A Note from Felix Yeomans

So Tomorrow little O is admitted to hospital. I’ve been quiet on the blogosphere the past week as Bub has kept us up every night screaming. I’d like to put it down to the fact that she’s psychically gifted and knows she’s about to have her back sawed into, but the doctors tell me it was the result of a bad ear infection that landed up bursting her eardrum. Now call me pushy, but I was under the misapprehension that the Universe would give O a break on the usual childhood nasties while she’s having her innards constantly surgically reworked. No such luck. It’s been torturous. She’s been in hideous pain and I chose this as my moment to have a minor personal meltdown. I came face to face with the frightening fear that I may not be able to return to work for a very long time. I worked out the cost of having three babies in full time childcare. Then I worked out how much I could earn full time as a script editor or in-house writer on a TV show. After tax, I would take home a total of two hundred dollars a week.

Two Hundred Dollars. That’s about enough to buy a half decent meal in Sydney.

My friends used to envy my TV salary. Yes, I worked for an evil empire of pernicious little megalomaniacs pretending to be Storytellers, but fuck me, it paid well. That was before I turned into a breeding factory and had to give nine tenths of it away to daycare centres…

An aside.
I am not a good looking person. My husband is attractive. Dark, swarthy, perhaps a little on the crazed terrorist side, but attractive. Yet it’s my bloody Lithuanian Jewish Peasant genes that have inflicted themselves on innocent baby O. And I fear I’m growing two more pale skinned little proletariat porkers. God, if you’re listening (I bet you’re a wicked blogger), please can R’s genes get a look-in? Actually, it’s specific genes I’d like to perpetuate. Can we have his lovely olive skin, but avoid that flabby stuff under his chin? Thanks.

And if you’re wondering what the heading of this post refers to... Just as I have an identity and career crisis of chronic proportions (I even yelled at my father ‘why didn’t you tell me not to bother getting three degrees if all I was going to become was a fat housewife!’), my kitsch little personalised notepad rebels against me. Remember I have a weird name? Remember that lovely R ordered me three personalised notepads so that, for the first time in my life I had something cute with my name on it? Well, on page three of my Note from Yidchick pad, I came across a frightening site.
A Note from Felix Yeomans.
I flipped through the pad and found that, interspersed with my name was this... This awkward, mass-murderer conjuring name that was not mine at all. Felix Yeomans sounds like the boy in your class who picked his nose then ate the snot. Felix Yeomans is the kid who once crapped his pants during choir rehearsal.
I AM NOT FELIX YEOMANS!
I am a fat housewife with three useless degrees and a daughter about to have her most major operation yet. And I’m crapping myself senseless.

Can you tell?