Late-night Realisations

Before I met Monkey Boy, I was involved with someone I shall call Fuckhead (for that is what I call him) for 4 years. Fuckhead is a violent manic-depressive alcoholic. I knew about both the manic-depression and the alcoholism when I got involved with him. I learnt about the violence later. For most of our relationship, I tried to figure out ways of leaving. I was scared, both of him and of being alone for the first time in my life. I knew from the very begining that this would never work, but I felt like I owed him some sort of duty of care. No-one else wanted a thing to do with him; his mania and alcoholism had burnt almost all of his bridges. I was the only one left who was prepared to help him get the professional help he needed.

As time went on, it became increasingly apparent that there was no helping him. By this time, however, I was so emotionally battered that I didnt have the energy to fight anymore. I blamed myself and felt so stupid for having stayed so long in such truly horrible circumstances. Everyone says "If my partner ever hit me, I'd be out of there so fast..." blah blah blah. But the thing is, as with so many other major life events, you really have no idea how you'll react until you're faced with the situation. It has taken me another 4 years to come to terms with what happened to me and why I didnt just end the relationship when it was obviously a Very Bad Idea to stay in it.

Recently, with nothing much else to do, and a desire for whalebone corsets and crinoline, I've been devouring the classic novels. I've just finished the last of my Austens, and I'm now starting on the Bronte collection again. The current selection is Anne Bronte's The Tennant of Wildfell Hall.

Last night, after being woken by thunderstorms, I picked up the novel and began to read. The following passage struck me like the lightening that was striking the ground not so far from here. Nothing that I could write would be better able to elucidate how I felt during that relationship. Strangely, the writing of a devout Christian woman of elevated class, some 180 years ago, tells my story:


Since he and I are one, I so identify myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and transgressions as my own; I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for him; and hence, I must be and I am debased, contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes, and in the actual truth.

I am so determined to love him - so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually dwelling upon them, and laboring to extenuate the loosest of his principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with vice and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked and disgusted me now seem only natural. I know then to be wrong, because reason...delares them to be so; but I am gradually losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which was given me by nature, or instiled into me...

Perhaps, then, I was too severe in my judgements, for I abhorred the sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate too? Fool that I was to dream that I had strength and purity enough to save myself and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if I should perish with him in the gulf from which I have sought to save him!

Thankyou, Miss Bronte, for showing me myself.

Why I Hate The Telephone

Mother: We have a bit of a problem.
Panda: what?
M: The poplar tree in the corner of the garden has fallen down onto our fence and most of it is in the neighbour's garden.
P: Oh dear.
M: Can Monkey Boy come and cut it up for us?
P: Well, Monkey Boy has a busted shoulder. Surely the council has someone who could get rid of it for you?
M: Ooooh, I dont know....blah blah blah.
P: How's your hip?
M: Not good. I was trying to vacuum last week, hanging on to the walking frame and dragging the cleaner around a bit, and I tripped and fell and twisted my knee. So I havent been able to get to the doctors to get another script for my blood pressure medication, but its okay, because I've been cutting them in half so I dont run out.

P, off the phone, to Monkey: My mother is fucked.
Monkey: Your mother is retarded.

Next Day:

M: The council cant help, but they have a list of contractors who will do the work and we 'll get a $100 discount for being Aged Pensioners.
P: that's good.
M: But we dont know how much it will be. $100 off what??? Cant Monkey Boy come and do it? (whining) I'll pay him for his trouble.
P: Monkey Boy has a busted shoulder and I'm not about to ask him do something that's going to make it worse if you can get a professional to do it for you.
M: wah wah wah wah wah. Well, I'll ask C (neighbourhood acquaintance) and S (neighbour in whose yard tree now is) and if there are no offers there I'll get a contractor to quote. When are you coming to take dad to his appointment?

P: (thinks to herself) Yes, I'm fine thanks Mother, apart from the exhaustion and the nausea and the headaches and the profound lack of desire to go anywhere and do anything, and yes, your grandchild is still alive and is doing quite well, thanks for not asking. Anymore of your problems you feel like dumping on me now that you've woken me up?

Monkey: You know, any right-thinking judge would find grounds for Provocation...

This Week's Poll

The question for which comes to you courtesy of Monkey Boy, who is sick, sick, sick.

It is also an homage to Jet, who will be the only other person who gets the joke.

Milestone

10 weeks today, so we now officially have a baby, and not just an embryo.

Woohoo!

Sniff. They grow up so fast...

SGMBH

Something Good May Be Happening over with our Shoe Goddess.

Go give her some lovin before her head explodes.

The one in which Panda realises what she's got herself into.

At some point over the last 24 hours, an idea has crystallised in my brain, escaping as a fully formed and coherent OH MY GOD this morning.

I'm having a baby. Like, I'm not just pregnant, but I'm having a BABY. A little PERSON, who will be here in 6 1/2 months. And I'll be expected to look after it. To know what to do when it cries. To know how to change it's poopy bum properly. To know what to feed it. To know what to tell it about the birds and the bees, and whether to let it eat dirt, and how late it can stay out on a school night, and all about illicit drugs and and some point it will turn around and tell me "I HATE YOU! " and then want to borrow the car.....

I'm going to squeeze another human being out of my fanoir and the medicos are going to let me leave the hospital with it, UNSUPERVISED and be responsible for its welfare. For ever. Or until its therapist says it shouldnt have anything to do with me anymore.

I dont think anyone has thought this through very well. When the midwife at the antenatal appointment asked me how I wanted to feed the baby, my first thought was "Oh, we'll just free-range it with the chickens."

Seriously, you should meet my cats. They're all deranged in some way or another. This does not bode well for a happy, well-adjusted Spudly. I am not responsible enough for this job. As Monkey Boy is fond of reminding me. I have no moral authority. None.

And no idea about babies either.

They sleep alot, right?

Ummmm

In lieu of anything of note to write about (other than I have a new cordless phone so I never have to get out of bed again), I shall respond to some recent comments.

1. Spudly is indeed the new name for the Guinea Pig/Piglet. Courtesy of Princess Fanwah the Phantom Pooser.

2. Lala wants to know how I'm REALLY doing. Well, I'm REALLY tired, REALLY nauseous, REALLY bored, and REALLY brain-dead. I'm also REALLY amazed and gobsmacked that I'm pregnant, and REALLY REALLY happy.

3. I'm sorry, but I am not interested in data recovery systems, free downloads, debt consolidation, building muscle whilst losing weight, rose gardens, cheap satellite tv, nor, as hard as it is to believe, anything related to long island zip codes. I'm very glad you all think my blog is awesome and that you like my point of view. You may like to note, however, that since my point of view about spammers is to hang em high, I have now indroduced word verification on the comments. Future spammers will be tracked down and force-fed Spam.

4. The 3 people who voted that I should step away from the ice-cream lest I turn heiffer-shaped can kiss my lard-ass.

5. There is no point 5.

Poll

A new one. Over there---------->

----------->

----------->

Wont take long.

I'll meet ya back here.

Panda 1. Bedbugs 0

Okay, so it took me a couple of days, but I managed to fight off the attack by bed bug insurgents and can now get to my computer again.

While I was sleeping under attack, Monkey Boy had a birthday, which was a very exciting affair of driving to the River Murray and eating hot chicken, and touring antique shops on the way home.

Yesterday, we had our first ante-natal appointment at our chosen hospital, which was very exciting because it was the first time in I dont remember how long that I've had a wand and gel used on me that didnt end up where the sun dont shine. We got to have a go with the doppler machine, and after three attempts at finding the little bugger, we heard Spudly moving around (which sounds like claps of thunder) and then a heartbeat! Its the most amazing thing I've ever heard in my life. Swoosh swoosh swoosh of my blood flow, and underneath a very feint and very fast ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch. And some gas noises apparently, but that's Spudly, not me.

I have the Nuchal Translucency scan (aka Nucklehead Scan) in 4 weeks to assess whether there is an increased risk of Downs Syndrome, which to be honest, I'm only having because I want to have a peek at Spudly again. There's also a follow-up appointment with the ante-natal clinic to decide if I can use the Birthing Unit or have to go to the normal Labour Ward. There's no reason at all I should be considered high risk, so its really a matter of protocol.

My blood pressure has gone down since it was last taken a couple of months ago, which is a Good Thing, and its now nice and completely nice. Oh - and my icecream binges have not done anything to my waistline. Still the same weight I was two months ago. Lets see if some profiteroles today can change that.

I'm officially due on March 27, and officially 9w3d, which is 1 day behind what I thought. Meh. I never was much good at math. I've changed the ticker accordingly.

I heard our baby.

Wow. Just.wow.

I hope the bed bugs don't bite

Scraping smaping. Oprah needed my attention. Today, some American crap alleged "sit-com" needs my attention.

I have sent myself to bed, with supper, and I'm staying here until the bed sores set in, or tomorrow, whichever comes first.

Monkey Boy has even brought the computer into the bedroom so I can still communicate with the rest of the world without having to exhaust myself dragging my sorry ass all the way over there....into the next room.

He has also appointed himself as Monkey In Control of Panda's Gourmet Activities. Seems I cant be trusted to judge for myself how much food is an appropriate amount. I swear it didnt look like that much icecream.

High Achiever

I actually managed to do said dishes, and prepare said Hearty Soup like I claimed would. I must say, I totally rock in the soup-making department. Which is great, unless you have to control how much you eat. Then its not so good. I couldnt actually make myself stop eating the soup last night. So at about 8pm I looked like I was 5 months preggers, and could no longer belch with confidence. Stupid soup.

Today's efforts will involve scraping paint from the walls in the front room, and doing more dishes.

Before I get carried away with all that activity though, I will have a bit of a lie down and think about things I might like to eat.

In which my brain stops working and I cant think of a snazzy title

We added a new edition to our family yesterday. A chicken called Tilly, courtesy of our neighbours. This is not just any chicken. This is the biggest chicken you've ever seen in your life.

Tilly is to regular chooks what regular chooks are to bantams. We call her Gigantor. She's currently sorting out the other girls, making sure they understand that Things Are Now Different Around Here. I think she might be part turkey.

I would go and take a photo to post, but that would involve effort on my part, so its not gonna happen.

I had great plans for yesterday. It was sunny so I thought I'd cut back the hedge, which is in danger of losing some limbs thanks to recent heavy rainfall. I got as far as finding the shears, sitting in the hammock to contemplate said hedge, and there I stayed for the rest of the day.

Todays great plans include doing some dishes so that there is a clear flat surface upon which food preparation can occur, and then preparing some food in the form of a Hearty Soup for dinner. We'll see how far I get. Last night's culinary delight was packet Macaroni Cheese.

I am discovering that making lungs and eyelids takes up a lot more energy than I expected, and also takes away the desire to give a crap about anything else. As a result, if at any point I dont post for a whole day or two, dont freak out. I will be trapped under something warm and fluffy and doona-shaped, marvelling at Oprah's hair.

Its my party and I'll whinge if I want to

Yesterday was the worst day yet, probably not helped by the fact that I had been awake since 3am, had to drive 1 hour into the city to drop Monkey Boy off at uni and then see my therapist, shop for some wool, go back to uni to wait for Monkey Boy and wait and wait and wait and felt like I was going to die.

Dry retched fairly constantly all day. Smells are really affecting me now. Especially the smell of a public toilet. Oh.My.God. Next time, I'll take that stuff the forensics dudes use when looking at mangled bodies.

Almost lost my meagre brekkie in the toilet before we left home, and almost lost my Subway sandwich in the David Jones Food Court at lunch. I'm not sure they would have appreciated that. Not at DJ's.

Despite this, I still managed to polish off an entire large bottle of ginger beer in the car on the way home, and insisted on stopping at the supermarket to get some peppermint icecream, of which I demolished a huge bowl with Ice Magic as soon as we got home. More retching. It was worth it though...mmmm...peppermint icecream....

My back hurts, my tummy aches, my boobs hurt, I feel bloated, I feel sick, I'm exhausted, my IQ has dropped considerably.

Waaaah.

P.S. Appropos of nothing, the Ticker...well the purple flowery bit is the same as the tattoo I have on my ankle (1st anniversaary present) and the butterfly is the same as the tattoo I have on my shoulder (finally got the guts up to leave first partner/happy 28th birthday present). Just thought I'd share.

Did You Know?

That this blog is the top ranking site for the search ' existentialist meerkats'?

What I'd really like to know, however, is why Luke from Hobart (see Guestbook) was googling existentialist meerkats in the first place. Maybe that's just what they do down in Taswegia.

Did you also know that it is perfectly possible to be both starving hungry and feel like throwing up your toenails concurrently? Food is NOT my friend. However, I gotta say, I soooo could never be bulimic.

I know I had other stuff to write about, but its all...kinda...gone... Pfft! Maybe it has someting to do with being awake since 3am.

As my favourite slurry Jet would say: Bacon.

Stuff and Things

Firstly, in light of yesterday's spam: a new Poll.

Secondly, now that Blogger is letting me post pictures again, I can show you where I was on the weekend:


That's me on the left, hangin with ma homies.


Thirdly, here's my lovely new sparkly from my lovely Monkey Boy:


I am suffering a severe case of baby-based IQ deficiency today, so that's about as enthralling a post as you're gonna get. Or maybe its all the crap magazines I've had to read in various hospital waiting rooms every day last week. Either way, Passions is starting to look like a well-crafted and realistic drama.

***Edited to add: hcg is now 82,494. Now there's a happy number! Doubled every 101 hours since the last one, as Dr Google says it should. Yay for Piglet!

Spam

Is not just something disgusting in a can that my parents still eat.

Its also something I now get on my blog, cunningly disguised as a comment.

In response: thankyou for your visit. I am unable at this time to support our (well, your) troops by purchasing...whatever it is you're selling... This is because I cannot in any way support either the war in Iraq nor the continued presence of troops in that country. In addition, I believe that wearing a badge supporting the people who are responsible for killing innocent civilians is abhorrent.

Awaiting the backlash...

New! Improved! Sparklepanda now with 30% more sparkle!

Maybe its a Bad Sign* that when I dont post for a day people put out an APB on my sorry ass.

Its okay...call off the search party...I'm still here. Just incredibly sore and unable to move very much and exhausted. Where have I been?


DAMN YOU TO HELL BLOGGER!


Well, they wont let me post photos at this time. You'll have to wait.

Additional reason for being so sore and tired is wandering all over the city on Friday doing the grocery shopping at the market, and then cruising The Mall for some late night shopping. Monkey Boy decided that I should have a Little Something to celebrate the Piglet. I decided this should be in the form of a ring. So he found me a lovely rose gold and diamond sparkly for Not Very Much. If blogger werent experiencing technical difficulties right now I could show you. As it is...its rose gold, and 10pts of diamonds. Understated yet still sparkly.

What else? Had another visit with Vampira for updated HCG numbers, which I'll get back on Monday. I wanted another scan, of course, but Dr Nice said there was no point unless the numbers werent going up and anyways a blood test is cheaper than a scan. Pshaw! Like that's a reason.

Yesterday I felt so bloated and uncomfortable I went and bought my very first pair of maternity pants. Mostly because I feel fat, not because I actually look pregnant. To the untrained eye, I look exactly the same as I did previously. But judging by the number of comments I get on my "bump" I guess I've always looked like I'm pregnant then.... Like I said: fat.

*To shut Manuela up, by Bad Sign I mean that I post way too frequently and/or am too predictable in the timing of my posts. I do not mean that its a Bad Thing that people think about me and wonder if I'm okay. Thats kinda nice.

Warning: pg ment.!

Pshaw! If you're that sensitive, you're at the wrong blog.

So anyways, back to the real topic at hand.

Almost 8 weeks. Still pregnant. First antenatal appointment booked and happening in two weeks. Still feeling queasy as all hell. Still unable to judge how much food is too much. Still have burgeoning boobs. Still have mild cramps. Tummy becoming less capable of remaining enclosed in pants. Husband becoming all protective and territorial.

In addition, psycho-bitch-from-hell-Panda may be about to make a long-awaited re-appearance. I have no tolerance for any bullshit whatsoever. None. As evidence, I hold up Exhibit A: actually telling my mother she's fucked. Exhibit B: sending my brother a copy of my post about how my mother refuses treatment which is gonna set that cat among the pigeons. I can feel the level of unreasonablenessnessness rising. Which means one thing of course: that my progesterone is on the way up!

All in all, the worse I feel, the happier I am. How is it that the brain can manage these complicated emotional gymnastics?

Matricide Is Still A Crime, Isn't It?

Took dad to his first appointment with the Geriatician yesterday afternoon. As we sat in the waiting room, waiting, for half an hour past our apointment time, dad asked me about 20 times why we were there or whether it was me or him that was seeing the doctor.

Excellent doctor. I will call him Dr Excellent. He spent an hour with dad, asking him lots of questions about his life, how many kids he had, his health, blah blah. Incidentally, dad thought he had one more kid than he actually does. Unless there's something he's not telling us....

Dr Excellent went through the standard 30-point dementia questionairre, 24 is a bad score. Dad scored 21. He thought it was February, Autumn, and had no idea what year it was. One minute after being given three words to remember, he couldnt recall them. Dr E. did a thorough physical check as well and pronounced the following: Physically, apart from a very slight heart valve murmur (which even I have) he is fighting fit for an 89 year old. Mentally, he has moderate Alzheimer's Disease and Vascular Dementia. He has obviously had at least one stroke.

Thank you Dr Panda! I figured this out ages ago. Why does no-one ever listen to me?

And a big "stick that up your Hippocratic Oath Dr Fuckhead" to dad's former GP who said there was nothing anyone could do and it was just old age.

Dad will now be taking Aracept in the hope that he falls into the 50% of people for whom it is effective. Apparently it can help improve his memory, slow any further degeneration and give him a bit more spark, but only for 2-3 years.

FINALLY, after so long, we have a diagnosis.

My mother, upon being told this news and hearing that some of the side effects of the medication were potential nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea said "Great. I'd rather put up with his memory the way it is." I could have hit her.

In further whinges about the Fucked One: they have no cash in the house, and obviously cant get to a money store. The Plan was that I was going to take the piece of plastic to an ATM and get some of the readies for them. Great plan, if mum had actually managed to remember her pin number. Card rejected. She gives me another number. Card rejected. Well, I say, I'll just take this withdrawal slip and your passbook to the bank tomorrow and get some cash from your account, like we agreed this morning.

"No. I dont want to do it that way. I want to do it the way I want to do it." Despite the fact that this is not in any way possible. Refused to give me a reason why she no longer wanted Plan B. You know, the awful parent thing of "Just because" and "I dont have to give you a reason" and "I dont have a reason".

At this point I told her she was fucked. Hahaha. To her face! First time ever! Its so liberating!

Having exhausted all possibilities of a rational discussion with her about how she was going to be able to get some cash she said "I'll just get a taxi to the bank then and get it myself." Despite the fact that she cant actually get in and out of a car.

Fine. You figure it out. I feel like shit and I'm going home.

Really.Dont.Care.

Care about dad being treated okay at home, which I'm not at all confident is actually going to happen. Time for revenge for past wrongs and all that...

The reason I'm so keen to get home help organised through Dr E. is not because I think that mum (when/if her hip gets better) cant help, its that I think she WONT help. She's spent so long ignoring what was going on right in front of her and actually admitted to me prior to dad's disappearance "I cant be bothered and I just go outside and potter in the garden and pretend its not happenening."

To quote Dr Phil: "How's that workin' for ya?"

The One I'm Glad I Didnt Write Last Night

Because it would have consisted mostly of swearing. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but, you know, some content is a good idea.

My mother is fucked. This much we already know from previous posts such as this one or this one .

Here's another example.

3 weeks ago, when coming out of the supermarket, she gets bowled over by some dickhead who wasnt watching where he was going. She falls hard onto the concrete pavement on her left hip. Keep in mind my mum is 73. She can hardly move. She cant sit in her regular chair because she cant get in and out of it. I have to take down my walking frame for her so she can get about. She's got huge bruises on her hip and arm. She refuses to see a doctor, saying she'll wait and see how she goes.

Well for 3 weeks she has gone absolutely nowhere. She cant get dressed, she can hardly walk, she cant go to bed because it hurts too much to lift her leg the couple of inches required to get in, so she's sleeping upright every night in her crappy old armchair. Not only cant she get dressed, but she cant get her support stockings on which she needs to wear every day for her unbelieveably bad varicose veins. She has worn these stockings every day for 30 years. She needs them. She hasnt worn them in 3 weeks. This can lead to a blood clot ending up in her brain or her heart or lungs.

So The Brother agrees with me that she needs to get some medical attention. His wife, who is a Registered Nurse, also agrees that she could have a hairline fracture of the hip or some muscle damage. So, I have The Conversation with her last night. About how we all are concerned she's not getting any better and she needs medical attention to find out what is going on.

She flatly refuses. More than that, she starts yelling at me in her whiney pathetic victim voice that I cant make her go to the doctor and she's not bloody going to the doctor and to just leave her alone and leave her in peace. Kinda reminds me of me when I was in PRIMARY SCHOOL and didnt want to go to school that day. I told her she was being ridiculous and that what she was doing was not helping her heal at all and that she needed to be seen so we knew if there was anything major wrong. More whining. I told her she was behaving just like her mother by being so stubborn and selfish and expecting everyone to run around and look after her and she should bloody well get some help. At which point she tells me that no-one is running around after her.

Oh. Really. Thats not what I recall:

"Panda, you'll have to go to Coles to pick up some things for us tomorrow, we've run out of cereal and bread and this and that. Panda, you'll have to go to the bank for me because I just dont know when I'll be able to get there on my own. Panda, you'll have to do all my grocery shopping again this fortnight. Panda, you'll have to take your father to the specialist on your own tomorrow, I cant get into a car."

Yeh, and how about: Panda, I chose to bury my head in the sand about my husband's deteriorating mental state for 5 years until he's had so many bloody strokes he barely knows who I am because I'm a selfish bitch but now you can do all the things I should have done years ago.

"Is that right? Well thank you very fucking much." I hung up on her.

Of course, she rings back straight way and leaves a message telling me to not get Uppity and to leave her alone in peace.

Fine.

Refuse medical attention. Accept the consequences of your selfish pig-headed attitude and dont come crying to me in 6 months when you still cant dress yourself.

Stupid cow.

Because, really, what she wants is for me to take on the role that she played with her mother. The Selfless Carer/Martyr. Only my mother wasnt that selfless. She bitched constantly about having to go down to see her mother on the bus several times a week, and lug all her grocery shopping home for her, and cook for her and clean her house, and care for her when she was ill or had people break into her house and beat her to within an inch of her life ("oh no, I dont need to see a doctor..."). Gran was almost completely blind, almost completely deaf, lived on her own without a telephone (and refused to have one connected), and expected mum to do everything for her. No outside help was allowed. No meals on wheels, no nursing visits, no home-delivered groceries.

Well she can take a flying fuck at the moon. It aint gonna happen.

I accept that I have some responsibility towards making sure my elderly parents are okay. My dad really doesnt have the capacity for taking responsibility for himself now. But my mother does. If she wont take responsibility for her own health and well-being, what can I do? My primary responsibility is towards the unborn Piglet, and that involves putting me first. My secondary responsibility is towards Monkey Boy, who will soon be having surgery on his shoulder to correct a tear in the tendon.

My primary responsibility is NOT towards a grown woman who should know better attempting to play the victim/martyr role and manipulating me into doing everything for her while she refuses to do anything to help herself, thereby making me feel physically even worse than I already do.

I'm not playing her game.

Someone is in need of a cold shower...

For the record, Monkey Boy's mobile number is 1-800-getyourhandsoffmyhusbandyoutroll.

Panda Responds

To Lorem: sexual partners does not necessarily mean intercourse. Sexual encounters of any flavour will do.

To Manuela: In response to reason number 10 as to why my blog rocks, Monkey Boy says "Well, she's only human." Please pass me my birthday bucket.

To Princess Fanwah: I dont know who you are but you've blown my cover. I was trying to keep the whole height and actual age thing a secret. Thanks for nothing, pooser.

To Jet: Am soooo not a dirty slurry - you are.

Admin

Since the Poll seems to attract most votes when I want to know about sex, I'm bowing to the pressure of the readership.

I think this fact alone says more than collating the data from all the Polls will.

I must say, I'm relieved that no-one thinks this blog sucks and is never coming back, although its possible that people DO think it sucks and cant even be bothered to vote to tell me so. I'm a little crushed that only ONE person thinks I'm funny. (And no, that wasnt me voting.) Cherice obviously appreciates the Gratuitous Images (that only got one vote too).

It would appear that honesty is a winner. I always thought so - except of course, when your girlfriend wears a wedding dress that looks like a giant marshmallow.

Hiding Out At Home

Dont you hate it when, despite your best efforts, your plans are foiled by people who cant take a hint?

It was a rather sunny day yesterday, so I lay in my hammock, catching up on some sunbeam therapy, dozing away quite nicely thankyou, when Monkey Boy comes out the back saying "Oh Panda...we have visitors..."

Yup, you guessed it. The Brother and my dad were here. How to contain my excitement???

I guess it wasnt that bad. Just bad enough. They stayed a couple of hours. Brother got in the requisite dig about how crap me and his daughter are. Oh, well, actually, all the (insert surname here) women.

Yeh? Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on!

Got some support for the theory that mum is a stubborn old goat who should damn well do what we tell her when we say she needs medical attention.

Thats all really.

Meh.

Does This Make Me A Bad Person?

Thus far, I have successfullly managed to avoid aforementioned brother, who is staying with my parents until Monday.

Monkey Boy has this strange theory about the telephone: it's there for OUR convenience. This weekend, its not at all convenient to answer it. Nor is it convenient to have visitors, or get in the car and drive a nauseating 55km to my parents house.

Really, not only do I have issues with The Brother, but I'm also fucking exhausted all the time and nauseous most of the time. Now that Monkey Boy's busted shoulder is even more busted than usual, I have to do the majority of the driving, so I'd kinda like to keep that driving to an absolute minimum. I'm also getting more and more grumpy with the rising progesterone levels, and am thus very grateful indeed for the Prozac. No need to put myself in a grumpy-makng situation, therefore.

I'm trying to justify my decision to hide from my family for the weekend. Is it convincing? Do I care?

My World View. Who Knew???

You scored as Materialist. Materialism stresses the essence of fundamental particles. Everything that exists is purely physical matter and there is no special force that holds life together. You believe that anything can be explained by breaking it up into its pieces. i.e. the big picture can be understood by its smaller elements. Modernist 100% Materialist 100% Cultural Creative 75% Postmodernist 75% Fundamentalist 50% Romanticist 50% Existentialist 50% Idealist 0% What is Your World View? (updated) created with QuizFarm.com

Really? I'm not an Idealist???

Panda & Monkey Boy's Birthday Expetition

Here's my Report on What I Did On My Birthday. Click to re-bigulate.

Driving into Monarto Zoo, there are emu wandering around aimlessly. They have right of way.

Enjoying the view from the restaurant before our tour.

Needed a little bit of a lie down after only one glass of wine...

But after a nice strong Soy Latte, we were ready to roll...

Here's me checking out the Bison

Here's me and the 6 month old cheetah cubs

Oh! Oh! Here's me and Monkey Boy with the giraffe herd. Very successful breeders, those giraffe.

Pandas could take a lesson or two from those guys.

And here's me and Monkey Boy with the lionesseseses.
Nice kitty.

Here we are with one of the Meerkats.
I think this one was put on guard duty.

If you want to see a quick movie of some Meerkat frolics, click on this linky thing.

I hate it when they come out all blurry.
We were trying to pose with the Rock Wallaby.
Thats him up in the top corner, that brown blurry splodge.
Well you get the idea...

And here's the whole family at the end of the day.


YAY for the Birthday Expetition!

The One Where I Have a Birthday

Happy Birthday to me
I live in a zoo
I look like a Panda
And smell like one too


Its my birthday and I'll mess with the lyrics if I want to!

As usual for my birthday, the forecast is for cold and wet. Stupid winter birthdays.

Despite this, we're going to take a trip out to Monarto Zoo, which is an open plains Zoo out in the sticks. You get driven around the property in a bus and see all the pretties. No pandas, unfortunately, but then mallee scrubland is not really our natural habitat. The one good thing about it being crap weather and mid-week is that there will be no-one else there. Bonanza.

You may also notice that I have changed the Ticker. I was waiting for two things: my birthday, and a heartbeat. We have achieved both, so now I'm going to tentatively count down the days until the Guinea Pig gets here.

If anyone knows how to create an Up The Duff ticker with grass and a guinea pig slider , please let me know. I've done looked and looked and there aint none out there. Poopy.

My Lucky Numbers Came Up

I should be having a go at Lotto this week.

Yesterday I said I would write about why this is all going to work out fine. Its all about the numbers.

I'm not a numerology nutter, or into astrology or any of that guff. I dont believe in Feng Shui and I dont think that blocking the positive Chi from the North does anything to change your fortune.

However, since I met The Monkey, there has been a rather amazing string of coincidences surrounding the numbers 4 and 8.

My birthday is 4th of the 8th month, his is the 22nd of the 8th month (2+2 equalling 4 last time I checked). We met on the 8th of the 8th. He proposed on the 13th of the 8th (yes, thats right, after knowing me a week). He lived in Flat 8, No 22... I lived at Number 8. The number of times (ha - its probably 8) either 4 or 8 have been involved in something of significance to both of us has been astounding. Every single time a 4 or 8 (or numbers that add up to these) is involved, stuff works out.

So this whole guine pig thing: I conceived on the 13th day of my cycle, which happened to be our 17th cycle of TTC. The baby is due in the 4th month of 2006. If you work out 40weeks from the date of conception, its actually due on the 8th of April.

Yesterday, the day we were shown our baby for the first time, was the 2nd of the 8th, 2005 - which all add up to....8. The heartbeat was 143, which adds up to 8.

Look back at the post of our ultrasound. See the time I published it? By pure coincidence, I posted our first baby picture at 8:48.

It has to work out. The numbers say so.

I think we'll call it Octavius.

Comfortably Numb

We got to the doctors appointment this afternoon to discover that our super wonderful gp has not just taken emergency extended leave, she's moved back to Melbourne and isnt working here anymore. What the????? A word of warning when we say her a week ago might have been nice.

Turns out though, that the guy we saw was also Rather Nice and I give him the thumbs up at first glance. Dr Nice agreed an ultrasound and hcg were in order given my history and my present state of mental discombobulation. Receptionist Chickie was also kind enough to phone through to one of the U/S clinics to find me a quick appointment. "4:30 today okay with you?"

Yeh, think I can fit that into my hectic schedule of panicking.

Of course, my bladder was nowhere near full enough by the time I got there, so out came Dildo Cam again. I was shaking. My legs were trembling. I felt sick. And it wasnt just the chips n gravy I had for lunch.

I couldnt even see the screen from where I was lying. All I could do was look at the Wand Monkey's face for any clues. I was pretty sure I saw a poorly disguised smile.

Then she asked Monkey Boy if he could see the movement.

He cried. I cried. I was having such a hard time keeping myself together Wand Monkey had to ask me to stop breathing so she could get good shots of the HEARTBEAT.

Yes, folks, we have a heartbeat. A beautiful, strong heartbeat of 143 beats per minute, in a being that is only 2mm long.

The Report says: "Viable intrauterine gestation of approximately 5 weeks and 4 days."

Dr Google says the scans are accurate to within 3-5 days, which puts it right on the money with when we know I ovulated, at 6 weeks and 2days.

The pain in my right side - a corpus luteum cyst of 2cm. No wonder it hurts.

No ectopic. No molar pregnancy.

Normal. Healthy. Heartbeat.

Wanna see the Guinea Pig?
-------------------------------->

-------------------------------->

-------------------------------->

-------------------------------->

Click to embiggen...

The outer grey mass is the uterus. The large dark area is the gestational sac. The small ring is the yolk sac and the tiny little nodule coming out the top right of that ring is the baby.

Holy shit.

This definately qualifies as the Best Birthday Present Ever.

Later, I will tell you why this is meant to work out, but should you feel inclined to beg/pray/bargain with the devil/etc for this one to stick like stink on a monkey, please go right ahead.

Correlation = Causal Relationship?

Okay, so some of you cant read my sidebars. Some people can see them with Windows XP and some cant. Some can see it with IE and some cant. Firefox users have no problem.

Are those who cant read the sidebar using both Windows XP and Internet Explorer, by any chance?

And does anyone know anyone who knows what to do about this?

Previously, on This Is Your Panda

Eating bananas was a Helpful Thing. Got the blood sugar back up quickly, whilst providing the appropriate nutrients. I never really liked bananas before, but now... I've been eating several a day.

Until today, that is.

I dont know if it was because they were a little squishier than usual, or maybe its because I have a litter of guinea pigs in there, but those bananas had Somewhere Else To Be. I've gotta say, its a little difficult to drive a car in peak traffic when you're dry-wretching your toenails up.

I'm looking forward to being able to burp with confidence once again. Monkey Boy (O he who inhales bananas) promises to buy me a bucket for my birthday.

Stupid Internet Explorer

Is anyone else having problems with the sidebar when using Internet Explorer? I use Firefox at home but when I've viewed the blog from the servers at Uni the type in the sidebar is so small it can't be read, and the formatting is all stuffed.

Is it just our crappy Uni computers or are you all unable to read my sidebar?

Anyone got any ideas?

Death to Microsoft maybe?

150-1 It's A Guinea Pig*

So. Tomorrow, we have an appointment with the gp, at which I will say "I'm going insane with paranoia, please give me an ultrasound NOW, and lets check the hcg while we're at it. "

To say I feel sick about it is an understatement. This week I'm either going to have the best birthday ever or the worst birthday ever.

Place your bets.


*For a few years I would dream that I gave birth to either kittens or guinea pigs, which I would always forget about and then find them dead.

Tell Panda What She Wants To Hear

Its Monday, so that means another Poll.

I'm astounded from last week's question to find out that I have readers who have NOT YET HAD SEX. Maybe this is the cause of your infertility issues?

I'm also intrigued to find out who the slutbags are who had sex at the tender age of TWELVE.

This week, its something less intimate. Its all about ME. What is it that keeps you coming back here? Or, if you're new to the Wacky World of Pandamonium, what would make you come back?

You can even leave comments on this issue if you want - would you like more non-pregnancy/infertility related posts, more photos, less photos, want to hear more about Monkey Boy? Want me to be less whiney....? (Well fuck off then.)

Once I've reached 100% capacity on my poll allowance, I'll make a pretty graph or somesuch and work out who the average Pandamonium reader is. If anyone fits that profile exactly, they will win a prize.*

Please help me in my scientific endeavours.


*May not actually happen. No correspondence will be entered into.