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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)