ha ha ha, also:

Insurance Lady: 'So, have you had any claims in the past year?'

Me: 'Um, there was that time the Fire Service had to bash in our front door because of the fiery prawns.."

Insurance Lady: 'Well.  Well.  That doesn't sound good."

this is full of curse words

It’s been one of those days, you probably know the kind.  Total shit storm.  Last day of the financial year at work (bill those bills, baby) + the last working day before settlement on the house (sign that documentation in blood, thrice, witnessed by Satan (or a solicitor, sorry N!) + INSURE THYSELF, WOMAN.  YOUR ELECTRICS ARE SUBPAR + big worky deadline.

To add injury to general woefulness, my lovely new work shoes, while fine around the office generally, are not made for traipsing up and down stairs all week.  My god, the pressure points. 

My choice of dress today (Richochet, circa some time ago) is beautiful.  It’s also stuck like a static motherfucker to my tights (despite the slip, which I thought was a guaranteed old lady cure) so every time I’ve stood up, it got caught up around my ass and I looked like I was walking around with some kind of vagina-hat.  Imagine, if you will. 

Stress pimple has been staring people in the face today.  I was not aware of this until about 5 minutes ago.  The concealer is not in my bag.  Fuck. 

My husband (big promotion! So proud P! Celebratory lunch for you!) MAY have been under the influence when signing our lives away.  I couldn’t possibly comment. 

Whinge / rant / etc.  Next week is gonna be so much better.

more pointless lists

Between now and Tuesday:

- umpteen hours of work (no. srsly, I think I live here right now)
- fifty trillion more hours of packing, if packing = throwing things in boxes
- last minute freak outs about funding and letters of comfort etc
- a gazillion emails to lawyers and the bank
- purchase of a new shower curtain (why am I obsessed with this?  I really don't know, but there it is)
- find a fridge, buy a washing machine
- pick up beds
- ditch husband to move and arrange cleaners etc while I continue working
- finalise insurance following electrician's visit
- settle the purchase and take on the largest debt known to man (it feels like)
- find the photo albums (where the fuck are the photo albums?!)
- locate SIL's couch
- wash the god damn sheets so we have something nice to crawl into on Tuesday night.  Every other set is packed and cradling glassware etc
- etc
- etc
- etc
- blah blah blah

Hold me?

post scriptum

A year ago today I left the job that was making me miserable for three of the best months of my life travelling.  A day to remember!

edumacation

Hallo, have been AWOL, work + insurance + post redirection + power + inspections (oh mi gawd it was still awesome even if the current owners' cat litter smelled a little...funky) + interest rates + you don't really care, do you? 

Things what I have learned this week:

• My boots aren't as waterproof as I originally believed (damn you Jones the Bootmaker).  However, they make satisfying squelchy noises.
• My umbrella (pilfered from my brother in law, possibly - I found it in the back of our car) is useless (karma?  Probably)
• Auckland's definition of a seriously cold winter is laughable, but the breeze coming in my office window on the 21st floor is a disturbing wretch, tickling the sides of my neck.
• My husband's version of sleep talk/walk can only be batted off with a firm slap in the chest (last night, he was insisting on tickling me and cackling in a way I've never heard before.  After I pushed him off with a slap, he knocked the lamp into the bed and was surprised to find it there several hours later.  He remembers neither of those episodes this morning.)
• If you think you don't NEED the Milky Bar but you WANT the Milky Bar you will REGRET the Milky Bar
• $50 high heels will scuff on the first wear, badly.  That is why you should spend more than $50 (don't worry, I'm taking them back and will no doubt replace them with...another $50 pair.)
• Don't scratch it.  Just, don't. OK?
• New tights are the business.
• Mums are the best. 

That is all.

celebrations / commiserations

I had a very nice birthday, once I'd thrown the hangover, thanks.  Not a day over 18, I swear.  I yell-whispered "ITS MAH BIRFDAY" and "WHERE'S MAH PHONE" at P for about 10 minutes when I arrived home at 2am on the morning of the big day, reeking of cheap bubbles and some vile energy drink/vodka combo.  As it turns out, you can forgive a birthday girl quite a bit but some things are always, always annoying. 

(I told him he should just be grateful I didn't kick on with the others.  He told me that a decision to kick on is usually made by 10pm and doesn't get remade at 2am.  He still made me a bday cuppa tea in the morning, so I was only in the dogbox briefly (whew).)

As part of my nice day, I hung out with my sister.  We were flipping channels from my couch as we lazed following a tasty brunch.  Then: golden moment! We discovered 'Making the Team: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders'.  Now, you might think that K and I don't have a great deal in common.  Sometimes that's true - I love tomatoes, she loves tomato sauce.  She's an excellent sportsman, I have no coordination whatsoever.  Etc.   But when it comes to trash television, we have a shared passion for excellence.  That show is beyond brilliant and I want to join the kick line (but I'm worried I'm too 'soft' and have a little too much 'jiggle' - the euphemisms were offensive yet somehow outstanding).  How have I not known about it before?

Had a quiet evening with friends, watching the rugby and chatting.  Just lovely, really.  Oh, and I am devouring my new copy of Wolf Hall, superb (why yes, I am about four years late to the Hilary Mantel party, thanks for noticing my lack of cultural relevance.  I am about to go and discover Hemingway or something, then present it to you like it's a revelation, OK?).

Birthdays are alright with me. 

my dad worked in a purple building, once

And now a return to our regular programming: ME. 

Two and a half weeks 'til we move in to my new purple love shack (oh, I forgot to mention the house is purple? How...ashamed remiss of me!  It won't be purple for long...I hope.)

Oddly, this time last year, I was playing the waiting game too.  It was a matter of days before I finished my job.  I could not wait.  I had worked out a three month notice period (please read the word 'worked' loosely in that sentence, or feel free to swap it for "planned a trip and read the internet") and was a matter of five working days away from the end, itching for it to be over and the fun to be started.  This time, the rip-tide of work is threatening to pull me under but, never fear, I'm spending a whole swathe of time on design websites daydreaming about the contents of my new home.

O stylish yet uncomfortable looking couches! O quirky lamps and sideboards!  O printed tea towels with whimsical designs you SLAY me!

As sands through the hour glass, these are the days of my shallow, materialistic life: travel obsession replaced with house obsession replaced with homewares obsession...I really should find an obsession that is less me me me and more productive to society as a whole.  I'll get back to you on that.

So, I turn 31 tomorrow.  I had sort of forgotten about that whole 'my bday' thing this year - it got subsumed in the house excitement and, prior to that, the general worky malaise I've been suffering from.  What does 31 mean to me, apart from declining fertility, inclining fatness and broadening wrinkles?  Um, it means taking up the yoke of adulthood I suppose, given I'm chaining myself to a mortgage a few weeks later.  What were you doing when you were 31, or, assuming you're a delicate young petal who hasn't yet reached this golden age, what do you think you'll be doing when you're 31? 

Oh god, this game is a complete rabbit hole for me to fall down.  I'm keeping myself on a short leash here, but here are a few brief predictions:

- At 41 I'll have two smalls and a middle-aged hangover from being ridiculous with P & champagne;
- At 51 I'll have ditched the rat race and moved to the sticks where P has a vineyard; and
- At 61 I'll be living part-time in France, learning the language and working at a bar or cheese shop, with P making wine out the back.

I can but dream, I suppose.  More desires than predictions, but aim high, why not?  Happy 31st, me.

thinking

I'm thinking of my friend J today.   She's in London and has just lost a family member back here in NZ.  That is really, really balls J and I'm so very sorry.  Not only does she have to contend with grief and loss, but she's geographically and temporally separated from her family back in New Zealand.  I wish I could be there with her.

You know, you just truck along, doing what you do (in my case inhaling potato chips and spilling crumbs in my keyboard) and then major life events happen and you wonder how you managed before, or will go back to normal after.  I don't think I'll ever feel again the way I did on my wedding day, graduations, house-purchase day, the day I received a call from the police about my grandmother ... and so on.  There will be big, different moments to come - but those that have been already were wonderful or terrible moments when I knew something big had happened, but I couldn't wrap my head around the scale of it.  My reaction is to pull a blanket of normalcy over my head, dropping into routine as salve to the tears exposed by the life event.  The cocoon is warm, but there's a lot of thinking going on inside. 

Anyway.  J, I am so very sorry for your loss. You're on my mind. 

i wish we could all just get along

I got all upset checking in on twitter last night.  I haven't been on it in forever and almost straight away, I happened across a furore over the misogyny of some members of the gaming community.  Boy, it made me mad/sad. 

Let me tell you straight up: I am not a member of the gaming community.  I got addicted to a game brick with Tetris once and my flatmates had to hide the batteries so I didn't fail my exams.  See also: the two week Crash Bandicoot episode of 2002 on an old PS1.  Other than that, I play solitaire on my phone and boardgames if people don't know me well (people who do know me well refuse to play with me.  I understand why.) Net result: hardly qualified to comment on the gaming community.  But! I am a human being and I think it is TERRIBLE that someone on twitter could express disappointment about the lack of major female characters in new release games at E3 and receive responses that, by and large, appeared to call her a dumb cunt and suggest that women don't belong in gaming.

SO.  Then I read the NZ Herald online this morning and came across this.   I think it goes without saying that people who object to homophobic slurs being yelled are allowed to attend rugby matches.  Probably can express their views without being subject to what sounds like verbal and physical bullying, even.  Hannah, good on you for saying something - I bloody well wish I had when I went to the cricket earlier this year and the guys behind me were being horrible and racist for a laugh. 

I was ashamed when watching the All Blacks game on Saturday night over the bad crowd behaviour, just from what I could see on the TV.  Why do we think it's acceptable to boo when the other team are kicking a conversion/penalty?  I wonder sometimes whether we Kiwis are just bad winners as well as bad losers when it comes to the All Blacks.  And other teams? 

There is absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of banter, but we need to raise our game in that regard and not rely on sexism/homophobia/racism/xenophobia etc for a laugh. 

So yes.  That's what's winding me up today. 

my house drama, let me show you it

In the spirit of wringing every last drop of personal drama out of the auction , I present to you a timeline of my pantswettingly exciting Sunday:

8am: wake, feeling smug.  Did not drink last night, rugby, guests and all.  Wallow in luxurious feeling of wellness.

9.30am: arrive at work.  Nearly clip wing mirror on entry to basement car park.  Look up house online.

10.30am: how many cups of tea are too many before midday?  Drink the place dry of Earl Grey while on a filing rampage.  Produce nothing of any real value.

10.35am: look up house online.

10.45am: return to producing nothing of any real value work-wise.

12 noon: give it up as a bad job because only hard things left to do.  Look up house online, then leave office.

12.10pm: arrive home to P on couch, watching old James Bond.  Eat cruddy noodles and get progressively more and more anxious.

1pm: pull out marketing material, lawyer's advice and re-review. 

1.10pm: raise "WHY SO NERVOUS?" question with P.  P reflects, then replies "because we might actually have a shot at this one."  We look at each other glumly.  We've gotten all hopeful again; not a good sign.

2pm: finally discuss with P what our top price is.  Get all desperate, shout: WHATEVER IT TAKES! Realise this = very bad tactic if I don't want to get ripped off.

2.30pm: leave house.  Feel ill.  Haven't felt this ill since one of the acronymed houses I very nearly bought. 

2.40pm: arrive at property for open home before onsite auction.  Greet agents.  Sneak around property, checking out details and eyeballing the competition. 

2.41pm: OMG I LOVE IT MORE THAN I THOUGHT I DID. This is most definitely not good.  Distinct possibility of tears if we lose, which is more likely than not. 

2.43pm: OMG GUY IN ORANGE PANTS IS HERE.  This is most definitely not good.  While Orange Pants Guy has been really nice when we've seen him and his partner at other open homes/auctions, we think he's got more to spend than us.  Start the decline into juddering-sigh-resignation. 

2.50pm: gather at front of house.  Awkward milling.  Small talk with auctioneer, who recognises us from various failed attempts to purchase real estate. 

2.52pm: eyeball the competition.  SO MANY PEOPLE HERE.  NOOOOOOOOOOOO.  Very cute couple with excellent taste in sunglasses takes a spot next to us.  They look ill; must be potential purchasers. 

3pm: Starts lightly spitting with rain, sky darkens ominously.  Cannot take off sunglasses because people will see the abject terror in my eyes. 

3.04pm: auctioneer starts talking throught the contract.

3.08pm: auctioneer calls for opening bid.  OH GOD SOME GUY ON THE STREET PUTS IN A BID STRAIGHT AWAY.  He must want it and we are dooooooooomed.

3.09pm: I shuffle my feet a lot.  Feel like heart is going to pound out of chest.  Clutch P's arm as bidding goes up, but slowly.  Another couple on street enter the bidding. 

3.10pm: cute couple enter the bidding.  They are slightly hesitant.  This is a good sign?

3.11pm: it is a good sign! I think they've topped their limit already - there are meaningful looks and whispered discussions with each bid.

3.12pm: P enters the bidding.  I lose my shit and cannot stand still.  Playing with my hair, shuffling my feet, clutching his arm.

3.13pm: P is slamming a bid straight back on anyone else who bids.  First guy has dropped out; very cute couple are having serious conversations before each bid, I can't see the others.

3.14pm: Auctioneer starts taking the piss out of P - "he's a robotic auction machine ladies and gents".  It is quite clear we are nowhere near cool calm and collected.

3.15pm: Bidding stalls on our bid.  We writhe with nervousness.  Finally, auctioneer goes to talk to the vendors as it hasn't yet reached reserve, while the agents work the rest of the potential purchasers.

3.17pm: Auctioneer comes to us: $10k more and I think it'll be on the market.  P agrees.

3.18pm: We're on the market.  Auctioneer invites any more bids. 

3.19pm: Third and final time - I bury my face in P's arm.  Where is Orange Pants Guy? Is someone going to try and do a last minute sniper and bury us?!

3.20pm: SOLD.  People clap (which is nice) - I am surprisingly dry eyed.  Notice rotten weatherboard on deck.  Think, oh well, that's MY rotten weatherboard. 

3.21pm: shake vendors' hands, sign contract etc.  Three months ago, we paid off the remainder of P's student loan, the largest single transaction we've ever made.  This is at least 17 times bigger than that. 

3.30pm: leave house.  Hey, Orange Pants Guy!  Turns out he just bought the house next door and is our new neighbour!  Meet other neighbours.  Such nice people.

3.35pm: Straight for Glengarry's to pick up a bottle of champagne.  Start calling family, disappointing them with news that we're indebted, rather than pregnant. 

BLAH BLAH BLAH the rest is basically irrelevant - mostly repetitions of HOLY SHIT WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE and HOW GROWN UP ARE WE and WHERE ON EARTH ARE WE GOING TO STORE THE SHEETS? 

The auction process really does suck, let me tell you.  We could have just made the stupidest financial move of our lives, given its a hot market.  Or not, perhaps.  Either way, I'm relieved and excited and scared in equal measures.  Four and a half months, likely 20 or so auctions, three building reports, six or seven valuations, a truckload of legal advice, a squillion open homes and here we are. 

YOU GUYS WE DID IT

WE BOUGHT A HOUSE. 

WITH WALLS.  AND A ROOF.  AND HOLY HELL NOW I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT.

It kinda doesn't feel real (more like WE DID WHAT?).  S, if you're still looking then please know that we're thinking of you guys and that when you purchase something you will think your heart is going to bust out of your chest it is thumping that hard.  And then, if you buy at an auction on site, you will wish you had your retractable measuring tape that your husband proudly brought home in a hubris-filled moment of  "for when we have a home" but then you realise that TOTALLY would have jinxed it.  And then you notice a rotten weatherboard.  And wonder where the hotwater cupboard is and just where on earth you're going to store the excessive number of wine glasses you own.  No, just me?

(I really hope we can sort the finance now.  Otherwise I'll feel a bit silly, won't I?)

I own two beds and a chest of drawers.  A boat load of books.  Wine glasses, obv.  No couch, fridge, washing machine, table, chairs - anything else.  The place will be a disaster zone for weeks.  It needs painting and it's only partially renovated, so the bad news is: welcome to blog posts of the future!  Wherein I whinge about my home!  I kid - sort of.

We rang the fambily with the news.  We've got good news, we said.  The family, despite knowing we've been househunting for oh, say 5 months, immediately guessed I was pregnant.  Way to be a disappointment to your nearest and dearest, A.  Instead we just invited them over for a working bee.  Poor sods. 

WE BOUGHT A HOUSE.

hopeless, episode 103:

Oh, I know I'm a non-blogging asshole.

HERE IS A PICTURE FOR YOU CONTENT BE DAMNED:

OUT MY OFFICE WINDOW THIS AM.  IF I WERE A BETTER PHOTOG, YOU'D SEE THE HARBOUR BRIDGE.  WAS SUNNY FOR A BIT. YAY.

Work.  Busy.  Lazy.  Homeless.  (Still.) 

That's right, nothing new here.  Tis the opening game of the All Blacks' season this weekend, so the beersies are at ours (seen the 'no more beersies for you' ad, Kiwis? Golden, love it.  No you can't have a link, I'm too lazy to find it.  You're probably not too lazy to google it.).  I think I'm going to go all gour-may on our guests and provide them with reduced cream dip and cheerios, maybe a saus in bread with sauce and onions, if they're really lucky.  That's some excellent Kiwi hospitality right there.  I WILL KEEP THE BEERS COLD WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT OF ME? OH ALL RIGHT I WILL OPEN THEM FOR YOU TOO.  Bugger me, I'm a top notch sort of a wife.  Will prob talk through the game though, don't ask for too much.

queen's birthday 2013

RAGLAN 2-6-13

I was here. With the folks you see in the far distance.  Cooking up a storm, throwing logs on the fire, playing silly games, swilling red wine, walking on the beach, flying a kite, talking, cross-wording, doing a lot of Not Much (except for email.  Always with the email.)

Hope you had a lovely weekend too.