37 + 6

I don't know what I've done to our piece of shit laptop but I can't type or paste into the new post box on Blogger.  I've been typing these last posts in Gmail and using my phone to paste them into Blogger but the formatting is completely screwed.  However, it doesn't appear I care enough to fix the problem just at the moment.  I am saving some of my weekly discretionary income at present and perhaps a
new laptop or tablet is called for.  However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.

So, since I last posted two weeks ago?  Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good.  Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues.  I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture.  This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.

So, I have not yet had a baby.  38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough.  I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.

Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues.  Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief.  I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross.  I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks).  So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care).  For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.

Are we ready for a baby?  I guess so.  We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend.  I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc.  While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.

There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy).  This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all.  I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me.  Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered).  P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans.  Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash.  Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)

I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc.  This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy.  It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile.  Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.

*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now.  I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.

26+6

I am a bit waddly after a long day or sitting for extended periods.  Rolling over at night is getting harder.  Bending over occasions a grunt or two. 

The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night.  When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy.  I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus. 

P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.

I walk slowly up the hill to work.

At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits.  The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway.  At home, I mow the lawn steadily.  I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much. 

I baked muffins, twice.  It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before. 

I still have an innie.  It's shallow and strained but it's tidy.  When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more.  When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.

All facets of my boobs are still expanding.  I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.   

If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless. 

I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage.  Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started.  That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date.  We'll get there, we tell ourselves. 

I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow.  I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it.  I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday. 

I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure.  I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained. 

It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday.  He turned 32.  I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped.  We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip.  It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they?  His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys.  We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18.  I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.

I am well.  The baby is well.  I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.  

funny ha ha or funny peculiar

You might be surprised by this, but I'm going to a comedy show this evening.  Yes, even though I normally detest staged comedy (exception might be made for Billy Connolly), am terrified of the potential for P to heckle (he thinks he's so clever, sigh) and have not, well, been in the mood for funny business of late,* I saw a sign for a show that P would like and purchased tickets out of the blue.  I wanted to do something nice for him.  He's been lovely despite the wasting away of our mutual social life -- do you know, I think he might actually like my company and is missing nights out together? Strange as it may seem -- that I thought he would both greatly enjoy a show and recognise it for the clear sacrifice it'll be on my part.  Nothing like enjoying a side of martyrdom with your gesture of goodwill.

On Thursday I have a function for work.  On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours.  I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office.  I'm such a drag at the moment. 

Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others.  Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke.  I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose.  Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again.  It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation. 

I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment.  Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...

*This goes exactly as far as you think it does.  Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.

back to your regularly scheduled self-centred moaning

ALERT, ALERT, more whinging ahead.

The following is a rant about things both trivial and important that have contrived to make me feel like a sack of crap, today:

• Apparently I have a UTI.  I say apparently because the test results are still pending and I'm not feeling any particular pain (thank goodness) though I pee every 5 minutes.  The doctor prescribed me some antibiotics to take in the interim if any pain kicks in, but she vacillated more than seems reasonable over whether they were safe to take in pregnancy.  I forgot to check the label myself, and subsequently discovered it's an antibiotic that historically does not work for my and my godawful UTIs.  Great.
• Miscellaneous 'account charges' on the credit card totalling $87. 
• A great aunt who lives in close proximity to my parents had a heart attack on the weekend.  She's on the mend, but what the actual fuck, timing?  Poor Aunt S. 
• There were onions in my NO ONION salad. You know, rage tipping point and all.
• I experienced the 'shoot the messenger' phenomenon at work today.  Me being the messenger.  It was every bit as awesome as you would expect.
• And the final absolute fucker of a bullet point: Dad's been taken off chemo.  His white blood cell counts are too low - they're going to reassess next week, but no chemo is a blow.  Oh, and the day they took him off it?  The day his hair started to fall out. 

I am not going to cry today.  I'm going to go home, take a not-quite-hot-enough bath (pregnancy is great and all, but I miss screamingly hot baths) and cuddle my husband.

piffle, neatly listed

Why hello blog, you look all LONELY and NEGLECTED.  Let me solve that for you!

OK, so.  Here's what's been happening in my life recently: about a quarter of Not Much. 

Oh no, wait, I have THRILLING updates:

1. I cut more hair off.  It was a mistake.  You know how minature ponies/Shetlands have those shaggy little tails (so cute) that are a bit frizzy all the way down the edges?  My ponytail looks like that but more stunted and it sticks straight out the back of my head (not cute).  But, my drying time has dropped, so there's that.  My hairdresser is Irish and every single thing she says (that I understand) sounds impossibly fun, including getting all snippy on my mane.  Hence, three more inches and a boofhead. 
2. We are still painting.  OF COURSE we are still painting.  How can ONE ROOM take so long?  (oh right, tea breaks, followed by booze breaks.  Liquid ingestibles (comestibles?) are my Achilles heel).  I do like the paint smell, so at least that's not an issue (I also like the smell of whiteboard markers.  Yes, I ate glue and playdoh as a child.)
3. Spring! Is! Here!
4. Lawyering and, you know, having to bring home the pinger to pay for paint by the boatload continues to be the bane of my existence.  I need to win Lotto, stat.  However, I don't have a ticket ever, so that's a problem.
5. Speaking of Lotto tickets, I picked up two tickets plus some scratchies and cards at Whitcoulls today in advance of Fathers' Day.  One for my dad, one for my father-in-law.  M, who was with me at the time, asked whether one Dad would be mad if the other one won (too many ones/won, sorry).  I felt hellishly guilty because what I'd been worried about was whether either of them would share with me if they won.  I am a wonderful person. 
6. AND THEN, GET THIS, one of the Fathers' Day cards cost $12!!!  I didn't realise until looking at my receipt after the fact and CHEEEEEESUS how can a greeting card cost that much money?! 
7. Wow, this post is crap.  Never mind, will try again later.

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. 

here is how I waste my money in spades

Verdict on the keratin blow out a mere four days and one wash later? While my hair feels full of gunk, it only took 5 minutes to blow dry and was not a ginormous mess.  It was perfectly presentable.  If this thing lasts four weeks it will be worth every cent of the $120 I spent on it (plus another $40 for shampoo because of course they upsold me on maintenance).  It does not look as shiny or feel as soft as I know it can, but it is not a giant, unmanageable tangle of frizz, so there's that.  I don't know that I'll be getting a keratin treatment on the regular because mortgage and good grief that's a lot of money for vanity, but for special occasions it seems like a good treat.

Will no doubt continue to report because what else is this blog for other than reporting on all things mane?

In other vanity news, I spent a metric shit-ton of money on new foundation and powder recently.  The MAC counter is a black hole into which I occasionally hurl my funds hoping that it will magically improve my appearance, when what would actually improve my appearance would be a willingness to actually remove all traces of makeup before going to bed at night and keeping my hands away from my face (didn't have the hands in pants problem endemic to so many small children, my fingers were probably up my nose instead.  These days they can be found gently resting on my cheeks and nose while deeply pondering, of course.  Not squeezing things, no).  I started wearing some of that Benefit pore concealer as a primer, followed by a bit of Benefit concealer on the spots, then the foundation and finally mineral powder and have noticed that the combo actually has a reasonable amount of staying power.  However, doesn't that all seem a lot of hard work, just to get myself to the office in the morning?  No doubt I will ditch this formulation again shortly, but now I've noted it for future reference when I next decide that my complexion looks like pond scum by midmorning under the flattering fluoroescent lighting in the office bathroom. 

****BREAKING*****

Last night, I baked for the first time since the Grilled Chocolate Cake Disaster of 2002.  Miracle of miracles, I think it was edible.  At least, no one who consumed it has yet complained of any malady caused by it and they were all very polite, not least P who was effusive in his praise, knowing as he does my culinary limitations.  I made Lemon and Walnut Loaf from the Edmonds cookbook which was super easy, probably because that cookbook is likely aimed at beginners.  Beginner I certainly am.

Given the lemons had been donated to the workplace by a colleague, I brought a chunk into the office today to share.  This was ambitious seeing as it could have been disgusting and possibly poisonous.  Also, it was devious, because I know that had I left something with so much sugar and butter in my home I would have eaten the whole thing.


 

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?

in which i learn a valuable bus lesson

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

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

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

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

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

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

july, two days in

I can feel the fog descending, curling round the outer edges of consciousness and fuzzing up my throat and nose.  I will shortly be a pariah in the office, my germs warded off with sideways glances and furious rinsing of mugs. 

Ha, I just opened the last post to discover it was all about being sick.  Well, lest this blog devolve into an extended examination of my inner workings, let me report on all the other news in A-town:

My sister K: took her to a play last night (Once on Chunuk Bair, Auckland Theatre Company at the Maidment, v. good) and enjoyed her company over dinner first.  She had a skirt in a gorgeous stiff black + white floral fabric that I coveted.  That's not really news, per se, but there it is. 

Mum: allegedly announced to sister K that she's now ready to be a grandmother.  Has also been considering surrogacy options for me, in case I'm too busy to procreate for myself.  Mum surely told K this in the knowledge it would be communicated to me (K being presently single meaning that she's not the prime child-bearing target).  Dear old Mum, she doesn't want to ask me directly what my plans are because she rightly knows I'll be prickly about it.  She's been giving me plenty of opportunities to raise children in conversation; I'm SUCH a disappointment.

Dad: not much to report.  I'm loving phone conversations with him at the moment.  He works so actively at holding a conversation about the news and what's going on and asking the right questions -- who doesn't love that? About the time I left home, Dad became very intentional in telling us he loves and is proud of us.  Maybe I didn't notice it before I left, maybe it was triggered by our departures, I'm not sure.  We've never been an emotionally transparent family and I just adore that Dad is intentional now about that stuff - it takes effort and I really appreciate it.  Though, of course, I should be more reciprocal. 

P: lovely, as usual.  Except for the other morning when everything he uttered annoyed me so deeply I contemplated telling him to just shut up and not bother talking to me again until we left for work.  Good thing I didn't, as on reflection the problem may (MAY!) have been me and waking up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Work: have been promoted.  Am fairly sure that they will soon discover all apparent abilities are a sham -- but have managed to wriggle up another step on the ladder for better or worse.  Am bizarrely ambivalent about it for a girl who has tended to measure her worth in external achievement standards. 

Cats: puss-ish. 

Friends: neglected.  Must do something about that.  J is in NZ this week and I'm taking my birthday leave on Friday to see her.  I think we'll go to a wild and wintry beach for a walk to feel properly Kiwi.  I'll feel envious of her return to London on Sunday as I've been having pangs recently.  It's been a while since we escaped Auckland last, so perhaps I'm feeling a little cabin-feverish?

Ha, on re-reading the above, it struck me -- have you read the Ed Champion rant about Middling Millenials?  I'm not going to link to it because ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS and much of his point re Emily Gould is subsumed in vitriol and a smattering of misogyny, valid as it might otherwise be.  ALSO, good grief, I could certainly be accused of some Middling Millenial behaviour. Of course, any literary pretensions I may have reside firmly inside my own head and only occasionally spill into this badly-edited and irretrievably awful personal blog, so if Middling Millenial refers only to those who are seeking fame off the creation of subpar art, I certainly don't count.  But, if the occasional reference to the Pink Power Ranger by a 32 year old woman in an online journal strikes you as vapid, lazy and disengaged, well bully for you but I care not.  Well, I care a little bit, I'm human aren't I?

Time to cut it off, given I'm making no sense whatsoever.  I bet you I read this in less than a month's time and cringe, but isn't that what a blog's for?

yuck

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

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

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

year thirty-two

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

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

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

I felt old but happy.  Old, as in we headed for bars frequented by the 20 year old set.  I was wearing far more clothing than they were, which made me feel vaguely prudish, but stuff it, I thought as we knocked back a drink and headed for the dancefloor.  P and PJ (the only others from the dinner party who'd had the stamina or ability, babies and pregnancy presenting obstacles to last minute debauches) took turns at dancing with me and making me laugh breathlessly.  They shamelessly showered me with compliments, which was extremely sweet and a lovely birthday present.  We chatted up girls for PJ, visited a few old haunts and a few new.

I was grateful to be me and 32.  I didn't want to be 20 again, as fun as it once was.  I am grateful for my friends and my husband and my life that sees me tucked up in bed before 10, usually.  I'm glad I went though; I had a good time. 

winner winner

I am absolutely owning life, recently. 

Evidence:

• I have at least one fingernail that isn't bitten to the quick.
• The scab on my foot from a tumble in leaf mould on my walk home two weeks ago is nearly healed, leaving me approx. 50% less scabrous.
• I have thought about replacing my seriously old razor blade before I develop tetanus and gone so far as to make a mental note to buy a new one.
• I found my access card for work after a short week of looking.
• My regrowth lends my hair a really 'lived in' feel.
• The ants have moved on to only eating the cats' biscuits off the kitchen floor, after I eradicated every ant found on the kitchen bench.
• Now that my glasses are completely scratched up, I don't notice a difference in quality of vision when I take them off.
• Finding my way to the bottom of the chip packet on the regular has made me extra specially nice to hug.
• The fact that the kitten is sleeping on my face on cold nights demonstrates her trust and love, right?

Actually, there's only one piece of evidence that counts.  That shows I'm a real winner, despite all of the above:

• Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of the day I first kissed P.  P, who loves me anyway.  He's the best.

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!

 

blank pages

My mother and father have been sending me emails from their travels in Europe, scattered with little descriptions of what they ate (a cabbage dish) and where (a 1960s style restaurant that made her feel underdressed), with anecdotes about the places they've visited (lady carrying a maine coone cat down the street in Grenoble).  I press reply, bash out a 'that sounds tasty' or 'I'm very jealous, tell me more' and then my fingers hover over the keyboard, unable to fill in the blank section devoted to what's going on with me. 

I'm having some difficulty wringing words out of the day-to-day, just now.  Blog, correspondence, conversation.  I had drinks with a close friend and a new friend yesterday evening and I wasn't holding up my end of the conversational bargain.  I lay awake briefly last night, pondering where the pizazz has gone and whether I'd sunk the new friendship before it'd left the harbour.  (Pizazz = such a wonderfully 80s/early 90s word, I think.  It goes with Jem and the Holograms / The Misfits / Neon slashes on black lycra bike shorts / hairdryers).  

But, as they say, the only way to write is to do it.  So here I am.  I've written to Mum this morning.  We're getting the mower fixed this weekend, I said.  It'll be a jungle out there after the rain overnight.  P is away at a conference, which means I'll have cereal for dinner, I said.  I suggested a day trip wine tasting on Waiheke Island to the new friend; we'll gather a group.  It'll be fun.  Make it happen. 

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. 

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:

• 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. 

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.)

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

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. 

AT LEAST SOMEONE GETS A SLEEP IN.  JEAL.

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.

GLORIOUS DAY OUT THE WINDOW.  DON'T LET THE CALCULATOR FOOL YOU, I DON'T DO NUMBERS. 

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. 

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.

11.30: 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. 

no longer biting

I have resumed normal transmission and am only normal-level bitchy now, you'll be pleased to know.  P is grateful to still have his gastrointestinal system intact, untouched by a rusty spoon or otherwise. 

Normal level-bitchy, I'll have you know, is snark delivered with a laugh.  P's still acting cautiously, however, in the light of last week's rampage (Godzilla through Tokyo = Hormonal A through the Lavender Loveshack, laying waste to all before her.)  He sent me an email the subtext of which was a request for permission to play golf tomorrow.  I imagined him wiping the sweat off his brow when my response was a simple (snarky) query as to whether he'd be able to get out of bed in time and not a threat of grievous bodily harm.

My mother pointed out to me once that P is interested in many classic man pursuits, which enables him to make easy conversation with other blokes.  She's right I suppose: he golfs, fishes, is a low-level motor-head (much as it pains me to say so), he's into wine, whiskey and beer, takes seriously the rugby (oh dear lord is he into rugby) and cricket, and he is co-ordinated enough to give most sports a bash.

Whereas these days, my interests appear to be: brunch, booze, my couch, the cats and getting a haircut.  I've gone off playing team sports, mostly because I'm terribly unco-ordinated but also because my job often meant I couldn't commit to regularly attending practice.  For a while there, I was excellent at arranging schedules of open home attendance.  I really do need to find something to fill that gap. 

It didn't occur to me until reading that last paragraph back that my interest, it seems, is documenting MEMEME and my life.  On the internet, not just in a personal journal.  That interest doesn't stretch to editing what I write, apparently.  It's just spilling words out onto a virtual page for my own interest further down the track.  I suppose reading other people's blogs is a bit of an interest as well.  I really do need to get out more. 

rawr

I have been a monster for the past week, driven by a potent combination of hormones and latent bitchiness. 

Seriously though, as much as I'm actually awful at heart, this past week I've suffered through the worst PMS I have ever, ever experienced.  I thought my boobs were going to explode over the weekend - first the right with a bang, then the left with a listless puff, that's how aware I was of the swelling and tenderness - I've acne on my shoulders, my face is a spotty mess, I cry at the drop of a hat and I was irrationally and completely enraged by my husband's request that I deliver him his credit card (that I'd borrowed and forgotten to return, which he needed in a hurry, which wasn't particularly out of my way).  I spent at least 15 minutes thinking of different ways to disembowel the bastard until I remembered:

1. I quite like him usually, in fact I married him not so long ago;
2. I prefer him intact (after the bloody thumb-slicing mandolin incident I took a stance on P and gashes in his flesh); and
3. My period was days overdue.

Here I've been, smugly thinking since age 14 that PMS doesn't affect me greatly.  I've rolled my eyes at my mother with my father, when he's told me about the week of the month that he hides in his office because he won't be right about anything, ever.  I've impatiently listened to my sister bitch about hormonal skin issues. 

Well, my friends, I guess I spoke far too soon.  Genetics is a bitch and it appears that I am no longer immune to the vagaries of my reproductive system, asshole though it appears she's becoming.