So it’s The Day Before Surgery, and I can no longer put off the dread moment: Clearing the undergrowth.  Defoliation.  Stripping the Willow. Baring Betty.  Unmasking Possible.  (Possible?  Yep, a friend’s mother said: you wash up as high as possible, then down as far as possible - and then you wash possible. )

It’s time for The Shave.

Now, I’m proud of my thatch.  Grown women have pubic hair, ok?  None of this  little girl p0rn0graphic bareness, oh no - mine is a lush, sproingy and multicoloured forest.  (Although I will confess to feeling very ooooold the first time I found an albino kangaroo in the lower forty.   Grey? You’ve got to be kidding me!  GREY?!? I have GREY pubes?! You get GREY pubes?  Oh maaaaaaaaan, yet another Thing Nobody Told Me About Ageing™!

I got over it.  Apparently, some women don’t - I recently read a review of Betty Beauty “Color for Down There”.  Now, I can see wanting to have a bit of fun, and perhaps having Hot Pink Pubes would be a giggle - but I’m just not that worried about whether the collar and cufffs match, you know?  I mean, exactly HOW MANY people do you expect to show that the drapes don’t match the carpet?

ANYWAY: given the luxuriant nature of the growth, we started off by finding and charging the electric clippers.  But the buzzing blades made me tense, and bending gave Mr Beloved a backache.

“This isn’t doing anything, the hair’s too fine.” He says. (I confess to be being momentarily thrilled that my thatch is delicate - because plainly, the rest of me is NOT.  I am now and forever will be a Sturdy Girl, no matter how much weight I lose.  So hey, I’ll take my victories where I can get ‘em.)

Hmmm.

I was planning on waxing - but that was before I realised the logistics of having to hold belly out of the way with one hand (gently, cos it freakin’ HURTS, duh, that’s why I’m having surgery in the first place) and smoothing the wax strip “In the direction of hair growth”.  I don’t know about you, but my bush doesn’t grow in nice straight lines - there IS no direction of hair growth. And anyway I couldn’t see if there was, since we’re working blind here. I haven’t been able to see my TOES for some months, let alone anything else south of my belly-button.

And waxing HURTS.  A lot.

So I resorted to shaving.  Which keeps the Olympic level contortionist act, but adds a further degree of difficulty by adding running water and shaving foam.

Twenty minutes later, two fresh razor cartridges, innumerable squirts of shaving foam later… I’ve shaved up, down, around, sidewards, frontwards, backwards, and I can still feel stubble.  Back again with another new razor blade, one last sweep…

The water heater has run out of hot water, I’m declaring the job DONE.  If it’s not good enough it’s just not.  And in any case, I strongly suspect that whatever I did wouldn’t be good enough and some over-zealous nurse will want to shave poor possible AGAIN before surgery.

And it’s itching ALREADY.

( Mr Beloved did offer to print up a flash card that reads “Why, Yes, I DO have crabs” to excuse the scratching.

I declined.)

EDITED TO ADD: OMG, this is just sick.  Link from Skepchick to a New York Post story on Moms taking their little girls to be waxed - when they don’t even have anything to WAX?!  Ye gods and little fishes, where will it end??

So, tomorrow I’m off to Breast Screen Queensland for a mammogram.  Yet another stop on the Super-Fun-Tilt-Your-World ride that is the process of getting OLDER.

(Yes, thanks, I know NOT getting older would be worse.  But this is MY blog - go whinge on your own!)

Anyway, the Big Boob Squish™ is happening not because of any particular worries - but because I’m probably having an oestrogen implant when I have the surgery, it’s a good idea to have a baseline mammogram.

Just In Case.

Also on the Just In Case To-Do list this week: getting an Enduring Power of Attorney, a Legal Will, and an Advanced Health Directive organised.

(Sue, if I die, you can have my fabric stash.  Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse!!)

Oh, and the pre-admission check-list phone call from the hospital today raised another FUN!! task to-do: “With your legs together, shave, wax, or you can be shaved here at the hospital.” Um yeah, thanks.  “Would you like a catheter?” was another question that didn’t require a whole lotta thought - are you kidding?  Wet myself trying to use a pan or have a nice clean tube, what do YOU think!

Yep, welcome to Caityworld, Where Too Much Information Is Barely Enough!™

And in that spirit: This week I will CELEBRATE my LAST PERIOD EVER.

Not normally a cause for celebration - ever since I first got my period I have had a miserable time with it - pain, swelling, bloating, acne, migraines, persistent anaemia, constipation, mood swings, and medicinal consumption of vast quantities of chocolate.  I’ve tried every over-the counter “period pain” pill there is; tried altering my diet (but seriously - caffeine deprived Caity is NOT a Happy Fun Sparkly Caity!), exercising to ameliorate the pain, and being on various versions of The Pill.

I have spent waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money on various products to catch “the flow” (although the best value ones by far are The Keeper or The Diva Cup - highly recommended if you’re comfortable with your body, squicky if you’re not).  I have spent hours soaking blood-stained knickers, jeans, skirts and pyjamas in napisan when the various tampons, pads etc failed.

I have not owned white undies in many many years.

When I had only just started getting The Monthly Monster, one month I ended up in hospital with suspected appendicitis. I was in dreadful pain, but then the blood arrived - and all of a sudden I was shoved out of the hospital bed, told to get dressed, and sent home with some incredibly wimpy headache tablets.

WAIT A SECOND!! A moment ago I was being taken seriously about how much pain I was in, but now you reckon I’m fine? THE PAIN HASN’T CHANGED!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!

I remember my Mum being rather excited and thrilled when I got my first ever period.  I was embarrassed.  She was emotional over her first daughter reaching such a momentous change: I was pissed off by the MESS and the inconvenience.

So after 28+ years of dealing with all this: Yeah, I’m celebrating its loss!!  There will be bubbly; there may even be cake.  I’m thinking possibly Friday or Saturday lunch or arvo tea, if you’re among my TWB circle and free around then….

In the meantime, just THROW IN THE CHOCOLATE AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT, OKAY?!?!?

We are total Eurovision tragics in this house. Every year we invent drinking games (Which we don’t actually drink to, it’s symbolic, fewer calories that way!) try to predict The Dress Trend (so far: backup singers in WHITE. Boring!) and get wildly enthused for some obscure country (AZERBAIJAN! You ROCK!!! Devils! Angel boys with an almost castrati soprano voice! Devils transforming into Angels! OMG!!!)

We got to watch the first semi-final tonight (we have been on a Eurovision news BLACKOUT since the actual event on Tuesday) and I must say -I never knew Poland produced so many plastics. I don’t believe there is a single natural element left in their contestant:

(Trust me, those teeth were SCARY when she sang…)

Greece sent their usual Britney-esque bubbly performer (Britney before the drugs and shaved head, obviously); Belgium YET AGAIN sent a group wth an entirely made up language; political voting was in evidence even at this early stage (was there anyone who doubted Boznia Herzogovina would get in ?) and Ireland and Estonia sent joke acts.

Thrillingly - Finland are in the finals again with another hard rock act (minus Lordi’s rubber prosthetics this year) - pure 1980s long-haired bare-chested pleather-panted ROCK GODS!!

Bring on Semi Final TWO!!!

ARRRRRRRGH!!

I though I’d make a simple little skirt, nothing flash. I chose this pattern:

Dead simple, innit?

Bought cheap fabric which I thought would do for a knock-around sort of skirt.

BUT - first I cut it out in the wrong size. And blithely sewed it up without fitting cos well - I’m ALWAYS the biggest size, aren’t I.

Except I completely failed to take into account the recent weight loss. La la la, try it on to see hem length - and watch it fall straight to my ankles, since the waist is the only fitted place on the skirt. Oops.

Unpick the whole thing and start again. (And leave it for a few more days.)

Re-cut, sewed next size down. (Leave it for another few days.)

Decided to use invisible zip.

Put it in back to front.

Unpick.

Try another method of inserting invisible zip - hmm, right way this time, but not really invisible!

Mr Beloved (quite rightly) insists I have a cuppa tea.

Get out The Book (so glad I found it - safely filed under my sewing machine. D’OH!). When Ms Betzina says “Idiot Proof invisible zipper” - she means it’s even CAITY proof! (Although for a moment due to my complete directional dyslexia I thought I’d sewn it back to front again - but then I zipped it up. Ahem.)

But then - the waistband treatment on the pattern was STUPID. Using narrow (half inch wide) twill tape to finish the waistband as though you were using petersham? DOESN’T WORK. It just doesn’t. There isn’t enough width to turn the top of the waistband down.

No worries, I’ll buy petersham (it’s a ribbon, with unlocked edges so you can make it curve - see here for an illustration.) Eventually found some at Lincr*p today - in only one size, one colour, and well hidden away from any other ribbon. (Yeah, that makes sense… NOT!) And at $4.99 per metre!! When I know (thanks to the girls on Pattern Review) That I can buy the same width from the USA in a gazillion different colours , for $US 2.89 per yard… and the postage isn’t much.

But - I wanted to wear the skirt tomorrow, perhaps. So I lashed out ($2.99!) on a packet of pre-made bias binding. All was going FINE With that until… I notice I had sewn the invisible zipper in about a quarter of an inch HIGHER on one side than the other.

FLIPPIN’ HECK! I can’t believe all the hassles that have come up with one little skirt!! All stupid little mistakes that I shouldn’t be making - although, it HAS been a while since I’ve sewn clothes. Mostly because at my current size and shape it’s pretty much like sewing circus tents.

No progress photos - they’d mostly be of me TEARING MY HAIR OUT. But here’s a photo of the almost finished skirt:

Which is now TOO BIG again!

I don’t care. I’m going to hem the damn thing and take it in at the waist with a safety pin on each side for a couple of weeks.

(Actually, I might make it again next week- with the petersham waist band - and another size smaller.)

Friend M called and said “Get down to Mac Campbells - they’re moving and there’s heaps of books for ONE DOLLAR!” - shortly after Mr Beloved and I had discussed whether we would avoid going in to town today or not.

So we went.

Cos you know if there’s one thing we just don’t have enough of in our house, it would be books, right?

Muuuaaa haaa haaa!  Some may end up going in to the next charity book fair - but some have useful, inspiring, relevant stuff.  A dollar each!  Gotta love that.

Off to read now.

1. Why are cheap bracelets/bangles (And even more expensive kits to make same at the bead shops) sized for teeeeeeeeny wrists? My wrist is 7 inches around. No matter what I weigh. My wrists have been this size since I was 12 years old. And not a single !@*&#)(@*! bangle will go around it. (Let’s just ignore for the moment that the vast majority of bangles also won’t go over my hand to get to my wrist).

And for those who say “Well, buy elastic ones” (TACKY!) “or opening ones” - we run straight back into the 7 inches problem. To those fashmagslags who say bangles and baubles are so very IN for winter? :-ppppppppp raspberries…

(I have never had an opportunity to test this - but I bet Cartier and Tiffany make their bangles BIGGER, dammit!)

2. Why does hair go wiry when it turns grey? Isn’t GREY Punishment enough? Must it stick out from my head like alien antennae too?

3. And why couldn’t it be my CHIN HAIRS that are white/grey, huh? How come the chin hairs have full, rich, hair-colorant-commercial-strength colour from root to tip?

4. You really do become invisible to shop assistants after a certain age. I have reached that age.

A note to staff: You are there to serve ME, the customer. Not gossip about “So and so’s boyfriend” or “So and so in accounts”. ME. I pay your wages, dammit!

Or NOT, if I choose to walk out instead of waiting for you to notice me standing with my wallet open waving CASH at you. (Now I know why older women tend to mutter darkly to themselves in shop doorways…)

5. I have now also reached the age when all the police constables look like they’re far too young to be out by themselves after dark.

Please, whatever Deity is listening - as I age, could I please look like this

rather than this?

I’m 40 today.

Mum and Dad sent me a lovely home made card (with a cheque that is going straight to buying fabric at Gardams!) and my friend Di from quilting gave me some beautiful green and pink fabrics for the Tuesday monster quilt.

I am so grateful for my friends and family; for the help I’m getting to improve my health; for my little dog, cat, and birds, and most of all for Mr Beloved. (Whose birthday is tomorrow but shhh - he doesn’t do birthdays.)

… that I got through all of Easter without a skerrick of chocolate in the house.

But if the Lindt bunnies are marked down at the shops tomorrow, THEY WILL BE MINE!

Especially YOU, dark bunny, Muaaa haaa haaa.

That there’s newspaper speculation over whether Nigella is curvy or frumpy?  YOU HAVE TO ASK?!?!?

She is a GODDESS.  An hourglass shaped goddess.  With three kids (ok, only two she birthed, but still) and a husband and a business and you want her to look like WHAT, exactly?  Sheesh!   She is not a 17 year old (or for a longer in the tooth model, see Kate Moss - ugh!) string bean, she’s a gorgeous, middle aged, talented, busy woman.  And yeah, we could all use some firming up and strength training (as my discussion with the physio made clear!) and so she’s booked in with a personal trainer - good for her!  If I had her money, so would I.

Helen Mirren.  Judi Dench.  Nancy Pelosi.  Even OPRAH, for gawdsake - women who are WOMEN, dammit.  I am so damn tired of society’s all consuming (ha!  NOT!) passion for pre-pubescent figures.

(If you have a naturally slender figure, pleas understand this rant is not directed at you.  Although  you won’t be coming shopping with me anytime soon, ok?)

The envelope we have been waiting for arrived today - we are going to pay off my credit card and then I will get a debit card - I’m just too - ummmm - spontaneous? in my money decisions otherwise.  Ahem.

So Mr Beloved had to call TheAuthorityWhichControlsYourLife  because - hey, we are poor cripples, and TheAuthorityWhichControlsYourLife doesn’t LIKE us to have any money.  Especially not money that suddenly appears in the same bank account as where they pay our pensions.

He lucked onto THE most helpful faceless droid EVAH - I mean, she was AMAZING!  Helped us get a new pittance  allowance to go towards internet/phone costs, talked us through updating some details, was generally very helpful, and then - took down all my details and a statement to go on file so that the Bad Rude Horrible Faceless Droid who upset me so much on Monday won’t get away with it.

Bloody ASTONISHING!   As he usually does, Mr Beloved made sure to tell the Good Faceless Droid that we wanted to let her supervisor know how wonderful she had been, and she said that they appreciated feedback, good or bad.

WOW.

ANd now I’m going to my sewing room, to prepare for the Toowoomba Quilters Strip Party.  I have to be at the hospital at 7 am (ugh!) and not eat for 4 hours before then, not drink for 2.  Is it even worth going to bed when I have to be up again by 5?

So, for weeks I’ve been psyching myself up to go to hospital this Wednesday. But when there was no phone call from admissions by 6pm, I got a little bit freaked out. How would I know when to turn up? Where was I supposed to go? When could I eat? Panic panic panic!

So I phoned the hospital’s pre-admissions call centre number.

“Um, I’m meant to have a day procedure tomorrow but no one’s called?”

[after asking for information] “No, I’m not seeing you on the lists..”

*panic panic panic!*

“Which doctor, dear?”

“Dr H. For xyz?”

“That’s on THURSDAY dear! Tomorrow’s Wednesday!”

“Oops! Lost a day there! My mistake! Thanks! Bye!”

*hides head until pillow until blushes calm down to only being visible from MARS…*

Yep… that’s me folks, unable to read a calendar.

I *did* remember that today was shared lunch day at Quilters, and that I was doing a demo - you can see it over on the Toowoomba Quilters blog if you want. Foundation pieced flying geese.

It was NOT good - I am NOT GOOD at doing talking in front of people these days. I got terribly flustered and embarrassed and rushed and got myself confused and left stuff out… I am much much better in writing than in person.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd to add to it all (and I can’t believe I’m telling you this, dear reader - it may be TMI (Too Much Information) but I have a new and wonderful symptom that is complicating my life just that little bit more….

It’s been a bit of an issue since The Fall in 2002… I didn’t pee for over 24 hours and then - ahem - needed assistance. But now it’s - well, a little less controlled.

Could be from the whole “OH MY GOSH YOU’RE FAT!” thang (gotta love this: “Q. Does weight have an effect on bladder control?” A.”Even a few kilos can make a difference. A five to ten percent weight loss can help improve bladder control by reducing intra-abdominal pressure.” Colour coded just like the packs - Oh, goody!)

Add a side of tomato juice (who knew?!) and some stress and … well.
Good thing I’m seeing my doc on Friday, eh?

BEGIN RANT:

So there I am in bed this morning, having had about 3 hours of sleep (bad pain and mind-whirring night) when my phone rings. Hmmm. “Anonymous” as the caller ID- don’t like that.

“Can I speak to Caitlin O’Connor”

“Who’s speaking?”

“This is [Faceless Droid] from TheAuthorityWhichControlsYourLife *. You have to come in for a medical review. Is 3:30 today ok?”

“No, it’s not.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“No, I can’t make it tomorrow either.”

[by this stage faceless droid is getting REALLY uppity and annoyed] “This IS compulsory, you know, you HAVE to come in. What about Wednesday?”

“LOOK” I said, trying to be polite, and probably only JUST managing, “I’m not trying to be difficult, but I already have appointments this week. Wednesday I’m in hospital, for a procedure which will leave me incapacitated for Thursday and Friday. I can come in next week, ok?”

“Next MONDAY, then,” triumphs the Faceless Droid. You must be at TheAuthorityWhichControlsYourLife at [time] next Monday. If you don’t come your payments will be suspended.”

WHAT I wish I’d said: LOOK, Just because I get a miserly payment from the government doesn’t mean that I don’t have things ON! How DARE you assume that my life is empty and meaningless because I’m not employed? How DARE you believe that I can just drop everything at your beck and call and get myself to your office (where there aren’t even any public toilets) when I can’t even DRIVE today because of the pain?

Would YOU be free for an appointment that could possibly ruin your life at the whim of some underpaid-quasi-doctor if I called you up with less than 6 hours notice? I DON’T THINK SO!

And by the way, you have NO RIGHT to get snooty at me with your whiny voice and your cranky manner, or to treat me like I’m an idiot just because I get a d1sab1l1ty pens10n.**

GRRRRRRRR! Do the faceless droids and their bosses think that I LIKE being poor and sick? I would LOVE to be able to make them live a fortnight in my shoes, on my money, in my house that we can’t afford to repair the bloody termite damage on yet, with no !&*@#%& cable TV or fancy wine or expensive cuts of meat and we’re better off than MOST people who have to do it on a p3ns10n, I can tell you, SHEESH!!!

*More familiar to Aussies as C#ntr3l1nk - aka federal government welfare administration.

**Possible overly-paranoid, but apparently they have people who just sit around and read blogs, to see if someone’s been WORKING when they say they can’t. l33t (leet) stops the googlebots which are scanning through the web for any mention of the organisation’s name and associated words.

END RANT.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have brownies to bake.

I slept in today after a bad pain night. Which meant that I didn’t get to Quilters until about 11:30… which meant that all the decent chairs were taken. So I sat in one of the &^!@#% chairs and am damn near crippled AGAIN.

We rent the meeting space and the chairs are part of the deal - and they are bloody awful. The chairs are the wrong height for the tables (DUH! Brilliant, eh?), they don’t stack well, and even bringing your own cushions doesn’t help much.

I know I’m not the only one who has issues with them.

However, I betcha I’m the only one next week who brings their OWN CHAIR in! It’s that big a problem. My knees are killing me, I can hardly move my left hip, and my back is seriously SCREAMING.

The chair that I’m thinking of buying is $9.98 and has NO stupid moulded seat that has sunk over time to become a cradle of excruciating torture. No bent legs to tangle with the other bent legged chairs just waiting to trip you up.

Come the Revolution, sistahs, whoever designed those chairs is going to be one of the first up against the wall. Right after the person who BOUGHT the rotten things for the hall. And the person who decided there was “YEARS of life left in those chairs, no need to replace them!”

And there will be no blindfolds and no last cigarette… just their screams for mercy as they are battered to death with these ugly uncomfortable complete non-eco-friendly MONSTROSITIES thud thud thud and SPLAT and thud and…

…Ms O’Connor has been dressed in a lovely white jacket with VERY long sleeves and has been taken to a nice quiet room.

Where there are no chairs.

… is up to his old tricks again.  Featured with his mate David in the paper.  *shudder* What this whole stunt would have proved anyway is beyond me.  Big deal, the preacher guy is shonky - not like that’s a surprise to anyone, is it? Here’s the link to the article, if you’re interested.

Leopards don’t change their spots.  And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

… in a continuing series.

#3045: WHY oh WHY oh WHYYYYYYYYYYYY did the dog, who will be 4 in June and has NEVER before shown any propensity to roll in smelly things, coat herself from top to toes in POO this afternoon right before tea? (and how did she manage it?)

#3046: WHY on earth would I put the bottle of eucalyptus/peppermint oil steam inhalant mix on the top shelf of the pantry - between the AntRid and the medicinal brandy?

Julie tagged me - ta, Julie!- and since I’m starting over, I thought it was a good time to answer this one again. Now, I don’t tag other people - so consider yourself free to join in or not!

7 things about me:

1. I am a complete IDIOT and will ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS CROSS MY HEART PINKY SWEAR do proper weekly backups up my blog from now on.

2. I think I’m getting dumber as I get older. Seriously, my short term whoseamawhatzit is not what is used to be. I am losing stuff more often, and forgetting books I have read. Oh well, it just makes every day a whole new adventure, doesn’t it?

3. I am a complete dance tragic. Not many people know this about me. I am utterly fascinated by both the US and the brand new Aussie versions of “So You Think You Can Dance” - even though I refuse to watch ANY OTHER reality TV shows.

I can’t dance. I do not possess grace, or body awareness, or a sylph like figure. But I hugely admire anyone who can - and it doesn’t matter what style of dance. Tap, Lindy Hop, Ballroom, Contemporary - anything.

4. What was that second thing again?

5. I am secretly scared of success.

6. I love living in Toowoomba (for my life with Mr Beloved, the climate and the new friends) but I miss Canberra (for the doable drive to see my parents, the galleries and libraries, and friends.) And yet I dream of owning a house in the coldcoldcold high country of either NSW or Victoria. If we ever win the lottery, I would probably move South again.

7. I think I might have started to break through the creative drought. I’m quite pleased with the way my Dancing Beijing challenge worked out, and I actually drew in my new visual diary last night. Things are looking up.

So - there you go. Seven things about me. Please comment, I’m so lonely here at my new blog!

[recovered from cache]

I know I’m late in posting this link - but OMG, I laughed SO HARD!

If you’re not familiar - the shortarse idiot is our ex Prime Minister.

The song is originally by Aussie rock legend The Angels.

And the audience response (No way get f*cked f*ck off!) is MANDATORY.

So much so that once I was walking around a big shopping mall in Canberra, and “Am I ever Gonna See Your Face Again” started playing over the centre’s music system. Within moments, about 75% of the people in the mall were mouthing the response - some were even doing the actions. I stood at the rail looking over the food court and grinned - and yes, I did the actions too.

Our NEW Prime Mininster, Kevin Rudd (known in our house as The Sainted Kev) is doing something AMAZING tomorrow - something that the previous PM and government were too gutless and too small minded to ever do. Our PM is saying SORRY.

Sorry to all the Aboriginal and Torres Strait people who were taken from their families and culture in the past.

Some in the (now) opposition (and their supporters) are saying “Sorry’s just a word.” But it’s not. “Sorry” is a shift in cultural attitude, and a recognition that hurt was done. It’s about a mind-set that says “We messed up. And we can’t go back in time and change that. But we can acknowledge it and work towards fixing what can be fixed.”

(The nay-sayers are even trying to say the the forcible, unauthorised removal of kids from the families wasn’t “Stealing” them. DENIAL - not just a river in Egypt, eh?)

Saying Sorry is about treating Aboriginal culture as viable, and recognising the the Anglo hegemony belongs to a past age.

And it’s something that John Howard and his ilk will never grok.