Good news and bad news

He went to the doctors for a check up before one left and finally got round to seeing him for the results. The good awesome news was that He is no longer diabetic and no longer has hypertension. That means that He is no longer on meds for the hypertension... he didn't last long on the diabetic meds due to those unfortunate side effects. In fact He has surpassed the doctors expectations... it seems that he doesn't get so see anyone clean up their medical issues with diet and exercise very often.

This experiment with diets has also been interesting in other ways. See when He was first diagnosed with the diabetes we cleaned up the diet and he lost a little weight... which made no difference to his medical issues at all. It wasn't only that... He was miserable as well and it wasn't long before he slid off the diet wagon and back into weight gain. What changed all of this was finding the right diet for Him.

In this case it has been very low carb and very high protein diet... to the tune of nearly half a kilo a day of assorted meats, eggs and seafood. The sort of diet that should make any apex predator extremely happy... and it did. He likes having a smorgasbord of meats in the course of his day. There are some days when He trots off to work with gourmet lunches of boiled eggs, roast duck sandwiches, cold roast meats and a small side salad.

Ironically all this meat and eggs has lowered not just his risk of dying, but his cholesterol levels as well. Now that last one is interesting to one small slave because... well... not to put too fine a point on it one has shocking cholesterol levels. It will be interesting to see how they have gone at the end of this journey of dietary changes. Of course those high levels are hereditary... the difference is that father, who cooks enormous meals in an inch of bacon fat deserves his... and what keeps one off meds for it is the fact that one has incredibly low blood pressure and exercises.  

And that of course does bring us to the bad news. Father is taking a turn for the completely expected worse. The surgeon gave him a 50/50 chance of getting out of the hospital and into palliative care. Personally if one was a gambling woman one would have kept the surgeon on as a bookie... he gave optimistically good odds. As it stands he is bleeding again and the baby sister has once more had to fly down to be with him. The prognosis is not good. He's stopped eating and is on a course of fast and slow morphine. Sighs so now we wait and see...

Can we keep them?

Now while away one did manage to cram in a little shoe shopping. Nurses have a tendency to shoo you out of high dependency wards... usually at lunch time. Mostly one suspects it's so you can't see what they are feeding the patients... or rather not feeding them. Lunch, which is often an unappealing melange of assorted coloured scoops of unidentifiable foodstuffs, is usually universally ignored by the really sick.  Often they are struggling to hang on... they don't want to use that precious energy on feeding themselves that stuff.

Anyway while he was left to their tender mercies one scampered off to explore Dunedin. It might be small and there might be an alarming array of shops that are immediately recognisable to anyone from Australia... at times one thought one was there. But they do have something we don't have. Boutiques and independent shoe stores... quite a few of them J

Dagmar

By and large one was restrained. Oh one fondled things and tried them on for size... it was sort of the shoephiles equivalency of flirting really. What followed one home though were these

Not that one is quite sure what they are going to go with, but then as one doesn't have a winter wardrobe thanks to the weight loss no doubt one will find something. Perhaps those bloody jeans one had to buy in an effort to stay warm.

In fact one did ask in the most polite voice if that could be the case.

He smiled and said he would happily go out and buy something suitable.

Sighs one does keep trying to explain that a denim mini and/ or Daisy Dukes are not jeans. They are denim. In fact they are closer to denim belts than clothes.

It's not the same thing L

And the silly season...

Just got more stupid

At this time of the year stupidity is alive and well. Everywhere one looks there are small children dashing around with antlers and flashing red noses. Now this one expects. They are children, but the adults? Oh they take it to a whole new level...

We live on the crest of a hill. Last night when coming back from the gym one noticed an eerie blue light emanating from below the horizon. Of course one scampered along to the edge of the rise to look down to see what was causing it. Lo and behold it was a neighbour. Well to be more to the point it was a neighbours bloody Christmas lights. There were that many of them that it was literally lighting up the neighbourhood for miles. All one could think was thank the gods they are not our near neighbours.

Of course the decorating of possessions is not limited to the houses. Just this morning a car zipped past us bearing antlers. Now the blue balls were bad enough, but antlers? They are neither masculine nor homoerotic. Antlers on your car are just... well kinda sad really. And the matching red noses on the front?

Oh words fail...

Bah humbug!

Knock, knock

Coming home from work one made a discovery; there was no way to get in. His mother, who leaves the breezeway door open so he doesn't get disturbed by doors slamming, cat dodging and things of that ilk, is away. And some time ago He requisitioned one's keys because his bunch is too big to take to the gym. Yes that's right one small slave doesn't even have house keys any more.

Of course He went to bed after locking the house up tighter than a drum leaving one with no way to get in other than scratching at the door like the family pet. It did offer some insight as to why the cat always seems more hostile than grateful when you let it in. He's not exactly fast or gracious when woken. He stood there, bleary eyed and rumpled, and declared that as one had woken him it was only fair that one put him back to sleep.

Several orgasms later, one was shooed out of the bedroom and deposited out in the hallway. At least it wasn't back outside...

You know one can see the beginning of a disturbing trend here...

Paying for admittance

Now the cat might not get fast service, but at least it is free...

For some time now one has suspected that the cat isn't as stupid as it makes out... eyes the cat with deepening suspicion -.-

Separation anxiety

We have spent the last week without any form of communication. Actually one has spent the last week electronically blind... it was beyond frustrating. See one was dropped off at the home of a friend of the second step mothers for the week. There were no Google maps so one knew where the hell one was, there was no way to hop on the net to book an evac out of the damn town to get home and there was no way to work out where anything was in relationship to anything else.

It was all very disconcerting and disorientating and stressful. And it was put on the list of things to never do again... next time will be a controlled exit with electronics. In fact one intends to drip useful technology next time and proudly accept geek status. Mind you all of that stress paled into insignificance compared to being unable to contact Him.

We do everything and go everywhere together. There hasn't been a day where we haven't spoken or communicated in some way. It has been that way for the last 15 years. This felt like losing a limb... actually no electronics felt like losing a limb... that was far worse.

People on the net often waffle on about limb chopping and ketteh amputations... well one thinks that is what they are on about... after the first few years you stop listening. But one is here to say that there are far worse things that can happen than limb chopping... like the removal of that ever present control, direction and physical presence. The absence of Him is far worse L

We're back

Somewhere along the line one has become a white knuckle flyer... which is ironic considering how many miles one has racked up over the years. It's probably because statistically one knows time is running out of good graces. The anxiety has now reached the stage that one only has to roll up to an airport to drop someone off and the stomach starts its own particular dance. Forget about the flight of the bumble bee... this is far more lurching in nature L

In fact if it hadn't been for the problem that one was in beautiful devastated downtown Christchurch one might have contemplated staying there... indefinitely. Besides one had to come home... He was waiting patiently at the airport. Some little instinct says that making Him come to get one probably wouldn't end well... that's probably an understatement. Peers around and whispers the man is completely unreasonable at times.

To be honest though by the last leg of the journey all one wanted was to see Him, have a hot shower and sex... and sleep. This trip has been done with an average of five hours sleep a night... well morning to be precise. It had also been done with no contact with Him... something that was a special kind of hell in its own right. And with that in mind one emerged for customs and immigration far happier than most travellers...

After we had prised ourselves off each other, all the while feverently vowing that this will never happen again... He said even if he has to put a leash through the collar... we headed home to fall through the door, weary with fatigue (He had just finished work), shower and go to bed to reconnect the only way we know how...

That is to say we had glorious sex... lots and lots of sex...perhaps a bit too much of it. Actually as He came for a second time, buried deep in ones arse, one did pass the comment that is going to hurt. And there are probably more bruises and a nipple might need to be reattached...

Needless to say He amused himself for the rest of the evening aggressing those spots at every opportunity

Fuck it is good to be home J

In memoriam

This is not about the kindness of strangers, which one relied on heavily for board and lodgings while travelling, nor about how about how imminent death can bring out the best and the worst in families. This isn't even about the stylish nature of the women of Dunedin... though they are very stylish. In spite of the drab skies or perhaps in response to it, those women rock the brights... fuchsia, cobalt blue, reds, greens and vibrant purples of every hue... in scarfs, gloves, hats, coats and most interestingly to oneself... shoes.

No, this is about the man who caused all of this kerfuffle... father... the pack rat. As we cleaned out his little crib we got insights into the squirrel mindset. The man threw nothing out... every picture and memento of the baby sister's life was recorded in some box or on some wall. Including a picture of that haircut... the one we would all prefer to forget about... perhaps her most of all.

He lived in a small seaside enclave on the wild Dunedin coast line. A place noted for its quiet, breathtaking beauty and the somewhat eccentric locals. Most of whom seem to have gone there to escape someone or something... in his case one suspects it is the domineering women in his life. And having seen them in action this last week one can sympathise with him fully. He found this beautiful oasis of calm and settled in... to take the mantra of condense, reuse and recycle to its max.

He kept every box of every item that came across his door. Some of them were repurposed in inventive ways; Pringles boxes were used to store old bills in, empty pill boxes were flattened and neatly folded up inside a whole one, every plastic bag was stored inside another. While all of this was commendable there was one tiny flaw in the plan. None of it ever made its way to the recycling bin.

In his garage was every appliance that had ever been burnt out, while his previous car kept guard across the doorway... lurking amongst the camouflage of the foxgloves ready to aggress any accidental tourist.

We knew it was bad... we came prepared. As it turned out though, it was all unnecessary. In his cupboards was every cleaning product known to woman... all MIB so to speak. Hell we even found the economy sized bucket of rat bait... still full. Rather like the recycling thing it was never taken to that next vital level... much to the relief of the rest of the residing rodent population no doubt.

Until we came along and ripped it all out... twelve years of it... in one final blow to his idyllically peaceful, squirreling lifestyle. To get it ready for the next owner who will no doubt be no less quirky than the last...