Weighty Matters
I didn’t lose any weight last week, but as of yesterday (and today) I’m once more heading downward. I’m surprised and pleased that I didn’t totally crash last week, and I expect I’ll reap the benefits this week. Probably.
Today I weighed in at 81.3. Once I get below 80, I’ll take a “maintenance break” for a week or two before tackling the last few kilos into the healthy weight range. I’m confident I’ll make it.
In other news, I’m not pregnant. I need to keep mentioning that, since I look, act and feel pregnant (nauseous, moody, clucky and large of belly). But I do plan to have two kids in the next five-ten years – and that’s a relatively new thought for me.
Last week I read the Bible-sized “What to expect during the first year” from cover to cover (well, I skipped SOME of the disease chapters).
CJ and I plan (“plan” is a four-letter word, I know) to start the process of buying a house when our first child is a year old. We think, for us, that’s the perfect balance between “saving more money for a house deposit” and “biology/rent=waste/this is a small flat”. I read the book to get a better idea of what that first year of motherhood would look like, and how much punishment our rental flat would have to take.
At first the detailed descriptions of yucky baby skin conditions, icky and/or fatal baby sicknesses, and gut-wrenchingly horrible breast issues were slightly difficult to get through. (Although hypercolour poo sounds like a blast.)
Eventually, however, I grew immune. From that point on, reading the book was a lot like playing pretend. I now know roughly how big my kid will be at a certain number of months, and how much mayhem he/she will be causing.
In summary, it’ll be all about breastfeeding, sleeping/not sleeping and poo for about six months, then we’ll be working on solid food at about the time that we’re able to regularly sleep well (so that makes it one challenge at a time). Towards the end of the year there’ll be some ability to move around, but not much. So yes, we need to empty out the lower bookshelves – but putting an armchair in front of a power point will be safe enough.
I’m not well enough to work more than three hours a day (unless it’s writing work), but if I understand my psychological makeup, a baby won’t count as work in that sense. (I am able to do almost anything if I see it as meaningful – so I can’t stand even half an hour as a manipulative salesperson, I CAN do several hours of tutoring work, I can write for ten hours without a break, and I can handle 24-7 baby care about as well as anyone else.) But I have an advantage over most new mums, because I already know what it’s like to be literally driven mad.
So basically, I can’t wait to get started. But I will wait, because I’m going to try to get this one thing right, at least at the beginning 🙂 First of all, I’m going to get healthy and stay there before I start anything.
#131: Take a nap
Today my car is broken (despite having a major service under two weeks ago), and needs a new part.
Today I went to the shops (because we were utterly out of bread) for a “few things” and ended up spending $100. (I looked at the receipt to figure out what happened, and realised that most of it was accounted for by kitty litter, toilet paper, and sanitary pads. So we pretty much just need to cease bodily functions. Stupid bodily functions.) I also forgot to buy bread.
I need to edit three novels, write a twitter tale, and wade through a very unappealing book (“Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern” by Anne McCaffery, who can write well but didn’t).
So I lay down on the couch, pulled my patchwork doona over me, and fell asleep. It was divine.
Play along at home: When’s the last time you had an afternoon nap? Find a sunny spot and enjoy doing nothing (whether you sleep or not). Bonus points if you:
1) Have a patchwork quilt, or an especially soft blanket.
2) Have an assignment due tomorrow/yesterday.
3) Are within sight of a cat. Cats are the experts, after all.
Coming soon:
#124: Frolic in a fountain (thanks to http://the-creamy-middles.blogspot.com)
#56: Spread good news
#95: Secret # 4
S#63/6: Live Music at King O’Malley’s Irish Pub
#132: Try, try again (after an epic fail)
S#63/7: Cellist at ABC’s “Sunday Live”
NB: For newbies: The letter “S” before a number indicates it came from here:
Should
Astonishingly, I’ve done no “real” writing this week (lots of “research” which counts towards my quota, but is a bit dodgy eg. watching “Top Gear” to learn about cars). I suspect the last time this happened for a whole week was 2004.
Still not actually writing right now. . . blogging is different. (Gandalf is now eating normally, by the way.) To me, blogging isn’t “real” writing, because it’s too much fun and the standard is sooo much lower.
I read each blog entry about three times to make sure it makes sense and to check spelling. I read each word of every piece of “real” writing between seven and thirty times, and stop far more often to make many more changes (which I then read over up to five times before moving on).
Writing is a dumb job! Why am I doing this?
I think I just reached enlightenment.
And. . . time to go do some real writing, I think.
s#63/5: Duntroon Military Band
After three seconds, I understood why parents buy violins, tubas and – yes, even drums – for their children. This was an awesomeness activity that literally had all the bells and whistles.
During one piece a grey-haired man from among the nine percussionists played both a gong (one of two) and a bicycle bell. (It was later mentioned that he is one of about ten conductors that have led this marvellous orchestra since 1910.) That piece was called “Circus Ring” and it was aptly named. There were some very silly whistles involved.
As a military band, the players wore uniforms of crisp red and black, and the brass section gleamed like gold. They were also one hundred percent professional, with the kind of unison the aforementioned parents will never hear again. It was glorious! And so LOUD! I barely noticed the grand piano tucked away in a corner, but I certainly took notice of the drums and brass when they spoke.
Another piece was called “Lonely Beach” which was about an American soldier dying alone while surrounded by other soldiers during the attack on Omaha Beach. When the music began, I enjoyed the sound of crashing waves but was slightly disappointed that the band was using a CD instead of just their own music. Except they weren’t. The ocean sound was made by the trumpets (no, I don’t know how). The music interweaved tragedy (a single oboe playing its own melody) and military might. At the crescendo, two more large drums joined with the largest in pounding the beach with shells – from all around (the extra two were placed in the wings), and definitely NOT in 4/4 time.
Play along at home: Go see a band. Any band. Or dust off the flute you’ve got stashed in the basement and spend just half an hour remembering what it was like to make music. Or wait until your housemates are elsewhere and play the saucepans with a wooden spoon – why not?
s#63/4: The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
Who needs hallucinogens when you have this film?
This was quite a strange film. I saw it with two friends, and between the three of us we figured out MOST of the plot. Wikipedia filled in the rest (and kudos to whoever wrote that. . . presumably someone who asked the writers a whole lot of detailed questions).
For the first third of the film I was enthralled. For the second third I was becoming impatient with having too many mysteries going on. In the last third, I was lost – but still enjoying the stunning visuals, costumes and sets.
Doctor Parnassus, his best friend Percy, his daughter Valentina, and Nice Young Man Anton travel together in a wonderfully shabby and elaborate caravan/stage, tempting passers-by to venture into the world of the imagination through the mirror. The tiny down side is that all who venture inside are given choices. The right choice leads to joyful illumination (that’s not the down side). But if you make the wrong choice, you get blown up (seriously). Fundamentally, if you are imaginative you are good and if you make ordinary choices, you belong to the devil (take that, public service). The devil is played by Tom Waits (and usually called “Mr Nick). It’s worth knowing that he doesn’t lie, and is faithful to his wagers. (That helps with understanding the plot.)
The basic plot is that Doctor Parnassus has a gambling problem – he and the devil have made numerous wagers in his thousands of years of life, and because of a previous deal the devil gets to keep Valentina (his daughter) from the day she turns sixteen. This devil also has a gambling problem, however, and bets Doctor Parnassus that audience members travelling through the mirror will belong to him (rather than the doctor). First to five souls wins Valentina (who of course doesn’t know any of this). Which means the show needs to get audience members. . . something they seriously lack.
The plot is complicated by the addiction of Heath Ledger’s character, Tony, who may or may not be evil (but is a GREAT hustler), and (like Anton) falls for Valentina (who, having saved his life, falls for him too).
That’s all you need to know, and it’s plenty more than I knew.
The film is M (I think), and I do want to see it again (if only for the pleasure of understanding roughly what’s happening this time). If it wasn’t for “Avatar”, this film would definitely have won best art direction/visuals. There were a couple of moments of very poor acting, but otherwise the acting was great.
Bizarrely, none of the film’s weirdness was due to Heath Ledger’s sudden death. It was honestly written that way from the start (including the obsession with death). The methods used to deal with his death actually (arguably) add to the film. The actors who stand in for him are all friends of his.
Gandalf ate something!
Thirty seconds ago, Gandalf managed to eat a food pellet. . . his first this week.
(Jesus roasting breakfast by the lakeside, anyone?)
Pretty sure this makes Gandalf the most Messianic fish ever.
I also now think he will actually recover. Which is great, because he’s an unusually good-natured fish. And yes, I know that’s an odd thing to say. It’s still true.
Thus far, the new fish plant is not dead. It’s possible my water is no longer poisonous to life.
The “Farting my ABCs” publisher has not responded. It’s like I’m psychic. Here are some translations of publisher speak (for educational reasons):
Publisher talk: “I’ll get right back to you on that.”
Translation: “Call me again in three months.”
Publisher talk: “We’re very excited about your manuscript.”
Translation: “Since you ruined our expectations by using correct spelling, we will punish you by waiting another six months to reject you.”
Publisher talk: “I know this must be difficult for you.”
Translation: “Get used to it.”
This is a picture of “Stormhunter” which has been at a publisher (a different one; they all mean so well and all fail so badly) for eleven months and seventeen days.
C’mon, make a new record! You’re so close! (The current record is eleven months and twenty-nine days, at the “Farting my ABCs” possible-publisher, but it was divided into two visits whereas “Stormhunter” was sent in full from the beginning.)
Gandalf isn’t really dead after all!
Who saw THAT plot twist coming?
It’s faintly, faintly possible that Gandalf will survive. He’s still alive now, but hasn’t eaten since Sunday. Each day I put food in, wait a bit, and then take it out again.
But just now something amazing happened – he attempted to eat. The food fell straight back out of his mouth (twice, because I tried twice), but he TRIED.
He is a very, very sick fish, but if he starts eating again he may actually recover.
I oh-so-cunningly broke the main tank (Gandalf is now in a cleaned rice canister) while cleaning it, and I had a look online today and discovered it can’t be fixed (there’s a high likelihood of a sudden tank explosion due to water pressure). This is the second tank I’ve destroyed in a month (the first one was my parents’ old one, after I put it briefly and carefully on the hood of the car while I got the mail. It fell).
This morning I thought about giving up, but then committed myself to a new lot of fish by going and buying a new tank. And a plant. If the plant lives through the next week, I’ll get more neon tetras (while leaving Gandalf in his canister until he either dies or fully recovers). Plus the girl I talked to at the Belconnen Markets pet shop said that if I bring in a water sample, they can tell me if anything is wrong with it.
No more danios for me, though. They’re just bullies. Also, it’s possible they were sick before I bought them (fish will bite a sick fish, and they were biting one another from day one).
My own health is starting to improve, right on schedule. I foolishly weighed myself each day, and didn’t get good results at all, but I assume that’s because my body is just screwed up by the medication, and it’ll start behaving properly in the next few days.
S#63/3: The Front Cafe Gallery (and twitter)
For today’s “new thing” I visited the Front Cafe Gallery in North Lyneham (Canberra, Australia), which I’d walked past but never visited. I’d read online that a photographer named Beth Jennings was exhibiting this week (until 27 April, in fact), and I walked in with a little trepidation but an open mind.
Beth Jennings is an extraordinary artist. The gallery itself is a single (not very big) room adjoining the cafe, and I was alone. There were perhaps ten pictures hung on the walls, and each one mattered. I took away more from those ten pictures than I usually take away from a full-size gallery. One made me laugh, another almost made me cry, and the rest were fascinating. My overwhelming sense was of a very human warmth behind each perfectly observed picture.
The pictures were taken on a road, from a camel’s back, and through the window of a locked house. One photo was of footsteps in the desert the author stumbled across on holiday, another was of graffiti on a wall, and a third captured a woman dancing to the pulse of pizza-shop neon lights. I suspect that if I ever met Beth Jennings, I would like her very much.
Her web site is www.bethjennings.com.au
————————————————–
“BRIDEZILLA” tale so far:
1.
It’s pay day, so I buy pillows. Luckily my wedding dress makes a good maternity dress. I hope this plan works. Tomorrow, here I come.
2.
I dress as a VERY expectant bride and go to the bakery store. As I order a huge pile of hot cross buns, I put one hand to my giant stomach.
*
“Oh you poor dear!” says the matronly type I’ve been observing for days. “Don’t bother paying for those buns.”
*
She winks, “And may I STRONGLY recommend entering our restaurant-dinner-for-two competition?”
I obey her while silently applauding my act.
3.
Today I’m a goth bride with heavy eye-makeup and blood-red feathers on my neckline. I mingle in the bar before Amanda Palmer’s concert.
*
Amanda comes out, hugs me, then takes in my full outfit. “Congrats,” she says – “And you’re NOT paying – or your fiancé, wherever he is.”
*
Being a goth bride rocks. It’s even better than yesterday’s pregnancy. I’ve never enjoyed a concert so much – or been given so much beer.
4.
I promised my daughter a huge pile of Easter eggs – but I also promised she could continue at her school. So I dress her as my flower girl.
*
Easter eggs: Check. Nausea: check. Chocolate smears on May’s face: check. Getting chocolate for a flower girl at Easter is almost too easy.
*
A shrill voice cuts through my pleasure – my ex-bridesmaid, Cherie. “Anna! Did Rob come back and marry you after all?”
“Uh. . . sure. Yep.”
5.
I’m embarrassed after lying to Cherie, so today I go for the dumped bride look. My mascara runs beautifully, and I get more hot cross buns.
*
As I’m lugging a garbage bag of buns to my car, one of the bakery girls comes and helps me. She says, “Wait a second, do I recognise you?”
*
I shake my head, but she says, “Yes! I saw you dumped on YouTube. . . but that was a month ago. What the. . .?”
I flee.
6.
Today I dress as a mum. An emotionally and financially stable mum. I try to arrange my stockings so the holes are hidden inside my shoes.
*
“We’ve been making allowances because of your. . . incident. . . a month ago. But we must have next term’s fee by the end of this month.”
*
After the meeting, I go give May a hug. Her teacher stops me and asks for my number.
“Oh no! What did May –”
“Nothing. I want to call YOU.”
7.
I eat hot cross buns, and ask my boss for a raise. Neither goes down well.
*
When May gets home, I interrogate her about her dark-haired, dark-eyed teacher.
She says, “He’s nice. I got to be the queen in story time.”
8.
I get the card for the free dinner for two at a real restaurant. Yay! Less than an hour later my landlord “drops by”. Uh-oh.
*
May’s teacher calls, and arranges to pick me up on Saturday. My heart’s fluttering so hard, I can’t eat my dinner (of hot cross buns).
9.
May dresses in her best dress for our dinner of Real Food. I wear a skirt. They greet us with champagne. “Where’s the other newlywed?”
*
“Uh. . . he had to work,” I say. They hustle us to our highly beflowered table and tell us to order anything we want. We do.
*
May gets them to make her a hamburger. I have a huge pile of meat and a giant salad. Neither of us eats our bread rolls.
10.
I re-use my pillows to make myself an overweight bride, and take May with me with only an hour to spare before Jack comes to fetch me.
*
We go to a child care centre. I ask, “Can you fit her in? The reception’s about to start and my normal babysitter quit. Today!”
*
“Of course we can,” the staff say, “and don’t you dare pay!”
My date is wonderful. Jack is good company and the food is DIVINE.
11.
I shave my eyebrows to become a more lucrative faux bride, and go shopping. I’m about to graciously accept free Docs when I see Jack!
*
Jack! Shopping as I scam! Disaster! I duck behind the nice lady’s desk, biting my nails in terror. Has he already seen me?
*
The lady gives a commentary on Jack’s passing. “The hot guy’s trying on sunglasses. . . now he’s going away. He’s gone!”
I flee the scene.
12.
My landlord says, “Pay your rent by Wednesday, or I’ll have you evicted.”
I flaunt my Doc Martens and say breezily, “No prob. See you then.”
13.
May and I spend the first day of her holidays sorting our possessions into “Sell” and “Keep”. I get $3 for four books.
*
We’ve tried ebay and twelve different friends, but oddly no-one will buy May’s lifesize poster of Edward Cullen. Go figure.
*
I eat lunch with Jack. He doesn’t mock my eyebrows, but says, “Can we have dinner Friday – with May?”
“YES! Er, that’d be nice.”
14.
I fake receiving an SMS break-up at the service station and get a free tank of petrol. Nice. My eyes are getting tired from fake crying.
*
May and I put everything we can’t live without into our car and go camping. I don’t think she believes it’s really a holiday.
*
We go swimming in the creek and May finally relaxes and starts to laugh. For dinner, we roast our hot cross buns over the fire.
15.
Pay day. I’d need three more to pay school fees, and there’s only one more this month. But I have a plan. Today we buy food – sort of.
*
Eggs for protein and zucchini for vegetable matter. Somehow, toasting zucchini isn’t the same as toasting marshmallows.
16.
For our dinner date with Jack we eat roast lamb with gravy and pumpkin and potatoes. May doesn’t eat the zucchini, and neither do I.
*
The night is perfect. It’s even kind of fun to pretend to go into our old house before sneaking around the corner to our car.
[the story so far appears each Friday]
Shiny new addiction
The receptionist at the doctor told me to buy Movocol (a powdered laxative) for bowel impaction (at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what she said I had). I read the instructions carefully and noted that a normal dose is one sachel, and people with bowel impaction need to have eight sachels over a space of six hours – for up to three days.
And I wanted to be sure I’d get better.
So I finished my twenty-fourth laxative sachel a few hours ago. The weird thing is I grew to love the taste. It’s a little like orange tang. And I seriously wish I was drinking another eight sachels tomorrow. (While also looking forward to a recovery from the last three days, presumably to full health.)
It’s possible it’s altered my brain.
But it tastes sooo goooood.
#129: Fish and Chips
So once again I didn’t achieve the planned awesomeness due to illness (it should get better from here on in, though, and I WILL finish a full seven New Things these holidays). Instead I dragged myself to a nearby fish and chip shop and ate sweeeeeeet delicious lard.
Mmmmmm.
Play along at home: Eat something you shouldn’t*.
Tomorrow: Cafe gallery at North Lyneham (not Tillies, the other one).
*Keep it non-toxic, kids!
In the meantime: You’re familiar with my cat Ana, who spends her days (1) overturning my rubbish bin (2) falling off things, and (3) posing for photos. This is the other one, who spends her days glaring from the top of the cupboard, and meowring in annoyance if you dare to open the cupboard door. Every so often she feels like taking a little sun. Her name is Indah, and she is twelve years old. She is absolutely awake in these photos (deciding on a dignified indifference rather than her usual paparazzi-fighting technique of running away).
Felicity Banks 