I got it from my Mama.

Did anyone have a Feral Cheryl doll as a kid? She had piercings, tattoos and underarm hair. I had one. So did my best friend. To be fair we went to the Steiner school so alternative playthings were really to be expected. I've googled her but none of the dolls I have found were quite as Feral as mine was. I have a sneaking suspicion that my mum made adjustments to her.

My mother once went through a book titled 'Farmer Fred' and added an 'a' to every 'Fred' so I didn't grow up with restricted gender schemata. You know what Freda? Us ladies can do anything!!! Now I can eat a sandwich, play spart (is that the right word for that "fun excersise''* thing people play in teams? I've not had to use it before) and impregnate bitches. Wassuuuuup.



*An oxymoron if ever I've seen one.

I cant do one thing, I'm just too good. I cant do one thing, I am Tiger Woods. I make your science hotter than a lighter would.

Sometimes, in an effort to be badass I wear tights on their own, put rap music on and do my assignments the day before they're due. Unfortunately when writing about buffer solutions and listening to Lil Wayne profess his love for lady parts, I have the inexplicable urge to talk about how bitches love my pH probe. I'm sure that one day one of those science types are going to open my assignment and vomit at the things I have written about neutralising their solution. Maybe, in ten years I'll be giving a lecture on elephants (because that's a very likely career path after a B. Arts) and I'll say "An elephant never forgets... So my dick remembers everything."

That would be awkward.

Manopause

At a certain time in any woman's life, her fertility marks its demise through various symptoms. These include hot flashes, irregular cycles and taking offence when daughters feign intellectual disability. My mum is a pretty ace lady. She works, has popped out two children and it only took her three and a half years to figure out how to turn the telly on without assistance. She doesn't need help on the whole menopause front. She's a woman. Women can handle that shit.

Men however, cannot. It was no shock when Dad began complaining about the heat, I thought he was aiming to prove the existence of global warming. What I did not expect was the stomach pains, weight consciousness and sudden interest in the plot of Brothers and Sisters- which, by the way, is as much of an emotional roller coaster as menopause itself. I've heard of sympathy pregnancy- in fact I often get a chuckle out of the image of my dad singing to his inflated belly- but sympathy menopause has never been on telly, so of course I had no way of knowing it existed.

After much consultation with other dad-havers*, it has become apparent that my situation is not an isolated incident. Universally, dad's are struggling with sleep deprivation, mood swings and general grumpiness. I'm not sure if this phenomenon is a mid-life crisis for those who think that it is poor taste to drive a red sports car whilst wearing leopard print or is just sympathy for the women in their lives. I'm likely to believe the latter. I mean, Dad has achieved offspring of this calibre... Crisis averted.

Having come to the conclusion that Dad was going through sympathy menopause for Mum, I thought I'd show him some support and get some sympathy symptoms of my own. I stormed through the house yelling about cleaning products, cried during Australia's Got Talent and began** eating twice the amount of food anybody should ever consume. Judging from the response I received, Dad was after no moral support. Bloody trooper.

This is for Dads; the silent sufferers. May your phantom uterine pains leave as quickly as my dignity did when I mentioned watching Brothers and Sisters.

*Read: one conversation with a friend.

**Read: continued.