It has been Christmas and now it is not Christmas anymore for a WHOLE YEAR. (Although in Just Jeans today I did take a Christmas photo for the staff, who wore Santa hats and clustered around the dressing room mirror and said things like "We were just so busy yesterday!" and "It seems to go faster every year!" and "Just push the little button on the top.") Only in Nelson, huh? On that note (bad pun here), saw a busker today (smallish girl with violin) who had a sign saying "Am Saving For A Pony."
See, in Wellington, that would be ironic.
Am staying with Dad. Dad was Santa for some store or other over the Christmas period, and made several witty (and festive) remarks to passing couples, the best of which was to an elderly man and his wife ("Remember when you asked for that gorgeous brunette? You never said thanks." -wife giggles-). A passer-by overheard this and wrote into the local paper, they were so impressed! We were also dutifully impressed until it turned out that lo! 'passerby' had been Dad.
Family Christmas dinner in Christchurch was much as expected, apart from v strange ten minutes where I mentioned my job in passing ("So how's Wellington going?") and everyone was Very Interested and we spent a good ten minutes talking about Eftpos machines over the turkey (rather than talking turkey over the eftpos machine). Other highlights included my sister revealing that her boyfriend had dyed his armpit hair blonde (and then defending to the death his right to do so), and my smaller cousin revealing she had worms. Truly a festive occasion.
Also I have bought a bikini, following a grade-A tantrum in the mall (this is in preparation for BrisbanD - if I'm going to be poncing around the beach in a bikini I thought I'd better buy one. It cost a shitload. It probably worked out at $5 a centimetre, or something, but at least now I won't have to ponce around naked (although depending on how things pan out with the Thing, I could- NO!)) Not having to ponce around naked is a good thing, surely?
And tonight my older sister and I are going to go and sample the delights of Nelson's nightlife. Suspect these delights will be limited but such is life. Am not sure whether to blend in with the locals (most of whom look like Britney post-well, everything) or to be an Individual. Also need to buy cigarettes and beer. Cigarettes and beer, cigarettes and beer. Will now transpose beer song
(to the tune of If I Only Had A Brain, from thewizardofoz).
I could while away the hours, conversing with the flowers and whatever else is near
I'd be charming, I'd be witty, and my day would be less shitty
If I only had a beer.
I could dance the Hokey Pokey and warble karaoke devoid of shame or fear
I'd be charming, I'd be funny, I would not have any money
If I only had a beer.
And I could have a pie, at three a.m. or four
And I'd drop a lot of it upon the floor, and then I'd walk into the door!
Life would be less dull and dreary if I were pissed and leery, to me that much is clear
I'd be witty, I'd be charming, I could shag someone alarming
If I only had a beer!
Why would you stand around the kitchen, a'moaning and a'bitchin' cause the weather isn't fine
When you could be oh so happy and your day would be less crappy
If you only had a wine.
You could dance around in stockings, pretend your life you're rocking, and your nose would redly shine
How I wish we had some vino, we could have a proper beano
If we only had some wine.
We'd down our drinks in town, 'twould be a glorious lark
I'd converse with someone tall and cute and dark, and then wake up in Churton Park!
I would not be glum and cranky, with hair and clothes all manky, no, I'd border on divine
Full of confidence and grace, with makeup smeared across my face,
If I only had a wine!
So let's stumble down to Shooters, I might get out my hooters and fall off my high-heeled shoes
And my poise would be rewarded in a way completely sordid
If I only had some booze!
And when I've created messes, blaming drinking to excesses my behaviour does excuse
So come on, let your feelings true show, I'll declare my love for Hugo
If I only had some booze!
To me, sobriety is something found in church
So, for the meaning of all life now let us search - from bar to bar I wish to lurch!
When you find your life you're hating, your job is sent from Satan, well darling that's not news
So to the bar let's get our asses and fill up our stolen glasses
With a little bit of booze!
It really works rather better as a duet. Do you think Festive Lettuce is a good band name?
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sunday
It's not a Sunday, but it feels like one. I bought shoes. The practical pair are black ankle boots with pointed toes and stiletto heels and straps across them, with little buckles on the straps. There are also a pair of bejewelled satiny turquoise pointed-toe heels, and a pair of black strappy shoes with gold detailing and ridiculously high heels. YAY SHOES! Alas, poverty.
Am thinking about what I'm going to play at Andrea's upcoming nuptials. 'Makin' Whoopee' has been over-ruled, as has 'Don't Marry Me.' Have offered to make a horse noise on my trumpet but this has also been declined. No idea why! Audience would expect to see a horse! Then I had the thought that actually Andrea and David could LEAVE the church in a two-person horse costume. It would symbolise the way that two must move as one as the marriage trots along. And I could make horse noises on my trumpet, and people in the pews could knock coconut shells together, as is the time-honoured tradition. As the dutiful wife Andrea would, however, have to be the back end.
Dad and I wrote a highly catchy tune last night. "You got a txt while you were shavin' your face (x3), I wonder who it's from?" "Txt from Barb while I was shavin' my face (x3), that's who it was from." It was based on a true story in which Dad got a txt -from Barb- while he was shaving his face. I could've played it at the wedding, if we hadn't decided by now that actually Moon River will be the song of choice.
Dad told me a story the other day, when we were talking about tomatoes. It goes like this. Bear in mind that it's coming from my retired father, who does not normally tell such stories. "I was in a flat in my younger days, and my mate Tim grew tomatoes, because they're good for hiding dope in." I sort of went 'wait...what?' at that point. "Yes...only, the dope grew all tall and thin and twice the height of the tomatoes and wasn't very well hidden at all. And so we were all sort of sitting around one night, stoned out of our heads, and we thought why not tie little bunches of tomatoes onto the dope plants? To better disguise them, like. But it didn't work because there's actually not anything you can tie tomatoes onto dope plants by. So there we were, outside, trying to stick needles through tomatoes. But then we gave up and went for a walk- there were four of us- and we were quite convinced that the only thing keeping the world spinning was our feet, pushing it backwards under us. We walked for hours because if we stopped, so would the world." Pause. "Funny things you do, when you're doped out of your mind."
Funny things indeed. Up there with Vic's story- it's sort of his party story from what I can gather, he keeps bloody telling it- about the time he woke up in a driveway with no pants on, and didn't know whose driveway it was.
In other news, fuck Mahler. I am sick of him and his fascination with mortality and his constant harking back to his childhood and his love of the flugelhorn. Told this to a friend who was not familiar with the word 'flugelhorn' (fair enough, really), and the conversation went downhill from there. Suffice to say I am never going to be able to listen to someone say "I polished my instrument last night" with a straight face again.
If you could have an extra body part, what would you have? I would have a tail.
Am thinking about what I'm going to play at Andrea's upcoming nuptials. 'Makin' Whoopee' has been over-ruled, as has 'Don't Marry Me.' Have offered to make a horse noise on my trumpet but this has also been declined. No idea why! Audience would expect to see a horse! Then I had the thought that actually Andrea and David could LEAVE the church in a two-person horse costume. It would symbolise the way that two must move as one as the marriage trots along. And I could make horse noises on my trumpet, and people in the pews could knock coconut shells together, as is the time-honoured tradition. As the dutiful wife Andrea would, however, have to be the back end.
Dad and I wrote a highly catchy tune last night. "You got a txt while you were shavin' your face (x3), I wonder who it's from?" "Txt from Barb while I was shavin' my face (x3), that's who it was from." It was based on a true story in which Dad got a txt -from Barb- while he was shaving his face. I could've played it at the wedding, if we hadn't decided by now that actually Moon River will be the song of choice.
Dad told me a story the other day, when we were talking about tomatoes. It goes like this. Bear in mind that it's coming from my retired father, who does not normally tell such stories. "I was in a flat in my younger days, and my mate Tim grew tomatoes, because they're good for hiding dope in." I sort of went 'wait...what?' at that point. "Yes...only, the dope grew all tall and thin and twice the height of the tomatoes and wasn't very well hidden at all. And so we were all sort of sitting around one night, stoned out of our heads, and we thought why not tie little bunches of tomatoes onto the dope plants? To better disguise them, like. But it didn't work because there's actually not anything you can tie tomatoes onto dope plants by. So there we were, outside, trying to stick needles through tomatoes. But then we gave up and went for a walk- there were four of us- and we were quite convinced that the only thing keeping the world spinning was our feet, pushing it backwards under us. We walked for hours because if we stopped, so would the world." Pause. "Funny things you do, when you're doped out of your mind."
Funny things indeed. Up there with Vic's story- it's sort of his party story from what I can gather, he keeps bloody telling it- about the time he woke up in a driveway with no pants on, and didn't know whose driveway it was.
In other news, fuck Mahler. I am sick of him and his fascination with mortality and his constant harking back to his childhood and his love of the flugelhorn. Told this to a friend who was not familiar with the word 'flugelhorn' (fair enough, really), and the conversation went downhill from there. Suffice to say I am never going to be able to listen to someone say "I polished my instrument last night" with a straight face again.
If you could have an extra body part, what would you have? I would have a tail.
Monday, August 13, 2007
I've been working in the vineyard
All the live long day! Today, I was on the bottling line. Like global warming and bird flu, it's not as interesting as it sounds. The bottles (empty, unlabelled, grubby) get put on a sterilising thing with many nozzles (reminds me of a sort of reverse milking machine, without the cow) by Doug. Today Doug told me that working on the bottling line reminds him or what working on a submarine would be like, had he ever worked on one. What he was trying to convey, besides the fact that he needs to get out more, was that, like a submarine, the bottling line is a small space full of temperamental people and equally temperamental machinery. Also on both a submarine and a bottling line, your fuckup under pressure becomes everyone else's fuckup under pressure. Pressure, pressure, pressure! I miss my cutting up sticks. Then you could go slowly, and go to the bathroom when you needed to (can't leave the bottling line as machinery will do something.)
What, I hear you ask, what exactly do you DO on the bottling line? I was getting to that. When the bottles come out of the milking sterilising machine where they have been put by Doug who is not a submariner, they get passed along a conveyor belt to Lois, who puts them on a machine that picks them up and fills them with wine. Mostly. Sometimes it drops them and sometimes it fills the air next to them with wine. At the moment, the wine we're bottling is ice wine, which is made out of frozen grapes or something equally silly and gets put into dinky little dessert wine bottles. Which are too small to make the journey down the Great Conveyor Belt (between Doug and Lois) on their own. They fall over. Backwards. Unless someone is there pushing them along and making sure that they do not fall backwards.
Guess what I've been doing all day?
While I was standing there in the cold, guiding the bottles gently with my hand and pleading with them not to fall backwards, the scar on the back of my hand started itching, and I knew instantly that the Dark Lord was active again...no. I knew it was going to rain (it did, later.) And that started me thinking about old men and their gammy yet meteorologically accurate knees, and I formulated a theory only slightly less ridiculous than Friday's theory about God. You see, way back when, in primitive village society, the gammy old man would sit outside his hut and say "Eee, it's going to RAIN." And then it did. (He could tell because his knee was acting up.) And the rest of the village looked at one another in amazement and said, "How did he KNOW? He must have a direct line to the Weather Gods." And so naturally the old man with the gammy knee became the village wise man, shaman or whatever. And so began the worshipping of the wise man in villages worldwide, and so also began the ancient art of meteorology. Which is why everyone sits, hypnotised, in front of their telly, avidly hanging on every word Toni the TV3 weather lady says. Obviously, she is all-knowing.
Dad has cleaned his desk. He did not clean up anything belonging to me because, as he said, it was all strewn about but maybe it was in order, as one man's order is another man's strew.
Also, I was thinking of starting a company called An Itch in the Damp. I do not know what it would sell or what service it would privde, but the point is that I could start a whole, similarly named range, after A Stab in the Dark. A Poke in the Nose. A Bandaid in the Rubbish Bin. A Pee in the Shower. I was thinking this, in case anyone was wondering, because I had one today. The Itch in the Damp. I believe I have mentioned it already. I also had a Poke in the Nose and a Bandaid in the Rubbish Tin, but I did not have a Pee in the Shower. I did have one, but it was somewhere else. I am rambling, so before my brains fall out my nose I am going to go and drink my coffee upstairs. And watch the weather.
What, I hear you ask, what exactly do you DO on the bottling line? I was getting to that. When the bottles come out of the milking sterilising machine where they have been put by Doug who is not a submariner, they get passed along a conveyor belt to Lois, who puts them on a machine that picks them up and fills them with wine. Mostly. Sometimes it drops them and sometimes it fills the air next to them with wine. At the moment, the wine we're bottling is ice wine, which is made out of frozen grapes or something equally silly and gets put into dinky little dessert wine bottles. Which are too small to make the journey down the Great Conveyor Belt (between Doug and Lois) on their own. They fall over. Backwards. Unless someone is there pushing them along and making sure that they do not fall backwards.
Guess what I've been doing all day?
While I was standing there in the cold, guiding the bottles gently with my hand and pleading with them not to fall backwards, the scar on the back of my hand started itching, and I knew instantly that the Dark Lord was active again...no. I knew it was going to rain (it did, later.) And that started me thinking about old men and their gammy yet meteorologically accurate knees, and I formulated a theory only slightly less ridiculous than Friday's theory about God. You see, way back when, in primitive village society, the gammy old man would sit outside his hut and say "Eee, it's going to RAIN." And then it did. (He could tell because his knee was acting up.) And the rest of the village looked at one another in amazement and said, "How did he KNOW? He must have a direct line to the Weather Gods." And so naturally the old man with the gammy knee became the village wise man, shaman or whatever. And so began the worshipping of the wise man in villages worldwide, and so also began the ancient art of meteorology. Which is why everyone sits, hypnotised, in front of their telly, avidly hanging on every word Toni the TV3 weather lady says. Obviously, she is all-knowing.
Dad has cleaned his desk. He did not clean up anything belonging to me because, as he said, it was all strewn about but maybe it was in order, as one man's order is another man's strew.
Also, I was thinking of starting a company called An Itch in the Damp. I do not know what it would sell or what service it would privde, but the point is that I could start a whole, similarly named range, after A Stab in the Dark. A Poke in the Nose. A Bandaid in the Rubbish Bin. A Pee in the Shower. I was thinking this, in case anyone was wondering, because I had one today. The Itch in the Damp. I believe I have mentioned it already. I also had a Poke in the Nose and a Bandaid in the Rubbish Tin, but I did not have a Pee in the Shower. I did have one, but it was somewhere else. I am rambling, so before my brains fall out my nose I am going to go and drink my coffee upstairs. And watch the weather.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
People Are Nutters
Anyone who wishes to contradict this should meet the people I know.
I'm having one of those days where I look at humanity and shake my head in confusion and faint dismay. Not that I'm any less dysfunctional, but at least I REALISE this. I don't wander blithely about being a total idiot and thinking my molecular structure is made entirly of COOL. (Carbon dioxide. With Lithium.) Usually I realise when I'm being a total dick. (Carbon Dysprosium Potassiate, in case you were wondering. No, I have not wasted precious moments of my life googling how to spell 'DyCK' using the periodic table.)
I have been doing much writing on the murder mystery scenarios. I have done precious little else, though. I have not 'jumped the shark.' Or, for that matter, 'tapped the zeitgeist.' I AM the zeitgeist. Pssh. Who am I kidding, they don't let you be things you're not 100% sure you can pronounce properly. I have become semi-addicted to Bebo. This is chronically sad and it's only happening because I know no-one in Nelson! Apart from my father and his girlfriend. Although her son, who is my age, is coming to stay in a week. She and Dad have devised a plan where we all have a movie night together and the son, whose name I cannot remember, and I fall HOPELESSLY in LOVE.
This is unlikely as he is a 'happy smiley boy.' I have read between the lines and think he is probably an idiot. I am, however, open to being proved wrong.
I think I may go back upstairs, get my laptop, and do some more Work, thus giving me something to feel good about when I go to bed, rather than just that uncomfortable knowledge of Having Not Done Anything, which tends to give me strange dreams. Mind you, I have been having strange dreams all week...dreams about people I used to know, popping up again in bizarre emotional circumstances. It seems that whenever I have a dream about Jaron, it sets off a week or two of incredibly vivid, emotionally draining dreams. I was going to open another window and do something related to this, but Dad yelled from the mezzanine an update on the plot of something I'm blatantly not watching, and it flew out of my head. "Who are you keeping informed," I asked, "being as I'm not watching?" "Imaginary audience." I would like to blame this on the two (!) blocks of cadbury king-size that we've eaten (to be fair, Dad did deal to most of them). He is now yelling enthusiastically along with the man from the Easi-Off Bam! ad.
And I only have one day off before going back to work, and I'll spend it sitting around thinking about how I don't want to go back to work.
What a Flourine Uranium Carbon Potassium Erdine.
I'm having one of those days where I look at humanity and shake my head in confusion and faint dismay. Not that I'm any less dysfunctional, but at least I REALISE this. I don't wander blithely about being a total idiot and thinking my molecular structure is made entirly of COOL. (Carbon dioxide. With Lithium.) Usually I realise when I'm being a total dick. (Carbon Dysprosium Potassiate, in case you were wondering. No, I have not wasted precious moments of my life googling how to spell 'DyCK' using the periodic table.)
I have been doing much writing on the murder mystery scenarios. I have done precious little else, though. I have not 'jumped the shark.' Or, for that matter, 'tapped the zeitgeist.' I AM the zeitgeist. Pssh. Who am I kidding, they don't let you be things you're not 100% sure you can pronounce properly. I have become semi-addicted to Bebo. This is chronically sad and it's only happening because I know no-one in Nelson! Apart from my father and his girlfriend. Although her son, who is my age, is coming to stay in a week. She and Dad have devised a plan where we all have a movie night together and the son, whose name I cannot remember, and I fall HOPELESSLY in LOVE.
This is unlikely as he is a 'happy smiley boy.' I have read between the lines and think he is probably an idiot. I am, however, open to being proved wrong.
I think I may go back upstairs, get my laptop, and do some more Work, thus giving me something to feel good about when I go to bed, rather than just that uncomfortable knowledge of Having Not Done Anything, which tends to give me strange dreams. Mind you, I have been having strange dreams all week...dreams about people I used to know, popping up again in bizarre emotional circumstances. It seems that whenever I have a dream about Jaron, it sets off a week or two of incredibly vivid, emotionally draining dreams. I was going to open another window and do something related to this, but Dad yelled from the mezzanine an update on the plot of something I'm blatantly not watching, and it flew out of my head. "Who are you keeping informed," I asked, "being as I'm not watching?" "Imaginary audience." I would like to blame this on the two (!) blocks of cadbury king-size that we've eaten (to be fair, Dad did deal to most of them). He is now yelling enthusiastically along with the man from the Easi-Off Bam! ad.
And I only have one day off before going back to work, and I'll spend it sitting around thinking about how I don't want to go back to work.
What a Flourine Uranium Carbon Potassium Erdine.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Destiny! Force of.
It's a piece of music by Verdi. La Forza del Destino! I am not gambling with the occult or anything along those lines...I realise this was unclear in my last post. I am, in fact, sitting in my father's house tootling away the theme to the Stella ad. I brought no other music with me because I am an idiot.
Work today was the same as work yesterday, except it was warmer. Just got excited about dinner (sausages, egg, chips, bacon...it's not just for breakfast anymore!) and clapped my little paws together, forgetting that my right paw is HIDEOUSLY BRUISED from two days of hardcore secateuring. I said "Ffffffff." and then stopped. Probably could've finished the word, in hindsight, as yesterday when Dad and I were watching tv upstairs the phone rang downstairs, and he roared "FUCK" and almost fell down the stairs trying to get it. Then he remembered that I was there.
Also, his girlfriend came round last night (she is 61 and a very nice lady if a little ditzy from time to time) and she said at one point, "oh I think I'll take off my slippers." "Well," said my father, "that's a start, at least" and then he chuckled roguishly and she hit him on the arm. I laughed and they both looked at me and went "Whoops!"
No other news. Except I bought biscuits and am now going to EAT ONE.
(Have played force of destiny again; ryan still cranky.)
LATER UPDATE: Have eaten whole packet of biscuits.
Work today was the same as work yesterday, except it was warmer. Just got excited about dinner (sausages, egg, chips, bacon...it's not just for breakfast anymore!) and clapped my little paws together, forgetting that my right paw is HIDEOUSLY BRUISED from two days of hardcore secateuring. I said "Ffffffff." and then stopped. Probably could've finished the word, in hindsight, as yesterday when Dad and I were watching tv upstairs the phone rang downstairs, and he roared "FUCK" and almost fell down the stairs trying to get it. Then he remembered that I was there.
Also, his girlfriend came round last night (she is 61 and a very nice lady if a little ditzy from time to time) and she said at one point, "oh I think I'll take off my slippers." "Well," said my father, "that's a start, at least" and then he chuckled roguishly and she hit him on the arm. I laughed and they both looked at me and went "Whoops!"
No other news. Except I bought biscuits and am now going to EAT ONE.
(Have played force of destiny again; ryan still cranky.)
LATER UPDATE: Have eaten whole packet of biscuits.
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