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.

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'.

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 . . .