Last night I was helping my ex- from high school retrieve massive ladders from a rainforest canopy. What precisely the ladders were doing in the canopy is anyone’s guess; but we needed them to take to some kind of hippy camping festival where they were an integral part of his mate’s camping set-up.
A few nights before that was a really complex dream about two ex-boyfriends having sex in a holiday house that kept morphing into different floor layouts so that it became increasingly difficult to access the door to the room they were in. Being that they’re both heterosexual (as far as I know) they weren’t really sure that they wanted to be having the sex, but they were putting in a good effort anyway because for some reason it was ‘expected’.
A can’t really remember the ones before that, just that I know I had them; and I’ve been trying to identify any reason why this may be happening, but I can’t.
My best guess is that it’s got something to do with my increasingly whimsical frame of mind. I’m feeling scatty and close to unhinged at the moment. This morning I felt it necessary to apologise to my office peeps in advance of any quirky things I might do or say in the next few days – in case I get my crazy on in the workplace.
I keep having the strangest dreams about ex-boyfriends
If only anger burned calories
I started Monday angry; which didn't bode well for how the week would pan out. Surprisingly, though, it's actually gotten better as it's worn on. This is not the way things usually occur in my office and it makes me suspicious.
Bad things are coming, professionally speaking. It's just a matter of time.
I'm not just being paranoid. I have very good reason to predict massive collateral damage in the next 3 months. I'd love to write it all out for posterity but I don't want to get dooced. I've been down that road before.
Hello, interwebs!
Where have I been?
All over.
It's all different and yet all the same, here at casa del Dickersby.
The crazy? Usual.*
The work? Usual.**
The personal life? Looking up.***
The health? Eh...****
We've moved office at work. If I choose to I now have the dubious honour of walking past an abortion clinic stake-out every morning. It doesn't do much for my good humour, looking at Catholic propaganda first thing.
On the plus side we're right near an awesome cake shop. And the office is all shiny and shit.
Meanwhile, in an attempt to mix it up and not have a shitty life, the Monkey and I are off to Fiji for Xmas. It's not the high season, but here's hoping it rocks anyway.
* Still on 100mg Zoloft to prevent me eating my own head. Still don't really understand the *meaning* of happiness.
** Still more things to juggle than hands to do it with; still enjoying it all, in principle.
*** The monkey husband has officially moved back in, after a 6 month hiatus; but there's still a long road ahead.
**** I'm still on a ludicrous level of medication post-stroke. Who has a stroke at 31? Me, apparently. At the moment I'm waiting on a transesophageal echocardiogram – the leading cause of random TIAs in 'young people' is a minor heart defect.
two girls walk into a bar
Wendy* and I went out to a local student haunt, the name of which rhymes paradoxically with 'clever mind', on Tuesday night.
Things often go pear-shaped at the clever mind and Tuesday was no exception. In fact it was the most stellar example to-date of why I hate students.**
Wendy and I were minding our own business, discussing girly things likle unicorns and rainbows, when this guy from the next table came over to ask, "Can I borrow your ash tray?"
"Sure" says Wendy, and passes it over.
My eyes follow him back to his table where I notice that the assembled group of young men now have not one, but three ash trays.
My curiosity is aroused. It will be the only thing.
I ask them what they need our ash tray for when they already have two of their own.
"We just want the cigarette butts," I'm told.
"What - why?"
They won't say but I can tell they want to. After some prompting they gleefully relate their proud and noble plan. The butts are for a special party trick.
Who amongst us has not wondered:
How many cigarette butts can be made to fit under the foreskin of the average Australian male?If you had asked me on Monday night, I'd have said NOBODY HAS EVER WONDERED THAT BECAUSE IT'S A FUCKING STUPID THING TO DO.
Apparently I was Wrong.
The answer, proven not once but thrice over the course of Tuesday evening is more than 27. What was not immediately clear, and probably never will be, was why.
Why would anybody want to do that to themselves, why would their friends encourage them, and why would it be considered appropriate to make unsuspecting females look at it?
The whole thing was the most puerile, disrespectful display I've had the misfortune to witness since I had the unhappy acquaintance of a group of catholic school boys in 1993.
* Drunk alter-ego, not her real name.
** I don't hate all students, just large assemblies of drunk ones under the age of 25.
taste the rainbow
I feel oddly euphoric.
I'm not really looking forward to going to work tomorrow, but it'll be fine. For now, there's still a couple of hours left before I really should let the weekend end and go to bed.
Clean sheets. I love clean sheets. Maybe I'll even go to bed early and read - bliss.
The odd euphoria doesn't last, unfortunately. It oscillates. The good stuff I was feeling a few minutes ago has already turned to melancholy. The upside is that I'll likely be 'up' again in a few minutes.
I don't know why I'm like this right now but it's pretty much how my whole adult life has played out, more or less.
I'm simultaneously excited, discouraged, bored and confused. It's like watching cable TV except that I can't walk away.
I should not:
- bake cookies, because then I have to eat them all by myself
- be so mesmerised by boobs
- keep going to bed late and therefore waking up tired
- continue to hold in my venom just because I've learned not to say what I think
- keep beating myself up about my weight
- avoid the blogosphere because I am lazy
- swallow battery acid
more crazy-sister shenanigans
Following on from this post, here's how my little-sis managed to leave a bad taste in my mouth post-Bali:
- Existential crises characterised by late-night tears and monologues about utopian fantasies after lights out.
- Fiscal conniptions regarding hypothetical credit card fraud.
- A melt-down in customs that would have done anyone on Border Patrol proud.
Good times... good times.
The teeth are crappy, and no doubt expensive
A bit of one of my top molars came loose last night. I've put it on the kitchen window sill and marvel at its small, white shininess while making tea.
Meanwhile, hot things, cold things, crunchy things, gelatinous things - indeed, all things - hurt when I eat them.
I have spoken to my dentist and am now on a cancellation waiting list. If no one cancels today then I will have to wait until Wednesday to be seen.
This is what I get for not making a dental appointment when I already knew for sure that I needed work done.
all about my crazy sister
My little-sis gets anxious about pretty much everything; and when she gets anxious - apart from quickly escalating straight to full-on inconsolable panic - her core body temperature goes up, resulting in nausea and vomiting. She also suffers from chronic motion sickness, inevitably resulting in nausea and vomiting.
At the time of traveling with me to Bali she was also suffering from an ongoing bronchial and ear infection resulting in - guess! Nausea and vomiting, dizziness and a general feeling of uneasiness about all things bodily.
You can imagine how awesome it was to undertake international air travel in her company. It wasn't the most expedient way to ensure a relaxing break from my currently less than ideal daily life.
How to know you're currently single:
Tonight my dinner consisted of camembert, brown onion soup and rye bread.
Now I am drinking sauvignon blanc while I watch a "delightful" movie starring Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman.
...please, kill me now.
Bali Hai
I went to Bali to get:
- rest
- peace
- perspective
- warm
- drunk
Don't get me wrong - beer has it's place in a warm climate, and cocktails are always an excellent medium for the transmission of plastic mermaids and naked-lady swizzle sticks; but I'm a piss pot who likes her fermented grape juices.
No matter. The shopping was fun and the accommodation more than acceptable. And we went to a water slide park. The awesomest water slide park I ever went to (and I've been to at least two others - oh yeah).
I have to admit that I was a little reticent about international holidaying with my sis... and I was correct to be concerned.
More on that in the next post.
The holiday has finally arrived!
It's been a massive slog to get to it but I do feel I've left the office in some semblance of organisation whilst I'm away. Surely 2 people between them can do what I do, right?
We'll see.
I have my doubts about one of them.
Anyway, my little sis and I are fucking off to Bali and I fully intend to chill out. Sadly, I know it will all be over too soon.
Valium = FTW
In possibly some of the least excellent timing ever, I'm off to Bali in a week.
Damned terrorists - why can't they focus on being pissed at their parents and maybe stick to blowing them up?
What sense of universal entitlement encourages these people to blow themselves up in public places? Maybe it's my generations-old British heritage, but I don't even like complaining to my waiter if there's a hair in my food.
The original plan was to spend a couple of weeks relaxing and soaking up the value for money; but when I told my mum about it she was all "Ohh - your sister needs a holiday..." So now my sister is coming with me.
My sister suffers from some kind of anxiety disorder.
It gets worse in aeroplanes and when she's out of her comfort zone.
I will be visiting the doctor tomorrow for a fresh Valium prescription and at the first sign of trouble, it's 5mg for her.
is there ever a 'good time'?
It will come as no surprise to the 2.3 readers of this blog that I am a melancholy excuse for a functional human being.
More and more often lately I find myself sitting here desperately wanting to write something interesting and non-myopic; but apparently that's beyond me.
Apparently I'm self-obsessed.
That's pretty shit because, if you believe everyone who's telling me anything at the moment, I'm not very interesting.
I believe them because I know for a fact that wallowing in self-pity is pretty fucking pedestrian.
I hate being this way.
you wish your life was this awesome
Today is the first Saturday in 4 weeks that I haven't worked; and I have to say that's not necessarily a good thing.
I'm all for the relaxation of the not working but I'm having trouble with the loneliness.
Last night I got so lonely that I baked cookies to pass the time - like a 1950's housewife. Today I vacuumed, dusted, washed the sheets and cleaned the bathroom. The house is once more a pleasure to live in, with one exception - there ain't nobody here but us chickens.
By 'chickens', of course, I mean me and Texas.
It's all part of the rich one-dimensionality of my existence. Work. Sleep. Work Sleep.
No company.
No conversation.
No.
Nothing.
Just a big "Fuck Off".
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
More bad.
This week I was treated to such delights as my own mother sending hate mail to my work account while I'm trying to deal with 4.3 million other things. Her accusations included that I am "... truly crazy", that I have afflicted her with "...death by a thousand cuts" and that I am "...not the girl she thought I was."
All this because I will not tell her everything about my life; particularly when it is not my story alone to tell.
Truly, she is beyond interfering and controlling.
It's lucky for me that I'm medicated to the gills so that I've been able to handle her maniacal outbursts with some semblance of calm; but it's not a good time.
Admittedly there would be no "good" time but, if there were to be a good time, right now really isn't it.
I'm so tired.
There are too many things going on right now when all I really want to do is sleep. I can't get enough sleep right now. I should be working about 16 hours a day if I'm to have any hope of getting on top of everything, but I can't muster more than 8.
It's dark and cold and everyone else keeps finishing at 5pm. I don't want to be the last person in the office. I don't drive; and it's dark and cold and there's no one to come home to.
I'm beginning to despair of the probable likelihood of my shit coming together for the best.
...not sure what I want or need to write this evening
I'm just lonely and all DUI*, but without the D.
I'd dearly love to explain what's been going on at work but, since I nearly got dooced a while back, that's not really possible.
I'm fairly one dimensional these days - as if I ever wasn't.
Up. Work. Home. TV. Bed. Repeat.
Awesome.
The highlight of my day so far is seeing the actress who played Prisoner's Bea Smith on crappy All Saints tonight.
I think the best course of action is to take a hot water bottle to bed and continue Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
* Dialing under the influence.
as if you're not tired of me prattling about my problems
This weekend I finally came clean with my family about all the problems the Monkey-husband and I have had this year.
For those of you with a mathematical disposition, that conversation has been 4 months in the making (almost to the day); and 2 months since I had my stroke.
It went better than expected. Nobody got nailed to anything, which is always a plus.
But the fact remains that I'm no closer to knowing. Will the Monkey ever come home? How long should I wait, realistically? What is the point of anything without a partner in crime?
Unfortunately the answer to all three questions is, "I don't know."
...loser.
I used to be feminist; not "defined by my man" and all that.
*snort*
See how the mighty have fallen.
I miss my husband.
on the stroke front
Still no news on what caused my stroke.
I've had MRIs and ECGs and ultrasounds and halter monitors. I'm now on three different medications for cholesterol, blood pressure and clotting; but the general consensus is that it was "probably one of those things".
It's certainly been an interesting year, as far as fucked up shit happening to me goes.
The Monkey-husband is gone. My health is apparently questionable. And tonight, a tile fell of the ceiling in the toilet.
Huzzah!
small and invalid
It's no particular secret that, for some time now, I have been seeing a psychologist.
Partly this is because I am a well-medicated depressive; but mostly it's because I fucked up my life in one fell swoop about 2 years ago and the ripples are still spreading out from the epicentre of Cass-tastrophy.
I'm not really sure what seeing a psychologist is actually supposed to achieve but it's nice to be able to talk things over with an impartial observer who doesn't encourage me to do stupid things like dying my hair black or aquiring 12 cats.
...Not that he discourages me from doing those things - he just gets me to think it over first.*
Yesterday he asked me how I felt about a certain issue in my life. I though for a bit and then remembered what had come to me the night before.
I am small and invalid.
He asked me what I meant by that, and I said:
Small - adj., small·er, small·est.Then something weird happened. He lifted his glasses and smoothed the corner of his eye with his thumb. I didn't think anything of it until he did it again with his index finger a minute later.Invalid - adj.
- Being below the average in size or magnitude.
- Limited in importance or significance; trivial: a small matter.
- Limited in degree or scope: small farm operations.
- Lacking position, influence, or status; minor: “A crowd of small writers had vainly attempted to rival Addison” (Thomas Macaulay).
- Having been belittled; humiliated: Their comments made me feel small.
- Lacking force or volume: a small voice.
- Not legally or factually valid; null: an invalid license.
- Falsely based or reasoned; faulty: an invalid argument.
- Utterly without merit (my definition).
I think I made him cry.
*12 cats would certainly have a certain aroma, I think. One I probably don't need in my life.
Dear God, why must my organisational skillz be cactus?
It was mother's day here in AU today.
To mark the occasion, and my mother's birthday last week, we all were invited to lunch at my mum's sister's house.
Let's see... Given the epic dysfunction already inherent in my life at present; what could go wrong?
On Friday night I managed to leave her gift on the train after work. In an ideal world this might not have been such a problem. Since the train terminated at my station and was duly shunted into the yards for the night one may have dared to assume that a phone call might be all that was needed to locate the errant parcel (as it was quite obviously gift-wrapped).
No. Such. Luck.
...and here I was feeling all pleased with my mad organisational skillz.
Never mind, I thought, I'll just have to order another - bring on Sunday lunch!
Luck and I are not speaking of late; so rather than turn up for lunch at my Aunt's house 15 minutes up the road from my house, I ended up at her other house. The one that's 15 minutes up the road from mum's place. The one that is 90 minutes FROM MY HOUSE.
For fuck's sake.
I give up.
Email to my peeps; 14 April 2009
Hi All,
I am going to be back in the office tomorrow, so I figured I should fill you all in on where and what I've been up to since the ambos took me away on 2 April.
I spent 6 nights in the neurology ward of Box Hill Hospital where an MRI revealed that I had experienced a stroke caused by a blood clot at the base of my skull.
The stroke affected the left side of my body, which is not good since I am left-handed! As a result, my handwriting, dexterity, balance and strength were all reduced on that side but slowly came back over the course of a week.
I am now fully recovered as far as I can tell, except that I am experiencing some tiredness.
Also, I am now on anti-clotting medication; so if we could keep the bumper-car riding and chainsaw juggling to a minimum in the office that would be most helpful.
Cheers, Cass.
