Menoveritt [men-oh-vury-tt(H!)]; the condition of 'please stop it'

This is not a post on the matter of cessation of egg-production… tho' of course it could have been.  That would make no difference to me really, never having put it to the test.

No. this is the post of 'why-oh-why'?  You'll have gathered yesterday that the fuse is a tad short this past few days.  I put on the smile - a wink in the eye.  The thing is my usual light and witty self is dropping a wee bit towards the 'couldn't care less' and 'why are you interrupting this conversation'.  Am heading towards an episode of  menomonocanticle.

In trying to deflect that, am picking up on stuff that would never normally bother.  Like;

Why-oh-why do the gardeners have to do the burning right on class time and that too when the prevailing wind ensures a smoke-out in the lecture hall? 

Why-oh-why do the gardeners have to put the water hose on then walk away and leave it irrigating the driveway?

Why-oh-why do the gardeners have to use the anti-mozzie poison guns during lunch time?

Why-oh-why does the hotel have to have their dance parties at decimal 10 billion and 78 hertz just as one is about to go to sleep?

Why-oh-why does the hotel have to have a wedding band blaring every second afternoon?

…

(shlubberdubberdddaabberiiinggerooonyy)

Sigh.  Well, Dear Reader, sorry for this.  Then again… how're you going to know my mostly cool and charming self if you don't get glimpses of the 'night shade'?  By tomorrow it'll have blown over. I'm sure.

Mother would have been sitting  me down about now and asking me why the 'moaning minnies'?

Because, mother, I am menomoaniacal - in a condition of not being able to utter a positive word.

So I'll shut up now.

Menoparched [men-oh-par-tccchh-d]; the condition of being sucked dry

I recall telling you about recent dust invasion per the arrival of the Mumbai summer.  What?- don't remember?  Funny.  I do.  Maybe the short-term memory is healing.  Or, just maybe, I looked back a few pages.

Probably the latter.

Anyway.  Being sucked dry can be metaphorical too.  Since the crowd got back from the High Peaks of Uttarakashi and Gangotri,  they have been in less than top form.  Not that they had a poor time.  Quite the contrary.  Rather, on that return journey, whether from the strains of 18 days of almost constant travel, different places, different food, or different climates, something came upon them all.  Within 24 hours the first few went down and it's been like skittles ever since. 

The "official" doctor here only ever throws antibiotics at the patient.  Cough and cold?  A/bs stat.  Headache?  A/bs stat.  Broken toe?  A/bs stat.  It's turned to gangrene?  Double the A/bs stat.  If it's not A/bs then it's Vit B injections. 

Thus, many of these students try to avoid that individual.  Of course we have our portion of dyed-in-the-wool allopathic followers.  Majority though have the good sense to let things run their course.  The recent bout of gastro trubs however, required a bit of care.  We are blessed to have one of the students qualified in Ayurvedic Medicine; so a fair number of the youngsters utilise his talents.  Then there's yours truly.

If Indians love anything as much as Ayurveda, it's homoeopathy.   Have not advertised it widely - am here to study, not play medic.  When the need is high, though, it cannot be ignored.

So attentions have been sought for 'the mystery bug', successfully I am pleased to report.

Then there are the stings and grazes and damaged backs, necks, legs and arms.  It is wonderful to feel needed, truly.  The thing is we have our quotient of 'professional sick persons'.  You know the type.  Need a body brace today (and then for as long as I can milk it there-after) because I bent the wrong way when touching Swami-ji's feet.  Or, I am unable to write my essays for Swami-ji due to RSI… explaining how this is unlikely to be their diagnosis, if they were to attend for testing, doesn't dissuade.  Also, pointing out that the writing of notes in class is contrary to their claim, generally doesn't go down well.

They insist on coming to Yamini-amma though, because she listens.  Doctor-ji has the bedside manner of a 2x4 fence post.  I don't pull punches.  I will tell folk when they need to get their act together… "XXXXy, do you think it is possible that you may have the answer to your own cure?"  But I will give them the time and courtesy of listening. 

The recent upsurge in 'consultations' though has reminded me that I need to put my professional persona back in place.  It hasn't been needed for so long that, having forgotten initially, I began to feel drained and put upon in regards to time taken.

It reminded me of early days in practice, all fresh and keen to fix the ills of the world and how the ill of the world can suck one dry.

Love (with the capital ell)

How does one quench the drought created by giving without self-protection?  Bring out, brush-up and revive the skills lying dormant (part one).  Then,  blab about it to the world (part two)!  A burden shared is a burden spared.... (okay I made that up, but it seems about right).

Thank you for your time, "Blogtor".


(Taronga Zoo, Sydney - this youngster was being bullied by some teenage 'larrichimps'.  Mum called him over and the hug ensued.  The whole crowd - including me - sighed. AWWW!)

Menoxicated [men-oxy-kated]; the condition of being under the influence.

In this case, as we revisit the possibility that one does not have complete control of one's faculties, the intoxicant is zero-oestrogen.

After many years of single-pointed research, YAM can report that menopolyxinaemia brings with it a certain level of behaviour resembling that of one who has over-imbibed on the fruit juice.

It is many a year since I have surrendered control in those circumstances, but I do recall things like - oohhh - losing the inhibitions regarding telling jokes.  Never could do it.  Particularly under the influence.  In fact, would only forget that I couldn't remember a punch line of even one joke when under the influence.  This preserved one's self-esteem in the moments and the ground-gaping chasms yelling "what were you thinking?..." only arrived when one was in private and again sober.  No worries then.

'Cept now there's a different non-drug in the system.  I have the notion I can crack funnies.

Or there's that thing of not really caring what anybody thinks.  It's freeing, that one.  To NOT have to get tipsy to feel free of social pressure in respect to how one dresses or places one's wheelie-bins on the kerb. …

… our wheeled garbage disposal bins in Sydney are referred to as Ottos.  So when I arrived in Mumbai and a friend said she'd gone shopping via the "otto", she got quite the quizzical look from the YAMster.  Several weeks later I was invited to join her in an "otto".  Never a coward in such matters (as well as being under the influence of zero-oestrogen and therefore completely without inhibition) I gladly accepted.  I wasn't at all sure about wearing sari for such an experience, but we are obliged to stick to uniform (white, cotton, best-folded gets thumbs up from upacharya), so I thought "Let the pallu [long shoulder train] fly!"

I think I was mildly disappointed to discover that the AUTO is the auto-rickshaw; a motorised tricycle with open-air cabin.  Bit like a wheelie-horse'n'cart kind of thing.  Only vaguely bin-like.

Then we got going and I found out it was every bit as fun and exciting as riding an 'otto'! (Not that I have ever done that………)

After that I remembered to tell another friend what had happened.  She asked where we had been.  I said over the lake to Hiranandani.  Apparently she didn't believe this.

"No", she said, "where's ya 'wheelie' bin?"

[Say it loud, and say it fast.  It might help.  Or not... and private too - only me and you!]
____________________________________________________________________________________

I cannot let this day pass without calling out HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the Venerable Lady Victoria of the Baylham Dachsy Barkers; a true and faithful companion to Aitch, who this very day turns 17 !!
....that's like Methuselah in dog years. I think the secret is Love with the capital ell!

Menoysterical - minus [men-oh-iss-tiry-cul my-ness]; the condition of being in frustrated fits

I'll be honest - I saw this cartoon (or one very like it) on the staff notice board of NAB some 15 years ago… when it meant absolutely zip to YAM.

(sourced from internet)

Changed m'tune a bit now.  This turned up on a blog-friend's posting some two or three weeks ago and have been sitting on it wondering; clearly whoever produced the original knew only too well the inside stuff.  What is more, the eternal nature of the symptoms strikes one.  Every woman will experience one or more, (or, if like YAM, all), these tortures and any other variations on the theme.  (I can hear one or two voices commenting on the sleepy bit and pointing out the mention of insomnia throughout this blog… be aware, my sweets, insomnia means "without sleep" - not that one is not sleepy!)

So Menoysterical-minus is the polar opposite of menoysterical.  The rolling about in the aisles is from the agony (do I overstate? - no) and the perverse ecstasy of seeing one's symptoms toyed with by dwarves.

Artist was surely a man.

Which hints at something else.  Menopolyxinaemia is not, in fact, a solitary condition.  No matter how much the sufferer would like to cry that it is.  All around her must deal with the onset of cronehood and duck when the crockery is thrown, second-guess where the butter might be this time and point in the direction of the correct door before a horde of men with zippers down are given the show of their lives.

(Don't ask.)

I said don't... 

Menoloopal [men-oh-loo-pal]; the condition of being sent mental

...going to break the mould a wee bit today and go WHOOPEEE!  Two full months of blogging and it's going well.   Can't complain at the steady interest that is growing - particularly for MENO.  Gratifying and satisfying.

In the end, of course, it is just a visible journal.  Remember that Dear Reader.  YAM merely thinking aloud.  Sometimes crazy as a coot.  Sometimes not.

That's menopolyxinaemia for you.

Please continue to enjoy the roller-coaster with me.  The eagle-eyed and already-regulars will have noted a few changes on the page.  YAM's been tinkering.  Stretching her interwings.  Now you can read about -and see her - on Menothority.  Also, (more for my sake than yours) the Menoctionary page has finally been developed.

Further, I got down to adding labels.  This is a bit ad hoc to say the least.  However, now you can view all similarly themed articles in one hit.  In reverse order only though….   Hmm there's something I could menoloop about.  Would it really be that hard to give the option for oldest post first as is done in the blog listing?  Have I missed something somewhere?

If so let me know - that's what the comments boxes are for!

Got questions?  Ask away.

Got lost on the way to the mezzanine?  I recommend Google maps.

Need help with light bulb that blew?.......... have you been paying attention here?!!

Monday is menosukhi day - the one in which I go all sentimental. For a few weeks this means you are sharing my memories of two darling creatures, Jade Dog MacWoof and Jasper Cat MacMeow.

(Left you hanging last week didn't I?  Sorry about that.  Space and time commitments, as they say in the newsprint biz.)

Jasper didn't turn up for breakfast.  Neither was he there waiting for tea when I returned from college that day.  Jade was more than attentively welcoming and once we'd done all our usual meet, greet and eat routine, she varied the pattern.  Instead of heading out for a sniff round the garden, she kept by my side.  Every now and then she'd go and stand by the back door, sniffing the air.  Then return to be at my feet.

At first I wondered if she'd been traumatised by the rat massacre the night before.  I was still shaking, certainly.  However, she did it a number of times at almost equal intervals (approx 40 minutes) and I began to think she was looking for Jasper.

No doubt she would have picked up on my worry, though I was trying to keep a cool head on it.   However, they were constant companions and obviously she was thinking there was something amiss.  Another storm began, so the plan I was formulating regarding a walk/search was knocked on the head. The early storms in Sydney can be quite frightening even on a normal day - but that was about the time that the freak 'mini cyclone' type storm cells started happening on a regular basis.  It had been since the storm two nights previous that we had not seen him.

I rang the vet, in case anyone had reported sighting him.  I rang the pound.  I rang the local fire station (the one to which the truck belonged that had wondered about Jasper's walking with us).  I stood on the back verandah and called and called and called.

Next morning I took a flyer up to the vet for the noticeboard and stuck several up round the neighbourhood - with Jade's assistance of course.

The vet nurse looked a tad pensive when I told her, then she admitted that the police had warned them there was a spate of catnappings going on in the area.  Not just any and every cat (which may have pointed to the local chop-shop… one Vietnamese place in Sydney's South had been closed down due to misrepresentation of "meat product" improperly appropriated a few months prior to this).

No.  This gang were after pure breeds.  Three Siamese, a Burmese and two Silver Tabbies had gone missing in two weeks.  Now as explained in an earlier post, Jasper was a handsome boy and to the untrained eye would look pure Silver Tabby.  I tried not to panic.

"Did you get my best side?  I can wiggle a whisker if you wish."

Jade fretted.

Then I fretted because she fretted. 

So we fretted together.

By day seven the vet advised it was unlikely, had he simply wandered astray, that he would be returning.  The other scenario was just as cruel to think about.  I took Jade for one enormous walk and we double checked all our established paths, nooks and crannies, calling out (by me) sniffing and whuffing (by both of us).  When we got home that Saturday night I snuggled Jade close, telling her we would have to get on with life in Jasper's absence.  For some reason he had been taken from us but we should remember the good times.

I bawled then and Jade licked the tears away.

During the night there was a truly horrifying storm.  I was having palpitations from it, expecting any moment for the roof to be trashed and the walls to crumble.  Jade had snuck up on the bed beside me - the first time I had allowed that in her 16 months.  Of course it signalled the end of THAT discipline!

Next morning our woes were compounded.  Going out to feed Jet and Flint I found them with their toes pointing skyward.  Quite literally.  Jet was 6 and three quarter years old, which is truly ancient in guinea pig terms but Flint was only about 4 years.  The vet told me that they almost certainly suffered stress from the storm and it was likely to be heart attack.  A common thing in the species. 

The top of the yard developed two little mounds with a jasmine cutting planted over them.

It was cathartic as it turned out.  Jade and I made a ceremony for the two 'wee men' and included Jasper in proceedings, in absentia.  Half an hour after this - Sunday afternoon - the telephone rang.

"Hello, I live two streets up from you and have you found your cat? - I spotted the flyer".  Well, no.  Resigned to not doing so, but thank you for caring.

"Is it possible he would be living in the storm drainage system?  You see, I have a culvert in my yard and there's a wild beast in there resembling the photo on your paper.  My son is getting his welding gloves and goggles to try and lift him out."

Can you imagine my heart at that moment?  I nearly joined the 'wee men'!  I was over to the lady's house in 3 minutes flat having yelled at Jade to guard the house until I came back with her big brother.  

A senior lady, Merry was a delight.  Her son had already been and gone, so I never met him to thank him (not a cat man apparently and not happy at mum's request for assistance!)  She had sacrificed an old towel to assist the rescue and they'd got Jasper into an old bird cage.  It seemed that she had been hearing a cat's voice for about three days but only this sunny Sunday, when putting out the laundry, had she looked down and got the surprise of seeing two bright green eyes looking up at her through the culvert grating!

Merry thought (and I had to agree) that Jasper must have been washed down the storm drain in the side road by the railway during the big storm of 8 days previous.  The water would not have spared him and it is likely a miracle he didn't drown.  Having been swept into the system, he may have become disoriented and unable to retrace the path.  Somehow he had turned the right bend to be in Merry's back yard and had not moved from there - clearly working out that he could be found.

I should point out that during all this conversation, I had not yet lifted the towel to look at Jasper.  The roaring and yowling that was going on plus the tearing and biting of the towel cover told me that it might not be the best thing to do quite yet.  Let him settle I thought to myself.  Merry had put on the kettle (as you do in such situations) and we had our getting to know you and session.

Then there was no delaying any more.

...to be continued (I know, I know!  Forgive me…?)

Don't forget to drop over to BOZO and do take a look at what the cats are upto.

Menoysterical [men-oh-iss-tiry-cul]; the condition of being in fits

Order of Service - courtesy of Our Friend

Tomorrow is the second wedding anniversary of Wills and Kate.

??

You know.  Prince William of Britain and the girl of his dreams?  Now she's well on the way to providing the next heir-in-waiting.

Not interested?  Neither am I all THAT much to be honest.  Aitch is the Royalist and records keeper in our gang.  Always was good with dates and who belonged to whom.  Am not cold-hearted about it.  Simply indifferent.  But I can hold my own on the main characters at least.  There was some wedding that took place in Edinburgh during the two months I was there prior to coming to Mumbai about which, however, I can tell you nothing. 

Aitch came and stayed for a week and entertained us all with her preparations for where she was going to stand and wave her flag.  I took her down the Royal Mile to orientate her and scout out locations.  I have that much interest - but mainly in support of my dear friend's passionate hobby and not necessarily of the actors in the play.

That I recall the W&K event is due not to my YAMarazzi side.  Rather, it is to the connection with another of our ex-school circle.  It is a matter of public domain, so I am free to report it, but also cannot, in this instance, feign any kind of "privacy naming", due to the available internet offerings.  You see, there was a flurry of reporting on the matter of a pair of shoes.

Not shoes exactly.  More your soft-wear sneaker-like variety.

The Royal-watchers amongst you will already be onto it.  OOHHH that…

She it was who produced the weekly comic at school, incurring both delight and wrath, having a wicked sense of humour and a good eye for the ridiculous.  She hasn't lost that I may tell you - now it was usefully directed towards herself and she took the whole podiatry incident in her stride.  One thing that arose from the public interest in the pros and cons of foot comfort for a middle-aged nun was the surprise folk showed in discovering the Anglican church even had nuns.   I got over that amazement some 30 years ago when Our Friend stunned us all by announcing her calling.  

Rich and Delicious - a bit like the couple!

So you see, I am far from being the first of our lot to entertain spiritual commitment at a high level.  (If I drop in here that Aitch is a church warden, you will understand a little more of our group 'nature').

What I would like to share with you today though, is the little gathering that took place when I arrived at Aitch's home as first point of call on my return to UK.  A Royal tea party no less.  The table was laid with the Royal Albert china service and several varieties of cake.  Present were Aitch, YAM, Our Friend the Nun and, host, The Kook.  It was the first time in over 30 years I had come face to face with the latter two.  But as it is with old connections of this sort, we felt easy and comfy.

Our Friend the Nun, though, had brought a special contribution.  She had not mentioned to Aitch until we got there as she knew it might cause some fireworks!  Quite wise.  In fact, The Kook had not planned quite so lavish a do, but as soon as it was announced we had Royal Wedding Cake to consume, out came the china!!  As for Aitch.  The excitement was something to behold. 

The hand was ALMOST steady...

When someone we hold dear is in a state of joy, we benefit.  Love and goodwill spreads like water in a flood.  That Our Friend had held onto this prize with exactly this date of meeting in mind says a great deal for her character and loyalty also.  It was not just that she was a lady of the cloth.  It was that she thought of who would most appreciate the sharing.

Croc-style.

We were a gaggle of school-girls again for a short while, all the years and experiences were nought in the face of a shared and valued moment.  There was giggling and joking and reminiscing and all-in-all we were rather menoysterical. 

  ...It is one of the delights of being in a mostly reverent state that one can break out and be - just a little bit - irreverent, from time to time.

 So to complete the scene, allow me to share with you the footwear of Our Friend on leave from the convent.

                          Ahhh.  Good times.  YAM xxx