Putting The ‘Ow!’ in ‘Meow’.

On Wednesday night we took The Wuz to the vet because she is long overdue for vaccinations and I wanted some advice on how to overcome Newtown’s notorious flea problem.

It was never going to be fun, The Wuz hates traveling in cars and cried the whole way there and no amount of Dark Crystal fandom from the receptionist was going to persuade her everything was ok (The Wuz’s “official” name is Fizzgig).

She sneezed on the vet, she ran away from the vet, she didn’t want to get weighed, she had two needles, a flea tablet and a worm table and she was pissed.

Thursday was the first day in a long time I didn’t trip over her on my way to the bathroom, which I thought was strange and when she eventually walked down the hallway, it was clear something was really wrong. She was walking like she was drunk and her eyes couldn’t focus and when I picked her up she meowed like she was in pain and scared.

Having never seen her sick, I didn’t know what my response would be. Now I do: I crawled into bed and cried.

Thankfully, B was there and took charge. This is a man who is mildly allergic to cats and lives with one who frequently sneezes on him, yet who has taken to her with great gusto. This is a man who frequently works with her sitting on his lap, or creepily watching him from her perch, the man who I overheard calling her ‘sweetheart’ one night recently as he tried to shoo her back in out backyard.

He took her to the vets and they gave her an injection to get her temperature down and kept her for observation. He rang at lunch time to check on her. He came with me last night to pick her up and give me moral support while the vet talked about what a bad patient Wuz was.

Then we took her home and gave her lots of hugs and kisses and she seems well on her way back to normal Wuzness.

We love you, Wuzzy!


On Dads and Dogs

“Do NOT get a dog. Just don’t do it. It is the worst thing to do, getting a dog. Don’t get a dog, they will tie you down.” – says Dad, the man who was married at 21 and had three children well before he turned 30.

He says this while cradling two of his three grandchildren, just after we’ve discussed the dread my older sister is feeling about her impending international travel with a five-month-old.

“Easier to kennel a dog than a kid.” – says me, 31, owner of no children but in possession of a bowl of corn chips.

Dad stares into space. “That is true, you can’t kennel a kid, I suppose.”.


No Snack Month!

One thing I am good at is snacking. I can snack ’til the cows come home and then snack while they sleep and then still be snacking when they’re finished sleeping.

I love all kinds of snacks. Biscuit snacks, chip snacks, chocolate snacks! Name a snack, I have had a love affair with it.

I’ve decided that it between this pay day and next, I am not going to snack. I will have breakfast, a healthy morning tea as advised by my dietician, lunch, healthy arvo tea and dinner. No more snackfasts, snackunches or sninners.

I’m using the ol’ Seinfeld ‘Don’t Break The Chain‘ method:


Every day I don’t snack gets highlighted, the aim being to not break the chain of highlighted days if I can help it.



A Young Girl’s Eye

Living with a partner the second time around isn’t as difficult as I expected.

It’s nice having someone cooking breakfast while I get ready for work, or high-fiving me when I get home from guitar lessons, or fixing our weird indoor slug problem and figuring out what the odd smell is under the sink.

I like watching B potter by when I get up at 5am to watch my basketball team lose spectacularly, and doing the washing up together and making our own media folder where we can share music, and watching The Mindy Project in bed with my headphones on, because it’s not his bag, but we’re really good at having alone time when we’re together.

It’s nice sharing my life with someone who barely raises an eyebrow when I electrocute myself one night or set my hairdryer on fire the next.

We have a couple of really exciting plans coming up, which I am not at liberty to discuss yet as we’re waiting for a few pieces of news late next week and I don’t want to be all “Hey, this!” and then “Hey! Not this, boohoo!”.

Here is a hint, though:


Puddles & Toilets

Last weekend I went to visit my younger sister, who’s just moved into a house with her husband and daughter, Cordelia. I specify house because until recently they were living in a one-bedroom flat, which despite being lovely, was a small heat box that may or may not have once been a stable. They needed to move because someone (Cordelia) likes to wake up at 3am (Cordelia) and talk to herself in baby-talk (Cordelia), really, really loudly.

When they went to visit my parents recently, Cordelia got a room to herself and just before 9pm, my phone lit up with a message from Steph:


Steph is someone who likes sleep, a lot of sleep, all the time with the sleeping, so sharing a room with a baby was obviously not optimal and thus in their new place, Cordelia has a room of her own and her mother has never been happier.

My older sister and her husband and their two kids were there as well and it was good to see The Nerdphew, who had allegedly been asking to hang out with me.

Knowing that he finds adults talking boring and that the two babies are not yet up to playing games with him, I decided to play a few rounds of hide-and-seek with him. This is how he plays:

He orders everybody to count to ten and then runs away and hides and starts giggling manically. I began to hunt him down, assuming he wanted me to pretend I couldn’t see him sticking out from under a chair. I walked around loudly pondering where he could be, asking hypothetical questions about his location, like, “IS VINCENT IN CORDELIA’S ROOM?” to which came from under the chair a loud, “NO!”.

I thought I had the four-year-old audience on lock, but when I pondered whether Vincent was hiding in the toilet, he got disgusted with me and start to wriggle out from under the chair to yell at me for thinking he’d be so gross as to get in the toilet. Instead of listening to him, I sat on him and wondered aloud where he could be, which changed the game and meant to when it was my turn to hide, he wanted to find me immediately so he could sit on me.

V is a kid that needs constant stimulation. He’s like a shark, he needs to constantly be moving and touching things and speaking very loudly and throwing things and asking questions about things and when we all left, it warmed my heart when V charged off down the hill in his gumboots and my sister called out for him to wait while they got his little sister set up in her pram and he came back, grudgingly, to explain he wanted to jump in the really, really big puddle at the end of the street and instead of chastising him or telling him no, my sister looked up, saw the huge puddle, looked at her son the shark and shrugged and said, “Ok, sure, just give me a sec.”.

The last I saw of them as I drove of was the four of them, walking along post-puddle splash, chatting and looking in on Lexi in her stroller and V gesticulating and talking in his booming voice, probably about puddles and toilets.