More Sh**t I Could Not Make Up

This is part two of my ridiculous, stupid, you can't make this s**t up day from hell. Part one is HERE.

So the cat escaped again. From my multiple-punctured, bleeding arms.

"NOOOOOOOO!" I cried. "PENELOPE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

But it was too late. She had disappeared over the fence.

This time, she had jumped into the other neighbour's backyard. Yes, you read that right. The OTHER neighbour.

So there I went, knocking on a different door, where a different lady answered, and this different lady was also in her nightie. I kid you not. This was starting to become a pattern.

And so I was shown into a different house, to a different backyard, where I rescued the same bloody cat, again cowering in a corner. And I carried her back through this house - thankfully sans-dog - where she proceeded to go equally demented and made further, significant puncture wounds in the region of my arms and shoulder.

But this time, this time, I got her home.


Picasso showed stunning foresight when painting this pic of me

And then I rang my GP, who checked my records, and told me I hadn't had a tetanus shot in 15 years. Which was delightful news, because there is nothing I enjoy more than running into the doctor's of a Monday afternoon and having a jab in my arm that will leave me sore for two days.

But I did it. Because it sounded marginally better than dying of tetanus. (Though as I was still without a coffee machine, death sounded faintly appealing.)

I got my jab. And then I made my sorry way home, broken and horribly wounded and with spirit crushed beyond recognition.

Penny the cat was waiting for me, purring. I noticed that her litter needed emptying and so I donned the gloves and began shovelling the clumps into the toilet. I buy special litter that is flushable, which is highly convenient, except when it isn't.

Because the litter didn't flush. Oh no. It clogged up the toilet which began overflowing onto the bathroom floor. And there I was, ankle deep in grossness, weeping into my plunger and bemoaning the tragedy of my life.

And that, my friends, is where the story ends. I told you. I couldn't make this s**t up.


To Bidet or Not To Bidet, THAT Is The Question

At a party the other night, a friend waxed lyrical about her newly renovated house, demonstrating particular enthusiasm for her brand new ensuite bathroom. As well as the usual suspects – a toilet, shower with frameless glass, bath with spa feature, wall to wall mirrors– the bathroom has a special, vaguely exotic addition.

A bidet.

My friend loves her bidet. She talks about it often, and with tremendous pride. Apparently, the bidet gives her a new level of ‘freshness’ that toilet paper alone cannot provide – a freshness that evidently provides exceptional joy, because she was glowing just talking about it.

Well, glowing or not, I don’t want that level of ‘freshness’, or at least, I don’t want to receive it from a porcelain bowl. To me, a bidet is a malfunctioning toilet – one that flushes up, instead of flushes down. We have all had the experience of receiving a little splash back when we have flushed slightly too early, and we all know it is not pleasant. Why one would wish to give oneself a deliberate spray of water up the bum is utterly beyond me.

Of course, there is the possibility that I am traumatised by past experiences, and that I am forever prejudiced against bidets. I was once deeply scarred by a malfunctioning toilet that threw up water into my face. To make matters worse, the toilet was on a boat, and I was sea sick and desperately miserable. Since that day, I have associated spraying toilets with nausea and distress, which is as far from ‘freshness’ as one can possibly get.

Baby Shown Not Blogger's Own

Still, I am aware of my bias, and I do try to be open minded, so I took the issue to Facebook. To bidet or not to bidet, I asked my friends. And the results were rather surprising.

Okay, so the results weren’t really all that surprising. The vast majority of respondents answered with a resounding NO.

“Ain’t no way I wants water shooting up MY arse!” wrote Anita.

“It would seem awfully like sticking one’s bum in the toilet bowl and flushing,” commented Peter.

“My over-riding concern is the ‘warm-up’ factor,” wrote Carol. “Instant warm water necessary. Impossible.”

And I agree.

But apparently, bidets do have their place in society, or at least in the bathroom.

“They’re awesome for cleaning your feet!” wrote Jono.

“We’ve got one in our apartment here. We use it for the wet towels and cossies,” said Jen.

And from Kirsty, who lives in Qatar and has a bidet in every upstairs bathroom but has never used them for their intended purpose, “Doubles as a laptop resting spot while watching a movie in the bath.” So the bidet moves into the technological era, which is indeed something to celebrate.

But then there was a comment from my friend Adam, who was at the party the other night, and was listening to the entire bidet discussion.

“Depends on if you scrunch or fold!!!” he wrote on my Facebook page.

To scrunch or to fold. To scrunch or to fold……

But that is another issue entirely.

A New You. In The LOO.

As a busy mum, I'm always interested in finding ways to make my life easier. So when Kimora Lee Simmons (you know her. Oh hang on. You don't? Actually, neither do I) advised women to 'take time out for themselves by meditating in the toilet' (see the link on mamamia here) I took note.

What a fabulous idea.

NOT.

Aside from the quite unappealing concept of meditating in the toilet (does she mean on the toilet? Or sitting on the bathroom floor? Or perhaps in the actual bath? Filled with water or empty???) the concept is patently ridiculous. For a start, if you can take a half an hour out for yourself in the toilet, wouldn't it be nicer to do it in some, slightly more salubrious, environment? Perhaps... you know... like that room in the house with a bed instead of a loo?

Secondly - what kind of children actually leave their mothers alone in the bathroom? Do the offspring of celebrities have different qualities - for example, not being able to use a door handle? My children (whose parents are, sadly, not celebrities) have been opening doors since they could crawl. And the last moment I had uninterrupted time in the toilet - whether to meditate or do those other things one generally does in a toilet - probably dates from about that same time.

Now, clearly it is vital to have time alone. But as any (non-celebrity) mother will tell you, it ain't going to happen in the bathroom. Kids know when we are on the toilet, just like they know when we are on the phone, or that we are having sex. And they interrupt. They barge in. They halt procedings (or watch, in the case of toilet time. Not, please goodness, sex). The last time I tried to take a bath, for example, I was joined after 15 minutes by a boisterous toddler, who apparently had just done a poo and wanted her bottom cleaned. Marvellous. Just what I'd envisioned for my relaxing soak in the tub.

So when do I get my precious time out? Um... usually at about Not o'clock on the 2nd of Never. But occasionally I do slip in moments of solitude. Every morning, for example, I insist on sitting at the table to drink my coffee and read the paper, just for five minutes. No matter how rushed we are, no matter what is going on around me, I need to have that time. It helps me to feel like a person, and not just a mother, even if I only get a chance to look at the headlines (and yes, I am using the word 'headlines' in its well known sense of 'pictures').

I go for walks whenever I can, often very fast, particularly when moving away from the house and my children are running after me. I lie on the floor in my office and stare at the ceiling for ten minutes, just thinking about my life, and not thinking at all. And I play loud music in the car and sing to myself, before I pick up my kids and they tell me I am hurting my ears.

It's vital to have time alone. But please, as a mother, as a father, as a person - don't listen to Kimora Lee Simmons. You deserve better than a toilet. As she says, it doesn't need to be a spa, but somewhere where people don't necessarily wipe their bottoms is good. A park. Your bed. The couch. A coffee shop.

Or ten minutes on the floor in your room. It's relaxing, it's recharging, it's energising, and it's free.

Just make sure you lock the door.

Toilet Troubles - It's In Vogue To Be Vague

So, the other night I was in a lovely restaurant with some friends. I'd had one too many Caiprioskas (i.e. one), one too many wines (yes, one again) and I was a little blurry. And, given the fact that I've had three children and haven't done pelvic floor exercises since the day I left hospital, I needed to wee. Badly.

So off I stumbled to the ladies room on heels that were just a little too high (i.e. three centimetres) in a direction that was just a little bit wrong (i.e. I ended up in the kitchen).

Still, it wasn't till I found myself in front of the bathroom doors that the trouble really began. Because for the life of me, I couldn't work out what door I was meant to open.

No, I was not having a gender identity crisis. I was woman, and I needed to wee. The problem was, I couldn't interpret the signs upon the doors. Which sign represented 'female'? Was it the abstract figure doing something nebulous with its foot, or the abstract figure fiddling ambiguously with its head?

Now, I know I was slightly inebriated, but I honestly believe that stone cold sober I would have difficultly interpreting these mysterious signs. Pumped with alcohol, in the dark, with the urgency of a full bladder, I had no hope at all.

What ever happened to the simple 'M' and 'F'? Is it cool to be obscure? Is it in vogue to be vague? Is it fun to watch female patrons anxiously push the door open, a centimetre at a time, hoping for a reassuring glimpse of a sanitary disposal unit, terrified of encountering a - horror of horrors - urinal?

Imagine if they did that to traffic signs. If, instead of 'No Standing' there was a picture of a man in a wheelchair, or a nice frieze of aquatic life. Or, instead of 'Stop', there was a photo of a girl waggling her earlobe whilst pointing to a policeman. You know. As in, "sounds like 'cop'?"

But they won't, of course, because that could risk human lives. Which is clearly a priority. Unlike my bladder, which was at risk of being emptied on the floor of the restaurant.

So in the end, I chose the door on the right. And - low and behold - it was correct. Thank god. Wouldn't have wanted to be confronted with one of those dreaded urinals.

But next time, I'm asking the waitress for directions.

And for those of you wondering, it was the figure scratching her head. Who would have thought?