Irishness, meat pies and something about Mary

Sorry, all you anonymous commenters out there - I've changed my blog settings so that only registered users (registered with Blogger, that is) can comment. You can blame that Mary woman/person/organisation and her useless space-wasting penis pill comment. There's enough junk out there in cyberspace already, what with my spending all my free time blogging, without the addition of unproductive comment spam.

So it's St Patrick's Day today. Excuse my lack of St Patrick's spirit, but what a big commercial con. And I'm not just saying this because my alcohol tolerance has decreased from drunk-on-a-double-gin to zero, nor because I've never liked Guinness.

There's just this big image of the Irish as somehow cooler than everyone else. I have nothing against them as individuals - I've never met one I didn't like. But I do get sick of yet another Hollywood movie about charmingly alcoholic Irish people (from The Commitments to Road to Perdition). I vaguely remember a comedic song I once heard which basically said that as long as you can pass yourself off as Irish there'll always be film work (and bar work) for you. I think it's utterly true. Bah humbug, I say.

On a more positive note, I came across a really nice steak pie today. Americans will no doubt think that the very idea of a pie with a savoury filling is about as familiar and appealing as say, putting barbegue sauce on your ice cream. The rest of us know better. Meat pie quality varies from yummy to nasty, from a product which is little more than a pastry pocket full of gravy to the meaty, tasty item I had for lunch today. Among other things, it depends on the filling/gravy ratio, and whether any rodent bits have slipped in unawares. The latter isn't just a joke you know - back in the Seventies it was a running joke that a buying a certain brand would just about guarantee you a chance to taste stewed mouse (which sorta reminds me of that Buffy episode, Doublemeat Palace - "It's not meat, it's people!").

All about your body

I've never thought of myself as someone who is great at "attention to detail" (but I'd never say so in a job interview because that would just be interview suicide). However, things are just getting ridiculous. I've made a bunch of embarrassing mistakes which, if someone else had done it, would have given me reason call them a total idiot who's crap at their job.

And I've been assured it'll get worse. Soon I'll be unable to talk in complete sentences. Is that how babies learn to speak babytalk? Because they spend their formative years with their (temporarily) brain-shrunk mums?

I needed something to distract me from my intelligence leakage, so I've been leafing through a book called The Odd Body 2, by Dr Stephen Juan. It's an Aussie compilation of questions and answers sent in by readers, and full of interesting miscellanea. For instance:

- A woman over 40 is 128% more likely to bear a left-handed child, than a woman under 40.
- Studies have shown a correlation between hayfever and shyness (snorting, sneezing and wheezing would tend to stop me from putting on my suave act, so yeah).
- Children under six don't blush.
- Men hiccup more than women.
- Inuit are among the most hairless people on the planet, which is odd because you'd think they'd need the extra cover.
- Human stomach acid is strong enough to dissolve razor blades.
- The subject people most dream about is falling, followed by being chased; trying but failing to perform a simple task; doing chores at home, work or school; and lastly, sex.

46 chromosones - no more, no less

It was news that put a smile on my face and a tear in each eye. My baby is free from chromosonal abnormality. I'm no doomsayer, but at my age the possibility of having a Downs child was always hanging there in the back of my mind.

Today, I heard what I wanted to hear. I also found out what sex my baby is, but I won't be posting that information because the boy doesn't want to know.

The midwife also assured me that broken sleep, my sore bum and an increase in allergy action are not unusual during pregnancy.

The appointment concluded with a urine test, a listen to the hummingbird-fast heartbeat going on in my womb and an appointment for a 20-week scan, before I waddled home happy.

Like a hangover, but without the preceding party

It sure hasn't been a good couple of days for my sinuses. There's been sneezing, wheezing, waking up with a headache this morning and lack of sleep last night. For the last few months, I've been waking up at around 3am every morning and not been able to get back to sleep. This is where early morning TV is useful, because what's on at this time of day tends to put me right back to sleep again. Every so often it doesn't work though, because I'll end up avidly watching baby cheetahs or crocodiles on Animal Planet.

I don't know why this is happening. I was expecting to get up several times a night to pee, but that isn't happening (if anything, I wake up really thirsty because I've been mouth-breathing again, and need to drink water). What I'm experiencing hasn't happened since the months preceding my big OE years ago (to non-Antipodeans, the OE is when you take around two years off to work and travel overseas, usually based in or around London). So maybe it's anxiety.

Try drinking a glass of warm milk before you go to bed, I hear you suggest. Are you crazy? I reply, I'm lactose-intolerant - you'll have me staggerig to the toilet with massive gut-aches all night.

My poor workmates. It's bad enough that they have to put up with my pregancy-related brain shrinkage, without also having to deal with the shortcomings resulting from sleep deprivation.

Not quite everything you wanted to know about sneezing

Me and my allergies. Lately I've been sneezing a lot, and when I sneeze I'm sure my neighbours down the road and around the corner can hear it. Now I have a new concern - when I sneeze so hard that I can feel my insides jiggle, what's it doing to the baby? Is it waking him/her up, or does the amniotic fluid cushion him (much like being in a swimming pool stops you from feeling an earthquake - and this I know from experience)?

Being a frequent sneezer, I looked up sneezing on the Internet (as you do).

According to net.doctor, it is possible that being pregnant makes my allergies worse, but sneezing doesn't harm the baby (okay I assumed that; I want to know whether the baby turns somersaults when I sneeze). I am however relieved to get confirmation that it's okay to use my steroid-choked nasal spray.

I didn't find the answer to my burning question, but I did find some trivia about sneezing:

Apparently looking into bright light can make you sneeze. I truly believe this, because whenever I get one of those almost-but-not-quite sneezes, all I have to do is look towards the nearest source of light to get relief.

If you're a Muslim, it's important to say the right thing when someone sneezes - "May Allah be merciful on you,", and the sneezer has to reply, "All the praises are for Allah,".

Often my sneezes are immediately followed by wheeziness. As if I needed another sympton to complain about. This is apparently because of my allergy to dust mite poo. I suppose it means I should do more dusting (or even better, get someone else to do it for me).

There is a television show in Japan which consists solely of people sneezing.

The sneeze has been called "the orgasm of the nose". It's also been regarded as a sign from the gods, or an opportunity for the devil to enter your body. There are lots of superstitions about sneezing. I know that my mother used to tell me she was expecting something special in the mail, or a long-distance phone call, because she sneezed (and didn't have a cold).

You can tell by the colour and texture of your snot whether you have a cold or allergy, and at what stage.

It's true that if you go to London, your snot turns black. This, I also know from experience.

Indian stories

I once tried to read Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy. I never knew it was possible to write so many words about shoe-making. It's a huge bible-sized thing which I gave up on about one third of the way through.

Better luck was had with Meera Syal. Her Life's not all ha ha hee hee was funny and sad, sort of a Hindi merger between Sex and the City and Bridget Jones' Diary.

It was to be expected though, knowing that she's worked on Goodness Gracious Me. Anyone who has seen that skit where a crowd of drunken Indian diners go to an English restaurant and demand "the blandest thing you've got" and "loads of chips" could only expect good things from her.

At the moment I'm really enjoying Q and A, a first novel by Vika Swarup. You can't accuse the guy of having a frighteningly large vocabulary, he sure does tell a good story. It's about an uneducated young Indian man with an unusual name - Rama Mohammed Thomas. He unexpectedly answers all 12 questions correctly in TV quiz show, but the TV guys are reluctant to award him the one billion rupee prize, so they arrest him for cheating instead. So to show how he knew all the answers, he tells the story behind each one.

It seems to me that Indian stories are so much less depressing than Chinese stories. Except for the film Fire - or was it Earth? The one set during the time of the Partition.

It's not how I remembered it

Marion Zimmer Bradley, now deceased, wrote tons of science-fictiony books about a planet called Darkover. She also wrote the Arthurian The Mists of Avalon, but I never got around to reading that.

I read a lot of her Darkover books when I was younger, because I liked science fiction but there wasn't an awful lot of feminist science fiction around. By feminist I don't mean political diatribes thinly disguised as fiction - I'm talking about stories where female characters had a lot of power which had nothing to do with their sexual attractiveness, were immersed in exciting adventures and didn't have to wear metal brassieres. The Darkover books were the first time I'd come across the genre.

In a post-Buffy-novel search for something to read at the library, I remembered how much I'd enjoyed the Darkover novels and decided to get one out to read. I didn't remember having read Darkover: Landfall before, so this was the book I brought home.

What a disappointment. Maybe it was written before she got into her groove, or after she lost interest in the series. I dunno. I found it really dated and pre-feminist. There weren't any busty metal-clad warrior maidens - they would have added a Xena-like touch if nothing else. But the characters were like something out of a particularly uninspiring Seventies movie - sort of an unsatirical Stepford Wives.

I should have known that sometimes you just can't go back.

Who cut the lifeline?

It was a bit disheartening this afternoon to find that Jon is the only person who loves me enough to comment on my blog today. Then I realised that probably no-one can, because I haven't been able to comment on anyone else's either unless they have Haloscan. So I put away the razor blades.

I think I'll add Haloscan to the blog, so that people can comment even when Blogger comments is throwing a wobbly. Of course, this means that I will know for sure if no-one loves me any more.

Ten fairly interesting things about me

All's quiet on the baby front, and now that I no longer work in a public library I have no amusing library anecdotes to offer. So I'm falling back on that hoary old chestnut - the list of interesting 100 things. In my version however, there will only be ten, because I'm sure I can't think of 100 interesting things (nothing that I'd tell you all about anyway)...

1. I used to wear coke-bottle-bottom spectacles. Then I put my eyes through huge amounts of suffering i.e. contact lenses, before getting corrective laser surgury. So, in a way, I have already succumbed to the Extreme Makeover dream.

2. I bought my house when I was twenty four, and I only did it to get out of living at home. My mother was so upset at my imminent departure from her walls that, when the real estate agent turned up to collect my deposit on the new house, she harangued him at the front doorway for half an hour. Meanwhile, I hid in my bedroom and only appeared when I started feeling sorry for him.

3. I'm allergic to house-dust mite poo, cats and mould. Food allergens include chicken, carrots and eggs. But I eat ice cream and cake anyway.

4. Someone (male) once bought me a sex toy, on a whim. It's now so well-hidden that I must remember to throw it away before the boy and I start cleaning out the spare room/nursery.

5. Although I concede that Johnny Depp is quite a studly speciman of manhood, I only watch his movies because I think he chooses really good movies to be in. Except for The Man who Cried, which was extremely boring.

6. One of my all-time favourite movies is Don Juan de Marco, starring...Johnny Depp.

7. I must be one of the few people who have tried to read The Da Vinci Code and found it a load of rubbish.

8. Although I spent fifteen years of my working life in IT, I am hopeless when it comes to fixing anything to do with my computer. I also have trouble programming a VCR (any VCR, just pick one and I will be as confused as hell).

9. I'm only five feet tall, but the boy is six feet two. This is only a problem when we try to slow-dance. But it's a wonder that no-one has ever mistaken us for one of those dodgy white man/young Asian girl couples you see in Thailand or Sri Lanka.

10. When I was in primary school I was such a goody two-shoes that one afternoon, I was the only one who did not have to stay in after school. Okay I'm not proud of it, but it happened. And I've become less of an embarrassment since.

I have a (mostly) female brain

I did a version of this quiz in an Alan Pease book (Why men don't listen and women can't read maps), and was a little disturbed that my brain-gender score was way over in the male range. So it's a relief that I may not a male brain trapped in a female body after all.

Your Brain is 60.00% Female, 40.00% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve

What Gender Is Your Brain?

Napier sure is purdy...

Here y'go - some photos taken over the weekend.

Sort of LA-like; the road to and from Napier 

Another impressive view of Marine Parade 

A seal in a puddle at Marineland 

A nice little lily pond at the park 

Napier without a hat

Boy, was it hot.

It was so hot that I truly regretted forgetting to pack our sunhats.

It was so hot that our walks along Marine Parade only lasted about half an hour before we had to head back to our fan-cooled motel unit.

It was so hot that I decided to forgo the mini-golf, the only game I can beat the boy at.

Of course, now that we're back in the relative coolness of home, I miss the hot sun.

When we did get out though, we had a great time. We visited the National Aquarium to see all the fishies, watched performing sea mammals at Marineland and very nearly went swimming with the dolphins (they were booked out). We gave the Ocean Spa a miss because I'm not allowed to soak in hot water, otherwise it would've been a must-do.

It turned out that the boy was right about the affect of the One Day Cricket International - our first night was in a tiny, stuffy room in a bed 'n' breakfast (though it run by a lovely Dutch woman with cute kids and a white floppy-eared rabbit; it kinda made up for it), all that was available. But our next two nights were in a spacious beachfront motel unit just minutes from all the main attractions.

There were interesting sights on the way there and back, too. Like the windfarm at Woodville ("the windfarm capital of New Zealand), with the hynotic view of giant windmills twirling about on the ridge. And the fact that the welcome sign outside Dannevirke has a picture of a Viking on it. Did we have Vikings in New Zealand?

I just love being a tourist.

Cross-gender considerations before leaving for Napier

Well, it looks like we're going to go straight to Napier after all (yay!), and take the chance of a potential accomodation shortage. I'm hoping we can get something nice on The Parade, because according to the map there's a mini-golf course around there, as well as the Aquarium, the Museum and the Library (and the beach).

Whilst waiting for the boy to get ready for the big day ahead, I was reading The Green Fairy's latest post, which asks this question:

If you woke up one morning in the body of the opposite sex, what would you do?

After I'd gotten over freaking out completely, I would probably have to break the horrible news to the boy - before stealing some of his clothes.

Hopefully I'd be in the body of a tall man; if I were to stay five feet tall, my next concern would be to find a pair of platform shoes and a sports car.

I'd definitely want to take advantage of the higher metabolism that men generally have, and eat whatever I want (oh wait...that's what I've been doing for the last four months...) and stay up all night.

Then I'd have to start practising chatting up women (or men, if my sexuality stays the same) and acting like I know everything and care about nothing.

Napier or not

This post was going to be all about how much I'm looking forward to us taking off for Napier tomorrow. I think we may have been foiled though, by the international one day cricket match which is on tomorrow (don't ask me who's playing - probably NZ v.s. someone else). There could be a shortage of accomodation, and the place could be full of cricket hooligans with armloads of ammunition (for throwing at the opposition).

We should probably just go anyway - how many people could possible want to go to Napier to watch a cricket match, especially when there's national dragon-boating champs right here. Surely all the traffic will be heading in the opposite direction from us.

We could stop somewhere halfway along and then go on to Napier on Sunday - but there are only cow-poke towns between here and there as far as I can tell. We could go somewhere else entirely, but it took us so long to decide to go to Napier - there isn't enough time left this summer to think of an alternative.

An artist's life

I had a chat today with someone I know from life drawing classes, back when I used to do them. He's what I would call your classic artist, by which I mean that he's very passionate about his art to the point where he has little interest in anything else. Just like that old guy whom Carrie went out with, in the last episodes of Sex and the City.

I really admired his focus and his belief in himself and his work. But I sure couldn't live the way he does.

The fact is, I'm more of a dabbler - both in ability and in interest. That, and the fact that I'm still working on my self-confidence, make me the polar opposite of my artist acquaintence.

It must take a lot of self-belief to continue being a full-time artist who does not manage to sell a single item after 500 people have been through your studio in one weekend. He's still into it, and refuses to change his style and produce more trendy work. Good for him.

Yet more baby clothes

I brought home the first lot of borrowed baby clothes the other day, which my mum had thoughtfully washed for me. On the one hand I feel like I'm tempting fate by gathering all those little pants, shirts, cardigans and all-in-one suits when I'm still less than halfway through gestation. On the other hand maybe that's just me being superstitious and I may as well starting transporting them while I'm not to big to drive.

And speaking of baby clothes - punky baby clothes in particular - I see that the fashion pages of today's DominionPost includes a sample of some cute items which are available here in NZ. Rock Your Baby has mostly cutesy gear, but I did like the Little Anarchist t-shirt/beanie/etc (25 bucks Australian or 27 bucks New Zealand) and the Funky Little Dude set (30 bucks Aus. or 32 bucks NZ). A little more accessible to non-punks like myself, and a whole lot less expensive too.

Well, that's all from me - I'm off to move my bum muscles.

When sitting is not restful

It's got to be a pregnancy thing, yet I haven't come across this affliction in any of the literature nor have I seen it written on any blog posts relating to pregnancy.

I cannot sit down for more than twenty minutes without getting a sore bum.

This afternoon at work I just caught myself in time before I started to groan with discomfort. I'm sure it's not a good look to be groaning at work (unless one is a professional tennis player).

It's also affecting my evenings and days off, because three of my favourite activities involve sitting for long periods of time - reading and writing blogs, watching tv and DVDs, and reading.

Aside from frequent bum massages (the boy is usually happy to oblige, but only if I ask him at home), I don't know how to solve this one. Standing is worse, and lying down is so...slothful.

Babies at the movies

Apparently, there is a cinema which encourages mums to take their screaming, crying and squawking babies. This is a good thing, if it stops them from attend screenings in which the patrons actually want to hear what's going on.

If this idea is picked up in my town, I'll probably give it a go - but only if it's a movie I'm not itching to see, and don't mind paying not to hear.

Punk clothes for babies

The boy is showing signs for true cluckiness at last - he has sent me a link to a site which specialises in baby gear with a punk/goth/metal theme. The Cradle Rocks based in Seattle (and you thought Seattle was boring, Jon?), so I'm surprised there wasn't anything even remotely grungy.

I've never been into punk, goth or metal; I was more into the jangly guitars of the Flying Nun label (e.g. The Chills, Frally). But the boy has often mentioned his spell in a punk rock band and his Goth youth, so I had to at least have a squizz at what's on offer.

I have to say that I found the G is for Goth raglan long-sleeve t-shirt very cute, the Punk Rock pants adorable and the Tattoo Print lounge shirt really quite appealing.

Backpacker extraordinaire

...or so I would be if I'd been to every part of every country shaded on this map. For instance, I've been to Seattle and San Francisco but the whole of the USA gets filled in with red. Still, impressive-looking isn't it? (Found at Single Skirtedly).


create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

Freebies for me

There was a huge street carnival in town last weekend.
Of course, we missed most of it.

We did wander through after lunch, but we didn't actually see much; there was a thrash band, a DJ, a less-thrashy band and several food stalls. (Once upon a time food stalls were special, because they sold ethnic food you couldn't get otherwise, unless it was cooked at home. Nowadays though, Chinese, Thai, Malaysian and Indian eateries are more common than fish 'n' chip shops. I can't see the point in going out of my way to buy stuff from a street stall when I know very well I can eat the same thing in more comfort any day of the week.)
Oh, and there were lots and lots of people. I kept wondering what the hell all these people were there for - surely not just the live music and the opportunity to balance a plate of curry on one's lap.

So the only thing we had to show for an hour's worth of squeezing between bodies, was a packet of panty liners.

See, there was a woman giving them out to selected females in the crowd. Hopefully it didn't mean that she thought I could really do with a couple - that'd be something for the insecure wouldn't it? "Use these little mini-nappies and no-one will notice you're leaking like a tap"

As it happens - and sorry if you're eating right now - apparently at this stage in my pregnancy I can expect to just run like the proverbial water-sqirter, both nasally and down there. So I'm keeping them pant liners, just in case.

I went to visit my mother yesterday, and there was a huge bag of baby clothes in the dining room for me to pick up. It was really nice of my brother and his partner to loan them to us although it's a little early. But I'm not allowed to do any heavy lifting, so I'll divide it into about six shopping bags, and take a couple of bags each time I visit. Perhaps they didn't arrive too early after all.

Hugs and kisses

Some people are huggers - when they meet friends they give great big bear hugs. Other people are kissers - they either kiss you on one cheek, or go all Continental and kiss you on both cheeks, or maybe even kiss you on the lips. People in my family are neither - it doesn't matter if you're going overseas for two years, you aren't going to get anything touchy-feely from the family. Hugging and kissing comes so unnaturally that I just tend not to do it to platonic friends.

Over time, I have become better at reciprocating displays of affection. But now I find it hard to predict whether someone is going to hug me or kiss me, and how I should "reply". Because if I try to hug someone whose about to give me a peck on the cheek - or vice versa - messy lipstick stains could ensue.

And here's another thing - if you know someone is about to kiss you on the cheek, do you kiss them on the cheek at the same time (which means one of you is going to miss), or just after (requiring speed and agility)? Or do you just take the kiss and not give back?

These, and other questions, plagued me last night when I attended a big dinner for an old friend of my brother's. This friend has been living in France for years, so he does the Continental kiss. The rest of the crowd - the ones who know me, anyway - alternated between huggers and cheek-peckers. Until the conversations started, I was a little out of my element.

Boys and girls at school

I really don't get why it is seen as such a problem that girls are doing much better than boys at school.

Once they leave school or university, you can be bloody sure that the boys'll be earning more money than the girls anyway.

Fun with avatars

Last night we went to a cyberformance - a piece of theatre performed by four artists based around the world called Avatar Body Collision (isn't that just the coolest name?). Their work is based on the interesting concept that you don't have to be in the same geographic location as your fellow performers - or even in the same location as your audience.

At last night's show, Swim - an excercise in remote intimacy, there was one performer on stage, one at a "secret Wellington location", one in the UK and one in Finland - all interacting in real time using visual chat software.

We watched a shortened and cynical version of Hero and Leander, "one of the greatest love stories of all time", and a happy-fied version of New Zealand's own Hinemoa and Tutanekai (also "one of the greatest love stories of all time").

The best bit for me though, was watching an artist in one frame/location seemingly kiss an artist in another frame/location, leaving a nice big lipstick stain.

* Ooooh look, I'ved edited yesterday's post to include a whole bunch of helpful links for NZ-challenged readers...

Three nights, four days

The boy and I decided it was high time we took a long weekend away again, in a couple of weeks' time. I didn't want to go to Rotorua for the umpteenth time, because we've seen most of the touristy places at least once (the geysers, the hot mud pools, buried Maori villages...). Usually the big draw for us is to find a motel which has private thermally heated hot pools, and spend our evenings in one. This time around though, the hot pools are off-limits for me.

So I thought that this time we could go to Napier.

Reasons to go to Napier:
- The boy has never been there before
- Its known for its Art Deco architecture, as the place was rebuilt in 1931 after a massive earthquake
- The weather is usually nice
- The area is covered in wineries (good for the boy) and orchards (good for me)
- It's not as far away as Rotorua, therefore the boy is less likely to get grouchy from all the driving (especially if I forget to pack the beer again)
- We can get there without flying (which the boy hates) or boating (which makes me nauseous - I've had enough of that in the last four months)

Reasons not to stay:
- It's where some schoolboys got done for inserting a broomstick into their classmate's bottom
- I have relatives there. Sooner or later, I'd bump into them and have to make small talk - maybe even visit them
- It's smaller than where we live, therefore will offer less to do at night
- Scenically speaking, it wouldn't hold a candle to most holiday spots in the South Island

No doubt we'll be on the lookout for Internet cafes once we get there.

a rose is a rose...unless that's not her name

When I first started my last job, I kept calling my workmate Raewyn by the wrong name. Every time I called her Jan though, she eventually would respond - without correcting me. It must have been weeks before I realised, and only after I heard someone else call her by the correct name.

Today I did a similar thing, except in a way it was much worse. Worse, because the person I was offending was an external person, someone from whom I was requesting free booklets and stuff. Worse also because we were corresponding by email, and her name was clearly laid out under each reply. It was really embarrassing.

I think I'll blame the old pregnancy hormones. I didn't think to do it at the time, when I wrote my apology to her - but then that opens up the where-do-I-draw-the-line-with-broadcasting-my-pregnancy can of worms, anyway.

Just a little prick: the amnio

Up until yesterday afternoon, it wasn't the procedure I'd been worried about, but the potential results of the amnio. But as it got closer and closer to the time of my appointment, I became more and more tense. I'm not sure why, though knowledge of the 1:200 chance of having a miscarriage resulting from having a long needle poked into my womb, may have influenced things. The boy was wonderfully supportive. He took the day off work and took me out to lunch beforehand (to my huge relief, there was no need for me to have a full bladder before the procedure). Not that it was particularly enjoyable for him, since apparently I was wearing a very anxious expression on my face the whole time.

The operation took fifteen minutes, from preparation to my getting off the table. First there was a scan (this time the baby actually looked like a baby) to show the doctor where to put his needle; then my abdomen was swabbed with something really cold (probably a local anaesthetic); then I saw a long, pointy needle and stopped watching.

What I felt though, was a sharp prick going through two layers (the skin and the muscle?), followed by a something warm being sucked up through a thin tube. It was all quite uncomfortable, and it was an effort for me to breathe; I was scared that if I let my diaphragm move in and out, I'd accidentally poke my foetus in the eye or something.

I was a bit stunned afterwards; vulnerable, fragile and traumatised even. I can't explain why, except that I'd just had a long needle poked into my womb and some of its insides sucked out. Anyway, that's all over now, until we get the results back.

nudity as art

As someone who once avidly attended life drawing sessions, I used to get a few jokey comments about whether any of the other artists (I use this word in the loosest meaning, since the term includes myself) turned up just to perve. My rebut was always that you never knew what kind of model you would get - one evening it would be a male dancer, another an over-endowed, middle-aged woman. People who went to perve would be disappointed most of the time.

Anyway, what I was getting around to was these two articles in this morning's Stuff. The first one is about Koko the sign-language-speaking gorilla's interest in women's breasts. The other one is about a strip club which has got around local anti-nudity laws by pretending to be some kind of life-drawing studio.

Still awaiting 'the glow'

All the books say that in the second trimester I can expect my complexion to get really good - no oiliness, no dryness, just good old clear glowing skin.

Well, I'm in my second trimester now, and I'm still waiting. I can see now that it's one of those promises which I could wait the rest of my life for, without ever coming true.

I'm still waiting for that feeling of self-assurance and confidence which was supposed to come when I hit thirty.

Hell, I'm still waiting for that teenage growth spurt which was supposed to save me from years of peeking through tall people's legs at outdoor concerts.

Not only is my face suffering from the ravages of last-minute acne and eczema flare-ups, but in the shower this morning I found a network of fine pink lines running across my abdomen. Not so much linea nigra (a dark line running down your torso) as multiple linea rosa. I think they might be stretch marks, dammit.

Saturday night at the movies

I think it was the boy's way of making up for not really celebrating Valentine's Day (our first Valentine's Day together, he bought me a card and twelve long-stemmed roses; this year he bought me a card before sodding off to his role-playing evening). On Saturday he finally agreed to accompanying me to see Finding Neverland.

It was almost surprising that the boy enjoyed Finding Neverland, because there aren't any comic book heroes in the film - nor any violence to speak of. (But he has shown an occasional appreciation of fine film-making; he just seems to prefer the other stuff.) It was much sadder than I'd expected. The surreptitious eye-wiping started barely half-way into the movie, and with my hormones in the state they were I was deeply glad that I didn't have a mascara habit. The boy who played Peter was excellent, and possibly out-acted both Johnny and Kate. Johnny Depp's attempt at a Scottish accent was a miserable failure though. He could have tried taking lessons from Mike Myers, and ended up sounding Glaswegian - but that's better than sounding Irish. And he did better than Dustin Hoffman, who just sounds American.

Apart from that particular flaw, it was really good.

A beginners guide to the occult

Ever since I took Classics 201: Greek Mythology, back in my early student days, I've been intrigued with the connection between myths and the psyche. I remember the lecturer relating the story of Oedipus Rex with Freud's Oedipus Complex, and my assignment on all the little folk tales which made up the Robin Hood legend.

One of the regular customers at the library where I used to work was highly interested in mythology too. She recommended a book called The Golden Bough, by Sir James George Frazer; it would be right up my alley. After months of checking in on the local second hand bookshops, I finally found it. First published in the late 1800's, the one I have is a single-volume 1961 reprint. It's relatively easy to read - obviously Frazer wasn't trying to out-academe the academics when he wrote it. I'm only into the first chapter, but already I'm learning just how prevalent voodoo-type magic was.

The boy seemed to be quite pleased that I'd bought the book - apparently back in the UK he made a point of frequenting the bookshops of Hay-on-Wye to add to his own extensive collection of books on the occult.

Perhaps I can be the Willow to his Giles/Spike? Nah.

The triumph of the bargain hunter (also a lady of leisure)

I realise now that I've been shopping for preggy clothes in the wrong places. The first shops I went to have turned out to be the most expensive so far, and today I found two shops which are far less taxing on my credit card. Best of all, one of those shops has a discount outlet at Dressmart, which means that I found a pair of maternity jeans for twenty five measly dollars. Twenty five measly dollars! Just to give you an indication of how excitingly cheap that is, these jeans are more than one hundred dollars cheaper than the pair I've been wearing up till now. Even the non-discount price was half of what I paid for the ones I've been wearing. This kind of thing always makes me feel such an idiot for not having shopped around in the first place. It's also made me kinda happy to have found the right places to shop.

I think I'm experiencing a form of empty nest syndrome. Now that I'm working three days a week and not studying any more, I have lots more time to do other things. But I spent a whole year being too busy to do anything other than work and study, so I'm really not used to having all this free time. Today I slept in, did the laundry, went shopping for clothes and read blogs. Later I'll watch last night's episode of The Guardian and when the boy gets home from work this evening we'll watch some episodes of Firefly (thanks for lending us the DVDs, Make Tea Not War - what a pal!). I really meant to be more constructive with my time, like working on my travel diary scrapbook and reading books about stuff which I want to learn without actually signing up for any courses (mythology, art history, philosophy). But the time I get around to doing these things I might be already knee-deep in baby poo. I hope not.

An embarrassing incident involving cherry tomatoes

I was sitting there on a bench in a crowded and trendy street, munching on my home-made cheese 'n' lettuce 'n' tomato roll. They were cherry tomatoes, sweet and juicy and placed in the sandwich in halves.

It was the third or fourth bite that did it - tomato guts squirted all over my face, my chest and my lap. Who would have thought that such little fruit could contain so many seeds? Or that those seeds would be so hard to remove? They sure are sticky little buggers. Wiping had no effect at all on my clothes, so I had to pick them out of my top and skirt one at a time. It really took a long time, because I just kept finding more and more. I even found one under my left boob - how could it have got there? I'm sure I risked looking as though I was having a quick fondle in public; I had no choice but to manhandle them in order to ensure there weren't any more.

So that's another thing to add to my list of lunch ingredients to beware of; the other one is corn in your toasted sandwich - those kernels are hot.


p.s. in case you needed to know, tomato juice left in your clothing is completely visible to the naked eye.

A telltale heart

Today the boy accompanied me to my second appointment with the midwife. Never again will I agree to an evening appointment - we got there at 5.15pm for a 5.20 appointment, and had to amuse ourselves with months-old Women's Weekly magazines until 6pm. And me with my out-of-control hayfever, too.

Once we got to go in, I felt I should try to take up as much of her time as possible, because after all that's what all the other couples must have done, eh? (It's irrational I know, and I can't blame it on the pregnancy hormones either).

There wasn't a weigh-in, which surprised me because it's mentioned in the prenatal section in all the books. It's probably just as well though, since it's easier to think I've put on a kilo than to find out for sure that I've put on three.

Then came the really exciting part. We got to hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time. It was so much better than looking at the blob in my first scan, because it was so much more recognizable. Foetal heartbeats must be pretty quick, because this one sounded like he/she was having a workout.

This was the moment when it really struck home that there's a little life there in my burgeoning belly.

A dentist I can relate to

My mother really wanted to have someone look at her set of dentures, and being the kind of woman she is, she also wanted to try a new dentist. I had to call every dentist in town who had a Chinese-looking surname, and ask the receptionist whether he or she could speak Cantonese. If only it were as simple as looking through all the Wongs in the white pages.

We did find one; in fact one whose father used to be one of my mother's neighbours. The new dentist was cheerful and patient (perhaps knowing you can charge sixty bucks for fifteen minutes work will do that), and apparently was quite accustomed to dealing with the foibles of elderly Chinese people i.e. people who, decades ago, thought nothing of getting all of their own teeth replaced with falsies just because you could; people who would rather suffer gum disease followed by loss of teeth rather than pay for regular check-ups; people who will turn the simplest task into living hell for their offspring who has to be there to translate. The dentist knew which course of action would appeal to my mother the most, because it's what all his elderly Chinese patients prefer i.e. a quick and reasonably priced fix.

The way he talked about his dad and his elderly relatives, I felt "I can sooo relate to this". I could've stayed and shared elderly parent anecdotes with him all afternoon, except I wouldn't have been able to afford his time.

I was a bit grumpy when I realised I would have to drive over to my mum's in the morning in order to pick up her dentures and drop them off at the dentist's for fixing - she gets to eat properly tonight but tomorrow's lunch will have to be gummed. Then I got worried that the grumpiness was another sign that I'm turning into my mother, so I stopped.

From the sea

Here's a name which both the boy and I liked: Morgan.

It's Welsh, which is good because the boy has Welsh origins.
It's suitable for either sex (though according to one website, it's a girl's name and according to another, it's a boy's name.
Morgan means "bright dweller from the sea", which is good, because hopefully the little one will be bright, and we do live close to the sea.

But wait, there's more.

According to this site, Morgan will grow up to
"...have great self-confidence and a charming personality which attracts many friends and admirers. Your innate sense of personal power and ability to lead are ideally suited to positions of authority. Being so versatile and seeing the big picture your ambitions are high and much is usually expected of you. With patience and tenacity you will certainly fulfill the great potential you have for success."

I have to admit a slight disappointment in not finding any magical references in the name though. I know of the name as that of the Arthurian sorceress, Morgan le Fay, but apparently she was invented much later than than original name.

But wait...there's still more...
I tried out that last link to find out what my own name says about me:
"Very much the individual you have enormous energy and vision and must find a suitable use for your talents. You have great potential for success in business if you can guard against indecision and worry. Your generous nature means that you are never short of friends and with cooperation your relationships can be very rewarding. Perseverance and firm decision making will ensure you achieve your objectives."

(I have to say that it is certainly absolutely correct about my "indecision and worry".)

another post about clothes, plus some thoughts on baby names

Last night I had a good look at the maternity clothes which my brother's partner had saved up for me. Some of it looked pretty promising, but the shorts were depressingly large - depressing because she seemed so sure I'd actually fit into them one day. Well it looks like I'm going to be okay for really big shirts and skirts, though the search for suitable swimwear continues. Next week I'll have a look at K-Mart and see if I can't get something large in lycra.

Whilst waiting for the boy to finish browsing in the computer games shop, I had a look in the nearby bookshop and chanced upon something I thought I'd never see - a magazine called Cosmopolitan Pregnancy. Along with the week-by-week gestation countdown and beauty tips to go with "the glow", there were a lots of pages of fashion. It was just like the normal Cosmo, but without the sex tips (I guess it's assumed you must be getting some already).

Since Jon brought up the question of a name for the bun in my oven, I've been thinking about boys' and girls' names. I quite like "Lilith" if it's a girl, though it wouldn't exactly roll off my mother's tongue (or that of anyone else who can only pronounce English with a strong Cantonese accent). The boy likes tree names like "Willow" and "Rowan", because to him trees have a magical meaning. (I supposed that "Pohutokawa" and "Cabbabge Tree" would be out of the question, and I was right.) As for boys' names, we couldn't agree on a single one (sorry Jon).

A friend of mine sent me the link to a page which has some truly fascinating (yet somehow extremely unappealing) names, here. Perhaps it can be viewed as a list of name to be avoided like the proverbial plague.

cruel tv stations

The Guardian is one of my favourite tv shows, but TVNZ have decided to shift it from it's usual 8.30pm timeslot to 11.30pm. That's even later than the timeslot for Firefly. And the show they are putting in it's place is the boring outback soap opera McLeod's Daughters, about a bunch of attractive young women in the outback and the men they love...(suppressing a snort and a yawn).

With Firefly, we got around the fact that programing our VCR doesn't always work by asking (very nicely, with bribes) to borrow the entire series on DVD from some friends. But there's not much chance that our mostly-SF/Fantasy-friendly friends will have The Guardian on DVD. I will have to be more forceful about getting the boy to remember to put the VCR recorder on, on Thursday nights.

I'm so pissed off I might even send TVNZ a letter to complain.

But on the other hand...I did enjoy Lost, even though we completely missed the pilot episode. Although it did seem a bit like Survivor without the prize. And what's this about a plane leaving from Sydney being mostly full of Americans? And if it is mostly full of Americans, how come there's only one fat person in the whole show?

neither glutton-free nor fat-free

Today I got to attend a board meeting; apart from the board members who came in from all over the country, most of the people at my office were there. Being a newbie, it was a day of listening and trying to remember people's names, rather than one in which I could actually contribute anything useful.

Lunch and morning and afternoon teas were provided; a boon for a snacker like myself who also can't turn down free food. It was a bit unlucky that I couldn't eat most of the lunch offerings though - I had to pass up the various cold meats (for fear of the dreaded listeria) and my egg allergy stopped me from trying the quiche. I had to make do with tons of salad and very generous portions of hokey-pokey ice cream and fruit salad. The cakes and fresh fruit in the afternoon was so nice that I wished I was one of those uninhibited people who just do whatever the hell they want without worrying what others think of them. But I'm not, so I didn't gorge myself, or sneak food away in my pocket. And to top off this veritable foodfest, the meeting went on so long that I didn't get around to getting my walk in. I hope baby doesn't mind that his mum's been a glutenous slob today.

Happy Chinese New Year

I already have my greeting card to give to Mum, who will no doubt have a red packet full of cash to give me in return (I'm sure one reason why Chinese parents are keen to marry off their offspring is to avoid having to give them lucky money indefinitely). It's surely a sign of the times when you can buy Chinese New Year greeting cards at the local bookshop, eh? I mean - this city doesn't even have a Chinatown.

It's really quite a low-key festival (that is, as celebrated by Chinese as opposed to those white folks' "celebrating diverse cultures" tourist traps) compared to Hong Kong. You're supposed to have a ton of food lying around for all the visitors you're going to get, and you're also supposed to spend as much time as possible visiting other families and eating their food. In my family it's limited to having a bit of dinner (which has been postponed till Friday) and giving out lucky money. Nothing too stressful...

...which apparently it is in China. Some poor people had to do their own cleaning for a whole day because their maid took the day off.

What's happened to my knees?

I had a fruitless search through the local preggie-wear shop for a light summer dress - there's a summer sale on but of course if it's in my size then either I don't want it or someone else just bought the last one. I also went into one of the large second-hand clothes shops, but no luck there either. Second-hand shopping really takes a lot more patience than I ever have when I'm looking for something in particular.

In this kind of heat, and with this much difficulty in finding something that fits right and doesn't make me look like one of Trinny and Susannah's fashion criminals, it's no wonder that some women resort to tents and kaftans. I can almost feel the desperation coming on.

Hopefully my brother's partner will have some preggie gear saved by which I can borrow. She's a different height and a different colouring, but most preggie stuff I've seen is black anyway and I can just promise not to shorten anything permanently (she has enough three-quarter length pants).

In the meantime I finally found an old sundress which I bought years ago. It's too short really, but it's cool to wear and should be fine as long as I don't wear it out in public. I really don't remember my knees looking quite to pudgy in it though. I sincerely hope that, whether it's fat or water retention, it's temporary.

Does anyone else think Cherie Blair looks freakishly similar to Sharon Osbourne?

procrastinations

Tonight's is my last class, maybe even my last ever class if I don't get enthused about re-starting the study next year. All the same, I still have a ton of really boring readings, full of unfeasibly large words, to get through before it's really over and I can truly call my workless days free. There's also the very last assignment to finish and hand in on Wednesday night.

And that is why I've spent last night and today watching Fahrenheit 9/11 (especially depressing to watch post-Bush's re-election), vacuuming, reading a glossy women's magazine, finishing a Buffy novel (The wisdom of war - a good read if you're a Buffy fan), reading blogs and walking around like I've got a hangover (I haven't of course - I'm just groggy from the heat'n'humidity).

The boy told me that your brain shrinks in pregnancy because your body's energy is going straight to the baby. This explains an awful lot.

a Chinese New Year surrogate

Chinese New Year is a much bigger deal these days, at least among the non-Chinese. For the last few years it's been marked by food and craft stalls, a parade and entertainment. I don't usually bother attending these events, seeing as they're merely commercially-oriented and aimed at the white folks. We did go out last night to watch the fireworks though, just 'cos I love watching fireworks. The spectacle lasted about half an hour, which is actually a really long time (especially if you're standing up). There were fireworks which produced heart shapes and spirals, fireworks which looked like a swarm of mosquitos and lots of noise and smoke. In fact there was so much smoke, and so little wind to blow it away, that afterwards the whole of the city centre was enveloped in the stuff. It's how I'd imagine San Francisco to look like on one of it's famous foggy days.

Meanwhile, our planned family New Year dinner has been canned because my brother and his family have pulled out. His mother-in-law is in town and somehow this means that they will be far too busy to celebrate what I thought was quite an important day for my mother. Whatever.

Oh yeah, and I just realised that the boy is a Rooster. I'd better find out whether Roosters and Dragons are compatible.

My abdomen is not public property, and other thoughts

The other day, someone I'd only met for the second time ever (and who'd just found out I was pregnant) wanted to touch my tummy. No bloody way. He wasn't my doctor or my midwife so I really don't see what right he had to to feel my bump. I leaped away, just out of his reach, and chided him in (I hope) a jokey manner.

I wasn't quite so quick this morning when my gym trainer came by to see how the mum-to-be was doing. She was lightning fast, this one, and wouldn't have gotten away with it if she weren't a middle-aged woman.

Hey, it's my stomach, people. You wouldn't dare do it if I weren't expecting, would you?

At the pool I often see women bring their young sons into the women's changing room. This is fair enough if they're aged four or younger I suppose. But I wonder whether any men have been game enough to take their young daughters with them to the men's changing room? Somehow it sounds a lot more threatening, eh?

I've found that the library in town has put it's collection of Buffy and Angel novels all together. This is great, because they're written by various people so this makes them so much easier to find. Thank you, ** Library. After next Wednesday I will be totally free of library school concerns (at least until I'm ready to go back), so my free time will soon be filled with Buffyverse tales.

I've only tried four Buffy/Angel titles so far, but I've noticed that some writers sure are better at writing them than others. Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder go to the top of the class, Scott and Denise Ciencin will require another workshop on how to write an interesting story.

I can't believe it

Oh my Gawd....I just checked the blog stats and I had 306 views yesterday. This is a huge jump from forty or so only a week ago. I swear I haven't used the word "sex" in any post for ages - oops.

Thank the gods I have double-fold eyelids!

If the boy weren't so good with sending me tidbits now and then, I wouldn't have many links to bring to your attention. He's surpassed himself today, with a lesson in Japanese on how to give your eyes a Western look. With the clever application of a bit of glue, you too can avoid the cost of getting blepharoplasty (that's if you have the classic Asian single-fold lids, which I don't).

You'll need Macromedia Flash to see this wee movie, but I really recommend you watch it (and turn on your speakers if you can understand Japanese). It made me go "Eeeerrrrgggghhhh!"

Hello, I live in an oven

As though to punish us all for complaining about the crappy weather all the way through December (and most of January), lately it's been so hot I don't even want to go outside. But I usually do anyway on the days I'm at work, because the office isn't air-conditioned and we have to make do with a single fan which my manager brought in from home and a few windows which can be opened a few inches each. What makes it harder to put up with is knowing that I mustn't let my body temperature get high for long or I will "cook the baby" (those are the exact words spoken by the gym instructor who gave me a preggy programme).

I suffered a bit on the walk home too, because I had neglected to bring my hemp sunhat - the sunhat which makes the boy look like a dopehead (handsome though he is) and which squishes very conveniently into my small bag.

I must stop complaining. No doubt it will bring on a severe cold snap which breaks all records for the last fifty years or something. I'll go swimming - just as soon as I get myself a swimsuit which fits my expanded body and yet still makes me look like a movie star (yeah, right).

Or maybe I'll go get some ice cream.

The end of The Office

It took several weeks of watching only when the boy was out or busy, but I did it - I have finished watching the complete Series One and Two of The Office. Fortunately, I have never worked with anyone as annoying as Gareth (I think) and I've never had to kow-tow to a manager as pitifully unfunny as David Brent. This probably why I thoroughly enjoyed the show, while the boy couldn't watch it without emitting groans of recognition.

I hadn't managed to see the second series while it was first broadcast on television so it was a complete surprise to see Dawn and Tim get together. That scene in the taxi when Dawn opened up her Secret Santa gift, and it's a set of oil paints from Tim - it made me go all teary. Although...that might have been the hormones.

And shockingly enough, even the Brentmeister finds a girlfriend. A woman who is both physically attractive and nice actually finds him funny and wants to see him again. Surely that's a message of hope for even the saddest loser.

I haven't yet played the David Brent music CD. It may have to wait until I find a way to secretly put a small - but effective - speaker in the Noisy Neighbour's house. It's a revenge thing.

Why it's no good comparing yourself with other people

The Information Management department at university hosted one of it's end-of-trimester pizza lunches today (that means free food and drink), and for the first time since I've been a student there I could actually attend.

One of my fellow students is knocked up too, and due about week after me. I was rather jealous to discover that she's maintained her slim figure, in contrast to the sudden explosion in my own physical size. She hasn't got an increased girth like I do, but our bumps are about the same size.

Afterwards I met up with one of my old work-mates from my IT days (it's turning out to be a sociable week for me); she confided that she and her hubby have been trying to conceive for around eight months now. Far from feeling better about myself though (it tooks us five months), this news only made me feel concerned for her.

So there you have it - people who seem better off than me make me feel worse, and so to people who seem worse off.

There's just no pleasing me.

This is why we need movie intermissions

The boy and I went to the movies yesterday, as it was too hot to go for a walk. I've been wanting to see Finding Neverland for ages now, but the boy was in the mood for a laugh so we chose to watch Team America instead.

It was true to the Southpark style of humour, although nothing in this movie could beat the Saddam/Satan romance in Southpark, the movie.

I really should have known that it would be a mistake to take a super-size drink into the movie with me, but I did it anyway. I slipped away at the beginning of what I expected to be a tender love scene between Lisa and the actor hero, thinking I'd just miss a bit of cheesy smooching. Apparently what I missed was a puppet montage of every porno sex scene I've never watched (and that's all of them).

Team America isn't good enough for me to want to see it twice, but now I'm really disappointed to have missed out on what could have been a moment of hilarity to rival the Santa-having-sex-in-the-dressing-room scene in Bad Santa.

a chicken run

Ever since my mum found out I was pregnant, she's been careful of how much shopping she gives me to carry. Normally, on a Sunday morning I'd take her to the produce market where she'd buy about half a dozen table hens (she REALLY likes chicken) and enough fresh vegetables to last her for the week. Nowadays, she still buys at least as much but now she makes me carry the stuff to my car over five or six trips. As far as she's concerned, she's helping me to avoid the heavy lifting while at the same time increasing the amount of exercise I do.

This week she wanted the poultry stallholder to save her some live chickens for next week. I nearly translated the whole request for her before remembering what a horrible pain in the arse it is to transport live chickens. And in my condition, too. I argued loudly and convincingly; I reminded her of how hard it is to carry a box full of scared fowl, held at arm's length to avoid the poo. I told her that there wouldn't be any room in the boot for both a bunch of beasts intent on escaping AND several bags of produce. Then I stamped my foot and went all red in the face and flatout refused. That worked.

Shopping for tents

Now that I'm too big for my normal clothes, though not oddly-shaped enough to justify wearing tents and mumus , I've been in a bit of a dilemma as to how I should dress myself. Basically there is one skirt, one pair of track pants, one pair of full length trousers and sever al tops which fit me, and that's it.

So I decided to check out the preggie clothes, just in case they have stuff that I can wear starting from now. I had visions of pants with big frontal pouches in my head as I went down the road to the local Baby Star shop. The prices were the main eye-opener. Sure, I expected a few designer items which only women with money to burn would purchase - but I was hoping for the K-Mart versions too, and there weren't any.

Fortunately there was a pre-loved rack and a sale bin.

Carefully avoiding the giant-sized nursing bras, I flicked through the (mainly black) tops and bottoms until I found a pair of capris, a pair of spangly denims (not my usual taste, but perhaps the hormones picked 'em) and a singlet-shorts all-in-one (again with the hormones?). My new super-stretchy and comfy gear cost me a total of forty-nine little buckaroos, surely a bargain when the full-priced capris cost twice that much.

I've always found the idea of wearing someone else's pre-sweated clothing slightly unattractive, but it is after all only a temporary wardrobe. Mind you, these'll make great fat-day clothes, post-baby.

doing lunch and strolling

It's really been a long time since I've been able to lunch with friends during the week. My last job was so far away from town that only friends visiting from overseas would bother to drop in to have lunch with me in my neck of the woods. Now I have two days per week in which I am free to lunch, and in a couple of weeks' time I won't have study to distract me. I'm so looking forward to being more socially busy.

Even getting to walk home from walk makes me happy. On a hot sunny day, going home now means working on my tan, getting fresh air and exercise, and saving a bus fare. In contrast, going home on a hot sunny day used to mean sitting in a hot, stuffy car for up to an hour.

On my walk home today I came across a group of Semi-clad Teenage Girls. This particular sub-culture is guaranteed to turn the heads of males, whether they are schoolboys or middle-aged builders with bum cleavage. Not that I disapprove - simply that next to Semi-clad Teenage Girls I feel old and frumpy, especially now. A glimmer of hope lies in the high probability that they will grow up to be old tarts.

The fear, the tiredness and the sleep deprivation (and that's just the first trimester)

Thanks to everyone who left me nice messages about my impending motherhood. Such positive feedback only encourages me to go into the gory details (so if you're bored by what follows then you only have yourselves to blame)...

I'm due in early August, which means that if I gamely work through until the baby is ready to pop out then I'll just qualify for the state-paid maternity leave (hooray). It'll be a Rooster; perhaps mini-me will grow up to run a restaurant.

The worse things so far have been:
1. Eating uncontrollably - one week it was a box of chocolates, the next it was several days' worth of leftover Christmas turkey. This, combined with an appropriately toned-down gym programme, has meant that I am already too fat for most of my trousers and skirts.
2. Frequently feeling over-heated, dehydrated and way too mentally busy to sleep at night.
3. The first scan. I was warned about the discomfort of having to arrive at the clinic with a full bladder, but I didn't realise it would feel like a white folks' equivalent of ancient Chinese water-torture (which is probably a Japanese invention - the Cantonese would simply nag you to death). I will never forget the severe pressure which my pelvic floor muscles were under, while the clinician pressed the scan-thing into my just-about-ready-to-burst bladder. My bladder still has not forgiven me.

Also, it's meant that I won't be enrolling in any library studies courses this year. I'm going to have enough to worry about. So, at least for a while, this is not going to be the blog of a librarian-in-training, but rather the blog of a lady-in-waiting.

I'm excited and happy. But I still find those full-frontal birth pictures more than a little scary.

Mini-me, maybe

So, you might be wondering how my first day at my new job went.

The people are nice, the work is interesting and the location is close to several good cafes and clothes shops. It is pretty stuffy in the office, though, and it was hard to fight the urge to squirt water all over my head just to get cool.

Oh, yeah - I also had to tell my new boss some awkward news. I'm pregnant.

Go Wayne!

Apparently the latest work from my ex-photography tutor (back in my short-lived art-student days) is causing a bit of strife with the local Jewish community. Sure, there are swastikas in his works, but he's right in the fact that, before the Nazis appropriated it, it was a Hindu symbol of peace. When I was in Bali years ago there were still hotels named after this symbol, and these guys sure as hell weren't Nazi sympathisers or anti-Zionists. He probably couldn't have chosen a better example to illustrate his statement about the mis-appropriation of cultural symbols.

I haven't seen the exhibition mentioned, but I have seen some of his other works and this I know for sure. Wayne Youle is a stirrer.

My creative neighbourhood

The boy and I ventured over the road to a house party last night. It was a very un-wild affair, which is what you expect when the hosts, and most of the guests, haven't seen thirty in a long time. Nevertheless, we both had lots of fun. I got to catch up old friends, including one who is three months away from being a dad for the first time and another who seems to be playing the field at the ripe old age of 43. The boy got to meet the hosts for the first time even though they've been living mere metres away for a couple of years now.

It turned out that the boy and E. share an interest in poetry. While the boy had a couple of poems published back in the UK, E. is wondering how to get his own poems out in the world. His wife is also artistic - she's a photographer.

There're quite a few artistic people living around my street. H. next door was a playwright and is now a cyberformer (on-line performance using chatroom software); J. across the road makes wearable art; next door is her is an abstract painter; then there was T. who I only got to know at her leaving party - she'd sold her house and moved to Wanganui to study art full-time. And I'm a creative blogger :-)

The end of the world might be nigher than I'd like to think

There was another earthquake early this morning, this time strong enough to make me whip off the bed covers and make for the bedroom door. The house stopped shaking as soon as I got there, but I've started to worry. There were apparently nine of the buggers on Wednesday - nine shakes in nine hours - are we on our way to The Big One after all? Even the boy was concerned enough to tell me that if there's another one like that today I'm to call him so he'll know I'm okay. I myself am concerned enough to call my mum and reminded her what she's supposed to do (crouch under the dining table, or stand under a door frame - but not too close to windows), though I'm sure she'd either forget in the panic or just forget 'cos she's old and forgetful.

Perhaps that's why I'm finding it especially hard to get going on my assignment this morning. Okay, probably not.

Tremors

That fact that I live on a faultline is easy to put to the back of my mind. Despite frequent reminders on television to Be Prepared, we still haven't gotten about to fastening all our large moveable objects so that they don't fall on us in the next big quake.

There was a series of quakes last night, some strong enough to make me consider ducking under the door frame (but not quite). It brought to mind a couple of earthquake stories from the past.

When I was in my teens, there was a big quake strong enough to make the coffee table (on which my brother and I were playing mini-table tennis) skid from one end of the lounge to the other.

Another time, still in my youth, the whole house shook so hard I really thought it was going to be the big one. And I was in the worse possible position for such an event. I was sitting on the toilet. I was agnostic then as well as now, but I prayed to God not to let me die with my pants around my ankles.

Several years ago, there was an earthquake while I was at work. The only person in the vicinity who didn't notice was an effervescent workmate who was jumping up and down in frustration (really).

It's not that I'm completely unprepared for the big, overdue earthquake-which-will-sink-the-North-Island. I still have my emergency box from the Year 2000 scare.

Silly stuff

I've just finished watching Zoolander for the umpteenth time; it's the best thing to do when trying to avoid doing any study. Choice picks for scenes to distract the mind are:
1. Derek and his male model flatmates having fun at the petrol station - a major piss-take of every Coke ad you ever seen in which hordes of beautiful young people have incredible fun (with added the explosion)
3. Derek after a hard day's work at the coal mine where his father and two brothers work, and the huge mound of used cotton pads after he's done cleaning the coal off his face
4. The walk-off between rival Derek and Hansel - the darker side of male modelling
5. Derek at the secret day spa, where he gets an unusually enjoyable massage from a strangely shaped woman
6. Derek and Hansel using their makeup know-how to disguise themselves as an intense yound black man and a cross-eyed Indian gentleman (I think) respectively

And as though life couldn't imitate art, there are sillier things in the US military it seems. Some of the strategies brain-stormed within the walls of the Pentagon include inventing an aphrodisiac to turn the enemy soldiers into raving homosexuals...

a frolic at the beach

Being the gorgeous day that it is, today seemed the perfect day to venture out to one of the nearby beaches. First we had to make a shopping trip to replace our mop (so that the boy would finally have no excuse to put off cleaning the kitchen floor), buy a new cover for the ironing board (so that ironing clothes would result in removing creases and not creating extra ones) and a large saw (to cut away the branches from Noisy Neighbour's tree, which are crowding out my poor wee lemon tree). Chores done, it was down to the nearest beach to get our feet wet in the surf.

The wind sure was up. The walk down to the water's edge was like a stroll past a row of sandblasters. But once we got there, it was just what I wanted - warm water lapping over my bare feet, with the occasional threat of getting the bottom of my trousers wet.

No chance of going in above the ankles though - the water around here is absolutely freezing all year 'round.

It's a beautiful day but I still hate my Noisy Neighbours

The neighbours on one side of us are cool, interesting, friendly and considerate. The neighbours on the other side of us are loud, inconsiderate and boorish. The Noisy Neighbours out there now with their equally boorish friends, laughing like imbeciles. They're smoking so much that the stink of it travels the ten metres around the corner and into my study if I open the window. Their radio is on loudly - it's almost tolerable when it's music, but surely the advertisments don't have to be at full blast do they? Grumble grumble...

The last day

It was quite timely, that my boss had scheduled our first team lunch since I've been working at the library, on my last day of work. In my absence, the rest of the team had voted to go to a local trendy cafe (even in this relatively un-trendy city, there are trendy cafes - well, at least two). This place was so trendy it had outdoor tables which weren't on the footpath.

I'd had my heart set on a warm Thai beef salad - something protein-y and salad-y. They didn't have any, but the vegetarian paninis were quite nice. So was the spider (a frothy concoction barely mixing ice-cream and cola), which took me back to my childhood when ice creams were five cents and you could buy two sweets for one cent.

It was a scorching hot day. Temperature-wise it only somewhere between 24 and 29 degrees Celsius, but around these ozone-less parts that's enough to fry even an olive-skinned local in ten minutes. Fortunately I was well-covered by a t-shirt, but my co-worker in the sundress is going to have a very uncomfortable hot shower tonight.

I was allowed to scoot off an hour early, on the understanding that this was to enable me to say my goodbyes to everyone. I'd actually only intended to say goodbye to whomever I saw on my way out, but I felt obliged to do the rounds and was rewarded by bear hugs and the kind of nice things people always say to you when they know they'll never have to lay eyes on you again (really folks, it's been nice). Then it was time to go to the art supplies shop and spend my gift voucher.

Buying paints, canvases and stuff didn't appeal because I knew I wasn't going to get around to using them; they'd just sit next to the paints and canvases I already have, indefinitely. So I decided to get some scrapbooking gear and use it to turn my travel diaries into a book.

After buying custom-cut book covers, acid-free plastic sleeves, special glue and acid-free photo stick-y things, I had enough credit left over to purchase some yummy dark red handmade paper with diamond-y bits on it (very India)- to cover the cover - and a greeting card with a photo of spices on it (also very India). Now that I have it at home, I almost can't wait to get stuck in. But first there're those pesky MLIS assignments to start and finish.

The post-Firefly pre-last-work-day morning tea

Even though my last day at work is tomorrow, my morning tea was this morning (no, I didn't schedule a doctor's appointment on my last day at work on purpose).

The last woman who resigned received a voucher for a facial as her leaving gift; exactly what she'd wanted. I wondered whether anyone at work knew me well enough to get me something as appropriate. Well, I got a voucher for an art supplies shop. This is great, even though I haven't painted for almost a year now - but it's redeemable only in that one shop which is near the library (and very far from home - too far to go if I didn't already work in the area). I'll just have to go shopping before I get to work tomorrow - I may be quite late in, but the boss will understand.

At lunchtime, a group of us were sitting around talking about what kind of library we'd like to work in. T. thought that I'd prefer to be in an academic library because I seemed to her to be the kind of person who gets annoyed with "dumb people asking dumb questions". I was shocked that I was so transparent.

TV3 is screening the Firefly series at long last. At 11pm on a week night. I made the boy program the VCR to record it (because I can't make the VCR do anything), and we watched it last night. It's very different from BtVS and Angel, but the humour is kinda familiar. I liked it.

The last bus run ever

The gods smiled on me this week by ensuring that, not only would I only have to drive the library bus once, but I would be accompanied by a workmate whom I count on to do all the heavy lifting for me.

In the post-Violet bus roster, said workmate will be taking over my Wednesday afternoon bus run. So just to make sure that he knew about all the quirky customers (the frail, the smelly, the child-like and the grumpy), he was assigned to come with me this afternoon. He was very obliging; it took only a minimum of manipulation to get him to do all the driving, most of the checking in and out of books and, of course, the carrying of three large crates heaped full of hardback books.

It was a really warm day for a change, and it was just as well that I had a full bottle of water with me. Apart from squirting some of it on my head when the heat got oppressive, I drank the whole lot and didn't even need to pee for four hours. I joked that, if I had a better figure I would be driving the bus in a bikini. M. replied that he didn't know what the city's chief PR man would make of that. I thought that M might've been secretly glad that I wasn't about to strip down to my underwear despite my un-model-like shape.

One of my regular customers, on hearing that I was leaving my job, promptly went home and returned with a little present for me. A box of mini-Moro bars and packet of cinnamon cookies. I should leave more often.

Three days to go

After this week, no more will I have to burn forty-odd bucks worth of petrol each week, just getting to work and back; no more will I be expected to pick up after other people's kids, or shelf-check (that's making sure every single book is in Dewey order) the messiest of shelves in the children's library; no more will I have to be nice to the grumpy Maori woman who demands much but never thanks me (and who keeps on walking out even when she sets off the security gate alarm); no more will I need to find family sagas for all the old ladies at the old folks' home; no more will I have to pretend that I'm interested in encouraging kids to read (if they wanna read, let 'em - if they don't, I don't care).

Sure, I'll miss some of my workmates; I'll miss the patrons who are genuinely nice and grateful for my assistance; I'll miss earning enough to enable me to buy new clothes occasionally.

But if they make me do a speech at morning-tea, I'm not going to pretend that I'll be sad to go. Oh, no.

Nepalese dinner party

A friend of mine and her sister are back from Thailand - both survivors of the Boxing Day tsunami - we were invited to have dinner with them and their friends at a local Nepalese restaurant.

R had on a complete silk Vietname outfit, which went surprisingly well with her dreadlocks. She's also just finished her PhD, so there were plenty of silly requests from the table to check out their respective rashes.

The food served in this place is truly mountainous. I'm usually quite a piggy when I eat out, but my mains defeated me - I can't recall what the name of it was, but there was a heaped plate fish (surely not a traditional Nepalese menu option), rice, veges, Chinese parsley or coriander or something, potatoes...I probably was only a third of the way through it before giving up.

The boy was happily reminiscing about England - specifically Swindon, don't ask me why - with the couple opposite us. He even managed to throw in a tidbit about his past life as a bad boy - something about driving through Paris in a TVR with a Dutch blonde...

It was a lovely evening (sigh).

After the hols

Incredibly, I managed to not only wake up in time to get to work punctually, but I actually work up before the alarm. Isn't one's body clock amazing?

I may even still be awake when I do my on-line distance class tonight, after I get home. It's one of those classes where you can't get away with just turning up and staying out of all the discussions, so that's going to be a challenge.

What's going on in my head today

We're babysitting tonight, for my brother and his partner. They don't have a DVD player, but apparently they're leaving us something on video. I won't be telling the boy that they're also leaving us a bottle of wine (which he will scoff) and the game Civilisation on their computer.

One of those niggling questions which aren't at all important but which bother me anyway - when Darla (of BtVS and Angel) was first turned into a vampire by the Master, she was dying of a syphilitic heart condition. Being really ill and all, she wasn't at all pretty to look at and surely her blood would have tasted a bit off too. So why the hell did he choose to turn her?

I spent about an hour going through some crinkled clothes which I haven't worn since last summer. Thinking there'd be no point in ironing any item which didn't fit me any more, I tried them on first. I ended up with very little to iron.

It sure is hard to go to the gym if you haven't been for about two weeks.

I had another laundry mishap. I have a towel which is pretty much falling to pieces but I won't throw it away because I have so few towels. Every time I put it in the washing maching, the rest of the load ends up covered in little pink fluff balls. It is just about impossible to remove all the little pink fluff balls from a polar fleece jacket. Somehow, I am too stingy to spend ten bucks on a new towel (thus minimising future laundry fluff) but not too stingy to spend ten bucks on a second-hand Buffy novel.

He's very sorry

I got a call from the police a couple of days ago, relating to the case of The Little Shit. They said I could choose to hear an apology for his nasty behaviour if I wanted, or else ask for an apology in writing. Having no wish to ever set eyes on the kid again, I chose the latter.

And this morning, it arrived. Enclosed in an envelope which also contained a cover letter from the police youth liason officer, was a short, handwritten letter from the little criminal. It's dated December 25th, which would be significant except for the fact that he and his family are probably Muslim and don't celebrate Christmas.

"Dear Lady", he writes, "I am writing to telly you that I am very sorry...". The next two sentences tell me he's sorry, and he's also written "p.s. I am very sorry".

I almost forgive him.

Those evil red shorts

I don't know why I didn't chuck them out years ago, those cheap red three-quarter pants which I later cut-down into long shorts. They never fit that well, although being a bit on the loose side rather than a bit on the tight side probably made a difference. The thing is, I almost never wear shorts any more anyway, due to my paranoid fear of skin cancer (you know - Southern hemisphere summer + ozone hole = big time UV).

And I have a really big reason to get rid of them, too. They leak red colour every single time I put them in the washing machine. This was not been a problem at first, because almost none of my clothes are white (there's a reason for that, and it's got something to do with the likelihood of spilling coffee over oneself).

Unfortunately, my evil red shorts are a real problem now, because the boy has taken a liking to wearing white t-shirts. He only complained a little when, one Saturday, I presented him with two pairs of pink socks. He started to get a little irritated when I turned his red and white shirt into a red and pink shirt. When I turned his worn-once-only ninety-dollar black and white shirt into a - you guessed it - black and pink shirt, the boy announced he would do his laundry from now on (not that I'd hold him to it - I'm still waiting for him to mop the kitchen floor, which he hasn't done for three months).

I shouldn't blame the shorts, really. It's my own fault for forgetting, after owning them for maybe four years, that they tend to share their rosiness. All the same, I'm going to throw them out...just as soon as they finish drying on the line. And my New Year's Resolution is to always properly sort the laundry.

An unlucky year to get married

Apparently, because the Chinese New Year doesn't start until after lichun, which marks the beginning of spring (in China anyway), couples in China a rushing to get married in the next few days while it's still the Year of the Monkey.

Hmmm...so 2005 (the Year of the Rooster) is going to be a quiet year for marriage celebrants and honeymoon suites then.

Getting born in the Year of the Rooster (which starts February 9, the day after my last assignment is due in - yay) isn't unnecessarily unlucky though. According to this site, Rooster people are

"hard-working and definite about their decisions. Roosters are not afraid to speak their minds and can therefore sometimes come across as boastful. They make good restaurant owners and world travellers."

So if you're going to be the proud parent of a Rooster, you won't have to worry about your little darling growing up to be a dole-bludging layabout who can't make their minds up or say what they think. Congratulations.

Back to productivity

My break is coming to a close, with deadlines of two as-yet-unstarted assignments looming, so it's time to crank my intellect into gear again. It's been out of action for a seemingly huge stretch of time (DVD-watching is no brain strain), and of course being sick tends to limit my thoughts to the objective of obtaining comfort-food. But all that will have to change starting from today.

For today is officially After The New Year, which means that my Art of the Book lecturer might actually answer all the questions that students have sent her via email and the discussion list. It also means that I can get hold of a university reference librarian at long last, to help me find past theses on NZ Chinese print culture and possibly some examples of past LIS research proposals. And it means that, now that the government offices are open again, I can go to the National Library to look at their entire collection of NZ Chinese newspapers and newsletters.

In other words, I can start work on my assignments. I have a little over five weeks to produce a 2500-word research proposal (though I haven't done the course on research methods yet, and have never done a thesis of any sort), and a 1000-word review of an on-line exhibition (whatever that is), so - no more excuses.

Is that stress I feel creeping up behind me?

Things I do when I'm sick and at home

In the last couple of days when I've been relatively incapacitated with a pulled back muscle,a cold and accompanying high temperatures, these are the things I have tended to do:

* Feel sorry for myself
* Snack because I feel sorry for myself, and bored
* Watch DVDs (but not soap operas), or re-runs of Moonlighting if I'm lucky
* Read - I've actually run out of books to read, so I'm reading some of the boy's books e.g. Laurell Hamilton's Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series
* Consume a lot of hot drinks, as a lower-calorie subsitute for Grainwaves, non-dairy ice cream and toast (oh yeah, and to keep the fluids intake up)
* Surf the 'Net and blog
* Wander restlessly from room to room, wanting to go for a walk but staying indoors because I look like shit
* Leaf through old glossy magazines and staring at the pictures of food
* Touch my face to determine whether I've got a high temperature, and wonder whether that means I'm burning enough energy to justify eating more toast

At this point, normal life just sounds like an effective way to distract myself from overeating doesn't it?

Long lost friends

I'm always pleasantly surprised to hear from people whom I haven't been in touch with for ages. I can get a bit slack about keeping contact because I become preoccupied with the day-to-day business of working, studying, sleeping and eating.

An old friend rang me up yesterday whom I hadn't spoken to for at least a year. It turned out she'd just got back from nine months backpacking around Asia and Central and South America. The last time I saw her, she'd been away three years - by then I'd already felt that our friendship had pretty much died from lack of contact. Also, my own backpacking days were over so what were we going to talk about anyway?

Well, soon I'm going to have to listen enviously while she tells me of her latest adventures abroad, with only years-old reminicences of my own to offer.

Someone please tell me this is a joke site

I came across a website promoting body modification for pets i.e. Bonsai Kittens. It's surely a big hoax, to give instructions on how to seal very young kittens into large glass jars (apparently it's easy when their bones are still soft and malleable), but geez - there are some weird people out there...

As if it weren't bad enough being sick during the holidays...

During the night, I found that every movement I made caused a sharp pain somewhere on the left side of my back. It hurt when I tried to change sleeping positions, cough or even breathe deeply. It hurt when I got out of bed to go to the toilet, and it hurt when I got back into bed. Unfortunately, the boy was sleeping so well that he was immune to my pitiful cries of pain. I had to wait until early this morning, and actually tell him in words that something was wrong.

Actually, I was convinced that I was suffering from pleurisy - not because it's fairly uncommon ailment which I don't get to hear about often, but because I've had it before (on my birthday a few years back, to be specific).

The boy tried massaging the pain away, but it didn't seem to work; I had him convinced it was pleurisy too. So, amidst more cries of pain (getting in the car, trying to shut the passenger door, reaching for the seatbelt), we set off for the After Hours Medical Centre (it is a public holiday after all).

I don't know if he used any funny acronyms in his notes about me, but, in his very soothing bedside manner, the doctor diagnosed my problem as being a pulled muscle.

So the bad news is, I have to rely on Paracetamol for pain relief but nothing to quickly fix it, while every urge to cough brings an anticipation of tortuous pain; the good news is ...um...that at least I'm not going to die from it.

Doctor Slang

A library school pal sent me this link to an article about doctor slang, which is truly too funny to ignore.

I showed it to the boy, who pointed out that TUBE was not on the list (Totally Unnecessary Breast Examination).