Project Pandora Update - Day 44
Current Weight - 85.3 kgs
A couple of people in my support network have brought this up recently. Friends and family have come out and said that they look too thin / a bit sick / they're going overboard.
One of the joyous paradoxes of losing weight is that for all the internal struggles, the public meltdowns, the trials, the sweat, the screaming at your PT that you're not doing effing burpees, the having to say "no" to things you really want to say yes too (ICE CREAM...), the self-sabotage - this is one of the most public private journeys you will ever embark upon.
Sometimes, having your transformation out there will be a great thing. Other times it sucks worse than your grandfather's grungy undies hanging on your very public clothesline for the whole world to see and comment upon. Depending how you are feeling, the direction of the wind, the aspect of Venus and what the NASDAQ is doing, you'll never know how you're going to react to this public outpouring of comments and criticism at any given time.
Thankfully, in my case and for the girls I'm doing this 12wbt thing with, it's been a really positive thing for the most part. We can all see the changes - and it's wonderful.
Other times, things get a big freaky when either you know you might feel like your sabbotaging yourself, or you know you can't stick to the plan.
For me, case in point, I'm going out to dinner on Saturday with some friends. Alice will bring a starter, Pete and Gioia will provide mains and I'll bring dessert. Thing is, controlling the calories for this meal will be next to impossible. Pete's a great cook but is heavy handed on the butter, cream and cheese. Alice is not as bad, but she makes yummy stuff too which I would normally have to say no to.
I think this will be a case of ask for smaller portions and suck it up - it's just one night. I'm making a cake - Pete's birthday cake - for pudding. It's a full fat, chocolate, cream and walnut filled, butter encrusted Gabriel Gate classic. I'm sitting here scowling. It just needs to be done. As it's a birthday cake it will have smarties on top because birthday cakes need smarties. That's the rules.
I'll have a sliver - with some vanilla ice cream thrown in for good measure. And plan a few extra exercise sessions around this indulgent evening.
Then you get the comments that throw you for six and you think "What the hell?"
Case in point. After dream group I stayed to have a quick chat to Viv. We got talking. I need to preface this with the fact that these comments were made with love and admiration and absolutely no offence was taken. If only all comments could come with these emotions attached.
Viv paid me a lovely compliment - I was looking lovely. Thinking, I'm just in jeans and a t-shirt - I'm happy and comfortable. I said thank you.
She then asked me not to lose any more weight off my legs and bum. Nope, that was not on.
Hmm. How am I supposed to make that happen?
I'm sitting here in size 16 jeans - which are comfortable, not too snug and with no apparent camel toe (or moose claw as some know it). My t-shirt - also a size 16 is baggy and I've made a mental note that this one is a good ebay proposition. I'm holding off buying clothes until I have secured a job and maybe lost one or two more kilos - so that snug size 14s can be shrunk into - makes sense to me.
"Pandora, you have no hips or bum, and your legs are too skinny." I had to smile.
"Sorry Viv, can't do much about it. I'm a clone of my mother, who at seventy, still has the second best set of pins I've ever seen. The first best set goes to my eighty-two year old aunt - my Mum's sister. It's genetic."
The women of my family are chook-legged, arseless, hipless wonders (with bellies and big tits). There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. (I'm also thankful I missed out on the tree trunk legs of my father's side)
"How much further do you want to go?" She asked.
"About 15-20 kilos."
"Won't that be too much?"
"I'm still technically classed as medically obese. I know that it's not the be all and end all, but I'd like to have a flat tummy. I won't know until I lose it where how far actually is." was my response.
"Oh - but if you go that far, you won't have a bum to speak of!"
How do you win? Should I be celebrating because I don't have a bum? Or should I be berating myself for not having one.
I shouldn't moan - at least I don't have to ask if my arse looks like the back of a barn. So I don't have any "junk in the trunk" - so be it. Can't do anything about body shape.
I'm also very thankful for the love and support of my friends - I'm just highlighting the irony. Others in my support group have not been so lucky. The taunts have been thoughtless and cruel.
Exercise wise, I'm getting back into walking. The bronchitis knocked me around once again, but rather than go back too soon, an hour of gentle walking today and yesterday have taken away some of the collywobbles. I'll go to Pump at lunchtime tomorrow and be back into it on Saturday with Pinochet. Missing the hard core exercise is one thing I can't be hard on myself for. I've been sick. I haven't been able to breathe properly. Getting better has been my priority. Thankfully, this is something I have full and clear perspective on.
Looking at all of this, I'm realising that there's been a hell of a lot more gained than just dropping a few kilos.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Under the Milky Way
Simple pleasure - looking up at a starry sky.
Tonight, after dream group, I looked up. The last of the crescent moon had gone down hours before and above, in the clear Melbourne sky, in a suburb where the street lights hadn't been calibrated to the end of daylight savings.
Old friends soon appeared. Orion, with Betelgeuse at his head (or Beetlejuice if you are of my advanced years - just don't say his name three times or there will be trouble). There were other old friends to find. The saucepan, the emu - ah, there it is - the Southern Cross - have to find the Southern Cross when you look up - it's always there, you just have to find it. Ah, there it was, right above me. It was strange living in the Northern Hemisphere for so long - the stars were strange - not that you saw them that often - not with the light leakage, smog and grey weather.
Tonight was so dark, I even got a glimpse of the Milky Way. You never see that in the city. I don't remember watching out for it since I was living on Mykonos. Living in the middle of the island the lights were minimal - and being in the middle of the Aegean, there was less ambient light to worry about.
I used to gaze at the stars all the time as a child. I remember telling my year 11 career counsellor that if I couldn't be a French teacher or a doctor I'd love to be an astronaut. I've gone from being an astronomy nerd to an astrology nerd. Speaking to another astronomy nerd recent, he said he always wanted to know how we astrologers saw things. Strangely, how the stars and planets and comets go round is just the same. It's just a difference in the interpretation.
And then the song came. Sang it all the way home.
I prefer the acoustic version - The Church's "Under the Milky Way".
Who says Australians don't write fantastic songs.
And it sure beats the honky tonk version of Cold Chisel's "Khe Sahn" I heard played on an off-key pianola down Bourke Street Mall today.
Tonight, after dream group, I looked up. The last of the crescent moon had gone down hours before and above, in the clear Melbourne sky, in a suburb where the street lights hadn't been calibrated to the end of daylight savings.
Old friends soon appeared. Orion, with Betelgeuse at his head (or Beetlejuice if you are of my advanced years - just don't say his name three times or there will be trouble). There were other old friends to find. The saucepan, the emu - ah, there it is - the Southern Cross - have to find the Southern Cross when you look up - it's always there, you just have to find it. Ah, there it was, right above me. It was strange living in the Northern Hemisphere for so long - the stars were strange - not that you saw them that often - not with the light leakage, smog and grey weather.
Tonight was so dark, I even got a glimpse of the Milky Way. You never see that in the city. I don't remember watching out for it since I was living on Mykonos. Living in the middle of the island the lights were minimal - and being in the middle of the Aegean, there was less ambient light to worry about.
I used to gaze at the stars all the time as a child. I remember telling my year 11 career counsellor that if I couldn't be a French teacher or a doctor I'd love to be an astronaut. I've gone from being an astronomy nerd to an astrology nerd. Speaking to another astronomy nerd recent, he said he always wanted to know how we astrologers saw things. Strangely, how the stars and planets and comets go round is just the same. It's just a difference in the interpretation.
And then the song came. Sang it all the way home.
I prefer the acoustic version - The Church's "Under the Milky Way".
Who says Australians don't write fantastic songs.
And it sure beats the honky tonk version of Cold Chisel's "Khe Sahn" I heard played on an off-key pianola down Bourke Street Mall today.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Balmy Daze
Setting yourself the task of blogging every day is a bit silly. You would think finding something to write about would be easy - but it isn't. Especially when you've been stuck at home coughing up a lung and the highlight of your day was a gentle walk down to Aldi half a kilometre away.
Pudding Cat has been keeping me company - I've changed his name to Pudding for he is a little on the tubby side and he loves showing off his belly. He's going home on the weekend. Blarney's confirmed that they'll be back sometime Friday and I'll return him the following day.
So today - on the agenda was an interview - that was postponed until tomorrow or Thursday. I'm thankful for this as I'm still coughing a bit - though I do feel quite well in myself. Fingers crossed for this one - that is all I will say.
Other things on the agenda. Put some stuff on ebay, fill in a few more applications, make some phone calls, cook lunch for the next two days (a very yummy roast vegetable and chick pea salad) and spend some time reading. All got done.
Then, when speaking to Kath from "Blurb from the Burbs" she made the suggestion of writing on the subject of a photograph. What a good idea.
After photographing my items for sale - some books, the odd CD and some trousers that are way too big now, I stumbled across this on the SD Card.
I remember this day. The shot was taken in Granada on a day not unlike the weather here in Melbourne today. The weather was balmy for mid-Autumn, with a hint of chill coming off the Sierra Nevada mountains. Being early November, the shadows seemed to get long early and stay that way for an eternity.
The lane way, like all the streets in Granada, are cobbled and narrow. Eliot put it well - "streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent." These streets, in grid formation, were easy to get lost in - and to lose yourself in. The lefthand wall is part of the Granada Cathedral - a particularly underwhelming building, slapped in the middle of the town to show Christian might in a place that had been dominated by the Moors for centuries. In the shadow of the Alhambra, these streets existed in relative mediocrity.
Granada is also a university town. A place filled with students, unkept buildings, flyers for bands pasted to ancient walls, over flowing bins and young people, lethargic in the day, energetic at night. Like most Spanish cities, the place becomes alive around 9 pm. It feels safe, though where I was staying I felt a small element of malice - I don't know why - nothing happened to me there.
Looking back at the photo, I see the busker slumped against the cathedral wall. the booted woman making her way home, the long shadows, the expectation of the evening.
I love this shot.
Then I remember how much I love travelling, how I have no idea when I will be travelling again and how I wish I could find somebody to pay me to be a travel writer. It's my one dream job.
Mind you, I'm pretty good at manifesting things like travel and I have to remind myself of this.
Dreaming big can be a great thing.
Pudding Cat has been keeping me company - I've changed his name to Pudding for he is a little on the tubby side and he loves showing off his belly. He's going home on the weekend. Blarney's confirmed that they'll be back sometime Friday and I'll return him the following day.
So today - on the agenda was an interview - that was postponed until tomorrow or Thursday. I'm thankful for this as I'm still coughing a bit - though I do feel quite well in myself. Fingers crossed for this one - that is all I will say.
Other things on the agenda. Put some stuff on ebay, fill in a few more applications, make some phone calls, cook lunch for the next two days (a very yummy roast vegetable and chick pea salad) and spend some time reading. All got done.
Then, when speaking to Kath from "Blurb from the Burbs" she made the suggestion of writing on the subject of a photograph. What a good idea.
After photographing my items for sale - some books, the odd CD and some trousers that are way too big now, I stumbled across this on the SD Card.
The lane way, like all the streets in Granada, are cobbled and narrow. Eliot put it well - "streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent." These streets, in grid formation, were easy to get lost in - and to lose yourself in. The lefthand wall is part of the Granada Cathedral - a particularly underwhelming building, slapped in the middle of the town to show Christian might in a place that had been dominated by the Moors for centuries. In the shadow of the Alhambra, these streets existed in relative mediocrity.
Granada is also a university town. A place filled with students, unkept buildings, flyers for bands pasted to ancient walls, over flowing bins and young people, lethargic in the day, energetic at night. Like most Spanish cities, the place becomes alive around 9 pm. It feels safe, though where I was staying I felt a small element of malice - I don't know why - nothing happened to me there.
Looking back at the photo, I see the busker slumped against the cathedral wall. the booted woman making her way home, the long shadows, the expectation of the evening.
I love this shot.
Then I remember how much I love travelling, how I have no idea when I will be travelling again and how I wish I could find somebody to pay me to be a travel writer. It's my one dream job.
Mind you, I'm pretty good at manifesting things like travel and I have to remind myself of this.
Dreaming big can be a great thing.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Did I just have that Conversation?
I never thought I would say this, but I rather envy Generation Why. Despite their zero attention span, the belief that the world owes them everything and their ability to program in C++ from kindergarten, I found tonight that I wished I could be one of them.
(Reading this back, it might be the antibiotics talking here...)
This morning I trudged off to the doctor. Their surgery is located on a hill I normally run up without blinking. Hmmm. Got to the door without much breath left and I scowled at Penny the receptionist when she told me to go upstairs. I had the normal conversation with the doctor. Yes, I have a minor bout of bronchitis. Yes, my temperature is up a little. No, my glands and ears are fine. She congratulated me on the weight loss and fitness and getting the blood pressure down naturally. As expected I was told to go home, go to bed, drink your fluids and take the pills.
And orders have been followed to the letter.
So, after a day of job hunting from bed, making the odd call, watching half a season of Grey's Anatomy and cuddling the cat (the perfect sick day really) one of my training buddies called to say she was popping around. Could she bring anything? Of course, I told her. Bring ice cream. Just one. I'm ill. I'm breaking ranks for a day - though nothing too badly. One ice cream won't hurt. I've stayed in the parameters of clean and healthy food today - just had a little more than normal. I'm ill - it's allowed.
So just after seven, around she comes. Maxibon in her hand (can't say thank you enough for this - perfect). She pops herself down on the couch, shoves the cat's blanket over her lap and grabs Maow. And we have a chat.
There's lots going on in her life. We talked about that. There's quite a bit going on in mine. We talked about that too. She had a cuddle of the Maow Maow. To be expected.
We then got into a discussion about the best place to buy vibrators and the ethics of Brazillian waxing.
I'm not a prude. Far from it. But my Gen X sensibilities normally restrict me from discussing the virtues of snatch waxing. And as for vibrators. Normally, I'd be looking at the ceiling, whistling, trying to disappear.
What freedoms to Gen Why-ers have? Why don't we, a decade older, and possibly two wiser, have the perceived leisure to talk about this stuff? Or maybe it's just my polite group of friends.
Okay, sorry, Brazillian waxes I just don't get. Why would an adult woman want to look twelve down there? Take most of it off - sure, but leave a bit to prove you're a real woman and so your bits don't get cold.
As for the vibrator discussion - um - like why would anybody actually want to go to a megastore called Sexyland? I had to challenge this. I thought everybody in the district knew that the best erotica shop in Richmond is Passionfruit in Bridge Road (followed by Bliss on Lonsdale Street - if it's still there). Female friendly shops, no blackened windows or men in raincoats about - just open, tasteful, friendly and fun.
Hmmm.
I didn't mention to her that there was always mail order. Down Under Toys do mail order and they're all made of surgical silicone and have detatchable battery packs, so you can boil them up after use. And the only reason I know this is because I interviewed the owner a few years ago for a course I was doing. Seriously.
On her way out, she said she might have to go have a look at these shops. And why not? She's Gen Why. Gen X-ers would never admit to this sort of stuff.
And I only know about this stuff because I'm the "Suppository of All Knowledge" as an old workmate used to call me. Better than wikipedia, I am, he reckoned.
Just as I know where you can find smudge sticks, obstetricians, Jedi Priests, men who balance oil rigs and the odd proctologist - doesn't mean I know everything.
Looking back, did I really have this conversation tonight?
Or is the tetracycline the doctor is feeding me just an Illuminati plot to put holes in my brain.
Best get to bed to sleep all this off - have yet another interview tomorrow - don't want to cough all over the person grilling me.
(Reading this back, it might be the antibiotics talking here...)
This morning I trudged off to the doctor. Their surgery is located on a hill I normally run up without blinking. Hmmm. Got to the door without much breath left and I scowled at Penny the receptionist when she told me to go upstairs. I had the normal conversation with the doctor. Yes, I have a minor bout of bronchitis. Yes, my temperature is up a little. No, my glands and ears are fine. She congratulated me on the weight loss and fitness and getting the blood pressure down naturally. As expected I was told to go home, go to bed, drink your fluids and take the pills.
And orders have been followed to the letter.
So, after a day of job hunting from bed, making the odd call, watching half a season of Grey's Anatomy and cuddling the cat (the perfect sick day really) one of my training buddies called to say she was popping around. Could she bring anything? Of course, I told her. Bring ice cream. Just one. I'm ill. I'm breaking ranks for a day - though nothing too badly. One ice cream won't hurt. I've stayed in the parameters of clean and healthy food today - just had a little more than normal. I'm ill - it's allowed.
So just after seven, around she comes. Maxibon in her hand (can't say thank you enough for this - perfect). She pops herself down on the couch, shoves the cat's blanket over her lap and grabs Maow. And we have a chat.
There's lots going on in her life. We talked about that. There's quite a bit going on in mine. We talked about that too. She had a cuddle of the Maow Maow. To be expected.
We then got into a discussion about the best place to buy vibrators and the ethics of Brazillian waxing.
I'm not a prude. Far from it. But my Gen X sensibilities normally restrict me from discussing the virtues of snatch waxing. And as for vibrators. Normally, I'd be looking at the ceiling, whistling, trying to disappear.
What freedoms to Gen Why-ers have? Why don't we, a decade older, and possibly two wiser, have the perceived leisure to talk about this stuff? Or maybe it's just my polite group of friends.
Okay, sorry, Brazillian waxes I just don't get. Why would an adult woman want to look twelve down there? Take most of it off - sure, but leave a bit to prove you're a real woman and so your bits don't get cold.
As for the vibrator discussion - um - like why would anybody actually want to go to a megastore called Sexyland? I had to challenge this. I thought everybody in the district knew that the best erotica shop in Richmond is Passionfruit in Bridge Road (followed by Bliss on Lonsdale Street - if it's still there). Female friendly shops, no blackened windows or men in raincoats about - just open, tasteful, friendly and fun.
Hmmm.
I didn't mention to her that there was always mail order. Down Under Toys do mail order and they're all made of surgical silicone and have detatchable battery packs, so you can boil them up after use. And the only reason I know this is because I interviewed the owner a few years ago for a course I was doing. Seriously.
On her way out, she said she might have to go have a look at these shops. And why not? She's Gen Why. Gen X-ers would never admit to this sort of stuff.
And I only know about this stuff because I'm the "Suppository of All Knowledge" as an old workmate used to call me. Better than wikipedia, I am, he reckoned.
Just as I know where you can find smudge sticks, obstetricians, Jedi Priests, men who balance oil rigs and the odd proctologist - doesn't mean I know everything.
Looking back, did I really have this conversation tonight?
Or is the tetracycline the doctor is feeding me just an Illuminati plot to put holes in my brain.
Best get to bed to sleep all this off - have yet another interview tomorrow - don't want to cough all over the person grilling me.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Zen and the Art of Cat Emotion Maintenance
Being a healer by vocation, I'm used to being on the receiving end of some very different theories and discussions - things that at times I wish I wasn't. Other times, I will take on the thought and incorporate the thoughts into my beliefs and workings. Like faith, religion and political theory, I take on the best fit, dismiss what I don't like and to hell with what anybody thinks. This goes to show with the fact that as a staunch Labor/Greens voter, a couple of my best friends are card carrying John Howard lovers.
So the when the email about the Illuminati causing the Japanese earthquake and tsunami came, it got binned pretty quick - along with all the schmaltzy angel crap my sister sends me.
However, the email a friend sent about how to ward off illness struck me as worthy of a second read. The email stated ways of keeping well included the following:
I'm fully aware that colds are the product of repressed anger and emotional turmoil as much as they are by the virus that causes them. Colds are a product of fairly minor quibbles for the most part. I try to protect myself from these slings and arrows, and I normally succeed. But after a month of being pissed off about the work stiuation and having some large emotional burdens dumped on me I'm not surprised I'm hacking up green crap and spending today in bed.
Maow Maow? Yes, I'm blaming Maow Maow for this cold.
How can you be Zen like in your cleanliness when you have a cat? How can you stay calm all the time when you have a cat? How can you keep things in order when you have a cat?
For the last month, I have been responsible for the wellbeing of another, physically and emotionally - and it's all becoming a bit of a strain. And I know he's a cat - but I still feel very responsible for him.
The cat and I tick along brilliantly, for the most part. He's reasonably polite, quiet, not overly noisy and he can be very sweet.
Yet, there are times, many times, when I feel like I'm being held to ransom by a teenage boy.
Here is where the Zen cleanliness thing kicks in. I'm sure teenage boys might have a bit more concern when it comes to eating habits - this one eats all over the place - his place mat on the floor is littered with old food that needs cleaning up after every meal. He also has a fine habit of kicking his litter all over the flat. Because I had to change his litter to the deodorised crystal stuff (as the garbage Barney brought over stank after a day's use) he appears to like to kick it out of his litter tray and toy with it round the place. Walking bare foot around the kitchen is no longer possible as it feels like you're treading on gravel.
Then there's the guilt thing. The manipulative little shit has the guilt thing down pat. As soon as you step into the shower in the morning you get the,"Where the hell do you think you're going?" look. He follows you around, climbs your stockings, atttaches himself that dangles from your person (dressing gown cords are a favorite) and as you clean your teeth, he just sits at your feet with a pathetic look on his face - that "I know where you're going, and its not around here, is it? You're leaving me, aren't you, bitch."
I'm being fed a guilt trip by a cat!
Of course, when you get home, there is the "moody dance" and I call it. The rubbing of the legs, the purring, then when you do go to pick him up, he scurries away with a disdainful look.
And just like a teenage boy, when you need him for something, he's nowhere to be seen - or off in a sulk. Today, feeling like hell, all I wanted was a cuddle. Would he sit on the end of my bed - no way. It wasn't until I changed my bedding did he come round. What is it with clean sheets and cats?
The Maow Maow is now sitting in the middle of a mohair blanket in the middle of my couch. This is "his" spot. He used to sleep on his bed that Blarney and Barney brought over - now he likes his mohair blanket. Take it away and he gets grumpy.
Oh, and when clients come around - when you need him to behave - he bites the feet of tarot clients and comes and snuggles up on the laps of those having their feet done. Contrary little monster.
People ask me why I don't have a cat. Well other than my lease stipulates no pets, I'm not sure I could take the guilt trips, the mess, the mood swings, the on -again/off-again affection, the game playing on a full time basis.
Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend either...
So the when the email about the Illuminati causing the Japanese earthquake and tsunami came, it got binned pretty quick - along with all the schmaltzy angel crap my sister sends me.
However, the email a friend sent about how to ward off illness struck me as worthy of a second read. The email stated ways of keeping well included the following:
- One needs discipline to calm the mind and control, or your darkness comes out and pulls in the ghouls.
- Keep your life ordered and Zen-like in its cleanliness. This is a form for protection.
- Stay away from anything degrading, violent films or degrading images and news on TV.
- Stay away from poisonous and dangerous places.
- Stay calm, no fear no anger.
- Drink chamomile even if you don't like it drink lots of it.
- Do the forgiveness prayer where you go on your knees and beg forgiveness for your transgressions in the past.
- Try to be a vegetarian, if not already one. It helps greatly with your perception as you become more alkaline.
I'm fully aware that colds are the product of repressed anger and emotional turmoil as much as they are by the virus that causes them. Colds are a product of fairly minor quibbles for the most part. I try to protect myself from these slings and arrows, and I normally succeed. But after a month of being pissed off about the work stiuation and having some large emotional burdens dumped on me I'm not surprised I'm hacking up green crap and spending today in bed.
Mostly I put the cold down to the change in weather, spending a half hour next to half a tram full of people with pneumonia on the tram - and Maow Maow.
Maow Maow? Yes, I'm blaming Maow Maow for this cold.
How can you be Zen like in your cleanliness when you have a cat? How can you stay calm all the time when you have a cat? How can you keep things in order when you have a cat?
For the last month, I have been responsible for the wellbeing of another, physically and emotionally - and it's all becoming a bit of a strain. And I know he's a cat - but I still feel very responsible for him.
The cat and I tick along brilliantly, for the most part. He's reasonably polite, quiet, not overly noisy and he can be very sweet.
Yet, there are times, many times, when I feel like I'm being held to ransom by a teenage boy.
Here is where the Zen cleanliness thing kicks in. I'm sure teenage boys might have a bit more concern when it comes to eating habits - this one eats all over the place - his place mat on the floor is littered with old food that needs cleaning up after every meal. He also has a fine habit of kicking his litter all over the flat. Because I had to change his litter to the deodorised crystal stuff (as the garbage Barney brought over stank after a day's use) he appears to like to kick it out of his litter tray and toy with it round the place. Walking bare foot around the kitchen is no longer possible as it feels like you're treading on gravel.
Then there's the guilt thing. The manipulative little shit has the guilt thing down pat. As soon as you step into the shower in the morning you get the,"Where the hell do you think you're going?" look. He follows you around, climbs your stockings, atttaches himself that dangles from your person (dressing gown cords are a favorite) and as you clean your teeth, he just sits at your feet with a pathetic look on his face - that "I know where you're going, and its not around here, is it? You're leaving me, aren't you, bitch."
I'm being fed a guilt trip by a cat!
Of course, when you get home, there is the "moody dance" and I call it. The rubbing of the legs, the purring, then when you do go to pick him up, he scurries away with a disdainful look.
And just like a teenage boy, when you need him for something, he's nowhere to be seen - or off in a sulk. Today, feeling like hell, all I wanted was a cuddle. Would he sit on the end of my bed - no way. It wasn't until I changed my bedding did he come round. What is it with clean sheets and cats?
The Maow Maow is now sitting in the middle of a mohair blanket in the middle of my couch. This is "his" spot. He used to sleep on his bed that Blarney and Barney brought over - now he likes his mohair blanket. Take it away and he gets grumpy.
Oh, and when clients come around - when you need him to behave - he bites the feet of tarot clients and comes and snuggles up on the laps of those having their feet done. Contrary little monster.
People ask me why I don't have a cat. Well other than my lease stipulates no pets, I'm not sure I could take the guilt trips, the mess, the mood swings, the on -again/off-again affection, the game playing on a full time basis.
Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend either...
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Snot and the City
I hab a code id da doze.
Or more to the point, I have a cold in the nose - and a sore throat - and really I don't feel that bad, even though I'm emitting snot at a rate of knots and this is not pleasant for anybody, me included.
Waking on this rather dreary Saturday to the early alarm, I knew I should be getting my sorry bum out of bed to go meet Trin to do two laps of the Tan - but I can't force myself to run when I'm teeming snot. I have a cold. The rules state that I don't run when I get a cold as it only makes things worse and I'll have bronchitis in a matter of days. However the rules say nothing about walking if I feel like it. Or doing easy exercise for the day.
Trin had been warned the night before that I was having an early night and that there was a good probability that I wouldn't go for the run - but I'd be there at the 1000 Steps later in the day.
In between the missing run and the steps, I had to make a trip into the city. I was to meet up with somebody I went to primary school with. The joys of facebook reconnected us a year or so ago, now it was time to meet face to face for a coffee - see where we were at some twenty five years on.
The thought of this meeting has been scaring the sweet bejeezus out of me for a week.
I walked into the city with some trepidation. Thinking I was taking my time over the four kilometres I made very good time. Bummer. Taking my time I relished the stroll down Flinders Lane, marvelling at the Adelphi roof pool, checking out the menu at Ezard, looking in the trendy shop windows, watching the coffee set drinking their teas. And there she was. On time. Kylie McDonald. She hadn't changed at all.
The last time I saw Kylie McDonald was probably the last day of high school. I remember a few things about Kylie. She was one of the popular kids at primary school - I wasn't. She made a crack when I had to go to school in a wheelchair that they should kick me out and race around the playground in grade six. It never happened. Thankfully I only had to go to school in a wheelchair for a few days - then it was a couple of weeks on crutches. It's funny, but I do remember that - and I don't remember that much at all from primary school - I recall next to nothing if I'm truthful.
You have to remember that I went to a primary school where there were only a hundred kids - composite classes. In my grade seven year there were twelve of us. I've obliterated these years from my mind - I know I was miserable.
From what I recall, Kylie was smart, like me. Kylie played netball. I didn't. Kylie's Mum worked at the school. Kylie had two pretty older sisters. Kylie was Myponga establishment. I wasn't - moving to the town when I was in grade three. When I was at primary school I thought she had a pretty great life. I rather envied Kylie Martin.
Through high school, things were a little better. Thankfully neither of us were bullied. I was strange enough to be left alone, Kylie was close enough to the popular kids to be unnoticed. I always admired her ability to make friends - something I never mastered until university.
Kylie and I shared many classes. Both of us were in the academic strand - we suffered a Yeti for a physics teacher in year eleven - the only two girls in the class. We were both good at Maths and Chemistry, and generally we ticked along okay. She was always far more popular than me, friends with the Willunga Kids - something I never was - I was a weirdo at school and had a few misfit friends to hang around with. Things got easier by the final years. I was smart, I would be okay. Kylie was smart and fairly popular so she was in the same boat.
A thoroughly lovely time was had today. The thing that struck me was we've had parallel lives in many ways. Both of us worked our way up the chain the hard way - now we're both professionals in our respective fields. Both of us have travelled the world, been about the place. Only recently, she moved in with her partner, later in life than most of our school friends who were married with kids in their twenties. Both of us have had the indignity of having relatives ask "So when are you getting married?". Both of us know the half pride, half shame of walking into the store at Myponga and greeting Mary-Frances Scarpantonio - a year above us at school, married to a local guy, mother of six, grandmother of one, and telling her of our latest overseas jaunt. She tells us about how her brood are getting on. I had to remind Kylie that Mary-Frances has sisters in London and Rome working professional jobs. She made her choices. And how do I know this? My parents live next to Mary-Frances' parents. At Myponga. Kylie's parents are still in the district too.
It's funny what you remember and what you don't. It's even stranger how you get remembered. Kylie said I should try to come to the high school reunion they had last year. I flatly refused. Why would I want to see people who never really liked me from twenty years ago? She then told me of how, when they were organising the event, one of the popular kids - one of my main academic rivals - Robert Rose -was asked to get the word out. His response to this was "Where the hell is Pandora Behr when you need her?" I never thought I would get a second thought from the Willunga kids. Ever.
She also mentioned how she and I were pulled out of class in year seven and asked if we wanted to sit a test for a scholarship to a prestigious Adelaide girls school. How different could life be if we had taken that opportunity? At the time, she didn't want to. I wasn't allowed to sit the test. As I said, strange what you remember.
Will I see Kylie again. I hope so. She comes to Melbourne occasionally for the football - I might join them - save me the indignity of watching the Crows lose to St Kilda with Alice and Dougall.
Walking home the long way, I collected some magic, green, horse pills from the naturopath - the ones that kill colds quicker than any other medicine the doctor gives you, came home, changed and waited for Gloria and Gaynor to collect me for the walk up the steps.
There is something to say for losing weight and getting fit. Even with a head cold, I made it up those sodding stairs without stopping, without actually stressing that much at all - though much slower than I would normally do - in just over thirty minutes. Tracey and Sienna both finished today too - which was excellent.
And now, I'm home, about to go to bed, taking the cat with me to keep watch.
A good day was had.
Despite all the snot.
Or more to the point, I have a cold in the nose - and a sore throat - and really I don't feel that bad, even though I'm emitting snot at a rate of knots and this is not pleasant for anybody, me included.
Waking on this rather dreary Saturday to the early alarm, I knew I should be getting my sorry bum out of bed to go meet Trin to do two laps of the Tan - but I can't force myself to run when I'm teeming snot. I have a cold. The rules state that I don't run when I get a cold as it only makes things worse and I'll have bronchitis in a matter of days. However the rules say nothing about walking if I feel like it. Or doing easy exercise for the day.
Trin had been warned the night before that I was having an early night and that there was a good probability that I wouldn't go for the run - but I'd be there at the 1000 Steps later in the day.
In between the missing run and the steps, I had to make a trip into the city. I was to meet up with somebody I went to primary school with. The joys of facebook reconnected us a year or so ago, now it was time to meet face to face for a coffee - see where we were at some twenty five years on.
The thought of this meeting has been scaring the sweet bejeezus out of me for a week.
I walked into the city with some trepidation. Thinking I was taking my time over the four kilometres I made very good time. Bummer. Taking my time I relished the stroll down Flinders Lane, marvelling at the Adelphi roof pool, checking out the menu at Ezard, looking in the trendy shop windows, watching the coffee set drinking their teas. And there she was. On time. Kylie McDonald. She hadn't changed at all.
The last time I saw Kylie McDonald was probably the last day of high school. I remember a few things about Kylie. She was one of the popular kids at primary school - I wasn't. She made a crack when I had to go to school in a wheelchair that they should kick me out and race around the playground in grade six. It never happened. Thankfully I only had to go to school in a wheelchair for a few days - then it was a couple of weeks on crutches. It's funny, but I do remember that - and I don't remember that much at all from primary school - I recall next to nothing if I'm truthful.
You have to remember that I went to a primary school where there were only a hundred kids - composite classes. In my grade seven year there were twelve of us. I've obliterated these years from my mind - I know I was miserable.
From what I recall, Kylie was smart, like me. Kylie played netball. I didn't. Kylie's Mum worked at the school. Kylie had two pretty older sisters. Kylie was Myponga establishment. I wasn't - moving to the town when I was in grade three. When I was at primary school I thought she had a pretty great life. I rather envied Kylie Martin.
Through high school, things were a little better. Thankfully neither of us were bullied. I was strange enough to be left alone, Kylie was close enough to the popular kids to be unnoticed. I always admired her ability to make friends - something I never mastered until university.
Kylie and I shared many classes. Both of us were in the academic strand - we suffered a Yeti for a physics teacher in year eleven - the only two girls in the class. We were both good at Maths and Chemistry, and generally we ticked along okay. She was always far more popular than me, friends with the Willunga Kids - something I never was - I was a weirdo at school and had a few misfit friends to hang around with. Things got easier by the final years. I was smart, I would be okay. Kylie was smart and fairly popular so she was in the same boat.
A thoroughly lovely time was had today. The thing that struck me was we've had parallel lives in many ways. Both of us worked our way up the chain the hard way - now we're both professionals in our respective fields. Both of us have travelled the world, been about the place. Only recently, she moved in with her partner, later in life than most of our school friends who were married with kids in their twenties. Both of us have had the indignity of having relatives ask "So when are you getting married?". Both of us know the half pride, half shame of walking into the store at Myponga and greeting Mary-Frances Scarpantonio - a year above us at school, married to a local guy, mother of six, grandmother of one, and telling her of our latest overseas jaunt. She tells us about how her brood are getting on. I had to remind Kylie that Mary-Frances has sisters in London and Rome working professional jobs. She made her choices. And how do I know this? My parents live next to Mary-Frances' parents. At Myponga. Kylie's parents are still in the district too.
It's funny what you remember and what you don't. It's even stranger how you get remembered. Kylie said I should try to come to the high school reunion they had last year. I flatly refused. Why would I want to see people who never really liked me from twenty years ago? She then told me of how, when they were organising the event, one of the popular kids - one of my main academic rivals - Robert Rose -was asked to get the word out. His response to this was "Where the hell is Pandora Behr when you need her?" I never thought I would get a second thought from the Willunga kids. Ever.
She also mentioned how she and I were pulled out of class in year seven and asked if we wanted to sit a test for a scholarship to a prestigious Adelaide girls school. How different could life be if we had taken that opportunity? At the time, she didn't want to. I wasn't allowed to sit the test. As I said, strange what you remember.
Will I see Kylie again. I hope so. She comes to Melbourne occasionally for the football - I might join them - save me the indignity of watching the Crows lose to St Kilda with Alice and Dougall.
Walking home the long way, I collected some magic, green, horse pills from the naturopath - the ones that kill colds quicker than any other medicine the doctor gives you, came home, changed and waited for Gloria and Gaynor to collect me for the walk up the steps.
There is something to say for losing weight and getting fit. Even with a head cold, I made it up those sodding stairs without stopping, without actually stressing that much at all - though much slower than I would normally do - in just over thirty minutes. Tracey and Sienna both finished today too - which was excellent.
And now, I'm home, about to go to bed, taking the cat with me to keep watch.
A good day was had.
Despite all the snot.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Acccountability April
My main goal from my time off over the last three months, other than losing weight, has been to write.
However, other than blogging and filling in job applications, seriously, I haven't been writing. I haven't been creatively writing at all. The most creative thing I've written since January is my CV.
So I'm naming April the month of taking responsibility for my creativity and I will attempt to not only blog every day, but write something of use, of substance and of value over the next month. Oh, and it will be fiction - whether it be continuing on with Rainbow Robertson or getting a literary short story penned and polished - we have a goal. Write, Pandora, write!
This is my committment to you. You may or may not see the fiction. Sorry, you'll just have to put up with the blog in the meantime.
So, it's April. Other than being a fair bit slimmer things are chugging along, but that is about it.
A few things have happened that are a bit bittersweet and a bit fun.
First up, I have the Maow Maow for another week.
The Maow Maow you ask? Maow Maow is Barney and Blarney's cat. I reckon he was my soul mate in another life. We've always been the best of friends. Maow Maow was supposed to be going home this weekend. Got a text from Blarney, they're staying in Ireland for another week. (Friends of Blarney reading this, give me a call and I will explain) As much as I love the Maow Maow, I'm a little over having my feet being chewed at 5 am, his occasionally feral moods where he does his best Tasmanian Devil impersonation, his dreadful table manners, the way he kicks his litter all over the kitchen, him shedding everywhere, his need to accompany me to the toilet and the fact that he demands breakfast anywhere between 5.30 and 7 in the morning.
Making up for this tenfold is the fact he's brilliant company, extremely cuddly, keeps my legs warm at night and is very clean. I can't fault him as a house guest really. Though when it comes to seeing tarot and reflex clients... Tarot clients get their feet bitten and if I'm massaging he wants to join in. The other night while doing somebody's glutes he's sitting there in pounce mode - like joy - just what you need, a cat clawing your arse when you're expecting an elbow to be shoved in it.
Thankfully, Maow Maow appears to be happy at my place.
Job wise it's been six company interviews in ten days, with a few agency runs in the mean time. Of the interviews all have gone okay - I seem to be getting pipped at the post by people with more experience, though I've had a number of comments about the fact I could do the job. This is to be expected as I'm trying to transition from one area of IT to another. I've also seen a temp agency and will probably see another one or two. It's time to start getting some real money in, make sure the rent is paid - even if there isn't much else left over - just to stop the drain on the bank account. Also, it will help with my sanity going to work every day for a change - I don't care if I'm filing or answering phones - it's honest work, it's not to taxing and it could lead to other things. The job - a real job, isn't too far away.
My other small project is also going well. Finding Melbourne's best macaron.
Macaron - yep, macaron. Not Macaroon - those jam and coconut creations your grandmother used to feed you bought at the lawn bowls trading table. No, macarons are divine. And in the scheme of things, not too calorific. And unfortunately a little expensive, which makes them the perfect treat for the lifestyle changing Pandora. Can only afford one or two every few days.
Macarons are a mix of almond meal, icing sugar and egg white - sort of like a mini pavlova with almond. This mixture can be flavoured with just about anything. Around Melbourne, they have macaron competitions - most exotic flavours, best texture. The perfect macaron has a slightly crunchy exterior, a perfectly fluffy interior and some yummy stuff sticking them together.
The worst macarons I've uncovered are at Kafe Krifi at Victoria Gardens - dreadful, too big, badly flavoured and as chewy as a hockey puck.
The best - well that is a toss up. The Salty Caramel macarons at Cacao in the GPO Building are nothing short of heavenly and are a brilliant standby. The green tea and black sesame ones at the Little Cupcake Shoppe in the QV centre are pretty special too.
However, this morning on my walk back to the "office" I discovered this little macaron shop down Hardware Lane. They had some really interesting flavours - ginger and macadamia, rose, flower essence and these really interesting ones in a fetching shade of duck egg blue. The consistancy of the two I tried was flawless, the flavours powerful, yet delicate at the same time - highly recommend the place, but get there early - they sell out by lunchtime.
Small things please small minds.
Right, better get going - off to meet Glen Waverley for lunch then coffee with another friend before going home to face the furry house demon and his wrath. I never knew going out to work could be so traumatic for a cat!
Pandx
However, other than blogging and filling in job applications, seriously, I haven't been writing. I haven't been creatively writing at all. The most creative thing I've written since January is my CV.
So I'm naming April the month of taking responsibility for my creativity and I will attempt to not only blog every day, but write something of use, of substance and of value over the next month. Oh, and it will be fiction - whether it be continuing on with Rainbow Robertson or getting a literary short story penned and polished - we have a goal. Write, Pandora, write!
This is my committment to you. You may or may not see the fiction. Sorry, you'll just have to put up with the blog in the meantime.
So, it's April. Other than being a fair bit slimmer things are chugging along, but that is about it.
A few things have happened that are a bit bittersweet and a bit fun.
First up, I have the Maow Maow for another week.
The Maow Maow you ask? Maow Maow is Barney and Blarney's cat. I reckon he was my soul mate in another life. We've always been the best of friends. Maow Maow was supposed to be going home this weekend. Got a text from Blarney, they're staying in Ireland for another week. (Friends of Blarney reading this, give me a call and I will explain) As much as I love the Maow Maow, I'm a little over having my feet being chewed at 5 am, his occasionally feral moods where he does his best Tasmanian Devil impersonation, his dreadful table manners, the way he kicks his litter all over the kitchen, him shedding everywhere, his need to accompany me to the toilet and the fact that he demands breakfast anywhere between 5.30 and 7 in the morning.
Making up for this tenfold is the fact he's brilliant company, extremely cuddly, keeps my legs warm at night and is very clean. I can't fault him as a house guest really. Though when it comes to seeing tarot and reflex clients... Tarot clients get their feet bitten and if I'm massaging he wants to join in. The other night while doing somebody's glutes he's sitting there in pounce mode - like joy - just what you need, a cat clawing your arse when you're expecting an elbow to be shoved in it.
Thankfully, Maow Maow appears to be happy at my place.
Job wise it's been six company interviews in ten days, with a few agency runs in the mean time. Of the interviews all have gone okay - I seem to be getting pipped at the post by people with more experience, though I've had a number of comments about the fact I could do the job. This is to be expected as I'm trying to transition from one area of IT to another. I've also seen a temp agency and will probably see another one or two. It's time to start getting some real money in, make sure the rent is paid - even if there isn't much else left over - just to stop the drain on the bank account. Also, it will help with my sanity going to work every day for a change - I don't care if I'm filing or answering phones - it's honest work, it's not to taxing and it could lead to other things. The job - a real job, isn't too far away.
My other small project is also going well. Finding Melbourne's best macaron.
Macaron - yep, macaron. Not Macaroon - those jam and coconut creations your grandmother used to feed you bought at the lawn bowls trading table. No, macarons are divine. And in the scheme of things, not too calorific. And unfortunately a little expensive, which makes them the perfect treat for the lifestyle changing Pandora. Can only afford one or two every few days.
Macarons are a mix of almond meal, icing sugar and egg white - sort of like a mini pavlova with almond. This mixture can be flavoured with just about anything. Around Melbourne, they have macaron competitions - most exotic flavours, best texture. The perfect macaron has a slightly crunchy exterior, a perfectly fluffy interior and some yummy stuff sticking them together.
The worst macarons I've uncovered are at Kafe Krifi at Victoria Gardens - dreadful, too big, badly flavoured and as chewy as a hockey puck.
The best - well that is a toss up. The Salty Caramel macarons at Cacao in the GPO Building are nothing short of heavenly and are a brilliant standby. The green tea and black sesame ones at the Little Cupcake Shoppe in the QV centre are pretty special too.
However, this morning on my walk back to the "office" I discovered this little macaron shop down Hardware Lane. They had some really interesting flavours - ginger and macadamia, rose, flower essence and these really interesting ones in a fetching shade of duck egg blue. The consistancy of the two I tried was flawless, the flavours powerful, yet delicate at the same time - highly recommend the place, but get there early - they sell out by lunchtime.
Small things please small minds.
Right, better get going - off to meet Glen Waverley for lunch then coffee with another friend before going home to face the furry house demon and his wrath. I never knew going out to work could be so traumatic for a cat!
Pandx
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