Be mine, be mine, tonight...

Oops. It appears I've forgotten to post for a very, very long time. If I have any subscribers left, hi! What have I been doing? Well, I tried to write a book and that didn't happen. I tried to write a new song and that didn't happen. I tried to keep my job, and that didn't happen - and then I tried to get a new one and that didn't happen either. I tried to have meaningful interactions with a male of the species and well... you can guess.

Following an unfortunate creepy stalking incident, I also deleted my NZDating profile. It's all fun and games until someone approaches you at the pub after recognising you, and won't take "fuck off, it's a joke profile" for an answer. So to those readers who followed me only for my (if I may say so) hilarious NZDating stories - sorry. The joke had run its course.

But while we're on the subject of relationships, I have been thinking about this subject a fair bit lately. A couple of weeks ago, on a cold and stormy night, I huddled under the heatpump with a blanket and my clichéd cat to watch the movie "He's Just Not That Into You". I'd seen bits of it years before on pay TV in a hotel room somewhere, but fell asleep before the end.

Everything they say makes sense  in theory. If a guy likes you, he'll ask for your number. If he doesn't, he won't. If he doesn't call you, he doesn't like you. Blah blah blah. The upshot of it is, we should just wait around for someone to like us enough to get our numbers and call us. If the girl does either of these things instead, she's needy and doomed to die alone, with her many cats eating her face.

All well and good - but is there a country in the world where it's still normal for guys to ask girls on dates? Or is it the domain of romantic comedies alone?

Case in point: me. Thirty-one, not entirely horrible to look at, I dress ok, have an alright job, can converse on current affairs with some competency and have been known at times to be funny. I can count on one hand the number of times I've been asked on a date, and still have enough fingers left over to open a beer. As for being asked for my number... well, I'm pretty sure that count currently stands at zero.

So it stands to reason that I can make eyes at the guy I'm currently drooling over as much as I like (knowing me, it's likely I appear rather more drunk or gassy than seductive) - it just isn't going to get me anywhere. And a male friend confirmed the other day "that's just not how it works anymore."

So, no matter how much it offends my inner romantic, it seems the 'kiwi way' is here to stay. You both get drunk at a party, one of you says "go home with me", and then if you don't hate each other in the morning, do it again. After a while one of you will either update your relationship status on facebook or start sleeping with other people. And that's pretty much it.

Sigh. I'm gonna need more cats...

Cruising in the red zone

Photo originally from stuff.co.nz

On Saturday I took a cruise through the red zone.

No, I didn't have some special dispensation to drive in like 89% of the population seem to; I got on the hot, overcrowded bus, listened to the safety message tell me for the eleventy billionth time that I might die, suffered through being elbowed by some lady trying to take a picture of her family group on the bus, and experienced the old high-school phenomenon of being the very last one anyone chose to sit next to until every other seat was filled. Even the one in the middle of the back seat where you couldn't possibly see anything.

Our bus was a chatty one. As we pulled away from the curb, "aaaaaaah"ing in unison when the air conditioning came on, you could easily have mistaken us for a field trip to an Inane Babblers Anonymous meeting. 

I settled into my seat, popped my sunnies on and prepared to be astonished by the sights of the CBD red zone.

I had a great view to my right. Unfortunately, everything to my left was designated out of bounds by Bus Etiquette. This is the phenomenon experienced when you try look past the person sitting next to you, and if they're not looking in the same direction as you are, it's like there's some invisible force field of politeness that compels you to immediately turn away. Much as I tried to fight it, it's impossible. 

The image of the ghostbusters, sitting on a bus together in full kit and crying "Don't cross the sight streams!" jumped into my mind. I nearly giggled but held it in, just in case they decided to kick me off the bus (or that last woman who had to sit next to me decided standing was preferable).

Most of the things I was seeing were sanitised and unemotive. Bare tracts of earth, piles of neatly broken-down rubble, orphaned high-rises standing like the token tall kids in the playground, lonely and conspicuous. PGC was the only site that affected me. But that could have been because the safety girl startled me by blaring out through the loudspeaker that we'd be stopping there a few minutes. 

At the site of CTV, the whole bus went silent for a moment, and then broke out in hushed whispers that carried further than outright shouting would have. Everyone had a story. The site was on my right, so I couldn't not look at it (the Bus Etiquette rule - the lady next to me was staring to her right, so I couldn't look anywhere else!). I think she thought I was tearing up. In fact, the sun was just burning through my sunnies. Any contemplation I might have done of the carnage and lives lost on that small square of land was made impossible by the ridiculousness of the situation.

In Victoria Square, half of the long-abandoned lanterns had disintegrated, their delicate red shells no more than confetti on the breeze. That simple sight brought home to me the passage of time since it all went wrong, better than a thousand empty sections could have done.

As we pulled back in at Cranmer Square, I realised at last that it's too late. Any grieving I once longed for has missed its chance to happen - like allowing a fallen child back on its horse only after the horse has died, and a crude wooden toy has been carved in its place. My passion for this broken city, like the broken city itself, has been swept unfeelingly aside by bureaucracy and risk management - like so much demolition dust.

Christmas? Again?

Bah humbug!

It's Christmas. Well, nearly. Ballantynes, the bridge of remembrance and the tacky wreath on my neighbour's door say it is. I think that means it's time to drag out my own, even tackier wreath, and throw up that prickly monstrosity in the corner that Shadow so loves to tip over every chance she gets. I'll wait 'til December this time, though. I learned my lesson last time!

It could be worse, I suppose; it could be New Years, and we all know how much I love those! Oh wait. That comes straight after. Dammnit!

Truth is, I love the build-up more than the event. I have one friend in particular who has her shopping pretty much done by September, hums Christmas carols at work, and does a "Christmas dance" at random moments of the day. I may laugh, but secretly I wish I had that Christmas spirit.

I, however, am that moron with the frazzled hair wandering around the malls on the 24th, my fists bunched, suffering a grand-mal attack of Mall Rage, whilst fruitlessly poking through piles of junk before giving up and buying everyone a bottle of wine off the top shelf at Pak 'N Save. Even the kids.

I wish I was good at Christmas, but I'm just not. I swear I should get special consideration for that. Know me before you judge me!

I do, however, love all the BBQs and getting drunk in the middle of the day. That I am good at. It seems my Christmas spirit comes mixed with tonic with a nice wedge of lime. 

Please, people, if you like me at all, leave comments with great gift ideas!

The Ending

The Dux

Yesterday, I was browsing in Borders with some friends of mine when we came upon a book full of photos of Christchurch. Not so unusual lately, I know, but this one was a little different - these photos were of Christchurch before. 

I've seen a lot of photos portraying devastation and woe over the past year. I've sought them out, almost hungered for them. Recently I saw an album of empty spaces where buildings used to be. And I still can't stop looking at amateur videos on YouTube from 'that day'. They bring me back to when it all happened. But it doesn't hurt, not really. Along my street, all I see is demolition. I walk to my gate and there is the Grand Chancellor, leaning, being slowly eaten from the other side. The thunk-and-tinkle of buildings coming down are sounds that have replaced the basslines and laughter of my central city neighbourhood. And that's all fine. I don't cry about it anymore.

These photos, though, of Christchurch unbroken - they hurt. They brought back souvlakis eaten in the square, drinks at Liquidity, the funny lamps and laughter of Fat Eddies, Poplar Lane, breakfasts at The Bog, bagels and coffee and impulse buying of cheap jewellery on Sunday mornings. I remember markets and Sunday pints of lager and lime at The Dux. I remember my birthday, so shortly before, and Cafe Valentino and over-exposed photos in the courtyard; wedges smothered in sour cream. 

All of these memories came flooding back, thinking about that photo book. I didn't know it then, but February was an ending. I thought I was writing my history anew. I remember saying, at my party, "I just know that this year is going to be the best of my life." We were all so full of hope, happy to be alive, glad for what we had, thankful for what we hadn't lost. I felt, that night, that my life was beginning a new phase. And I was right, but in the wrong way.

Thinking this, last night, I had also just finished a book series I loved, a TV show that kept me company through the dark days, and a faint hope for something I hadn't even articulated to myself. All was endings. And I am not good at those. 

But as the song says, "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." The pages of my life's future are still blank. Anything can be written there now - a new home, a new challenge - perhaps, in time, a new someone to write those pages by my side. And so I won't give up hope just yet. 

Goodbye, DTZ

Because I promised, I give you the photo series chronicling the demolition of the DTZ building. This is where I fled to buy cigarettes at dawn on the 4th of September (what a stupid day to have picked for giving up smoking!). And, of course, where I bought all my milk, eggs and bread. I do hope the lovely blonde lady I used to chat to who worked there is alright.

The view is from the Bridge of Remembrance - I've also taken the same series from the path along the river, so if anyone wishes to see those too, let me know in the comments. 

15th of July, 2011. The flag waves proudly.

20th of July, 2011

24th of July, 2011

25th of July, 2011. Nearly twisted my ankle a bunch of times in the snow.

28th of July, 2011

29th of July, 2011

31st of July, 2011

2nd of August, 2011

3rd of August, 2011

4th of August, 2011

6th of August, 2011. The flag looks sad now.

9th of August, 2011. Only scraps remain.

The new normal

Looking at the date of my last entry, it's been more than three months. How rude! But blogging was part of 'normal' life, BQ. Along with walking to work, drinks with the girls at Liquidity, coffee and bagels on a Saturday morning and five-minute trips to the dairy for milk and eggs. 

Since February 22nd, life has felt like a particularly bad holiday. Sure, we still go to work, but it's from home, or from one of a dozen buildings, begging for a seat at any one of them and taking 20 minutes to start up the computer because it's downloading my whole profile to a machine I've never used before, and probably never will again. Milk and eggs require a trek to the supermarket. And for a while, even washing my tea-towels meant a half-hour walk to the one working laundromat anywhere near me. 

Entertainment was out. Either you had a house party, or you didn't catch up with anyone at all. After-work drinks with the girls? Ha! We were all working from different locations.

So that's my bitch about how life has been. Not that hard really, but gently depressing nonetheless. For a thrill, I did a photo-sequence of the DTZ building that housed my old dairy, being demolished. I'll post that next time. 

But things are looking up. The 'new normal' has settled into being. Yes, it takes me ages to go and get a loaf of bread. Yes, it's a 30 minute bus ride to get to work, and there are no cafes nearby. But I have a 'local' bar, and the girls are back together, and a semi-permanent place to park my laptop. And the countdown is on for Cashel Mall to reopen with shipping-crate shops in November. 

Even my singleness is back in action. Vampire Boy gave me the flick again - this time in a text message saying "I've met someone else." Wanker. It snowed on the day he did it. I made a snow cock-and balls and then smashed it. Take that, snow effigy.

Sooooooo... speaking of relationships. Check out the below video - it gave me my first belly-laugh in a long, long time. The guy is hilarious!

 

And he's cute, too.

If you liked that one, check out some of his others - 'MK loves the ladies' is another of my favourites, and guaranteed to delight and offend.

And because it's been a while and we're on that subject already... some NZDating fun for you!

27 year old Male from Canterbury seeking Friendships

HIM: nice photo, would u like to have your... eaten out?
HIM: Hmmm, not looking for much other than mutual satisfaction & relief... what are you looking for tonight?
ME: My keys. Have you seen them?

41 year old Male from Canterbury seeking Relationships

HIM: a bag over your head would be a good start haha
HIM: whow i nearly fell out of my seat when i saw your main pic you are a very hot sexy lady hi hows your weekend been ps was sorting out my camping gear today.
HIM: *photo*
HIM: hi are you keen to met 4 a coffee tuesday
ME: No.
HIM: ok did i say some thing
ME: No, sorry, just not interested.
HIM: so we were chatting fine have you suddenly had a persionality transplant or are you just a moody cow
HIM: hahaha i wounder why your still single could it be because your a total bitch hahahha
HIM: *blocks me*

Namaste, bitches!

Ok, so it's been forever since I've blogged. Luckily for you, brevity is the soul of wit (anyone find it ironic that Shakespeare wrote a lot?) and so I can sum up what I've been doing in one short sentence.

Got shaken, cried, went to Auckland, met boy, almost ate a snail, was airbrushed in glossy mag, came back to Crushedchurch, felt sad, now better.

Far more interesting than any of that is that yesterday I did yoga. 

A couple of weeks BQ, I signed up for 'Challenge Me' - a wellness initiative through work. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was seduced by a cute alcoholic team name. Of course then all the excitement happened and I completely forgot about that moment of foolishness. And late last week my challenge cards arrived. Turns out I pledged to eat breakfast, prioritise a big work task, go to bed early... and do yoga. Every day.

Yoga for Dummies seemed about my level. It stars a pretty, serene, smiley weirdo named Sarah who has nice hair, says 'foe-wid' instead of forward and looks positively orgasmic about breathing noisily through her nose. She keeps telling me not to worry if I can't sit on the floor or bend over. I wonder if I'm really her target audience. 

The media has led me to believe yoga must be done on a pretty beach or at least an expansive lawn. I looked out the window at the freezing, narrow, broken concrete path with the rubbish bins on it and decided to use my lounge instead. 

So I dragged out the Pilates mat that was hiding under my couch, ripped the plastic off it (don't ask... bad experience with late-night infomercials), squahed the spiders that were living in the middle of the roll, and stripped down to my tights. 

I don't think those serene, balanced chicks in the swirly pants on the beach at sunrise were ever photographed in winter. 

With heatpump firmly set to maximum, I obediently stood in the centre of the room and copied Foe-wid's motions.

Well. Those serene, balanced goddesses on crimson-hued beaches made it look rather easy. After all, all you have to do is make yourself look bendy and hot, right? How could that be difficult?

As Foe-wid instructs me to keep a soft jaw as I reach through my fingers (!?!) and pull my nose into my tummy (!!!), I wonder if a red-faced grimace and burning wrists are supposed to be the outward expressions of serenity and balance. It also occurs to me that my lounge has two walls that are basically just windows and the boots of the workmen building my laundry keep pausing as they pass said windows. I can't look to see if they're staring - my nose is trying to pull itself into my tummy. With a soft jaw.

When we get to 'The Cobra', I can't help but think that I like the sexual position a whole lot better. 

The last pose in the 'daily dozen' suits me perfectly, however. It's called the corpse.

Sigh. And then tonight, I did it all again. I probably will again tomorrow. The militant team captain of 'Three Sauvs and a Beer' scares me.