Ellen Herald

In the interests of truth and making fun of hippies, Kat and I helpfully came up with a few things which might be compared to the "discomfort" of childbirth.

Ellen: I'm not a fan of food poisoning.

Kat: Indeed. It's unpleasant. Uncomfortable. In the way childbirth is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way a compound fracture of the spine is uncomfortable. Or a heart attack.

Kat: In the way being anal raped with a cactus is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way bungee jumping without a rope is uncomfortable.

Kat: In the way being a Jihadist human shield is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way being burnt at the stake is uncomfortable.

Kat: In the way being torn apart by a pack of rabid dogs is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way drowning in quicksand is uncomfortable.

Kat: In the way drinking acid is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way electrocution on high voltage power lines is uncomfortable.

Kat: In the way having your eyeballs scratched out by voracious birds is uncomfortable.

Ellen: In the way having a tooth pulled without pain relief is uncomfortable. That makes me wonder if those natural birthers reject pain relief when they go to the dentist?

Kat: ooo you should put it to them on their joyous bullshit website. Or is it mouth rape?

Ellen: It's SO mouth rape.
That happened to me last time I went to the dentist.
I have trauma, and need counselling.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH.

There's someone in my office who is fascinated by death, gore and misery (and poodles, but that's for another time).
So, when we heard over the scanner this morning that someone had been found hanging off a doorframe in their Department of Housing hovel on the east side, we couldn't just maintain a respectful silence and get on with our work, could we?
Oh, no. That would be civilised. That would be dignified.
Instead, this particular person decided to have a conversation (with itself, because it couldn't interest anyone else to join) about what happens when people hang themselves, and what the ambos have to do, and who they know who has committed suicide in the past 45 years, and how they did it, and why they did it, and how they were found, and what condition their corpse was in at the time.
I'm not squeamish. I just find it fucking irritating.

Things really couldn't be any better right now.
I'm head over heels in love with Neil and Charlie, I'm really enjoying my work, I feel energetic and healthy, I love this weather and I think I've solved my backless/strapless wedding dress underwear dilemma without resorting to adhesive tape.

I love hate mail which is hand-delivered and written in old-fashioned longhand. I'm going to treasure this one.

Dear Ms Vaz,
I would just like to make comments about your column in last week's CWD in which you made disparaging comments about Mrs Pauline Hanson.
I feel your comments were uncalled for and quite disgusting. Not the kind of comments I would expect from you.
Mrs Hanson has to contend with enough vilification without you adding to the debate.
By all means disagree, but keep the snide remarks out of a once great daily newspaper.
The City of Orange has always been a conservative town and one only has to follow the voting trends to be aware of this.
Unfortunately, the CWD has become more left wing in its comments and editorials, and perhaps this is one obvious reason why so few buy it today.
I would suggest you moderate your comments, then perhaps readers may come back to buying the CWD again?
Yours Sincerely,
A former reader.

I think this was the bit my former reader objected to:

Life experience is a good thing, and it's healthy that our politicians are not all squeaky-clean law graduates who've never had so much as a parking ticket.
If the photos are of her, Ms Hanson should embrace them.
Hell, she's embraced plenty of other things in her past that most people seeking election to parliament would deny and turned them to her advantage.
Seeing as the only Pauline Hanson supporters left are dubiously educated white supremacists who find her particular brand of grass roots scaremongering a real turn on, I can only imagine that these photos would help her cause.

"Birth, like sex, can be an intensely exhilarating, intimate and empowering experience".
I have quoted this nasty lie directly from the Australian Homebirth Network's website www.joyousbirth.info.

I think motherhood is turning me into John Howard, and I don't even care. I find myself getting angrier and angrier about the amount of insane leftist propaganda that is forced on women who are pregnant, in labour and embarking on new motherhood. The majority of it is perpetuated by women who call themselves feminists.
I'm still traumatised by the experience of giving birth, and not just because it was horribly painful. Mostly, I'm furious.
I read a lot about labour when I was pregnant and I wish I'd had the sense to burn most of it. It was virtually impossible to find anything written which was not informed by the ideologies of the powerful, anti-medical intervention natural birth lobby. It's a movement made up of overweight, poorly-groomed hippies who, having done nothing else remotely interesting or useful in their lives, start natural birth clubs and post obscene photos of themselves squeezing out offspring on the Internet. I hate these women and what they stand for. They lied to me and made my first experience of birth more painful than it needed to be. If they were just fat and annoying, it would be okay. But they're too powerful. There are too many of them who are midwives.
During pre-natal classes at Orange Base Hospital, where I hoped to find some useful and realistic information about labour, the midwife running the show used the word "discomfort" instead of the word "pain".
This came back to me repeatedly when I was in labour. I thought something was wrong with me - that I was some kind of wimp - because what I was feeling was mind-altering, spine-shattering, gut-wrenching agony; not fucking discomfort.
The same woman told us about all the dangers of various pain relief drugs, but none of the benefits.
Two good things happened to me during the 18 and a half hours of trying to give birth to my son. The first was the male anaesthetist giving me an epidural, the second was the male obstetrician delivering my son with a vacuum.
On the Joyous Birth website, you'll find plenty of women who had a similar birthing experience to mine whingeing about how they feel violated by the medical profession for not being allowed to continue an agonising natural labour. They call some of the methods that were used when I delivered Charles "rape". What a bunch of ungrateful bitches.
Contrary to the lies spread by Joyous Birth, it did not take me an inordinately long time to recover physically from birth because I had medical interventions. I just felt great about having a healthy baby. The only thing that was hard to recover from was that nobody had just told me the truth about birth - that it's agonising, that it's not that important in the great scheme of being a mother and that you'll do absolutely anything to get that baby out and stop it from hurting. The hardest thing on the day was feeling that I was somehow weak in my choice to use drugs and the utter shock I felt upon discovering that there was nothing exhilarating, intimate or empowering about it.
I was also going to vent my spleen about hippie attitudes to breastfeeding and early education, but this has exhausted me and I need a Bex and a good lie down.

EDIT:
During my anti-hippie rant, I was so focused on the bad things I forgot to mention two really good things.
1. The support of Mr Jones, who was there for the whole hellish experience, was probably more traumatised than I was and encouraged me to make decisions which were right for me at the time.
2. When Kat walked into the room, told Charlie to "get the fuck out" and made me giggle at a time when laughter would have been otherwise impossible. It took her a while to recover, too.

In brief...

I have a toothache. I've had it for weeks. It's getting worse, so I'm slightly paranoid that the decay has now eaten into the bone and my whole jaw will need to be replaced. Or removed, thus rendering me hideous. I haven't been to the dentist because I hate how much it costs. It's so easy to hand over $200 for sensational purple stilettos, but incredibly difficult for potentially face-saving dental treatment. I have my priorities wrong.

I firmly believe that children who are not immunised should be banned from schools, childcare centres and all other public places. Nothing shits me more than faux-hippie north shore mummies who want to put everyone else's kid at risk from measles and whooping cough.

If someone else asks me when I'm going to have another baby, I'm going to cut them into little pieces with a chainsaw and then eat the pieces and the chainsaw.

I have a wedding dress. I look hot in it. Ridiculously hot. We're getting married early in September, with the final date yet to be decided.

Tonight I'm cooking zucchini and pancetta pasta, using zucchini home-grown by Jones. If anyone has any good recipes for squash, please let me know. Jones has grown enough of the stuff to feed us for the entire winter.

There is never a day when I don't stop and feel relieved and grateful about how much my life has changed in two years.

Dear Fans,
I'm going to write this entry on behalf of Charles, who feels you should all know a bit more about him.
It's called:
"20 things I like, by Charles Patrick Jones".
1. Mum. And her breasts. Mainly her breasts
2. Dad. Everything about him
3. Grandparents
4. Milk
5. Pumpkin soup
6. Cheese
7. Babycinos
8. Mud cake
9. Yoghurt
10. Bolognese
11. Smoked salmon
12. Avocado
13. Weetbix
14. Watermelon
15. Baked beans
16. Carrots
17. Chicken soup
18. Vegemite sandwiches
17. Ice cream
18. Fruit salad
19. Mashed potato
20. Dirt

Dear Fans,
It's been a while. I have chosen my blondest and silliest publicist to put together this press release updating you on my recent activities.

VAZ AND JONES ANNOUNCE ENGAGEMENT
For Immediate Release

Glamorous celebrity couple Ellen Vaz and Neil Jones are pleased to announce their engagement.
For those of you who are responding with sharp intakes of breath and saying "oh my God, I can't believe she's getting married AGAIN", do fuck off.
Ellen is just a little bit more glamorous than the rest of you, I guess. A little bit more Marilyn Monroe, or Princess Di, or someone else who is hot and famous but didn't die a tragically early death.
Jones is, of course, extremely grateful. He sensibly proposed in the local jewellery store.
The wedding event of the year will be a closely guarded secret, with the couple currently negotiating photo rights with the highest bidders.
Confirmed guests include Barack and Michelle, Kevin and Therese, Brad and Angelina and Wallace and Grommit.
Still waiting for your invitation in the mail? Don't hold your breath.

The following, a record of what Kat and I did at work today, is based on an emo girl we saw wearing only one sock and a sign Kat saw which said "Tees! Like, totally, $15".

Ellen:
Teen emo maths question:
If a tee costs like totally $15, how much is one sock?

Kat:
If you hate your parents, but love the black thrasher shirt they bought you, what is the ratio of attitude to gratitude you should show them?

Ellen:
Between which hours of the day should you avoid sunlight exposure in order to maintain your gothic moon-tan?

Kat:
If your boyfriend steals your eyeliner do you:
a) write a poem about it
b) write a blog about it
c) tell everyone on your myspace that you're like, totally going to commit suicide
d) commit suicide

Ellen:
How much Panadol and Jim Beam would be required for a 60 kilogram emo to overdose, causing panic to friends and family but without actually doing themselves any long-term physical harm?

Kat:
How many quotes from Nietzsche does it take to impress your friends?

Ellen:
"My Chemical Romance - the voice of a misunderstood generation".
Discuss, in haiku.

Kat:
"Why I wish I was never born"
An intimate study in graphic art.

Ellen:
Statistically, what is the likelihood that you may never have been born?

Kat:
Statistically, what is the likelihood that you are the reason your parents divorced?

Ellen:
What is your favourite colour?
a) black
b) black
c) black

Kat:
Which of the following makes me more emo than you?
a) my fringe is longer
b) my eyeliner is blacker
c) I look more like the Veronicas
d) My back dye job is more recent than yours.
e) I hate everything more than you. Like, totally.

Ellen:
The Veronicas prove that:
a) girl on girl action is cool, even if it's your twin sister
b) eating food is so 1997
c) black haired girls look even more washed out and heroin-chic when they go blonde
d) all of the above

Kat:
I hate everything because:
a) I wish I was never born.
b) The world is totally like, shit.
c) I wish you were never born.
d) My middle class existence is the worst thing ever.

Ellen:
I have reached the pits of hopelessness and despair because:
a) my fringe keeps brushing against my eyes, causing redness and irritation
b) the tattoo parlour wouldn't accept my fake ID
c) my totally unfair parents won't let me smoke pot in the living room
d) my black skinny jeans cut off circulation to my feet, causing them to turn a maudlin shade of blue.

Kat:
I have reached the pits of hopelessness and despair because:
a) my fringe keeps brushing against my eyes, causing redness and irritation
b) the tattoo parlour wouldn't accept my fake ID
c) my totally unfair parents won't let me smoke pot in the living room
d) my black skinny jeans cut off circulation to my feet, causing them to turn a maudlin shade of blue. WHICH IS WHY I CAN ONLY WEAR ONE SOCK

Ellen:
It all makes sense now.

Dear Fans,
It's my fifth day back in the office since I had Charlie and already I have rediscovered the joys of undertime. After this, I plan to do my nails, dust my desk, read the Sun Herald from cover to cover, eat a Mars Bar, find out if the Coke machine still does free diet coke if you kick it in the right spot and maybe go outside for a cigarette. I haven't had this much free time in months. Work is about 1000 per cent easier than full-time mummying.
In other news, the Vaz-Jones family has come down with the flu and everyone is cranky, particularly the little one.

Dear Fans,
Now I have a spare five minutes, I'd like to tell you about my new job.
It's a full-time position. By full time, I mean 24 hours a day. If my employer needs me at 2am, then I get out of bed. Sometimes he needs me from 2am until 6am, and I'm there for him.
Just getting this job required a significant amount of physical trauma from which my body will be recovering for the next few months. It's also known to be a high stress career, with the major physical, hormonal and emotional upheaval resulting in serious complications for many people in my position.
It's physically demanding, requiring a lot of heavy lifting, bending and stretching and walking, sometimes for hours at a time. Skills in hygiene, health and nutrition, education, social development, speech pathology, dental care and first aid are essential. The job also requires endless patience and kindness and tremendous reserves of energy.
I don't get paid.
The worst part of the job is that it can be lonely, isolating and misunderstood by friends and family members.
The best part is that my employer is, by far, the most intelligent and good looking boss I've ever had. Sure, he can be demanding, but making him happy is the most satisfying thing I'll ever do. I also feel like I'm making a unique and valuable contribution to society as a whole. I'm proud that I manage to do this job, look good while I'm doing it and still manage to cook a great meal at the end of the day, maintain a loving relationship with my co-worker, keep my spirits up and occasionally go out for a much needed beer or five.
Now that you know what I do, you might understand why people referring to this job as "a great big break from work" really hurts my feelings. And why I'm going to tell the next person who says "why don't you just write a novel in your time off" to GET FUCKED.


See? Told you my boss was cute.

The Australian Breastfeeding Association should hire me to be their poster child and pay me lots of money. Here are a few places where I have got my boobs out recently:
1. Various pubs
2. Summer Street
3. Canberra airport
4. Melbourne airport
5. The back of a Melbourne taxi
6. Old Melbourne Gaol
7. Melbourne Zoo

I feel proud and womanly.

Dear Fans,
When I was pregnant, it came to my attention that every single woman who had ever given birth to a child felt it necessary to write a book loaded with horrid pregnancy and mothering advice. I read a lot of these books, and most of them pissed me off. Anyway, it's my turn now. Here is what I have learned:

1. Don't read the advice books, don't go to birthing classes and burn any copies of the Daily Telegraph which have headlines like "obesity starts in womb". You'd be far better off going to the pub or having a nap. It's all designed to make you feel inadequate, guilty and shit. Birthing classes gave me horrific nightmares, and I missed out on trivia at the Canobolas four weeks in a row because they were on Wednesday nights. I actually cried when one book said you shouldn't gain more than 2 kilograms by 20 weeks pregnant. I had gained 10. Look at me now, motherfuckers. I am one smoking hot yummy mummy.
2. Don't believe any stupid hippie crap about natural births. What a fucking joke. Take the drugs. Take all of them, and enjoy the ride. Unless, of course, you think pain is fun. Then you can be my guest to try out some puffy breathing and positive visualisation while giving birth in a fetid lagoon in the middle of a rainforest. I personally hope you experience serious medical complications.
3.Don't expect to enjoy it. Nobody glows during pregnancy. It's shit. Complain long and loud and proud about how shit you feel. If anyone says to you (as someone did to me) "You shouldn't complain because some people can't get pregnant when they really want to", punch them in the head. Or say "Have they tried having sex?"
4. Don't be shy about breastfeeding in public. It's your legal right and you should make the most of it. Get 'em out.
5. Babies are awesome. Bore your friends by talking about your offspring all the time. Carry photos to show perfect strangers at the pub. Make the most of your cute new accessory by wearing matching outfits. Get out of the house and bump people with your massive, all-terrain pram vehicle. Throw tantrums if you don't get your own way. Be a total horror, before your child learns to be even worse.

In other news, I have to buy a vacuum cleaner today.
In other other news, Mr Jones is taking me to Melbourne for mothers day. What a champion.
Kisses,
Vaz.

Dear Fans,
Various Ellen Herald readers have been requesting an entry about the most significant event of my life so far. The reason I haven't written about it yet is that I usually make the most of brief moments when Charlie does not require my immediate attention to down four or five gin and tonics and loll about with a vacant look in my eyes, so this had better be appreciated.
What was I doing last entry? Oh, I see, complaining about pain. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT PAIN WAS.
The only way to describe how I felt after 13 hours of being in labour is that I was 100 per cent convinced I was going to die. I would have felt worse if I had known I still had five hours to go. Throughout the entire ordeal of pregnancy and birth, it didn't really sink in that I was actually going to have a baby at the end of it all until the doctor pulled him out and handed him to me. And then I fell utterly, ridiculously, head-over-heels in love. I also felt fabulous. After the constant feelings of illness and deprivation associated with being pregnant, I was suddenly overcome by an incredible sense of wellbeing. Not only did I have the most fabulous little person in the world to play with, but all of a sudden food tasted good, I could drink wine without feeling guilty and I could wear nice clothes. There are days when the little monkey cries for hours and I feel so tired I can hardly stand, but it is still better than anything I've ever done before. Charles is beautiful. I know all mums think their kids are gorgeous, but there really is something special about this one. He has such a little personality already. In the last few days he has started to smile at us and it's bliss to see that. Mr Jones is a fabulous dad and encourages me to go out to the pub every now and then so he can have a boys night cuddled up in front of the football with his son. I'm so happy, and so damn proud of my little family.
Hope you are all vomiting after this sickeningly gooey description of Vaz-Jones family life. I will write when I next have five minutes spare, which could be several years away.

Try as I might, it's hard to keep my rosy mum-to-be glow when I can't even go to the supermarket without experiencing such bad pains shooting all over the place from my navel to my toes that I have to bend over double. It's embarassing. All I want is my body back. I'm sick of sharing.
It's lucky Mr Jones is a glass-half-full kinda guy. Otherwise I'd be an absolute wreck. He's all "It'll be great and fun and we'll love it and you'll barely notice when he pops out". I'm all "I'm gonna die in childbirth and even if I don't I'll wish I did because I'm going to be such a bad mum and Charlie will hate me and I'll be one of those people who leaves their baby in a basket on the church doorstep". Yep. I'm such an optimist.
I'm going to have another nap in order to blank out some of this interminable wait.

Dear Charles Patrick Jones,
I'm over being nice.
GET THE FUCK OUT.
Love,
Mum.

Dear Charles Patrick Jones,
Despite a mad fit of cleaning this morning which I hoped might be some kind of sign I was about to give birth to you, I think we can safely assume that you have cleverly avoided a February 29 birthday. I suppose this means that every single year I'm going to have to make a cake, give you extra special cuddles and let you and your friends play war games on the roof in order to celebrate. I plan to celebrate with a double shot of tequila and a packet of cigarettes, and I don't particularly care what your father has to say about that.
I want to meet you. Frankly, I'm sick of carting you around because it hurts. I want to hold you and play with your little toes and take you for walks and say "I know - he takes after me" when people say how good looking you are. I'm looking forward to your first smile like you wouldn't believe and I can't wait to see your dad hold you.
Get a move on, Sunshine. I'm ready.
Love,
Mum.

Dear Fans,
Here's a few of the things I can no longer do now I have sprouted a giant avocado in my belly:
1. Dry my toes after getting out of the shower
2. Sleep on my back
3. Sleep on my tummy
4. Sleep
5. Walk. I can sort of lurch from side to side if I really need to get somewhere
6. Attend to any cosmetic procedures below my chin
7. Stand for longer than three seconds without fainting
8. Eat without feeling full and sick almost immediately
9. Wear nice clothes
10. Go anywhere without being gawked at

I hereby urge Ellen Herald readers to take one or more of these things and really, really enjoy it. Indulge in a sensual toe-drying extravaganza, lie out on your tummy and enjoy the nice stretchy feeling in your back, or wax your bikini line vigorously. I'm never going to take any of that for granted again.
I'm going to go now and try to convince my small son to be born as soon as possible.

I was just reading previous entries of the Ellen Herald (because there's nothing more interesting than me) to see what I was doing this time last year. It turns out I was considering going skinny-dipping at the beach.
I then imagined what I would look like if I stripped off all my clothes in public today, and nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Wish I was at the beach right now.
Can that be arranged, Mr Jones? It is Valentines Day, after all...