i have the hand/eye co-ordination of a toddler on crack

it is evidence based best practice that stress relief is most effectively achieved by engaging in physically strenuous activities-- trying to be the first down the jetbridge when the pilot turns the 'fasten seat belt' sign off does not count. the utter god awfulness of last week earned a big, tarnished gold star, and a subsequent effort at reparation by: "engaging some positive coping strategies". the treatment protocol was determined to be; a long (and slow) mountain bike ride-- get back to nature, and see some non-rattling, non-poisonous, non-bitey wildlife; remain upright and vertical on the trail (as opposed to grabbing at bits of bush/twig/piles of horse manure to stop me + bike from sliding all the way down the drops); avoid faceplanting into super barky oak trees (and anything involving 'leaves of three'); burn off the "brookie" (brownie and chocolate chip cookie) a la mode; discharge all of the pent up physical aggression that i really, really wanted to inflict on police officers, credit card fraudsters, assorted colleagues, voice messaging systems, and customer service people who finally did answer my call, but didn't sound like it was all that important to them.

perhaps waverly park- or the 'trail of ten thousand elevations' (most of which seemed to disappear into cumulonimbus) was not the most prudent choice for; nerves, ego, or someone with the current frustration tolerance of a 5 year old having to sit through an entire catholic mass. instead of reclaiming control of at least one thing from the week, there was a cosmic scratch that kept this particular track on skip, as evidenced by minimal control (less than usual at any rate) over the bike, which probably had more to do with the discovery of loose rear brakes, on a steep and switchbacky downhill (despite the trail's overall topographical emphasis on ascending); non-compliance from both the respiratory and circulatory systems respectively; the sensation that a sewing machine had been strapped onto my camelbak; strange ticking noises coming from the mechanics and wilderness. the overwhelming frustration and complete lack of control was ultimately the neutralizing agent that finally popped the preceeding week's inflamed "stress pimple"-- and rather like a fresh tube of toothpaste, erupted into some moderate ocular leakage, with a side of mucous. fortunately there were no wasp stings to the neck as there had been during last weekend's foray into my own personal REI commercial.

the apres bike ride shower involved a rigourous skin check for: rorschach-looking haematoma, volcanic insect bites, and seeping rashes, in addition to the characteristic sunburn blisters and spandex chafe.

grafting and mining my skin's surface is truly the most effective of therapies.

pms is my pot hole

"pot holes" are the achilles heel of the psyche. they tend to be activated by the environment and fueled by emotions. go that? i detest whiny, needy people. i detest my own whiny, needy person. thus spake my pot hole. i own my pot hole.

forget about playing volleyball in a white string bikini, rollerblading with fluffy, cavorting labradors, or carrying baskets full of strawberries and fresh sunflowers from the farmer's market; those women are on prozac, not the rag. i would personally like to see a return to women being "quarantined" from all social interaction for the week, until they can reorganize their egos.

as anyone in posession of a uterus can tell you, the monthly perceptions are persecutory first and foremost. where an absence of calls or texts are not attributed to misplaced phones, silent settings, or a busy schedule. it's "personal", it's rejection, and it's about ME. stereotypes and cliches are now borne; "i don't want you to do it because i told you i wanted you to do it, i wanted you to do it because YOU wanted to" (swap out the verbs for many other commonly used variations). "i shouldn't/don't want to/don't like to have to tell you" (this would be the the internal monologue). and yes, we do keep a tally of grievances. this is the delight who you're married to/dating/avoiding/shagging/taking out epo's on.

typically, patience is my baseline (typically). however, this past week i have had pee sprayed in my face, changed the ultimate nuclear waste of a nappy, been snotted on, spat upon, and had parts of my skin sliced and singed. therefore, a busy morning at work + a short drive to the bakery to get some much needed "comfort carbs" + roadworks that made no sense = tear ducts at maximum leakage. this is not how a stubborn, strong, and independent (hear me roar, organize, itemize, and multi-task) female responds- at any other time. "other" times, you yell and swear at the roadworks/builders/traffic police (with windows rolled up, of course).

it may be time for kotex and ben & jerry's, to collaborate with old navy and put together the "menstrual variety pack"; a pint of chunky monkey, a box of super absorbency "hygiene products", flannel drawstring pj's, and 7 pairs of black granny knickers. and yes, i did make a run to walgreens for a gallon of edy's; i like my sugar refined.

invasion of the body snatchers

i believe that there has been some rare strain of contagious PMS permeating my (only my) orbit this week. many of my nearest and dearest appear to have had a logical reasoning lobotomy. obviously the common denominator in this little bipolar mood swing equation is myself, and i am aware that i can be difficult/perplexing/trying/exasperating/patience testing, amongst all the other "synonyms for a 5 year old for $400, please alex". but it is not a full moon this week, and i want my friends back.

i should be irritable, my chigger bite count is up to 30. i am itchy.

can someone, please, give me a time out?

the reccomendation is 1 minute for each year of life. this means that i should get 32 minutes (i dont mind rounding up, my birthday is next month) of sitting in a quiet area with no one talking to me. if i were to start swearing or getting out of my seat i would get an extra minute added for each infraction; 2 "bloody hells", 1 "christ on a cracker" and i lost track of how many variations of "shit". that would add up to a lot of peace, quiet, and reflection (of better ways to not be heard next time).

yesterday i went to the mecca of the 'themed holiday sweater brigade'; the parent teacher store. my mission was to find a special kind of "time timer" which shows the leftover minutes as a block of colour that disappears; very useful for the teeny tiny tots, the developmentally delayed, or the easily impressed. i was looking forward to seeing little johnny throw his cereal across the room/smack little susie/swear like a sailor to test it out. little did i know that i would need to implement it on staff.

"an argument takes two people, with just one person, its a temper tantrum" (some developmental big wig i read recently, 2007). there have been tears (not mine) and pouting (not the 5 year olds). this is what happens when you have this many women (two of which are pregnant) working in such close quarters. i fail to see how polygamy sounds like a good idea.