Traveling down the motorway, hemmed in on both sides by concrete barriers due to construction, rush hour traffic just beginning- when we spot a tiny little foxie-cross dog, three lanes out, hugging the barrier, trotting up the highway to no where.
We take the first exit and circle back- the whole time I'm panicked, wondering how to safely get out of the car, and get the dog's attention without frightening him into the lanes of traffic. I almost don't want to go back- I'm sure I'm either going to find a dead dog- or worse yet, be the cause of one. But I just can't leave it to the unknown, either. I have to try.
We get back on the motorway, eyes peeled for the dog or signs of erratic traffic or an accident. But all traffic is simply stopped. It's quite eerie- just a huge narrow parking lot of bumper to bumper cars. We roll up to the column of still traffic, and can see people about 50 cars ahead, up a hill, out of their card and running about- it's obvious they are trying to catch the dog. Then a man 6 cars ahead jumps out and runs back towards us. Ahead of him is the little foxie mutt- hightailing it faster then I'd ever believed possible from such stumpy little legs. About a dozen cars behind me, it crossed the now stopped multiple lanes of traffic and shoots though a tiny gap between two concrete barrier sections- off through a grass field in a blur of legs and fur.
Hundreds of cars, even more people at a standstill during their busy afternoon, each sharing a moment of compassion, trying to save the life of an unknown dog.
And they say cats have 9 lives.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Just a quick update
We'll be moving again. The job here in Toowoomba has dried up, and as Sean's contract states he cannot do other IT work in this small town- and we have no desire to stay here- we just came for the job anyhow, we'll be off again.
I've given notice to the agency that we need to break out lease- they have been super nice about it, but they can afford to be- as we need to keep paying rent till there are new tenants! Have arranged to collect a load of moving boxes from a friend tomorrow, leave our growing collection of potted plants at hers, and store the rest of our belongings in a storage unit not this coming weekend but next so we can get the heck outta dodge. There is simply too much to do before then to get it done any faster.
We've been back and forth to Brissy and the Gold coast every few days as Sean's had a rash of interviews already- but they have been with recruiters so there was no immediate sense of how long it will be before he picks up something. But one of the recruiters from monday gone has not fronted up and forwarded his name for 5 jobs- 2 of which has offered him an interview already. One today and another on monday coming.
So we need to get the house packed and stored away and get our arses down to the city where he can be more immediately available without the hassle of the constant driving back and forth. And somewhere in the next week I'll need to drive the dogs a few hours into the outback where they will be staying with a friend till we have a new place sorted out.
I'd like a clone right about now, thanks!
I've given notice to the agency that we need to break out lease- they have been super nice about it, but they can afford to be- as we need to keep paying rent till there are new tenants! Have arranged to collect a load of moving boxes from a friend tomorrow, leave our growing collection of potted plants at hers, and store the rest of our belongings in a storage unit not this coming weekend but next so we can get the heck outta dodge. There is simply too much to do before then to get it done any faster.
We've been back and forth to Brissy and the Gold coast every few days as Sean's had a rash of interviews already- but they have been with recruiters so there was no immediate sense of how long it will be before he picks up something. But one of the recruiters from monday gone has not fronted up and forwarded his name for 5 jobs- 2 of which has offered him an interview already. One today and another on monday coming.
So we need to get the house packed and stored away and get our arses down to the city where he can be more immediately available without the hassle of the constant driving back and forth. And somewhere in the next week I'll need to drive the dogs a few hours into the outback where they will be staying with a friend till we have a new place sorted out.
I'd like a clone right about now, thanks!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Waiting games
The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part
(Lyrics "Waiting Game", Tom Petty)
It's almost 4 in the afternoon. I've been waiting since 8:3- this morning to see if the boy is about to be made redundant and leave us with three months on a lease in a house we do not want and no steady income.
We'd planned to move to the coast in May anyhow, but doing it sooner means we have no safety net in place yet, so we would need to make arrangements to exit a lease early, find money for the penalty for that and the deposit on a new one right away- or put everything in storage, board the animals out with friends, and crash with friends/mother in law/cheapie motel until we sort things out.
All of this is do-able, and really is not panicking me at all.
But fuck, do I hate waiting for the shoe to drop.
6 pm edit; They have told him he will have to wait until Friday for a formal decision, but told him to use the rest of the week making alternate plans for work.
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part
(Lyrics "Waiting Game", Tom Petty)
It's almost 4 in the afternoon. I've been waiting since 8:3- this morning to see if the boy is about to be made redundant and leave us with three months on a lease in a house we do not want and no steady income.
We'd planned to move to the coast in May anyhow, but doing it sooner means we have no safety net in place yet, so we would need to make arrangements to exit a lease early, find money for the penalty for that and the deposit on a new one right away- or put everything in storage, board the animals out with friends, and crash with friends/mother in law/cheapie motel until we sort things out.
All of this is do-able, and really is not panicking me at all.
But fuck, do I hate waiting for the shoe to drop.
6 pm edit; They have told him he will have to wait until Friday for a formal decision, but told him to use the rest of the week making alternate plans for work.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sneaking the boy's ritalin in the morning=kitchen bitch?
A quick pop into the shops yesterday for cat food saw me loading up the car boot with a box chick full of mixed vegetables going cheap but needing quick cooking.
And so by noon today as I write this, I've managed to cook the following;
-a large container of eggplant and tomato based cannelloni sauce,
-tonight's Sloppy Joe mix,
-the slow cooker is full to the lid with a hearty beef, pork and vegetable spaghetti sauce for the freezer,
-also, a rare treat for the doggies- a hodge podge of leftover vegetable bits, a mountain of chayote(Aussies call them Chokos) and chicken stock.
-Prawn dumpling soup for lunch today
-the start of a roast veg and chicken dinner for tomorrow night.
I've done three loads of laundry, and I am seriously considering making cookies this afternoon. I think I'm channeling Martha Stewart, but I'm not particularly bothered. Perhaps I should be.
As an aside, I almost did not get this entry written- damned blogger would not let me in claiming I was using the wrong name and password.
I had been trying to log in as "sloppywench"
And so by noon today as I write this, I've managed to cook the following;
-a large container of eggplant and tomato based cannelloni sauce,
-tonight's Sloppy Joe mix,
-the slow cooker is full to the lid with a hearty beef, pork and vegetable spaghetti sauce for the freezer,
-also, a rare treat for the doggies- a hodge podge of leftover vegetable bits, a mountain of chayote(Aussies call them Chokos) and chicken stock.
-Prawn dumpling soup for lunch today
-the start of a roast veg and chicken dinner for tomorrow night.
I've done three loads of laundry, and I am seriously considering making cookies this afternoon. I think I'm channeling Martha Stewart, but I'm not particularly bothered. Perhaps I should be.
As an aside, I almost did not get this entry written- damned blogger would not let me in claiming I was using the wrong name and password.
I had been trying to log in as "sloppywench"
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Give up the Funk
A number of years ago, when things with my first husband were on the outs, I went through a deep funk. I won't call it depression for reasons too involved to get into here, it was a funk, ok?
It culminated for me one day when I spent some half hour or more standing on the end of a platform in the London Tube network. Trying to work up the energy to fall over. The next train. Ok, so the very next one I'll do it. I still remember the sound echoing in my ears, the wind whipping my hair about my face, and the smell of fuel, damp and stale urine. Each time I froze at a train, I was sure the next one would be the right one.
I'm sure there must have been literally hundreds of people on that platform with me in all that time, but I was alone in my head and did not notice till someone spoke very very softly to me- and still scared the bejesus outta me. Just a normal looking guy, business suit and breifcase, standing about ten feet away and speaking so softly I had to strain to hear him.
"Please don't do it. But if you are going to do it anyhow, please sit down and give me just five minutes of your time".
I assumed he was a jesus freak and wanted to pray for me or some such. So I sat down. I had five minutes, and while I'm an athiest, my Dad's a minister- so I felt I really should listen a while. And so I listened. He was not a religious nutter. He was just a guy who's brother used to be a tube driver. Until he collected a jumper and was out on permanent disability for the shock and trauma of watching some guy splattered over his screen.
The guy never got close enough to touch me. But he managed to haul me away from the edge that day.
The next day, I happened to met Paula, and coincidentally I started to live again.
The past couple of years the funkiness has been building again. I'd feel it coming, push it back and go one. But yesterday I caught myself reading the fine print in the life insurance policy that goes along with my superannuation (Australia's forced retirement savings plan thingamajigger). I was trying to figure out if Sean would get a payout if I topped myself- how much it would be, and if the policy was still valid as I have not worked for a while, but have still paid the fees for this year.
And so I have realized that I'm back on that edge again.
Time to back away and haul myself out of this funk.
Who's with me?
It culminated for me one day when I spent some half hour or more standing on the end of a platform in the London Tube network. Trying to work up the energy to fall over. The next train. Ok, so the very next one I'll do it. I still remember the sound echoing in my ears, the wind whipping my hair about my face, and the smell of fuel, damp and stale urine. Each time I froze at a train, I was sure the next one would be the right one.
I'm sure there must have been literally hundreds of people on that platform with me in all that time, but I was alone in my head and did not notice till someone spoke very very softly to me- and still scared the bejesus outta me. Just a normal looking guy, business suit and breifcase, standing about ten feet away and speaking so softly I had to strain to hear him.
"Please don't do it. But if you are going to do it anyhow, please sit down and give me just five minutes of your time".
I assumed he was a jesus freak and wanted to pray for me or some such. So I sat down. I had five minutes, and while I'm an athiest, my Dad's a minister- so I felt I really should listen a while. And so I listened. He was not a religious nutter. He was just a guy who's brother used to be a tube driver. Until he collected a jumper and was out on permanent disability for the shock and trauma of watching some guy splattered over his screen.
The guy never got close enough to touch me. But he managed to haul me away from the edge that day.
The next day, I happened to met Paula, and coincidentally I started to live again.
The past couple of years the funkiness has been building again. I'd feel it coming, push it back and go one. But yesterday I caught myself reading the fine print in the life insurance policy that goes along with my superannuation (Australia's forced retirement savings plan thingamajigger). I was trying to figure out if Sean would get a payout if I topped myself- how much it would be, and if the policy was still valid as I have not worked for a while, but have still paid the fees for this year.
And so I have realized that I'm back on that edge again.
Time to back away and haul myself out of this funk.
Who's with me?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
In which I come over all emo-like.
I've spent half the morning crying, giving myself panda eyes from eye makeup, and generally just being emo- all because of a well-timed email from one of my closest friends on the planet. "Friends" does not even suffice, really. I hope each and every one of you knows what I mean by this. It is my sincere wish that you all knows what it means to have acquaintances, friends, and then there are those select few confidantes that are something more then mere friend. Spiritually connected , maybe. They are the people in your life, that no matter what, know when you need them and manage to somehow reach out at the right time.
Geoff's letter started with him saying he simply HAD to write me, was driven to do so, but what not sure why.
I know why. I needed a connection to something real. I open my email, and there it was.
We live on opposite sides of the planet. We've not seen each other since 2007. But reading his email resulted in an experience much richer then words on a screen. I could hear his voice saying the words, sometimes choking up a little, sometimes with an edge of laughter. And better then that, I could smell him. Right there with me.
Bugger. Now I've gone all emo again.
If you have not guessed it, I've been having a rough few weeks.There's nothing in particular wrong. I just feel overwhelmed by Sean's depression. Guilty if I am happy, but unable to do anything to help him out of his funk.I grow more and more convinced with the passing months that anti depressants were not the answer, and in fact, I question whether he was missdiagnosed from the start and does not have depression at all. He's also been diagnosed with Anxiety and ADHD. Both of which I agree with. But the combination of a strong antidepressant, vallium and now ritalin is doing him no favours. 2 years on antidepressants with no noticeable change- except increasing anxiety attacks and chest pains severe enough to have twice landed him in emergency as we thought he was having a heart attack.
And so, this has been my life. It's only the last couple of days that I have recognized why that is getting to me so much- I'm living his life for him, doing things he needs doe to make him function- I'm not doing anything for me anymore.
I'm just feeling disconnected from life- like things are on hold till he gets better. But they have been that way for a while.
I need to start living for me again. I need to do things just for me, and I need to reconnect with my friends, my family- everything I have is a life shared with Sean.
So it is serendipitous to have words from a better-then-friend in my inbox. To remind me where I come from, what I am, and what I miss. I miss home, I miss the boys. But mostly I miss me.
Think it is time to find me again. And then, when I do, I'm going to go beat the boy with my newly- reclaimed happiness stick till it fixes what ails him.
Geoff's letter started with him saying he simply HAD to write me, was driven to do so, but what not sure why.
I know why. I needed a connection to something real. I open my email, and there it was.
We live on opposite sides of the planet. We've not seen each other since 2007. But reading his email resulted in an experience much richer then words on a screen. I could hear his voice saying the words, sometimes choking up a little, sometimes with an edge of laughter. And better then that, I could smell him. Right there with me.
Bugger. Now I've gone all emo again.
If you have not guessed it, I've been having a rough few weeks.There's nothing in particular wrong. I just feel overwhelmed by Sean's depression. Guilty if I am happy, but unable to do anything to help him out of his funk.I grow more and more convinced with the passing months that anti depressants were not the answer, and in fact, I question whether he was missdiagnosed from the start and does not have depression at all. He's also been diagnosed with Anxiety and ADHD. Both of which I agree with. But the combination of a strong antidepressant, vallium and now ritalin is doing him no favours. 2 years on antidepressants with no noticeable change- except increasing anxiety attacks and chest pains severe enough to have twice landed him in emergency as we thought he was having a heart attack.
And so, this has been my life. It's only the last couple of days that I have recognized why that is getting to me so much- I'm living his life for him, doing things he needs doe to make him function- I'm not doing anything for me anymore.
I'm just feeling disconnected from life- like things are on hold till he gets better. But they have been that way for a while.
I need to start living for me again. I need to do things just for me, and I need to reconnect with my friends, my family- everything I have is a life shared with Sean.
So it is serendipitous to have words from a better-then-friend in my inbox. To remind me where I come from, what I am, and what I miss. I miss home, I miss the boys. But mostly I miss me.
Think it is time to find me again. And then, when I do, I'm going to go beat the boy with my newly- reclaimed happiness stick till it fixes what ails him.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to Toowoomba we go!
We only relocated to Ipswich in May, needing a bigger place to house the ever-growing tribe. When we did so, it was a doozey of a move, but necessary, to ensure everyone had their own space- and no one had to resort to sleeping on the couch anymore!
I never anticipated moving again anytime soon, that's for sure.
And yet, here I am this weekend, packing our extensive library which is now threatening to choke out the hallway. I love packing, and the excitement of change and renewal that comes with a move. I love the unpacking and creating a new home out of the chaos of packing crates. I hate the physical move itself, and the loading and unloading of moving trucks.
Scootah has been working for about 4 months now in Toowoomba, and making the hour long drive twice a day for that long. It's become unfair to expect him to continue with the commute which makes his days unbearably long, and gives him no social life or down-time during the week.
So we have made the decision to leave the _House of the Wayward Perves_ and relocate to Toowoomba for 6 months/a year, to allow Scootah to enjoy a better work/life balance. It was in our plans to relocate to the Gold Coast in late 2010, and we will still aim to that, but the drives have become too much for us both to cope with.
We will be moving in three weekends, on the 21st- notice to leave was strategically planned so that we could still attend Retribution in November without being exhausted from moving. I have not actually found a place in Toowoomba yet, and as I will be in classes all of this coming week, locating a property to rent will be delayed until next weekend at the earliest- but I live living on the edge like that...I had to set a deadline to ensure action- on everyone's part!
I have had a look around, and there is plenty available- we will look for a 3-4 bedroom right in the heart of the city. I'm confident I han make this happen within the deadline.
Our boy is looking for work to come with us, and will stay with friends of his here in the interm, as there is no suitable transport available to him to allow him to live with us while retaining his current job.
So look out, Mountain....we are about to invade!
I never anticipated moving again anytime soon, that's for sure.
And yet, here I am this weekend, packing our extensive library which is now threatening to choke out the hallway. I love packing, and the excitement of change and renewal that comes with a move. I love the unpacking and creating a new home out of the chaos of packing crates. I hate the physical move itself, and the loading and unloading of moving trucks.
Scootah has been working for about 4 months now in Toowoomba, and making the hour long drive twice a day for that long. It's become unfair to expect him to continue with the commute which makes his days unbearably long, and gives him no social life or down-time during the week.
So we have made the decision to leave the _House of the Wayward Perves_ and relocate to Toowoomba for 6 months/a year, to allow Scootah to enjoy a better work/life balance. It was in our plans to relocate to the Gold Coast in late 2010, and we will still aim to that, but the drives have become too much for us both to cope with.
We will be moving in three weekends, on the 21st- notice to leave was strategically planned so that we could still attend Retribution in November without being exhausted from moving. I have not actually found a place in Toowoomba yet, and as I will be in classes all of this coming week, locating a property to rent will be delayed until next weekend at the earliest- but I live living on the edge like that...I had to set a deadline to ensure action- on everyone's part!
I have had a look around, and there is plenty available- we will look for a 3-4 bedroom right in the heart of the city. I'm confident I han make this happen within the deadline.
Our boy is looking for work to come with us, and will stay with friends of his here in the interm, as there is no suitable transport available to him to allow him to live with us while retaining his current job.
So look out, Mountain....we are about to invade!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Send me an Ark
We have moved, and we are now mostly unpacked in the new place.The internet only just got connected yesterday (Monday), but there seems to be issues with both the internet and the home phone line- the phone line worked when they set it up, but stopped working a couple of hours later and they tell us it might be a week before they can send someone out to look at it.
If you have been seeing any news from Australia/Queensland, you will
have seen the news on the flooding and the declaration of the whole
area of South-East Queensland and Northern New South Wales as a
natural disaster area. The flooding was extensive, as over the course of a week of heavy rains, the two worst day had well over 300 cms of rain each! Our place is on top of a hill, and we suffered no damage whatsoever. Our street was extensively flooded, with sections of road washed away. The street was closed down for a few days so we were stranded- Sean's Mom was here for coffee and got stuck for three days! But for us it was just fun, while for the others it was thousands and thousands of dollars of damage to each household, as many had flooded up to 3-4 feet.
Once the rains stopped, it only took a day for the flood to subside in
out neighbourhood- our place backs onto a river, which was able to
wash away the worst of it once it stopped falling from the sky.
There are large parts of the area still using boats to travel from
house to house though.
Click the link below and then when it opens up, click where it says
"Wild weather" for some photos taken in the last two weeks in my area.
http://www.abc.net.au/news/photos/2009/05/20/2575851.htm
Anyway- I'd best get back to the last of the unpacking. I will email as
appropriate once the phone line is fixed so those who need it can get
the new number- since this is the first time we will have had an actual
phone in years, we will be able to call and talk more often- it gets crazy
expensive to call overseas on our mobile phones.
If you have been seeing any news from Australia/Queensland, you will
have seen the news on the flooding and the declaration of the whole
area of South-East Queensland and Northern New South Wales as a
natural disaster area. The flooding was extensive, as over the course of a week of heavy rains, the two worst day had well over 300 cms of rain each! Our place is on top of a hill, and we suffered no damage whatsoever. Our street was extensively flooded, with sections of road washed away. The street was closed down for a few days so we were stranded- Sean's Mom was here for coffee and got stuck for three days! But for us it was just fun, while for the others it was thousands and thousands of dollars of damage to each household, as many had flooded up to 3-4 feet.
Once the rains stopped, it only took a day for the flood to subside in
out neighbourhood- our place backs onto a river, which was able to
wash away the worst of it once it stopped falling from the sky.
There are large parts of the area still using boats to travel from
house to house though.
Click the link below and then when it opens up, click where it says
"Wild weather" for some photos taken in the last two weeks in my area.
http://www.abc.net.au/news/photos/2009/05/20/2575851.htm
Anyway- I'd best get back to the last of the unpacking. I will email as
appropriate once the phone line is fixed so those who need it can get
the new number- since this is the first time we will have had an actual
phone in years, we will be able to call and talk more often- it gets crazy
expensive to call overseas on our mobile phones.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Little-Miss-Sunshine
Ain't so sunshine-y anymore.
I think I've lost myself somewhere in this past year. Either that or dealing with life and the things that are affecting those I love has simply drained me of lifeforce. I've always been a "glass half full" sort of person- someone who was always able to be patient to wait, because things always get better with time, right? No matter how rough my day, I always went to bed knowing things would be a little better tomorrow.
I cannot remember the last time I went to bed looking forward to a new day. Most nights I don't care whether or not I wake up.
I get out of bed, and some days I can't find the will to shower. Some days I cannot be bothered to brush my hair. Life is too much a bother. I'm too busy un-willingly playing Mommy to everyone around me- because I have to. Because if I didn't, their lives would be worsened. In at least one case, they'd probably decide not to live anymore at all.
I used to be strong. Now I'm just a shell. Empty. I've actually stopped believing that things will improve. They've been so fucked for so long, despite my best efforts to right them, and with future circumstance being what they are, they won't get better anytime soon. And I'm out of energy to care anymore.
This is not a cry for help. It's not a goodbye note. I don't have the energy to top myself, either.
I have been breaking myself into small pieces and packaging them out to people in my life that need help, and accidentally I've given too much. And there are so many people that need my help right now. My niece is here for a few more months, and her mom has just come out of the hospital after major surgery. She's hurting and missing home, and a little fragile. I have a friend and her teen son here because she had a crazy ex who was abusive, so they are here indefinitely licking their wounds. And my husband is shadowed by the depression demon. Husband number two, depression number two. My batting average is just not that great.
All I want is for someone to take care of me. I've been self sufficient almost my entire life. I'm the caregiver. But I think I'm broken. So few people in my life have needed less from me then they have given. Funny to think of it, but Paula was probably the best Daddy I've ever had. One of the few dynamics in my life that never required me to give a mountain of emotions.
So who has the superglue, then? I could use some.
I think I've lost myself somewhere in this past year. Either that or dealing with life and the things that are affecting those I love has simply drained me of lifeforce. I've always been a "glass half full" sort of person- someone who was always able to be patient to wait, because things always get better with time, right? No matter how rough my day, I always went to bed knowing things would be a little better tomorrow.
I cannot remember the last time I went to bed looking forward to a new day. Most nights I don't care whether or not I wake up.
I get out of bed, and some days I can't find the will to shower. Some days I cannot be bothered to brush my hair. Life is too much a bother. I'm too busy un-willingly playing Mommy to everyone around me- because I have to. Because if I didn't, their lives would be worsened. In at least one case, they'd probably decide not to live anymore at all.
I used to be strong. Now I'm just a shell. Empty. I've actually stopped believing that things will improve. They've been so fucked for so long, despite my best efforts to right them, and with future circumstance being what they are, they won't get better anytime soon. And I'm out of energy to care anymore.
This is not a cry for help. It's not a goodbye note. I don't have the energy to top myself, either.
I have been breaking myself into small pieces and packaging them out to people in my life that need help, and accidentally I've given too much. And there are so many people that need my help right now. My niece is here for a few more months, and her mom has just come out of the hospital after major surgery. She's hurting and missing home, and a little fragile. I have a friend and her teen son here because she had a crazy ex who was abusive, so they are here indefinitely licking their wounds. And my husband is shadowed by the depression demon. Husband number two, depression number two. My batting average is just not that great.
All I want is for someone to take care of me. I've been self sufficient almost my entire life. I'm the caregiver. But I think I'm broken. So few people in my life have needed less from me then they have given. Funny to think of it, but Paula was probably the best Daddy I've ever had. One of the few dynamics in my life that never required me to give a mountain of emotions.
So who has the superglue, then? I could use some.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
He's not aggressive- he's just...broken.
My husband's Dr recently changed his depression medication. So on Monday, he hit the big breakdown I have been expecting for months now- maybe closer to a year. And off to the Emergency Department we went.
Hospitals are obviously not a happy place- even if you are not depressed. To their credit, once past the admitting red tape, we only had to wait about 20-30 minutes to see a psychiatrist. The hospital nearest us is in a low-rent area, so the waiting room was full of the usual poverty-striken crowds- a guy being treated for addiction, a teen mother with her gaggle of half-dressed children, and another ranting that no one had given her a voucher for a free taxi home,and so on. I also think that tuning the TV to medical drama soap operas in a waiting room is generally a bad idea. But maybe that's just me. Since we had never been to this hospital before, I first had to go through the process of getting his registered as a new patient.
"Can I help you"?
Me;"Yes- my husband is being treated for depression- he was on Effexor but they have just swapped him to Pristiq, and he's had a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"Where is your husband?"
Me; "He's the full grown man man sitting on the floor behind me curled up into a ball crying and sobbing so loud you have to shout at me"
"Well, what's wrong with him?"
Me "He is having a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"But what is wrong with him right at this particular moment?"
Me; "He is unable to speak or function in any manner, and he wants to die- now get me a damned psychiatrist"
"Is he aggressive?"
Me; "No, he is not aggressive- he is just... broken. Please help"
After a few more minutes of this, ~I~ wound up getting aggressive, at which point a supervisor come along, took one look at us and directed us to go sit down and she would send a psychiatrist out to collect us shortly.
A while later they discharged him to go home, after a counselling session wherein they decided the best thing for him was to maintain his routine and not disrupt things too much. Which would have been fine, except that on Tuesday, I had to pack him onto a plane to go back to work- at a mine site 4000 km's from here, in the middle of a big fucking dessert with no Dr's on site, only a nurse.And then the fucker forgets to check in with me at night. He called today to tell me he was to tired to talk and fell asleep right away, and to say that he had texted- the texts still have not shown up. He sounds more together. But I won't feel comfortable until he is back in my arms alive and breathing.
I'm so scared. I wish i could fix him. Then again, I tried to fix my first husband too and could not help- he got better only after we were no longer together. Go figure, huh? I'm one of the strongest and most cheerful people I know, and yet, I keep making my men depressed.
And on to other news';
We've listed our home, finally. it goes to auction on May 1st- this is a good thing. it's too small, it costs too much, and it keeps us financially tied to his father, from whom we wish to distance ourselves. So now I have 10 days to make the place view-able. Which will entail renting a storage unit, boxing up and storing everything that is not absolutely essential, clean the place top to bottom, and do a few handyman bits around the place (Re-install a cupboard, paint, etc).
Last weekend we drove to a darling friend of our's property, 5 miles into the outback, and left at her place our two large friendly-to-the-point-of -possibly-being-irritating dogs. The place absolutely echoes now in their absence.
And with all this stuff ahead of me to do, today it is raining so hard that I have decided the best thing for me is to curl up in bed with a book.
Hospitals are obviously not a happy place- even if you are not depressed. To their credit, once past the admitting red tape, we only had to wait about 20-30 minutes to see a psychiatrist. The hospital nearest us is in a low-rent area, so the waiting room was full of the usual poverty-striken crowds- a guy being treated for addiction, a teen mother with her gaggle of half-dressed children, and another ranting that no one had given her a voucher for a free taxi home,and so on. I also think that tuning the TV to medical drama soap operas in a waiting room is generally a bad idea. But maybe that's just me. Since we had never been to this hospital before, I first had to go through the process of getting his registered as a new patient.
"Can I help you"?
Me;"Yes- my husband is being treated for depression- he was on Effexor but they have just swapped him to Pristiq, and he's had a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"Where is your husband?"
Me; "He's the full grown man man sitting on the floor behind me curled up into a ball crying and sobbing so loud you have to shout at me"
"Well, what's wrong with him?"
Me "He is having a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"But what is wrong with him right at this particular moment?"
Me; "He is unable to speak or function in any manner, and he wants to die- now get me a damned psychiatrist"
"Is he aggressive?"
Me; "No, he is not aggressive- he is just... broken. Please help"
After a few more minutes of this, ~I~ wound up getting aggressive, at which point a supervisor come along, took one look at us and directed us to go sit down and she would send a psychiatrist out to collect us shortly.
A while later they discharged him to go home, after a counselling session wherein they decided the best thing for him was to maintain his routine and not disrupt things too much. Which would have been fine, except that on Tuesday, I had to pack him onto a plane to go back to work- at a mine site 4000 km's from here, in the middle of a big fucking dessert with no Dr's on site, only a nurse.And then the fucker forgets to check in with me at night. He called today to tell me he was to tired to talk and fell asleep right away, and to say that he had texted- the texts still have not shown up. He sounds more together. But I won't feel comfortable until he is back in my arms alive and breathing.
I'm so scared. I wish i could fix him. Then again, I tried to fix my first husband too and could not help- he got better only after we were no longer together. Go figure, huh? I'm one of the strongest and most cheerful people I know, and yet, I keep making my men depressed.
And on to other news';
We've listed our home, finally. it goes to auction on May 1st- this is a good thing. it's too small, it costs too much, and it keeps us financially tied to his father, from whom we wish to distance ourselves. So now I have 10 days to make the place view-able. Which will entail renting a storage unit, boxing up and storing everything that is not absolutely essential, clean the place top to bottom, and do a few handyman bits around the place (Re-install a cupboard, paint, etc).
Last weekend we drove to a darling friend of our's property, 5 miles into the outback, and left at her place our two large friendly-to-the-point-of -possibly-being-irritating dogs. The place absolutely echoes now in their absence.
And with all this stuff ahead of me to do, today it is raining so hard that I have decided the best thing for me is to curl up in bed with a book.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Three Monkeys
Whore your mind
for the good of the
establishment.
Swallow your distaste.
Like so much stale beer.
Turn a blind eye as the spawn of the boss
skims from the corporate account.
To feed his demon.
His eyes red with the hue of despiration.
Plod through another day in this
corp o ration
night mare.
Don't look up, or someone might see
the revusion in your gaze.
Don't open your mouth, or someone might hear
The bitter scorn in your tone.
Don't listen to the whispers in the lunchroom
or you might become
an accomplice
to this
raging machine.
for the good of the
establishment.
Swallow your distaste.
Like so much stale beer.
Turn a blind eye as the spawn of the boss
skims from the corporate account.
To feed his demon.
His eyes red with the hue of despiration.
Plod through another day in this
corp o ration
night mare.
Don't look up, or someone might see
the revusion in your gaze.
Don't open your mouth, or someone might hear
The bitter scorn in your tone.
Don't listen to the whispers in the lunchroom
or you might become
an accomplice
to this
raging machine.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
And So It Begins.
About a month and a half ago my husband and I joined a gym.
I'm a big chick, and I have never been bothered by my weight. Overall, I'm fairly healthy, though inactive. I rarely get sick, and even when I do, my immune system works in overdrive- I have healing powers like wolverine! Yearly physicals revesl great colestrol, normal blood pressure and overal goodness. My first husband pushed me alot to lose weight, which did nothing except piss me off and make me stubborn. My current has never pushed me- because he is happy if I'm happy.
But he was not happy. Depressed and without energy for anything, he needed an outlet. And I knew it. He was a big child, and then in the early 2000's, he suddenly decided he'd had enough and dropped alot of weight. Over the past few years hes slowly gained, and it bothers him.He still sees himself as a fat child when the reality is he is an average man, not fat. Just inactive.
And so we joined a gym. I hoped that with both of us joining, we could motivate each other and therby not be able to flake on the couch each night with the excuse of wanting to spend time together. The gym has a pool, and I've always enjoyed swimming, so I envisioned myself swimming while Sean weight trained.
I have to stress, exersice was not something I defined as fun. I am shocked, therefore at what has transpired. For the first three weeks, I begged off some days, finding trivial excuses to stay home. So I went to the gym 3 or 4 days a week. But rationed that it was better then nothing. I was bored with the pool. I had tried the nightly aquasize class, and found most teachers sucked. Mondays morning class teacher was great, so I'd find myself going to her classes no matter how was feeling.
Ay week 4, I was well and truly bored and undermotivated. I popped in on saturday for a swim to find the pool closed for an event. So I went to the gym instead, rode the bike and cooled down on a treadmill.
Click.
Ten minutes in, hot and sticky, with my thigh muscles burning, I was feeling fantastic. Three weeks on from this discovery and my attendance has gone up to 5-6 days a week, and I'm the one whining at Sean and draging him physically out of the house to go to the gym. I am absolutely addicted. The crappiest sort of day at work, no desire to do anything but crawl into bed, and I know if I get myself into the bike, in 15 minutes I'll be feeling like sunshine is coming out of my ass.
Three weeks later, and my energy levels have shot through the roof. I'm ready to take on anything, and feel super accomplished. I cannot gush enough. My ten minute bike ride and ten minute cool down of the first day has morphed into a 7 km bike ride (8 kms twice a week), followed by half a km of rowing, and 1.5 km treadmill cooldown. Another week of this and I'll have boosted the rower to one km and then will add the evil looking cross trainer machine into the mix. I think that the wee after that, I will also throw in a weights based routine once or twice a week as well.
We've done nothing different in the diet field- we eat a varied healthy range already, with our problem being portion size rather then wrong food choices. But even this is righting itself- for reasons unfathomable to me, I find myself eating smaller portions as I feel full faster. This does not make and sense to me whatsoever- if anything, I expected to be hungrier.
Last week, I noticed my pants are lose and I have to leep hauling them up. Yesterday I bought a new pair of track pants and two tank tops. All items had to be bought in one size smaller then I've been wearing.
And so it begins.
I'm a big chick, and I have never been bothered by my weight. Overall, I'm fairly healthy, though inactive. I rarely get sick, and even when I do, my immune system works in overdrive- I have healing powers like wolverine! Yearly physicals revesl great colestrol, normal blood pressure and overal goodness. My first husband pushed me alot to lose weight, which did nothing except piss me off and make me stubborn. My current has never pushed me- because he is happy if I'm happy.
But he was not happy. Depressed and without energy for anything, he needed an outlet. And I knew it. He was a big child, and then in the early 2000's, he suddenly decided he'd had enough and dropped alot of weight. Over the past few years hes slowly gained, and it bothers him.He still sees himself as a fat child when the reality is he is an average man, not fat. Just inactive.
And so we joined a gym. I hoped that with both of us joining, we could motivate each other and therby not be able to flake on the couch each night with the excuse of wanting to spend time together. The gym has a pool, and I've always enjoyed swimming, so I envisioned myself swimming while Sean weight trained.
I have to stress, exersice was not something I defined as fun. I am shocked, therefore at what has transpired. For the first three weeks, I begged off some days, finding trivial excuses to stay home. So I went to the gym 3 or 4 days a week. But rationed that it was better then nothing. I was bored with the pool. I had tried the nightly aquasize class, and found most teachers sucked. Mondays morning class teacher was great, so I'd find myself going to her classes no matter how was feeling.
Ay week 4, I was well and truly bored and undermotivated. I popped in on saturday for a swim to find the pool closed for an event. So I went to the gym instead, rode the bike and cooled down on a treadmill.
Click.
Ten minutes in, hot and sticky, with my thigh muscles burning, I was feeling fantastic. Three weeks on from this discovery and my attendance has gone up to 5-6 days a week, and I'm the one whining at Sean and draging him physically out of the house to go to the gym. I am absolutely addicted. The crappiest sort of day at work, no desire to do anything but crawl into bed, and I know if I get myself into the bike, in 15 minutes I'll be feeling like sunshine is coming out of my ass.
Three weeks later, and my energy levels have shot through the roof. I'm ready to take on anything, and feel super accomplished. I cannot gush enough. My ten minute bike ride and ten minute cool down of the first day has morphed into a 7 km bike ride (8 kms twice a week), followed by half a km of rowing, and 1.5 km treadmill cooldown. Another week of this and I'll have boosted the rower to one km and then will add the evil looking cross trainer machine into the mix. I think that the wee after that, I will also throw in a weights based routine once or twice a week as well.
We've done nothing different in the diet field- we eat a varied healthy range already, with our problem being portion size rather then wrong food choices. But even this is righting itself- for reasons unfathomable to me, I find myself eating smaller portions as I feel full faster. This does not make and sense to me whatsoever- if anything, I expected to be hungrier.
Last week, I noticed my pants are lose and I have to leep hauling them up. Yesterday I bought a new pair of track pants and two tank tops. All items had to be bought in one size smaller then I've been wearing.
And so it begins.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I hope you dance.
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
Exerpt from Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance"
We stumbled upon this statue, Dancing Bear (by Pauta Saila) when wandering through Ottawa a couple of years ago. He is the first piece of public art from Nunavut in the far north to be displayed in Canada's capital city.
The Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic use the Dancing Bear as a recurring art theme, typically in soapstone carvings much smaller then this one. The polar bear is top of the food chain, the ruler of his environment, and feared by all. Because of this, it is considered a great honour, and a very desirable thing to come back as a polar bear in the next life. And the Dancing Bear is seen to be just that- a person's soul re-incarnated as King of the World, and understanably quite happy about it.
Today, I feel like Dancing Bear.
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
Exerpt from Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance"
We stumbled upon this statue, Dancing Bear (by Pauta Saila) when wandering through Ottawa a couple of years ago. He is the first piece of public art from Nunavut in the far north to be displayed in Canada's capital city.
The Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic use the Dancing Bear as a recurring art theme, typically in soapstone carvings much smaller then this one. The polar bear is top of the food chain, the ruler of his environment, and feared by all. Because of this, it is considered a great honour, and a very desirable thing to come back as a polar bear in the next life. And the Dancing Bear is seen to be just that- a person's soul re-incarnated as King of the World, and understanably quite happy about it.
Today, I feel like Dancing Bear.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Funkiness
I'm writing here again as a means to drag myself out of the funk I have been smothered by for a few months. But it's time to uncurl myself from my safe little warm ball and venture out into the land of the living once more.
I've largely been frustrated with some things in our life which are completely fixable, but which have gone unattended to because my husband, whom I adore utterly and completely, is sometimes a twit:)
I am being unfair, of course. My husband as Asperger's, and it makes him see life in a very different sort of way. When things are out of control, he just does not function at all...wherein I (and most people, I think), feel the need to wrestle control back, he just gets overwhelmed and refuses to deal with it as though the problem did not exist at all.
We're financially struggling. We have not yet paid off the big trip(18 months ago we travelled around the world), as the credit cards are still full and the bills are absolutely crushing us. We decided months ago to re-finance the house, pull out the equity and use it to clear the bills and start fresh. He's so scared that they will say no to re-finance that he is dragging his heels and being slow to do everything. There are documents he need to gather and such that he keeps "forgetting". For months. Despite daily reminders. It is ENRAGING me to the point that I want to throttle him somedays! I think we have everything ready now, and we will get the papers to the mortgage broker this week. Finally.
I have no intention of making this blog a place to bitch about him- this will be the ony entry in which I will focus on this...but I also need to clarify where my head is at right now- mostly because I feel for the first time in a long time that I am in a good place again. It's all dark and dusty in the corners of my head, and I've spent too much time in there lately with the cobwebs. And recently I had the sudden realization that none of this is his fault. I've been focussed too much on the nit-picky things.
It is partly because I am so far away from MY friends, MY family. I moved here in 2004 after meeting him on the net, and hauled up everything I knew, packed my life into three very large suitcases and boarded a plane. Everyone we have here are OUR friends. So naturally, when the thousand of little things that crop up in a relationship bother me, I've ben sitting on it. I don't want to complain about the petty things to OUR friends.
But, if I had MY friends here, I would bitch about stuff, we would laugh about it, drink a bottle of wine and it would be over and forgotten, instead of me thinking and overthinking,dwelling on it until it grows. Just little issues, miniscule daily routine passing things getting blown out of proportion till they seem like big issues. Once I made that connection, everything got much sunshine-y-er in my head.
And the really big, overwhelming things about him? Are the good things. The patience that is without end, the willingness to go along with my randomness, the ability to deal with the crazyness of a woman with PMS, the astuteness to know exactly when to kiss me, exactly when to tickle me till I strugle not to pee myself, exactly when to surprise me with a bottle of bubbles and a blowing wand.
I've never met a man quite like him. I never even knew such creatures exsisted.
And so, If I have to drag him, kicking and screaming into reality till he gets his shit sorted, then he'd best hang on tight, cause it will be a bumpy ride.
Life....here we come again.
I've largely been frustrated with some things in our life which are completely fixable, but which have gone unattended to because my husband, whom I adore utterly and completely, is sometimes a twit:)
I am being unfair, of course. My husband as Asperger's, and it makes him see life in a very different sort of way. When things are out of control, he just does not function at all...wherein I (and most people, I think), feel the need to wrestle control back, he just gets overwhelmed and refuses to deal with it as though the problem did not exist at all.
We're financially struggling. We have not yet paid off the big trip(18 months ago we travelled around the world), as the credit cards are still full and the bills are absolutely crushing us. We decided months ago to re-finance the house, pull out the equity and use it to clear the bills and start fresh. He's so scared that they will say no to re-finance that he is dragging his heels and being slow to do everything. There are documents he need to gather and such that he keeps "forgetting". For months. Despite daily reminders. It is ENRAGING me to the point that I want to throttle him somedays! I think we have everything ready now, and we will get the papers to the mortgage broker this week. Finally.
I have no intention of making this blog a place to bitch about him- this will be the ony entry in which I will focus on this...but I also need to clarify where my head is at right now- mostly because I feel for the first time in a long time that I am in a good place again. It's all dark and dusty in the corners of my head, and I've spent too much time in there lately with the cobwebs. And recently I had the sudden realization that none of this is his fault. I've been focussed too much on the nit-picky things.
It is partly because I am so far away from MY friends, MY family. I moved here in 2004 after meeting him on the net, and hauled up everything I knew, packed my life into three very large suitcases and boarded a plane. Everyone we have here are OUR friends. So naturally, when the thousand of little things that crop up in a relationship bother me, I've ben sitting on it. I don't want to complain about the petty things to OUR friends.
But, if I had MY friends here, I would bitch about stuff, we would laugh about it, drink a bottle of wine and it would be over and forgotten, instead of me thinking and overthinking,dwelling on it until it grows. Just little issues, miniscule daily routine passing things getting blown out of proportion till they seem like big issues. Once I made that connection, everything got much sunshine-y-er in my head.
And the really big, overwhelming things about him? Are the good things. The patience that is without end, the willingness to go along with my randomness, the ability to deal with the crazyness of a woman with PMS, the astuteness to know exactly when to kiss me, exactly when to tickle me till I strugle not to pee myself, exactly when to surprise me with a bottle of bubbles and a blowing wand.
I've never met a man quite like him. I never even knew such creatures exsisted.
And so, If I have to drag him, kicking and screaming into reality till he gets his shit sorted, then he'd best hang on tight, cause it will be a bumpy ride.
Life....here we come again.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Waxing woes
So I decided, somewhat foolishly, to try one of those home waxing kits. (Don't the best stories start this way?)
My first concern came when the waxing kit I specially selected (after 45 minutes of reading each and every package available at the super-sized pharmacy) had hidden within its depths a particularly worrysome thing.
What can be so perplexing from inside the recess of a waxing kit you ask? Consider this- I bought a kit specifically designed for bikini waxing. And yet, inside there was a slip of paper warning me not to apply it to my genital region.
I know I am Canadian and all, but where I come from? We don't wear bikinis as mittens or anything. They definitely are worn over the pink bits.
So I spend a few more minutes re-reading the exterior packaging. Yep, definitely a bikini waxing kit. And so on I proudly marched.
The box said "raspberry scented". I'll suggest to the manufacturer that they should more aptly describe the aroma as that of the scent of a Grizzly bear taking his first dump after a 6 month hibernation. Though, to be fair, grizzlies do eat alot of raspberry.
Clamping my nose shut with a clothespeg, I get stuck into it. First strip on, first strip off. Painful, but nothing more then I would expect when ripping out a few dozen hairs by their roots.
As I'm settling up for the next strip, sudden disaster. Like a dozen pint sized sadists were poking my flesh with heated pokers. Pain that was most certainly not of the good variety. And it just gets worse and worse.
So I get understandably worried, and grab the package again. It says to rinse after, but says that soap will not remove residue. Fabulous. Screming on the inside, i stand in a ice-cold shower for about ten minutes till my eyes stop watering and the pain is now just a dull roar that I'm able to think through.
Out of the shower, I survey the damage in the mirror. hmmm. a Perfect wax-strip sized patch of skin on my most favouritest bits is now red and inflamed to the point of being noticeably puffy.
I think I've broked it. this is not good.
I spend the next hour and a half lying on the bed with cold wet facecloth compresses laid over my cunt to try to stop the bee-sting like swelling from closing up shop completely.
Eventually, the urge to cry at the pain abates, and I even have a moment of amusement thinking about the Bastard having to suffer through the afternoon wanting to get home to do exactly what I asked of him in a naughty text earlier, only to find things in less then working order.
ok. So soap won;t help, but I need to figure out something else. Because I can't sit on an icepack all night. If soap and water won't fix it...what about lube?
The dogs both went running in fright and cowered by the back door when the lube hit my skin. Apparently, dogs dogs extra sensitive hearing means screams are extra noticable.
After intitial application, though, the lube worked. I was actually able to get dressed and move around without wanting to kill everything that touched me- including the air.
So here I sit, slip-sliding around on the edge of the couch wondering how long it will be till I'm able to break out the trusty razor and finish the job.
I have a new-found respect for every fucker who waxes. I am not worthy.
My first concern came when the waxing kit I specially selected (after 45 minutes of reading each and every package available at the super-sized pharmacy) had hidden within its depths a particularly worrysome thing.
What can be so perplexing from inside the recess of a waxing kit you ask? Consider this- I bought a kit specifically designed for bikini waxing. And yet, inside there was a slip of paper warning me not to apply it to my genital region.
I know I am Canadian and all, but where I come from? We don't wear bikinis as mittens or anything. They definitely are worn over the pink bits.
So I spend a few more minutes re-reading the exterior packaging. Yep, definitely a bikini waxing kit. And so on I proudly marched.
The box said "raspberry scented". I'll suggest to the manufacturer that they should more aptly describe the aroma as that of the scent of a Grizzly bear taking his first dump after a 6 month hibernation. Though, to be fair, grizzlies do eat alot of raspberry.
Clamping my nose shut with a clothespeg, I get stuck into it. First strip on, first strip off. Painful, but nothing more then I would expect when ripping out a few dozen hairs by their roots.
As I'm settling up for the next strip, sudden disaster. Like a dozen pint sized sadists were poking my flesh with heated pokers. Pain that was most certainly not of the good variety. And it just gets worse and worse.
So I get understandably worried, and grab the package again. It says to rinse after, but says that soap will not remove residue. Fabulous. Screming on the inside, i stand in a ice-cold shower for about ten minutes till my eyes stop watering and the pain is now just a dull roar that I'm able to think through.
Out of the shower, I survey the damage in the mirror. hmmm. a Perfect wax-strip sized patch of skin on my most favouritest bits is now red and inflamed to the point of being noticeably puffy.
I think I've broked it. this is not good.
I spend the next hour and a half lying on the bed with cold wet facecloth compresses laid over my cunt to try to stop the bee-sting like swelling from closing up shop completely.
Eventually, the urge to cry at the pain abates, and I even have a moment of amusement thinking about the Bastard having to suffer through the afternoon wanting to get home to do exactly what I asked of him in a naughty text earlier, only to find things in less then working order.
ok. So soap won;t help, but I need to figure out something else. Because I can't sit on an icepack all night. If soap and water won't fix it...what about lube?
The dogs both went running in fright and cowered by the back door when the lube hit my skin. Apparently, dogs dogs extra sensitive hearing means screams are extra noticable.
After intitial application, though, the lube worked. I was actually able to get dressed and move around without wanting to kill everything that touched me- including the air.
So here I sit, slip-sliding around on the edge of the couch wondering how long it will be till I'm able to break out the trusty razor and finish the job.
I have a new-found respect for every fucker who waxes. I am not worthy.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
She's going to hell, for sure.
Today, at work.
Ring ring
Pleasent ladies voice; "Good morning, you've reached St Francis of Mary's*, how can I help you?"
Me; "Hello, could I speak with someone in accounts payable, please?"
Pleasent ladies voice; "That would be Sister Angela*. I'll put you right through"
Me; "Thank you"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "Hello, Sister Angela Speaking"
Me; "Good morning, Sister. My name is Nikki and I'm calling from Random Organization* regarding an invoice for St Franscis of Mary's overdue since last November"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "fuck"
Me;"..."
* note; names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent.
Ring ring
Pleasent ladies voice; "Good morning, you've reached St Francis of Mary's*, how can I help you?"
Me; "Hello, could I speak with someone in accounts payable, please?"
Pleasent ladies voice; "That would be Sister Angela*. I'll put you right through"
Me; "Thank you"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "Hello, Sister Angela Speaking"
Me; "Good morning, Sister. My name is Nikki and I'm calling from Random Organization* regarding an invoice for St Franscis of Mary's overdue since last November"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "fuck"
Me;"..."
* note; names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Going to the Loo is not a Spectator Sport!
...but I am thinking about starting to charge admission in my house.
My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.
Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.
There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.
Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"
Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.
So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.
5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.
Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.
This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.
And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.
Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.
Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.
Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.
And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.
I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.
Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.
My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.
Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.
There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.
Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"
Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.
So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.
5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.
Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.
This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.
And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.
Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.
Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.
Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.
And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.
I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.
Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Australia; love it or hate it?
I became an Australian Permanent resident last week. So I've been reflecting a little on my experiences in the “Land Down Under”, and of all its quirks and curiosities.
Hates;
-Australians insist on retaining the use of French words, but completely disregard proper pronounciation of the same. For example “Debut” is used at least daily on various news programs, pronounced “deboo”. I cringe every time. Maybe that makes me a snob. I don't care. it's still wrong.
-The service industry. It completely lacks- well...service. Because there is no tipping, waitstaff simply overlook any attention to detail or even common courtesty. They get paid regardless, and any one daring to rudely point out that their work is not up to snuff would probably regret every saying anything. “So you ordered steak and got chicken? Oh well- enjoy your chicken- and we will still be charging you for the most expensive steak on the menu”.
-The heat. oh my god, the fucking heat. Paradise, my ass! It actually IS the underworld- Yes, Virginia, there is a hell- and the Devil went down to Queensland.
-Women are women. Girls are women. Female toddlers are bloody women. Tomboys just don't exist. Look around the average shopping centre, the average beach, the average playground- you can easily tell the sex of each and every baby from the age of 4 days old because the girls are completely clad in matching Oscar De La Renta handbag and shoes, and are wearing the latest shade of lipstick.
Likes;
-Australia is where the boy is.
-The beach. The ocean. Endless white sand, water warm enough to actually swim in (or fall about helplessly in, in my case), gorgeous enough to make me cry.
- Fruit, nuts and flowers that are common enough to practically be considered weeds. Mangos, Avocados, Macadamias, calla lilies- all grow in backyards without most people giving a second thought to just how good they have it.
-Taxes are built into the price on everything. No more guessing or calculating taxes on the way to the checkout. no more being caught short. What you see is what you pay. Simple.
-the breathtaking wildlife. Nothing quite compares to an early morning coffee on my deck while a flock of several hundred Gallahs sail by gracefully overhead.
- Surfers Paradise- a city that combines all the cheese of Las Vegas with a breathtaking view where city skyscrapers meets white sand beaches that stretch for miles. The glorious wrongness of strolling through the all night open malls that are patrolled equally by hookers and families out for a late night stroll with their kids in tow. Neither thinks the other are out of place.
-Traffic that merges like a zipper. One lane merging into another simply means that the far furthest in front has right of way. None of this waiting on the side of a freeway waiting for a break in traffic cavernous enough to let a car go from 0 to 100- you simply math speed of traffic on the on-ramp, and traffic actually accommodates your entry smoothly.
-The fact that my accent is considered “Exotic”. I've been harassed on several occasions to read simply so I could be listened to. It is a surreal thing to run into a convenience store at 4 am after a night of clubbing to be held up for ten extra minutes, simply to read the ingredients on a package of hot dogs for the clerk or sits enraptured at your every word.
- An economy that has been growing steadily for so long that an entire generation of Australians have grown up not only hoping to achieve all their dreams- but with the security that anything really is possible. No, not even possible- but expected. It's resulted in a delightful positive, laid-back, devil-may-care attitude that is infectious. Que Sera, Sera indeed.
-Australia is where the boy is.
Australia. It seems I love it more then I hate it. But its still not pronounced deboo.
Hates;
-Australians insist on retaining the use of French words, but completely disregard proper pronounciation of the same. For example “Debut” is used at least daily on various news programs, pronounced “deboo”. I cringe every time. Maybe that makes me a snob. I don't care. it's still wrong.
-The service industry. It completely lacks- well...service. Because there is no tipping, waitstaff simply overlook any attention to detail or even common courtesty. They get paid regardless, and any one daring to rudely point out that their work is not up to snuff would probably regret every saying anything. “So you ordered steak and got chicken? Oh well- enjoy your chicken- and we will still be charging you for the most expensive steak on the menu”.
-The heat. oh my god, the fucking heat. Paradise, my ass! It actually IS the underworld- Yes, Virginia, there is a hell- and the Devil went down to Queensland.
-Women are women. Girls are women. Female toddlers are bloody women. Tomboys just don't exist. Look around the average shopping centre, the average beach, the average playground- you can easily tell the sex of each and every baby from the age of 4 days old because the girls are completely clad in matching Oscar De La Renta handbag and shoes, and are wearing the latest shade of lipstick.
Likes;
-Australia is where the boy is.
-The beach. The ocean. Endless white sand, water warm enough to actually swim in (or fall about helplessly in, in my case), gorgeous enough to make me cry.
- Fruit, nuts and flowers that are common enough to practically be considered weeds. Mangos, Avocados, Macadamias, calla lilies- all grow in backyards without most people giving a second thought to just how good they have it.
-Taxes are built into the price on everything. No more guessing or calculating taxes on the way to the checkout. no more being caught short. What you see is what you pay. Simple.
-the breathtaking wildlife. Nothing quite compares to an early morning coffee on my deck while a flock of several hundred Gallahs sail by gracefully overhead.
- Surfers Paradise- a city that combines all the cheese of Las Vegas with a breathtaking view where city skyscrapers meets white sand beaches that stretch for miles. The glorious wrongness of strolling through the all night open malls that are patrolled equally by hookers and families out for a late night stroll with their kids in tow. Neither thinks the other are out of place.
-Traffic that merges like a zipper. One lane merging into another simply means that the far furthest in front has right of way. None of this waiting on the side of a freeway waiting for a break in traffic cavernous enough to let a car go from 0 to 100- you simply math speed of traffic on the on-ramp, and traffic actually accommodates your entry smoothly.
-The fact that my accent is considered “Exotic”. I've been harassed on several occasions to read simply so I could be listened to. It is a surreal thing to run into a convenience store at 4 am after a night of clubbing to be held up for ten extra minutes, simply to read the ingredients on a package of hot dogs for the clerk or sits enraptured at your every word.
- An economy that has been growing steadily for so long that an entire generation of Australians have grown up not only hoping to achieve all their dreams- but with the security that anything really is possible. No, not even possible- but expected. It's resulted in a delightful positive, laid-back, devil-may-care attitude that is infectious. Que Sera, Sera indeed.
-Australia is where the boy is.
Australia. It seems I love it more then I hate it. But its still not pronounced deboo.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
I truely am an innocent...
Today, I received an unsolicited email from a young American lady, curently on holiday in London, UK, who tells me she "read it on the net somewhere" that I used to live in London myself. And then she asked me to tell her where she could "buy some green".
It took me about three minutes to figure out what she was asking for. I honestly had NO clue. I was sitting and thinking to myself; "Green? Why would she want to BUY American dollars once there? Why not bring them with her? and surely everyone knows about banks and currency exchange places?"
It's a wonder I can tie my own shoes.
It took me about three minutes to figure out what she was asking for. I honestly had NO clue. I was sitting and thinking to myself; "Green? Why would she want to BUY American dollars once there? Why not bring them with her? and surely everyone knows about banks and currency exchange places?"
It's a wonder I can tie my own shoes.
Monday, April 16, 2007
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