Five Days

The following 5 days are fairly typical for me. They occur with frightening regularity and leave me feeling physically and emotionally drained. They also leave me wondering why I still own a functioning set of ovaries considering the grief they give me!

Day 1
I get a bit pissy. And snappy. And bitchy. If you ask me to go shopping with you, expect me to tell you the truth about how you look. And I won’t sugar coat it, so if you happen to look a bit shit in that purple frock with the orange stripes, I’ll tell you that you look a bit shit in that purple frock with the orange stripes. There is no filter between my brain and my mouth. It goes bye-bye. The safest place for me to not offend anyone is to be locked, alone, inside my house with no phone, no laptop and no internet connection. On second thought, you’d better sound proof the house so the neighbours can’t hear me bitching about the yapping mongrel that lives around the back of our house. Also, my boobs are killing me and there’s a tingling feeling and a red bump on my chin – I just know that the mother of all pimples is going to come for a visit.

Day 2
Why has no one invented salted deep-fried double-coated Tim Tams? Seriously, some of those bad boys with a flagon of piping hot tea would hit the spot nicely. I cry at commercials if they feature one of the following: a baby, a sick person, an injured person, death, funerals, insurance (reminds me of the sick and dead people), an old person, a charity or an animal. In fact, the RSPCA “All Things Bright and Beautiful” ad has me sobbing and reaching for the chocolate. They’re all HURT and IN PAIN and BANDAGED and it’s just SO UNFAIR THAT THEY’RE HURTING BECAUSE THEY’RE SO SWEET AND INNOCENT AND THAT WOMBAT IS JUST THE CUTEST THING EVER!!! On top of the tears and snot that I’ve had to contend with, the pimple is looking quite angry and my belly (even before the need to eat a pile of crap) has become so bloated I look 6 months pregnant. In fact, I have a maternity top (with side ruching which helps to make me look only 4 months pregnant) that gets brought out if I have to make an effort to change out of my over-sized t-shirt and trousers with elasticised waistband.

Day 3
Regularly said to Husband as a warning: “Just don’t fucking piss me off or your balls will become Little Dog’s new toys.” The pimple has taken on a pulse. All that’s left is for it to breed whilst I’m sleeping and my fucking face will be completely and utterly fucked. There is a faint awareness somewhere in my brain that says it’s a good thing I don’t own a gun or that fucking bloody pissing rooster that starts fucking cock-a-doodle-do-ing at 1:30am would be tracked down, shot, plucked, gutted and roasted for my fucking breakfast. On Day 3, I hate all living creatures.

Day 4
I don’t cope. AT ALL! I don’t understand why, but if ANYTHING goes wrong, my brain just doesn’t comprehend and all my coping abilities (which aren’t too shabby – I’ve dealt with a fair bit of shit in my life, and COPED just fine!) just abandon me. I cry non-stop. I fear my husband is going to leave me because he only kissed me once instead of three times like usual. I worry that my mother has cancer because she hasn’t called this week and clearly that means she’s avoiding me because she doesn’t want to break the bad news to me over the phone. Today, don’t even mention the Mayan calendar/world will end thing because I’ll just have a full-scale anxiety attack. (And no, that’s not a joke.) The pimple resembles a volcano and has made me realise just how ugly I am. Maybe that’s why my husband wants to leave me? (Cue inconsolable sobbing.)

Day 5
My period starts. I sweat uncontrollably, I get diarrhoea, I feel nauseous, my head pounds, my abdomen cramps like a mofo. I pop more pills than a junkie. Husband knows to bring me a Quarter Pounder with fries and a chocolate thickshake for dinner. All I want is a hug, some painkillers and some grease. And maybe something to cover up the pimple which is now just a giant red mess on my face. Tomorrow the pimple will begin to heal and I shall be back to my normal self. And no one is more grateful for that than me!

Well, except for my poor husband…..


Department Store Bullshit

Yesterday I walked into a well-known national department store with the intention of spending money. (Yes I know, it’s very old-fashioned of me to want to spend ACTUAL money in a PHYSICAL store.)

My experience left me feeling disappointed, disgusted and humiliated.

This department store is wonderfully shiny and glossy inside – the ground floor full of cosmetics and perfumes was beckoning me. I stopped at Cosmetic Counter M – it had been recommended to me (multiple times) as being simply awesome. So I went nosing about for some foundation and maybe a lipstick. (And anything else they tried to sell me, I’m a bit of a pushover really.)

But the two sales girls remained firmly up the back of the counter, where customers aren’t supposed to go. They were chatting and giggling. They looked over and saw me – eye contact was made and I smiled briefly and gestured to the products in front of me, hinting that I needed some help.

They went back to chatting.

I cleared my throat. Loudly. (In fact, I kinda hurt it.) One girl looked over, looked me up and down (I was wearing no make-up, had my hair in a ponytail and had on an old cotton t-shirt. Admittedly not exactly glamourous but I was comfy and since it was going to be a long and busy day, comfort was important to me.)

After 15 minutes of coughing like someone with consumption (with a few loud “Excuse me!”‘s thrown in for good measure) , I began to walk away. As soon as I moved away from the counter, a well-made-up woman approached and the girls fell over themselves to reach her and ask how they could help.

I moved to another cosmetics counter – Counter Y. They have a range of perfume I like so I stopped to sniff the bottles on display. I wanted to buy one of the bottles but the counter-girl had magically disappeared. I waited for 10 minutes.

She didn’t come back so I thought, “Fuck the snobby wenches, I’m going upstairs.”

I made my way up to the third floor where what I call “pretty things” are kept. I picked up a handful of pretty things and then walked to the nearest counter to pay. There was no one there. I did a lap of the floor. There were no sales staff. AT ALL. I began to wonder if I smelt bad. (In which case I really did need that perfume.)

I dumped the pretty things on the nearest shelf and left the store in a huff.

It’s disappointing just how appalling customer service in this country has become. It’s disgusting that sales staff feel it’s okay to pick-and-choose which customers they want to serve. I felt so embarrassed that I was refused service, probably because of the way I looked. Perhaps they thought that I would waste their time, or was dumb, or didn’t care about the way I looked and therefore didn’t need make-up or perfume? (After all, I am a pasty-white fat girl with dull brown hair wearing Target clothes.)

Not only did I feel like a fool, but it’s made me realize just how much I love being able to purchase things online. StrawberryNET doesn’t care if I’m wearing make-up or not – it will still sell me lipstick!

So the next time department stores whinge about their falling sales, I know for a fact that they only have themselves to blame. I will never be shopping in this store again.

Reasons Why My Husband Drives Me Batty

Just in case my last post drove you to the point of vomiting, here’s the follow-up.

– He is the most annoying sick person ever.
– When he gets frustrated at work he comes home and shouts about everything.
– He is obsessed with money, budgets and knowing where every last cent goes.
– He takes long showers. Like, really long. As in 30 minutes of just standing there! At least when I have a 30 minute shower I thoroughly wash my (long) hair, cleanse, exfoliate, shave, scrub and wash myself.
– He’s related to his mother.
– When I grumble at him for just stuffing things in cupboards and not putting it away neatly, he says that’s just too hard to remember.
– He stuffs neatly ironed shirts into our already jam-packed wardrobe, rendering them wrinkly again. He often leaves the house looking like a homeless person.
– He lacks a sense of style. When I met him (in his early twenties) he still owned the most revolting pair of jeans that he’d had for 8 years which only came down to mid-calf. And he thought these were an acceptable item of clothing.
– He whinges (loudly) when I throw out grey underwear that has no elastic or has large gaping holes somewhere. He doesn’t care about any other colour.
– He’s not particularly handy around the house. If he has to do something manly, he needs to ring his dad to talk him through the procedure.
– He lacks the ability to prioritise.
– He beats me at Words With Friends every fucking time.
– He reads Matthew Reilly novels. And ENJOYS them!
– He picks his nose. In the car. Where other people can SEE him.
– The dog likes him more than me.
– He has never disciplined the dog which means we have an unruly beast that runs the household, even though he’s only about 30cm tall.
– When he cooks he uses every single pot, pan, dish, stirring implement and plate in the house.
– He never checks that I’m not busy before making plans for us that are difficult to get out of.

Reasons Why I Love My Husband

Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how lucky I am. This list isn’t to gloat, it’s to remind me of what I have and that I should be grateful for it because I know many people aren’t this lucky.

– He brings me a cup of tea every night before bed.
– He loads/unloads the dishwasher and hand washes the rest of the dirty dishes that either don’t fit in or shouldn’t go in.
– He doesn’t mind how much I spend on clothes/groceries/craft stuff/gifts, etc.
– If I happen to still be asleep when he leaves for work in the morning (usually once a month when I have a painkiller hangover thanks to my hateful uterus cramping away) he just kisses me and strokes my hair and then leaves as quietly as he can.
– If he’s home, he always cleans up the cat vomit.
– If the dog needs to pee during the night, he’s the one who takes him out. Even if it’s -2 degrees.
– He lets me warm my very cold feet up on his calves when in bed.
– He makes me laugh.
– He can roast a chicken better than I can.
– He’s a good shag.
– When I’ve been very ill (or injured), he gladly takes over all house-work.
– He doesn’t hold a grudge, so when I get my foot wedged firmly in my mouth and say something nasty or stupid, he forgives me immediately.
– He always thanks me for cooking him dinner.
– He tells me I’m the best wife ever when I cook him steak.
– If we’re going out, he tells me I look great when I feel like a bloated elephant with a bit of make-up dabbed on.
– He always goes into the bathroom to fart.
– He cooks me brunch every Sunday.
– His taste in jewellery is surprisingly good.
– He cleans out the cats litter tray.
– He knows that when he screws up, flowers just don’t cut it – chocolate is more likely to make me forgive him.

If you’re feeling nauseated after reading all of that, stay tuned for the list I’m going to post later in the week: Reasons why my husband drives me batty.

Intimacy DOES NOT Equal Sex

Intimacy. It’s what knits together all those little letters that spell out r-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p.

There’s been a lot of “women need to please their man so he won’t cheat on them” crap loitering about the interwebs these past few months. Phrases like, “I just lie there and read while he has sex with me…” type ramblings which give me the shits (because it’s wrong on soooo many levels) and gives the wrong impression to people out there searching for, or in the fledgling stage of, a relationship. That kind of stuff is not intimacy. It’s barely a relationship!

Let me just say that sex isn’t the same as intimacy. Yes, sex is a part of intimacy, but so are a bunch of other things (emotional and physical) that don’t involve the need to clean up afterwards.

Spooning. Being the little spoon (or spoonee) is just awesome. Especially on a cold day when you can snuggle under the doona and just doze or lie there feeling safe and protected. And the big spoon (or spooner) gets to be smug in the knowledge that the little spoon is feeling a bit loved, a bit cosy and is zoning out amidst an overabundance of bliss. Bonus: naked spooning is (in my opinion) better than clothed (or pyjama’d) spooning. Although the spooner must be careful with doona placement so he or she does not get smothered to death.

Sharing an ice-cream sundae. They leave you the cherry and you let them have the big goopy bit of chocolate sauce that fell down the crack between the two scoops of vanilla ice-cream because you know they’ll think you’re awesome for doing it. And all this without even squabbling!

Caring for the other when they’re ill. Okay, it may not be the kind of intimacy we’re used to (the kind that could lead to sex and/or be full of long romantic glances) – but this is emotional intimacy to me. It’s that feeling of being secure and looked after when sick which, to me, is an important part of intimacy. No one can look after me better than my Husband, not even my mother. He can pre-empt what I want (tea) and what I need (painkillers), simply because we’ve been living together for so long and he knows me better than everyone else put together.

Kissing. I’m not talking about a full on tongue lashing. Nor am I talking about the pursed-lipped-peck. I’m talking about a soft, gentle, lingering kiss. For no reason.

Sitting in the sunshine with a cup of tea. Not talking, not kissing, not touching. Just simply being and sharing a wonderful quiet moment in what can sometimes be a crazy world.

The joint shower. If you’ve never squeezed into the shower with your significant other, then you MUST try. Don’t surprise them though, they many not appreciate you whipping back the shower curtain in case they’re doing something they’d rather you didn’t see – like shaving their armpits or cleaning their intimate areas.

What do you consider intimacy? Is it just sex, or is it a bunch of other little things?

The 10 Rules of Human Decency

1. If your dog takes a crap in public, clean it up. No one likes to have to watch where they’re treading instead of staring at the blue sky, the flowers, their children or the dodgy looking youth eyeing off their handbag.

2. If your child is sick, don’t allow them to “play”/touch all the fruit and veg in the supermarket. I know everyone needs to do the grocery shopping, and sick kids are a fact of life, but don’t let them spread their germs by giving them some kiwi fruit (that you have no intention of buying) to play with while you sort through the tomatoes for the ones that aren’t half-rotten.

3. If you say something rude or nasty by accident (ie: foot-in-mouth) then apologize. I’m the first to admit that I can sometimes sound like a bitchy snobby half-wit. This is unintentional. The connection between my brain and my mouth (and if I’m at my laptop, then my brain and my fingers) is sometimes out of order and I say or write things that are wrong on many levels. Thus, I spend half my life apologizing to people I may have offended.

4. If you’re racist, sexist or homophobic then at least have the decency to live as a hermit. No one wants to hear another of your “jokes”. They aren’t funny. They are wrong.

5. Don’t spit in public. Just don’t. Seriously, it’s disgusting and you look like you have a low IQ.

6. When getting dressed in the morning, always make sure the following are covered by your clothing: nipples, arse cracks, butt cheeks, pubic hair. Please take note teenagers and pop stars.

7. Remember the ipods are personal music devices. PERSONAL. This means for your ears only. Turn the fucking volume down. I do not want to hear your doof-doof music on the 851 bus.

8. If you like to drive fast, don’t shout at people who are obeying the speed limit. We are not “slow” drivers. We just follow the rules. It’s because we’re terrified that the kid in the playground 250 metres away will magically appear in the middle of the road and we’ll hit them and then we’ll be charged with murder and dangerous driving and then will spend the rest of our life in jail being someone else’s shower bitch. Well, either that or we’ve not got any more demerit points left to lose before our license gets taken away….

9. If you think you’re better than everyone else, then keep that opinion to yourself. No one wants to be told that they’re less of a person because they shop at Target, own IKEA furniture or eat at a chain restaurant every now and then. Peoples spending habits, priorities, tastes and style differ. This is okay. It does not mean they are secretly planning on breaking into your house to steal your $8000 Turkish rug.

10. Don’t be a dick. Enough said.