dot points

• I know I've mentioned this before so yes, it means it really does bother me. I typtypetype up a storm every day so you'd think my speed and accuracy would be stellar, but alas, no. The most I ever got to in typing school was 36 wpm (you can all a. suck it and b. stop laughing now) with an accuracy of I don't know what the heck. 97? 32? Whatev. Anyway, my problem is - and this extends to my entire world, not just to my keyboard - that I'm completely undisciplined (also, can't spell. I swear I've developed dyslexia as I've aged) so instead of practicing good typing habits asdf:lkj etc, I reinforce my bad (aka "bashing away at the keyboard with random fingers") style, so instead of getting better, I just get better at being bad at it. I even bought some typing software from ebay. Mavis Beacon, who everyone will tell you is The Shit vis a vis not typing like you're high on PCP, and it's still in its stupid envelope. I KNOW. I'm an idiot. I also won't even begin to tell you how many typos I correct in each sentence. More than I don't, put it that way, so even if I went all professional and put my super random fingers on all the right keys and found out I typed at 2 words per minute, I'd still be faster than I am now. BUT! I was given an old windows keyboard and magically my typing improved a hundred percent. Granted, a hundred percent improvement on "fucking abysmal" might not seem to be much, but it is.

• In my own defense, I'm not actually as highly undisciplined as I think I am. When I do the objective thing and look at the bigger picture, there's a lot of structure and discipline in my life. I worry (A LOT) about not doing enough though, so nothing I do is ever enough, ergo! Following this train of thought it's natural for me to believe I must be undisciplined. And this is the point where banging my head against the wall seems like a good idea.
  

• I mean, look at my kindoftraining diary for most weeks: 6.5k slogs every day with the stroller, a toddler and the shopping on board, 100 laps at the pool twice a week, and a 6.5k jog last night, so I guess I do find the time and discipline to do things that matter to me - and to my son. Those walks with the stroller and the additional two or so hours we do most days with him sitting around in the back pack like a big, giant lump are because he enjoys to do it too. If he didn't, I'd do all my exercise on the three days he's in childcare, and then sit around with him reading books and playing with lego when he';s not. I guess then that typing efficiently isn't important enough to me to do anything more than buy and ignore the software that could help improve it.
  

• A review: Let's talk about Bonds, baby. Specifically, their track pants. People, I wear only Bonds trackies these days, even though I have the Adidas ones sitting in the drawer wondering what they did to offend me so. Nothing, dear track pants o' Adidas, I jes don like you no more. (that whimpering you hear? Is those trackpants crying from the rejection) Daniel also only wears Bonds gear because I have this insatiable urge to mix and match us it washes and wears SO well and is SO well priced. What more could a sole parent want?! I've got around six pairs myself. I say "around" because I have two pairs that don't fit like they should, so "around" because those two pairs get worn only if every thing else in my wardrobe is in the wash, and considering I wash each day, that translates to "never". One pair is a size a billion, even though the tag says otherwise, the other fits me in the tushicular region but are way too short. Those ones are the fleecy kind and they fit fine when I bought them, but they shrunk upwards or some shit. Then there's the grey, the darker grey, the black and the other black. I don't much like the other black, for I am picky, but as I've only just bought them I suppose I'd better wear them at least once more. Oh, and the hot tip vis a vis Bonds trackies? Is to stay away from the aforementioned fleecies, even if you're short enough to handle the upward shrink. They look great for about 0.003 of a second, then the knees bag, making you, the wearer, look like you're wearing your younger brother's cast offs.

• In more reviewy type news that isn't either of those things and is more like white noise (inoffensive and given time, will lull you to sleep), I bought myself some nice 22 sleepers (I have no idea what the "22" means. Millimeters, maybe?) the other day because my not even a month old hoops broke the night before. Just like the ones before them did so you'd think I'd have learned my lesson the first time around. Lesson being: cheap, hollow hoops DON'T LAST. Man though, 75 bucks for a teeny tiny pair of gold sleepers? Although these aren't so teeny tiny. They're 22! And if you could see my ears, you'd be in awe at how amazing they look. But still, 75 bucks? Which pays for the lifetime guarantee even if it doesn't pay for the actual cost of the gold. The folly of youth (and ignorance) being, that fucking guarantee would have come in handy two years ago when the original pair of big and giant hoops went AWOL. I'd had those since I was 19, when my boyfriend bought them for my birthday or for Christmas or possibly because I was way cute and adorable back then. I had those for almost 20 years, along with the bathrobe that came with them, and wore both regularly too, the bathrobe and the earrings, then the bathrobe fell apart and then I lost one of the earrings while out walking, and about a week after that, the other hoop snapped at the hinge. If I'd known about the guarantee, I'd have said that they couldn't see the missing one because it had worn away (ahem) and of course, they'd have been able to see the broken one for themselves anyway.
  

• After reading my last review type entry, you're all wearing mineral make up now, aren't you? Because if you needed even more reason to ditch the shit you're currently slathering all over your long suffering face, this is it. Wearing your mineral make up means you can go without sunscreen. I do it, in Australia, The Land of All That Is Baked And Crispy, and I'm still moistured up and completely tan free. My guess is that it's got something to do with the minerals creating a physical barrier between the elements and my skin, keeping my skins natural moisture in the the sun's harsh rays out. Or not. Anyway. My Jane Iredale Amazing Base has around an SPF22 and after wearing it with no moisturiser or sunscreen underneath it, I've learned that my skin really doesn't need anything BUT my minerals to look glowy and healthy and, for previously sun damaged and totally aged skin, pretty darn good. I've noticed too, that while the mineral make up has a lower SPF than any SPF30+ lotion I've used, it provides better protection against our scorching rays, and while in the past and with the usual sunscreens, I'd still pick up some colour over the summer. With the minerals alone though, I don't pick up any colour at all on my face. And finally, I like that I'm not regularly putting on the bunch of the chemicals that go into a sunscreen to make it a sunscreen, and I'd like it if you didn't transdermally poison yourself too.
  

• Things with The Lawyer went from veddy, veddy promising (last week) to You Have GOT To Be Kidding (this week) (and no Jane,I didn't fuck it up). Once I'd decided to take things at face value rather than wondering what the fuck, I figured we'd just see where things ended up. Nothing serious, so no harm would be done if it didn't end up anywhere. He was interested and interesting and I was enjoying the company we'd been keeping. We'd been doing the tippy toe courtship dance since Apology Monday, and had graduated to fooling around like teenagers a while back. Meanwhile he was still all "I'm never going to have sex with you" to which I replied "Okay, sure. Any particular reason?". "Because you're aibee". Which isn't an answer and I should have bought the damn clue that he's ridiculous then and there, particularly because he thought that statement was answer enough. From the awed hush that befell the room whenever he uttered those fateful words - and uttered he did, regularly- my guess is that I represent some untouchable madonna like icon from his youth or some shit but fuhfuxsache (EXACTLY!! Ahem). AND YET! Clue still not bought by yours truly. Christ on a wholegrain cracker. Anyway and despite his virginal resolve, things moved to the (imagine I'm making air quotes as I say this, okay?) next level *elbow jab to the ribs with exaggerated wink* recently and....that appears to be that. Dude, or should I say fucknosedwankerbag, was all "It was a mistake!(!!)" and I was all in my head and thinking "Thanks a bunch. Also, Jesus H, fool. You have a right to your thoughts, however deranged and nonsensical they may be, but can you keep them to yourself?". I also didn't roll my eyes back in my head so much that I passed out from motion sickness when he said that's it, he's taking a six month break from women, it has nothing to do with me, it (*elbowjabwink*) was amazing and exceeded his fantasies (OF COURSE IT DID) and bullshit bullshit wankwankwank. Those of you thinking I did something wrong or pushed him too hard or WHATEVER, are wrong. I totally didn't and it's NOT my fault. I'm disappointed, of course, not because it's him but because of what he represented: the hope of something companionable and solid. We had a shared past but we didn't share it, so there's no gaping hole left in my heart. Disappointing=yes, heartbreaking=no, definitely not.

• Daniel just presented me with this. Check out the symmetry and colour choices! Also, the hair, check that too. Gelled back and totally rad, man. And it all went silent so I followed him out to the front room and....
  ....found him standing on the window sill.
  
  Life as I knew it is now officially over.
  
  The constant mess is already something that fries my neurones anyway, and now I'm going to have to leave cardboard boxes lying around, stunt man style, in the event that my untrained little crash test dummy tests Newton's law of gravity.
  

• Poor Daniel, I don't know what it is but on the mornings he's going to childcare, I feel like I have less patience with him. I've noticed recently too, that when I collect him after the day is done, it's harder to listen to the noise and banging about he does without thinking "oh son, for the love of mike!". You'd think that after spending the day with him my patience would be more tested but it really seems that the less time I spend with him, the more I want him to quit acting like a toddler and oh, THE GUILT!!

file under: what the fuck?

So yes, hello there. For those of you marking my schedule on your calender, firstly, eww, and secondly, you'd better put a line through Monday's plans for I am not recovering from surgery and I have not had a hellish night in ICU. I'm here at home this morning, and I still have that rogue bolt in my head. Joy.

Let's recap yesterday's glorious events: I was to be admitted to the hospital at 9am so was starved (They call it "fasting". I call them big, fat liars) from midnight, and stayed up watching more episodes of Season 3 of One Tree Hill until around a billion-o-clock, then hopped into bed for around three seconds before Daniel crawled on top of me at 6.10 am, his sole intention to punch me in the head and tell me that he was "hungee". Then I futzed around doing this and that while Daniel refused to eat the vast aray of tasty offerings presented to him (note to child: I am NOT a short order cook), so this "hungee" shit was just that. Shit. Which he didn't do while sharing the shower with me later on in the piece and for which I shall remain eternally grateful. Mum arrived around 20 minutes before expected which, arrrrgh, and then I was late to leave for the hospital anyway. The plan was that I'd drive in with mum and the D man, and she'd drive them both home afterwards. Meanwhile, I was muttering under my breath that I should have caught a cab because for serious, the plan stunk because fucksake. But in the interests of saving thirty bucks, I agreed to it. Fool that I am. BUT! When we got in the car at 8.30am (running late already, arrgh) the fucking thing wouldn't start, thank you totally flat as flat as flat as flat as flat battery. Which kind of spooked me because general anaesthetic scares me stupid anyway and I'm always convinced I'm going to cark it while in the Land of The Supreme Nod. "Be gone, irrational thoughts" I told myself though, and called for a cab ASAP, dude! Then we waited outside and Daniel tootled around amusing himself on the front lawn and the cab duly arrived. And drove right past me and sailed off into the distance. The fuck? I was jumping up and down on the footpath and waving my arms and yelling "Over here!". My god, was he blind?! Or, wait, *gulp* was I invisible? The cab driver eventually came back after disappearing to I don't know where the fuck, and then as Daniel went all quiet, I held back a bucket of tears before waving him good bye, and away we went.

I should have been breathing but instead, spent the cab ride on the phone organising first, the road service and next, my mechanic to fix my damn car, and I have no idea how it happened but we arrived only 15 minutes late for admitting. Then I was left in the admitting lounge with only crappy magazines to read for another 15 minutes anyway. After that it was all admit admit admit admit admit, and all of a sudden I was sitting around in another lounge wearing a hospital gown, nancy tights (with Inspection Toe!), paper slippers and big fluffy bathrobe.

Three hours after that and I'd got a nap in and begun reading a novel. Yes! A novel! The first in ages! And I continued reading it last night! For I am AWESOME! I'd be reading it now too, except I'm keeping all you sportsfans up to date with my exciting life. You can thank me later. Anyway. Yes. After that amount of time, the Prof arrived to talk to me and the other patient who was next ahead of me. He asked about what we were doing and when I said we weren't doing my nose, thank you being poor etc, and he nodded and disappeared before coming back around five minutes later to ask if I'd like to postpone the operation until next week. I was all, nope, no way, let's Just Do It, and he was all, call my PA, which I did and I don't know how it happened but next thing you know, I was off the list for the day, there was steam coming out of my ears and I was heading for home. Seems the Prof was concerned my decision had been rushed, which, while I was totally pissed off TO THE MAX with at the time, after I'd got home (and after shedding a lone tear during the cab ride home) and addressed my hypoglycemia (my god, I can't believe I used to starve for ALWAYS. Colour me total lightweight these days, thank you very much, because those fifteen of so hours sans food kinda made my brain fizzle), with a cup of coffee which, strictly speaking, isn't even food. ANYWAY, point being, I could totally get -and appreciate- where he was coming from and what his point was, especially given my previous experience with that tool, Dr Scalpel McCutty, from a few years ago. Also, I'm grateful that I was forced to listen to the Universe when it was telling me all along DON'T DO IT OR YOU SHALL PERISH! because haybus crispy, how many signs did I need that yesterday was NOT a good day for being drugged up and testing that One in a Million People Will Die During Surgery statistic? Car broken down? Cab driver not seeing me despite the neon sign flashing above my head saying "Passenger!!". The incredibly long and drawn out delay between admission and even seeing the Prof? How big of a sign did I need?! Still, it's a bit of a pain in the rearendicular region as, as you can appreciate, because being a sole parent and organising a night off is like orchestrating a highly detailed gala event for an international celebrity who wants pony rides and circus clowns in between sipping champagne and being adored by the three thousand or so guests, all flown in on separate flights from far away and obscure places. Or not, but, whatever.

So, yes, it's all been rescheduled for next week which means the week off I'd arranged for this week is a wasted week, vis a vis work, and the week I organised for next week is now shot to shirt too- BUT at least I'll be alive for it!

Am seriously, seriously freaked out by general anaesthetic. Swear.

Then I stuffed Daniel in the stroller and we went for a walk.

The end.

me, aged 7

is it just me or are you too reminded of a teeny, tiny drag queen?

exhibit a

Hint: Just add pig tails:

exhibit b

a review

This week's tipple sucks as much as it blows. Jesus H, it's like drinking paint thinner which, to be honest, I've not yet had the pleasure of drinking - and yet! I imagine it - or turps - when left to breathe before being poured generously into the appropriate glassware would taste smoother and hint more at blackberry and oak than this bottle o' shit.

dream on

Self,
I'm not trying to be obtuse but seriously, this Secret Messages Of Dreams theme you've got going on isn't working for me. Remember that dream I had about losing Daniel, who happened to be white mouse, not of the Stuart Little variety but your regular, hold your skirts in your hand while standing on a kitchen chair squealing for help white mouse, in the busy streets of MyTown, leaving me scrambling among the legs of the passers by, none of who (m?) gave a shit about a little lost mouse, destitute forever unless I found him, the fuckers, that had to mean something? Yeah, well, I'm still trying to solve that one too, so next time you want to enrich my life by pointing me in the direction of what needs improving, try leaving me a sticky note on the fridge. Make sure you've clearly and concisely dot pointed the relevant areas too, because this murky dream scape thing totally isn't doing anything for anyone.
Sincerely yours,
The Management.

Last night I dreamed I left my weekly AA meeting with someone else, and because we were chatting we kind of got lost and then they realised they'd forgotten where they'd parked their car and then I realised I'd forgotten where I parked mine and then we both ended up wandering around a suburb called Maryville (and why in hell I'd remember that name is beyond me) looking for our stupid cars.

At one point, we walked passed a wedding party that had all the other AA people milling around in dinner suits and drinking champagne which, on recollection, should have bothered me, what with the whole AA theme going on but which didn't at the time I dreamed it, so B and I were all puffing up our lost and forlorn chests saying "Act cool! Don't let them know we've lost our cars!" and the other AA people were all "Wassup?". Then I was all internally indignant and feeling rejected because hey, they're all having a party and why weren't we invited?!. Then I wandered off and away from B because while I knew I'd walked past a Catholic school chapel on my way to the meeting, person B had no idea what the fuck so then I spent what felt like the entire night wandering around this specifically named suburb trying to find the damn school so that I could find the stupid chapel because I knew that once I found that, I could find my muckinfruckin car, except all I could find was stupid public schools and my god, the frustration of knowing that somewhere in that one hundred meter radius was my ride home.

At some point there were waves crashing on beaches and some walking through locked office buildings and some wandering through the crowds at a discount store. I think there was also some lying under the clothes racks of said store and I think this whole thing went on for a day or so and then I woke up.

Weird.

Class interaction time because I know you're there you can't fool me: what the fuck?

Yes, yes. I agree. Dreams are dreams and for the most part, probably don't mean squat in the cold light of day (which probably doesn't go with the whole Hippy deal thing I've got going on here, but so does shaving my legs and there goes that argument) but this one was so memorable and the clues so vivid - the suburb, the fuzzy face of unkown person B, the trying to find things like, ooh I dunno, a chapel? ferfucksake, and the fact that I'm not an alcoholic (yet?) and that the whole thing stemmed from leaving (not going to because I don't remember that part. If I did, I'd have remembered where I left my damn car and this whole dream would have been moot) an AA meeting- that I'm left wondering is there anything I'm trying to tell myself here and if so, what.the. fuck. is it?

So I turn to you, my enormous fanclub. You got any ideas?

infertility

I went through it and am still going through it, but when I read other blogs and journals addressing this issue and the feelings surrounding it and all the weeping when some other fucker gets pregnant and they do not, I don't feel I belong in that world. Maybe because I was lucky in that my problem was solved, momentarily at least, when I conceived Daniel barely three months after having my starting my own and according to those other blogs, tortuous journey.

I haven't really gone into how my own 'tortuous' journey began years ago, but by the time I got around to doing anything about it, I just....coped. I coped with what my body wasn't doing and I coped with what was ahead and I did it without thinking about the process of how I was doing so.

I don't think that when the time came, I ever actually felt defeated by my infertility issues. I think I approached the whole Seeing A Reproductive Endocrinologist thing like one would approach any challenge. One step at a time and not jumping ahead of the immediate goal. Make the appointment. Take some tests. Get the results, etc. I took control of my own health too, and in doing so felt I had more control over my fertility. And I was determined. Not to get pregnant as much as to complete the process and to reduce as any possible regret that I hadn't done what I could to help myself out. I did stuff like see a naturopath and a kinesiologist, and being a bowen therapist, also had bowen therapy regularly, all to help my body feel good and to feel that I was also personally involved in what was going on. I visualised a lot too, which I never thought of as visualising. It just felt like I believed. Maybe not that I;d get pregnant but that I'd do what it took to get to the end so I could pass Go (I tell you, that The Secret woman? has nothing on me when it comes to seeing, believing, achieving. I've been doing that shit for years. Except I don't have the million or three extra bucks in the bank account ) No one knew I was acting any different, but I behaved like I was pregnant so as to make my body a welcoming vessel for a child. No alcohol, no coffee, no this, no that, because those two weeks a month that you know you're not pregnant and do all that not pregnant shit like slamming the espressos and drinking the cab sav? I reckon they affect your body and provide a negative, if not defeated, mind set. (I, uh, did have a billion coffees and got mad crazy drunk when I was unknowingly about two weeks pregnant though, because gimme a break, man. I'd only had sex once, fgs, and I had a blocked tube, annovulatory cycles, my medical history and my advanced age against me - each alone being enough to cause fertility issues - so what were the odds of being pregnant while amping up the caffeine and drowning in alcohol? Answer? HAHAHAHA!! And I was about to start fertility treatment so figured they'd be the last good times I'd see in a few years so, live it up, woo hoo! To whit, oops) I also had a teeny, tiny little collection of baby clothes. I felt stupid doing it and it was only two or three things, but they were one off things that I had to have, for the baby I knew I'd have. Even though I never thought it possible because I am nothing if not a bundle of conflicting thoughts.

In late April, 2005 I'd started my suppression meds and was wondering where in hell my period was, the kicker being I'd only had sex only twice that year and knowing I didn't ovulate for at least four days AFTER the second time I did it, I was all, no way, not pregnant, not me. I think I knew though, because I took a test and ta freakin' da, I was already five weeks pregnant by then.

My doctor had no idea how I got pregnant and considered it a true miracle. I think it was too, but I also think my process and thinking had a lot to do with it. I wasn't obsessed either, I was focussed, which I think is a healthy state to be in.

So to anyone finding my blog from using "infertility" as their search term - and I know some of you do - this entry and the whole infertility/bloggy shebang isn't meant to on how great I am or anything. I'd hope it was more a story of hope because in all honesty, if I can get pregnant with one lucky, untimed shot (ahem) with all the shit wrong with my reproductive goolies, I reckon anyone getting regular, optimally timed sex within a stable relationship with two motivated people involved has got a pretty good chance of getting what they want at the end of it all.

Eventually.

Which is a grand sweeping statement but you get my point.

my training diary, and other assorted shit

While Daniel was in childcare on Friday, I went for a run with a client in the morning, stability trained with her afterwards, and then sat around drinking coffee and eating Italian biscuits with her and her daughter and the cleaning lady for ages, before traipsing over to the gym I still work at from time to time to log in a (FREE!) workout before leaving for another appointment. Then I dropped by again on the way home to swim one hundred (one zero zero!!!!) laps. And the after effects of all that work? My legs are a teeny bit a bit sore (you never think you use your legs that much swimming but you do, and my legs wholeheartedly agree) which would probably disappear completely if I went for a run today, and the rest of my body is fine with a squeak of that glorious post worked-out-but-hard feeling low down between my shoulder blades. Which, as an aside, is where you should be feeling it if you're training mindfully and so as not to screw your posture up even more.

Since ditching the studio arrangement I seem to be finding more time to enjoy stuff like, ooh, I don't know. Life? Probably because I'm not wasting so much energy worrying and feeling guilty. I'd love to get a work out and swim in today too (my mum is here does she ever leave oh my god hey good thinking I may as well take advantage of her ever present god help me presence) but as Tee, Daniel's 12 year old sister, is coming over today, I'm reserving my energy for all the freaking out I'm planning on doing between now and 3pm.

Speaking of which: Strep just called and he'll drop Tee off sometime between 3 and 3.30, and will come inside for a few minutes while he helps her bring in some stuff. Seems she's bought Daniel some gifts and I'm guessing, a big old box of nappies (diapers, freaks). In return, we have a Daniel Bee original finger painting to give, wrapped around the blue topaz and silver necklace we bought for her last year (in the midst of all this ridiculous running away shit her dickhead father kept pulling). Which is all very nice. Thing is, I have an issue with "I'll just pop inside for a minute while bla bla bla.". Seriously, why on earth should I let him in my house to see Daniel when I've stated on the two (2) occasions since February that we've spoken that no, he doesn't get to see Daniel until he's shown me he's not that big of an loser dickhead fuckwad. Seriously, is he or does he think I am really that stupid? So no, I told him that he's not welcome in my house, he's not welcome to meet Daniel yet, and that I'll come out to the car to help Tee instead.

Secondly, and yes I'm a nitpicking fool, but come the fuck on. We said 3pm. What's this "between 3 and 3.30" bullshit?

Daniel is asleep right now too, in preparation for the Big Event, but earlier today, during his industrious very busy morning and while I was filing my nails, eating bon bons, catching up on the goings on of the internet and excuse me, what baby? it went eerily quiet for a minute. Obviously and as evidenced by the lack of computer outage, it wasn't a rogue fork in an unprotected power point that was responsible, but still worth a look. I found him hunkered in a corner, totally absorbed and quietly reading his books, Mr Pointer Finger out as he thoughtfully traced the pictures and told himself the story. Cute as...I've really got to stop using the eff word. I have a swarthy (to say the least) mouth and if Daniel's first really clear word is that one, I'm going to have to look shocked before furrowing my brow and wondering out loud where on earth he picked up that awful, awful word. If When that day comes though, if he doesn't use the word in its correct context, given that he's had that much tutelage, that's when I'll be shocked for real.

In other riveting news, I've been watching Love My Way on dvd the past week or so and finally finished the last of Season 2 last night and holy fuck*, what a depressingly heavy series. Good though, very, very good, despite leaving me in tears the entire time after episode 8, Season 1. Not just a delicate drop or three plopping out of my eyeballs, mind. Great, heaving sobs into the purpose-held cushion. Gah. Then right after the uber-weighty final episode was over, I put the first disc to Series 3 of One Tree Hill, which is as light weight as the OC and as just as full of angsty teens, making it an interesting turn around, and one my brain had quite a bit of difficulty processing.

Which may have been the wine talking.

Heebus cruspy, I've turned into quite the lush in the last week. I'm still one glass=total boozehead though. Practice doesn't appear to make perfect, wine style here at the Villa de Bee. It just makes me feel trashed and kind of seedy the next day. It's worth it though, becuase I feel quite clever saying things like "hmm, peppery top note" and thinking things like "oh yes, this one has legs". I reckon too, that I'm full of shit**.

Next, I'm wondering how effective a Paypal Donate Now!! button would be over there in my sidebar. What? Not at all? Bummer.

I'm trying to work out how I can find a spare five grand. Did I mention that my final surgery (to take out a rogue bolt) is on Monday next week? because it is, and if I can find the spondoolies, I can get my nose fixed too. It's not a bad nose, it was quite nice actually in its heyday, but it's crooked and with the old ears and nose never stop growing thingo going on, as I age, it gets more crooked, thank you champagne cork right between the eyes about twenty years go (true story!) . Given the opportunity to get it straightened by Professor Perfect, it seems like a wasted opportunity not to, especially since I'll be out cold and flat on my back anyway. Which is how I've been for most nights this week, ha ha ha, thank you The Cover Drive. The Prof is good too, in that because of past discussions with him vis a vis the work of some other fuckwit a thousand years ago and when I was batshit crazy that left me with horrendous scars and a dent in my head, I know for a fact that he won't do stuff that he doesn't think is a) necessary or b) will improve anything. Which is most unlike Tony Moore (oh, I'm sorry, did I say that fuckwit's name out loud?), who will keep on operating regardless of the benefit (or lack of) for as long as a) you're still mental, and b) you can afford to pay him. If The P thinks a nose could benefit from a tweak, it's because he sees it would benefit from, not merely look better because of, and so from my perspective, please see above reference to "why not?". Why not? Because I'd have to sell a kidney first, but think The Secret. If I keep focussed, what with a week to find the cash, it will happen. Yes, and I have a ticket from last night's lotto and without checking the numbers, I reckon it's worth a cool million or three. (and it's got nothing to do with vanity. No. Ahem. It's because I'm nothing if not totally averse to being half assed, and because it feels half assed to get my entire face remodeled and then leave out the bits in between, a straightened nose would be the piece de resistance, as it were. Without it, it's like renovating an old bungalow but without sanding back and repainting the woodwork which is half assed)

Tee is due here anytime in the next thirteen minutes (if her moron father is to be believed) and because Daniel is still asleep in the bedroom, I'm still wearing what amounts to my pyjamas. Awesome, but not so much so that I'll gt off my butt and get changed into something less comfortable but possibly (but not bloody likely given the state of my wardrobe (lack of) selection) a smite more good impressionish.

Ten minutes and counting. If it wasn't for Tee and if he wasn't here on the absolute stroke of 3.30, I'd grab the sleeping boy and fuck off out of here before the clock even hit 3.31.

Update and with two minutes to spare, homeboy calls me from down the road, just about to turn into my street and "can I drive down the driveway instead of parking on the street?". With Daniel still asleep and not about to pop his gorgeous head out the door and look achingly appealing, I said yes. Because I am good and kind. Also, am still wearing pyjamas.


*Well then. Operation SwearNoMore is off to a good start

**Fuck***

***Shit!****

**** -> a billion asterixes, fuck, shit, fuck, shit etc

****Dammit!!*****

*****this could go on forever

cop this

I'm happy.

I'd be extraordinarily happy if Brad from the store I love SO much hadn't told me that while I'd ordered me the grey version, he'd seen the red version and it was AWESOME and bla and yadda and bla and so on and on and on and "Brad! Shut the fuck up. Jesus. I'm indecisive enough without you telling me how incredibly more awesome the other damn colour is. Have a heart. Fucksake." So now I'm all, hmm, maybe I should have spent my three trillion dollars on a red watch?

Please note the artwork on the desk behind my wrinkly old arm (which, if you have daughters, show them this picture and explain to them that this is why they need to wear their spf100billion). Also please note the wine glass in the background. It now contains about a half a glass of I have no idea whatthefuck. Hang on. It's a glass of The Cover Drive 2005 Cabernet Savignon and I'm drinking it because after finishing off the glass that was left in the bottle of red that Gee brought over way back in the day on Monday night while on the phone to Daniel's father and that sentence didn't make sense, did it? I can explain that. Alcohol works on me like homeopathics works on the rest of the world. Very well, in that if one molecule of booze found its way into a fifteen squillion litre bottle of water, and if I drank a glass of that water, I'd be maggotted. Which I am, after not even a half a glass of the whateverinfuck I'm drinking now. Which I'm drinking because I quite enjoyed sitting back and getting quietly shitfaced on my own. On one single glass. God, I'm tragic. When I was in my teens and everyone was drinking positively fuckloads of beer and tequila, I'd be in the corner getting trashed on the smell of a can being popped. It's genetic. My grandfather was around 6'2 and kind of chunky was as much of a lightweight as I am.

But yes, in re Daniel's father. Who shall be named Strep.

Homeboy emailed me last Thursday three months after his last fucking off episode saying that he'd like to see Daniel sometime soon. Like, say, this coming weekend. I laughed my ass off and then, come Monday night, spoke to him and again, aired my reasons why he has snowflake's chance in hell of seeing Daniel anytime soon. Fuck, I don't know how many times I have to spell it out: it's not chicken and the egg. You don't get to prove you're ready to be consistent by using Daniel as the crash test baby. Be consistent and then you'll get to spend time with him.

His sister, Daniel's not Strep's, will be coming over on Sunday to spend some time though, so that should be nice. I'm shitting myself though because she lives with Dragon Lady aka her mother who I expect is saying some not so very glowing things about me on a regular basis (I think you should start puncuating things yourselves because *burp*).

In other news, I practically amputated my finger last night. My wedding ring finger too, come to think of it. The aforementioned Gee had stopped by and having dropped the glass he was drinking out of, was being apologetic and picking up the pieces and vacuuming up the debris and dripping blood all over the place. Meanwhile I was being all reassuring and relating stories about how three thousand guests before him had done the same thing so don't worry about it, and when I went to pick up the container the glass shards had been put in - and I have no idea how I even did this - I jammed my finger into the edge of the really big broken bit sticking out of the top. More (of my own precious) blood was shed and I'm left wondering, what with the simultaneous bloodshed and both our wedding ring fingers being the victim of that one single glass, did we unknowingly participate in some kind of ritualistic Pagan marriage ceremony?

In yet more other news, I ran over 6.5K on the weekend. I'm not certain of the exact distance because I did a lot of back tracking and ran up and down a car park for around ten minutes while Enn fossicked in the local scout hall garage sale. Fucking woot? Hell yes!. We took off while my ever present mum sat with Daniel, and I ran the entire way without stopping and with chucking in a few sprints in the middle and while prancing around like I had ants in my pants at other times to break up the jogging bizzo. Then the next day I swam one hundred laps which is about 25-30 laps of an olympic pool before pushing Daniel another 6.5K in the stroller. Awesome? Why yes, yes I am, because I am entirely untrained (yes I'm a personal trainer whats your point shut up) and the level of fitness I appear to have is from carrying Daniel in the back pack most nights and getting out to push him around in the stroller when I can.

There's a 12K run coming up in September. It's one I've been wanting to run since I was seventeen and was running in the evenings with my father. I've run the distance before, but never the race and I reckon that even without any further training, I could finish it now because after the weekend's effort, I still had more in me.

Watch this space, folks, because if I'm not plagued by fucking cold after cold for the rest of this winter, I'll be running that damn race. Or not.

ohferfuxake

Remember my heart rate monitor? I was supposed to have that fucker by yesterday. The store didn't call me as planned though, so after my Pilates class today and in between clients (who all (two, ahem) rescheduled anyway, gah), I ducked in to ask them what the fuck? The assistant furrowed her brow and said "hmm, it should be here. They always despatch immediately and we put the order in on Friday. How about I call them and ask them what the fuck? ". Well, the fuck was that despite these beshitted monitors alwaysalwaysalwasy being despatched on the day or a day after the order is placed, and despite my fucking order being placed in a timely manner, the shipment containing it wasn't sent until today. Tofuckingday. Yes, my beans are excessively steamed given it's only a forty eight hour delay but PEOPLE, anything to do with me, be it a plan I've made, an order I've put in, a seminar I'm going to, a course I'm involved in, electronics I've bought or software I've loaded, anything, whateverthefuck, if it's mine or to do with me, it will NEVER go as planned or on schedule.

Also, fuck NLP. Bla bla, negative noise leads to negative outcomes, bla bla. What Ev, dude. I just want my damn watch.

blablablablabla

The important shopping trip had to be rescheduled due to the thunderous fallout from the also previously mentioned Very Important Meeting. The girl who owns the studio I was working out of has changed plans and payment structure and she has GOT to be kidding so I'm now down one key from my key ring and Enn (the primary shopper and all round good guy who also works out of there and who had her own meeting with Wonderwoman an hour before my own) is still blowing steam out of her nostrils. I feel curiously light now though, now that I have no where to work out of. I've since realised that I was putting so much energy into feeling guilty for not working enough and guilty for not putting enough effort into cultivating more clients and guilty for being peeved that the original proposal put to me when I started there was never followed through and guilty for working instead of being Daniel's mum and guilty for I don't know what the fuck else, and because of all the energy being spent feeling guilty, I had no energy left to do all the things I wasn't doing and so, was feeling guilty about. Arrgh.

I've got to get my head around effectively training existing clients outside of the studio environment, which I know I can do but change + me = oil + water, so my initial reaction is usually OHMYFRIKKINFUCK! Then the dust settles and life goes on, albeit differently and usually more efficiently. I'll continue to do bowen therapy from home and peppering it richly with some Emmett Technique because, why not? I've already used it on five or six people, each in the space of five minutes, and it really is The Shit.

But about the lingerie shopping. It happened post schedule and it too, was The Shit. We trawled the usual stores, meaning we got as far as This Store and That Store which took us THREE (!!) hours and holy crap, the bargains to be had at This Store! If you're the right size (or are prepared to have surgery to be that size) there's a holy grail of pretty things discounted from 70 bucks to ridiculous prices like 15, and being surrounded by such pretties, I bought three boring as all hell pairs of basic black that are so plain and *yawn* that they'd certainly be deemed appropriate wear by Mother Superior for any novice entering the convent.

The next day my presence was again required and because I am awesome, I ditched my Pilates class in favor of shopping for The Dress, The Stockings (woo hoo!), and The Heels, the plan being they'd last for, like, thirty seconds on Enn's body before being ripped off in the throes of uncontrollable passion because *taruntara* that night was THE night, and from my point of view, what with my dates being limited to midgets who shit their pants, there's nothing like living vicariously through the life of someone else. Especially someone who's about to be royally had.

For the record, I out together the entire outfit. All of it, from top to toe, so while the rumors of my honorary bag lady status may have more than an element of truth behind them, and while "Dressing To Kill" when it comes to style and when applied to me usually equates to "You'd Kill Yourself Before You Left The House Looking Like That", I do have a certain knack for dressing others.

The highlight of my entire day though, spectacular company aside, was stopping off at the medically healthish supply type store that is like heaven to me. It's full of bits and pieces that I do so covet, all for training and rehab and be still my beating heart. Which! I left with an order for a polar heart rate monitor which is going to a) send me absolutely broke, and b) make me look like HOT SHIT while wearing it on my......slow walks around the park with a stroller. It'd look better on if I was sprinting down the track but the HRM is going to make me look like I do that on the days that I'm not ambling around the park . AND I got a medicine ball (5kg!), a roller thingydoover and two wobbly disc things to stand on. Oh, and some resistance bands, thankyou baby jesus for my visa card because with these trinkets of joy, I am IN BUSINESS (woot). Which revisits the big ol' plan to work, not out of a studio but from home and/or out of clients' homes and/or parks and reserves and the like. Thank god I've got a good lawyer (haha, oh the updates I owe on that one) because we know how well it went the last time I did this freelance stuff. Here, I'll save you the click and give yuo the recap: Some dolt at the soccer club I was VOLUNTEERING at asked for an ice pack which I gave to him which he sat on for A WHOLE HOUR and which froze his leg. Which led to frostbite, a big ol' hunk of it on the back of his leg. It looked disgusting and kind of like a partially defrosted leg of lamb, but considerably ickier. Then homeboy tried to sue me (ME!) because he was the moron who cooked his own leg in the nastiest of ways. The mucikinfruckin soccer club were all "we're behind you on this, aibee, rah!" and I was all "it's not YOU suing me, you idiots, it's your insurance company that want my ass!! ". God, Italian men and their stupid egos. Anyway, they kept threatening me and I kept freaking out and then after this one phone call that (woke me up from a first trimester nap)(note to the never pregnant: first trimester = relative, constant comatose state and kind of hinky hormones) was meant to scare me into selling my imaginary house, I began thinking of blood and stones and I told them to sue me ladidadida and also *pthhhh*, which worked because I haven't heard from (one of the most aggressive law firms in MyTown) since.

Which is about where this story ends.

the one that became about product reviews

honest to goodness, ebay buyers can be an irritating bunch of maroons.

In other news - and I don't know how it is that I update with such regularity *coughcough* because it's not like I'm frikkin' Bill Gates with a multi million dollar corporation to manage, but I simply haven't had the time to sit down and bang out a few words - Daniel is sitting next to me not eating his morning cereal and I wonder, is it wrong to shovel some in mid Wail Of Displeasure? Because I just did that he hasn't choked and a spoon full of moosh has disappeared neatly down his scream hole. I think I've just discovered an awesome trick but I'm also wondering, is this an abuse of his civil rights?


I'm off lingerie shopping today with Enn. She's getting it together for an eventful evening with her new younger man, so it's been a week of interesting discussions vis a vis her map of Tasmania and the preferences of youth today. I'm really really really really really really hoping the shopping trip involves the understated elegance of exclusive wanky swanky stores because oh my god the alternatives.


and if anyone is interested in a cereal update: mission aborted.

The upside of this hunger strike is that rather than joyfully squeezing out three giant sized poops a day, each weighing as much as a newborn and all about the size of his head, Daniel is down to popping out a modest and teeny tiny pellet about once every three days.

and son, when you come across this journal in twenty or so years and realise that I did, indeed, discuss the contents of your bowels: you're welcome, sincerely yours, mummy.


and! I'm a total tool because there was this awesome dirt cheap microdermabrasion kit on sale and I wanted it so badly. My skin is the Mr T of skin in that it doesn't look that attractive but it can about handle anything thrown its way, so I'm alll aboutn the sanding it down until it shines, motherfucker. Except there was also this other total body (TOTAL BODY!) microdermabrasion kit on offer for only 70 bucks and being the queen of decisive, I was all "this one no that one no this one no that one" until I threw my hands up in despair and stomped out the room. The fucking thing is selling at my local store for almost 120 smackeroos, and I get stuck in The Circle Of Choice. Total. Tool. I swear.

Which reminds me! I've mentioned this place from time to time and often times to the same people so I'm going to mention it here too.

www.makeupalley.com

You will LOVE it. I don't wear much make up and my skin care routine is minimalist. I do, however, have a healthy obsession with the make up I do use (mineral) and the skin care products I buy (skin biology). Despite this minimalist approach, Makeupalley is my idea of heaven (is it odd that a catholic raised, convent educated Italian girl always spells 'heaven' wrong the first time round?) . If it were possible to kiss the ground on the way in, I would do it. It's got everything make uppy you ever need to know, and the best thing is that you can sign up as a member (for free!) and then cruise the user review boards and get a really good idea from the reviews written by every day people like you and me who aren't being paid by the make up companies to say nice things about their products (also, I recognise the need to punctuate!). I check there no matter what I'm about to buy, and spend a good amount of time wiping away tears of regret that I either a) can't afford some of the things others have raved about or b) live in Australia and those lucky americans get to return things that suck and c) those lucky Americans seem to have a buttload more of the good stuff to buy.

Speaking of products though, I had a facial the other week with a product called Freeze. They were offering them for twenty five bucks so why the fuck not? This stuff is supposed to stop your wrinkles from wrinkling or something equally as glorious, and the effect is meant to be accumulative too. The more you use it, the less like an old bag you'll (well not YOU. I'm talking about the rest of us old bags) look. From memory there was this MakeYourLipsLookBigger goop, and it was all tingly and ooooh. Maybe it's hope talking, but I think it actually did have a beestingey effect.


In other beauty news, I got my nails done last week. Some paint on shit called Bio Sculpture. There are no tips so it won't make your nails look longer immediately, but it goes over the top of your own nails and toughens them up so that they can grow long and lurvely all on their own(and wouldn't you know it, I broke one of those fuckers right off the very day I was going to get them done. Awesome) They also don't completely ruin your nails, not like regular acrylics, and while they're permanent, you can also soak them off if you keep poking out your eyeballs with your fabulous new talons. So yes, that's been my luxurious thrill, and I'm looking forward to my appointment next week when the girl does some kind of nail maintenance and I get to feel like a movie star.

I sound like I spend my life with my fingers soaking in a bowl while someone massages a concoction of butterfly wings and angel's breath over my face. I don't. Honest. I do have skin with issues, hence my interest in anything that will help it look less like an old sow's ear. To this end, skin biology is best product I've used. The site is a bitch to navigate but where there's a will, etc, and it's totally worth it because this stuff is The Absolute Shit. It's helped even out the colour of my skin, and the texture is pretty darned good now, especially considering the death rays I've spent my life under. I like that there's no hype or BS about this stuff too. A million years ago and about a week after I started using it, Stef commented on how radiant my skin was. This is the guy who wouldn't notice if you answered the door wearing a gas mask and carrying a duck under your left arm, so if he's notices a radiance associated with the copper peptides, those bitches ARE doing something.

ALSO! Another tip. This stuff called Acnederm (from ego and available at most pharmacies)(here. I have no idea about Over There). My dermatologist put me onto a really squeally expensive lotion called fineraIhavenoideasomethingdadidadida that cost a million dollars and that was supposed to lighten the BEARD OF PIGMENT MY GOD COULD IT GET ANY WORSE that appeared when I was pregnant, and while it's marketed for anti ageing, it was also supposed to help lighten the beard of death. BUT! I found this acnederm stuff that has the exact same active ingredient except 5% more of it, thank you baby jesus, for like, $8.95, and bugger me if it didn't lighten the stupid mask of freakin' zorro I'd been sporting as well as making my skin smoother and kind of poreless. The azaelic (whatev) acid is supposed to exfoliate the top layer of skin off bla bla bla, but it can also be an irritant so be careful. You heard it here first.

Okay, what else can I waffle on about, robbing you of any updates to the Lawyer Chronicles (and there are updates) and probably boring you shitless?

Goji juice: It's the next Big Thing and it's supoosed to be chock full of all kinds of shit that make you look and feel younger and whatever the fuck so of course I jumped on the bandwagon. I drink my 30 mls each morning and I don't think imagining it, I think it does have a positive effect on my fatigue levels. Oh, I'm not planning on running any marathons anytime soon, but a day or two after I started taking it, I thought "!". I saw the naturopath a month after my surgery, which was a couple of weeks after starting the Goji and for the first time ever, he said my blood slides were the best he'd seen in a while and that I didn't need anything else to improve my gorgeous self. Only he didn't say gorgeous, that was just hope and artistic license.


and now I've got to go get ready for a meeting which, bleah. Me? I'm all about the bunnies and the kittens and the pretty things. This whole corporatemeetingletspretendwereinbigbusiness thing puts a serious harsh on my mellow, man.

today's thought

Babies are really cute and all, but they sure do make you pay for having unprotected sex.

*achoo*

Daniel's been sick and it's been a nightmare, and now I'm sick and, bleah. The sudafed didn't even work yesterday and I was on day 2 of a weekend seminar (yes I left my son with a babysitter while he was ill and I was off enjoying myself I also got my nails done on Wednesday don't judge me) and I needed it to work. Instead I spent the day snorting the crap out of my left nostril and wishing I could afford the fucking nose job that would fix the annoying one sided blocked up jobby I'm currently sporting.

I blame that stupid twenty first birthday celebration and I really blame that stupid, stupid champagne cork that went flying out of the bottle, through the crowd, out the window, past the barbecue and around the tree to hit me slap bang in the middle of my face, breaking my adorable little button nose and giving me a bump and an excellent (and true! ) story to tell my grandchildren.

You see, having my face fixed changed my nose, not enough to cause children to run screaming from me mind, not at all, but enough to make it a little more crooked enough to make it a lot more easily blockable, and the nose job that would both fix it (joy!) and give me the nose of an angel (luxury!!) would cost an extra five grand which, hahahhaha. I might as well fly to the moon.

Anyhoo, Daniel's been really sick and his temperatures have been scary high and it's taken the better part of the week for him to do anything more than be almost delirious from the constant fevers - and before anyone even quietly thinks to themselves why oh why didn't I take him to the doctor, are you high? Of course I took him. Fucksake. He was at the paediatrician's for a routine follow up when he crashed in the first place, so blood draws, results, expert advice, more doctors, more opinions, more phone calls and the diagnosis is that it's a cold.

Then I left him with a babysitter for two days while I went off and enjoyed an AMAZING seminar. It was for something called Emmett Technique and it's a remedial touch therapy and something I absolutely intend to continue to do. It was great to learn it, but the presenter worked not just with our knowledge base, but with our selves and we all had the opportunity for incredible personal change and growth and oh my fuck, I sound like I've been on a religious retreat and found jesus. I don't know how to describe it without sounding like that though. It was incredible and I'm pretty dead sure it's not just the afterglow of an eventful weekend giving me this excitement about what we did. I'm think differently about myself and my abilities and for the love of god, shut up now, aibee.

In other news, Daniel is back in my lap and apparently trying to cough up a lung. Odd thing is, he's got no chest ickiness so this lung hacking isn't actual lung stuff, it's all gunk running down from his head. Leaking brain matter is what I'll tell him when he comes home from school that first day and cries and asks why he can't read yet.

Speaking of reading: now I don't know if anyone has picked up on it, but I don't like to indulge in the whole My Kid Is SO Smart gig. He is, but only because he'sa kid and all kids do incredibly smart and impressive things. If he's super dooper smart, then it;s not soemthing I want to bang on about anyway. I want to recognise his abilities, but I also don't want to put pressure on him BE exceptional, even if he IS exceptional. Which to all parents freaking out about their infant's supreme intellect, isn't it a little too soon to tell? Also, what does it matter? (Spoken like the true product of high achieving parents, what oh?) I want to teach Daniel to be, and if his being is exceptional, then so be it. (Ha ha). I guess my reticence to bang on at him about how wonderfully smart he is is because of my personal trauma about being made to feel different from everyone else, and that it was important to BE exceptional, which even if you are, you don't feel you are simply because you ARE that, so being made to feel you must be that meant to me that I had to try so very very hard to be so much better than I was, and I'd rather Daniel felt good about himself, not because of what he can achieve, but because of who he is. Feeling good about oneself does, in my opinion, means one will achieve all the things one wants to for themselves and not because some of rabid stage mother standing in the wings forcing them to do it because they want them to do it.

If you want me to, I can over explain it a little more, but the POINT BEING, I'm not bragging when I tell you that given a novel with no pictures and only words to identify up from down and back from front, Daniel will turn the book the right way around and start to turn the pages in the correct fashion. He doesn't paw the pages and has never, even torn one, the little freak, and he looks for all the world like he's reading. Which I highly doubt he is, but man, it is a little freaky.