Row, row, row your boat

So, I can barely type today. Holding my hands to the keyboard is causing all sorts of pain. You see, last weekend, I went rowing.
"Rowing??!@#", I hear you say, "Don't you use your legs for that? Doesn't that require some sort of balance so you don't fall in? How about you spend your weekends on the couch, watching Martha, and having a little cup of tea?"

No!!! Why sit at home in the safety of your own teapot when you can make an idiot of yourself in public!

You see, this was not a brave new world into which I was venturing. I'm familiar with the work of the rower. Very, very familiar with the work of the rower. You see, last year, I volunteered to be the cox for my university's team in a charity rowing event. Now, for those of you who were there, I'm sure you had a vision that just popped into your head, and surprisingly, it wasn't of me. For those who weren't, here is the story:

Each team was allocated a coach, and our team was allocated quite the lady's man. And what better way to show off being a "lady's man" than to wear lycra shorts.... all the time.... not just during sport. And what better way to show off these lycra shorts than to make sure they are bright in colour.... well, not all of the shorts. Our coach persistently wore black lycra shorts, with a middle strip of flouro green. Yes, the universe had used a highlighter pen to illuminate his "gentleman's area" (hahahahahahha.... sorry, I just really wanted to use that phrase).

Also, what better way to make a highlighted area stand out than to present it first. So, our coach had perfected a way to stand with his knees and shoulders in alignment, but his penis about 3 foot in front of him. Each to their own, I say, except when I'm sitting beside him. I had to be careful not to turn around too quickly, or I might have poked my eye out.

Anyway, this coach was very good at rowing, and very helpful to our team. However, as much as I tried to dabble in the coxing (ooohh.. blankety-blanks style double entendre!), my back just wouldn't stand up to the motion of the boat, so I had to stop. The first day after I left, our coach became the "fill-in" cox (and again!). If you can imagine how this man stands, imagine that sitting down as he sat in the cox-box (I'm not joking!! That's what it's called!!) My friend, Wendy, was in the first seat, as the first stroke (seriously!! again, not the name I chose), and she had to be particularly careful not to live up to that name!

So, as you can imagine, I ventured to rowing last weekend with a little trepidation.

Well, it was fine, everyone was appropriately clothed, and all coaches stood with their body's in proper alignment. Phew!

Now, when I say it was fine, I clearly was not talking about the actual rowing. The boat had been adapted so you don't need to use your legs. There are floaty devices on the side so it's hard to tip. It looks easy. It isn't.
I bobbed around in circles on the Maribyrnong river like the universe was playing a sick game of "spin the bottle".

However, here's a photo to prove I've been there.

Cheers, I'm off to highlight some pants.
L

I live in a sub-culture, not a sub-urb

So, last year, about this time, I moved to Torquay.
I signed the contracts on Good Friday, during the Bell's Beach surfing carnival (I mean, during the same time frame. I don't mean that I took a break from surfing to sign the contract). That day, it was party-town, with people everywhere.
And then, 30 days later, I moved in..... to a hibernating, winter-in-summer-paradise, where I was the only person living in my street. SURPRISE!

But, that's ok. I needed a rest.

It went back to a party-town overnight, sometime in October. If you come to visit, and you can stand up, you'll get a lovely sea-view from my lounge room. I'm not sure why I bought a house that caters for others and not for me, but we managed to change that. You see, if you stand in a specific spot in the corner, near the telly, squat down, and look up at a strategically angled mirror, you'll also see the sea.

The sea is this town. It is a surfing town. It's not unusual to see kids riding a skateboard to school, and carrying a surfboard (It's probably a year 10 elective). I'm not a surfer. I tried.... once.... unsuccessfully (not as unsuccessfully as scuba diving, but pretty close). You see, I was lying down on the board, and a big wave came. The helper (calling them this because I honestly don't remember who I was surfing with) let go of the board as the wave came. I did the "how-excited-am-I" screams which made the helper think I was doing the "I'd-like-to-stop-now-because-I'm-terrified" screams (mental note: need safe word), so they grabbed the board again.... at which point, I flew off the end, into the wave.... doing some sort of somersault.... with pike.... and jazz hands.

Anyway, because I don't surf, I've had plenty of time drinking coffee in this town (Yes,in between, I have gone to work at some stage). Basically, I've spent the last year noting the behaviours of my fellow townsfolk, and I have two questions:

Schoolies - if you need to have a lie down in my garden when you're walking home from the pub, have you stayed up way past your bed time?

Hanging ten - if I attempted to surf, what would it be called? Hanging-on-for-dear-life?

Right, that's me done. I'm going to go take a drop (apparently this is torquay-talk for going out for spot of surfing, but it only makes me think of wine!)
Cheers,
L

Catch-up

Well then. It's been a while. What have you been up to?
Me? Thanks for asking.
I've moved house....again.

Yes, I know. The last house had the bath that was the size of a lagoon , and coffee within 100 metres. So, why would I want to move. Well, I see your facilities, and I raise you one.

The new house is technically part of a resort, so I have a bath that actually IS a lagoon (although, they haven't taken too kindly to my loofah and shower cap, and the management prefer to call it an "outdoor pool").
Also, not only is coffee within 100 metres, now, there is also wine, cocktails, and a lovely assortment of nibblies. I can also create an owner's account, and just receive a monthly bill. (I have resisted this facility however, as I'm pretty sure if I start booking up food and drink to my house, I'll be 09453405734534 kilograms and 324094-574375 dollars in debt by next year).

Now, don't think that I'm talking myself up here. There are downsides to living resort-style.

1. While everyone is partying up, I'm going to work.
2. There are a few couples in their 80's living there until the aged care facility is built nearby. This isn't any downside....until one of the ladies whips your ass in the lap pool.....repeatedly!!!
3. They have started to lock up the towels so nobody can steal them. Now I have to buy my own towels.
5. the aforementioned issue of weight and debt.
6. The biggest downside, Reg-the-circus-dog couldn't come with me. Sad, but he went to a happy home in Perth where he runs amok amongst children. Perfect.

On the upside, Lulu-the-unhelper-dog is no longer cranky at me!!! She's been strutting her stuff like nobody's business.

Right, so that's it from me. What have you been up to? Fancy a drink....just don't book it up to my room.

Cheers,
L

check ME out

So, here's a conversation that I had in a loud basketball stadium, with an unnamed man, named Tim.

Me: So, in august, I'm going to be on the cover of the Australian Unity magazine
Tim: REALLY!! I thought they used models for things like that.
Me: Shut-up
Tim: No, really?? Do you really want to do that??
Me: Why not? That magazine uses real people, not models. In fact, they have mostly used my friend Cate, and all her family.
Tim: Well, is it going to be on sale in newsagents? Like, will everyone see it?
Me: No, it just goes to members.
Tim: Members of....??
Me: Australian Unity, of course
Tim: OH!!!! Australian UNITY!!!! I thought you said Australian NUDITY!

hahahahahahahahahahahaha

Cheers,
L

A sideshow of life

So, about a year ago, Basketball Australia asked for volunteers to lend their olympic/paralympic medals to the national sports museum, at the MCG, for a couple of years. I figured that I moved house so often that a museum was probably the safest place for my medal, so there it went.

And here it is...

I'm on the right, in the middle. Pretty, hey.

It was a little scary surrendering it last year. The "courier" was just a guy in an old commodore, and I handed over my medal, wrapped carefully in paper. I waved it goodbye. However, the care I exhibited that day was in stark contrast to the day I got the medal (well, technically the night, after the ceremony).The ribbon of my medal always smelt of beer!

Well, last week, I was in the big smoke for a meeting, so thought I'd go to the museum on my way home.

I was a little excited. I hadn't seen it for ages, and I planned to take heaps of photos.

However, when I found the cabinet, there was a big sign saying "No Photographs". Really, they should have put a sign on there just for me saying, "No waving to the medals like they're in the neonatal intensive care unit". (Doing nothing for the cause).

I spotted a security guard/tour guide nearby, so I tilted my head on the side, screwed up my nose, decreased the bass in my voice, and cajoled him into taking photos with me. He was thrilled that it was my medal, and we talked about the paralympics for ages. We even tried to spot me on the video they have playing in the background. I think I spotted me. I'm not sure, but it was definitely a small woman in a wheelchair. There can't be that many of them at the paralympics!

Then, I thought I should pay my respects to the other sportspeople, and look at the rest of the museum.

I looked around for a bit, then wheeled past "my cabinet" to get to the exit.

My security guard/tour guide/photographer was there with a tour group. As I wheeled by, he stopped the group and pointed at me. Yes, people......I AM A SIDESHOW

Cheers,

L

Masking the truth

So, it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry, I've been sick.
I shan't scare you with the details, but for the last three weeks, I haven't ventured too far from the essential facilities (if you get my drift). Let's just say that if I ever had a "feeling in my waters" about anything...it's well and truly gone now!

When I get any sort of sick, my brain has a little holiday. So, this is how sick I was in the last couple of weeks.
I was watching reruns of Blankety-Blank on Foxtel, thinking that it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. Had I been able to work the computer, I would have emailed channel 0, at nunawading, to suggest that they remake it. Seriously, who needs a double entendre when a single one will do!!

In order to catch up on the month or so of work that I missed, I decided to buy one of them little itty-bitty computers. It's ace. I've taken to calling it my portable facebook device, cos I haven't really done much work. In fact, I'm in a cafe right now! (Well, I have to be. The housekeeper's at my house. I'd feel guilty if I was at home)

However, a particular trait has emerged that I never really knew I had.
I've taken to chatting to my computer. Well, not so much chatting. More muttering.

So, I'm being sneaky.....

Here's a picture for your brain:
- me, sitting in a coffee shop with a flat white as big as my head
- sitting in front of a computer which is as big as a sugar cube
- looking flummoxed
- trying to work out how to shrink the facebook scrabble page
- muttering to the computer
- then trying to cover that up by seamlessly putting those mutterings into a "conversation" with a pretendy skype person. It's amazing how quickly I can go from "why can't see all my letters? How am I supposed to make a word" to "oh yes, that sounds like a fabulous plan. Let's do that"

I thought I was doing so well in covering up my mutterings...until last week.

I was in a cafe at a shopping centre, typing away, muttering (oops, I mean "chatting") to the computer, when a cleaner came over and said...."aren't you a clever little one for working that machine!"

Right, I'm off to change my status
Cheers,
L

A bouquet of syringes

So, this month, I'm supposed to be writing a book chapter. I'm not exactly sure how to do that... so I thought I'd write a blog instead. Martha Steward devoted a whole show to the joy of blogging (I know. I'm embarassed I know that too). She described it as a "good thing". Clearly, Martha isn't my employer!

Have you seen that Lilly Allen videoclip where she's wandering through London and misinterprets everything around her? It's the one where she sees positive things, like flowers and rainbows, but reality is not quite as nice, with things such as syringes and smog. Well, lately I've been seeing flowers when clearly there were syringes.

You see, because I'm short, people don't tend to see me in a crowd. So, logically, if a person is a fair distance away, and waving whilst walking towards their friends... who happen to be standing directly behind me, I have, maybe, on occasion, found myself waving back with some sort of verbal greeting.


And today, I was just uploading a photo of myself to this site, for my profile bit. After much deliberation, I chose a photo taken at a wedding, so I'm a little bit frocked.
I pressed the upload button, and up popped "fetching photo".
"Why thankyou" I said out loud to the computer.
Yeah, nah. The computer was merely fetching the photo....not giving me a complement.

Right, gonna start dodging those syringes now.
Cheers,
L

things aren't always what they seem

So, last night, I decided to fill the lagoon with hot water, threw some vanilla bubble bath in...and soak.
I used some brand new skin wash, made from a colloidal extract of oats.
I exfoliated my face with a milk protein wash.
And then, I conditioned my hair with cinammon conditioner.

And then I thought.....


Hot Water
Vanilla
Oats
Cinammon,
Milk


.....I'm a bowl of porridge!

Seriously, I think I have more fruit and vegetable products in my bathroom than I do in the fridge. Although, I have a great shelf in my freezer, entitiled "the first aid kit". It is the top shelf, so I need to make an effort to reach it, as it contains an ice pack for physical injuries, ice cream for psychological injuries, sorbet for low-fat injuries, and vodka for ALL types of injuries.

Strange, I know, but this pharmaceutical creativity has a logical origin. Back when I was an athlete, I was subject to random drug testing, so I couldn't take many over the counter drugs....so I learnt to make my own legal versions.

Recently, I needed some cold and flu tablets, so I made my own - panadol, chocolate, and a crappy magazine.

However, nothing beats my home-made prozac - Nutella (heated in the microwave), mixed with baileys, and then poured over ice cream. Guaranteed to fix what ails ya!

I better go. I feel an injury coming on.
Cheers,
L

Lovely to look at, pretty to hold. But if you break it, consider it sold

So, I've hurt my elbow again. Not too badly, it just hurts when I move it, which, by my calculations....is every 14 seconds!

Following on from my last blog, it would be logical to think that I have a gym injury.
A huffy-puffy-owie, if you will.

I could have hurt myself whilst doing a chin-up (or, if I'm honest, a barely-get-my-bottom-of-the-seat-up).
I could have hurt myself throwing the medicine ball (sometimes, I do a Trevor Chappell)
I could have hurt myself with the punching bag (when I lose my balance, and accidentally headbutt it, yes it does hurt).

But no.
Not this time.
I have a hard core injury, from the most extreme sport.........
.........................
......knitting

Yep, you heard correctly.

For those of you who regularly follow this blog, you'll know that, in the past 3 years:
- I almost broke my toe in a nude waterslide incident into the bath
- I narrowly avoided face-planting the oven whilst baking lasagna
- I could have drowned in a shower-wall debacle
- I almost fell off the bench when overcome with alcohol fumes from a risotto
- I have experienced paranoia when I was stalked by a cardboard cutout of Gary Ablett
- I could have been a tasty yum cha for some lucky crocodile in Darwin

So, after reflecting on these things, and with my newly acquired craft injury, I'm beginning to think that maybe, quite possibly, highly likely, I am for ornamental purposes only.

Maybe, I'm that porcelain figurine, of some milkmaid feeding a chicken, that sits on your mantle piece. (and after reading that line, every Chaffey-kinfolk just said, "while you're stoking the fire").

But then, maybe not. I don't think I warrant porcelain. And I don't own chickens.

So, I'm fairly certain that I'm an ornament, but which one would I be? It would be:
- something bright and colourful
- something that caught your eye
- something that was a little unpredictable
- something that you could use as a distraction
- something amusing
- something that would break if you tried to use it for any other purpose
- something that's could tumble down stairs if you pushed it, but couldn't get back up again

Yes people,
I AM A SLINKY

Putting the huff in huffy-puffy

So, the paralympics start on saturday.
That's right...the NEXT paralympics.
The (n+1) of the end of my paralympic career.
And then it dawned on me.....I think (n) was the last time that I actually did some exercise. Some paralympic-huffy-puffy

It was easy to fool myself that I was doing a little surreptitious-huffy-puffy, but it was all an illusion people. I coached a basketball team of big burly men. I yelled, they worked. Gosh we were tired at the end of practise.
Delusional-huffy-puffy

So, about a month ago, Melsy and I began walking to work together (I mean twice a week. I don't mean that it's taken us a month to get to work!). It sounded like a good idea.
Enforced-huffy-puffy.
However, Melsy has taken to getting herself a coffee on the way to my house. She offered me one too, but we both know that I need both hands for that propulsion thing.
So while she's doing some bevvy-huffy-puffy, I'm very clearly doing the sulky-huffy-puffy.

And then I thought about a personal trainer. Yep, that's a good idea.
Personal-huffy-puffy

Off I went to visit Matt.
Paid-huffy-puffy

So, I was doing a little bit of boxing, with resistance bands
Manly-huffy-puffy

And, I was sitting in my chair, with brakes on, next to a machine, to which the resistance bands were tied. I was hitting Matt's hands, and then he told me to do some cross-over punches.
Coordinated-huffy-puffy.

As I punched across my body, the resistance bands flicked and hurt both my ears.
Chopper-huffy-puffy

At that point, Matt ran over to his desk, and picked up a boxing helmet.

So, here's a picture for your brain:

- a tiny wheelchair chick
- tied to a machine
- holding rubber strips
(well, those sentences should get me some unusual people searching for stuff on google! How You doin'?)
- throwing ineffective punches
- whilst wearing a boxing helmet.
Nothing-for-the-cause-huffy-puffy!!

Cheers,
L