, I rang my phone service provider and changed my home number, and made sure that my number is also blocked on outgoing calls. Then I decided that Sunday would be my last service. I normally don't suffer fools-in any way, shape or form-but I did suffer the minister. I won't ever make that mistake again. I remember what my mother said about volunteering: NEVER volunteer for anything.

I went along to the service, and there were some people I haven't seen in awhile, so I had a chance to say hello. And goodbye. And when I practically sprinted out the door, I had a feeling I haven't had in a couple of years: I felt unencumbered. I felt that my volunteer status had been taken from me, and not very ethically-but now I didn't need to become aggravated because nobody else seemed at all interested. In fact, I felt free.

There is nothing like feeling-like being-free. Andy is a pile of crap-but he did me a favor. I've also learned a lot about trust. Just because someone is a trained minister, it doesn't mean he is honorable. So that is the end of the Unitarian Church-and I don't know if I will be looking to join another one.

All these things occurred to me as I practically skipped down the road toward the bus back home.

If I ever mention the words "volunteer" and "social" and "justice" in the same sentence, someone please lock me in a room with a few gallons of Starbucks and a hundredweight of Kettle Chips. And keep me there until the mood passes!!

Beware the garden hose

On Friday, nearly everyone I know was terribly depressed about the election. I couldn't care less-they are all the same, after all (politicians). They only lie when they are breathing.

All I really cared about was going to Queen Square and doing my exercises so that Tom could see the improvement. He pointed out that his rotation ends in July, and then someone else will be taking over as my vestibular physiotherapist. So-as he said, I have nearly all the exercises, it is now up to me to make things harder for myself. Do eye movements to a metronome, then increase the beat-that kind of thing. Of course, I will be rising to that challenge. I have no plans to live my life like this, using an elbow crutch, having difficulty going out at night, and occasionally falling over. Nope-not for me. At least I will give it a damned good try.

You know when you make a decision that you think is a good idea at the time-and then you discover that it was totally idiotic later? Well-I had these noxious sachets of something called Klean Prep. Mix one with a liter of water, and hold your nose and drink until you've finished the lot. The object? To clean myself out so that Sean could see what is going on during the colonoscopy. And I had thirteen of these nasty cleaners. I was supposed to be on a low residue diet from Friday until Tuesday-then clear liquids only, and nothing but water on Wednesday (procedure day).

I decided to be really clever-and do a water fast from Friday until the procedure on Wednesday afternoon. What an oops decision!! From Saturday through Tuesday-and every night, all night-I had to stay near the bathroom. I had cramps. Chills, felt sick-and so hungry by Sunday night that I thought my stomach was going to shake hands with my backbone. But I couldn't eat anything- because I'd committed to the fast, and it was really too late to eat anything. I was afraid that, after all this trauma and discomfort, I still had stuff in my intestines, and all my efforts would have come to nothing. So I stuck to it. Idiot-I got to the hospital on Wednesday and nearly passed out. My blood sugar had dropped, and I was really told off about fasting for nearly six days straight. Sean gave me a lecture-and I promised that next time I would behave, and follow directions (I never follow directions).

You haven't lived until you have had someone shove what looks suspiciously like a garden hose up your rectum. It is downright embarrassing to go to the hospital, lie on a table in a freezing room with your naked butt hanging out-and having someone come up behind you to Roto Rooter your ass. That is not my idea of a fun day out, I can tell you. And Sean knows my insides better than anyone (that doesn't sound good, does it?). So I cracked jokes, and he cracked a few back-and I kept twisting around to see the screen, which someone had kindly put nearby.

When it was all over (everything is fine, I go back next year-and it'll probably take a year to recover), I was put in the recovery room with several other patients who'd had the same procedure. Now-one of the things that they do is use a pump to fill the abdomen full of air so they can see more clearly. Acting on the principle that what goes in must come out, there were sound effects. I started to laugh because I thought of the campfire scene from Blazing Saddles. I said that to Sean when he came to check on me-and he started to laugh. In fact, one of the nurses thought that was hilarious-turns out that she is a big Mel Brooks fan, and we all had a good laugh. Then she said that she remembered me from last year-I'd cracked a joke about anal sex (anyone who likes it must be either masochistic or have no nerve endings). And Sean turned to her and said that now she knows why he likes it when I have to come in for a procedure-nobody else jokes. The nurse hugged me when I left, and I promised to have some new material for the next colonoscopy. And I came home and stuffed my face with everything that wasn't nailed down. I didn't feel better until now. Stuff the six day fast!

The only problem I have now is that I still blow myself down the road when I go for a walk. I just keep hoping that whoever is walking behind me doesn't decide to light a match.

The fat lady sang. She cried. She threw up. She shot herself.

Well, maybe she only did the first-and I'm being a drama queen. But on Thursday night everyone knew what was inevitable: the fact that "call me douchebag Dave" was returning to Downing Street. Five more years of wreaking destruction on the people of this country. Sad, really.

I know a lot of people who are really upset-I think the most upset will be Clegg, Miliband and Farage, because they are now unemployed. There is nothing like an unemployed politician. Well, boo hoo to the lot of them. Personally, as long as I am okay I really don't give a rat's patootie. They all sucked anyway. Isn't it sad that we never seem to vote for the best candidate (witness the US Presidential elections for proof of that), but we choose the person we hope will do the least damage?

We probably can live without the NHS anyway. And doctors. And nurses. Don't get me started.

I was, however, thrilled that the Scottish people got even with the major parties for screwing them out of independence (and by blatantly cheating them, too) last year. The Scottish National Party won 56 out of 59 seats-so both Tories and Labour are virtually out of Scotland. Serves them right: what goes around comes around. The Scots are coming to Westminster. And they will be loud. Hooray for them.
My friends were so pleased that we all drank a toast on Friday night.

I spent the weekend preparing for my endoscopy in a couple of days. I checked to make sure that Sean, my gastroenterologist, will be doing the surgery. He is used to shoving a big hosepipe up my rectum. He's the one who usually does it, just to check that the cancer hasn't returned. So far, so good. And I have to behave this time. Last time the registrar stuck the needle through my vein, and I had no sedation. Was that ever painful! I said to Sean that I couldn't understand how people could ever want anal sex-either they are masochistic or have no nerve endings. He was in mid-shove at the time, and laughed so hard that he had to stop and turn away. Not good when you are shoving a hosepipe up somebody's rectum, I can tell you. Endoscopies are humiliating at the best of times. Who wants to stick your behind out and have someone you don't know examining you? Who wants to stick your behind out and have someone you DO know examining you?

So I basically fasted since yesterday, and I ingested the sachets the hospital sent me. Who needs to spend a hundred pounds (plus) on a "colonic irrigation" when you can do it yourself for free-and take some really nasty tasting powdered semtex (or perhaps bleach) to clean out the old pipes. I will have the cleanest intestines in London. But once I'm finished I will really, really want a pizza. That rather defeats the purpose of the endoscopy, doesn't it? Hell, we only live once. Might as well enjoy it!!

I spent yesterday and today really having a tough time with the medicine they sent me-so I walked from the bed to the bathroom, and that was all the excitement of my weekend. But tomorrow, if I can, I need to really sit down and think about what comes next. In a few weeks I will have some time off before my reconstruction-and I want to spend it wisely. I met one of my old neighbors on Friday, and she was saying that she is 80-where has the time gone? I commiserated-and that started me ruminating. We all know how I like to ruminate. It seems like last week that I was only 25-and yesterday that I was only 30. Where has the time gone? Where has my life gone?

I have spent the last five years surviving. Anger has driven me to do all the things everyone told me I couldn't do. I saw Tom over at the National Hospital (bugger it. Call it Queen Square. I'm too lazy to do all that typing). He's really pleased with my progress. I see him again in July-and he gave me more exercises to do. He wants me off the elbow crutch as much as possible. He agrees with Dr. Davies that my determination and obstinacy could help me get more balance back.

So I survived; now it is time to start living. I have forgotten how-so I need to start remembering. I feel like I have been smacked on the head with a celestial two by four (really?) and my head finally hurt enough for me to sit up and take notice. I'll tell you one thing: if I can do it, anyone can do it. Just never, never give up. I'm betting that all those people who voted against Cameron are now on Prozac.

Countdown to catastrophe:voting day is nearly over

There are 50,000 polling stations across the country-some are in pubs, some in church halls, some in portacabins (I feel sorry for the people who have to go to the portacabins). There are 49 million people who are expected to vote. Allegedly. I don't know what happened to the rest of the population...but if all 49 million actually vote, that will be quite a miracle. Apparently, many people are refusing to vote on the grounds that it won't make the slightest bit of difference.

I am not staying up half the night to see who won. I have the feeling that when I wake up tomorrow morning I will find that the steaming pile of crap who is the current prime minister ("call me Dave" Cameron) will continue to lead this country down the toilet for another five years. I suppose we get the leaders we deserve.Cynical? Nope. Realistic.

On Monday I went to Westminster to attend the Citizens UK assembly. This is held every five years, there is a lot of irrelevant rubbish, but at the end of about four and a half hours of excruciating speeches, the three main party candidates are supposed to address the 2,200 people who are present.
It was a first for me; I only took over the social justice team last year. I must admit I wanted to hear what everyone was going to say. Cameron didn't show up-he never does, he sends one of his minions. I felt a bit sorry for the undersecretary of bullshit, or whatever he was. He didn't know how to answer the questions the commentator put to him.

Nick Clegg was next, and he jumped on the stage and proceeded to hit us with a party political broadcast. He said he wants to make this country a better, kinder place...and waffled for a few minutes, and every time someone asked a question he replied oh yes, we can do this. There is a difference between "can" and "will". I caught the difference, and I don't know how many other people caught it too.

We had to sit through so much mind-numbing drivel- and then Ed Miliband took the stage. I must admit I liked him. Surprisingly. I never like any politician. To me they are no better than snake oil salesmen. But Miliband made a lot of sense, and committed himself to change (which he detailed very clearly). When he thought things weren't possible, he said so. And at the end of his presentation, people were cheering.

Sadly, I don't think Miliband will be elected. People are stupid (have I said that before? Only a few thousand times, I think), they don't think anyone else can do a decent job, and they seem to like being screwed over. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know. The completely incompetent job Cameron did over the last five years-and possibly will continue to do over the next five years-will be just another thing to complain about. Americans take action; the Brits sit and bitch and whinge.

So that was my Monday, and I spent the rest of the week doing my due diligence. I have an endoscopy next week (so I will finally know what people are going to do with this lump-apart from give it a silly name). A few more appointments, a few more weeks, and I have most of the summer to actually do whatever I want. Oooh-I get to play. And eat.

Tomorrow I will keep away from the news, I will go to the gym, I will start taking the liquid explosives that will (allegedly) clear the pipes in preparation for the procedure. No Cosmopolitans for me until Thursday. No Kettle Chips, either. No trooping volunteers trying to get me to vote. And no tons of junk mail.

Oh, yeah. Life is getting better. And as long as I get what I need I really don't give a crap who gets elected. I think you can reach a point in your life when you hand the torch (or sword, or baseball bat) to someone else to do the demonstrating. Perhaps I'm being selfish-but I'm fighting for myself and my life now, so I'm stepping down from activism. Just give me a Mojito, or a Cosmopolitan, a bag of Kettle Chips and a lot of old movies and box sets, and tomorrow I will be very happy, thanks very much.

The fat lady is warming up her pipes

They do say that "it ain't over until the fat lady sings". And she is getting ready-only a few more days until the end of the political comedy show. I can hardly wait.

In one corner we've got David "Call me Dave" Cameron, the incumbent idiot who has single-handedly brought about the death of the NHS-not to mention the economy itself, which is so far down the toilet all we need to do is flush another couple of times to find it down in the sewer.

Next corner: Ed Miliband, who refuses to -excuse the expression, I mean this figuratively-get in bed with the Scottish National Party to form a coalition government. Can't say I blame him, since this one has been such a dismal failure.

Then there is everyone else-and I just shake my head in (mock)despair. So many people actually believe Cameron when he stands there and clearly lies to everyone. Of course, this is Britain, and people will believe him-because they're idiots. So as long as I can get my little stash of immunoglobulin I don't care who is in power. I still maintain that a chimpanzee would do a better job. But what do I know? If I don't go and vote, who will notice??

I have been doing my due diligence this week: going to see consultants for my biannual poking and prodding. I'm told I'm fine for my age. I don't mind the "fine"- it's the "for my age" that annoys me. If you're older than 50 in this country, you might as well be dead. Nope-not there quite yet.

I will be so happy-and relieved-when this whole election business is over. The fat lady sings at the close of Thursday, the 7th of May, and then all the recriminations begin. I'll be watching all the programs I've saved - so that should keep me away from the news. Honestly, I'm so glad I'm not British. Oh, please. My IQ would drop by 150 points, I would develop a twitch and start to drool-and I would have the attention span of a flea. Where is the good in that?

Tonight I will be doing something I almost never do: I will be making myself a nice, big Mojito. Why? Oh, well, I figured out why I've been a little down for a few days: on the first of May two years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Three weeks later I had the surgery (I can still remember it-and hurt). So, technically, I am nearly a two year survivor of breast cancer.

I'm still here-amazingly enough. I got lucky nearly five years ago when doctors gave me gentamicin and nearly killed me. I got lucky two years ago when I just had that "feeling"-just a feeling, a hunch, and it turned out to be a very aggressive cancer-caught it just in time. So I'm pretty lucky.

I've still got a couple of lives left-about seven down, two to go. Perhaps I'll go into politics. On the other hand, perhaps I'll skip that bad idea and sit down with a bag of Kettle Chips (what else?) and a Mojito.

And I will leave all the brown stuff to the crooks. I think someone should skip providing the polling cards on Thursday and give out shovels and sick bags instead.