» Terrified!

Living in rural Hawaii is not usually so terrifying
Has to be the time I was at a neighbor's to be the child minder when said child's mum went into labor, attended by a lay midwife, a white woman from somewhere in the US midwest.

The baby was born with the caul over his face, and emerged greyish-blue, limp, and not breathing. The couple (also white) didn't recognize that the midwife's loud calls of "Ha!" meant "breathe!" in Hawaiian, but I did and it terrified me. The couple and I were in stunned, petrified silence, and long, terrifying moments passed and still the baby did not breathe.

The midwife ordered us to pray. I felt a palpable evil in the room, a malevolent presence, suffocating us as we tried to remember the words to the Lord's Prayer. Our voices trailed off as we watched the midwife performing infant resuscitation, and I fought the feeling that someone or something nearby did NOT want us to pray. I struggled to breathe too, and for the sake of the couple and their baby, I remembered some of the words and prayed loudly, their voices joining mine as we gained confidence and comfort in the ritual. "Again! Louder!" commanded the midwife, and we prayed again. It seemed to lift the sense of heaviness and evil, and calmed the parents as we watched the midwife work on their son.

Finally, finally, the baby inhaled sharply, and started to cry. With each cry, he got less blue and more pink. We nearly collapsed with relief as the midwife handed the angry, squalling baby to his mum.

He's nearly 15 years old now, and I still remember the abject terror and evil presence I felt on the night he was born. And I still cannot feel anything but patience, gratitude, and joy when I hear a baby crying.
(Thu 5th Apr 2012, 19:12, More)

» It's Not What It Looks Like!

Some 18 years ago…
In the deep midnight quiet of a still neighborhood, a woman could be heard, moaning, and only some of her words could be understood, “Now! Now! Hurry! Take off my panties!” Thumping and pounding sounds, grunting and moaning, a woman’s voice calling out a man’s name, a man’s voice calling out the woman’s name, saying, “Yes, yes, that’s it, just like that!” More moaning, and more grunting and pounding, and finally a man’s voice, “Wait… not yet, wait, wait wait! Okay now!" "Now?" "Yes! Now! Yes!” And then a small whimper and the man yelling “Whoo-hoo! I got ma girl!”

6 lbs, 9 oz. Her papa had the presence of mind to stop her mum from pushing until he could unloop the umbilical cord from around her neck, otherwise her surprise arrival at home was remarkably uneventful.
(Mon 13th Dec 2010, 10:19, More)

» Crappy relationships

When the magic was gone.
It wasn’t when I found out that, contrary to his eating habits outside of the bedroom, he was a vegetarian in bed, and preferred that I be so as well.

It wasn’t when he was not able to participate in a “heat of the moment” because he had, as he said, been so excited to think of our evening together that he had skipped to the “heat” moment hours before my arrival and could no longer work up any enthusiasm for the real me.

It wasn’t when he called me Mary in the heat of the moment. Which is surprising for Mary is not my name, but the name of Mary (as in “Mary, mother of God”), his ex of some four years before.

No, it was when he called me, in the heat of the moment, “Mom!”

That. That was when the magic was gone.

I lie to you. It was never magic, but that drove the point home to my troubled young mind, and I looked for, and found a better man.
(Fri 22nd Oct 2010, 9:10, More)

» When Animals Attack

A quick attack, but the results were impressive!
As a young kila girl, I used to ride a nice welsh pony. I was told that he was a “proud cut”-- gelded late and still acted a bit like the stallion he knew he’d once been (sorry men).

One Friday, I was at the ranch waiting for Sue, my best girl pal to arrive from our office (she worked later hours than me). We were going for a ride to take some pictures before the rainy season. Some ranch kids told me that "my" pony’d been laying his ears back and acting funny. I went to go get him, thinking he just needed his ride out.

I stepped into his stall and he seemed fine. Then he laid his ears back, shook his head and
suddenly *boom*! He hit me hard with his open mouth and bit down on my breast, let go and spun around! I fell to the ground, seeing stars, rainbows and little twittering birds, just like in the cartoons. When I came round, the kids were yelling and I dare not hit him in front of them, though the ranch men later said I should have, with a brick or something.

Instead, I stumbled/crawled out of the stall and calmed the kids, then went to wash up and check the damage, which looked like a red mark and sure to be a bruise. The ranch owner, a loony nutjob but desirable to me as she had ponies I wanted to ride, helpfully told me that the pony was treating me like one of his mares because he lurrrves me.

At that point, Sue found me and immediately screamed, “What happened?! You’re white as a sheet!” By then I was giddy and laughing, nothing much, I said, t’horse bit me! She didn’t want me to go riding and said I was acting funny, but I said don’t worry, insisted I’m fiiine so off we went.

Truth be I was little apprehensive and on guard, but the pony behaved so we got our ride in the hills, taking pictures on this last summer ride before saying good bye to the ranch for the season. I took tons of photos of my pal with her pony, she took tons of me with my pony. We finished our ride and cleaned up the ponies and gave them our last loving hugs and kisses goodbye.

I got home and showered and looked at the bite, a mark about a half a hand wide, but the breast was swelling. In fact it was getting redder and also a bit of blue. And quite sore.

By Saturday morning, it had gone Technicolor and I scheduled an appointment with my doc, who laughed, prescribed ice, rest, and “anything but ponies.”

By Sunday, I had to buy support bras to stop the swollen purple-green and blue thing from moving as it hurt so.

By Monday, the entire area was "involved," much worse! I went to work and, in response to my email, Sue called me over to her cube stall and whispered urgently, what happened, what do you mean it’s worse, what does it look like? I laughed and told her, oh I’m quite proud of this, it’s HUGE! If only the other one matched! Aubergine in color, shape and size! I of the giant purple boob! This was too much, and Sue begged to see it.

We giggled and checked that no one was in the area and I lifted my shirt and, gingerly, pulled aside my bra, and she gratifyingly oohed and aaahed at the size, the color and the shape.

I said I have this insane desire to pull up next to those big American 18-wheeler trucks and pull my blouse up to show it off!

As an added bonus, Sue showed me pictures of me that day, huge smiles, laughing, looking coyly at the camera and hugging the pony. Then, she whipped out the pictures of her that I had taken. Every single one of them was a complete blur! I’d been in shock and was shaking the whole time!

Apologies for the length, as this is my first and I wanted you to take your time!

*pop*
(Fri 25th Apr 2008, 10:13, More)

» Bedroom Disasters

Playing doctor in the bedroom.
Did you know that male turtles dump their genitalia outside their bodies to mate? And that the tiny retractor muscle is prone to damage, leaving said genitalia unable to –er—turtle? Ever?

I learned this when my flatmate did. It was her turtle.

I myself had a hardier pet, a mongoose.

One wavy line~
Then we learned that surgery to correct the turtle’s problem does not exist in either (a) our veterinarian community, or (b) the salary range of the average twunty *barely legal* teenager.

It does, however, exist in the repertoire of Kipling, my pet mongoose. I found little Tootie in my bedroom, where he ought not to be. He was under my bed, on his back, little feet slowly waving in the air. His silhouette was reassuringly turtle-like, and I reached under the bed and grabbed him to protect him from the Kip. It took me a moment to realize that “he looks fine” meant that I was too late and he had just been given a mongoose-performed genitali-ectomy.

Or as Kipling would regard it, “lunch.”

Length, about 1cm.
(Sat 25th Jun 2011, 10:19, More)