Another look into one’s lady parts
I saw a specialist today and confirmed that my lady bits are indeed, as I suspected rearranged slightly due to big baby + bronchitis (“prolapsed uterus” is the term). This is neither uncommon nor life-threatening, and it doesn’t do bad things to my fertility or anything other than my ability to stand up or walk or lift things (I miss being able to casually walk down to local shops). After a year and a quarter, I’m still finding new ways for pregnancy to make my life more humiliating and less pleasant.
It’s a good thing Louisette’s cute.
Yep, that’s a knife.
Steampunk Map
Hi all,
If you’re here looking for the infamous map of Steampunk literature (circa before-I-got-pregnant-with-Louisette-in-2011), it’s at http://shootingthrough.net/2012/10/01/beginners-guide-to-steampunk-lit/
Conflux 9
As usual I’ve forgotten to actually mention my role in Conflux 9 – which this year is also the National Fan Conference, featuring (among others) Garth Nix and Richard Harland. . . . and yours truly.
All the details are at http://conflux.org.au but here’s where I’ll be:
Today (Thursday) 3-3:55pm: Self Publishing with Patty Jansen, Phil Berrie and Felicity Pulman
4:30-4:25pm: Instant Gratification With Ebooks with Jason Franks, Amanda Bridgeman, and David Versace.
Sunday 11:30-12:25pm: The Essence of Steampunk, with Richard Harland (really!), Rachel Holkner, and Jo Anderton.
Against Further Obfuscatory Practices
I’ve recently done a LOT of reading – and not the fun kind. I read through our mortgage documents (technically we have two mortgages; the explanation of why is simple but dull so I won’t go into it here) from beginning to bitter end (and the contract of sale for the house, which was also about a hundred pages), and I just (today) completed a Senior First Aid Certificate course, which takes eight or nine hours on the day, and assumes six hours of study (from the 400-page book) beforehand (there is a workbook to fill out in preparation, plus written and physical exams).
The difference in language, however, was striking.
The contract for sale does actually include a lot of information – building permissions, pest reports, whether the house is falling down or not. It has about twenty pages of, “Hey look man, I know that the whole point of you paying hundreds of dollars to me is for me to do my job, which is to tell you if the house is okay or not, but if it DOES turn out to be a termite-infested asbestos-walled shack then it’s totally not my fault and you can just get stuffed” but it does at least have some pretty simple summary bits that any normal literate person can understand (if they can find them, and followed every time by, “This is just a summary man, so it totally doesn’t count at all and you really need to read the other twenty pages including the bit about me not necessarily reporting anything wrong despite catastrophic flaws that you’ll discover two minutes after moving in.”)
The main task of a conveyancing lawyer appears to be sticking stamps on forms and sending them back and forth, followed closely by – seriously – reading the two contracts (one signed by the buyer and one signed by the seller) and making sure they’re the same. This costs $1500, and is just about worth it. (Those who know more about conveyancing law can feel free to chime in and outline what other jobs lawyers do. Oh, and sidebar: the forms the LAWYER sent us say stuff along the lines of, “We totally recommend you get another lawyer, because you never know – they might be better than us” and, “If you are utterly legally screwed that’s totally nothing to do with us. Be careful out there!”)
But before this post gets any longer, here’s the point: It was abundantly clear that the 400-page St John’s First Aid Book was trying its darndest to make an extremely complicated thing – what to do when one of the many intricate systems of the human body gets stuffed up in any of a million different and often life-threatening ways – as utterly simple as possible. And may God bless them for that.
It was also abundantly clear that each one of the documents in my mortgage folder was designed to make a simple thing (“You are borrowing money off us to buy a house. If you don’t pay us the money, we take the house back – and probably a bit more just for fun”) as confusing and unreadable as possible – including the bits that said things like, “We can totally change rates without direct notice to you at any time, then punish you if you don’t get everything exactly right, and we can pretty much make you dance and dance for mercy and then just laugh and take all your money and all your children’s money and your house too – anytime we feel like it.”
Which I do believe is actually a lie. In Australia, we have a government and a population that would destroy a bank that tried to actually pull that kind of thing (the government being the bit that makes claims like that illegal from the start). That kind of thing is written into a long and scary document that only the very brave will dare to read. The entire system is designed to make you feel helpless and a bit guilty, so that the bank can try to screw you over in smaller ways and get away with it.
“Banks are evil” is a pretty weak moral to the story, but there it is.
A good day
This is our living area in the old house (a unit, technically) on moving day. We rented an 8-ton truck and still took two trips (several hundred books will do that to you). Yikes.
Amazingly, we only had one major moving day with all hands on deck – plus months of prep, and two days with just CJ and I moving awkward or fragile things in our car. As of one hour ago, we have internet. Now we’re really here 🙂
Surrounded by empty bookshelves
Yowser. It’s been an exciting ride to say the least. Our settlement-ability wasn’t okayed until about 5pm the day before
But we’re now the extremely proud owners of a real live house.
I’m writing this at 6am on Saturday – the official moving day, although we were given the keys on Thursday (CJ and I and one of our friends have been moving as much of the fragile and awkward stuff across as we could to make today as simple as possible: the theme of the day is “big giant truck + friends and family => pizza”; we’re very traditional that way).
Our house is in that peculiar state in which all the cupboards are empty, except for one with virtually nothing but a plug. The fridge is still on, but only until Louisette wakes up. CJ’s desk is utterly empty and mine has this computer, two blocks of chocolate (partly eaten), a box filled with plastic bags, some eucalyptus oil, masking tape, bandaids, tissues, a laptop bag for transport, and a broom: all items that must be packed at the very last possible moment. When we brush our teeth, our toothbrushes go in a box. When Louisette’s morning toast is cooked, the toaster goes in a box. When she leaves the house for CJ’s mum to mind her, she will never see it again – this house that has seen the beginning of her parents’ lives together, and the beginning and (at the moment) total of her existence.
We’ve barely slept in days, so the gravitas of the situation is hitting our addled minds all the harder. This is it – the absurd, wonderful, scary thing.
Lifestyle
There’s one buzz word real estate agents use that is utterly true. That word is lifestyle. When you buy a house, you really are buying a lifestyle with it.
Australia is famous for its large grassy backyards (cue kids running through sprinklers, dogs chasing their tails, and a vegie garden against the fence). In an era where playing in the street is no longer considered good parenting, the backyard is where kids run and play and get sunshine and exercise. As far as lifestyles go, it’s a good one.
About ten years ago, the laws governing the ratio of house size to backyard changed, allowing larger houses on smaller blocks – so a lot of newer houses have multiple large bedrooms but a postage-stamp yard. The “Australian” lifestyle isn’t what is used to be, which is a sad thing and a harmful thing.
CJ and I both grew up with grassy yards (he actually grew up on a farm until he was twelve, and the love for rolling hills and long views is still engrained in him), and one of the main reasons for buying our house with Louisette the age she is now is so that she can run outside. We bought quite a small house, with quite a small yard, which matters very little in terms of OUR lifestyle (I pretty much hate the outdoors until the weather is utterly perfect, and CJ can brave almost anything, but he’s happy to walk to public places) but it is a little sad that we’re accepting/being a part of the slide away from a more outdoors-oriented culture.
The up side of the compromise is that the house is a bit larger – which means more room for books. It wasn’t a difficult decision 🙂 And it’s still a yard, as opposed to what we have now – a balcony. I’m so looking forward to the day when I say, “Okay, kid. Go play outside.”
Mummy want drink? (PG mild swearing)
Aw. Thanks, Louisette (and her most-similar-in-age cousin in the background – my sister and I had overlapping pregnancies, and may well do so again in 2014).
Speaking of pregnancy, another person asked me if I was pregnant today. She was a nice elderly lady obviously trying to be nice, so I didn’t tell her to fuck off and die.
Kids, don’t ask someone if they’re pregnant. Ever.
In unrelated news, here are four reasons our settlement (ie when we get the keys to our shiny new house, yay!) may be delayed indefinitely:
1. The owners, who are living there (and have several children), are unable to move into their new house because the renovations are not yet done.
2. The owners have a “problem with their bank” and are unable to settle on time.
3. Our first home buyers’ grant – $7000 – will not be ready in time for settlement. This is of course a fairly important part of our “This is how much money we have to buy a house” file.
4. Our stamp duty is not yet ready to be processed, but must be processed a certain period of time before settlement.
Some of the reasons we need to get those keys:
1. Our landlady released us from our rental agreement (which was a fixed lease because our unit was sold with us in it and at the time there was a risk of us being thrown out) on condition that there was no gap between ourselves and the next tenant. We have made arrangements with the next tenant accordingly. Also, the professional cleaners.
2. We have already changed our addresses pretty much everywhere. The new house probably already has some mail for us – and we certainly won’t get any more here. Also, our internet will be switching off shortly.
3. We have arranged a truck, three days of babysitting at a variety of locations, time off from three jobs (because my boss very kindly offered to give me a day off, which means SHE has to get the day off and/or leave her 4-year old to fend for herself), an 8-ton truck, a friend who can drive an 8-ton truck, and numerous friendly friends and relations to do the physical moving on the same day as the truck and driver. 90% of our stuff is in boxes, and our meals and outfits are all planned out so that there is virtually nothing left in the fridge or on our shelves. Louisette is sleeping in a portacot and CJ and I are sleeping on our mattress on the floor.
4. Louise doesn’t like uncertainty. Louise reacts to uncertainty by having a mental breakdown. Louise will kill you dead if you keep saying, “Oh, just one more thing. . .”.
The good news is that all of the paperwork and financial stuff on our side should be finished on time – despite suspiciously slow movements on the seller’s side (every time they needed to do anything – generally putting a piece of paper in an envelope – it took a week, which is why OUR stuff is running late). The even better good news is that we should be able to move in on the planned day, and simply pay rent until settlement finally happens. Which is fine by me – in fact it’ll probably mean we get to move in six hours earlier, which makes it great.
We’ll just see.
Hitler VS Superman
And that’s a glass table.
This is Louisette’s first Easter Egg hunt:
Hey, guess what? It turns out moving house is, like, all complicated and stuff. I keep thinking of thoughtful, fascinating things to write here, and then forgetting them utterly. This is the point where I say, “Here they are!” …or it would be, but I did say “utterly”. Here’s some other random gibberish.
First, some pics! Here’s Louisette three seconds after climbing on to one of our dining room tables for the first time (I grabbed the camera, turned around, and found this):
I quite often work a twelve-hour day without breaks – especially on Wednesdays. I get up at 6:30 to get dressed and have breakfast, and usually have a few small urgent jobs (putting dishes away, coordinating babysitting for some upcoming event, doing yet another change of address form). Louisette wakes at 7 (last night she woke twice during the night too, but that’s unusual), and I’m generally still getting ready for work so CJ gives her the milk and breakfast I’ve prepared. She and I leave at 7:25am for work. From 8am until 6pm I mind Louisette, an 18-month old, and a 4-year old. It’s ten hours, and there’s no-one but me. Lately, Louisette is the only one who naps (which today involved two and a half hours of screaming because she is teething/picking up on family moving stress/adjusting to different sleeping arrangements).
I get home at 6:30pm – eleven hours after leaving for work, and eleven hours since the last moment I had thirty seconds to myself (Louisette often screams during the drive – luckily we’re moving closer to my workplace AND it looks like they’re happy for me to work from home!) The good news about today (other than earning $200 – which is more than I’ve earned in a fortnight for most of the last decade) is that, although the kids were extra-mucusy and certainly not at their best behaviour-wise, I was looking forward to home time. . . . but NOT panicking and not getting angry. Miserable but not insane – on an eleven-hour day? I couldn’t do it every day, but I CAN do it every week. The last tortuous month has taught me how consistently strong I am.
(My normal 12-hour day is 7am-7pm with Louisette and an hour or two of other jobs to do with Louisette in tow. On a bad day I beg CJ to be home at 6:30, and I leave him to feed Louisette upstairs while I hide from the mess and screaming in our room.) Oh! And I forgot to mention that while I was at work today our lawyer called and said our settlement date for the house might get changed. The thought is so appalling I don’t think it’s even registered yet.
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In extremely exciting news, I’ve just found out about a combined school and childcare centre that is super close to our new house AND involves several acquaintances of mine (that I like) AND is Christian. So first of all, the future question of Lousiette’s school is now solved, no question. But I may also have just found a career! This development is only a few days old so it’s possible I’m crazy, but here’s the plan:
Pre-1 (which has been firmly on the table for about a year now): Get more qualifications. Yep that’s right, I’m going back to school. I’ll be doing online TAFE courses, and challenging myself to finish them in the fastest possible time (pending the epiphany that studying, working, and mum-ing is a lot to do at once).
1. Get job at childcare centre that fits in with my current job time-wise. This is the hard part, but I do have a shot. The boss is actually a former boss of mine, and we’re already talking about a job for me BUT I’m certainly not qualified yet.
2. Enrol Lousiette in childcare centre on the same two days I’m there.
3. Get pregnant sometime next year. Make the most of sickness and maternity leave (woo! a real job!!) – but if I’m as sick as last time, leave Louisette in a comfortable safe environment while I languish at home (and call in the grandparental troops for other days).
4. When Puggle (future kid) is old enough, enrol him/her into the childcare centre on the same days.
5. When the respective times come, Louisette and Puggle transition to big school.
6. When I’m no longer in the carer-of-an-under-five-year-old lifestyle category, I get a job teaching Indonesian (which I’ve done before for the same people – I quit because of mental illness, not that I knew it was mental illness at the time). By then I should know my capabilities very well, and I’ll choose my hours accordingly.
Sounds pretty good, non?
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In other news, as I was driving home I realised one of my knee-length skirts (which fortunately I can’t fit into and thus haven’t worn for years) is, in fact, a petticoat. I’ve owned that skirt for at least eight years (I know because I remember wearing it often when I worked at Questacon) and worn it hundreds of times. D’oh!
On the up side, when it comes to wearing underwear on the outside, me and Superman have heaps in common.
You may have heard and/or noticed that every argument in the Western World eventually, somehow, results in someone bringing up Hitler. (Everything from “Hitler was a vegetarian” to “. . . and that’s why Obama is just like Hitler.”) After mentally writing the above paragraph, I was watching TV and Superman was brought up. That’s when it struck me: Why can’t we shake up the world just a teensy bit so every argument ends with SUPERMAN instead?
It’s up to you, my peeps. Go find a series of comments somewhere online that have veered wildly off track (that should take you about five seconds) and bring the thread back to superman – no matter what it takes.
Felicity Banks 