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.