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 Misty Blue by 'Susie' /flickr
I am currently going through my own dance with the Black Dog. Although most days are not too bad, today was from the pit of hell. Which naturally makes it hilarious in retrospect.
Waking up late with a sore back, I pick up the cat to give her the usual Good Morning cuddle. She turns away and promptly runs off to score affection from her other Daddy. Nice start.
Having run out of milk, we skip breakfast and rush into the city for an eye test as it seems that I am at that age where I am not to be trusted driving without a second set of eyes. We park the car and rush into the nearest café for a quick bite. My delicious-sounding free-range turkey focaccia with cranberry sauce, Swiss cheese and Cos lettuce turns out to be turkey roll from a packet on a burnt bread roll with lettuce that looks suspiciously like Iceberg. No sign of the Swiss in there either.
Time to have the baby blue's tested which is painless enough... except that my prescription is for both distance and reading. Add on the $810 price tag for the only two frames that look decent on a face that apparently rivals Bert Newton in terms of breadth and the Visa is stretched to breaking point.
Arriving at work, I log in to Facebook to discover an alert reminding me that hubby's birthday is this Saturday. Thanks to Peter Morrissey designing the only eye wear that suits the “fuller face”, I have nothing left to buy him a gift.
Taking a rare half-hour break later on, I Google a local gay community organisation to get a referral to a gay-friendly counsellor only to find that there is no information of any use to me on their site because it redirects to another site dedicated to a festival. So I try the Sexual Health Clinic, who ask me to describe in detail what the nature of my psychological problem is whilst the girl who shares my office listens hears every gory detail. Someone will call me back later on in the afternoon to make an appointment. They don't.
The work day done, I return home to the world's cuddliest cat ever, who tonight has no intention of letting me anywhere near her without taking a swipe at me.
Hoping to escape into the safety of reality TV, we sit down to watch our weekly dose of Project Runway only to find that we had forgotten to record it.
So I retreat to the computer to see if I can, after three days of writer's block write a blog post when I figure that I probably need to admit that I am depressed and give up on ever writing again. After another swipe from the cat on the way to the computer it comes to me.
Gay men need tampons.
Women have lotions, potions, pills and plugs to get them through their heavy days. There has to be something at Coles for us. The water they pour on those pads is as blue as I'm feeling right now. An extra layer of cotton would be handy to absorb the crap that's stirring around inside me. I could probably use something to plug up my emotions to stop them from pouring out at the most inappropriate of times. Even better if the protection I need came in a cute floral pack that fits in my laptop bag.
So if you spot something I've missed in the personal hygiene aisle that can tide me over until I can get an appointment with a shrink, let me know.
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