Category Archives: Random

What Is Odd About You – an Informal Experiment 

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I got to thinking. Scary, I know! What occurred to me is that being able to move your toes independently, curling your tongue, and wiggling your ears are actually primitive abilities.

First, if you can, watch this:

If you can’t or don’t want to watch the video: lie your arms flat, palm up, and touch your thumb to your pinkie finger. If you see this raised thingie in your wrist…


…then you have the unnecessary muscle, palmaris longis, that is only really useful for climbing trees freehand. I have the palmaris longis in both my arms. Hubby does not, in either arm.

Clearly the three Auricularis muscles (ear movers, if you didn’t watch) are more developed in those of use who can wiggle our ears or scalp. From the video, I understand that both of these are traits that quite a few of us have evolved beyond.

I’d like to know – do any of you who do have odd talents have the palmaris longis? Do any of you who profess to have no human tricks have it?

My next question is likely to get fewer answers, but might explain my ‘unevolved’ state.

I’d like to know if any of you who responded to the original post have had DNA testing done on yourself, or close family members. I bought my father the National Geographic’s Genographic Project DNA testing kit a few years back. I won’t go into heavy detail here, but one part of his results does relate to my as-yet-untested hypothesis.

My father has “… about 2% Neanderthal, which is in the range for most of European extraction. (1-4%) No Denisovan.”

If my father is 2% Neandertal, that means I am about the same (the test only works on male DNA). So perhaps I got a bit more from mom, or dad has his own set of throwback abilities. Hi Dad! (Waves) Maybe send me an email and let me know what you think!

So who is in? Let’s see if my hypothesis that we who have wiggly bits that most don’t, also might be less evolved? I certainly don’t take the idea as something derogatory. I rather like the idea that I’m a bit of a throwback. 

What Is Odd About You?

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My version of Stupid Human Tricks, I suppose? 

I can curl my tongue in any direction. Not just in a curl but sideways to the left and the right. I never knew this wasn’t something everyone can do. It seems so simple to me.

My older sister has synesthesia. She also never realised it wasn’t something everyone did! She sees names or words in colour. That is pretty damn awesome. And a shock to realise it isn’t how everyone else sees the world.

I can wiggle my baby toe, or pinkie toe, independent of the rest of my toes. It was way easier before I broke both my pinkie toes (one to tripping while being quite drunk and barefoot, one to a horse that trod on me). Both in the same 6-month span of time, too.

Maybe another odd thing about me is that that I’ve never had another broken bone. Mine are quite strong, despite all my clumsiness and my willingness to throw my body anywhere as a child.

What brought this on is something I’d like to know if anyone else can do. 

I can wiggle my ears – but I can also make my eardrums vibrate. I’m going to sound quite insane here, maybe: I definitely, habitually, pin my ears back, like a dog or cat, when I am not happy with the situation. I can push that movement a little more and I hear a wind-like sound in my ears.

Not sure what exactly I am doing, muscularly? I can do it at will. I can wiggle my ears without making the sound, or I can wiggle and make the sound.

Anyone else? I know hubby can’t do any of it from tongue to ear. I’d love to know if anyone else can do my same thing. Or if not, what can you do that it seems others cannot?

A Challenge! What is This v.2

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This picture might help figure it out. I waited until after Monday as some people only read blogs in digest form, once a week. No new takers, so here we go.


Let me know, if you do guess – would you like a digital drawing? 

I Love That Eejit

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Himself just did a load of laundry wearing nothing but garden-clogs. That might not sound so strange. 

However! Our washing machine is in a shed entirely outside of the house. Yep, I got treated to him coming and going, stark naked in the rain (literally).

Our neighbours must be scarred for life – oh yes, they could easily look down from one room and see him in all his, ahem, glory! And they thought me in a bikini was bad!

Do you have someone who does crazy things to make you laugh, too?

(aren’t you glad this is a photo-free post?)

Top Posts? How does WP decide are yours?

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Do you ever wonder what WordPress decides are your top posts? I do. I’ve been posting a lot lately, and that means lots of new people come along and like my most recent blogging mess. I get an email that gives little information but a name, a gravatar (seriously, what is the point of those?) and their three top posts. Usually I’ll click one of them to see what is so special, then go to the home page, scroll down a few posts looking to see if we actually DO have anything in common, then to the about (if there is one) page.

As an experiment, I tried liking my last post myself. No, I’m not a raging narcissist! I was hoping I’d get one of those emails about my own blog. No such luck!

Unless you know another method to figure out how WP decides this stuff, I propose the following: like this post, and I’ll collect the emails by a cropped screen-shot (email not included) and post all of the results in another post. Should be interesting, no?

And if anyone wants to do me the same favour, I’d be grateful – I’m so curious!

Reblog: Gory Story Time!

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I don’t think I’ve ever reblogged one of my own posts before. But some unknow person was perusing my blog today, and found this. After a re-read, I’m pretty happy with it and want to share it again.

Hardly anyone reads the old crap, right? And yeah, I’m tagging this as humour for the wayI wrote it, and that fact I survived to laugh about it. 

Content warning – lots of blood, and possibly sexual misconduct by a doctor.

This story is about the first time (that I know of) that I almost died.

“When I was 16, I kept getting colds and bronchitis all the time. It got annoying. So my parents and I talked it over and decided that I should finally have my tonsils out. I was sort of old for the surgery, but I have been a lot less prone to that sort of illness since having them out.

I don’t remember much about the surgery itself. I know they made me take my shirt off, and I clearly recall my surgeon saying to the others in the room as he moved the sheet down (why!?!?) to expose my chest, that I was “very mature.” That bothered me for years. I was ashamed to even speak about it. It felt like visual group rape. I’ve often wondered: did he/they give me a suggestion to not talk about it when I was all the way under the anaesthetic? Because after I told someone the first time, it got easier until it didn’t bother me any more.

What will bother me until the day I die is that not that he was a bit scuzzy and inappropriate, but that he cut too far down on the right side. Really, really far down. I have a pocket between my tongue and what should be throat-meat, but isn’t. Quite often, food that is small and hard gets stuck in there (peanuts and popcorn shells are the worst) and the only way to get it out is to fish it out with my index finger or suck it out while making vile-sounding slurping snotty noises. Thanks, doc.

I haven’t even gotten into the disgusting part yet. Honestly, it gets worse!

We were given a slip of paper with post-operation instructions. It said: ‘about a week after your surgery, the incision may open up and bleed. This is nothing to worry about if the amount of blood is a teacup or less.’

What the leaflet failed to mention is what to do if it was more than a teacup.

I have a mental picture of when it started: a combination of my actual view and a sort of distanced movie of where I was and what I was doing. I was outside, at the end of our driveway, right by one of the odd, light grey, cinderblock-and-concrete-stucco pillars that lined the road in front of our house. There was a small popcorn tree behind me, and I was facing toward our red-clay driveway. I was talking to one of the two beautiful, white long-haired cats that ‘belonged’ to a neighbour (my grandmother adopted one later, the other was a tom and went feral). I leaned over to pet the kitty, who had trotted across the street to see me, and suddenly I had a strange tickle in my throat.

I opened my mouth to talk to the kitty and blood sprayed on to the driveway.

I can no longer recall if I ran right inside, or gave myself a moment or two to figure out what was going on. I’m not prone to panic, and blood has never bothered me, so I’m guessing I didn’t scream for mom and run inside immediately. When I did go in, we found the leaflet and read it. One of us grabbed a smallish coffee cup (no tiny teacups in our house) and when I had filled that up, mom brought out a massive, three-quart, square Tupperware container from the cupboard. The very same one my sister and I had puked into for years when we were small and very sick. It was so deep there was little chance of splash-back, you see. Mom was practical like that.

Even better, this thing had measurements on the inside of the bowl so we could see just how much blood I was losing. The measurements were in quarts. We dumped in the coffee cup-full of blood, in the interest of accuracy. It had jelled already – perhaps due to the properties of saliva, perhaps that’s what blood does anyway – and it slopped into the bowl, keeping the shape of the cup. That was when I first realised that what was going on wasn’t “normal.”

The spray was at the very back of my throat (probably coming from the right where Dr. Inappropriate had cut too deep; it directed to the left). My mouth was constantly full, and I swallowed quite a lot without meaning to. That didn’t bother me, either. What did bother me is when it finally stopped, and I discovered that I had clots of blood everywhere inside my mouth – the worst were stuck in the top surfaces of my teeth the way potato chips do sometimes. I had to pick them out with my tongue, and swallow or spit.

The bleeding had stopped, so I grabbed the relevant Encyclopaedia Brittanica off the shelf to see how much blood someone of my age and size should have inside them. I’d lost almost a quart, according to the awesome Tupperware bowl. Brittanica said I should have about 4 quarts (a quart being about 950ml). Current Googling gives me a lower number.

In any case I was fine, it had stopped, no panic, and we’d all learned something interesting.

Then a short while later it opened up again. We rang the doctor, and he said to go to the hospital. I kept spitting into the container – good data for the hospital, right? Before we left, it had stopped again. I had closer to two quarts in the bowl, and I now knew that wasn’t a safe amount.

It was a small Florida town, and we had a (new at the time) hospital in town so the drive was short. I was fine, cheerful and chipper as I could be, and the bleeding had stopped again for the longest time yet. They decided I should to to another hospital in the next town over, and have Dr Inappropriate cauterise the area to stop the bleeding. They put me into an ambulance.

They strapped me down, as they do in ambulances apparently (this was my first and only experience inside of one). I started bleeding again on the way. I was tied down on my back, spraying blood at the back of my throat, not even able to talk because I would choke, and unable to sit up and spit it out. I always thought from movies that when a kid was in an ambulance a parent was allowed inside, too? Stupid movies. I remember feeling a bit of panic at that point, waving my arms as much as I could under the straps and gurgling for help. I swallowed a lot more blood before they let me up and I could spit. Into my mother’s bowl, still keeping track. I know I had lost over 2 quarts by then – over half my blood supply in a jellied square mass on my lap. That’s not counting the amount that I had swallowed.

By the way: ‘human’ vampires are bullshit. I know, for a fact, from this experience, that the human body can not digest fresh human blood. I will never forget what it looked and smelled like coming out the other end.

I might have gone a bit light-headed by the time I’d arrived at the other hospital for the cauterisation. I don’t remember anything else.

I know that my mom was irritated that she never got her awesome Tupperware bowl back, though.”

Fucit Anyway. 

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I supposedly have conjunctivitis, also known as pink eye. Being as my eyes have been itchy as hell since November, and no one else around me has it, I’m kinda doubtful about the diagnosis. It’s meant to be crazy contagious, my eyes never turned pink or red, and I didn’t have eye-boogies. Just a lot of itching!

In any case, I finally got sick of it (pun intended) and went to my GP. 

With a list of other issues, of course. My bodily warranty ran out when I was 25. That’s when I started to need glasses, and discovered loads of other new and fun ways that a human body finds to break down. I’m a right wreck now that I’m about to be officially middle-aged. 

After the checkup: I had blood taken, skin issues checked out and okayed, a 24-HR blood pressure monitor (results normal, and I’m dead surprised at that). I’m on my second course of antibiotics for a wheezy cough, an allergy pill (I don’t HAVE allergies!), big doses of anti-inflammatories for my back (deffo helping), and now steroids (!) for everything, basically. 

I feel as though I’ve been to a vet instead of a human doctor, because a vet always seems to prescribe antibiotics and a steroid.

Did you know I really don’t care to take pills? Bwah-ha-haw! I’m good at it, but I prefer not to if I can. I’m now on…11 a day.

Back to the eye drops, which burn. They burn like I rubbed sand and cat-hair into my eyes and then dunked my face into lemon juice and bleach to rinse them out. It’s also thick and white and goopy and is so damn unnatural a thing to be deliberately putting into my eyes, I kind of didn’t do the twice a day every day for a week as I was supposed to do. It does help – but the cure is nearly as bad as the problem. 

With all of this going on, I never looked at the package for the eye drops properly. When I did, I laughed out loud – in my loudest, unladylike squawk.

  
Yes. Fucit. Fucit altogether! Fucit sideways with a barge-pole! 

Fuc it, I’m falling apart but at least I still have the sense of humour of a nine year old and can laugh at these things. And fuc it, I better put these drops in now and try not to cry all over the iPad 🙂

This Is Draining.

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Hubby had the day off work for Good Friday; I did not. So I left him with drain-duty. He walked into town (we have one car), to learn that our town’s hardware store also had the day off. So, no caustic soda to be had locally at all. He did get some ‘kitchen blockage’ Mr Muscle stuff. It did nothing.

At 3:30 I rang the closest hardware shop to where I work, thinking for sure they were closed, too. Not for another 30 minutes! Luckily my work is awesome and let me have 10 minutes or so to drive up there and get some lovely, grease-eating poison. They had two bottles and I bought them both.

‘Course, I don’t get off until half six, so by the time I got home it was nearly dark and pouring rain. I put the soda in, waited the prescribed 20 minutes, and poured in boiling water. Managed to fit in nearly a kettle’s worth as himself had bailed the muck down to make room (yay).

Did it drain?

It did not. And it was, and is, way too miserable out there to try the snake again. Even the dog doesn’t want to go out to wee.

  
So…washing the cutlery in the bathroom sink was my only option! No forks left, as you can see. That’s my dish soap in the cut-glass cruet. I use that for dish soap as it looks nicer than a big plastic bottle.

Not that it matters when your dish soap is now in your bathroom.
Breaking update, even before I hit publish! I remembered that I have a bucket that will fit in the sink. So now I just have to carry that upstairs to dump out, instead. Hoarding tendencies for the win!