Morphine: Less fun than I thought

Okay, so the hillbilly heroin didn't quite cut it on its own – the pain just wouldn't go away.
As such, I graduated to morphine this week. To be precise, an oral solution called Ordine, which sounds like it should be prefaced "Gowns by...".

Anyway, it's definitely improved things but I'm feeling less than vibrant as a result. Woozy, you could say. Unwilling to get out of my armchair, in any case. Once again, TV to the rescue.
There's been a dearth of old movies, unfortunately, but a few distractions nonetheless.

There was the first New Zealand haka of the season, always a crowd-puller:

And do you recognise this person?

If you said, "It's Shannon Doherty on that Charmed episode where she gets turned into a man," you should pat yourself on the back (and then hide in shame).

Speaking of shocking revelations, I saw a chilling report from the US early this morning – Hand wash is the new scourge devastating America's youth:

Apparently if you mix it with salt you get very strong alcohol.
I do love it when they decry such behaviour while demonstrating how to go about it.

Of course, if the morphine fails...

Beware the rent-a-poof

The rules of TV decree that every "lifestyle" show or program involving aesthetic judgment must include at least one rent-a-poof. He's generally the one responsible for generating camp wisecracks and/or "wow factor". And for some reason, everyone listens to him.

This lamentable situation is predicated on the false belief that every gay man has style.
Au contraire.
Perhaps the best/worst example of dubious homosexual input can be found on Sixty Minute Makeover, a particularly shrill, frantic UK offering. This weekend it showcased an especially heinous example of what happens when you leave your house in the hands of a stranger with delusions of good taste.

Behold:

No, that is not the "before" shot. Indeed, this is the designer's idea of "Moroccan feel". If the wallpaper weren't questionable enough, take a closer look at the flooring.
No, you're not mistaken, that really is lino. Faux-flagstone lino. Cheap '70s Italian restaurant lino.
I haven't seen anything like that being installed in at least three decades.
As for the owner's reaction:

I'd say that's open to interpretation.

It was that, or skin my chauffeurs

The highlight of a poisonous week spent at the mercy of TV programmers.

The Bumbag Chronicles: Dazed, confused

Chemo ward etiquette is a minefield, I tell you.

There I was, quite innocently (I thought) taking random snaps of the furniture.
Purpose-built hospital furniture fascinates me – it's all function and frequently Eastern Bloc-hideous, for some reason.

At the Mater it's not so bad. By far the best element of their chemo chairs is the up-down-back-front mobility via a chunky handset. Trying to get just the right angle for maximum comfort is stupidly addictive, especially when you forgot to bring a book:

As I scanned the room (there were maybe a dozen patients in all), I noticed the ubiquitous nylon curtains, for which someone was paid to design a little flourish at the bottom. I don't know why but I find that really sad.
The bloke in the background didn't look too happy either:

Then it happened.
I'd noticed the patient directly across from me was looking extravagantly bored. As I watched (I really have to bring a book) it then dawned on me that I could not work out whether it was a man or a woman.

The body language was very male, but there was black nail polish.
The body looked male but the face, more female.

I tired to take a surreptitious shot to work it out later with Mick.
I was mortified to discover when I got home that I'd been busted:

Anyway, verdict from Mick and me: female.

Casting doubts

It happened again.
I suppose it serves me right for being up at 4am, but this weekend's episode of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century featured the most preposterous TV guest performance yet.

Behold, Gary Coleman. Yes, from Diff'rent Strokes:

This was no mere cameo, of course. Gary starred as Hieronymus Fox, 20th-century child genius and the president of the planet Genesia.
Who happens to dress like a tiny member of Earth Wind & Fire.

He gets kidnapped. I needn't elaborate.

Then again, there was a slave auction, which reminded me of why I ever watched the show in the first place:

What would Martha do?

Martha Stewart, that is.
Now that we get The Martha Stewart Show I'm a bit of a fan – she's a wiz with a few twigs and some glitter (plus $500 worth of Martha Stewart crafting tools).

In any case, these days, I find myself with abundant spare time, a frustrated creative urge and a house-and-a-half worth of tchotchkes (courtesy of Mick's many auction visits), so I turn to Martha in moments of severe ennui.

She's never satisfied with leaving anything alone, you see. It has to be distressed, glossed, ribboned, bedazzled, whatever it takes to achieve a sense of decorative (read: emotional) fulfilment. I prefer less exertion myself, and as such I've discovered the non-edible wonders of food colouring.

When boredom strikes, I simply change the colour of the glassware on the dining room window sill. At a certain point in the afternoon it creates a dreamy, Valley of the Dolls-meets-Picnic at Hanging Rock tableau:

Speaking of which:

Easter. Why?

Mick and I went out yesterday – Easter Sunday – to buy groceries.
Alas, Maitland was a ghost town. Nothing open. Somehow I manage to forget this each year.

But seriously, why? Why the hell must everything close? What if we'd been starving? Where's your Christian love then, huh??

For three years running, Jesus Christ has fucked up my treatment schedule (twice for his birthday and now) and I'm sick of it – this mass delusion, this fairytale, controlling everyone's lives (and retail endeavours).

On the upside, you get this:

Once more, with squealing

My transformation is almost complete.

I guess it started when that front tooth fell out...
Then a few years ago I moved to a place called Horseshoe Bend, where men are known only by nickname – Fozz, Horse, Snow – and women are, by and large, kinda scary.
I dress exclusively in don't-look-at-me casuals (lots of old T-shirts and flannel; it's so much easier that way).
And now, I'm enjoying a steady diet of OxyContin.

Yessiree, I'm on hillbilly heroin.
I think it's time for a little song to celebrate:

The Bumbag Chronicles: Chemo interruptus

Mick drove me to the Mater this morning for my second round of chemo.
I walked out sans bumbag; my blood test this morning showed my platelet count was low, too low for chemo. I have to wait another week and see how I go.

I'm relieved and little concerned, but I've learned to switch off the anxiety when there's nothing I can do about it.

Unfortunately, it gives me more time to ponder the litany of horrors, aka list of possible side-effects.
Hair loss was something that I feared last time but never came to fruition. I have a feeling this time it's a different story.
Of course, the lovely people at the Mater are mindful of cosmetic concerns, bless them, and I noticed today for the first time the cabinet of wigs they have on offer.

There's about a dozen or so, only one of which is for men:

It looks like something out of Get Smart.
I think I'd go for the one on the right.

Kicky!