Posts Tagged ‘fictionary’

Crank it up to the next level, boyz. And LOOK at my giant bump. Perhaps this weekend will bring prictures for you lucky people.

February 26, 2009

Woah. Lots of hip pain responses. That’s what we like to see – other ladies in discomfort. It’s like pregnancy porn for sickos. (I exclude myself from the sicko category in this instance, however.)

I could write you another numbered list of even more things that have happened. All of it is overshadowed by the ongoing sickness. The new pattern seems to be by midweek I am vomiting loads, fatigued, get migraines, have a nasty resurgence of my cold, and call in sick. I had a little crying jag to my boss’ boss today. Tomorrow is the first proper antenatal appointment, although even that is just a booking appointment (which should have happened at least a month ago, but who’s counting? Oh yeah, ME). My boss’ boss seems to think I am going to be signed off from work.

I don’t know. Either way, I have to cut my hours way down because my body – and therefore mind – is clearly not coping with working full time and being a twincubator full time.

Those little babies are kicking like wild donkeys on speed, and I just want to focus on them and not on how miserable I feel. I called across the world (eight time zones) to speak to my sister at 1 am her time, and I just sobbed out, ‘I just needed to hear the voice of someone who loves me.’

Whine whine, moan moan. At least the pregnancy is ‘out’ on Facebook, so it’s nice to be getting supportive and copious comments on there.

Had a scan on Monday and Baby M headbutted Baby T so, so, so hard that Baby T’s entire body rippled from the impact. I will tell you their ‘names’ in a later post, because I only just vomited into a tissue box and think it’s time to sleep. After all, I have to wake up super early and try to piss in a urine specimen pot that is about as wide as a pencil.


Word creating left, right, and centre.

August 21, 2008

Back at work after three days at home lying as still as possible, trying to forget the fact that my houdini (new word for vaginal area – you like?) was hurting like a mofo. Still have not looked directly at the stitches, much like a vampire would avoid looking at the sun. I don’t think the sight of them will make my eyes melt, but I don’t want to take any chances.

On the plus side, the massive amount of skin TMD ripped off my leg when she took off the bandage hurt a lot more than the actual houdini-wound. So clearly the bambini is getting better.

Aussie pointed out an interesting fact as I was crying to her about how Operation Fingerpaint people must think I’m fucking weird to require all this time off. She said that if I were working for Day Job, I would have taken a month off and not worried about it. I think she’s right. Operation Fingerpaint rules.

You know what else rules? The giant black arrow drawn on my right leg, pointing right at my cootcheroo. It does seem to be slightly fading, and I wonder sometimes about colouring over it to ensure that anyone looking for my babyluv in the future will be able to find it.

(‘babyluv.’ EW.)

English, an ever evolving language.

May 21, 2008

Tetrising (verb) : the act of placing oddly shaped items into a limited area, trying to waste as little space as possible.

A junkie in the truest sense.

May 18, 2008

I have a passion for things that are both funky and useless. These include the wonderful lanyards, homies, and smooth glass pieces from the beach which are currently nestled in a box I’ve just packed. Also in the box are a rubber ducky and her three children, a bag of marbles TMD once bought me, about six travelcard wallets, and an assortment of crap.

Many of the things I own are intrinsically cool, the sort of thing I want to surround myself with in my new writer’s room in the new house (the room formerly known as ‘therapy room’ and futurely known as ‘baby’s room’). The problem is that I have too many.

The McDonald’s toy chicken nugget dressed as a dinosaur is one of the only givens I know I will have proudly on display, and possibly my Rubik’s cube. You know, because every time I see it I pick it up, twirl it around, and joyfully proclaim that I’m going to start playing with it. Any. Day. Now.

The problem isn’t only acquiring these things (from fast foot restaurant floors – I shit you not, my sister, TMD, friends, holidays, stores, freebies in various places), no. The true problem is that I can’t throw anything away. I imbue everything with a supernatural amount of sentimentality. That being said, I have gotten rid of astronomical amounts of books, clothes, shoes, video tapes, music tapes, workplace binders, etc. But there seems to be an infinite amount of ‘stuff’, and the things I have the most trouble getting rid of are those that have no use.

Right now I’m sitting here with a promotional ribbon lanyard hung around my neck, nothing dangling from the end.

New lingo.

March 30, 2008

I just used ‘facebook’ as a verb. That is all.

Lookie loo.

January 15, 2008

Okay – big essay due in tomorrow, and I’ve not written one word yet. It’s now 1:05 pm (laptop time) and I need to leave for supervision at 5:45 pm. Let the good times roll.

I thought it was going to be on my approach to integration, but to my horror it also needs to be heavily weighed with psychodynamic theory. Pardon me, but wasn’t that what the last little bitch of an essay was on? It’s interesting how I have moved from infatuation with the psychodynamic to something approaching distrust.


Onwards and upwards. I got home from physiotherapy awhile ago, and rather than leaping onto the laptop, I spent thiry minutes watching a show called ‘RSPCA: Have you got what it takes?’ and wondering if I shouldn’t train to be an animal cruelty inspector. Bless.

See you in a binute (‘Minute’ and ‘bit’ mutated into something wholly more satisfactory to say. Also incorporates the word ‘bin’, which is nice as I am using an afternoon at home not to glory in my time off, but to write an essay. And that’s rubbish!)

Still fumbling. Ack ack ark.

December 14, 2007

Okay. That last entry felt pretty forced and awkward. I wasn’t writing for me.

Why not? Kleinette’s now got the address to this diary, and I always get a bit fumbling when someone I know and respect suddenly has access to these words. Christ, when Filmetta got the address I had trouble writing for a couple of weeks. Maybe this says something about My Little Writing Problem? I don’t know.

Kleinette holds hope and faith, the things I sometimes have difficulty holding for myself. Am I really good enough, creative enough, living enough. I guess the only person I have to compare myself to is me, and that can be a narrow perspective. But I trust Kleinette, and if she says I can do it, that’s something I can hold onto.

So, two years on, and therapy ends. I emerge more full, more capable of holding things that hurt or confuse me. I also walk away with a deeper connection to life, more joy in how my body feels, and still me.

With my too-big wedding ring and my striped socks, I’m okay. I don’t need to be perfect, to be polished, and somehow I think that rough rocks leave more room to explore. I used to steal polished stones from my father’s mother; I liked the ways they felt when I brushed my fingers over them. I think that’s how I thought I had to look, to live. But if left unpolished, there is room for things to hide in microscopic crannies, there is a chance to bump up against other people and make an impact. Scratch myself onto the world, and let the world shape me.

I don’t know what I felt the last hour would be like, and I don’t think this was how I imagined it. Kleinette says, ‘It will be what it is.’ That sort of peaceful acceptance bewilders me, and intrigues me. So much of the time I have an urge to do something, to change myself, to try a little harder. Kleinette says, ‘You are.’

Just as I am, that is enough. I am a miracle, because how it is not amazing that my body can breathe with no thought, I can see/feel/hear all at the same time, I have opinions and emotions. A lump of gray matter holds my personality, and we’ve all got the same fucking lump, but different selves. I trip a lot in public, often falling over. I wrap my scarf around my neck so many times my neck is thicker than my torso. I feel upset with myself and with life, and I like myself anyway.

What I really want to say is:

It’s botox cold out today. You know how when people get Botox injected, they apparently have trouble making facial expressions? Well, walking this afternoon (outside for only ten minutes), my face stopped doing what I wanted it to. I could barely talk, and I was numb. That’s cold.

Do I get points for using two fictionary words?

November 19, 2007

Okay, I was trying not to be dramastic, but I am feeling scrabic.

 It occurs to me that ‘scrabic’ reminds me of ‘phobic’ and ‘scabies.’ Both are probably somewhere near the truth. That being said, I just invited 14 facebook pals to join in the game.

Maybe I’m secretly one of those people who gets off on mass humiliation?

The grocery delivery is here.

November 19, 2007

Seriously. They all think I’m going to be so good at Scrabble, when in fact I am terrible at any task involving spatial things. Therefore, floating letters around in my brain in the attempt at making a clever word is not my best chance to showcase my prowess.

Good thing I have prowess in all sorts of other areas, otherwise I might be feeling Scrabic*.

*panic induced by Scrabble

Can you spot the grammatical error in the tutor’s comments? It made me gag.

October 20, 2007

I’ve been having these chest pains this week. Kleinette was not amused yesterday when I brightly said, ‘I’ll see you in two weeks, unless I have a heart attack first.’


TMD and I are shortly leaving for a glitzy hotel for My Other Job; we’ve got a weekend of meetings. Glory be, though, Corporate T will be there. Much talk of who will be ignoring who is furiously flying, though most of my concentration lies on what the free gift will be this year. Oh, the joy of a hoodie. Or a new car. You know we’re going to end up with a shitty pen that has half the ink gone, though.

Life moves on, though.

Just got my first feedback from the tutor of the writing course, for the piece I submitted last weekend. I think I should bring all this stuff to therapy. The actual critique of my form was really, really favourable. The only suggestions were around motivation, and perhaps – was I *shock horror* writing to entertain the audience? Us literary folks don’t give a shit about who reads our fiction, apparently.

I suppose I can now definitively answer Kleinette’s question – while being perceived as literary would be nice, I am not particularly likely to fall into that category any time soon. I like the movement of words, the joy of writing, the satisfaction from telling a really good fucking story. And I think that’s more than enough.

I am still trying not to rip myself apart, so I will repost a bit of his comments here to keep me focused on the positive:

You obviously have natural ability with language and voice.  Your sentences propel the writing forward energetically.  And I very much appreciate the playfulness of this, the sense that your comfortable personifying these little “obsessions” as if they were your private menagerie (which, I guess, they are). 

He also said he had fun reading it. Well, halleluiah. (How DO you spell that word??) I find it much harder to write funny things that dramastic ones.

Oh! Also went to the premiere of my friend’s film last night. There was red carpet outside!!

It was possibly the best movie I have ever, ever seen. It’s a shame that it was commissioned for tv, because I would imagine you would lose a lot without the big screen experience. For those of you who live in my country, I think the movie will be on channel quatro in mid-November. I thought the director said the 17th, TMD thinks the 19th. You’ll know you’ve found it when you find the title of a movie taken from ze big book of Jesus, before Jesus entered the scene. My Jewish pals can also access this, as it is handily in the ze big book that never gets to Jesus, but would you like to talk about circumcision?

I read a bit of that book before going to the film yesterday, and it deepened my appreciation for what the writer did. I’m going to read the rest of it before it comes out on tv! I am literary in my appreciation of art, you see.

Oh, it’s also really, really easy to crash film parties. Granted, we walked in with the producer, but the hotel staff didn’t know that, did they? TMD, myself, Landlady, and Landman stood by the windows. TMD was feverishly looking at the view and contrasting how the city looks from the south as with the north. (Don’t judge.) Landman had his eyes peeled and kept pointing out various actors, and when he caught up with Filmetta he just kept saying, ‘And who’s that guy in the purple shirt? With the curly hair…no, no, the one talking to that lady in the red dress.’

Landlady and I huddled nearby, discussing counselling.




Dramastic – Adjective formed by the combination of ‘dramatic’ and ‘fantastic.’