In which Sarah discusses the series of uncanny events that characterised the weekend just past

Saturday night: I ran into three or four people I hadn't seen in a very long time (very sweet Mariko and a drunken chat with Rita ex-honours), and was cornered by somebody I'd never met and probably shouldn't have! Yes! Shannon's ex-girlfriend came over to introduce herself and clear the air, because "she wasn't sure what I thought of her you know and she'd seen me around and stuff and she just thought she'd say hi because..." (insert drunken rant here...) I was, of course, paralysed by politeness, and after what felt like an interminably long time was forced to put an end to the conversation by saying how nice it was to meet her and I hope that she had a good evening, before pronouncedly turning my back to her and starting a conversation with Bex who was watching Al's band and standing next to me. Bizarre and awkward situation to say the least. Uncannily, I saw Colin the next day and he reported a similar situation with his boyfriend's ex (ie unsolicited and drunken communication) although his story involved more hollow and violent threats on the part of the ex. So, I'd like to state for the record, that I will not be stalking Andy's new girlfriend when she arrives in NZ and I will not corner her drunkenly anywhere and will not say or do anything to her that could be misconstrued as creepy or stalkerish. She is of no interest to me. Despite her fascinating love of puppies.

Sunday afternoon involved a huge premenstrual/over tired meltdown, walking the streets of Newtown during the fair with tears streaming down my face under my sunglasses because I was Lost! and Alone! and it was like Ruth laughed at me on the phone, and although I know it was just general Derby AGM hysteria, in my premenstrual overtired anxiety spiral paranoid overwrought state it was just enough to send me into torrents of tears which then, of course, become about EVERYTHING ELSE wrong in my life... Josh rang later to tell me he'd left the key on the dining table and was going to Dad's house and when he asked me how my day was I don't think he was listening when I told him that it was fucking dreadful... thus didn't make any comment. He was here when I got home though, so I could bawl my eyes out to him when he gave me a hug. Nice brother.

Tom's face has gone all weird from some kind of temporary palsy that has paralysed him on one side. When I first saw him I thought he'd had a stroke, which was a bit spooky. Also, his scooter was stolen this weekend. Scooter Stealer, a Pox on you and your family for seven generations! Meanwhile Tom looks a lot like Quasimodo but refuses point blank to let me refer to him as such. SO not fair.

Angst-less, somewhat - P.M.

No, but really. I'm feeling better than I was this morning. No tears for twenty four hours! Almost.

I tried to buy a copy of Paul Simon's Graceland because the Travelling Wilburies are making me so cheerful, but NO LUCK. What a cruel twist of fate! Never mind, I'm sure to recover...

La la la la la... procrastinating... la.

I ate comfort food and I felt better. And also kind of sick, because the croissant had custard AND chocolate inside of it AND meringue on top AND almonds. Oh, I feel a little ill thinking about its comforty-goodness...

I bought some quite unnecessary clothes.

I HAVE NOT done a great deal of work, unfortunately.

I'm meeting Jess after work.

Strangely, I ran into this old Polytech friend of Andy's while roaming the shops... she recognised me. I've met her maybe twice, something like five years ago. And since then I have dehippified.

It has been suggested

That I should  blog more, for the extremely hard working public... and so...

Andy just came over in an attempt to drop off my overlocker, and has, for the second time, attempted to give me his mother's old sewing machine. I do have my sewing box back now tho, so at least I have bobbins and what not and can actually use my sewing machine instead of using it as a decorative door stop. Golly I love to sew, and have been without for far too long methinks. I bought all this fabric yesterday - this gorgeous dull green silk and cotton blend and some plain black cotton lycra... sort of envisaged making a dress for Louise's wedding in a few weeks, but without the overlocker I can't really sew either of these fabrics... The Mr Jones is notorious for being a temperamental  bitch of a machine and I don't feel like feeding beautiful fabric through it only to have it completely ruined. I could maybe sew up the corduroy throw on the ugly ugly couch in the other room... make cushions out of the fabric gifted to me by fabulous Liz before she left. Yay, talking to her tomorrow!

So, I am having non-relationship/breaking up dramas, I feel as though I'm living a novel and am suspicious that reading too much KM is causing the damage. Tragic love affair conducted entirely by letter, you know. I'm treating the experience as research for my novel... always healthy. Observing oneself from afar and all that, just as my therapist recommends. ("Sarah, I want you to observe yourself while you're doing these things. What do you see?" "Somebody very foolish and really quite annoying"). Felt hungover, strung out and emotional, but funnily enough, seeing Andy made me feel way better. I am so fond of my ex! Lovely boy. Heart of gold. His new girlfriend is scared to meet me, or at least fearing the awkwardness, and while I understand, I am sooo keen to see her puppy-loving self. I feel it's more natural to dislike the previous ex because you were never in mind during the relationship... could never compete when the good memories become hallowed and the bad memories increasingly blurry.

Last night I stole a plastic killer whale for no good reason. I was firing ice out of it's mouth at innocents in an effort to appear more frenetically jolly than I actually felt. I'm glad I bailed when I did or else it would have been another vomit-athon. Four cocktails before half nine. Eep.

Feel Weird

Social networking sites are beginning to ruin my life. How close am I to resigning completely and living a glorious Luddite Life? So close. I was on my ex's Facebook page - and not lurking because I left a comment - and there's all these comments and pictures from his new girlfriend... she's very pretty and seems rather sweet really. And now something is turning over and over in my stomach and I feel WEIRD. And given similar Facebook weirdness about a month ago with S... GROSS. I feel weird writing this too. And like a twelve year old. And like I want my therapist.

I have gone quite mad

And why not? It's Christmas time and while it's not (quite) cold enough here for it to snow, neither is it warm enough to be considered a balmy Antipodean Christmas period. Where was I this time last year? Happily ensconsed in a relationship with my then fiance and hanging in beautiful South Western Australia. Now I am alone, freezing cold, and contemplating a Christmas buoyed up by a combination of my prescription anti-depressants and champagne. Rock on. I'm going to stop listening to the Smiths and the Cure because I don't think it's doing me too much good really on a scale of things.

Sunday Night Rolls Around Again

I've been at work all day, but hell, there's always room for some drama at the end of the day. Received an email from the ex who wants to talk now after the emotional steam roller he ran over me the other weekend. Go figure. And on Saturday night I went to my least favourite restaurant in the whole of Wellington - Monsoon Poon (please read name of restaurant in tones of doom). First of all, how racist and sexist is that name?!? This is neatly reinforced by their dinky little motto thingy they have printed all over the place "Love you long time". We arrived for the meal at 7.30 - they don't take bookings so of course we were expected to sit in the bar and spend a shit load on booze. We were told to expect a wait of 40 minutes - try an hour and a half!!! When we were finally seated, just before eight thirty maybe, we spent a fucking shit load of time explaining to the wait person that we didn't want to order a banquet. Having finally ordered, the starters didn't come out until quarter past nine, at ten I walked out because I was so freaking starving and pissed off with the relentless and tacky music and my food still hadn't arrived. Their appeared to be no sign of it coming any time soon. I could see the kitchen staff (the kitchen is open) and they were most frustratingly POTTERING about in there. Potter on your own time! I thought... I hate Monsoon Poon. I loathe everything about it. The only meal that I've ever eaten there was unremarkable, the only thing memorable about that experience was that our food arrived before our drinks, they were so desperate to get us out quickly and use our table to make more money off of other idiots in larger groups. Mutter mutter mutter. Who calls a place Monsoon Poon anyway?

Sunday Evening

Today has been an intriguing sort of a Sunday with enough drama to keep me going for the entire next week. Post morning coffee I decided to go to Te Papa and see the new Toi te Papa exhibit (this is a sort of semi permanent exhibition where Te Papa's national collection is exhibited with suitably nationalistic curatorship and accompanying rhetoric to really reinforce Te Papa's concept of what makes New Zealand culture and identity... mmm, subtle). Holy Mother of God some of the placement of the paintings was bizarre and almost offensive - issues of appropriation totally subsumed by neutralising language - art history lite. Honestly, who thinks to put a Gordon Walters and a Sandy Adsett side by side and basically suggest that each artist had a similar aim in their production of work?? Gordon Walter's program is expressed with barely any address to the issues of appropriation that his work brings about. And (this, I found, was the piece de resistance) who found it appropriate to put the work of Theo Schoon and the Tovey school artists side by side where the work can only affirm the sort of (ridiculous) concepts of bicultural utopianist ideas that continue to conceal the need for further discussion of race relations in this country?!!!? Feeling suitably smug I proceed to the City Gallery to see the work of Martin Thompson in the Hirschfeld Gallery. I read a review earlier this week about this exhibition and I have to say that I agree with the reviewer in his assessment of the large scale digital prints of Thompson's work - that part of the magic of Thompson's work is the fact that despite it's kind of spooky mathematical precision if you examine the work closely you can see where mistakes have been patched with tape. In this exhibition though I kind of think that the curators probably had a different kind of relationship with the work selected - and (of course) a totally different agenda in showing Thompson's work, as the Hirschfeld Gallery shows the work of strictly Wellington artists and there is no doubt that Thompson is a Wellingtonian (he's a sort of civic icon). After all this I decided to go home and feel sorry for myself re: breakup with Andy. After a long series of (rather hurtful) text messages about A's intrinsic selfishness, a good bawl on the phone to Mum, coffee with Bryna and one of those dreadful crying too much/post coffee drinking headaches I feel exhausted but stronger and I'm determined to do an awesome job of being myself, alone, and being strong and independent and wilful.

I disappear and then *REAPPEAR*

Or at least I'm attempting to make a reappearance. I've just spent the last 12 hours at work (making coffee again)... I'm sitting in my bedroom in my new flat in the centre of town having eaten an decidedly average kebab in record time. I am tired and fragile and am waiting for my aprons to finish washing so I can whack them in the dryer, so that I have clean aprons tomorrow. This is about the extent of my life. Oh, and the bit where my (now ex) fiance bails on me. Neato. I'm not feeling sorry for myself.

I drink too much red wine

and watch too much tv. And speculate about other people's relationships far too much. And I miss Andy. And everyone in my family is out having a social life and I can't afford to, so I'm sitting in my mother's bed and watching a seriously odd Francis Ford Coppola film that is kind of sci fi. I think. People keep getting sedated and they all have bald heads and there's a girl with a very freckly face who keeps stroking the face of another bald man. The film is called THX 1138. I think the aforementioned bald man has just been sentenced to death for not taking his drugs. They're zapping him with sticks in an empty room. As you do. I need to sleep.

Today I spent a disproportionate amount of time in bed

• I woke up at eleven, after having over sixteen hours sleep over the twenty four hours.
• I had fruit toast and coffee at the cafe down the road, where I discussed Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman's marriage, how long it would last and the possibilities for starting a betting sheet.
• I rented three DVDs, all costume dramas, two of which were three hours long each.
• I watched two of afore mentioned DVDs in bed, on the computer.
• I poured coffee on left over chocolate pudding and ate it in bed.
• I cooked weird beetroot/kumara/orange/cinnamon/sesame seed soup for dinner.
• I was evicted from the bedroom because I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to read and watch movies and stuff. And Andy wants to watch the soccer in the morning. So his sleep is more important than my desire to spend more time on my delicious, delightful, and (let's face it) distracting bed.

Judges decisions are final and no correspondence will be entered into

Or something. Stuff happens all the time, you know, to regular people, who are just wandering around. Beer tasting last night at Mountain Goat Brewery in Richmond - Andy's workmate organised free beer (some kind of reciprocal organic type thing). Feeling a little worse for wear at present, am determined to have a nap before I head out tonight to a party with the theme of "Fight Scene". I'm going as Joan Collins. Another excuse to wear eighties clothes and tease my hair (as though I really needed one).

Crafty, crafty Sarah

Just after I finished knitting Andy's scarf; while my caramelised onion, mushroom and goat's cheese tart was baking; after spending the entire morning reading my trashy Jilly Cooper book in bed and the afternoon cleaning for my flatmate's eminent return - I felt incredibly domesticated. As a result, I tore the scarf to shreds and threw it in the compost bin! I stormed out of the house and went into town, leaving the tart to burn if it must - I cared not! I went to the trendiest bar (I had the cutest shoes, too!) and drank martinis while looking MYSTERIOUS and NOT DOMESTICATED AT ALL. Yes, I seized the day - which is why I can be writing this while watching Big Brother, sitting next to my fiance and looking forward for my evening reiki session. Ah, another exciting day in the life. Tomorrow I propose leaving the house.

The World Cup has stolen by boyfriend

Already, and the bloody thing hasn't started yet. Not coming from a country renowned for its soccer expertise, this whole World Cup hype-insanity thing is very unfamiliar. And, I figure, for Australians it's just baby steps as well. Which is why the hype, build up, massive money cash-in, is being VERY overdone, maybe? Or perhaps its just the same old excitement experienced by antipodean countries when they get to "perform on a world stage", when the rest of the world acknowledges the southern hemisphere. Like short-man syndrome for colonies. The fact that Andy is not supporting one particular country is kind of awful too - it means that he's going to watch as many games as possible. How long does the world cup go on for then?

Help me help My Stalker

Maybe he's not yet tenacious enough to be my stalker, but surely he's on his way there.

A friend of mine had a boyfriend when I was in Adelaide. When they were together, he seemed ok, I seemed to get on with the boyfriend fine. After Liz went back to Scotland, I kind of didn't see the boyfriend. And then, he became quite regular at ringing or texting me and asking me out for a coffee.

After a while, Andy said that he felt kind of weird around Steve, that he felt as though Steve was kind of flirting with me right in front of him, and that made him feel funny. And yes, by this point Steve also annoyed me.

Long story short, I hadn't seen Steve for six weeks before I left Adelaide. He text messaged me while we were road tripping around WA and I didn't reply. After I had been back in Australia for a month or so he text messaged me again and I didn't reply. Just then he called me and I answered the phone and had a moment of sickening realisation. For the first time in my life I praised the bad reception in our house as the phone cut out before I had to talk to the man (and now I've switched the damn thing off).

I haven't made any contact with him for over six months... I live in a different city, state and time zone. I feel stalked (I know I would have given up on trying to contact a person who hadn't returned any of my messages for six months). Is there anything more I can do but avoid the man? He seemed really nice to begin with, in a friend's boyfriend, I-don't-know-anyone-in-this-town kind of way, and got more and more Black Adder-like as time went on.

Dance Magic Dance

You remind me of the babe What babe? The babe with the power The power of what? The power of voodoo Who do? You do Do what? Remind me of the babe

If you were Australian you would say "Dehnce".

Today I bought a copy of the Labyrinth that was only $2.50 at the Salvation Army.

I also bought a set of wooden salt and pepper shakers with pineapples carved on them which said "Made in Hawaii" on top and "Made in the Phillipines" on the bottom. Suffering an identity crisis perhaps, or maybe conceived in one place and brought to fruition at another? OR maybe the salt and pepper shakers were carved in Hawaii and the little wooden tray that they came on was carved in the Phillipines.
Hm. So many questions.

ALSO I bought a pair of brand new lavender pop socks with bows on them, a navy blue and white striped plastic bangle, a copy of AS Byatt's Possession for Kate and two truly hideous orange mugs for Andy.

Andy's workmate Ross said that the bangle and the mugs matched each other remarkably well.

Kate went to an iridologist/naturopath who diagnosed her with candida and has removed wheat and fermented and yeasty things from her diet. This has changed her profoundly, because firstly she's not drinking beer (!!!) and secondly because she's incredibly loved up because of her lack of abdominal bloat. Crazy.

Alternate Kate is living in my house and has just popped down the road for a bottle of wine to drink with the friendly match between Greece and Australia thats on TV tonight.

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 After writing this, I decided that it would be fun to add a picture of David Bowie as "Jareth" and put a predictable comment underneath about his crotch. However, my search brought up a fansite that was scary in its level of obsession (and moreover, didn't mock David Bowie's crotch). Also, it had a link to a place where you can read fanfiction - the Labyrinth II and III. Spooky.

Today is Wenerei

And I broke at least four glasses at work. Later, I drank beer with Brendan at the pub down the road. He oggled the divers on Foxtel while we drank and made double entendres about their "entries". Andy did too.

Tuesday night trash TV

I'm blogging on my lap in front of the television, watching the OC; which makes no sense to me because I never watch it but mostly, I suspect, because it makes no sense. I'm eating too much halva, feeling nauseous, watching Kate teach Andy how to play backgammon, and dreading impending visit from Angel Healing. So, I haven't actually met Angel Healing. She rang about sub letting my flatmate's room today and I spoke to her on the phone. She started off sounding fine and then started sounding more and more like she would be an incredibly irritating person to live with - in fact, sounding like a bit of a nutter. She said that she could tell we were spiritual people just by talking to us on the phone. I pointed out that I was more inclined to describe myself as a cynical than a spiritual person. It was only after we'd arranged the flat viewing that we had this conversation. I've spent the whole evening trying to come up with reasons that she can't have the room. I don't want Angel Healing feeling my guardian angels. A girl's guardian angels are her castle.

Easter Bilby - never stoned by Andy

Yesterday I quit my job and then had Reiki.

I may not have mentioned that I have taken on a job recently. This job was in fashion retail – despite the fact that I didn’t want to work in retail or really any kind of customer service for a moment longer. I seemed to have about a thousand interviews through which I could feel myself lying neatly and enthusiastically and eventually I ended up with the job. It’s a sure sign that you’ve made the wrong decision when you feel a sinking sensation when you’re told you’re employed, rather than the elation that you would expect. My first few shifts (trial, and then three “actual” shifts) confirmed my misgivings. When I was in the swing of things, everything was fine, the banter came easily. However, I had absolutely no enthusiasm about the clothes whatsoever. I found it difficult to relate with my coworkers, and with the customers. Why did I persist? (Why?) I imagined things would get better, that I would enjoy it more once I was better established in the store. I knew that I didn’t want the job at all – I would tell people I didn’t want it. Expressly. In those words. At the second interview I was asked if I would mind working at a big soulless Department Store (not in those exact words, obviously). This is actually my idea of hell - the whole concept of a chain of department stores goes against everything that I believe in and value. At this point I did say that I would prefer not to, but I was persuaded to work maybe one shift a week. She was very persuasive. Curses! Last week I sat through a day long “induction” (read: brainwashing) session in aid of preparing me for my Department Store related doom. I told all the people I sat with at this session that I had no desire to work at the Department Store. After I finished the session I physically ran from the building. Imagine me scouring myself in the shower, hoping the hot water would cleanse the grubbiness I felt after sitting through such an evil, evil tutorial. Tutorial of evil! Maybe three days later I was asked to work, not one, but three shifts at the Department Store. How did I feel leading up to this? A sense of impending doom. By the time Wednesday rolled around I felt sick to my stomach and vagued out on anxiety. I almost missed my stop on the train. I imagined turning around and going home while walking to work. The concession had been moved a floor and nobody had bothered to tell me. I was busting to pee and couldn’t find a toilet. I had forgotten about the uniform code and was wearing a pale pink blouse. When I did find the toilet I realized I had my period and no tampons. I had to find a way out of the building and find a pharmacy in a city I barely knew. By the time lunchtime arrived I was at a point of intense agitation – I had been on the verge of tears for about three hours. I was bored and had no ID so I couldn’t log onto the system or process any sales. I rearranged all the clothes in the concession three or four times – first by size, then by colour, then by story. I intended merely to call Andy and let him know how wretchedly my day was going, but it turned into a major hysterical anxiety attack on my cellphone in the middle of the CBD during the lunchtime rush. I was shrieking “I can’t go back! I can’t go back!” Andy advises me not to go back. I ring the Regional Manager and tell her I’m not going back, I’m quitting, I’m having a nervous breakdown (all this in the middle of town. On a park bench). Anyway, I’m sitting at home writing this secure and safe in the knowledge that I may be jobless but I’m also happy. And, having learnt the importance of listening to my intuition (so Polly Anna right now). If every bone in my body is screaming for me not to take a job, I shouldn’t take it. Ah, and I did also end up with a fantastic therapist who practices reiki. Hurrah for reiki!

Last night I saw someone's bedroom act

So, I went out for the first time since we've been in Melbourne and had a rather pleasant time. Ostensibly we'd gone to see Batrider, the band of a girlfriend of a friend of Andy's so that Andy could stalk his friend, get his phone number and hopefully harass him into letting us sleep on his couch (that part failed miserably...) The first act of the evening was this small, skinny white boy who sang along to his iPod. It was as though he'd catalogued every single song that he'd ever made up, made backing tracks and created an interpretive dance for each one. He really FELT the music... you could see him feeling it. His hair was kind of floppy. It was a little like watching a funky noodle. As with all performance art, at the beginning of this fit I felt incredibly uncomfortable - clearly this whole thing was a massive joke, but I felt kind of rude laughing. Like, it was an in-joke, but if I laughed it would be AT the guy, rather than WITH him. Although he would be laughing too. But differently. Batrider was dirge.* I liked it (sorry Bex). And, if the 90s are the new 80s, dirge is the way of the future. I'm considering investing in some flannelette shirts now. And some tee-shirts with Kurt Cobain on the front of them. And some Doc Martin boots (actually, I'm totally serious about the boots. I always wanted 10-ups). Also: Kate and Kena, I have made contact with Vee and am having a coffee with her today. Hooray for having friends! It's fun. *Andy gave me this html and I've just looked at the site. It's a little like reading my adolescent diaries. Hm.