Yay

Thought it was about time for a post-Christmas update, mainly because in ten minutes Kristy will stick her head up and go “You haven’t done a blog in ages!” (Kristy, do some work.)

Yay for being back at work! (But not really.) It is cold and annoying, but it’s a familiar kind of cold and annoying.

Our department somehow shares air conditioning with the equipment management department, who spend all day running round throwing eftpos machines at each other (or something) and so need to have the aircon at an inhumanly cold level so they don’t get too hot and, I don’t know, explode. This means that we poor salespeople, sitting here motionless at our desks for 8 hours a day, are constantly in Arctic temperatures and have to wear our jackets inside, in the summer. Our previous boss tried to stop us complaining by saying “See, in the winter it’s warmer than outside, and in the summer it’s cooler than outside, so it’s always comfortable!” Freak.

I had a nice Christmas. Did you have a nice Christmas? I went to Nelson and did pretty much nothing for four days except eat and drink and read and smoke and sit in the sun. Interestingly enough (depending on your definition of interesting), I have done nothing but vomit since returning to Wellington. I think I have an allergy. It is lucky that I am moving. (Moving Countdown: (not the supermarket, although when I think about what a mission that would be it makes me feel a lot better about moving house – imagine moving into Countdown, how much would that rock – no, actually, the Warehouse would be way better because you could sleep in the Manchester section – they should combine the two and lease it out – anyway!) Moving Countdown has 5 days to go. Have abandoned ‘get organised, find movers, neatly pack and label boxes’ plan and am now going with ‘throw out everything inessential, forget to book ferry until last minute, sleep in and have to run to taxi stand whilst digging through pockets in the frantic hope of finding enough change to make it to the ferry terminal’ plan, which if we’re being honest was always the more likely plan anyway.)

Someone’s phone rang before, startling us all, and she answered it with a cheery “Thank God, it’s not work-related!” Which I think sums up how all of us are feeling about work today.

I am trying to think of places to go and buy a coffee. Why do cafes get to close from Dec 24 to about Jan 5? Why do I not get to close?

Oh go away, boss, I am trying to slack off and you are interrupting me. Leave me in peace to finish my in-depth analysis of why my love life is comparable to Napoleon’s invasion of Russia. (They both failed miserably, in case you were wondering. No-one’s written an overture about my love life yet, but then it is early days.)

DANCE THE ROBOT WITH US
WE SAID, DANCE THE ROBOT
NOT LIKE THAT
IS THAT REALLY HOW WE LOOK WHEN WE DANCE
HOW EMBARRASSING
beep whirr beep

Christmas Fears

‘It is like trying to untangle a seething mass of worms with your bare hands and you’re looking at the worms through a kaleidoscope.’

I have developed a completely irrational, paranoid fear that during my preparations for Christmas Dinner something will go horribly wrong. Fears include, but are not limited to,
· The desserts will not set
· The chicken will not be cooked properly and I will give everyone festive food poisoning
· My inner gay man will take over and I will impetuously colour everything with red or green food colouring, then instantly regret it
· I will be stuffing the chicken at the last minute and the stuffing will not go in the chicken/come right out the neck of the chicken/fall on the floor
· I will get my hand stuck in the chicken
· Everything will be HORRIBLE and everyone will have a BAD TIME!

I realise that none of these things are very likely to happen, especially the last one – my friends are a resilient lot and in the relatively unlikely event that everything is over- or under-cooked to the point of inedibility, they’ll just laugh at me, get pissed and order pizza, which is why I like them.

My hand might get stuck in the chicken, though – this is yet one more reason to not start drinking during Christmas Day, no matter what my deputy chef may suggest. I do not want my guests to arrive to find me and Ashton (aforesaid deputy chef and your co-host for the evening) blind drunk in the kitchen attempting to make frozen chicken hand puppets do the can-can, while all around us things bubble frantically, boil over and caramelise on the stove. That would be a little embarrassing.

I am also putting off the vomitous horror that is (relatively) last-minute Christmas shopping. Why do I have so damn many family members? I am beginning to understand why people go on killing sprees more often during the holiday season than at any other time of year – to cut down on the number of cards and presents required, that’s why. I think this year I might just smile in a Buddha-like manner and say in “Your present is my presence.”

Do you know what song I do not like? Oh Girl by Cut off Your Hands. It is a booty call txt set to music. The tune’s very catchy, but unfortunately I can’t enjoy it due to the hideously tawdry lyrics. Example:
“Oh girl/Can you come over to my house?/Oh we can do things that we’ve never done/We can just talk it can be such fun…” Gosh, Cut off Your Hands, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that I’d probably have about as many dollars as you’ve sold records. Like, FIVE.

Christmas in the Park

My colleague: “I’m all about the selenium!” Obviously it is another exciting day at the office.

Christmas in the Park was on TV last night – I was going to watch it and then remembered that I watched the televised version last year and it was awfully, heinously depressing. I’m sure that when I was small, CitP was a firework-laden extravaganza with talented performers, high production values and – wait for it – actual Christmas songs. Maybe the intervening years have warped my memory, but it is now definitely nothing more than a festively wrapped, commercialised turd of an event, corn-studded with the celebrities of yesteryear, B-listers reeking of desperation, and up-and-coming ‘young entertainers’ of highly varied quality – all of them attempting to belt out distinctly non-festive songs and turning the whole thing into a shambolic mess which probably embarrasses Santa somewhat, to say nothing of the city councils involved.

It would probably be better if I was actually there. When you’re actually there you’re with a group of friends, and during the boring numbers you can chat, top up your wine, go and buy a hotdog, and say things like “Ooh, Shane Cortese is on next, I think I might go and line up for the Portaloos.” And if it rains it adds an air of faint excitement and distinct nostalgia, rather than just making everyone look like they’re having a crappy time and getting drops of water all over the camera lens. Then, when it actually gets Christmassy near the end, you can ooh and ahh and point at the giant Christmas tree and generally release your inner sentimental bugger. And that’s nice.

Whereas if you’re watching it from the comfort of your living room you can’t really do any of those things, you just sit through the crappy numbers in the hopes that the next one will be better, and then the next one is Shane Cortese, and you become less festive by the minute and the only inner bugger that comes out is your grumpy one, and you can’t spend a bad number lining up for the bathroom because there’s no-one home but you, and by the time they start singing actual carols (two hours later, not including ads) you’ve gone to bed in disgust and miss the only part you were really interested in watching anyway.

Christmas in the Park? Christmas in my ARSE.

In other news, Sister Flatmate’s half-sister on the other side (it took me several minutes to explain this to my boss this morning, so there’s no use in you asking) went into labour yesterday, and so SF did a mad dash to the airport and I’ve got the house to myself for two weeks! This is a bit of a shame as SF and I were getting on well and having much fun recently, but the upside is that I have the house to myself for two weeks! Basically this means I’m going to fall asleep on the couch and play loud music and stay up late being noisy and basically have a total relapse to studenthood. I’m excited. Are you excited?

Right. I am going to do some work now, because all I’ve done in the last half hour is eat bread and cheese and muck about.

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.

Happy Whatsit

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?