it's late, but i feel strongly about this

I'm a swinging bag of inconsistencies.  Not the sort of jauntily swinging bag a girl with a floral dress and sweet wee shoes might tote at her side, but a giant, pleather, lumpy and overfilled bag of which the owner has lost control (owner's dress: unclear, but she definitely has a spot on her chin).

I think I've already referenced the fact that I took some time off oral contraceptives recently.  My return to the world of daily prescription meds has not been smooth sailing.  The mood swings are problematic; underscored by the fact that I was further enraged on realisation of the cause of the mood swings because there is almost nothing worse than telling your husband/lover/significant other that the reason you're so extremely cross about [fill in the blank] is because your hormones tell you so.

As it dawned on me that there was probably more fuelling my mood swings than P's intransigence, and as I appreciated that my moods were, perhaps, not entirely justifiable, I read some more about Rush Limbaugh's comments regarding Sandra Fluke, the student who testified concerning the cost of contraception before Congress.  And then I completely lost my shit.* 

You guys!  Rush and the Mum off Everybody Loves Raymond are gonna think I'm a slut as well as a self-identified hormonal bitch!  I'm even worse than Sandra who was seeking to have an insurance company cover contraception - because I'm a big, fat Whorey McHoPants who, for a significant portion of her young adult life, leeched money off taxpayers in order to have sex!  

I believe I am very lucky that I live in a time where there is the knowledge and ability to choose with respect to contraception.  To choose on my own, if I so wish.  I know this. 

In New Zealand, Family Planning offers free visits and contraception for those under 22.  My university in New Zealand subsidised the cost of doctor's visits and contraceptives.  Once I was employed full time in NZ, I paid for them myself.  The compulsory health insurance I had at my university in the US meant I received free doctor's visits and contraceptives.  In the UK, I pay a minimal amount for contraceptives prescribed by an NHS doctor.   Monthly NHS contributions are deducted from my salary. 

Quite aside from the other possible health benefits, these different bodies/organisations/policies helped me and will continue to help me to make an informed decision about motherhood.  I may become a mother if I'm ever good and ready to be one. 

And let's be straight about this.  Sex can be good.  Sex can be fun.  Lots of people want to do it.  Lots of people want to do it without a possible biological consequence (I'm talking about babies, not UTIs - though if we could have sex for fun without UTIs too I'd be supremely grateful).  Sex can come with a host of complications but I never, ever thought that I'd effectively be labelled a prostitute for having sex using contraceptives that were funded by the tax payer.  I bet you P never thought that either when he availed himself of subsidised condoms.   

The net result is that I don't regret a single cent of tax revenue going to help women and men (let's not forget they're part of this too - they too have the right and ability to choose to prevent pregnancy) make informed decisions about whether or not they want to have sex.  Informed decisions about health, wellbeing and parenthood.  Men and women who, for whatever reason, might not have the financial wherewithall to access contraceptives otherwise.  You might say that's purely because I've availed myself of that service.  Sure, I benefitted.  But the availability of those services gave me the right to choose - and one of those choices was not to have sex; not to use them. 

Now that I've outed myself as the second coming of the Whore of Babylon, let's just take a minute to think about Sandra.  She wants her Jesuit college to continue to cover contraceptives as part of the compulsory medical insurance the college provides for students.  What, exactly, about that makes her a slut?  There might be a place for a discussion about the economics of contraception in there, sure.  A 'user pays' argument isn't completely out of sight.  There might be a place for a discussion of respect for respecting the religious beliefs of the founders of a private place of education, I can see that.  But at what point did Sandra say anything remotely like "I want the pill so I can get my freak on with all and sundry on and off campus" leading to the belief that she's a 'slut'?  AND WHAT WOULD BE WRONG WITH SANDRA IF SHE IN FACT DID SAY THAT? 

This debate has so many levels… but expressed at its most basic, I think Sandra was articulating a simple wish for students to retain the right to make decisions about their bodies within the context of compulsory insurance and expensive contraception.  It must be fairly obvious that in my view, making a decision about your body is personal.  Fundamentally personal - encompassing your own belief and value system.  There is just no need for public discourse about these issues to denigrate to a level whereby we label people with loaded terms. 

[NB I hope I've not been hypocritical, inconsistent or just plain awful in discussing this.  I know I've called people names in the past for their views on different issues and I'm conscious that I might just be hypocrisy in action.  I trust that the names that I've used have been generic and not loaded with particular bias or history, but correct me if I'm wrong.  This post merely picks at the edges of my views on sexual health and associated matters.  I do understand that people might feel differently than I do, or might be offended by the use of borderline humour in my discussion of Rush and co's reactions to Sandra.  I know Rush has apologised (sort of) and I apologise (sort of) in advance.  I'm now having real trouble conceptualising the use of insults on my blog and the use of insulting language in public discourse in general...OH DEAR.  A post for another day!] 

*I appreciate I'm a little slow off the mark reacting to this one, and the whole of the internets has probably already had their say.  OH WELL - it REALLY steamed my broccoli so WARNING: RANT AHEAD.

saturday morning

I fucking adore Saturday mornings.  They symbolise everything that is magic about my privileged, middle class, child-free (and apparently utterly smug) existence.  These days, they probably illustrate exactly how urban I've become.

MAH SUNSHINE WINDOW. I LOVES IT.

Once upon a time, I'd be up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.  Out feeding animals, preparing for a show, mucking out.  Riding.  I'd go with Dad to get the ingredients for the weekend's DIY project, peruse the library shelves.  Saturdays weren't bad at all, back then.

Once upon a time not quite so long ago, odds were I'd be battling off a fairly severe hangover caused by drinking an excess of rubbish white wine and failing to eat anything more substantial than hummus and chips before ingesting the better part of a bottle box.  To add insult to injury, from time to time I'd have capped off the night by liberally ordering Vodka Red Bulls/Jager Red Bulls or other faddish drink du jour.  I'd spend Saturday morning wrapped in P's dressing gown, sweating booze profusely, desperately seeking the oblivion of sleep.  On a particularly wrathful hangover, the only activity would be gentle movements between couch, bed and bathroom.  Sometimes I could face being wracked with giggles from the rerun of the night before with my girlfriends/colleagues, whether in person or via text.

These days though, the hangovers tend to be milder.  I generally attempt to pace myself.  [HA HA MOSTLY LIES].  Or it might possibly be that I now work in an English business where getting blotto post-haste following work on a Friday is not the combined goal of all staff (yes, yes: Kiwi binge drinking culture is contributed to the post-colonial hangover, but it appears we've developed some disturbing binging trends of our own amongst the middle class).  I like to eat at restaurants for entertainment that are higher brow than Queen St Burger King these days.  BK still has a place in my heart though, don't get me wrong.

Now, I now often wake up on a Saturday before 9 with the ability to function at a higher level than a mashed cabbage.  I have a cup of tea in bed.  I shower leisurely, start the laundry, then hit the farmer's market for ingredients for brunch and veges for the week.  Today, I was blissfully happy with a coffee and a paper, dappled by the spring light venturing through the window left ajar.  Knowing that there is no work for two whole days. 

Blissful, wasteful and indulgent.  There's a snapshot of my life at 29, captured by three little words. 

Saturday mornings were, and are, the best. 

iwd? do they acronym it?

Happy International Women's Day, sportsfans! 

I SPENT AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT THE APOSTROPHISATION OF THE WORD 'WOMEN' WHEN REALLY, THERE ARE BIGGER ISSUES AT HAND

Women!  Women!  Women are awesome.  International Women's Day today and I have a piece of advice for you.

Go read Caitlin Moran's book, How To Be A Woman.  Not just my femme friends - I recommend it to everyone to do some thinking about some of what it means to be a woman.  In a HILARIOUS way.  I shit you not.  Just do it.  It will make you happy in a fluffy-pube kind of way (sounds vile, no? Happy vile though!). 

Also, there are bigger women's issues than pubes, I know.  So I recommend spending a moment thinking about those too.  That's all, no rant (much). 

dandy

This is as another entry in the vein of "I'm self-obsessed and awful" and should probably be tagged with "narcissism".  (Side note: I just recalled I have "self-examination" and "MEMEME" tags already so apparently I've already got narcissism covered but hey, more tags about ME is more, right?).

I am a hormonal mess.  An inconsistent therefore unpredictable baggage.  My cycle is all effed up from the effects of taking time off oral contraceptives then starting a new one just before I left the UK for a month, during which time I completely effed up my general body clock.  The net result is that I've been busy justifying my complete bitchiness on the basis that IT'S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THE HORMONES, followed by WAIT? DID YOU JUST SAY I HAVE PMS? THAT MAY BE TRUE BUT PREPARE TO DIE. 

Poor old P.  But don't feel too sorry for him; he's getting a cold and has been pretty mood swingy himself over the past two days.  He snapped at me once so I refused to speak to him the rest of the night.  Justified? I think so.  HYMPH.

Anyway, the point of this is not to point out my irrationality or discuss the finer detail of my menstrual cycle (that word is yick. Whenever I say 'menstrual cycle' which I promise is infrequently I think 'minstral cycle' which is weird or 'minestrone cycle' which makes it SO MUCH WORSE).  The point is to tell you about what made me feel immensely better.

After a particularly awful start to the morning involving a cross husband, computer problems, rain and falling temperatures, I got in the lift at work. Normally this is the moment where I accept that I will actually have to work today and that no amount of fantasising will change that fact (half hour walk to work usually spent constructing elaborate fantasies about alternative scenarios for the day, my life, whatever).  But when I got in the lift this morning, my mood changed entirely due to a complete vision of a man.

VIA GOSSIP GIRL.  OF COURSE CHUCK BASS WAS THE FIRST GOOGLE IMAGE RESULT FOR "A DAPPER FELLOW".  SADLY, HE WAS NOT CLOSELY FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG JEREMY IRONS.

He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit in a dark blue with a subtle pin stripe.  His shirt was plain, but he'd added a purple tie which sounds vile but actually complemented the suit colour.  He had a hot pink pocket square that was perfectly pouffed out of his breast pocket.  His hair was dark, possibly black (which colour very possibly came out of a bottle).  He had it in a wet look teddyboy-style pouf, each strand perfectly in place and coming to an even line on the nape of his neck; definitely not too long and scraggly.  The whole ensemble sounds like some kind of 70s pimp or London early-90s playboy styling now that I've typed it out, but the elements did combine beautifully and he appeared a very well dressed man. 

But what really got me interested and turned my mood around was the fact that his lower lip was pierced exactly in the centre and adorned with a hoop and ball. 

Don't get me wrong, I've never been a facial piercing fetishist.  I generally find male jewellery unattractive and there was nothing hot or come hither-y to me about this man's lip ring.  It was just a perfectly unexpected topping to what was clearly a carefully thought through and composed dress style that made me grin from ear to ear. 

Funny what makes you smile, no?

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. 

not just vile, also smug

I know you're all thinking:

"Bitch.  She's selling a trip to a beach on Ko Phi Phi like it was miserable.  Lying baggage."

And you'd be right.  Apart from little concerns like burns, bites and sand in the bed, it was effing glorious.  

PICTURE TAKEN FROM SUNSET BAR BY SMUG-ME.  SURROUNDED BY MOSQUITOS, COVERED IN ANTI-ITCH SHIT

I've never really stayed at a resort before.  I mean, I've had beach holidays for sure, but it was usually staying at a bach with friends, kiwi-style.  For those not in the know, that involves staying at a surf beach where the weather is generally not as tropical as is usually associated with holiday resorts.  It's fabulous though - nearly every meal is fresh caught and barbequed, eaten outdoors.  You go fishing in someone's tin dinghy and seafood collecting on the rocks, there is bodyboarding, body surfing, surfing if you actually can, and likely bike riding too (probably just to the shops for some lollies with a mate dubbed on the back though.  Nothing too strenuous).  Sometimes there is the luxury of an indoor shower, and if there are enough of you, someone will be sleeping in a tent on the grassy area.  Maybe a blow-up lilo on the floor of the living room. 

The alternative for us is generally exploration tourism.  We love to travel - as in, start somewhere, explore, move on to the next place.  In our week in Italia August 2011, P and I made it all the way from Rome to Palermo in Sicily with some diversions along the way.  So, this trip to Phi Phi was my first allout, ballstothewall, Britstyle holiday at a resort.

I effing loved it.  Due to a mistake the resort had made with our reservation, we were upgraded for three of our four nights to a suite set high in the trees, possessing several rooms, it's own infinity pool overlooking the ocean, an outdoor and indoor shower - absolute luxury.  I started the day with a leisurely cup of tea in the pool and finished the evenings with a pre-bed skinny dip.  I showered looking at the Andaman sea.  I napped on bean bags under yellow umbrellas at the ocean front.  I drank shit that came in a coconut or a pineapple.  I even visited the spa and let other people touch my body.  Freaky but delicious. 

VIEW FROM EDGE OF THE POOL

I must say though, the bits of activity we did do were absolute highlights.  Snorkelling at Phi Phi Ley (otherwise known as Leonardo Di Caprio's beach from The Beach), people watching and wandering in Phi Phi town, and discovering a cliff top to watch a sunset (with a bar! bonus!) made me supremely happy.  I'm not sure if I could handle two weeks of hanging out on a lounger, but then again, I think I might be willing to try…

Enough with rubbing your noses in it - but I did want to say for those that care, I had a honeymoon honeymoon - like, a proper one - and it was pretty wonderful to spend such low-key time with my husband.  Discussing the world, inconsequential things, consequential things.  When he's not an ass, he's pretty OK.  We may not have been new to each other, but I was that happy with him, just quietly together, laughing, talking and being.

Smug bitch, aye?

i am vile in so many ways

Thailand gave me a tan.  I'm all brown and lovely. 

If by brown and lovely you mean flaky and freckly, that is.  To be completely fair, Thailand gave me what felt like a second degree burn followed by peeling skin.  I spent a good five minutes in the shower this morning rubbing, picking and brushing dead layers of my epidermis off my right shoulder.  Charming.  And the tan on my face is fading back to freckle already, less than a week since I left those beautiful shores.  What's really gross however is how compelling I find scratching peely-bits.  Yeah, I fit into the category of 'picker'.  There are those who pick and those who don't.  Skin, pimples, scabs, the lot.  Pick one, pick 'em all, I tend to find.  Feel free to judge.

Seriously though, I can't remember the last time I as skin-obsessed as we were in Thailand.  I burnt my decolletage and legs to a shade I fondly call "nuclear basted" on the ferry from Phuket to Ko Phi Phi.  P's chest and legs were the same roastytoasty red.  We had been smugly watching pre-burnt Brits and sniggering over their lack of sunsense, sitting on the front of the boat (fo'c'sle? stern? aft?).  We thought the ferry would take about an hour and the sunscreen was sitting at the bottom of the pack.  "We'll be fine", we said.  "We're hardy New Zealand types and Thailand can't have a sub-10 minute burn time, ferchristssake, there's no hole in the ozone over the equator." 

Foolish:  ferry took three hours and at the risk of stating the bleeding obvious, we have been living in Britain.  We are now the same English-rose shade as our Pommy ancestors.  That night, my shins actually ached from the burn.  Ghastly.

Via: Trek Earth.  BURNY PARADISE.

So, from arrival at Phi Phi, we were slapping on layers of sunscreen and moisturiser in a prevention/damage stemming routine.  Reapplication after every swim (yeah, doing it tough, right?). 

But it wasn't just sunscreen and moisturiser, OH NO.  Muggins here is A-Grade, YumYum, TastyExtreme to mosquitos.  So we were also layering up with 85% DEET mozzie repellent several times a day.  That shit is effing toxic.  It smells bad, god forbid you ever get it in your mouth.  The label warns you that there might be possible side effects of overuse, for crying out loud.  It's ominous that the side effects aren't spelled out - I was having visions of hallucinations, male breastmilk production, you name any godawful side effect you've ever seen on a packet.  I mean, even chewing gum warns you about the possibility of a laxative effect.  Why can't DEET be labelled in the same way, just to prevent my active imagination freaking the eff out?*

THIS IS WHAT DEET LOOKS LIKE.  HELPFUL, NO? VIA Wikipedia

In an effort to deflect night time invaders, I was also closing the sides of the mosquito net using a hair tie.  I was not prepared to allow any potential mosquito egress to my bed.  I had the electric mozzie killing tennis racquet at the bedside.  We had a mozzie lamp on the porch.  I'm not entirely sure if there was anything else I could have done to protect my precious skin from predatory mosquito invasions. 

Even so, I got bitten on my last night in Phi Phi.  I spent the flight to Hong Kong, the last night in HKG, then the 13 hour flight from Hong Kong to London scratching like a feral dog with fleas (comparison more apt than you realise; my terrible white girl hair does not love tropical climates). 

Furthermore, for the record, FYI, TMI, etc - when you're on your honeymoon with burn issues, toxic crap rubbed into your skin and the worst case of the frizzies known to mankind, and your husband is still prepared to touch you - you know you've found a KEEPER (either that or he's desperate.  I know which interpretation I prefer).

*Holy shit I am SO GLAD I did not google DEET side effects before going on holiday.  SEIZURES?  DEATH?  I should have realised the issues when it melted rubber for eff's sake!!!! BUT I REALLY do not like being bitten.  Conundrum aye?