Not the dominant female

It really, really disappoints me to discover that despite being the oldest, the biggest and the tallest woman in my flat, I do not have the dominant vagina. Melissa moved in and my periods went walkabout - apparently her body won the lady bits' wrestling match and I am doomed to follow her. And then Jani moved in and it started all over again. The only time I think I have forced all my female flatmates to dance to my tune was when I was on the pill - and I'm fairly sure I apologised.

This means that I have stormed into the living room in the past and scared poor wee Melissa by pointing an accusing finger at her and demanded 'When is your period due?' I have no doubt that she wondered what kind of flat she'd moved into. Now she just giggles. She knows she has the power.

It's Sunday and the storm just hit. Up here in the Eagle's Nest that is my home in Roseneath we have a perfect view of the rain and wind-battered harbour. Leaving the house today seems like a suicide mission. So I won't be doing it. Instead, I think I have been possessed by demons because after a breakfast of the chocolate fish variety, I cleaned the kitchen. The bathroom is next. Lamb casserole is in the oven and the bananas will be soon be sacrificed in favour of cake. And then the vacuuming. I know, I know, I don't sound well, at all. Last night I was in bed, sober, by 10.30pm. Another raging Saturday night for Lady Penelope. I had, though, just watched five hours of True Blood. It has been suggested that this cannot possibly be as good as BSG. This is rubbish. Don't make me choose between them. I can't do it. They are equally marvellous and shiny. I watch them with different people. With BSG, Oren, Duncan and I mutter 'Frack me'; with True Blood, Morgan and I discuss how Vampire Bill might just be the perfect man. Of course, he's imaginary, which helps immeasurably.

I'm still destroying people's lives on behalf of the man - this brings me no joy but I've started a candy kitty and convinced young Colin to go on the jetplane run - basically I have become a workplace bully who must be kept sweet literally.

Andrew, Morgan and I went to see Morgan's pa perform some of Shakespeare's greatest hits. He was awfully good, but the synopsis provided had us in mild hysteria. Macbeth's started with 'The Macbeths are ...' This was all it took. Who ever describes them as the Macbeths? They sound like the couple next door you never want to ask over for dinner - 'Oh, no, not the Macbeths, he's okay but she's always bitching about something ...'

Friday night was whisky and fondue with the Christchurch posse, plus a few others. This was magnificent - particularly when it was discovered that Will owns a fearsomely large banana.

I might have a nap now. Because it's Sunday, the house is mostly clean and I've hung out my washing - literally, not metaphorically.

Fleeting Extreme Radness

Fleetwood Mac are coming! They totally deserve an exclamation mark. I swoon at the very thought of the Mac and am lolling on my living room carpet listening to them right now. It's just me, a large cup of tea, this charming block of chocolate that insists of smearing itself all over my face, and my broken laptop with the Mac blaring and I'm sprawled inelegantly (who sprawls elegantly? Maybe Coco Chanel would have?) doing the crossword and I am totally relishing being the only one home.

Not that I don't adore my flatmates, who are very good at being flatmates and super rad into the bargain, but it's been a social few weeks and I am rather tickled at the opportunity to be alone - I've been having some good conversations in my head lately and it will be nice to air these with myself openly. If only I wouldn't be so pigheaded sometimes and would just listen to me, I'm sure I'd be doing much better at this game of life.

Eighties dance party last night - I am sore. But I pulled some sweet as dance moves whilst wearing hot pink lycra. And this morning Ruthie and I watched Girls JustWant to Have Fun and got ideas for more dance moves that are guaranteed to make us so many friends on the dance floor.

Still working for the man. I feel like such a traitor.

Oh, and Captain Morgan is back. I sense trouble.

Sex, lies and videotape

There is no sex. That would be the lie. I saw Pump up the Volume a while back on the old video though. Phwoar Christian Slater back in the day.

And it transpires that if the moon is in the right spot and the sausage rolls are just so and I've had just the right amount of Battlestar to get me through till morning, and the Singstar is in a separate room to the rest of the party, then by jingo I'll enjoy it. And I jumped off furniture whilst doing so. Will and Sara throw a good party. Except for the wine thief with pink hair. The act did spark a rather good conversation on the morality of booze thefting at parties - a glass is fine, taking the whole bottle is a no no.

Saw Harry Potter tonight. And the utter highlight was making it through a 2.5 hour movie without having to disrupt my row by stumbling to the toilet in the dark. Go me and my bladder.

Sigh

It was just one of those ludicrously social weeks that beforehand makes you think 'Fuck, I'm popular and super and I bet most people want to be me' but by the end you can only semi formulate thoughts, such is your exhaustion, and those thoughts go something along the lines of 'I hate everyone, why must they bother me when I am quite clearly a recluse'.

I had an ace week. Am just suffering the exhaustion of the social butterfly. A not particularly dignified social butterfly. I have flitted. And lolled. Swilled. Scoffed. Put on about 20 kilos in the space of three hours (Korean place - I just ate and ate and ate and could have had more but I was concerned about vomitting). Oh, and I got new knickers. Can never have enough of those.

Sooo, after the PNGHS slumber party extravaganza of last Saturday, there was Kelby on Sunday, being all cute and Kelby-like, and then the fecking radness that is Battlestar Sunday. And then Andrew's birthday on Monday, which ended up with Sara, Mark, Stu, Luke and I experiencing fine dining Flat Awesome stylez - fush'n'chups'n'whiskey and X Men.

Tuesday was more Battlestar than you can shake a stick at. I'm not sure why you'd want to, anyway. Wednesday was the meeting of the classics nerds, and I made them, nay, forced them to come to quiz night, where after a bit of a dodgy start, we managed to come second again. AGAIN. Second is so last year.

Thursday was Jess. I was already a spot tired but I made the effort and went to dinner after we hugged and kissed each other in a thoroughly dubious manner, as befits women who admit that if only they were both gay they would totally rock out as a couple. I saw a Charlie. Met some other people, including Jessa's 18-year-old cousin who, it transpires, is in 7th form and was drinking on a school night. I was shocked. Even more so when he told Jess and I that one of his friends lost his virginity to a 32-year-old mum recently, and that most young men totally lust after older women. Jess and I looked at each other and made a date to loiter outside Wellington College the next day. Had to renege on that when remembered that I'd be working. Because that's what adults do. Dragged an unsuspecting Richard back to my place and Jess and I plied him with scotch and carrot cake and demanded he tell us filthy stories. Staggered to bed at 2am, having done the mildly drunk maths and realised that I'd get at least 4 hours' sleep and why would I need any more than that to handle a day working for the government? Also, they just extended my contract so it's probably about time I let them experience hungover Penelope.

Woke up not hungover. But so very, very tired. Jess went to bed with all her clothes on. I at least managed to put on PJs and knee socks. This was not my best look.

Friday I had a bizzare conversation with workmate about a paperclip.

Friday night I ate a lot of Korean with Duncan. Demanded to be allowed to pay as have been given money for this working lark and I felt like frittering it all away. Unfortunately, once I'd convinced the restaurant staff to ignore Duncan's attempts to pay for half, it transpired that they don't take credit card ... which was all I had. Duncan and his EFTPOS card to the rescue. Was a spot embarrassing. We waddled back to mine and made Oren's night by watching Battlestar. Duncan fell asleep. He does not get a gold star.

And tonight it's Will and Sarah's housewarming. With Singstar. I am not a fan of Singstar. I know, I adore karaoke, but for some obscure reason that a psychologist would no doubt ascertain is due to my inability to jump out of a tree into the dam that one time when my little sister totally showed me up by doing it effortlessly ... digression and anyway, I just find it not conducive to me enjoying parties. I am a party pooper. But I rather like Will and Sarah and I want to see their new place because I am nosy so I will go and eat all the chips and sit in the corner and do my best with polite conversation with strangers. I really am spectacularly bad at polite conversation. It's so boring. And then I can't resist saying something awful and if people react well, then I like them. If they don't, I go home and make voodoo dolls of them and they start to suffer from horrendous ailments like piles.

Negligees and pillow fights

Oren has confessed his disappointment that when I invited three of my oldest lady friends over for a sleepover we did not prance about in skimpy lingerie lightly hitting each other over the head with pillows, in between brushing each other's hair. Instead we lolled about in an undignified manner, scoffed cheese and cackled in manner of ancient crones. And as our combined ages must be somewhere in the 120s, I guess we are. Just one crone, though.

I don't think Kit, Spanna, Manda and I have been in the same place at the same time for about ten years, so there was much of the reminiscing, old tales retold and embellished, some very bad photos and fair lack of maturity displayed. We dragged mattresses out to the living room and slumbered with gusto, got up at a sensible hour and brunched and then dispersed, promising to repeat it all for our 4oths. It is very irksome when one's chums insist on living in other countries/cities/islands. (Fi - you owe me a visit.)

Anyway, it is a sunny Wellington weekend and even though I am exhausted, I am not hungover, and for some obscure reason, there is still chocolate, so I'm going to inhale that, and then I might read all afternoon. I have not read for more than a lunch hour for quite some time. This is because I am supposed to be looking for work so if I read insead, I feel guilty. Strangely, this does not appear to affect my watching of Battlestar. We're into season two and it is MAGNIFICENT.

Oh, and I have a short-term contract making up lies for the man for the next few weeks so I can read without the guilt for a wee bit.

I sabotaged a job interview recently (really didn't want it but the dole people insist you apply for a certain number of jobs each week, so ...) which was in the Slutt Valley, so I drove out there (45 minutes - insane) and when they asked how my workmates would describe me I went with 'Impulsive and chatty. Oh, and I make good cookies.' Satisfied I'd screwed that one up well, I went away smiling. Right up until they called me a few days later and said 'Congratulations, you've made the final three ...' The other candidates must have been rubbish.

Guity as a girl can be

Much to my eternal shame, I did not know that Bananarama were British. And we lost quiz night by one point. If only I'd been a better fan, I could have hauled us up to a tie.

So, for the third week in a row, we came second at quiz night. We tire of second. We are hungry for first. But it appears that we are not hungry enough. Next week we shall be starving.

I actually did some work yesterday. Unusual, I know. And I loved it. I made a book. I like books. They smell good. Sometimes I smell good. Sometimes, like after the pretend run I went on today, I do not. It was a pretend run because I didn't do a lot of running. I am far better at walking. And loping. Because I am a Penelope. Sort of like an antelope but slightly less graceful.

And today I lolled about the house in preparation for working again tomorrow. I know. Twice in one week. That's a lot of work. I'm exhausted already. But this block of dark chocolate KitKat seems to be taking my mind off things. It's really pretty good stuff. I felt bad abandoning my Whittaker's - cheating on chocolate is near unforgiveable, but there's a recession on and Pak'n'Save had a deal on with KitKats so I listened to my credit card and went with the cheaper option.

My credit card is pretty chatty these days.

And I have a new addiction. I share it with my flatmate Oren. We heart the new Battlestar Galatica. I saw all the old series a few years back with Kruse and have long wondered what the new version was like. And now I know. Ben once described Prison Break as being like crack to him and Karen and I think I know what he's talking about. It's almost as good as Twin Peaks was. And that was pretty good. I think we'll be rewatching that soon. Transpires that Melissa has never even heard of it. I shake my head at the youth of today. I'm sure her life will improve dramatically once we've forced her to watch it.

In the mean time, I haven't seen any Battlestar since Monday as Oren and I have had conflicting social lives and at the rate we're going, I'm not going to get any until Sunday. This pains me terribly. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I long for Battlestar.

My poor technique

When required, I have very poor interviewing techniques. Among other things.

I was at an interview recently where one of the panelists kept throwing up. I just have that effect on some people.

Who eats the nasty spotty lolly things in the bags of licorice allsorts? They are vomit inducing, just like me when I want to be.

In other random observations/pointing outies of thingies, I was asked out by a jogger on Oriental last week. It was a little creepy. Did I say flattering? No, creepy. And far more creepy than the slightly insane man who walks around my neighbourhood talking constantly, often in a rather angry voice. I passed him on the cliffs of doom (the local horror that is Grass Street) and was not really listening to his muttering right up until, just as he passed me, he hissed 'Make the voices STOP' and I gave him my full attention. It also gave me a bit of a fright. But just a bit. Because as I've said before, I'm tough. Especially in daylight.

I've had a lot of houseguests lately - too many to bother myself with this looking for work nonsense. But I seem to be free from them all now so must get cracking. Right after I make myself fairly ill with this bag of marshmellows.

Kruse dropped by in manner of horrible ex boyfriend who comes bearing far too many bottles of French champagne that we promptly added ice cream to. Champagne spiders are all the rage. He is a useful sort of fellow. Utterly horrible, of course, but useful.

Ruthie also came to stay and there was a lot of not very feminine snorting with laughter and many, many cups of tea. And hot water bottles. She also introduced my flatmates to some ridiculous computer game and now they are hooked.

And Melissa moved in. She did heaps of baking yesterday but apparently none of it was good enough for her exacting standards (it was going to be a gift) and now we have a lot of baked goods to consume. It is just as well that I am at home all day and prepared to do anything to stave off boredom. And I have pretty much given up trying to get back in to my jeans and have embraced voluptuousness with gusto. Is that spelt correctly? Do I care? Are my standards dropping? Did I fail the spelling test at quiz night?

Yes.