You’re SO NAΪVE

As expected, my appointment was at 11:00 am but I sat in the waiting room until one full hour later.

Explained my condition and answered the usual personal questions that followed. When was your last period? Oh I don’t know, a couple of months ago. When was the last time you had sex? Monday morning. Was it painful? Are you kidding, it was sexcellent.

I hate urine tests. Mainly because it’s about fifty times more difficult for women to catch their waste in a cup than it is for men. How much would it suck to be the technician that spends all day sticking test strips into warm solutions of urea. At least she takes pleasure in causing tremendous pain to all the gardasil receivers by sticking mindblowingly painful needles into their arms.

More waiting.

Re-enter consultation room to find that as always, I’m perfectly healthy. Nevertheless Dr M. did the usual. The usual being pressing with great force on various parts of my lower abdomen while I’m lying down and asking me whether it hurts. Of course it does if you’re crushing my uterus into a pancake.

Because my strange little burning sensation couldn’t be linked to infections of any sort, Dr M. suspected pregnancy. After more waiting we ruled that one out too. Vienna and Kei and the other one will have to wait (who is the other one?!?).

In the end, three hours after I entered the centre, I was advised to take painkillers for the time being while my excretions undergo further testing. I was also strongly advised to take a smear. Except it’s kind of awkward because the only female GP practising there is on leave. While reluctant to go to another centre I find it creepy that if I don’t then this middle-aged man with big ears is going to be the third person to have seen all my goodies.

The gardasil gave me an explosive headache that persisted throughout my half-shift. I stumbled around doing absolutely nothing but looking busy so to keep Mirjana off my throbbing head. Apart from changing the bin linings the most productive thing I did today was sticking L’Occitane stickers all over Glenda’s back when she was closing the till.

Was supposed to have dinner with Jez at that snazzy fish-tank sushi place opposite Capitol Square but we had alternative plans. With sexy results.

Oh Cranberries

Woke up this morning feeling unpleasant. Suspect cystitis. Strange, right. Do I have too much sex? Not enough, I say.

Called Mirjana to request taking leave in the morning to visit the doctor. She was very understanding. Hopefully she’ll be understanding enough to understand that to see my favourite and only responsible doctor of the medical centre my booking has been placed in queue for 11:00 am. If I requested the first available GP I could have made it to work ten minutes early, but that’s ridiculous. I’d be just wasting thirty seconds of my life opening my mouth to tell him about my condition while he blurts out “here’s-a-script-for-some-Ural-don’t-worry-too-much-about-it-I-haven’t-even-spoken-to-you-let-alone-examine-you-but-I’m-sure-you’re-fine-kthnxbai” and shoves me out of the consultation room.

Seriously though, that’s exactly what happens.

In the worse case I’ve had the life of my breasts squeezed out of them in a breast examination during which I was not instructed to remove any of my three sweaters. At the time I was an A-cup. I seriously doubted she could have been able to grab anything under all that wool.

So this is why I’ve been seeing nobody but Dr M. for the past two years, despite the fact that each visit comes with a hour-long (with booking) or three-hours-long (without booking) waiting room period. On top of that the man seems somewhat condescending because I must come off as a giant floozy having 90% of my consultations being about contraception and my sole concern being not breast cancer or thrombosis, but the couple of kilos I gained after my first COC. And then I’d say something totally stupid like “does it really help my skin? Cause look, LOOK, I have a break-out, right here. And here. It’s like counting stars, except they’re on my face”.

Now he’s going to diagnose me with cystitis. Bloody great.

Cheyne

Purpleberry is back at work.

Seeing as I’ll be wearing the exact same outfit every weekday now that uniform rules have been established, I bought another skirt-slash-dress to switch around. It was 15 minutes before I was due at work and I was confronted with two sizes – S and XS. I chose the former.

The good news is I would have been more at home in the latter. The bad news is I now have to pull up the wretched thing every time it falls, which averages to about once every two minutes.

What I hate most about my body is that it’s a perfect example of “small ≠ thin”. When I’m shopping for clothes, chances are I’ll always fit into the smallest size. However, nobody would say I’m skinny. Okay I lie, a number of people do, but these people are always, and I emphathise always more portly. So really, it isn’t saying much.

Something else I noticed lately is the way that women have been looking at me. Being female I know what goes through their minds. Oh what a sizeable arse, I feel much better about myself. Damn, I wish I had her waist. Hmm, those ends look pretty split. There’s no way those tits are real.

Right, so there isn’t any mystery here, but it makes me uncomfortable, and it’s been happening all day. God knows why. I checked three times and I am positive that I wasn’t flashing a butt-cheek or walking around with a sanitary pad stuck to my thigh. Men are always looking and occasionally commenting but men are men so whatever. When women do it, however, I want to pry open their heads and pull out their thoughts. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!? AT WHAT PART OF MY BODY WERE YOU WRINKLING YOUR NOSE?!? I’m terribly insecure.

Nothing noteworthy from today’s shift, apart from me undertaking an unusually large amount of manual labour and a snotty old lady wearing horrible blue eye make-up. Jez, shut up.

I was standing at the dispensary computer behind the counter. I had one hand entering patient details into LOTS and the other flipping through a booklet of repeats. My eye were on the screen. Clearly I was very occupied.

From the corner of my eye I see a head hovering around the monitor. I look up to see an elderly woman made up like a clown glaring at me as if to say “I’m a customer. Serve me.”.

“Yes?” I said, not rudely, but I don’t suppose “yes” is an ideal greeting.

Completely disregarding the fact that I was quite obviously busy with something else, she said “I want Revlon complexion powder”.

“Have you taken a look at our Revlon stand?” I asked.

“No.” She replied, in slightly incredulous tones, as if searching for Revlon complexion powder on a Revlon stand was a ridiculous thing to do.

Earth to clown-queen. This is the dispensary. You come here for Valtrex and Mersyndol. The Revlon stand is two metres on your right. You look like you’re seventy-years-old. I think you are well over the age of being able to handle taking a browse on your own.

Dinner was at Sapore in the Italian Forum with Jenny, Mylinh, Emily, Zaza and Danielle. I ordered the bruchetta and Cozze with a Strawberry Colada. The portions were astronomical and I left more than half on the plate.

It sure is hot tonight. I would love to take a cold shower with someone.

Beat Agents!

Sunday

I walk into the pharmacy and bid good morning to Eugene, who is sitting behind the counter agonizing over something.

“Thank God.” He promply plops himself down in the dispensary and falls asleep.

Jez is home with Michael and friends, either drunk or deliberately neglecting. I unwillingly call a couple of times to discuss papa Cheng’s birthday cake. Red Mango doesn’t open on Sundays, so I call La Renaissance and order a Monet.

I head to The Rocks after work. Worried about the chocolate melting in the heat I called 131 500 beforehand to find the quickest route there from Milson’s Point. The operator said walk from Wynyard. Eugene said walk from Wynyard. Jez said Circular Quay.

Note to self: always trust hubby.

Jez’s at 4:30 pm. While watching The Notebook, Blacky arrives. Blacky is some family friend who is staying with Jez’s family until Wednesday. She is darker than Jez’s top half and papa Cheng combined, tall, wears True Religion jeans and the current subject of my displeasure. I admit I’m an overprotective lunatic, and that any reasonably young woman (regardless of physical attractiveness or blood relation) in the vicinity of my handsome man I find a threat. Other than sharing a wall with Jez for the next 72 hours I have nearly no other objections to her.

An hour into the movie she enters the living room.

“Can you guys access the internet?” She asks. The only computer is in Jez’s bedroom. I keep my eyes on the TV and dig my fingernails into his ribs. Jez mumbles something about there being only one computer and mumble-mumble-in-my-room-mumble-mumble. She looks inclined to ask whether she could use it. I dig my nails deeper.

Papa Cheng’s work buddy Carlos joins us for dinner at the lamb skewer place in Ashfield. Flipping through the menu I find “stir fried rape”. I show Jez and he laughs. We eat a bunch of greasy stuff while a little boy on the table behind us plays with my hair.

We come home at 10:00 pm. Another friend of papa Cheng and his family join us for cake and tea. Monet is delicious, though not nearly as much as the newly discovered rooibos tea. I never thought I’d live to see the day when tea could make me drool, but here it is.

Papa Cheng’s friend talks to us about relationships. Marriage. Compromise. Consideration. He mentions some couples, some seemingly perfect girlfriends and wives. My insides squirm a little bit and I suddenly feel extremely uncomfortable sitting with Jez’s family near midnight, intending to stay over for the second time within 48 hours, drinking their tea, using their toothpaste and loofah (to wash places they won’t want to know about), stealing their son, whose bed I don’t make.

Consumed by fears of being an awful wife, I dream stupid dreams but otherwise sleep extremely soundly.

Monday

Wake up at 9:50. Get out of bed at 11:00.

Today we’re finally going swimming. It’s been two months since we planned to do so but better late than never, right?

I have never been swimming with Jez. I panic a little. I’m self-conscious. He has never seen me in my swimmers, or wet. Well actually …

For what little there is to do at the aquatic centre we have a lot of fun. I inadvertently flash my breasts and ass a number of times and Jez splashes the pool into my mouth while I laugh maniacally. We make immature jokes about chemical elements and I try not to think about what the water might be infested with.

After coming home for dinner, I walk Jez to the station and we sing shamelessly to my iPod.

I’ve completely rushed this post because I really can’t wait to play Elite Beat Agents.

Miggu Moggu

I hope the petals on our Monet cake don’t melt in this revolting heat.

It’s Jez’s dad’s 57th birthday today. I contemplated just dropping Monet off and going home, but I can’t seem to figure out whether or not this is rude.

Oh yuck, but this here is a pretty cute goat. As cute as a goat can be, anyway.

10 Things I Hate About You

“I hate the way you talk to me
And the way you cut your hair
I hate the way you drive my car
I hate it when you stare
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind
I hate you so much it makes me sick
It even makes me rhyme
I hate it, I hate the way you’re always right
I hate it when you lie
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it when you’re not around
And the fact that you didn’t call
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all”

I used to want that sort of love story. Oh well, I’ve got a better one now.

Hungry

The week passed quickly. Unfortunately the last 24 hours felt little more than three microseconds. Every Saturday afternoon I sit and think. About lying on our backs under Jez’s white blanket as I pointed out that it had a nifty leaf pattern that can’t be seen from the outside. About curling up on the couch to watch a 6-year-old Jez stumbling around at the ice rink. About his grin that never changed in 14 years. I have to stop talking or I’ll start gushing. Gush gush gush. It’s too late.

I’ll be fine. Just give me a second. A minute. An hour.

I feel a little queasy. It’s probably the heat.

Was talking about dinner etiquette with Mike. Mike went out to dinner with a female colleague last week. When they reached the register after the meal he took out a $5 note. Apparently it was misplaced inside his wad of $50s but neither the girl nor I believed him. Do you believe him? Didn’t think so.

Should meals be split 50/50 from the beginning? Or should the man show some chivalry until he’s within his comfort zone to be a little miserly? Should the higher earner pay?

I remember when Jez was all crazy-smitten with me during the first couple of months he used to ninja the bill when I was in the bathroom. I so could have taken advantage of this. Babe, I’m going to the toilet. I’ll be gone for awhile. You’ve got plenty of time to do what you need to do.

The opportunity is definitely months past its expiry date. I can’t imagine someone who makes a point of placing my hand on his butt before farting fighting to pay for dinner. I’d probably come back from the toilet to find him buried up to his nose in the DS. Go go Alph, magnum! Take that bitches … Oh good, you’re back. Get the bill while I level up, will you? Thanks baby, you’re the best.

We don’t have a system. I’m guessing it’s roughly 50/50. Sometimes Jez accepts my half of the bill like a civil person. Sometimes he stubbornly pays the whole lot. Sometimes he half-arsedly offers, then steps aside and lets me at it before I even open my mouth to argue.

On the other hand, there have been plenty of occasions when I go to dinner with him knowing that only a lonely 50 cent piece lies in my wallet. Sometimes we plan to order pizza from his house and I “forget” to visit the ATM beforehand. Once it backfired on us when we both pulled the same stunt at an EFTPOS-free restaurant.

Last night’s dinner was at Georges Cafe. The bill was nothing unexpected, but I still grumbled a little as I handed over my keycard. Then on our way back to the car Jez hugged me and said “thanks for dinner”. Fifty bucks, what fifty bucks? :)

a n n i e says (10:45 PM):
i stay over at jez’s every friday night
a n n i e says (10:45 PM):
then i come home on saturday afternoon
a n n i e says (10:45 PM):
then i’m all tired out
marty says (10:46 PM):
man, do u guys play like board games all nite or sumfin?
a n n i e says (10:46 PM):
of course. what else is there to do?!