Little Monster / Shuffle

I know, I know. Last time I wrote anything was before Jelle got back from Australia (and probably ONLY because Jelle hadn't yet gotten back from Australia - sigh), and even that was sort of questionable content.

But fear not, friends! I have something to write about today and that something is VIVA GLAM GAGA. The LIPGLASS edition.

Yes, yes.

You've heard about Viva Glam Gaga before. I have the lipstick (I bought it the day it was released in New Zealand) and now I have the Lipglass too. It was released in New Zealand... today.

Viva Glam is a range of lipsticks by MAC that donate their entire retail cost to the MAC AIDS Foundation. Lady Gaga and Cyndi Lauper this year became the first celebrities to have their own Glam lipsticks created. They've since created the matching Lipglass. I am, as you can tell, super excited about it.

Feeling quite pleased with myself after having bought the Lipglass, I was then lured into Bond and Bond (an electronics store) under false pretenses: they were playing Lady Gaga in the doorway. Upon entering the store however I was met with completely different music altogether, and was so disappointed I almost left. And then I saw the "New iPod" display.

Depending on how well you know me, there's a chance you also know of my illustrious history of the mistreatment of iPods. My sister bought me my first one in 2005: it was a first generation Shuffle. Within two weeks of getting it, I jumped into a pool in Canada with it in my pocket.

Later that year I bought a first generation Nano, which lasted almost a year before I stood on it with my cast (when my self-induced shin splints-which-turned-into-hairline-fractures were healing), destroying the screen. I continued to use it until a few months later when I left it on the grass by the 100m start line at QEII stadium in Christchurch (where I was competing, despite being told to never run again if I wanted to be mobile past the age of 30). This is, for the record, around the same time I punctured the screen of my old laptop and mourned its slow but sure decline into unusability (yes, that is a word. Thanks for asking.)

I can't remember how long I went without, but I doubt it was long because I remember feeling left out when Sally had a new Shuffle. I then bought an *insert generation here* Shuffle, which was bright blue, and this lasted until I stood on - no, not the iPod but - the jack, ruining its ability to charge my iPod. I then stole one of Sally's, and within days stood on that one too. This prompted me to buy yet another new Shuffle - this time pale green.

It is this iPod which has stood the test of time, and I'm proud to say it wasn't me who ruined this one! It was my mum. But it was probably my fault, since I threw whichever item of clothing it was that my iPod was in the pocket of, into the laundry. My mum then washed it, and then fished it out following the wash cycle.
She felt terrible and immediately plugged it into her computer and tried to revive it (of course, it is the turning on with wet components that seals the deal, but my mum doesn't know things like this. It's a wonder she even knows how to turn it on), then when I came home from shooting Jono's film that night, she told me what happened and said she was going out the following morning to buy me a new one.

She did, and since it's the second-newest generation one, it's one of those godawful things with an INLINE REMOTE. Oh, how I hate it. Mainly because everyone knows that iPod headphones last a week tops, and they're notoriously hard to come by.

Anyway.

On Friday I PUT IT THROUGH THE WASH.
Yes.

I didn't make the mistake of turning on directly after - in fact, I still haven't.
But then Jelle and I was perusing the Apple site the other day and found the NEW generation... and these ones are better...
Actually what I really want is a Nano, but I can't justify spending $250 when it's likely to be ruined by year's end.

Back to my original story (you know, the one where I got lured into Bond and Bond)...

I was in there gazing at the display when the decidedly attractive store manager approached me and told me they'd received the new Shuffles this morning - "four pink, and four silver!". This was my own doing. I'm wearing a pink cardigan today, so he probably mistook me for one of those girls who likes everything to be pink (for the record: I'm not. I like my fair share of pink, but it's generally in the form of Saint Germain or Viva Glam Gaga lipstick, not electronics).
"Pink and silver are no good." I said, feeling a bit relieved as I knew my bank account would not allow for the whimsical purchase of a new iPod, especially one which I might not actually need if I leave mine to dry long enough...
The store manager disappeared out the back of the store, and came back holding a blue one. I started to panic. I am not kidding. I actually panicked because they had a blue Shuffle, and I want a blue Shuffle, but I don't know if I need a blue Shuffle, and I know I definitely cannot afford one.

I'm blaming the stupid store manager's good looks, because I then put down a deposit on the blue Shuffle and I'm going back this afternoon to pay the rest and bring it home and cuddle it (probably. I mean I'll probably cuddle it).

Why does this happen to me!?

I went into town this morning with the sole intention of getting my Viva Glam Gaga and getting out. Then a sneaky chain events led me to now owing Bond and Bond $69. Gah!!!

Still, at least now Lady Gaga can sing in my ears for the rest of eternity...

On The Move. Again.

I know, I know.

But all will be revealed when you visit my *new* home at

patchblakie.blogspot.com

I Am Probably Not Fashion. Definitely Not.

I don't really like clothes (except tshirts. You've probably noticed that I like tshirts). In fact, I dislike clothes to the extent that if it came down to a decision between clothing and makeup, I would invariably opt for the makeup option. I am serious.

Anyway, yesterday my flatmate coerced me into a clothes-shopping expedition. It. Lasted. Three. Hours. I documented my trip with a selection of cellphone-camera-photos which you will find below. I went with a bit of an "accessories" theme, and from the photos you can probably deduce that I have little, if any, fashion sense.

Enjoy.

Fall From Grace

Well, Lance Armstrong is probably feeling quite happy that he announced his imminent return to triathlon now that he fairly bowed out of this year's Tour de France, finishing the GC in 21st place - his worst placing ever. To be fair, Mr Jonathan Mellow (one of his more formal nicknames) is almost 40, and has already won cycling's crown jewel seven times, as well as being the GC runner-up last year.

Lance was once my favourite rider, but after I switched allegiances to Garmin last year, Vande Velde became my man by default. This year, Garmin's Ryder Hesjedal took over the mantle of "team leader" when Vande Velde withdrew, maimed, on stage two. The whole "Contador vs Armstrong" dynamic within the Astana camp last year caused me to lose a lot of respect for Lance (but nothing compared to the deep-seated hatred I have for that bastard Mark Cavendish), so I'm not going to lie: I had a bit of a chuckle each day when Lance failed to make the top ten GC list. Even moreso when I saw Ryder's name on there repeatedly.

There's a good chance Lance will now smash everyone in the world at Ironman. At his first marathon outing at NYC in 2006, he turned in a fairly swift three-hours - which he then shattered the following year by posting a 2:46. There aren't many guys in the world that can win a Tour de France AND run a sub three-hour marathon. Add this to that Lance was once fourth in the state of Texas for the 1500-m freestyle, and yeah... watch out, Ironman.

I, meanwhile, have no plans to return to anything so active for at least the remainder of this year. Currently, I'm battling what might be lung cancer (disclaimer: this is a self-diagnosed condition at present, but stay tuned just in case) as well as a serious caffeine addiction, and lack-of-exercise-induced borderline obesity.

Instead, my plan is to be one of those couch-based former athletes, reporting in a pessimistic style from in front of the television during the 2010 Commonwealth Games, World Artistic Gymnastics Championships, and Pan Pacific Swimming Championships (note: the first of these to get underway is Pan Pacs, from the Irvine pool in SoCal. I can't wait. August 18th, bitches).

By far the most exciting thing about both Pan Pacs and Comms is that FEDERICA PELLEGRINI WON'T BE THERE. So we won't have to deal with any of her bitchiness. YAY!

Guess who will likely be at Gymn Worlds though...

Everybody's faaaavourite bulldog, Rebecca Bross!

Still, I heard a rumour that Kayla Williams can do a double layout with a full twist now.It doesn't make sense, and I don't know if I believe it... but if it's true then I may just die from happiness.

It's Likely That I Will Implode Before You Read This

I have grave concerns that I have an addiction to caffeine.

I've long erred on the side of caution when referring to addictions, because real addictions are powerful things that sometimes ruin lives, and it seems sort of rude to be like "I'm addicted to candy!" when really I enjoy the occasional Chokotoff (having a European boyfriend has its downsides, you see).

But I'm serious now.

There's good chance that if you spend any amount of time with me here in Dunedin that you know I not only enjoy the occasional Chokotoff but also the occasional can, bottle, or giant goblet of V. I once drank a litre (that's a quarter of a gallon) in the space of an hour or two, and I'm not exaggerating here, I did not sleep for two days afterwards. After that, I swore off it until the afternoon following, when I spent three hours on Sephora.com reading reviews of the Bliss "Pore-fector" Gadget Kit. Oh, how I wish I was lying about that one.

Since then, V has become the bane of my day-to-day life. The part of me that loves my stomach lining shrieks "no! Don't do it!", but the part of me that likes staying up past midnight jabbing Jelle (who is invariably trying to sleep) in the ribs with my index finger always caves. So it's with regret that I confess to a two-bottles-a-day habit.

So bedtime should be fun tonight. It's 6:40pm and I'm looking at an empty bottle that I just finished. I feel invincible, like I could type forever. Whether that results in one of the greatest literary masterpieces of the last century, some angry blog posts, or an essay outline (I'm hoping for that one, since it's due on Monday, and tomorrow I'm going to see Inception and expect to spend the weekend crowing about it and doing makeup for the Carrington College ball) - we shall see.

Over and out.
(For the next five minutes, anyway)

Make It... Fake It...

I'm definitely far from the first person to say this, but Make It or Break It has got to be one of the most unrealistic representations of gymnastics, ever.

Right now I'm watching the episode, "Battle of the Flexes", via ch131.com, and can I just point out that an in-house, reverse-apparatus competition would just never happen. You might have seen Paul Hunt, formerly of the University of Illinois, performing comedy women's gymnastics routines on Youtube, but I can guarantee that no such things happen inside elite gymnasiums.
This episode features the female gymnasts (who are supposedly in hot contention for the 2012 Olympic Games) competing on rings, parallel bars and men's floor, while the men perform on uneven bars and beam. It just wouldn't happen.

This is on top of their apparent USA Gymnastics agenda, where the national federation is viewed as "having it in" for the girls, their gym, and their coach. They pluck national rankings seemingly from nowhere, and whisk certain gymnasts off to international meetings with close to no notice, all the while forcing the girls to "pledge allegiance" to the federation. There's in-house meets to determine who competes first for the team at national meets - which doesn't happen, because while you represent a club at Nationals, there is no team competition and even if there was, it would be unlikely that the coaches could select the order of their athletes. It's the equivalent of letting sprinters pick their lane and heat at the USA Track and Field Championships.

And those girls' boobs? Way too big to be elite gymnasts.

Anyway.

I just like sparkly leotards. Not gonna lie about it.

/rant.

Curly

You may have heard/read me describe myself as Bob Dylan's hair twin.

Since I have, for the last two years, been a devoted fan of my ghd hair straightener, unfortunately my hair has suffered the consequences of 300+ degree heat on an almost daily basis. And that is why, most mornings, I wake up looking like Bob.

My obsession with Bob Dylan goes back a number of years, to a quiz night with Hamilton Swimming Club when Sal and I decided it would be really funny to yell out "Bob Dylan!" as an answer to every "Who am I?" question. Apparently, it wasn't.

My ghd has fairly ruined my formerly lovely locks. I used to blame its declining state on chlorine, but since I haven't been in the water for well over a month now, and especially when you consider that the swimming outing in question was a one-off in over two months, I really doubt that chlorine is the true culprit.

Since my sister's wedding is "looming" (haha, I like how I talk about it more than she does), I thought it best to leave my ghd at home in Hamilton, to give my hair a six-month break. I imagined myself in February, prancing around Melton Estate in my new purple dress with my long, Lauren Conrad-esque hair either floating about behind me or styled neatly into a classy French roll. My mum bought me a pot of "deep" conditioner, which, as a teenager, I applied nightly and slept with my head adorned with glad-wrap. I've begun to use it nightly again, and today is the first day in a week that I've left my hair "out".

It looks awful.

Like Bob Dylan. Only worse.

I'm hoping that it's that awkward "in-between" phase - like the stage in metamorphosis when the beautiful butterfly is hiding in a nasty cocoon. Come February, I will look like Lauren.

As such, if you see me between now and February, please curb your urge to yell offensive hair-related comments in my direction. You'll be sorry when the photos from Louise's wedding appear on here.

Yeah.

Soft Kitty

My boyfriend hates hairless cats.

And don't tell him, but so do I, but i just find it so funny when I show him photos of them and he gets far too offended.

So Jelle, here's some of my favourites.

Monster Mash

Laure Manaudou has a baby?!?!

I can't believe I did not know this. Laure Manaudou is my favourite female swimmer of all time ever.

The father is... Frederick Bousquet. So yeah, the baby is three-quarters human, one-quarter monster. I mean, really. Frederick Bousquet is definitely the spawn of Zeus fornicating with a monster. If it's anything like that time he disguised himself as a swan and had sex with Leda... well, then maybe Leda was the monster and Bousquet was the result. But anyway. My odds are on that baby winning the 100m-200m freestyle double at the 2028 Olympic Games.

+

=

Yeah, we hazarded a guess and decided that in 2028, the Olympics will return to Moscow (hence the medal straps).

Indian Summer

Just this morning I was lamenting the lack of swim meets this year to watch, critique, and complain about. I was all, ho hum, no swimming meets this year?! What is the world coming to?

And then, just like that, I remembered the fun that is the Commonwealth Games.

The Commonwealth Games are a sensitive subject for me. In 2002, I made the qualifying standard for the 50m freestyle but I did so the day after the qualifying period ended (which raises the question, why on earth did the qualifying period finish the day before the second-largest swimming meet in the world?) and besides, 2002 was well before the days when New Zealand considered "elite athletes with disabilities" for their Commonwealth Games teams. In 2005 I competed at the trials for the 2006 Games and failed to qualify so miserably that just two days later I quit swimming forever.

This might be why I've thus far ignored this year's Games, due to be staged in New Delhi, India (oh, that could also have something to do with it) in October. Admittedly, one close friend (Jessica Hamill), one former training partner (Rebecca Wardell) and an old clubmate (Stuart Farquhar) are all New Zealand representatives this year, along with some of my favourite athletes ever, Nicholas Willis and Valerie Vili - so I should really be paying attention. As well, Penelope Marshall is on the swim team. If you were at the Waikato Age Group Swimming Championships in like, 2002, you may remember seeing me, Penny and Kirby stumbling round in fits of laughter while candy dropped out of our pockets and from under our jackets. It may have been the greatest moment of my life up until that point. (And, maybe even since.)

Commonwealth Games swimming events don't boast the Chinese, Japanese and US swimmers that Olympics and World Championships do. And you might watch them and think "Guernsey? Really?" But it shouldn't be forgotten, firstly, that Italy is not in the Commonwealth and so Federica Pellegrini won't be there, and also that Ian Thorpe broke his 400m freestyle world record at this event in 2002 (a mark - 3:40.08 - that stood until it was controversially broken by German Paul Biedermann at last year's Worlds), and that Australia has some of the world's best swimmers. In 2002, Petria Thomas swam in thirteen races (this includes heats, semi-finals, finals and relays) at the Commonwealth, and if memory serves me correctly, she earnt seven medals. This of course was en route to her stunning 100m butterfly gold in Athens.

Pellegrini: bitch, get out of my life and take your
oversized breasts, smug face and ego with you.

I'm biased, but the Commonwealth Games has, for the last three editions anyway, showcased the enormous (in both terms of achievement and her physical size) talent that is Natalie du Toit. In 1998 she competed for South Africa in the 200m butterfly and 400m IM events, before having a leg amputated. In Manchester (2002) she won both "EAD" events, as well as qualifying for the 800m freestyle final. She repeated her efforts in Melbourne in 2006 (after dominating the 2004 Paralympic Games, competing at the 2004 World Short Course Championships), and has since represented her country at the 2008 Olympics and Paralympics, and at World Open Water Championships.

So the Commonwealth Games are significant in terms of international swimming, even though they don't have Phelps. You should watch them. And ha-ha, even if you don't intend to, you're still going to hear about it here.

P.S: Wondering about Le Tour de France?

Well, Vande Velde got out on stage two after a nasty crash, and Farrar is out too... so apparently my team's hopes now rest on the shoulders of Ryder Hesjedal, who is like, younger than me. Good.

Hello. Goodbye.

I frequently abuse my body with such "treats" as candy, carbonated beverages, sleep, lack of sleep, aioli and more candy. Right now, for example, it's 9:23am and I'm more than halfway through a 500mL can of V (Red Bull for those who don't live on my atoll) and an apricot/chocolate cookie.

Zoom, zoom, zoom.

I didn't even want the cookie!

It's just that I'm so, so vain that I refuse to drink V without first gunking my teeth with a layer of plaque so the pantothenic acid doesn't leave me with root stumps. (Is that what they're called, Jess? Root stumps?) I mean, eventually it's going to happen because I just drink so much V that eventually my teeth are going to stage a coup, but you know, until then I want my bases covered.

By sugary, salty cookie plaque apparently.

As for sleep, well, I feel like sleep is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, sleep is great for me, and apparently I should aim for seven hours a night. But I hear sleep has conditions too - I have to get two of those seven hours between 2am and 4am, and if I sleep longer than seven hours, I'm at risk of a host of medical conditions. But at the same time, if I get less than seven hours, I'm still at risk! Of different things of course, the main threat being dark circles under my eyes (this seems more debilitating to me than something like cancer), but I mean, what?
How is it possible for me to get bang on seven hours? And sometimes, you know what, I can't sleep between 2am and 4am. Sometimes being on Wikipedia at 3am is just too good to pass up.

And this is how I abuse myself with sleep. It's a rare day (or night, as the case usually is) that I get seven hours sleep. Often, I get like, two. But then just as often, I'll get ten. Ahhh, what a conundrum!

Urgh. I've finished my V.

Well, I Hope Her Dresses Aren't Purple

I caved and bought a dress the other day for the purpose of attire for my sister's wedding day.

You might be thinking, wtf, but you said her wedding isn't until February, or even wtf, you said she hadn't decided on a colour for her bridesmaids' dresses yet. Isn't picking a dress now a bit risky considering the pickle you got yourself into the other day over it? and rightly so. Yes, my sister isn't getting married until February, and no, she hasn't even put so much as a grain of thought into the colour of her bridesmaids' dresses. So yes, it's risky. Especially since purple is a tried and true bridesmaids' choice, because purple tends to look good on everyone.

Including me.

The purple of the dress I chose is an inky, dark shade, one not too dissimilar to OPI's "Sapphire in the Snow". Unfortunately this means that wearing said nail colour is off the table.

Hmmm.

A likely option is looking like "Meet Me on the Star Ferry". Wait, am I discussing nail polish for a date so far in the future I don't even know if I'm going to be alive? Wow.

Something that cracked me up from a previous post is that I started my rant by saying I wanted to find a hairstyle, then finished up by complaining about dress colours.

I'm an idiot.

Jelle's dad bought me a USB drive. I've never had one before, and this one is especially cool because it looks like a Lego brick. Do you love Lego? I love Lego. As such, I love my USB drive (I also love it because now I feel like a real, organised student. I mean, sure I've been at university since like, 2004, but I've roughed it until now, sans drive). Here's what it looks like.

omg. I know.

Oh, holy crap.

THEY COME IN PINK.

Ummm, I Want This

It's unlikely that you'll remember my jubilation when my favourite person in the whole world, ever, sent me some Imju Fiberwig Mascara last year. If in fact you do, then wow. Prepare for even greater jubilation: it now comes in "Extra Long" formula.

I think I might die from happiness. Sure, in my annual "write-stuff-about-cosmetics" post last December, I placed Lancome's Cils Design Pro mascara above Fiberwig, but let me tell you it was close. And now that it comes in extra long? Oh. My. God.

Also excited about:

MAC Studio Fix Mascara and Opulash.

But remember that time I got excited about Dazzle Lash? Well, that was much ado about nothing. My lashes certainly didn't look like this.

You may be thinking I'm an idiot for actually thinking a mascara would leave my lashes looking like the above, clearly photoshopped and shot-with-lash-inserts photograph, and you'd be right. I would be an idiot for thinking that. But Dazzle Lash fell short of my much-lower expectations, and that's why I'm hesitant about buying more MAC mascara. That and the whole, Marine Life thing.

Point is, I want extra long Fiberwig lashes. And I want them now.

Why Don't You Like Me?

It's true, I'm obsessed with Allie Brosh. And it would seem, with an average of more than 100 comments per post, a lot of other people on the internet are too.

I have an insofar unexplained tendency to mimic those who a) I spend too much time with (this is why I say things like "ain't nothing but a thang, heeey"), or b) I read too much of - this is best exhibited in my "Anyway." topic indicators, something I stole off of Jonathan Safran Foer. On a side note, holy crap does anyone else get annoyed at the array of possible spellings for the name "Jonathan"?! Good grief!

Anyway.

The good thing about Allie Brosh is that I will never come even close to being able to mimic her deranged artwork, or her hilarity, so you guys are getting off pretty lightly.

My sister is getting married. You might not even know that I have a sister (you'd even be forgiven for thinking I don't have a family, since I pretty much NEVER talk about them), but I do and her name is Louise. She's marrying a guy named Nick in February of next year, and I've recently begun agonising over what I should do with my hair on her big day. I know, I know - it's ridiculous. In my defense, however, it is the middle of the holidays, I am so so bored, and I am also incredibly conceited and appearance-driven, so you really shouldn't be so surprised.

Since my sister is currently studying for a Master's degree in psychology (I know, I hate pyschology too), her wedding planning efforts are well, intermittent. She hasn't decided on a colour for her bridesmaids' dresses, which is a problem for me because it means I can't choose a colour to wear, either. Say I go for, I don't know, magenta. What if she decides on tangerine for her bridesmaids? I'm sure she won't, because even though she's doing psychology, I don't truly believe that she's an idiot. But she might... and then we'll clash, and I don't want the reason I stand out at my sister's wedding to be because I clash with her servants. Oh, bridesmaids.

An obvious solution to this matter of extreme and all-encompassing importance is to wait for my sister to choose a colour for her bridesmaids' dresses, and then make an informed decision based on that. But I don't want to! I don't care that it's 11:10pm on a Sunday evening. I want to choose the colour for my dress right now.

Anyway.

Haha, I did that on purpose.

Has anyone tried Shellac nails? I'm not going to lie. I am tempted. You probably know about my obsession with nail polish (and as such, you may be astonished to learn that I'm currently sporting naked nails. Take note. It doesn't happen often). I read about Shellac nails in the weekend insert of the newspaper - in the beauty column, which I one day intend to take over, because the current writer is just so average - and since then I've been toying with the idea of taking a stroll (yes, a stroll, for reasons I will explain shortly) down Casabella Lane and getting Shellac nails in a colour like Taffy Pink or Indian Rhubarb (or maybe not Indian Rhubarb, since I hate both the country and the ... what is rhubarb? Is it a fruit or a vegetable? I can't believe I don't know!). Since Shellac supposedly lasts fourteen days, I'm going to have to make a really good decision about what colour I want. I've never had to commit to anything for fourteen days before! Unless you count my tattoo. Or maybe my boyfriend or my degree.

And now, why I have to walk to Casabella Lane.

O.M.G.

You know my car? The 1984 (or so, I've never actually been 100% sure on what year it is) Honda Civic that may have followed you home more than once? Yep, I had to leave it in Waipu the other day.

I was coming home from my fun-filled trip to Whangarei Heads when I happened to notice an unusual amount of smoke pouring from my exhaust pipe (in my rear view mirror, which was probably in all honesty, actually a glance up to check my eyebrows). I felt a little bit uneasy until I saw even more smoke seeping out from under my bonnet. And then I screamed and pulled over. I was somewhere close to where the red X on the map below is drawn.

There's a chance that unless you're from Northland, you have no idea where that is, but it's just far enough from Whangarei for it to be annoying. Luckily, my mum knows I'm completely car-illiterate and bought me an AA membership so within a few hours of parking up by Bridge 2898 over the Tauroa Stream (amazingly, this didn't help the AA representative pinpoint my location) a tow-truck driver arrived and dropped me and my car off in Waipu. He advised that my car was done for.

Last year, my car nearly exploded when I drove it home from a week of shooting (film, not animals) in Katikati. Amazingly, it survived that ordeal, but this time I wasn't so lucky. I had to leave my car in Waipu, where it's due to be picked up and salvaged for parts some time this week.

Since then, I've been relying on my feet and my mum for transport. It's been kind of crappy, but anyway that's why I have to walk to Casabella Lane on Tuesday. Sigh.

It's a hard-knock life.

Oceans. Ten.

I had the best intentions of blogging every day while I'm in Hamilton, but then I got whisked away to the tropical north, where I stayed at the Whangarei Heads Surf Lifesaving Club. As soon as I can re-install the drivers so I can connect my cellphone to my laptop, I'll chuck some photos up, but I thought, since I'm bored and self-obsessed, that I would answer some questions I get asked a lot.

What happened to you? You used to be smart.

Um, yes. I got asked this, and I don't really know the answer to the first part, but I can assure you that I am, for the most part, still smart. I suppose one might say that I'm exercising different aspects of my intelligence this year - having a significant other fries my brain in ways I never thought possible, as does being a reluctant pseudo-mentor of sorts to a selection of people. I've also had to become about 4739279237 times more responsible since I'm in charge of the bill payments for my flat, as well as cleaning it, since the other inhabitants appear incapable of doing so.
Excuse me for only getting an A for an essay I wrote in one seven-hour sitting, probably the only seven-hour stint I've managed to be by myself for this year.

Do you have a job? Or do you actually just play Zelda all day?
No. And yes. A few months ago, I installed an Nintendo64 emulator on my laptop, which allows me to play The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time to my heart's content. As you can imagine, this makes me very happy. I also have Banjo-Kazooie, Diddy Kong Racing and some other games. In fact, recently I struggled with a repetitive strain injury in my right hand from non-stop gaming, which I ignored until I couldn't open doors anymore.

With regards to a job, I would very much like one and have been applying for a number of cosmetics-related vacancies in Dunedin, so far to no avail.

You look terrible. What happened to your triathlon career?
It stagnated.
After World Championships last year (for which, for the record, I trained solo and sans coach), I made a decision to study again. Shortly after embarking on said study, I decided that study wasn't for me, and that I would continue competing. This was followed shortly after by the Christchurch Marathon, where it became blindingly obvious that I'm well past my retire-by date. So, despite the invitations to races overseas that fill my inbox, I will not be competing in triathlon again.

Are you happy?
Not particularly.

What's your plan now?

Um, what? Do you even read my blog? I don't have one. I have a few badly-thrown-together plans, none of which will eventuate. They include flying planes, visiting countries like Sweden and Croatia, and um, some other things that escape me right now. I have only one thing set in stone for now, which is breaking up with my boyfriend in February next year. So that's nice.

ANYWAY! That's enough for now. Photos of Northland soon!

You'd Be Forgiven For Thinking I Don't Like Track Anymore

Last year, I was all up in just about every track meet in the Northern Hemisphere season. I'm this year embarrassed to admit that I only just learnt today that the USA Track and Field Championships are underway in Des Moines, Iowa.

Probably the most exciting thing I've noticed is that Sanya Richards is now sporting a new extension to her surname - Ross. That means she got married! Which I have a feeling I kind of knew was happening anyway, but still. She is placed seventh after the 400m semi-finals, which kind of makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with her, but meh.

The heptathlon, which has long been my favourite track and field event (after the men's 10,000m, but only when it's being raced at major international championships - otherwise it's boring as shit) is being dominated as per usual by the nimble Hyleas Fountain, who I love. As a general rule of thumb, I love all heptathletes, because they are basically superwomen. One of my old training buddies is New Zealand's best heptathlete - Rebecca Wardell, and she is just out-of-this-world talented. Prior to competing in heptathlon, Rebecca was a top-notch 400m hurdler, and since making the switch, she's competed at Commonwealth and Olympic Games, as well as at World Championships. Don't even get me started on Sarah Cowley, who used to be one of my sister's competitors in her high school high jumping days, who now also dominates heptathlon. Actually, once when I was competing in Australia at their national championships, I managed to video one of Sarah's long jump attempts on my cellphone, then showed it to her once I saw her again back in New Zealand. She was... probably a bit confused, but flattered all the same. I think.

Here's Hyleas pwning the 100m hurdles race, anyway. Yay!

My other favourite event, the women's 200m, is looking lacklustre due to the well, lack of Allyson Felix. I love Allyson Felix. She ought to have that "zoom, zoom, zoom" song from the Mazda ads playing when she runs, seriously. And I've heard she can leg press something like 300lb. Pretty sure she weighs about 95lb. That's just silly. Turns out (after some judicious Zimbio and usatf.org stalking) that Felix is just running the 100m at these Championships - turning in a swift 11.27s for first place in the final. Into a 2.5m/s headwind. Get. Out. Of. My. Life.

I know, I know. Women should be running that fast, anyway. But still! Here's a picture (just in case you doubted me when I said how much she leg presses).

OMG I Love My Slippers

My mum bought me some new slippers on Sunday.

I started wearing ugh boots well before they were cool. Granted, I wore them to swimming meets so they were constantly wet and disgusting, and they were just the plain, grey kind. They didn't have tassles or reach my knees, and I didn't wear them as a fashion statement. Lord knows nothing I wear is a fashion statement. Up until recently, ugh boots were the only form of slipper I subscribed too. Then I moved to Dunedin and bought some "indoor slippers" - in an attempt to encourage me to wear real shoes to uni each day. It didn't work - those slippers were on my feet for a large amount of the semester, including throughout eight-hour study shifts at the library, to linguistics lectures, and down to good old Mei Wah Takeaways. One day I tripped, which made the toe of my slipper begin to unravel. Pretty soon, because I continued to wear them in Dunedin's mean streets, the entire foam insole was protruding out of the front of what developed into a gaping hole.

To add insult to injury, when I visited Christchurch for the marathon on Queen's Birthday weekend, I left my slippers at my sister's house. I went and bought some more - hideous things they were, leopard print and only $8.

Upon arrival in Hamilton I fairly yelped at my mother that I needed more slippers, and pronto (please, if possible... or just whenever you're ready). And then I found these.

OMG, right? I know. They're perfect for my hoodie-wearing lifestyle. And they were kind of overpriced for slippers, so there's no way in heck I'm going to be venturing outside in these babies. Since I got them, I've only taken them off when it's been absolutely necessary. Showering, leaving the house, and... yeah that's all. I want to be wearing these slippers on the day I die (and every day until then, obviously).

Waaaaaant? If you live in New Zealand, you can buy 'em at Farmers. They're called Grosby's Hoodies For Your Feet and you can peruse their website here.

I. Love. My. Slippers.

Kosovo

I mentioned a few posts ago the game that Jelle and I (admittedly, more I than Jelle. He tends to not become obsessed with trivial things in the way that I do) play naming the countries of the world. You can find it here.

An interesting aspect of this game is that the 195 countries are 193 UN members, plus two other "widely recognised" nations. If you're anything like me, you suck at knowing the difference between Caribbean islands that are independent nations, and those that are owned by other countries (here's a hint: Bermuda? Not a country. St. Lucia? Country. Who knew?). And just as perplexing is the Pacific Ocean islands (where I live, in New Zealand, we generally refer to them as Polynesia, and I think a lot of the people I know would struggle to name the independent islands from the ones governed by other countries) - how Micronesia is any more of a country than Tokelau is honestly beyond me.

Anyway, last night I did some research. Turns out the two countries that aren't UN members are Kosovo and Taiwan. Taiwan, Chinese Taipei and Hong Kong have long baffled me, but not to the extent that Kosovo does. My knowledge of Kosovo as an independent nation is limited to Milorad Cavic's controversial t-shirt at the European Swimming Championships a few years ago - "Kosovo is Serbia". This, from a man who comes from a region where it's been necessary for him to represent three different countries in his three Olympic Games outings (you've heard me crap on about Cavic before, and this is because he's the man that could have stopped Phelps in his now legendary quest for eight golds at the Beijing Games) - in 2000 he raced for Yugoslavia, in 2004: Serbia and Montenegro, and in 2008: Serbia. According to Wikipedia, just 36% of UN countries "recognise" Kosovo as an independent nation.

It makes me wonder how these countries come to such decisions. While giants Russia and China say no to Kosovo, a few African countries like Lesotho, Burkina Faso, and Liberia recognise it. I mean, really. We've all seen what the UN assemblies look like - everyone sitting there behind a little placard with their country's name emblazoned on it. Does the Secretary-General say something like, "all in favour of making Kosovo an independent sovereignty?" and even though the Ethiopian representative quite likes Kosovo, he can't help but notice the death stare he's getting from his Eritrean neighbour? But Somalia doesn't have a ball of this. Somalia supports Kosovo in all its independent glory, and because of countries like Somalia, Kosovo gets included on the aforementioned game as one of two lucky countries to not be UN members but still widely recognised.

How then, does a place such as South Ossetia just miss out completely? Perhaps the Kosovo debate caused such a fracas that no-one dare say anything about it.

It amazes me in a similar way to the way some countries deny the Armenian Genocide (yes, here we go again). Did you know that modern Turkey and Azerbaijan claim there was no such thing? There's even a website I absolutely do not recommend, as such refuse to link to, called Tall Armenian Tale, denying the events ever took place. It's like that ridiculous lecturer I had in first year that tried to convince me that the grand total of casualties following the Chernobyl reactor disaster was seven.

Now, I don't know about you, but I personally know three girls who have congenital deformities which have been clinically confirmed as a direct result of their birth mothers being pregnant within the "danger zone" of Chernobyl. Apparently their deformities at birth distressed said birth mothers so that they were left in Russian orphanages and later adopted by well-meaning Americans (that was not in any way meant to sound judgmental, it's just what happened). When I broached this subject with the lecturer - who was, unsurprisingly, delivering a pro-nuclear power speech - his response was the equivalent of the Tall Armenian Tale website.

Splendid.

Anyway, I'm not sure how I ended up ranting about Chernobyl when originally I intended to discuss the international recognition of Kosovo.

*Yawn*

How Did We Get Here?

I know I do this ALL the time, but I just love to look back and see what I was up to a year ago. That's the beauty (and sometimes, guys, beauty is pain) of having a blog you once kept meticulously.

This time last year, I was: obsessing over the lead actor from a seemingly random 48HOURS film. And Lady Gaga. Yeah, so not much has changed.

You know what's weird though?

In the last few days of 2009, I received some particularly horrifying news that really changed my life, and that I have avoided writing about as a matter of principle. I'm not going to elaborate any further, but it does sort of crack me up now when I think about the drastic life changes I made in an attempt to forget the new information which haunted me on a daily basis (most days, it infiltrated my brain within moments of waking, leaving me feeling disturbed for the rest of the day). Without putting much thought into it, I began subscribing to a whole new genre of music. I listened to Pendulum what seemed like 24/7 - during my daily walk to and from uni, while I studied and wrote papers, when my cellphone rang ("Granite" was my ringtone from about December 28th until a week ago, when I had to buy a new cellphone because apparently texting while you're in a spa pool doesn't go down too well with your cellphone. Who would have thought), even as I fell asleep at night. I'm not kidding. I was playing drum and bass as loud as my eardrums could tolerate to help me sleep. I listened to Pendulum so much that the new "friends" I made really thought I had no other interests besides drum and bass music. It eventually became that to me, "music" meant "Pendulum".

But, you know me. I have phases. Phases where I blog eight times a day, and tweet thrice as much. Phases where I think that following Malaysian guys home from the gym is acceptable. There was even a momentary phase where I thought shaving my head would be a good idea. That had passed by the time I finished shaving it, looked in the mirror and thought "what have I done?"

And that's how we get to now. I'm currently on a classical music binge. Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons - Spring" (well, at least that's the English translation) is my ringtone. I listen to baroque while I'm studying, and writing papers, and even driving. Wellllll, okay - maybe not so much while I'm driving, but that's really only because having a car for a few weeks is a novelty and I am taking this opportunity to sing as frequently and as loudly as possible. The other night my mum even said I sounded like Serj Tankian - which I took as a compliment until she followed it up with "loud, and out of tune". I think she's jealous.

Speaking of Serj, he inspired me to learn about the Armenian Genocide recently - another phase. That shit was pretty awful though, and I think you should take some time out of your day to learn about it too. I've always felt a weird connection to Armenia (and Azerbaijan, but this is primarily because we had our "flag-raising ceremony" in Athens with them. And anyway, since learning about the Armenian Genocide I like Azerbaijan a whooooooole lot less) and it's for that reason that I'm falsifying my "Place of Birth" on my triathlon.org profile as "Yerevan, Armenia". I mean, really - a growing number of people truly believe that my dad was once a Soviet spy, so it's not that farfetched. I can also spot an Armenian surname from a mile away.

You'd be forgiven for reading this and thinking "this girl is unstable and as such, not fit to make life decisions" and you may be right. Actually, do you think maybe I should send the link for this post to my mother so she stops berating me for not having chosen a career yet?

Speaking of triathlon.org (yes, you skim-readers, I did mention it. Go back and have a look), I recently had a ridiculous interview published on there. I've also been asked to submit a profile for the "Profiles" section of the site. This is the same profile where "Yerevan, Armenia" will be listed as my "Place of Birth". It's mostly pretty mundane, but the one question that perplexes me more than life itself is "proudest moment outside triathlon". Are you serious, Thanos? (Thanos is the guy who sent me the profile to fill out.) I can assure you that I have zero proud moments outside triathlon. Even the mild proudness I felt upon winning Worlds last year has all but been forgotten by now.

Just kidding.

Here's my medal, in case you forgot what it looked like.

Hahaha.

To The... Forest.

You might have noticed that I get a bit feverish with excitement when MAC Cosmetics (just to clarify: MAC Cosmetics is incorrect, as "MAC" stands for "Makeup Art Cosmetics". Really, Makeup Art Cosmetics Cosmetics? I didn't think so. Sort it out) release new collections. There was one earlier this year, All Ages, All Races, All Sexes, that I was particularly obsessed with (read about it here if you must) - I ended up purchasing the "Personal Style" beauty powder which I rarely use but love like my own child all the same, and "Equality" lipstick which I use even less. I don't know, I just think that when I wear skin-coloured lipstick I look a little bit like an horrific porn star.

Then there was Viva Glam Gaga, which I'm still obsessed with. It helps that it looks perfect on me, and that Lady Gaga's signature is printed onto the lipstick tube.

There have definitely been releases since then (Give Me Liberty of London springs to mind) but nothing has quite captured the imaginations of MAC's devoted fanbase like To The Beach. It's summer elsewhere in the world, you see, so this is their tribute to sun.

Amber (who you can follow on Twitter here) recently twitpic'd a photo of some good-looking girls with particularly pretty cheeks. When, upon inquiry, she told me it was MAC's new "Marine Life" highlighting powder, I nearly died from excitement, then went and bought it the following day. It was $68, which I'm fairly sure is more than I've ever spent on a single makeup product in my life (except maybe Bliss' Triple Oxygen Instant Energising Mask, which retails for USD52 and as such blows "Marine Life" right out of the ... sea) and while it really pains me to say this...

I don't love it.

I bought it, and became increasingly more excited about wearing it clubbing on my first foray into Hamilton's nightlife since Boxing Day (did I ever tell you guys about Boxing Day, and how I came out of it with a new appreciation for that-song-I-famously-hate, "Whatcha Say"?), which finally rolled around last Saturday. Upon application though, I became bitterly disappointed. What the hell is this neon coral-coloured shit? It looked pink on Amber's twitpic, PINK! Pink, and flattering, and pretty, and everything else I wanted in a blush. Why is this happening to me, when I don't have enough time to wash my face and start again?! I managed to tone it down with some MAC Studio Fix (Fix is right, guys!), but I still spent my night fretting about my coral-coloured cheeks. Here's a particularly awful picture from the night (which doesn't really showcase my cheeks, but is hideous all the same) - courtesy Shannon Rolfe Photography.

Actually, I think it showcases my cheeks pretty fucking well, now that I look at it again. My eye makeup looks like it might have been applied by a four-year-old with spastic cerebral palsy (ha! I can say things like that without feeling guilty because I have it too!), but that's another story altogether.

Anyway, all in all, I am not that impressed with MAC's "Marine Life", and this has put me off purchasing the other To The Beach products that I had in mind - "Temperature Rising" lipliner, "Flurry of Fun" lipglass, and "Beachbound" lipstick. It sounds drastic, but I actually feel a little bit betrayed by MAC right now. Boo.

Another thing: I feel like I never write about makeup anymore. Is this the case? And yes, I do realise it could be said I don't write about anything anymore, but we've discussed that and I promised I would write some stuff while I'm in Hamilton.

Okay? Good. Peace and love.

In My Dreams, I Can Credit Calligraphy Papers To A Degree

I often feel like my life, both waking and sleeping, is plagued by unnecessary perils. Recently my dreams have ranged from repeatedly beating an elderly man over the head with a chair until he was dead, then having Bart Bass from Gossip Girl finish him off by hurling a bottle of expensive whiskey in his general direction. You can imagine my unsettled feeling upon waking (well, actually, you're forgiven if you don't because I just don't think a large number of people have those kinds of dreams). A few nights later, I dreamt that Sophie got a starring role on that amazing show, Jersey Shore. You have no idea how much I wish that one was true.

And now, due to recent turmoil over which papers I should study next semester at the University of Otago (well, to be fair, I've already chosen them and they are Maths, Physics, Geophysics and Chemistry): last night I had a dream in which I could study Calligraphy and credit it to a degree. Do you have any idea how utterly ridiculous that sounds? Calligraphy. I could spend a semester writing in Old English text and at the end of it, have 18 points of point-y goodness that would be credited towards an undergraduate degree of my choosing. I don't even know what I would write, maybe the alphabet or maybe just my name. I think I can attribute my dream to the fact that I love love love typography. You probably know this, because I make reference to it often, but I love fonts - particularly The Maple Origins. Imagine then, being able to credit a paper about fonts to my degree.

When I woke up this morning, I actually reached for this very computer to check the course prescription on the Otago site. Don't you just LOVE when your dreams are THAT convincing? well, until you come to the painful realisation that it was a dream, and there's actually no way writing in fancy script will contribute to your degree now. You might like to try submitting lab reports using The Maple Origins, but if anything you would probably lose marks, because lab reports are to be submitted strictly in size 12 Times New Roman (which I hate), or Arial (which I am a little bit more than partial too).

Sigh.

I think I'm going to submit a petition for a Calligraphy paper at the University of Otago.

When I Grow Up

Oh, noes. It's another one of those posts where I tediously crap on for a bit about how I'm brilliant but still have no idea what I want to do with my brilliance.

You may have read one of these posts before, where I'm like "that's it! I'm going to Sweden." (it was called For Sverige I Tiden), or "I'm going to join the Air Force/be a pilot!" or even, "OMG, I'm going to do a Master's degree."

Ha ha ha.

I haven't done any of those things, but for the record, Aviation at Massey University is back on the cards. I had a lengthy discussion with the HOD of Physics at my current school, the University of Otago, before he signed me into the Physics major programme, and I didn't tell him that the *real* reason I want to take physics next semester is to boost my chances of acceptance into the flying programme. At new Zealand universities, you have to declare a major right from the word go. Personally, I find this a bit ridiculous, because it's a rare eighteen-year-old who knows precisely what they want to do. Sure, they know what they want to do at that point in time, but often declaring an English major ends in bitterness and heartache once said English major discovers that an English major isn't writing novels and poetry, it's ripping apart other peoples' novels and poetry. Or, if you're lucky enough to be admitted into the writing stream, it's having your life's work ripped apart. Fun. At Otago, there's the infamous "Health Sciences" stream, for first year students intending to study medicine, dentistry, physiotherapy or pharmacy. It's ridiculously competitive, and I'm told that last year, for admission to medicine, the GPA for Health Sciences was 93%. I'm going to go out on a risky limb here and say, you definitely don't need to be that intelligent to be a doctor. I've heard this from a number of graduates from the Otago Medical School. But I guess the rigors of first year are designed to weed out the weaklings who wouldn't otherwise survive Med School. It's natural selection, university style.

Anyway.

After many years of thinking (I'd love to tell you here that I sit on rocks and pull Socrates poses while I'm doing said thinking, but as a general rule I do it when I'm trying to sleep, which isn't that constructive. Sometimes I do it while I'm standing in line at Frankly Sandwiches), I have begun to reconsider an aviation-based career due to a number of contributing factors. First of all, I like to fly. I like travelling. I also like maps. A whole lot. In fact, Jelle recently introduced me to a game where you have to name 195 countries of the world in fifteen minutes. My best is 193. I left out goddamn Belgium and the Maldives, but that's beside the point. I like maps. And weather patterns - well, patterns in general. They're my IQ superpower. You probably also know that I love maths, and numbers - as demonstrated by my supersonic car registration plate memory, and my memorisation of Pi to 21 decimal places. Number patterns are even more fun. As far as I know, I was born to fly planes. (Yeah, okay so that might seem like a big departure - I like numbers so I should fly planes...) But I think the fact that this has been been a lingering desire for more than five years is also a good sign. It's not like the times where I've been like "WOW, I really like that Malaysian guy at the gym!" and then just as quickly forgotten about him when I get to the sushi bar and seen that they have crab sushi today. (Disclaimer: yes, my obsession with Malaysian guy from the gym may have lasted a little longer, and ended in rather dire circumstances, but it seemed like a good little anecdote. Here's hoping LMC has gotten something better to do with her time than collect damning evidence from my blog and Twitter these days.)

And anyway, I have an aviation-related back-up plan. You should always have a back-up plan, especially if you're pinning everything on being accepted into a postgraduate programme at a prestigious Dutch University. Was that too obvious? Anyway, I have also been looking into the fun world of air traffic control. It helps that my sister applied and was rejected (because we all know that I love to outdo people, especially family members who think that my life dramas should be talked through in the way that someone who calls Youthline before a suicide attempt is talked to), but again my love for numbers, patterns and planes may come in to play. Oh and, international aviation language? English. Thank god. Because we all know how scuh-rewed I would be if it was Japanese (here's a hint: I am so bad at Japanese that I didn't attend my final exam for it).

So that's the plan until further notice.

Just in case you were wondering.

Flying Solo

Let me begin by saying a big hello to Hamilton.

HELLO HAMILTON.

I'm back.

Hopefully that means that over the next week or two (well, two weeks + two days that I have remaining) I'll get into some sort of blogging habit and you guys will have something exciting to read. Okay, yeah that won't happen. GO HERE INSTEAD. Seriously.

But anyway, for now, I'll write about something mildly related to the post title.

You may have realised that I don't really surround myself with people. Yes, occasionally I mention Thom, and Sophie, and Jelle, but don't fool yourselves into thinking I actually see these people on a regular basis (Jelle being the exception, because between about the 9th and 19th of June, I don't think I saw anyone else. Besides maybe the people at Mei Wah Takeaways, where I order my meal in Mandarin Chinese and don't get funny looks, which I like). It's been more than six months since I saw Thom OR Sophie, but I do get to talk to them through the magical technology known as texting sometimes (actually, I don't have Sophie's number anymore, so Thom will you be a dear and text it to me? Thanks).

There's a reason for this, and it's because people just aren't my thing. Actinoids, as a general rule, are. I like kittens and I like showers, but people are kind of a grey area I could do without. Even as a like, four-year-old, I wasn't your average four-year-old who made a new best friend every day based on what toys they had (well, that's what the Plunket book says average four-year-olds do). I had one friend from the earliest memory I have and that's how I liked it. When she went on to make another friend (when we were like, I don't know, seven), I wasn't happy about it. But eventually I think I decided that her new friend could be my new friend and so until the age of eleven I had two friends. Then I had one friend from then until she left our high school in bizarre circumstances...

You get the picture. The fact that I like more than one person enough to consider them a friend is pretty incredulous. But it's not completely unfounded. I do feel a little bit raped by people in general, and that's because on the odd occasion where I have thought I liked someone enough for them to become a friend, it's ended not-so-well. Like I dunno - I give them a ride to somewhere REALLY out of the way, without asking for petrol money, they don't say thanks or text me again for at least six weeks before they need a ride at 3am to the Auckland Airport, and then when they've left the country they only text me because they don't know what to do because they think they might be pregnant (this has happened, and I'm still SO perplexed as to why more than one person in my life has ever asked me what they should do when they think they might be pregnant. I mean, really. Do I seem like the kind of person who's in any sort of position to get pregnant? Pretty sure you need to be... uh, *intimate* with someone for that. And if you know me, you know it's a blindingly obvious fact that no fertile males get intimate with me).

You may also have a distant memory of me being a competitive triathlete. Triathlon is a sport that markets itself as accessible, and it may be for that reason that during my competitive days, I had one or more "friends" claim they would either compete at races with me, or at the very least come along and watch. I pretty much NEVER say I will attend races to watch, because it's boring and dumb - the obvious exception being XTERRA, and that's so I can write fun blog posts when Nic Leary dominates. But for every single weekend during one season, I had at least one person say they would come. And I can tell you right now that I attended every single race that season alone. I had people pull out on the Thursday before a Saturday race because they wanted to go and get wasted on Friday night instead of doing a race the next day (which would be fine, if they hadn't "promised" to drive me there with all my racing gear). I had people who just conveniently weren't at home when I went to pick them up the night before, who conveniently ignored my text saying "I'm at your house, are you ready to go?" for six days following, eventually sending some sort of "lol, I lost my phone!" response. The worst may have been when someone had "promised" me accommodation, then told me two nights before that they actually couldn't, leaving me to stay in one of Rotorua's finest hotels rather than the Thermal Holiday Park/Dive I normally habit for races. I wouldn't have minded, had it not set me back a weeks' worth of pay.

Most recently, I had a friend fairly bully me into doing a race with her - yes, with her. It wasn't like I was going to do the race and she fancied entering too - she told me to enter because she already had. Then about five days prior to said race - which I did minimal training for because well, she's waaay crapper (yep, that was crapper. Not crappier) at running than me, and well, I have a boyfriend and when you have a boyfriend there are way better things to do than train for a running race you were fairly bullied into - she pulled out. Turned out she hadn't in fact entered. Oh, good. I'm so glad I paid to enter a race I didn't really want to do, as well as paying for a bus ride to the race city. Said "friend" then texted me the night before the race asking if I wanted to go to a party, then out clubbing. Ahem. And oh, she couldn't even come and watch me run. To be honest I can't blame her for the latter, but still! As it happened, I ran an awful race, tore a calf muscle and ran so far over my PB that I actually had to think about Thom yelling "lip slip" while we were shooting a film in Katikati last year to stop me crying as I crossed the finish line.

And then I got food poisoning, and ironically it was someone I don't particularly like who drove me to the hospital in the dead of the night and waited with me for six hours.

Anyway.

Said friend from the fun running story just asked me to run another race with her today.

No. Fucking. Way.

I am sick of you people, and your ridiculous inability to actually commit to something, then fucking text me when you think you might be pregnant. Be responsible. Heard of condoms? Or the Pill? Or like, fucking abstinence? AND, I don't know anything about pregnancy, or abortion, or rearing younglings. Even if I did, why should I impart my knowledge with you, if you're not even going to be at home when I come to pick you up for a triathlon?!

And this is why, for the most part, I fly solo.

Yup, as per usual, Jelle is the exception to the rule, because, apart from almost daily kind of hilarious misunderstandings (sometimes caused by his crappy English, and sometimes by the fact that right now we communicate via MSN Messenger) he tends to not be shit and unreliable.

Kentucky Fried Poisoning

Yeah, I had it coming.

For the majority of my recent life, I've lived off the goodness that is McDonald's and Mei Wah Chinese takeaways. On Monday night, since I was in Christchurch, I had KFC with my old flatmate.

A few hours later, I was sprawled on the floor of the Christchurch Hospital Emergency Department, drifting in and out of consciousness and plagued by waves of uncontrollable nausea.

Yes, our friends at KFC Hornby poisoned me with their Tower Burger.

I was in hospital from about 2am until 6am, then embarked on a fun bus journey back to Dunedin at 8am (one I nearly missed, actually, because I was in the car when the bus arrived). "Fun" here having the meaning of "we were almost involved with a high speed, head-on collision with a Holden" and "I was definitely not in any sort of shape to be on a bus for five hours".

Since then, I've been afraid to eat anything, which is partly why it's 10:20am and I'm still laid up in Jelle's bed (he's in an exam). It's also partly because it's cold and I. Am. Freakin. Lazy.

Oh, Holy Crap. It's June.

I guess I should have noticed that when I started crowing on about it being the end of the semester. We're like, halfway through the year.

What was I up to this time last year?

Well... complaining about the wedding of Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, for one thing. Funnily enough, rumour now has it that the pair are going separate ways. Wow, didn't see that coming in a million years, huh?

As a general rule, my life last year seems pretty similar to what it is now. For one thing, on this day last year I wrote about how I was going to Christchurch the following weekend. Almost eerily, next weekend I am going to Christchurch. Well, this Thursday. But you know. Work with me here!

As well, last year I had a horrible flatmate. I still hatefully remember that guy and his apparent aversion to showers and general hygiene, his obnoxious tendencies to play computer games with the volume on high, while watching TV AND talking on the phone. Sure, this year's flatmates don't know how to wipe down the oven, or do dishes, or take out the trash, but at. Least. They. Aren't. My. Last. Year's. Flatmate.

A year ago, a friend of mine in Canada promised to buy me a foundation brush from Sephora.com I still haven't gotten a sniff of. Thanks, Marco.

And it was about this time last year that I learnt that I would be represent Aotearoa at the ITU World Triathlon Championships... wow. This year, I won't be (mathematics calls), but I've learnt that the 2011 event is due to be staged in Beijing, China. So there.

So what do I expect to be doing, a year from now?

As a general rule, I try to avoid pondering the future. This may be the reason I currently have no idea what I want to do with my life (and to be fair, that's quite bad - I'm 24, and as such, about halfway through my expected lifespan). Still, next year I suppose it would be nice to be working in makeup but also be in shape enough to race in Beijing. Especially since I also intend to qualify for XTERRA Worlds next year.

Hopefully I won't still be blogging from the University of Otago's central library, and hopefully, Facebook will have self-detonated by then and I'll no longer be plagued by status updates, "likes", and the constant conundrum that is carefully choosing religious and political views to display on my profile page. Being a narcissist is hard work, guys.

*yawns and checks reflection in glare from laptop screen*

Over and out, pets.

New World Order

OMG, you guys, it's nearly the end of the semester.
Currently I'm in my final week of contact hours at the University of Otago, with exams due to start some time in the near future (mine are on June 10th and 19th). And you know what that means - it's time to change all my carefully selected semester two papers!

Ah yes, after much chopping and changing right up until the last moment of available change time using the University's "PIMS" (Personal Information Management System, I believe), I'm still unhappy with the papers I'm currently enrolled in for semester two. This largely stems from the fact that I chose the papers when I still thought I had an ounce of interest in linguistics. Hmmm. Not so much.

To that end, yesterday I paid a visit to the departments of Mathematics & Statistics (for the former), and Physics. To that end, I am now officially a student of the University of Otago Physics department - the oldest in New Zealand, according to their website. I am excite. Even more exciting is the textbook I have to buy (OMG, how sad do I sound right now) for the physics programme. It's big, sciencey and fun, and leads me to my next story.

Yesterday I paid a well-overdue visit to the University Bookshop (commonly referred to in Dunedin as UBS or UniBooks). At the beginning of each year, the top floor of this store is transformed into a veritable wonderland of textbooks, arranged in a timely, paper-wise order. Since I went yesterday with the intention of looking at maths textbooks, I made a beeline for the top floor, where I found a sign that read "textbooks now downstairs". With that, I turned and went about making my way back down the stairs. This of course being a relative term for "I rolled my ankle and then rolled to the bottom". It wasn't really a short fall, either. I'm talking, second-from-top step to bottom. Into the entrance of the shop. In front of several amused onlookers. Possibly the most entertaining aspect of the fall was that I literally yelped "noo!" as I felt my ankle give way. My god. I am such a loser.

Anyway, as if that wasn't enough, after spending an hour or so mulling over maths books, I found a "Periodic Table of the Elements" wall chart. If you know me, you'll know that buying such a chart would be redundant because I know the table, in order, in my head. But I wanted it anyway, and decided I would buy it right there and then. And so, for the second time this year, I went to buy something with UniBooks. Without. My. Credit Card. AGAIN. I mean, it wasn't enough that seemingly just moments before, this cashier had seen me peel myself from the floor a few feet from his desk, but I then had to further embarrass myself by not having the money to buy a wall chart.

Sigh.

I completed yesterday by attending a session of what I have previously referred to as "yoga for the clinically insane" - that is to say, Bikram. In comparison, the East West Studio in Auckland delivers a class I would now like to describe as "for the discerning crazy person" - Dunedin Bikram Yoga is quite something else. For one thing, I'm not even sure the instructor was speaking English for most of the time. There was also the fact that he was dressed in just TYR jammers. Not. That. Nice. Also, the Dunedin studio smells akin to a hamster cage, but I guess that comes with the territory when you fill a room heated to 38 degrees (celsius) with half-dressed bodies and feet. Ew, feet.

Still, I guess it got me out of the house for a few hours...

More From The Depths Of My Excuse For A Mind

As you may have noticed (whether it be via Facebook, real life, or my previous post), JK and I have some pretty stupid interactions. The latest I wish to share with you is via text message.

me: "who thought choosing dinner could become such an ordeal."
JK: "a bit like Big Bang haha" (he currently has an obsession with the show, based on a friend giving him a hard drive containing all episodes from season one through three)
me: "not really, since they eat the same thing each week."
JK: "not when someone is missing."
me: "you're missing."
JK: "your face is missing."
me/JK: "imagine if my face was actually missing." / "imagine if it really was." (yes, we simultaneously say the same things. Vomit, I know)

me: "I just lol'd" (that's a big sentiment, because I hate the phrase "lol")
JK: "haha good"
me: "people are giving me dirty looks" (it was earlier established that I was in the library with my flatmate, who we'll call Elle)
JK: "at your non-face?"
me: "yeah, they're like "ew, who does that faceless girl laughing at herself think she is?" *scowl*"
JK: "haha. *makes previously unreferred-to reference to Facebook."
me: "what...?"
JK: "your Facebook."
me: "...your face."
JK: "imagine a book with a face."
me: "leprosy."
JK: "..."
me: "yeah, you heard me."
JK: "*continues conversation as if nothing happened*"

Facebrats

One of my [not-so-secret] favourite things to do is to look at old Facebook status messages and read the comments pertaining to them. On February 23rd (so, about a week before Jelle and I got together) I posted a status saying
"my sister is stalking Thomas"

the comments are as follows...

Jelle: "it's in the family"
Iris: "your face is in the family."
Jelle: "u wish my face was in ur family"
Iris: "hmm, only i don't. i bet those squinty eyes don't breed out :p"
Jelle: "it's your loss!"
Alex [Mountain Man]: "I smell a sitcom!"
Thom: "love life"

Ahh, good.

Goldfish Asylum

Recently, I received a copy of the DVD with my 400m freestyle (the first time I typed that, I typed "40mm" - imagine a 40mm swimming race) race from Athens 2004. It was a wee while ago, and you may or may not know how pitifully I performed there, so you can imagine it's been a while since I've seen footage of the race.

It's an event I'm very much in two minds about. In one, I'm a tiny little bit (I mean TINY. I'm not being falsely humile about this either) proud that I was able to compete at the Olympics when I was eighteen years old. To add to that, I actually looked the part (if you ignore my height, that is. In 2004, I was all of 4'11"), with big shoulders, a ripped back, as well as being what now seems to be extremely thin. I'm sure that's just flabby 2010 me being jealous, though. Something I'm not envious of is that hair "style" - it being the remnants of a head shaving that took places five months prior.

Of course, a much larger part of me is still hugely disappointed with how I fared in Athens - sixth in my heat, and nowhere near the final I should have medalled in. The look on my face in my post-race interview conveys that pretty well. And contrary to Keith Quinn's (he was a pooldeck commentator there) wee muse that "in retrospect, I think she'll be very happy with that", I'm not, nor have I ever been.

Years after Shane Gould (you may have noticed I'm a bit of a Shane Gould fan - this is because I used to share her best events, the 200m freestyle and IM races, before moving "up" in the world to the 400m and 800 frees) retired, she lamented the fact that in the 1970s (Munich 1972 was her hey-day), no psychological post-retirement support was offered to Olympic athletes. In my case, more than anything I needed post-race support. Upon my return to the Olympic Village after doing a "deck change" at the pool, having not warmed down or even showered, I literally crumpled into a heap on the floor of the room I shared with my then-coach, Jo. Within minutes I re-emerged from the room, then went about the rest of the day and the rest of my time in the Village as if nothing - not even a race - had happened.

There was the Ethiopian flag incident. This is my favourite story from Athens, even though most people I tell don't think it's that great. Outside the dining room in the Athens Olympic Village was a paved area, where all the flags of the competing nations were raised (there was even a flag-raising ceremony for each country. We shared ours with the USA and Azerbaijan). On the day before the Games finished, I trundled up to the hall, flanked by my posse of sorts. We noticed the volunteers were taking the flags down, and I had what I considered at the time to be the greatest idea of my life. It was my opportunity to take the Ethiopian flag! Flag-collecting was something of a swimming trip tradition - I had the flags of the US, Norway and Brazil from previous excursions. We went inside and over lunch, hatched a "plan" - which, in retrospect wasn't much of a plan at all. It just involved me taking an empty bag to the flag site, lowering the flag and then taking it. It worked for Dawn Fraser in Tokyo - almost. Easy peasy.

I walked back outside - cleverly dressed in my New Zealand uniform, and still wearing my Olympic accreditation around my neck - and "hid" behind a small shed (which, of course, turned out to be a security office). At what seemed the most optimal moment, I approached the flagpole with the Ethiopian flag hoisted high in the air, unwound the rope and started lowering it. Of course, due to the intermittent wind gusts that plague Maroussi (that's the city the Olympic Village was in), while the flag was on its way down, a few times the wind got the better of me, so anyone within a 50-yard radius could probably tell what was happening. I ignored it, and once the flag was within reach, I freed it from the rope, folded it as quickly as I could, and stuffed it into my backpack. Rather than scampering away, I attempted a casual walk out from behind the office.

"Stop, stop stop." A young, grinning Greek man stepped in front of me. I hadn't considered this.
"What have you got in your bag?" he asked.
"Δεν μιλούν ελληνικά!!" I insisted, and he burst out laughing.
"Clearly, you speak Greek perfectly well. What have you got in your bag?" he asked again, his English as good as my thoroughly practiced Greek. I sighed and opened my bag, revealing my treasured flag. He continued to laugh.
"But why do you want this?"
"It's my favourite country!"
"You wait here. I must discuss this with the other men." He walked off, with my bag, to a group of other volunteers, and they agreed, in Greek, that I could keep it. He did mention, though "we must ask the women."
The women were decidely less fun than the men.
"Why are you laughing?" they demanded. "This is not funny! You are very bad!"
"I think it's hilarious!" I replied in a deadpan tone, as was customary for 2004 me. The women were outraged that I would take a flag, and they made me fold it up and put it in the box with the flags of all the other countries.
"You should not be laughing. You should be ashamed." they told me, and shooed me away. I returned, defeated, to the dining room.

Anyway.

The point of this post was not to illustrate my two failings in Athens but rather the power of memories and how much of a paradox they are. Sometimes I wish I could forget every minute of Athens - the petty arguments I had with Jo, the moment on my race day morning that I realised I'd forgotten to bring accreditation, the earbashing I got from another team member for spilling water on the bathroom floor (yes, really). Of course, I also wish I could forget every second of that awful race but through the power of DVD I remember it all. Vividly. Honestly - watching it makes me remember it even more. There was the almost-inability to even walk from the final marshalling room to pooldeck due to nerves, the initial feelings of "this is good! I could win this!" (that's actually a quote from a track meet later that year) which inevitably - within 50 metres - gave room to a more sickening feeling, that I was losing ground and despite putting together what should have been my best race on record (based on form not only in camp in Athens, but also the months leading up to the Games), I was just failing. Badly. There was the final 50m, where every fibre in my body screamed at me to finish better, and of course, worst of all, there was the moment where I saw my time on the scoreboard, and as such, the moment my heart broke. (Luckily, the DVD is shot from such a distance that the expletive I let loose upon seeing the time, can't be heard. But I still remember.)
It didn't end there - unfortunately, at the Olympics, even if your heart is broken and you doubt your ability to remove your goggles, let alone remove yourself from the pool - you have to get out. So what followed was the heartbroken hauling of myself out of the water, the heartbreaking walk to be interviewed, then the saddest, loneliest walk of my life to the warm down pit, where I perched on a start block for a few moments before shrugging and trudging back inside to find my equally heartbroken coach.

So yes, at times I wish I had a goldfish memory.