a day in the life

I am joining a thing.  Look at me, being all join-y and internet-y and what not!  This is a first!

Laura from Navigating the Mothership is hosting a Day in the Life thing and she's specially invited foreigners.  I am foreign to North American types (kia ora! welcome to internet Aotearoa, visitors!  Internet Auckland, specifically) but other than that I am about to flout all Laura's fine print and skip the hardcore photography because, well, I'm lazy and vaguely trying to maintain some anonymity up in here.  Also, Laura says she doesn't mind that I am not a Mom (or a Mum, for that matter), but I'm not sure whether she minds that my cat-obsessed work-a-day life is dull.  If you haven't been to this wee blog before, consider yourself warned. (Also, disclaimer: I am profane, vulgar and excessively parenthetical/wordy.  Annoying, basically). 

THIS IS ME, A.  NOT ON THE DAY IN QUESTION.  BUT SO YOU KNOW I AM REAL.  AND SO YOU KNOW AM 31 AND STILL HAVE SPOTS

So.  Knock yourselves out, guys.  A day in the life of A. 

__________________________________________________

5.30am: wake up needing to pee.  I'm supposed to get up at 6, so I am furious that my body needs to leave the warm bed cocoon before then.  Drag myself to the toilet, get fright at standing on black toy mouse in the dark.

6am: five more minutes in bed, please. Checking facebook, extremely important stuff.

6.05am: Throw on a dressing gown and go into the dining room to wake and feed the kittens.  The dining room is their current abode until they're big enough to partake of the great outdoors when they're a bit older.  We don't have a laundry or a bathroom big enough to house the litter box sadly, so there'll be no dinner parties for us until the cat-faeces-in-the-dining-space issue has been solved (i.e. once the cat door is in and they're pooping outside).  One of Tabitha's eyes has partially gummed shut in the night due to the cat flu, so I take her carefully in my arms and apply the corner of a moistened piece of toilet paper to soften up the crust.  Poor wee Tab, she must feel like the only time we hold her at the moment is when we're punishing her with eye wipes, eye drops and antibiotics. 

6.10am: Shower.  Hum to myself my wee shower song: "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Don't wanna get out of the shower! Out of the shower! Out of the shower!' (Have I mentioned I'm kind of a morning person? Yep. Annoying.)

6.15: Get out of the shower in a raging hurry despite song when I spot a spider.  It was a Daddy Long Legs - i.e. completely harmless but rational I am not when it comes to creepy crawlies.  Yell for P to sort out the bathroom wildlife.

6.20am: stand in my underwear in front of the clothes rail (nope, still no wardrobes or indeed any damn cupboards in this godforsaken ancient cottage) bemoaning the lack of things to wear.  Eventually throw on a black skirt and a grey short sleeved top with a little black scottie dog print.  Notice food stain on skirt and think 'must remember to wipe that off'.  Throw on standard work jewellery - watch, wedding rings, white gold band on my right hand and super cheap wee black and brass triangle studs in my (giant, lobular) ears.  Strike a pose for P who dutifully informs me I look very nice.  He's a well-trained liar.

6.25am: Marmite on Vogel's toast and Earl Grey tea.  Breakfast of champions.  Tabitha wants a bite but no such luck, puss.

6.30: P emerges from the bedroom and into the bathroom.  The resounding call of 'I don't wanna!' from him eventually morphs into the gentle refrain of the shower song (he doesn't want to get out, either, apparently).  I start trying to brush my hair, apply make up (minimal at best - concealer, eye liner and a coat of mascara, plus a spritz of Chance by Chanel), pack my bag, empty the litter box, refresh the cats' water etc in a timely manner.  I keep getting interrupted by playful swatting from Timothy, who appears to be developing a foot fetish. 

6.45am: We are running around tidying in a frenzy, as we've just recalled a wardrobe lady is coming to measure up our bedroom.

7.10: P is not fully dressed.  Wardrobe lady is due.  I walked into the bedroom and had to cry "Husband, where ARE your pants?!".  I enjoyed it; not often enough do I get the opportunity to say that.  

7.15: Wardrobe lady arrives.  Timothy promptly tries to eat her skirt.  When diverted from that attack, he demonstrates his very best pouncing skills on the duvet while she works.

7.30: Wardrobe lady finishes, we medicate Tabby and depart for work.  The walk to the central city is about half an hour for me; 40 minutes for P who works down on the waterfront.  We attempt to hold hands but the weather is pretty humid and quickly we give up as it's a bit sweaty.  My colleague S often passes us on his scooter en route and has been merciless to me about how 'cute' we still are, holding hands all these years later  (he smirks).  I don't really care, as when I hold P's hand, I get his full attention.  We discuss the Big Day Out (festival-concert-type-situation) which we're attending on Friday.  I'm quite upset about the clash between Pearl Jam and Snoop Dog.  I have very eclectic 90s taste, apparently.

8am: arrive at work, change into lady-lawyer shoes.  Sigh at state of shoes; I need some new ones as my favourites have lost their heel stops and the patent leather is pretty battered.  Consider whether I can colour the scuffs with a black vivid (marker pen, for the non-NZers) but decide that the damage is too severe.  Quick check of papers online, another cup of tea.  Then work-y stuff.

8.30am: already freezing. I am still wearing winter wardrobe items to work because it's so ridiculously cold in here, despite the relatively temperate summer we're having.  Also because I am too cheap to have purchased new season items.  Throw on a black blazer and shiver at my desk, while gazing out wistfully at the sunshine over the harbour. 

10am: coffee with the girls from work.  'Going for coffee' is a misnomer - I'm off the demonsauce and have a chai latte instead.  Everyone else orders a flat white.  We gossip.  I manage to resist the siren call of the toasted banana bread - must. demonstrate. willpower. as this Christmas weight is not shifting itself. 

12.30pm: lunch at a Japanese restaurant with two friends; sounds nice but I ordered terribly boring food - teriyaki chicken, green tea and a diet coke.  So much for food restraint.  We gossip. Look down as I leave, had completely forgotten the old food stain on my skirt. Am unhygienic, awfully presented person.  Run into another friend recently returned from a stint living in London as I depart the restaurant and promise her a catch up soon.  I trust I'll dress myself in clean clothes for that encounter, but there's no guarantees.

1.30: arrive back to the office to discover voicemail from my mother, claiming she's calling on official business.  Rue the day I gave her my business card and quickly call her back.  She wants to know how the grandcats are and to tell me about the new rock wall she's planning to build with Dad.  Quick convo, then more work. 

4pm ish: an email from P arrives: 'I'm not going to be early tonight.'

5.15pm: Escape the office at this absolutely unheard of hour with not nearly enough billables recorded - because my wee Tabitha needs me!  Power walk home, crushing candy en route.  I nearly walk into a tree because the candy crushing is swallowing my attention.  Hide my face from any sniggering pedestrians or drivers and until the flushed cheeks die down.  I am a notorious tomato-face and it takes a while.

5.45pm: arrive home to wipe wee Tibby's eyes again.  Play with the kittens and graze out of the fridge - nibbling on left over cauliflower from last night's delicious venison meal made by P.  Chores - litter box cleaning, throwing work skirt into the washing basket, cat feeding, ignoring my work emails, halfhearted toilet cleaning in preparation for P's friend P2's visit.  P2 is coming to stay for the BDO as he lives out of town.

CANNOT RESIST THESE SLIGHTLY EVIL BUT OH-SO-CUTE FACES.  TAB (L) AND TIM (R), PLOTTING WICKEDNESS

7pm: start preparing dinner.  We're having spaghetti bolognese for no other reason than some mince in the fridge is about to expire and I cannot for the life of me be bothered being more original.  I slice onions and garlic carelessly while Tabby twines her wee self around my ankles.  I look mournfully at a delicious, empty bottle of pinot noir we drank earlier in the week that I haven't yet deposited in the recycling.  After the excesses of summer holidays 2013/14, I need a break from the turps and am trying to go booze free three or more nights a week again.  I resist temptation, but probably only because the pinot's gone and all the tonic is flat. 

7.15pm: the landline rings.  I race for it, as the only people who have that number are my mother and sister-in-law.  Sadly, it's a guy claiming to be from Microsoft, having had a report of issues with our computer, could I please confirm its serial number?  Ah, that would be a no.  I get my snootiest lady-lawyer voice on while informing him that I have never given that number to Microsoft and that I've just googled his scam so could he please go fuck himself.  Except I didn't really say that last part, I just wish I had.  I hung up instead.

Continue pootling around preparing dinner.  I've flicked the TV on in the background and am listening to NZ's longest running soap, Shortland Street, in the background.  I used to be an avid Shortie fan, once upon a time, but once I moved in with P he used his power of veto on Shortie in the house.  Similarly, I give side-eye to any of his fishing shows, so I guess it balances out.  However, he's not home tonight and it's kind of soothing, hearing TK have yet another marriage crisis and the nurses deal with yet another emergency.  I am also reading blogs on my phone, while stirring the pot mindlessly. 

7.30:  Duck in and out of the house, snipping some herbs for use in the spagbol.  There is no beef stock left which is irritating, as dinner won't be fab without it.  We need to have another stock making day: I adore the results but by god it makes the house smell vile, so I have mixed feelings about stock production. 

7.45pm: I hear a key in the door - P is much earlier than expected.  The kittens race for the door to greet him (for which, read: try to escape while the front door is open).  I give him a hug, he goes to change and we yell at each other down the corridor, exchanging gossip for the day while I cook.

8pm: we give Tib her medicine (it's a two person job, the wee wriggler), then wash hands before dinner.  We eat on the couch, given the dining room/cat situation.  We're both pretty vacant, work having been reasonably stressful for both of us today, so we mindlessly take in more television.

8.30pm: P commences clean up duty.  I wander in and out of the kitchen, halfheartedly drying a few dishes, but I'm not very helpful really.  I am the chief dishwasher of the house and I am feeling pretty resentful about it today, though I generally don't mind.  P suggests playing the new Arcade Fire album, as we're seeing them at the BDO, but I feel like quiet.  It's unusual for me to have such a long evening available - my departure time from work is usually much later, and I'm revelling in the time and space. 

I MIGHT BE BIASED, BUT AOTEAROA HAS THE BEST SUNSETS.  SURE, SANTORINI IS NICE.  BUT NZ? BEST.
(SRSLY, NO FILTERS ON THIS ONE)

9pm: start texting my similarly cat-obsessed sister as I play with the kittens.  I've given them access to the heretofore off-limits spare bedroom, where Tabitha has discovered herself in the mirror.  She keeps noticing another cat pouncing on cords in the mirror, then checking behind it to find out where that cat is.  Hilarious.

9.30pm: my quiet mood has taken a turn; I feel groggy and hot.  It's turned into a humid summer night.  Decide to go to bed.  Climb in and get pounced on by Timothy.  I take a picture of Timmy's eerie eyes stalking me from the bottom of my bed to send to sister K.  P's still up and about, so the kittens haven't been banished to their bedroom yet.  Usually, I wind down with an audiobook or a hard copy book, but tonight I feel pretty manky, so it's lights out.

10pm: P climbs in beside me.  I wake from a doze, briefly, to burrow into his side and drape a hot arm around him.  Out like a light. 

[Author's note: I have just reread this and am sure you will be shouting 'what a grandma! and just where is your exercise, woman?!'.  I am also blushing at the shameful amount of television I consume on a weekday and the woeful admissions regarding general adult beverage consumption.  Wow, am I good at turning an exercise in recording my life for posterity into self-flagellation or what?!]

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. 

this post just made the list, too

I think I saw the Coolest Guy in the World on the way to work this morning. 

He powered past me in in a shirt, suit pants, converse (hey, no judging the commuting converse.  I maintain my right to silence regarding what supremely comfortable shoes I wore to work this morning.  BITE ME), backpack complete with 1L water bottle, blaring his music at top volume out of his cellphone.  He was clearly getting pumped for the day (some kind of late 90s gym music, it would seem).  He was moving pretty fast.  Perhaps my dawdle would become a brisk, efficient pace if I picked the right tune to play in the morning?  Might stick with headphones, however.

My, I've got my cranky/judgy pants back on today!  Other things what have not passed muster today:

- Colleague who only filled the kettle enough for ONE MEASLY CUP. 
- Failure of workplace to install a zip so I needn't fret about colleagues and their miserliness with the jug filling
- People who dawdled over their sushi choices at lunchtime (if in doubt, salmon/avocado!  If you don't eat salmon/avo, just get the teriyaki chicken CHOP CHOP you know that's what you want anyway!)
- All of my shoes. 
- My breakfast.  When I found some of it on my skirt.
- The weather.

OH EVERYTHING, BASICALLY. 

(PS I have become sadly addicted to The Block, NZ's most effective advertorial for DIY masquerading as a television show.  I know, I pity me too.  Live auctions tonight though people! WHAT A HIGHLIGHT, A)

pop quiz

This is about me, of course.  When wouldn't it be?

1. You see Three drop his bowl of porridge on the floor.  Do you:

(A) Immediately run for the cloth to wipe it up.
(B) Tell Three's parents what he's done.
(C) Huff a bit under your breath and pretend you didn't notice the problem.

2. It's the middle of the night and One is crying.  Do you:

(A) Get up and calm the child back to sleep.
(B) Go back to sleep; it's his parents' problem.
(C) Roll over and huff in your husband's ear: 'will somebody SORT THAT OUT PLEASE'.

3. You're watching the telly and Three is desperate for today's 4th viewing of some dire cartoon on DVD.  Do you:

(A) Say 'Bad luck Buster, auntie wants to watch the news.'
(B) Say 'Of course my precious, whatever your heart desires.'
(C) Say 'Go to bed.'

4. You're washing the dishes when you become aware of a funky aroma emanating from the tea towel.  Do you:

(A) Continue washing.  Ignore the problem, it'll go away.
(B) Sniff every tea towel in the drawer and find that 50% are suffering from some kind of stank issue.
(C) Fling it in the direction of the laundry and huff as you walk away from the problem.

Correct answers, if you're me, appear to be (C), (C), (A), (B).  But it would appear that there are NO RIGHT ANSWERS generally with smalls.  Especially when your tea towels have been inadequately washed with what seems to be effluvia of small child. 

Grizzle over - just one last question:

4. One wants to play a game where you pretend to share his blanky then he snatches it away.  Do you:

(A) Play once then get bored and ignore him.
(B) Snatch the blanky for a cuddle on your own.
(C) Play again and again because of the priceless smile that cracks his face every time you do it.  And because he only plays that game with you. 

(C), of course. 

i don't like me much right now, either

Today I'm one of THOSE people.  Those snotty-nose-in-an-office people.   Am constantly suspecting other people of resenting my sneezy, goopy carcass (as I would them were the tables turned).  I wouldn't be here infecting others, could I ditch my responsibilities (I know, I know, no one is *that* important but in this case, I'd be sitting in bed on the phone giving directions every five minutes and responding to emails and, frankly, that's easier in this disease-incubator of a building from the luxury of my lumbar-supportive chair.  And where there are people who I can scam into making me cups of tea.)

I'm a walking contagion, just be grateful it isn't reaching out through the screen as you read this.  Very timely that we are already investigating extra insulation solutions.  The power bill at the end of this month is going to be something horrific, at the rate we've been pumping the gas heaters.  We made the call today just to wrap up warmly on the couch in the evening, under a blanket, rather than wasting more of the earth's precious resources.  Oh, and in a completely selfless move to reduce our power bill, I bought a very cute rug for the bedroom floor (selfish for my toesies!)  Wanna see it?

I KNOW.  FIRST PICTURE IN AGES AND IT'S A G.D. RUG.  I DON'T EVEN KNOW ME ANYMORE.
ANYWAY, YOU CAN GET IT HERE

It was delivered to our front deck at 6 this morning and I thought someone was in our house and fuh-reaked out.  Was very pleased to find it was just soft furnishings on my doorstep and not, say, a burglar (dressed like the Hamburglar, obvi.)

While I'm on the subject of extravagant purchases for my new home (what? You thought we were done with MAH HOUSE talk? Oh, you were so wrong that I feel a little sorry for you), I also bought an ikea situation for the TV shite to sit in/on (cables! speakers! general boy crap like that! P is OBSESSED with the sound quality in our new living room) and some bedside drawers.  FUCKING EXHILARATING OR WHAT? I ask you. 

As you were. 

iiiiiii'm kiiiiiiiiiiiissing yooooooooou

List du jour is Movies What I Have Loved Far, Far More Than Is Reasonable:

• Grease.  I think that was the first taped-off-the-telly movie that my sister and I wore out with repeats, watching it every day if we could.  Wasn’t sure what Rizzo’s problem was, didn’t know why Frenchie could quit school (are they allowed to do that in America where they also can wear whatever they want to high school every day?!!), thought Sandy was prettier when she was square, could not for the life of me understand why they wrapped Grease Lightning with a giant roll of cling film – didn’t get it at age 7, basically, but I loved it. 
• No, wait, the first taped-off-the-telly-movie we wore out was the Sound of Music.  Mum used to sit on the edge of her chair in the scene where Captain Von Trapp waltzes with Maria.  I thought ‘16 Going On 17’ much more romantic, but I was a fool, I have subsequently learned on yet another round of rewatching as an adult.  CvT is the business. 
• ROMEO+JULIET.  I can hear any song off that sound track and my heart basically stops in its tracks, thinking about Leonardo DiCaprio.  Infinitely cooler than how I felt about Titanic (3x at the movies, people. I suspect I believed Jack was real and that the ending might change next time around).  I think I learned what love/obsession/drugs were by watching and rewatching R+J.  Mrs Grewal in fourth form English used it for our Shakespeare study.  She was a bloody genius.  All the girls in the classroom were rapt, mouthing along with the best bits and the sound track.  Jesus, Leo through the fishtank.  If you were around 14 in 1996, female and had access to a movie theatre, I think you know what I’m saying.
• The BBC’s 1995 Pride & Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.  I discovered this at about 15 or 16 and quickly wore off Leo, let me tell you.  I think I thought I was a modern day Elizabeth Bennet and could not wait to say I was not yet one and twenty.  I have this on both VHS and DVD, as well as the Keira Knightley version (Matthew McAvoy, you’re alright, but I basically watch it to bitch about how it’s not the same as the book.)
• Die Hard.  My sister and I discovered the glory on a lazy weekend (both of us love Alan Rickman which likely drew us in) and were yelling Yippee-Ki-Yay Mother Fucker and bursting into hysterical giggles for WEEKS.  My parents were, I think, both horrified and secretly proud.  I still feel like the first three Die Hards are the ultimate movies to watch at Christmas.  Is that weird?
• Anything with Liam Neeson.  And I’m not just talking about Rob Roy or Love, Actually.  Sadly, I have seen and enjoyed Taken, Taken 2 and The Grey which tells you something about my twisted little mind.  I suspect he’s the best action star of all time (Bruce is second.  Die Hard 4 really jumped the shark.)

Anyway, there are more v intellectual movies in my catalogue of films what I adore (ha.  Do Ghost or Ghostbusters count as intellectual? What about Spaceballs?), but the above are probably the extent of the ones I feel obsessive about. Most of them are the result of being a ghastly yet probably your average middle class teenager: it was a time of bad poetry and horrendous, compulsive adoration.

i digress, and then some

I ate my toast this morning watching a repeat of the Amazing Race.  That show is one of my all-time favourites, though I haven’t watched it in an age.  The stupid fights, the wonderful locations, the excellent/piss-takey descriptions of the competitors: these are all ingredients for a fab 45 minutes of television.  It had me wolfing down Vegemite on Vogel’s bread without even the usual glum recollection that the Marmite factory is STILL out of commission due to earthquake damage (Marmite FOR LIFE -  Vegemite is a poor imitation of the real black gold).  Anyway, the relevant point is that the contestants were scrambling from Morocco to Barcelona and I squealed loudly – we were just there three months ago!

Argh - and this is the spot  where I digress badly from Barcelona to Surgery because I'm horrendously distracted by real life.  K has just had two hours of reconstructive surgery on her knee and is feeling so sorry for herself that she actually (virtually) laughed at an incredibly lame joke I made via text message while she drowsed in recovery.  I thought she was probably still high off the anaesthetic, but she responded that she was more low than high - poor chook. 

I'll have some flowers either delivered to her or I'll take them myself - what else makes you feel better when you're miserable and laid up in bed?  I should load up my kindle and drop it to her as well, I suppose.  Some stew for her freezer perhaps?

There are a number of health crises in the family just at present - between K and P's family, we're on a bit of a hiding to nothing just now.  Which is why I gave them leave to laugh at my own miserable health predicament yesterday.  I went to the doctor for a standard visit and left half an hour later $75 lighter in the wallet having been given a SURPRISE smear test.  "Oh wait, aren't you due for one? Can you do it today?  Well, whip your pants off then" (to be fair, whip your pants off was my interpretation of a more polite sentence; amounted to the same thing really so I take leave to bastardize my doctor's words).  I KNOW, I KNOW cervical cancer is certainly not a joke and it's very important to be tested, but it's never FUN.  Especially when the doctor is heard to mutter "where is your cervix then?" after what seems an AGE already...I figured it was a rhetorical question and deigned not to answer.  I may have been a bit huffy about the whole thing.

A bit of an abortive attempt at a post today - stream of consciousness has interrupted and then somehow dammed itself completely (damned my writing, at the very least).  Well, you know more about my cervix now - I'm sharing more and more intimately with you on a daily basis...(please no! you say.  Fair enough, cervix will be sidelined for the foreseeable future.

way harsh, tai

To break the monotony of grey days and the 9-to-whenever slog, let me just say that TV has been on a ROLL recently with excellent choices of viewing for grumpy evenings or Sunday afternoons…



THIS IS THE PICTURE I SENT P WHEN HE WAS LATE HOME THE OTHER DAY ENTITLED "WHY YOU REALLY SHOULD BE HOME RIGHT NOW".  HE REPLIED "I FEEL THE NEED…THE NEED FOR SPEED!" AND THEN HE BROKE THE LAND SPEED RECORD GETTING HOME FROM THE OFFICE.

Other highlights include "10 Things I Hate About You" and "Clueless" (effing timeless) (also, are you sensing a theme here?  Self-admitted Jane Austen freak, how's that for predictable).

In another attempt to alleviate the pain at the office this morning, I bought shoes online.  It was satisfying, let me tell you, but I'm having a bit of an "Daddy I Want An Oompa-Loompa Now" moment and wish they had arrived already (or that I'd ponied up for speedy delivery).  I am such a brat.*

As you were. 

*not said in a proud kind of way - I thought this behaviour was COMPLETELY reasonable and justifiable until I wrote it down.  This blog business is acting like my moral compass...it's even giving me pause for thought about completely fucking excessive levels of profanity I use...

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. 

*stop press* time for a ridiculous whinge

So I've been giving you the rose-tinted lens version of relationship with P.  I've been all "P is so great, I'm the luckiest girl in the world, he cooks my dinner and makes me eat meals with vegetables wah wah wah".  But I've got to face the truth people, there is an enormous blight on this happyhappy picture of domestic bliss.

He doesn't love reality TV.

I'm not sure how I'm bringing myself to marry him.

I can only watch Teen Mom when he's still at work because P considers it way too depressing.  Any programming is better than the Bachelor in his warped mind.  He'll tolerate the Biggest Loser US edition only because he thinks Bob is the Business.  He suffered through my personal highlight of 2009/2010 which was the first season of Jersey Shore.  He can't tell the Kardashians apart.  HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHO BETHENNY FRANKEL IS.    

Sometimes, I think we're just too far apart.

domesticity is overrated

BIG NEWS: last night, I cooked dinner for P and I.  I know, I know, back the truck up, what were you thinking A?  Just yesterday you were all concerned about selling out on your feminist principles and now you're cooking his dinner?  You are a fembot sell out!  You are a disgrace to the species!  And you didn't even use the opportunity for a sneaky vegetarian attack?* A, YOU EVEN MISSED THE OPPORTUNITY TO LOW-CARB THAT SHIT.  ARE YOU TRYING TO SABOTAGE YOUR OWN ASS? 

Yeah, spag bol for the family registers as a big event round these parts.  P does most of the cooking and I am the designated sous-chef.  I love this role, 'cause the sous-chef jobs I get assigned are generally along the lines of "mix the martinis, woman!" or "get out of my way", in which case I can go back to whatever Bachelor/Flavour of Love/Teen Mom/Kardashian programming I can find (I watch AWESOME television, what can I say.  Who wants to come home from work and have to use their brains in the evening?  Not this little piggy!). 

I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY.  SHE'S PRETTY WITH BIG HOOHOOS THAT SHE DRESSES IN A SLUTTY CASUAL MANNER AND SHE IS MOSTLY NICE TO HER SISTERS.  I CONSIDER HER ROLE MODEL MATERIAL FOR ME.  YES I AM STILL A FEMINIST.  ONE WITH ISSUES.

P is a veritable genius in the kitchen.  He does things with beans that make me weak in the knees (read that how you will you filthy-minded imaginary readers).  The one drawback is that his cooking prowess makes him unreceptive to the some of the specialities in my repertoire, which is a constant source of disappointment to me.  P does not consider that the following foodstuffs make an acceptable evening meal:

- Toast.  Even if I go beyond Marmite and slap some avocado or tomato or *exciting day* both on that bad boy P does not consider it dinner. 

- Cereal.  Even when we had a packet of Lucky Charms so it was like eating sugary green marshmallow juice with crunchy bits P would not stomach cereal as a complete meal. 

MMM LUCKY CHARMS.

YOU GUYS ARE LUCKY WITH ALL THE EXCELLENT PICTURES ON THIS BLOG, ARE YOU NOT? JUST BE GRATEFUL I DID NOT GIVE YOU THE LEPRECHAUN THROWING UP LUCKY CHARMS WITH A FESTIVE HOLIDAY GREETING.  SAVING THAT ONE FOR MARCH. 

- Toasted sandwiches.  Apparently baked beans are only a morning/hangover food and creamed corn was only acceptable for lunch (if that) when we were impoverished students living in the slums of North Dunedin. 

- Biscuits.  Is there anything wrong with having an entrée of cheese and cracker (pickles if I'm really lashing out) followed by a main of cookie?  Sometimes I add a celery stick to ensure that I am reverse psychologizing the calories (don't tell me you've never bought into the argument that celery takes more calories to digest than it contains.  It is BRILLIANT).    

No, now that we are real people living grown up lives (allegedly) we must have a balanced evening meal that takes more than inspecting the fridge to prepare.  I really like this in theory.  It's not like we avoid take out; pizza has an important place in our lives as does quick cook fresh pasta from Sainsburys.  But I have to admit, removing toast and cereal from the repertoire has left me with very little to work with recipe-wise so spag bol remains on the menu, unexciting or no.  If there is anyone out there (echo...echo...) please know that all your 30 min meal suggestions would be gratefully received. 

*I like to 'surprise' P occasionally with a lack of meat.  I am usually caught out within about two prods of the fork, following which he mutters "would bacon have been too much to ask?" or mournfully intones "is there any chorizo in the fridge?"  On particularly strenuous work days he has been known to demand "DID AN ANIMAL DIE IN THE MAKING OF THIS MEAL? BECAUSE THAT'S MY BOTTOM LINE, RIGHT THERE".  He usually sucks it up though and has even whispered once or twice that my vego meal was tasty. 

A brief selection of things that I love, in case you needed to know.

• Rain on car windows
• Flipflops/jandals/thongs; whatever you like to call them.  Though thongs still sounds wrong to me on a number of levels.  C'mon you guys, jandals = jelly sandals!  Even though jandals are closely related to a thing that I hate (toes.  They're so creepy and they remind me of some kind of Homerian cyclop-ish creature that pretty much just wants to kill you with a studded club, but hasn't got the strength or, possibly more importantly, the independent thought,or arms for that matter), they make my feet happy.
• Mindy Kaling.  She's freaking awesome.  Funny as hell - she writes, produces, directs and stars in the American Office (I don't care what you say.  Yes, blah blah Ricky Gervais is a genius but somehow I prefer the American version.  Trust me, I didn't want it that way either).  And her favourite movie is You've Got Mail.  I probably turned people off me significantly with that, but oh well, if public approval was what I craved I wouldn't write a blog that no one reads...would I?
• Sweatbands on men.  Michael Cera is wholly responsible for this. God only knows why I think a man wearing a sweatband is cool but I do.  Even when the odds that he's come from some squash match at the club with slightly-balding-Bertie and halitosis-Harry are significant, still love me a sweatbanded fella.
• Hyperbole and a half.  Allie is hilarious with mad skillz on Word Paint of which I can only dream. 
• Shoes made for total whore-bags.  Patent leather, peep toe, stiletto heeled visions of nastiness, I feel awesome when I wear these.  I had a gold, silver and bronze pair of peep-toe tranny shoes that made me feel not only like I'd performed some kind of clean sweep at the Olympics, but that I was the sexiest bitch on the planet (or the most good looking girl on the street, depending on the street - linking to another thing I love, Flight of the Conchords).
• Potatoes.  The humble potato never lets me down.   Has downsides (see: my waist and ass) but generally totally worth it.
• Wine.  See: Potatoes,
• Gin.  See: Wine and Potatoes.
• Olives.  See: Gin.
• And now that I'm listing booze and food related items, best I stop while the going is good...