Grumpy Young Lady

Hardly Normal

Published on July 17, 2010 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 13 Comments

A while ago I had a whinge when I went to Harvey Norman (an Australian furniture/electrical retailer) to buy some ink cartridges. If you recall I was pissy because they charged 10 cents extra for a double ‘value pack’.

Today I returned there for yet more ink. I saw that I could buy my one blue ink for $17:95. Hmm, not bad. Then I wondered, ‘The others are BOUND to run out soon, do I buy more?’

Perchance what did I spy next? A value pack containing all required colours for $99. As per usual I had to do some laborious mental calculations to figure out that why, yes, that was a saving. Point number one to retail superstore. I was walking away from the wall of ink when I thought ‘Wait, let me just check if these inks do the same amount of pages.’ Meh. Maybe 50 less. Still a goer.

By this stage the cute foreign (Spanish perhaps?) salesdude came over and asked if I needed help. Before I could even open my mouth he told me he could do me a good deal. Dude – huh? It was pretty clear I was already buying the stuff. Are you new at this? Then he proceeded to show me that I could in fact get the same value pack PLUS 120 pages of photo paper. For the same price.

Wait, no – NOT even the same price, because he took $10 off before I could blink. No mouth-opening or eye-blinking was to be taking place in front of this gentleman obviously.

I thanked him and walked away quickly and bemusedly. Was that another point for Harvey Norman, or minus 2 for having lovely but soft-nosed salespeople?

Sometimes I Just Wanna Tell You Stuff

Published on July 15, 2010 in Beloved, Books n Stuff, Pop Culture and Teaching. 10 Comments

It isn’t all literary sophistication around here you know. Well. Actually if you are a long-time reader/friend you probably definitely already know that, having been subjected to posts about pubic hair, haemorrhoids, and me dropping and dragging in Year 9 English classes.

That disclaimer out of the way, I just wanted to let you know how much I love Freaks and Geeks. How the doodlewhacker did I miss this show? I mean, I had heard about it vaguely around the traps and I knew that it was set in a school but that was it.

Love, love, love it. So poignant, funny, heart-breaking, cringe-inducing and lovely.

I am yet to procure the last 2 episodes but I will get my dirty hands on them, don’t you worry.

When I cornered Beloved into watching an episode or two he was all ‘Isn’t that chick from Juno?’ I thought that too, except that, was Ellen Page even born when it was made? Okay, so she probably was but she would have been, what? 5. Okay, I exaggerate. She was 12.

Watching this show I realised which role Linda Cardinelli was made for. If she wanted to be in films that have turned into the biggest pile of poo. Bella a la Twilight franchise. Tell me I am wrong. And yes, she is too old so that cannot be part of your argument. This is my fantasy re-casting, okay?

Have a nice day!

Sisters – A Memory to Keep

Published on July 11, 2010 in Babies, Nostalgia and Queen Me. 28 Comments

In the big wooden bed they lie, curled like a closing quotation mark. The room is mauve and lilac. Pushing past the tropical foliage the light through the window is insistent.

One of them makes an unladylike noise and the other rolls over, eyebrows raised. The offender opens an eye and giggles. They both do.

They could be 10 and 11. The quiet, the comfort, the naughtiness, the illicit mirth induced snorts feel like it, but they aren’t. At 31 and 32 they have just eaten steak sandwiches on the front lawn, on plastic backed blankets; champagne bubbles tasting of a Karratha Winter (which is anyone’s Summer) tickling their nostalgia and beckoning for nap-time.

Thousands of miles away from the memory’s home, the Little One asks the Big One if she remembers them sharing the bed that came to stay just before Gran from England did. The Big One doesn’t at all and the Little One reminds her what a terrible memory she has. The Big One is always indignant. She has a very good memory thank you very much. It is funny how shared histories merge and diverge.

They say that if they were their mother, at the age they are now, they would have a Big One of 6 and Little One of 5. They can’t imagine how she survived it, no matter how long-haired, blonde and sunny, brunette and shy, yet altogether endearing they were.

Without wanting to wish away their younger selves or their future babies, they marvel at, and are grateful for the years they have had with each other, alone. The Big One wonders if, however, they are being punished for waiting; the time, the money, the career. Is this why it is taking so long for their own families to arrive?

But whatever happens, the Big One loves the Little One and the Little One loves the Big One and they cherish their time, just as sisters, visiting in this red-earthed town.

On a Cheery Note, I’m off to Karratha!

Published on July 6, 2010 in Babies, Beloved, Married Life, Nostalgia and Queen Me. 9 Comments

There is nothing like an impending flight to make you assess your life up until said trip in a flimsy metal contraption that is very, very high up in the sky.

It is not that I am scared of flying. It is more a fear of death/not being around. I am so freaking nosey – all the things I will miss out on if I am not here! Of course I would want my husband to move on. But not too soon. And she will not allowed to be hotter or smarter than me.

But as I mentioned above it causes me to look back on my 32 years. I have and have had a really nice life. My family is generally whole, my childhood was sunlight and dust mote filled, my love life wasn’t rent with any particular betrayals or scandals, I went to university, I traveled Europe after my beautiful wedding, my friends give me joy and fulfilment. I have written a book, that if anyone so desired, only (hopefully) needs a bit of tweaking before possible publication, if not for the fact it is any good, but for nostalgia’s sake.

If it was my turn to go, the only thing I would be sad about would be not having insects with my Beloved husband.

I don’t think that being in a plane crash would be an ideal way to meet my maker, but shit it’d be a story told in the family for generations. I have also heard that if compensation is sought by the relatives, they often get quite a lot because of the psychological trauma the deceased would have suffered knowing they were going down. That might just be in America though.

Anyway. If I am meant to go ‘young’ , if it is not in a blaze of glory, this way it will at least be in a blaze of some sort.

Grumpy Young Pussy; ‘Received’ Loud and Clear

Published on July 1, 2010 in Beloved, Cranky/Dopey Bitch and Queen Me. 23 Comments

‘Why do you want those mean fuckers to give you a review?’ Beloved asked.

‘I dunno, feedback?’ I replied feebly. ‘And I have to practise getting slammed if I want to be a writer.’

But of course it was more than feedback. I wanted validation, acceptance and a little more traffic. I knew that when the review happened I would probably cry like I was at my first day of primary school, not knowing where to put the tissue box we had to bring – scared, confused and out of my comfort zone.

I imagined that I would be told that my template is a terrible colour (regardless that I love it), I am shallow, anal-retentive, flippant, insecure, arrogant and take my husband and nice lifestyle for granted, have whiny-ass body issues and have no idea what the ‘real’ world is like. Well…at least that is what I think on a down day.

However, there was one thing that I wouldn’t be able to abide. MoFoKA, who reminded me of the delicious, nasty, hilarious, train-wreck viewing website back in January, and I were discussing when my review might happen after 5 months of waiting, and what the harsh, cold light of reality would have to say about Grumpy.

‘I don’t care what they say,’ I said with more than a quiver in my soul ‘just as long as they don’t tell me I can’t write. I would die if they said that.’

Did they say that? Opening my comment box at 5am, to find that curt message awaiting me – my breath caught and my legs jolted with adrenaline. Were all my dreams still intact?

Go and have a look for yourself.

The Pits

Published on June 30, 2010 in Over-sharers Anonymous, Queen Me and Teaching. 14 Comments

Do you know how hard it is to write on a whiteboard when you don’t want to lift your arms above chest height? As a teacher it is an integral part of my day.

It has been 7 years since I have been free of a problem that has plagued me my whole ‘adult’ (hormone-wise) life. It is not a huge deal in the whole scheme of horrible-things-that-happen, but it impinged on every aspect of my life, making me feel self-conscious, all day, every day.

I am a sweater. I don’t mean that I am a jumper, pull-over or jersey. And like an alcoholic, just because I am not doing it, it doesn’t mean I am not one.

Back in the day I could sweat through a t-shirt, woollen jumper AND a denim jacket. I wasn’t hot (obviously considering the layers of clothes) and I wasn’t particularly nervous. But either way I had got myself into some sort of psychosomatic loop that would cause copious moisture in the armpit region. To put it bluntly, it was retarded. If I was home alone, I could wear a skin tight shirt and not sweat a drop but once I was out of that house it was on.

It affected the clothes I bought, they way I moved, and of course the way I smelled.

I went to the doctor. Botox was suggested. But on a starting teacher’s wage it wasn’t doable. Although now, with the possibilities of what I could do with the left-overs, it would be great! They also told me I could get the nerve clipped. Also not appealing.

And then Driclor became my friend. It is a special $20 ‘deoderant’ that you apply last thing at night when you are least active (NOT, I repeat, not after a hot shower) for three nights in a row. Until you wash it off the next morning, it will be burny and itchy and make your legs twitch uncontrollably at times but you will not sweat a drop for at least 2 weeks. However for me, the resulting blocked ducts were incredibly painful and made shaving difficult. The freedom of dry underarms was short lived as I couldn’t handle the pain.

Luckily I am nothing but tenacious and tried it again a couple of months later, and this time Driclor and I have been getting along famously for the last 6 or so years. I can apply it for one night in every 4-6 weeks, no sweat, and minimal duct blockage. I would say the only issue is that if I do feel the need for the psychosomatic sweat, it appears on my upper lip or lower back. Not often though.

People ask me if I am worried about any possible side effects, such as cancer and I say no. The freedom that this product has afforded me, in terms of giving me my confidence back has been invaluable. It may sound melodramatic but sweating ruled my life.

Now I can write at the top of the whiteboard, point at things, leisurely rock back in a chair with my arms behind my head in a repose of comfort and ease, I can wear tops that gently hug my pits and if I am feeling really non-OCD I can wear the same shirt – TWICE, in a ROW!

The only sweating I do now is the hard earned kind.

The Scent of Adhesive on a Dressing….

Published on June 27, 2010 in Beloved, Nostalgia and Queen Me. 12 Comments

….for Beloved’s hernia surgery wound took me straight back to being no more than 4 years old, wearing an eye-patch for a lazy eye. However, the patch and glasses weren’t working so surgery it was. I imagine I was about 6 years old but I remember it like it was yesterday.

My parents dropped me off the night before the operation, staying quite late. I know they were far more worried about it than I was. And now that I am the age my mum was when it happened, albeit childless, I feel the fear too. I remember exactly where the bed was, I remember lying there in the gloom of the evening, after they had left, playing with the gift they gave me – a plastic tablet that you drew on and when you lifted the thin film of plastic the drawing would be erased. The plastic was pink and the drawings were neon orange. I drew my family, with the house and car and budgie called Drackie. I was comfortable and very much awake. The nurse had to come in and gently encourage me to go to sleep.

The next morning mum was back. I was given various medications to get me all doped up. Tablets? Nope, wide awake. Needle in the butt-cheek? Still perky. I got all the way into the operating theatre, mum by my side to the very last set of swinging doors. They laid me onto a padded rubber mat with 6 round indentation filled with a gooey gel. I am not sure how real or accurate that was, but it is what I recall. I was with them until I counted down from 10 with the big black mask over my face.

The anaesthetic didn’t agree with me when I woke up – I spent a lot of time throwing up into a kidney shaped dish. And the pain. You know how when you are getting the flu and it hurts to move your eyes? Times that by about 100. The only problem with that was that my parents had brought me another gift. A sparkly red tutu, that they had placed behind my bed. It doesn’t matter how sore a little girl’s eyes are, there is no force on earth that can stop her craning her head to get a peek at a tutu.

I am not sure how long I was in the hospital, but I had lots of visitors. When mum and dad came to pick me up, I was happily engaged in a burping competition with a boy in the bed diagonally opposite. I think his name was Daniel. Or Brad.

I don’t have many memories as clear as this one, except maybe my first day at school, or the time I had to have surgery on my other eye, perhaps not much than a year later.

And a Manky Crow has Tried to Pull the Rubber off my Left Windscreen Wiper

Published on June 23, 2010 in Beloved and Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 4 Comments

I was in lengthy anger mode: stomach clenched, brow creased and eyes dead. The stormy afternoon weather matched my mood perfectly. I had expected him to be perhaps 5 minutes late at the most. Instead I had to do a couple of laps around the block and use my credit card to buy a parking ticket. An hour later I was still scrunched in my seat, windows misted, reading ‘On the Road’, hungry and tired; the ceaselessness of the story making me feel worse.

When he finally called to be picked up the face slid in place. He jumped in the car, tried to poke me in the side, apologised for being late; there was a ‘disaster’. I spat scant words at him and resumed the drive in silence. Along the rain and brake-light speckled road we drove.

On Albany highway canola yellow industrial piping snaked in the long grass took me back 7 years to heart-broken country drives, where I longed to stop and wander in those electric fields.

Pulling in to the driveway I had to bring forth a saying, other than ‘Disaster my fucking arse – how hard is it to pick up a phone? Pretend you need to wee or something and call from the dunny.’ I told myself, ‘Come now Grumpy – on your death bed, will you wish you were angry at him more?’

No, There Were No Anal Probes

Published on June 20, 2010 in Depression and Queen Me. 10 Comments

The house I found myself in was an amalgamation of the house I live in now, and the house I grew up in; the house my father built. Every light was on and the back door was wide open to the darker side of dusk. I walked out onto the dampening lawn and saw that two parallel gouges had been dug into the grass in a meandering pattern.

I walked back into the blazing light – I didn’t know who I was. I looked at myself and saw 2 razor thin cuts on each arm. They bled weakly, stinging against the whiteness of my skin.

Looking up from my damaged body I saw a lady – my mother! I knew who I was again! She was dressed head to toe like a cat burglar, her blonde hair in stark contrast to the black hooded jumper.

I flew into her arms, crying: ‘You weren’t lying! It happened to you too, didn’t it? You know it is true!” She said it was and patted my hair. She didn’t judge me, even though I – we - had been abducted by aliens.

Waking from this dream I felt unsettled. I mentioned it on facebook and people joked ‘Was it really a dream?’ When I showered that morning, I looked for a deeper meaning and I found the blueness that sometimes hovers around, dipping and teasing.

Perhaps I need to show more understanding to those who suffer – it doesn’t mean it isn’t real, just because I don’t feel what they feel.

Maybe one day it will come to get me, take me from my bed and do things I can’t imagine.

Wipe This!

Published on June 15, 2010 in Beloved, Cranky/Dopey Bitch, Fighting the Fat and Queen Me. 8 Comments

Do you know what gives me the shits?

Windscreen wipers.

I was getting all cocky cos here in Perth it is winter and Sunday was balmy 23 degrees Celsius. (So what is that in Farhenwhatsit, about 74?) That meant that Monday and today it pissed down with rain and was bloody cold, relatively speaking.

Added to that is Beloved had a hernia operation and cannot ride his motorbike. So at 5am I was driving him to work before my 6am personal training session. (Yeah, what a hard life you whinging Stepford Wife)

5am.

Driving.

Raining.

Dark.

Monday, did I mention the Monday bit?

And bugger me if I couldn’t get the windscreen wiper rhythm right. You know what I am talking about. Too slow and the rain builds up, too fast and the wipers start making that highly irritating ‘Screeee screee’ sound. So what level do I put my wipers on – 1, 2 or 3? No – none of them are right. Then I start fiddling with the length between each wipe on the chosen level. Of course once you have gotten yourself into a good wipin’ groove the bloody rain changes.

“Light drizzle - no wait, big fat slow drops - nah, PSYCH! back to drizzle, woah – now we are going under a big tree that just got a good gust of wind through it – ploppity, plop, plop, plop – weeee this is fun! ”

It never ends people! If I am up, driving, in the dark on a Monday at 5am, the rain could have the effing decency to be consistent.