I don't know what I've done to our piece of shit laptop but I can't type or paste into the new post box on Blogger. I've been typing these last posts in Gmail and using my phone to paste them into Blogger but the formatting is completely screwed. However, it doesn't appear I care enough to fix the problem just at the moment. I am saving some of my weekly discretionary income at present and perhaps a
new laptop or tablet is called for. However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.
So, since I last posted two weeks ago? Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good. Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues. I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture. This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.
So, I have not yet had a baby. 38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough. I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.
Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues. Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief. I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross. I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks). So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care). For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.
Are we ready for a baby? I guess so. We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend. I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc. While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.
There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy). This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all. I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me. Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered). P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans. Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash. Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)
I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc. This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy. It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile. Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.
*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now. I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
36 years
The trip to the hospice helped, a lot. The seizures are now largely under control and the episodes of confusion have lessened. Following release from the hospice, we had about a week during which Dad's
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad. Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now. They can reminisce together, which is huge. Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.
I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room. They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house. I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed. My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges. P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.
We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday). It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date. I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder. I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them. Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think. No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support. I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.
At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her. As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad. Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time. We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long. I don't think we have that
long. I don't know.
And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death. The baby feels huge to me now. I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime). To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers. My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture. The indigestion has
eased. There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related. I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder. I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies. We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.
We've finished antenatal classes. At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression. She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry. I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to. Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.
Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary. 36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough. Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another. They had plans, together. Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy. She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return. She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad. Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross. Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder. It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum. It's awful and it'slovely, both.
Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad. Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now. They can reminisce together, which is huge. Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.
I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room. They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house. I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed. My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges. P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.
We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday). It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date. I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder. I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them. Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think. No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support. I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.
At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her. As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad. Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time. We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long. I don't think we have that
long. I don't know.
And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death. The baby feels huge to me now. I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime). To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers. My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture. The indigestion has
eased. There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related. I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder. I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies. We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.
We've finished antenatal classes. At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression. She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry. I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to. Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.
Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary. 36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough. Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another. They had plans, together. Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy. She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return. She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad. Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross. Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder. It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum. It's awful and it'slovely, both.
Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
26+6
I am a bit waddly after a long day or sitting for extended periods. Rolling over at night is getting harder. Bending over occasions a grunt or two.
The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night. When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy. I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus.
P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.
I walk slowly up the hill to work.
At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits. The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway. At home, I mow the lawn steadily. I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much.
I baked muffins, twice. It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before.
I still have an innie. It's shallow and strained but it's tidy. When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more. When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.
All facets of my boobs are still expanding. I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.
If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless.
I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage. Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started. That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date. We'll get there, we tell ourselves.
I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow. I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it. I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday.
I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure. I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained.
It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday. He turned 32. I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped. We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip. It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they? His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys. We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18. I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.
I am well. The baby is well. I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.
The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night. When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy. I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus.
P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.
I walk slowly up the hill to work.
At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits. The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway. At home, I mow the lawn steadily. I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much.
I baked muffins, twice. It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before.
I still have an innie. It's shallow and strained but it's tidy. When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more. When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.
All facets of my boobs are still expanding. I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.
If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless.
I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage. Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started. That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date. We'll get there, we tell ourselves.
I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow. I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it. I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday.
I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure. I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained.
It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday. He turned 32. I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped. We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip. It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they? His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys. We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18. I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.
I am well. The baby is well. I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
funny ha ha or funny peculiar
You might be surprised by this, but I'm going to a comedy show this evening. Yes, even though I normally detest staged comedy (exception might be made for Billy Connolly), am terrified of the potential for P to heckle (he thinks he's so clever, sigh) and have not, well, been in the mood for funny business of late,* I saw a sign for a show that P would like and purchased tickets out of the blue. I wanted to do something nice for him. He's been lovely despite the wasting away of our mutual social life -- do you know, I think he might actually like my company and is missing nights out together? Strange as it may seem -- that I thought he would both greatly enjoy a show and recognise it for the clear sacrifice it'll be on my part. Nothing like enjoying a side of martyrdom with your gesture of goodwill.
On Thursday I have a function for work. On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours. I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office. I'm such a drag at the moment.
Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others. Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke. I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose. Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again. It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation.
I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment. Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...
*This goes exactly as far as you think it does. Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.
On Thursday I have a function for work. On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours. I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office. I'm such a drag at the moment.
Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others. Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke. I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose. Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again. It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation.
I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment. Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...
*This goes exactly as far as you think it does. Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.
Thursday, 12 March 2015
23 weeks
Things I have noted about my pregnancy, recently:
- I never felt 'flutterings'. I went straight from believing I had those weird intestinal gas pops (you know, where there's trapped gas and you get a wee explosion in your intestines, cf fizzing) to thinking a week or so later, hey, that must be a baby.
- The movement still isn't particularly regular. At least, I don't register it as particularly regular. The pops are still there, as is pushing and what must be kicking. Very occasionally I feel something that may be wriggling.
- Pregnancy yoga is the business, still. Even though I burst into tears during quiet time once. I cannot believe I am voluntarily going to a class twice a week where I 'breathe my baby' and have to think about my terrible posture. I love it.
- I had to wear one of P's t-shirts to yoga this week. My gym pants keep rolling over at the top because they don't fit under the bump.
- Knocker growth is out of control. I am seriously concerned that Lefty is going to far, far outstrip Righty, which, given Righty's still the size of a football (or so it seems), is a Very Bad Thing.
- I'm a bit slower than I was previously. I get a bit huffy heading up the first hill in the morning.
- Everything is stretchy. My tummy, the ligaments in my pelvis - they're stretching all the time.
- At night, it's now really uncomfortable if I end up lying partly on my stomach or back. I wake up quite a bit, but am peeing slightly less frequently than previously.
- I need to pare back the meal size and eat earlier because heartburn blows.
- I really need to get organised on the paperwork for parental leave.
- I really need to get organised to think about daycare (can you fucking believe it, over a year out from when I'll need it. Calm down Auckland parents!)
- I really, really want to know who is in there. I don't usually let people I don't know inside me. But it's not creeping me out - rather, I'm curious and feel a kind of wee secret smile come across my face when I think about it.
- Tailbone is still giving me grief, but then, I've not done anything to fix it recently either.
- Wore a horrible, sacklike dress to the wedding last weekend having paid more than I should for it. Have another wedding in two or three weeks and really want a new one...but cheap heart tells me to recycle the first to make it remotely worth the price. Will wear my stacked heels come hell or high water.
- P thinks he felt the baby from the outside, when we were away on holiday. I'm not sure he did because when he thought he felt it, I didn't notice anything. I'm giving it to him though.
- I still have an innie tummy button.
- I really like Fresh'n'Fruity custard and rhubarb yoghurt.
- Good apples are very satisfying.
- I am ordering a fresh Tank C (orange, pineapple and ginger) juice almost every morning, asking them to put apple in it. I can tell when they get the proportions wrong. I am going to bankrupt myself over juice on the way to work.
- I find myself holding the bump all.the.time.
Wednesday, 18 February 2015
back to your regularly scheduled self-centred moaning
ALERT, ALERT, more whinging ahead.
The following is a rant about things both trivial and important that have contrived to make me feel like a sack of crap, today:
The following is a rant about things both trivial and important that have contrived to make me feel like a sack of crap, today:
- Apparently I have a UTI. I say apparently because the test results are still pending and I'm not feeling any particular pain (thank goodness) though I pee every 5 minutes. The doctor prescribed me some antibiotics to take in the interim if any pain kicks in, but she vacillated more than seems reasonable over whether they were safe to take in pregnancy. I forgot to check the label myself, and subsequently discovered it's an antibiotic that historically does not work for my and my godawful UTIs. Great.
- Miscellaneous 'account charges' on the credit card totalling $87.
- A great aunt who lives in close proximity to my parents had a heart attack on the weekend. She's on the mend, but what the actual fuck, timing? Poor Aunt S.
- There were onions in my NO ONION salad. You know, rage tipping point and all.
- I experienced the 'shoot the messenger' phenomenon at work today. Me being the messenger. It was every bit as awesome as you would expect.
- And the final absolute fucker of a bullet point: Dad's been taken off chemo. His white blood cell counts are too low - they're going to reassess next week, but no chemo is a blow. Oh, and the day they took him off it? The day his hair started to fall out.
Wednesday, 14 January 2015
2014 in review
I usually post this before the end of the year, and I started drafting it in early December, anticipating a lovely long summer holiday. I've since amended it so if it seems disjointed and/or erratic in tone, you can probably take an educated guess as to why. I'm trying for slightly less maudlin in tone ... but I'm not sure I've got there.
1. What did you do in 2014 that you'd never done before?
This is incredibly boring, but I started developing goals and plans for my career. I've never actually done that before - I'm still in the early stages, but a very new experience.1. What did you do in 2014 that you'd never done before?
Got knocked up. That's kind of a big one, I guess.
2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Last year's answer still applies: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?
Yes! P's cousin S had a wee boy who we love to death.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Timothy, my lovely kitten. I don't care what you say about cat ladies or pets, I felt real, honest to goodness grief when wee Tim died. It was awful.
5. What countries did you visit?
I didn't leave the country this year (unless you count the South Island?!)
6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?
I had written that I'd like to have more contentment in 2015, but that doesn't seem right any more. I'd like to have more quality family time.
7. What dates from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Making it through the first trimester, I suppose, if that can be counted as an achievement? It sucked and then it got better. We thought for a while that I was going to miscarry, so it feels like an achievement to have got this far (15 weeks tomorrow).
9. What was your biggest failure?
Worky stuff. Making it through the first trimester, I suppose, if that can be counted as an achievement? It sucked and then it got better. We thought for a while that I was going to miscarry, so it feels like an achievement to have got this far (15 weeks tomorrow).
9. What was your biggest failure?
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Probably the professional assistance with renovating the dining room. I love that room now, so much. It looks wonderful.
12. Where did most of your money go?
Once again nothing changes from 2013:
House! Also getting piffled away on food and booze; we're just so GOOD at spending on that.
Oh, one other item - pregnancy tests. I wasted a loooooooot of those.
Once again nothing changes from 2013:
House! Also getting piffled away on food and booze; we're just so GOOD at spending on that.
Oh, one other item - pregnancy tests. I wasted a loooooooot of those.
13. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
14. What song will always remind you of 2014?
Chet Faker, I don't know the name of the song, but it has a line about making you move with consequence which sounds terrible but I like it a lot. We listened to a lot of Chet Faker while renovating the dining room. The song smells like bare timber, to me.
15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) Happier or sadder? I originally wrote: About the same. I'm a fairly cheery wee chap. But scratch that.
b) Thinner or fatter? Oh yes, most definitely fatter.
c) Richer or poorer? Wee bit richer - promotions, plus we paid off a chunk of mortgage, even though we spent a bit on the house. Property values keep rising, so I guess in a very theoretical sort of a way we're a bit richer in equity too?
b) Thinner or fatter? Oh yes, most definitely fatter.
c) Richer or poorer? Wee bit richer - promotions, plus we paid off a chunk of mortgage, even though we spent a bit on the house. Property values keep rising, so I guess in a very theoretical sort of a way we're a bit richer in equity too?
16. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Debt reduction, as ever. With the beauty of hindsight, spending more time with my family.
Debt reduction, as ever. With the beauty of hindsight, spending more time with my family.
17. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Frivolous spending and being narky to P.
18. How will you be spending Christmas?
The plan was to have a few Christmases with the family - on the day itself, we were meant to be at our house, with P's mother, brother, sister-in-law, SIL's brother and SIL's parents. That changed with Dad's diagnosis and we spent Christmas at my parents' place. We ate, played boules in the sunshine & napped indoors when it got too hot.
19. Did you fall in love in 2014?
The baby is still too uncertain for me to have fully fallen in love. We had some problems during the first trimester and then another scare at week 14. As certainty is grows, however, so does love.With Tabitha, Timothy and Cokes I most definitely fell in love. I wanted cats in 2013 and in 2014/first days of 2015 they have been such a joy.
As always, I fell a bit more in love with P. He has been so wonderful during the early stages of pregnancy and I don't know what I would have done without him over the past four weeks during Dad's diagnosis. He's upset and grieving too, but he's consistently treated me patiently, kindly and respectfully, when I haven't always been rational.
20. What was your favourite TV programme?
21. What was the best book you read?
Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood. Didn't love the two further books in the trilogy, but very much enjoyed the first. (I think I read this first in 2014? God, my memory is shot).
22. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Chet Faker. Yet again, I'm probably waaaay behind the curve.
23. What did you want and get?
The pregnancy. It took a wee while -- we started trying in January. Not long in the scheme of things, but long enough to underscore that we did indeed want to have a baby. While there's some apprehensiveness about what it means for our lives, it also feels very right. 24. What did you want and not get?
Original answer: a dishwasher.
Now? A positive prognosis for Dad.
Now? A positive prognosis for Dad.
25. What was your favourite film of this year?
I haven't really been to the movies in 2014, can you believe it? We watch quite a few at home, but none of them have been earthshattering, I don't think. Pass.26. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I could not for the life of me recall what I did on my 32nd birthday! I actually had to check the post I wrote the day after (THIS is why I keep a blog!) - we had friends around for dinner and to watch the rugby the night before and P's friend P2 conned me into a night on the town in the early hours of my birthday itself. We spent the day of my birthday hungover and giggly.
27. What kept you sane?
Up until October, buckets of tea. Mum, Dad, P. Plenty of sleep.
28. What political issue stirred you the most?
Election 2014 in NZ. The Auckland Rail Loop (just get on with it, NZ!). The Hopeless Minister of Womens' Affairs (I haven't written about this but HOLY SHIT you're not a feminist because you're not into 'flag waving'??! You think beauty pageants are good for young women?!)
29. Who did you miss?
Friends in the Northern Hemisphere. Timothy, badly.
30. Who was the best new person you met?
S's son is pretty awesome. He's cuddly and not a whinger, what more could you want?!
31. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014.
Original answer: Patience really is a key to remaining happy in the face of disappointment.Holy shit that's prescient. Or, you know, trite enough to apply to any life situation. Let's pretend it was prescient of me, shall we?
I've also learned that life really isn't fair.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
why i'm unlikely to attend any revival of 'cats'
One of (my) life's little mysteries is why I don't like musical theatre as an adult, when I was completely enamoured of it as a child?
Here are my theories:
1) Bitterness and envy.
My parents took me to the Founder's Theatre in Hamilton to see My Fair Lady (starring Max Cryer; I forget who played Eliza, but she was beautiful, I thought) when I was about 7 or 8. My sister was deemed too young, or it was a treat for just me, I don't remember the details. In any case, she was dropped at the neighbours while Mum and Dad took me to the show. It was dinner theatre, I think, a late-80s small-town fancy-pants evening. I was entranced and decided then and there, that's what I want to be. The star. Long story short, I am now a lawyer, not a musical theatre performer, worse luck. Not cut out for it, sadly. Maybe I'm just jealous, which means I avoid watching?
2) P's curmudgeonliness is rubbing off.
I can't believe it's true, but I married a man who has never watched the Sound of Music. Or Grease. He has shunned two mainstay films of my childhood (the other being Pippi Longstocking. I haven't asked P to join the fan club for that one).
One of Auckland's main theatres is on our commute. As we pass, P mournfully intones things like, 'you're not going to make me take you to...Wicked, are you?' I truly believe he thinks Annie or Mamma Mia would scar him for life. He happily joins me for plays and has been the driving force behind visiting the opera and orchestral events, but he has drawn a very bright line at musical theatre. I'm afraid I've never seen him chant a chorus or, you know, shimmy. Perhaps it's catching?
3) Perversity and/or snobbery
I worry that something deep and dark in me doesn't want to enjoy musicals like many others do, simply because it's popular and not as 'high brow' as other pursuits. I'd like to think I'm not always an asshole, however, and there's plenty of evidence that I do not give two shits about 'high brow' culture - I often switch the car's radio to deeply uncool top 40 stations, I read and enjoy all sorts of books from all over the scale (Diana Gabaldon to Margaret Atwood to Dickens to Regency to Marian Keyes -- never, ever sports autobiographies -- although, most of the time I suppose you don't catch me reviewing or admitting to the 'low brow' stuff) (BTW, is it 'annoying' how I keep putting 'high/low brow' in quotes? It's because every time I write them I feel like an asshole. But then the quotes also make me feel assholey. Net result = 'asshole'?).
Could be a combo of the three I suppose. Or just a change of taste over time, much like discovering that olives are tasty, around the age of 17. Who knows?
(I really hope you didn't think this post was going anywhere, it totally wasn't and it didn't, I'm afraid. Soz about that.)
Here are my theories:
1) Bitterness and envy.
My parents took me to the Founder's Theatre in Hamilton to see My Fair Lady (starring Max Cryer; I forget who played Eliza, but she was beautiful, I thought) when I was about 7 or 8. My sister was deemed too young, or it was a treat for just me, I don't remember the details. In any case, she was dropped at the neighbours while Mum and Dad took me to the show. It was dinner theatre, I think, a late-80s small-town fancy-pants evening. I was entranced and decided then and there, that's what I want to be. The star. Long story short, I am now a lawyer, not a musical theatre performer, worse luck. Not cut out for it, sadly. Maybe I'm just jealous, which means I avoid watching?
2) P's curmudgeonliness is rubbing off.
I can't believe it's true, but I married a man who has never watched the Sound of Music. Or Grease. He has shunned two mainstay films of my childhood (the other being Pippi Longstocking. I haven't asked P to join the fan club for that one).
One of Auckland's main theatres is on our commute. As we pass, P mournfully intones things like, 'you're not going to make me take you to...Wicked, are you?' I truly believe he thinks Annie or Mamma Mia would scar him for life. He happily joins me for plays and has been the driving force behind visiting the opera and orchestral events, but he has drawn a very bright line at musical theatre. I'm afraid I've never seen him chant a chorus or, you know, shimmy. Perhaps it's catching?
3) Perversity and/or snobbery
I worry that something deep and dark in me doesn't want to enjoy musicals like many others do, simply because it's popular and not as 'high brow' as other pursuits. I'd like to think I'm not always an asshole, however, and there's plenty of evidence that I do not give two shits about 'high brow' culture - I often switch the car's radio to deeply uncool top 40 stations, I read and enjoy all sorts of books from all over the scale (Diana Gabaldon to Margaret Atwood to Dickens to Regency to Marian Keyes -- never, ever sports autobiographies -- although, most of the time I suppose you don't catch me reviewing or admitting to the 'low brow' stuff) (BTW, is it 'annoying' how I keep putting 'high/low brow' in quotes? It's because every time I write them I feel like an asshole. But then the quotes also make me feel assholey. Net result = 'asshole'?).
Could be a combo of the three I suppose. Or just a change of taste over time, much like discovering that olives are tasty, around the age of 17. Who knows?
(I really hope you didn't think this post was going anywhere, it totally wasn't and it didn't, I'm afraid. Soz about that.)
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
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.
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.
Monday, 7 July 2014
in which i learn a valuable bus lesson
After the last post, I curled up in bed and whinged for a solid two days. I couldn't even bring myself to internet, so lucky for you, you avoided the unnecessary dramz about my imminent demise during that time.
As soon as I was recovered enough, I went out and had someone chop my hair into a long bob to give me something else to obsess over. I cut off a great whack of hair in 2010 and regretted it almost instantaneously, but this time I'm sticking with a cautious 'is this a thing an old person would do? but I think I like it' type line. Ask me again in a week when I've been unable to style it myself and thoroughly frustrated by Auckland's hair-unfriendly weather.
I don't even have a picture of it yet for you! You poor things, you're really missing out.
Oh, I know, I have a public transport parable for you! Listen, all ye mighty, but don't despair:
I caught the Inner Link bus from work to Ponsonby the other night and had that moment as soon as I sat down. You know the one, the moment where you think 'Good grief, of all the seats I might have picked, I've sat down next to the crazy guy' or 'No wonder this was the last seat available'. He was muttering away merrily to himself and taking up more than half the seat. In the vein of all confrontation-averse users of public transportation, I clutched my bag a little tighter and made no eye contact. We were in the seat just ahead of the bus's back door. 7 or 8 stops later, a woman made to get off with a load of supermarkets bags. She dropped something. My seat companion leapt up, leaned over the divider and helped her with her bags while she retrieved the errant item. He made a genial comment to me about how tough it is when you're carrying a lot, then excused himself politely so he could get off at the following stop.
So! No more immediate judgment from me based on someone's mutterings! I will restrict myself to quietly holding my breath when someone is in breach of widely acceptable hygiene standards from this moment on! (Gosh, that sounds kind of sarky but I genuinely felt bad for my snap assessment, I promise!)
As soon as I was recovered enough, I went out and had someone chop my hair into a long bob to give me something else to obsess over. I cut off a great whack of hair in 2010 and regretted it almost instantaneously, but this time I'm sticking with a cautious 'is this a thing an old person would do? but I think I like it' type line. Ask me again in a week when I've been unable to style it myself and thoroughly frustrated by Auckland's hair-unfriendly weather.
I don't even have a picture of it yet for you! You poor things, you're really missing out.
Oh, I know, I have a public transport parable for you! Listen, all ye mighty, but don't despair:
I caught the Inner Link bus from work to Ponsonby the other night and had that moment as soon as I sat down. You know the one, the moment where you think 'Good grief, of all the seats I might have picked, I've sat down next to the crazy guy' or 'No wonder this was the last seat available'. He was muttering away merrily to himself and taking up more than half the seat. In the vein of all confrontation-averse users of public transportation, I clutched my bag a little tighter and made no eye contact. We were in the seat just ahead of the bus's back door. 7 or 8 stops later, a woman made to get off with a load of supermarkets bags. She dropped something. My seat companion leapt up, leaned over the divider and helped her with her bags while she retrieved the errant item. He made a genial comment to me about how tough it is when you're carrying a lot, then excused himself politely so he could get off at the following stop.
So! No more immediate judgment from me based on someone's mutterings! I will restrict myself to quietly holding my breath when someone is in breach of widely acceptable hygiene standards from this moment on! (Gosh, that sounds kind of sarky but I genuinely felt bad for my snap assessment, I promise!)
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
july, two days in
I can feel the fog descending, curling round the outer edges of consciousness and fuzzing up my throat and nose. I will shortly be a pariah in the office, my germs warded off with sideways glances and furious rinsing of mugs.
Ha, I just opened the last post to discover it was all about being sick. Well, lest this blog devolve into an extended examination of my inner workings, let me report on all the other news in A-town:
My sister K: took her to a play last night (Once on Chunuk Bair, Auckland Theatre Company at the Maidment, v. good) and enjoyed her company over dinner first. She had a skirt in a gorgeous stiff black + white floral fabric that I coveted. That's not really news, per se, but there it is.
Mum: allegedly announced to sister K that she's now ready to be a grandmother. Has also been considering surrogacy options for me, in case I'm too busy to procreate for myself. Mum surely told K this in the knowledge it would be communicated to me (K being presently single meaning that she's not the prime child-bearing target). Dear old Mum, she doesn't want to ask me directly what my plans are because she rightly knows I'll be prickly about it. She's been giving me plenty of opportunities to raise children in conversation; I'm SUCH a disappointment.
Dad: not much to report. I'm loving phone conversations with him at the moment. He works so actively at holding a conversation about the news and what's going on and asking the right questions -- who doesn't love that? About the time I left home, Dad became very intentional in telling us he loves and is proud of us. Maybe I didn't notice it before I left, maybe it was triggered by our departures, I'm not sure. We've never been an emotionally transparent family and I just adore that Dad is intentional now about that stuff - it takes effort and I really appreciate it. Though, of course, I should be more reciprocal.
P: lovely, as usual. Except for the other morning when everything he uttered annoyed me so deeply I contemplated telling him to just shut up and not bother talking to me again until we left for work. Good thing I didn't, as on reflection the problem may (MAY!) have been me and waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
Work: have been promoted. Am fairly sure that they will soon discover all apparent abilities are a sham -- but have managed to wriggle up another step on the ladder for better or worse. Am bizarrely ambivalent about it for a girl who has tended to measure her worth in external achievement standards.
Cats: puss-ish.
Friends: neglected. Must do something about that. J is in NZ this week and I'm taking my birthday leave on Friday to see her. I think we'll go to a wild and wintry beach for a walk to feel properly Kiwi. I'll feel envious of her return to London on Sunday as I've been having pangs recently. It's been a while since we escaped Auckland last, so perhaps I'm feeling a little cabin-feverish?
Ha, on re-reading the above, it struck me -- have you read the Ed Champion rant about Middling Millenials? I'm not going to link to it because ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS and much of his point re Emily Gould is subsumed in vitriol and a smattering of misogyny, valid as it might otherwise be. ALSO, good grief, I could certainly be accused of some Middling Millenial behaviour. Of course, any literary pretensions I may have reside firmly inside my own head and only occasionally spill into this badly-edited and irretrievably awful personal blog, so if Middling Millenial refers only to those who are seeking fame off the creation of subpar art, I certainly don't count. But, if the occasional reference to the Pink Power Ranger by a 32 year old woman in an online journal strikes you as vapid, lazy and disengaged, well bully for you but I care not. Well, I care a little bit, I'm human aren't I?
Time to cut it off, given I'm making no sense whatsoever. I bet you I read this in less than a month's time and cringe, but isn't that what a blog's for?
Ha, I just opened the last post to discover it was all about being sick. Well, lest this blog devolve into an extended examination of my inner workings, let me report on all the other news in A-town:
My sister K: took her to a play last night (Once on Chunuk Bair, Auckland Theatre Company at the Maidment, v. good) and enjoyed her company over dinner first. She had a skirt in a gorgeous stiff black + white floral fabric that I coveted. That's not really news, per se, but there it is.
Mum: allegedly announced to sister K that she's now ready to be a grandmother. Has also been considering surrogacy options for me, in case I'm too busy to procreate for myself. Mum surely told K this in the knowledge it would be communicated to me (K being presently single meaning that she's not the prime child-bearing target). Dear old Mum, she doesn't want to ask me directly what my plans are because she rightly knows I'll be prickly about it. She's been giving me plenty of opportunities to raise children in conversation; I'm SUCH a disappointment.
Dad: not much to report. I'm loving phone conversations with him at the moment. He works so actively at holding a conversation about the news and what's going on and asking the right questions -- who doesn't love that? About the time I left home, Dad became very intentional in telling us he loves and is proud of us. Maybe I didn't notice it before I left, maybe it was triggered by our departures, I'm not sure. We've never been an emotionally transparent family and I just adore that Dad is intentional now about that stuff - it takes effort and I really appreciate it. Though, of course, I should be more reciprocal.
P: lovely, as usual. Except for the other morning when everything he uttered annoyed me so deeply I contemplated telling him to just shut up and not bother talking to me again until we left for work. Good thing I didn't, as on reflection the problem may (MAY!) have been me and waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
Work: have been promoted. Am fairly sure that they will soon discover all apparent abilities are a sham -- but have managed to wriggle up another step on the ladder for better or worse. Am bizarrely ambivalent about it for a girl who has tended to measure her worth in external achievement standards.
Cats: puss-ish.
Friends: neglected. Must do something about that. J is in NZ this week and I'm taking my birthday leave on Friday to see her. I think we'll go to a wild and wintry beach for a walk to feel properly Kiwi. I'll feel envious of her return to London on Sunday as I've been having pangs recently. It's been a while since we escaped Auckland last, so perhaps I'm feeling a little cabin-feverish?
Ha, on re-reading the above, it struck me -- have you read the Ed Champion rant about Middling Millenials? I'm not going to link to it because ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS and much of his point re Emily Gould is subsumed in vitriol and a smattering of misogyny, valid as it might otherwise be. ALSO, good grief, I could certainly be accused of some Middling Millenial behaviour. Of course, any literary pretensions I may have reside firmly inside my own head and only occasionally spill into this badly-edited and irretrievably awful personal blog, so if Middling Millenial refers only to those who are seeking fame off the creation of subpar art, I certainly don't count. But, if the occasional reference to the Pink Power Ranger by a 32 year old woman in an online journal strikes you as vapid, lazy and disengaged, well bully for you but I care not. Well, I care a little bit, I'm human aren't I?
Time to cut it off, given I'm making no sense whatsoever. I bet you I read this in less than a month's time and cringe, but isn't that what a blog's for?
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.
Monday, 12 May 2014
home
The concept of the childhood family home eludes me; we moved roughly once every five years. I only remember being upset about this once, when I was 10 or 11. K and I ripped down the 'for sale' sign at the end of the driveway and tossed it into an adjoining paddock. I don't know that we'd thought it through (removing the sign was hardly overthrowing an entire marketing campaign) and I don't recall how Dad discovered we'd done it, but I do remember the sinking feeling that the move was written on wall, when Dad was chewing us out after the fact. I gave up the rebellion pretty quickly and didn't look back as we left for the last time.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
blank pages
My mother and father have been sending me emails from their travels in Europe, scattered with little descriptions of what they ate (a cabbage dish) and where (a 1960s style restaurant that made her feel underdressed), with anecdotes about the places they've visited (lady carrying a maine coone cat down the street in Grenoble). I press reply, bash out a 'that sounds tasty' or 'I'm very jealous, tell me more' and then my fingers hover over the keyboard, unable to fill in the blank section devoted to what's going on with me.
I'm having some difficulty wringing words out of the day-to-day, just now. Blog, correspondence, conversation. I had drinks with a close friend and a new friend yesterday evening and I wasn't holding up my end of the conversational bargain. I lay awake briefly last night, pondering where the pizazz has gone and whether I'd sunk the new friendship before it'd left the harbour. (Pizazz = such a wonderfully 80s/early 90s word, I think. It goes with Jem and the Holograms / The Misfits / Neon slashes on black lycra bike shorts / hairdryers).
But, as they say, the only way to write is to do it. So here I am. I've written to Mum this morning. We're getting the mower fixed this weekend, I said. It'll be a jungle out there after the rain overnight. P is away at a conference, which means I'll have cereal for dinner, I said. I suggested a day trip wine tasting on Waiheke Island to the new friend; we'll gather a group. It'll be fun. Make it happen.
I'm having some difficulty wringing words out of the day-to-day, just now. Blog, correspondence, conversation. I had drinks with a close friend and a new friend yesterday evening and I wasn't holding up my end of the conversational bargain. I lay awake briefly last night, pondering where the pizazz has gone and whether I'd sunk the new friendship before it'd left the harbour. (Pizazz = such a wonderfully 80s/early 90s word, I think. It goes with Jem and the Holograms / The Misfits / Neon slashes on black lycra bike shorts / hairdryers).
But, as they say, the only way to write is to do it. So here I am. I've written to Mum this morning. We're getting the mower fixed this weekend, I said. It'll be a jungle out there after the rain overnight. P is away at a conference, which means I'll have cereal for dinner, I said. I suggested a day trip wine tasting on Waiheke Island to the new friend; we'll gather a group. It'll be fun. Make it happen.
Tuesday, 29 April 2014
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:
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.
Monday, 28 April 2014
day in the life, autumn 2014
23 April 2014: Autumn, Auckland, New Zealand.
(Once again, a disclaimer: I am dull. Also, very few pictures as I spent the bulk of the day with work colleagues. If you don't have a taste for wordy blatherings and extremely poor quality photographs, I'd stop here.)
******************************************
5.45: roll over, eyeball clock, sigh. I woke up from a terrible dream about my Granny, which involved lashings of guilt and, inexplicably, picking up bacon at the supermarket. Flop onto my back, start scrolling through FB on phone. Even though I don't need to get up for another 15 to 30 minutes, if I go back to sleep now I'll be a wreck when I wake. P slumbers on, peacefully.
6.10: drag myself out of bed to feed the cats and have a shower. Disturb Tabitha, who had been curled up beside me, bushed after a night of exciting antics - the cat door allowed her to go outside at night for the first time. Cocoa is AWOL. We feel pretty confident that old Cokes can manage himself round the 'hood now (please don't let those be famous last words) as he's sauntering out for a couple of hours at a time during the day and evening, coming home when he's hungry and/or hot and/or wet and/or fancies a cuddle.
6.30: earl grey tea and a breakfast of canned peaches and muesli. It feels virtuous but is probably packed with sugar.
6.45: floating around the house aimlessly, starting to get ready (black pleated sleeveless dress, black belt, black cardigan, black tights for the first time this autumn, black stud earrings. WOE I am so BORING wearing the standard NZ black ensemble).
6.46: OH NO had forgotten work trip to Christchurch this afternoon. Hastily grab bag and throw in a change of underwear, make up, essential toiletries, phone charger, blue striped suit and black top. The suit'll get terribly crushed in the bag but decide I don't have time to find anything with less crumple-factor.
7.15: the car won't start. P has an 8am meeting and a dinner with friends planned for after work, so we intended to drive into town this morning. The flipping car however has different plans and I freak for a moment, wondering what new and exciting way I've found to drain the battery, as the last suspect to be behind the wheel (and a suspect with battery-draining form, at that). P is sure it's not the battery though so I may be off the hook - there's been a spate of gas thefts nearby over previous months, so it could be a cut line? No time to find out now - we need to leave if we're walking.
7.30: huffing and puffing up the hill, hauling my bag, P striding ahead sending emails on his blackberry regarding tardiness. The sun's out this morning, despite the crispness in the air. P's iPhone tells him it's only 12 degrees celcius outside, but I don't believe it. I've thrown on a light floral scarf and even that's proving too hot for the walk.
7.33: P spots the free bus that runs down Queen St. We run for it and nab a seat to head down the hill to save P a minute or two.
7.50: I arrive at work and contemplate my inbox. Gah, horrific.
7.55: TEA. Cannot face inbox without tea.
8.05: check in to flights for today and tomorrow online. MUST REMEMBER TO PRINT BOARDING PASS.
10.20: text message my sister K, who is in the throes of a protracted house purchase negotiation. Late last night she told the agent she'd think about the vendor's final offer overnight and respond in the morning. I ask her what the story is; but she's only just got up and hasn't called the agent yet (school holidays, she's a teacher). I don't know why she's now dragging it out - she's totally going to accept the offer. I've seen her run through the gamut over the past few days: uncontrollable nervousness, uncontrollable excitement, disbelief at counter offer, sly negotiation, expectation management, despondence, and finally, power tripping? She's a cracker, that kid (who may be 30 but will forever be a kid to me).
10.47: More tea, please.
12.35: ack, close to being late! Call cab, round up colleague M. M is the reason I have this job - she and I met at our hall of residence and flatted together for four years during university while studying. On my return to Auckland she passed my CV to my boss, knowing that I'd like working with him because she and I worked so well together as undergraduates. It's been awesome having a friend like M in the workplace.
1.20: arrive at airport. I briefly mourn the sunny, muggy day - Christchurch is going to be cooooooold, wish I didn't have to leave!
1.22 bag check, reprint boarding pass as I'd forgotten that I did in fact print my online check in. Worse, get tapped on the shoulder two minutes later as I'd left the boarding pass on the kiosk. Hopeless.
1.30: M looks at me slyly after checking in and suggests we eat the forbidden fruit for lunch prior to takeoff: McDonalds. It hit the spot and the remorse is only minor today. Wickedness is so much more fun with an accomplice.
2.10: take off. M and I have packed materials to work on a presentation we're giving together in May. However, temptation to use next hour and a half to gossip proves too great and the presentation remains untouched.
3.45: plane lands in Christchurch a little late. We hustle to meet our boss from the Wellington office and grab a cab to visit the client.
4 - 6.15: meeting with client. Out the window of the meeting room, the giant sky (Canterbury always seems so flat to me, with an enormous sky) is fading quickly and you can feel the chill set in.
6.15: Another cab, driving through the dark streets of central Christchurch to check in and drop off our bags at the hotel.
7: arrive at Saggio di Vino for a meal with clients. I had a really lovely time with M, Wellington Boss and two clients, chatting and eating tasty things, including but not limited to: beef carpaccio (is the beef redundant? do you automatically assume carpaccio is beef?), terakihi with lemon beurre blanc on a bed of sauteed leek and tiny pieces of grapefruit, Dog Point pinot noir and gooey cheese.
10.45: back at the hotel and realise I've forgotten the plug for my charger. Borrow one from reception and discover bulk messages waiting on my phone. Sister K's bought her first house! Cocoa is home safe! Friend A is pregnant! Call K and P for a quick chat with each.
11.30: fumble around the hotel remotes attempting to turn on the heat pump. The hotel room has steadily decreased in temperature - its 6 or 7 degrees celcius outside which this sub-tropical Aucklander finds chilly.
11.45: return hotel charger. Climb into bed and feel terribly naughty - I'm sleeping on P's side! Out to the count almost immediately.
(Once again, a disclaimer: I am dull. Also, very few pictures as I spent the bulk of the day with work colleagues. If you don't have a taste for wordy blatherings and extremely poor quality photographs, I'd stop here.)
******************************************
5.45: roll over, eyeball clock, sigh. I woke up from a terrible dream about my Granny, which involved lashings of guilt and, inexplicably, picking up bacon at the supermarket. Flop onto my back, start scrolling through FB on phone. Even though I don't need to get up for another 15 to 30 minutes, if I go back to sleep now I'll be a wreck when I wake. P slumbers on, peacefully.
6.10: drag myself out of bed to feed the cats and have a shower. Disturb Tabitha, who had been curled up beside me, bushed after a night of exciting antics - the cat door allowed her to go outside at night for the first time. Cocoa is AWOL. We feel pretty confident that old Cokes can manage himself round the 'hood now (please don't let those be famous last words) as he's sauntering out for a couple of hours at a time during the day and evening, coming home when he's hungry and/or hot and/or wet and/or fancies a cuddle.
6.30: earl grey tea and a breakfast of canned peaches and muesli. It feels virtuous but is probably packed with sugar.
6.45: floating around the house aimlessly, starting to get ready (black pleated sleeveless dress, black belt, black cardigan, black tights for the first time this autumn, black stud earrings. WOE I am so BORING wearing the standard NZ black ensemble).
6.46: OH NO had forgotten work trip to Christchurch this afternoon. Hastily grab bag and throw in a change of underwear, make up, essential toiletries, phone charger, blue striped suit and black top. The suit'll get terribly crushed in the bag but decide I don't have time to find anything with less crumple-factor.
 |
| AT LEAST SOMEONE GETS A SLEEP IN. JEAL. |
7.30: huffing and puffing up the hill, hauling my bag, P striding ahead sending emails on his blackberry regarding tardiness. The sun's out this morning, despite the crispness in the air. P's iPhone tells him it's only 12 degrees celcius outside, but I don't believe it. I've thrown on a light floral scarf and even that's proving too hot for the walk.
7.33: P spots the free bus that runs down Queen St. We run for it and nab a seat to head down the hill to save P a minute or two.
7.50: I arrive at work and contemplate my inbox. Gah, horrific.
7.55: TEA. Cannot face inbox without tea.
 |
| GLORIOUS DAY OUT THE WINDOW. DON'T LET THE CALCULATOR FOOL YOU, I DON'T DO NUMBERS. |
10.20: text message my sister K, who is in the throes of a protracted house purchase negotiation. Late last night she told the agent she'd think about the vendor's final offer overnight and respond in the morning. I ask her what the story is; but she's only just got up and hasn't called the agent yet (school holidays, she's a teacher). I don't know why she's now dragging it out - she's totally going to accept the offer. I've seen her run through the gamut over the past few days: uncontrollable nervousness, uncontrollable excitement, disbelief at counter offer, sly negotiation, expectation management, despondence, and finally, power tripping? She's a cracker, that kid (who may be 30 but will forever be a kid to me).
10.47: More tea, please.
12.35: ack, close to being late! Call cab, round up colleague M. M is the reason I have this job - she and I met at our hall of residence and flatted together for four years during university while studying. On my return to Auckland she passed my CV to my boss, knowing that I'd like working with him because she and I worked so well together as undergraduates. It's been awesome having a friend like M in the workplace.
1.20: arrive at airport. I briefly mourn the sunny, muggy day - Christchurch is going to be cooooooold, wish I didn't have to leave!
1.22 bag check, reprint boarding pass as I'd forgotten that I did in fact print my online check in. Worse, get tapped on the shoulder two minutes later as I'd left the boarding pass on the kiosk. Hopeless.
1.30: M looks at me slyly after checking in and suggests we eat the forbidden fruit for lunch prior to takeoff: McDonalds. It hit the spot and the remorse is only minor today. Wickedness is so much more fun with an accomplice.
2.10: take off. M and I have packed materials to work on a presentation we're giving together in May. However, temptation to use next hour and a half to gossip proves too great and the presentation remains untouched.
3.45: plane lands in Christchurch a little late. We hustle to meet our boss from the Wellington office and grab a cab to visit the client.
4 - 6.15: meeting with client. Out the window of the meeting room, the giant sky (Canterbury always seems so flat to me, with an enormous sky) is fading quickly and you can feel the chill set in.
6.15: Another cab, driving through the dark streets of central Christchurch to check in and drop off our bags at the hotel.
7: arrive at Saggio di Vino for a meal with clients. I had a really lovely time with M, Wellington Boss and two clients, chatting and eating tasty things, including but not limited to: beef carpaccio (is the beef redundant? do you automatically assume carpaccio is beef?), terakihi with lemon beurre blanc on a bed of sauteed leek and tiny pieces of grapefruit, Dog Point pinot noir and gooey cheese.
10.45: back at the hotel and realise I've forgotten the plug for my charger. Borrow one from reception and discover bulk messages waiting on my phone. Sister K's bought her first house! Cocoa is home safe! Friend A is pregnant! Call K and P for a quick chat with each.
 |
| PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE FROM P THAT COKES IS HOME SAFE. SEE THE SLIGHTLY EVIL EXPRESSION? THE NEXT DAY I ARRIVED HOME TO FIND A PILE OF CAT BARF ON THAT VERY SPOT ON MY BED. |
11.45: return hotel charger. Climb into bed and feel terribly naughty - I'm sleeping on P's side! Out to the count almost immediately.
Friday, 4 April 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 30 March 2014
bitsy
I've spent the bulk of what is likely the last truly warm day of this summer in the office, catching up with my filing. Thrilling, no? Hand on heart, my inbox with only 14 items makes me feel much more in control and like a real, grown-up type person. However, I'd still preferred to have been elsewhere, of course.
Minutiae: 30 March 2014, Autumn
Minutiae: 30 March 2014, Autumn
- Wearing my favourite denim shorts of the summer (cuffed, raggedy) and a white shortsleeved blouse purchased in Greece, black singlet underneath.
- I'm wearing a new-ish sports bra from Bendon because it's soft and my right boob is stabby with pain, so it needs some TLC.
- I had my hair cut yesterday and my scalp feels very bruised; the hairdresser was brutal in washing it.
- I'm blonde all over my head now, which makes the bruising worthwhile.
- I feel particularly paunchy, after demolishing pizza last night with friends.
- Friends had a new kitchen and bathroom: beautiful! I want their pendant lights from above the island - lovely globe bulbs.
- My sister came to meet Cocoa this morning. We discussed weight loss and breaking bad habits.
- She dropped me at work, which was kind.
- P is slaving at work too, he's a soldier.
- Tabby worked on terrifying the ugly cat from next door (seriously, he's a face worse than Grumpy Cat)
- Yesterday, the neighbour told me stories about my wee Tim. I cried a little bit, but it was lovely to hear.
- I'm losing a toenail (it's black in the bed, right foot, second toe) and I can't for the life of me remember what I've done to it.
- The matte bright orange neon nail polish on my toes is seriously chipped.
- The harbour is hazy today.
- I'm still avoiding Tim's corner of the garden.
- Cocoa's new name is Dags McGee. Something must be done.
- I haven't worn my glasses enough this week; my eyes are very tired.
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
march madness
Here I am, still alive. The Queen Street Toucher has been largely brushed off (geddit? har har, not funny really), not so my wee Tim but normalcy is starting to reign again.
OH HEY, MAYBE NOT, I CRIED IN FRONT OF MY NEW BOSS.* Poor thing was extremely compassionate but the tears became hot with shame quite quickly. theresbeenabitoflosslately, idontwanttotalkaboutit, sniff, ohgodsorrysorrysorryi'llgetittogether! There are other things colouring and building into my grief for Tim and Bert and it blows, basically.
So, ok, other than that humiliating little moment, some normalcy is creeping back.
I am looking forward to rain. There hasn't been much of it, which is great, but everything is parched and I'm hanging out for one of those rainy days where you wear big socks and watch movies and burrow away, you know? I think it will wash away some metaphorical cobwebs, too.
In other news, I am getting my first haircut in about 6 months this weekend. It has been an age since my hairs were chopped and fried with bleach last. When I pull my hair back at the moment, it's reverted to mousy brown. I want to feel good about myself, so haircut it is. When the hairdresser asks (they always do) if I've got something special to go to that evening, I will proudly announce that I am taking pizza and red wine round to a friend with a toddler and a baby. I think that is an occasion worthy of excellent hair. (In fact, I suspect I might have done the same thing the last time I had my hair done. Except the baby wasn't born yet, that's how long it's been since I cut my hair. Jeebers.)
That's all, really.
*Not new job, just a new boss has joined the firm.
OH HEY, MAYBE NOT, I CRIED IN FRONT OF MY NEW BOSS.* Poor thing was extremely compassionate but the tears became hot with shame quite quickly. theresbeenabitoflosslately, idontwanttotalkaboutit, sniff, ohgodsorrysorrysorryi'llgetittogether! There are other things colouring and building into my grief for Tim and Bert and it blows, basically.
So, ok, other than that humiliating little moment, some normalcy is creeping back.
I am looking forward to rain. There hasn't been much of it, which is great, but everything is parched and I'm hanging out for one of those rainy days where you wear big socks and watch movies and burrow away, you know? I think it will wash away some metaphorical cobwebs, too.
In other news, I am getting my first haircut in about 6 months this weekend. It has been an age since my hairs were chopped and fried with bleach last. When I pull my hair back at the moment, it's reverted to mousy brown. I want to feel good about myself, so haircut it is. When the hairdresser asks (they always do) if I've got something special to go to that evening, I will proudly announce that I am taking pizza and red wine round to a friend with a toddler and a baby. I think that is an occasion worthy of excellent hair. (In fact, I suspect I might have done the same thing the last time I had my hair done. Except the baby wasn't born yet, that's how long it's been since I cut my hair. Jeebers.)
That's all, really.
*Not new job, just a new boss has joined the firm.
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