ADRIENNE'S HIV BLOG – Hivine's Weblog

HIVINE is written by HIV positive women but still with a sense of humour

Archive for January, 2010

Poker Face

 
After my last blog I received many touching messages of support and also helpful advice on how to combat depression. For example Viv suggests soaking in a long leisurely bath with a bar of chocolate as opposed to a bar of soap and even taking a bar as in bottle of wine in with you, whereas Willo talks about bird baths (or maybe it was feeders?).
 
Anyway, I decided to take their advice, without the nuts and strings of bacon fat and pamper myself. Fortunately, I have a surfeit of bathing products resulting from my sixtieth birthday and Christmas, enough to last me for years, in fact the numerous jars of wrinkle cream I received (I can take a hint) will probably outlive me.
 
The question was which bath stuff to indulge myself in? I finally plumped for the ‘Soap and Glory’ range the brand that makes my ‘mother plucker’ lip plumper. Their other products also have name play titles such as ‘Butter yourself up’ body lotion, or ‘do your own flirty work’ moisturising mist and of course the ‘Fill monty’ dab on instant wrinkle filler. After an initial soak, as directed, I first used the ‘flake away’ body polish. These polishing products contain hundreds of tiny particles of grape seed or crushed avocado nuts or whatever other seeds or nuts they choose to crush, or maybe just plain grit (so that’s why they ran out?). This stubborn residue refused to be washed off and stayed stuck to my body like sand from the beach, leaving me feeling like I’d been pebble dashed.
 
I think ‘Soap and Glory’ need to come up with a de gritting product – ‘De gritter British public,’ for example or ‘Grit Britain’, which is what the snow ploughs should have done instead of leaving us all snowbound for weeks.
 
That day I was depressed was apparently the most depressing day of the year.
 
How predictable of me.
 
But at least it was good to know I wasn’t suffering on my own. Grumpy Luis who is now back in Ibiza after his Christmas sojourn on my sofa is also feeling depressed.

Hello? or maybe I should say Hola?

How can you be depressed in Ibiza? But according to him everyone is deprimida (Spanish for pissed off) and blaming it on the creesis, “All people in Ibeeeza talking bout creeeesis, everyone in creesis, bars in creeesis, Luis in creesis, whole world in creeesis.”

Well, I didn’t want to listen to anymore of that, so I decided to play the new CD by a popular Spanish band Luis had bought me for Christmas, only to find one of the songs was about bloody creesis. Luis right, even Spanish bands in creesis, even had creesis por el chulo (pronounced cool o) Chulo means bottom. Imagine singing about a creesis in your bottom, although anyone taking HIV meds will be well used to that. I have creesis in my sheets because I am too lazy to iron them. I have creesis in my face when I get up in the morning, but unfortunately I can’t take the iron to them, but if there was any way….?

My son has taken to playing online poker. All I can hear all night is ping ping ping as he places his bets. The sound is invading my dreams. He sits there till morning sometimes with his new pingo as opposed to bingo obsession, wearing his poker face even though no one can see him. The definition of a ‘poker face’ is the bland expression adopted by a poker shark determined not to betray the value of his hand. To be honest, my son’s poker face isn’t much different to his normal face, especially if I’m asking typical mother like questions. I think he’d better take it easy staring at that screen, otherwise he’ll end up seeing poker dots in front of his eyes.

Talking of p p p p poker faces Lady Ga Ga herself recently paid a surprise visit to Body Positive in Manchester. Unfortunately I wasn’t there that particular day because Lady Ga Ga holds a strange and perverse fascination for me. I loved that huge surreal bath she was wheeled in for The Royal Variety Performance in front of the Queen. Shame it wasn’t a toilet then she could have had a Royal flush.

I am not a one for card games especially poker, as my face always gives me away. Poker? no she wasn’t my type. The only poker I’m likely to have in my hand is one to attack the fire with. I do love a good poke now and then. In fact, my sister once wrote a poem about me.

Two sisters went to live ont moors, they planned to take their share oft chores, till one found out her ‘arts desire, was just to sit and poke tut fire.

But sadly I no longer have a fire to poke anymore – and you can take that any way you want. If only I was an Indian squaw like pokerhontas I could sit outside my wig wam (thank you maam) and poke to my hearts content. But as for sending smoke signals – I am seriously trying to cut down. Pokerhontas was an Indian princess and supposedly a virgin, but her name in the powhaton language means Little Wanton, which I think is just outside Preston close to Wanton le Dale. Hiawatha on the other hand sounds like a remote village in Yorkshire. Indian names tend to be descriptive of what you do, Big Chief Running Water, for instance, or Running Bear, which I did after my bath. My HIV support group Thrivine is giving a ‘Taking the ‘T’ out of Stigma’ party. Maybe we should have a ‘Taking the ‘Tee Pee’ out of stigma party instead, because that’s what everyone will be doing after drinking so much tea.

Although I was a dancer in my time, as in ballet, tap and flamenco, I have never actually danced the poker. I’m quite good at pokercrastination though – especially in regard to paying off my credit card bills. Not to mention being a counsellor and pokering around in other peoples business. You can understand why I’m not currently practising!

Anyway, as you can see I have cheered up a bit and thank you all for your kind concern. They say the country is emerging from financial crisis so maybe that has got something to do with it, although I wish I could say the same about my own financial crisis. I hope this blog doesn’t find any of you in crisis – aside from hopefully with laughter.

 

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Daisy Roots

 
Hate it hate it hate it – hate January. It’s always the same, the black dog gets me. That’s what Churchill used to call his depression. Mine is called HIV and at the moment its got me up against the wall. HIV is the rottweiler, the pit bull of depression and just like a pit bull, it attacks with the bite release, bite release principle. Sometimes it lets me escape but not for long. I’m always on the run – some days I can manage to put some distance between us, but right now it’s got me cornered and is snarling its ferocious teeth at me.
 
Like all predators, HIV is a big bully and waits for the opportune moment to pounce, such as now, when I’m suffering from the after Christmas blues, overspending and the miserable weather – and now the snow has melted there is no excuse to stay in anymore and shut myself away from the world.
 
“So sorry, can’t make colpooscuppy, colthuscapoppy colcuscposcopy appointment this morning,” I lie to nurse on the phone, “Can’t even say it, lips frozen, snowed in, can’t get out of thouse (that’s Lancashire for house) thousebound don’t you know.”
 
She didn’t, “Roads clear at hospital,” nurse informs me coldly, her lips obviously frozen too. Truth was I simply couldn’t face it, too depressed for camera exploration of my nether regions – nether regions impassable today.
 
Back to bed, but rottweiler or bullydog won’t let me. Churchill was known as the British Bulldog and he used to build brick walls in an attempt to combat his depression, maybe to keep the black dog out? But for me HIV is the wall – my prison wall and today is just another brick in that wall.
 
Is HIV a male or female bully think to self – hmmmm, was bullied by husband, but was also bullied at school by big fat girl who sat on me under lamppost. Can still see her yellow face sneering down at me. Looked a bit like Dawn French (sorry Dawn) my dad had to come and rescue me. Miss my dad – miss my mum, want her to bring me some Heinz tomato soup with ducks in. Luckily still have my sis but she gone back to Holland now – no walls in Holland only dykes. She called me on phone – put metaphorical finger in my dyke of depression, but still about to leak and overflow.
 
What to do? Some retail therapy perhaps in form of the January sales – go down town, first pop in to bank only to find was hideously overdrawn. Cannot be right – print out out again. Shouldn’t have signed up for new computer or ordered some more glasses.
 
But new glasses essential as was throwing bread to a plastic bag on the iced over canal the other day, quacking at it, swearing at stupid ruddy duck in an attempt to wake it up, thinking it had frozen to death. It might not have been a ruddy duck (wasn’t any kind of duck was plastic bag!) am not that well up on breeds of ducks, but there are some ruddy ducks up north apparently, who according to wikipedia came over from America to the west midlands but have since spread further north and are now endangering the Spanish white-headed duck by mating with their female senorita ducks.
 
There was the much reported case a few years back about the hundred ruddy ducks who had taken up residence in Wigan and who at the request of the Spanish Government were facing the death penalty.
 
Well, that was a bit extreme wasn’t it, they can’t blame the ruddy ducks for wanting to have a bit of a holiday romance – they don’t mind us British tourists having a holiday fling with their ruddy Spanish waiters, do they, in fact it’s almost obligatory.
 
However, the warmer weather in England, even up here in the frozen north, has resulted in the ruddy ducks as well as the ruddy package holiday tourists breeding closer to home, so another good thing about global warming you can tell that Jeremy Clarkson who’s always going on about it.
When a ruddy duck mates it raises two tufts of feathers on his head, cocks his tail, inflates the air sack in his neck and drums on it with his bill, making lots of bubbles and an impressive hollow noise – sounds like a good description of Jeremy Clarkson to me.
 
A ruddy duck in Italian is called a Gobbo Rugginoso Americano, change the nationality to British Gobbo and you’ve also got a fitting description of Mr Top Gear himself. On saying that I love Top Gear and once had an erotic dream about Jeremy much to the disgust of my cousin Viv of ‘Viv Lives’ fame.
 
Putting my mind to global issues and off Jeremy’s gear stick I thought I’d better tackle the mountain of rubbish and recycling as the ruddy bin men obviously weren’t going to. They haven’t been since before Christmas and we’ve been playing bin hokey kokey for weeks, putting it out and taking it back in – you put your rubbish bin out…. your rubbish bin in…. in out… in out and shake it all about (all over the street usually).
 
Went to the ginnel (Lancashire for back passage – no pun intended) where my bins are ‘thoused’ only to find my back patio, as opposed to my back passage, under four inches of muddy water after the torrential rain last night which caused all the snow to melt. The drain was blocked thanks to all the overflowing recycling bags and the water poised like a waiting tsunami. Nothing for it but to roll up sleeves and get the plunger out – but plunger very small and drain very big. Bail out with mop bucket, toss water over already waterlogged flower beds washing all spring bulbs away. Filled boot of car with dripping stinky rubbish bags and off to recycling centre to find the whole world and his black dog (maybe everyone depressed like me) with the same idea, hurling bags left right and centre.
New therapy, rubbish as opposed to caber tossing, it was great, singing to self – my old man’s a dustman… he wears a dustman’s hat… he wears gor blimey trousers and lives in council flat… he looks a proper nana in his great big hob nail boots… he has such a job to pull them up that he calls them daisy roots.
On subject of roots must go to thairdressers (Lancashire for hairdressers) as my daisy roots are desperately in need of attention. Would make me feel like new woman or new dustbin woman – never heard of dustbin woman have you? Alas, cannot afford thairdressers, will have to try to do it self with moustache bleaching cream and some tin foil. But no tin foil – foiled again, will grit teeth and go to Lidl to pay penance for overspending at Christmas. Buy recycled toilet rolls in name of economy and chicken so small looked like bloated sparrow. Least not a ruddy duck, although duck breasts were on offer. Got quite a lot for my money at Lidl have to say, I am impressed. Will become a Lidl-ite, “oh ying tang lidl-ite to.”
See it’s worked, feel more like old self – oh dear, shouldn’t have said old. Have to go back to bed now and start all over again.
 
 

 

 
 
 
 

'The Secret Garden' copyright Adrienne Seed

 

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Out with the Old

 
A very snowy New Year but who cares, I have a new love in my life to keep me warm. My old love is now redundant and cast aside like the empty cracker tubes and Christmas wrapping paper. Well, the time had come, we’d been through a lot together over the last ten years but it was time to move on. We’d been driving each other mad and one of us had to go.
 
I never intended it to end in this cruel and abrupt manner but I received an offer I simply couldn’t refuse. What’s more I could take my new love home with me that very night and best of all, unlike my old love who was becoming a financial liability, I didn’t have to pay a penny for him – well, at least for the next six months.
 
I took my new love home with me that very night and we’ve been getting on like a house on fire ever since. My new love is a joy to be with and is so easy to turn on and somehow knows instinctively just what to do to please me and aside from that does exactly what I say. I don’t have to curse and swear anymore or hang around waiting for this one to boot himself up. I feel regenerated and can’t wait to wake up in the morning to turn him on and play with him and each new day is a day of discovery and delight.
 
My new love is called Sony although to be honest I would have preferred his mate Mac, but he was too expensive and according to those in the know, more moody and difficult to manage, an arty type and past experience has taught me to stay well away from those. Sony and I are still in the throes of young love and not really aware yet of each others faults and failings. I did make a pledge that I wouldn’t smoke in the same room as him as I would no longer be suffering from the stress and frustration my old love caused me, but that’s gone by the by of course. However, I think Sony understands my human failings and weaknesses, anyway he has to as I am the boss in this new relationship and intend to keep it that way. I do regularly tell him how much I love him though and sing our special song to him – “Sony, yesterday my life was filled with rain, now the dark days are gone when I log on, Sony oh so true, I love you.”
 
My new Sony toy boy lives side by side with old Sony, but although he’s no longer needed I can’t bring myself to throw him out on the street or recycle him. He’s been too much a part of my past and knows too much about me. Anyway, he might come in useful for something I suppose as ex lovers (as opposed to ex husbands) often can. My blog headers might be a tad boring for a while until Sony toy boy and I get to know each other a bit better as at the moment we are still in the experimental stage of our relationship. But unless the bailiffs are called in for non payment or I have to take him back where I found him (Comet), you can expect new and exciting things from us working together as a team. We will put our heads together and continue to raise HIV awareness and fight stigma and hopefully sometimes make you laugh in the process.
 
So here’s to the New Year, a new love albeit only cyber love and computing happily ever after – and not forgetting Comet of course!