The M.O.T

I’m forcing myself to have an M.O.T.  This amount of exhaustion can’t go on indefinitely.  I’ve given it a good shot.  As Winston Churchill himself said ‘When you’re going through Hell, keep going!’ and I have…….the days have turned into weeks, into months and even into years.  I’m knackered.  My bed is my most favourite place in the whole world!  If I get a spare hour in the day with nothing scheduled, I crawl back under the covers and set the alarm for a nap!  Surely this isn’t normal?  So I made an appointment and pottered off to see the ‘ever changing’ multi-cultural GP at the local practice. 

I don’t have a good run of luck with GP’s if I’m honest.  From the ‘WOAH! Where is this bite exactly!?’ as I dropped my jeans to show the Canadian GP my bite wound (inflicted by my OWN bloody dog!), to the ‘you have very nice eyes’ comment from the Iranian GP that was about to conduct my pap smear to the same GP on another occasion telling me that I’d have ‘no problem finding a man to f*ck me’ after my marriage split and how on another occasion he told me that he ‘pops a viagra and f*cks like a train all night!’ Get the picture?  If Carlsberg made GPs…… I wouldn’t get one! I’d get the cheap, goon version!

So I made the appointment online and then the stressing started.  I REALLY hate going to the Doctors.  I’m not a hypochondriac and would rather bury my head in the sand than have any preventative stuff done, but I am an ADULT.  I am being RESPONSIBLE.  I am too FUCKING TIRED for all this shit!  I rehearsed my concerns and also wanted a mole check (which I have been putting off for approximately 25 years (see above!)).  International GP was nice.  I reeled off my concerns.  Depression can cause extreme exhaustion apparently.  He asked me the questions for the ‘are you depressed today’ quick crossword test.  I think I passed.  Apparently, given the level of stress I am under, I scored well.  He asked if I had any suicidal thoughts.  I asked if homicidal counted?  He laughed and said no.  I explained that I deal with things through humour.  There’s always hope – he smiled – and if hope doesn’t work – there’s bed….with blankets and if you pull them tightly enough over your head, the monsters can’t get you!

He suggested a blood test with ‘the works’ and wrote down more abbreviations than I’ve seen since Darcie’s Future Directions Evening.  I Googled them all later in the evening, but still didn’t understand what most of them meant.  He gave my moles the once over too.  Nothing to be concerned about, but there’s a couple I would like removed.  I have one like a rice bubble that’s very unattractive and I’m sure they keep appearing like a midnight constellation.  Mystic Meg could probably work out a birth chart based on my mole alignment, so ‘off with their heads!’.  It’s a simple procedure that he does in the surgery apparently, so once he’s back from his month long, GP holiday, I will book in and have my mole in a hole removed.  Just in time for summer and for me to burn the shit out of my skin all over again.

So I went for my blood test whilst I was there.  Somehow we got talking about donating bones from hip replacements and giving them to dogs(!) on to pigs ears and how expensive they are.  I made the comment that it wasn’t very fair for the pigs, there must be fields full of them with lopsided glasses having lost an ear.  I suppose they could try contacts, but how could you insert a contact lense with a piggy little trotter?  Inevitably, the phlebotomist looked at me like I was completely nutty – another day, another look of WTF?

The facial!

I actually won a voucher!  Ms ‘I never win anything!’ actually won a prize!  Not unfortunately for alcohol though – but for a beauty treatment.  Yikes! It could have been worse; it could have been for an extreme sport or something equally hideous, although to be honest, a spa treatment for me was not something to be relished.  AS soon as someone says the word ‘relax’ to me, every unanswered question from the last five years comes flowing back into my head.  ‘Who actually replies to Reader’s Digest ads?’ ‘How can I lose so much hair and not be bald?’ ‘Do penguins have knees?’  My head feels like a human game of ‘pong’, battling the thoughts from one ear to the other until it disappears though my ear, like weird mini-golf.

So I sat on my prize for eight months.  I toyed with the idea of a booking, but always chickened out, until one day, I felt brave and called to book.  I could hear the whale music playing in the background and I almost hung up, but managed to mumble the word ‘facial’ before I lost courage.  I didn’t realise there were as many options available as letters in the Greek Alphabet – I’ve only got one face!  I randomly yelled ‘yes!’ just to get her to stop reeling off options.  The appointment was confirmed, I was headed for Beautician Hell/Heaven.

The smell of essential oils hit me as soon as I opened the sliding door to the salon.  What even IS an essential oil?  The only oil I see as essential is used for cooking chips.  

I could feel a headache coming on already.  Maybe I was allergic to Ylang Ylang….

I was given a clipboard and asked to complete a questionnaire with all my personal details from medical history, skin care regimes, through to favourite colour.  I should have arrived 30 minutes earlier for form-filling.  I ticked boxes for my Country of Origin, admitted to my medical shortcomings, had my varicose veins photocopied and was let to the treatment room.

There is something slightly disappointing about a therapy room with a polystyrene suspended ceiling; like ruining an expensive outfit with cheap shoes.  This is the view that your clients will have for the best part of an hour; couldn’t you splash out on a plaster skim and a splash of colour?  It didn’t help that there was a water stain in the corner.  It was distracting.  I felt like I was in a psychiatrist’s office and would be given a choice of ink spot options to choose from when I departed. 

Thank you for choosing us for your organic, hypo-allergenic, blood taken from endangered bee’s knees facial treatment today.  In the mouldy stain on the ceiling could you detect: 

a) a koala; 

b) a very sad rabbit; 

c) a Ford Focus.

However, the room was warm, candle lit and pleasant enough.  There was a treatment bed with a sarong and pillow laid out artistically.  The therapist smiled at me and told me to strip down to my knickers and wrap myself in the sarong and she would be back with me shortly.  STRIP??  KNICKERS??  I’m only here for a facial!  I was panic stricken, but like the sheep that I am, I followed orders.  I felt very vulnerable, wrapped in a flimsy piece of cotton looking at my clothes in the corner flicking me the V sign.

We started with a foot soak and a leg massage.  SHIT!  I haven’t shaved my legs.  Stupid me!  Why didn’t I think to shave my legs? Oh yes, that’s right…. I was COMING FOR A FACIAL!!  Will she also be inspecting my bikini line?  I am rocking koala ears.  It might not be the ‘bikini line of choice’ for the likes of the Kardashians, but I think you’ll find most time poor suburban housewives in the suburbs choose this look from all of the available styles; leg warmers from the waist down.

My feet were soaked and scrubbed and we rinsed and repeated.  All very nice.  Then I was asked to lay face down on the treatment bed with my head through the donut hole in the middle.  My sarong was laid out over me, bum exposed to the elements (well, the suspended ceiling and the risk of Tom Cruise falling through in a ‘Mission Impossible’ style).  It was a fine line between relaxing enough, but not quite enough to let my nose run and drip onto the therapist’s socks; trials and tribulations of having a treatment with a cold.  Maybe they should have added this question to the checklist when you arrive and take this into consideration with the horizontal angle of the massage-ee.

I was covered with a warm duvet and stretched and pummelled like a lump of salt water taffy (maybe there was a viewing window with a step and a coach party of school kids were watching).  It actually felt good.  WAIT!  I was starting to relax.  What unchartered territory was this?  I was enjoying it, until she lifted the duvet, exposed my arse to Tom Cruise and asked me to roll over…… moment gone.

Why do bad things always happen to good me?

The Universe is conspiring against me.  I think it enjoys me being stressed.

I booked a massage and consultation with a new-age, massage, whole food, Mother Earth, Plinky Plonky whale music, organic hemp wearer today; only to be told (after driving 30 minutes up the road and messaging her to see if it was still OK), that she was sick and had to cancel.

She told me this after appearing from a garage (like Mr Ben).  I guess front doors are over-rated?

Shit happens, I guess.  At least she wasn’t claiming to be clairvoyant and didn’t see it coming. Boom Tisch!

A couple of things:

How is it that I end up consoling HER telling her that it’s OK and it’s only me and not to worry (she was crying because she felt ill – WTF?  Man up love!  I’ve got 3 kids.  I haven’t felt ‘tickkety boo’ since 1996!  Do you see me moping into my Tetleys?)

You’ve come over from Bali (where you split your time).  Bali is hot, tropical, humid.  Perth is currently in the midst of Winter with single figures overnight.  Why are you still dressed in flimsy MC Hammer pants and a singlet??  May be book a consult with me where I tell you to harden the fuck up and put on a jumper!  And SHOES possibly?  You’re ill and you’re standing talking to me outside a garage wearing next to nothing and you wonder why you’re ill? 

I now don’t know if I want to rebook.  Will your massage oil be mixed with nasal dripping?  Not a pleasant thought.  Will my pressure points actually be triggered by your rock hard nipples accidentally?  Why didn’t you come through the front door?  I don’t want a massage in a garage! 

I keep trying these things.  Time and time again I put myself ‘out there’ looking for the key to unlocking my stress and turning off the chatter that is constantly in my head.  Why!?  I’m not a hemp-wearing tree hugger.  I find it hard to clear my chakras.  My purple light of protection needs a new bulb.  I snore during Reiki and scare myself awake.  I still have flashbacks to the hypnotherapist and her ‘turd’.  You’d think I would learn.

I drove home with all the above ping-ponging around in my head, and then I saw a sign.  Overtaking me was a battered Ute with the numberplate ‘No Stress’ towing a trailer with the numberplate ‘Stress’.  So I guess that’s what I need to do – metaphorically unhook my trailer and drive away leaving all the shit behind.

I got home to a poorly teenager and then got a call from the school to collect Number 2 son as he was also ill.  I guess the timing wasn’t right for me to relax.

There’s always next year.

I will make a cup of tea (VERY un-Herbal) and re-watch Eat, Pray, Love whilst eating crap.  

My body is a Temple (of Doom).

What if?

What if you're sent a bowel cancer screening kit and you use a sample acquired from the dog?

You're cancer free, but you'll need worming.

It's the thought that counts.......

One of my pet hates is the phrase, ‘it’s the thought that counts’.

Actually, it’s fucking NOT!

What a piss-poor, cop out, shitty thing to say! 

I was going to book a table for our anniversary dinner, but I didn’t get around to it.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

I had my eye on a lovely necklace for your birthday, but left it too late and they’d sold it. Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

I was thinking about booking a night away in a hotel to spoil you, but then I spent the money.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

All of the above actually make you a thoughtless prick with a hungry, naked necked, sleeping on the streets, pissed off girlfriend.

I will get the last laugh however when I unplug your life support machine to run the hoover round – or charge my phone.  Oh!  Didn’t I plug your machine back in?? I meant to.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!  Have you tried turning it on and off again?

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

The Rapist

So Marriage Counselling with a soon to be ex-partner is fun, isn’t it?  Sat in the same air space as a man with all the personality of an Ebola outbreak for two hours, listening to a woman in ‘sensible shoes’ literally telling you where you’ve fucked your relationship up.  Sorry love, you may well have an ‘ology’, but it’s not from the University of Jimmy Choo and I’d rather have fallen arches and a little fun than a herbal tea in my hush puppies!

I think it takes a certain type of person to be a therapist; twin sets, cardigans, and that nodding action? A Masters with a Major in Bloody Nosey and a Minor in condescension.  Must take an entire semester just to master that; probably another on scarf tying, although they wouldn’t need a unit on shoelace tying as all sensible shoes are slip-on. 

I’m sat in marriage counselling and find myself pitying this woman’s husband.  It must suck to be married to a therapist.  Not for him the luxury of going to bed on a row, oh no… rather ‘let’s talk about our feelings, Bernard; how did we get to this point and what possessed you to get so angry as to throw your plate of spag bol into my Wilton?’  Can you imagine anything worse?  ‘You pissed me off, Barbara, by not letting me watch the second half of Match of the Day, however, I will ‘manage’ my feelings by self-medicating with three cans of Stella and punish you by snoring loudly in your ear all night long, hogging the duvet and farting loudly in my sleep’.  Who needs a degree for that?

Actually, a therapist might be the career for me. I took an online Facebook quiz once and it suggested this, although I nearly reported the page to Facebook as whilst viewing on my phone, the career of choice was displayed as ‘The Rapist’ – can’t imagine seeing a position vacant in Centrelink for that one!  However, I am a naturally nosey cow and I love a good hard luck story.  I think I would combine therapy with membership to a social club where women could support each other and partake in activities to make them feel good about themselves; a manicure, a decent hairdo, a massage, a Dr Scholls catalogue to peruse, crocheting a voodoo doll for beginners.  Self care (and transcendental mutilation) are very important when a women is experiencing a traumatic period in her life.

I think I would particularly enjoy the sexual problems. I have absolutely no formal qualifications for this role (other than an accidental orgasm in 2005 when I brushed against the washing machine on spin cycle whilst trying to locate a missing sock behind the tumble dryer*), but I am always open to hearing about people’s fetishes.  I am now clinically classified as TSG (Too Scared to Google) after the 2 girls, 1 cup disaster of 2007.

It interests me how some people have a total lack of empathy, or are freaked out by phobias.  I guess it wouldn’t do if we were all the same though; hence the need for religion (and Crocs).  I tend to deal with my issues through humour, although the fact that most of the world’s funniest comedians were/are in fact all alcoholics/depressive/manic personalities isn’t lost on me.  Yes, sometimes my humour may be inappropriate, but then again, so would be stabbing a pensioner (it’s ALWAYS a pensioner) with my car keys in the queue at Australia Post.  Which is preferable?  A misplaced chuckle at somebody’s expense, or a five hour wait in A&E, accompanying a pensioner to prevent a lawsuit with their frozen meals for one on the defrost in their wheeled shopping trolley, down wind of extra strong mints, moth balls, pissy knickers and a tissue up the sleeve of their (home) knitted cardy?

Counselling didn’t save my marriage. 

Not even close. 

In fact, it made me realise that I genuinely didn’t want to ‘save’ it.  It was dead; it had died a long time ago; like every pot plant I’ve had in my care since the age of 8 (even with a carefully crafted watering schedule on a calendar taped to my wall).  The death knell was tolling – I could even hear it over the rustling sound of the therapist’s polyester trouser-encased thighs rubbing together as she exited the room.

*that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 

OMG

Why must everything in life these days be an acronym? Can’t people use full words or sentences anymore? 

This week we attended my daughter’s Future Directions evening at school. The aim of the evening was to try and give them information on all the options available to them in Years 11 and 12 to take them forward to their chosen career path. Maybe a prerequisite for the evening was that you needed to have completed Year 10 to actually have a Scooby what on earth was going on! 

The pressure on these young adults to know what they are supposed to want to do with their lives in terms of a career choice at the age of 14/15 is phenomenal. They obviously haven’t witnessed us a family changing plans for the weekend multiple times all before Wednesday! Why should the kids know what they want to be doing with their lives at 40 whilst they are still at school? How many of us ‘adults’ did this? How many of us grown-ups are still looking for our passion, our direction, our fulfilment as we bumble through our responsible years? 

Now I know that Australia (as a whole) enjoys over-complicating everything – try buying a mobile phone and then come back to me - but this bombardment of information took things to a WHOLE new level. After a ten minute lecture on how an ATAR score is actually calculated, it felt as if my grey matter were oozing out of my ears! Does it need to be this complicated? Really? They flew a space craft to the moon in 1969 with less algorithms than is required to calculate scaling! 

I left the evening more confused with the options available than I was prior to the information session; if that was the outcome they were aiming for, then they aced it. 

Highlights of the abbreviated (only in terms of language – we were there for over 3 hours!) evening included: 

• WACE (Western Australia Certificate of Education) 
• TICS (Tertiary Institutions Service Centre)  
• TAFE (Technical and Further Education) 
• TEA (Tertiary Entrance Aggregate) 
• SCSA (School Curriculum Standards Authority) 
• LOTE (Language Other Than English) 
• WASSA (Western Australian School Curriculum & Standards Authority) 
• SAE (Standard Australian English) 
• ACSF (Australian Core Skills Framework) 
• OLNA (Online Literacy and Numeracy Assessment) 
• NAPLAN (National Assessment Program – Literacy and Numeracy) 
• VET (Vocational Educational Training) 
• ADWPL (WORK PLACE LEARNING PROGRAMME) 

Throw in mentions of a Certificate, Diploma, Degree and I LWTL (Lost the Will to Live). Shall we LSCWC (look, say, cover, write, check) these for a test later? 

I felt out of my depth; like a pensioner with a new TV – staring at the remote control with a billion functions, only wanting to see Eddie Maguire in the Hot Seat. 

I know children often get accused of laziness in their trendy abbreviations, but is it any wonder when this their educational culture? I had a new found understanding of PMSL, BFF and ADHD. 

In conclusion; are we any closer to picking my lovely, capable, intelligent daughter’s course direction for next year? Not really. Were we left with a headache and a small booklet of abbreviations and their meanings? Yes. Will it all work itself out in the end? Undoubtedly. Will she be working in the profession at 40 that she thinks she might enjoy now? Highly unlikely. Will that be OK? Bloody right, it will. 

Life’s about the journey – not the destination. 

BRB

Own it!

For over 40 years I deliberated about a tattoo.  I spent hours on Pinterest researching designs.  I was probably voted by my Peers ‘Miss most likely never to get a tattoo 1991’ which added to my bucket-list determination to have one.

I didn’t want anything tacky (oh the irony!).  I guess in the end, I kinda panicked a little?  Possibly?  I haven’t really got regrets, I’m glad it’s not bigger as it hurt like fuck.  God knows why it’s purple though as I really wanted it smaller and not coloured at all, but in true ‘Ju’ fashion, I smiled and nodded when the tattoo artist got her crayolas out.

But why can’t I own my own opinions?

I think I have a gene missing.  I seem to lack conviction.  Whenever I list something for sale on Gumtree, I always want to list the microscopic things that are wrong with it.  If I share an opinion with people, I’m almost ashamed of it.  I can’t sell anything as I literally can’t back myself and my own choices – let alone embellish the truth.  What the fuck is that all about?

Can you imagine me robbing someone?  ‘It’s a stick up!  Give me all your money.  I mean….. if that’s OK?  I know times are tough and we all have bills to pay.  I’m really sorry I chose you.  It’s only that you’re a bit chubby and I thought I’d have more chance in outrunning you if you decided to take me on.  Yes, of course, I’ll accept a cheque.  Do you have a cheque guarantee card to accompany that?  I also run a loyalty programme, five muggings and you get a free bumper sticker on the sixth, just remember to have your card stamped.’

You get the picture.  Whatever the situation, I’m not very good at backing myself – that look of raised eyebrows that people give me when I tell them of my goal, it just makes me stop; back pedal even, and almost apologise for my dreams.  So when people ask to see my tattoo and what made me pick a purple elephant (see, you could almost hear the eyebrows raising in that question, can’t you?), I generally laugh it off.  Say I’ve got ‘Regerts’ like the advert on the radio when the bloke gets his tattoo spelt incorrectly.  Or take the piss out of myself by saying, ‘over 40 years it took me to pick a design and I chose THIS! Ha ha ha’  But really, yes, I DID choose this and there actually was a reason I chose an elephant.

For one thing, elephants are cool!

They are the only mammal that can’t jump (I can relate – I tried a STEP class once)

Their skin in an inch thick – no comment.

Elephants cry, play, have memories, show empathy and can actually laugh; three more qualities than my ex-husband.

They can spend up to 16 hours a day eating and only 2-3 hours sleeping. 

They grieve for their loved ones and can even show signs of depression.  They also carry out burial rituals for members of their herd – how beautiful is that?

They are one of the most intelligent animals on Earth.

An elephant herd is considered one of the most closely knit societies of any animal, and a female will only leave it if she dies or is captured.

Baby elephants are initially blind and some take to sucking their trunk for comfort in the same way that humans suck their thumbs.

Homosexual behaviour in elephants is common and well-documented.  Who knew?  I shall for ever after now thing of Elton John as an Elephant.

Amazing really, don’t you think?  Of all the animals in the Kingdom, you could do a Hell of a lot worse than being an elephant!  So, my first tattoo may well be of a purple elephant with a love heart blown from her trunk, but in a lot of ways, it symboliises my journey, my passion for my children, my empathy and the fact I can no longer do star jumps.

#OWNIT

Join the dots.....

I’m feeling really disconnected from everything at the moment.

No matter how hard I try, I just seem incapable of finishing anything important – APART from wine.  This is probably why I drink, so that at least in ONE area of my life, I’m not a complete, dismal failure!  Give me a bottle, I will finish that bitch!

My friend said yesterday that I attract ‘shit’.  She has never known anyone that has as much stress and associated bad luck as I.  Basically, I am the equivalent of those things you put in your dryer that attract all the lint and shitty bits of tissue that kids always seem to accumulate in the far corners of the pockets of their school trousers.  Only instead of lint and tissue, I attract drama and tossers!   She asked if I had ever been ‘saged’ and said she was going to get some and ‘smoke me’ to rid me of my attractive abilities. 

I am dealing with more bureaucratic organisations currently than is healthy.  Normally one call a quarter to Centrelink is enough for anyone.  I have ongoing weekly conversations at the moment with the ATO, CSA, Optus, Passport Office and a Real Estate Agent to try and get the bond back from my previous rental – OH and a psychotic ex-husband that I’m still having to run a business with!  Do you feel sorry for me yet?  Surely even only one of those is enough to bring anyone out in a hot sweat; these are currently on my friends and family call list!   If they were on Facebook – they’d be on the ‘people you might know’ section.   Add my call list to the fact that we live in Australia and even the most simple of tasks can easily have its completion timeline doubled – due to kangaroos on the line, or Koalas in the post box or I don’t f*cking know why, but everything takes years to complete!

I genuinely love Australia.  I love living here and I think I will be forever grateful that we made the move when we did to follow a dream, but for FUCKS SAKE it frustrates the pants off me that you can call the same organisation 5 fives, ask the same question of 5 different employees and get a different answer every blooming time!  WTF is that all about?  What if it was a medical emergency and you were on the phone to Health Direct.......

- yeah you should be OK to mix the meds. 

- I wouldn’t take those two together if I were you.

- Erm, go for it….what’s the worst that can happen?

- You read what happened to Michael Jackson, right?

- She’ll be right.  Knock ‘em back with a mouthful of VB and call the GP in the morning.

This was confirmed when I had an issue with my back.  The GP suggested a CT scan, so I laid in a thumping circle for 30 minutes, threatened with an extra bill for re-scanning if I dared to move and handed over the best part of $ 500.  Within a few hours I received a call from the scanning place –  you NEED to make an urgent appointment, sooner rather than later with your GP to discuss the results and good luck with everything.

OMG!  I’m dying!  I’ve got a growth; or a cancer of my coccyx or a tumour in my humour (thanks for that one, Robbie!).

I made the appointment, planning my demise the whole time I was sat in the Dr’s waiting room, flicking through a 1986 edition of the Woman’s Weekly (probably covered in Ebola and dysentery!)  I sat, braced for the words ‘riddled’ ‘terminal’ or ‘hopeless’ but instead was met with ‘leaking’ ‘nerves’ and ‘bulging’.  Was this my CT results, or my Tinder profile?

I’ve got bulging discs and might need to have something fused?  Should I call a DJ or an electrician? 


She referred me to a specialist.  A 3 month wait (with no feeling in my toes on the right hand side – how can it be right HAND side when it’s my feet!!??)  and que appointment with possibly the most arrogant Consultant I’ve ever met.  I paid this ‘Professional’ to insult me!  What was I thinking?  I could have just stayed home and tried to converse with the kids and saved a packet. 


I should have known things weren’t going to go well when he asked me if I suffered from dementia.  Apparently, my answer of ‘Yes!  No!  I don’t remember – I get confused!’ Was NOT funny and there was no place for humour in his Consulting Rooms.  I guess I missed that sign.  Maybe they should have had a tick box for that on the form with the Receptionist with Forked tongue, or a locker, where you could leave your cheesy one liners for collection at the end of your appointment, along with your dignity.


He examined me.


Do you expect me to operate? He asked immediately after I crawled from the examination table to try and fold myself into the chair opposite his MASSIVE desk.  Errr, I don’t know?  Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?  Maybe if you actually told me what was wrong with me in words with less and 6 syllables? 

‘……Because I’m not going to’.

Oh, right, OK.  Was it just a trick question then?

‘Quite frankly, I had exactly what you have and the day after I was diagnosed, I flew to Europe for an 8 week holiday.  I was in agony and every photo of me taken in and around the great Architectural sites of England, France and Italy shows me hunched and grimacing; however, I did it and so can you.  I was slightly confused at this point as I only had a long weekend booked in a caravan). 

If it gets worse, phone and make an appointment. 

If it gets better – YEAY, well done you!

Give this form to the Receptionist as you leave.  KER-CHING.

I am pleased to report, I am the small percentage of the world whose body decides to take matters into its own hands and harden the fuck up.  

The Electric DJ worked magic!

MUUUUUUMMMMMMMM!!!!

The older I get, the more inappropriate my mouth (and the things that seem to spill from it) appear to get!

The amount of times I hear the words – ‘Mum!!!! You can’t SAY that!’ seem only to correlate with the number of thread veins that are appearing on my thighs* 

Saying that all Asian people look the same; or that I wasn’t surprised by the super academic achievements of the Chinese kids at school; or a graduating boy looked like Augustus Gloop from (the original) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film are not condusive to acceptable behaviour whilst out in public ear shot apparently. 

Neither is commenting whilst passing and elderly gentlemen on the foreshore with advanced arthristis – ‘that reminds me – when we go back to England, I really miss Twiglets’

I am suffering from ‘Mother’s Mouth’.  I seem to remember (probably when I was a similar age to Darcie) that I also was mortified by the verbal witticisms that my Mum would drop, in everyday conversation, like a pensioner with flatulence.  No acknowledgment for the level of nastiness, no shake of the trouser leg, just ‘WA-BAM!’  drop the insult and keep walking, leaving the then teenage me stood, mouth open and incredulous in the aisle of the supermarket, checking to see who else would have heard

*what the actually fuck is a thread vein?  Who invented them and what exactly IS their purpose? And don’t even get me started on liver spots :/

Maybe it’s because as we get older we are less likely to tolerate fools and bad service?  I remember being mortified when my Mum would apparently ‘make a fuss’ in a shop over a warranty issue; this was well and truly recreated when Sam’s 18^th birthday present of a watch, appeared to not work the day of his birthday when it was put on his wrist for the first time.  Sam was horrified when I made a fuss in the shop as I didn’t think it was acceptable for it to be sent away for 6 weeks!!  I would have made a much bigger fuss had he not been there, pulling me away from the counter like a PitBull with a tug toy.

I’m going to Hell.  I know this already.  In some ways I’m pleased.  I’m not very good at laundry and couldn’t cope with the stress for all eternity of getting stains out of Angel-white clothing.  I much prefer rock and roll to classical and I’ve never had much fondness for a Harp.  Think of the musical soundtrack for downstairs!?

The older I get, the more I tend to let things flow from my lips that really should never be allowed to escape.  I’m convinced that age is directly correlated to one’s fuck it response.  Here are a couple of examples of things that should probably have remained in my head:

Tupper-where?

Apparently, it was an elderly couple that made their fortune from Tupperware.  ‘How fantastic’ chirped I, ‘I wonder if they had a Tupperware coffin each with a life time warranty and if you happened to stumble across them in 10 year’s time, they’d both be perfectly preserved and daisy fresh in their clip locked sealed containers?’ 

Gopher one / Give her one?

I was told about an OAP’s swingers party.  It wasn’t keys that were placed in the fruit bowl – rather keys for their mobility scooters.  If you aren’t financially stable enough for your own gopher (they have two seater ones in Australia – so Johnny and Sandy from Grease can reinact the T-Bird scene immortally), you can chuck in your dentures.  I guess it gives it away though when you look up from the fruit bowl and your eyes lock with Norman and his gummy grin.  If you were quick thinking, you could pop the teeth back in the bowl – no one would willingly choose ‘Slurper Harris’.  To an OAP, the height of virility must be watching a man biting into an apple – no cutting it with a knife first, or removing it from your mouth with your choppers attached.

Blurred Vision.

It may be mean, but I asked my eldest not to lend my bike helmet to a particularly spotty mate.  It would only take one last minute breaking decision and I would be wiping off a dot-to-dot puzzle from the inside of my visor for days.

Plane boring.

dropped Ralph off at the airport once for a cross country trip and there was a plane ready to board before his.  I watched intently as old people limped towards the gangway, children cried and whinged, middle aged bland women wearing beige shuffled and over weight men in tshirts that exposed the bottom of their bellies all headed towards the plane.  My comment of ‘well, that would be no great loss to humanity if that plan fell from the sky’ was not acceptable apparently.  Who knew?
 

All things to all people?

So, today, I have been contemplating how many people I can potentially ‘disappoint’ in the space of one day.  The list is quite astounding.  Today I am feeling the pressure.  Today I no longer wish to ‘adult’.  I want to run away.

If I list the jobs I undertook today – a ‘typical’ Monday in the life of Julia; non-descript, suburban Mum of three.

Alarm clock.

Packed lunch entrepreneur (yes, entrepreneur – I do magic with a cheese slice).

Hunter of the lost sock.

Feeder of felines.

Sole emptier of the litter tray.

Moaner to make children wake up, dress and look semi-presentable for school.

Retriever of Friday’s discarded school uniform from the washing basket (unwashed – of course), a quick shake, a febreeze and it’s good for another week J

Co-ordinator of breakfast – i.e. make toast to eat in car on way to school.

Director of bag packing.

Negotiator of BAD traffic and new detour that appeared overnight.

Taxi service to the school gates.

Dropped car off to garage for attention to excessive whine in back (even when kids AREN’T in car – and that was wHine – not wine).

Late to self-worth course (obviously don’t value myself enough to be early).

Reinforced stuff that I know.  Don’t have time to put me first really – maybe I can reschedule the date with myself that I’ve been promising myself for weeks.

Received hug from woman as wet as a weekend in Bognor, who declared that she was thinking of me all week and however bad her life is, at least she is comforted in knowing that she isn’t dealing with anywhere near as much shit as me.

Felt like shit (made mental note that I don’t want to be ^that person – meaning the wet weekend, OR the person that others ‘feel sorry for’).

Drove to Ralph’s.

Counselled him and talked him off the cliff.  Listened to his rant.

Ranted with him.

Had a social worker visit – got angry.  Bloody do-gooders.

Left to drive to solicitor.

Got arse chewed – need to be better ‘Mum’.  More stern.  More tough.  Bad Cop.  F I R M.

Must spend 2 hours a night with youngest doing homework.

Can’t have life.

Must listen to monotone reading EVERY night for at least half an hour…..

Need a plan for school.  Should be on top of things.  Should have plan in place to educate my children outside of school hours when professionals that have been to University to be taught how to…….. well, you know…. educate them.

Struggle with Year 7 Math homework.  Can’t even pronounce some of the spelling words.

Prepare meal that kids will push around the plate for ten minutes, but not actually eat any of seeing as they polished off a whole bag of Doritos prior to me coming home from work.

Listen to everyone moan about how much they hate the sliver of onion / capsicum / tomato / LOVE that I put into their dinner.

Give up telling them that there are starving kids in the world after youngest offers to post them tomorrow’s Doritos.

Start negotiating about homework.   Kids are like terrorists.  Before I realise it, I have agreed to a sleepover and a trip to the movies in exchange for 10 math questions and assignment prep.

Television goes off – tuneless inane singing starts.

2 hours to complete 10 questions.

Where’s the wine?

Take DD to dancing – forget about detour.  10 minute drive takes 30 minutes.  Get home just in time to return back to dance school to collect her.

Forgot kitchen looks like a war zone.

Start mentally preparing the children for heading upstairs to bed.

Favourite TV programme comes on and finishes.

Shower, pyjamas, 30 minutes listening to youngest read.

30 minutes feels like 30 years (surely this book is on DVD? NO!  Bad parent!! Listen….. do NOT day dream….).  Made worse my knowing that George Clooney film is on now – make that 40 years.

Need wine (badly).

Hang washing out that I put on last night.  Smells slightly musty after sweating in the machine all day – blame new fabric softener scent.

9pm – youngest comes downstairs for the third time to tell me he loves me, or there’s a spot in his ear, or he’s worried about polar ice caps melting, or ANYTHING to avoid going to bed.

Choses this exact moment to tell me he has been relentlessly bullied for 7 years.  Why didn’t I know?  Why haven’t I helped?  Starts uncontrollably sobbing. Don’t say anything to anyone – let alone a teacher – will only make things worse.  Worry about how to address the situation.

Console sobbing child.

Don’t notice snot on shoulder.

Still need wine.

9.45pm finally sit down.

9.50pm - nod off on the sofa.

Wake up with dribble on the cushion and pins and needles.

Forget that the kitchen STILL looks like a bomb’s hit it L  Load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen before bed.

Watch cat silently MEOW in complaint as I left her on the balcony – like the Marcel Marceau of the cat world.  Decide to let her in – do NOT want to piss the cat off; she is a force to be reckoned with.

Lay in bed worrying about child’s bullying, musty washing, type of preservatives in cheese slices, number of chemicals I am poisoning our home with my trying to keep my toilet rim squeaky clean and germ free, where is that missing sock?

Sometimes I wish I was gravely stupid.  Surely morons don’t go through life this badly stressed?  Maybe I could have an IQ reduction.  It works for boobs – why not brain cells?  I wonder if the happiness of your life is directly correlational to your stupidity?  Surely there’s a graph for that?  If not, why not? 

Consider applying to do a PhD on this exact topic…… probably need training for that…..too stupid…….but happy.

Self Worth begins at home - Part I

This week children, in search of personal enlightenment, I find myself enrolled for a self-worth course.  A six week, intensive ‘learn to love the shit out of yourself’ course.  It’s the first time I’ve had a name badge pinned to my lapel in a long time and the nervousness of a room full of middle aged women with no self-confidence was palpable.  I have never seen as many women in man-made, beige coloured fabrics.  If it was possible for women to merge into the background any more than the specimens in this room, I would be shocked.  It was awkward.

In personal growth terms, I felt that I was already nearing the finish line in comparison to these women; some of whom were still hunting for their sensible shoes to walk to the starting line.  I don’t consider myself blessed in the confidence department, but when asked to introduce themselves and say a few words about what brought them here, I thought they were going to die – one of them even asked to pass!

I have already learnt that self-care is a big part of the healing process and ties in significantly with your self-esteem; could it be that Maureen’s crushing self-doubt was in fact, directly proportional to the fact that she hasn’t seen the inside of a hairdressing salon since 1987 and was still ‘rocking’ a Kevin Keegan perm with matching pastel blue eyeshadow.  Maybe the money she invested in the course would have been better spent in ‘Curl up and Dye’ and Superdrug. To add to her woes, Maureen also had an accent originating from the North East of England; I’m not being judgemental (much), but even the most intelligent of people appear to lose a good 25 IQ points with the introduction of that accent.

Moving round the room, next to Maureen was Gwyneth.  Gwyneth had teeth.  Lots of teeth.  I noticed that there was a less than subtle scrunching noise emanating from her groin area when she walked into the room from her wide leg trousers rubbing together at the crotch.  I hoped there wouldn’t be much moving around the room for group activities, or we may have a small bush fire on our hands.  Other than the teeth and the trousers, there was really nothing else notable about Gwyneth.  At least she had seem the inside of a salon this side of the noughties; maybe she was further advanced than Maureen in the evolutionary scale.

Janet seemed fairly together, but she laughed nervously at every sentence and accompanied the laughter with the deepest blush I have ever seen. She was so crushingly shy.  She was also very plump.  When she talked her chins wobbled and it was both very off-putting and rhythmically enchanting.  It was very hard to maintain eye contact with her when there was so much movement going on.

Even the names of these women were dull!  Maybe that it, your life’s path is somewhat defined the hours after birth when you are given your title to carry you through your existence for the next three score years and ten. Anything circa 1940s and you’re screwed.  Yes I know the ‘olives’, ‘ednas’ and ‘Ediths’ are regaining popularity now, but I think this is only because the world has had enough of children just named with Vowels or items scoured from the room whilst on an acid trip.  There must be an option available in life between Dora and Doolittle Rainbow Honeyflower Zapper?  Let’s call it ‘common sense’ – for the sake of well….. common sense!  Your name should be somewhat expiring.   When I type my name into my phone for example, my surname is given as an option, next to ‘Roberts’.  Julia Roberts.  What would Olive be suggested ‘Oyl’?  or Edna – ‘Dame Everege’?

There are two other participants in the class; Ruth and Rose – R&R.  They formed an instant bond walking to the class from the bus stop and were always to be found congregating round the tim tams at morning tea. Because of their bond, it was almost impossible to engage in conversation with either one of these women. They clung to each other like Rose in Titanic to her plank.  I never overheard their conversation (as everything was conducted in hushed whispers), but I should imagine it consisted on fevered debates about bondage garments, S&M and sex toys.  Actually, that was irony.  If either of these women had had a sexual encounter within the last 20 years, I am hanging up my Max Factor and leaving now – because well….. seriously.  I know you cannot judge a book by a cover and sometimes, the shy quiet ones are the go-ers, but if they have seen more sexually charged action that me in the last 5 years, I may just drive my car into a tree on the way home!  My pet shitz shu is more sexually alluring that either of these women and has less hairy legs than Ruth if I’m honest.  In actuality, their conversation would probably be Women’s Country Association Victoria sponge recipes, when the best time is to prune ornamental roses and a share subscription for crochet monthly.

The teacher was lovely (on the first meeting).  All enthusiasm, sensible shoes and lavender.  She loved running this course; mainly I should imagine for the reason that she could return to her comfortable home, loving husband and delicious children, warmed by the knowledge that she has her shit together compared to a lot of sad, man-made fibre wearing women that pay for the privilege to read a book together on weekly basis and time after time be reminded just how disastrous they all are as assertive individuals.  Over the passing weeks, she would furnish us with snippets of her life; the home cooked meals, the excelling children, the garden that flowered on command.  No one has their shit together that much. 

The image she was trying to project was starting to slip slightly where I could imagine her at 8.30 on a Thursday evening, two gin and tonics down, screaming at her husband with a dishevelled French pleat and smudged lippy – ‘Graham, I will not stand for your lumpy mash any longer!  I am leaving you for Malcolm from Bridge club who does a nice polenta and a smooth cianti that he actually opens prior to pouring, to let it breathe for an hour’.

She looked like a diva.  I’m all for self confidence, but this woman looked high maintenance.  One of the women that breezed into the room as if on wheels, but had a host of nervous people on tenter hooks behind her, waiting to be picked up on a shortcoming; a slightly tepid tea, a warm sangria, not enough garnish on an hors douvre…. You know the struggles. She’d look at you and impart a compliment, full of hope, but then crashed and burned, leaving flames on the lino.  She’d finger the fabric of your blouse and say ‘what a lovely shade of pink; not many people can pull that off without looking deathly and how very brave to risk a polyester on a total fire ban day’.