Monday, February 28, 2005

tales from the ash tray

I'm a serial quitter, and one thing I've learned from all the times I've quit, is to not buy into the whole marketing ploy that quitting is this muthafucking THING that's going to be SO difficult. That mindset was brought to you care of the companies making obscene amounts of money from manufacturing and selling cigarettes, and is being perpetuated by the vampires who manufacture and sell nicotine replacement.

The actually quitting process is a whole lot easier than most would have you believe.

The first day is physically hard, the second isn't pretty, by the third, you're no longer looking down the barrel of OH MY GOD LIGHT ME UP NOW!! and the view is looking pretty free and clear from here on.

If you believe it's gonna be hard, it WILL be hard. Rest assured, I'm not saying it's not hard in the same way one snaps their fingers outside your line of vision and says 'lookie here!' to distract you from what lies ahead. It isn't hard. Honestly.

What's hard is staying quit.

And I've successfully quit several times, and each time I'm amazed at how frikking easy is it. My problem is staying quit, one of the reasons being it was so damned easy to quit, I figure just one won't hurt ::rolls eyes:: and if I need to, I can quit again like that. *snaps fingers* And I can. What I tend to forget, however, is the difficulty I have in deciding to quit. That takes forever as I wade through the When? Where? How? Eek! process. That part is the hardest part, and maybe then only because I've been indoctrinated with how hard the quitting process is. Excuse me while I repeat myself. Ahem.

There are stumbling blocks to remaining smoke free. I know them well, hence my serial quitter title, and one of the biggies is learning to 'uncluster' events. I had 'em clustered up neatly, so one never went without the other. Things like get in the car & light up, get home & light up, make coffee & light up, answer phone & light up.....and so on and so forth. Anyhoo, it was the trigger event I had to watch, not the lighting up event. I mean, I didn't walk around resisting temptation with a cigarette and a zippo in my pocket, but I did often get in my car, get home, watch tv and answer the phone. See?

I quit again last October (I think. I don't keep a running tally of days sans smoke, cuz the days I haven't smoked aren't important, it's the days I will not smoke that are) and I'm not missing it at all. I really don't think about it, even though I mix primarily with smokers. For the first time ever though, my house is a no smoking zone, so I must be serious. As an aside, I was at friend's house the other day and he lit a cigarette and I was all 'dude, take it outside' and he was all 'ooh, sorry' til l he remembered he was in his house and I was full o' shite. Bwah!

Sunday, February 27, 2005

late night musings

I wonder, does eating lettuce give anyone else the squirts, or is it only me?
I have a zit but as far a zits goes, this one's rather Cindy Crawfordesque and is on its last legs. Consequently it's not doing much damage and in the right light, is kinda sassy.

Stef though, being a member of an elite squad known as The Zit Police, and as King Of The Fucking Obvious pointed it out for me today. 'You have a huge muthafucking growth of gigantic proportions disfiguring your face and Oh. My. God!! Townspeople! Run, run! Run far away! Save yourselves! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! zit, right there'.

Then he punctuated his discovery by pointing, right there.

Yeah, I know. I was wondering the same thing. What would I do without him*?

*insert sarcasmo tone here
Stef came over at 4.30 this morning. He'd been to a buck's show at a strip club and had spent the entire evening talking to Margo, the Sex Worker and Snake Owner. (she owns the snake one of the strippers used in her act).

Anyway, Margo is a *wiggling fingers* do do doo do person. Seems she's a witch and all that jazz, and having met Stef, felt this connection with me via him. She met him and began asking about his 'friend'.


The person Stef doesn't talk to anyone about, and she picked up on my connection with him just like that *snapping fingers*.

I know. How weird is that? (I love this kinda shit)

So anyway, she picked up that I'm a...he forgot, and she feels I need to know...he forgot, and he needs to tell me....he forgot.

Do I shoot him now or do I wait until after I torture him?

an excerpt

from the Fucked Up Files

There was an incident last night.

James, the tai chi instructor from work, came over. We were going to go to some shindig populated with *wiggling fingers in the air* do do doo do people. You know, some kind of meditation group or some such, with people who are spiritually minded, like moi. (please note, I'm not one of those spiritual people. You wouldn't even know I'm spiritual. I don't wear crushed velvet, don't eat granola, don't talk about messages from the other side or anything like that. I'm more into energy and the mind/body connection and the universe and self connnection. You know, the regular kind of spiritual shit, not the spaz kind of spiritual shit)

Bit of background: James is nice but he really likes the sound of his own voice. So I sit and listen and he has a conversations with himself mostly. I contribute a bit but he barely listens and picks up where he wants to. It's cool with me cuz it's nice to not be the entertainment officer all the time. He's very flighty and has the attention span of a gnat. He also thinks I'm totally hot so waddaryagonnado? Not listen?

So anyway, James and I were talking about tai chi. Or rather, he was talking and I was making encouraging cooing noises at the appropriate times. My contribution was that I'd done one class and felt like a total fuck up. What happens is, James is teaching several teachers in each class, so assigns one of them to new people in the class for some one on one. He assigned Bonnie to teach me and Bonnie is not conversant with the shit sandwich (aka the 'you've picked up the bla bla bla really well, your thingydoover could do with some work but all in all, you're getting the idea' way of giving constructive criticism as opposed to the 'you suck' variety), so I was all uppercase person (that is, being a human exclamation mark) after the class and thinking I sucked at tai chi, and not liking feeling like I was crap at something I wanted to be not crap at. Punctuate as you see fit. I made it clear that it was about me and how I respond to new situations and criticism and such, not about James or his class or his mignons or how his class is delivered.

James cut in and blabbed on about 'of course you're an aerobics instructor (I'm not) and you like it all fast and hard (ooh, rude?) and tai chi isn't your thing'. I held up my hand (as is necessary when dealing with a verbal diarrheaist) and said 'may I finish what I was saying?', and he let me. I thought. I told him that I come from a weight training background. That's been my thing, not aerobics, because it's methodical, it's a union between my mind and body, that weight training, for me, is not about frantic lifting and lowering of weights. With that mindest, I'd like to complement what I do with something more gentle, and maybe tai chi is my thing, but I don't know from that one class...and I think that's when it went down hill. At this point, I was still under the impression that we were having an intelligent conversation, but then he butted in asked me if I'd heard of some song called 'Mystique'. I shook my head and said maybe I have but no, I don't know recognise the name. He said asked me why I was shaking my head and I reinterated that I may have heard it but no, the name of the song isn't familiar. He recited the lyrics, 'we tried to talk but the words got in the way' and said that's what was happening here and that I have entirely too much to say but don't listen and if he never speaks to me again it will be too soon and




Friday, February 25, 2005

What I got for my birthday:

1. My first comment ever, which inspired me to dance around the room with my pants on my head.

Thanks for the festivities mihow.


2. Older.

I'll keep the first, the second can go suck an egg.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Add a dash of sarcasm and cue the birthday song!

My nanna rang at 8.30 and was on the phone for around 45 seconds before she 'had to go'. Then mum called and spent the first half of the call bitching about nanna, my uncle, nanna, and lessee? my uncle. When she was done, she moved onto me. She needs to talk about these things, apparently. Things like how I was so awful and she was so desperate and I just wanted to die and what was she supposed to do wah wah wah. According to her, she's not being critical, I always take it the wrong way (now I'm no fucking saint, but generally? I listen to this, feel nauseous and deal with it by keeping my trap shut and my indignance deeply buried because in all seriousness, maybe I am taking it the wrong way? And what good would it do to debate with a nutjob the issue?) But today for whatever reason, I decided to test the Good It Would Do Theory™ and told her that, imo, she could really do with dealing with her anger issues because I don't want to deal with them any more and it was twenty years ago (okay, eighteen, but I was driving a point home), I was sick and I probably wasn't operating on all cylinders and what does it have to do with today? When she said 'I just wanted to say....', I cut her off and said 'What mum? What is it you wanted to say that has any relevance to how things are today'. So she hung up on me. I dry heaved for a bit then went to the shops and bought a lettuce and some really cool detox patches for my feet, which so far, have been the highlight of my day.


Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Today is my last day of being, erm, young.

It's my birthday tomorrow and then it's official.

I'm old.


All may not be lost though! I was at the beach earlier today when this guy walks by and says hi. He would have been about 20, tops, so I figured the poor kid had seen me from a distance, came in for the kill and when he got close enough to call me baby, recoiled in well disguised horror. Not five minutes later though, he's back, and close enough to no longer be fooled.

This time he bade me farewell and called me 'sweetie'. Aw.

On this, my last day of being younger than as old as dirt, lets all thank fuck for big, dark glasses and a hat, shall we?

In lieu of any other riveting subject matter, let's talk about my boobs. With the help of the Boobie Name Generator, I discovered my girls are called Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding.

I wonder which is which?

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

when I say what I do, this is what I mean, and this is a pretty good explanation of what it is and how it works.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

I don't know who wrote this

As I stand on the mountaintop as the great bird approaches
She is small in my sight but grows larger on approach
until I am blessed with the full sight of her graceful wings, proud countenance and good company.
All too quickly she grows small again on the horizon and disappears from view and I call out "there, she's gone".
But there are other mountaintops beyond me and at the precise moment when I note the great bird's departure from my view,
I know there are new eyes taking up the sight of her and fresh voices calling out "here she comes".

Friday, February 18, 2005

I was researching my final assignment and lookie here! I'm famous!

fart     P   Pronunciation Key  (färt) Vulgar Slang
intr.v. fart·ed, fart·ing, farts
1. To expel intestinal gas through the anus; break wind. As a rule, smell bad. Exception to rule: aibee's farts, which don't actually exist, what with her being a lady and all, but if they did, they'd smell like roses.

2. To fool around; fritter time away. Something aibee is very good at.



This assignment has been due for a year. Yes, you read it right. A year, give or take a week or three. All I have to do is write the muckinfruckin thing up so why am I writing about writing it up? See above, point 2. Oh brudder....

Thursday, February 17, 2005

the naturalist

My neighbour is one. If he’s at home, he's naked. He won't wear a shred of clothing, not for anyone and not even for special occasions (’special occasions’ being code for ‘answering the door’)

I would have paid good money to be a fly on the wall the first (and only) time the Avon lady paid him a visit.

fun with food

I've got a bag of frozen peas strapped to my butt and another strapped to my leg.

I love my therapeutic vegetables.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

no comment

suffice to say, this site taught me that a melon baller ain't necessarily a kitchen utensil.
I survived four classes last night and I'm good to go for two more this evening.


My back still feels..what does it feel? Unstable? I think know suspect, but am not quite sure (huh?) that most of that feeling is fear though.

Five weeks of this shit has been four and a half weeks too many. I mean, criminy. Sheesh, and etc.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

I have a key!

I have a premises! I have credibilty! I have heartburn!

Actually I don't, but I was on a roll.

I digress!

I have ADD?

I have my very own key to Aria's studio. He works with other trainers in the same way. It's like this: we use his studio and a small portion of our fee goes to him. He's one smart cookie is our Aria.

And hot. Oh boy, is he hot. But I digress....again....

I have ADD!

He also handballed me a client he couldn't make time for this week and bahstardbahstardbastard, wouldn't you know it? I agreed to a time that I simply cannot make. Darnit.

Now that my back has settled, the only thing holding me back is fear of doing it in again. No shit, I'm scared of going to work today in case I hurt my back-but what's the option? Not working. And what would that achieve? Nothing. So....

Self talk is a marvelous thing.

I plan on empploying Aria as my personal trainer in a month or so. Weekly sessions maybe. I want to get more systematic with my weight training and I also want to gain fitness. I've lost a lot of condition in the past five weeks because, while I taught classes, I haven't been able to keep up. Instead of participating in my own classes, I've been standing on the sidelines and doing a lot of yelling. (the u[pshot is I've been getting in a lot of practice for when my kid plays soccer) Most of all, I want a reason to work on my eating and Aria has so many skills, both physical and metaphysical, that could help me do that. I need to eat better to get stronger, fitter, faster, and doing it for me isn't motivating enough-yet. I think it's the same for everyone. Sometimes we need an outside force to help us find that fire inside.

Ooh, deep.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

doing a number on myself

That FSH of 9.1 is sinking in.

I feel a little less than cavalier today and a little more....devastated.

It's so confusing to know what a good result is because if I'm not infertile, I'm fucked, but if I am infertile, I'm fucked too.

And I'm worrying about how much this is all going to cost. Last November, when she had her hand to her brow lamenting her Never To Be A Grandmother status, mum offered to pay for whatever it took me to produce an heir. Since then though, and I've told her about this, she hasn't said a word (not a one. Am I being too subjective or is that a tad...I'm searching for the right words here, bear with me, searching, searching...fucked up? Is it fucked up that my own mother isn't interested? Or is it fucked up that I thought she might be? Hmm...) about any of this.

And this is hard.

It's already hard and not even one month in. Then again most of it being hard is the unknown component, and that kind of hard is going to diminsh one more becomes known. So it won't get more hard, it will get different hard.

Guess what? I've been eating pumpkin and carrots and consequently, I'm yellow. It's magic! No, actually, it's not. I had you fooled for a bit though, didn't I? It's called hypercarotenemia and you usually don't get it unitl you eat a truck load of carrots, but I'm lacking in whatever enzyme it takes to covert betacarotene to vitamin A, so if I eat one carrot, or a serve of pumpkin, I change colour. That first link is a it of a piss off though, suffice to say, stupid muckinfruckin T3 (and yes, of course I have the damn thermometer in my mouth afrikkingain. And why yes, I am cooking some damn carrots right now. Shut up)

Saturday, February 12, 2005

When things happen, we invariably look for a reason why it happened. We want answers-but what if the answer lies in a lack of reason? Maybe the answer is in that space, in the same way the ability to meditate lies in the space we find when we think about nothing?

ready, steady.

I had my first appointment with Dr Alf A Bett (Get it? Alphabet? He's not quite the quick brown fox but he has so many letters in his name, he may as well be) and my day 4 bloods came back with an FSH of 9.1. The upper limit is 10 so it looks like I'm heading into perimenopause.

I'm old. :(

The irony is that the worse off I am in the fertility department, the better off I am legislation wise. If I'm found to be ovulating with functional fallopian tubes, I can't access their donor sperm program. He told me more than once that he was on my side and would do what he could to find a way to help me, but somehow I felt really, really alone.

I met with the nurse person and after all the lovely warm people I've met there, well, all three of them so far, Karen was surprisingly cold. After the doctor, she's the first point of contact in an institution where desperation, hope, elation and disappointment run riot, so you'd think she could rustle up a bit of warmth, wouldn't you? Hmm.

More blood was drawn today and Alf also wants to check the integrity of my fallopian tubes. He gave me the option of a laparoscopy or a hysterosalpinogram. I went with the latter because we can always go back to the surgical option at a later date if we need to, and because my belly button is something to behold. I'm old (my FSH tells me so) so I wanna hang onto anything young I've got for as long as I can, and my beli butone (tht's french for belly button) belies (hee) my years. It's seriously cute. The hysterosalpinogram needs to be done sometime between day 5 and 11, so I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of my period. I just can't wait to have some dye squirted up my cooter. There's also more bloods to be drawn sometime between days 3 and 5.

This waiting thing is gonna drive me nuts. Overnight, I've turned into a mucus (oh deal, we all have it) reader. I have no idea what I'm reading. I'm dyslexic. I can see the words but have no idea what they say.

Last night I dropped into the supermarket a squeak before closing time and got stuck in the queue behind a woman with a trolley full. I sent her karmic daggers (of course) but took them back when she asked if my three items and I woulld like to go before her. The checkout chick had already started on the trolley load by then, so I waited my turn, sans daggers and quite peacefully. I'm glad I did too because her trolley was a sight to behold. I gazed in wonder at the delights she'd piled in there. Fresh coriander, lemons, olive oil, asparagus...all the makings of a glorious, glorious salad. So I commented and so we got talking. Her husband passed away so she and several girlfriends are having a Valentime's day dinner and she's cooking. It sounds nice, huh? Not the dying and all, the dinner. Anyway, as we were leaving, I don't know what possessed me as I'm chatty, not nosey, I asked when he husband had died. One hour and a new friendship later, we parted company with each other's phone numbers safely installed on our respective phones.

My back is feeling better today. Geez though, yesterday I was buzzing with the stress hormones again, squiffing my Resuce Remedy and worrying all over again that this pain was going to continue for ever, I'd ahve to quit my job, my prenancy (heh) will be painful and I'll be bedridden......oy. Aria was busy, and as my personal mantra is if what I'm doing isn't working, do somethng else. So I went to my chiropractor. I haven't seen him since July last year and he was impressed at my muscle strenght and stabilty. Now this time off with injury has seen me lose a lot of condition-and I'm still in good shape. Go me! He's never seen my sartorious hold so well (huh?) and despite the pain, this is still only a category 1 strain. That means my adrenals were dealing with it thankyouverrymuch, and the pain hasn't stressed my whole system. Just the joint. Whoopee. All in all, I'm doing well and despite this four and a half week set back, am still very resilient. Since I'm not working Monday, it'll work out to a four and half days break, so I think this will be the last we see of this stupid back thing.

My chiropractor, Bill, is The Most Handsome Alive™ so in many ways, it's a darn shame my back isn't the disaster area it once was. Must commence planning. What will take to have his hands on my arse on a regular basis? Ideas people, I need ideas.

Bill's receptionist is the wife of one of the stupid soccer players (last year, long story, involves violins) and since seeing her with him at Stef's stupid Christmas barbecue, I feel a bit weird about seeing her there. She's The Most Beautiful Woman Alive™ btw, not that it has anything to do with this story. This isn't really a story anyway, so, the end.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

more of the tip

Today I'm seeing someone for some knee rehab. His knee, not mine. While it's good for me re experience and all that shit, poor guy, he coulda hired someone soooo much more experienced than I, and paid a lot less. Actually, his mum paid. He's a kid, kinda. Is a nineteen year old still a kid? No matter, his age makes it still more stressful for me than if he was older than dirt and this is, after all, about me, not him. Oy.

The good thing though, is that he's booked with me because the rest of the trainers there suck butt. I'm really not up myself and I'm totally not kidding. These guys suck. Some of the shit they hand out to other clients? Good god. Like, the Big Shit of trainers there hands out the most ludicrous stuff as back rehab exercises. He's creating back injuries fgs. I wish people who had injury issues wouldn't sign up with The Shittiest Gym In TownTM. I wish they'd go somewhere where the majority of trainers had a frikkin clue.

I work there for several reasons, and most of them are to do with self esteem. I don't have any of it. One argument is that at least I know I have a clue so clients who book and are lucky enough to get me (holding up my enormous head is taxing my resources) are also lucky enough to get a lot of explanations, a lot of information, a lot of technique and a program that actually works. Also, I'm the best personal trainer there. If I left and went to a gym that wasn't so shitty, I'd be the crappiest. I don't wanna be crappy. Although, maybe I'm not crappy at all? Maybe it's just a self esteem issue, this feeling crappy thing? Whatever it is, I don't want to feel like I'm crappy, and I'm also too wussy to actually look elsewhere.

The Bowen business is slowly getting a leg up. No clients yet, but a lot of talk and my name is getting known at both gyms I work at. Having Aria's studio to work from is going to be a benefit as, understandably, people are leery when you offer only a mobile service. I guess it seems more professional to have a premises. I think so anyway.

My vision is to rent (own?) a home with a room that could be used as a studio. A room with its own entrance even. This is the first time I've actually let myself see what I want, so this vision thing is a good thing.

I've been on thyroid hormones for ooh, two and a half years? And my hair has been falling out since I went on them. It had thinned a bit before but grown back a bit too. Now? Jeebus gosh, now it will not stop. I've got to the point where if a handfull falls out, I'm all, yeah, whatever. I've been weaning off these hormones for more than eighteen months, at 2.5mg at a time. Yes, milligrams. I take pig thyroid, not because the dumbarse doctors thought it would be a good idea, but because I got so ill on thyroxine that I wanted to die. Ill as in depressed ill. Ill as in I wanted to die ill. I cried at fucking everything, and felt so desperate that no one believed it was the thyroxine, and not me behind the depression. And that made me cry some more. I was pretty obsessed with finding something different, so did my research and found a doctor here who would prescribe this pig stuff. I shit you not, within two days of the changeover, a light came on and the depression lifted. Any change in thyroid levels can precipitate a shed, and this change sure as shit did. It recovered a bit, faltered a bit, recovered some more-but since it began shedding last February, as a consequence of surgery the preceding November. it has not stopped. I said that already, huh? There were such promising fuzzlets before then too. *sigh*.

Anyway, I'm down from 135mg and am on, to date, 10mg. I just did a vague out thing and nearly flooded my house again, and that scares me. I turned on a tap, wandered off and forgot to turn it off, so now I'm all worried that maybe I can't get off this evil hairfalling out hormoney shit because I'm hypothyroid on 10mg.

Thing is, while my TSH goes down on exogenous hormones, my fT4 and fT3 levels stay stubbornly at the low end of the range. I figure I'd rather be hypo on my own hormones than on something I have to take every fucking day. The vagueness is (could be? hopefully is?) due to my stupid diet too. I so have to get a handle on the shit I eat. I know I feel better when I'm eating better. So why do I persist with the crappy eating? Why do I want to make myself feel bad. Hmm....

I just stuck a thermometer in my armpit to check my temperature. If it's low, I plan on worrying some more. Then again, why not just continue with the worrying I'm already doing? I know my temperature is going to be low, it always is. I should just throw away the thermometer and use that energy to worry some more. Now, that's a plan!

It's 36C. Like I thought it would be any different. I'll go with plan A, which was to recommence worrying. The only flaw in this plan is the 're' in 'recommence'.

I googled, you know, to confirm my worst fears and what's that? The normal average temperature by mouth is 37C, normal average armpit temperature is 36.5C? Yes, of course I the damn thermometer is in my stupid mouth this very's out of my mouth and showing (drumroll please) 36.8C.

I like to think of my worrying as a form of mental gymnastics, and mental gymnastics keep one's mind sharp so at this rate, I'm never gonna go senile.

Another thing: I've had three heavy duty Bowen sessions since last Friday. Doh. Bowen can make you feel like you've been hit by a truck for a day or three, which is a good thing cuz it means your body is putting all that energy into healing.

My cat likes zucchini. Is that weird? I think it's weird. Of course, I once had a cat who prefered cucumber to Snappy Tom. I had to chop it up real fine for her, and she'd eat it with her front teeth. Totally fucking cute. Then there was Mischa with his thing for rockmelon. And Coby with her thing for cruciferous vegetables....hmm....

I wormed Hollie this morning, and geebus, you'd think I was trying to kill her. Getting the damn paste down her damn throat left me with cat fur down my own throat. That cat sheds more than any cat I've ever met. Never, ever get a grey and white cat, not unless you wear a lot of grey and white and you're able to train each hair to stay in its designated grey or white area. Anyway, I left the worm paste syringey thingy on the floor while I distracted myself by hacking up a furball-and she licked it clean. Well then, waddya know? I thought cats didn't like that shit, hence the instructions to wrestle with your cat to get the job done. I thought I had to force the shit down her contrary little throat. Next time I'm going to open the packet and let her go for it.

Holy cow, is this entry loaded with inane crap or what?

Okay, here we go then. Interesting titbit of information #1: I see the reproductive endorcrinologist tomorrow. I'll carry on with the worrying, shall I?

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

tip of the iceberg updatey stuff

My leg still hurts and my back is killing me.

Four weeks folks. Four weeks. Ay carumba.

On Monday I worked my regular six hour shift, and because a client cancelled at 7am, I had almost half an hour to do stupid things like clean the stupid mirrors or ask the stupid members the stupid questions on the stupid survey sheets until I had two more training sessions and two more classes to take and then after that, a zillion more clients to work with. I asked if instead of doing the stupid windows, which as an aside, I don't mind doing but being injured and etc, doing windows sucks because it hurts, if I could take the opportunity to recover from the 6.15 am thrashing and do some of the front counter work instead of doing my regular filling in time stuff. I got an affirmative so began folding brochures when not ten minutes late, shitface comes out and shits himself, telling me if I can't work, I shouldn't be here wankwankwankblablabla. All this for not even a half hour of mirror cleaning? Take a pill, dude. Everyone knows I'm in delicate petal mode at present, and still roster me on because when I'm doing what a personal trainer does, I do it regardless of my personal pain (violins please). It's only when there's no trainer work to do that I ask for delicate petal treatment, not demand, ask, and who in the name of fuck is it hurting if I do other work that needs to be done anyway? I don't expect a pat on the head for doing this job, cuz that's what I'm pained to do, so no I don't need positive feedback to keep me going-but I also don't expect to be chewed out when I'm fucking doing my job either. Maybe it's because this pain (sob) has been going on for four weeks but dammit. :madface: I felt like telling the shithead to shove his stupid job up his stupid arse but I love my job (sob) and I love the people I work with (sob) and I love my clients too (sob) so I didn't quit. You might wanna punctuate that last sentence btw....

This back and leg thing. I trade treatments with Aria. He's a triathlete and I'm, well, in pain. I work on him and he works on me, which works really well. So last Friday and then again, Monday we did each other and then we had a cuddle and a cigarette the pain relief was phenomenal both times, for him and for me, but I did some stupid arsed thing on Monday night, and I hurt again (whine). I think I know what's going on, but working on one's own coccyx is a little difficult and anyway, don't you go blind doing stuff like that? *ahem*

Aria, as I mentioned, is an elite athlete, so it's real kudos to be working on him. I fret about being crap at this but Aria says I'm really good. Really. Good. Me. Good gosh.

I've been wishing my life away because of a love for coffee. I have maybe two cups of coffee a day. Okay, three. Alright. Honestly? You beat it out of me. I'm drinking my fourth now. God. So anyway, each morning I have nummy two stove top espressos (be still my beating heart) and the rest of the day disappears into a flurry of meaningless fluff as wish it away, eagerly awaiting the following morning so my love and I could meet again. This affair is getting out of hand, and this three or four cups thing has got to stop. God knows what it's doing to my non existent fertility. I read that more than [random number goes here, random being relatively low] milligrams of caffeine reduces a woman's chance of getting pregnant by fifty percent. Oy. And it's not like I'm addicted cuz I'm really not. I could totally go without it if I wasn't so totally in love with the taste of it. Herb tea is alright, but it sure as shit ain't coffee, and I certainly can't imagine anticipating herb tea like I do coffee. Does anyone anticipate the steepage (I also totally made that word up) of the something you could grow in yor backyard. I don't see how they could. Tea is so, agricultural. I mean, coffee is too, but there's also the deliciously erotic contemplating of the roasting and the grinding, and that kinda trumps the mundane concept of agriculture and cow pats. Then again, as my fertility really is non existant, it can't really be reduced by fifty percent, can it. I mean, half of nothing is still nothing, right? If my fertility was to be factored numerically it'd be a big zero, so giving up coffee is going to push it up to two times zero, which is (wait for it) still zero. So what am I worrying about? Salut!

Speaking of Really Is and etc, my day 21 bloods were drawn on Monday, which is only my technical day 21 as the reality is that Tuesday was day 14, but as my as three cycles have been only 21 days, we're going with the technical argument but since I was there on the Monday already, they decided that it was close enough and took my technical day 21 bloods on technical day 20. Arguement being, we can always follow up with a really truly day 21 if the technical one bombs out. Which it did, and my E2 and progesterone leves are saying I'm either about to get my period or I didn't ovulate. No prizes for guessing which it is. As an aside, E2 was 0.3 and progesterone was 0.1. I have no idea what that means because I've only ever known them to be in tens, but this is in decimal points, so they either use different calibration or I'm pretty light on the ol' hormonies.

I was there already on Monday meeting with Anne, one of the centres counsellors. Nice lady, and it didn't feel like an interivew, which I imagine it is in part, as they need to assess me and my suitablity for donor sperm as much as I need to form relationships with the people who are going to help me through the biggest job of my life. I only just realised it is when I wrote that just then. I'm not scared either. Is that good or is that being in denial?

The other gym needed me for the 9.30am class today, so I got to see my Wednesday morning girls, Mel and Mel. I used to always do this shift so that's how I know them. The other Mel was there too, and I shit you not. It's true. One class, three Mels. I love doing classes with all of them. I told the first two Mels my plans because I think talking to them is one of the things that's encouraged me to follow this through. I suppose to, I want to tell someone, anyone, dammit, because this doesn't seem real yet, and I want it to feel real. Back to the Mels. They met when they both did pregnant lady aqua aerobics. Neither had been trying to get pregnant, in any case, one was on the pill, the other was apparently infertile due to endometriosis-and lo! They both got knocked up around the same time. They're great women and I love that they're both are so real about the whole deal. The hardships, the boobs, the feeling like shit, the boobs, the not sleeping, the boobs, the weight gain, the boobs...yeah, I know. Boobs seem to feature a lot when you're talking babies. They both wished me luck, like really and truly, none of thus cursory wishes shit, and Mel told me it's the best thing I can do. And I believe her. Aw. *sniff*

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Did you hear the one about the duck who waddled into the store to buy some new flippers? (what? his old ones were worn out)

the sales clerk asked him "will you be paying cash or using your credit card?"

and the duck replied "nah, just put it on it my bill......"

*boom boom*

Next on this morning's telecast:

Your Name.

Is it hot or not?

I dunno how you went but apparently I'm as sexy as a pair of old socks...... ::rolling eyes::

So anyway, I'm driving home this morning when something occured to me. If you're riding a pushbike in peak hour along a main road with no bike lane, it's more sensible to put your tennis racket in your knapsack so that the handle is facing the kerb, and not directly into the traffic.

Seriously, I'm so hiding my laurel under a bushel (whatever). I should be making a career out of writing Public Service Announcements. Or be employed by the FBI, but that's another story entirely....

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