Fat pants
The best fat pants are pregnancy pants. I searched our local op shop for bigger board shorts so I could still swim regularly. The brown pair fit me that day, and I went for a swim immediately (the day before I became properly sick) and I figure the green pair (which have a drawstring, and which were most definitely part of the men’s section) will still fit me if I’m eight months pregnant with triplets.
Since it’s an charity secondhand clothing shop, the two pairs of boardies and a pack of shampoo cost $10 altogether.
Octopus in an expected place?
When CJ and I pootled about Merimbula’s beaches earlier this year (when it was, you know, warm), we met this guy:
It’s the first time I’ve seen an octopus in its natural environment, and we were both over the moon.
Not to be confused with Octopus in an unexpected place, one of my all-time favourite blog entries.
What’s in a name?
I’m at ten weeks today. Mini-Me is 3.5cm long (the size of these guppies) and can touch its toes.
Since taking Ondaz Zydis (and drinking sustagen for dinner most nights), I’ve lost only half a kilo this week (as opposed to two and a half kilos, which is what I lost last week).
I am cautiously optimistic that the worst is over – but I’m still not actually well enough to brush my teeth (or leave the house). One of the common side effects of Ondaz Zydis is stomach cramps, which I’m having in abundance (and which are not always distinguishable from nausea and/or imminent illness) – but the main thing is that I’m not ACTUALLY throwing up and that I’m eating or drinking SOMETHING three times a day (usually breakfast cereal for breakfast and a noodle cup-a-soup for lunch).
I’ll almost certainly be functional again in 2-4 weeks. I look forward to that distant horizon like Christmas. At the moment CJ is cooking, cleaning, doing dishes, putting dishes away, shopping, washing clothes, vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, watering the plants, medicating the pets, cleaning the fish water, feeding the cats, brushing Ana, cleaning up cat vomit (both of them), buying medications, making a fuss of the neglected cats, taking care of library books, fetching me things from across the room (walking is still a bit iffy), entertaining visitors solo, looking after some of MY students, and working full time.
I usually – but not always – feed the fish every second day. That is my contribution to the household – that, and growing a mini human.
Anyway! I don’t like the idea of saying my children’s names online, but here are some random thoughts about the most popular 2010 names in Australia (from this site, which also tracks trends). All of them are off-limits for me on the basis of being too common.
1. Lily
I have at least two positive associations with this name, and I like that it’s easy to spell.
2. Ruby
For some reason this feels either trashy or old-lady to me.
3. Charlotte
I love the abbreviation “Charlie” for a girl, or “Lotta”. It’s always good when a name gives you options.
4. Chloe
Positive associations again (you know who you are). It’s Greek and means “young shoot” or “early foliage” which I don’t think is that great a meaning.
5. Sophie
Too fancy-sounding for my liking.
1. Jack
This name is fascinating, because it historically swings back and forth between being a swear word and being an extremely popular boy’s name. Phonetically, it is fantastic for both. The “a” is a strong, clear sound followed by the slamming door of the “k” at the end. It’s possibly the strongest single syllable in the English language (followed, for similar reasons, by the F-word).
Plus, you know, pirate.
2. Cooper
I was just thinking yesterday how many successful companies have “Cooper” as part of their company name. The meaning is “barrel maker” which really isn’t that exciting, except it gives an air of industry. Better as a company name than a personal name, I think.
3. Oliver
Okay, I can’t NOT start singing the song when I hear this.
4. Noah
It’s a good strong Biblical name (unless you remember that bit where Noah got really pissed and passed out buck naked). This is one of those unusual names that is two syllables but can’t be abbreviated. Personally, I love abbreviations – or any change in the usual shape of a name. When one of my students has a short name, I tend to add “banana” to the end to compensate.
5. Thomas
Again, a good Bible name if you’re not too familiar with the Bible (the phrase “doubting Thomas” may ring some bells). At least you have three name options – Thomas, Tom, and Tommie.
Conclusion: For me, the cultural associations of a name are important (eg I’d never call a child “Nigel” because it means “loner” in Australia); the ability to spell it reasonably easily is important; it should be familiar but not common to the average person; having plenty of nickname options is great (which is why “J” is a great middle initial – BJ, DJ, CJ, etc); it needs to be a gender-specific name (children have been shown to prefer to have their gender acknowledged in their name); it should sound good with our surname, including a natural rhythm; it needs an awesome meaning; it should begin with a different letter to everyone else in the house (basic name-remembering technique from writing books – goodness knows I won’t remember my kids’ names otherwise).
Middle names are for acknowledging family (assuming there aren’t any truly hideous family names – like Morag, Gertrude, Jedediah, or Judas).
Do you like your name? Why/why not?
Stay in
The view outside: There isn’t one.
The smell: Rain. And a hint of snow on the wind.
The sound: intense banging, crashing winds from the nearby mountains. Heavy rain. Birds screaming to one another. Sirens.
My plan for today: Lie down a lot. Do not leave the house for any reason. Receive a visitor in the afternoon.
Don’t you wish your plans were the same as mine?
Here’s a pic of a different storm, taken by my friend Richard Conan-Davies:
I shall now unplug the computer and go back to bed.
Encounter with a bushranger
This is an extract from “Australian Bushrangers” by George Boxall (not recommended for younger readers):
[A Sydney tollman sharing a pipe with a stranger was rather alarmed when it turned out the stranger was the notorious bushranger Jackey Jackey.]
“Ain’t you afraid of being took?” asked the tollman. Jackey laughed. “I’d like to see who’ll stop me while I’ve these little bull-dogs about me,” he said, tapping his pistols. He stood chatting while he smoked, regardless of the fact that Grose’s farm, now the grounds of the Sydney University, was within a stone’s-throw of the toll-bar. He offered the tollman some money and asked him to go to the public house for some rum. The tollman replied, “I can’t leave the bar.” “All right,” returned Jackey, “then I’ll get it myself.” He went away to Toogood’s inn and returned in a few minutes with a half-pint of rum. He gave some to the toll-keeper and took a stiff glass himself. Then he shook hands with the tollman, mounted his horse, and rode on.
Move House
One of my friends recently bought a flat. It’s so incredibly exciting to watch all the drama unfold, and have no actual financial responsibility of my own.
I saw the flat before she moved in, when it had the tenants’ furniture in it. I wanted so badly to see it when it was completely empty and pristine, but I was too sick and had to settle for photos. Still cool, though, and I can’t wait until I’m well enough to go and see it in its fully-moved-in state.
CJ and two other manly men helped her move in – scoffing at stairs, and making the move way more exciting by using the “direct route” (observe the couch cushion on the left):
Congratulations, Ann – you’ve done an amazing thing.
Like a macabre Bo Peep. . . (PG for illness)
. . . I carry a bucket wherever I go.
Things that have caused me to vomit:
1. Walking past food.
2. Sitting at a table (as opposed to lying down, which is where I am for twenty hours of each day).
3. Taking a shower.
4. Brushing my teeth.
Last Friday my period would have been due. One of the best things about pregnancy is having no periods. I was especially looking forward to that, since Curtis women have rather nasty periods. However, I observed last time my period was due that I had absolutely everything I’d normally have in a period – cramps, illness, etc – except the blood. This “period” was similarly unpleasant, except I’m much sicker than I was a month ago.
And so it was that I threw up, on myself, in front of a student (he’s fine; handily distracted by going downstairs to play with Ana, and by my ability to calmly converse while spewing).
The rule of thumb is that if you can’t keep anything down, you go to hospital. Since I was throwing up water, and had lost over three kilos in two weeks (it’s now 5.5 kilos in three weeks), I thought, “Maybe I’ve done enough now and can get better treatment.” My doctor was closed for the weekend, so I found a health advice line to ask whether I should go to hospital or not.
The lady on the advice line asked a few questions about other minor symptoms (some of which I knew could be portentous), then said, “Yes you should go to hospital – within the next four hours.” I figured something had thrown up a red flag, and wasn’t concerned – just hopeful that I’d get me some more betterer drugs.
When we saw a doctor, she did absolutely no tests (not even for dehydration) and said, “Yeah, those health lines tell every pregnant woman to come in – otherwise you might have an unrelated miscarriage and sue them.” (Something which, incidentally, clearly didn’t concern HER.)
And that was our second hospital visit. The doctor did say a lot of women improve in week ten (that’d be one week from now), which I’m clinging to in hope despite the fact she was almost certainly lying through her teeth in order to get rid of me more quickly. She also made the valid point that hospital doctors don’t know me, and can’t treat me as well as my regular GP – who should be “monitoring” me.
And so it was that my Mum made a Tuesday (yesterday) appointment with the doctor who has treated my entire immediate family since time immemorial (ie NOT the one who said if I was “really sick” I’d have acupuncture).
Usually mornings are my best time, but the whole “period” period had been unusually bad, and I was unable to eat at all that morning. I had a shower and threw up – nothing but bile and air, since there was nothing else (I also hadn’t had anything for dinner the previous night, and nothing but an energy drink for lunch the previous day).
Mum picked me up and drove me the half hour to my childhood doctor. I told the doctor I was pregnant; she was thrilled (she knew I was trying – she keeps up to date with all our family gossip). I told her I was on Maxolon but still hideously ill; she immediately prescribed stronger drugs (namely, Ondaz Zydis). Then we had a brief chat about how barbaric it is that medical professionals continue to say, “Oh, you’re pregnant. Whatever illness you’re going through is therefore normal.”
So here I am at Week 9, on much better drugs. I ate solid food for dinner last night (for the first time in two weeks), then got overexcited and brushed my teeth like a mad fool. That didn’t end well.
At this stage, I don’t know if I can stomach a second pregnancy (probably I can, considering I get a human being at the end). I do know I’ll be seeing a doctor who actually believes me when I say I’m sick, and who cares enough to want to make it stop.
In unrelated pleasant news, a children’s book I wrote was shortlisted (ie it came either third or fourth) in the “Voices on the Coast” contest. That’s the third time one of my novels has placed in a contest (all different novels, too).
Piper’s Lookout
Way back in Summer, when CJ and I were on our way back from our Merimbula holiday, we stopped off about half an hour along the road to admire Piper’s Lookout.
Mr Piper was (by all accounts) an heroic busdriver who traversed the mountain road hundreds of times. The lookout is beautiful, with panoramic views and winding paths into the trees.
Guide to the Australian Bogan
Bogans. They’re everywhere. There’s a little bit of bogan in all of us – unfortunately.
Some of the major types of bogan:
1. The standard bogan.
The standard bogan is a little like the American redneck, with a strong smattering of white trash thrown in. They are usually country dwellers (easily spotted by the broader Australian accent), undereducated, and overopinionated. Standard bogans move in packs and are suspicious of all outsiders.
A bogan woman’s purpose is to catch a man and have little bogans. She achieves this goal by being (often artificially) blonde, (often artificially) tanned, and by wearing as little fabric as is legally possible. Once married, she has achieved her life goal and can either (a) Stop worrying about her appearance ever again, or (b) Become rapidly pickled in her teen-queen state, maintaining it as long as possible despite having an inceasingly leathery skin texture. The most bogan female name is Sharon, aka “Shazza”.
A bogan man’s purpose is to have beer, and sex. He will probably require some kind of blue collar work and/or the dole to achieve this. The most bogan male name is Barry, aka “Bazza”. I once met a couple called Barry and Sharon (not their fault).
2. The travelling bogan.
The travelling bogan goes to Bali, wears even less clothes than usual (probably literally unaware that Bali is part of the Scary and Muslim nation of Indonesia), talks loudly, gets even more tanned and/or drunk, and if female gets their hair done in those tiny braids.
Although this bogan is probably the second-most embarrassing bogan, they never leave the Kuta Beach area and hang out mainly in Australian bars. They are thus largely familiar and harmless to the residents (who can simply avoid them when they’re dangerously drunk, ie awake). Unlike. . .
3. The nationalistic bogan.
Most Australians are frankly suspicious of nationalistic fervour – after all, it’s precisely what killed most of our indigenous people. (We only turn patriotic in response to absurd claims of superiority from other nations, which are patently untrue.) We are a “new” country (99% of the population arrived in the last two hundred years), as well as being emotionally tied to Britain and the USA, but physically tied to a whole bunch of countries that are utterly different to us (with the exception of New Zealand, which we love like they love sheep). This makes Australia one of the most multicultural nations on Earth.
The nationalistic bogan has a huge problem with this, and strenuously objects to “all those foreigners” who should “go back where they came from”. To which our indigenous people roll their eyes and say, “Wouldn’t that have been nice?”
4. The ironic bogan.
All Australians have an Australian accent. All Australians live a slightly sheltered life (we’re an island, after all). All Australians are dumb sometimes. All Australians – like all people – are a little bit racist. Some of us choose to remind ourselves we’re not so smart after all by embracing the harmless side of being bogan. Here’s a beginner’s guide:
“Australia” is pronounced “Straya”.
“Target” (a cheap clothing chain) is pronounced “Tar-shay”.
“Champagne” is pronounced “Champers” or “Sham-PAG-nee”.
This picture is of Felicity Ward, a comedian from Woy Woy, who is an ironic bogan.
5. The cashed-up bogan
This type of bogan has a lot in common with the denizens of the Jersey Shore (I’m basing this on ads for the show). They have money, but no taste. Think leopard print, extreme plastic surgery, and unironic white-person bling. Somehow, the C.U.B. STILL doesn’t actually have a job.
Note: The New Zealand bogan, in sharp contrast to the Australian bogan, tends to be OVER-educated, to fit badly into most social groups (generally because of overintelligence and/or a lack of respect for the fashions handed down from on high), and to be more accepting of other outsiders.
A New Zealand metalhead bogan, my friend SteffMetal.com:
Guess who just walked in?
She was very hungry (but not thirsty), and slightly damp.
Wiser? Well, we’ll see. . .
Felicity Banks 