It's time to man up. Lucy would want me to.
I'm a toxic person. If you call me a friend, chances are I'm anything but. Chances are I've put shit on you behind your back, sent you passive-aggressive texts and can only handle you in small doses. I'm no friend worth having.
Why on earth would I treat my friends like this? Who knows. Because I'm jealous. Insecure. I hold grudges and take things far too personally.
I'm a wreck right now. I lost something very dear to me, and seeing the pain and suffering going on in so many lives right now is burning me out. So I'm lashing out - if you're balancing on an even keel and things are going well for you... watch your back. Because I'm aching to take you down a few pegs. It seems to be all I can do to keep my own head above water, because if I'm not finding an (inappropriate) outlet for my feelings, the alternative is to be numb. And I can't afford to be drunk at all hours, I have kids to look after.
So instead, I'm taking it all out on you. Which is no excuse, considering I've been stabbing you in the back all along. I'm just a fucking horrible person who reaps what she sows and then wonders why nothing ever goes right and she's always finding something, anything, to be miserable about.
So there it is. I'm not here for you. I don't have your back. I'm no friend you would want in your life. Forgive me if you must, but do it for yourself - I'm not worthy of forgiveness.
This isn't just directed at one person. I got a wake-up call last night and I'm not even interested in making things right. I just want to get it off my chest so everyone can cut their ties and move on, there's the excuse we've all been looking for. I admit it. I've done wrong. Now go... and be happy. I can't. I never will. But there's no point in you all hanging around being dragged down with me.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Monday, November 8, 2010
Real-life learnin'.
An effective way to teach your child fractions:
'...Two... two and a half... two and three quarters... if I get to the next whole number, you're gettin' a floggin'...'
'...Two... two and a half... two and three quarters... if I get to the next whole number, you're gettin' a floggin'...'
Torn between two passions
I'm having my first-ever 'career goal crisis'! This is scary. Good, but scary. It's getting close to decision-making time and I'm getting too fucking old to go screwing up now.
I'll be honest. Never worked a full day in my life. Sure, I've worked long-arse shifts, but I've only ever been in casual or part-time employment, in shitty retail or hospitality jobs, and floated around after finishing school alternating between the dole and dead-end jobs to get some extra cash because I had no idea where I wanted to go or who I wanted to be as a 'grown-up'.
Actually, that's not entirely true - I knew I wanted to be a wife and mum, but that shit doesn't pay so great. 'Career-wise', I was clueless.
A few years passed. I got married, had the girls, settled into adult life (as I know it) and decided that I wanted to be a midwife! I love babies. I love pregnancy. I love being an advocate of natural, unmedicalised birth and educating expectant and new mothers, and what better way to get my point across and change people's lives, than to be there throughout pregnancy and holding their hand in the delivery room as they bring new life into this world?
Yes, this was where I wanted to go. It's gonna be tough, but I've gotta do it. I need a job. No. Not a job. A CAREER. Something that fulfills, challenges and stimulates me as well as paying the bills. Something my mother would be proud of.
I've made plans. Wait until the kids are a little older. Do the STEPS course externally.
Except I can't. I know how useless I am, and it's been a long time since I was in school. I can't study at home, I need a classroom and a teacher breathing down my neck to make sure I get my shit together and hand my work in on time. Always did. Because I'm lazy.
So I'm just waiting for a spot at daycare to come up for Squirtle next year so I can begin doing the STEPS course and move on from there into nursing, and then a post-grad course on midwifery.
All set, right?
Except...
Today I went and got my nails done. For the first time since my year 12 prom (yes, we call it a prom where I live, thanks to the US Marines stationed here back in the 50's). And they're fantastic! As a stay-at-home mama who's always elbow-deep in soapy water and muddy children (don't ask me where the mud comes from, I still can't work it out), my nails are NEVER nice.
While treating myself to my basic French with black tips, the tech and I got to talking shop. I never managed to finish my beauty therapy cert at TAFE, but I was an ace nail tech - just never got the qualification to say so. It was fun, it was easy, it was interesting and awesome and I want to do it properly. Every day.
The tech said that they were always looking for new staff (the store opened recently and only has a few girls working) and that they provided on-the-job training...
And now it's got me thinking.
I could do this. A lot easier than getting into midwifery. It wouldn't require shitty shiftwork, I could indulge my creative side and let's face it, there's a whole lot less politics involved in bloody nail art than there is in women's and children's rights and the medical profession.
So now what do I do?
I'm thinking, enrol in the STEPS course anyway, try to get some part-time work at the nail bar and get certified - that way I have both options on the table and at least a whole year to decide where I'd be happier in the long term.
I can't wait for the Boss to get home so I can chew his ear off about this... it's exciting.
I've never had options.
Never.
I'm smart. Smart enough to be 'somebody'. I fluked right through school with a B+ average with depression, a drug addiction, and far more attention paid to boys, makeup and getting fucked-up drunk every weekend than I did to my studies. But I did it. So I know I can get through four (or more) years of hard-core university and spending my holidays doing work placement for credits and experience...
but on the other hand, I've got a family now. While I want to help other families and support them through the most life-changing and important times of their lives, I simply don't have the freedom to put my own family on the backburner while I dedicate myself to others. Being a midwife pays better, but what if the pressure's just too much? The Boss is already shirty at the thought of having to get home from work and be full-time Dad three nights a week while I'm at night courses... will he be able to handle me being a full-time nursing student? I don't know.
Maybe it would just be 'easier' for me to be a nail tech and earn a piss-ant living decorating fake nails at $60 a pop. But would I always feel like I'm wasting myself on a superficial job because I was too lazy or scared to do a few years of hard slog to get to a really good place?
Ahhhh, I'm doing my own head in right now.
Just kill me.
What the fuck would you do if you were in my shoes?? Any advice or suggestion is sooo welcome.
I'll be honest. Never worked a full day in my life. Sure, I've worked long-arse shifts, but I've only ever been in casual or part-time employment, in shitty retail or hospitality jobs, and floated around after finishing school alternating between the dole and dead-end jobs to get some extra cash because I had no idea where I wanted to go or who I wanted to be as a 'grown-up'.
Actually, that's not entirely true - I knew I wanted to be a wife and mum, but that shit doesn't pay so great. 'Career-wise', I was clueless.
A few years passed. I got married, had the girls, settled into adult life (as I know it) and decided that I wanted to be a midwife! I love babies. I love pregnancy. I love being an advocate of natural, unmedicalised birth and educating expectant and new mothers, and what better way to get my point across and change people's lives, than to be there throughout pregnancy and holding their hand in the delivery room as they bring new life into this world?
Yes, this was where I wanted to go. It's gonna be tough, but I've gotta do it. I need a job. No. Not a job. A CAREER. Something that fulfills, challenges and stimulates me as well as paying the bills. Something my mother would be proud of.
I've made plans. Wait until the kids are a little older. Do the STEPS course externally.
Except I can't. I know how useless I am, and it's been a long time since I was in school. I can't study at home, I need a classroom and a teacher breathing down my neck to make sure I get my shit together and hand my work in on time. Always did. Because I'm lazy.
So I'm just waiting for a spot at daycare to come up for Squirtle next year so I can begin doing the STEPS course and move on from there into nursing, and then a post-grad course on midwifery.
All set, right?
Except...
Today I went and got my nails done. For the first time since my year 12 prom (yes, we call it a prom where I live, thanks to the US Marines stationed here back in the 50's). And they're fantastic! As a stay-at-home mama who's always elbow-deep in soapy water and muddy children (don't ask me where the mud comes from, I still can't work it out), my nails are NEVER nice.
While treating myself to my basic French with black tips, the tech and I got to talking shop. I never managed to finish my beauty therapy cert at TAFE, but I was an ace nail tech - just never got the qualification to say so. It was fun, it was easy, it was interesting and awesome and I want to do it properly. Every day.
The tech said that they were always looking for new staff (the store opened recently and only has a few girls working) and that they provided on-the-job training...
And now it's got me thinking.
I could do this. A lot easier than getting into midwifery. It wouldn't require shitty shiftwork, I could indulge my creative side and let's face it, there's a whole lot less politics involved in bloody nail art than there is in women's and children's rights and the medical profession.
So now what do I do?
I'm thinking, enrol in the STEPS course anyway, try to get some part-time work at the nail bar and get certified - that way I have both options on the table and at least a whole year to decide where I'd be happier in the long term.
I can't wait for the Boss to get home so I can chew his ear off about this... it's exciting.
I've never had options.
Never.
I'm smart. Smart enough to be 'somebody'. I fluked right through school with a B+ average with depression, a drug addiction, and far more attention paid to boys, makeup and getting fucked-up drunk every weekend than I did to my studies. But I did it. So I know I can get through four (or more) years of hard-core university and spending my holidays doing work placement for credits and experience...
but on the other hand, I've got a family now. While I want to help other families and support them through the most life-changing and important times of their lives, I simply don't have the freedom to put my own family on the backburner while I dedicate myself to others. Being a midwife pays better, but what if the pressure's just too much? The Boss is already shirty at the thought of having to get home from work and be full-time Dad three nights a week while I'm at night courses... will he be able to handle me being a full-time nursing student? I don't know.
Maybe it would just be 'easier' for me to be a nail tech and earn a piss-ant living decorating fake nails at $60 a pop. But would I always feel like I'm wasting myself on a superficial job because I was too lazy or scared to do a few years of hard slog to get to a really good place?
Ahhhh, I'm doing my own head in right now.
Just kill me.
What the fuck would you do if you were in my shoes?? Any advice or suggestion is sooo welcome.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Mopey Monday :/
So, just between you and me...
I know how bloody sad it is that I allow you to make me feel like this, but today I'm stinging especially badly.
If we could just... not talk for like, a month? I might be able to feel better about myself.
And I hate that. But days like today, I fucking hate you.
You don't even know you're doing it, but sometimes all I need to do is look at your big dumb face and I want to smack it. Hard.
Grr.
I know how bloody sad it is that I allow you to make me feel like this, but today I'm stinging especially badly.
If we could just... not talk for like, a month? I might be able to feel better about myself.
And I hate that. But days like today, I fucking hate you.
You don't even know you're doing it, but sometimes all I need to do is look at your big dumb face and I want to smack it. Hard.
Grr.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Unfair.
I could go on for approximately 11 weeks (factoring in 8 hours of sleep in any 24-hour period, toilet breaks and darb runs) about the unfairness of some of the laws in this country - and not only that, but the legal outcomes of certain cases that go before a judge - but tonight I'm speaking specifically about how a 111-year-old is still in effect and treating women like second-class citizens.
Namely, I'm referring to one Tegan Leach and one Sergie Brennan, who were found not guilty today in a Cairns court of 'procuring an abortion'.
WHAT? Yeah, that's right. Hauled before a judge because they were not ready to start a family and took appropriate action when their birth control failed.
I'm extremely pleased to hear that it took a jury less than an hour to find them not guilty of the trumped-up charges, and they are now free to move on with their lives instead of being locked up for a simple human right - the right to govern one's own reproduction.
Feel free to comment all you like on this one, but I will GUARANTEE you I have an argument for every anti-choice point ever made, there is absolutely no way in hell I will ever change my mind about this particular belief. I have been 100% pro-choice since the day I was old enough to know what the word meant, and with the gaining of maturity and life experience, I only become more sure that it is my right, your right, the right of every woman on the face of this planet to be free to choose.
(I'm probably going to be throwing out a fair few four-letter words in this post... it's a subject that drives me to dropping f-bombs. I apologise in advance. I'm also going to apologise for the disjointedness of what's going to follow, I have a bit of trouble keeping a fluid line of thought going and will be jumping all over the place. Bear with me.)
Honestly, it pisses me off that so many people feel they have a right to pass judgement on a woman who has ended a pregnancy. I personally am not comfortable with the though of 'late-term' abortions and I myself have my hypothetical 'cut-off' point, but I recognise that there certainly is a need for some women to terminate a pregnancy after the socially-acceptable point of 12 weeks.
Obviously prevention is better than 'cure', but unless someone can come up with a way to sterilise females at birth and then somehow give them back their ability to conceive at an appropriate age, there is ALWAYS going to be the issue of unwanted, accidental and unintended pregnancies. Sorry, but that's the way it is. We are built to conceive, but just because most of us can, doesn't mean we want to, or that we should, or that we *can* continue a pregnancy to term. As a woman, and a feminist, it fucking offends me that ANYBODY would assume that because my reproductive organs are in good working order, I should be reduced to the status of incubator should my birth control fail.
Which it has. Twice. Neither of these accidental pregnancies resulted in children, not that it's any of your business. But I *know* what it's like to take every preventative measure available (including the morning-after pill) and then end up with a positive fucking piss test and no goddamn idea where I'm going to go from here.
Sure, I'm a grown woman in a very happy, stable marriage with a supportive partner who earns a good income - but the supply of money is not endless, nor is my physical or mental health infallible. I'm not Michelle Duggar, that's for damn sure - to be honest the woman drives me a bit crazy because she gives the rest of us non-supermums a bad name. I'm not capable of looking after fifteen kids in quick succession, nor would I ever wish my older children to take on the huge burden of caring for younger siblings because I'm always pregnant or tied up with a newborn. No, fuck that. I have no desire for any more children and that doesn't make me an awful person.
I'm getting my tubes tied as soon as I can find a doctor who will refer me for the procedure (two have already laughed me out of the room thanks to my age), but at least I can take care of that, knowing that I've already completed my family and just have no more use for my reproductive organs. I can destroy them without a second thought, they're useless to me now.
But what about the young men and women who are just embarking on their lives, studying, working, partying, capable of conceiving and just nowhere near ready to actually take the plunge into parenthood?
The birth control we have available to us in 2010 is sadly lacking. The pill, when taken correctly, has only a 98% success rate, condoms slightly worse off at 97%, and methods such as Implanon, Depo-Provera shots, IUDs etc ranging anywhere between 96% and 99.something%.
Did you notice something there? That's right, not ONE of those methods has a 100% success rate. I know, I know, only abstinence does. Well you wanna know something else? ABSTINENCE SUCKS. I'm a grown woman, in a stable relationship, who recognises sexual intimacy as one of the many valid forms of expressing love. Oh, and I don't mind an orgasm once in a while. If I hear one more anti-choice activist harp on about 'Don't want a baby? Then keep your legs shut,' chances are I'm going to track them down and smack them fair in the mouth. Except I won't, that would take a lot of effort, so I'm more likely to get pissed off and either cry or yell at my kids. So you can fuck right off with that argument straight up. It's stupid, it makes no sense, and you're free to go back to the Victorian era if you want, but I'm quite happy in the 21s century where sex is used for purposes other than creating babies.
'Don't want a baby? Wear a condom!' Yes, because that's worked for me. Twice, even. I'm fucking terrified of having children when I'm not ready for them. Both my daughters were planned right down to the month their birthdays would be in, so as to fit around the rest of the family's birthdays, and the fact that I hate Queensland summers enough without being heavily pregnant (I chose to have winter babies to avoid being sweaty AND 30kg over my normal weight range).
I have taken countless different forms of the birth control pill, and hated them all. For some reason, I'm one of the very few unlucky ones who suffers horrible side effects and honestly, I'm shithouse at organisational skills and can never remember to take the bleeding things at the right time. Find me a pill I only have to take once a week and I'd be sorted, provided it didn't have to be at a specific time - that's what screws me. I'm a SAHM with no routine, I like to sleep in and fly by the seat of my pants... Pill's just not for me. I know I'm not alone.
Same goes for injections, Implanons and all the other 'set and forget' methods of contraception. They fuck with my cycle, I gain too much weight, and in the case of the wonderful Implanon (which I would not even recommend to my worst enemy), there were even SUICIDE ATTEMPTS! Awesome! That'll sure stop me having a baby I don't want, without the need for offending people's moral sensibilities. I'll be DEAD. Fantastic, sign me up.
So, enough about me for a minute - back to these youngins who are having enough trouble paying the rent or finding themselves and don't want babies - what are they to do? Obviously, use protection. I'd never recommend anything different. For most people, protection works just the way it's meant to, but somehow the Boss and I together are dynamite in the conception stakes and the only 'safe' option here is a fucking hysterectomy. So I'm not going to get mad at some pair of 20-somethings who have big dreams of a full life and kids somewhere down the track, later - if the worst thing possible happens, I would never begrudge them the ability to hold onto those dreams and provide for a child if and when THEY are ready.
In the case of Tegan Leach and Sergie Brennan, they stated in court that they were simply 'not ready' for a child. They are young. They might be dumb. But for all we know, they were using birth control appropriately and it fucking failed them. That doesn't make them evil. It just makes nature a really cruel bitch. Can't we all just go through puberty when we're 25 instead of 12? That'd make unwanted pregnancies in youngsters a LOT easier to avoid.
I shouldn't even really get into the 'option' of adoption. This is another unfair system in our 'fair' country. Let me put it out there - for the vast majority of women in 2010, adoption is NOT an 'option'. It is purely a fanciful notion put forward by romantics who haven't thought very long or hard about the cruel realities of the system. It takes years of sitting on waiting lists and paying out thousands of dollars for prospective parents, and if it was so 'easy' to give children up for adoption, Australian couples wouldn't be going overseas to adopt children - they would be getting them here.
Never mind the prospective parents involved - this isn't like the 'good old days' when an unwed, expectant mother would be shipped off to 'Aunt Carol's place in the country' before she started showing and would come back about seven months later with a hollow sadness in her eyes and a pudgier belly than before. No, in 2010, you'd be expected to stay at work (would you even be entitled to maternity leave?) until your due date and face endless questions, judgments and 'looks' from people who find out you're 'not keeping it'. No. Unfortunately, while giving a child up for adoption is touted as the 'noble', 'selfless' option, the reality would be somewhat different, I imagine. People would talk behind your back. Ostracise you because they cannot understand why you would do such a thing. Your friends, family, your children, would not be able to comprehend that you are having a child, and not bringing it home from hospital. Instead, you're going to carry it for nine months, give birth to it, hand it over to officials and sentence it to a life shunted from foster home to foster home until someone finally gets approved to adopt it. You're then meant to go back to work, go back to school, and try to brush off the awkward silences, the catty comments, the lack of support from those around you.
Well fuck that. I'd rather take myself off to the clinic before I start showing and never tell a soul that I was pregnant in the first place. Problem solved. I mean hey, if you can hack that, and then the years of longing and worry and wondering what became of that child, you deserve a goddamn medal. Most of us aren't that brave. And I think that's human.
Another thing that really grinds my gears (and I don't even drive a manual!), is that 'pro-lifers' (pro-whose life, exactly? Certainly not the living, breathing, thinking woman who has already walked this earth for well over a decade, no, she doesn't matter at all, she's just a blood supply for a more important life, right?) have so much concern for an unborn child, but that concern seems to evaporate the minute the unwanted child is born.
They claim that they are looking out for the rights of the unborn child, but it doesn't ever seem to cross their minds that a CHILD should NEVER be used as a form of punishment. 'Take responsibility for your actions!' they screech. Like undergoing risky surgery to prevent someone else suffering is somehow avoiding consequences. Abortion is definitely a consequence. It is indeed 'facing the music' and 'taking responsibility'. It is often a way for an expecting woman to prevent the unnecessary suffering of an innocent child, and carries quite a number of risks to her physical and emotional wellbeing. For anybody to sit there and say that making the decision to terminate a pregnancy is somehow 'avoiding responsibility' is ludicrous.
Would these anti-choice activists be pleased to know that children are indeed suffering for being born to parents that are not prepared to raise them? It astounds me that there can be so much concern for the unborn, but so little thought put into the realities of what that child, and its parents, endure after abortion is taken off the table. They dedicate so much time and effort into preserving fetuses to punish women for having sex, and just expect women to become 'mothers' the instant that child comes into the world. Sorry, doesn't happen like that. There are far too many sad tales on the news about mistreated, neglected, abused and dead children who suffered at the hands of parents or carers who were ill-equipped or simply did not care to raise them. If 'pro-lifers' cared so much for the rights of children, and the rights of humans, they would recognise that sometimes it is truly in the best interests of some children to never be born.
And now, the nitty-gritty. Not just the 'what ifs'. Details.
Let me first get this out of the way. It's very important. ABORTION STATISTICS IN AUSTRALIA ARE GROSSLY FLAWED. Wanna know how? Because 1 in 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and quite a large number of these miscarriages are not 'complete miscarriages'. That is, women who have lost their babies then need to seek medical attention to remove 'retained products of conception', hopefully before infection sets in and potentially has an adverse effect on their fertility. Unfortunately, though, most hospitals are ill-equipped to carry out the surgery, known as a D&C, so these poor women, most of whom are grieving their lost babies, are referred instead to the nearest abortion clinic to sit amongst girls and women who are grieving different circumstances. Then the women who have had a D&C to remove 'retained products' are lumped into the same category of these other women, so the statistics show that 'abortions' have occurred when they simply have not.
Of course, the numbers are shocking if you take them on face value - but they're simply not a true representation of how many women choose to end a pregnancy for whatever reason. Genetic abnormalities, unviable pregnancies, 'lifestyle' reasons... the list goes on. And so do the lies.
I certainly wouldn't call abortion the 'easy' option, considering the jumping through hoops and the deliberate obstacles placed in our way. There are only three or four abortion clinics in the whole of Queensland outside the state's capital. For those of you unfamiliar with Queensland's size, that means women have to travel hundreds of miles just to reach a clinic. Then there's the costs involved - in excess of $600, upfront, nothing claimed back on Medicare, just for a termination before 10 weeks. It then goes up by $100 a week, so it's a huge financial blow. I mean, hey, I can't afford to have a baby, but I have $800 just sitting in my bank waiting to be spent in a day. Duh. Doctors will refer you to the relevant services because it's their job, but the snide comments and disapproving looks they give you say it all. That's just unfair. Like women who are struggling to make this difficult choice are immune to the feelings of guilt, shame, of being stigmatised.
The laws in this supposedly fair country make me absolutely sick sometimes. You can commit murder, call it manslaughter, and get out on parole in three years, but face the consequences of your actions with a heavy heart and end a pregnancy and you can be looking at seven years behind bars. Get real. If you can't trust women with choice, how the fuck can you trust us with a baby? Why are we still subjected to 110-year-old laws in a first-world country with citizens who are educated and have access to appropriate medical services when required? Why is our government sitting on its hands and claiming there's 'not enough public support' to change laws to protect women, their partners, and their right to CHOOSE? It's a complete farce.
I feel like I've rambled enough for tonight. It's nearly 2am. There's so much more to say, so feel free to ask for clarification and I'll update or write another post some other time.
But in short, I'm 100% pro-choice and anybody who doesn't like it can leave me and my uterus the fuck alone, thanks. If you don't like abortion, DON'T HAVE ONE. Pretty simple, really. I don't tell you what to do with your private business, so stay the hell out of mine.
Namely, I'm referring to one Tegan Leach and one Sergie Brennan, who were found not guilty today in a Cairns court of 'procuring an abortion'.
WHAT? Yeah, that's right. Hauled before a judge because they were not ready to start a family and took appropriate action when their birth control failed.
I'm extremely pleased to hear that it took a jury less than an hour to find them not guilty of the trumped-up charges, and they are now free to move on with their lives instead of being locked up for a simple human right - the right to govern one's own reproduction.
Feel free to comment all you like on this one, but I will GUARANTEE you I have an argument for every anti-choice point ever made, there is absolutely no way in hell I will ever change my mind about this particular belief. I have been 100% pro-choice since the day I was old enough to know what the word meant, and with the gaining of maturity and life experience, I only become more sure that it is my right, your right, the right of every woman on the face of this planet to be free to choose.
(I'm probably going to be throwing out a fair few four-letter words in this post... it's a subject that drives me to dropping f-bombs. I apologise in advance. I'm also going to apologise for the disjointedness of what's going to follow, I have a bit of trouble keeping a fluid line of thought going and will be jumping all over the place. Bear with me.)
Honestly, it pisses me off that so many people feel they have a right to pass judgement on a woman who has ended a pregnancy. I personally am not comfortable with the though of 'late-term' abortions and I myself have my hypothetical 'cut-off' point, but I recognise that there certainly is a need for some women to terminate a pregnancy after the socially-acceptable point of 12 weeks.
Obviously prevention is better than 'cure', but unless someone can come up with a way to sterilise females at birth and then somehow give them back their ability to conceive at an appropriate age, there is ALWAYS going to be the issue of unwanted, accidental and unintended pregnancies. Sorry, but that's the way it is. We are built to conceive, but just because most of us can, doesn't mean we want to, or that we should, or that we *can* continue a pregnancy to term. As a woman, and a feminist, it fucking offends me that ANYBODY would assume that because my reproductive organs are in good working order, I should be reduced to the status of incubator should my birth control fail.
Which it has. Twice. Neither of these accidental pregnancies resulted in children, not that it's any of your business. But I *know* what it's like to take every preventative measure available (including the morning-after pill) and then end up with a positive fucking piss test and no goddamn idea where I'm going to go from here.
Sure, I'm a grown woman in a very happy, stable marriage with a supportive partner who earns a good income - but the supply of money is not endless, nor is my physical or mental health infallible. I'm not Michelle Duggar, that's for damn sure - to be honest the woman drives me a bit crazy because she gives the rest of us non-supermums a bad name. I'm not capable of looking after fifteen kids in quick succession, nor would I ever wish my older children to take on the huge burden of caring for younger siblings because I'm always pregnant or tied up with a newborn. No, fuck that. I have no desire for any more children and that doesn't make me an awful person.
I'm getting my tubes tied as soon as I can find a doctor who will refer me for the procedure (two have already laughed me out of the room thanks to my age), but at least I can take care of that, knowing that I've already completed my family and just have no more use for my reproductive organs. I can destroy them without a second thought, they're useless to me now.
But what about the young men and women who are just embarking on their lives, studying, working, partying, capable of conceiving and just nowhere near ready to actually take the plunge into parenthood?
The birth control we have available to us in 2010 is sadly lacking. The pill, when taken correctly, has only a 98% success rate, condoms slightly worse off at 97%, and methods such as Implanon, Depo-Provera shots, IUDs etc ranging anywhere between 96% and 99.something%.
Did you notice something there? That's right, not ONE of those methods has a 100% success rate. I know, I know, only abstinence does. Well you wanna know something else? ABSTINENCE SUCKS. I'm a grown woman, in a stable relationship, who recognises sexual intimacy as one of the many valid forms of expressing love. Oh, and I don't mind an orgasm once in a while. If I hear one more anti-choice activist harp on about 'Don't want a baby? Then keep your legs shut,' chances are I'm going to track them down and smack them fair in the mouth. Except I won't, that would take a lot of effort, so I'm more likely to get pissed off and either cry or yell at my kids. So you can fuck right off with that argument straight up. It's stupid, it makes no sense, and you're free to go back to the Victorian era if you want, but I'm quite happy in the 21s century where sex is used for purposes other than creating babies.
'Don't want a baby? Wear a condom!' Yes, because that's worked for me. Twice, even. I'm fucking terrified of having children when I'm not ready for them. Both my daughters were planned right down to the month their birthdays would be in, so as to fit around the rest of the family's birthdays, and the fact that I hate Queensland summers enough without being heavily pregnant (I chose to have winter babies to avoid being sweaty AND 30kg over my normal weight range).
I have taken countless different forms of the birth control pill, and hated them all. For some reason, I'm one of the very few unlucky ones who suffers horrible side effects and honestly, I'm shithouse at organisational skills and can never remember to take the bleeding things at the right time. Find me a pill I only have to take once a week and I'd be sorted, provided it didn't have to be at a specific time - that's what screws me. I'm a SAHM with no routine, I like to sleep in and fly by the seat of my pants... Pill's just not for me. I know I'm not alone.
Same goes for injections, Implanons and all the other 'set and forget' methods of contraception. They fuck with my cycle, I gain too much weight, and in the case of the wonderful Implanon (which I would not even recommend to my worst enemy), there were even SUICIDE ATTEMPTS! Awesome! That'll sure stop me having a baby I don't want, without the need for offending people's moral sensibilities. I'll be DEAD. Fantastic, sign me up.
So, enough about me for a minute - back to these youngins who are having enough trouble paying the rent or finding themselves and don't want babies - what are they to do? Obviously, use protection. I'd never recommend anything different. For most people, protection works just the way it's meant to, but somehow the Boss and I together are dynamite in the conception stakes and the only 'safe' option here is a fucking hysterectomy. So I'm not going to get mad at some pair of 20-somethings who have big dreams of a full life and kids somewhere down the track, later - if the worst thing possible happens, I would never begrudge them the ability to hold onto those dreams and provide for a child if and when THEY are ready.
In the case of Tegan Leach and Sergie Brennan, they stated in court that they were simply 'not ready' for a child. They are young. They might be dumb. But for all we know, they were using birth control appropriately and it fucking failed them. That doesn't make them evil. It just makes nature a really cruel bitch. Can't we all just go through puberty when we're 25 instead of 12? That'd make unwanted pregnancies in youngsters a LOT easier to avoid.
I shouldn't even really get into the 'option' of adoption. This is another unfair system in our 'fair' country. Let me put it out there - for the vast majority of women in 2010, adoption is NOT an 'option'. It is purely a fanciful notion put forward by romantics who haven't thought very long or hard about the cruel realities of the system. It takes years of sitting on waiting lists and paying out thousands of dollars for prospective parents, and if it was so 'easy' to give children up for adoption, Australian couples wouldn't be going overseas to adopt children - they would be getting them here.
Never mind the prospective parents involved - this isn't like the 'good old days' when an unwed, expectant mother would be shipped off to 'Aunt Carol's place in the country' before she started showing and would come back about seven months later with a hollow sadness in her eyes and a pudgier belly than before. No, in 2010, you'd be expected to stay at work (would you even be entitled to maternity leave?) until your due date and face endless questions, judgments and 'looks' from people who find out you're 'not keeping it'. No. Unfortunately, while giving a child up for adoption is touted as the 'noble', 'selfless' option, the reality would be somewhat different, I imagine. People would talk behind your back. Ostracise you because they cannot understand why you would do such a thing. Your friends, family, your children, would not be able to comprehend that you are having a child, and not bringing it home from hospital. Instead, you're going to carry it for nine months, give birth to it, hand it over to officials and sentence it to a life shunted from foster home to foster home until someone finally gets approved to adopt it. You're then meant to go back to work, go back to school, and try to brush off the awkward silences, the catty comments, the lack of support from those around you.
Well fuck that. I'd rather take myself off to the clinic before I start showing and never tell a soul that I was pregnant in the first place. Problem solved. I mean hey, if you can hack that, and then the years of longing and worry and wondering what became of that child, you deserve a goddamn medal. Most of us aren't that brave. And I think that's human.
Another thing that really grinds my gears (and I don't even drive a manual!), is that 'pro-lifers' (pro-whose life, exactly? Certainly not the living, breathing, thinking woman who has already walked this earth for well over a decade, no, she doesn't matter at all, she's just a blood supply for a more important life, right?) have so much concern for an unborn child, but that concern seems to evaporate the minute the unwanted child is born.
They claim that they are looking out for the rights of the unborn child, but it doesn't ever seem to cross their minds that a CHILD should NEVER be used as a form of punishment. 'Take responsibility for your actions!' they screech. Like undergoing risky surgery to prevent someone else suffering is somehow avoiding consequences. Abortion is definitely a consequence. It is indeed 'facing the music' and 'taking responsibility'. It is often a way for an expecting woman to prevent the unnecessary suffering of an innocent child, and carries quite a number of risks to her physical and emotional wellbeing. For anybody to sit there and say that making the decision to terminate a pregnancy is somehow 'avoiding responsibility' is ludicrous.
Would these anti-choice activists be pleased to know that children are indeed suffering for being born to parents that are not prepared to raise them? It astounds me that there can be so much concern for the unborn, but so little thought put into the realities of what that child, and its parents, endure after abortion is taken off the table. They dedicate so much time and effort into preserving fetuses to punish women for having sex, and just expect women to become 'mothers' the instant that child comes into the world. Sorry, doesn't happen like that. There are far too many sad tales on the news about mistreated, neglected, abused and dead children who suffered at the hands of parents or carers who were ill-equipped or simply did not care to raise them. If 'pro-lifers' cared so much for the rights of children, and the rights of humans, they would recognise that sometimes it is truly in the best interests of some children to never be born.
And now, the nitty-gritty. Not just the 'what ifs'. Details.
Let me first get this out of the way. It's very important. ABORTION STATISTICS IN AUSTRALIA ARE GROSSLY FLAWED. Wanna know how? Because 1 in 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and quite a large number of these miscarriages are not 'complete miscarriages'. That is, women who have lost their babies then need to seek medical attention to remove 'retained products of conception', hopefully before infection sets in and potentially has an adverse effect on their fertility. Unfortunately, though, most hospitals are ill-equipped to carry out the surgery, known as a D&C, so these poor women, most of whom are grieving their lost babies, are referred instead to the nearest abortion clinic to sit amongst girls and women who are grieving different circumstances. Then the women who have had a D&C to remove 'retained products' are lumped into the same category of these other women, so the statistics show that 'abortions' have occurred when they simply have not.
Of course, the numbers are shocking if you take them on face value - but they're simply not a true representation of how many women choose to end a pregnancy for whatever reason. Genetic abnormalities, unviable pregnancies, 'lifestyle' reasons... the list goes on. And so do the lies.
I certainly wouldn't call abortion the 'easy' option, considering the jumping through hoops and the deliberate obstacles placed in our way. There are only three or four abortion clinics in the whole of Queensland outside the state's capital. For those of you unfamiliar with Queensland's size, that means women have to travel hundreds of miles just to reach a clinic. Then there's the costs involved - in excess of $600, upfront, nothing claimed back on Medicare, just for a termination before 10 weeks. It then goes up by $100 a week, so it's a huge financial blow. I mean, hey, I can't afford to have a baby, but I have $800 just sitting in my bank waiting to be spent in a day. Duh. Doctors will refer you to the relevant services because it's their job, but the snide comments and disapproving looks they give you say it all. That's just unfair. Like women who are struggling to make this difficult choice are immune to the feelings of guilt, shame, of being stigmatised.
The laws in this supposedly fair country make me absolutely sick sometimes. You can commit murder, call it manslaughter, and get out on parole in three years, but face the consequences of your actions with a heavy heart and end a pregnancy and you can be looking at seven years behind bars. Get real. If you can't trust women with choice, how the fuck can you trust us with a baby? Why are we still subjected to 110-year-old laws in a first-world country with citizens who are educated and have access to appropriate medical services when required? Why is our government sitting on its hands and claiming there's 'not enough public support' to change laws to protect women, their partners, and their right to CHOOSE? It's a complete farce.
I feel like I've rambled enough for tonight. It's nearly 2am. There's so much more to say, so feel free to ask for clarification and I'll update or write another post some other time.
But in short, I'm 100% pro-choice and anybody who doesn't like it can leave me and my uterus the fuck alone, thanks. If you don't like abortion, DON'T HAVE ONE. Pretty simple, really. I don't tell you what to do with your private business, so stay the hell out of mine.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Unfulfilled.
Dear McCafe,
Being part of the restaurant that pioneered the 'Supersize' phenomenon, it saddens (and shocks) me that you still have not made available a 'bucket' option for your hot beverages.
Evenings like this, I have not got enough spare change to buy two coffees, and I am wary of getting in my car and going all the way to McDonald's (especially on a Saturday night when I'm wearing daggy clothes and my hair is still wet from the shower), knowing that a tall chai latte is simply not going to satisfy me.
If you made your famous 'bladderbusters' available for other caffeinated beverages, I would hand in my Donut King loyalty card in a second and forever be grateful for your poor-quality coffee, so long as there was enough of it to get me off.
Kind regards,
Glamourcide.
Being part of the restaurant that pioneered the 'Supersize' phenomenon, it saddens (and shocks) me that you still have not made available a 'bucket' option for your hot beverages.
Evenings like this, I have not got enough spare change to buy two coffees, and I am wary of getting in my car and going all the way to McDonald's (especially on a Saturday night when I'm wearing daggy clothes and my hair is still wet from the shower), knowing that a tall chai latte is simply not going to satisfy me.
If you made your famous 'bladderbusters' available for other caffeinated beverages, I would hand in my Donut King loyalty card in a second and forever be grateful for your poor-quality coffee, so long as there was enough of it to get me off.
Kind regards,
Glamourcide.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Trigger
Don't think about it.
Don't talk about it.
Don't read about it.
Don't watch a segment on TV about it.
You're weak, you know. You used to be able to engage in week-long debates about this and never so much as cringe.
Now the word alone is enough to make you sick.
Fine then, just ignore it and pretend it never happened, princess.
Don't talk about it.
Don't read about it.
Don't watch a segment on TV about it.
You're weak, you know. You used to be able to engage in week-long debates about this and never so much as cringe.
Now the word alone is enough to make you sick.
Fine then, just ignore it and pretend it never happened, princess.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A perfect afternoon with PMS.
Step 1: Make the perfect mug of tea. Too much coffee (already had FOUR today) makes you jumpier than usual. Tea. Tea is good. Traditional Afternoon with two sugars and milk. The right temperature, the right amount of brewing time... aaaahhhh.
Step 2: Put Munchkin down for a nap while Squirtle is napping. Ahhh, the serenity. With tea. Doesn't get any better.
Step 3: Put on a good episode of Dr Phil, decide to do something productive and fold laundry. Dr Phil, tea, peace, smug sense of accomplishment. Aaaahhhhh :D
Step 4: Turn kids' clothes right-side-out, forgetting that feet on trackpants are always full of sand, and perfect cup of tea is sitting on the floor, waiting to catch expelled sand.
Step 5: Burst into tears. Boil kettle.
:(
Step 2: Put Munchkin down for a nap while Squirtle is napping. Ahhh, the serenity. With tea. Doesn't get any better.
Step 3: Put on a good episode of Dr Phil, decide to do something productive and fold laundry. Dr Phil, tea, peace, smug sense of accomplishment. Aaaahhhhh :D
Step 4: Turn kids' clothes right-side-out, forgetting that feet on trackpants are always full of sand, and perfect cup of tea is sitting on the floor, waiting to catch expelled sand.
Step 5: Burst into tears. Boil kettle.
:(
Bad Habit (Pt II)
Dear Allen Carr,
Get to the fucking point already.
At this rate, I'll be diagnosed with terminal lung cancer before I manage to get through this book and stop feeling like I've been reading the same three pages over and over again for almost a week.
Christ. I get it. I understand. Next point, please. Bring me closer to the end so I can throw out these darbs and 'get free'! One can only read a sentence rephrased so many times before one loses her temper and hits the Longbeaches (yup, that 'last pack'? I'm on my THIRD 'last pack'. Thanks for dragging it out, Mr Carr).
Regards,
Glamourcide.
Get to the fucking point already.
At this rate, I'll be diagnosed with terminal lung cancer before I manage to get through this book and stop feeling like I've been reading the same three pages over and over again for almost a week.
Christ. I get it. I understand. Next point, please. Bring me closer to the end so I can throw out these darbs and 'get free'! One can only read a sentence rephrased so many times before one loses her temper and hits the Longbeaches (yup, that 'last pack'? I'm on my THIRD 'last pack'. Thanks for dragging it out, Mr Carr).
Regards,
Glamourcide.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Bad Habit
Wanna know what I spend $8000 a year on?
That's right. A dirty, dirty habit that I am finally about to break.
For good this time.
I can still vividly recall the first time I ever smoked. I was 12 years old, in the first few months of high school. Standing near the wash-basins in the O Block toilets (yeah, really smart in hindsight when the Special Ed teachers' staffroom was within sniffing distance) with about eight other girls. Passing around a limp Winfield Red, taking turns at bum-puffing and sneering at any who dared cough or splutter.
I was hooked right from that first moment. Neither of my parents smoke, and my grumbly old chain-smoking gran had passed away the previous year. So I enlisted friends with nicotine-addicted parents to smuggle away the odd cigarette here and there in exchange for shrapnel, a lip gloss they'd coveted, a lend of my favourite Spice Girls CD.
We'd sneak off to the toilets, hide in a cubicle and exchange goods. The precious cigarette or two would be zipped into the hood pocket of my navy-and-white school-issue spray jacket, where I knew my mother would never dream of looking. I'd treat my synthetic jacket like it was made of mink until I could get home and transfer the illicit ciggies to my favourite hiding-place - a drawer in my wardrobe where my underwear was housed.
I was always a pretty responsible kid. My mum had no problems leaving me at home alone for a couple of hours at a time so she could do the grocery shopping or run some other errand after she finished work.
And as soon as she pulled out of the drive-way, I'd get out that cigarette and a box of matches, climb a tree in the yard so the stench wouldn't invade the house (and no nosy neighbours could bust me among the foliage), and savour every last bum-puff, right down to the filter.
Then I'd dispose of the evidence, run upstairs and shower, shampoo my hair and scrub my teeth to remove any and all traces before my parents came home.
It wasn't long before I worked out that I could scrape up enough spare change to buy a pack of Longbeach Mild (now known as 'Original') 20's, and if I sat outside the corner store long enough, eventually I'd come across someone who was willing to walk inside and add those cigarettes to their milk, newspaper and chocolate bar.
And so it went. I was 15 and a complete slave to Big Tobacco.
Of course I thought I was cool. The taste was disgusting, the smell absolutely vile, but I just. didn't. want. to. stop.
My Dad found out when I was 16. He was dropping me at a friend's house for a party, and seeing as I was dolled up in all my finery, I figured I could get away with buying my own cigarettes for a change. I went into the store, got my darbs, and tried to hide the small pack against the back of my thigh as I got back into the car. Dad gave me a lecture, I told him they were for my friend and she'd asked me to pick some up on my way over, he rolled his eyes and let it go - by then, I was already half-way off the rails and smoking was one more battle my parents couldn't be arsed dealing with when they had so many other things to worry about in their own lives.
They were right in a way, though - they could lecture, punish and carry on all they wanted, I was going to smoke. So they started buying me packs of cigarettes themselves and figured it saved them the headache of arguing with me.
I got suspended from school at least three times for smoking - once I did it right in front of a teacher. I was beyond caring. You all know we're sitting down here smoking, why bother hiding it? Suspensions got me three days to sit at home in my pyjamas and smoke as much as I fucking wanted. As a rebellious 17-year-old, that was a good thing.
Now I'm 24 years old and have been a pack-a-day smoker for about 6 years. Tailors started costing me too much when I was 20, so I started smoking rollies. Even with the cheaper option, I'm spending $150 a WEEK on the filthy things.
'You could be buying me a shitload of gourmet cat food with that money.'
I've tried to quit. Numerous times. Probably eight or nine by now? And I've never managed to go a full 24 hours without a cigarette. Even when I was pregnant. Even when I was going into surgery under general anaesthetic and told smoking before the op could mean I don't wake up. About an hour after the birth of my second child, I was out in the carpark holding my stomach and chaffing away as though my life depended on it - and I'd been whingeing at the nurses to let me to out for a cigarette since the cord was cut.
I just can't kick the habit, and it makes no sense to me. I smoked pot for 4 years and then just quit one day. No turning back. Okay, except for that one weekend on the Gold Coast with old friends when the Boss and I got blind rotten drunk and easily influenced - but that was one cone in 3 years of being clean and while it felt great at the time, I don't miss it and I don't even think about it.
I've tried patches. I've tried lozenges and gum. I've tried distraction. I've tried reading the books, joining the websites and calling the Quitline. Tried cold turkey, cutting down, even went on Champix and it was no bloody wonder I just kept smoking, what with feeling sick as a dog and having horrific nightmares all the time.
And I still have that big old biscuit tin full of empty tobacco pouches and papers sitting right outside my front door.
I'm writing this with a cigarette between my fingers right now.
But enough is enough.
It's time to kick the habit. This dirty, filthy habit that has endangered the life of my children and put my own health and safety on the line. This grotty, stinking habit that literally burns any spare cash I have and denies me small pleasure in life like new handbags, good skin and tickets to Paramore concerts.
The Boss and I are in agreement. Today, I am going to Chemist Warehouse to stock up on Nicabate lozenges (and hair dye), charging up my Kindle so I can purchase this Alan Carr book everyone's recommended, buying a pack of tailor-mades to wean myself off properly, and when those 30 Longbeach Originals are gone... so is my dirty habit.
My addiction, on the other hand... will be worked on.
Wish me luck. This is going to be a tough one. I'm a creature of habit, and this particular one has been my favourite for far too long.
That's right. A dirty, dirty habit that I am finally about to break.
For good this time.
I can still vividly recall the first time I ever smoked. I was 12 years old, in the first few months of high school. Standing near the wash-basins in the O Block toilets (yeah, really smart in hindsight when the Special Ed teachers' staffroom was within sniffing distance) with about eight other girls. Passing around a limp Winfield Red, taking turns at bum-puffing and sneering at any who dared cough or splutter.
I was hooked right from that first moment. Neither of my parents smoke, and my grumbly old chain-smoking gran had passed away the previous year. So I enlisted friends with nicotine-addicted parents to smuggle away the odd cigarette here and there in exchange for shrapnel, a lip gloss they'd coveted, a lend of my favourite Spice Girls CD.
We'd sneak off to the toilets, hide in a cubicle and exchange goods. The precious cigarette or two would be zipped into the hood pocket of my navy-and-white school-issue spray jacket, where I knew my mother would never dream of looking. I'd treat my synthetic jacket like it was made of mink until I could get home and transfer the illicit ciggies to my favourite hiding-place - a drawer in my wardrobe where my underwear was housed.
I was always a pretty responsible kid. My mum had no problems leaving me at home alone for a couple of hours at a time so she could do the grocery shopping or run some other errand after she finished work.
And as soon as she pulled out of the drive-way, I'd get out that cigarette and a box of matches, climb a tree in the yard so the stench wouldn't invade the house (and no nosy neighbours could bust me among the foliage), and savour every last bum-puff, right down to the filter.
Then I'd dispose of the evidence, run upstairs and shower, shampoo my hair and scrub my teeth to remove any and all traces before my parents came home.
It wasn't long before I worked out that I could scrape up enough spare change to buy a pack of Longbeach Mild (now known as 'Original') 20's, and if I sat outside the corner store long enough, eventually I'd come across someone who was willing to walk inside and add those cigarettes to their milk, newspaper and chocolate bar.
And so it went. I was 15 and a complete slave to Big Tobacco.
Of course I thought I was cool. The taste was disgusting, the smell absolutely vile, but I just. didn't. want. to. stop.
My Dad found out when I was 16. He was dropping me at a friend's house for a party, and seeing as I was dolled up in all my finery, I figured I could get away with buying my own cigarettes for a change. I went into the store, got my darbs, and tried to hide the small pack against the back of my thigh as I got back into the car. Dad gave me a lecture, I told him they were for my friend and she'd asked me to pick some up on my way over, he rolled his eyes and let it go - by then, I was already half-way off the rails and smoking was one more battle my parents couldn't be arsed dealing with when they had so many other things to worry about in their own lives.
They were right in a way, though - they could lecture, punish and carry on all they wanted, I was going to smoke. So they started buying me packs of cigarettes themselves and figured it saved them the headache of arguing with me.
I got suspended from school at least three times for smoking - once I did it right in front of a teacher. I was beyond caring. You all know we're sitting down here smoking, why bother hiding it? Suspensions got me three days to sit at home in my pyjamas and smoke as much as I fucking wanted. As a rebellious 17-year-old, that was a good thing.
Now I'm 24 years old and have been a pack-a-day smoker for about 6 years. Tailors started costing me too much when I was 20, so I started smoking rollies. Even with the cheaper option, I'm spending $150 a WEEK on the filthy things.
'You could be buying me a shitload of gourmet cat food with that money.'
I've tried to quit. Numerous times. Probably eight or nine by now? And I've never managed to go a full 24 hours without a cigarette. Even when I was pregnant. Even when I was going into surgery under general anaesthetic and told smoking before the op could mean I don't wake up. About an hour after the birth of my second child, I was out in the carpark holding my stomach and chaffing away as though my life depended on it - and I'd been whingeing at the nurses to let me to out for a cigarette since the cord was cut.
I just can't kick the habit, and it makes no sense to me. I smoked pot for 4 years and then just quit one day. No turning back. Okay, except for that one weekend on the Gold Coast with old friends when the Boss and I got blind rotten drunk and easily influenced - but that was one cone in 3 years of being clean and while it felt great at the time, I don't miss it and I don't even think about it.
I've tried patches. I've tried lozenges and gum. I've tried distraction. I've tried reading the books, joining the websites and calling the Quitline. Tried cold turkey, cutting down, even went on Champix and it was no bloody wonder I just kept smoking, what with feeling sick as a dog and having horrific nightmares all the time.
And I still have that big old biscuit tin full of empty tobacco pouches and papers sitting right outside my front door.
I'm writing this with a cigarette between my fingers right now.
But enough is enough.
It's time to kick the habit. This dirty, filthy habit that has endangered the life of my children and put my own health and safety on the line. This grotty, stinking habit that literally burns any spare cash I have and denies me small pleasure in life like new handbags, good skin and tickets to Paramore concerts.
The Boss and I are in agreement. Today, I am going to Chemist Warehouse to stock up on Nicabate lozenges (and hair dye), charging up my Kindle so I can purchase this Alan Carr book everyone's recommended, buying a pack of tailor-mades to wean myself off properly, and when those 30 Longbeach Originals are gone... so is my dirty habit.
My addiction, on the other hand... will be worked on.
Wish me luck. This is going to be a tough one. I'm a creature of habit, and this particular one has been my favourite for far too long.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Karma.
I don't usually like to add, 'is a bitch', but she sure must be PMSing today!
Scenario:
You've lost a few kilos, bought some new clothes for summer. The Boss is working extra hours, meaning earlier starts, so you have extra time in the mornings for small pleasures you'd almost forgotten, like applying makeup and making your hair look like you've done something to it. (And, may I just add here, a big thank-you to Britney Spears for making scruffy, scraped-back thirty-second hair look good - works a charm for me when I cbf waiting for my straightener to heat up!)
You drop the Munchkin at daycare and head for the shops with Squirtle in tow. Upon arrival, you exit your car and out of the corner of your eye, notice two exceptionally attractive boys heading for their car.
You do the whole pretending-to-ignore-them-even-though-they're-making-you-a-little-sweaty thing, and realise that not only are they copping a perve, they're exchanging comments on your admirable presentation on this rainy day.
Yeah. Rainy day. Here's where it all goes to shit.
You pretend you haven't heard or seen them, throw a bit more swagger into your step, and BAM - slip in a puddle and send your car keys flying and nearly drop your baby.
Well. Fucking. Done. Moron!
So this is what I get for making an effort... knew there was a reason I never bothered! I think I prefer looking like a schlub so I don't have to feel uncomfortable at the slightest bit of male attention.
Oh well. At least there's one bloke in the world who can still find me attractive even though I have the gross motor skills of a 10-month-old sometimes :/
Scenario:
You've lost a few kilos, bought some new clothes for summer. The Boss is working extra hours, meaning earlier starts, so you have extra time in the mornings for small pleasures you'd almost forgotten, like applying makeup and making your hair look like you've done something to it. (And, may I just add here, a big thank-you to Britney Spears for making scruffy, scraped-back thirty-second hair look good - works a charm for me when I cbf waiting for my straightener to heat up!)
You drop the Munchkin at daycare and head for the shops with Squirtle in tow. Upon arrival, you exit your car and out of the corner of your eye, notice two exceptionally attractive boys heading for their car.
You do the whole pretending-to-ignore-them-even-though-they're-making-you-a-little-sweaty thing, and realise that not only are they copping a perve, they're exchanging comments on your admirable presentation on this rainy day.
Yeah. Rainy day. Here's where it all goes to shit.
You pretend you haven't heard or seen them, throw a bit more swagger into your step, and BAM - slip in a puddle and send your car keys flying and nearly drop your baby.
Well. Fucking. Done. Moron!
So this is what I get for making an effort... knew there was a reason I never bothered! I think I prefer looking like a schlub so I don't have to feel uncomfortable at the slightest bit of male attention.
Oh well. At least there's one bloke in the world who can still find me attractive even though I have the gross motor skills of a 10-month-old sometimes :/
Friday, September 17, 2010
Broken back, whole baby.
My 16-month-old co-sleeps. And I. Don't. Care!
I never knew about 'gentle' or 'attachment' parenting with my first daughter. We cried it out, we used our Baby Bjorn for about two weeks until my back got so sore I cried at the mere thought of strapping it on, we smacked her butt when she misbehaved and we, shamefully, didn't know any better.
I trusted my mother's advice because she raised two kids and at least one of us turned out okay. (That would be me... I'm not even going to start on my brother...)
Munchkin's birth was traumatic. Devastating. Nearly killed me, and that's no exaggeration. The adjustment to becoming a mother and caring for a newborn who depended on me for everything but breathing, was overwhelming. My body was broken, and my spirit almost followed. So I asked for help, and took the advice of those I trusted, and at the time, it worked for me.
But after stumbling across a parenting forum that is dedicated to gentle parenting and provides massive amounts of resources to help parents who 'don't know any better', I decided to do things differently second time around.
And it worked! My pregnancy was wonderful despite incredible family stress and the hard work of running around after an almost-two-year-old while heavily pregnant. Squirtle's birth was about as close to a positive experience as possible in a clinical setting with strangers assisting (or, walking out of the room and leaving me labour practically alone and terrified when I needed assistance), baby's position being posterior and me panicking that something was very, very wrong. We established a beautiful nursing relationship before her cord was cut and continued to nurse exclusively for almost 6 months (I wish we'd gone longer but circumstances prevented it - I tried my goddamn best and I'm proud that I managed to get that far). I did all the 'right' things with my little velcro baby, bought a sling (in leopard-print!), co-slept part-time, I did my homework and decided that she needed comfort and reassurance, not 'training'.
And now, at 16 months, my tiny velcro baby has grown into a big velcro toddler, and I don't mind at all.
Sure, it's frustrating when I'm busy or just want some time to sit on the couch and paint my toenails, and she wants to be cradled in my arms and snuggle against my chest. Sure, it can get annoying when she's overtired or overstimulated and just cries and cries and cries unless I sit quietly with her and hold her until she settles. Yeah, my chiropractor LOVES that I still climb into a tiny port-a-cot with a strapping toddler to give her a bottle and get her to sleep at night. My neck hates me, but whaddaya gonna do? She wants her mummy, she can have her mummy.
The Boss gave me the lecture a few nights ago. I'm 'doing it wrong'. The evidence that I'm a failure as a mother? The fact that I'm the first and only person my youngest daughter turns to when she needs anything - encouragement, praise, food, cuddles, a band-aid. Yep, she must hate me for the way I've raised her.
Despite my retort that all the scientific research I've found, and the vast majority of anecdotal evidence, supports gentle parenting, co-sleeping and other aspects of raising babies to become well-adjusted, happy and secure children, teens and adults - I'm doing a poor job and I must lay. down. the. law already! For Christ's sake, she's going to be two soon and she *still* has to have me lay down with her at night to get her to sleep?
Yeah. And the problem is...?
So I decided I'd give the Boss's advice a shot. I'll try self-settling (I hate the term 'cry it out') and we'll see how it goes. If it works, then great - it's probably about time she learned to put herself to sleep at night, and if it doesn't, then no stress - I think my poor neck can take a while longer of being twisted up for fifteen minutes a night. No biggie.
Thursday night, I put Squirtle to bed, in her cot, with a bottle, and lay with her until she'd finished it. I climbed out of the cot, said my goodnight and went back to my beloved Facebook. She stood up in her cot, whinged for a minute or two, then - silence.
That's usually how it happens, anyway.
Last night, I put her to bed, and she stood up and cried before I'd left the room. The Boss said, 'No.'
So I waited. 'But she's not whingeing. She's CRYING. She isn't going to sleep.'
'You left her last night and look what happened - asleep in two minutes.'
'Yes, but that was a whinge, not a cry. Tonight she's practically already hysterical.'
'Just wait.'
So I waited. I sat on the couch bouncing my knees up and down and tapping my fist against my thigh. She wasn't going to settle, I knew this, I just needed to make it look like I was trying to give the Boss what he wanted.
I didn't look at the clock, I just waited until I couldn't stand the crying any more and got up to soothe her. I lay in bed with her, she settled, I stood up and she followed suit, screaming.
I tried it again - lay her down, say goodnight, leave the room.
Less than two minutes later I was back in there as Squirtle sounded like she was about to pop an artery. She was bright red, her face wet with tears, her cries the distressed and panicked type that no parent should ever force upon their baby.
I took Squirtle out to the lounge room again and smirked at the Boss. Yeah, I'm a terrible mother. I know I am when I make my child cry for no reason.
I understand that this isn't going to work for everyone. I know that when I had Munchkin, my emotional state was so fragile that a clinging, crying and unsettled baby would probably have led to one of us getting hurt - very badly. I understand that not all parents are able to brush off the constant neediness of a small child and find self-settling better for their circumstances.
I just can't do it, and I don't see a need.
I'm perfectly happy to cuddle my baby when she wants me. It's no inconvenience for me to lie on the couch with her snuggled up to my chest, and watch TV until she falls asleep. It's not a rod for my back, and I wish my mother and my husband would just leave it alone instead of criticising me every step.
My daughter loves and needs me, and I am here to provide her with that comfort, security and reassurance. I am confident that she will grow out of it in her own time, and she may be a better person as an adult if I give her what she craves now.
It's instinct. Instinct I ignored with my first child, and I'm not an idiot - I learn from my mistakes and try to improve next time.
My philosophy is this: these precious early years disappear too fast. Looking back, the 'struggle' with a clingy child will seem like it lasted minutes, not years. If I'm not having any more babies, I'm not going to waste this time with selfishness and 'routine'. I'm going to let her be a baby, and enjoy it, even the hard parts. I won't have this time back ever again, and it will be such a tiny period in the long run, I don't care about losing free time, losing sleep, or losing the ability to leave my kids with anybody while I go off and have 'me time'. I can work around my children's needs so that everybody's happy.
And I proved a point. Gotta love it when I'm right!
I never knew about 'gentle' or 'attachment' parenting with my first daughter. We cried it out, we used our Baby Bjorn for about two weeks until my back got so sore I cried at the mere thought of strapping it on, we smacked her butt when she misbehaved and we, shamefully, didn't know any better.
I trusted my mother's advice because she raised two kids and at least one of us turned out okay. (That would be me... I'm not even going to start on my brother...)
Munchkin's birth was traumatic. Devastating. Nearly killed me, and that's no exaggeration. The adjustment to becoming a mother and caring for a newborn who depended on me for everything but breathing, was overwhelming. My body was broken, and my spirit almost followed. So I asked for help, and took the advice of those I trusted, and at the time, it worked for me.
But after stumbling across a parenting forum that is dedicated to gentle parenting and provides massive amounts of resources to help parents who 'don't know any better', I decided to do things differently second time around.
And it worked! My pregnancy was wonderful despite incredible family stress and the hard work of running around after an almost-two-year-old while heavily pregnant. Squirtle's birth was about as close to a positive experience as possible in a clinical setting with strangers assisting (or, walking out of the room and leaving me labour practically alone and terrified when I needed assistance), baby's position being posterior and me panicking that something was very, very wrong. We established a beautiful nursing relationship before her cord was cut and continued to nurse exclusively for almost 6 months (I wish we'd gone longer but circumstances prevented it - I tried my goddamn best and I'm proud that I managed to get that far). I did all the 'right' things with my little velcro baby, bought a sling (in leopard-print!), co-slept part-time, I did my homework and decided that she needed comfort and reassurance, not 'training'.
And now, at 16 months, my tiny velcro baby has grown into a big velcro toddler, and I don't mind at all.
Sure, it's frustrating when I'm busy or just want some time to sit on the couch and paint my toenails, and she wants to be cradled in my arms and snuggle against my chest. Sure, it can get annoying when she's overtired or overstimulated and just cries and cries and cries unless I sit quietly with her and hold her until she settles. Yeah, my chiropractor LOVES that I still climb into a tiny port-a-cot with a strapping toddler to give her a bottle and get her to sleep at night. My neck hates me, but whaddaya gonna do? She wants her mummy, she can have her mummy.
The Boss gave me the lecture a few nights ago. I'm 'doing it wrong'. The evidence that I'm a failure as a mother? The fact that I'm the first and only person my youngest daughter turns to when she needs anything - encouragement, praise, food, cuddles, a band-aid. Yep, she must hate me for the way I've raised her.
Despite my retort that all the scientific research I've found, and the vast majority of anecdotal evidence, supports gentle parenting, co-sleeping and other aspects of raising babies to become well-adjusted, happy and secure children, teens and adults - I'm doing a poor job and I must lay. down. the. law already! For Christ's sake, she's going to be two soon and she *still* has to have me lay down with her at night to get her to sleep?
Yeah. And the problem is...?
So I decided I'd give the Boss's advice a shot. I'll try self-settling (I hate the term 'cry it out') and we'll see how it goes. If it works, then great - it's probably about time she learned to put herself to sleep at night, and if it doesn't, then no stress - I think my poor neck can take a while longer of being twisted up for fifteen minutes a night. No biggie.
Thursday night, I put Squirtle to bed, in her cot, with a bottle, and lay with her until she'd finished it. I climbed out of the cot, said my goodnight and went back to my beloved Facebook. She stood up in her cot, whinged for a minute or two, then - silence.
That's usually how it happens, anyway.
Last night, I put her to bed, and she stood up and cried before I'd left the room. The Boss said, 'No.'
So I waited. 'But she's not whingeing. She's CRYING. She isn't going to sleep.'
'You left her last night and look what happened - asleep in two minutes.'
'Yes, but that was a whinge, not a cry. Tonight she's practically already hysterical.'
'Just wait.'
So I waited. I sat on the couch bouncing my knees up and down and tapping my fist against my thigh. She wasn't going to settle, I knew this, I just needed to make it look like I was trying to give the Boss what he wanted.
I didn't look at the clock, I just waited until I couldn't stand the crying any more and got up to soothe her. I lay in bed with her, she settled, I stood up and she followed suit, screaming.
I tried it again - lay her down, say goodnight, leave the room.
Less than two minutes later I was back in there as Squirtle sounded like she was about to pop an artery. She was bright red, her face wet with tears, her cries the distressed and panicked type that no parent should ever force upon their baby.
I took Squirtle out to the lounge room again and smirked at the Boss. Yeah, I'm a terrible mother. I know I am when I make my child cry for no reason.
I understand that this isn't going to work for everyone. I know that when I had Munchkin, my emotional state was so fragile that a clinging, crying and unsettled baby would probably have led to one of us getting hurt - very badly. I understand that not all parents are able to brush off the constant neediness of a small child and find self-settling better for their circumstances.
I just can't do it, and I don't see a need.
I'm perfectly happy to cuddle my baby when she wants me. It's no inconvenience for me to lie on the couch with her snuggled up to my chest, and watch TV until she falls asleep. It's not a rod for my back, and I wish my mother and my husband would just leave it alone instead of criticising me every step.
My daughter loves and needs me, and I am here to provide her with that comfort, security and reassurance. I am confident that she will grow out of it in her own time, and she may be a better person as an adult if I give her what she craves now.
It's instinct. Instinct I ignored with my first child, and I'm not an idiot - I learn from my mistakes and try to improve next time.
My philosophy is this: these precious early years disappear too fast. Looking back, the 'struggle' with a clingy child will seem like it lasted minutes, not years. If I'm not having any more babies, I'm not going to waste this time with selfishness and 'routine'. I'm going to let her be a baby, and enjoy it, even the hard parts. I won't have this time back ever again, and it will be such a tiny period in the long run, I don't care about losing free time, losing sleep, or losing the ability to leave my kids with anybody while I go off and have 'me time'. I can work around my children's needs so that everybody's happy.
And I proved a point. Gotta love it when I'm right!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Deadly Thin.
I know it's wrong.
I know it's sick.
But watching episodes of Dr Phil featuring guests who are suffering such severe cases of anorexia that they are literally about to keel over and die, makes me absurdly happy.
Because maybe one day, I might be that thin.
One day.
Maybe.
I know it's sick.
But watching episodes of Dr Phil featuring guests who are suffering such severe cases of anorexia that they are literally about to keel over and die, makes me absurdly happy.
Because maybe one day, I might be that thin.
One day.
Maybe.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Judge, jury and executioner.
And we're all guilty.
Guilty as charged.
But don't ever admit it, or someone may judge you.
As a stiletto-wearing, mascara-obsessed, non-career-oriented feminist, it offends me to see us women being our own worst enemies. We'd all be only mildly less threatening to each other if we went around pointing semi-automatic weapons in each other's faces while wearing combat boots.
We're all fond of a gossip, this is true. But today, let's call it by its real name: condemnation. We get together over coffee, we bump into each other in public toilets or at the shops, we call each other up when we've got some free time and talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, air our grievances, and get feedback on whether we're 'right' in our judgments and momentarily feel better about ourselves.
What is it with women and our inherent ability to sneer at those around us, judge their words and actions and label them 'less than'?
Don't get me wrong. I'm just as guilty as you are. Maybe even more. I'm not sitting here on my high horse pretending I'm perfect, I know I'm just as much of a bitch as the next female. But I'm learning to hold my tongue, reserve my judgment and stop pigeon-holing everyone into neat little boxes that enable me to feel good about myself by taking others down a notch or two.
We have a bloody long way to go in our society. For a community that claims to be free- and forward-thinking, we are sometimes still as mired in the mentality of our Victorian forebears as the 'conservatives' we denounce.
We don't like working mothers. (Why bother having any if you're just going to dump them in daycare and let someone else raise them while you chase a promotion?)
We don't like stay-at-home mothers. (Way to destroy everything we've worked for for fifty years, throw away your potential and sit around in your pyjamas all day refusing to contribute to society!)
We don't like young mothers. (Keep yer bloody legs shut, you're too dumb to raise a family.)
We don't like old mothers. (You selfish cow, why didn't you marry off at 21 and have kids when you should have?)
We don't like promiscuous women. (Dirty whore. 'Nuff said.)
We don't like chaste women. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is, carrying on like she's better than us?)
We don't like social butterflies. (Too vain is her problem, why can't she stay at home and look after her man/kids instead of flashing it around all over town like she's special?)
We don't like homebodies. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is refusing invitations to come out with us like she's better than us?)
We don't like childless mothers. (You won't know what you're missing out on until it's too late - mark my words!)
We don't like potential mothers. (Would you just give up on this IVF nonsense already and face facts? What about adoption? Maybe you just need a holiday and to stop thinking about it so much, it'll happen when you're not expecting it.)
We don't like married women. (This isn't the 1950's, you don't need a piece of paper to prove your commitment to someone.)
We don't like single women. (What are you, commitment-phobic? Just set the date already!)
We don't like militant idealists. (How dare you make me feel bad about my own choices? Just shut up already!)
We don't like passive 'don't fix what ain't broke' types. (God, would you get a clue? You can't just float through life not caring about anything outside your own private bubble.)
We don't like subservient women. (Too much under the thumb, is her problem. Needs to stand up for herself and tell that man she ain't making any more sandwiches.)
We don't like them to be in positions of power, either. (Ugh, what's she got, concrete balls? Tell her to get back in the kitchen where she belongs.)
The list goes on for days, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, someone, somewhere, is pointing the finger and saying, 'She's doing it wrong'. And chances are, that person is a woman. A woman who should, if not understand, then at least put herself in your shoes for a moment and say, 'What if?'
The truth of the matter is, there is a weight on my shoulders and I'm relating everything back to it right now. I'm still not ready to talk about it, but I'm tired of keeping things to myself for fear of being judged by those I trust to support me. It's unfair, it's unnecessary, and you're just as flawed as I am.
Be kind to each other.
Guilty as charged.
But don't ever admit it, or someone may judge you.
As a stiletto-wearing, mascara-obsessed, non-career-oriented feminist, it offends me to see us women being our own worst enemies. We'd all be only mildly less threatening to each other if we went around pointing semi-automatic weapons in each other's faces while wearing combat boots.
We're all fond of a gossip, this is true. But today, let's call it by its real name: condemnation. We get together over coffee, we bump into each other in public toilets or at the shops, we call each other up when we've got some free time and talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, air our grievances, and get feedback on whether we're 'right' in our judgments and momentarily feel better about ourselves.
What is it with women and our inherent ability to sneer at those around us, judge their words and actions and label them 'less than'?
Don't get me wrong. I'm just as guilty as you are. Maybe even more. I'm not sitting here on my high horse pretending I'm perfect, I know I'm just as much of a bitch as the next female. But I'm learning to hold my tongue, reserve my judgment and stop pigeon-holing everyone into neat little boxes that enable me to feel good about myself by taking others down a notch or two.
We have a bloody long way to go in our society. For a community that claims to be free- and forward-thinking, we are sometimes still as mired in the mentality of our Victorian forebears as the 'conservatives' we denounce.
We don't like working mothers. (Why bother having any if you're just going to dump them in daycare and let someone else raise them while you chase a promotion?)
We don't like stay-at-home mothers. (Way to destroy everything we've worked for for fifty years, throw away your potential and sit around in your pyjamas all day refusing to contribute to society!)
We don't like young mothers. (Keep yer bloody legs shut, you're too dumb to raise a family.)
We don't like old mothers. (You selfish cow, why didn't you marry off at 21 and have kids when you should have?)
We don't like promiscuous women. (Dirty whore. 'Nuff said.)
We don't like chaste women. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is, carrying on like she's better than us?)
We don't like social butterflies. (Too vain is her problem, why can't she stay at home and look after her man/kids instead of flashing it around all over town like she's special?)
We don't like homebodies. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is refusing invitations to come out with us like she's better than us?)
We don't like childless mothers. (You won't know what you're missing out on until it's too late - mark my words!)
We don't like potential mothers. (Would you just give up on this IVF nonsense already and face facts? What about adoption? Maybe you just need a holiday and to stop thinking about it so much, it'll happen when you're not expecting it.)
We don't like married women. (This isn't the 1950's, you don't need a piece of paper to prove your commitment to someone.)
We don't like single women. (What are you, commitment-phobic? Just set the date already!)
We don't like militant idealists. (How dare you make me feel bad about my own choices? Just shut up already!)
We don't like passive 'don't fix what ain't broke' types. (God, would you get a clue? You can't just float through life not caring about anything outside your own private bubble.)
We don't like subservient women. (Too much under the thumb, is her problem. Needs to stand up for herself and tell that man she ain't making any more sandwiches.)
We don't like them to be in positions of power, either. (Ugh, what's she got, concrete balls? Tell her to get back in the kitchen where she belongs.)
The list goes on for days, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, someone, somewhere, is pointing the finger and saying, 'She's doing it wrong'. And chances are, that person is a woman. A woman who should, if not understand, then at least put herself in your shoes for a moment and say, 'What if?'
The truth of the matter is, there is a weight on my shoulders and I'm relating everything back to it right now. I'm still not ready to talk about it, but I'm tired of keeping things to myself for fear of being judged by those I trust to support me. It's unfair, it's unnecessary, and you're just as flawed as I am.
Be kind to each other.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Burn.
'"Don't talk of worlds that never were,
The end is all that's ever true.
There's nothing you can ever say,
And nothing you could ever do..."
Still, every night I burn,
Every night I scream your name.
Every night I burn,
Every night, the dream's the same...'
The end is all that's ever true.
There's nothing you can ever say,
And nothing you could ever do..."
Still, every night I burn,
Every night I scream your name.
Every night I burn,
Every night, the dream's the same...'
Happy Father's Day!
To my own Dad, to my beloved Poppy (God rest his hard-working, hilarious and beautiful soul), and to the father of my babies who is a fantastic provider and a much better father than his own ever could have dreamed of being.
To all those out there who love their kids, tuck them in at night, go to a shitty job every day to make sure those kids eat well and have all the material things they could ever ask for, who show their kids how adult relationships are meant to work by being considerate, kind and supportive of their partners, who show up to their kids' dance recitals and footy games even though they'd much rather be at the pub, and do everything in their power to be 'good' dads.
This is what my girls' wonderful Dad got from his loved ones this morning:
(And to my own Dad - sorry bud, you won't be getting yours until I hit the shops tomorrow. Your fault for being away AGAIN this weekend and causing me to forget entirely that I have two 'Dads' to buy gifts for!)
(PS Dad - It might have to wait until I get paid on Tuesday. Just blew my last $30 on another fragrance for the Boss because I decided that even though *he* prefers the DB Signature, *I* prefer the DB Intimately and since he only bothers with fragrance for me, I bought it for him as well just now.)
It's raining today, and the Boss decided that despite the crappy weather, he was keen to spend Father's Day treating himself. To a spot of fishing. So he's taken off to Lake Awoonga with Syndrome and only God knows when they'll roll in...
Would it make me a terrible wife to wish a thunderstorm upon them so they come home earlier and help me deal with the two feral children suffering severe cases of cabin-fever?
ETA: Okay, still tweaking stupid blog. Cannot figure out how to make it wide enough to accommodate my pictures :( But all you have to do is click on it to see the full picture... Sorry guys! Waaahh @ being semi-computer-illiterate :(
To all those out there who love their kids, tuck them in at night, go to a shitty job every day to make sure those kids eat well and have all the material things they could ever ask for, who show their kids how adult relationships are meant to work by being considerate, kind and supportive of their partners, who show up to their kids' dance recitals and footy games even though they'd much rather be at the pub, and do everything in their power to be 'good' dads.
This is what my girls' wonderful Dad got from his loved ones this morning:
(And to my own Dad - sorry bud, you won't be getting yours until I hit the shops tomorrow. Your fault for being away AGAIN this weekend and causing me to forget entirely that I have two 'Dads' to buy gifts for!)
(PS Dad - It might have to wait until I get paid on Tuesday. Just blew my last $30 on another fragrance for the Boss because I decided that even though *he* prefers the DB Signature, *I* prefer the DB Intimately and since he only bothers with fragrance for me, I bought it for him as well just now.)
It's raining today, and the Boss decided that despite the crappy weather, he was keen to spend Father's Day treating himself. To a spot of fishing. So he's taken off to Lake Awoonga with Syndrome and only God knows when they'll roll in...
Would it make me a terrible wife to wish a thunderstorm upon them so they come home earlier and help me deal with the two feral children suffering severe cases of cabin-fever?
ETA: Okay, still tweaking stupid blog. Cannot figure out how to make it wide enough to accommodate my pictures :( But all you have to do is click on it to see the full picture... Sorry guys! Waaahh @ being semi-computer-illiterate :(
Friday, September 3, 2010
My idiot brother...
Got a tattoo.
'So what?' you say. 'You're half-covered in ink, like YOU can judge!'
Hey, now. I never said my tatts were works of art... they're pretty stock-standard, boring plain black jobs done by random 'artists' - some kanji on my back, song lyrics on my wrists, my precious heartagram on my leg, and of course my 'babies' - the Beretta pistols emblazoned across my chest...
But this 'tattoo' of my brother's is like nothing I've ever seen before.
I honestly thought it was a shitty texta job done last night after a few drinks, during a bored spell where he and his girlfriend couldn't agree on which of my mum's DVDs to accidentally scratch next.
Nope, turns out it's real - I know ink when I see it and I could see the scab factor dating it about roughly 3 weeks old. Why has my mother not showed up on my doorstep tearing out clumps of hair and sobbing about her wayward (borderline knuckle-headed) son's latest dumb attempt at rebellion?
Oh. Maybe he's just been hiding it from her the way I hid my DIY lip-piercing from my parents for a good month when I was 14. Oh, I was bad-ass - even my Social Studies teacher gave me a good talking-to after class the day she noticed a big silver sleeper stuck through a hole in the middle of my lower lip.
But still. This tattoo ain't even jailhouse. It don't even come close. It looks like something an 8-year-old with a brain injury scribbled on the side of his torso with a Connector Pen.
It's so, so, SO bad.
And I can't laugh about it on Facebook because my mum would be MEGA-pissed if she found out through that, instead of a phone call from ol' dibber-dobber big sis over here!
I have to take a photo for you. I know you'll laugh just as much as I did. Oh my Lord... the boy is 21 and STILL acts like a 10-year-old.
I just don't think there's hope for him.
'So what?' you say. 'You're half-covered in ink, like YOU can judge!'
Hey, now. I never said my tatts were works of art... they're pretty stock-standard, boring plain black jobs done by random 'artists' - some kanji on my back, song lyrics on my wrists, my precious heartagram on my leg, and of course my 'babies' - the Beretta pistols emblazoned across my chest...
But this 'tattoo' of my brother's is like nothing I've ever seen before.
I honestly thought it was a shitty texta job done last night after a few drinks, during a bored spell where he and his girlfriend couldn't agree on which of my mum's DVDs to accidentally scratch next.
Nope, turns out it's real - I know ink when I see it and I could see the scab factor dating it about roughly 3 weeks old. Why has my mother not showed up on my doorstep tearing out clumps of hair and sobbing about her wayward (borderline knuckle-headed) son's latest dumb attempt at rebellion?
Oh. Maybe he's just been hiding it from her the way I hid my DIY lip-piercing from my parents for a good month when I was 14. Oh, I was bad-ass - even my Social Studies teacher gave me a good talking-to after class the day she noticed a big silver sleeper stuck through a hole in the middle of my lower lip.
But still. This tattoo ain't even jailhouse. It don't even come close. It looks like something an 8-year-old with a brain injury scribbled on the side of his torso with a Connector Pen.
It's so, so, SO bad.
And I can't laugh about it on Facebook because my mum would be MEGA-pissed if she found out through that, instead of a phone call from ol' dibber-dobber big sis over here!
I have to take a photo for you. I know you'll laugh just as much as I did. Oh my Lord... the boy is 21 and STILL acts like a 10-year-old.
I just don't think there's hope for him.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Things That Grind My Gears (Part Two)
Being invited to a party with no warning that your arch-nemesis will be attending.
Thanks for the warning! I'm now glad I decided that falling asleep on the couch at 4:30 was a better idea than getting dolled up for an exercise in humiliation (more likely to be his, obviously, as I'm a lot more of a grown-up than he is and far less likely to try to cause a scene... but meh).
Consider all future RSVP's to your shindigs an automatic, 'Fuck no. I've got a date with some toenail clippers and YouPorn.'
Thanks for the warning! I'm now glad I decided that falling asleep on the couch at 4:30 was a better idea than getting dolled up for an exercise in humiliation (more likely to be his, obviously, as I'm a lot more of a grown-up than he is and far less likely to try to cause a scene... but meh).
Consider all future RSVP's to your shindigs an automatic, 'Fuck no. I've got a date with some toenail clippers and YouPorn.'
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Just a typical Gen Y!
I WANT IT ALL, NOW!
Okay, so I have *nearly* everything. Just not a billionaire uncle who has no immediate family and leaves me all his riches when he goes (well, he can't take it with him, can he?).
But I want my new couch, and I want it yesterday!
The Boss and I braved the bogan wilds of Rockbunghole this morning to visit Super A-Mart in search of a new lounge suite.
Mistake #1: Trying to hide major purchases from my parents, and opting to take the children.
This one's obvious. Children hate sitting still for over an hour, especially if there's nothing Dora-, Wiggles- or Hi-5-themed to keep them amused. Put one child in stroller, another in underpants when we know there's no toilets within a 20-second sprint, add a couple of fruit bars and spotlessly clean leather lounge suites arranged tastefully... you have a recipe for disaster.
Of course, they did exactly what I expected them to, and hoped they wouldn't. Jumped all over every couch they saw (and REFUSED to get down if it was white), smeared mushy fruit bar filling (apple, so at least a *little* less stainy than blueberry?) all over microfibre ones (well, that'll teach them to rort an extra $200 out of suspecting customers for Scotchguarding), and threatened to smash every tasteful (read: fragile) decoration placed strategically on low-line coffee tables throughout the warehouse.
And it goes without saying that they conveniently left their 'indoor voices' at home this morning. Pretty sure the girl we spoke to about financing a suite was coming very close to strangling Squirtle with the string attached to her wrist at one end, and a helium balloon at the other.
(May I add, the balloon was REALLY handy for keeping track of her when I turned my back for a split second and lost her amongst plush lounges. 'Oh, yep, she's over near the outdoor settings. Go grab her will you, honey, while I surreptitiously put my feet up on this couch to test it?')
So, in the end, we chose our new lounge suite. Consisting of a 2-seater couch and two recliners. Did I mention the couch has two inbuilt recliners? Oh lord. If only it were available in red, like the leather recliner set that was my second preference (only due to the fact that it was $300 more costly, and I just spent that on tickets to go see Rihanna next year).
And then, the kicker: 'Sorry, we have none in stock at the moment. You can expect it to arrive in October, or go with the leather set.'
This displeases me. It displeases me greatly. I'm the kind of person who will pay $200 for a pair of shoes when I could get the exact same pair for $50 on eBay, but I just can't wait for them to be delivered. I want my couches. I want them on Thursday (delivery day). Not Thursday 6 weeks away!
But...
I suppose it is something to look forward to. Although the overanalytical imbecile in me now regrets the saving and thinks we should have gone with the red leather suite, just so I could be at Pillow Talk first thing tomorrow finding new curtains to match, instead of trying to work our current blue curtains into a colour scheme with 'Raisin'.
Waaah.
Where's that billionaire uncle? I need to just hire an interior decorator and wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
Okay, so I have *nearly* everything. Just not a billionaire uncle who has no immediate family and leaves me all his riches when he goes (well, he can't take it with him, can he?).
But I want my new couch, and I want it yesterday!
The Boss and I braved the bogan wilds of Rockbunghole this morning to visit Super A-Mart in search of a new lounge suite.
Mistake #1: Trying to hide major purchases from my parents, and opting to take the children.
This one's obvious. Children hate sitting still for over an hour, especially if there's nothing Dora-, Wiggles- or Hi-5-themed to keep them amused. Put one child in stroller, another in underpants when we know there's no toilets within a 20-second sprint, add a couple of fruit bars and spotlessly clean leather lounge suites arranged tastefully... you have a recipe for disaster.
Of course, they did exactly what I expected them to, and hoped they wouldn't. Jumped all over every couch they saw (and REFUSED to get down if it was white), smeared mushy fruit bar filling (apple, so at least a *little* less stainy than blueberry?) all over microfibre ones (well, that'll teach them to rort an extra $200 out of suspecting customers for Scotchguarding), and threatened to smash every tasteful (read: fragile) decoration placed strategically on low-line coffee tables throughout the warehouse.
And it goes without saying that they conveniently left their 'indoor voices' at home this morning. Pretty sure the girl we spoke to about financing a suite was coming very close to strangling Squirtle with the string attached to her wrist at one end, and a helium balloon at the other.
(May I add, the balloon was REALLY handy for keeping track of her when I turned my back for a split second and lost her amongst plush lounges. 'Oh, yep, she's over near the outdoor settings. Go grab her will you, honey, while I surreptitiously put my feet up on this couch to test it?')
So, in the end, we chose our new lounge suite. Consisting of a 2-seater couch and two recliners. Did I mention the couch has two inbuilt recliners? Oh lord. If only it were available in red, like the leather recliner set that was my second preference (only due to the fact that it was $300 more costly, and I just spent that on tickets to go see Rihanna next year).
And then, the kicker: 'Sorry, we have none in stock at the moment. You can expect it to arrive in October, or go with the leather set.'
This displeases me. It displeases me greatly. I'm the kind of person who will pay $200 for a pair of shoes when I could get the exact same pair for $50 on eBay, but I just can't wait for them to be delivered. I want my couches. I want them on Thursday (delivery day). Not Thursday 6 weeks away!
But...
I suppose it is something to look forward to. Although the overanalytical imbecile in me now regrets the saving and thinks we should have gone with the red leather suite, just so I could be at Pillow Talk first thing tomorrow finding new curtains to match, instead of trying to work our current blue curtains into a colour scheme with 'Raisin'.
Waaah.
Where's that billionaire uncle? I need to just hire an interior decorator and wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
...And Back to Reality.
This was my weekend.
And it was lovely.
I'm not a beachy sorta girl. I hate the sun (and the inevitable sunburn on my milky skin). I hate feeling like I'm trapped in an emery board. And the sticky, stinky salt everywhere.
But it was lovely. And I'm absolutely exhausted, so that's all for today. Big week starting tomorrow! Best to kick it off after getting a good night's sleep - but then a half-hour kip on the couch would still be better than last night's effort, sleeping on uneven ground in a sleeping bag full of sand (and a squirming Squirtle) in 3-degree weather.
(How's my photog skills, btw?! I'm very pleased with how some of my pics turned out. Will post more another day for your viewing pleasure.)
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