After another perfectly awful email, this time directly threatening our persons, we spent the night out of our house and pursued the police, asking them just to raise the fact of the complaints and investigation with the builder and to ask him to stop contacting us other than through formal channels. They visited him last night, I'm told, with "consequences [of his actions] explained and understood". So far, nothing further. I'll be going home this evening with P and trying to enjoy being there, in my space, with my family.
I trust we won't be chased further by him, but who knows. I believe the threats are bluster to try and squeeze a few more dollars out of us, but, like I said, who the fuck knows. In any case, we've taken them seriously out of an abundance of caution. You know, I'm a lawyer and I've seen far worse, but it really is different when you're the person intimately involved with the crime, not just the advisor.
Thank god for insurance, an excellent and responsive police force, an understanding workplace and P's family for accomodating and caring for us last night.
In the interim, Dad's not doing so well and Mum's struggling with the burden a bit, I think. I've booked last minute flights to see them this weekend, even though we're booked to go at Easter. I've rented a car so they don't have to make trips to the airport and even if all I do is sit quietly with Dad, at least Mum can have a breather and some space. He's still himself, but there are aspects of him that are changing, from what I'm able to tell over the phone. I need to see them both, I think.
In brighter news, how about that cricket world cup semi-final?! Poor old P had tickets to the game -- I wouldn't have otherwise felt sorry for him, but this was during the threat crisis and a very busy period at work, followed a hard weekend of work on the house and stag do for a close friend, at a time when he was dealing with a pregnant, ill wife, his father-in-law's illness and has the pressure of completing the renovation -- I think the stress of the game nearly gave him a heart attack! The result and the game were thrilling, of course, but when it comes to the wire like that it's stressful. My heart goes out to the South Africans but we're so excited for the final on Sunday :) I'm backing the Black Caps - go Kiwis!
Showing posts with label vile. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vile. Show all posts
Thursday, 26 March 2015
Monday, 23 March 2015
i don't even have a title for this
Just when you think things probably weren't going to get any worse, I was woken from a fever-addled sleep yesterday afternoon to a loud banging on the front door. It was the contractor we'd hired for the exterior work coming to collect his ladders, which was fine. What was not so fine was the fact he stole one of our ladders despite my explanation that it wasn't his. From the moment of his entry onto the property he went ballistic at me over payment of his final invoice, submitted approximately three days beforehand and substantially incorrect. He threatened and insulted me and wouldn't leave the property when I asked him to. I cried like a baby, sick, in a dressing gown and nearly six months pregnant. I called the police about the theft in front of him and he drove off, with my ladder.
What was even worse was waking to an email this morning (sent after 11pm last night) giving us a deadline of 5pm tonight to pay him, or he'd throw paint stripper over the entire house, take a chainsaw to the weatherboards and damage our car. It included veiled personal threats to our persons and included some of the ugliest personal insults I've ever been subjected to.
I could detail the history of the correspondence with him but I can't face it, frankly. You're probably wondering what you're missing; what we did to trigger such a tirade of threats and abuse. So are we. I lay awake last night wondering exactly how I could have handled the entire situation better to avoid this, but the conclusion I keep drawing is that I've made every progress payment he's requested, we've paid more than three quarters of the total amount due by way of deposit or progress payment, the work was only completed last week (in his view at least, we are concerned about bubbling paint on the front door but we'll cut our losses I think) and I've been ill over the weekend and we were still discussing the outstanding invoice - not unreasonable not to have paid, I would have thought? Besides which, even if we were totally in the wrong and were owing a large amount that was overdue, I just can't see how it would possibly have justified a reaction even remotely on the scale of what we received.
So, I spent this morning on the phone to the police making another complaint about the threats, because that shit is not legal and is scary. I blubbed some more in the office (where I was when I read the email), which is just wonderful. I issued a trespass notice and served it by email, and need to spend my lunch hour also issuing it by registered post (because I'll be damned if I'm giving him verbal notice or effecting personal service, I never want to see or speak to him again). I can't spend this evening in my own home because P's is going to be out and he won't let me be alone there right now. We need to find somewhere else to park our car for a week or so until the dust settles, in case he does follow through on his threat. We think we ought to warn the neighbours, which is a really fun conversation to have. I have a bunch of follow up calls or visits to go with the police, probably.
The whole thing is a giant clusterfuck.
What was even worse was waking to an email this morning (sent after 11pm last night) giving us a deadline of 5pm tonight to pay him, or he'd throw paint stripper over the entire house, take a chainsaw to the weatherboards and damage our car. It included veiled personal threats to our persons and included some of the ugliest personal insults I've ever been subjected to.
I could detail the history of the correspondence with him but I can't face it, frankly. You're probably wondering what you're missing; what we did to trigger such a tirade of threats and abuse. So are we. I lay awake last night wondering exactly how I could have handled the entire situation better to avoid this, but the conclusion I keep drawing is that I've made every progress payment he's requested, we've paid more than three quarters of the total amount due by way of deposit or progress payment, the work was only completed last week (in his view at least, we are concerned about bubbling paint on the front door but we'll cut our losses I think) and I've been ill over the weekend and we were still discussing the outstanding invoice - not unreasonable not to have paid, I would have thought? Besides which, even if we were totally in the wrong and were owing a large amount that was overdue, I just can't see how it would possibly have justified a reaction even remotely on the scale of what we received.
So, I spent this morning on the phone to the police making another complaint about the threats, because that shit is not legal and is scary. I blubbed some more in the office (where I was when I read the email), which is just wonderful. I issued a trespass notice and served it by email, and need to spend my lunch hour also issuing it by registered post (because I'll be damned if I'm giving him verbal notice or effecting personal service, I never want to see or speak to him again). I can't spend this evening in my own home because P's is going to be out and he won't let me be alone there right now. We need to find somewhere else to park our car for a week or so until the dust settles, in case he does follow through on his threat. We think we ought to warn the neighbours, which is a really fun conversation to have. I have a bunch of follow up calls or visits to go with the police, probably.
The whole thing is a giant clusterfuck.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 February 2015
motivational quotes have never been my thing
Dad's not back on chemo yet; his liver enzymes are now causing concern. They've knocked back the steroid dose and told him to take care, he's fragile right now.
Two times I felt rage, warranted or unwarranted, in the last few days:
Two times I felt rage, warranted or unwarranted, in the last few days:
- Reading an article in the Herald about a patient with the same tumour as Dad, who has survived 20 years and claims it was his unorthodox self-prescribed medication routine that 'cured' his cancer. I wanted to scream; whether or not it was the acne medication that helped that guy and whether or not Dad starts insomnia pills as a supplement, we still have no fucking idea whether it will work. It doesn't give me hope, not at all.
- Quotes pasted by relations on Facebook from a recently deceased public figure implying that if she'd better taken care of herself, rather than looking out for others all the time, she would not have been diagnosed with cancer or may have picked it up earlier. Hey, it's always possible that her diagnosis was late because of her schedule assisting others. But if you'd like to make yourself feel better about being a little selfish from time to time, you do not need the words of a dead woman lashing herself for missing her disease while helping others to make you feel better. And do you genuinely believe that cancer differentiates on some kind of moral basis? You might, but I certainly don't.
Wednesday, 18 February 2015
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:
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.
Sunday, 30 November 2014
end of spring 2014
I was in Christchurch last week, alternatively squinting as the sun beat down on me through the windows of various meeting rooms or pushing back my hair as the wind blew a gale when I managed to escape outside. It's been a disappointing spring, really. Gusty, drizzly, grey. I shouldn't complain - in the two years since we returned to New Zealand, the seasons have outdone themselves. Aucklanders grow to expect six weeks of rain during spring, standard so there's nothing new with what we've been experiencing to date. It's just that springtime elsewhere seems to have bright days (notable exception: London, Spring 2012, miseryfest).
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
Friday, 19 September 2014
what's next, gout?
Fresh page, blank slate notwithstanding, my bloggy muse is still AWOL. Am feeling very stilted on the old blog recently, given I don't tend to write about work, my husband generally (other than, you know, putting up mocking faux-fashion pictures) or details regarding my friends. Maybe it's just that I'm leading a boring life? Probably. I can usually wring a drop of drama or six out of the most innocuous material, so I'll resort to a nice list and see what pops out:
- Summer holiday is mostly organised, including a trip to see the olds, a week at the beach with friends, and a visit from P's mum. We've also booked a trip to Golden Bay (upper South Island, v remote, hippy heaven) for a wedding in March. Am feeling good about summer time on the horizon.
- Friend saga. Friend 1 has been a dick to Friend 2 over a gift that Friend 1, a bunch of other friends and I arranged for Friend 2. I heartily disapprove of Friend 1's dickish behaviour and dealt with endless email/FB correspondence, including a few calls to other friends myself for sanity! Mother above, how is it that friends can still bring the drama at age 30+? I am actually ashamed of having had any involvement in a squabble at all. But given I'm not going to parse the details here, you probably don't care much about that at all. Safe to say: my policy on this sh*t now is: Let's All Calm Down and Have a Glass of Wine. Actually, that's an excellent policy to apply across the board for me, I'll have it printed on an inspirational fridge magnet in no time. Watch out Pinterest.*
- Tabitha cat has found an access point to the roof and scares the bejesus out of me on the regular. She creates massive thumps, and I rush outside to see what's caused the noise, only to realise I'm being watched over the eaves by a furry wee stalker. Gets me every time and is somehow worse than when I realised I'm being watched during midnight pee trips.
- HAHAHAHA I jinxed myself with my recent post about musical theatre. Turns out the Sound of Music is coming to town and my sister K is desperate to go. Mum said no way, on the basis that it won't be as good as the movie, but K pointed out that comparing it unfavourably is half the fun. I mean, why would you watch the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice otherwise? So, I'm going back to the theatre for a singalong, goodness help me.
- Weekend: nearly upon us, whew.
- State of the Chubby Update: fell off the food recording bandwagon hard, but am making better decisions and feeling better about meself generally. More cups of tea, fewer diet Cokes, no snorting chips before dinner. Good rules, hey?
- OMG I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO TELL YOU: I think I had an attack of gallstones! No, I'm not 90 or a very fat man (the population segment I associate with gallstones)! The other weekend was spiked with abdominal pain, that started near the bottom of my ribs and worked its way down. I was achey on and off all weekend, with marginal improvement on the Monday. After I was palpated by the doctor (ick! palpation! sounds vile, right? Mind you, it could have been worse - she threatened me with a transvaginal scan at one point), she concluded that the likely culprit was gallstones. I was so ashamed, but did you know that it is actually more common in women? And that it can be caused by long term oral contraceptive use? Well, that's what Wikipedia tells me anyway. I had a blood test/pee test to rule some other stuff out, but they won't know that it was the 'stones for sure unless they do an ultrasound. Given I'm feeling better, I'm going to flag that, so unless they flare up again, I guess we'll never know. GALLSTONES. AM SUFFERING FROM MYSTERIOUS OLD PERSON AILMENT. SHAME.
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
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?
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?
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
i don't generally sing in the shower, at least
My cat watched me have a bath last night. Actually, 'watched' is the wrong word. She participated in my bath last night. Strolling up and down the edge of the bath, trying to stand on my thigh to get closer to the water, scooping water with a paw.* It was endlessly entertaining and I'd show you the photos I took but:
(a) admitting you take your phone in the bath is bad enough, let alone providing pictorial evidence of that tragic habit; and
(b) the photos accidentally included my pubic hair** in the bottom of the picture and I don't think we want that on the internet.
Is it odd that I don't shut her out of the bathroom? She often comes in during a shower to sit on the end of the tub and wait for me to turn off the water. At first I found being watched a little creepy but now I find I like the company (always someone to talk to!) and she gets a bit upset if excluded from the bathroom. I mean, it's not like she's actually sharing the bath or shower with me?***
Hey ho, the descent into sad cat lady continues.
*We have a southpaw in the house, it's always her left that she scoops with. Or is that because the dominant right is used for balance? I don't know and this probably isn't worth investigating furthe because SHE'S A CAT. Gosh, perspective, A.
**Yes, I have some. Now really, is that a surprise to you if you've ever read this blog before?
***Yes, I have conveniently forgotten the time Tabitha poohed in the bathtub. I'd like to think she's done a lot of maturing since then.
(a) admitting you take your phone in the bath is bad enough, let alone providing pictorial evidence of that tragic habit; and
(b) the photos accidentally included my pubic hair** in the bottom of the picture and I don't think we want that on the internet.
Is it odd that I don't shut her out of the bathroom? She often comes in during a shower to sit on the end of the tub and wait for me to turn off the water. At first I found being watched a little creepy but now I find I like the company (always someone to talk to!) and she gets a bit upset if excluded from the bathroom. I mean, it's not like she's actually sharing the bath or shower with me?***
Hey ho, the descent into sad cat lady continues.
*We have a southpaw in the house, it's always her left that she scoops with. Or is that because the dominant right is used for balance? I don't know and this probably isn't worth investigating furthe because SHE'S A CAT. Gosh, perspective, A.
**Yes, I have some. Now really, is that a surprise to you if you've ever read this blog before?
***Yes, I have conveniently forgotten the time Tabitha poohed in the bathtub. I'd like to think she's done a lot of maturing since then.
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
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?!
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?!
Friday, 6 June 2014
lawyering is so glam
I will be discovering documents all. weekend. long. It is 9.32am on Saturday, and all weekend feels like a very long time to me right now.
I am very much looking forward to the day in my career when I can hand any and all discovery to a junior solicitor and say 'make it happen'. I am getting there, but the big ones are the bane of my existence.
Wow, that's interesting, hey?! ME SO FUN.
Um, go the All Blacks?
I am very much looking forward to the day in my career when I can hand any and all discovery to a junior solicitor and say 'make it happen'. I am getting there, but the big ones are the bane of my existence.
Wow, that's interesting, hey?! ME SO FUN.
Um, go the All Blacks?
Monday, 24 March 2014
unwanted
You know, I'm sorry, I really wanted to blog about something hopeful today. But, the icing on the cake this week (this awful, heartrending week) was that I was touched without my permission on the way to work this morning.
I feel soiled.
I fully admit I was overly engrossed in my phone as I walked down the street. I looked up; oh, cafe tables on the street ahead, must step right to avoid collision. As I did so, I felt a hand brush against my thigh, the bottom of my bum. I swerved; thinking I'd stepped in front of someone and got in the way. So I had, sort of. He was walking purposefully forward, backpack on, sandy cropped hair, rumpled clothing. I wasn't directly in his path. I turned back around and kept walking.
A full three seconds later, I felt it again.
That time it was clear. A full, deliberate, open handswipe down the right side of my bum and thigh. I spun with a breathy 'hey', shocked, and the fucker didn't even register. Kept right on walking.
Me, full of words and opinions, was speechless. 7.45am, crowded public place. I debated with myself: did that really just happen? Am I sure it wasn't an accident? It wasn't; I know what I felt, I'd had a chance to register the space between us after the first swipe and it was big enough that he would have had to deliberately move into my space to touch me again, some time and a few steps after the original. As I blanked, he veered around the corner and I crossed the road with the lights. For five minutes, I kept checking my back, brushing off the invisible finger marks he left.
What the fuck. I thought about saying something further, out loud, but it was a busy public space and I didn't want the shame of accusation. There shouldn't be any shame in accusation, but my mind was spinning with 'everyone will think you're being hysterical. It was just an accidental commuter brush'. I'm really angry with myself now for staying quiet because I know it wasn't and that bastard deserved to get served a volley of abuse.
In the scheme of things, not that much. But still fucking illegal. ILLEGAL. You do not get to touch me without my permission. You have made me feel disgusting and you didn't appear to give one single shit.
I feel soiled.
I fully admit I was overly engrossed in my phone as I walked down the street. I looked up; oh, cafe tables on the street ahead, must step right to avoid collision. As I did so, I felt a hand brush against my thigh, the bottom of my bum. I swerved; thinking I'd stepped in front of someone and got in the way. So I had, sort of. He was walking purposefully forward, backpack on, sandy cropped hair, rumpled clothing. I wasn't directly in his path. I turned back around and kept walking.
A full three seconds later, I felt it again.
That time it was clear. A full, deliberate, open handswipe down the right side of my bum and thigh. I spun with a breathy 'hey', shocked, and the fucker didn't even register. Kept right on walking.
Me, full of words and opinions, was speechless. 7.45am, crowded public place. I debated with myself: did that really just happen? Am I sure it wasn't an accident? It wasn't; I know what I felt, I'd had a chance to register the space between us after the first swipe and it was big enough that he would have had to deliberately move into my space to touch me again, some time and a few steps after the original. As I blanked, he veered around the corner and I crossed the road with the lights. For five minutes, I kept checking my back, brushing off the invisible finger marks he left.
What the fuck. I thought about saying something further, out loud, but it was a busy public space and I didn't want the shame of accusation. There shouldn't be any shame in accusation, but my mind was spinning with 'everyone will think you're being hysterical. It was just an accidental commuter brush'. I'm really angry with myself now for staying quiet because I know it wasn't and that bastard deserved to get served a volley of abuse.
In the scheme of things, not that much. But still fucking illegal. ILLEGAL. You do not get to touch me without my permission. You have made me feel disgusting and you didn't appear to give one single shit.
Monday, 17 March 2014
so, so stupid
I can't be trusted to act like an adult, ever. I spent yesterday dying a horrible, horrible, self-induced death ten times over. The last two things I remember from the night before (the wedding after party) are swimming in the middle of a tropical cyclone (though the details of the swim are pretty hazy) and delivering a full bodied slap to someone's face (no idea who). That last was part of a game, not malicious, but....still.
I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits.
If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished. But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later. Just charming. I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage. We took an hour's breather at Thames. I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me.
So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away. Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified.
I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here. More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY). I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson.
Have I got a problem with the demon drink? Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance. I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson. Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me. If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell.
Off to turn over a new leaf.
I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits.
If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished. But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later. Just charming. I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage. We took an hour's breather at Thames. I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me.
So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away. Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified.
I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here. More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY). I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson.
Have I got a problem with the demon drink? Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance. I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson. Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me. If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell.
Off to turn over a new leaf.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
frosty wife, frigid life
Having onions in your lunch is always a risky decision. Just so you know to avoid my office this afternoon, in case you were thinking about dropping by.
So, the Great Housework Debacle of 2014 has reached a frozen denouement. P tried valiantly to engage me in neutral conversation yesterday, followed by lots of little touches (e.g. running his hand over my lower back whenever he walked past). He fairly rapidly realised the frosties weren't going away any time soon. This morning he said he was sorry and hugged it out, which was a bit like hugging a board, really (albeit a board with a quite a bit of excess adipose tissue - I'm squishy even when I'm cross). While I'm pretty sure he was internally qualifying his sorry six ways from Sunday - just saying it to get the fight finished and to appease me before announcing we've got dinner with the in-laws tonight, a fact he'd previously neglected to mention - I think I'm going to magnanimously accept the gesture and move on. I'm usually the one who'll do anything for the sake of peace, so I think that's probably fair. Also, he's kind of nice when he's not being a dick.
Kitten update, you say? OH GO ON THEN I WILL.
Timothy: not his usual shining self, Timothy has been hiding under the bed and feeling a bit under the weather, I think. He has also point blank refused how to learn to use the cat door properly and insists that we open it for him. Wee Tim is no longer so wee; he's starting to grow into his enormous paws. He's no longer chewing wires (whew). He loves to sleep between P and I and press his face into ours with purring sound effects as he resettles in the night. I love it.
Tabitha: a wicked, naughty bundle of fun. She's brilliant and I love her. She knows how to use the cat door but only when she feels like it. We've taken to naming all the cat toys variations on 'Tabby's baby': Tabby's mouse baby, Tabby's crack baby (the latter being a catnip mouse that sends her crazy - one minute she's snuggling, the next she's savaging her baby like she desperately needs to get at the good stuff inside). She sleeps under the bed or in the spare room, leaping up at about 6am to see if I'm awake enough to get her biscuits yet.
I'm fully aware, thank you, that I sound hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when I talk about my cats. In all honesty, I probably am hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when it comes to my cats. At least I'm frank with my weblog?
(Except when I'm not. I'm partial to a bit of revisionist history, from time to time.)
So, the Great Housework Debacle of 2014 has reached a frozen denouement. P tried valiantly to engage me in neutral conversation yesterday, followed by lots of little touches (e.g. running his hand over my lower back whenever he walked past). He fairly rapidly realised the frosties weren't going away any time soon. This morning he said he was sorry and hugged it out, which was a bit like hugging a board, really (albeit a board with a quite a bit of excess adipose tissue - I'm squishy even when I'm cross). While I'm pretty sure he was internally qualifying his sorry six ways from Sunday - just saying it to get the fight finished and to appease me before announcing we've got dinner with the in-laws tonight, a fact he'd previously neglected to mention - I think I'm going to magnanimously accept the gesture and move on. I'm usually the one who'll do anything for the sake of peace, so I think that's probably fair. Also, he's kind of nice when he's not being a dick.
Kitten update, you say? OH GO ON THEN I WILL.
Timothy: not his usual shining self, Timothy has been hiding under the bed and feeling a bit under the weather, I think. He has also point blank refused how to learn to use the cat door properly and insists that we open it for him. Wee Tim is no longer so wee; he's starting to grow into his enormous paws. He's no longer chewing wires (whew). He loves to sleep between P and I and press his face into ours with purring sound effects as he resettles in the night. I love it.
Tabitha: a wicked, naughty bundle of fun. She's brilliant and I love her. She knows how to use the cat door but only when she feels like it. We've taken to naming all the cat toys variations on 'Tabby's baby': Tabby's mouse baby, Tabby's crack baby (the latter being a catnip mouse that sends her crazy - one minute she's snuggling, the next she's savaging her baby like she desperately needs to get at the good stuff inside). She sleeps under the bed or in the spare room, leaping up at about 6am to see if I'm awake enough to get her biscuits yet.
I'm fully aware, thank you, that I sound hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when I talk about my cats. In all honesty, I probably am hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when it comes to my cats. At least I'm frank with my weblog?
(Except when I'm not. I'm partial to a bit of revisionist history, from time to time.)
Monday, 24 February 2014
end of the summer
Friday evening was a beautiful, balmy evening. When I stepped out the door of the building, a wash of warm air ran over me and, I don't know, the pixies got into my bloodstream or something. Two colleagues and I plonked ourselves down at an outdoor table and, well, got plonked. We gossiped, we drank, we laughed.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
the bathroom is the logical place, i suppose
I've got a burning desire to write something...profound. Shame I haven't got any source material, so light bullshit it is. And I do mean that literally; read on, dear reader.
I have a beef with Tabitha, Kitten-in-Chief of Mischief, Mayhem and Pooing in the Bathtub.
You may have guessed what the beef is, by now. Scene: A's bathroom, 6.20am. Our shower is a head over an old, shallow enamel bathtub, with various chips and cracks. It has a white rayon shower curtain that is looking a little tatty in places, as I throw it through the washing machine on a semi-regular basis. I am merrily showering away, when I see the outline of a little furry body on the edge of the bath through the curtain. How cute! says I. Tab or Timothy has come to visit while I'm in the bathroom. They must love me! says I.
I turned the shower off, opened the curtain. Tabitha immediately leaps into the tub. Brave kitty, says I. Timmy jumped in recently and freaked when he discovered the tub was wet. Timmy required saving. Tab immediately puts her nose to the base, gives it a lick, squats and hey presto! poohs in the bottom.
She looked at me like 'yeah? and?'
And that is how, dripping wet and clad only in a towel, I found myself handling faeces before breakfast.
GLAMOROUS.
I have a beef with Tabitha, Kitten-in-Chief of Mischief, Mayhem and Pooing in the Bathtub.
You may have guessed what the beef is, by now. Scene: A's bathroom, 6.20am. Our shower is a head over an old, shallow enamel bathtub, with various chips and cracks. It has a white rayon shower curtain that is looking a little tatty in places, as I throw it through the washing machine on a semi-regular basis. I am merrily showering away, when I see the outline of a little furry body on the edge of the bath through the curtain. How cute! says I. Tab or Timothy has come to visit while I'm in the bathroom. They must love me! says I.
I turned the shower off, opened the curtain. Tabitha immediately leaps into the tub. Brave kitty, says I. Timmy jumped in recently and freaked when he discovered the tub was wet. Timmy required saving. Tab immediately puts her nose to the base, gives it a lick, squats and hey presto! poohs in the bottom.
She looked at me like 'yeah? and?'
And that is how, dripping wet and clad only in a towel, I found myself handling faeces before breakfast.
GLAMOROUS.
i got my revenge moment...
So, you know how the pretend Microsoft software 'fixers' rang me and I wished I'd told them to go fuck themselves but I didn't I just thought it?
Well, they called again.
I drew a deep breath, asked the woman on the phone to stop speaking and said:
"I know this is a scam. This is the third time you've called me. Don't call this number again."
I hung up.
I couldn't say it; just couldn't do it. So easy to type 'go fuck yourself', so difficult to be actually confrontational, even with muppet scam artists. Sigh. It was my big chance to be offensive (in person, rather than on the internet of course, I suspect I'm fairly offensive on the internet all the damn time) and I missed it.
Mind you, there's every chance they could ring again?
Well, they called again.
I drew a deep breath, asked the woman on the phone to stop speaking and said:
"I know this is a scam. This is the third time you've called me. Don't call this number again."
I hung up.
I couldn't say it; just couldn't do it. So easy to type 'go fuck yourself', so difficult to be actually confrontational, even with muppet scam artists. Sigh. It was my big chance to be offensive (in person, rather than on the internet of course, I suspect I'm fairly offensive on the internet all the damn time) and I missed it.
Mind you, there's every chance they could ring again?
Thursday, 19 December 2013
i smell like
cigars (not mine) and regrets (mine, all mine). A very merry Thursday afternoon, evening, night was had by A.
I hope you all have merry holidays as well, though I don't recommend dropping a hundred bucks on bottles of cava for your team/family/friends when the lot of you are already loaded. That is not merry; that is insane. It is not very merry to get in a fight with your taxi driver, either. Or retching at 8am on the side of a very busy arterial route. BUT, singing/dancing/chatting - these things are all very merry and I wholeheartedly recommend them!
See you in 2014!
I hope you all have merry holidays as well, though I don't recommend dropping a hundred bucks on bottles of cava for your team/family/friends when the lot of you are already loaded. That is not merry; that is insane. It is not very merry to get in a fight with your taxi driver, either. Or retching at 8am on the side of a very busy arterial route. BUT, singing/dancing/chatting - these things are all very merry and I wholeheartedly recommend them!
See you in 2014!
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
woeful afflictions, part gazillion
Wait! Stop press! Forgot to tell you:
Last weekend's mosquito bite count sits at over 20. So many are on my feet I can't wear shoes as they're too itchy and swollen.* BUT THE WORST BIT:
THEY'RE ALL OVER THE BACKS OF MY THIGHS.
I wore a dress to a 60th bday party this weekend.** We sat outdoors, beside a swimming pool. I didn't think to take repellent. Perched on the edge of the seat, the dress was swirly so it fell away from the backs of my thighs. All the mosquitos in creation thought 'JACKPOT' and feasted with a VENGEANCE. Now I'm inappropriately scratching all over creation and am too embarrased to be seen naked-legged by my husband. The very husband who has kindly taken pictures while I was passed out mostly naked on the floor of our bedroom, who obviously does not give a shit about the manky state of his wife (did I not tell you about that? One of the nights I lost my phone this year. 2013 was the year I revisited being 18 only fatter and with glasses, apparently).
I have subsequently bought two new bottles of insect repellent and will be inhaling toxins for the next three weeks solid. If on my return my typing gets any worse or if I get even more parenthetical (assuming such a thing is possible!) you'll know the reason why, I intone darkly. But I won't be scratchy, at least.
* I kid you not, today I got asked by the most direct colleague: 'Are you pregnant? Is that why you're wearing sandals and have swollen feet?'
**Why yes, I have friends who are 60! Actually, it was a good friend's father's party but I felt v grown up while schmoozing the tennis club ladies.
Last weekend's mosquito bite count sits at over 20. So many are on my feet I can't wear shoes as they're too itchy and swollen.* BUT THE WORST BIT:
THEY'RE ALL OVER THE BACKS OF MY THIGHS.
I wore a dress to a 60th bday party this weekend.** We sat outdoors, beside a swimming pool. I didn't think to take repellent. Perched on the edge of the seat, the dress was swirly so it fell away from the backs of my thighs. All the mosquitos in creation thought 'JACKPOT' and feasted with a VENGEANCE. Now I'm inappropriately scratching all over creation and am too embarrased to be seen naked-legged by my husband. The very husband who has kindly taken pictures while I was passed out mostly naked on the floor of our bedroom, who obviously does not give a shit about the manky state of his wife (did I not tell you about that? One of the nights I lost my phone this year. 2013 was the year I revisited being 18 only fatter and with glasses, apparently).
I have subsequently bought two new bottles of insect repellent and will be inhaling toxins for the next three weeks solid. If on my return my typing gets any worse or if I get even more parenthetical (assuming such a thing is possible!) you'll know the reason why, I intone darkly. But I won't be scratchy, at least.
* I kid you not, today I got asked by the most direct colleague: 'Are you pregnant? Is that why you're wearing sandals and have swollen feet?'
**Why yes, I have friends who are 60! Actually, it was a good friend's father's party but I felt v grown up while schmoozing the tennis club ladies.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
a+e
P lost a chunk of his thumb this weekend, thanks to injudicious use of a mandolin (instrument of the kitchen variety, as opposed to a stringed instrument, though that would also have been a sight to see - I feel confident gouts of blood don't often come of a serenade). I wasn't there when the injury was sustained, for which I think we're all grateful,* but I was the one who hauled his mangled carcass to the A&E yesterday.
Can we just sing a round of Hallelujah for a Christmas miracle? There was not one other person aside from medical staff in the entire emergency clinic. Unbelievable. The only delay in obtaining speedy and efficient treatment was me filling out P's form and narrating it back to him (it's his right thumb). P was not so keen on my description of how the injury occurred - I wanted to write: 'Potatoes Dauphinoise and a Sharp Thing - Need I Say More?' but my suggestion made him all huffy. We went with: 'preparing dinner', which I think you'll agree is terribly boring.
P was seen quickly and I stayed put in the waiting room, reading my fill of mimi smartypants (terrible choice for a medical centre, given mimi kept making me snicker.)** I could vaguely hear P talking to the nurses though and asking for a spot to lie down when they took off the dressing, poor love. At one point, a nurse appeared and asked whether I was the girlfriend. This made me a bit huffy, as she asked with a spot of incredulity. I composed myself, trying to believe that P's babyface probably had more to do with it that me looking like a decrepit cradlesnatcher or an uncaring witch who deserts her one-and-only, and replied in the affirmative, resisting the bizarre temptation to wave my left hand and cry 'wife, actually'.
He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch with the thumb elevated, as removing the original dressing had caused further bleeding. I think it was quite sore too. However, because I'm awful I kept veering between laughter (he looks so funny, giving the entire world a bulky thumbs up) and edging away from him (because ew, I missed you while you were gone but I cannot handle that thing touching my body). What a magnificent nurse I'd make. I think I've really missed my calling.
*I am NOT. GOOD. in an emergency. Think faint, freak out-y. I'm not proud of this, but at least I'm honest with myself. Oh god, I'm feeling vaguely squirmy and nauseous just thinking about it.
**Given my emergency response-mode, I couldn't deal with seeing the injury in the flesh, as it were. Poor P was therefore deprived of the soothing balm of my company in the emergency room. I'm sure he desperately missed having my hand to hold.
Can we just sing a round of Hallelujah for a Christmas miracle? There was not one other person aside from medical staff in the entire emergency clinic. Unbelievable. The only delay in obtaining speedy and efficient treatment was me filling out P's form and narrating it back to him (it's his right thumb). P was not so keen on my description of how the injury occurred - I wanted to write: 'Potatoes Dauphinoise and a Sharp Thing - Need I Say More?' but my suggestion made him all huffy. We went with: 'preparing dinner', which I think you'll agree is terribly boring.
P was seen quickly and I stayed put in the waiting room, reading my fill of mimi smartypants (terrible choice for a medical centre, given mimi kept making me snicker.)** I could vaguely hear P talking to the nurses though and asking for a spot to lie down when they took off the dressing, poor love. At one point, a nurse appeared and asked whether I was the girlfriend. This made me a bit huffy, as she asked with a spot of incredulity. I composed myself, trying to believe that P's babyface probably had more to do with it that me looking like a decrepit cradlesnatcher or an uncaring witch who deserts her one-and-only, and replied in the affirmative, resisting the bizarre temptation to wave my left hand and cry 'wife, actually'.
He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch with the thumb elevated, as removing the original dressing had caused further bleeding. I think it was quite sore too. However, because I'm awful I kept veering between laughter (he looks so funny, giving the entire world a bulky thumbs up) and edging away from him (because ew, I missed you while you were gone but I cannot handle that thing touching my body). What a magnificent nurse I'd make. I think I've really missed my calling.
*I am NOT. GOOD. in an emergency. Think faint, freak out-y. I'm not proud of this, but at least I'm honest with myself. Oh god, I'm feeling vaguely squirmy and nauseous just thinking about it.
**Given my emergency response-mode, I couldn't deal with seeing the injury in the flesh, as it were. Poor P was therefore deprived of the soothing balm of my company in the emergency room. I'm sure he desperately missed having my hand to hold.
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