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It’s been a while but it’s hard to sit at home and blog when our house is devoid of a toilet and I happen to have ‘always need the toilet because there isn’t one available syndrome’. It’s a serious and terminal syndrome, look it up. The bathroom is currently being re-done and so for the last 2 and 1/2 weeks I have been showering at Kiwi Girl’s house and practically living there while I’m at it, because nobody likes to ask a builder/plasterer/plumber/electrician to leave the bathroom so you can relieve yourself while they tap their feet outside the door listening to every little noise, before commenting ‘pheeew, what did you have to eat last night?’ No word of exaggeration, that is what would happen. And for the last two nights and the next one or two nights the toilet itself has been removed and is sitting in the hallway, detached from the plumbing. And so I have packed my bags and am staying overnight at Kiwi Girl’s on an airbed which slowly deflates so that by morning I an enveloped by FlockPVC from both sides and I might as well have stayed at home because the sheer effort of getting up from the airy-fairy surface when I need the toilet during the night is too much so I just cross my legs. It’s like one of those awful water beds from the 70s which never made it to the 80s because they were a health and safety liability.
But life isn’t all about toilets and needing them, so what else has been going on? The knitting is going slowly, I am up to row 12 of my scarf and it’s about 5cms long. That took me about 5 hours to achieve (if it can be called an achievement) but my speed is increasing and dropped stitches decreasing. I still have another 165cm to go, which by the above timing means I have another 165 hours of knitting ahead of me. But at least it keeps me occupied in front of the TV and stops me from flicking between Twitter, Facebook, a selection of blogs and Twitter again, on a 15 minute cycle, constantly… Damn social media addiction, it’s the stuff of broken dreams. Trisha and Jeremy Kyle will have a new generation of issues: “I can’t get a job because of my Facebook habit”. “My husband left me because I’d rather go on Twitter than go to bed with him”. It will happen, think on.
This week I have started a couple of new fads too; that’s the way I like it, start a million new hobbies at once and never finish any of them. I went swimming for the first time in ages and became fascinated with the old fuddy duddies who walk the length of the pool instead of swimming it. Well, actually I was more looking at the man with the giant biceps and ripped abdominals who was jogging up and down the pool like a scene out of Baywatch (shhh, don’t tell Kiwi). So I followed him tried it for myself to see what it was all about, and since it was surprisingly taxing on my leg muscles, I figured it must be good for me. So I have added aquajogging to my swimming regime (if 4 days in a row after months without can be called a regime). The second fad is my new Yoga video which I bought after attending the gym yoga/thai chi/pilates mix class along with a Yoga mat. The class itself wasnot enjoyable for me, I spent more time laughing (because otherwise I would have cried) at how hard I found it to hold my arms out for longer than 2 minutes, the fact I couldn’t touch my toes, and how I couldn’t stand on one leg. In fact, I couldn’t do any of the class, I have no muscle strength to speak of in my entire body. So the Yoga video I can do in the privacy of my own room, where no-one else can see me as I flail around and collapse whilst trying to attempt the ’sun salutation’ etc.
And that takes us to today; where I am starving after my swimming session and waiting for tea. Oh food, if I wasn’t so enamoured with you I might be a less wobbly version of myself.
The knitting didn’t get off to a great start – I casted on wrong to begin with and it went downhill from there. Kiwi’s Mum put me straight but once I got to knitting my first row it took a good few tries and studying a Youtube video of beginners knitting to finally get it right. I had cast on 90 stitches but by the 85th stitch on my first row it suddenly went horribly wrong, I dropped a few stitches and couldn’t marry up the ‘How to Fix A Dropped Stitch’ instructions on both Youtube and in some knitting books I borrowed, with the problem infront of my eyes. So I unravelled the first row of what will hopefully be a scarf and I’ve yet to pick it up again. It’s not just the technical side of knitting which I’m having issues with. My left hand feels like it’s done its own work-out in the ‘hand-gym’, like my fingers have been weight-lifting and I’ve been doing knuckle-crunches. Just one hour of knitting has rendered me with Repetitive Strain Injury; I have a respect for the Nana’s of this world, they are strong women with nimble hands.
So whilst avoiding the needles and yarn which have been mocking me from the corner of the room, I have been watching yet more movies at Ascot. The Boat That Rocked was the highlight; it’s a UK film set in 1960s Britain and celebrates the days of Pirate Radio stations which got through legal broadcasting loopholes by being stationed on boats in the North Sea. I was half expecting to be disappointed by the film as it received bad ratings from New Zealand media. But friends from work and my parents really enjoyed it – my Mum remembers listening to pirate radio whilst hiding under her duvet, lest she got caught by my Grandparents. And the New Zealand media was wrong in my opinion, The Boat That Rocked was funny in a very British way, it was sentimental and the plot was unpredicted when it took a Titanic turn (not to give away the story), it made me miss all things English. Gran Torino was another unexpected film – it features a redneck Clint Eastwood who is befriended by a Mongol family. It’s wrongly comical as Clint’s character makes some un-PC racial remarks, but the laughter is at his expense and in the end he gives his life to save the people he was prejudiced against. And today I passed the time with a bit of easy-watching (like easy-listening but for films not music) – 17 Again. I think it was a good movie with a nice ending, but then I was a bit busy drooling over Zac Effron to pay too much attention to the ins and outs.
Tonight I will pick up the knitting again, but not before I go to the gym. This is something I am usually wholeheartedly against. I HATE going to the gym, I despise anything gym-related. But I’m going to try out a class which sounds completely un-aerobic and therefore my kind of class. It’s a mixture of Yoga, Pilates and Tai Chi and I have prepared myself for it by eating a highly nutritous meal to keep my energy up – a McDonalds ‘The Boss’ meal deal.
So then, I’m going to go and don my hottest gym-going gear and rev myself up for some stretching, sun salutations and downward dogging. Then I’ll give my hands an extra work-out on the knitting needles before collapsing in bed and feeling proud that I got through another day without twiddling my thumbs, bored out of my mind. And tomorrow I have a full day at work, at the Ascot, then on Friday I’ll pick up the knitting again, maybe go to the same gym class and perhaps watch another movie. Hobbies seem to be taking away the incessant feeling that I am not achieving anything in my life right now; and with my 25th birthday looming it’s a reminder that I’m 1/4 century old and I’m back to where I started – living at home being fed by the parents, wondering what and where I’ll be when I grow up…
I was in the mindset of ‘recession? reschmession!’ before I left the UK – I had a sound job, a good income, savings in the bank and the back-up financial support of Kiwi’s income from his sound job too. For me, the recession was just scaremongering amongst the media. Now Kiwi and I are both looking for work it’s slowly dawning on me that there really is a recession, it is as scary as the media says so and it’s not helping our situation. We willingly placed ourselves of the unemployment line on the understanding it was short term and with our skills we’d have no problem picking up where we left off on the other side of the ditch (otherwise known as the Pacific). But it’s not really going the way I imagined it – contrary to my self-delusions I don’t have companies beating down the door desperate for my writing skills. I check Trade Me every day and only one or two jobs in my industry (Marketing/Advertising/Media) trickle through, of which only one every month is (barely) suitable for me, and only two jobs so far have been spot on (writing positions), but one of them was in Nelson and I’m in Wellington. Nelson and Wellington are on two different islands and if we moved to Nelson Kiwi wouldn’t be able to find work for himself as it’s a small place. The job which I did appy for, I received a reply along the lines of ‘competitive market’, ‘high calibre applicants’, ‘unsuccessful this time’. For every job there’s probably 100 applicants, and someone else will always be more qualified than me, plus they’ll have a permanent residency working in their favour too.
But amongst all the doom and gloom of the recession is the positive aspect that ‘ancient’ ways of living (‘ancient’ dating back to the days of my grandparents, and perhaps even my parents who won’t be too impressed at my allusion to their ancientness – Hello Mum, it’s artistic license, not a reflection on your old age…) Anyway, ‘ancient’ ways of living are coming back around. Back in the olden days people were resourceful and would be shocked at how wasteful the next generation (my generation) can be. No longer do we need to darn socks since we can buy a pack of 3 for £1.50 in Primark (or $5 in Warehouse/Walmart for my NZ and US readership). We don’t re-hem trousers which are too long; we let them drag along the ground until we’ve worn holes in them then pop out and buy a new pair. We don’t stitch up broken seams, we throw the offending apparel away and, you’ve got it, go out and buy a new *insert item here* to replace it whilst probably picking up a few other new clothes we didn’t need while we’re at it. But times are a-changin’ and purse strings are tightening. We can’t afford to be so carefree with our cash, so we’re compensating by extending the life of our wardrobes. We’re dusting off our Mums’ needle cases or setting up our bobbins and letting the machines do the fixing. And once you get started, it’s addictive. At least it is for me. Sewing isn’t just about fixing, it’s about creating. I took textiles at school in which time I decorated a dress, made a bag, made a playmat for a child and all kinds of things inbetween. But I never took the time to keep it up, improve my skills and expand on them. So when the other week I sewed a broken seam on Kiwi’s lycra diving shorts, he ended up with a mishapen crotch. At least it’s a covered mishapen crotch, but nevertheless I can’t say I would do my Grandmother proud.
And more recently, last week I admired a friend’s knitted hat; it was a 1960s style pattern which her Grandma had knitted for her and she offered her Grandma’s knitting skills to me, saying she could make me one. I jumped at the chance and haven’t been able to stop thinking about the possibilities of having knitting skills myself. It’s a useful skill and one which encourages generosity. It seems knitting is a new trend too amongst the younger generation – it’s emerging on cool craft stalls at contemporary art events and the growth of online sales of handmade apparel through websites like Etsy.com has encouraged more and more kitch and cutesy pieces; knitted brooches, bags, purses, keyrings and the like. It appeals to my creative side and I feel it will be addictive once I have the hang of it. And while I’m practising everyone can benefit – Little Red can have baby cardigans and hats, Kiwi can have socks and I can knit New Zealand themed goodies for family and friends back home. It’s the knitted road to resourcefulness; save some money by making gifts and spread some knitted love around. So when my Mum asked what I wanted for my birthday which is in a few weeks time, I said knitting needles please! And a book of patterns and some yarn! I’m not sure if she’s taken me seriously – note to Mum, I’m entirely serious and I will knit you something first as a sign of appreciation!
Come to think of it, recently I’ve posted about my obsession with Save Mart, the Salvation Army store and now sewing and knitting. I seem to be 25 going on 85. Ah well, I’m a pretty fresh lookin’ Nana, even if I do say so myself.
I’m not talking a faceless, black-caped figure with a scythe. I’m talking a neatly suited and booted, straight-faced fellar with a pen in his pocket, a clipboard and a business card stating HMRC or NZ Inland Revenue. Same thing; the TAX MAN. He reaps just as much grimness as the angel of death and he’s the stuff of my nightmares right now. I received a letter from my bank in the UK yesterday, telling me nicely that since I have registered a contact address with them which is outside the UK I will have to send them my National Insurance (IRD equivalent) number and my passport details. These will be forwarded, along with details of any credits to my bank account, to the UK tax authorities. Just so they’re in the know about all that money I am laundering. Oh yes, I’m squirrelling money into New Zealand as we speak, I’m practically rolling in it. I choose to live with the inlaws and sponge off their generosity just because I can. In case you’re reading this, Mr Tax Man, I’m being sarcastic.
So now I’m sat surrounded by documents about taxes from UK and NZ sources, and I’m totally confused by it all. It’s actually quite frightening. I’m convinced I’ll do something silly which will ultimately lead to my arrest for tax evasion. And all because forgot to include my middle names on my tax return, or something similarly innocent yet incriminating. I need an accountant, but I can’t afford one; by the time I could afford one I’ll have been working a few years and I’ll have figured it all out already. Did you get that Mr Tax Man? What’s the point in registering Self Employed when I’m barely out of Sole Trader ‘training pants’? Can’t we have 1 year’s grace, to get to grips with it all before being given the responsibility of correctly siphoning off the correct amount of money to be thrown away (ahem) paid as taxes? HMRC/NZ Inland Revenue should supply accountants for free, as part of the ‘we give you our taxes, and you help us pay them right’ deal.
I’m thinking burying my head in the sand until the grim reaper comes banging on the door isn’t going to help me too much so it’s back to form-filling and hoping I’m doing it right.
I don’t think I’m supposed to keep this secret, I hope not considering I’m about to blab about it – Kiwi Girl has asked me to be Godmother to Little Red! I am one of two Godmothers – apparently it’s tradition to have two Godmothers and one Godfather for a baby girl, and two Godfathers and one Godmother for a boy. Traditional for who I don’t know – some Catholics or Little Red’s Dad’s side of the family or something. I’m not Catholic and my religious beliefs are my own – I have a mixed sense of religion (http://alexbettylou.wordpress.com/2008/10/19/im-a-believer/) so I won’t be a Godmother in the traditional sense of guiding the child on their path to God; I’m more a ‘life mentor’, someone to offer advice, guidance and a role model for Little Red as she grows up. And she’s my practice run in looking after babies, since I didn’t have a maternal instinct until Little Red came along. It’s either my age or being around mother and baby too much, but I’m feeling broody. That’s not to say Kiwi should start to worry about me wanting to drop any sprogs in the near future; I’m not broody enough to have overcome my selfish need for an easy life or for the responsibility of anyone other than myself. In Little Red I get to go ‘aaaaawww’ and coo over baby clothes and toys and then I get to give her back to Kiwi Girl when she starts to cry or needs her nappy changing. It’s the ideal compromise.
I’m thinking I might convince Little Red that I am a Fairy Godmother; because that would be much more exciting than your average Godmother. It would give me an excuse to wear pouffy dresses, fairy wings and carry a wand, perhaps a tiara too. I wonder how old Little Red will be when she realises I don’t actually have magical powers. And then how old she’ll be when she tells me it’s not cool for a grown woman to wear wings. It’ll be fun to find out.
My wardrobe has always been the bane of my life. I never own enough clothing so that I can find an outfit for any occasion. Nothing looks like I want it to look, all my clothes are dull because although I love colour I can never find colourful clothing that I think suits me or it’s too expensive, so black is the safest bet. I love dresses but I only ever see dresses I like on other people, never in the shops, so I never wear them. I had serious wardrobe envy – I’d get green-eyed around girls who have their own unique style and a wardrobe full of endless outfit combinations – until now.
I have mentioned before (here and here) my inate tight-arse tendencies and the fact I love a bargain. Before we moved to New Zealand I was squirreling all my money away into savings so I’d have something to live on once we arrived. As a result I became so obsessed with not spending a single penny that I ended up wearing the same outfit everyday. I was well overdue a shopping trip as my cheap Primark clothing fell apart one by one – I had just jeans and black singlets or black t-shirts to wear, with the choice of two cardigans (one black, one pink) to alternate and ’spice’ it up a little. On packing to move over here I ended up throwing the worst of my clothing away, deciding that I’d replenish it when we arrived in New Zealand. So during my first month here my wardrobe was somewhat lacking in choice of outfits (I could never find the right clothes for the right occasion) and I had nothing of any colour expect black and blue denim. And in a country where the sun shines what seems like each and every day, black doesn’t feel right. I wanted some colour in my life.
Having no full-time job means that I have taken to shopping from end-of-sale racks and more often at second-hand clothing stores – called ‘op-shops’ in New Zealand, otherwise known as charity shops in the UK. A favourite of mine is Save-Mart – a recycled clothing superstore. Save Mart is a giant warehouse with racks upon racks of clothes, all grouped in order of colour, size and type of clothing so it’s easy to find what you’re looking for. It’s not just the cheap price tag which I love about Save Mart, it’s the fact you know you’re unlikely to bump into anyone wearing the same item of clothing as you, because it’s last year’s (or even last decade’s) fashions, so by default my outfits are unique. Obviously the price tag also helps – on one trip I spent NZ$47 (about £18) on three jumpers and three pairs of shoes. Some other bargains I have found whilst op-shopping have been a little black dress for $10 (£4), a Levi’s denim jacket, as new, for $15 (£6) and a pair of black shoes with a gold buckle for $8 (£3). After all the bargains I found I seem to have made my name as the Bargain Queen, which has a plus side as I was the first person a friend asked if I’d like to take home the clothes she’d just cleared out of her wardrobe. Of course I was ecstatic – going through bin bags of other people’s clothing is almost a fetish of mine. I hate to see good clothes go to waste, and what’s old to them is new to me.
Kiwi is less than impressed that I have taken to wearing second hand items from other eras – he particularly dislikes an 80s jumper I bought, complete with sequins and shoulder pads which teamed with leggings and black heels looks cute, feels warm and everyone else says they like it, even if it does reminisce the days of Wham! or Boy George. Amongst my friend’s clothes was a 70s style purple patterned dress which I team with footless purple tights and one friend remarked that Barney would find me attractive (think big, singing, purple dinosaur if you’re not sure what I’m referring to there). Kiwi doesn’t see the fun side of my clothing choices – he’s obviously too cool for school. He’ll get used to it… I hope.
So between Save Mart, the local Hospice shop, the Salvation Army and my ‘friend’s-Mart’, for the first time in my life I have a complete wardrobe. I get excited every morning about what I could wear today; I ummm and aaah about what colour to wear – it’s now a rarity that I wear black; I live for pink, purple, turquoise, jade and sky blue. I have a wedding to go to next weekend and I can’t decide which of the dresses in my wardrobe that I could wear – a few months ago I’d be worrying that I couldn’t find the right dress to buy – now I own four, and that’s just my ‘dressy dresses’! And I feel good that I’m not giving my hard-squirrelled cash to the kings of consumerism – it’s like sticking my finger up at the companies which are using the recession as an excuse to either put their prices up ‘because the cost of production has increased’ or try to attract people to buy things they can’t afford and don’t need by putting their prices right down and calling it a ‘credit cruncher’ discount. Arses.
Last night (if you’re adept enough and read my blog regularly then you’ll notice I have backdated this post one week, so this actually happened last Friday. But for the sake of my need to put everything in the right order, rewind one week). Anyway, last night, Kiwi Girl had a free babysitting pass, leaving Little Red at home with her Dad, so we decided to make the most of it and head into Wellington for a few drinks and to see where the night would take us. Earlier in the day we had been shoe shopping together so Kiwi Girl could find some ‘going out’ shoes. Conveniently Hannah’s (NZ’s Barratts equivalant) had a buy 1 pair, get 1 pair half price deal so I helped Kiwi Girl to get a discount off her pair of shoes by getting myself a pair too. At least that’s how I justify the fact I just spent $35 on a pair of shoes I blatantly didn’t need. In fact these shoes went so perfectly with my favourite going out outfit that I would suggest I did need them. They completed my wardrobe. They are black satin peep toe stiletttos, with a gold heel and a small dimante and gold detail on the toe. Worn with a black belt with a gold clasp and I feel like I’m working the vintage look. There’s something about gold accessories which is a dangerous line between cheap and tacky and antiquan chic.
So, all dressed up Kiwi Girl and I headed into the city. We started out at The Loaded Hog where we met up with some friends and enjoyed the sounds of some 90’s classics, before I persuaded Kiwi Girl and a couple of friends to come with me to Tokyo Teahouse, my new favourite bar. As with the last time I went there I wasn’t disappointed. The DJ played all my favourite songs, including a couple I requested myself – a remix of The Ting Tings ‘That’s Not My Name’ and September ‘Cry For You’ – dance anthems which have no acclaim for being a credit to the music industry but are perfect for some unadulterated booty shakin’ in my new dancin’ shoes. Unfortunately my feet weren’t up to the power of the dancin’ shoes and so before I crippled myself I swapped them with Kiwi Girl’s for her new pair with a kitten heel. She ended up wearing no shoes at all and as we left Tokyo Teahouse to meet up with Kiwi who was out with a friend in Southern Cross, Kiwi Girl walked all the way up Courtenay Place and Cuba Street with bare feet. Now that’s what friends are for.
Having had a little too many tequilas with my wine, by the time we reached Southern Cross I was more than ready to head home so we bundled into the car with Kiwi as our responsible driver and headed back to Upper Hutt, where I devoured a peanut butter sandwich (the original drunken food), kissed my shoes good night and collapsed in bed.
Let’s just get this out the way first. I stole this post from Shop Girl’s blog, I Heart My Shoes (http://blog.iheartmyshoes.com/). It’s a little philosophical tale with an important meaning to it which I felt was too good not to steal (ahem) re-post.
The Mayonnaise Jar and Two Cups of Coffee
A Professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
So the Professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The Professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous “yes.”
The Professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the space between the grains of sand.
“Now,” said the professor, as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things–your family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.
The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -the small stuff.
“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18.
There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. “Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The Professor smiled. “I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.”
Thanks Shop Girl, this is the kind of story that sticks in your mind and reminds you what’s important in life, for whenever you lose perspective. 
Well I am getting slack on the blog front, but I’ve been feeling a bit despondent lately which doesn’t make for the writing mood. Oh it’s all whinge whinge whinge, woe is me, but that’s what happens when you get out of touch with life as you once knew it. I’m still finding it hard to deal with not working full time. I feel all useless and that makes me sad, which makes me feel worthless and then I get extra sad and so the cycle continues. I end up getting up late in the mornings because I’ve got nothing to get up early for, which makes me feel lazy. Then I potter about the house and spend about 3 hours just getting ready for doing more of nothing. Then I think I might just go back to bed and sleep my sad little life away, so instead I go out to see my friend, I shall call her Kiwi Girl, who lives down the street and around the corner and down the street some more. She’s my sanity at the moment, she keeps me from feeling down. She had a baby 3 months ago so she’s on maternity leave, which should really be called ‘Alex-ternity leave’ because she’s not off work to look after her newborn child, she’s there for my sake and me alone… At least that’s what I tell myself; I like to think she’s glad I’m around too, because I don’t think her lil’ poppet (who I will call Little Red) has quite as good craic on her as I do.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t go round there to talk about how crappy I feel, in fact I only seem to feel low when I’m sat at home. As soon as I’m anywhere else I feel absolutely fine. I simply need the interaction with other people and with other environments. Once I’m round with Kiwi Girl we just talk about anything, everything and nothing, go ga-ga over Little Red, go for walks, go shopping, do the things girls do. It’s so good to have someone I consider to be a best friend around; I didn’t realise how important my friends were to me until I left them behind. I thought I have my Kiwi, it’ll be fine, but sometimes I need someone external to our current situation who hasn’t got an opinion on it when I need to talk about things, other than supporting my point of view wholeheartedly and feeding me chocolate or cake to make it all better. That’s what friends are for. I’m so lucky that Kiwi Girl is around, otherwise I think I’d be criminally insane or clinically depressed by now.
He said, then she said...