Sad sad sad, saddity saddity sad.

My dog has just passed away.

I’d said my goodbyes when I was home earlier this year. She was old and I thought that I might not see her again. So I gave her extra kisses and cuddles, breathed in her doggy scent, and told her that I loved her before I walked out the door. Then I turned around and went back for more.

But as it turns out, that was nowhere near enough. I want to hold her and weep, I want to kiss her and thank her for being my dog, for being the silly little sausage who always fell for the same trick where I hid and sprang out at her when she least expected it. Thirteen years but I want more. More photos, more cuddles, more sneaky licks to my face while I’m sleeping.

So here I am now, sobbing like a little schoolgirl.

“There, there,” Badger tries to comfort me. He pulls me into a hug.

I let myself be cuddled, but then start to panic because what if I forget how my dog used to smell? I bawl louder at the thought of this and bury my face in Badger’s chest.

And get distracted trying to make a tear-face imprint on his shirt à la Edward Norton on Meatloaf in Fight Club.

But it doesn’t work. I’m crying so much that all I make is a big soggy mess. I can’t even craft a symbolic representation of my grief. God, I feel wretched.

Badger flutters around for a bit, hovering anxiously because it looks like I might just drown in my own tears. He isn’t quite sure what to do. But then he leaves the room and returns with a Magnum.

I hiccup a thank you and manage to stop crying long enough to cram the ice cream in my mouth. But it’s no use. I see reminders of my dog everywhere I look, and the waterworks start again. Dachshund keychain, dachshund stuff toys, dachshund stencil on my drawers…I’m even reading a book with a one-legged dachshund on the cover! And oh god, when I get to the office tomorrow, I’ll be confronted with my dog’s picture, dachshund post-it notes and dachshund mousepad. I begin to regret having turned into the sausage dog equivalent of a crazy cat lady.

Badger promises to get me KFC for dinner. I think he is hoping that my love for fried chicken will distract me. But it’s no use. I know that I’ll sob into it just like I did earlier with the ice cream. At least the chicken is meant to taste salty.

I thought I was ready for this. But I’m not.

"You're being so ridiculous that I'm going to have to ignore you."

I buy a road bike.

Badger is doubtful. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I know it’s second-hand, but it’s still a lot of money.”

“It would be a lot more money if I bought it new. Think of how much I’m saving!”

He persists. “But will you use it? You hardly use your old one anyway, just to the tennis courts and back and even sometimes at that.”

“That’s the point. If I pay this much for the bike, I’ll force myself to use it so I don’t waste my money. In fact, I’ll probably cycle around more so I get my money’s worth! Ooh, I’ll be so fit, I’ll be so ripped!”

I have an argument for everything.

I bring the bike home and we admire it together. Badger admits that it does look very nice.

“It does, it does!” I’m very excited about my (almost-) new bike. I’ve even got a matching helmet! I’ll look so cool on my racer, flashing past everyone.

I wheel the bike through the house to the bathroom and set it up so I can admire my coolness in the mirror. I strap my helmet on and get Badger to hold the bike from behind as I pretend to zoom along the streets.

“Whoosh!” I mimic the wind rushing past me as I hunch over the drop bars.

“Whoosh!” I whizz around a pretend corner like in Le Tour de France, with one knee sticking out and Badger accordingly steadying my lean.

I am very pleased with how I look on my bike. Evidently money well spent!

Badger suggests that I take the bike out for a spin.

I remove my helmet. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I am so very, very excited. So eager to try on my new outfit that I don’t stop to fiddle with the “Open here” flap, and instead rip the packaging apart with a Hulk-like roar.

It is perfect! I don my new clothes, then call Badger in to admire me.

He stops short when he sees me, a look of delight in his eyes. “You look so cute!”

I preen for a moment, then pause. “Hang on, cute how? As in cute tennis outfit?”

“As in ninja pyjamas,” he clarifies with a grin.

“Pyjamas!” I howl in outrage.

“It’s a matching tracksuit, what do you expect?”

“It’s a hoodie and sports pants! I’m wearing this to the tennis club! I look cool and athletic! And warm!”

“But they match,” he points out, as if I haven’t noticed.

It is obvious that Badger has no fashion sense. I shouldn’t have expected anything more of him – this is, after all, the man who wears the same outfit so often that I want to rake my nails across my eyeballs.

Anyway, the hoodie and pants are meant to match. All the women at the club wear matching outfits, down to their earrings and racquets. They buy their clothes to match their racquets! My socks often don’t even match each other, let alone my shoes. But no longer! I will now be as colour-coordinated as the best of them. In fact, I might even be the first one to whip out the winter combo! Hooray for trendsetting me!

I explain all this to Badger. But he is adamant that I am wearing a matching tracksuit, the type that should only be worn by Will Ferrell and French joggers.

Doubt begins to creep in…

I need a different headband

6000Times.

I recommend having a wee before reading such gems:

I had visited my regular Dim Sum over fifty times before the owner would even give me a porite herro. The day that smug young Chi-nee caught me refusing money from my friends at the counter, I witnessed a smile appear on his face. Before that day, standard service was –  ”sit over there”. Now, when we enter the restaurant,  a maelstrom of Chinese waitresses, faces holding panicked expressions, rolls like a snowball towards our table, all under the careful watch of the owner, the second we walk in the door. One crooked chop stick, and they’re gone. Hot tea and chilli oil waiting, fresh batch of fried chilli squid on the way. That’s the kind of Dim Sum power a whitey who pays for other whiteys holds. I can only dream of the power I would have if I was Chinese. Level 28 Super Yum Char Power, or maybe even higher, I would imagine. Ni-Hao!

Hen hao enough to overrook the herro.

Despite this, I reckon I’m a pretty good driver. I’m still alive after having driven in Malaysia for years so I must have the skills. I’m even extra careful here in Australia – I have to be when some people expect a Ling-Ling.

It works. Mostly. I’m faultless behind the wheel until my bugbear rears it’s ugly head – I can’t parallel park.

Here’s the problem:

When I learned to drive in Malaysia, my instructor taught me to park using a simple formula. It was easy to remember and worked every time. Unfortunately, the formula relied heavily on the five bright orange poles marking out the ‘test’ parking spot. Brilliant for passing the driving exam, but about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the real world. It was bad enough that I was hopelessly confused without those trusty orange poles. With the additional threat of accidentally backing into an open drain, it’s no wonder that the thought of attempting a parallel park gave me jelly legs.

So for years, I’ve been avoiding parallel parking spots like the plague. I prefer to pay through the nose for a spot in the carpark, rather than subject myself to the humiliation of backing into a spot again and again to no avail and having to drive away with a great big FAIL sign hanging over my car.

But not anymore. Internet, I’ve just been taught another strategy to this. One that actually works in the real world! Graduates of the orange poles, are you paying attention? Because I want to share this. It goes like this:

Pull up alongside the car in front of the parking spot until your wing mirror is parallel to the other car’s mirror. The close you are to the other car, the better.

Then back up slowly until your wing mirror gets to the middle of the other car (roughly the edge of the front door). Continue to back up slowly but start turning into the parking spot, spinning the wheel quickly until it locks.

Go on backing up (WATCHING OUT FOR OPEN DRAINS ALL THE WHILE!) until the nose of your car hits 45 degrees or 2 o’clock, whichever’s easier for you to work out. This is when you start turning the wheel to the other side (while backing up) and straightening your car into the parking spot.

Magic. That’s what it felt like completing my first independent parallel park today, without having to rely on kind passersby to walk me through every step.

It’s only taken me 6 years.

Me: More like an IQ of 0.173.

Badger: x 100!

Me: … Exactly, Mr. 17.3.

“The sign says not to feed the water birds,” I tell Badger.

“There’s no water in the pond,” he points out. “So they’re not technically water birds.” He frowns as he senses an impending grandpa-ism. “More importantly, I don’t think she should be out in the mud. There’s no telling how deep it is.”

We watch some more as the little girl ventures further and further out to maximise her duck feedage.

“She looks shorter,” I say after awhile.

“She looks stuck,” Badger corrects me.

It is true. The little girl has waded out too far and has sunk up to her knees. She twists and pulls in panic, and manages to yank one leg free. But as hard as she hauls at the other leg, trying to claw her way out of the mud, she remains irrevocably caught.

“Should we help?” Badger asks.

“You can’t do much with your bad back. Anyway, her mum’s giving it a go,” I reply. Really, it’s a lot more entertaining being a spectator.

The little girl’s mum gives up yelling instructions from the bank and climbs down into the mud. She inches gingerly forward until she too, predictably, becomes stuck.

This is hilarious.

Mother and daughter are now both shouting encouragement at each other. They hurl themselves from side to side. They shovel handfuls of mud away from their legs. It is like a cartoon. Why aren’t there more people stopping to watch?

Too late, I realise that the other park-goers are giving the stranded pair a wide berth to avoid being drafted into the drama. Mum spots Badger and me, and waves at us for help.

“Alright, we have to go now,” Badger decides.

Boo! I don’t want to climb into the mud! It smells horrible! For all I know, it’s not really mud, but rather duck poo accumulated over the years. I trudge after Badger.

But someone else hurries past us to help. Hooray, I am saved! My rescuer finds a discarded plank and a fallen branch, and turns them into a makeshift bridge to reach Mum. He is like MacGyver. MacGyver in shorts and thongs.

MacGyver tugs at Mum. I would go out to help too, but there isn’t space on the bridge. Anyway, I might be the only one with a smartphone – someone needs to be available to google “how to get out of mud“.

With their combined efforts, the mud finally relinquishes Mum with a reluctant schluk!. MacGyver and Mum manoeuvre the bridge so that they can get to the little girl, who is still valiantly scooping away.

“Take your shoes off!” I call out to Mum. “If you fall back in, it’ll be easier to pull your feet out again!”

“Great idea!” she calls back and wriggles out of her muddy shoes.

I turn to Badger and glow with pride. I have great ideas!

The bridge makes it to the little girl and she is quickly pulled out. Everyone looks dirty and exhausted. “Hooray!” I cheer them.

“Thanks,” Mum calls back.

I feel pretty chuffed. I resolve to come back tomorrow and see if I can save someone else again.

WooOOOoooOOOooo!

I cut in front of the wailing ambulance (Malaysian driving skills FTW!) and screech to a halt in front of the Emergency Department.

“I need a stretcher stat!” I holler. One is promptly wheeled over and I fuss over Badger as he is loaded onto it. Then he is whisked away and I am left behind.

To wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

I want to be a doting girlfriend. I’m very concerned about Badger and his back, but it has been 2 hours without any word. I’m also extremely concerned about my growling stomach – it’s not happy that I missed lunch and is threatening to eat my insides. Besides, the TV is set at a boring channel and my iPhone battery is dying. If this goes on any longer, I might accidentally make eye contact with one of the patients, and end up having to listen to a detailed account of aches and pains. I can’t do that today. I left my Fake Interest Face at home.

My stomach rumbles in warning again. I can sense people looking at me. That settles it. I’m off to lunch. It’s not like Badger is able to wander off anyway.

I enjoy a nice, leisurely lunch then amble back to the waiting room. A nurse is there, waiting to take me to Badger. Hooray!

Badger is in bed, drugged up and dopey. “Where were you?” he asks plaintively. “I’ve been waiting for ages. I kept sending people out to look for you. I thought maybe you’d left and gone home.”

I soothe him. I tell him that I was only gone for a very little while, a teeny tiny while, and that I had to repark the car. It’s the drugs, you know, they mess with your time perception.

He is suspicious, but accepts my story.

A nurse tells us that a physiotherapist and a doctor will come round to check on Badger. And that we should just sit tight in the meantime.

So we wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

It is not too bad at first. Enough happens in the emergency ward to mildly amuse. Like the man in the next bed who is snoring so loudly that everyone walking in stops and stares in disbelief. Or another patient sporting panda eyes and a broken limb – we try to guess if he was in a punch-up or an accident. There is also the disappointment of a male patient who finds out that the pretty nurse won’t be helping him shower after all.

Dignity's sodden death

But mild amusement only lasts so long. After 4 hours, I am ready to smother the snorer with his pillow. Panda Eyes keeps groaning in pain. And the whinging in the ward – Nurse, I’m thirsty! When will I be discharged? My TV’s broken! – everyone is gonna get panda eyes soon! There is also a lingering smell of poo in the ward. I thought hospitals were meant to be sterile! Doesn’t anyone care that we are inhaling someone else’s poo molecules?!

The physiotherapist finally arrives. She gets Badger to do a series of movements and says that it doesn’t seem too serious. There isn’t any nerve damage so it’s probably just deep inflammation and sore muscles. She gives us a list of symptoms to watch out for and tells us to wait for the doctor so we can get a prescription for muscle relaxants and painkillers.

More waiting! This is ridiculous! I start drafting a strongly worded letter to the people in charge about this:

Dear People in Charge,

As a recent visitor (at least, I hope I won’t still be a current visitor by the time you get this letter) to your hospital, I would like to bring a few matters to your attention.

• Parking: Woefully inadequate. If I had to get to the ER on my own, I would probably die of exhaustion first wouldn’t.
• Cafeteria: Too far and too crap.
• Waiting time:

The arrival of the food trolley interrupts my letter-writing. Badger tries to say that he’s not hungry, but I quickly jostle his back and send him into a spasm. Hullo, FREE food! I thank the lady and contentedly devour the meal (under the pretense of feeding Badger – funny how the food never reaches his mouth). The food is a little mushy,  but the fact that it’s free and stolen more than makes  up for its lack of taste. I am happy.

Badger starts getting huffy about the wait but I tell him to be patient. Really, you just gotta understand that the staff are doing the best they can.

It’s been two days since I had three teeth brutally yanked out. All those years of collecting little nuggets of wisdom for naught. If anything, I have those same nuggets to thank for the massive craters currently sending bolts of agony through my jaw.

Zap!

Zap!

It’s like there are tiny spiteful dwarves in there, swinging pickaxes at my exposed nerves. They must be singing as well, because there’s a cruel rhythm to the waves of pain…wait, that’s my heartbeat. THAT’S MY HEARTBEAT YOU’RE TORTURING ME IN TIME TO! Why are my teeth pulsing with pain? ARE TEETH MEANT TO PULSE? HAVE I BEEN DAMAGED BEYOND REPAIR?!

Also, I’m on drugs.

But it’s not just physical pain. It’s also been two days since I last ate properly. How I regret eating boring fried chicken for my last real meal. It wasn’t even KFC – I went to its poor cousin, Chicken Treat, instead! Since then, I’ve been living on soup and mousse. And not even getting full serves either, since half the meal ends up dribbling down my front anyway.

What I want, what I crave is MEAT!! I want a big fat slab of steak, still juicy and pink on the inside! I want dead pig in my mouth, full of fat and crispy salty crackling! I want to tear through sticky sweet chicken wings and devour bbq ribs, leaving nothing but a pile of bones and sauce smeared over my face. And lamb, ohhh lamb, how I long for your cutlets – so tasty and tender – with hide-and-seek bits for me to nibble off the bone.

I need to stop reading food blogs.