There’s a fair bit of muff missing around the place at the moment.
A resident of a small Canterbury settlement, Orari, has done his bit to put the town on the map. Now for those of you not familiar with Orari (which is pretty much everyone) you need to know that this place is a tiny farming community in our South Island. There’s nothing much there except for sheep, cows and paddocks.
Anyway this guy kicked up a quite a kerfuffle a few weeks back when he asked the local authority to change the name of one of the local roads because the signs were being stolen all the time.
All because of a bit of muff.
Road that is.
http://www.stuff.co.nz/oddstuff/2611515/Muff-Road-name-change-request
And across the ditch, a Queensland family has been reunited with their dog Muffy after 9 years! http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/cutestuff/2705139/Family-finds-lost-dog-after-nine-years
A cute story but really, why would you call your dog Muffy? You should have just called her Vagina and got it over and done with.
And surely you'd have to ask yourself if that's why she ran away from you in the first place.
Meanwhile closer to home, S says he is also missing muff.
Friday, July 31, 2009
For the 100th time.
This week, for the 100th time in my life, I am on a diet. In only 8 weeks a group of us, couples and kids, head over to the Gold Coast for some sun, sand and shopping and let’s be honest, we all want to look hotter than each other in our swimsuits.
We’ve even got a competition going – the first to lose a stone/6.6kgs wins cash so it’s serious stuff.
So serious that one of the contestants sent sabotage biscuits to our house earlier in the week.
So serious that I just took crazy dog for a long, hilly walk for a couple of hours.
And then had a kit kat.
And a large, milky coffee.
Oops.
It’s interesting that it is the 100th time I have tried to diet because that’s about how many kilos I need to lose – 100. I’ll probably settle for 5 but will be disappointed if it’s any less than 8...actually who I am I kidding, I’ll be disappointed if it’s anything less than 15.
So far the week is going well – I weighed myself this morning and am only 1.2kgs heavier than I was on Monday.
Awesome.
We’ve even got a competition going – the first to lose a stone/6.6kgs wins cash so it’s serious stuff.
So serious that one of the contestants sent sabotage biscuits to our house earlier in the week.
So serious that I just took crazy dog for a long, hilly walk for a couple of hours.
And then had a kit kat.
And a large, milky coffee.
Oops.
It’s interesting that it is the 100th time I have tried to diet because that’s about how many kilos I need to lose – 100. I’ll probably settle for 5 but will be disappointed if it’s any less than 8...actually who I am I kidding, I’ll be disappointed if it’s anything less than 15.
So far the week is going well – I weighed myself this morning and am only 1.2kgs heavier than I was on Monday.
Awesome.
Too much time on my hands.
Bravely I just shared this blog with two of my best friends.
Both of them told me I had too much time on my hands.
I guess it depends how you look at it.
I have so much time on my hands that I fill them with food far too often.
But not enough time to get them dirty by weeding the garden.
And certainly not enough time to do that job with them that S would like.
But enough to apply the $70 bum cream - which is working well BTW.
But not too much.
Time or bum cream.
Both of them told me I had too much time on my hands.
I guess it depends how you look at it.
I have so much time on my hands that I fill them with food far too often.
But not enough time to get them dirty by weeding the garden.
And certainly not enough time to do that job with them that S would like.
But enough to apply the $70 bum cream - which is working well BTW.
But not too much.
Time or bum cream.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Blowies.
Last Friday night some friends and I were sitting in a lovely bar, sipping wine, and talking about the men in our lives and their constant fascination with the blow job.
This Friday night I have a very sore throat, which by the way, has nothing to do with having had anything down it. But it does mean that I will not be sitting in the same bar with the same friends continuing the discussion.
Anyway, lasts week’s conversation took place after S had dropped us at the bar. J’s husband was meant to take us down but he said he’d only do it if J gave him a blow job first. She, understandably, turned him down and S volunteered.
(Actually I think he thought we’d be so grateful that we didn’t have to walk, that one or all 3 of us would offer him one as a thank you).
The waiter overheard quite a lot of our conversation and although he was trying to be discreet, I think he was hopeful that we’d take pity on him for working on a Friday night and offer him one too.
Between the 3 of us we drank 3 bottles so if he wasn’t a ginga named Charles he may have been in luck.
But anyway, none of us can believe how high up the wish list they are for each of our blokes or how they think they can be used as payment for general household chores. At K’s house apparently her husband thinks he should get a blow job just for stacking the dishwasher!
And S can be reading out the shopping list: “honey, weetbix, toothpaste... and a blow job”.
Yep, always on his mind. Like this morning when I asked him to make me a lemon drink for my sore throat and he was insistent that I needed some “protein” down there to make it better.
A huh. If I need protein I’ll poach an egg, buddy.
Or as I am pouring myself a glass of wine and I ask S sweetly “can I get you anything?” He’ll reply, “no but you can blow me”.
Yep, cos that’d be right up there for me with a glass of chardonnay and some cheese and crackers - giving S a blow job.
And he wonders why I have to drink so much.
This Friday night I have a very sore throat, which by the way, has nothing to do with having had anything down it. But it does mean that I will not be sitting in the same bar with the same friends continuing the discussion.
Anyway, lasts week’s conversation took place after S had dropped us at the bar. J’s husband was meant to take us down but he said he’d only do it if J gave him a blow job first. She, understandably, turned him down and S volunteered.
(Actually I think he thought we’d be so grateful that we didn’t have to walk, that one or all 3 of us would offer him one as a thank you).
The waiter overheard quite a lot of our conversation and although he was trying to be discreet, I think he was hopeful that we’d take pity on him for working on a Friday night and offer him one too.
Between the 3 of us we drank 3 bottles so if he wasn’t a ginga named Charles he may have been in luck.
But anyway, none of us can believe how high up the wish list they are for each of our blokes or how they think they can be used as payment for general household chores. At K’s house apparently her husband thinks he should get a blow job just for stacking the dishwasher!
And S can be reading out the shopping list: “honey, weetbix, toothpaste... and a blow job”.
Yep, always on his mind. Like this morning when I asked him to make me a lemon drink for my sore throat and he was insistent that I needed some “protein” down there to make it better.
A huh. If I need protein I’ll poach an egg, buddy.
Or as I am pouring myself a glass of wine and I ask S sweetly “can I get you anything?” He’ll reply, “no but you can blow me”.
Yep, cos that’d be right up there for me with a glass of chardonnay and some cheese and crackers - giving S a blow job.
And he wonders why I have to drink so much.
HUGE thighs my (HUGE) arse.
One of my younger brothers is a ballroom and latin dancer. He’s very good at it but sadly, he knows it too.
Thankfully him and his ego live in a different city to me so I only really see him and our mother (and his dance partner and her mother) when there is a dancing competition on. They come with all their sequins and lycra, flaunt their stuff for a few days and then leave again.
The whole dance scene freaks me out a bit to be honest. I don’t know if it’s the fake tan glow which makes their skin more orange than an actual orange, the extremely tight and high waisted pants or the diamantes on their eyelashes – guys included – but they are scary people. The intensity and nastiness is worse than any corporate game playing I have ever encountered.
And shallow. My god. They are so shallow.
In preparation for them coming to stay I’d done some baking. (Secretly I was craving something sweet and I wanted to lick the egg beaters but I let them think the spread was in their honour).
Anyway, back to the shallowness. Over morning tea today I learned that apparently this girl, a former Miss New Zealand Universe, is FAT! With HUGE thighs!
Seriously, how fucked up is that?
At this point I wanted to get my brother, sit on him with my HUGE arse and stick said egg beaters up his nostrils.
But I didn’t.
Instead I just ate his brownie.
Thankfully him and his ego live in a different city to me so I only really see him and our mother (and his dance partner and her mother) when there is a dancing competition on. They come with all their sequins and lycra, flaunt their stuff for a few days and then leave again.
The whole dance scene freaks me out a bit to be honest. I don’t know if it’s the fake tan glow which makes their skin more orange than an actual orange, the extremely tight and high waisted pants or the diamantes on their eyelashes – guys included – but they are scary people. The intensity and nastiness is worse than any corporate game playing I have ever encountered.
And shallow. My god. They are so shallow.
In preparation for them coming to stay I’d done some baking. (Secretly I was craving something sweet and I wanted to lick the egg beaters but I let them think the spread was in their honour).
Anyway, back to the shallowness. Over morning tea today I learned that apparently this girl, a former Miss New Zealand Universe, is FAT! With HUGE thighs!
Seriously, how fucked up is that?
At this point I wanted to get my brother, sit on him with my HUGE arse and stick said egg beaters up his nostrils.
But I didn’t.
Instead I just ate his brownie.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Baby toys.
When I was recently pregnant I subscribed to email newsletters from one of the popular baby information websites. I never got around to unsubscribing so still get the newsletters every few weeks or so.
I usually just delete them without reading them but the headline of the latest one caught my eye. “Things you really want to know during your pregnancy but are too embarrassed to ask”.
Now, I’m not sure what I was expecting to read, maybe something like ‘is it true that most woman poo while giving birth?’ or ‘will my fanny shrink back to how it was?’ but even I was shocked by what was close to top of the list...
‘Can I use sex toys when I am pregnant?’
Umm. Really?
When you’re pregnant, aren’t the only toys you think about ones that can’t be swallowed by a gummy mouth?
Or what kind of toy you can give your husband if he promises to leave you alone for the next 5 or 10 years?
Cos when I was pregnant with R, had I had a vibrator in my handbag, all I would have done with it was use it to hold up a donut shop.
I usually just delete them without reading them but the headline of the latest one caught my eye. “Things you really want to know during your pregnancy but are too embarrassed to ask”.
Now, I’m not sure what I was expecting to read, maybe something like ‘is it true that most woman poo while giving birth?’ or ‘will my fanny shrink back to how it was?’ but even I was shocked by what was close to top of the list...
‘Can I use sex toys when I am pregnant?’
Umm. Really?
When you’re pregnant, aren’t the only toys you think about ones that can’t be swallowed by a gummy mouth?
Or what kind of toy you can give your husband if he promises to leave you alone for the next 5 or 10 years?
Cos when I was pregnant with R, had I had a vibrator in my handbag, all I would have done with it was use it to hold up a donut shop.
She made me do it.
There’s a high profile murder trial underway in New Zealand for a moronic guy named Clayton Weatherston. He’s charged with murdering his girlfriend by stabbing her 216 times. He’s admitted killing her but is claiming she provoked him to kill her because of the emotional pain she caused him. A huh, she made you do it. Nice one Clayton.
Not only is the guy a narcissistic freak but I think he thinks he looks like Russell Crowe. For that reason alone HE deserves to be stabbed.
Seriously though, hopefully he’ll rot in jail or be stabbed himself. And surely the NZ justice system will not fail the victim and her family. Surely.
If it does though, it will open a whole can of worms for NZ and the other freaks that live here. I mean, there have been a few people provoking me lately and I have a rather well stocked knife drawer. They should all be nervous.
Starting with the guy Mark who lives at the front of our drive way. No real reason, he just annoys me. That and he wears his trousers far too short. And it’s not that he’s just started doing it as a tribute to Michael Jackson either.
Then there’s the old lady next door who has 4 lemon trees and lets the lemons fall to the ground rotting, rather than share them around. Poor R is the only one who has small enough arms to fit through the gaps in the fence to pick up the lemons. He hates doing it and each time his arm is nearly broken apparently (although I think he might be exaggerating slightly, surely it can’t hurt THAT much?) but not only do we make him do it, now our other neighbour also comes looking for him when he’s caught short making a G & T. Poor R wouldn't have to be subjected to such child abuse if the old bag shared the lemons. Is that really too much to ask of your neighbour?
And don’t get me started on my friend who has lost something amazing like 40kgs recently. Sure she may look fantastic but I don’t so that’s plenty enough reason to stab her I reckon.
On Saturday it was the Chinese person who translated the assembly instructions for the office desk S and I put together. 2 hours later we had it sorted but in the meantime there really was almost a stabbing. And a cat kicked. And a divorce.
And finally the gas appliance repair man who argued with me last week and told me I was unreasonable to expect a fire I paid $5,000 for, to last beyond 3 years before it shit itself and then for it not to be covered by warranty.
Pfft, me unreasonable?
Please.
It’s not as if I’d stab someone who pissed me off or anything.
Not only is the guy a narcissistic freak but I think he thinks he looks like Russell Crowe. For that reason alone HE deserves to be stabbed.
Seriously though, hopefully he’ll rot in jail or be stabbed himself. And surely the NZ justice system will not fail the victim and her family. Surely.
If it does though, it will open a whole can of worms for NZ and the other freaks that live here. I mean, there have been a few people provoking me lately and I have a rather well stocked knife drawer. They should all be nervous.
Starting with the guy Mark who lives at the front of our drive way. No real reason, he just annoys me. That and he wears his trousers far too short. And it’s not that he’s just started doing it as a tribute to Michael Jackson either.
Then there’s the old lady next door who has 4 lemon trees and lets the lemons fall to the ground rotting, rather than share them around. Poor R is the only one who has small enough arms to fit through the gaps in the fence to pick up the lemons. He hates doing it and each time his arm is nearly broken apparently (although I think he might be exaggerating slightly, surely it can’t hurt THAT much?) but not only do we make him do it, now our other neighbour also comes looking for him when he’s caught short making a G & T. Poor R wouldn't have to be subjected to such child abuse if the old bag shared the lemons. Is that really too much to ask of your neighbour?
And don’t get me started on my friend who has lost something amazing like 40kgs recently. Sure she may look fantastic but I don’t so that’s plenty enough reason to stab her I reckon.
On Saturday it was the Chinese person who translated the assembly instructions for the office desk S and I put together. 2 hours later we had it sorted but in the meantime there really was almost a stabbing. And a cat kicked. And a divorce.
And finally the gas appliance repair man who argued with me last week and told me I was unreasonable to expect a fire I paid $5,000 for, to last beyond 3 years before it shit itself and then for it not to be covered by warranty.
Pfft, me unreasonable?
Please.
It’s not as if I’d stab someone who pissed me off or anything.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The cost of bum cream.
There’s a risk that this following post may be TMI sorry. It’s about poo and bums so if that grosses you out then stop reading but I think most of you will keep reading because I think we all secretly (or if you’re like me, not so secretly), find poo funny.
But what hasn’t been funny is that since having a general anaesthetic following my recent miscarriage I’ve had trouble pooing. A lot of trouble. So much trouble that that my bum has been very sore. So sore that I had to go to the doctor yesterday to get it looked at.
(S offered several times to look at my bum for me but I think the sort of cream he’d suggest to put on it probably wouldn’t have helped much).
Anyway because it wasn’t humiliating enough for me having to get my toosh looked at, my doctor was away sick and I had to get a male doctor who I had never met before to look at it. I know that you might think ‘seen one bum, seen them all’, but I dunno, I don’t think you can ever get comfortable with looking at bums. Surely it makes even the most experienced doctors a little squeamish?
And how was I meant to look at him in the eye after he’d been looking at my brown eye?
By the way, have you heard that Elle McPherson bleaches hers? Well, I’m sure she pays someone to do it for her and doesn’t get out the janola herself but yeah, apparently she likes it white.
Imagine that for a job.”So what’d you do today love?” “Oh you know, bleached a supermodels arsehole”!
Anyhoo back to my sore bum. So the doctor said it was no big deal and wrote me a prescription for some cream to fix it. Now last week I took R and his mate to the movies and it cost $25.20 for two popcorns and two drinks and I was outraged! And I have just had my gas fire fixed and the appliance repair guy was here for 20 minutes and that cost $135 for the labour only! And don’t get me started on how much a block of cheese costs these days.
But this bum cream takes the cake....it cost $70! $70! Can you believe it?
What’s the world coming to when it costs $70 to stick something up your bum?
I don’t even think you’d pay that on the street would you?
But what hasn’t been funny is that since having a general anaesthetic following my recent miscarriage I’ve had trouble pooing. A lot of trouble. So much trouble that that my bum has been very sore. So sore that I had to go to the doctor yesterday to get it looked at.
(S offered several times to look at my bum for me but I think the sort of cream he’d suggest to put on it probably wouldn’t have helped much).
Anyway because it wasn’t humiliating enough for me having to get my toosh looked at, my doctor was away sick and I had to get a male doctor who I had never met before to look at it. I know that you might think ‘seen one bum, seen them all’, but I dunno, I don’t think you can ever get comfortable with looking at bums. Surely it makes even the most experienced doctors a little squeamish?
And how was I meant to look at him in the eye after he’d been looking at my brown eye?
By the way, have you heard that Elle McPherson bleaches hers? Well, I’m sure she pays someone to do it for her and doesn’t get out the janola herself but yeah, apparently she likes it white.
Imagine that for a job.”So what’d you do today love?” “Oh you know, bleached a supermodels arsehole”!
Anyhoo back to my sore bum. So the doctor said it was no big deal and wrote me a prescription for some cream to fix it. Now last week I took R and his mate to the movies and it cost $25.20 for two popcorns and two drinks and I was outraged! And I have just had my gas fire fixed and the appliance repair guy was here for 20 minutes and that cost $135 for the labour only! And don’t get me started on how much a block of cheese costs these days.
But this bum cream takes the cake....it cost $70! $70! Can you believe it?
What’s the world coming to when it costs $70 to stick something up your bum?
I don’t even think you’d pay that on the street would you?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Money might not grow on trees but does chocolate?
I planted this a week ago and nothing. So it appears not.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
News just in...
Jermaine Jackson's kid is called Jermajesty.
JERMAJESTY!
Oh. My. God.
Wacko is right.
JERMAJESTY!
Oh. My. God.
Wacko is right.
Farewell Wacko Jacko.
Ok, so Michael Jackson and I have never been close but today I got a little emotional as the world said goodbye to the King of Pop.
Michael Jackson’s career provided a background to me growing up and I’ve got some great memories thanks to his music. Of having Moonwalk competitions with my brother, of hitting the dance floor to “Billie Jean” at my first school disco (still one of the most played on my iPod BTW), of trying to understand the political references to “Man in the Mirror” but not really knowing what it was about, and of knowing all the words to “Bad” off by heart.
And then there was a very awkward moment about 2 seconds after meeting S when he presented me with a CD he’d made me with one of MJ’s songs on it. I’ll let you guess which one but let’s just say he’s lucky he didn’t scare me completely off right then and there. If he had scared me away, he just wouldn’t have stopped loving me. He can't.
Yes, S was a huge fan and poor old Digby’s death was totally overshadowed by the death of the King of Pop. S doesn’t know this but one of my Big Wednesday fantasies from the $36M a few weeks back was to take S to see Michael’s London concert.
No wonder he just can’t stop loving me.
So anyway, I think Michael Jackson is a freak and did some totally stupid things but I also think he was an incredible musician and performer, and today as I watched his memorial service, like millions around the world, I cried when Paris paid tribute to her Daddy. So sad. But what a beautiful little girl she turned out to be under that blanket.
Speaking of Blanket, how cute was he? And his big brother Prince too. Didn’t they just have the shiniest hair you’ve ever seen?
Mostly I was impressed today by how for someone who had been so weird and tacky, how normal and nice the service was.
But there were a few weird and stupid things going on. Like, WHAT was Jennifer Hudson thinking wearing white? I don’t know just how pregnant she is but today it looked like that baby was due about 6 months ago.
And was Stevie Wonder taking the piss when he said “I never thought I’d see this day”?
Did those kids really have to chew gum? I hope they didn’t leave it under the seats at the stadium.
Could Lionel Richie have looked anymore bored during ‘Heal the World’?
But the final moment belongs to the gloves! Cute and touching but fucking hilarious too!
Do you reckon when the Queen dies that Prince Charles will wear her white gloves?
Michael Jackson’s career provided a background to me growing up and I’ve got some great memories thanks to his music. Of having Moonwalk competitions with my brother, of hitting the dance floor to “Billie Jean” at my first school disco (still one of the most played on my iPod BTW), of trying to understand the political references to “Man in the Mirror” but not really knowing what it was about, and of knowing all the words to “Bad” off by heart.
And then there was a very awkward moment about 2 seconds after meeting S when he presented me with a CD he’d made me with one of MJ’s songs on it. I’ll let you guess which one but let’s just say he’s lucky he didn’t scare me completely off right then and there. If he had scared me away, he just wouldn’t have stopped loving me. He can't.
Yes, S was a huge fan and poor old Digby’s death was totally overshadowed by the death of the King of Pop. S doesn’t know this but one of my Big Wednesday fantasies from the $36M a few weeks back was to take S to see Michael’s London concert.
No wonder he just can’t stop loving me.
So anyway, I think Michael Jackson is a freak and did some totally stupid things but I also think he was an incredible musician and performer, and today as I watched his memorial service, like millions around the world, I cried when Paris paid tribute to her Daddy. So sad. But what a beautiful little girl she turned out to be under that blanket.
Speaking of Blanket, how cute was he? And his big brother Prince too. Didn’t they just have the shiniest hair you’ve ever seen?
Mostly I was impressed today by how for someone who had been so weird and tacky, how normal and nice the service was.
But there were a few weird and stupid things going on. Like, WHAT was Jennifer Hudson thinking wearing white? I don’t know just how pregnant she is but today it looked like that baby was due about 6 months ago.
And was Stevie Wonder taking the piss when he said “I never thought I’d see this day”?
Did those kids really have to chew gum? I hope they didn’t leave it under the seats at the stadium.
Could Lionel Richie have looked anymore bored during ‘Heal the World’?
But the final moment belongs to the gloves! Cute and touching but fucking hilarious too!
Do you reckon when the Queen dies that Prince Charles will wear her white gloves?
Monday, July 6, 2009
Skinny chicks are being ripped off!
So yesterday BFF J treated me to a day of pampering – she really does put the B in BFF! We had a perfect day.
It began with coffee and almond croissants and a gossip about a mutual moron we know: the perfect mix of bitchiness and yummy treats.
Then we had an hour massage and an hour facial each. Bliss.
We followed the pampering with goats cheese risotto balls, fries and of course chocolates too. All that was missing was the champagne but we’re trying to watch our diet so we stuck with water.
But while lying naked in the massage room I thought about how skinny chicks get ripped off. I mean, a massage costs the same whether you are fat or thin and yet clearly fatties like me need more massage oil. Same goes with the moisturiser for the facial.
So then I got thinking about where else this happens:
• On the bus – my fat arse takes up much more room than a skinny one yet we pay the same price.
• Personal trainer – when she has to lift my leg up to stretch it, she should be paid danger money for the strain it’s putting on her back but instead she’s paid the same when she’s training someone trying to put on weight.
• Swimming pool entry – clearly you can only get so many fatties in the pool at once...mind you, how many fatties actually go swimming?
• Doctor’s visits – it takes way longer for the doctor to give me a once over.
• Chain store clothing manufacturers – a dress to cover me up should really cost more than one to fit my sister who is 4 sizes smaller than me. Granted it’s been years since we wore matching clothes (the broderie anglaise dresses from 1976 come to mind) but theoretically it could happen and when it does she shouldn’t have to pay the same as me.
I’m sure there’s more but it’s close to lunchtime and I can’t stop thinking about what I am going to eat.
Another thing skinny chicks miss out on.
It began with coffee and almond croissants and a gossip about a mutual moron we know: the perfect mix of bitchiness and yummy treats.
Then we had an hour massage and an hour facial each. Bliss.
We followed the pampering with goats cheese risotto balls, fries and of course chocolates too. All that was missing was the champagne but we’re trying to watch our diet so we stuck with water.
But while lying naked in the massage room I thought about how skinny chicks get ripped off. I mean, a massage costs the same whether you are fat or thin and yet clearly fatties like me need more massage oil. Same goes with the moisturiser for the facial.
So then I got thinking about where else this happens:
• On the bus – my fat arse takes up much more room than a skinny one yet we pay the same price.
• Personal trainer – when she has to lift my leg up to stretch it, she should be paid danger money for the strain it’s putting on her back but instead she’s paid the same when she’s training someone trying to put on weight.
• Swimming pool entry – clearly you can only get so many fatties in the pool at once...mind you, how many fatties actually go swimming?
• Doctor’s visits – it takes way longer for the doctor to give me a once over.
• Chain store clothing manufacturers – a dress to cover me up should really cost more than one to fit my sister who is 4 sizes smaller than me. Granted it’s been years since we wore matching clothes (the broderie anglaise dresses from 1976 come to mind) but theoretically it could happen and when it does she shouldn’t have to pay the same as me.
I’m sure there’s more but it’s close to lunchtime and I can’t stop thinking about what I am going to eat.
Another thing skinny chicks miss out on.
Dear Ms. Recruitment Consultant.
I just wanted to write and say thanks so much for the shit way you handled my application. You were really good at it. Being shit that is.
I am particularly impressed with how consistent you are. The way you never return my calls. Never. Or how you never reply to emails. Never. Consistently crap but consistent nevertheless.
And I really like when we do finally touch base and arrange a meeting, that you keep me waiting for 15 minutes in your reception. But I understand, with unemployment at an all time high in New Zealand I guess you’re really busy.
Oh and thanks heaps for pointing out to me that there is a recession going on because for a moment there I thought it was just something I had made up.
Thanks also for pointing out how marketing is often the first thing that gets cut from budgets – despite having managed large budgets for years, I had no fucking idea that was the case.
Anyway, thanks again. It was swell (like your arse in that ridiculously short skirt).
Cheers, Olivia
PS. Your card needs changing – your title is wrong. The letters o-n-s-l-t-a should be removed from the second word.
I am particularly impressed with how consistent you are. The way you never return my calls. Never. Or how you never reply to emails. Never. Consistently crap but consistent nevertheless.
And I really like when we do finally touch base and arrange a meeting, that you keep me waiting for 15 minutes in your reception. But I understand, with unemployment at an all time high in New Zealand I guess you’re really busy.
Oh and thanks heaps for pointing out to me that there is a recession going on because for a moment there I thought it was just something I had made up.
Thanks also for pointing out how marketing is often the first thing that gets cut from budgets – despite having managed large budgets for years, I had no fucking idea that was the case.
Anyway, thanks again. It was swell (like your arse in that ridiculously short skirt).
Cheers, Olivia
PS. Your card needs changing – your title is wrong. The letters o-n-s-l-t-a should be removed from the second word.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A long weekend of gratitude.
So as part of me "finding myself" during this time I am at home, apparently I am meant to take 5 minutes at the end of each day to write down what I am grateful for. I think it is meant to help me appreciate what I have more. Or at least kill 5 minutes.
I tried it for the past few days while we were away for a long weekend with S’s family.
Friday
I am grateful that we got to Napier safely after a very long 6 hour drive.
I am also grateful that despite the empty light being on from when we left Taupo (1 ½ hrs to go), that we did not run out of petrol.
I am grateful that I can’t be blamed for booking the cold accommodation.
Or for the spring in the bed that keeps digging into S’s back.
Saturday
I am grateful that all 4 children under 3 are sleeping in the next room.
And that I am not the mother of those same children.
I am grateful that wine can be served from 11.30am during family reunion lunches.
I am grateful for older children who demand your full attention right at the time your least favourite SIL starts moving towards you.
I am grateful for chardonnay.
And also pinot noir.
And at 12.30am, even shiraz.
Sunday
I am grateful for paracetamol.
And hugely grateful for steak and cheese pies.
Monday
I am grateful for elastic in the waist of my track pants.
I tried it for the past few days while we were away for a long weekend with S’s family.
Friday
I am grateful that we got to Napier safely after a very long 6 hour drive.
I am also grateful that despite the empty light being on from when we left Taupo (1 ½ hrs to go), that we did not run out of petrol.
I am grateful that I can’t be blamed for booking the cold accommodation.
Or for the spring in the bed that keeps digging into S’s back.
Saturday
I am grateful that all 4 children under 3 are sleeping in the next room.
And that I am not the mother of those same children.
I am grateful that wine can be served from 11.30am during family reunion lunches.
I am grateful for older children who demand your full attention right at the time your least favourite SIL starts moving towards you.
I am grateful for chardonnay.
And also pinot noir.
And at 12.30am, even shiraz.
Sunday
I am grateful for paracetamol.
And hugely grateful for steak and cheese pies.
Monday
I am grateful for elastic in the waist of my track pants.
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