Hubris.co.nz

The Saturday before last was one of the worst of my life. Luckily it never happened.

Friday 29 June was my last day at NZAID. I’d suggested that I didn’t want to have a morning tea, and suggested instead that we could have drinks. My manager asked if she should invite ISU, the internet services unit. I squawked out “NO!” very loudly at her suggestion, because that is where the Web Developer works, and if someone is the sole reason for you leaving your job, you don’t really want to see him at your goodbye drinks. Instead, I told Lani to come down for it, and invited Bart to come up, and since Shirley’s starting there soon, she came in for a meet’n greet and to stay for drinks. My manager made a tiny little speech, but they didn’t even give me a card. You know how normally cards are really lame, full of impersonal messages from people who don’t even know you? Well I miss not getting one anyway. The boy who sent me sexually harrassing hilarious emails every day only stayed for one drink. Eventually everyone left, except for Bart and Shirley, and then the company director showed up which was very nice, and this crazy sixty year old woman. Bart and I laughed comparin gthe scene to my long, drunken goodbye at CWA New Media. Then the fucking cunt showed up. I went to the bathroom, went to my desk and logged out and forgot to clear my caches, and then went to get back and Shirls saying “we’ve got to go meet Dylan now”. So we ran away, leaving my tags behind me, and went up to Tupelo.

At Tupelo we drank more wine, and more wine, and more wine. Dylan showed up with his friend who I’d given a lecture on homophobia that one time, so I bought him a beer to make up for the one I’d spilt on his pants the last time we’d met. Eventually we all started playing ‘I have never’. I’m sure that wasn’t a smart idea. Shirley felt me up and I exposed my beautiful red bra to her and Dylan. It was one of those nights.

At some stage we stumbled our way up to the Southern Cross because Bart’d gone up there to meet up with his friends. More unnecessary drinks followed (but handily provided me with a receipt saying $15 at 00.39am, which makes me think it was two glasses of wine for Shirley and I) and then I remember thinking “why is that guy’s arm around my waist?” and then I believe that the guy kissed me, and I was like “umm, don’t you have a girlfriend?” and he said “yes, I have a girlfriend” and so I think we decided it’d probably be a good idea if he left, and so I went out in the rain to the back garden to find Bart. Smoo was there too, so I was like hurrah! And then the boy showed up again and I was like “didn’t you leave?” and he was like “yeah” and offered some lame excuse as to why he was back, but I just concentrated on talking to Smoo instead. Before the night was over I propositioned the last boy that I had sex with again and he was like “not a good idea” and then I woke up on the couch at 8.30am and was like “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK” before crawling back into bed.

I crawled out of bed at 11.30am, somehow thinking that I could get up then, pack and still make it to check-in around 12pm. Interesting line of thought there. Of course, that thinking was somewhat handicapped when I got out of the shower and realised that my passport was not where it was supposed to be. I wanted to sit down and cry but I ransacked my room instead, wailing to Smoo who’d got up to drive me to the airport. By the time I’d found it in an old handbag, I knew there was no way I could make my flight, so I sat down and bawled, going “why am I such a fucking fuck-up?”. Then I shook myself off, threw a pile of clothes into my large suitcase and asked Smoo to drive me. My suitcase didn’t fit into the boot of his MR2, so we took my car. I’d kept KateH in the text loop and she was lovely, asking me if I needed her to book me a new flight, or send Shirley over to help me.

Qantas had no more flights to Auckland before 7pm that day, apparently, so I ended up forking out $400 for a ticket on Air NZ. It didn’t go until 2.30, so I very slowly bought a paper and a latte and a pastry and sat shaking at a table in the terminal, trying to do the sudoku. Then I went and threw up the pastry and the coffee and sat trembling a little more. When I finally got into KateH’s car in Auckland, I warned her I was about to cry again, and she said that aws fine. She drove me to Wendy’s in Manukau where I proclaimed that she’d saved my life – until all the saturated fat hit my heart anyway. We gossiped, and she soothed my soul over my fuckedupstupidity, and it was just so lovely to see her.

That feeling of loveliness disappeared when I got back to the airport and found no one waiting to check me in at the Pacific Blue counters. I asked at the service desk, and they were like “that flight’s already closed!” and I was like “OH MY GOD WHAT?????????????????” before the other woman said that no, it was just at a counter at the other end of the terminal. So I told my heart that was all thumpthumpthunp to calm the fuck down, and schlepped over to the check-in counter. They asked to see my tickets. I was like “umm, wasn’t this an e-ticket?” but apparently since I was coming back on Air NZ and not Pacific Blue, that was a problem for them. I had to go to an Air NZ service desk and get them to print out my flight details, trying really hard not to cry while doing so. Then they said that there were no more seats. I just about exploded. They had to unlock some seats or something, and told me that the plane was completely full. Great. I got stuck with a window seat. The rest of the waiting time was horrible. Every duty-free shop made me dry retch. Luckily I managed to sleep on the plane, although I’m sure I snored.

But then tobacco was $20 a box at Duty Free in Rarotonga, and I got a bottle of bacaardi, and my daddy was there to pick me up and drive me to our house in a late-model BMW. I opened up the lounge doors where I was sleeping and stepped out onto our lawn and looked at Muri Beach by the light of a full moon. I’d flown over the dateline and so I had a chance to redo my Saturday so it wouldn’t be the worst day of the year again…

Yes, I have been remiss. But yesterday, Kimora Lee Simmons told me that I was beautiful and ultimately powerful, so I know you will forgive me. Yes, that’s right, Kimora Lee Simmons. Told me. Personally. On a swing tag. Attached to my new jeans. That I got for half prize from Torrid, in a 33.5 inch leg, woohaa. That according to Lani make me appear to have no ass (This is comparatively true. Not to Lani, but to other Women With Curves. And also sizedly to my sister and my mother. They got the Stadtman hips wheras I keep my Presbytarian McLeod weight on my puku. Mostly). But which do have a solid gold(esque) butt tag). And according to their sizing I am more Baby than Phat, as they are a little bit too falling down. And they’re too baggy around the knee. And these half sentences have gone on way too long, but they are my tribute to a misunderstanding about comments about jeans that I had with my friend yesterday. So I will keep using them.

That’s a lie, actually. From now on, I’ll try to use full sentences, but if I break off, it’s probably because this is where I’d like to insert a while bunch of swearing, but as someone with a CV out in the marketplace and a number one google ranking, I will control myself. A little, anyway. Haha half sentences!

Kyuss is on the TV now, so I feel like I am in the back seat of Fatty Simon or Milhouse Mark’s car, and we are speeding from Hamilton to Auckland. I spent a long time saying that I thought that Kyuss were a lot more interesting than Queens of the Stoneage, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the truth. I’m watching Watch This Space which I recorded last night, of course, and it’s 8.56pm. Yes, it’s Friday, and I am home alone. The Double Ds failed in their role as the usual Friday entertainment, but given the blackness of my mood, that’s probably for the best. It’s times like these that I wish that Extreme Makeover – Home Edition could still make me cry. I’m not too worried though – I mean I did have Hell Day, but given how I’m also Hungry Like The Wolf and also mangoing like woah, I know that I’m pre period. Which will make a nice change from my cunt stinking like, and oozing out, Canestan. Stupid goddamn yeast! And stupid one dose pills not being enough. At least I only went for the 3 day treatment and not the 6. If only bread and beer weren’t so tasty. And sugar. It’s funny because after the Ginger was such a cunt with his insistence that I had diabetes, I was all “Well I hope he’s saying that because I had a yeast infection and therefore my cunt tasted rancid”, but the boy I was with last week was very nice so I’m hoping it wasn’t all bad then. And speaking of that, it is very strange to have slept with someone who has known me at the time the second longest of anyone that I had sex with. It kind of makes me go “umm, but I am crazy, and I sit around watching TV all day in my PJs, and I overthink everything, oh also, and I am crazy, why the hell would you want to do me?”. Oh drunken me taking advantage of people, you make the world go around.

Yeah no, I totally want Josh Homme to touch me in dirty places now, I totally get the QOTSA obsession.

I pretended briefly that I was upset to be home alone tonight, but that’s pretty much a lie. Life has been waaaaaaaaaaaay too hectic (I almost wrote Hexic, so you can see why my wrists have been bunger lately – and no, it’s pretty much nothing to do with the increased screen time Sara Ramirez has had). When was the last time that I wrote? A bloody long time ago. The 22nd. So that was the day of the last night of Wellingtonista Bowling League? I spent the time inbetween work and bowling crying on Anji’s shoulder. Metaphorically of course. I sat upright in my chair on the balconey at Concrete, and only wept, not sobbed, so i didn’t even have to touch up my mascara. My frustrations with someone at work had led me to run away to the waterfront at lunchtime but there I cursed the citalapram that meant I couldn’t even really cry even thouhg that was all I felt like doing. After work it was a little easier, but tears didn’t fall. Bowling was awesome, and I’m so glad that I started the league, even though I was frustrated with a lack of players who were actually in the Wellingtonista, especially since we had to get in a substitute player from Xero who, umm, was lovely, but not quite up to the standard of a couple of people from the Wellingtonista who’d played in early games, so ClickSuite beat us by 14 points and therefore we came in last in the league. And of course, I didn’t find a job through thet league, or a rich husband, so in my eyes, it was a complete and utter failure. Heh. Oh, but did I mention that Anji and I had a very tasty dinner at Finc before – pork belly and also pear & beetroot dip with lesbian bread (heh), and the waitress was like “I’m the dessert menu!” and I was like “i’m not sure I want to eat you…” (who am I kidding?) and she was like “you’re dirty!” and I was like “tehehe”? No, well we did.

The end of bowling meant that we had an awards ceremony at the Southern Cross on the Friday night. I’d booked 20 people into ‘The Den’ which is the long thin area to the right of the bar at front at 7pm, but by 7.15 I was still sitting by myself feeling like a spaz every time I told people to go away because I’d booked the area. Apparently Silverstripe had shown up early, and, finding noone there had gone out to the garden and didn’t find us for a very long time after that. But then people showed up in a rush which was good. There was a Skank moment in the bathroom but after a quick “omg, eww” moment to the double ds, I totally forgot about that until the next day. I gave everyone their awards and made them shake my hands and let me kiss their cheeks. The darling Sue had made up Wellingtonista badges that I’d designed and we’d had a secret rendevouz in Midland Park for me to get them off her, and they went down a treat. I had lots of fun. The ever-entertaining MG, who was the only one representing Clemenger suggested that he’d set up a meeting for me with someone from a magazine that I have a review of to do for the Wellingtonista. Someone in ClickSuite that I’d never met before invited me to an Apres Ski party, cementing their status as the most sociable team. I gave everyone invitations to English County Club, and fought off questions such as “is that really your house?” and “what’s Tapiri Manor?” Although I wasn’t very drunk when I left, I asked Dave to walk me to the taxi and make sure that he remembered the company because I am trying to make sure that I’ve trained myself into safer habits for times when I’m not so in control. I was proud of myself for that. I wonder how much people think I’m being overly anxious. It’s really hard to make the transition between thinking that you are bullet-proof to trying to do what’s right, so I will continue to salute myself.

Mmmmm Josh Homme. Mmmmmmmmm. Oh yes, lick me like I was your guitar…

I wish Crazy Canadia was online right now. Or that I was in Vegas too.

Umm, that was Friday. On Saturday, Lani and I cleaned the house, then went up to Ngaio to drop off the Mysteriously Broken Chair (“Daddy, I have an exciting new craft project for you!”) and pick up my early birthday present – an 8 gig nano that Daddy somehow bartered the Australian duty-free man down to A$303 (as opposed to NZ$450), and managed to talk my father into making pancakes for us. It wasn’t very hard, it mostly involved me saying “hey, have you guys had lunch yet? I’m starving!”. Then it was back home for more preparation and some stress-related grumpiness and control-freakery for me. I picked up Lisa and also Other Lisa, who I hadn’t met before and who was a little surprised by my embrace. But she took it gladly at the end of the night. I was dressed as Antoinette (my mother’s middle name, not that she’ll admit to it) Chocolat Tophey-Smythe, the second wife of a terribly rich terribly old terribly high society British man, who happned to be away while I hosted the party. Lisa was Emoly McBlack, an exchange student from the future (she had “This ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamm ARM (s race)” written on her arm (SO AWESOME. Despite the badness of the song)) and Other Lisa was Olivia Inkton, the society reporter. My new C4 comment is that Bauhaus’s (Top 10 Alternative 80′s [sic])singer sounds just like Matt Bellamy. I love ‘Ziggy Stardust’. Other people came in their costumes, and we had very civilised food and drink and conversation and back stories. A boy told me I was the most interesting person he’d ever met and I went “tehehe” even if he was taking hte piss because I told him that I’d seen Spiceworld 28 times. A jolly good time was had by all but I can’t remember the exact things I wanted to write about ti. But Oh! The Cult! This fucking chart is totally my sisters’ album collections. And this song (‘She sells sanctuary’) was so ripped off by both the Foo Fighters and The Donnas!

Sunday meant struggling out of bed with sore feet, and Lani and I jumped on the bus down to the stadium (that walkway is so like the walkway to Tokyo Disneyland – a million miles to the station when you have sore feet). We got in to the Food Show, and I had an attack of the grumps, but her savign seats and me going off to find a bathroom (it took me forever, and oh boy, it stung just a little more to see that a company that didn’t hire me was blocking off a female toilet with their stand) and grabbing a latte and a couple of nibbles put me in a better mood. We met up with Anji and Karen to watch Hayden Wood make cocktails, and although the techno music was annoying and he seemed like a bit of a plonker, I love his books, and watching the flairing was very amusing. And he called me Sweetheart when I ran up to grab a Feijoa and rum concoction.

With that icey drink in my belly I felt much better, and we went off to drink our way around the Hawkes Bay. In previous years, Karen and I have started off on the other end, so that by the time we’ve reached that area we’ve been too drunk to try everything, but given how much time we’ve spent with Wairarapa wine lately, it just made sense. There were some very nice drops, and I bought too much, and we bumped into Karen’s old flatmates Alistair and Korina, which was rad. We drank and ate and drank and ate and drank and ate, and then Lani and I got seperated from Anji and Karen, and time started running out so we ran around getting as much in as we could. I thought I did brilliantly at the Prenzels’ Schnapps stand trying every flavour until I found out that Anji and Karen bought the ends of every bottle for $20. But we got free cereal and free tubs of guacamole, and chocolate and apples to take away, not to mention the ton we ate, so woo! Plus I got to semi-shock several older gentlemen showing them my humping unicorns hoodie that I had in my bag. It made sense at the time, but in reality, I got drunker at the Food Show than I did at our party the night before. Woo! $18 is TEH AWESOME. Especially since I’m pretty sure I tried the Wairarapa wines for free since I took a dirty glass from one of the winemakers – on his suggestion (or perhaps my coercion). Heh.

Then on Monday I just wanted to crawl into bed again all day, but instead I went home and made kickass Dhal for Lani and the double Ds, and also Lani’s friend David, which I suppose makes it the DDDs. We tried to rouse Smoo, but he was sleeping the sleep of the dead, even after I woke him up, so no flat dinner was to be had. And Dyl didn’t do our dishes like he was supposed to for not bringing wine, but we did play Cluedo and I did win.

Tuesday was umm, I can’t rmeember. Crappy? I do remember reading Q in my room after work suggssting I was in no mood to talk. On Creative Wednesday, I went for a swim at the pool – half an hour of laps and then half an hour in the spa. Halfway through the laps, I decided that the old man in the lane next to me was perving at me far more than was deserved (me in a swim suit is really not hot), and then I saw a strap trailing in the water and realised that my halter had come undone. AWESOME! *goats motion*. I really wish I could find a fat-person two-piece with a racerback top, but apparently practical swimwear is out of the question. Because people with my shape should just be lounging about,not trying to improve their current situation or something. Same thing with the hardness of finding a proper sports bra.

Yesterday was Thursday and I ummm hmmm, stuff, blah blah blah. Oh! Karen, Anji and I had a most amusing and delicious dinner at Medina, that I must review on the Wellingtonista. And today was Friday and oh man, I think we covered that already today, or at least I have in texts, and forwarded emails, and just AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH. And now my port is empty, so I must go over to my shiny silver tray ($1) and realise that my decanter ($2) is empty, so I must refill my glass (50c) from the bottle from my parents (free) that is in my sideboard (free). So I might go do that instead.

It’s official. Sue is a bad influence. An hour and a bit talking to her online has cost me nearly $300 on my credit card. That’s on top of the $110 I spent at Farmers at lunchtime on firing protection. I should explain.

I think it’s also official that I am not just in a weekend come-down. For the past couple of weeks I have been saying to myself “I will always have depression but I won’t always be depressed” on account of how it’s been more than three occurances but there’s the euphoria too. But then there’s the gap where the euphoria of initial pillage was and it’s the “oh, so this is what it feels to be normal huh?” but then there’s the gap underneath where the normal is supposed to be. I didn’t go to work yesterday, because I couldn’t get out of bed, and also my throat was as swollen as a 17 year old virgin’s balls. I found myself at Lyall Bay in the afternoon, in the water cursing at the waves every time they failed to drown me. I wanted the cold water to wake me up, to make me grateful for being alive, to make everything feel real again, but instead I was angry because I couldn’t cry, because I was feeling numb, and because the lure of the water out to where it was deep and green and peaceful was stronger than it should have been for someone who is in theory on the mend. And of course just when I was about to start yelling and screaming out loud, no matter how much I was trying to supress myself because while I’d been the only one in the ocean when I started, two ten-ish year olds had shown up and were squealling at the waves too by that stage, I turned my back on the ocean and didn’t jump quite in time and a huge fucking wave crashed in to me so hard that for a moment I thought it’d broken my arm and that made me laugh lots and lots and cry “AHA TOUCHE!” at the waves. And so I left the foam behind and went home in a daze.

Today I made it in okay, but everything went downhill from there.At lunchtime I decided to be oh so very girly and go shopping in an effort to make myself feel better. I went to Farmers and laughed at the new labels they have in their fat section, because if you wnated to spend $130 on a skirt, would you really buy it there? No no sir. At least I hope not. But then I found a totally cute (yes, that is my phrase for everything now, and no I will not be changing it this week) grey tweedish skirt for $50, and a matching shortsleeved jacket for $60 (the skirt is curved to fit curves, with netting petticoat trim and a slight fishtail, the jacket is semi puffed sleeves and two buttons, and is two sizes smaller than the skirt, as if I needed further evidence of the pear shape of I. If you can’t picture it, I should say it’s sort of late 1940sish, pre Dior-new look but not all with the “oh there’s a war on” strictness), so I bought that on the grounds of if I get fired from work soon I will need some nice clothes to go to interviews in. Half of me doesn’t think that I will need them, of course, but then there’s the half that thinks I am worthless and useless and that everyone hates me and that I am a burden to everyone who knows me. It was nice to not have that half for a while, but meh. Oh, but of course when I got to the register, it turned out I’d left my wallet at home. When I got on the bus in the evening, after spending half an hour crying in the toilets after discovering that all the work I’d done int eh past couple fo weeks may be lost due to a syncing problem (euphemism), I got on a Lyall Bay 03 instead of a Lyall Bay 06, so had to get off and then because I was wearing my uncomfy mary janes I thought I’d walk back to Mt Vic and bus it rather than walk through the horrible Hataitai tunnel. Of course, I just missed a 5 getting to the bus stop, so i decided to cash in a voucher I had from Coruba for a free 4-pack of testing taster RTDs (I said free, right?) and while I was waiting for a guy to actually serve me a 2 went past. Then I lost my earphones and had to go back to the store to get them, then i had a long wait for a bus, then there was a long queue at the 4 Square and my avocado was $3.50 and and and oh man, badness. So tonight has been all about orange juice, frozen vodka ands peach schanpps and you know what? I think my flu has retreated a little. And Sue made me buy two pairs of shoes from Torrid, and also a ticket to Mini Webstock. And I don’t care. Somehow my credit card bill will be paid off, and my depression will get better, and we’ll figure out something at work about syncing and oh, blah.