Category Archives: Glamour and Grooming

Bonds

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I’ve been a bit absent, mainly because I had another endometriosis clean out which resulted in a couple of post-op issues. One of them, somewhat ironically given the tale I am about to tell you, was the large bruise I grew on my tummy. The problem with the excess skin I have hanging on my tummy is that, well, it’s heavy. The weight of it resulted in a pooling of blood that created a bruise that resembled the poo emoji.

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Right there, the poo emoji.

A week later, the bruising is starting to subside.

However, I wasn’t enjoying being sat on my bottom. I needed to return to some form of normal. So this week, I returned to the gym. No weights, nothing strenuous, just some walking on the treadmill. Restarting normal routines and that kind of thing. It went fine on Monday.

On Wednesday, on the way to the gym, my tummy was feeling a bit sore and crampy. I didn’t say anything in case it resulted in beloved turning the car around, but I should have spoken up, I should have I should have I should have.

But alas, I did not.

I got on my treadmill and after 10 minutes, I realised that the cramping was a signal that there was an issue that needed to be dealt with. I told beloved I’d be back in a tick. I left my phone and everything on the treadmill, and wandered across the gym to the bathrooms. And as I walked in, I was thinking about other things, more important things, more essential things, instead of checking to make sure that the stall I was about to plonk myself down in had toilet paper.

And it did not.

I will spare you the details of my bathroom activities, but the lack of toilet paper presented a significant and serious issue.

I was perched upon a porcelain throne. I was surrounded by silence. My thoughts were racing through my head. What do I do?

I poked at the toilet paper dispenser, praying for a square or a scrap or a whisper of hope.

Nothing.

I should have brought my phone and I should have said something when my tummy was sore in the car, I should have I should have I should have.

But I did not.

I considered my options.

They were not particularly generous.

I needed to keep my tights on, for the sake of decency. Same with my shirt. And the two bras. I considered my remaining options.

While things were already quite dire, I felt it would be indecent to use my undies as toilet paper. What if I decided to do squats and my tights were not squat proof?

This left me with two options.

Left sock, or right sock.

I wear Bonds socks. They come up high enough to prevent blisters, they have a soft sole, and when I mop the floors I can leave BONDS prints all over the floor.

In around 1985, there was an ad on TV for Bonds. It went like this:

As I sat there on the loo, left with a terrible decision to make, I found myself humming the ad. I sighed, resigned to the reality I was faced with. And slowly, I removed my right sock.

When I left the bathroom, I must have had guilt and shame written all over my face. As I walked out, I bumped into a friend who asked me what I was doing. I told her I’d gone to the loo, and mentioned that there was no toilet paper.

She asked me how I had gotten myself out of that particular pickle.

Again, I signed. And I looked down at my feet, sadly. Left foot snug in a Bonds sock. Right foot, naked inside my shoe.

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She laughed and told me I had to blog about this.

And so I have.

Have you ever had this happen to you? What would you have done in my situation?

Bessie

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I hit a new personal best today at the gym. 3km in 32 minutes. Here is my after face:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Full of sweat and stinking like a fly blown cow.

It’s a funny thing. Shops like Lorna Jane don’t stock workout gear that fit larger people, when it’s larger people who actually need that encouragement to get active. As it is, the range of work out gear for bigger people is still decent, if you don’t mind tights as pants. I’ve found ways around this and yes occasionally I do wear tights as pants for the gym. But I make sure these aren’t days when I have to get fuel.

What I don’t understand is why there isn’t a better range of plus size sportswear, swimmers, sports bras and so on. I mean, aren’t we the target market for “get fit” wear? Why then have we been so forgotten?

A couple of weeks ago, I decided I wanted to buy a sports bra. Now, my puppies are definitely shrinking but the thing is, it is still really hard to get a decently priced sports bra to fit my girls. So I turned to the internet, and found not just one but a range of sports bras that would fit!

Not being a fan of underwires, I went for a soft cotton scaffolding system. It was reasonably priced. Had good reviews.

Then I saw the name of this particular bra.

You know how you can buy bras with names like “Luxury” or “Comfort Plus”?

My bra?

It’s name is Bessie.

Fucking Bessie.

So now, I go to the gym in my tights as pants or men’s sport shorts. I have my special joggers on that keep my Achilles happy.

And I wear Bessie.

She’s comfortable, she’s supportive, and I’ll buy more Bessies.

But what the actual fuck is with that name. Pretty sure it isn’t something Lorna Jane would sell.

The battle now is that I need new swimmers. I’ve got my eye on the Minky Deluxe, although the Flipper 500 seems to have a supportive shelf in the bust region.

What do you reckon? Can you point me towards somewhere decent to get my gym gear from?

Poke poke poke

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You’d think it would be a pretty easy decision. Someone offers to stab your Achilles with a very pointy injection, you’d straight up say NO FREAKING WAY.

But when it’s suggested in a medical setting, and the theory behind it seems sound, and it’s an option that has minimal recovery time, you’d be more likely to consider it. At least, I was. And while I am currently waiting to see if it was successful, I have to confess that I am left feeling slightly traumatised by the experience.

It hurt. Like a cow. To my credit I only dropped a handful of F-bombs, but if there was any way I could have forced myself through the bed and away from the burning pinch of those fucking injections, I would have.

But really, I know the question that is on your mind: Are those hideous bows visible through the boot?

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

The answer? A little bit. If you know what you’re looking for.

I still feel the pinch of shame when I think of them.

Anyway, this was me when I got home from the procedure. Keep in mind that it HURT. And that I was currently propped up on pain killers alone. The third fur baby was most likely keeping watch over the park, or waiting at the back door to play:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

So the fur babies are helping and the pain killers are helping and the boot is protecting. But as much as I may sound like a bit of a wuss, I have to confess that it was bloody traumatic, just lying there on my tummy while someone inflicted that kind of pain. I got in the car afterwards and had a teary, and it still makes me a bit shaky when I think about it.

I therefore am trying not to think about it.

Instead I am thinking about some different crochet projects I have in mind. And giggling because I often refer to crocheting as hooking, and when I had to fill out some paperwork for Scouts a couple of weeks ago I had to list my interests, and top of the list was HOOKING.

Fuck em.

How’s your world shaping up this week?

A cute new design

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So earlier this year, I had an operation to help my Achilles tendon move around easier. It worked but my Achilles remained screwed. Tomorrow morning I am going for a platelet injection into my Achilles (yes I am squealing like a stuck pig even thinking about this). The aim is to create inflammation so that the Achilles can start rebuilding itself.

I thought I better go and visit the nail ladies and have a pedicure, given my left foot is about to be shoved into a boot for a fortnight. Take the old polish off, bit of a buff and tickle, and off we go again.

I’ve been doing the pedi thing every month since Mrs Cuppy gave me a voucher for one for my birthday last year. Not being an overly ladylike beast, it was given a bit tongue-in-cheek. I bit back by getting hot pink nail varnish. But the thing is, since that first pedi, I realised I actually like not having to bite cut my own toenails. And I like the massage chair. And I like the spa. So now I do it every month.

Last month, I went for a very fungal green, and in a moment of strangeness, I elected to have a panda painted onto my big toenails. It’s winter, I reasoned. Nobody would notice. I kinda liked them. Yes, when I was barefoot, it did look like I had kicked a pile of birdshit. But they were pandas. On my toes.

I guess it was the nail art that gave today’s nail lady the idea that I had a “thing” for pictures on my big toes.

Because I sat down, and she had a look, and told me she had a really cute new design for me.

I told her I wanted to just keep them plain this time, but she assured me it was very nice and I would love it. So I yielded. Told her to go for it.

At first, it looked like the Mardi Gras symbol:

And I thought to myself, wow, she must be able to tell that I’m gay! Was it the jeans? The Pink Floyd shirt? Gaydar? I mean, I am pretty obviously not a girly girl.

WHICH IS WHY, WHEN SHE CARRIED ON WITH HER DESIGN, I WAS SO FREAKING SHOCKED.

I mean seriously.

She carried on, filling in the two sideways hearts with red. Then outlined them with black. Maybe a butterfly? God, I don’t know. I kept watching.

And then physically recoiled when I realised what she was doing.

You know when you can’t laugh, but you want to? And the laughing gets bigger and bigger because it cannot be released? And your body starts doing involuntary shakes and squeaks?

That was me.

Because THIS IS WHAT SHE DID!!!!!

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Bows.

Big red bows with white polka dots.

I look like I’ve kicked Minnie Mouse in the head.

Nobody looks at me and assumes there are going to be frigging bows!

And I had to sit there and let them dry and lots of people walked past and did double takes when they saw my double bows. One person even suggested I could change them to butterflies if I wanted to. Because the idea of me in bows is totally bloody ridiculous!!! 

This might be a cute new design. But it is most definitely on the wrong feet.

And now I have to find a way to remove them before tomorrow. Because I cannot spend two weeks with a bow peeking out from my big black post-Achilles-injection boot!!!

Or can I?

What do you think?

Cows and Purple and Nerves

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Beloved and I went to visit beloved’s daughter yesterday. She works on a horse stud a couple of hours away. It’s been a rough week for Miss T, who had to have her best horsey friend euthanised after a run in with a fence. She’s doing OK though. This is the view from her balcony:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Those two horses eyeballed my beloved for quite some time. To the point where she started asking them what their problem was, and eventually turned her chair around to break their gaze. When it came time to leave, we were met with a different challenge: cows.

Now, we’re no strangers to cows. They have a lovely time playing in our front yard occasionally. They leave steaming piles bigger than Zelda in our park across the road. But there just seems to be a theme of sorts. They… like us.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

When we finally made it through the cows and the hills and the roads, it dawned on me that I had not a lot of time to achieve many things. I had to apply for a job a friend had told me about. I had to get that ridiculous pink polish off my toenails. And I had to PACK! Yes! I’m going to Melbourne to visit the flatmate who isn’t the flatmate anymore. So very exciting! And because she has known me for so long, she has already forgiven many outlandish behaviours, but somehow I don’t think the pink polish would be accepted.

So I went with purple:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

This was quite a brutal pedi, by the way. Did you know they PUNCH your LEGS? A friend told me it was for circulation but I call it assault. Next time I feel the need to wallop someone, I’m going to tell them it is to assist their circulation. Not that I’m likely to wallop anyone. Ever.

And now, it’s Monday and I am mostly packed and still in my jarmies. Beloved is cooking brunch and I’m trying to settle the anxiety that rises up for me with this kind of thing. It shits me that the joy of seeing the flatmate and the excitement of it all has to be tarnished with anxiety, but it’s the way I roll apparently. Maybe I should wallop myself to get that anxiety circulating so it can fuck off.

And as I listen to her singing and watch her dancing with the tongs in her hand and her New York jarmies on, I know I will miss my beloved for the next few days. The dogs will be fine, but beloved might struggle. Apparently the difference in her lunches that she takes to work when I am not here is quite striking. To the point that she gets comments. I have no idea what she winds up taking when she packs it herself. A playing card with Vegemite smeared across it? Who knows. But I’ve stocked up the fridge and if all else fails there’s still half a Toblerone cheesecake in there.

Besides. It means she’ll be extra happy to see me upon my triumphant return.

So, Melbourne. Have you been? Do you live there? What can my flatmate who isn’t my flatmate anymore and I get up to?

Things to make me smile

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After accidentally offering a full frontal flash to an innocent bystander in the quest for relaxation, my second pamper session occurred yesterday. I had a pedicure. My friend Mrs Cuppy gifted this to me for my birthday, and I finally got to use the voucher yesterday.

Upon receiving the gift, I immediately set about growing the heck out of my toenails. Here is the before photo:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Now, Mrs Cuppy had been very specific. I was to get my nails PAINTED. I immediately repelled at the very thought, then I decided to take Mrs Cuppy up on the challenge. Not only would I get my nails painted, I would select the brightest, most girly colour that they had in the place. I snickered away to myself at the cleverness of the idea. For some reason I saw this as beating Mrs Cuppy at her own game, obviously forgetting that any nail polish was actually conceding defeat.

So it was a bit of a let down really, when I put two and two together and went home with these toes:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Why, yes. That is a particularly fluorescent shade of pink.

But you know what? I kind of like it. In fact, Mrs Cuppy has now challenged me to have a monthly pedi. I’m going to convince her to take part in this with me, she doesn’t know it yet. But it’s coming.

Anyway, the gloom that was swallowing me up earlier this week has started to lift. Mainly because I’ve forced myself to get into doing things that make me feel good. Massage, hydro, pedi, time with friends last night – all totally worth it, and all reminding me that in turn, I’m worth it.

Today’s dose of special? Well… a trip to the dentist. But wait, it’s OK, I got to suck on happy gas. Then I came home and my beloved and I played with our fur babies. Check out the joy on Harry’s face, the smugness on Zelda’s and the focus on Scouty’s!

Spot the disc... it's above her head, just higher than the washing. Image by The Naughty Corner

Spot the disc… it’s above her head, just higher than the washing. Image by The Naughty Corner

I have conquered you, squeaky toy. Image by The Naughty Corner

I have conquered you, squeaky toy. Image by The Naughty Corner

JOY! Image by The Naughty Corner

JOY! Image by The Naughty Corner

That’s about it, really. I’ve said it before: Life is good. Maybe shitty times are there to remind us of that.

The Flash

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It’s been a long week.

My head has had a tough job, managing a million thoughts that aren’t all helpful. It’s times like these I feel like my head is kind of like a Coke bottle, that has been shaken and shaken and has swollen, full of gas, desperate to spurt all over the place. I’ve been fortunate enough to line up a few things to gently undo the lid, allowing some of that gas to siphon out. I finally got the all clear to get back to hydrotherapy; my beloved and I went out for dinner last night; I’ve got a pedicure booked for tomorrow (a gift from Mrs Cuppy); and today I had a massage.

See? Little lovely bursts of gas to relieve some of the pressure from my ever-swelling cranium.

Here’s the location of the massage I had, thanks to the lovely Mel at Hunter Massage:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

I love it there. You don’t get the screeching whale background music – instead you get real waves patting the shore. There’s no oil burners or air fresheners, it’s just salty sea air. Awesome. And if you are a bit like me, and like checking out memorabilia, the Hall in the Surf Club that Hunter Massage is located in is lined with old photos, honour boards, articles – it’s great.

I imagine that it’s the kind of stuff that lures many people further and further into the surf club, and encourages them to get involved in the community.

Anyway, Mel took me to her quiet corner, that is screened off and marked with signage. It’s so discreet that I had no qualms in stripping off enthusiastically and flopping down on the massage bed while I waited for her.  The massage started, and I apologised for my hairiness of leg. Then I remembered my lengthy toenails (more about that later), and apologised for that, too. Grooming has been somewhat left by the wayside – as I said, fizzy pressure head.

I then sunk into that relaxed silence, closed my eyes and drifted way as Mel did her thing. It came time to roll over, and I told Mel I’d stand up and turn around instead of just rolling. She turned to walk away and being one who tends to act without thinking, I leaped up, went to stretch and found myself offering a view of my nakidity to a lone man, who had been tempted past the privacy screens and signs by the lure of surf club photos.

Mel said hello or excuse me or something to the man, who immediately turned around and saw Tits Magee diving back onto the massage bed, one leg in the air and the other leg still planted on the ground. My boobs were pancaked onto the bed while I giggled like a loon. The man spluttered and apologised and huffed and puffed. Mel was pointing out the signs and the screens and explaining to the man where he had gone astray, as she gently ushered him out. Me? I was considering how much he might have seen.

I had stripped down to my (bright red) undies.

I’m pretty sure he even got an eyeful of my nipple bar.

The massage continued, with fits of giggles bubbling away.

Tomorrow is the pedicure. I’m pretty sure I won’t need to be naked for that one, so my chances at accidental nudity are reduced. But I have a surprise for the lucky person who does the pedi. I’ve been growing my toenails since I received the voucher.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

So, tell me: am I the only person this kind of thing happens to? Have you ever accidentally given someone a flash of full frontal nudity?

Sparkle sparkle!

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We’re on day five of afternoon storms and as I write this Zelda is seriously losing her shit. You know how people joke about heavy breathing in prank calls? Well Zelda does it ON YOUR FACE without missing a beat for the entire duration of the storm. And the hour before the storm, and the hour after the storm. She’s just lovely. Yep. Remember that.

Anyway I had a BIRTHDAY yesterday! Hooray! My very beautiful beloved sent me off for an afternoon of pampering, and here is my post-facial look:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

When I got home there was a bunch of my total favourites sitting on the table. I love sunflowers. They are so bold and don’t give two shits about the weeds or the roses or any other more refined flower. They just stick their heads out and demand admiration. Love them. Here they are:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Speaking of gifts, I stumbled across a very special festive treat for Christmas this year. I saw it shared on Facebook and while I can’t remember who shared it, I have kept the seller’s name in the image for your shopping convenience. It’s a glitter pill and you can buy them on Etsy. What do you do with a glitter pill? I’m glad you asked! Simply swallow the pill, which is full of non-toxic glitter. Then poo. And you have created a unique, sparkly, somewhat bizarre yuletide decoration that I believe should hang out under every Christmas tree. It’s true – you can’t polish a turd, but it turns out you can eat glitter and shit sparkles, which is almost the same thing.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

What have we become, folks? What happened?

I’ve been off the air for a while because Dodo is useless because we are experiencing some WiFi issues. There’s a little man coming tomorrow to help us out, which I am sure will last at least a day or two. Then we’ll be back on the phone to the call centre, being told how very valued we are.

I have had a couple more interactions with telemarketers, and I have learned that they do not like talking about apricots. Particularly when you pretend you are selling them at a fruit market. Funnily enough, telemarketers don’t really like it when you interrupt them to try to sell them something.

For for thought, folks!

Sadly it is not the kind of food that will make you shit glitter. That kind of thing is in a completely different world.

How are you? Pull up a seat and tell me your news! While you’re at it, tell me: would you take a glitter pill?

Two of me

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I had the most bizarre happening occur yesterday. I actually came here to write more about EMDR, but then I remembered this story from yesterday and I felt I had to share it with you. You see, if not for my voracious appetite in the womb, I think there is a possibility that I COULD HAVE BEEN A TWIN!!!

I went to the GP yesterday and mentioned the ongoing pressure headaches and earaches I’ve been having for the last month or so. She took looked into my ear. And looked. And looked some more. My god it hurt. Anyway she finally yanked the tool of torture out of my ear and asked me if I knew that I have TWO EAR CANAL EXITS in one ear. I said no. She looked again, then looked in the other ear. Then back to the first ear. She said that I either have a huge tympanic membrane with a divot in it, or two ear canal exits.

I pondered this.

Remembered my superfluous third nipple, and the additional nerve I have in one finger, and came to what seems to be the only logical conclusion:

I ATE MY TWIN IN THE WOMB!

Makes sense to me.

The more I thought about it, the more obvious it was: My toes are a little too long. My hair is very very thick. I’m quite overweight. I’m fairly tall. Could it be that I was meant to be two people? Maybe I’m actually a petite, short-toed, normal nippled, small ear, thin haired TWIN?

What do you reckon?

More on EMDR tomorrow, or maybe tonight.

If I had a twin, I’d just get them to write it on their totally sensible and boring blog.

Curiouser and curiouser…

Happy Feet

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I got out of the shower on Tuesday and I hadn’t taped the protective plastic bag over my ankle properly and all the bandages were very, very wet. I saw my amazing surgeon yesterday and he cut all the dressings off and my FOOT is FREE kind of!

Franketfoot, revealed. Image by The Naughty Corner

Franketfoot, revealed. Image by The Naughty Corner

I sat, with my good leg tucked down between the wall and the bed and my bad leg on the bed (above). Amazing surgeon man told me he had to go and find some big scissors and I came close to panicking until I realised they were for removing the dressings. And he only found small scissors, but when he removed all the dressings I nearly kicked this total hero because my foot is still very ticklish. As he repositioned the brace he commented on my muscular calves, to which I replied, “I work out”.

Anyway, went to get off the bed and my LEG is STUCK it is STUCK between the bed and the wall, my leg is totally STUCK oh shit shit shit!! How does this happen? How? The surgeon lifted and yanked on the table and I was FREE. Twice in one day.

I stood up on two feet.

Two feet.

With crutches, but two feet.

I can’t tell you what it is like to know that after seven years (since the original injury), my ankle is now stable. We’re talking seven years of breaks, falls, sprains, fractures… it’s been pure bullshit, totally limiting any form of movement and action, and very painful. It’s only now that I am out of pain that I am realising how bad it was.

Here is a nicer picture of it; look how straight it is!

Tah-dah! Image by The Naughty Corner

Tah-dah! Image by The Naughty Corner

So, now it’s brace on for walking (with crutches) for the next three weeks. Brace off for sitting and sleeping and showering. I can try SHOES.

And it is all very exciting. And I am so thankful to hero amazing surgeon man.

Have you ever had a life-changing surgery?