6 Months
It’s been 6 months to the day since that hellish day in February. And it was as close to hell as I care to be. I’ve written a very little about it, and debated writing about it tonight. Glancing at the few photos I sent to Flickr, the coldness in my spine said “Don’t even think about this anymore”.
But I have to.
On Black Saturday, my family stood in the paddock that faces the Kinglake Ranges and watched them burn with such speed there were no words. This wasn’t a fire, and it shouldn’t ever – EVER – be termed a Bushfire. It was a Fire Storm. It took no time at all to devour the Ranges. It ran ahead of itself in the crowns of trees. The soil, the goddamned DIRT burned.
We lost people. Everyone lost someone. Everyone here knows someone who was burned out. By the most incredible luck – and I mean incredible – the wind changed and my home wasn’t at risk. Others had the same luck, others had the exact opposite.
So now they talk of clearfelling the bush, and removing all the trees and the plants and turning it to grassland or parkland or developing it and my heart breaks. It shatters into a million pieces. People who lived through this, people who ran from the fires, who lost children and parents and friends to the storm, they have gone back to rebuild in the same place, because that’s where they love to be, because the bushland is their life and their passion.
The firestorm really did change everything, and very very few people understand something I saw with my own eyes – there wasn’t any way to be prepared for this storm. There was NOTHING anyone could do to save their houses, or in some cases, their lives. It didn’t behave like the bushfires of the past thousand years. It was new, it was something we’ve never seen before.
This is a bit stream of consciousness, I apologise. There’s a lot of raw emotion, and while the people of the fires are not so much in the news anymore, they are still living every single day with this nightmare. But they went back. Sure some didn’t. Some moved elsewhere and I don’t blame them a jot, but those that did – they understand that this is the Bush. This is what happens, and even with fuel reduction and backburning and god knows what else would have stopped this particular storm.
Those that we lost will be always missed. I don’t ever want to belittle or discount the horrors of the day. But I cannot stand the thought of bush destruction. I’m weird like that.
The Great Pretender
One of the issues with PCOS, in my case anyways (I can no more speak for the entire PCOS community than I can speak for all brunettes) is that it is a defeminiser. I don’t know if that’s even a word, but I’m sure you get my drift. I grapple, often, with the concept of my femaleness. There are days when I feel neither male nor female, just human. I admit it’s a little rarer these days since The Boyfriend is making such a point of pointing out the female side.
I find I have little to no common ground with standard female practice in Australian society. I’ve never had my legs waxed commercially, nor have I picked up a brilliant jacket/pair of shoes/pair of jeans off the rack that made me happy. I detest clothes shopping, the three mirror changing rooms are hell, and the variable sizes between brands horrible. The buzz of being a size 16 in Brand A is quickly squashed by being a 20 in Brand B. I had my first, and probably last, massage only a few months ago and only then because of chronic back pain. I do not gym, sauna, spa, dayspa, facial, make over, hair salon or manicure. And GOD no I do not pedicure.
It’s not even purely a matter of weight. One of the fun parts of PCOS is body hair, and in Western Culture the concept of hair on a woman is considered disgusting and wrong. Due to a multi million dollar industry selling everything from laser treatment to disposable razors, women are constantly told through media and social ideals that they need to have a full body wax at least every three hours.
I did have laser treatments over the last couple of years, and so far the results are pretty decent. Most of the work was done on my belly, and very little of the hair has returned, so I’m pleased with that. I stopped when the weight went back on because laying there staring at the ceiling while my stunning laser tech stared at my screamingly white belly was too much for my exceptionally fragile self esteem. The next step was to have been the chest, but I am finding it easier, mostly, to simply continue to wear things that cover me as totally as possible.
Last year I visited a psychologist in order to address some anxiety issues that were pretty much running my life. I’m much better now, thanks for asking, due in part to a string of sessions and a daily dose of lexapro (Depression / anxiety is pretty common in PCOS ladies, to the point where it’s listed in some places as an official symptom). This year I have done things I would not have dreamed of last year, such as the Ghan trip, various driving things and – hello? Chicago next month. So you could say a lot of my anxiety is now gone, and I am much happier for it, but for some reason, the shame about the hair remains. It’s not terribly dark, or long, but to me it’s pretty much a 6 inch shagpile rug.
“Why don’t you wax it/shave it/bleach it/pluck it”. Depilatory creams bring me out in an almost incredible rash, I do pluck the longer or ingrown hairs, I don’t shave it because I hate when the stubble catches my clothes, and I don’t wax it because that also brings me out in a rash, albeit a lesser one. So I cover it up, and i HATE that. I’ve been looking at a lot of BBW sites of recent trying to boost my self esteem and embrace my shape, and what I wouldn’t give to wear some of those clothes. However, I cannot, because they simply don’t cover enough skin.
I love to wear skirts, but I battle with the moronic idea that I don’t deserve to wear them. Skirts are feminine and I am not, does that make sense? So why should I wear them? It makes no sense, even to me, but when I plan to wear a skirt to work, I always end up in jeans. Jeans are safer, unisex and they cover the entire leg. It’s a perfect win.
But tomorrow, damn it, I might just try a skirt.
The Librarians
Series Two of “The Librarians” started last night, and frankly I am a little bit in love all over again.
I’m aware there’s a lot of grumbling in the Library Industry about how it’s “unrealistic” and “They’d never get away with that sort of thing” but please, people, it’s a sitcom. Are you honestly telling me you think “Porridge” was an expose on the prison system in the UK? That ANYONE actually loves Raymond? Relax!
I love the characters, not just because Francis seems to be based in several parts on people I know in libraries. I love the variations in personality and the insanity running not too far under the surface. Sure, skipping a library bus stop wouldn’t be let go like it was in last nights episode, but the general feel of the show isn’t too far off the mark in my opinion.
Maybe that’s why there’s so many grumblings, because library staff feel it cuts too close to the bone in some cases (example, one of my favourite scenes in the last series was a night time event which was attended almost entirely by library staff – I laughed for about 20 solid minutes at that because it’s happened to us too many times).
However, as Wayne Hope said, it’s not REALLY about libraries, it’s about Francis. She just happens to be a Librarian. While my workmates heap scorn upon it, I will continue to love it wildly, because even if it wasn’t a library show, Wayne Hope and Robin Butler write excellent comedy.
Of Ankles and Frogs.
The many moods of PollyFrog. I finished her today with the coconut buttons for her eyes. The material is from a skirt I picked up at Savers for $3. Whoot whoot cheap fabric! She came out super well, her limbs are nice and dangly and her body is very firm and snuggle-able. I put a bag of plastic pellets in her butt to allow her to sit which she does pretty well, though sometimes you have to thwack her into place. She’s really rather dee-vine darlinks.
The other thing I did today was crack my ankle – again. As a teen I had very weak ankles which would give up on me when walking down steps or slops, leaving me to fall in a heap at least once every couple of weeks. Seems like this is happening again, as two mornings this week I’ve cracked it getting out of bed. Today it actually made a noise when it did it, so that’s new. I know it’s directly related to my weight. The other day when it happened I was mostly alright, except for when I’d been sitting. Then it would give way as I stood up and send pain up my leg. This morning and until lunch time the whole lower leg throbbed. It’s better now I have it braced. I’m waiting for the other one to go now, which it will as it’s been aching for a while. Oh the fun of a collapsing skeleton!
It always starts in the left side, which the physio pointed out is again about an inch lower than my right. Which is a sign I really do need to pull my finger out and get some weight off as I was aligned quite nicely for a while.
I am not a mother.
Which is, in short, why I will not yell at your kids for you. Yes, I will ask them to be quiet, but I won’t scream at them for being noisy or for having late books or for any of the other hundreds of things kids do that annoy their parents. YOU had the child, YOU need to deal with it.
Just yesterday a woman complained that I was letting her kids run riot. I said it wasn’t in my job description to shout at children, but if I saw them doing anything dangerous I’d step in. She bitched me out for not having enough Rules and Laws and Shouting at Small Children. She said she granted me special permission to yell at her kids. I refused.
Basic reason is this: I. Could. Lose. My. Job. Yes, I could. Let’s say instead of saying “Could you guys watch the volume please?” I said “Hey you little bastards, shut the hell up or get the hell out!”, or even “Shut up or get out”. It takes one child saying “The Lady in the Library was mean to me today” and I’m out. Seriously. Take this woman I was just talking about, SHE might WANT me to yell at her kids, but if I do and someone overhears and complains? Again, gone.
It’s driving me mental and it IS getting worse: parents are expecting anyone around to discipline their kids. It seems like Mum and Dad don’t want to be tha Bad Guys so they let other people do it. Charming. I don’t plan on having kids because I would be a dreadful mother, and since I spend a lot of hours a day making sure kids don’t run out the doors, climb shelves or beat each other senseless while Mum or Dad looks the other way, I feel like I’ve had enough kids to last me a lifetime anyways.
Big Gal
I have a thing called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, generally termed PCOS because it’s that much faster to type. In general terms, it means I am fucked up in many ways, not the least of which is my variable weight. The underlying cause of PCOS is insulin resistance, which means that the body doesn’t understand insulin so well, so the pancreas just keeps pumping it out. This gives me a classic insulin fat shape – upper back fat and belly fat. Aka – apple shaped.
One of the hardest decisions for me, and one I make several times a year, is the trade off that taking Metformin is. If i take the met, I will lose weight. I will also feel crap 99% of the time, and will be unable to cough without worrying I’ve.. um.. you know. So I take it a while and then the sideeffects piss me off, so I stop and feel fantastic for a time. Then I go back on it. It’s a cycle I can’t really seem to break. The desire to lose the excess weight is very strong, and the dread and hate of the met is also strong, so I tend to go around and around.
One of the problems with PCOS (and it has so many) is that it really is harder to lose weight. I know that sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. Weight goes on a lot more easiliy, and comes off with a lot more work. So even in the event of dieting and all that any weight I lose is literally waiting around the corner for a chance to jump back on. However it’s really time to try to get off the met cycle once and for all. So here’s to probably maybe perhaps doing something a bit positive.
In the meantime, I am trying to accept myself more. Which, after 15 years of pretty intense self loathing, is a bit of a climb. But I might get there still, you never know.
It’s a Frog Thing
I yoinked the idea for photographing on scrapbook paper from a flickr person. I am all about idea yoinking. Anyways, that there is the latest frog in my fast growing collection of frogs. I got him at savers for $2 so you can’t beat that! He’s even a money box, so he serves two purposes.
Today I didn’t sew a skirt, although I planned to. Two in one weekend might have been a LITTLE bit overachivey, don’t you think? I did start to sew a frog out of a green/beige skirt I got at (here’s a shock) Savers. I’ve done her legs and.. other legs and tomorrow after work if I have a skerrick of interest in anything left I’ll put her together. Shouldn’t take too long.
I also pretended to turn out my chest of drawers on the basis there’s too much crap in there. Seriously, I pulled out a pair of pants i have NO recollection of at all. I didn’t end up throwing anything away (read: Bagging for op shop) because it was like getting new stuff. One of the bonuses of being a total slob I suspect.
PS: The person I stole the idea from was Dyxie, who does beautiful wonderful things with colour.
Saturday Bedspread Day
Fairly full day today. Matt is back from his holiday (no I will not say vacation) so I got to hang out with him properly this morning rather than at the mercy of the phone godlets. Then Mum and I went to Savers because she saw a shirt there yesterday that would go with the skirt I cut out last night. Sadly, someone else had nabbed it, but I managed to pick up a few nice shirts, couple new pairs of jeans and 2 headscarves as well as more ties for my tie skirt project.
Once I got home and tossed the new stuff into the wash, I settled down to make me another skirt from a bedspread I picked up at Savers months ago. I’ve been meaning to make this forever. Again, it’s a cheaty hem (I kept the decorative hem on the edges). It wasn’t originally going to be a jeans top, but as I was sewing I realised that the jeans I had on were REALLY overdue for throwing out. Knees and inner thighs were gone, and I was keeping them around as spares, so I took em off and hacked the waistband off to use here. This is good because I am not good at waist bands, so reusing the jeans was handy. The legs are in the ragbag waiting for something to be used for.
So, overall, a productive little day. Hope yours was goodly too 