Thursday, March 31, 2005

a tale of several Chrisses.

For the duration of his detention, things were remarkably peaceful around here, but shortly after Chris's release, my gate was kicked in for the first time since his arrest. It was probably a coincidence, in fact I'm sure it was but that, in addition to the unwelcome presence of his one time best friend's truck in my street, followed shortly thereafter by the presence of the best friend himself outside my house, left me a little bit wary about what the fuck was going on. This guy is also called Chris, so for the sake of clarity, we'll call him Chris-2, and the Chris this story is about, Chris. The first time I had contact with Chris's parole officer, Christine (I shit you not) was last year and in an effort to seek reassurance about his mental state and my safety.

I spoke to her again this morning, and this is where it gets off the point and onto the subject of truly weird coincidences.

Chris only recently become her client, so while I was enquiring about him last year, her side of the long involved discussion was in reference to another client of her's with a very similar name. So similar in fact, that again for the sake of clarity, we'll call him Chris-3. Thing is, I know Chris-3 already as he's a cousin to a good friend of mine called (wait for it) Christine, herewith referred to as Christine-2. Chris-3, by the way and in good company with Chris and Chris-2, was also a suspect in my Housebreaking And Trashing Incident of 2001.

I don't mix with criminals as a rule. I know both of these men because of their familial connection to Christine-2, who is very much NOT a criminal.

As an absolute aside, in my home once and all at the same time were three Chrisses, one Christine, two Lisa's, a Wayne and a Dwain. Whoa.

Back to this morning's phone call with parole officer Christine. Once we were clear on exactly which Chris we were referring to, and that we were each referring to a common Chris, we had a lovely chat. The synopsis being that statistically speaking, petty criminals see the light at around about the age Chris is now, and so discontinue with their law breaking and violence, if it indeed existed in their younger days. They begin to learn how to deal with confict-which is often of their own creation and from their inabilty to deal with adversity- in a more constructive manner, and begin the walk away from their old life. While I can't be sure this is the case with Chris, and despite his past actions, nothing about his behaviour at present suggests it isn't.

Christine has made herself available for the discussion of any future concerns. She encouraged me to take him at face value, but to also, if I was considering taking him up on his offer of coffee, to not drink it if it smells of almonds ask him if he's in counselling or anything, and then gauge his response. Obviously anyone with a criminal record or a history of mental health issues isn't going to gleefully admit to gaol time or recurrent bouts of ECT, but his reaction, if any, should give me a better idea as his head space. She's confident that there's nothing subversive about his intentions, that he probably is trying to make amends, but she's also certain that one never really knows what's going on inside someone else's head.

I admit I have a certain curiousity about his motives. Ostensibly he contacted me about that speeding fine, but since he spoke of it for like, a minute, I'm not sure it wasn't an excuse. I admit too, that I'm entertaining the idea of seeing him, but I'm certainly not planning on it.



Wednesday, March 30, 2005

a memo to my tenant

Dear Hollie

Cats don't like pineapple.

To clarify, you're a cat and this is pineapple.

Cordially yours,
the management.

speaking of code

I'm trying to work out how to change the look of another blog, so have been tinkering around on and off all day. At this point, and after much deliberation, experimentation, searching and hair-pulling, I can honestly say I know at least ten times more about CSS than I knew before. However, ten times diddly squat is still diddly squat.

mfnpoguin3gr7y4rvh0c9h0ct98mp9t <- me banging my head on my keyboard.
I tend to be an observer more than I am a participant, and that's why I like it here.

Here, I can disappear and people still visit. I can document the contents of my mind and not feel I'm demanding attention. When people read, I know they do so not because I forced them to , but because they want to and are, quite possibly, interested in how I am. Who I am, even.

There's a lot of comfort and very little stress in sitting back and reclining elegantly as the world involves me in it, even when I don't know how to involve myself.

Last night, shit for brains Stef and I had a chat. That's code for me asking him wtf? and him telling me he assumed this and that and based his actions on those delusions assumptions.

He dropped of the face of my earth because he assumed I didn't want to see him, and now, I don't want to see him because he dropped off the face of my earth. Out of the two of us, I'm the only one who sees the irony in that.

He wants to be supportive (bla bla wank wank) and I appreciate that, I really do. He wants to be someone I call if I need to. However, because of deficicts in my character, I find it extremely difficult to seek that support. In fact, I find it particularly difficult during times when I could probably do with it the most. Thing is, I don't need to call anyone. I don't need anyone, period, and maybe because of that self sufficiency, I don't understand what it means when he says he's 'there for me'. I don't feel comfortable demanding attention, so if he wants to be all those things for me, he needs to be here for me first. Unless I'm sure he wants to be here, I won't go there, not because I'm stubborn, but because I'm scared of not being welcome.

In my world, you see, the squeaky wheel doesn't get more grease, it gets left outside because it was making too much noise.

I know that I've got to accept friendship as it is offered, and not demand it be offered in ways I recognise, and I generally do. Scratch that, always do, and that's why Stef and I have worked for so long. Generally speaking though, is it so wrong to acknowledge an offer of support, and say 'thankyou, and since you offered, this is what I need'?

teeth 'n sheet

Just in case you were interested.

My Adult Onset Muppet Freak Syndrome isn't nearly as dramatic as Colleen's, but the procedure is essentially the same, and it's what needs to be done if I want to get my Hollywood smile and also, to stop my stupid jaw from aching.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

I'm eating tinned pineapple and my stupid cat is next to me, doing her 'I'm a smoke alarm and I have a flat battery' starving kitty act.

It's pineapple you idiot. Shut UP.

from the corner of my mind

Chris would have forgotten me by now if it hadn't been for a major screw up by the courts.

Way, way back in May, 2000 a speed camera pinged him driving through a 60kmh zone at 98kmh in a car that was still registered in my name. I hadn't seen him for several months at that point, so when I received the 380 buck expiation notice, I promptly sent it back with a statutory declaration stating that the car was, to the best of my knowledge, his.

And that, I thought, was that.

Because the world is an idiot, the moron who processed my stat dec reissued the notice to Chris Myname. That it's in my name isn't my legal problem, but my personal problem is that he hasn't paid it because he's been a leetle distracted with all the being arrested for fuck knows what, the spending time in gaol, and the cleaning himself up from his methamphetamine addiction. My other problem is that while the courts know they screwed up, they won't reissue the notice to Chris Hisname, because they suspect he was using my name as an alias at the time.

Chris first called me about this stupid fine three years ago. His brain was still cooked at that point, and because of the whole Myname thing, he'd developed an interesting-and rather involved-paranoid delusion that I'd somehow manipulated the justice system to bring him down. Or something. Who knows? He was so irrational when we last spoke that I hung up on him so I could hyperventilate without interruption.

Between March 2000 and now, I've had, several 'incidents' at casa mia, and as I've told the police each time, I don't think it was Chris, but the miniscule chance that it was, scared me. Still does really, which is why I want this all sorted out. The fine is now up around the 6K mark, and Chris, for all intents and purposes, seems quite sane. I don't want to report this latest contact as he does sound like he's trying to get his shit together.

In any case, I called him today with all the details he needs to sort this shit out. The irony is that, because the fine isn't in his name, it isn't his problem either. I don't think it was the right thing to do, contacting him, but while I believe he's making the effort to put his life back together, I'd also like to make sure he has no reason to get all fucking paranoid on me again should this fine not go away.

Monday, March 28, 2005

to date..

...all my concerns about IVF have been centred on the meds and the mood altering effects they're famous for.

Being fairly pragmatic, I'm not obsessing about the egg retrieval, and have little concern about the ensuing embryo transfer, or with what comes after that. It's not that I haven't thought about it, but those aspects of IVF aren't worrying me. In time, maybe they will, but for now I see them only in the distance, and as drops in the ocean of the rest of my life. While I'm confident I can handle the physical demands of IVF and its inherent stressors, I'm not confident I can handle being moody, irrational and hormonal. No, it's definitely the meds' whackymaking potential that's been frying my socks.

Today though, I read Egg Donor's account of her several retrievals, and I'm not scared anymore.


Consider yourself linked Egg Donor, for I will be rereading all entries on a regular basis in the interests of maintaining my new found zenlike state.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

me, circa some time in the future

I believe.

When we turn off a light, it doesn't cease to exist. Its energy is transformed. It's still there, we just can't see it any more.

I believe in the energy of the universe. I believe it's all merry go rounds and swings, that there is no more and no less, just different.

I believe that when I die, my soul will return to the continuum, as if pouring a cup of water into the ocean, and like pouring that cup, my energy will transform to become one with the whole. That exact same cup can never be retrieved, but it existed once, and once it was me.

When someone dies, I don't believe they no longer exist. I believe their souls are transformed to light up the universe in some other way.

I believe then, that we never lose anyone. That when people die, their souls aren't extinguished. I believe they go back to their ocean where, once again, they become one with the universe and a part of the whole.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

from the wtf? files.

I just got a phonecall from Chris.




I haven't heard from him in a million years, or thereabouts, and he called to apologise for being such a turd to me way back in the day.

Very odd, yet strangely refreshing.

I wonder if this is all some part of a twelve step program?

today's entry

What the frick is going on with my leg?!

Uh, that's it.

News at eleven.

Friday, March 25, 2005

mini meltdown

I start IVF in a month, and I'm doing this on my own using donor sperm.

It's not so much that I don't know how to tell anyone, it's that I don't know if to tell them.

I'm scared that this will work, I'm scared that it won't. I'm scared that this is only important to me. I'm scared of telling and having those I tell not care enough. Feeling alone doesn't scare me, but I'm scared of knowing I'm alone. What if I tell, and I'm left alone regardless? I'm scared of what my life will be like with a child, and just as scared of what it will be without one. I'm so fucking scared right now.

Bar a couple of noticable and extremely welcome exceptions, my strike rate with interested parties hasn't been too good. My family knows but none have been interested enough to contacted me. I wrote my mum a veritable tome about this, and her reply? Two lines. 'That's exciting bub, keep me in the loop'.

Uh, okay.....

See, the victim in me feels that if she was interested, she'd keep herself in my loop.

My experience of family and support and unconditional love has been less than stellar, and I kind of believe I'm insignificant to everyone. I don't want it proven though, so if I don't let anyone in, I don't get hurt.

It's safer on the periphery, and that's where I stay-which is insulting to anyone who cares about me, as I'm there because that I dont trust that they do.


I feel guilty about saying anything about this, much less asking for support, because in my mind at least, it's a big ask and a heavy burden.

I don't want anyone to be involved because they feel they should be-but they want to be, then that's okay. I'm scared I won't know the difference though.

I'm also scared of the zit that's developing its hugeness on the side of my nose. Hello second head. God.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

for a friend

left quoteWe make choices that are right for the time and for the knowledge we had at the time.

Oh maybe something didn't end up as we thought it should, or we can see a different choice could have led us to a more desirable outcome, but we can only ever see that with the benefit of hindsight. Every choice we make leads to greater knowledge-and how can something that teaches us be 'wrong'? And it's only with the greater knowledge afforded to us by this so-called 'wrong choice' that we can look back and say it was a wrong choice.

So the choices we've made in the past are rarely errors of judgement. They were considered decicions based on what we knew then. It's only after we experience the consequences of our choices do we learn enough to think there could have been a 'better' way-but we think that with the knowledge gained from that experience and those consequences.

right quote

Me, circa January, 2005, and because I'm a profound and prolific biznitch, I'm quoting myself.

So heartbreakingly often, we look back on our pasts with regret, and we wonder how we can ever forgive ourselves for who we were and what we did. Forgiveness however, suggests a wrongdoing-and that's where I get squicked.

Hindsight gives us the view of yesterday from where we are today, and our experience gives us the wisdom. We have that wisdom because of our past.

Without one, there would not be the other.

We look back with the judgment afforded to us by experience. Why then, do look back and judge ourselves?

Better I think, to accept our past. Maybe we would do different now, but we did our best then too.

So friend, I remind you to be proud of who you were and who you are, and who you've yet to be.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

shoe bi do

I bought some new running shoes today, and they look like this,


but without the natty Go Fast silver trim.

My top of the range running shoes are nerdy white.

I have an almost overwhelming urge to whip up a team for a rousing game of lawn bowls.


for your enjoyment

and in lieu of anything intelligent to say:


Star Wars Episode III: A Lost Hope

Click me for download options.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Well fuck

I added haloscan commenting and trackback, which is a good thing, but lost all existing comments, which is a not so good thing.


*trotting off to fix the muckinfruckin thing*

Update: Have located and disinvisiblised existing comments.

Am brilliant.

Damn (part deux).


How to make commenting via blogspot read-only, while keeping haloscan commenting enabled?


Monday, March 21, 2005

random title goes here

I just got back from dotting the i's and crossing the t's and choosing the father of my child. Note how I casually threw that last bit in. Yessiree, I tossed that gem in with as much nonchalance as one would have if one was announcing the selection of say, an avocado.

My donor is one happy, open minded, rational and introspective wanker. Actually, he sounds quite lovely. Can you guess what I'm worried about though? Really worried about?

What if he has a big round arse?

Seriously. And if you think I didn't ask my doctor if he knew...I did. Yes I'm embarrassed. Shut up. God.

Hey! My doctor* is into natural therapies too! So now I'm part of a study he's conducting to assess the effect of natural therapies on pregnancy rates within the IVF framework. Weee!

Did I mention that Stef dropped his bundle? I haven't heard from him in ages, and come last Friday, our come hell or high water, once every two weeks organise to get together night, nothing.

When I told him about this, he said he wanted to be supportive wank wank wank, bla bla bla. Sweet, but it didn't take long for that delusion to come unstuck. I'm not upset or anything though. More relieved than anything, as I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when. I did think it would be a little later down the track though, like when I became insanopoopyheaded from the meds, or later even, when the pregnancy hormones (she says optimistically) kicked in, but his dedication to being supportive lasted all of *checks watch* five minutes.

*the reproductive endocrinologist formerly known as Dr Alf, who shall now be known as 'Marc' because 'Dr Alf'? Puh-leez....

Sunday, March 20, 2005


I'm handling this well, right?



I'm not.

I'm vacillating between believing I'm lucky to be able to do this without the interference of some gooby man to screw up my life alone, and worrying that this isn't how it's meant to be.


by special request

Apparently I'm operating on as many brain cells as there are sheets of A4 paper. There were six, not eight. Of those, three were either too short, too short or too short, or their parents were too short, so, um, no, but thanks for the offer.

So this is what we have left.

  • height: 186cm, father: 180cm, mother: 165cm
  • weight: 74kg, 100kg, 60kg
  • build: average, heavy, light
  • hair colour: light brown, mid brown, auburn red
  • hair features: straight, bald (yet mid brown. Interesting....), wavy
  • eye colour: blue grey, brown, blue
  • complexion: fair, olive, fair
  • facial features: his dad has a strong jawline (you think?)
  • age at donation: 22.3 current age: 28.0
  • country of birth: Australia father: Australia mother: Australia
  • interests: sports-gym, basketball, likes reading science books, vocalist-plays guitar
  • personality: happy, open minded, rational, introspective

  • or him:
  • height: 184cm, father:175cm, mother: 166cm
  • weight:83kg, 75kg, 50kg
  • build: muscular, average, light
  • hair colour: light brown, black, brown
  • hair features:none(?), balding, none (?!)
  • eye colour: green (his parents however, had none)
  • complexion: fair, fair, fair
  • age at donation: 43.0 current age: 48.7
  • country of birth: Australia, father: Australia from French parents, mother: Australia
  • interests: sport-all except football (thank fuck because football = major ick factor)

  • or him:
  • height: 190cm, father: 177cm mother: 176cm
  • weight:87kg, 70kg, 60kg
  • build: light, light. light
  • hair colour: dark brown, fair, fair
  • hair features: straight, straight/fine, fine/curly
  • eye colour: green, brown, hazel
  • complexion: fair, fair, fair
  • age at donation: 35.1 current age: 38.0
  • country of birth: Australia, father: England, mother: England
  • interests: sports-cricket (bleah), golf (bleah, bleah) and tennis (bleah)-club level (better, but still bleah) . Keeping fit
  • personality: relaxed, sociable, good sense of humour

  • Opine away, folks.

    Wait! I forgot something really important!

    Drumroll please.

  • height: 167cm, father: 178ishcm, mother: 168cm
  • weight: 55kg, ummm...., 55kg
  • build: slim/athletic, athletic, average
  • hair colour: brown, brown, darker brown
  • hair features: straight, straight, wavy
  • eye colour: blue grey, blue, hazel
  • complexion: light olive, light olive, medium
  • facial features: have them, my dad had them, and my mum currently has them.
  • current age: *banging head against wall*
  • country of birth: Australia father: Italy from Russian parents, mother: Australia
  • interests: Me. Duh.
  • personality: I have great norks.
  • My intellect is a curious thing, for while I'm able to manipulate data to solve complex problems, more often than not, I fail to notice the fucking obvious.

    For example, I cleverly analysed source pages to learn simple code. Had I read this first, or even this, I wouldn't have had learn much at all. Had I read this though, I wouldn't have had to learn bloody anything, because I would've known about the stupid WYSIWYG editor.


    Saturday, March 19, 2005

    We organised a trade yesterday. I worked on Aria first, after which he had to ride into town and then ride back to work on me. As he hopped on his bike, I cheerily waved him goodbye and advised he take care and not get hit by a bus.

    He never showed up last night and I'm wondering, what are the odds?


    When does the nose ring quit feeling like a booger?


    Ky, aka bulging disk boy, was at work on Thursday, and his back is better. Like, all better.

    I was all cool an' shit on the outside, but inside, I was a fucking exclamation mark (see above)

    He thanked me while I shuffled my feet and practically said 'shucks', cuz really, all I did was pretty much what you do when you've got a needle stuck in a record. You nudge it along so it can keep on playing.

    For I am aibee, queen of the analogy!

    In any case, when someone allows me that close to their pain, and by pain, I mean in the totally metaphoric sense, it's an absolute privilege. They do the work, I'm merely a conduit.

    And if this oobie doobie wiggling fingers shit is anything to go by, I'm either insane or I really am Master of the Universe.

    I wonder which it is?


    2.05am and all is well....

    Have you seen all the dictionary meanings for this?


    The latent homosexual who hired me has, for reasons only he understands, changed his mind. I'd say he wants me gone because we had our shifts swapped, so now I'm the one doing sweet fuck all on a Monday morning, while he works, actually works! under the watchful eye of Bozo, The Wonderboss, but nah. He was already tepidly indifferent when I started, and has since cultivated quite the passionate dislike for me.

    He told me the clients are complaining that they're bored, both at the main gym and the little one where I've run only one, may be two classes a week.

    The hell?

    I thought they liked my classes? At least, that's what they told me.

    Despite working at The World's Crappiest Gym™, I do take what I do quite seriously. I talk to the clients, I mix up their workout, I ask what they want and tailor the classes to their capabilities, bla bla bla work hard bla bla get feedback, blood, sweat and tears bla bla.

    I'm also a delicate fucking petal and completely anal retentive. If I can't do what I want to do perfectly, I don't want to do it. And *sniff* it's one thing to be a bad instructor cuz you don't care, but I do care and, wah, is all. :(

    Then next week's roster was changed and no one told me. Aa lot of my classes were cut, and there were no clients scheduled for training, and wtf? So I did what any self respecting personal trainer would do. I lost my shit. In less than thirty seconds I dropped the f bomb at least that many times. I used it as a verb, an adjective, a noun and an adverb, which while creative, was not very effective as anyone who mattered had already gone home.

    Then I lay awake all night worrying about where I was going wrong. It felt like I'd ony just got to sleep when the phone rang, it was morning, they needed me to fill a class, and Hello! I'm a doormat, so I did it.

    Which turned out to be a good thing because, fast forwarding to my grand announcement that I was a leetle bit upset about the change in rosters, to the bit where Kay fixed everything with one wave of her hand as she pished away my concerns. Seems the other boss had fucked up the rosters because he's a moron operating on one brain cell.

    First crisis averted.

    So then I sobbed about being so sucky and everyone hating me and stuff. Jo chimed in for this one, and it turns out Home Boy is a bitch, no one has complained and in fact, everyone LOVES me. He's pissed because they DO like me. Furthermore, even if they didn't like me, Mr Fancypants had no right to say anything so, pthhhh.

    He smells like shit and I don't.

    I win!


    The end.

    Friday, March 18, 2005

    eek! online

    I got a letter from the Andrology department today. I have eight single A4 sheets of paper, each one representing the possible future father of my child.

    I don't like the sound of any of them.


    That can't be good.

    In other eek! news, I got my nose pierced today.

    totally irrelevant entry

    My gaydar is non functional, but there's a guy at work that is undeniably gay. Gay, gay, gay, and as camp as a row of tents. Not that there's anythng wrong with that, mind, it's just an observation.

    He's also married, and my twenty bucks says he's fantasizing about Matt Damon in a unitard whenever he porks his wife.

    Thursday, March 17, 2005

    mihow got me thinking, and I think that the word 'blog', should be reserved for at best, plumbers, and at worst, proctologists.

    Wednesday, March 16, 2005

    of minor interest

    One of the guys at work hurt his back and now has a bulging disk at L3/L4 level.

    I've treated him with Bowen in the past, and it helped, but right now, he's in so much pain he's scared of being touched at all.

    So last night, I placed my hands around his pain, if that makes any sense.

    Over and over he said 'I don't want to believe in this, but I can feel it. I can feel it', and what he felt was exactly as I was visualising it. I was totally blown away because this energy thing is something I'm not sure I believe in either.

    If there's a point to this entry, maybe it's that sometimes we don't need to believe in something for it to believe in us.

    The more I do this, the more grateful I am for the opportunity to do this.

    I can't describe how it feels without sounding like a fruit.....but when someone comes to me with pain, I can see it. I can feel where it comes from, and most of the time, it's not coming from an injured joint or a strained muscle.

    I help them find a way to give up their pain, and in giving up their pain, they allow their souls to heal.

    No, I'm not stoned. Why do you ask?
    It bears noting though, that my reticence to involve anyone else has very little to do with who they are, and everything to do with who I am.

    emotional economy

    I've only told a handful of people about this, the greatest thing I've ever done with my life, so I've been thinking about why I'm so frugal with who I tell.

    Everything else is uncertain, and I think I want to be certain of the responses I get. If I tell anyone, I want to be certain they'll be interested. I want to be sure they'll give a shit. I don't tell anyone because if no one knows, any lack of support is not due to a lack of interest, but rather, lack of involvment.

    Of the people I have told, one approached me to ask how I am.

    Thankyou Mel, for making me believe this is important for you too.
    I met with the counsellor again yesterday.

    Refresher course: to fulfil the legal obligations associated with donor insemination, I need to see a counsellor at least two times. I've seen her twice now, so we're ready to rock and roll.

    We went through several things, one being the paperwork for andrology to arrange the selection of donors for my perusal. Of their donor pool, there are eight who have agreed to allow single women to access their reproductive material. As an aside, the doctor solemnly referred to it as such a week or so ago. I was all 'dude, let's call a spade a spade....'.

    I didn't want to choose the father of my child based on simple, literal things like eye colour, when what matters is who he is, not how he looks. I realised yesterday though, that all I need to discover is the unknowns like his physical characteristics. The things that matter to me, things like kindness and warmth and vision, are known already because they are what drives someone to be a part of this program. Those qualities must be inherent in every one of the donors. Please excuse my flower child moment, but in offering something so precious and so personal, to someone he's never met and to who he'll never know, every donor has already demonstrated his capacity to love unconditionally and universally.

    How do you thank someone for that?

    Tuesday, March 15, 2005

    Whoever said.. wasn't meant to be easy, sure knew his shit.

    I've wanted a nicer smile ever since about a month after my parents asked me if I wanted bands, and I said no.

    Hindsight is a bitch and stuff, but Mum, Dad? I was eleven.


    My smile isn't horrific or anything, it's just that it's not a wide smile.

    My dentist told me I needed bands when I was just a young 'un. My parents didn't act upon the need though and instead, several healthy, albeit unruly, teeth were removed and the illusion of order was created.

    (Sorry? What was that? Well yes, I am still bitter. Why do you ask?)

    Being a geriatric old crone with a penchant for free stuff, and with a health fund who will cover the cost, I went along to an orthodontist to get me some straight teeth, yo. He sent me to an oral surgeon though, and he, after consulting with my orthodontist and looking at my four hundred million x-rays, told me my teeth can't be satisfactorily straightened at present.

    Then he explained why my smile is less that Hollywood movie star-esque.

    Apparently my upper jaw that never grew properly. ( !) Removing so many teeth at a young age also removes the need for jaw to grow to accomodate a full set of pearly whites in adulthood, and that results in the whole mid face region not growing to accomodate a growing jaw.

    The best bit? This inbalance in size gets worse with time. It was oddly reassuring to know that I'm not imagining my cheekbones are getting flatter as I get older. They really are, so I'm not insane.

    Now that's good news, isn't it? More good news is that, uncorrected and with enough time, I could end up looking like Grover.

    At this point, I'd like to point out that I don't look like some kind of muppet freak.

    Not yet anyway.

    But if I want a nice smile, I need surgery to pull my upper jaw forward, my palate split to create more width, and my bottom jaw pulled back to correct my bite.

    More good news is that as this surgery would also prevent the occurence of Adult Onset Muppet Freak Syndrome, it would all be funded by our national health scheme. The bad news is that this is not what I had in mind when it came to free shit.

    Monday, March 14, 2005


    I was treating Aria today, doing some upper leg stuff and tootling along quite nicely, thankyou very much, when I touched his.....I'm sorry. I can't say what I touched. I'm too embarrassed. Suffice to say that I didn't know whether to apologise or light up a cigarette.

    Good grief.

    Saturday, March 12, 2005

    I'm on the phone! I'm online! I'm multitasking!

    Dig me!

    Thursday, March 10, 2005


    I got DSL today.

    Who knew that Australia's Premier ISP could take something so simple, and fuck it up so royally?

    I'm a telephone service slut. Seriously, I am. Loyalty? Pah. I've been with four phone companies in as many months, so when I got the call offering me gold! and treasures! and twenty minute calls for one buck seventy five! and pretty much the exact same service I already had with another carrier, I lay on my back with my legs in the air and said 'Take me! take me, I'm yours!' signed up.

    Then came the lure of a heap of free shit if I added DSL to my phone deal, and so, dizzy with lust, I signed up for that too.

    Fast forward to last Thursday, when the idiot in charge of splitting my phone line (whatever) did something whacky doo and destroyed it instead. I had to use my neighbour's phone to sort it out, so not only was I subjected to voice prompts, button pressing and intermidable queues, I was subjected to him, in his own home and naked from the waist down. The phone line was fixed yesterday, but the image of nature boy in a t-shirt-and very little else-will be burned on my retinas forever.

    The modem arrived today and with it, an installation disk and with that, the news that Premier ISP does not support Macintosh.

    You have got to be kidding me. Four weeks and no one bothered to mention this?

    I called them and they offered to refund everything and put it all back the way it was and bla bla bla, because this order should NEVER have got past the first phone call and the techie was so very, very sorry for the mistake and I was this close *pinching fingers together* to chucking it all in, but what can I say? I'm a sucker for a man begging for my forgiveness I figured let's give this plug and play shiznit a chance to prove itself, and screw the lack of tech support I'm gonna get as a mac user. Load her up, baby. I may live to regret it though, as 'blistering speeds' my butt. This connection is as slow as shit.

    So anyway, I'm set up. I'm also eagerly awaiting the day technology will allow a thwack upside of the head to be e-mailed to the nimrods in sales who neglected to mention something as crucial as a friggin' operating system requirement. (punctuate as you see fit)

    Or cat poop. I live for the day I can attach my cat's finest to an e-mail and wave it bah bye as I hit the send button.

    Wednesday, March 09, 2005


    ...about acidophilus. Wouldn't it be really cool if the '25 billion organisms per capsule' promise on the label was a typo.


    Self Portrait Day.


    ->insert witty, self-effacing comment here<-

    Tuesday, March 08, 2005

    speaking of my undercarriage

    I thought I had butt cancer once, on the butt part of my butt. You know, my butt.

    Turns out it was a zit. Right on my ringer. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Good grief.

    Monday, March 07, 2005

    thinking of England

    Today saw me flat on my back, legs akimbo, with a doctor sporting a miner's headlamp, carrying a warm speculum and getting comfy at my feet.

    Ah yes, I was a true vision of loveliness.

    Meanwhile, at the business end of things, my cervix is really, really shy. The lump that appeared in my throat as I entered the examination room? My uterus. That thing must be jammed up that high and sharing room space with my thyroid because the doctor could not find anything resembling the requisite-and usually attached-cervix anywhere it should've been . With all the turning and winding of the speculum that went on as she tried to view the damn thing, if she'd let go of my feet, I'd have been spinning in an anti clockwise direction right there on the examination table for quite some time.

    Well now. Once we've cleared that amusing visual from our minds, we'll sally forth, shall we?

    Once located, my uterus proved itself and is, in a word, fabulous. Now while I'm pretty stoic (read: in denial), I was a leetle bit scared of finding out that I've been lugging around the classic model T uterus that characterises DES exposure. I don't, so moving right along to....

    My fallopian tubes! Old lefty was as happy as a clam and spilling contrast into my peritoneal cavity with gay abandon. (Yes, I know that when I talk like this it makes you want me, bad, but what can I do? It's a curse being this sexy) Meanwhile ol' righty was in some seedy bar on the other side of town, smoking cigarettes and drinking tequila shots off some cheap hooker's belly or something, cuz she sure as shit wasn't doing anything useful inside your's truly, not while we were watching anyway.

    But! (she says, index finger in the air)

    This is good news.

    I needed medical proof that I'm infertile, or at least have a medical condition preventing conception, and this is it, folks! Three cheers for the blockage at the distal end of my right fallopian tube! (hi hip hooray etc) Looking at that tube stubbornly refuse to regurgitate its contents, if there was ever a pants on head moment, this was it.

    But! I didn't know that yet, so I got to wring my hands until I saw Dr Alf some two hours later. He took one look and promptly declared me medically incompetent to conceive at my own volition. Actually, I declared me that. He said something else that meant much the same thing, but with a lot less flourish. He did smile a lot though, and then he shook my hand because guess what? I'm doing IVF!!

    *quizzical look*

    Having IVF?

    Sunday, March 06, 2005

    an explanation

    I'm not much of a drinker. Not because of the hellish hangovers I endure, cuz I never used to get those. Yesterday though, I swear I got all the hangovers due to me from my whole life. More specifically, due to me from my teenage years as a fledgling alcoholic.

    No, I don't drink much because I'm not very good at it.

    Years ago and in an effort to improve my form, I drank an awful lot but alas, my form never improved. It's not that I'm an embarrassing or nasty drunk or anything, it's just that when I drink, I get very, very tired. I don't pass out, not in the real sense, and I'm a whole lot of fun for the 2.5 seconds I'm both tipsy and conscious. I'm very pleasant and just like I am now, but a little more so. And then I fall asleep.

    Back in the day when my best friend drank brandy and dry and I drank half scotches and coke, every Sunday we'd watch our boyfriends play indoor cricket from the bar conveniently located upstairs. The view of the pitch was so much better from there. Ahem. She effectively drank four times as much as me, what with having two brandies to my one half scotch, but by the end of the ninety minute game, I'd have my face in the chip bowl and she'd still be sober.

    There's a three minute window of opportunity between me being tipsy and me catching zeds, and that window usually occurs after the second drink, so a word of advice to any of you sleazeballs out there who happens to meet me in a bar. If your intention is to get me drunk so we can have anonymous drunk sex, try someone else. Or work fast. Your choice.

    All in all, I'm a real two pot screamer, which for the uninitiated (and the unAustralian) is what we call someone with a low tolerance for alcohol, who is easily intoxicated, and who is a cheap drunk. My maternal grandfather was the same, and he was over six feet tall. My teenie weenie grandmother, on the other hand, could drink an elephant under the table. My mother inherited the wowser gene, and passed it on to me. If there's a specific enzyme that allows for the efficient metabolism of alcohol, I swear, there are three generations of us that don't have it.

    Friday night started out as a regular, white bread evening like any other evening at casa di aibee. Stef came over-and it all went downhill from there when, for no good reason other than 'I have Vodka!', I drank a few buckets of the stuff, with coke, hold the ice. I think I decided to drink that much because my judgment was impaired by the several hundred Archer's Spris I'd already had. Usually and in all seriousness, I'm asleep after just one of those babies, so maybe the speed they went down had something to do with my ability to fit more in before I hit terminal velocity?

    I wish I could make the story more interesting than that, but it isn't. I drank because I was really, really sad. Being sad had something to do with the Stef being very, very late, and nothing to do with me being a controlling ball breaker who demands punctuality because I'm not that person, not at all. It has something to do with this not being the first time, not by a long shot, and a lot to do with not wanting to kid myself that Stef cares about me anymore. Stef didn't even realised I was sad, as I'm a very self contained little unit who deals with her emotions by rationally rationalising them.

    That last bit may make more sense if you drink three beers then come back and read it again.

    I'm not stupid and I know the relationship we have is based on bullshit. I know I pretend I matter to him. He says he cares about me and wah wah wah, but what he says and what his actions say are diametrically opposed. I know all this, but for one night every two weeks, I like to pretend I matter to at least one person on earth.

    I don't want to pretend anymore, and even though this was all make believe, there's still a sense of loss in letting it go.

    That's not to say that I won't see him again. I'd like to say I won't, but know I will. It's still easier to be reminded of my insignificance than it is to feel insignificant because no one else knows I'm alive. Geebus gawd, that sounds so sad and pathetic when really and truly, I'm neither of those things.

    Maybe I can explain.

    I'm not a bad person, or even a boring one. I'm very friendly and outgoing and people who meet me invariably really like me. I am, however, habituated to being solitary. I have been since I was twenty one. I hadn't been sick even a year when my parents left for Italy and my life became only mine. I don't know how they did that. Moreover, I don't know how I survived it, though learning how to rely only on myself is probably why I did. If I'd pined for my family's love, I doubt I'd have made it through. At that point, I weighed 33 kilograms and my life became one of daily binging and purging and when I wasn't doing that, I was starving. Every day was about excess and denial, and it went on and on and on. Though you wouldn't know it to look at me, I'm still working to overcome the ravages of those years.

    My life isn't good yet. It's certainly much better than it was, but good? Not really, no. Thing is, it's harder now than it ever was. I think people assume that gaining weight meant losing the disorder so life can begin again. More importantly, I think I assumed that. What happened instead was I gained weight and the unbearable feelings that put me there in the first place were still there. They never went away, I'd merely starved them into submission. Now I have my future to worry about, my present to endure and my past to regret.

    The hardest thing about overcoming my eating disorder is learning how to live like a normal, socialised human being. I spent so many years hiding my disease-my self-from everybody that I don't remember how to not hide.

    In every other area, I push past the boundaries of my comfort zone. I've known Stef for four and a half years, and during that time, my life has been in constant upheaval. He's been the one constant, and while it's not a satisfying relationship, it is predictable, and that, I suppose, makes it safe.

    While all this may explain, at least in part, why I nurture a relationship that nurtures my sense of unworthiness, none of it describes the hangover I had yesterday, which was exquisite. I'm positive that if it exists, Hell will turn out to be exactly like Heaven, but with bigger headaches and a whole lot more bilious.

    Saturday, March 05, 2005

    I am never drinking again.


    Friday, March 04, 2005

    my boss is a fucktoid

    Three weeks ago he lost his shit with me. I'd I got his permission to do reception work for the twenty minutes I had between classes and clients, then he changed his mind and decided that I shouldn't be working if I was injured. Looks like the seventy billion classes and two thousand clients I train each week aren't considered 'work'. Cleaning mirrors apparently is.

    Last week, he told me spend my time between classes greeting customers as they came in the door. That's it. Greet them.

    Uh, okay.

    Then this week he told me to do what Lee, reception girl extrordinaire, wanted me to do. She had no idea what needed doing, so asked him what he wanted me to do. He asked her if my back was still sore, she replied 'well, yes...', and it is, but I haven't said anything to him about it since that day three weeks ago. He freaked out at her, then freaked out at my immediate boss, and the news is he wants me fired.

    All this because three weeks ago, I asked him if I could either sit down for twenty minutes to do reception work, or take a twenty minute unpaid break. He opted for the former, and has apparently been seething over it ever since.


    the story of my mouth, part deux

    I went to the dentist yesterday cuz it felt like my tooth was getting CAUGHT INSIDE the crater on the underside of my tongue. Yes, all caps. It really hurts that much and it really feels like my tooth is getting jammed inside, wreaking even more damage.

    So anyway, I'm reclining as elegantly as one can recline while wearing big ol' Atom Ant glasses (to protect one from one's own spit, one would presume. I mean, it's hardly likely one's own dentist is gonna hoik a lurgey into one's eye, is it?) with one's tongue being pulled out of one's mouth by one's dentist. I'm the one, in case you were wondering. Anyway, he turned my tongue over to cop a gander at this legendary hole, and as he did so, a hush fell over the room.

    Then, as if choreographed, he and his nurse looked at each other and then in unison, looked at me, uttering the words that absolved me from all wussiehood.

    'Oh my, it's BIG, isn't it?'

    It is? *blink*

    Uh, okay.

    You see, despite my dramatics, I thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill, a crater out of a dimple, a fuss about nothing. Seems this THING is my mouth is awe inspiring. The stuff legends are made of even, and I'm the legend, go me.

    Upshot is, he checked out my teeth for any sharp bits that might be perpetuating my misery, and then sent me on my way, a look of admiration in his eye and a tube of topical anaesthetic in my pocket.

    When I went to pay my bill, I found that this THING's reputation had preceded me, and even the receptionists were tut tutting at my misfortune, and all were totally impressed at my fortitude-and at the size of this fucker.

    And thus enduth the most boring story in the world, unless of course, this thing grows and takes over the world.

    Stay tuned.

    Thursday, March 03, 2005

    Last Saturday, apparently in the absence of anything better to do, I bit my tongue.

    Sweet baby geebus, it hurt like a muthafucka and left me with a huge muthafucking blood blister on the underside of my tongue, and THAT hurt like a muthafucka. It eventually burst and left me with a gaping hole of raw flesh, and THAT hurts, also like a muthafucka.

    All in all, it's been a muthafucka of a week and my world now revolves around my tongue.

    I'm currently unable to participate in the lick component of the lip, sip suck tequila trilogy. I've had to find a new hobby cuz licking the wall is not an option at present. I have a lisp fercrisake. And I drool. And it hurts to do so.

    I tried pouting, but that hurt too.

    Dammit. :madface:

    In other news, I had sex with Brad Pitt last night. :D

    Tuesday, March 01, 2005

    moving right along...

    My period arrived Monday morning, which means The Parenthood Plan® has moved from the Tepid Handshake Phase and onto the veritable Hows Your Father Phase. From here on in, my privates will no longer be soley mine, and nor will they be particularly private.

    Have I mentioned how hard the waiting is? Because it is. My stupid period isn't predictable, so this last month has been a mess of wondering and worrying if it will show up at all. It did and I'm proud of my girl parts, which have, after years of doing the reproductive organ equivilant of reclining elgantly on a lawn chair while sipping mint juleps, quite valiantly reported for active duty.

    I know I haven't written about this stuff in a while, but lord, it's on my mind every. single. waking. moment. I even dream about it fercryinoutloud. That and sex. Lots and lots of sex. Pregnant sex too. With Robbie Williams. wtf?

    So. Period. This is where things pick up again and there are procedures to be booked and appointments to be made. Things have fallen into place quite nicely an next Monday brings with it a hysterosalpinogram, followed by an appointment with Dr Alf shorty afterwards.

    I simply can't wait to have dye shot up my furby.

    Which reminds me: while talking to (arguing with, whatever) mum the other day, the subject of DES came up.

    Okay, okay, I forced the issue.

    I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but mum thinks she was given DES when she was pregant with me. I'm sure I've mentioned I think mum is a nut and anything for attention, yo. Anyway, I pinned her down because frankly, her arguments do NOT hold water.

    Let's look at the things we do know:
    She doesn't remember the name of the drug.
    The doctor's records have been destroyed.
    She doesn't remember the name of her doctor.
    Oh wait, she doesn't remember the name of her doctor yet she knows his records have been destroyed? *scratches head*
    She remembers the name of a drug she was given many years later, which was, wait for it, Diethylstilbestrol, or, DES.
    She remembers that whatever in fuck she was given while gestating yours truly, she reacted differently to it than she reacted the subsequent doses of DES she received in 1968 and 1972 respectively.

    While the notoriety of being a DES daughter would afford me some serious sympathy and several 'aw, you poor thing's, I don't believe I am one. A poor thing or a DES daughter.

    And, uh, if today's entry had a point, I forgot what it was.

    Which reminds me! I bought a new caffetiera! And it makes superb coffee! And I've had four already!!! And that would explain the exclamation marks!!

    2005-2007© aibee