Wednesday, February 14, 2018

The end of an era

Photo by Jamie Templeton on Unsplash
I keep randomly bursting in to tears.

"So what's new?" I hear you ask.

Yeah, I admit, I cry over bloody everything (except my kids starting school for some reason). But these last few days I have been in floods of tears as it is the last week I will ever live in this house. We are saying goodbye to Casa de Glow.

While we will still technically own it for a month or so (anyone wanna buy it?), we are bidding a very fond farewell to a home that is full of so many memories.

The memories are not just these past eleven years that we have lived here, they go back much further.

See, the house our children were brought home to, and took their first steps in, is also the house I was brought home to and took my first steps in. I will go so far as to say the house my kids were conceived in is also the same house I was conceived in... and now you have that visual in your head, you're welcome. Ew.

My parents built this house in the 1970s, and when we moved out in the 1980s they kept it as a rental property. Thanks, War Services Home Loans.

When MG and I were looking to purchase our first house, my Dad suggested we buy this place off them. In all its 70s glory; purple tiles, yellow benchtops, and brown wallpaper. So we did. It wasn't the best house, and it wasn't in the best suburb, but it was going to be a foot in the real estate door.

I have memories of birthday parties here; of playing bicycle taxis in the backyard; of Santa coming up the street every year and throwing lollies from the back of a ute; of first day of school photos being taken in the backyard; of sitting on my Nanna's lap at the dining table; being with my other grandparents outside at Christmas. Sure there are some not so fabulous memories, but the passage of time has firmly cemented rose coloured glasses over them.

Over the years we remodelled the whole place. It no longer looks like it does in my memories. Firstly, we ripped out the kitchen and bathroom to put in a more functional (and yes, waaaay more aesthetically pleasing version). We overhauled the bedroom with a fully customised his and hers walk in wardrobe with hidden shoe storage that would make many a clotheshorse foam at the mouth.

Then four years ago, we added a major extension. We got the call telling us of our final council approval as I was labouring in the dining room (though I didn't think I was in labour at the time), and the bobcats rolled in when Bobbin was only four days old.

The little cupboard sized house with cardboard box sized bedrooms was transformed in to an open plan home with generous bedrooms, an extra bathroom (complete with bathtub so big I could almost float in it), toilet, and a walk in linen cupboard that was the envy of everyone who saw it... and a lot of people saw it because I would squeal "YOU HAVE TO SEE MY LINEN CUPBOARD!" whenever we had visitors. You know you're an adult when you place a high value on a fabulous linen cupboard.

We added a massive patio. And I mean massive. Because the house was still technically small (although it now felt huge to us!), the patio became an outdoor room. The kids would be out there no matter what the weather was like because it offered so much protection, and with the big screen MG installed, it was the perfect place for outdoor movies nights with friends and neighbours.

Bit by bit we transformed the back yard with turf, veges, natives and trees that are now established and bearing tonnes of fruit. We poured our hearts, souls, sweat (mostly MG's), tears (mostly mine) and a fuck tonne of money in to this place. And now we're leaving.

My mind swirls so continuously these days I'm reaching for sea sickness tablets. Was it a waste to renovate this place? Are we making a terrible mistake by moving? What privileged worries I have.

But I keep packing. Because, well, it's a bit bloody late to change our minds now with settlement due, oh, TOMORROW!

I am not the only one who is sentimental about crap like this, but I've never done anything quite as momentous selling my childhood home, so other than stopping to have a cry every now and then, I'm not sure what else I can do. Any suggestions, including taking a teaspoon of cement, would be most welcome.

For now, I'll keep packing, and keep my fingers crossed that after complaining right now about how I'm sad to sell it, that it will actually sell fast! So, um, yeah, anyone wanna buy a house?

Friday, February 9, 2018

Good Vibes

I try not to embarrass my kids too much when it comes to the online world. I'm very aware they have not signed up to be "blog kids", so I have always tried to not share things that could come back to haunt them. Having said that, I'm all for an embarrassing story or two that would not increase the chance of them being bullied or influence a future employer (one of the reasons my two have online monikers). Though I'm not sure if this is more embarrassing for Bobbin or me...

Tricky and Bobbin are now of an age where they don't need 24/7 supervision, and I must say, it's lovely to have come to the light at the end of the high dependency tunnel. I can go to the toilet and not worry she's climbed on top of the four wheel drive like she did when she was just about to turn two. I can do some work in the study and not have to stop to wipe a bum.

So after MG and I had a particularly late Saturday night a few weeks ago we thought we could just stay in bed on Sunday morning and let the kids entertain themselves. I mean, what could they possibly get up to?

Famous last words. Here's what went down:

I was in bed, my eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep and I could hear the kids playing. In my memory of this, my hair falls in tendrils around my serene face as the slightest smile plays on my lips, and I dream about running in to Chris Hemsworth at the shops and having a chat (because in my dream we're old friends). In reality my face was smooshed on the pillow, with a little puddle of drool, and my hair looking like a bird nest.

They were playing so nicely and I was thinking of how, in that very moment, life was pretty good. I love recognising those little times. The boring moments that are somehow magical because I'm surrounded by the people (MG, Tricks and Bobbin) and things (my bed) I love.

After about an hour or so I thought I should probably get up. Again, in my memory it's like a movie. I stretch lightly and slip out of bed, placing a silk dressing gown around me. In reality, I yawn so wide my jaw cracks, my eyes are puffy and I am wearing an old, stained maternity singlet with one boob threatening to pop out (and not in a good way). And right now I'm wondering how on earth the romance is still alive in my relationship.

I headed to our bathroom and found Bobbin looking at herself in the mirror, pretending to put makeup on with my brushes.

"Oooh what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm a famous singer, I'm getting ready for another concert. I'm Libby" she said, referencing a LEGO Friends movie.

"Excellent. Can't wait to hear it, Bobbin."

She glared at me.

"Sorry, I meant Libby!"

Appeased, she continued on as I leaned over to give her a kiss on top of her head. When I stood up I noticed that our towels had been taken off the rail and were in a pile on the floor.

"What happened to my towels?" I asked, still half asleep.

"I couldn't get the microphone to stop buzzing so I covered it." she replied.


No. No. No. No. NO!

I knew exactly what this meant.

Immediately wide awake, I lifted the towels to find the still-buzzing star of the aforementioned late night for MG and I: my, ahem, "body massager".

My sweet, innocent Bobbin had been pretending to be a purple haired LEGO rockstar, singing in to my vibrator for god knows how long. In her defence, it really does look like a microphone.

I had accidentally left it on our bathroom sink after washing it and then passing out asleep the night before, so there is the tiniest sliver of a silver lining here in that it was at least squeaky clean.

I switched it off, mumbling something about how it must be broken and I'll get rid of it. So far, she hasn't asked for her 'microphone' back and I'm hoping it stays that way!

Have your kids ever found something they shouldn't have? 

Friday, February 2, 2018

Arbonne 30 Days To Healthy Living Review

I was gifted this program, but the review is impartial

I got to trial the Arbonne 30 Days to Healthy Living program in November and as with everything I do, I'm going to share it all with you. Because oversharing is my thing. As with any review it's straight up truth, so you'll find me talking about things I loved... and the things that I didn't.

My consultant, the lovely Angie, contacted me on a day when I'd just inhaled a standard Glow-sized serving of chocolate. Which translates to an entire block. Because why buy a Mars bar for $1.50 when I can get an entire block for $2.50, amiright? 

I looked down at my gut, and though I'm feeling pretty good about what my body is doing lately (all that martial arts is making me stronger and my mindfulness training is helping with chronic pain), this belly fat that hangs over my pants is more than just a muffin top. It's a bit of a bakery top. It means my hip to waist ratio is all buggered and that is associated with a higher risk of heart attack and stroke. 

With smudgy chocolate fingers I typed out my reply. "I'd like to try it. Because something has to change."

I wasn't just the block of chocolate. Because in the scheme of things, one block of chocolate isn't an instant heart attack. But one of those a day? I'd also buy two packets of mud cake truffles so that I could finish off one before I got home and then look better when I shared the remaining packet with others. I was eating drive-through chips every few days and finishing half a jar of Nutella in one sitting. I just food shamed myself. Oops.

I received my goodies and got started with the help of Angie and the online support group. I was cutting out alcohol, dairy, sugar, gluten, caffeine, and as far as I was concerned, anything delicious. They're not cut out forever, just the 30 Days until you reintroduce them and see how you feel.

On day one I added the shake powder to water and it tasted freaking horrible. I'd read so much about the program and everyone raved about the shakes tasting good. I'm certain they all lied. I choke down as much of it as I can without gagging. Not the best start, but at least it was a pretty skull glass. 

By the late afternoon of day one I had a raging sugar withdrawal headache but hadn't murdered anyone so I thought I'd have a Fizz Stick. I have been known to vomit my guts up when headaches get bad, and as I sipped on the drink and noted that it in fact tasted quite pleasant... bleeeuuuurrrrgghhh. Yep. Spewed up my first Fizz Stick. Nice. 

In the evening I was craving a cuppa as I usually have one in bed before I go to sleep, so I grabbed a herbal tea and washed down some paracetamol. 

Safe to say, day one kinda sucked balls. But I wasn't hungry, so that is a plus.

Day two was much better (don't panic, I'm not going through every day in detail) by the simple swap of water to almond milk in my smoothies. It tasted less revolting, but it still didn't taste good. It wasn't until day four or five that I was knocking back the smoothies with ease and actually enjoying the taste.

I'm pretty sure I was so used everything being coated in a fuck tonne of sugar that the smoothies tasted like cardboard in comparison until my tastebuds had gotten over the initial assault. And get over it they did. I stopped adding berries and the like to the smoothies and had them plain. 

I was hoping these 30 Days would be a way to reset my thinking, my tastebuds, my habits... hell, reset my whole bloody brain if possible. 

By the end of week one, I'd lost 3kg, wasn't feeling hungry, and felt like I had more energy

In week two I was confused over the nutritional content of the shakes and was asking questions all over the place about the sugar percentage. Now I'm no sugar nazi (OK I am a bit), but I didn't understand the whole don't eat sugar thing if the shakes had sugar in them. A whopping 20% sugar, at that. 

I was shown articles on cane sugar and it's nutritional benefits; claims it was good for everyone from pregnant women to diabetics because of the essential nutrients in it. But, um, newsflash, you know that white sugar you use at home? 100% cane sugar. I'll wait why you go check. It's just milled in to a finer powder, that's all. And if you're claiming that cane sugar helps with all sorts of things, then, well why am I meant to be cutting out sugar for the month? It made no sense to me. 

There was lots of talking back and forth and I have the feeling I was not very popular in the private Facebook group with the other people doing the 30 Days. A lot of my fellow 30 Day-ers seemed really in to woo, and that's fine, but I'm more of a science gal myself. My consultant was quick to help out and was very gracious, even when I was ready to quit.

It became obvious that other people doing the 30 Days didn't have any idea on how to read nutritional labels. One participant even told me that because the ingredients didn't add up to 100 grams I couldn't do a percentage calculation. Umm, yes I can. Or, just quietly, I could look in the very next column where they've done it for you in grams per 100 grams. Perhaps one way to improve the program would be information on understanding labels. If you can't read a nutritional panel then there is no way you can figure out what is going in to your body. Don't rely on the marketing, the claims of "fat free" and "5 stars", actually READ the label and find out exactly what is in it. 

By the end of week two I was liking the way I was feeling. I wasn't needing a nap every day (still needed them sometimes because of some other stuff going on with my iron and B12 - don't read that link if you're eating, BTW), and I was able to focus more. I had only lost an additional 1kg, but I wasn't here for rapid weight loss, I was trying to jump start my food awareness.

I found myself craving sugar again in week three. All dried fruit is off the table for the 30 Days, but I bent the rules. Because if eating two dates is going to satisfy my craving and I can move on and not obsess about chocolate until the point where I crack and eat a whole block, then I'm going to do it.

Week three also included some meals out, so I tried my hardest to make choices that would fall in to the majority of the 30 Days rules. At home I was cooking as many of the meals on the plan as I could - I told the kids that I was cutting out some food for a while to see how my body reacted, because they are impressionable and as much as I would like to shift a few kilos, as far as they are concerned, I love everything about my body and THEY love my squishy tummy (to the point where they like to pull up my shirt and rub their faces on it). Teaching body positivity is hard, yo!

Week three was probably the trickiest because I was just bloody over it! But I buckled down and tried as much as I could to keep to the rules. Well, the majority of them anyway. I had to eat later at night than was recommended because my martial arts classes don't finish until 8pm and I'm not eating before them or I will chunder everywhere. And that's what is good about it, that you can be flexible with it if you like, or 100% committed if you are a hard and fast rules person.

Week four was the home stretch and I did have a sense of "this is it, you're nearly there!". People were starting to notice I had lost a little bit of weight, and that of course is a great motivator, a massive "SEE, IT IS WORKING!".

At the end of it all, I had lost 6kg, curbed my sugar cravings, and I had gotten much better at actually listening to my body's hunger and thirst signals.

But what about now? What about after Christmas and New Year and OMG THE STRESS OF BUYING A HOUSE?

I have reintroduced all the foods, and nothing made me feel bloated or unwell, so I'm happy about that (any icky feelings could have signified that I was sensitive or intolerant to something). I am pretty sure my stomach shrunk because I'm still not as hungry as I used to be, and I get fuller quicker.

I haven't stepped back on the scales because I am generally not a fan of them, preferring "non scale victories". I can tell you my clothes are looser (the bum in my jeans is baggy af), people are commenting that I'm looking slimmer, and I feel pretty damn good.

Food wise, I am back on the Coke Zero, because I don't do drugs or smoke so I gotta have a vice, OK? And I still crave sugar... but I don't give in to it anywhere near as much as I used to. Some cake for morning tea yesterday meant I was full until after 8pm and a massive training session. That is unheard of previously!

I've also worked on my portion sizes a lot, because as a card carrying member of the clean plate brigade, I was always wanting to finish everything served up after having it drilled in to me that leaving something was wasteful.

Overall, it helped me reassess what food I was using to fuel my body. How much food I was consuming, and why - I was very used to eating because it was "lunch time" as opposed to eating when I was hungry.

Is the 30 Days to Healthy Living for you? Well it all depends on your own goals and priorities. For me, it was enough to kick start my better eating choices so it did help me find my glow. I'll leave you with my final likes and dislikes about the program:


  • Supportive nature of the Facebook group
  • Motivational posts in the Facebook group
  • The taste of the shakes (eventually ha!)
  • Most of the meal plan and recipes
  • 100% money back guarantee
  • Weekly call from Angie to check how I was going
  • There was no hard sell to sign up again or join as a seller


  • Lack of peer-reviewed science based nutrition information
  • Promoting of untrue nutritional claims in the Facebook group (alkaline diets changing the pH of the blood etc)
  • The taste of the Greens Balance vegetable concentrate

Would you do meal replacement shakes?

Sunday, January 21, 2018

Bobbin is starting school and yes I'm ready

This post contains a product I was sent for review

It's January, and that means parents all over Australia are counting down the days until the new school year starts.

I've been asked quite a few times if Bobbin will be in year one this year, but I have let them know she won't be in year one until 2020! She seems a lot older than she is because she's confident, headstrong, and has a vocabulary that surprises us all (like when she drops the F bomb - that is really a shock to the system). She is a typical second child, ticking a heap of stereotype boxes.

This year she is heading to kindergarten five days per fortnight. Unrelated: did you know that Americans don't use the word fortnight? Bizarre! But I digress.

Day care drop off and pre-kindy drop off were traumatic events for her, right up until the last few sessions last year (where bribery may or may not have featured), so I am filled with trepidation wondering what it will be like now. Tears? Refusal to let go of my hand? Will she almost dislocate my finger like she did once when they had to peel her off me at day care? Will she be THAT kid? Will I need a shoe horn and a valium? And who gets the valium if there is only one? 

Her kindy classroom moved location during the holidays (it was down the road from Tricky's school but will now be on campus), which meant that there was no orientation day. The poor suckers are being thrown in at the deep end!

In typical second child fashion, Bobbin already knows her way around the school, so I don't think the lack of orientation day will have much of an impact on her. More like the lack of mum being by her side.

The new location means the existing fences have to be heightened to comply with state regulations. When the principal mentioned it at a P&C meeting he said it was because the kindy kids can't climb over the higher fences, looked right at me and said "Don't think they'll stop Bobbin, though!". They already know her so well, ha! Perhaps they need a Bobbin readiness program?

To make it as painless as possible on her (and me) we've been doing lots of "big kindy girl" preparation like writing her name, choosing school shoes, selecting a gorgeous unicorn school bag, water bottle and lunch cooler from Crocodile Creek, putting on her uniform that almost reaches her ankles, and practising school lunch times! It is the cutest thing ever.
She adores unicorns and I'm happy that it's all BPA and phthalate free, the bottle is impact resistant (we have gone through so many of the cheapies grrr!), and the backpack has reinforced pockets and zips that are hard wearing. Plus it isn't a ridiculous size that will dwarf her (unlike her uniform).

She is as ready as she'll ever be, and I'm ready, too. 

I don't think there will be tears on my part as I don't usually cry at these times. I'll cry watching a movie, if I'm angry or if I burn dinner - you know, things that don't matter. But I rarely cry over milestones. Having said that, this is my last babe. The last "first day of school". Oh god, I'm crying already. Where's that valium?

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Clean out mode: activated

Casa de Glow is about to shift a few suburbs over (hold me), so to prepare for the upcoming move, we are in full clean out mode.

Which means my house looks like a total disaster as random shit gets pulled from the cupboard it was hidden in years ago when I couldn't be bothered finding a real home for it or I had some strange sentimental attachment to it.

I have always been overly attached to physical things (no, not like that, you dirty bastards). I don't mean cars and jewellery, I mean weird things like a doorbell that no longer works because it was my grandmothers and she's been dead for thirty years but I CAN'T GET RID OF IT BECAUSE IT WAS HERS type of things. 

Who keeps a broken doorbell?  

Me. That's who. 

So I am doing the biggest cull of my entire life and actually throwing out things I have held on to for years. It is less "ritual cleansing" and more "I don't wanna have to pack all this crap". Years of therapy and I couldn't throw these things out, turns out all I needed was the looming threat of having to move all this shit 8km west. 

Part of the clean out is going through the kids' toys and turfing all the broken bits and pieces that they just HAVE to keep (gee, where do they get this annoying trait from?!) and figuring out what they don't play with anymore.

In my newly mega-debt state, I thought it might be a good idea to sell a few bits and pieces that were still in good condition so I logged on to the Facebook Marketplace to see what I could get.

A fucking headache is what I got.

Let's pretend this was my ad:

"Elmo and Big Bird doll. Great condition. One small stain as pictured. $7 each or both for $10. Pick up Suburb A"

See I thought that was enough information for most people to figure out if they wanted to buy something but apparently not. Instead they have to send a bunch of messages asking me questions.

"Will you sell separately?" - Uh, yeah, I said that.

"Is it $10 each or $10 for both?" - You don't read so good, do ya?

"Are they in good condition?" - Yup, even included a photo. Use your damn eyes.

"Where is Suburb A?" - Seriously? Heard of Google?

"I'm in Suburb B. Where is Suburb A?" - Dude, we are practically neighbours. How can you not know this?

"Could you deliver to Suburb Z?" - No. You're 45km away. 

"Would you take $1 for both?" - Mate, just fuck off. 

SERIOUSLY! How are these people even alive? I knew there were dickheads out there, I mean, the  'contains dairy' warnings on cartons on milk are obviously there for someone, but I never knew they all hung out in the one place before now.

But all my hair-pulling and teeth gnashing was calmed when the most beautiful grandpa came to buy a gorgeous little pull along Brio toy. He pulled up on a loud AF motorbike, all chrome and sleek burgundy. He chatted to Tricky and Bobbin, who were staring in awe, telling them it looked like Harley, but it was a Kawasaki. He even told them he made it extra loud for safety and I was all "yeah pal, safety, you want it loud because it fucking rocks!". Then he gave me $10, popped the toy in his backpack and revved the shit out the bike while the kids stood there, slack jawed, marvelling at how badass it all was.

Cool Grandpa has restored my faith in the Facebook Marketplace... at least until the next person asks me if I will hold the $5 kids pram for four weeks until their uncle's second cousin's neighbour can pick it up. 

Do you sell your stuff? Where do you list?

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

My Shitty Week

I have always had certain standards on this blog. They were low, but they were still there.


Because I'm about to talk about my shitty week, and I mean that quite literally. So settle in. Perhaps don't grab something to eat though, OK?

It all started when I went to the doctor to get a script for a lower dose of anti depressants (yay). In my doctor's assessment she was asking how I was going and I was all "still tired, still no energy, but I reckon that's motherhood, yo!" and to be thorough she ordered blood tests and sent me off with a script for half the dose I've been on since THE BREAKDOWN dun dun dunnnnn.

I rock up for my blood test and the phlebotomist was amazing, I didn't feel a thing. She took SEVEN VIALS of blood, all while Bobbin watched and asked about vampires. Awkward. We walked out and down the mall ten metres to the shop where I was exchanging Macaroni Cheese (because the world stopped turning when the incorrect Mac'n'cheese was bought the day before) only to look down and find my arm covered in blood.

Turns out as I picked up my bag, I dislodged the mini clot that was forming and looked like I'd been stabbed. You're all "I don't think so" right now, but I assure you, there was blood everywhere and I was in a dodgy suburb, so a stab wound is the first thing that would have come to mind.

A few days later I'm called back for the test results. I'm extremely anaemic and my B12 is through the floor. So the tiredness may not just be motherhood after all. Whodhavethunkit?

Doc wants repeat bloods (through the giant bruise - ouch) to check for other bits and pieces then casually remarks "and I think we should do a poo test, too".

Ah, shit. Lit-er-ally.

I am so poo phobic. I don't even do poo jokes, which makes living with a 7yo boy quite painful approximately 1,734 times a day.

Now my grandmother died of bowel cancer at 60 so despite the fear, It was time to put my big girl pants on, or rather, take my big girl pants off, and just do it. I straightened myself in the chair, suddenly aware of how many asses had sat on it and asked tentatively "Um, how do I do that?"

"Here," she said, grabbing a couple of tongue depressors, "use these."

What the actual fuck? What am I meant to do, shove these up my butt? You have GOT to be kidding me!

"Grab a kit from pathology on your way out, you just smear it on the cardboard and bring it in, it's just the same as the bowel cancer screening you mail in."

OK. I can handle this. A bit of a self pep talk, and she'll be right. It can't be much worse than seeing skid mark undies of kids who are learning to wipe, right? * clutches at straws *

I head to the pathology desk but instead of some pieces of cardboard she hands me three sample jars.

Dude. No.


They look just like the urine specimen jars except they're white so you can't see what is in them, with brown lids so you fucking know what is in them anyway. Thanks, specimen pot creator, as if this wasn't bad enough already.

The slip with jars says they're for a "faecal occult blood sample".

Err, is my poo joining the occult? Does it worship Satan or is it more of a dabbling in witchcraft? Does my poo like rams heads on the walls and listen to shitty music? Oh dear god, my poo better not be fucking emo. I couldn't handle that.

I have built up a rapport with my doctor and it was hard enough to ask her what I was meant to do, so asking a random pathology chick who had just stabbed me through a giant bruise was just not going to happen. So I did what everyone else does when they're afraid of medical things. I turned to Dr Google.

Dr Google, in her infinite wisdom, let me know that faecal occult and The Occult are, thankfully, completely different things. Well, yes, I did assume that, but it is nice to have it confirmed that I won't be yearning to listen to My Chemical Romance as I sit on the toilet any time soon.

It also informed me that I needed to make a "walnut sized" deposit in to said brown lidded jars on three occasions so that the health of multiple parts of the bowel could be tested in one go. I will never look at walnuts the same way again. Waldorf salads are henceforth banned in this house.

The sample is made, and now I just had to deposit the, err, deposit, back to the pathology desk... which didn't open that day. Fuck me dead, I had to STORE IT IN MY FRIDGE.

"Honey, where is the salami?"

"Oh, just next to my POO SAMPLE, dear!"

Kill me. Just bloody kill me.

Getting ready the next day looked slightly different to usual as I went through my check list and put everything in our bag for the outing:
  • Water bottles
  • Snacks
  • Hats
  • Sunscreen
  • Poo sample
  • Sunglasses
I've had two babies, which means I've had a whole lot of people with their hands up my jacksy, checking it all out, giving me ultrasounds and I've twice had my feet up in stirrups for surgery, and I thought that was pretty undignified. In my books, this was worse. I am such a wuss. I would take a gynaecologist with a cold speculum over this any day.

But (butt?) still, I did it. Because they've seen it all before, and I wouldn't be the first or the last to drop off a sample with a poo brown lid to the lady at the pathology clinic.

I haven't been called for any results, which in my local GP's world means nothing to report, so that means I'm not losing blood in my bowel. So yay for that. But next time can they just knock me out and stick a camera up there so I get a day of sleep?


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