The World According To Me

I am such a bad mother.

Last week I came perilously close to becoming a grandma. I had booked Esme in to the vet to be de-sexed, vaccinated and microchipped as about a month ago she came on heat and I realised that she was 9 months old and well overdue for all of the above procedures. I've never owned a cat when they are on heat before, and it's really quite freaky. She spent a good few days yowling, purring, rubbing herself on everything in the house and generally bringing sexy back like a fiend. Then she spent 3 weeks inside until I could get her to the vet, which she hated.

So on the day she wasn't allowed to have breakfast which, for the little piggy-cat that she is, was torture. So by the time I actually got her to the vet she was mighty cranky, having spent the last 2 hours following me around biting my feet and demanding that I feed her. When the receptionist went to take her away in her carry-cage she asked if I wanted to give her a goodbye cuddle, I declined, citing that she was hungry and angry and would just probably scratch me.

I went to pick her up after work and the receptionist bought her out in her cage and she was all wide-eyed and clearly confused about the whole situation. The invoice was drawn up and the receptionist asked with a raised eyebrow "Did you know that she was pregnant?".

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I just about died.

Here I was thinking the sooking and the affection towards inanimate objects and even the sudden penchant for forcing open the linen cupboard and sleeping amongst the sheets was just part of her being on heat. Now I realise she was getting ready to become a mum.

Not that the whole ordeal seems to have affected her in any way. She has a neat little scar (stitches still intact until early next week) and is recovering well. She's extremely pleased to be allowed outside again so you know, that's good.


I played netball as usual with my Monday night team o' nerds. I started out playing Keeper until the end of the first quarter when the shooter asked me to swap positions with her as her opponent was a "bit too rough". Admittedly my team-mate is a slight wee thing so I gladly obliged (plus I much, much prefer playing shooter as I am a glory hunter on the inside). About 3 minutes into the second quarter I went to catch a pass and the woman I was playing on tried to smack the ball away before I could catch it. All she really succeeded in doing was to push my hand over and cause the ball to hit the end of my middle finger at full pelt. Jesus fucking ouch. Subsequently I now have a slightly purple sausage in place of a finger. The general consensus at work is that it is perhaps broken but I'm convinced it's simply a bad jarring and will come good in time. Meanwhile, I am having difficulty remembering not to use it and only remember when it's too late. It makes me a little sad because my fingers are the skinniest part of me and now that's partially ruined.

I met a lovely (and totally hot) bloke on Friday night who turned out to be a musician and offered to 'comp me' for the gig he was doing on Saturday night, which was the reason he was visiting my fair town. The Friday night turned quite ugly and he ended up sleeping on my loungeroom floor after an impromptu party that came about after the group of friends I was with got cross with the quality of venues available at 3am. A decision was made to instead bicker over what was played on the stereo and dance like crazies and drink muchos red wine which we all know only ends in tears (of happiness) after an evening of vodka. Surprisingly, the following day he still called and came good with the tickets and my mate V and I went along and were completely blown away by his talent. Completely. I don’t want to say too much about the gig as it isn't very cool but his skills were amazing. Which in turn, pathetically, made him even more attractive. At one stage V turned and said to me "If he can do that with a guitar, just imagine….". When he came over to my house later that night it all progressed in a lovely but predictable manner. Of course the following day he was flying out overseas to continue on the tour and I shall never hear from him again but it made me happy until about lunchtime on Monday when I got all morose about the prospect of never meeting someone so hot and delightful and talented again.

I have also started the same phase I go through every year once the sun starts shining which is the "Ohmigod summer is almost here and I'm feeling really fat and pasty best hurt myself with a lot of exercise all at once" stage. Why do I do this every year? It never works. Summer comes and I still get cross at the fact that I've wasted the previous 8 months on the couch and now I have to wear singlet tops and my arms are really flabby.

Boo.

The other day I was lent the book "The Alchemist" by a friend who had just finished reading it and proclaimed that I could not possibly go on without discovering the Secrets Of The World And Other Such Information immediately. I trust her, so I read it. I finished it last night in fact. Without recounting the entire novel, I will just say that there is a fair focus on the concept of Omens, and a suggestion that one should perhaps take heed of little signs the Universe might send ones way. That's what happens to the main character in the novel and he ends up with shitloads of treasure AND complete personal enlightenment. Sweet.

So as I put the book down, turned off the lamp and tried to go to sleep, I told myself that I would try to take notice of little things that happen in my daily life from now on, and see whether they potentially hold more meaning than they currently do and perhaps lead me to some sweetass gold. I mean, enlightenment. At the conclusion of this little thought-session with myself, I also made the same promise that I have been making for the past month - that I would get up early in the morning and instead of sitting bleary-eyed on my couch in my dressing gown wishing I could take my coffee through an IV line as opposed to a pesky cup which requires too much effort and grimacing at Mel and Kochie until the last possible moment before I HAVE to get ready for work, I would take the dog for a walk instead.

This morning when I woke up I lay listening to the radio for a while and came to the conclusion that I would again probably not be bothered to get out of bed and walk Lucy because when it comes down to it I am really quite lazy and she has a massive backyard to run around in anyway (I am the QUEEN of procrastination justification). At 6.20am the daily horoscopes came on and I keenly tuned in because one time the star-lady said that I would "have to show them who was boss" which I believed gave me a license to pick a fight with everyone who crossed my path that day. This morning, however, I was advised to make sure I "spend some one-on-one time with a beloved family member".

Yes, I got up and walked the dog.

And it was great! The sun was coming up, the river was peaceful and Lucy had a ball sniffing and weeing and prancing about like the utter delight that she is.

I have a feeling that perhaps the Universe started me off easily by taking the interpretation of omens out of my hands and just slapping me in the face with them instead. Sort of like a remedial omen reading.

Now just waiting for the treasure.

I am sick. Not quite sick enough to languish in bed surrounded by tissues and wishing I could just die, but just enough to annoy my colleagues with a hacking cough and a nasal diction and look pathetic with my watering eyes. I'm sure they are secretly wishing I would just go home so they don't have to listen to me protest that I'm fine.

I am taking Codral and Echinacea and multivitamins and drinking fresh juice and eating fresh fruits and trying desperately to get better before the weekend. A friend from Perth is visiting and we have plans to engage in a session of hard drinking on Friday. I have even booked the day off work. I do not want to be snuffly and contagious at this time.

Otherwise, things are good. Am still spending way too much time farting around on Facebook. I was invited to join a Blog-Friends group by the lovely BEVIS and then realised I couldn't do so without revealing by blog to those-I-know-in-real-life-and-on-Facebook. Which I don't want to do. Boooo. Does anyone have a solution to this slight conundrum?

Facebook is taking up a lot of my time. Time that should be reserved for other things. Like work. And blogging. Thank goodness I don't have the interwebs at home or I would never leave the house. As I don't have the interwebs in my home I have been doing a lot of going out "on the turps" as they say. It's getting silly. We drink, we dance, we are completely moronic, and it's heaps of fun. I have re-learned how to make sleepy eyes at boys who range from delightfully beautiful to "don't touch that with a plastic one" and more often than not they then kiss me, such is the influence of bucketfuls of vodka.

But it is all good.

I am playing my last game of netball for one team tonight, for a while at least. It is our grandfinal. Wish us luck.

I have two games left for my other team, and I will be glad to finish that as well. I need to give netball a wee rest for a bit. I need to get back into the gym. I need to swap gyms. Again.

I saw Josh Pyke play the other week - is he not the most delightful young scruff? Before the gig I was standing upstairs in the designated smoking area of the tiny venue we were at, waiting for my friend to return from her ablutions. The man himself came up the stairs and was about to head straight into the women's toilets and I directed him to the right place. Such a good citizen. He looked embarrassed and made a wincey face. I laughed. He played in front of about 60 people and it was utterly lovely.

I need to do my tax. I need to attack my garden with high-powered machinery. I need to ring my Gran.