1. Film Fest - Off to a Rip Roaring Start
I saw my first fil-um (two syllables) last night with Richard and Sam. It was the sci-fi thriller, 'Moon'. To be honest, I'd had very low expectations. Whenever people had asked what I'd be seeing, they looked at me strangely, as if to say, 'And that's something you want to see? Why?'. I just kinda shrugged and mumbled, 'I dunno. Film Fest.'
But I really liked it. It's a neat little low-budget ($5m, 33 day shoot) film. I've never seen the whole of 2001 but I imagine it has similarities. I read that he was in a way paying homage to those older space sci-fis of the 70s. It was a true sci-fi, rather than the lesser space-opera genre (which, other than Star Wars, I avoid). The special effects were really old-school - they actually used miniature models for the outside scenes of the moon, which worked surprisingly well. Kinda quaint.
The look of it all was minimalist. While it was stark, sterile white there was a grittiness to it, with what I assume was moon-dust coating the space suits and drips of coffee smeared on the GERTY computer which kept the astronaut company. I like that GERTY and the other technological aspects were also fairly low-tech things you could imagine being made right now on earth. If anything they were even more low-tech that what is already achieveable, keeping that old-school feel. No hovercrafts or conveyor belt footpaths. Even the graphics on the computer screens looked like something from a C64, in a good way. I liked that - a lot of sci-fis get so distracted with coming up with new, slick gadgets and trying to make the CGI convincing that they lose site of trying to have an actual plot to support their visual cleverness.
The film has lots of psychological and ethical issues that it explores. According to IMDB, the tagline is 'Moon: It's the last place you'd expect to find yourself'. That works on a few levels. Essentially, the film is about the sole man working up on the moon harvesting H-3, some kind of wonder-helium that now powers 70% of the world. This is something they are actually working on at NASA, where the film had a special showing at the request of a boss-man there.
He is coming to the end of his 3 year term and is understandably feeling the effects of having been isolated so long. He is an employee of some international corporation that seems to be cutting corners and is reluctant to upgrade the base. He spends most of his days talking to the plants (who have names) that he is lovingly growing and watching reruns of Bewitched on a tiny screen. Always in his slippers.
The film rests heavily on the performance of Sam Rockwell, who I have to admit I'd never heard of before. He's great! His character has to convey a lot of layers and changes, and he does it well. I liked him best in his degenerative state, where he constantly has blood dripping down the side of his face, soaking into his t-shirt and spends most of his time playing with a ratty bandage that is half coming off his hand. It adds some nice black humour to the film.
It's a film where you have to care about the fate of the characters, and I did. It does get thrilling as you discover a few twists and watch to see how they affect things. All the while, Kevin Spacey's monotonous voicing of the GERTY computer provides an interesting and comical side-kick to the lead character.
Anyhow, really good film. It was better than most of the things I saw at last year's festival. It's the first film from a young British director who happens to be David Bowie's son (though I only found this out after researching it a little last night - it wasn't part of the advertising of the film, with the kid we knew growing up as 'Zowie Bowie' now going by 'Duncan Jones', a rather more sensible sounding name).
2. Our Animated, Fun-Loving Prime Minister
I really don't like having John Key as our nation's leader.
I have seen him several times in the last few weeks doing 'silly' things. The media seems to love showing him in this 'personable' light. He is at a kindy, caught in the middle of a tiff between two boys, smiling away. Then he's getting down and dirty tackling a sheep, or kicking a rugby ball. A few weeks ago he was drinking kava on a tropical island.
The media seems intent on showing him as this kind of mild-mannered, fun-loving everyman.
When was Helen Clark ever afforded this image? She may not have angled for quite so many cutesy PR events, but if she did I doubt it would have got quite so much coverage. I guess she might've had more of that stuff when she was a 'new' prime minister. Certainly all I have in my recent memory banks is footage of her having to grimly defend herself against criticism. No frolicking with animals and children allowed.
There was a nice bit on her on stuff today, though. It emphasises that she was much nicer in person, but didn't cash in on that image in public, where she was stern and serious. Maybe a statement on how women have had to put on that brave face, rather than act silly with the media, in order to be taken seriously?
Under this kooky exterior, Key is meanwhile making awful policies that hurt the average New Zealander. He's cutting funding to the arts, reversing the focus of our whole educational system. Pretty much running our country like it's a billion dollar business, forgetting (or consciously avoiding) the other obligations of a responsible government. I think this 'fun' media coverage is a cheap distraction from all of the serious, hugely affecting changes he has very quickly pushed through with relatively little debate.
In some way it may be the fault of the new Labour leaders that there isn't much of an opposing voice out there. They seem to lack the charisma or political nous to get themselves heard very effectively. It pains me to think this way, but I have my moments of wishing Darren was a more senior member. Despite some of my arch-nemesis interactions with him at school, I've never questioned his ability to speak eloquently, with humour and with a charisma that belies his somewhat homely looks.
Key reminds me of George Dub-Ya. At first I thought he was this harmless, kinda idiotic seeming man. He was depicted in the media this way. Then I found out that beneath that kindly-uncle-like exterior he was doing all kinds of awful, immoral things. The fact that he did them all with that bumbling, placid exterior made them all the scarier. It was like the horror films of the 1970s where cute little kids and leprachauns were becoming villians.
It makes me grate my teeth. I miss Helen. At least she spoke in a way that didn't make me cringe in shame of our accent.
Footnote: This Finlay Macdonald article is actually critical of Key. Some logic! I think Finlay is one of my favourites.
3. I will Not Tolerate Lactose
I am developing a theory that I may be lactose intolerant. I was googling it last night and a couple of the symptoms sounded familiar.
I'm going to start experimenting on myself.
I'd quite like to have one of those trendy, new-age dietary issues. If this works out for me, I might look into that whole gluten thing next.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A Day of Etiquette
Laundromat
I went to the laundromat today. I had a load of sheets and my duvet cover. It had to be dried, ASAP.
I had driven past last night at 10pm, thinking it would be dead. Not the case. Evidently, Reidun tells me, there is a late night laundry culture in H-town that I have been oblivious to. It's the crowd that go after the kids are in bed. I had to sleep with (gasp) no duvet cover! My duvet was naked and vulnerable.
Anyhow, I went today instead and found it very stressful. I like a quiet, empty laundromat, where I can read my book or watch my all the clothes spinning around peacefully. Today it was packed - there were queues of baskets waiting for driers and little kids running around and people eyeing up my drier as soon as it started slowly down. I had a moment of understanding why someone would be claustrophobic. Home seemed like a nice, distant haven.
There is a strange, largely unspoken, etiquette in place at the laundromat. I am mostly a stranger to it, but I am beginning to understand. Discussing it with Reidun, again, we came up with some grey areas where people seem to push the boundaries.
1. The Slow-Unloader
I observed two young kids unloading a machine. I thought, 'Goodie - I'm can use that in a minute or two.' But they took forever. Every towel was painfully folded and carefully put in the basket. And the kids kept looking expectantly over at some adult, over by the washing machines. They finished unloading, closed the door to the empty drier, but wouldn't move away. They stood guard in front of it. I realised their parent had another load in the washing machine, which was up to spin cycle, so they'd been killing time, protecting their drier for the next load.
Is that ethical? Can you bags a drier over multiple loads when there are people waiting, even thought it's sitting there idly?
Not knowing the etiquette well enough, I sat and waited.
2. The Multi-Loader
How many driers can one person take up? I understand that if you get there and there are several empty, and nobody is waiting, you can go crazy. Put one sock in each one, for all I care. But as soon as there is a queue, should you be allowed to grab any more driers than what you're already using? Should you be allowed to jump up as soon as another one becomes free, ahead of someone who's come in after you with only one load?
There seems to be a bit of this going on too. People have rubbish bags full, and more in the car.
3. Who's Next?
There is no obvious system. I like a lineal arrangement, or numbered tickets. At the laundromat you just have to remember who walked in, in what order. You sit randomly across the room, depending on what chairs are free. While some chairs face the driers, others face the washing machines, so you're having to constantly crane your head back to glance for driers slowing down. If you miss that five second window of opportunity, you go to the back of the line again. Nobody's gonna say, 'I think you're next' if you have your head down in the book. It's a free for all. And then the matter of multi-load washers confuses the order even more.
I find that once someone has unloaded their drier, you wait a few seconds, then stand up. That signals you are interested. If more than one person stands, it's a face-off. Sometimes the person who's just unloaded their machine will look around and give someone the nod, if they have a favourite person in queue. So it's good to make laundry-buddies.
4. The Fake Finish
I don't trust coin operated machines. I strongly suspect that if I put four coins in at the beginning, it would still stop after five minutes and I'd have lost my precious $1 coins. So I put in two coins to start with, then one at a time after that. This means that there are intervals where my machine stops. At these times I feel the eyes of the laundromat simultaneously turn towards my machine. I have to stand up and open the door and do the over-acted action of 'checking if it's dry'. Give it a good pat down, take out a few items, then kinda shake your head. Feed in another coin and feel the collective groan of the onlookers. I feel a little guilty to fake them out like that.
If it was a sci-fi film, they'd all turn out to be zombies and pounce on me at that moment.
Lido
After my stressful afternoon at the laundromat I headed in to town to meet a couple of friends for dinner and drinks before some opera singing at the Town Hall. We agreed to meet at six.
I know this is a tricky time to get a table there, but luck would have it that as I entered, a table of four was leaving. So I grab my table. Enough seats for me and my two friends. Phew. Now all I have to do is hold it until they arrive. Let the battle begin.
I waited for 20 minutes until the first one arrived. In the meantime I had deja vous of my evil laundry stares. Everyone who came into the restaurant, which was full, would eye up my empty seats. The waitors anxiously came over and asked if I was waiting for people, then went away, several times. I felt like announcing, 'I was on time! We agreed to meet at six! It's not my fault they're late!'
A couple came over and said, 'Do you mind?' as they started pulling away one of the tables. I reached out desperately and said, 'Uh sorry - I have friends coming.' The lady continued pulling, saying, 'When are they coming?' in an accusing tone (I kid not) and luckily at that moment one of them turned up and I was able to say, 'Uh - one of them's right behind you.' She grumbled at me and went off to sit back at the bar.
I felt very unpopular. Then the other friend didn't come for another half hour and people eyed up the other two empty seats, jealously.
It's all too stressful! Next time I'm going to purposefully be the late one :) No more seat-saving for me.
Opera
Then, we got to the Town Hall, and were happy to realise our seats were all next to each other (we'd got them free at work). Row A, seats 17, 18 and 19. It took us quite a while to figure out what door to go in, assuming we were up the top, towards the back or something.
Turns out we were in the very front row, exactly in the middle. We were literally underneath the singer's microphone. We could see up her skirt, see the sweat drip down the side of her face. We had to crane our necks up, like we front row at a multi-plex cinema. Evidently that's where they sit the free-tickets people. I felt like I was one of the commoners at The Globe penny-seats.
Quite exciting in a way - none of her the nuances of facial expression were lost on us. No sir.
But the bad bit was that it meant we had to be angels. No texting. No fidgeting. No yawning. No whispering. We had to look up intensely and act touched by the emotion of it all (none of us being opera regulars understood anything that was going on and the first half was all in non-English). All of the more serious fans were up in the gods [correction, the dress cirlce, thanks Andrew], having purchased tickets before they announced there were free ones for staff. So it was just us free-loaders in the front row, with all our colleagues looking down from above. We had to be serious! And the three of us are the ones who usually sit in the back corner during staff meeting, doodling and stifling giggles. We are not front row people. Someone was trying to punish us.
At the interval we got ice creams. But then the dinging sound started, so we had to go back to our seats. We immediately looked at each other and said, 'We have to eat our icecreams in front of her! Is that etiquette?' Through her first two songs we sat there, eating our tiny tubs of icecream with our tiny spoons, trying to catch the drops of chocolate syrup before anything disastrous happened. All underneath the eyes of the diva herself. It felt wrong.
It was fun though and the Town Hall was packed. She sang two hours or so of opera classics and jazz songs. She's an old girl from our school and earlier this year won the same NZ contest Malvina and Kiri won on their rise to stardom.
I liked all her pretty outfits. She had five costume changes.
I went to the laundromat today. I had a load of sheets and my duvet cover. It had to be dried, ASAP.
I had driven past last night at 10pm, thinking it would be dead. Not the case. Evidently, Reidun tells me, there is a late night laundry culture in H-town that I have been oblivious to. It's the crowd that go after the kids are in bed. I had to sleep with (gasp) no duvet cover! My duvet was naked and vulnerable.
Anyhow, I went today instead and found it very stressful. I like a quiet, empty laundromat, where I can read my book or watch my all the clothes spinning around peacefully. Today it was packed - there were queues of baskets waiting for driers and little kids running around and people eyeing up my drier as soon as it started slowly down. I had a moment of understanding why someone would be claustrophobic. Home seemed like a nice, distant haven.
There is a strange, largely unspoken, etiquette in place at the laundromat. I am mostly a stranger to it, but I am beginning to understand. Discussing it with Reidun, again, we came up with some grey areas where people seem to push the boundaries.
1. The Slow-Unloader
I observed two young kids unloading a machine. I thought, 'Goodie - I'm can use that in a minute or two.' But they took forever. Every towel was painfully folded and carefully put in the basket. And the kids kept looking expectantly over at some adult, over by the washing machines. They finished unloading, closed the door to the empty drier, but wouldn't move away. They stood guard in front of it. I realised their parent had another load in the washing machine, which was up to spin cycle, so they'd been killing time, protecting their drier for the next load.
Is that ethical? Can you bags a drier over multiple loads when there are people waiting, even thought it's sitting there idly?
Not knowing the etiquette well enough, I sat and waited.
2. The Multi-Loader
How many driers can one person take up? I understand that if you get there and there are several empty, and nobody is waiting, you can go crazy. Put one sock in each one, for all I care. But as soon as there is a queue, should you be allowed to grab any more driers than what you're already using? Should you be allowed to jump up as soon as another one becomes free, ahead of someone who's come in after you with only one load?
There seems to be a bit of this going on too. People have rubbish bags full, and more in the car.
3. Who's Next?
There is no obvious system. I like a lineal arrangement, or numbered tickets. At the laundromat you just have to remember who walked in, in what order. You sit randomly across the room, depending on what chairs are free. While some chairs face the driers, others face the washing machines, so you're having to constantly crane your head back to glance for driers slowing down. If you miss that five second window of opportunity, you go to the back of the line again. Nobody's gonna say, 'I think you're next' if you have your head down in the book. It's a free for all. And then the matter of multi-load washers confuses the order even more.
I find that once someone has unloaded their drier, you wait a few seconds, then stand up. That signals you are interested. If more than one person stands, it's a face-off. Sometimes the person who's just unloaded their machine will look around and give someone the nod, if they have a favourite person in queue. So it's good to make laundry-buddies.
4. The Fake Finish
I don't trust coin operated machines. I strongly suspect that if I put four coins in at the beginning, it would still stop after five minutes and I'd have lost my precious $1 coins. So I put in two coins to start with, then one at a time after that. This means that there are intervals where my machine stops. At these times I feel the eyes of the laundromat simultaneously turn towards my machine. I have to stand up and open the door and do the over-acted action of 'checking if it's dry'. Give it a good pat down, take out a few items, then kinda shake your head. Feed in another coin and feel the collective groan of the onlookers. I feel a little guilty to fake them out like that.
If it was a sci-fi film, they'd all turn out to be zombies and pounce on me at that moment.
Lido
After my stressful afternoon at the laundromat I headed in to town to meet a couple of friends for dinner and drinks before some opera singing at the Town Hall. We agreed to meet at six.
I know this is a tricky time to get a table there, but luck would have it that as I entered, a table of four was leaving. So I grab my table. Enough seats for me and my two friends. Phew. Now all I have to do is hold it until they arrive. Let the battle begin.
I waited for 20 minutes until the first one arrived. In the meantime I had deja vous of my evil laundry stares. Everyone who came into the restaurant, which was full, would eye up my empty seats. The waitors anxiously came over and asked if I was waiting for people, then went away, several times. I felt like announcing, 'I was on time! We agreed to meet at six! It's not my fault they're late!'
A couple came over and said, 'Do you mind?' as they started pulling away one of the tables. I reached out desperately and said, 'Uh sorry - I have friends coming.' The lady continued pulling, saying, 'When are they coming?' in an accusing tone (I kid not) and luckily at that moment one of them turned up and I was able to say, 'Uh - one of them's right behind you.' She grumbled at me and went off to sit back at the bar.
I felt very unpopular. Then the other friend didn't come for another half hour and people eyed up the other two empty seats, jealously.
It's all too stressful! Next time I'm going to purposefully be the late one :) No more seat-saving for me.
Opera
Then, we got to the Town Hall, and were happy to realise our seats were all next to each other (we'd got them free at work). Row A, seats 17, 18 and 19. It took us quite a while to figure out what door to go in, assuming we were up the top, towards the back or something.
Turns out we were in the very front row, exactly in the middle. We were literally underneath the singer's microphone. We could see up her skirt, see the sweat drip down the side of her face. We had to crane our necks up, like we front row at a multi-plex cinema. Evidently that's where they sit the free-tickets people. I felt like I was one of the commoners at The Globe penny-seats.
Quite exciting in a way - none of her the nuances of facial expression were lost on us. No sir.
But the bad bit was that it meant we had to be angels. No texting. No fidgeting. No yawning. No whispering. We had to look up intensely and act touched by the emotion of it all (none of us being opera regulars understood anything that was going on and the first half was all in non-English). All of the more serious fans were up in the gods [correction, the dress cirlce, thanks Andrew], having purchased tickets before they announced there were free ones for staff. So it was just us free-loaders in the front row, with all our colleagues looking down from above. We had to be serious! And the three of us are the ones who usually sit in the back corner during staff meeting, doodling and stifling giggles. We are not front row people. Someone was trying to punish us.
At the interval we got ice creams. But then the dinging sound started, so we had to go back to our seats. We immediately looked at each other and said, 'We have to eat our icecreams in front of her! Is that etiquette?' Through her first two songs we sat there, eating our tiny tubs of icecream with our tiny spoons, trying to catch the drops of chocolate syrup before anything disastrous happened. All underneath the eyes of the diva herself. It felt wrong.
It was fun though and the Town Hall was packed. She sang two hours or so of opera classics and jazz songs. She's an old girl from our school and earlier this year won the same NZ contest Malvina and Kiri won on their rise to stardom.
I liked all her pretty outfits. She had five costume changes.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Bible Names = Good
This article in Stuff today seemed to me to have maybe a teensy-weensy-giantastic ethno-bias to it.
1. Good Names
Take the three names sinlged out as 'safe' to give boys. Joshua is apparently not a common name for crims to have - it means 'God is my salvation'. Michael means 'like God'. And Christopher means 'followers of the Christ'. Co-incidence? Hmm.
Then take some of the baddie names. The ones to avoid!
2. Bad Names
They danced around the topic but I know who the most famous Kareem in the western world is and I know when and why he changed his name.... He's black. Proudly black. And Malcolm X, co-incidently, also has a criminal's name, huh. And I'm trying to think of the most famous Tyrell I know.....
Though it's not just black names they're pointing out there - Britney's baby's name is in the top ten. White trash names also lead to criminality.
3. A Criminal by any other Name..... would be as guilty?
Yet there is little reference to 'other' factors. What percentage of the prison population are black? How many are from low socio-economic backgrounds? And who are these names 'uncommon' to - maybe the target audience of Fairfax? Hmmm.
Don't go running into those bad neighbourhoods preaching to pregnant teenagers that they should call their unborn sons 'Michael' and all will be well.
They maybe need to look more closely at the cause and effect there, before readers start scratching 'Luke' off their baby-names lists (not that they'd have it on their list in the first place, obviously - sounds like a mechanic or something - uh, I mean so 'uncommon' and 'feminine').
I'm sure that article caused a chuckle though. Uncle Peter pointing it out to Auntie Margaret, saying they always knew those relatives with the 'made-up' names who live out the Hutt somewhere were bound for trouble. Made-up names. Tsk-tsk.
'Clayton' is a kinda girly name. Maybe that's what turned him to the dark side..... Maybe he can accuse his parents of provocation now.....
My dad's name is 'Mervyn'. I'm gonna see what's buried under the house next time I'm home. He can't possibly be law-abiding with a name like that.
* * *
Unrelated Success
And my very unevil step-mother, Lynne, has won a writing competition! I mentioned her a couple of blogs ago. This is her first 'win'! It's a foot in the door.
She is being flown up to Auckland for a ceremony next week, her and my dad's accommodation paid for.
Very proud.
I know some talented, creative people. A lot of them are English teachers.... Co-incidence? I think not.
1. Good Names
Take the three names sinlged out as 'safe' to give boys. Joshua is apparently not a common name for crims to have - it means 'God is my salvation'. Michael means 'like God'. And Christopher means 'followers of the Christ'. Co-incidence? Hmm.
Then take some of the baddie names. The ones to avoid!
2. Bad Names
They danced around the topic but I know who the most famous Kareem in the western world is and I know when and why he changed his name.... He's black. Proudly black. And Malcolm X, co-incidently, also has a criminal's name, huh. And I'm trying to think of the most famous Tyrell I know.....
Though it's not just black names they're pointing out there - Britney's baby's name is in the top ten. White trash names also lead to criminality.
3. A Criminal by any other Name..... would be as guilty?
Yet there is little reference to 'other' factors. What percentage of the prison population are black? How many are from low socio-economic backgrounds? And who are these names 'uncommon' to - maybe the target audience of Fairfax? Hmmm.
Don't go running into those bad neighbourhoods preaching to pregnant teenagers that they should call their unborn sons 'Michael' and all will be well.
They maybe need to look more closely at the cause and effect there, before readers start scratching 'Luke' off their baby-names lists (not that they'd have it on their list in the first place, obviously - sounds like a mechanic or something - uh, I mean so 'uncommon' and 'feminine').
I'm sure that article caused a chuckle though. Uncle Peter pointing it out to Auntie Margaret, saying they always knew those relatives with the 'made-up' names who live out the Hutt somewhere were bound for trouble. Made-up names. Tsk-tsk.
'Clayton' is a kinda girly name. Maybe that's what turned him to the dark side..... Maybe he can accuse his parents of provocation now.....
My dad's name is 'Mervyn'. I'm gonna see what's buried under the house next time I'm home. He can't possibly be law-abiding with a name like that.
* * *
Unrelated Success
And my very unevil step-mother, Lynne, has won a writing competition! I mentioned her a couple of blogs ago. This is her first 'win'! It's a foot in the door.
She is being flown up to Auckland for a ceremony next week, her and my dad's accommodation paid for.
Very proud.
I know some talented, creative people. A lot of them are English teachers.... Co-incidence? I think not.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
In a 'small world' incident last night.....
Turns out a friend of my flatmate's lives next door to where my ex-boyfriend used to live. And she heard him and a mate sitting outside smoking, discussing two girls he was 'juggling'.
One of those girls was me.
Ouch.
Makes me glad to be well clear of that situation now. F***er.
Turns out a friend of my flatmate's lives next door to where my ex-boyfriend used to live. And she heard him and a mate sitting outside smoking, discussing two girls he was 'juggling'.
One of those girls was me.
Ouch.
Makes me glad to be well clear of that situation now. F***er.
Monday, July 13, 2009
80s Games
I used to love playing 'Summer Games' on the C64. It's where I learnt all my national anthems. I would always have characters called 'Leo', 'JJ', 'Joe' and 'Kate' (back in those days I was called Katie, so 'Kate' seemed very grown up).
I liked diving and gymnastics. I didn't like the running event because my brother always whined that I was jiggling the joystick too hard and that it would break. We had two joysticks - the old black and grey one which was a bit rickety and the new red and black one with two buttons, instead of just one (revolutionary).
I kinda like that you used to have to type in the instructions.... Load, "*"...... I forget exactly how it went but I vaguely recall 'list' and 'start' being in there.
Our friends used to come over in the weekends and I remember sitting there discussing which game we'd like to play first. There was Jumpman, Whiz Ball, Bruce Lee, Commando, Mission Impossible.... And then later we might go for a bike ride on our BMXes. Or watch a tape of 'The Creep Show'. Maybe go to the dairy and get some 1c lollies.
I don't get the whole Playstation culture - I guess it's not my generation. I'm all about pixels and arcade music.
I liked diving and gymnastics. I didn't like the running event because my brother always whined that I was jiggling the joystick too hard and that it would break. We had two joysticks - the old black and grey one which was a bit rickety and the new red and black one with two buttons, instead of just one (revolutionary).
I kinda like that you used to have to type in the instructions.... Load, "*"...... I forget exactly how it went but I vaguely recall 'list' and 'start' being in there.
Our friends used to come over in the weekends and I remember sitting there discussing which game we'd like to play first. There was Jumpman, Whiz Ball, Bruce Lee, Commando, Mission Impossible.... And then later we might go for a bike ride on our BMXes. Or watch a tape of 'The Creep Show'. Maybe go to the dairy and get some 1c lollies.
I don't get the whole Playstation culture - I guess it's not my generation. I'm all about pixels and arcade music.
Vicariously Happy
One of my department buddies finally got her book of poetry published (it's been in the system for over a year now - so she's had to get excited and then hold-off several times while things were delayed - excruciatingly so). I pester her every few weeks, asking how it's going cov- hast the cover been finalised? has it come back from printing in Hong Kong?
It is now safely in her hands. With her name on the pretty cover. How proud! I imagine a new book never felt or smelled quite so good.
I officially can't wait to see it - she writes beautiful stuff. I'd like it even if I didn't know and like her personally. I will recommend it whole-heartedly to anyone who likes good, economical, delicate, observant, smart poetry.
That's made my day. Yay for her.
It must be a funny thing being a poet. From what I've seen they're quite introspective people, observers of life - comfortable sitting back quietly watching. Yet, their work is so intimate and revealing. How brave of them.
I like people of substance.
I know other people who toil away writing, aiming to be published in various forms, so I can appreciate what an incredible milestone this is for her. Hooray again.
* * *
As a footnote, my step-mother, the Lovely Lynne, has had two stories sold to a radio station. She is entering every short story competition out there and is branch secretary of some society for NZ authors, where she gets to email, meet with and be mentored by all kinds of kiwi authors, whose names I know through teaching and studying. She's been shortlisted a few times in good competitions - she will get there! She used to be an English teacher too :) What a fantastic breed we are.
It is now safely in her hands. With her name on the pretty cover. How proud! I imagine a new book never felt or smelled quite so good.
I officially can't wait to see it - she writes beautiful stuff. I'd like it even if I didn't know and like her personally. I will recommend it whole-heartedly to anyone who likes good, economical, delicate, observant, smart poetry.
That's made my day. Yay for her.
It must be a funny thing being a poet. From what I've seen they're quite introspective people, observers of life - comfortable sitting back quietly watching. Yet, their work is so intimate and revealing. How brave of them.
I like people of substance.
I know other people who toil away writing, aiming to be published in various forms, so I can appreciate what an incredible milestone this is for her. Hooray again.
* * *
As a footnote, my step-mother, the Lovely Lynne, has had two stories sold to a radio station. She is entering every short story competition out there and is branch secretary of some society for NZ authors, where she gets to email, meet with and be mentored by all kinds of kiwi authors, whose names I know through teaching and studying. She's been shortlisted a few times in good competitions - she will get there! She used to be an English teacher too :) What a fantastic breed we are.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Bing Bong
She got on my bus. I walked away. It was my bus. My scarf tightens.
* * *
Coconut bread with grilled banana and blueberry mascarpone. And a lukewarm latte. Watching the golden retreiver tied to a lampost, shivering, outside.
* * *
Listening to Paulo Nutini in the car. Windows fogging up. Tank a quarter full.
* * *
Mulled wine with orange slices sinking to the bottom. Warm sweet cough syrup.
* * *
Coconut bread with grilled banana and blueberry mascarpone. And a lukewarm latte. Watching the golden retreiver tied to a lampost, shivering, outside.
* * *
Listening to Paulo Nutini in the car. Windows fogging up. Tank a quarter full.
* * *
Mulled wine with orange slices sinking to the bottom. Warm sweet cough syrup.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
A Slippery Slope
So, having become jealous of my female flatmates padding about the house in their cosy slippers (and Cal wearing hers out to dinner), I succombed and got my own. I have had only fleeting relationships with slippers over the years and I thought it was about time I gave it another go.
I went to the Warehouse one night after work, on impulse (because my feet were cold as I drove home) and got some Ug Boots (tall ones, like Pamela Anderson wears) . I had a choice between pale pink or black. I will let you guess which one I chose.
I can categorically say that I have never worn slippers out in public (except maybe once on a dare - but it was in Newtown, they don't even look twice at that kinda thing around there). Now I am faced with the tricky conundrum of how far I'm willing to push it with public slipper wearing - they are bloody comfortable and I am finding I don't want to take them off. They a re my winter equivalent of jandals.
Last week I took a DVD back to the store in my slippers. That was a 10 second dash, drop them in the slot, kinda mission. I think that's ok. It was late. But it got me thinking that it's not as bad as I thought it would be..... I could wear them a whole bunch of places without looking weird.....
Here are my intial thoughts, being rather conservative in my slipper-wearing habits.
Phase 1: Exceptions to the Rule
1. The DVD store, reasonably late at night. Anyone else there is obviously having a night in as well and the sci-fi geeks at my store can hardly judge fashion crimes.
2. The dairy, especially since mine is about a 10 second jog away.
3. Work, but only on a weekend.
4. The Laundromat, since you are technically doing house-work, why not be comfy? And, in my recent experiences, contrary to what the movies show, you are not going to meet the man of your dreams there. Far from it.
5. Supermarket, after 9pm.
But now I'm starting to think maybe I can push the envelope - my standards are dropping. Slippers are awesome. Comfort is greater than fashion.
Phase Two: The Extension of Boundaries
1. The Service Station, I think it fits in the general category of 'just popped out to get some ______, couldn't be bothered putting real shoes on'.
2. Houses of friends and relatives. Who am I trying to impress?
3. Work, before 8am and after 4pm on a weekday. The children aren't there anymore.... maybe just keep a pair of work-shoes under the desk for the rest of the day.
4. Takeaway shops (see #1 in this list).
5. Visiting a doctor. Sick people can wear bed-wear in public. It hurts to wear real shoes....
Having thought deeply on this issue, I can see some patterns ....
Phase 3: Why would you ever NOT wear them???
1. Any time it's dark outside. Firstly they are a kind of night-wear, secondly nobody can see them.
2. If you have an established relationship (otherwise it may support crazy-spinster-cat-lady theories that are being bandied about).
3. Any time you go somewhere in your car which only involves 'nipping out'.
4. Any time speed of movement is not essential (ie - not to indoor netball).
5. Any time you do not need professional respect.
6. Any time you don't feel good, inside or out. It's like an adult's version of the 'blankie'.
I can see that even these rules are meant to be broken.
* * *
In an alarming footnote, I bought some skinny leg jeans this week (unlikely, I know, but some manufacturer somewhere missed the memo that they should only be made for people who actually have skinny legs.... and there was a pair on special for $50 that fit me - sweet! Almost all my other jeans have holes in them at the moment so I needed new ones.).
With skinny jeans, you have to wear the ug boots on the outside. I know this is very trendy, but I looked in the mirror and realised I had morphed into a Hutt Chick.
I went to the Warehouse one night after work, on impulse (because my feet were cold as I drove home) and got some Ug Boots (tall ones, like Pamela Anderson wears) . I had a choice between pale pink or black. I will let you guess which one I chose.
I can categorically say that I have never worn slippers out in public (except maybe once on a dare - but it was in Newtown, they don't even look twice at that kinda thing around there). Now I am faced with the tricky conundrum of how far I'm willing to push it with public slipper wearing - they are bloody comfortable and I am finding I don't want to take them off. They a re my winter equivalent of jandals.
Last week I took a DVD back to the store in my slippers. That was a 10 second dash, drop them in the slot, kinda mission. I think that's ok. It was late. But it got me thinking that it's not as bad as I thought it would be..... I could wear them a whole bunch of places without looking weird.....
Here are my intial thoughts, being rather conservative in my slipper-wearing habits.
Phase 1: Exceptions to the Rule
1. The DVD store, reasonably late at night. Anyone else there is obviously having a night in as well and the sci-fi geeks at my store can hardly judge fashion crimes.
2. The dairy, especially since mine is about a 10 second jog away.
3. Work, but only on a weekend.
4. The Laundromat, since you are technically doing house-work, why not be comfy? And, in my recent experiences, contrary to what the movies show, you are not going to meet the man of your dreams there. Far from it.
5. Supermarket, after 9pm.
But now I'm starting to think maybe I can push the envelope - my standards are dropping. Slippers are awesome. Comfort is greater than fashion.
Phase Two: The Extension of Boundaries
1. The Service Station, I think it fits in the general category of 'just popped out to get some ______, couldn't be bothered putting real shoes on'.
2. Houses of friends and relatives. Who am I trying to impress?
3. Work, before 8am and after 4pm on a weekday. The children aren't there anymore.... maybe just keep a pair of work-shoes under the desk for the rest of the day.
4. Takeaway shops (see #1 in this list).
5. Visiting a doctor. Sick people can wear bed-wear in public. It hurts to wear real shoes....
Having thought deeply on this issue, I can see some patterns ....
Phase 3: Why would you ever NOT wear them???
1. Any time it's dark outside. Firstly they are a kind of night-wear, secondly nobody can see them.
2. If you have an established relationship (otherwise it may support crazy-spinster-cat-lady theories that are being bandied about).
3. Any time you go somewhere in your car which only involves 'nipping out'.
4. Any time speed of movement is not essential (ie - not to indoor netball).
5. Any time you do not need professional respect.
6. Any time you don't feel good, inside or out. It's like an adult's version of the 'blankie'.
I can see that even these rules are meant to be broken.
* * *
In an alarming footnote, I bought some skinny leg jeans this week (unlikely, I know, but some manufacturer somewhere missed the memo that they should only be made for people who actually have skinny legs.... and there was a pair on special for $50 that fit me - sweet! Almost all my other jeans have holes in them at the moment so I needed new ones.).
With skinny jeans, you have to wear the ug boots on the outside. I know this is very trendy, but I looked in the mirror and realised I had morphed into a Hutt Chick.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
My ladder for leprachauns is being put to use. So many things to hang!* * *
I have reinstated some kind of healthier eating agenda for the coming weeks. Report writing and many other rigmaroles of Term 2 have taken their toll of my waist-line. Having blocks of chocolate as a reward for doing school-work may be a bad policy.....
In great acts of will-power I went to two cafes in the past few days and only had coffees - no delicious counter treats! I also said 'no' to a piece of lemon and sour-cream cake at school. And it's been a whole week of NO takeaways! I am feeling virtuous.
I even bought special pants for going for walks in (my old trackpants being a little snug at the moment). They have lycra in them, which is quite scary for all involved. Anyone who fancies a weekend walk, let me know - I have always exercised best when in company (hence team-sports rather than a gym membership). I kickstarted my new regime with a Petone Beach walk with Cass and her dogs. We didn't get far, but it was the thought that counted.
* * *
Two weeks of school to go. It's a very long term - the body-clock of a teacher is set to feel tired by about week 8 (usually having 10 week terms)..... This is an 11 week term. And I have parent interviews this week and next week. The light at the end of the tunnel is looking very, very dim.
* * *
It's way more fun being the under-dog at a world cup tournament. And those instruments have the coolest name in the world.... Vuvuzelas?
* * *
I'm trying to decide how to feel for the BP CEO. On the one hand I feel sorry for him because Americans have dubbed him some kind of foreign-villain and the commonwealth side of me wants to side with the mother-land. And it's really quite emotive journalism to show him out on his yacht and demonise him for galavanting while the oil gushes. While it is the perfect image of capitalism not giving a damn, I think everybody deserves a day off.
At the end of the day I'm guessing everyone who works high up in the oil industry has sold their soul to somebody. So can't feel too sorry for him. But he did look very sad and stressed at the press conference :(
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Not Sensible.
I had a dream last night that I can actually remember, which is rare for me these days.I was teaching my Year 9 class (though not in my classroom - the school looked different to mine, though the other teachers in it were definitely my current colleagues).
And some kids got up and talked (it was the new girl, who'd transferred from Upper Hutt's, birthday and the kids all thought she was really nice).
Anyhow, towards the end of the lesson I went over to the window and one of the students was looking out at the quad (the class is on the second floor).
There are these two idiots who has somehow got a picnic table up on to the top of a pole (which seemed really high up) and were sitting on either side of it, waving at us. I had no idea how they could have done that.
I said, 'Well - that's not sensible.'
It was slightly lop-sided and as I saw it start to give way to the pole in the middle, I said to the kid, 'Don't look.' I looked away as I saw the table careening down the pole and it hit the concrete so hard it left a hole in the ground.
I assumed the two kids had died.
While I was concerned about how seeing this may have traumatised the kid I'd been watching with, I figured somebody on the ground floor would go sort it out.
The bell went, and I kept in a bunch of students to talk to them about their behaviour and how they needed to be quieter during discussions. I knew the kids who'd stayed behind weren't actually the naughty kids, though - those ones had scarpered already.
Anyhow.... I figure the dream either says that I'm cool as a cucumber in an emergency, or I just don't care.
Hmm.
Jon's Super Heroes and Villains Party
One of these pictures is Morgan as 'Superman'. The other is one of the Andys from 'Hot Fuzz'.
Captain Apostrophe - Manifesto
I had assessed that my closest competition was a man with a beer in his hand and a towel tucked into his collar..... so did not end up having to pull out my character background manifesto at the party (my sole goal was to win the mystery prize for best costume - so worth it - snickety snick Wolverine claw!). Here it is.
Who is she?
Mild mannered English teacher by day, Captain Apostrophe has a secret identity hiding beneath. At any moment, when confronted by offensive signage or an ill-written programme, she can become Captain Apostrophe!
What’s her weapon of choice?
Her alter-ego is dedicated to righting grammar atrocities the world over and correcting punctuation disasters wherever they may occur. In her right hand, she wields the RED PEN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS!
Where is her secret lair?
Not surprisingly, her team of super-heroes have their headquarters in Oxford, under the leadership of Dr Johnson (home of the esteemed dictionary, and the most special comma in the world). Here she and her sidekick, Semi-Colon Boy, cast their critical and protective eyes on the written communication of the world, trying to wipe out the plague of ebonics and phonetics.
Who is her nemesis?Her nemesis, the evil Textor, has tried to thwart her efforts in recent years. He has hidden the apostrophe symbol deep within the cellphone pad, embedded under other punctuation, where nobody will find it. He has already bastardized the Queen’s English with his American spelling and he is luring the younger generation into his lazy trap. His dream is a punctuationless world. A world of fragmented language. He whispers in their ears, ‘You don’t need to proof-read it – just rely on spellcheck!’ and, ‘You’ll get OOS in your thumbs if you type in all the letters – leave some out.’
Catch phrases you might have heard…
“Hold on – I’ve gotta go chase a run-on sentence!”
“It’s a minor sentence to you, but a major felony to me!”
“That goes after the S! It belongs to all of us, capitalist scumbag!”
“She’s having contractions! Get her an apostrophe, STAT!”
“Looks like you’ve come to a full stop, mister!”
Captain Apostrophe - Manifesto
I had assessed that my closest competition was a man with a beer in his hand and a towel tucked into his collar..... so did not end up having to pull out my character background manifesto at the party (my sole goal was to win the mystery prize for best costume - so worth it - snickety snick Wolverine claw!). Here it is.
Who is she?Mild mannered English teacher by day, Captain Apostrophe has a secret identity hiding beneath. At any moment, when confronted by offensive signage or an ill-written programme, she can become Captain Apostrophe!
What’s her weapon of choice?
Her alter-ego is dedicated to righting grammar atrocities the world over and correcting punctuation disasters wherever they may occur. In her right hand, she wields the RED PEN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS!
Where is her secret lair?
Not surprisingly, her team of super-heroes have their headquarters in Oxford, under the leadership of Dr Johnson (home of the esteemed dictionary, and the most special comma in the world). Here she and her sidekick, Semi-Colon Boy, cast their critical and protective eyes on the written communication of the world, trying to wipe out the plague of ebonics and phonetics.
Who is her nemesis?Her nemesis, the evil Textor, has tried to thwart her efforts in recent years. He has hidden the apostrophe symbol deep within the cellphone pad, embedded under other punctuation, where nobody will find it. He has already bastardized the Queen’s English with his American spelling and he is luring the younger generation into his lazy trap. His dream is a punctuationless world. A world of fragmented language. He whispers in their ears, ‘You don’t need to proof-read it – just rely on spellcheck!’ and, ‘You’ll get OOS in your thumbs if you type in all the letters – leave some out.’
Catch phrases you might have heard…
“Hold on – I’ve gotta go chase a run-on sentence!”
“It’s a minor sentence to you, but a major felony to me!”
“That goes after the S! It belongs to all of us, capitalist scumbag!”
“She’s having contractions! Get her an apostrophe, STAT!”
“Looks like you’ve come to a full stop, mister!”
Thrust upon me.
I have to go to drinks with the newly chosen principal tonight after school. I don't wanna! But there's been an invitation to all the staff with management units to meet her...... It's an elitist thing.....
I hate schmoozing.
I'm too tired to schmooze.
I have this image of having more and more responsiblity being thrust upon (I don't seek it.... I'm a slacker!). All it means is having to attend more meetings and do more administration and reports................... Is the extra money REALLY worth it?
* * *
I wore my new shoes again, for the ocassion. First time in ages I haven't worn jeans to work. Someobody'd better notice!
I hate schmoozing.
I'm too tired to schmooze.
I have this image of having more and more responsiblity being thrust upon (I don't seek it.... I'm a slacker!). All it means is having to attend more meetings and do more administration and reports................... Is the extra money REALLY worth it?
* * *
I wore my new shoes again, for the ocassion. First time in ages I haven't worn jeans to work. Someobody'd better notice!
Sunday, July 05, 2009
For my Viewing Pleasure
This weekend I have watched and liked....
1. 'Bigger, Stronger, Faster' [arthouse section of Amalgamated]- I like the broad coverage of the topic and the different perspectives on steriod usage. It's kinda got that Mike Moore edge where the subject matter is bound to make itself look stupid if you sit back and let it talk for a while. Easy pickings, but nicely put together and some good 80s action hero nostalgia. A sensitive critique on the American psyche.
1. 'Bigger, Stronger, Faster' [arthouse section of Amalgamated]- I like the broad coverage of the topic and the different perspectives on steriod usage. It's kinda got that Mike Moore edge where the subject matter is bound to make itself look stupid if you sit back and let it talk for a while. Easy pickings, but nicely put together and some good 80s action hero nostalgia. A sensitive critique on the American psyche.
2. '13 Beloved' [arthouse section of Amalgamated]
A surpising and nice Thai thriller/horror, in the mold of 'Saw' (but more psychological and slightly less gore-factor). One of those ones where you don't wanna think too hard about how it all is supposed to be plausible, though.
I have a pretty strong stomache for those kind of things, so this was up my alley and most of the violence had its purpose in the plot. I also like a film where the characters are a bit morally grey.
His fifth task had me and Carly squirming in our seats, but the gross was mixed with oddly timed darkly humorous moments, meaning it didn't take itself too seriously. The beginning seems cheesy as (a boy scout walking an old lady across a road) but later on in the film you see it had some significance, and the end had a good twist too. Worth seeing if you like a decent Asian horror - maybe a bit of a 'Saw' copy-cat, but I imagine the rights have already been bought by some American studio, none-the-less.
3. 'Jump!' [Documentary Channel]
3. 'Jump!' [Documentary Channel]
This was a documentary about competitive jump-rope in the USA (double dutch, speed jumping, freestyle) - yeah, that's right, competitive! I liked it!
There were some cool little personalities, like the intense little girl who gives herself asthma attacks every time she jumps, but always manages to win and the unlikely best-buds duo of the tall, goofy redhead guy and the short bouncy black guy (they somehow manage to move with perfect synchonicity) and the Asperger's seeming kid who tried to make up a complicated 'jump-pha-bet' to short-hand his team's routines (it didn't fly with them). It is nicely done and uplifting and some of the tricks they do are beautiful.
Kinda in the vein of 'Spellbound', but with much more athletic kids. I think docos about eccentric, obsessive hobbies is one of my sub-genres of choice - I also liked one about professional Scrabble and The King of Kong. There was one on professional arm-wrestling on last night - gutted I missed it! The only cringe bit is the slighly annoying rah-rah American mood at the end, but by then you kinda want them to win anyhow, so they get away with it .
A film I did not like so much....
4. 'Operation Filmmaker' [Documentary Channel]
A film I did not like so much....
4. 'Operation Filmmaker' [Documentary Channel]
This one I'd heard about and anticipated it being clever and sensitive and suprising. I didn't find it any of the above, really. To be fair I was watching 'Grey's Anatomy' at the same time, so I might've missed something key....
But the Iraqi guy was a bit of an immature, manipulative (in an obvious way) jerk, the Americans trying to 'save' him were kinda arrogant and simplistic and the documentary maker was a bit desperate and soft.
I didn't really feel for anybody and nobody seemed to have any particular depths of emotion. The Rock made a brief appearance - that was the best bit. He has a pretty smile.
I think there was supposed to be some great statement about the tenuous relationship between the doco maker and her subject, and how the power shifted - but all I really saw was a desperation on both parts. I don't think the doco was layered enough for the filmmaker to be making some kind of ironic statement about her own feeble position, though. I don't think it was that self aware. Maybe I missed something.
It all seemed like a doco that went wrong, but rather than canning it and moving on to a better project, they tried to eke something out of it (and name drop a little). For me there was no great story of the human condition there. I guess that's a talking point - and talking points are good.....
It all seemed like a doco that went wrong, but rather than canning it and moving on to a better project, they tried to eke something out of it (and name drop a little). For me there was no great story of the human condition there. I guess that's a talking point - and talking points are good.....
Overall, it kinda annoyed me. I hung in there, hoping there would be some great gasping moment towards the end where it all pulled together somehow.... but the credits kinda jumped up on me, without any real closure.
They Were Mine
Nowadays I don't notice nature the way I used to. Maybe it's because I've lived in pokey city flats with tiny strips of back-yards for years. Maybe it's because there are no grass verges on the footpaths in Hataitai, so I haven't crunched through morning frost in years.
* * *
Growing up, there was a looming gum tree in the corner of our yard. It was the climbing tree with thick limbs for gripping and vantage points for sitting on. Its bark peeled off in satisfying chunks, revealing raw scars of sticky sap. Me and my brother could perch there, under a canopy of slender, peppery leaves that splayed like fingers, looking down on the maze of grass and weeds beyond where the lawnmower could reach. I dropped my mother's earing down there, never to be found (and never admitted). It was the tree with fuzzy caterpillars and leathery brown empire moth cocoons that made me shudder.
On the other side of the yard was the weeping willow. It was a standing-under tree where you parted the drooping sinewy curtains of summer-green leaves and entered another world. Bouncing on the trampoline I could reach over and brush my hand over its soft leaves or grip the sinews like the reins of a horse, gently pulling down the branches.
The crab apple tree would scratch against my bedroom windows in winter. Its scrawny skeletal arms had fingers of twigs prying in each direction - it was a witchy tree. In summer it scattered small red apples on the lawn which I squashed, sickly sweet, under my feet.
The plum tree hung heavy with fruit over the driveway. Deep purple plums grouped in threes or fours along its branches, among the flat brown leaves. I would hold the ladder for Dad as he gathered them up for Mum's jam. The silver cauldron gave muted metallic thuds as he softly dropped them in.
The cherry tree welcomed me at the gate. It sprawled like a giant, dwarfing the courtyard. Its roots pushed up the bricks in small valleys and peaks. In spring it formed a wet carpet of pink, bruised blossoms by the gate.
Near the washing line there was a stubborn little lemon tree. It looked lonely, never quite accepting its new position. On my way from the garage to the back door, every day after school, I would pick off a thick, shiny leaf and tear it in my fingers so I could taste its tart smell.
The gooseberry bush emerged from a mass of herbs and weeds. In summer it would have veiny, tissue-paper cases, like tiny lanterns. The fleshy berries, when popped out, made my face pucker.
There were the flax bushes, the daisy bush with fuzzy leaves, the snowball bush with flowers we could throw. By instinct I knew the change each season would bring to them and I knew the feel of their bark and how easily their leaves ripped in my little fingers. I knew the smell and taste of them. I knew how to shake a tennis ball out their branches.
One winter holidays I came home from Massey and my father had cut most of them down, on the adive of a landscape gardener. Part of his new five-year plan. The hole where the willow tree had been revealed an ugly corrugated fence and a large patch of grey sky. The yard seemed to have shrunk. There were neighbours everywhere, no longer filtered by leafy trees and branches. It seemed a small betrayal. I walked around the yard, noticing only the gaps and new grave-like patches of soil, where trunks used to be.
It was the end of something.
* * *
Growing up, there was a looming gum tree in the corner of our yard. It was the climbing tree with thick limbs for gripping and vantage points for sitting on. Its bark peeled off in satisfying chunks, revealing raw scars of sticky sap. Me and my brother could perch there, under a canopy of slender, peppery leaves that splayed like fingers, looking down on the maze of grass and weeds beyond where the lawnmower could reach. I dropped my mother's earing down there, never to be found (and never admitted). It was the tree with fuzzy caterpillars and leathery brown empire moth cocoons that made me shudder.
On the other side of the yard was the weeping willow. It was a standing-under tree where you parted the drooping sinewy curtains of summer-green leaves and entered another world. Bouncing on the trampoline I could reach over and brush my hand over its soft leaves or grip the sinews like the reins of a horse, gently pulling down the branches.
The crab apple tree would scratch against my bedroom windows in winter. Its scrawny skeletal arms had fingers of twigs prying in each direction - it was a witchy tree. In summer it scattered small red apples on the lawn which I squashed, sickly sweet, under my feet.
The plum tree hung heavy with fruit over the driveway. Deep purple plums grouped in threes or fours along its branches, among the flat brown leaves. I would hold the ladder for Dad as he gathered them up for Mum's jam. The silver cauldron gave muted metallic thuds as he softly dropped them in.
The cherry tree welcomed me at the gate. It sprawled like a giant, dwarfing the courtyard. Its roots pushed up the bricks in small valleys and peaks. In spring it formed a wet carpet of pink, bruised blossoms by the gate.
Near the washing line there was a stubborn little lemon tree. It looked lonely, never quite accepting its new position. On my way from the garage to the back door, every day after school, I would pick off a thick, shiny leaf and tear it in my fingers so I could taste its tart smell.
The gooseberry bush emerged from a mass of herbs and weeds. In summer it would have veiny, tissue-paper cases, like tiny lanterns. The fleshy berries, when popped out, made my face pucker.
There were the flax bushes, the daisy bush with fuzzy leaves, the snowball bush with flowers we could throw. By instinct I knew the change each season would bring to them and I knew the feel of their bark and how easily their leaves ripped in my little fingers. I knew the smell and taste of them. I knew how to shake a tennis ball out their branches.
One winter holidays I came home from Massey and my father had cut most of them down, on the adive of a landscape gardener. Part of his new five-year plan. The hole where the willow tree had been revealed an ugly corrugated fence and a large patch of grey sky. The yard seemed to have shrunk. There were neighbours everywhere, no longer filtered by leafy trees and branches. It seemed a small betrayal. I walked around the yard, noticing only the gaps and new grave-like patches of soil, where trunks used to be.
It was the end of something.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Of Michael - We're All Out of Crazy
The death of the gloved one is, to the younger generation, the most notable untimely passing they have lived through, except for maybe Heath Ledger (who, in the context of history will be a mere blip).
My students were very excited about the whole thing yesterday, at around 10am when they entered my class. There were cries of, 'What will happen to Blanket and the other kids?' One particular girl cried actual tears (she had a drawing of him in her diary, and was evidently a dedicated fan). There was an outcry of, 'You've crossed the line!' when another girl started calling out (to the tune of 'Bad') 'Because he's dead, he's dead, you know it'.
We had been studying 'Funeral Blues' and someone suggested it would be a very appropriate time to recite it. I declined, as I could not do it with the sincerity some girls would actually want. But when they wouldn't get on with their work and kept chatting about the death, I did call out, 'Stop all the clocks! Cut off the telephone. You should show your grief through silence.' They did not listen to me.
I guess the only equivalent thing I had as a teenager was the announcement that Magic Johnson had the HIV virus. That made me sad - though the fact that's he's still alive and well makes me feel rather ripped off for my premature grief.
Anyhow, interesting how death can blur and fade the negative things we thought about someone when they were alive. Suddenly he's a much maligned genius again. I'm not really fan of this last-minute hypocritical empathy by the media or anyone else. I guess there's a psychological explanation for why we feel the need to do it, but it seems a little convenient.
In my mind his death is somehow connected to the imprisonment of that truly odd musical guru, Phil Spector. It seems karma is catching up with crazy eccentrics [alliteration!].
* * *
The footnote in the history books might read something like: 'Journalists salivated at the news of his sudden passing as it was a welcome break from the anti-climactical hysteria of swine-flu and it meant all Farrah Fawcet's well-laid plans for a high profile death were thwarted.
Winners all around.
My students were very excited about the whole thing yesterday, at around 10am when they entered my class. There were cries of, 'What will happen to Blanket and the other kids?' One particular girl cried actual tears (she had a drawing of him in her diary, and was evidently a dedicated fan). There was an outcry of, 'You've crossed the line!' when another girl started calling out (to the tune of 'Bad') 'Because he's dead, he's dead, you know it'.
We had been studying 'Funeral Blues' and someone suggested it would be a very appropriate time to recite it. I declined, as I could not do it with the sincerity some girls would actually want. But when they wouldn't get on with their work and kept chatting about the death, I did call out, 'Stop all the clocks! Cut off the telephone. You should show your grief through silence.' They did not listen to me.
I guess the only equivalent thing I had as a teenager was the announcement that Magic Johnson had the HIV virus. That made me sad - though the fact that's he's still alive and well makes me feel rather ripped off for my premature grief.
Anyhow, interesting how death can blur and fade the negative things we thought about someone when they were alive. Suddenly he's a much maligned genius again. I'm not really fan of this last-minute hypocritical empathy by the media or anyone else. I guess there's a psychological explanation for why we feel the need to do it, but it seems a little convenient.
In my mind his death is somehow connected to the imprisonment of that truly odd musical guru, Phil Spector. It seems karma is catching up with crazy eccentrics [alliteration!].
* * *
The footnote in the history books might read something like: 'Journalists salivated at the news of his sudden passing as it was a welcome break from the anti-climactical hysteria of swine-flu and it meant all Farrah Fawcet's well-laid plans for a high profile death were thwarted.
Winners all around.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Swine Flu Status: Dry cough but no other symptoms yet. One unconfirmed case at school. Others sure to follow.
* * *
I inherited an ink pen today. It may have been mine always - its true identity has been mistaken and confused over time.
But now it is back. Or it has at least found me.
It is black and inky and rolls across the page like rollerskates.
I heart it.
I had forgotten how nice it is to have a good pen.
I will probably lose it tomorrow.
* * *
I was gleeful today when I realised it was an hour long episode of Shortland Street. And I liked how they introduced the new doctor fellow. Me and Reidun have decided that is one of the best things about mid-winter (hour long Monday shows).
* * *
I am reading 'The Half Brother' at the moment. While I can see it's well written, I am not quite enjoying it yet. I think I much prefer books with narrators who I like. This narrator is a bit yuck. And the flashback section I'm currently wading through is full of long, dense paragraphs.
I bought it on the strength of having loved 'Herman', one of Lars Saabye Christensen's other books. But they're not very much alike. Both quite poetic, I suppose. But this one is very dark, whereas 'Herman' was sweet and innocent.
* * *
My wisdom-tooth side of my face is still swollen. Stupid tooth. If I could chisel it out by myself for free, I would. I smear Bonjela on it, just like babies with teething problems do. Magic!
* * *
I inherited an ink pen today. It may have been mine always - its true identity has been mistaken and confused over time.
But now it is back. Or it has at least found me.
It is black and inky and rolls across the page like rollerskates.
I heart it.
I had forgotten how nice it is to have a good pen.
I will probably lose it tomorrow.
* * *
I was gleeful today when I realised it was an hour long episode of Shortland Street. And I liked how they introduced the new doctor fellow. Me and Reidun have decided that is one of the best things about mid-winter (hour long Monday shows).
* * *
I am reading 'The Half Brother' at the moment. While I can see it's well written, I am not quite enjoying it yet. I think I much prefer books with narrators who I like. This narrator is a bit yuck. And the flashback section I'm currently wading through is full of long, dense paragraphs.
I bought it on the strength of having loved 'Herman', one of Lars Saabye Christensen's other books. But they're not very much alike. Both quite poetic, I suppose. But this one is very dark, whereas 'Herman' was sweet and innocent.
* * *
My wisdom-tooth side of my face is still swollen. Stupid tooth. If I could chisel it out by myself for free, I would. I smear Bonjela on it, just like babies with teething problems do. Magic!
Sunday, June 21, 2009
For a Limited Time Only
I can be a sulky sports player (among other things). It doesn't generally come out these days, in my mellower old-age.
But I'm still not liking a few things about Ultimate Frisbee culture (other than the spirit games that make me cringe).
Today's point is the culture of assertive subbing. I have played other sports and this is unique to me. Other sports have two subbing scenarios, from my experience.
1. Competitive
If the team is reasonably competitive, you tend to put the best players in the game. Or at least the players who match up well. So, players who aren't as good can expect to get a bit less time. We have a little bit of this at basketball, but I generally do alright out of it because I'm tall. I can often get almost whole games. I am used to playing long periods at a time in competitive teams and only getting subs when I look like I'm about to keel over.
2. Social
Other teams are social and have a fairness policy. Take indoor netball - everyone gets maybe three quarters each. We all pay the same amount of money to play and sacrifice the same things to be there each week, so get the same time on court.
The girls on our Cows Go Moo Frisbee team had a great two-points-on-two-points-off rotation going, to keep it super-fair and organised. I liked this. You can't complain about a system.
If it's less formal, it takes a certain level of altruism and everybody keeping an eye on how much everyone else has been involved. Some people don't like to push themselves forward (especially if they're not confident in their ability yet), but are quietly keen to have a go. And you get the feel for who is keen to get extra time on the field (read: Dave and Jon) and who is actually happy to have a bit less without getting shirty about it (read: uh, nobody.... maybe Justin).
It's kinda like being a teacher and making sure everybody has a go, not just the loud kids.
And then there is.......
3. Assertive Social Subbing
Frisbee is not quite one of these scenarios. It's closer to the second one, but there's a need to kinda force your way on the court, or else people beat you to it. And I'm not the temperament that I'm going to force my way on over anybody else.
I could maybe do that if everyone on the court was a good friend of mine, so we could harrass each other and trip each other up if it came down to a foot race to the line....
But I'm not on a team where I feel like doing that. I'm very polite around people I don't know so well.
Besides which, I quite like sitting down when I'm subbed off.... isn't that what sub time is for? And this seems to be a signal to everybody that you don't want to go back on the court ever..... I think I'm being very slow to pick up on this physical signal. I'm used to basketball, where when you want to sub on, you walk over to the scoring table to put your sub in.... then while you're waiting, they have special chairs for you to sit in, right by the table. Very considerate. Basketball is all about sitting down. At higher levels, the ref may even tell you off if you are standing up at the sub-bench. It is proper to sit.
As a result I seem to miss my turn in the rotation (which maybe doesn't actually exist to anyone but me, which is why nobody else adheres to it quite as earnestly....).
The other girls on my team will stay on for ages, sub off for each other, then sub back on again..... and I'll be sitting down, making the odd half-move to get up, but then having to sit down again because some other female ran on in front of me, and then having to try and look cool like I didn't really wanna go on anyhow (my students would say, 'Buuuuuurn!').
I'll be counting in my mind who's been on and thinking, 'Ok, Girl A went on after me, and Girl B subbed her off..... so I'll wait another point or two, then I'll get to go on again, since Girl A has been on since I've been off....' but while I'm making my silent calculations, Girl A has jumped on ahead of me, still sweating and puffed from the last time she was on, while I'm starting to slowly shiver and put layers back on in the corner.
I had a goodish game tonight, match-up wise. Got three points and passed for one (that's 1/4 of our points), but only played a few short stints. The other team's girls were really quick and short. This seems an odd match-up for me, but on our team I'm sometimes one of the quicker girls and being a foot taller than them made me a good target in the zone. So tonight I think I was a good match-up to have on court.
It frustrates me to go somewhere at god-awful times of night, like 9.10pm, in winter, with a cold, when I could be doing work.... and only get to play 15 odd minutes and not even build up a sweat. That would be ok, if it was what everyone else was getting... but it often feels like less.
It is my own fault, but it maybe shows that it's not the sport for me. I don't quite get the culture.
And I don't wanna have to get all jumpy and pushy in order to play more. I don't feel comfortable doing that with people I don't really know. That's not fun to me.
I know the solution is for me to take a can of harden-up and start standing up on the sidelines rather than sitting, and jumping on more assertively when the time comes, rather than sitting back and assuming someone will say, 'Kate - your turn' each time, or that there'll at least be a knowing look in your direction or that other players are mentally tallying how many points they've been on, like I do (I try not to stay on more than three, usually).
But I don't know if I can be bothered.
It's on the con side of my weighing up whether I want to play next season, anyhow.
I like when I'm actually on the court, but all season there have been maybe two ocassions where I've actually been puffed enough that I've wanted a sub. Every other time I've been just getting warmed up, and someone else has jumped on, or I've looked guiltily at the side-line and seen all the people eagerly waiting, and I've walked off to give them a go. It's a curse having too many subs, sometimes. I only agreed to play in the first place because I thought they were short of girls (and so assumed I'd get to play a reasonable amount of court-time - not the case).
I have theories as to why this assertive-subbing culture exists and why the usual social sports etiquettes aren't quite as dominant. But they may sound harsh.
* * *
I can also concede that I'm wrong and that everyone is getting roughly equal time and that I'm a self-centred egomaniac :) But I have a sore wisdom tooth, so I'm allowed to moan tonight.
Done.
But I'm still not liking a few things about Ultimate Frisbee culture (other than the spirit games that make me cringe).
Today's point is the culture of assertive subbing. I have played other sports and this is unique to me. Other sports have two subbing scenarios, from my experience.
1. Competitive
If the team is reasonably competitive, you tend to put the best players in the game. Or at least the players who match up well. So, players who aren't as good can expect to get a bit less time. We have a little bit of this at basketball, but I generally do alright out of it because I'm tall. I can often get almost whole games. I am used to playing long periods at a time in competitive teams and only getting subs when I look like I'm about to keel over.
2. Social
Other teams are social and have a fairness policy. Take indoor netball - everyone gets maybe three quarters each. We all pay the same amount of money to play and sacrifice the same things to be there each week, so get the same time on court.
The girls on our Cows Go Moo Frisbee team had a great two-points-on-two-points-off rotation going, to keep it super-fair and organised. I liked this. You can't complain about a system.
If it's less formal, it takes a certain level of altruism and everybody keeping an eye on how much everyone else has been involved. Some people don't like to push themselves forward (especially if they're not confident in their ability yet), but are quietly keen to have a go. And you get the feel for who is keen to get extra time on the field (read: Dave and Jon) and who is actually happy to have a bit less without getting shirty about it (read: uh, nobody.... maybe Justin).
It's kinda like being a teacher and making sure everybody has a go, not just the loud kids.
And then there is.......
3. Assertive Social Subbing
Frisbee is not quite one of these scenarios. It's closer to the second one, but there's a need to kinda force your way on the court, or else people beat you to it. And I'm not the temperament that I'm going to force my way on over anybody else.
I could maybe do that if everyone on the court was a good friend of mine, so we could harrass each other and trip each other up if it came down to a foot race to the line....
But I'm not on a team where I feel like doing that. I'm very polite around people I don't know so well.
Besides which, I quite like sitting down when I'm subbed off.... isn't that what sub time is for? And this seems to be a signal to everybody that you don't want to go back on the court ever..... I think I'm being very slow to pick up on this physical signal. I'm used to basketball, where when you want to sub on, you walk over to the scoring table to put your sub in.... then while you're waiting, they have special chairs for you to sit in, right by the table. Very considerate. Basketball is all about sitting down. At higher levels, the ref may even tell you off if you are standing up at the sub-bench. It is proper to sit.
As a result I seem to miss my turn in the rotation (which maybe doesn't actually exist to anyone but me, which is why nobody else adheres to it quite as earnestly....).
The other girls on my team will stay on for ages, sub off for each other, then sub back on again..... and I'll be sitting down, making the odd half-move to get up, but then having to sit down again because some other female ran on in front of me, and then having to try and look cool like I didn't really wanna go on anyhow (my students would say, 'Buuuuuurn!').
I'll be counting in my mind who's been on and thinking, 'Ok, Girl A went on after me, and Girl B subbed her off..... so I'll wait another point or two, then I'll get to go on again, since Girl A has been on since I've been off....' but while I'm making my silent calculations, Girl A has jumped on ahead of me, still sweating and puffed from the last time she was on, while I'm starting to slowly shiver and put layers back on in the corner.
I had a goodish game tonight, match-up wise. Got three points and passed for one (that's 1/4 of our points), but only played a few short stints. The other team's girls were really quick and short. This seems an odd match-up for me, but on our team I'm sometimes one of the quicker girls and being a foot taller than them made me a good target in the zone. So tonight I think I was a good match-up to have on court.
It frustrates me to go somewhere at god-awful times of night, like 9.10pm, in winter, with a cold, when I could be doing work.... and only get to play 15 odd minutes and not even build up a sweat. That would be ok, if it was what everyone else was getting... but it often feels like less.
It is my own fault, but it maybe shows that it's not the sport for me. I don't quite get the culture.
And I don't wanna have to get all jumpy and pushy in order to play more. I don't feel comfortable doing that with people I don't really know. That's not fun to me.
I know the solution is for me to take a can of harden-up and start standing up on the sidelines rather than sitting, and jumping on more assertively when the time comes, rather than sitting back and assuming someone will say, 'Kate - your turn' each time, or that there'll at least be a knowing look in your direction or that other players are mentally tallying how many points they've been on, like I do (I try not to stay on more than three, usually).
But I don't know if I can be bothered.
It's on the con side of my weighing up whether I want to play next season, anyhow.
I like when I'm actually on the court, but all season there have been maybe two ocassions where I've actually been puffed enough that I've wanted a sub. Every other time I've been just getting warmed up, and someone else has jumped on, or I've looked guiltily at the side-line and seen all the people eagerly waiting, and I've walked off to give them a go. It's a curse having too many subs, sometimes. I only agreed to play in the first place because I thought they were short of girls (and so assumed I'd get to play a reasonable amount of court-time - not the case).
I have theories as to why this assertive-subbing culture exists and why the usual social sports etiquettes aren't quite as dominant. But they may sound harsh.
* * *
I can also concede that I'm wrong and that everyone is getting roughly equal time and that I'm a self-centred egomaniac :) But I have a sore wisdom tooth, so I'm allowed to moan tonight.
Done.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
1. I have non-swine cold. Gives me froggy voice (or no voice). Meant I could come home early from work and finally try the lunch-time curry special at my local (it wasn't very good, evidently). And lie on the couch with a wheatie bag watching DVDs.
2. My laptop is broken. Silly thing.
* * *
I liked mulled wine this time of year. Makes more sense than trying to force yourself to have it in December.
* * *
Every secondary teacher in our fair city recently had a day off. Essentially it was a day off to learn how to write new unit plans. Not sure if that was the best use of taxpayer money or anything. I enjoyed my choccie biscuits, though.
* * *
I like how when you read a book with a strong narrative voice, your internal dialogue starts reflecting that. Though.... the book I am reading at the moment (having no reliable laptop, I have had to resort to 'reading') has quite an odd narrator. I'm not sure I should allow him to come too far into my head. He's a little alcoholic and nasty.
* * *
I did not see it, but I was on the news on Saturday. In the background of a story about some kids at school tutoring adults in computing. I, for the record, was merely pretending to be tutored, as they were a little short of extras. No child knows more than I do - NO CHILD!
My dad said I looked 'unengaged' and Sam, more kindly, said I looked 'thoughtful'. I'm mainly glad I got on because my mission was to get my tutor-kid on tv.
* * *
I like egg sandwiches.
2. My laptop is broken. Silly thing.
* * *
I liked mulled wine this time of year. Makes more sense than trying to force yourself to have it in December.
* * *
Every secondary teacher in our fair city recently had a day off. Essentially it was a day off to learn how to write new unit plans. Not sure if that was the best use of taxpayer money or anything. I enjoyed my choccie biscuits, though.
* * *
I like how when you read a book with a strong narrative voice, your internal dialogue starts reflecting that. Though.... the book I am reading at the moment (having no reliable laptop, I have had to resort to 'reading') has quite an odd narrator. I'm not sure I should allow him to come too far into my head. He's a little alcoholic and nasty.
* * *
I did not see it, but I was on the news on Saturday. In the background of a story about some kids at school tutoring adults in computing. I, for the record, was merely pretending to be tutored, as they were a little short of extras. No child knows more than I do - NO CHILD!
My dad said I looked 'unengaged' and Sam, more kindly, said I looked 'thoughtful'. I'm mainly glad I got on because my mission was to get my tutor-kid on tv.
* * *
I like egg sandwiches.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Nostalgia
Pearl Jam makes me remember certain feelings. I like Pearl Jam.
I think I listened to it back when I was idealistic and falling in love for the first time. So songs like 'Throw Your Arms Around Me' give me pangs of .... something. They mostly make me miss how young I was. My cynicism hadn't kicked in yet.
Freakin' lovely song, though. Bless the magic of YouTube for bringing it back to me.
It's the kinda song they'd play in the final scene of a cheesy 80s movie, where the guy runs across town in the rain and yells in front of the girl's house, and she looks out the window and he climbs up the to her window, and they kiss (after some misunderstanding where they broke up 3/4 of the way through the film). That kinda cheesy good song.
I will now go back to looking for Pearl Jam songs that I can play on my uke. Damned Pearl Jam fans seem to prefer writing over-complicated tabs, rather than just writing down what chords I need to play (and avoiding E chords, cause that's the hardest one to do on a uke).
And before anyone gets geeky on me, yes, I know it's a song they merely covered, and that Hunters and Collectors have also wrote it . [edited for music geeks]
* * *
I do believe I outscored Jon at a ratio of 2:1 at Frisbee tonight, as he filled in for my team. That's TWO points for every ONE he caught. That may mean I am twice as valuable.
* * *
Evidently, putting two disprins into a beer makes it fizz up quite a lot.... and doesn't taste good either. But Michelle drank it anyhow! Trooper. She was looking a little worse for wear afterwards. But she's still alive (I checked the next day).
* * *
I like 'How I Met Your Mother'. I've only ever had a mild liking for it, as a Sunday afternoon kinda show. But, damnit, it's better than that! It deserves a 7.30pm Wednesday slot.
Barney (Doogie Howser) is awesome. I'm not a Robin fan, frankly. She's annoying and doesn't deserve the main guy (who's name I can't remember right now). And I would marry Marshall in a heart-beat. And Lilly is pretty cool, though I'm seeing a type-cast thing going on for her.
* * *
I'm experimenting with purple a little this season. I'm usually not a big purple fan (there have been long periods of time where my wardrobe has been purple-free and proud of it), but it's very 'in' this season, so there's a lot of it around. I'm liking the darker, grape-ish, shades and the ones that look like various other berries.
Got a long-sleeved purpley-red top today that has a little cashmere in it. I think it'll be in the rotation for a while. Goes well under cardigans. I'm all about cardigans, have been ever since I got one at a second-hand-store in my first term at uni.
I have never found the perfect black cardigan, though. I am still looking. Essential wardrobe item.
I have a great blue-black cardigan at the moment, and a good dark-grey one. And a sage-green one I like, and a good purple-grey one.
I think I listened to it back when I was idealistic and falling in love for the first time. So songs like 'Throw Your Arms Around Me' give me pangs of .... something. They mostly make me miss how young I was. My cynicism hadn't kicked in yet.
Freakin' lovely song, though. Bless the magic of YouTube for bringing it back to me.
It's the kinda song they'd play in the final scene of a cheesy 80s movie, where the guy runs across town in the rain and yells in front of the girl's house, and she looks out the window and he climbs up the to her window, and they kiss (after some misunderstanding where they broke up 3/4 of the way through the film). That kinda cheesy good song.
I will now go back to looking for Pearl Jam songs that I can play on my uke. Damned Pearl Jam fans seem to prefer writing over-complicated tabs, rather than just writing down what chords I need to play (and avoiding E chords, cause that's the hardest one to do on a uke).
And before anyone gets geeky on me, yes, I know it's a song they merely covered, and that Hunters and Collectors have also wrote it . [edited for music geeks]
* * *
I do believe I outscored Jon at a ratio of 2:1 at Frisbee tonight, as he filled in for my team. That's TWO points for every ONE he caught. That may mean I am twice as valuable.
* * *
Evidently, putting two disprins into a beer makes it fizz up quite a lot.... and doesn't taste good either. But Michelle drank it anyhow! Trooper. She was looking a little worse for wear afterwards. But she's still alive (I checked the next day).
* * *
I like 'How I Met Your Mother'. I've only ever had a mild liking for it, as a Sunday afternoon kinda show. But, damnit, it's better than that! It deserves a 7.30pm Wednesday slot.
Barney (Doogie Howser) is awesome. I'm not a Robin fan, frankly. She's annoying and doesn't deserve the main guy (who's name I can't remember right now). And I would marry Marshall in a heart-beat. And Lilly is pretty cool, though I'm seeing a type-cast thing going on for her.
* * *
I'm experimenting with purple a little this season. I'm usually not a big purple fan (there have been long periods of time where my wardrobe has been purple-free and proud of it), but it's very 'in' this season, so there's a lot of it around. I'm liking the darker, grape-ish, shades and the ones that look like various other berries.
Got a long-sleeved purpley-red top today that has a little cashmere in it. I think it'll be in the rotation for a while. Goes well under cardigans. I'm all about cardigans, have been ever since I got one at a second-hand-store in my first term at uni.
I have never found the perfect black cardigan, though. I am still looking. Essential wardrobe item.
I have a great blue-black cardigan at the moment, and a good dark-grey one. And a sage-green one I like, and a good purple-grey one.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Who knew editing the school newsletter could be so political? I'm stepping on a number of toes in my mission to make it less crappy and more concise and more visually enticing. The editor is not a popoular person, evidentally. But damnit, I'm not afraid to make the hard calls! "You only get ONE column for sports results now!" "There's no room for blithering blathering 'thank yous' anymore!"
The only people I didn't edit too much were the principal and BOT chair's bits. I figure I have to end my power tripping somewhere, and my two bosses might be a good point.
I managed to cut 6 and a half pages of stuff down to 4, change the banner-head and insist on a booklet form instead of stapled pages in only my second newsletter of my reign of terror as temporary Publicity Dictator. I AM A RADICAL!
[Ok - so I am a walking talking example of someone who should be in one of those NZ Police ads with the slogan 'Want more exciting work stories? It may also be sad that I have been looking forward to going to the school book-club meeting for weeks (it's on the Book Thief!).]
* * *
I have somehow gotten into the habit of being late for just about everything. I forgot to set my alarm and woke up at 8.10 on Monday morning (oops) and arrived at my basketball game ten minutes into the first half tonight (the upside was that I'd gotten the wrong time, so was actually 50 minutes early for my own game and had time to go and return some overdue DVDs while I hung around for my actual game ...... ).
* * *
So far the only sport I have played this week where I didn't get elbowed in the head has been my Frisbee game. That's a pro for Frisbee, con for indoor netball and basketball.
* * *
I am having a terrible week for holes in my stockings and pants. Whoever can design a pair of stockings that actually doesn't run deserves a medal.
I got a brand new pair, got a hole in them as I was putting them on for the first time..... noticed two more holes by the end of the day, darned them the next morning (they were high up ladders and holes, so I thought they were salvagable)... and by the end of the day I had a new mystery hole that was bigger and lower down than all the others. ARGHGHGHG, I said.
* * *
Mandarins are good at the moment.
* * *
Listening to Robbie Williams' jazzy lounge music on my car stereo is making me manically happy when I arrive at work in the morning. That is mostly a good thing.
* * *
I wouldn't mind if parents never mentioned their daughter's menstruation issues in absence notes. I really don't mind if it just says '... she was feeling unwell....'.
* * *
There seems to be an increasing number of people driving out of Hataitai who don't realise that there's a merging lane as you drive towards the tunnel. I have had to toot people who have wasted perfectly good gaps where they could have crossed over the road.....
I have become a 'tooter' this year - another worrying progression in my aging process. I only usually have to toot people when they drive stupidly either side of the Mt Vic Tunnel. That is my driving territory and I am well versed in acceptable etiquette, so when people merge selfishly when entering the Mt Vic side, or try to turn right (across the double yellow lines) into the Coll driveway, I have tooted them.
MERGE LIKE A ZIP! LIKE A ZIP!
The only people I didn't edit too much were the principal and BOT chair's bits. I figure I have to end my power tripping somewhere, and my two bosses might be a good point.
I managed to cut 6 and a half pages of stuff down to 4, change the banner-head and insist on a booklet form instead of stapled pages in only my second newsletter of my reign of terror as temporary Publicity Dictator. I AM A RADICAL!
[Ok - so I am a walking talking example of someone who should be in one of those NZ Police ads with the slogan 'Want more exciting work stories? It may also be sad that I have been looking forward to going to the school book-club meeting for weeks (it's on the Book Thief!).]
* * *
I have somehow gotten into the habit of being late for just about everything. I forgot to set my alarm and woke up at 8.10 on Monday morning (oops) and arrived at my basketball game ten minutes into the first half tonight (the upside was that I'd gotten the wrong time, so was actually 50 minutes early for my own game and had time to go and return some overdue DVDs while I hung around for my actual game ...... ).
* * *
So far the only sport I have played this week where I didn't get elbowed in the head has been my Frisbee game. That's a pro for Frisbee, con for indoor netball and basketball.
* * *
I am having a terrible week for holes in my stockings and pants. Whoever can design a pair of stockings that actually doesn't run deserves a medal.
I got a brand new pair, got a hole in them as I was putting them on for the first time..... noticed two more holes by the end of the day, darned them the next morning (they were high up ladders and holes, so I thought they were salvagable)... and by the end of the day I had a new mystery hole that was bigger and lower down than all the others. ARGHGHGHG, I said.
* * *
Mandarins are good at the moment.
* * *
Listening to Robbie Williams' jazzy lounge music on my car stereo is making me manically happy when I arrive at work in the morning. That is mostly a good thing.
* * *
I wouldn't mind if parents never mentioned their daughter's menstruation issues in absence notes. I really don't mind if it just says '... she was feeling unwell....'.
* * *
There seems to be an increasing number of people driving out of Hataitai who don't realise that there's a merging lane as you drive towards the tunnel. I have had to toot people who have wasted perfectly good gaps where they could have crossed over the road.....
I have become a 'tooter' this year - another worrying progression in my aging process. I only usually have to toot people when they drive stupidly either side of the Mt Vic Tunnel. That is my driving territory and I am well versed in acceptable etiquette, so when people merge selfishly when entering the Mt Vic side, or try to turn right (across the double yellow lines) into the Coll driveway, I have tooted them.
MERGE LIKE A ZIP! LIKE A ZIP!
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