pollyanna

Do you know, I've been cheerful today.  I mean, what the fuck is that? I'd forgotten a bit what cheerful was like and I've missed it.  Dad's had two good days in a row which, despite the fact that the third good day may not materialise, is apparently enough for me to relax for two minutes.  Just call me Pollyanna. 

I just really wanted to write that down.  Something positive, hopeful even, for once.  Oh don't get me wrong, my dad is still dying, I've made police complaints recently, my family is a mess, I'm woefully underprepared for impending parenthood, peeing about a dozen times a day, slugging apple cider vinegar as a homemade remedy for heartburn and thoroughly fucked off at my bank but I AM FEELING POSITIVE right here and right now.  Here are some things I can say are genuinely good:

• My in-laws have helped immensely with painting my freshly re-constructed bedroom.  I love the paint colour we chose (Resene Half Athens Grey, should you care) and the room is lovely.  They've been so wonderful to us. 
• I listened to the rain on the roof last night and thought fondly of all the extra insulation we installed in the new bedroom as well as the heated towel rail in the bathroom (still not over it.  It's like christmas every time I pick up a towel). 
• I'm babysitting P's cousin's very cute baby this evening.
• I had a moment of real excitement about Cletus' arrival in July the other day.  It's looking like I'm going to have a real live baby who is fathered by my favourite person and should be awesome in his or her own right. That's pretty great. 
• My boss has been so understanding, patient and kind (as have my colleagues). 
• My husband has been beyond.  I love him. 
• I made people laugh at yoga the other night, rather than being the quiet sad sack in the corner prone to a wobbly chin.   
• Tabby cat has been sleeping by my belly.  It's been lovely and soothing. 
• I baked an excellent apple loaf that is basically butter and brown sugar and makes me fat and happy. 
• I'm going to see my mum and dad this weekend.

I mean, that's all good stuff.  I'm sure I'll read back on this in a week or two and want to get stabby with a rusty spoon but for now, I need to focus on all of this. 

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. 

purple palace progress

The work on the Lavender Loveshack continues apace.  There's been promises of being done with the painting by Christmas, but that's contingent on the weather continuing to play ball.

The builders will probably be glad to be done - P had a session pointing out a bunch of shonky repairs last weekend that remain uncorrected and I gave one of them a hell of a fright earlier this week.  I don't usually get home until the builders have left, but I'd had a ride and got home not too far off 5.30.  The front door was open and I could hear banging and sanding down the right hand side of the house. I was busting to use the loo, so I didn't walk round to say hi.  I hustled into the bathroom and when I popped out, the builder's son was at the kitchen sink having a drink.*  I swear his feet left the ground he got such a fright - he garbled an apology, I laughed and said of course he could help himself to water and he scurried outside to recover his composure, the poor thing.

With all the prep work and the patches of primed new weatherboards, the Palace is not very Purple any more.  I'm nervous about the colours I've picked going up (what if I haaaaaate them?  I'm not very good with this sort of thing).  I'm also nervous about the expense, both of the current work and what we have planned next.  We're going to re-line our bedroom and install a built-in wardrobe as the first task in the New Year, followed by a similar job on the spare bedroom (we can only do this one room at a time, you see, because we can only store one extra room's furniture at a time and still have a place to sleep that isn't the living room floor.  I'm not opposed to the living room floor, I should point out, but P isn't too keen.  He's got a point because the living room is very compact.) 

We've acknowledged to ourselves that we can't afford to do the extension/kitchen/bathroom renovations as yet, so we'll stick to whacking in a dishwasher in those zones, once the bedrooms are done.  Sweet, sweet dishwasher, I cannot wait to meet you.

There's also been talk of underhouse excavations and moving the laundry to a concreted space under there.  I don't think there's any point until we do the major works at the back, and we'll still have to walk outdoors to put on a load of laundry, even if it's under the house.  The washing machine presently lives in a utility shed in the backyard, which doesn't bother me nearly as much as I thought it would.  We don't own a dryer so everything goes outdoors on the line anyway, we don't hear the noise, and the lack of overhead lighting restricts my laundry days to the weekend, so I don't have a horrible constant pile of folding to do.

So, we're going to be pouring some $$$ directly into the house, rather than continuing to shove it all onto the mortgage in the name of reducing the ridiculous mound of debt.  I know that it technically increases our equity as well, but I have a cheap wee heart and it certainly doesn't reduce our interest payments! 

That is all very domestic and dull, but it's what's going on just now. 

*You might recall that our bathroom comes off the kitchen, part of a standard 50s lean-to addition to the old cottage.  Just charming.

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. 

what addiction shall we address next?

In a meeting yesterday at someone else's offices, the sun on my back kept getting hotter and hotter.  My blue suit doesn't breathe particularly well and I was increasingly uncomfortable and sweaty, as the minutes ticked by into hours. The sun rose higher.  It was a formal meeting and ripping off my jacket to a sleeveless top would have been inappropriate in the circumstances.  I surreptitiously tried to blow air up onto my face.  When we finally took a break, I raced outside and gulped fresh air as fast as decorum would allow.  I was rapidly followed by another meeting attendee, guiltily lighting a cigarette.

I realised then that cigarettes are almost non-existent in my life, these days.

I've never smoked myself, but I vividly recall the first occasion in 2004 or 2005, after the indoor smoking ban took effect, I went to the Bowler (RIP Bowling Green Tavern, once Dunedin's finest, I partook of your delicious beverages, pashed on your dancefloor, even once managed to gain entry with two bleeding knees*).  That night, the smell in the bar without the mask of cigarette smoke was so horrific I had to go home.  But! the next morning, my hair was fresh. No burn marks in my clothes or on my arms.  Once the Bowler ripped out the old carpet and the smell issue was reduced (wouldn't go so far as to say eliminated), I forgot all about gross secondhand smoke issues after a night out. 

In 2008, I recall having a few colleagues who'd still nip outside for a smoke during work hours.  There were only a few, but you knew where they'd be when they weren't at their desks.

In 2010, P relegated his social smoking to only very special occasions.  It had been pretty infrequent anyway (getting laid > smoking), but he didn't always have a packet stashed in the top drawer of his bedside table anymore. 

Today, I would be pressed to think of a friend who is a smoker in the classic sense anymore.  None of my colleagues leave the office for a cigarette (a coffee, different story). 

Butts on the street are much fewer.

The Quit Me Mutu advertising is prevalent. 

Amazing what changes can be wrought in a decade or so. 

*the result of two (2) separate accidents in one (1) frosty night with (1) unfortunate pair of shoes and no doubt three (3) too many pre-drinks.

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.

diy

I posted something terribly depressing, then I fled the scene of the crime for a solid two weeks.  Well done, self, you're a real peach. 

The break was prompted by my holiday from work...AKA the week in which I learned my deficiencies in the home improvement realm!

Here's how it actually went:

1) I paint swatches all over the dining room wall and melt down about the difference between Quarter Surrender and One Eighth Surrender, because it's clearly a big deal.  Much time spent staring at walls in different lights.

INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO/NAP TIME.  THIS IS ACTUALLY HOW AMATEUR WE ARE.

2) We have a cup of tea.

[50 SHADES OF GREY JOKE HERE]

3) P starts demolishing the linings.  It transpires they're hard board not gib (plasterboard) and there's a fuckload (official term) of wood behind them for bracing.  There is a technical term for this but it escapes me, or perhaps I never had it.

4) I cart loads of rubbish to our bin.

5) I cart loads of rubbish to the bin of the empty house next door, looking around to see if anyone's busting me.

6) More tea. 

7) Sparky comes to fix the outlets in the dining room and add a heated towel rail to the bathroom.  HOLY SMOKES a heated towel rail is a super luxury item! I mean, my towel is always dry now! AMAZING.  Yes, I have had an HTR (we're on close terms now) in my life previously but seriously, it's a minor improvement to an incredibly shabby bathroom and it makes me beyond happy. 

8) Tea while watching electrician and his apprentice (who seemed about 17 and named Silkie.  'Silk, get under the house.' 'Silk, get in the roof.' 'Silk, have you fixed that yet?' Endlessly entertaining).

9) Spend HOURS pulling superfluous nails out of the bracing.  HOURS.

SOMEWHERE IN ALL OF THIS WE WENT TO WAIHEKE ISLAND FOR A LONG LUNCH BECAUSE HOLIDAY.

10) Get dressed up in a disposable overall (something I hope never to do again) to install insulation.  Install insulation and only breathe a bit of fibreglass in the process.  Feel itchy.

11) More nail pulling.  It turns out they used approximately a million tacks to secure the hard wood lining, none of which came out when we ripped off the lining.

12) Freak out when P uses the drop saw. Convinced he will lose a finger, so instead of sensibly supervising with my finger on the dial to call 111, I go outside to paint a window hoping I'll somehow avoid the emergency.

13) P still intact, hammers things. 

14) Gib fixer and plasterer arrives.  Takes ages to dry.  Attempt poorly planned pathway around side of house as landscaping project in interim.  Present status: muddy.

THIS WINS THE PRIZE FOR MOST BORING PHOTO OF ALL TIME BUT WE HAVE WALLS!  ALSO, A SHIT VIEW FROM THIS ROOM. 

15) Sanding stuff.  Architraves, ceiling.  (OMG sanding the ceiling). 

16) Select paint.  Resene Quarter Surrender with white for ceilings, archs, skirts and scotia.  USe Dad's store card for discount and P nearly gives the game away asking me how I got it in front of the clerk.  Immediately have regret about colour choice. 

Aaaaand that's about as far as we got.  I didn't bother writing it in, but we made approximately 50 trips to Mitre 10, Placemakers, some fancy Villa timber store down the road, the booze store, the paint store and the supermarket during that time.  OMG, I bought building paper from Mitre 10 and nails and shit, all by myself.  They let me buy it all without some kind of licence.  (Not so much feminism's win as it is capitalism's, I expect).

day 1, again

In the most roundabout way, I came to the realisation on the weekend that I ought to do something about my weight.

About three months ago, P was gifted a Westfield voucher, to spend at any store in a Westfield mall.  At about the same time, he closed down an old credit card and used the last of his points to redeem a voucher.  He picked a Bendon voucher for me to spend on frivolous underwear, something which we'd both enjoy.  It was hosing down with rain on Sunday and the first voucher was nearly at the expiry date, so we decided to brave the mall.

I've written before that my boobs are not petite, or even mediumish.  I am fairly tall and have a long torso, so I can carry some chest weight and I certainly do.  I hated my boobs in my younger years because going braless (or even strapless bra'd) is not possible for me.  I've learned to like them more as time has passed (familarity, I suppose, which in this case has not bred contempt but rather resignation and acceptance).  I hemmed and hawed at Bendon over the bra selection, which was not extensive for those with a reasonably small band size but large cups.  I eventually picked out a lovely one, but as I was assessing the fit in the mirror, the damage I've been doing to my midsection over the past couple of years was brutally apparent.  We don't have a full length mirror at home, so I've only been looking at it from my own perspective, recently.  I shrugged it off - fluorescent lighting always makes you look horrific, I thought. 

Finished with the bra selection, we wandered to the electronics store to spend the other voucher.  P eventually settled on Apple TV.  We also bought an SD card converter thingee to get all our photographs from the camera to the iPad (P recently got one for work).  I got antsy with all the people in the store and in the mall, so we scarpered for home.

Back at the Lavender Loveshack, P asked me to model my new knickers and I felt oddly reluctant.  I shrugged him off.  He set up the Apple TV instead, then downloaded a whole lot of photographs from the camera.  Showing me how great the Apple TV is, he set up a slideshow of reasonably old photographs I haven't really seen before on our TV. 

I freaked.  Internally, I was berating myself that the photographs, none of which are particularly recent, were horrific.  In my eyes, I was huge.  I asked P to turn it off, snappily.  He asked why.  I wouldn't speak about it and he got cross.

I got up, and went for a run. 

I downloaded food tracking apps and started a plank a day challenge. 

I'm not going to be stupid about this.  I'm running a 10k in November anyway with my sister (not that far, but she's on the mend from surgery on her ACL), so training is necessary.  I could stand to cut back on the booze and treats.  I'm not obese; I have a healthy BMI presently, for what that's worth (albeit at the high end of the range).  I know that it is not realistic nor even desirable to expect that I'll lose over 10 kilograms.  Five kilos would, however, make a world of difference to my own self-image. 

By the by, P apologised for upsetting me.  He thinks I get stupid about my self-image which might well be true but he recognised that what's required is compassion, not ire.  In turn, I apologised for behaving petulantly. 

I could be setting myself up for failure by writing about this at the outset, but processing it, writing it, makes me accountable, I hope. 

day in the life, winter 2014

Hi! For those who are new, I am A.  I'm 32, f, married, no kids, 2 cats, from Auckland, New Zealand.  My interests include books, wine, eating things, travelling, making questionable choices, being nosy and writing things about myself on the internet.  I find that DiTL posts fit nicely with the latter of those two interests!

It's Friday 1 August 2014.  It's winter in NZ and a working day for me. 

*************************************

5.30am: wake up, but am NOT HAPPY.  Lie in the dark, mentally turning over the questionable choices I made last night.  We were sending off a colleague who is moving to London; predictably, one beer lead to many beers (the pub was going off! I was having a good time! meeting people! gossiping!), lead to Mickey Dees en route home (I am not proud), lead to furry mouth at 5.30am. 

6.15am: finally bring myself to get out of bed.  Shake some bikkies into the cats’ bowls and discover the mess I made filling up the biscuit container when a bit boozled last night.  Turn on the shower.  It’s warmer outside this morning thank god (about 10 degrees celcius) so the bathroom isn’t completely frigid and I can disrobe without squeaking.

6.25am: flick on the kettle, desperate for tea.

THIS IS FIRST-RATE COMPELLING PHOTOJOURNALISM, RIGHT HERE

6.26am: Tabitha hauls in her newest victim through the cat flap.  She has recently graduated to trapping earthworms, crickets being in short supply this time of year.  Not wanting to waste a good worm (or watch Tab torture a worm on my kitchen floor), I don a pair of jandals to deliver the worm to our compost bin outside.  Jandals, dressing gown and no knickers – good thing the neighbouring house is empty at the moment because I am a sight to behold.  I choose not to take a picture of that – count yourself lucky.

 

TABBY AND VICTIM AND THE TERRIBLE STATE OF THE FLOORING IN MY KITCHEN.  AT LEAST WORMS ON AN ALREADY DECREPIT FLOOR AREN'T REALLY A BIG DEAL 

6.30am: flick on the TV to catch some Commonwealth Games coverage while scoffing breakfast and drying my hair etc.  NZ has just won a bronze medal in the Men’s Floor (Gymnastics) and a Gold in the Women’s Time Trial (Cycling) – go Kiwis! The coverage is largely of lawn bowls this morning and it’s not quite as thrilling to follow as, say, 100m sprints or the swimming. 

6.40am: P emerges from the bedroom, grumbling.  As many bad life decisions as I made last night, he made a few more out on the town a bunch of graduates from his office, following a training session he ran for them.  He likes to think he can keep up with a bunch of 23 year olds, but looking at him this morning I have my doubts. 

7.15am: I have managed to dress and make myself mostly presentable.  I am wearing opaque tights, a red silk mullet dress fresh from the drycleaners, a black blazer with a sheer back (sounds very odd when written like that) . P however is struggling to get his stuff together and is yelling for help to find a grey cardigan.  I don’t know where he thinks I might have secretly stashed it, but if it’s not in the drawers or on the wardrobe rack, he’s well out of luck.

OF NOTE: (1) MY HAIR STAYED LIKE THIS UNTIL I WAS APPROX. 5 STEPS OUT MY FRONT DOOR INTO THE FOG.  REST OF DAY HAVE BEEN SHAGGY BEAST.
(2) THE STATE OF THE LIVING ROOM BEHIND ME. THIS IS REAL LIFE, PEOPLE. PEPPER GRINDERS AND ALL.

7.30am: the Great Man Cardi Hunt of 2014 has proved unfruitful and most unsympathetically I throw another sweater at P, telling him to put a sock in it.  We manage to depart the house for work.

7.30-8am: walk to work with P.  He’s on rare form today and, upon hearing about my DiTL post day, he announces ‘Well I’m looking hot today so you should definitely take a picture of me for the internet’.  He raced over to a wall nearby and struck a pose and I nearly died laughing – he thought he was taking the mickey out of magazine styling, but it is so completely fashion blogger I nearly wet my pants. 

I HOPE NONE OF YOU THINK THIS IS FOR SERIOUS. P'S TONGUE IS FIRMLY IN HIS CHEEK - THIS WAS DONE IN A HEARTBEAT AND WE RAN ON, LAUGHING TIL MY FACE HURT.  I'VE ONLY JUST NOW NOTICED ALLTHE CIGGIE BUTTS AT HIS FEET, WHICH MAKES IT EVEN BETTER

8am: arrive at work.  Debrief with my secretary, who was also a party to yesterday evening’s shenanigans.  She lasted longer than I did but is regretting it!

8-10.30: workity work work.  Nothing thrilling, believe you me: drafting, emailing, considering, reviewing. At about 9.45 I get up to go to the printer and realise I have a terrible static situation going on with my dress.  Slip or no slip, it’s a clinger which is just annoying because the colour is so nice (a change from my usual drab wardrobe choices). 

THIS PICTURE IS A FAIL AT ILLUSTRATING CLINGAGE, MOSTLY DEMONSTRATING INCREDIBLY WEIRD BODY SHAPE INSTEAD? IT'S THE ANGLE, I PROMISE! THAT'S NOT A GIANT BOOBSHELF!

10.30: weekly morning tea for the firm with speeches for colleague S, departing to the UK.  Stuff face with a scone, a cheerio (not the cereal, the sausage-y type!), carrot sticks and scarper and take a wee sammie & pie for the road (I don’t eat lunch on Fridays as I usually make a piggy of myself at morning tea).  Tell the firm’s chef I love his work. 

10.45-12.30: more work, until M calls me.  She wants to go for a wander and a smoothie.  We look briefly at cases for our cellphones.  Mine is new and if I don’t get a case, I’ll probably destroy it.  No dice making a purchase though, I want a pretty one!  I order a green smoothie, which I feel good about (if I don’t consider the quantities of frozen yoghurt in it).

WINTER. 

1-5ish: workity working.  Incredibly unproductive this afternoon, however.  Drink at least two cups of tea.

5.10pm: nip upstairs where Friday Night Drinks are happening.  Look at beersies and feel ill.  Say goodbye for the final time to S and depart to meet P to scarper up to Ponsonby Road.  Call my sister K on route, because we have to debrief about the amazing video someone from her hockey team posted on FB in which she is doing the Fat Amy Mermaid for her team's amusement.  So funny, but she's worried her students might see it (she's a high school teacher). 

6pm: Grand Central Bar, Ponsonby.  We're meeting R and PW for drinks pre-dinner.  R has recently been to Austria for work but also managed to spend time in the UK with friends en route so I squeeze her for gossip.  It's warm enough that we're able to sit outside under the heaters and enjoy some fresh air for a change.

A WEE SIGN ON THE EXTERIOR WALL OF THE BAR THAT MADE ME SMILE.

7ish: we get our call from Orphan’s Kitchen, which doesn’t take reservations.  We rush in and order wine and tasty treats.  Highlights included smoked porae with a celeriac and green apple slaw, YUM.  Hipster central - so many good beards and artfully mismatched water jugs.  I love it.  They also have a very tasty wine list, highly recommend. 

9ish: finished with dinner, we wander down the road to Chapel Bar and have another bottle of wine between four, because FRIDAY NIGHT.  PJ and his new girlfriend are supposed to be meeting us but they're still at dinner elsewhere, and are trying to scam us into going to the city for dancing.  We're not quite in that zone!

10.30ish: wave goodbye to R & PW and walk home arm-in-arm with P.  It's about a 15 minute walk, and while I don't remember the conversation, I do remember laughing most of the way home.

10.45: open the door to find Tabby and Cokes on the end of the bed, watching us mournfully.  They forgive me when I fill up their bowls. 

11pm: bed.

piffle

Ugh, the stress is eating my stomach lining again.  It's work - I'd spill it all out on the page in hope of a cathartic redemption, but it's confidential of course and tedious in the extreme, so.  Let's just say that checking your emails at about midnight on a Friday night while under the influence, then seeing something you realllllllly didn't want to see in there is BALLS.  Don't do it, you spend the next two days chewing on it!

So yes, Wellington.  I like Wellington.  I told P as we were leaving that if he got offered a job there, I wouldn't veto it.  We had a lovely time with really good friends and I am now finding that I absolutely do not feel like recapping it.  This is likely because I gave my mother the rundown via email yesterday.  I did skip the bit about D and M buying us all tequila shots, which we downed and promptly all went to bed because fuck that, way too old.  Also, I skipped the bit when I went to a skody bar in town in my converse sneakers because I had nothing to change into - I discovered that (a) cardigans are not really acceptable Courtney Place attire post-midnight on a Friday and (b) I don't know how to dance without wearing heels. 

Laziest. Blogger. Ever. 

year thirty-two

I turned 32 this weekend.  Cataloguing the comparisons to my last birthday, at 32 I am:

• Squidgier
• More settled
• About as happy
• Wrinklier
• Sunnier
• A mother of dragons cats
• Tireder
• Longer haired & blonder
• More nervous about the outlook
• Yet calmer, generally

We had friends around to watch the rugby and eat dinner in a very civilised fashion the night before my birthday.  We kept the fact of my birthday reasonably quiet -- I've always felt odd about hosting a celebration for MEMEME, but P never wants to let the moment pass, so we usually end up having some kind of hybrid function that makes me feel squeamish (see for example the leaving/30th party in 2012 - I love celebrating and usually relish a bit of attention, but feel odd about celebrating my anniversary of life!). As I was doing the dishes just before midnight, most of the guests having left, P's friend PJ discovered my birthday was about to begin and started teasing me -- you're not too old for dancing, let's go to town! Come on woman, get your glad rags on! -- and as I sluiced the sink, I thought, challenge accepted.  I threw on a pair of heels, winced at the likely blister they'd cause, slapped on a red lipstick and we charged for the city.

I felt old but happy.  Old, as in we headed for bars frequented by the 20 year old set.  I was wearing far more clothing than they were, which made me feel vaguely prudish, but stuff it, I thought as we knocked back a drink and headed for the dancefloor.  P and PJ (the only others from the dinner party who'd had the stamina or ability, babies and pregnancy presenting obstacles to last minute debauches) took turns at dancing with me and making me laugh breathlessly.  They shamelessly showered me with compliments, which was extremely sweet and a lovely birthday present.  We chatted up girls for PJ, visited a few old haunts and a few new.

I was grateful to be me and 32.  I didn't want to be 20 again, as fun as it once was.  I am grateful for my friends and my husband and my life that sees me tucked up in bed before 10, usually.  I'm glad I went though; I had a good time. 

queen's birthday 2014

Me? Oh I've been working like a slave, and then rushing off to Waiheke for a day wine-tasting with friends, getting way too sauced on the good stuff, wasting all of Sunday curled up in a ball of vino and regret fumes, and spending most of the Monday off at work.

But, I made a new friend! This is Bobby:

BOBBY IS THREE.  LIKES: SHOELACES, COAT BUTTONS.  DISLIKES: DOUBLE KNOTS

And we saw the sun!

SWIPED FROM P'S FACEBOOK.  STONYRIDGE VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, LAST DAY OF AUTUMN 2014

I swear, the only way to tell it was the beginning of winter was by examining the vines:

TE MOTU VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, HOME OF BOBBY

Before I wrote off my tastebuds (and the rest), we had a swig of the LaRose from Stonyridge.  Heaven in a glass, if you're into that sort of thing.   Visitors to Auckland, a day trip to Waiheke cannot come highly rated enough.

And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much. 

i love me some potatoes

Last night, I had a flashback to the claggy boiled potatoes of my childhood.  No offense intended to my Mum or Dad, those spuds were great, I loved them.  We'd cut them open and add salt and pepper, mashing them slightly with a fork.  As I ate my lightly mashed potatoes yesterday, I thought 'self, you don't actually have to add half a pound of butter to mashed potatoes to make them taste fine. Yes, a lump of butter the size of a fist and whipping them with a fork post mashing would make them taste amazing.  But it's not necessary every damn time you eat them.  Your arteries and ass will thank you later.'

The issue is, you see, my husband is a doodie.

(I'll give you a minute - read that link.)

(With me now?)

Every time I suggest to P he might like to scale it back a bit and that every meal doesn't have to be a production, he responds with some variation on "why are you against deliciousness?"

He's got a valid point, I suppose - why not strive to make everything taste as good as possible?  However, he wants to eat steak and thrice cooked chips more often than I want to consume the level of canola oil used in the cooking. 

(Also - how privileged are we, for goodness' sake?  It was a full-fledged crisis in our house last week when the caterpillars had eaten all the parsley, the creepy little fuckers.)

He's not averse to healthy eating. The only qualification is that it must be tasty and it seems to me that there is a direct correllation between the quantity of organic extra virgin olive oil (pressed by uncle and aunt from their grove, no less, at a community press) and tastiness. 

Even better, he loves a recipe that involves copious amounts of chopping, as slicing things is his favourite activity (*ahem*, marital relations excluded) (I hope) since he bought the Japanese handbeaten knife as a promotion present for himself in 2011.  The chopping, sorry, precision dicing/slicing/brunoising or whatever, is OK with me.  Or at least, it is now after we threw away the mandolin following the great thumb slicing of 2013).

He hasn't bought a sous vide, though.  Yet.

slightly sozzled, I said yes

Have I never told you "My Engagement Story"?

(Capitals and "Quotes" and Sarcasm are a Good Mix, No?)

OH BOY, YOU'RE IN FOR A TREAT.  Not really, I just feel like writing this piece of history up today like the fickle-memoried wench that I am. 

It started with Kate and Wills, like all good romances.

In fact, Wills was born a week after me, when my mother was still in the maternity ward recovering from the birth / shock.  I felt from a very young age that the prince and I were meant to be; at least until he started losing his hair.  Yes, I am that shallow when it comes to one-sided relationships with future rulers of my dominion. 

Anyway, I didn't mean to delve that far back.  You know how Wills and Kate got married one time?  Well that day was declared a public holiday in the UK.  We were living in London and because of Easter or somesuch, the wedding meant a four day weekend.  Four free days to travel was too good to pass up.  P took it upon himself to organise that weekend as I'd recently been shouldering the travel arrangements 'burden'.    He umm'd and ahh'd about location and finally informed me he'd sorted it and it would be a surprise.  FINE THEN,  I said.  BUT BARCELONA RIGHT? I'M PRETTY SURE IT'S BARCELONA AND IT BETTER BE BARCELONA OK?

On the morning of Princess Catherine's big day, P put me on a train.  The train went through London right by the route the wedding carriage was taking, which at first made me scowl - packed train.  But everybody was dressed to the nines to attend the wedding of the decade.  Quite a few were already drunk and waving bottles with fascinators in their hair.  Even my stony heart melted when I saw a wee girl, dressed in her best party frock with a tiara in her hair accompanied by her grandfather.  I mean, honestly.  She was going to see a wedding and a princess!

I couldn't work out which airport P was taking me to.  When we eventually emerged in NW London, I realised he was taking me to a car hire spot.  He'd organised quite a nice car which made me internally sigh, thinking about the damage he'd done to the bank account renting something flash.  P is a car fan, you see.  He's pretty lucky I love him anyway because petrol-headedness is not my jam.  I also briefly mourned Barcelona -- how far is it possible to go return in four days in a car from NW London?

Well, as we drove that day it I guessed it - we were heading to the Peak District.  I forgave him for Barcelona immediately.  I now blush with embarrassment at being the living embodiment of a particular cliche - wasn't the Peak District where Lizzy toured in Pride & Prejudice?! I said.  And...I also knew it was the location of Lyme Park, the stately home used in the BBC adaptation of P&P which, sadly, is my favourite movie of all time.  Yes, I'm sorry, I am an Austen saddo.  P feigned disinterest in the Austen connection, just said he thought it was a cool area and had found a special on a great place to stay.

The drive up to the Peak District was really, really wonderful.  You see, most of Britain was celebrating the royal wedding.  Every village we drove through was decorated with flags and pennants and bunting - we stopped off at a pub for lunch and caught the televised kiss on the balcony - everyone cheered.  It was spring time and just gorgeous. 

P had outdone himself for accomodation.  The inn was my definition of perfection; giant bathtub, very cute, countryside, huge fireplace, gorgeous cottage garden grounds.  However, P's blackberry had been going off all day - there was a big deal in the works.  We arrived, he hauled out his laptop and set to work, making phone calls etc.  I had a bath, then flopped on the bed in a robe, disappointed that business took priority.  After moping around for a bit waiting for him, I decided to unpack the bags, seeing as we had three nights to spend.  P, on the phone, saw me pick up his bag.  He turned around, flapping his hands at me with a pissed off expression and I thought WELL FINE I WON'T BOTHER THEN.

You see, none of these signals - romantic weekend, flash transportation, surprise destination, all-out accomodation, reluctance to share the contents of his bag - amounted to wedding proposal in my mind because I am as dense as two short planks.  I have never been much of a wedding or marriage girl and we'd been together nearly 10 years at that point.  We were already committed.  Once upon a time, P had said to me that he did want to get married someday, but I hadn't given it much thought. 

The next morning, P offered up some local touristy options.  I gleefully picked going horse riding; we went on a hack in the countryside with about 10 Korean teenagers and had a fabulous time.  I taught P to post to the trot (key if he wanted his tackle to remain unbruised for the remainder of the weekend, a most important consideration).  We picnicked in a lane somewhere.  We walked up to an old henge, laughing at the British definition of Peak - more like gentle hill, though the other trekkers there had hiking boots, support poles, chaps etc - we were wandering up the hills in jandals. 

We went back to the hotel for a breather.  P was dead keen on setting out for Lyme Park, which I couldn't fathom.  It was already about 4; I knew we had dinner reservations and the Park was likely to close reasonably soon.  I convinced him a G&T in the garden would be best. 

We drank one, people watching.  P suggested we move on, but the sunshine was too good for me. I now know I was completely busting his grand plans to propose with a dramatic Austen backdrop.   Instead, we drank another G&T.  P then cajoled me into finding a private spot in the garden.  He disappeared to grab our picnic blanket and, unbeknownst to me, ordered a bottle of champagne.  We set ourselves up in a secluded spot to make the most of the sun. 

I felt buzzed, if you must know.  Two stiff gins, sunshine and then a first glass of surprise bubbles was more than enough to make me feel a bit giddy.  I later realised P was probably softening me up. 

He said some very nice things as we lay on the blanket in the sun, then, before I knew it, he'd asked me to marry him. 

After I said yes (I think), he produced a wee box with a ring.  I was very taken with it, moreso than I ever expected to feel about a piece of jewellery (at least, until the end of the weekend when I, frugal beastie that I am, realised that it probably cost a bit and was horrified).  We kept the engagement to ourselves that first night, sharing with family and friends the next day. 

The rest of the weekend was unreal - just magical.  I loved the proposal, didn't see it coming and am so glad to have married this man. 

anzac 2014

C + C visited from Wellington, and H from Melbourne.  We hosted get togethers, dinners, sunshine gossip sessions and it was just lovely.  We gathered a crew of 9 and visited P + J in their new home by the beach, ate fish and chips, scared a scallop poacher and soaked up the sunshine.  I'm so grateful for old friendships that are easy and wonderful. 

Holiday weekends are just the bee's knees.  (Knees of the bees plural? Or the knees of one bee?  A mystery of the ages).  One more in early June and then it's the dreaded run to Labour Day in October, with nary a public holiday in sight.  [Ominous music].  I would say you can expect about 50% more bitching as a result of the slog through to spring, but it's hard to fit more than 100% bitching into a blog. 

Holiday weekends I have known and loved:

• May bank holiday, Bordeaux, 2012.  Cheese and bread and wine and sun and friends.  And driving a rental car on the wrong side of the road for about a kilometre. 
• Well, there was that Easter/Royal Wedding weekend 2011 when I got engaged, that was pretty excellent.  Amongst all the festivities (and we fested, we sure did), we ate more than one pork pie with chutney.  Ploughman's lunch > affiancing?  It's close.
• Waitangi Day every year of primary school.  A day off?! Wheeeeeeeeeee!
• ANZAC Day every year of primary school - almost as good as Waitangi Day, but got up at sparrow's for the dawn service so it lost marks there. 
• Queen's Bday weekend 2013 and the attack of the Flaming Tim's.  Oh dear god, I drew on a table with a crayon and hurled out a window in tandem with my husband and he saw a dog eating it in the morning and I blame everyone but myself, as I am wont to do.
• New Year's Day, 1990ish.  The day I sizzled the backs of my legs on a lilo on the lake.  It was great up until I used the last of the aloe vera.
• Easter 1992.  I recall the size of the chocolate egg haul with somnolent reverence. 

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. 

no longer biting

I have resumed normal transmission and am only normal-level bitchy now, you'll be pleased to know.  P is grateful to still have his gastrointestinal system intact, untouched by a rusty spoon or otherwise. 

Normal level-bitchy, I'll have you know, is snark delivered with a laugh.  P's still acting cautiously, however, in the light of last week's rampage (Godzilla through Tokyo = Hormonal A through the Lavender Loveshack, laying waste to all before her.)  He sent me an email the subtext of which was a request for permission to play golf tomorrow.  I imagined him wiping the sweat off his brow when my response was a simple (snarky) query as to whether he'd be able to get out of bed in time and not a threat of grievous bodily harm.

My mother pointed out to me once that P is interested in many classic man pursuits, which enables him to make easy conversation with other blokes.  She's right I suppose: he golfs, fishes, is a low-level motor-head (much as it pains me to say so), he's into wine, whiskey and beer, takes seriously the rugby (oh dear lord is he into rugby) and cricket, and he is co-ordinated enough to give most sports a bash.

Whereas these days, my interests appear to be: brunch, booze, my couch, the cats and getting a haircut.  I've gone off playing team sports, mostly because I'm terribly unco-ordinated but also because my job often meant I couldn't commit to regularly attending practice.  For a while there, I was excellent at arranging schedules of open home attendance.  I really do need to find something to fill that gap. 

It didn't occur to me until reading that last paragraph back that my interest, it seems, is documenting MEMEME and my life.  On the internet, not just in a personal journal.  That interest doesn't stretch to editing what I write, apparently.  It's just spilling words out onto a virtual page for my own interest further down the track.  I suppose reading other people's blogs is a bit of an interest as well.  I really do need to get out more. 

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. 

end of the summer

Friday evening was a beautiful, balmy evening.  When I stepped out the door of the building, a wash of warm air ran over me and, I don't know, the pixies got into my bloodstream or something.  Two colleagues and I plonked ourselves down at an outdoor table and, well, got plonked.  We gossiped, we drank, we laughed. 

I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten.  P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all.  But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.

As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp.  The leaves on my pear tree are turning. 

That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house.  Positions:

P: It was dirty.  You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]

A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend?  I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults. 

We scrapped.  He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY.  It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this.  We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues.  I put on a cheery face.

This, my friends, is a relationship.  You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin.  It's everything I ever dreamed and more. 

things what i drank + enjoyed, recently

I had to go to work on Auckland Anniversary day.  Hence a post in order to whinge, basically.  At least it's warm in the office today, given that there's no aircon?

(I'm sweating my face off, in other words).

Enough whining. 

More wine-ing instead please!  Wines I have slurped this weekend:

- On Friday: P cracked open a bottle of pinot noir we bought at a tasting some seven years ago - oh man, that ages us!  We were the youngest people at the tasting, I promise. I wish I could remember the name so you can take the recc, but after a couple of gins and half a bottle of pinot while wandering after kittens in the garden and then watching Federer/Nadal at the Aussie Open, my recall ain't so good.  Also, I am old.  These things happen.  Bloody delicious, in any case.

- Saturday: Kim Crawford Pansy during the cricket.  Not the tastiest rose in the world, but great name and wonderful for a hot evening.  Serve chilled, but not too cold. 

- Sunday: Morton Estate IQ7 sparkling.  This was delicious and is a steal in NZ supermarkets at the moment, I highly recommend it.  Also, I quite like drinking Morton Estate because they have a vineyard right down the road from my mum and dad.  There is a lovely sign that uses river stones to say 'Morton Estate' on a slight rise as you approach the vineyard.  Some clever clogs pinched the stones from the T in that sign once, and I giggle every time we drive past or pick up a bottle from their cellar door (which in fact is miles away on SH22 near Katikati, where my grandparents used to live. Yes, I can find my way around the North Island by vineyard navigation, sadly).

And yes, I am a terrible boozehound who feels guilty but HOLIDAY WEEKEND I deserve it, right?! (Please validate me.  Please)

Hey, how's that for some lifestyle blogging?  If your lifestyle is wine-soaked, that is.  OH, WAIT, I NEED A PICTURE to support this review:

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

ALSO, SEE WHAT I DID THERE? GRATUITOUS KITTY PIC FEATURING WINE.  SHAME ABOUT MY HULK-HAND