Hubris.co.nz

Right now I am getting my photo taken. Yes, RIGHT NOW. Actually that’s a lie.Technically speaking, right now they are roaming my house trying to decide where the best place to shoot me is. I’m sitting on my bed right now, but they’re worried that since I’m sitting down they lose all the things that makes my room unique to me. When I say “they” I mean Nicola Edmonds and her friend/assistant Adrian. So yes, it’s somewhat more than a snapshot, but there’s no makeup or racks of clothes or catering or records playing or interviewer from Q or Jane tagging along or any of the things that I will no doubt have one day. But I am having my photo taken by professionals for an article on blogging (yes, i know), which is quite nice. And also funny, because THIS IS NOT REAL! The Arch Hill poster in the background does not actually live there on my wall! And normally I have Xmas lights rolled around my bedhead, pretending like there could actually be an occasion in which I would need to light up my bed. And it’s funny because oooh, they have one of those big shiny silver things which is bouncing the light or something. I dunno. I will pretend for the next ten minutes that I am a Spice Girl. I think the martini that I had before they got here will help with that. Who knew that vermouth actually freezes? Not I. But it was like shaved ice in my gin. I made up for it with an exra olive.

I like that they are trying to get an essence of who I am in the photo (oooh, essence of Joanna, they should sell that in bottles. And then people could make cocktails with it and a lot of vodka. Although there would already be a lot of vodka in my essence, no doubt. Or apparently today gin). After overhearing debate in the dining room about whether or not the Xmas lights would be applicable if the photos come out in March (I should have pointed out that they’re somewhat of a permanent fixture, but nevermind) and perhaps a discussion about the interior of my house being somewhat younger than the magazine’s demographic – but I might have misheard – I ended up standing in my room in front of my Bic posters in most of the photos, carrying my laptop under my arm, one hand leaning on the cabinet that usually houses my record-player but today was historically unaccurately cleared of clutter and dust, and the other with my thumb hooked into the pocket of my dress. I have taken some self portraits before they arrived, so here you can see an approximation of what I looked like:

I’m hoping of course that her photos will actually have proper light in them, or it will turn out that the shiny silver disc was all for nothing! They were kind and said that I was pretty much the only person all year to actually want to have my photo taken, and when they said I was photogenic I said “well that’s why I don’t mind having my photo taken” instead of just saying “thank you” and blushing. Thanks Martini! Perhaps it will be a new New Year’s Resolutions to take compliments and run with them. Or perhaps I should pass a resolution to not come across as so hubristic to people I’ve just met who might not know that I am making fun of myself. But I’m not sure I’ve got the votes to get that through congress, let alone the senate.

A rediscovered fragment that should have been in 101 Stories if I’d remembered about it, that I found tonight when I was looking for a story I wrote about The Gathering to send to Ali.

The sex I used to have made me feel like a bystander in my own life. He would move my legs around, hoist them over his shoulder, turn me on my side, or whatever he wanted, and I would lie there compliant, thinking “it’s not him”. It was only when he went to hold my hand afterwards that I felt that something was wrong. I am not in love with you, please don’t try to force intimacy on me. I am fucking you precisely because you are not him.

And it felt weird, someone different touching me in different ways, in different places. His cock was totally different, of course, and the feelings involved were different. It was easy to spell them out in this case: I am drunk, you are not him and I need to be with someone who’s not him to prove that I can be with someone who is not him. That could be the mantra of each thrust into me. I.am.not.the.man.you.are.in.love.with.I.am.not.your.whole.world.I.have.not.left.you.for.your.best friend.

So it doesn’t matter that he seems like he is a sexual deviant. It doesn’t matter that he rejoices in my hairy legs that he takes the time to rub his cock up and down. It doesn’t matter when he licks my armpits, or tries to fuck me in the morning when he’s still wearing the same condom. He is no one. He is nothing. It doesn’t matter.

I’m not sure of the words we said to each other or anything, only the look that he gave me; the single dirtiest look in the history of one night stands EVER. It wasn’t a “I want to fuck you” look; it was a “I’m going to fuck you in this position and this position and this position, and you’re going to love it, because you’re a dirty whore and you want nothing but my cock inside you” statement. And of course he was right.

If only it could have been simply that simple. He was a mystery, a boy of extreme contrasts. He was sweet and charming in conversation, but he had my clothes off the second we got in his bedroom door. He didn’t call a taxi as soon as I said I’d go home with him because he said that would be presumptuous, but straight away on his bed he told me he had a treat for me and rolled on a spearmint condom. For a nice guy who told me that he hadn’t had sex outside a relationship before, he still managed to fuck me in half a dozen positions, transitioning seamlessly between them. He played me Jeff Buckley, and then a song he wrote named after a girl with the same name as me, but also wanted to fuck me in the ass.

That’s the first time, of course. The second time is a year later, when he’s had a chance to get back together with his ex girlfriend and then break up with her again, and I’ve had a chance to realize that running out while he was sleeping because I thought I was in love with someone else and terrified of developing intimacy with him and using the excuse of not having a Connection was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. There were two beers each in a pub, conversation where we talked about our families and how bad Sex in the City was, and we really seemed to be on the same page. I was able to say that I wished I had got to know him the year before, and he smiled at me. It felt really nice, but I was still completely surprised when he said “How about I come over to your house later with a bottle of wine?”

Then when he kissed me on the street outside, my legs felt like they were going to buckle underneath me and I ended up walking down the street in a total daze. At home later, I watched videos with my flatmate in an attempt to keep calm – after I’d changed my underwear, of course. He arrived, shyly knocking on the front door, we opened the promised wine. My flatmate stealthily retreated as soon as the movie ended, and him and I were left together on the couch. So, alone, not at a party, or a bar, or a cafe or any of the places I’d seen him since we went to bed. Over the course of the conversation, my legs crept up onto the couch so that our knees were touching. Our tastes in music were dissected to find places where we were compatible. And finally, we put our glasses down on the ground and he took my hand and we kissed again, this time for much longer than the pavement encounter earlier that night.

If I had melted into him at that very moment, I wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d been on my mind in various guises for a year – first in sweet nostalgia, and then in regret for leaving, and then in “I WANT HIM AGAIN NOW” capacity.

I wasn’t talking to her. He wasn’t talking to me for that reason, and it all stemmed from the same thing – good lovers making great enemies and best friends falling out over a boy and all the usual cliches. And there they were at the bar that I was at, and I’d been drinking beer, bubbly, and more beer. As soon as I saw them I sunk shots of Green Chartreuse to hide it, but it didn’t work, I still knew they were there. And why should they get to run me out of every bar in town? Plus, I’d run out of money for liquor and I knew that they had large bank balances. I stumbled over and plonked myself down in their line of vision. I was hot and knew it, after all. My boobs were on display for the entire world to see and it felt really nice.

I’m not sure who was more surprised – her or him. I guess we’ll say Her, because I did sometimes talk to him, even if he’d been ignoring me as of late. “Oh my god,” they said, “Joanna’s talking to us”. I suggested to them that they owed me a drink or two and she scampered off. More Corona with shots beside. I told them how no one liked me anymore. I was leaning forward to talk to them, my arm resting across his knees. They knew all the names that I was mentioning; they asked me over and over if I was okay, if I was really all right. They genuinely cared about me. I leaned forward more. She moved off to talk to other people and I took her seat. All of a sudden we were kissing each other with more fierce intensity than we’d felt in three years. Hands were all over each, in places that shouldn’t be in a nightclub. If it had been possible, we might have devoured each other whole. But instead, I was across his lap, whispering filthy things in his ear, rubbing his cock through his trousers in what I thought was a covert manner, promising him pleasures beyond what we’d ever experienced together before. I don’t know where his wife has gone, but really, it doesn’t matter as I follow him into the men’s room. He has me pinned to the wall and his hands are so rough in what inside my jeans that I have to tell him he’s hurting me as my top is dropped on the floor and my bra is pulled up. Our mouths are dissolving into one another, his hands are rough on my breasts and all I can do is tell him how much I want to fuck him. Always responsible, he asks me if I have any condoms, but of course, my bag and my jacket are somewhere back out in the bar, stashed under the seat where we first started getting dirty, and so that’s a no.

He has a solution for this of course, and he shoves my head down to his crotch, telling me to suck his cock. I do this gladly, reaching into his jeans like I’ve done a million times before. I want to show him how good I am, how much better I’ve become since he left me, and why he never should have left me. I do the best I can, and it’s not long before the pre-come is dribbling into my mouth, the salty taste turning me on instead of grossing me out. The fact that we’re in this barren concrete space makes the whole experience that much hotter. This is illicit near-fucking, and my god that’s a turn-on. His hands are on my head, pushing back my hair to secure his view and to make sure I don’t move my mouth away. I can taste his tang and it’s all I want for now, all that I could ever want, but there’s a knocking at the door, and he says that it’s her – his wife.

Smart readers would know that the large gaps in updates are probably due to an increase in bad feelings for me, specifically Rising Anxiousness. This has resulted in some unpleasantness, as it tends to, but I’m hoping that more exercise, having Xmas sorted out now and having two weeks off will help the anxiousness to settle down. And if it doesn’t, well, government job = free intial counselling. WahoO!

So where we left off was with me heading out to the Matterho for Kart’s birthday, which luckily quickly moved up to Mighty Mighty, which wasn’t very busy cos it was a Wednesday after all so we could move a couple of tables together easily.

Ash with porcelain skin poses with porcelain dog

Kartini models a shirt from Helen’s shop, Modern Love

Haha. Awesome photo placement.

I talked about Japan with a couple of people who’d also lived in Tokyo – one working as a hostess – and also started crying on Kartini’s shoulder about “why don’t people like me? What more do I have to do? I never get invitations to anything – you only invited me tonight because I emailed you to see if you wanted to go to lunch. I feel like I’m in seventh grade again blah blah blah blah” because I am really awesome. I was really stoked about that. Especially when I did it again on the balcony at San Frindigo later that night onto Ash’s shoulder this time.

But apart from that, it was a really good time. It was pretty much just us there, so we were all out on the balcony because they’re all filthy smokers (in fact, there’s now a Molly Ringwald badge covering the fucking cigarette burn on my bag), and some random munter showed up looking for whores, confused by the Bathhouse sign out the front (like people used to do occasionally when Anji and Karen lived in the Moonlight Lounge. Except that dude, this guy seemed to be looking for female companionship, so what kind of idiot would go to a place called the San Francisco bathhouse?). I suggested that maybe he should go down to Oasis Massage on Ghuznee St (how do I know where the nearest brothel is? I just keep my eyes open I guess), but he kept hanging around, trying to give us his drink (“it’s a double!” like that was some strange way for liquor to be served) and being sleazy. I think eventually Kristen went to speak to a bouncer about him and he got thrown out. Speaking of dodgy:

I have no idea who that guy is, or what’s going on. I don’t remember taking this picture

Look! Friends! People who like me! And I just need to remember that more often, even if they don’t come to my parties all the time

On Thursday I was feeling a little fragile, and puked up my Revive coffee before we went for our team lunch at Logan Brown, so I chose to take the taxi up with a couple of the late people rather than walk up with the Comms team, so I was at the other end of the table with our director and the head of HR. I tried to keep my head down and just enjoy my gazpacho, asparagus, turkey confit and chocolate velvet, but I found myself babbling more about how nice it was to work for an agency of good if I hadn’t been drinking on a hangover. And I should point out that the tax payer only paid $15 of our lunches, just in case you were worried. And then I tried to Xmas shop but only found things I wanted to buy for myself like art at Popup. Oh, but I did get Lisa a bobble-head Jesus to put in her car to keep us safe when we drive up to the BDO. Mmm sacreligious.

On Friday we had our Comms team planning day all day. It was interesting doing our group working profiles, and mapping out what we want to do with our website and so on, but I was in a terrible grump of a mood due to not getting to eat breakfast and then not breaking for coffee until 11.45. Still, it’s nice to work somewhere that does actually have a clear comms strategy, and part of it felt a bit West Wingy, and also we all know what we’re doing now. And 3/4 of us are exceptionally extroverted, and I am more practical and analytical than the others. Hurrah. Which means that the best ways to “link” with me are as follows:

That night I saw BartBart for the first time in a million years, and also Lisa. We watched the Tommy Lee/Pamela Anderson video on my laptop which Bart was holding on his lap, and of course it’s all shot from POV, so ha ha, Bart got fucked by Tommy Lee. Good times.

On Saturday, I had my work party at the Hataitai bowling club. It turns out I’m not as sucky at bowling as I thought I might be, so joining is definitely on the cards. I felt not terribly comfy at the party though – I was just talking to the Comms team mostly who all had their partners/husbands there, and so I snuck out right after dinner. Besides, later that night Lisa Karen and I went to A Low Hum to see Ghostplane. The doors of Frindigo were still shut when we got there, so we went to Midnight Espresso and Lisa inspired me to have a coke spider, so I bounced off the walls for a while. It truly is an awesome drink. Signer who played before Ghostplane were interesting sometimes, especially in the really poundy songs (they have Dino from HDU/the current incarnation of Dimmer on drums, hence the power), but sometimes they were too clicks and beepy. And you know I feel a bit funny about Aspen. I hadn’t seen Ghostplane play since I’ve become friends with Ash, so that was very cool. But after that we decided that we were old and tired and went home.

On Sunday I tidied the house and went up to Ngaio to get Mum and Neil’s Xmas tree stand, and then I got a tree and went to the Warehouse for decorations, and ended up with this result:

My tree by day – spot all the newspaper-wrapped but beribboned presents. That’s my way of saving the environment

With the lights on. And yes, I did buy the baubles especially to match that sari

On Monday (wow, this is starting to get really boring) I asked for a reassessment at the gym, figuring it would be good to get it in now in case things get a bit kaput over my holiday. I was exactly the same weight, but my body fat percentage had gone down a tiny bit, as had my resting heart rate, which was encouraging. HOWEVER! Four weeks ago, I had perfect blood pressure, but as she was taking it again I said “i bet it’s higher now” because I’ve been feeling so fucking stressed out. It was so high that she took it again to see if it was right. Five more points and she’d tell me to go to a doctor. Holy crap! I’ve always had good blood pressure. I was like “I only came to the gym once last week, and it’s Xmas organising and stuff – I think if I do some radsville cardio today I’ll be a lot better”. But now I can still feel it in my chest, carrying around that ball of stress that doesn’t want to go away. It’s not choice. The anxiousness seems to be rising – hence the crying. I’m hoping the holiday will do me some good. It should do. Hopefully it can make my self-esteem fuck the fuck up a bit too.

Another thing that has added to the cry factor this week is remembering how this time last year we were spending time at the hospital with Oma, and then how on the 22nd, well, you know. Mum rang me to say thanks for the orchids I had sent to her on Friday, and I cried at my desk with a glass of champagne in my hands while my workmates yacked it up in the kitchen. But I pulled myself together by the time that Martha came to pick me up in her sexyass new Mini Cooper. I want one too! We went to Noel Leeming for cellphone goodness for her and DVD recorder joy for me. Well, it’s more joyous now that I found an all region crack for it on the interweb, but I also read bad reviews of it. Stink.

Yesterday there was shopping insanity at Woolworths, but I have everything in stock now except for fresh cream for the many coursed Xmas Dinner Karen and I mapped out on Thursday before a pretty fucking mediocre dinner at Scopa which has so gone off my recommendation list. Everyone in the family (yes, all five of us) has received explicit instructions in regards to wine to be matched with each course, and what kind of cheeses they are to bring, and so on and so forth. Match that with the fact that I only bought two Xmas presents not from the interweb – and one of those has now gone to Anji to give to Neil in a present reshuffle, and I’m like, totally in control. My to-do list is meanwhile detailed down to the “fill CD player with good music” “Make ice” “chill bubbly” instructions. Mostly I just have to tidy, vacuum and decorate the table. Until then I will watch DVDs with Lisa and enjoy Sebastian’s company. And also enjoy how fucking clean the bathroom and kitchen floors are. Ahhh exterme mopping, how calming you are. Sort of.

I have made a really important decision and decided that my favourite close-to-work source of coffee is Gravel. It’s quick, the Revive beans are tasty and the barrista is lovely and chatty. Today he said that he hoped my coffee would make my day better as I explained it had got off to a terrible start what with getting to the bus stop (late, and sore of tummy) and discovering that I had left my wallet at home so having to go back and consequently being insanely late to work. Assuming I had an actual start time instead of a 7am-7pm guideline. The one problem with Gravel though is that they normally sell out of muffins very quickly, and besides they’re stodgy muffins. The scones at Kiranyi are the bestest, but girls cannot live on scones (and coffee) alone.

Yes, I’m all about the big issues today. I had lunch with my ex cow Frances, and we talked about stoogling, which is my HOT NEW BUZZWORD and I made it up and it means stalking via google. Of course. Yesterday I had dinner at Arashi with Karen and Anji and we talked about ummm I can’t remember what. Afterwards I thought about going to Frindigo but found my couch and my new Xmas lights were more appealing, although I did consider going so I could blank people, because what’s the point in being mad at people if they don’t know about it? Instead I am going to the Matterho tonight for birthday drinks for Kart, and tomorrow I am actually going to go to my Ministry’s Xmas party, despite the fact that I probably will know few people. I suppose this is one way to get to know people. But before that we have our team lunch at Logan Brown, and then on Friday our Comms planning day with lunch at Dojo, and on Saturday our agency’s Xmas party at the bowling club. Hurrah!

Speaking of work, I recently discovered that a guy I’ve been going “I’m sure I know him from somewhere” actually comes from NZM, which makes me happy because I thought I knew him via Skank, and I didn’t want to have to ask him if that was how. Turns out he asked me instead. Yesterday I spent the whole day having Orientation (they do two Orientations a year for everyone new in the past six months), which started off with a lovely Powhiri and now I know the English translation of Tu Teramai Nga Iwi, although we sang it in te reo. It was kind of funny because someone went to teach it to us, and all the macronised letters were missing, but we figured out what it was and everyone around my age knew it already from primary school. I’m still a little flustered by the hongi though, because everyone does it differently – some with foreheads and some without, and some with a cheek kiss and some without, and oh, just the confusion. We should have an official hongi style guide. And I love that this paragraph will make not much sense to people from outside of NZ, but if you’re curious, please email me and ask.

I skipped work on Friday, because I was feeling like crap. When I woke up in the afernoon, I was feeling much better and able to run many errands and spend much much money on things I didn’t really need, like bottles of brandy, and new Xmas lights and wig hireage. It also made me happy when I went out for a drink with Dylan and Dave that night and there were no gaxies. I made them come to United Video with me to look for Swedish porn, and I think the man browsing in the adult room was unimpressed by Dave taking photos of us. We couldn’t find anything that looked Swedish, although we were tempted by Anal Grannies 4, except that I hear that the sequels lose the magic of the original. Then we ran into Fia on the street who said that Teanau was having his goodbye drinks at the Cambridge Arms so I popped in there after the boys had buggered off, but I only stayed for one drink and then went home on the bus in the rain. I baked a sour cream, almond and apple cake when I got home, but left it in the oven too long because Sebastian was sitting on my lap and I was enjoying our cuddle, so the sides of it are a little too tanned for my liking.

My Saturday day was also about that exciting. I spent a significant amount of it making meatballs, tidying our dining room and stringing up Xmas lights in preperation for Country Club. Oh, and I got dressed up.

If I tell you that I am wearing two mismatched stripey socks, will you know who I am?

Sweden started out really slowly, although Fia and her man showed up on the dot of 8, and we sat around drinking glog. Once again, no one from the tripleK showed up, although Katy had the courtesy to text me to tell me she had to work. I just don’t know how to make them like me and value me, it makes me feel like I’m 12 again and if only I got the right pair of shoes, maybe I’d have some friends. And I know that’s lame. Lisa and Fran came along then, which was lovely, and Dylan came by to drop off the Swedish porn he’d downloaded and burnt to DVD for me, and ended up staying for the smogasbord.

This is what the leftovers looked like in the morning

Fia said that the food tasted Swedish, so I felt really good about that. It certainly went well with the Abba/Roxette/The Hives CD that Fran and Lisa brought over, and the glog went down a treat. Then we watched the DVD, which featured a German cartoon with Norwegian subtitles, and then a couple of standard porn scenes with Swedish girls in them. We all made the standard group-watching-porn kind of jokes that you make. Porn is silly. But at least this was very vanilla stuff, and Fia translated the stunning dialogue for us (who knew that it’d be stuff like “oh yeah baby, you want to do me?”? Sparkling!).

Today I went for brunch with Karen and Mum at the Maranui Surf Cafe, and then I got mesmerized by the piles of things at Briscoes. This afternoon was spent stalking a handful of unsuitable people on the internet (you finished a novel? That is so awesome. I want to read it), and doing the mountains of dishes whilst singing along to Abba/Roxette/The Hives. Now I am watching Poltergiest II although I didn’t bother finishing the first one, and talking pseudo-dirtily to someone else entirely unsuitable. Yes, my life truly is that exciting. Oh, and Smoo cut his hair and now he looks like JD Fortune, except with his shirt done up. It’s all rocking all the time here.

Once again, it appears that it’s time for all the media to talk about the Man Drought (Or perhaps a woman drought?). There’s nothing like a pointless circlejerk on a slow news day is there? But perhaps I’m just grumpy because of it being the Xmas party season and all, and so therefore I could do with a partner to take to my assorted work parties (and so I could go to theirs!) so I could have someone to talk to, but instead, I will console myself with the fact that tomorrow I have to change my work’s website to reflect something that’s happening in the news RIGHT NOW. Oooh political!

Hmm, I like yesterday’s starting paragraph better when I got to mention cunt juice as the very first thing. Today I went to a seminar on digital archiving (I left in the coffee break because it turned out to not really be applicable to me), and one of the men speaking said something about “discharge” and I had to restrain myself from giggling inappropriately as I was surrounded by librarian types. But I did decide that I need to submit Hubris to the National Library archiving system so that people in 10,000 years will still be using the term “mangoing”.

My home life is about as exciting. I’m stoked that my return to regular gyming has led to an increase in energy. Today I actually got a massage at lunchtime instead, on the gym’s weirdass robot massager, that’s like a combination of a waterbed and a spa pool. You lie down on it, fully clothed, and jets of water work up and down your body, but underneath plastic so you don’t get wet. It lights up inside in all different colours as the cycle goes around, but it makes a hell of a noise so I turned up Sigur Ros in my iPod, shut my eyes and felt like I was flying. Mmm vibratory. But yes, increased energy. I walked up the waterfront after work, basking in the glorious weather, but arrived at the Costume Cave too late to find myself a wig for a Swedish outfit for Country Club on Saturday.

So I came home and cleaned the fridge, and took photos of it for your viewing pleasure.

Yes, this is the entire contents of the fridge Smoo and I use. If you want to see a close-up that points out how most things are cocktail ingrediants, check out this picture.

The shiny clean fridge once I was done with it.

Yes, I am embarrassed by it too. So I went out after I had finished cleaning it and bought an eggplant and some strawberries and apples, which are destined for a cake for Sweden. Because everyone knows Swedish apple cakes are almost as famous as their meatballs (which I am also making), right? And while we’re asking questions, does anyone know anything about fridges? Because ours isn’t as cold as it should be and we don’t know why. And yes, we’ve turned it to its coldest setting. The freezer seems fine though.

Now post a picture of your fridge or pantry. Go on. It’s what the cool kids do before they get offline to go watch The Insiders[sic] Guide to Happiness which they just got. Hurrah!

So the amount I’m mangoing, calling everyone “you fucking stupid whore” (although mostly in my head), yelling at Sebastian, using up all our bandwidth downloading porn, crying at everything on TV (including Grey’s Anatomy recaps and reruns of episodes of Rockstar: Inxs – although to be fair, it was the one where Marty sings ‘Wish you were here’) and being as ravenous as the wolf suggests that it’s almost time for the red right hand, which means it’s been more than a month since I was in San Francisco and I still haven’t written up my holiday. Where the hell did the time go?

Well, I suppose I did spend a couple of weeks obsessing over the First Annual Wellingtonista Awards for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence. I tried to be as consultatative with the group as possible, but in the end I figured someone just needed to take charge and get it done – much like my New Year’s Eve plans with the tripleK whereby I searched for fucking ages to find a bach for us, found a great place in the Orongorongos, everyone said that they were totally keen and now of course, no one can commit to it so it’s off. If I was to continue on a “sometimes I really do feel like my friends let me down when I go to a fuckload of effort”, I’d mention how I was short of five votes to win the best Wellington Web Writer, and how many Hubrettes didn’t vote (not to mention most of my real life friends) but I’m not that sort of whinger am I? No indeedy.

Anyways, the awards night on Friday at Might Mighty was fabulous , even if I arrived late because I spent an eternity blow-drying my hair and waiting for my taxi to arrive.

Self portrait in the Mighty Mighty bathrooms, which are the same intense candy pink as the loos at Occam

Hadyn has handily put photos up in his flickr account if you want to bask in the blow-dried goodness, except that of course I am making a stupid and chinny face in almost every photo. But on the whole, the photos are awesome and it was very exciting having an Official Photographer with capital letters and all. Plus, I wrote out speeches for all the award presenters to read – although they were allowed to say whatever they felt like – so it was most amusing to see grown men speaking like the wannabe valley girl that I am. After quickly downing a cask red wine in an attempt to slow down my heart beat which was having palpitations from eating too many chocolate-covered coffee beans, I drank many a tasty martini made by the nice bartender with the Hitler hair, and then switched to sweeter cocktails. I chatted with people from the blogosphere (haha! I know) and decided that a slightly tipsy Martha is totally my new BFF and ever as we gossiped like mad and she ran around on secret errands for me (*).

Hadyn, Martha, Glen. Note the goats that Martha appears to be throwing. You know who else throws goats? The NAZIS.

Eventually after all my other fellow Wellingtonistas had left – and I was really stoked that they thanked me for my organising efforts and deemed it a success that we will repeat next year – I sat around making Nazi jokes with Hadyn and his friend who reminded me rather a lot of Sammy from AUT, but that might have just been the fact that they talk about sport a lot. My toe was driving me crazy with pain from my drunken “hey, you know what’s a good idea? ripping open your blisters to drain them!” surgery the night before, so I was very glad that I’d eventually accepted there was no point in even trying to wear my heels, as my maryjanes were bad enough.

Nevertheless, I made my maryjanes take me up to Ladyfest at San Frindigo to see Katy dance with the Real Hot Bitches.

The Real Hot Zombie Army

Boy bitches!

I wasn’t actually sure who was going to be there, so I was super glad that Chrisana was there playing records in between acts cos I got to talk to her lots.

Big pimpin’ up in SFB(H).

They’re putting a bar out on the balcony. Laaaaame. The balcony’s already too damn small in summer. Sigh.

They already moved the bar to the other side of the room from where it used to be when the bar was Indigo

There were all flavours of lesbian in attendence, from cowboy dykes to total girlie girls (and yes I am in fact totally making snap judgements about their sexuality, pretty much based on nothing at all, since there were plenty of some straight couples around too), but I was just too damn tired to oggle properly, given how hungover I’d been all day so eventually I just had to take myself home.

Behold the ladies!

After all, the night before, on Thursday – if, like me you’re losing track of the narration, I had attended the opening of Helen’s shop, Modern Love. The shop is at the top of the Plimmer Steps, one shop down from Madam Fancypants, and it’s bloody gorgeous, as you can see in these pics:

Modern Love at night

Horses in my frieze… Well, Helen’s frieze.

The party was also astonishingly packed, so it’s just as well most people were dirty smokers.

Inside the shop

Outside the shop

And again

We ended up sitting in the carpark across the Plimmer Steps because it was raining, and as Helen had managed to get DB to sponsor her opening (product placement: Stark the RTD is pretty damn drinkable as it is sugar free or something like that, and tastes just like flavoured carbonated water), and talked and talked. Eventually after almost all the booze was gone, we hoofed it over to Mighty Mighty, where I stared at a girl for ages before finding out she was the identical twin of a girl I went to uni with (Not Shirley’s Evelyn though), and learnt about the wonders of Castlepoint Ale – a 750ml bottle for $7.50. Nice.

Needless to say, by the time Saturday rolled around, I was fucking exhausted and was able only to go with Karen to the award-winning Maranui Surf Cafe for delicious brunch.

Surf club participants participating out the window

And then we went to sit in the sun drinking frozen daquiris at home. That’s as exciting as the rest of my weekend got. Wahoo. And now it’s Monday, and I learnt how to update our website at work todya which makes me so very very happy, and I’ve been doing our intranet too whcih means I’ve been handcoding all day and so now I think I will bid you farewell.

xojo