decision 2014

We got half cut on champagne and went to pick out wedding jewellery for M on Saturday afternoon.  I expect that's why I fell asleep by 9pm on Saturday night during the election coverage; being sauced, that is.  We had a lovely time at the jewellery store.  After finding the perfect earrings and matching necklace, we tried on everything in the vintage cabinet.  I flounced around the store with a three carat diamond on my finger (verdict: terribly gauche and wondrously obnoxious, three carats is), while trying to persuade Hat Friend to purchase an expensive gold fob chain or a beautiful emerald ring.  We drank some more bubbles afterwards and toasted the bride.  Can't wait for her wedding day. 

Election coverage: do you know, I think the coverage on my facebook page was probably more extensive and vitriolic than the coverage on the two major free to air channels?  That's saying something.  I woke up to posts on Sunday morning saying things like:

- 'Shame on you, New Zealand'
- 'Crying into a bucket of KFC, Dotcom?'
- 'If you didn't vote, you can't complain'
- 'Moving to Scandinavia'

Had the result gone a different way, I think I would have seen just as much disappointment from the other half of my feed.  It wasn't all one-way traffic.  I've found it hard to work myself into a proper lather about this election, though for all that I'm disappointed that NZ doesn't appear to wish to make any major decisions that might result in a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor.  Wow, I didn't expect to make any direct statements about my political leanings on social media (other than, you know, me feminism) but there we have it.  Oh, except I've bagged Colin Craig before and I was thrilled to see we'll go another three Colin Craig-free years. 
 

slightly sozzled, I said yes

Have I never told you "My Engagement Story"?

(Capitals and "Quotes" and Sarcasm are a Good Mix, No?)

OH BOY, YOU'RE IN FOR A TREAT.  Not really, I just feel like writing this piece of history up today like the fickle-memoried wench that I am. 

It started with Kate and Wills, like all good romances.

In fact, Wills was born a week after me, when my mother was still in the maternity ward recovering from the birth / shock.  I felt from a very young age that the prince and I were meant to be; at least until he started losing his hair.  Yes, I am that shallow when it comes to one-sided relationships with future rulers of my dominion. 

Anyway, I didn't mean to delve that far back.  You know how Wills and Kate got married one time?  Well that day was declared a public holiday in the UK.  We were living in London and because of Easter or somesuch, the wedding meant a four day weekend.  Four free days to travel was too good to pass up.  P took it upon himself to organise that weekend as I'd recently been shouldering the travel arrangements 'burden'.    He umm'd and ahh'd about location and finally informed me he'd sorted it and it would be a surprise.  FINE THEN,  I said.  BUT BARCELONA RIGHT? I'M PRETTY SURE IT'S BARCELONA AND IT BETTER BE BARCELONA OK?

On the morning of Princess Catherine's big day, P put me on a train.  The train went through London right by the route the wedding carriage was taking, which at first made me scowl - packed train.  But everybody was dressed to the nines to attend the wedding of the decade.  Quite a few were already drunk and waving bottles with fascinators in their hair.  Even my stony heart melted when I saw a wee girl, dressed in her best party frock with a tiara in her hair accompanied by her grandfather.  I mean, honestly.  She was going to see a wedding and a princess!

I couldn't work out which airport P was taking me to.  When we eventually emerged in NW London, I realised he was taking me to a car hire spot.  He'd organised quite a nice car which made me internally sigh, thinking about the damage he'd done to the bank account renting something flash.  P is a car fan, you see.  He's pretty lucky I love him anyway because petrol-headedness is not my jam.  I also briefly mourned Barcelona -- how far is it possible to go return in four days in a car from NW London?

Well, as we drove that day it I guessed it - we were heading to the Peak District.  I forgave him for Barcelona immediately.  I now blush with embarrassment at being the living embodiment of a particular cliche - wasn't the Peak District where Lizzy toured in Pride & Prejudice?! I said.  And...I also knew it was the location of Lyme Park, the stately home used in the BBC adaptation of P&P which, sadly, is my favourite movie of all time.  Yes, I'm sorry, I am an Austen saddo.  P feigned disinterest in the Austen connection, just said he thought it was a cool area and had found a special on a great place to stay.

The drive up to the Peak District was really, really wonderful.  You see, most of Britain was celebrating the royal wedding.  Every village we drove through was decorated with flags and pennants and bunting - we stopped off at a pub for lunch and caught the televised kiss on the balcony - everyone cheered.  It was spring time and just gorgeous. 

P had outdone himself for accomodation.  The inn was my definition of perfection; giant bathtub, very cute, countryside, huge fireplace, gorgeous cottage garden grounds.  However, P's blackberry had been going off all day - there was a big deal in the works.  We arrived, he hauled out his laptop and set to work, making phone calls etc.  I had a bath, then flopped on the bed in a robe, disappointed that business took priority.  After moping around for a bit waiting for him, I decided to unpack the bags, seeing as we had three nights to spend.  P, on the phone, saw me pick up his bag.  He turned around, flapping his hands at me with a pissed off expression and I thought WELL FINE I WON'T BOTHER THEN.

You see, none of these signals - romantic weekend, flash transportation, surprise destination, all-out accomodation, reluctance to share the contents of his bag - amounted to wedding proposal in my mind because I am as dense as two short planks.  I have never been much of a wedding or marriage girl and we'd been together nearly 10 years at that point.  We were already committed.  Once upon a time, P had said to me that he did want to get married someday, but I hadn't given it much thought. 

The next morning, P offered up some local touristy options.  I gleefully picked going horse riding; we went on a hack in the countryside with about 10 Korean teenagers and had a fabulous time.  I taught P to post to the trot (key if he wanted his tackle to remain unbruised for the remainder of the weekend, a most important consideration).  We picnicked in a lane somewhere.  We walked up to an old henge, laughing at the British definition of Peak - more like gentle hill, though the other trekkers there had hiking boots, support poles, chaps etc - we were wandering up the hills in jandals. 

We went back to the hotel for a breather.  P was dead keen on setting out for Lyme Park, which I couldn't fathom.  It was already about 4; I knew we had dinner reservations and the Park was likely to close reasonably soon.  I convinced him a G&T in the garden would be best. 

We drank one, people watching.  P suggested we move on, but the sunshine was too good for me. I now know I was completely busting his grand plans to propose with a dramatic Austen backdrop.   Instead, we drank another G&T.  P then cajoled me into finding a private spot in the garden.  He disappeared to grab our picnic blanket and, unbeknownst to me, ordered a bottle of champagne.  We set ourselves up in a secluded spot to make the most of the sun. 

I felt buzzed, if you must know.  Two stiff gins, sunshine and then a first glass of surprise bubbles was more than enough to make me feel a bit giddy.  I later realised P was probably softening me up. 

He said some very nice things as we lay on the blanket in the sun, then, before I knew it, he'd asked me to marry him. 

After I said yes (I think), he produced a wee box with a ring.  I was very taken with it, moreso than I ever expected to feel about a piece of jewellery (at least, until the end of the weekend when I, frugal beastie that I am, realised that it probably cost a bit and was horrified).  We kept the engagement to ourselves that first night, sharing with family and friends the next day. 

The rest of the weekend was unreal - just magical.  I loved the proposal, didn't see it coming and am so glad to have married this man. 

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. 

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. 

february, be gone

FRIDAY FRIDAY FAH-RYE-DAY.

I could have finished the post right there, but I'm verbose, so.  Thanks be to the almighty it is Friday.  Am already dreading Monday.  Am so, so sad.

Going to a wedding this weekend and am having the perennial (privileged middle class female) debate:

- sexy shoes what will get broken in the grass; OR
- slightly less sexy shoes which might survive several hours on turf.

Despite my shoe dilemmas, YAY wedding.  I seriously love being a wedding guest.  Despite being so fundamentally ambivalent about the institution of marriage, ceremonies celebrating love and commitment are my jam. 

(*qualification - my ambivalence relates to the need for marriage to be the only legally recognised form of commitment between human beings.  We can all commit in our own ways and everyone should enjoy legal rights and recognition where commitment exists).  Hymph, digression, got all political there for a second.  Soz.

ANYWAY, love wedding ceremonies.  I'm going to see some of my favourite people be supremely happy tomorrow, how awesome is that?! P + R are just going to have the best day and I bet they're already having the best ever after.  [Did you also love Ever After, that Cinderella movie with Drew Barrymore?  Oh god, late 90s I had such a THING about DB movies - Never Been Kissed?! She's the business, Drew is.] [I wish NZ had Netflix because FRIDAY NIGHT memory lane time!]

The wedding is in Hamilton, so we're having another night away from the purrymouses.  The kitties will have to survive on their own this time - food will be delivered but no pet sitters, this time.  They spend lots of hours happily outdoors now chasing cicadas so I trust they'll keep out of trouble. 

I hope you all have as lovely a weekend as I will attending a wedding.  May spring arrive for you in the northern hemisphere and may summer stretch out in the south. 

anticipating bad behaviour (the good kind) (sort of)

Last wedding of the season for me this weekend.  R is getting hitched to A.  R + P met in 6^th form (as they called it, back in the days of yore in ye olde high school) and caused general hijinks for years following.  R was P’s best man, P is R’s best man.  This means that I’m sitting at a table of wives/girlfriends from the bridal party, plus a few assorted other interesting folks, including a guy by the name of Irish Rob, because (congratulations, aren’t you CLEVER) he’s from Ireland.  I shall get gloriously tiddly with Irish Rob and the WAGS and we will be vaguely obnoxious while wearing pretty, pretty things.  Maybe I will cry at bit during the ceremony.  The bride will be beautiful.  Weddings, aren’t they lovely?

This one is the whole she-bang, too.  Upwards of 150 guests, formal attire (you know I’m wearing the same summery dress anyway, right?  It brings that thing down to about $100 per wear which is still horrendous to contemplate), church-y bit etc etc.  An old boss of mine is the uncle of the groom (this is New Zealand, of course.  Dad recently did the 2 degrees of separation trick in Bonn with some Kiwi he’d just met and within a couple of questions had worked out that the new acquaintance used to work in a former government ministry with a friend of mine from university who Dad basically adores), so that’ll be odd/nice. 

I better go find some new, respectable, only slightly-whore-y shoes in my lunch break today…except FFFFFF today’s the day we’re paying off P’s student loan!!!  The millstone hanging around our necks is finally going!  YAYAYAYAYAY – except it leaves us with basically nada in the coffers for the next wee while (spesh with this house purchase palaver going on).   OH WELL will wear the $20 shoes that gave me allergic reactions and are basically deteriorating within 2 wears (but they’re cute! $10 a wear at the moment, if I wear them tomorrow we’re down to $6.66 a wear!).

HOUSES.  HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE do you love these???? (you better.  I will hear nothing nasty)

TURN OF THE CENTURY CUTENESS, NO? YES! YES!

I WILL GROW WISTERIA ALL OVER THE VERANDAH AND YOU SHOULD SEE THE BACKYARD AND I LOVE IT AND I WANT IT AND IT'S PROBABLY DAMP AND COLD AND UNINSULATED AND I CARE NOT I WILL JUST BUY MORE SOCKS

OH YEAH and the girls from work are having a BYO tonight at a Thai restaurant in Ponsonby. UH-OH SPAGHETTI-O!

(why yes, my much improved (somewhat manic mood) must be because my soul is shriven! I apologised to P! Who is taking steps to fix the problem!)

(Also, I resigned from my job in Blighty a year ago.  Feels like forever or the blink of an eye.  I shall write a post about the change, no doubt, entitled something like "London, I Love Thee, But I Did The Right Thing".)

what i did this weekend, brought to you by ibuprofen and insect-bite soothing cream

The usual tale of excess followed by woe – it was a pretty good weekend.

Friday night we caught up with friends returning to London to eat, drink, exclaim, gossip – lovely.  We ate at Ponsonby Road Bistro: love. Great food, great atmosphere; the evening felt very European but with a Kiwi twist.  Loved it. 

VENGEANCE the next day however – we got up early to take our friends to the airport and as the morning wore on, a hangover descended…I think it was likely related to the humid weather we’re having in Auckland (amazing blue sky days but my lord, the SWEATING).  As I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, I thought I was going to pass out under the hairdryer.  P and I consumed bulk nurofen and tried to make ourselves acceptable before the 2pm ceremony.  We failed miserably.  As a result, this is the only half-assed picture I took of the New Dress:

TERRIBLE PICTURE, NO? DRESS IS KNEE LENGTH, MUCH PRETTIER THAN THIS (I HOPE). 

Completely failed to take a snap of anything else – left the camera behind.  Sigh.

I love weddings.  Even though I thought I was going to die for a while there between the ceremony and the reception (until the first gin started working its magic), I was happy happy happy to have been there to see the delicious bridesmaids, gorgeous groomsmen and the happy couple, looking so thrilled.  Many of the family we caught up with we haven’t seen since our wedding – so many said such nice things which was very generous of them. 

Now, do you see what I did with the gin foreshadowing there?  Yep, I hit the bubbles at the reception thinking it would totally help me get back on the level.  I got back on the level, then I climbed a few more levels….JC on a stick, before I knew it, I’d hit the dance floor with a vengeance, sans shoes, demo’ing my best running man, hair flips and skanky moves… I fed the bride tequila (she loved it, in my defence) and dragged on a cigarette (I don’t smoke.  I don’t know what possessed me).  P, no stranger to excess himself, eventually dragged me home, where we passed out with the doors open and were feasted on by mozzies.  I woke at 7, cracked a gimlet eye to look at the clock, shut it and lay almost stock still for the next two hours, moving only to scratch the mosquito bites if absolutely necessary. 

The rest of the day was a fabulous gathering of the wedding guests at a beautiful home with an enormous pool.  Feeling dire, I reclined on a chair in the shade, failing miserably at conversation with the rellies.  Seriously, it took HOURS to pass.  I spent the day wading in the pool, finding shade and hmming/haaing gently when responses were required of me.  Such lovely people and such generous hosts. 

P and I dragged ourselves home around 8, where we tried to clean up and went on a mozzie killing binge ('die you fuckers', we shouted, as we slammed our palms on the wall or shook clothing in the wardrobe to loose the bastards) (such a display of class and good taste).  Definitely need to purchase some flyspray this evening.

things of little consequence

I am now back at the coal face.  I must say, I enjoyed putting on a bit of slap this morning and deciding upon shoes (the brown sandals, with the plaits; not the tan wedges, FYI).  It must have something about a return to routine and feeling like a careerist.  When I first graduated and started a full time job, dressing for work was a pleasure (though difficult and complicated by the piffling paychecks, nearly all of which went to fixing a fairly large dent I’d made in P’s car): lady-suits, high heels, white shirts.  And then I realised that you basically wear everything on a days-of-the-week rotation and that high heels do not last the distance.  I learned that it is not possible to extend the life of a pair of black heels by colouring the scuff marks with a vivid.  Stapling the hem of a skirt in desperation is a TERRIBLE stop-gap manoeuvre.  But I had a momentary enjoyment from my dress-for-work routine this morning just because I’ve been looking for the past two weeks much like P adopted me from the SPCA and hasn’t yet got round to clipping the matted tangles out of my coat. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Speaking of cars in which I could put dents (which we weren't, really) we might have bought one.  Subject to an AA inspection and actually coughing up the funds, P has settled on a vehicle.  I am still of the view that it is a luxury that we shouldn’t be spending our dinero on just at present, but my husband is being intransigent (sometimes I find that quite attractive in a man, you?) and thus, if it passes said inspection and we pay, I will be increasing my consumption of our planet’s limited resources.  Must have said this before, but I’ve never owned a car before, which is yet another reason I really resent the purchase.  Hymph.

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I should be attending the death throes of a hen party tonight.  The lovely bride is getting married on Saturday and is being taken today for a day of frivolity and festivity on Waiheke Island, tasting wines and no doubt being forced to guzzle a few.  I have no leave remaining to me so I’m in the office today and I’m meant to be joining the festivities in the Viaduct (gag) tonight.  You know, once everyone else is probably good and sozzled.  I’m a relative (but also a friend!) of the bride and I don’t know her girlfriends so I’m slightly nervous that I’ll be making small talk with my in-laws while having to play terrible games with plasticine or something (good god I hope they get that out of the way early in the day!).  Wish me luck.

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I knew January was going to be work-y stressful.  I can feel the pressure-tummy coming on, I need to build up a head of steam and start working at full speed.  Trust this too, shall pass.  And, oh, fuck it.  I’m going to go book tickets to see my mummy now instead. 

always stuff your handbags full of toiletries

Wearing a white dress to a charity ball was always going to be a stupid idea.  You know, it wasn’t floor length or anything so it’s not like I picked up a whole lot of grime from the floor (I looked like I should be at the races 'cos I was wearing a knee length white dress, but stuff ‘em, I didn’t have a ball gown and shopping for that crap when you have hams for arms is not conducive to good mental health).  I managed to avoid major stains but I spent all night sweating the effing dress but yet still choosing to drink red wine, eat dishes with red jus etc.  There was a HUGE other potential stain issue – my body has been fairly reliable about Wednesday midday once every 28 days for a long time.  So I didn’t think to prepare myself on Tuesday night, when selecting the limited number of items to go in my clutch (cellphone, keys, lippy, blah blah).  That wee danger had me running to the lavs to spin around in front of the full length mirror about once every half hour and, you know, *improvise* with the resources to hand.  I came home unblemished but it was a very stressful evening, I must say.  I am now in favour of installing emergency tampons next to every emergency fire alarm just in case.  It’s a situation in which no woman should ever have to find herself. 

 

So, yes, charity ball.  I’ve never been part of a silent auction before; though I think it was actually more of a whisper-y auction as the top bids on each item were being projected onto a screen for all to read, which made me properly competitive.  I was all “who, ME?” and fluttery when I realised I’d won the wine glasses and that the money was going to the children (somebody has to think of the children, you know).  I will no doubt feel smug every time I slurp out of one of my winning glasses. 

 

Despite all the thinking of the children which was good, I did find the whole set-up a little unsettling.  Having recently budgeted a wedding, I started calculating the cost of the ball itself and comparing that with the money raised on the night, fairly unfavourably.  Even adding in the price of the table to the charity profit calculation, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like the ball involved an unnecessary amount of expenditure.  I could be totally wrong; the venue might have donated its services, or possibly the caterers etc – in fact, I really hope that’s the case.  I just found it a little distasteful that in order to get me to open my wallet, it was necessary to wine and dine me in such splendour.  Obviously, there is an incredibly layered discussion to be had here and I am basically only skimming the surface with some half-baked thinking, but there it is.  And you’re right, I attended and ate and drank and donated, which I might not have otherwise done (being honest about it). 

 

In other slightly related news, this round of Christmas palaver is getting obscene.  I am out attending some event every night this week which is not a brag, it’s a hate situation.  I am getting pretty sick of small talk and I’m hopeless at working a room.  Other people are just so…intimidating, I think.  To be fair, some of the events this week are personal and not schmoozy but my friends will likely not be experiencing the best of my sparkling wit and natural vivacity , as I’m fresh out of interesting anecdotes and natural smiles.  What, you’ve noticed?!

it shouldn't wobble for that long after you push it

I am a domestic goddess and don’t you ever let my mother tell you otherwise.

Yesterday, in a fit of gym-avoidance, I tackled some outstanding chores.  This is fascinating stuff but I am still basking in the afterglow of martyrdom so you’re going to have to excuse me.  Most of the bathroom was cleaned (shower grouting be damned!  Hate hate HATE), visible bits of the floor were vacuumed, bedding, towels and clothes were washed, the gas hobs were scrubbed, shirts were ironed, surfaces were dusted and pictures were hung.*  I cooked the best damn roast I think I’ve ever produced, thankyouverymuch.  All while P was out playing golf (also yesterday?  I worked out how to bend the space time continuum so that we regressed to the 1950s, apparently).  I felt terribly smug about it all (can you tell?) and I’m now crowing about it to anyone who will listen.  You’d think I’d be embarrassed to admit that I don’t do this every week, wouldn’t you?  I treated myself to a wee rose wine as a reward for being so wonderful and that turned into three so I felt SPECIALLY good by the time we did the dishes. 

Also on the agenda for last weekend: a meal out on Friday night and a wedding Saturday.  Dinner was disappointing, sadly.  Fabulous company (thanks P), but too expensive and it appears I’m well over this degustation business.  I inevitably end up feeling sick and it takes far, far too long.  There was an outstanding dessert involved in the meal I must say, but generally, while the food was nice, it wasn’t as outstanding as we thought it would/should be. I won’t link to the restaurant because I like to celebrate success, rather than bash local business.  I mean, tell your friends if you enjoyed something, right? 

The wedding was lovely - aren’t they always?  I thought the groom was going to keel over as his bride walked down the aisle which was massively entertaining/heart warming.  I try to act all cynical and what-not but I love attending celebrations (except perhaps for children’s bday parties, because I ALWAYS come away feeling ill yet hyperactive and wishing I’d ingested a little less food colouring.  Yes, it still has the same effect on me as it does on a three year old.  You should see me after coffee). 

Net weekend result: housewifery, parties and dinners do not give a girl the skinnies.  I’m trying busy to get skinny again today after a weekend of abject skinny-failure but it’s so damn hard when there is leftover roast beef sitting in your fridge.  I WILL head to the gym this evening to assuage the guilt.  I would dearly, dearly love to be properly skinny but I am having to come to the conclusion that I enjoy consuming tasty treats too much to ever get there properly.  Last night Notting Hill was the Sunday Night Feature that played in the background for a while before I went to bed.  (Side note: one of the Greatest Rom-Coms of Our Time, right up there with You’ve Got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle).  I tuned into the scene where Hugh Grant has taken Julia Roberts to a dinner at his friends’ house (Bernie = Lord Grantham!) and they compete for the last brownie with the biggest sob-story.  Part of Julia’s pity party is that she’s been on a diet since she was 19, which basically means she’s been hungry for a decade.  I sighed: is that really what it takes?  If so, I know which side of squidgy I’m going to keep landing on.  You shouldn’t need to be hungry, but then, I do eat at times when I’m not hungry for the sheer pleasure of it so I’m really my own worst enemy.

This is not to say that I’m particularly overweight – for what it’s worth, I’m within the “healthy range” (albeit towards the upper end).  But I’d like to look better in something heinously skintight that a Kardashian would wear, you know?  I want them judging me for a whole OTHER set of reasons.    Lesson to be taken I guess: eat/drink less, get off chuff more often.  GENIUS, aren’t I?!

Oh, and also, please send some sparkly-hippy-good-karma-vibes to my mother, who is managing a viral crisis amongst the newborn calves on the farm.  She’s wearing herself out trying to make sure that the babies who can’t drink from their mummies are being tube fed and that they’re not infecting too many others.  It has still managed to pass between mobs of cattle and despite her tender loving care there have been a few deaths, which she takes very personally.  That’s much more important stuff than my waistline whinges – do I really believe in the power of positive thoughts from others?  Yeah, I think I do.  So it would be good, ta. 

*Opinions on the Oxford comma?

back.

I have arrived home from the best month ever. Being home in my own bed feels incredible, but ask me again once I've returned to work on Monday.

So much to say about the most intense, joyous four weeks.  Most importantly, the wedding exceeded all my expectations.  I never expected to feel that much closer to my family and to P's, to have so much sheer joy in having friends in one place.  The way P made me feel that day was truly glorious and memorable in a way I never expected, having been with him for nearly 11 years. 

Schmaltzty enough?  I'll be recapping this past month in piecemeal fashion soon, but I'm glad to be home with my husband in tow so for now, I'm just going to enjoy these last two days of honeymoon.  Back soon.

the sun is out

It's my last day at work for a month.

ON MY WAY TO WORK THIS MORNING.  GLORIOUS

My stomach is churning (can I get it all finished today? What crises will develop in my absence?  Will they all realise I was a waste of space?). 

In three days, I'll be in San Francisco, drinking filter coffee and sniffing gently, trying to capture the smells of America (the strongest nostalgia is for the sweet, rotting fugue of New York or the damp, vegetative odour of New Orleans).

In less than a week, I'll be in Aotearoa, raising my eyebrows at people on the street in greeting, kia ora-ing and ka kite-ing, being welcomed back into the bosom of my family (oh god, I'm sick of you already, my mother will say.  I will grin because it's true and also because we both know we'll cry at the airport when I leave.  We always do).  I'll be smelling sea-salt and dry grass wafting off a hot breeze.  I'll stick my hand out the car window to feel the shape of it. 

England has put on a show for me today (don’t go A, remember the springtime, I have green leaves and twisty lanes and daffodils, I'm fecund for godssake). 

The bulbs outside my front door are budding.  Where has winter gone?  It never really arrived this year.

Don't worry London, I'll be back soon.  Thank you for making it easy for me to return.

knickers

Today is a big day.  I'm heading out of work early, going to the bridal store and trying on my dress for what should be the last time before I take it home.  This is not the big news in itself.  Do not panic; this will not become a wedding asshat blog just yet, it is still just a general asshat blog with appearances by my alter-bridezilla-ego.

The big news is that in preparation for this final dress rehearsal I am wearing the spanx.  OMFG.  It's probably more accurate to say the Spanx are wearing me - my mid section is like a cuddly toy being gripped by a 14 year old whose first boyfriend has just won it by feeding a clown's face with balls or somesuch (i.e. I am being squeezed tightly by something kinda sweaty). 

I look pretty GD slamming in a basic wrap dress for work that usually has my tum hanging out the front but I AM NOT SURE THIS IS WORTH IT.  OK OK, I'm vain, it's worth it, but holy hell these things make you pay for the glory of having no knicker line.  Though I don't think I'll be wearing them to work again; it ruined lunchtime aka the best part of the day (I spend all morning deciding what to have for lunch; then spend all afternoon working out what to do better next time.  What can I say, I strive for perfection). 

I even viewed the Golden Globe outfits this morning online with far more sympathy that I would otherwise usually grant that parade of the rich, famous and skinny bitches.  I spent a considerable amount of time playing an endlessly entertaining game of 'Undies, Spanx or Commando?' on the Daily Mail (Net results: I think Kelly Osborne was the only one wearing normal knickers not spanx, pretty sure Heidi Klum went sans-pants which in her case is totally legit, possibly Piper Perabo also but her entire dress appeared see-through and she looked a little, well, manic, so she had bigger issues going on than her smalls). 

WHAT?  YOU'D MAKE THIS FACE TOO IF SOME SPANDEX WAS CONTAINING YOUR HERNIA

I am ridiculously late on the bandwagon for spanx, but in all seriousness, why why WHY have people been enduring this in silence?  On my wedding day, I don't think I'm gonna receive a compliment (and there better be thousands of those) without saying "have you SEEN what it takes to achieve this perfection right here?" or "check out this bad boy" while lifting up my dress. 

well this explains a lot

Excerpts from a skype call with my mother last night (mercifully, without the video.  Mum generally aims it somewhere above her head so I watch the wall, then supersizes the picture from my camera and asks what self-respecting damn-near 30-year-old still has spots.  THIS PERMA-ADOLESCENT, THAT'S WHO):

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Mum: "I'm moving.  To the South Island.  But your father can't shoot the cat." 

Me: "I don't understand this conversation." 

Mum: "We had a discussion about what to do with the animals if we moved."

Me: "A hypothetical discussion about what to do with the cat if you made a hypothetical move that isn't actually that far?"

Mum: "We're definitely going to move.  Maybe.  But your father reckons he could shoot the cat if we moved.  I don't think he's got the balls." 

Me: "So it’s not that you won't let him shoot the cat? Have you even THOUGHT about the cat's feelings in all of this?"

Dad: "I could too shoot that cat.  Peow Peow". 

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*BIG NEWS ALERT* My mother told me she had an extremely important announcement: my sister's cat is about to turn 1 and has graduated from kitten bikkies to bigboy bikkies. 

To be fair to Mum, she was laughing hysterically when she told me this earthshattering news from my sister.  I told Mum she's got to be nice to that cat because the way we're going, it could be her only grandchild. 

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I'm trying to block this out, but if I had to hear it then you do too.  My mother tried to tell me about a family member (who shall remain unidentified) having a dirty weekend.  When I cut off this line of conversation with a "GROSS NO MORE EW EW EW"  Mum then remarked that said family member has "different networking techniques" than either her or I.  Still trying to get the taste out of my mouth. 

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Mum has firm views on floral arrangements.

Mum: "What did you think of the description the flower lady provided you of your wedding bunch?"

Me: "Very nice."

Mum: "Well you don't want that flax shit in there.  Especially if it's stripey."

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Love my fambily, but I worry about them, I really do. 

pretty knickers

I'm a klassy lady, no doubt about it.  I have just opened a package at my desk at work and THANK GOD the office was empty because I hauled out the most enormous flesh coloured expanse of lycra known to mankind.  That's right, I am hauling this ass into shapeliness by confining it within the bounds of a spanxtravagnza on the wedding day and P going to be BEYOND THRILLED.  I can confidently predict wedding night will go much like this:

1. Getmarriedsignlicenceblahblahblah DRINK CHAMPAGNE.  LOTS OF CHAMPAGNE! 
2. Follow that up with forget to eat anything/decide it's clearly a good idea not to eat anything because holy hell I do not want to look bloated in that mothereffing dress. Besides, logic dictates not eating will leave more room for champagne.
3. Begin dancing.  Only with champagne in hand.  Cannot do it without: look like epileptic spider when dancing sans glass in hand, look extremely hotttttt and skinny with glass. 
4. Get assistance to pee from girls by promising more champagne, try my damnedest not to pee on the dress while they haul the elasticated monstrosities down my legs in order to lever me onto the loo (those girls are good to me.  They just have to ask and I too will wrestle the spanxmonster to allow them to pee and I'll damn well compliment their vajazzle at the same time even if glittervaghearts are not my thing).
5. Tell my parents I love them.  And my family.  And my friends. Then tell P's family that I love them too, even the ones I've not met.  But also tell them that eff me, their last name is just ABYSMAL and they should count themselve lucky I'm taking it even though it is against all my feminazi principles and it was just because P looked like he might cry when I told him I'd been thinking about keeping mine.
6. Fall over on dance floor while trying my patented bend over backwards dance move which is like sexy crack to the gentlemen.  *Ahem*
7. Find P (no doubt having hugs and backslaps with his boys "chaps, you know my motto is bros before hos" and, no doubt, "just because I married her doesn't mean I love you chaps less").
8. Leave wedding venue for B&B in cab. 
9. Try to avoid cab vom.  Distinct possibility of pulling over at some point en route.
10. Arrive at B&B, kick out friend who hid in the front (no way am I having suggestions of a little A sandwich or spoon-sesh on my wedding night)
11. Stumble into bedroom where P will have stashed a little somethingsomething along the lines of hideously expensive champagne which we will open, be unable to taste because our mouths have eau-de-vino/"just a wee dram of whiskey to celebrate" already.
12. P will help me with the buttons over my bum on the back of the dress et, voila! discover the SEXIEST UNDERWEAR KNOWN TO MANKIND as popularised by Renee Zellweger in one of the greatest movies of our time
13.  P will wonder, for approximately the 999,999th time in the 10 or so years he's known me, what happened to the image of delicate, feminine futurewife he envisaged before he met me
14.  While P takes time for his wee internal monologue, I will pass out.

And that my friends, is how spanx will, in all likelihood, ruin wedding night amorousness for me.  It will be the spanx' fault.  FOR SURE.


(oh god I just google imaged ugly spanx for a pic to accompany this post and I'm pretty sure it's gonna get me fired. eff, eff eff.....for the love of god, DO NOT make that mistake!)

admission

Some time ago, I met P.  Despite looking like an electrocuted elf thanks to an ill-advised haircut (word to the wise, if you have thick hair that consumes any and all humidity then a short bob is not the style for you), P was obv dazzled by my sparkling personality (or boobs) and was v pleased to pash me in a student pub after a very large number of beers on both our parts (I know, young A was completely hopeless and had not realised that her fresher 5 (or 10) kgs and poor life choices were attributable to beer.  Older-wiser A recognises this fact so choses to mix her beers with vodka sodas because THAT will obv help with getting a case of the skinnies).  Soundtrack: Xtina's "Dirrrty".  Lighting: dark (if I'd seen the shiny polyester shirt which may or may not have had a dragon on it some different choices may have been made). Some years later, P screws up his courage to take advice from Beyonce and put a ring on it....SO....

I'm getting married in February.  To P. 

I would like to think that it's not an OMIGOSHWEDDINGSTRAVAGANZA scenario, but I'm beginning to think it has started making me act like an asshole. 

Case in point: I spend time reading wedding blogs.  LOOKATALLTHEPRETTY. I suspect this makes me a HUGE wedding-asshole but this specialpartypalaver has opened up a whole new world for me.    I know, I know - the expense, the obssessive need for DIY and 'craft', the alternate-brides who are all so hung up on bunting and mason jars and fake moustaches on sticks and the preppy-brides who are all so hung up on monogrammed effing napkins = sheer godawfulness.  it's like an insidious creep: the more you look, the more you see a detail or two that you think would be lovely on your special day, the more that thought becomes 'well it's practically necessary' on your special day, until you cycle back into why the eff I am calling it 'our special day' because VOM. 

JUST SAY NO TO CRAFTS

This is not to say all wedding blogs are bad, au contraire interwebs. But they make me do things like agonize over the 30 metres of yellow gingham bunting that might just make a lovely backdrop for the super super wedding vows I am writing (so far they're effing lyrical: "I, A, take you P" thatisall) and that, my friends, qualifies me as an asshole.