I like ianthe. But in the real world, they call me Livy,
which I guess is pretty enough. in.a.minute is how I approach a great many things.
I'm 23 and live in Melbourne, Australia. Email,
of course, is optional. However, the
guestbook is mandatory.
in.a.minute we have but minutes to live
Sunday, June 30, 2002
at 9:54 PM I am sixteen, going on seventeen I used to hug poles. Do you remember those, Joyce? Perhaps not. I think I was with someone else when I used to hug poles at recess. I remember someone asking me in puzzlement, "Why do you always hug those darn poles?!" Why, dearie? I dunno. I just did. I liked the feel of cold metal on my cheek, perhaps. I still do. Hug poles.
I hug trees too. Trees never talk back, you see. They understand whatever it is that you cannot say out loud. They understand your pain, and your struggles, and your insecurities. They never judge, they just listen. They offer stability and support and comfort. They are there, simply there. Rooted in earth for decades to come. I like my trees. Sometimes I have conversations with them.
I like hugs. I love hugs. If it didn't make everyone wary and uncomfortable, I would hug everyone whenever I felt I needed one or whenever I thought they needed one. Not a superficial hug though. None of those 'oh hello, it's you' hugs. None of those 'everyone's hugging everyone, oh darn, I might as well do it then' hugs either.
No, I would give everyone a 'I'm glad that you're alive' hugs. One of those 'sweetie, I appreciate you' hugs. One of those 'you're wonderful, you're beautiful, you're brilliant' hugs. One of those heartfelt hugs that you don't really get anymore, or very rarely. One that lasts for thirty seconds, at least. One that lasts for as long as it takes for both parties to feel secure and grounded. One that makes you shed tears in happiness because of you can feel the love being transferred to you.
I always feel I could tackle the world single handedly after one of those hugs. Ma mere gives hugs like that.
My hugs aren't that bad either. If you cry on my shoulder, I would at least loan you tissues. That is, if I wasn't crying with you in the first place.
*****
[February 23 2002]
If I saw you cry
Do you think me weak if you saw me cry?
Do you think me pitiful if you saw my tears?
Do you think me strange if you heard me sob?
Do you think me soft if you saw me cry?
If I saw you cry, I would think you strong.
If I saw you cry, I would think you beautiful.
If I saw you cry, I would think you real and human.
If I saw you cry, I would think you capable of love.
If I saw you cry .... I would cry.
*****
Saturday, June 29, 2002
at 8:25 PM Phone tag On another note, Shazza rang my mobile at 9.45am. I had been asleep for four hours, after a broken night.
"Huuuuhhhh?"
"Your house phone doesn't work. I'm getting your answering machine."
"Huuuhhhh? Shazzzz, you woke me up. The boys are prolly asleep, and haven't heard the phone."
"Nooo, the machine connects automatically."
"Oh. Weird phone. Shaz, I just woke up."
"Never mind that. Are you going shopping?"
"I just woke up."
"We're not going now. I'm doing laundry now."
"Oh. Uh, um, I'm half asleep ... okay, I'll see you in an hour."
Click. I groaned and dropped back onto my pillows.
An hour later.
"Shaz?"
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"What?!!!"
"I just got up. Again. I went back to sleep after you rang. Tired! Where are you?"
"Target."
"Okay, I'll see you in 20 to 30 minutes. I'll meet you at the foodcourt."
"I don't know ... I might be in Safeway by then."
"Whatever. I'll see you soon."
30 minutes later, walking briskly in the shopping centre and dodging people.
"Hey, where you are?"
"Safeway."
"I'll see you there."
An hour and a half later, while I was in the $2 shop.
"Woi. Where are you?"
"$2 dollar shop."
"Where were you?! Did you go to Safeway?"
"Yes, I did. Where are you?"
"At home. I couldn't find you at all. I walked up and down the aisles! Couldn't see you anywhere. In the end, I gave up and went home."
"Oh well. Can't be helped."
"Ya. I'll see you next time."
"Okay."
Sigh.
at 7:57 PM One reason why irc sucks Never, never, cross Livy when she hasn't had any decent sleep. She tends to be very cranky, very short, very impatient, and a Grade 1 bitch.
King`94352: hi
ianthe: if you ask for asl, you'll be ignored
King`94352: oKaY
King`94352: can u speak eanglish
ianthe: excuse me, what kind of fool question was that?!
at 4:08 AM You know I can't smile without you When I finally got out bed, it was terror that compelled me.
Now I can't get back to bed.
I had a jumble of dreams, none of which were nightmares. So, it made the terror incomprehensible, and without logic. There is dread, heart pain, all mixed up with a slight tension headache, uneasiness and a great deal of unhappiness.
I want to pick up the phone, press speed dial, and reassure myself with his voice. But it's a shocking hour, and besides, I no longer have any specific rights.
Johann implied I was a idealistic, naive fool for maintaining that the boy will always be someone very special to me. Am I?
Thursday, June 27, 2002
at 10:43 PM I didn't inhale I wanted a scene played a certain way. They disagreed very loudly, and insisted on playing it another way. In a way that I didn't think would give the scene that extra 'oomph'.
So, tell me, how does one act when one is high? As in stoned on a forbidden substance? Like Tall Dark Guy said, "I have never taken that kind of stuff." So, we have no idea. Hence, a heated discussion. Everyone had an opinion.
They wanted to it play it sleepily. As in, dazed and sleepy, out of it. They're arguing the character was already high on a substance.
I wanted a desperate, high strung, nervy performance. On the edge, you know? I'm arguing that she wasn't at that moment, high. She's exhibiting withdrawal symptoms, hence, the desperation in her words. After all, she says in that scene, "Schlomo, do you have any money?"
Does anyone have any idea?
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
at 7:16 PM the hesistant smile that said a million things so tired, my sweets, we are nearing tears
chief nourisher of life's feast is so hard to claim,
it with which i grapple and strain to conquer.
couple this a weary soul, a hundred longings,
and a thousand lovings i wish for you,
i am helpless within these walls.
whispers of "i can't do this" hidden by the piano
countered with "do it" sharply by the black keys
we have no patience with melodrama
darling, get on with it. live, damn it
this is no time for your self-pity.
but still, i miss your presence
a dull emptiness i am learning.
i'm just tired with the days
thinking wistfully of possibilities and chances.
acceptance comes slowly
no doubt there will be common ground later.
must i really let go?
don't let me go, whatever i say.
i don't want to let you go, no matter what i've said.
this hesistant smile that said a million things.
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
at 6:46 PM Matters of import "I don't think I can do this, Olivia. I can't sing!"
"Soph. Come on now, I don't want to see that kind of attitude from you."
"But, but I really can't sing. Everytime I think about it, I just ..."
"Soph. We've gone through this. We wouldn't have given you the understudy role if we didn't think you could do it."
"But, but .. "
"You have to believe, Soph. Believe. You can do this."
"I really can't ..."
"Trust the team. You have to trust us. We know what we're doing. We know you can do it. Trust yourself, trust us."
"Ohh, but ... "
"Soph. I don't want to hear it. Just do it. Let's take this phrase again. And, 1, 2, 3, 4."
I had to do this for an hour in a voice rehearsal today. I am exhausted. I have dark bags under my eyes and if you even look at me funny, I will bite your head off. But this is the kind of work I live for.
So many kids are constantly doubting their abilities. So many of them are lost without direction. Many of them have low self-esteem and think constantly of failing. So many of them have no one to say to them, "I believe in you. You can do it. I'm with you, supporting you. You're a brilliant individual. You are special. Now, let everyone see that specialness."
Imagine if every teacher was like that.
There is no such thing as a stupid kid in my classes. Every single one is brilliant, even if they're a pain in the neck and wouldn't shut up for a minute.
"These are my children, my saving grace,
I see my calling in every face."
- These are my children, Fame, the musical
This is why I turned my back on the six figure salaries I could be earning as a chemical engineer. This is why I have decided to teach.
This is how I will make a difference.
Monday, June 24, 2002
at 9:57 PM HAH! I did not get to bed till quarter to six this morning.
Don't ask.
Four hours later, I forced myself out of bed because two assignments and 3 weeks worth of lesson plans were screaming in my ear. Carted home from uni a truckload of books. Not a pleasant sight.
I'm wired now. Very wired.
Charlotte Church singing Can't help loving dat man from Showboat. Am I the only one that finds it ... disturbing? She's only 16, for goodness sakes! What does she know about it?
I don't think Tall Dark Guy likes me very much. I'm getting not nice vibes from him.
No, I have not had any caffeine today.
Unless there is caffeine in a glass of red.
Bed.
Yes, it's a good idea.
at 3:22 AM Dear youse I canna sleep, mon. No, I have not had coffee. Shush, you. Seriously, I have not had coffee.
I had tea. With a splash of milk. Harmless. Isn't it?
Whatever, I canna sleep.
I CANNA sleep.
Jason always said I sound daft everytime I attempt a Scottish accent.
What does he know? He's just a boy.
Piffle boy.
He's taller than I am. By a head. Or more. Whatever.
So I'm short. No, not short. Small, get it? Small. Petite. I am the perfect height. I am perfectly propotioned for my height.
Except my hips and my behind have chosen to ignore that memo.
No, I have not imbibed alcohol.
Although there's a rather attractive bottle of Pinot Noir somewhere ...
Sleep evades me.
"the innocent sleep", "chief nourisher in life's feast".
Macbeth comes rather handy at times. Who would've thought?
I have a rehearsal later today. In twelve hours in fact.
I cannot walk into rehearsal, dopey-eyed and incoherent from lack of sleep.
Not when the team is tightening scenes and fine tuning performances.
Observe Livy at work when fighting to stay awake ...
"Liv, what do you think about .........."
Pause. "Liv?"
"Ummm. Whhhhaatt? Oh, sorry, Rosie, didn't see you there. You were saying, Alison?"
"I was saying, the drama class stage left, ......... stage right, .......... downstage center, ...... on the floor. Then we ........ English class could back up ........ the ballet class do their ....... Then everyone ends up .... center, bows, ..... "
Pause. "Liv."
"Ehhhh? Oof. Okay, I'm awake, I'm awake. Let me just wipe the drool off your neck, 'seppe."
We open in 4 weeks.
Tickets are $15/$10, and go on sale in 2/3 weeks.
If anyone's interested - email for details.
So youse, I'm still wide awake.
What's a girl to do?
Oh, look.
Terribly melodramatic British film on Aunty's. My favourite kind!
That's always good for a laugh.
Charmed I'm sure, mesdame et monsieurs.
Probably mangled the French a lot.
Oof. Drat these skirts.
They're always tripping me up when I curtsy.
Sunday, June 23, 2002
at 3:48 PM Laughing out loud Superduperglorious Friend would say, "Ohhh, hun," and hug me tightly.
Joy Joy would pat me on my shoulder and silently lend her support.
Darling Joey would get incensed on my behalf and say, "Would you like me to beat him up for you, Livy?"
Sweet Ames would look at me with soulful eyes.
Sharp of mind Seli would consider me thoughtfully and say, "They're all idjits."
Fiesty Alice would agree with Seli.
Shazza would harrumph, drag me to the nearest foodcourt and make me eat.
Adelaide would look sympathetic and offer me red wine. Then she and Al would say, "Let's go shopping!"
The MCP would look at me in panic and say, "Here's some more chinese tea. Did you see the football match last night?"
But Insomniac, dear Insomniac. She said, "Move on, Livy, move on. It's time to move on." In the next breath, "Watch the soccer. Plenty of cute guys there."
I love that girl and her sometimes cynical wisdom. She calls it as she sees it, gives it to me bluntly and matter-of-factly. By her words alone, she has restored my heart, and my faith in the Universe.
I wish you could see my glad heart.
at 11:57 AM Rabbit alert! I have this urge to do something completely out of character, and yet ... in character.
Like chopping all my hair off, and then donning a ski hat for the rest of season - when I love the length of my hair, and think ski hats are ugly.
Like running away to camp at the Grampians for a few days - when I hate roughing it in the wilds.
Like flying home, just to attend a Chinese wedding dinner/banquet - when the bride is almost a stranger to me, and the groom a complete stranger to me.
Like once again contemplating returning to regular Sunday masses - when I dislike, intensely, the lack of spirituality or reverence or atmosphere in Melbourne Sunday masses.
Like talking in italics - when I find it so annoying in others.
Like finding great pleasure in infantile behaviour - when it is so undignified for a person such as I.
Hey, look. I'm laughing again. I'm even giggling girlishly!
at 12:58 PM - blank - Superduperglorious Friend asked if I was okay.
I am okay. But I would like to feel again. Everything's so ... blank.
I can't bear to be touched. I don't want to touch. Me, who love the velvet feel of my roses, the smoothness of another's skin against my own skin, the comfort of a sincere hug, and the feel of satin against my fingers.
It's fourth year of uni all over again, when I was so lost and drowning in the darkness.
Do you know how devastating it is for me to realise that?
I promised myself a year and a half ago that it would not happen again.
The remembered pleasure and quiet sense of achievement after a voice rehearsal with one of the understudies. "Thanks, Olivia. I really feel like I know how to do something (instead of nothing) now." They have barely a month to ready themselves for their matinee performance, and not surprisingly, all of the understudies are feeling apprehensive.
And oh, Why, Georgia, John Mayer. Track 2, Room for Squares, $19.95 at HMV.
at 9:31 AM Complete detachment I read Drey, and I read Yammy briefly, following links on Electrin's. "Depression is ugly." "No matter how hard you try, you'll never know what I go through."
Normally, I would feel something. Normally, I would sense something. Normally I would empathize, sympathize, something will go thump thump thump. Sometimes there would be tears, and nagging pain. Sometimes an impulse to reach out and touch.
Today, I just feel ... nothing.
Nothing.
The walls are up, and they are five bricks deep.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
at 2:41 PM You're kidding, right? Purple M&Ms? Um, really? Purple? Truly, purple? Purple. Hmm, purple. You truly want to eat purple M&Ms?
That's ... heinous.
Pink M&Ms are more edible than purple M&Ms. Trust me.
"Livy! Come and audition for My Fair Lady with us!"
"Yeah, we're all going for it."
"Um ... eh ... heh ... hee ... No."
I want to direct, not act.
Lemon flavoured Coke is rather nice tasting, by the way.
Denning took a sip, made a face and said, "Yuck." An acquired taste for some people, perhaps, rather like that disgusting fruit, durian. Belachan. Jalepeno peppers. Mouldy cheese. Red wine. Olives. Raw fish. All acquired tastes
I know exactly where my stash of Panadol and to a lesser extent, Codeine, is now, instead of having to yell at the boys, "Where the hell are the Panadols?!!" Three headaches in one week, each lingering over a day or so. Woo hoo. Record!
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
at 9:52 PM Tu? Tu? What's on repeat in my cd player?
The entire Act II of Madama Butterfly, or if you want to be finicky, Act II and III as Puccini wrote it.
Cio-Cio-San's last aria, Tu? tu?... piccolo Iddio!, egads ... great stuff. I saw the great Cheryl Barker of Opera Australia in the title role some years ago and she made me cry with that last aria.
Other folks have modern stuff to listen when something important ends. I listen to Puccini's classic tragedy. An opera, no less.
Livy, you ass.
at 12:08 PM Give me the pain How do I write about the pain and the sense of loss that I felt, that I'm feeling? About the tears that wouldn't stop, that threaten to choke me when I least expect it. About the seemingly loss of meaning in everything.
It's cliched and trite. I like to think myself above that. No one's a stranger to pain. So, why should I try to explain it? Why should I expand on it? Why should I articulate it here?
I use it instead. It adds meaning to my singing, to my acting, in my writing, and I project it in my directing. And baby, I'm good. I'm very good. I have driven grown men and women to tears. On occasion, even my peers. You don't walk away from any creative work of mine without at least feeling something.
So I'm not afraid of pain. It's part of the human experience, after all.
That doesn't mean I have to like it, though.
at 2:31 AM Disband all hope Disband all hope, for none shall I have.
Stay silent, my sweet, and
let me mourn the ones that have left.
Don't, I cannot bear to have your touch.
Leave me, sweet, to my grief.
Leave me, sweet, let me mourn.
Oh, it's not your fault, my sweet.
No, no, I cannot have you think so.
It's just that our feet - they move with different speeds,
in different ways, with different needs.
You have done nothing wrong.
You have done nothing wrong.
So the colours are dull and muted,
and the rainbows have all but disappeared.
But someday they'll return, I have no doubt.
Until then ....
Banish that frown, my sweet, I'll be alright.
The question is, will you?
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
at 11:47 PM Let's play a love scene My wonderful kids played out a love scene today.
"BRETT! LOOK at her!! She's not poison."
"Steph, not so stiff. You're meant to be in love, remember."
"You look like you're afraid of her, Brett."
"Steph, a little closer. He's not going to bite. You won't bite, right, Brett?"
"Kiss, guys. It's scripted. You have to kiss. Okay, fine, a peck on the cheek for now."
"You forgot to kiss!! Come on."
"Lauren, stop laughing! You're up next."
"That's beautiful, you guys, just beautiful."
Rosie, who was watching from the sidelines went, "Awwwwwwwwwww. Sniff. Awwwwwww."
"I like how Brett Two took Lauren's hand there."
"That bit where Steph took Brett One's hand, is absolutely gorgeous."
"The dancing works."
Italian Dude chortled, while I sniffed comically.
Those kids are just so wonderfully sweet at love.
I laughed, just for a moment, and forgot for a while.
Monday, June 17, 2002
at 6:52 PM Don't I'm frustrated, and I'm upset. I hurt bad and there's nothing more I would like to do than to rage, break things and cry my angry tears.
But I can't.
Don't you dare tell me to take it easy. Don't tell me to chill, or let it go, or don't be mad. Don't. You. Dare.
You are not me, living my life, thinking my thoughts, feeling my emotions. You. Are. Not. Me.
Just .... don't.
at 12:17 PM Mother, ahh, I'm ... err .. "Are you coming home this year?" my dear mamma wanted to know.
"Errr. Umm ... "
"If you are, you'd better organise your tickets, or you won't have a seat."
"Errr ...."
"Jason said he was coming home for Christmas. Has he organised his ticket yet?"
"Err ... "
"Make sure you organise Denning's ticket too."
"Err .. ahh ..."
"So are you coming home?"
"Uhh .. ahhh .. ummm .. hee .."
How do you tell your beloved mother that you might not be going home for the summer?
"And what are you going to do there, all alone, by yourself? Your father will not agree."
Eh? I'm 22? I have a black stripe in Taekwondo, even if Sir passed me in pity? I have a great right elbow jab? I wear lethal stilletto shoes? I might not even be in Melbourne for all that time?
Beijing has been shelved for the moment. It is -2°C there in November. I would freeze my butt off. Superduperglorious Friend suggested June 2003. I went, "Okay," and am now scheming to descend upon hapless, innocent folks in a nearby country in November.
On the other hand, if mamma said firmly, "I want you home," I would unhappily pack my bags and go home for a miserable summer. Such is my filial devotion.
Must do something about that invisible cord that ties me to them.
Torn. Having to think serious thoughts suck.
at 11:42 AM Birthday me Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to meeeee,
Happy birthday to meeeeeEEeeeeeeEEEE,
Happy birthday to ME!
Nah-uh. Not my birthday today. It won't be my birthday till early August.
Missa hate birthdays. Everyone forgets it, you see, including missa. Missa no like turning 23. Missa getting old. Old, missa tells you.
Sunday, June 16, 2002
at 3:09 PM Trailing in the wake I know I am in a hopeless state of mind when I raid Jason's collection of worship music for soothing.
My comfort, my shelter
Tower of refuge and strength
Let every breath, and all that I am
Let it never cease to worship You.
I can see Ben's intense face as he accompanies us on the electronic piano, listening carefully to the blend of our voices. I struggle to keep my pitch against Jackson's sharp tenor line.
I can search for all eternity, Lord
and find there is none like You.
I can hear Gerald's warm earthy tones, contrasted with my clear white tone. He soared above the melody, and my heart went with him.
but tonight, my heart is heavy
and I cannot keep from whispering this plea,
are You there?
Chu's voice ...
but I don't need the strength of Samson's, or a chariot in the end
Just wanna know that you still know how many hairs are on my head
Oh great God, are you small enough ...
Be small enough to hear me now.
... as she puts her heart and soul into a song, and brings us collectively to our knees.
I knew I should have gone to mass this morning. I haven't been in months.
Saturday, June 15, 2002
at 11:07 PM If I only had a brain ... I am a little ... blank. A little drained, perhaps. A little tired. Somewhat contemplative, at any rate.
Jason knocked on my door at this morning. "Are you coming?"
"What's the time?"
"9.30."
I dropped back onto my pillows, not at all refreshed from 8 hours of sleep. "We're going to be late," I thought, and reluctantly got out of bed.
We spent the day with an old production and high school friend of ours. It was his birthday today. A movie (Spiderman rocks) at Crown, then a late Japanese lunch in South Yarra, before going back to Ian's place to have a look at his Japan pictures. He spent 3 months there late last year, working in a ski resort.
It was dark by the time we got home, only to see Denning cycling furiously up the hill on his way to mass.
Listless.
I don't want to talk. I just want to be.
I am missing him. There is that familiar ache again, back to remind me that I am not at all hard, despite all my attempts to be so. Would that I could lay my heavy head on his chest, and have him silently reassure me that the sun will still rise tomorrow.
Suddenly, I am reminded of Kate and Petruchio. Could it really be that I have mellowed these past eight months or so? I feel changed.
How strange are the happenings of the world. How strange are the workings of the Universe.
Friday, June 14, 2002
at 11:22 PM My claim to fame I once spent a weekend with the lead singer of an now defunct Australian band called Chocolate Starfish. Get your mind out of the gutter. We were attending a camp.
He sang "If I were a rich man" from Fiddler on the Roof just for me. Just for me. "A song from your favourite show, Livy!" he said, before gesturing for the others to drag me into a circle to dance. Adam's sweet, and beautiful. His soul was stunning that night.
When I last saw him, Adam was the frontman of a three piece band bearing his name. I'm trying to track him down, to hear him play and to see what he's been up to.
But I've forgotten what his last name was.
at 1:33 AM Trawling for Mackers Don't you hate it when plans fall through?
Insomniac and I were meant to wander along Chapel Street tonight, last night, Thursday night, whichever. But she begged off because she had to pack. I didn't mind. I went over to watch her pack.
"I feel like chips," said I.
"What's open at this hour?"
"Mackers? I feel like Mackers' chips."
She looked at me over her shoulder, with interest. "Let me finish my packing first."
Every single Mackers (MacDonalds, to those unfamiliar with Australian slang) within 10km radius was closed, or was closing, by the time we ventured out into the cold.
Now, if we had stuck to the original plan, we could have had cocktails at TGI Friday's. Browsed at Borders. Contemplated a movie at the Jam Factory. Wandered about Virgin Megastore. Had alcoholic slushies and danced a little at Frostbites. Looked into all the posh, hip shop windows and drool over delicious looking boots. Had tiramisu cheesecake at a cafe anywhere along the strip for dessert. Checked out the pretty cars, the pretty boys and thumbed our noses at sophisticated Melbourne women. We could have done all of those things.
But we didn't.
We ended up at The Pancake Parlour, instead, and talked about the pecularities of the species commonly known as 'boys'.
"I'm going to write a letter!" said Insomniac.
I laughed. "About how inconsiderate of Mackers not to be open at 11.15pm on a Thursday night?"
Really, Mackers should be open until midnight!
Thursday, June 13, 2002
at 2:36 PM Oof I cannot tell you how unbelievably luxurious it is to roll out of bed at noon, and proceed to do nothing for the rest of the day. I don't have to rush to classes. I don't have to plan lessons, or co-ordinate rehearsals. I don't have to run errands for the dolt, "I work full-time. You don't. Ergo, you have more time. Go pay the bills." I have no pending assignments to write, no science demonstrations to organise, no meetings to go to. I don't have to rob Peter to pay Paul to see everyone that I want to see - Insomniac, the MCP, Shazza.
I have time to write, I have time to think. I have time to sleep! I have time to watch DVDs with the boys. I have the time to cook the elaborate dinners the boys love. I can zip down the local library for books and more books. I have time to read an actual newspaper, instead of just skimming the news online. I have time to go window shopping at my local shopping strip. I have time to explore the Melbourne that I love.
Oh, it is glorious.
Two more weeks of this and I swear to you, I will come back and say, "I'm bored, entertain me."
'Tis a good thing Fame rehearsals start up again next week, and Jason and I are returning to sing Carl Orff's Carmina Burana with the Choir soon.
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
at 10:10 PM Bucket, please Headache. May degenerate into migraine, and a night's worth of pain. It hasn't quite decided yet.
Nausea. Oh, the nausea. I don't know which is worse. The throbbing at the back of my head, or the nausea.
There was this one time I had a terrible migraine which developed about six hours before I was due to fly off to see Superduperglorious Friend. I took Panadol, drank loads of water, packed my bags and got Jason to drive me to the airport. It hurt to have my eyes open, so the forty fives or so minutes it took to get to the airport was spent trying to doze, while Jason droned on about something.
"I have a headache, Jason. Shut up."
"You can't do that. You can't deny me my pleasure. After all, I won't get to tease/disturb you for a week."
"Shut up. I have a headache."
I was glad to see the back of him. But by that time, the throbbing had become so bad, it had translated into extremely blurred vision and hideous nausea. I staggered into the toilets to make myself throw up. No go. So I sat miserably at the departure lounge, waiting for my flight to be called.
There was a sweet couple sitting by the window as I slumped into my seat on the plane. Honeymooners, I thought blearily. From Malaysia or Singapore, maybe - their accent was familiar. Across the aisle was a rather nice, friendly-looking woman in a burgundy shirt. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Next thing I knew, I was reaching for an airsickness bag and hurling into it.
The flight from Melbourne to Christchurch is about three hours or so. For three hours or so, I sat and hurled into bag after bag after bag. I shook with reaction after every bag, my entire body was tingling madly, and I could barely feel my fingers and toes. I was fighting tears because I felt so awful. The pain just got worse and worse, until I was hyperventilating, and was nearly in hysterics. The woman in the burgundy shirt across the aisle, who turned out to be a doctor, turned to the concerned flight attendants and suggested morphine to control the nausea.
"Would you like that, miss?" one flight attendant said.
"No," I said.
"Then I'll just get you some oxgyen."
The oxygen helped with the hyperventilating. It didn't help the nausea. I was still hurling every twenty minutes. But it did help slow my heart rate down a little, and made me feel a little more comfortable. The poor couple by the window. I must have put them off their dinner something awful.
I was feeling weak when the plane landed in Christchurch - my stomach muscles were hurting like hell. But at least I wasn't throwing up any more. I even managed to crack a joke with the nice woman who wheeled me from the plane. The first person I saw as I was wheeled out of customs was Superduperglorious Friend. The dropped jaw and the horrified look on her face went a long way in helping me restore my sense of humour about the situation.
"Hey!"
"OMG, darling!!! What happened?!! Are you okay?! Did you break something?! What happened?!!"
I started laughing the best I could with sore stomach muscles. "I'm sick. I threw up all the way here."
"Oh, darling!"
Guyfriend, whom I had asked to meet me at the airport, spoke up. "I'm guessing clubbing is out of the question tonight."
I laughed at him. "How about a drink instead?"
The migraine had gone.
Amazing, isn't it?
Now if this blasted headache would go away too.
at 11:23 AM Hello, you You know that deep unhappiness you get when you come down crashing from a tremendous high? It's unbearable especially when you've been drinking the night before. I usually spend the day after a drinking binge alternating between glaring angrily at people and wanting to burst into tears.
I'm in the midst of that. But I haven't been drinking. I'm tempted, though. Just to feel that buzz. To be a little wild, and wicked.
It's June. I always get restless and depressive in June. And August. November. January. It's a cyclic thing, I've discovered.
They've been grumbling about the lack of food (they mean junk food) in the house the last couple of days. I say there's plenty to eat - the freezer's chock-a-block! But they wouldn't shut up. So, I sent the two nincoompoops that I'm living with out to get groceries on Monday, just to get them out of my hair while I furiously wrote 3200 words due in approximately 24 hours. They came home with bags and bags of junk.
Sausages. Lamb chops. Red meat. Cans of baked beans. Cans of tuna. A bag of chips. 4 packets of Tim Tams. 4!!!!! Peanut butter. A big tub of ice cream. Processed cheese. Shredded cheese. 2 packets of spiralli pasta that they would never, in a hundred years, willingly cook. Instant noodles - packets and packets of them. The vegetables they bought? 1 icky iceberg lettuce, a big bag of onions for some reason, and a bag of tomatoes. No mushrooms, capsicums, leeks, pumpkin, salad leaves, fruit juice - none of the good, healthy stuff.
Boys!!! They have no sense of nutrition. Or budgeting.
I visibly paled when the dolt told me how much they've spent. "$110?!!!! You WHAT?!!! What did you buy?!!!"
I rummaged about the bags.
"This is JUNK, you NUT! Where's all the healthy stuff?!! And $110?!!! You've completely blown our weekly budget!! OMG, you bought chicken breast fillets at $10.00?!!!!!!!! Have you gone completely insane?!! They're $8.50 at the chinese shop!!! You are so going to eat peanut butter sandwiches for the next week!"
I had a fit right there in the kitchen. Mother-of-mine would have been proud of me.
They are nincoompoops. I'm living with dolts. Complete idiots.
Saturday, June 08, 2002
at 10:28 AM Hiatus Taking time off to work on a couple of issues, to sort out a few things on my own. I don't know when I'll be back.
Be brave, chickadees. There is a notify list, if you like.