as Bec is laid up with some dreaded lurgy that befell me last week, as work consumes all my energy, as the incubus compels me to be horizontal at any opportunity, Glamorouse has suffered.
I have nothing particularly enlightening, humorous or deep to comment on as at this point in time, my state of mind is exhaustion.
But... if you want to know how to piss me off really easily, its writing, and then reproducing articles like this one. It seems appropriate the author's name is Ablow, as he can ablow his thoughts up his own arse as far as I'm concerned.
whoever he may be, deserves every unfortunate, blood on his hands type incident, coming his way.
So wrong. So very very wrong.
What's worse than getting your information from the peel-off strip on a sanitary pad?
Being told one of the strange-but-true facts you've read on the peel-off strip ... by a man.
Freaked me out.
There's a rule about not going through the bathroom bin, right?
By the way, NOT the Professor.
when a foodie goes bad...
rock bottom has arrived.
Heartburn has driven me to hurl too many times in the last week.
Tonight, for dinner, I ate two slices of Burgen rye with one slice of ham and... deep breath... Masterfoods Corn Relish.
What's worse. It tasted so very very good.
Boanthropy and other perplexing questions
I'm wondering how to explain my sudden explosion of quirky facts and general knowledge of staggering uselessness when it has come largely from the plastic protector of the sticky-part off sanitary pads...
Today's useless brain filler:
Boanthropy: a disease in which a person thinks they're an ox.
so very very impressed.
every time I've walked along my hallway this past week I have run my fingertips over paint test patches and scraped-back damp (now dry!) sections, and thought of you...
The feature wall and boxes The wardrobe and cot
View from the doorway
What it looked like before...
(although I had cleaned A LOT of what is in these photos out at the last council cleanup)
Every bad thing, every gripe, every petty quibble I have raised here about my mother and husband I take back.
As some form of green phlegm monster attacks my sinuses so badly it feels either my eardrum will burst or my teeth will just fall from my gums, as some hacking cough makes me feel like labour is starting and pushed my bellybutton out and - again- tests the capacity, or lack thereof, of my pelvic floor, as my head is wracked with an ache only exacerbated by both the above, my mother has taken control of the children and AB has built an entire Ikea wardrobe system - in less than a day - and, with.no.wobbly.bits.
I'm crawling back to bed now, but I am feeling very blessed.
This sort of thing just doesn't happen to me...
Tonight I worked late - I finished off some edits on a mag I write and then spent a couple of hours doing some stuff for Lifestart, the support service that saved our life and works with Oscar.
So basically, I didn't get home until about 9.45pm. When I got home Mum was waiting up for me downstairs, which is weird because when she looks after the kids she puts them to bed then scedattles upstairs - the benefits of living..upstairs. She made me close my eyes, which I hated and fought against, but she wasn't taking no, so I figured I'd indulge her because I've been so cranky and mean to her for months.
Well folks, I'm here to tell you, that when I got home tonight:
- the office had been cleared out
- the office had been painted the colours I wanted
- the cot was assembled - WITH.SHEETS.ON. - and THE cutest little blanket, with a cute little outfit and some singlets hanging over the railing.
- in the corner was an artistic stack of gorgeous boxes, in two sizes.
- the office has been relocated to its new home.
- Chef has set it all up so I can do this. That includes getting under the house and doing wiring.
- All the components of the wardrobe I wanted have been purchased and almost set up. (This is apparently v. disappointing for the workers today, who wanted it all set up - but alas, children needed collecting and work was calling that made it an impossibility) For me, it is absolute magic as it means I don't need to go to Ikea, I don't need to lug bits home, and I get to say where they go in the room!!!
Does anyone fully grasp the magnitude of this???
It is all the hard work, the amazing spirit, the GENEROSITY of our friend Audrey.
Audrey is one of those women who's beautiful nature is reflected in her entire being. She's also Canadian, which simply plays to my obsession about all things Canada.
This year, Audrey has had pneumonia twice. Audrey has had a miscarriage, that then almost resulted in her needing a radical hysterectomy. Audrey has two boys under the age of 3. She has no family in Australia.
And she's done all this for me.
It is one of the incredibly rare, treasured moments, that I am completely and utterly lost for words.
After bursting into tears and balling my eyes out for about ten minutes, thinking, 'this doesn't happen to people like me'. I am just blown away that something so wonderful, so thoughtful and just so so appreciated could be done, for me.
So, to my wondrous chef, the remarkable Audrey, and my Mum who takes all my shit, every.single.day. - thankyou Thankyou THANKYOU.
Check it out, Obgynorama.
What do you think?
I like the look of this...
I've been thinking there are too many forrin' types in our links list, and fell across this Australian link today. Check it out:http://www.loobylu.com/
(no, seriously, much more, have just been kinda frantic beyond the usual for the past couple of days... but I have a surprise coming)
Not much to say
There are times when there doesn't seem that much to say, when your day has flown so fast, you have been so busy and all the rest that there just hasn't been time for your brain to dwell on the things you normally do (Note to self: so this is what my shrink means about work being good for the brain - because it stops you from thinking. Of course!) so there just doesn't seem like much to pass judgement/make comment on. Which is of course the reason I am here posting...
A story about Felix's day
M: How was your day today buddy?
F: Today was good and bad.
M: Tell me about the good bits first.
F: It was good playing with Liam, playing heads down thumbs up in class and the numbers game.
(wandering discussion on heads down thumbs up and general incredulity that I played it when I was at school. once more, no Felix when I was little it wasn't the olden days and everything wasn't in black and white.)
M: So what were the bad bits?
F: It was bad playing because Jake threw a big stick at me, because he was the baddie when we were playing the Fantastic Four. Jake's the bady, I'm the bendy one, Liam's the rock, Sam's fire and Luca is the invisible woman.
M: How does Luca feel playing the invisible woman (he is a boy afterall)
F: He likes it, because he gets to disappear (Oh, the simplicity of childhood games)
the reason for telling the above, apart from its general wholesome playground cuteness, is that, if these boys are anything like other boys who have grown up on the northern beaches and become tradies together, this will be a GREAT 18th or 21st story, particularly for Luca's Mum...
PS - I know I should quit while ahead, but tonight was my latest Midwife checkup. As some would have deduced, last night I had some spotting/bleeding/pinkness issues at a toilet stop. I am quite a consistent spotter during pregnancy and after a high risk pregnancy of bed rest and anal muscle relaxant suppositories, it takes a lot for me to get anxious about these sorts of things. The incubus was still kicking up a storm, so I wasn't particularly perturbed, although desperate for a day off would have loved to use the grown-up woman's closest excuse to getting your period in high school to get out of PE. Alas, too much work, too many deadlines. Anyway, I relayed all this to the midwife tonight and she raised the possibility it was rectal. That's right people, from pelvic congestion, vulval varicose veins to rectal bleeding. And people wonder why educated, successful, financially independent women are choosing not to have kids... (its not by the way, as there's light pinkness once more tonight and its not from that area... I checked. Naturally.)
I'm not sure anyone has recovered from my nude ablutions dream from last week to regale you with further dreams of public nudity and unavoidable humiliation...
Bec - I DREAM of being able to lie on my back - for ANY activity. I think it was about week 8 my lower back kicked out and the sciatica trully kicked in, so as I'm trudging through week 31, battling off a cold/flu thing, realising half way through uni tonight that "gee that feels like a period pain" and coming home to a pink wipe (I know you'll know what I mean) I am dreaming of:
- sleeping on my back
- not having that weird burning feeling as my ligaments stretch beyond the bounds of my body's known universe
- a big wee
- a normal poo
- not needing a toilet ever hour - at least
- no heartburn
- to be able to bend over
but most of all...
to drink alcohol without guilt whenever I feel like it.
Oh, and I reckon the incubus has a twitch or something as instead of dull thuds I get these spasms of action, which I imagine, if I were to have a fit, would look a lot like what it feels like is going on inutero.
There is a very simple explanation: the vena cava.
I treated pregnancy pretty much the same way I treat most activities: I read the instructions first. And several times during. Obsessively actually. Then I post-mortemed when it was over.
The consequence of my PG by Numbers routine, which will no doubt get more thorough treatment on another occasion, is that I know what is going on here.
Any pg book of any merit devotes at least 80 per cent of its contents to DON'Ts. And one of the big DON'Ts for a woman of your incubation is... tell me blossom, have you been sleeping on your back?
Cos as all of us instruction-readers know, if you are pregnant and you sleep on your back you will be warned that the incubus will lie upon a significant vein (0r is it artery?), the vena cava. Most of the warnings describe the dire effect this has on your unborn child, but it always worried me that any cutting off of the circulation was surely more likely to hit Mum before bub.
And again, I ask, sweetie, have you been sleeping on your back?
And yes, I'm ignoring the kiddie porn of Topher Grace. See above.
PS - I KNOW!!! I went through 18 pages of Google images and still couldn't find the pic I wanted. Kinda freaked out now. Thinking your hormonally advanced state is a bad influence. Guess I'll see if the Professor is still awake...
another tawdry confession
The other night I caught a few moments of "Win a date with Tad Hamilton". There were only a few moments as well, Chef was home, and I knew that watching a movie of that calibre when there was Friday night football (AFL of course) and live cricket on was just too greater threat to marital harmony. Plus, who can really watch a movie with the lead called Tad? (Note to self: another Philosophy Sunday topic - what is it with Americans and weird names)
But this dear friends, caught my eye and has been lingering ever since (although Brad's butt has been doing much to loosen its grip)
World, this is Topher Grace. Again with the weird name I know, but in what is quite obviously a Germaine Greer moment, this man child of 1978 is going to be the next generations Brad. I stand by this comment for at least the next week, until the 'who is this guy' curiosity factor wears off.
how can you not love Ricky "you take an Aboriginal man and a CHinese man and we are the same, except an Aborigine has a much larger penis"??? I mean, puerile humour at its best. And Jai'me - I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW MANY GIRLS I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH WHO ARE JAI'ME. I can instantly think of about 10, and we're hedging 15 years ago now.
I.just.don't.understand? Where did we go wrong? Can we ever pick up the pieces?
In case the flames needed more fire, I watched (only in passing though) the finale of Big Brother tonight over Four Corners - as fear mongering about how many Indian call centre workers are passing my woeful credit rating onto others and getting PAID for it - was just too much for me to bear.
But once again, it returns to Brad's arse. Sigh. You know, it has the shape and form of Mel Gibson's in the first Lethal Weapon when he was young, virile and sexy, as opposed to old, virile and kookily religious.
But Bec, if now you're going to tell me that you find Eric "Desert Boots" Bana sexy I'm going to have to suggest therapy to get us through this period of discovery turmoil.
PS - considering the plethora of very average porn you can access remarkably easy on the web, why can't I find a picture of brad's arse to post for everyone's benefit? I shall bookmark this for further discussion on "Sunday is philosophy day".
Our second tiff (but I totally get Brad's arse bared, several times)
No, no, no.
I held my keyboard when you said nice things about that ghastly Australian of the Year try hard show, but if you couple that wrongly wrong favour with your wrongly wrong disfavour for Troy (taped it today, thank you pay tv), well, I'm real tired just now but the word coming to mind is WRONG!
This is so much worse than the peanut butter tiff.
On the one hand we have the lame-o, try hard, even John Howard could have a chuckle, cross-dressing for intellectuals of the Australian of the Year.
On the other hand we have Brad's arse.
Savour those words, make 'em personal: on my other hand I have Brad's arse.
I rest my case.
Dirty Laundry day
OK people, I have been more than willing to bare my soul on this site about the shallow, eye candy kinda guys I like. Yes, Robbie Williams, Johnny Knoxville, Jake Gyllenhaal and Brad Pitt are all bullseye targets of lust as far as I am concerned. That's right, Katie may have had posters of Tom on her wall when she was a teenager, but I could quite happily have bared-torso shots of the above creatures sitting pretty next to Felix's 300 rocket/robot/transformer/fire/killing-spree artworks and Oscar's 500 you-think-Jackson-Pollack-cornered-the-market-on-fuggly-art creative pieces. Just to make the days seem a little shorter...
This white trash lust laundry of mine comes because I saw Troy last night for the first time. This is quite a lame movie, as I'm sorry, but Eric Bana will always look like some guy you went to school with who wore desert boots and Orlando Bloom is so homosexual it is way too hard to imagine any woman bedding him, let alone doing so and creating a war. So, the ONLY think going for this movie is the following:
- Brad's arse, bared, several times
- Brad's torso, bared, a lot
- Brad wearing, essentially, a leather mini skirt (see below)
- Brad's arse, bared, several times
- Brad looking tortured/angry/warring
- Brad's arse, bared, several times
- Brad wearing, essentially, a leather mini skirt
- Brad looking for revenge
- Brad being dirty, sweaty and covered in blood, guts and gore
- Brad's arse, bared, several times
Today is our philosophy day and these are just some of the questions that have been hanging around in my head:
- if the baby is already so big in that it is very easy to tell which in utero body part is which, that I am weeing every 45-60 minutes, that I can't get a good deep breath, that I have to wake up to roll over, that when I walk further than five metres, I can feel the incubus sink so low into my pelvis he/she might as well be taking care of my forest-like bikini line while they're down there, that I have no energy now to just get around the supermarket, let along put things (other than my body weight in Jaffa cake biscuits) into a trolley, then unload them at the checkout, then load them into the trolley (again), then into the car, then out of the car, then into the pantry/fridge/shelf, then how the hell am I going to get through the next NINE WEEKS.
- why does my brother's life and approach to it irritate me so much? I have worked out that it is basically jealousy. That each and every day I step up to the plate, while he just blithely goes along. Its not how he chooses to live his life, or that my mother will make excuses for his atrocious life choices and impressive, comprehensive, unrelenting laziness - its that he can, and does, do this each and every day. All the while I feel guilty for not giving my kids enough greens...
- why does it take an emotional disaster zone (such as a marriage split) to make people see what they had? and that it is too late to get it back.
- why Why WHY must cherries be a) from the US and b) $20 a kilo at the moment. Oh where is the justice?
- WHY do school shoes cost NINETY dollars? I know, I could get them at BigW, or KMart, or Target, but these are kids growing feet, kids growing with superleg splints that need to be accommodated feet.
That's all really.
Wow - wrong AGAIN
So not only did I get the wrong day last week, I got it completely wrong this week. Tops.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the twins.
They're THREE - this means you almost, ALMOST have a tinsy bit of your life back.
Centennial Park, Sydney, the view from the rug.
"Hey Josh, don't look down yet but Liz just dropped her wallet. Kick it under the table while the others are still singing and we'll stash it in the locker during nap time."
The Evil Twin continues to fund her campaign for world domination. Birthday number 3, Friday 12 August, 2005.
Deserving of a post all to itself.
In light of my previous mention, our illustrious ABC TV is currently showing a series entitled
We Can Be Heroes: Finding the Australian of The Year
When a program has a title that can make me smile, its already a winner.
I wholeheartedly recommend you go to the above website and spend some time getting to know the characters and - for those Norwegian and Japanese readers we seem to attract - while it may be difficult to comprehend the humour we call Australian when incorporating translation as well, I hope the treat of this program's existence is not completely lost.
As Pat Mullins says: I may be disabled...but I can roll.
Post post wit
I just realised that yesterday was our Friday: Buried Bone Day. And well, one 36yr old Brendan Francis McMahon buried his bone in a way I don't think Bec nor I imagined would fit so beautifully into our theme-of-the-day.
Which brings me to today, Saturday. Apparently, according to Jennifer, blogging on weekends is the new black. I am thrilled to be so cutting edge at something as opposed to my standard "what's an ipod?" type existence.
Today is our Sports scandal day. I find this hard as, well, I could never ever watch ESPN, Fox Sports 1 through 12 or Channel Ten's woeful Sports Tonight again and not even notice. Except I would miss the figure skating, which irritatingly only ever seems to be on at midnight, which is actually making me look forward to impersonating a cow and breastfeeding again.
I do wonder though, how World Championship Poker is considered a sport.
Anyway, I digress. Apparently headlines like this:
Clarke flat out as top order rocks
are scandalous to some. And opening pars such as this:
Australia were battling for survival in the third Test on Friday evening, having lost Justin Langer to a stroke of English brilliance before tea, then Ricky Ponting and Matthew Hayden after the break on
another compelling day of Ashes cricket.
can apparently bring tears to the eyes. While I become a cricket fan by default over summer (when it is all that is on Australian television and I have friends who can tell me stuff about the 1987 test series that basically makes me question a) how I ever met these people and b) how on earth did we become the dearest friends we have become) but when its cold, the heaters on and there are programs like We Could be Heroes or DNA to watch, the scandal is that cricket is on at all.
Lame I know. But its the best I can do.
Warning: recreational drugs and cute furry animals just don't mix...
I could say so much, but the story really speaks for itself.
But really, it makes Toby's plight seem so much more, well, humane.
Not yet son, not yet.
An exchange with Felix, which I belive was spurred by lack of parent control over television viewing and just WAY too much watching of The Suite Life - a HIDEOUS program that is basically this generation's answer to Full House.
F: Mummy, am I grounded?
M: Not yet mate, not yet.
F: When will you ground me?
M: Probably when you're around 15 and sneak out of the house at night.
M: Because that's not what you do.
M: Because I hope that as you get older we have a wonderful relationship where we talk to each other have respect for each other. So that you understand there will be times I don't let you do something, and you understand I'm not doing it to ruin your life or because I am mean, but because I love you and want the best for you.
F: Where would I go to?
F: When I sneak out of the house?
M: Well, you won't do that so it doesn't matter.
F: But if I did.
M: probably to a friends house or something.
F: Like a party.
M: Yes, maybe.
F: But why wouldn't you let me go to a party?
M: Can we have this discussion when the situation arises? Not now, because I'm sure, in a decade neither you nor I will recall it.
F: But can you still ground me?
M: Sure Felix. You're grounded.
and another thing...
I did yoga today. At work. It made me feel like I needed to puke. Graysh.
Last week. That's right, last week, I had a dream that not only was I naked at Warriewood Square (the Northern Beaches answer to Fountain Gate) but I sidled up to a posh designer toilet as part of those in-square special displays and proceeded to complete ablutions - all the while yelling at the boys to stop running off and stand in front of Mummy to give her some privacy.
I have no idea if this was all just part of my burning and constant desire at the moment to do a wee that lasts more than 3 seconds and is more than 5ml or deals with the whole poo issue with a degree of satisfaction rather than "that'll have to do" or who knows. It was horrifying and yet compelling all the same.
Other musings of the moment:
- I wonder if my mother ever actually understood the Internet, and actually read this, just how many lemon delicious puddings it would take to a) stop her crying and b) apologise for all the bad bad things I say about her on here.
- Is Barnaby really a bad name?
- If we called it Lulu would she hate us forever?
- I'm hungry, I really need Doritos.
- God that heartburn is a bitch, I wish I hadn't eaten those Doritos.
- Ah, I've walked three steps so naturally, I need to urinate.
- Why does my brother's choice of life and approach to it irritate me so much. I fear I am turning into Holly Hunter's sister on Home For The Holidays.
- I wonder if I look fat in this.
- Man my back hurts.
- Do I really need to do a wee or is that just pelvic congestion.
and so on and so forth.
You know that dream you have when you realise you're the only person with no clothes on?*
Well that's how I feel whenever I give someone this blog address. Which is why I've almost never done it. But then I went out on Saturday night, to a grown-ups party, with NO CHILDREN, and I relaxed. Lordy, I relaxed.
To quote an ex-NSW Premier, I was about as relaxed as a cricket and chatting to my friend Tony Park (hi Tony, hardly anyone comes here, and according to our site counter a strange proportion of those who do, speak Norwegian... but if anyone uses this link to buy your books you owe me commission).
So I'm chatting, and chatting, and then somehow I'm chatting about blogging. And while any decent drunk would have forgotten all about it by the next morning, Tony is not any decent drunk. I blame it on his extraordinary height: I think gravity just gives up and lets the alcohol pool around his ankles instead of his brain.
I also blame it on the fact that he's got used to sharing explicitly written sex scenes with his mother (a truly lovely lady) and mother-in-law (equally nice, I'm sure) when they edit his manuscripts (published by Pan Macmillan, folks, click here).
You get the dustjacket picture?
Tony Park: journo, traveller, Army Reservist. Very tall. Makes his mother read his sexual fantasies.
After his 7th SMS today asking for the blog address I'm thinking it's time to stop being silly and share it around. Yes, even to Pete. It will give you both something to call web research next time you're looking for billable hours for PR clients.
But watch out, Captain Park: while you're searching for rude bits about the Professor you might instead find yourself in the middle of one of Kim's descriptions of pregnancy induced vaginal varicose veins. Be afraid.
* the last time I uttered the words in this title, the three people I was with all looked at me curiously and said, "No."
Wednesday is Wedding Day and I told you so.
When your two sons blow rasperries on your tummy to 'give the baby a kiss'. And you show them where the baby is lying, so they are actually blowing raspberries on the babies butt.
When the baby's head is so low in your pelvis its causing pelvic congestion, but your kids really really really want to give it a raspberry on its cheek...
And I just realised I got the twins birthday wrong - its this Sunday. Sure, I had the wrong day, but it proves I was actually early...for something.
Doesn't get much better than this...
"Your baby passes about half a litre of urine into the amniotic fluid each day."
As if I didn't feel like the world was crapping on me already...
Putting the Glam back into Rousing
Bec? Bec? are you lost in your sewing room repairing underwires into bras? Have you been swallowed up in a kitchen renovation? Has crankiness eaten you alive? Come back! Come back! Save people who arrive here from my general malaise and jaded view on life by more, well malaise and jadedness, but done with so much more clever wit and humour. Don't make me beg.
I just realised - HAPPY THIRD BIRTHDAY TWINS!!!
For last Friday.
Another weekend in paradise
For those a bit slow on the uptake, you may have noticed that I find weekends particularly challenging. This is for a number of reasons:
1) my mother’s pervading presence
2) my general tiredness from a week of juggling commuting, work and family duties
3) my mother’s pervading presence
4) the absence of Chef who normally fills my world with humour and good will
5) my mother’s pervading presence
This weekend was no different. It started on Friday as soon as I walked through the door. Felix’s niggling (aka annoying) cough had escalated that day (it started at about 5am) and was basically relentless. My fear that he had whooping cough (again) was growing.
Of course, the sound of the sliding door heralding my arrival home triggers the (dundundundun) of Mum coming downstairs to tell me he’s been coughing “all day” (a wondrous side-effect of having my child at the school where my mother teachers) and the ever-helpful advice that maybe I should take him to the doctor as he might need an antibiotic.
This was followed by another drop-in visit telling me whooping cough was going around. As if
a) I don’t talk to any other parent in the school and find these things out on my own. Or
b) that I’ve already lived through all.of.us. having whooping cough 2 years ago and know full well what it sounds like.
The THIRD visit was to suggest maybe I should give him some Panadol and cough medicine. I’m not kidding. No seriously. She did this. I looked at her, and with every grain of strength in my body said “I have done that” when I really wanted to scream “fuck off and let me look after my own family” or maybe “really? Should I wait the recommended three hours from when I gave him Panadol an hour ago and another five hours for the cough medicine, or just give another dose now?”
The irony in all of this, is that I don’t think she even realised I spend three hours at the hospital with him later that night.
This pissed me off for a number of reasons:
1) it completely undermines my authority as a parent and calls into question any decision I make about the health and wellbeing of my children. Another example of this is when we have pasta for dinner - something my mother does not eat, along with onion, tomato, garlic, cheese and anything else with real flavour in the world of food – and she will comment ‘is that good for them’ – the subtext of course being, that can’t be good for them as I don’t eat it so it can’t have any nutritional value at all. I find this hugely frustrating, highly annoying and grossly offensive as I NEVER call to question the meals she may create for my children, which largely feature an overcooked chop, processed frozen chips and tinned peas. I am not kidding.
2) it acts to turn me into a petulant child – the type that thinks, well if you as my parent are going to tell me to do something (no matter how you try to veil that message) I’m going to do the complete opposite. This of course doesn’t work as it is basically always involves something about my kids that needs action on my part.
3) It locks me permanently into a relationship where I am a fifteen year old child. Any merit or skill I have in my job, in my people skills, in my ability to communicate with anyone except my mother, may as well not exist as she will come down and tell me about this great communication strategy they’re implementing at schools – which has basically been operating in every workplace I’ve been in since leaving university. God forbid I may know something or be skilled somehow in a way not a) guided by her or b)imparted by her to me.
I’m writing this both the vent and to act as a document that as my children grow, I respect them as people, and as they venture into adulthood and the workplace, acknowledge their skills, experience and knowledge as an adult and – gosh – maybe even look to them on occasions when I am out of my normal zone of operation.
Please, if any of you see me vaguely acting in any of the ways indicated above, just take me out into the back paddock and shoot me.
signs of giftedness
Below is a post by one of my children. Its code for: Mum is distracted by unwellness and general malaise, so I shall wreak havoc on the world wide web.
Why we immunise our children for them to still get the illness anyway?
Sure, they don't die, sure their bodily organs aren't impaired for life, sure they don't get it as badly as if they were the child on a commune with no immunisation, but you still have to say to people:
"Sorry, we can't come to Hamish's party today because the boys have whooping cough"
You still get to spend a couple of hours in.the.middle.of.the.night. at Mona Vale Hospital because your child has coughed NON STOP for about three hours, and basically all day with the occassional reprieve, not to mention the previous five weeks of a niggling cough that they just couldn't shake.
You still get to be in isolation. At home. All day. With your mother. Who asks every 10 minutes "is he any better?" or 'drops in' to basically, in the most passively aggressive way possible, tell you how to treat your child when they're sick. For example:
(drop in #3 last night)
"He really is coughing badly. Maybe you should give him some cough medicine."
So while I felt like saying "Really, I hadn't noticed my child coughing up a lung for the last three hours, even though he's about 4 metres away and wow, cough medicine, I hadn't even THOUGHT of that..." I just nodded and otherwise ignored her presence.
You still get all that, and sooo much more. The moping, the snot, the incessant hacking which yes, is worrying but even moreso, really REALLY annoying, the broken sleep and the chance to do it all on your lonesome. The chemist bills. Oh, with the most well-intentioned grandparent reporting/commenting/judging your every action/mood/comment like you're performing in the sporting arena of life where such reporting/commenting/judging is soooo refreshing and educating.
Oh, and in case anyone missed my explosion last weekend regarding the good girl, doing the right thing and basically always ending up criticised or judged because of it, while my brother abdicates all maturity and responsibilty in life and is granted continual excuses, concessions and allowances, she actually asked me today if she should "buy a bun or something" as this afternoon the brother was apparently bringing over the new girlfriend (which by default means I'm meeting her too, forget the fact I might a) not feel like meeting anyone, b) might have had plans/people coming over or c) been a little weary from spending several hours at a hospital in the middle of the night or d) been tending to children with whooping cough). The one he met on the web, about two months after leaving his wife with a four month old baby. The one following the one from Iowa. That was the one that prompted the comment to his wife, when she cried she would fight for their marriage, that his heart was in Iowa. So again, being the good girl and not saying "Mum, I really really don't care. I wasn't rung and invited, so she is coming to see you and we will meet her when we are invited to and did I say I didn't care" I simply said, "I have no idea."
And that, said the weary pregnany woman, is that.
From anguish to lovely
Then you have a morning when no-one rushes, no-one yells, everyone eats a decent breakfast in a timely fashion, everyone gets ready without crying or requiring bribery, and even a load of washing gets hung out.
Faith restored...well, a little way at least
. . . public housing, mental health and the disabled. "These are matters of simple decency. We have allowed these issues to slip off the broad political agenda. We need to put them back. While the Government must always protect its economic credentials it must also have a heart," said our new NSW Premier Morris Iemma.
I L.O.V.E. this man.
If that wasn't enough to make me excited about the political landscape once more (as opposed to a permeating sense of worry-induced nausea) then this was the cruncher:
Another is that Iemma will not apologise for spending time with his young family: "I don't want to look back and see that my family has grown up without me."
When you have a day that starts without seeing your children because they've slept in and you've left early (because tomorrow you'll be late due to an IEP meeting - individual education plan - for one of them and you'll have to leave early on Thursday as your normal arrangement has fallen through).
When the next step in that day is a phone call from your five year old sobbing uncontrollably on the phone saying he loves you and wants you to come home because he doesn't want to go to school today.
When you realise that for most of your conscious life you have stoically been the 'good girl' - either to make up for the appalling baby/toddler you were or because you're told to be by the extended family as your parents go through a divorce only to come to the realisation that nothing good has ever really come from being the good girl.
That being the 'good girl', that doing the right thing, that being considerate, thoughtful and well-intentioned will always ALWAYS be misconstrued as controlling, self-motivated and completely unappreciated - and quite regularly criticised.
That being the 'good girl' and defending family members from the appalling behaviour of others (while they lay down like a dying dog and take it) to then see my relationship with that person obliterate while the person I was defending goes on to have a normal relationship with the person with no discussion/repercussions/holding-to-account ever taking place.
That being the 'good girl' sucks.
To cheer us all up
At least we don't look like this...
CREDIT: MOST WANTED / FLYNET from People
I mean, even the kid has her eyes shut. You can see her thinking "so.much.flesh."
Thank the Lord
I was beginning to grow increasingly concerned that you had landed in a happy land so out of reach of my FlyBys frequent flyer points we may never meet again.
Enduring my own crankiness at myself for not sending to the home email my fabulous entry about living with a 'good girl' complex and how suckful it is and feeling just irritable and cranky with the universe, with everything being a hassle, an effort, and just plain annoying, I am SO PLEASED you got cranky at the Prof, sobbed and threw things at him.
Ah let the joy rain down like a mid afternoon shower in Darwin.
Personally, I have now endured two weeks of wearing a bra with the underwire sticking out - so much so it has drawn blood on my chunky upper-arms (the ones I would line up for liposuction even before the mounds of flesh that grace my girth when I'm not incubating that at the moment hangs like a little forlorn sack beneath my hard round bump) that is only my own fault (as it wouldn't occur to the Chef to do a load of washing unless its his uniforms) as I can't be arsed to put bras in a brabag.
Tonight was the resumption of uni. I can't say I'm that excited by this unit as it involves interviewing strangers on public modes of transport and writing a biographical piece on someone. There's also the pesky issue of the-arrival-of-the-incubus which is going to add another whole level of physical challenge to the studies. Apart from all that, my irritability scale goes off the richter as I endure the L90 busride home with all the other misfits and lunatics who travel on public transport late at night.
I am still itching all over from the gross dissatisfaction of the weekend - and YET AGAIN all the unresolved, strike that, rewind, the never-to-be-resolved - issues I have with my mother and her take on the world.
In accordance with my new homeopath endorsed camaign of 'alllowing my emotions' - I am allowing myself to be pissed off, cranky, fed up, highly irritated, annoyed and did I mention pissed off.
As conveyed previously to Bec, I am working on my 'intention' - at the moment all I can think of is 'my intention is to stop being so cranky' - which I don't think lends itself to the most constructive existence.
Oh, the other thing, I am trying to 'live in my greatness' as opposed to only seeing my 'smallness' (the things like flabby underarms, proneness to melodrama and failing pelvic floors). Hah! Greatness my arse.
enough of this!
Too much grumping from me the past few days - foulness particularly directed at the poor old Prof, but also shared around among other innocent victims.
Much as I hate to admit it, there is just the tiniest possibility that there may be a hormonal cause behind some of my viler acts. But it's not the calendar, or the more obvious physical signs, that gave rise to this suspicion, oh no.
Nor was it the annoyance with Chris yet again needing to do some semi-social work function on a mid-week night, even though it was taking away one of my rare chances for a fully social, long overdue catch up with a friend (Hi Jen, wish you were here). And no, it wasn't even realising that the last social occasion Chris and I had together that I did not have to organise was, um, gosh, maybe my birthday in about 1996. Oh no no noooo.
No Gentle Reader, the real tip-off this month came when I couldn't fix the underwire that had come out of my new black bra.
And why had it come out?
BECAUSE CHRIS PUT IT IN THE FLIPPIN' CLOTHES DRYER.
But even though he should know better by now, having lived with slowly drying bras slung over bathroom door hooks for a good ten years, and even though I say again it was a new bra and a very comfy one, and even though I was completely entitled to be pissed off... I have to admit that bursting into tears, sobbing loudly and inconsolably for a good 10 minutes as the aforementioned tears dripped onto the broken bra that refused to show any sign of an exit hole for the underwire, and then stomping over and throwing both bra and wire at Chris and yelling "Well YOU try fixing it now!"... Well, in hindsight the reaction doesn't seem quite to match up to the issue, does it?
When is survival not just survival? When it's merely existence.
So, there's floating on the water, and there's being under the water, but when do you get to the point where your sorry arse hits sand and you crawl up on the shore, into a perfect sunrise (or sunset, I'm not fussy what coast I land on)?