THE HIGH PRICE OF GAS

I think people should be entitled to a discount if they have to travel with a flatulent taxi driver. When we were on holidays in Brisbane in June, we had to catch the plane back home early in the morning. The temperature was below 10 degrees Celcius, but for the entire half hour trip to the airport, the taxi driver insisted on leaving his window wound down. We soon discovered why! I don’t know what that guy had been eating, but I suspect it wasn’t food.

I’m sure the taxi driver was delighted when he saw there were three of us to pick up. That way, none of us could be certain who was causing the pong, and none of us would be brave enough to say anything about it.

If had been just me travelling on my own, it would have been obvious who was the culprit. But, when you’re stuck on a half hour trip to the airport, and you’re in a hurry, I guess you don’t really have any choice but to put up with it. Mind you, I felt like opening up my window and heaving on occasion.

But if the passenger had been a certain male friend of mine who tends to be a little on the tactless side, I’m sure he would have blurted out something like, “Holy cow mate! Did you eat a dead camel or something!? You stink!”

Sometimes I almost wish I could forget etiquette and just be able to come out with things like that too ... it must be so freeing! It would have been so nice to be able to say, “Look fella, if you feel you have to inflict your grotesque emissions on me, the least you can do is offer me a $10 discount, after all, I think my sense of smell will be affected for at least the remainder of the day.”

Perhaps the cabby was endeavouring to develop an alternative energy sources, but frankly, he should have a warning on his taxi in relation to the carrying of toxic chemicals.
 

UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!

I was left feeling rather like Typhoid Mary recently when the staff at my doctor’s surgery insisted that I wear a mask and seat myself in a separate area from the rest of the patients, as I had the flu. I certainly felt very special, I can tell you. It didn’t really help when my GP came out of the room, took one look at me and burst into laughter.

My quick-witted and well-thought out response was something like, “Er, thanks very much,” which behind the mask sounded more like ,”Ugh! Fung erryugh,” and then my glasses steamed up as my warm breath escaped through the top of the mask.

The staff, smiling at the GPs laughter, didn’t exactly help my discomfort either. If I’d thought of it at the time, I could have shut them up simply by ripping off my mask and coughing heavily in their direction.

Honestly, I think this medical office should win an award along the lines of “How to make your already sick patient feel even worse, in one easy step.”

When I finally made it into the GP’s office, I took off the mask and he almost scrambled over his desk in a desperate effort to get as far away from me as possible. When he realised that I stood between him and the door, he reluctantly sat down wearing a haunted and trapped expression on his face. If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, it would have been hysterical.

Eventually he relaxed after he realised that he had only two choices: either inhale the same air I was breathing out, or wear a protective mask himself. I’m sure it was his masculine pride that won out as he undertook the examination, with an almost martyred look on his uncovered face. Poor diddums!

After I saw the doctor, who confirmed it wasn’t swine flu, I then proceeded to share my germs with the staff at the chemist, then in the supermarket checkout, and finally the local bakery. One staff member stepped backwards in horror as I croaked my request to her. I’ll bet she ran outside to disinfect her hands after I gave her my money, the scaredy cat.

That kind of got me thinking, so after I returned home, I decided to attempt to infect my cat with my flu. At least my cat doesn’t recoil in fear when I breathe on him. I am anticipating the development of a strain of cat flu which will develop into a new pandemic to sweep the world. Will this new flu result in people wanting to chase toy mice and use a kitty litter tray? Whatever the result, I’m sure they’ll be feline good.

 

There are some things in this life that are simply too disgusting and gross to contemplate; things that other people have no problem with. Some people might like to think it's just my own personal paranoia.

Let's take the public toilets for example: consider the fact that you are sharing a space used by hundreds of other people that have gone before you. I will not sit on a toilet seat because I have seen how grotty some people can be. Unfortunately, one still has to put ones hands onto the toilet paper that the previous occupant touched. I've heard of people who would rather use their tissues or a scrap of paper from their handbag, then touch the tainted toilet paper.

But if one manages to safely use a public toilet seat without physically coming into contact with anything, and somehow manages to avoid the dreaded toilet bowl splashback, one still needs to open the cubicle door, which the previous user has obviously had to unlock to exit. That means that one has to touch where they have put their dirty hands.

Then if one makes it to the sink, and thoroughly cleaning ones hands, most times one still has to pull the handle on the door to exit the facility, but what if the previous person wasn't as fastidous, with their cleanliness? Yep your lovely clean hands are now no longer so clean.

Perhaps one should just consider carrying a wad of disposable gloves with you. Heck, go down the path of Michael Jackson and wear gloves and a mask at all times, just in case.

One of my other pet peeves is the public barbecue, especially on a Sunday afternon, after a busy weekend. Consider that complete strangers have been cooking goodness knows what on that barbecue surface you are about to use. What if their meat wasn't cooked properly? What if the residue they've left behind has now grown into a scary culture of deadly botulism? What if the barbecue surface has been visited by a variety of bugs, ants and birds who have all left their calling cards for you to cook into your own food?

Sure, we all attempt to give the barbecue surface a good clean before we start our own cooking, but how many of us remember to bring a scrubbing brush and cleaner with us? Most times we content ourselves with a clean using a spatula, some hot oil and a piece of paper towel. We scrape the edge of the spatula along the surface to get rid of any residue, wipe the spatula with a paper towel, then use the SAME utensil to cook our sausages with!

And while we are on the subject of cooking, I turn your attention to hot spas. No amount of money will induce me to use a public spa. Imagine with me now that you could be sharing a tubful of water with hundreds of others that have used the spa before you. Imagine what you could now be sharing, including the thousands of bits of hair and skins etc that we all shed.

Throw that into a mix of hot water, and some not so clean bodies, germs, perfumes, and soaps and maintain at that particular temperature, and hey presto: "People Soup."

Next time someone invites you over for a spa, don't forget to take a spoon.
 

Being a surgical patient in a hospital requires the lack of one personality trait to survive: I refer to vanity.

If you can't bear the possibility of looking anything but perfect, then surgery is not for you. Looking your best has got to obviously be more important than saving your lung, your limb, or your life.

Over the years I've had more than five surgeries and have suffered such indignities as the wearing of the hospital gown. These completely sexless garments were designed to fit all sizes and perform the fuction of covering the body, but they were never created to flaunt one's figure or to make one look like anything other than a large lump in an oversized sack.

There's also the added indignity of an operating gown that ties up the back, and leaves one's posterior exposed, between the gaps in the ties.

Of course, there's always the lovely paper pants to cover one's posterier, even if it does resemble something that even Crusty the Clown might reject as simply too outrageous to wear.

You may well be as fortunate as I was and get the chance to sport surgical stockings, which reduce the risk of blood clots and provide yet another opportunity to increase one's attractiveness.

But if the thought of wearing bright white surgical stockings, voluminous paper panties and a surgical gown that ties up the back, doesn't phase you, then don't forget the party hat you get to wear to hold one's hair in.

After surgery there can be quite a number of indignities to suffer through including draingage hoses from wounds, wearing of a catheter, having to use a bedpan, and if one has had neck or facial surgey, there is further bruising and puffiness. From personal experience I can confirm without doubt that these do not in any way contribute to a feeling of stunning attractivenss.

Should you have a tattoo anywhere on your body and you are heading for surgery, then for your sake, I hope it's not a tattoo in the shape of an arrow. Before I entered the operating theatre, one of the nurses drew an upwards facing arrow onto my left arm, to indicate which was the one requiring surgery.

One of the after-effects from my recent surgey was the requirement for heavy doses of painkillers. One of the odd results from using these were an enhanced sense of smell and a craving for peanut paste. Frankly I think the peanut paste manufacturers are in cahoots with that particular drug company and have added something to the conconction. On the other hand, that may still be the painkillers talking.

Mmmm, I could go a peanut paste sandwich right about now...
 

I invented something called "The Shower Cap Dance" during my recuperation after shoulder surgery. If you have a shower cap at home, then I invite you to join me as I share this new groove move.

As I was unable to do much with my injured arm, I had to learn to do most tasks with just the one. It's amazing how many things we need both arms and hands to do, like flossing your teeth, or even bathing yourself. Consider the quandary I was in when I discovered that it's impossible to wash the arm you are using to wash with...think about it. So for several days, that particular arm went uncleaned except for a good splash of water and a liberal spray of underarm deoderant.

Shaving your armpits with just one hand, required some very delicate manoeuvering, while the hair on my legs was allowed to grow completely unhindered. When I finally was able to shave my legs, it took 3 razors to finish the job and a plunger on standby to unclog the drain.

During my convalescence, I was unable to do anything with my long hair other than brush it and stick a hair band in it. Putting it up or placing combs in it required the use of both hands. So for several months, I sported a hairdo I came to call "the crazy lady look". I remember being on the receiving end of a few glances during this time: I prefer to think they were looks of pity or sympathy rather than fear or horror.

And while we're on the subject of hair, let's go back to my introductory paragraph about the shower cap dance - you may like to try this one at home.

There are several steps:

(a) place shower cap upside down on the bathroom vanity;
(b) grab your hair with your good hand;
(c) thrust the top of your head down into the shower cap while sticking your bottom up into the air;
(d) proceed to waggle your bottom around as you attempt to shove your hair into the showercap, while at the same time, endeavouring to pull the edges of the cap up over your hair, which is now trying desperately to escape;
(e) continue this with all sides of the cap, while twisting your body into a pretzel and waggling your bottom about in the air;
(f) shout several choice words when the shower cap goes shooting acros the room; and
(g) repeat previous steps.

It's such an elegant little dance that I'm sure it'll be a hit on the dance-floor any time soon.

 

SALON AND THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

For most men, a trip to the hairdressers should take less than half an hour, necessitate as little conversation as possible and at no time require him to look even remotely unmanly.

For a woman, a trip to the hairdressers requires considerable forethought, a good wad of cash (or a small bank-loan), and a minimum of an hour of one's time, preferably two. Conversation is a necessity, as are the magazines, the coffee and the gossip.

Men want a fix – women want a miracle!

Unlike doctor's waiting rooms, hair salons always have the latest women's magazines. While waiting for our colours to process, we can consume the latest gossip about celebrities, pore over the newest fashions, giggle at fashion faus pas, and for a brief moment in our otherwise busy schedules, forget the rest of the world.

We can delude ourselves into believing we can look as gorgeous as the cover models on those magazines, at least until we get up the next morning and discover the wonderful style we had walking out of the salon yesterday, has now transformed itself into something resembling a lump of overturned, dried-up spaghetti. That's usually the time when you recall your complete lack of ability with all hairstyling appliances, and that while yesterday you may have looked like Uma Thurman, today you like like “I'm inhuman.”

Part of the salon experience is the opportunity to check out the latest in hairstyle and colouring experiments that the staff have been trying out on themselves. Usually this keeps me amused for at least ten minutes. Mix that with copious quantities of hair products, and strange chemical smells that make your nostril hairs curl, and you have a unique experience that only we women could love.

But the best thing about going to a hair-dressers is not the great stylists that do their best to bring out your best, nor the relaxed and friendly staff, nor even the coffee and biscuits. The best thing at my hair salon is the scalp massage! I have become quite an aficionado over the years and have my favourites within the salon staff. And while I may possibly admit to being slightly addicted to a scalp massage, I will never admit to falling asleep and snoring at the sink: that was the woman next to me.
 

CHRISTMAS IS WEIRD!

“Christmas is weird – what other time of year do you sit in front of a dead tree, eating lollies out of a sock?” When I read that, I thought, how true it is that Christmas can be a really weird time of year. At what other time such as on Christmas morning, in preparation for the dreaded lunch, can you imagine several million people across the world, willingly sticking their hands up a chook's bottom, stuffing it with something you would never eat on its own?

Now while the word “dreaded” and “Christmas lunch” may not go hand in hand for everybody, the fact is that for probably half of the population, it can be an uncomfortable, tedious and sometimes hideously awful time. For couples, the chances of having a terrible Christmas double as they oftentimes have to juggle functions with two very different families, who usually put pressure on them to attend their own important festivities, in preference to the other family. I shudder to imagine the results when alcohol is thrown in.

For some families the horrors of Christmas extend into gift-giving. I can recall the year I received five boxes of chocolates, four of which were identical: obviously the supermarket had been having a big sale that week. And while we're talking about unimaginative gifts, at what other time is it so evident that your family is so completely clueless about you? If I put together every single candle I've received in the past decade, I'd need the local fire brigade on standby when I light them all.

Growing up, we girls were usually told that it was bad manners to throw away gifts, no matter how revolting or tacky they were. Even now, I have a gift or two floating around on a dusty shelf somewhere, out of a sense of obligation. I'm hoping that they will accidentally get knocked down and broken, or get sucked into an inter-dimensional vortex.

For most of us, Christmas is a test of our personal safe-gift recognition ability: “Will these red undies be too radical for Grandad, and would a lifetime's supply of cotton buds be overdoing it for Mum?”

Sometimes though, I wonder if certain family members are taking part in an experiment called “What is the worst gift that I can get away with giving?” On several occasions, I've been on the receiving end of such atrocious gifts that I threw them in the bin rather than pass them on to St Vinnies – they were too horrendous to inflict on an unprepared and unsuspecting public.

I reflect on the possibility sometimes that certain family members are simply having fun at my expense, and enjoying the look on my face as I struggle to pretend that their gift is precisely what I was hoping for:

'Yes, I will take great delight in spraying myself liberally from the industrial sized bottle of “Eau de Wheely-Bin” thank you cousin Edwina.'
 

"I'm not perfect" is a discovery that fortunately most of find out early in life. It would be nice though if the information wasn't exhibited quite so often. For most of us, especially when we go through our teens, the fact that we are less than perfect physically, can be rather disheartening. As a teenager, I can remember trying everything to keep the pimples at bay, but fortunately most of my peers were going through similar struggles, so at least I didn't stand out amongst them.

I can remember though, the embarrassment of having unruly, frizzy hair when every girl around me seemed to effortlessly put together a Farrah Fawcett-like flick with the least effort. I tried to pin my back to my head with bobby pins, clips and ties in the vain hope that somehow it would magically transform my mop into gorgeous locks. This was also the period when I tried to transform my turned-up nose into a thinner, more refined one by pushing the end down and squishing it together thinking that if I did it often enough, I could somehow mould it into a more perfect schnoz. I eventually realised that my nose is not made of plasticine.

Possibility one of the most humiliating events of my teenage years was the time I was playing around with my younger sister in our lounge-room. I'd borrowed my brother's suction dart from his toy gun, and stuck it to my forehead. As I tried to pull it off my skin, I discovered that it was stuck fast, and when it finally came off with an audible pop, it left behind a perfectly round bruise, in the centre of my forehead. For a week afterwards, I was teased mercilessly at school by everyone around me. It was so flawlessly round, that no story that I invented, could quite explain it's perfection. That was one of the longest weeks of my young life.

I was reminded of this recently when I managed to burn my forehead with my hair straightener. The resulting mark was precisely straight and rectangular, and in a very noticeable location. Fortunately nowadays, my appearance is not quite as important to me as it once was.

But still there have been moments I could have lived without. I remember attending a job interview and all through our meeting, the interviewer kept on looking at me oddly. It wasn't until I got home that I discovered that in my rush to get there, I'd picked up an earring with another earring accidentally looped through the bottom of it. So there I was with one normal earring in one ear, and two looped and completly odd earrings hanging from my other. It must have looked a little weird - and for some reason, I didn't get the job.

Then there was the time I discovered a very important rule: do not wear knee-hi stockings with a skirt, no matter how long the skirt is. I recall walking around outside, and the wind kept on picking up my long skirt and revealing my less than appealing knee-hi stockings to the world. It's a very unattractive look and should be reserved only for comedy sketches of weird old ladies with cats.

So avoiding the stockings, I was walking around the shopping centre one day, when I got an admiring glance from a man walking past. "Wow," I thought to myself, "I must look exceptionally good today." Blue is one of my best colours. It wasn't until I got outside that I found that my shirt was on inside out.

In my late 20s I discovered (through an unfortunate incident), that I can't say my name clearly when I am missing a front tooth. For an entire week, while the dentist endeavoured to make me a temporary plate, I had to walk around with my broken off front-tooth. I tried very hard to be inconspicuous, and managed to hide in the office at work as much as I could or stayed locked up at home. As chance would have it, it just happened to be the week that my sister invited our entire family out to dinner to meet her fiancé, a meeting that I couldn't refuse. That evening I was subjected to pitiless and unrelenting teasing, but I learned quickly not to respond to their taunts because food would accidentally spit out between the gap in my teeth.

Then there was the time, a few years ago, when I used to ride a motorbike. I stopped off at a shop on the way home from church and as I put my arms up to place the helmet back onto my head, I felt a sudden breeze. Every single button on my shirt, except for the top and bottom ones had all popped open at once. Regrettably, it took me a full minute to realise. There I was, struggling to put on my helmet, glasses and gloves, and when I looked down, I discovered I was exposing my bosoms to the world. Fortunately I had remembered the very important rule that all of our mothers teach us – 'Always be sure you're wearing clean underwear just in case of emergencies' ......... I was!
 

Most people that know me, will at some point comment about my sneezing. My record has now exceeded 30 sneezes in a row.

I've had well-meaning friends suggest I try to somehow contain them and force them into smaller sneezes. When I do that, I usually sneeze twice as many times.

Occasionally I will respond with the true story about people who have blown their noses so vigorously, that they've cracked the bony cavity in their skull, in which their eyeball sits. There was a case where a woman blew her nose so forcefully that it forced air through the created crack into her skull, and the air eventually made its way into the woman's chest cavity leading to serious pain and discomfort.

Another weird and thankfully rare side effect of over-exuberant nose-blowing led to a case where the air and germs were forced through the crack in the bony cavity into the skull and developed into an infection which made the patient to go blind. In most cases though, if a crack does develop in the bony cavity of the eye, it usually heals within a fortnight.

But if going blind doesn't worry you, then consider the Japanese man whose excessive nose-blowing led to over-pressurisation of his inner ears which resulted in the man going deaf.

While my sneezing prowess may not be such a remarkable ability, it has led to some development in other areas of my life, including my ability to hold in the contents of my bladder while driving and sneezing at the same time.

Then there's a skill I developed a number of years after a near smash with a wall on a curve on a freeway. This had happened while I was endeavouring to drive during a particularly fervent sneezing fit. After that scary near-miss I then developed the ability to keep my eyes open whilst sneezing.

Another thing I learned to do when riding my old motor-bike, was the 'slide and flick technique.' As soon as I felt a sneeze coming on, I'd slide my hand up to my visor and flick it open. As you can imagine, I had to open the visor so that I could see through the plastic after I'd finished sneezing.

All year round I have sinus issues and mega-sneezes - I've figured – what's the point in doing a half-hearted job anyway, not like those wooses who only get hay-fever in spring-time. There's one thing that most people I know will agree, you certainly can't sneeze at my sneezing ability.
 

Is it a sign of our times that the figures on toilet doors are starting to be reflective of our real shapes? I spied a rather voluptuous looking female form on the door of the ladies toilets recently. The simple shape looked like most other images I've seen, only rounder. So I wondered whether it would start showing up in other areas. Will we soon see plump figures on the “Walk” and “Don't Walk” neon signs? Will there soon be chunky children images on school crossings?

In fact, if we are going to encompass the more gravitationally dispersed members of our community, will we soon be seeing other society members appearing on signs everywhere? Will there soon be images of amputees on walk signs? Perhaps a jaunty looking fellow with a missing leg and walking with a crutch? Senior citizens on “Slow” signs near retirement villages. How about cross-dressers on pedestrian crossings?

It's good to see though that we are becoming more accepting of overweight people than we used to be. The funny thing is, I know what it's like to be at either extreme. I have been both too thin and overweight.

When I was a child I was so skinny that my legs looked like two pieces of spaghetti with a grapefruit in the middle of each for my knees.

For many years I felt like an awkward, gangly tangle of knees and elbows. Later, as a young woman I was very self-conscious of my lack of hips and that it almost appeared that someone could play the xylophone on my protuberant ribs.

I can completely sympathise with people who have been teased about being skinny as well as being overweight.

I'm not sure exactly sure what happened to my xylophone ribs since my mid 20s – they have disappeared – quite possibly hidden beneath a dense layer of fat. Nowadays, in my 40s, I'm more conscious of my double-chin and curves, and the fact that I weigh half again what I used to 20 years ago.

And you'd think with all this additional padding that I'd be better insulated during cold weather, but no, I still begin to shiver when the temperature drops below 16 degrees Celcius.

Actually, there is an advantage to being overweight rather than being too skinny: when you knock yourself on things, the extra padding really helps to protect your bones against damage. The disadvantage is that my poor bones have to carry all that extra baggage around.

From what I have read, even about people considered to be some of the most beautiful in our world, very few of us are particularly confident about our outward appearance. Many of us focus on flaws or defects that really aren't important.

My question is: if your outward appearance were a true reflection of your inner worth, would you be one of the top competitors in the Mr or Miss Universe contests? With God's help, I think I'll continue working on that inner beauty some more, day by day. How about you? Somehow, I believe it's going to last much longer than what I look like on the outside.