How Shit Gets Done: A Practical. Part Four: Getting It Done.

The Hell Hole held a great deal of stuff, some of it so inaccessible that the task of emptying the cupboards was less of a purge and more of a expedition of rediscovery. “Dr. Livingstone, I assume. Again. And - oh look! - you expired February 2006. How lovely for you.” Parting was sweet relief.

The Kitchen Fellas arrived about 7:15am on the designated day and backed up a large flatbed trailer up the driveway. They then proceded to indelicately bash, drill and saw the living shit out of the Hell Hole until it was in pieces small enough to extract from the house and throw onto the trailer. There were only two Kitchen Fellas; one older chap who used to play wing on the rugby pitch (so, that stood him in very good stead) and his young assistant. They were very efficient. Within hours, it was gone. All that remained was an ungodly mess, and a layer of fine and probably toxic residual dust over everything. The plumber arrived later that day to ensure all was sealed off tight. The Beloved had already sealed off the gas, but the taps needed to be cut back to the pipes to allow the new cupboards in.

The next morning, the Kitchen Fellas returned, with the trailer now carrying the Shiny New Heaven. I swear I could hear angels singing.

There was more bashing and grunting and drilling and to-ing and fro-ing and carry on, but by lunch there was a reasonable semblance of a kitchen materialising. It was this point that the Old Hell Hole exacted its revenge via one of its Appliance Minions: the Dishwasher Devil.
The outside walls of dishwashers are encased in sound-proofing and insulation material, and metal brackets for securing the dishwasher to the bench. These metal backets have inexplicably sharp edges. The Dishwasher Devil had cunningly positioned itself to intercept my path to the fridge. As I touched the Dishwasher Devil to move it aside, the bloody thing bit me hard on my right thumb, which then proceeded to bleed like a bastard. The young assistant googled me a nearby doctor, who kindly agreed to see me immediately. The young assistant drove me and the blood-soaked tea towel now wrapped around my useless thumb up to the doctor. It was a bit of a mess. Anyway, some significant pain, five stitches and half an hour in the surgery later, I had walked the ten minutes back home and was back at my desk realising just how much I use my thumb to type, and how much I love codeine. My desire for lunch had somehow dissipated.

In the meantime, the Shiny New Heaven had continued to evolve.

Aside from some minor and quickly-corrected issues with uneven handle placement and backing boards, it was all done by the day’s end. The plumber came the next day and hooked up the gas to the new hob.

The Shiny New Heaven works, a fact which excites admiring “oohs” and “aahs” from friends, but which I think is only as it should be.

We have a pantry ( WE HAVE A PANTRY!!!) in which we could store enough food to last a brief nuclear winter, and we have drawers in which we can both store things and find them later (I cannot recommend drawers highly enough. Drawers truly rock).

It was, however, over two weeks before the Beloved could do the promised electricals (oven, range hood, Dishwasher Devil). So, not quite a lesson learned, but now all the kitchen lacks is a splashback, which will be done very soon. If paying work hadn’t been such a competing priority, and if Christmas hadn’t interrupted everything, it would be done by now! However, no excuses. I just have to Get It Done.

How Shit Gets Done: A Practical. Part Three: Preparation

The kitchen dudes duly sent pictures of the kitchen layout to me. I made some changes, as you do, and checked door thicknesses, shelf heights, etc. The persistent practice of kitchen designers in putting microwave ovens at or above shoulder height absolutely defeats me. A friend of mine is still scarring from a nasty burn from just such a set up (which, by the way, is the one thing she and her partner hate about their otherwise gorgeous kitchen). So, the microwave is back on the bench, there are some more drawers where there were ordinary cupboards, and some shelving I was only half convinced about in the first place has been ditched. I have bought some ducting for the range hood. I have bought all 27 (!) door handles, as I didn't like the kitchen dudes' base line or their range. A friend has even lined up a good tiler for me to do the splashback, which was removed on the weekend.
Also on the weekend, the kitchen threw up all over the rest of the house. There is. So. Much. Shit. Canisters and the microwave cover the dining table. The spare room is bulging with stuff I'd forgotten I had. The lounge has boxes of cans and spices, and now has a distinct "Asian grocery" aroma. The bathroom is full of cleaning stuff and kitchen sink stuff.
I haven't emptied the existing drawers of cutlery and wrappings and tea towels; I'll just pull the whole lot out at 7:30am tomorrow morning when these kitchen dudes, who obviously have no idea of the hours of civilised society, arrive to haul the Current Hell Hole out.
The next day, the Shiny New Heaven is to be installed. CanNOT wait. Have girded loins, sacrificed kitchen sponges to the kitchen spirit (I think her name is Sherry) and have organised remote access to work computers.
And now, we shall see how much of these Great Plans pass through the bowels of Life and Reality and turn to Large, Steaming Turds. And how quickly.

The Rectus Femoris Is Evil And Must Be Punished

Now, this is lengthy, but as I found it hard to source good information, I'm hoping that if I provide enough detail, it might help someone else find the information they're looking for.

For years I have had knee problems. They began when I was about 12 or 13, with shooting random pains from behind my kneecap, and pain after long walks. The doctors had no idea. No real tests were done. My grandmother prescribed Epsom Salts for some reason (suspected adolescent rheumatoid arthritis?), so I took teaspoons of that dissolved in warm water for a few years. It was awful to take, and unfortunately did not improve my knee pain.

I seemed to grow out of it, but the knees have always been a bit problematic. I sprained my right anterior medial ligament badly in a sporting accident. The young physiotherapists at my gym gave the knee ultrasound treatment for about 12 weeks and were happy to keep going until I told them enough was enough, and we were just wasting that cold blue gel they like so much. The pool therapy was good, but recovery was never complete. The knee was always painful and stiff, and any sporting activity required a firm knee brace.

I started shotokan karate, which both strengthened my knee and put it at a bit of risk. It was a two years before I trusted the strength in my knee enough to ditch the knee brace. It was then I noticed in the dojo that my knees hyperextended. I could bend them backwards! And they did not feel good when I did so.

Sick of the pain, I returned to a physiotherapist who was not convenient but who had fixed my neck once, and who took a more active approach to treatment. He said that my medial ligament had probably scarred, and had certainly healed tight. The treatment involved ultrasound treatment and stretching. The stretching involved extending my leg out in line with my hip with the foot facing forward and pressing gently down on the knee. This was excruciating, it was like a hot, thin spike was being driven into my knee. I could stand about 2 seconds of this, but he wanted me to build up to 3 sets of 20 seconds. It took me three months to achieve this and content the physio.

The knee pain stopped.

Slipping on a wet floor about 6 months after this and re-injuring my knee reduced me to tears. The thought of having to go through all that treatment and stretching and pain again was just too much. By now, however, the ligament seemed permanently slack, and I was faced with another problem! This time, rest, ice, ultrasound and strengthening was required for two months.

So, for the past few years I've had a sporadic yoga practice. I like Iyengar yoga for its precision, strict and safe alignment, and practice-for-your-need flexibility. My tight hamstrings have gradually relaxed, my migraines are far less frequent, and I cope better with stress. There are other ways yoga is making life better, but that's a whole other story. Basic asanas are fine, even the occasional backbend. However, Supta Virasana is impossible for me, even with three bolsters to support me. While everyone else in class is breathing smoothly and relaxing, I'm gritting my teeth and squirming with my lower back pinching and my knees screaming. I last about a minute, and come out for sweet relief while others can easily go to sleep like this.

While going through some back-issues of Yoga Journal, I found this article, now available online:
http://www.yogajournal.com/practice/2607
The agony they describe is exactly mine! Tight quads? That's it? Tight quads!

So, I'm now determined to stretch my quadruceps out, and my rectus femoris in particular, however unsavoury that sounds :-)

Then, I find this: http://www.round-earth.com/kneepain-rectus-femoris.html

The article describes so much of what I've been going through! Why have no physiotherapists (and there have been several) never picked this up? Why have none of my yoga teachers never noticed this? No-one has ever put two and two together, not even when I did a full 45-minute specific Pilates physio assessment for imbalances and movement problems. I'm pretty sure there's heaps of athletes and others out there who would read this and be screaming out about how obvious my problem is, but it's taken me all this time to find at least one answer. It probably doesn't explain my childhood knee problems, but I think there's a pretty good chance that it described my adult knee problems.

Anyway, I am now placing emphasis on doing extra quad stretches, and not just after hamstring stretches. I'm even trying the trigger-point therapy, and it is painful. This might take some time, but I'm confident I can address some of my knee problems if I sort out my extremely tight quads.

Wish me luck. I'll let you know how it goes.

How Shit Gets Done: A Practical. Part Two: Making Decisions

I bought a range hood last Saturday. I bought it because it had the features Choice sensibly said to look for (and I agree) and because it was floor stock that was available Right Now. I didn't know Right Now meant 45 minutes while the sales fellow did a well-intentioned but stubbornly silly job of dismantling it and packaging it up.

Nevertheless, I walked out of the store with an essential piece of kit for the Shiny New Heaven.

I went to the Kitchen Chap's factory and showroom to drop off the range hood, and pick out doors and colours and cosmetic stuff like that. I've made a preliminary choice, but am likely to change it this week as I have what some believe is an unnatural hatred of round edges on kitchen cabinets (honestly, it's a working surface, not a bloody table), and so I have to choose a different coating.

I have already chosen handles. Neither they nor the laminates nor the vinyl door coatings are pink, the colour of the Current Hell Hole.

How Shit Gets Done: A Practical. Part One: Beginning.

In frustration at not being able to advance with the (new) house, I am giving the Beloved a practical lesson in How Shit Gets Done.

The "el cheapo oh-it-was-only-ever-temporary" kitchen is being dragged out and replaced. It has served OK, but is falling apart and the old dear needs to be put out of our misery.

Rang Kitchen Chap last week to arrange a time for recce of Current Hell Hole. Kitchen Chap came around Tuesday arvo to provide consultation and rough measure of said Hell Hole. Got kudos for noticing distinct absence of pantry. Quote was provided that evening by e-mail. After consultation with Beloved (it is his place, after all), told Kitchen Chap by e-mail this evening that we can go ahead. Kitchen Chap then calls straight after, has cancellation for appointment 8:30am tomorrow (and I know he's trying to get stuff done before his Bali wedding anniversary trip). So, tomorrow he is coming around to do a measure, then construction of the cabinets, etc, can begin. We hand over a cheque for 50% of cost.

They pop around in about 3 weeks to remove Current Hell Hole and install Shiny New Heaven, whereupon they get the other 50%.

More How Shit Gets Done to follow....

Elk Stampede!

Have gone bananas at Elk Accessories, and they haven’t even got their full spring/summer range up, yet. My poor credit card is howling with pain and outrage at the repeated injuries. All their cute little silver earrings and cuff rings with naïve bird cut-outs or reliefs and their perfect light wooden bead pieces are just irresistable and right. The red disc bracelet has been worn almost every day since I received it. The long black beads are perfect with dark work suits. Their way of mixing textures and colours is just right every time.

And then Marnie at Elk adds insult to injury by putting some autumn/winter things on sale.

O, the Humanity. It’s all too much for this mere mortal.

I need a lie-down.

Spring is here! Where's my cortizone?

I'm looking out my study window at the glorious spring day and my guts are twisting with dread. The old olive tree which dominates the backyard is covered in flower buds.

I get seasonal allergies, but didn't realise how much the olive pollen contributed to it until one year I went out under the heavily-flowering tree for 20 minutes, and then spent the rest of the day in a full-blown allergic reaction. My eyes swell and itch and water. My sinuses run, then swell and block. Everything itches - skin, inner ears, teeth. I can have trouble breathing if my throat chooses to close up. And this goes on for six weeks every second year, when the olive flowers fully.

I went to get my allergies tested. I'm highly allergic to olive pollen and dust mites, and am slightly allergic to dogs. Grasses and the local trees don't bother me at all. Now, I've done myself no favours by not going to get my desensitisation shots. But, I have an aversion to needles and terrible troubles with routines, so the "weekly injections" thing was going to be difficult for me from the start.

A single shot of cortizone will rid me of all symptoms for a good 6 weeks, but doctors don't like giving it to me. I don't think they have good reasons for it. I don't need a lot, and I just need it once a year. So, I suffer, because no over-the-counter remedies are effective enough to help.

It seems that olive pollen is highly allergenic:
http://www.allergyfree-gardening.com/opals.php
http://www.abc.net.au/stateline/sa/content/2002/s738014.htm
I think I've also read that it can heighten sensitivity to other allergens.

So why don't I get rid of the tree? Well, I really should go for my shots. And a lovely Jordanian family come around every second year to strip the tree. They filled the boot of their Falcon one year. They perform a massive olive-pickling every year, and while we're not big olive eaters in this house, we get a jar pickled with chillies and lemon, which is nice.

Plus it's such a darn good tree. I halve its size after fruiting, and it just keeps coming back. It's excellent for shade, and doesn't starve all the plants and grass beneath it. I'd have to replace it with something, but it would be years before we'd have a proper shade tree back.

This is going to be a nasty spring.

Sharing the addiction

I have recently introduced a friend to the chortle- and chuckle-inducing delights of Jasper Fforde novels. I can't be held responsible for the inevitable, incurable compulsive book-buying that will soon follow. If you have been brought up on classic English literature, and have a love of wordplay, books and have a solid sense of fun, you too should read Fforde's novels. But don't blame me.

It's official - CORK SUCKS

That's IT. I'm NEVER buying a bottle of wine with cork in it again. EVER.

OK, maybe that's a bit dramatic. I'd perhaps buy if it's a bottle going for a song that I will open that evening. Perhaps.

Just now, I needed some wine for cooking. Grabbed a 2002 Abbey Vale. The cork disintegrated as the corkscrew went through it. Cork crumbs went everywhere. I tried a different opener to no avail. As I attempted to extract the cork, more crumbs went everywhere, including into the wine. Then I cracked the royal shits and decided to push what remained of the cork into the wine. Meantime, the food is waiting on the stove. I tried to pour some of it through a stainer into a glass. It dribbled through for a few moments, then the cork moved and wine gushed out, going all over the kitchen bench and onto the floor. It is at times like this that I spit venom and wish hateful shit on inanimate objects.

The wine, in any case, was fine. It was just another dodgy cork. And by another, I mean it can join its mates that have caused the deaths of many, including a 1998 E&E Sparkling Shiraz and a 2003(?) Pirie sparkling. Leakage, oxidation, cork crumbs, cork taint....Enough. ENOUGH.

It's not my cellaring conditions. I opened a 2002 Abbey Vale shiraz two days ago and it was perfect. Plenty of bottles I open are perfect. I'm just sick to my back teeth of losing money and hopes, usually special bottles and usually with friends.

I'm very glad that my Petaluma rieslings are under stelvin, and my Seppelt sparkling reds are under old-fashioned crown seals. I must remember to hug them this evening.

One of my new favourite wineries,
Brown Hill Estate, uses screw caps. Bless them.

Cork taint is estimated to affect 6-8% of bottles. I think I'm running at more like 20%. This is madness! How can an industry run on this sort of loss, which can't be recognised until years after a purchase is made?

Cork sucks big hairy ones, and no longer has any place in my cellar.

Elk Accessories

I am obsessed with Elk accessories at the moment. Their products are lovely, well-priced, beautifully packaged and quickly shipped. Their "about us" page says, "wear only what you love," and that phrase is ringing around my head every time I open a drawer, flick through shirts in my wardrobe, or awkwardly adjust some piece of clothing that has ridden up, shimmied down, twisted up or is just uncomfortable.

I go through phases. I've had the Birkinstock phase, the Camper phase, and the eyeshadow phase (I currently have over 100 shades of brown, and am still looking for the perfect shade), which involved a significant mineral eyeshadow sub-phase. My mascara phase is low-frequency, but long-lived. My Morrison phase is sort of winding down. My abi and joseph phase has dramatic peaks and long lulls.

Elk will release their spring/summer collection on 1st September. I'm beside myself. It's worse that waiting for the rugby world cup to start, because I can't even occupy myself counting beers, or visiting websites anticipating the results.

I'm annoyed that I have 3 weeks to wait, but there's stuff from their autum/winter collection that I want now. If it had been, say, 6 weeks, I could justify ordering now and then doing another in September. But 3 weeks is just too short. And yet too long. Argh.

In the meantime, I just want to ditch almost everything in my wardrobe and start again. Maybe that will keep me occupied. It will certainly keep me cold.

Ad breaks that aren't

Is anyone else not completely bloody bewildered at the breaks in the ABC news?

"Coming up next, a chair-sniffer leaves his seat."

*Cue ABC blaring music and a squiggle shot*
(Cue first viewer WTF thought).
*Newsreader shuffles a paper while continuing to read from the autocue*
(Cue second viewer WTF).

"Today, Troy Bumsmell..."

(Cue third WTF within 30 seconds. Brain explodes).

A quiet reminder for Aunty, who must be getting senile in her old age, poor pet: YOU'RE A PUBLIC BROADCASTER (yes, she's deaf as well). YOU DON'T HAVE AD BREAKS.

Lies

I've had this list of lies, well, lying around on my desk for ages. Some of these are lies I've used, heard and have had thrust upon me, so I know that they are in fact, full-blown hand-on-heart so-help-me-god whoppers. I'm sure there are many, many others, and I might add more as I come across them. In the pursuit of clearing my desk, here they are.

1. I was with mates.
2. It's in the mail, I sent it yesterday.
3. I'm not scared.
4. My dog ate it.
5. You're the best/You were fantastic.
6. You're the first.
7. You're the only one.
8. This tastes great, did you make it yourself?
9. I didn't do it.
10. I didn't touch a thing.
11. We're not big eaters.
12. I do not recall. I have no recollection of those events.
13. I do.
14. They'll stretch.
15. That colour really suits you.
16. I have one myself.
17. This won't hurt a bit.
18. Honestly...
19. I'll never drink again.
20. I'm eighteen/twenty-two/twenty-five...
21. No, I don't mind at all.
22. Your policy speech was inspiring.
23. There will be no new taxes.
24. The future is bright.
25. We want energetic, creative and innovative people who think for themselves.
26. We reward teamwork.
27. Your jobs are safe.
28. Employees are our most valuable asset.
29. It was on sale.
30. This is my natural hair colour.
31. If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.
32. We're not lost. I know exactly where we are.
33. It will be fine and 25 degrees with a light afternoon sea breeze.
34. The water's fine once you get in.
35. She'll grow out of it.
36. It's just puppy fat.
37. That will never work.

So, there, I've stopped.

And, yes, is does feel good. Yesterday was the last day of my contract with the client I've been with for about 18 long, stressful, unproductive, stupefying, frustrating months. I finished up about 11:15pm, got home by taxi after 11:30pm, ate a tonne of popcorn the Beloved had already made and watched some Family Guy. I went to bed, had a whimper and then slept for a pretty solid 9.5 hours.

I need the above paragraph to remind me of how stupid I would be to take on another project, to keep doing what I've been doing for the last 20 years. It's been lucrative at times, and sometimes fun. However, it has taken much more than it's given, and has served its purpose. Time, if ever there was one, to stop.

I did bugger all today, which I haven't done in many, many months. And I did it with a joy and light-heartedness I haven't had in just as long, knowing that I don't have to give up my Sunday, or Monday, or Tuesday. I can do what I bloody well please.

The taxi driver last night was talking about taking nights so his days could be free to do what he loved doing, and how people should do what they love doing. Well, there you go.