Leggings. They aren't trousers.*

*or, A Brief & Judgmental Foray Into Fashion Blogging.

Are you listening, Christchurch? Leggings are not trousers. I understand leggings under a skirt. I understand leggings under a tunic thing. I even understand leggings without feet in (sort of). What I don't understand is leggings all by themselves. Unless you are a cyclist, there is no reason to ever wear leggings, all on their lonesome, as trousers. For God's sake, people! I can see your bum. (Is that the point?)

Christchurch is weird like that. In Wellington when people wear ridiculously OTT outfits they're blatantly hoping to appear incredibly quirky/professional/artistic/trendy, and thus stand out from the seething mass of Cuba-clogging humanity. I can't pretend to have any idea what the majority of Christchurchians are trying to achieve when they get dressed in the morning because none of them end up looking any good. God, Christchurch, you're such a try-hard.

Two Irritating Non-Fashion-Related Things About Christchurch

- My mother's cellphone ringtone. Her incoming txt alert is about the same length as the Tony's Tire Service jingle, and slightly more irritating. She's also one of those people who, when her phone starts playing its obnoxious little tune, goes "Oh! That's my phone!" and yet makes no effort to turn it off. I am eventually going to snap and throw it in the toilet.

- The health regime I have unwittingly allowed home to impose on me. No smoking (family unaware of this nasty habit, and those who know about it think I've quit, which I suppose I have now, actually). Hardly any drinking (hard to go out drinking when you know 4 people and none of them like, well, going out drinking). Eating healthily (family cupboard full of vegetabley things).

Whinge whinge whinge. I think I am just bored. I had a pretty strong feeling Christchurch was going to be insanely boring, but I was hoping to be proved wrong.

Last night - Saturday night - I went to the movies with my mother and my aunt - GOD DAMN IT WELLINGTON I MISS YOU.

Ok so I am settled in now.

In that I have unpacked about 70% of my stuff and thrown it casually about the room in one of this season's hottest decor trends, something I like to call 'Hurricane Chic.'

In other news, I had an Idea this morning in the shower (a place where many good ideas are born - my theory is that mist and steam rising in front of your eyes stimulates the creative parts of your brain usually left unstimulated, which is of course why you have so many great thoughts in a hotboxed Bedford). The Idea was a ludicrously Machiavellian revenge plot to get my own back on Butthead McArseface, and has sparked a minor moral dilemma because I did say I was going to be the bigger person and not exact any revenge at all on BH McAF. Normally this would be a bendable rule, if it was a small, letting-down-your-tires kind of revenge. Unfortunately as my idea is not so much slash-your-tires as it is nuke-your-airports there is now a small battle going on in my brain. It goes a little something like this -

Setting: a Brain. ANGEL is sitting at a table, doing the Sudoku. DEVIL enters highly excited and having obviously just got out of the shower.

DEVIL: Hey! Listen to this I have just had the best idea.
ANGEL: Um, can you put on a towel or something?
DEVIL: Sorry. Anyway I had this great idea... Idea is described. Yeah?
ANGEL: Nope. No way. No way are you going to do that.
DEVIL: Trust you to say that. Shouts. Justice? Back me up on this.

Enter SENSE of JUSTICE.

JUSTICE, to ANGEL: It is pretty deserved, you've got to give him that.
ANGEL: I don't care how deserved it is, it's still completely evil. What would Conscience say?
DEVIL: Who cares? I haven't seen her in weeks.
JUSTICE: She's on holiday.
DEVIL: Perfect timing, then. She can deal with this when she gets back.
ANGEL: You do know she's going to kick your ass.
JUSTICE and DEVIL, in unison: Totally worth it.

Or, to look at it from another angle, this can be my revenge for quitting smoking. I would make an awesome movie villain. Watch your back.

In Other News...

Christchurch is still a shitty place to live. More updates when unpacked and not so sorely tempted to run screaming to the airport and get on the next plane to pretty much any other city.

Movin' on Up (or down if we are being geographically accurate)

Well, Christchurch was an interesting three days.

Grandmother, clothes swap party and camping trip were all better than expected.
Managed to deflect grandmotherly enquiries about My Life by blurting out things like "So what did you think of the elections," and "There's a cat in your garden," (there was) and, in desperation, "How far into the turkey do you put the stuffing," every time a sensitive subject was neared. It was pretty effective, although my mother was not overly impressed, particularly with the turkey query. It was totally relevant! I have to cook one at Christmas! Hmph.

(Incidentally, you shove the stuffing all the way up - the ribcage stops it. I know you were wondering.)

Camping was good - put the tent up properly first time! This is completely unprecedented in my family (and, to my knowledge, also in the families of everyone else I know, except for those weird outdoorsy type families. You know the ones. They have a bach and go skiing all the time). Camping was with my little sister, and we sometimes have a um slightly volatile friendship, but we managed to avoid all arguments! Well, until we were taking down the tent and, after I spent ten minutes rolling it up while Little Sister leant against the car and txt her horrid boyfriend, tent would not fit in tent bag. Well. It would, but tent bag wouldn't close when tent was in, and apparently that is a completely vital part of tent putting-away. (Bollocks!) So I said "All right, if it's so important that tent bag will close then you can do it because I am not going to do it again," and it was all downhill from there. But apart from that camping was good fun!

Clothes swap party was great – met Andrea’s friends (all of whom were remarkably pleasant), ate a lot of biscuits and snagged myself several nice items of clothing, including these pants which I am wearing right now. You can’t see them, but they’re there. On my legs.

We shall draw a veil over the things that did not go so well (family arguments and reunions that would’ve been better left as…non-reunions. Estrangements, perhaps. Nothing like a nice reunion to make you realise why you never see someone.) I also hate the way that a long weekend always drives home how insanely crazy angry your job makes you. It may be because I got up at 5am to get on a plane, but I keep feeling like I’m about to fall asleep on my desk and dribble all over my paperwork (best use for it). People keep saying “Oh, you look tired,” which we all know is just a polite way to say “Oh, you look like you have been dragged through a bush backwards.” Am going to a tea tasting evening tonight – joined the loyalty club of my favourite tea shop - and they will be giving us little edible nibbly things and hot teas and iced teas and their 'famous Christmas tea.' Tragically, all I am interested in doing is going home and sleeping.

I’ve decided that I am going to move to Christchurch. I know I have been swinging wildly back and forth on this, not unlike – I was going to make a political metaphor but I don’t really understand how swing states work – but I have Decided. Move home. Save money. Work is not a problem as I can sort myself with an agency while I’m still here, and start temping more or less as soon as I arrive in the Garden City.

So far announcement of moving plan has got mixed reactions; excitement (from my little sister and Andrea, who I like because they can always be relied upon to look forward to Me), tentative excitement (from my mother and other family members, who say things like ‘well that would be lovely of course but only if you’re sure it’s the right thing for you'), mixture of happiness and faint irritation (Sister Flatmate, who wants me to be happy but feels slighted), and total silence (Christchurch based group of friends, who will no doubt give me a mixture of enthusiasm and trepidation ("Yay, we can drink all the time!" "Are you bringing back that umbrella you borrowed?" and, my personal favourite from That Friend Who Thinks They Know Your Very Soul But Has Probably Forgotten Your Birthday Again, “Are you doing this for the right reasons?” This must be delivered with an air of suspicion and, when you reply with a firm "Yes I am," a "hmm" of total disbelief).

Am not sure how actual logistics of moving will work. Sainted Mother has offered to help but only as far as Picton, because taking her car on the ferry would be hideously expensive. Hideously expensive as opposed to, oh, I don’t know, getting a moving van? Hmph. Don’t know how much moving vans cost. Am currently trying to think of friends with vans who I might be able to bribe into helping me move – but I can’t think of any friends with vans that I want to be stuck in a van with for 8 hours.

Am off to get a midafternoon gelato with colleague as am running out of steam somewhat. I wonder if there is gelato in Christchurch? I may have to rethink this moving plan.

Four Exciting Things and Three Grumbles

Four Exciting Things

1. My impossibly coloured friend Andrea – wow. I’ve used that phrase several times before and never realised quite how racist it sounds until right now. I’m sorry! It’s based on her blog title, put your pitchfork away. Anyway, that’s not the exciting thing (although I suppose accidental racism is mildly exciting on a slow news day) – the exciting thing is that my impossibly (flesh)coloured friend Andrea has given me a blog award! (Which she will probably now take back.)
Still, I’m excited as have never been given a blog award before! Am going to put it up on my blog as soon as I figure out how to. Thank you, Andrelles! I am finally famous on the Internet.

2. I am visiting Christchurch this weekend – this means I get to see my family, and Andrea, and many other people beside. My plan for the weekend goes like this (I don’t care if you’re not excited, I am). Friday night – arrive at Chch airport, slightly giddy with excitement and pre-boarding call wine. Taxi home and bypass embrace of mother and sister for embrace of fridge (family always have goodies that I never buy for myself). Run around being excited. Go to bed. Saturday morning – Go Christmas shopping with my sister and a couple of my cousins. Begin in very high spirits, and then gradually become annoyed with mall, sister and cousins. Quite possibly end up going home on the bus by myself, laden with bags full of presents, most of which will be for myself. Saturday afternoon – go to Andrea’s for clothes swap party! Feel inadequate at lack of beautiful things to swap, but make up for this by claiming as many nice things as possible. Hang out with Andrea, drink coffee. Saturday night – not sure yet, but it will probably involve drinking and being merry. But not too merry, because on Sunday morning I am going to have brunch with my mother and grandmother. My grandmother will ask a) what I am doing with my life, b) why I am not a published writer yet, c) how band is going and d) what I am doing for Christmas. Then she will be very disappointed in me (because answers are as follows – a) exactly the same as the last time we spoke; b) because I am too lazy, c) I quit band and d) I am not coming home for Christmas) and go on at length about my wasted potential. I will become annoyed, and quite possibly end up going home on the bus by myself. Sunday afternoon – hopefully hang out with Andrea again, complain about grandmother and unfairness of not being able to shout at old people. (I do love my grandmother very much, but she is such a shameless guilt tripper.) Sunday night – go camping with my sister! I’m ridiculously excited about this, despite the fact that I hate nature and can’t work a BBQ. Monday – arse about enjoying day off not working when everyone else is. Go to pub quiz in the evening and do my pub quiz trick (convincing everyone else in my team that their unanimously-agreed-on answer of 'saxophone' is wrong and that actually everyone knows it was the trombone that Adolph Sax invented, then being proven incorrect and ostracised). Tuesday morning – fly home. Go to work. Sulk.

3. Am getting haircut on Thursday! Hair is currently shoulder length and about three shades off black, but come Thursday night it will be in a blonde pixie cut, quite possibly spiked into a little fauxhawk, and various shades of blonde. I used to have a pixie cut about a year ago, and I miss it. This Exciting Thing has a bonus layer of excitement as hair appointment is at 4.30, so I get to skive off work early. (Will say it is a doctor’s appointment.) Told my (younger, Christchurch) sister Kate about this, and she said, “No, you can’t! Long hair is sexy and vibrant! Short hair isn’t. Short hair says, ‘I am trying to be edgy.’” I said, “I do not want to be sexy and vibrant, I want a hairstyle that actually suits me.” Kate: “But men don’t like short hair on women.” …wait, what? Kate used to be an irritatingly devoted feminist (“I’ll never change myself for a man!” “I don’t understand women who sit around at home waiting for their men!” etc.). Then she turned 16, met Horrid Boyfriend, and turned into exactly the sort of little women she used to hate. Huh. Love is weird. (Also irrelevant to haircut.)

4. My job is sales-based, and on top of our salary we get a commission bonus every six months. Mine gets paid tomorrow and it is pretty freakin’ hefty. (Hence impromptu trip to Chch and visit to stupidly expensive hair salon.) I am going to party like a rock star. And then wonder three months later, when all the money is gone, why on earth I didn’t do something sensible with it.


and now, in the interests of symmetry -

Four Grumbles

1. I’m sickish at the moment and have a cough, and from time to time people say things like “Can you stop coughing? It’s really annoying.” “Yeah, I know – painful, too! Oh. Oh, you mean for you. Yeah, that must suck.” I do appreciate that it’s irritating but there’s really nothing I can do about it. (“Can you get some cough medicine or something?” “Sure, but cough medicine makes me vomit. Is that going to be more or less annoying for you, bearing in mind that I will be vomiting in your direction?”)

2. In my ‘pod’ at work (I am still deciding if I am a whale or a pea – given the amount of bagels I have consumed recently I’m leaning towards whale) we have a system where everyone puts in money for coffee, and we buy a thing of coffee, and then every morning a plunger is made, and we all drink the coffee. Doesn’t sound grumble-worthy, does it? Well, the guy who makes the coffee makes it far too strong. I like strong coffee, but we’re talking unbearably bitter here – he just keeps pouring coffee into the plunger. Not only does it render it far less enjoyable, it means we go through coffee about twice as fast as we should, which I resent because I put in money for coffee. Have tried mentioning it and occasionally making the coffee myself, but he just bitches and adds more coffee to the plunger after my initial efforts. Humph.

3. The fax room smells like something has died in it.

4. I am concerned that impending short haircut will highlight chubby face. This is not a new worry, but I did need a fourth grumble and couldn’t think of anything else. Perhaps this is why men don’t like short hair? Haha.

There's a little ditty they're singing in the city...

I an in Christchurch! 'Why the exclamation point,' I hear you, faceless millions that are my readers, exclaim, 'we thought you didn't like Christchurch! We thought, in fact, that you hated Christchurch!'
Ah, dear friends, I do...but I am here for my Best Friend's Wedding. It is just like the movie except that a) we are both girls and b) I am not in love with a member of the bridal party and c) neither of us have the lips of Julia Roberts (thank goodness.)

So I am in Christchurch. It is currently ridiculously early and I am trawling through the reams of crap on the internet to find things to help my friend with his photography project. Last night I filled out an interview about Brass Bands for my (other) friend's musicology project. Let it not be said that I do not make sacrifices.

Everything continues much as normal...I laddered my tights and have to buy a new pair, the property management people think I am fantastic, as they should ("I'm in love with him." "Does he know?" "Yes. He doesn't find it surprising.") My love life is in its usual snafu (do you know where that word comes from? I didn't. If you don't it's worth looking up. I am reading Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue, and have learnt many facts. The only one that's really stuck is that if you were to be transported suddenly back to 600 AD (how is it, by the way, that when you watch shitty movies where Whoopi Goldberg or someone is in this exact scenario, the languages differences never fuck everything up? Just a thought) some of the very few words that you and the Angles would have in common, with pronunciation and meaning remaining the same for almost 2000 years, are 'tit' (in the non-orinithological sense, and YES I made up the spelling of that) and 'fart'. Why is it always these kind of facts that I remember?). So yes, my love life is like the Cold War (first analogy of the day, and you can just TELL that it's going to be a good one because I know nothing about the Cold War whatsoever) in that it seems simple and easy to understand, but it ISN'T. (Learnt this when attempted to do some research on the Cold War (keep typing Cold Wart) by asking Mum, who it turns out knows as much about it as I do).

Can't remember why so many brackets had to die for that paragraph. I will now attempt to compose myself and a paragraph without any brackets at all- a bracketsless paragraph, if you will. This is easy because I don't really have any news except that I have to go out to Sumner- not that I don't want to- for a hen's party brunch. A hen's party brunch is what happens to a hen's night when it is organised by a Christian (and no, I will not take that back. Bugger. Brackets.)

Right, I am going to look for pithy sayings now. I shall leave you with one, in fact. "A halo has only to slip a few inches to become a noose."

Pithy, no?

(Also ambiguous. If anyone has any more interpretations of this, do let me know.)