poltergeist?

The top six reasons why you might suspect your house is haunted.

#6. Clothes pegs are growing out of your ugg boots.

#5. Unidentifiable plastic shapes appear in your printer.

#4. Again.
#3. You get sippy cups when all you wanted was grilled cheese.

#2. Your clothes dryer turns into a mailbox.


#1 Your high tech, infrared thermal imaging cameras positively record ectoplasm and Class B EVPs.

jaws

After one night in hospital, I'm home again. I'm also sore, swollen, and feeling pretty fucking miserable. Was this time better or worse than the last? It's neither. It's an entirely different kettle of fish. The pain hasn't been as bad, nor has the swelling, but I'm not as strong, emotionally or physically, this time, so I've been thrown me for a six and I'm feeling the effects of having two surgeries in only three weeks.

Those nuts and bolts up top? Held my face together for the past three weeks. I was all groggy and wafting in and out of consciousness while in the recovery suite, when I looked down and saw a specimen jar atop of the sheets and wedged between my feet. "Cool" I thought, before promptly passing out. I have a brand new set now, and as the surgical team decided against the plastic HELL I was expecting and that keeps everything aligned, these nuts and bolts are all that's holding my face on. Puts a whole new dimension to being off yer face, don't it? But did you catch the bit about no plastic?!?? Maximum WOOT!! sportsfans. Absolutely. Also, no wires. WOO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OOT!!

The pain immediately post op was awful, worse than after the first, much bigger operation, and at least an eight on a scale of 1 to 10. By the time I was back in the intensive care unit, it had escalated to a nine, so I had a quiet word to the the nurse, telling her that when I'm in pain, I get very subdued so as to control my reactions and that if I let go, I might become hysterical, so seriously, help? It was really that bad, even after three post op shots of fentanyl that hadn't even touched it. She called in the prof, he wrote me up some more of that fucking paracetamol (acetaminophen, freaks) so colour me amazed when it took the pain back down to around about a five.

The Prof seemed much less austere this time around, probably because of ye olde fuck up from last time, and rather than straight out refusing to prescribe some of that lovely, lovely pethidine, explained that if I wanted to go home the following day, I'd be advised to start a four hourly regimen of IV paracetamol because it would eventually work, except that the nurse wouldn't give it to me until six hours had passed because bla bla something about my liver bla bla. That last two hours sucked, but I made it and the pain eventually subsided.

Also, *yawn*. Christ.

Anyhoo, Daniel was thrilled to have me home again. Poor little mite. His babysitter, K, arrived on Monday morning, and his little face lit up in delight for about the millisecond it took for him to compute that her here = me gone, then his face fell and he hightailed it out of the room and under my desk. He was all smiling and happy in her arms when I left though, the little traitor. Reports too, had that he had a wonderful day in care on Monday, and when I called K on Tuesday morning, I could hear him in the background laughing and playing like he does when he's home with me.

In other Daniel news, he's become a biter. He went through a brief period with the biting a while back, but it passed as soon as it started so until recently, the notes on the daysheet have always been "brilliant day", "happy independent play" "played well with others", "great day" and other variations of the same theme, and my son has been a poster child for happy daycare experiences. More recently though, the notes have been things like "needs his own space", "not wanting to share", "not mixing well", and my inner babel fish got it right because when I asked, I was told, yes, he's biting. Which is a pity because he LOVES other kids and when they start to "not mix well", they get put into Baby Gaol, a play penned area that lets them see the other kids, but not interact closely enough to draw blood. It's been Daniel's turn on the inside today, as he's been observed to try and work out the pattern of his behaviour, and it's strictly that if he ever wants anything any other kid has got, he leans over and takes 'em out with his pearly whites. My homework has been duly prescribed and I have to start taking things from the deebster and saying things like "my turn now" in a happy sing song voice, before handing whatever it is back when appropriate. Also, when he brings on the whine, which is another delightful trait he's been testing out, instead of ignoring him as I've been doing, I'm to address him directly, al la "Daniel, when you stop making that noise, I'll give you your whatever it is you're grousing about". In short, I have to start acting like a parent. I KNOW! WHAT NEXT?!

And does anyone else think it's kind of odd that he's started biting when I'm forced to suck down my (mushy) food because I cannot? Bite, that is.

freedom!!

I trotted along to the orthodontist yesterday, as instructed by the professor and in order to get more impressions done to make another wafer. One that, unlike its stupid predecessor, should work, come Monday. On the way and in a frightful state, what with all the anticipating three more days of the particular metallic hell I've been experiencing while waiting for ten more days of an even more exquisite brand of hell, I decided that these motherfucking wires were coming off TODAY, and that if the prof needed them to provide anchorage for the wafer on Monday, then he could damn well wire them in again then. When I got there, I was AMPED, baby, and ready for battle.

The first thing the orthodontist said was that to do the impressions, the wires had to come out. I was all "NO! The wires are coming OUT!! TODAY!! Hang on, what?" and noticed the orthodontist making circles around his ear with his index finger while raising his eyebrows to his nurse. Fucker. Anyway, weee! Wires out! So I lay back on the chair, bared my teeth and waited for magic to happen.

However, the orthodontist had already left the room to call one of the surgeons on the team because only they knew the pattern of the wires and so, how to remove them. Which the professor could have organised the day before when he spoke the orthodontist to organise the damn impressions in the first place. By this time it was 3.30pm and I had to hightail it to the unit HQ where the surgeon would be arriving in an hour or so. I also had to call childcare to tell them that the favor they were doing me in taking Daniel in for an hour on a day he'd usually not be in, was gonna be tested because he might be in there forever, depending on when the surgeon arrived and how long it took him to take the damn wires out. Then they started talking 'sedation' and I was all, yes! I would LOVE me some sedation but for fuck's sake, I don't even have time for a local anaesthetic, what with my child in care and the car outside, and excuse me, but shouldn't this all have been organised earlier? Like, say, yesterday!?

Damn.

So I waited and the unit HQ team urged me to take some codeine so as to be at least a wee bit medicated when the doctor arrived. Except, they didn't have any, did I? I answered in the negative and wondered out loud if anyone had a bullet for me to bite on instead, pioneer style.

The surgeon arrived at 4.30 and he was very nice and roughly twelve years old. Seriously, when did they start letting prepubescent boys into medical school? He warned me that after wearing this shit for so long, the gum tissue tends to grow around it (EWW!) so when the wire gets pulled through it often takes tissue with it (EWW EWW!!) and to be prepared, it would be a little painful (YA THINK!??). Then he came at me with the wire cutters and it took a while, but either it wasn't that bad or I'm rugged and tough, grr. He did a fine job of unraveling the labyrinth of steel winding its way around my teeth though, and I am now wire free and lovin' it.

I've got until Monday morning to enjoy this sweet, sweet liberty, after which during the course of another operation, the whole lot gets reattached to my pearly whites for I don't know how long, so I took advantage of my metal free state last night by going crazy and eating some green beans. *gasp* I know!! Beans! Green ones! With fibery bits that had nowhere to get caught in. Because I know how to part-ay. Woot, etc.

ass hat updates

After all the calling and the messaging and the calling and oh my fucking god, essdee sent me this little gem.

Not sure what has happened since we last spoke a few weeks ago, but it is clear to me now that you no longer wish to communicate with me. Maybe u have decided u dont (sic) want me or [daughter's name] to have any contact with daniel. Think again. I will be in touch through my lawyer. Pity, we could have made it work without all the extra stress or cost. Have a happy easter. Thought u were different but your (sic) the same as all the rest of them!

Obviously, I couldn't let this one lie without some comment because if it wasn't so pathetic, it'd be hilarious. I especially like the creative use of the exclamation point in his closing statement. Usually he puts in more than that so dude was totally ruffling his feathers and being, you know, firm with me. Because I'm the same as all the rest. Which he meant as an insult to me, obviously. So I called the fucker up and opened with something like, "look, cocksuck..." or maybe I just thought it. I don't quite recall.

Basically I told him that the reason I didn't reply to his BILLIONS of calls and text messages was because I really don't enjoy going to town on his personality flaws, nor do I respond well to the pissy little attitude he was developing after the second phone call went unanswered, but if he really wants to talk to me now, okay. Let's talk.

Then I took a deep breath before assassinating his personality. That's pretty much it. He whined about poor him and shit, and I headed him off at the pass each and every time. I wish it was enjoyable to do because god knows so many opportunities have already presented themselves, but usually I count to ten and remind myself that this relationship needs to be amicable, regardless of his pitiful contribution to said amicableness. In any case, to each his own, is my usual creed, and if a tool wants to be a tool, who am I to demand they untool? I'd rather avoid them and let little lambs eat ivy, or some such. Unfortunately, this particular tool is not one I can walk away from.

I can't believe I still have to look after this wad and explain things to him bit by bit and still have him miss the damn point. Every. Single. Time.

Case in point.

essdee: I'd like to set up regular meetings!
aibee: not happening until I see some sign that you're working toward being less of a tool.
essdee: Okay. Hey, I'd like to set up regular meetings!
aibee: *wonders how difficult it would be to bury the body*

I particularly loved the vaguely threatening (and highly amusing) portion of his text message, the bit where he instructs me to "Think again". I addressed this by reminding him of his track record and deadbeat tendencies. Honestly, I was on a roll and totally being an AA sponsor. Recognise the hurts you've caused! Make amends! The best part of this entire conversation was that he kept digging deeper and deeper holes for himself, and I wasn't even handing him the damn shovel.

Per essempio:

him: I've proven I've accepted Daniel into my life by putting him on my health insurance.

My version: He already has a family health insurance policy and I asked him to add Daniel to it around eight months ago because while adding him to mine would cost me over two thousand dollars, it wouldn't increase his premiums at all. Not one more brass razzoo would he be paying. So he figured that adding Daniel was the deal clincher, the one that would make me see the light and allow him to see Daniel this Easter, and I figured think again, buddy. He only added Daniel to the policy last week, meaning that rather than having only four more months to wait until the policy is fully instated, our twelve months waiting periods start now. All he had to do was call the insurance company and say "Hi there, I'd like to add a child". That's it. And the only reason he finally fucking got around to doing it is because I made the phone call anyway because he was too scared or precious of stupid or all of the above, so his little deal clincher actually was, in my opinion, one more example of his irresponsible (big and giant) head being firmly wedged between his ass cheeks.

Anyway, this went on for a half an hour or so. Me trying to make him see the damn light, him making shadow puppets with his hands and saying 'arf arf'. Honestly, I'm not sure who's the bigger idiot. Him for not getting it or me for thinking he just might one day, if I try hard enough. Or me because I'm still not sure about the whole whose/who's thing. Whose?

The conversation ended when I ended it because otherise I'd still be saying the same shit and he'd still be saying 'Hey! How about we set up regular meetings?'. Then when I woke up there was this little gem waiting for me:

I do not want to fight with u. I have to live with the guilt i feel 4 the rest of my life. I am just trying to make things right and accept responsibility for the situation. I would like to be part of daniel's life and have a good relationship with u as well. I still have fond memories of all the good times we shared. Just trying to make things work out the best for all involved. Goodnight.

Does anyone else hear the teeny tiny little violins playing there? The sucking, the little birdies flying around his (big and giant) head? It took me two days until I realised this message was bugging the shit out of me too, because I'm fucked if I'm going to let him think he's the poor, poor thing he thinks he is, so I called him back and ripped him another entirely entirely new asshole.

He talks the talk and all that crap, but he has no idea what the fuck he means nor does he understand that he has a role to play if he really wants all that friendly, workable shit. Seriously and historically, it's only ever worked between us because of me. Oh, and the good times we shared? I was miserable and felt alone and unloved most of the time because he didn't want anyone to know about me. We never did anything. He was always late, really late, and he never called, would forget to call, was often too busy to call, was changing plans to do something else, and I wouldn't call him because he didn't like it when I did. Those good times were all about him getting it all his way and of me finding someone who'd treat me like shit.

Yeah, good times.

Also, OKAY!! Yes! I was a doormat, I get it. SHEESH. I also get I wasn't the victim here. I got what I wanted too, but 'fond memories'? Uh, no.

In the end, this relationship will again be amicable and all that ridiculous bullshit, and it will be that because of me (again!), not him. Not because I'm still a doormat, no siree, but because I am the better person and this dipshit is, god help me, Daniel's father. Bleah.

the bigger picture eludes me

Sixteen days ago, I had a maxillary advancement, genioplasty, and a zygomatic arch reconstruction.

Essentially and in English, and in a nutshell, my face was broken into moveable parts and then rebuilt. Bigger, better and faster than before. Maybe no faster. Or bigger. But it should stop the collapse of my face from progressing to epic proportions.

My maxilla, or midface, was brought forward by 4mm, my jawline was moved backward by removing bone from either side of my chin, and a bone graft was taken from my right hip in order to fashion some (hopefully bitchen) cheekbones.

Now, while mine was created by bad dentistry as without bands and with extractions, as in, the brain realises it no longer needs to expand the upper and lower jaws to create space for the non existent teeth. The upper jaw stops growing and the lower jaw for reasons I don't understand, overcompensates and grows longer than it should. Anyway, mine isn't a genetic defect, but the second row down on this page, the girl with binder syndrome, is very much like my before. Except my nose was prettier. Until it started drooping. Anyhoo, I had the bowl like face, the prominent chin, the non existent cheekbones, and my nose, while pretty, was starting to 'hook' toward my chin as my mid face receded more.

Essentially, I looked like a quarter moon with a dangly nose.

And y'all are going to say 'but aibee, you don't look deformed!'. People, like anyone does, I vet any images I upload with an obsessive precision. Oh, I looked acceptable, attractive even when I was younger and my face, while it hadn't grown past 12 years of age, hadn't yet started its march backwards, but my face was deformed (as told by x-rays and visible to the naked eye of the craniofacial specialist) and eventually, it would be apparent even sans x-rays. Until last Monday, looking at me on the quarter profile, my face just disappeared. You'd see my nose and my chin and beyond that, nothing. It was like the rest of my face just didn't exist, and from that angle, you could already see the punched in look my face was getting.

This hasn't been a cosmetic procedure, even though cosmetically (god willing) there'll be an improvement. It was to fix a problem that would only get worse, and would possibly or probably be a REAL problem when I was older. It should have been fixed twenty years ago. Truth is though, it should never have happened at all. Give me time but right now? I'm still pissed that I've got to do all this shit now because of some stupid decisions made then.

It all sounds a lot worse than it actually was because, quite honestly, it wasn't that bad. Day 2 was pretty miserable, but as Day 3 felt marginally less so, I knew the worst was already over. Painwise, the worst has been - and still is - the donor site for the bone graft. The swelling was the worst of the facial pain because if you swell that much, it's going to hurt, but the bone grafrt? Man, that thing hurt like a motherfucker directly after surgery, and kept on hurting for quite some time afterwards. And not where the incision was made or where the bone harvested. It hurt a good two or three inches south of that. These days, while it's usually okay, if I move a certain way or hit my hip against a countertop (you have no idea how often you bump your hip against something oh, hip height? until you've used that bitch to rebuild your face) it burns like the worst Chinese burn you can imagine. Yowza. That being said, the hardest part of this whole experience has been the 'wafer', which is an innocuous word that in no way describes the hell that was the plastic Hannibal Lector type contraption placed in my mouth to do I don't know what the fuck. Hold the repositioned maxilla in place?

When this is all healed, or maybe before, I'm a little hazy on the time line, my teeth will be banded and hopefully, their appearance and function will improve as my bite is corrected.

And then after that, I need to sell my other kidney to pay for the full reconstruction of my upper teeth. That part too, while seemingly only aesthetically driven, will also help restore the correct spacing between my upper and lower teeth, thusly correcting the function of my jaw joint thing whatsit back there. My teeth have worn down, in part due to the aforementioned bad dentistry (bad bite, more wear on teeth) and also thanks to my glorious ED.

It's all part of a five year plan, yo.

Or on the recount, a five year and three week plan because, shit a brick, man.

The wafer was removed last Wednesday at nine days post op by the surgeon's nurse and, joy!! Given a choice, I'd have ten surgeries, twenty, god, thirty even, rather than wear that wafer just one hour more. I can't explain the hell it is and I can't explain why it's so awful, but it really IS that awful. Toward the end of the first ten days of wearing it, I was panicky and anxious counting down the days and thinking about having to wear it for another x number of days, so having it removed was the BEST feeling ever (and brushing my top teeth for the first time in as many days ran a very close second).

At the time, I asked the nurse about the jaunty tilt of my maxilla. I'd noticed my teeth were at an angle under the wafer while still in ICU, and with the wafer off, my front teeth actually were quite lopsided. She told me to ask the surgeon this week, it was probably swelling, bla bla, and I shut my (crooked) piehole and waited 'til today to ask, dude, wassup? I expected to hear that nothing wassup, so colour me you have got to be fucking kidding?! upon hearing that something was indeed, sup.

So come Monday, I'm having more surgery to reposition my maxilla. That I can handle. There'll be no bones to break this time, so while I'll be sore and probably grossly swollen, it won't be as dramatic as the last time. The mere thought, though, of having that wafer back in is freaking my shit right out.

and it'll be in for another ten days.

My shit, FREAKED.

And I'll be away from Daniel for another night so have got to find more money for more childcare and more still for more overnight care and will be off work for at least another two weeks and making NO money and most off all, that wafer. MY GOD.

Excuse me while I take some time to shake my fist at the motherfuckin' sky.

quietly

Alternate title: where's an Asshat Award when you need one?

Daniel's asleep and I'm sitting hunched up in the corner of my officey space here, quietly tap tap tapping this out.

The sperm donor decided he wanted to play Father Of The Year a month nor so ago, and because of all the bullshit he's served up for the twenty three months previous to that request, I replied quite simply, no.

When he asked me to think about it, I told him I had thought about it, hence the big ol' negativo.

And now he's outside banging on the door. Right next to the window where Daniel is asleep, so yes, the best decision in re this meeting bullshit is to not have Daniel see him again until he, homeboy, not Daniel, learns some damn manners. Case in point, what kind of knob bangs on the door when the closed curtains suggest a child is quite possibly asleep next door?

Same goes for the phone calls. He's the only idiot I know who, when the home phone isn't answered after a certain number of rings - usually the universal indicator that a parent is busy with a child - hangs on til the number rings out, and then calls me immediately on my cell. Which is why my phone line is now unplugged and my cell is switched to silent.

Which is also why I'm scrunched into this corner and tapping quietly. I'm pretending to not be home, or asleep, or not interested. Or something.

Yannow, if he had any brains he'd call to see if he can hear my cell. Not ringing? Not home. Even though I am, but we're talking theoretically here. And if the home phone doesn't ring, if he had a brain instead of the paranoid delusion he appears to be cultivating, he could assume the line was dead. Which it was last week, so if he had a brain, he would almost be right.

But enough of that. Let's go over some of the highlights from the past two years, shall we?

• Walks away from five week pregnant aibee, informing her he wants nothing to do with this (hooray!) and that he intends lying to his then ten year old for at least five years. Will possibly tell her when she's fifteen. You know, when she's in the middle of her adolescent crisis. Word.
• Refuses to answer the phone when I call. Only twice though, because I'm no fool.
  
• Daniel is born. SD is advised via mutual friend. Mutual friend reports back. SD knows, does nothing. No contact made, no acknowledgment made of Daniel's arrival.
  
• SD listed as father on birth certificate. Paperwork forwarded by registered mail to SD's home address. Three times. Each letter allows fourteen working days for the department of Birth, Deaths, and Marriages to be contacted, either denying or accepting paternity. No contact made. Birth certificate issued with no father listed.
• Paperwork for child support is filed and forwarded by relevant departments by registered mail to SD's home address. No respnse by SD. Each submission allows thirty days for acceptance or denial of paternity to be made before being resubmitted. Each submission forfeits the date of the previously issued paperwork. Sd ignores all paperwork each month. each month ignored is another month not legally required to be paid. System works awesomely for SD. Six months, six submission, no contact, no payments.
• Contact finally made. Rough translation of "I thought it was time I took responsibility"? "I received the legal documents from your court appointed lawyer".
• Paternity determined under voluntary submission of DNA. Rough translation? Dodges court ordered DNA test.
• SD is father. Duh. Pays child support from June, 2006. His now eleven year old's award winning mother receives amended paperwork from the child support agency. Loses shit. Collects daughter from school, yells, cries, damages daughter for life.
• SD calls. Wants to be involved in Daniel's life. Disappears for another few months.
  
• Calls back. Was scared. Calls again. Has decided again to be involved. This time he's sure.
• Bails on several organised visits.
  
• Several weeks pass. Calls back. Was scared. Is certain this time, wants to be involved, bla bla bla.
  
• aibee files nails, yawns.
• Daniel's eleven year old sister receives invitiation to his first birthday party. Comes, spends time with Daniel, calls SD to come pick her up. aibee offers to bring Daniel to the car to meet SD. Sister agrees. Daniel taken to car to meet SD. SD: "too busy", aibee: *rolls eyes*
• Daniel receies invitation to spend time with sister on her birthday. Meets SD. Fun is had by anybody not named aibee, SD promises to call next week.
• One month passes. SD calls, is Father of the Year, wants to see daniel, will call next week.
• Five weeks pass, SD calls. Was scared, but is Father of the Year for serious this time. Wants to see Daniel. Is confused when told no. Begins harrassment program.

The last text message I got had something about "being worried" in it, which would be code code for "frustrated things aren't going to his plan".

Seriously dude, you don't get to act like that much of a fuckwad and expect to walk back in as if nothing has happened. It shouldn't be that easy and tough luck buddy, it's not going to be that easy.

Initially, my inclination was to do the right thing, to allow this meeting to occur and the relationship to develop unhindered by my wants for Daniel (which are, for what it's worth, that SD is abducted by aliens and full use of the anal probe is made) and khum bye yah and all that shit. Then I realised that that's not the right thing. It's the easy thing. The right thing to do is to protect my son.

I've worked hard and thought long about how best to make this work for everyone, especially for that little girl who at this point, is a victim to her father's (and mother's) stupidity. Hell, I even sought counselling on how we could introduce her to the idea of a new sibling when she didn't even know her father had a, I'd say girlfriend but we all know I mean 'root'. (yes, five years together and there I as, still accepting his crap about not wanting people to know about us. Still, those five years investment gave me Daniel, so I know now why I tolerated le boolsheet) Colour me saintly, but I wanted to protect her because her ridiculous father wasn't about to. As an aside too, the counsellor thought my proposition was the most likely to produce a positive result for the daughter so, neener, etc. Then I bought the damn clue and realised that, while she is a child, she's not my responsibility and it's not my place to judge how she's treated. Even if it totally is with little respect for her feelings, ahem. Point being, I know I've done what I can to protect her and if she's missing out now for not seeing her brother, my conscience is clear. I did my best. Of course, that's not what she'd be being told, but whatever. I've told her she's welcome to contact me directly. I've sent her several emails and included hundreds of photos and updates on the boy, the rest is up to her. I'd expect a twelve year old to demonstrate more courtesy though, and at least acknowledge receipt of at least one email, so that's it for the chatty updates.

Bottom line though is that right now, I am NOT going to allow Daniel to be touched by SD's self focussed, self indulgent bullshit. I don't think he deserves to have any involvement in his life, and if it were possible to sign away rights and forfeit support payments, I would so be on board for that. Unfortunately for me though, and man, I hate being so reasonable, because I know the difference between what I feel and what Daniel needs, this isn't a final decision. It's a decision for now because time will soon come when, regardless of the wankstain I think his father is, it will be in Daniels' best interest to see his father. If I can influence in any way the kind of father SD wants to be when that time comes though, if I can influence him to be a more committed, better person by denying him contact now, then by George, let's roll with that and see what happens.

Chances are, nothing will but like in every way I've approached everything about this, at least I know I tried.

wild kingdom?

This is being written courtesy of Daniel’s new found penchant for playing in his highchair.

Not thirty seconds ago, I held my arms out to the egg encrusted, cereal wearing little freak sitting in said chair, interrupting his concentration as he systematically put the three spoons it takes to feed him into the almost licked clean bowl and then took them out again, in the universal hand signal for “Ub!’. He scroonched up his eyes, he lowered his head and then he, wait for it, growled. Apparently my little boy is being raised by wolves. I suspect this was his universal signal for I’d like to continue playing with utensils while perched up high, thank you very much, but c’mon dude, growling? How did my little schmookie turn into a whiny who needs to lose his shit to get his point across? Not that his shit losing is a huge affair - the odd growl here, the head to the ground with modified hand to brow action there, you know the regular drama queen deal - but considering he’s around two feet tall and without a driver’s license, multiply that by three and add a crow bar -maybe I should consider his college fund as some kind of monetary pool for all the bail I’m set to pay sometime in the future?

Preceding The Growl, we experienced what from this day forward shall be referred to as The Oatmeal Explosion, which was followed shortly after by the Egg Extravaganza.

Suffice to say that Dude’s creativity is not limited to finger painting. Or is perhaps due to the finger painting.

Despite this, Daniel’s love affair is with The Neat. He likes things ordered and Just So. Point in fact, when eating, he prefers his sippy cup be placed neatly inside the bowl, making the three spoon action difficult but fortunately, not impossible, and even when he drops food, he tries to pick it up and put it back in his bowl. Which is kind of like pushing shit up a hill when you’re talking cereal.

Speaking of cereal, I'm still limited to mushy food. I also still have two black eyes (rapidly fading) (that initially were swollen up like two big ol' black goose eggs), an oddly lopsided face (thankyou random pattern of swelling) and two half fat lips. Yes, half. The right side of my bottom lip is swollen and the left side of my top lip is swollen. There are wires still holding the plastic Hannibal Lector type contraption in place and they are sharp, so my already swollen upper lip is being pushed out to HERE with the three tonnes of wax covering all the pointy bits. I’m still a vague yellow tinge as the bruising fades away. Previously though, it was spectacularly and psychedelically awesome.

Now, Jane Iredale users need to listen up, and non Jane Iredale users? You need to go out and buy yourselves some of this magical shit because if you ever happen to get hit in the face with a 4x2, you’ll need your Amazing Base. Proof, pudding, guys. It’s been covering a whole fuckload of the red, yellow, black, green and blue damage. Swear. Not all, but enough that small children don’t run screaming in fear and responsibility to report a battered wife to their local law enforcement division, so imagine what its minerally wonderfulness can do for your everyday imperfections. It looked so natural too, that people didn’t realize I was covering up stack of bruising. They were all, wow, the bruising isn’t bad and I was all Jane Iredale! Bla Bla! Bla! Until I was talking to the cloud of dust they left behind as they sped off to buy some of their own magic.

Jane Iredale The Person, you need to start paying me for all this advertising!

need music?

April 1

David Hick’s will likely return to Australia on a chartered jet as according to Alexander Downer, there are many countries who wouldn’t want a man with his reputation transiting through, even with the little fuckwit being under some serious armed guard. So the taxpayer will fund the charter so that we can bring this person that no other country wants anything to do with for even five minutes, back to Australia to imprison him for nine months and then release him back into society on New Year’s Eve. My guess is that he’ll probably get out sooner. Yup, al-Qaeda’s golden boy is coming home, although surely if you leave home to learn how to kill those left behind, you lose the right to call it home ever again.

He’s a terrorist who left Australia to fight for the Kosovo Liberation Army, trained with the Taliban and was found guarding a tank for Taliban. He deserves to rot in solitary in Guantanamo Bay forever, and I wouldn’t mind sending the bleeding heart dipshits who transformed him into a misunderstood family man being unfairly detained there too.

The man (and I use that term lightly) was prepared to kill hundreds, thousands, or if he had his delusional dreams come true, millions of innocent people. He is a terrorist, and he’s being brought back because there are way to many Australians with shit for brains and there’s a federal election later this year.

Speaking of shit for brains, here’s an open letter to the anus that cut in front of me yesterday: You cut in front of me, dipshit, even though you didn’t have to and even though there was a fucking mile of clear road in front of me, so you can take the abuse you hurled at me when you realised the gap between me and your stupid car was less than optimal and shove it up your arse. Except I doubt it would fit, what with your enormously stupid head already being there.

edited to add: this is who we're allowing back in. He might be monitored in future, but according to the knobs on all the news reports, he just wants to get on with his life so should be allowed to do so.

Unfuckingbelievable.

March 31

I’m home.

And writing this on word and hoping to upload it sometime before close of trading on Tuesday which is when my successfully and finafuckingly transferred internet service should be back up and running after some nimrod cut my phone line during the transfer.

Great.

Anyway, am home. I was supposed to check out this morning…although…that sounds..wrong…as in, isn’t checking out something people do when they die? Thankfully, I wasn’t meant to check out check out, I was meant to, how do they say it? Be discharged. Like a firearm. Much better. Yes. So to continue, I was meant to be discharged this morning but having missed my little boopy way too much, I came home last night instead, amid much fanfare and the occasional screech of excitement from Daniel.

I’ve already been back to the hospital though, because wtf is that lump? It’s nothing, bla bla bla, so back home again and writing this on Word.

In unrelated Daniel news: he taught himself to eat while I was away, feeding himself for the first time alone on Wednesday evening, thereby sharing a milestone with someone other than me. Awesome.

Looking at me, if not for the intact left ear declaring otherwise, you’d think I’d just gone fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson, but I feel fine. No pain control since Friday morning so it’s mainly discomfort now from the swelling and the inordinate amount of scaffolding that’s been left behind in my mouth. People, I have wires in my gums. Freak-ay. I also have this plastic thing the size of a dinner plate stuck around my top teeth and not quite against my palate doing I don’t know what, and that is a total pain in the ass. Thank fuck the fucking thing comes out Wednesday because it is truly atrocious. I’m sucking on it now like a little old man sucking on his dentures only because no one can hear me and also because I’m when I ate my soft and squishy breakfast, a rogue oat got stuck underneath the Tupperware and it’s driving me nuts. Can you imagine the collection of food that’s going to be there by Wednesday? My teeth shudder to think of it.
While in hospital, I recorded my progress on my cell phone camera but as we all know, my stupid phone’s drivers won’t work on my mac, and my all purpose spiffy Image Capture program thingy says “what cell?” when I plug it in so you all aren’t going to see any of the really good shit. Day one, when I was all wafting in and out of consciousness with wires going in and drains going out of me, I leaned out of bed and grabbed my cell and took a photo before I passed out again. That’s dedication folks. Seriously. It’s a gorgeous photo and my face is the size of a soccer ball. The swelling got worse the next day and I dutifully recorded it, except somehow I forgot to save the image so without it, unless I get hit in the face with a 4x2, I’ll never be reminded of just how far human skin is capable of stretching.

The professor I’m seeing usually treats patients much younger than I, which better explain the reason why he’s so goddamn stingy with the good drugs. If it doesn’t, dude is just a sadist. Panadol, or for those of you playing along at home, acetaminophen, after major surgery? You have got to be shitting me. Unfortunately, you weren’t. I got one teensy weensy shot of pethadine while in recovery, and even then, I had to beg for it, and it was a measely 10mg which, pah. Then he wrote up two more tiny doses that he had to approve before the nursing staff were allowed to administer it anyway, and they were for the entire post op recovery time. Once they were gone, panadol.

That being said, it was IV and while panadol usually does jack diddly squat for my aches and pains, this mainlining it stuff did take the edge off my agony, even though it did squat for the two – count them, TWO-migraines I had while in hospital.

The prof, or TP hereon in, approved the two shots of peth for the first night of agonizing head exploding pain, and that, as they say, was that for the good drugs. The next night, my headache returned and I was all throwing up and groaning and the staff were all too scared to call TP and request the good shit, so they called their dealer found the on call doc-who apparently fears not the wrath of the mighty TP-and he wrote up an order for something other than that stupid panadol. People, I understand why Vicodin is a problem drug over there and why doctors will only prescribe it under extreme circumstances here. I loved it. Loved it. LOVE. Totally. Thanks be to Jesus, the next shift totally fucked up and didn’t notice the order was ‘stat’, meaning, once only, and gave me another (illegal) hit sometime on Thursday, so I spent the rest of the day floating on a cloud, dreaming of bunnies and kittens and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy who were swinging high and low and over and in the water on the famous Cranes Of Seattle which, who knew there were famous cranes in Seattle? Not me, that’s for sure.

Daniel is on the floor next to me after having emptied out the two bottom shelves of the miniscule cupboard I like to call a pantry. They’re his shelves, full of stuff I need to store that has been vetted for sharp edges, pointy bits and gob stoppers. He’s a freakin’ neat freak. I mean, sure, there’s shit all over the floor right now, but he’s putting it all back in an orderly manner. Now he’s holding a big old bag of cat food. I let him play with the unopened ones because he loves them so much. They provide him with all the essential nutrients he needs: they’re portable, the bag make crinkly noises, the catfood makes crunchy noises inside the bag, and the bag has a big picture of a cat on it. He’ll carry that darn thing around all day like he’s king of the world because he’s carrying a cat who crinkles and crunches which in his word, is rad.

Aside from the buttload of flowers, a phrase that provides me with an interesting visual and hours of fun, I also got a fisher-price lawn mower. Fuck, that thing is awesome. It makes mowing noises, sings songs, and has this clear dome on top with brilliant flashing twirling clattery things inside that seriously remind me of the good times being had way back in the sixties. After resorting to dynamite to get it out of its box (note to Mr Fisher and Mr Price: What. The. Fuck. Is up with the bullet proof packaging?!), Mr deebs at my siode and offering his advice in re the extraction of said lawn mower, he finally got to push it around merrily, which he did for ages, always with one eye on me in case I escaped again, until he crawled onto my lap brandishing his new but already well worn copy of Goodnight Moon* so I could read it to him the requisite ten katrillion times before bedtime, which came shortly thereafter.

In other news, I’m drinking a cup of decaf, which brings me to an another aside. Keeping in mind that I’ve had my own tortuous years with that anxious panicky crap. I do NOT get why anyone with anxiety would drink all those cans of coke or all those pots of coffee and then say, gee, I’d do anything to not be anxious. No. You wouldn’t, because if you would, you’d quit with the damn caffeine already because even if you halved, quartered even, your copious intake of that stimulant drug, and still had the same amount of anxiety, a) I’d be surprised but more importantly, because yes, I know my opinion matters so much, ahem, b) I’d admire you for at least trying. Of course, I’d admire you more if you got rid of all the caffeine completely for at least a month because truth is, your half assed effort before wouldn’t actually impress me (please see above reference to the importance of my opinion) that much. Which reminds me of another gripe o’ mine in re anxiety: ye olde “why can’t my family/friends/whoever understand and/or accept my anxiety?” question to which I answer, why can’t you understand and or accept that they can’t?. Same shoe, different foot. Or something. And while I’m at it, let’s talk about how some anxious people get all pissy about the so-called stigma attached to having an anxiety disorder who, in the next breath, say, “but I’d never tell anyone I have it because I’m too embarrassed” The fuck? How do you expect the rest of the world to respect your disorder if you’re ashamed of it? For what it’s worth, I’ve never been ashamed of myself for being anxious. Sure, I’ve felt stupid at times because while putting an aspirin on my tongue before frantically spitting it out for fear it’s going to kill me and then freaking out about the miniscule amount I’d absorbed while it was there is kind of stupid, but thankfully, that kind of stupid I’ve been able to laugh about. If I was having a panic attack about, say, going out with a friend for the evening, when things were really bad, I’d back out and be honest about why, because I’d rather have her know I wasn’t going out because of my issues and not because I didn’t want to spend time with her. I’ve NEVER noticed ANYONE treating me differently or like I’m retarded or stupid, and I’ve never felt anyone has thought any less of me for admitting, no, (not admitting because it isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a thing) saying I have anxiety and get panic attacks. You don’t want a stigma attached to it? Quit acting like it’s something to be ashamed of. Jesus. Most times when I said “bla bla bla, anxious, bla bla”, the person listening would sigh in relief and thank me because they had anxiety too and had never told anyone. My dentist is a great example. A few years back I was in the chair and about to pop my top with panic, so I told him, dude, panic attack, can we take a moment? He stopped whatever it was, something scary like a scale and clean I think, becuz I yam brave at da dentis, and told me it was okay, he had panic disorder too, almost lost his career, had to leave work some days as he’d pass out with fear, yadda yadda yadda. Meanwhile, his nurse, who had worked with him for eons, was saucer eyed with this new knowledge, and then she was all, well, I have a little secret too. The dentist was all “no kidding?!’ and I was all khum bye fucking ya, cats. Also, I may have just offended some lurky readers. It wasn’t my intention as I seriously do NOT get the things I just yammered on about and I have absolutely NO idea what started that little tirade. Think, think. Or reread! Yes! Coffee, decaf in particular, which an aside, if I drink more than one regular instant in the morning, the anxiety, which I thought I didn’t have any more, returns. Ta da. And here’s little it of TMI for y’all. I had a cup of regular this morning (which may explain the plethora of uppercase and italicised words)(is ‘italicised’ even a word?) because jesus H, am I ever going to poop again? And as we all know, caffeine historically helps a sister. I say ‘historically’ because NOT TODAY it doesn’t, which may be why this entry is so full of shit. Ahem.

ANYWAY, the coffee story that started all this was that I have to drink it wearing a bib and holding a bowl under my chin.

If I’m not mindful of my big, bloated mouth, I dribble when I lean over, which makes gazing down at my son’s beautiful face while he’s sleeping something of a precarious event. My friend, the gorgeous Nell who took me to hospital on Monday morning, visited me on Wednesday and who, by later admission, left the room and came back despite being totally freaked out by the face-meet-4x2 look I was sporting, and who then picked me up and took me home last night, thinks it’s only fair, especially considering the career Daniel made out of gobbing all over me not that long ago. I told her that to be truly fair, one must consider the vast number of times he’s peed, pooped and yarped all over me too…

At some point back there, Daniel wandered into the bedroom carrying a two pack of double D batteries and box of I’m not sure. Something not chokable, poisonous or pointy. After saving what I’d written because man, I’ve had way too many incidents to not have bought a clue about saving shit, I wandered in after him and found him face down on the bed, clutching the two parcels to his chest. Fuck he’s cute. He’s just wandered out again with the box of something unknown and an unopened packet of wet wipes, stolen from underneath his change table. My son, the bower bird. Off he goes again, this time empty handed and now he’s back with the blue plastic ladle he must have stashed in the bedroom earlier and what looks like a scrunched up tissue.

Rivetting stuff, so this is me, signing off from planet bee. Missed you all, mwah, mwah, etc.


* he toddles over several times a day brandishing this book and I have to read it to him at least twenty billion times before he's satisfied, and even then his little face drops when I hide the book behind me and under a cushion and then cover it all up with an artfully tossed throw (dude ain't stupid) and say "all gone!" and wave something fluffy and without words in front of his face by way of distraction. It was sent to him from a very good friend of ours, and it's the dee's favoritest ever book EVER, so I'm not sure if I want to thank her or smack her over the head with it.