ramble

Easter morning tea at work today means that my tummy is making me happy and angry: so full, so content and so ROUND. 

I like Easter very much, which is weird for an atheist (agnostic previously…but atheist seems to fit better now?)  It’s not the chocolate that makes me Easter-ish because 2002-2005 I ate my way around a choc factory up to 6 times a day as a tour guide and now I am largely ambivalent about milk chocolate (still keen on marshmallow eggs and the occasional crème egg, but if you hand me a white choc crème egg I think I’ll be sick.  Absolutely cannot look a peppy chew in the eye either. DO NOT SPEAK to me about crunchie bars.) 

It annoys the bejesus out of me that the shops are closed for Good Friday and Easter Sunday when I need something, but that’s just because I’m a modern Millie who has come to expect a life of convenience.  Actually spending the day knowing that you can’t just pop down to the off-y or supermarket is kind of nice.  Enforced time en famille, shall we say?  Means the queues tonight and Saturday for petrol etc will be a complete clusterfuck though, so there’s that.  And trying to drive ANYWHERE over the next 24 hours? Please, my affinity for the Auckland motorway (so handy! So convenient!) does not extend to spending three hours in gridlock on it. 

My affection for Easter probably has a lot to do with a four day holiday.  What’s not to love about that?  This year, however, we’re not doing too much with it, spot of rellie-visiting, bit o’ open-homing (of course).  Easter last year?  I believe that was spent in London?  Don’t quote me on that?  OH THAT’S RIGHT – just delved the archives – being involved in train confrontations and getting sick in Edinburgh!  The year before, we were with my parents in France, just before P proposed.  Beeee-youtiful; printemps en Bordeaux et Toulouse.  I believe we spent the Sunday in St Emilion, where P was pissed that people had closed tastings at the vineyards.  That and I believe he was stressed about speaking to my father prior to proposing (I’m not sure he’s dumb enough to have asked for permission literally because I would have had his balls tied around a tree in a hot minute if he’d done that; I’ve been led to believe it was more a ‘I’d like to marry your daughter and I hope you’re down with that’ – to which I understand the response was ‘Weeeeeell, if you can get her to say yes…’).

Side note: I LOVE it when women have a tab on their blog entitled “Love Story” or similar and you can follow their relationship history.  Seriously, it’s adorably funny and addictive.  I’ve talked about the v v beginning of my relationship with P before and gushed about him on occasion, but I can’t get up a head of steam to write something like that.  Mostly because it would probably read “Met P.  Pashed P.  Drank with P.  Moved in with P.  And then squillionty eleven years later, got married because it’s important to P and also awesomely fun”.  Not really an interesting storyline.  Also, I guess it’s his story too? 

Anyway, that is all an extremely long-winded way of saying: Easter.  I’m not doing much but I will like it.  Hope you do too – whether it’s church, chocs or travels that float your boat.  Drive safe. 

PS Marriage equality debate last night in committee – let’s get the third reading passed quick smart! Equality is the business!

yes, i am still talking about my urinary tract

Panic not, dear friends, the cranberry juice hit the spot (ugh) and I am healthy again.  Well, as healthy as a woman who eats a diet based on a food pyramid with a bottom row of cheese can be.  SRSLY though, UTIs are the bane of my existence.  I had issues with them as a very wee girl, then again persistently in my early 20s.  They’re slightly more infrequent now, but I suspect that’s because of a long term course of god-awfully strong antibiotics America prescribed me (I felt terribly guilty for antibiotic blasting my system so I converted to the cranberry cure which MIRACULOUS.  There was this one time in Hong Kong when I had to drink about 50 litres of juice because the cranberry content was so low but drink it I did and lo, I was cured). 

What did women who lived in, say, 1563, do about this?  Probably lived in persistent pain and terror and died early from childbirth?  Let’s face it; I’d be totally f’d if I’d been born then.  Given I’m now 30, I’ve probably busted the Tudor life expectancy by heapses and, if not, I should have had about 8 pregnancies or something similar.  I was going to say doesn’t bear thinking about but it kind of puts writing a cruddy email to my workplace about being late into perspective, no?  Plus, this is also a cross for much of womankind to bear, isn't it?  I don't think I've met a 30 year old who doesn't know that particular version of pain?

There are other things I might have struggled with if born in 1563, on reflection, such as a loud mouth and fundamental laziness (I NEVER want to handwash.  Imagine if ALL your washing was handwashing.  THE INHUMANITY.) 

Writing all of this down has sent me on a memory lane bender: Memorable UTI Edition.  God that’s awful.  Look away now, as I record them for posterity:

-     The One at My Hall of Residence, 2001, The First As An Adult And I Totally Thought I Was Dying But Also a Diseased Whore

-     The One When I Made P Walk Me To Urgent Care in the Middle of A Cold, Cold Dunedin Night, circa 2002

-     The One When I Was on a Plane To Go See My Mother With My Sister And I Made Them Drive Me Directly To Urgent Care, circa 2005 ish, And My Mother Made Jokes About Sex. 

-     The One in Hong Kong (see above)

-     The One Where I Finally Used That Expensive American Health Insurance, While P Suffered From Pink Eye And Visited a Dodgy Back Alley Doctor

In conclusion, I am grateful for cranberry, antibiotics and urgent care doctors.  Modernity, at its most convenient. 

UTI (TMI)

Do you know how hard it is to compose an email to your office warning them that you'll be in late today because you're having to chug cranberry juice somewhere near a loo, as your urinary tract is being a dick?   

I wrote something mysterious about a "health issue" (not wanting to lie and say I (a) needed to go to a doctor or (b) needed to pick up a prescription because we infection-susceptible vagina-bearers all know that cranberry juice is the magic hippy bullet, if only you can get your hands on it quickly and wait out the horrible half hour until it soothes the burning razor blades).  So they probably think it was diarrhea. 

SIGH.

i live for the weekend

Monday morning, how much more do I adore thee when thou art followed by a four day week?  Easter.  Can’t come soon enough.  Choc + a four day weekend is the best thing I can imagine right now.  If the weather stays the way it currently is (clear, 20+ degree days, cool nights and mornings) it will be sheer bliss.  This lingering summer is melting into autumn but slowly, slowly.   

Weddings for the season have now been attended, gifts given, cards signed and we’re facing down the barrel of a bleak, ceremony-less winter.  When I see a house I like I think I might marry it, though, because then it can’t leave me, right?  Those two pics I posted on Friday were of houses we visited this weekend and decided we could TOTALLY live in so that brings the next round of auctions to three possibles.  You will have to wait until after Easter to ride the rollercoaster again though – auctions are on the 3^rd, 10^th and 13^th of April.  We will have been house hunting for about three months then.  May not sound long to many of you, but it’s far more of my life devoted to the process than I ever previously intended. 

Other updates: P spent the weekend chatting with Melbourne based friends about how we should totally go over for a visit, apparently ignorant of all my birthday scheming (muahaha).  R nearly wet himself, writhing with excitement over the secret when P was speculating about a good time for a visit (P in his best man’s speech about R: “Apart from the fact he can’t keep a secret, he’s the best friend you can imagine”).  I think he might be on to me, actually.  Sneaky beggar is very sneaky and I cannot for the life of me work out how I’m going to secretly pack him a bag to get to the airport. 

Also, not to boast (totally to boast), but it is EXTREMELY attractive when one’s husband makes a speech about his best mate and has everyone in tears of laughter and emotion.  The booze helped a willing audience to be sure, I was so proud of him nonetheless. 

And so, hi ho hi ho etc – work. 

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".)

suppression, repression, whatever

Ha.  You know we swept that shit under the carpet, right?  What, deal with issues?  No, bottle 'em 'til they explode again.

THIS LITERAL EXPRESSION OF 'BOTTLED EMOTIONS' BY photog-road.deviantart.com VIA.  WHAT I SRSLY <3  IS 'LONLEY'

OFF TO A PLAY TONIGHT.  This means I could potentially have something to discuss on this here blog that is not:

(a) A real estate whinge; or
(b) A whinge whinge!

Must make the most of the Auckland Arts Festival - oh, and the list of writers attending this year's Auckland Readers and Writers Festival 2013 has been released! Go, look, do, etc.  I think tickets are on sale in a day or two.  An hour of Bill Manhire's poetry set to music sounds pretty rad to me. 

have you ever

known that you've behaved like a real ass-hat, but been unable to (a) apologise or (b) change the behaviour? 

No?  Just me? 

Well that's depressing. 

My ass-hattery, I feel compelled to add, was not without justification.  Put it this way, multiple small irritants have lead to a large, lustreless, irregular pearl.  Certainly not something beautiful.  I can't justify the over-sized (gargantuan) past sulks nor my likely reactions to future irritants. 

Oh, and my husband has had to bear the bad behaviour, despite not being the cause.  He came down on me like a ton of bricks this morning and I cried petulant tears of frustration (because he was right) and alienation (because he didn't understaaaaaaaand).

I know how intensely irritating it is for a public forum diarist not to give details, but I think my anonymity is pretty thinly veiled so: nothing further to see here.  Telling you more would only lead to further embarrasment as the extent of my bitchiness was revealed.  However, lest you think this a giant waste of time, writing down that I've been a sulky eejit does make it easier to say it out loud to P later, though, so thanks blog, for the cheap marriage counselling.