Jun. 4th, 2015 02:31 am
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I’ve worn glasses since I was five. They’re not exactly my favourite thing.

I hated wearing glasses at school. They were ugly, they got in the way, they fell off my face, a particular little toad by the name of Natasha took delight in taking them off my face and throwing them away so I had to go looking for them and constantly got in trouble for being late back from P.E. as a result…
… You know, I was a bit of a thick child, it never occurred to me to tell the teacher why I was always late back. Anyway.

Then there was the time I was running around the playground, jumped off a piece of equipment, glasses fell as I jumped and I couldn’t change my trajectory in time not to land on them. My mum was PISSED OFF that time, as I’d just got that pair a week earlier.

I do remember the pair of glasses that had little cherries on the corners. Looking back, they must have been horrendously ugly, but I loved them.

I basically avoided wearing my glasses as much as humanly possible, until somewhere around age ten when I realised I couldn’t see anything useful, ever, and had to do something about it.

I had horrendous enormous glasses until I was about nineteen, when I got my first contacts and flatly refused to wear glasses ever again. Then Toby convinced me into a pair of remarkably fashionable frames (the year I was 23, I think?), which I’m still wearing eight years later. Plus contacts, except I work in IT, and staring at screens + aircon = easily dried-out eyes = contacts not my friend in the office.

So. Today, I had the initial “do you qualify?” appointment for iLasik surgery. Never expected to hear the line “you have lovely thick corneas”, but apparently I have lovely thick corneas. How about that.

So yes, in a couple of weeks, I am having my eyes lasered. I was amused at some of the warnings – no swimming, no makeup for a week, etc. I realise they do have to explicitly tell people these things, but … common sense really isn’t any more, is it? Like, yes, I’ve just had my eyeball CUT OPEN of course I will go sticking FOREIGN OBJECTS right up against it and risk eye infections. Durrrrr.

Laser eyes, baby! No more glasses! No more contacts! No more waking up blind going “where are the glasses, where”? No more fluffing about with contacts for dance events.

I am cheerfully excited about this. LASER EYES!!

Originally published at kiwi geek. You can comment here or there.

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I got dropped in performance and my neck hurts and my feet are bruised and my ribs ache like they’re bruised and if I wear my glasses my head pounds worse but I can’t wear contacts 24/7 and wah wah wah. I’m tired and feel like I’m cold although that’s very unlikely so I’m sitting here in track pants with GEEK on the arse and a hoodie with shitty faux fur in the hood to keep my neck warm.

And the sodding dance teachers forgot the official makeup so, because I’m that sorta girl, I ended up going out and buying the appropriate makeup for the girls MYSELF. Maroon and gold, neither of which are colours I’ll be able to wear!

The weekend started on a kind of hilarious note. A, J and I carpooled down to the festival of the weekend, as the festival is in my hometown, where mum lives, so I was going to chill with my family while the girls did ALL THE DANCE, then I was just going to party at night.

About 30 mins away from our destination? A’s car died on the side of the road (J was travelling with her). I belong to a roadside assistance scheme which includes free towing. A does not, because her dad is a mechanic. So after some back and forth I eventually told her to STFU and accept the free tow the remaining 30 minutes to my mother’s place. The person I ended up speaking to could not locate me on a map, so eventually I just told her in painstaking detail where we were (it helps to be a local) and she relayed the wrong info to the towie. Sigh.

However, the towie did arrive, and started chortling when I relayed the destination address. Much to my amusement it turns out he’s towed my Mum in the last two months twice.

Anyways, A’s car gets on the tow truck, we trundle off towards Mum’s and we blow past a friend’s car (containing four dancers also en route to the festival). They’re all out of the car 10 mins from town.

We go “yeah, having a break.”

“… maybe we’ll call.”

I pulled over. We rung. Yup, dead car #2….

So I turned around, went back, piled two of the passengers & their gear into my car. While we did this, the towie blew past & honked.

Because it was the same towie who would be returning shortly to collect K’s vehicle.

Then I got ID’d at the bottle store buying wine, by a young man who apologised PROFUSELY for checking my ID = “oh my goodness, I am SO SORRY. You are THIRTY.”

So, jump forward to Saturday night – Mum’s in the audience of the showcase (which I was performing/got dropped in.) She’s sitting next to some people from Napier who are chatting to each other cheerfully and talking about the weekend’s curse on vehicles. Mum cracked up.

As it turns out, A’s dad (the mechanic) was in $nearby_town dropping off $things the next day – so they did an extra ~90 minutes driving, put A’s dead car – the auto transmission shit itself – on the back of the truck & drove it the three hours home. It worked out.

Honestly, I’m still grumpy & sore and such. But I can indeed see the funny side.

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I dropped the ball on this whole blogging thing. There’s been a lot going on that I just didn’t want to talk about on the Internet.

I’ve avoided measuring myself too obsessively with this whole weight change thing (or rather, I’ve tried!). However, after yet another throw out of things that don’t fit, I did haul out the tape measure.

Since the last time I took measurements, I’ve lost eight inches off the hips, eight off the stomach, and 6 off the bust. No bloody wonder I had to replace all my pants.

I’ve managed to stay off the soda, with the exception of dance-event-weekends when I need the caffeine to remain conscious.

I’ve been to a load of dance events. Performed. Learned choreography. Performed choreography. Competed in Champs, Open is next weekend. Taught a choreography (an international flashmob).

I don’t remember the last time my feet weren’t damaged in some way. My big toenails are a complete mess (thanks, Brisbane), I have blisters, a heel crack, bone bruising… The price I pay for being a dancer.

I commissioned my friend SPark to make me a Elephant. See, when I was a tiny, I had a beeeeg blue Elephant. I have distinct memories of this elephant, and was quite upset when my parents disposed of if (I’m informed that one too many episodes of baby-sick made it unpleasant as a tenant of the indoors, which seems reasonable enough!)

In January-ish this year, I realised that a) I am a grownup with disposable income b) one of my friends in the States makes plushies, amongst other things, for a living.


We had T’s birthday party a couple of weeks ago. It was lovely – a chilled out evening, bbq, friends. Really nice.

My sister in law and friends visited from the UK. It was amazing to have her here for the first time.

Life goes on?


May. 8th, 2013 09:44 am
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Funny one from rehearsal last night. S (my partner / instructor) had not had anything like enough sleep, and we were practicing tricks. The one in question involves a lift.

We successfully did the lift, he put me down, and gave me a very tiredly puzzled face.

“You are lighter.”



“About 12kg lighter than when we started, yes.”

Frown, tired, steps back, looks me up and down.

“Actually you look really good! And I can feel that you’re lighter. Huh.”

Honestly I just wanted to give the guy a hug, he looked so utterly shattered.

For the first time in ages, I didn’t come home with sore feet. I found some cheap, but nice, lyrical teaching sandals and oh MAN they are the most comfortable dance shoe I have EVER had on my feet. They are like heaven and I will be buying more at some point.

I also scored a red bra for twenty bucks on special. In my size. This is like finding actual powdered hens teeth. When paired with the racktastic red dress, I look amazing; Tobermory has threatened to tattoo “PROPERTY OF {NAME}” on my arse, just in case anyone gets ideas.

Congress is three weeks away. I am so excited.


May. 1st, 2013 08:12 pm
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The weight loss is going pretty well. I’m a smidge over 10kg down – affected somewhat by the two pizzas last week.

I’m going to the dance congress in five weeks. The theme of the party Saturday night is “paint the town red”. Clearly, the only appropriate outfit is a red dress. So I hopped on the internet and found one second hand, that being one of my minor superpowers.

It cost me forty bucks.

It’s the first dress I’ve owned in years from a straight size shop. A shop that doesn’t aim itself at fat chicks, but at anyone who wanders in off the high street. It fits like a charm. It is, admittedly, utterly racktastic, but seeing as I have a g cup, that’s not entirely surprising.

I love it.

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WTF. I cut out soda (Coke, etc) this week, on top of the rest of the diet I’ve been trying to maintain.

I’ve been steadily losing about half a kilo a week, one kg some weeks.

This week I dropped 1.5kg.


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I bought new pants in, oh. January? February?

I can now remove one of those pairs without the previous ceremony of undoing them. Upon getting on the scales, the reason why is clear – I’m 10kg down.

I’m kind of pleased with that.

Yesterday had some ups and downs. Inexplicably woke up around 7, which is Too Early For Sunday. Then my laptop – faithful 2008-era macbook – died.

But, husband sourced me a replacement (techy friends are the best), I swapped out the hard drive for it’s original drive and will sell the carcass for parts, the drive is available for data restores onto my new to me machine.

Then the Zouk team from last year had a performance scheduled. We haven’t danced the routine together since Christmas. Unsurprisingly, rehearsal was less ‘rehearsal’ and more ‘oh crap no-one remembers the choreo’. Still, we rocked it, and there are some fabulous photos turning up on Facebook.

Then I went to the regular social Sunday dance. And realised that one of my regular touchpoints for “how’s my mental health” is “how willing am I to ask strange men to dance”. Brains, huh.

I got home around 11:30, exhausted, sweaty, and blissfully happy with my place in the world.

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It took me a long time to get into the right headspace to actually work on losing weight. And I finally worked out what the magic change was: I accepted myself as I was, first.

I’m not one for Internet rhetoric. But the ideas behind “health at every size” resonated with me. After all, I was fat, but I maintained reasonable-ish fitness and strength. I was always able to do what needed to be done – carry heavy loads, move equipment at work, clean and move furniture at home. I could walk wherever I needed to. I was healthy, and I had to accept myself as I was before I had the correct motivation to change.

I know that sounds counter intuitive. After all, if you’re trying to change yourself, you don’t actually like yourself as you are, right?

Prior to this, my attempts at weight loss failed. They failed because I was doing it for the wrong reasons, other people’s reasons. “I’m too fat!” “I’m ugly!” All the usual image-based horseshit. I’d lose a bit of weight, and promptly think “I hope other people are pleased with me”. Not “I’m pleased with me”, but other people.

Then I’d dive head first into a tub of icecream and attempt to feel better about myself that way. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work.

Six years of wavering around later, I finally got into a headspace where I liked myself enough to accept myself as is. Having done so, I can now work to actually change what I am – because I WANT TO. Not because of what other people think of me, but because I want to.

I’m not saying my motivations are wholly internal. I am a dancer, and I want to be a better dancer – and realistically that involves having a smaller body. But I’m OK with that. It’s not “my dance partners want me to be thinner”, it’s “I want to be smaller for dancing”. The distinction is … small, perhaps, but important.

Both the scales and my trousers confirm that I’ve lost an entire dress size. I’ve gone down a bra size. And when I was getting dressed this morning, I realised I’ve lost a little wobbly bit at the back of my arm that had been irking me. Then I did a quick recce into KMart last night, to pick up a pair of harem pants for a performance this weekend; picked up my usual pants size, and realised upon a try-on that if the elastic falls right off your hips, you should go down a size.

When I look in the mirror, I have discernible stomach areas. I find that incredibly entertaining, because it’s actually the fat layer setting itself up in a mockery of a sixpack.

I’ve lost eight kilograms since the end of November. I’m quite proud of that.


Mar. 16th, 2013 12:44 pm
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Fourth zouk rehearsal last night, in which we tried our tricks for the first time.

We’ve been partnered up with our permanent partners for the routine – and I’ve been partnered with the male instructor again. Unlike the last time, when it was basically a sympathy partnering based on my partner dropping out, I think this is a real choice based on body types and so on. The female instructor is tall and lanky (and gorgeous!) and is paired up with the tallest guy, who is SUPER lanky – they look really good together. The male instructor is, somewhat unusually for a dancer, built like a tank. Not fat, not by anyone’s mileage, but sturdy. Height wise and proportions wise, we look decent together – when I’m dancing with some of the slimmer lads, I do look wider by comparison.

Anyway, tricks. Although I’ve lost a fair amount of weight – five kg since November, which is an interesting trick given that I haven’t really been trying that hard – I’m still aware that I’m no lightweight, and lifting me isn’t necessarily an easy task. Even after the AWESOME freestyle lift last weekend. I was entirely prepared to be doing an alternative trick or… something. And I’d made it clear when I signed up that I was willing to drop out if the routine couldn’t allow for that.

But no – we went through the trick a couple of times. I need to practice the jump that gets us into the lift – as do several of the other girls – but S’s entirely happy to do this trick with me. I made it very clear that I did not mind if he said no, and (direct quote) “I’m built like a truck, I can lift you no problem, really, we are doing this trick.”

I couldn’t say thank you enough.

I am so happy being part of this studio – they try so hard to accommodate anyone who’s willing to work for what they want. And I am so willing to work hard for this, and my two years of learning and working is paying off.

I swear, I nearly cried right there in the studio.


Oct. 28th, 2012 07:44 pm
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I have another video of myself dancing, now. Today’s, from rehearsal. I feel better about things; I’ve had some pull-head-out-of-arse time, I went out dancing Thursday, rehearsal Friday, then dance partying Friday and Saturday nights, plus had today’s (Sunday) rehearsal – what WAS I thinking seriously, my poor feet.

The point of all that is that I’ve shoved the warghle into some sort of box, and am periodically aiming projectiles at it so that it gets progressively uncomfortable and hopefully dies in there.

On Saturday, a woman that I’ve never met before came over and asked where I learned to dance zouk. I gave her my teacher’s details, and she said “thanks! Because you are AMAZING”. Ego: boosted. And I got to dance with a whole bunch of people, the music was amazing, the performances were amazing, the crowd was lovely and warm and welcoming, I had fun, and came home at 1am on Sunday on top of the world and ended up playing Torchlight II for an hour until I wound down enough to sleep.

Rehearsal today didn’t go terribly well for me, for tiredness reasons, but in the video I have improved on Tuesday’s efforts. That makes this a win.

Tuesday did start me thinking, though. I did a bit of navel gazing, as you do, and I came to the conclusion that I’ve never really had a good body image. This is NO fault of my mother – I doubt she ever had any awareness of my self image.

I remember being bullied because I had dark arm hair, and detesting that as a child. I remember detesting my short sight and my stupid glasses, detesting the ill health that made me breathless and unable to keep up with the other kids in sports. (Undiagnosed asthma, eventually diagnosed in my teens.) I remember constantly wishing that I was a bit taller (youngest in my class), a bit faster, a bit fitter, a bit more tanned. I distinctly remember sitting in church with my mother, thinking about how exotic I’d look if I was the colour of the hymn book. I wanted to look different, to not be me, even back then.

Then I went through the inevitable teenage-girl-body-hatred, with a side dish of “not-eating the year I was sixteen”, fucked my metabolism quite thoroughly as a result, packed on thirty kilos in three years, settled at my present size and weight for the subsequent six, and here I am.

It’s no particular wonder that the idea of body acceptance was new and novel, when I ran across it in my early twenties. I’d never accepted my body as it was, and it had never occurred to anyone around me that I had such a problem with myself. It had never occurred to ME that it was unusual! As always, the retrospectocope is a powerful device.

Progress is being made. I guess that’s the important point.

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I’m struggling tonight.

I have a video of myself dancing. Practicing, at tonight’s performance zouk rehearsal. I’ve never seen myself dance before.

What I see? 200 pounds of blubber. Flapping about on the stage and it is not a pretty sight. If I continue with this it will be in spite of myself, not because I’m enjoying it, but because I’m not going to let myself be such a FUCKING IDIOT as to stop doing something I love just because I hate the way I look doing it.

It’s no-one’s fault but mine. If I lost weight… or if I wasn’t up on stage, I wouldn’t care.

What I see is not how I feel when I’m dancing, what I see has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel when I’m dancing. And there are bits of me that can see that watching the video of myself over again. I can see someone who, despite the fat… I can do the moves, I’m moving in time, I’m not heavy on my feet.. I’m flexible and I’m capable of doing what I’m asking my body to do. I’m in the right spots on the right time. Admittedly you can’t always see that I’m making all the right moves because the blubber’s hiding the muscle. But…

I don’t know. I’m proud of what I can do, I’m proud of the work I’ve put in, and I’ve put in BLOODY hard work. I have worked my ASS off. And other people must be able to see it, I KNOW they can because they say so! They ask me for help, and the girls ask me how to do things, and it’s not because I push my nose in although I suppose maybe I have and I’m just not aware of it? But they don’t have to keep coming back, they could just ask each other rather than asking me. So no, I’m not incapable.

And my teachers could have let me drop out when my partner pulled out. They didn’t have to keep me dancing. They had an easy out and they COULD have taken it and they DIDN’T. So that means that me being on stage is worth something. It’s not worth much but it’s worth something.

Just because I hate the way I look doesn’t mean other people do, it just means that I hate it. And come to think of it, one of the reasons I love watching my first ever zouk teacher dance is that she’s overweight. She’s … slimmer than me, and more muscular than me, and she has far more of a defined waist than I do because apparently I carry fat there, but you know what? She looks GORGEOUS when she dances, so why shouldn’t I?

I’m never going to be like her, but nothing stopping me being like me.

And I keep thinking, every time I’m out socially, that I’m… why should I be put off because I’m the second biggest girl in the room? No-one else seems to mind; I still get invites to dance, and by strange guys as well as friends. So it’s not like I’m repulsive to the male part of the human race. I need to get over myself, right?

Get out there and be proud of what I can do. Even if I can’t be proud of what I look like, I can be damn proud of the work I’ve put in.

So maybe that’s what I go out and do.

Maybe that’s the answer.

Glam queen

Aug. 10th, 2012 11:15 am
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Yesterday, I wore my harem pants to work. Black harem pants, black tshirt, my favourite yellow heels (which my lovely husband calls my banana shoes) and a dark pink merino shrug.

The receptionist oohed and aahed at me, and told me I was a real glam queen.

Server admin colleague (female) – “it’s not that I was looking at your bum, but those pants are fantastic.”

Dance teacher / friendly acquaintance out dancing – “where do you find such amazing clothes?”

It was a good day.

Also, about half of my bras are getting uncomfortable. I finally realised that it’s because they’re too big – I’ve lost circumference at the rib cage. So the straps are sitting wrong, so my shoulders hurt, because the band isn’t taking the weight it should.

I realised last night that my stamina for social dancing is much, much improved. When I started out, I couldn’t do two songs back to back – my ankles and legs would hurt too much. I’d be out of breath. I’d also be panicking a little, owing to my general inability to follow a lead. I also couldn’t do zouk and salsa on the same night – it was too hard to rewire my brain. I had to pick one style of dance and do only that.

Stepping off the floor after song five last night, gasping for a drink of water, I realised that hey, I’ve come a long way. Zouk, salsa, bachata, one after another after another, and the only real reason I took a break was thirst. I wasn’t even short of partners! I go regularly enough that the men know I’m … well, they know what level I dance at, and while I might not be skilled enough for the epic spins and so on, I’m reasonably competent. I even ask men to dance these days. The ones I recognise as regulars, anyway.

It’s nice, driving home late, contented with the night. Getting up the next day, in no pain (other than mild dehydration occasionally!).

I went to a zouk party last Friday. They had a social competition, and I entered – at intermediate level. Didn’t win, of course, nor did I expect to! But I had fun, and I had friends cheering me on from the sidelines (not just my teachers!) and it was a fantastic night. I crawled in the door at 2am, having been awake for 20 hours on the run.

This makes me happy.

I’ve gone back to zouk classes, starting last Monday. I’m getting sloppy, I’m not working as hard as I should. As hard as I can. It’s time to step it up.

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I’m out of town this week – work. As such, Murphy, who is a cruel bastard, has ensured one of my boys is sick. Not Tobermory this time, but Boomer. Poor little bugger has been in a fight, or walked on something, and has an infected, leaky, foot. And yes, he’s been to the vet. Poor wee sausage.

I’m out of town as part of the deployment of a big project at work. The project manager is a wonderful woman, I think I want to be her when I grow up. Today, after the training sessions that I’m there to run, she (out of the blue!!) said “let’s go swimming!”

What the hell, right, why not. So we went to buy her a pair of togs – I’m an over prepared freak and bought mine with me – and bought towels.

Although I haven’t swum for five years – in fact it might be closer to six – I haven’t lost it. I wasn’t breaking speed records or anything, but I did a very creditable set of laps. I lost count somewhere after 20, and as it was a 33 meter pool, I’ve swum at least 600m. I doubt I hit the full kilometer, but I am, I feel justifiably, proud of myself.

Originally published at spinneretta

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One of the things that Tobermory and I want to do this year is get smarter with our money. We’re both impulse-buyers, and inclined to go for instant gratification. Obviously, that has to change. We’re adults, allegedly, and frankly we’ve bought all the conceivable junk we could need, and in fact far more than we could need. I know I haven’t read all my books, he hasn’t played all his video games, I haven’t sewn all my fabric… you get the drift. We need the money more than we need more crap, given our grandiose plans for the house. Built in floor to ceiling shelving. A new roof. A new kitchen…

One of the obvious and easy money savers is bringing lunch, rather than buying. That shouldn’t be any hardship – I love to cook, and we nearly always have leftovers. I don’t intend to go completely mad to the extent of making bento boxes, but you know what? They are pretty awesome. Plus, home-made’s gotta be healthier than takeaways, right?

So far this week, I’ve made lunch for us. I have one of these, and T uses more traditional plasticware.

Monday was salad, corn chips, canned fish, and frozen fruit. Tobes had leftover chilli. Yesterday, I had potato salad, canned fish, salad, and juice; T had (leftover) grilled chicken, rice, and salad with a pottle of mustard dressing because I couldn’t find the Hellmanns. Today he has the same, and I have chicken, rice, home-made sweet chilli hummus, and dipping sticks of carrot and cucumber. It takes maybe five minutes in the morning to bung it all together out of the fridge – hooray for a well supplied fridge and a little forethought when packing leftover dinner the night before. We’re even packing a can of fizzy each – it’s cheaper than the vending machines, and frankly, we’re not going to give up the Sprite/Coke. (Yet.)

We’re going to be sensible about it. If we try and live like complete paupers, we’ll both have stupid breakouts at some point. So we’re budgeting spending money, which neither of us has to account for to the other. And once a week, we buy lunch and/or have takeaways for dinner. It works for us.

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Tobermory’s been in hospital this week. While I was out of town for work, he was in hospital with a gallbladder attack; this week he had his gallbladder out. Apparently I cook more when I’m stressed. Thursday was roast chicken and potatoes with orange sauce, and a loaf of bread. Friday I made sushi, and mac’n'crack for dinner. Saturday I hurt my back in my sleep, and we ate the sushi. Today I made basil rosemary parmesan bread, double chocolate chip cookies, more sushi (for lunch in the next couple of days) and whatever dinner will end up being will be made by me. Plus I need to soak some beans overnight so Ahze can make chilli tomorrow.

Tobes is home now, and not feeling great but on the mend. I am grateful.

Originally published at
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So. Tobermory is on his fourth course of antibiotics in five weeks. He shared one of his bugs with me, so I had nearly a week off work, which was complicated by a really bad reaction to the first antibiotic my doctor prescribed and holy shit, I do not ever want a drug to put me in that much pain again in my whole life please. Ow.

I was grumpy as hell because I missed the first of my new series of salsa lessons, meaning that when I went back this week? I sucked. A really large amount, although thankfully all the men in the room were patient with me. And I did mostly get it together by the end of the lesson and feel less shite about it generally. In fact, I came home really happy with myself.

I intend to work up to doing Sunday and Monday and Thursday classes / salsa social thingies in the next month or so. I really enjoy this, so much, and it’s also good exercise, which is handy.

On an unrelated note; I’ve been a nailbiter all my life. I’ve managed to stop a few times – about six months before the wedding, Tobes had a dreadful migraine and I bit all my hard-won nails off with stress. Never grew them back right, wore fakes for several reasons and then finally destroyed my nails with the fakies I wore to look pretty for the wedding. Well, I finally managed to grow out all the nail damage WITHOUT resorting (much) to nailbiting, so I treated myself to my first ever manicure on payday.

I’ve also taken up having regular haircuts. I’d never had my hair washed at a hairdressers before, having patronised the $20 haircut bars in malls, mostly, but splurged on my birthday. And oh, having the thorough head massage is just bliss. I’ve dozed off twice, which gets me giggled at by the hairdresser and her assistants, but it’s so nice!

It’s funny, that whole mall is full of scarily efficient little Asian ladies, and I feel dreadful every time I go in because most of the customers are European. It feels like I’m being inherently racist, but… then I feel like I am being racist for thinking it in the first place, and hell they’re right near work, and convenient, and cheap, so…

Originally published at
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It's been a busy few weeks. I had a week of night shifts, which was horrible; the usual revolving run of visitors; a run to my hometown to take my mother to a dental specialist at the major town between our respective homes (go go driving 1000km in 24 hours); discovered that my new babyproofing system appears to be making my backside expand at an exponential rate - I'm giving it another month for my system to adjust, then going back to the doctor to complain - on the other hand, I appear to have pulled my head out of the route to depression that I was heading towards, I've shaken the abandonment issues when Tobermory isn't there when I wake up panicking at o'dark'hundred, and I actually have energy instead of crippling tireds.

The peas are still battling the snails, and mostly losing despite all that chemical warfare can do to assist. The tomatoes are now battling the size of the tomato pot, and growing most valiantly. The strawberries don't appear to be growing anything except leaves (most vexing) but on the other hand, they're not dead. The cats are still growing; Tigra is now 3.2kgs at nine months old, Boomer is 5.2kgs at ten months old. BIG BUGGER.

I bought two swimsuits. One via TradeMe, via which means I bought a swimsuit that retails for $208 for $55. The other? Well, I picked Auckland's most recent AMAZINGLY shitty weather, when it was cold and wet and horrid, and went shopping. Walked into a store which I know primarily supplies bikinis to skinny minnies, started browsing. The female shop assistant wandered over, asked what I was after, and turned up five minutes after that with twelve things for me to try on.

The amusing bit? The tankini I eventually bought was half price.

The spa pool is repaired, it needed a new pump. I've broken in the new swimsuit (twice), and it was wonderful when Tobermory's friends from the UK visited this weekend.

I feel sorry for my beloved. Having his oldest / closest friends around has made him homesick in a way I don't remember him being before. There's nothing I can do, either, other than hug and sympathize. The move to New Zealand was good for him, in many many ways, and obviously I think it's a good thing because, well, we're together. But it's the people he misses. His friends. He's a social animal, and he left so many friends, good friends, behind...

Originally published at Spinneretta.
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November 2015

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