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.

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.

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.

A blow to one's ego

Mother, please don't read this. You'll feel bad on behalf of your car.

I get a flat tyre. Actually, I get in the car and realise that I have a flat tyre but AHA! I was not the last person driving it because I'd made Melissa drop me somewhere the night before so it was entirely her fault. But the tyre issue remained. I don't think I've ever changed a tyre. And so, for the fourth time this year, I ring my new friends, the AA.

The AA chap nicely says that I even if I did know how to change a tyre, I wouldn't have been able to get the darn thing off because of how tightly the little bolty things were put on last time - he is jumping on his bolt-getter-offer as he says this so I'm sure he's not just making me feel better. Well, sort of sure.

And so life goes on.

But wait, there's still more. I have a bad night's sleep, go out for breakfast unwashed and with very fluffy hair and the top half my pjs (very pink I might add) still on, and when I get home, so very, very exhausted and full of Sweet Mama's best offerings, I back into the fence. Twice. With witnesses.

Blonde woman in pink shirt hits fence twice.

Yes! I strike another blow on behalf of feminists everywhere.
And throw one in for stereotypers for good measure.

Rejection by proxy

I have a very caring mother. She lives in another country at present and so we communicate a great deal via the magic of texting. Sometimes this results in our texts arriving at inopportune times owing to phone companies being a bit useless. A few weeks back, at about nearly 1am, I got a text from the mothership telling me the following things:

She has a friend (nice!) in Chch, who has a son in Rotorua who is ... MY AGE and, oh, the poor chap, he's single.

I think you can guess where this is going. Now, the mothership never does this sort of thing, I suspect so we will never produce grandchildren who may give away the fact that although she looks about 35 she in fact might be a few years older. So blame can be laid squarely at the feet of her friend. At any rate, I text back saying 'Is this a set up?' and mother says it's not her fault and the young man will be in touch next time he's in Wellington.

He never does. This is rejection by proxy. Thanks, mum.

I can just imagine the conversation he's been having with his mum.

'You did what? Said I'd call some sad and pathetic single woman whose mother has to get her dates? I can totally get my own dates, thanks, mum.'

Moving right along ... we went to the All Whites match on Saturday night. Oren, J, Morgan and I painted ourselves up, wore some white, had a few drinks and marched off to the stadium. I think I should add that Morgan and I know very little about soccer and had no idea just how big a deal this match was until a day or two before. It was insane. Wellington went berserk. It was fucking ace, actually. We leapt about and shouted and generally had a spectacular time and wound up dancing round the pub after the match, and managed to convince several other people there that they should let us paint their faces. Full points to my flatmate, J, who was painting the face of a very hot girl, who obviously liked him but he was oblivious to this fact, to whom he said 'Hold on, I just have to finish painting your double chin'.

Size is everything

Another thing people don't talk about very much and I feel is definitely terribly important and possibly even the answer to world peace, is the difficulty of having one breast that is slightly, or sometimes not slightly, more like hugely, larger than the other. This cannot only be an issue for women, surely? I realise men have eensy teensy boobies in comparison to the ladies but even on this small scale I suspect mammorific injustice rears its head like an unwelcome steak at a vegan barbecue.

Is it an issue? Am I just making DDs out of A cups? Possibly. I mean, no one ever talks about it so perhaps it's all in my head. Except that with my lack of social graces I have had this conversation with other women and I know this problem is out there. Now is the time, sisters, to stand up and say with pride 'I have different sized breasts'.

Bra shopping can be enough of an issue without the added pressure of knowing it's only going to make one breast happy. Bra shopping is not quite on the same scale as the horror of jeans shopping, for which I have long suspected they give the most sadistic salespeople extra training for, but trying to find a decent bra that fits is a right old bitch anyway.

Interestingly, the women who I've spoken to on this issue say that men never notice.

Other stuff. Work goes well. My headlines improve but I'm still not getting 100% success. Did manage to get a Treemendous in today's paper though, and I'm pretty darn proud of how awful that is.

I attempted to go jeans shopping a few weeks ago. Whilst I have finally managed to squeeze myself and my differently sized hips into my old ones, they're on their last legs (see what I did there? I need help) so new ones are on the cards. So I went shopping for denim. And came home with a cocktail dress. Which I do not need. Yesterday I went swimsuit shopping. And came home with shorts. As you do. And it's raining today so this whole 'summer' thing is not working. Although I do have my first round of sunburned cleavage going so I have high hopes that actual summer, not this faux summer, is lurking nearby.

I am pleased to see, though, that you can buy bikini tops and bottoms separately. If only you could buy bra cups separately . . .

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.