a new year

Welcome to 2016, everyone.  

I'm starting out a new year on the right foot by being an asshole to my husband (I believe my eyes just rolled right back into my head and I exhaled all of the air in my lungs, heavily, because he dared comment on the fact the carrots were probably boiling dry.  The carrots were, in fact, boiling dry). But assholery aside, I'm hoping 2016 isn't too bad, because 2015 was a bit of a shitbag, frankly.

We survived Christmas, you'll be pleased to know.  It was better than I expected it to be.  Leaving Mum on her own a couple of days ago was the hard part and I've been in a bit of a funk since we got home.

We also survived a five and a half hour drive each way with the Fink, too. Caught up with old friends and their delicious little baby girl on the way down, and ate lunch by Lake Taupo on the way back.  I breastfed in the backseat parked on the side of the road on at least three occasions.  Notably, we pulled over once next to another car on a roadside verge near some foals. One of the female occupants was heaving her guts onto the roadside, poor lass.  I felt her pain, having only just recovered from a bout of food poisoning that had me biffing my bikkies for a while -- triggered on one occasion by W's selfish desire to eat from his main food source.  (Babies, man, they're dependent).  I wistfully wondered whether it was a hangover that had her spewing bile on the pastoral scene. I wasn't  envious exactly, but remembering the ghosts of hangovers past on summer holidays, preceded by ruckus and general misbehaviour. 

I spent the whole day at home yesterday, lawn mowing and clearing out, bathing W alfresco under the sun umbrella, snipping lavender heads, boiling spinach and potatoes and carrots for the baby. The baby has taken to solid food with relish, by the by.  He can house a banana in under 10 minutes and go looking for the rider, or peel, or something. It was nice to be home, despite the funk and though I've been shadowed by the cats at all times.  I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be alone again.  

Anyway, here's to 2016. What to expect? Raising a baby, then a toddler.  A return to work at some point, I guess.  A few more trips to be with family.  Supporting P's push for the next step in his career.  We hadn't forward planned anything much, honestly, not knowing what 2016 was going to hold for Dad for a long time.  2016 stretches open ahead of us.

  

37 + 6

I don't know what I've done to our piece of shit laptop but I can't type or paste into the new post box on Blogger.  I've been typing these last posts in Gmail and using my phone to paste them into Blogger but the formatting is completely screwed.  However, it doesn't appear I care enough to fix the problem just at the moment.  I am saving some of my weekly discretionary income at present and perhaps a
new laptop or tablet is called for.  However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.

So, since I last posted two weeks ago?  Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good.  Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues.  I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture.  This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.

So, I have not yet had a baby.  38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough.  I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.

Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues.  Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief.  I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross.  I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks).  So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care).  For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.

Are we ready for a baby?  I guess so.  We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend.  I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc.  While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.

There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy).  This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all.  I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me.  Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered).  P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans.  Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash.  Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)

I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc.  This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy.  It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile.  Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.

*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now.  I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.

update (my house is still standing, I'm not injured) (yet, anyway)

After another perfectly awful email, this time directly threatening our persons, we spent the night out of our house and pursued the police, asking them just to raise the fact of the complaints and investigation with the builder and to ask him to stop contacting us other than through formal channels.  They visited him last night, I'm told, with "consequences [of his actions] explained and understood".  So far, nothing further.  I'll be going home this evening with P and trying to enjoy being there, in my space, with my family. 

I trust we won't be chased further by him, but who knows.  I believe the threats are bluster to try and squeeze a few more dollars out of us, but, like I said, who the fuck knows.  In any case, we've taken them seriously out of an abundance of caution.  You know, I'm a lawyer and I've seen far worse, but it really is different when you're the person intimately involved with the crime, not just the advisor. 

Thank god for insurance, an excellent and responsive police force, an understanding workplace and P's family for accomodating and caring for us last night. 

In the interim, Dad's not doing so well and Mum's struggling with the burden a bit, I think.  I've booked last minute flights to see them this weekend, even though we're booked to go at Easter.  I've rented a car so they don't have to make trips to the airport and even if all I do is sit quietly with Dad, at least Mum can have a breather and some space.  He's still himself, but there are aspects of him that are changing, from what I'm able to tell over the phone.  I need to see them both, I think. 

In brighter news, how about that cricket world cup semi-final?! Poor old P had tickets to the game -- I wouldn't have otherwise felt sorry for him, but this was during the threat crisis and a very busy period at work, followed a hard weekend of work on the house and stag do for a close friend, at a time when he was dealing with a pregnant, ill wife, his father-in-law's illness and has the pressure of completing the renovation -- I think the stress of the game nearly gave him a heart attack!  The result and the game were thrilling, of course, but when it comes to the wire like that it's stressful.  My heart goes out to the South Africans but we're so excited for the final on Sunday :)  I'm backing the Black Caps - go Kiwis! 

i don't even have a title for this

Just when you think things probably weren't going to get any worse, I was woken from a fever-addled sleep yesterday afternoon to a loud banging on the front door.  It was the contractor we'd hired for the exterior work coming to collect his ladders, which was fine.  What was not so fine was the fact he stole one of our ladders despite my explanation that it wasn't his.  From the moment of his entry onto the property he went ballistic at me over payment of his final invoice, submitted approximately three days beforehand and substantially incorrect.  He threatened and insulted me and wouldn't leave the property when I asked him to.  I cried like a baby, sick, in a dressing gown and nearly six months pregnant.  I called the police about the theft in front of him and he drove off, with my ladder.

What was even worse was waking to an email this morning (sent after 11pm last night) giving us a deadline of 5pm tonight to pay him, or he'd throw paint stripper over the entire house, take a chainsaw to the weatherboards and damage our car.  It included veiled personal threats to our persons and included some of the ugliest personal insults I've ever been subjected to. 

I could detail the history of the correspondence with him but I can't face it, frankly.  You're probably wondering what you're missing; what we did to trigger such a tirade of threats and abuse.  So are we.  I lay awake last night wondering exactly how I could have handled the entire situation better to avoid this, but the conclusion I keep drawing is that I've made every progress payment he's requested, we've paid more than three quarters of the total amount due by way of deposit or progress payment, the work was only completed last week (in his view at least, we are concerned about bubbling paint on the front door but we'll cut our losses I think) and I've been ill over the weekend and we were still discussing the outstanding invoice - not unreasonable not to have paid, I would have thought?  Besides which, even if we were totally in the wrong and were owing a large amount that was overdue, I just can't see how it would possibly have justified a reaction even remotely on the scale of what we received. 

So, I spent this morning on the phone to the police making another complaint about the threats, because that shit is not legal and is scary.  I blubbed some more in the office (where I was when I read the email), which is just wonderful.  I issued a trespass notice and served it by email, and need to spend my lunch hour also issuing it by registered post (because I'll be damned if I'm giving him verbal notice or effecting personal service, I never want to see or speak to him again).  I can't spend this evening in my own home because P's is going to be out and he won't let me be alone there right now.  We need to find somewhere else to park our car for a week or so until the dust settles, in case he does follow through on his threat.  We think we ought to warn the neighbours, which is a really fun conversation to have.  I have a bunch of follow up calls or visits to go with the police, probably. 

The whole thing is a giant clusterfuck.

funny ha ha or funny peculiar

You might be surprised by this, but I'm going to a comedy show this evening.  Yes, even though I normally detest staged comedy (exception might be made for Billy Connolly), am terrified of the potential for P to heckle (he thinks he's so clever, sigh) and have not, well, been in the mood for funny business of late,* I saw a sign for a show that P would like and purchased tickets out of the blue.  I wanted to do something nice for him.  He's been lovely despite the wasting away of our mutual social life -- do you know, I think he might actually like my company and is missing nights out together? Strange as it may seem -- that I thought he would both greatly enjoy a show and recognise it for the clear sacrifice it'll be on my part.  Nothing like enjoying a side of martyrdom with your gesture of goodwill.

On Thursday I have a function for work.  On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours.  I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office.  I'm such a drag at the moment. 

Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others.  Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke.  I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose.  Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again.  It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation. 

I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment.  Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...

*This goes exactly as far as you think it does.  Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.

rounder by the day

I wore one of P's t-shirts and a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband yesterday evening and was the most comfortable I've been in weeks.  I ditched the white blazer and black pleated midi-length work dress as soon as I got in the door (I'd lost the wedge heels the minute I stood up to leave the office - jandals and workwear is a key look for Kiwis on a summer commute) and heaved a sigh of relief as it all hung out in P's purple t-shirt. 

I guess that's how you know I'm now visibly pregnant, shall we say.  At least I didn't doff my bra the minute I walked in the door - I've taken to unhooking it about 8pm with an audible sigh, then removing it entirely by 8.30 because the bastard keeps roughing up my nipples (by roughing up I mean touching lightly, WOW OUCH). 

Following last night's comfortpalooza, I ordered some maternity jeans and a pack of maternity basics online this morning.  And commenced bleeding on and off. 

I am living in terror of doing something to jinx the pregnancy.  I can't bring myself to buy baby things.  When I purchased the maternity goods, it was the first time I've bought something pregnancy related other than folate-laced pills or ultrasound co-pays.  OF COURSE it preceded a bodily freak out.

This is not my first rodeo with bleeding during this pregnancy.  It is scary, yes, but I've got good at ignoring it while I go about real life (ha.  that and you know, thinking about my father).  The knowledge that it is fairly common and that there is nothing I can do is not exactly reassuring, per se, but it makes me sanguine (wrong choice of word?  oh well, it fits and it stays). 

So I'm daring it to get worse.  I walked around the baby section of Smith & Caughey today (oh christ no, I didn't buy anything, that shit is expensive.) I added to the list of what we might need.  I looked at the DIA's top 100 names spreadsheets from '99 to '14.  This is superstitious bullshit I'm engaging in, believing that a positive act of child-recognition could spell doom for my baby.  I'm not doing it anymore.  I'm going to wear stuff with elastic with pride.  I'm going to be someone's mother. 

the state of my kitchen

Sunmaid has done a really, really clever thing and packaged up their prunes into individual servings.  Usually I am completely against individual packets because it's so wasteful, but I can house prunes and any open bag is fair game.  I know the consequences but I do it anyway because OMG delicious, delicious prunes.  Come to think of it, I don't object to individual packaging of raisins either, on much the same basis.  OH GOD and apricots?  The really leathery dried ones (as opposed to the plump Turkish jobs which are good but not on the same plane)? YES PLEASE ALL AT ONCE.

So, dried fruit.  I have an extremely healthy digestive tract, thanks for asking. 

This comes to mind because I was scouring the pantry last night before dinner was ready (in fact, before I'd started to prepare it).  I found the prunes stashed away at the back, hiding from me.  Normally, I have a mental inventory of tasty shit living at my house so nothing can hide, but last week, we had a cleaner. 

This is the first time we've had a cleaner that wasn't end-of-tenancy obligated, I think.  She came in on the weekend and I just did not know it was possible to get our kitchen that clean (and with eco-friendly products, no less.  I use the bleach because I'm bad but I actually did not think eco-friendly products could remove half the crud they did).  She even cleaned the pantry which was amazing.  She was lovely too - professional and friendly.

I felt guilty though, never you fear.  My cheap heart berated me for paying someone to do what I ought to be capable of achieving for myself.  My half-baked social conscience felt every single drop of privilege oozing from my pores.  My shame at the state of my scummy old cottage knew no bounds!

However, finding the prunes was like Christmas.  Between the stashed snacks and the oven-I-could-lick,-it's-so-clean,-what-a-shame-two-of-the-electric-rings-don't-work, I think we might spring for the cleaner to come back again every so often. 

decision 2014

We got half cut on champagne and went to pick out wedding jewellery for M on Saturday afternoon.  I expect that's why I fell asleep by 9pm on Saturday night during the election coverage; being sauced, that is.  We had a lovely time at the jewellery store.  After finding the perfect earrings and matching necklace, we tried on everything in the vintage cabinet.  I flounced around the store with a three carat diamond on my finger (verdict: terribly gauche and wondrously obnoxious, three carats is), while trying to persuade Hat Friend to purchase an expensive gold fob chain or a beautiful emerald ring.  We drank some more bubbles afterwards and toasted the bride.  Can't wait for her wedding day. 

Election coverage: do you know, I think the coverage on my facebook page was probably more extensive and vitriolic than the coverage on the two major free to air channels?  That's saying something.  I woke up to posts on Sunday morning saying things like:

- 'Shame on you, New Zealand'
- 'Crying into a bucket of KFC, Dotcom?'
- 'If you didn't vote, you can't complain'
- 'Moving to Scandinavia'

Had the result gone a different way, I think I would have seen just as much disappointment from the other half of my feed.  It wasn't all one-way traffic.  I've found it hard to work myself into a proper lather about this election, though for all that I'm disappointed that NZ doesn't appear to wish to make any major decisions that might result in a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor.  Wow, I didn't expect to make any direct statements about my political leanings on social media (other than, you know, me feminism) but there we have it.  Oh, except I've bagged Colin Craig before and I was thrilled to see we'll go another three Colin Craig-free years. 
 

what's next, gout?

Fresh page, blank slate notwithstanding, my bloggy muse is still AWOL.  Am feeling very stilted on the old blog recently, given I don't tend to write about work, my husband generally (other than, you know, putting up mocking faux-fashion pictures) or details regarding my friends.  Maybe it's just that I'm leading a boring life?  Probably.  I can usually wring a drop of drama or six out of the most innocuous material, so I'll resort to a nice list and see what pops out:

• Summer holiday is mostly organised, including a trip to see the olds, a week at the beach with friends, and a visit from P's mum.  We've also booked a trip to Golden Bay (upper South Island, v remote, hippy heaven) for a wedding in March.  Am feeling good about summer time on the horizon.
• Friend saga.  Friend 1 has been a dick to Friend 2 over a gift that Friend 1, a bunch of other friends and I arranged for Friend 2.  I heartily disapprove of Friend 1's dickish behaviour and dealt with endless email/FB correspondence, including a few calls to other friends myself for sanity! Mother above, how is it that friends can still bring the drama at age 30+? I am actually ashamed of having had any involvement in a squabble at all.  But given I'm not going to parse the details here, you probably don't care much about that at all.  Safe to say: my policy on this sh*t now is: Let's All Calm Down and Have a Glass of Wine.  Actually, that's an excellent policy to apply across the board for me, I'll have it printed on an inspirational fridge magnet in no time.  Watch out Pinterest.*
• Tabitha cat has found an access point to the roof and scares the bejesus out of me on the regular.  She creates massive thumps, and I rush outside to see what's caused the noise, only to realise I'm being watched over the eaves by a furry wee stalker.  Gets me every time and is somehow worse than when I realised I'm being watched during midnight pee trips. 
• HAHAHAHA I jinxed myself with my recent post about musical theatre. Turns out the Sound of Music is coming to town and my sister K is desperate to go.  Mum said no way, on the basis that it won't be as good as the movie, but K pointed out that comparing it unfavourably is half the fun.  I mean, why would you watch the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice otherwise?  So, I'm going back to the theatre for a singalong, goodness help me.
• Weekend: nearly upon us, whew. 
• State of the Chubby Update: fell off the food recording bandwagon hard, but am making better decisions and feeling better about meself generally.  More cups of tea, fewer diet Cokes, no snorting chips before dinner.  Good rules, hey?
• OMG I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO TELL YOU: I think I had an attack of gallstones! No, I'm not 90 or a very fat man (the population segment I associate with gallstones)!  The other weekend was spiked with abdominal pain, that started near the bottom of my ribs and worked its way down.  I was achey on and off all weekend, with marginal improvement on the Monday.  After I was palpated by the doctor (ick! palpation! sounds vile, right? Mind you, it could have been worse - she threatened me with a transvaginal scan at one point), she concluded that the likely culprit was gallstones.  I was so ashamed, but did you know that it is actually more common in women?  And that it can be caused by long term oral contraceptive use?  Well, that's what Wikipedia tells me anyway.  I had a blood test/pee test to rule some other stuff out, but they won't know that it was the 'stones for sure unless they do an ultrasound.  Given I'm feeling better, I'm going to flag that, so unless they flare up again, I guess we'll never know.  GALLSTONES.  AM SUFFERING FROM MYSTERIOUS OLD PERSON AILMENT.  SHAME.

*I joined Pinterest in 2011, pinned approximately 3 wedding hairstyles I knew I could never be achieved with my hair, and never looked at it again. I often get so-and-so-is-now-following-you-on-Pinterest! emails, and every time I feel sorry for them, because it must be pretty damn boring.

why i'm unlikely to attend any revival of 'cats'

One of (my) life's little mysteries is why I don't like musical theatre as an adult, when I was completely enamoured of it as a child?

Here are my theories:

1) Bitterness and envy. 

My parents took me to the Founder's Theatre in Hamilton to see My Fair Lady (starring Max Cryer; I forget who played Eliza, but she was beautiful, I thought) when I was about 7 or 8.  My sister was deemed too young, or it was a treat for just me, I don't remember the details.  In any case, she was dropped at the neighbours while Mum and Dad took me to the show.  It was dinner theatre, I think, a late-80s small-town fancy-pants evening.  I was entranced and decided then and there, that's what I want to be.  The star.  Long story short, I am now a lawyer, not a musical theatre performer, worse luck.  Not cut out for it, sadly.  Maybe I'm just jealous, which means I avoid watching?

2) P's curmudgeonliness is rubbing off.

I can't believe it's true, but I married a man who has never watched the Sound of Music.  Or Grease.  He has shunned two mainstay films of my childhood (the other being Pippi Longstocking.  I haven't asked P to join the fan club for that one). 

One of Auckland's main theatres is on our commute.  As we pass, P mournfully intones things like, 'you're not going to make me take you to...Wicked, are you?'  I truly believe he thinks Annie or Mamma Mia would scar him for life.  He happily joins me for plays and has been the driving force behind visiting the opera and orchestral events, but he has drawn a very bright line at musical theatre.  I'm afraid I've never seen him chant a chorus or, you know, shimmy.  Perhaps it's catching?

3) Perversity and/or snobbery

I worry that something deep and dark in me doesn't want to enjoy musicals like many others do, simply because it's popular and not as 'high brow' as other pursuits.  I'd like to think I'm not always an asshole, however, and there's plenty of evidence that I do not give two shits about 'high brow' culture - I often switch the car's radio to deeply uncool top 40 stations, I read and enjoy all sorts of books from all over the scale (Diana Gabaldon to Margaret Atwood to Dickens to Regency to Marian Keyes -- never, ever sports autobiographies -- although, most of the time I suppose you don't catch me reviewing or admitting to the 'low brow' stuff) (BTW, is it 'annoying' how I keep putting 'high/low brow' in quotes? It's because every time I write them I feel like an asshole.  But then the quotes also make me feel assholey.  Net result = 'asshole'?).

Could be a combo of the three I suppose.  Or just a change of taste over time, much like discovering that olives are tasty, around the age of 17.  Who knows? 

(I really hope you didn't think this post was going anywhere, it totally wasn't and it didn't, I'm afraid.  Soz about that.)

piffle, neatly listed

Why hello blog, you look all LONELY and NEGLECTED.  Let me solve that for you!

OK, so.  Here's what's been happening in my life recently: about a quarter of Not Much. 

Oh no, wait, I have THRILLING updates:

1. I cut more hair off.  It was a mistake.  You know how minature ponies/Shetlands have those shaggy little tails (so cute) that are a bit frizzy all the way down the edges?  My ponytail looks like that but more stunted and it sticks straight out the back of my head (not cute).  But, my drying time has dropped, so there's that.  My hairdresser is Irish and every single thing she says (that I understand) sounds impossibly fun, including getting all snippy on my mane.  Hence, three more inches and a boofhead. 
2. We are still painting.  OF COURSE we are still painting.  How can ONE ROOM take so long?  (oh right, tea breaks, followed by booze breaks.  Liquid ingestibles (comestibles?) are my Achilles heel).  I do like the paint smell, so at least that's not an issue (I also like the smell of whiteboard markers.  Yes, I ate glue and playdoh as a child.)
3. Spring! Is! Here!
4. Lawyering and, you know, having to bring home the pinger to pay for paint by the boatload continues to be the bane of my existence.  I need to win Lotto, stat.  However, I don't have a ticket ever, so that's a problem.
5. Speaking of Lotto tickets, I picked up two tickets plus some scratchies and cards at Whitcoulls today in advance of Fathers' Day.  One for my dad, one for my father-in-law.  M, who was with me at the time, asked whether one Dad would be mad if the other one won (too many ones/won, sorry).  I felt hellishly guilty because what I'd been worried about was whether either of them would share with me if they won.  I am a wonderful person. 
6. AND THEN, GET THIS, one of the Fathers' Day cards cost $12!!!  I didn't realise until looking at my receipt after the fact and CHEEEEEESUS how can a greeting card cost that much money?! 
7. Wow, this post is crap.  Never mind, will try again later.

vanity, thy name is blogger

My obsession with not having a giant triangle head of hair continues.  In advance of my attendance at P's big work thing, I have booked a keratin blow out this weekend.  This is despite not being 100% sure what a keratin blow out actually is.  There are vague promises of shiny, no frizz for up to six weeks, but I still wonder if that's predicated on being able to use a hairdryer.  Because my hairdrying skills are haphazard, at best.  As in, point it at the wet bits and blow the bejesus out of it until dry (aaaaaand that is probably the reason for my triangle head, right there).

Good grief I am vain.  My mother used to comment on my constant glances into reflective surfaces, right throughout my childhood.  I used to think it was probably self-consciousness (have I got something on my teeth? do I look ok?).  Now, I think it's definitely self-consciousness (particularly since the skirt-tucked-into-knickers almost-debacle I caught in the office bathroom mirror before anyone else saw me). 

We'll await the results with baited breath, shall we?

in which i learn a valuable bus lesson

After the last post, I curled up in bed and whinged for a solid two days.  I couldn't even bring myself to internet, so lucky for you, you avoided the unnecessary dramz about my imminent demise during that time. 

As soon as I was recovered enough, I went out and had someone chop my hair into a long bob to give me something else to obsess over.  I cut off a great whack of hair in 2010 and regretted it almost instantaneously, but this time I'm sticking with a cautious 'is this a thing an old person would do? but I think I like it' type line.  Ask me again in a week when I've been unable to style it myself and thoroughly frustrated by Auckland's hair-unfriendly weather.

I don't even have a picture of it yet for you! You poor things, you're really missing out. 

Oh, I know, I have a public transport parable for you!  Listen, all ye mighty, but don't despair:

I caught the Inner Link bus from work to Ponsonby the other night and had that moment as soon as I sat down.  You know the one, the moment where you think 'Good grief, of all the seats I might have picked, I've sat down next to the crazy guy' or 'No wonder this was the last seat available'.  He was muttering away merrily to himself and taking up more than half the seat.  In the vein of all confrontation-averse users of public transportation, I clutched my bag a little tighter and made no eye contact.  We were in the seat just ahead of the bus's back door.  7 or 8 stops later, a woman made to get off with a load of supermarkets bags.  She dropped something.  My seat companion leapt up, leaned over the divider and helped her with her bags while she retrieved the errant item.  He made a genial comment to me about how tough it is when you're carrying a lot, then excused himself politely so he could get off at the following stop.  

So! No more immediate judgment from me based on someone's mutterings! I will restrict myself to quietly holding my breath when someone is in breach of widely acceptable hygiene standards from this moment on!  (Gosh, that sounds kind of sarky but I genuinely felt bad for my snap assessment, I promise!)

july, two days in

I can feel the fog descending, curling round the outer edges of consciousness and fuzzing up my throat and nose.  I will shortly be a pariah in the office, my germs warded off with sideways glances and furious rinsing of mugs. 

Ha, I just opened the last post to discover it was all about being sick.  Well, lest this blog devolve into an extended examination of my inner workings, let me report on all the other news in A-town:

My sister K: took her to a play last night (Once on Chunuk Bair, Auckland Theatre Company at the Maidment, v. good) and enjoyed her company over dinner first.  She had a skirt in a gorgeous stiff black + white floral fabric that I coveted.  That's not really news, per se, but there it is. 

Mum: allegedly announced to sister K that she's now ready to be a grandmother.  Has also been considering surrogacy options for me, in case I'm too busy to procreate for myself.  Mum surely told K this in the knowledge it would be communicated to me (K being presently single meaning that she's not the prime child-bearing target).  Dear old Mum, she doesn't want to ask me directly what my plans are because she rightly knows I'll be prickly about it.  She's been giving me plenty of opportunities to raise children in conversation; I'm SUCH a disappointment.

Dad: not much to report.  I'm loving phone conversations with him at the moment.  He works so actively at holding a conversation about the news and what's going on and asking the right questions -- who doesn't love that? About the time I left home, Dad became very intentional in telling us he loves and is proud of us.  Maybe I didn't notice it before I left, maybe it was triggered by our departures, I'm not sure.  We've never been an emotionally transparent family and I just adore that Dad is intentional now about that stuff - it takes effort and I really appreciate it.  Though, of course, I should be more reciprocal. 

P: lovely, as usual.  Except for the other morning when everything he uttered annoyed me so deeply I contemplated telling him to just shut up and not bother talking to me again until we left for work.  Good thing I didn't, as on reflection the problem may (MAY!) have been me and waking up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Work: have been promoted.  Am fairly sure that they will soon discover all apparent abilities are a sham -- but have managed to wriggle up another step on the ladder for better or worse.  Am bizarrely ambivalent about it for a girl who has tended to measure her worth in external achievement standards. 

Cats: puss-ish. 

Friends: neglected.  Must do something about that.  J is in NZ this week and I'm taking my birthday leave on Friday to see her.  I think we'll go to a wild and wintry beach for a walk to feel properly Kiwi.  I'll feel envious of her return to London on Sunday as I've been having pangs recently.  It's been a while since we escaped Auckland last, so perhaps I'm feeling a little cabin-feverish?

Ha, on re-reading the above, it struck me -- have you read the Ed Champion rant about Middling Millenials?  I'm not going to link to it because ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS and much of his point re Emily Gould is subsumed in vitriol and a smattering of misogyny, valid as it might otherwise be.  ALSO, good grief, I could certainly be accused of some Middling Millenial behaviour. Of course, any literary pretensions I may have reside firmly inside my own head and only occasionally spill into this badly-edited and irretrievably awful personal blog, so if Middling Millenial refers only to those who are seeking fame off the creation of subpar art, I certainly don't count.  But, if the occasional reference to the Pink Power Ranger by a 32 year old woman in an online journal strikes you as vapid, lazy and disengaged, well bully for you but I care not.  Well, I care a little bit, I'm human aren't I?

Time to cut it off, given I'm making no sense whatsoever.  I bet you I read this in less than a month's time and cringe, but isn't that what a blog's for?

winner winner

I am absolutely owning life, recently. 

Evidence:

• I have at least one fingernail that isn't bitten to the quick.
• The scab on my foot from a tumble in leaf mould on my walk home two weeks ago is nearly healed, leaving me approx. 50% less scabrous.
• I have thought about replacing my seriously old razor blade before I develop tetanus and gone so far as to make a mental note to buy a new one.
• I found my access card for work after a short week of looking.
• My regrowth lends my hair a really 'lived in' feel.
• The ants have moved on to only eating the cats' biscuits off the kitchen floor, after I eradicated every ant found on the kitchen bench.
• Now that my glasses are completely scratched up, I don't notice a difference in quality of vision when I take them off.
• Finding my way to the bottom of the chip packet on the regular has made me extra specially nice to hug.
• The fact that the kitten is sleeping on my face on cold nights demonstrates her trust and love, right?

Actually, there's only one piece of evidence that counts.  That shows I'm a real winner, despite all of the above:

• Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of the day I first kissed P.  P, who loves me anyway.  He's the best.

easter update 2014

Easter: four days off, let's do that more often.  Loved it, apart from the heartbreaking moment on Saturday that P and I realised we'd left our egg run too late at the supermarket: chocolate eggs SOLD OUT.  I'm sure we'll get over it but it was a stab to the heart, that's for sure.

Day in the Life: doing this thing again.  Hope to post tomorrow.  If you're bored by this short missive, just wait until I hit you with the minutiae of another day in the terribly exciting life and times of A!

About Time: Richard Curtis you emotional manipulator you.  The film opened with my wedding aisle song (The Luckiest, Ben Folds, if you're interested).  Nearly cried from the get go.  Took half an hour of scrubbing pots in the kitchen after the final credits for me to turn off the emotional gushiness that ensued. 

Revisiting YA fiction over the break: I did this and I am ashamed of myself.  Hours down the drain.  HOURS.

Sunday Painters: meh.  This is probably because I'm spoilt - P cooks excellent French bistro food.  This is also probably because P's taught me to be an unbearable wine snob - no decanters in the restaurant at all, when there's all that lovely aged Burgundy?  Ack, I'm awful.

Silence: was golden in the 09 over the break.  Empty streets, quiet neighbourhoods, no queues anywhere.  With the notable exception of Harvey Norman in Wairau Park to which we stupidly ventured in pursuit of a new vacuum cleaner on sale (yes, that is exactly how exciting my life is now but YOU SHOULD SEE MY RUG Dyson 4 lyf) which had crowds so cray there was a bouncy castle to keep hordes of kids entertained while their parents perused whiteware and gave me claustrophobia on an unprecedented scale. 

rawr

I have been a monster for the past week, driven by a potent combination of hormones and latent bitchiness. 

Seriously though, as much as I'm actually awful at heart, this past week I've suffered through the worst PMS I have ever, ever experienced.  I thought my boobs were going to explode over the weekend - first the right with a bang, then the left with a listless puff, that's how aware I was of the swelling and tenderness - I've acne on my shoulders, my face is a spotty mess, I cry at the drop of a hat and I was irrationally and completely enraged by my husband's request that I deliver him his credit card (that I'd borrowed and forgotten to return, which he needed in a hurry, which wasn't particularly out of my way).  I spent at least 15 minutes thinking of different ways to disembowel the bastard until I remembered:

1. I quite like him usually, in fact I married him not so long ago;
2. I prefer him intact (after the bloody thumb-slicing mandolin incident I took a stance on P and gashes in his flesh); and
3. My period was days overdue.

Here I've been, smugly thinking since age 14 that PMS doesn't affect me greatly.  I've rolled my eyes at my mother with my father, when he's told me about the week of the month that he hides in his office because he won't be right about anything, ever.  I've impatiently listened to my sister bitch about hormonal skin issues. 

Well, my friends, I guess I spoke far too soon.  Genetics is a bitch and it appears that I am no longer immune to the vagaries of my reproductive system, asshole though it appears she's becoming.

unwanted

You know, I'm sorry, I really wanted to blog about something hopeful today.  But, the icing on the cake this week (this awful, heartrending week) was that I was touched without my permission on the way to work this morning.

I feel soiled.

I fully admit I was overly engrossed in my phone as I walked down the street.  I looked up; oh, cafe tables on the street ahead, must step right to avoid collision.  As I did so, I felt a hand brush against my thigh, the bottom of my bum.  I swerved; thinking I'd stepped in front of someone and got in the way.  So I had, sort of.  He was walking purposefully forward, backpack on, sandy cropped hair, rumpled clothing. I wasn't directly in his path.  I turned back around and kept walking. 

A full three seconds later, I felt it again. 

That time it was clear.  A full, deliberate, open handswipe down the right side of my bum and thigh.  I spun with a breathy 'hey', shocked, and the fucker didn't even register.  Kept right on walking. 

Me, full of words and opinions, was speechless.  7.45am, crowded public place.  I debated with myself: did that really just happen?  Am I sure it wasn't an accident?  It wasn't; I know what I felt, I'd had a chance to register the space between us after the first swipe and it was big enough that he would have had to deliberately move into my space to touch me again, some time and a few steps after the original.  As I blanked, he veered around the corner and I crossed the road with the lights.  For five minutes, I kept checking my back, brushing off the invisible finger marks he left. 

What the fuck.  I thought about saying something further, out loud, but it was a busy public space and I didn't want the shame of accusation.  There shouldn't be any shame in accusation, but my mind was spinning with 'everyone will think you're being hysterical.  It was just an accidental commuter brush'.  I'm really angry with myself now for staying quiet because I know it wasn't and that bastard deserved to get served a volley of abuse. 

In the scheme of things, not that much.  But still fucking illegal.  ILLEGAL.  You do not get to touch me without my permission.  You have made me feel disgusting and you didn't appear to give one single shit. 

so, so stupid

I can't be trusted to act like an adult, ever.  I spent yesterday dying a horrible, horrible, self-induced death ten times over.  The last two things I remember from the night before (the wedding after party) are swimming in the middle of a tropical cyclone (though the details of the swim are pretty hazy) and delivering a full bodied slap to someone's face (no idea who).  That last was part of a game, not malicious, but....still.

I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits. 

If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished.  But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later.  Just charming.  I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage.  We took an hour's breather at Thames.  I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me. 

So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away.  Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified. 

I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here.  More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY).  I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson. 

Have I got a problem with the demon drink?  Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance.  I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson.  Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me.  If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell. 

Off to turn over a new leaf. 

frosty wife, frigid life

Having onions in your lunch is always a risky decision.  Just so you know to avoid my office this afternoon, in case you were thinking about dropping by. 

So, the Great Housework Debacle of 2014 has reached a frozen denouement.  P tried valiantly to engage me in neutral conversation yesterday, followed by lots of little touches (e.g. running his hand over my lower back whenever he walked past). He fairly rapidly realised the frosties weren't going away any time soon.  This morning he said he was sorry and hugged it out, which was a bit like hugging a board, really (albeit a board with a quite a bit of excess adipose tissue - I'm squishy even when I'm cross).  While I'm pretty sure he was internally qualifying his sorry six ways from Sunday - just saying it to get the fight finished and to appease me before announcing we've got dinner with the in-laws tonight, a fact he'd previously neglected to mention - I think I'm going to magnanimously accept the gesture and move on.  I'm usually the one who'll do anything for the sake of peace, so I think that's probably fair. Also, he's kind of nice when he's not being a dick.

Kitten update, you say? OH GO ON THEN I WILL. 

Timothy: not his usual shining self, Timothy has been hiding under the bed and feeling a bit under the weather, I think.  He has also point blank refused how to learn to use the cat door properly and insists that we open it for him.  Wee Tim is no longer so wee; he's starting to grow into his enormous paws.  He's no longer chewing wires (whew).  He loves to sleep between P and I and press his face into ours with purring sound effects as he resettles in the night.  I love it. 

Tabitha: a wicked, naughty bundle of fun.  She's brilliant and I love her.  She knows how to use the cat door but only when she feels like it.  We've taken to naming all the cat toys variations on 'Tabby's baby': Tabby's mouse baby, Tabby's crack baby (the latter being a catnip mouse that sends her crazy - one minute she's snuggling, the next she's savaging her baby like she desperately needs to get at the good stuff inside). She sleeps under the bed or in the spare room, leaping up at about 6am to see if I'm awake enough to get her biscuits yet.

I'm fully aware, thank you, that I sound hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when I talk about my cats.  In all honesty, I probably am hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when it comes to my cats.  At least I'm frank with my weblog?

(Except when I'm not.  I'm partial to a bit of revisionist history, from time to time.)