Archive for August, 2010

I’m starting to think my doctor is a bit of a prick.

You see, he’s decided to follow up my three weeks without dairy with a week without alcohol. Yes, a whole week. It’s all because of these antibiotics he’s put me on.

“But not being able to drink alcohol while on antibiotics is one of those old wives’ tales like ‘if you step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back’!” I can hear some of you saying.

Well, for one thing, if you step on your mother’s bum crack, you probably will break her back. Just saying.

And for another, while most antibiotics mix quite nicely with alcohol, these antibiotics I’ve been put on do not. These are special antibiotics with the unfortunate name of ‘Flagyl’ – a name that, quite frankly, puts my mind on spin dry. Not only does it make me think of ‘self-flagellate’ (an act which curiously mirrors the concept of a week without wine), it also sounds like ‘flatulence’ – which, rather neatly, is one of the ailments the antibiotics are trying to cure me of. Plus ‘Flagyl’ is simply one of those words that sounds much ruder than it actually is, like ‘flange’, ‘cockney’ and ‘fuck knuckle’. But I digress.

The long and the short of it is this: I will vomit if I drink alcohol whilst on Flagyl. And no, that’s not ‘trough loads of mixed spirits’ (which will also make me vomit), it’s any alcohol, no matter how small the amount. Which makes me wonder what kind of antibiotic does that to a person? I mean, is Flagyl even an antibiotic at all? Or is it some kind of Clockwork Orange-type medical intervention staged by concerned friends and family to stop me drinking so much? And if that’s the case, you’d think an intervention would at least earn me a brief residential stay in some drying-out facility far far away from the laundry and washing up. I feel cheated.

Incidentally, my doctor also sent me off for further blood tests along with some explanation about “blah blah blah geo mutations blah blah”. If you’re wondering what the “blah blah” bits were, your guess is as good as mine because I was too busy wondering if having a geo mutation would mean I was going to be able to spring knives out of my fingers like Wolverine. That’d be way-cool – and also quite handy when it came to freeing Fisher Price toys from their packaging shackles and keeping Genghis Cat in line.

In any case, I’m consoling myself with the fact that at least I can eat dairy food again. My life without dairy was a grim one. I spent most of my days fantasising about a giant dish of cauliflower cheese covered with breadcrumbs that had been pan fried in butter and then tossed with more cheese and accompanied with a pint glass of whipped cream. Except now that I can eat all these things, I’m probably going to leave the cauliflower out because it only makes me fart and that would earn me another week on the Flagyl. Also, cauliflower is not dairy.

In the meantime, I’m hoping my Wolverine finger-knives are good and ready for my next doctor’s appointment. Apparently his next trick, if the Flagyl doesn’t work, is to put me on two weeks without gluten. And as one of my friends once said, “I don’t know what gluten is but I must really really like it because, quite frankly, food tastes crap without it.”

My doctor, in his defence, says that ‘exclusion diets’ are the new black. And he’s right. They are black – as in ‘black is the colour of my soul right now’.


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Dear Readers,

I’ll admit that I had to check on dictionary.com whether this was Not Drowning, Mothering‘s ‘biannual’ or ‘biennial’ . Both sounded too close to ‘bi-anal’ for comfort, but you can’t argue with Mother English.

In any case, today marks two years since I opened a WordPress account and started writing. 446 posts, approximately 223,000 words and 7,121 comments later, I’m still here.

To help celebrate this momentous occasion, I invite you all to share your favourite Not Drowning, Mothering post in the comments below. A loose description using key words (i.e. ‘vomit’, ‘Hugh Jackman’ or ‘lactating asian babes’) would be suffice – I will provide the link.

I thank you all for your valued readership and remain, as always, your humble blogging servant,


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Dear McCann Sydney,

It has been some months since your initial call over the interwaves for ‘Australian Mum Bloggers‘.

I, along with half a zillion ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’, dusted off my CV and sent it off, in the hope of one day making an honest buck from what I love doing most (other than sleeping).

I was excited. After all, I loved that you were looking for someone with “proven experience in the online content space”. It made me walk around muttering ‘Online Content Space: the New Frontier’ to myself for a few days. I was even tempted to include in my application a photo of me sitting at my computer, wearing Spock ears and maybe, just maybe, one of those Seven Of Nine outfits that’d make my breasts look like they were about to start their own blog. But I didn’t.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have. You see, I recently found out that some other ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’ had already received rejection letters from you weeks ago.

Me? I’ve received nothing. Nothing.

I mean, don’t you know who I am?

For one thing, you might think I’m just some sad pathetic housewife who likes to write about menstrual accidents. And yes, I am that, but I’m also a sad pathetic housewife who dislikes rejection so much that she will try to pass off a bruise on her leg as the image of Jesus Christ. Remember this, McCann.

For another thing, I know people. Important people. Why, one of my friends won a Creative Emmy just the other day (it’s the same as an Emmy except the statuette apparently comes with its own hand-crocheted cover). Although, having said that, when I tweeted about my friend winning the Creative Emmy on Twitter, nobody seemed to care. Perhaps it had something to do with me also tweeting at the same time about my cat splatter-crapping all over the carpet. People were a bit more concerned about the state of the carpet and the colour of the shit than they were about the Creative Emmy. And me, being me, I went and told my friend that my cat’s shit was evidently more interesting than his Creative Emmy so he might not actually be my friend any more. Still, he said he’d let me have my photo taken with his statuette so my plan is to start claiming I’m a Creative Emmy Award Winning Blogger and make all you McCann folk regret having put my McCV in your McBin and missed your McChance with my McWriting Genius. Are you following me, McCann?

But actually, now that I think more on the subject, my cat is probably the most effective weapon I have at my disposal.

So let me conclude this letter by saying this: I have a splatter-crapping arsehole of a cat who will fuck your soft furnishings up big time.

You have been warned.

Yours sincerely, etc.


cc. The Age Online. You’re next.

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