Yup, I’m still carting around this little Worzel inside me, and despite how much I’ve quacked on about hoping she’ll come a tad early, I’m now keeping my fingers crossed that she’ll hold off on arriving until after Monday.  I have plans to go to the pools on Monday.  The craving to submerge myself in water is stronger than my cravings for fruit and frozen ice.  Of course, knowing my luck this will now work as reverse psychology and I’ll find the only pool I’ll get to splash about in on Monday is a birthing one!

 Well, a pool’s a pool I guess.  Except one will also be accompanied by contractions.

Had a cool day at Cheltenham beach on Monday, but this heat has now sapped away my will to do much else except to sit around and play Monopoly with Char.  Now that the bedrooms are re-arranged and whatnot, I’ve burnt out like an old rock has-been and have now become rather sloth-like.  Which is probably why The Worzel is now lying in a wonderful posterior position which strikes pain into my lower back each time she moves.  It’s like she’s resting against a nerve.  Hmm.  Getting on my nerves already huh? *rolls eyes at pathetic wit*

 In other news - and I’m surprised I haven’t let this cat out of the bag already - we have a name for the sproggin!  After months of deliberating, we’ve collectively settled on a name which went straight to number one as soon as it made it’s debut on the charts. 

 Breaca.

 There’s a double meaning to this one.  Originally it was Brekka, which was J’s choice of a middle name (inspired by a speedway midget chassis).  Then he bought me the last of Manda Scott’s ‘Boudica’ series and the name Breaca fell out of the page.  Brekka.  Breaca.  Similar. Right?  And according to Manda Scott at least, Breaca is a derivative of Boudica, whose name is in turn a derivative of the war goddess Boudig which relates in turn to the great goddess Briga (Bridget).  Or something upon those lines.  Celtic.  Lovely.  And not entirely in relation to the framework of a car.

And now, because I’ve never been so keen to flaunt myself about as I am now that I have a big fat pregnant belly, here’s the latest Buddah Belly update at 38 weeks…

It’s 12am, hot and stuffy as hell and my feet are so swollen they feel like great puffy clubs. My feet are usually kinda long and bony, and my toes long and skinny. Now, even my ankle bones have well and truly disappeared and my toes are like chubs.

Meh. Pregnancy. I’m stalling on going to bed because I can’t stand the restlessness. As mentioned in the previous post, it’s been hard sleeping with all this baby inside of me, digging limbs into my lungs. Sitting up every few minutes to try and draw in that elusive deep breath, and thus disturbing Jarrod’s sleep. The poor lad wakes each time I move, asking if I’m alright. I’m looking forward to the time when I can answer that with “actually I think I’m in labour” so I can get this pregnancy dealio over and done with and have my body back already! Might still not be able to sleep, but at least I should be able to breathe!

Or maybe it’s the heat that’s making me wake gasping every time I drift off? Last night I managed to sleep because the weather was refreshingly cool, but I doubt I’ll be so lucky tonight.  *grumble grumble*

Anyhoo I figured I’d take this moment to post some of the pics Char took of my nephew and I on New Years Eve.  He’s going through an emo moment which his parents hate, but aw, it’s so cuuute…

There we go, nothing much, just an excuse to write up a post (two days in a row. Wow.) and say “look I still have my Bauhaus t-shirt!” which I might add, did a reasonable job of minimising the 36 week baby belly?

Now if only I could find something that could minimse my 37 week feet…

There is a bird outside in the willow tree that keeps whistling the first line of the Barbie Girl song.  Honestly, I thought I was deluded too, until J asked me tonight, ‘have you heard that bloody bird whistling Barbie Girl?’

Least it’s no longer whistling the beep my washing machine makes when it’s off-balance.  Or a cell phone.  …The amount of times I used to run around looking for my phone before I realised the noise was coming from the tree.

My dearly beloved other-half is cooking chilli sausage, baked beans and eggs.  Dear gods, the last time he ate this, he spent the night farting out little nuclear bomb bursts.  I was hoping to get some action tonight (yes, my big pregnant belly is almost impossible to resist *note sarcasm*) but I think the closest to action I’m gonna get is running, gagging, out of the room throughout the night.  Hell, if his arse is gonna be anything like the last time, I might just sleep on the couch.

I’ve just had a realisation.  He’s not eating Fart Food because he enjoys it.  He’s eating it because it’s a Callie Repellant.

Well mister, I hope the 3am gut ache is worth it.

Finally! I have wedged J off the computer long enough to install wordpress and begin customising the layout I downloaded. (Like I have the time or energy to create my own from scratch. Pfft.)

I know, I know… The ‘hiatus’ sign was up here for so long, even the graphic I created for it got sick and tired of hanging around and disappeared - leaving nothing behind but a little red X to mark the spot where it once was. It’s a ghost town round here.

But anyway, Not-Quite-Human.net is up and running once more. That’s right folks, the bitch is back! Well, the bitch is now off to bed because it’s taken all night to get this far, and her eyes are hanging out of her head.

Next task is to import the last year’s worth of blog entries I’ve had hosted elsewhere.  And as much as I’d love to say I’ll find some time tomorrow night to come back and continue setting up house again round here, I have antenatal classes to attend. (If you haven’t already heard, I’m mammothly pregnant with sproggin no. 2, and as sproggin no. 1 is 12, it really does feel like I’m doing it all over again for the first time. For J, it is the first time. Trust me, we need these classes. :P)

Goodnight!

After working late night Thursday, J came home dragging his feet and complaining of his aches and pains.

“… my legs are so sore and my back is killing me and I think I have a pinched nerve or something because damn …”

 ”… and at one point I bent over and my back just locked up and didn’t think I could get up again …”

All I could do was stand there grinning like a villiage idiot, chuckling “now you know MY pain!”

Long time, no blog. Life has been hectic.

Not so many weeks ago (yet it feel like forever), our little household decided to uproot ourselves from this West Auckland shoebox, and haul ourselves 800km down the North Island to a lil’ town called Marton.  We’re still here in our AK shoebox, but the wheels at least are turning. (Even if it is just to fall off the wagon and roll down the hill.)

In late June I drove J down to Marton for a job interview and we returned home to find my mother (who was house/pet/daughter-sitting) couldn’t walk.  She’d been that way since the previous day, but hadn’t wanted to alarm us by letting us know.  She insisted this had happened before and that she’d always come right after a few days, but I took her to the A&E where she was prescribed with a “possible stroke” and we were then sent on to North Shore hospital -which was completely overflowing with people on stretchers in the corridors.

Waitakere hosp had closed its emergency department to incoming and diverted everyone to Nth Shore, so it wasn’t the best time for mum to find herself there.  Three days later she was still in a ward waiting for a CT scan, and when she did indeed begin walking again of her own accord, the docs decided she must be fine and sent her home.  We still don’t know whether she’s been having the progressive strokes the doctors suspect have been the case, but perhaps we’ll find out when it happens next time…

Between worrying about mum’s health, working six day weeks, having a compacted wisdom tooth pulled out and my beloved cat Blackie (yeah I know, really original name) nearly put down because of the reoccurrence of a reoccurring condition, I’ve been feeling like life is closing in on me lately.

Since making this decision to move, J’s twice travelled to Palmerston North for interviews. He was offered the first job, but decided he didn’t want it.  The second interview seemed really positive, but yesterday he was told someone else had been chosen for it.  This process of travelling down to Palmerston every few weeks for an interview is getting expensive.  It’s starting to feel as if Fate likes to open doors simply to slam them shut again as we begin to step through.  Whatever. The packing has begun, and hopefully everything else will fall into place.

My 12 week scan on Tuesday revealed that the Little Parasite (whose name we have inexplicably changed to The Wurzel) has the right amount of arms and legs.  That at least, is comforting.

It’s a sad day when I find I’m no longer the spry limber young thing I once was. Yeah I know, I was never too limber to begin with, nor particularly spry. But when it takes nearly as long to stand upright from a cross-legged position as it did to get through the seventh stage of the Dark Angel PS2 game, it’s really only a small matter of time now before I put aside the Subaru and purchase a mobility scooter.  I’ve begun looking into walking frames, and I’m thinking I’ll go for the one with a seat that lifts up to reveal a bed pan. How freakin’ handy is that?!

This aging spiel is one I’ve been on before, but little did I realise that while I was using pancake foundation as a filler for my eye-wrinkles and considering a burka to hide my expanding chin, the joints and ligaments were beginning to wizzen up like gnarled old rubber bands.  If I spend too long sitting on the floor, I have to rise in a series of steps (Step 1: kneel; Step 2: right leg forward; Step 3: Rest.) and then shuffle across the room at a 75% slant until I can at last stand up straight.

I realise I’ve become a complete hypochondriac about it, but I can’t help it.  Ooh, shooting pain down my right leg! Gah, I have sciatica! Must’ve popped a disc when incorrectly bending to pick a peg up from the ground or whatever menial task it was that causes old people to start breaking down.

Mysterious aches and pains are not meant to kick in until I’m well into my dotage.  Of course it’s not a simple case of being unfit. I do shiploads of exercise.  I pace rooms in nervous anxiety on a daily basis. That’s exercise.  I use my go-go-gadget extendable arms and legs to perform the million-in-one tasks that my boss insists must all take place NOW.  That’s exercise.  (Hmm. That’s probably also the cause of all those aches and pains.)  And, most importantly, I have a lateral thigh trimmer which on occasion, I glance at. Glancing is exercise.  For my eyes.  Good enough.

Now to go entirely off-topic, our bloke who does the heavy lifting decided to walk off the job on Thursday. Leaving me with the heavy lifting. Weak little pensioner that I am!   Though, I’m relieved that he’s gone.  Don’t have to put up with his sleazy cheesy little comments and innuendos anymore. Yay! No more, “Mmmm.. Bet you were a bit of a bad girl when you were a teen eh? I can just see you in a bit of goth bondage gear and a studded collar. Mmm…”

Urgh, those mmmmm’s of his were the skin-crawling worst. There’d be the “mmmmm” if he walked past while I was bending to plug in the vaccum cleaner, or an “mmmm” if he caught me leaning over a piece of furniture in contemplation of where to shift it to.  I’d clench my teeth and berate myself for bending over at all with him in the vicinity, but he didn’t need any kind of provocation.  He could be standing across the room silently drinking a coffee, then look over at me holding a pricing gun and go “mmmmm…” as if I were Homer Simpson’s next meal.  Always these things when no one else was around, of course.

Unfortunately his sudden decision to scarper off without notice has left us to try and pick up his slack when we’re already short-staffed. My own work is now two days behind, and with Char going into hospital to have her appendix removed on Thursday, I’m going to need the shoe-maker’s elves to get back on track the following week.  Stress stress stress!

I dreamt I was at work this morning.  Or rather, a nightmare.  Falling further behind on tasksI couldn’t catch up on.  Thankfully the phone rang and woke me up, or I could have hit rock bottom and died.  (Doesn’t that happen if you dream of falling?)

Long time, no update.  I don’t think I can be bothered doing this secret diary of adrian mole crap where I spout on and on about my life.  Then again, the narcissist in me says I can, and so I will…

So, Charlotte is in Nelson for this last week of the school holidays and arrives home tomorrow.  It’s Saturday and Charlotte’s not home - once upon a time this would have meant something. Like, going out and getting shit-faced.  Now being the boring fart I am, it simply means junk food for dinner and whatever’s on telly.  Besides, I’m broke.  My car failed it’s WOF over some trivial little brakes issue.  Guess I’ll be taking the work van to the airport tomorrow…

What else? Oh, I remembered today how once upon a time, my mother and I wished my step-father dead.  Mum was pissed that it had been his turn to mow the lawns for months and he wouldn’t do it, and she was generally unhappy and wishing him dead, and had come over to my place to get away from it all.  She said, “I wish he’d just bloody well die.”  To which I replied, “hey you never know, maybe he will.”  Then, two days later he did.  He died.

While mowing the lawns.

Seems Death has a biting wit.

Anyway, this nugget of recollection forced it’s way out of the blue and into my conscience today, and I cried because of it.  Guilt and all.  Only what, three and a half years later?  Talk about delayed reaction.  (Talk about ‘issues’…)

I can’t speak for mum, but I never really meant it.  Not literally.

And that, my dears, is that.

Here’s the BDO update the universe has been holding it’s breath for..

So, here we are on the morning of the Big Day, all happily getting rollocking drunk over at Nicky’s place as is the BDO custom, before heading off into the fray.

As per usual, Jarrod and I lost each other within about 20 minutes of arriving at the venue, somewhere in the crush of Trivium.

This time I was with his friend Andrew, and Andrew had Jarrod’s cell phone and all of his money in his pocket. Poor Jarrod spent the day rather parched.  I on the other hand, had a chipper time in the beer area where I spent a large part of the day thinking I was Jim Morrison and Andrew was the Indian in the desert.  That little jem had nothing to do with the beer and more to do with some other mysterious substance.  In fact, I had to get someone to take the following photo of us, just to be sure that Jarrod’s friend was actually there, and I wasn’t in fact conversing with a figment of my imagination.

Andrew - being the dilligent Wise Old Indian that he was - dropped some amazing pearls of insight while we were sitting around waiting for a Jarrod who never arrived (it turned out he was metres away on the other side of the fence but we never noticed each other) and I made a mental note to remember all of these profound life revelations.  Which of course, I forgot.  (Melissa on other other hand had spent her night wondering whether to watch Tool, or watch a pebble on the ground.  It was indeed a day for being at one with the world.)

Eventually I wandered away from Andrew (his wisdom went out the window when he found he was missing the bands he’d come for) and being on my path to self-realisation, I decided I’d find more insights into life if I could track down Boudica’s reincarnation, who I felt sure would be somewhere near the Boiler Room.

Boudica was no where to be found, but I did find Nicky. Or rather, she found me. And then she found Jarrod.  What a pal! After that, Jarrod vowed never to lose the beer ever again.  The end.

Oh, and as I never gave much of a shyte for any of the bands, I wasn’t dissapointed when I never got around to seeing any.  The organisers had devised this annoying cattle-pen system which meant first come first serve.  I was waiting in a toilet que when Tool were on anyway.  Basically, I’m too old and boring for this shit…

With under two weeks to go until the Big Day Out, I had to go and get 20% of my body massively sunburnt.   Yup.  Somehow, defying all odds, I managed to quite possibly be the only person in this part of the Southern Hemisphere who stumbled upon and soaked up enough UV rays on the weekend to cause parked cars, gas stations and small kittens to combust whenever I get within 50 metres of them.  (I know, I’m sounding more illiterate than usual…)

I had all the intentions of staying out of the sun this summer and maintaining my pasty-white glow, but then I developed driver’s arm and the mental image of me being all pale white except for one tanned arm was worse than that of me being tanned. So I figured, blow it, I’ll saute the rest of my flesh. It’s just rather unfortunate that I sunbathe in the same manner that I cook dinner. I’m sure you get the picture…

Nicky will probably be inclined to say “I told you so”, being that she was the one who took a sheltered position in my backyard during my three hour vigil under the sun, and wisely suggested I “put some sunblock on at least”.  Little gemstones of wisdom to which of course, I paid absolutely no attention.  Snotty-faced little know-it-all that I am.

Three days on, and I’m still being informed of my radioactive condition by customers who seem to think they’re doing me a favour by declaring “well! That’s a bit of sunburn you’ve got there! You’ve cooked like a lobster!”
Really? I’m sunburnt? Holy shit, so I am! You know, if you hadn’t have told me, I’d never’ve known…

On what may be an entirely unrelated matter, through the course of the day my throat and lower right side of my face has broken out into some kind of heat rash. I slathered myself in antiseptic goop, but with the way things stand at the moment between me and old Murphy, I’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning to discover Necrotising fasciitis fighting sunburn for landrights.Regardless of whether or not I loose my facial muscles to a flesh eating disease, in a few more days when the sunburn has settled, I’m going to begin shedding skin like an alien out of V. I’m going to be a leper.

But at least this solves the problem of what to wear to the Big Day Out. I will be dressing myself like a Muslim suicide bomber.