Trading Post

One thing I would like to better understand. I often hear people who were molested being told "IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!"  Now I've never been molested, but I was asked to show my privet by a 40 year old, but he didn't force anything on me. But as mentioned above, it freaked me out. But back to my question: I never felt guilt or that it was my fault. But as mentioned, I was not molested. Why is there often a feeling of self fault when a victim is molested? Two common thoughts I would think a victim would feel is, hunger for revenge, or they might feel a sense of forgiveness, depending on the individual. I don't know how I would feel.

I'm pretty much along with oznl on this one. I wash my nappies every 2 days, on a normal 60 degree wash, with some laundry sanitiser going in the appropriate hopper in the washer.  It's been working fine for years. I started out with a pre-wash cycle too, but it wasn't adding anything other than extra time and expense, so I haven't bothered with it for years.

I know it’s late but I’m looking for a single diaper in the Spokane area.

The dead hand of enshittification dragged across yet another domestic technology this week as I discovered that the brand of bin bags I’ve been using for years are no longer capable of containing 5 days of used disposable nappies.  This revelation was predictably, dramatic. Splitting my life 60/40 between disposables and cloth nappies, I can just about get away with a week’s worth of used disposables piling up in the plastic nappy bin that lurks in our walk-in wardrobe.  By Thursday (bin night) however, there are 8 or 9 fallen soldiers balled up in a bin whose payload now weighs in the order of 13 – 14kg (around 30lbs).  Weekly, I haul this bag out of my nappy bin, lug it out of the house via our garage to hoist it into our 240 litre “wheelie bin”.  Then, consolidated with the rest of the household refuse, I push that wheelie bin 50 meters or so down our private laneway to the main street where a truck will collect and take it to infinity and preferably beyond. This is all part of my exercise regime. As a side note, it just occurred to me that this week the 30lb weight of my nappy bin payload is now roughly the amount of weight I’ve shed since embarking upon the Oznl dis-expansion project approximately 3.5 months ago.  It’s a sobering thought that in early June, it was as though I was walking around with the weight equivalency of an entire week’s worth of wet disposable nappies distributed across my frame and yet somehow not noticing it.  A more sobering thought is that perhaps now my biking activities are yielding less calorific advantage as I’m no longer metaphorically towing a 30lb lard-trailer whilst undertaking them. Anyway, I’d gotten as far as our garage when suddenly the gravity fairies had came down to gently relieve me of my sisyphean load. Glancing down at the curious sudden lightness of my luggage I saw that I was now “carrying” nothing more than a shred of bin bag whilst used balled up nappies the size of dead chickens were spreading themselves out across the garage floor around me.  In strict accordance with Murphy’s law one of them even rolled under my car. Cursing the principles of bean-counter-driven low density poly-ethylene engineering for bringing forth this fate and considering re-packing I realised that there wasn’t really any bin bag left to re-pack as it had split open all the way down. Not considering for an instant that the garage interior light was on, the garage door was fully raised open and out in the dusk gloom was a street from which could be clearly viewed what looked like an explosion in a day-care changing room, I went back to the kitchen to retrieve a new bin bag. Then, I spent a happy minute gathering the fallen for re-internment. Job complete, I stood up and lifted bag #2 wheelie-bin-ward where upon it immediately split open in the identical fashion to its predecessor, vomiting its entire contents extravagantly back onto the garage floor. Back to the kitchen for TWO bags:  with load distribution comes strength. Returning to the garage to fill my two bags with half as many nappies each, I noticed a battered white Toyota had just returned to our laneway, its headlights winking out in the near-darkness as its engine switched off. This car typically contains our next door neighbour’s sullen only-slightly-post-teenage daughter. We’ll call her “Chlamydia” because it sounds nice but she can be irritating. Most of the street was in darkness but I stood writ large, bathed in an ethereal cool-white-LED garage floodlight, nappies spread at my feet as disciples flocking to their messiah.  Her car door opened.  I rested upon the horns of a dilemma.  My options included: a.       Shutting the garage door thus creating an attention-getting noise in return for a glacial-slow lowering of the steel curtain along with an aftertaste of antisocial demeanour b.      Retreat inside from the garage and leave the crime scene to whatever interpretation she might choose to make of it and deny everything at the trial c.       Remain frozen to the spot and hope the whole problem went away. Naturally, I opted for plan “C” but as Chlamydia emerged from the vehicle I immediately realised that all was not lost. Anyone who has raised teenage daughters will understand the frequently challenging nature of their disposition.  It’s not uncommon for wayward teen girls to use various combinations of intoxicants, unauthorised tattoos and inappropriate boyfriend choices to exact vengeance upon their parents for the inconvenience of birth they inflicted. Chlamydia had instead, in a strategy that was at both once unusual and fiendishly effective, managed to torture her own parents by adopting religion. Not any religion. A hard-core, Kentucky-fried, fire-and-brimstone religion that at once justified her rage as holy and validated her utter disdain for the demonic worldliness of the household into which she had been cast as righteous. Chlamydia was a hard-core bible basher.  When not at sermons, bible study or her church youth group she for the most part studiously avoided being yoked with unbelievers.  This included her parents who often hid upstairs from her, sneaking their empty devil-cans of rum and cola out into the bins when she wasn’t looking. Chlamydia was, not unusually for her, glued to her smart phone that was blasting some kind of video sermon at her face.  It sounded like it had been going on for a while.  The pastor seemed quite excited.  Presumably Jesus had driven her car home so she could watch it whilst commuting. Thusly enthralled, somehow she got out of the vehicle, shut the door, locked it, walked across the street, past my driveway replete with illuminated nappy-nativity scene to storm through her own gate which slammed behind her without for one millisecond looking up from the cool glow of the smartphone screen as it screeched about the endless torments that awaited the unworthy. I could have had a troupe of nappy-clad chimpanzees doing the “Can Can” in the garage and she would have ignored it, such was her devotion. I found myself in the slightly unusual (for atheist) position of being able to legitimately thank the lord for something.  I gathered up the fallen and took them to the wheelie bin which was now by volume, 5% failed bin bags. A near miss is a gift as it at once belies a vulnerability and yet spares us its consequences.  This week I shall attempt to find Kevlar-reinforced bin bags…  

I love the way everyone thinks of Joey as a baby . He will get use to being the baby . Maybe he should be in Lucas,s room .