I spent four days in Golden Bay this weekend. Think of a map of the world. Then think of the small collection of islands in the bottom right hand corner of the globe, to the bottom right of Australia. That's NZ. Of the two largest islands in the cluster, think of the southernmost one. See how at the top it curves away in an odd spit of land known as Farewell Spit? Golden Bay is beneath the Spit, sandwiched between two national parks, and is pretty remote, as far as places on earth go. It is inhabited by dairy farmers, hippies and transient German tourists, so far as I can tell. It's pretty much my favourite.
We went for a wedding and it was lovely, despite torrential rain that ruined the marquee two nights before and saturated the grass and guests on the day of. We crammed into the local hall and celebrated loudly the illegal marriage of two old and dear friends (illegal only in the sense that they're doing the licence thing later and had an unregistered celebrant, not illegal in terms of consanguinity or anything scandalous, should you be concerned). While they don't live in Golden Bay, they are civil servants who would love to be hippies making goat cheese off the land. We gifted them chooks and a coop for their backyard as their wedding present. They're chuffed.
We stayed in a bach beside the water with fourteen-ish old friends from scattered corners. We laughed, we reminisced, we hugged, we swam, we ate together.
The sun came out the day following the wedding. We celebrated by a taking trips to the clearest, cleanest springs I have ever seen and to a remote, windswept beach on the Abel Tasman coast where seal pups were playing in a rockpool. It was magical. Te Waikoropupu Springs and Wharariki Beach, respectively, should you ever find yourselves in that neck of the woods. The springs are wai tapu or sacred water, so you can't touch or drink the water, but nothing I have ever seen has made me so thirsty in my life. And the seal pups! Well, I have no words for the seal pups except for horrific things like ADORABLE.
It was restorative. I used to have family living in that neck of the woods, so I called Dad every day for recommendations and to discuss the lay of the land, the size of the ice-creams. It was a lovely way of reminiscing about childhood trips spent swimming in the river, panning for gold and running over the dunes. It was precious.
On the way home, we stopped in Nelson for lunch with Dad's two surviving sisters, his brother and their spouses. Dad is the youngest by a reasonable stretch and it is tough to see them grapple with the mortality of their naughty, independent wee brother. We focussed instead on my baby and the next generations of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren. It was lovely to see them.
We came home last night to a plastered master bedroom, two happy kitties and a boat load of washing, following an unfortunate incident in P's bag with a bottle of red wine. I really, really needed that trip. I needed the laughter and the happiness of a wonderful life event and the natural beauty and the escape from the everyday and the time with family and the sleep, oh god, did I need the sleep.
I am really a lucky girl, I think.
Showing posts with label aotearoa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aotearoa. Show all posts
Tuesday, 10 March 2015
Sunday, 30 November 2014
end of spring 2014
I was in Christchurch last week, alternatively squinting as the sun beat down on me through the windows of various meeting rooms or pushing back my hair as the wind blew a gale when I managed to escape outside. It's been a disappointing spring, really. Gusty, drizzly, grey. I shouldn't complain - in the two years since we returned to New Zealand, the seasons have outdone themselves. Aucklanders grow to expect six weeks of rain during spring, standard so there's nothing new with what we've been experiencing to date. It's just that springtime elsewhere seems to have bright days (notable exception: London, Spring 2012, miseryfest).
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
colonial hangovers
Last night, in my dreams, I attended a very intimate Mariah Carey gig with Kim Kardashian and Kanye West. Let me tell you right now, my dreams suggest that Mariah's voice has really gone off the boil, but don't tell her that because it does not end well if you do. Kanye will not lift a finger to help.
It was a disturbed night of sleep. Kimye and Mariah, Tabitha sleeping between P and I and wriggling, P swatting Cokies who demanded 2am biscuits and the usual onslaught of Guy Fawke's fireworks.
I have always, always, been afraid of fireworks. I thought Dad would shoot himself with the double happies when I was small. Catherine Wheels? Def lose an eye. At a Christmas party for a part time job I once held, a colleague lit the fireworks with a small handheld blowtorch (he's is still a friend some 10 years on, I'm proud to say, despite his antics). It could have ended much worse, though the scratches on our co-worker's brand new car (as in, just picked up from the dealership) were awful. I still love a sparkler, I suppose, but I hate what fireworks do to animals and I think the injury rates are too high to justify the enjoyment.
Gosh, I hear some saying, what a boring old fart she is. Or worse: she's supporting a PC nanny state! (The co-opting of 'PC' as an insult and/or a categorical denial of any institutional societal issues really grinds my gears, if that wasn't obvious.) Get this: if you feel that way, you'll probably be even more riled about another objection to celebrating Guy Fawke's - how bizarre is it that we burn an effigy of a man who tried to blow up a parliament that's not even our own about 400 or so years ago?! So much to unpack there, amirite?
In any case, I think fireworks'll be for public displays only soon, in the land of the long white cloud.
It was a disturbed night of sleep. Kimye and Mariah, Tabitha sleeping between P and I and wriggling, P swatting Cokies who demanded 2am biscuits and the usual onslaught of Guy Fawke's fireworks.
I have always, always, been afraid of fireworks. I thought Dad would shoot himself with the double happies when I was small. Catherine Wheels? Def lose an eye. At a Christmas party for a part time job I once held, a colleague lit the fireworks with a small handheld blowtorch (he's is still a friend some 10 years on, I'm proud to say, despite his antics). It could have ended much worse, though the scratches on our co-worker's brand new car (as in, just picked up from the dealership) were awful. I still love a sparkler, I suppose, but I hate what fireworks do to animals and I think the injury rates are too high to justify the enjoyment.
Gosh, I hear some saying, what a boring old fart she is. Or worse: she's supporting a PC nanny state! (The co-opting of 'PC' as an insult and/or a categorical denial of any institutional societal issues really grinds my gears, if that wasn't obvious.) Get this: if you feel that way, you'll probably be even more riled about another objection to celebrating Guy Fawke's - how bizarre is it that we burn an effigy of a man who tried to blow up a parliament that's not even our own about 400 or so years ago?! So much to unpack there, amirite?
In any case, I think fireworks'll be for public displays only soon, in the land of the long white cloud.
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
frazzled, variously
So work has seriously kicked off. I think it's that 'Christmas is coming' mentality setting in - oh fuck, say all of my clients, ever, at once, let's get that stuff sorted before the Christmas holidays! And I proceed to flip the flip out because I am incapable of any setting on my personal toaster between warm bread and JEEBERS TURN OFF THE SMOKE ALARMS.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
Thursday, 2 October 2014
what addiction shall we address next?
In a meeting yesterday at someone else's offices, the sun on my back kept getting hotter and hotter. My blue suit doesn't breathe particularly well and I was increasingly uncomfortable and sweaty, as the minutes ticked by into hours. The sun rose higher. It was a formal meeting and ripping off my jacket to a sleeveless top would have been inappropriate in the circumstances. I surreptitiously tried to blow air up onto my face. When we finally took a break, I raced outside and gulped fresh air as fast as decorum would allow. I was rapidly followed by another meeting attendee, guiltily lighting a cigarette.
I realised then that cigarettes are almost non-existent in my life, these days.
I've never smoked myself, but I vividly recall the first occasion in 2004 or 2005, after the indoor smoking ban took effect, I went to the Bowler (RIP Bowling Green Tavern, once Dunedin's finest, I partook of your delicious beverages, pashed on your dancefloor, even once managed to gain entry with two bleeding knees*). That night, the smell in the bar without the mask of cigarette smoke was so horrific I had to go home. But! the next morning, my hair was fresh. No burn marks in my clothes or on my arms. Once the Bowler ripped out the old carpet and the smell issue was reduced (wouldn't go so far as to say eliminated), I forgot all about gross secondhand smoke issues after a night out.
In 2008, I recall having a few colleagues who'd still nip outside for a smoke during work hours. There were only a few, but you knew where they'd be when they weren't at their desks.
In 2010, P relegated his social smoking to only very special occasions. It had been pretty infrequent anyway (getting laid > smoking), but he didn't always have a packet stashed in the top drawer of his bedside table anymore.
Today, I would be pressed to think of a friend who is a smoker in the classic sense anymore. None of my colleagues leave the office for a cigarette (a coffee, different story).
Butts on the street are much fewer.
The Quit Me Mutu advertising is prevalent.
Amazing what changes can be wrought in a decade or so.
*the result of two (2) separate accidents in one (1) frosty night with (1) unfortunate pair of shoes and no doubt three (3) too many pre-drinks.
I realised then that cigarettes are almost non-existent in my life, these days.
I've never smoked myself, but I vividly recall the first occasion in 2004 or 2005, after the indoor smoking ban took effect, I went to the Bowler (RIP Bowling Green Tavern, once Dunedin's finest, I partook of your delicious beverages, pashed on your dancefloor, even once managed to gain entry with two bleeding knees*). That night, the smell in the bar without the mask of cigarette smoke was so horrific I had to go home. But! the next morning, my hair was fresh. No burn marks in my clothes or on my arms. Once the Bowler ripped out the old carpet and the smell issue was reduced (wouldn't go so far as to say eliminated), I forgot all about gross secondhand smoke issues after a night out.
In 2008, I recall having a few colleagues who'd still nip outside for a smoke during work hours. There were only a few, but you knew where they'd be when they weren't at their desks.
In 2010, P relegated his social smoking to only very special occasions. It had been pretty infrequent anyway (getting laid > smoking), but he didn't always have a packet stashed in the top drawer of his bedside table anymore.
Today, I would be pressed to think of a friend who is a smoker in the classic sense anymore. None of my colleagues leave the office for a cigarette (a coffee, different story).
Butts on the street are much fewer.
The Quit Me Mutu advertising is prevalent.
Amazing what changes can be wrought in a decade or so.
*the result of two (2) separate accidents in one (1) frosty night with (1) unfortunate pair of shoes and no doubt three (3) too many pre-drinks.
Monday, 22 September 2014
decision 2014
We got half cut on champagne and went to pick out wedding jewellery for M on Saturday afternoon. I expect that's why I fell asleep by 9pm on Saturday night during the election coverage; being sauced, that is. We had a lovely time at the jewellery store. After finding the perfect earrings and matching necklace, we tried on everything in the vintage cabinet. I flounced around the store with a three carat diamond on my finger (verdict: terribly gauche and wondrously obnoxious, three carats is), while trying to persuade Hat Friend to purchase an expensive gold fob chain or a beautiful emerald ring. We drank some more bubbles afterwards and toasted the bride. Can't wait for her wedding day.
Election coverage: do you know, I think the coverage on my facebook page was probably more extensive and vitriolic than the coverage on the two major free to air channels? That's saying something. I woke up to posts on Sunday morning saying things like:
- 'Shame on you, New Zealand'
- 'Crying into a bucket of KFC, Dotcom?'
- 'If you didn't vote, you can't complain'
- 'Moving to Scandinavia'
Had the result gone a different way, I think I would have seen just as much disappointment from the other half of my feed. It wasn't all one-way traffic. I've found it hard to work myself into a proper lather about this election, though for all that I'm disappointed that NZ doesn't appear to wish to make any major decisions that might result in a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor. Wow, I didn't expect to make any direct statements about my political leanings on social media (other than, you know, me feminism) but there we have it. Oh, except I've bagged Colin Craig before and I was thrilled to see we'll go another three Colin Craig-free years.
Election coverage: do you know, I think the coverage on my facebook page was probably more extensive and vitriolic than the coverage on the two major free to air channels? That's saying something. I woke up to posts on Sunday morning saying things like:
- 'Shame on you, New Zealand'
- 'Crying into a bucket of KFC, Dotcom?'
- 'If you didn't vote, you can't complain'
- 'Moving to Scandinavia'
Had the result gone a different way, I think I would have seen just as much disappointment from the other half of my feed. It wasn't all one-way traffic. I've found it hard to work myself into a proper lather about this election, though for all that I'm disappointed that NZ doesn't appear to wish to make any major decisions that might result in a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor. Wow, I didn't expect to make any direct statements about my political leanings on social media (other than, you know, me feminism) but there we have it. Oh, except I've bagged Colin Craig before and I was thrilled to see we'll go another three Colin Craig-free years.
Friday, 22 August 2014
nothing
FRIDAY.
FRIDAY.
(It bore repeating).
Thank goodness for that.
That is all.
FRIDAY.
(It bore repeating).
Thank goodness for that.
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| HAVEN'T PINCHED A GOOD PIC FROM FUCK YEAH, BOOKS IN A WHILE. THANKS MORRISSEY, THANKS FUCK YEAH, BOOKS |
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
diy
I posted something terribly depressing, then I fled the scene of the crime for a solid two weeks. Well done, self, you're a real peach.
The break was prompted by my holiday from work...AKA the week in which I learned my deficiencies in the home improvement realm!
Here's how it actually went:
1) I paint swatches all over the dining room wall and melt down about the difference between Quarter Surrender and One Eighth Surrender, because it's clearly a big deal. Much time spent staring at walls in different lights.
2) We have a cup of tea.
3) P starts demolishing the linings. It transpires they're hard board not gib (plasterboard) and there's a fuckload (official term) of wood behind them for bracing. There is a technical term for this but it escapes me, or perhaps I never had it.
4) I cart loads of rubbish to our bin.
5) I cart loads of rubbish to the bin of the empty house next door, looking around to see if anyone's busting me.
6) More tea.
7) Sparky comes to fix the outlets in the dining room and add a heated towel rail to the bathroom. HOLY SMOKES a heated towel rail is a super luxury item! I mean, my towel is always dry now! AMAZING. Yes, I have had an HTR (we're on close terms now) in my life previously but seriously, it's a minor improvement to an incredibly shabby bathroom and it makes me beyond happy.
8) Tea while watching electrician and his apprentice (who seemed about 17 and named Silkie. 'Silk, get under the house.' 'Silk, get in the roof.' 'Silk, have you fixed that yet?' Endlessly entertaining).
9) Spend HOURS pulling superfluous nails out of the bracing. HOURS.
10) Get dressed up in a disposable overall (something I hope never to do again) to install insulation. Install insulation and only breathe a bit of fibreglass in the process. Feel itchy.
11) More nail pulling. It turns out they used approximately a million tacks to secure the hard wood lining, none of which came out when we ripped off the lining.
12) Freak out when P uses the drop saw. Convinced he will lose a finger, so instead of sensibly supervising with my finger on the dial to call 111, I go outside to paint a window hoping I'll somehow avoid the emergency.
13) P still intact, hammers things.
14) Gib fixer and plasterer arrives. Takes ages to dry. Attempt poorly planned pathway around side of house as landscaping project in interim. Present status: muddy.
15) Sanding stuff. Architraves, ceiling. (OMG sanding the ceiling).
16) Select paint. Resene Quarter Surrender with white for ceilings, archs, skirts and scotia. USe Dad's store card for discount and P nearly gives the game away asking me how I got it in front of the clerk. Immediately have regret about colour choice.
Aaaaand that's about as far as we got. I didn't bother writing it in, but we made approximately 50 trips to Mitre 10, Placemakers, some fancy Villa timber store down the road, the booze store, the paint store and the supermarket during that time. OMG, I bought building paper from Mitre 10 and nails and shit, all by myself. They let me buy it all without some kind of licence. (Not so much feminism's win as it is capitalism's, I expect).
The break was prompted by my holiday from work...AKA the week in which I learned my deficiencies in the home improvement realm!
Here's how it actually went:
1) I paint swatches all over the dining room wall and melt down about the difference between Quarter Surrender and One Eighth Surrender, because it's clearly a big deal. Much time spent staring at walls in different lights.
 |
| INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO/NAP TIME. THIS IS ACTUALLY HOW AMATEUR WE ARE. |
 |
| [50 SHADES OF GREY JOKE HERE] |
3) P starts demolishing the linings. It transpires they're hard board not gib (plasterboard) and there's a fuckload (official term) of wood behind them for bracing. There is a technical term for this but it escapes me, or perhaps I never had it.
4) I cart loads of rubbish to our bin.
5) I cart loads of rubbish to the bin of the empty house next door, looking around to see if anyone's busting me.
6) More tea.
7) Sparky comes to fix the outlets in the dining room and add a heated towel rail to the bathroom. HOLY SMOKES a heated towel rail is a super luxury item! I mean, my towel is always dry now! AMAZING. Yes, I have had an HTR (we're on close terms now) in my life previously but seriously, it's a minor improvement to an incredibly shabby bathroom and it makes me beyond happy.
8) Tea while watching electrician and his apprentice (who seemed about 17 and named Silkie. 'Silk, get under the house.' 'Silk, get in the roof.' 'Silk, have you fixed that yet?' Endlessly entertaining).
9) Spend HOURS pulling superfluous nails out of the bracing. HOURS.
 |
| SOMEWHERE IN ALL OF THIS WE WENT TO WAIHEKE ISLAND FOR A LONG LUNCH BECAUSE HOLIDAY. |
10) Get dressed up in a disposable overall (something I hope never to do again) to install insulation. Install insulation and only breathe a bit of fibreglass in the process. Feel itchy.
11) More nail pulling. It turns out they used approximately a million tacks to secure the hard wood lining, none of which came out when we ripped off the lining.
12) Freak out when P uses the drop saw. Convinced he will lose a finger, so instead of sensibly supervising with my finger on the dial to call 111, I go outside to paint a window hoping I'll somehow avoid the emergency.
13) P still intact, hammers things.
14) Gib fixer and plasterer arrives. Takes ages to dry. Attempt poorly planned pathway around side of house as landscaping project in interim. Present status: muddy.
 |
| THIS WINS THE PRIZE FOR MOST BORING PHOTO OF ALL TIME BUT WE HAVE WALLS! ALSO, A SHIT VIEW FROM THIS ROOM. |
15) Sanding stuff. Architraves, ceiling. (OMG sanding the ceiling).
16) Select paint. Resene Quarter Surrender with white for ceilings, archs, skirts and scotia. USe Dad's store card for discount and P nearly gives the game away asking me how I got it in front of the clerk. Immediately have regret about colour choice.
Aaaaand that's about as far as we got. I didn't bother writing it in, but we made approximately 50 trips to Mitre 10, Placemakers, some fancy Villa timber store down the road, the booze store, the paint store and the supermarket during that time. OMG, I bought building paper from Mitre 10 and nails and shit, all by myself. They let me buy it all without some kind of licence. (Not so much feminism's win as it is capitalism's, I expect).
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
piffle
Ugh, the stress is eating my stomach lining again. It's work - I'd spill it all out on the page in hope of a cathartic redemption, but it's confidential of course and tedious in the extreme, so. Let's just say that checking your emails at about midnight on a Friday night while under the influence, then seeing something you realllllllly didn't want to see in there is BALLS. Don't do it, you spend the next two days chewing on it!
So yes, Wellington. I like Wellington. I told P as we were leaving that if he got offered a job there, I wouldn't veto it. We had a lovely time with really good friends and I am now finding that I absolutely do not feel like recapping it. This is likely because I gave my mother the rundown via email yesterday. I did skip the bit about D and M buying us all tequila shots, which we downed and promptly all went to bed because fuck that, way too old. Also, I skipped the bit when I went to a skody bar in town in my converse sneakers because I had nothing to change into - I discovered that (a) cardigans are not really acceptable Courtney Place attire post-midnight on a Friday and (b) I don't know how to dance without wearing heels.
Laziest. Blogger. Ever.
So yes, Wellington. I like Wellington. I told P as we were leaving that if he got offered a job there, I wouldn't veto it. We had a lovely time with really good friends and I am now finding that I absolutely do not feel like recapping it. This is likely because I gave my mother the rundown via email yesterday. I did skip the bit about D and M buying us all tequila shots, which we downed and promptly all went to bed because fuck that, way too old. Also, I skipped the bit when I went to a skody bar in town in my converse sneakers because I had nothing to change into - I discovered that (a) cardigans are not really acceptable Courtney Place attire post-midnight on a Friday and (b) I don't know how to dance without wearing heels.
Laziest. Blogger. Ever.
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
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?
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?
Thursday, 12 June 2014
staycation is an awful, awful word
I have booked some holiday, thank goodness. It's not that I've been consistently under the pump, but I am starting to feel like I need something to look forward to, other than just the end of winter. So, P and I have agreed to take a week off in August. We'll probably just potter around the house, because I cannot bring myself to spend money other than on the mortgage at this point in time.
Case in point: the work dress I am wearing today has had a hole in the bum patched. You can't see it and it's such a pretty dress...but basically my entire work wardrobe is shabby. I don't think I have bought a single new piece in 2014 and I didn't really bother in 2013 either. So profeshunal. The bum on my work pants looks a little saggy, my cardigans are a bit frayed at the cuffs, my lint roller has been getting a work out, I won't lift my arms wearing my one white collared court shirt...you get the picture.
Mind you, I'm still spending through the nose on cat food. And me-food. I'm not as spending averse as I'd probably like you to think. We're going to Wellington for a weekend to visit friends in July. And we're being organised about summer this year - a friend is hooking up a bach in Omaha. So, really, I'm just lazy when it comes to professional attire and appearance it seems (OH MY GOD MY ROOTS. Do they still qualify as roots at coming up 2 inches?).
Anyway, August. A week off at home. Here's hoping it will be delightful. Things I could do with that week:
Case in point: the work dress I am wearing today has had a hole in the bum patched. You can't see it and it's such a pretty dress...but basically my entire work wardrobe is shabby. I don't think I have bought a single new piece in 2014 and I didn't really bother in 2013 either. So profeshunal. The bum on my work pants looks a little saggy, my cardigans are a bit frayed at the cuffs, my lint roller has been getting a work out, I won't lift my arms wearing my one white collared court shirt...you get the picture.
Mind you, I'm still spending through the nose on cat food. And me-food. I'm not as spending averse as I'd probably like you to think. We're going to Wellington for a weekend to visit friends in July. And we're being organised about summer this year - a friend is hooking up a bach in Omaha. So, really, I'm just lazy when it comes to professional attire and appearance it seems (OH MY GOD MY ROOTS. Do they still qualify as roots at coming up 2 inches?).
Anyway, August. A week off at home. Here's hoping it will be delightful. Things I could do with that week:
- Properly clean the house. As in actually dust things, up high for example.
- Paint. Lots of things.
- Sand. Lots of things.
- Sit my bum on the couch.
- Prepare the spring garden.
- Go to a west coast beach for the day.
- Read.
- Buy some new work clothes, for crying out loud.
- Cook.
Monday, 2 June 2014
queen's birthday 2014
Me? Oh I've been working like a slave, and then rushing off to Waiheke for a day wine-tasting with friends, getting way too sauced on the good stuff, wasting all of Sunday curled up in a ball of vino and regret fumes, and spending most of the Monday off at work.
But, I made a new friend! This is Bobby:
And we saw the sun!
I swear, the only way to tell it was the beginning of winter was by examining the vines:
Before I wrote off my tastebuds (and the rest), we had a swig of the LaRose from Stonyridge. Heaven in a glass, if you're into that sort of thing. Visitors to Auckland, a day trip to Waiheke cannot come highly rated enough.
And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much.
But, I made a new friend! This is Bobby:
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| BOBBY IS THREE. LIKES: SHOELACES, COAT BUTTONS. DISLIKES: DOUBLE KNOTS |
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| SWIPED FROM P'S FACEBOOK. STONYRIDGE VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, LAST DAY OF AUTUMN 2014 |
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| TE MOTU VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, HOME OF BOBBY |
And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much.
Monday, 26 May 2014
autumn farm
I had a short weekend on the farm with my parents. I took my big camera and photographed the bejesus out of the bonfire, Mum's cat and dog, the lambs, the fields (not yet downloaded, I'm afraid if you're jonesing for a look at pictures of wee sooty-faced little lambs this blog is a real tease). We ate and drank and were merry. I slept over 10 hours. I cuddled the cat who swiped me amiably when he'd had enough. P shot at rabbits. We swigged whiskey fireside and watched the stars come out.
I noticed Bert's overt absence on the hilltop, with his lower lip drooping and socked back hoof resting. Couldn't bring myself to visit his grave (Christ, I can't hang up the washing at home without darting glances at Timothy's resting place and hurting inside my ribs). Mum sympathised; she can't visit Bert and ten years on, she still thinks of Pip (the family Jack Russell terrier) every time she walks to the apricot tree on the hill. We talked about Sam, Mum's labrador cross, who disappeared by the mailbox one day, never to be seen again. It's worse about Sam - she doesn't have a spot, only an empty kennel. The graveyard inside my heart is getting terribly big. Perhaps that's what happens with age - only you notice it first with the pets. May it be years before any other people join. Decades. Please.
Wow, that makes me ache and it wasn't at all where I intended to go with this post.
The sun was out - over 20 degrees, shining sky and green hills. I love this land, this country. I really do.
I noticed Bert's overt absence on the hilltop, with his lower lip drooping and socked back hoof resting. Couldn't bring myself to visit his grave (Christ, I can't hang up the washing at home without darting glances at Timothy's resting place and hurting inside my ribs). Mum sympathised; she can't visit Bert and ten years on, she still thinks of Pip (the family Jack Russell terrier) every time she walks to the apricot tree on the hill. We talked about Sam, Mum's labrador cross, who disappeared by the mailbox one day, never to be seen again. It's worse about Sam - she doesn't have a spot, only an empty kennel. The graveyard inside my heart is getting terribly big. Perhaps that's what happens with age - only you notice it first with the pets. May it be years before any other people join. Decades. Please.
Wow, that makes me ache and it wasn't at all where I intended to go with this post.
The sun was out - over 20 degrees, shining sky and green hills. I love this land, this country. I really do.
Monday, 12 May 2014
home
The concept of the childhood family home eludes me; we moved roughly once every five years. I only remember being upset about this once, when I was 10 or 11. K and I ripped down the 'for sale' sign at the end of the driveway and tossed it into an adjoining paddock. I don't know that we'd thought it through (removing the sign was hardly overthrowing an entire marketing campaign) and I don't recall how Dad discovered we'd done it, but I do remember the sinking feeling that the move was written on wall, when Dad was chewing us out after the fact. I gave up the rebellion pretty quickly and didn't look back as we left for the last time.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
why hello there
Hello foreign visitors! Welcome!
I have been feeling guilty - you're all peeking into my terribly staid life in New Zealand and I am offering up no lovely pictures of children or views or activities - in part because I'm not a mother (unless the cats count) and in part because I seek to keep mah blog semi-anonymous. Also, I am useless at taking pictures.
Here's a brief intro - probably enough material together to make it apparent exactly who I am!
A: Female, 31, Married, No Kids, Auckland New Zealand, Solicitor. Lived in New York for a year '09-'10 and in London '10-'12. Likes: eating and drinking, writing silly/whingy journal-type bits on the internet, travelling, reading, theatre, pottering in backyard, her fambily. Swears too much but generally has a sunny outlook, even if she does spent a disproportionate number of blogposts whinging. Generally useless. SRSLY.
Husband is P. P likes: wine, whiskey, sports, cooking, travelling, does worky things at work and has a wicked sense of humour. I broke his nose one time in the middle of the night.
Hometown is Auckland. City of about 1.5 million, full of traffic jams, beaches, dormant/extinct volcanoes and weather that makes A's hair crazy. Subtropical, so it rains a bit - temps year round between 0 and 30 degrees celcius. Kiwis like to wear black, jandals (flipflops), say 'yeah nah' because even if we disagree, we can't be too rude about it, watch/play sports, eat fish and chips, drink beersies, and go to the beach. We have horrific accents (somewhere between an Aussie and generic-British accent, very flat vowel sounds) and talk incredibly fast.
Cats are Tabitha and Cocoa. They are SPCA moggies who are cute.
Um, that's all I think? Nice to meet you.
I have been feeling guilty - you're all peeking into my terribly staid life in New Zealand and I am offering up no lovely pictures of children or views or activities - in part because I'm not a mother (unless the cats count) and in part because I seek to keep mah blog semi-anonymous. Also, I am useless at taking pictures.
Here's a brief intro - probably enough material together to make it apparent exactly who I am!
A: Female, 31, Married, No Kids, Auckland New Zealand, Solicitor. Lived in New York for a year '09-'10 and in London '10-'12. Likes: eating and drinking, writing silly/whingy journal-type bits on the internet, travelling, reading, theatre, pottering in backyard, her fambily. Swears too much but generally has a sunny outlook, even if she does spent a disproportionate number of blogposts whinging. Generally useless. SRSLY.
Husband is P. P likes: wine, whiskey, sports, cooking, travelling, does worky things at work and has a wicked sense of humour. I broke his nose one time in the middle of the night.
Hometown is Auckland. City of about 1.5 million, full of traffic jams, beaches, dormant/extinct volcanoes and weather that makes A's hair crazy. Subtropical, so it rains a bit - temps year round between 0 and 30 degrees celcius. Kiwis like to wear black, jandals (flipflops), say 'yeah nah' because even if we disagree, we can't be too rude about it, watch/play sports, eat fish and chips, drink beersies, and go to the beach. We have horrific accents (somewhere between an Aussie and generic-British accent, very flat vowel sounds) and talk incredibly fast.
Cats are Tabitha and Cocoa. They are SPCA moggies who are cute.
Um, that's all I think? Nice to meet you.
Tuesday, 29 April 2014
anzac 2014
C + C visited from Wellington, and H from Melbourne. We hosted get togethers, dinners, sunshine gossip sessions and it was just lovely. We gathered a crew of 9 and visited P + J in their new home by the beach, ate fish and chips, scared a scallop poacher and soaked up the sunshine. I'm so grateful for old friendships that are easy and wonderful.
Holiday weekends are just the bee's knees. (Knees of the bees plural? Or the knees of one bee? A mystery of the ages). One more in early June and then it's the dreaded run to Labour Day in October, with nary a public holiday in sight. [Ominous music]. I would say you can expect about 50% more bitching as a result of the slog through to spring, but it's hard to fit more than 100% bitching into a blog.
Holiday weekends I have known and loved:
Holiday weekends are just the bee's knees. (Knees of the bees plural? Or the knees of one bee? A mystery of the ages). One more in early June and then it's the dreaded run to Labour Day in October, with nary a public holiday in sight. [Ominous music]. I would say you can expect about 50% more bitching as a result of the slog through to spring, but it's hard to fit more than 100% bitching into a blog.
Holiday weekends I have known and loved:
- May bank holiday, Bordeaux, 2012. Cheese and bread and wine and sun and friends. And driving a rental car on the wrong side of the road for about a kilometre.
- Well, there was that Easter/Royal Wedding weekend 2011 when I got engaged, that was pretty excellent. Amongst all the festivities (and we fested, we sure did), we ate more than one pork pie with chutney. Ploughman's lunch > affiancing? It's close.
- Waitangi Day every year of primary school. A day off?! Wheeeeeeeeeee!
- ANZAC Day every year of primary school - almost as good as Waitangi Day, but got up at sparrow's for the dawn service so it lost marks there.
- Queen's Bday weekend 2013 and the attack of the Flaming Tim's. Oh dear god, I drew on a table with a crayon and hurled out a window in tandem with my husband and he saw a dog eating it in the morning and I blame everyone but myself, as I am wont to do.
- New Year's Day, 1990ish. The day I sizzled the backs of my legs on a lilo on the lake. It was great up until I used the last of the aloe vera.
- Easter 1992. I recall the size of the chocolate egg haul with somnolent reverence.
Monday, 28 April 2014
day in the life, autumn 2014
23 April 2014: Autumn, Auckland, New Zealand.
(Once again, a disclaimer: I am dull. Also, very few pictures as I spent the bulk of the day with work colleagues. If you don't have a taste for wordy blatherings and extremely poor quality photographs, I'd stop here.)
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5.45: roll over, eyeball clock, sigh. I woke up from a terrible dream about my Granny, which involved lashings of guilt and, inexplicably, picking up bacon at the supermarket. Flop onto my back, start scrolling through FB on phone. Even though I don't need to get up for another 15 to 30 minutes, if I go back to sleep now I'll be a wreck when I wake. P slumbers on, peacefully.
6.10: drag myself out of bed to feed the cats and have a shower. Disturb Tabitha, who had been curled up beside me, bushed after a night of exciting antics - the cat door allowed her to go outside at night for the first time. Cocoa is AWOL. We feel pretty confident that old Cokes can manage himself round the 'hood now (please don't let those be famous last words) as he's sauntering out for a couple of hours at a time during the day and evening, coming home when he's hungry and/or hot and/or wet and/or fancies a cuddle.
6.30: earl grey tea and a breakfast of canned peaches and muesli. It feels virtuous but is probably packed with sugar.
6.45: floating around the house aimlessly, starting to get ready (black pleated sleeveless dress, black belt, black cardigan, black tights for the first time this autumn, black stud earrings. WOE I am so BORING wearing the standard NZ black ensemble).
6.46: OH NO had forgotten work trip to Christchurch this afternoon. Hastily grab bag and throw in a change of underwear, make up, essential toiletries, phone charger, blue striped suit and black top. The suit'll get terribly crushed in the bag but decide I don't have time to find anything with less crumple-factor.
7.15: the car won't start. P has an 8am meeting and a dinner with friends planned for after work, so we intended to drive into town this morning. The flipping car however has different plans and I freak for a moment, wondering what new and exciting way I've found to drain the battery, as the last suspect to be behind the wheel (and a suspect with battery-draining form, at that). P is sure it's not the battery though so I may be off the hook - there's been a spate of gas thefts nearby over previous months, so it could be a cut line? No time to find out now - we need to leave if we're walking.
7.30: huffing and puffing up the hill, hauling my bag, P striding ahead sending emails on his blackberry regarding tardiness. The sun's out this morning, despite the crispness in the air. P's iPhone tells him it's only 12 degrees celcius outside, but I don't believe it. I've thrown on a light floral scarf and even that's proving too hot for the walk.
7.33: P spots the free bus that runs down Queen St. We run for it and nab a seat to head down the hill to save P a minute or two.
7.50: I arrive at work and contemplate my inbox. Gah, horrific.
7.55: TEA. Cannot face inbox without tea.
8.05: check in to flights for today and tomorrow online. MUST REMEMBER TO PRINT BOARDING PASS.
10.20: text message my sister K, who is in the throes of a protracted house purchase negotiation. Late last night she told the agent she'd think about the vendor's final offer overnight and respond in the morning. I ask her what the story is; but she's only just got up and hasn't called the agent yet (school holidays, she's a teacher). I don't know why she's now dragging it out - she's totally going to accept the offer. I've seen her run through the gamut over the past few days: uncontrollable nervousness, uncontrollable excitement, disbelief at counter offer, sly negotiation, expectation management, despondence, and finally, power tripping? She's a cracker, that kid (who may be 30 but will forever be a kid to me).
10.47: More tea, please.
12.35: ack, close to being late! Call cab, round up colleague M. M is the reason I have this job - she and I met at our hall of residence and flatted together for four years during university while studying. On my return to Auckland she passed my CV to my boss, knowing that I'd like working with him because she and I worked so well together as undergraduates. It's been awesome having a friend like M in the workplace.
1.20: arrive at airport. I briefly mourn the sunny, muggy day - Christchurch is going to be cooooooold, wish I didn't have to leave!
1.22 bag check, reprint boarding pass as I'd forgotten that I did in fact print my online check in. Worse, get tapped on the shoulder two minutes later as I'd left the boarding pass on the kiosk. Hopeless.
1.30: M looks at me slyly after checking in and suggests we eat the forbidden fruit for lunch prior to takeoff: McDonalds. It hit the spot and the remorse is only minor today. Wickedness is so much more fun with an accomplice.
2.10: take off. M and I have packed materials to work on a presentation we're giving together in May. However, temptation to use next hour and a half to gossip proves too great and the presentation remains untouched.
3.45: plane lands in Christchurch a little late. We hustle to meet our boss from the Wellington office and grab a cab to visit the client.
4 - 6.15: meeting with client. Out the window of the meeting room, the giant sky (Canterbury always seems so flat to me, with an enormous sky) is fading quickly and you can feel the chill set in.
6.15: Another cab, driving through the dark streets of central Christchurch to check in and drop off our bags at the hotel.
7: arrive at Saggio di Vino for a meal with clients. I had a really lovely time with M, Wellington Boss and two clients, chatting and eating tasty things, including but not limited to: beef carpaccio (is the beef redundant? do you automatically assume carpaccio is beef?), terakihi with lemon beurre blanc on a bed of sauteed leek and tiny pieces of grapefruit, Dog Point pinot noir and gooey cheese.
10.45: back at the hotel and realise I've forgotten the plug for my charger. Borrow one from reception and discover bulk messages waiting on my phone. Sister K's bought her first house! Cocoa is home safe! Friend A is pregnant! Call K and P for a quick chat with each.
11.30: fumble around the hotel remotes attempting to turn on the heat pump. The hotel room has steadily decreased in temperature - its 6 or 7 degrees celcius outside which this sub-tropical Aucklander finds chilly.
11.45: return hotel charger. Climb into bed and feel terribly naughty - I'm sleeping on P's side! Out to the count almost immediately.
(Once again, a disclaimer: I am dull. Also, very few pictures as I spent the bulk of the day with work colleagues. If you don't have a taste for wordy blatherings and extremely poor quality photographs, I'd stop here.)
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5.45: roll over, eyeball clock, sigh. I woke up from a terrible dream about my Granny, which involved lashings of guilt and, inexplicably, picking up bacon at the supermarket. Flop onto my back, start scrolling through FB on phone. Even though I don't need to get up for another 15 to 30 minutes, if I go back to sleep now I'll be a wreck when I wake. P slumbers on, peacefully.
6.10: drag myself out of bed to feed the cats and have a shower. Disturb Tabitha, who had been curled up beside me, bushed after a night of exciting antics - the cat door allowed her to go outside at night for the first time. Cocoa is AWOL. We feel pretty confident that old Cokes can manage himself round the 'hood now (please don't let those be famous last words) as he's sauntering out for a couple of hours at a time during the day and evening, coming home when he's hungry and/or hot and/or wet and/or fancies a cuddle.
6.30: earl grey tea and a breakfast of canned peaches and muesli. It feels virtuous but is probably packed with sugar.
6.45: floating around the house aimlessly, starting to get ready (black pleated sleeveless dress, black belt, black cardigan, black tights for the first time this autumn, black stud earrings. WOE I am so BORING wearing the standard NZ black ensemble).
6.46: OH NO had forgotten work trip to Christchurch this afternoon. Hastily grab bag and throw in a change of underwear, make up, essential toiletries, phone charger, blue striped suit and black top. The suit'll get terribly crushed in the bag but decide I don't have time to find anything with less crumple-factor.
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| AT LEAST SOMEONE GETS A SLEEP IN. JEAL. |
7.30: huffing and puffing up the hill, hauling my bag, P striding ahead sending emails on his blackberry regarding tardiness. The sun's out this morning, despite the crispness in the air. P's iPhone tells him it's only 12 degrees celcius outside, but I don't believe it. I've thrown on a light floral scarf and even that's proving too hot for the walk.
7.33: P spots the free bus that runs down Queen St. We run for it and nab a seat to head down the hill to save P a minute or two.
7.50: I arrive at work and contemplate my inbox. Gah, horrific.
7.55: TEA. Cannot face inbox without tea.
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| GLORIOUS DAY OUT THE WINDOW. DON'T LET THE CALCULATOR FOOL YOU, I DON'T DO NUMBERS. |
10.20: text message my sister K, who is in the throes of a protracted house purchase negotiation. Late last night she told the agent she'd think about the vendor's final offer overnight and respond in the morning. I ask her what the story is; but she's only just got up and hasn't called the agent yet (school holidays, she's a teacher). I don't know why she's now dragging it out - she's totally going to accept the offer. I've seen her run through the gamut over the past few days: uncontrollable nervousness, uncontrollable excitement, disbelief at counter offer, sly negotiation, expectation management, despondence, and finally, power tripping? She's a cracker, that kid (who may be 30 but will forever be a kid to me).
10.47: More tea, please.
12.35: ack, close to being late! Call cab, round up colleague M. M is the reason I have this job - she and I met at our hall of residence and flatted together for four years during university while studying. On my return to Auckland she passed my CV to my boss, knowing that I'd like working with him because she and I worked so well together as undergraduates. It's been awesome having a friend like M in the workplace.
1.20: arrive at airport. I briefly mourn the sunny, muggy day - Christchurch is going to be cooooooold, wish I didn't have to leave!
1.22 bag check, reprint boarding pass as I'd forgotten that I did in fact print my online check in. Worse, get tapped on the shoulder two minutes later as I'd left the boarding pass on the kiosk. Hopeless.
1.30: M looks at me slyly after checking in and suggests we eat the forbidden fruit for lunch prior to takeoff: McDonalds. It hit the spot and the remorse is only minor today. Wickedness is so much more fun with an accomplice.
2.10: take off. M and I have packed materials to work on a presentation we're giving together in May. However, temptation to use next hour and a half to gossip proves too great and the presentation remains untouched.
3.45: plane lands in Christchurch a little late. We hustle to meet our boss from the Wellington office and grab a cab to visit the client.
4 - 6.15: meeting with client. Out the window of the meeting room, the giant sky (Canterbury always seems so flat to me, with an enormous sky) is fading quickly and you can feel the chill set in.
6.15: Another cab, driving through the dark streets of central Christchurch to check in and drop off our bags at the hotel.
7: arrive at Saggio di Vino for a meal with clients. I had a really lovely time with M, Wellington Boss and two clients, chatting and eating tasty things, including but not limited to: beef carpaccio (is the beef redundant? do you automatically assume carpaccio is beef?), terakihi with lemon beurre blanc on a bed of sauteed leek and tiny pieces of grapefruit, Dog Point pinot noir and gooey cheese.
10.45: back at the hotel and realise I've forgotten the plug for my charger. Borrow one from reception and discover bulk messages waiting on my phone. Sister K's bought her first house! Cocoa is home safe! Friend A is pregnant! Call K and P for a quick chat with each.
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| PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE FROM P THAT COKES IS HOME SAFE. SEE THE SLIGHTLY EVIL EXPRESSION? THE NEXT DAY I ARRIVED HOME TO FIND A PILE OF CAT BARF ON THAT VERY SPOT ON MY BED. |
11.45: return hotel charger. Climb into bed and feel terribly naughty - I'm sleeping on P's side! Out to the count almost immediately.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
state of the nation iii
Following the visit to the in-laws' freshly renovated property and in the scramble to get ready for my parents' impending visit, I have started mentally charting all the ways in which my house is defective and needs work. This has apparently taken precedence over the actual conduct of any preparatory work: the bedsheets remain unchanged, the floor remains unvacuumed, cupboards are empty and the shower curtain is a sight. But I have mentally catalogued that the living room window is a horrific mess held together with putty, that the garden needs weeding, and that there's actual daylight coming into the kitchen cupboards from outside the house. Say it with me now: you paid how much for what?!
This is clearly playing on my mind just now, as the first licks of autumn are curling around and through all the crevices of the purple palace. (They're also howling straight through the permanently tied open cat flap as well. Timothy has shown a marked resistance to having to actually push the perspex to facilitate entry and exit and I'm nothing if not a pandering mother.) I've started hovering over design websites again, planning the lovely subway tile bathroom of my dreams, furnishing the refinished bedrooms with plush linen.
I think this gentle dissatisfaction is more symptomatic of requiring something to look forward to. P and I toyed with the idea of visiting Cambodia over the extended Easter break this year but have decided to save the pennies for the mortgage instead, given the extravagant holiday spending we indulged in over Christmas this year. We've got no plans for trips greater than a weekend in the works. Nothing enormous is happening at work at the moment. This is the first time in a very long time I've felt that there wasn't something on the horizon to plan for or look forward to. I think I'm projecting my need for excitement onto the property.
I don't think this is a bad thing, necessarily. We knew moving back to New Zealand meant that we both needed to focus for a while on our careers; in particular, I've moved about a bit and need to prove that I can work in a role for longer than five consecutive minutes. We're at the stage of our careers where we're pushing for the next step and setting up long term plans (or at least, we should be considering what to do next). But I think I need something else going on in my personal life to relieve the humdrum of the daily work routine. I think I ought to plan a low key holiday perhaps. Or start posting cat videos on YouTube.
This is clearly playing on my mind just now, as the first licks of autumn are curling around and through all the crevices of the purple palace. (They're also howling straight through the permanently tied open cat flap as well. Timothy has shown a marked resistance to having to actually push the perspex to facilitate entry and exit and I'm nothing if not a pandering mother.) I've started hovering over design websites again, planning the lovely subway tile bathroom of my dreams, furnishing the refinished bedrooms with plush linen.
I think this gentle dissatisfaction is more symptomatic of requiring something to look forward to. P and I toyed with the idea of visiting Cambodia over the extended Easter break this year but have decided to save the pennies for the mortgage instead, given the extravagant holiday spending we indulged in over Christmas this year. We've got no plans for trips greater than a weekend in the works. Nothing enormous is happening at work at the moment. This is the first time in a very long time I've felt that there wasn't something on the horizon to plan for or look forward to. I think I'm projecting my need for excitement onto the property.
I don't think this is a bad thing, necessarily. We knew moving back to New Zealand meant that we both needed to focus for a while on our careers; in particular, I've moved about a bit and need to prove that I can work in a role for longer than five consecutive minutes. We're at the stage of our careers where we're pushing for the next step and setting up long term plans (or at least, we should be considering what to do next). But I think I need something else going on in my personal life to relieve the humdrum of the daily work routine. I think I ought to plan a low key holiday perhaps. Or start posting cat videos on YouTube.
Sunday, 2 March 2014
onward, march
You know the drill. As soon as I get a whiff of the change of season, I feel the need to report on my blog. This is compelling diarising, my friends. Sadly, I've got no seasonal decor / seasonal decor picture for you (cracking out a string of lights at Christmas time is about the extent of it), so you'll just have to imagine this morning's damp, chill moments; the rain that's misting past my window and the three rainbows I saw before 9am.
Last night was the second birthday party of our youngest nephew. Suddenly, he's a little boy. You can still see the infant chub on his arms (almost ringlet-y at the wrists), but he's solidified and no longer wobbles when turning corners. I wistfully remarked on the passage of time to his mother who looked a little relieved yet surprised that infancy was over. The days are long but the years are short, I believe.
You may recall he and his family spent some time with us last year when renovating their house. Last night's visit to their lovely home made me sigh wistfully for kitchen space and a dishwasher, for open plan living. I can wait, though. We have to wait in all honesty; the lavender loveshack cleaned us out financially last year; it'll be a while before we've sunk enough equity into it to justify spending horrendous amounts on a do-up. I spent quite a few minutes this morning hovering in my online banking account, counting pennies and considering interest rates and consigning dreams of a wobble-free loo to a hazy future.
Well yes, the wedding was just lovely. On the scale of emosh, I hit 'slight dampness around the eyes', which I think is just the right amount for happy celebrations.
Last night was the second birthday party of our youngest nephew. Suddenly, he's a little boy. You can still see the infant chub on his arms (almost ringlet-y at the wrists), but he's solidified and no longer wobbles when turning corners. I wistfully remarked on the passage of time to his mother who looked a little relieved yet surprised that infancy was over. The days are long but the years are short, I believe.
You may recall he and his family spent some time with us last year when renovating their house. Last night's visit to their lovely home made me sigh wistfully for kitchen space and a dishwasher, for open plan living. I can wait, though. We have to wait in all honesty; the lavender loveshack cleaned us out financially last year; it'll be a while before we've sunk enough equity into it to justify spending horrendous amounts on a do-up. I spent quite a few minutes this morning hovering in my online banking account, counting pennies and considering interest rates and consigning dreams of a wobble-free loo to a hazy future.
Well yes, the wedding was just lovely. On the scale of emosh, I hit 'slight dampness around the eyes', which I think is just the right amount for happy celebrations.
Monday, 24 February 2014
end of the summer
Friday evening was a beautiful, balmy evening. When I stepped out the door of the building, a wash of warm air ran over me and, I don't know, the pixies got into my bloodstream or something. Two colleagues and I plonked ourselves down at an outdoor table and, well, got plonked. We gossiped, we drank, we laughed.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
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