Wellington Road

Neil's photos of me

2013-01-25T14:09:00.003+13:00

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It's a wonderful life.

2012-12-05T23:57:00.000+13:00

Every year, I panic about Christmas. I get so overwhelmed. I don’t have that much to do. But I am a worrier.

I'm going to be honest with you. I don’t like Christmas. All my life, I thought I liked Christmas. I've finally admitted to myself I don’t. In fact, I’ve never liked Christmas—the hustle and the bustle and the scrambling. It's too intense for me.

I keep hoping that Christmas won't happen. Because I am a chronic procrastinator, and I hate shopping. If you see me at the shops, I'm sorry if I seem crazier than usual. Soon it will be over.

I'm trying to slow down and enjoy it.

Anyway, I have some great news. My good friend Neil (who is from New York) is coming to New Zealand for Christmas and New Year’s. I am so excited (and nervous) about his visit.

If you know me, I am a lazy, neurotic hermit. But since Neil and I have a lot in common, I think we will have fun.

Flixster - Share Movies

Sweet Tart Vegan Orange Syrup Cake

2012-11-20T11:07:00.000+13:00

It’s that time of year. PARTY TIME! And in New Zealand, time for cake stalls at school fairs.

I prefer a lemon tart to almost any dessert. But Seven is allergic to everything. (And in New Zealand, cakes reign.) So, for the gala at Seven’s school, I made this vegan orange syrup cake:

Vegan Orange Syrup Cake

with special thanks to the New Zealand Food Allergy Cookbook

3 cups plain flour

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3 tablespoons water
3 tablespoons oil
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 cups milk alternative, e.g. rice milk
125 g dairy-free margarine, melted
1 tablespoon lemon zest
sticky orange topping
1 cup sugar
½ cup water
2 oranges, thinly sliced

Preheat oven to 180 C. To make the sticky syrup, dissolve 1 cup sugar in ½ cup water in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add thinly sliced oranges and simmer until oranges are soft (about 10 minutes). Put this aside while you make the cake batter.

Sift dry ingredients. In a small bowl, combine water, oil and baking powder. Add to dry ingredients with milk, margarine, essence and lemon zest. Beat until batter is as smooth as you can manage (2-3 minutes).

Grease and line a 25 cm cake tin with baking paper. Arrange orange slices on bottom and sides of cake tin (reserve the excess syrup). Pour in cake batter and bake cake for 45-60 minutes.

When cake is cooked, turn over on wire rack (oranges will be on top) and drizzle over reserved syrup with spoon. Cool before serving.

Variation: Replace 1 cup plain flour with 1 cup ground almonds.

You guys, I know I've been absent from my blog for MONTHS. But I am so excited to share this summer with you. I am full of other wild delicious secrets, and it’s anyone’s guess what will happen. More fun to come. I am dying to show you how sweet summer can be.

Typical Conversation After I Meet Someone in New Zealand

2012-09-26T00:58:00.001+12:00

“Are you Canadian?”

“No, I’m American.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ohio.”

“Eh??"

"Ohio—in the Midwest. Close to Canada."

"How long have you been living in New Zealand?”

“About ten years.”

“So, you’re almost a Kiwi!”

“Yeah!" Fake laugh. "Ha, ha.”

“How did you end up living in New Zealand?”

“I married a New Zealander…”

“Did you meet here?”

“No, in Hawaii.”

“That’s so romantic!”

“We’re not together anymore.”

"Oh, I'm sorry." Awkward pause.“Were you on holiday?”

“Well...my FRIEND married Adam’s BROTHER. Adam and I met at THEIR wedding. Then Adam visited me in San Francisco. And I came to New Zealand — we went back and forth a few times.”

“Are you going to move back to America?”

“No, Adam and I share custody of Seven. OF COURSE I wish I lived closer to my family. But Adam’s family is all here. Except for the brother who married my friend.”

“Are they still together?”

“Yeah, but we don't talk anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, y'know. Divorce. I don't want to complain to Laurie about her husband’s BROTHER."

"Hmm."

"It’s OK though. I have a BLOG.”

Not writing

2012-08-05T00:27:00.002+12:00

“Don’t you feel more energized now, on your own?” my friend asks.

“I was writing more when I was married.”

After Adam and I separated, I was sucked into a whirlpool of switching schools, looking for work, and moving my house of seven years.

Sidenote: My new neighbours are building a fence on the boundary. WTF? It's taking a long time, and apparently it's still not quite finished. I feel like Peter Mayle, except nobody is speaking French, or inviting me to lunch.

So now I’m treading water. I'm not writing, or writing very little. My two big projects are on hold. I spend my days looking after Seven, driving here and there, doing laundry, making dinners, avoiding friends, falling into bed. Instead of writing, I think about cleaning my house. I should unpack those boxes, clean the oven, wash the windows.

Not writing is agreeable. Pleasant. No rush to drop off Seven at school, so I can meet a (self-imposed) deadline. No struggle to write after Seven goes to sleep.

Not writing is nice. Maybe I will get a job in an office.

Except I feel guilty for not writing. I'd like to enjoy floating on the surface, but I'm jealous of others’ achievements. I resolve to be more ambitious. I really need to make some money.

Anyway, maybe I am depressed. Divorce is confusing. (So is living in New Zealand.)

Moving on.

2012-07-01T21:07:00.002+12:00

We looked for a place in the village for a year before we found our house.

I have kind of the same feeling about that village as I do about San Francisco. It's a quirky place that gets under your skin, if you know what I mean.

Rentals are held tightly. You almost need to know someone to find a house.

Checking the rentals section in the paper was my hobby. (This was before listing rentals on Trade Me really took off.)

Adam and I had already looked at several places, but we couldn’t agree. Adam thought a character cottage I loved was too small (or something). I hated a Lockwood house with fruit trees in the garden.

But I've always been lucky.

When Seven was six months old, the owner of our railway flat (we LOVED that place) put it on the market. I had a bee in my bonnet about moving on. I didn’t want people traipsing through our flat during open homes. We had a baby!

The next day I saw an ad in the paper. I think the ad said three bedroom house with timber floors in the village (maybe it mentioned a dishwasher). I knew it was the one.

I rang and asked the owner S if the house had a bathtub or a fireplace.

“There's no bath. I’m not sure if the fire even works. And the garden is a jungle,” S said.

I knew it was the place for us. “We’ll take it.”

“Go and have a look,” S said, and she gave me the address, spelling out the unfamiliar street name.

Adam and I put the baby in his car seat, and we drove up the coast to the house. Remarkably, we both liked it, and we were lucky enough to be chosen as tenants.

It was a private 1940s house, on a corner, a block away from the beach, at the park end of the village. You could see the sea from the front deck and the bedroom, and through the French doors in front, which nobody ever used. (Everyone used the back door, which was not as picturesque an entrance, but whatever.)

You could also see the sea from the kitchen, and even from the back deck, if you knew the right way to look. We only had a couple big afternoon birthday parties at our house, but we always said its “open plan” had a good “flow”.

Seven and I lived in our house for seven and a half years. (Adam lived there for six years.) Of course, while we lived there, the house went through some changes. The lounge and the dining room traded places – a couple times. Seven’s nursery eventually became the spare room/office.

Adam put in a used wood burner that we bought on Trade Me. (Using the open fireplace filled the lounge with smoke and set off the smoke alarm.) He spent years taming the jungle in the garden. And he put a door on the garage, which became his “man cave”. (Or “where all his stuff had to go”.) Seven went to the village Playcentre (the co-op preschool). I made new friends.

The night President Obama was elected, there was a gale. (Gales are not unusual.) The French doors swung open and banged against the side of the house. This caused their panes of glass to shatter. So, the owners put in new double glaze windows.

Adam painted three sides of the house. Apparently, the owners didn’t have the money or the inclination to pay him to paint the fourth side.

When Seven grew too big for a baby bath in the shower, we bought a used cast iron bath on Trade Me. We put it in the kitchen. (There was nowhere else for it to go.) The bath never had a tap – we filled it by using a hose from the laundry sink.

Seven started primary school. Then he changed schools, so instead of walking with Seven to school, we had to drive. Our marriage ended, and Adam moved out.

The owners bought a new (Electrolux!) dishwasher. They built a new privacy fence on the front deck. We quibbled over the garden (since Adam was no longer looking after it).

“I promise I won’t let it become a jungle – like it was when we moved in,” I said.

Every year (after they made improvements), the owners raised the rent (by three or four per cent, to keep the house at “market rate”). Before our marriage ended, Adam and I said (year after year), “If the rent goes up by much more, we will move on.”

But we didn’t move on. We felt our rental was nicer than other rentals. Sometimes we even felt a bit clever or smug about it.

And yet, other houses have baths with taps, and insulation. And more manageable gardens. And off-street parking. And street names we don’t need to spell. Those houses are in the school zone. And are cheaper.

This year when the owners raised the rent (I'm embarrassed to tell you how much the rent had become, but it was too expensive for me), just like that, it was time for me to move on.

I was looking for a place (as a hobby) for a year before I found my house. When I first looked at it, I waffled a bit, but I knew it was the one.

My new house was built in the 1940s. It's not in the village, but it's in Seven's school zone, and it has a bath (with a tap), and a heat pump. You can see the sea from the driveway, or from Seven's room (if you know how to look), and it has a very easy garden.

My monthly blog post.

2012-04-29T14:35:00.001+12:00

I doubt I ever will be able to post as often as I used to on this website, since the excitement of having a lot to say has twittered away, and my reasons for blogging are changing. Most blogs are losing steam — I feel sad when my favourites fade out. But one does get tired of one’s own voice.

I continue to blog for the love, maybe not as much for therapy. I am remembering now that my journal is a great place for navel-gazing. But I still want to write to you. I have things to tell you, important things that I have considered carefully while driving Seven to school, doing the dishes, or watching American Idol. I will keep posting here, as much as I can.

Last year after Adam and I separated, in the midst of all the trauma, I felt vaguely enthusiastic about the idea of a fresh start. I believed it was a chance to transform myself, as if I was a butterfly that could just fly away from our marriage.

After leaving our relationship, I realise I have only traded sets of problems, and of course I am still the same neurotic, lazy person. It is humbling to become aware that the issue wasn’t our relationship, but me.

I was probably overconfident. For example, I thought I could do everything myself around the house. Cleaning my hair out of the shower drain isn’t that hard. And I thought I could hire a handyman to do the really difficult chores, like sweeping the chimney, or removing a wasp nest from the garden shed.

But I find myself increasingly baffled by what I need to do. I don’t know how to change the vacuum cleaner bag because Adam always did it. I am perplexed when I need to repair the door of the dryer—should I use glue?

I tend to let housework slide. The house is a mess. The stove and the shower both need cleaned. And I am STILL looking for a cheaper house—my search spurred on because Landlord raised my rent.

Thinking about the money I need to spend week to week makes me panic. My spare energy is directed at finding stable work. I want is to claw myself out of poverty, put a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food in our bellies. I am constantly afraid, anxious about the future. Will I be able to get back on my feet? I scold myself for being childish and wallowing, but I worry I have made the wrong choices in life.

I don't want sympathy or encouragement. I am just trying to say that I am still here if you want to keep reading. And I am OK. I am not beaten. I know I will get through this. Tomorrow is another day.

The give way rule.

2012-03-24T18:13:00.001+13:00

For my first few years in New Zealand, I didn’t drive. Wellington is a compact city, so I walked, or I took the train.

Driving on the wrong side of the road was just too intimidating for this fragile migrant's state of mind.

And there was the unusual give-way rule. When Adam turned right at intersections BEFORE the cars turning left, I was understandably confused.

“Adam, you didn’t have the right of way back there!”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you sure?”

New Zealand motorists were required to give way to all traffic on the right.

But tomorrow, New Zealand will change this rule of the road. Instead of giving way at an intersection to traffic on the right, we will now do the OPPOSITE.

Source: TVNZ

The change is taking place because after 35 years on the books, everyone still found the give-way rule confusing.

Accidents are expected as motorists try to get up to speed with the change. But as accidents frequently occur at intersections anyway, we will risk this confusion for the greater good and tourism.

Kiwis are of course smarter than most. Someday we'll understand the new give-way rule.

In the interim, the exciting game of chance at our intersections keeps our pulses racing.

Does the other driver know the new give-way rule? How long should we wait before we turn? Motorists, place your bets.

I have a bad feeling about this.

New Year's resolutions.

2012-02-29T23:40:00.000+13:00

This post is about New Year’s resolutions, a topic which is still timely on Feb. 29. I don’t want to brag, but this is my blog, and as always, I am right on top of things. And if you think about it, being on top of things eliminates any need for New Year’s resolutions.

Laptop
To bring us up to date, after tearful phone calls, ordering of parts, tech visits (more tears), Laptop finally was repaired, out of pity, or to make me shut up. It was an expensive miracle.

After Spillmageddon, I am not drinking coffee with Laptop. Like a pack-a-day smoker who quits smoking cold-turkey, breaking a twenty-year habit isn't easy. One day at a time.

Cups with Lids
Before you comment or email, yes, I've heard about cups with lids. They are a wonderful invention. But I am accident-prone, and I KNOW I could spill coffee from a cup with a lid. It's a gift. My new rule is no coffee (or other liquids) by Laptop. A New Year’s resolution that I can keep.

Productivity
Unfortunately, not-drinking coffee with Laptop has had a negative impact on my productivity. Or so I want to believe. Because once or twice a week, things have interrupted me from my current task, which is finding paid work.

Things. Landlord is panicking about me moving out (one day). So, handymen are popping in. Six had a fever and missed two days of school. I needed to buy new tyres for the car. Taxes. You know, the things that fill regular life.

I thought my problem was general laziness, but realise another issue is low-level, debilitating anxiety. I worry a lot.

Time
I have expanses of time, but as previously mentioned, there are too many interruptions.

Drugs
Considering taking something (?) for my anxiety, but taking drugs to feel normal is no fun. So, my New Year’s resolution is to run more, while Six is at school and at his dad’s. Exercise as therapy.

Oversharing
I also resolved to blog more often in 2012. But New Year’s resolutions really do set us up to fail.

Leap Year
This year is of course a Leap Year. I recently learned that in a Leap Year, women can propose marriage to men. This is silly. Obviously, women can propose marriage anytime. Also this has nothing to do with me, since I'm not looking to get married again anytime soon.

Dating
Last year I was maybe interested in dating a couple guys. But they didn't feel a mutual attraction to me. And as someone smarter than me once said, unrequited love is a bore. Dating still seems like a sadomasochistic exercise.

My crazy hope.

2012-01-09T01:26:00.001+13:00

My crazy hope was that summer would be full of magic (and possibly S-E-X). By this, I mean I hoped summer would be fun.

It was off to a promising start. Six was happily ensconced in his new school. I found a cute new house. And there was a guy--in real life!--whom I liked.

The cute house didn't work out. And the guy wasn't into me. So, I felt broke and a bit lonely. Six was spending Christmas with his dad.

Whatever, I thought. I would use this time alone, be productive, work on the book that I won't publish.

Then I spilled coffee on my laptop, and I had a heart attack, because I need a new motherboard. (Expensive!) Despite the best holiday weather in forty years, I was too depressed to budge from my couch.

"2011, good riddance," I wrote for my Facebook status update. This was maybe unfair.

Yes, last year was a shitty year. But there were a few moments when I felt joy. As if I was living life in a way that was impossible before, when I was married to Adam. Which is the point of being separated--I guess.

Written on iPod Touch

Blogoversary.

2011-12-28T22:43:00.001+13:00

It's my third blogoversary. It's also a time of year when many of us look back and evaluate the previous year.

In the past, I compiled my favourite posts for my blogoversary. This year, I don't feel like doing that.

I wrote less on my blog and read fewer other blogs. It was easier to engage on Twitter and Facebook.

I felt like I could better describe my emotional state on tumblr than on my blog.

I'm still not sure why I have this blog. It's not for attention, I don't make money, and it's getting more difficult to be honest about my life online.

But I plan to continue.

Thank you for reading. Best wishes for a happy, healthy, prosperous 2012.

Written on iPod Touch -- because I spilled coffee on my laptop. A LOT OF COFFEE. I hope in 2012 I have better karma and am less clumsy.

The Sixth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Concert

2011-12-19T04:54:00.003+13:00

The Sixth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Concert, hosted by Neil of Citizen of the Month, is now LIVE.

It is amazing. Watch and listen to these funny endearing performances by very talented bloggers.

And look for me about twenty acts down from the top, with my own special take on a New Zealand folk song.

DON'T MISS.

Blood moon.

2011-12-13T21:10:00.017+13:00

The fickle blood moon hangs like a wafer in the midsummer night’s sky, pulling the tides that caress the shore.

The stare of the evil stars is constant and unyielding. Our bodies explode like a car crash in an empty rural road that lies like a ribbon next to the sea.

I am enchanted and wrap my arms hungrily around your neck, tossing thoughts like pebbles into your ear.

I drown in you, like an anchor cast into the sea. You are water that I try to catch in the net of my fingers.

Will we fuck like dark and savage animals? You pass through my shadow, and I want to consume you, but you elude me so easily, disappearing into the fathomless depths of an abyss.

And so I must slip quietly from your body with the fog. As I creep over the mirror that's shattered into splinters on your bedroom floor, I see a ghost’s icy reflection in the shards of glass. I am not yet afraid.

I leave a trail of rose petals in my wake. Time drags me on a distant path into the unknown toward death, and I imagine that I am dreaming.

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Dog days are over.

2011-11-20T09:24:00.100+13:00

After an absence, I feel pressured to write something notable in this space. However, this is beyond my present capabilities, if indeed it was ever within my grasp.

I’m still lurking at home like a furtive, prehistoric cave-dweller. I suppose I could begin by telling you that things have improved for Six. He's going to a new school, and he's settled in quickly, like a fish to water. No more panic attacks about going to school, or being at school.

Six's new classmates have welcomed him into their group. He is popular. In his first week, he was invited to a birthday party, and he was Student of the Week.

So, I’m relieved the dog days with the former school are over. I wish that we'd changed schools six months ago. Oh, hindsight. The notion that it was my social responsibility to change the school's culture seems quaint and naive. HAHAHAHAHA.

I’m grateful for the friends who listened to me blather about my problems with the former school. But I still have post-traumatic stress. I’m disappointed that nobody with a child in Six’s class helped me talk to the school. Were my expectations too high?

Why didn't anyone say, “This is not acceptable. I don’t want my child to see another child being bullied.”

Instead, the culture of bullying was ignored. I heard, “Oh, the school is naughty about that.” If our family had problems at school, we must be the problem. “You need to be more resilient.”

If only I was what Kiwis call a European New Zealander, and also a man with a certain income. Then the school would have listened to my complaint. My social class, gender, race determined my worth.

New Zealand prides itself on its egalitarian society. The first country to give women the vote. However, in many places, even my little village, it's influenced by the stratified aspects of British culture.

And I'm disgusted, repulsed, by the stern school headmaster's role in the British psyche. As a single mother, I need to defer to the headmaster's authority. Really?

Such a pity we no longer cane students that we unjustly accuse.

My apologies, but I don’t believe that education is meant to produce mindless sheep who will become puppets of a British-inspired regime. I am a republican (note the small “R”), and maybe I'm hindered by my American sense of entitlement. I want to dump your tea in the harbour.

No dark sarcasm in the classroom.

I've learnt about the limitations of my community. We like to believe that in the face of adversity, when something in our society is wrong, we would do the right thing.

Yes, I'd hide Anne Frank’s family in my attic. OF COURSE.

But the reality is—most of us measure personal cost and find it too high. And we're quiet, standing stoically in a queue, barely concealing our loathing of The Other, hoping to remain unnoticed, whilst flying under the radar.

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I did not want to be the allergy pioneer parent.

2011-10-29T23:22:00.060+13:00

Six has an invisible illness. He has life-threatening allergies to peanuts, egg, and milk. He is also allergic to dust mites, flowering grass, and pet dander. And he has hay fever and eczema. It's a daily struggle for us.

Allergies are so difficult to explain to someone who hasn't dealt with them. People just don't understand.

I realised there would be hiccups when Six started school. But I didn't want to be the allergy pioneer parent.

In Six’s first year, risk minimisation was left to his teacher, and it worked out fairly well. But this year his teacher didn't have the same level of vigilance or interest.

Then the unthinkable happened. Six had an anaphylactic reaction—to a sandwich that I'd packed in his lunch.

The school didn't contact Adam or me. It was Six who told me what had happened. So, I spoke with his teacher. She was defensive and denied it was anaphylaxis.

I was surprised Six's teacher didn't recognize anaphylaxis. But I was determined to work through health and safety issues with the school.

Adam and I spoke with the principal, and I worked with the school’s public health nurse to document an emergency plan for Six.

Things didn't improve. Six faced bullying about his allergies from his classmates, and shockingly—from his teacher.

I talked again with Six’s teacher and principal. And I wrote several letters of complaint to the school. The school’s position is that Six doesn’t have “life-threatening” allergies. (Because we haven't provided the school with an EpiPen.) They believe Six is faking illness (e.g., fever) to get out of doing “difficult” work.

I don’t have the words to describe how traumatic this year has been for our family. I am disappointed in the way the school has responded to our concerns, and I'm worried about the impact this year has had on Six.

The complaints process has been a dead end. I don’t see any willingness to work on the classroom or the school culture. The only solution available to us is to move to a different school.

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Sheela na gig

2011-09-21T14:39:00.008+12:00

It's an impossible dream. We have so much baggage and live at opposite ends of the earth. But I dream that you come to New Zealand.

We rent a bach with two bedrooms, somewhere by a lake. Maybe in Taupo or Rotorua. We have a lounge with a leather couch, a spa pool, wi-fi, a well-equipped kitchen. I cook for you.

Your voice tickles my ear. There is an atmosphere between us. My crush makes you feel childishly pleased.

I am nervous. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. It's been a long time since I've had sex. How do you even do it?

And worse, I believe this has the potential to become something deeper. If its tender shoots aren't trampled by our awkward dance.

I'm worried that you'll think I already have too much invested. But I need to be brave and somehow find the words to tell you.

This.

This is what you do to me.

It's rare and precious, and only comes along a few times in your life, if you are lucky.

I can be wishy-washy.

2011-09-17T15:14:00.006+12:00

In my last post, I suggested that a relationship can be disposable, like a broken laptop that's too expensive to repair. Do I really believe this? I don't know. I can be wishy-washy.

What kind of blog post is this anyway? Aren't I supposed to give an opinion and try to persuade you to embrace my point of view?

Well, I guess I believe some relationships become toxic. We need to end these relationships, am I right?

Accept that what was once in bloom withered, perhaps revealing its true poisonous self. Or maybe things just ran their course. Nothing lasts.

According to Jung, my personality type is able to end relationships. Don't laugh. Once I make up my mind, I can do it. Ask any of my exes. We may be Facebook friends, but they are dead to me.

I joke that I have awful taste in men, but it's true. I always choose the wrong men. The wounded, the shiftless non-providers, the unable to commit, the co-dependent. Men who take advantage of my good nature.

Yes, male reader. This rant is about men I chose. It's not about All Men.

It was me, not them. Or it was them.

I don't think I've experienced requited love from a man. Nobody cared about my happiness as much as I cared about his.

This is why we need to be warriors for our own happiness.

Can men and women be friends after they have sex?

"Once my lover, now my friend. . ."

No. I don't think so. Probably not.

Written on iPod touch

I broke my laptop.

2011-09-15T08:24:00.001+12:00

Sometimes I am clumsy. Last week I tripped over the cord to my laptop. The pin on the end of the cord broke off in the socket of the laptop.

The cost to repair it is NZ$400 (with a one-year warranty). This is about half the cost of a comparable new machine, which is NZ$900. In New Zealand, even with the high Kiwi dollar, computers are expensive.

It costs a lot to ship a computer to a small, remote country. It's also nice to have the right plug, if you know what I mean.

Are laptops over anyway? I just read an article that said by 2015, most of us will use only tablets and smartphones. I'm writing this post on my iPod touch. I already can do almost everything I need to do with this hand-held device.

Without a laptop, Six and I are doing some things the way I did Before. I'm buying paper newspapers, going physically to the bank, talking more on the phone, writing with a pen on paper. Life seems slower.

I'm sad computers aren't made to last. I had a relationship with my laptop, and now it's over. A three-year-old machine that was going fine and only needs a simple repair is rubbish.

You may disagree with me, but many of us treat human relationships like our old computers. After the warranty expires, when we "start getting real", we see people as they really are, with all their flaws. We may decide the cost of maintaining these relationships is too high, and just buy new.

Written on iPod touch

Hello.

2011-07-24T23:48:00.046+12:00

Once again, almost a month has passed. I’m not going to make excuses for not posting. You have a quasi-real life, and you don’t have time to read blog posts, am I right?

I wish I could tell you I was busy with my own REAL LIFE and forgot to update my blog. But to be honest, I haven't been able to complete a post. I'm not blocked. I just can’t commit to an idea.

Should I continue whinging about my divorce? Or should I complain about Six’s school?

I want to keep hiding on the couch, numbing myself with downgraded cable. (L.A. Ink!)

In our relentlessly positive thinking culture, melancholy isn’t on trend. Unfortunately, it’s what I’ve got. As Shakespeare once said, “Now is the winter of our discontent.”

It's still winter.
As I type this post, it’s still winter here in the Southern Hemisphere. I’m bundled up as if for an Antarctic expedition. But I’m in my lounge (Kiwi for den or living room), which is the room I’m currently heating.

Insulation is marvellous, but it’s lacking in most New Zealand homes, including mine. So, Kiwis are quite expert in the technique of heating one room. And putting on another wooly jumper.

Landlord: I bet those new double-glazed windows are making a big difference though, eh?

Me: (unconvincingly) Uh, yeah. Definitely!

Landlord: Just harden up, FFS.

Can I ration out my firewood to last for the rest of the winter?
“Is it really cold enough tonight for a fire?”

“Should I put more wood on the fire if I’m just going to bed?”

For the last few weeks, these are some of the questions that have been occupying my mind.

I’m realizing that, in spite of my pitiful efforts to be frugal, I need to order more firewood. Dammit. Winter is cold.

Social media isn’t supposed to be social
So, it looks like we’re going to face more pressure to video chat. Which will rid us of the ENTIRE POINT of the Internet.

First we were asked to use our real names. Now we need to video chat with each other?! I might as well talk to some REAL LIVE HUMAN BEINGS in my village.

On cyber gossip
As we all know, social media is a fantastic way to procrastinate. Twitter or Facebook is where we go to gossip about the important scandals of the day. Casey Anthony, Dooce, Amy Winehouse. Everyone is just so grateful. Because it gives us all something to talk about. You can almost feel the relief, as everyone joins in. At last, a topic we can all get worked up about!

Bullying

Six’s school continues to insist there's no bullying problem: “There may be one-offs, but these are dealt with at the time. Also, you need to tell us when bullying happens. Otherwise, we don't know about it.”

Over the last two terms, I’ve made several complaints to the school. So, I'm a bit upset at this "one-offs" quip. Because making complaints has become my part-time job. Which is obviously stressful for my whanau (Kiwi for extended family).

The school has dealt with my complaints by getting defensive and fobbing me off as an isolated crank.

Why would the school take this ludicrous position? There's no bullying? Come on. Don’t ALL schools have problems with bullying?

Maybe the school is worried that bullying reflects poorly on our community. I can understand this. However, since this school has had recent issues with teachers bullying teachers, it's reasonable to suggest there may be a “culture of bullying”.

The school should instigate a zero tolerance for bullying policy. Stat. And perhaps educate the teachers on staff about what bullying is. Because some of them seem quite uninformed. BTW, one complaint about an issue is always enough.

I'll be attending the next Board of Trustees meeting. If I can get off the couch.

I didn’t make a complaint about this, only because Six wasn’t at school on the day. (Thank God.)

FTR (I can't believe I need to say this), if a child comes to school dressed up as Hitler, he should NOT be permitted to spend the day marching around the school grounds gesticulating. FFS.

The Rise of the Wimple.

2011-07-13T12:06:00.023+12:00

At the turn of the century, when my grandmother was a young woman, she always was uncovered in public. The wimple wasn’t permitted.

Misguided people believed that the wimple infringed on women’s rights in a “free society”. If a woman tried to wear the wimple—for modesty, or because of her religious beliefs—she wouldn’t be allowed to enter any shops. In fact, it was likely that she'd be arrested as a suspected terrorist.

Being forbidden to wear the wimple was an invasion of a woman’s right to privacy. And it was cruel. Can you believe that "artists” used to be allowed to take photos and videos of women, and publish them online, without women's consent?

After having their images stolen and published on countless unsavoury websites, thousands of brave women revolted in three different states. They stood quietly in their robes and wimples in front of State Houses. And after a tumultuous couple of weeks, the government finally enacted The Reforms.

First, the Internet was restricted. In its early days, the Internet was like the Wild West, a place where the law had little power. But the government cracked down, bribing service providers to cut off or slow down connections until they were unusable. Only government officials and others with a “legitimate” need for Internet access could go online.

Next, there was a voluntary amnesty for all digital devices that had the ability to connect to the Internet. Naturally, not everyone complied—some people always want to do things the hard way. But after the National Guard was mobilized, and homes were searched, most of the equipment has been recovered. An added bonus is that there are now few worries about the scarcity of rare earth metals, as they are no longer being plundered to make smartphones and computers.

Depending on the laws on the state, some people were able to keep things like old 35mm cameras. But these are just relics. Nobody can find the materials needed to develop photos anymore, except maybe on the black market. And luckily, manual typewriters were made obsolete many, many years ago. They are as rare as hen’s teeth. Yes, there are still a few dark rooms (and even some copy machines) in rough, gang-controlled areas, but these are slowly being eliminated.

The courts preside over “intent to distribute” cases that crop up from time to time. Anyone caught by the police with photos, music, or manuscripts that have not been approved and distributed by the government is arrested. Thanks to the Three Strikes Law, repeat offenders can be executed.

Artists have been rebranded as “content providers”. They need to be licensed by the government. This is a process that involves psychological profiling. Once licensed, all of the content providers’ creative works are submitted to relevant agencies, and edited as needed to comply with government standards.

There are some underground artistic collectives—salons—but these are on the very down low. It’s unfortunate, but any society is going to have a certain number of deviants. It’s just a matter of stamping out these undesirables. In some areas, there are rumours about police going to salons—for kicks, I guess. But if a whistleblower complains, it usually turns out to be a bona fide undercover operation.

Before The Reforms, society was inundated with sexual images—of women—that were used to sell everything from breakfast cereals to antidepressants. “Sex sells!” But this was obviously degrading to women.

Then there was a shift. For reasons still unknown, possibly because of chemicals in the water, or radiation after nuclear accidents, most women couldn't become pregnant.

Some younger women still bragged about having multiple sexual partners, and didn’t even try to conceive. They took the Pill (which is illegal) and proudly called themselves “sluts” or "feminists". But if any of these young women did manage to become pregnant, which was rare, they achieved instant celebrity status. Yes, they became the property of the government. But this is justifiable. They had to be protected "for the future of human race".

Older women who were unable to bear children spent tens of thousands of dollars for “fertility treatments”. Sometimes they were able to “conceive” in a petri dish, and embryos could be planted in their wombs. These women had to live in sterile tents for the duration of their pregnancies, and also were celebrity saints.

The aging population coupled with rising infertility has led to a such a drastic decrease in the population that the government has abandoned all other research projects to concentrate solely on “The Race to Conception”.

Women are sacred vessels. The reasonable solution is to cover women—protect them—so that they can move freely in society, and not have their images exploited for advertising campaigns. Or worse, used for masturbation. Spilling seed is sinful, not that anybody ever would admit to being so self-indulgent and wasteful. You'd be shunned, and sent to a “rehab centre”.

At first, only younger women wore wimples and robes, but after a short time, these items became fashionable. Older women began to wear them too. Fashion designers (which are also content providers) created lines of the figure-concealing garments in weather-appropriate fabrics. Some politicians suggested colour-coding robes to indicate women’s fertility status, but this was seen as an invasion of the women’s privacy, so all women wear identical red robes.

In our enlightened society, images of women are never exploited. Woman are free to go almost anywhere and not be harassed in any way. “Personal liberty is for the common good”.

Ten things I never want to hear a man say again.

2011-06-14T09:03:00.012+12:00

Men say a lot of stupid things. They are simple creatures and not that difficult for most women to figure out. But I am a slow learner and also a wishful thinker. This is a lethal combination when it comes to forming relationships with men. Yes, I am a doormat.

Here are some things that will tempt me to pull a Lorena Bobbit if I ever hear them again.

10. I’ll call you.
This old nugget has been men’s exit line forever. Give me a break, guys. I know at the very best, you’ll wait a day (or a week) to ring me. Or you will just disappear off the face of the earth. Don’t leave me waiting in the wings. Just say “Bye.”

9. My wife and I are getting a divorce. Yes, I’ve filed the papers!
Ladies, if you ever are unfortunate enough to hear this line, be smarter than me. Run for your life.

8. Who were you talking to?
Mom, is that you? Jesus. This type of guy is way too into your business. He will ring you fifteen times a day. This is not a good thing.

7. You are the only one that I am...
All your warning bells should be going off. A relative of this line is “But it didn’t mean anything.”

6. But I always go to my mother’s house for Christmas.
You really should have married your mother.

5. Let’s split the cheque.
Feminism screwed the women of my generation. We were brought up to think we were equals with men. This took away our ability to recognize shiftless non-providers for what they are.

If a guy tries to split the cheque with you, in less than a year’s time, he will need to borrow money because he “didn’t get paid”. Or he won’t be able to afford to buy you a ring.

So, if he doesn’t pick up the tab, and you somehow end up together in the future (because you are an idiot), you’ll be supporting this guy. Consider yourself warned.

4. You live too far away.
It’s amazing how men will cross the earth and go to the moon if they think there is a chance they will have sex with you. But if you just want to hang out and watch a movie, all of a sudden “you live too far away.”

3. Want to see a naked photo of me?
Only if it comes with dinner and a movie. And a big diamond.

2. Don’t think so much.
This is insulting. It’s kind of like “Shut up”, with a side order of “Lie back and enjoy it.”

1. I have a cold.
A man with a cold. This is self-explanatory. Am I right?

If you know of any other lines I should watch out for, please add them in the comments.

On sexting.

2011-06-12T23:28:00.027+12:00

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You are probably bored with the story about U.S. Congressman Anthony Weiner, who was recently "exposed" for sexting with women on Twitter and Facebook.

I’ve made my share of jokes on Twitter about Weiner's sexting. I hope I didn’t come across as judgmental or mean-spirited.

Because of my own insecurities, I’m still trying to figure out what Weinergate means about my relationships online. Maybe I’m taking it all a bit too seriously.

I can’t help feeling sorry for Weiner and the women with whom he sexted. This is because I can be secretive about certain things too.

I'll admit that I've sexted with a man online. At the time, I thought it was a positive way to get a need met. But now I think sexting exploits women, even if the women are willing participants.

In these online relationships, men aren’t required to be accountable, or deal with pesky complicating emotions. They can lie about who they are, and the relationship is easy to hide. To ignore someone online, you can just turn off your computer.

Sexting also allows men to have a certain droit du seigneur, especially if there is a power differential. And I feel like these encounters can be somewhat transactional. Women prostitute themselves to men’s fantasies in exchange for a small fee—the men’s attention.

Women are sexy and compliant, and men can skip all the romantic hassles. Sexting is like a throwback to the confusing attitudes in "Pretty Woman".

Of course, women are supposed to avoid taking sexting too seriously. Just have fun. Don't think so much. These online relationships are fantasies. They aren’t meant to progress to real life.

Dear Juli

2011-05-24T10:40:00.032+12:00

Someone occasionally emails me and asks for relationship advice.

I'm not qualified to give relationship advice. But in the spirit of “if you can’t do, teach”, I'm going to share the knowledge I've gained through painful life experience. I am fickle, so I may only do this once. We shall see.

Dear Juli:
I'm from Indiana, and I've fallen in love with a great guy. The only problem is, he lives in New Zealand. What should I do?
–Pretty Woman

Dear P.W.:
Don't be an idiot. Don’t fall in love with a Kiwi. Have a brief affair. (Is the sex really that good?) Then say goodbye forever. (Unless you are from Russia and have no family.) Try to meet someone from Chicago.

Falling in love accidentally is a myth. Falling in love isn't like stepping in dog shit. Well, actually it's a lot like that. Don’t fall in love with this guy. Snap out of it.

If you've already made the mistake of falling in love (and you want to be in the same country), you'll need to get permission to live in New Zealand. (Unless you want to get him a green card. Which I don't recommend, unless you are particularly masochistic.) This will be an invasive bureaucratic hassle.

In the movies, the wrong people always fall in love. And after 90 minutes, they live happily ever after, or they die.

You are not a character in a movie. Or a teenager. (If you are a teenager, I don’t want to know about you having sex with the best body you'll ever have in your life.)

This may not be what you've read in women’s magazines. But falling in love isn't something that happens in spite of yourself. Choose who you fall in love with. You don’t want your relationship status to be “It’s Complicated.”

Obviously, I haven’t followed my own advice. My speciality in life has been impossible relationships. (My motto is: The more red flags, the better.) So, unless you want to write to a blog like mine, don’t fall in love. Because love stinks.

I'll try anything once.

2011-05-20T14:59:00.024+12:00

Blogging every day in May didn’t happen. HAHAHAHAHA. Yes, that's the sound of me laughing. I'll try anything once. But I should have set a more realistic goal—like, brushing my teeth every day. Let’s move on.

So, camping over Easter weekend was fun. (Mostly.) We camped next to a rain forest. (It rained a lot.) We spent our afternoons debating—would the tent leak? (It didn't.)

I was impressed by the facilities. (Free electric barbecues! Power to charge your mobile phone! Rubbish collection!)

We ate well. Steaks and burgers and sausages and chicken wings. Porridge for breakfast and proper coffee. Easter lollies and chocolate.

The Bogans were our neighbours. Uncle and his three teenage boys, Niece and her young two kids, and a couple of dogs. They had two caravans and two tents.

After our first night, they shared secrets about the camp ground. They'd been going there for years, and they had the best camp site. They knew where to find dry wood. Did we need more tent pegs or another tarp?

“I wish we had a caravan,” I said.

Uncle told me about the deal that he got when he bought his caravan, and how to get around paying the rego for the whole year.

“An’ ya can come up ‘ere if ya sep’rate from ya pa’tna,” Uncle said. “Ya can stay ‘ere ‘til youse get set up.”

Apparently, this was what he had done when his wife kicked him out. I didn’t mention that Adam and I had separated. It was too complicated to explain.

The Bogans were unruly, but nice people. They always had a fire going on the bank of the river. (They were burning old furniture.) They drank and played music—but not too late. They looked after a dog someone had left in the campground.

But I couldn't help thinking of a scene from “Cold Mountain”.

“Do you remember when Jude Law’s character and that crazy preacher go up to the lopsided cabin, and they get drunk on moonshine?" I asked Adam.

"The room is spinning, and the women are dancing around and lifting up their skirts. And they get turned in for being deserters.”

It was a strange, tangential thought.

But aren't all holidays an odyssey? Adam and I went on a journey together. While we camped in the ruins of our marriage, I was happy to pretend we were still a couple. One last time.

We're going to see the elves!

2011-05-06T21:21:00.025+12:00

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