Hubris.co.nz

My daily dialogue – both aloud and in my head – is currently peppered with the phrase “suck a fuck, you ass hat”. It’s great. It makes everything seem better when you can call the people who wrong you (rightly or wrongly) an ass hat.

You’re sitting in my favourite seat on the bus? Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

Or:

Oh, so you decided to stop reply to text messages because you’re seeing someone now, and you thought hey, passive rejection of someone who’s been passive-aggressively pursuing you is awesome? Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

Or:

You’ve got a new job which means there’ll be even fewer people to hang out with here? Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

Or:

My new boots are going to take a couple of weeks to come into stock? Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

Or:

It’s been three weeks now and what, I don’t deserve it? I know you got my last email, I typed the address on it perfect. Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

Or:

You drank my gingerbeer? Suck a fuck, you ass hat.

In the last case, I should take it back, because I later found my gingerbeer further back in the fridge. And of course, the awesome almighty power of the phrase, much like that of the panda dance, should only be used for good, not evil, and it mustn’t be abused.

Discoveries of the past week have included that fact that gravy on fries is super super tasty after all, and that Tiffany was Canadian. Apparently. We played Headbands at Canadia, and I was like “Okay, so I’m Canadian, I’m not a musician, I’m not an actor, I’m not a politician, I’m not a sportsperson and I’m not really a comedian, what the hell am I famous for then?” and then I laughed and realised who I was and laughed heartily. We didn’t watch a movie because the store didn’t have Southpark. Instead we just ate pancakes that took me an hour and a half to make because it was a quadruple batch, and a quadruple batch of chocolate mousse, and poutine(ish). Mmm poutineish. I have to say though, that I am still constantly surprised and disappointed by people who don’t tell me that they’re not coming. I mean, it takes 30 seconds to send a text message, and it’s free, so I don’t get what their excuse could be. Unless it’s me sending back nasty replies, but I don’t do that. Much.

The Phoenix Foundation were awesome later that night, but my belly was so full of Canada still that I couldn’t dance to the Mysterious Tapeman, and then my feet were screaming in agony leftover from the pancake-making, and I just wanted the gig to end. Luke Buda at Caberet on Sunday night was lovely and sitting down though, along with a $45 banquet from Chow. I took Mummy and Daddy along, as well as Lisa of course, and they enjoyed themselves thoroughly, which is grand.

What are my other things that I’ve been up to this week? I cried and cried and cried watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition because it was a really political episode (yeah I know, random huh?) so along with the usual chick crack thing, I was crying for soldiers who aren’t Jessica Lynch and who therefore don’t get all the attention and cash-in, and I was crying about social injustice and I was crying cos the kid was so very fat,and how the hell does a kid get to be that fat? I mean, I was overweight, but I ate nutritiously at least. It wasn’t until we moved to Japan that I really porked up, and that was me making my own choices (“hey, at least food will be my friend…”). That kid was like six. Oh well. I prefer my chick crack to be much simpler and less of the making me think variety please.

Haha, did I really just write a paragraph about Extreme Makeover: Home Edition that didn’t also include the sentence “I’m due for my period soon so…”? I guess I did. Who knows where my period has gone. I’m pretty sure I’ll be giving birth to the anti-Christ any day now. That might explain why I’ve spent so much time on Myspace recently, including starting a group for the Country Club which you should totally join.

Right now I am full of lunchtime yum char with workmates, which was surprisingly more yum than I had been expecting, and full of plans to move tonight’s drinks from Ponderosa to Red Square, using the excuse of the weather but primarily because I always have a bad night if I go to Ponderosa, so frankly it can suck a fuck. And that brings us around in a nice circle, so I might sign off from this entry.

Let’s see if I can write a journal entry in twelve minutes. (Apparently not)

Before I get on with the usual recounting of everything, let me just announce Canadia at the Country Club, 5pm Saturday May 6 – don’t worry, it’s planned so that you can come to this and still go to the Phoenix Foundation gig. We’re going to eat pancakes and maple syrup and bacon (if you’re that way inclined) and fries with cheese, and Chocolate Mooooooooooooooousse, and listen to the Arcade Fire and other goodness, and learn facts about Canadia, and end all our sentences with ‘Eh’ and I might plan another few activities, and it’d be rad if you could come.

And now let me get on with Friday night, which saw me leaving work on the dot of five and declining to go out for a drink (holy fucking shit, I know) in favour of going home and doing a mountain of dishes and prepping for my Spanishy potato dish which I’m hereby going to call Papas Garbanzo. Prepping means a mountain of agria potatos cubed and boiled, and cans of chickpeas rinsed and drained, and numerous garlic cloves crushed and roughly chopped and placed in a bowl with diced red onions, and feta crumbled and paired with chopped parsley and a little basil, and spring onions cut into pretty little loops, and chorizo sausages defrosted, diced and fried till crispy and put into yet another bowl. After that there was just time to set the table and get changed before I had to go and pick up Jisa for wacky one-way driving adventures in Brooklyn trying to find Jimmy, and then to Mount Vic for Jessie and Jane. I threw open the invitation to everyone else with a J in my phonebook, but to little avail. Boo-urns. But that’s okay, because we sat in the glowing atmosphere, and drank good red wine, and not so good red wine, and stuffed our faces with the papas garbanzo, and the green beans almondine, and then coconut cream and apple cake with caramelised peaches and raspberry strawberry SORBET (which you must yell like “Ole!”) and Jessie told us rock’n roll stories and we annoyed her with a lot of usage of the phrase “like throwing a sausage down a hallway” and its many variations. It was a geniusly good time.

On Saturday my head hurt, but I had to get up early to gossip to Heather and confirm that it was indeed her who had been drunkenly texting me the night before. Then there were an awful lot of dishes to do. Nevertheless I did them, and napped, and made myself pretty in time to meet the divine KateH, or Popular Kate as you may remember her, for dinner at Arashi. It was so nice to go out just with her – we tried to think of when the last time we’d done that may have been, and the best we could come up with was like, July 2002. We followed that with a drink at Harem, which was wacky crazy cool and I wish we’d eaten dinner there cos the menu looked yum, but as it was, we had to knock our cocktails back quickly in order to make it to Dylan Moran on time. He was genius, wonderful, excellent, angry drunken belligerant hott Irishman. His onstage persona was much like Bernard Black, but a little more articulate. Hott. I laughed lots, and I also laughed a bit because my friends who saw the show in Auckland said that there were many curvy bookish type women in the audience there, and so it was in Wellington. Afterwards we went to Good Luck for a drink, and meant to go to Bodega for the A Low Hum, but the cocktails were just too good and we didn’t want to get up. Eventually though with KateB in tow we decided we wanted food and headed back to Harem which was shut, so we went to Tupelo instead, where stupid boys tired to impress us with their asses, drank from our wine bottle and tried to offend us with videos on a cellphone of a girl who ejaculated semen out of her very hemaroided bottom. It’s probably not the kind of thing you want to see every day, but if you’re introduced to it with the “this is so offensive, this is totally going to offend you” type introduction, there is no way in hell that you’re going to be offended. Except by the guy’s total stupidity. KateB disappeared, and Tupelo shut down, so KateH and I were forced to sit outside in the alleyway with KateB’s coat and bag for LITERALLY half an hour since KateB’s phone was in her bag, and we were not overly impressed by that.

On Sunday I slept in late, and then later I picked up KateH and she came over for dinner, and surprise surprise, she knew people that Bart’s mum knew. And we watched the Garland video, and looked at photos, and read the bible, and oh, how long ago Uni was and how young and full of hope we were all then.

And now Sebby has been missing for 24 hours, and I am worrrrrrrrrrrrrrieeeed. Today I had lunch with Amy and Andeee but they had friends and sisters there and so we didn’t really gossip, and I haven’t seen them since 2004, and it was strange. And no one is upstairs at work today, and I had to log on downstairs in the morning and the boy’s computer that I was using was sticky and eww. And blah blah. I hope Sebby comes home when I get home today after PAYING FOR MY FLIGHTS. Wahoo!

Come to Canadia. What’s that all about eh?

EDIT: He wasn’t there when I got home, even after I called and called him so I went to my room and bawled and bawled, and then I heard him mewling and he came in and I cuddled him and cried some more, and he was like “sheesh, what’s the big idea, it’s only been 30 hours but can I have some extra food please?”

Everybody quick, grab a can of gasoline (not petrol) and some matches and come with me, cos I’m going to burn all my bridges. Or some of them at least. Oh no wait, I already did that. I wish I still had meds to make me invincible and to cut off my thinking thinking thinking. But I don’t. So let’s move on.

I had about a thousand cocktails at Katy’s cocktail party, and when I say “about” I probably mean “maybe 20″. My feet are cold. This is very important that you know this. We’ve been listening to Ghostplane and now we are listening to the Phoenix Foundation. I was worried when Ghostplane finished and the cd player spun around because I’m not often very down with Bart’s taste in music which tends towards the yelling, but it seems that I still have background music for entertaining to in the player.

Last night at China-at-the-Country-Club I had eleven people for dinner. Everyone else ate the Chinese food that was delivered. My hexagonal table has two inserts that can be inserted into it (oh really?) to make it longer, so we did that. I only have six dining room chairs though, so we had to use a computer chair and a wicker couch and also pull up my sea-chest to it. I drank Tsing Tao beer and stuck candles in their empty bottles. Jeremy wasn’t there when we ordered the food and made disparaging remarks about vegetarians, so we didn’t know he was one and therefore all he got to eat was some brocoli and plain rice. I felt bad. We all read our chinese horrorscopes and suddenly Jessie’s metal monkey stamp made sense. Ash’s horrorscope made her out to be totally like Hitler. Both Bart and Angie are rats, with a twelve year age difference. I think I needed to sleep more last night, this is all very disjointed. Everyone shared facts about China, although Kate mostly shared facts about the Kaori Sanctuary and the fish ladder. Did you know, for example that Anji, Karen and I are all half Chinese? We must be, because Mum was born in Hong Kong. Then again, Karen and Anji were born in Japan, so their eyes must be all crazy slanty. Ahh the country club, allowing for cliches from all around the world. We had sparklers afterwards cos of the Chinese rocking the fireworks and I made fun of people coughing at the sparkler smoke and then got caught in it myself and coughed for the rest of the night. We watched Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan to round off our cultural experience, but it was disappointly mostly unporny. But it was still fantastic. The next Country Club is likely to be Canadia Eh, and we will eat chips with cheese and gravy. Without the gravy. And watch ice hockey porn. And listen to the Arcade Fire. I know I am late to the Arcade Party, but I am still madly in love with them.

Then we went to Katy’s cocktail party where I stood in the kitchen for much of the night nice and close to the blenders so that I pretty much always had a drink in my hands. The guy that I had a crush on in 2001 was staring at my boobs all night. You’re like, five years too late buddy, I don’t do drugs anymore. I was wearing a sequined shrug and it glittered all over the place. I was dazzling. It gave me an arm rash though and I felt a little bit like a human disco ball, which is possibly not the greatest thing to feel like. We put our hands on our hearts to sing that we belonged to the night, we belonged to the thunder, and people salsaed to Gloria Estefan. Lisa kept making eyes at my sister. I kept throwing goats. My group of friends is awesome. Katy’s flatmate refused to marry me. I like her kitchen despite the big hole in the roof. One of my fondest memories of New Year’s Eve was dancing around it to MIA waving a big serving spoon. As you do. Or rather, as I did.

I was going to go up to my parents’ house this weekend to say hi to Pixie and watch their big TV, but I don’t know if I can be bothered. Maybe I should. Oh I don’t know. Maybe I should just stay here and plan what I am going to cook for Jessie when she comes down next weekend. I’m very looking forward to seeing her. It’s also awesome that I have an excuse to not go out with my workmates on Friday night and be a dick and end up crying in the toilets at Boulot and then running off to Lisa’s house and sitting on her footstool and falling off because it’s just all soft again. It’s important not to do these things more than once. And then the night after that KateH will be down and we’re going to go see Dylan Moran, and I’m going to marry him and we’re going to open a bookstore together and always be drunk and rude. Hurrah!