My hair was getting unruly. And not unruly in a good way, in a I've got crazy curls and I own them albeit ridiculously way. But unruly in a my hair looks gross kind of way.
So, I gave it the chop:
Today while I was buying obscene amounts of lollies for my family, a man stopped and said "that licorice will make your hair curl."
I fly home in 6 days. Just six days, in case you didn't know that's not even a week. I've been fluctuating from being terribly excited to go home to being nervous and upset about it. I couldn't really figure out why either, until on Friday Inspector Climate said, "you're already worried and sad about saying goodbye, aren't you?" Why, yes, yes I am. But since he put words to it, it seems silly to stress about it. I'd much rather just be happy to be home. I felt a such a sense of relief after he explained my own feelings to me (thank god he gets me...it saves us both a lot of heart ache).
So on Saturday, I got down to the business of being excited. I went to yoga. I got my legs waxed because Da-amn I am going to summer time! And these white legs of mine are going to be in skirts and shorts and dresses. They're going to meet the sun. Hello sun! I left Inspector Climate at my apartment, and when I came back he was laying on his stomach on my bed researching some shoes on line. So, I sat on his bum, and reached over to check my email...and there was one from my mom that I wasn't at all prepared. "Some sad news: I haven't been sure how to tell you this, but Chiefy died."
Now, let me tell you about Chief. I got him for a surprise birthday present when I was ten. I got a pony for my birthday. A sweet, adorable, loner, fiesty little shit pony that I loved more than anything. He used to make me cry with his wicked pony antics ("Let's run D under those trees so branches smack her in the stomach!" "I know, she's asking me to turn right...so let me fake right and dive left! bwahahahah!" "I'm going to just refuse to move now..."), and I don't know if as he got older we got to have a better understanding of each other, or if he just got less wicked. His last trick, certainly most disturbing, was he used to eat poop. And he acted like that poop was life or death. I'd urge him to go over and over and over and he'd turn his adorable little face towards covered in smelly manure and be like "girlfriend, I am busy..." and just stay there...Sometimes, I'd get off and walk him 20 metres down the trail and get back on and the second I was situated on his back again, he'd spin on his hind legs and bolt back to the poop.
But I loved him. He taught me patience and fortitude and forgiveness. He let me make me mistakes and he forgave me for them (I think). When I was 10 I thought it was pretty cool because when I dismounted, he'd let me slide off his butt - Tricky! Those first few years, I used to go on horseback rides or just go out and visit him. Burying my face into his mane and the ultra soft fur behind his ears, he made me feel safe and protected - even though I knew he'd try to step on my foot if the opportunity presented itself.
As I got older, I didn't ride as much. And when I moved away to go to college, my first stop when I got back home would be to visit him the pasture where he'd act disinterested in seeing me - and to be fair, he probably was.
So on Wednesday, he just got sick. It was sudden. It was unexpected. Well, as unexpected as it can be when he was somewhere between 35 and 40 years old. And I met him 15 years ago. I feel broken and unequipped. And most of all empty. I was so looking forward to my jerk-face pony to meet Inspector Climate. For them to come face to face so that Inspector Climate would know how I spent my child hood and who I spent it with. Instead, I received an email from my mom and immediately crumpled into the fetal position where I've stayed for most of yesterday and today. I've cried until my face is puffy and my tears wet Inspector Climate's face, chest, shoulders, pillows. I haven't been able to use words to describe how much I'll miss him, how much I loved him, how guilty I feel for leaving him behind, how soft his lips were, or inexplicably patient he was with me when I insisted in snuggling my face into his soft fuzzy body.
And now I am scared to go home because it's not at all the same place I left. Three of my favourite furry friends are gone and I am not sure home will feel at all home-like without them. And I am not good at change, people.
Good bye, punk. You taught me everything I know - like eating poop is gross. And crying into someone's neck is ok. It's ok to be wrong and make mistakes, because tomorrow you can start over again. And for the love of all things holy, just because normal people are social and thrive in being in groups doesn't mean that sometimes being alone isn't the best thing for you. I don't know what home is without you, but I guess I'll be brave and go anyway - you taught me that too.
So...The other day in yoga the teacher was like if you feel comfortable in "happy baby" pose than try to get your legs behind your shoulders and your feet behind your head. And I was like...totally. And that's how I put both my feet behind my head. Yeah, I did. It's not pretty to look at...but it's actually not that uncomfortable. Win - win.
I also read The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway.
Today I was getting ready to lay back in Supta Baddha Konasana and just as I closed my eyes I realised the woman next to me was taking off her bra.
And there were her boobs.
Then, she put on a different bra.
I presume, because when I opened my eyes again she was clothed.
Now, this is when I am a hypocrite. I am all for being proud of your body and all that yakkity yak yak but eek! Boobs! I grew up in a naked family. Naked all the time. Be naked! There is nothing wrong with naked! I am pretty sure those were our mantras. But I do find it awkward when I see boobs when I am trying to meditate and work on my breathing. You know? Can't you be proud of you body and change in the bathroom?
I saw boobs today...what did you see?
In 13 days, I'll be boarding a plane with Inspector Climate and taking 14 hour 10 minute long flight to Los Angeles. Now, I think Inspector Climate and I are nervous about this adventure for two different reasons. (Although, he doesn't admit to being nervous). He is meeting my whole family for the first - that's enough to make me nervous. The reasons I am nervous are long and plentiful. I haven't been home for 12 months. That's the longest I've ever gone without seeing my mom, hugging my dog, and going a horse back ride with my dad. The past 12 months have seen a lot of change in me. There has been some of the lowliest lows of crying and depression and chemical imbalance, but those can only be contrasted with the fact that Inspector Climate and I found each other...and squee! So why I am a nervous? I'm not really sure ... Hey, Maybe I'll write about that tomorrow!
Here's the problem. We need to bring presents home to my family. Particularly difficult to shop for are my grandparents. So, Inspector Climate and I came up with the idea of giving them a framed photograph of us. My grandmother LOVES framed photos...it's partly lame, and partly perfect, you know? So here are the options...
Why yes, all these photos are taken by us by holding the camera out in front of us. Classy?
What do you think?
I've started one post 3 times. It was about how sometimes I think there is a scale of "making it" as a blogger and this month I've gotten closer to "making it." But here's the problem. I don't really care about making it. So what, some poor girl (Hi Sarah!), asked me to put an ad on Decoybetty for her product. It wasn't well suited to my blog. We exchanged emails. Who cares. So that post has died thrice.
Then, I was like "ok fine, I'll just write a post about how Lo asked me if things were "better" with Inspector Climate. Except that things were never bad with Inspector Climate and they aren't better. they're just different because he makes me feel all safe and warm and fuzzy." and then I lost interest in that post because who wants to read about my sickly sweet relationship?
Here's my problem with having a personal blog that's all about me me me me. There are lots of things I can't write about me me me me...like my job. Or my family. Or my complete desire to get a puppy...oh wait, that I can talk about. But when my life is consumed with Job, Family, Job. Job, Job, Job. I find it really hard to write about anything else. Which is unfortunate because I'd love to vent to you about Job.
In summation, I'm not going to make it as a blogger. I am sickly smitten. And blogging is hard.
Oh yeah, and I want a puppy.
I am not one to let go of things. I hold grudges. I do not let go of shit.
Now here I am going to take a minute to digress. Inspector Climate and I have this shtick we do when we're lying in bed and the sheet has migrated to one side or the other or isn't folded properly. And it revolves around making bad puns around shit sheet. Holy sheet. This totally sheets me. What's up with this sheet? This goes on for embarrassingly long time. What can I say, we have a lot of sheet in common.
But here's the other thing, I don't often let go of sheet in a more, ahem, literal sense. I err on the side of constipation. Until I don't. Today was one of those days that I put my shit in the universe, and unfortunately this, again, isn't figurative. It was unpleasant. It was awkward.
But I thought sheet, I should share this story with the internets maybe this is a good time let go of some figurative shit. A sheet throw down if you will. Let's not drown under the weight of the sheet!
And not to mix metaphors but let's untangle ourselves from our bed linens and burst out the bathroom door lighter and sheetless.
I'll start.
I don't write about this ever on the off chance that someday my family finds out I have a blog (god forbid). But right now, I am going to let go of the fact that I can't control my brothers. And just because they don't communicate that they love me and miss me doesn't mean that they don't love me and miss me.
I am going to let go of the fact that my job is less than ideal and start really putting effort into planning and implementing my next move.
Your turn.
Recently, I've been feeling the weight of it all. Everyday I go to work at an organisation that I absolutely love while I do a job I am not all that thrilled about. I feel horrible looking for other jobs because I feel so grateful to have gotten this one, plus I really like most of the people I work with and feel guilty to have only stayed a few months and now be looking.
The truth is I have a master's degree so I could do the work that this organisation does, not work on funding it.
Today, I sat on Inspector Climate's bed and looked for a new job. I've spent a lot of time whining about my work these past few months and then I read this post and I realised the only way change was going to happen was if I made it happen. Of course, this is something I've known. This is something that Inspector Climate tells me all the time (while putting a positive spin on whatever I am bemoaning, much to my annoyance).
But once I sat down to apply for the job the weight of it all just came crushing down. The what if's seemed insurmountable. I'll have to tell my employers that I am leaving and ask them to be references. I'll have to find a new routine and take a new tram/train to work. I'll have to figure when I can see Inspector Climate and when I can go to yoga. And there they were. The tears I thought I had said goodbye to during my Progesterone Experiment of 2010. And so I cried. Inspector Climate cuddled me and told me I didn't have to worry yet, why worry when I haven't even sent in the application? Gotten an interview? Been told I am their preferred candidate? Why worry he asks? Because it's what I do.
20 days until I fly home. And even that is starting to feel heavy. I only get to see this family I love for two weeks? How is that fair? What am I doing here? But what would I do there?
So for tonight, I am going to wallow in the weight of it all...
Tomorrow I'll make it less.
What weight are you carrying?
Part of the joy of being an expat is that you're always special and exotic. "Where you from?" "What's it like there?" "Is that near Chicago?"
Australians pronounce New Hampshire (I'd say New Hampsher)- New Hampsheer - and by Australians, I might mean Inspector Climate.
One of the downsides is that people always cut out newspaper articles or just want to talk to you about where you're from all the time. I mean all the time. Which is great for conversation starters, but just plain awkward when you're trying to do your work at work and they're chit chatting about everything they've EVER heard about New Hampshire...Hotel New Hampshire! The Primary! That guy that they once new that lived in a small town near...um some other town.
Well, today, I was sitting at my desk, and one of our volunteers came up to me and said she'd cut an article out of the newspaper for me. It was about New Hampshire, obviously.
Apparently, a small town in New Hampshire has legalised public servants bringing guns to work. These public servants were "feeling like second class citizens" because policeman are allowed to carry guns to work, but that the average person isn't.
WHAT?
New Hampshire this is a mistake. As someone else from this small town noted (and I paraphrase) "maybe this isn't a good idea, I mean there are kids and disabled people around. and people are bringing guns to work?"
And now I'm embarrassed - I think this is taking living free or dying a bit too far...
I like soft clothes. In fact I like soft things in general. PUPPIES. I think this is why I like pajamas so much. They are just so soft and cosy. Mmmm pajamas. So, when I was wondering around Melbourne Central on Friday with John-the-Beatle, and we passed the pajama shop...I knew I'd drag him in there. And then I found this shirt...So I ask you, can I wear this shirt to things that happen outside of my apartment? Does it look like jammies?
And while we are here. Holy moses, do I need a hair cut. My hair is reaching triangle proportions. NOT GOOD. But I am left with the same dilemma I had the last time I went to get my to grow it out or to chop it off. And I am leaning towards chopping it off. But who knows!
Also at Melbourne central, I saw this:
That's a life size R2D2 made from legos...awesome.
I also saw this...
That's one big woody.
Let me preface the story by saying, I don't find drug addiction to be particularly amusing. In fact, it's not funny at all.
I have several public transport options to get me home after work. I can take the train or a variety of different trams. On Tuesday, I opted to take the train. I sat down, and heard someone on the phone in the seat behind me. I quickly made the following assumptions:
1. Her daughter was having severe withdrawal symptoms from coke or meth or something...
2. She was NOT pleasant to be around.
3. She was talking to another woman who was very familiar with this story.
"She's really hard to be around, and she keeps saying she wants heroin." There is a pause. "No heroin"..."The illicit one?" a bigger pause. "HEROIN," she says shouting into the phone. "HEROIN. HEROIN" Another pause, "Well, I am on the train I can't speak about this any louder..." and with one more giant shout, "SHE WANTS HEROIN, THE ILLICIT STUFF."
Shouting heroin and illicit stuff on a train - now that's funny. No? Maybe you had to be there? Eh, whatever.
THE ILLICIT STUFF.
A few days ago, Miss Liv gave me an award! How sweet is she. She's a Perth girl with her Brit boyfriend. She understands visa issues (which is what this post is actually about...). To be frank, I am a little sad she lives all the way in Perth, because that makes it very difficult for us to go out for coffee and bemoan that we are little of perfectly average height.
Anyway, I thought I'd give a shout out to some of my other expat bloggers, because while I don't write about that part of my life a lot...it is constantly my reality. Whether it's juggling different slang, the side of the road I drive on, not being able to find food I want, or not being able to feel concrete in any one place because I don't have a real visa yet.
So here are some of my favourites:
Sara - has fallen in love with a boy in Chile and right now is trying to get mentally prepared for brain surgery. She is beyond brave. So send her good thoughts.
Kyle - is an absolutely beautiful photographer (and person!). She also fell in love with a Chilean Boy and is settled in Santiago. Marriage has never been something I really thought about that much. But once I started reading her blog, I suddenly wanted to get married like right now. Just so she could take my picture and make me look pretty. In fact, I've never had a real desire to go to Chile either, but have recently been suggesting to Inspector Climate that we go, just so you know I can meet Sara and Kyle. AND have Kyle take our pictures.
Crystal - Crystal is a Canadian in France. I absolutely adore her blog and can totally relate to her struggles with homesickness.
And then there is Juliet - I feel like Juliet and I have been following the same expat path. Hers brought her to Paris. Where she struggled to find a good guy (she did!), a home (she did!) and a job (she did!). I adore her.
Share the blog love, ladies. Because I certainly am bursting with admiration for all of you!
Now let's talk about visas.
So, at the moment I am not on any visa really. I am legally in Australia, but am straddling between visas, waiting for one to get accepted. While I wait, I am not legally allowed to leave the country, unless I buy another "limbo" visa which allows me to leave and come back to Australia. I desperately need to go home. This is the longest I've ever gone without seeing my mom and dad; and I need a parental hug. Plus, I'd kind of like them to meet this guy I've been seeing...you know, he means a little something to me, this Inspector Climate, and I need them to know this person who I've fallen in love with.
I need to go home.
So, I asked my lawyer about getting the visa and he sent me the form (I am not about to pay my lawyer any more money if I don't have to...) he told me to do it 2 weeks before I fly. But that seemed like cutting it close to me, I mean this is a government department and when has that not been easy...never.
So, I've been filling out the forms and realised that no where on the form did it say where to send it in...I mean no where. So I called the department. To get the address. As I am talking to them, I asked if they would anything else, did I need to send my passport? A copy of my passport? Passport photos?
"No, all you need to do is write a compelling letter."
"um, a compelling letter? What do I need to say?"
"You just need to write a compelling letter as to why you need to go home..."
"Is homesickness compelling enough?"
So, I called my lawyer in a panic. What if I couldn't go home? OH MY GOD. He assured me that I didn't need to write a letter, I just needed to go to the immigration office and get them to put a sticker in my passport. Oh, just got to the department...like that's going to be easy...because you know when they are open? 9-4. NINE TO FOUR. That helps zero people with a full time job. Luckily, I am sick and so, I worked from home today as well as took a little trip to the department.
Things didn't look promising as I got there 20 minutes before the department opened and there was already 20 people in line. Oy vey. But actually, it took 20 minutes in the office and I was out there with a visa in hand.
I am going home in 31 days...but whose counting?
I can think of cafloppity-illions (and that's a lot) of reasons why I don't want to be famous. The tabloids, the rumours, not being able to wear flannel pajamas out in public (ahh - that's the life), not having to sit through the whole entire Oscar ceremony, having to be nice to fans - assuming I had fans - and that's just to name like 5.
However, I can name a few things that would be particularly nice about being famous.
For example, the yoga pants that I wear everyday would sell on ebay for like $20,000 which I could then give to some charity named Yoga For Peace (apologies if there IS a charity named yoga for peace...yoga is important, so is peace). Easy.
Or I'd get to meet James Blake John Cusack President Obama.
But most importantly, it'd give me an opportunity to be on Dancing with the Stars. Le sigh. Cha cha! Salsa! Waltz! Jive! Ridiculous costumes? YES PLEASE. That whole giving to charity thing is great, but being paid to dance? Bliss.
Work on it Inspector Climate.
What would you do if you were famous?
I mentioned last week that Inspector Climate and I had the worst dinner ever while we were in Canberra. Well, Inspector Climate did, my meal was just ridiculously expensive for 2 onions, a carrot piece, and some pureed spinach. Inspector Climate wanted to leave right after the mains were removed from the table, because "we'd spent enough money at the gross expensive restaurant." But when he saw my eyes light up at the mentioned of a cheese platter, he said we could stay and eat cheese (with apples! and nuts! and strawberries! oh my!). And that's where I got to eat another kind of cheese Manchego! Yummy.
Also right after our trip to Canberra, I finished my first classic piece of literature to start working on that part of my life list. I read David Copperfield. I absolutely loved it. Seriously, adored it. I am not going to write you a book report, but it was good and I am glad I carried around the giant book for 3 weeks in my bag (I pretty much was only reading it on the tram to and from work).
Today, I left work at noon. So I came home, and am now watching ready steady cook - unlike when I was unemployed, watching now is a luxury. Instead of being depressingly unsettling that I don't have anything better to do with my time than watch a crappy day time cooking show, now I can giggle at how orange Peter Everett is. I can marvel at the new kitchen sets.
This weekend I am going to The Climate's house to be spoiled by Mrs. Climate. Life is tough, ya'll. And not crying is awesome.
What are you doing this weekend?
Peace out, my bitches.
The last time I dreamt about a talking giraffe was last weekend.
You didn't realise you'd asked that...did you?
Do you know what giraffes say in my dreams?
They say "I Looo-oooooove it when you rub my feeeeet" while pressing their hoof into Inspector Climate's chest.
The Hypothesis: Progesterone makes me cry.
The Experiment: Take progesterone once a day.
I mentioned earlier that my Gyno, Ms. MIREEENA, decided that we should do a little science experiment on my body. Just a little one to see if I was allergic to the progesterone or the oestrogen in The Pill. See, in case you didn't know, most Pills are combination pills that use both oestrogen and progesterone. But you can get progesterone only pills, which is what the implant is. So, last week I started taking a progesterone only pill. In the past, the sadness has come on slowly, so slowly that I wasn't sure if maybe I was just homesick or not. Until 2 months in when being tired was suddenly enough of a cause for streaming tears and questioning why anyone gets out of bed. Ever. Because getting out of bed is hard.
So anyway, I took the pill on day one. Then I took it on day two. By mid morning on day two, I felt slightly grouchier than normal but that happens you know. Some days you're just grumpy! Except that by mid-afternoon I was a wreak. I was moments away from crying at work, and walking to Inspector Climate's apartment after a day at the office I started to wonder why I was here (and I do mean on earth, could I be more dramatic, jeesh!) at all. By the time, Inspector Climate held the door open for me, I was a sobbing mess. Oh, the crying. So, much crying.
I lay on Inspector Climate's chest bemoaning my sorry life and being dramatically over the top about everything. Trying to speak through tears and apologising because I know I am being irrational, but life is so unfair and why is this happening to me.
The Outcome: The Hypothesis is proven correct. I am in fact allergic to progesterone. And it only takes two days of pill taking for me to become an irrational crying mess. Fabulous.
So, now that it's been a few days since I stopped taking it, and I still cry at slightly ridiculous things. Like yesterday, I cried because I was homesick and wanted to make pumpkin pie and no grocery stores carried molasses. The nerve! Not only did they NOT carry molasses, they didn't even know what molasses is! "is it like maple syrup." No, it's like molasses.
And today I cried because I didn't want to say goodbye to Inspector Climate, even though I am going to see him tomorrow. But it is lessening. My full body rash is even going away, phewph because it wasn't sexy.
I think I am going to be staying away from hormonal birth controls for a while. Let my body settle down and remember what it's like to be happy again. Because dabbling in depression isn't all that it's cracked up to be.
That's based on science.
True Story.
As part of my life list, I have travel to all the states and territories of Australia. Last weekend, Inspector Climate and I headed to....
CANBERRA! Which is in the Australian Capital Territory and is the capital of Australia (in case you didn't know). For the most part, when people asked me what I was doing over the weekend, and I'd answer excitedly "Going to Canberra!" They'd laugh. "Canberra," they'd scoff, "why in the WORLD are you going to Canberra?" Apparently, it's cool to hate on Canberra. It's a city with a country feel - there isn't a lot of clubbing, not a lot of shopping, and restaurants that call themselves a gluten free patisserie won't be open when they say they will. Hmph! However, I kind of loved Canberra. It's a quiet city. And for a capital it is super laid back.
Our first night there after checking out the National Museum, Inspector Climate and I went to to the Telstra Tower.
It has a revolving restaurant that served some of the worst food we've ever eaten (except for the cheese platter - more on that at a later date!). So that was disappointing. We had called in advance to ask if they could make a gluten free vegetarian meal for me, because there was no point in going to an expensive restaurant if all I was going to get was a salad. Instead a got 2 onions, a piece of carrot, and a table spoon of puree. For the bargain price of...$36. Inspector Climate ordered the "fish" dish (literally just called "Fish" on the menu). And I've never heard him be that upset by a plate a food. In fact, I am not sure I've ever heard the good natured boy complain as much as he did eating that "fish".
The next day was a whirl wind tour of Canberra.
We checked out New Parliament House:
This is the coat of arms of Australia. Signifying that Australia is a country that moves forward as both their national animals can't take a step/hop backwars: the emu and the kangaroo. Of course they also joke that they barbeque they're national animals. So, whatever.
A nice man took a photo of us outside parliament house.
In Parliament house, I gained some understanding of how the government works here. Inspector Climate dipped me on the ballroom floor; we peeked into the VERY pink home of the Senate and the very green home of the House; and we went up to the roof of the building to check out the view of the city from the top of capital hill.
We admired local art in the city walk:
It was lovely and cold in the mornings -3 C. and I loved being able to see my breath. It felt like a cold and crisp October day back home. I miss that.
So, the ACT - Check!
Check bathroom stalls for toilet paper before sitting on toilet.
Tricky.
Last Thursday, Inspector Climate turned a year older.
I've never really been dating someone where I knew them well enough and loved them enough to get a "girlfriend level" (thanks Ted Mosby) gift.
The truth is I knew what I was going to get him after the very first weekend when I stayed over at his house back in November. Flannel lined jeans. Yeah, I didn't realise that was "girlfriend level" gift either, until I learned that you can't buy flannel lined jeans here which is particularly tragic for Inspector Climate because he is forever cold and could really use some flannel in his life (like most people, I love flannel. The End). So, I ordered them from LL Bean and had them sent all the way to Australia.
I had them sitting in my cupboard for months and was terrified that he was going to HATE them. Absolutely HATE them. Luckily, despite the fact that I bought him the slightly wrong size, he thinks they are soft and warm and comfy. Yay!
But the point isn't that I rock at buying gifts (although perhaps it should be), the point is that I am so grateful for him. His being in my life has absolutely changed everything - and I am so grateful for his stubbornly positive attitude, his decisive decision making skills, and his ability to force me to eat when I reach the critical stage of grumpy-pants. Yes, he gets me and I am so lucky that he found me.
Happy Birthday Inspector Climate. You are very wise mostly.
So, last week I went to my first gynaecologist appointment. When I wrote that post a couple of weeks ago about how I hadn't been ever and you, my lovely readers, were concerned for the well being of my lady parts. They thank for your concern.
So let me tell you why I haven't seen a gyno until now...it's because I was virgin. If you're abstaining from la sex - they care not for the well being of your lady bits. Frankly, it's one of the perks of being a virgin...
Anydoodle, I went to sort out this whole pill situation and get a pelvic exam. Well, that's what I thought I was doing.
When I start explaining to doctor's how the pill has been making me a slice of psycho (they call it moody...and I say "no, I just cry" and they're all "right mood swings." me: Not mood swings..CRYING) they say..."but what did you do before you were on the pill." Not having sex is brilliant birth control! I mean besides that one time fabled immaculate conception...it's FOOL proof.
Anyway, so I am sitting in a leather chair. Shaking with the disease known as fear of the speculum (fots) and she is blathering on about birth control options (we've decided to try a progesterone only pill - if there are no side effects then I'll move on to the implant...if you were curious). And I am gripping onto my pants in hopes that I'll never have to take them off ever. To actually show how scared I was and how deeply effected by fots I was...I wore socks. I hate socks - I loathe socks. They are the devil. But I reasoned that if I wore socks even if I had to take off all my "down stairs" clothes, I could still keep my green polka dotted socks on...
Fine, it made sense in my head though.
Anyway, the doc, perhaps after noticing my acute state of fots, finally asks if I've ever had a pap smear...AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaagggggghHHHH....
"no" I say in a small small small voice.
"Well, you don't have to get one until two years after you start having sex"...
"So, should I get one at my next appointment?"
"Naw, Put it off!"
"um, ok? In the states they really drum it into your head that you need to get one every year"
"I am not worried about the people who worry about it. I am worried about the people who haven't had one for 10 years! PUT IT OFF" and then she started singing "MIRENA! MIRENA!*"
Until next time, fots.
*Mirena of course being an IUD. clearly. I have the pamphlet if you'd like more information. MIRENA.
Last week I wrote a post about how I wasn't on facebook and you should boycott it on June 6th. And Crystal commented something like "how can you not be facebook!"
First let me tell you what I tell people when they ask me this question. I wrote about this on my blog when it happened back at the end of 2004, but of course none of you read Decoybetty (for good reason, probably) back in 2004. See, what happened is that I started dating this boy, The Metropean. The Metropean could salsa, was from Brazil, and was the first boy I'd ever dated who I hadn't gone to elementary school with. Besides the fact that he salsa danced and I think dancing is fun, we didn't have a lot in common. He studied hospitality. I studied Physics. He was part of a frat, I was part of an elite club of people who went to bed at 9:30pm and woke up at 5 to do homework. When we first started dating, it was when facebook (then called The Facebook) had just opened up so you could have friends outside of your college. And The Metropean BEGGED me to make myself a profile and get on facebook so that we could write each other messages...or something, I am not clear on why he really wanted me on there...
So, I signed up.
But The Metropean and I weren't meant to be. I was too busy studying to make too much of an effort and the effort I was making was really stressing me out. And I was annoyed that he couldn't see how much studying I was doing, and how much time I was devoting to it and wished he'd stop nagging me to be someone I wasn't (someone who partied on a wednesday night for example). So, I finally decided I was going to have to be strong and brave and break up with him. So we made tentative plans to go to the movies on Friday night, and I was going to pick him up in my car (the faithful Oliver) and break up with him. In person, thought I, was the mature and sensible thing to do.
However, when Friday came up - he hadn't confirmed our plans. So, I checked facebook to see if he had sent me a message.
He had not.
I checked his profile to see if he had answered my comment on his wall...He had not. But he had changed is relationship status from "in a relationship" to "single" and changed "hanging out with D" as one of his interests to "hanging out with Gina." Who was Gina? I never found out. Because he never talked to me again.
So that's what why I got off facebook, I tell people.
The real reason: of course by the end of the Metropean's and I 3 month relationship, I was kind of hooked on facebook and so I remained on it until the end of 2006, when I noticed that the time I spent on facebook didn't make me all that happy or more knowledgeable, or closer to people that I wanted to stay close too. In fact, it was making me sad and angry and annoyed because honestly why was THAT person befriending me from high school - we didn't talk then, why would we talk now? I ask you! So, I signed off.
It was that easy.
I've lost my blogging mojo.
How are you?
What's new?
Updated: I just read this post over at Hooking Up Smart. It's about boycotting facebook on 6 June. Well, actually I think boycott is probably too strong a word, it's about sending a pointed message to the CEO of facebook (I refuse to use his name - or retain his name, I have much mor important things to remember like my best friends birthday from the 5th grade (may 23rd) - who I haven't to since I was 13.) about the importance of the consumer when it comes to facebook. He is more concerned about using our personal information to attract good advertisers than about maintaining the privacy of their users. And I think it's time we stand up and close the facebook window for a day and go outside and enjoy June! (although yesterday was the first day of winter in Australia...I was all "first day of winter. you fools it's SPRING...oy).
Of course, I am not on facebook. So, I leave this to all you socially networked people.
Last week, while I was floundering through the cancer, the death of a beloved friend, and of course the crying I was having a hard time getting up in the morning and getting through the day without a nap. Oh Masters Degree lifestyle how I missed thee!
Days after hearing about He Who Had Cancer, I was walkng to work in my blues, there ain't no sunshine, funk and I spotted a penny lying on the ground. I looked at it and thought, "penny's bring good luck" and then kept walking because um, HELLO pennies just scream dirty. Does anyone else have that feeling when they see that little copper more-expensive-to-make-than-its-worth 1 cent piece. Honestly, WHY does the penny exist? It's one of the top 10 ten things I love about Australia. They don't have a one cent piece. They just round to the nearest 5 cents. it's genius. Down with the penny.
As I was like three steps away from the penny, I turned back to look at the penny...wait a second. I live in AUSTRALIA. It's not common to see pennies lying about like it is America - because I AM IN AUSTRALIA. I turned around and picked up the penny (cringing slightly at how dirty it is) and carried it in my pocket until I got to the office where I set it on my desk. A few hours later, I received an email that reconfirmed what we all hoped. He Who Had Cancer is going to be fine. He'll be cancer free in no time and the doctors suspect he'll stay that way forever.
Perhaps pennies do bring good luck?
About a week and a half ago, my doctor and I decided that maybe the pill wasn't working out for me and I stopped taking it.. About a week ago, I started wondering if maybe the pill wasn't the source of my problems, because I was still crying all the time. I was worried that I was suddenly stuck that way. That there had been some hormonal shift and now I was just a cry baby with angry red spots all over my body.
My doctor thinks I may be allergic to estrogen. I see this as a problem, being a woman and all. I mean honestly, estrogen? Really? REALLY? really. So, the doc referred me to a gynaecologist to see what words of wisdom they might impart. Here's the thing, I've never been to a gynaecologist and the word speculum is enough for me to cross my legs permanently - I do yoga and have inner thighs of steal.
Wow, I've digressed. A. Lot.
Anyway, so in the midst of crying jags last week, I'd start to get giant ripples of anxiety like "this is never going to change and I am going to be stuck in this broken state FOREVER." Then Saturday rolled around. No crying. A day without tears! An anomaly! Sunday - not a single drop of moisture sprouted from my eye. And here, Monday is coming to a close and I am not crying. In fact, I feel like I could possibly even handle some rough patch, like the supermarket not stocking something vital - like let's say corn tortillas. Yeah, I said it. I'm mentally tough, my bitches. CLEARLY.
Three days without crying. THREE. I can't remember the last time I went three days without crying.
How was your weekend? Did you get to enjoy three consecutive days of not crying? I hope so, because it's the shit, y'all.
On Friday, I tried a new cheese! Nom Nom Nom. I ate it as an after dinner snack with gluten free crackers. Mmm Mmm blue veined Tasmanian Brie!
I asked Inspector Climate if he wanted to eat some with me.
He was less than pleased with the strong flavour:
How was your weekend?
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