Thursday, December 23, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
I am a martyr for the cause, where the cause involves chocolate biscuits
I can't find my post-it notes. I need them. To write scathing comments on.
My new job, where I get to correct spelling errors and point out stupidity and get paid for it, is pretty good. Unfortunately, the constant supply of chocolate biscuits is proving to be not so good for the squeezing of bottom into the very short skirt that Ratty talked me into. The work trip to Malaysia where I ate non-stop and drank cocktails by the pool was also not good for this purpose. But sacrifices must be made sometimes, and a resort in Malaysia is a good place to start making those sacrifices.
Rant of the week - bleeding from the lady bits. In my previous job I worked with almost 90% women. And yet we were all furtive about the lady bleeding. Because somehow, and I'm yet to work out exactly how and why this is, letting people know that your body is 'flushing' stuff out in a less than sophisticated manner is humiliating and shameful. And it just gets more awkward when you work in an office with lots of men folk - what if they realise you are ... bleeding? I suspect women's secretive attitudes towards periods might have something to do with men also being awkward about the topic - something I learned yet again in the UK when talking to a female workmate about a particularly nasty round of period cramps I was enduring by scoffing Neurofen like licorice allsorts - a male workmate asked what we were talking about and I told him. They both looked horrified - but I think I was forgiven because it is a truth universally accepted that Kiwis are brash and incapable of understanding the delicate line between enough and too much information.
And, yes, I realise many men couldn't care less and don't think periods are something to be afraid of, even if the women they know do turn into fire-breathing chocolate scoffing teary nutters who alternate between being nymphos and shrieking 'Don't touch me' during that time. Women's attitudes towards periods are a bit shit, really. Even in front of other women. In an office of predominantly women, why the need to hide tampons/mooncups/various other feminine hygiene products in our clenched fists as though we are desperately ashamed of ourselves? Not that I'm any better at announcing this, but I have on occasion felt the urge to traipse through the office juggling tampons shouting 'I am bleeding from my vagina and it is normal'.
Aha! I have just remembered where my post-it notes are. I threw them at Dave last week. Which means they're probably on his side of the office.
Nat - I would love to sniff your baby's head. Do we have to put her in a brown paper bag first and loiter about looking suspicious whilst wearing daggy clothes and hiding said bag from the pigs?
My new job, where I get to correct spelling errors and point out stupidity and get paid for it, is pretty good. Unfortunately, the constant supply of chocolate biscuits is proving to be not so good for the squeezing of bottom into the very short skirt that Ratty talked me into. The work trip to Malaysia where I ate non-stop and drank cocktails by the pool was also not good for this purpose. But sacrifices must be made sometimes, and a resort in Malaysia is a good place to start making those sacrifices.
Rant of the week - bleeding from the lady bits. In my previous job I worked with almost 90% women. And yet we were all furtive about the lady bleeding. Because somehow, and I'm yet to work out exactly how and why this is, letting people know that your body is 'flushing' stuff out in a less than sophisticated manner is humiliating and shameful. And it just gets more awkward when you work in an office with lots of men folk - what if they realise you are ... bleeding? I suspect women's secretive attitudes towards periods might have something to do with men also being awkward about the topic - something I learned yet again in the UK when talking to a female workmate about a particularly nasty round of period cramps I was enduring by scoffing Neurofen like licorice allsorts - a male workmate asked what we were talking about and I told him. They both looked horrified - but I think I was forgiven because it is a truth universally accepted that Kiwis are brash and incapable of understanding the delicate line between enough and too much information.
And, yes, I realise many men couldn't care less and don't think periods are something to be afraid of, even if the women they know do turn into fire-breathing chocolate scoffing teary nutters who alternate between being nymphos and shrieking 'Don't touch me' during that time. Women's attitudes towards periods are a bit shit, really. Even in front of other women. In an office of predominantly women, why the need to hide tampons/mooncups/various other feminine hygiene products in our clenched fists as though we are desperately ashamed of ourselves? Not that I'm any better at announcing this, but I have on occasion felt the urge to traipse through the office juggling tampons shouting 'I am bleeding from my vagina and it is normal'.
Aha! I have just remembered where my post-it notes are. I threw them at Dave last week. Which means they're probably on his side of the office.
Nat - I would love to sniff your baby's head. Do we have to put her in a brown paper bag first and loiter about looking suspicious whilst wearing daggy clothes and hiding said bag from the pigs?
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Scenting me, scenting you
Smell, like many things, is a bit personal, no? One man's rubbish heap of slowing rotting compost is another man's personal pile of gardening heaven - sniff that! That's the promise of vegetables sprouting, pretty flowers for the bees to caress in a sexual manner and hell, some people just like compost. Others like soap.
So, here's a list of things I don't much like the reek of:
Me after yoga
The tea cupboard at work
Toilets with air freshener.
Me after yoga seems obvious - I'm a barely moving, sweat glistening shiny lump of pink flesh that's dripping with all sorts of toxins I've just forced out of my skin. YUM.
The hot beverage cupboard at work is a mixture of teas: earl grey, English breakfast, herbal (mostly green and citrus flavours), and pretend sugar for those who can't quite give the stuff up but wish to at least make an effort towards their trousers being less tight. This cupboard is directly underneath the chocolate biscuit cupboard, which seems a bit cruel if you're one of the aforementioned fake sugar users. But back to the smell - all the teas are competing for olfactory dominance and the end result is a most unpleasant, almost musty combo of green, lemon and black tea and something else I can't quite distinguish but it's distressing me because, being the tea whore that I am, I'm opening that cupboard at least seven times a day. Is perhaps a little pathetic but I'm sensitive like that sometimes.
Toilets that have air freshener. Look, I get why there's air freshener - I think we all can appreciate that at some time we've used a toilet and thought, 'hmm, that's not so easy on the nostrils,' but trying to cover up the often robust reek of faecal matter with 'jasmine and avocado spring fling' does not make for a better scent. The two smells wage war on one another, neither dominating, both eventually doomed (thankfully) to fade but in the mean time, treating other loo users to the hideousness that is their unhappy marriage.
Good smells:
Me when clean (despite being told by several people that my perfume is a spot old fashioned and I smell like their mum - I'm catering for a special brand of man who fancies older women, obviously)
Chilli and garlic - what's not to like? Even if this combo might lead to you making a visit to the bathroom, resulting in use of the lavender and broccoli air freshener residing there. Totally worth it.
The beach. I walk along one every day. Envy me, bitches.
Other stuff: Travis and Una pass through. We eat a lot of cheese. So much cheese. I try to convince them to move here. You should too.
Nat and Georgia have a baby that at some point I'll get round to investigating and perhaps I'll return those books I borrowed off them six months ago. Maybe.
I have a barbeque. Where I make other people get the barbeque going. I was otherwise occupied with baking dessert. And Nic and Adrian quite obviously weren't doing anything - and I knew Nic was most like to want to eat most of what we cooked so it seemed only fair he make the darn firey apparatus go.
New job goes well - the nerd factor is HIGH.
So, here's a list of things I don't much like the reek of:
Me after yoga
The tea cupboard at work
Toilets with air freshener.
Me after yoga seems obvious - I'm a barely moving, sweat glistening shiny lump of pink flesh that's dripping with all sorts of toxins I've just forced out of my skin. YUM.
The hot beverage cupboard at work is a mixture of teas: earl grey, English breakfast, herbal (mostly green and citrus flavours), and pretend sugar for those who can't quite give the stuff up but wish to at least make an effort towards their trousers being less tight. This cupboard is directly underneath the chocolate biscuit cupboard, which seems a bit cruel if you're one of the aforementioned fake sugar users. But back to the smell - all the teas are competing for olfactory dominance and the end result is a most unpleasant, almost musty combo of green, lemon and black tea and something else I can't quite distinguish but it's distressing me because, being the tea whore that I am, I'm opening that cupboard at least seven times a day. Is perhaps a little pathetic but I'm sensitive like that sometimes.
Toilets that have air freshener. Look, I get why there's air freshener - I think we all can appreciate that at some time we've used a toilet and thought, 'hmm, that's not so easy on the nostrils,' but trying to cover up the often robust reek of faecal matter with 'jasmine and avocado spring fling' does not make for a better scent. The two smells wage war on one another, neither dominating, both eventually doomed (thankfully) to fade but in the mean time, treating other loo users to the hideousness that is their unhappy marriage.
Good smells:
Me when clean (despite being told by several people that my perfume is a spot old fashioned and I smell like their mum - I'm catering for a special brand of man who fancies older women, obviously)
Chilli and garlic - what's not to like? Even if this combo might lead to you making a visit to the bathroom, resulting in use of the lavender and broccoli air freshener residing there. Totally worth it.
The beach. I walk along one every day. Envy me, bitches.
Other stuff: Travis and Una pass through. We eat a lot of cheese. So much cheese. I try to convince them to move here. You should too.
Nat and Georgia have a baby that at some point I'll get round to investigating and perhaps I'll return those books I borrowed off them six months ago. Maybe.
I have a barbeque. Where I make other people get the barbeque going. I was otherwise occupied with baking dessert. And Nic and Adrian quite obviously weren't doing anything - and I knew Nic was most like to want to eat most of what we cooked so it seemed only fair he make the darn firey apparatus go.
New job goes well - the nerd factor is HIGH.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Run Fatboy Run
I watched the last few minutes of Timmy doing the marathon in Melbourne recently. I can tell I'm going to be one of those embarrassing parents at school sports days, crying and pointing with pride at my child, because I came a bit too close to doing this with Tim.
Tim ran the whole darn thing. Points for him. After which he gave me a sound piece of advice: 'Never do a marathon'. I think we both knew the advice was unnecessary, but still, kind of him to pretend.
Melbourne was ace, there were drinks, vats of tea, chocolate, Debs talked me into riding a bike (sore lady bits the next day, thanks for asking), op shopping and being felt up by baby Spencer. For the record, having your breasts groped by a baby with Mike Spencer's face is just plain weird.
I finally moved into a new flat, which has impressive views and is still not far from big brother should I feel the need to be told off for something. The flatmates are older women and the one who owns the house has just two rules:
1: Rinse the dishes. Can do, I said with confidence.
2: No one night stands. I laughed. And laughed some more. And said 'can do'. Obviously my plans to have an extremely debauched summer will just have to take place elsewhere.
Summer's making a break for it in Sydney - although got wrestled to the ground and pummelled by the rain today. Which I got caught in en route to the bus. I was rescued by a man with a huge ... umbrella. If my life was a rom com then he would have been knicker droppingly gorgeous. Sadly, no, but the shelter was appreciated. Also - let's be honest. I don't look my best when dripping with both sweat and rain (had been lolloping along for the bus as was late - the mystery of the missing stockings will have to wait until this evening to get solved).
Along with the new flat is the new job. Which I start next week. So I'll say something about that then. By which I mean in another month when I can be bothered updating.
Signing off with the news that once again I learn the hard way that too much fresh pineapple gives you a hurty tongue.
Tim ran the whole darn thing. Points for him. After which he gave me a sound piece of advice: 'Never do a marathon'. I think we both knew the advice was unnecessary, but still, kind of him to pretend.
Melbourne was ace, there were drinks, vats of tea, chocolate, Debs talked me into riding a bike (sore lady bits the next day, thanks for asking), op shopping and being felt up by baby Spencer. For the record, having your breasts groped by a baby with Mike Spencer's face is just plain weird.
I finally moved into a new flat, which has impressive views and is still not far from big brother should I feel the need to be told off for something. The flatmates are older women and the one who owns the house has just two rules:
1: Rinse the dishes. Can do, I said with confidence.
2: No one night stands. I laughed. And laughed some more. And said 'can do'. Obviously my plans to have an extremely debauched summer will just have to take place elsewhere.
Summer's making a break for it in Sydney - although got wrestled to the ground and pummelled by the rain today. Which I got caught in en route to the bus. I was rescued by a man with a huge ... umbrella. If my life was a rom com then he would have been knicker droppingly gorgeous. Sadly, no, but the shelter was appreciated. Also - let's be honest. I don't look my best when dripping with both sweat and rain (had been lolloping along for the bus as was late - the mystery of the missing stockings will have to wait until this evening to get solved).
Along with the new flat is the new job. Which I start next week. So I'll say something about that then. By which I mean in another month when I can be bothered updating.
Signing off with the news that once again I learn the hard way that too much fresh pineapple gives you a hurty tongue.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Invisible bacon gets the X-Factor
Caesar salad has bacon, among several other things. Boiled egg sometimes creeps in, and it should be kicked out and across the restaurant. Soft boiled or poached, thank you. But back to the pig - no bacon makes for a sad Caesar. One that has lost its toga and laurel leaves. And this was the state of my salad last week. Heavy on the lettuce, big on the evil boiled egg and massive on the invisible bacon. Rome has fallen, I thought.
But I perked up on Saturday because we had a dress up party to attend. Full of reedeeculous Europeans with great hair and hilarious accents. Sebastian, or Sea Bass as we fondly call him - I think he just thinks we're mangling his name with our antipodean accents - informs Nic that the theme is bad superheroes. At about 5pm we decide we should probably do something about costumes. And panic because we have, of course, left it a bit late to do any more than come up with stuff from around the house. Sometimes though, the best costumes are those you source from under the kitchen sink. In this case we managed to come up with Super Mario, Poison Ivy and Mexican Wrestling Barbie. What? You don't have a pink wrestling mask squirreled away at your house? Odd.
Anyway, we swan off to the do, feeling pretty chuffed with our free and awesome costumes. We arrive. Everyone's in costume, some in very weird costumes, and we get some strange looks, but hell, these people are crazy French and German and Finns and whatnot, so whatever. One woman appears to have a giant snail attached to her back ...
We meet some other Kiwis, who have LAME costumes. A straw hat does not a costume make. Apparently this chap is farmer. We look puzzled. It's a Kiwi hero, no? I guess - I mean, my dad is a total hero. But he doesn't wear a straw hat. And this joker can't even do a farmer's squat. I have to show him how, but in pink platforms it doesn't quite have the effect it ought. And he asks what we are, and we inform him proudly of our radness and he says, 'I thought the theme was bad heroes from your own country'. We look at Sea Bass. He nods in a reedeeculous French way. We glare at him and protest that this is NOT what he told us. There is, as you may have guessed, a small difference between a general bad superhero and one from your own country. But several of the costumes make more sense now.
So I just tell people that a Mexican Wrestling Barbie won NZ X-Factor. Apparently this is quite plausible because they nod. As for Ali, dressed as Poison Ivy? She's English - we're sure she can pass for a WAG. Nic as Super Mario does pose a problem but he's having such a good time with his fake moustache that we just leave him to it.
And, in final news, I get an Oren tomorrow. Luke's floating about this country somewhere and Karen gets back on Monday. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, some bacon would make this day perfect.
But I perked up on Saturday because we had a dress up party to attend. Full of reedeeculous Europeans with great hair and hilarious accents. Sebastian, or Sea Bass as we fondly call him - I think he just thinks we're mangling his name with our antipodean accents - informs Nic that the theme is bad superheroes. At about 5pm we decide we should probably do something about costumes. And panic because we have, of course, left it a bit late to do any more than come up with stuff from around the house. Sometimes though, the best costumes are those you source from under the kitchen sink. In this case we managed to come up with Super Mario, Poison Ivy and Mexican Wrestling Barbie. What? You don't have a pink wrestling mask squirreled away at your house? Odd.
Anyway, we swan off to the do, feeling pretty chuffed with our free and awesome costumes. We arrive. Everyone's in costume, some in very weird costumes, and we get some strange looks, but hell, these people are crazy French and German and Finns and whatnot, so whatever. One woman appears to have a giant snail attached to her back ...
We meet some other Kiwis, who have LAME costumes. A straw hat does not a costume make. Apparently this chap is farmer. We look puzzled. It's a Kiwi hero, no? I guess - I mean, my dad is a total hero. But he doesn't wear a straw hat. And this joker can't even do a farmer's squat. I have to show him how, but in pink platforms it doesn't quite have the effect it ought. And he asks what we are, and we inform him proudly of our radness and he says, 'I thought the theme was bad heroes from your own country'. We look at Sea Bass. He nods in a reedeeculous French way. We glare at him and protest that this is NOT what he told us. There is, as you may have guessed, a small difference between a general bad superhero and one from your own country. But several of the costumes make more sense now.
So I just tell people that a Mexican Wrestling Barbie won NZ X-Factor. Apparently this is quite plausible because they nod. As for Ali, dressed as Poison Ivy? She's English - we're sure she can pass for a WAG. Nic as Super Mario does pose a problem but he's having such a good time with his fake moustache that we just leave him to it.
And, in final news, I get an Oren tomorrow. Luke's floating about this country somewhere and Karen gets back on Monday. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, some bacon would make this day perfect.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Naming and shaking
I had a dream this morning that I was dating former wrestler turned actor Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson but had to break up with him because I loathe the name Dwayne. (This seems fair, no?) I was trying to ask if he had a better middle name. But then my dad discovered both a diamond mine and a Lego mine in the garden, so all my attention was taken up on that. A Lego mine – how awesomely hilarious would that be.
Christchurch = earthquake central. Somehow I thought Wellington would have gotten a big shake up first. Mother Nature, oooh she's a cunning one. So predictable with her winter/summer/spring/autumn games and then she tries to mix it up a little with ridiculous results. I, for one, shall be writing a letter of complaint.
Christchurch = earthquake central. Somehow I thought Wellington would have gotten a big shake up first. Mother Nature, oooh she's a cunning one. So predictable with her winter/summer/spring/autumn games and then she tries to mix it up a little with ridiculous results. I, for one, shall be writing a letter of complaint.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Bend me, shape me
Nothing says 'I am a sophisticated 32-year-old woman and you should definitely respect me' like me fixing the broken zipper on my skirt with a bulldog clip.
In other news I attempted hot yoga. Yoga and I have a chequered past, mostly because I either suck at it (possibly true) or the teachers have been useless (probably less true). Hot yoga is somewhat more painfully enjoyable. I'm still not very good at large chunks of it, but boy can I touch my toes with enthusiasm.
Which brings me to my next point - is there some sort of flatulence etiquette in yoga?
In other news I attempted hot yoga. Yoga and I have a chequered past, mostly because I either suck at it (possibly true) or the teachers have been useless (probably less true). Hot yoga is somewhat more painfully enjoyable. I'm still not very good at large chunks of it, but boy can I touch my toes with enthusiasm.
Which brings me to my next point - is there some sort of flatulence etiquette in yoga?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Listing
It’s Friday! Let’s have a list.
Things I have learned the hard way this week:
Buying very pricey stockings doesn’t make them any less immune to runs and holes.
You can get chocolate hangovers.
If you don’t feed Karen’s cat, it gets quite antsy and will stick its claw in your eye at 5am.
If you have dinner with a Finn and they open a new bottle of vodka, you may not leave the table until said bottle is empty.
Where the Coke machine is at work. I didn’t need to know this until this morning when I felt somewhat less than ideal after dining with a Finn last night. And then the need to know was very urgent indeed.
Things I have learned the hard way this week:
Buying very pricey stockings doesn’t make them any less immune to runs and holes.
You can get chocolate hangovers.
If you don’t feed Karen’s cat, it gets quite antsy and will stick its claw in your eye at 5am.
If you have dinner with a Finn and they open a new bottle of vodka, you may not leave the table until said bottle is empty.
Where the Coke machine is at work. I didn’t need to know this until this morning when I felt somewhat less than ideal after dining with a Finn last night. And then the need to know was very urgent indeed.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I am the walrus
Maybe Turkish delight for breakfast followed by a great many sultanas was not such a spiffy idea. You can't see me but I'm slumping and feeling more than just a little bit ill. Who would have thought sultanas had the potential to create such havoc in my belly?
This follows on from me eating possibly the equvialent of merely my left leg in cheese on the weekend. It was Karen's fault. Every time I hang with that woman, I leave with a distended stomach. And she remains as svelte and pixie like as a ... well, a pixie. Hateful little forest dwellers.
Will, Sarah and Tim graced me with their presence - there was a trip to the Hunter Valley, where Will proved he knows his onions in regards to wine, and I proved to have the worst adjective of the day when it came to describing wine. Beige. That's right, wine can be beige.
Must be time for a list - we all love lists.
Things I had thought to get this year:
A better laugh
Exercise
I have failed in achieving the above. I am now scarred on both the inside and out after the running = falling over and getting hurties on my kneesies so exercise is obviously going to be shunned forever now. And the laugh - I was thinking a ladylike trill would be nice. But no. I still have a distinctly unladylike cackle.
New flatmate's catch phrase: 'I'm heading out to get my creep on'. You go, Anton. You go. Better or worse than old flatmate's 'I'm heading out on a cock hunt - you want to join'? You be the judge.
This follows on from me eating possibly the equvialent of merely my left leg in cheese on the weekend. It was Karen's fault. Every time I hang with that woman, I leave with a distended stomach. And she remains as svelte and pixie like as a ... well, a pixie. Hateful little forest dwellers.
Will, Sarah and Tim graced me with their presence - there was a trip to the Hunter Valley, where Will proved he knows his onions in regards to wine, and I proved to have the worst adjective of the day when it came to describing wine. Beige. That's right, wine can be beige.
Must be time for a list - we all love lists.
Things I had thought to get this year:
A better laugh
Exercise
I have failed in achieving the above. I am now scarred on both the inside and out after the running = falling over and getting hurties on my kneesies so exercise is obviously going to be shunned forever now. And the laugh - I was thinking a ladylike trill would be nice. But no. I still have a distinctly unladylike cackle.
New flatmate's catch phrase: 'I'm heading out to get my creep on'. You go, Anton. You go. Better or worse than old flatmate's 'I'm heading out on a cock hunt - you want to join'? You be the judge.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
You can never get too much cheese
So I'm an evening cat sitter this week - Cheese and I have a bit of a routine that involves me lying on the sofa, with the heater on full blast, with Cheese lounging majestically on me, hogging most of the heater. Although, last night when he realised that he was taking up all the heat, I witnessed an impressive act of generosity by a cat - he moved a whole two inches so I'd get a little bit of the warmth.
Staying at Karen's who lives smack bang in Sydney city, to be both her backup flatmate and evening cat sitter, has its advantages, in that I can walk to the place I'm temping at this week, and its disadvantages, in that her shower is fierce. Waterblaster fierce. Good for sore shoulder blades, but feels like tiny, sharp pixie needles assaulting your nipples.
Anyway, I did my NZ dash, and Ruthie's wedding was pretty fracking good and I only blubbed a wee bit during the ceremony. Mum got a bit teary during my speech, which should give you some indication of just how good a speech I can give when the subject is my oldest friend who has given me permission to describe her husband as Irish MacGyver.
I saw a lot of people, lost a sock (a thigh-high woolly one, much to my fury) and a much loved item of jewellery but I'm sure they'll find their ways back to me. Bloody better. I really liked that sock. I got back to Sydney utterly exhausted and very poor and so very happy to be home. I am also blonder and minus a lot of hair, thanks to Bran and his magic scissors. I tried something new this time and bribed him with carrot cake. Which James ate a fair bit of. Possibly as revenge for us making him watch some terrible movie starring that Jolie bird and the McAvoy chap where bullets can curve round pig carcases.
I got home to the news that we were being evicted - stupid home buyers. So I'm moving back into Nic's - into an actual room this time, as he leaves the country for a month to gallivant round U-rope in his lanky nonchalant manner.
And this weekend I get a Will and a Sarah and a Tim - and the Hunter Valley. Voltron, people, it's going to be Voltron.
Staying at Karen's who lives smack bang in Sydney city, to be both her backup flatmate and evening cat sitter, has its advantages, in that I can walk to the place I'm temping at this week, and its disadvantages, in that her shower is fierce. Waterblaster fierce. Good for sore shoulder blades, but feels like tiny, sharp pixie needles assaulting your nipples.
Anyway, I did my NZ dash, and Ruthie's wedding was pretty fracking good and I only blubbed a wee bit during the ceremony. Mum got a bit teary during my speech, which should give you some indication of just how good a speech I can give when the subject is my oldest friend who has given me permission to describe her husband as Irish MacGyver.
I saw a lot of people, lost a sock (a thigh-high woolly one, much to my fury) and a much loved item of jewellery but I'm sure they'll find their ways back to me. Bloody better. I really liked that sock. I got back to Sydney utterly exhausted and very poor and so very happy to be home. I am also blonder and minus a lot of hair, thanks to Bran and his magic scissors. I tried something new this time and bribed him with carrot cake. Which James ate a fair bit of. Possibly as revenge for us making him watch some terrible movie starring that Jolie bird and the McAvoy chap where bullets can curve round pig carcases.
I got home to the news that we were being evicted - stupid home buyers. So I'm moving back into Nic's - into an actual room this time, as he leaves the country for a month to gallivant round U-rope in his lanky nonchalant manner.
And this weekend I get a Will and a Sarah and a Tim - and the Hunter Valley. Voltron, people, it's going to be Voltron.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Back to basics
I am ashamed to note that I haven't talked about Manly's public toilets. This is remiss of me. With my bladder, knowledge of where the public can legally relieve themselves is of utmost importance. And Manly is coming out tops. Loos all over the place. And they seem to always have toilet paper. I heart Manly and you should too.
I had dinner with Amanda and Greg on Friday night, fully intent on coming home at an early hour. I sort of did. If by early I meant 3pm the next afternoon. I'm not sure how but somehow soup and mulled wine morphed into sofa, Motown, tales of South America and a 6am crash out time. In my defence, their sofa is very comfortable. And their mulled wine most drinkable. And the walk home the next day completely cured the headache I had managed to pick up somewhere in the night.
However, Amanda did dream that she was punching me so, perhaps I shouldn't make a habit of falling asleep on their furniture. Perhaps this is where my headache came from.
I had dinner with Amanda and Greg on Friday night, fully intent on coming home at an early hour. I sort of did. If by early I meant 3pm the next afternoon. I'm not sure how but somehow soup and mulled wine morphed into sofa, Motown, tales of South America and a 6am crash out time. In my defence, their sofa is very comfortable. And their mulled wine most drinkable. And the walk home the next day completely cured the headache I had managed to pick up somewhere in the night.
However, Amanda did dream that she was punching me so, perhaps I shouldn't make a habit of falling asleep on their furniture. Perhaps this is where my headache came from.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Oops, I did it again
I tripped again. With witnesses this time. Reopened knee wound and got another. I am a champion.
Nothing says sophisticated like a 32-year-old woman with sticking plasters on her knees and elbows. It does also rather suggest carpet burn, which might have been a much more pleasant way to get these injuries. Better luck next time, maybe.
Exercise is bad for me.
Nothing says sophisticated like a 32-year-old woman with sticking plasters on her knees and elbows. It does also rather suggest carpet burn, which might have been a much more pleasant way to get these injuries. Better luck next time, maybe.
Exercise is bad for me.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Taking it hard and fast
Hugs I have had recently that I have thoroughly enjoyed:
Karen
Nic
Harriet
Ruthie & Ian
A whole bunch of people at the pub the other night.
Hugs I have had recently that I have not enjoyed at all. No, siree.
The pavement.
So, in a moment that in retrospect was clearly drug induced, so insane was the action, I decided to go for what most might call a 'run'. However, is unfair to actual runners to describe it this way when in reality I stop, walk, chat to cats and tie up my shoelaces a great deal. And now I can add falling over to my list of 'running' accomplishments. In my defence, it was dark, the pavement was next to a cemetery so probably the broken up concrete I tripped over was zombies trying to escape and not me being clumsy, but whatever - I tripped and fell spectacularly. Fortunately, my beautiful face was not marred -I used my less-likely-to-be-seen-by-the-public elbow, knee and palm to take the blow. And then I lay, sprawled on the pavement saying just the one word over and over. This word could probably be found in the Oxford dictionary with 'obscenity' next to it.
And then I got back up and like a trooper I kept on going because in the dark the injuries looked a bit pathetic. Yes, I am indeed very brave.
Of course, when I got home, I discovered my leg was covered in blood, as was my shoe, thanks to Mr Knee. Disappointingly, there was no one home to appreciate this sight or offer me pity.
Our house is up for sale and on Saturday, just twenty minutes before the real estate agent arrived with the first lot of eager home buyers, my flatmate Kev put his foot through the floorboards in the hallway. We don't want the house to sell but Kev assures us his manoeuvre was entirely accidental. Apparently skipping like an elephant is part of his daily routine that just happened to coincide with a very weak floorboard.
Karen
Nic
Harriet
Ruthie & Ian
A whole bunch of people at the pub the other night.
Hugs I have had recently that I have not enjoyed at all. No, siree.
The pavement.
So, in a moment that in retrospect was clearly drug induced, so insane was the action, I decided to go for what most might call a 'run'. However, is unfair to actual runners to describe it this way when in reality I stop, walk, chat to cats and tie up my shoelaces a great deal. And now I can add falling over to my list of 'running' accomplishments. In my defence, it was dark, the pavement was next to a cemetery so probably the broken up concrete I tripped over was zombies trying to escape and not me being clumsy, but whatever - I tripped and fell spectacularly. Fortunately, my beautiful face was not marred -I used my less-likely-to-be-seen-by-the-public elbow, knee and palm to take the blow. And then I lay, sprawled on the pavement saying just the one word over and over. This word could probably be found in the Oxford dictionary with 'obscenity' next to it.
And then I got back up and like a trooper I kept on going because in the dark the injuries looked a bit pathetic. Yes, I am indeed very brave.
Of course, when I got home, I discovered my leg was covered in blood, as was my shoe, thanks to Mr Knee. Disappointingly, there was no one home to appreciate this sight or offer me pity.
Our house is up for sale and on Saturday, just twenty minutes before the real estate agent arrived with the first lot of eager home buyers, my flatmate Kev put his foot through the floorboards in the hallway. We don't want the house to sell but Kev assures us his manoeuvre was entirely accidental. Apparently skipping like an elephant is part of his daily routine that just happened to coincide with a very weak floorboard.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Taking the pith
Today I wasted a good minute pondering how many hours of my life I have spent waging war on pith. For it is an ongoing battle and one I'm not even entirely sure that I shall win.
But I hate pith. Creepy little tendrils of horrid taunting me by clinging to the delicious flesh of mandarins. Inhaling it by accident is like eating cobwebs discarded by particularly vindictive spiders - a boobytrap that I must circumnavigate with all the cunning that Indiana Jones would utilise if he thought that the Orange Orb of Succulence was a religious artefact the Nazis were keen to steal in order to gain both world domination and freedom from scurvy.
It appears that summer is no more in Sydney. Instead we've had three weeks of rain and I have made myself very unpopular by admitting that I like it. Locals tell me this much rain is not normal. Coming from Wellington, I do find it normal and am delighted by the fact that despite the rain, it's still warmish and there's very little wind.
A sad fact must be faced though, and that is that my tan is no more. Yes, I really am that shallow.
But I hate pith. Creepy little tendrils of horrid taunting me by clinging to the delicious flesh of mandarins. Inhaling it by accident is like eating cobwebs discarded by particularly vindictive spiders - a boobytrap that I must circumnavigate with all the cunning that Indiana Jones would utilise if he thought that the Orange Orb of Succulence was a religious artefact the Nazis were keen to steal in order to gain both world domination and freedom from scurvy.
It appears that summer is no more in Sydney. Instead we've had three weeks of rain and I have made myself very unpopular by admitting that I like it. Locals tell me this much rain is not normal. Coming from Wellington, I do find it normal and am delighted by the fact that despite the rain, it's still warmish and there's very little wind.
A sad fact must be faced though, and that is that my tan is no more. Yes, I really am that shallow.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Putting on my pathetic pants
So, Nic and I were wandering home from quiz night, stopping off at the Salvos and St Vinnies on the way, seeing what people have left outside these fine establishments as donations - people leave some weird stuff. This is how I got my favourite cardigan. Anyway, there was a box of books, which is like cat nip to Nic and I, and we were rifling through it with fevered brows - what might we find?
At this moment, four large men walked past, one of whom was rather intoxicated and took umbrage with us stealing from the poor. Given my unemployment status I rather think I am the poor but anyway ... I backed away feeling fearful and thinking that my skills, which do not include fist fighting, were going to be better deployed calling for help on Mr Mobile Phone. Nic, meanwhile was being all nice and non-confrontational, whilst this chap got rather angry and had to be somewhat restrained by his less boozed friends who eventually - whilst also watching me punch numbers into my phone in an obvious manner - dragged him away.
There were no good books in the box.
Does this sort of behaviour make us thieves?
I have to admit to being more concerned that in such situations I am no help and as a woman I become incredibly worried about my own safety and how it might potentially go very badly for me. I feel pathetic.
At this moment, four large men walked past, one of whom was rather intoxicated and took umbrage with us stealing from the poor. Given my unemployment status I rather think I am the poor but anyway ... I backed away feeling fearful and thinking that my skills, which do not include fist fighting, were going to be better deployed calling for help on Mr Mobile Phone. Nic, meanwhile was being all nice and non-confrontational, whilst this chap got rather angry and had to be somewhat restrained by his less boozed friends who eventually - whilst also watching me punch numbers into my phone in an obvious manner - dragged him away.
There were no good books in the box.
Does this sort of behaviour make us thieves?
I have to admit to being more concerned that in such situations I am no help and as a woman I become incredibly worried about my own safety and how it might potentially go very badly for me. I feel pathetic.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Good things about being a grown up
Cake for breakfast.
Continuing on from the deliciousness caused by Karen and her generousity of DOOM last week, I just spent the rest of the week eating. I am good at eating. I wanted cake, I made cake, I ate cake. And because I made the cake, I know exactly how much butter and sugar I ate.
So, it's like, May. And it's colder at night now - the socks have come out. But it's still ever so lovely during the day and I'm prancing round in a bikini on the beach when I can - you know, because with my hectic life, sometimes I have to do other stuff. I'm just trying to think what that is, because it does keep me busy.
Caught up with Nat and his lovely wife, whom he's knocked up. They also fed me. I waddled home from their place as well. I was also clutching books - I like people who have bookshelves.
And the littlest Whitson turned 30 yesterday. In my head the munchkin is still 12, but apparently she's in her thirties too. Dear God.
Continuing on from the deliciousness caused by Karen and her generousity of DOOM last week, I just spent the rest of the week eating. I am good at eating. I wanted cake, I made cake, I ate cake. And because I made the cake, I know exactly how much butter and sugar I ate.
So, it's like, May. And it's colder at night now - the socks have come out. But it's still ever so lovely during the day and I'm prancing round in a bikini on the beach when I can - you know, because with my hectic life, sometimes I have to do other stuff. I'm just trying to think what that is, because it does keep me busy.
Caught up with Nat and his lovely wife, whom he's knocked up. They also fed me. I waddled home from their place as well. I was also clutching books - I like people who have bookshelves.
And the littlest Whitson turned 30 yesterday. In my head the munchkin is still 12, but apparently she's in her thirties too. Dear God.
Monday, May 3, 2010
You come twice, you pay twice
That's some good 'how this transaction is going to work' advice overheard between a woman (one can only guess at her profession) and a man at a restaurant where Karen works.
Another Monday in Sydney, another marvellous Monday with Karen. The past two she's journeyed over here and slummed it in Manly. Yesterday she went nuts and decided that just because I don't have a job, doesn't mean she can't take me out to lunch at Manly's fanciest restaurant. So she did. A lot of money and four hours later I was slouched in my chair, fancy restaurant be damned, so full of exceptionally delicious food and wine that I did not care what the wait staff thought of my poor posture. I did not want to leave my seat because I was worried the staff would have to roll me out like Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she ate Wonka gum (that is definitely not a euphemism for anything, all you filth thinkers out there) and ballooned up.
We staggered out. Karen and her loyal steed Betty caught the ferry home and I walked very slowly up the hill home. Home is my new flat, which is just round the corner from Nic, so he can visit for luncheons and whatnot. We have a cat - this was a large part of my enthusiasm for moving in. It's hard to tell who is the bigger affection whore - me or Kitty. She's not so keen on sitting on laps but is more than willing to sit next to you and be petted. Pretty much just like me, really. She's probably a little cuter but I have thumbs so, no competition there.
Still gloriously, gleefully unemployed, thanks for asking. Will endeavour to do something about that this week. Or maybe next week. Will also attempt to not wind up in another lock in at my local pub of dubiousness - although the much, much free beer was very nice, it made walking home with Harriet, clutching the huge meat pack we'd won in a raffle very difficult. We dropped sausages all over the place. The dogs of Manly must have been overjoyed.
Another Monday in Sydney, another marvellous Monday with Karen. The past two she's journeyed over here and slummed it in Manly. Yesterday she went nuts and decided that just because I don't have a job, doesn't mean she can't take me out to lunch at Manly's fanciest restaurant. So she did. A lot of money and four hours later I was slouched in my chair, fancy restaurant be damned, so full of exceptionally delicious food and wine that I did not care what the wait staff thought of my poor posture. I did not want to leave my seat because I was worried the staff would have to roll me out like Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she ate Wonka gum (that is definitely not a euphemism for anything, all you filth thinkers out there) and ballooned up.
We staggered out. Karen and her loyal steed Betty caught the ferry home and I walked very slowly up the hill home. Home is my new flat, which is just round the corner from Nic, so he can visit for luncheons and whatnot. We have a cat - this was a large part of my enthusiasm for moving in. It's hard to tell who is the bigger affection whore - me or Kitty. She's not so keen on sitting on laps but is more than willing to sit next to you and be petted. Pretty much just like me, really. She's probably a little cuter but I have thumbs so, no competition there.
Still gloriously, gleefully unemployed, thanks for asking. Will endeavour to do something about that this week. Or maybe next week. Will also attempt to not wind up in another lock in at my local pub of dubiousness - although the much, much free beer was very nice, it made walking home with Harriet, clutching the huge meat pack we'd won in a raffle very difficult. We dropped sausages all over the place. The dogs of Manly must have been overjoyed.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Hugs not drugs
I am a hug whore. I'll take them where I can get them. So on Tuesday Nic and I went on a mission to get a very special hug. Hugs from Amma. She's hugged 28 million people and she knows her onions.
We waited three hours to get our hands on this woman. She's pretty good at what she does. People want to hug her badly. So we did. And it was indeed good. I may have cried. I really like hugs.
No job, no flat, but I got hugs. And sunshine. And a scab. But I'm ignoring that. And a bruise that won't go away. But I'm ignoring that too. And possibly a cold but I am giving that serious lack of attention.
We waited three hours to get our hands on this woman. She's pretty good at what she does. People want to hug her badly. So we did. And it was indeed good. I may have cried. I really like hugs.
No job, no flat, but I got hugs. And sunshine. And a scab. But I'm ignoring that. And a bruise that won't go away. But I'm ignoring that too. And possibly a cold but I am giving that serious lack of attention.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Just for Littlejohn who begged for it
Good things about unemployment are being able to spend one's time baking birthday cakes for brothers who hit their middle thirties, and being able to hang out with visitors such as Katie, who graces me with her particularly shiny and lovely presence today, and Travis who used me as time wastage between international flights.
Whilst being used in such a manner we had lunch at a cafe and came across these delightful entries on the menu: cheery tomatoes and trendy beetroot salsa. I can only imagine that depressed tomatoes and uncool beetroot salsa are so last year.
So, anyway, Easter was spent driving 5.5 hours down the coast in search of the perfect wave for Nic, and the nastiest wasp to step on for me. I ate no Easter eggs because this accursed country doesn't have marshmellow ones. Jesus died on a cross so I could have those, damn it.
And I have started reading Grimms fairy tales and have learnt that if I throw frogs at my bedroom wall they'll probably turn into princes. Nic's flatmate unkindly pointed out that until I move out of the living room, I won't have a bedroom wall to attempt this with. No cake for him.
I read a rather good opening line today: 'There was a bird, a mouse and a sausage living together in a house ...' you can't help but read on because you KNOW this living arrangement can't possibly work out.
Whilst being used in such a manner we had lunch at a cafe and came across these delightful entries on the menu: cheery tomatoes and trendy beetroot salsa. I can only imagine that depressed tomatoes and uncool beetroot salsa are so last year.
So, anyway, Easter was spent driving 5.5 hours down the coast in search of the perfect wave for Nic, and the nastiest wasp to step on for me. I ate no Easter eggs because this accursed country doesn't have marshmellow ones. Jesus died on a cross so I could have those, damn it.
And I have started reading Grimms fairy tales and have learnt that if I throw frogs at my bedroom wall they'll probably turn into princes. Nic's flatmate unkindly pointed out that until I move out of the living room, I won't have a bedroom wall to attempt this with. No cake for him.
I read a rather good opening line today: 'There was a bird, a mouse and a sausage living together in a house ...' you can't help but read on because you KNOW this living arrangement can't possibly work out.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Mondays with Karen
Other people have Tuesdays with Morrie. I have Mondays with Karen. The first one was for the purposes of catching up on seven years of no-see. It only took five jugs of Pimms to get through the basics, by the end of which I was practically living in the bathroom, such is the inability of my bladder to cope with that much liquid.
So, two weeks in Manly, and what I have got to show for it? A pretty nice tan. Sand in almost everything I own, some bruises from an attempt to learn to surf - not my proudest athletic moment, that one - and no clean or dry knickers because I did a huge load of washing and hung it all out and then it rained. Warmly.
I also did some work for Jessa, where we both went berserk with our red pens and were told we were anal. Given how much we'd let go because of the deadline, we were both a bit surprised by this, but kept on trucking. Because we're troopers. Troopers who drink bourbon in the bath and sing to Icehouse.
Manly Girl Guides. Makes me laugh every time.
Oh, and two references in one week to vajazzling cannot be a good thing. Go on, look it up.
So, two weeks in Manly, and what I have got to show for it? A pretty nice tan. Sand in almost everything I own, some bruises from an attempt to learn to surf - not my proudest athletic moment, that one - and no clean or dry knickers because I did a huge load of washing and hung it all out and then it rained. Warmly.
I also did some work for Jessa, where we both went berserk with our red pens and were told we were anal. Given how much we'd let go because of the deadline, we were both a bit surprised by this, but kept on trucking. Because we're troopers. Troopers who drink bourbon in the bath and sing to Icehouse.
Manly Girl Guides. Makes me laugh every time.
Oh, and two references in one week to vajazzling cannot be a good thing. Go on, look it up.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Katie and Pen fail to make a porno
I'm not sure where we went wrong. I mean, we had all the ingredients. Two exceptionally hot women wearing very little in the way of sleepwear, a broken stove, dubious music and the stove repair man. An unattractive stove repair man, which if my knowledge of porn is to be believed, means he's well hung.
He came in, he fixed the stove, he left. Didn't even want a cup of tea.
We're still shaking our heads over how we failed to recognise the potential in this situation. I think we were too busy talking about whether or not to do a load of washing.
We need help.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I don't like teenagers
I went to Matt and Ruth's wedding (nice do) on the weekend. At about 10.30pm, the wine was flowing and people were in a good mood. Unfortunately, I had to leave as the mothership had arrived to pick me up. I went to get my bag, and do to so had to climb around two teens sitting close on a step looking like they'd love to be more intimate but were constrained by guests and their official roles as bar keep and waitress.
As I climbed over them, I said 'Excuse me, canoodlers, I have to get my bag.'
As I climbed back past, the teenage boy decided it was high time he showed his smarts and masculinity, and said 'That's not even a real word. Haven't you heard of the Oxford dictionary?'
Cue tittering from the teenage girl and smirking from the boy.
It was like like I was Marty McFly in Back to the Future and someone had called me chicken. He pulled out Oxford! I saw red. Fueled by at least half a bottle of champagne, I turned around and stalked back to them (stalking was easy, it was a lawn and I was wearing pointy heeled shoes).
I said 'Young man, I am an EDITOR. And it is too a word.' (Slightly childish response there, considering canoodlers is not a work, but fucking teenagers need to be put in their place.)
He said 'Harrumph, sheesh.'
The girl said 'I told you it was a word'.
I sailed off over the lawn on the high seas of smugness.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Ups to me because I give the awards
Have I mentioned how much I like aioli? Because I like it. Are you allowed to eat it with a spoon? Do I care? It is the savoury equivalent of chocolate sauce. Maybe I wouldn’t smear it all over myself in order for some lucky victim to lick it off but that’s mostly because I’d see that as a massive waste of aioli. Same goes for chocolate sauce.
Other food-related points – I quite often fail to see the point of cucumber.
So, the bigger Whitson came to stay and it was all magical, like we were living in the enchanted forest and any moment now we’d come across the magic faraway tree and discover that at the top of the tree was The Land of Take What you Want and we’d just go nuts and come home with ponies and candy floss and ovens that produce cookies whenever you clap your hands.
Nic brought me a belated Christmas present, which was lovely, except I didn’t have anything for him because we’d said NO PRESENTS. Anyway, he gave me a bottle of Cougar bourbon and told me to drink it with Jess and act appropriately. We drank the bourbon but failed miserably to pounce on any very young men. Maybe next time – we were a bit distracted by Sorority Boys – men in drag make us swoon.
Yes, I have a Jessa in my arms. It’s very nice. She smells good. Probably because she washes her hair.
We also had the fleetingness of a Justin. He was here for ages but, well, you know Justin. He’s very hard to catch. He’s the sort of person for whom those gladiator nets were invented.
Three weeks left of work, hurrah. This whole working ‘thing’ is killing me. Yes, yes, it’s a nice job, but unemployment elsewhere shimmies enticingly in front of me, and by jingo, I’m going to get my aioli-smeared hands all over that stuff.
We had cats for the weekend. They liked my room the best and peed on my bed. I wish they'd liked Oren's the best. He's back from Israel and he's allergic to cats. It would have been hilarious. For me.
He brought us chocolate. We left it in the sun. It's still tasty.
Other food-related points – I quite often fail to see the point of cucumber.
So, the bigger Whitson came to stay and it was all magical, like we were living in the enchanted forest and any moment now we’d come across the magic faraway tree and discover that at the top of the tree was The Land of Take What you Want and we’d just go nuts and come home with ponies and candy floss and ovens that produce cookies whenever you clap your hands.
Nic brought me a belated Christmas present, which was lovely, except I didn’t have anything for him because we’d said NO PRESENTS. Anyway, he gave me a bottle of Cougar bourbon and told me to drink it with Jess and act appropriately. We drank the bourbon but failed miserably to pounce on any very young men. Maybe next time – we were a bit distracted by Sorority Boys – men in drag make us swoon.
Yes, I have a Jessa in my arms. It’s very nice. She smells good. Probably because she washes her hair.
We also had the fleetingness of a Justin. He was here for ages but, well, you know Justin. He’s very hard to catch. He’s the sort of person for whom those gladiator nets were invented.
Three weeks left of work, hurrah. This whole working ‘thing’ is killing me. Yes, yes, it’s a nice job, but unemployment elsewhere shimmies enticingly in front of me, and by jingo, I’m going to get my aioli-smeared hands all over that stuff.
We had cats for the weekend. They liked my room the best and peed on my bed. I wish they'd liked Oren's the best. He's back from Israel and he's allergic to cats. It would have been hilarious. For me.
He brought us chocolate. We left it in the sun. It's still tasty.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Carbon Hairprint of Shame
Yes, once again I fly to Auckland to ... get my hair cut and reblonded by the Amazing Brandon. He's a magician of sorts and never tries to make balloon animals but instead produces a mean cup of tea.
I've done the math and sadly, it is actually cheaper to fly up here than frequent someone I DO NOT TRUST with my dirty blonde locks in Wellington. So far my hair has cost me $100 for the flights and $25 for lunch. Cheap, I tell you. And the chance to catch up with the other Auckland lot, although Jase is currently in the dogbox for double booking and choosing the other invite. This, let me tell you, is precisely the reason I am not attending his wedding in Raro later this year, and not my dubious finances.
Other stuff. Everyone else I know, and thousands I don't, have been attending the evening concerts at the gardens. I can't because of my job, and I just need to reiterate here that it is only the fact that I usually rather like my job, that prevents me from not throwing massive FOMO tanties when everyone else is clearly having fun and I am asking reporters 'Did you really mean this, or do you mean that, and if you did, then why didn't you just say that?'
We have a new French flatmate - she told me her name and I can't pronounce it or spell it so I just call her the French flatmate. Lazy, I know, but I hardly ever see her and she'll be gone in two weeks when our beloved Oren comes back with presents from Israel. Dear God, they had better be good presents to make up for the fact that I've had to deal with losing my partner in nerd tv watching for two months.
I went to Christchurch for a reunion with the witches. I also saw Ben and Karen's new place and had a nice chat to their child who likes boobs and curls. Smart little boy, that one. The witches were in ace form - Fi's partner lasted a whole 30 minutes with us before declaring that he couldn't take any more of it and he hid in his study with a bag of licorice allsorts for the rest of the night. This was probably very sensible. Christ, we were in what I can only describe as a form so good that we floated in a realm somewhere above cloud nine. However, the gods don't like it when mortals hang above them and I was punished with another bladder infection. Someone up there does not like me.
Other things I have learned this month are that elbow grease and vinegar and baking soda are excellent cleaning tools. I know this because I watched Melissa use all these things to clean our oven. I encouraged her, like a good flatmate ought to, and she did an excellent job. Well done her.
I went to a party (yes, I am that popular) on Friday night where most of the guests seemed to have a link to Palmerston North. This was somewhat amusing, and even more so, whilst being slightly odd, when nice chap said to me: 'Penelope -didn't you go out with Karl in 6th form?' This was completely true and for a moment I was taken back 16 - SIXTEEN years, thank you - to 1994 for my long, by high school standards, relationship with Karl that lasted exactly three weeks. He was my first boyfriend, it was intense, we broke up and he called me a bitch and then said he was joking about meaning that. I wish him well in his endeavours.
The be-tanned one, also known as Whitson Major, arrives tomorrow. This will be nice. I like him. Even if he does have a better tan than I do, but I think anyone who lives in Wellington will agree that, given our weather of late, the fact that I have any tan at all is impressive.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Rumble in Himatangi
If you're looking for some thugs to bash over new years, may I recommend the docile summer beach village of Himatangi.
Sadly, even though H, Katie and I were totally prepared to wrestle some youths to the ground after pulling out some insulting hand gestures, I think all the locals just wear black hoodies to keep out the sand. Not to threaten or intimidate. Pity. So we talked to the bambi we found instead.
Himatangi is a windy place. Windy and sandy. Is nice when it's not windy. But it's pretty windy. Did I mention the sand? I don't really like sand. Gets into all sorts of inappropriate places that do not need exfoliating.
New year's eve itself involved a nasty game or ten of scrabble. There was whisky, some swearing, maybe some name calling. Thoroughly enjoyable. I like going on holiday with nerds.
Christmas was also nice - was the only child home so came in for some spoiling. Had some very good conversations with the cat, who may appear to be only able to purr, but I know different. Realised I was on my way to becoming a sad old cat lady when I found several minutes of video footage of the cat on my camera. She's not doing much, pretty much just being a cat, but she's so cute! You'd love our cat. No, really.
Have had my contract at the paper extended till the end of Feb, which is all good and nicely ties in my very loose plans for world domination sometime after I turn 32 and Kit marries John in March. However, these night shifts make me a little sad when I realise that everyone else is probably doing something fun, like hanging out with friends at the pub on a sunny evening, and I am slaving over depressing headlines about road tolls. It's just as well we're having a pretty bad summer so at least they can't have their drinks outside. It's the little things you have to focus on.
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