[Edited to say: administrative rants are fucking boring, but extremely therapeutic. Soz about this one]
Four weeks ago: someone shady attempts to use my credit card details in Belgium. Bank blocks card, doesn't advise me until I call after getting declined at the supermarket, with a giant line behind me. Advised new card will be couriered to home address. Don't do that! I say. I'm not at home on weekdays to accept courier deliveries. Give bank my work address. 3-5 working days, I'm told. No charge for the courier fee on that.
Three weeks ago: Oh, it's been about 7 working days but no card. Call bank. That's odd, they say, it's been delivered to your home address. Well, no, I say, I asked for it to be delivered to work and I certainly haven't received it at home. They cancel the new card and take my work address again. That'll be 3 - 5 working days. Don't worry, they say, no courier fee for that.
Two weeks ago: Oh, it's been about 5 working days but no card. Call bank. That's odd, they say, can we deliver it to a branch instead for you to pick up? Fine, I say. I work by a branch, please send it there. They say they've cancelled the new card, so if it does arrive, please cut it up. And don't worry, we won't charge a courier fee on that.
One and a half weeks ago: I attempt to use my other credit card (from a personal as opposed to joint account) over the phone and am told it's been declined. I call the bank. There's a block on both my credit cards, they advise. I ask if there's been any fraud on credit card #2. No, they say. They say they've removed the block on credit card #2. Should be fine to use it now.
Three working days ago: notice courier fee on credit card #1 account.
Two working days ago: text from the bank: your new card has arrived at the branch, please bring ID to pick it up. Courier arrives at work with a new credit card #1. Per instructions, I cut it up.
Today: go to branch. That's odd, they say, there's no card waiting here for your name. Let me check under your husband's name. Oh, that's odd, they say, nothing there either. They finally check under my address. That's odd, it's here under your maiden name. Well great, says I, I need the card because I need to be able to pay for things, you know. They pull the card out of the envelope. That's odd, they say, it's a new card for credit card #2, not credit card #1. And what do you know, it's already been blocked. Oh, and we'd attempt to order you another one now but our system is broken - we would normally suggest you call the call centre.
I have passed annoyance and have reached bemusement (also, probably because I can rely on P to pick up the purchases in the interim - if this was a sole account, I'd be beyond ropable because I wouldn't have been able to make any purchases in the last month). I didn't go spare at the branch today but the poor guy behind the counter was beyond embarrassed and has taken it upon himself to sort out a new card for me once their system is back up and running. He's refunded the courier fee and apologised profusely.
Do you think I'll get a new card this week?
Showing posts with label muppets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label muppets. Show all posts
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
Monday, 15 September 2014
there is paint in my hairline, still
We have finally finished the dining room. Well, when I say finished, I mean, we've moved the dining table back in and all the major works are done, as of Sunday evening. We are still fighting about pendant lights and sideboards and the best arrangement of art and shelves and whatnot. But, I ate a meal at the table last night for the first time in a long time and we congratulated ourselves mightily. One room: took us thirteen and a half months to start, one month and three days to finish. At this rate, our house will be renovated some time this century!
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
yuck
Being sick on the weekend feels like such a punishment, you know? All those lovely plans laid waste by illness on your own time. When I decided to leave my lair on Saturday morning after a leisurely lie in, I was most unhappy to discover that the rest of my Saturday would involve nausea and a pounding headache. I doubled over in the shower, then dragged myself back to the bedroom. I sulked/slept/moaned lightly in bed until about 8.30 that night. That was when I dragged my carcass to the living room to lie limply on the couch for the second half of the All Blacks game. P told me to go back to bed; the ABs had been playing much better when I wasn't there.
Sunday and Monday were slightly better, in that I managed to wash myself and don a bra both days and even left the house once, briefly. Not 100% though -- I feel wrung out today from walking to work (not to mention, you know, working).
But it is nice to be back to the usual routine today, I must say. I've come back to work, found the blameworthy parties in spreading the lurgy and castigated them thoroughly. Aren't I a peach?!
Sunday and Monday were slightly better, in that I managed to wash myself and don a bra both days and even left the house once, briefly. Not 100% though -- I feel wrung out today from walking to work (not to mention, you know, working).
But it is nice to be back to the usual routine today, I must say. I've come back to work, found the blameworthy parties in spreading the lurgy and castigated them thoroughly. Aren't I a peach?!
Monday, 16 June 2014
year thirty-two
I turned 32 this weekend. Cataloguing the comparisons to my last birthday, at 32 I am:
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.
- Squidgier
- More settled
- About as happy
- Wrinklier
- Sunnier
- A mother of
dragonscats - Tireder
- Longer haired & blonder
- More nervous about the outlook
- Yet calmer, generally
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.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
status quo
I am sitting at my desk, feeling queasy as the building sways in the winds presently buffeting Auckland. I've eaten three Fizzy Pig's Tails (a Marks & Sparks treat kindly brought back from the Motherland by a colleague which isn't porcine but sugary and delicious) but they aren't having a great effect on my equilibrium either. I'm sure the building is meant to move like this in the event of a storm, but the creaking is unnerving, from where I'm sitting on the 21st floor.
I have a cat picture, now with bonus husband:
If that ain't love on a cold night, I don't know what is.
A Whinge and a Cat Picture. New tagline for the blog?
I have a cat picture, now with bonus husband:
 |
| I CALL THIS 'CAT ON CAT ON HUSBAND'. COCOA BLENDS WELL WITH P'S JEANS, BUT IS IN FACT ATTEMPTING TO SMOTHER TABITHA WITH LOVE WHILE RECEIVING PLEASURABLE UNDER CHIN SCRATCHES. |
A Whinge and a Cat Picture. New tagline for the blog?
Tuesday, 20 May 2014
winner winner
I am absolutely owning life, recently.
Evidence:
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?
- Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of the day I first kissed P. P, who loves me anyway. He's the best.
Friday, 16 May 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 April 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, 3 April 2014
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:
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.
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:
- I quite like him usually, in fact I married him not so long ago;
- I prefer him intact (after the bloody thumb-slicing mandolin incident I took a stance on P and gashes in his flesh); and
- My period was days overdue.
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.
Monday, 17 March 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
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.)
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.)
Monday, 24 February 2014
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.
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.
Monday, 17 February 2014
personification is a girl's best friend
I'm not sure the kittens appreciated that we'd given them unfettered access to the outside world. They were sound asleep on/under my bed when I arrived home yesterday, having pushed every item off the top of my dresser onto the floor. To be entirely fair to them, it was scorchingly hot and they may have come back inside for some respite from the heat. But there's no firm evidence that they recognised they could use the cat door, propped up flap and all (you should see the jerryrigged string situation we've got going on with the cat flap. It's proper home decor.)
Just as we thought an early autumn was kicking in, this past three days have been searingly hot. The harbour is hazy with heat today and the roof cavity didn't drop below 20 degrees celcius last night (o HRV system, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. The ability to constantly check the temperature; cold air in the bedroom last night; no condensation in winter: you are my favourite inanimate thing of the week.)
This heat is a good thing, too. P has planted some late beans and tomatoes, which I hope will bear fruit / veg in a month or two for a late harvest. I'm not quite ready yet for summer's departure (which, given it's only February doesn't seem unreasonable to me) - I feel like the warmth hasn't quite made it right through my bones (stupid work A/C at fault, no doubt).
Ack, I keep posting hodge podge jumbly snippets of 'What I Done Lately' and it's irking me. I need to sit down and write something all proper like. In the meantime, have a list:
Things What Have Irked Me Lately, Other Than My Dumb Blog:
Just as we thought an early autumn was kicking in, this past three days have been searingly hot. The harbour is hazy with heat today and the roof cavity didn't drop below 20 degrees celcius last night (o HRV system, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. The ability to constantly check the temperature; cold air in the bedroom last night; no condensation in winter: you are my favourite inanimate thing of the week.)
This heat is a good thing, too. P has planted some late beans and tomatoes, which I hope will bear fruit / veg in a month or two for a late harvest. I'm not quite ready yet for summer's departure (which, given it's only February doesn't seem unreasonable to me) - I feel like the warmth hasn't quite made it right through my bones (stupid work A/C at fault, no doubt).
Ack, I keep posting hodge podge jumbly snippets of 'What I Done Lately' and it's irking me. I need to sit down and write something all proper like. In the meantime, have a list:
Things What Have Irked Me Lately, Other Than My Dumb Blog:
- slow drivers speeding up as soon as they hit a passing lane;
- the toilet paper situation at the Huntly public toilets (I was desperate, if you must know. Eventually found some loo roll that wasn't already stuffed into an overflowing bowl);
- the inability to fly to, say, Fiji for super cheap exactly when I want to;
- a slightly underripe nectarine; and
- the death of my lawnmower (R.I.P Buzzy).
- the surprisingly good performances of the New Zealand cricket team;
- a lamb and carrot, beet and potato meal I made last night (much nicer than it sounds, of course);
- celebrating our second anniversary. P and I went out for a formal meal and laughed copiously. It was brilliant;
- the possibility of buying a new lawnmower (Buzzy was awesome and all, but had a serious flap issue that occasionally lead to fistfuls of cut clover flying in your face); and
- a perfectly ripe avocado for breakfast this morning.
Sunday, 16 February 2014
sorry
I dislike feeling a compulsion to apologise for my absence from the blog, but then, I apologise for all sorts of things, so why not this? Things I apologise for include:
- my appearance whenever complimented by friends (Oh, this dress? Sorry, just a cheapie from Next) (Oh, my hair? Makes a nice change from the usual bird's nest, doesn't it?)
- my appearance generally (I'm sorry I look like I've been dragged backwards through a bush today. It's humid, you know)
- my presence (I'm sorry for bumping you [even though you were standing in the middle of the bus aisle like a chump when I was trying to get out of my seat])
- my cooking (sorry it doesn't look that nice, I promise I haven't poisoned anyone...yet)
Etc. There is a probably a long list of things I should apologise for, but I'm wilfully choosing to feign ignorance in that regard.
So. Yes. Sorry I've been gone. No excuses, the muse has not been with me is all.
What have I achieved in my absence? Strikingly little. I had a very nice long weekend at the lake with family, following which we did not pick up Cocoa the Cat from Hamilton as expected. As I mentioned, my MIL's co-parent to Cocoa, J, is in a hospice where she is receiving respite care for terminal cancer. We had understood that Cocoa had no one to look after her in the interim (my MIL still being in Germany) but it transpires that J's family are now house/cat-sitting for J and are taking Cocoa to the hospice for visits. We may still be asked to provide a home at some point in the future, but that seems much less traumatic for Cocoa and good for J, too. My MIL arrives home for a few weeks at the beginning of March and I think some more decisions may be made then.
This weekend I spent at least two hours on my hands and knees removing kikuyu grass from the lawn. It was extremely satisfying ripping out chunks of root systems, tragically. How rural is that? I ask you. You don't come here for the recipes or the outfit posts, do you dear readers? You come for the unmitigated excitement of reading the details of my personal life! WEED REMOVAL, GLAM.
Also, I scored some free courtside tickets to see the NZ Breakers play basketball. Much more glamourous. I sat in front of Valerie Adams who, to us South Auckland types, is a real deal A-list celeb in sporting circles. Was very exciting.
It's the kittens' first day at home alone with unrestricted access to the outside world. Hold me, I'm scared. Will fill you in on how it went in a week or three, no doubt.
Nice to be back, actually. I've missed you.
- my appearance whenever complimented by friends (Oh, this dress? Sorry, just a cheapie from Next) (Oh, my hair? Makes a nice change from the usual bird's nest, doesn't it?)
- my appearance generally (I'm sorry I look like I've been dragged backwards through a bush today. It's humid, you know)
- my presence (I'm sorry for bumping you [even though you were standing in the middle of the bus aisle like a chump when I was trying to get out of my seat])
- my cooking (sorry it doesn't look that nice, I promise I haven't poisoned anyone...yet)
Etc. There is a probably a long list of things I should apologise for, but I'm wilfully choosing to feign ignorance in that regard.
So. Yes. Sorry I've been gone. No excuses, the muse has not been with me is all.
What have I achieved in my absence? Strikingly little. I had a very nice long weekend at the lake with family, following which we did not pick up Cocoa the Cat from Hamilton as expected. As I mentioned, my MIL's co-parent to Cocoa, J, is in a hospice where she is receiving respite care for terminal cancer. We had understood that Cocoa had no one to look after her in the interim (my MIL still being in Germany) but it transpires that J's family are now house/cat-sitting for J and are taking Cocoa to the hospice for visits. We may still be asked to provide a home at some point in the future, but that seems much less traumatic for Cocoa and good for J, too. My MIL arrives home for a few weeks at the beginning of March and I think some more decisions may be made then.
This weekend I spent at least two hours on my hands and knees removing kikuyu grass from the lawn. It was extremely satisfying ripping out chunks of root systems, tragically. How rural is that? I ask you. You don't come here for the recipes or the outfit posts, do you dear readers? You come for the unmitigated excitement of reading the details of my personal life! WEED REMOVAL, GLAM.
Also, I scored some free courtside tickets to see the NZ Breakers play basketball. Much more glamourous. I sat in front of Valerie Adams who, to us South Auckland types, is a real deal A-list celeb in sporting circles. Was very exciting.
It's the kittens' first day at home alone with unrestricted access to the outside world. Hold me, I'm scared. Will fill you in on how it went in a week or three, no doubt.
Nice to be back, actually. I've missed you.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
i got my revenge moment...
So, you know how the pretend Microsoft software 'fixers' rang me and I wished I'd told them to go fuck themselves but I didn't I just thought it?
Well, they called again.
I drew a deep breath, asked the woman on the phone to stop speaking and said:
"I know this is a scam. This is the third time you've called me. Don't call this number again."
I hung up.
I couldn't say it; just couldn't do it. So easy to type 'go fuck yourself', so difficult to be actually confrontational, even with muppet scam artists. Sigh. It was my big chance to be offensive (in person, rather than on the internet of course, I suspect I'm fairly offensive on the internet all the damn time) and I missed it.
Mind you, there's every chance they could ring again?
Well, they called again.
I drew a deep breath, asked the woman on the phone to stop speaking and said:
"I know this is a scam. This is the third time you've called me. Don't call this number again."
I hung up.
I couldn't say it; just couldn't do it. So easy to type 'go fuck yourself', so difficult to be actually confrontational, even with muppet scam artists. Sigh. It was my big chance to be offensive (in person, rather than on the internet of course, I suspect I'm fairly offensive on the internet all the damn time) and I missed it.
Mind you, there's every chance they could ring again?
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
a day in the life
I am joining a thing. Look at me, being all join-y and internet-y and what not! This is a first!
Laura from Navigating the Mothership is hosting a Day in the Life thing and she's specially invited foreigners. I am foreign to North American types (kia ora! welcome to internet Aotearoa, visitors! Internet Auckland, specifically) but other than that I am about to flout all Laura's fine print and skip the hardcore photography because, well, I'm lazy and vaguely trying to maintain some anonymity up in here. Also, Laura says she doesn't mind that I am not a Mom (or a Mum, for that matter), but I'm not sure whether she minds that my cat-obsessed work-a-day life is dull. If you haven't been to this wee blog before, consider yourself warned. (Also, disclaimer: I am profane, vulgar and excessively parenthetical/wordy. Annoying, basically).
So. Knock yourselves out, guys. A day in the life of A.
__________________________________________________
5.30am: wake up needing to pee. I'm supposed to get up at 6, so I am furious that my body needs to leave the warm bed cocoon before then. Drag myself to the toilet, get fright at standing on black toy mouse in the dark.
6am: five more minutes in bed, please. Checking facebook, extremely important stuff.
6.05am: Throw on a dressing gown and go into the dining room to wake and feed the kittens. The dining room is their current abode until they're big enough to partake of the great outdoors when they're a bit older. We don't have a laundry or a bathroom big enough to house the litter box sadly, so there'll be no dinner parties for us until the cat-faeces-in-the-dining-space issue has been solved (i.e. once the cat door is in and they're pooping outside). One of Tabitha's eyes has partially gummed shut in the night due to the cat flu, so I take her carefully in my arms and apply the corner of a moistened piece of toilet paper to soften up the crust. Poor wee Tab, she must feel like the only time we hold her at the moment is when we're punishing her with eye wipes, eye drops and antibiotics.
6.10am: Shower. Hum to myself my wee shower song: "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Don't wanna get out of the shower! Out of the shower! Out of the shower!' (Have I mentioned I'm kind of a morning person? Yep. Annoying.)
6.15: Get out of the shower in a raging hurry despite song when I spot a spider. It was a Daddy Long Legs - i.e. completely harmless but rational I am not when it comes to creepy crawlies. Yell for P to sort out the bathroom wildlife.
6.20am: stand in my underwear in front of the clothes rail (nope, still no wardrobes or indeed any damn cupboards in this godforsaken ancient cottage) bemoaning the lack of things to wear. Eventually throw on a black skirt and a grey short sleeved top with a little black scottie dog print. Notice food stain on skirt and think 'must remember to wipe that off'. Throw on standard work jewellery - watch, wedding rings, white gold band on my right hand and super cheap wee black and brass triangle studs in my (giant, lobular) ears. Strike a pose for P who dutifully informs me I look very nice. He's a well-trained liar.
6.25am: Marmite on Vogel's toast and Earl Grey tea. Breakfast of champions. Tabitha wants a bite but no such luck, puss.
6.30: P emerges from the bedroom and into the bathroom. The resounding call of 'I don't wanna!' from him eventually morphs into the gentle refrain of the shower song (he doesn't want to get out, either, apparently). I start trying to brush my hair, apply make up (minimal at best - concealer, eye liner and a coat of mascara, plus a spritz of Chance by Chanel), pack my bag, empty the litter box, refresh the cats' water etc in a timely manner. I keep getting interrupted by playful swatting from Timothy, who appears to be developing a foot fetish.
6.45am: We are running around tidying in a frenzy, as we've just recalled a wardrobe lady is coming to measure up our bedroom.
7.10: P is not fully dressed. Wardrobe lady is due. I walked into the bedroom and had to cry "Husband, where ARE your pants?!". I enjoyed it; not often enough do I get the opportunity to say that.
7.15: Wardrobe lady arrives. Timothy promptly tries to eat her skirt. When diverted from that attack, he demonstrates his very best pouncing skills on the duvet while she works.
7.30: Wardrobe lady finishes, we medicate Tabby and depart for work. The walk to the central city is about half an hour for me; 40 minutes for P who works down on the waterfront. We attempt to hold hands but the weather is pretty humid and quickly we give up as it's a bit sweaty. My colleague S often passes us on his scooter en route and has been merciless to me about how 'cute' we still are, holding hands all these years later (he smirks). I don't really care, as when I hold P's hand, I get his full attention. We discuss the Big Day Out (festival-concert-type-situation) which we're attending on Friday. I'm quite upset about the clash between Pearl Jam and Snoop Dog. I have very eclectic 90s taste, apparently.
8am: arrive at work, change into lady-lawyer shoes. Sigh at state of shoes; I need some new ones as my favourites have lost their heel stops and the patent leather is pretty battered. Consider whether I can colour the scuffs with a black vivid (marker pen, for the non-NZers) but decide that the damage is too severe. Quick check of papers online, another cup of tea. Then work-y stuff.
8.30am: already freezing. I am still wearing winter wardrobe items to work because it's so ridiculously cold in here, despite the relatively temperate summer we're having. Also because I am too cheap to have purchased new season items. Throw on a black blazer and shiver at my desk, while gazing out wistfully at the sunshine over the harbour.
10am: coffee with the girls from work. 'Going for coffee' is a misnomer - I'm off the demonsauce and have a chai latte instead. Everyone else orders a flat white. We gossip. I manage to resist the siren call of the toasted banana bread - must. demonstrate. willpower. as this Christmas weight is not shifting itself.
12.30pm: lunch at a Japanese restaurant with two friends; sounds nice but I ordered terribly boring food - teriyaki chicken, green tea and a diet coke. So much for food restraint. We gossip. Look down as I leave, had completely forgotten the old food stain on my skirt. Am unhygienic, awfully presented person. Run into another friend recently returned from a stint living in London as I depart the restaurant and promise her a catch up soon. I trust I'll dress myself in clean clothes for that encounter, but there's no guarantees.
1.30: arrive back to the office to discover voicemail from my mother, claiming she's calling on official business. Rue the day I gave her my business card and quickly call her back. She wants to know how the grandcats are and to tell me about the new rock wall she's planning to build with Dad. Quick convo, then more work.
4pm ish: an email from P arrives: 'I'm not going to be early tonight.'
5.15pm: Escape the office at this absolutely unheard of hour with not nearly enough billables recorded - because my wee Tabitha needs me! Power walk home, crushing candy en route. I nearly walk into a tree because the candy crushing is swallowing my attention. Hide my face from any sniggering pedestrians or drivers and until the flushed cheeks die down. I am a notorious tomato-face and it takes a while.
5.45pm: arrive home to wipe wee Tibby's eyes again. Play with the kittens and graze out of the fridge - nibbling on left over cauliflower from last night's delicious venison meal made by P. Chores - litter box cleaning, throwing work skirt into the washing basket, cat feeding, ignoring my work emails, halfhearted toilet cleaning in preparation for P's friend P2's visit. P2 is coming to stay for the BDO as he lives out of town.
7pm: start preparing dinner. We're having spaghetti bolognese for no other reason than some mince in the fridge is about to expire and I cannot for the life of me be bothered being more original. I slice onions and garlic carelessly while Tabby twines her wee self around my ankles. I look mournfully at a delicious, empty bottle of pinot noir we drank earlier in the week that I haven't yet deposited in the recycling. After the excesses of summer holidays 2013/14, I need a break from the turps and am trying to go booze free three or more nights a week again. I resist temptation, but probably only because the pinot's gone and all the tonic is flat.
7.15pm: the landline rings. I race for it, as the only people who have that number are my mother and sister-in-law. Sadly, it's a guy claiming to be from Microsoft, having had a report of issues with our computer, could I please confirm its serial number? Ah, that would be a no. I get my snootiest lady-lawyer voice on while informing him that I have never given that number to Microsoft and that I've just googled his scam so could he please go fuck himself. Except I didn't really say that last part, I just wish I had. I hung up instead.
Continue pootling around preparing dinner. I've flicked the TV on in the background and am listening to NZ's longest running soap, Shortland Street, in the background. I used to be an avid Shortie fan, once upon a time, but once I moved in with P he used his power of veto on Shortie in the house. Similarly, I give side-eye to any of his fishing shows, so I guess it balances out. However, he's not home tonight and it's kind of soothing, hearing TK have yet another marriage crisis and the nurses deal with yet another emergency. I am also reading blogs on my phone, while stirring the pot mindlessly.
7.30: Duck in and out of the house, snipping some herbs for use in the spagbol. There is no beef stock left which is irritating, as dinner won't be fab without it. We need to have another stock making day: I adore the results but by god it makes the house smell vile, so I have mixed feelings about stock production.
7.45pm: I hear a key in the door - P is much earlier than expected. The kittens race for the door to greet him (for which, read: try to escape while the front door is open). I give him a hug, he goes to change and we yell at each other down the corridor, exchanging gossip for the day while I cook.
8pm: we give Tib her medicine (it's a two person job, the wee wriggler), then wash hands before dinner. We eat on the couch, given the dining room/cat situation. We're both pretty vacant, work having been reasonably stressful for both of us today, so we mindlessly take in more television.
8.30pm: P commences clean up duty. I wander in and out of the kitchen, halfheartedly drying a few dishes, but I'm not very helpful really. I am the chief dishwasher of the house and I am feeling pretty resentful about it today, though I generally don't mind. P suggests playing the new Arcade Fire album, as we're seeing them at the BDO, but I feel like quiet. It's unusual for me to have such a long evening available - my departure time from work is usually much later, and I'm revelling in the time and space.
9pm: start texting my similarly cat-obsessed sister as I play with the kittens. I've given them access to the heretofore off-limits spare bedroom, where Tabitha has discovered herself in the mirror. She keeps noticing another cat pouncing on cords in the mirror, then checking behind it to find out where that cat is. Hilarious.
9.30pm: my quiet mood has taken a turn; I feel groggy and hot. It's turned into a humid summer night. Decide to go to bed. Climb in and get pounced on by Timothy. I take a picture of Timmy's eerie eyes stalking me from the bottom of my bed to send to sister K. P's still up and about, so the kittens haven't been banished to their bedroom yet. Usually, I wind down with an audiobook or a hard copy book, but tonight I feel pretty manky, so it's lights out.
10pm: P climbs in beside me. I wake from a doze, briefly, to burrow into his side and drape a hot arm around him. Out like a light.
[Author's note: I have just reread this and am sure you will be shouting 'what a grandma! and just where is your exercise, woman?!'. I am also blushing at the shameful amount of television I consume on a weekday and the woeful admissions regarding general adult beverage consumption. Wow, am I good at turning an exercise in recording my life for posterity into self-flagellation or what?!]
Laura from Navigating the Mothership is hosting a Day in the Life thing and she's specially invited foreigners. I am foreign to North American types (kia ora! welcome to internet Aotearoa, visitors! Internet Auckland, specifically) but other than that I am about to flout all Laura's fine print and skip the hardcore photography because, well, I'm lazy and vaguely trying to maintain some anonymity up in here. Also, Laura says she doesn't mind that I am not a Mom (or a Mum, for that matter), but I'm not sure whether she minds that my cat-obsessed work-a-day life is dull. If you haven't been to this wee blog before, consider yourself warned. (Also, disclaimer: I am profane, vulgar and excessively parenthetical/wordy. Annoying, basically).
 |
| THIS IS ME, A. NOT ON THE DAY IN QUESTION. BUT SO YOU KNOW I AM REAL. AND SO YOU KNOW AM 31 AND STILL HAVE SPOTS |
So. Knock yourselves out, guys. A day in the life of A.
__________________________________________________
5.30am: wake up needing to pee. I'm supposed to get up at 6, so I am furious that my body needs to leave the warm bed cocoon before then. Drag myself to the toilet, get fright at standing on black toy mouse in the dark.
6am: five more minutes in bed, please. Checking facebook, extremely important stuff.
6.05am: Throw on a dressing gown and go into the dining room to wake and feed the kittens. The dining room is their current abode until they're big enough to partake of the great outdoors when they're a bit older. We don't have a laundry or a bathroom big enough to house the litter box sadly, so there'll be no dinner parties for us until the cat-faeces-in-the-dining-space issue has been solved (i.e. once the cat door is in and they're pooping outside). One of Tabitha's eyes has partially gummed shut in the night due to the cat flu, so I take her carefully in my arms and apply the corner of a moistened piece of toilet paper to soften up the crust. Poor wee Tab, she must feel like the only time we hold her at the moment is when we're punishing her with eye wipes, eye drops and antibiotics.
6.10am: Shower. Hum to myself my wee shower song: "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Don't wanna get out of the shower! Out of the shower! Out of the shower!' (Have I mentioned I'm kind of a morning person? Yep. Annoying.)
6.15: Get out of the shower in a raging hurry despite song when I spot a spider. It was a Daddy Long Legs - i.e. completely harmless but rational I am not when it comes to creepy crawlies. Yell for P to sort out the bathroom wildlife.
6.20am: stand in my underwear in front of the clothes rail (nope, still no wardrobes or indeed any damn cupboards in this godforsaken ancient cottage) bemoaning the lack of things to wear. Eventually throw on a black skirt and a grey short sleeved top with a little black scottie dog print. Notice food stain on skirt and think 'must remember to wipe that off'. Throw on standard work jewellery - watch, wedding rings, white gold band on my right hand and super cheap wee black and brass triangle studs in my (giant, lobular) ears. Strike a pose for P who dutifully informs me I look very nice. He's a well-trained liar.
6.25am: Marmite on Vogel's toast and Earl Grey tea. Breakfast of champions. Tabitha wants a bite but no such luck, puss.
6.30: P emerges from the bedroom and into the bathroom. The resounding call of 'I don't wanna!' from him eventually morphs into the gentle refrain of the shower song (he doesn't want to get out, either, apparently). I start trying to brush my hair, apply make up (minimal at best - concealer, eye liner and a coat of mascara, plus a spritz of Chance by Chanel), pack my bag, empty the litter box, refresh the cats' water etc in a timely manner. I keep getting interrupted by playful swatting from Timothy, who appears to be developing a foot fetish.
6.45am: We are running around tidying in a frenzy, as we've just recalled a wardrobe lady is coming to measure up our bedroom.
7.10: P is not fully dressed. Wardrobe lady is due. I walked into the bedroom and had to cry "Husband, where ARE your pants?!". I enjoyed it; not often enough do I get the opportunity to say that.
7.15: Wardrobe lady arrives. Timothy promptly tries to eat her skirt. When diverted from that attack, he demonstrates his very best pouncing skills on the duvet while she works.
7.30: Wardrobe lady finishes, we medicate Tabby and depart for work. The walk to the central city is about half an hour for me; 40 minutes for P who works down on the waterfront. We attempt to hold hands but the weather is pretty humid and quickly we give up as it's a bit sweaty. My colleague S often passes us on his scooter en route and has been merciless to me about how 'cute' we still are, holding hands all these years later (he smirks). I don't really care, as when I hold P's hand, I get his full attention. We discuss the Big Day Out (festival-concert-type-situation) which we're attending on Friday. I'm quite upset about the clash between Pearl Jam and Snoop Dog. I have very eclectic 90s taste, apparently.
8am: arrive at work, change into lady-lawyer shoes. Sigh at state of shoes; I need some new ones as my favourites have lost their heel stops and the patent leather is pretty battered. Consider whether I can colour the scuffs with a black vivid (marker pen, for the non-NZers) but decide that the damage is too severe. Quick check of papers online, another cup of tea. Then work-y stuff.
8.30am: already freezing. I am still wearing winter wardrobe items to work because it's so ridiculously cold in here, despite the relatively temperate summer we're having. Also because I am too cheap to have purchased new season items. Throw on a black blazer and shiver at my desk, while gazing out wistfully at the sunshine over the harbour.
10am: coffee with the girls from work. 'Going for coffee' is a misnomer - I'm off the demonsauce and have a chai latte instead. Everyone else orders a flat white. We gossip. I manage to resist the siren call of the toasted banana bread - must. demonstrate. willpower. as this Christmas weight is not shifting itself.
12.30pm: lunch at a Japanese restaurant with two friends; sounds nice but I ordered terribly boring food - teriyaki chicken, green tea and a diet coke. So much for food restraint. We gossip. Look down as I leave, had completely forgotten the old food stain on my skirt. Am unhygienic, awfully presented person. Run into another friend recently returned from a stint living in London as I depart the restaurant and promise her a catch up soon. I trust I'll dress myself in clean clothes for that encounter, but there's no guarantees.
1.30: arrive back to the office to discover voicemail from my mother, claiming she's calling on official business. Rue the day I gave her my business card and quickly call her back. She wants to know how the grandcats are and to tell me about the new rock wall she's planning to build with Dad. Quick convo, then more work.
4pm ish: an email from P arrives: 'I'm not going to be early tonight.'
5.15pm: Escape the office at this absolutely unheard of hour with not nearly enough billables recorded - because my wee Tabitha needs me! Power walk home, crushing candy en route. I nearly walk into a tree because the candy crushing is swallowing my attention. Hide my face from any sniggering pedestrians or drivers and until the flushed cheeks die down. I am a notorious tomato-face and it takes a while.
5.45pm: arrive home to wipe wee Tibby's eyes again. Play with the kittens and graze out of the fridge - nibbling on left over cauliflower from last night's delicious venison meal made by P. Chores - litter box cleaning, throwing work skirt into the washing basket, cat feeding, ignoring my work emails, halfhearted toilet cleaning in preparation for P's friend P2's visit. P2 is coming to stay for the BDO as he lives out of town.
 |
| CANNOT RESIST THESE SLIGHTLY EVIL BUT OH-SO-CUTE FACES. TAB (L) AND TIM (R), PLOTTING WICKEDNESS |
7pm: start preparing dinner. We're having spaghetti bolognese for no other reason than some mince in the fridge is about to expire and I cannot for the life of me be bothered being more original. I slice onions and garlic carelessly while Tabby twines her wee self around my ankles. I look mournfully at a delicious, empty bottle of pinot noir we drank earlier in the week that I haven't yet deposited in the recycling. After the excesses of summer holidays 2013/14, I need a break from the turps and am trying to go booze free three or more nights a week again. I resist temptation, but probably only because the pinot's gone and all the tonic is flat.
7.15pm: the landline rings. I race for it, as the only people who have that number are my mother and sister-in-law. Sadly, it's a guy claiming to be from Microsoft, having had a report of issues with our computer, could I please confirm its serial number? Ah, that would be a no. I get my snootiest lady-lawyer voice on while informing him that I have never given that number to Microsoft and that I've just googled his scam so could he please go fuck himself. Except I didn't really say that last part, I just wish I had. I hung up instead.
Continue pootling around preparing dinner. I've flicked the TV on in the background and am listening to NZ's longest running soap, Shortland Street, in the background. I used to be an avid Shortie fan, once upon a time, but once I moved in with P he used his power of veto on Shortie in the house. Similarly, I give side-eye to any of his fishing shows, so I guess it balances out. However, he's not home tonight and it's kind of soothing, hearing TK have yet another marriage crisis and the nurses deal with yet another emergency. I am also reading blogs on my phone, while stirring the pot mindlessly.
7.30: Duck in and out of the house, snipping some herbs for use in the spagbol. There is no beef stock left which is irritating, as dinner won't be fab without it. We need to have another stock making day: I adore the results but by god it makes the house smell vile, so I have mixed feelings about stock production.
7.45pm: I hear a key in the door - P is much earlier than expected. The kittens race for the door to greet him (for which, read: try to escape while the front door is open). I give him a hug, he goes to change and we yell at each other down the corridor, exchanging gossip for the day while I cook.
8pm: we give Tib her medicine (it's a two person job, the wee wriggler), then wash hands before dinner. We eat on the couch, given the dining room/cat situation. We're both pretty vacant, work having been reasonably stressful for both of us today, so we mindlessly take in more television.
8.30pm: P commences clean up duty. I wander in and out of the kitchen, halfheartedly drying a few dishes, but I'm not very helpful really. I am the chief dishwasher of the house and I am feeling pretty resentful about it today, though I generally don't mind. P suggests playing the new Arcade Fire album, as we're seeing them at the BDO, but I feel like quiet. It's unusual for me to have such a long evening available - my departure time from work is usually much later, and I'm revelling in the time and space.
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| I MIGHT BE BIASED, BUT AOTEAROA HAS THE BEST SUNSETS. SURE, SANTORINI IS NICE. BUT NZ? BEST. (SRSLY, NO FILTERS ON THIS ONE) |
9pm: start texting my similarly cat-obsessed sister as I play with the kittens. I've given them access to the heretofore off-limits spare bedroom, where Tabitha has discovered herself in the mirror. She keeps noticing another cat pouncing on cords in the mirror, then checking behind it to find out where that cat is. Hilarious.
9.30pm: my quiet mood has taken a turn; I feel groggy and hot. It's turned into a humid summer night. Decide to go to bed. Climb in and get pounced on by Timothy. I take a picture of Timmy's eerie eyes stalking me from the bottom of my bed to send to sister K. P's still up and about, so the kittens haven't been banished to their bedroom yet. Usually, I wind down with an audiobook or a hard copy book, but tonight I feel pretty manky, so it's lights out.
10pm: P climbs in beside me. I wake from a doze, briefly, to burrow into his side and drape a hot arm around him. Out like a light.
[Author's note: I have just reread this and am sure you will be shouting 'what a grandma! and just where is your exercise, woman?!'. I am also blushing at the shameful amount of television I consume on a weekday and the woeful admissions regarding general adult beverage consumption. Wow, am I good at turning an exercise in recording my life for posterity into self-flagellation or what?!]
Wednesday, 18 December 2013
2013, a retrospective.
1.
What did you do in 2013 that you'd never done before?
Bought a house.
A purple one. I've never lived in a purple house before, so I guess that's a first too.Visited Melbourne.
Identified multiple gray hairs on my husband.
Bought a car. I've never had my own before!
Bit of a boring old list of new things, isn't it?
2. Did you keep
your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next
year?
Eh. I don't really do resolutions because I don't need another stick with which to beat myself. There's usually a vague thought about getting fit, losing weight, blahblah but I know in my heart of hearts I'm quite happy to truck along eating a wheel of cheese and watching the development of my bingo wings.
3. Did anyone close to you give
birth?
Depends how you define close, I suppose. I define it pretty tightly, so nope.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No. (Insert grateful sentiment here)
5. What countries did you visit?
After last year's extravaganza, this year we confined ourselves to a couple of quick visits to Australia.
6. What would you like to have in
2014 that you lacked in 2013?
Still would like a cat, much as I wanted last year. Hmmm. Otherwise? I'm embarrassed by putting a list of material desires and 2013 weren't too lacking really, so nothing, really. Oh WAIT. Patience!
7. What dates from 2013 will remain
etched upon your memory, and why?
8. What was your biggest achievement
of the year?
Finding the finance to purchase said home and actually winning a fucking auction. Some worky stuff.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Wishing away the passage of time, sometimes.Finding the finance to purchase said home and actually winning a fucking auction. Some worky stuff.
9. What was your biggest failure?
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
11. What was the best thing you
bought?
The house. Followed closely by some insulation and a heat pump for the house. P would no doubt vote for all the $$$ we've spent at Mitre 10 on DIY shit we've barely used.
12. Where did most of your money go?
House! Also getting piffled away on food and booze; we're just so GOOD at spending on that.
House! Also getting piffled away on food and booze; we're just so GOOD at spending on that.
13. What did you get really, really,
really excited about?
14. What song will always remind you
of 2013?
Royals - Lorde. Ubiquitous in 2013, everywhere, all the time. Still don't hate it, miraculously. That song is also vividly associated with driving near Matamata, of all places, as P and I meandered home from a lovely long weekend in the Bay of Plenty.
15. Compared to this time last year,
are you:
a) Happier or
sadder? Happier. I think? I was pretty happy last year too, so maybe the same (this post notwithstanding).
b) Thinner or fatter? Fatty fatty boom boom BOOM.
c) Richer or poorer? Depends how you quantify this. Probably richer, even though I feel poorer - we may be paying a mortgage and interest etc but we own equity now, I guess.
b) Thinner or fatter? Fatty fatty boom boom BOOM.
c) Richer or poorer? Depends how you quantify this. Probably richer, even though I feel poorer - we may be paying a mortgage and interest etc but we own equity now, I guess.
16. What do you wish you'd done more
of?
I wish I'd taken more leave. This year was a little tight on the leave front, though I guess I'm only feeling it now. Also: done more of mortgage-paying.
I wish I'd taken more leave. This year was a little tight on the leave front, though I guess I'm only feeling it now. Also: done more of mortgage-paying.
17. What do you wish you'd done less
of?
Wasting mah dollarz and waistline on food.
18. How will you be spending
Christmas?
Stewart Island, fighting off sea lions and stalking kiwi - as well as hanging with the fandam.
19. Did you fall in love in 2013?
Little bit with the house (WOULD YOU STOP TALKING ABOUT THE HOUSE ALREADY, EYEROLL, GEEZ).Fell a bit more in love with P, as I do most years. This year it was the realisation he takes so much administrative hassle out of my life. What, is handling the spreadsheets not romantic to you? I feel sick thinking that I didn't kiss him goodbye this morning and that we haven't emailed today. We always kiss goodbye and there's usually something sent to make the other laugh. The wear and tear of a long year has frayed our edges - it lead to a serious degree of miffedness last night on my part, and this morning on his when I stonily endured his cuddle. I think we need a bit of time out to reconnect properly, but I do love him more each day, I promise. Maybe 2013 was the year of domestic discontent?
20. What was your favourite TV programme?
21. What was the best book you read?
Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel. So. Good. I gave them to my mother and while she occasionally raises an eyebrow at my choice in fiction, she also devoured them whole. Screw the Man Booker, mah mum's praize is all the accolades required, right there! *ahem*
22. What was your greatest musical
discovery?
Um, pass? I discovered nothing new, really. I like the newish Ladi 6 album, if that counts? Sidenote: you know people on Idol-type television shows are all 'music's my life' and every conversation with a new person you had in high school started with 'what sort of music are you into?' and people now discuss their top-25 lists on their iPod? Yeah, music isn't the necessary art for me. I need words to survive. I am loathe to admit it but I don't even have my own iTunes and music selection - P has pretty good taste and he'll upload anything I've purchased, within reason. I do still buy and enjoy music, but often, when at home alone, I prefer silence. A: enjoys the mute button.
23. What did you want and get?
A home. YAY for that. Love, time with family. 24. What did you want and not get?
Patience! A better work ethic! These are things I can work on by myself and not gifts from Santa, I'm guessing, but if Santa's handing them out...
25. What was your favourite film of
this year?
Eh, pass. Nothing has sprung to mind so they can't have been that good. Oh wait, I freaked out about space for a solid two days after seeing Gravity. I don't think it's the best movie of the year, but MY GOD I am obsessed with space / space disasters. This movie sits on a par with Apollo 13.26. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
On my 31st birthday I was at work, slogging it out on a big thing and ... wait, I just checked my calendar. I've got total false sorry-for-self memories. It was a Saturday and I ate brunch with my sister which was excellent and then I think P and I went somewhere? Hopeless.
27.
What kept you sane?
Diet coke. My colleagues. P. Taking wee breaks. Going to visit my Mum. TEA.
28. What political issue stirred you
the most?
Roast Busters and rape culture, for sure.
29. Who did you miss?
Missed all me friends in the northern hemisphere, particularly V. V had a baby at the end of 2012 and I still haven't met the wee blighter. J too, but I get to see her before year's end (YAY). Missed my grandmother.
30. Who was the
best new person you met?
I very much enjoyed meeting and getting to know C, a friend of some friends this year. She's got a total potty mouth and I love it. She taught me the entirely crude phrase 'Cunt Scarf' by using it in reference to Hat Friend's skirt at the Beyonce concert.
31. Tell us a valuable life lesson
you learned in 2013.
True: try to stay even tempered, it's better for your relationships in the long run. Facetious: use discretion when considering whether dry-clean only really means dry-clean only. It's surprising what can go through the wash on a cold cycle, but devastating when you get it wrong.
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
three weeks off is just so....punishing, you know?!
Ahhh, the rest and relaxation of the summer break.
Touch of sarcasm (TM).*
I love my family. Really! However, I find the start of my summer holidays in New Zealand completely batshit crazy and family time is not always particularly relaxing. First world problems BLAH BLAH let me tell you them.
Oh, and P has decided he wants us to go swimming with great white sharks while we're on the island. GREAT STRESS RELIEVER, P.
Call me Moaning Milly. Really, it's not so bad. In fact, all of the above sounds pretty good, sans a bit of actually having to work. Well, now you know the basic facts of my summer schedule anyway. I've got an end of year thingo to come and will no doubt feel the urge to worddump all over my blog again before Xmas, but I wouldn't be checking back again much before mid-January. For those of you I'm not seeing this Xmas, I miss and love you all.
*Touch of Grey, anyone? Best ad I saw during my tenure in the US. Young dudes giving themselves grey wings (literal, not figurative you dirty bastards) in order to seem more distinguished, trustworthy etc. Brilliant!
Touch of sarcasm (TM).*
I love my family. Really! However, I find the start of my summer holidays in New Zealand completely batshit crazy and family time is not always particularly relaxing. First world problems BLAH BLAH let me tell you them.
- I finish work in December under a complete cloud of crazy. I'm frantic, as the office is closing down for three weeks and of course the clients want everything done yesterday before Christmas. At least 50% of them will be working through the summer, so they don't give a rats about the holiday. Besides which, I've been out and about on company entertaining and personal social catch up missions throughout the month, not to mention a weekend out of the country (boo hoo, what a punishment! you say. Yeah, that's fair I guess.)
- Then, once I'm finally done in the office for the year (by done, I mean I've walked out at the end with a giant 'deal with it later' pile in the corner), we immediately have P's family pseudo-Christmas dinner. At our house. We're catering. There will be fewer than 10 people this year (thank Oscar the Grouch) but there's still a lot to do. Oh, and my best friend is in town from London so I am having her around for lunch first (can't not! It's been over 18 months since I've seen her face! And having her to our place allows me to prep meals and gasbag at the same time!)
- 8am the next morning, on a plane with my sister K. We meet Mum and Dad, then enjoy a three hour drive even further south, followed by a meal with some of P's paternal family.
- Next morning, ferry over to the island. We're there for a week, plus a night in the Catlins on the way back. Poor old P is stuck on a frigid wee island in the Roaring 40s in a bach with his in-laws for a week. I pity the fool.
- P and I arrive home at approx 9.30pm on the 30th.
- We get up the next morning, and drive three hours to the beach to meet friends. Goodness only knows how many of us will be jammed into a wee place looking for a good time, but it will be mental. MENTAL.
Oh, and P has decided he wants us to go swimming with great white sharks while we're on the island. GREAT STRESS RELIEVER, P.
Call me Moaning Milly. Really, it's not so bad. In fact, all of the above sounds pretty good, sans a bit of actually having to work. Well, now you know the basic facts of my summer schedule anyway. I've got an end of year thingo to come and will no doubt feel the urge to worddump all over my blog again before Xmas, but I wouldn't be checking back again much before mid-January. For those of you I'm not seeing this Xmas, I miss and love you all.
*Touch of Grey, anyone? Best ad I saw during my tenure in the US. Young dudes giving themselves grey wings (literal, not figurative you dirty bastards) in order to seem more distinguished, trustworthy etc. Brilliant!
Sunday, 10 November 2013
a litany of useless behaviours
I worked out my ideal career this morning, trudging to work under my own personal black cloud:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
- I love dumplings
- I eat a lot of dumplings
- I'm very good at staying in bed
- I have opinions on things, like dumplings
- etc
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
- Lost my phone. Again. That's the phone twice and wallet once in 6 weeks. On the bright side, it turned up 24 hours later. On the dim side, I lost it at the same bar as last time.
- Lost my dignity attempting to dance with P on Friday night. Managed to push him over on the dance floor.
- Broke the button off P's pants when we got home. Don't ask me how / why - I'm not even sure myself.
- Crushed my thumb as I was closing up the ladder.
- Got heinously sunburnt in the Domain (when I left the house there was no need for sunscreen - I wasn't intentionally stupid! I promise!)
- Could barely move during the Hollie Smith concert due to hangover from previous evening's...festivities (verdict = she was fab, loved the new stuff, technical difficulties aside a great show.)
- Scared myself shitless - from noticing a spider.
- Killed the romance in my relationship with a gastro issue...followed by falling asleep flat on my back with my mouth open, snoring. SO sexy.
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
far, far too much information. you were warned
I have been so stressed the past two days I think I've given myself a urinary tract infection. Charming, hein?
The stress is worky (when isn't it?) and it's sort of done with now (at least, in part) so here's hoping I can neutralise those bad bacteria with a sousing in cranberry juice and let my body regain its natural equilibrium (HIPPY ALERT). To be completely fair, my body has always seemed to have some kind of bizarre preference for making me feel like I'm peeing razor blades so perhaps 'natural equilibrium' is going too far. Detente, perhaps. I would call my tendency to develop UTIs at the drop of a hat a traitorous body habit but I do have to note that it worsens in times of change, stress or general self abuse (2001-2005, the University Years, aka the Wasted Years in a Manky Pub or At Student Health Begging for the Good Stuff). And yes, before you ask, I'm very good at wiping my own bum so that's not it, ladies and gentlemen.
I find I am generally able to treat UTIs by drinking cranberry juice (the real deal that is - anything drink below 15% actual cranberry juice means I have to drink enough to be peeing like a racehorse AND I get the joy of wondering what the fuckity fuck the rest of it contains), rather than antibiotics. I found myself scanning packets in Hong Kong one time wondering whether the miscellaneous fruit pictured was, in fact, a cranberry or some kind of warped blueberry (have I told you this story before? I feel like I probably have. OH WELL, SOZ BOUT THAT!)
Drinking the juice is far preferable to the antibiotics - don't want 'em if I can avoid 'em, they don't always work, their lead-in time for relief is slower and you have to go to the doctor and pee in a cup. No thanks, I'm a TERRIBLE cup pee-er. I find myself nervous with the collection devices at the doctors and that generally leads to pee on the hand. Not my favourite. During the pregnancy scare of about '07 I found myself peeing in the lid of a hairspray can in desperation as I needed a vessel in my own bathroom, only to discover the tiny hole in the cap, which WHAT? So there was pee all over the sink.
So, you should know I sat down at the computer to just write about, well, whatever came to mind. And this is it. I'm sorry. Journal = posterity = truth? Or something, anyway. I'm vile, but you knew that.
The stress is worky (when isn't it?) and it's sort of done with now (at least, in part) so here's hoping I can neutralise those bad bacteria with a sousing in cranberry juice and let my body regain its natural equilibrium (HIPPY ALERT). To be completely fair, my body has always seemed to have some kind of bizarre preference for making me feel like I'm peeing razor blades so perhaps 'natural equilibrium' is going too far. Detente, perhaps. I would call my tendency to develop UTIs at the drop of a hat a traitorous body habit but I do have to note that it worsens in times of change, stress or general self abuse (2001-2005, the University Years, aka the Wasted Years in a Manky Pub or At Student Health Begging for the Good Stuff). And yes, before you ask, I'm very good at wiping my own bum so that's not it, ladies and gentlemen.
I find I am generally able to treat UTIs by drinking cranberry juice (the real deal that is - anything drink below 15% actual cranberry juice means I have to drink enough to be peeing like a racehorse AND I get the joy of wondering what the fuckity fuck the rest of it contains), rather than antibiotics. I found myself scanning packets in Hong Kong one time wondering whether the miscellaneous fruit pictured was, in fact, a cranberry or some kind of warped blueberry (have I told you this story before? I feel like I probably have. OH WELL, SOZ BOUT THAT!)
Drinking the juice is far preferable to the antibiotics - don't want 'em if I can avoid 'em, they don't always work, their lead-in time for relief is slower and you have to go to the doctor and pee in a cup. No thanks, I'm a TERRIBLE cup pee-er. I find myself nervous with the collection devices at the doctors and that generally leads to pee on the hand. Not my favourite. During the pregnancy scare of about '07 I found myself peeing in the lid of a hairspray can in desperation as I needed a vessel in my own bathroom, only to discover the tiny hole in the cap, which WHAT? So there was pee all over the sink.
So, you should know I sat down at the computer to just write about, well, whatever came to mind. And this is it. I'm sorry. Journal = posterity = truth? Or something, anyway. I'm vile, but you knew that.
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