On prominent display in my dentist’s waiting room is a certificate advising that he is a qualified and recognised hypnotist. I spent a brief moment speculating as to what role hypnosis could play in modern dentistry.
Could a person strengthen their teeth through the process of hypnotic suggestion? Probably not.
I was forced to assume hypnosis is offered as an alternative form of pain relief. I can’t be sure since he’s never been silly enough to suggest I try it. When it comes to pain I’m definitely an old fashioned give-me-the-drugs kind of girl.
I scanned on skimming over the expected infection control certificates and various assorted degrees until a small certificate up in the corner caught my eye.
It appears that all members of the practice are proficient in cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.
I’m not sure whether I should be finding that reassuring or not.
I know some people find the dentist to be a bit scary but does the sound of a drill frequently lead to heart attacks?
I pondered this while I sat in drug induced numbness having my jaw pulled about but came up with no definitive answer until it was all over and the receptionist printed out the bill.
Now I understand when and why the heart attacks occur.
On the plus side I have great teeth (or maybe I just think so as a result of post hypnotic suggestion).
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Nice Weather for Ducks
It’s raining here this morning-a rare occurrence these days. So rare in fact that I quite enjoyed the novelty of using an umbrella when I went out earlier. Just imagine how happy the ducks must be.
I’ve never really understood why it is assumed that ducks like wet weather. Sure they seem to like paddling about on the water but does it necessarily follow that they love the rain. At least, I’d never seen any supportive evidence. Until today.
I just saw two ducks out in the park, splashing about in the small muddy puddles and pecking at things in the long, wet grass. They really did seem to be having fun doing their ducky thing in the rain. I wonder if they’ll keep at it should the predicted hail eventuate this afternoon. Even ducks must have their limits.
I’ve never really understood why it is assumed that ducks like wet weather. Sure they seem to like paddling about on the water but does it necessarily follow that they love the rain. At least, I’d never seen any supportive evidence. Until today.
I just saw two ducks out in the park, splashing about in the small muddy puddles and pecking at things in the long, wet grass. They really did seem to be having fun doing their ducky thing in the rain. I wonder if they’ll keep at it should the predicted hail eventuate this afternoon. Even ducks must have their limits.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Making a Point
Boy Genius is now sixteen. This means he is old enough to hold his own concession cards and apply for various government assistance schemes.
It’s been a long, hard road but all paperwork finally in order now we simply need to provide one hundred points of identification.
In addition to his birth certificate.
Easy, no?
NO!
Health benefits care as issued by federal government=unacceptable.
Companion card, photo id as issued by government after filling in 27 (approx) pages of forms=unacceptable.
So what is acceptable?
Motor Vehicle Driver’s Licence-did I mention he is sixteen?
Registration Certificate from a national professional registration board (eg, doctors, nurses, dentists)-did I mention he is autistic and has a functional vocabulary of around 50 words?
Firearm Licence, Electoral Enrolment, Marriage Certificate-did I mention that he is SIXTEEN and AUTISTIC?
Finally I managed to pull together sixty points of identification but where to get another forty? I scan the list of acceptable documents and there is only one possibility that I haven’t explored. A Bank Card is worth forty points.
Can you guess what happens next, boys and girls?
That’s right! Boy Genius now has a Visa card.
A Visa card of his very own.
Did I mention that he’s sixteen and autistic?
It’s been a long, hard road but all paperwork finally in order now we simply need to provide one hundred points of identification.
In addition to his birth certificate.
Easy, no?
NO!
Health benefits care as issued by federal government=unacceptable.
Companion card, photo id as issued by government after filling in 27 (approx) pages of forms=unacceptable.
So what is acceptable?
Motor Vehicle Driver’s Licence-did I mention he is sixteen?
Registration Certificate from a national professional registration board (eg, doctors, nurses, dentists)-did I mention he is autistic and has a functional vocabulary of around 50 words?
Firearm Licence, Electoral Enrolment, Marriage Certificate-did I mention that he is SIXTEEN and AUTISTIC?
Finally I managed to pull together sixty points of identification but where to get another forty? I scan the list of acceptable documents and there is only one possibility that I haven’t explored. A Bank Card is worth forty points.
Can you guess what happens next, boys and girls?
That’s right! Boy Genius now has a Visa card.
A Visa card of his very own.
Did I mention that he’s sixteen and autistic?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Is this what Bentham and Mill had in mind?
Our household, like so many others, subscribes to a fundamentalist utilitarian philosophy. Our everyday decisions fall back on the principle of utility by default.
(You remember the Principle of Utility, surely: We ought always to produce the maximal balance of positive value over disvalue. Or in lay terms: greatest happiness for the greatest number. )
When applied to baking this means that the number of biscuits produced should be evenly divisible by the number of children in the household. Happiness for them with biscuits, happiness for me not listening to them argue over who got more biscuits. Maximal positive value achieved.
But this happy balance was thrown off by the Professor of Pedantics going to visit a friend, leaving us with an extra biscuit.
Boy genius was the first to identify the problem.
“Where’s PP?” he asked.
“Gone out,” I reply.
“Where’s PP biscuit?” He looks expectantly at me.
As an initiate I understand that he is asking for his sister’s biscuit since she is not here to defend her right to it.
So there it is-Moral Dilemma.
If I give him the biscuit then his happiness increases but the Profs happiness is bound to decrease when she returns home and her biscuit is gone. This of course assumes neutrality on the part of the Mistress of the Bleeding Obvious, though in reality she will also be unhappy that she did not receive an additional biscuit.
Things were not looking good for boy genius and the biscuit. Then I recalled that the principle of utility allows for unjust social distribution-this is one of its main faults.
It was obvious that boy genius’s level of happiness at having an extra biscuit far outweighed the combined unhappiness of his sisters at missing out on the biscuit and my happiness at seeing him happy had to be taken into account. And so the biscuit was his.
Ethics in action.
But I’m not sure this is what Bentham and Mill had in mind.
(You remember the Principle of Utility, surely: We ought always to produce the maximal balance of positive value over disvalue. Or in lay terms: greatest happiness for the greatest number. )
When applied to baking this means that the number of biscuits produced should be evenly divisible by the number of children in the household. Happiness for them with biscuits, happiness for me not listening to them argue over who got more biscuits. Maximal positive value achieved.
But this happy balance was thrown off by the Professor of Pedantics going to visit a friend, leaving us with an extra biscuit.
Boy genius was the first to identify the problem.
“Where’s PP?” he asked.
“Gone out,” I reply.
“Where’s PP biscuit?” He looks expectantly at me.
As an initiate I understand that he is asking for his sister’s biscuit since she is not here to defend her right to it.
So there it is-Moral Dilemma.
If I give him the biscuit then his happiness increases but the Profs happiness is bound to decrease when she returns home and her biscuit is gone. This of course assumes neutrality on the part of the Mistress of the Bleeding Obvious, though in reality she will also be unhappy that she did not receive an additional biscuit.
Things were not looking good for boy genius and the biscuit. Then I recalled that the principle of utility allows for unjust social distribution-this is one of its main faults.
It was obvious that boy genius’s level of happiness at having an extra biscuit far outweighed the combined unhappiness of his sisters at missing out on the biscuit and my happiness at seeing him happy had to be taken into account. And so the biscuit was his.
Ethics in action.
But I’m not sure this is what Bentham and Mill had in mind.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Zoological Physics (domestic practical)
How much water can a 4kg, long haired cat displace from a 45lt fish tank?
This is a question that has plagued us, lo these many years. But now, thanks to Tiger’s valiant efforts, we have the answer.
For years his attempts to immerse himself in said fish tank have been stymied by the presence of a heavy glass lid and uncooperative housemates (who have the rather annoying tendency to put him outside should they catch him in the throws of aquatic investigation).
But persistence pays. And Tiger has discovered that if you land on the fish tank with just the right amount of force, at just the right angle, the lid can be made to slide into the tank allowing unfettered furry access to the water below.
In the course of his experiment he not only answered the pressing question of water displacement but also incidentally confirmed the long held belief that cats are not overly fond of swimming and established that wet glass does not make the perfect springboard for exiting an aquarium.
Tiger appeared surprised by these secondary discoveries.
Scribbles, the fish tank’s lone resident, appeared startled by the sudden appearance of a cat in this watery world. But then axolotls have no eyelids so Scribbles always looks startled, even when sleeping.
So how much water can a 4kg, long haired cat displace from a 45lt fish tank?
About two completely sodden, but not dripping, bath sheets worth.
This is a question that has plagued us, lo these many years. But now, thanks to Tiger’s valiant efforts, we have the answer.
For years his attempts to immerse himself in said fish tank have been stymied by the presence of a heavy glass lid and uncooperative housemates (who have the rather annoying tendency to put him outside should they catch him in the throws of aquatic investigation).
But persistence pays. And Tiger has discovered that if you land on the fish tank with just the right amount of force, at just the right angle, the lid can be made to slide into the tank allowing unfettered furry access to the water below.
In the course of his experiment he not only answered the pressing question of water displacement but also incidentally confirmed the long held belief that cats are not overly fond of swimming and established that wet glass does not make the perfect springboard for exiting an aquarium.
Tiger appeared surprised by these secondary discoveries.
Scribbles, the fish tank’s lone resident, appeared startled by the sudden appearance of a cat in this watery world. But then axolotls have no eyelids so Scribbles always looks startled, even when sleeping.
So how much water can a 4kg, long haired cat displace from a 45lt fish tank?
About two completely sodden, but not dripping, bath sheets worth.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The next stop is...Medicare
Being, as I am, philosophically opposed to private health cover, I am happy to pay for those specialist services boy genius requires that the government doesn’t provide and graciously accept the Medicare rebate they offer.
Collecting this rebate means a visit to the local (though these days there are so few of them they might well be called regional) Medicare office. It’s been quite a while since I made the pilgrimage so this morning I girded my loins (ie, put on comfy shoes and grabbed a book) and hauled myself in to Southland.
As I said, it’s been quite a while, and things have changed since I was there last.
The Medicare office now has the welcoming ambience of a railway station waiting room. Sure a nice railway station with carpet and upholstered seats but a railway station waiting room nonetheless, complete with old newspapers left on seats and a gumball type vending machine. (The trap door of which pierces the entire room with a sharp crash every time it is dropped. This is every few seconds because once a child sees it they can’t help themselves and have to lift that damned flap.)
Instead of the single queue they now have a ticketing system very similar to the one at the deli, you know, where you take a number then wait until you’re called. Every few minutes a mechanical voice (that sounds very much like the woman who announces the stops on the Frankston line-adding to the station atmosphere) calls out a ticket number and a window number. I had to repress the urge to yell BINGO! when my number finally came up.
I suspect the changes are meant to make the system somehow more efficient or the Medicare experience more pleasant, perhaps both. A pointless waist of public funds since a bureaucracy is a bureaucracy and it is not in its nature to run efficiently and with the possible exception of a few retired station masters railway waiting rooms aren’t considered particularly aesthetic.
But I do have an idea that could make the Medicare offices a more pleasant place for everyone, staff and clients alike-
Get rid of that bloody annoying gumball machine.
Collecting this rebate means a visit to the local (though these days there are so few of them they might well be called regional) Medicare office. It’s been quite a while since I made the pilgrimage so this morning I girded my loins (ie, put on comfy shoes and grabbed a book) and hauled myself in to Southland.
As I said, it’s been quite a while, and things have changed since I was there last.
The Medicare office now has the welcoming ambience of a railway station waiting room. Sure a nice railway station with carpet and upholstered seats but a railway station waiting room nonetheless, complete with old newspapers left on seats and a gumball type vending machine. (The trap door of which pierces the entire room with a sharp crash every time it is dropped. This is every few seconds because once a child sees it they can’t help themselves and have to lift that damned flap.)
Instead of the single queue they now have a ticketing system very similar to the one at the deli, you know, where you take a number then wait until you’re called. Every few minutes a mechanical voice (that sounds very much like the woman who announces the stops on the Frankston line-adding to the station atmosphere) calls out a ticket number and a window number. I had to repress the urge to yell BINGO! when my number finally came up.
I suspect the changes are meant to make the system somehow more efficient or the Medicare experience more pleasant, perhaps both. A pointless waist of public funds since a bureaucracy is a bureaucracy and it is not in its nature to run efficiently and with the possible exception of a few retired station masters railway waiting rooms aren’t considered particularly aesthetic.
But I do have an idea that could make the Medicare offices a more pleasant place for everyone, staff and clients alike-
Get rid of that bloody annoying gumball machine.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
For Decorative Purposes Only?
Four pregnancies in as many years may have put an end to my svelte girlish figure but my more ample proportions don’t maintain themselves. This requires the regular consumption of chocolate. Though admittedly alcohol also plays a part. However, that is mainly medicinal-without the fortifying drink motherhood would drive me mad. Excess calories are merely a side effect.
Mother’s day has well come and gone again. The annual offerings of chocolate have been made, accepted and consumed. My selfless children once again sacrificed themselves and ate the ones I didn’t like. As if such a thing exists (okay there is that tasteless white filth but they know better than to call that chocolate within my hearing). We all know that there is no chocolate I don’t like, just like I don’t actually prefer the burnt bit of anything, this is just a pretence that allows them to eat the gifts they gave me. You know what I’m talking about, all mothers play the game with their young.
Anyway, presentation is everything, so naturally my chocolates came in the prettiest cup the St Louis mother’s day gift stall had to offer. Fine imported porcelain covered in pink and purple unicorns and fairies. I exclaimed my delight and rushed to the sink to wash off the made in China sticker from the bottom of the cup.
That’s when things turned weird.
Underneath the sticker were the words For Decorative Purposes Only, Not Intended for the Serving of Foods or Beverages.
It’s a cup. If it can’t be used for the serving of food or beverages what’s the point of it. In fact, if it can’t be slung in the dishwasher it has no business being in my kitchen.
That aside, it has left me with a picture of somebody somewhere with rooms full of display cases holding similar overly feminised cups that have never know the glory of serving food of beverages.
I feel a little sorry for them.
The cups that is.
And maybe the person too.
Mother’s day has well come and gone again. The annual offerings of chocolate have been made, accepted and consumed. My selfless children once again sacrificed themselves and ate the ones I didn’t like. As if such a thing exists (okay there is that tasteless white filth but they know better than to call that chocolate within my hearing). We all know that there is no chocolate I don’t like, just like I don’t actually prefer the burnt bit of anything, this is just a pretence that allows them to eat the gifts they gave me. You know what I’m talking about, all mothers play the game with their young.
Anyway, presentation is everything, so naturally my chocolates came in the prettiest cup the St Louis mother’s day gift stall had to offer. Fine imported porcelain covered in pink and purple unicorns and fairies. I exclaimed my delight and rushed to the sink to wash off the made in China sticker from the bottom of the cup.
That’s when things turned weird.
Underneath the sticker were the words For Decorative Purposes Only, Not Intended for the Serving of Foods or Beverages.
It’s a cup. If it can’t be used for the serving of food or beverages what’s the point of it. In fact, if it can’t be slung in the dishwasher it has no business being in my kitchen.
That aside, it has left me with a picture of somebody somewhere with rooms full of display cases holding similar overly feminised cups that have never know the glory of serving food of beverages.
I feel a little sorry for them.
The cups that is.
And maybe the person too.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Cubed Carrots?
I barely dare say it but I think the tag team vomit-a-thon that has been my life this past three weeks might finally be over.
A warning to the squemish, the following could make you sick...
Isn't it amazing how your mind can focus on the smallest of things in order not to think too much about what it is actually dealing with. As I was mopping vomit and emptying buckets and washing towels I was distracted by the presence of cubed carrot.
I have never taken the time to cube a carrot in my life and yet here it was, in all its regurgitated glory, bright orange and beautifully diced. And it's always present. Where does all this cubed carrot come from?
I have a theory. I suggest the appendix, hitherto believed to be purposeless, is actually a carrot processing and storage organ. Any carrot consumed, in any form, during your lifetime, is taken in by the appendix where it is compacted, cubed and stored. Reverse peristalsis triggers the release of this cubed carrot ensuring all vomit contains this essential element.
In case you get the wrong idea, it hasn't been all spew, all the time. It just seemed that way. Particularly when the cat decided to join the general heave fest, coughing up a few early morning hair balls for me to start the day.
There has been lots of Other Stuff going on here as well, which I hope to update you on over the next couple of weeks.
Stay tuned
A warning to the squemish, the following could make you sick...
Isn't it amazing how your mind can focus on the smallest of things in order not to think too much about what it is actually dealing with. As I was mopping vomit and emptying buckets and washing towels I was distracted by the presence of cubed carrot.
I have never taken the time to cube a carrot in my life and yet here it was, in all its regurgitated glory, bright orange and beautifully diced. And it's always present. Where does all this cubed carrot come from?
I have a theory. I suggest the appendix, hitherto believed to be purposeless, is actually a carrot processing and storage organ. Any carrot consumed, in any form, during your lifetime, is taken in by the appendix where it is compacted, cubed and stored. Reverse peristalsis triggers the release of this cubed carrot ensuring all vomit contains this essential element.
In case you get the wrong idea, it hasn't been all spew, all the time. It just seemed that way. Particularly when the cat decided to join the general heave fest, coughing up a few early morning hair balls for me to start the day.
There has been lots of Other Stuff going on here as well, which I hope to update you on over the next couple of weeks.
Stay tuned
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Are we having fun yet?
I suppose that depends on whether or not your definition of fun centres around cleaning up vomit.
And in spite of what everyone here seems to think (to paraphrase: hey, you were a nurse for all those years vomit mopping must be your area of expertise), mine does not.
And in spite of what everyone here seems to think (to paraphrase: hey, you were a nurse for all those years vomit mopping must be your area of expertise), mine does not.
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