Lessons learned from a month (mostly) sugar free

For the month of may, I agreed to take part in what quite possibly may have been the toughest 30 day challenge around. I went sugar free. I cut out all sugar and things from the sugar family tree and some stuff that, while not really sugar, is just as junky, like potato chips. I entered this challenge with zero confidence (actually I bet a tenner that I'd be back on the sweet stuff with in 24 hours) and no strategy on how I would approach my love of snacking. I just jumped in with both feet and hoped for the best. The result being that I may or may not* have eaten my own body weight in salted cashews.

In the interests of full disclosure, there were three slip ups, day 2 I put vanilla syrup in my coffee without thinking, I realised soon after but I pretended I didn't and drank it anyway. Day 16 had me sampling some Yarra Valley dark chocolate (it was litterally handed to me on a platter, what am I going to do?!?) and then there was a regrettable honey soy stir fry incident around day 20. I decided not to exclude fruit, but did limit how much I could have to a single serving per day and no fruit juice. 

I was told that it takes three days for the body to withdraw from sugar, HA! By day 15 I'd almost lost the will to live but somewhere around 10pm as I was desperately sucking the last drops of toothpaste out of Lil' Edges tube of Dora the delicious explorer, it occurred to me that I had hit the half way point. There was now more sugar free days behind me then ahead. The end was nigh. 

It never got any easier. Every day I woke up and thought "Screw this, today I'm eating a box of Lindor balls and washing it down with a slurpie." It was like giving up smoking all over again. I'm moody and a little deranged at the best of times so as surprised as I am that I made it 30 days, I'm even more surprised that nobody got killed or divorced in the process. 

So here's what I've learned:

1. Everything has sugar in it. Even the sugar free stuff has sugar in it, they just call it honey or agave nector or maple syrup or fruit juice. While you could argue they're better for you than sugar, it's still just sugar when you break it down, nothing more, nothing less.

2. Being sugar free does NOT improve concentration. Or judgement. Or mood. Or motivation.

3. Don't go to a chocolaterie on day 16. 

4. Just as it's not healthy to overindulge in any one type of food, neither is completely omitting it. I think it throws off the balance and you just end up overindulging in something else (hello salted cashews). Sugar, carbs, fat, salt, wheat, these things aren't the enemy. Eating m&m's like they've just become a banned substance on the otherhand...

5. Artificial sweeteners, stevia and anything else you want to pretend is just as good as sugar are all bullshit. I suggest the truth is more like '600 times sweeter than satan's backside' and 'made from sugar but it tastes like arse'. 

6. There are actually some pretty good low or no sugar recipes out there but you have to wade through a boat load of really shit ones to get to them. Just taking the sugar out of something and replacing it with fat (or a different kind of sugar) doesn't actually make it good for you, no matter how many pins it gets on pinterest. I saw a no sugar recipe for cake that had lemonade in it and choc chip peanut butter cookies that only had 2 ingredients (I'll let you guess what they were). 

Pumpkin, feta & rosemary bread

7. This one probably shocked me the most though, I realise I don't actually NEED sugar in my coffee. 

So 30 sugar free days done and dusted. I struggled through each and every one of them and now that this madness is over, let us eat cake. 

No seriously, somebody bring me some cake.

  

* I totally did! 

Cancer & the idiotic Facebook shit.

 I've got a radical idea about how to raise awareness for breast cancer, or any cancer for that matter. It's a little out there so bear with me... How about if we just talk about cancer? I know, crazy right? We could talk about how to check our breasts for lumps and what to do if we find something. We could post links to https://www.bcna.org.au/ so people could get more information. We could donate so that more research into prevention and cures can be done. We could volunteer or do a fun run. Did you know men get breast cancer too? Maybe we can include men in the discussion?

Or we can keep playing stupid games like posting pointless status' that have nothing to do with anything, let alone cancer. I don't care where you like to put your handbag, I'm not going to repost some ridiculous statement about using my boobs to get out of a ticket and I don't care if you've got make up on in your selfie. 

Not talking about something is the opposite of raising awareness and it helps absolutely nobody. Cancer is sadly all too common and completely heart wrenching. Many of us have been touched by it in one way or another. My father died from pancreatic cancer. I'm aware of how horrible it is for everybody it touches. 

So let's just stop with the childish bullshit and use our power for good: to actually raise people's awareness of this insidious collection of diseases. 

Pancreatic cancer is the ninth most common cancer in men and the tenth in women. It has one of the lowest survival rates because it is usually only diagnosed in it's advanced stages. Every year, approx 2,500 Australians get diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, less than 5% will survive beyond five years. 

Go here to find out more about pancreatic cancer: http://pancare.org.au/pancreatic-cancer

Poo in a box

First things first, 'Poo in a Box'. It's a thing. I bought it as a shit (sorry!) gift for my brother while we were in the UK because... well, come on, it's 'Poo in a Box' and it sure beats the "all I got was this lousy keyring" gift. Basically its various seeds encased in elephant, reindeer or rhino poo. You plant in the garden, give it some TLC and it grows into a plant that you can forever tell people came from the crappiest (you can slap me for that) gift ever. I'm still shocked I managed to get this through customs. All I can say is that having a toddler on the verge of tantrum shooting "Don't mess with me buddy" death stares at everyone can only help you.

Poo in a Box

I've neglected this blog. I'm aware of it. I want to blog more often and I have about 25 to 30 draft blogs waiting patiently to be finished and posted and I swear to myself that I'll look them over on the weekend and blog at least one. The weekend comes and goes and I don't give the blog a second thought and the cycle repeats itself over and over again.

The problem is that this is a blog about my life with Crohn's Disease and I just feel like I don't really have anything else to say about Crohn's Disease. Aside from the periodic flare-up I'm doing ok. I have an issue with a stricture that continues to be a pain in the arse (I'll slap myself for that one!) but otherwise it's business as usual.

I could write superficial pieces about various medications or new treatments available that I've researched from the net, but honestly, if you're looking for information about these things you should really speak to your doctor not seek out the opinions of random bloggers. There is so much misinformation and personal experience stated as fact that I'm personally pretty wary of anything I read on the internet. You should be too (except when it comes to Poo in a box, that's the real McCoy).

Also I don't want anybody looking to me as though I'm some kind of expert just because I can regurgitate stuff I find via google. The only thing I'm an expert on is my particular brand of Crohn's as it relates to me. That's a pretty small area of expertise.

Lack of direction, not lack of time is the problem. We all have 24 hours in a day. ~ Zig Ziglar

I like the blog, I don't want to kill it and I definitely don't want my Crohn's to start going ballistic just so I'll have some writing fodder. Given all that it doesn't really leave me any where to go...
So I guess the blog is on hiatus... unless I just put the Crohn's side of it all on hold an blog about anything that takes my fancy but that feels a bit unfocussed and aimless and to be honest all that scope just leaves me staring at a blank screen wondering what to say. I guess I'll ponder it awhile.

New Years Resolutions

How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon? ~ Dr. Seuss

It’s that time of year again. Christmas is on the doorstep and the New Year is looming on the horizon. It’s the time of year when we all get caught up in the excesses of gift giving, food and beverage consumption and obligatory family, work and social gatherings.

I’m feeling very reflective this year. Where am I? Where have I come from? Where am I headed? And where do I want to be? I feel as though the last year has been dampened by my negative attitude. The year started with my undesired return to work which meant depositing Lil’ Edges in day care. Instead of making the best of a bad situation, I got stuck in a narrative of negativity. Anything good that happened was quickly drowned out.

If life seems jolly rotten,

There's something you've forgotten!

And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing,

When you're feeling in the dumps,

Don't be silly chumps,

Just purse your lips and whistle -- that's the thing!

~ Monty Python

And there was plenty of good that happened. I ran the Mother’s Day Classic, an 8km fun run to raise money for charity. A monumental achievement considering that I was only relatively new to running and have never really been that interested in physical activity before. Now I can’t imagine not exercising on a daily basis.

After a little encouragement from a friend and without any real planning, I did NaNoWriMo and completed it. Fifty thousand words in 30 days (give or take a couple of hours). The book is currently needing some editing and possibly some illustrations but the foundation is there and it won’t take all that much to whip it into some kind of readable state.

I’m writing this blog from the merry old land of England. Yes, the Edges clan made the journey to the UK to visit Mr Edges family. I’ve met my in-laws for the very first time. Travelled overseas for the first time (technically 2^nd time, but I was kid and barely remember it). It’s exciting stuff. I still can’t really believe it.

So, where to from here? I want to lose the negative attitude. Glass half full, not half empty. Bad shit is going to happen, there’s nothing I can do about that, but I don’t have to dwell on it or let it get the better of me.

Life is not meant to be easy, my child; but take courage it can be delightful. ~ George Bernard Shaw

I want to have more energy and to wake up feeling refreshed. I’m tired of being tired, of everything feeling like both a physical and emotional effort. Is this a state of mind? I don’t know. It might be. At any rate I want to blog more, run more, write more, think more, do more, see more, learn more, read more, enjoy more, laugh more, love more and live more. I want to be motivated and interested. I want to be engaged and engaging.

All that being said, here’s what I hope to achieve in 2013: (though I reserve the right to change these if and as I see fit ;-p)

Attempt a half marathon.

Publish the 2012 NaNoWriMo book. 

Start a home based business.

You don’t need endless time and perfect conditions. Do it now. Do it today. Do it for twenty minutes and watch your heart start beating. ~ Barbara Sher

What are you hoping to achieve in 2013?
 

Incy Wincy

Over dinner a couple of weeks back, my friend explained that the previous day she had been doing her weekly housework chores which included stripping the beds and changing the sheets. She said she'd done the sheets earlier in the day but had gotten distracted before putting the pillow cases on and so, some time just before going to bed she went into the room to finish the task. She lifted up one of the pillows to find a large spider and what she mistook to be an awful lot of little dots of spider poo... until the little dots started to move. In no time the bed was covered in hundreds of tiny baby spiders.

Her husband, who had turned a very pale shade of white, stared at her wide eyed and mouth open in horror. She went on to say she sprayed the bed with bug spray, swept up the bodies and finished putting the pillow cases on. Her husband looked positively sick. It seemed this was the first he'd heard of it.

I can't decide if she's amazingly cool under pressure or completely bat-shit crazy.

There is no way in hell you could have gotten me into that bed after some eight legged hairy ho' bag had spawned her 6 million hairy bastard babies on my pillow. You could have drowned those fuckers in a Mortien swimming pool and it still wouldn't have been enough for me.

Why am I bringing this up? Because so far today I've had three little baby spiders crawl on me and now all I can feel the little tickles of phantom spiders crawling all over my skin. One of the baby spiders (actual, not phantom) sprinted around the bend of the baby's ear and across her forehead as I was feeding her. It took every ounce of impulse control I had not to smack it right there on her head with a magazine.

*shudders*

Magnetic Meals Planner

So I made this after seeing something similar on Pinterest. I'm generally not very crafty but I'm pretty happy with the result. It's basically a menu planner for the evening meal. I'm chronically disorganised and wind up making a mad dash to the stupidmarket three or four nights a week to pick something up for dinner. And because I'm that disorganised, we wind up having the same thing more often than not. So in the interests of variety and sanity, I've made this. Down the left are the days of the week with what we're having for dinner. On the right is a pocket for the various meal labels, below that another pocket for retired meal labels, or stuff we've just had or to hold a pencil. Below that are post-its.

I used:

An A4 frame. I used an old Ikea one that was laying around.

3 sheets of coloured cardboard to make the menu pouches. More or less.

1 sheet of scrapbooking paper to cover the backing board of the frame but you could use fabric or leave it as it is.

Magnets. Strong ones. I used one each for the days of the week clips and then the rest (I bought a pack of 20) I stuck to the back of the frame so it would stick to the fridge. You could hang it on the wall IF you live in a house that allows for such things.

Bulldog clips. Make sure they're metal so they stick to the magnets for easy removal and planning.

Stickers. Whatever takes your fancy. I used hippy flowers because that's what I had and the colours matched the paper I had. LUCKY!

Glue. I'd recommend the dries clear kind unless your gluing skills are better than mine, which, let's face it, they probably are. But go clear anyway. Trust me, when you accidentally smear glue over the leg of the hardwood table you'll be glad of it.

Clear contact. I covered the printed meal labels in contact to give them a bit more strength and to make them easy to clean. Anything even remotely associated with food will, in my house anyway, become covered in crap.

Post-it notes. Dementia will be a smooth transition for me. If I don't write it down it slips in the never regions of my mind where it will inevitably resurface at some irrelevant time long past the moment I actually needed to recall it. It is here that I can jot down new dinner ideas or reminders or baking ideas.

Just cut and paste the bits and pieces where they go. If I can figure it out, so can you. Or search on Pinterest. Google. Where ever.

On the fridge!

xoxo,

Every Dinosaur Poos!

With a sick Lil' Edges on my hands I thought I'd try to brighten her up with some Nick Jr. To my complete amusement this is what was on:



Quality children's programming.

baby body bitchiness

It feels like I'm being bombarded of late by blogs, articles and essays written by 'real women' on their post-baby bodies. The main theme of these articles seems to be Miranda Kerr, Scary Spice, Mariah Carey and the like are doing a dis-service to the collective womanhood by looking great after having babies.

Apparently real woman gain weight during pregnancy and they don't have the time or the inclination to lose it after the birth of their babies. They're too busy looking after said babies and even if they wanted to lose the weight right away, they couldn't because it's just not that easy.

The thing that these articles all have in common is that the authors are guilty of doing the very thing they're bitching about. "I'm being criticised because of the way my body looks after having a baby" and then in the same breath they criticise women who look great or take steps to get back into shape after having a baby.

Shame on you ladies. You can't have it both ways. Either you accept that 'real woman' not only have stretched out belly's, dimpled thighs and saggy boobs but can also have flat stomachs, smooth skin and perky breasts and stop putting them down. Or you don't, in which case, cop the criticism you're so happy to dish out at others with good graces. It's hypocritical at best and just plain bitchy at worst.

I'm just a little bit over it all. The only people who give a shit about post baby bodies are women who've had babies and most of the time, its those women who are unhappy with themselves who are the most critical. Celebrities aren't to blame for women feeling shit about themselves. Women do it all on their own, after all who is it thats buying women's magazines in the first place?

I could assume that you gained weight during your pregnancy because you sat on your arse eating pizza and potato chips for nine months but I'd probably be wrong, so why is it ok for you to assume that a woman who doesn't gain weight doesn't eat properly? Or that she's doing crunches 10 minutes after giving birth?

So, you don't look like you used to and your body doesn't look like Miranda Kerr's. Get over it. It doesn't give you licence to trash her and other women who don't fit neatly into the little box you've crafted as normal to make yourself feel good. The only dis-service being done to the collective womanhood, is the ongoing need women have to put other women down who are not like them.

Just stop it. 'Real Women' come in all shapes and sizes, not just yours. It's not a war with the skinnies versus the fatties. Slagging off people who appear to have "bounced back easily" right after birth says more about you than it does them. It's only an issue because YOU make it an issue.

Acceptance goes both ways.

Out of whack

Some things are disproportionally painful for the injury to which they belong. The funny bone is an obvious one or when you accidentally brush a finger against the hot roasting pan. Todays CRI is a perfect example. (Couch related injury. See, it happens. It's a dangerous lifestyle I lead this not working thing... but I digress...).

This afternoon while casually sitting on the couch trying to wrangle Lil' Edges who has turned into a wriggling squirming fiddling muppet over night, I caught the edge of my fingernail on something which tore it and then in the course of my sudden jerking movement, I proceeded to stab myself under the fingernail WITH MY OWN TORN FINGERNAIL.

"Oh fudge, you melon farming biscuit of an owie*"I exclaimed, grabbing the baby in a football hold with my good hand and running like mad for the bathroom to both clean up the blood and somehow remove the offending fingernail from it's excruciating location. 

Why should a fingernail injury hurt so much? If pain serves to warn you of the potential harm of an injury, to get you to stop doing whatever it is that's injuring you, why then does having something shoved under a fingernail make you want to hack your own arm off with a meat cleaver? Fingernails aren't really that important. Not in the grand scheme of things. 

Get back here cat!

Tooth pain is another example of disproportion. Can you imagine being a caveman with no colgate or dental floss or water fluoridation (or even dentists for that matter) to protect your teeth and gums? What did those poor bastards do when they inevitably cracked a tooth on a prehistoric chicken wing? It's my belief that the ridiculous amount of dental pain probably led them to jump in front of an oncoming Sabertooth shouting "Eat me, for the love of Mergatroid, just fucking eat me."

I broke a toe (and a wrist and once a bone in my foot) none of these really rated very high on the pain scale. The toe went a lovely shade of purple and throbbed a bit but mostly, as long as I didn't stub it on any furniture it wasn't too bad. I never once contemplated a home amputation or knocking myself unconscious with a heavy based frying pan. Surely a broken bone trumps a broken fingernail? Shouldn't my body be more concerned with things that may actually be problematic should I need to make a hasty getaway from an emerging predator? 

Why does a minor burn, so minor that it barely even tints the skin pink, need to throb for hours? Yes the pan is hot, I get it nervous system, you can stop sending the pain signals and release the endorphins. And yes, this ice cream is cold, thanks for alerting me via brain freeze before I wound up with frostbite in my throat. On a similar note, thank you teeth for that sharp nerve sensation when I eat something really sweet, God forbid I die in a horrible Pavlova incident.

Seriously, unless the injury requires actual medical attention (and no running something under cold water or putting a Flintstone ouch-aid on it doesn't count), then I don't want to know about it. If tearing a fingernail at the quick is a 1 on the serious injury scale and being decapitated by a low flying helicopter is a 10, then I don't want to be bothered for anything less than a 3, say a gash requiring at least 6 stitches. 

Harden the fuck up, nervous system.

*Or words to that effect

In Memoriam

A year ago today my mum died. While she had been unwell, I certainly didn't expect her to die on that particular sunny Saturday afternoon and I miss her terribly. I am saddened that she missed the arrival of her first grandchild by a mere three months and I feel her absence every time Lil' Edges reaches a new milestone. Below is the eulogy I wrote for her funeral.

~~~

One of the earliest memories I have of my mum is of her dancing around in the kitchen to Donna Summer while she cooked. With the music turned up loud, she twirled around singing and adding ingredients to whatever dish she was creating while I clapped and giggled at the show. Later, when I was a little older, mum would let me help and we soon had our own special chocolate slice recipe that we always made together. Mum had a number of brilliant dishes, her pasta sauce, her wine trifle, her coleslaw to name just a few but she hated cooking. In fact I’m pretty sure that she taught my dad to cook the Sunday roast just so she wouldn’t have to!

From Mum I learned to have fun doing chores. I learned that music can transform the mundane into the extraordinary.

Mum was always trying new things. She was creative and talented. At one point she developed a taste for renovating Antiques. She dragged us all over the countryside looking for bargains. One time, Mum was rummaging around in what appeared to be a pile of rubble. Eventually she emerged triumphantly with four dusty pieces of broken wood. “Look at this!” She exclaimed. Dad and I exchanged confused glances before turning back to haggle with the storeowner over the price of an acoustic guitar. Three weeks later Mum emerged from the garage with a beautifully crafted antique picture frame, which now houses their wedding photo. We were amazed. Somehow she always managed to find magnificent pieces hidden in an obscure corner covered in dust.

From Mum I learned to look into things more deeply. I learned to try new things and to persevere when things seem hopeless.

Mum was fiercely independent and encouraged me to get my driver’s license as soon as I was able. We were driving home from Shepparton one afternoon soon after I got my learner’s permit, with me behind the wheel and mum in the passenger seat. Mum had been a bit nervous about letting me drive but as I pulled into our street she relaxed and started flicking through a magazine. Although I slowed right down as I pulled into the driveway, I forgot to apply the brake and crashed her beloved car into the gate. We peeled the mangled gate off the front of the car to survey the damage. The left indicator was hanging about three inches off the bumper blinking away. “Hey, at least the indicator still works.” I offered. Mum was not impressed.

From Mum I learned to be self-reliant. I learned to find a way to get where I wanted to go.

Mum was excited about becoming a grandmother. On the night before mum passed away, for no reason in particular, we watched the ultrasound dvd. She was captivated by the detailed images of her grandchild moving about.

Mum, although you didn’t get to meet your first grandchild in person, you can rest assured that she will know you and learn all the wonderful things that made you who you were. 

You are in our hearts, always. 

Becoming Complacent

In a recent conversation with a woman I am just getting to know I mentioned in passing that I had this transfusion thing next week and wouldn't be able to do anything on that day. She looked horrified, then deeply concerned as I explained what it was and how it worked. I realised that going into hospital every 8 weeks for a transfusion is not normal to most people.

This woman patted me on the hand by way of offering support? condolences? sympathy? and stated that needles were horrible and she couldn't imagine anything worse than having to have one stuck in your arm for a whole day every two months. Then she actually shuddered at the thought.

I see it a bit differently.

Not too long ago I was about as sick as I’ve ever been. I remember telephoning my specialist every day in tears, begging him to admit me (which he did after five days). The surgery I'd had a year earlier had made things worse instead of better. I was in more pain than I ever though possible and could not go more than 20 minutes without needing a toilet including having to get up 6 or 7 times a night. 

After two days of observation, the doctors were all in agreement. Medication wouldn’t work. There were too many ulcers, fissures and strictures and they were too widespread to operate. The only solution: Colostomy bag.

I cried for a week. I pleaded. Anything, absolutely anything but THAT. 

Eventually after three weeks in hospital on high doses of steroids, daily injections, humiliating and excruciating enemas, a couple of strictoplasty procedures and a whole lot of begging on my behalf, they decided to try Infliximab. They weren’t really convinced it would work since none of the other similar class drugs had worked. I guess they just took pity on the poor sad creature who was desperately clutching at straws.

“There’s every reason to believe this will work.” I must have uttered that phrase 60 times a day to everyone who would listen, oblivious to the doubtful looks and words of caution about getting my hopes up. It was too late for that, they were already way the hell up there, it was going to work. It just had to. And work it did. Infliximab seemed to work from the first transfusion. Sometimes I wonder if will power and pure determination is enough to make medications do their thing.

Fast forward to today and I am probably as close to remission as I'll ever get. There's been no talk of colostomy bags or surgery. So to me, these transfusions are far from something horrible or a reminder that I have an illness. Infliximab saved my life and I am very lucky to have these transfusions every 8 weeks.

Every time I have the transfusion I’m reminded of where I was and how far I’ve come. I’m reminded of how bad things have been and that they can easily be that bad again and I’m thankful that, in this moment, I’m healthy. It reminds me that I am alive and well and that things are good and I come away from it feeling revitalised. 

Dentists.

By far the worst part of having Crohn's is the effect the disease, the medications and the bodies poor ability to absorb nutrients has on teeth. Mine are fucked, totally and irreversibly. I could brush them 16 times a day and drink a glass of fluoride for breakfast and it wouldn't make a lick of difference.

Today I went back to the dentist. I have this tooth which has had a root canal and a crown on top. It hurts, has done for more than two years now. I've seen more dentists that I can actually recall and they're all about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike.

"My tooth hurts. It throbs. It hurts to touch it. Sometimes it's loose other times it feels like it swollen." I say to the dentist. The dentist considers this for a moment and then proceeds to pick up one of his implements of torture and bash the tooth repeatedly with it. 

"Does that hurt?" 

No, it feels like butterflies floating through a sunny meadow. What the fuck? Yes it fucking hurts.

Seriously, what is with dentists?

Food for thought

For a Crohn's blog, I haven't really talked about Crohn's much in the last few months. Mostly because there was nothing to say. Until yesterday, when the shit hit the fan. My thoughts are a little all over the place due to fatigue and pain associated with a partial blockage so I may divert on a few tangents before arriving at my point, if I arrive there at all. Bear with me.

I've spent a lifetime trying to make sense of the intricate relationship between diet, food, body image, self-esteem, exercise, health and illness. Reconciling what you want (cake, being 'skinny', lounging around) with what you need (balanced diet, healthy body, exercise) knowing that they're almost never complimentary. It's a complex balancing act even before you throw in complications like health conditions, allergies or intolerance's and preconditioned ideas. I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying, in vain, to wrap my head around it.

As a kid I had Asthma. I learnt very early on to associate physical exercise with pain, discomfort and fear since every time I exerted myself I wound up struggling to breathe for hours. Despite the Asthma now long gone, those early lessons are so well ingrained that as an adult I have to consciously and deliberately work at reprogramming my thinking. I almost always choose the path of least exertion.

The party line in the medical world consists of sentiments to the tune of: The cause of IBD is unknown and there is no evidence that dietary factors play a role. No role at all, although "What have you eaten?" is among the first questions medical staff ask in Emergency after a blockage or extreme flare-up and they always wind up referring to a dietician.

Everything you think you know about a healthy lifestyle doesn't apply when you have Crohn's Disease. Fresh fruit, green leafy vegetables, high fibre cereals, three squares a day, these things will kill you or at least make life pretty intolerable. Walking stimulates the bowel and is something you really want to avoid during a flare-up. It's a topsy turvy world where the right thing is all wrong and the wrong thing is ok.

Now that she has started solids, I have to somehow teach Lil' Edges about healthy eating and I am the least qualified person to do this. Aware that she's more likely to take in what she see's rather than what she's told, I've been attempting to role model a more healthy style of eating. Consuming fresh fruit with her in the morning seemed ok for a week or so until the tell tale stomach pain arrived Saturday night.

Sometimes you eat something and you know all about it before you've even put down the fork. It's that way for me with full fat milk. Other times the offending food is a lot more cunning. Fruit for example, eat a peeled apple once, even twice and I'll probably get away with it. Everyday for a week and I find myself here in doubled over town. Then there is food that will be fine this time and completely kick my arse the next time, like eggs or cheese. Other things, which by all rights, should be completely off limits like chocolate and coffe I have no issues with.

There's other stuff that comes from not getting all the vitamins and minerals your body needs. Multiple bowel resections have left me perpetually low in iron and B12. No amount of eating red meat or oily fish will ever replenish the stores and it leaves me with regular headaches and tiredness and difficulty with concentration.

Because none of the normal rules apply and 'diet plays no role' there's no guide to managing Crohn's Disease. Sure, there are books about it and there are individuals stories about their experience but at the end of the day we each have to figure out our own disease management ourselves mostly by trial an error. I learnt most of my lessons the hard way. This week I was reminded that I am not normal and my system will never be normal no matter how much I think I am in remission.

I am (mostly) ok with that.

Driving like an idiot

Last week, someone found my blog using the search term "TatteredEdges Rage" (First 4 entries in google, thank-you very much!) This blog is dedicated to you, whoever you are.

I got road raged today. I was paralel parked and about to leave. I put the indicator on and turned my steering wheel preparing to go, once the oncoming traffic provided a sufficient enough break in the flow to pull out. Enter Bogan Billy Bob, in his rusted out ute complete with bullbar, roof mounted spotlights and a Yosemite Sam gun totin' bumper sticker.

Somehow I suspect my desire to pull out is not his biggest problem.

He swings his wannabe monster truck out into the other lane, narrowly missing an oncoming car, all while staring at me, yelling something I couldn't hear but can only guess was colourfully littered with F and B words and making obscene gestures. Now bear in mind that I haven't actually moved, much less pulled out in front of him. I laughed and then realised this would probably just piss him off more so I tried to pull a straight face.

After slowing down to get a couple more hand gestures in, he planted his foot and sped off around the corner through an amber light in which pedestrians had started to cross. Clearly, it's my driving that's the problem here.

I'm not above a bit of road rage. I've been known to rant and rave within the confines of my own car. I've never tried to intimidate or physically attack someone (I'm not a nutcase). I'd even go so far as to say that ranting out loud in the aftermath of a near-miss with a fuckwit could be a good way to release pent up frustration.

So just in case you happen to be driving in my neighbourhood, here are some things you should reconsider because they really annoy the crap out of me. 

1. Slowing down to a crawl and swerving into the gutter/bike lane to go over a speed bumps. Why do people do this? The speed bump is just as high at the edge. Slowing down to a snails pace isn't going to make the bump any less bumpy. Just drive straight, stay in your lane and do 20. Your car can handle it, trust me.

2. Swinging out into the other lane before making a 90 degree turn. This is dangerous and unnecessary. Your car, even if it's a complete shit heap, can make that left hand turn without pulling into the right lane first so knock it off.

3. Not using your indicators. Seriously, am I supposed to intuitively know where you're going or why you've suddenly slowed down? Indicators aren't there for decoration and they're not optional. It's not like turning them on is a vigorous workout, you can activate the magic flashing light with just the flick of a finger. Combine this with number two and my head almost explodes!

4. Driving up my arse because you want me to go faster. Newsflash, that just makes me slow down and flashing your lights at me I interpret as "Thanks for slowing down and being awesome". If the speed limit is 50, I'm going to do 50 not 90. Remember the 'wipe off 5' and 'arrive alive' TAC campaigns? well they totally worked on me. At the very least, you should thank me for saving you demerit points.

What turns you into a raving lunatic on the roads?

The Baby Expo

I've refrained a lot from talking about my parenting choices on this blog, mostly because (and I didn't know this until after I found myself pregnant) everything, and I mean EVERYTHING baby related is controversial. It seems that there are at least two camps on every possible topic, sometimes more, and each side think the other is doing untold physical, psychological and emotional damage to their children by doing whatever it is that they're doing.

It's insane. Don't even go near the topics of formula feeding, co-sleeping, baby training or controlled crying unless you've got some kind of protective head gear. I've seen women almost come to blows over this stuff. Now, I'll admit I have some opinions about how I will raise Lil' Edges and some pretty definite ideas around things such as child restraints/extended rear facing for example but I'm not a psycho. To each, their own. I don't see the point of getting all fired up in a no-win argument since, at the end of the day, we're all just doing whatever works within our respective families. 

So why then, did I want to go to the baby expo, a gathering of single minded fanatics ready to convert or condemn everyone in their sights? I can sum it up in one word: Discounts. Massive fucking discounts. Some of these retailers offer up to 50% off their stuff. 

I went last year. I was only a few months pregnant at the time with absolutely no idea what I was doing, what I needed or even where to start. I wound up feeling so overwhelmed that at the end of that day, I didn't so much as make my way towards the exit, as hastily retreat to the safety of my car and sob uncontrollably for 15 minutes. Fun times.

This time around things are different. With a grand total of 6 months parenting experience under my belt, I knew stuff now. I decided to have another crack at it, but this time, I had a plan. I knew what I needed and what I wanted more information on. I was only going to check out those stalls, the rest I would just pass by. A simple plan really. What could possibly go wrong? Apparently not taking every flyer, brochure and free sample offered to you at these things is like showing up for dinner at your aunt's place and telling her that her food's not fit for the dog. 

A guy shoved a flyer into my hand claiming they had the safest (they weren't) and highest rated (nope) rear facing child restraints on the market. I scoffed and screwed it up. I have bored the pants of my poor partner about the inadequacies of the Australian standards and rear facing. In fact, I may or may not have been bending his ear about it on the way in to the expo this morning.  

"Do you want to go over there and have an argument with them about car seat standards?" Mr Edges teased. Er...(thinking about it) no, let's keep moving.

Another guy tried to give me a brochure on disposable nappies. I waved him away. He chased me and argued with me even after I told him I use cloth nappies. In the end he physically shoved the brochure in my hand and told me to use their online store claiming they were the cheapest. Not cheaper than Coles though.  

A woman selling a baby toy I despise approached me, I put my hand up and said no thanks. She muttered something under her breath as she walked away. Lil' Edges is 6 months old, how does she know we don't already have one? Why assume it's political? Although, I have to admit there was one stall holder who tried to give me something and "Oh fuck no." escaped from my mouth before I could even stop it. 

Some stuff was just not relevant. Pre-natal vitamins, baby swaddles and cord blood banking don't apply when your munchkin's already done a half lap around the sun and yet they still seemed offended when we walked right by. 

And then there is the absolute shit like the overpriced chocolate bar in the personalised wrapper with your baby's name and birthday on it. You either eat the chocolate and are left with something you could have printed out yourself for free or you save the chocolate bar and end up with a mouldy keepsake that gets devoured by ants. Seriously, what is the point?

but I digress... 

I have to question how useful shoving fistfuls of paper at people really is? Last year I came home with reams and reams of flyers on every piece of crap you can imagine. I tried to sift through at home but honestly most of it ended up in the bin unlooked at. One of the things I wanted more information about today, was eczema treatments. One stall just shoved an envelope of samples in my hand and moved on to the next person while another stall holder had a chat with us about Lil' Edges skin, gave me some cream to try on her arm and provided some useful tips. I ended up buying a tube of their cream while the envelope of free samples sits unopened on the table.  

At any rate, I think my baby expo days are over. Next time I want free information and a discount I'll just google it. That noise you can hear is Mr Edges jumping for joy at this news.

* I understand the images to be from this book.

Ch-ch-ch-changes (Bank fees and Bullshit Part 2)

There are times in my life when I just want to stand in the middle of a paddock and scream out at the heavens, at the top of my lungs "What the fuck?". I doubt the universe would provide any clarity, but I'm sure it'd make me feel better. I just want to close my accounts at the bank. It's not like I am a multi-millionaire with a large portfolio of debentures, term deposits and stock options. I have two accounts, one that hadn't been used in almost two months, and neither with very much money in them.

After walking out of the bank (OldBank) last Friday, I went to the bank (NewBank) with which we have our mortgage. Fired up by my experience at OldBank, the first thing I said to the accounts manager after he ushered me into the little cubicle was "I want to open an account but I'm not paying any bank fees. We have our mortgage with you so you're already getting a good 2 grand a month in interest. I think that's enough don't you?"

"Of course." The accounts manager smiled. I sat silent for a moment, he meant, of course there will be fees, right? Possibly sensing my confusion, no doubt evidenced by a stupefied look on my face, he added "There will be absolutely no fees on this account, other than the other ATM fee, I can't do anything about that one."

"Really?" I said. "I kind of expected a bit more of a fight." He laughed. "No, we value our customers. We aim to keep them happy." Then he offered to get me a cappuccino. Astounded, I took a moment, before double checking that I was actually in the right place. "This is NewBank right?" The accounts manager laughed even harder. He asked me which bank I'd been banking with and I explained to him what had just happened at OldBank. He was horrified. He said they get a lot of people who have left OldBank.

I spent the weekend feeling infuriated and annoyed. What is OldBanks problem? Dealing with them had become so hard and generally unpleasant, so much so, that I actively avoided going into the branch as much as possible. I realised that OldBank treated me like it was doing me a favour by letting me bank with them. Now that I had experienced a little of what NewBank was offering, the uncordial environment of OldBank was even more unsettling.

I wish money wasn't important and that by extension the bank you keep it in wouldn't be important either but money is important (especially if you're a fan of material things like food, clothing, shelter, m&m's), and I don't earn enough of it to be ok with a bank casually taking a good chunk of it every month all while treating me like I'm it's bitch.

I called OldBanks customer service line several times. The first person I spoke to kept repeating "You need to go into a branch", another got really fired up insisting I lodge a formal complaint, in fact he would do it for me if I didn't. Sigh.

It wasn't until today that I was able to clarify the process for closing an account via the customer service line and then actually close the account at a different branch. The experience today wasn't much better than the last, which makes me think that this style of 'customer service' is a symptom of OldBanks  general business philosophy moreso than one isolated employees mentality. I find that sad.

Deleted diaries and dodgy discussions

Sometime ago (possibly years, but who’s counting) I had a blog on 501 Words. I’d fallen out of the habit of writing and thought writing 501 words a day on whatever random word they threw at me might be a good way to not only get back my mojo but improve the quality and quantity of stuff I pen. The fact that my writing on here remains sporadic at best and of questionable quality would indicate just how well that worked out. Anyway, I discovered a month or so ago those 501 words blogs weren’t really working out for anyone and the owner shut it down.

Without warning.

Now, since the dawn of the interwebs, I’ve been told to be careful about what I put out there because once you put something on the internet IT’S THERE FOREVER! With this in mind, I didn’t bother to back it up or keep copies of my written pieces. There was no need.

:-/

It seems that not everything you put on the Internet is actually there forever. Pictures of the time you were caught dancing on a tabletop, drunk, with your boobs hanging out at Aunty Silvia’s 50th and ranty tweets about the dodgy real estate agent you rent through are there forever but blogs, meh, they’re not important. Deleted.

I think I’d written about 50 or so vignettes, I was able to recover about seven from Google’s cached pages. Seven. I’m pretty sure nothing I wrote over at 501 was a master… (wait, they’re gone forever so you’ll never know if they were the next War and Peace) … I’ve been robbed of a Nobel Prize.

Yeah ok, let's not get carried away. So what’s the lesson here? Back shit up? Quite possibly should be although a better question might be: What will I actually take away from this? Shit doesn't stay online forever go ahead and post whatever you want? Probably. (FYI: I wouldn't hold your breath waiting on those aforementioned pics, I don't have an Aunt Silvia).

because I just KNOW you’re desperate to read a sample of my 501 brilliance. Here’s one of the recovered pieces. The word of the day was Articulate.

06 May 2010

Recently I was witness to the most infuriating “who’s on first” type conversation between my mother and one of her nurses. My mother was admitted to hospital where she underwent an angiogram, among other tests. Following the angiogram, she had to lie still for 7 hours so the area where they cut into the artery would clot properly and heal over. If you move too soon afterwards, you run the risk of blowing the clot and bleeding out.

For whatever reason, this hadn’t been explained clearly to my mum. Unfortunately, they had allowed my mum to eat her lunch and drink a cup of tea during this 7 hour wait. She had to lie flat on her back, so how she managed to eat an entire meal and drink a hot cup of tea I’m not entirely clear on, but she did. I arrived about an hour after she’d finished her lunch, when, as you might imagine, nature was calling. My mother called a nurse so that she could… well go. The nurse smiled and nodded as my mother explained that she had to go. The nurse looked puzzled and informed her that she couldn’t go, she was staying overnight.

 “No. I need to go.” My mum said.

 “Uh-huh. You have to stay.” The Nurse replied politely.

 “I’m not talking about leaving.” My mum answered.

 “Oh good. Why do you want to go?” The nurse asked kind of puzzled.

 “Because of the tea.” My mum stated.

 “You can have tea here.” The nurse smiled.

 “I’ve had tea. That’s why I need to go.” At this point my mother was pulling the blankets off her, preparing to get up.

 “I think they bring the tea around in the evening.” The nurse said, checking her watch and then promptly pulling the blankets back up over my mum.

 “No, just before.” My mum had on her irritated voice now. As her daughter, I knew it well.

 “It’s still a little while off.” The nurse said, checking her watch again.

 “What is?” Mum had stopped struggling with the blankets.

 “Afternoon tea.” The nurse smiled triumphantly.

 “I’ve already had tea.” the words were coming out slowly and purposefully, as though she were talking to a child.

 “Ok then, so you’re all set.” If the nurse was aware of my mother’s growing irritation, she did not show it.

 “No, I need to go.” My brother arrived at some point during this exchange and he, like myself, stood by in a kind of stunned silence and mild amusement. My mother and the nurse went on like this for another 10 or so minutes, when a male nurse poked his head in, presumably to see what all the commotion was about.

 “For Christ sake, get out of the bloody way.” My mum said through clenched teeth. “I need to go now”

 “Oh no, ma’am” he said with great concern. “You can’t leave.” He nodded in agreement with the first nurse. It was at this point I realised that if I didn’t intervene they might actually come to blows. I was able to resolve the whole misunderstanding by saying she needs to go to the toilet. If only Abbot had just said “The guys name is Who.”

xoxo

Bank fees and bullshit

About a month ago while making a fairly routine transaction via phone banking I was informed by the customer service representative that they were now using a security token to increase the security of all accounts. I could purchase the token for the very low 'introductory' price of $20.

Er, no thanks. A security token, in my opinion, adds needlessly complicated additional steps without really adding all that much security, since it's a physical device that can be just as easily stolen as my cards, pin number or account details.

It was at this point I was informed that the use of the security token was now compulsory on all accounts and I had 30 days to purchase one at the low, introductory price of $20 or my accounts would no longer have access to the 'pay anyone' feature or the 'bpay' feature. Essentially, my money would be held hostage unless I physically withdrew it from an ATM or branch. On top of this, the security token fee would be increased to $49.95.

I was instantly outraged. No matter which way you look at it, it's another bank fee. I already pay a monthly service fee, ATM fees, excess transaction fees, card fees, EFTPOS fees, in-branch withdrawal fees, a passbook fee, direct debit fees, in-branch transfer fees, phone banking fees. I'm think, but I may have to double check, I also get charged a fee for walking past the bank branch or for thinking about making a transaction. This blog is probably costing me $8.50.

The token was the last straw. I pointed out to the customer service representative that at the rate they are charging me fees I won't have any money left to protect.

"We do offer a rebate to offset some fees. Would you like me to see if you are eligible?" This actually flawed me. It seems the bank is charging so many fees that many of their customers can't actually afford them and go into overdraft (which of course attracts a fee) so they offset that in some cases.

"How about instead of offering a rebate, you just charge less fees?" I said. "This security token is just another bank fee."

"Well we are selling it to you at cost." She said and I took a deep breath.

"I guess you'd like me to thank you, a major bank who's boasted record profits in the last financial year, for not making additional profit off what is largely an unnecessary process you've forced on me." There was silence. "If the bank feels that this level of security is necessary to protect it's customers than the bank needs to absorb that cost or else implement a more cost effective system."

"I understand your concerns but we can't do that." At the end of this conversation we were at a stalemate. The bank refused to waive the fee and I refused to pay it. I made several more telephone calls and emails all with pretty much the same result. They understood my concerns, they just didn't care.

After pissing and moaning about it for 27 of the 30 days they'd given me, I went into the branch today to close my accounts and move on to greener (and hopefully cheaper) pastures. The teller excused herself when I told her I wanted to close up my accounts and returned with the branch manager.

Now they cared.

The branch manager wanted to have a deep and meaningful discussion about why I was leaving. I told him simply "You've pushed me away with all the bank fees and this ridiculous security token is the last straw. As of next week I won't be able to pay my mortgage unless I pay a $20 fee. So I'm done with this bank."

He put on his concerned face and started making all kinds of helpful suggestions about direct debiting my mortgage. I pointed out that also draws a fee. Yes but it's a lower fee. Had I considered switching my mortgage to them? What if, instead of doing online bank transfers I withdrew more money at the ATM to have less transactions and therefore less fees. He was full of all kinds of helpful suggestions, but rather selfishly, I like to manage my finances around what's convenient for me, not what's convenient for the bank.

"How about you just close my accounts like I asked?"

"Well now, I'm sure we can find some way to help you." He was using a tone now that was starting to really piss me off. The "don't worry your pretty little head about it" tone you often get from salesmen and tradies. If he asked me if I'd spoken to my husband about it I would have to insert a sharp object into his eye. "If the security token fee is what's troubling you, we can waive that."

Are you serious? After how many weeks of infuriating phone calls and emails where they insisted that they can't help me, suddenly, as I'm walking out the door, they can waive the fee. I actually had to close my eyes and count to ten. Afterwards, I smiled sweetly at him.

"I've been banking with you since I was 18. I always thought this bank was one of the better ones." He was smiling proudly now. "But the last few weeks have proven me wrong. You guys don't care. All the good will that was built up is now gone." At this his face turned to stone and he informed me that they require two weeks notice to close accounts.

Is my money employed with them? What is this give notice business? He wouldn't elaborate beyond it being their policy. It seems we were right back to not caring again. He also refused to let me withdrawn the money I had in those accounts because I didn't have my passbook with me, though I did have my ATM card and had always been able to withdrawn that way in the past. "Well you can't now" he said like a petulant child. Annoyed and frustrated I stormed out.

I intend to return (to a different branch) next week and try again. Interestingly, I went to the bank that we have our mortgage with to open an account. I said to the accounts manager "I don't want to pay any fees. I'm serious. I have my mortgage with you so you're already getting two grand a month in interest. I think that's more than enough." He smiled and said "No worries." Then offered to get me a cappuccino.

Awesomesauce... AKA Thai Green Curry

I'm trying to get healthy, exercise more, eat less crap, you know the drill. I've become aware of how poor my diet is and how generally crap my eating habits are. The other day a friend gave me a recipe for a 300 calorie Thai Curry and it reminded me that I did a cooking class and learnt how to make a fish curry. And that fish curry was really good.

Where am I going with this? Oh yes, I adapted the recipe to a turn it into a Thai Green Curry and surprisingly, it's still good and it's still low cals and quite healthy. Perhaps even more amazing is that it doesn't wreak havoc with my Crohn's.

Enough of the preamble. Get to the point, I hear you yell. Well in lieu of anything to actually blog about, I've stolen the domestic goddess theme from a blogger I adore, Redact That and I'm giving you all this quick and super delicious recipe.

When made as below it comes to 370 calories and 17g of fat per serve.

Enjoy!

Ingredients:

• 140ml Coconut cream (with no added water)
• 3 tsp Red or Green Curry (more if you like it hot, less if not)
• 2 tbsp grated palm sugar
• 2 tbsp fish sauce
• 400ml Coconut milk (with no added water)
• *Red or Green capsicum
• *1 medium grated carrot
• *100g cauliflower
• *100g broccoli 
• **500g of chicken breast
• Olive oil for cooking
• 1/2 cup Coriander leaves
• Lime wedges

*You can pretty much add whatever vegetables turn you on. I went with these because that's basically what I had.

** Again you can add what ever meat you like. I've made this with fish, chicken and prawns. I'm sure red meat or pork would work too.

Method:

Heat a small saucepan over medium heat.

Add the coconut cream and cook over medium high heat for 5 minutes until it separates and the oil floats on the surface.

Add the curry paste and cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly, until fragrant.

Add the palm sugar and cook briefly before adding the fish sauce and coconut milk. Bring the liquid to the boil, reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

Dice chicken and brown in a frypan with olive oil.

Add chicken, capsicum, carrot, cauliflower and broccoli to curry sauce and allow to simmer for another 5 minutes.

Add corriander leaves immediately prior to serving. Garnish with lime wedges.

Serve with rice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

oh, and I'll blog properly again soon.

Nosy neighbours, nerve and not losing it

I’ve written quite a bit about rage recently. Road rage, parking rage, inspector rage, supermarket rage, pregnant rage, dentist rage and when I find the time I will share with you the joys of the little one’s Naptime Rage but it all pales in significance with the rage I experienced today. Nosy Parker Rage.

Over the last two weeks, my brother and I have been driving two hours (each way) to our parents home to sort through their things as they’ve now both passed away. Packing up, not just a houseful of stuff, but a home full of memories is hard work. It’s exhausting both mentally and physically and it’s an absolutely HUGE fucking task. It was our sixth full day at this.

Somewhere around noon, a woman I’ve never seen before in my life and who I will name Busybody Betty had the nerve to walk uninvited into the kitchen of my mum’s house, where I was sitting on the floor going through the contents of a draw and have a go at me for throwing things out.

“Excuse me, but I hope you’ve been taking things to the Op Shop.” She said in a tone that was completely condescending. Quite stunned and not sure whether this person wasn't slightly unstable, I got to my feet. I smiled and nodded as I ushered her towards the door.
“Oh yes, 10 or 15 loads*.” I said sweetly, stepping into her so that she had no choice but to exit out of the house.
“She had a lot of very good things, all her patterns, wool, sewing machines. We’ve been absolutely crying over the things you’ve thrown away.” (I’ve not thrown away any such things).
“It’s under control.” I said still smiling sweetly. “Thanks for stopping by” and just as I was about to swing the door shut I heard her say something about going through the skips. Whatever.

I stood in the kitchen for a few moments wondering if I’d just been the victim of a very poor taste practical joke. Once I was sure she’d left I ran out to the backyard shed where my brother was dealing with a white ant situation and told him what had just happened. My brother, who is forever telling me to calm down when I start to get stabby and who is always urging me to avoid confrontation was completely outraged!

“What the fuck?!? Is she still here?” He charged down the driveway with me in toe (nothing’s really changed since we were kids) but Busybody Betty was long gone. “You should have told her to fuck the hell off!” he said and then ranted for a few moments about the absolute nerve of the woman. “Wait, what did she look like?” he asked suddenly and we soon realised that Busybody Betty was the same woman who had had a go at him on our first day there for taking so long to sort out the house. “Finally some action. It’s been sitting there empty for too long”.

So, it seems we can’t leave the place as is but we can’t throw anything out either. Her unwanted intrusion into my space pissed me off so much I was physically shaking. Who the hell does she think she is? What business is it of hers? Who walks into another person’s house and starts lecturing them on what they are doing? Seriously, what could she possibly be thinking. How is that OK in any world?

When my mum died in December I was 6 months pregnant. While she had been ill for about a year prior, I did not expect her to die that day. I was with her at the time and her death was sudden, horrific and traumatic. It has given me nightmares on more occasions than I care to remember. Not long after the funeral my brother, the only other member of my family of origin, returned to New Zealand where he was working.

Pregnant, orphaned and grief stricken, the last thing I even wanted to think about was trifling through my parent’s house. I needed my mum more than ever before and every time the baby moved I felt just a little bit heartbroken, scared and alone. It’s no easy feat trying to reconcile the grief over the death of a loved one and the sublime joy of being pregnant with your first child.

Fat Cat

So I put it off. I focused on the happy stuff. I put my energy into the little person that was about to join us and took comfort in Fat Cat (my mum’s cuddly 15 year old cat who came to live with us).

Not that I owe anyone an explanation. If we choose to sit on the house and contents for 6 months, 6 years or 6 decades that’s our choice to make. If we choose to throw out, keep, sell or give away the contents of the house, that is also our choice to make. There is no right or wrong in these situations.

I’m kind of proud of myself for not losing it with her and for giving her the least satisfying response that could possibly have been given. I can guarantee that when she brings it up with her sewing circle (or who ever she gossips with) and they ask her “What did she say to that?” Busybody Betty wont quite be able to recall and when they ask about the stuff she mentioned, Busybody Betty will realise that I didn’t actually give her any answers. That will no doubt annoy and infuriate her, albeit not quite as much as a punch in the nose would have.

*I should also mention that BOTH of the Op Shops in the town told us after several full carloads of things that they just couldn’t handle any more stuff. Plus I completely filled one of those clothing bins. They also can’t take electrical goods, bedding, furniture, baby stuff, mattresses or intimate apparel**.

**I don’t even want to know who buys second hand skivvies.