Tales from the Canoe©

Please enjoy a bit of a laugh at some of life's experiences, and realities, including those that women experience and share.

Remember that this area carries a warning about Language (mild).

This page will be updated as and when life throws amusing experiences at the author, or when the author attracts such experiences or learns about them.

Every day that involves laughter and lightheartedness, is like a day spent in the sunshine. And every woman - and man - needs at least one hour in the sunshine every day.

Unless otherwise stated, all stories on this page were written - and experienced - by Beba Papakyriakou (aka BP).

List of experiences on this page are in chronological order starting with the oldest story at the top, so please scroll down for new stuff, or click on the blue links, or click here .

 * Unless otherwise stated, the articles, stories and personal perspectives on this page have not been submitted for publication.

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Stories >>>>

Menopause Tales

Adjustments

The Tit, the Handyman and the Goodguys 

Okay so

Missed Out - the She Doc 

Fleas in the gym  * LATEST *

 Menopause Tales©

Menopause Instalment No. 1

And so say all of us.

Okay, so here's the thing:

For approximately 19 years, starting in my youth a long time ago, I had a wonderful gynaecologist (gynae for short) whom I used to see, religiously, once a year.

He was an old guy, looked like a monkey, but he had the most gorgeous voice, which helps a lot when someone is so hairy. His name though was a tad unfortunate - his surname was common enough and respectable enough, but his first name was Hymie. His full first name of course was Hyman, and though spelt slightly differently to the h .... he was wading his way through, it was nevertheless, in my view, a bit sad. His name, not what he waded through, though that was also a bit unfortunate and rather sad for a long time.

So, now, Hymie was great. He wasn't always on time, but I don't recall misspending my youth in his waiting room in his rooms in Lister Building, or wherever he was, you know when we could all go down to Lister Building in the CBD without an armed escort? Remember those halcyon days of the old South Africa when you could still find your car in the place you left it when you went to see your gynae, doll?

He was a gentle man, always took the time to talk, I was very young when I first went to see him for what was initially thought to be a troublesome appendix, which they nearly whipped out, heaven forbid, and which later turned out to be a troublesome ovary. Oy vary.

On the wall beside the bed or whatever that flat thing is called, was a poster with a picture of Uncle Sam in an American hat, pointing his big finger at whoever was in front of him, in this case the left side of whichever female patient happened to be lying on the bed-thing at the time. But Hymie's poster didn't ask about one's enrolment/conscription, whatever it was, in the US armed forces. It asked, "Have YOU taken your pill today?". This was quite daunting for me 'cause I seldom took any pills in those days. It was always such fun though when one had to lie there, with that all-purpose-all-person gown, nothing underneath except whatever jewellery one had on, and with leggies at the ready to do a "knees up" little dance. Anyway, Uncle Sam kept one company while the good doctor put on his miner's lamp and with an ear bud sought to find out what all was happening in there. Not exactly the Eurotunnel is it? Well, maybe it is in some cases, I don't know. In my limited experience - very limited - I don't think it's the Eurotunnel or the Grand Canyon or The Big Hole in Kimberley. Maybe I haven't been around as much as I should/could.

My least favourite visits were those which entailed the leggies-into-the-stirrups little scenario. You know the one. VERY elegant. Getting out of the stirrups was of course another story.

So anyway, this wonderful man was in my life for nearly 19 years as I said, but then one year, he died on me. Very inconsiderate I thought at the time. What to do with the monkey's body? But it was all right because I must have had a precognition or a pre something - you know, when you experience something before it happens? What's that, um, premature ejaculation or whatever. Anyway, my precognition or whatever it was: His dying on me wasn't as traumatic as it might have been 'cause I must have caught a glimpse of what my future held and was out of body, so was largely unaffected.

His loss was nevertheless a great one. He was a really nice man and a good doctor. This left me with a gap, so to speak. And it took a couple of years before I ventured out to search for a replacement for dear old Hymie.

I succeeded. Hymie's successor came in the form of his partner whom I had never met, Dr Yves.

The story of Yves babe shall form the basis of Instalment 2 of this little tale.

Menopause Instalment No. 2

Okay, so Yves baby's impact was considerably short-lived. I saw him once, briefly, and then nothing. No flowers, no phone calls, no anonymous cards for Valentine's Day as that little joke goes.

When I tried to see him a second time, I couldn't find him. No-one had heard of him and he hadn't left a forwarding address or contact number. Ja well no fine.

But, being an indirect descendant of Sherlock Holmes, I managed to track down some or other relative of his, and was told that he had retired to Wilderness for a change of pace. I was mystified, 'cause I'd have thought he and people like him spend most of their careers in Wilderness. Maybe it was Hermanus he retired to. Her Manus? What on earth is a Manus? And do we all have one? Heavens.

Sweet manuses ....

Menopause Instalment No. 3

Okay, so with Yves babe in Her Manus with the Wildebeest (Wilde Bees? Wild Bees? Ya, that's appropriate) ... okay, so with Yves babe in Her Manus with the Wild Bees, I was left. Well, just left. Right. So. What's a girl to do.

I decided to get my cheap thrills by having a mammogram and an ultra sound instead, just so that other parts of my anatomy could be the absolute focus of attention for a change. Hi Fi Corporation could learn a lot about Ultra Sound from this little lot. Geez.

So, once again the all-purpose-all-person little gown, but now it was time for Mammo and pancakes, not Uncle Sam and ear buds. Good fun the flippin' pancakes. I'd forgotten what a delight it is to have one's face pressed up against a cold, hard metal whateverthehellitis, with certain valuable body parts being crushed under a perspex whateverthehellTHATis, at the same time as having to make small talk with the masochistic cookie who's doing all this to one. Geez.

But, there is a reason for everything, as they say, and the reason for this was: To Extract from the Masochistic Cookie the Name of a Gynae to Replace the Dead Monkey and Yves. Hey, this could turn into the sequel for Madam and Eve. Good thinking Batman. Okay, so the cosmic reason for the pancakes was ..... and the Masochistic Cookie gave me a name without my even asking for one. How's that for mental telepathy.

Now, the gynae which the Masochistic Cookie gave me was a female. This in and of itself wasn't a problem even though it was a first for me, in terms of gynaes. But okay, no problem, I was willing and able, and as she had been recommended by a highly reputable place of pancake-making with ultra sound, I made an appointment to see this female gynae. Could only get in a month later. No problem and no hurry either. I was also informed at the time that she doesn't do the whole baby in the middle of the night thing, and that was fine by me. I don't do the whole baby in the middle of the night thing either. Cool bananas. We already had something in common.

Rightieho, the day was eventually upon us and I arrived at the rooms. Nice enough. I was then invited into the inner parlour and had to give my life's history to yet another ear-bud-probing homosapien. This done, I was then invited into yet another inner parlour and as we don't do the whole baby in the middle of the night thing and therefore, presumably, did not need the leggies-in-stirrups little scenario, I settled myself comfortably onto the bed-thing, having first donned the all-purpose-all-person little gown.

And I lay there admittedly expecting great things from this fellow female homosapien. She did what they do, you know, and I did try to remain relaxed even when it was being approached by the plectrum/spectrum/spatula whatever that darling little appliance is called. Not that easy with a few tons (I exaggerate) of metal on the ready, waiting for the gap. Anyway, entry was gained, though a power driven jack hammer would probably have been more appropriate, anyway, so entry was gained. So far so good.

Until the female gynae thought, out loud unfortunately, using these words, "Uterus, where are you?" in a bit of a sing-song voice.

WELL, I was now seriously tense. Seriously. And I had VERY big eyes. A GYNAE - and a female one at that - asking where my UTERUS is? But this did lead me to have the same thought, only not out loud. Where indeed WAS my uterus? And indeed had the plectrum/spectrum/spatula in fact ventured into the correct orifice ....?

Yes indeedy.

Well, my uterus was found shortly thereafter, presumably where it belonged, and not abandoned in a Woolies trolley or at the bus stop or anything like that.

And so anyway, all was well. "A well woman". Well, a woman yes, but hey, watch where you leave your uterus next time babe.

Sweet, well, I don't know, sweet somethings until the final instalment.

Menopause Final Instalment

Okay, so where was I? At the bus stop. The bus stops here? Uhum, okay, so, I had a year last year that I wouldn't consider a great year by any stretch of the imagination. And towards the end of this hopefully-gone-and-buried year, I had reason to believe that I needed to venture down to the gynae for a little once-over. But every time I had an appointment, other things happened and I had to postpone each time.

Things eventually settled down long enough for me to get to see her last week. Oh joy.

There is, however, always light in the darkest night, and this time my uterus was found easily, and was, apparently, in good niknak. Good to hear that, nak. The other bit of news though is that we - the Gynae, the Uterus and I - jointly came to a conclusion that I could quite possibly be in the early stages of menopause, but we'll kind of know for certain in a little while. If not, I'll have to write another story. Oh joy.

Anyhow, even though it is as yet uncertain and even though the event is a natural progression of being a woman and being alive, and no big deal except that I can now start getting senior citizen rates at movies and tint my hair purple, there nevertheless is cause for alarm.

Here it is: I've already been through menobreak and menobrake (having met my darling all those years ago), so to be going through menopause 10 years later really has stumped me. What next? Fast forward? Rewind? Eject?

Oy vay.

The End

Jan 2002.
Reproduce freely as is but maintain © copyright notice

Adjustments© 

I have a good friend, named Margie, who wears nice clothes and mostly very tight jeans and slacks. She has a great figure, so she can do stuff like that.

Over the years, I've witnessed Margie counselling, telephonically, on one knee, and it was explained to me that it eases the pressure of the tight jeans. As I don't often wear quite such tight jeans, I couldn't always relate, though I loved the concept of being on one knee and so on. And she looks perfectly comfortable when seated, e.g. around a table having lunch, so I assumed that this was all fine.

Those who know me well, well, those who know me, know that I'm a serious clothes person, very fashion conscious, etc.. Yesterday, as all my jeans were in the wash (read: one "good pair" and a couple of "not good" pairs) I had ran out of clothes. I couldn't go to the warehouse in my pyjamas, which in any event aren't even MY pyjamas - but that is subject of another e-mail - nor could I go to lunch in my pyjamas, so I dug out an old-ish pair of black jeans. They were tight when I bought them and have become a tad tighter now that my thyroid has been misbehaving as much as it has. But anyway, I put on the jeans and found that I could breathe, no problem, as long as I didn't attempt to do it too often.

I also found that I was fine while walking, or standing, and even while sitting in front of the computer working - the latter is never one long sitting scenario, as I make a point of getting up to move around a bit, and get water, and play with Nanuk, and go into the garden, etc. So I was fine. I was even fine when driving to the warehouse (20 minutes), and then to Randburg and then to Sandton City - each little jaunt was approx. 20 minutes, so I wasn't sitting for too long and everything was fine.

And then I went to lunch. The place was great and the food was great and the company was great, but the chairs weren't immensely comfortable. Not normally a problem. The problem though was that the tight jeans were taking their toll on me and my little, how-shall-I-say, um, well, nookie, cookie, you know, mothertheresahavingabadhairday, whatever.

And I knew I had to make some adjustments, but WHAT adjustments? I excused myself, which I thought was very well-mannered of me, and went to the ladies, ostensibly to wash my hands, and I began trying to figure out how to adjust. I mean, does one adjust to the left, moving everything to one side, and WHAT must one adjust, or does one move everything to the right, and "everything" being .... ? or does one do a split infinitive thing, and risk having the little man in the canoe seriously assaulted by the seam of the seriously tight jeans, or what. I don't know what I adjusted and where everything ended up but I adjusted something and I was fine. I washed my hands,
and went back to the table. And sat down.

And the little man in the canoe started howling, fairly quietly, but howling nevertheless. And when jeans are so tight, I tell you, no amount of wriggling and moving about helps. It's like there's a conspiracy between Superglue and the seam of the tight jeans. They just get in there, boy, in a place that hasn't seen the light of day, or night, for like 10 years ......

And how long was lunch? You may well ask. Four hours, dear. Four long, interesting, entertaining hours. Agonising too. I would have liked to kiss it better but I'm not quite so double-jointed, and you know how unreliable the help is these days ... so I hoped someone would drop a napkin and bend down to pick it up so I could do a "While you're down there ..." but alas, aloe gel it had to be. As long as I don't become known as the girl who has a Split Pussanality, I'll be grateful. Fuckaduckinabucket.

BP
4 June 2004
Reproduce freely as is but maintain © copyright notice


The Tit, The Handyman and The Goodguys©

Well now we have The Tit, The Handyman and The Goodguys.

Many years ago, a group of friends and I supported one of our friends who sold It's a Pleasure lingerie, and as a result of our support of her part time business, most of us have tons of It's a Pleasure lingerie. Today for some reason, I picked one of those bras as I was in a hurry getting dressed, and everything was fine and up where it belonged albeit that the bra was slightly loose.

I even went to the local police station to have something Commissioner of Oath-ed, and apart from the policeman behind the desk looking very perplexed as he looked at my ID - he was holding the ID book UPSIDE DOWN but I kept my mouth firmly shut - anyway, everything was fine. Really busy morning, and running around and doing lots of things, and then Fred, the Yugoslav handyman arrived to fix something for me.

And wouldn't you know - in spite of everything remaining firmly in place the whole morning from 7.30, and throughout the time Fred and Jo (his helper) were working at my house - after we got to my mom's so they could sort out something there as well, didn't the right t*t decide to fall out the bra while I was standing with Fred the Yugoslav Handyman. So I stood there and thought okay, fine, it's a white t-shirt which is not good BUT the bra wasn't doing such a great job of holding up both mammaries, so hopefully the difference between the cupped boob and the uncupped one wouldn't be too noticeable.

So I walked inside, but of course Jo, Fred's smelly helper, was on a ladder slap bang in the middle of the passage so I couldn't get to either of the bathrooms or any of the bedrooms to make adjustments.

So I went outside, onto the patio and I thought right, why don't I try to do that clever thing that woman had done in Flash Dance when she pulled her bra through the sleeve of her jersey and the boyfriend sitting opposite her thought it was great. But then I figured that one of two things would happen in this particular flash dance scenario: Either I would get the straps muddled with my arms and wouldn't be fast enough and would end up with half a bra sticking out of my t-shirt sleeve, which would be difficult to ignore and very embarrassing to explain. Or if I succeeded and got to offending garment off my body, and allowed Nature, Gravity and the good work of my plastic surgeon take care of the rest, just as I did that, Fred would walk out onto the patio and instead of using his tape measure to measure whatever he was measuring, he might use a different measuring piece of equipment called Yugoslav Dick which is quite different to a Stanley Knife, I understand.

And I really didn't have the time or the inclination or the sense of humour to now start taming that beast on top of everything else. I think he would have a big beast because he's a big guy and he has big hands, and I had just been doing battle with the pool's creepy crauly as well, so one beast and one rebel tit was enough.

So I left things as they were and kind of kept my right arm kinda folded across my chest trying to look like it's the most natural pose for Greeks with two arms and one hanging tit and one suspended one.

So I waved Fred off, and got into my car, and everything was intact. And I decided to fit in one more thing before going home, so I nipped into Sandton City and headed for Good Guys where I hoped to find Dino, the dish, who told me that my pluggy socket whatever splitter thing was ready for collection. He wasn't in the shop when I got there, but all the others were - Bruno, Dennis, the other (big fat heavy oke) and the female, plus all the others.

All was well as I walked into the shop and right to the back with Dennis in the vain hope of finding the pluggy socket whatever splitter thing. But we didn't find it, so I said I would have a coffee and I'd be back. As I left the shop, along came Dino, the dish, and together we walked back to the shop so he could give me the pluggy socket splitter whatever.

And now, there are four of them behind the counter, seated, i.e eyes level with any short person's upper torso. And as Dino hands me the pluggy socket splitter thing, doesn't my right tit decide to venture out again. Yes it does.

And this time I thought, oh flip because unlike when I flashed Fred who is over 6 foot and can more comfortably see the top of my head, rather than use his eyes as a leveller for other body parts, I had 8 eyes that could be used as a leveller plus Dino babe might or might not have noticed.

I did the arm across chest thing and felt marginally like a spastic trying to hold the flippin' splitter, cover the drooped t*t, and hope it didn't show through the thin white t-shirt. And of course, Dino did want to explain things to me very carefully and with great precision didn't he.

My only hope is that this pluggy socket splitter thing does work and that I won't have to show my face, or any other parts of my anatomy, in the shop for at least another five years. My plastic surgeon did a great job many years ago but when one boob is aided by a bra, and one isn't, even a blind man could see that.

I have now thrown out the offending bra.

28 November 2005
BP
Reproduce freely as is but maintain © copyright notice


Okay so© .......

... today I went for a mammo, routine, bit overdue, and Dr R, the usual suspect at the mammogram place was away but another doc was in attendance, so I had the mammo which of course is always SUCH a thrilling experience, watching one's boobies being squashed into a shape the plastic surgeon tried really hard to change .... and then I put on the little gown again and sat down for a few minutes, and was then summoned to have an ultra sound, which they always do because there's a bit of scar tissue, and so I went through and that too is a pleasant experience, you take off your gown exposing boobs but also the top half of your body right down to where your jeans end, and in my case it is not an overwhelmingly sexy sight, but anyway, so anyway, t*ts dangling I leapt up onto the bed thing - why don't they have little stepladders for the short ones?

Anyway, so I climbed on the bed which wasn't actually as high as I am suggesting, and the climb was not too undignified, and then the nurse or whoever she is put the little modesty face cloth across my chest, and there I lay for a couple of minutes, or in fact probably only about one minute, when suddenly the door opens - oh, I was told that a Dr A would be doing the ultra sound, and I didn't know who that was, it could have been anyone, he/she was not there the last time I went for a mammo - so the door opens and in walks a really nice looking woman, probably my sort of age, though I would need to look at her from a different angle to say for sure, but she looked really pretty, dark hair, introduced herself, shook my hand a tad strongly but I suppose it was the professional handshakeypoo, and gave me her name, said that the staff were all excited because I am Greek, she is Greek, big excitement, not sure why, and anyway, so she starts doing the ultrasound which is okay, you know lots of jelly gel whatever that thing is and I have to say she was gentle when she pressed the dingus on my breasts, and she did both, we had a bit of a chat, while she was doing that, and she said to me twice, not once, twice, "You have very nice breasts". I thanked her, and thought I should ask her for her phone number, but alas I held my tongue, and didn't even venture further to ask if she meant nice aesthetically or health-wise or both, but I like to think she meant both, and with that, I was left with two paper towels on my jelly gel soaked breasts, and I got off the bed and would have liked a bath sheet not a face cloth to mop everything up, by which I mean the jelly gel remains, and so there you have it then.

The She Doctor was nice and very pleasant on the eye. And depending on her inclination, she might even be pleasant on other parts of one's anatomy, but as it's Greek Holy Week perhaps I should put those thoughts aside for now.

Just thought you'd enjoy this little titbit, even those of you who might be slightly mystified about some of the references J

BP
4.4.2007 Reproduce freely but maintain © copyright notice

Helllllllllooo, what else can one do except Stand Perfectly Still Now when one's tit is pinned under a Perspex vice, sweety darling, and let's just crush it more and more and more, yay, it's now turned blue and we can see all the veins, oh good, NOW we can take a photograph.

Anyhow, all fine, and the bone density is also fine in fact Dr R was very impressed and very satisfied and very pleased.  And bone density is charming with one's leggies up on a big cube at some point, for more pictures, but mercifully none of the indignities of similar visits to those other medical people who I'm sure are frustrated dentists, using the same catch phrase to allow them to work on the area in question .... "open wide dear" but with less scary equipment.  Well at least I think it's less scary.  Who can open her eyes when the plectrum/spectrum/spatula - that darling little appliance - is hovering around an area of one's anatomy not usually designed for metal objects .....  I mean, honestly.

BP
25 March 2009

Reproduce freely as is but maintain copyright notice

 

Fleas in the gym©   * LATEST * 

E-mail sent to some people.

OK, so, if you are receiving this it is because I feel you can shed some light on this particular matter, as you are all somewhat physically active in one way or another and somewhat worldly in one way or another.

I'm loving this new experience (gym), and being able to be in a different environment for an hour or so every second day.

The staff is now beginning to recognise me, and greet me, and I greet them.  The guy who has put the exercise programme together for me, Brett, is a real sweety.  I asked one of the other guys to call Brett on Monday and he literally jumped up from behind his desk and jogged towards me, which was probably part of his daily training but anyway, I was glad to see he was well brought up and had been taught to show respect to old folk.

I usually go at 1pm, which is definitely a quiet time, and at their busiest at that time, I have seen perhaps 10 people training, sometimes it's just guys, sometimes just women, and sometimes a combination.  They also have a small enclosed section called Feminique with tinted glass and just a few pieces of equipment so women can train in there if they want to. 

I only went into that section once, the first time, when I had to do three exercises involving that big ball that is half as tall as I am, and the exercise routine required me to do exercises of the pelvic variety, which I don't normally have a problem with except that in this instance it would have been on a huge ball, in full view of other people training, of which 100% were men.  So I decided to do those three particular exercises in the female enclosure that day, but then decided to do them at home instead, and use more of the equipment at the gym while I'm there, and I do all my exercise routines in the main gym.

The gym itself is in good condition, the cleaners are constantly cleaning the equipment, inside, outside, top, bottom, I should employ one of them for my house I think.  The change rooms are very clean; everything is very clean. 

So then, what's with the fleas?  The fleas?  Yes, the fleas.  Here's the story:

I went to gym today not my usual day as I couldn't get there yesterday and today I did a double session, as I was also needing to let off steam about something, so I did my two cardio exercises and was delighted when I was able to sail through one of them, the one with the big steppy feet and long armies, where previously I had to pause the machine - and myself - every few minutes when I first started this whole story.  So I was chuffed. 

For the second session, I went downstairs and put my key into the thing and checked out what the next day's exercise routine is, and it's a fun one, especially the pull down pulley or whatever it's called - piece of cake. 

But the one before that is the shoulder press, which I have now only done twice and I'm still taking strain but I'm getting there. 

So I'm sitting at this shoulder press contraption, in a less than flattering position, with these big machine arms on either side, a seat like a bicycle seat, with the front kind of sticking out a bit, anyway, it is usually okay except today I was doing this exercise, with leggies on either side of the bicycle seat, which is fine, but this time there were about five or six guys pulling and pushing and gaaning aan a few metres in front of me.  I didn't make eye contact but I did notice them huffing and puffing and pulling themselves up and hanging like gorillas from one of the high contraptions - I was doing anything to pass the time and take my mind off the 10 kgs I have to push/pull forward with each arm.

And suddenly the one guy who had just finished working on one of the pieces of equipment - gym equipment - starts scratching himself, as men do, and I thought okay, so this guy's got fleas.

But for heaven's sake, how many?  Is the whole Flea Family in there? Visiting from where?  His Armpit?

And then his pal, who was walking towards that piece of equipment, ALSO scratched himself, so now I am really pushing those 10 kgs on both arms hoping the equipment will explode and klap these okes one time.

So I avert my eyes, and on the left, next to the mirrors (lest the gorillas don't watch themselves perform) is a big oke, oomph oomph, about to hang himself from one of the contraptions that has a horizontal bar and pulley things and weights and G-d knows what else, and just as he's about to hang himself, doesn't he just grab his flea.  I mean, grab it, not delicately give it a vigorous scratch.  He grabbed a whole handful, and as I said, he was a big oke, probably one of the Blou Bulls or Groen Bliksems or whatever they are. 

So I think, okay, so now, what is it about men and their fleas in public?

I have dated several men in my time.  All were men-men, all were physically active in one form or another, played sport, whatever, all had various interests.  We had a fairly active social life, but never once did any of those guys scratch his flea in public or grab his flipping flea in public and kind of weigh it, you know how you do with a pound of I don't know what, I can't even think straight, I'm getting all flustered.

So can one of you explain to me what it is about men and scratching themselves in public, or adjusting themselves like they're working with a dowsing rod and are trying to find water, or metal, or like the Blou Bliksem, WEIGHING himself like that?  I mean, honestly.

BP
23.4.2009 

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