I told you she was crazy.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Feijoa-ina.
Vagina.
That’s the technical term but it sounds a bit clinical for the purposes of this blog (or for using mid sex I reckon) so let’s try and come up with another term I can use on here.
I generally use ‘fanny’ but since it is S’s grandmother’s name and I’d hate him to be thinking of that fanny while he was anywhere near mine and since could be confusing for all (ha!) my readers from the USA, I think I should keep trying.
My son calls it a feijoa-ina. For those of you not from NZ, a feijoa is a fruit that tastes kinda like a guava and smells like, well, a feijoa.
Not like fish or chicken.
Sometimes I call it a ‘va-jay-jay’ but I always think that I sound like I am trying to be Oprah. Although I would like to have something else in common with her other than being fat.
Pussy. That’s what S calls it but I dunno, it sounds pretty porno. During the recent miscarriage saga I overheard a conversation he had with one of his sisters, who is in her late 50’s.
“Yes, so then Livvy had a scan of her pussy...”.
Ew!
Wrong.
A friend told her daughter it was called “Madge the Vadge”. Cute when she’s 4 but when she’s 20 and telling her boyfriend it’s called Madge is kinda like having another person in the bed, don’t you think? Then again, she might like that. He certainly would.
Then there’s that word starting with c that rhymes with hunt. At the risk of offending my readers (that’s the advantage of having none I guess!) ‘hunt’ is fine as an expletive when fuck just doesn’t do it but not great for describing your vagina in every day conversation.
Snatch?
Growler?
Beaver?
Muff?
Pink bits?
Gash?
Cooch?
Box?
Beef curtains?
I have to stop, R just asked me what was so funny and I’m not explaining this to him.
Fanny it is.
That’s the technical term but it sounds a bit clinical for the purposes of this blog (or for using mid sex I reckon) so let’s try and come up with another term I can use on here.
I generally use ‘fanny’ but since it is S’s grandmother’s name and I’d hate him to be thinking of that fanny while he was anywhere near mine and since could be confusing for all (ha!) my readers from the USA, I think I should keep trying.
My son calls it a feijoa-ina. For those of you not from NZ, a feijoa is a fruit that tastes kinda like a guava and smells like, well, a feijoa.
Not like fish or chicken.
Sometimes I call it a ‘va-jay-jay’ but I always think that I sound like I am trying to be Oprah. Although I would like to have something else in common with her other than being fat.
Pussy. That’s what S calls it but I dunno, it sounds pretty porno. During the recent miscarriage saga I overheard a conversation he had with one of his sisters, who is in her late 50’s.
“Yes, so then Livvy had a scan of her pussy...”.
Ew!
Wrong.
A friend told her daughter it was called “Madge the Vadge”. Cute when she’s 4 but when she’s 20 and telling her boyfriend it’s called Madge is kinda like having another person in the bed, don’t you think? Then again, she might like that. He certainly would.
Then there’s that word starting with c that rhymes with hunt. At the risk of offending my readers (that’s the advantage of having none I guess!) ‘hunt’ is fine as an expletive when fuck just doesn’t do it but not great for describing your vagina in every day conversation.
Snatch?
Growler?
Beaver?
Muff?
Pink bits?
Gash?
Cooch?
Box?
Beef curtains?
I have to stop, R just asked me what was so funny and I’m not explaining this to him.
Fanny it is.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Digby Dog
It’s a very sad day in our house today as we say goodbye to crazy dog #1 – Digby.
Digby was my first real pet, an Australian Terrier who always looked like he was smiling and who really wanted nothing more than to please you. Digby loved a lot and was much loved, despite at times being pretty annoying...kinda like anyone who you love a lot I guess.
When R was little “Dibby Dog” was his best friend and he wouldn’t go to sleep without a Dibby Dog story. Stopping bank jobs, rescuing drowning children, landing planes safely after the pilot had a heart attack, bringing lost children home from the forest: oh, the things that dog used to get up to!
When I split up with R’s dad Digby was my constant companion during a time of sadness and loneliness. He slept at the foot of my bed, followed me around and made me get off my arse and go for a walk when I would rather have drowned my sorrows in bottles of cheap sauvignon blanc. He was there for the good times, the sad times and the silly times (Digby, I’m sorry for the time we had too many wines and spray painted your hair blue like the rest of us). A good old mate.
Once S came along almost 5 years ago Digby moved a lot of his love from me to S. He loved S so much and it was mutual. Forget babies and separation anxiety, Digby could give any of them a run for their money and when his beloved S was away, Digby cried and cried until he returned. Even when S was just in the toilet with the door shut having a crap, Digby cried outside wanting to be let in. Goodness knows why he’d want to go in there. Actually thinking about it now maybe what made him cry was the smell seeping out from under the door - it’s made me cry before.
Digby has had a pretty good life and on reflection he’s lucky to have made it until he was 11. He’s escaped from home so many times and lord knows how many times he has just about been run over, especially in recent years when his eyesight has nearly gone as has his hearing. Last year he and his crazy dog sister both ate rat poison and ended up needing a blood transfusion from a golden retriever. I swear Digby retrieved balls like never before after that!
Digby leaves behind crazy dog #2, Milly, and boy, is she going to miss (annoying) him. So will Scout, our family cat that Milly is always chasing but who Digby so loyally protected by straddling Milly and humping her until Scout got away safely. A cunning manoeuvre. I blame the Australian in him.
RIP Digby Dog xxx
Sunday, June 21, 2009
After the wax.
Nancy had finished her thing, my thing was still throbbing (and bleeding in parts I swear) and then Rina came in the room to do her thing.
My tinting.
Eye brows & lashes that is, not anything Doris had been near.
“So Olivia, did you enjoy your wax?”
“Excuse me?”
“Was that good?”
WTF?
Who ENJOYS getting their va-jay-jay waxed?
My tinting.
Eye brows & lashes that is, not anything Doris had been near.
“So Olivia, did you enjoy your wax?”
“Excuse me?”
“Was that good?”
WTF?
Who ENJOYS getting their va-jay-jay waxed?
Lost & Found.
The prefix to this entry is that 6 weeks ago I had a missed miscarriage at 9 weeks. It was a hugely traumatic time, including a d & c, and made worse by S being out of town while the diagnosis and subsequent operation happened. It was a much wanted pregnancy and we’d been hoping to give R a sibling for a very long time. Hopefully it is the saddest thing I ever have to go through.
But amongst the sadness there has been some very funny moments.
I found out on the Thursday that the baby had died but couldn’t get the operation to remove it until the following Wednesday in the public health system. Wednesday! Unnecessary cruelness as far as I was concerned. Not surprisingly I opted to have it done privately and began the process of making this happen. Unfortunately my specialist was away at a conference, as was his colleague, so my midwife called to tell me she had one further doctor in mind but she was off to a birth and couldn’t let me know if he could do it until the following morning.
What followed was an extremely stressful night, alone at home without S and on orders that if I started to bleed heavily I needed to get myself to the emergency department immediately. What does ‘bleed heavily’ actually mean FFS?
Anyway the next morning I received a call from a foreign sounding man who claimed to be “Dr. Saddam Hussein” (note, not his real name but you get the idea) and if I wanted he could do the operation. He just needed to “find” an operating theatre and an anaesthetist! WTF? Find them. Umm. Where exactly? It sounded like he was going to finish his shift driving the taxi, round up his mates from the kebab shop and get jiggy with it in my uterus.
As it turned out Dr Hussein was the loveliest man, who is almost as much a Kiwi as I am, and I couldn’t have wished for a more kind and considerate doctor. In fact, we loved him so much that we have signed him up as our preferred obstetrician for the next time we get pregnant.
During a very stressful and sad time, Dr. Hussein and his mates provided some good relief. Especially when I arrived at the hospital and an olive skinned man was outside in a skivvy and polyester tracksuit, with black business shoes and a cell phone, carrying a briefcase!
I still don’t know who that guy was but someone needs to help him get dressed each morning.
Today was another funny moment post miscarriage. After yesterday’s mammoth effort tending to weeds I thought it was time I dealt with the bikini line. It is after all another of those things I tend to suck at (refer entry number 1 for more info).
I hate it. I just can’t get over the fact that someone has their head this close (holds up thumb and index finger 1cm apart) from my va-jay-jay and start breaking out in a sweat. Not to mention that it hurts like hell.
So at 9am this morning I rocked up to the beautician’s to get it dealt with. Early for a Sunday morning I know but 9am was deliberately chosen so I was at my “freshest”. Fresh or not, imagine actually choosing to look at that. And on God’s day too.
So Nancy (why Asian people choose English names that no English person would willingly choose is beyond me) started her business and then said to me “had you recently had babies”?
I still can’t work out what exactly she could she see of my va-jay- jay that I can’t, that led her to say this.
“Umm, no”.
Awkward silence. (Except for the screams that I let out every 10 seconds she pulled the fucking wax).
“But, I recently lost a baby”.
Silence. You could almost hear Nancy’s brain working trying to translate what I had said.
“You lost your baby?”
More silence.
“Where?”
Awkward silence.
“Keep looking Nancy and you might just find it”.
But amongst the sadness there has been some very funny moments.
I found out on the Thursday that the baby had died but couldn’t get the operation to remove it until the following Wednesday in the public health system. Wednesday! Unnecessary cruelness as far as I was concerned. Not surprisingly I opted to have it done privately and began the process of making this happen. Unfortunately my specialist was away at a conference, as was his colleague, so my midwife called to tell me she had one further doctor in mind but she was off to a birth and couldn’t let me know if he could do it until the following morning.
What followed was an extremely stressful night, alone at home without S and on orders that if I started to bleed heavily I needed to get myself to the emergency department immediately. What does ‘bleed heavily’ actually mean FFS?
Anyway the next morning I received a call from a foreign sounding man who claimed to be “Dr. Saddam Hussein” (note, not his real name but you get the idea) and if I wanted he could do the operation. He just needed to “find” an operating theatre and an anaesthetist! WTF? Find them. Umm. Where exactly? It sounded like he was going to finish his shift driving the taxi, round up his mates from the kebab shop and get jiggy with it in my uterus.
As it turned out Dr Hussein was the loveliest man, who is almost as much a Kiwi as I am, and I couldn’t have wished for a more kind and considerate doctor. In fact, we loved him so much that we have signed him up as our preferred obstetrician for the next time we get pregnant.
During a very stressful and sad time, Dr. Hussein and his mates provided some good relief. Especially when I arrived at the hospital and an olive skinned man was outside in a skivvy and polyester tracksuit, with black business shoes and a cell phone, carrying a briefcase!
I still don’t know who that guy was but someone needs to help him get dressed each morning.
Today was another funny moment post miscarriage. After yesterday’s mammoth effort tending to weeds I thought it was time I dealt with the bikini line. It is after all another of those things I tend to suck at (refer entry number 1 for more info).
I hate it. I just can’t get over the fact that someone has their head this close (holds up thumb and index finger 1cm apart) from my va-jay-jay and start breaking out in a sweat. Not to mention that it hurts like hell.
So at 9am this morning I rocked up to the beautician’s to get it dealt with. Early for a Sunday morning I know but 9am was deliberately chosen so I was at my “freshest”. Fresh or not, imagine actually choosing to look at that. And on God’s day too.
So Nancy (why Asian people choose English names that no English person would willingly choose is beyond me) started her business and then said to me “had you recently had babies”?
I still can’t work out what exactly she could she see of my va-jay- jay that I can’t, that led her to say this.
“Umm, no”.
Awkward silence. (Except for the screams that I let out every 10 seconds she pulled the fucking wax).
“But, I recently lost a baby”.
Silence. You could almost hear Nancy’s brain working trying to translate what I had said.
“You lost your baby?”
More silence.
“Where?”
Awkward silence.
“Keep looking Nancy and you might just find it”.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Progress.
A gorgeous winter day. It seems I might not suck at weeding the garden after all.
And I still shouldn't be a hooker.
And I still shouldn't be a hooker.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Starting out.
So, here I am. Unemployed, overweight and sad, possibly even depressed (because isn’t depression the new black?), and starting a blog. I’m not really sure what it’s about but given I am so full of joy and positivity (or is that sarcasm) I’m sure people will want to read it. Or not. But who cares, it’s something to do and it might keep me away from daytime TV and it might just help me work out what I really want to do with my life. Or it might confirm how crazy I actually am and end up in some sort of intervention.
So, who am I and how did I get to this place?
Only a year or so ago I was at the top of my game, award winning even. It was marketing I played and I loved it. Anyway there were some changes at the place of play and I left to take some time out for a while. I didn’t pick the market to turn to shit and for me to still be at home 10 months later, hating every second of it but I simply thought I’d have a few months off to enjoy the summer and pick and choose what I did next. Oops, got that a bit wrong.
I live in a cold house. So cold sometimes it’s warmer to sit outside with a beanie and coat on and chase the sun around the back lawn. I think being cold is one of the worst things you can experience. That and being so fat your jeans curl down over your stomach.
I think from now on I might call the house ‘the fridge’. That’s how cold it is.
You would have thought I could have used the time at home to get fit and lose some weight. I did for a while but that got too boring and so I got fat again. I’ve been fat for most of my life so maybe fat is what I want to be or else I would do something about it. That’s what my therapist would say anyway. Not that I have a therapist anymore – last year she said I wasn’t crazy enough to need her anymore. Hah! If she could see me now...
I live with my 9 year old son (R) and my boyfriend (S). I guess I should say partner because that’s what grown-ups who live together are, right? But I think it sounds stupid or gay even. Not that I have a problem with gays - although I would if S was a secret one – but he’s my boyfriend until he becomes my husband, which he might one day. R lives with us half the time and half with his dad, his dad’s partner (she can be a partner, that’s different) and her son who lives there half the time too. We’re complicated but we all like each other – Dr Phil would be proud.
We also have two dogs that drive me fucking insane. Actually I was probably insane long before the dogs came along but they certainly don’t help me on the sanity front. One is really old, smells a lot (I think his stomach is rotting) and is now deaf and half blind. To prove just how crazy I am, it was my idea to get the second dog. That’s when I thought puppies were cute. But there’s nothing cute about finding a dog turd beside your bed when you finally pull yourself out of it. Mind you, when you live in a fridge, sometimes it is nice for your feet to be warm.
I’ve not been shopping for 9 months. 9 months I tell you! I used to think nothing of dropping 5 or 6 hundred dollars on a piece of clothing. Looking for happiness in the bottom of a shopping bag and all that. It didn’t work, I just ended up with a huge credit card bill, huge tax bill because I spent what I should be saving for tax, and a huge belly from all the coffee and cake that was needed to refuel me on my splurges and also just cake that I ate because I wanted/needed/craved it. Sometimes I even bought things without trying them on, just because I wanted to experience the pleasure of buying that particular thing. I have a lot of those things hanging in my wardrobe, still with tags on, waiting for me to fit them. They could be waiting for some time. There’s no pleasure in that.
Today I ate 4 mint-slice biscuits for breakfast. Then I put my jeans on and my thighs felt like sausages bursting from their cases. Do you think there is a correlation?
So, here I am unemployed, overweight and sad, and although I’m not smart like brainy, I have a lot of common sense (most of the time, lets ignore the credit cards and tax bills for now) and can see through bullshit. So, not really intellectually smart but smart enough to have been to university and got a couple of degrees. (Although sometimes I dream that I haven’t really got them and wake up and think I am going to be found out any day now that I have been faking it for all these years). Smart but unemployed – there’s a recession going on and I chose that time to ‘take a break’? Not the smartest thing to do. Still, there are lots of people around who have jobs who are even less smart than me, stupid even and that annoys the shit out of me, especially when all they seem good at is talking themselves up and believing in themselves. That’s what I suck at. That and keeping my bikini area waxed but that’s probably TMI.
Right, so I need to get better at believing in myself apparently and if I do that then things will start happening for me. Putting it out there and all that stuff from the secret (which by the way, seems like the worst kept secret in the world to me). I’m really lucky that my boyfriend S is a secret kind of guy. He’s super positive and uber-happy and I need him and his happiness around me or else I would be completely loopy. As opposed to just a wee bit like I am now.
I just looked at my hands typing this and they are blue. That’s how cold the fridge is.
So, back to believing in myself. These are the things I think I am good at
• Eating
• Listening to my friends problems
• Buying presents
• Decorating or knowing what looks good in a house
• Cooking
• Being a mum - mostly I think R would agree except for when I am ‘the meanest mother in the world’ but that’s not too often, especially now I don’t work.
And these are the things I think I really suck at:
• Dieting
• Keeping the house clean & tidy
• Sex – terribly self conscious all the weigh (oops, spelt that wrong, shows you how much I think I about being fat) way through it so just want it over and done with
• Managing money
• Walking the dogs
• Weeding the garden
• Keeping in touch with old friends and family
I need to find something to do that will earn me money and that I am good at. Based on the list above I don’t think I should become a hooker.
Hmm. I also think I am really good at coming up with new ideas. Although, I am struggling to come up with what I can do so maybe I’m not so flash at that after all. Anyway I need to work it out quickly because I’m broke. Really broke. So broke in fact that I shouldn’t ever buy coffee again and certainly shouldn’t buy both coffee and sushi for lunch like I did today. It’s just that it’s cold and the coffee cup warmed my hands up.
Maybe I shouldn’t be working at all and should use this time to try and address my craziness issue. But am I REALLY crazy? Many of you reading this (assuming there’s more of you than just my boyfriend and my sister) probably think that I am but aren’t I just doing what most of you don’t do, that is, say or in this case, write, what I am thinking? Come on, are you telling me you’ve never had the urge to stab a colleague in a meeting with a pen? Or when you are at a work morning tea shout, never wanted to pick the cake knife up and throw it straight in the chest of the pain in the arse office administrator? It's not just me, I know of at least one other person who has. She’s my BFF (J) and she’s not mad. Much.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I am crazy or not, I’m going to keep writing. I’m not sure what the purpose of this is or if it helps me in my “I’m not mad” case but it’s been fun and I didn’t even yell at the dogs once during writing it.
So, what do you think? Maybe not funny, but not crazy either, right?
So, who am I and how did I get to this place?
Only a year or so ago I was at the top of my game, award winning even. It was marketing I played and I loved it. Anyway there were some changes at the place of play and I left to take some time out for a while. I didn’t pick the market to turn to shit and for me to still be at home 10 months later, hating every second of it but I simply thought I’d have a few months off to enjoy the summer and pick and choose what I did next. Oops, got that a bit wrong.
I live in a cold house. So cold sometimes it’s warmer to sit outside with a beanie and coat on and chase the sun around the back lawn. I think being cold is one of the worst things you can experience. That and being so fat your jeans curl down over your stomach.
I think from now on I might call the house ‘the fridge’. That’s how cold it is.
You would have thought I could have used the time at home to get fit and lose some weight. I did for a while but that got too boring and so I got fat again. I’ve been fat for most of my life so maybe fat is what I want to be or else I would do something about it. That’s what my therapist would say anyway. Not that I have a therapist anymore – last year she said I wasn’t crazy enough to need her anymore. Hah! If she could see me now...
I live with my 9 year old son (R) and my boyfriend (S). I guess I should say partner because that’s what grown-ups who live together are, right? But I think it sounds stupid or gay even. Not that I have a problem with gays - although I would if S was a secret one – but he’s my boyfriend until he becomes my husband, which he might one day. R lives with us half the time and half with his dad, his dad’s partner (she can be a partner, that’s different) and her son who lives there half the time too. We’re complicated but we all like each other – Dr Phil would be proud.
We also have two dogs that drive me fucking insane. Actually I was probably insane long before the dogs came along but they certainly don’t help me on the sanity front. One is really old, smells a lot (I think his stomach is rotting) and is now deaf and half blind. To prove just how crazy I am, it was my idea to get the second dog. That’s when I thought puppies were cute. But there’s nothing cute about finding a dog turd beside your bed when you finally pull yourself out of it. Mind you, when you live in a fridge, sometimes it is nice for your feet to be warm.
I’ve not been shopping for 9 months. 9 months I tell you! I used to think nothing of dropping 5 or 6 hundred dollars on a piece of clothing. Looking for happiness in the bottom of a shopping bag and all that. It didn’t work, I just ended up with a huge credit card bill, huge tax bill because I spent what I should be saving for tax, and a huge belly from all the coffee and cake that was needed to refuel me on my splurges and also just cake that I ate because I wanted/needed/craved it. Sometimes I even bought things without trying them on, just because I wanted to experience the pleasure of buying that particular thing. I have a lot of those things hanging in my wardrobe, still with tags on, waiting for me to fit them. They could be waiting for some time. There’s no pleasure in that.
Today I ate 4 mint-slice biscuits for breakfast. Then I put my jeans on and my thighs felt like sausages bursting from their cases. Do you think there is a correlation?
So, here I am unemployed, overweight and sad, and although I’m not smart like brainy, I have a lot of common sense (most of the time, lets ignore the credit cards and tax bills for now) and can see through bullshit. So, not really intellectually smart but smart enough to have been to university and got a couple of degrees. (Although sometimes I dream that I haven’t really got them and wake up and think I am going to be found out any day now that I have been faking it for all these years). Smart but unemployed – there’s a recession going on and I chose that time to ‘take a break’? Not the smartest thing to do. Still, there are lots of people around who have jobs who are even less smart than me, stupid even and that annoys the shit out of me, especially when all they seem good at is talking themselves up and believing in themselves. That’s what I suck at. That and keeping my bikini area waxed but that’s probably TMI.
Right, so I need to get better at believing in myself apparently and if I do that then things will start happening for me. Putting it out there and all that stuff from the secret (which by the way, seems like the worst kept secret in the world to me). I’m really lucky that my boyfriend S is a secret kind of guy. He’s super positive and uber-happy and I need him and his happiness around me or else I would be completely loopy. As opposed to just a wee bit like I am now.
I just looked at my hands typing this and they are blue. That’s how cold the fridge is.
So, back to believing in myself. These are the things I think I am good at
• Eating
• Listening to my friends problems
• Buying presents
• Decorating or knowing what looks good in a house
• Cooking
• Being a mum - mostly I think R would agree except for when I am ‘the meanest mother in the world’ but that’s not too often, especially now I don’t work.
And these are the things I think I really suck at:
• Dieting
• Keeping the house clean & tidy
• Sex – terribly self conscious all the weigh (oops, spelt that wrong, shows you how much I think I about being fat) way through it so just want it over and done with
• Managing money
• Walking the dogs
• Weeding the garden
• Keeping in touch with old friends and family
I need to find something to do that will earn me money and that I am good at. Based on the list above I don’t think I should become a hooker.
Hmm. I also think I am really good at coming up with new ideas. Although, I am struggling to come up with what I can do so maybe I’m not so flash at that after all. Anyway I need to work it out quickly because I’m broke. Really broke. So broke in fact that I shouldn’t ever buy coffee again and certainly shouldn’t buy both coffee and sushi for lunch like I did today. It’s just that it’s cold and the coffee cup warmed my hands up.
Maybe I shouldn’t be working at all and should use this time to try and address my craziness issue. But am I REALLY crazy? Many of you reading this (assuming there’s more of you than just my boyfriend and my sister) probably think that I am but aren’t I just doing what most of you don’t do, that is, say or in this case, write, what I am thinking? Come on, are you telling me you’ve never had the urge to stab a colleague in a meeting with a pen? Or when you are at a work morning tea shout, never wanted to pick the cake knife up and throw it straight in the chest of the pain in the arse office administrator? It's not just me, I know of at least one other person who has. She’s my BFF (J) and she’s not mad. Much.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I am crazy or not, I’m going to keep writing. I’m not sure what the purpose of this is or if it helps me in my “I’m not mad” case but it’s been fun and I didn’t even yell at the dogs once during writing it.
So, what do you think? Maybe not funny, but not crazy either, right?
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