why I shouldn't live alone

Alllllll by myyyyyself last night so I ate chips and some dip for dinner.  I drank half a beer in the spirit of rebellion but it just wasn't that tasty* so I gave it up as a bad job.  I then hid all the evidence from P in the rubbish bin.  I shouldn't have been so worried about his judgment of my food choices because he turned up at some ungodly hour muttering about chicken gizzards, yakitori, the BIG sake bottle and how susceptible he is to peer pressure / FOMO.**  I had understood he was going to 'drop in to' a goodbye party for a colleague.  Hah!***

Instead of taking a bath, which was seriously considered, I flicked channels between:

• Extreme Makeover Weight Loss edition
• Keeping Up With the Kardashians
• XFactor US

Yup, a good night had by all.  I am a walking, talking cliche, people.  That's just embarrasing, really, and yet I just don't care.  Sometimes a bit of escapism is just what the doctor ordered, though I do have sneaking guilt about supporting objectification etc (I am also trying to wean myself from the Daily Mail, that stupendous hate-read that I know I should avoid and yet find myself killing time on.  God it's terrible, I shan't support that misogyny any more! You read it here, let's see if I can stick to my resolutions.)

I was glad P was out last night, not just because I could indulge in all sorts of ridiculous behaviours, but also because the facial peeling reached its zenith.  I was shedding so much, it kept falling into my eyelashes.  Disgusting. 

*Friend (male, believe it or not) recently pooh-poohed the craft beer trend.  'I like my beer to taste of...nothing', he said.  After drinking some revolting, hoppy IPA last night I have some sympathy for his point of view but having said that, the most tasteless beer around is like Miller or some shit and that's a bridge too far for me.  Nothing like a cold Heineken, or an Export Gold shandy (there's my upper North Island roots! Shandies with Dad after he'd finished DIYing something that you held the level or string for was like the pinnacle of father-daughter quality time!).  Love me some Brooklyn Lager too, in the spirit of eating crappy tex-mex on campus rooftop in NYC. 

** FOMO = fear of missing out, for those who have been living under a rock. 

*** He also woke me up with a jerking shoulder blade to the face.  In his words "but I was getting the basketball back off someone".  We continue the nighttime shenanigans almost unabated, since my nose-breaking night terrors.  I'm seriously concerned about what's next.  I mean, we've broken the blood barrier already. 

views and my husband

It occurred to me two or three nights ago that it can't be easy living with a person with such, ah, vehement opinions.

Well, it either occurred to me or was pointed out.  P hissed 'I swear there's just no pleasing you, A', as I launched what I thought was quite an incisive take-down on a terribly retrograde opinion he expressed. 

I'm full of opinions and I just want to share them with P, my nearest and dearest.  'Share'; 'brainwash' - basically the same thing.  I desperately want him to agree with me in all things and I use rhetoric to such devastating effect that he can't help but come round, right? 

Well, no.  Wrong, actually.  I have thought about all of this further while picking lint out of my belly button or something similarly productive, and I have realised:

• When P ventures an opinion on a topic I feel strongly about, I either agree vehemently or disagree with, well, malice.  What I have been believing are 'spirited discussions' may in fact be just me working on my manifesto, while P tries to interject.
• When P ventures an opinion or poses an argument on a subject I am more ambivalent about, I am just as likely to say 'I can't be bothered right now'.
• If I am concerned that I'm going to find P's opinion on any given topic offensive, I either launch an offensive or shut the conversation down entirely.

Hmmm.  Sophisticated reactions, no?  I probably ought to work on this.  It *might* just be possible that I'm not the be all and end when it comes to having views on things.  I don't know everything, much as it pains me to admit it (AND IT DOES. It hurts so bad.)

Don't ask me if I've apologised.  I'm afraid the answer might embarrass us both. 

crispity (a promise)

Seriously, if you ever visit New Zealand, please, please, please wear sunscreen.  You should wear it anyway everywhere else, but the burn time here is horrendous. I cannot emphasise enough how crucial sunscreen is.  A burn in NZ is more than just a gentle glow or a tan line.  You don't just go brown the next day. 

After a childhood and youth of sun stupidity, I finally got the message.  As you may remember, P and I burned ourselves terribly on our honeymoon and I swore I would be more careful.  Aside from some ill-judged swipes with the sunscreen leaving the occasional exposed bit of back fat, I've been quite conscientious, applying SPF in my moisturiser and squirting the good stuff all over my body before any prolonged exposure. 

I can't believe I was so stupid on Sunday that I stepped out without it.  It was overcast when I left but that's no excuse.  I should have had it in my bag and it should have been on my face.  I am a glowing red ember from the decolletage up, with a toasty, roasty, crackling nose. 

This is not vanity (though a shiny red forehead does show up every crease).  This is not just because my face is hot with burn and embarrasment right now.  This is long term health. 

I'm not doing this again.  I'm keeping out of the sun or keeping sunscreen on, end of story.  That's that.

a litany of useless behaviours

I worked out my ideal career this morning, trudging to work under my own personal black cloud:

Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.

I am uniquely qualified for this role:

• I love dumplings
• I eat a lot of dumplings
• I'm very good at staying in bed
• I have opinions on things, like dumplings
• etc

Sadly, I'm not sure where to apply for this role.  Please to tell, if you know.

So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today.  That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:

• Lost my phone.  Again.  That's the phone twice and wallet once in 6 weeks.  On the bright side, it turned up 24 hours later.  On the dim side, I lost it at the same bar as last time. 
• Lost my dignity attempting to dance with P on Friday night.  Managed to push him over on the dance floor.
• Broke the button off P's pants when we got home.  Don't ask me how / why - I'm not even sure myself.
• Crushed my thumb as I was closing up the ladder. 
• Got heinously sunburnt in the Domain (when I left the house there was no need for sunscreen - I wasn't intentionally stupid!  I promise!)
• Could barely move during the Hollie Smith concert due to hangover from previous evening's...festivities (verdict = she was fab, loved the new stuff, technical difficulties aside a great show.)
• Scared myself shitless - from noticing a spider.
• Killed the romance in my relationship with a gastro issue...followed by falling asleep flat on my back with my mouth open, snoring.  SO sexy.

Just lovely. 

bookish

Ugh, all that crap about my urinary tract and peeing in leaky cups has got to get off the top of the blog. 

Um.  Um.  How do you follow a diatribe like that up?

[I've sat on the above sentences for 24 hours now.  Following it up was really, really stinking hard]

OK.  OK.  Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood.  Bought this last Friday as a wee treat, finished by Sunday.  Enjoyed is probably the wrong word - there's some very disturbing content, but I think it's a wonderful, thought-provoking commentary on modern day issues set in a dystopian future.  I'm still not sure I get the ending; going to have a bit of a re-read and then plunge on with the next in the series.  I really want to recommend it to P, but I think he'll reach the child exploitation bits and freak with horror. 

I also picked up a copy of I, Claudius by Robert Graves.  I have listened to this on audiobook before - I forget who narrated it but he has a very distinctive tone and I'm very much enjoying him as my mental narrator as I slurp up the words on the page.  It's just interesting, that's what it is.  I haven't read that much about the Roman Empire post-Caesar and I love a bit of intrigue and scheming so this is perfect for 10 minutes pre-sleep reading.  Livia is a nasty firecracker and I love it. 

What else, culture-wise?  I'm going to see Hollie Smith perform this Saturday.  Yup.  That's probably about it. 

That's right - I have had Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clarke) sitting on my bedside table for an aeon.  I was reading Julia's archives the other day and she mentioned that while she felt like she should enjoy it, she just couldn't get through it.  I have had this exact experience with Jonathan Strange.  I even took it to the bath a few weeks ago and, well, gave up again afterwards.  If I can't get into a book in the bath then there's something seriously wrong.  To be fair, when a book is that hefty it isn't ideal tub material...but I'm usually still willing to cut it a break. 

far, far too much information. you were warned

I have been so stressed the past two days I think I've given myself a urinary tract infection.  Charming, hein? 

The stress is worky (when isn't it?) and it's sort of done with now (at least, in part) so here's hoping I can neutralise those bad bacteria with a sousing in cranberry juice and let my body regain its natural equilibrium (HIPPY ALERT).  To be completely fair, my body has always seemed to have some kind of bizarre preference for making me feel like I'm peeing razor blades so perhaps 'natural equilibrium' is going too far.  Detente, perhaps.  I would call my tendency to develop UTIs at the drop of a hat a traitorous body habit but I do have to note that it worsens in times of change, stress or general self abuse (2001-2005, the University Years, aka the Wasted Years in a Manky Pub or At Student Health Begging for the Good Stuff).  And yes, before you ask, I'm very good at wiping my own bum so that's not it, ladies and gentlemen.

I find I am generally able to treat UTIs by drinking cranberry juice (the real deal that is - anything drink below 15% actual cranberry juice means I have to drink enough to be peeing like a racehorse AND I get the joy of wondering what the fuckity fuck the rest of it contains), rather than antibiotics.  I found myself scanning packets in Hong Kong one time wondering whether the miscellaneous fruit pictured was, in fact, a cranberry or some kind of warped blueberry (have I told you this story before?  I feel like I probably have.  OH WELL, SOZ BOUT THAT!) 

Drinking the juice is far preferable to the antibiotics - don't want 'em if I can avoid 'em, they don't always work, their lead-in time for relief is slower and you have to go to the doctor and pee in a cup.  No thanks, I'm a TERRIBLE cup pee-er.  I find myself nervous with the collection devices at the doctors and that generally leads to pee on the hand.  Not my favourite.  During the pregnancy scare of about '07 I found myself peeing in the lid of a hairspray can in desperation as I needed a vessel in my own bathroom, only to discover the tiny hole in the cap, which WHAT? So there was pee all over the sink.

So, you should know I sat down at the computer to just write about, well, whatever came to mind.  And this is it.  I'm sorry.  Journal = posterity = truth? Or something, anyway.  I'm vile, but you knew that. 

i want to help, goddammit

Can you believe I berated my husband for "doing too much" yesterday?  As we prepared to host dinner for 10 adults, one teenager and two children most of whom are related to him by blood?  Neither can I.

As nuts as it seems, he is so capable that I found myself stamping my foot at him.  "I SAID I would do the potatoes".  Poor man; he handed me stalks of mint to mollify me - 'can you please rinse and strip these, that'd be very, um, helpful'.  Hymph. 

I love his capability - it's a very nice counterpoint to my laziness and general lack of common sense - but when it comes to the crunch, I'm embarrassed that all my family and friends know he's the wonderful driving force of this unit.  They're all extremely admiring of his skills.  By contrast, my immediate family appear to be convinced that I never 'cook' more than opening a bag of chips and lord only knows his family must think I'm a special case (the one time I made meringues I received such praise I waited to be handed a dog treat, to reinforce the trick.  Kindly and genuinely meant praise, of course - issues entirely my own.) 

P always wins.  He let me pour drinks and top-ups, with only gentle directive nods at empty glasses when I was slacking.  I found myself on dishes duty.  (Ha - his cousin came in to help, looked around with dawning horror on her face and said 'you don't have a dishwasher?!', which, fair enough.  Dark ages in these parts, I tell you.)  Bizarrely, I felt so grateful to him for handing over these chores - I mean, honestly?  That's ridiculous.  He's such a good host - I want to be more like him, I guess. 

In other news, do make sure you wear close-toed shoes when operating machinery.  I very nearly made the decision to mow and strim in jandals yesterday; very grateful I didn't, as I strimmed the toes of P's old hi-top kicks.  Hopeless 4 Eva.  Apparently.