Happy Stupid Millennials

Published June 7, 2019 by helentastic67

Happy Stupid Millennial’s

Today, I was down in Collingwood where I rarely go these days and after I saw something that rather pissed me off. I got to do something that made me happy, then very quickly grumpy.

Firstly, I saw a young Millennial take a bite of something out of a paper bag, crumble up the bag and throw it behind her into the gutter.

To be perfectly clear, I would have handled this scenario the same way twenty years ago, or even fifteen years ago before my disability. This shit is like a red flag to a bull, to me. I motioned to her to stop. I told her to go back and pick it up and that there would be a bin around her somewhere and go put it in the bin. This makes me happy to growl at the ‘younger people’.

Then she completely ignored me, walked past me back into the shop she likely got it from, to get something else, that she didn’t do as I suggested, pissed me off even more.

Self Advocacy Never Done

Published June 3, 2019 by helentastic67

Self Advocacy Never Done

I’ve often said there is no holiday from self-advocacy and you might not have any idea what this means, so allow me.

Wednesday arrives and so does my carer and the phone rings, the agency calls and I’m happy to hear from her because we have a decent friendly repour. Until she tells me she needs to fill my next shift, because the carer rang in sick, it’s 10am and my next shift starts at 12.30pm (because they won’t cover taxi’s) my carer now helps me efficiently get from home to my favourite Café to my Chiropractors, then back to her home at the location I get stabbed (acupuncture) by 3pm.

I used to do this all without the assistance of a carer, but because my chiro relocated, I can’t do it all efficiently in a day via Young John, my scooter and a tram. Then I get some steps done walking here.

So, agency calls and she is letting me know they might not have someone, my morning carer in the background is trying to see if she can be the silver bullet to solve the problem.

We have a brief discussion about the availability of my regulars. Not the silver bullet. Some only work certain days, others study also, others again have a full day and would end up working ten hours, which is NOT ALLOWED. (not complaining)

So, I’m asked ‘which carer wouldn’t I like?’ I give her a ‘Don’t be like that!’ a little tartly and she says ‘Remember when we started, I sent “XYZ” (not her real name) and you loved her. Here’s the advocacy part. SHUDDUP I got there. It was all relevant.

“No! No, I didn’t, she was the first carer you sent to me and I was being professional and diplomatic, but I could tell there was a little something ‘off’ about her.

That first day she made a point for me to know she was a ‘white aboriginal’ woman and she loved to brag about her wealthy private clients, that had indoor swimming pools and a lift. “Hey, I have a fucking lift too, now I’m doing apartment living.” She came to my new home after Christmas because they were short staffed and she looked down her nose at my home, saying “she couldn’t do it!” Then she stole my letter opener and Seinhausen headphones.

So, No! No! I don’t want her back again. I was asked if I would be OK to have a male carer? Of course, they will not be needing to see me naked. So, fine. They found someone for me and that little hurdle is conquered, but it’s pretty much how every single day goes. Either it’s the agencies, my property manager, my carers or even my family, or complete strangers in the street.

It’s NON-STOP, it never ends.

Sally

Published May 31, 2019 by helentastic67

Sally

Now, I think you all know me by now and you know I don’t often use people’s actual names. I don’t mention companies; I deal with good or bad or otherwise.

Unless, I mention Apple products, because I use them and only have my laptop, iPad and iphone because about five years ago I had one-off funding that helped pay for those things and maybe one day before I have to do a Go-Fund-Me page they might sponsor me for these things. Hint! Hint!

So, Sally the overlocker, it’s not actually about either of those things, but once upon a time back in the 90’s when a few people would gather at 5am in my lounge for raisin toast and cups of tea after the clubs, at my home in South Yarra.

A few of the guys were discussing some ‘guy’ topic. The other two ladies that were there and myself got a wisp of their blokie conversation.

To not be left out, we created a fictitious lady-friendly topic and we name dropped, you guessed it. Sally the Overlocker.

Clearly, a fictitious personality we dropped her into conversations at random intervals, even to the point where one of the two guys looked over rather curiously.

FYI, South Yarra is a rather exclusive suburb to live in and I was ‘crawling’ distance to the Jam Factory on Chapel Street and the house I was in, while not at all amazing, was the cheapest rent I’ve ever had in Melbourne. $262.15 per calendar month in 1993. Those were the days.

Apartment Living

Published May 27, 2019 by helentastic67

Apartment Living

It’s noisy, but quiet, it’s a very odd contradiction, so I shall need to explain. When I moved into my apartment (I rent) over a year ago, I was concerned about if it would be noisy or smelly or if I would never see my neighbours.

Once you are inside your apartment, you can’t really hear loud TV’s or dogs barking or loud thumping music from your neighbours. Once you close the heavy front door, you don’t hear anything from your neighbours. I sometimes hear people race past my front door to get to theirs or heading to the lift.

Sometimes if I’m heading to the lift and hear a door slam behind me, I’ll hold the lift door for anyone behind me. Then we proceed to have a brief awkward conversation about good timing and never seeing anyone else. So, yes I rarely see anybody from my floor.

I’m in an apartment block on a very busy corner. There is a main street where at my corner it forks off in a slightly north/eastern direction on the tram line and at the middle of the ‘bits’ (not sure how to best describe this) there is a pub. Across the street are more apartments. In my block, we are six storeys and across the street they are even higher.

The noise from the traffic, the trams, the pub. It’s ridiculous, the cars and motorcycles, the service vehicles, I can’t tell anymore, is it an ambulance, police car? I hear several of those every day.

One morning my carer arrived after I’d woken early and attempted to get back to sleep. An alarm of some kind had started and been going for about twenty minutes. My carer was with me for about ninety minutes. You tune it out after a while and the silence between seem to get a little longer and we looked at each other. Hopeful? Did it stop? No! Damn it!

I heard noises before, but never been able to workout where it was coming from or what it was to alert us to. I presume it was the apartment building across the street. I don’t know what it’s to alert or for what. If I could call someone, I wold but who would that be? If that person knew already, why weren’t they doing something about it?

My carer left and ten minutes later after a migraine had set in and taken hold, it stopped. Posing the question, WHY? And of course, can it stop?

When?

Published May 24, 2019 by helentastic67

When?

Now, bear with me, but I’m OK to take feedback on this. When is it okay for me to deliver a complete stranger a ‘Get fucked or fuck off?’

Ok, fine that by itself with no context doesn’t help so.

Whenever I go into the city, which is several times a month and this week, I’ve been in two days in a row. I cannot tell you how many times someone will cross my path from my left (my blindside) so my foot is clipped by there’s while they have their heads down looking at their phones.

‘Not cars. here we’re testing oblivious texters walking into walls.’

Everyone is so self-absorbed.

God! I sound old, don’t I?

Oh dear.

But seriously, I can’t tell you how often someone is walking from somewhere behind me on my left (and not slow down, OK?) and from nowhere, they cross right in front of me to be far over on my right and they are oblivious to anyone else around them.

Do I get to give a bit of “what-for?” Or only if they trip me over? I’m sure they wouldn’t even if they did. By an extension, they wouldn’t care.

Mostly people are walking directly at me and their eyes flick up, more likely if they hear the slap of my walking stick on the footpath and they alter their path ever so slightly to circumnavigate around me.

There are rare times when they don’t and I just stand still and brace myself. Maybe, I can give them a solidness to hit and all I have to do is plant my feet and bend my knees a little and lean into them. Never done it, but there’s a first time for everything. I’ve usually resorted to growling at people and that works a treat. I figure I could also tell people they owe me a dollar. I’m prepared to start small because I’m sure I would be rich very quickly.

But I might create a little score card.

Nearly walk into someone. $1.00

Nearly walk into someone who is on their phone. $5.00

Nearly walk into someone with head down. $10.00

Nearly get knocked over. $20.00

Get knocked over.

Get knocked over by an adult on a skateboard.

Can I pick that kid’s skateboard up and throw it in a bin?

Wit

Published May 20, 2019 by helentastic67

WIT

People are often surprised by my wit or humour and speed to which I can deliver it. You may not pick it from my blog, but when I make calls to organise services and such, people often asked what “company” I’m from and this is even after I have stated I’m one of your clients.

But often, when I have to state my date of birth so I can be found on a database, I rattle off “28/10/72” I know they are just clarifying when they ask “1972?” but today I threw back “Well, I wasn’t born in 1872!”

There must be a better way so as not to suggest I might be 146, I could have said just ‘Yes’, but where’s the fun in that?

Miracle

Published May 17, 2019 by helentastic67

Miracle

The beauty of being in Australia is we have a long weekend, being part of the Commonwealth means we get to celebrate the Queen’s birthday and not just once a year, but twice. Don’t ask me when, but TWICE.

Although I don’t work, even I’m glad to have an extra day off around the weekend. But it comes with some consequences, the appointments, the carers and services I normally spread out over five days, I have to squash them into only four. There are always extra things cropping up I need to fit into the mix.

Last week was a short week and the extra things being, my mum arriving Tuesday morning at 2am to collect my sister from the airport at 6am. So, my sleep was already compromised. I’d had my Friday services of shopping and my only food prep shift with a carer that had to happen somewhere else. Add to that the services on the Thursday I had to move to accommodate the above and you have the perfect storm. I’m surprised by the Friday I didn’t have a migraine.

Thursday, I had three carers all of which overlapped and I even had the scooter guy to do a maintenance sorting me out with two new batteries and a charger. I returned home with my shopping carer to do the food prep shift, where we normally smash out three things at once, part of each I’ve generally started to get ahead of the ‘crazy’. I had the gas guy there to check the burners of my stove top and they had NEVER BEEN DONE.

I think the apartment block is four to five years old and the fact I made it through the week without a migraine now, makes me think it could have been a miracle.

I think we have another long weekend next month, Cup Day, great. Gotta plan now to get ahead of that. It’s a month away.

Heritage – Part 2

Published May 13, 2019 by helentastic67

Heritage Part 2

The other differences in my grandparents was this. When visiting my Anglo-Saxon grandparents, we would go out to the “Workshop” to visit my granddad in his office where he ran his Construction company, he started it way back in the mid-sixties.

I recall when I was young, going into his office and playing with his letter opener. It was a sword in its own scabbard. (Something he picked up on a holiday overseas) These grandparents were travelers. My father worked for my grandfather.

When we visited them at home, I recall getting out of the car and racing ahead, we would go through the garage, between the two cars there, inside the door that took us inside and walked down into the kitchen. Some days the smell of Linseed oil and Turps would greet us. Going down to the kitchen/dinning room and Nanna would be at the dinning room table with her white china and oils spread out around her. She was a woman of creative habits.

Set days, she would bake, others she would play nine holes of golf, others go to her fine bone china painting group or do her afternoon of painting at home or sewing.

If my grandfathers purple (aubergine) Datsun was in the garage, it meant he was home. We would check for him in his office and he would hug us and let us stand on his feet, while he walked us around some. (until we got too big).

In comparison, my granddad was the affectionate one, my Nanna was very grumpy and she wasn’t even very old. My Nanna was riddled with cancer. On one visit (I might have been six?) I let myself in the garage door and because mum had insisted, we knock, Nanna had, had some surgery to remove lumps of cancer from the inside of her legs (one thigh, one calf). In case she was resting, I knocked, she came down and let us in and as she walked ahead of me towards the living room area down the hallway, light filtered down, her thin cotton skin rather see through with the light coming from the windows down into the hallway. I would clearly see the huge chunks taken out of her legs. They were cut out back to the bone. I recall thinking that if they were both the same part of her legs, you could kick a soccer ball down the hall and it would pass straight through.

There are several things about this memory, 1) I was not into soccer. 2) They really weren’t big enough for a soccer ball and 3) Is this wrong? Or can I be forgiven because I was only a child? Note the preference in those three.

Cancer was a theme with this Nanna. She eventually had a brain tumour and the last time I recall seeing her, mum was in the kitchen doing dishes looking out the window towards the sink and I asked where Nanna was? I was told to go sit with her in the lounge.

She was wearing her dressing gown sitting on the couch. I sat and asked her if I could get her anything? She did want something, but couldn’t think what it was called. I asked her what colour it was? Trying to help her a little, turning it into a game. I don’t know if I knew at the time how serious it was, but I handled her gently, trying to help her.

She got more and more grumpy and frustrated, eventually she got up and I followed her to the fridge in the kitchen. She opened the door, then her crisper and pulled out an orange. Grrr.

You can appreciate her frustration, right?

She passed away at only fifty-eight.

More to write, just hit pause.

Heritage – Part 1

Published May 10, 2019 by helentastic67

Heritage Part 1

I was introducing a friend last night to the best thing about roasted vegies (if I tell you I have to kill you) and it led me to tell her the difference between my mum’s family heritage and my fathers. So, the basics were when I was growing up, we on a rare occasion we went to my grandparents’ house for dinner and we had a roast. Pork crackling yummy goodness, my older sister and I would sit at the ‘kids table’ (I know, doesn’t happen now, does it?) We would sniff around the kitchen and offer to help and beg for Pork crackling. “If you eat it all now, there will be none to go with dinner” like we cared.

My mum’s side seemed very English with a Sunday roast for lunch or dinner. In complete contrast, the Italian side of my family was Sunday Lasagne. So, at home our Sunday roast was Lasagne and it would last for days. Garfield would be proud.

So, also in contrast to Nona’s, we would be served generous portions of spaghetti and Nona would be at the kitchen sink doing the dishes and not sitting with us. Mum would tell her to sit and join us, while my father and grandfather spoke Italian. Nona would ay to start without her. Mum would nudge her husband to tell Nona to join us and then, he would jut tell my mum to let her go. Mum would then look to me to go get Nona to sit and join us. She would be washing the big pot by this stage and shoo me away.

Isn’t it interesting how times and culture has changed?

Bloody NDIS

Published May 6, 2019 by helentastic67

Bloody NDIS

Part of the issue with disability and the world of funding, before the NDIS and since. Before the NDIS I had a Case Manager (further more referred to as a CM) and since the ‘new’ language, is my CM is called a Service Co-ordinator.

What’s that? You wonder who came up with that and how long it took them.

I recently changed SC (yes, Service Co-ordinator) and my first sit down meeting with her mum was here and mum and I kept using the ‘old’ language of CM. Every time my new SC corrected us. She apologized, but said she would get us in the habit of using the correct term.