The Sympathy Spew Syndrome

Sometimes disgusting things happen around you.

Additionally. Sometimes those disgusting things cause you to do disgusting things.

Such as the time I tried to clean up my dog's vomit.

Usually I love going to wake my dog up in the morning. She looks up at me all bleary eyed and happy. Like... 'Oh! It's you! The fantastic, most beautiful goddess of my life!!!hellohellohellohellohello!!!'

(Please excuse the terrible drawing of my dog! She's usually REALLY cute in real life!!)

This morning however when I walked into the laundry the first thing I noticed was a funky smell. Then I noticed that my dog had vomited during the night.

Okay. That's not true. First I accidentally stepped in some.

I procrastinated for ages about it but eventually I talked myself into cleaning it up. Usually these things I like to leave to my mum, telling her that I've got too much uni work or something. Unfortunately my parents seem to be into abandonment these days (a different story) so it's just me here at the moment.

So there I was, armed with my multitudes of paper towels. And I start to clean.

It wasn't the smell that got to me. It wasn't the chunks nor the watery consistency. I'm sure they were all contributors but the final straw was the fact that there was a really long strand of string in there. I'm feeling sick just thinking about it now...


Anyway. So. It happened before I even realised it was happening. One minute I was lifting up this long piece of string and imagining how it would feel vomiting that up. And suddenly I was vomiting. Right on top of my dog's vomit.

I guess what worries me most about this whole scenario, is the question of what I'll ever do when I have kids one day...

Changing a nappy????

Wiping snotty noses????

Taking them to the doctors???

Spew.

Just...

Spew. 

Everywhere.

I have no idea who is going to clean the laundry up now. It's still all in there and I have no intention of going back to finish the job. If I try I'm sure I'll eventually just drown in spew as I keep sympathy spewing. Poor Jaz has to sleep in there again tonight though. Does anyone want to come over and lend a pal a hand?

The Time I Locked Myself Out

I woke up that morning feeling determined.

Okay Elyse. You're home alone. 3 essays to do today and you're going to pump these out like nothing else! Your fingers are going to be a blur as you type. You're going to be the time management QUEEN and nothing... NOTHING is going to distract you. Y'hear!??'

The session began well. Too well.

At 11am I was beginning to fatigue. I decided that a move to my sunny balcony and a cup of tea would set me up for the next 12 minute block. I turned on the kettle and went out onto the balcony. I took the little broom with me too because it was dusty out there! I was going to be a good little house cleaner!

As I began to sweep the wind began to blow all the dirt back inside. Without a thought I closed the door behind me.

It was one of those moments when it all happens in a split second. 

You know what's happening, what's about to happen. You just can't stop it. You can't do anything about it. Your body has already made the motion, the neurons have delivered the message. I could do nothing but watch helplessly as the door clicked smoothly behind me, sealing my fate.

'click'.

Fuck.

Now. Usually when I draw myself for this blog, I'm pretty flattering with myself. A pretty blue dress, wide open, questioning eyes. Full of expression and fun and laughter. Quite the vision really.

e.g.

This time I can't lie.

This time I looked a little something like this.

I can't really explain with any dignity why I own such a tiny, TINY supre shirt.

I try to tell myself that I bought it to keep my belly button uncovered so that it doesn't get infected.

The truth is that it makes me feel like one of the pussycat dolls and when I wear it I can pretend that I have abs rather than a muffin top.

That's also why I wear my dad's old Qantas pyjama pants. Because the elastic is loose. And they're disgusting.

So it was in this attire that I was trapped on my balcony. 

For at least three minutes I just banged my fists pathetically against the glass door.

Then I realised that I had some limited choices.

I could

a) mewl quietly and pathetically for help from my neighbours. 

or I could 

b) get myself down.

It really was no choice at all.

So I climbed over the railing and tried to work out the best way to get down. It must have looked hilarious because at first I lowered myself down with my stomach facing out from the building, then I decided that wasn't really a great idea and so I tried to pull myself back up and realised first hand how extraordinarily pitiful my upper body strength is. And so I managed this incredibly ungraceful and desperate scramble back up. Also, there was some SERIOUS underboob being flashed because this shirt was just THAT slutty.

So anyway... I get myself back to square one and I'm still determined to do this myself, without any help. So I lower myself again (the correct way this time!)and began to swing myself like an orangutang,  back and forth trying to get some momentum. I fling myself into a small garden around the corner which is 1m long, about 30cm wide. I hit the dirt, completely obliterate the plants in there, don't stop moving, I just keep going. Finally I stop and somehow I'm lying on the driveway with my shirt up at my neck and scratches all the way down my back. I pull my shirt back down and without a moments thought, decide then and there that my ONLY OPTION is, to WALK INTO WORK and ask to use the phone.

Not once does it occur to me to just buzz my neighbours and ask them to let me in.

So... looking like a yeti: barefoot, partially undressed, no makeup on, no bra, hair like a rat's nest, dirt and scratches all down my back and legs, I walk into Lane Cove and pass all the ladies having brunch in their Sunday outfits.

They look at me as though I am a leper.

I am humiliated.

This does not stop me however from continuing to walk into work, using the phone, calling the locksmith, and then hanging around for the next half an hour serving customers in this state. Poor BWS is going to have some strange reviews I think.

I still can't really explain why I did all this. I think I was partially in shock. The adrenaline from my escape must have been totally numbing my common sense buttons (Which, to be honest, are pretty unused anyway). But yes. All's well that ends well. The Locksmith was expensive enough to scare me from ever using the balcony ever again. The broom is still out there. I haven't had the courage to go out and get it yet. JUST-IN-CASE.

When I bumped into my roommate's husband later in the week he told me to check out the newest sale at the bottle shop. The 'girl-jumps-balcony-in-pyjamas' shiraz. Hilarious