I loved that game as a kid. Must have driven my poor mum mad with the noise of it!

I decided to host a party next weekend. A Divorce Party, to celebrate the fact that my divorce is official after lots of time and money have been invested! (Remind me next time I think it would be a good idea to get married, to just find someone I don’t really like very much and just hand them a cheque for several hundred thousand dollars, it will save wasting time next time). Anyway, apparently a divorce party is not a very nice reason, it’s been turning a few heads. The caterer (for once, JUST ONCE, I want to spend an entire party having fun rather than cooking food, and have hired a mob to make spit roast lamb and pork) paused when he asked the reason for the party and I told him it was a Divorce Party, then said “Well, how about we just put Christmas Party on the booking form then, shall we?”

So the hippo alluded to playing the game was me earlier this evening. I bought some nibblies for the party this afternoon. Since then I have eaten some brie and bickies, smoked salmon and cream cheese on mini toasts, and some garlic chive cheese. I do believe it is important to do a proper taste test before a big event. I think we mught just call it that.

Obviously I am so not fun at the moment, and there are only so many WOE IS ME updates one can make before it starts to sound tired.

While I cough up a lung and sweat out my quarantine period (I am so hating the lack of people contact!!! I hate not having people around me!), do yourself a favour and go and check out my best friend’s blog,  svthyme. You’ll find great reading in their archives, and as they have just returned to civilisation after 14 weeks out of contact range while they travelled around the north west of Australia, there’s bound to be a few regular updates of their travels that hardly any people would be able to experience due to the remoteness of the area.

My friends left Sydney in December 2007 in their 42 foot yacht and have been sailing around Australia ever since. They are only half way but have had amazing adventures. I’ve done a few legs with them – one in April 08 and one in September 08 – and it is just amazing to sail out past where land can be spotted. I think I am at heart a salty seadog.

They had better watch out – the updates coming through after months of no news are making me crave sailing another leg.

I’ve been struggling this week with a nasty cold I just cannot shake. Finally after another sleepless night I went off to the doctor. The verdict? Whooping Cough. I have been vaccinated – apparently the immunity commonly runs out in your early 30’s, and there have been many cases this year due to more and more people not vaccinating children. So while I have been doing whooping of sorts, it hasn’t been the fun type.

A friend from work called me today to ask me “Whooping Cough? Why can’t you just get a cold, like NORMAL people!”

We all know the answer – because I am not normal.

Only yesterday the big boss at work said to me “Are you sick AGAIN!” I felt like I was in trouble for having a bad cough. It was a lousy thing to make me feel – after all, I am clearly not putting it on. I also think that if he hadn’t given me such a hard time when I caught the flu back in in May I might have taken enough time off to actually recover properly – I feel like I have been run down ever since, catching every single thing that floats by. So really, it is his fault.

I am infectious till Monday and how SAD – I cannot go to the office the rest of the week. Boo hoo.

N.B. I am actually not feeling too much like death so no need to panic – only when I get the coughing fits, which can have breaks of up to a couple of hours between them (but which can last a few hours too).

I bought some snacks the other day. The Boyfriend, on looking at the box, asked me what children I had bought them for. I thought they looked like delicious fruity goodness, all shiny and plastic like and perfect for work.

Does this opened example look like the picture on the box? NO! It looks nothing like it! This is a fruity relative of the shit cake from last week – Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Shit Poles!*

* Should anyone reading have shit that looks like the above, please see your doctor.

Yesterday The Boyfriend’s mum gave us a chocolate cake. I shit you not, the thing is the flattest cake I have ever seen. I am not sure how I managed to thank her and then wait to laugh until I was safely home. The funnier still part is that her next door neighbour cooked it and gave it to her.

I’m wondering if The Boyfriend’s mum’s neighbour was trying to say something by giving a complete fail-cake to her. I’m wondering why The Boyfriend’s mum would say in actions, if not words, “Thanks for taking our son off our hands, here, have a shit fail-cake because we don’t want it”. She gave me half a banana cake too, and then said in response to my thanks, “No worries, it’s dry and burnt on the bottom, by the way”. heh.

Check out the chocolate cake – it barely reaches the first joint on my index finger – and I have short stubby little fat sausage fingers. I’m thinking I might whip up a heap of cream and make it into some kind of swiss roll.

Almost the end of the week, which can come around any time now, and hurry. The end of the week means meat. We need to get through some more meat at our place. This was our haul from last Friday’s meat raffle at The Local – 4 meat trays full.

Roll on, weekend, I need you!

With the restructure at work I think I might have landed a boss who gets me. Or at least, one who doesn’t report me for my dreadful behaviour.

The scene: My desk. Earlier today an email went out company wide announcing my new boss’ job, except they spelled the Manager at the end of his job title as Manger.

12 to New Boss:

Very much looking forward to having you as my Manger. I have purchased a nativity scene for you to display at your desk to remind you of the importance of your new role.

New Boss to 12:

If they can go from Manager to Manger, imagine what you get from Analyst…

12 to New Boss:

Um. Like I told my other half. I don’t do that. Or swallow. So you can just rethink that one.

New Boss to 12:

I hadn’t actually thought that far through and might not have ended up in the same place. But I am now. Brrrrr!

I’m not good in the mornings. I never have been. I’ve always loved to stay up late – I remember sneaking into the TV room, which was on the other side of the house to my parents’ room, to watch movies – or one year (1983), to watch Australia win the America’s Cup yacht race (which must have been late here if it was raced in American daytime – in fact there was much made of the quote by our then Prime Minister who said the following day ‘Any boss who sacks a worker for not turning up today is a bum’.)

I’ve also noticed that I am finding it even harder of late because the house is still in absolute state of chaos, which makes mornings that much harder to deal with. I am just too tired on getting home at 7 or 8pm, then making and eating dinner, to do any little extra jobs that need to be done. That’s why there are boxes spread throughout the dining room and the floor is now an interesting shade of grey even though the tiles are not in fact grey at all.

The Boyfriend really does get the bulk of the angst thrown his way of a morning of late. Really, though, when I am rushing around like a chook with my head cut off, do I want to have a conversation about installing Office on the new computer, or do I need anything from the shops today, or what do you think about the latest boring political news? No, sir, I do not.

Perhaps that is why when They Boyfriend was pushing me to take some fruit to work with my lunch today in the interests of my health, he said “Come on, how about a nice little mandarin? Here’s one just like you, small and cute. We didn’t have any grumpy ones so this one will have to do – just eat it a bit later in the day, not first thing.” Hmph. I resemble that remark.

Updated to Add: The mandarin may not have been grumpy. But it was sort of wrinkly and a bit sour inside. Just like me. Heh.

Since Friday many people have asked me what I have done to my hand. My instant response is “You should see the other guy!”, followed by a sorry shake of the head and perhaps a little faux boxing action. Of course, reality is far different, but the true story as to why I am sporting a bandaged wrist is far more boring – I was on my way to work on Friday when a charming man in a business suit shoved me in his panic to get off the train, and I went flying. No, he did not stop to see if I was ok. Pig.

On my arrival at work, my simple request for an ice pack sent the first aid officer absolutely mental. I had some trouble understanding why I would need to be carried on a stretcher for a sore arm. Turns out they haven’t had a first aid incident since the new first aid room opened and they all got trained so it was an exciting day. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they sneaked in a few photos to put in the weekend papers. And so off to the doctor I was sent, with requests for x rays and reports, for this was a workers comp claim, having happened on the way to work.

If you ever hurt yourself, please let it be at work! I have never had such fuss made of me. The cynical amongst you would say that’s because it’s like free money for the medical practice, the insurance company probably pays more than medicare. I found it hard to believe that I had to beg the doctor to be allowed to come back to work today, Tuesday, several days after the incident, and now several work days behind! So I am back on light duties only. I didn’t bother explaining to the doctor that light duties would cover any day.

Well the bank finally got the paperwork sorted and signed on Friday. No money has been forthcoming yet, but that really does not surprise me. The Ex decided to man up and move out as agreed on Friday anyway – I was worried he wouldn’t without receipt of the rather large cheque. The Boyfriend and I spent the weekend carting my stuff (and a few of his things) from his place to mine.

Over the course of the weekend, I could not believe that considering I never ‘moved in’ with The Boyfriend, I had managed to accumulate so many clothes over there, all brought over one outfit at a time. Given that the last time until this weekend that I had slept at my house was for a few nights last Christmas, and it was around September last year when I last slept there with any regularity, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – I must have been wearing something all this time, but still. It filled a whole car – boot and back seat. (I think it might be time to clear out the things I no longer wear.)

The house was filthy. I mean, it will takes us months to get through all the cleaning and tidying there is to be done. It took 3 hours to clean the fridge. I think that probably explains how the rest of the house went. The Boyfriend was rather unimpressed at the “You find it, you clean it” rule after he trod in a cat hairball. Especially when I told him the cat who used to throw up stinky hairballs like that has been dead a couple of months. So yeah, there’s a bit of work to get through.

Today my muscles are killing me – they ache in places I did not know muscles exist. Luckily I have a really awesomely comfortable bed to fall into tonight.

Things I love about being in my own house again:

• My toilet paper is better. This is one thing I will not go budget on.
• The toilet seat is closed after use. (This one might take The Boyfriend some time to sink in.)
• My bed is so comfortable and big. And my sheets are nicer.
• Gas oven and cooktop – so much better than electric. Not that I have cooked anything more exotic than vegemite and grilled cheese crumpets yet.
• My back yard although in need of some TLC inspires me to make it look fantastic again

There’s more. However, there’s also more work to do which awaits…

It might have been a short week this week after the public holiday on Monday, but it seems to have been the longest short week in the whole world.

My bank are a bunch of arses. The paperwork for my new mortgage has so far been lost twice and once drawn up with the wrong surname on it. I still haven’t signed it and I am supposed to, by court order, give my ex a rather large cheque by COB tomorrow. I somehow doubt that is going to happen on time. I finally got an apologetic email from my mortgage broker after I emailed him this morning and suggested that when the paperwork was ready perhaps he could deliver it to me IN JAIL, where I will be languishing, having been thrown in the clink. I still do not have a contract to sign, however.

The Boyfriend got the shits and quit his job yesterday. Idiot. Personally I think a better plan may have been to get a new job first, then tell them how they are a bunch of *insert appropriate word here*s.

Yesterday I got confirmation that while I will still have a job and the same salary in the restructure, my job title changes to something about 5 levels down. Oh, and I’ll be responsible for more than before. The new job title in no way reflects what I will really be doing and that shits me immensely.

A friend’s girlfriend who had a bad asthma attack and failed to get CPR in time during the recent dust storms has just had her life support turned off. Her 13 year old child thinks that because she has not died yet she will recover. The doctors tell us she is brain dead.

I made The Boyfriend’s parents very teary last night when they realised that me getting my house back might mean we spend less time with them. I feel like a thief who is taking away their baby (their grown up fully adult baby but whatever).

I feel torn about having made The Ex leave my house – I have been financially supporting him for about 3 years while he plays a stupid online game that rhymes with Schmorld of Schmarcraft for about 15 hours a day. It is finally time to pull the plug, move him out of my house, stop paying his bills, and give him a big cheque in exchange for the deed to the house. It’s well overdue but it feels sad anyway.

One of the girls in the office who I was commiserating with earlier about how much this week sucks just came into my office and said “As if that’s not enough I now have the Wiggles song Wake Up Jeff in my head!” I have cheered myself up by telling her I have the cure. She is very silly for agreeing. I got her to sing the chorus of Rah Rah Rasputin. Well, at least she doesn’t have The Wiggles on the brain any more. She is stalking around the office telling all that she is going to kill me, but at least I’m smiling now.