So, people are getting the understanding, I’m now a homeowner. A rate payer. Seemingly, when some acknowledge as a fifty-two-year-old single barren spinster, I’m a respectful member of society.
It’s a weird space to be in, because I always hoped and imagined owning my home one day just assumed I’d have a husband that would pay the mortgage and my income would go towards the beautiful tiles to renovate a bathroom.
When my father died, I was able to contemplate having a forever home and weirdly conversations with friends about buying started to feel weird but normal. The basic understanding was shock, because I didn’t work and who was going to give me a mortgage. Trust me, I did all the research and was in all the groups and organisations that build AFFORDABLE AND SUSTAINABLE HOMES FOR LOW INCOME, etc.
I even had to fight to have myself put back on the public house in lists. That right there is a Bag of Farts. You don’t want it. But maybe not in a bag, but you need it and if you get offered it you definitely don’t want it. See the bag of fart analogy works out in the end.
After reaching out to both Local MP’s and Local Federal Members, the first time not much help, the second time never even replied to my call. I changed tactics and just got to house hunting. To be clear I didn’t have house money. I had Apartment Money, I’ve just wanted to make my dad proud.
The research I did leading up to buying, I learnt what you can get for how much. I saved fifty K, okay not having a second bathroom, but also spend an extra fifty K on not having a building with a car stacker. I’m still serious car stackers are a travesty. I hear nothing but horror stories.
Admittedly, the buildings that had those, the apartments felt much more like student digs. International students with lots of food deliveries. I really wanted a much more owner/occupier vibe with friendly neighbours who cook and give a crap about the environment and not having food arrive that they leave at the entrance to only get refunded and they do it all again.
My brain is very busy with analogy’s today, it’s either a good or a terrible day to blog. So, we will see how it goes. You probably want an analogy now? You can wait.
I present really well for someone who’s had a brain injury for fifty-two-years. My carers tell me this all the time, because we discuss that in person, people are oblivious to what’s going on behind the scenes. But, in reality what’s going on up “there” feels like a bag of rattlesnakes. Thats 1 (Analogy delivered!)
I wonder if people realise there are days up “there” is like having five people with ABI’s, five people with depression or anxiety and five people on the spectrum in a room. Shaken and stirred, rather like the rattle snakes in a bag, right? And I suggest, within a few hours the room above will look like some kind of mass casualty has occurred. Think blood, trauma. Mass casualties, I realise, for many this is going way too far. But I’m making a point.
Up “there!” in my brain, there is so much chaos. Just anarchy, and I know it’s happening. I just can’t stop it. It’s so busy I just try to get through the tasks as best as possible leaving as few people scathed as possible.
This is why people like me spend a lot of time self-isolating. It’s why we coped (apparently) better during the quarantining during Covid. It’s also, why we noticed how other people didn’t cope well during Covid. When I isolate too much, then when I do go out my brain is like “Oh my God! Look at all the thongs, the food, the people.
There are a people. What do you do? What are you peopling? Can I people with you? Let’s people together. Yes, we can.
Now, that is clearly an example. But we saw it a lot during the plague. Walking past chemists where I’d see a person behind the counter getting peopling, full blast by a customer out being around people for the first time in days. The staff members eyes flick out to notice if anybody out there that could save them. Is this even really happening? Am I the only one seeing this right now? Can somebody help me? And all of that is happening up there and on the outside, its Calm! Calm! Calm!
Everybody act calm and then, I think this is why I gift people treats a lot. It’s a reward, sure. But it’s my way of saying, you put up with my “Crazy!”
Later, I may stay away for a bit, so you miss me. Because you nipped at me and hurt my feelings. I try to bring a little funny, a little sass to everyone every day. But sometimes, others have too much owing on and it falls short. But this is why when I hand over a little love, I mean it.
Shit toilet experiences at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival
In general, this topic would live outside that of the festival, but it could definitely be its own blog. Frustratingly, these experiences are far from rare. I’m part way through my festival events for this year despite my lack of time to write and post about it but at times you have to, live when the opportunities exist, write, recuperate and replenish spoons over the hibernation of winter months to come.
Last night I saw two comedy shows very carefully booked, curated and logistically arranged by my event booking genius carer who is one of my heavy hitter admin chicks.
My first show was at the Arts Centre to see Danny Bhoy. I saw him the last time he was here as after my father’s passing back in late 2022, I decided the comedians I always wanted to see I would just start doing it.
Since making that decision, I’ve prioritised not only Danny Buoy, but Kitty Flanagan. Nath Valvo and Ivan Aristeguieta. To name a few and my accessible toileting experiences are always super not fun.
The Arts Centre despite the beautiful venue, the helpful staff, the frosted glass doors to the accessible toilet on the third floor closest to the ticket booking office, I locked the door, checked it. Locked it again, checked it, again. Ah, success.
Removed my cuff and collar, my bag, walking stick, and hoodi top. I know, over sharing and obviously my pants, to use the facilities, to do what I was there to for. I heard an older lady’s voice! “Here! Come in here!” and the door opened. Like I had not locked it. Now, I had hung my bag on the door handle which would not interfere with the lock, I might have thought could be seen through the frosting. Should someone bother to look. At least I was not mid-poo or mid-wipe. I had just managed to get a few single ply tissue squares from the selfish T.P. Dispenser. More importantly, the door remained open in this awkward unnecessary social INTERACTION.
It’s odd that the elderly love to imagine the accessible toilets are their domain and only theirs. I think they see me on their throne as a young person. Thank you! And not in need to use these toilets. I actually had to ask her to close the door with a polite “Do you mind?” It was more than she deserved considering the length of time she stood staring at me unsure how to solve this social quagmire.
I guess I should follow up this incident with an email to the venue, or just forward them this post when it goes live.
After this show, a short walk, a tram for two stops and another short walk to our next destination a toilet stop, this toilet had an ambulance toilet although I didn’t realise until I was ready to depart. I had used the lady’s facilities this time as I can often do and will. If that porcelain had been any lower to the floor, I might not have made it up again.
The second comedy show this time at the Melbourne Town Hall. To see our very own Ivan Aristeguieta. OK, He isn’t originally ours but, he’s seriously Australian now. He migrated from Venezuela thirteen years ago and originally settled in Adelaide. He divorced and had in the last year married one of ours. So, he’s ours now. It’s hilarious to see our culture through the eyes of a new Aussie.
This is my fourth time seeing his show in the ten years he’s performed here. Wish I’d been able to meet him at the meet and greet he announced he was doing. My friend sadly departed after my last bathroom experience as he had a train to get to home.
My second bathroom experience, younger people more prominent in the audience but not completely I chose to check out the accessible bathroom. Lock. Tick. Hook on wall, tick and toilet not close to the floor. Tick! However, things fell apart a little when I encountered the again “selfish” paper dispenser. Or it could have just been the previous occupant as I could not for the life of me find the end of the roll. I hate those big commercial toilet roll dispensers that have the ability to not be so big they either hold two rolls with the plastic sliding thing to allow access to the other roll or there is a big roll that allows them to not replace it for days. I don’t know, it’s nice that they think it’s not important to check. I checked my boob-pocket for a tissue and would have made do. But alas, I had neglected to stash one for such emergencies and I was forced to frustratingly continue with the roll. Eventually, leaving a shredded confetti protest on the floor after managing the squares I’d required.
At least on this occasion I’d not had an audience. I can’t decide which was the better experience.
Bring on winter so I can make like a bear and hibernate.
I would suggest this is happening too often already. You would think fifty-two years old, would be considered middle age as I don’t know I’m going to make it to one hundred and four years old, nor would I want to. However, people I love are falling off the perch already and it’s too soon. If you don’t know, falling off the perch is the elderly term for dying.
Apart from the passing in late 2022 of my father’s death and the recent departure of a very close friend, she’s not dead just not in my weekly routine anymore. I learnt a week ago a friend from my clubbing days in my twenties had passed. He worked for me back in the day.
I think we bonded because we were from a similar part of the Victorian countryside. While I moved to Melbourne at nineteen to study and work, he moved to Melbourne without the same kind of plan. Not in place anyway. When I asked him why, he responded with “I looked around and just said No!” with a little shake of his head. Like me it was just an instinct to get the fuck outta town.
Around 2000 I had moved back to the country, not born in my hometown but to a more isolated community where my mum and younger sister had moved to. I needed a lift to town and a V-Line bus to go anywhere further. It was hard.
Every few months I’d get back to Melbourne and couch surf for a few days, to go clubbing and catch up with as many people as possible. Going to clubs was the easiest way.
Standing in a goth club I heard this song, looking around at how many people were dancing and not recognizing it, I found D5 close by and he asked that I didn’t know who it was. I was like, “No! I’m living back in the country where you get fuck all exposure to new music” let along anything else. This song will always remind me of him.
I guess a warning might be in order. But the beat is really good.
I’m sure for most it will be a lot, but her wiki page is interesting, if you dare. If you don’t follow my blog for a little different, you are in the wrong place. Teaches of Peaches – Wikipedia
So, around the time of my fiftieth birthday, I sent D5 an invite for my gathering in case he thought to join. My father had passed earlier that month and for years we had drifted, but I always send him a birthday text as he was born on Valentines Day. Bit hard to forget that one.
He came to my birthday and we caught up a few times, I cooked him dinner, my single girl dinner reminiscent from my twenties and that Christmas he gave me a lift to my father’s house in my home town on the way to his hometown. So, we had a three-and-a-half-hour road trip to chat and for me to own the CD Player and have him guess what I’d put on.
Moments after he had left me at my dad’s there was a knock on the door. He was there holding up the black thumb cast for my trigger thumb. “Good luck thumbing a ride without that?” He was rather reserved and shy but when he shared his wit it was a treat for your soul.
While I didn’t see or hear from him often and there had been years in between when he had been married and doing his thing it was always a comfort to know he was out there walking the earth. He is survived by his twin and his cat.
He told me his marriage had ended like many during the Covid 19 lockdowns when couples were confronted with being around each other in close confines 24/7 apparently, they looked at each other and just both said No.
Now, alas, the world is bereft from his passing. He had chosen to fight his battle with cancer with only a small few aware this was his fate. He had told me he was dealing with something but not what. He was about seven years younger than me and the younger brother I never knew I needed. But our world forever better for the time he had been amongst us.
R.I.P. D5.
I am too young to be saying goodbye to friends
* D and the number there after referring to the number of Dave’s in the club days, I’ll cover that another day. D5 was a longstanding Dave and not to be undervalued despite not being D1- D6+ ceased to exist. Obviously, finishing today’s post without my regular cheer.
So, 2024 was weird also cause money became a huge topic and while I’ve always had an income from somewhere and five cents to my name it’s a weird space to find yourself in to have some actual money and options.
I wanted to blog about it last year but was up to my eyeballs in all the things, so had to let things play out and play catch up. This ergo-case-in-point is the catch up.
I guess, women of my generation, didn’t get educated about how to manage money. I’m Gen X remember. I did grow up with coins and handling money. My first paid job I picked up a yellow envelope with cash and coins in it. I had a paid job from around fifteen years old.
As an adult when you have household expenses you learn you need to have more coming in than going out. Sure, but on bigger expenses women my age was taught that we would marry and our husband would take care of it. Do you see me writing about a Husband? I have an Italian surname so it was largely assumed I would get a husband. Not bitter. Just making a point.
Some of the groups I’m in, some women will see and ask a friend who seems to manage her finances well and when asked she will be told “Oh, my husband does all of that!” So, it is to say I did consult a financial advisor. He’s in his late thirty’s, lovely man who I have not made proud. Yet. He wanted me to continue renting forever.
But as my next post will context women like myself when I reach sixty, are more than likely find themselves homeless. I’ve had to educate younger men on this topic.
From my series, I don’t know who, but somebody needs to hear this and if it’s not you please forward this to the person you know that does. I live in an apartment these days like many people that cannot afford to live in a free-standing house.
I give people my address so, For example: 123/456 Blah Blah Road, Suburb. Now, obviously Blah Blah is not a real name. I am not in a creative mood, clearly.
Next the first digits, in this case “123” is the apartment number. NOT THE STREET ADDRESS. The other number. “456” IS THE STREET ADDRESS. So, most importantly, if you don’t know this, don’t suggest I gave you the wrong details. If you didn’t know you could have asked? I won’t agree with you calling yourself an idiot, just admit you got it wrong.
I don’t understand people making it someone else’s fault rather than admit they got something wrong, don’t do that.
Rant over.
It’s been a tough day/week/month/year and people’ing is getting on my one last nerve.
Should I need to point out, I don’t really do much of any excitement any other time of the year. This comedy festival don’t mistake my current effort at getting out for some fun to have you imagine I get to maintain this level is my normal life in general. Every time I try to do one thing different from the normal of appointments for physio, neurophysiology, neuropsych or the shrink appointments I’m missing right now. GP Appointments, the weekly Chiropractic visits, let alone any specialist appointments thrown in the mix. It all becomes too much.
Normal life gives me a migraine behind my left eye and it’s Sunday night at the start of the week. I start with a new OT tomorrow. Can’t wait for her to look around my home and tell me my home is too cluttered. Yes, that’s expected. OT’s look at my home as if I need to be ready for a wheelchair. When I mentioned this to a previous carer she snorted an embarrassed laugh as she looked around my home. Prompting her, I would not be offended by her reason for cheer, she informed me she had the same kind of clutter in her home. Comforting, I joined her laugh.
So, by sharing the fun things I’m doing right now, appreciate it’s got to get me through the rest of the year because the Festival is the highlight to my year. That said, for the third time this Saturday I went to see a Scottish Comedian Daniel Sloss. Most people go see him for having seen his at Netflix special Jigsaw. I had only heard of it when I decided to go see his show pre-Covid that he mentioned he received complaints about because it was about Rape and Assault. Not in general, but I can’t context appropriately so won’t. His Melbourne 2023 show was titled Can’t, I believe for the similarity to another word I never use verbally unless I’m quoting someone else. You will never see it written here but it is to say it “Rhymes with Punt!”
If interested here is a link to his Ted Talk he once did.
Sunday night before writing this post I finally got around to watching his two Netflix Specials. Both Dark and Jigsaw. I’m sure the last show I saw was Dark, and it was good. If you took the time to watch the above, Ted-Talk you will notice he’s a bit wrong and funny but his shows are more of a Ted-talk where you go away thinking about things. Some parts he mentions something so awful, parts of the audience laugh and he’s not even close to the punchline it’s a bit too wrong. He reigns in the people that laughed at the wrong bits. The show started at 8.20pm. The latest start time I’ve done and it went until 11.15pm. If you want value for money. Go see Daniel Sloss.
It’s now a few weeks before the next show I have tickets for, so next week will be back to normal programming. This is my friend and I at the show, in the back row.
When this goes live on Monday, I’m hoping a carer turns up to help me start my week properly as despite all my preparation, neither of my two agencies have rostered me a carer, both assuming the other has covered it and me not making sure on Friday that somebody’s has made sure I would have someone. Let’s hope the rest of the week runs more smoothly.
I really want to thank you for calling me today to tell me all the things I should be doing. You haven’t responded to any of my friendly messages for months now.
I had some good news to share, but you didn’t ask, nor could I get a word in edgewise. I’ve just had a 4-day weekend on the 4th lockdown in Melbourne, some appointments cancelled I’d been trying to get done since they didn’t happen in 2020.
Fuck you COVID! No, I really mean it this time!
It is imagined that people with disabilities have not been financially impacted, since we don’t work. We haven’t lost work and why should we matter.
Well, I shall tell you how. Allow me.
These days I do take more ‘healthy pills’ than medications so I can live to the at least 65. I can afford to live till then.
herbal pills in wooden spoon with ginger root, Kaffir lime fruit and flower on dark brown wood background with copy space. Above view.
Shut up! I will explain that expiry date another day.
COVID has meant everyone and their cat and dog has been out buying ‘healthy pills’ to avoid getting or dying from COVID. It’s a fair call. I can’t blame you all. However, many of my healthy pills I buy in bulk so I can get bulk discounts and pay less over time and because my suppliers have had limited stock, they have not allowed me to do this. I’m not talking about truckloads, just 2 x 200 tablets of magnesium. Just an example.
But I don’t need someone who is not on the ‘coal face’ of living on the edge financially and choosing what I’m meant to do without to ‘help’ me decide I can give up my weekly chiropractor visits.
You all realize I have lost many of my pain management appointments due to lockdown, right. And you want me to deal with a rib out as well. The rib still hurts despite being put back in last Friday. It’s Thursday night as I write this.
So, it’s really shitty when people who are meant to love me are awfully opinionated about what I can do when they are not me.
You know that moment when if there was a statistic that said if there was one person in every family of four to have a disability. The only person in your family who could deal with said disability well, it’s you. Yeah, I knew this some years ago.
Now I needed to ask for a loan, quite happy to pay it back. But without even knowing what it was for, you decide to give me a lecture about managing dollars better. Stop helping!
You are upset, because I didn’t ask how you are. It was hard to get a word in edgewise, and I was already having your opinions and the opinions of other people who are not me to get a word in edgewise.
So, now my days is not done, I don’t have the energy to ‘deal’ with anything else today.
I’m feeling really shitty. My head hurts, my left eye is pounding (the indication of my migraine these days). So, I’m going to bed for a cry and a kip.
Now I need to feel like eating sometimes so I can sleep tonight and get up and do all the things again tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the rent gets paid. The lights go on. I’m not starving and I can put one foot in front of another knowing I don’t ask for help often but when I do, I really need it.
Then, maybe I’ll be able to smile a little. Or I can try and if that’s how you are going to be, please don’t call.
45! 45, 45! Repeat after me! Helen is still 45! Because, my next mid-week blog post I will not be able to say this, I’m not struggling with getting older, or closer to 50, it’s only a day older than the day before.
I’m not exactly anywhere near where I imagined life to look like by this age. I don’t know what a 46-year-old should dress, or act, or even be doing however I’m doing the best with what I have.
Still trying to have my Wednesday return to some kind of normal, but it’s taking longer than I imagined. So, I’ve been missing out on my favourite cafe. But I will remedy this on Monday and hopefully next Wednesday!
In a meeting for lunch today, for the self-advocacy group I’m part of, not for fun but important. To be continued……………….
Meanwhile, here’s what I had for lunch! Butter chicken with white rice and a paratha.
Have to get medicine later!
Hell onWheels/Life One Handed 