i may know what boundaries are, after all. maybe

I typed out an excessively wordy blogular thing about KiwiSaver and retirement plans this afternoon and then I realised:

(a) you're going to put all that personal financial information on the internet? and
(b) who the fuck cares?

It turns out my boundaries with the internet are finances.  I don't mind boring you all to tears with the state of my eyebrows (slightly furry - never going back to Benefit Brow Bar at Smith + Caugheys again, the face torturers, we're in recovery mode over here) but for whatever reason, I can't bear to bore you with my savings goals and retirement plans and mortgage details. 

EVEN THOUGH I would read the shit out of that if someone else wrote it on their blog.  Because NOSY. 

It did get a little bit feminist ranty when I reflected on income disparity over a lifetime and the total income cost of childrearing, so.  Even worse: political. 

Actually, I think part of my real problem in writing it up was I realised how privileged I am.  Middle class white girl problems, you know?  That's not a gloating shout of 'I'm riiiiiiiiiich', by the way.  It's more that when I worked out my biggest issues, they weren't that big.  I have access to contraception and choice regarding children, I have independent parents who probably won't require my financial assistance in their retirement, and I live in central Auckland, for fuck's sake, so my long-term financial hurdles are really up to fuck all.  Comparison is the thief of joy, I've seen bandied about on those framed quote posters that all of Pinterest appears to have a hard-on for.  I believe that was Edison, or someone like that.  But Comparison is really the Source of All Your Self-Flagellation, too.  OK, OK, you can frame that if you like. 

(I kid!)

(frame it, take a picture, stick it on Pinterest and I'll give you $20, for realsies)

a round-up of spring fashion? perhaps not

It is a glorious day here in the City of Sails - well, from my desk anyway.  I ventured out to purchase that most necessary of all office staples (diet coke) at lunchtime and there is a chilly breeze, but nevertheless, the sun is out, there are boats on the water and there are teenagers wearing ill-advised high-cut denim shorts sans tights.  All is right with the world. 

I have that peculiarly spring-y feeling (plz to tell if you suffer from this as well) where I want to go out and purchase all manner of sandals and floral dresses.  This is a particularly dumb idea in circumstances where:

1. Said dresses and sandals cost money, which I have basically been flushing down the toilet recently;
2. My legs bear a close resemblance to neon glow sticks except hairier and fatter;
3. All the shops appear to be stocking just now are crop fucking tops and dresses that will barely cover my crotch LET ALONE my granny sized underwear. 

I wandered through Glassons the other day, in search of cheap inspiration and was really stoked to find a fine knit Breton stripe top (just the rage with all the cool bloggers, I hear).  I picked it up and was horrified to find it stopped just below my navel.  Look, I know I'm 31 and am borderline being banned from Glass on the basis that it's just inappropriate for a woman of my age (hey, I don't shop at Supre at least), but I do expect that as a high volume manufacturer of polyester for the masses the powers-that-be would be aware that the masses are generally in possession of muffin tops and look absolutely fucking ridiculous in crops?  Or is that just me? (that looks ridiculous.  Says the woman of questionable taste wearing a jumper with what appears to be a mullet-y bridal veil hanging down from the back.)  And before you ask, IT WAS NOT A SIZE 6.  I am dim and am always imagining that I am MUCH slimmer and taller than I am (with smoother, glossier hair too) but I tend to pick the correct size from the rack before I hit the changing rooms. 

Whew, ranty. 

Moving on: culture.  I has none.  I wasted a bday Whitcoulls voucher on Mortal Instruments: City of Bones I don't know why because it transpires that it is terrible, terrible teenage fantasy-style fiction which features:

1. the supernatural
2. a love triangle
3. a heroine who doesn't know her own talents

Sound familiar?  And yet I have been consuming it rapidly.  I suspect A aged 14 has been all up in my head with her heart racing as the heroine chooses between good looking guys and saves the day.  I have since discovered that the movie being made of this book features Lily Collins, so I guess I can't hate it.  Lily Collins = Phil Collins' offspring and I HEART PHIL forever.

Digression: you know how in rhythmic gymnastics and synchronised swimming they do team items coordinated to music?  Well, there is a similar sort of thing in dressage (horses for courses) and at the ages of 12 and 13 respectively, my sister and I choreographed a routine to "Another Day in Paradise" for four of us and our ponies.  I can't remember whether we won the competition but I can tell you Phil Collins writes excellent beats for an extended trot.  F me, I can't believe I just told you that.

I have a nasty feeling I'm on a kind of roll spilling all my teenage shames here so I better put an end to this post, pronto.  Have a lovely weekend, all. 

life on the 21st floor is all a bit too much today

At least once a year (six monthly? three monthly?), I seriously reconsider my choice of career.  Why am I not doing something with little stress, easy + predictable hours and fuck-all consequences? Does that job even exist?  I'm probably still doing what I do partly because here is where I've found myself without thinking about it too hard, partly the money, partly the days where I enjoy what I'm doing (as elusive as they are). 

Eh, consider this whinge over - I think I've bled lawyer-moaning dry. 

Three hours later: NO I HAVEN'T.  Plenty more where that came from! I'll spare you more today, however, since I'm feeling magnanimous (can you feel magnanimous or is it more the nature of a thing? i.e. making a magnanimous gesture? clearly I can expend key strokes on it here but not in doing a spot'o'google on it.)

Possible career changes:

• Go back to check out at the supermarket.  Poorly paid, but the days went fast and I got to talk to people. 
• Horses.  Find a career involving them.  In the middle of a city.  Hmmm.
• Become Actress, Indulge in Theatrical Tendencies (said with a flourish requiring capital initials).  Shame I Have No Talent. 
• Um.
• Um.

As soon as I started seriously trying to brainstorm alternatives, I realise how poorly qualified I am to do much else but lawyering.  Teaching would require another diploma at the least (poor old P couldn't face a 7th year of me in post-secondary education), academia requires self-motivation which HA HA, I don't haz any really appealing writing skillz or ideas, I am numerically challenged and I'm IT illiterate.  Skills I do possess include procrastination, talking and making a really excellent brew of earl grey. 

Time for a cuppa and a bikkie, I think.    Play to your strengths.

this is a hopeless, unedited word-splurge and shouldn't be read by anyone, ever

You poor deprived things haven't been given any photos recently, have you?  Here are two for your ocular edification:



SUNSET, THE BACK OF MY APARTMENT, AUCKLAND, SOME NIGHTS AGO. TOLD YOU SUNSETS HERE WERE VIRULENT

SOME OF THE FLOWERS GROWN BY MY MOTHER AND GREAT-AUNT AND ARRANGED BY MY GREAT AUNT FOR OUR WEDDING.  LOOKING AT THEM MAKES ME HAPPY.

Flicking back over the last week or two, my usual word-vomits have become wee short missives.  I haven’t particularly felt the inspiration to do much but give you single paragraph whinges about my current housing status (no change: imminent eviction + nowhere to go). 

I’d really like to draft a proper essay one of these days, but I’m kidding myself.  If I can diligently continue posting, even short missives, I can pretend my writing is improving.  At the least, I’ll have a journal of sorts to look back on.  Justification complete.  Sometimes, the most satisfying dialogues are those you have with yourself (pffft, you say ‘monologue’-you-crazy-person, I say ‘dialogue’-there’s-at-least-two-of-me.)  Edit thyself, woman.  Can’t be bothered. 

Other odd and piecemeal updates:

BOWELS (because I said so):  5 months down the track and we’re looking good.  My mother and father are visiting India in March; my mum is already fretting about the state of her digestive tract because of our experiences.  We’re a sharing, caring sort of a family so she knows the finer detail (fuck me, I shared it with the internet, why wouldn’t I share it with my mum?)  She’s been to India before, too – so I’m sure she’ll be fine.  Aside from tummy troubles, we both love India and will eat dahl until the cows come home. 

HOUSEGUESTS: we has ‘em.  For the foreseeable future.  I’m *so good* with flatmates…no I’m not, I’m an intolerant asshole.  But a favour is a favour and repay it I will (isn’t that a SELFLESS sentiment….*cough*.)  Means I really ought to get on finding somewhere else to live so they’re not evicted with us, I guess.  That would be the HEIGHT of bad hostess behaviour!

SECRET SURPRISE WEEKEND: still a surprise for P, as far as I know.  He hasn’t let on if he does know something.  How I’m going to keep the secret for another two months and a week or so I have no idea. 

TWITTER: does it simultaneously entertain and annoy the bejesus out of you?  Straw poll.  I am having difficulty engaging meaningfully in twitter because when I tweet, I feel like an idiot.   Much more so than when I write long-windy wanky narcissistic shit here.  OH MY GOD I’m so DEEP AND COMPLICATED.

CULTURE: No longer has it.  Haven’t done/been to anything recently.  Oh yeah, fell asleep in James Bond (9pm screening with comfy chairs?  Please.  You know me better than to expect I’ll see much of the second half), got fidgety in the Hobbit (long.  LOOOONG.  Awesome.  Frustrating.  Long.)

Fin.  Enough.  I’ll be back when I can articulate a thought coherently. 

grateful for my health, my family and my boobs

(Subtitle: Concerned About Prevailing Opinion on the Oxford Comma)

I collected for the New Zealand Breast Cancer foundation today.  Just for half an hour, but it's a cause that's close to my heart (and not just because my left ta-ta sits over it).  I, like many others, have known women with breast cancer.  It's tough.

Kia kaha, ladies.  You know who you are.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In other news, I am moving furniture tomorrow.  EUGH.  I have had about enough moving for the foreseeable future, thank you very much.  It's destroying my marriage and my sanity.

P and I are shuffling beds around, storing one at K's flat.  We have also purchased some flat pack furniture in another insane move, which needs to be picked up basically from the Waikato...well, East Tamaki anyway (sorry international types - FYI, Aucklanders poke fun at people from Hamilton in the Waikato as the centre of all provincialness.  To be fair, everyone outside Auckland hates Aucklanders, so what goes around etc.  OH THE SHAME to be sitting on the dividing line having had a *gulp* formative period of primary education on the fringes of Hamilton...an admission not made lightly! I digress).

Anyway, tomorrow we have to do things that are likely to make us want to stab each other.  I plan on laying down a decent stock of beer first because god knows that will work as an effective distraction technique for the moment P first contemplates wife-icide (surely there's a word for that? like fratricide but only for wives? Too lazy for google today). 

And that is about it for my exciting weekend.  Oh wait, I need to clean the house for my MIL's arrival on Sunday.  Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay for ME! I don't think she's too picky actually but 18 years of training in "what will people think?" at the hands of my mother still spins me into frantic "oh fuck we're having a visitor" motion. 

What a terribly boring catalogue of moans!  Gratuitous kitty photo instead:

SAY CIAO TO MAH LEETLE ITALIAN FRIENDS - TOSCANA KITTIES

And here are some gratuitous holiday snaps:

ME BEING A HUSSY IN ISTANBUL (CHECK THOSE ARMS AND ANKLES BABY).  ALSO BEING THRILLED WITH MY NEW TURKISH RUG - COURTESY OF MY OLDS IN CELEBRATION OF ME BEING ANCIENT

Speaking of being unbearably ancient, I failed my eye test at the drivers' licencing authority yesterday.  P thinks it's only fair cos, you know, I wear glasses and probably should while driving, but I found it HORRENDOUSLY depressing and think they ought to have a counsellor on site for such moments. Hymph.  This picture suits the marginally-blind-because-of-advanced-age mood:

MOODY AYE?  NEAR KYLE OF LOCHALSH, SCOTLAND - EILEEN DONAGH CASTLE WHICH FEATURED IN THE HIGHLANDER.  POSSIBLY THE GREATEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME? WELL CERTAINLY ONE OF THE GREATS TEN THOUSAND MOVIES OF ALL TIME.

bits

I will shut my cakehole on the subject of my smashed phone for a while (sniff), while I inform you about all the other extremely important things I feel you should know about my life, just at this moment in time. 

P's mum has arrived for the weekend.  I cooked a meal last night and it had more than three ingredients and wasn't completely inedible so that counts as a win, right?  I also managed to vacuum the floor so I like to think I'm two for two on the domesticity front.  Except that there were no fresh towels because I'm a sloth and apparently had been saving up every possible rectangle of towelling for a laundry date that never occurred.  So two for three, maybe.  Before yesterday evening's clean up extravaganza, I emailed a friend that the house looked like a filthy brothel and she expressed some incredulity about this concept.  I stand behind it though - the flat was practically carpeted in underwear (clean! from the unfolded laundry I did do!) and hair. Wanna come stay at my house?

Where was P in all of this, you ask?  Oh he was helping, don't get me wrong.  He has had a busy time at work of late and pitched in where he could.  Plus he brought home wine and flowers (the essentials).  But don't think I'm not banking that favour and milking it later for all it's worth. 

I booked the last of the airline tickets for the Big Trip this morning! YAY but also DESTITUTE!  Before we leave, we have trips to Croatia and Lithuania planned.  The Big Trip now looks something like:

Wimbledon (camping in the queue)
Scotland
Ireland
Back to England so P can do some GodAwful Car Thing
Barcelona and the Costa Brava
Provence
Tuscany
Venice
Greece (Athens, Paros, Santorini for sure)
Istanbul
Chennai and Bangalore
Rajasthan
New Zealand!

So excited, honestly.  I've said it before but it bears repeating (or I will repeat it anyway until it is done good and driven into the ground) I CANNOT WAIT.  Don't worry, I'm not letting the burglars into any secrets by telling them this because we will be homeless during this period and thus have no place from which burglars can steal things.  THWARTED, potential criminals!  Take that!

Also: the sun is still here!  We are off to a village fete this weekend (quaint, no?) and the English sun shall shine down on our pasty limbs and it will be glorious.  I shall eat cake and be merry.

Happy Friday, one and all. 

I need to bulk order asphalt

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions then I think that at least 28% of those paving stones, on what must surely be a VERY long road, have been placed there by me.

[The rest? 50% people making political promises, 13% people embarking on a new healthy lifestyle involving diet and exercise, 9% people buying recyclable tampons because that's a good intention that will end up in a bad place if ever I heard one.]

[Jeebers that's a terrible pun.  I wholeheartedly apologise - but not enough to delete it, apparently.] 

Why is it that I am so entranced by new beginnings and the opportunities they offer to do a great job?  Why can't I just finish what's in front of me? It's not that I think that I'm genetically incapable of finishing a task:

• 50% of my genetic material comes from a certain someone who likes the beginning of a task and the big picture, feels ambivalent about all the tiny detail of the execution but does it anyway. 
• The other 50% arrived from a certain someone else who will weed the garden until there are NO MOAR WEEDZ with singleminded devotion.  

I'm frankly pissed that my synapses don't fire in the same way. (Is that a correct use of synapse?  I'm too lazy to look up the proper definition or scientific explanation and use it correctly - is that not the essence of what I'm talking about here?!) 
I start out so well…and then I put things down/rush them /start something else.  I suspect it's some kind of fundamental laziness.  That, right there, is a character flaw I'm glad I'm only admitting in this semi-anonymous place inside my computer; too shameful to admit in person.

It's a good thing that I'm an ambivalent atheist, bearing this probable singlehanded paving of the road to hell in mind.  Have no doubt, the first few paving stones on that road will have been properly laid but then I will have cut corners because damn, paving is HARD, so it will be a road on which you either stub your toe or get a flat both of which SUCK but would be low-level appropriate given it's the road to ETERNAL DAMNATION. 

Ambivalent atheism, in case you were wondering, which you probably weren't, is the school of "CONTEMPLATE THE EXISTENCE OF A HIGHER BEING? MEH, TOO HARD.  ANOTHER EPISODE OF THE BACHELOR PLZ" that I tend to follow.  P reads Richard Dawkins and thinks about faith before wishing to have a discussion with me.  That's when I'm all "I went to church one time with a friend when I was 8 and got really cross because (a) they wouldn't feed me the cracker and drink everyone else was getting and (b) I didn't know what was going on and felt SO LEFT OUT", at which P sighs and saves his metaphysical conversation for someone who has an adult opinion. 

It's all very insightful to recognise one's faults in oneself but what good does it do if one does not get off one's chuff and change one's sloppy ways?  Let's revert to first person because third person is annoying: I cannot keep promising myself that I'll get there next time.  Work habits, life habits; in all seriousness, I need to check my attitude and follow through. 

Just get on with things.

Things I'm avoiding by writing this post making light of my character flaws. Which I take seriously but cannot resist mocking because that's how we do, in my family.  But we don't usually say 'how we do'.  It does not sound natural coming from the mouths of middle-class New Zealanders, somehow. 

Let's just say that I'm a work in progress. 

my mum

An ode to my mother

On the occasion of being late for Mothers' Day*

You're my favourite mix of the everyday and the sublime

The everyday is your banana, cereal and toast for breakfast

Complete with the clinking as you work

At spooning up the pattern off the bowl

The everyday is your walk, ride and run for the farm

Complete with the swishing as you haul

My horse's cover through the grass

The everyday is your laugh, rise and fall for conversation

Complete with the echo as you take

The telephone into the bathroom

The everyday is the pipe, water and spray for hydration

Complete with pattering as you hose

The latest crop from your garden

The everyday is your ticket, scratchie and numbers for the win

Complete with the exclamations as you record

The win or loss from the paper

The everyday is your brush, finger-comb and pat for the mirror

Complete with squelching as you rub

A new product in your hair

The everyday is your trowel, weeds and barrow for the beds

Complete with skittering thumps as you whack

The soil off the roots

The everyday is your book, biography and crossword for the couch

Complete with the reviews as you give

A copy to me for my enjoyment

The everyday is your pride, love and joy for your daughters

Complete with the smiles that you wear

As you joke about our competence

The sublime

Is in the everyday

For me

*Flowers and telephone call both arrived late.  Sigh.  She forgave me.  I think. 

bus etiquette. i'm sorry in advance

London!  Does not look like this at the moment!

THE CITY AND THE SHADOW OF TOWER BRIDGE ON THE THAMES.  SOME GOOD TOURISTING ON ROUTE TO WORK.  NOT ON A BUS.

It feels a bit as if the early spring we experienced has gooooooooooone.  It's probably because the BBC were all "OMG drought" so the weather has become "HAHAHA SPITE" and drizzled for what feels like weeks on end.  The foliage is still creeping out though, sneaking along branches and limbs to unfurl, which helps my mood immeasurably.  I also remembered recently that a lovely friend gifted me her gummies (wellies or rainboots for the uninitiated ) when she left the UK, they have a happy wee print on them that make rainy days bearable. 

On wet or freezing days (or when running late), there is a bus that runs practically door to door work to home for me.  Which segues nicely into my ridiculously petty, largely rhetorical questions regarding London and/or other public transport systems:

1. Is it ever appropriate to eat on the bus?

If so, should foodstuffs be limited to non-crumby comestibles?  Should you avoid wiping your fingers on the seat at all costs?  I do understand the need for an emergency snack here and there, and I'm not just referring to the Under Three set; sometimes when the blood sugar drops I get all ANGRY MUST EAT NOWNOWNOW.  Sometimes it's the only spare time between busy activities at different destinations.  But if you're going to eat on a bus, must the bus be sparsely populated?  How over-ripe can your banana be before it's an unacceptable bus snack?  Is it ever acceptable to offer/be offered a chip on the bus (last night the smell of Walkers crisps was making me slaver from across the aisle)?

I used to get a bit grossed out by people eating on the subway in NYC, purely because it was a pretty filthy environment (even though my attitude to these things is pretty "meh, what doesn't kill you blah blah").  Should I feel the same about bus snacks?

2.  Do you thank your bus driver?

I found it really hard to "break" the habit of saying thank you to the driver getting off the bus when I moved to London.  Doesn't that sound like an awful thing to say - I know it's polite no matter the location!  However, when you're getting off at the back of the bus, the driver isn't in view and you're yelling "thank you" into a busload of people, they look back at you like you're slightly mad.  Given you've probably just been crammed into their armpits or vice versa depending on your height and it's your normal bus route, you want people to think you're sane, trust me.  I had it drummed into me as a kid that when I got off a bus, out of a car etc I was to say thank you to the driver.  Except for the short period at age 11 when we yelled something else vile that rhymes with thank you to the driver, I've generally been a polite adult and now that I've written this all out I just feel awful about going all "London-Transport-Blank-to-Marginally-Angry-Face" which is a thing, trust me. 

Please excuse that last sentence, my editing skillz are not up to the challenge today. 

3. Should you ever be offended if someone offers you a seat?

I choose to believe that some men do it because they're gentlemen, not because I look vaguely preggo.  It really bugs me when people don't get up for the elderly, disabled or for mothers, but on occasion I've done so and someone has looked at me like I'm wearing horns.  It could be because I've had the temerity to engage with them in an environment where people only engage with their cellphones? I worry about the assumption they think I've made though; I'd hate for some poor woman to be thinking "Does she think I look like an OAP? BUT I DON'T EVEN QUALIFY FOR THE PENSION".

4. What is the acceptable reaction when your bus is hit by another bus in a glancing blow off the left rear corner?

I'm guessing no one would say  "Immediately Rise And Exclaim Loudly 'Get Me Off Or We'll All Be Stuck Here Forever!!!'". 

Yeah, that happened. 

Once again, I'm delving into the big issues. The day-to-day is pretty compelling for me - sometimes I feel like city-dwelling has taught me more about my fellow humans than I'm ever likely to learn by reading. 

flat hunting

Not a year after we moved into our current place ("We love it here! We're going to live here for ages, aye?!") we're dipping our toes into the real estate market again.  We're currently at the stage of looking online to work out what is available in the inner Auckland suburbs for what price, so we're simply dipping in, not plunging into, the real estate sinkhole.

We're trying to find something reasonable, within a budget that allows us to save a fair bit of money.  P is willing to spend more than I am (this could really be a blanket statement applicable to most areas of our lives except my shoes).  Living somewhere reasonable has become something of a priority, given the chequered real estate past we've had.

Places I Have Lived Since Leaving Home: The List

2001 - Hall of Residence, Dunedin.  I had my own bedroom, shared three showers with eight others (co-ed) and had to queue for dinner.  Not ideal.  However, it had insulation so the next four years were a significant downgrade, independence be damned.

2002 - The "Fancy" North Dunedin flat.  I paid what I thought was the EXORBITANT sum of NZD$85 per week for my room in a six bedroom flat.  I thought it was PLUSH.  I had my own external door, which was never locked in case any of my 5 flatties or their hangers-on found themselves without keys returning from a night out (roughly 5 nights out of 7).  Led to several interesting night-time visits, not all from people with whom I was acquainted (for those of you unfamiliar with the general North Dunedin milieu, people entering your flat without permission are generally just looking to raid your fridge and steal the mince.  Still, a wee bit scary).  Shout out to P's flat that year, in which he had an outdoor bedroom (yes, you read that right).

2003 - The Budget Girls' Flat, Dunedin.  I loved living with three of my best friends for the princely sum of NZD$75 a week each.  I thought I'd lucked out with a large front bedroom, but discovered a ground leak in my wardrobe that turned all of my shoes mouldy within a fortnight.  I also discovered, thanks to a study run by the university, that my bedroom averaged temperatures at night a good degree (celcius) below that enjoyed outdoors.  Which, in a Southern winter, was somewhere below zero.  This was the year I set alight the kitchen by accident; an incident involving a quiche, a tea towel, a hot burner and the distraction of a Big Brother eviction.  Special mention for this year goes to P's flat down the street, which housed 6 boys, had human hair outside, dead mice drowned in the sink, rats in the walls and pink and black mould in the shower.

2004-2005 - Keg Race Street Flat, Dunedin.  Another 'bargain' under NZD$100 a week.  The second year we lived there, we scammed the landlord into buying a dehumidifier because it was slightly disconcerting when the carpet around the ranchslider used to squish underfoot from the night's collected condensation.  New Zealand weather proofing: top notch!  Flatmate's car banged up in the night by a keg sent rolling after the notorious annual keg race.

2006-mid 2009 - Inner City Apartment, Auckland.  P and I moved in together; a one bedroom prime piece of real estate approximately the size of a postage stamp.  OH THE LUXURY: we had a dishwasher!  We couldn't have more than one visitor at a time!  Everyone could hear everyone else pee!  Frankly, I'm surprised we have any boundaries left after living in that flat.  I was just.so.grateful that P was out of town the three days of the risotto-induced food poisoning extravaganza of '08.

2009-2010 - NYC studio.  Living in New York!  How exciting!  Paying more than I had ever paid before in order to be able to watch TV from bed!  A particular highlight was having other people comment on how SPACIOUS it was.  That's right, we could fit a bed AND a couch in our NY studio.  Luxury folks, you have no idea.  The smell of dried, cracking linoleum takes me right back there (as does Chance by Chanel, odour memories are odd, no?). 

2010-2011 - Terraced House in the Burbs, London.  We lived in a GINORMOUS four bedroom house with P's brother and brother's fiancee.  We had a backyard!  We had a grown up size kitchen!  We also had a rubbish commute and a mouse problem!  And a constant battle over the household's ambient temperature because in winter, I think 18 degrees in a house with holes in the floorboards is too cold, but not everyone agreed!

2011-2012 - My fave, the SE1 Two Bedroom Mews Flat.  Just P and I.  Bliss.  Pricey, because of the ability to walk to work.  But OHMIGAWD we have a bath AND a shower!  A second bedroom!  A reasonably sized living room!  We've loved it and are loathe to leave.

There you go; another FASCINATING installment in the life of A. 

i can't tie this crap together

Jeebers, it's suddenly Cold with a capital C round these parts.  These parts being my hands and up my skirt despite the use of thick, possibly knitted tights!  I am pretty nervous about heading to Edinburgh tomorrow given the Arctic temps that have re-emerged in London.  I know it's probably only happened because (a) a visitor from NZ has arrived and (b) I packed my gloves away yesterday, but crap on a cracker I'm Cold. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Quite excited about Edinburgh generally though, I must say.  Walk the Royal Mile, wend our way through the closes, taste whiskey, catch up with friends, perhaps visit Hadrian's Wall.  P's mother was born there; I think a wee spot of geneaological research might be interesting (listen to me!  I am so COOL and HIP etc).  No doubt you will be subjected to a long report about my visit on my return complete with average to poor pictures but c'est la vie, my dear invisible friends. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I have a doctor's appointment this evening.  I am very, very concerned about a Lump on my knee (Lumpy, when I'm feeling kind to him).  So concerned apparently that I have had it for approx. 2 years before arranging to see a doctor.  It's been 8 months since I had Lumpy's potentially disastrous consequences pointed out by a friend with a history of knee trouble.  It has stopped me running, which I should probably do something about.  Signs of aging, you might say, if you're mean.  I'm pretty sure it's a bone spur but wouldn't it be exciting if, say, it required syringing! ULTIMATE WEIRDO PICKER-TYPE SCENARIO. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On another note, let me just say WOW has it been whingy round here lately!  I need a decent kick in the seat of my britches because there is so much good in my life just now.  I am working out my notice in a job I do not love: each day is a countdown to the end, not a further punishment.  I am heading out on glorious travels soon with a generally glorious husband.  I am moving my life back to a country I love, with family and friends as part of the bargain.  I do not have it bad.

INGREDIENTS OF A GREAT SUNDAY AT HOME: BOOZE AND THE BOX.  SEE THE KLASSY CHAMPAGNE BUCKET SCENARIO WE'VE GOT GOING ON THERE?

In fact, I think I've got it pretty damn good.   It's true but also terribly sad that it takes the reality TV lives of others to recall me to the reality that I've got a generally happy life…but hot DAMN I'm glad I'm not in Karma on the Shore getting sweated on by the Situation.  MY LORD I am grateful that I'm not in a on-again/off-again relationship with attention whore Mark Wright while running a beauty parlour that includes vajazzling services in Chelmsford.  EGADS I am so happy that my wedding dress was not made in Liverpool from ten thousand metres of tulle in hot pink, so that I could wait at the church for my fiance was still at the pub.  FAR OUT things would be worse if I were getting bitched out by Simon Cowell or WORSE Steven Tyler having sung my best rendition of 'Summertime' before a bunch of cameras. 

Reality TV: giving me a sense of appreciation for my life since the introduction of Big Brother.* 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Too many CAPITALS and EXCLAMATION MARKS TODAY!  Do you get the sense I'm forcing it? OH WELL! I drank FAR, FAR too much coffee this morning.

* Full disclosure and OH THE SHAME sometimes I imagine what it might be like to be a Kardashian sister.  IT'S SO MUCH WORSE TYPED OUT. 

timeline of a, the drama queen

1982: I am born. Eat, poo, cry a lot, sleep a bit.  Possible concussive episode #1: fall off kitchen bench after being bathed in the sink (Mum: "I swear I only turned for a minute to get your singlet and OF COURSE you rolled over then")

1983: Possible concussive incident #2: fall out of booth at parents' skanky fast food joint during rush hour (Mum: "I tried to wedge you in there.  You were SO needy - you always cried at exactly the time I was needed at the deep fryer.  Anyway, it reversed the damage from the first fall").  Little Sister born; I am quite cross about having to share the spotlight.

1984-86: I am Queen of the Kindy.  Told off for demonstrating wrong method of handling scissors to newbie.  Painted kindy best friend's big black dog white.  Become Queen of the Tantrum aka Master Attention Seeker.

1987: I move to new town and start school.  Start ballet classes; stop taking ballet classes because I am embarrassing other children with my advanced stripper moves i.e. I keep taking my leotard off in class.* I am the eldest in my grade, Mum rejects an offer to move me up a grade on basis that I lack sufficient social skills. 

1988: I play the role of "Farmer's Wife" in the play "Hundreds of Cats".  Leads to discovery of "calling" and I decide I am meant to be an Actress with a capital A.  (Latent feminism not yet awakened - did not occur to me to become an Actor.) 

1989:  My career as Netball Player is upstaged by co-ordinated Little Sister.  I sulk. 

1990-1992: I create, star in and produce own plays and television shows in spare time with Little Sister and Neighbours' kids in guest roles.  These include the comic sensation recreation of the "Double Double Cheese Cheese Burger Burger Please" McDonalds ad.  No noticeable discernment shown in productions: I just copy tv ads word for word with the addition of knock knock jokes.  See also: begin writing novels by copy-typing The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe on the family computer.  Trouble with copyright issues, clearly. 

1993: I win cup at Speech and Drama Competition; so overcome I cry on stage during presentation.  I play starring role of "Charlotte" (aka Whining SchoolGirl) in "Windust" (aka Terrible Musical Western for Children), during which I realise I am headed for a future in musical theatre. 

1994: Relocate town and commence intermediate school.  Nicknamed "Miss Mature".  Related: I scale back dramatic efforts.  Go on school camp and tear giant hole in back of denim shorts.  Spent next two hours trying to cover hole with t-shirt.  Die of embarrassment. 

1995: I am still the eldest in class, Mum rejects another offer to send me straight to high school because "A still won't handle it socially."  Accept role of "Mrs Berserker" in "Little Luncheonette of Terror" despite previous attempt to scale back dramatic efforts.  First boyfriend at school disco, slow dance as far apart as possibly can.  Spend months in terror of actually having to talk to him.  Mum feels vindicated in opinion on social skills.

1996: Commence high school.  Have leg-shaving crisis involving battle of wills with Mum over "giving in" to peer pressure, during which I work on angry dramatics ("but NO ONE will be my friend ANYMORE, I'm effing HAIRY MCLARY").  Win by sneaky shaving with Dad's razor.  Accept role of "Apostle-ette" in "Jesus Christ Superstar".  Have revelation that I am actually not a good singer. 

1997: Become serious about horses and boys.  Horses like me; boys don't. Drama career hiatus in favour of real life boy drama, mostly acted out in own head.

1998: Accept role of "Witch" in "Macbeth".  Have serious crush on MacBeth.  Hate Lady MacBeth. (doesn't end well.  HAHAHA SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!)

1999: Best friend moves out of town.  Mope.  Accept role in some godawful musical.  Pash sax player at cast afterparty at my house and get busted by my Dad.  Thrilled when First XV Rugby Team crash the party.  Am too cool for words.  Attend school ball.  Pash someone else's date.  Pash Best Friend's ex.  Very pashy year punctuated by series of dramatics when boys break up with me (scene outside sax player's study hall Top 5 dramatic breakdowns of my career).

2000: Decide must focus on serious career rather than drama: discover politics and become seriously bossy.  Contract glandular fever aka mono from pash-excess.  Hone drinking abilities, leading to more pashing.  Meet Very Serious Christian Boyfriend Taking a Break From God. 

2001: Start university at other end of Country.  Break up with Very Serious Christian Boyfriend Taking a Break From God when realise university = mecca of desperate drunken boys.  Meet P.  Decide P will make nice rebound for a short while.  Create drama four nights a week drinking with girlfriends.

2002:  Have found double destructive dramatic outlet: law school-sanctioned drinking.

2003-2005: Continue on rampage of drinking and study.  P still on the scene, turns out he's quite nice.

2005-2008: Begin v. serious "career".  Thrive on amateur courtroom dramatics.  Move in with P and create drama from time to time because of "difficulty of it all" (i.e. holding down job and running own life). 

(NB 2007: Four wisdom teeth removed.  Discover that I.V. sedation is the best effing high ever but wake up to a mouth full of cotton wool and some disturbing memories of revelations made to the dentist during surgery.  Realise can create own drama without need for drugs)

2009: Move to New York, ultra-drama town.  P comes too.  Rediscover student lifestyle: ie lawschool and drinking.

2010: Move to London.  Unemployment drama.  Aborted attempt at starting blog; appreciate internet potential for attention seeking.

2011 to present: Get engaged.  Realise unparalleled opportunity for attention at wedding.  Attempt to restart blog. 

* I discovered later in life that in addition to being a stripper and having no coordination, my parents withdrew me, and many of the other local parents withdrew their daughters, from this class because the teacher had told my friend that she was not graceful enough to become a ballet dancer and never would be because of a birth defect.  I effing applaud our parents for that decision.  There was nothing that wee girl could not do. 

literary admissions

London suburbs are sweetened by little lumps of opportunity shops.  These shops tend to run in packs - two or three together - at the end of a high street, or just round a corner.  We suburb-hop of a weekend in London and my heart swells when I find the op-shop stores in a new suburb.  I give a cursory glance at the glassware collections (vintage champagne glasses can be identified in an easy ocular sweep of a shelf), run my fingers through the plastic ropes of beads, and then swoop on the inevitable, wonderful stacks of plyboard holding up a treasure chest of pre-loved books.

In bookstores and libraries, op-shops and other people's homes, I have a distinctive spine-reading head tilt.  Left to right across a shelf, then right to left on the shelf above or below, eyes angled to run like fingertips across the angular undulations of a row of books. 

SPINES

Like the black jellybean in a packet, some literary collections in an op-shop are an acquired taste.  I don't often select tomes from the extensive collections of chick-lit and romance novels, but I do love to compare the pictures on the front (a Mills & Boon aficionado friend, at 18: "avoid anything with a baby on the cover.  Always unsatisfying.").  Do these books make their way in droves to the second hand stores because, once read, their previous owners are ashamed to let them grace the bookcase? 

I recall a guest - a boyfriend of P's friend - commenting on my bookshelf some years ago.  He didn't realise I was in earshot and called us wanky for having a dictionary.  Didn't he know it was a gift? I thought.  Didn't he realise how supremely useful a dictionary could be?  I think it was the first conscious realisation that someone's taste in books was akin to a taste in art and was subject to the judgement of others.  The guest went on to insult P's CD collection and choice of music to P's face and, unsurprisingly, never graced our apartment again. ("Oh that dick", we said, on learning P's friend was seeing him again).  Challenge me, yes.  Mock me gently to my face, I'll blush and try to serve it back.  But nobody, bar nobody, who wants to drink my wine bags my dictionary.  Now there's a line in the sand for you.

There is always a Stephenie Meyer book at the op-shop these days.  I think there are a multitude of women who have secretly tried Edward Cullen on for size and clearly, for some, he's been found wanting.

But you never know when there will be a dog eared copy of Dickens, a scraggly paged travel guide of Spain (the best sights in foreign places never go out of date like an old edition.  Who needs the hostel recommendations when you've got 5 words of the language and a map?) or, my favourite find to date, a beautiful red and gold leather bound Austen, pages crisped to a faded yellow. 

£1.50. 

medication and more about underwear

I stopped in at the pharmacy on the way to work this morning.  I purchased all the essentials: wax, condoms, birth control pills, UTI drugs and hayfever tablets.  Doesn't that make me sound like a feral hussy with a drippy nose? 

Actually, I'm just a feral hussy; the hayfever tablets were for my sister.  P and I depart for the Southern Hemisphere on Sunday, so I recently received an email from K asking me to stock up on hayfever meds as they're cheaper here. 

I have not yet checked customs regs through the States and NZ yet so I'm hoping that travelling through with 7 different packets comprised of 4 different flavours of meds isn't going to make me look like some kind of low grade lackey in an amateur drug operation.  I'm sure a strip search isn't quite as exciting as it sounds…plz to tell me if it is. 

Sister K formerly lived just outside London but found her job there a bit restrictive ("They made me wear shoes") so she migrated back to the greater Auckland metropolis at the end of 2009.  She does miss some aspects of British life though ("the awesome ready meals at Marks & Sparks" for example WHAT AN EFFING HIGHLIGHT).

K also misses the fine range of underwear here in the UK.  I'm inclined to agree.  As fantastic as the Bendon seconds shop at the Auckland airport is, it's got nothing on the UK department stores.  This weekend, I went in to John Lewis to get officially fitted for a bra. 

That's right, I decided that these puppies should be properly slung.  It's not that I have been letting them roam free, but I've had a bit of a love/hate relationship with my bras, in that while I like having a good one, my boobage has difficulty with the bras I like (i.e. ones made of frilly bits in pretty colours).  Jeebers H., 3rd person boobs, sorry about that. 

I now have the overshoulderboulderholders to RULE THEM ALL.  They dropped me about 3 band sizes which blew my mind, and my ribcage is having to get used to the boa constrictor elastic that these badboys are reliant on.  Dropping band sizes means an increase in cup size for those of you who are undergarment-challenged…so now it sounds like I have extreme norks. 

VIA CLUSTERFLOCK.  JANE RUSSELL: EXCELLENT CANS.  NEW BOOBROLE MODEL

You can learn a lot about your boobs by having some bird bend you over to drop them in about 17 different pieces of nylon and elastane.  For instance, I learnt that when it comes to looking good under a t-shirt, I have no shame in parading marginally see through underwear for two different women whose names I don't even know and announcing "wow, these boys are ROUNDER than I thought" (they agreed).    

I also learnt that having strangers see my boobs causes me less concern than having strangers see my muffin top.  Weird.

owning it

 

The most accurate insult ever levelled at me was circa 1996.  I was at (*whispered voice*) Pony Club, and one of the girls told me that another had called my sister and I try-hards. 

PONIES!!!!!!! EVERYBODY LOVES PONIES!!!!!

SADLY NOT EVERYBODY LOVES PONY CLUB.  BUT *THIS* PONY CLUB HAS SECRETS! UM YOU, YEAH YOU FROM 1994.  YOU READ THIS SHIT ONCE YOU'D FINISHED THE LATEST BABYSITTER'S CLUB BOOK.

I don't recall being too cut up about the insult, other than worrying that people were talking about me behind my back which was always a massive teenage cause of concern for me.  I can't recall how my sister felt either; I don't think we ever discussed our reaction, though it does seem likely we would have had a bit of a bitch session about it (aged roughly 13 and 12 with raging hormones we had already acquired a savage ability to bitch, occasionally as kindred spirits about some third party but more often than not just about each other). 

Was the insult 'try-hard' a thing elsewhere than 1990s NZ?  A try-hard was someone who literally did just that - tried too hard, with overtones of attempting (and failing) to be cool or fit in.  I think the girl that called my sister and I try-hards thought we were amateur competitors who didn't fit in with the cool horsey-girls who spent all their spare time thinking and obsessing about becoming Olympic grade competitors and/or which boys they were going to pash at the next show (boys who rode got around - slim pickings in the teenmale horse community). 

As an aside, I'm not sure the offender appreciated the view that people had of the horsey-girls.  It paid to keep fairly low-key about riding because once discovered, there was an inevitable accusation of being privileged or spoilt.  I was certainly the former (see: bed to sleep in, two parents, no domestic violence and money to spend on extra-curricular pursuits) and probably the latter (see: teenage attitude) but at my high school either could be the kiss of death to your social life.

NOT SURE THIS IS THE HORSEY GIRL MY PEERS circa 1996 HAD IN MIND.  STILL, TOO GOOD NOT TO INCLUDE.  YOU'RE WELCOME. 

The thing is, she was probably right.  I have tried my hand at all sorts of things because other people were doing them and I thought it was cool and I SO DESPERATELY WANTED TO BE COOL.  Often the results were less than stirling (see for e.g. my career as the single most uncoordinated hockey player of all time, my attempts to do a keg stand but inhaling beer by accident, the time I bought a pleather jacket because that's what the kids were wearing then couldn't take it off on school mufti day because of the sweat patches). 

But I look back now and it really doesn't bother me that I was a bit of a try-hard.  Isn't that just part and parcel of working out who you really are?  I still do it I guess, but I'd like to think I've moderated it a bit (i.e. I know that you do not have to go out and get wankered with your colleagues in order to have friends at the office.  You just have to get marginally pissed.  Completely pissed is for mugs). 

I don't wish to sound all woe-is-me and I-now-appreciate-me-for-me because I think I've never really suffered from any self-esteem issues that went beyond the pale (you're probably thinking Jesus H, her head's stuffed way far up her own ass and she's still a GD try-hard but fuck me, I'm just comparing my general self esteem issues with the crap that some women are tortured with, so, well, yeah).  What I do wish to acknowledge is that criticism can suck but sometimes, you can own it.