Sunday, December 20, 2009
Rhiannon and the Gold Dust Woman hit the 'naki
I would like to lick Stevie Nicks' tambourine. I want to be her beribboned microphone.
Rhiannon and I met up with another Fleetwood enthusiast and his not such an enthusiast wife who very nicely put up with us practically crying and warbling and clutching each other shrieking 'I love Stevie'. Frack, it was ace.
Full, full points to the person in the audience, who shouted 'Stuuuuuvvvviiiieeeeeeee' in a full-on Kiwi accent. The legendary Nicks would have been thrilled from her heeled toes to top-hatted head to have inspired such devotion. No one carries off a sparkly dress like she does. And people were trying. Badly.
The 'naki gave us some rain but quite frankly it could have snowed and it still would have worked with the music. An audience who knows all the words to all the songs is always a nice place to be.
And then we left the 'naki at midnight, only six hours after we got there, because we had business elsewhere. Like breakfast with my dad and godparents in PN. Had my spinster t-shirt admired by the locals, though. Ace, ace weekend. Oh God, I am still swooning.
Three more days of work, my mother is back in the country and I have a Katie and Debs en route. I love summer.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A blow to one's ego
Mother, please don't read this. You'll feel bad on behalf of your car.
I get a flat tyre. Actually, I get in the car and realise that I have a flat tyre but AHA! I was not the last person driving it because I'd made Melissa drop me somewhere the night before so it was entirely her fault. But the tyre issue remained. I don't think I've ever changed a tyre. And so, for the fourth time this year, I ring my new friends, the AA.
The AA chap nicely says that I even if I did know how to change a tyre, I wouldn't have been able to get the darn thing off because of how tightly the little bolty things were put on last time - he is jumping on his bolt-getter-offer as he says this so I'm sure he's not just making me feel better. Well, sort of sure.
And so life goes on.
But wait, there's still more. I have a bad night's sleep, go out for breakfast unwashed and with very fluffy hair and the top half my pjs (very pink I might add) still on, and when I get home, so very, very exhausted and full of Sweet Mama's best offerings, I back into the fence. Twice. With witnesses.
Blonde woman in pink shirt hits fence twice.
Yes! I strike another blow on behalf of feminists everywhere.
And throw one in for stereotypers for good measure.
I get a flat tyre. Actually, I get in the car and realise that I have a flat tyre but AHA! I was not the last person driving it because I'd made Melissa drop me somewhere the night before so it was entirely her fault. But the tyre issue remained. I don't think I've ever changed a tyre. And so, for the fourth time this year, I ring my new friends, the AA.
The AA chap nicely says that I even if I did know how to change a tyre, I wouldn't have been able to get the darn thing off because of how tightly the little bolty things were put on last time - he is jumping on his bolt-getter-offer as he says this so I'm sure he's not just making me feel better. Well, sort of sure.
And so life goes on.
But wait, there's still more. I have a bad night's sleep, go out for breakfast unwashed and with very fluffy hair and the top half my pjs (very pink I might add) still on, and when I get home, so very, very exhausted and full of Sweet Mama's best offerings, I back into the fence. Twice. With witnesses.
Blonde woman in pink shirt hits fence twice.
Yes! I strike another blow on behalf of feminists everywhere.
And throw one in for stereotypers for good measure.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Rejection by proxy
I have a very caring mother. She lives in another country at present and so we communicate a great deal via the magic of texting. Sometimes this results in our texts arriving at inopportune times owing to phone companies being a bit useless. A few weeks back, at about nearly 1am, I got a text from the mothership telling me the following things:
She has a friend (nice!) in Chch, who has a son in Rotorua who is ... MY AGE and, oh, the poor chap, he's single.
I think you can guess where this is going. Now, the mothership never does this sort of thing, I suspect so we will never produce grandchildren who may give away the fact that although she looks about 35 she in fact might be a few years older. So blame can be laid squarely at the feet of her friend. At any rate, I text back saying 'Is this a set up?' and mother says it's not her fault and the young man will be in touch next time he's in Wellington.
He never does. This is rejection by proxy. Thanks, mum.
I can just imagine the conversation he's been having with his mum.
'You did what? Said I'd call some sad and pathetic single woman whose mother has to get her dates? I can totally get my own dates, thanks, mum.'
Moving right along ... we went to the All Whites match on Saturday night. Oren, J, Morgan and I painted ourselves up, wore some white, had a few drinks and marched off to the stadium. I think I should add that Morgan and I know very little about soccer and had no idea just how big a deal this match was until a day or two before. It was insane. Wellington went berserk. It was fucking ace, actually. We leapt about and shouted and generally had a spectacular time and wound up dancing round the pub after the match, and managed to convince several other people there that they should let us paint their faces. Full points to my flatmate, J, who was painting the face of a very hot girl, who obviously liked him but he was oblivious to this fact, to whom he said 'Hold on, I just have to finish painting your double chin'.
She has a friend (nice!) in Chch, who has a son in Rotorua who is ... MY AGE and, oh, the poor chap, he's single.
I think you can guess where this is going. Now, the mothership never does this sort of thing, I suspect so we will never produce grandchildren who may give away the fact that although she looks about 35 she in fact might be a few years older. So blame can be laid squarely at the feet of her friend. At any rate, I text back saying 'Is this a set up?' and mother says it's not her fault and the young man will be in touch next time he's in Wellington.
He never does. This is rejection by proxy. Thanks, mum.
I can just imagine the conversation he's been having with his mum.
'You did what? Said I'd call some sad and pathetic single woman whose mother has to get her dates? I can totally get my own dates, thanks, mum.'
Moving right along ... we went to the All Whites match on Saturday night. Oren, J, Morgan and I painted ourselves up, wore some white, had a few drinks and marched off to the stadium. I think I should add that Morgan and I know very little about soccer and had no idea just how big a deal this match was until a day or two before. It was insane. Wellington went berserk. It was fucking ace, actually. We leapt about and shouted and generally had a spectacular time and wound up dancing round the pub after the match, and managed to convince several other people there that they should let us paint their faces. Full points to my flatmate, J, who was painting the face of a very hot girl, who obviously liked him but he was oblivious to this fact, to whom he said 'Hold on, I just have to finish painting your double chin'.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Size is everything
Another thing people don't talk about very much and I feel is definitely terribly important and possibly even the answer to world peace, is the difficulty of having one breast that is slightly, or sometimes not slightly, more like hugely, larger than the other. This cannot only be an issue for women, surely? I realise men have eensy teensy boobies in comparison to the ladies but even on this small scale I suspect mammorific injustice rears its head like an unwelcome steak at a vegan barbecue.
Is it an issue? Am I just making DDs out of A cups? Possibly. I mean, no one ever talks about it so perhaps it's all in my head. Except that with my lack of social graces I have had this conversation with other women and I know this problem is out there. Now is the time, sisters, to stand up and say with pride 'I have different sized breasts'.
Bra shopping can be enough of an issue without the added pressure of knowing it's only going to make one breast happy. Bra shopping is not quite on the same scale as the horror of jeans shopping, for which I have long suspected they give the most sadistic salespeople extra training for, but trying to find a decent bra that fits is a right old bitch anyway.
Interestingly, the women who I've spoken to on this issue say that men never notice.
Other stuff. Work goes well. My headlines improve but I'm still not getting 100% success. Did manage to get a Treemendous in today's paper though, and I'm pretty darn proud of how awful that is.
I attempted to go jeans shopping a few weeks ago. Whilst I have finally managed to squeeze myself and my differently sized hips into my old ones, they're on their last legs (see what I did there? I need help) so new ones are on the cards. So I went shopping for denim. And came home with a cocktail dress. Which I do not need. Yesterday I went swimsuit shopping. And came home with shorts. As you do. And it's raining today so this whole 'summer' thing is not working. Although I do have my first round of sunburned cleavage going so I have high hopes that actual summer, not this faux summer, is lurking nearby.
I am pleased to see, though, that you can buy bikini tops and bottoms separately. If only you could buy bra cups separately . . .
Is it an issue? Am I just making DDs out of A cups? Possibly. I mean, no one ever talks about it so perhaps it's all in my head. Except that with my lack of social graces I have had this conversation with other women and I know this problem is out there. Now is the time, sisters, to stand up and say with pride 'I have different sized breasts'.
Bra shopping can be enough of an issue without the added pressure of knowing it's only going to make one breast happy. Bra shopping is not quite on the same scale as the horror of jeans shopping, for which I have long suspected they give the most sadistic salespeople extra training for, but trying to find a decent bra that fits is a right old bitch anyway.
Interestingly, the women who I've spoken to on this issue say that men never notice.
Other stuff. Work goes well. My headlines improve but I'm still not getting 100% success. Did manage to get a Treemendous in today's paper though, and I'm pretty darn proud of how awful that is.
I attempted to go jeans shopping a few weeks ago. Whilst I have finally managed to squeeze myself and my differently sized hips into my old ones, they're on their last legs (see what I did there? I need help) so new ones are on the cards. So I went shopping for denim. And came home with a cocktail dress. Which I do not need. Yesterday I went swimsuit shopping. And came home with shorts. As you do. And it's raining today so this whole 'summer' thing is not working. Although I do have my first round of sunburned cleavage going so I have high hopes that actual summer, not this faux summer, is lurking nearby.
I am pleased to see, though, that you can buy bikini tops and bottoms separately. If only you could buy bra cups separately . . .
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The sort of mild sickness drags on but I'm back to eating chocolate buttons for breakfast so I'm obviously attempting to get back on the horse.
Last night saw me quaff three glasses of wine and a tequila shot before the final of burlesque class. There were eight of us having a few drinks to, ah, well, loosen up, which is probably just as well, seeing as how the end of class had all us standing around in stockings, heels, corsets and knickers, having gleefully peeled off gloves, skirts and shirts. Was hugely entertaining - I can't say I'm the best burlesque dancer, in fact, my shimmies are downright clumsy, but it is indeed a great source of entertainment. Especially when I tried to explain to my Swiss flatmate what titillation was. Sadly we didn't get to the nipple tassle stage, although I gather that comes later if I keep going.
I think I have half gotten the hang of sub-editing. I have a sign on my desk now that reads 'Today is not today' because of my bad habit of not remembering that for some stories, not written by our reporters, changing today to yesterday is very important because we are, of course, playing with tomorrow's news. It can also lead to complete headfuckwittage when it sometimes gets a little complicated - when you throw tomorrows and yesterdays into the bargain and you're tired and forgot to bring your smarts to work.
Right now I have a Ruthie slaving over a hot stove, as is her duty, damnit, as a woman and my oldest friend, and then soon we will be going on a doily hunt - because you can never have enough of those. And as I now have an omlette in front of me I think I'll pay that the attention it deserves. And give the pimple on my chin (why, God, why?) no attention whatsoever.
Last night saw me quaff three glasses of wine and a tequila shot before the final of burlesque class. There were eight of us having a few drinks to, ah, well, loosen up, which is probably just as well, seeing as how the end of class had all us standing around in stockings, heels, corsets and knickers, having gleefully peeled off gloves, skirts and shirts. Was hugely entertaining - I can't say I'm the best burlesque dancer, in fact, my shimmies are downright clumsy, but it is indeed a great source of entertainment. Especially when I tried to explain to my Swiss flatmate what titillation was. Sadly we didn't get to the nipple tassle stage, although I gather that comes later if I keep going.
I think I have half gotten the hang of sub-editing. I have a sign on my desk now that reads 'Today is not today' because of my bad habit of not remembering that for some stories, not written by our reporters, changing today to yesterday is very important because we are, of course, playing with tomorrow's news. It can also lead to complete headfuckwittage when it sometimes gets a little complicated - when you throw tomorrows and yesterdays into the bargain and you're tired and forgot to bring your smarts to work.
Right now I have a Ruthie slaving over a hot stove, as is her duty, damnit, as a woman and my oldest friend, and then soon we will be going on a doily hunt - because you can never have enough of those. And as I now have an omlette in front of me I think I'll pay that the attention it deserves. And give the pimple on my chin (why, God, why?) no attention whatsoever.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Not so cutesy but pretty fracking sleepy
It's my own fault. If I will insist on a jetset lifestyle, complete with liquor and hos, and cocktails with live fishies in them, what was I expecting? Of course I'm run down and tired and scratchy with what appears to be a mild dose of adult acne to complete the nastiness. Oh and minus most of my voice. I don't need that. It's a complete waste of time. No one listens to me anyway.
I went to Christchurch. For at least 24.75 hours. I saw a lot of people. I did a lot of talking. A lot of laughing (once again I tried to remember to have a ladylike trill, but I forgot and cackled instead). There was some wine. A trip down memory lane with one of Timmy's KGBs. My teeth hurt a bit from all the sugar after that one. And I left at 11pm because I am old, I was tired and I had a flight to catch the next morning because these days I work on Sundays so I had to be back up here in our nation's beloved capital. I can see my house when I fly into Wellington. That's pretty darn rad.
Ah, yes. Babbling. See, even without a voice I can do this effortlessly. The Chch gang were all good. Appearances were made by people who ought to be in Auckland, Wellington, Melbourne and London, so a good effort on all sides there. There were children, which proves that people have not been letting the grass grow under their feet in the past ten years, since I think the first round of university graduations, but rather have been making hay whilst the sun shines. I am obviously not one of these people, but I kindly allowed Ben and Karen's very charming baby to lick my hands so I could sense what it is like to have one of these 'things'. I did not even try to pick the baby up, mainly because I am sort of possibly flu-ish, but also because I have a fear that I will drop the child. And babies don't bounce.
As far as reunions go, and it is my second one this year, it was pretty ace and I regret that I only see all these people a little more than never or once a year. Fi and I managed cups of tea and cackling/snorting - pick whichever one seems more adult - until 1am and then I had a restless night's sleep, interrupted by Fi's cat. The one that likes to indulge in heavy breathing and walking on boobs.
I got back to Wellington in time for lunch and a flying visit from Bran, who chopped off 6cms of hair, (no one at work noticed) and in return I had Melissa make him crepes. He admired my lack of voice, which does indeed sound like I favour any and all brands of cigarettes, preferably all at once.
Work is mostly good. I managed to misspell siege on Friday night. We were on deadline and I was panicky, but really. Oh Penelope. Just admit you're rubbish. Seige. Siege. Seige. Siege. Don't worry - it didn't make it to print.
I have a workmate who has been at the paper since before I was born. I am at least 15 years younger than all the other subs. Baby. That's me. AND NO ONE PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER. Well, they do. But sometimes I like it that way.
Anyway, this particular reunion made me ponder the past ten years, what others have achieved, and what I have achieved. Let me list these things for you.
Other people sometimes have:
Children
Houses
Pets
Plants they have not neglected and let die
Partners
Assets
Careers
Vegetable gardens
No student loan because they paid it back
No credit card debt because they don't think shoes are a form of religion.
I have:
Shoes, but not nearly enough
An exceptionally lovely vintage full length cream leather jacket that I blew a lot of money on in London and then lost half the buttons off so now I never wear but I think it's an asset of sorts
A broken laptop
A very large student loan
Decent boobs - a natural asset
Credit card debt
A pirate Barbie costume
A lot of books
No plants
Oh, and my looks. They'll never fade, of course.
You might have to reread them a few times but eventually you will see that the lists are slightly different.
I guess a lot of this all comes down to what you want from life and what you consider achievement to be. Different strokes, chaps. And comparing yourself to others, which can be both heartbreaking and exhilarating, is probably not a great idea. Even if it is a great source of entertainment. Reasons why I am glad I am not Amy Winoface and so on.
There are definitely days when I think I have failed miserably at achieving stuff. However, I'm going to go with the rather wanky fact that I'm mostly pretty happy, which I gather not everyone else in the world is (I'm thinking Lindsay Lohan), so I'm going to give me one squillion points just for that. Rad.
I went to Christchurch. For at least 24.75 hours. I saw a lot of people. I did a lot of talking. A lot of laughing (once again I tried to remember to have a ladylike trill, but I forgot and cackled instead). There was some wine. A trip down memory lane with one of Timmy's KGBs. My teeth hurt a bit from all the sugar after that one. And I left at 11pm because I am old, I was tired and I had a flight to catch the next morning because these days I work on Sundays so I had to be back up here in our nation's beloved capital. I can see my house when I fly into Wellington. That's pretty darn rad.
Ah, yes. Babbling. See, even without a voice I can do this effortlessly. The Chch gang were all good. Appearances were made by people who ought to be in Auckland, Wellington, Melbourne and London, so a good effort on all sides there. There were children, which proves that people have not been letting the grass grow under their feet in the past ten years, since I think the first round of university graduations, but rather have been making hay whilst the sun shines. I am obviously not one of these people, but I kindly allowed Ben and Karen's very charming baby to lick my hands so I could sense what it is like to have one of these 'things'. I did not even try to pick the baby up, mainly because I am sort of possibly flu-ish, but also because I have a fear that I will drop the child. And babies don't bounce.
As far as reunions go, and it is my second one this year, it was pretty ace and I regret that I only see all these people a little more than never or once a year. Fi and I managed cups of tea and cackling/snorting - pick whichever one seems more adult - until 1am and then I had a restless night's sleep, interrupted by Fi's cat. The one that likes to indulge in heavy breathing and walking on boobs.
I got back to Wellington in time for lunch and a flying visit from Bran, who chopped off 6cms of hair, (no one at work noticed) and in return I had Melissa make him crepes. He admired my lack of voice, which does indeed sound like I favour any and all brands of cigarettes, preferably all at once.
Work is mostly good. I managed to misspell siege on Friday night. We were on deadline and I was panicky, but really. Oh Penelope. Just admit you're rubbish. Seige. Siege. Seige. Siege. Don't worry - it didn't make it to print.
I have a workmate who has been at the paper since before I was born. I am at least 15 years younger than all the other subs. Baby. That's me. AND NO ONE PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER. Well, they do. But sometimes I like it that way.
Anyway, this particular reunion made me ponder the past ten years, what others have achieved, and what I have achieved. Let me list these things for you.
Other people sometimes have:
Children
Houses
Pets
Plants they have not neglected and let die
Partners
Assets
Careers
Vegetable gardens
No student loan because they paid it back
No credit card debt because they don't think shoes are a form of religion.
I have:
Shoes, but not nearly enough
An exceptionally lovely vintage full length cream leather jacket that I blew a lot of money on in London and then lost half the buttons off so now I never wear but I think it's an asset of sorts
A broken laptop
A very large student loan
Decent boobs - a natural asset
Credit card debt
A pirate Barbie costume
A lot of books
No plants
Oh, and my looks. They'll never fade, of course.
You might have to reread them a few times but eventually you will see that the lists are slightly different.
I guess a lot of this all comes down to what you want from life and what you consider achievement to be. Different strokes, chaps. And comparing yourself to others, which can be both heartbreaking and exhilarating, is probably not a great idea. Even if it is a great source of entertainment. Reasons why I am glad I am not Amy Winoface and so on.
There are definitely days when I think I have failed miserably at achieving stuff. However, I'm going to go with the rather wanky fact that I'm mostly pretty happy, which I gather not everyone else in the world is (I'm thinking Lindsay Lohan), so I'm going to give me one squillion points just for that. Rad.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Sleepyhead babbling
SHAZAM and the laptop is back in business. I still have no screen, but who needs that? I have a large monitor, perfect for watching Battlestar on. I think the laptop heard me pondering its flying abilities and pulled electronic finger.
New job goes well, I think. This month, Matthew, I be a sub editor for the paper. It will take me through to Christmas at which point I am quite happy to be unemployed. I had a great headline last night. So good I'm not going to say what it was, because it was a mildly bad pun-like one. But I was congratulated, and as I'm never told if I'm doing well, just when I've fracked up, I'm going to take that and run.
We had a champagne brunch on Sunday, with more gluten than you could wade through. Melissa was away so the gluten gluttony was ON. I really do love pastry.
My job has ridiculous hours 3.30-11.30pm so my sleeping patterns are a trifle screwed so I think I might go and have a nap now. And then I have to make scones and take them to Morgan. Just cos.
Oh, and J is back. He brought me Swiss chocolates. They were ever so yum. So, so yum.
New job goes well, I think. This month, Matthew, I be a sub editor for the paper. It will take me through to Christmas at which point I am quite happy to be unemployed. I had a great headline last night. So good I'm not going to say what it was, because it was a mildly bad pun-like one. But I was congratulated, and as I'm never told if I'm doing well, just when I've fracked up, I'm going to take that and run.
We had a champagne brunch on Sunday, with more gluten than you could wade through. Melissa was away so the gluten gluttony was ON. I really do love pastry.
My job has ridiculous hours 3.30-11.30pm so my sleeping patterns are a trifle screwed so I think I might go and have a nap now. And then I have to make scones and take them to Morgan. Just cos.
Oh, and J is back. He brought me Swiss chocolates. They were ever so yum. So, so yum.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I repel technology
Laptop died. Good and proper this time. I am hijacking Oren's whilst he works. Shhh. He'll never know. After this I might see if my laptop is a flying laptop. It says it's not, but I think it's lying.
This is going to be all short and sweet, pretty much the complete opposite of me, because I am feeling poorly (don't want chocolate, never a good sign), I'm shattered from sickness and new job with ridiculous hours, and I woke myself up this morning too early because I was having a dream/nightmare that involved being naked with Iggy Pop.
This is going to be all short and sweet, pretty much the complete opposite of me, because I am feeling poorly (don't want chocolate, never a good sign), I'm shattered from sickness and new job with ridiculous hours, and I woke myself up this morning too early because I was having a dream/nightmare that involved being naked with Iggy Pop.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Not the dominant female
It really, really disappoints me to discover that despite being the oldest, the biggest and the tallest woman in my flat, I do not have the dominant vagina. Melissa moved in and my periods went walkabout - apparently her body won the lady bits' wrestling match and I am doomed to follow her. And then Jani moved in and it started all over again. The only time I think I have forced all my female flatmates to dance to my tune was when I was on the pill - and I'm fairly sure I apologised.
This means that I have stormed into the living room in the past and scared poor wee Melissa by pointing an accusing finger at her and demanded 'When is your period due?' I have no doubt that she wondered what kind of flat she'd moved into. Now she just giggles. She knows she has the power.
It's Sunday and the storm just hit. Up here in the Eagle's Nest that is my home in Roseneath we have a perfect view of the rain and wind-battered harbour. Leaving the house today seems like a suicide mission. So I won't be doing it. Instead, I think I have been possessed by demons because after a breakfast of the chocolate fish variety, I cleaned the kitchen. The bathroom is next. Lamb casserole is in the oven and the bananas will be soon be sacrificed in favour of cake. And then the vacuuming. I know, I know, I don't sound well, at all. Last night I was in bed, sober, by 10.30pm. Another raging Saturday night for Lady Penelope. I had, though, just watched five hours of True Blood. It has been suggested that this cannot possibly be as good as BSG. This is rubbish. Don't make me choose between them. I can't do it. They are equally marvellous and shiny. I watch them with different people. With BSG, Oren, Duncan and I mutter 'Frack me'; with True Blood, Morgan and I discuss how Vampire Bill might just be the perfect man. Of course, he's imaginary, which helps immeasurably.
I'm still destroying people's lives on behalf of the man - this brings me no joy but I've started a candy kitty and convinced young Colin to go on the jetplane run - basically I have become a workplace bully who must be kept sweet literally.
Andrew, Morgan and I went to see Morgan's pa perform some of Shakespeare's greatest hits. He was awfully good, but the synopsis provided had us in mild hysteria. Macbeth's started with 'The Macbeths are ...' This was all it took. Who ever describes them as the Macbeths? They sound like the couple next door you never want to ask over for dinner - 'Oh, no, not the Macbeths, he's okay but she's always bitching about something ...'
Friday night was whisky and fondue with the Christchurch posse, plus a few others. This was magnificent - particularly when it was discovered that Will owns a fearsomely large banana.
I might have a nap now. Because it's Sunday, the house is mostly clean and I've hung out my washing - literally, not metaphorically.
This means that I have stormed into the living room in the past and scared poor wee Melissa by pointing an accusing finger at her and demanded 'When is your period due?' I have no doubt that she wondered what kind of flat she'd moved into. Now she just giggles. She knows she has the power.
It's Sunday and the storm just hit. Up here in the Eagle's Nest that is my home in Roseneath we have a perfect view of the rain and wind-battered harbour. Leaving the house today seems like a suicide mission. So I won't be doing it. Instead, I think I have been possessed by demons because after a breakfast of the chocolate fish variety, I cleaned the kitchen. The bathroom is next. Lamb casserole is in the oven and the bananas will be soon be sacrificed in favour of cake. And then the vacuuming. I know, I know, I don't sound well, at all. Last night I was in bed, sober, by 10.30pm. Another raging Saturday night for Lady Penelope. I had, though, just watched five hours of True Blood. It has been suggested that this cannot possibly be as good as BSG. This is rubbish. Don't make me choose between them. I can't do it. They are equally marvellous and shiny. I watch them with different people. With BSG, Oren, Duncan and I mutter 'Frack me'; with True Blood, Morgan and I discuss how Vampire Bill might just be the perfect man. Of course, he's imaginary, which helps immeasurably.
I'm still destroying people's lives on behalf of the man - this brings me no joy but I've started a candy kitty and convinced young Colin to go on the jetplane run - basically I have become a workplace bully who must be kept sweet literally.
Andrew, Morgan and I went to see Morgan's pa perform some of Shakespeare's greatest hits. He was awfully good, but the synopsis provided had us in mild hysteria. Macbeth's started with 'The Macbeths are ...' This was all it took. Who ever describes them as the Macbeths? They sound like the couple next door you never want to ask over for dinner - 'Oh, no, not the Macbeths, he's okay but she's always bitching about something ...'
Friday night was whisky and fondue with the Christchurch posse, plus a few others. This was magnificent - particularly when it was discovered that Will owns a fearsomely large banana.
I might have a nap now. Because it's Sunday, the house is mostly clean and I've hung out my washing - literally, not metaphorically.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Fleeting Extreme Radness
Fleetwood Mac are coming! They totally deserve an exclamation mark. I swoon at the very thought of the Mac and am lolling on my living room carpet listening to them right now. It's just me, a large cup of tea, this charming block of chocolate that insists of smearing itself all over my face, and my broken laptop with the Mac blaring and I'm sprawled inelegantly (who sprawls elegantly? Maybe Coco Chanel would have?) doing the crossword and I am totally relishing being the only one home.
Not that I don't adore my flatmates, who are very good at being flatmates and super rad into the bargain, but it's been a social few weeks and I am rather tickled at the opportunity to be alone - I've been having some good conversations in my head lately and it will be nice to air these with myself openly. If only I wouldn't be so pigheaded sometimes and would just listen to me, I'm sure I'd be doing much better at this game of life.
Eighties dance party last night - I am sore. But I pulled some sweet as dance moves whilst wearing hot pink lycra. And this morning Ruthie and I watched Girls JustWant to Have Fun and got ideas for more dance moves that are guaranteed to make us so many friends on the dance floor.
Still working for the man. I feel like such a traitor.
Oh, and Captain Morgan is back. I sense trouble.
Not that I don't adore my flatmates, who are very good at being flatmates and super rad into the bargain, but it's been a social few weeks and I am rather tickled at the opportunity to be alone - I've been having some good conversations in my head lately and it will be nice to air these with myself openly. If only I wouldn't be so pigheaded sometimes and would just listen to me, I'm sure I'd be doing much better at this game of life.
Eighties dance party last night - I am sore. But I pulled some sweet as dance moves whilst wearing hot pink lycra. And this morning Ruthie and I watched Girls JustWant to Have Fun and got ideas for more dance moves that are guaranteed to make us so many friends on the dance floor.
Still working for the man. I feel like such a traitor.
Oh, and Captain Morgan is back. I sense trouble.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Sex, lies and videotape
There is no sex. That would be the lie. I saw Pump up the Volume a while back on the old video though. Phwoar Christian Slater back in the day.
And it transpires that if the moon is in the right spot and the sausage rolls are just so and I've had just the right amount of Battlestar to get me through till morning, and the Singstar is in a separate room to the rest of the party, then by jingo I'll enjoy it. And I jumped off furniture whilst doing so. Will and Sara throw a good party. Except for the wine thief with pink hair. The act did spark a rather good conversation on the morality of booze thefting at parties - a glass is fine, taking the whole bottle is a no no.
Saw Harry Potter tonight. And the utter highlight was making it through a 2.5 hour movie without having to disrupt my row by stumbling to the toilet in the dark. Go me and my bladder.
And it transpires that if the moon is in the right spot and the sausage rolls are just so and I've had just the right amount of Battlestar to get me through till morning, and the Singstar is in a separate room to the rest of the party, then by jingo I'll enjoy it. And I jumped off furniture whilst doing so. Will and Sara throw a good party. Except for the wine thief with pink hair. The act did spark a rather good conversation on the morality of booze thefting at parties - a glass is fine, taking the whole bottle is a no no.
Saw Harry Potter tonight. And the utter highlight was making it through a 2.5 hour movie without having to disrupt my row by stumbling to the toilet in the dark. Go me and my bladder.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sigh
It was just one of those ludicrously social weeks that beforehand makes you think 'Fuck, I'm popular and super and I bet most people want to be me' but by the end you can only semi formulate thoughts, such is your exhaustion, and those thoughts go something along the lines of 'I hate everyone, why must they bother me when I am quite clearly a recluse'.
I had an ace week. Am just suffering the exhaustion of the social butterfly. A not particularly dignified social butterfly. I have flitted. And lolled. Swilled. Scoffed. Put on about 20 kilos in the space of three hours (Korean place - I just ate and ate and ate and could have had more but I was concerned about vomitting). Oh, and I got new knickers. Can never have enough of those.
Sooo, after the PNGHS slumber party extravaganza of last Saturday, there was Kelby on Sunday, being all cute and Kelby-like, and then the fecking radness that is Battlestar Sunday. And then Andrew's birthday on Monday, which ended up with Sara, Mark, Stu, Luke and I experiencing fine dining Flat Awesome stylez - fush'n'chups'n'whiskey and X Men.
Tuesday was more Battlestar than you can shake a stick at. I'm not sure why you'd want to, anyway. Wednesday was the meeting of the classics nerds, and I made them, nay, forced them to come to quiz night, where after a bit of a dodgy start, we managed to come second again. AGAIN. Second is so last year.
Thursday was Jess. I was already a spot tired but I made the effort and went to dinner after we hugged and kissed each other in a thoroughly dubious manner, as befits women who admit that if only they were both gay they would totally rock out as a couple. I saw a Charlie. Met some other people, including Jessa's 18-year-old cousin who, it transpires, is in 7th form and was drinking on a school night. I was shocked. Even more so when he told Jess and I that one of his friends lost his virginity to a 32-year-old mum recently, and that most young men totally lust after older women. Jess and I looked at each other and made a date to loiter outside Wellington College the next day. Had to renege on that when remembered that I'd be working. Because that's what adults do. Dragged an unsuspecting Richard back to my place and Jess and I plied him with scotch and carrot cake and demanded he tell us filthy stories. Staggered to bed at 2am, having done the mildly drunk maths and realised that I'd get at least 4 hours' sleep and why would I need any more than that to handle a day working for the government? Also, they just extended my contract so it's probably about time I let them experience hungover Penelope.
Woke up not hungover. But so very, very tired. Jess went to bed with all her clothes on. I at least managed to put on PJs and knee socks. This was not my best look.
Friday I had a bizzare conversation with workmate about a paperclip.
Friday night I ate a lot of Korean with Duncan. Demanded to be allowed to pay as have been given money for this working lark and I felt like frittering it all away. Unfortunately, once I'd convinced the restaurant staff to ignore Duncan's attempts to pay for half, it transpired that they don't take credit card ... which was all I had. Duncan and his EFTPOS card to the rescue. Was a spot embarrassing. We waddled back to mine and made Oren's night by watching Battlestar. Duncan fell asleep. He does not get a gold star.
And tonight it's Will and Sarah's housewarming. With Singstar. I am not a fan of Singstar. I know, I adore karaoke, but for some obscure reason that a psychologist would no doubt ascertain is due to my inability to jump out of a tree into the dam that one time when my little sister totally showed me up by doing it effortlessly ... digression and anyway, I just find it not conducive to me enjoying parties. I am a party pooper. But I rather like Will and Sarah and I want to see their new place because I am nosy so I will go and eat all the chips and sit in the corner and do my best with polite conversation with strangers. I really am spectacularly bad at polite conversation. It's so boring. And then I can't resist saying something awful and if people react well, then I like them. If they don't, I go home and make voodoo dolls of them and they start to suffer from horrendous ailments like piles.
I had an ace week. Am just suffering the exhaustion of the social butterfly. A not particularly dignified social butterfly. I have flitted. And lolled. Swilled. Scoffed. Put on about 20 kilos in the space of three hours (Korean place - I just ate and ate and ate and could have had more but I was concerned about vomitting). Oh, and I got new knickers. Can never have enough of those.
Sooo, after the PNGHS slumber party extravaganza of last Saturday, there was Kelby on Sunday, being all cute and Kelby-like, and then the fecking radness that is Battlestar Sunday. And then Andrew's birthday on Monday, which ended up with Sara, Mark, Stu, Luke and I experiencing fine dining Flat Awesome stylez - fush'n'chups'n'whiskey and X Men.
Tuesday was more Battlestar than you can shake a stick at. I'm not sure why you'd want to, anyway. Wednesday was the meeting of the classics nerds, and I made them, nay, forced them to come to quiz night, where after a bit of a dodgy start, we managed to come second again. AGAIN. Second is so last year.
Thursday was Jess. I was already a spot tired but I made the effort and went to dinner after we hugged and kissed each other in a thoroughly dubious manner, as befits women who admit that if only they were both gay they would totally rock out as a couple. I saw a Charlie. Met some other people, including Jessa's 18-year-old cousin who, it transpires, is in 7th form and was drinking on a school night. I was shocked. Even more so when he told Jess and I that one of his friends lost his virginity to a 32-year-old mum recently, and that most young men totally lust after older women. Jess and I looked at each other and made a date to loiter outside Wellington College the next day. Had to renege on that when remembered that I'd be working. Because that's what adults do. Dragged an unsuspecting Richard back to my place and Jess and I plied him with scotch and carrot cake and demanded he tell us filthy stories. Staggered to bed at 2am, having done the mildly drunk maths and realised that I'd get at least 4 hours' sleep and why would I need any more than that to handle a day working for the government? Also, they just extended my contract so it's probably about time I let them experience hungover Penelope.
Woke up not hungover. But so very, very tired. Jess went to bed with all her clothes on. I at least managed to put on PJs and knee socks. This was not my best look.
Friday I had a bizzare conversation with workmate about a paperclip.
Friday night I ate a lot of Korean with Duncan. Demanded to be allowed to pay as have been given money for this working lark and I felt like frittering it all away. Unfortunately, once I'd convinced the restaurant staff to ignore Duncan's attempts to pay for half, it transpired that they don't take credit card ... which was all I had. Duncan and his EFTPOS card to the rescue. Was a spot embarrassing. We waddled back to mine and made Oren's night by watching Battlestar. Duncan fell asleep. He does not get a gold star.
And tonight it's Will and Sarah's housewarming. With Singstar. I am not a fan of Singstar. I know, I adore karaoke, but for some obscure reason that a psychologist would no doubt ascertain is due to my inability to jump out of a tree into the dam that one time when my little sister totally showed me up by doing it effortlessly ... digression and anyway, I just find it not conducive to me enjoying parties. I am a party pooper. But I rather like Will and Sarah and I want to see their new place because I am nosy so I will go and eat all the chips and sit in the corner and do my best with polite conversation with strangers. I really am spectacularly bad at polite conversation. It's so boring. And then I can't resist saying something awful and if people react well, then I like them. If they don't, I go home and make voodoo dolls of them and they start to suffer from horrendous ailments like piles.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Negligees and pillow fights
Oren has confessed his disappointment that when I invited three of my oldest lady friends over for a sleepover we did not prance about in skimpy lingerie lightly hitting each other over the head with pillows, in between brushing each other's hair. Instead we lolled about in an undignified manner, scoffed cheese and cackled in manner of ancient crones. And as our combined ages must be somewhere in the 120s, I guess we are. Just one crone, though.
I don't think Kit, Spanna, Manda and I have been in the same place at the same time for about ten years, so there was much of the reminiscing, old tales retold and embellished, some very bad photos and fair lack of maturity displayed. We dragged mattresses out to the living room and slumbered with gusto, got up at a sensible hour and brunched and then dispersed, promising to repeat it all for our 4oths. It is very irksome when one's chums insist on living in other countries/cities/islands. (Fi - you owe me a visit.)
Anyway, it is a sunny Wellington weekend and even though I am exhausted, I am not hungover, and for some obscure reason, there is still chocolate, so I'm going to inhale that, and then I might read all afternoon. I have not read for more than a lunch hour for quite some time. This is because I am supposed to be looking for work so if I read insead, I feel guilty. Strangely, this does not appear to affect my watching of Battlestar. We're into season two and it is MAGNIFICENT.
Oh, and I have a short-term contract making up lies for the man for the next few weeks so I can read without the guilt for a wee bit.
I sabotaged a job interview recently (really didn't want it but the dole people insist you apply for a certain number of jobs each week, so ...) which was in the Slutt Valley, so I drove out there (45 minutes - insane) and when they asked how my workmates would describe me I went with 'Impulsive and chatty. Oh, and I make good cookies.' Satisfied I'd screwed that one up well, I went away smiling. Right up until they called me a few days later and said 'Congratulations, you've made the final three ...' The other candidates must have been rubbish.
I don't think Kit, Spanna, Manda and I have been in the same place at the same time for about ten years, so there was much of the reminiscing, old tales retold and embellished, some very bad photos and fair lack of maturity displayed. We dragged mattresses out to the living room and slumbered with gusto, got up at a sensible hour and brunched and then dispersed, promising to repeat it all for our 4oths. It is very irksome when one's chums insist on living in other countries/cities/islands. (Fi - you owe me a visit.)
Anyway, it is a sunny Wellington weekend and even though I am exhausted, I am not hungover, and for some obscure reason, there is still chocolate, so I'm going to inhale that, and then I might read all afternoon. I have not read for more than a lunch hour for quite some time. This is because I am supposed to be looking for work so if I read insead, I feel guilty. Strangely, this does not appear to affect my watching of Battlestar. We're into season two and it is MAGNIFICENT.
Oh, and I have a short-term contract making up lies for the man for the next few weeks so I can read without the guilt for a wee bit.
I sabotaged a job interview recently (really didn't want it but the dole people insist you apply for a certain number of jobs each week, so ...) which was in the Slutt Valley, so I drove out there (45 minutes - insane) and when they asked how my workmates would describe me I went with 'Impulsive and chatty. Oh, and I make good cookies.' Satisfied I'd screwed that one up well, I went away smiling. Right up until they called me a few days later and said 'Congratulations, you've made the final three ...' The other candidates must have been rubbish.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Guity as a girl can be
Much to my eternal shame, I did not know that Bananarama were British. And we lost quiz night by one point. If only I'd been a better fan, I could have hauled us up to a tie.
So, for the third week in a row, we came second at quiz night. We tire of second. We are hungry for first. But it appears that we are not hungry enough. Next week we shall be starving.
I actually did some work yesterday. Unusual, I know. And I loved it. I made a book. I like books. They smell good. Sometimes I smell good. Sometimes, like after the pretend run I went on today, I do not. It was a pretend run because I didn't do a lot of running. I am far better at walking. And loping. Because I am a Penelope. Sort of like an antelope but slightly less graceful.
And today I lolled about the house in preparation for working again tomorrow. I know. Twice in one week. That's a lot of work. I'm exhausted already. But this block of dark chocolate KitKat seems to be taking my mind off things. It's really pretty good stuff. I felt bad abandoning my Whittaker's - cheating on chocolate is near unforgiveable, but there's a recession on and Pak'n'Save had a deal on with KitKats so I listened to my credit card and went with the cheaper option.
My credit card is pretty chatty these days.
And I have a new addiction. I share it with my flatmate Oren. We heart the new Battlestar Galatica. I saw all the old series a few years back with Kruse and have long wondered what the new version was like. And now I know. Ben once described Prison Break as being like crack to him and Karen and I think I know what he's talking about. It's almost as good as Twin Peaks was. And that was pretty good. I think we'll be rewatching that soon. Transpires that Melissa has never even heard of it. I shake my head at the youth of today. I'm sure her life will improve dramatically once we've forced her to watch it.
In the mean time, I haven't seen any Battlestar since Monday as Oren and I have had conflicting social lives and at the rate we're going, I'm not going to get any until Sunday. This pains me terribly. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I long for Battlestar.
So, for the third week in a row, we came second at quiz night. We tire of second. We are hungry for first. But it appears that we are not hungry enough. Next week we shall be starving.
I actually did some work yesterday. Unusual, I know. And I loved it. I made a book. I like books. They smell good. Sometimes I smell good. Sometimes, like after the pretend run I went on today, I do not. It was a pretend run because I didn't do a lot of running. I am far better at walking. And loping. Because I am a Penelope. Sort of like an antelope but slightly less graceful.
And today I lolled about the house in preparation for working again tomorrow. I know. Twice in one week. That's a lot of work. I'm exhausted already. But this block of dark chocolate KitKat seems to be taking my mind off things. It's really pretty good stuff. I felt bad abandoning my Whittaker's - cheating on chocolate is near unforgiveable, but there's a recession on and Pak'n'Save had a deal on with KitKats so I listened to my credit card and went with the cheaper option.
My credit card is pretty chatty these days.
And I have a new addiction. I share it with my flatmate Oren. We heart the new Battlestar Galatica. I saw all the old series a few years back with Kruse and have long wondered what the new version was like. And now I know. Ben once described Prison Break as being like crack to him and Karen and I think I know what he's talking about. It's almost as good as Twin Peaks was. And that was pretty good. I think we'll be rewatching that soon. Transpires that Melissa has never even heard of it. I shake my head at the youth of today. I'm sure her life will improve dramatically once we've forced her to watch it.
In the mean time, I haven't seen any Battlestar since Monday as Oren and I have had conflicting social lives and at the rate we're going, I'm not going to get any until Sunday. This pains me terribly. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I long for Battlestar.
Monday, July 6, 2009
My poor technique
When required, I have very poor interviewing techniques. Among other things.
I was at an interview recently where one of the panelists kept throwing up. I just have that effect on some people.
Who eats the nasty spotty lolly things in the bags of licorice allsorts? They are vomit inducing, just like me when I want to be.
In other random observations/pointing outies of thingies, I was asked out by a jogger on Oriental last week. It was a little creepy. Did I say flattering? No, creepy. And far more creepy than the slightly insane man who walks around my neighbourhood talking constantly, often in a rather angry voice. I passed him on the cliffs of doom (the local horror that is Grass Street) and was not really listening to his muttering right up until, just as he passed me, he hissed 'Make the voices STOP' and I gave him my full attention. It also gave me a bit of a fright. But just a bit. Because as I've said before, I'm tough. Especially in daylight.
I've had a lot of houseguests lately - too many to bother myself with this looking for work nonsense. But I seem to be free from them all now so must get cracking. Right after I make myself fairly ill with this bag of marshmellows.
Kruse dropped by in manner of horrible ex boyfriend who comes bearing far too many bottles of French champagne that we promptly added ice cream to. Champagne spiders are all the rage. He is a useful sort of fellow. Utterly horrible, of course, but useful.
Ruthie also came to stay and there was a lot of not very feminine snorting with laughter and many, many cups of tea. And hot water bottles. She also introduced my flatmates to some ridiculous computer game and now they are hooked.
And Melissa moved in. She did heaps of baking yesterday but apparently none of it was good enough for her exacting standards (it was going to be a gift) and now we have a lot of baked goods to consume. It is just as well that I am at home all day and prepared to do anything to stave off boredom. And I have pretty much given up trying to get back in to my jeans and have embraced voluptuousness with gusto. Is that spelt correctly? Do I care? Are my standards dropping? Did I fail the spelling test at quiz night?
Yes.
I was at an interview recently where one of the panelists kept throwing up. I just have that effect on some people.
Who eats the nasty spotty lolly things in the bags of licorice allsorts? They are vomit inducing, just like me when I want to be.
In other random observations/pointing outies of thingies, I was asked out by a jogger on Oriental last week. It was a little creepy. Did I say flattering? No, creepy. And far more creepy than the slightly insane man who walks around my neighbourhood talking constantly, often in a rather angry voice. I passed him on the cliffs of doom (the local horror that is Grass Street) and was not really listening to his muttering right up until, just as he passed me, he hissed 'Make the voices STOP' and I gave him my full attention. It also gave me a bit of a fright. But just a bit. Because as I've said before, I'm tough. Especially in daylight.
I've had a lot of houseguests lately - too many to bother myself with this looking for work nonsense. But I seem to be free from them all now so must get cracking. Right after I make myself fairly ill with this bag of marshmellows.
Kruse dropped by in manner of horrible ex boyfriend who comes bearing far too many bottles of French champagne that we promptly added ice cream to. Champagne spiders are all the rage. He is a useful sort of fellow. Utterly horrible, of course, but useful.
Ruthie also came to stay and there was a lot of not very feminine snorting with laughter and many, many cups of tea. And hot water bottles. She also introduced my flatmates to some ridiculous computer game and now they are hooked.
And Melissa moved in. She did heaps of baking yesterday but apparently none of it was good enough for her exacting standards (it was going to be a gift) and now we have a lot of baked goods to consume. It is just as well that I am at home all day and prepared to do anything to stave off boredom. And I have pretty much given up trying to get back in to my jeans and have embraced voluptuousness with gusto. Is that spelt correctly? Do I care? Are my standards dropping? Did I fail the spelling test at quiz night?
Yes.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Scientific proof you can eat too much fudge
In an effort to keep myself busy I have spent this morning conducting scientific experiements in the field of food technology. I have attempted to find out the exact amount of fudge a 5'10, 70-something kilo woman can endure. Chocolate coconut fudge, for those of you interested in the finer details of my highly technical experiment. My hypothesis? That I will eat a lot of it and feel very sick, but still keep eating. I may vomit, but this will not stop me.
I didn't make the fudge. It was made in sterile conditions (we'd just done the dishes) by well-respected fudge connoisseur Ruthie. She was wearing an imaginary lab coat and everything. I was supposed to be helping but then realised that previous attempts at making fudge suggest that I ought to stick to my own area of expertise: the eating bit.
So, two cups of sugar later:
I feel a bit ill. Like I shouldn't make any quick movements. Although, the amount of sugar now in my system is going to kick in soon and I will no doubt do something foolish like attempt to get out of my chair and walk to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. This might actually kill me.
Aside from having flashbacks to Form Two science class (even then I could tell that the only lab coats in my future would be on other people, such was my dunce-like inability to understand anything) I have been enjoying the recession. I signed up for the dole today. I don't want to bore anyone, but as 70% of all jobs are not advertised I'm supposed to be bothering you all for work. So hand it over. It's not as easy as it once was to get money from the government, and this is no doubt a good thing, but it is a tiresome proceedure to go through.
Wellington is spectacular - it's cold and wet and out my living room window I can watch it rain heavily all over Oriental and the harbour. Take that, employed people. Even on such an awful day, my love for this city never wavers. It looks good in grey. Maybe it's the fact that I get to walk along the waterfront in order to get anywhere - being this close to the water is pretty darn rad even if I have to wait five months before I can get my leopard-spotted body (it's not fading, I swear now my teeth are getting sharper, as well) out to the pontoon for some fearless leaping into the sea.
Job-hunting is not going so well. But if I learned anything from my lecture at WINZ, it's that I can't expect to go into the kind of job that I want because it's not a time for dream jobs, it's a time for doing whatever I can. So I can kiss goodbye to being a trophy wife and think about being a whore instead.
I didn't make the fudge. It was made in sterile conditions (we'd just done the dishes) by well-respected fudge connoisseur Ruthie. She was wearing an imaginary lab coat and everything. I was supposed to be helping but then realised that previous attempts at making fudge suggest that I ought to stick to my own area of expertise: the eating bit.
So, two cups of sugar later:
I feel a bit ill. Like I shouldn't make any quick movements. Although, the amount of sugar now in my system is going to kick in soon and I will no doubt do something foolish like attempt to get out of my chair and walk to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. This might actually kill me.
Aside from having flashbacks to Form Two science class (even then I could tell that the only lab coats in my future would be on other people, such was my dunce-like inability to understand anything) I have been enjoying the recession. I signed up for the dole today. I don't want to bore anyone, but as 70% of all jobs are not advertised I'm supposed to be bothering you all for work. So hand it over. It's not as easy as it once was to get money from the government, and this is no doubt a good thing, but it is a tiresome proceedure to go through.
Wellington is spectacular - it's cold and wet and out my living room window I can watch it rain heavily all over Oriental and the harbour. Take that, employed people. Even on such an awful day, my love for this city never wavers. It looks good in grey. Maybe it's the fact that I get to walk along the waterfront in order to get anywhere - being this close to the water is pretty darn rad even if I have to wait five months before I can get my leopard-spotted body (it's not fading, I swear now my teeth are getting sharper, as well) out to the pontoon for some fearless leaping into the sea.
Job-hunting is not going so well. But if I learned anything from my lecture at WINZ, it's that I can't expect to go into the kind of job that I want because it's not a time for dream jobs, it's a time for doing whatever I can. So I can kiss goodbye to being a trophy wife and think about being a whore instead.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
How do they know?
Today's horoscope:
You are weirder than others think, for your most unconventional quirks are not readily seen by many people. You may have an air of dreaminess about you, but you still are able to keep your most intense thoughts private. Your inner space is yours alone; even if your close friends get glimpses, you are not required to take them on a tour of your imagination.
Quirky sounds better than weird.
You are weirder than others think, for your most unconventional quirks are not readily seen by many people. You may have an air of dreaminess about you, but you still are able to keep your most intense thoughts private. Your inner space is yours alone; even if your close friends get glimpses, you are not required to take them on a tour of your imagination.
Quirky sounds better than weird.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Apologies dearest Skyehole
I have been gently reminded that I forgot to say I also saw Skye in Melbourne and she has a very decent baby belly on her. And, of my own accord, I must say she's the best looking pregnant woman in a tutu I have ever seen. And I love her. Even if she did used to joke that the fox outside our flat in London was my new boyfriend. We were just very good friends.
Oh, and Elise makes exceptionally good pesto. I was wide awake with the stupid hungry jetlag the other night just thinking about how it good her pesto would be right now, knowing quite well that if I got up to look in the fridge there would not be any. Because she didn't give me any to take home. Which is fair enough because they would have confiscated it at customs - but I can almost guarantee it wouldn't have made it to that point because I would have hoovered it up at Departures.
Oh, and Elise makes exceptionally good pesto. I was wide awake with the stupid hungry jetlag the other night just thinking about how it good her pesto would be right now, knowing quite well that if I got up to look in the fridge there would not be any. Because she didn't give me any to take home. Which is fair enough because they would have confiscated it at customs - but I can almost guarantee it wouldn't have made it to that point because I would have hoovered it up at Departures.
Is so hard being so very popular
I finally leave Edinburgh, almost sobbing my heart out at the prospect of leaving Dave and Manda, but uber excited about a camping trip with the London massive. The ten-hour bus trip seems like nothing after South American bus experiences, although I was reminded sharply of that part of the world when I first climbed aboard the London express.
'This bus smells like South America.'
And then I realised that there was a toilet onboard, which was great given my very pathetic bladder, but obviously it hadn't been cleaned terribly recently, or terribly well, because there was a distinct smell wafting in a not so gentle way throughout the bus. But I am tough and thought nothing of it. Tough, I say. Like nails. Bendy nails.
Camping with 16 others and a baby - times have changed. We had enough tents, although a mild case of poor communication between Katie and me meant that we were down a sleeping bag (all my fault) but someone else actually had a spare. And we ate vegetables. And proper sausages. You know the ones, they actually have meat in them. There was still drinking and singing and poking of fun but somehow less messy than previous years . Having said that, my camp stretcher collapsed within 30 minutes of me lying down on it. Not such good times there, but I rolled with it. Because I am a trooper. And I am lazy. And incapable of putting a camp stretcher back together in the dark.
And because I can't go on any sort of holiday without having some part of my body fail me, another bladder infection made the last day mildly irksome - this had a lot to do with me drinking several bottles of water in order to let the infection know that I was totally in charge - but then I got in the car for a two-hourish drive back to London - managed not to disgrace myself by wetting my trousers but I think sleeping on a broken camp stretcher might have been more fun than not thinking about a toilet and how badly I need to pee.
And then home via Melbourne for a surprise visit to Jess for her 30th. She fell over when she saw me, was very gratifying. Mind you, it could have been the smell of unwashed, jetlagged Penelope, but probably not. She's seen me looking/smelling far worse than that. Like that time we drank too much tequila and I got mistaken for a heroin addict because I was incapable of moving (brain was working terribly well, just rest of self not co-operating) and I eventually threw up a lot before telling atrocious lies to a taxi driver about how I had just been jilted and was therefore obliged to go out and get very drunk. Jessa's 30th was spectacular, if only for the dancing, but you know you've been at a good party when you don't get home until 5pm the next day and you're still in last night's dress, with a mammoth bruise on your bottom. Good times. I think I liked the lolling on Debs/Jess/Nic/Nath/Elise/Timmy the best. This is what friends are for. They also make you cups of tea (Tim failed here and I'll be making a note of it in my official report to his mother).
Melbourne also enabled me to give Nic his birthday present, carefully crafted by Dave and myself. It's a very special, very adult version of Guess Who. Hours of entertainment.
Then Auckland and straight into Bran's arms. And then, as the deal goes, I made him cookies of bribery. And then Wellington, straight into the mothership's arms. She loves me. You can see why. And then to Flat Awesome, where Mark and mum got on far too well so I had to make her go. And then bloody marys. And then lunch with Luke to get salacious details of his far more exciting life, just so I can live vicariously. And then another bloody mary. Because I am unemployed and I can. And then drinks with Duncan. This involved an absolutely thrilling trip to get his car. And when I say thrilling, I really mean not very thrilling at all. But the wine made up for it. And then back to Flat Awesome for drinks with a ginger and Mark and Stu and shouting at the final of New Zealand's Next Top Model. And then a party. And then the dancing. And then the takeaways. And the realisation that we were minus Loz's phone. And then the sleeping. And the waking up realising that what I had thought was a glass in the dark last night was actually an olive jar, but it still did a pretty good job of holding water. And then the walk of shame from Loz's to Mark's where there were pancakes. And tea. A lot of tea. And then there was Sara. And more tea. And then a bus to Palmy. And the others had bloody marys without me, bastards. But that's okay because I had parents and a cat and a fire and all my shoes.
And now back in my old flat in Wellington pondering job hunting, wondering how I'm going to cope with how incredibly cold it is (get pet bear to hug?) and wishing I had remembered to get chocolate at the supermarket. Jetlag makes me wake up at 2am utterly ravenous. It also makes me feel ill, although my mother says I could just have caught the sickness circulating at the moment, which makes perfectly respectable people, such as my aunt, throw up in a stranger's garden.
I did not win Lotto. There seems to be a glitch in the system.
'This bus smells like South America.'
And then I realised that there was a toilet onboard, which was great given my very pathetic bladder, but obviously it hadn't been cleaned terribly recently, or terribly well, because there was a distinct smell wafting in a not so gentle way throughout the bus. But I am tough and thought nothing of it. Tough, I say. Like nails. Bendy nails.
Camping with 16 others and a baby - times have changed. We had enough tents, although a mild case of poor communication between Katie and me meant that we were down a sleeping bag (all my fault) but someone else actually had a spare. And we ate vegetables. And proper sausages. You know the ones, they actually have meat in them. There was still drinking and singing and poking of fun but somehow less messy than previous years . Having said that, my camp stretcher collapsed within 30 minutes of me lying down on it. Not such good times there, but I rolled with it. Because I am a trooper. And I am lazy. And incapable of putting a camp stretcher back together in the dark.
And because I can't go on any sort of holiday without having some part of my body fail me, another bladder infection made the last day mildly irksome - this had a lot to do with me drinking several bottles of water in order to let the infection know that I was totally in charge - but then I got in the car for a two-hourish drive back to London - managed not to disgrace myself by wetting my trousers but I think sleeping on a broken camp stretcher might have been more fun than not thinking about a toilet and how badly I need to pee.
And then home via Melbourne for a surprise visit to Jess for her 30th. She fell over when she saw me, was very gratifying. Mind you, it could have been the smell of unwashed, jetlagged Penelope, but probably not. She's seen me looking/smelling far worse than that. Like that time we drank too much tequila and I got mistaken for a heroin addict because I was incapable of moving (brain was working terribly well, just rest of self not co-operating) and I eventually threw up a lot before telling atrocious lies to a taxi driver about how I had just been jilted and was therefore obliged to go out and get very drunk. Jessa's 30th was spectacular, if only for the dancing, but you know you've been at a good party when you don't get home until 5pm the next day and you're still in last night's dress, with a mammoth bruise on your bottom. Good times. I think I liked the lolling on Debs/Jess/Nic/Nath/Elise/Timmy the best. This is what friends are for. They also make you cups of tea (Tim failed here and I'll be making a note of it in my official report to his mother).
Melbourne also enabled me to give Nic his birthday present, carefully crafted by Dave and myself. It's a very special, very adult version of Guess Who. Hours of entertainment.
Then Auckland and straight into Bran's arms. And then, as the deal goes, I made him cookies of bribery. And then Wellington, straight into the mothership's arms. She loves me. You can see why. And then to Flat Awesome, where Mark and mum got on far too well so I had to make her go. And then bloody marys. And then lunch with Luke to get salacious details of his far more exciting life, just so I can live vicariously. And then another bloody mary. Because I am unemployed and I can. And then drinks with Duncan. This involved an absolutely thrilling trip to get his car. And when I say thrilling, I really mean not very thrilling at all. But the wine made up for it. And then back to Flat Awesome for drinks with a ginger and Mark and Stu and shouting at the final of New Zealand's Next Top Model. And then a party. And then the dancing. And then the takeaways. And the realisation that we were minus Loz's phone. And then the sleeping. And the waking up realising that what I had thought was a glass in the dark last night was actually an olive jar, but it still did a pretty good job of holding water. And then the walk of shame from Loz's to Mark's where there were pancakes. And tea. A lot of tea. And then there was Sara. And more tea. And then a bus to Palmy. And the others had bloody marys without me, bastards. But that's okay because I had parents and a cat and a fire and all my shoes.
And now back in my old flat in Wellington pondering job hunting, wondering how I'm going to cope with how incredibly cold it is (get pet bear to hug?) and wishing I had remembered to get chocolate at the supermarket. Jetlag makes me wake up at 2am utterly ravenous. It also makes me feel ill, although my mother says I could just have caught the sickness circulating at the moment, which makes perfectly respectable people, such as my aunt, throw up in a stranger's garden.
I did not win Lotto. There seems to be a glitch in the system.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The peroxide gets the better of me in the kitchen
In the interests of alerting all to the potential dangers of ever having me stay as a houseguest, where I offer to cook delicious and only mildly unhealthy meals only to try and kill you, let me tell you the sad story of Mr Roast Chicken.
Oh, he was a pretty roast chicken, all trussed up and stuffed by me, surrounded by his buddies, little mr carrot and not quite so little mr potato, as well as bulbous mr onion and guaranteed not to make you any friends mr garlic. They were having such a jolly time, all hanging out together, getting a bit hot and heavy under the collar and generally raging up a storm, getting one hell of a tan and generally making me look exceptionally good to the starving masses. I even made gravy. Properly, for feck's sake. We carved. We served. We ate - Dave had manfully eaten half of his by the time I got round to starting which was when I noticed the odd taste. I had another carrot. Yup, something squeaky clean and not too edible about it. I asked the others who said that they too could taste it but no one had wanted to insult my cooking. Whoever had last used the roasting tin had indeed washed it, but not rinsed it and my beautiful roast chicken and his little vege chums were all mint and avocado washing up liquid flavoured and inedible. I was very sad. Manda was furious. She loves roast chicken. So Dave and I had a cheese toastie off and made Manda judge who was the best by blindfolding her with a mildly filthy tea towel and force feeding her. Fortunately for my reputation, I won, although it was noted by both the judge and the very bitter opposition, that I should have toasted the bread before I put the cheese on so as to avoid that slightly soggy bit you get.
I still get very sad whenever I think about the roasting tin. The situation is not made any better by me running out of chocolate and being too lazy to remedy the situation.
Oh, he was a pretty roast chicken, all trussed up and stuffed by me, surrounded by his buddies, little mr carrot and not quite so little mr potato, as well as bulbous mr onion and guaranteed not to make you any friends mr garlic. They were having such a jolly time, all hanging out together, getting a bit hot and heavy under the collar and generally raging up a storm, getting one hell of a tan and generally making me look exceptionally good to the starving masses. I even made gravy. Properly, for feck's sake. We carved. We served. We ate - Dave had manfully eaten half of his by the time I got round to starting which was when I noticed the odd taste. I had another carrot. Yup, something squeaky clean and not too edible about it. I asked the others who said that they too could taste it but no one had wanted to insult my cooking. Whoever had last used the roasting tin had indeed washed it, but not rinsed it and my beautiful roast chicken and his little vege chums were all mint and avocado washing up liquid flavoured and inedible. I was very sad. Manda was furious. She loves roast chicken. So Dave and I had a cheese toastie off and made Manda judge who was the best by blindfolding her with a mildly filthy tea towel and force feeding her. Fortunately for my reputation, I won, although it was noted by both the judge and the very bitter opposition, that I should have toasted the bread before I put the cheese on so as to avoid that slightly soggy bit you get.
I still get very sad whenever I think about the roasting tin. The situation is not made any better by me running out of chocolate and being too lazy to remedy the situation.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Remember that time Dan wore a nurse's uniform? That was good.
Possibly, in hindsight, deep-fried pizza and a deep-fried Mars bar were not the ideal midnight snack, but we were aiming for the complete Scottish experience so ... sadly, this may have not aided me in the continuing saga of me versus my jeans. I can get them on, but sitting down in them is not fun. Probably not fun for anyone watching, either.
Dave, Manda and I have a sleepover and drink some whisky and play some cards and talk a fair amount of rubbish and fail to leave the house for periods longer than approximately 37 minutes. We also fail to get fish food. Or to get to bed before 2am. Which means that as an unemployed person, my day technically is about two hours behind that of the average person, so a 12.30pm getting up time is really only 10.30am. But this morning I am wakened at the ungodly hour, by any person's standards, of the real 8am, by a phone call from home - people are drinking at the Cambridge! I am pleased for them. The Cambridge is a good bar. However, I do feel they could have waited a few more hours. I do not hold grudges, though. Back to sleepytime, where I dream I am a 15-year-old boy who can breathe under water right up until my phone goes again, still too early by my standards, at 9.35am. Justin is a cripple and can't go camping but wants to know if anyone has a nurse uniform. Mine is in New Zealand somewhere, last seen being put to good use by Dan. Back to sleep again and I have dreams about fish and chips, which suggest to me that I am hungry, and men in very short shorts, which suggest that perhaps I am a pervert, and then it's 12.30 and time for breakfast and the good news that Kruse is an uncle.
I did a touristy thing and climbed up to Arthur's seat. I am not a good climber. I am more of a huffy, puffy, let's just stop here and admire the view, sort of climber.
I did a silly thing and got on the mini roundabout in the playground opposite Manda's house. Dave spun me round and round and it was fun for about ten seconds and then I felt very ill and I shrieked 'Stop, make it stop, please, please' and he just chortled and I resolved to throw up on him, but not Manda, no, not her, because she just looked very sorry for me, whilst somehow still managing to look superior for not having been so foolish to get on the damn thing in the first place.
Jelly beans in the shape of little love hearts are delicious.
Dave, Manda and I have a sleepover and drink some whisky and play some cards and talk a fair amount of rubbish and fail to leave the house for periods longer than approximately 37 minutes. We also fail to get fish food. Or to get to bed before 2am. Which means that as an unemployed person, my day technically is about two hours behind that of the average person, so a 12.30pm getting up time is really only 10.30am. But this morning I am wakened at the ungodly hour, by any person's standards, of the real 8am, by a phone call from home - people are drinking at the Cambridge! I am pleased for them. The Cambridge is a good bar. However, I do feel they could have waited a few more hours. I do not hold grudges, though. Back to sleepytime, where I dream I am a 15-year-old boy who can breathe under water right up until my phone goes again, still too early by my standards, at 9.35am. Justin is a cripple and can't go camping but wants to know if anyone has a nurse uniform. Mine is in New Zealand somewhere, last seen being put to good use by Dan. Back to sleep again and I have dreams about fish and chips, which suggest to me that I am hungry, and men in very short shorts, which suggest that perhaps I am a pervert, and then it's 12.30 and time for breakfast and the good news that Kruse is an uncle.
I did a touristy thing and climbed up to Arthur's seat. I am not a good climber. I am more of a huffy, puffy, let's just stop here and admire the view, sort of climber.
I did a silly thing and got on the mini roundabout in the playground opposite Manda's house. Dave spun me round and round and it was fun for about ten seconds and then I felt very ill and I shrieked 'Stop, make it stop, please, please' and he just chortled and I resolved to throw up on him, but not Manda, no, not her, because she just looked very sorry for me, whilst somehow still managing to look superior for not having been so foolish to get on the damn thing in the first place.
Jelly beans in the shape of little love hearts are delicious.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thoughts from this very comfy blow-up mattress
Edinburgh is a bit stingy with its weather. It's pretending to be sunny but the moment you get outside the wind attacks you with chilly and grasping fingers, and sticks its nose up your shorts in the manner of a very impertinent canine.
I have achieved very little the past few days, although, as I am unemployed and on a very tight budget, I suspect doing very little is one of my best options. And I'm pretty good at it. I am particularly good at drinking tea and eating chocolate covered peanuts in bed. I even half cleaned the bathroom yesterday. And I did the dishes. And made a very good midnight snack of Welsh rarebit after Manda and I overdid the 'bad day at the office must have several glasses (bottles) of plonk' bit. Obviously she had had the bad day at the office, but as a good friend I felt I ought to help her out in the drinking of wine bit, because I am a trooper like that. I did not feel like a trooper yesterday morning. I didn't even want the chocolate covered peanuts. But I dragged myself out of bed and set off for Glasgow. Eventually met up with Manda, who was there for work, and Frazer, who I have not seen since the epic camping trip of '03, and whose accent is like wading through very thick chocolate. Transpired he had the other Amanda visiting him, who was also on that trip back in the day, so there was much rejoycing and catching up and bemoaning all the people who seem to have become adults since then, bastards.
Frazer has a very nasty habit of buying another round just as you're about to say you've had enough.
This morning I don't feel too bad, despite the six pints, and I've just remembered the bottle of cider to get us through the train trip, whoops, so I've eaten the peanuts and drunk the tea and realised we're out of toilet paper, which is irksome. However, everything pales in comparison to the depressing conversation I just had with Jody, who has recently moved home, about unemployment. We have decided we might have to take up drinking cheap sherry out of tea cups whilst perusing the wanted section of the paper. Or watching Oprah.
Unemployment/travelling is making my jeans shrink.
I have achieved very little the past few days, although, as I am unemployed and on a very tight budget, I suspect doing very little is one of my best options. And I'm pretty good at it. I am particularly good at drinking tea and eating chocolate covered peanuts in bed. I even half cleaned the bathroom yesterday. And I did the dishes. And made a very good midnight snack of Welsh rarebit after Manda and I overdid the 'bad day at the office must have several glasses (bottles) of plonk' bit. Obviously she had had the bad day at the office, but as a good friend I felt I ought to help her out in the drinking of wine bit, because I am a trooper like that. I did not feel like a trooper yesterday morning. I didn't even want the chocolate covered peanuts. But I dragged myself out of bed and set off for Glasgow. Eventually met up with Manda, who was there for work, and Frazer, who I have not seen since the epic camping trip of '03, and whose accent is like wading through very thick chocolate. Transpired he had the other Amanda visiting him, who was also on that trip back in the day, so there was much rejoycing and catching up and bemoaning all the people who seem to have become adults since then, bastards.
Frazer has a very nasty habit of buying another round just as you're about to say you've had enough.
This morning I don't feel too bad, despite the six pints, and I've just remembered the bottle of cider to get us through the train trip, whoops, so I've eaten the peanuts and drunk the tea and realised we're out of toilet paper, which is irksome. However, everything pales in comparison to the depressing conversation I just had with Jody, who has recently moved home, about unemployment. We have decided we might have to take up drinking cheap sherry out of tea cups whilst perusing the wanted section of the paper. Or watching Oprah.
Unemployment/travelling is making my jeans shrink.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Pretty much just me muttering about nonsense
This unusually sunny and beautiful Edinburgh morning finds me sitting in Manda's bed eating fudge for breakfast and reading an article on how not to be single at 40. I know it's a few years away, but nothing wrong with being prepared, no? Although it does assume that for most women being single at 40 is somehow very shaming. Surely it's better to be happy by one's self than unhappy but with a partner? Look! I have a man! I have achieved ... something, I'm not sure what but apparently this is all I need. Although, at this point, you'll start finding articles on why you should get rid of him if you're not happy, it's all about being your own woman, loving yourself, girlpower ... but then the moment you're single all anyone ever asks is whether or not you've met anyone because no one can possibly be happy by themselves ... sweet baby jesus, it's a vicious circle, made worse by some well-meaning (or possibly very unpleasant) person asking if your baby clock is ticking because babies are the primary aim of women ... I think I might be feeling a bit ranty this morning. More fudge will help that, surely. But then I'll just get fat. And then no one will want me because I wobble. But I should love myself no matter what ... I need to stop reading these articles.
All this fudge is aggravating the tooth that just got fixed, but I'm the boss, not Tony Danza, so I say we eat more of it.
The good thing about staying at Manda's house is that she doesn't like chocolate. Or anything sweet, for that matter, which means that if I buy, say, oh, I don't know, a family pack of Maltesers, I know exactly who is going to eat them all in less than 24 hours. Me. Gosh they were delicious. Manda is obviously insane for not liking sugar.
Since I got here about four days ago, the weather has been awful and my beautiful beyond belief tan has slunk away, upset by my inability to feed it sun. The leopard spots remain, however. Are they some sort of early warning that I may become a cougar, destined to patrol the swanky bars of Auckland, feeding on the flesh of Very Young Men? Let's hope so.
Edinburgh, despite its dubious weather, is a charming city. We ventured out on Friday, school girlz stylez, with a water bottle full of gin and lemonade for the bus trip to the pub. In hindsight, this was a bit immature and foolish, given that we then drank a fair amount of beer with Manda's workmates, listened to a bloody marvellous trio with a guitar, ukulele and bongo drum who kindly played Crowded House when they realised where we were from, and raged it up in general - we have photos where I'm sitting on the bar hugging the barman. Dear God he was one hell of a ginger (I think I am suffering withdrawals from not having my own gingers nearby). At some point Manda and I decided that it was time for dinner (I think this was about 1.30am) and home time so we combined the two and made the taxi driver, who hated us, stop at one of Edinburgh's fine dining establishments, also known as a kebab shop.
Saturday morning wasn't as shiny as it could have been. Saturday night was mildly quieter, in that we didn't leave the house but Manda's blasted flatmate came home with a bottle of spiced rum and knowing all the dance moves to Poker Face. I managed to escape after four drinks but Sunday was still a day of lounging about in one's PJs, watching Outrageous Fortune and feeling mildly homesick because of all the Kiwi accents. And also chortling because I wasn't wearing a bra because I hadn't gotten up yet*, but Manda was because she'd never gotten around to taking it off the night before.
*I don't count being up being up until I've had a shower. Them's the rules.
Have booked some flights home, am now even more utterly destitute and am enjoying myself thoroughly. Home in about three weeks and I have changed my flights in order to fit in with Brandon's schedule so he can play with my hair. It was cheaper to fly directly to Wellington but no, I insist I go via Auckland just to see Brandon. I can see myself having to defend my Auckland visits for the rest of my life - but my stylist lives there! I have to go at least three times a year! Surely it's tax deductible?
All this fudge is aggravating the tooth that just got fixed, but I'm the boss, not Tony Danza, so I say we eat more of it.
The good thing about staying at Manda's house is that she doesn't like chocolate. Or anything sweet, for that matter, which means that if I buy, say, oh, I don't know, a family pack of Maltesers, I know exactly who is going to eat them all in less than 24 hours. Me. Gosh they were delicious. Manda is obviously insane for not liking sugar.
Since I got here about four days ago, the weather has been awful and my beautiful beyond belief tan has slunk away, upset by my inability to feed it sun. The leopard spots remain, however. Are they some sort of early warning that I may become a cougar, destined to patrol the swanky bars of Auckland, feeding on the flesh of Very Young Men? Let's hope so.
Edinburgh, despite its dubious weather, is a charming city. We ventured out on Friday, school girlz stylez, with a water bottle full of gin and lemonade for the bus trip to the pub. In hindsight, this was a bit immature and foolish, given that we then drank a fair amount of beer with Manda's workmates, listened to a bloody marvellous trio with a guitar, ukulele and bongo drum who kindly played Crowded House when they realised where we were from, and raged it up in general - we have photos where I'm sitting on the bar hugging the barman. Dear God he was one hell of a ginger (I think I am suffering withdrawals from not having my own gingers nearby). At some point Manda and I decided that it was time for dinner (I think this was about 1.30am) and home time so we combined the two and made the taxi driver, who hated us, stop at one of Edinburgh's fine dining establishments, also known as a kebab shop.
Saturday morning wasn't as shiny as it could have been. Saturday night was mildly quieter, in that we didn't leave the house but Manda's blasted flatmate came home with a bottle of spiced rum and knowing all the dance moves to Poker Face. I managed to escape after four drinks but Sunday was still a day of lounging about in one's PJs, watching Outrageous Fortune and feeling mildly homesick because of all the Kiwi accents. And also chortling because I wasn't wearing a bra because I hadn't gotten up yet*, but Manda was because she'd never gotten around to taking it off the night before.
*I don't count being up being up until I've had a shower. Them's the rules.
Have booked some flights home, am now even more utterly destitute and am enjoying myself thoroughly. Home in about three weeks and I have changed my flights in order to fit in with Brandon's schedule so he can play with my hair. It was cheaper to fly directly to Wellington but no, I insist I go via Auckland just to see Brandon. I can see myself having to defend my Auckland visits for the rest of my life - but my stylist lives there! I have to go at least three times a year! Surely it's tax deductible?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Nudey Rudey
Nudist beach. We couldn´t help it. We giggled. Once again proving that with great age does not come great maturity.
Last night was spent pretending to be pterodactyls.
Last night was spent pretending to be pterodactyls.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Exhausted by Justin and Katie
He said it was an accident but today Justin invented the avocado white wine spritzer. Flashbacks to the smoked chicken martini of years gone by immediately followed.
I am too old for 4am bedtimes. Justin tried to go to bed at 2am but Katie kept filling up his glass and said that as she likes to deal in twos, he couldn´t go to bed until 4. So none of us could. I think she regretted that today when she had to drive to pick up Caro but we screwed up the arrival time and then she got lost and as far as I know she´s currently asleep on a beach somewhere near the airport because Caro doesn´t touch down at 4.30pm - she gets in at 8.30. Justin and I are on dinner. Literally. Eggplants like it when you stand on them.
Gibberish again. I really need sleep. Leopard print coming along nicely on tummy. Rashy thing still bumpy.
Katie is learning to say some very rude words. I am so very proud of her.
Topless women everywhere. Justin loves it. Nudist beach sometime this week where I bet he just faints from all the boobies on display.
And I´m down another credit card. I wasn´t even drunk when I lost it.
I am too old for 4am bedtimes. Justin tried to go to bed at 2am but Katie kept filling up his glass and said that as she likes to deal in twos, he couldn´t go to bed until 4. So none of us could. I think she regretted that today when she had to drive to pick up Caro but we screwed up the arrival time and then she got lost and as far as I know she´s currently asleep on a beach somewhere near the airport because Caro doesn´t touch down at 4.30pm - she gets in at 8.30. Justin and I are on dinner. Literally. Eggplants like it when you stand on them.
Gibberish again. I really need sleep. Leopard print coming along nicely on tummy. Rashy thing still bumpy.
Katie is learning to say some very rude words. I am so very proud of her.
Topless women everywhere. Justin loves it. Nudist beach sometime this week where I bet he just faints from all the boobies on display.
And I´m down another credit card. I wasn´t even drunk when I lost it.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Exhausted by the old
After another few days of doing very little and failing to get out of bed before 11am and generally enjoying ourselves very much, the owners call and ask if they may disrupt our idyllic life so they can fix the bathroom which is apparently leaking into the apartment below. We are generous and allow them to do so because it seems polite - we are informed that Germans would not be as nice about it, or offer cups of tea and lunch as we do. Mother would be so proud. Four men take apart one bathroom, then the other, at which point I realise that we have no toilets and that I should not have drunk so much tea. But I love it so much . . . Fortunately just as I am pondering the bucket in the corner of the laundry, they very kindly give us one loo back. Crisis averted.
The owners are a charming English couple in their 60s, who refuse to live in England, but instead live in France for six months and Spain for the other six. It sounds very tiring. Horrified at having put us out of a toilet for a few hours they insist we come for drinks - they have also discovered that Katie has a bicycle and they too love cycling, so good warm feelings all round. They ply us with wine, so much so that I have to resort to sitting as far away from my wine glass as possible else I get totally fucked up. More warm feelings when I find their Arthur Ransome collection and borrow one and then they insist I take several others as well, which is just as well because I´m running a bit low on reading material. By this point we are all pretty much in love with each other so they drag us out for dinner and we eat a lot of fish and chortle at the Spanish dessert option of a Magnum icecream presented on a saucer with a flourish.
Katie and I then both have worst night´s sleep ever, which is unfortunate because we said we´d be out of the apartment by 9 so the chaps can come back and continue to destroy the bathroom. We stumble to the beach, I push Katie over and she falls asleep and I find the market and buy fruit, which I don´t want, what I want is hot chocolate and churros and I think I might go and get that now. Oh God, so tired.
This was a pretty rubbish update, sorry.
The owners are a charming English couple in their 60s, who refuse to live in England, but instead live in France for six months and Spain for the other six. It sounds very tiring. Horrified at having put us out of a toilet for a few hours they insist we come for drinks - they have also discovered that Katie has a bicycle and they too love cycling, so good warm feelings all round. They ply us with wine, so much so that I have to resort to sitting as far away from my wine glass as possible else I get totally fucked up. More warm feelings when I find their Arthur Ransome collection and borrow one and then they insist I take several others as well, which is just as well because I´m running a bit low on reading material. By this point we are all pretty much in love with each other so they drag us out for dinner and we eat a lot of fish and chortle at the Spanish dessert option of a Magnum icecream presented on a saucer with a flourish.
Katie and I then both have worst night´s sleep ever, which is unfortunate because we said we´d be out of the apartment by 9 so the chaps can come back and continue to destroy the bathroom. We stumble to the beach, I push Katie over and she falls asleep and I find the market and buy fruit, which I don´t want, what I want is hot chocolate and churros and I think I might go and get that now. Oh God, so tired.
This was a pretty rubbish update, sorry.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Coming out in spots
I thought perhaps I was allergic to Spain as my tummy is covered in spots, and as I spent a lot of time in South America being infected with things, I just thought this was par for the course and as long as it wasn´t my bladder again, I could take the peril. But then I recalled that I had similar spots in January, when I thought I´d just splattered myself with sunblock in a weird manner and so now I am forced to conclude that I do not have an intriguing rash that will allow me to meet hot Spanish doctors, but rather I have some bizarre skin pigmentation issue that doesn´t seem to be affecting my health so I will ignore it.
It does make me look like a leopard, though, so not all bad.
Spain did give me insomnia and headaches, but they seem to be clearing up. A likely explanation for the headaches would be booze, but Katie and I seem to have somehow, for some inexplicable reason, not really indulged. We had plans to totally take over this village of 2,500 people on Saturday night, but somehow wound up reading and drinking tea instead. Old age is certainly taking its toll.
I think I had a tea hangover yesterday. Turns out you can have too much of a good thing. But it was raining, although in a nice and charming Spanish manner so I read some more. Finished Katie´s book on Enoughism, which is both depressing and inspiring - depressing because I really do need to face up to the fact that I don´t need more shoes and inspiring because Katie and I are now determed to Save the World. One square of 70% cocoa, sugar-free chocolate at a time.
Fuck. I thought I had mosquito bites on my back but Katie has just confirmed that I have a rash. Perhaps this is because I have jumped on Katie´s wheat, sugar and dairy free bandwagon for this trip as it just makes things easier when cooking. Obviously I am allergic to not having any of those things.
It does make me look like a leopard, though, so not all bad.
Spain did give me insomnia and headaches, but they seem to be clearing up. A likely explanation for the headaches would be booze, but Katie and I seem to have somehow, for some inexplicable reason, not really indulged. We had plans to totally take over this village of 2,500 people on Saturday night, but somehow wound up reading and drinking tea instead. Old age is certainly taking its toll.
I think I had a tea hangover yesterday. Turns out you can have too much of a good thing. But it was raining, although in a nice and charming Spanish manner so I read some more. Finished Katie´s book on Enoughism, which is both depressing and inspiring - depressing because I really do need to face up to the fact that I don´t need more shoes and inspiring because Katie and I are now determed to Save the World. One square of 70% cocoa, sugar-free chocolate at a time.
Fuck. I thought I had mosquito bites on my back but Katie has just confirmed that I have a rash. Perhaps this is because I have jumped on Katie´s wheat, sugar and dairy free bandwagon for this trip as it just makes things easier when cooking. Obviously I am allergic to not having any of those things.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Fail
Did not make Grenada. Got stuck in a supermarket underground car park. Our hire car was upgraded so is very large soccer mom type Mercedes station wagon thingy. Is an utter bitch to drive on other side of road (not that I would know but Katie´s potty mouth would indicate she´s had more fun). At any rate - getting out of tiny parking spot, around car park whilst avoiding pillars of doom and through tight barrier on weird angle was incredibly difficult. Barrier also had a timer which we failed. In the end we got the driver of the car behind us to help out, guessing that as a native driver of the other side he would be able to manouvere mammoth wagon better than us. Sometimes being a girl, and blonde into the bargain, is very helpful.
By then it was 5pm and we decided that instead of Granada we would go back to the village and have gin. And possibly get chatted up by a Scotsman. Who hopefully now thinks that we are lesbians.
By then it was 5pm and we decided that instead of Granada we would go back to the village and have gin. And possibly get chatted up by a Scotsman. Who hopefully now thinks that we are lesbians.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Bits and stuff
There are several things I forgot to say about Ireland, namely that the crimes against hair committed by teenage lads are horrendous and they should all have their styling gel confiscated immediately. I shouted ´rubbish´ at lots of them and, sometimes, I even opened the window before doing so.
We passed a dog in the act of what seemed to be making love with another dog only, as we drove past, we realised that the dog was, in fact, having its wicked way with a sack of potatoes. I know it is childish and silly to personify inanimate objects, but the sack of potatoes did not look as though it was having a good time.
The Irish are a chatty bunch - on the bus to the airport an American sat down and was immediately engaged by the elderly Irish chap next to him. They chatted politely for a bit before the Irish asked "And how old are you, then?" The American looked a trifle surprised at such a personal question but answered nicely, ´51´.
´51!´ The old man gasped and looked thoughtful for a moment and then leaned forward in a confidential manner and asked, ´Would you be having Botox then?´
In truth, the American did look a lot younger than 51.
Spain so far is terribly nice and warm - Katie and I are living it up in a wanky apartment on a small beach outside Nerja where we are being awful travellers and doing nothing. It is very nice. We only scraped the hire car a little bit and I´m sure that dog deliberately stepped out in front of us.
We spent the first night searching for tapas at 11.30pm, being stared at incredulously by old men when we said we didn´t want booze only food. They insisted on buying us shots anyway.
We were then mistaken for Germans. About the only good thing with that encounter was that I understood what the young man was talking about.
Katie and I have so far attempted to make conversations with the Spanish in German, English and French. Spanish just seemed too easy.
Yesterday we got caught comparing fat rolls by a Scottish real estate agent. For the record, Katie does not have any.
Right. Am utterly determined to get to Granada today as we have to get Katie some bike parts. Some jockey wheels, apparently. I will buy more chocolate because yesterday I left a block in a hot car and, well, you can guess the rest. And we need some sangria. Probably a lot of that.
And yes, I am having issues with the quotation marks. But I really don´t want to use doubles. It makes me feel ill.
We passed a dog in the act of what seemed to be making love with another dog only, as we drove past, we realised that the dog was, in fact, having its wicked way with a sack of potatoes. I know it is childish and silly to personify inanimate objects, but the sack of potatoes did not look as though it was having a good time.
The Irish are a chatty bunch - on the bus to the airport an American sat down and was immediately engaged by the elderly Irish chap next to him. They chatted politely for a bit before the Irish asked "And how old are you, then?" The American looked a trifle surprised at such a personal question but answered nicely, ´51´.
´51!´ The old man gasped and looked thoughtful for a moment and then leaned forward in a confidential manner and asked, ´Would you be having Botox then?´
In truth, the American did look a lot younger than 51.
Spain so far is terribly nice and warm - Katie and I are living it up in a wanky apartment on a small beach outside Nerja where we are being awful travellers and doing nothing. It is very nice. We only scraped the hire car a little bit and I´m sure that dog deliberately stepped out in front of us.
We spent the first night searching for tapas at 11.30pm, being stared at incredulously by old men when we said we didn´t want booze only food. They insisted on buying us shots anyway.
We were then mistaken for Germans. About the only good thing with that encounter was that I understood what the young man was talking about.
Katie and I have so far attempted to make conversations with the Spanish in German, English and French. Spanish just seemed too easy.
Yesterday we got caught comparing fat rolls by a Scottish real estate agent. For the record, Katie does not have any.
Right. Am utterly determined to get to Granada today as we have to get Katie some bike parts. Some jockey wheels, apparently. I will buy more chocolate because yesterday I left a block in a hot car and, well, you can guess the rest. And we need some sangria. Probably a lot of that.
And yes, I am having issues with the quotation marks. But I really don´t want to use doubles. It makes me feel ill.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
More ranting about public toilets
I drank a lot of tea in Ireland and therefore had to use a lot of toilets. Easter weekend - all the public loos were locked, feck it. What's the bloody point? I had to pee behind the damn toilets. Judging by the amount of toilet paper lying about, I was not the first to have this idea.
Em's wedding yesterday - was an utterly gorgeous summer day, with cutesy English church, park champagne photo stuff, double decker bus and far too much wine. And the Time Warp. I felt a trifle off colour this morning, but there was no time for dilly dallying as had roast at Kruse's to attend, along with Chook'n'Katie'n'Caro'n'Dom. Roast onion is currently very high on my list of yum things I should eat more of.
Was particularly pleased with my wedding outfit as it cost £4. Vintage 60s, completely non-breathable blue dress. I was ever so cute. And a trifle smelly by the end of the evening owing to said non-breathable material and my sweat-inducing enthusiastic dancing.
Spain tomorrow so it might be about time to have a look over my Spanish homework, which I have been meaning to do for about four weeks now. They all speak English over there anyway, don't they? You just have to talk louder and slower with an exasperated expression and wave your hands around a bit.
Em's wedding yesterday - was an utterly gorgeous summer day, with cutesy English church, park champagne photo stuff, double decker bus and far too much wine. And the Time Warp. I felt a trifle off colour this morning, but there was no time for dilly dallying as had roast at Kruse's to attend, along with Chook'n'Katie'n'Caro'n'Dom. Roast onion is currently very high on my list of yum things I should eat more of.
Was particularly pleased with my wedding outfit as it cost £4. Vintage 60s, completely non-breathable blue dress. I was ever so cute. And a trifle smelly by the end of the evening owing to said non-breathable material and my sweat-inducing enthusiastic dancing.
Spain tomorrow so it might be about time to have a look over my Spanish homework, which I have been meaning to do for about four weeks now. They all speak English over there anyway, don't they? You just have to talk louder and slower with an exasperated expression and wave your hands around a bit.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Missing work which means I must be ill
It's true - I went back to my old office at Waterloo, bearing cookies of yum that disappeared rather quickly because of my superior baking skills and the magic qualities and quantities of butter and chocolate involved. I only meant to stay 20 minutes because I know they're all busy making books and there have been redundancies but 2 hours later I was still talking to people, or rather, they were all talking to me and I was drinking tea. Gosh I miss work. I miss making spectacular fuck-ups and getting paid to complain about commas.
But am in Ireland now, where I braved a half pint of Guinness and it was all right. Would be improved dramatically by the addition of lemonade but I was a bit worried the bartender would slap me one if I asked so I opted for a whiskey chaser.
It is raining. Am not sure why I expected anything else. But the accents are knicker-meltingly good.
But am in Ireland now, where I braved a half pint of Guinness and it was all right. Would be improved dramatically by the addition of lemonade but I was a bit worried the bartender would slap me one if I asked so I opted for a whiskey chaser.
It is raining. Am not sure why I expected anything else. But the accents are knicker-meltingly good.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Snippets of London
Almost saw a fight in the park on Sunday. Almost. A lot of angry young men stalking round the footy field that I was trying to run (this is a generous term) around. A lot of people ignoring them. And then the police came.
The end.
The end.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Awash with tea in a good way
Jet lag is even less enjoyable that I remember it.
I blew my nose yesterday and a whole lot of black stuff came out of it so I knew I was definitely back in London. I am also drinking Yorkshire tea, probably another clue.
So, rocked in, was an hour too late for the protests/riots, such a pity, and got to Katie's just in time for tea and chocolate and the super uber news that she had quit her job that morning. We are unemployment buddies. We will skip through the daffodils together, holding hands and whistling in a merry fashion. Now, if I can only control my spending, this whole unemployed in Europe gag should be a doddle. Which it won't be because I've just remembered what I've bought in the past four days. But the dresses are so nice and they're vintage, so somehow in my head, it's all okay. And I really needed those aubergines. And I can pat myself on the back for not purchasing the purple towelling playsuit for £40, even though I really wanted it.
With the riots, bankers were told to 'dress casual' so as not to provoke the hippy protestors, also called 'unwashed' and 'stupid' by people interviewed in the media. I gather the average banker's idea of casual is somewhat different to that of the normal person. Full points to the young chap who went to work in a t-shirt proclaiming 'I predict a riot', though.
Caught up with the London version of the Chch gang yesterday, where I shamed myself by pretty much falling asleep at the table and had to go home at 9.30. Pathetic. They all seemed well, although, quite frankly, they could have been telling me of their unfortunate chlamydia experience and I might not have registered it.
Spent Friday night in Oxford visiting the munchkin - who I made sure was fed every two hours as per the instructions. Otherwise I'm pretty sure she shrivels up and cannot be revived unless you rub bike oil into her skin. Oxford is very pretty. Oxford is very English. So disgustingly pretty and English I was charmed. Had a jolly good op shop as well. And I got new jeans. They are stretchy ones, which I said I would never buy, but as Gen bought them for me, I can stick to that. The truly exciting and magical thing about these jeans is that they are almost too long. Impossible, I hear you gasp. Oh gentle reader, I too feared this day would never come, but it's true! So true it deserves a hated exclamation mark.
Right now I am supposed to be in tennis whites, drinking pimms and being mildly rude to Justin's friends, which I'm pretty sure is the only reason he invited me. However, not even the lure of tight white shorts was enough to get me across the city today, when I could instead be scoffing more chocolate and eating neurofen like raisins instead. Also, I'll need at nap at about 4pm. So I told him I was getting a labia reduction and would be unable to make it.
Current sleeping pattern involves me waking up at about 4.30am most mornings for about two hours. On Thursday night/Friday morning I was lucky enough to be lying wide awake at about this time, which enabled me to hear a woman greet her 16-year-old daughter as the young lady and her date tried to come home quietly - I think they were a bit past curfew. Mum was one cross lady. Shrieking like a fishwife. Took me a bit to piece together exactly what was going on, so high was her voice pitched, but eventually I worked out that the daughter was with an undesirable, possibly a much older one at that, judging by the amount of times the mum screeched 'She's only 16-fucking-years-old'. Daughter obviously did not agree with the state of affairs and argued back, resulting in mother uttering the charming line 'You fucking whore'. Good times, I tell you, good times.
I have a really good bruise on my lower back, which several people have kindly pointed out to me, although, generously, they have not poked it. I know where this came from and await my revenge. It's just a pity the perpetrators are in a different country right now. Their time will come.
On the back of my chocolate bar the manufacturers have kindly listed exactly how many calories are in each chunk. I do not think this is helpful, rather that it is depressing. But one more piece won't hurt. And neither will this piece. And if I don't eat it, then Katie probably will, so it's best if I just keep going and prevent her from making herself sick from overindulgence, which she is so prone to.
Ireland this week. Spain not long after. Wedding in middle.
I blew my nose yesterday and a whole lot of black stuff came out of it so I knew I was definitely back in London. I am also drinking Yorkshire tea, probably another clue.
So, rocked in, was an hour too late for the protests/riots, such a pity, and got to Katie's just in time for tea and chocolate and the super uber news that she had quit her job that morning. We are unemployment buddies. We will skip through the daffodils together, holding hands and whistling in a merry fashion. Now, if I can only control my spending, this whole unemployed in Europe gag should be a doddle. Which it won't be because I've just remembered what I've bought in the past four days. But the dresses are so nice and they're vintage, so somehow in my head, it's all okay. And I really needed those aubergines. And I can pat myself on the back for not purchasing the purple towelling playsuit for £40, even though I really wanted it.
With the riots, bankers were told to 'dress casual' so as not to provoke the hippy protestors, also called 'unwashed' and 'stupid' by people interviewed in the media. I gather the average banker's idea of casual is somewhat different to that of the normal person. Full points to the young chap who went to work in a t-shirt proclaiming 'I predict a riot', though.
Caught up with the London version of the Chch gang yesterday, where I shamed myself by pretty much falling asleep at the table and had to go home at 9.30. Pathetic. They all seemed well, although, quite frankly, they could have been telling me of their unfortunate chlamydia experience and I might not have registered it.
Spent Friday night in Oxford visiting the munchkin - who I made sure was fed every two hours as per the instructions. Otherwise I'm pretty sure she shrivels up and cannot be revived unless you rub bike oil into her skin. Oxford is very pretty. Oxford is very English. So disgustingly pretty and English I was charmed. Had a jolly good op shop as well. And I got new jeans. They are stretchy ones, which I said I would never buy, but as Gen bought them for me, I can stick to that. The truly exciting and magical thing about these jeans is that they are almost too long. Impossible, I hear you gasp. Oh gentle reader, I too feared this day would never come, but it's true! So true it deserves a hated exclamation mark.
Right now I am supposed to be in tennis whites, drinking pimms and being mildly rude to Justin's friends, which I'm pretty sure is the only reason he invited me. However, not even the lure of tight white shorts was enough to get me across the city today, when I could instead be scoffing more chocolate and eating neurofen like raisins instead. Also, I'll need at nap at about 4pm. So I told him I was getting a labia reduction and would be unable to make it.
Current sleeping pattern involves me waking up at about 4.30am most mornings for about two hours. On Thursday night/Friday morning I was lucky enough to be lying wide awake at about this time, which enabled me to hear a woman greet her 16-year-old daughter as the young lady and her date tried to come home quietly - I think they were a bit past curfew. Mum was one cross lady. Shrieking like a fishwife. Took me a bit to piece together exactly what was going on, so high was her voice pitched, but eventually I worked out that the daughter was with an undesirable, possibly a much older one at that, judging by the amount of times the mum screeched 'She's only 16-fucking-years-old'. Daughter obviously did not agree with the state of affairs and argued back, resulting in mother uttering the charming line 'You fucking whore'. Good times, I tell you, good times.
I have a really good bruise on my lower back, which several people have kindly pointed out to me, although, generously, they have not poked it. I know where this came from and await my revenge. It's just a pity the perpetrators are in a different country right now. Their time will come.
On the back of my chocolate bar the manufacturers have kindly listed exactly how many calories are in each chunk. I do not think this is helpful, rather that it is depressing. But one more piece won't hurt. And neither will this piece. And if I don't eat it, then Katie probably will, so it's best if I just keep going and prevent her from making herself sick from overindulgence, which she is so prone to.
Ireland this week. Spain not long after. Wedding in middle.
Monday, March 30, 2009
hot and sticky in a not very interesting sort of way
Sydney. Waiting for the plane to be ready for my lolling. Three hours into this whole flying back to London nonsense and I already smell like I've been going for a day. Must invest in a better deodorant.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
On the road again
Let me tell you about my toe. You want to know this.
I ripped the toenail back. Not off, just back to a 90 degree angle. I made a sound like a kitten being squished. That was ages ago and the nail is all dead and still not doing what a nail ought to do and still quite the owie. So I've painted it pink. A nice, jolly shade of pink.
So, yes, have been a trifle slack on the updating front, which would lead you to believe that I have a very exciting and busy life. And I do. It is thrilling. It's been a bitchin' summer. Being unable to get my bung toe into sneakers to do exercisey type things has meant I have had to find other ways to fill my days. I drank a lot of tea, had a lot of guests, had not enough sleep on several occasions and then managed to stub my sick toe which had very bad results. And then I was told I had toes like a budgie. I am going to Google budgie toes to check the validity of this statement in a moment.
I have been taking Spanish lessons. I'm not so good at Spanish.
You know, I'm not really 'feeling' this blog tonight. It's not rolling like a homie. So I will end with the fact that I had a delightful trip to Palmerston North to celebrate pa and I turning 99, an enchanting stay in Christchurch where I practised my cackling, a very brief but awfully good fun time in Wellington last night that involved a small amount of violence on the way home as we free hit each other, and am now in Auckland, having had pints with the gang and then a nap because Penelope is no longer 23 and cannot function so well on four hours' sleep, preparing to not enjoy my flight to London on Tuesday.
I ripped the toenail back. Not off, just back to a 90 degree angle. I made a sound like a kitten being squished. That was ages ago and the nail is all dead and still not doing what a nail ought to do and still quite the owie. So I've painted it pink. A nice, jolly shade of pink.
So, yes, have been a trifle slack on the updating front, which would lead you to believe that I have a very exciting and busy life. And I do. It is thrilling. It's been a bitchin' summer. Being unable to get my bung toe into sneakers to do exercisey type things has meant I have had to find other ways to fill my days. I drank a lot of tea, had a lot of guests, had not enough sleep on several occasions and then managed to stub my sick toe which had very bad results. And then I was told I had toes like a budgie. I am going to Google budgie toes to check the validity of this statement in a moment.
I have been taking Spanish lessons. I'm not so good at Spanish.
You know, I'm not really 'feeling' this blog tonight. It's not rolling like a homie. So I will end with the fact that I had a delightful trip to Palmerston North to celebrate pa and I turning 99, an enchanting stay in Christchurch where I practised my cackling, a very brief but awfully good fun time in Wellington last night that involved a small amount of violence on the way home as we free hit each other, and am now in Auckland, having had pints with the gang and then a nap because Penelope is no longer 23 and cannot function so well on four hours' sleep, preparing to not enjoy my flight to London on Tuesday.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
OLD
I am old. There is port. Port is good when it is old. Ergo, so am I.
Logic possibly not so good right now. Oooh, look at those teaspoons. I should collect them. That's what a spinster would do.
Logic possibly not so good right now. Oooh, look at those teaspoons. I should collect them. That's what a spinster would do.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Somewhere, in a parallel universe ...
Penelope actually updates. Sadly, here she has her grubby little hands on a book and is going to sit in bed with chocolate and get crumbs on the sheets.
If I look out my window I can see the shadow of 31, trying desperately to hide behind a lampost, as it hopes to eventually leap upon me and overpower the lesser number 30. I see you, 31. I know what you're doing. And you can wait until I'm good and ready for you.
If I look out my window I can see the shadow of 31, trying desperately to hide behind a lampost, as it hopes to eventually leap upon me and overpower the lesser number 30. I see you, 31. I know what you're doing. And you can wait until I'm good and ready for you.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The neverending story of my bung finger
So in order not to bleed all over stuff I afix a plaster to my finger, which seems quite keen to pump out a great deal of the red liquid that I would quite like to keep in my body because of its magical life-giving properties. I have to raid the first aid kit at work where they only have the superior cloth superglue plasters, none of this childish sticky plaster with novelty images on it nonsense. Unfortunately, I seem to be mildly allergic to the superglue ones, but I wear them anyway, because they are so superior. But they make me itchy, bring me out in lumps, although only where the glue has touched my usually pristine skin, and eventually cause me to peel. They also make my finger somewhat numb. I can use my finger and I can feel through it but it's jolly darn odd. Perhaps this is what wearing a condom feels like?
I work for Internal Affairs, right? The translation section, right? The phone calls we get, disturbing our day as we try to destroy people's lives by not doing their translations properly. (I just stamp them, am not smart enough to be allowed near the dictionaries with their fancy foreign lingo.)
'Can you send cheese to America?'
'I think my rental company is lying to me - can you tell me if they are?'
'What's shadow in Yugoslavian? That's what we want to name our dog.' (They did at least have the right department, but . . .)
'I have a forklift license - do you have any vacancies?' (They wanted Tranzlink, not translate)
They just keep coming and it's so hard not to laugh. I've only had one woman shout at me but I have high hopes of many more.
I work for Internal Affairs, right? The translation section, right? The phone calls we get, disturbing our day as we try to destroy people's lives by not doing their translations properly. (I just stamp them, am not smart enough to be allowed near the dictionaries with their fancy foreign lingo.)
'Can you send cheese to America?'
'I think my rental company is lying to me - can you tell me if they are?'
'What's shadow in Yugoslavian? That's what we want to name our dog.' (They did at least have the right department, but . . .)
'I have a forklift license - do you have any vacancies?' (They wanted Tranzlink, not translate)
They just keep coming and it's so hard not to laugh. I've only had one woman shout at me but I have high hopes of many more.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Still hurting
In which I prove that I sometimes cannot multitask when not being paid to do so and attempt to slice off the tip of one finger whilst simultaneously trying to chat to Debs, drink gin and chop spinach. A few days later I get another finger with the bread knife and H's kitchen does not improve with blood all over it.
(This is my index finger, without which I cannot do up my increasingly tight jeans, as it's the only one that can get the button to do what it's told. I need this finger and must stop trying to cut it off when distracted and carrying knives.)
In other depressing jeans-related news, I was wearing the freshly washed buggers today, doing some lunges in order to stretch them back into some semblance of acceptable tightness, as compared to what, frankly, is quite unacceptable at the moment, whilst also eating chocolate with my good hand, when they ripped. Again.
I moved. We have views. They don't quite make up for the jeans situation, but they're pretty good. Two bits of sea. Oriental and the other one. I have already pissed off the neighbours with my parking skills. Neighbours nil, Penelope one.
(This is my index finger, without which I cannot do up my increasingly tight jeans, as it's the only one that can get the button to do what it's told. I need this finger and must stop trying to cut it off when distracted and carrying knives.)
In other depressing jeans-related news, I was wearing the freshly washed buggers today, doing some lunges in order to stretch them back into some semblance of acceptable tightness, as compared to what, frankly, is quite unacceptable at the moment, whilst also eating chocolate with my good hand, when they ripped. Again.
I moved. We have views. They don't quite make up for the jeans situation, but they're pretty good. Two bits of sea. Oriental and the other one. I have already pissed off the neighbours with my parking skills. Neighbours nil, Penelope one.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
In which Penelope has an owie
I have been covered in bruises for much of the last six weeks. Bruises I got when sober from walking into furniture, tent ropes and things that might not even be there but go bump in the night. The final straw has been the hole in my tooth. It's been there for ages. The dentist said if it didn't hurt then I could wait. So I am waiting, but now, NOW, it's making my cheek hurt, don't ask how, I think I chew my cheek in my sleep. So, dentist on Monday. I love my dentist because he is ever so charming, has lovely soft hands (I quote my dad there) and makes charming and witty chairside banter and if he weren't a million years old I would totally ask him to marry me.
There was karaoke last weekend. There is video footage. My nose is huge.
There was karaoke last weekend. There is video footage. My nose is huge.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Bringing it down from within with gin
I am a lackey.
But I am very good at it. I lackey with style and a hangover. Pate sandwiches are quite nice and shiny and help a great deal if you turn up hungover on your third day.
There is no publishing work in Wellington right now. Oh, how I have tried to find some. Whored myself, even. There's work in Auckland, you know. It's like being lured by the devil - one's almost dream job but on the north shore. No fair.
So I am a lackey. It is not difficult but me and admin have never been the best of chums so I've made some spectacular feck ups, but I'm sure Internal Affairs are used to that. I get to play with languages all day. Hindi and Punjabi are just a little too similar for my liking.
As for the Christmas/NY-ness, this was all good and included PN, Chch and Castle Point, a fair amount of sav, bourbon and Lindauer, one hens night, the loss of my Lady Penelope jacket (who nicks a pink nylon jacket with gold buttons, aside from someone like me?), Jess and I enthralling/horrifying Castle Point with our version of the Time Warp, and the utter highlight - taking our overseas visitors home to PN which we assured them was a dubious place at night time and, lo and behold, on a night out we managed to see a chap take off all his clothes and dive onto a pool table.
Am subletting a room at H's - which is ever so convenient on Kent Terrace, even if it doesn't have an outsidey bit. Have restarted the Thursday drinks with the gingers. Prefaced with swimming at Oriental, which is so totally better than a pie and a pint at the pub in London.
Am feeling, however, with the new year madness behind me, that I am somewhat at a loss to explain what I'm doing with my life. I have a nasty case of itchy feet. Am supposed to be at a wedding in London in April, and have the ticket. However, am now supposed to be back here for two weddings and a reunion-type thingy in June/July. Might be a year of loitering about places, wearing big hats and quaffing booze. Which doesn't sound so bad, except I miss my job in London and the prospect of temping for a year, no matter how nice the workmates and how delicious the free fruit bowl, is enough to make one contemplate suffocation by teddy bear.
More importantly, do I need orange shoes? Surely everyone should have at least one pair? Even if they are broke?
Oh, and the gin reference. There has been gin. Have, in fact, gone a little off it.
But I am very good at it. I lackey with style and a hangover. Pate sandwiches are quite nice and shiny and help a great deal if you turn up hungover on your third day.
There is no publishing work in Wellington right now. Oh, how I have tried to find some. Whored myself, even. There's work in Auckland, you know. It's like being lured by the devil - one's almost dream job but on the north shore. No fair.
So I am a lackey. It is not difficult but me and admin have never been the best of chums so I've made some spectacular feck ups, but I'm sure Internal Affairs are used to that. I get to play with languages all day. Hindi and Punjabi are just a little too similar for my liking.
As for the Christmas/NY-ness, this was all good and included PN, Chch and Castle Point, a fair amount of sav, bourbon and Lindauer, one hens night, the loss of my Lady Penelope jacket (who nicks a pink nylon jacket with gold buttons, aside from someone like me?), Jess and I enthralling/horrifying Castle Point with our version of the Time Warp, and the utter highlight - taking our overseas visitors home to PN which we assured them was a dubious place at night time and, lo and behold, on a night out we managed to see a chap take off all his clothes and dive onto a pool table.
Am subletting a room at H's - which is ever so convenient on Kent Terrace, even if it doesn't have an outsidey bit. Have restarted the Thursday drinks with the gingers. Prefaced with swimming at Oriental, which is so totally better than a pie and a pint at the pub in London.
Am feeling, however, with the new year madness behind me, that I am somewhat at a loss to explain what I'm doing with my life. I have a nasty case of itchy feet. Am supposed to be at a wedding in London in April, and have the ticket. However, am now supposed to be back here for two weddings and a reunion-type thingy in June/July. Might be a year of loitering about places, wearing big hats and quaffing booze. Which doesn't sound so bad, except I miss my job in London and the prospect of temping for a year, no matter how nice the workmates and how delicious the free fruit bowl, is enough to make one contemplate suffocation by teddy bear.
More importantly, do I need orange shoes? Surely everyone should have at least one pair? Even if they are broke?
Oh, and the gin reference. There has been gin. Have, in fact, gone a little off it.
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