Isolation Internet

I’ve previously written about how I discovered I was dumb.

I’d donated my raw genetic data to a website, they analysed it and provided me with information regarding my genetic traits.

Last time I looked at it, I was devastated to learn that my cognitive ability was at an AVERAGE standard.

Click here to read the post if you can be bothered

This fact hobbled my self-esteem for a while, until I realised I could use the enlightening information to my advantage. After all, why should I try so hard now that I knew I was born to be an average, run of the mill, non-achiever?

However, I went on to forget the password to the site and I was unable to log in to the site for months. This morning, bored out of my brain in isolation lock down, it finally dawned on me that by merely changing my password, I could once again investigate their highly exacting research on subjects such as whether I’m...

* prone to developing an addiction to chewing my hair

* am likely to grow plantar warts on my chin

* or inclined to fritter away my time on inane, brain-numbing activities on the Internet.

Imagine my horror to read that the latest updates on the site reveal I possess LOW intelligence. 

Not AVERAGE. 

Oh no. 

LOW!!!

I must admit they were very prudent when imparting the distressing information. They tried to take the gentle approach.

The categories were as follows;

High intelligence.

Intermediate intelligence.

Not so high intelligence.

Notice the way they avoided using the words ‘low intelligence’ as a compensating gesture of kindness to the cretins amongst us. I know very well that ‘not so high’ means low.

I might be as dumb as a bag of parsnips, but I’m not stupid.

My father popped over during our Covid 19, self-isolation a few weeks ago, and, speaking sternly through the fly screen of our front window, had a bit of a go at me for swearing on my blog.

He said, ‘As a teacher and a role model to young children, you should be showing a bit more decorum, Pinky. Swearing is unnecessary.’

I put my hands over my ears and began singing, ‘Lalalalala’ really loudly, but I could still see his remonstrating mouth moving and the bitter disappointment on his face. ‘How could this immature, foul-mouthed creature have emanated from my loins?’, I heard him think.

“Most teachers swear like gutter snipes,” I yelled back through the screen. “You should hear us all in the staffroom cussing away! It’s not the bloody 1950s, you know! I’ll f#$*ing swear on my f#$%ing blog if I want.”

After he left (shaking his head in disenchantment and probably wondering if it was a coincidence that the contraceptive pill was hastily invented the year after I was born), I went back and edited the post removing all the swear words.

He’s right. Only a person with ‘not so high' intelligence makes do with profanity to get their message across. Smart people use their broad vocabulary.

Maybe my swearing is a presenting symptom of stupidity. Maybe, like a fever is to a virus, swearing is a sign of the brain overheating in frustration because it can’t ‘find alternatives’.

One of my first concerns was for poor Scotto. Fancy being married to your intellectual inferior. Fancy being married to a swearing, cursing, pinhead. How does he put up with it?

I made a promise to myself to cut down on the sailor talk.

“Do you still love me?” I asked Scotto after I told him he was married to Mrs F#ck-Wit Dumb-Sh*t.

“You’re not dumb, Pinky,” he replied.

“How do you know I’m not dumb?” I asked, chewing on a thumbnail, twirling my hair and blinking vapidly. I couldn't wait to hear his sagacious reasoning.

“You’ve never driven a car while you were high on ice for a start… what a bloody stupid idiot,” he added, tutting and gesturing at a story on the telly as he watched the morning news.

That’s true, I thought. I’ve never even once tried ice let alone driven under its influence.

“What else?” I harangued.

“Well…,” he began to look uncomfortable. “You use a lot of critical thinking!”

“Do I?” my eyes widened in happiness. This was news.

“Yes, you do,” he grinned in relief and patted me on the back. “You’re a VERY critical person.”

I hugged myself and giggled in glee. “What else?”

He started laughing. Like, laughing a lot. If I was smart, I might have thought he was stalling for time.

“You read all the classics,” he finally said. “Pinky, why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

“What classics do I read?” I asked.

“I dunno... Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, William Makepeace Thackeray... and that other bloke…” he said.

He’s correct. I do read the classics. Maybe I am smart. 

But I also watched every episode of Tiger King. 

Then again, so did Scotto.

“Well then, why do you think the genetic report says I have ‘not so high’ intelligence if I’m smart?” I needled piteously.

“That’s easy,” he replied after a few minutes of staring deeply at the wall. “They’re a mob of f#$%ing morons and the website’s a crock of f#$#ing shit.”

I gasped in shock. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Trauma Coping Strategies

I have lost two things in the last four days… eight centimetres of hair and two teeth.

The hair was an easy chop; I still have long hair and now it’s an appropriate length for a flumpety-flurve year old woman.

The teeth are a much sadder story. (They were right at the back of my mouth so nobody will notice they’re missing.)

Nobody except me that is, especially when I try to chew foodstuffs other than soup or puree.

Please don’t think I have rotten teeth. The teeth were pristine. It’s just that the bone they used to be attached to has disintegrated and according to the x-rays the teeth in question were only being held on to by the gums.

It was a very disturbing experience having two upper molars ripped from my jaw. Frankly, it felt as though my sinuses, my ear canals and part of my brain were going to be extracted through my tooth socket as well.

For teeth that were only being held in by gums they certainly put up a damn good fight.

The worst part was when the dentist began barking orders in a somewhat panicked fashion for more and more gauze and then inserting stitches whilst the nurse screamed for the receptionist to come in and help suck up all the blood.

I accidently swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of blood. FUUUUDGGGGEEE.

While the dentist was suturing the gaping, oozing wound, I swear there were four hands, six mirrors and a sucker the size of a Dyson vacuum cleaner in my mouth all at the same time. 

I kept breathing through my nose, humming the Bear Necessities of Life in my head and using a disassociation method of coping with stress by pretending I was one of the Olympians in the closing ceremony (which was on the overhead screen at the time). I zoned in on the flag bearer. I was her, not me, lying on that dentist's torture chair with the corners of my mouth splitting open and three humans inserting their fists into it.

When the witches of Macbeth finally finished with the blood and bone sacrificial ceremony, I stood on shaky legs and hobbled out to pay the receptionist the $400 plus for the pleasure of my visit.

I limped across the road to the chemist in order to obtain the mandated antibiotics with about five gauze pads clamped inside my cheek. I’m sure I looked like a zombie raised from the cemetery down the road. A lopsided chipmunk zombie.


“Mph mph mmmm maw maw,” I said to the pharmacy assistant as I handed over the script with a trembling hand and white face with a blood smeared chin.

She just smiled knowingly as if she’d seen it a hundred times before.

Scotto reckons I should have stocked up on codeine and over the counter sleeping aids because they wouldn’t have been able to ask all those annoying fudging questions pharmacy assistants always ask.

I drove home, walked straight into the bedroom and spent the rest of the day doing New Idea crosswords (which are my favourites because even stupid people can do them).

That’s my secret comfort when I’m traumatised, New Idea crosswords. The Woman’s Day ones are okay too.

There… that’s my secret. I do crosswords. It’s like meditation.

See, people think I’m a wild, mad, drinking woman but the truth is, I like me crosswords.



What’s your go-to calm down strategy?

Mingling with Shingles

Whenever I’d thought about shingles (the illness, not the chalet-style roof tiles), I’d picture Albert Steptoe and his raggedy, grubby, fingerless gloves. I thought it was an older person’s disease; the type of older person who was a rag and bone man and lived in festering filth and had various, named rats as pets.

The nurse from the medical practice just rang and said that according to the results of the swab, that excruciating pain in my neck, head and ear and the itchy rash across the right side my chest, neck and back is most definitely the result of the shingles virus.

Enter… filthy, old, festering woman.

I cried when the nurse told me on the phone because my head was hurting so badly at the time. I cried when I walked in the door yesterday after work because I’d been barely surviving a living hell, all day. I’d take some painkillers and they’d dull the unbearably vicious stabbing for an hour, but then I have to wait for three more hours before I could take any more.

I cried again last night because even three glasses of red wine and two Mersyndols couldn’t completely settle the rogue ganglion of nerves on my right upper torso.

I’m actually conversing with the pain… abusing it in fact. “Fudge off!” I yell at it every time I get a particularly brutal spasm. “Fudge off, ashmole! Nobody asked you to chime in!”

Scotto just came home with some ointment.

I’m spreading ointment on my shingles. How attractive does that sound, Harold?

The ointment contains capsaicin which works by burning the nerve endings and somehow tricking them into not hurting. The trouble is I can’t put it on my scalp because of that stuff on my scalp called hair. Oh bugger it. I’m rubbing it in anyway. But the label says it will take four weeks to work anyway. I’ll be in the nut house by then for sure.

It could be worse, I know. I could have a tummy bug. There’s nothing worse than feeling nauseous. Or I could have the flu. I hate having a fever and that feeling of not being able to breathe. Or I could have something terminal.

What’s a bit of vice-like agony between friends, eh?

You can get a needle to prevent shingles.

If I’d only known about it.

Anyone who’s had chicken pox can develop shingles and it’s especially likely if you’re over 50 years of age. My advice is to go and have the vaccine because it’s a bloody horrible thing.

Plus, I just found a new red lump on my chin. Soon it will creep insidiously onto my face and people will think I have leprosy or just plain old school sores.

Things ain’t cooking in my kitchen, a strange affliction has come over me (told you I was going nuts).

Feel free to send flowers.



Have you ever had shingles or do you know someone who had them and survived?

Pinky's A-Z Guide to Menopause

NB: This is not a post by a medical expert, just a dreadfully, grumpy old woman.



A- Accept the fact you won’t be having any more babies. You will however, grow a plethora of small, bristly chin hairs you can nurture should you get clucky. I’ve named each of mine Rachel, Monica and Phoebe.

B- Bloating. This won’t be happening every month but will be a constant presence in your life. Embrace elastic waisted clothing and psychedelic kaftans.

C- Contraception. There’s now (joyously) no need for hormones to be pumped into your body or copper wire contraptions shoved up your clacker to prevent any unexpected, little Freddys arriving with the stork. Unless of course you’re one of those unfortunate women my Uro-Gynaecologist warned me about who don’t have a period for two years then discover the meno-bloating was in actual fact a six month old pregnancy. Shudder.

D- Disturbing Feelings. I have the recurring sensation on my left shoulder blade of a large insect/worm crawling around underneath the skin and I promise you I haven’t been taking hallucinogenic drugs. The insect/worm has been doing it for a few years now so I suspect it might be eating me from the inside out. My husband can’t see anything when he examines the area so I guess it’s all part of a medically recognised menopausal symptom called ‘the creepy-crawlies’. Either that or it’s an errant tapeworm who leaves my intestines occasionally to have a chat with my shoulder blade. I've named it, Gunther.

E- Eggs. Yours are depleted. You can no longer put all your eggs in one basket because you don’t have any, except you will have scrambled eggs for brains but because your kids are becoming independent you’ll be able to build up your nest egg again unless one of your kids is acting like a bit of a rotten egg, then you’ll end up with egg all over your face.

F- Follicle Fallout. Ever been standing at the check-out and found yourself staring in a horrified fascination at the grey strands of hair barely covering the bald head of the dear, little old lady in front of you? Oestrogen deficiency causes your hair to fall out which is perhaps why my Nana mysteriously wore a wig for all those years. On the bright side, hair falls out from the pubic area as well, so you’ll save on those expensive Brazilians.

G- Gums. Your teeth will survive the onslaught of menopause but the gums holding them into your head won’t. Floss as much as possible unless you want your teeth to flap around when you open your mouth in a slight breeze.

H- Hot flushes getting to you? As soon as you feel one coming on (and you’ll know what I mean because there is a particular ‘aura’ you feel before you get one) start overtly fanning yourself and complain loudly to anyone in the vicinity about how hot it is. Never suffer in silence. Come up with funny names for them and announce it to the world. 

“Community alert! Pinky is having a Tropical Moment!”  

If you have a hot flush (or ten) during the night, violently fling off the bed covers and swear loudly so you wake up your husband. Why the hell should he sleep when you can’t?

I- Impending Doom. The sense of impending doom is one of the symptoms in the aura before a hot flush. Don’t worry, you aren't about to die… you’ll just feel really fudging hot for a few minutes. You may gain some relief by scaring everyone else in the vicinity and shouting out the Hail Mary and maniacally blessing yourself over and over until the feeling passes.

J- Jumpiness. Anxiety was one of the early symptoms for me. When the phone rang I’d jump ten foot in the air and scream out, “Oh my fudging Gawd! What the fudge has happened now? I can’t take any more!”

Mind you, most menopausal women have teenage children. Do you see where I’m going here? What comes first; the Children or the Dead Eggs?

K- Krankiness (sic). You will find you develop an extremely low tolerance for voices calling out, “Muuuum” from another room in the house, people who leave empty milk bottles in the fridge and your husband’s toenails touching you (ever so slightly) in bed.

L- Leakage. Unfortunately, things start to sag during menopause (including your innards) which means urinal incontinence can occur when you sneeze, laugh, cough or lift heavy objects. That’s why they have those awkward ads for incontinence pads. Crossing your legs and assuming the crash position can stop it a bit but might alarm the passengers in your car.

M- Medication. If you buy over-the-counter menopause medications don’t read the warning labels because you might read that in very, very rare cases the herbal medication can cause liver failure so then you’ll just shove them to the back of your bathroom drawer and drink a bottle of Vodka every night instead.

N- Nausea. This is also part of the aura before a hot flush… or perhaps a hangover from all the Vodka you’ve been drinking.

O- Oestrogen Cream. This is perhaps the best thing about menopause. 

Meno stuff.

Warning: Read the label because if you apply it too often and in too large a quantity after you’ve been drinking it may cause you to have multiple orgasms in your sleep. 

Not that it ever happened to me but someone told me and not that I tried it out after they told me either because that would be silly and irresponsible. 

If you use the special applicator, you’ll be able to deliver the precise dose but if you find the applicator on the bedroom floor, all chewed up by the dog, go and get another one from the chemist, don’t just guess the amount you need to apply. 

Also check to see if your dog has grown boobs.

P- Pseudo Menopause. Nothing annoys menopausal women more than when their early-forties friend says they think they might be going through the change because they suspect they had a hot flush and they’ve been a bit cranky of late. Let me tell you right now: you don’t suspect you’ve had a hot flush. If you have one you’ll fudging know it.

Q- Quote about Menopause. 

" Mid-life is when you can stand naked in front of a mirror and you can see your bottom without turning around." Unknown.

R- Racing Heart. Sometimes palpitations precede a hot flush. Personally I think it’s your body trying to run away from itself. Don’t worry about it too much because you’re about to feel like vomiting any second (see Nausea) which is much more unpleasant. 

Really when you think about it, a hot flush parallels the symptoms of an Irukandji marine stinger; rarely fatal but most unpleasant.

S- Savings. You will be saving a lot of money on tampons and pads unless you have a daughter who begins to menstruate just as you are finishing which will negate any fiscal bonus. It must be nature’s way of reducing the number of menstruating women under the same roof… or due to the fact you were already pretty old when you had her.

T- Tears. You will cry when you watch movies like Atonement, The Notebook and Frozen. You’ll cry when you see old people holding hands and when you see cute babies smiling at you from their shopping trolleys. You may even cry when someone wins Family Feud.

U- Unpleasant Smell. Because of excess sweating and hormonal changes some women detect a change in their body odour during menopause. I am fortunate in that I don’t sweat during my hot flushes except for a slight, Victorian shimmer on my upper lip. 

I’ve developed an obsessive, almost Tourette-ish swipe with my index finger to wipe away the moisture which makes it appear to an observer I’m sniffing something distasteful on my finger… fifty million times a day. Friends have even called me on it. For the record I am not nor ever have intentionally smelled my finger. Why would I?

V- Vulvovaginal Discomfort. I’ve always found sheepskin to be much more comfortable on that particularly delicate area than leather as it doesn’t get as burning hot in the sun… wait… what?... Ohhh Vulva! I thought it said Volvo! Well anyway, the same thing applies. Don’t wear leather undies.

W- Where the Fudge am I? What the Fudge am I Doing? Syndrome.

You’ll suffer the indignity of spotting your friends swapping surreptitious glances because you’re telling them a story you just told them the day before and they’ll be too polite to tell you and laugh again with less enthusiasm and sincerity this time. You’ll drive to work with a hair curler in your fringe or spray Glen 20 on your hair instead of hair spray; in other words you’ll lose part of your brain.

X- Xtra Weight. As long as it’s within a healthy range I figure I’ve earned the right to be a bit fat around the middle. One of the things I loved about my Nana was her big, soft arms and belly when she hugged me. It’s part of our womanly design to become velvety, squashy old carrots so we get more hugs as we get older.

Y- Youth and the Loss of. Some women like to have their faces plumped back up and their lines smoothed out and tightened in order to cling to a semblance of youthfulness. Each to their own, I say, but the truth is you can ALWAYS tell. Some women should have, ‘Do not place near an open flame’ plastered on their foreheads.



Z- Zzzzs. Many women complain they don’t get enough sleep during menopause. They wake up a lot or just can’t get to sleep in the first place. I think this is probably where the term ‘Nana Nap’ came from. Nanas need naps. Go take one, you deserve it my lovely.

A site with real information on menopause.

What do you think? Anything I missed?

Things to do when waiting for your husband to come out of the hardware store

Look in rear vision mirror and count your open pores.

Pluck long black hairs from behind your knees which you missed when shaving that morning.

Search through handbag for runaway barley sugar.

Pick fluff off barley sugar and eat slowly.

Closely observe people entering and leaving store and .give them an original Game of Thrones character name like; Petyr Baygon, Polish the Bannister, Jon Dyna-Gro and Eejit, Various Tarpaulins, Stains of the Bathatheon, Hoe-dor, Neon Spraytoy.

Push cuticles back on fingernails whilst acknowledging to self how unfunny those names are .

Count up how many calories you have already eaten today. Calculate if you refrain from eating for the rest of the day and go for an hour long walk wearing ankle weights you can possibly afford to eat an entire Dr Oetker pizza that night.

Recalculate possibility if you up it to a two hour walk.

Stare at the sky until you can see the white cells moving through the capillaries in your eyes. Watch them for a while.

See how many signs you can read whilst holding your breath.

Do twenty pelvic floor exercises.

Calculate calories you just burned.

Take reading glasses out of case and clean them thoroughly.

Put them on and look in rear vision mirror again.

Pull out spiky chin hair you didn’t see before.

Watch owner walk funny looking dog past you.

Make mental note to buy dog food.

Add up in head how much money you spend on animal food a week.

                  (Weekly purchase: not counting 8kg bag of doggy biscuits)

Try to remember why you bought so many animals.

Check phone to see if any of your kids who failed to come home last night have answered your numerous texts.

Notice there are no replies send more texts. Angrier ones.

Suddenly remember why you bought so many animals.

Jump in excitement when you see husband coming out the door.

Notice in alarm there is nothing in his hands and he is wearing disenchanted expression.


Brace self for another exhilarating wait outside next hardware store.

Pinky's Guide to How You Know You're Getting Old

                               

1. I remember going to the cinema when they still showed
the Marlborough Man advertisements before the movie.

2. When I get bored in meetings instead of checking
messages on my iPhone, I amuse myself by pulling those
stubborn whiskers from my chin.

3. Students in my class don’t accidentally call me ‘Mum’ any
more, now they accidentally call me ‘Grandma’.

4. I know who Donny Osmond and Shaun Cassidy and H R
Puff n Stuff are.

5. I’m always going to work with flat, lank hair because I can’t
make out the conditioner from the shampoo in the shower.

6. When I click on to my year of birth on a drop down box I 
have to scroll down a REALLY long way.

7. I have wrinkles on my knees and bat wings that Padraic 
my eighteen year old, loves to poke and make wobble.8. I know that ‘The Lion King’ was a rip off of ‘Kimba the 
White Lion’.

9. I remember when kids didn’t have names like Shaquilla 
and Shaqquinelle, they were called Gary or Barry.

10. When I was choosing a lacquer colour for my new acrylic 
nails and I chose a pretty orange shade, the archetypal
young nail technician screeched,“NO YOU NO HAVE THAT ONE! YOU TOO OLD FOR THAT!"

If you feel 'qualified' please add your comments and additions in the comments!