The Dentist of Doom and the Very Bad Cat

It’s been busy lately. Good busy. I’m feeling good, my physical health is improving. Things are going well.

But that’s not to say there haven’t been a few dramas.

Remember The Tooth That Broke Me? Well, I got that fixed. If by fixing the problem, I mean removing it completely. I finally plucked up the courage to go to the Dentist of Doom. I don’t mean a particular dentist. Pretty much any dentist, in my experience, means doom. Quite frankly, I’d rather have a colonoscopy than go to the dentist. I can say that I’ve had plenty of colonoscopies recently, and at least you are asleep, and they bring you a sandwich afterwards. All you get at the dentist is a lecture on flossing and hefty bill.

Anyway I went along, the dentist took some x-rays then informed me rather sombrely that the tooth was not viable. It was badly cracked at the base, couldn’t be fixed, and needed to come out. She could refer me to  Specialist So and So, but he would probably say the same thing and it would be super expensive.

So, playing it cool and casual, I told her: “Ok. I’m happy for it to be taken out.”
“Yep, I can do that now.” she said, grabbing some of her scary looking tools.
“What? NOW?!” I squeaked, horrified. This was totally not the plan. The plan was to smile, walk out that door, and NEVER EVER RETURN.
“Sure. It should be pretty simple, and will save you coming back.” I caught sight of a gargantuan needle. I wept.
“Ok…but…NOW?!” I started to hyperventilate. Then I started apologising and rabbiting on about how I was nervous and didn’t like dentists. Then I realised that I was saying this to a dentist and apologised some more. I think I basically talked as much as possible so she couldn’t get her hands, or her scary tools, in my mouth. Fortunately she had a good sense of humour.

Peer pressure won, and I did it. I sat back in the chair of doom, squeezed my eyes shut, thought of England, and let her whip that goddamn tooth out. Afterwards I sat up, feeling quite pleased with myself, and slurred a version of “Well, that wasn’t too bad!”

Then I promptly passed out, and they had to call Hubster to pick me up. So much for cool and casual.

And this is why I don’t like the dentist.

We also finished renovations on our old house. Long story short, it was a family effort and took many months. We finally had the new carpet laid. New tenants were due to move in within a few weeks. All was under control.

But of course, this is my family. Where things are never as they seem. And things are rarely under control.

Hubster, Master D and I went for a relaxing stroll one evening, and we passed the old house. We decided to have a peek through the windows at the new carpet. As we were looking through Hubster suddenly exclaims..

“Rachael. There’s a POO in there! On the new carpet!”
“Oh har har har.” I retorted. “Very funny.”
“No, Rachael. I’m serious. There is POO all over it!”

I was about to roll my eyes, when he suddenly jumped over the back fence to let himself in the back door. Like a boss. Then I knew he was serious. I looked in the window again, and to my absolute horror Hubster was right. Crap. Crap everywhere.

At first I was really confused. I mean, the house had been locked up for weeks. The only people who had been in were the agent and the carpet layers. I came to the conclusion  that the carpet layer must have taken a dump on his new flooring. Which wasn’t entirely unreasonable, as we found he had had some sort of colon explosion in the main toilet and neglected to clean it up. And call me sexist; but I figured that most female, twenty something, blonde, highly attractive estate agents don’t shit on carpets.

Then we heard a pitiful meow.

Turned out my sisters cat had somehow, God knows how, gotten locked in the house. Why? We’ll never know. How? We can but imagine. My sister lives next door, but the cat had never been to our house before. Out of all the rooms in the entire house – most of which were tiled – he chose the new carpet as his toilet. How do these things even happen. What the hell man?!

Me being me, I started laughing. Because what else can you do really? Then the agent called and was all “this is going to sound really strange….but the new tenants were having a look in the house, and they said there is a cat in there…” and I laughed even more. I’m still laughing to be honest.

I’m happy to report that all carpets remain unscathed. No animals were harmed (although this was touch and go) and the tenants are still moving in.

He's not sorry.

He’s not sorry.

Seriously. Not sorry at all.

Seriously. Not sorry at all.

And this is why I’m a dog person.

Christmas Dress Up…Doggy Style

So the other day I was looking for something in my Mum’s study. And I came across this somewhat disturbing artifact:


I may have laughed until I nearly threw up. But once I stopped, I gotta say, it was a bit of a shock. I knew these kind of things existed. You just never expect it to be in your family. 

But then I thought…hey…who am I to judge? Christmas time is the one time of the year where I feel strangely compelled to dress up my dog and take ridiculous photos. It is my Christmas tradition. Piss off the dog. Laugh at the photos. (Relax. No animals are harmed. Monsiour Bark-a-lot is tortured for all of 30 seconds and then given a bone for his troubles). Truth be told I’d probably dress Master D up as well if he was still young enough accept all clothes choices I didn’t give him. Hell, sometimes I even dress myself up. But hey, we won’t go into that. Back to the matter at hand. Dogs.

Sadly, the Monsiour’s traditional reindeer horns (ok. ANTLERS, as Master D always has to correct me) had gone missing. So I lent him my Christmas hat which I thought was exceedingly generous seeing as he probably has fleas, and I probably don’t.

As always, as soon as I put the hat on him he started getting all wild. The situation was not helped by both my Mum’s dogs barking at him and trying to attack him, clearly saying “What the hell, man! Red is NOT your colour!” So, all I got was this photo, where it looks like I’m the handler of some kind of rabid beast with a vaguely disproportionate tail size (Monsiour bark-a-lot would now like to inform you that his tail is both of adequate size and functionality).


So I asked again nicely. And he was all “Dude…do I HAVE to? This happens every year!”

And I was like “Seriously. Last week during a family dinner you ran away. I chased you for fifteen minutes around the street, in a dress, in full view of our neighbours who I only ever seem to converse with in passing while I am chasing you. You tried to get into someone else’s house. You peed on my neighbours letterbox. It was only when I threw my hands in the air and gave up that you finally returned. Then you barked at the front door to be let in, took a giant dump on the doorstep and ran off again. You owe me one, buddy. Big time.”

So he let me take the photo. Another happy Christmas snap.

I hate you.

I hate you.

But I didn’t stop there. A few days later at Kmart I saw a doggy elf suit for only $5. Which I thought was a bargain, because let’s face it, you can’t put a price on doggy elf suits.

I tried it on, and he actually seemed to kind of like it. He kept proudly stretching with this kind of “come hither” expression on his face. Maybe elf costumes are like the dog version of “suiting up”. So I managed to get this photo of him, which, if you could see under his killer eyebrows, you would notice him staring serenely into middle distance.


Of course I did find him later trying to maul the costume in a particularly vicious manner. So who knows what dogs think.

Happy Holidays from the slightly eccentric Finding My Sunshine family!

The Humour in Hot Dogs

The following is an actual conversation Hubster and I had over dinner.

Hubster: You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?
Me: Human evolution and the world in general.
H: Oh boy, here we go. Dare I ask?
Me: Well. I was just thinking about how in the animal kingdom when animals show their teeth it is, like, a really threatening thing to do. It’s like “Back of Buster. Get your paws off my mate you filthy son of a saber.”
H: Well…yeah…
Me: But in human society we literally BARE our teeth when we meet people through smiling. Don’t you think that is kind of sinister? It’s like…am I pleased to see you or is that a gun in my pocket? Am I smiling, or am I about to rip your head off? Who can tell?
H: Well, aside from the fact that unless you are a character out of Buffy you generally don’t attack people with your teeth.
Me: Hmmm. Very true. We attack with fists and weapons. I guess if I met someone and immediately adopted a Kung Fu pose that would be pretty threatening.
H: If YOU met someone and immediately adopted a Kung Fu pose it would be pretty amusing. Threatening? Not so much.
Me: I’m a lover not a fighter.
H: I’ll remind of you that next time I leave the toilet seat up.

* friendly contemplative silence*

Me: And then, of course, there is the whole tail conundrum.
H: Do I want to know?
Me: Well, if you had a tail what type would you have?
H: I don’t have a tail.
Me: But if you did. What type? Would you like a long bushy one? A curly one like a pig? One of those weird flap things sheep have? In a world with no limits…what’s your ideal tail?
H: Not having a tail?
Me: You cannot tell me that you’ve lived your entire life and never thought about your hypothetical tail.
H: I haven’t.
Me: Well as a deep thinking type, I’ve given it some thought and I really feel the monkey tail would be best for me. It would be like having three hands. Master D could hang on to it while I hold the shopping bags in the other hands. I could be chopping up an onion while simultaneously opening the oven door with my tail.
H: Well, I’m glad you have given it some thought.
Me: So. What’s your tail type?
H: Not having a tail?
Me: You’re only saying that because you KNOW it would be a pigs tail.
H: Sigh.
Me: But just think, if we did have tails, so many things would be different.
H: Our butts?
Me: Well yeah. But I meant, wow, our pants and chairs would have to have tail holes. We’d probably need to go to the “Tail dresser” to maintain our good looks. There would be whole sections of Cosmopolitan magazine holding debates on “What do men prefer? The waxed or natural tail?”.
H: Oh God…
Me: And think about it. Would what if you met someone you didn’t like, you would have to FORCE your tail to wag, even though it instinctively wanted to droop. Forget table manners, we’d teach our kids “Tail Manners”. “Kids! Stop pulling each others tails!”. “I don’t care what you think of Great Aunt Edna, Jimmy. When you see her give her a hug and wag your tail!” Really it would be one more aspect of your life to try and control. It’s probably a good thing we don’t have tails.
H: Well, I’m glad that’s sorted then.

*Approximately 10 seconds of silence*

Me: I do have a very important question for you though.
H: Go on.
Me: What would you do if your willy caught fire?
H: *Drops silverware. Covers eyes. Makes noise akin to a cow giving birth*
Me: Well?
H: You know what. I don’t even have a response for that question. How would that even HAPPEN in the first place –
Me: Unfortunate barbequeing accident? Sausage mix up?

H: – and I wish you wouldn’t call it a “willy”…you know what. no. Got nothing.
Me: Well you’re just no fun.
H: For not wanting to think about my nether regions being fried?
Me: We live in a country that hails the barbecue. It is an important issue.
H: We can never just have normal conversations can we?
Me: You wouldn’t have married me if you wanted normal.
H: I think that is the only thing you have said tonight that has made any sense.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is putting up with your wife and her inane drivel…

…and putting up with your husband when he just doesn’t see the humour in hot dogs.


Personalising your Lavatory, and the Legend of the Poo Bucket

It’s official. The Christmas decorations are out.


You can probably guess what type of person I am.

Having said that; the one very exciting aspect of Christmas was delivered straight to our door yesterday afternoon. That’s right people: The Home Care Catalogue: Christmas Edition.

The Home Care Catalogue is always one of my guilty pleasures. Sitting down with a coffee to read about the latest innovations and imagining the inventors at the Dragons Den always amuses me. But the Christmas Edition is something truly special. This year there was such a fantastic array of items featured that I suggested to my family that we all pick something out of the catalogue for each others christmas presents. They were surprisingly unenthusiastic, but still crowded around pointing out “Look at the motorised gardening buggy!” and “I totally need one of those Holy Bible USB drives!”

Given the calibre of the selection, it was incredibly difficult. But I have decided to stray from my usual topic of mental health today, to personally present a few of my favourite catalogue items to you. So here they are. In no particular order of fabulousness.

You’re welcome.

First up. Toilet Decals!

wpid-20141022_204057.jpgWhile I have never seen my lavatory as an object of decoration, there is always time for something new! This particular design reminds me of a birthday many years ago, when our good friend Jack asked Steven and I for a  golden toilet seat. And a private jet. In that order.

While the jet was somewhat difficult to obtain, we did manage to fulfil Jack’s desire of a golden throne. A quick trip to Bunnings, one standard toilet seat, and some gold spray paint later Jack could now rest his posterior in a princely fashion. But THIS toilet seat decal could take the DIY out of DIY. No having to explain to the staff member why you need the spray paint. And for under $50. Who could resist?

Next up….a more comfortable throne.


I have never known a gift magazine to contain so many lavatorial items. But I actually had an epiphany when I saw this. I realised that  humans vary in size and stature….but (aside from the minuture toilets you find in daycare centres) TOILETS ARE ALL THE SAME SIZE.

Thats, like, discrimination against the non – average. I’m a tall person. (Not freakishly tall, I hasten to add, but I can tend to look like a 12 year old boy at the end of a school year if I don’t buy the “Tall” sized pants). This lavatorial add on could make an actual difference to my life. To all tall people’s lives! And the convenient portable nature of the seat is a total win.

I’m sensing somewhat of a lavatorial theme here. And this next item is no exception, although it is less of a promotion and more of  a cautionary tale.

wpid-20141022_211145.jpgFor the love of God, DO NOT purchase this Dog Poo Waste Terminator.

My parents  were often trying to come up with innovative ways to dispose of our doggy dung. The time they decided to feed the poo to our worm farm being another example (Fail. Worms died). However the Poo Bucket incident was undoubtedly the most disastrous of these occasions, and has  become the stuff of family legend.

The purpose of the Poo Bucket is to add your poo (well, not yours, the dogs) to a mix of chemicals and it is supposed to, I don’t know, melt the poo, transform it into mulch, or fertiliser, or ice cream, or something.

Anyway all our poo transformed into was a molten, steaming, brown liquid that smelled SO bad that we couldn’t actually use the side of yard where the bucket was housed for the best part of a year. I am not even exaggerating. Even flies expired if they strayed into Poo Bucket Territory.

You have to understand. The smell of the Poo Bucket was so indescribably revolting. So gut wrenchingly putrid. And I’m stating this as a mother, dog owner, former childcare worker, and individual with recurrent gastrointestinal distress who should really have “Adept at dealing with bodily functions” inscribed onto my resume.

For the most part our policy of dealing with the Poo Bucket was “out of smell, out of mind.” But Dad pulled the short straw on the morning of twenty first birthday party, dry retching as he ran with the Poo Bucket, trying to find a suitable spot where the bucket could neither be smelled or sighted by guests. We totally didn’t watch and laugh.

But even after hiding the evidence, the core problem still remained. A large bucket of molten poo is surprisingly difficult to get rid of. Eventually, out of desperation my parents ended up dealing with the Poo Problem by digging a large hole underneath our lime tree.

On the up side, our limes did very well.

And now, I’ve truly saved the best for last…

wpid-20141022_210117.jpgA realistic model Bigfoot for your garden. Seriously. Who WOULDN”T want this gracing their front lawn. It’s “Fascinating”. It’s also only 52cm tall because, admittedly, a life-size Bigfoot would just be going too far, Rachael.  If you are my Secret Santa this year you totally know what to get me.

Happy Home Care: Christmas Edition!