Tick Tock..Tick Tock!

This morning I woke up full of the joys of spring. I got up and made myself some tea and toast and sat at the breakfast bar reading wedding magazines while the sun shone in the window. All that seemed missing was the cartoon birds flying through the window.

I had Mr Awesome’s three younger siblings arriving at 1pm for a few hours. The boy is 10 and the two girls are 12 and 8. I decided to bake some cookies and embrace my maternal side. I took of my engagement ring and rolled up my sleeves and began to bake, humming a little as I worked. The kids arrived, the cookies didn’t burn and everything was going swimmingly. My flatmate had 2 guinea pigs in the house which she was planing to introduce to her class of 5 year old pupils tomorrow so the kids sat and cuddled the guinea pigs while I served up lunch. The combination of children laughing and the smell of freshly baked cookies made my biological clock tick a little louder. I thought to myself, this is what it is all about.

The kids got picked up and all the cookies were devoured. I was let with crumbs everywhere and pieces of hay from the guinea pig cage all over the lounge. No drama’s I thought. I’ll wash these baking dishes up and then I’ll vacuum. While I was passing the guinea pig cage I noticed an ominous foot sticking out of their little hut To my horror, the guinea pig who had been ironically named Ninja had decided to bow out of this life. Here I was, covered in flour with a dead guinea pig and a sink full of dishes. In my mind the cartoon birds where shitting on my washing. I put my coat on and went and bought a bottle of pinot gris. My biological clock seems to have reverted to digital for now. The sound of flowing wine however is music to my ears.

How many city slickers does it make to move a mattress?

They say moving house is one of the most stressful things you will encounter in your lifetime. From experience I can confirm that it ranks quite highly on the list of things that make me sob and utter such gibberish as “You just don’t understand my feelings” while disagreeing on what classifies as genre specific packing. “Why are you putting DVDs in with the cutlery? That makes no sense!”

I am 30 years old and I think I have accumulated a similar amount of addresses to match my failing youth. Some places I have stayed a while and made my home while others have been a transient stop along the way while I tried to figure out where I was trying to get to.

Since meeting Mr Awesome we have moved a few times in our 18 months together. The actual count is a bit hazy as there was a period of time when we were technically homeless after the earthquake so in a sense, if we were sleeping in a particular house of an evening, it was easier to call it home.

Our first move together involved packing up our individual apartments in order to move in together. I was packing weeks in advance yet I was still in a panic at the last minute trying to squeeze objects into boxes. Mr Awesome was to join me in a few months so he still hadn’t started his packing which I wasn’t too worried about. Each weekend however, I would make the 180km commute to see him and try to gauge were he was at with the packing. The weekend before he was due to arrive, I noticed one box in the dining room filled with random miscellaneous goods but other than that, everything was still in it’s place. I knew it would end it tears but after several weeks of what I like to call “progressive nagging” I decided to forgo my well earned “I told you so” and headed back to the city and left him with his mess. The poor bastard ended up working solidly for a few days trying to pack up the house in time for the removal van showing up but he did it..somehow!

Our second move together was not planned. We were settled in our little abode when the big quake struck Christchurch and instantly made our home feel strange and foreign to us. We lived in the central city which was hit the worst so we both decided that this would bring and end to our Christchurch adventure. We’d had our first quake within two weeks of moving in so after six months of aftershocks, we’d had enough. After escaping 200km to my parent’s house and staying there for a couple of weeks we had to deal with packing up our house. Getting access to the property required showing ID to the army who then escorted us through the debris. Our landlord had called the day before and given us 2 days to vacate the premises. Technically the house was still livable but without sewage or water we did not agree. By the time we managed to organise a lift up we had lost a day so here we were in a house that was cracked at the foundations and on a lean, trying to figure out where we should start.

The next 18 or so hours were exhausting. The aftershocks were frequent and still quite sharp so our nerves were gone. We packed like lunatics. We flung things in boxes. We taped them up and threw them in the corner and moved on to the next. The care and effort that I usually put into labeling went out the window. “You want to put my shampoo in with the electronics? Go right ahead. I just don’t care!”

Lack of sleep, stress and nerves will eventually cause you to descend into madness Thankfully, we lost of minds in a very positive way. We began to giggle uncontrollably and everything seemed hilarious. This peaked for me at around 2am when we were finally ready to call it a night. While Mr Awesome went upstairs to get into bed, I lingered downstairs with mischief in mind. I grabbed a jar of chocolate spread from the cupboard and opened it up. I dipped my unwashed index finger into the jar and covered it with chocolate. I then proceeded to use my finger to write the words “FUCK PIG” in huge writing across the doors of the cupboard. Satisfied with my handy work, I wiped my finger in my clothes and followed my man up to bed. The giddy hyperactivity wore off as we climbed into bed as we both felt instantly vulnerable. The intensity of the aftershocks was worst at night and as we were on the top floor they felt more intense. Neither of us slept much that night. Mr Awesome woke in the morning and went down stairs to continue the packing while I snoozed. I had forgotten all about my artistic exclamatory work until I heard him react, at first sounding a little confused and possibly a little frightened followed by an explosion of laughter. Another job well done I thought. To this day when we talk about the horror of leaving Christchurch it is always overshadowed by the “FUCK PIG” incident. The fact that he still wanted to marry me after that sometimes puzzles me. I’m obviously disturbed. He must really love me.

It’s been just over 4 months since we left the shaky city behind. Until recently we were still living out of our suitcases. We moved to the opposite end of the country to Mr Awesome’s hometown and stayed with kind relatives while we tried to get back on our feet. At the end of May we moved our few bags into a temporary house share were we stayed until the constant noise from the landlord’s renovations combined with the smell of an incontinent boxer dog who liked to sleep on the sofa forced us to get ourselves sorted with something a little more luxurious!

We found a beautiful house within a few hundred metres of the sea and the centre of town, sharing with just two flat mates, both of whom are civilised human beings that don’t feel the need to throw your shoes out in the garden if you leave them under the coffee table overnight yet seem to think it is acceptable to leave a towel soaking up dog urine in the middle of the lounge for two days.

After viewing the house, we agreed to move in the following day. We skipped back to our old flat and backed our bags and were sitting enjoying a glass of wine within a half hour. As neither of us drive, we had organised for Mr Awesome’s dad to give us a hand with the trailer the following day. We’d bought ourselves a brand new bed when we moved into the flat which upgraded us from hobo status as we could no longer carry all our belongings. Unfortunately, illness struck Papa Awesome so Mama Awesome came to the rescue with her Ford Mondeo. The theory was the mattress would fit in the car. After dragging the mattress out in a wild storm (thankfully it was wrapped in plastic) and reversing it into the boot we realised quickly that a queen size mattress does not fit into a Mondeo, regardless of the angle or the determination.

Mama Awesome dropped the rest of the stuff to the new house and went off to work and we decided to brain storm under the heading “How to get a mattress across town”. We rang the local taxi company and asked them if we could hire a mini van to move the mattress. They adopted their best Bones McCoy attitude and reminded us that they were a taxi company and not furniture movers before hanging up. Mr Awesome rang his aunt who suggested we hire a trailer from the petrol station and she would pop over and grab the trailer and the mattress. It sounded so easy. Why didn’t we think of that? As Mr Awesome was on the phone confirming prices for hiring the trailer for the hour, Auntie Awesome pulled up in the car. She hopped out of the car and began pointing and shouting at us through the window. We told the guy on the phone we’d call him back. We opened the door to be greeted with “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CALL THAT?”. On the lawn, in our own garden stood a large trailer. Ooops.

We hooked up the blatantly obvious solution to her car and got our mattress to it’s new home. It seems the secret to a non stressful move is simply not engaging your brain. Thank goodness for family.

Mrs A xxx

Check out the video below from The League of Gentlemen's latest BBC show called Psychoville for the origin of Fuck Pig!

The ultimate $9 adventure!

I have $9 exactly in my pocket. Rather than go to the local dairy and pay their convenience pricing, I will don my woolly hat and Mr Awesome’s gloves which make my freakishly small carny hands look even more ridiculous and I will take the 2km walk to the supermarket. It may be freezing but it’s dry and I have a new play list to keep me company, along with my meandering mind.
While I walk I think about the many combinations for spending $9. While I hum along to a bit of Kate Bush, I pass the local pub. If I went in and bought a handle of beer for $4 as it was technically happy hour, I could chance my arm at the pokies. Perhaps if I said a prayer to my good friend Rhonda Byrne she might send me some of her positive energy. I mean, she has so much! Let’s say I win the jackpot which is usually around $800. I’m wearing my lucky knickers. The ones with the waistband that is determined to stay connected no matter how much they frey. That has to be lucky. I will collect my winnings and probably stop and have a drink. It would be rude not to. The barmaid will look at me and ask if I want anything special and I will reply with “Certainly, I’ll have a Long Island Ice Tea, and don’t be afraid of that whiskey bottle!”. I’ve only had some toast and tomato soup for lunch so the Long Island Ice Tea will go straight to my knees. It will be at this point that I’ll get a bit rowdy. I’m hungry. I’ll ask the chef for a plate of chips and he will keep me waiting 20 minutes for the privilege of eating something deep fried. I will decide that now is a good a time as any to start up a conversation with the man slumped on the bar stool beside me. He has beer in his moustache which gets me a little excited. I love a man who uses his beard as storage and I’ll offer to lick it off but then I notice he is drinking Export Gold. I withdraw my advances as I do have standards after all. However at this point, I will be overheard by his wife, who I have most likely mistaken for a more feminine dock worker than her burly husband. She will jump from her seat with an unexpected grace and she will head butt me and break my two front teeth. I will get up from the floor and wipe the blood from my mouth and try to say something witty but the lack of teeth will make any redeeming comments inaudible. I slump home. I may have $763.70 in my pocket but I never bought Mr Awesome any dinner and my dental bill will far exceed my big win.
That scenario doesn’t really weigh out so I keep walking and try to keep myself warm. My pants are falling down while simultaneously giving me a wedgie. A strange combination. I try to deal with my underwear malfunction in between the passing cars. There are times not be in the spotlight but this is one of them. I finally reach the neon glow of the supermarket and I am grateful for the warmth. I check my pockets and double check I haven't lost any small coins while fidgeting with my iPod. Nope, still good. $9... let’s get ready to party!
As I try to decide what to get, I pass the cosmetics aisle and I spot some skin coloured stockings. What if I bought the tights and then went outside and put them on my head and came back in and held the store up? That way, I will be able to get dinner too. I will take a hostage and demand some goods from the deli. I am partial to those mini peppers filled with cream cheese and I haven’t had a good antipasto platter in ages. “Fill that fucking large tub!” I will yell.
I will make my getaway with my plastic bag filed with groceries. Given the circumstances, they have not charged me for the plastic bag. I start to run and then my knickers start to slip and slow me down. “Think, woman, think!” I’ll stop and try put the stockings on, my logic being that the waistband of the tights will keep my pants up. It is at this point that I will find myself in the spotlight of a police car which will arrest me. The deli food will be confiscated and Mr Awesome will remain hungry despite my efforts. I will be charged for robbery and indecent exposure . I will fight the latter. However my visa will be revoked and i will back in Ireland quicker than you can say Diddley Dee Potatoes.
I regain my focus in the supermarket and decide on the third option for the evening being bread, cheese and gingernut biscuits. It seems the safest option. I put my gloves back on and wander home. As I walk I wonder what exciting things lie ahead of me. You never know!

Mrs A xxx

There is no salt in the Death Star Canteen!

I am as you are aware by now, a Chef. I have always proclaimed that I am not a very good one and couldn’t cook my way out of a paper bag along with various other self loathing platitudes. I came to the realisation today that my entire life is a lie!

I currently hold the position of Sous Chef at a 4 star boutique hotel. If your unfamiliar with kitchen ranks here is a brief explanation, to make things easier to digest I’ll attempt to use comparisons everyone should be able to grasp.
If the Hotel was Star wars, then.........

Hotel General Manager: Emperor, Never gets his hands dirty but is strong in the force
Head Chef: Darth Vader ( see where Ramsey gets his inspiration?), Runs the show, but relies heavily on underlings to do the hard work
Sous Chef: Admiral Akbar, Booking for 60, and the head Chef has an “office” day. IT’S A TRAP!!! Does the bulk of the cooking, minimum yelling and making commies wet themselves through fear, see previous point.
Chef de Partie: Lando Calrissian. He’s just hear for the ladies, player! Will run the service, when Head or Sous aren’t there, but that’s hardly ever, usually has 2 or 3 years experience. Typically not awesome.
Commie: The Fucking Ewoks! These are the reason for; whiskey, beer and barbiturates. I am not a fan and never will be. Hey Wicket are you coming to the massive dance to celebrate the thousands of humans we just murdered? I mean what the FUCK! Commie’s are the baine of a Sous Chefs existence, as they are typically straight out of training and have the communication skills of...... well an ewok.

And here begins our tale...........

In a Kitchen Far Far Away......

I showed up for stock take at 6am on Friday happy and, well less than happy I hate mornings. There like the bounty hunter that tries to kill Han in the Cantina in Mos Eisly, tells him the whole reason why he’s there and then misses when he blasts him what kind of a loser is a bounty hunter who can’t shoot a stationary target from two feet away?

Anyway. We were almost finished and I started feeling off, ran to the staff bathroom and proceeded to projectile vomit everywhere. Fast forward to a few days later upon returning to work I was rostered on a shift with the Chef de Partie(CDP), arrived at work at 10 am, sun was shining, sea breeze rolling in, and just a hint of snow on the mountain. A wonderful day and I was looking forward to my break at 2pm, then my days off after that.

I have never seen a black man look that white! he was Ill, I mean hospital sick. And he was all, “I’ll be fine”. No mate go home get some rest and see you back at 5pm. Problem solved.
The phone rang, it was his Magesty! I’ve sent him home the Emperor said and told him not to come tomorrow we need to look at the roster for tonight and monday.
So come 5pm, after no break, I’m starting service with my newly graduated Commie chef, and looking forward to not having my days off this week and not getting paid for it as I’m on salary.
Have you ever tried to cook with an Ewok?
Really Fucking Happy Now!

My first clue of the impending doom should have been, "Hey have you got your knife"? followed with “Oh no Chef its at home”.
How the fuck do you intend to cook as a professional chef without a knife? Its like, its like Han saying hey Chewie can I borrow your blaster? Dick! ( Chewie has a crossbow blaster, but you knew that)
Then, when he eventually produces two 1 for raw, and 1 for cooked. They’re both blunt!
firstly you can really injure yourself with a blunt knife, secondly, sharpening your knife is the first thing you learn at chef college. Well right after you learn how to Iron your pretty white jacket.
After showing him how to sharpen his knife on a stone, properly, not the government approved way which cost thousands, I hand him a steel and tell him to finish the edge. And he starts holding it like a limp dick that’s going to break if he puts any real effort into it.
I am really fucked off by now this guy, graduated top in his year, not just class, year. He is the 2nd student from the same college I have encountered in the past few months and the 1st on couldn’t tell the difference between pork and lamb when I first got hold of him.
I mean what the fuck!?
What makes this worst of all is these guys went to the same culinary school as I did. Granted I’m 30 and did my training years ago with a whole different education system and tutors but cooking is cooking. I mean here’s a knife cut this, how hard is that?
So it seems that $18000 isn’t enough to learn how to sharpen a knife, or tell the difference between oink and baa.
Mrs A thinks I should become a tutor. I didn’t realise you could do that from jail?
After I kill all the fucking ewoks!

The Dark Side Beckons!

An open letter to all my gay friends

To all my friends of the rainbow persuasion. I write this to you all in a hope to try and capture some of the feelings I have been having over the last 24 hours. It all starting innocently enough over the like button on facebook when I decided to show my support for “Make gay adoption legal in New Zealand”. I reposted the link and asked friends to show their support as it’s an issue close to my heart. I was accosted from an old work colleague who said
“Sorry but as an adoptive parent I disagree with you. Children NEED a balance as they grow up and that means a mum and a dad so they can make a decision on their own sexuality later on in life.”
After many comments from some of my more educated friends accusing him of being narrow minded he came back with the following.
“How can I be narrow minded if I have gone through the adoption process. I stand by my statement children NEED a balance. I am not arguing that gay couples are not loving. But the fact is there are also many "straight" couples who would love to have a child and would give them the love and care a child needs. Your initial argument was the fact that NZ has a high rate of child abuse. Now that is something we should ALL we united against. Not that they should all go to guy couples.”
Ok, so are we all following this, my lovely ex-work colleague thinks that straight is better. Definatley not narrow minded. Not in the slightest mate. Just to be clear, my initial point was not about child abuse, it was about gay adoption. What I was trying to say though, in a country with such high levels of child abuse and adandonment, it is tragic to deny these kids a loving home in their hour of need when there are so many same sex couples who could offer them so much. It’s ok to leave little Johnny in a home where he learns it’s acceptable to beat women but God forbid his world is exposed to a few show tunes!
Needless to say I was outraged at such an ignorant comment and after giving him a piece of my mind I deleted him from my contacts so he may continue his ignorant existence elsewhere.
I want to say to you all that I do not accept this and I am going to fight people like this until the day I die. I owe so much to the gay community for making me the woman I am today. I have learned that when you get knocked down you stand up again and refuse to be defeated. I have learned that people can be cruel and you need to surround yourself with a good support network. I have learned the value of personal achievement and hard work for so many of my gay friends have been so successful and an inspiration to me over the years. I have learned the value of laughing at myself and not taking myself so seriously all of the time. Most importantly, I have learned that it is OK to be different as long as you ahve the right core values to guide you, the main ones being love and respect. Sounds like parent material to me.
To all of you, thank you. I am a better person today for having you all in my life. Know that you have my support and I will challenge each ignorant mind I encounter for the rest of my life.

All my love,

Mrs A xxx

For the Love of Shoes...

I have been unemployed for four months now, ever since the Earthquake in Christchurch on February 22nd sent us running from the South Island. I have been unemployed before, however it was always a choice. A few times in my youth, I took off for Sydney and lived in squaller for a few months in an attempt to channel my inner bohemian. It was fun because I know at any stage I could take off my pj's and put on some office apparel and rejoin society if I needed money.

This time has not been so easy. Jobs are like gold dust these days. I am a Graphic Designer by trade and the industry has pretty much fallen on it's arse. Printing firms and design firms are folding all too often. For this reason, I decided that it was time to branch out and see what other jobs I could find. While I was looking for something more permanent, I thought I would drop my cv in for a casual position in a shoe store. I thought that it would at least be a few dollars extra in our pockets every week and I could at least be looking for something more permanent while i worked there. After all, it's only casual work, right?

Wrong! It seems that casual work requires a lifetime commitment. I had my interview with "Mrs. I Love Retail" which she scheduled for an hour. An Hour? Really? I have nailed interviews in 20 minutes. How long can we really talk about shoes in a professional manner with a casual worker?

It turned out that the position is for about 10 hours a week but I would need to be on call in case someone was sick. OK, fair enough. However, I would need to commit to the job long term as she didn't want to introduce new people to her team and for them to abandon them! How does she expect a 30 year old woman to work for 10 hours a week and not to actively look for something else? Honestly, people are delusional.

At this point I decided to just roll with it. After all, I still have 53 minutes of her time. If she wants to waste my time with such pathetic conditions then I will waste her 53 minutes.

I told her everything she wanted to hear. 10 hours a week would be amazing. It's just the right amount of hours to ease me back into the rat race. I can certainly live on that much money, even after I pay for all the shoes that I MUST wear to work to promote their expensive overpriced brand. I need to lose some weight so maybe not being able to afford groceries won't be too bad. Spring should be here soon, so rent will soon be optional too.

The interview ended with a tour of the shoe storage section out the back. She pointed out that the shoes were all in european sizes which might prove tricky.

"Do I point out that I am european" I thought to myself. Surely my accent gave it away. I'll let this one go.

When I left, she really believed that I would be showing up for work on Friday. The sad thing is, I would be good at sales. Even she bought it!

Mrs A xxx

Fuck you Rhonda Byrne!

I once jokingly said that Australian's don't have souls. Way to loose a potential 22 million readers but I'm just putting it out there. No, honestly, it was a joke. I'm Irish and people take the piss out of me all the time so I am entitled to my slanderous comments every now and again. I will say though that I did make this statement after watching an episode of Australian Idol so I'm guessing you can understand where I was coming from.

After having a tough year of going though a massive earthquake (several thousand actually according to GeoNet) and being broke and having a string of bad luck, like any stupid and vulnerable woman, I turned to the self help section of the book store. According to these glossy paperbacks, they can heal my life, help me feel the fear and do it anyway, and there was something about soup in there too! I once again gravitated towards The Secret. Old reliable!

Rhonda Byrne, is an australian spiritualist and television producer (because they so go hand in hand) who believes that we can manifest whatever we want in life. If you want a million dollars you must ask the universe, show gratitude and believe and that million dollars will show up. It really is that simple.

I will be honest. I tried. I didn't even want to be greedy so I thought small. I am a realist after all. I even downloaded the audiobook in the hopes that I could somehow brainwash myself into believing it. I mean, they say everything we experience is perception and nothing else so who cares if I am endorsing some modern Oprah promoted spiritual cult? So every night I lay in bed and drifted off to the ramblings of dear old Rhonda in a hope to experience a spiritual awakening while I slept.

After weeks of listening to the musings of Rhonda Byrne, I must say that I am no closer to nirvana. I still have no money. I am still trying to find that job. My knickers still have holes in them even though I tried to sew them back together with pure hope. The only thing that has manifested from this is my hatred for her accent. Her voice makes me feel ill. I get cold sweats when I hear her exhausting optimism. This australian has certainly sold her soul with this publication. Thank god for Hugh Jackman, restoring my faith in all that is Australian.