update (my house is still standing, I'm not injured) (yet, anyway)

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! 

the end of another month of this

I'm going to visit Mum and Dad this weekend and I'm a bit nervous.  Fragile as he was two weeks ago when I saw him last, he's now lost his hair, is battling a burned/cracked/chapped face and is using a walking cane.  If I've said it once, I've said it far too many times: this, from a man who three months ago was digging holes and fixing fences and lugging rocks for landscaping purposes.  It's fucking brutal, is what it is.

My nerves arise out of the unknowns - I don't give a shit what his hair looks like, but I just want him to still be my dad underneath it all, you know? 

These things (hah, cancer, a 'thing' - it's like I can't name it for fear of the consequences) come in batches.  A colleague's father has just had surgery for prostate cancer.  Another's ex-boyfriend has been paralysed from the chest down in a workplace accident this week.  I find myself understanding and empathising properly to some degree for the first time (maybe that's why they're telling me?)

To top it off, I started fucking bleeding again last night.

It wasn't a major - no cramps, finished quickly, I can still feel the baby move (I think - I play a constant game of 'firstborn or gas?').  Still scary to turn around to flush and find your toilet looks like a murder scene at twenty to one in the morning.  Afterwards, I lay still in bed for twenty or so minutes, burning with concentration at my stomach, hands wrapped around it.  I got up again to check progress and things appeared to have eased.  I slept, uneasily. 

The good news, I suppose, is that the suspected UTI wasn't in fact an infection - just a raised bacteria level.  I haven't really reported much good news this pregnancy - here we are: I feel mostly like a human being (albeit a human being with a sore tailbone) and I'm starting to relish having a belly.  I want to feel this baby more often so I can enjoy the feeling of not being alone.  I do enjoy being by myself, but it's nice to know someone is just quietly there with me. 

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:

• 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.

Anger is part of the process, I expect. 

back to your regularly scheduled self-centred moaning

ALERT, ALERT, more whinging ahead.

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

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

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

right now

We were at the lake this weekend, at the bach that Dad purchased a share of in the time just B.D. (before diagnosis).  It was tough to see him sleep for lengthy periods and sit quietly on the deck, sheltered from the sun.  He'd usually be the first to direct the walk, to back the boat down the ramp into the water, to run into the water for a swim. 

I didn't do many of those things either this weekend, preferring instead to stay close to him where I could.  My stomach has been feeling slightly uncomfortable and stretchy, of late, and I think the depression surrounding Dad's illness kicks in a little more when I see him in person, which in turn makes me feel physically drained.  I sat on the couch with him, joked about all his pills and I asked about the hairloss and the dimming of his vision, but mostly we talked about small things.  We watched the opening game of the Cricket World Cup and cheered the Black Caps on together, but I don't think he could see much of the action ('was that a four or a six?' 'what's the RPO now?' 'who bowled that?'). 

I heard murmuring through the wall at night.  It's simultaneouly reassuring and awful to know that Mum and Dad were chatting quietly together in the dead of night - reassuring because they're in this together, awful because I know why they're awake.  I also heard some terrible snoring coming from my sister K, which was mostly just reassuring because I want her to sleep while she can.  I don't know what she's thinking a lot of the time (I think I once did?  When we were young and lived together and knew each other better than anyone else) but I hope she's managing to find peace in all of this.  We call each other more regularly, now.  We don't say much, but we do share each nugget of information or insight into how our parents are feeling. 

We arrived home about 7.30 last night.  Cocoa was waiting on the step but Tabitha was nowhere to be seen.  It was unusual and she didn't turn up until 1.30 this morning.  Christ, I was so relieved.  I do not need any more death or despair on top of what's already going on, not that there would ever be a good time to lose her.  I am funnelling so much love and affection into those cats who don't have a clue that things aren't as they should be.

The next visit I'd booked is for Easter, some seven weeks away.  I don't think I can leave it that long.  I want to make this finite time we have left last as long as I possibly can.  Plus, I think Mum needs me.  A colleague the other day commented that I must be wishing time away to get to June and my departure on maternity leave.  No, I snapped, I want it to stand still right now.  I felt terrible and apologised - she doesn't know the finer detail of what's happening in my life and it was well meant.  Yes, I'm looking forward to meeting this baby but no, I can't fathom that we're probably only going to get further away from Dad as he should be.  As he was. 

(Christ, the past tense has made me cry.)

I have the 20 week scan this week.  I haven't yet identified any clear movements from the baby which, although probably normal, is making me nervous.  I have been considering whether we should find out the sex to share with Dad, just in case.  I couldn't bring myself to ask whether he wanted to know though - it felt too much like saying 'what if you die before July?' out loud.  I can't say that.  I won't say that.  Maybe we'll ask for one of those envelopes with the sex written on a note inside, that I can offer him if and when things change.  I hope the baby is fine and healthy; worry is pulling at my heart. 

life can, in fact, go on

I stood in the hospital lift by his bedside, next to the nurse, wondering if the smile and laugh was real or merely reflexive. 

'Hi, Dad.'

**************************************
On a Wednesday, he went to hospital.  On a Thursday morning, my mother called, several times.  The last time, she told me to get my sister and get there, fast.  On a Thursday evening, I saw him in the high dependency unit, unresponsive to his family but grimacing in pain.  On a Friday morning, he slept easily but continuously, despite overheard whispers from staff of a difficult night.

On a Friday afternoon, I met the palliative care doctor.

They'd increased the steroids, but there was nothing further they could do but offer pain relief.

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

It was a Friday afternoon when he woke up.

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

It was simultaneously the worst and the most miraculous few days of my life.  We genuinely believed that he wasn't going to wake again; we wouldn't be speaking to him again.  In the early hours of Friday morning, I listened to hours of music in the warm dark of the bedroom, tears leaking down my face, holding a jersey I'd borrowed from his bedroom.  At 4am, I saw a light go on and Mum and I sat in the shared warm dark of the living room, drinking a cup of tea and quietly facing a new reality.  Friday afternoon and Saturday I lived on a euphoric rush of life, life, life. 

He was released on a Monday to travel to start the treatment regime.  He's not the Dad of life before diagnosis, nor is he even the Dad of life shortly after, but he's my Dad and he's alive.  He's alive. 

I am so profoundly grateful and yet I am utterly bereft and broken.  The reality is that there will be peaks and troughs in an inevitable downhill slide.  I thought I was talking realistically before when we were planning for one year, maybe two if we were lucky.  I now appreciate that to have him in July when the baby is born will be a gift, one we may not receive.   

I hate what this is doing to him.  I hate what this is doing to my mother. 

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

I'm struggling to write about it.  Apart from that brutal Thursday and the vulnerable days that followed, I'm ignoring the problem in everyday life.  In my own city, between visits and phone calls, I'm able to pretend that everything is fine.  I need the catharsis of writing and talking but I can't bring myself to indulge. 

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

I love him.

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. 

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.

*I joined Pinterest in 2011, pinned approximately 3 wedding hairstyles I knew I could never be achieved with my hair, and never looked at it again. I often get so-and-so-is-now-following-you-on-Pinterest! emails, and every time I feel sorry for them, because it must be pretty damn boring.

vanity, thy name is blogger

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

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

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

in which i learn a valuable bus lesson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?!

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 love me some potatoes

Last night, I had a flashback to the claggy boiled potatoes of my childhood.  No offense intended to my Mum or Dad, those spuds were great, I loved them.  We'd cut them open and add salt and pepper, mashing them slightly with a fork.  As I ate my lightly mashed potatoes yesterday, I thought 'self, you don't actually have to add half a pound of butter to mashed potatoes to make them taste fine. Yes, a lump of butter the size of a fist and whipping them with a fork post mashing would make them taste amazing.  But it's not necessary every damn time you eat them.  Your arteries and ass will thank you later.'

The issue is, you see, my husband is a doodie.

(I'll give you a minute - read that link.)

(With me now?)

Every time I suggest to P he might like to scale it back a bit and that every meal doesn't have to be a production, he responds with some variation on "why are you against deliciousness?"

He's got a valid point, I suppose - why not strive to make everything taste as good as possible?  However, he wants to eat steak and thrice cooked chips more often than I want to consume the level of canola oil used in the cooking. 

(Also - how privileged are we, for goodness' sake?  It was a full-fledged crisis in our house last week when the caterpillars had eaten all the parsley, the creepy little fuckers.)

He's not averse to healthy eating. The only qualification is that it must be tasty and it seems to me that there is a direct correllation between the quantity of organic extra virgin olive oil (pressed by uncle and aunt from their grove, no less, at a community press) and tastiness. 

Even better, he loves a recipe that involves copious amounts of chopping, as slicing things is his favourite activity (*ahem*, marital relations excluded) (I hope) since he bought the Japanese handbeaten knife as a promotion present for himself in 2011.  The chopping, sorry, precision dicing/slicing/brunoising or whatever, is OK with me.  Or at least, it is now after we threw away the mandolin following the great thumb slicing of 2013).

He hasn't bought a sous vide, though.  Yet.

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. 

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. 

an enthralling retelling of my weekend

It is Monday and what do you know?  It does get better.  Leaving the kittens today was easier as they now have the run of the house and Tabitha's eye no longer gets sealed shut.  She's much better, thanks for asking.  Timothy is now a little sneezy and is also on the antibiotics.

That's basically what I did this weekend, by the by.  Spent quality time with my kittens, introducing them to the great outdoors and snuggling with them in the morning.  I woke up from a doze on Saturday morning to find Timothy asleep in the crook of my arm and Tabitha on my chest, little furry face pressed up against mine. 

[Don't you worry that P has been relegated to the bottom of the pack; he's loving it and is by no means at the bottom of the pecking order.  I mean, he has purchased and is in charge of doling out the cat treats.]

In other non-cat news, we went to the Big Day Out on Friday.  I am really not feeling into a recap or dissection of the day, so in brief: Ladi 6, awesome (J + I agreed, v. sexy), Pearl Jam, nostalgic, Major Lazer, insane + hilarious, Arcade Fire, glittery etc etc etc.  There were a lot of queues which took the shine off a bit, and I felt a wee bit old for it all at points, sad to say.  But then again, I hope I never get over standing under the stars in a press of people, singing my heart out to songs I've loved for years because that bit was truly awesome. 

Given Friday's excesses, most of the weekend was sort of recovery-ish.  We did a spot of gardening, ate brunch (Salta on the Three Lamps end of Ponsonby Road, highly recommended btw.  I mean, the barista complimented my t-shirt! Given I looked like a sack of crap - said t-shirt was a nasty reminder of Christmas weight - I was simultaneously beyond thrilled and a little suspicious of the compliment), hung with my sister watching cricket.  Quite nice, really.

only slightly puss-ish

Tabitha update: wee Tib still has very gummy eyes and the sneezles, but takes her medicine like a champ and doesn't appear to hold it against us.  Unless she's plotting an elaborate revenge in her spare time, which would not surprise me in the least, having been the victim of a stealth bed-pouncing yesterday evening.  Timothy Terror Cat does not plot elaborate revenge; I believe he acts more on the spur of the moment.  He launched a surprise attack on my naked thigh last night as I was standing in an opportune place.  If you've ever had four little paws of claws dug into your exposed flesh, I'm sure you'll be recoiling with prickly, sharp pain memories.  He is so very lucky he's cute.  He also tried to chew the skirt of the wardrobe installation lady this morning as she breezed past him.  Opportunist, indeed.

Well, that provides a nice segue into  other things what are happening in my life.  Not much, really, but we have had people in to eyeball our bedroom and quote for wardrobe installation.  As a result of those conversations, I'm reconsidering my decision not to purchase some $200-$300 laminate piece of crap from an Ikea order site in NZ. (Diversion: WHY do we not have Ikea here?  I want Swedish meatballs (pref not horsemeatballs, but that's only cos some of my best friends are equine) and Ektorp and Billy and all of the other improbably-named furniture / homewares as well, STAT.) 

Wardrobes seem very expensive and the crappy gib board in our room needs replacing, repainting, the whole shebang, so perhaps this isn't a well-thought out plan.  I should probably reiterate that whole cash thing because I have been hemorrhaging money over the holidays, what with trips and meals and wine and whatnot.  My mortgage is not visibly reducing this summer which I find stressful in the extreme.  P has announced that 2014 is the year for me to take charge of our finances so we can achieve the mortgage-payment goals that I have in mind.  This is all very well and good - we all know how I feel about being in charge of things, I think - but, as I observed at the time, unless and until P renounces the joint credit card there will be no goddamn extra money to apply to our scarily enormous debt. 

Wow, I am boring. 

this is now a cat blog

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

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

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

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!

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.