Psh. She’s only braver than me because she’s in shock. So what if she’s 5?

It appears that I don’t cope entirely well with hospital visits.

To be fair, I haven’t really had any practice, I’ve never really been sick in my life beyond the odd headcold.
I’ve never had to stay overnight in hospital – not even when I fell through the glass door and needed surgery to repair the nerves and tendons in my wrist – they sent me home after I woke up and I didn’t even get to see what a shitty hospital dinner tastes like!

On Monday, my Doctor gave me the flu vaccination because apparently people like me – those incubating another human inside them – are one of the three groups most highly recommended to have them, and I figured that since he’s been to medical school and I haven’t, it would be best to listen to his advice.

Approximately four hours later, I began to regret that decision when The Worst Cold Plus Other Things started happening to me.

My chest became tight, but I ignored it because over the past few months, a giant ball of baby has begun to sprout from my midsection, and I’ve found that occasionally, this causes all my breathybits to get squished.

I stood up to relieve the pressure but it didn’t really help, and before I had the chance to sit back down, my head began to pound like the drums of Moria after Pippin dropped the stone in the well – this was also something I ignored because Did You Know, hormones create headaches?

As I began to loudly vocalise these problems to my coworkers, my throat started aching – a deep, broken bone kind of ache – not even the “I’m getting sick” ache! It was weird, and so I vocalised this observation too.

“Apparently it’s pretty normal to feel like you’re getting a cold”, reassured one of my co-workers who had just paid a visit to Dr. Google.
“I don’t think your tongue is meant to start stinging though, right?” I replied, trying to get a look at it.

Around 40 minutes had passed since the initial tight chest and now, along with the headache, sore throat, stinging tongue (and lips), every joint in my body had its own little headache and I wanted to cry, and/or die – whichever came first.

I decided to call my dad to pick me up. I needed groceries to make scrambled eggs for dinner because my lifelove had had his wisdom tooth removed around the same time I was getting stabbed with THIS POISON THAT WAS NOW RUINING MY LIFE!

A few short minutes later, I had all my ingredients and climbed back into dad’s car, where I decided it might be time to phone the medical centre again because I was pretty sure I was about to vomit, and shouldn’t really be shivering like this.

They wanted me to come in – the stinging mouth was slightly concerning.

Check-ups were made and consultations with the Bible of Vaccinations were undertaken and it was determined that I wasn’t having an allergic reaction, but a “documented, but rare reaction”.  This is fairly common practice for my family. We don’t do medication normally.

Doc determined that I would feel better if I went over to the Emergency Department to get some IV fluids into me.

By now my fingertips were going slightly blue and I was shivering more than a medieval bride waiting for her gross old husband to make a woman out of her.

I wasn’t allowed to move my wrist, because my veins are almost non-existent and we were forced to IV me right there where my hand comes off my arm – that part of you that you don’t realise you move a lot until you’re no longer allowed to. In fact, were you aware that you bend your wrist approximately INFINITY TIMES A SECOND?

I really needed to move that wrist – I wanted to be on my side. Preferably watching television on my own lounge and for these pain feelings to not be in me. Life was so unfuckingfair.

I looked at the clock with big, hope-filled eyes. Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes out of the approximate two hours that I would be required to spend there. Fuck a thousand ducks.

I moaned my complaints to my visitors – my ever patient and loving mother – who advised me that I’d already had some miniscule hundred mls of the fluids and only had ONE MILLION MORE to go.
My back hurt. My bones hurt. Even the air that touched my face hurt.
My other visitor – my lifelove with his recently removed wisdom tooth – patted me sympathetically, smiling through the swelling of his face.

Then the emergency ward began to buzz with life as a little girl was brought in – a suspected broken elbow due to a fall from a trampoline.
Apparently it was a bad one. She needed immediate surgery and she was so brave, she was barely making a sound!

That’s because she’s lucky enough to be in shock!

Really, you should worry about me, my body not even protecting me from my own incredible pain.

Plus, the morphine you gave her probably helped! I only got Panadol – and it was in tablet form – tablets I had to sit up to take when I couldn’t even bend my wrist. I had to wriggle my way upright with one hand and then get my mother to hold the cup of water while I popped the tablet in my mouth. Then we had to swap again so I could pick up the SECOND tablet!

My brow definitely needed mopping after that ordeal.

Two and a half hours later, my IV bag emptied of its precious life-saving fluids, I was allowed to go home.

“See you again in a few months” said the Emergency Department Dude, nodding at my bellybump as I held the plaster over the gaping wound that had been gouged into my arm by the needle.

Thankfully I have shown that I bear the burden of pain stoically.



How do you discipline a cat?

I mean, really.

Spraying water in his face isn’t doing a lot to stop boycat being a jerk to girlcat.

Once, when he was very naughty and made himself at home in my next door neighbour’s house, I didn’t speak to him for an hour. I felt abandoned by him. He was my little loveface, who adored me, and now he had gone to bask in the loveglow of someone else.

“Never enough. I am just never enough for anyone!”

… that’s when I realised I had rather larger mental issues than I had previously suspected. Also when I realised I had completely stopped thinking of them as cats.

I’m not great with discipline. My little brother is ten years younger than me, and very rarely did the word “no” escape my lips when he asked for something. In fact, it seems that whatever he wanted to do, I was there encouraging it.

It isn’t many big sisters who get banned from reading to their younger brother. In hindsight, while it was certainly fun, it may not have been in his best interests for me to read Harry Potter as though I had Tourettes.

At 21 years of age, I can’t see any signs that it has harmed him, but I also can’t stop calling Professor Lockhart “Professor Cockfart”, either.

As for my cats, I think it’s me that needs the discipline.

I need to start remembering that they aren’t human. I don’t, as previously suspected, need to spell words to prevent them getting excited over things they can’t have, nor do I need to sit them down and explain why they’re not allowed to lay in my garden, squashing my newborn sunflower plants.

Most of all, I can probably stop mocking their meows when they’re talking to me after their fights.

The phrase “I don’t care who started it, you don’t bite each other and shove your bums in each other’s faces!” should probably be reserved for human children and the way things are going, Australian politicians.

I Eat Breakfast Now – A woman’s struggle with the pressures of society in a world she doesn’t understand. A world that may never understand her.

I used to think breakfast was a jerk

I used to think breakfast was a jerk

When I was a teenager, I decided that I wanted to be one of those people who enjoyed yoghurt. I wanted to like it, because in my mind, yoghurt-eating-people were just better people. The same as tea-drinkers and people who eat cereal without sugar.

I had formed this theory at a very young age, following time spent in the home of a childhood friend, named ThatGirl*.

ThatGirl’s family were farm people. Her mum wore thick, heavy skirts with patchwork houses sewn onto them. Her dad was extremely tall, with a soft voice and a kind smile.

Their house was just around the corner from mine, and where my house was new, and modern, hers was old and sweet and cottage-like. It was always cold inside, but not in a bad way. It was cold in a quiet, well-behaved kind of way.

At ThatGirl’s house, shoes were taken off before you went inside. In my house, we were yelling and screaming at each other far too often to hear mum sigh “Girls, please. Take your shoes off”, as she struggled through the door beneath bags of groceries that we didn’t bother to help her carry.

At ThatGirl’s house, school uniforms came off the moment you got home. I would crumple mine from hitching it up to sit cross-legged on the floor, playing Mortal Kombat. I would spill dinner on it from concentrating on The Simpsons instead of what I was eating, and then I’d throw it on the floor, with the rest of my clothes, for mum to collect, clean and iron.

Such contrasts in family life could not go unnoticed, and I began to form completely unfounded opinions based around these differences.

For instance, I began to view anyone who drank tea rather than coffee as a person to emulate. People who drink tea probably also write letters to relatives and say “gosh” instead of “god”.

People who needed to ask their parents’ permission to drink a glass of coke probably also never got sent to the car at every family barbecue, like I did. To be fair, they probably didn’t pretend to be a dog like I did, either.

Most of all, I believed that the key to being The Perfect Person, was by eating breakfast. It had nothing to do with forcing myself to be more responsible or anything.

Nope. All about the breakfast.

Every day, breakfast, I mean. Not just “Bacon and Eggs on Sundays because Mum’s Not at Work” breakfast, but a real, proper, healthy breakfast.

ThatGirl had wholegrain toast with marmalade or a bowl of muesli with fresh fruit. She had a glass of orange juice, or a glass of milk.

I had chocolate bavarian and coke, because Nan refused to send me to school on an empty stomach.

In high school, I recalled that old theory of mine, and decided to aim for perfection once more – maybe as a teenager I would be able to handle breakfast, yoghurt, or tea?

Guess what?! I totally handled the shit out of yoghurt.

I handled it so well that I went through a 2 Litre tub every day for almost a month. I didn’t become a better person, I just became a much larger person who now had extra chins to spare.

I am now 31, and I am also a month and a half into being a non-smoker. It is the first time in 18 years that nicotine hasn’t flooded my body, and once again, I find myself trying to be a “good person”.

This time, I’m aiming higher than “yoghurt-enjoying” good person status, though. This time, it’s all or nothing.

The first day I tried eating a healthy breakfast, it took 2 hours for me to struggle through 100g yoghurt, 1/4 cup muesli and a handful of berries. Today, a week and a bit later, I’m down to just 1 hour.

If I keep practising, who knows where I could be in six months, a year?

Perseverance: If I can use it to make myself enjoy cold, wet cereal first thing in the morning, anyone can! *tooth sparkle*

(PS. Yay, No smoking!)

*not her real name.

Image credit: -Marcus-

Nice things, and why we can’t have them.

Britard woke up wearing last night’s pants, and the sweat of last night’s booze. It had pooled in the folds of her skin while the sun sang her to sleep.

Mornings like that were not so common for her anymore and hers was a sad, angry shame-awakening, for the second weekend in a row.

This one was going to be fairly bad if her first flashback was anything to go by. It was the computer. YouTube. Two friends on the spare bed next to her, one trying to sleep, the other suggesting songs that Britard was going to ignore.
The music was at a terribly loud volume for Morning Suntime but it wasn’t as loud as her voice, concerting its way through the neighbourhood, creating what had to be the world’s worst Human-Rooster Duet.

Groaning at the memory, Britard reached onto the cluttered table beside her bed, her fingers blindly stalking its surface to avoid exposing her sandpaper eyes to the harsh, evil air of sunshiney reality.

The next flashback came courtesy of her fingers’ inability to locate her phone. With a heavier heart than the one she’d been carrying last night, she gritted her teeth, and prepared to face a day of disappointing treasure hunting – a game called “Oh Shit. I did that last night? I did. Shit.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, today’s game was multiplayer, and as a result, Britard took less of a health hit through Guilt Damage than she usually did in this game.

… until she realised that her phone was not the only missing person from her entourage – She had also lost her glasses – a week before attending the ballet with her family for an event called “Combined Birthdays in a City Eight Hours’ Drive Away!”

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said Britard, squinting into the distance.

Seven days later, staring through a new pair of glasses, she sat perched in the middle back seat of her parents’ car, twenty minutes into the eight hour trip home.

Her fingertips traversed the floor of the car, in search of her phone.

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said her partner, five minutes later, hanging up the call he’d made to her phone. “Your brother will post it back to you tomorrow. Along with your wallet. And your handbag”.


Girlcat, Jack, meows a lot.

So, like all cat-friends, I either meow back until she gives up, or hold a conversation with her, in English.

Our most recent conversation was about friendly-fire in first person shooters. I don’t like it, but she seems to think it adds a more challenging element to the game, which allows skilled players to flourish, while punishing lazy gamers who just point and spray.

Being of the latter category, I was offended by her statement and went on to explain that I don’t “point and spray” because I’m lazy, I do it because I get scared of the advancing enemy, and generally just start screaming and looking away from the screen.

She called me a faggot and then googled an offensive meme about my mother before sticking her arse in my face.

How the fuck can you fight back against that kind of juvenile shit?

Yes! Another successful social interaction!

In response to the question: “Would you like 2 bags for these items?“:

  • I thought: “No, it’s okay, I can fit them in my handbag. I can fit lots of things in there. Once, I fit an entire dog! I mean, it was cut into small pieces and those pieces put into various sized jars of formaldehyde, but it all fit. Every last little jar”.

  • I said: “No, it’s okay, I can fit them in my handbag”.

Today, medication took a swipe at social anxiety and beat the shit out of it with its sanityfists!