First World (trip) Problems

I need my head read. I have a seven week holiday on the horizon which will see me catching up with one of my favourite people in London, partying in Amsterdam, drinking wine in France, Greek Island hopping...you get the drift. Yes, this homebody is finally jumping on the OE band wagon, unfortunately she is freaking and I don't mean freaking excited WOOH! I mean freaking OUT man!

Can't believe I actually just admitted that. Reading this, I would kinda hate me right now if I wasn't...well, me.

Only got myself to blame really. If I was early twenties or late teens like most OE participants I would be footloose and fancy free. Not teetering dangerously close to the late twenties perimeter and full of rational thoughts. Damn you rational thoughts.

Who knew that the prospect of living out of a bag that weighs less than one of my thighs for seven weeks would play on my mind so heavily? I am a notorious over packer so knowing I have to limit beauty products, shoes, clothing, underwear- particularly underwear- is most unsettling. I like being prepared. The whole packing issue has also forced me into buying sensible shoes which lets face it, is heart breaking for any female. Takes the joy out of shopping this being practical business.

That's just the beginning though. There's a whole bunch of crazy little voices hanging around in this worry wart's head. The first is Mr Cynical; “What if something goes wrong?” is pretty much the extent of his repertoire. He came about after the countless people who (bless them) are just looking out for me by warning me of the health risks associated with long haul flights, lurking pick pockets, bed bug infested hostels, dodgy meat kebabs...the list goes on.

Then there's Mr Gym. I was exaggerating for effect when I alluded to the size of my thighs earlier but by the time I've had my way with Italy and her countless pizza and gelato joints, this might become a reality.

Mustn't forget Mr Career either. Somehow I've convinced my boss to give me seven weeks off which sounds great in theory but what happens if the person covering me is more efficient or worse, spends less time on Facebook...

Lastly there's Mr Right. This guy doesn't actually live in my head. He's real and I happen to be in a relationship with him. I think the saying is partly true that women choose partners that remind them of their Fathers. Tom is perhaps in no other way like my Dad aside from the fact that they are both adamant when they are right. The annoying bit is that more often than not, they actually are right.

This does have its benefits though. Over the past couple of years I've been able to shut off the part of my brain that makes well researched logical decisions and replace it with five simple words; “What do you reckon Tom?” Unfortunately I have to leave my beloved sense of reason at home. I'm going with a girlfriend and she too has a partner who is very organised- so much so that he has been known to make spreadsheets for when they go camping. It's awesome.

So far our male-free planning has consisted of booking the wrong dates for our hostel in Amsterdam and establishing the fact that we need to get from said hostel to Greece in five weeks whilst gaining cultural enlightenment along the way...somehow.

Looking back over that wee summary of my trip thus far all I can think is- never has the saying two left feet been more apt and strangely enough (despite all the worrying) never have I felt so free.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

I'm back! After a three month hiatus I've realised that my absence has gone beyond the casual avoiding eye contact kind of snub. We are right in the thick of a cross the street once you see the other person approaching type of blank now. I'm very sorry and hope that once I start updating more regularly that we will be on a mutual smile and head nod basis.

Thinking back over the happenings of the past three months there is one life event (excuse the Facebook timeline lingo) that stands out above all else, even my $50 Lotto win. That is, my bourbon drinking, student flat dwelling, 21 year old baby brother had a baby. Not just any baby either, this child is gorgeous. You're probably thinking I'm a tad biased about now but I kid you not- this wee bundle came out looking ready for her closeup in a Huggie's shoot.

I was lucky enough to meet Sadie when she was fresh out of the oven and have to admit that holding her in my arms as she made the simplest things like blinking and sneezing cuter than any YouTube clip featuring Pandas, I finally got it. Babies are a bit nice aren't they?

My mother often regales the story of how the nurses told her I was the cutest newborn they'd ever seen. I always found it amusing that she actually believed them. The fact is, nobody's going to tell you that your baby is a bit funny looking really, much less if their livelihood depends on your comfort. Now though I see how you could be so bewitched by a new bubba that even if they came out covered in slime..oh wait they are...um even if they were covered in scales...hmm kind of true also. What I'm trying to say is that no matter what, when a new person is born into your family it's a beautiful thing.

Being in that hospital room made me realise something mildly terrifying too. The experience was quite overwhelming – it truly is an incredible thing to love someone you've just met. I guess what I'm saying is that I felt a wee bit clucky.

Cue a shiver down Tom's spine.

This shouldn't be such a big deal for a 25 year old female but I have just never really been that fussed by little babies. Don't get me wrong, kids are great but babies are a different bag of chips. A completely dependant being that rewards your constant love and attention with piles of poo and the odd regurgitation? Forgive me for being a little hesitant about the whole thing.

I now have wee Sadie to thank for helping me become a little less of a self centered twenty something and waking up to the fact that caring for a child could actually be a rewarding experience. One step closer to becoming a grown up. Maybe next time I babysit my three year old nephew Zach he'll realise that I'm the one that puts him to bed, not the other way around.

In saying all this, I wont be rushing into the prospect of parenthood just yet. Even if I am the last one out of my siblings to reproduce (tick, tick, tick). Nope, there are a few more adventures to be had, namely one that kicks off in just over a month's time but that's a yarn for another time. This is Sadie's story. And what a story at that- never before have I been so moved by an introduction. 

Excuses Excuses

I liken my passion for writing with the exuberant style in which I tackle housework. I'll admit that ultimately writing gives me more joy than the latter but there is also something very satisfying about an empty laundry basket.

The trouble with this is that I only have room in my life for one at a time. This can lead to some serious inner tension and often I feel as if the two are fighting for my attention. If I were a dishonest man then writing would be my loving wife and cleaning would be my mistress, always in my ear about how I should forget my beloved and spend more time with her.

Unfortunately as soon as I even smell a hint of writers block coming on then the mistress' voice becomes louder and more threatening until eventually I drop to my knees and surrender...to scrubbing the floor. It's like she knows when I am weak and pounces. I'll be tap, tap, tapping away at the computer until the gaps between taps start to lengthen and I find myself staring at the dust on the window ledges. Then BAM! The dirt is gone; my window ledges outshone only by the glaring white of the empty document open on the computer screen.

Don't think I haven't tried being honest with them. I just can't face having them both at once- not to say I haven't thought about it. It would never work though. Once my mind is set on either writing or housework then I am fully devoted to the task at hand. Keeping the balance however, has been proving rather tricky of late.

As keeping a mistress is easier than pleasing a wife, housework is easier for me to get around to than writing. All a mistress needs is a nice pair of earrings and a word of praise from time to time. Much like the kitchen needs a good Spray'nWipe every few days. The wife on the other hand, has far more complex needs. You can never be sure that she is actually fine when she says she is. Similar to a piece of writing that at first glance seems okay but on the second read through reveals more grammatical errors than a Bebo wall.

Favouring the easy route has ensured that I have a very clean apartment- aside that is, from the dust gathered on top of my closed computer. Never is the saying, ‘out of sight, out of mind’ more true than when one is trying to procrastinate. Luckily for my mistress, it's a lot harder to hide a pile of dirty dishes than it is to slip a laptop under the bed.

Perhaps this is why so many famed writers favour the disheveled look. Unlike me, yet to make a living from writing, these characters have ignored the voices telling them to put the washing on, mop the floors, shower. If I did the same then perhaps I too would have a couple of Pulitzer Prize winning novels under my belt.

Don't get me wrong, I do love to write- just as a cheating husband often still loves his wife. The real issue plaguing the relationship always comes down to the 'O' word: Obligation. As soon as I feel obligated to put pen to paper my mind wanders. I start to think dirty thoughts like 'My, the shower is dirty, better get cleaning' or 'Is that a dirty sock on the floor? Must be time to put a wash on' and so on.

I can probably put this affliction back on my upbringing somehow. Isn't that what so many men do? Reason that their failure to maintain a monogamous relationship is purely because their father set a bad example for them as a child? Going by this rule then the blame for my inner turmoil can sit squarely on my mother's shoulders.

The woman doesn't stop. No sooner has a glass left my lips before she has whipped it away, into the dishwasher before I can set it down and create a watermark on the table. I never thought anything of her two-loads-of-laundry-a-day policy. That is until I moved out into the real world. Clearly I still carry these scars from childhood. If only I found a half written article as distressing as a pile of unfolded shirts...

At least I got that off my chest. Nothing like a confessional monologue to get the creative juices flowing. And finally on that note, I probably should admit that this was written only after two loads of dishes, one batch of home cooked muesli, one trip to the supermarket and a thorough dust busting session.

I need help.

The Comedown

Oh this is awkward. The last time I had a yarn on here was six weeks ago. No one likes awkward silences, they're almost as bad as awkward handshakes...but not quite. Blame the Rugby World Cup. I've been drowning in a sea of car flags, face paint, patriotism and well, wine to be frank.

So we won. That's nice, bloody nice. But now what? You could almost hear a collective sigh as the excitement of the win wore off and we all trudged back to the office on Tuesday. It's like the entire city of Auckland is coming down off an epic high.

Take Friday afternoon at my workplace. As we happen to have a bar on our floor (which never gets old if you were wondering), usually the final working hours of the week are dominated by the sound of bottles clinking and chat, everyone pretending we don't have that much to do and putting real work off until Monday.

This Friday was a different story. The clacking of fingers on keyboards filled the air well into the afternoon and the jukebox pouted from lack of attention. Doesn't bear thinking about what it would have been like if we had lost!

The words 'detox' and 'diet' have all been bandied around the office this week as people start to listen to their livers screaming for a cuppa tea and a lie down. Bank balances have also taken a beating which is why the only spending I'm doing this weekend is time on the couch.

The world cup gave us all an excuse to get loose and now we're left nursing our wounds and pointing the finger. I've heard a lot of “I would have done [insert work assignment, health goal and/or general life obligation] but you know with the world cup and all....” This is generally followed by a nod of acknowledgment as the listener recalls what they haven't got around to for the past six weeks.

Unfortunately for around 15,000 crazy people (including my man) the Auckland marathon took place this morning. Judging by the amount of people in Auckland city last weekend (EVERYONE) I can imagine that there will be some sorry people on that track today. Putting off cleaning the BBQ is one thing but putting off training for a blimmin marathon...let's just say I'd rather eat the mouldy sausages.

What I'm struggling with is this overwhelming feeling of what's next. What else can I possibly use to justify putting off real life for a bit? Maybe we should just call it the Silly Season already. If anyone questions it, blame Countdown for selling advent calendars in October.

I guess there's always an excuse for getting rowdy but I sure will miss using the Rugby World Cup as mine. Here's to a great six weeks and ofcourse, the boys in black.

The Fever

I've got it. No not the glandular, dengue or boogie varieties but rather Rugby World Cup fever. I feel a bit naughty writing those words, like I should have some trademark licensing jazz in a disclaimer somewhere. Then again, I'm getting enough of that at work so this is my chance to break the rules. Watch out, I might start referring to it as RWC “two thousand and eleven” (apparently the world will implode or something if you don't stick to “twenty eleven”).

Pedantic advertising rules aside, I reckon the World Cup has been the best thing to happen to this country all year. Never before have I felt such a buzz around Auckland. It feels like everyone is in a better mood and all about having a good time. I'm living in the moment because I'm too worried at the prospect of living in a city where the entire population is grieving a loss.

I suppose right now it's literally all fun and games. The little guys are 'having a go' and we're all showing up (or at least drinking up) to support them. This afternoon I'm off to Wales vs Samoa...at the pub. Pretty much blew all my funds on tickets to the Opening Match- yeah I feel it deserves caps because it was a-may-zing.

Very few times in a New Zealander's life do you feel patriotic. We have some sort of inbuilt modesty from being the wee fellas down under or something. That night though, watching that little boy in his Canterbury colours running around with the giant glowing rugby ball...I had tears in my eyes.

The whole night was such an experience. Catching the train with half of the city, sitting next to a complete stranger because Tom and I couldn't afford seats together (my neighbour was about 90 and eventually warmed to my wine induced screaming and flag waving) and the walking procession home. Oh yeah and this...

I was officially hooked on the Cup.

I almost had an epic fail at the game though. I may have been a little hungover the day before and stumbling into a $2 dollar shop to collect face paint and other such supplies, I was told that the flag I was clutching was actually Australian. Doh. Clearly my patriotism is a new thing....along with being a rugby fan.

I'm the black sheep of my family when it comes to watching the ruggers. I grew up amazed by what the big fuss was whenever there was a game on. Usually I'd be in another room but could never quite drown out the sound of my mother yelling “HERE'S A GO” like a mad woman every time we approached the try line.

Now I'm happy to say I finally get it. I don't struggle to sit through a game and actually enjoy the action. Last night watching Ireland take the Wallabies to the cleaners (never really got that expression but it seems apt) I was this close to screaming “here's a go” myself.

I think I owe my new found obsession to the electric atmosphere around town. Sure there have been some fails like Auckland's public transport and those paper flags that lined the streets and now clutter the gutter. Oh and don't even get me started on Sean Fitzpatrick driving that 'fist' car. Really though, this is so not a time to dwell on lame things like that. This is a time to get amongst! So go out and get yourself one of those tacky car flags- you know you want to.

Nineties Child

As I was perusing Facebook on Sunday checking out the usual carnage from Saturday night, I noticed some photos from a 25^th birthday party where the theme was the Nineties. It suddenly occurred to me that us twenty somethings are finally at the point where we can get nostalgic about our childhood decade. It also made me excited at the prospect of Eighties parties getting phased out, 'cause as fun as pretending we all like shoulder pads and Cyndi Lauper is...well yeah, it ain't so much after the zillionth time.

 

When I think about certain decades my mind instantly jumps to the music that came out of them. It was an interesting time for my taste personally. I suppose being a tween is the time where you discover what you actually like as opposed to what the charts tell you to like. I remember going from perfecting Spice Girls and Britney dance moves to falling in love with Kurt Cobain and black T-shirts all in the same year. This is why I was inspired to crank my Nineties playlist at the gym today. The playlist was actually born out of my inner Nineties child love for mix tapes...

 

When I first started falling for Tom, for some reason I thought it appropriate to make him these mix tapes. Although, seeing as he didn't actually have cassette player access (and let's face it, 'drag and drop' beats 'rewinding and fast forwarding' in the efficiency stakes) I decided a CD was preferable. Anyway, I'd made a few of these compilations and decided he might appreciate a serving of Nirvana, sprinkled with Blur and seasoned with the Smashing Pumpkins...as you do.

 

Man I enjoyed listening to that today. I really want to host a Nineties party now just so I can bombard people with my favourite tunes from that time. There are plenty.

 

It's not just about the music though, fashion of course plays a huge part in defining a decade. Like me, you may have noticed some Nineties trends creeping back into people's wardrobes in recent times. Fluoro, scrunchies and dare I say it...denim on denim (guilty) all seem to be making a bit of a come back. I just hope that the line is drawn at side ponytails though- let's not get too carried away.

 

Hell, even Nineties toys are making a comeback. Although my idea of a My Little Pony is vastly different from those that are in the shops now. Is it just me or are the new ones creepy as fuck? Why must their eyes be so big? They look like they'd eat Elmo's face off if he looked at them funny.

 

Not even the film industry is safe from this Nineties invasion. I'm quite excited about seeing The Smurfs on the big screen (and secretly hoping it paves the way for a Snorks comeback!) Oh and who would've guessed that one of the highest grossing films for the year 2011 would have been based on that old cartoon about giant robots that transform into trucks and stuff. So disappointed they don't use the 'More than meets the eye' theme in the flicks.

 

Speaking of awesome theme songs- who could forget that green haired spunk Captain Planet?! Do gooders have never been so cool. I'm pretty sure that every Nineties kid has stolen a ring from their Mum and pretended to be a Planeteer...any of them but the gay dude with the 'heart' power that is. Lahaaame.

 

I could go on....this reminiscing stuff is quite fun really. It's amusing that you generally have to wait twenty or so years before it's acceptable to get nostalgic about a decade. I'm just glad that it's finally the Nineties' time to shine. Let's all toast it with a nice cool can of Mirinda.

 

Oh and here's my playlist, just incase you were wondering. Judge me as you see fit...

• Devils Haircut (Beck)
• Cannonball (The Breeders)
• Along comes Mary (Bloodhound gang)
• Beetlebum (Blur)
• When I grow up (Garbage)
• Jump around (House of Pain)
• What's the story morning glory (Oasis)
• Brick (Ben Folds Five)
• Novocaine for the soul (Eels)
• Scooby Snacks (Fun Lovin Criminals)
• Black hole sun (Soundgarden)
• Sunday morning (No Doubt)
• My Friends (Red hot chili peppers)
• Peaches (Presidents of the USA)
• Siva (Smashing Pumpkins)
• My iron lung (Radiohead)
• Moving (Supergrass)
• Heart Shaped box (Nirvana)

The Joys of Pottering

Once again, blogging has taken a back seat to that attention seeking pal of mine- procrastination. This time, I do have an excuse up my sleeve though. The Move. I feel that it deserves capitalisation after the amount of effort I and poor Tom (who is charged with the heavy lifting) have poured into the project.

I'm proud to say that after a week or so of playing tetris with our furniture in the treehut that is our apartment, we are finally settled. Well....almost kindof sortof settled. You see, now that we have our own place it always feels like there's something that could be done around the place. Nothing major really but just little things. The only word for it is pottering.

This past weekend has been spent doing just that. Chucking out stuff, buying new stuff, tidying and so on. Yesterday Tom and I had to refrain from high fiving each other when we scored an 'extreme' dustbuster for nearly half price at Briscoes. Jesus we're only renting, what am I going to be like when we own our own house? Actually I can answer that. I will be my mother.

I'm the daughter of an almost compulsive potterer. Preferable to the compulsive gambler or alcoholic mother ofcourse - pottering is very much a middle class affliction. It never bothered me but I never quite understood it. Sunday afternoons spent vacuuming and putting stuff (mostly mine and my brother's stuff) back in it's rightful place. It seemed mad that she wouldn't also want to veg on the couch with an assortment of snacks. To be fair I suppose she hadn't mixed Baileys, red wine and whatever other alcohol we could get our hands on as teens the night before. Though even if she did have a big night, Mum would be up without fail bright and early the following morning, putting everything back where it should go.

It's strangely satisfying rattling around your own place. So much so that I chose Murder Burger (amazing Ponsonby burger joint) and the couch over having a life on Saturday night. I woke up at 8am this morning with an urge to put on a load of towels and wash the new purchases from Briscoes before putting them away.

Most Sunday mornings I wake up with an urge of another kind and it's not pleasant. It was quite a welcome change.

This pottering business is proof that we are selfish beings. I never had this kind of compulsion when flatting with others. My attitude was much more along the lines of 'why should I clean the bathroom when so and so hasn't done it for weeks?' I suppose you're a lot more tolerant of the person you share a bed with so when it's only the two of you then there's none of that. Also I have one of those very rare beings...a clean and tidy (most of the time) male.

So now that we've unpacked and the place is looking relatively presentable, my mind is set on entertaining. I guess you could call it the fruits of our labour, having mates over to “ooh” and “aah” over our pottering efforts. And let's be honest, we NEED some sort of social interaction if we're getting excited about dustbusters.

Till next time then, just off to organise the linen cupboard...