Advice Part 84- Visit to the vampire

Maybe it's just me, but visiting the doctor is something I view with great trepidation (sorry for any medicos out there reading this- it is not a personal offence to you!). Whilst I do enjoy having a chat with my GP, and checking out the cool giant microbe toys hanging around on her desk, I have noticed that after almost every visit, I am told to head to the pathology lab for a blood test.

This fills me with absolute horror, because I am REPULSED by blood tests. Yes, I do have diabetes, and I see my own blood every day. But taking a minute finger prick sample is VERY different to having your unfortunate veins assaulted and robbed of tubes of the stuff.

My advice to young players is that if, like me, a visit to the pathology lab makes you feel sick to the stomach, there are a few small tricks that you can use to survive this experience intact.

How do I know this? Read on....

This week, I wasn't feeling too well, so off I trotted to the GP to see if she could find out what was wrong. I explained my symptoms in great detail, and launched into a discussion of my tiredness and lack of will. The following conversation ensued:

• Her: Hmm. It sounds like it could be an iron deficiency.
• Me: Oh right. Should I just restart the iron tablets?
• Her: No, no. I'd like you to have a blood test first. Here, I'll write you a request. And we'll get a few other things checked at the same time.

These were just the words I didn't want to hear. Not only a SINGLE blood sample, but MULTIPLE TUBES would be taken. 

To steal Joseph Conrad's line "The horror! The horror!"

So, off I went to the pathology lab this morning. And here's my advice for surviving.....

• DO NOT go to the pathology lab as soon as it opens! It will be chockers with people who are doing fasting blood tests. Unless you have to do one of these, wait until later when there's less people.
• Try to minimise the amount of time you spend in the waiting room, as it will just make you nervous. Especially if there are children having blood samples taken, and you can hear their shrieking....
• DO NOT LOOK when the pathology person inserts the needle and takes the blood!!!!! I can't emphasise this enough!!!!!

• If you begin to hear your heart beating in your ears, this is a BAD SIGN that you are about to pass out. If you feel like you are about to faint, then ask the person if you can lie down.
• After the pathology collector (aka "the vampire") has taken your blood, you will have to look at the tubes, and potentially touch them, to check that they have your details right. I find this part particularly gross, especially if the tubes are warm from the blood (yuk, yuk, YUK!!!)

I'm going to have to stop here, because I am starting to feel ill just writing this stuff. 

All I can say is, if anyone can invent a machine that analyses blood without needing to take a sample, I will be your biggest fan.

Advice Part 83- My cat's vendetta

So, human beings are supposed to be the "smartest" animal species, are we? Certainly, we can talk, think abstractly, and have the ability to spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about non-essential activities (such as updating our blog....ahem.....).

However, my advice to young players is that human intelligence is NOTHING compared to the power of the feline brain, especially when it comes to forming and enacting devious plans.

How do I know this? Read on.....

My cat, Polly, does not appear to be a mastermind on first acquaintance. She is elderly, overweight, and spends a disproportionate amount of time eating and sleeping. But I have started to realise that the innocent exterior is simply a facade.....

EVERY evening for the past week, the following has occurred:

• It's around 10 o'clock at night. I change into my pyjamas and nightcap, brush my teeth, and then hop into my nice, warm bed to read my book for a while. At this stage, Polly is on the couch in the lounge room, apparently "fast asleep" (it is a ruse, I tell you!)

• After 30 minutes or so of reading, I switch off the light, and settle down to sleep. There is TOTAL silence from the lounge room. Polly "sleeps on."
• After 10 minutes or so, I begin to drift off to sleep. All is well.....
• The peace is suddenly shattered by a barrage of scratching, digging and burrowing. It sounds as if I've stumbled onto the set of The Great Escape, but without Steve McQueen for company.
• The burrowing continues for 5 minutes or so, until there is a LOOOOONG silence. I know EXACTLY what this silence means- my cat is leaving me what could euphemistically be described as "a gift" in the litter box.
• My room is enveloped by a fetid odour, before the scratching and burrowing starts again, as "the gift" is buried.

At this stage, I try to ignore the stench, but it's no use- I must depart from my warm bed, clean out the infamous "gift", take it to the garbage, and then try and get back to sleep.

This DOES NOT make me well pleased.

Sure, I should be glad that Polly elects to use the litter box, rather than going on the floor. And yes, I am grateful for this small mercy. But I never cease to marvel at the fact that she somehow knows PRECISELY when to time her midnight toilet run in order to cause maximum aggravation. Five minutes earlier, and I wouldn't be dozing; five minutes later, and I'd be fast asleep.

I have tried to trick her into using "the facilities" at a more reasonable time by pretending to go to bed a couple of hours earlier. I close the door, jump into bed, read, then switch out the light.

To no avail.

All I can say is, if anyone is looking for an instrument of torture, I am very glad to lend you my cat.

Advice Part 82- "So lovely to see you!"

If, like me, you are not exactly a star performer at starting or maintaining romantic relationships, then you may very well have an ex (or two) lurking in your past. And maybe it's just me, but I would like my past relationships to stay EXACTLY there.

In the past.

Not popping up for a "hello" in the present or the future.

If only things were that simple....

My advice for young players is that sooner or later, you are probably going to run into one of your exes (unless, of course, you or s/he moves to Antarctica/becomes an astronaut/or some other similarly unlikely event). And this meeting is likely to be rather uncomfortable, so you had best be prepared.

How do I know this? Read on.....

Last night, I finished work early, so I decided to relax by going to yoga at the studio I have been attending for the last four or so years.

I got changed into my "uniform" of sweaty, smelly pants, and horrible free T-shirt, removed my glasses, and headed up the back of the yoga room to collect a mat. Being semi-blind (and, I will admit, a bit self-absorbed), I didn't really notice any of the other students, until I heard someone say "Hello (insert my name here- not sure why I'm so intent on maintaining the guise of anonymity, as I think everyone who reads this blog knows who I am, but please humour me)."

I looked up to see who the speaker was. It was my ex, the famous Mr X, who I have mentioned previously here and here. Mr X looks quite different now, having grown a beard and some head hair. This only compounded my surprise.

I was absolutely mortified, and muttered a "hello." But (uncharitable though it may be) I was incensed- what the HELL was HE doing in MY yoga class?! OK, OK, it's a free country, and he's at liberty to go to whatever yoga class he wants. I accept that. But there must be at least 10 other classes within a 5 km radius of mine. Why didn't he go to one of them instead? Or even if he wants to go to my yoga school, there's classes on at other times i.e. 6am in the morning. Surely that would be an option? SURELY?

Humph.

Let's just say, having an ex that you REALLY don't like in your yoga class is not exactly conducive to relaxation.....

I spent the first half of the class studiously avoiding looking at him, and hoping that he wasn't watching me doing the downward dog pose with my backside in the air. The second half of the class was no better, as I plotted my best route for leaving the studio ASAP so as to avoid any further conversational opportunities at the communal shoe rack. Shudder.

Maybe I should be more like my mum, who loves socialising with her former fiancé and his wife. But at the moment, I'm just hoping that Mr X finds a new hobby that isn't yoga VERY, VERY soon.

Advice Part 81- How NOT to complete your PhD

I am probably the LAST person who should be offering tips on completing a PhD, given that I was not exactly what you would call a "model student." However, my advice to young players is that if you're trying to finish your PhD, there's a few things you probably shouldn't be doing. Or at least not if you want to survive with your sanity intact.....

How do I know this? Read on.....

A few months ago, a new staff member (let's call him Edward) moved into the office next to mine. Edward told me he was nearing the final stages of his PhD, and that "if (he) didn't submit by July, (he'd) be kicked out of uni." "How long have you been writing it for?" I inquired, trying to be friendly. Answer: almost 10 years.

This didn't bode well.

However, Edward explained that he was now "REALLY committed" to getting things finished, because he wants to move to Greenland to be a "house husband" for his girlfriend (who met at a bar in Turkey whilst watching the Eurovision song contest- but I digress).

At first I watched Edward's progress with "interest."

Then I watched his "progress" with interest.

And now, I'm not watching at all. It's too depressing.

But with that in mind, let's just say, if you DO want to complete your PhD, you probably SHOULDN'T....

• Take on a full-time job, with a HUGE teaching and marking load, and expect to work full-time on your thesis as well;
• Decide, at 1 a.m. in the morning, that the Introduction chapter, which your supervisor was HAPPY with, needs a TOTAL rewrite;
• Realise, at 6 a.m. the next day, that rewriting the Introduction wasn't such a brilliant idea, and you need to change it back;
• Wait until 2.5 weeks before you hand in before sending your FIRST DRAFT to your supervisor; 
• Go out "relaxing" (i.e. massive drinking binge), and then expect to both start and finish your discussion section the following afternoon (well, at least it wasn't the next morning, I guess.....);
• Neglect to check the date that you're due to submit, and then realise that, hey, it's two weeks earlier than you thought;
• Listen to The Wu-Tang Clan so loud that the whole building shakes, and then maintain that you're "working really hard." 

Sure, everyone's different. And maybe Edward will produce a thesis which sets the academic world on proverbial fire. It will be great if he does. But all I can say is, I have NEVER been more glad that the thesis writing part of my life is done.....

Advice Part 80- "Funny" T-shirts

I am probably the last person on earth who should be offering fashion advice, given that my usual "after hours" attire typically consists of a pair of filthy black tracksuit pants, an old jumper of my father's which is now too small for him, and ugg boots (no, not the designer type- rather, the cheap kind from the House of Targét).

But there is one piece of fashion wisdom which I feel I simply MUST impart to all young players out there, namely, that "funny" T-shirts (by which I mean shirts printed with "hilarious" slogans, typically of a sexist nature or related to alcohol consumption- note to self, must stop using " "s) are best avoided. At ALL costs.

How do I know this? Read on.....

This morning, on the way to work, I was waiting at the bus stop at Railway Square, when a youngish guy approached, wearing a slogan T-shirt. What exactly did this work of wisdom say? I present it below....

The guy wearing the shirt obviously thought it was pretty funny, as he had it proudly displayed. But maybe it's just me, but I tend to think that people who have to boast about a) their copious alcohol consumption, and b) their "high standards" in regards to potential partners, probably aren't a) drinking very much at all, or b) having much success with the ladies.

But today's shirt isn't by ANY means the worst of its kind. In fact, it hardly rates in the "hey, look at me! I'm such a wannabe playa" stakes. Those who are really playing to win would best consider a delightful "Game Over" shirt (see below- note heart location! Chortle, chortle...).

Or they could opt for my own personal favourite, the "F.B.I.- Female Body Inspector." If the slogan itself isn't bad enough, it comes emblazoned on a "wife beater" tank top, for the ultimate high-class look.....(sorry, the sarcasm is being dispensed with a trowel today).

I'm not trying to institute fashion policing- heaven forbid. But I REALLY wonder at the mentality of people who think that something like this actually looks good. All I can say is, never underestimate the appeal of a plain T-shirt.....

Advice Part 79- Only children

My childhood was what you could best describe as "pretty average." My family lived in suburbia, and the highlight of excitement in my pre-teen life was when I graduated to the status of Official Trolley Pusher when my parents did their Saturday afternoon shop (variation from the Saturday afternoon routine was NOT permitted- that would have been too radical).

Ho hum.

But my family differed from the "domestic idyll" in one important way.

I am an only child.

My advice to young players is that, contrary to popular belief, only children ARE NOT a different species. They may in fact be perfectly normal human beings, who don't appreciate having ridiculous questions asked of them.

How do I know this? Read on......

It was only when I started primary school that I became aware that I was a bit unusual, in that I didn't have any siblings. I was that dreaded being..... the only child. And, to make matters worse, I was the only only child in my grade. Consequently, whenever the teachers or parents wanted to trumpet stereotypes of only children, I was always on the receiving end.

Here are just a few of the select comments which have been directed my way.....

• "Oh, you must have been so sad and lonely because you had no one to play with. That's why you're so quiet!" (Well, no. I wasn't actually sad or lonely. And I think my genetics may also partially explain why I'm quiet....)
• "Wouldn't you like brothers and sisters?" (Short answer-no)
• "You always want to get your own way. Typical only child." (I think I would want to get my own way REGARDLESS of whether I have siblings or not!!!!)
• "You must have been so spoilt!" (Err, no.)
• "Your parents must have put so much pressure on you to achieve" (Well, thank you for that analysis of my parents' psychology. But to be honest, they really don't care what I do)
• and my personal favourites: "Why didn't your parents have more kids?" (You know what? I really haven't asked my parents about their sex life. If you want to know more, why don't YOU go and inquire?)
• "Do you only want one child?" (Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I don't want children at all- (shock, horror!). But whatever I choose, that's MY BUSINESS, not yours!)

Usually, I just smiled and made some banal comment. But what on earth is the deal here? I don't have any brothers and sisters so GET OVER IT! And don't try and analyse my character on the basis of my lack of siblings.

And yes, that was spoken like a true selfish, spoilt, opinionated only child!

Advice Part 78- Peanut butter trouble

Through long and arduous years of careful and well-thought out research, I have reached the following conclusion- I have what could best be described as "a bit of a problem" with peanut butter.

Or, more precisely, I have an addiction so bad that even writing this post is causing the craving centre of my brain to go into peanut butter hunting overdrive.

My advice to young players is that if you have an addiction similar to mine, it is of UTMOST importance to ensure that anyone who you are sharing a house with is aware of your issue. Otherwise, domestic disharmony is bound to ensue.

How do I know this? Read on....

A few years ago, at the ripe old age of 26, I finally took wing from the parental nest, and moved into a house in Annandale. I was sharing with a lady who I'll refer to as Scarlett, who worked part-time in a record store.

In the interests of appearing sane, I decided to withhold from Scarlett that whilst I can resist chocolate, cheese, potato chips, and other guilty pleasure foods, I am POWERLESS when faced with the lure of a nice fresh jar of peanut butter, just waiting to be devoured with a spoon.

MMMMMM!!!!!!

Scarlett also liked peanut butter. But not as much as me. She kept a little jar in the fridge (mad, I know), and would sporadically enjoy a spread on toast.

This almost killed me.

So, one day (and I'm not proud of this, might I just add), I decided to "have a little taste" of the contents of the jar. And, needless to say, the ENTIRE JAR soon disappeared down the proverbial plughole.

Oh. Dear.

Realising that I'd stuffed up big time, I made a dash to the shop, where I hastily purchased a replacement jar for the fridge. But as the original jar was half empty, I had to eat half of the replacement jar, too, in order to ensure that my bad food stealing behaviour went unnoticed.

I thought I had done pretty well with the job.

But obviously not well enough, as Scarlett IMMEDIATELY spotted the ruse. Apparently, the surface of the peanut butter was really smooth, showing it had been eaten with a spoon, rather than roughly stirred up, as it would have been if the consumer (I use the word intentionally) had used a knife.

Caught.

I was absolutely mortified, and resolved NEVER to touch her peanut butter again. Which was easier said than done, let me assure you.

But I think that if I ever have to share a house again, I am going to stipulate that any potential co-tenants be allergic to peanuts.....