I remember getting ready to go out one night, when we were flatting.
Get your hands off me!
I went running into your room only to find you singing your changed lyrics version of Sinead O’Connor’s I Want Your Hands On Me. Your version was about dealing with rugby heads pinching your ass and teaching them a lesson by pouring beer on them and then ripping their rugby jerseys.
My favourite altered lyrics version of yours was George Micheal’s Father Figure changed to a song about embracing excessive eating called Fuller Figure.
I will be your fuller figure. Put your tiny hand in mine.
I remember when you first changed the lyrics of a song - Form 2, Mr Harrison’s class. You’d changed the Summer of 69 into a song about sexual experimentation. It has to be said we were leaders in the – talk about it most, do it never brigade. You’d had one kiss by then. I’d had none.
I will be your preacher/teacher – get that celery off your mind.
Sometimes I’m not sure if certain memories are yours or mine? Was it you or me who broke an egg on Mr Harrison’s head on school camp? Did I go into the clothing bin and throw all the decent clothes out and then get stuck temporarily? Who stole the maroon scarf from the opshop as a dare? Was that you? Who was it, at our friend’s parent’s place, who accidentally asked for the corn on the cock to be passed to them?
If you are the dessert, I’ll be the cream.
I remember you sighing – when I’d obviously frustrated you but you weren’t going to say anything. I don’t think this started until we were in our twenties.
I sighed on the inside.
I think both of us thought we were the better friend.
If you have a hunger… a hunger for cheese.
I have a theory that female friends who have known each before they hit puberty morph into a strange hybrid of half friend/half sister…and you know no one pisses you off more than your family, but at least with your family you say something about the annoyances. We never did. Maybe they just built up and boiled off.
Happiness is a pie and a smile.
I miss you.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
When I first moved to Wellington I remember two things from that time:
1. Cafes love to offer you relish with every item on the menu and
2. The large graffiti on a Mount Cook wall –
Ian Curtis Walk in silence RIP.
I learned to love the sweet brown pile on my plate but I was already in love with the town that had a heartfelt love declared loudly on a wall – and left alone by everyone.
The Ian Curtis adoration (which I’ve always pictured written by a heterosexual teenage boy) was my first graforation; this however was followed by the stencilled flying buzzy bees, and be afraid in tiny letters, down on the wall in Oriental Parade. Alas long since painted over. In fact most of the stencil art, mostly around Newtown, catches you by surprise in a way that clever interesting art does.
In sharp contrast I have been bordering on apoplectic with the huge increase in tagging around Wellington. To paraphrase another community health message: “It’s not the tagging, it’s where they’re tagging” . It seemed to me that there used to be unwritten rules about graffiti and tagging which recent taggers have been ignoring. Luckily I can clear matters up for them.
1. Don’t tag or write on personal property. Haven’t you seen Krishnan’s Dairy? Most dairy owners can’t afford to clean up your mess.
2. Same as 1. All the stencil art and other graffiti I love is done on lampposts or other public property, even the Ian Curtis graffiti is on a large concrete wall which is there to support several houses.
3. Same as 1. The graffiti I love feels like people trying to connect with others either through their thoughts or images. It’s on places which aren’t any one person’s. Most tagging I have seen recently is on individual’s fences and walls around Newtown, Berhampore and Kilbirnie. It looks like a dog marking it’s territory rather than artistic inspiration.
To finish I would like to quote from my favourite piece of graffiti which can be found on a wall in Carrara Park – Man she’s piratey!
1. Cafes love to offer you relish with every item on the menu and
2. The large graffiti on a Mount Cook wall –
Ian Curtis Walk in silence RIP.
I learned to love the sweet brown pile on my plate but I was already in love with the town that had a heartfelt love declared loudly on a wall – and left alone by everyone.
The Ian Curtis adoration (which I’ve always pictured written by a heterosexual teenage boy) was my first graforation; this however was followed by the stencilled flying buzzy bees, and be afraid in tiny letters, down on the wall in Oriental Parade. Alas long since painted over. In fact most of the stencil art, mostly around Newtown, catches you by surprise in a way that clever interesting art does.
In sharp contrast I have been bordering on apoplectic with the huge increase in tagging around Wellington. To paraphrase another community health message: “It’s not the tagging, it’s where they’re tagging” . It seemed to me that there used to be unwritten rules about graffiti and tagging which recent taggers have been ignoring. Luckily I can clear matters up for them.
1. Don’t tag or write on personal property. Haven’t you seen Krishnan’s Dairy? Most dairy owners can’t afford to clean up your mess.
2. Same as 1. All the stencil art and other graffiti I love is done on lampposts or other public property, even the Ian Curtis graffiti is on a large concrete wall which is there to support several houses.
3. Same as 1. The graffiti I love feels like people trying to connect with others either through their thoughts or images. It’s on places which aren’t any one person’s. Most tagging I have seen recently is on individual’s fences and walls around Newtown, Berhampore and Kilbirnie. It looks like a dog marking it’s territory rather than artistic inspiration.
To finish I would like to quote from my favourite piece of graffiti which can be found on a wall in Carrara Park – Man she’s piratey!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Bon Jovi and John Key
1987. It was the year our economics class studied the stock market in a class competition. I put most of my money in Goldcorp – it sounded rich. The winner was the person who lost the least.
1987 turned me into the financially conservative person I am today. Most of my father’s family lost their money in the crash. I noticed because my Grandma’s sister gave me $10 for birthdays and Christmas instead of the $50 she once did (I know, I’d be still stoked!).
1987. It was filled with fluro clothing, perms – traditional or spiral - and Bon Jovi vs Europe. It was also the year I wagged school and got caught. I wasn’t grounded, I could leave the house – as soon as I had stacked one cord of wood, with one wheelbarrow, by myself. If you are unsure of how large one cord of wood is – it took me all weekend from 9am til 5pm, each day.
The punishment is seared into my memory; also like the time my brother and I were fighting over a comic. My mother took it away for month; it felt like a year. Yet I can’t remember what I did wrong when I was smacked as child. The wrong I was being punished for was wiped out by a fearful anticipation, followed by fear and completed with indignant crying on my behalf.
Once I sped down the stairs and locked myself in my bedroom. My father was banging on the door and yelling at me to open up. It looked as though the door would break. I knew if the door did break – or he hurt himself – I would be in even worse trouble than I was now. Reluctantly I unlocked the door so he could smack me.
It wasn’t too bad being smacked: a sharp short sting and then a dull throb. Everyone got smacked in the 70s and 80s – or so I thought. I discovered recently that my husband and three male friends were never smacked as a form of discipline – ever. Miraculously they are well adjusted, happy, successful individuals.
The bill designed to return children’s rights to those of everyone else’s is more controversial than anything else. I would talk about blowjobs, nuns and Rodney Hide – maybe all together - quite happily at a dinner party rather than mentioning that smacking should go the same way as foot binding and female circumcision.
Smacking did come up at a dinner party recently with one guest mentioning that ‘in Sweden adults can’t hit children so children are going up and kicking them’. Sounds like a reasonable well founded comment…. or maybe not. Just as adults shouldn’t be allowed to hit children, children shouldn’t be allowed to hit adults – that’s the point of repealing section 59; everyone should be free from assault. If I – or anyone – had bothered to extend the conversation with the dinner guest (I myself chose to pour myself another glass of wine) I’m sure he would have asked how you stop a child from hitting an adult. I would have answered – through gritted teeth – the same way you stop any inappropriate behaviour: try to stop or limit the offending behaviour and then punish the child and ensure they apologise.
On the odd occasion that my daughter’s frustration has meant she has lashed out and hit her younger brother we talk about how we don’t hit other people; how her father and I don’t hit her and she shouldn’t hit anyone either. There are of course punishments: her favourite doll being taken off her ensures that these incidents are few and far between.
I have had the urge to smack my daughter on just these occasions but luckily the irony of “Don’t hit your brother” wasn’t lost on me in the heat of the moment. I also realised that wanting to smack/hit my child was more about my frustration and anger bubbling over than an effective discipline method. A few friends from my antenatal group have confessed that they have occasionally smacked their children.
The bar has been set and as a society we should try to ensure we continue to protect the most vulnerable by using discipline and punishment that aren’t connected to physically hitting our children. If section 59 is reinstated I will don a lime green bikini, perm my hair (think Charlene, Kylie Minogue, in Neighbours) and sing Living on a Prayer to John Key on the steps of Parliament. Mr Key – we’re relying on you to help us keep as far away from 1987 as possible. Please don’t take us back there by reinstating section 59.
1987 turned me into the financially conservative person I am today. Most of my father’s family lost their money in the crash. I noticed because my Grandma’s sister gave me $10 for birthdays and Christmas instead of the $50 she once did (I know, I’d be still stoked!).
1987. It was filled with fluro clothing, perms – traditional or spiral - and Bon Jovi vs Europe. It was also the year I wagged school and got caught. I wasn’t grounded, I could leave the house – as soon as I had stacked one cord of wood, with one wheelbarrow, by myself. If you are unsure of how large one cord of wood is – it took me all weekend from 9am til 5pm, each day.
The punishment is seared into my memory; also like the time my brother and I were fighting over a comic. My mother took it away for month; it felt like a year. Yet I can’t remember what I did wrong when I was smacked as child. The wrong I was being punished for was wiped out by a fearful anticipation, followed by fear and completed with indignant crying on my behalf.
Once I sped down the stairs and locked myself in my bedroom. My father was banging on the door and yelling at me to open up. It looked as though the door would break. I knew if the door did break – or he hurt himself – I would be in even worse trouble than I was now. Reluctantly I unlocked the door so he could smack me.
It wasn’t too bad being smacked: a sharp short sting and then a dull throb. Everyone got smacked in the 70s and 80s – or so I thought. I discovered recently that my husband and three male friends were never smacked as a form of discipline – ever. Miraculously they are well adjusted, happy, successful individuals.
The bill designed to return children’s rights to those of everyone else’s is more controversial than anything else. I would talk about blowjobs, nuns and Rodney Hide – maybe all together - quite happily at a dinner party rather than mentioning that smacking should go the same way as foot binding and female circumcision.
Smacking did come up at a dinner party recently with one guest mentioning that ‘in Sweden adults can’t hit children so children are going up and kicking them’. Sounds like a reasonable well founded comment…. or maybe not. Just as adults shouldn’t be allowed to hit children, children shouldn’t be allowed to hit adults – that’s the point of repealing section 59; everyone should be free from assault. If I – or anyone – had bothered to extend the conversation with the dinner guest (I myself chose to pour myself another glass of wine) I’m sure he would have asked how you stop a child from hitting an adult. I would have answered – through gritted teeth – the same way you stop any inappropriate behaviour: try to stop or limit the offending behaviour and then punish the child and ensure they apologise.
On the odd occasion that my daughter’s frustration has meant she has lashed out and hit her younger brother we talk about how we don’t hit other people; how her father and I don’t hit her and she shouldn’t hit anyone either. There are of course punishments: her favourite doll being taken off her ensures that these incidents are few and far between.
I have had the urge to smack my daughter on just these occasions but luckily the irony of “Don’t
The bar has been set and as a society we should try to ensure we continue to protect the most vulnerable by using discipline and punishment that aren’t connected to physically hitting our children. If section 59 is reinstated I will don a lime green bikini, perm my hair (think Charlene, Kylie Minogue, in Neighbours) and sing Living on a Prayer to John Key on the steps of Parliament. Mr Key – we’re relying on you to help us keep as far away from 1987 as possible. Please don’t take us back there by reinstating section 59.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
NEWSFLASH: THE RECESSION DOESN’T Shrink BREASTS
My partner knows an actor who has false breasts – female actor of course. I asked him how he knew. He said he saw her in a play where she had to lie on her back and how normal breasts “look like flat poached eggs running into the armpits” while female falsie’s sat like two firm flesh mountains. He said they looked weird. I’m sure he had to look long and hard to make sure. I know she isn’t his type – she has terrible music taste.
Weirder still is the 100% increase in breast enlargements by New Zealand women in the last few years. Coming from a perspective of having a bra letter that is way beyond fail in a University course; a bra letter that if my daughter could count to this letter I would have Mensa on speed dial – I don’t see the attraction.
Last Saturday I was a shop’s wet dream. I left the house with my purse and a necessity to buy a new bra. I start off in Kirks (what is it about NZers and abbreviations – see I did it again) and the shop assistant helps me find the brand I want. She comments that they got the brand in when “everyone kept on asking if we stocked it and I got sick of it eventually”. Sounds like her job would be great if it wasn’t for those pesky customers. I was particularly pesky as I wanted a non-grey bra in my size. I know, call me demanding but if I’m going to buy a $115 dollar bra – Freya, they really are worth it – I want it in a colour I love. I ask her for three bras – one of them the black option on display. She brings back two – both pink. I ask for three bras – one of them the black option and any other colours apart from grey. She brings back three grey bras and insists I try them on as “see it doesn’t look that grey on”. I ask about the elusive black bra and she confesses that they don’t have it up to my size, that they will have to order it in and that it will take “ages, as they’ve just had a shipment in”.
Next stop Farmers – the store trying to reinvent itself as New Zealand’s answer to Marks and Spencers. Top points (I’m resisting marks) for filling the gap when Glassons slide towards Shanton and went out the back door 500 style (cards will make a come back due to the recession. You heard it here first.) For basics and office wear – Glassons belt length beach fabric skirts won’t cut it.
Anyway I head towards the Fayreform larger cup size C – G specialists area. I search every rack for a 12G finally admitting defeat when I can find nothing larger than an E and head to the counter. The shop assistant nods sympathetically and offers to look up on the computer what stock they have. She turns, pauses and then confesses “Farmers have started just ordering in C – E…due to the recession. Yeah, it sucks – I’m a G too, as well as my sisters. Our breasts don’t shrink because of the recession”.
“Actually come with me”. She takes me to the sale racks – which I had gone past and starts searching. We find three 12Gs – all marked down to $12. I haven’t paid less than $50 for a bra since I since I was 18. Ladies – before you have the operation you might want to stock up. Farmers CEO – maybe you want to go back to floor; our breasts don’t shrink because of the recession. We’re already making our lunches, walking to work, drinking coffee at home – those of us with small children sometimes even have to resort to instant to save money; my bra is my last luxury. Like Kevin Costner said” If you stock it, they will be able to purchase it”…..or something similar.
Weirder still is the 100% increase in breast enlargements by New Zealand women in the last few years. Coming from a perspective of having a bra letter that is way beyond fail in a University course; a bra letter that if my daughter could count to this letter I would have Mensa on speed dial – I don’t see the attraction.
Last Saturday I was a shop’s wet dream. I left the house with my purse and a necessity to buy a new bra. I start off in Kirks (what is it about NZers and abbreviations – see I did it again) and the shop assistant helps me find the brand I want. She comments that they got the brand in when “everyone kept on asking if we stocked it and I got sick of it eventually”. Sounds like her job would be great if it wasn’t for those pesky customers. I was particularly pesky as I wanted a non-grey bra in my size. I know, call me demanding but if I’m going to buy a $115 dollar bra – Freya, they really are worth it – I want it in a colour I love. I ask her for three bras – one of them the black option on display. She brings back two – both pink. I ask for three bras – one of them the black option and any other colours apart from grey. She brings back three grey bras and insists I try them on as “see it doesn’t look that grey on”. I ask about the elusive black bra and she confesses that they don’t have it up to my size, that they will have to order it in and that it will take “ages, as they’ve just had a shipment in”.
Next stop Farmers – the store trying to reinvent itself as New Zealand’s answer to Marks and Spencers. Top points (I’m resisting marks) for filling the gap when Glassons slide towards Shanton and went out the back door 500 style (cards will make a come back due to the recession. You heard it here first.) For basics and office wear – Glassons belt length beach fabric skirts won’t cut it.
Anyway I head towards the Fayreform larger cup size C – G specialists area. I search every rack for a 12G finally admitting defeat when I can find nothing larger than an E and head to the counter. The shop assistant nods sympathetically and offers to look up on the computer what stock they have. She turns, pauses and then confesses “Farmers have started just ordering in C – E…due to the recession. Yeah, it sucks – I’m a G too, as well as my sisters. Our breasts don’t shrink because of the recession”.
“Actually come with me”. She takes me to the sale racks – which I had gone past and starts searching. We find three 12Gs – all marked down to $12. I haven’t paid less than $50 for a bra since I since I was 18. Ladies – before you have the operation you might want to stock up. Farmers CEO – maybe you want to go back to floor; our breasts don’t shrink because of the recession. We’re already making our lunches, walking to work, drinking coffee at home – those of us with small children sometimes even have to resort to instant to save money; my bra is my last luxury. Like Kevin Costner said” If you stock it, they will be able to purchase it”…..or something similar.
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