Someone called me that today. I’m honest enough to say I didn’t know what it was, but as I left the lift in my building suggesting to the other occupant to join the Facebook page, I created pre-Covid to create community, I told him I’m the admin. He said “Oh, you’re the OG!” I gave him a hand signal I often use to communicate “cool”.
Once inside my apartment I consulted Google. I will let you do the same. I think it’s the Hipsters version of someone who is wise and is connected. Although I’m not sure Gangster has the best sentiment. I generally associate that term with something you want to be on the right side of. You have those friends not enemies.
I have friends that have those friends. It’s safe enough for me.
How to behave yourself in social forums is next level. Yeah, we get it, the younger generation think anyone butchering the stickers and acronyms are Boomers. But the young kids are getting a lot of the etiquette wrong too.
I’ve joined community groups over the years and I know I was late to join the main social online forum. You know the one? I’m referring to (I won’t say the name!) the one designed to connect University students that the algorithms seem to think everyone in the whole fucking world needs to be friends. Yeah, that one.
Lesson Number 1. You send a friend request to a group. They don’t have to welcome you with open arms. If they accept you and welcome you in a post.
Lesson Number 2. Say Thanks for the add, if there is a question asked of you – Example “tell us about yourself?”
Lesson Number 3. Answer the fucking question.
I know we all get it wrong. However, the older generations have the experience of life before the internet, we actually know how to speak to each other. We will even still pick unpacked phones and call each other. It’s much harder to insult people or get away with it face to face.
I’ll tell you one good thing, no wait, two good things about why Helen not children having is a good thing.
One, I’m still alive. I have been of an understanding since my AVM diagnosis when I was 34, I’ve learnt many things. Such as, Ladies, when we are pregnant our bodies blood volume doubles. Ok, google tells me it’s somewhere between 20%-45%. If I’d gotten pregnant, I could have had a stroke and been in a coma until I came to full term. Had the baby by C-Section, then what? Interesting, I’ve seen this exact storyline (minus the AVM) on medical dramas.
If it doesn’t scream at you, the Universe really looked after me by sending me ONLY SHIT BOYFRIENDS. I don’t know what else does. I’m still here.
And the other good reason? Well, I’m not going to hand down any shit family trauma or baggage to children. To the whole universe of people, You’re welcome.
Some time ago I picked up a follower that was a dentist or somewhere in that industry. So, this is definitely a question for them and I notice possibly any industry where they have patients/clients, etc.
Here’s the question – at what point in any treatment is it too soon to start saying “we’re almost finished!” Because honestly, when I get my teeth cleaned, and my anxiety is real, I’d ask am I a total squirmer? I hate it and that says something when I mention I’ve bared knuckled fillings. Now, I will do the same if it’s not a deep filling needed, but if I start to feel them working away on my teeth I’ll tap out and tell them I’m happy for an injection but seriously, I hate the clean so much.
Literally, as soon as the big heavy x-ray jacket comes out, I don’t give it back. What? You want it back now? No chance. I think I better appreciate that people with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) like weighted blankets. I also prefer to sleep with layers no matter the season.
But, alas, I digress, please tell, can anyone give me an answer to the question? How soon can you tell someone the torture is almost done?
I heard it’s used as a calming comment offered way too soon and repetitively when please give me some credit that I know you are not nearly close enough to be finished. I mean really. If someone can tell me when chronic pain ends? That would be great. I know it ends when I’m dead. But before that?
Didn’t think I was going there today. Yes? Don’t want to need to remind people, if they have read this far however, please hit Like.
A woman saw the bruise on my chin today. Six days later, she asked “You fall over? For what? Nothing!”
I didn’t bother explaining to her and shrugged and then the best response I’ve had all week, one word. “Fuck!”
Also, it helps to know I was in an Italian supermarket. Well Greek, but wog I guess so sometimes I love the non-PC and non-business-like response I can get from this sector. I seem “white” to many people in Australia, but in the “wog sector” I’m part of their own, as my father was Italian and I look enough European in that setting, they will not mince words. I appreciate that and respect it.
About 2 weeks after my fall and the bruise was mostly gone, I was at my favourite cafe and the longest serving hospitality staff member Gabby said rather simply “It could have been worse, you could have lost all your teeth!”
And the good news is, Hernia. Sometimes, maybe rather than sharing this with my blog administrator/aka the Meme Queen, I thought I’d just blog it out.
On my phone in a cafe so I can just do it all in one go. As I’m given a big paper towel and some tissues to clean the jelly out of my belly button, I asked for the good news. She’s a lot younger, so the bad news would have just been “No Helen you’re just fat?”
Even in the bad news terrible scenario, I can find a way to make others laugh. Is it a gift? Maybe.
You know those moments when Crazy Cat Ladies just can’t help themselves? I’m sorry in advance.
I was recently in an apartment standing in the bedroom, my carer measuring an area that was quickly deemed too small for my bed. The real estate guy asking why I need such a big bed? My Dad made my bed when I was about twenty-four and I’m not giving it up. Even more so because he’s gone, so he can’t make me anything else. I mentioned as much but four days later he was showing us another apartment and I’d thought of a better response, telling him, “It’s for all my future cats!”
Yes! C’mon! If I didn’t just nail crazy cat lady, I don’t know what will. He asked how many I have? Just one, so far.
You know those days you feel people you interact with will never forget you? I mean for good reasons; I like more of those please.
I’m hoping this young guy will help me lock in my forever home and if he can work for me as much as he will work for the seller, he’s got pudding coming his way. Pudding is not how I recruit my people, but it never hurts. Is that a bribe?
Wondering if people are doing a shit job for me because they find my disability makes it hard to do a good job? Or is it because they think I don’t matter? Would they do a better job if it was for themselves? Or someone else? Or are they just doing it until they get something better?
It’s always hard to know if people do an ok kinda job because they need the money or they give a fuck.
It’s part of the downside to needing carers or having funding to have people do things for you.
I think it’s about time developers paid attention and built in some things to enhance properties for residents.
Number one, put in an accessible toilet close to the entrance off the foyer. It should have a sign stating “Accessible!” For which I will ask “Are there any other residents here with disabilities?” Then it’s unofficially Helen’s Personal toilet. But you may use it, just keep it clean and tidy for all.
Also, while we are on the topic of bathrooms. Can they start designing apartments with one and a half bathrooms? That would be an ensuite and maybe just a second toilet with handbasin. I cannot tell you how good it’s been for the last seven years to have two toilets in my home and I live alone.
I get ready to head out with a carer calling out “I’m just going to the loo!” and they will return with “I’ll go too!”
So, at the end of the day there is no fighting when we get home who gets to go first or how long you can be there.
I’m sure I’ll revisit this at a later date so, to be continued.
I use the term “My People” often to refer to people in my life. They can be friends, carers, receptionists at regular appointments I go to or even people I encounter in waiting rooms as I did having my standard weirdo conversations.
Today, a Wednesday, I actually had a different carer today as my regular Girl-Wednesday was off sick. I got to my chiropractor by midday. No easy feat I assure you. But after breakfast in the car on our way, nailed it. I hope you are all aware. Helen is not a morning person.
Managed to get to my favourite North Fitzroy Café, got takeout lunch but still, it counts. Got home, inhaled lunch, sorry, no photo. But then fanged it out to the acupuncture and physio, punched, stabbed and electrocuted all in the same day. I even share a moment of celebration with my Physio that I got to the Grumpy One. It is understood I’m referring to the one that stabs me. I mean, I’m grumpy too but seriously, the stabber takes grumpy to a whole new level. Should put my family in a room with the other grumpy one.
My physio entered the curtained area that I was in. I pointed to the next treatment area stating, “You know, I know someone is in there, right?” Then I point to the shoes down on the floor, the toes pointing in my direction.” And I know they are that person’s shoes?” and he finished the thought process out loud! “If they were in those shoes, they would be staring at us through the curtain?” Me: “Right?” So creepy. He literally bent in half laughing with a hand on his knee.
Honestly, I love my people, and this is why I manage to get through each and every day.
On my way home, fangin’ it and I encountered a portion of footpath blocked off for some kind of maintenance, I had not gone to pee before departing my last appointment and detours were already not on my immediate agenda. A sign directed me to use the “other footpath!” Which to be clear was fifteen metres across the road and I doubt anyone was going to stop traffic to give way to hellonwheels. I detoured down a side street and down a lane way. The cobblestones wreaking havoc to my bladder. Cobblestones are retreats at the best of times and picking the best path does not always mean you can stick to it all the way along. But, alas, I made it to the other end and back to the High Street, continuing my way. Bars had started to open and put out their tables for after work drinkers and socialisers.
I got to the garage entrance in time for someone in their car to open the gate. I fanged it down and rather than the normal fang it to the basement and back to “Open up the motor” that I normally implement. You all realise its powered by two car batteries under my seat, right?
Parked in the shed and hot footed it upstairs, via the lift. Inside, put everything down on the floor, and made a beeline to the main bathroom to the toilet. I’m just saying, disaster averted.
Which leads me to some wise words for future property developers.
Hell onWheels/Life One Handed 