Tuesday, October 30, 2007


I'm finally sitting down after working one class earlier this morning - aqua, so it was a real bludge, then I put my ass in a step class afterwards which, OH MY GOD.

First OHMYGOD = how frikkin' uncoordinated I am. It's embarrassing, especially so considering I teach, not aerobics, granted, but circuit, which requires an aerobics component to at least provide an adequate warm up.

Second OHMYGOD = my butt cheeks. Holy shitski, I had no idea my rearendicular region contained so many nerve endings. Ouch. I mean, seriously, I squat, I do dead lifts, I do all manner of things that work require my ass to earn its keep, because a strong butt equals a strong back. Most people don't realise that. They go through life thinking a strong butt equals only the undivided adoration and devotion of any ass man within twenty paces, but strong glutes are so much more valuable than just being aesthetically pleasing.

Point being

My asscheeks HURT.

I'm working for my sister in law tomorrow, which is an interesting segue. I'll be doing some filing or cataloging or some such, which I don't mind as I'm quite good at settling down to doing mindless stuff. Although, I don't imagine cataloging my brothers HUGE uncatalogued collection of photos will be that mindless. One mindless moment and oops, there goes this under that label, never to be found again.

I'm more nervous about being under the watchful eye of my new employer, my sister in law. Scary.

Speaking or work, I've not heard back from that employment agency so I don't know what the heck. I'm not too fussed about it because, did I mention my asscheeks hurt? I know that's got nothing to do with employment, or lack thereof, but it still bears repeating. Ouch.

Oh yeah, after working and working out, I came home and vacuumed the living crap out of my car. Or, at least eighteen months worth of living and oh my heck, it was pretty awful. My guess is my fuel economy will increase by at least 35%, what with all the CRAP I'll no longer be toting around. I've also somehow mashed the knuckles of my fingers on my right hand, mister pointer and mister middle fingers and they hurt now too. Not as much as my butt aches, but they're all cracked and I'm bleeding and all. POOR ME. I reckon I've got some kind of dermatitis to, which is why these knuckles cracked under the pressure of cleaning a huge sand pit's worth of dirt out of my car. All my knuckles are kind of dry, and then there's that attractive ring of red skin under where my ring went before it turned into oozing flesh, and isn't this a delicious conversation. Just be thankful I've not included photos. DON'T THINK I DIDN'T THINK (what?) ABOUT IT.

Then I vacuumed the house without the little short guy running around behind me vacillating between feigned (I hope) terror and tugging on my leg and demanding to be picked up. Gone are the days when I in actually fact vacuumed the place with him on my left hip, mostly because I started developing a hump. He's a little too heavy to be lugged around while I lug around the stupid vacuum cleaner -do they all feel like you're dragging a corpse around or is it just me? My vacuum wasn't cheap. Oh, it wasn't like a million dollar Dyson or whatever (which, LOVE), but it wasn't one of those eighty jobs from the corner store. Also, am a sucker for a good sales pitch. BUT ANYWAY at almost four hundred smackers, I expect the darn thing to levitate. Instead, it feels like it's pulling back when I drag it along the floor, like it's playing tug o' war with me. Fucking thing. It's got an almighty suck though, and will remove your nail polish in the event you run out of the appropriate cleaner. So obviously, corpse-like tendencies aside, it does multitask so is obviously worth its weight in dustbunnies.

Monday, October 29, 2007

scream II

Goodness, what a day. Just like any other though, in actual fact. Rush rush rush and yet, nothing at all seems to be done. Neither of us is even showered yet which, for pete's sake, is a basic human need. Inventory for the day is: uh, we vacuumed? And, I think that's about it and yet, YET! here it is, 1.45pm and this is the first chance I've had to sit down-and only because Daniel threw his chair when I didn't get his bockoowee into his gaping maw quick enough, so I decided that chair throwing boys don't get a third serve of broccoli, they get to go to bed (before their mothers disassemble them, piece by piece)

Dude is continuing his descent into probable juvenile delinquency, and I'm already halfway through today's bottle of vodka.

This mothering gig is getting a wee bit challenging, and the timing sucks because now, after nearly two years of being on call, twenty four seven, I'm finally feeling exhausted by it all. If mum heard me say that, she'd raise her eyebrows at me and say something really fucking a) stupid and b) obvious like "well, this is what parenting is all about" like I was either a) complaining or b) surprised, of which I am neither. I am, however, surprised at how quickly Daniel has snapped from being angelic and sweet to this apparent channeling of Beelzebub. I can't help but wonder what I've done to contribute to this, and all I can think of is that my modeling has sucked (I always feel like a balloon about to pop, like any straw would be the last,you know? and there's no way daniel can't be feeling the raw edges of my constant state of frazzle) and my parenting skilz suck even harder. I should be able to handle this, or at least work out what to do or why it's happening. I mean, the little jaw snapping rodent will take my hand, all sweet and loving-like, except his sole intention turns out to be putting it in his mouth to bite me. Even when he doesn't appear to be pissed, he'll go the bite. Or the hit, or the tantrum. Speaking of, he lost his shit twice on Saturday, the first time because, after taking two slices of bread out of his handy dandy ziplock bag when we were leaving the creche, I told him he needed to pick one so mummy could put the other one back. He ignored me, because he isn't even 2 yet but I had to go through the motions of allowing him choice because bla bla bla, so I put one piece back and that's when he lost his shit. For an hour. We did the Walk Of Shame out of the creche, me pushing the stroller, him walking behind me and SCREAMING. Then he lay in the corridor as I wheeled ahead of him, and I waited around the corner and waited and waited and waited, in an effort to let him work it out while I "ignored" him. It didn't work. So I wrestled him into the stroller, knee to his chest, and then we took off for the store on the way home, and he screamed the entire time, At home, he continued with this lunacy until he was exhausted, then I fed him (oh yeah, when I offered him food prior to this, thinking he might be going INSANE because he was hungry, he screamed louder and acted like I was trying to poison him, running as fast as he could away from me where he screamed some more) and he collapsed in a heap and went to sleep. For about half an hour. When he woke up and sooked until it was bed time that evening.


In that entire time, I could not put him down otherwise he'd cry pitifully. I didn't know, despite the day's earlier doctor's appointment to rule out ear infection or whatever in fuck else can cause a child to morph into a demon ruling anything out, if anything was wrong, if he was in pain or whatever, so I kept on holding him and worrying he had bad gas cramps or something from the week prior's tummy upset.

I still think that I'm missing something too, that this personality shape shifting dealio isn't all behaviorally driven. I still think that, despite two doctor's visits in four days, that something is up with my little mooshie.

Then on Sunday afternoon, Strep came over to clear out the front by my carport. Like I give a crap what it looks like. I mean, sure, there's stuff there but the messy stuff like the cardboard boxes were going in the hard rubbish collection with the chairs so it's not like I was decorating with them or anything, the rest was overgrown vines and in actual fact, I quite like that jungle look. ANYWAY, he was all "let me let me" so I let him, little knowing he'd bring his daughter and I'd end up being the fucking entertainment officer all afternoon.

I know that sounds mean because she's not even thirteen yet and all, but it's not like he said "look I'll clear your yard. Tina's coming with me so would you mind if she hung with you and Daniel while I'm there?" No, he just brought her along and assumed that I'd be cool with it, and that Pisses Me OFF. I feel manipulated into spending time with them again, not a week after I'd said "won't be socialising much because I find it too stressful".

I wonder if this is PMS talking?

The weather was shitinski yesterday too, so walking was out of the question, which may explain some of today's angst. Then again, I think what explains it better is the grousing child in the next room, the evil twin he's been replaced by showing up last week, and Strep fucking up my Sunday afternoon. I HATE staying in all day, which we did because of the babysitting gig. We usually only do something boring yet entertaining enough like shop, with a possible drop in to my friend up the road, or a long drive, or SOMETHING that's not being cooped up inside, after spending all day today inside too, I'm going stir crazy.

Man, can I complain or what?

and, would you listen to that? Silence.

Is bliss.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

one week, summarised.

This is the first chance I've had to sit with free hands.

Daniel's been a tad under the weather since last Friday, starting when I collected him from that germ haven otherwise known as "childcare", and he'd done three giant sized poops, the last seconds before I arrived, they reported, all within the last forty minutes. "Uh, guys?" I said, "he's walking like a cowboy" and sure enough, he'd just filled his pants again, and continuing until now, the point where I'm seriously considering balling up a sock and plugging up his angry little scream hole.


He's been a bit under the weather and while even in the beginning, he didn't seem ill, he's been whiny, if by "whiny" I mean "yelly", "screamy", or "turbine engines of a 747y", and when he's not screaming about whatever injustice caused him to Flip. OUT. for the twenty billionth time, he's very, VERY lap sitty. We went to the doctor earlier this week, an exercise is perfect timing, or as I like to call it,timing that really, really sucked. The appointment had been made taking into consideration Daniel's general Camille type demeanor, the time he'd woken up that morning, the corresponding predicted nap time and duration, and the angle of the sun. Or course, that all went to shit when, instead of The Nap arriving when scheduled, it arrived approximately 24.2 minutes before we were due to leave. I tried to reschedule as soon as Daniel had nodded off, which I couldn't do because Booked! Out! at the clinic, so I had to wake him up to drag him along and be told there's nothing wrong with him that a rest wont fix. Truly awesome.

He's had some odd and interesting creations emanate from his poopchute this past week, but there was only one additional scarypoo since Overflowing Pants Friday, thank god, and that was only after he'd wanted some milk and some yoghurt and his pants had been positively pristine for a day or so, why not? And the milk product overload kind of killed his winning streak. Good one, self.

Daniel perked up pretty quickly too, and with no nasty underpants surprises, by Tuesday was running around looking bored and saying "cah, cah, Lesley?", which is code for "get me out of here and take me to childcare and to the woman I adore more than I need oxygen". The doctor had given him a day off from childcare (his medical certificate said "is unfit for duty" haHA!) if he needed it, but despite the lack of extreme undergarments moments, I kept him home so as to make it a full 72 hours between Fit And Well and Underpants Hell.

Unlike the idiotic mother we encountered at Childcare late Wednesday morning who'd taken her child WHO'D HAD AN EXPLOSIVE RUNNY POOP THAT MORNING (apologies for mentioning poop with caps lock but, SERIOUSLY!) in to care. What kind of fucknut does that? I mean, taking a gastrically challenged child to a place brimming over with other babies and toddlers? Even without the sign on the door saying "Rotovirus! Reported here! List Of Symptoms! Skulls!! Crossbones!! XXX!" wouldn't you think to not let your child mix with others if his pants had been blown off by the force of his diarrhea a mere couple of hours earlier? I was there to drop my son off when she arrived to pick up hers, and she overheard me talking to the staff about Daniel's absence the day before, a discussion requiring repeated utterances of the word "poop", so she and her perfectly coiffed self became all concerned and asked me "yours too?" and in an equally concerned and sympathetic manner, I clucked "Yes, last week. Yours?", that's when she said "This morning, HORRENDOUS, but I BROUGHT HIM IN ANYWAY". The caps lock might be my emphasis because the point is STUPID! CARELESS! YET STUNNINGLY MADE UP. Her little boy was slumped in the corner looking so sad and pale. They'd called her because her son was too sick to stay there and by the way, diarrhea? I couldn't help but overhear her talking to staff when it was her turn and it was obvious she'd not told them earlier about the morning's events.

Meanwhile, I began writing this now because Daniel was absorbed in his own business (which involved taking the Huggies wipes out of the container and placing them carefully on the windowsill before putting them back in the container again, repeat. A lot)(aside: the wipes are so tough they'd dermabrade his tushie if used for such, so their value lies only in their ability to keep him entertained FOR HOURS) and also unwinding the kitchen towels before sitting in a sea of unwound paper, but the minute I wasn't gazing directly at his gorgeous self, he climbed onto my lap and is once again, enjoying himself immensely and making it very challenging to churn this out.

an email with your breakfast, sir?

He's been...high maintenance, is probably the politest way to describe how he's been these last few days, and it's wearing me down. I don't know if it's the remnants of his almostapoopfestbutnotquite or if he's suddenly Almost Two because the tantrums, oh my heck. The days he's been in care, the reports have all consisted of "pushed so and so, bit so and so, hit so and so", and when I picked him up yesterday he was having a meltdown because, after being removed to a sectioned off play area because he's tried to head butt some poor innocent, he'd abandoned his contented, solitary play to thump the child standing a leetle to close to the room divider. Then he bit the staff member trying to break up the fracas. By the time I walked in he screaming his discontent to anyone who's listen, and from the volume he'd selected, he wanted the entire street to know about it. It's been like this since.... hang on. It's only been like this since Wednesday, so while it's sensible to address behavioural issues before the actually become issues, isn't it a bit premature for the aforementioned Lesely to act like it's the end of the world and Daniel is the Godzilla-esque toddler bringing about our demise? Especially since this change in personality coincided with being ill. Nonetheless, because I AM a responsible parent, he's already been back to the doctor to rule out any medical reason for the channeling of Beelzebub we've been seeing, mostly because not only has he been a real shithead, he's also been quite restless at night, hence the doctor's visit today. Who found there's nothing wrong with him (Daniel, not the doctor) that would explain the head spinning, pea soup spewing personality he's developed.

At 2am this morning, when he came in to my bed, he tossed and turned and drove me nuts until I tossed him back into his own bed. Which is in my room, so he drove me nuts some more when he tossed and turned in there. Then I grabbed my quilt and pillow and took to the sofa, and as soon as I'd settled down, the little diva added grousing to his acrobatic repertoire. Now, as much as I don't want to think of my boy in pain, I'm still kind of hoping it's teething or wind precipitating the Sybil like changes I'm witnessing. If it is teeth, with the state he's been in lately, it has to be something enormous growing in there. Like an elephant.

He was asleep when I got up at 7.30 this morning (AFTER GETTING TO SLEEP SOMETIME AFTER 3.30 INTENTIONAL CAPS LOCK OH MY GOD) and then the minute I got into the shower to wash the night's lack of sleep out of my brain, he woke up and sat outside the shower stall and bitched some more. I love him and wish I could do something to help him but nothing I do helps, everything I do seems to piss him off more.

I'll take that as a no.

Anyway, a window into my world.

And of course, as sleepless nights do, all the sadness in the world settled into my chest and there is such a heavy feeling in there still. I know that Daniel's father and his big Italian extended family being in dDaniel's life means all the more people to love him, but I also know that this is the beginning of losing him to them. I mean, his father is the one who's going to be The Fun One, while I'll be the one living in a shit hole of a place, with no bundles of cash and no family (no kidding, you'd think my brother and sister in law would take some fucking interest in this kid beyond "bring him up here so he can entertain us for a while", and they have this big Indian extended family, what's the difficulty in including us in that, for daniel, even if they can't abide me, as history suggests they can't?)(a window into my dark side, how awesome), telling him what he can't do, while Strep will be all weekend parenting telling him what he can. He's got the back yard, and he won't be saying things like "later darling, I've got to scrub the bathroom now". Real life will not compare to the fun parlour he'll experience at his father's house. Then there's the holidays. You choose one: my house at Christmas with me and, uh, me, or the bunch of fun loving, raucous wogs partying down hard at his father's.

In other news....gee, I don't know. I look like shit? Fascinating stuff, but in the interests of lulling the world to sleep: I look about fifty billion years old right now. I blame the weather because it's been veddy veddy strange, which it is every year around this time, and every year we all go "wow, hasn't the weather been strange lately?" and every year we forget that it's always this way, making it, in actual fact, not very strange at all.

About a million years ago there was this movie, The Wave, with Richard Chamberlain, I do believe, and even if the weather hasn't been strange, the fact that I can remember this movie is, because it's much like I emerged from a pod at aged sixteen as I've blocked out pretty much blocked out all other memories from before then. Anyway, the premise of The Wave was that the end of the world was knocking at the door and crazy end of days shit was happening, and people were ignoring the fact that frogs raining from the sky was, apart from kind of icky, not normal and that maybe, just maybe, it was good time to ask the heavenly father forgiveness for all the shitty things you've done. POINT BEING, there was this one line in the movie and it was "Hasn't the weather been strange lately?", and yes, it has. Veddy, veddy strange, no frog falls and yet, it fucks with me and my self esteem enough because stunningly baggy eyebags do not equal pretty. Additionally, Mother Nature fucks with it all too as soon as I've popped an egg, which I do every 31 days people, like that, tick tick tick, *pop*, and which I did last week, because she's all "you don't need to look attractive to ANYONE because you can't reproduce for another month anyway, so here, have some ugly". So the numerical formula in this regard this past week has been, me=get a bag and put it over my head.

In other news and if memory serves, that tinned pineapple I just ate is about..five days? Six, seven? old. Man, I hate it when you remember things either too late to do anything about it, as in "I ate old pineapple, oops" because had I remembered this important detail three minutes ago I WOULDN'T HAVE EATEN IT.

which may be more news you didn't need to hear.

But it does lend the question: Is week old pineapple going to kill me?

Speaking of ovulation, I spoke to Strep last Friday night too, which is relevant because I really shouldn't operate machinery, sign important documents, drive, and converse with my ex when I'm high on the ovulation crazies. Come Saturday, I was as calm as a lamb, but all week I'd been like this giant, disturbed and totally pissed off exclamation mark. And I chose to utilise that time wisely by talking with Daniel's father.

It's not like I didn't have anything relevant to say (which was, I won't be accepting many social invitations in the future except from the occasional one because when we get together as a "family" (which, *gag*), I bust my gut trying to create rapor (how do you spell "rapor"? Spell check won't give me any idea. I thought it was "rapor" but apparently, no) between me and Team Them and Team Them barely grunts in reply. They show up and...that's it. I find it extremely uncomfortable and because I don't really want to do this Happy Family bullshit anyway I think no, I'm not putting myself out there if they're not at least willing to meet me halfway, and considering Strep was such a fuckhead for the past two and an half years, I shouldn't have to do ANYTHING to make this situation an amicable one because I yam perfect and he is not, so there) it's just that I probably could have said it better without the crazies getting in the way.

Monday, October 22, 2007

feeding the family

Thursday, October 18, 2007

this is your brain on toddler

Maybe I could achieve the little tasks I want to get done each morning if indeed, each morning was carefully orchestrated and timed down to the last second, personal assistant style.

but then you get the phone call when you've just put in the load of washing and have settled the boy down with some books and toast and a sippy cup off milk (breakfast of champions!) and the few minutes you've cleared to write all go to shit. So in lieu of the long and detailed entry about thrilling things like, ooh, I don't know, sinus car kits and doorknobs? I bring you a chapter from the Book of SCORE!

God bless the local Salvos store yesterday. Also, the local recycle shop, because yes, my days apparently consist of a lot of shopping, which is ironic because really? I hate to shop.


The Book Of SCORE! Chapter 1

First, a brand new without tags Victoria's Secret bikini. Which, after cramming my middle aged, post baby squishiness into it, kind of reminds me of those pickled porks you find in the meat section at the supermarket. You know the ones that are kind of wrapped in a mesh suit? Yeah, that's me in this bikini. But it was only $14.95 and I had a twenty dollar store credit at and god help me, this is my last hurrah, bikini style. Except, I really only bought it for the bottoms because a bikini? At aged *mumblemuttermumble? HAHA, too funny. The bottoms only though, well, that makes it sound like I'm planning on prancing around topless which, oh no no no. I have this tankini style top I got a few years back that I've worn with my twenty year old (or more! seriously! I kid thee not!) Brian Rochford bikini bottoms that have the most awesome cut that I'm shedding a tear thinking about how they finally and suddenly crapped out about a year or so ago. Since that tragic day I've not had anything other than my Speedos to go swimming in. Which is what I do in my Speedos. Swim, so I guess we're talking about how if I was invited to lounge around semi naked on some millionaire's yacht, I'd have nothing to wear. And now I do. I have these truss type things with straps around the top of the bottoms (what?) that sound awful but which, on a younger more taut body, would look so sexy you'd change teams. The bra top is pretty sexy too, but will likely not ever get worn. Much like the bottoms, actually, but at least if I was invited, bla bla. The best part of this transaction being, of course, that if I don't wear it, which, duh, as if, I'll sell this bitch on ebay and make my fortune, yes I will.

If that purchase wasn't thrilling enough, I also got this spaghetti strap top that makes me swoon with love at this one. It's probably meant for the evening but since my evening social life consists of spending time with that short dude who thinks nothing of soiling his underwear, I am SO going to wear during the day in some kind of boho vintage chick fashion statement that I have no idea how to pull off. The bodice has sequins (I know!) and it's this dusky purple colour and if it's not arctic tomorrow, I shall wear it so the rest of the world can lust after my sequined boobs too.

and I got some t-shirts for Daniel and bla bla. Thus endeth the reading from the Holy Book. Amen.

Daniel just bit me on the thigh because I'm not entertaining enough so I've fashioned a corner out of three doors and a piece of string, and have plonked him in it after telling him "no biting" and wagging my administrative finger at him.

My thigh hurts.

I also have a bruise on my upper arm where the little rodent bit me yesterday.

He's going to the creche today for an hour or so while I work out, so I may have to put a red collar around his neck, like they used to do with rogue kangaroos at petting zoos and fauna parks. Those were the days, weren't they? When men were men and if you got beaten up by a 'roo, you felt like an idiot for poking a stick at the dude wearing a collar, you hoped no one noticed you looking like a fool, and then you skulked away to tend to your multiple rib fractures and scalp lacerations, and you didn't once, not even for a second, think about suing the establishment who'd conveniently warned you to stay the fuck away from that character who looked like Skippy on 'roids.

Back in those same days, you could ride the train with the doors all the way open. Man, that was such a buzz. Kids these days (she says, sounding like her own grandmother) will never know how it feels to...take responsiblity for your own life and safety, I guess. There are these stupid posters on bus shelters at present, depicting some kid being bowled over by a car. The caption reads "if the car was going 5kmh less, she'd have only jarred her knee" or some shit, when what it should read is "if this stupid pedestrian had stayed where on the sidewalk and had NOT idiotically walked on the road, she wouldn't be dead". Speed limits have been dropped by 10kmh, which is a significant amount, to protect pedestrians. If the powers that be also campaigned that pedestrains should stay the fuck where they belong, that roads are for cars, not people, and to look both ways before you cross one, then I'd accept the reduced speed limit a little more graciously, but they're not. There is absolutely no onus on pedestrains to take responsibility for their own actions. There is none on educating our kids about road safety. it's all about blaming someone else (the driver) if you get mashed on the road the day you walked across it.

And that's my political statement for today.

Daniel has now taken the local paper out of its protective biodegradable wrap and is tearing it up and strewing the pieces all over the floor, demonstrating my earleir comment that the morning needs to be carefully orchestrated to the second in order to actually stuff. This paper shredding? Should needs to have been scheduled if I want to get to the gym on time.

Last night was the night Daniel's father and sister sat with him while I took the world's most boring aqua class. It was awful, and by that I mean the leaving of my son with his father, even though the lack lustre, group of five I taught last night could also be described thusly.

I hate giving up my child, I hate that it feels like that. It doesn't feel like I'm giving him a family, because the truth is I feel like ultimately, Daniel will love him more. Yes, esteem issues. Major ones. I KNOW. I'm also pathetic, but there it is, that's how it feels. So I do the right thing and give him something that I know (which is how it feels) will ultimately take him away from me. Already I'm picturing myself as this little old lady alone on Christmas day while my adult son and his family go and spend the entire time with his father's side of the family because there's me: the one person, versus them: the big ass, extended Italian family. It's obvious which side is going to the attractive one for the rest of his life.

Despite my pain though, woe is me, I act the part and enthusiastically do the family thing and god help me, I even offered to and took a truckload of photos of them together, photos of my son with the family that will eventually have all of him, and you know what? I think it's killing me because in the last week, I've had more heart attacks than I've had in the last four, post panic attack years. My left arm that keeps feeling..."funny", so of course it's an infarct.

I was telling my psychiatrist about this babysitting HELL after I'd arranged it the other week and - wait for it because I'm this amount of crazy - mid telling of story, I had to get up, bolt out the door, run down the hall, past the secretary and into the bathroom to fortunately not expel the contents of my stomach (coffee! and air!) But I felt like I had to. It was muay embarrassing, and I'm not certain my shrink didn't get out her red pen while I was gone and, in big bold letters, scrawl the world "certifiable" across the top of my notes.

On a cheerier note:
My son, demonstrating his ancestral ties with me. The look on his face more than anything reminds me of me when I was....not as uptight and fucked up as I am now. Of course, I was a screwy and anxious child too, so I have no idea when I looked so pensive and serene. Maybe when I was drunk or high?

It's taken about an hour and a half to actually get this out between clearing up messes and cramming food into scream holes and yes, the occasional time outs because look at the bruise on my arm. I bet there's one on my thigh now too. And in re the time out: it's a recent tool in the bee household because putting him down and firmly telling him "no biting" obviously works for shit.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

in lieu of anything interesting

And there I was about to stuff Daniel in a box and post him to some obscure European country, when "I know!", I thought to myself, "I'll go to the gym, work off my angst, and let someone else entertain him (for that's what he needs, is entertainment. It's a pattern, I've come to realise, that by Thursday he's all used to having several adults keep him amused all day, and by that same time, I'm still in that disconnect-from-child mode that occurs when he's been away from me for two whole days, and then we drive each other nuts. All morning he's been wawawa, and I've been "No idea, dude. Have you thought about putting a cork in it?" The more I'm with him, ie from Saturday until Tuesday we go with no break AT ALL from each other, the more calm I become and the less wawawaing he does)


Oh yeah, the gym.

The creche! WAS CLOSED!

Frikkin' school holidays.

Fortunately there's a carpenter here at present fixing some door handles, and instead of driving me nuts, Daniel is driving him nuts.


Actually, the futile walk to the gym and back (with Daniel grousing the ENTIRE time), was enough to have me feeling more able to deal with him wishing I was FUN! like all his day care workers are, and have reconnected with my inner earth mother so at this point, he could probably grizzle into next week and I'd be all "that's fine darling, it's my pleasure to listen to you and try and work out a passable solution to your angst. Which isn't annoying me at all.".


I'm unexercised. The rest of that was just me failing to get to the point.

We'll head out this afternoon too, and go to the to the Salvos store for a quick squizz. I was there on Tuesday, which is also 20% off day, wahoo! etc, and there was this plastic slippery dip for twenty bucks, making it only sixteen smackeroos if I bought it. No way could I get it home though without paying an additional thirty bucks for a trailer though, so I called Strep, or as I like to think of him at times like this, The man With The Free Trailer. He didn't answer though and when he returned my call, I was halfway home and in no mood to head back and buy the stupid thing so he could pick it up for us on Saturday. Which he said he could do. So I went back there yesterday instead, fully prepared to pay the WHOLE 20 bucks needed to buy it on non pension day Tuesday, but some fucker had bought it already.


But we'll head back there today because I yam lame and what else are we going to do on a sunny Thursday afternoon except....walk and shop? To me, it's a great combination: exercise and bargain hunting all at once, but for him? Poor kid, his earliest memories will be of mommy getting all excited about shirts! Costing $5.75!

He's disappeared into the bathroom doorway with his crayon and a big scrap book, and is sitting at the carpenter's feet drawing.

I think he needs him some good male bonding.

The carpenter is doing an awesome job of looking after him while I give you the live updates. He thinks I'm working so if anyone asks, you're my boss, okay.

And now, in lieu of any interesting conversation, bee productions brings you another episode of Product Review Time.

up your nose with a plastic bottle thingy, yo'

The FLO Sinus Care starter kit. I have no idea if this thing is international but I'm sure anyone actually taking notice of this has access to something similar should the need arise.

That being said, my god, I'd marry this thing. Or I would if I didn't think that in marrying it, it'd eventually stop contributing to the upkeep of our currently awesome relationship, a relationship it contributes to on a daily basis, what with us not being married and so, not legally bound to each other, meaning, if it didn't make the effort, I might just choose to walk away. I, obviously contribute equally, but if I married it, I can't be sure I wouldn't get complacent too, and rely on the legal document to keep the romance alive. So if we got married,our relationship would eventually go to shit.

But theoretically at least, I love this kit enough to marry it, if I indeed believed in the state telling me who I live with and and whether or not I continue to live with them.


You know how I've been tossing handfuls of over the counter drugs down my throat in an effort to quell the constant supply of ick my sinuses have been producing? Well, shiver my timbers and tickle my grandmother, but one or two days of using this twice a day, and I shit you not, my sinuses, they SING.

Of course, if I actually used the kit as often as recommended by the chemisty person, I'd be even better. But it's been so bad for so long that at this point, using the kit as infrequently as I do, I still feel FABULOUS! even though by any one else's standards, maybe I'm still a bit congested.

You actually really do shove the nozzle of that big assed bottle right up yer shnoz, and you actually really do squirt gallons of water right up there so that IT COMES OUT THE OTHER SIDE OH MY GOD, but you know? It actually really feels good.

I wish I'd known about this for years because I've long squirted home made salt water up my nose when I get a sinus infection, and while it feels like HELL, it does get the job done so fast that you're all goggle eyed and "what infection?" about five minutes later. As mentioned, it feels like HELL though, and it hurts like a mofo, which is why I reserve the special kind of nasal love for crisis situations only.

This kit? Does not hurt. It's not even unpleasant. Weird, surely, and one does have to circle the loaded bottle while keeping a suspicious eye on it the first time one uses it, what with one's experience of salt up the nose being a form of TORTURE.

Once it's done though, and it didn't hurt and one can actually BREATHE for the first time since Spring hinted at springing, one is all "man, I wish I'd known about this kind of loving YEARS AGO".

I'm going to keep using this baby even when my hayfever isn't hating me with a vengeance, because...I don't know. I'm weird?


and because I'm not good with change, I HATE the new doorknob on the bathroom door. The other door handles are delightful, which is why I LIED and said the bathroom door handle is fucked up too, when it wasn't, and I'm being punished now because he gave me a knob not a handle (porny?) and, yes, HATE.

my pretty

shiny, pretty, LOVE


Burning hate.

and look, it's even got the outline of the old perfectly functional but not as pretty as the new handles, which is why the LIE that got me into this door knob hell in the first place.

"Mr Man" I asked, "can I have my old door handle back?" thinking I could live with the bronze, not pretty, but not fucking ugly door handle this big knob replaced.

"Sorry" he replied, "No. I drilled a huge assed hole in your door so that the Big Knob would fit, and now nothing else but that ugly fucker will fit into your door."

And he was genuinely sorry so now I feel bad for not telling him I love his work, all of it.

ngiwhnrtiwhpchfig2h;vqcg m[obwihp; <- me, banging my head on the keyboard, because it's not just the door handle that's a knob.

Monday, October 08, 2007


The weekend just gone was the same as any other. Rough translation being, we dodged another social engagement. I did, however, have a wicked good workout on Saturday morning and can still feel my arms today.

We were supposed to go to a friend's house-is-finally-finished-being-renovated party on Saturday afternoon. They live miles away and Daniel, who is on a no sleep gig, the little shit, decided that he would actually do so this particular day, giving me the go ahead to flow with the "oh dear, invitation for 2pm, Daniel still asleep at 4pm, fuckit" train of thought.

Yesterday we were supposed to go to the zoo again with the man (!) we met Thursday night. He's recently arrived from South Africa, is the new regional manager for Nando's chicken or whatever the heck his t-shirt said, and we got chatting while Daniel was on the minganing! (that'd be the merry go round, batman). Seeings as how he's just uprooted his entire life to settle here, aka the most unfriendly place on earth, I took pity and against my better judgment (not because he doesn't seem nice, because he does, but I'm already ditching social commitments, what am I? An idiot? DON'T ANSWER THAT), gave him my card and said coffee, only, if he so desired, am not interested in anything else, bla bla bla. He called later that night and we arranged Sunday because I pitied the poor thing trying to settle down here and having no friends and sob, etc. Thank fuck he called Sunday, and as he's signed off on his new home, sounded frazzled and so I thoughtfully (ahem) offered to reschedule, and he sounded relieved, and I concentrated on keeping my THRILL from my voice, but then he suggested a time later in the week.

so the dilemma returns.

I must smell like a hormone or something though - or someone in dire need of coffee - because last night, out of the blue, I got a call from a guy I knew about million years and another lifetime ago. He wants to catch up this week while he's on vacation bla bla bla, which I'm cool with but man, I get so nervous when I think about what they mean by "coffee" because I am so not interested in getting involved with anyone. I always pick the idiots, so I figure, why challenge that impeccable run of idiocy? Better to stay the hell away from anything with a penis.

The lawyer has a penis and is also an idiot of the same calibre. So what am I doing with him? I've never believed in "being fated", but for some dumbass reason (lots of them actually, a billion little coincidences that, in reality, mean nothing), that's how I feel about us. God help me. And not as an in love, partnership deal, because, yes, idiot habit, but in each others' lives more in the future than we've been in the past. We've always been in each others' lives (I may have even mentioned my hot lawyer on these pages at one point or another) but in an aware of each other way, not an interactive kind of way.

I'm not certain he didn't tell me he loved me last Friday night. He's a lawyer though, so he worded it with an escape hatch.

Which is one of the reasons why he's an annoying ass a whole lot of the time "for isnt the truth fluid?". Yeah, whatever, dipshit, so it's a lot like my usual relationships, and why I've not been interested in engaging in the same old shit with someone different. So again, you ask, why in fuck am I seeing him? Well, there's the sex which, yes, it's been awhile, and while I was hiding out so as not to meet any of my usual bad habits, he literally appeared at my door one night. Which isn't a great reason to start up with someone, especially since over the course of a year several such incidents are likely to occur and none of them are likely to end up with sex, so why this one? Because I like him too, and also the universe, it would appear, has some weird sense of humor *shakes fist at sky* so here I am, not having a relationship with the same kind of man I always don't have relationships with.

Which is another reason why I was so glad South African man rescheduled. He too has a penis (one would assume) so did he get that I meant it when I said I wasn't asking him "out" out? As in, not on a date? Not that I'm scared I'm going to suddenly and against my better judegment find myself naked, and not that I'm the world's biggest hottie that all men do so desire, but fucksake, it always goes from "Yes, certainly. Friends" to being hit on. I mean, there's a child napping* in the next room. I'm sleeping with my lawyer, so yes, that's how well the whole "drinking coffee together because we're friends" thing works for me.

Also, how do I know anyone I meet isn't actually attracted to my son? Million Years Ago Man didn't even know I had a son, that's how long it's been since we caught up. He called to see me, not my boy, so at least with him I don't have that to worry about.


Oh, and we've ever had a relationship or anything, or even got naked, ahem, he's simply someone I knew who...was interested in me back in the day so what in the HELL am I doing agreeing to catch up? *bangs head against wall*

Anyhow. Yes.

Sunday's activities were rescheduled and what actually went down was, in lieu of the zoo (poet! and I don't know it!) we went for a looooong walk to the mall, and when we rolled in, one of the stupid back wheels on the stroller went flat. So I pumped it full of air and Daniel thought is was a hoot and then....it went flat again in two seconds, tops. So we flaflumped, which is totally the sound one flat back wheel makes, all the way to Target at the opposite end of the mall and bought an inner tube. Then I asked if any of the bright sparks there knew how in hell to change a tyre, and they didn't, and didn't one need a tyre changing tool thing anyway? So I looked for said in the bicycle and other assorted and related shit department and there was none. Then I thought that, hell, I've got TALONS for nails, I'll just rip that fucker off and fix it myself. Which turned out to be impossible. So I called my friend the mechanic, but he was at his daughter's house on the other side of town, so I called her and verbally slapped her upside of the head for using her father when I needed him,how selfish, and then...then...then I called Strep. Which I SO didn't want to do. He was in the city with his daughter and waffled on a bit about what to do and how to do it and fucksake, so I said "DUDE!" like that. "DUDE!" real sharp, to get his attention back the present because we were stranded and we needed him to focus on my bleating a la "Help! SOS! Am at least a half hour from home! Am freaking out!". So he did because I was, then he played with Daniel, Daniel eventually had a melt down, then we wheeled home on all three wheels and a spare inner tube that was the apparently broken inner tube that in fact, on removal and inspection, HAD NOTHING WRONG WITH IT, WHAT THE FUCK?! Does the universe want us to reconcile that much? Jesus.

So, yes, my weekend in a nutshell.

*actually, he's not. He seems to have given up his afternoon naps completely so I'm assuming that I'll shortly be giving up my sanity in much the same way.

Friday, October 05, 2007

day 31

and Period Watch 2007 recommenced.

Only to end a day later. Hello! From day...I'm not sure, four? Five? Four and a half?

So I'm kind of regualr now, not that it means shit, what with my fully orchestrated IVF cycle coming up soon and taking over all operations down below anyway.

Yes! IVF! Soon! Ish. I saw (Dr) Marc on September 13 for my bloods and to get the results of that awesomely sexy scan were revealed - and sportsfans, my bod-hay is acting like a nubile teen, and the numbers that matter, my Day 5 FSH and LH, seem to have found the fountain of youth. My FSH was...I don't know. It was at the low end of normal, along with my LH, all of which is a good thing and an indicator that my body is producing eggs (finally!) with ease, which is about the only deciding factor (for me) at this point, because if I wasn't producing my own eggs, that'd be it for me.

Science lesson time: once you've reached peri or full menopause, your body ramps up your FSH levels to try and force your ovaries into producing an egg, but if there are no eggs there, no amount of FSH - not even the ludicrous amounts used in fertility treatmetn - is going to make them produce one, so there's no point even considering IVF unless you're also considering donor eggs.

Which I am not.

Anyhoo, my girl bits are all fine, thank you very much. My thyroid though, is an ass and Marc wants a second opinion because my bloods showed I'd tripped back into actual hypothyroid, not the is she/isn't she? variety of thyroid ridiculousness, so bla bla need to see my endocrinologist bla.

It could explain why I'm such a lazy lump of blah though. My thyroid was superdooper low in the past, requiring STACKS of medication to get me to feel....no better, and after my hair staying in my head throughout the whole FUCK! How Can She Even Stand Upright With THOSE Numbers?! phase, it was the meds that tripped some switch and sent my hair leaping out of my follicles and onto the floor. The stupid drugs kind of made me want to die too, kind of literally (me: The drugs! Are killing me! my idiot doctor: Take Some Zoloft. me: Fuck You) so I eventually weaned off them and got kind of stuck in this no mans land of underactivity. These days, some results come back almost normal, some kind of normal, and on the odd occasion, just inside of normal. Never great though. BUT! I'm a lot better than I was as I started out with 24, now I'm like, around 4 or 5 (which are the important numbers, lower being better, unless they get too low, of course), which is only about 1 outside of the accepted range, so I am a lot better than I was. I don't want to go back on thyroid medication either, because self inflicted (or any other kind, actually) death doesn't appeal to me at this point in my life, and the peachy keen blood results they give me meant SHIT because I felt like shit the entire time I was on them. Also, the baldness factor kind of sucks ass.

None of that bullshit is going to interfere with my IVF cycle, but it is a concern as low thyroid levels mean more chance of miscarriage. But I'm not even going to consider that to be a possibility la la la la la.

And anyway, I'm so *yawn* about the whole thyroid deal that I keep forgetting to call my guy, Professor Endocrinologist, who on y initial visit with him a century or so ago, said "uh, yes, some people need the addition of drug Y to the usual thyroid drug X if they want to avoid the desire off themselves". (Dear Dr Idiot, fuck you, reprised) Professor Endocrinologist also knows I'm not on any meds and supports my decision so there.

BUT! I wouldn't suggest anyone else stay off thyroid meds, no sirree. You have no idea how anal I was, and I ahd the full support of my treating doctor as I weaned off mine. It took almost two years of dropping sometimes a single gram at a time, from an initial dose of 135 of those fuckers to finally none about...a month before Daniel was conceived. Which, yes, is probably a coincidence.

I should probably eat better too, as I sometimes wonder if my abysmal diet is the reason why my thyroid went kerplunken in the first place. I mean, if you don't eat enough for a LONG time, maybe your body adapts and slows everything down? I never asked a doctor this because I'm sure they'll make me eat more to test out my dumbass theory, which I simply am unable to do. Yes I gained weight, no, it doesn't mean I'm "fixed". It means that what was once a really awesome way of dealing with my angst and anxiety no longer exits. Which probably explains why I started having panic attacks and wicked cool anxiety about a month after I started eating food instead of air.


I could probably do with more rest too, to combat this roaring case of the blahs. I woke up at 9.30 yesterday, yuck, but after getting less than five hours the previous two nights in a row, I still hadn't reset my sleep pattern (which took only ONE late night on Friday to completely fuck it up) so still stayed up LIKE A FOOL watching dvds.

This sleeping in dealio is annoyinglio. Last weekend? When my little alarm clock (aka Mr Deebs) didn't wake me, we both slept until 10.30 (mon dieu!) on Saturday AND Sunday, which further totaled both our inner time keepers, so we were up until You're Kidding Me o clock each night which lead to sleeping in until ridiculous o clock the following day. I've been setting my alarm to go to work, but my stupid clock is still stuck on some other time zone.

Last weekend too, actually, Monday, we went to the zoo with Daniel's father and sister. We saw the sloth - who I identified completely with - but not for long as Tina was all whizzing here and there and trying to get us to see as much in the half hour we had left as possible. Meanwhile I was all wishing I could take a break and hang upside down by my toes from a tree branch too, because I didn't get to nap until 2.30, which is the time I woke Daniel up to prise his unco-operative jaws apart so as to fill his nutritional repository (aka his scream hole) with some food before heading off. When that didn't work, I strapped him into the car with a slice of bread and we to the zoo anyway, but by the time we got there, we had less than an hour to see all the depressed animals.

Then I got depressed at their sad faces, and this game of Happy Families kind of destroys me too because, people, I'm giving up half of my son.

Who was all "le yawn" at the lions and tigers and giraffes and shit, and practically flipped out at the sight of.....a pigeon.

He spent the rest of the afternoon showing his awesome belly button to his not so awesome father, and I spent the day trying not to cry at the thought of my baby trekking off, little suitcase in hand, for a weekend away from me. When that day comes, he'll have a blast, and I've decided already to stay at home and get maximally sauced.

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