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Moose threw a birthday party on Saturday. The theme was "Game characters", and I went as Carmen Sandiego.

It was a fantastic night, there were loads of awesome costumes, lots of good people, an amazing cake, and Tobermory and I took home the Best Dressed Male (Hitman*) and Best Dressed Female prizes.

I wrote a seven page letter of burble to my grandmother tonight. I'm going to send it to her along with photos of the party, so that she feels like she's included. The burble isn't just about the party, it's about the house and the kittens and ... everything. Well, a cheerful everything, I don't include the bad bits, just a nice positive chatty natter that she can read and re-read, and photos she can show the nurses, and so on.

There was more I wanted to write about the party, but after talking to Mum tonight, I am feeling somewhat melancholic.

Nana is 80 now. She's not going to last too much longer. She's had her second major bowel obstruction in a few years (she is on some amazing drugs for it right now), and she's far too frail for surgery. Assuming she would actually submit to going to hospital at all, which is far from certain.

She's had a good innings, and honestly her quality of life is slowly going down hill.

But I'll still miss Nana when she goes.

* I know I'm biased and all, but damn he looked good.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

The kittens were allowed their first (supervised) explore outside today. Turns out, Boomer's a tree climber. Fortunately, he knows how to get down on his own.

Turns out we didn't need to be concerned about the spa pool. Tigra went exploring, and sat on the covers of it quite happily. Didn't even get her little paws wet.

We also have a flatmate now - Thaqui has moved in for a bit. He's got the downstairs bedroom and bathroom to himself, and I have one less toilet to clean.

It's been a pleasant couple of days, so far. I've taken the time to do some various chores that I keep not-managing during work weeks. I have yet to mow the lawns, though.

I fell over in the carpark at the mall. Landed square on my knee, rolled with it, and sat on the ground wanting to swear most mightily. I didn't, because there was a lovely elderly couple nearby, who hobbled over to check that I was OK.

I suspect by his bearing that the elderly gentleman was ex-military. He looked me over, after I had assured them that I was OK, and noted with a smile that rolling probably didn't make it hurt much less, and that I looked by my face as if I really wanted to swear...

My kneecap is purple. I am sitting with my feet up, with a Boomercat beside me kneading my leg, and my laptop, watching a movie after some excellent takeaway, with a drink beside me.

Life is good.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

Silly kitties.

We bought Tigra home with her stitches from her speying still in place. She was due to have them out today.

Boomer managed to get a claw into them whilst play fighting. This isn't terribly unusual for cats, of course, the grand back leg kick maneuvre is well known.

So we had to take Tigra to the vet tonight, as she was chewing the kicked stitched belly like a mad thing and trying to pull them out. (There was a wee panic involved, mostly on Tobermory's part as I think he had mental images of the stitches coming loose and her intestines falling out, or something. Not that he likes cats, of course...) However, our local vet was still open, quite happy to see a small uncomplicated case of kitty, and they're literally two minutes up the road.

$25 later, I have a wee container of kitty antibiotics, one kitty with no stitches, a $5 bag of cat toys and two sachets of kitty treats.

Yeah, I'm a sucker for my babycats.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

The inlaws* leave in a week. I'm pleased to have met them, pleased that I get along with them (especially Tobermory's mum, she's absolutely lovely). But also pleased, in a probably selfish fashion, that they're going home. Eight weeks is quite a long time to have relative strangers in the home, especially when working and just trying to live normally.

The weather has also started packing up. It's gradually heading into hurricane season, and we're starting to get the bad storms marching through. So it's probably good that they're going home, before the rain really comes in.

It turns out that the house has no leaking issues, which is always good to know. The front door lets some water in when it's raining sideways, but you do kind of expect that with a door that isn't particularly weather or water proofed. Tobermory wants to replace it, and that doesn't seem like a terrible idea.

The garage doors rattle in the wind. This is only really irritating if you're one of the guests sleeping downstairs, such as the inlaws, who have been stuffing newspaper in the hinges at night to deal with the incessant doing.... doing....

I've also discovered that my newly-adopted shortish haircut is going to prove problematic throughout the winter. It tends to be windy, and walking into work this morning I resembled Cousin It after a run-in with a lawnmower. I'm going to have to buy a hat**. My beloved laughed immoderately at me about this.

It's been pleasant having visitors, but I will also be pleased to return to the pleasant humdrum of our own life.

Also, when Tobermory's dad is home, i can get kitties.


*Yes, I know we're not actually married yet, thus they're not actually the inlaws, but what else could I call them?
** I also found a winter coat in a second-hand shop. It was actually for a costume party (which admittedly isn't till May), it cost me $15 and it's a glorious red knee-length coat.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

I've never really done the New Year's thing. It wasn't something that featured in my mother's home, and since I moved out... well, 2006/7 I had a migraine instead of going to a party, and I don't remember what we did 2007/8 (nor did I write about it - it can't have been spectacularly memorable).

Of course, this year we are in our own home (and it is not a small house), so Christmas and New Years parties were hosted here. Debxena hosted Waifs and Strays* here, which was pleasant; Tobermory liked the presents I bought him, about which I am thoroughly pleased. And I got a Christmas tree in the end. It is pretty, very traditional, and he insists that we take it down on Twelfth Night, rather than any earlier. Apparently this is traditional?

I mowed the lawns on the 31st. They needed doing, and Tobermory's shoulder is giving him gyp again. Too much of, well, anything, and it decides to disengage from it's socket. This is unsurprisingly suboptimal. It turns out that I quite enjoy mowing the lawns - it fits in the category of non-fiddly garden work, it was a pleasant sunny day, and I have the instant obvious accomplishment of a job well done.

New Years was good. A different subset of the social circle, a barbecue, quite a lot of alcohol (although no-one got disgracefully trollied!), an overflowing spa pool, midnight watching fireworks over the Sky Tower, the obligatory Auld Lang Syne**, finally opening the bottle of champagne we were given when we moved in... a lovely evening.

I nearly kissed InvisibleMoose and Lyz (his wife) when I got up this morning. I'd woken up fairly early, and cocooned myself in the bedroom so as not to disturb others. When I heard doors opening and the rattlerattlerattle of things going into the recycling bin, I figured I was safe to get up - and they'd loaded the dishwasher, washed the non-dishwasherables, tidied the lounge and kitchen, gone to the supermarket and bought fruit-for-fruit-salad and vanilla custard. I mean, I'm used to the standard helping-to-clean-up, it's just good manners (which all my friends exhibit!), but I hadn't expected that. Colitis also took a quick roadtrip to acquire milk/sausages/bread, which were required for the breakfast fryup.

Tobermory's father arrives in a week, or thereabouts. I am somewhat - no, extremely - nervous on this subject. I spoke to his mother again last night (in the Happy New Year's phonecall), and I don't find her impending presence nearly as terrifying.

It's now 6.01pm on the 1st of January, 2009. It's summer, a glorious day, and I am looking forward to what the year brings. I have good friends, my beloved Tobermory, probably several surprises and challenges and changes - and I am content.


* Waifs and Strays - in the social circle in question, if you don't have family, are trying to escape your family, want some peace/quiet/change of scene/etc, you convene at a given location and have a low-key giftmassy gathering. It is pleasant, and we ended up with a ridiculous amount of chips and chocolate and cookies leftover from the various food offerings people brought.
** It was slightly surreal, although I can't put my finger on why. We were in the dining room in the dark, watching the fireworks. Somebody suggested it, Tobermory began it, and we [nearly] all joined in to sing along. There's a memory stirring, singing Auld Lang Syne, crossing arms with strangers; it's somewhere in my past, and I can't remember where or why.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

I miss writing here. But I sit down with a lot to say and end up saying nothing. I've a dozen starts of posts, and they mostly end up ranting vaguely about nothing in particular.

The house appears to have fleas. At least that's easy to deal with; flea bombs, then dump flea powder on the carpet after vacuuming the following week. I miss having kitties around, but I won't miss dealing with fleas. I miss Candy dreadfully. We spoke with the neighbours, told them we had moved out, so they knew to check on both kitties. It was clear that we couldn't move such elderly cats, especially as we'd only be a couple of kilometers - well within kitty walking distance - from their old territory. We've gone back to check on them since; Candy in particular ran up, clearly missing us; but also recently bathed and well fed. I sobbed and sobbed. I miss her so much, the little fuzzy loving presence, the vibrating foot warmer on the bed, sitting on my desk with me. Meowing about my feet in the kitchen. But, we had to do the right thing by them, and I am convinced that we did. Even though it breaks my heart.

Mum visited for a week, and we survived, and even enjoyed it sometimes. Tobermory spent most of that time with her, as I was at work, and managed valiantly. I quite enjoyed most of it, not least because it's our home, our rules, and I got a few petty kicks out of that fact.

I'm back at work, frustrated, annoyed, and rapidly losing all my tolerance for everything. I am in need of a proper holiday, the week off to move house really wasn't holidaying. I am at the point where I have on two occasions broken my own rules about being rude to callers, and told them they have the choice of listening to me or getting the hell off my telephone, as I have better things to do than listen to whiny clueless fuckwits ignore what the skilled technician says.

Not in those words. I'm annoyed, not clueless, and not interested in being unemployed.

There are times I hate my job. It comes home with me, I get stressed and irritated and fractious, I snap at Tobermory and other people. I don't deal with stupidity, I lack kindness and patience with my friends. I know my failings, and they frustrate and depress me.

I came home from work yesterday, sodden with rain, and Tobermory met me at the door with towels, and a freshly-run hot bath. He is endlessly good to me, even when I know I don't deserve it. He complements my failings, draws me out of my shell. Supports me when I need it, tells me to shut up and get over myself when I need that instead. He's good for me in ways I never expected. And despite, or perhaps because of, our differences and disagreements, it keeps working. Two years of residence in that miserable tiny flat didn't destroy us, and if that didn't...

I miss my family. Mum's visit reiterated several things, one of them being that I am very much my father's daughter, and that I am hopelessly separated from my family, and I want to see them. Although, Dad was the odd man out. I resemble my grandmother, and my uncle, and my cousins; not so much my dad. I wish I'd had more time to know them as an adult. Mum wandered around our house, and it's funny, the things she pointed out to me. Things which I know my aunt and uncle and grandmother on that side do in their homes, and I do as well. Not because I'm mimicking them, but because it makes sense to me. Habits and hobbies, thought patterns, mannerisms even. I've always found the nature/nurture debate fascinating.

It's funny, I've never really thought about how life may have been different, had my father lived. For some reason, that idea finally arrived in my brain recently. I don't want to ask Mum, because I don't think she'll know the answers to my questions.

Mum spoke to my maternal uncle on the phone the other night. He was asking after Tobermory and I, our new home, and such. Mum passed on the standing invitation to visit, as I'd asked her to, and as I expected, it was promptly met with a "Thanks, but I don't think I'll be doing that". Until Tobermory and I marry, they'll not see me. And even then, they still may choose not to see the heretic daughter of the excessively pragmatic widow.

It's my own choice. I chose my life, I chose my freedom, and I'd make the same choice again and again. It still bugs me sometimes.

I try to show my family respect. I haven't contacted any of them, except Mum and Nana, since I left the faith. They occasionally pass messages via Mum, and they're always glad to hear that I'm well. Everyone was pleased to hear about the house. But, my uncles have standing in their respective congregations. Even if they wanted to see me, there would be those who considered it irreligious to do so. They are my family, and I owe them respect, owe their lives and choices and religion respect; in turn they respect mine.

Tobermory and I got engaged. My family isn't why. The proposal was extremely unromantic, but very us. No wedding plans yet. We'll get around to it.

And it's 1am. Life is busy, and I can't do it on no sleep.

Originally published at spinneretta.com. » Click here « to leave any comments.

Life has been busy.

The last few weeks have seen me:

• Apply for a job
• Return to a second interview (wearing unbreakable-zipped pants)
• Been offered a job
• Accepted said job after finding out the terms of the contract
• Handed in notice
• Worked a week of twilight shifts
• Ended up impromptu team lead
• Slept a lot and felt like arse at the end of the day after coming home on twilights

I start my new contract on the 12th of February. It looks like it will be good – the last staff turnover they’ve had in about 6 years is promotion and folks travelling overseas.

And I phoned Mum today. Monday is the anniversary of Dad’s death. 18 years on, she still has nightmares this time of year – I know it’s tough for her, so I keep in touch.

She’s doing fine, apart from the nightmares.

Life is good.

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

It’s been years since I paid much attention to Christmas. Insulated in my little world of family over the summer breaks, ensconced in the “We don’t do that” aura. And I never minded. Never thought about it, to be honest. If I did, it was shrouded in the general aura of “I need Change”, and it never really raised it’s head.

This year, I’m out in the wide world. And I have a boyfriend with me. And Christmas has been … odd.

I contemplated it. And 23 years of the reasons why we Don’t Do Christmas sat there poking me. It’s not a religious issue, any more, or it shouldn’t be. After all, it’s commonly acknowledged by most churches that yes, technically, Jesus wasn’t born at Christmas, but what the hell, we’ll celebrate it then anyway, OK? I never bought presents, in the end. And the job worries, and debts, and eventually rather than think about it, I just shelved the issue entirely. It can wait till next year, right?

Then Deb hosted her annual Waifs and Strays party. Boy and I certainly fit the bill – me, a waif, him, a stray. And I got home from work last night (yes, I worked on the 25th), collapsed on the couch.

“I don’t know if I want to go.”

“Why not, hon? I know you’re tired, but we both know you’ll enjoy the company once you get there.”

“Yeah, but…” (I feel like such a fraud!)

I’m glad we went. I had a good night, I caught up with folks I’ve not seen in awhile, I nibbled munchies and laughed and talked. I’m glad Deb does it – those of us without family available, or nearby, or those who wanted to escape the extended families – folks came by, and a good time was had. (Deb gave me a Wombles book. It’s adorable!)

But I still feel like I’m missing something. It’s not about religion. Christmas-the-religious festival isn’t one I think I’m ever likely to celebrate. But Christmas-the-family-season?

As you’ve probably gathered, things are not going as I planned. I’ve been keeping my head afloat, but now my contract has run out. I still don’t know if it’ll be renewed. It’s taken me three months to feel like I fit into the team here; and I’m not one of the ones invited to the pub at the end of the day.

Christmas has reminded me again that I made a hard choice. I was talking to Mum a few weeks ago, after she’d been on the phone to my Uncle. Amongst the various bits of family gossip, they’d discussed me. My decision to leave the church, my decision to move, my life. And his concerns for me. What happens when God passes judgment? I stress, he’s not judging me.

I’ve always admired my uncle. He’s one of the preachers in his congregation – one of the most upright, genuine, content men I know. His marriage, of 30-odd years, is utterly solid. When they married, he vowed never to raise his voice to his wife, and he’s stuck to it. Not that they don’t argue, but (to use his words) they keep it dignified.

It’s genuine concern he feels. His faith is real and absolute to him. He is in no doubt that there will be a reckoning. He doesn’t judge, but tries to live up to Christian standards as best he can. And when I say non-judgmental? He supported his eldest daughter through her teenage years (highlights: drinking, stealing the family car, knocked-up at 17 by a [now imprisoned] criminal); supported his younger son through someone else’s messy divorce, as said son got together with someone else’s wife. Hardly acceptable by his principles; but his principles didn’t allow him to abandon his family. I’ve disagreed with him over the years, but I have real respect for him.

It just serves to highlight the gap I’ve placed between myself and my family. It’s minimised as much as I can, as much as they can. And yet, it’s there. I don’t feel any guilt. It’s something I chose to do, and I am sure I made the right decision.

But, it’s Christmas. My family feel a long, long, long way away.

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

Life is not particularly exciting at the moment.

I wake up, drag myself unwillingly out of bed. I’m usually tired when I wake up, the remnants of a bad night’s sleep.

So, I get up. Shower, find food, check email before work.

Go to work. Log in to the phones, curse the ticketing system, which I have already learned to hate. It’s slow, it regularly crashes, it’s not particularly useful in it’s categories; as far as I can see, it’s sole redeeming factor is that “We’ve used this for five years, why change it now? Oh, and also it interfaces with the phone software.” Said phone software also sucks, regularly hangs when attempting to route emails to me, and generally makes my day aggravating.

So. Log in. Take calls. Listen to people whine about problems which, approximately 50% of the time, are their own fault. Problems which, approximately 80% of the time, they are angry about. Problems which, approximately 90% of the time, I can’t fix, and can only take details and pass on to the relevant teams higher up the food chain to fix. Listen to upset and angry people whine at me. I’m thanked maybe twice a day, out of the 30 to 40 calls I’ll take, and each one stands out because it’s so damned rare.

I have emails to answer. 75% of the time there’ll be insufficient details provided for us to do anything about it. So I have to send back an email asking for more information, if I can’t raise the user on the phone, and brave their ire; it’s not like I can read minds. Being told “Order 75-D/1538 failed for process 48-22DFN, can you pass on to support” doesn’t help. Being told I’m stupid because it’s OBVIOUS!!! that clearly, this person works in Location XYZ, therefore it’s OBVIOUS!!! that they could ONLY!!! be using program ABC doesn’t help either.

There was a charmer of a caller last week, who, on being told that what he wanted was utterly impossible, as it’s against company policy, informed me that I was rude, impolite, and probably only worked a ridiculous job like helpdesk because I was too fat or too ugly to get a real job dealing with people.

I very politely told him that my personal life was none of his business; although I was pleased to inform him that I was entirely happy with my life, and that my partner found me quite attractive. He was welcome to call the helpdesk back any time that he felt able to trouble shoot with a trained professional, and was able to act in a professional manner. I then hung up on the indignant splutters, put myself in “unavailable” mode, and told the coworker sitting beside me that, if my boss came looking for me, I would be back in 15 minutes, and until that point he could go fuck himself.

My boss is pleased with me. I had my first monthly review meeting today. His bosses apparently rode his tail some, the first two weeks, when I was off sick. “We hired her for $8000 more than we pay the next-highest paid new employee, she’s already flaky, what HAVE you done?” He was understandably anxious. Now, I’m proving my worth. My statistics are on par and steadily becoming better. I’ve had positive feedback from multiple callers. I’ve had no complaints (yet).

Boss 1, Big Boss 0.

I do this job to the best of my ability. After three weeks of ‘productive’ work – that is, weeks when I’m healthy, when I’ve had sufficient training and practice to not flail miserably at every new call, when I’m actually capable of doing the job I’m hired for – my statistics are on par with the most experienced agents on the floor. I’m solving problems as best I can. I’m keeping the end-user in good humour.

I have pride in that. I don’t like what I do, but that’s not the caller’s fault. I’m not going to take out my frustration on them, I’m going to be the best at what I do. I am a good technician, that’s why I was hired. I know how to troubleshoot, how to narrow down problems to the most likely causes, how to establish what I can fix and what I can’t. I’m good at dealing with people, even as I want to throttle them for not understanding; I’m a trainer at heart, and a good one. Several users have thanked me profusely for taking a little time to ensure they know why things have happened, so they can avoid the issue in future. I do my job, and I do it well, despite the bad callers and times when I simply want to punch something in sheer frustration.

And yet, I remain unenthused. I don’t want to get out of bed in the mornings, leaving my warm duvet behind. I can’t wait to leave work at the end of the day.

It’s a job, not a career. I’ll stay as long as I need to – after all, the bills still need to be paid, my finances need to be organised. I guess this is the time I have to work to live.

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

The last funeral I went to was over three years ago. A six-month-old baby, who succumbed to cot death. That? Was appalling. Tears and hurt and pain on all sides.

Edie’s funeral was today. And it wasn’t sad. Yes, her family will miss their Nanny, but none of us can regret her death. Her life story, most of which I knew. Her family, her friends, her husband. The faith she held for so many years, believed in so strongly that she spoke of it before her death. She’d organised her funeral herself, which I thought was nice. Had her mokopuna bring in flowers with the pallbearers, which they arranged around the coffin. No formalities, just a peaceful contented atmosphere. We smiled and laughed, and yes, there were a few tears, but we can’t really begrudge her death. She was old, and content, and tired. She’s buried, now, with her husband, happy and at peace.

As the hearse left, two of her whanau were playing saxophone. The old jazz music she’d loved all her life. It was… bizarre, having jazz playing in a house of worship, but strangely fitting for Nanny Edie.

---

I’m still stuck between a rock and a hard place. Listening to the funeral talk today… she believed what I’ve been taught. I’ve known that all my life. Like a terrier, she was, give her an argument and she’d not rest. Was one of the things I liked about her, even as her irascible temperament irritated me from time to time.

But.. do I have that faith? In anything? I’m still dithering about what I’ll do when I’ve moved. Pick up again, find a new congregation in Auckland? Step away from it all? No-one but me can help me make up my mind here. And oh, it’s hard.

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