I’m in So Much Trouble

Ok, so maybe I’m turning a lot more than thirty on Monday but my mother and my father can still strike more fear into me than a nun with a ruler.

It’s just the outline right now. And yes, it’s around a quarter sleeve. I think I’m now officially a tattooed lady. I might have to buy some half sleeve t-shirts…

Mutton or Lamb? No Thanks, I’m Vegetarian

So around two weeks ago, well before PMS had set in, Little Miss Tani asked me if I wanted to go and see Bad Company. No, not the 1970s British blues-rock group fronted by Paul “The Voice” Rodgers whose official website contains nothing more than a warning to all and sundry that should you want to pass yourself off as THE band, their lawyers will come a tap-tap-tapping at your door. If you’re interested in that Bad Company, you’re welcome to leave here RIGHT NOW and go here.

But if you’re sticking around, you might want to head here while you’re reading.

So Little Miss not-quite-thirty asked me and Jazzy Jeff if we’d be interested in checking out Bad Company. Well the name alone sent me back, way back to that night eight years ago this month when I went down to Billboards with a couple of Kiwis and after several protracted trips to the Ladies with Nat, I bounced the night away, a la Lionel Ritchie on crack. This was followed by a long drive to the country for a Communion, a Confirmation or a Baptism (Jazzy Jeff, who stayed in bed – sensibly – and did not come out with me and the Kiwis, was driving) and an even longer drive back which ended in a near death car accident on the Hume Highway just on the outskirts of Melbourne, and a night at the Northern Hospital in Epping with a piece of plastic molding in my leg and glass shards in my hands. Ah, those were fun times.

And naturally, when Little Miss Tani asked us along to this little piece of drum and bass nostalgia, how could I say no? Of course, as the day drew nigh, I started to behave like many of my almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries.

Betty: Jazzy Jeff?
Jazzy Jeff: Yes, Betty?
Betty: You know, I’ve been to more than a few drum and bass nights in my day.
Jazzy Jeff: That’s true, Betty. And I don’t need to remind you that I used to run a booming drum and bass night in the city (read: a few of our mates used to show up) – Carbon 14.

(So successful was it that a Google search did not reveal one reference – but they had a wicked flyer)

Betty: Yes, Jazzy, I remember those heady days. But anyhoo, you do realise that the main DJ won’t go on stage until around 2, right?
Jazzy Jeff: (Guffawing over the Age and a decaf latte) Oh Betty, don’t be silly, it isn’t a daytime gig.
Betty: That’s 2am, JJ! 2AM! How the hell and I going to stay up until 2am? It’s not like the good old days. We have a freaking mortgage.
Jazzy Jeff: Well, now, that IS serious. I guess we’ll have to do the only thing we can.

So like many of our almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries, we took an afternoon nap, downed a bucketload of Red Bull and V and came home at the rather respectable hour of 3.30am complaining of tinnitus and aching knee joints.

But oh what a lovely time we had!

Here’s Something I Prepared Earlier

Well Momo’s having twins so I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than to start the rivalry now.

Number one is a scene that I used to draw constantly as a kid. While number two has images of my latest tattoo obsession – Sailor Jerry old school illos.

rattle-1.jpg   rattle-2.jpg


Here’s Something I Prepared Earlier

Well Momo’s having twins so I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than to start the rivalry now.

Number one is a scene that I used to draw constantly as a kid. While number two has images of my latest tattoo obsession – Sailor Jerry old school illos.

rattle-1.jpg   rattle-2.jpg

A Final Word about Eggs and Pineapple

So Jazzy Jeff and I headed across to the beach on the long weekend. Just to chill out, give the puppies bad haircuts and carry them nimbly across rocks and boulders and watch them pound the waves right after I’d given them a bath. Not that I’m complaining.

Anyway, whenever I go on a holiday, be it an overseas jaunt or just some beige trip to the coast, I tend to look at it as an OPPORTUNITY TO REDEFINE MY LIFE. So far, I haven’t done a very good job. There was the time when I thought I could concentrate hard while chanting “what’s my life mission” under my breath. All I could think about was that I like animals. Not life changing. And rather obvious. Then there was that time when Jazzy Jeff and I decided to stay up all day and all night and all day after dancing for a number of hours and maybe behaving a bit like the people our mothers told us to stay away from. We decided that we were gunnas, not doers. That WAS life changing. We sort of became doers.

But this weekend smelled a little different, what with all of the stuff that’s been going on this year. So I forced the situation and said, “lookit JJ, I get the feeling that you don’t really want to be a dad.”

JJ: “Well we’re giving it a mighty good go there, Betty.”

Betty: “Yes, we have spent a bit of money and it seems we’ll have to spend some more to get those eggs cracking, what with the price of pineapple at Safeway.”

JJ: “Well B, we said we’d give it five goes and we have two left. Let’s see what happens.”

And that’s when I twigged. Well, I don’t want to pop out a sprog just because we got lucky after 4 goes bedcause we decided to see if it panned out. I guess I always knew that it wasn’t in Jazzy’s heart. So we made the decision, I’ve cancelled the appointment and I’m now going to revel in my friends’ bellies – so many of them! I’m going to make them some cool coming out presents and totally become the parents’ friends they want to kick it with when they’re older.

So, back to redefining my life. So I asked Jazzy Jeff that same old question:

Betty: “Jazzy Jeff?”

Jazzy: “Hmm?”

Betty: “Jazzy Jeff, what’s your life’s passion.”

Jazzy: (Rolling his eyes in that oh no, she wants to have THAT talk AGAIN) “Well Betty, I just want to be happy.”

Betty: “Don’t you think that’s a bit 80s? I mean, what about everyone else.”

Jazzy: “Well they can bask in my glow.”

It’s like last night’s episode of House, the one where the man was super super nice and his wife says that his niceness makes her better. It’s true. Honest.

We clamber over some rocks and I get my cloth shoes soaked. Yoyo starts to whine a little and I pick her up.

And I start to wonder what happens when a woman decides to quit the reproduction biz and goes back to everyday life. What to expect when you’re not expecting. I have no idea and I’m a little anxious.

A giraffe walks into a bar, and other likely stories

A guy walks into a bar with jumper cables. The bartender says, “You can come in, but don’t start anything!”

Here’s my favourite joke ever and ever from when I was a kid.

Long, long ago an old Indian chief was about to die, so he called for Geronimo and Falling Rocks, the two bravest warriors in his tribe. The chief instructed each to go out and seek buffalo skins. Whoever returned with the most skins would be chief. About a month later Geronimo came back with one hundred pelts, but Falling Rocks never returned. Even today as you drive throughout the West you can see signs saying: WATCH OUT FOR FALLING ROCKS.

Not long after Jazzy Jeff and I met, we realised that back in primary school, even though we were on opposite sides of the globe, we both bought the same joke book through the school book club – 101 Hamburger Jokes: Meaty Jokes to Be Devoured with Relish.


Here’s just one example of its witticisms:

What did the hamburger say when it found out that most people liked hamburgers better than frankfurters?

Hot Dog!

Remember the brochures and how they had lucky bags and you didn’t know what you’d get? I think that’s how I got two copies of 100 Pounds of Popcorn.



A piece of art for this tuckshop lady’s arm

So I really need some advice on how to augment the lovely artwork on my arm.


I’m looking for fruit, vegetables, flowers. Something colourful and beautiful. Old school Americana would be lovely. Here are some ideas so far – not exactly right though.


I LOVE the old lady feel of these ones:



A different kind of list – ***warning – gloomy blog ahead

Why didn’t the paper arrive at 6 like it’s supposed to?

Why do I have to catch a bus this morning when I drove the car in for no reason yesterday?

Why is it so bitterly cold when I’ve forgotten to bring a scarf?

Am I going to lose these 5 (or so) kilos?

Why did he just ignore me last night even after I told him that I got my period?

Why am I a PT loser when everyone else has a car space?

Why would I want to drive to work anyway?

Why doesn’t Jazzy Jeff write songs for ME?

Why hasn’t Jazzy Jeff knitted ME a scarf?

Why didn’t we try to have kids earlier? Who do I think I am trying to get knocked up at my age? This isn’t Hollywood.

No amount of super embryo glue is going to make them stick.

If we don’t have kids, then what? A joyous lifetime of sitting in front of the tele (or computer) sewing cats and owls and stuff for other babies?

They all say that you can have a perfectly fulfilling life without kids. If I haven’t managed to have one up until now, why would it suddenly get better? Who are they trying to kid? Are these the same people who tell us that being single is the better choice?

I guess this is what I get for all those years of barracking for the underdog. When Collingwood, in the 80s, were known to have the “Collywobbles”, I still paraded around proudly wearing that black and white striped scarf because I thought they would still get there. You always need to live with hope, no matter how stupid it made you feel. Even now, I think, so maybe it’s not really a period, maybe it’s just implantation spotting. Yeah, maybe that.

Am I paying for something? My friend RoRo went to Catholic School so she would know all about this. Maybe I didn’t confess enough. Maybe I didn’t confess the right stuff. Maybe I’m not actually the underdog. Maybe I’m just an asshole and this is what you get. Oprah said that you get given exactly what you need. What I need? So lemme see here. What’s my lesson? That even after $10000, 5 months, 3 cycles, a few extra kilos, 20 (more or less) injections (not counting blood tests), 6 eggs, 3 embryo transfers, 2 negative pregnancy tests, even after all of that, you simply have no guarantee of anything. Meanwhile crack whores of the world are churning out future crack whores. Halleluiah.

Am I sounding like a victim? You tell me. Apologies if I don’t care though. But when you let me know, by all means, tell me not to worry, to keep trying, never give up, of course I’ve only just started, it’ll happen eventually, I’m still relatively young – relatively. Oh, and my favourite – life’s better without kids (thanks for that one, mum). So don’t expect me to be grateful for you well-intentioned but terribly misdirected advice.

But on the plus side, it will mean big things for my employer because what do I do when I’m upset? Well naturally, chin up and keep on trucking.

How to Crack an Egg

Everyone has plenty of advice about how to get knocked up and how to stay that way, how to determine the sex of your seed, how to stop yourself from throwing everything up, and the rest of it:

1. Don’t jump up and down after sex;
2. Stop drinking coffee unless you want a tiny baby – not such a bad idea considering where it’s coming out;
3. Don’t eat sushi or mouldy cheese;
4. Avoid night-time strolls through the local power plant unless you’re wearing one of these;
5. No flying in the last trimester;
6. Where to buy a convertible cot like this;

But has anyone thought of creating an equally gripping list for the pregnantly-challenged? Well, hardly. Here are my findings after an exhaustive search:

Betty: “How to make an egg stick”
Google: “Gypsy Horse Embryo Transfer”

Betty: “How to crack an egg in your embryo”
Google: “”When you crack an egg, and it has red in it, What does it Mean?” or “Chicken Incubator”

Betty: How to stay pregnant on IVF
Google: “Congratulations on your pregnancy through IVF. I too am pregnant with no. 2 thanks to IVF… I don’t know how people stay sane with multiple babies…”

Betty: “What the hell to do while waiting for the eggs to crack”
Google: “mamamia: “Just hurry up and get yourself some sperm, will you!””

All very helpful, you know. Although I did get a couple of interesting hints about what to do after the embryo transfer.

1.      Invest in some embryo glue – so when I’m at Bunnings, which aisle do you think I should check?

2.      Eat tonnes of pineapple – fresh – not out of a can.

So here I am, at the end of an Aussie Summer, glueless but eating loads of $5 pineapples from Safeway that tastes remarkably like what you’d expect a $5 pineapple from Safeway to taste like at the end of summer. Still, I won’t be faulted for not trying.

Making Babies is a cinch

Well everybody’s doing it. Even my friend Momo has managed to go and get herself knocked up, with twins, no less! Awesome news. And then there’s Ballerina, who’s about to pop one out into a pool of water surrounded by midwives any day. And Teesh who managed it while climbing Machu Pichu and BB who just dreamed of it and it just happened. But a few years ago – well before any of these young’uns  jumped on the wagon – Jazzy Jeff and I decided that we sort of wanted a kid of our own. We decided it in much the same laconic way that we decided to get married.

Betty: Hey Jeff, what do you reckon? Wanna hook up?
Jazzy Jeff: You mean “marriage”?
Betty: Yeah.
Jazzy Jeff: Alright.
Betty: Alright then. I’ll tell my folks.
Jazzy Jeff: Ok.

I know, truly romantic. An inspiration for all of the kids out there. But here we are, 14 and a bit years later, so it couldn’t have been that bad.So anyway, there we were sitting on the couch and Jazzy might have been doing something mind-numbingly creative on the laptop while i was knitting or some such thing and I sighed: “I’m a bit bored, Jazzy Jeff. We should get another dog. Or have a kid.”

Jazzy Jeff: Yoyo and Peaches couldn’t handle another member of the pack. A kid’ll be better.
Betty: Cool.
Jazzy Jeff: Alright.

Well that was around three years ago. But who’s counting? And, let me tell you something, for some of us, no amount of temperature taking, Maybe Baby fern finding, charting or legs in the air is going to do the trick. Making babies is not the cinch I thought it would be! The fact that I am of a certain age may have something to do with it but, whatever. So around a year ago, maybe more, I headed off to Frank’s obstetrician – the guy who managed to show up after the birth – and told him I wanted him to fix me up. A bit of investigation and lots of umming and aahing later and Jazzy Jeff and I started IVF last November. Me being me, I did as little research about it as I possibly could, things like, will the medication make me fat? If I have sextuplets, can I loan them out to make extra money – a la Mary-Kate and Ashley? And other such important matters.

I’ve had one cancelled cycle, and am on my second real cycle. I had three eggs collected in January, two were fertilised by Jazzy Jeff’s manly seed but only one made it to implantation and that one didn’t make it. Over the past few months I’ve endured the pill, twice daily nasal sprays that lead to the most delightful sinus headaches, nightly injections – one that I had to give myself on the plane on my way back from China last week. It went something like this: Me standing in very hygienic economy class toilet preparing syringe. Needle goes into belly and I slowly plunge. Plane hits turbulence and loses altitude for a moment. Needle comes out mid plunge. Plane regains altitude and needle plunges in as “fasten seatbelts” sign starts to ping.

And today I had three more eggs collected (I’m a veritable battery hen) and I find out tomorrow if they’re ready to go. And then I got to thinking, if Momo can do it, maybe I can too. So I said to the embryologist: “Hey, I’ve changed my mind, stuff this one child business, whack all of them in, as many as you can, all of them.” And the cute embryologist looked at me in my blue paper slippers, hair net and possibly too much make up for surgery and said: “Legally, two is the maximum in Australia”. (There go my dreams). But really, it’s not all bad and way more fun than watching So You Think You Can Dance, Australia. Oh, and I’ve discovered that I have a thing for general anesthetics – that moment of absolute silence as you  count backwards from 10, 9, 8…