Archive for August, 2007

I get to keep him!

WOOOHHOOOOO.

We got a package via courier today. It contained Tobermory’s passport, which contained the wonderful sticker of “Work visa valid until August 2008″.

WIN.

Of course, life being as it is, I’d just got out of the shower when the courier turned up, and was absolutely butt-naked. Poor bloke must have wondered why on earth I bolted away from the door. Hopefully the net curtains did their job of obscuring my poor abused self.

it turns out that I did damage myself falling down the stairs last week. Other than the bruises, I have a whiplash-type injury to the shoulder. Not major, but it certainly benefited from the poking and prodding the physio did today.

Our little flat.

So, last night, Tobermory wandered upstairs to let the neighbours know about our little drainage issue. We didn’t know what drains where; as they own the house, we figured they’d know if any of their stuff drained out our shower. Turns out they don’t – hey-ho.

It turns out that our property manager never told them about the previous problem, like the tap in the shower or the toilet backing up.

So I got a call from the landlady today. She was Ever So Politely inquiring as to WHY the owner of the property had rung to give her a bollocking about said information. After all, what reason could we POSSIBLY have for talking to our neighbours? Sheesh. She was grumpy with me. I mean, really grumpy. I’m sorry, Ms Landlady, but … it’s my fault you don’t tell the property owners when minor maintenance is done? Not a courtesy note or anything?

So, MrNeighbour turned up when the plumber arrived today, to quietly not-supervise operations (and coincidentally have a clue about what was going on).

The day has further rectified itself. The windscreen wipers turned out to be a cheap fix ($65 including labour), the plumbing is fixed.

The longest-lasting injury is to myself. I fell down the stairs at Forjadon’s this morning and have bruises on my butt.

A Tale of Woe

‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and Tobermory and Mahal did hide inside their house. Careful they crept, for nothing slept, as it was 6pm and the house was messy.

A strange potion Mahal had on her hair, which required application of large amounts of water to remove. And lo! She stepped into the cupboard whence water falls from the strange metal appliances, and proceeded to swear most vigorously and foul.

Indeed, the hole in the floor by which water was required to exit the premises was denying its’ function, and stained and musty water was being regurgitated back out. This was suboptimal, and Mahal didst complain most vigorously, to the murmurs of a worried Tobermory. The crisis worsened, as it proved no sink in their abode was of a mind to dispel it’s contents, anywhere but back into the small cubicle Mahal had so hastily vacated.

This potion was of a fearful sort, and needed removal in short order, lest it permanently ruin the hair of our fair maiden. Or not so fair, as this potion was of the sort intended to darken it.

Thus, Mahal went through many trials, tribulations, and buckets of water poured down the latrine, as she endeavoured to remove this potion from her hair. Her worried knight, meanwhile, contacted the ruler of their humble abode, who laughed most mightily and agreed to send a Champion around next day.

This was all very well, but left our Mahal in something of a state. What could be done?

Cold and windy and wet the night was, yet Mahal strode into the rain with her brave knight. Clad only in a bathrobe was she, but braved the elements nonetheless: the sole remedy for her plight lay in the garden hose, which her Knight duly applied. Cold indeed she was, yet they persevered until all traces of the potion had departed.

Quickly then they returned inside, to the warmth of the heaterside and the tempered query of the fractious beast that shares their home. Loudly it demanded why the cold had been let in, and why tempers were so fractious, for lo! it’s sleep had been disturbed!

Mindful of the trials that inevitably flow from such a great personage as a distressed cat, our good lady and her knight reassured the beast that it could return to it’s slumber. Rumbles echoed from it’s lair as it sunk back into repose.

Then didst they employ the wonders of communication, submitting a message to their brave comrades that a couch on which to lay their heads would be appreciated. Such a saviour was found! And our heroes departed their abode.

The road from the abode to the home of their saviour was long indeed, and the weather most foul. Fortunately, the chariot was well equipped for such weather, containing such marvellous facilities as windscreen wipers and a heater.

Our heroes considered themselves most fortunate.

Sadly, our heroes are not in luck this night. For, many miles from home, and far from their destination, a wiper snapped. And inevitably it was the one required by Mahal, our heroine, to see her road.

Luck was at hand, in the fortuitous acts of our brave Knight Tobermory, and the presence of a gas station from whence to acquire that marvellous fix, known to us only as duct tape. One suspects so great an object must have many names and titles in it’s own lands; so great a thing must indeed be highly praised!

Safely did our heroes reach their destination, and rued the fact they left their beds that morning. Surely, Mahal must have exited on the wrong side…

Being the Fat Girl

So. A friend of mine is throwing a vaguely costumed party in a couple of weekends.

“Excellent!”, says my brain. “This is the chance to convince Tobermory that you can buy that corset you’ve been eyeing up!”

Eventually I decide not to wear said corset. I am too large to pull this off prettily and/or comfortably, and so I settle on wearing something else instead.

Mum later commented I’d be too fat for the outfit. As the main requirement is cleavage, and lord knows I have an overflowingly abundant supply of cleavage, I laughed at her. As I’m making most of it myself, I know full well it’ll fit. Size? Not an issue.

Yes, I’m a fat girl. And most of the time, I’m not too bothered by it. I know how to dress for my size, and I have passable taste. I get compliments on my dress, occasionally, so it can’t be too bad. Besides, I’ve never gone in for the skimpy/short attire that only skinny girls can wear.

The point is, I don’t stress about it. It’s not relevant to my job, my partner doesn’t care, and I can deal with the occasion crass comment about my ass or gut.

30kgs ago, I was 5’7″, weighed a little over 50kg, and I was unhealthy skinny. Photos from that time show that I was turning into a lollipop girl. Oh, I had D cups and curvy hips, and a tummy so flat my hipbones stuck out further. I was eye candy alright, but I wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t healthy. Mum was so concerned that she suspected me of an eating disorder. I didn’t have one, but her concerns were very valid.

I put on 10 kilos. Over a year or so, that wasn’t so bad. The bones filled out, and I went from lollipop girl to someone with enough padding not to break. Indeed, the photos show a trim and curved and rather sexy Mahal. (Pity I didn’t notice at the time…)

I put on another 10. Again, bearable. Gained a bit, lost a bit, gained a bit, lost a bit, over a few years. Took up exercise, lost 8 kilos over 6 months, burned out at the end of uni and promptly put it back on. Still no huge deal. I was fit, happy, and largely content.

The last 10 crept on during that horrible, horrible stint working in a call center. I was unhappy, unhealthy, stressed beyond my own limits. And I ate, and didn’t exercise, and generally stressstressstressed my way into a new clothing size.

Oops.

As of now, I am unhappy with my weight, for the first time in a long time. And it’s not because I’m the fat girl. (I’m under no illusions. I am overweight, and it’s obvious.) It’s not because of the clothes I can and can’t buy. No. I’m carrying weight that makes me uncomfortable, that is starting to impair on my fitness, on my health. Yes, I’m not overly thrilled by my appearance, but my appearance is not important. It doesn’t get me jobs, or keep me out of jobs. It won’t gain me a lover, or lose one. Regardless of my clothing size, there’ll always be people who make nasty cracks about my appearance. I’m realistic about this.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel good any more. For that reason, and no other, I’m starting to lose weight.

It's good, except for when it's not.

After laborious, frustrating, time consuming, irritating, contradictory, confusing, expensive paperwork was finally completed on Monday, we have applied for Tobermory’s work permit, allowing him to stay in the country until we can sort out his residency application.

Immigration is a pain in the ass, and that is all I will say.

Friends of ours are throwing a costume party in a couple of weeks. After some deliberation, and a certain amount of “oh god I hate being female and overweight”, I eventually settled on an idea. It has Tobermory’s approval, which is important, I’ll be comfortable, also important, and no-one will run screaming from excesses of flesh, extremely important.

On the phone to Mum last night, I mentioned this.

“Hrm. Aren’t you a bit, well, fat for that?”

Yes, because being overweight automatically prohibits me from wearing a skirt and a pretty top. Gee, thanks, Mum.

I know I’m overweight. I am actually working on it, via diet and exercise. I also know how to dress suitably for my fat ass, but thanks for the implication.

I do believe work is the only thing trundling along uncomplicatedly and happily. Ended up taking Monday off to do immigration things with Tobermory, which the boss allotted me as paid leave (thanks boss). Mind you, this is probably partly because over half of my workmates are immigrants, or variants on that theme, themselves. A bit of fellow feeling always helps.