I am working on a magnum opus about W's birth (HOLY SHIT I GAVE BIRTH TO A REAL LIVE HUMAN BABY, I am so impressed with myself) but in the meantime, some short updates:
- W is already over a month old and is the giantest baby of all time. Not really, but he has amazing cheese rolls under his chin which I could eat with a spoon. He's over 5 kilos now and has burned through all the newborn clothing.
- So I had a baby out of my vagina [soz, spoiler alert for the birth story] and ended up with a few tears. Recovery has been not too bad, actually, but when will I ever feel brave enough to, you know, do it again? I told the midwife that abstinence was a particularly effective form of birth control when she went there last week.
- The sleep thing is shithouse, no? I hate daysleep so I'm going to bed by 8pm which seems to be keeping me functional. He's pretty reasonable at night and has developed a good three hourly pattern (eat, poop, sleep) but not so much keen on the sleeping during the day. I've just spent an hour letting him doze off on me and failing to transfer him to the bassinet. Can't say I blame him, cuddling is far nicer.
- Also shithouse: engorgement. Fuck me that was horrific. My left breast is markedly bigger than old righty and I not-so-fondly refer to it as the shit tit - there's always some lump and its always full to
bursting. I cannot wait for them to regulate.
- We had another weekend with my parents, with us travelling to them this time. W was three weeks and managed nicely, but Dad caught bronchitis on his trip to Auckland and was in hospice while we were
there. The last two or three weeks have seen quite a deterioration
for him, which is likely the effects of the tumour growing. It's
awful. We're there again next weekend. I feel time clutching at my
throat.
- Mum is doing it tough. God, I wish I could help.
- My MiL is here and my house has never been so spotless. I feel
terribly guilty as I fanny about cuddling the baby and she does all
the housework and cooks the meals and wishes I'd relax enough to let
her get paws on the baby. I should just relax and enjoy but the sight
of someone else handling my smalls is stressing me out.
- P continues to be the father I knew he'd be. He was fabulous onparental leave. Each day when he gets home from work he's genuinely
devastated when W is already in bed. He sits up for at least one
night feeding, marvelling at W. I have a feeling that watching P
watch W will be one of my favourite memories. I'm trying so hard to
imprint some of these things on my brain - the dim light, P's wonder,
W's lovely noises.
- I was doing the deliberate memory stocktake for Dad, for a long time
post-diagnosis. I've stopped, somewhere along the line. Somewhere
where the essence of Dad changed and he retreated to help himself
survive, as contradictory as that sounds. The only thing I cling to
now is the feel of his hands and the 'love you very muches' that end
each visit. That, and watching Dad with W. It breaks my heart as it
mends it too - the contradiction is profound.
Showing posts with label uninformed opinions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label uninformed opinions. Show all posts
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
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, 5 August 2014
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.
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.
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?
Friday, 20 June 2014
did catherine morland attend the opera while in bath?
P and I attended the NZ Opera's production of La Traviata last night. I am an operatic Philistine, in that I know nothing about opera other than fictional genteel flutterings of fans and eye contact amongst the crowds attending the opera in Regency romances (OH GOD I'VE EXPOSED MYSELF. Yes, I read Regency romances. I'm so sorry). I'm pretty sure no one was making eyes at me last night. But I was also probably 30 years too young for most of the crowd. Aaaaaaaaanyway, I know little about the opera, so bear that in mind when you read the list below:
_____________
Also, I want to say I feel good about writing the #yesallwomen post, now. I hope you didn't feel obliged to read it (don't feel obliged, if you're just reading my blog for the first time. It's about 2 posts ago). I found it cathartic. I suspect that part of the purge is the feeling that I'm contributing to something broader, an education, a movement. If I can do one thing for someone else now (be it tell a man that consent is a yes, freely and knowingly given, or tell a woman that she's not alone), I won't beat myself up about the decision I made at the time not to speak of it.
I've also done one thing for me. I've acknowledged what happened. That alone might be selfish, but god has it made me feel free.
- Lovely set. Similar to last year's production of Madame Butterfly in the use of a central pivoting stage, but beautiful. The chandeliers as set dressing on the ground at the right moments were haunting, as were the dusty mirrored walls.
- Lorina Gore as Violetta was beautiful, suitably fluttery at the right moments and had a magic voice.
- Alfredo's a bit of a numpty. You know, aside from all the other plot holes, I found old Alfredo vaguely stalkerish (you've been in love with her for a year from afar but just met her three minutes ago?!), nauseatingly in love (noble! mysterious! love), easily taken in (YOUR DAD WAS MEANT TO BE VISITING IN YOUR ABSENCE, 'FREDO. WHY DO YOU THINK SHE'S CRYING AND LEAVING?) and ultimately, not very good at being angry. He didn't make my heart swell.
- I need more sparkly dresses in my wardrobe for these occasions. About 40% of the audience were dressed to the nines and I loved it, wished I made more of an effort.
- The chorus songs were so great!
- I'm pretty sure I saw a girl I went to primary school with in the audience, but I was too chicken to approach her.
- Wish I could have seen into the pit - I really wanted to watch the orchestra, as they sounded wonderful.
- We ate a really great meal at Depot first (again. Love that place).
_____________
Also, I want to say I feel good about writing the #yesallwomen post, now. I hope you didn't feel obliged to read it (don't feel obliged, if you're just reading my blog for the first time. It's about 2 posts ago). I found it cathartic. I suspect that part of the purge is the feeling that I'm contributing to something broader, an education, a movement. If I can do one thing for someone else now (be it tell a man that consent is a yes, freely and knowingly given, or tell a woman that she's not alone), I won't beat myself up about the decision I made at the time not to speak of it.
I've also done one thing for me. I've acknowledged what happened. That alone might be selfish, but god has it made me feel free.
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:
 |
| BOBBY IS THREE. LIKES: SHOELACES, COAT BUTTONS. DISLIKES: DOUBLE KNOTS |
 |
| SWIPED FROM P'S FACEBOOK. STONYRIDGE VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, LAST DAY OF AUTUMN 2014 |
 |
| TE MOTU VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, HOME OF BOBBY |
And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much.
Tuesday, 15 April 2014
ramble
I contemplated tights this morning, for the first time in at least six months. I wore pajama pants and an old jersey of P's around the house last night and felt lovely and cosy. The shoulder seasons are just lovely, really, when they're not particularly wet.
Ma and Pa are off on an overseas jaunt and I'm super jealous, feeling stuck here in the +64. They're visiting the studio we rented in Cairanne, Provence. Not only are they spending spring in the south of France, but I can imagine exactly where and what they'll be doing. Swanning around the ampitheatre in Orange, swilling wine in Chateauneuf du Pape, visiting the boulangerie in the village etc. It's been nearly two years since we were there last; FRANCE I MISS YOU please can I come back soon?
At the moment, they're in the Napa Valley somewhere. Gosh, they deserve it but man alive I am being eaten alive by envy.
Instead, I suspect it will rain through Easter. We're catching up with friends, will probably mooch around the house a bit, stuff our faces with marshmallow eggs. There are worse things we could be doing, I suppose. P was gifted a voucher by his employer for working hard through a particularly stressful time of the year for them, so on Saturday we're trying a new to us restaurant (Sunday Painters, if you're interested.)
I'm starting to go for walks with sister K this weekend, who has signed us up to a 10k run later this year. K's recovering from knee surgery, so we're planning a leisurely training programme to get her back in action. We'll tackle One Tree Hill on Saturday, and I'll try to convince her of the merits of homeownership in the greater Onehunga area. I'd like her to be closer to us. It feels odd living in the same city but being at least a half hour drive apart. That's probably laziness on my part - in London, I'd have thought nothing of catching public transport for 45 minutes or so to see her, but in Auckland I resent it. Partly because I'm not a fan of the part of town she lives in, perhaps? She's looking to buy even further away, but I am the big sister and what are big sisters for but being a bit bossy?
Last weekend we went to Silo's production of Angels in America, as forecast. Wow. I'm still chewing that one over, but general verdict is I really enjoyed it. As an aside, and lest you think this is a cat-free blog post, let me just say that I nearly lost my shit when in the last 30 minutes of 6 hours, the play featured a dead cat, enumerating its nine lives. Well fuck me, I can tell you for real that cats have one life only. I had to laugh - I'd just been thinking how the play was so obviously of it's time (written in the early 90s, set mid 80s) but maintained resonance.
Ma and Pa are off on an overseas jaunt and I'm super jealous, feeling stuck here in the +64. They're visiting the studio we rented in Cairanne, Provence. Not only are they spending spring in the south of France, but I can imagine exactly where and what they'll be doing. Swanning around the ampitheatre in Orange, swilling wine in Chateauneuf du Pape, visiting the boulangerie in the village etc. It's been nearly two years since we were there last; FRANCE I MISS YOU please can I come back soon?
At the moment, they're in the Napa Valley somewhere. Gosh, they deserve it but man alive I am being eaten alive by envy.
Instead, I suspect it will rain through Easter. We're catching up with friends, will probably mooch around the house a bit, stuff our faces with marshmallow eggs. There are worse things we could be doing, I suppose. P was gifted a voucher by his employer for working hard through a particularly stressful time of the year for them, so on Saturday we're trying a new to us restaurant (Sunday Painters, if you're interested.)
I'm starting to go for walks with sister K this weekend, who has signed us up to a 10k run later this year. K's recovering from knee surgery, so we're planning a leisurely training programme to get her back in action. We'll tackle One Tree Hill on Saturday, and I'll try to convince her of the merits of homeownership in the greater Onehunga area. I'd like her to be closer to us. It feels odd living in the same city but being at least a half hour drive apart. That's probably laziness on my part - in London, I'd have thought nothing of catching public transport for 45 minutes or so to see her, but in Auckland I resent it. Partly because I'm not a fan of the part of town she lives in, perhaps? She's looking to buy even further away, but I am the big sister and what are big sisters for but being a bit bossy?
Last weekend we went to Silo's production of Angels in America, as forecast. Wow. I'm still chewing that one over, but general verdict is I really enjoyed it. As an aside, and lest you think this is a cat-free blog post, let me just say that I nearly lost my shit when in the last 30 minutes of 6 hours, the play featured a dead cat, enumerating its nine lives. Well fuck me, I can tell you for real that cats have one life only. I had to laugh - I'd just been thinking how the play was so obviously of it's time (written in the early 90s, set mid 80s) but maintained resonance.
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
march madness
Here I am, still alive. The Queen Street Toucher has been largely brushed off (geddit? har har, not funny really), not so my wee Tim but normalcy is starting to reign again.
OH HEY, MAYBE NOT, I CRIED IN FRONT OF MY NEW BOSS.* Poor thing was extremely compassionate but the tears became hot with shame quite quickly. theresbeenabitoflosslately, idontwanttotalkaboutit, sniff, ohgodsorrysorrysorryi'llgetittogether! There are other things colouring and building into my grief for Tim and Bert and it blows, basically.
So, ok, other than that humiliating little moment, some normalcy is creeping back.
I am looking forward to rain. There hasn't been much of it, which is great, but everything is parched and I'm hanging out for one of those rainy days where you wear big socks and watch movies and burrow away, you know? I think it will wash away some metaphorical cobwebs, too.
In other news, I am getting my first haircut in about 6 months this weekend. It has been an age since my hairs were chopped and fried with bleach last. When I pull my hair back at the moment, it's reverted to mousy brown. I want to feel good about myself, so haircut it is. When the hairdresser asks (they always do) if I've got something special to go to that evening, I will proudly announce that I am taking pizza and red wine round to a friend with a toddler and a baby. I think that is an occasion worthy of excellent hair. (In fact, I suspect I might have done the same thing the last time I had my hair done. Except the baby wasn't born yet, that's how long it's been since I cut my hair. Jeebers.)
That's all, really.
*Not new job, just a new boss has joined the firm.
OH HEY, MAYBE NOT, I CRIED IN FRONT OF MY NEW BOSS.* Poor thing was extremely compassionate but the tears became hot with shame quite quickly. theresbeenabitoflosslately, idontwanttotalkaboutit, sniff, ohgodsorrysorrysorryi'llgetittogether! There are other things colouring and building into my grief for Tim and Bert and it blows, basically.
So, ok, other than that humiliating little moment, some normalcy is creeping back.
I am looking forward to rain. There hasn't been much of it, which is great, but everything is parched and I'm hanging out for one of those rainy days where you wear big socks and watch movies and burrow away, you know? I think it will wash away some metaphorical cobwebs, too.
In other news, I am getting my first haircut in about 6 months this weekend. It has been an age since my hairs were chopped and fried with bleach last. When I pull my hair back at the moment, it's reverted to mousy brown. I want to feel good about myself, so haircut it is. When the hairdresser asks (they always do) if I've got something special to go to that evening, I will proudly announce that I am taking pizza and red wine round to a friend with a toddler and a baby. I think that is an occasion worthy of excellent hair. (In fact, I suspect I might have done the same thing the last time I had my hair done. Except the baby wasn't born yet, that's how long it's been since I cut my hair. Jeebers.)
That's all, really.
*Not new job, just a new boss has joined the firm.
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
centre
The remnants of emotional exhaustion are still present, but I'm back to a (mostly) even keel. My heart is still littered with shards of grief and guilt but I recognise that my reactions are largely selfish and can be shelved for short periods, with a little effort (no doubt less than I should expend). You probably think that this is melodrama but I assure you that this melodrama is no less keenly felt for being splurged ridiculously all over a blog.
Speaking of melodrama, do you recall how intense loss felt when you were a teenager? I remember the death of a seventh form basketball player when I was in sixth form, an avid fan of the basketball team. He died in a car accident. The sixth and seventh forms were devastated, but genuine grief seemed quickly to morph into a sort of contest - who knew him the best? Who was the closest to his family? Who felt it the most? I hadn't spoken to him much personally, but I remember grief on hearing the news, followed by a weird sense of guilt that I was upset; after all, what right did I have to tears, when there were others who were clearly so much closer to him? I clearly recall trying to examine my feelings; were the feelings really because I could imagine it happening to me?
In any case, I have my chin up. We are celebrating a wedding this weekend and I hope you'll keep your fingers crossed that the tropical cyclone headed our way fizzles...the wedding is on the beach, so it'd be less than ideal to be facing gale force winds, I suspect.
Speaking of melodrama, do you recall how intense loss felt when you were a teenager? I remember the death of a seventh form basketball player when I was in sixth form, an avid fan of the basketball team. He died in a car accident. The sixth and seventh forms were devastated, but genuine grief seemed quickly to morph into a sort of contest - who knew him the best? Who was the closest to his family? Who felt it the most? I hadn't spoken to him much personally, but I remember grief on hearing the news, followed by a weird sense of guilt that I was upset; after all, what right did I have to tears, when there were others who were clearly so much closer to him? I clearly recall trying to examine my feelings; were the feelings really because I could imagine it happening to me?
In any case, I have my chin up. We are celebrating a wedding this weekend and I hope you'll keep your fingers crossed that the tropical cyclone headed our way fizzles...the wedding is on the beach, so it'd be less than ideal to be facing gale force winds, I suspect.
Monday, 9 December 2013
disturbing thought that had to be shared
I think I've become a Kanye apologist. I feel the need to defend him at every turn (it is art even if it's nippleless on a motorcycle! the mandela thing must be a metaphor of some sort!).
I don't even know where to start with decoding that shit. Had to record it as it occurred to me for the purpose of further rumination. I'm pretty sure it says something about me...I'm just not sure what, yet.
I don't even know where to start with decoding that shit. Had to record it as it occurred to me for the purpose of further rumination. I'm pretty sure it says something about me...I'm just not sure what, yet.
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
the elephant in my room
I have been studiously avoiding writing about what's on my mind. Partly, the avoidance stems from the lack of cohesion in my thinking on the topic, though, when has that ever stopped me before? Partly, its because at least one or two of you who check in here know me in real life and this is not something I've discussed with anyone but P. Not my mum, not Fat Harry the cat from next door. I don't intend to discuss it with anyone else, either, so please please please, let it lie where it falls and don't say anything. Partly, it's also because it is a tough, personal, emotional topic to write about, particularly when people you know are struggling to get or stay pregnant.
Yep, it's the one where I process my feelings on children. Mine, specifically. I've been burning to put it in words and now that I write I've given licence to the thoughts to lick into flame, sucking up the oxygen in the room.
Here are the facts pertaining to me, children and pregnancy, as I know them:
I am 31. I am not a spring chicken, but neither am I over the hill. I am in a stable relationship. I have a home with space. We are not pressed financially (aside from this week when rates, mortgage, water bills, you name it I paid it and I cursed the god of outgoings copiously). I have always believed my future involved children.
I like achieving [but oh fuck me I cannot find a way to talk about ambition that leaves me comfortable that I haven't fried my chicken in my career space]. Fundamentally, I don't know how compatible my job is with parenthood. Excuse me, how compatible it is with motherhood because god knows having a baby doesn't seem to affect the careers of many men, does it?
I am good at entertaining babies. I like to sniff and squeeze them. Toddlers leave me pretty cold. They want so much of you. I don't really know any other children of other ages.
I love my husband: desperately, calmly, furiously, wholly, every which way. I want my children to have him as a father. I watch him with our nephews and godchildren and something inside me squeezes very, very tight. Yet I love our relationship as it is: lazy days, busy days, uninterrupted time for one another on the weekend. Travel with him. Restaurants with him.
Lots of my friends are having babies. Birth announcements pop up on Facebook as regularly as birthday wishes, it seems. I was shown non-alcoholic beer in the pantry this weekend, and I squealed with delight. If it sticks, she said, it's only four weeks. Friends have suffered because of pregnancy: loss thereof, lack thereof.
We are warned: your life will change so much. Enjoy it now, or don't do it at all. No one speaks about how children have enriched their lives, really. I want to know why they love it so much, despite the aching and the groaning and the hollow envy they express at my life (having all that time to yourself! they say. And I feel a stab of unworthiness at being a double income, no kid person, not the smug sense of self satisfaction that is intimated by the childbearer. And then I feel a pang of irritation: like you fucking know how I spend my hours.) But wouldn't seeing our children grow, loving someone like my mother loves me - wouldn't that be worth it?
I want to experience pregnancy. But I don't want to hate my body more than I do now.
I will be the only child in my immediate family to have children. That's pressure. Yet there's no pressure coming from my immediate family, other than that bald fact. My mother and father intimated recently that they daren't ask us about kids, but have not expressed a preference either way. Watching my mother and father with children induces that same internal squeeze, seizing my organs and constricting my breathing.
Biology.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Those are my facts. 'Facts', I say, hiding feelings of inner squeeze and angst and desire and concern behind language that seeks to make it all a scientific calculation.
I'm not, by the by. Conception has not occured, immaculate or filthy or happy or terrifying or otherwise. I haven't thrown birth control to the wind to see where the breeze or my uterus takes us.
What if I can't?
What if I can?
Yep, it's the one where I process my feelings on children. Mine, specifically. I've been burning to put it in words and now that I write I've given licence to the thoughts to lick into flame, sucking up the oxygen in the room.
Here are the facts pertaining to me, children and pregnancy, as I know them:
I am 31. I am not a spring chicken, but neither am I over the hill. I am in a stable relationship. I have a home with space. We are not pressed financially (aside from this week when rates, mortgage, water bills, you name it I paid it and I cursed the god of outgoings copiously). I have always believed my future involved children.
I like achieving [but oh fuck me I cannot find a way to talk about ambition that leaves me comfortable that I haven't fried my chicken in my career space]. Fundamentally, I don't know how compatible my job is with parenthood. Excuse me, how compatible it is with motherhood because god knows having a baby doesn't seem to affect the careers of many men, does it?
I am good at entertaining babies. I like to sniff and squeeze them. Toddlers leave me pretty cold. They want so much of you. I don't really know any other children of other ages.
I love my husband: desperately, calmly, furiously, wholly, every which way. I want my children to have him as a father. I watch him with our nephews and godchildren and something inside me squeezes very, very tight. Yet I love our relationship as it is: lazy days, busy days, uninterrupted time for one another on the weekend. Travel with him. Restaurants with him.
Lots of my friends are having babies. Birth announcements pop up on Facebook as regularly as birthday wishes, it seems. I was shown non-alcoholic beer in the pantry this weekend, and I squealed with delight. If it sticks, she said, it's only four weeks. Friends have suffered because of pregnancy: loss thereof, lack thereof.
We are warned: your life will change so much. Enjoy it now, or don't do it at all. No one speaks about how children have enriched their lives, really. I want to know why they love it so much, despite the aching and the groaning and the hollow envy they express at my life (having all that time to yourself! they say. And I feel a stab of unworthiness at being a double income, no kid person, not the smug sense of self satisfaction that is intimated by the childbearer. And then I feel a pang of irritation: like you fucking know how I spend my hours.) But wouldn't seeing our children grow, loving someone like my mother loves me - wouldn't that be worth it?
I want to experience pregnancy. But I don't want to hate my body more than I do now.
I will be the only child in my immediate family to have children. That's pressure. Yet there's no pressure coming from my immediate family, other than that bald fact. My mother and father intimated recently that they daren't ask us about kids, but have not expressed a preference either way. Watching my mother and father with children induces that same internal squeeze, seizing my organs and constricting my breathing.
Biology.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Those are my facts. 'Facts', I say, hiding feelings of inner squeeze and angst and desire and concern behind language that seeks to make it all a scientific calculation.
I'm not, by the by. Conception has not occured, immaculate or filthy or happy or terrifying or otherwise. I haven't thrown birth control to the wind to see where the breeze or my uterus takes us.
What if I can't?
What if I can?
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
views and my husband
It occurred to me two or three nights ago that it can't be easy living with a person with such, ah, vehement opinions.
Well, it either occurred to me or was pointed out. P hissed 'I swear there's just no pleasing you, A', as I launched what I thought was quite an incisive take-down on a terribly retrograde opinion he expressed.
I'm full of opinions and I just want to share them with P, my nearest and dearest. 'Share'; 'brainwash' - basically the same thing. I desperately want him to agree with me in all things and I use rhetoric to such devastating effect that he can't help but come round, right?
Well, no. Wrong, actually. I have thought about all of this further while picking lint out of my belly button or something similarly productive, and I have realised:
Don't ask me if I've apologised. I'm afraid the answer might embarrass us both.
Well, it either occurred to me or was pointed out. P hissed 'I swear there's just no pleasing you, A', as I launched what I thought was quite an incisive take-down on a terribly retrograde opinion he expressed.
I'm full of opinions and I just want to share them with P, my nearest and dearest. 'Share'; 'brainwash' - basically the same thing. I desperately want him to agree with me in all things and I use rhetoric to such devastating effect that he can't help but come round, right?
Well, no. Wrong, actually. I have thought about all of this further while picking lint out of my belly button or something similarly productive, and I have realised:
- When P ventures an opinion on a topic I feel strongly about, I either agree vehemently or disagree with, well, malice. What I have been believing are 'spirited discussions' may in fact be just me working on my manifesto, while P tries to interject.
- When P ventures an opinion or poses an argument on a subject I am more ambivalent about, I am just as likely to say 'I can't be bothered right now'.
- If I am concerned that I'm going to find P's opinion on any given topic offensive, I either launch an offensive or shut the conversation down entirely.
Don't ask me if I've apologised. I'm afraid the answer might embarrass us both.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
a litany of useless behaviours
I worked out my ideal career this morning, trudging to work under my own personal black cloud:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
- I love dumplings
- I eat a lot of dumplings
- I'm very good at staying in bed
- I have opinions on things, like dumplings
- etc
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
- Lost my phone. Again. That's the phone twice and wallet once in 6 weeks. On the bright side, it turned up 24 hours later. On the dim side, I lost it at the same bar as last time.
- Lost my dignity attempting to dance with P on Friday night. Managed to push him over on the dance floor.
- Broke the button off P's pants when we got home. Don't ask me how / why - I'm not even sure myself.
- Crushed my thumb as I was closing up the ladder.
- Got heinously sunburnt in the Domain (when I left the house there was no need for sunscreen - I wasn't intentionally stupid! I promise!)
- Could barely move during the Hollie Smith concert due to hangover from previous evening's...festivities (verdict = she was fab, loved the new stuff, technical difficulties aside a great show.)
- Scared myself shitless - from noticing a spider.
- Killed the romance in my relationship with a gastro issue...followed by falling asleep flat on my back with my mouth open, snoring. SO sexy.
Friday, 8 November 2013
bookish
Ugh, all that crap about my urinary tract and peeing in leaky cups has got to get off the top of the blog.
Um. Um. How do you follow a diatribe like that up?
[I've sat on the above sentences for 24 hours now. Following it up was really, really stinking hard]
OK. OK. Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood. Bought this last Friday as a wee treat, finished by Sunday. Enjoyed is probably the wrong word - there's some very disturbing content, but I think it's a wonderful, thought-provoking commentary on modern day issues set in a dystopian future. I'm still not sure I get the ending; going to have a bit of a re-read and then plunge on with the next in the series. I really want to recommend it to P, but I think he'll reach the child exploitation bits and freak with horror.
I also picked up a copy of I, Claudius by Robert Graves. I have listened to this on audiobook before - I forget who narrated it but he has a very distinctive tone and I'm very much enjoying him as my mental narrator as I slurp up the words on the page. It's just interesting, that's what it is. I haven't read that much about the Roman Empire post-Caesar and I love a bit of intrigue and scheming so this is perfect for 10 minutes pre-sleep reading. Livia is a nasty firecracker and I love it.
What else, culture-wise? I'm going to see Hollie Smith perform this Saturday. Yup. That's probably about it.
That's right - I have had Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clarke) sitting on my bedside table for an aeon. I was reading Julia's archives the other day and she mentioned that while she felt like she should enjoy it, she just couldn't get through it. I have had this exact experience with Jonathan Strange. I even took it to the bath a few weeks ago and, well, gave up again afterwards. If I can't get into a book in the bath then there's something seriously wrong. To be fair, when a book is that hefty it isn't ideal tub material...but I'm usually still willing to cut it a break.
Um. Um. How do you follow a diatribe like that up?
[I've sat on the above sentences for 24 hours now. Following it up was really, really stinking hard]
OK. OK. Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood. Bought this last Friday as a wee treat, finished by Sunday. Enjoyed is probably the wrong word - there's some very disturbing content, but I think it's a wonderful, thought-provoking commentary on modern day issues set in a dystopian future. I'm still not sure I get the ending; going to have a bit of a re-read and then plunge on with the next in the series. I really want to recommend it to P, but I think he'll reach the child exploitation bits and freak with horror.
I also picked up a copy of I, Claudius by Robert Graves. I have listened to this on audiobook before - I forget who narrated it but he has a very distinctive tone and I'm very much enjoying him as my mental narrator as I slurp up the words on the page. It's just interesting, that's what it is. I haven't read that much about the Roman Empire post-Caesar and I love a bit of intrigue and scheming so this is perfect for 10 minutes pre-sleep reading. Livia is a nasty firecracker and I love it.
What else, culture-wise? I'm going to see Hollie Smith perform this Saturday. Yup. That's probably about it.
That's right - I have had Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clarke) sitting on my bedside table for an aeon. I was reading Julia's archives the other day and she mentioned that while she felt like she should enjoy it, she just couldn't get through it. I have had this exact experience with Jonathan Strange. I even took it to the bath a few weeks ago and, well, gave up again afterwards. If I can't get into a book in the bath then there's something seriously wrong. To be fair, when a book is that hefty it isn't ideal tub material...but I'm usually still willing to cut it a break.
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
this post just made the list, too
I think I saw the Coolest Guy in the World on the way to work this morning.
He powered past me in in a shirt, suit pants, converse (hey, no judging the commuting converse. I maintain my right to silence regarding what supremely comfortable shoes I wore to work this morning. BITE ME), backpack complete with 1L water bottle, blaring his music at top volume out of his cellphone. He was clearly getting pumped for the day (some kind of late 90s gym music, it would seem). He was moving pretty fast. Perhaps my dawdle would become a brisk, efficient pace if I picked the right tune to play in the morning? Might stick with headphones, however.
My, I've got my cranky/judgy pants back on today! Other things what have not passed muster today:
- Colleague who only filled the kettle enough for ONE MEASLY CUP.
- Failure of workplace to install a zip so I needn't fret about colleagues and their miserliness with the jug filling
- People who dawdled over their sushi choices at lunchtime (if in doubt, salmon/avocado! If you don't eat salmon/avo, just get the teriyaki chicken CHOP CHOP you know that's what you want anyway!)
- All of my shoes.
- My breakfast. When I found some of it on my skirt.
- The weather.
OH EVERYTHING, BASICALLY.
(PS I have become sadly addicted to The Block, NZ's most effective advertorial for DIY masquerading as a television show. I know, I pity me too. Live auctions tonight though people! WHAT A HIGHLIGHT, A)
He powered past me in in a shirt, suit pants, converse (hey, no judging the commuting converse. I maintain my right to silence regarding what supremely comfortable shoes I wore to work this morning. BITE ME), backpack complete with 1L water bottle, blaring his music at top volume out of his cellphone. He was clearly getting pumped for the day (some kind of late 90s gym music, it would seem). He was moving pretty fast. Perhaps my dawdle would become a brisk, efficient pace if I picked the right tune to play in the morning? Might stick with headphones, however.
My, I've got my cranky/judgy pants back on today! Other things what have not passed muster today:
- Colleague who only filled the kettle enough for ONE MEASLY CUP.
- Failure of workplace to install a zip so I needn't fret about colleagues and their miserliness with the jug filling
- People who dawdled over their sushi choices at lunchtime (if in doubt, salmon/avocado! If you don't eat salmon/avo, just get the teriyaki chicken CHOP CHOP you know that's what you want anyway!)
- All of my shoes.
- My breakfast. When I found some of it on my skirt.
- The weather.
OH EVERYTHING, BASICALLY.
(PS I have become sadly addicted to The Block, NZ's most effective advertorial for DIY masquerading as a television show. I know, I pity me too. Live auctions tonight though people! WHAT A HIGHLIGHT, A)
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
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).
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).
Thursday, 10 October 2013
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)
(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)
Thursday, 3 October 2013
courgettes are the same as zucchini, right?
Sunshine! Sunshine! Hallo SPRING! You and your copious snails are here! I'm sneezing all over the show!
If it weren't for the sunshine, I think I'd have hamster-on-a-wheel-itis right now - you know, same day, rinse, repeat thing? Groundhog Day (never really saw that movie all the way through but Bill Murray references are always, always apt even if you're not entirely sure about whether basically everything isn't a joke that Bill Murray is subtly winking at).
Aaaaaaanyway, what I'm saying is: I feel a bit stuck in the rut right now. It's pretty much unjustified, it won't last. I think it's a Gen Y type symptom, maybe. (I *think* I'm Gen Y. Spend a lot of time thinking and talking about ME ME ME? Yep, sounds about right.) I'm always on the lookout for the next big thing, for all the talk of being in the moment. Some fishing recruiter sent bait to P a few weeks ago offering him the opportunity of the big time in Luxembourg. Despite all my professed contentedness back here on the Mothership Kiwi, the rut meant I found myself writing emails to P saying things like:
- 3 hours from Paris by train
- London. Right. There.
- We could get tenants.
- We'd be rich!
- Oh wait, scratch that, what the hell would I do all day?
- I'D EAT BON BONS. SOLD.
- Baguette!
- Wine!
- WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHEESE
etc, etc.
P rationally pointed out that if we moved to Luxembourg we wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of our courgette plant. A valid point; well made sir. I've grown quite fond of the old zucchini plant, purchased hastily in a spur of the moment garden centre trip (who on earth does that? Just me, I suspect. Young people don't go to the garden centre; old people don't do shit like that spontaneously because planning and seasonal planting in your garden is key, I hear). I would hate to think I've battled the snails but otherwise neglected the plant for not a single ratatouille.
Plus, P continued, we've bought a fuckload of furniture recently that we'd like to enjoy (fuckload = must be an imperial measure). We're talking a table, chairs, couch, outdoor table, benches, bbq - that's right people, when you come to our shack you're not going to have to eat squatting on the floor anymore! ALL CLASS.
So, let the sunshine through. Onwards, upwards, zucchini-wards.
If it weren't for the sunshine, I think I'd have hamster-on-a-wheel-itis right now - you know, same day, rinse, repeat thing? Groundhog Day (never really saw that movie all the way through but Bill Murray references are always, always apt even if you're not entirely sure about whether basically everything isn't a joke that Bill Murray is subtly winking at).
Aaaaaaanyway, what I'm saying is: I feel a bit stuck in the rut right now. It's pretty much unjustified, it won't last. I think it's a Gen Y type symptom, maybe. (I *think* I'm Gen Y. Spend a lot of time thinking and talking about ME ME ME? Yep, sounds about right.) I'm always on the lookout for the next big thing, for all the talk of being in the moment. Some fishing recruiter sent bait to P a few weeks ago offering him the opportunity of the big time in Luxembourg. Despite all my professed contentedness back here on the Mothership Kiwi, the rut meant I found myself writing emails to P saying things like:
- 3 hours from Paris by train
- London. Right. There.
- We could get tenants.
- We'd be rich!
- Oh wait, scratch that, what the hell would I do all day?
- I'D EAT BON BONS. SOLD.
- Baguette!
- Wine!
- WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHEESE
etc, etc.
P rationally pointed out that if we moved to Luxembourg we wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of our courgette plant. A valid point; well made sir. I've grown quite fond of the old zucchini plant, purchased hastily in a spur of the moment garden centre trip (who on earth does that? Just me, I suspect. Young people don't go to the garden centre; old people don't do shit like that spontaneously because planning and seasonal planting in your garden is key, I hear). I would hate to think I've battled the snails but otherwise neglected the plant for not a single ratatouille.
Plus, P continued, we've bought a fuckload of furniture recently that we'd like to enjoy (fuckload = must be an imperial measure). We're talking a table, chairs, couch, outdoor table, benches, bbq - that's right people, when you come to our shack you're not going to have to eat squatting on the floor anymore! ALL CLASS.
So, let the sunshine through. Onwards, upwards, zucchini-wards.
Thursday, 12 September 2013
7.27am music report
Today the cafe had reverted back to standard crappy cafe jazz. I'm not sure it's better, per se, but slightly more morning/setting appropriate? I'm unable to tell - in the early hours of the morning all I want is silence and tea. Yes, I am actually 80 years old.
All the other stories I have at the moment revolve around poo. I've already gone there once, let's not do that again, shall we? We'll leave it that living with smalls is surprisingly odorous. My olfactory senses are taking a battering.
Ok, so, what else then? Oh yes. This weekend I am going to the Rugby. Our Nation's Game, watching Our Nation's Team (the All Blacks, hallowed be thy name, the father Hansen, his son McCaw and lo! the word of his apostle Kieran Reid) belt ten types of crap out of the Springboks (we most feverently hope). While I enjoy the occasional game - for example watching the 2011 World Cup victory in Clapham followed by the most ridiculous day of my life stands out - I am going on record: I don't really love it and I've never been to the ABs before. I know, I should turn in my passport and best pavlova recipe immediately to the authorities and leave the country.
Sport attendance seems to involve far too much being cold, far too many overbearing idiots and not nearly enough cocktail olives for my precious tastes. I've been to the cricket, yes (summertime. Pimms) and I actually enjoyed a live match of American football (hot dogs! hilarious guys from Jersey commentating the game behind me!) but we'll see about the rugby. The last game I attended was the Blues versus....some other team...and I seem to recall being quite bored, though I'll admit I wasn't invested. We were with P's Irish cousins who enjoyed heckling immensely, much to my amusement, P's concern and the ire of the Blues supporters seated around us. These were the girls who also managed to convince P's friend that they weren't really P's cousins at all: they just did a fantastic accent and had looked up the most Irish sounding name in the phone book before calling to announce long lost family were on their way for a visit. Brilliant.
Anyway. Rugby. I feel like I'm going through a rite of passage. I want to see the haka - sing me national anthem - wave me flag - stand outside the dressing room for a signature - make a comment about the ruck - curse the ref - worship at the goal posts - it'll be great, I've no doubt.
All the other stories I have at the moment revolve around poo. I've already gone there once, let's not do that again, shall we? We'll leave it that living with smalls is surprisingly odorous. My olfactory senses are taking a battering.
Ok, so, what else then? Oh yes. This weekend I am going to the Rugby. Our Nation's Game, watching Our Nation's Team (the All Blacks, hallowed be thy name, the father Hansen, his son McCaw and lo! the word of his apostle Kieran Reid) belt ten types of crap out of the Springboks (we most feverently hope). While I enjoy the occasional game - for example watching the 2011 World Cup victory in Clapham followed by the most ridiculous day of my life stands out - I am going on record: I don't really love it and I've never been to the ABs before. I know, I should turn in my passport and best pavlova recipe immediately to the authorities and leave the country.
Sport attendance seems to involve far too much being cold, far too many overbearing idiots and not nearly enough cocktail olives for my precious tastes. I've been to the cricket, yes (summertime. Pimms) and I actually enjoyed a live match of American football (hot dogs! hilarious guys from Jersey commentating the game behind me!) but we'll see about the rugby. The last game I attended was the Blues versus....some other team...and I seem to recall being quite bored, though I'll admit I wasn't invested. We were with P's Irish cousins who enjoyed heckling immensely, much to my amusement, P's concern and the ire of the Blues supporters seated around us. These were the girls who also managed to convince P's friend that they weren't really P's cousins at all: they just did a fantastic accent and had looked up the most Irish sounding name in the phone book before calling to announce long lost family were on their way for a visit. Brilliant.
Anyway. Rugby. I feel like I'm going through a rite of passage. I want to see the haka - sing me national anthem - wave me flag - stand outside the dressing room for a signature - make a comment about the ruck - curse the ref - worship at the goal posts - it'll be great, I've no doubt.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
more pointless lists
Between now and Tuesday:
- umpteen hours of work (no. srsly, I think I live here right now)
- fifty trillion more hours of packing, if packing = throwing things in boxes
- last minute freak outs about funding and letters of comfort etc
- a gazillion emails to lawyers and the bank
- purchase of a new shower curtain (why am I obsessed with this? I really don't know, but there it is)
- find a fridge, buy a washing machine
- pick up beds
- ditch husband to move and arrange cleaners etc while I continue working
- finalise insurance following electrician's visit
- settle the purchase and take on the largest debt known to man (it feels like)
- find the photo albums (where the fuck are the photo albums?!)
- locate SIL's couch
- wash the god damn sheets so we have something nice to crawl into on Tuesday night. Every other set is packed and cradling glassware etc
- etc
- etc
- etc
- blah blah blah
Hold me?
- umpteen hours of work (no. srsly, I think I live here right now)
- fifty trillion more hours of packing, if packing = throwing things in boxes
- last minute freak outs about funding and letters of comfort etc
- a gazillion emails to lawyers and the bank
- purchase of a new shower curtain (why am I obsessed with this? I really don't know, but there it is)
- find a fridge, buy a washing machine
- pick up beds
- ditch husband to move and arrange cleaners etc while I continue working
- finalise insurance following electrician's visit
- settle the purchase and take on the largest debt known to man (it feels like)
- find the photo albums (where the fuck are the photo albums?!)
- locate SIL's couch
- wash the god damn sheets so we have something nice to crawl into on Tuesday night. Every other set is packed and cradling glassware etc
- etc
- etc
- etc
- blah blah blah
Hold me?
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