Well, it definitely is in NZ. Boozing in the office always feels a spot naughty though. And let's be honest - even though my ability to play pool and speak foreign languages improves dramatically after a few drinks, my ability to edit does not.
And in other news I am having possibly the worst PMT in years. My cousin is staying and she's bleeding (she's going to love that I've blogged that) and despite going on the pill recently to control what I lovingly call the blood tsunami, my lady bits are desperate to join in with hers. As long time and possibly quite sickened readers will know, I have quite the weak vagina. And so the normally happy state of Penelope has been hijacked by the emotion troops with their sharp and pointy javelins of bitchy.
So I'm drinking beer. I know this won't lead to happiness. You know it won't lead to happiness. But I'm going to do it anyway. And later, if Harriet and Carrie are very unlucky, I'll show them that the ingrown nipple hair (which I already showed them on Australia Day Eve) has scabbed over nicely. It's not just my body that hates me. I think the baby Jesus is behind this somehow. Must stop swearing on Sundays.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Let's list again. Like we did last summer
It's time for a list. And what better topic than things I would lick off dead people if encouraged to do so:
Aoli
Guacamole (homemade, none of that store-bought, contains no actual avocado rubbish)
Cashew, brazil and almond butter
Proper mayonnaise
The pate from the restaurant I took Karen to last month that I forget the name of but sweet baby jesus it was some good shit
Champagne spiders
Chocolate icing
Aoli
Guacamole (homemade, none of that store-bought, contains no actual avocado rubbish)
Cashew, brazil and almond butter
Proper mayonnaise
The pate from the restaurant I took Karen to last month that I forget the name of but sweet baby jesus it was some good shit
Champagne spiders
Chocolate icing
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
For Roxette fans only
I've got the look!
It was Christmas Eve, babe. In the drunk tank that is the Manly Wharf Bar. As I waited to be served, the chap next to me attempted to make flirty conversation. With my breasts.
He opened with, ‘Are you in a gang?'
I’m an honest soul so I answered, ‘No. I’m not in a gang. Do I look like I’m in a gang?’
Apparently I do. Mother will be overjoyed. I don't know why we bothered with private schools. I am informed that I have ‘crazy’ hair and this is an important attribute of being in a gang. And then he asked if I have any tattoos. My denial didn't put him off - and he showed me his.
Roll on one week and it's New Year's Eve and having a cape with an eagle on it did not make me invisible to unattractive men determined to get their New Year's pash. I shudder in recollection.
If anyone would like to join my new gang, which I started this morning, all that is required is a cape. And sarcasm. Crazy hair and tattoos are optional extras. Willingness to debate the Bangles versus Bananarama looked upon highly.
It was Christmas Eve, babe. In the drunk tank that is the Manly Wharf Bar. As I waited to be served, the chap next to me attempted to make flirty conversation. With my breasts.
He opened with, ‘Are you in a gang?'
I’m an honest soul so I answered, ‘No. I’m not in a gang. Do I look like I’m in a gang?’
Apparently I do. Mother will be overjoyed. I don't know why we bothered with private schools. I am informed that I have ‘crazy’ hair and this is an important attribute of being in a gang. And then he asked if I have any tattoos. My denial didn't put him off - and he showed me his.
Roll on one week and it's New Year's Eve and having a cape with an eagle on it did not make me invisible to unattractive men determined to get their New Year's pash. I shudder in recollection.
If anyone would like to join my new gang, which I started this morning, all that is required is a cape. And sarcasm. Crazy hair and tattoos are optional extras. Willingness to debate the Bangles versus Bananarama looked upon highly.
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.
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