Penis Bread.

It’s Sunday morning round brunch time, and I am imagining a couple of soft gooey eggs on toast…

“I feel like some eggs…”

“I’ll make you some eggs darlin” Fitty picks up a shrunken, manky half-tomato he has left on the kitchen bench overnight. “We need to use this up, so I’ll make you eggs with garlic, chili, onions and tomato with cheese melted all over it!”

“But I just want eggs, I never asked you for garlic breath and manky tomato!” I moan, trying to look past him to the fry pan to see if it has a greasy coating and footprints.

Fitty and I are at constant logger-heads about food storage, preparation and cleanliness. I’m a total fuss pot, I’ll admit it. I  like to have to know that my food is clean, stored properly, and hygienically prepared . Living with people who think it’s stupid to wash their hands is enough to make one paranoid.

“Washing your hands is stupid. Germs will save you from other germs!”

So in effect – don’t bother with hand washing – even after the toilet!! I think somewhere, one of the parents read an article where it was suggested it might be a good idea to let your babies eat a little dirt now and then – and ran with it..

Fitty is a man, so he ignores anything that requires effort, plus – he must always be the most popular parent – ergo he usually backs the kids. So although he agrees with me about the washing of hands after using the toilet – I’m on my own here when I shriek and rant and rave about germs and bacteria on the food!!

I would elaborate – but I can’t even imagine words to explain the above, or how I live with it. Highlighting the difficulties of shared parenting is exactly the point  of this post because  PENIS BREAD…

Penis Bread – is bread that has been touched by unwashed toilet hands.

I live in constant fear of eating penis bread or it’s crusty cousin – booger chips, (and don’t even ask me to share your ass biscuits!)

The HORROR!

I know, it’s inconceivable for most of us to imagine a world where Mothers don’t teach children the basics, such as the washing of hands and bathroom etiquette. But trust me, it happens. I didn’t even know it had happened until a couple of years back when the subject sorta came up. My explosive yet disbelieving response was to interrogate the children HARD.

Turns out that some mothers don’t believe in hand washing at all! All the germs are GOOD FOR YOU.

Which is fine for those mothers I guess, but when another mother has to live with the product of your beliefs, it creates a lotta extra work and anxiety.

photo credit: The Mascara Diaries

 

Growing up, I was surrounded by a nagging Magoo who worked in the home. You could white-glove my mother’s house any day of the year and you wouldn’t find a spec of dust. She’s very clean. We had to wash our hands after washing our hands, you know – just in case. Before we went out anywhere, she would wash all the floors so she could come back to a spotless home.

When I ask Fitty about his childhood, he tells me that his mum never nagged – she just did it all. I believe him, cause MIL seems like the kind of lady who just does. MIL worked all of Fitty’s childhood, and she probably never had the energy to nag.

Is it my fault  Magoo created a heavily anxious, germaphobe?

It does make it hard to live together tho, and when it comes to the hand washing thing, I kinda want to move to Mars…

So, in my head, when Fitty offers to make me eggs, I go through a mental process that goes like this:

1. Is the pan clean? Coz you know he just wipes the grease off and leaves it sitting on the stove face up so the flies can fuck in it?
2. Are the eggs fresh?  Coz even if things are less than fresh, he’s gonna give them the benefit of the doubt and serve them to me anyway.
3. Has the bread got penis?  Coz you know maybe that bread got mauled by unwashed kids?
4. Did Fitty wash his hands??
5. Are the fruits/vegetables fresh? Did he wash them? Coz you will never get the image of the lady sneezing on the strawberries out of your mind, (and you don’t want to eat supermarket snot-berries.)

Then – there’s this:

• The dirtiest member of this household, the one with perpetually sticky hands – is constantly sick.
• The one’s with the dirtiest rooms are the ones that are always misplacing and breaking their stuff.
• I’m probably gonna die first – because that one time I don’t wash my hands, I’ll contract Emu-Flu and die.

I definitely over-do it, but Fitty definitely under-does it. Maybe somewhere in there is a balance of just the right amount of bacteria in our systems to avoid pandemic episodes and mouth aids?

Sure hope so?  If not, just remember – if anything happens to me and you never see another post?

It was probably the Penis Bread….

Love it or List it?

There’s a show I watch, one that I love, but that Fitty cannot stand. It’s produced and filmed in Canada, and it’s all about a series of home-owners choosing whether to stay in their unsuitable “bought it on a whim 10 years ago” homes, and have a Designer renovate their house to suit their current lifestyle or at the same time, a competing Realtor shows the family homes that suit them right now – no reno required.

The key here is the renovation – sometimes the Designer does such a good job the home-owners fall in love with their old home all over again and choose to “love it” rather than “list it”.

There’s a list of must-haves for both the renovation and for the new home. The show follows the same plot line each episode. *Gasp* the budget is too small for the list! *Gulp* the new home is out of the preferred area!

The other shit thing about the show is the simulated hatred and competition between the Realtor and the Designer, but I deal because I love the home transformations. Fitty can’t deal with any of it, but will sit beside me and watch it seething and making irritating comments the whole time.

Anyway, this show has got me thinking…what if there was a show….

“Love It or List It – My Life”

Must-haves to stay in my life:

• A Nice Boss:  Having lived with Fitty for 10 years, I’d say shock was an understatement of the feeling I had when I finally met the man who inhabits his body 9 – 5. Brat, Dick-face, Prince of Darkness – a few names that would suit his work persona nicely.
• A smaller ass: One of the secret symptoms of giving up smoking is that your ass enlarges. (If you add in the menopausal stomach augmentation commonly experienced by women in my age group), you soon find you can no longer fit into your clothing! It would be nice to have the ass I had prior to giving up smoking. It’s not like I’m doing anything *stuffs chocolate slice in mouth* to cause the expansion of my middle region, *eats bowl of peanuts*  I just can’t understand the weight gain at all? *inhales bag of chips*
• A sister-wife: I do  try to keep the house clean, it’s just that by the time I’ve endured a 40 hour work week with Fitty, the last thing I want to do all weekend is hang around the house (with him) doing the housework! I’d much prefer to visit friends/family/woodland animals, or go to the movies with Magoo. A sister-wife would be a friend and a handy helper at home. I see her washing, cooking, cleaning, and playing with my hair!

Must-haves to buy new life:

• A Palace of Gleaming Surfaces: Plus a family with put-away skills that would blow your mind! Nobody would leave anything anywhere and everyone would shit bubblegum scented rainbows. I tire of the routine scolding and teaching of people who are too old to still be learning how to put things away and look after their own stuff.
• A 10 Hour Work Week:  I love my job, but I reckon if I cut away all the bullshit hours I spend tidying up after the toddler (Fitty), arguing that I am in fact RIGHT and giggling over stupid shit, I could do the work I need to get done in a couple of hours a day. Then I could get back to the important aspects of my menopause healing like retail therapy and remedial sleep treatment.
• Total Remote Control: No more News Marathons, no more four straight hours of science, or watching the dude from Ancient Aliens justifying his research grant. No more Mythbusters, Air Crash Investigation or random world current affairs. No more “Ways to Hate Donald Trump” on CNN! A little of the above is fine, but you can’t constantly watch serious. It kills your soul.

 

Related Fun – Because he was initially terrified I would actually sign my work emails “Boomshanka”, or tell jokes to the clients, Fitty used to make me read emails to him before I sent them. (Okay, yes I may have definitely created this problem for myself by repeatedly threatening to punk the clients and by always whispering “Boomshanka” at the end of his dictated emails.)

One day at work, I was reading an email to Fitty, (As I read the words ‘new home’ Fitty the Satanic Boss shrieks, “This isn’t some flowery Canadian Reno show ya know, this is a Business!  Call. It. A. Dwelling!” God help us if some non robot-like humanity sneaks into our work correspondence!

I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. He can be such a funny fucker at work, but most of the time I just want to staple his lips together with the industrial stapler…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me – with nothing to say…

“You haven’t posted in 14 days…..” Thanks Facebook! For reminding me that I have nothing to say. I’m kind of…

Blocked….

Writer’s block? Life block? Menopause…? Nicotine withdrawal? Or am I simply running out of things to say? I’m a little concerned really… I mean, what if I never write again? I’m forcing myself to put together this post – just write – to stay in the loop until I get my mojo back.

One of the things stopping me at the moment is the mundane nature of life right now. I’ve mentioned it before, but honestly, I’m struggling with the amount of time I’m surrounded by Fitty!

Giving up smoking has not helped at all. I’m cranky as fuck, even with the nicotine patches that Fitty is way too delicate to wear. (Hey they itch the hell outta my skin too, and I have ugly red patches where they’ve been, but anything to stop the murderous impulses – right?) Pussy!

It helps that we started with a very healthy and happy relationship I guess, but the sheer amount of time we spend together is wearing us down, slowly but surely.

Fitty is a Virgo, and as such is perfect.

There is nothing wrong with the way he behaves, EVER.

I’m the kind of person who will argue until I’m blue in the face if I think I’m right, but I am prepared to admit when I’m wrong. (The grey area here of course is when I think I’m right, but I’m actually wrong.)

With Fitty there is no wrong. He’s either right – or you’re a fuckhead.

I’ve learned to cope with that over the years, but I tell ya, being with him 24/7 is not helping much anymore.

He actually FIRED ME the other week! I could barely contain my excitement…

We had an argument at work over a computer program. I knew I was right, but he kept saying things like “who’s the I.T. expert around here, huh?”

“Well you’re fucking DOING IT WRONG my love.” *smirks*

I cannot tell you how happy it made me when it turned out he was wrong. I made Fitty eat it for a number of hours, in fact he was still eating it at 8 am the following morning, as I strolled around at home in my nightie talking about the many joys of being unemployed…

Nicotine withdrawal is a bitch, but so am I!

I made him suffer, and he had to repeat: “Please come back to work for me even though I am the most unreasonable asshole boss ever?”

We accept that there are going to be times when the stapler looks like a weapon, when it’s a good idea to move the scissors into another room. But there’s also time for closing the copy-room door and indulging in passionate kisses! Times when a client makes you both crazy and you can indulge in name-calling and fun-making together until the stress abates. Times when you run down the stairs and out of the office giggling together and holding hands.

As long as there is balance between the good, bad and downright ugly, I guess we’ll live. We have learned to respect new things about each other. I know for a fact he is surprised at how much I’m loving the work I’m doing, and how well I’ve taken to it.

I know that I never thought about how talented he is at his job. Dude’s a genius, as I’ve said many times, but I have a new respect for the way he works under pressure, and the intricate problems he solves!

FIL’s been away, (cruising around Malaysia with MIL), and ever since he left, Fitty and I have been swamped with new jobs, and old ones demanding to be finished. I’d have to say we’ve made a pretty good team while he’s been away. Even if sometimes communication breaks down to this:

Talk to the hand Fitty!

 

*I’ve also changed my colour scheme slightly in recognition of my cycle (for unknown reasons) reinstating itself as a regular bitch again! How dare she, after months of promising to stop altogether? My uterus is an utter COW!

Life skills I’ve not yet mastered.

There’s a lot of things I’m kinda good at, and another lot of things that I’m okay at. Then there’s a whole other lot of things at which I suck.

I don’t know why these skills are so elusive to me, try as I might, I have never been able to fully manage doing them gracefully, or gratefully or anything-fully.

I thought it might be fun to write them down, because that’s what you do when you think that you may never come up with an interesting blog post again, because you can’t seem to find the inspiration anymore in your daily life, because all you ever do is home, work and play with your partner.

(When I named this blog 3 years ago, I never knew how those words would come back to haunt me.) Perhaps I should rename the blog: “AT HOME WORK PLAY with FITTY“?

But enough of that! That’s a whole other blog post…

Here’s to still trying to learn:

Mascara:  I have never been able to put this stuff on without poking my eye with the brush, smudging it over my cheek 10 seconds later (by rubbing at my eyes), or clumping my eyelashes together!

Plus, what’s with the label saying “No Clumping” when clearly, around 24 hours after you buy it, that shit is going to clump all over the brush anyway? *Cue advice from bitches who know how to “Mascara”, (and who will slap me for adding tap water because that’s the only way I know how to stop it clumping!)

Eyebrows:  My eyebrows are stupid…  Normal eyebrows seem to grow above the eye, and follow the line of the brow bone, right? My eyebrows just grow in bushes all over my face. There are gaps and hairy bits, there are isolated hairs in the middle of my forehead, and even a line of hair on its way to my ears?

When I was younger, (before I had them waxed for the first time), they were okay. Stupid – but not noticeably ridiculous. Ever since that first wax, (which incidentally was the only time my eyebrows ever appeared to be “groomed”), they have followed their own path. Wherever they like. I totes give up, especially now that I can’t even see them without my glasses on. How the fuck are you supposed to pluck, wax or burn your eyebrow hair off with cream, when you can’t even differentiate between your brow line, and your scalp/ears?

Directions:  I can’t even. Even if I pay attention, I still manage to get myself turned around somehow and have no idea which way I turned into a road, in order to get back out.

At work, when I have to consider things like the goddamn direction of the prevailing winds, or the “view corridor” on a certain block of land, I have to find the north point on the map and guess, work it out from there, (ask Fitty.)

If you were directing me you might say something like, “Easy! Just turn left at the next T-junction, go for about 150m and then turn right, followed by an immediate left into such and such a street. Your destination is 5m from the corner.” Aaand I would be like – “yep…right… ok – easy!”

*I would turn left at the T-junction, then I would be all ummm, left – then 50m from the corner and then 150m’s right and there it is! OMG WHERE IS IT?

Walking in front a room full of people:  I’m at a show, an event or at the school assembly hall  (watching the kid’s get some kind of award or perform “Beethoven’s 9th” on a recorder.) Nature calls, or I have to leave the room, or change position to get that photo I promised I’d get?

I stand – my chair either screeches across the floor, or I get my leg tangled around the chair leg. Stumbling into the next person’s lap, I recover – apologise, then step gracefully out into the aisle and make my way to the bathroom.

No. I don’t.

I stand there with my head doing slow rotations as I try to locate the toilet. Every eye in the room is on me. It takes the concentration of every cell in my body to make my legs walk, placing my feet one after the other seems incredibly hard! It’s like I’m stuck in quicksand..

By the time I make it to wherever it is I’ve gotta go, my face is fire engine red, and I’d  rather die than have to walk back to my seat. I have perfected the art of looking confidently like I don’t care, (whilst inwardly cutting the flesh of my inner thigh like the world’s most depressed emo-teen.)

Behaving in public:  

I just can’t. Neither can Fitty.

Do the two of you fight over who gets to push the elevator button?

Race each other to the car shouting “SHOTTY DRIVING!?”

Have you ever been bowled over, (literally – like a bowling pin) in the aisle of a supermarket, by a tin of MILO?

Does your partner shout at you from aisle 10, when you are in “Fruit and Veg?”

Perhaps you have seen us shopping together? Tutted and turned your back on us, because “Seriously, who behaves like that at our age?”

We do…

Then there’s T, my bestie and “spiritual cleanser” – we went to the movies last night. Seconds after we took this selfie, T  choked on a mouthful of popcorn when I whispered to her that the woman behind me had “vaginey odour.”

Popcorn Goes In Your Nose

Maturity: “See above.”

My anxiety:  Truth be told, I am getting a handle on this.

F i n a l l y.

Well that’s not entirely true – but I am learning to live with a speedy heart beat, nauseous gut, sweaty palms and feeling kinda like I left the stove on at home with a small child in it.

Usually as I’m trying to fall asleep at night, that little bastard anxiety will try and make me imagine that one of my children is that very moment driving into a tree, or falling off an abseiling rope.. (My anxiety is very imaginative at night!)

When I am truly exhausted by my anxiety, for some reason reciting something such as *”The Lord’s Prayer” (over and over again really fast) keeps my mind busy enough to allay even the most vicious animal attack or run away train.

*I’m as baffled by my brain’s choices as the next guy most of the time…

Appropriate nudity:  There is a time and a place for nudity. The shower is a good example. Sex is another.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD why can I not limit my nudity to those occasions? I’m completely innocent here…  I might just be going out to the clothesline to get clean knickers, but of course that will be the day that the ENERGY GUY COMES TO READ THE METRE and drives up the driveway to see my shiny-white-ass running full speed for the door…

With the advent of menopause and the hot flashes, I often rip my shirt off and wave my arms in the air screaming “FUCK ME I’M DYING IS IS HOT IN HERE OR WHAT?” Of course I’ll be doing just that when one of the children decides to end its 9 hours of cyber-hibernation and come looking for food!

Taking a compliment:

Why do people even compliment women? I have never heard a woman accept a compliment gracefully. I’m the worst..

“Your eyes look so pretty today” – as if, I’ve been crying all morning! *crosses eyes

“Have you lost weight?” –  yeah right, I use mirror illusions, (learned it at magic school.)

Not being awkward:

If I look like I’m avoiding you on the street, I am.

I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing. I have an uncanny knack for retrieving half the information I need from my memory in order to not say awkward things. For example: I know the last time we chatted you said something about your mother. (I can’t remember what, but I think it’s probably a good idea to ask about your mother?)

You tell me she’s still dead – and yes you did tell me that last time we spoke.

I go and stab myself. (It’s better I just avoid you..)

Not being filthy mouthed:  I try, and if I have to – like (when around the in-laws), I can certainly curb my swearing – but in every other situation, I can’t seem to stop my filthy mouth. I say things to Fitty like, “I’m not going to call you a fucking dick face anymore”, and then not 10 seconds later he’s being a fucking dick face, and I have to..

I honestly don’t see why the word “cunt” is an invalid scrabble word either, but Magoo would NOT ALLOW!

Nail polish:  I started out carefully, but then frustration happened. I believe nail polish is messier than childbirth, and requires just as much hand holding and coaching.

nailed it!

Footnote: I think one of the things I’ve totally mastered, is not taking life too seriously. It’s what I do to keep the smile on my face, and to help keep the smile on the faces of those I love. You only get to live one life – so live it and be happy, don’t take yourself so seriously that you forget how to laugh at yourself!

Restraint.

Restraint – The act of controlling the expression of one’s feelings – Farlex free dictionary.

In the last 7 days, I have been subjected to a lot of stress. A lot. I’m sick of restraining my feelings, sometimes you just gotta have a go, say what you want to say, and feel better. Right?

First event: The youngest child (and usually most sensible/sensitive), had a demonic outburst of anger and hatred which lasted approximately 15 hours, (one hour of declaration and 14 of withdrawal), which was directed solely at me. Luckily I had the sense and maturity to restrain myself from reacting, and carried on with life and parenting as usual – because “teenager”.

It didn’t stop me from having a couple of sleepless nights worrying about the cause of his outburst, or trying to discuss the situation with OM, (his mother), which was unfortunately the wrong move for me this time. I can’t, for all that is sensible, believe in or condone  free range parenting. I see it more as a neglectful, abject dissolution of responsibility.

But that’s just me..

I restrained myself from commenting further because what I wanted to say would have come from years of frustration, and probably not helpful in any way other than unburdening myself of said frustration!

Sometimes I struggle with the 3 way parenting model. Sometimes I struggle so hard I want to scream. Instead, I’ve spent years intensively working on trying to accept that my parenting style is not perfect, and not everyone has to adopt a similar style in order to raise children. But I have my limits!!

Second event: Fitty had been complaining of pain in his right lung, neck and shoulder for about 2 weeks. On Tuesday night, around 6pm I arrived home (from a visit with my spiritual cleanser and bestie, T), to find that his pain was increasing. I suggested, as I had been for a week, that we really should get him to a doctor. Fitty had been refusing, but his increasing pain was starting to talk him round..

By 7.30pm I was speeding him to the emergency room with a suspected collapsed lung. He was in terrible pain, hyperventilating and going into shock.

We didn’t think we had time to wait for an ambulance, so it was up to me to get him safely to the hospital… I don’t think I need to comment further on the amount of fear, anxiety and panic created by that situation?

Upon arriving at the ER, he was immediately surrounded by 3 staff, attaching all kinds of cables and monitors. His heart rate was way up, his oxygen stats way down. He was in a lot of pain. At the time, I busied myself filling out the form, and trying to stay out of the way, whilst trying to control my own hyperventilation!

It was when they wheeled him into the critical care room and rolled in the “crash cart” that I began to feel the overwhelming seriousness of the situation, and my utter helplessness!  I felt sick, fearful and ready to burst.

I restrained myself immediately, opened the curtain that separated us from the rest of the patients in the emergency room, took myself away from Fitty, into a corner near the exit and stared at the wall. I can’t even tell you what I was thinking, it would hurt too much, but I will tell you that I didn’t cry, I didn’t collapse, I just took a couple of long deep breaths and told myself to hold together. It wouldn’t do to have Fitty see me in tears, the last thing he needed was more stress! I returned to critical care and stood once again by my love’s side, with resolved strength. (I doubt he even noticed my absence.)

I have since thanked all the Gods in the universe for his safe return home to us. The staff at the hospital were able to stabilise him quickly, and although a thorough diagnosis is still not available 5 days later, Fitty’s pain is manageable and his symptoms have abated. We are waiting for further test results to determine the cause, but we both feel confident he is receiving the right treatment. He is soo much better!

Upside: Fitty gave up smoking the morning before he fell ill. He knew something wasn’t quite right. A few days later I stopped, and we are now both smoke free. (Those who follow this blog will know this isn’t our first rodeo, if fact this will be attempt number 7!) “They” say it takes an average of 7 – 10, so we’ll just keep trying until we succeed.

The teenage angst has passed, he told me he didn’t even know why he said the things he did? Well fuck son, thanks?

Seriously…  Now it’s the dog…

Late last night Pooh dog was vomiting and shitting liquid waste. Listless, forlorn and sleepy, she hadn’t eaten properly and wasn’t drinking much either. It was the excessive “bowing” that clued me in to the fact it may be gastritis. I remembered reading about the behaviour having something to do with gut pain. I followed the advice I got online, and she’s doing much better today.

I guess it does you good to get smacked upside the head with a bit of “life” now and again, but I really need it to stop now.

Unrestrained,

Meg XO

*this post brought to you by “nicotine withdrawal” and “fuckoff life I’m sick of your shit”*

W is for “Why am I working with Fitty?”

F:  “I can’t find the section text for the “Wahwah” job?”

Me:  “I didn’t touch it!”

F:   “I didn’t say you touched it, I said I couldn’t find it!”

Me: “I didn’t do the doc’s for that job, maybe it’s in the “Weewee” file?”

F:    “Why the fuck do all our client’s names this week begin with “W” anyway?”

He’s right. All the current jobs on our desks are client’s whose surname’s start with “W”. To make it even more confusing, two are the same surname – and similar jobs!

*Fitty checks the client file named “Weewee”.

F:    “Nope, not in “Weewee”.

Me: “Well, I don’t know, maybe FIL knows?”

(FIL has left the building, which he often does without telling me, so I can take a phone call, tell peeps he’s there, then hafta explain how he’s not there anymore.) I’m thankful that Fitty and I sit in the same office – for that reason, and that reason only!

Me: “Maybe it got accidentally deleted? But I gotta tell ya, I didn’t even open that file on the computer, not today, not last week, not for ages.”

F: “Go and look in FIL’s recycle bin?”

Moments later…

M: “Yep, here it is, found it!”

Fitty walks in, squints at the screen, he doesn’t trust me at all.

F:  “How do you know that’s it, it doesn’t even have the name on it?”

Me: ” Because I opened it, you dick! Look it’s right here!”

F:  “Well how do you know it’s the right (latest) one then? Did ya check the date? Huh?”

He’s finding it very difficult to believe I have found the document he’s looking for. My competence is growing by the day, but he still isn’t getting that I can do stuff. By myself. He likes to hold my hand and make sure I do things his way. His way is the only way to do things, even when I get the same result in exactly the same amount of time!

Me:  “I ordered them by date!” *make ridiculous tard-face* “It has the right name and the latest date on it. Should I restore it then? Fitty don’t start clicking stuff! This computer…..”

Fitty begins opening and closing files rapidly, (he simply can’t believe I’ve found the file so efficiently.) I know this is a bad idea on FIL’s computer, because it is a little slow, like me. It gets confused easily, and will throw a spaz if you make too many demands of it. Just like me..

An endless circle fills the screen…

Me:  “Aaaargh for fuck’s sake! Why can’t you just fuck off and trust me?”

F:  “Sorry darling, it’s oka…”

Me: “NOPE! No, fuck off, I’m going home….”

I stomp off down the hallway while he rehearses ways to make this not his fault. (But really I’m just going to the bathroom, calmly, casually – with steam coming outta my head and my arms flailing wildly in the air.)

I know that when I get back to my desk, all I’ll want to do, is settle back into what I was doing before the Wahwah event. I also know that Fitty will have a power point presentation ready in order to show me how it wasn’t his fault. So as I’m coming back into our office –

“I’m sorry Fitty, I’m gonna have to let you go…. You just create too much drama.”

---

 

*We don’t really have client’s named Wahwah and Weewee, but I so wish we did! We do however have four or maybe five current “W’s” in the job list – which has created some brilliantly confusing moments between the three of us.

Also, I have learned to keep the scissors, and other sharp objects out of my reach at work. *Wink*

How to sneak into Costco.

For my birthday this year, (instead of Fitty buying me some appliance that will not fit in my kitchen), I asked him to take me to Canberra to visit the new IKEA store – because IKEA!!

He agreed, and then sat around pulling faces every time I mentioned the trip. So I did the only thing I knew would prompt him. I shamed him on Facebook.

The very next afternoon we took the 2.5 hour drive to Canberra in the rain, to stay overnight with the Fitty sister – Janet, and her hubby Steve, (who are almost as silly as us!)

I was tired the next morning, but excited to visit IKEA, (but not as excited as Fitty who had the car packed and was standing in door of the car shouting “C’mon!!”) while I was still drinking my first coffee…

So we arrived at IKEA around 8.45am, which was great… but IKEA doesn’t open until 10am!

Desperate to distract myself with another shiny thing – so I didn’t die from disappointment at having to wait over an hour – I spotted a huge building full of shiny things called “Costco”.

Umm NOPE. Doesn’t open until 10 either…

We decided to go grab a coffee and wait it out at the mall next door, buuuut – they didn’t open until 9.00am!

“Fucking hell Fitty! You rushed me through my sacred-waking-coffee so we could stalk closed shops??”

Anyways – after the damn shop opened – we had a coffee and arrived back at IKEA with the intention of touching everything in the store.

• I was busting for a pee but couldn’t see a sign for the toilet even though it was right in front of me. I used my never fail method of following a pregnant lady (because those women go to the bathroom every 15mins!)
• Fitty slashed his leg open on the furniture trolley because it is not a skateboard, not even if you do fully sic 360’s and slide sideways on it.
• Touching everything that opens, shuts, slides, and spins is fine – until you are halfway through your lunch and realise you haven’t washed your hands and you’re prolly gonna die because 1 million other hands are eating your lunch with you. Fuck.

After loading the car with flat packs and things that, (were awesome but unnecessary), we headed innocently toward Costco.

Call me a fool, but I’m Australian, and round here we don’t hafta pay money just to walk into a shop. I’d only ever heard of Costco in books and movies, so we didn’t know –

From the Costco FAQ:

Can I come and have a look before I sign up? “Costco is a membership warehouse club and you will need a membership to visit and shop at Costco.”

As we walked through the entrance of the store I noticed a tall youth staring at his reflection in the glass, inside the store. He was putting on a camouflage balaclava! Again, call me a fool, but generally peeps don’t need to wear full face coverage when shopping so I immediately jumped to this conclusion:

“Fitty! Shit – look at that guy! He’s putting on a disguise! He’s gonna spray us with bullets and kill us all. OMG, look at him!!”

Fitty casually looks over while I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the guy. You know, just in case the Police need one after the disaster. I’m ready to run..

Said dude notices me taking his pic and acting all weird, shakes his head and continues donning his murderous disguise.

We did not notice other people, (like every single entry), flashing their Costco memberships to the security guard before being allowed into the store. I was way too busy fearing for my life! I approached the security guard and spoke urgently to him.

“There’s a dude putting on a balaclava around the corner!!”

…Okay – so he’s just a trolley boy tryna protect his face from sunburn! (And I’m an alarmist-fuck-panic-attack in the making.)

Fitty is laughing at me. The security guard is laughing at me – so I walk off into the store…

Security guard is obs too busy laughing at me to ask for a membership card.

We found an item we’d priced at home $200 cheaper in Costco! Amazed at this saving, we decided to explore all the aisles. We found an apple pie bigger than my ass. An impressive cut of meat called a “Tomahawk Steak”, (the size of a plate) – loads of bargains – which would probably save us a fortune, particularly when catering for our large family.

We bought the big save item, but only after a dry run at the registers’ where sales staff were horrified that we’d been in the store for over 2 hours without a membership and marched us promptly to the front door where it was put to us that we could either:

“Join up, or get out!”

Lawd – you’d think we’d donned balaclava’s and gunned down the shoppers?

Reverse Caitlyn Jenner.

A NAUGHTY POST:

There’s a lot going on in my body right now, what with my estrogen and progesterone packing its bags and leaving, my egg production in rapid decline, and all the symptoms making my head spin like a possessed woman – I’m increasingly enamored with the idea of a complete gender reassignment.

I’ve often noticed the difference between the having the penis and not having the penis in my relationship, and I kinda feel like I’ve been dealt a raw blow. If I had the penis – would I be as annoying with it?

Probably.. but first I want to share way too much with you – about the penis and what I might, and might not do, if I had one.

Would Not:

1. If I had a penis, I would basically not spend 80% of my time tryin to stick it in Fitty.
2. If Fitty went to lay down in the daytime, because he was tired from all the work he does to feed me and keep me alive, I would not always appear second’s later in the doorway, naked and lewdly suggesting playtime by nodding my head and saying “Hey…..hey…. heeeey?”
3. I would definitely not pretend that my “morning wood” was a “rudderless ship” attempting to “moor” by banging into the “dry-dock” repeatedly.
4. I would never stand with my arms above my head, eyes closed, and pee all over the toilet seat.
5. If I came into the bathroom and found Fitty naked after a shower, leaning over the basin cleaning his teeth, I would not pin him by the thighs to the edge of the vanity, lick his ear, and dry hump him until toothpaste came out his nose.
6. I would try not to spend every waking moment adjusting my junk and then shaking people’s hands.

Would:

1. I would employ only the very best surgeons and have them craft me a designer cock. One Fitty would be proud to put in his mouth!
2. I would enjoy arriving home from work and having a meal cooked for me, and if I felt like cooking, I would enjoy that too… infrequently.
3. I would listen to the things my penis was telling me constantly, but I would reply knowing who I was talking to. “Yes, yes I know you need me to tweak his nipples and grind him into the bench, but we did that yesterday remember? Do your balls still hurt?”
4. I would prolly think that the best way to help on the day we’re having people over for lunch, would be to get up and start drinking beer, while standing around the barbecue looking relaxed  – because I realise that my penis would entirely inhibit my ability to help with cleaning and food preparation.
5. I would enjoy taking frequent dumps without ever having to clean the toilet, and squirt shower products up the wall. (It’s not like my penis and I can do anything about that situation!)
6. Most of my beverages would be brought to me where I sit, and I guess I’ll just get called for dinner like everyone else – now that I’ve got a penis!

The absence of a penis means so much more suffering. The hormones (my vagina and it’s assorted company) require to transition from “fertile” to “not fucking interested at all” are making me unpleasant and prone to long bouts of whinging. I go up and down like a yo-yo, never quite fully aware of what I’m doing and saying until after, when I quietly think about it… realise I’ve been a bitch.

Sure, a gender reassignment is probably not going to happen – but the look on Fitty’s face, every time I remind him that it is entirely possible that I could pay the money, come home with a sorta functioning dick, and chase him around the house with it wanging around in my hand – it’s just too priceless to ever let go!

*I always get Fitty to look at a post like this before I post it. (I am somewhat sensitive to his feelings after all.) The only comment he made other than laughing was in reply to the designer cock in mouth situation –

“I so would fucking NOT put it in my mouth!”

And so, it appears we have an agreement of sorts!!

 

Two Christmases, a Wedding, a Santa shoot and a 21st.

Have you ever been so busy and exhausted that you couldn’t afford to stop for a moment? Have you ever spent all the hours of every day with your true love? Have you started a challenging new job in the midst of  a menopausal-nightmare of hot sweats and anxiety?

Did I mention hosting two Christmas functions, my son’s 21st birthday, a 12 hour wedding shoot, and a freaking ‘Santa Photo’ job, in the midst of that?

Living. The. Dream.

Fitty’s parents always go away together for Christmas, so we plan a special Christmas on a date that suits family members (either the weekend before or after the 25th).  It’s a great plan for getting everyone together for Christmas regardless of the actual date but.. every year?

Two Christmases.

MIL and I had established the date months earlier, me forgetting at the time that the Saturday before Christmas was the very same day as 5’s 21st birthday. So we did both on the same sweltering hot day. At the time we made the date, I also wasn’t working at all back then, so had no idea what December had in store for us!

It’s typical for Fitty to book a band gig on one of our birthday’s, or a rehearsal on the day we’re supposed to visit folks. He’s got too many hobbies, and we frequently have to save him from himself when it comes to agreeing to do stuff – then spending 5 nights a week doing the stuff, and complaining bitterly that we are all doing no stuff.

That’s because you agree to do the stuff, dick!

Not content with keeping my weekday’s busy at the office,  Fitty had also agreed to photograph a wedding one Saturday in December, and taken a phone call at some stage about doing “Santa Photos” locally. When I overheard the Santa plan I immediately started shrieking at the top of my lungs about how busy we were going to be for the couple of weeks before Christmas..

“I love you,” I spy camera equipment over his shoulder, “but I fail to understand how I can so deeply and thoroughly despise you at the same time.”

I’m receiving a crash course in photography. Fitty needs a back up for the “girly bits” of the wedding, and to increase the balance and variety of the shots. Fitty insists I learn about apertures, and focus and shit. I insist I can point the camera (set on auto), and shoot – so shut up and go away.

In the end I get both a crash course, and an argument.

“If you make this too technical I will shut down and refuse. Stop talking about exposure, we covered that yesterday, and I still don’t understand so just give up okay? Why is this so heavy? Where’s the little lens you had on it yesterday? This heavy thing will break my wrist, and I’ll be drooping on the ground with it! Do you want all the pictures to be of feet?”

Was going to the wedding anyway – had no idea I’d be seeing it through the lens of a camera! Had even less idea I would throw myself into the task so thoroughly that I would forget I am a cripple and start crawling around on the beach on my knees, looking for perfect light and framing. Up and down on the sand I sprang, snapping the bridesmaid’s as they walked onto the beach, the bride, the ceremony. Never for a second imagining that I wouldn’t be able to walk for four days afterwards…

It was thoroughly good shit. I’ve never had every single guest at a wedding smile at me so winningly every time I walked by with the camera in hand.

In action with sandy knees.

Flash blinded by Fitty.

Fitty and I were overjoyed to spend time with 4.

lively bridesmaids!

The bride was 4’s long time childhood friend, which meant a flying visit from 4 – in which she impressed upon her father and I, how much growing up she’s done since she moved away. There was no shred of apprehension as she managed the task of “Bridesmaid and Beyond”. She was her usual dynamic-creative self, and she managed so many tasks that were exquisitely and joyfully undertaken.

In some quieter moments at home, she helped me to untangle my frustration with her father, his ability to overload his schedule, resulting in the need to ask for my help. She unpacked him in two seconds flat..

4  –  “Don’t help him.”

Me – “But then he will fail?”

4  – “Let him fail – it’s the only way he’ll learn.”

This is why I love 4, she is way more grown up than us.

With the wedding over, I spent Sunday screaming in silent agony every time I had to use my legs. Excruciating pain. (*Note to self, never knee-walk in sand again.) Wished solidly for one of those stair-chair-lift thingies to whiz me up and down the stairs because I had to wash clothes, and do the housework with two solid clumps of ouch hanging from my hips.

In the days leading up to 1st Christmas, I tidied up every loose bit of crap that wasn’t nailed down, putting away most of the clutter left from redecorating. Created a sleek looking space with clean, dust free surfaces. I was inspired by some minimalist Christmas decorations.

How to Stick Tree: See stick tree on Facebook. Think “I can do that”. Rope in help from 7. Avoid tick bites while collecting huge pile of sticks from undergrowth. Drive Pooh dog crazy with huge pile of sticks. (Pooh dog love sticks.) Move sticks upstairs to outdoor area away from dog who is screaming at sticks. Notice vine curling naturally around one of  sticks. 7 agrees this is a beautiful thing – this vine wrapping naturally around the stick. Go back into the undergrowth to find more “special vine wrapped natural renewable Christmas tree sticks” with 7. Dump 3 kilos of ugly sticks back in bush. After several minutes of listening to 7 complain about the lack of beautiful sticks with vine in her search area – find perfect stash of vine sticks. Lug sticks upstairs, tell dog she is a whiner. Tell 7 she is a whiner. Gain complete control of the project and don’t let 7 touch anything until I am ready to let her help me saw the sticks. Get a ruler? Fuck the ruler. Guess. Cut stick lengths with 7’s exceptional saw skills. Praise 7’s saw skills!  Hastily tack string in a tree shape on back of sticks after laying out in order of size. Pick up top stick and hold your breath??? When nothing breaks scream at Fitty to put some fixings on the wall to hold up your stick tree. Spend way too much time decorating the sticks. Notice how much extra space you have with no big pine tree looming out of the wall. Be grateful for your sticks. Be smug about your tree.

A few days later I walked in late one evening after picking up one of the kids from work, and 50% of the living room was full of photographic gear. Two studio lights with reflective umbrellas, two tripods (for each), two cameras on huge tripods of their own, and all the associated bags and cases.

“You’re a fucking maniac, I can’t believe you’ve done this. When am I supposed to cook and clean with all this?  What are you doing with all the bullshit and batteries on the table? If you ever do this again I swear to God…!”

Remember the Santa shoot that I was shrieking my head off about? Because ridiculous timing?

He’s taken the job. Against my advice. He’s set up in the middle of the room to work out how the Santa shoot will work. At this point in time I am so sick of him I could spontaneously burst into flame. Flame with intent.

– I go, I help, I do the freakin Santa shoot! I take the names, and the money, the orders for the pictures. I am the happiest fucking elf in the Kingdom of Santa.

Fuck you this IS my happy face.

Fortunately for me, the Kingdom of Santa was set up in my favourite furniture shop. I have purchased whole rooms in this store! In between helping Fitty snap kids – in varying degrees of distress – being forced to sit on a bearded red man’s knee – and be flash-blinded by space lights, I managed to take several laps of the stock, finding many things to my liking. At the time, I’m thinking – the money Fitty makes from the pictures, pretty much matches the amount of money I’m willing to spend right now in the store!!  And that’s how Karma works.

1st Christmas occurred on the hottest day ever. Cheese melted! We did manage to have a lovely family day, despite the heat. I made 2 huge batches of everything, one for lunch and one for the 21st, so it worked out incredibly well in terms of catering, and provided endless fun playing  fridge Tetris with all the food!

My kid’s 21st birthday’s are celebrated in their father’s paddock with loud music blaring until morning. This is a family tradition. Fitty and I sleep on a mattress in the back of our car like all the kids do, (because drunk and really comfortable anyway).

This is the first time the Police haven’t shown up at 3am telling the kids to turn down the music. My kids like their music loud. This is why they have parties on their dad’s  property out of town. I spend every minute after midnight turning down the volume of the music myself, or nagging a kid to turn down the volume. Because I don’t want to have to visit with the Police about the noise.

I was impressed by 5’s friends, an incredible bunch of  young people, even though they look like a bunch of  new-age smelly hippy children! These were great friends with long histories – everybody laughed and had fun all night, despite the searing heat of the evening.  Apart from the need to destroy each others ear drums with loud techno-bullshit music, I have no complaints about my son’s choice of friends.

A great paddock for a party!

Dress-code: “Casual Filth”

My grandson Trevor is a pretty boy!

When I stuck my head out of the car window at 7am the next morning, (having passed out from drinking sheer exhaustion around 3am), the music was blaring and a few scraggly drunks were staggering around still pretending to be human. These kids were drunk and tired enough to cheer “oooiiiiiieeee” just because I had woken up. A more realistic shout of “here comes trouble” from one as I moved deliberately toward the volume control. I cut the music right down to a mystical hum and crept toward the coffee…

Fitty and I worked together irritably until social events and work responsibilities blurred together. That’s how I spent the lead up to our Christmas holidays – I was irrational and emotional when I was awake .

2nd Christmas (the 25th), was much cooler, more casual, with an air of “didn’t we do this just a week ago?” about it.

Fitty and I got drunk together into the late afternoon, (when all the kids had gone), and I realised something. “Fitty! I’m sick of your face!” I said. “For the last 8 weeks or so, I have spent almost every minute of my life either next to you at work, in the car, at the meal table, in the kitchen, with your camera’s and so on, sleeping next to you…”

He looks at me and says “get over yourself will ya?” And with that we retire to bed and eat a box of Belgian Biscuits.

When all the last presents under the tree have your name on them.

Army wife happy! Husband home from Iraq just in time for Christmas!

WE MISS HIM!

Later Christmas day – everyone has gone home and left us and I am so sick of your face. Let’s take a selfie?

Now, on the first day of 2016,  we sit on the balcony in the cool breeze watching the lake, hearing the sounds of the bush, soaking in the peace. The water is calm here.

We have had all the people we love around us constantly, helping, supporting, there’s much to be thankful for coming into the new year…

A new year which began, I might add, with Fitty awakening, poking his head straight around the doorway to observe me tapping away at the keyboard, the wild look in his eye announcing his intention to crack a really bad joke: “MORNING! I’ve only been happy for ONE minute this year!”

Wait until he reads this?

It’s gonna be a long New Year’s Day people!

 

Captain Anxiety’s Copilot.

The past 12 years or so have been enlightening on so many levels, but the single most important realisation I’ve made, is that most people are just like me.

Sure some hide it well – like me – and some live isolated lives, begging for the cessation of the endless cycles of stress – evaluating every move in order to not draw attention to one’s limitless faults!

During a texting event in the early-bird hours of this morning, with an old friend, we discussed this topic. As usual, I have more to say.. I want more people to understand the basic level of anxiety that most of us operate under every day.

The old friend, is a writer, an artist, an actor, a father, a contemporary – we attended High School together and enjoyed a bittersweet teenage romance – based on the fact that we were both shiny people, (whom nobody else appreciated as much as we appreciated the distraction we created together.)

We’ve had very little communications since school, until coming back to our friendship in the last few year’s – in the form of irrational, early morning, drunk (him), texting rants about just about anything we can think of.

We both suffer from terrible anxiety. I didn’t clue on to mine until 12 years ago, (I can’t speak for him but he was onto his years ago from memory?)

So when he says ,”you’re cursed by seeming to look like you know what you’re doing”, I know exactly what he means. (It’s not true though. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing 90% of the time because I’m just a co-pilot.)

“Captain Anxiety” runs the ship around here – I take orders and do a complex analysis of each situation, each category of unrelated bullshit thinking that brings about situation’s of high panic and adrenalin surges that knock you down, if not out.

And by “knocked down” I don’t mean “physically stretched out on the floor”, I mean knocked down.

Everyone experiences anxiety differently, my most common responses are, ringing in the ears, rapid heartbeat, feeling my pulse in my neck – (it pounds from the side and into the back of my head), a spreading of heat – (the blood rushing to  organs), shaking hands – (general shakiness actually), instability – (it’s hard to stay upright during a really bad panic attack), nausea, sweating… not to mention feeling lousy, knowing what’s happening, yet being unable to control it.

People without anxiety can’t even.

Fitty can’t even – he experiences “stress” – has a hissy-fit, (if extreme), then moves on all, “Everyone still onboard? Righto then..”   He doesn’t “linger” in the emotions like I do. He doesn’t analyse everyone’s immediate response, or tally up the damage points. He’s already moved on with his day..

Apparently that’s what “normal people” do.  Why can’t I be normal then?

We are all different, we have all had experiences that shape and make us. I’ve had a plethora of life experiences. Most are good, if not great, but some would shave the whiskers from your chin in an icy chill of a minute.

I didn’t come here today to talk about those experiences. More about the effect they have had on my nervous system and my overall mental health. I believe I have been working my way through some of those experiences, trying to learn a little about my personality along the way.

Sometimes it’s been a great process, leading to understanding some of the “gaps” I have in my memory around certain events. Sometimes it’s horrifying and I can’t process the memories as my own, (*so I invented a younger, stupider version of myself years ago in order to escape from having lived those events myself.)

*I don’t quite understand either, but the “invented young woman” has a voice, and I am compelled to listen to her cries to be heard.

On the occasion that I have shared information about some of these events, I have almost universally had the response:

“You…. went through that? You wouldn’t have put up with that for a second!”

And that’s true too. (You see now, why I had to invent a whole other entity?) I didn’t “put up” with any of it. I just experienced it, and slowly it became part of me along with all the other experiences. Consequently – I invented Captain Anxiety. I became her copilot and settled into life in the pounding lane.

Around 18 months or so ago, I got tired. I was nearing a break-down and knew I had to pull back from work, social activities, whatever, until I felt “well” again.

That was when I decided to form a discussion/support group with myself…

Since then, all the parts of me, have been sitting around in my head, sipping luke-warm coffee, smoking and “discussing my life”, and we’re getting somewhere!

Writing is key here, there is a very enabling aspect in writing your innermost thoughts and truth on a blog. For me, the most confronting part of this is living in a small town, knowing lots of people, giving them access, via the blog, to knowledge that I’m a perfectly flawed mess!

It’s ok with me. The act of publishing each post that tug’s at a wound, is a freeing act – I let go of a lot of the negative energy when I release it to the “internet”.  I don’t know how this works, but this is the best damn therapy I’ve been part of so far..

Healing has come with the love of an exceptional man, one who can ignore the noise in my head. One who can direct the traffic when chaos seems certain. One who makes light of my control issues, even though they make everyone crazy! One who compares me to no other woman on earth.

One who is flawed himself, most importantly!

Fitty’s flaws are hilarious – he’s such a laid back, gentle loving person that you would never guess what an Alpha-Male-Derp-Jerk-Face he can be sometimes…

He doesn’t do these things often at all, so they are almost like a “mystery song” on your favourite band’s album – Gold!

Yesterday he got out of bed with his “Terminator – My Hormone Bag is Full” face on, storming around the house yelling about how “when he gets up – he has a shower, and why the fuck is somebody already in the fucking shower?”

(Background info – 3 out of 5 of us had to leave the house by 8.30am. He was not one of the three, and therefore was not in the line up for a shower, in my head anyway…)

I started to get all up in his face in response, my anxiety doing most of the hard work, “Right, sweat, tingling, shaking? Check. Can we get her heartbeat right up and maybe a little more ringing in her ears so she can’t fucking concentrate on what’s being said? Check. Make her do that denial thing where she questions whether this is too unfair to be even happening? Oh good one! Check.”

But – then I said something astounding. I said “Fuck off, you dickhead!”

Then I just did nothing but breathe….  I decided HE could take the kid to get her haircut, and he could fucking well have ALL THE SHOWER I was going to have in order to take her myself!

Then I made another coffee and sat on the balcony watching him realise what a complete fuckstick he had been. Then I listened to his apology.

I am learning how to divert the anxiety, and make use of the methods I’ve read about on Dr. Facebook.

Smiley face.