Starvation Log: Day 3

I’ve finally bitten the bullet and have started a diet to determine what’s making me scratch like a stray dog. It involves eliminating everything that’s delicious, waiting until the spots disappear, then reintroducing delicious things one at a time to see what brings the spots back.  

Things I can’t eat:

  • Dairy
  • Gluten
  • Citrus
  • Nuts
  • Seafood
  • Preservatives, colourings and MSG

Things I can eat:

  • Potatoes
  • Toothpaste

It’s been two and a half days of this madness and I’m not feeling any difference in itchiness, leading me to suspect it’s not food related at all. Though I must confess I’m also eating ‘organic’ steak, baked beans, fresh greens and fresh corn on the cob. (LOTS of corn on the cob. My god, it’s like crack. I had FOUR yesterday). Granted, any one of those things could also be causing The Itchies, but considering how rarely those items appear on my menu, I doubt it.  

The thing that’s really irking me is all the bloody food preparation. Chop this, boil that, mash this. I just want to peel back the plastic and microwave it, god damn it.  And holy Moses, the washing up I have to do now. All you people that eat normal-person-food and not frozen dinners, cup noodles and takeaway – are you seriously doing the dishes every day? That shit’s ludicrous. I usually do my dishes once a week, and that’s not even a full sink.  

Here’s a photo of my manky leper hide, just to garner some extra sympathy (not to be used for any purpose other than that for which it was intended – especially porn. Unless I get a cut.)

Kill it with fire

On the positive side, I have found some preservative free apple juice that tastes great with vodka. Ah come on, it’s Cup weekend. Give an itchy gal a break.

And the winner is…

Urticaria! Or hives, if you will. Caused by an allergy to god knows what. But it’s not really an allergy because INGA DOES NOT HAVE ALLERGIES!

Anyway, this doctor was way better than the other disinterested quacks I visited. He asked me lots of questions and got me to take off my clothes so he could see what I was talking about (yes boys, it’s really that easy), then printed off a fact sheet for me and went through the multitide of allergens I could be exposing myself to (various foods and my cat topped the list). Then he gave me a prescription for Periactin, and I tell you what, I haven’t felt this spacey since I sat for a couple of hours in a caravan in Yungaburra with some certain lads I knew who had a certain predilection for smoking a certain plant which grows in vast quantities in my home town.  I have no idea what I just wrote. And now I’m off to the airport.

What’s wrong with Inga – Chapter 39

I have itchies.

They started as a handful of inoffensive red dots on my belly, which I diagnosed as sweat rash from my hectic gym schedule at the time.

A week later the dots had spread up my sides, over my lower back and onto my thighs and itched like a motherbitch. Another week later it had spread down my upper arms and across my chest, and I’d wake up several times during the night to find I’d scratched myself hard enough to leave welts and bruises. Yet another fortnight of vigorous scritching with various household objects (hairbrushes, keys, the cat), and the dots have all merged into itchy red splotches. My torso looks like something you’d find in a swamp on CSI Miami. Horatio would dip his sunglasses and say “Well….I’d say the stupid woman should’ve gone to see a doctor. But damn, she sure is fit and skinny.”

Actually Horatio, I did go and see a doctor. She gave me Prednisolone pills and said “you’re having an allergic reaction to something”. This is utter bull dust because Inga does not have allergies. I grew up with mud, cow shit, pesticides and herbicides. I have been bitten by every bitey thing imaginable; ticks, leeches, wasps, bees, dogs, spiders, cats, chickens, cockatoos and GOF. I can romp through grass clippings, snort a line of pollen and eat a 10kg serving of shellfish satay with extra peanuts. Don’t tell me it’s an allergy, you ignorant, over-educated squaw.  

That said, I took her devil-pills which predictably did nothing. I then went to a different doctor, who stared befuddled at my manky torso for a couple of minutes before giving me a referral for some blood tests. After hemming and hawing and scratching for a few more days, I finally called the pathologist today to make an appointment.

“Oh, we don’t take appointments. You just come in and take a number.”

You’ve got to be f**** kidding me. This is supposed to be a healthcare system, not the fricken Woolworths deli. Go plank yourselves.  

So in short: I’m still itchy and I’d like my friends on the internets to tell me what’s wrong with me. I haven’t changed my soap, shampoo, laundry detergent, bread, cat, or meth dealer. My mum says it’s shingles, and I have a lingering suspicion it’s stress related. I’d post a photo, but every shot I take looks vaguely pornographic. The internet is not for porn.

No, you’re not getting anything else.

Some of you may be familiar with the dashing young GOF.

Today is his birthday, so I’ve decided it may be fitting to post a brief, entirely unembellished biography as a tribute to this sterling gentleman.

GOF was born 45 years ago into a Methodist family, and managed to draw comfort from his faith right up to the point when he spawned a drunken disrespectful daughter who writes snide blogs about him. At this juncture he decided there was no God and instead chose to pioneer his own religion starring himself as the main deity. When televangelism proved costly and Kool Aid raised too many legal issues, GOF turned to blogging as a means to preach his divine gospel.

The childhood of GOF predates modern historical record, but from what I can gather he lived on a farm for a while, rode his bike a lot, and at one point had a bird on his head .

GOF spent the late 60’s and much of the 70’s traipsing through Papua New Guinea, building hydro-electric facilities, integrating with the locals and convincing Mrs GOF he was indeed marriageable material, not the anti-social hermit she suspected. In the early 80’s he moved to a rural location in Far North Queensland, where once again he built hydro-electric facilities, integrated with the locals and continued to convince Mrs GOF he was still marriageable material. My sources don’t tell me how precisely he’s managed to persuade her thus far. I suspect chloroform is employed on a regular basis as Mrs GOF is utterly delightful, while GOF is a curmudgeonly old llama delightful in his own way.

These days, GOF sells decorative botanical giftware to the higher echelons of Far Northern Queensland society, who frequently squabble like suburban commoners at the prospect of owning a GOF Original (which are imbued with all the grace and style of GOF himself).

Due to his elevated position in the public eye, it’s necessary for him to stay at the forefront of fashion. GOF can often be spotted trawling Cairns’ trendier boutiques, Dunlop K-26’s slapping smartly along the footpath as he haughtily examines the latest in Hard Yakka and Rio vintage-retro workwear. He enjoys good coffee, and partakes of fine cuisine and beans on toast with equal relish.

When GOF is not increasing property values with his presence, he can be found belting out Elton John numbers on his digital piano, tinkering on his flight simulator or chasing Mrs GOF around the house with a sphygmomanometer. I suspect the latter has something to do with the chloroform, and ensuring she stays in good nick for the next dosage. (Of course GOF would never deliberately over-medicate his own wife, but I have it on good authority that he’s backed into her with a trailer on at least one occasion.)

GOF has been an exemplary parent, and the only occasion I’ve felt vaguely apprehensive about his fathering skills was when he made me lie on the floor while forcibly pouring hydrogen peroxide into my ear “because it feels really cool! Trust your old man! Eh, hold still!” I was 23 at the time, and am still undergoing counselling. Aside from that incident, I’d be hard pressed to name another gentlemen for which I have quite as much respect, admiration and affection – even if he weren’t my bloody old man.

Happy 62nd Birthday GOF!

GOF & Spawn

Love, Globet XOX

(Random side note: I have been signing cards, letters and emails to GOF with “XOX” for the better part of two decades. Only this year has he decided to tentatively enquire “I know the X’s are kisses, but what is the O in the middle?” Sigh.)

Parklife, Mebourne 2010

I’m not really sure where to begin. It started sitting on the lawn on a beautifully sunny Melbourne afternoon with a beer and the most fabulous $8 hotdog I’ve ever eaten, passing critique on Strange Talk  and absorbing the intoxicating festival atmosphere. It went steadily downhill from there.

For a start, drunken 18 to 21 year olds are feral little parasites. Throwing their garbage everywhere, pissing into cups and bottles, blowing their nasty cigarette/weed smoke everywhere and vomiting under trees. This is the botanical gardens! Melbourne’s iconic botanical gardens, and these bastard rodents are defiling it at every turn. Why are girls wearing floral dresses and high-waisted mini-shorts coupled with hiking boots? (Yes, we did this in the 90’s. Shut up.) And why do boys have these ridiculous one sided fringes plastered down their cheek with moly grease? Why are all these children so stupid and ugly?

I was wearing a “Say no to porcelain” badge, which I can guarantee is only funny and relevant to anyone who works at my company. A bikini-clad 20 year old with an obviously pregnancy-ravaged body pawed at me during Washington’s performance, slurring “that badge is aaaawesome! I’ll give you five bucks for it! It’s so retro!” I just smiled politely and tried to ignore the skin tent on her belly flapping against the buttons of her micro shorts.

Nikki (my adopted 19 year old, see previous post) and I paid an extra $60 for the More Expensive ticket, which afforded us the luxury of a garden area with 32 additional toilets, another bar and an overpriced calamari stand. Overall this was a great decision (throughout the day there was always a queue of at least 50 squirming girls at the commoner toilets), except our loos turned out to be unisex. Every time I reefed open the door on a ‘vacant’ stall, there’d be some dude there with his wang in his hand. I lost my cool after the fifteenth identical incident and shrieked at some poor emo kid: “Were you raised in a f**** barn? Lock the door when you piss, you grotty asshole!” Nikki, the music festival veteran, was amused at my antics. She was especially tickled when I refused to drop my empty can of G & T onto the ground during Kele’s set, even though the ground was already littered with thousands of empty cans, bottles and other matter of which I didn’t particularly want a close up view. That said, she followed my example and secreted her own empty can into her purse when she’d finished, so I felt mildly vindicated.

We left before Groove Armada hit the stage at the end of the night, partly because we were disillusioned by Missy Elliot’s abysmal performance, but mostly because Nikki could sense I was about to start biting kids’ faces off. We managed to fit in a few acts throughout the day however:

Streetparty vs. Swick – No idea who they were, but there were African beats and I could’ve shaken my groove thang all day.

Darwin Deez  – Can’t sing to save himself, but the performance is cute as a bug. So much happy.

Kele – Great stage presence. Bloc Party songs went down better than his own efforts, sadly.

Washington – Brilliant. Woman can sang. And play. And stomp her feet on the stage so hard she probably has shin splints.

Uffie  – Bland, insipid and overrated.

If ever I express the urge to attend another music festival, kindly send me a link to this post and point me in the direction of a 5 star bed and breakfast in the Yarra Valley instead. Ta.