Tuesday, 29 January 2013

this is a hopeless, unedited word-splurge and shouldn't be read by anyone, ever

You poor deprived things haven't been given any photos recently, have you?  Here are two for your ocular edification:


Flicking back over the last week or two, my usual word-vomits have become wee short missives.  I haven’t particularly felt the inspiration to do much but give you single paragraph whinges about my current housing status (no change: imminent eviction + nowhere to go). 

I’d really like to draft a proper essay one of these days, but I’m kidding myself.  If I can diligently continue posting, even short missives, I can pretend my writing is improving.  At the least, I’ll have a journal of sorts to look back on.  Justification complete.  Sometimes, the most satisfying dialogues are those you have with yourself (pffft, you say ‘monologue’-you-crazy-person, I say ‘dialogue’-there’s-at-least-two-of-me.)  Edit thyself, woman.  Can’t be bothered. 

Other odd and piecemeal updates:

BOWELS (because I said so):  5 months down the track and we’re looking good.  My mother and father are visiting India in March; my mum is already fretting about the state of her digestive tract because of our experiences.  We’re a sharing, caring sort of a family so she knows the finer detail (fuck me, I shared it with the internet, why wouldn’t I share it with my mum?)  She’s been to India before, too – so I’m sure she’ll be fine.  Aside from tummy troubles, we both love India and will eat dahl until the cows come home. 

HOUSEGUESTS: we has ‘em.  For the foreseeable future.  I’m *so good* with flatmates…no I’m not, I’m an intolerant asshole.  But a favour is a favour and repay it I will (isn’t that a SELFLESS sentiment….*cough*.)  Means I really ought to get on finding somewhere else to live so they’re not evicted with us, I guess.  That would be the HEIGHT of bad hostess behaviour!

SECRET SURPRISE WEEKEND: still a surprise for P, as far as I know.  He hasn’t let on if he does know something.  How I’m going to keep the secret for another two months and a week or so I have no idea. 

TWITTER: does it simultaneously entertain and annoy the bejesus out of you?  Straw poll.  I am having difficulty engaging meaningfully in twitter because when I tweet, I feel like an idiot.   Much more so than when I write long-windy wanky narcissistic shit here.  OH MY GOD I’m so DEEP AND COMPLICATED.

CULTURE: No longer has it.  Haven’t done/been to anything recently.  Oh yeah, fell asleep in James Bond (9pm screening with comfy chairs?  Please.  You know me better than to expect I’ll see much of the second half), got fidgety in the Hobbit (long.  LOOOONG.  Awesome.  Frustrating.  Long.)

Fin.  Enough.  I’ll be back when I can articulate a thought coherently. 

city, interrupted

I had a 24 hour visit to Christchurch this weekend.  I came away disquieted, but hopeful. 

It is probably more than four or five years since I visited Christchurch last – I think I was there in 2008 for an engagement party, though it might have been later.  I’ve always been a bit of a Christchurch-basher.  I’ve never lived there and I can’t say I’ve spent a great deal of time there so this is totally unfair, but I’d found Christchurch a bit insular.  Pretty, with the parks, the trees and the Avon, but insular. 

It is now more than two years after the first quake.  That perceived insularity is now, I think, one of Christchurch’s redeeming features.  My impression was of a community that’s come together to plan what they’d like in a city and move forward.  Sure, they’re looking inward, but I think it’s created a support system.  I gathered this through the projects I saw (pop-up bars, art installations) and the people I heard (overheard chats at cafes, staff at the Court, a wonderful conversation with a man on the plane).

Yes, I’m generalising and surmising.  I was there for a very short time and saw little of the city (much of what I saw I didn’t recognise; a lack of landmarks) so you can dismiss this all as bullshit, if you like.  Just an impression.

If I can help, Christchurch, let me know. 

Thursday, 24 January 2013

not as fine a balance as I'd like

More evidence that I am gross and utterly hopeless:

Left the house yesterday with mad VPL.  No idea until I hit the full length mirror in the office bathroom.  It was a train wreck, people.  Add full-length mirror to my house hunting / furniture list, ASAP.

Shedding.  I am moulting again.  I have a lot of hair and generally shed quite a bit, but yesterday involved whole new levels.  Has anyone seen that show with Kevin McLeod of Grand Designs where he’s making his own shed from recycled bits?  He uses human hair to bind the top layer of his earthen floor made with clay and unpasteurised cow’s milk.  Let’s just say that yesterday post-blow dry + irons my bathroom was only a little bit of dirt and milk short of creating Kevin McLeod’s eco dream; it was basically carpeted.  GROSS. 

Jumped out of bed at 2.30am wearing only my knickers and went on a fly-spray wielding, mosquito killing RAMPAGE.  P said it was quite the sight -- mostly naked woman with wild hair jumping, slapping and spraying chemical death.

Woke P up at 5.30am with SNORING.  I don’t even know me anymore.  That’s just VILE.  Cried when he gently woke me to tell me to roll over.

Evidence that I am not gross?

Cooked a pie and salad.  They were tasty.

It was P who blew out the vacuum cleaner, not me (tenuous evidence, but we’ll take what we can get).

My fingernails are now almost of an even length, and it’s not just cause I broke them down to the beds. 

Cleaned my office in anticipation of a visitor.  Clearly I don’t have enough respect for my colleagues to clean it for them…must work on that!

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

lady lawyer

When I slopped my way out of the shower this morning and stood, dripping, before my wardrobe, I had a minor crisis on my damp hands.  Usually it’s “I don’t own anything NICE to wear to work”, but today it was “Oh fuck, everything needs to be dry-cleaned”.  I am wearing a half-sleeve scoop neck top printed with tiny scottie dogs, a too-short pleated skirt that should be worn with tights in winter only, and a stretched out House of G* cardi.  Because I felt so terribly unprofessional, I have teamed it with the lovely irregular pearl necklace my mum and dad gave me for Christmas (because adding pearls automatically makes it klassy, right?!)

Journaling: capturing those moments for posterity that illustrate your true self.  Messy and profane.

*Glassons.  The Primark of NZ – sort of.  Target if you’re from the US. 

Sunday, 20 January 2013


This weekend’s edition of “What I Did” is entirely fucking boring, sorry to say.  I went to an open home, cursed at the expense in combination with the location (who wants to live in the suburban wops and still pay trillions for the pleasure?  Not me, that’s who.)  Internet research on housing somewhere on the isthmus, family time, followed by a quiet Sunday.  Oh yeah, and I did things with bleach again that seared my nostril linings, destroyed my fingernails but also got rid of the red mould in the shower (like you’ve never had red mould before.  Well, I hope you have; otherwise I’ll feel like a complete scumbucket won’t I?!)

If a woman cleans her bathroom, does she HAVE to post it on her blog for validation?  At this rate of posting you’re going to know the finer details of my cleaning schedule so I’ll just announce it: there is no schedule.  I do it when someone’s coming to visit or when I get disgusted.  I have an embarrassingly high tolerance for filth, apparently, and YET I am also needy for validation. 

My life: do you want it?

Friday, 18 January 2013

my estate just got real. that's a terrible, meaningless pun really isn't it?

We're looking for a house once more.  Our apartment has been sold and the new landlord is moving in.

Ho hum.  Rinse, repeat.  Watch this space for whinges about finding somewhere, packing, THE PRICES IN THIS GODDAMN TOWN etc. 

Ha ha - one bright spot! The property manager has said she'll give us sterling references, despite our determination to burn the place down.  No one was more surprised by that than us! 

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

what is shorter than an ode but just as gushy?

I was reading the internet today and discovered a blogger’s post about her husband.  I thought it was extremely heartfelt without being gushy, which is a hard distinction to achieve with just fuzzy old characters on the screen, words on the page.

It also made me think about P.  P is extremely awesome, but is also a private person (he talks a big game to people he has met in real life, but isn’t comfortable with internet oversharing of the variety in which I indulge).  Doesn’t stop me wanting to sing his praises to the wide world though.  I’m no longer in the infatuation phase of the relationship, which was wonderful but also terrible – what with the Will-He-Call-Like-He-Said-He-Would and Will-He-Run-For-the-Hills-If-I-Crack-Out-My-Flannelette-Jamies and Why-Can’t-I-Function-Like-A-Normal-Person-And-Stop-Mooning-About-Over-A-Boy parts of that phase; when I was 19 insecurity went hand-in-hand with infatuation.   But he still makes me grin, shiver, giggle and I find myself counting my blessings that P, P with all his generousness and loyalty and taste and oh, everything I could possibly want, has agreed to be my husband. 

Given his desire for privacy and the blatant paean above, that’s enough about that.  But don’t ever think I don’t appreciate him.  I should work more at making sure he knows that. 

In that spirit, I am arranging a wee surprise for his 30th bday, coming up in a couple of months.   I am entirely terrible at keeping surprises so this is going to be ridiculously hard.  While I shouldn’t think there is a great risk he’ll read this, I’m obviously already failing at this whole secretive enterprise already, having written about it on the internet.  You'll keep my secret, won't you?

Monday, 14 January 2013


Two hangover-referencing posts in a row, ew, gross.  Sorry about that. 

We bought a car! It looks something like this:

P will probably read this and say NO it does not look like that at all, the mags are ALL WRONG or something.  I, however, could care less.  Oh, except that our spoiler is smaller, thank god.  Mum calls spoilers wally wings.  As in, only a wally would drive a car with one.

The car is very bogan, no?  If you’re not familiar with the etymology or definition of bogan, I recommend you read these. Terrible stereotyping involved,  but I’m nothing if not shrill and if I’m wearing animal print, people will defo think I’m a bogan in that car.  It has racing drivers’ seats, allegedly.  I told you we would end up with something a boy racer would adore. 

Anyway, we can get from A to B now under our own steam.  That’s pretty cool, even if I do appear to have a predilection for Jim Beam + Cola in a can while driving it.  I’m planning road trips a-plenty in order to justify our ownership but simultaneously thinking we should just take the bus because goddamn, that is not good for the environment and have you SEEN the price of gas recently?!  Also, I keep leaving my glasses at work and I’m now required to drive with them so that’s problematic. 

Have just streamed mah consciousness for this post, and only just now put the obvious together:

GLASSES + SHRILL + ANIMAL PRINT + THAT CAR = AGING BOGAN.  It’s worse than I thought. 

Sunday, 13 January 2013

what i did this weekend, brought to you by ibuprofen and insect-bite soothing cream

The usual tale of excess followed by woe – it was a pretty good weekend.

Friday night we caught up with friends returning to London to eat, drink, exclaim, gossip – lovely.  We ate at Ponsonby Road Bistro: love. Great food, great atmosphere; the evening felt very European but with a Kiwi twist.  Loved it. 

VENGEANCE the next day however – we got up early to take our friends to the airport and as the morning wore on, a hangover descended…I think it was likely related to the humid weather we’re having in Auckland (amazing blue sky days but my lord, the SWEATING).  As I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, I thought I was going to pass out under the hairdryer.  P and I consumed bulk nurofen and tried to make ourselves acceptable before the 2pm ceremony.  We failed miserably.  As a result, this is the only half-assed picture I took of the New Dress:
Completely failed to take a snap of anything else – left the camera behind.  Sigh.

I love weddings.  Even though I thought I was going to die for a while there between the ceremony and the reception (until the first gin started working its magic), I was happy happy happy to have been there to see the delicious bridesmaids, gorgeous groomsmen and the happy couple, looking so thrilled.  Many of the family we caught up with we haven’t seen since our wedding – so many said such nice things which was very generous of them. 

Now, do you see what I did with the gin foreshadowing there?  Yep, I hit the bubbles at the reception thinking it would totally help me get back on the level.  I got back on the level, then I climbed a few more levels….JC on a stick, before I knew it, I’d hit the dance floor with a vengeance, sans shoes, demo’ing my best running man, hair flips and skanky moves… I fed the bride tequila (she loved it, in my defence) and dragged on a cigarette (I don’t smoke.  I don’t know what possessed me).  P, no stranger to excess himself, eventually dragged me home, where we passed out with the doors open and were feasted on by mozzies.  I woke at 7, cracked a gimlet eye to look at the clock, shut it and lay almost stock still for the next two hours, moving only to scratch the mosquito bites if absolutely necessary. 

The rest of the day was a fabulous gathering of the wedding guests at a beautiful home with an enormous pool.  Feeling dire, I reclined on a chair in the shade, failing miserably at conversation with the rellies.  Seriously, it took HOURS to pass.  I spent the day wading in the pool, finding shade and hmming/haaing gently when responses were required of me.  Such lovely people and such generous hosts. 

P and I dragged ourselves home around 8, where we tried to clean up and went on a mozzie killing binge ('die you fuckers', we shouted, as we slammed our palms on the wall or shook clothing in the wardrobe to loose the bastards) (such a display of class and good taste).  Definitely need to purchase some flyspray this evening.

Thursday, 10 January 2013

evolution of an over-reactor, of sorts

Ever since I was a child, when someone proposes a course of action, I have a picture in my head of how it will go / be / even look.  It used to be quite problematic in that when I was small, if the reality didn’t match the picture, I got quite upset.  “Quite upset” for 4 year old A meant tantrum.  (OF COURSE I was a tantrum child.  Was there EVER any doubt about that?).  These days, I sometimes get huffy but am better at going with the flow than I once was. 

Doesn’t mean I wasn’t shirty when I started my day at the tennis, feeling rotten from a hangover.

We watched Lukas Rosol (you know, dude who beat Nadal at Wimbledon in 2012 – I watched that match from a B&B in Oban, Scotland with a view out my window of the sun sinking into a grey, oceanic abyss, striking bright rays over fishing trawlers) get more and more wild both at himself and at the umpire.  I sipped a pink bubbly treat out of a plastic flute, starting to feel the anger that I’d fucked up my morning recede.  Maybe I was transmitting the morning-fuck-uppery to Rosol.  He lost. 

The day continued to improve; we saw some excellent serves, some outstanding returns.  We were sitting in an amazingly good spot courtside at the southern end, feeling like we were going to wear some services in our faces and able to actually see the spin on the ball.  The light faded; the day grew cold.  That wasn’t part of the plan either, but I let it go. 

I’m going to keep working on that skill.  I need to let it go when things don’t pan out as I expect.  You never know when it’s going to surprise you with being better than you expected.  I’m not going to try to curb all my expectations; great joy sometimes arises from imaginary chart-plotting.  But tempering my reactions is a good idea. 

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

things of little consequence

I am now back at the coal face.  I must say, I enjoyed putting on a bit of slap this morning and deciding upon shoes (the brown sandals, with the plaits; not the tan wedges, FYI).  It must have something about a return to routine and feeling like a careerist.  When I first graduated and started a full time job, dressing for work was a pleasure (though difficult and complicated by the piffling paychecks, nearly all of which went to fixing a fairly large dent I’d made in P’s car): lady-suits, high heels, white shirts.  And then I realised that you basically wear everything on a days-of-the-week rotation and that high heels do not last the distance.  I learned that it is not possible to extend the life of a pair of black heels by colouring the scuff marks with a vivid.  Stapling the hem of a skirt in desperation is a TERRIBLE stop-gap manoeuvre.  But I had a momentary enjoyment from my dress-for-work routine this morning just because I’ve been looking for the past two weeks much like P adopted me from the SPCA and hasn’t yet got round to clipping the matted tangles out of my coat. 


Speaking of cars in which I could put dents (which we weren't, really) we might have bought one.  Subject to an AA inspection and actually coughing up the funds, P has settled on a vehicle.  I am still of the view that it is a luxury that we shouldn’t be spending our dinero on just at present, but my husband is being intransigent (sometimes I find that quite attractive in a man, you?) and thus, if it passes said inspection and we pay, I will be increasing my consumption of our planet’s limited resources.  Must have said this before, but I’ve never owned a car before, which is yet another reason I really resent the purchase.  Hymph.


I should be attending the death throes of a hen party tonight.  The lovely bride is getting married on Saturday and is being taken today for a day of frivolity and festivity on Waiheke Island, tasting wines and no doubt being forced to guzzle a few.  I have no leave remaining to me so I’m in the office today and I’m meant to be joining the festivities in the Viaduct (gag) tonight.  You know, once everyone else is probably good and sozzled.  I’m a relative (but also a friend!) of the bride and I don’t know her girlfriends so I’m slightly nervous that I’ll be making small talk with my in-laws while having to play terrible games with plasticine or something (good god I hope they get that out of the way early in the day!).  Wish me luck.


I knew January was going to be work-y stressful.  I can feel the pressure-tummy coming on, I need to build up a head of steam and start working at full speed.  Trust this too, shall pass.  And, oh, fuck it.  I’m going to go book tickets to see my mummy now instead. 

Saturday, 5 January 2013

indulge me

I spent an excessive sum today.  Sum of the obvious, that is; my money c.f. energy, goodwill, time etc.  I had my hair cut and coloured and then I bought a dress. 

Question: What's worse than buying an expensive dress?

Answer: Buying an expensive dress that requires alteration before you can even wear it. 

I never said I was smart.  It was an impulsive purchase - I promised myself I would wear it to at least three weddings this summer -  everything I'd tried to that point made me look like a heifer and the dress was flattering.  Flattering, aside from the places it didn't fit, of course.  The sales woman was nice (the colour- it suits you!) and didn't immediately force me into the largest size available.  Ergo, I bought.

Following this impulse spend, there will be some regret spending to follow.  Like $50 on alterations to hide some of the excessive cleavage the dress reveals.  More on a pair of shoes and accessories to match.  (I bought some of these earlier in the season and have dramatically failed to match any actual outfits to them.  They continue to languish in my closet.)  It's sitting in my bedroom, hiding from me.  But I'm still thinking about it.  With shivery regret pangs.

POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL.  Poor little DINK (double income, no kids - gross).  My journal mofos, think what you will and I will continue writing about the excesses of my privileged lifestyle.  Fuck me, I truly hope you realise that's at least partially tongue-in-cheek.

I am going to instagram the hell out of that dress once it's sized right. 

Friday, 4 January 2013

my summer holiday: a report

Oh hey blog.  Long time, no ... blog.  Ah well, thems the breaks as my venerable mother would say.  Don't ask me what that means; I don't have a clue. 

This is where I should recap Xmas/New Year.  I was going to try and do an express version of this recap but it's ended up long winded and vaguely ranty (yet ANOTHER assessment of the state of the nation, because a minute examination of my own mental state is my favourite writing subject.  NARCISSIST ahoy).

- Three families, too many places to be at once.  Love being wanted though!

- Caught a bug off Whanau Number 1.  This lead to me throwing up Christmas dinner at Whanau Number Three.  Was not a good look.  P is still incredibly dark about missing out on dessert as (selfishly), I fancied going home to my bed after spending 20 minutes retching over someone else's toilet. 

- The HAM, people.  THE HAM.  Hot, cold, sandwich, omlette, frittata, toasted sarnies, pasta, you name it, we've eaten that little piggy treat. 

- New Zealand summer!  Sure, we've had some rainy days, but New Years' Day on the Coromandel peninsula (or, more accurately, on a tiny wee island off the side of the Coromandel) was glorious: clear skies, water so azure we watched a gurnard swim on the shores of the beach from 100 metres away, sun so blistering we sat on top of one another to hide under the shade of the umbrella.

- Friends!  Saw some wonderful friends who live far from Tamaki Makaurau this summer.  So, so good to see their smiling faces.  We sat in quiet contemplation on the rocks, as the last rays of 2012 lingered redly, violently on the edge of the Firth of Thames.  Someone started strumming a guitar (Tom Petty and Pearl Jam appropriate replacements for Auld Lang Syne, n'est-ce pas? Or not); we hummed through the hard parts.  I saw tears in the corners of H's eyes as she beamed at me.  My heart hurt happy. 

- Three more days of holiday!  Yussssssss.

Oh, it's not all daytime naps and eating ham straight out of the fridge over here.  This is the summer at it's glossiest, bloggiest best, of course.  It's a weak woe, but illustrative: today I spent about 50 hours using bleach on different surfaces of my house.  As I type this, sitting with a shandy and three different coasters (because I NEVER want to WIPE another surface AS LONG AS I LIVE which will not be long if I have to continue bleaching; my lungs will be seared out of existence) (also, who the fuck takes white shorts to an island possessing only an ocean and a long drop by way of ablution block? A moron, that's who), I'm a touch melancholy about some rain on my parade, the roots in my hair (fuck me MORE BLEACHING required), a break up, an illness and the amount of work ahead. 

BUT. I'm excited about 2013.  We don't have Big Exciting Things Planned (unlike 2012), but I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of the kitchen equipment I received for Xmas, spend more time with my husband and friends and make the most of career opportunities.  It's a pretty good outlook. 

Let's see how long that lasts!

{PS Totally had some photos to support this snoozefest post, but blogger is being an asshole.  Bad Luck.  No doubt we'll relive this all with some shitty pics in the NEAR NEAR future, interwebs YOU SPOILT THING!}