Day Thirtyfour

I’ve been vague about the reason Shaun has been ringing me intermittently for the past few months. Honestly I thought it had stopped after the last call which took place several weeks ago, when I told him explicitly though politely (insert Jez’s snide comment about my lack of backbone) that I wasn’t interested in speaking with or meeting him. One would really think that he might be inclined to put someone who he has briefly met only once and has repeated refused his dinner offers out of his mind. But no.

I thought I could pass it off as a secret horrible consequence of recklessness that will have me consult an eight-ball of some sort every time I even think about doing anything at all. But I felt awful that Jez wasn’t aware of this slip-up. So I told him that when I explained about Shaun, I skimmed over the bit where in my psychotic state over the previous day’s break-up I practically threw my number at the first guy who dared to ask. At a devastatingly annoying price.

Jez was driving. I was idly wondering how jealous I might have been if the situation was reversed (insanely so) while feeling somewhat anxious about his reaction. He quietly said that he didn’t blame me. I looked up to check whether I might have dozed off and sleep-walked into the car of someone understanding.

A lot of things have changed since our history-makingly messy break-up. This is just one of them. Others include arms that look like they’ve been plucked off someone else (because I would have never thought Jez capable of being composed of anything more substantial than matchsticks), increased enthusiasm for uni (translating into tonight’s four cans of V) and looking at me through smitten kitten eyes. Massive improvements on his behalf in all aspects.

And Starbucks!

Maybe my own improvements are only apparent to him. Because I sure as hell can’t identify any of them. Although I do remember admitting two days ago that he had every right to break up with me on his birthday last year, when for the past 12 months I’ve been stubbornly insisting that he was a stubborn jerk.

Baby steps.

Day Thirty-one

It’s 8:20 am and I’m sitting on the train, self-consciously covering as much thigh as possible with my bag to disguise the fact that underneath, I’m wearing pretty much nothing at all.

I get off the train at Lewisham and go to Jez’s house. I switch on his computer and mumble something about preparing for my forensics speech, but he knows what I’m here for and I drop the pretense.

An hour later we leave for uni. We’re both outrageously hungry and buy two pies from 7-Eleven. I take two bites out of mine (cheese, bacon and steak), read the nutritional content on the back of the packet (500 calories per serve) and throw it out.

I arrive at uni early and sit in the computer room of Badham library. I type up my part of the afternoon’s speech and fail to shake off the feeling that something about our powerpoint presentation is very, very wrong. Andrew arrives and adds to the presentation several more slides. It still feels wrong. He comments that it was very pretty. I spent a few minutes last night changing the backgrounds of the slides to various mod colours inspired by the sushi plates at Umi, and the effect is asthetically brilliant. Pretty and lacking content. Just like my mother’s description of me.

After finding nothing to add to the presentation, Andrew and I head off to the speech room.

The first group is Mari and Fady. They bring up a slide which describes a fictional patient whose case they, pretending to be forensic scientists, have taken over. Andrew and I look at each other, horrified. We didn’t have a patient. We’re not pretending to be forensic scientists. Our game plan involves pretty much just reading off the slides.

The second group. The third. My mind starts wandering. How many calories have I eaten today? What colour should I paint my nails? It’s my auntie’s birthday tomorrow. Should I buy Jez an iPod? Is it really impossible to time-travel? I haven’t seen Abhi in awhile.

Soon enough, it’s our turn and we’re the last group. I try to smile but yawn instead. I look down at my notes and read from them. I think of Jez’s Ebay-man speech and am envious that he could feel free to be witty. There’s absolutely no humour in the pharmacokinetics of diphenhydramine. Not even Russell Peters could make a joke out of this.

I’m annoyed because my beautifully-coloured backgrounds are projected into flat, highlighter shades. How a deep, mossy green could translate into fluoro lime is beyond me. So much for brownie points for presentation.

To add insult to injury, Andrew is as professional as a wild gypsy. He calls N-diethyl groups “nitrogens”, and describes mass spectra fragments as “the thing on the end”, and “that bit that goes like that”. Of course, it’s unlikely that I would have done a better job. But you know. Come on.

Day Thirty

Reminder to please please order a copy of APF as soon as humanly possible or pray to God that the next formula doesn’t come from the 20th edition.

I’m in the library. Bumped into Doey earlier, who with my grudging consent snatched half a packet of my favourite Japanese chewy strawberries and left a compliment about my appearance, which coming from him is unlikely to be a compliment at all.

Day Twenty-nine

Today was one of those mind-numbingly uneventful sort of days. And while frustrating on Mirjana’s behalf, I found just a tiny speck of excellent entertainment from a woman with a prescription for ramipril.

For those of you who are unaware (i.e. you, querido), ramipril is the name of an antihypertensive drug. It goes under several brand names including Tritace, Ramace, GenRX Ramipril, etc. They’re all interchangeable, because they’re exactly the same strength of drug with the same pharmacokinetic properties, manufactured by different companies who package them in different coloured boxes and charge different prices.

GPs can write on the script either a brand name or the drug name. Unless “brand substitution not permitted” is ticked, the pharmacist or patient can feel free to pick their favourite.

In today’s case, the customer was a posh middle-aged woman wearing a stiff uniform with “NSW Art Gallery” stitched across the pocket. She handed Mirjana a script for ramipril from the same doctor who pulled out a blank piece of paper during my consultation and drew me a detailed diagram of the female reproductive system. He has a quirk of prescribing in drug name only.

Mirjana pulled a box of Ramace off the shelf. The woman frowned at it and asked why she was given Ramace instead of ramipril. Patiently, Mirjana explained that ramipril was the drug name, while Ramace was the brand name, yada yada yada. The woman explained that she had never taken rampiril before, and wanted to make sure that she was getting the right drug. Mirjana explained about generic substitution, and how there are a number of drug companies that manufacture the same ramipril tablet, and that because the doctor hadn’t specified which brand to dispense, she took liberty.

“Why did you pick that one and not one of the others?” The woman asked.

Mirjana stared. “Because it was the first one that I saw on the shelf.”

Bad answer, I thought. Here was a pedantic and confused woman who can’t get her head around the difference between brand and drug, and you give her the impression that you’re subjecting her health to your own convenience.

“I don’t understand why I can’t have what the doctor prescribed me.” The woman was saying.

Barely hiding her exasperation, Mirjana grabbed a marker and underlined the word “ramipril” on the Ramace box. I tuned out at this point to focus on my bowl of strawberries.

A few minutes later, Mirjana had me call the doctor to ask which brand he would like to recommend. We exchanged a look, fully aware that this was possibly the most ridiculous call we’d ever make to a GP, and that we were lucky he happened to be one of the better-mannered. He was out to lunch. The woman decided to go back to the medical centre herself.

After she left, Mirjana sat down (to lower her blood pressure, I suspect). I deleted the script and peeled the label off the box of Ramace 2.5 mg.

Half an hour later the woman returned with a new prescription. It read “Ramace 2.5 mg”. I retrieved the box I had just put back onto the shelf and processed a script that was identical to the one I had just deleted. She left happily. I suppose that was all that mattered.

God, I took ages telling that story.

Day Twenty-eight

I’ve just finished reading Chasing Harry Winston. I suspect it might be a result of more serious themes of The Kite Runner and My Sister’s Keeper, but I thought it was absolutely shit. I might as well have been reading some random person’s Livejournal.

In a nutshell, the book was about three friends:

Leigh: Has been dating most-perfect-guy-imaginable for a year. Has excellent job. Is unhappy with life.

Emmy: Has just been dumped by boyfriend of five years. Serial monogamist. Hugely depressed about break-up.

Adriana: Sexy Brazilian babe. Unemployed socialite and high-class slut living off her wealthy parents.

Leigh ends up editing a famous author and then sleeping with him. She breaks up with her boyfriend and ends up with said author. Emmy travels the world for her job and fucks any man she could get her hands on. One of them who she thought had rejected her seeks her out and expresses interest. Her ex shows up at her apartment the day before her thirtieth birthday and begs for her to come back, only to be kicked out. Adriana ends up in an open relationship with a famous director and writes columns for Marie Claire.

Riveting stuff.

Day Twenty-eight

According to yesterday’s Sun Herald, the body type that appeals most to men is an elongated torso and shorter legs. I was torn between laughing at the mental image of an orangutanesque woman this description generated and feeling self-conscious because I suspected I fell into this alleged but highly doubtfully desirable category.

If my mother was on cue she’d be yelling that I am perfectly proportioned, and that any scrunching of jeans around my ankles are a consequence of my petite stature and nothing else.

I’m not so optimistic.

Tomorrow is Jez’s birthday, which means the agonising 6 days of being technically one year older are very nearly over. For some stupid reason I wanted to buy him a present. Stupid because we’ve already accepted the fact that we’re just not present-giving people. And for good reason, because I went home empty-handed having failed to come up with anything plausible.

We browsed Myer this morning, passing the toys section in which a giant Lego masterpiece of the Eiffel tower stood. I took this idea into enough consideration to go back after work and check the price. No box of plastic is worth $395.

After that idea was out I was completely lost. Clothes? The boy is too picky. Books? I have $200 worth of new books sitting at home. Cologne? Worst idea ever. Underwear? Very much needed but hardly something I could pull out in front of his parents tomorrow night. I had a wild thought of buying him a jumbo box of Mrs. Field’s cookies, except of course I’ll be the one eating all of it.

Well, better to give nothing at all.

When I walked home from the station I caught a whiff of a deliciously familiar scent. It was the smell of walking to the sandwich place after gym for a mango shake. God that was good mango shake. I’d bite the top of my straw until it was flat, so that the liquid flowed through it slowly and I could savour it while I walked around Coles shopping for the chocolate that would soon enough cancel out all the calories I’ve just burnt.

ANTM Winner a Fatty

So the winner of ANTM cycle 10 was Whitney. In the fashion industry she’s a plus-size model. On the street she’s probably thinner than most.

There’s a store in Westfield called Big City Chic that stocks clothes for erm, fuller-figured girls. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is the purpose of its existence not to provide clothes for women whose physiques will not permit them to fit the standard size range? So why is the model on their posters a size 10? She might be sneered at in a Oxford St boutique, but she’ll still be swallowed whole by a size 14 dress.

People in the fashion industry have a warped interpretation of physical size. Someone needs to show them what fat is. The man I couldn’t push a trolley past in the supermarket because he took up three quarters of the isle. The woman who tried to sit beside me in a two-seater on the train and couldn’t, even when I flattened myself against the wall so that another two of my friends could have shared my seat comfortably. Manuel Uribe Garza. Even without going to these extremes, the average girl in the Krispy Kreme queue is bigger than BCC girl or Whitney.

I can see this is going to turn into a fat-bashing. I’ll stop. After eating God-knows-how-many squares of Cadbury crème brûlée today I’m joining the fatties soon.

I had an appointment with the dentist at 9:30 this morning. Partly due to trackwork and mostly due to sleeping in, I missed it. I was secretly happy to be excused from the saline rinse, the metal tools, the suction and not to mention the fluoride gel at the end. Whoever told me it tasted like strawberries had obviously never eaten one. Jez and I ended up booking our next appointments at the same time, so we suffer together. Sweet, yes?

With nothing to do in particular, we played Mariokart over croissant and coffee, and then visited Bat-dog at Pets Paradise. Bat-dog is a black labrador who has shiny fur and does nothing but sleep. The first time we saw him, he was slumped near the front of his cage, his eyes open in a sleepy slit. Jez put his hand under Bat-dog’s chin. Bat-dog simply rested his weight on Jez’s fist and continued to doze. A few minutes later he decided he was thirsty. He crawled over to his bowl, looked at it with sleepy eyes, and then very slowly and very deliberately stuck out his tongue and licked the side, all the while slumped all over the place. We couldn’t stop laughing.

Oh and I forget why we named him Bat-dog. But yes, we’re still naming pets that aren’t ours. I remember listing a few of them many months ago. There are a few new additions:

Annie: This one I named after myself in a fit of narcissism. Annie is still a kitten. She’s pure white, except for her tail, which is striped with caramel. She belongs to the house on my way to the station that is the home of several other cats that have been there for as long as I can remember.

Alice: A tiny cream-coloured pomeranian and one of the cutest puppies I’ve ever seen. She’s still in Pets Paradise, last time we checked. Named by Jez after Alice Cullen.

Mocha (pronounced “mo-chah”, not “mo-kah” like the coffee): Cross of shih-tzu and something else. Tiny. Black and brown. Hyperactive and has body shaped like a jellybean. Recently sold from Pets Paradise hopefully to someone tolerant of crazy dogs. Jez named him.

The past two nights have been spent celebrating our birthdays. Last night we ate at Prego’s with Jez’s parents, who for reasons beyond my understanding decided to give me the present of a $250 Myer gift card. I contemplated using it to buy Jez something for his birthday, but later decided that we’d use it on something worthwhile that both of us could use. At the moment I honestly can’t think of anything that could satisfy these conditions.

I hate buying make-up. Mainly because quality make-up is expensive, and because they come in such measly little containers. Unfortunately I had a past of experimenting with rather horrible looks (i.e. blue liner, purple liner, purple lipstick, don’t ask), and own a stack of cosmetics that I haven’t yet thrown out only because of the price at which they came. I’ve now learnt to stick with the staples. MAC Powerpoint liner in duck. MAC SPF 30 concealer shade 31. Maxfactor Masterpiece mascara. I’m trying to wean off blush, but I’m just so goddamn pale without it.

Just when my make-up bag is at its lightest, some genius shows me a brow trick. I’ve managed to live with the fact that my eyebrows look like they came from two different faces, until the girl who waxed my eyebrows yesterday made them (gasp) identical. She used a little tub of brown powder that looked like, but she assured me wasn’t, eyeshadow.

Later, I wandered around first-level Myer waiting for Jez to finish work. I stopped at the Benefit stand and was immediately spotted by the make-up consultant who gushed on and on about what an adorable little pixie I was. And what lovely eyebrows I had. It was the first time, in my entire life, that anyone paid me compliment on possibly the ugliest feature of my face, except for my nose, of course. I made myself a promise, right there an then, to start taking proper care of my brows. And to never let Jez fluff them up with his lips. Ever. Again.

The Benefit lady explained to me that the little compact contained a wax designed to flatten unruly eyebrows. I should have known that nothing in the world was going to tame my spiky spikes. I imagined Jez’s face if he had witnessed her frustrated expression as she attempted, in futility, to make my brows lie flat.