Internal matters. Literally.

It was a lovely sunny day, I'd just gobbled down mighty lunch and made my way back to my desk. Since working (Booooo!) was totally not an option out came my trusted Google reader and thus the blog wander began.

There I was, blissfully giggling my way through Xboxes uterine musings involving Dutch no-nonsense approach to the privacy of ones privates, when it happened.

I had another Foreigner Moment. Meaning - whoa, just remembered how differently things really work here and back on (Ex)Home Ground.

And those a bit wary of all things vaginal should stop reading now. OK. And if you do decide to stay with me - no whingeing. You've been warned.

As Sir Sprouts birth was looming closer my lovely mild-mannered Gentleman Doctor started to gently prepare me.

"You see, Foreigner," he said soothingly, "I would need to do an internal examination about a week before the due date, just to see how things are going down there." (you'd swear he almost blushed at "down there" point.) "Now, it's not really pleasant and a lot of women are afraid of it but it doesn't hurt and I wouldn't get too worried if I was you."

I was about 37 weeks pregnant, huge, drowsy and with very delayed reactions, otherwise I would have probably blessed him with fairly chavy "What da fuck are ya talkin' about??"

As it was, I only mastered a muted "Hrmmpphh!?" and never really thought about it any further.

Until the next appointment when he politely asked me to remove my knickers after a scan. Before I could even reach my hand down there (it takes a bit of effort if you have to navigate around a belly of monstrous proportions) he made a magician-like swift move and I was covered with cellular blanket from my bump down to my toes and curtains were drawn in front of apprehensive-looking Ultimate Other Half.

It didn't really make the knicker-removal operation any smoother but somehow I managed it without knocking off the blanket. It still puzzled me why the cover was needed as it would surely be taken off for the examination itself.

It wasn't. My doctor inserted his gloved hand under the blanket, skillfully located my vagina and performed a feather-gentle probing-around all the while giving a live commentary accompanied by numerous apologies for discomfort and intrusion of privacy and whatnot.

I got off the table in mild shock.

Why, you ask. Surely the doctor was as delicate and tactful and the experience was anything else than nasty?

Well, herein lays the issue. You see, in Ireland most women won't get an internal before they're in labor and some give birth getting away without it altogether.

Not so on Home Ground.

You get internal examination if they SUSPECT you're pregnant.
You get it if they don't think you are.
You get it every single time you darken the door of gynecologist.
It's quite surprising really that dentists don't perform internals.

I was 15 when all the girls of our class had to go to the gynecologist, as a part of overall medical assessment.

To speed things up the doctor had one girl stripping "from waist" as she was performing examination on the other. The stirruped high chair was facing the bloody door. There was no feathery touch or talking through the process involved.

"Relax!" she barked and shoved next instrument in. It was usually something metal, big, slightly sharp and stone cold. "What did I tell you - relax!"

As you might imagine, relaxing was quite out of question, especially for 15-year olds with no experiences of any intrusive activity in the neither regions to start with.

For years I harbored distrust and deep desire to run and hide as soon as I saw a sign "Gynecologist" on the door. Not all of them were so bad though and eventually I DID learn to relax all the relevant muscles which made the yearly visits that much less stressful.

I only see the blessing side now though, when another doctor at the hospital pales and hides her/his eyes half-whispering "We need to do an internal". It's so easy for me to just whisk off my pants, plonk on my back, spread the knees wide, put the hands behind my head and relax.

"Bring it on!"

There goes the diet

So I was talking to my mother.
On the phone, naturally, her being On Home Ground.

"Do you have anything specific you want for Christmas? I'm putting the parcel together here," she says.

"Nah, I'm fine, don't need anything. Don't go overboard now, it's expensive to send packages!"

Annoyed silence.

"Well, I'm gonna at least send you some Estonian chocolate! I know you love it!" she declares with victorious air.

"Mom, I told you I'm on diet. DON'T send me chocolates! I have a will power of a tatty dish rag, you know that as well!"

"Nonsense! A bit of chocolate won't do you any harm. Gotta treat yourself once in a while, otherwise you'll go nuts." Thoughtful pause. "Well, even more nuts."

"Thank you!!! Well, at least keep it sensible. Just a little of chocolate AND DON'T GET THE BOX TOO HEAVY! You'll be paying for the postage through your nose!"

"Yeah-yeah ...we'll see."

That was the end of it until The Ultimate Other Half went home at lunch time yesterday and found a notification of the package in the post box.

He drove unsuspectingly to the post office only to be presented with a HUGE wooden box (made lovingly by my father) weighing 20 kg (44 pounds) and secured with around 500 screws.

I still don't know how he managed to lug it to the car. Trip back home involved open bonnet and anticipation of getting the box from the car into the house.

In the evening my long-suffering husband combined watching The Panel and Podge & Rodge with laboriously unscrewing 250 of 500 screws. To get the box open, like.

The contents included:

• 1 solid wood rocking sheep covered with natural lambswool (For Sir Sprout, I presume)
• pile of Christmas-related soft toys/decorations
• 2 sets of cookie cutters
• 8 boxes of liquor-filled chocolates (125 g each)
• 2 boxes of nut-coated chocolates (200 g each)
• 6 tablets of nutty chocolate (100 g each)
• 6 maxi tablets of premium chocolate (300 g each)

That would be 3.8 kg of chocolate (8.4 pounds). Which in my mothers books obviously qualifies as "a little".

I was drooling sadly as I locked the whole pile of it into the room where furniture goes to die. A lot of our friends will receive a presents of Estonian chocolates this year.

We are considering painting the box and declaring it a two-seater bench.

But I love the rocking sheep!

How sun SHOULD set

About 10-11 years ago (oh. I'm old) my interesting-but-poverty-inducing job back in Home Ground started to pay a little more. Enough to fund my move into an apartment with running water.

I know - wow!

Location-wise the place was pretty much next to hellhole, around the corner from the end of all hopes. A huge and stunningly gloomy region of endless apartment blocks, grey, dirty and criminogenious. It doesn't look that bad on the picture, that's what good camera work and fortunate light conditions can do.

The apartment block itself was a genius work of Soviet architect suffering from severe depression and deep hate of fellow humans. Huge. Coulourless. Square. Grey. The front door couldn't be locked thus the stairs were constantly stinking of urine, garbage, cigarettes, alcohol and whatnot. Especially whatnot.
There was a lift of course. Usually broken. Anybody who has lugged shopping bags to 7th floor on regular basis will NOT tolerate any fitness-related lectures. Proven fact.

Walls between apartments were made of sturdy corrugated cardboard or at least from something just as soundproof. You'd know most of the intimate details about neighbours 4 floors below.

I thought I had died and moved into paradise.

Before you decide that I am a sick masochistic freak let me assure you that once you had jumped over piles of faeces and cigarette butts, snook past any more or less violent discussions on stairs and caught your breath after climbing 7 floors; the apartment itself wasn't that bad at all. It was quite roomy and clean with no heart-tearing attempts at creative interior decoration.

And let me once again stress the running water the apartment featured.

But my favorite part didn't have much to do with interior or exterior of the building. It was all about the position of the place which was fortunate indeed. Because they had built that blunder of a monsterhouse on the very edge of the huge apartment-block area. On top of the hill. Facing the sea...

So on nights I actually got home before dark I would stand at the sitting room window having a fag and watching the sun setting into my beloved Tallinn Bay.

It was different every night. From smoky shaded highlights to cold pastel bursts to warm mysterious glow to vicious bleeding skies. You name it.They don't make sunsets like that any more. Especially in Ireland.

Sigh.

Lets talk about weather

It seems that whoever I run into this morning kicks off the conversation with complaints about the weather. Main points brought to my attention so far are:
a) it's cold
b) it's windy
c) the summer is over.

None of which comes as a surprise to me. In fact I noticed it yesterday when I had to insist that we need to put the heating on for an hour or so.

The Ultimate Other Half noticed the change in climate when I was attempting to thaw my toes by placing them strategically in close vicinity of his calves under the duvet.

Mutt The Mad got the picture when his pooch-esteem was once again injured by a dressing gown. It's to stop him drying himself on couches and carpet, honestly. AND we think it's dead funny.

Sir Sprout couldn't care less. He was wrapped into snuggly pyjamas and cozy sleeping bag, snoozing away in his cot.

But I love autumn. So I considered it my duty to explain people that I adore the wind, the cold, the rain, sudden crispness of air and long dark evenings. They edged themselves towards the door with a heavy touch of "get away from the freaky woman before she attacks me with a stapler" in their eyes.

Autumn is also one time I get really nostalgic. I miss the colours and fresh feeling of the season back in Home Ground. I miss the crunch of leaves under my feet while wandering in my favorite parks. I even miss the long wet and very-very dark late autumn.

Most of all I miss my friends.

The colours of autumn in Estonia

Woo-hoooo!

Estonian discus thrower Gerd Kant won a gold medal today on Osaka Worlds Championship in Athletics!


Excuse me while I raise the flag!