i don't generally sing in the shower, at least

My cat watched me have a bath last night. Actually, 'watched' is the wrong word.  She participated in my bath last night.  Strolling up and down the edge of the bath, trying to stand on my thigh to get closer to the water, scooping water with a paw.*  It was endlessly entertaining and I'd show you the photos I took but:

(a) admitting you take your phone in the bath is bad enough, let alone providing pictorial evidence of that tragic habit; and
(b) the photos accidentally included my pubic hair** in the bottom of the picture and I don't think we want that on the internet.

Is it odd that I don't shut her out of the bathroom?  She often comes in during a shower to sit on the end of the tub and wait for me to turn off the water.  At first I found being watched a little creepy but now I find I like the company (always someone to talk to!) and she gets a bit upset if excluded from the bathroom.  I mean, it's not like she's actually sharing the bath or shower with me?***

Hey ho, the descent into sad cat lady continues. 

*We have a southpaw in the house, it's always her left that she scoops with. Or is that because the dominant right is used for balance? I don't know and this probably isn't worth investigating furthe because SHE'S A CAT. Gosh, perspective, A. 
**Yes, I have some.  Now really, is that a surprise to you if you've ever read this blog before?
***Yes, I have conveniently forgotten the time Tabitha poohed in the bathtub.  I'd like to think she's done a lot of maturing since then.

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!)

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?

yuck

Being sick on the weekend feels like such a punishment, you know? All those lovely plans laid waste by illness on your own time.  When I decided to leave my lair on Saturday morning after a leisurely lie in, I was most unhappy to discover that the rest of my Saturday would involve nausea and a pounding headache.  I doubled over in the shower, then dragged myself back to the bedroom.  I sulked/slept/moaned lightly in bed until about 8.30 that night.  That was when I dragged my carcass to the living room to lie limply on the couch for the second half of the All Blacks game.  P told me to go back to bed; the ABs had been playing much better when I wasn't there. 

Sunday and Monday were slightly better, in that I managed to wash myself and don a bra both days and even left the house once, briefly.  Not 100% though -- I feel wrung out today from walking to work (not to mention, you know, working). 

But it is nice to be back to the usual routine today, I must say.  I've come back to work, found the blameworthy parties in spreading the lurgy and castigated them thoroughly.  Aren't I a peach?!

did catherine morland attend the opera while in bath?

P and I attended the NZ Opera's production of La Traviata last night.  I am an operatic Philistine, in that I know nothing about opera other than fictional genteel flutterings of fans and eye contact amongst the crowds attending the opera in Regency romances (OH GOD I'VE EXPOSED MYSELF.  Yes, I read Regency romances.  I'm so sorry).  I'm pretty sure no one was making eyes at me last night.  But I was also probably 30 years too young for most of the crowd.  Aaaaaaaaanyway, I know little about the opera, so bear that in mind when you read the list below:

• Lovely set.  Similar to last year's production of Madame Butterfly in the use of a central pivoting stage, but beautiful.  The chandeliers as set dressing on the ground at the right moments were haunting, as were the dusty mirrored walls. 
• Lorina Gore as Violetta was beautiful, suitably fluttery at the right moments and had a magic voice.
• Alfredo's a bit of a numpty.  You know, aside from all the other plot holes, I found old Alfredo vaguely stalkerish (you've been in love with her for a year from afar but just met her three minutes ago?!), nauseatingly in love (noble! mysterious! love), easily taken in (YOUR DAD WAS MEANT TO BE VISITING IN YOUR ABSENCE, 'FREDO. WHY DO YOU THINK SHE'S CRYING AND LEAVING?) and ultimately, not very good at being angry.  He didn't make my heart swell.
• I need more sparkly dresses in my wardrobe for these occasions.  About 40% of the audience were dressed to the nines and I loved it, wished I made more of an effort.
• The chorus songs were so great!
• I'm pretty sure I saw a girl I went to primary school with in the audience, but I was too chicken to approach her.
• Wish I could have seen into the pit - I really wanted to watch the orchestra, as they sounded wonderful.
• We ate a really great meal at Depot first (again.  Love that place).

See, I told you I know nothing about opera. 

_____________

Also, I want to say I feel good about writing the #yesallwomen post, now.  I hope you didn't feel obliged to read it (don't feel obliged, if you're just reading my blog for the first time.  It's about 2 posts ago).  I found it cathartic.  I suspect that part of the purge is the feeling that I'm contributing to something broader, an education, a movement.  If I can do one thing for someone else now (be it tell a man that consent is a yes, freely and knowingly given, or tell a woman that she's not alone), I won't beat myself up about the decision I made at the time not to speak of it. 

I've also done one thing for me.  I've acknowledged what happened.  That alone might be selfish, but god has it made me feel free.

year thirty-two

I turned 32 this weekend.  Cataloguing the comparisons to my last birthday, at 32 I am:

• Squidgier
• More settled
• About as happy
• Wrinklier
• Sunnier
• A mother of dragons cats
• Tireder
• Longer haired & blonder
• More nervous about the outlook
• Yet calmer, generally

We had friends around to watch the rugby and eat dinner in a very civilised fashion the night before my birthday.  We kept the fact of my birthday reasonably quiet -- I've always felt odd about hosting a celebration for MEMEME, but P never wants to let the moment pass, so we usually end up having some kind of hybrid function that makes me feel squeamish (see for example the leaving/30th party in 2012 - I love celebrating and usually relish a bit of attention, but feel odd about celebrating my anniversary of life!). As I was doing the dishes just before midnight, most of the guests having left, P's friend PJ discovered my birthday was about to begin and started teasing me -- you're not too old for dancing, let's go to town! Come on woman, get your glad rags on! -- and as I sluiced the sink, I thought, challenge accepted.  I threw on a pair of heels, winced at the likely blister they'd cause, slapped on a red lipstick and we charged for the city.

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. 

me, too. #yesallwomen

The hashtag might be old news, to some of you.  This has been sitting in my drafts folder for a long time.  But I have to publish it.  I feel like I can't sit on it, not anymore. I have to say it out loud. 

My story is not one I want my mother, father or sister to read.  My husband knows the bare facts.  Some friends know a little.  I am so nervous about posting this my heart is pounding in my throat, my ribcage, my ears.

I was 18, I was blackout drunk and I only have a vague memory of saying 'OK then' as a response to a persistent question, the content of which I don't recall.  I woke up naked at his parents' house next to him, not knowing exactly what had happened. It got back to me on the grapevine. It was the first time I ever had sex. 

It was the summer before I went to university.  What I remember is the aftermath.  Not being able to bring myself to see him again, not that he called.  I tried very hard to close my ears to the gossip about the fact that he'd managed to sleep with me, where others had failed (the state of my virginity having been, it seemed, a hot topic amongst the 17-18 year old male set at my school). 

I didn't think it was rape, technically.  After all, I'd said yes, hadn't I?  Even though I thought my drink might have been spiked because I didn't remember drinking that much (I recall two, maybe three drinks that night).  Even though I remembered so little I didn't recall throwing up throughout his house, waking his parents (who then, never having met me, having helped me vomit copiously, apparently let me stay in the same room as their son).  Anyway, if I said something, he didn't deserve the possible consequences, not when I hadn't said no, right?  If I didn't remember the actual act, how bad could it really be?

I tamped it down.  I moved to the other end of the country for university with, fortuitously, few people from my high school set.  I thought of it rarely, without shape, without feeling. 

It's only recently, thanks to the #yesallwomen hashtag, that I've actually put two and two together and realised that my 'OK then' couldn't possibly have been informed consent.  I still didn't connect the dots when I was working in the criminal law, for fuck's sake.  I think I avoided the truth because I thought it was the only way.  I mean, what were my options?  Even now, I can't imagine saying all these things out loud to my parents, to law enforcement, to my friends, his friends.  My parents, law enforcement, my friends have never for a single second lead me to believe that they would blame me, not believe me, or shame me for what happened.  I do not doubt that my family would have had my back.  But yet, it is so inculcated in me that its better not to say anything, not to have to admit to going out with boys I didn't know well, not to have to say I accepted those drinks. 

I have had a void inside me when I think about it .  I am so outraged about what happens to other women but until now, I have been unable to manage to be outraged for me.  I've never associated the sexual assault of other women with my own.  I mean, I've recorded street harassment on this blog but not the fact that I. Was. Raped.   

I saw him once on the street, about two years ago.  I'm fairly sure he noticed me.  We kept walking.  I felt cold, then hot, then shaky. 

Yes, all women.  Me, too.