The slab of meat


I went to a social thing with a group of friends. Most I knew quite well, some were acquaintances and others were new to me. One of them greeted me with, “So how are your surgeries going?” and in that instant I felt like I lost my humanity. In my head I became a slab of meat, full of stitches and scars and procedures. I ceased being about my music and my writing and my volunteer work, and the passions and preferences that ignite my creativity and my individuality, and I became a slab of meat.

I am the first to admit that I have had a rotten run of things. Not a single person in the world goes in to surgery lightly, and when it has to happen again and again, you can safely assume that this isn’t something that person is choosing as a new hobby. It isn’t a recreational pastime or an adventure sport. It’s more likely to be shitty and confronting and scary, with no real secure promise of what the result is going to be.

In the midst of all of this, it is easy to forget the person inside the body that is being cut open – it is easy to forget that they are there.

Earlier this year I had a “discussion” with my GP about this. I told her that I felt like I couldn’t plan anything because I didn’t know what part of my body was going to let me down next. We talked about different things that could be causing this, we talked about broken mirrors and rotten luck. We talked about the things I had wanted to achieve this year, and the different barriers that had arise, changing those goals. We talked about the things that could help, if not maintain health then at least give me a better chance to get through shit as it arises.

I went to my car and bawled my eyes out.

In my head I physically couldn’t go to the gym or get active enough to lose weight, which would be extremely helpful when it came to my physical health. Even eating properly was a challenge because the simple fact is that beloved and I already were eating very healthily.

Then I remembered those words. “How are all your surgeries going?”

I don’t want to be the sum total of scars and repairs.

So I joined a gym a couple of months ago. I figured I could at least sit on a bike and pedal. And I could, and I could do the treadmill and the cross trainer, too. And weights!! God, I forgot how much I love doing weights. You see I have in the past been a gym person –  before I moved up here. And it was some of the best times ever. I stopped when I busted my ankle. But my ankle is fixed now. So off I went.

Since then, I’ve dropped 10kg.

There’s a shitload more to go, I know that. And life has indeed reared up and given me another kick. But fuck it. I kick back now. I kick back.

I’ve set myself the goal of doing a 6km mud run next march. I can’t wait. It’s going to be fantastic.

I am not just a slab of meat connected by scars and stitches.

I am a person with goals and dreams and passions and people of the highest quality around her.

I am a human being and I am turning this shit around.

I am a human being.

I am a human.

There is a season


… And it is coming to an end.

You see, I come from a family that has ridden the waves of different sporting seasons. My Dad loves it all. Football. Cricket. Golf. Darts. Nothing – and I repeat, nothing – says boredom like the hushed tones that commentate a game of billiards on television. Lawn bowls is another one that comes with whispered reverence as black balls are rolled towards a smaller ball. And my god, we watched them all. The second my siblings and I tried to change the channel, with Dad fast asleep on the couch, his eyes would open mid snore and he’d inform us that he was still watching. We’d slink back in our seats and wait until his eyes closed again, to stage the next flick.

I honestly had it set in my head that this was solely a male trait.

So when I met my beloved, it didn’t occur to me to ask her if she watched sport on TV.

We met towards the end of football season. I know this because it meant that my flatmate and I weren’t using channel nine in that period of time, which was the channel that televised the footy. Beloved did confess to being a fan of footy, in particular her Manly Sea Eagles. But a part of me assumed that it was something she had caught from her own father, like hair colour or height. I was wrong. Her love of the Sea Eagles is more akin to blood flow, so vital is it to her life. By the time I realised this I quite liked her a lot, and I figured that it might be a handful of Manly games I’d have to watch just once a year.


Every game. Every year.

That first year we were together was the year that Manly won the premiership. And I feel dirty, knowing that it is called a premiership and not just the whole game. But it was at the grand final shenanigans that I really became aware of the world I had become ensconced in. Manly wasn’t just a team playing some game involving crash tackles and tummy sliding and a ball. To my absolute delight they were also a team that once housed the infamous Hopoate, who liked to poke his finger up the bum holes of other players when they least expected it. To date, this is the greatest source of amusement to me throughout football season, even though Hopoate hasn’t played in some time.

This year, I adopted “If you can’t beat them, join them” mentality.

I adopted a team to barrack for. I’m still uncommitted though, because to be honest the Panthers let me down this year. We started having Friday Night Pie Night, which is exactly what it sounds like: a home made pie to eat while we watch the footy. Yes, we. This is possibly why my crocheting has stepped up a notch. I encouraged beloved to start her own football discussion page on Facebook, Lozzy Talks League. It’s great. Because first and foremost, my beloved is full of passion and she really does love her footy. So when you combine the two, you get a footy fan page that is knowledgeable and clever and funny and above all, accurate. It’s also home to many a rant. However, luckily for you, there are some rants that have been censored from appearing on her page. I have no such ability to censor, and therefore it is my great delight to present to you:

The Top Three Footy Rants of 2015.

It is important to remember that these rants usually occur in the second half of the game, after the pie and usually at least one beer with a second in her hand. For this reason I am offering you a language warning. I will cleverly disguise some of the more extreme words, because while I have no problem with sharing the rants I am aware one word is the kind of word that is only uttered in these extreme circumstances.

Coming in at number three is a short but succinct evaluation of the referee’s ability to see what beloved sees. These happen quite a lot, but on this occasion, the words flew out of her mouth before she realised what she had said. This was towards the end of the game, and from memory it was at a vital stage of the game. Thus my beloved let loose with the following: “What knock on you queer caterpillar!!” I looked at her in horror then dissolved into giggles, making a mental note to include the phrase in my vocabulary at the next opportunity. The opportunity to use the phrase has yet to present itself.

Number two was a moment that thrilled me to the very core. It was a comment on the local team, the Newcastle Knights. We both fell into the habit of laughing them off as a bit of an embarrassing joke, kind of like when someone farts at a formal dining situation. But wouldn’t you know it, they bloody well up and won a game. This is how my beloved told me: “They couldn’t play to save their mother’s arsehole all season and then they finally get one up!” I wondered what had happened to endanger their mother’s arseholes, however that wasn’t important. What was important was that my beautiful beloved had given me another turn of phrase to use as soon as I possibly could. I haven’t been able to yet.

The top footy rant of 2015 happened on Friday night. It was the Bulldogs versus someone. The thing is, the Bulldogs have earned a horrible reputation for having an army of thugs as their fan base. They throw stuff and they get violent and should be banned from the competition. I was tucked up in bed when this one happened, but from what I can gather, the game unfolded with the other team kicking the Bulldogs in the bottom and beating them very nicely. However, as the win became more secure, the Bulldog fans got rowdy (as they do). And after a happy cheer from her recliner, she spoke the words that I repeated to myself again and again as I drifted off to sleep, so desperate was I to remember them forevermore. It worked. When she awoke to go to work, I immediately rolled over with a sleep drunk grin on my face, and repeated the phrase back to her:

“Why don’t you throw some shit you Bulldog supporting wankers!!!!!”

Ah, footy season! It’s nearly over once again, and this time I think a very small part of me will miss it. It’s a very small part. And I’m yet to survive the grand final. So that could change.

I’m just thankful that she’s not a cricket fan. Deal breaker, right there.

Game, Set and Frigging Match


There’s this local idiot who seems to think the only way to drive is via burnout. We hear them revving the guts out of the car that mummy and daddy undoubtedly paid for, while they spin their tyres without a thought given to the kids that use the park or the dogs and people that walk the area every day. What shits me is that while this idiot is getting their thrills, they’re creating a really unsafe environment. Let’s face it, if you’re busy trying to make lots of smoke and noise with your car you’re not going to be looking out for people. Or animals. And if you’re spinning mud up through the park as fast as you can, your focus isn’t really on anyone or anything else. Happy as a pig in mud? Yes and quite probably equally as ignorant. Beloved and I are trying to catch them in the act because the police said they can’t do anything without the rego plate, which is fine. We’re stubborn. Beloved and Scouty love gazing out the window, anyway.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It’s funny, the things you see if you keep your eyes open.

For example, last night when we were making dinner, I looked down at the garlic bulb in my hand and realised it looked like a baboon. Then I looked closer and now all I can see is a baboon with a Donald Trump comb-over.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Can you see it? It was really off putting at the time because I gave the garlic this deep voice in my head and it kept telling me I was fired and then I finally thought to respond by saying (in my head) that I was not fired, that YOU’RE about to be fired, and sauted and then EATEN.

Screw you, Trump.

Which leads to me to the adventure that was today.

I can only consider it to be revenge from Trump.

Beloved and I had a meeting of some importance today, and the meeting finished up in a small, house-like office. I asked about the loo and hobbled my way there. Sat, tended to business.


Realised that there was little power behind the flush.

Held the button down for as long as was humanly possible with one hand while I desperately tried to open the window with my other hand. It was locked.

There was nothing that could hide the exact nature of my business. Nothing. It’s OK, I reasoned with myself. Everyone does this. This is OK. We’ll just spray some air freshener and hope for the best.

But there was no air freshener, was there, Trump. You’d completely taken a mighty form of revenge, hadn’t you, Trump. There was only a pump soap container, a fake pot plant, and a window that wouldn’t open.

I tried to collect myself while I washed my hands. I let the water run while I thought about options. I couldn’t hurl myself out the window, it was locked. I couldn’t change this. I couldn’t fix it. I certainly couldn’t take it back. There wasn’t anything I could do. Not really. Just admit defeat, return to the meeting, and hope that I never have to see these people ever again. Well, except for my beloved – I would like to see her again.

I sat down, smelling of guilt and poor plumbing decisions.

As I sat, the woman who worked out of this little office said that the office was actually a display home that wasn’t really hooked up to the plumbing properly – she smiled and joked about me waiting for the water to warm up when I washed my hands, and that was when the pieces fell into place. As I made a lame comment about cold hands, the facts aligned and slotted themselves into order amongst the chaos that is my brain.

I’d just toileted in a display toilet.

A display toilet, with minimal plumbing connected.

A display toilet that could manage a number one, but should have been wearing a sign advising against any number higher than one.

Game, set and match, Trump.

Game, set and frigging match.

Poke poke poke


You’d think it would be a pretty easy decision. Someone offers to stab your Achilles with a very pointy injection, you’d straight up say NO FREAKING WAY.

But when it’s suggested in a medical setting, and the theory behind it seems sound, and it’s an option that has minimal recovery time, you’d be more likely to consider it. At least, I was. And while I am currently waiting to see if it was successful, I have to confess that I am left feeling slightly traumatised by the experience.

It hurt. Like a cow. To my credit I only dropped a handful of F-bombs, but if there was any way I could have forced myself through the bed and away from the burning pinch of those fucking injections, I would have.

But really, I know the question that is on your mind: Are those hideous bows visible through the boot?

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

The answer? A little bit. If you know what you’re looking for.

I still feel the pinch of shame when I think of them.

Anyway, this was me when I got home from the procedure. Keep in mind that it HURT. And that I was currently propped up on pain killers alone. The third fur baby was most likely keeping watch over the park, or waiting at the back door to play:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

So the fur babies are helping and the pain killers are helping and the boot is protecting. But as much as I may sound like a bit of a wuss, I have to confess that it was bloody traumatic, just lying there on my tummy while someone inflicted that kind of pain. I got in the car afterwards and had a teary, and it still makes me a bit shaky when I think about it.

I therefore am trying not to think about it.

Instead I am thinking about some different crochet projects I have in mind. And giggling because I often refer to crocheting as hooking, and when I had to fill out some paperwork for Scouts a couple of weeks ago I had to list my interests, and top of the list was HOOKING.

Fuck em.

How’s your world shaping up this week?

A cute new design


So earlier this year, I had an operation to help my Achilles tendon move around easier. It worked but my Achilles remained screwed. Tomorrow morning I am going for a platelet injection into my Achilles (yes I am squealing like a stuck pig even thinking about this). The aim is to create inflammation so that the Achilles can start rebuilding itself.

I thought I better go and visit the nail ladies and have a pedicure, given my left foot is about to be shoved into a boot for a fortnight. Take the old polish off, bit of a buff and tickle, and off we go again.

I’ve been doing the pedi thing every month since Mrs Cuppy gave me a voucher for one for my birthday last year. Not being an overly ladylike beast, it was given a bit tongue-in-cheek. I bit back by getting hot pink nail varnish. But the thing is, since that first pedi, I realised I actually like not having to bite cut my own toenails. And I like the massage chair. And I like the spa. So now I do it every month.

Last month, I went for a very fungal green, and in a moment of strangeness, I elected to have a panda painted onto my big toenails. It’s winter, I reasoned. Nobody would notice. I kinda liked them. Yes, when I was barefoot, it did look like I had kicked a pile of birdshit. But they were pandas. On my toes.

I guess it was the nail art that gave today’s nail lady the idea that I had a “thing” for pictures on my big toes.

Because I sat down, and she had a look, and told me she had a really cute new design for me.

I told her I wanted to just keep them plain this time, but she assured me it was very nice and I would love it. So I yielded. Told her to go for it.

At first, it looked like the Mardi Gras symbol:

And I thought to myself, wow, she must be able to tell that I’m gay! Was it the jeans? The Pink Floyd shirt? Gaydar? I mean, I am pretty obviously not a girly girl.


I mean seriously.

She carried on, filling in the two sideways hearts with red. Then outlined them with black. Maybe a butterfly? God, I don’t know. I kept watching.

And then physically recoiled when I realised what she was doing.

You know when you can’t laugh, but you want to? And the laughing gets bigger and bigger because it cannot be released? And your body starts doing involuntary shakes and squeaks?

That was me.


Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner


Big red bows with white polka dots.

I look like I’ve kicked Minnie Mouse in the head.

Nobody looks at me and assumes there are going to be frigging bows!

And I had to sit there and let them dry and lots of people walked past and did double takes when they saw my double bows. One person even suggested I could change them to butterflies if I wanted to. Because the idea of me in bows is totally bloody ridiculous!!! 

This might be a cute new design. But it is most definitely on the wrong feet.

And now I have to find a way to remove them before tomorrow. Because I cannot spend two weeks with a bow peeking out from my big black post-Achilles-injection boot!!!

Or can I?

What do you think?

In the Jar


Well hello! It has been AGES since I wrote a post on the blog. I could regale you with the list of reasons justifying my absence, but the quick version is that things went shitty, then started to get better. My head went along for the ride and thankfully things are looking good – or at least, I am dealing with them better.

While I was away, different bits and pieces happened. Scouty scored a spider bite to the bum, and beloved had her first ever showcase with her designs. I’m not sure why those two things are paired in my mind. But let us just enjoy the strange side by side resting of those events for a moment.


Anyway anyway, I was visiting my sister and my furry nephew, and I came home with this:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It used to be my Nan’s, this sunflower jar. My nan was and is one of my best people, so I love that this jar is residing in my home. I popped it on my bedside table, promising that I would find a place for it later.

And to be honest, I am not really sure what came over me.

But a few days later, when beloved still hadn’t noticed it, I picked it up and showed her.

She asked what it is.

And for some reason, my brain said to itself, “Let’s just leave one little letter off the answer, ok?” and I agreed.

I replied with, “It’s Nan!”

Beloved (freezes): What did you say?

Me: It’s Nan.

Beloved: Um, you’re going to need to find a new place for your Nan’s ashes to go. Not in the bedroom.

Me (picking up the jar and popping it open): Why? It’s not like they’re going to spill or leap out at you.


Me (Laughing hysterically. Segues into a pretend coughing fit. The jar, which is open, is fumbled, fumbled, fumbled…)

Beloved: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Me: It’s empty darling.

Beloved (continues panicking).

Me (changes jarmie pants and tries to stop laughing).

Admit it. You’ve missed the blog.

I’ll try to blog more regularly, now that the sun is shining again.

When was the last time you wet yourself laughing?

The Granite Block


This post is the result of much thought. And I know this could be a risky post. Not because of the content, but because I know I am writing to some people who might read it and decide I am having a go at them. I assure you, I am not. I’m really not.

I also want to say that I have friends who are Christians, whom I love. The very vast majority of them have continued to treat me exactly the same way as they did before I came out. And even though there are disagreements regarding marriage equality, we are adult enough to accept that people have different viewpoints. We remember in our hearts that we are human and that our history and the value we see in each other is reason enough to continue our friendship, regardless of differences.

And it’s because I know that you love me, that I want to bring this up:

Those posts you share, full of “buts” – they are doing a huge amount of damage.

I imagine that we all have this big block of granite, which represents our faith – in ourselves, in the god of our understanding, in people, in faith itself. When I was gathering up the courage to come out, I looked at my block of granite. I considered the people who I knew could be offended by what I had been puzzling about for years. I considered my understanding of the Bible, of the god I believed in. And in confidence in these things, I spoke those words: “I think I might be a little bit gay”.

For the most part, there was unending support. And when the US announced marriage equality this week, I loved the surprise of seeing Christian allies with their rainbow-tinted profile pictures. I was so proud of them, knowing all too well what they were risking in doing so.

Image by The Naughty Corner, and by that app thing that put a rainbow over your profile picture.

Image by The Naughty Corner, and by that app thing that put a rainbow over your profile picture.

But this announcement from the USA also saw an increase in those “but” posts.

Posts that share content that compares marriage equality to paedophilia, followed with a “but I am not judging you”. Posts that are prefaced with a “This is what I believe but I love everyone”.

That word.


Now, back to that block of granite. I want you to consider what it is like, from this side of things. Having questioned your sexuality for most of your life. Knowing that being true to yourself risked rejection. Violence. Threats. Hatred. Having to consider and double consider what you say and where you say it and who you say it to. Usually, mental health issues, including anxiety, suicidal ideation, depression, self harm and so on. I’m not saying these are unique to the gay community – in fact, most Christians I know experience exactly the same thing with their faith.

This if nothing else should unite us.

When I first came out, trusting in my granite block, that first rejection was like a chisel rested on the granite and was hit by a mallet. And just like that, a chip was knocked away. I’ve been out for almost 5 years now. And that block of granite has changed shape significantly. In this last week, it has taken some almighty blows. But, but, but. Chip, chip, chip.

I could talk to the people who have shared this stuff individually. But I know that I can’t be the only one experiencing this. And also, perhaps stupidly, I don’t want to hurt them.

I could try to glue those chips back onto my granite block, and not let their well meaning daggers stab me too deeply. But I bet you’d still see the cracks on my granite block, wouldn’t you.



I expect that what is left is to either give up on my granite block, or write something that tries to explain what it is like, in the hopes that these words offer comfort to other people going through the same thing.

So here goes:

I love the Christian authors who publish articles, but I don’t love that you are flat out mean. I love the Christian artists that create pictures depicting their beliefs, but I don’t love that you are ignorant and cruel in your captions and assumptions. I love the Christian bloggers who are safe to share their faith without fear of persecution, but I really dislike being persecuted.

I love my Christian friends who share their “but” posts, but I wish you could understand the hurt it creates. Just like, I am sure, my rainbow picture hurts you. Just like my orientation hurts your faith. I get it. I really do. But please, before you hit “share”, consider the impact those words are going to have on all people.

Because really, what we are disagreeing on, is love.

And in the world we have in 2015, to disagree on love is a tragedy.