
I think of her
when I put on my boots in the morning as they're the ones she sneakily bought
after seeing them on me. I think of her when I see the gift she bought me when
I left for Oz, hanging on the wall in the sitting room. I have twice accidentally
hit her number on FaceTime in my "Favourites" when I went to call someone
and the sense of panic it instilled in me made me feel sick. Earlier this
month, as I sat on the tram to go to work, I was left frozen to the spot - the
hairs on the back of my neck standing up - as a lady got on and sat across me
that could have been her twin. Equipped with gorgeous clothes and Ita's same
glasses, I was stuck between being unable to stop half-smiling and staring at
the poor girl whilst feeling nauseous at the thought of the trick I knew my
eyes were playing with my mind.
My friend Maire
tried to cheer me up after Ita's passing and so said she was taking me out to
see "The Blues Brothers" musical. It was only the day before when she looked at
the tickets that she realised it was actually "BLOOD Brothers"; a story which
ends in death. I had to laugh at how much she failed on that one, poor thing!
We went to see the play and then out for "a drink" afterwards.
Somehow “a drink” lead to us rolling in the door at 6am, her wrapped in a blanket
and my holding a bottle of vodka after walking down one of the main Melbourne
roads. This wasn't before having to drag her away from a conversation with the
men doing road-works on the main road outside our house when the cops drove by,
and her pretending to be Batman with the blanket as her cloak outside the
petrol station. A much needed release.
And so we continue
with our lives.
I managed to get
an even more stressful position within the Louis Dreyfus group, working longer
hours and gaining nothing but more stress-weight and grey hair. The doctor
pulled me in to get a handle on my thyroid meds after a 10kg weight gain in 4
months finally convinced them of my trying to tell them they were not working
was actually the case. Why couldn't I be one of those people who lost weight
with stress?? Imagine?! I'd be the skinniest person around with the amount of
things I stress about!! :) First world problems, eh?? It didn’t help that they messed up when they took my bloods and then text me a week later to say all way fine. 8 weeks after
this I contacted the GP to ask for a repeat prescription, only to have them
tell me that I have to come in and see them as my results were way off. My
response to the receptionist when she asked if I would like an appointment that
day? “Trust me, you don’t want me to come in today”. It takes 6 weeks in
between blood tests to see if the meds are working and they have just stalled
me another 8 weeks. I was NOT a happy fat girl.
I now had to find an Endocrinologist seeing as though the doctors can’t get the world-class-fat-creating thyroid gland under control…although I’m hoping I won’t have died from obesity by then. Speaking of which, I was feeling so low about my having gained an extra person in weight in the last 6-months, that I was sitting there comparing myself to the man who died on Christmas Day and who had weighed in at over 450kgs no longer being able to wash himself.
I now had to find an Endocrinologist seeing as though the doctors can’t get the world-class-fat-creating thyroid gland under control…although I’m hoping I won’t have died from obesity by then. Speaking of which, I was feeling so low about my having gained an extra person in weight in the last 6-months, that I was sitting there comparing myself to the man who died on Christmas Day and who had weighed in at over 450kgs no longer being able to wash himself.
It was a bad day.

One night in July,
after finishing work at 9pm, I was walking the usual 2km home, catching up on
all the texts and Whatsapps as I made my way. This was my usual routine, most
of the time meaning that I'd get home and not remember the journey as it was
spent with my head in my phone and blind-walking the route home. This time, as
I walk along the busy Punt Road in the dark texting Doireann from home, my
ankle twists over where a tree is planted at the edge of the pavement. The path
stops and dips and the tree is there just waiting to attack some unsuspecting
creature like myself. I scream as I fall into the evil tree, grabbing hold of
it to stop myself falling into traffic; branches tangling into my hair. The
pain shot through my foot, but my concern was more if anyone saw me (obviously),
so I leapt up and fixed myself, looking left and right to see if there were any
witnesses. Lucky me - nobody about apart from the traffic whizzing by! So, I
hobbled home, immediately returning to my phone to text Doireann what happened;
clearly not having learned my lesson. I got home and put my foot up, sure of
having twisted my ankle, informing Una of my plight. I was still picking leaves
out of my hair the next morning.

The first weekend
I was able to walk normally without limping in the huge contraption that had by
then become a part of me; I got the heels out and headed to The Caulfield Cup
Races. I lasted about an hour before taking them off.
Great day,
although it wasn't a late one. We smuggled alcohol into the Race Grounds,
putting Malibu into some pineapple juice cartons. Una and I were left to shame
when another couple with us got the scalpel out, sliced the side of the
cartons, poured out half the juice and poured in the alcohol, sealing the hole
with a glue gun once they were finished, keeping the carton seal intact....
That's CSI
material right there!


Without going into detail about work, the old team environment wasn’t great and I was continually trying to improve it and up morale. One of the first things that was suggested was for newbie Katie and I to make a cake. Now, before I begin with this damning account of my “cooking skills” or lack thereof, let me first say that I can neither cook nor bake and have never eluded to the fact that I can, so don’t ask me why this came about as a suggestion.
Katie had just moved from WA and so had no friends yet (cue me)
and no utensils for cooking, so we decided it best if we just buy a cake mixer
and make things easier. So, fully equipped with me, said mixer, all the
ingredients needed and two bottles of wine (to help the cooks of course), we
headed to her apartment. We’re chatting away to each other as Katie instructs
me what to do and how I can help (as the only thing I was currently helping
with was drinking the wine). Katie tells me I can break up the biscuits and do
the base of the cake. We had no utensil to break them up with, so I just put
them in two plastic bags and used the – now empty – bottle of wine to smash
them into pieces. Quite happy with my stroke of ingenuity, I’m still smiling
when she hands me a piece of wrapping from the butter. I kindly put in the bin
for her, all the while thinking she was a bit lazy to have handed it to me when
she was standing right next to the bin. After taking all the day’s anger out on
the biscuits, Katie goes to tell me how to put them in the tin but stops
mid-sentence. “Why isn’t this greased? What did you do with the paper I gave
you?”
Oops.
Apparently everyone knows that you grease the tin
with the paper from the butter when it’s handed to you?! This is when she
discovers that I’m serious when I say I can’t bake and her instructions immediately
become a lot more specific as if speaking to a child…

Another 10 seconds before we realised that the cheesecake was
still left on the table, right where we left it and directly in front of my line
of vision for the last hour.
Double-oops.
It was almost 2am by the time the cheesecake came out of the oven
and poor Katie had to set her alarm again at 3:30am to remember to put it in
the fridge. At least the cake looked a lot fresher than we did when we brought
it, and its story, into work the next day. Masterchefs in the making...
No comments:
Post a comment