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.

INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO/NAP TIME.  THIS IS ACTUALLY HOW AMATEUR WE ARE.

2) We have a cup of tea.

[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).

day 1, again

In the most roundabout way, I came to the realisation on the weekend that I ought to do something about my weight.

About three months ago, P was gifted a Westfield voucher, to spend at any store in a Westfield mall.  At about the same time, he closed down an old credit card and used the last of his points to redeem a voucher.  He picked a Bendon voucher for me to spend on frivolous underwear, something which we'd both enjoy.  It was hosing down with rain on Sunday and the first voucher was nearly at the expiry date, so we decided to brave the mall.

I've written before that my boobs are not petite, or even mediumish.  I am fairly tall and have a long torso, so I can carry some chest weight and I certainly do.  I hated my boobs in my younger years because going braless (or even strapless bra'd) is not possible for me.  I've learned to like them more as time has passed (familarity, I suppose, which in this case has not bred contempt but rather resignation and acceptance).  I hemmed and hawed at Bendon over the bra selection, which was not extensive for those with a reasonably small band size but large cups.  I eventually picked out a lovely one, but as I was assessing the fit in the mirror, the damage I've been doing to my midsection over the past couple of years was brutally apparent.  We don't have a full length mirror at home, so I've only been looking at it from my own perspective, recently.  I shrugged it off - fluorescent lighting always makes you look horrific, I thought. 

Finished with the bra selection, we wandered to the electronics store to spend the other voucher.  P eventually settled on Apple TV.  We also bought an SD card converter thingee to get all our photographs from the camera to the iPad (P recently got one for work).  I got antsy with all the people in the store and in the mall, so we scarpered for home.

Back at the Lavender Loveshack, P asked me to model my new knickers and I felt oddly reluctant.  I shrugged him off.  He set up the Apple TV instead, then downloaded a whole lot of photographs from the camera.  Showing me how great the Apple TV is, he set up a slideshow of reasonably old photographs I haven't really seen before on our TV. 

I freaked.  Internally, I was berating myself that the photographs, none of which are particularly recent, were horrific.  In my eyes, I was huge.  I asked P to turn it off, snappily.  He asked why.  I wouldn't speak about it and he got cross.

I got up, and went for a run. 

I downloaded food tracking apps and started a plank a day challenge. 

I'm not going to be stupid about this.  I'm running a 10k in November anyway with my sister (not that far, but she's on the mend from surgery on her ACL), so training is necessary.  I could stand to cut back on the booze and treats.  I'm not obese; I have a healthy BMI presently, for what that's worth (albeit at the high end of the range).  I know that it is not realistic nor even desirable to expect that I'll lose over 10 kilograms.  Five kilos would, however, make a world of difference to my own self-image. 

By the by, P apologised for upsetting me.  He thinks I get stupid about my self-image which might well be true but he recognised that what's required is compassion, not ire.  In turn, I apologised for behaving petulantly. 

I could be setting myself up for failure by writing about this at the outset, but processing it, writing it, makes me accountable, I hope. 

vanity, thy name is blogger

My obsession with not having a giant triangle head of hair continues.  In advance of my attendance at P's big work thing, I have booked a keratin blow out this weekend.  This is despite not being 100% sure what a keratin blow out actually is.  There are vague promises of shiny, no frizz for up to six weeks, but I still wonder if that's predicated on being able to use a hairdryer.  Because my hairdrying skills are haphazard, at best.  As in, point it at the wet bits and blow the bejesus out of it until dry (aaaaaand that is probably the reason for my triangle head, right there).

Good grief I am vain.  My mother used to comment on my constant glances into reflective surfaces, right throughout my childhood.  I used to think it was probably self-consciousness (have I got something on my teeth? do I look ok?).  Now, I think it's definitely self-consciousness (particularly since the skirt-tucked-into-knickers almost-debacle I caught in the office bathroom mirror before anyone else saw me). 

We'll await the results with baited breath, shall we?

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

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

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

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

Hey ho, the descent into sad cat lady continues. 

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

in which i learn a valuable bus lesson

After the last post, I curled up in bed and whinged for a solid two days.  I couldn't even bring myself to internet, so lucky for you, you avoided the unnecessary dramz about my imminent demise during that time. 

As soon as I was recovered enough, I went out and had someone chop my hair into a long bob to give me something else to obsess over.  I cut off a great whack of hair in 2010 and regretted it almost instantaneously, but this time I'm sticking with a cautious 'is this a thing an old person would do? but I think I like it' type line.  Ask me again in a week when I've been unable to style it myself and thoroughly frustrated by Auckland's hair-unfriendly weather.

I don't even have a picture of it yet for you! You poor things, you're really missing out. 

Oh, I know, I have a public transport parable for you!  Listen, all ye mighty, but don't despair:

I caught the Inner Link bus from work to Ponsonby the other night and had that moment as soon as I sat down.  You know the one, the moment where you think 'Good grief, of all the seats I might have picked, I've sat down next to the crazy guy' or 'No wonder this was the last seat available'.  He was muttering away merrily to himself and taking up more than half the seat.  In the vein of all confrontation-averse users of public transportation, I clutched my bag a little tighter and made no eye contact.  We were in the seat just ahead of the bus's back door.  7 or 8 stops later, a woman made to get off with a load of supermarkets bags.  She dropped something.  My seat companion leapt up, leaned over the divider and helped her with her bags while she retrieved the errant item.  He made a genial comment to me about how tough it is when you're carrying a lot, then excused himself politely so he could get off at the following stop.  

So! No more immediate judgment from me based on someone's mutterings! I will restrict myself to quietly holding my breath when someone is in breach of widely acceptable hygiene standards from this moment on!  (Gosh, that sounds kind of sarky but I genuinely felt bad for my snap assessment, I promise!)

do ya think i'm sexy?

Call me shallow and/or faithless, but I was genuinely pleased the clerk at the dairy beside my work flirted with me as I purchased breath mints, chocolate and a diet coke the other day. 

I crowed about it to my husband.  He laughed and asked what made me believe it was flirtation.  'Oh, I know when I'm being flirted with', I bantered from below lowered eyelashes.  'He asked me if I was purchasing a healthy, wholesome lunch and told me to take care as I left!  Raging flirtation, right there!'

I can't believe I made such a big deal out of it - clearly, I don't see enough stranger flirtation these days which is no doubt emblematic of my age, relationship status as declared on the fourth finger of my left hand and the fact I'm not often sending out the flirty signals.  I'm out of practice. 

(Also, on reading this back I promise it was actually flirtation, it doesn't sound like much hey?! oh yes, I luuuuuuuuuurve being judged for purchasing the workplace staples...it was all in the delivery, I promise).

A spot of flirting makes you feel good about yourself, you know?  As opposed to, say, being touched without consent in a public place.  I think I need to get my wanton hussy groove back.  Watch out P, you're going to be the practice ground for my delightful banter, you poor wee thing!

 

this is now a cat blog

When I arrived home last night, Tabitha's left eye had gummed shut with discharge.  The guilt factor shot through the roof; unsticking her eyelid with a little water and a soft cloth all the while apologising to MAH PRESHUS BAYBEE left me stricken.  I booked a vet appointment for this morning and it transpires my poor wee Tib has the cat flu.  She's in the early stages - conjunctivitis and the first sneezes this morning.  I suspect that Timothy will have also been infected by now so I envisage a similar visit for Timothy Terror Cat sometime soon.  In the interim, Tabby needs eye cream and antibiotics administered on the regular.  Woe, leaving her today was twice as hard.

While she was clearly unwell, she wasn't so sick that a three hour rumble with her brother wasn't on the cards last night.  In the interests of fairly blogging the minutiae of my kitties' lives and personalities (I am a good Mummy Blogger), Tabby interrupted the fight only to get nosy when we were in the kitchen or dining room doing something with human food.  She hasn't yet managed to score a taste of this good smelling stuff (steak last night) but she clearly has a feeling that she's into whatever we're eating.  Whereas Tim could care less; he's into whatever electronics we're using.  He's already effectively applied a paw to move the screen on an iphone, discovered the CD eject button on the laptop and the on button for the playstation.  All by accident, of course; I'm not claiming Tim is some kind of genius cat (I mean, he licks his own bum for fun), but he displays an interest in chewing cords that is well beyond his age, I think. 

I really did not predict the depth of my reaction to these two wee kittens.  I am obsessed.  I have conversations PLURAL about the contents of the litter tray, for fuck's sake.  Are my hormones doing a number on me or am I a saddo cat lady with no other conversation?  A little of Column A, a little of Column B perhaps? 

deluded

I wasn't feeling particularly glamorous this morning.  In fact, I was feeling washed out, a bit frizzy and frumpish.  'I know what will solve this problem', I thought.  I reached into the depths of my make up bag (comprising: offcasts from my mother circa 1987, some crappy mascara and pharmacy specials) and pulled out Boots' finest red lipstick.  I plastered it on, thought "self, problem solved!" and headed for the door.

My husband looked at me a little oddly, but recovered to smile and said "You've made an effort today".  He gently reached up and thumb-smeared the corner of my mouth to remove some excess outside the lip line.  He walked with me to work and even held my hand for a bit.

I reached work.  ('Love is A Battlefield', 8am at the cafe today.) Got in the elevator.  There's a mirror in the elevator, unsteamed and under fluorescent light.  I look like Chuckles the Fucking Clown, guys.  It's not good. 

plagiarised bits

You know, I find a new good blog and I'm immediately composing posts in my head completely bastardizing the author's voice.  I think it's a hang up from reading Bridget Jones, oh about 50 years ago, and writing forevermorethereafter: 'v. good'.  (Helen Fielding may not have been the first person to abbreviate 'very' to 'v.' but god, she did it so effectively.  Almost all of my most 'London' moments while living there were based on feeling like I was living just like Bridget - WWBD, if you will.  Except with less crotch-cam-on-a-fireman's-pole.)

Today's find was Bend it Like Becker who made me giggle.  Rigging up a system to get the rubbish into the bin from the second storey deck to avoid having to go downstairs is actually frigging genius but having the commitment to buy carabiners to achieve said goal? I've got nothing but snorts and applause.  Brilliant.  I immediately wanted to rip her off which must be the highest accolade I've got in my (admittedly limited) Positive Praise Bank.  (What I've got stored in my Disdain and Contempt Bank is extensive.  I don't even save it for special, I apply it liberally). Anyway, Sarah has a thingo she calls 'blurbs' which appears to be a conglomeration post of bits and pieces and I'm totally ripping that off today.  Credit where credit's due and all (um, assuming this counts as credit?)

So, anyway.  We're having a house warming this weekend.  (OF COURSE you're all invited, internet stalkers! Um, your invitations are in the mail! Yes, that's it!) P has purchased about half a beast (half a lamb anyway) to feed guests with and I am in that stage of concern that reads: 'well we're going to look ridiculous when only three people turn up and we've catered for the population of a medium sized town'.  Those three people aren't even a given - my Mum's not in town.  But look on the bright side: when have I ever been upset about eating leftovers for a solid week?! NEVER.  NOT EVER.  I cry when the Christmas ham runs out four weeks after the event. 

Also, I am going to see Beyonce in concert (as opposed to over tea, you know) tomorrow with a veritable gaggle of women.  One, a high school teacher, has already emailed to express concern about the reaction of a class of 15 year old girls - 'YOU listen to Beyonce?!' 'Destiny's WHO?!'.  Look, I remember 2000 clearly when Say My Name was the only thing we'd play on the high school common room stereo (which if I recall rightly was so wrecked it had to be sat on the foam cushions from the broken-ass common room couch in order to work).  I'm now however quite concerned that I will be the oldest, saddest woman at this concert because I've already ditched the idea of wearing heels in order to be more comfortable and I'm planning how to get home after.  Shit. 

On the plus side, at least we're having dinner first at quite a nice restaurant so I'm guessing it won't be like the heady days of the 2007 JT concert where we destroyed ourselves on Lindauer Fraise (exactly as classy as it sounds. EXACTLY). 

i may know what boundaries are, after all. maybe

I typed out an excessively wordy blogular thing about KiwiSaver and retirement plans this afternoon and then I realised:

(a) you're going to put all that personal financial information on the internet? and
(b) who the fuck cares?

It turns out my boundaries with the internet are finances.  I don't mind boring you all to tears with the state of my eyebrows (slightly furry - never going back to Benefit Brow Bar at Smith + Caugheys again, the face torturers, we're in recovery mode over here) but for whatever reason, I can't bear to bore you with my savings goals and retirement plans and mortgage details. 

EVEN THOUGH I would read the shit out of that if someone else wrote it on their blog.  Because NOSY. 

It did get a little bit feminist ranty when I reflected on income disparity over a lifetime and the total income cost of childrearing, so.  Even worse: political. 

Actually, I think part of my real problem in writing it up was I realised how privileged I am.  Middle class white girl problems, you know?  That's not a gloating shout of 'I'm riiiiiiiiiich', by the way.  It's more that when I worked out my biggest issues, they weren't that big.  I have access to contraception and choice regarding children, I have independent parents who probably won't require my financial assistance in their retirement, and I live in central Auckland, for fuck's sake, so my long-term financial hurdles are really up to fuck all.  Comparison is the thief of joy, I've seen bandied about on those framed quote posters that all of Pinterest appears to have a hard-on for.  I believe that was Edison, or someone like that.  But Comparison is really the Source of All Your Self-Flagellation, too.  OK, OK, you can frame that if you like. 

(I kid!)

(frame it, take a picture, stick it on Pinterest and I'll give you $20, for realsies)

still vile

Here I am, still gunked up with snot (clear, I've been checking, no need to panic just yet), open-mouth breathing and exhaling heavy sighs approx. once every two minutes.  I spent all of yesterday at my new house, sending out emails saying things like:

"I'm just trying to shake this cold.  I'll definitely be in by lunchtime"

"I'm afraid I won't be in today but I'm checking email and I'll definitely be in tomorrow"

"I'll deal with that on my return, if that suits?"

"P, COME HOME NOW WITH A JELLY TIP PLZ I'M DYYYYYYYING"

While I did spend quite a bit of time napping, nose-blowing and binge-watching Laguna Beach (the second series, woefully inadequate without LC), I also continued the stocktake of the house.  Was definitely warmer after I stuffed dirty teatowels in the half inch gap under the back door.  My mother recommended I find "one of those craft fairs" and buy some kind of "handmade sausage" to stop the drafts.  It was sometime before I finished laughing.  The telephone and internet connections came online yesterday (note: NZ services - infinitely faster set up times than the UK.  Sure, you have to hand crank the internet once it's in, but at least it gets set up within two weeks, rather than, say, eight).  That is an enormous relief because do you know how much data one chews through when one needs to check the Daily Mail thrice daily?  Quite a bit (ROYAL BEBE WATCH PEOPLE, PRIORITIES.)

Oh also, in News Of The Day, Hat Friend scored us tickets to Beyonce!  Me circa 2003 is so unbelievably pumped about this news.  Seven 30-something girls at a Beyonce concert: what could possibly go wrong?  Quite a bit.  There's already talk of taking a day's leave (it's on a Friday) to "get ready", for which, substitute "blow out on cheap bubbly before the concert even starts."  God, I'm that woman that circa-2003-me would have felt sorry for.  How the mighty have fallen.  Don't be so smug 2003-me.  You wouldn't have had the money to buy tickets.  Be grateful to yo' old ass self! 

i wish we could all just get along

I got all upset checking in on twitter last night.  I haven't been on it in forever and almost straight away, I happened across a furore over the misogyny of some members of the gaming community.  Boy, it made me mad/sad. 

Let me tell you straight up: I am not a member of the gaming community.  I got addicted to a game brick with Tetris once and my flatmates had to hide the batteries so I didn't fail my exams.  See also: the two week Crash Bandicoot episode of 2002 on an old PS1.  Other than that, I play solitaire on my phone and boardgames if people don't know me well (people who do know me well refuse to play with me.  I understand why.) Net result: hardly qualified to comment on the gaming community.  But! I am a human being and I think it is TERRIBLE that someone on twitter could express disappointment about the lack of major female characters in new release games at E3 and receive responses that, by and large, appeared to call her a dumb cunt and suggest that women don't belong in gaming.

SO.  Then I read the NZ Herald online this morning and came across this.   I think it goes without saying that people who object to homophobic slurs being yelled are allowed to attend rugby matches.  Probably can express their views without being subject to what sounds like verbal and physical bullying, even.  Hannah, good on you for saying something - I bloody well wish I had when I went to the cricket earlier this year and the guys behind me were being horrible and racist for a laugh. 

I was ashamed when watching the All Blacks game on Saturday night over the bad crowd behaviour, just from what I could see on the TV.  Why do we think it's acceptable to boo when the other team are kicking a conversion/penalty?  I wonder sometimes whether we Kiwis are just bad winners as well as bad losers when it comes to the All Blacks.  And other teams? 

There is absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of banter, but we need to raise our game in that regard and not rely on sexism/homophobia/racism/xenophobia etc for a laugh. 

So yes.  That's what's winding me up today. 

today is mini-friday for which i am eternally grateful

I've got nothing to contribute to the betterment of the human race, just now, thanks Internet.  And yet I feel coerced into opening a new post and typing in words, in the interests of being remotely consistent.  Is there anything more boring that a blogger whinging about block / absence / dearth of subject material?  Probably (urgh, conversations about the length of time I spent on the phone to the IRD and the tortuous hold music.)  But it's not far off.

I therefore present you with a list of extremely unformed thoughts:

• Would you be (a) horrified (b) disgusted or (c) secretly like, whoa, you're so HIP and COOL and whatnot if I bought a house with a swan in plaster on the chimney?  This could happen.  It's a distinct possibility.  Aside from my general inability to purchase real estate, that is. 
• Adult acne.  WHAT.  I am nearly 31 goddamn years old and have at least one 'on the go spot' at all times.  Just like when I was 14 and awful. Ohhhhhhhhh...that is more than half my life with spots.  That could just be the most depressing thought that has occurred to me in, I don't know, the last FIVE YEARS.
• Oh yeah, I don't need to get rid of the black chandeliers.  They're someone else's problem.  Someone else's extremely expensive problem, I should say.
• Sister baiting. "Well, you wouldn't be cold if you wore a dress that covered more than your bum", says she.  I can't help but snap back "Jealousy will get you nowhere".  God, the whole thing makes me feel awful.  We play on each other's weaknesses; we know them too well.  The detente for her surgery yesterday has clearly come to a close.
• Sunset happens so quickly right now.  Poof! And then we're done.
• Bras: how tight is too tight? Should your ribs feel achy at the end of the day?
• There was a giant pad of post-it notes in the stationery cupboard today.  It was like I'd won the Lotto. 

really, really dumb. for real.

You know when you leave the house, congratulating yourself on how ragingly hot you’re looking today, then at lunchtime you catch your reflection in a shop window and want to shrivel with shame?

 

That has to be about the dumbest feeling in the world.  Fucking girls, we can be so DUMB to ourselves, to others. 

 

I wish I looked more like Christopher Plummer.  Then I would always look excellent (dapper, suave, devil-may-care-ish) and would only have to worry about whether my pocket square was straight. 

 

***************************

 

I still don’t know whether I have to move this weekend or Monday or Tuesday.  And, if so, where to.  I hope that if we have to go, it’s just to another apartment in the complex.  I’m holding on to hope.

 

***************************

 

After losing another auction last night and being stood up by a Wellingtonian in town for some kind of work thing, P and I got quietly plastered.  We downed a bottle of chianti mostly before being seated for a delicious dinner we really shouldn’t have ordered and the man made me laugh.  And laugh.  Our knees touched, tangled, as we first faced each other on bar stools then later fell face first into a pannacotta so creamy it should be illegal (dairy intolerant? You shouldn’t even LOOK at it).  The most fun we’ve had in ages, as we discussed our hopes, dreams and budgetary requirements.  Teased one another about fugly couches.  Dissected the state of our union.  No one I'd rather lose with than that man.

 

 

will knickers with bows boost my self esteem?

You know what is really, really stupid? 

I have spent an inordinate amount of time over the past two weeks thinking about how gross I am.  Normally, Bendon, I'd sing your praises to the high heavens (Glory Be To Elle MacPherson and Praise the Sainted Underwire!), but I bought some discount plain cotton undies from the store a while ago and christ, they make me feel ugly.  I've never had a problem before with cotton knickers - they're the business.  Comfortable and always available in a range of sassy colours.  Tend not to creep up your crack / go some feral colour in the wash / shed elastane within about 5 wears.  Safe knickers.  Sure, they're not going to be the best in the event of you get accidentally seduced by Ryan Gosling (or Justin Long, is that weird? He seems so ... genuinely funny?) but you're not going to be upset about what the paramedic is seeing if you're involved in some kind of bicycle accident.  So yeah, I love me some sensible knickers. 

AND YET, BENDON, AND YET. 

It's probably just that I've stacked on some belly recently but my latest cotton dacks are JUST SO GROUSE.  They sit at exactly the wrong place to look even remotely attractive. Poor old P has bought me drawers worth of frippery which sits idle (my knicker drawers also hold: eleventy billion odd socks, ribbons, broken pens, lost necklaces, single earrings, a flaming treasure trove of stuff I never use) and here I am wearing cotton gruts that even I can't even stand. 

Things have got to change around here.  I may be getting older, fatter, more shortsighted and grumpier by the day but BY GOD I WILL HAVE NICE KNICKERS if it kills me.  SURELY that will be the cure to my body issues?  (ha...as opposed to regular healthy diet and exercise.  trust me, I'm aware of how fucking warped this logic is but so help me jeebus, I stand by my assertion that lace on my derriere will assist).

So yeah, that's what's really, really stupid.  Add it to the list of bullshit resolutions I make around here. 

ramble

Easter morning tea at work today means that my tummy is making me happy and angry: so full, so content and so ROUND. 

I like Easter very much, which is weird for an atheist (agnostic previously…but atheist seems to fit better now?)  It’s not the chocolate that makes me Easter-ish because 2002-2005 I ate my way around a choc factory up to 6 times a day as a tour guide and now I am largely ambivalent about milk chocolate (still keen on marshmallow eggs and the occasional crème egg, but if you hand me a white choc crème egg I think I’ll be sick.  Absolutely cannot look a peppy chew in the eye either. DO NOT SPEAK to me about crunchie bars.) 

It annoys the bejesus out of me that the shops are closed for Good Friday and Easter Sunday when I need something, but that’s just because I’m a modern Millie who has come to expect a life of convenience.  Actually spending the day knowing that you can’t just pop down to the off-y or supermarket is kind of nice.  Enforced time en famille, shall we say?  Means the queues tonight and Saturday for petrol etc will be a complete clusterfuck though, so there’s that.  And trying to drive ANYWHERE over the next 24 hours? Please, my affinity for the Auckland motorway (so handy! So convenient!) does not extend to spending three hours in gridlock on it. 

My affection for Easter probably has a lot to do with a four day holiday.  What’s not to love about that?  This year, however, we’re not doing too much with it, spot of rellie-visiting, bit o’ open-homing (of course).  Easter last year?  I believe that was spent in London?  Don’t quote me on that?  OH THAT’S RIGHT – just delved the archives – being involved in train confrontations and getting sick in Edinburgh!  The year before, we were with my parents in France, just before P proposed.  Beeee-youtiful; printemps en Bordeaux et Toulouse.  I believe we spent the Sunday in St Emilion, where P was pissed that people had closed tastings at the vineyards.  That and I believe he was stressed about speaking to my father prior to proposing (I’m not sure he’s dumb enough to have asked for permission literally because I would have had his balls tied around a tree in a hot minute if he’d done that; I’ve been led to believe it was more a ‘I’d like to marry your daughter and I hope you’re down with that’ – to which I understand the response was ‘Weeeeeell, if you can get her to say yes…’).

Side note: I LOVE it when women have a tab on their blog entitled “Love Story” or similar and you can follow their relationship history.  Seriously, it’s adorably funny and addictive.  I’ve talked about the v v beginning of my relationship with P before and gushed about him on occasion, but I can’t get up a head of steam to write something like that.  Mostly because it would probably read “Met P.  Pashed P.  Drank with P.  Moved in with P.  And then squillionty eleven years later, got married because it’s important to P and also awesomely fun”.  Not really an interesting storyline.  Also, I guess it’s his story too? 

Anyway, that is all an extremely long-winded way of saying: Easter.  I’m not doing much but I will like it.  Hope you do too – whether it’s church, chocs or travels that float your boat.  Drive safe. 

PS Marriage equality debate last night in committee – let’s get the third reading passed quick smart! Equality is the business!

yes, i am still talking about my urinary tract

Panic not, dear friends, the cranberry juice hit the spot (ugh) and I am healthy again.  Well, as healthy as a woman who eats a diet based on a food pyramid with a bottom row of cheese can be.  SRSLY though, UTIs are the bane of my existence.  I had issues with them as a very wee girl, then again persistently in my early 20s.  They’re slightly more infrequent now, but I suspect that’s because of a long term course of god-awfully strong antibiotics America prescribed me (I felt terribly guilty for antibiotic blasting my system so I converted to the cranberry cure which MIRACULOUS.  There was this one time in Hong Kong when I had to drink about 50 litres of juice because the cranberry content was so low but drink it I did and lo, I was cured). 

What did women who lived in, say, 1563, do about this?  Probably lived in persistent pain and terror and died early from childbirth?  Let’s face it; I’d be totally f’d if I’d been born then.  Given I’m now 30, I’ve probably busted the Tudor life expectancy by heapses and, if not, I should have had about 8 pregnancies or something similar.  I was going to say doesn’t bear thinking about but it kind of puts writing a cruddy email to my workplace about being late into perspective, no?  Plus, this is also a cross for much of womankind to bear, isn't it?  I don't think I've met a 30 year old who doesn't know that particular version of pain?

There are other things I might have struggled with if born in 1563, on reflection, such as a loud mouth and fundamental laziness (I NEVER want to handwash.  Imagine if ALL your washing was handwashing.  THE INHUMANITY.) 

Writing all of this down has sent me on a memory lane bender: Memorable UTI Edition.  God that’s awful.  Look away now, as I record them for posterity:

-     The One at My Hall of Residence, 2001, The First As An Adult And I Totally Thought I Was Dying But Also a Diseased Whore

-     The One When I Made P Walk Me To Urgent Care in the Middle of A Cold, Cold Dunedin Night, circa 2002

-     The One When I Was on a Plane To Go See My Mother With My Sister And I Made Them Drive Me Directly To Urgent Care, circa 2005 ish, And My Mother Made Jokes About Sex. 

-     The One in Hong Kong (see above)

-     The One Where I Finally Used That Expensive American Health Insurance, While P Suffered From Pink Eye And Visited a Dodgy Back Alley Doctor

In conclusion, I am grateful for cranberry, antibiotics and urgent care doctors.  Modernity, at its most convenient. 

UTI (TMI)

Do you know how hard it is to compose an email to your office warning them that you'll be in late today because you're having to chug cranberry juice somewhere near a loo, as your urinary tract is being a dick?   

I wrote something mysterious about a "health issue" (not wanting to lie and say I (a) needed to go to a doctor or (b) needed to pick up a prescription because we infection-susceptible vagina-bearers all know that cranberry juice is the magic hippy bullet, if only you can get your hands on it quickly and wait out the horrible half hour until it soothes the burning razor blades).  So they probably think it was diarrhea. 

SIGH.

[sad trombone sound]

OF COURSE I didn't buy a house last night!

Close though.  POWER HUNGRY bidder over here nearly did everything she said she would (sweated profusely, for sure, ground teeth into oblivion, no vom though) and nearly succeeded... on the third and final call, dick-bidder upped the game and I was out.  SAD PANDA. 

Let the cycle begin again!  Long, slow, exhalations for us all...

full disclosure

It is 9am, Saturday morning.  I am discovering.  If you are a litigator, you will appreciate what that means.  For the rest of you, I simply request that you pity me.

I'm all woe+gloom these days, no?  Ah well, can't win 'em all!  Plus, to be honest I kind of need a few more billable hours this month...glam life we lady lawyers lead, no? 

BUT exciting times ahoy!  My aunt is getting married today!  It has not dawned clear and bright, which is a damn shame because she's getting married at her home, with a marquee in the backyard.  The horizon is looking promising though, so I trust it won't rain on her parade.  Love a wedding, and this one'll be fab.  Brill, even.  (P can't bear me saying brill.  In his oh-so-humble opinion, even British folk have a hard time pulling off brill, so saying it in my best Nu Zild accent sounds terribly off.  Need a new superlative, plz to leave your suggestions.)

I can't let a post go by without acknowledging that P is lining up today's open home schedule, ready for viewing.  So, you know, house buying palaver is still happening.  Yesterday I received an email from an agent listing recent sales that made me spit out my cornflakes.  Quite a few were properties we had looked at - they sold for considerably more than I had anticipated.  Otahuhu, you're starting to look quite sexy and all BUDGETARY and what not.  Oh Auckland, you crazy housing bubble rapidly expanding city.  You are much like a blowsy gin drinker, all shine on the surface and rot underneath.  I jest (I totally feel you Auckland.  Which is to say I'm an actual blowsy gin drinker.  If this was 1880, I'd be living in East London trying to sell my aging bod for more than a penny in order to buy geneva too, don't worry.  Because it's 2013 I whore myself to The Man/The Establishment/Whatever as a Lady Lawyer in order to pay for expensive limes to add to my gin).

On that note, back to reviewing documents.  Must earn my keep, etc.