“Reject” is the name Anthony gave a steer whose mother had rejected him at birth, and who Ants raised by hand. When he was little, this steer loved Ants so much that he would run at him, jump up and try to hug him around the neck with his two front legs.
When I got an email from doudou (my blog friend), I went to her blog and saw this! I’m a bit emotional at the moment so I cried and laughed at the same time.
Thank you so much, doudou, for upside-downing my frown into a great big grin.
Pure bliss!
Ming has gone to Perth to watch a football game so there is nobody here to say:
What’s for dinner?
Why are you flooding the pens and wasting water on those stupid birds?
I thought we were watching a movie together 20 minutes ago!
I don’t particularly like this dinner – what is it?
What the hell are you crying for – what did I do wrong now?
Don’t touch any of my stuff!
But why do you want me to move out?
You ruined my life yesterday when you said to move out.
No, I don’t want to ring Dad again!
On the other hand….
Mum, you are like my mate.
Do you need a hug?
I’m sorry I didn’t like the dinner – I tried to!
Are you okay?
Can we have a talk about life tonight?
I wish I knew Dad when he was young.
I love you, Mum.
He is my best friend – this Ming – but it’s still rather pleasant to be Mingless for 24 hours – haha!
No matter how honest and revealing a person is, either face-to-face or in a blog, there are certain things that are unsayable, secret, too personal.
There have been a couple of incidents at the nursing lodge lately where Anthony has behaved in a way that is disturbingly out-of-character.
The ungentling of my gentle husband’s brain is causing him to do and say things that are horrible. Taboo.
I got home from my mother’s place this afternoon thinking I should have stayed another night despite the care package. Then I found that Ming hadn’t eaten much and was down in the dumps. Then I tried to ring Anthony (and am still trying), to tell him I’ll see him tomorrow. Then I discovered that there was no toilet paper.
Now I don’t think the lack of toilet paper usually sends people over the edge, but I experienced 15 minutes of crushing despair until I spotted a quirky gift on my bookcase – Novelty toilet paper!
I cried half of it away but the rest will be used for usual purposes! Now I just wish I could remember who gave this TP to me.
After 3 weeks and 2 days in hospital, my mother can go home. Today! Due to the wrist and pelvic fractures, she has been allocated a 12-week care package including two nurse visits per day, gardening and cleaning, meal help, physiotherapy and rides to shops or elsewhere. I’m amazed at such a great package and it is relatively inexpensive.
In a couple of hours she’ll be home and I’m going over to stay for the first night. I’m going to cook something great while she catches up on her emails!
This has been gruelling for Meggles – horrible pain, intolerance of pain meds., nausea and dizziness, a zillion tests and x-rays, but she seemed to burst through the ghastliness a couple of days ago in her usual style – stoic, resilent, smiling.
She is still on two crutches but she’ll probably just be on one next week. My mother has guts!
Gutsy9 (the 5-month-old peachick I raised inside the house because none of our peahens were interested) is thriving outside now. He sleeps in a pen with the ducks, Zaruma and Tapper, but every morning I find him in the adjacent pen with the turkeys, Bubble and Baby Turkey! Oh well at least he doesn’t venture into the geese pen because Godfrey hates him.
As soon as I open the three pens to let them all free-range for the day, I am met with a cacophony of excited noises and then G9 actually sprints after me to the house and follows me inside.
Until today. Today I decided to say no to him, and tried to explain that his peacock poop is the reason. He wasn’t happy!
Oh and G9 is definitely a boy because our friend, Mike, who raises peas told me so. I’m not as thrilled as Anthony was when Ming was born and he yelled IT’S A BOY!
Secretly I was hoping for a little peahen – ha!
A few years ago, before Anthony became so incapacitated with Parkinson’s disease, we used to go to a restaurant on the beachfront after every doctor’s appointment.
We went to this restaurant after his diabetes diagnosis and we ate apple pie with cream and icecream defiantly.
We went to this restaurant after his liver disease diagnosis and drank a bottle of wine defiantly.
We went to this restaurant after his prostate cancer diagnosis and ordered the banquet deal defiantly.
We went to this restaurant after his Parkinson’s disease diagnosis and decided to try the millionaire’s coffee.
Today I decided to take Ants to this restaurant (which now has new owners). It’s only a few blocks from the nursing lodge, so very convenient, but I was still really nervous because of the unpredictability of PD.
I became even more nervous when Ants had difficulty walking, with his walker thingy, to the car and getting in. But, once his uncooperative feet were in, and his seatbelt was on, I started to feel more optimistic.
And it was a success! Ants was able to use the walker to get into the restaurant and we had an ocean view, a half bottle of wine, some fantastic prawns and scallops, and some bits of conversation. His PDD kept making the conversation weird but every time he said something crazy, I just laughed and squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.
After we’d finished eating, I decided to order his favourite coffee, but the new owners of the restaurant had never heard of a millionaire’s coffee so I had to tell them how! The only trouble is that I couldn’t remember which three liqueurs went into it so I just asked them to use their imaginations.
They did a good job! Well I think they did – my head is still spinning – haha.
For the whole of last year, I thought I was 54 and that I would turn 55 in January this year. I was really excited about turning 55 so it was a terrible disappointment to find that I was still 54 (I got the maths wrong).
So this year, now that I know I really am 54, I am counting the days before I can turn 55. As of today I have 267 days to wait and it’s hard to be patient.
I don’t want to be 55 because I have an OCD or spiritual connection to the number 55 – oh no. And I don’t want to be 55 so I can feel comfortable about going from size 12 to 14 in jeans, because I already did that this week. Turning 55 may help me to embrace the smile lines I seem to have suddenly developed, I suppose, but it’s not that either.
Okay, I will tell you why I want so much to be 55. No, wait a minute – let’s make this a guessing game. I could do with a bit of fun!
Why do I want so much to be 55? The best guess will receive a free wrinkle.
I will do this
I didn’t have time
I will finish this
I didn’t have the energy
I will conquer this
I got waylaid
I will be grateful
I was too sad
I will get fit
Ï was too tired
I will bake bread
I ran out of flour
I will eat properly
I wasn’t hungry
Anthony used to call this the Ï was gonna complex!
jmgoyder 