Hoping I have a bun in the oven

We are trying for a brother/sister for Pascal. Infact, I am hoping that right now, inside my uterus, there are some cells turning into a zygote. A healthy zygote. Unlike the last one which decided to abort itself.

Yes, I am talking about a miscarriage here. It happened about four months ago. I sound so matter of fact. Right this minute I am. At the time it rocked me to the very core. Then it did again a few months ago when I got my first period. Now I think I have really come to terms and can finally write about it I guess.

It happened on a Tuesday night. Asa and I were driving home from work and I was feeling quite nauseous. I happened to be relieved about this because I hadn't been feeling very sick. The lack of nausea concerned me as since I found myself in the world of pregnancy and babies with Pascal I understood that nausea was a good sign. So yes, finally the 'morning sickness' had kicked in. In fact I hadn't found out I was pregnant with Pascal until the eighth or ninth week when I started to feel really sick and since I was in my ninth week with this pregnancy, I was right on track!

When we got home I went to the toilet to 'drop the kids off' (to do a shit a'right!).
I looked down at the toilet paper (as you do) and there was a pink smear. I felt sick and shaky - I can't remember whether I felt like crying. I do remember a great lump of dread in my gut and my mouth becoming quite dry. There was also a part of me thinking that everything was fine. Wasn't it? And look at that. A second wipe - no pink smear.

I went online to check out what everyone had to say on the topic. Unfortunately that wasn't a good idea. I thought there would be lots of reassuring links saying that spotting was heaps more common than anyone thought. Instead I went to a link on miscarriages (der...of course). My dread turned to shaky, dizzy, sweaty squeamishness. I went and lay on the bed and we called Nurse On Call. The nurse I got was reassuring..maybe I had strained too hard? Had a few grapes down there that I didn't know about? But I was worried. Dry mouth, heart palpating worried. I put everything at the back of my mind and went about my night. I started to feel positive. I kept wiping myself with toilet paper to prove to myself everything was fine. And it was, for now...

The next morning I felt great. I went to the toilet and no pink stuff! It must have been me bum! Woopee! Unfortunately the rejoicing over hemorrhoids was shortlived when I felt that familiar dischargy feeling. There was the pink stuff again, only this time it was more plum coloured..and there was more of it.

We (Me, Asa and P) went to emergency and stayed there all day. That's at least a three page spread so I'll put it into bullet points:

• It was Wednesday April 3. The windiest day in Melbourne. Ever.
• The hospital I was in lost power just as I was about to go in for my ultrasound.
• I was trapped upstairs in the fetal monitoring section (in almost complete darkness). Pascal and Asa were downstairs. The emergency procedure of the hospital meant we had to stay on the floor we were on 'until further notice'.
• After about an hour I eventually just asked if I could go downstairs and they let me go.
• The nurse at emergency admissions asked me to stay so they could at least do an ETG (that contraption which monitors the fetal heartbeat). We stayed but after about another hour of waiting they said we could book to go in for a scan the next day.
• I was sooo tired an emotional.
• We start walking to the car and Asa starts doubling over. He's sweating. I got so angry - This was my fucking drama ok!
• We got in the car and drove straight back to emergency. (Ok, we were at the Mercy Women's hospital which is right next door to a regular hospital, The Austin) We go back to Austin emergency.
• Asa parks car (although feeling like he is almost having heart attack he insisted on driving) and runs inside. I sit in the passenger seat and just bawl. I'm so tired. I just want to go home.
• Get out of car with Pascal (who is remarkably chipper). Asa is on the floor of the emergency room with hospital staff gathered around. Pascal says 'Is Asa dead?' I kind of laugh/cry. As they wheel Asa into the hospital, the nurse says 'he'll be fine'. She winks and it looks like she's almost trying not to stifle a little chuckle. I'm not offended, in fact, I take this as a positive sign.
• Asa is absolutely fine but has to be monitored for EIGHT HOURS. Although I'm unaware of this malarkey at the time.
• The power is back on and I go back across the way to The Mercy to see whether I can get my ultrasound now that all the other outpatients have left. I can go straight up.
• They can't detect much when they do the ultrasound on my belly so they have to do an internal. What's this? A huge dildo! The sonographer is about 5o something, lovely and has probably weilds this thing 20 times a year. doesn't matter. Still a bit embarrassing.
• Sonographer gets a young good looking man doctor - he seems like a wanker as he acts like I don't know what I'm talking about when I say I definitely know 'my dates' but in retrospect I think he was just trying to remain positive. I think I just thought he was a wanker as he was a doctor, young and good looking.
• It doesn't look good. I can't see anything that resembles a baby on the screen. They are both not willing to say it is an 'unviable' pregnancy. There is still hope.
  
  But not really, because honestly, I really know my dates.

• Go back to see how Asa is doing. Still am unaware that he is waiting out eight hours. Was thinking it's probably only another hour or two.
• Disorderly Orderly takes a shine to Pascal and goes to find a 'present'. Oh horrors of horrors, it's a surgical glove blown up with a happy face drawn on it with texta. I have a balloon phobia and am in no state to deal with this. Am a bundle of nerves around it.
• Take Pascal back into where Asa is and ask him to covertly pop the sinister balloon head. He does and Pascal cries that three/four year old hearbreaking waaaah. My poor little love has been such a good boy all day. It absolutely breaks my heart.
• By this time we have been waiting for Asa for at least two hours. Am FINALLY told he has to be monitored for eight hours so this means he can't leave til midnight! What the Fuck? We got to the hospital at 11am. Didn't even ask why they didn't tell us that before. Am just so totally shagged I don't care.
• We agree that after SEVEN hours spent at The Mercy Pascal and I would go home. Although thoroughly tiring, boring and emotional, it's not as harrowing as it sounds. The waiting area is nice with nice big TV. Also Pascal was big hit with the emergency midwives. It's nice having your kid complimented in any situation I guess is what I'm saying.
• However, as soon as I hear midnight, Pascal and I skedaddle outta there.
• Was very tearful but sooooo good to be back home on this strange, strange day.
• Couldn't sleep til Asa got home (by taxi). He denies it's panic attack but I still think it was.
• How did my past tense revert to present? why? when?

Can't be bothered to go back and edit, will pretend I meant it.

To be continued....

Crushes inspired by dreams

I've never been partial to white eyebrows but there is something about Farmer Nick.



"That's Wealthy Wine Maker Nick, if you don't mind, thanks"

Actually, by getting this little 'thing' out in the open I have to wonder if I have forestalled one of those crush dreams. You know the ones where you dream about someone and wake up really liking them. Sometimes they are just lovely and romantic but other's are full blown dirty sex. Sometimes they are grossly shudderingly inappropriate and you feel like a slapper and other times you feel like you're on cloud nine.* All warm and tingly and full of lerve...

I remember the first time I had one of these dreams. I was about thirteen and it involved the Rock Steady Crew.



Just one of them. Although looking at this blast from the past, I honestly can't remember who the lucky guy was. I will hazard a guess and say the third from the right.


Here are few others

*I can't wait til I can think up my own methaphors.

I will kill a chicken and get the meat

Today was my Wednesday with Pascal and it was a good un'! Sometimes it's not so good. I feel bad when this happens. This is my one day where I am a stay at home mum so I should cherish every morsel shouldn't I? These bad days tend be the result of lining too many things up for the day. That is the Cause and the Effect is Asa finding me at 6pm rocking in a corner...

no it's never that bad, but things don't go right on a bad day. Things, such as doing a load of washing and then forgetting that it's all squashed up in the tub until it starts raining; talking about nothing for ages on the phone where meanwhile Pascal is going mental in the background and all of a sudden it's midday and I've missed the 'cheap' petrol; Opening the door to an electricity company representative who has come to the area out of concern we are paying too much on our bills and out of the goodness of his heart can offer a deal where we are 5% better off and Tilly (the most annoying jack russell terrier in the WORLD) takes her opportunity to dart down to the neighbours house to terrorize their guinea pig...and then I miss the 'cheap' petrol.

Stuff like that.

Well, today was a good one. The skies were blue and we travelled to a Shoe Sale on the posh side of town and I scored a great pair of boots for $50!!! I still hadn't got my cheap petrol yet as I was keeping an eye out for a Shell Station because of my 4 cents off a litre docket (woohoo!). Luckily I came to my senses* as I waited at a red light near a BP. I made a last minute turn and whaddaya know - as I left the station with a tank full of $1.59 petrol, the guy came out with The long hook and a dreaded number 6.



A Rumpelstiltskin tantrum narrowly
avoided...phew!

I decided to stay in the posh area. The posh area being THE posh area of Melbourne. We're talking Toorak, Armadale and Malvern daaarling! Actually, that reminds me. Pascal asked me where we were when we were crawling down High St, Armadale (I've never not crawled down High Street or Glenferrie Road - it's so congested there) and I put on this really loud Mrs Slocombe voice "Why High Strreet Armadale, Daaarling!"

I didn't realise I had the window right down. I don't think anyone from the street or other cars heard but I figured if they did, I would have sounded pretty normal.

We ended up in Glenferrie Road Malvern and I went to Coles. I swear Today Tonight are right and the richies get the better fresh produce. You should have seen the apples gleaming brightly and the perfect bananas. As usual Pascal stopped near the roast chickens and started his dead animal question r'epertoire. It starts with "what's that?" "A chicken" "what was the chicken? was it a hen?" "Yes Pascal, it was a hen" "is it dead?" "umm...yes" "did somebody kill it? why is it killed?"...I honestly can't even remember what I answered this time. Sometimes (if I'm tired) I just go "oh er..yeah, look at that over there." Sometimes I just end up telling him the cold hard truth - so we can cook and eat it. He also loves going to the meat section and looking at the 'dead animals' too.

A friend suggested he was going to be a vegetarian but I'm actually worried he might become a Dexter of some kind. He has talked about killing meat animals. Should I be worried?


We come in peace

*ie realising that looking for Shell station to save me two dollars on an eighty-plus dollar petrol bill as the clock was ticking dangerously past midday was too pathetic for words

We did a play called Save Our Earth and I was the methane gas*

My my. Another day of Morning pages and another night of blogging. Things are going well aren't they.

I've been feeling pretty hormonal lately. I mentioned my week of turning 38 angst yesterday and it was pretty bad this morning. For some reason I got suddenly teary about the no-shows who didn't come to my birthday party. MWAAAAHAAAHAHA.

I will usually try and deny it but I have to admit I'm very sensitive to this kind of thing.

This year I shared the birthday party with a friend who is in and out of the country at the moment. We share a bunch of friends, these guys came and my closest friends came too which all lead to the night being a really nice one..I have really, really good friends - totally lucked out in that department so I hope what I am about to whinge about doesn't detract from the warm fuzzies I have about these friends.




"We will always love you!"

It started with the niggling feeling the next day (aided and abettored by one mother of a hangover) - Why didn't blah blah even email me back? What was so important (or the better offer) that blah piked at the last minute and couldn't tell me why? I had a brief Monday respite from these feelings of rejection but today - yep today, there were actual tears.

It's just that I feel so insignificant. My invite fell on deaf ears and the silence was deafening. How else can I take it? I wasn't even worth a response. And my invite was really funny! It had two old ladies smoking cigars and I spent all night on it due to my nuffy photoshop skills. I was ignored!

BUT but (I hasten to add) it is my hormones playing havoc. I've been through the wringer with them but I'll save that for another post. I should also say a big sorry for all the times I've let people down and made them feel the way I'm feelin' now..

I really hope my posts get better, funnier, more interesting, deep, witty, articulate, eloquent, smarter, succinct...less nuffy!

This is a really shit post.

More shit to come! Seeya tomorrow!

* Quoted from the article What kind of adult will Gen Z be? Sunday Life 13 July 2008

Fockity Fock

Wow, I never thought I would be such a prolific blogger. Outstanding work! Outstanding!

No, I promised I wouldn't be too hard on myself but it is very confronting seeing my first post and feeling like it was just a week ago I turned 37 and thought this is it! I'm sick of sitting on my arse (I mean that more figuratively but that's not to say I don't do a lot of sitting on my arse literally), I'm going to get this blog happening and who knows what will happen!

and now...now I'm 38! I can't believe how anxious that makes me. In the words of a nervous farmer Mick before his potentials drove up in tonight's episode of Farmer Wants a Wife - 'Ok, breaving. Remember to breave'.

Another thing I promised myself is that I wouldn't devote this post to ranting about me not writing. I am going to do what any blogger would do and write about something that happened to me today. As if I have approximately 364 posts behind me...and an audience! Who leave comments. wow weee

So what happened today? What happened that bears mentioning?

Well before I left work I went to the toilet to do wee wees. There was a distinct smell of fresh poo but I wasn't prepared for the HUGE line of poo down the toilet bowl. So I hurried out of that toilet and went to the second one (there are two cubicles). What makes this embarrassing is that of course someone went in after I had finished AND after the cistern in the toilet I used had finished filling up. This of course means that, to her, it could have been any of the two toilets I used and frankly if the players were reversed I would be very suspicious and since the smell was so warm I would be inclined to think the worst. Unfortunately it wasn't a situation where I was comfortable enough to plead my innocence. So there you have it, my colleague most likely thinks I'm totally disgusting.

A totally disgusting 38 year old.

Which makes me put it out there... who would leave a mud spatter like that? I just don't get it. I'm not ashamed to say my poo has left it's mark on toilet bowls in the past but I always brush it off with the toilet brush. I just don't get why you wouldn't..

I'm so glad I'm back to blogging. I promise you I will think of something better to talk about tomorrow. That's right, TOMORROW! I am going to post everyday now.

Oh, by the way...I don't think I won the Women's Weekly Writing competition...

By Jove I did it!

Yes, I sent in my story to the Australian Women's Weekly Writing Competition!

Although, I had the fright of my life when I decided to double check the deadline. In the entry form terms and conditions in the November Women's Weekly it states the deadline as last mail 4 February 2008.

Usually I would have run around like a tearful maniac yelling "FUUUCK!", but instead I was quite calm and collected. The voice inside my head was like 'Yeah, you probably wouldn't have won so wha'EVA!'....I think it was the shock.

Then I thought hang on a minute, where the hell did I get 29 February from. I distinctly remember seeing it in print. I looked it up on the web and sure enough...

As usual, I left it to the eleventh hour to get really stuck into it. This means (as usual) I am too scared to look at the final draft for fear of finding some major clanger mistakes. I really don't learn do I? My grand idea involved giving a completed final draft to carefully selected friends a month before the deadline.

...Next time.

Mummy, I'm scared!!!

I'm just perusing the hire car options (God, it's eshpenshive!) and I'm feeling a sense of dread.

I'm a great driver and apart from a spat of accidents in my first year of driving (3 - one of which wasn't my fault) I've had one speeding ticket in my, JESUS! almost TWENTY years of driving...far out, I'm old.

I definitely don't want to go off on that tangent, so staying right on track now. I've found the cheapest with Budget (which is still $55 a day for a manual 1.3 litre) and now deliberating on taking that up to $80 to include the $25 premium insurance. What to do? That's a whole $75 which I'll be pissed off at paying after I've got the car safely back. But then again, I would obviously be absolutely shattered if we do have some kind of smash. I'll be bawling and flailing my arms wailing something "I knew this would happen"...because you always do know. Hindsight has 20/20 vision as they say.

Will Susan know? Maybe, will wait and see what March has to offer...

Because, Charlie, she's a nitwit

I'm referring to myself this time. Not the almost text book specimen of a witchy poo below.

I'm going to a wedding in Tasmania in March and I made the stupid decision to book the tickets online, very late on Sunday night after a loooong day. You know what's coming don't you?

Yes, I booked for the wrong damn city, didn't I?

For some reason, even though the invitation has been magnetted (I think I just invented a word) to my fridge for the past month or so and explicitly says HOBART in two places, we are actually going to Launceston. By 'we' I mean myself and a very good chum who also happens to be one of the bridesmaids. All is not lost because:

1. My chum the bridesmaid is totally undestanding and has not made me feel even slightly bad for my nitwittedness.

2. We are arriving midday Friday - a whole 24 hours before the nuptials take place.

3. Launceston is only 2 hours away from Hobart so we can hire a car and be Thelma and Louise.

In fact, because of number 3, I reckon the lemonade we can make out of this lemon will be rather sweet. Neither of us has visited the Apple Isle before so my blunder has given us a chance to do a bit of travelling.

In other news, I might be going on the Power of 10 with Asa! He auditioned about a month ago and it looks like he's made the grade. I have to fill out a questionnaire as I'm going to be his 'support person'. Basically this means I'm the awkward (and I mean really awkward in this case) nervous head sitting in the crowd helping him deliberate on questions and probably lose him heaps of cash. No, I have to stay positive. Considering my stars specifically said I'd actually win money on a game show!

You might also want to go on a TV game show to try your luck. ...See if you can qualify as a contestant. I have watched those shows like "Deal or No Deal." People start doing well and then get greedy and figure they will win more money so they keep taking more risks. They wind up leaving with little or nothing. Be happy with less and leave some money on the table if necessary. You don't want to press your luck, just GET some luck!

How's that for totally FEREAKY!

24 days til D Day at the Women's Weekly and I actually think I'm going to make it.

Just look at her...

I can't believe I took this woman seriously enough to write to her. I mean, It's the equivalent of taking issue with an ancient drunk homeless man in stained grey tracksuit pants ranting at you to get your children away from his cash register with no cash register in sight given it's in the middle of the street. That guy would be saner than this woman. She is clearly living in some strange hell bubble or something - some other (very scary) plane of existence, her crazy blank eyes say it all.

Also, she only has 70 members in her so called church, most of which are family members.

I'm also sure my letter is one of thousands that site gets everyday as I googled her and lots of people really hate her. Given the way she pickets people's funerals, I'm really surprised she hasn't been beaten up badly or killed.

Anyway, she's written this open letter to Heath's family pleading with them to tell her where they are holding the funeral so she can go and hold a 'religious service' with her charming A Fag Dies. God Laughs. banners, no doubt. (Actually, go read it here. I can't believe the Ledger family are being so unreasonable).

Sooo, It seems like this loon is planning a trip downunder. I'm going to keep track and if she does I reckon someone (who knows maybe me) should organise a massive welcoming committee of Drag Queens and Dykes on Bikes for her airport arrival. I think that would be perfect. All yelling out 'We love you Shirley' and trying to kiss her and her eleven kids and stuff.

I'm procrastinating. 30 days til WWWriting Comp deadline. Better hop hop hoppity to it!

What hope do we have to evolve as a species...

....with people like this still around?

I can't tell you how much right wing evil Christians make my blood boil. When I say 'Evil Christian' I by no way mean that all right wing Christians are evil. I want to make it clear that I mean 'evil' as opposed to 'good' Christians. I just realised now I find it difficult to write right wing 'good' christians...I'm sure there are some though, just a few...

Anyway Shirley Phelps-Roper is Evil! And this is what I just wrote to her:

I've just heard the hate and vitriol spewing from the mouth of Shirley Phelps-Roper regarding Heath Ledger's death. I'll assume I'm one of quite a few Australians who have contacted you since her interview on 2UE.

I just feel sorry for you Shirley, and those like you. You must all have very sad, small, twisted and bitter existences because no-one saying the things you say can by truly happy, content, joyous or free. I am not a Christian but believe that there was an amazing man by the name of Jesus who existed a long time ago and got the people around him to think about things a bit more deeply. I also believe that he spread the word of love for the world and for fellow human beings. You, on the other hand spread the word of Hate don't you? Your feeble little brains do compute that? I mean if I was to do a word search on the word 'hate' it would come up 200 or so times on your website. 'God Hates America' 'God Hates Canada' God Hates, God Hates, God Hates…What kind of message is that? All this hate and images of hell must be attracting the darkest energies into your life. It must be an awful and woeful burden to bear. And you have devoted your whole life to it? What a waste..

I believe man created god in his image, not the other way around but if I was wrong and YOUR god exists; that there is this thick, twisted, sadistic, megalomaniac in the sky somewhere creating sick, desperate tests for his own amusement and waiting for us to slip up in our humanity then quite frankly, I'm very happy not be invited to his 'heaven'…I’d be avoiding hell, more like it.

But of course, I don't think I have it wrong; Your God makes absolutely no sense to me – it’s the worse kind of fairy tale. While I haven't closed all doors on what's on the other side of death, I do treat This Blessed, Miraculous Life as the only one I know I've got for certain and make it as magical and wonderful as I can. I love to smile and laugh. I love my diverse group of friends (yes, of course this includes people who are gay). I love knowing that life is a journey and that I'm learning and gathering wisdom on the way and will continue; I will never be too old. I love caring for the planet and helping out my fellow travellers whenever and wherever I can. I love being happy, I love it when inspiration stirs me. I live life with my eyes and heart wide open and I am so very glad I am nothing like you.

I tried to post it on her website but I'm guessing there are a few people who want to give her their two cents worth. I'll keep y'all posted.

Back to School!

All is well with the Conference in New Zealand...

Rivetted, I'm sure..

45 days and counting to the Women's Weekly Writing Competition deadline...SHHHIIIIT!

Assertiveness and Assumptions

Continuing on from where I left off yesterday, resolution No. 8 is to grow some balls! I tend to presume things or let things go only to stew over them for a day...then wake up early the next day to give them a good stir and let them simmer some more. I think this has got everything to do with giving a shit what people think of me. Really who CARES what people think? I could never in a million years be a rude prick or snidey bitch so what am I worried about? I can, however, be a grovelling apologiser and frankly I'm sick of it.

This has all come about because I woke up about half an hour ago stewing and simmering over some loose ends I left at work two and half weeks ago. I remember the first day of my leave, when 3 weeks spanned like eternity ahead of me, a little thought snuck into my head. It went a little like this:

"Don't you dare give one thought to work for three weeks."

Propping up this lovely thought was the feeling that everything was pretty much under control. Then I thought this:

"Shit, I really should have registered (da boss) for that conference in in New Zealand."

Then:

"Fuck! Why didn't I do it? I know it wasn't signed off but I could have at least got the registration form in."

Then:

"Fuck, fuck, I'm an idiot. I've really got to do something about this now."

The registration forms were with the finance department ready and waiting to be approved. I have an ok relationship with this department in general but it can sometimes get a bit grrrr with the book keeper (we'll just call her Toots). Generally Toots and I get along rather well. Her good points are that she can be really, really nice and helpful and I reckon she generally means well. Her not so good points are that she can get pretty rude (when she's in a bad mood) and let's just say she's not adverse to the odd power trip.

Anyway, I wanted to impinge on my holiday mindset in the least possible way so I sent an email to Toots the week after Christmas asking her to locate the conference forms and put them aside so I could come in and fax them off that week. The office is located in Fitzroy which is about a ten minute drive from home and where I do all me fun stuff so this wasn't going to be a hassle.

I get a very nice email back from Toots saying she will 'sort it out' and to 'enjoy my holiday'. Do I gather from this that she will fax the goddamn forms or just put them aside? Do I ask her to clarify? NO, just a grovelly thank you and an undeclared assumption that 'sort it out' means faxing the conference forms.

I just manage to not worry about it....Until the beginning of this week.

So I email her again.

"Thanks again blahdeblahblah...did you fax those conference forms?"

Her response was "I did everything you asked me to do".

Now I am worried but what do I do? If I'd reached the stage where I honestly acted in my best interest and not in the interest of hoping Toots doesn't think I'm a mother hubbard worrywort I would call her and demand a straight answer (in the nicest possible way, of course!)

I haven't reached my goal YET so right now I just have to hope for the best and assume that her above response is a roundabout way of saying 'Yes, I did fax those forms that very day."

Now that you are rivetted by my rich working life I will be sure to keep you posted on what happens when I get back to work next Monday.

New Years Moxies

Well, well, well...what do we 'ave 'ere then?

A new year, that's what!

I'm feeling quite jittery and weird right now having just purchased a DVD/HD recorder for 600 smackas. It's not a lot of money really but in our household it sneaks in as a 'big ticket item'*. Spending money gives me the heebie jeebies. Especially when it takes you to places like Harvey Norman where there are TVs that cost our total savings...what does this say? That we have a pittance in our bank account or that TV's are fucking stupidly expensive these days? Maybe a bit of both...

New Years resolutions! I've already started one which is this blog. I'm going to be more dedicated this year and maybe a bit more open about it too. There are a few people who vaguely know I am doing this but I'm much too embarrassed to let them know where to find me. This is a bit silly as one of the reasons I started this was so people would read it and then hopefully come back and read some more. I've been meaning to start this since getting into Dooce and Fussy. I'm sure there are some great Australian bloggers too but I haven't really come across any that I enjoy and relate to as much (funnily enough!) as my two best friends mentioned above**. Ok, I'll admit it. I am also intrigued that people (such as Heather from Dooce) seem to be making a very noice living out of this. I would like to do that. So, yes, I guess that makes Blogging (with the view to getting an audience - arghh scary!) as Resolution No. 1.

No. 2 Is to suss out this kinesology thing. I've got a couple of friends who swear by it. From what I hear it's about unblocking stuff (I'm sure they can do a much better job explaining it here) and I've got big hopes it will miraculously explode my writer's block in a spectacular fashion. Basically I want to be able to put the running commentary in my head down on paper...which leads quite neatly into Resolution No. 3...

...Write a novel! Yes! Yes! That short story I am supposedly doing for the Women's Weekly Short Story Competition (51 days to get it in and counting) is kind of a synopsis of the novel I want to write. Just an easy chick lit read but different and wonderful because I've written it with that elusive spark (once I get hold of it through kinesiology..yeah baby)

No. 4 Is to be more loving and attentive to my partner. I won't go into any deets at the moment. Just that I need to get the ol' fires twinkling again.

No. 5 Write down and record the funny things Pascal says. He still has his baby voice and baby way of saying things and I know I will miss it very much when he is an overacting attention seeking five year old.***

No. 6 Become more open to opportunity. Stop feeling like I've left everything too late goddamit! Feel inspired.

No. 7 Get fit and a hot bod in the process.

No. 7 Write something.......


....EVERY DAY!

* Apologies for using such a wanky Harvey Normanesque turn of phrase
** I am kidding. I am not best friends with Heather and Eden. They do not know I exist.
*** I will still love him desperately!

What a day...

Actually it wasn't that bad...

I woke up feeling like crap though. It's me rags.. does it to me every time it does! The PMT has been particularly bad this month. I've just been so hypersenstive, stuttery and dithery. I've been quite paranoid, where I feel like people are having a go or think I'm really stupid. Where I feel like crying at my own stupidity.

What am I saying? Feel like crying?? How about fucking bawling because instead of entering the sunrise sms competition to win a $5000 myer gift card, I subscribed to mobile babes or something and the dodgy bastards promptly charged me $4.50 for a text (which incidentally I haven't seen and doesn't seem to exist). Yes, I sobbed and boohooed for a good five minutes, I reckon. Luckily Pascal was blissfully asleep at the time. Anyway back to Hotbabeland...

Sunrise's number is 19777077 while dodgy bros is 19770777. I'm sure they've made hundreds, if not thousands because of this.

I was surprised at the helpfulness of the Optus staff who were clearly helping me from Mumbai. The guy I got did something from his end but also told me to text 'stop' to the same number. He also gave me a 1300 number which I called.

I got this girl who was all defensive...no doubt due to fielding calls all day from people who accidentally subscribed (which would make up 85 percent of their clientale, no doubt) and just told me to text stop. I asked her if there was any way I could get my $4.50 back but she basically told me it was my fault - 'human error' so they couldn't. Bullshit. I'm so calling them tomorrow and giving them a piece of my mind. I honestly can't believe that this is legal. I mean, if I didn't stop to check my balance after I'd made the call I'd be none the wiser and how many of these $4.50 texts do they bombard you with during the course of a day? It's disgusting..

So yes, that happened. Then, I burnt the shit out of the last two pieces of cafe style raisin toast. The internet connection kept on cutting out. I stubbed my toe.

And I didn't win anything in this

WAAAAAAAAH

Ketchup technology

I'm really, really looking forward to a day when it doesn't take my computer a good five or so minutes to get to get to this page.

I guess I should take this opportunity to write some more of my story...

...But want to talk about my weird half awake dream last night instead.

I woke up very early in the morning...I'll hazard a guess and say 3am. It had been raining all night and we had the blinds and window open after the broiling couple of days we've had.

It was very odd because I don't really remember waking up gradually. I woke up suddenly, sat straight up in bed and turned to look at our tallboy-cum-dresser which is dominated by a medium sized ornamental mirror. It's also home to other bibs and bobs like an oil burner, a jewellery box, framed pictures and a vase or two. Lots of crapola ends up there too of course; Like P's crappy train from Preston Market, deodorant, glassess, bits of paper, burned out candles, empty tampon boxes, used condoms...

Just kidding about the tampon boxes.

Yaanyway, amongs these everyday things, I saw about five or so fairies.

Now I'm probably sounding a bit nutso, friend of the faeries, brian froundish maybe? But let me try and explain.

I guess it's a bit like the classic overcoat-thrown-over-the-chair-which-looks-like-someone-sitting-there scenario.

This was a bit more bizarre as the faces and the bodies of these 'wee folk' were extremely detailed although I should mention they were also static. They definitely appeared real and 3 dimensional but they weren't moving about or anything. Now that I am trying to recall them to describe them I'm having real trouble remembering those details. Nonetheless, the one I remember the most had a child's face in profile and was wearing an oversized top hat. Another was sitting on the edge of the tallboy with it's long legs dangling over the side and there was a smiling one leaning its (her?) chin on its hands.

I felt like I was fully awake but I was wondering how they got in so I must have been dreaming to think these cerazy thoughts? I began to realise that, um, I don't think fairies actually exist and that's when they started to vanish, or rather, become the ordinary everyday things they actually were. The smiling fairy turned into a trick of light reflecting off a framed photo. The fairy with the dangling legs became the roll-on deodorant with an end of a scarf hanging down.

The little boy fairy with the oversized hat was the last to go. But little by little his cherubic cheek transformed into a kink in the plaster of the mirror frame. I could still see the top hat for a while, even though I knew it was just the diamond shaped tile.

I wasn't scared at all, just fascinated.

Now, I might as well admit that this isn't the first time this has happened. In fact, it was a bit of a regular occurence when I was little, mainly, although I had one last 'visit' when I was about nineteen when I woke up to see long haired people sitting in the neighbours tree. Again, it was like wow - what are they doing there? Hang on a minute it's 2 in the morning, this mustn't be real - oh, it's not...

Even when I was little I would dismiss it as dreaming or half dreaming. I never really believed that what I saw was real.

There is really one stand out encounter however..

I was about seven or eight and shared a room with my sister. We had bunk beds and I was on the bottom one. I remember feeling very restless and inexplicably frightened and jittery while I was waiting for sleep to come. Around this time I saw a face in a dim spotlight on the wall opposite our beds. It's all a bit hazy but I think I yelled out for mum or dad who were still up watching tv. Dad probably came down and told me 'to think of Peter Pan' which was his stock standard phrase in these incidents. Then I'm pretty sure I went to sleep.

Much later (I'm guessing) I woke up suddenly and saw figures in a semi circle on the other side of the room. There was a main figure in the middle of the circle flanked by two drummers. I remember even hearing the drums. The scariest thing was that the figure in the middle was holding some kind of knife.

I should try and explain what they looked like. They were pretty much completely see-through and looked like they were drawn in the air with a dim, feathery white chalk...I've always found it hard to describe this effect (I've told this story about 100 times I think!).

And they were definitely Aztec. I probably wouldn't have said that at the time as I'm sure I didn't know what an Aztec was, but yeah, they had the large head-dresses and when I see an Aztec drawing I am definitely reminded of the figures I saw.

I was seriously so scared I couldn't scream. I tried to but nothing was coming out. I distinctly remember losing my breath and almost passing out. Then I found my voice and screamed the bloody house down. All of a sudden the room was a blaze of light as Dad came in.

I don't remember bawling but I'm sure I was. I couldn't go back to sleep in the bedroom so Dad made a bed up for me on the couch in the lounge-room. (Meanwhile my mum was just pissed off with another interrupted night's sleep - I can totally empathise now!). My Dad got a mattress and made a bed for himself on the floor next to me and I finally relaxed. My little Mesoamerican friends hadn't left though. They were everywhere around the room. I remember two standing sentinal-like near the front window and one was crouched over the television with a quizzical look like, how does this contraption work?

My father passed away almost four years ago so I can't ring him up and pick his brain about that night. I'm sure I've brought it up but he's never really verified it. In fact my mother says she can't remember the night at all which I find very strange. If it wasn't for my sister and brother then I would be a bit worried that this memory is planted and I'm gonna wake up in a pod with wires hanging out everywhere..man, this post is long and i'm getting tired. Anyway, my sister remembers the night vividly so at least the memory is real...the jury is still very out on whether what I saw was something supernatural or just the result of a very, very active imagination.

Just to finish this off, the reason why I know Brian Fround's name is because I have his 'Fairy Oracle' a tarot card set which I bought on impulse due to the stunning artwork. I've never really used them and had to find them while writing this post so I could spell his name correctly...Guess where they were?

On top of the tallboy...oooeeer! spooky!

I think he should use this as a pick up line in 15 or so years.

This morning P (three and a half) had a little stiffy which he was proudly showing off.

"There's fun in my doodle!"

I'm sure there is son, I'm sure there is.

Coffee, or should I say Mow-ka

I like Mocha, as in chocolate in my caffe latte. This all started after my first trimester where I went totally off me lattes and cigarettes (which was very handy or I honestly don't think I would have given up).

After the 12 weeks were up I gradually began to crave coffee again. I think I even began to crave the cigarettes too but had the will power to pretend they still totally grossed me out.

I still couldn't face a normal coffee so began ordering mochas. It's been over four years and I think I've still only had a couple of coffees without chocolate...and, honestly, they were mistakes where the waiter/waitress misheard or misunderstood me. I just can't go back and have become a bit of a mocha connoisseur.

I generally have a mocha every day and it's really funny to see how different cafe staff react. I must admit, when I first started to have mocha it honestly seemed a bit different and there were more than a few occasions I had to kind of describe what a mocha was! Now it seems like it's become really popular. I think I started a trend, actually. It was all me.

Erherm, well anyway, I've had some really, really fantastic ones. Birdman Eating springs instantly to mind as making one of the best mochas I've had for a while. Dark chocolate, really strong coffee yet I only had to use half a sugar. Really appreciated it. Appetite in North Melbourne served a particularly nice one too. I've had really shit ones of course. Weak, tepid coffee with chocolate syrup.

This week I found myself in Degraves Street. I used to frequent this too cool for school cafe spot, well, frequently a few years ago and thought I'd go to one of my ol' haunts Degraves Espresso. As soon as I walked in and was greeted with an icily cool stare from the staff I realised why I hadn't been there for a good seven or so years. The staff are rude.

I hate that! As well as just the simple reason that it is pretty unpleasant when someone is rude to you, I also hate it because I end up overcompensating. Like the incredible Hulk but in reverse, my Bruce Banner always wins and I end up seething inside but come over all kow-towery on the outside.

So this is what happens. I walk into Degraves and ask to get a coffee (which is the way I remember ordering before - also I was a bit tired and vague too so wasn't thinking much). The waiter who looked a bit like an amalgamation of these dickheads



(we'll call him Dude) just stares rudely back at me and says in a monotone American accent,

'We do table service'.

So what do I do?

'Oh right!' guffaw a bit and go obediently to a table.

Then, I guess because Dude's hipness and coolness is proven to be vastly superior to mine now, he waits a minute or so to come out and take my order. Not only that, he approaches another girl who has just sat down. She tells him she needs a minute so he's got no choice but to come and take my order. When I tell him I'd like a mocha, he sneers 'Mooowka' as he writes it down.

It takes a while. Infact I don't know how long he's been but I decide to give him five more minutes and if I don't get my coffee, I'm walking. I actually don't want it to come but just as I start to put my book away, A girl brings out my mocha and she smiles at me! She's friendly but the coffee is gross. Strong bitter coffee with clumps of undissolved powdered chocolate. Of course I can't take it back. I'm a wuss and intimidated. They did it on purpose. The Dude and his mate making the coffee think I'm a dork and they have conspired to make this hideous Mowka!

Then something amazing happens.

I stir in the chocolate and it's a bit nicer. Actually, I don't have to add sugar. Actually, I'm sorry to say Birdman but I think it's superceded yours.

I will write indepth about my paronoid delusions in a future post, I promise!

I've started my story!

Nice and early, I've still got a full three and a bit months to finish it.

Oh, I haven't mentioned it yet, but I am now entering the Women's Weekly Writing Competition which is due around the middle or end of February. I'm actually using the 'b story' of my novel idea so we'll see how it goes. It's a bit of a ghost story and not sure how it's going to hold up by itself.

I'm definitely one of those writers who really has no idea where something is going til it's pretty much finished. Maybe that's why I've found it so hard to call myself a writer and why procrastination comes so easily. Anyway, I'm really glad that I've pushed myself as I realise how bloody easy it is to fall into a slump of the just can't be fuckeds.

I found myself thinking all sorts of negative things when I was off doing my errands today. For instance I went down that very well worn neural highway that likes to tell me I've left it all too late. That this procrastinating, unfulfilled LAZY person is me, I'll never change. Everyone else who has ever made it is a great go-getter. Everything just comes so easily to 'them'.

Oh, and yeah, just to rub the ol' salt in I started pondering on the idea that maybe something happens neuralogically after, say the age 35, where your creative drive - if you haven't been exercising it (like moi hasn't) - just dies and that's it...sorry you missed your chance. by two years.

Of course I can back this up scientifically





Alls good now though mate!

Entertaining a three year old does yer 'ead in

Oh, yes indeedy...

Today at breakfast.

P: Mummy?

Actually for some reason, even though we are Australian, Pascal says "Mommy", so lets start that again...

P: Mommy?

Me: Yes Pascal.

P: Mom?

Me: Yes, what is it?

P: Moooommmmy!

Shows me a sinister little parcel of chewed up raisin toast.

Me: Mmm, that looks good.

P: MOM! MOMMY!!!!

Me: Yes what is it Pascal.

P: What happened?

Me: I don't know. You tell me what happened.

P: What happened?

Me: Turning back to my paper.
I didn't see, how about you tell me what happened.

Pascal puts both hands on either side of my face and gently but firmly turns it so I am looking directly into his eyes.

P: Mommy...what happened?

Pascal, Oh master of repetative questioning, you and only you can tell me what happened.