ASIA-PACIFIC DORK CORRESPONDANT BLOG

FROM OUR ASIA-PACIFIC
DORK CORRESPONDANT

The Stork and the Dork

Dork Blog – Asia Pacific Correspondent (February)
Nelly Thomas

You know, sometimes life cruises along and everything is normal. You eat at your favourite café, you catch your regular train, you watch the Biggest Loser and don’t know whether the contestants will die from obesity or humiliation – you know, the usual. Then, bang, everything goes tits up. This can be the result of something bad happening like getting evicted or The Sopranos being taken off air, or, as is the case recently for me, it can be the joyous news of finding out that you’re growing a human. That’s right fellow dorks I am, as we say here in Australia, up the duff (pregnant for those of you who are a bit slow to catch on).

Being up the duff brings up lots of issues for the host organ, not the least of which is the idea that you’ll need, at some point, to squeeze a human out of your vagina. The books tell you not to worry about this because it “happens every day” but the same books tell you that in the third trimester you may experience “engorged genitals”. I tell you, nothing endeared me more to the idea of being pregnant than the thought of my vagina resembling a baboon’s arse.

Then of course there’s the emotional issues. I am not one for banging on about how crazy and psychotic us unstable women get when we’re menstruating or anything ridiculous like that, but the hormonal tsunami occurring in my pregnant body cannot be denied. I found myself not only watching Dr Phil the other day, but nodding in agreement at something he said! I might have even cried when he closed the show with a pearl of wisdom about loving each other or something equally self-evident. Couple that with the inevitable “issues” that bringing another person into the world raises and the fact that my maternity pants wouldn’t fit a sumo wrestler, and you’ve got one weepy lady.

Interestingly and unexpectedly, the biggest emotional issue this little (ok, increasingly rotund) dork has faced has been reflecting on my own childhood. You know how it’s not until you say something out loud that you realise you might not be like everyone else? I’ll give you an example. I was talking to a friend recently about how kids are scared of monsters and what you should do so they feel safe and all that and she told me that she wasn’t really scared of monsters as a child but that for years she thought Cookie Monster was in the toilet (awwww, cuuuteee). Even cuter, she thought that if she flushed the toilet he would lose all his cookies. We laughed. In that spirit of sharing I said “ha, ha, yeh, that’s like me. When I was a kid I wasn’t scared of monsters either … although I was scared to go in our back yard because I thought there were Nazis hiding in the garden shed. Ha, ha, ha!” Not deterred by her stunned silence I continued, “yeh, it’s hilarious - I was so convinced that they were there that I used to lay on the front lawn, put ketchup on my chest and pretend I was already dead so they wouldn’t kill me. Ha, ha ha.” Let’s just say she looked a little freaked out. When I say “a little” she fell into my arms sobbing and we had to have her medicated … that sort of thing.

Ok, maybe I watched a little too much TV, a few too many movies. I was actually allowed to watch anything I wanted. In one sense that sounds very progressive doesn’t it? You know, broadening your child’s mind and all that. But to be honest it wasn’t so much a philosophical choice on my parent’s behalf, more that they couldn’t really be bothered censoring us. In the end though, same result - well informed children with crippling anxiety. Parenting lesson number one - Sesame Street in, Schindler’s List out. Phew, this stuff is hard.

previous co-worker to our asia-pac correspondent

MouseyMcMouse
Asia Pacific Correspondent: 14 December, 2006

Ok so you shouldn’t be mean about work-mates. Especially when you don’t work with them anymore and they don’t have the chance to bitch back over the water cooler. That being said it’s time to let the cat of the bag about Mousey McMouse.

Mousey McMouse (not her real name) is a former colleague of mine from an establishment that shall remain nameless. Let’s just say it was an office. A dull and claustrophobic office where the most exciting thing that ever happened was when Internet Explorer would crash if you tried to look at “adult sites”. Again and again and again.

I have since left that particular office and while their draconian Internet policies were most certainly a factor (I like to see naked drug addicts going for it as much as the next gal), it really came down to the fact that I just couldn’t work with Mousey McMouse.

Now Ms McMouse was so named because she had the most irritating habit I have ever come across in my life. Not only is she a low talker (she is in fact practically inaudible), she doesn’t open her mouth when she talks. It kind of twitches and lets out tiny little squeaks, much like a mouse. It makes one want to feed her some poisoned peanut butter and scoop her into the rubbish bin.

Now obviously a person could have a greater vice than being a squeaky little low talker with rodent tendencies, but I can’t think what. I had a friend who worked in an office with a guy who would deliberately walk over to his cubicle and fart, just for the hilarity. I would rather work with that guy than Mousey McMouse - at least I could return in kind. But one thing I will never be is mousey! I’m a comedian for shitssake. If everyone in the room isn’t paying attention to me I charge them money and hire a microphone.

Needless to say now that we’ve parted ways, I don’t miss Mousey. I think of her sometimes – you know, when I eat cheese or pooh in the kitchen – but generally I’m happy enough to just while away the hours in my cubicle listening to the albeit inane but audible chit chat of my fellow temps. No-one said I was perfect.