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!
The Electric DJ worked magic!
