Sleeping Beauty (or otherwise)

Is watching people while they sleep creepy or cute?

Personally, I'm on team "cute". It's not like I've done my fair share of sleeping-people-watching, but I totally see the attraction. Donny, for example, was once one of my favourite targets. Back then it was because I loved him so much that I couldn't bear to look away from him, even while he was asleep. Now I claim it's because I forgot what he looked like. This is actually kind of true. In the last few years I've seen him in the street (even sometimes in the day after I've slept at his place) and not recognised him until he's grabbed my arm, or something equally surprising. The last time he slept in my bed, I stayed awake as long as I could, looking at him, but within probably two minutes I'd passed out due to my excessively drunken state.

But anyway, I bring the whole thing up because tonight I was talking to Curtis, and he asked if I would leave my webcam on while I took a nap. Given that Curtis and I have an interesting past - which includes, but is not limited to what was supposed to be a one-night stand in 2005, which ended up stretching out a few years, on and off, and led to a trip to Australia together, and a 17-hour bustrip from Providence, Rhode Island to Toronto, Canada last year for a brief visit - I was a little bit confused as to what his motives were.
"I wish you were being serious." I told him.
"I am." Now, I know that Donny's The One, but I admit that my heart did flutter, albeit momentarily, when he said this. I admitted to indulging in a bit of sleeping-Curtis-watching while we were in Australia.
"Okay," he said "well, I want to watch you." And it now seems weird and creepy, but I let him.
I only ended up being asleep for 8 minutes before I heard Say (better known as Sara) calling out to see if I was home. I felt weird and creepy, and turned the camera off. Curtis began to protest.
"Surely it wasn't that exciting." I said, secretly enjoying the attention.
"Yes it was." he replied.

Odd.

I still sometimes have weird, nightmarish premonitions of Curtis and I when we're old. For some reason, I get completely terrified by the thought that we're going to going to end up married and old. I don't want to be old. People think I ride my bike off jumps I have no hope of landing because of the adrenaline rush? No way. It's because hopefully, if I do it enough, one day I'll die in the process, and as such will be dead before 40. It's just how it goes. And I don't really want to be married to Curtis, either. He's a nice guy and all - good-looking mostly, but until the "I want to watch you sleep" incident tonight, I really didn't think he thought about anyone except himself. Even now, I'm unconvinced. But still. There's something unsettling for me about the parents in Donnie Darko. Whenever I see them, I have that feeling - the one where me and Curtis are old and married.

Donnie Darko stabbing the giant bunny in the eye.
But it's his parents that scare me.

Until recently, I've had grand ideas about marriage. That it's binding, about love, and forever. But it doesn't take a genius to work out that sometimes, especially in this millenium, it's not about any of those things. As such, as I've aged (to the ripe age of 22, no less), I've become more disenchanted with the idea of marrying someone. If I do marry, I want it to be Donny, and I want it to be forever, which I guess is why the Donnie Darko thing freaks me out so much.

Why am I equating marriage with sleeping-people-watching? Because it my opinion and feeling that you have to love someone to want to watch them sleep. I know that in the real world, outside my little head, this isn't always the case, but to me it is. I wouldn't want to watch anyone else in the world, besides Donny, sleeping for that very reason. Given the current state of affairs between the two of us, I'm pretty sure an outlandish statement such as that would go into the "stalking" basket, rather than "cute". Oh well.

I've just realised that the inspiration for Donny's pseudo-identity has been revealed... yes, I named him after Donnie Darko, because it was he who spent hours explaining the theory behind the film to me, after we watched it together one day. Sigh. Even now, the only part I picked up on was "the airplane engine created a wormhole through which he was able to time-travel." Cool, but what about everything else? I like to pretend I know.

That's getting slightly off-topic. I don't think there was any sleeping-people-watching in Donnie Darko.

All things considered, I'm now searching on Facebook for a support group for sleeping-people-watchers like myself. I'm starting to feel creepy.

My Pirate Ship Ferry Ride

Now, I know I carry on about the weather in Auckland an awful lot. It's either so tropical you can't leave the house without a sombrero for fear of getting sunburn, or it's shitty and rainy.
Today, it's the latter, and it took a great amount of willpower to haul myself out of bed and down to the ferry terminal. Of course, by the time I got there I was soaked, but at least I had Greg Graffin shouting at me through my earphones.

The ferry trip was like being on the Black Pearl. There was waves, rocking, people hanging on for dear life. It was pretty exciting. It took longer than normal, because I'm pretty sure the captain initially steered us into the wrong side of the viaduct. Not that it was his fault. I for one couldn't see a thing. The entire downtown waterfront was a big grey haze.

Crossing the Waitemata this morning

Once we disembarked, it was a mad dash on the Jamis down Customs Street to school. Every morning I try to break the land-speed record, but today it just wasn't happening. I had several near misses trying to dodge trucks, but this is kind of, everyday stuff for me. It's more of a game than a life-threatening situation.

As always, today I left the house wearing the most inappropriate outfit considering the weather, and the fact that I had to ride. I was dressed in my lovely, but not-so-versatile Principals sack of sorts, which got close to ruined in the rain. This is definitely a summer piece, given that whatever I wear over it for warmth leaves me looking like a right noob. Once I got to school and dried myself off, I got plenty of compliments on the top, which was nice, but I still spent most of the day adjusting it because it shows, in my opinion, far too much cleavage.

Before leaving school I considered my options, and put the top in my bag before riding to the ferry. I'm just not keen to rip my expensive top on its first outing. Sure, it ended with me ripping around downtown Auckland in a pair of three-quarter length tights, but I'm a cyclist. This is sort of regular attire for me. At the ferry building, I spent the few dollars I have left not on Tank, but at Esquires Coffee House. It's not all bad news, though. They have a night shifts going, and since I'm currently scraping everything I have together for the Garmin-Chipotle helmet, I've already applied. I make a mean coffee. Sounds weird, because the smell of the stuff literally leaves me feeling nauseous, but during my time at Hoyts Riccarton, I was the principal barista, and I was rather good, if I do say so myself.

On the ferry, I struggled with controlling the Jamis and my tall dark hot chocolate (it almost sounded like I was about to describe a man then, right? No such luck), but enjoyed my ride home, with a different Greg, this time Attonito of Bouncing Souls fame, singing his life away through the iPod. By the time I got back to 2/70, the lovely Carrie Underwood was playing, and I was singing over the top of it. As you do, when you assume you're at home alone.

Except that I wasn't alone, I discovered later when I heard Sam scratching around upstairs. How embarrassing! "Did you.... hear me singing?" Sam burst out laughing. "Yeah... I did." Turns out he'd spent the day at home. Man, I'm never singing in the house again.

What a loser.

Make-Up School Appropriate Footwear

I think one of the main reasons I get asked if I'm gay is because of my lack of concern for how hip my shoes are. My shoe wardrobe consists of the following: seven pairs of Havaianas jandals in various colours, two pairs of Gisele Bundchen jandals, four pairs of running shoes, my bike shoes, and a pair of baby-pink Chuck Taylors.

When I was growing up, my feet were always adorned in either tan-coloured Roman sandals, or Apple Pie "sneakers". Once when I was six, I was allowed some of those patent leather party shoes with black-and-white polka-dot bows, but they were my first and last pair after I wore them down the gully at my school and ruined them. So you see, bad taste in shoes is ingrained in me.

It doesn't help that because of my CP, I can't wear heels. This has been the bane of my life since I stopped growing at age 12, reaching 154cm. Everyone I know wears heels. Briar can even run in them - she claims she would run half-marathons in pink stilettos. Not me though. Although I had a growth spurt at 19 and I'm now 163cm, it still doesn't work out for me. Sometimes I claim I would rather be an amputee than have CP, because even Sophie can wear heels.

I don't even know why I'm so hung up on it, because it's not as if I'm inundated with offers for occasions where heels are necessary, but I'd like to have the option. It's like New Zealand's Next Top Model. I'm 7cm too short to even attend the casting, and even though I know I'd have no shot at getting in, I'd like to be tall enough to not be excluded. Isn't that like, heightist? For most of my day-to-day activities, my bike shoes are sufficient, and if they're not, then I have an array of jandals to choose from.

So what's the problem? Well, I go to make-up school. I'm expected to wear shoes that aren't heels (yay!) or open-toed, but look classy. Which excludes pretty much my entire collection. I've been wearing my Chucks for the time being, but they're pretty freakin uncomfortable, and I don't really see myself fitting into "the industry" wearing them. I decided to look online.

At vans.com, I found som pretty obnoxious pink-and-red striped shoes with "I'm not your bitch" scrawled in white on them. Is there really a market for shoes like this? Another similar pair are yellow, with silhouettes of various bottles of alcohol printed on them. Fail.

I'm in love with Camilla Engman's Little Red Riding Hood shoes, which she designed for the Converse Product Red range, which supports AIDS research. I did try and order some last year, but failed miserably when I didn't have a credit card with a US billing address. Most of the other shoes there are just ugly though.

Another site that I frequent, that may surprise some people, is bluefly.com. It was a fleeting obsession last year, when my best friend Jen announced her engagement, to trawl bluefly for something appropriate to wear for her big day. Granted, it's not until May of 2010, but it's my best friend's wedding! Preparation is key. Anyway, they also stock a lovely range of shoes on the site, which I now peruse out of interest on an almost daily basis. The ones that usually take my fancy are the Prada flats - of course, priced well outside of my price-range, and a little too pretentious for every-day wear. Life would be easier if I didn't have such an aversion to the shoe store of choice for most of the populace: The Number One Shoe Warehouse. I do hate this store with a fiery hate I normally reserve for Holly Hodgkinson, and I'm not entirely sure why. I've never seen shoes in there that I would wear. It's not that I think I'm better than those who do source their entire collections from here, it just doesn't cater to my taste. I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to start falling in line though, or it's going to be me and my pink Chucks against the world.

In the meantime, suggestions for stores that AREN'T the Shoe Warehouse are welcome and encouraged.

The Garmin-Chipotle Helmet

$400? Pfft. Worth every cent.

Hook me up for Christmas

I already have my this year's Christmas present. AND my next year's birthday present. My parents paid for my computer so I could keep up my Facebook and Blogspot habits when I moved here, so as far as they're concerned, Christmas this year is done and dusted for me.

Of course, being the spoilt and petulant brat I am, I have other ideas and have compiled my Christmas wishes for this year. I've even categorised them for easy reference.

RACING
My entry fees for the Takapuna Beach Series, Stroke & Stride, People's Triathlon, TriNZ Series and XTERRA paid for.
Giro Ionos helmet - Garmin Chipotle colours, although I should probably really get a white one
A complete componentry overhaul for my Avanti, with Shimano Dura-Ace
Zipp 404 wheelset for my Avanti

BEAUTY
Smashbox Bionic Mascara
MAC Dazzle Lash
MAC Fluidline in Silverstroke
NARS Safer Multiple Orgasm Set (just for the fun value, seriously have a look: http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml;jsessionid=H25NHCX2BKUDECV0KRTRPIQ?id=P223609&categoryId=C7010)
Philosophy Amazing Grace Perfumed Shower Gel & Bubble Bath; Amazing Grace (perfume); and Amazing Grace Body Firming Emulsion
Bliss Fabulous Foaming Facial Cleanser

BOOKS
Steve Gurney's Lucky Legs
Sherman Alexie's Tonto & The Lone Ranger Fistfight In Heaven (I lost my copy)

OTHER STUFF I DON'T NEED
My New Zealand Mountain Bike magazine subscription topped up
Nokia 6500s cellphone
Some new shoes to wear to school

And that's pretty much it. To be honest, I'm on my way out now to find the Garmin helmet, and I don't really want the other stuff so much anyway. Except the books. The books will make me a happy camper.

Peace.

Time-Inconsistent Decision Making

Many years ago (okay, maybe three), when Donny and I were still best friends who occasionally blurred the line between friendship and just really inappropriate behaviour, I stumbled across an article in a magazine about regret.

Donny was a different guy back then, who often spoke of his morals, and regretted many of the decisions he made. I retyped the article for him in an email and sent it away. He quite enjoyed it, because it saw regret in a different light. It referred to regret as "time-inconsistent decision making" and since then, during in our ever-diminishing conversations, we've routinely avoided the use of the word "regret". Often, it doesn't make us feel any better, but it's become kind of like a running joke (as has Briana Banks, and a few other things I won't mention).

On PostSecret last night, I saw the postcard below:

You would think, based on my anti-social, homebody tendencies that I would feel no sense of relation to this postcard, other than wondering if friends such as Kirby or Briar will ever feel like this.

But I do.

Not because I'm spending my twenties partying, but because I'm spending them racing. Most days, I flirt with the idea of throwing in the towel and selling my bikes. This is sometimes harder than you might imagine, because when I weigh up my current financial situation against maybe just missing out on the next Olympic team, money comes up trumps. But I just can't bear to do it.

I love living in Auckland, but I'd be lying if I said I was surviving on my own. Since I've moved, I've had to crack open my savings fund (originally started so I could visit Ethiopia next year) more than once just to buy food. It's pretty humanising. Not only that, but when my friend Hadleigh came to visit, he paid for EVERYTHING for me over that three-day period. I mean everything. Food, petrol, bus and ferry fares... he even put money in my bank to help me get through the next week or two.

Luckily, I just got a job, so I'll no longer have to leech off other people, but it still sucks.

You can imagine then, on the days where I just can't be bothered riding, that it's pretty tempting to sell the bikes and live off the money from that. I remember back to pre-Athens, when it seemed like the only time I left the pool was to go home and eat/sleep, to work out at the gym, or to hang out with Donny. I can see training for London being much the same: long hours in the saddle, but no food to eat once I get home, and no Donny.

I am determined to have another Olympic experience. A lot of what went wrong in Athens was due to time-inconsistent decision making, both on my part and on the part of others. I'm pretty sure my swimming coach has no remorseful feelings about the night she was carried home at 4am, so drunk that Kate put her in the recovery position before leaving to go to bed herself, and then asking me in the morning to borrow my accreditation to get into the swimming pool because she'd lost her own. Did I mention that this was the night before my race? No? Because it was.

By the time I was standing on the block for my 400m freestyle heat, I was having flashbacks of the time I left training early in January of 2003 because my coach pissed me off. Of the time I stopped mid-way through a set just months before Athens because I was having doubts about going. And most painful of all, of the time I complained to my little brother that I wasn't fit enough to do a set, and the ear-bashing I got from him as we left the pool.

You can imagine that such thoughts in the moments before the biggest race of your life doesn't make for great performance. And as such, when I left OAKA, the Olympic swimming complex a few hours later, I was desperately sad and filled with many regrets.

So when I quit the following year, the people I knew assumed it was to focus on my career, or at least on school. Not so. I competed in track, triathlon, and even occasionally in swimming, with the hope of making it in one sport to Beijing. I'm hoping I've found my niche in cycling, but I guess time will tell.

Since Athens, I guess it could be said that Donny and I have made more than a few time-inconsistent decisions. He's changed quite substantially since then and doesn't appear to dwell on such things quite the way I do, which is great. I'm left, lost in my own thoughts of how things could have gone better. It's not an easy habit to break, even you really try to accept that not riding one day probably isn't going to mean the difference in gold and silver in four years' time.

Come London, I'll be 26 and will have spent my twenties racing. I won't have made use of my degree, and I may or may not be closer to a career as an Air Force pilot. I don't see this as being any better or worse than partying. It's just different.

There's nothing to say that partying the early years of your life away are bad for your career, anyway. Some of the world's most successful people didn't even fall into their chosen lifestyle until well beyond their twenties. Everyone has to start somewhere, and in the grand scheme of things, quality of life isn't always based on how successful you are in your job.

So to the person who sent this Secret in, I say: Fear not. Tomorrow is a new day.

New Maps of Bayswater

Here on Auckland's North Shore, we're enjoying some much-anticipated summery weather. Yesterday when Rex kitesurfed for six hours in the blazing heat, he suffered some pretty nasty sunburn. He's feeling pretty remorseful about not wearing sunscreen, and spent the day indoors today playing Streetfighter vs. X-Men, on the video game console he built himself. It's been a while since I saw someone as burnt as Rex is, and there's not much running around with the harness on today, trust me. He's not a happy guy.

Sam went to Muriwai beach today for a surf and some kai with a friend, armed with a huge bottle of SPF30+. When I finally ventured outside after spending the morning poring over Adobe Illustrator, I made sure I did so after applying tonnes of the good stuff, and putting my rash-shirt on. 2/70 has suddenly became very sun-conscious. I left Rex inside with his bottle of aloe vera, and took off on the Jamis for a swim in Ngataringa Bay.

I guess this body of water is better known around here as the Bayswater harbour. It's the calm stretch of water that separates our suburb from Stanley Bay, and it is - if today was anything to go by - mostly unused. I looked like a bit of a dick venturing down the boat ramp in bare feet, a rash shirt and a pair of togs, and even more so when I put my cap and goggles on, and began swimming to the other side of the harbour. It's not the world's shortest swim - almost a mile, and I didn't see another soul while I was out there. When I got to Stanley Bay, I sat on the wooden ramp there until some sort of marine slug/barnacle attached itself to me. It became clear to me that I'd been there too long. I swam along to the next beach, where some Stanley Bay residents in boardshorts, watching me from the stairs down to the beach gave me some peculiar looks. I also saw a kayaker, and waved, but he didn't acknowledge me as he paddled on.

Ngataringa Bay: How I'm spending my summer vacation

I decided I preferred my side of the harbour better and swam back, careful to use a different boat ramp so I didn't get hooked by the fishermen who had now set up camp on the wharf. I chilled out in the sun for a while, then, thinking of Rex, went to collect my bag which I had left under a tree. That's what I love about Bayswater. You can leave a bag with your cellphone and Nikes in it, unattended while you splash about in the water and it will be there when you get back.

I biked home to realise the house was empty and I didn't have a key. At my house in Hamilton, this is never a problem because my slightly pedantic father hides keys in unexpected places around our section. If you know where to look, you can always get in. (For that reason, I better keep the address of my old house quiet from now on.) Unfortunately for me, this is not the case at my new place, so I was a little perplexed as to what I should do.

I decided to head down to Narrow Neck.

Narrow Neck is one of my favourite North Shore beaches because of its amazing views of Rangitoto Island. It's so close it looks swim-able (and just 5km offshore, it probably is), and just being there truly makes me happy. The water at Narrow Neck is freakishly warm, and it's a popular beach, which makes for great people-watching. The best way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I swam for a little while longer here, then got a bit sick of the wind, so set up camp on the reserve across the road. Unfortunately for me, so did a massive Polynesian crew, complete with stereo blasting obnoxious R & B music, and about ten guys intent on throwing a rugby ball around within inches of my head. I didn't stick around for much longer, instead riding home via Devonport (which is actually more of a detour, but a scenic one so well worth it).

This time when I got home, an even redder Rex opened the door for me and I did have fleeting suspicions that he'd been out in the sun again. He'd actually been at work (on a Sunday?!), and was still slathering on the aloe. We watched Fraggle Rock and he further lamented over his regret at not wearing any sunscreen the previous day. "I'm too scared to even take a shower!"

Next weekend, I intend to throw my net further and take in some more North Shore beaches, starting at Browns Bay. Top two items to take along? SPF30 and my keys!

Graphic success at long last

I make it sound like it's been my life's work, but designing a graphic for my blog has taken up most of this weekend, and also many months while I worked at Campus Computers.

The header currently adorning my blog is my latest attempt, and it's one I'm finally happy with.

For those that care, the people featured in the header are as follows:
Gunn Rita Dahle-Flesja: idolised mountain bike racer and user of v-brakes
Carly Patterson: Olympic gymnastics champion, my "Religious Views" and middle name muse
Greg Graffin: of Bad Religion fame, also noted academic and life sciences lecturer at UCLA
Tirunesh Dibaba: hugely decorated distance runner, dusts off races the way I do raspberry licorice
Gemma Ward: model and sometimes actress, my skin idol
Ryder Hesjedal: Canadian mountain & road racer, rides for Garmin Chipotle. Love that argyle

Typeface provided by dafont.com - Scriptina and Trashco.

And no, I didn't spend all of this incredible summer's day doing it either. I swam across Ngataringa Bay and at Narrow Neck, and took the Jamis out for a spin around the Bayswater/Devonport area. It's 4:30pm, and I'm thinking of heading back out there.

11:57

Just to confirm, I shuffled the post order of these two, just because "I'm not laying down" follows on from "11:57" and it's easier to read them that way. Enjoy =]

It's actually 12:11, but I'm sure we can ignore that small fact so I can keep with my on-and-off theme of giving my posts names from songs and books. I was cleaning my teeth at 11:57, so here I am. Anyway, I guess the fact that it's 12:13 (it took me two minutes to type that? Shame!) would indicate that I didn't go to the airport. Sigh. It was tempting and all, but I guess I'm kind of glad that I restrained myself.

Moving on... I had a pretty interesting conversation tonight with a guy I consider to be a pretty good friend, even though he pisses me off sometimes. For one thing, he seems to be a pretty harsh judge of people sometimes. Judging people is the one thing I really try my best not to do, because it makes me feel awful. I like to know a lot about a person before I draw any conclusions about them, although admittedly my mean, self-absorbed, and hypocritical side gets the better of me sometimes.

Example: tonight, said friend made a comment about how he thinks Becky seems self-centred. This is the same Becky I've talked about before, the one who feels constantly judged should she be brave enough to face the outside world with son Rhys in tow. How one could be a self-centred mother is beyond me, but he said that a lot of his reasoning was based on her most recent exploit - being pulled over while driving home after a few wines and as such receiving a court summons for Driving Under the Influence. He explained that his cousin was hit by a drunk driver when she was younger and paralysed, so I understand that it hit a sore spot.

Maybe it's my experiences with so many different athletes with disabilities and their respective backgrounds that sort of nullifies my emotional response to stories like that, but it's not like Becky's some sort of habitual drunken driver. She drove home after a few wines, and got unlucky (or lucky, as the case may be). It's not so much that I condone drink-driving, because I absolutely don't, but I feel it is a little unfair for that friend of mine to be calling her self-centred based on that wee incident.

I admit that I have had a drunken driving experience myself. It was last year after the Wintec ball (an event at which I was so drunk I could barely move by the time I left, as anyone in attendance there will attest to), and I'd been laying around in Kirby's bed for an hour or two, wondering where she got to. Eventually it got to about 5:30am, so I drove my my yoga class. This was after polishing off the last of my supply of vodka at about 3am. I'm not even kidding, I was SO drunk. I was super careful whilst driving. I could hardly see (I feel awful for saying it, but I do wonder if I even put my headlights on), and my extremities were pretty well numb for all the alcohol I'd consumed in the last twelve hours. Somehow I made it to class. I'm not sure why I was so hellbent on going. I didn't even like it, it was super awkward because Donny was in the class too, and of course it was impossible for me to pull off any sort of pose on this particular morning because I was so wasted. I also hadn't slept since the Monday (it was a Friday morning), which in my opinion played more of a role in my possibly erratic driving that morning than did the alcohol. I felt so terrible afterwards. A little bit because the drunkeness was starting to wear off, and I was beginning to feel my first-ever hangover, but mostly because of the moral dilemma I was in over driving while intoxicated. I definitely won't ever do it again, and I don't think Becky will either.

Does this make me self-centred? I hope not. If anything, I think the fact that I write a blog, have a Facebook page, and attend make-up school are more telling of any self-centred tendencies I might have. That and, oh - I do elite-level sport. Individual sport. I'm one of the most self-serving people I know. So lay off Becky, people! She's trying her best to make her way through a tough situation, and I salute that.

The guy in question here is an interesting one. Like I said, he's a good friend, but that doesn't stop me disagreeing with a lot of his opinions. The other night, for example, he said he was too glad to be alive to imagine not being happy with competing at the Olympics. People just don't understand this. If you're competitive enough to get there, you're not just going to lie down once you make it and be content with life all of a sudden. You're going to want to win. And when you don't, it sucks.

"Sometimes I feel like that, too." I admitted, a little ashamed at my sense of defeat. Imagine that! Being content with oneself! "Once, I came within an inch of being run down in a head-on with a huge SUV while I was on my bike. I definitely should have died. After that I felt pretty stoked."

"Do you think there's a difference in celebrating life," he replied "and celebrating not being killed?" He has a point, but to be honest, most days I don't really do much worth celebrating. I don't make differences in other peoples' lives on a daily basis, and on the days when I can't be assed training, I don't really make a difference in my own. My thoughts on the matter are pretty straight-forward.

If I'm content with my life, I might as well lay down and give up.

I'm not laying down just yet, bitches

Life is just one big long war, really. It's up to me to fight and win as many battles as I can, whether they be Olympic Games, dominating my class at SRA, or even a training run up Mount Wellington. Once I stop fighting, what's the point?

It happened once, on a Tuesday morning in December of 2005. It had been two nights since I'd failed to make the New Zealand Commonwealth Games team at Trials, and I was pretty bummed about it. I stood up halfway through a lap of a warm-down swim during my workout and looked at my coach, Richard. "I don't think I want to swim anymore." I said. I took off my cap and goggles, got out of the pool and walked out of the complex. I didn't stop to ask Richard what he thought, I just left. 200 metres down the road, I texted my friend Curtis. "I think I just quit swimming."

Obviously, I went back the following week for a pow wow with Richard, but it didn't change much. I was lying down sadly in my little battlefield, and nothing he said made me want to get up and keep fighting. I said goodbye to him, thinking I was making the best decision of my life.

Of course, if it really had been the best decision of my life, I wouldn't be up writing about it and desperately trying to hold back the tears. I miss swimming terribly, and I miss Richard. I'm lucky I've found another battle in cycling, or I really don't know what I'd do.

As it would happen, I don't think I've ever been so excited for an Olympic Games as I am about the next ones in 2012, in London, England. This is probably a combination of a lot of things, including my thorough enjoyment of watching as much as I could of the recent Beijing 2008 Games, but at the same time, really missing the environment that one can only experience in one place on earth: the Olympic Village. It's exciting to watch someone win a gold medal on TV, and watch them during their victory ceremony, but it's nothing compared to when that person walks back in the dining hall - in some cases wearing the medal and holding the bouquet of flowers, and in others with only the medal strap hanging from their tracksuit pocket, and receives a round of applause. It's really something else.

It helped that Jimmy Page performed at the closing ceremony in Beijing. I am a huge fan of Jimmy. On my "top five" list of guitarists, he rates as number two, behind Tom Morello, of course. I've been really touched three times by "Olympic moments" - first, when Hicham El Guerrouj FINALLY won the mens' 1500m race in Athens, when Kenenisa Bekele won the 5,000m in Beijing (funnily enough, El G won it in Athens, which was amazing but at the same time crushing for Bekele) and when Jimmy took the stage with Leona Lewis at the closing of Beijing.

El G: quite literally myself in double-speed.

It's now just a matter of sorting out that track bike.

Woodbourne, Sand & Stars

I love Jess Venn.

Had it not been for Jess, I would still be moping around the house, sad because I've been talked out of going to meet Donny at the airport tonight. I'm still moping around the house, but I now have a job, and a new mission in my life.

Longtime readers (or reader, as the case may be... love you Firefly!) will remember a rant from a while back where I tossed up the benefits of going to Massey to study Aviation against running away to Calgary, Osaka, or Malmo.

Somehow I ended up in Bayswater, attending make-up school in Parnell, but Aviation still permeates most of my daily thoughts. I just want to fly planes! Since starting at SRA, I've kind of been thinking that maybe the make-up qualification could be used to do counter work, freelancing and weddings while I studied Aviation at Massey in Palmerston North. Some of the idiots in my class at SRA just make me wonder how fulfilling a career in make-up can REALLY be.

This morning, Jess asked me why I don't just join the Air Force.

Well, mainly because I didn't realise I could. Did you know they TRAIN pilots there? And PAY them while they're doing it? What?! Seriously, first-year aviation costs as much as it would to feed Eritrea's starving children for a decade. How did I not know you could get paid for it? Sure, it means joining the military, and I bet there are people out there wondering just how suited to this lifestyle I would be, but I'm kind of willing to change, now that I know what's at stake.

What is at stake, exactly? Okay, well if I was successful in my application for the Royal New Zealand Air Force, I'd move to Woodbourne in Marlborough for 21 weeks of "initial officer training". For the next 41 weeks, I'd do my pilot training and study at the Air Force base in Ohakea. I don't even know where that is, but I don't really care. Give me $30,000 to learn something that fascinates me, and I'm pretty much there. I'll even give up my laptop and cellphone, if need be.
Anyway, after doing this phase of pilot training, I'll then move onto more advanced training for 29 weeks, and after successful completion of this, I'll earn my "pilot's brevet", better known to us mere mortals as "wings". After that, I'll choose between fixed-wing or helicopters, and head to off to whichever base caters to my needs to specialise. Then hopefully, I'll get to fly planes to my heart's content.

My next career move!

It really sounds like a bit of me. It's a bit mindblowing to think so now, but when I was younger I was pretty hellbent on joining the Army. When I was thirteen, I visited the Army stand at the Careers expo. Of course, being the psycho I was at thirteen, I wanted to be a rifleman, but they told me they didn't let girls do that. I was pretty devastated. I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure I'd be great in the military. "Friend" or rather, guy-I-know, Shannon Stallard, who this year won the New Zealand Standard Triathlon (the one I got hauled out of, 400m in), is an army guy, and they support his training for sport. I'm informed that it's a military thing, and as such I could enjoy the same benefits as Shannon. At the moment, it's all so new and exciting that it seems like a cure-all for me, but don't worry. I have every intent of making sure this is a good career move for me before I run off and do it.

I just received a txt from the Air Force telling me they're sending me an information pack. I'm so excited I think I might implode (kind of like Rex. He just got back from his first kitesurfing attempt). I feel kind of like Phoebe on that episode of Friends when she exclaims "Wow! That is brand new information!" ... except all of this Air Force carry-on really is.

I'm going to be an Air Force brat! Thanks Jess!

Rex and all his friends

I live with a guy with ADHD. His name is Rex, and I think so far in his life, said condition has gone undiagnosed. We live in Bayswater, which according to the flyer Rex brought home the other night, is the best place in New Zealand to kitesurf.

Within minutes, Rex was on TradeMe, bidding his life away in an auction for a kitesurfing kit. When the bidding got to over $900, Rex's more level-headed other half, Steph, told him to stop bidding. Fair enough, given that prior to the auction, he had cited $800 as his top price. So he lost that auction.

The next evening, when Steph wasn't around, Rex was back on TradeMe, this time bidding on a board. When he won, he became agitated because the vendor hadn't emailed or called him at lightspeed. The phone rang, and he tore across the lounge, almost knocking his computer and a beer off the coffee table, to answer it. The disappointment on his face was almost textbook when it was Steph, and not the vendor. He even told his own girlfriend that he couldn't talk for long, in case the vendor called him. He really couldn't wait to get his hands on the board, even though, due to the fact that he hadn't yet sourced a harness or a kite to use it with. The theory was that he could practice standing on the board in the lounge.

Anyway, within minutes, the phone rang again, and again Rex leapt up to answer it. It stopped ringing in his hand. "CALL BACK!" he cried, falling to his knees. I'm not even kidding. He actually dropped to his knees when whoever was on the other end of the line hung up. Rex was pretty dejected, and dragged his feet as he went back to his chair.

"Hey, Rex" Sara said from another couch. "Um, I feel really bad... but that was me who just called you." How sneaky!
"I hate you." he replied. Sam and I nearly died laughing. It was the best prank ever! Rex didn't think so.

The next evening, when Sara got home from work, there was a voice message from the TradeMe vendor who sold Rex the board. She listened, but assumed Rex somehow knew and would pick it up on his way home from work. Not so. When Rex arrived home and she asked him, he nearly imploded with excitement and screamed at Sara "why didn't you tell me!?!"

Probably because he had just walked in the door, but that's not really part of the story.

He flew down the stairs and out into the garage.

"See ya!" he yelled into my room. I had just woken up from an after-school nap, so I had no idea where he was going at such break-neck speed. "Where are you going?" I asked, confused.
"To pick up my board!" He exclaimed, and got in his car and drove away.

Within half an hour, Rex was home and standing on the board in the middle of the lounge. When that got boring, he got back on TradeMe and was sourcing the rest of the kit he needed.

Yesterday he spent the afternoon running around the house wearing his new harness. I kind of wish I was joking about that, but it was pretty entertaining. He was like a kid in a candy store. Later that evening when Rowan came over, he got it out again. And then again when Aaron arrived.

Aaron's arrival was a pretty weird experience. I was taking a nap on the couch when a head popped up above the deck. It was very odd, given that our lounge is on the second floor.
"T-Rex! Are you in there?" he called. I squinted, and became quite concerned as to what exactly was happening. I sat up, just as he looked like he might climb right over the rail around the deck. He looked a little shocked. I walked out onto the deck.
"Hi..." I said. Between bites of his McDonalds burger, he cracked up laughing. He was standing on the roof of his car, chowing down on some kai he presumably bought from the Bayswater McDonald's. Turns out he's a friend of Rex's, and was thinking of climbing over the deck and sneaking into the flat to surprise him. What is it with people? Anyway, we chatted until Rex and Rowan returned from buying some meat and beers, him still standing on the roof of the car. I have to say, it's the first conversation I've had with someone on top of a car.

Of course, over dinner it came out that I was considering meeting Donny tonight at the airport. Rowan and Aaron thought this was pretty hilarious stuff, until they realised I was being serious.
"Um, " said Rowan. "He left and went to India without telling you. Why would you even want to see him again." I laughed nervously and avoided his eyes. "He's The One." I said firmly.
"Don't do it. He won't want to see you. It will just be awkward."

So at that moment, I realised he was right. What was I even thinking?

Another conversation that arose over our feast was whether or not Rex was taking kitesurfing lessons. "Nah. My mate had a lesson last week."
Umm, last week? "He's the expert, then!" said Rowan. Sounds like the blind leading the blind, but at least it's bound to have hilarious consequences. Stay tuned.
"Well, lessons are like, $160. Fuck that!"

This morning when I got up I found Rex running around the house in his harness again. Seriously, this guy needs Ritalin. Luckily, he's actually gone out to try out the "body-drag", which is the precursor to kitesurfing: kitesurfing without the board. He and Sam are down at the mangroves, flying an 11-metre kite, attached to Rex's waist. I can't wait to see how this turns out.

When I asked Rex this morning about what Rowan said (yeah, see are you getting the feeling that I should just make up my own mind, rather than asking everyone else?), he disagreed. "Go. Sounds like you can't make this situation any worse."

Which is a point in itself. There's absolutely no dignity left between Donny and I.

I've kind of secretly already decided what to wear.

I drove to school today

This morning, for whatever reason, I decided to drive to school rather than taking the ferry.
Whether it's because my weird fixation on Bike75 guy (also known as Mr Canaandale) has finally got the better of me, or because it was raining a little when I was getting ready to go, I don't know, but it was a bit of an adventure for a green Auckland rookie like myself.

I left my house at 7:50am, just to be safe. Usually I catch the 8:10am ferry, so I leave at about 8:01am (and still have time to ride around the carpark a few times, just for kicks). I was glad I did. Even at the top of remote-seeming Bayswater Avenue, Lake Road traffic was backed up. Seriously, it's mindblowing how much traffic there is up here on the Shore. I try to stay chill about it, because I guess now that I'm a Shore Girl, it's part of life.

Besides, I don't get to get to sing at the top of my voice to Carrie Underwood, Bad Religion, or whatever else happens to be playing on my iPod on the ferry. In my car, I can do whatever I want. This morning it was Thrice. I'm sure you can imagine, even being stuck in traffic which didn't seem to move until I hit the bridge (8:12am), I had an enjoyable drive. As I was on the bridge about the time my ferry would have left Bayswater, I tried to look out the window for it on the bridge. Possibly not the brightest idea I've had in a while, given that I've had enough trouble lately with sideswiping cars to the left of me. The last thing I want to do is cause an accident on the main motorway that links Auckland City to the Shore.

Being a planner (cough), I google-mapped my journey before I left, so I knew I had to exit the motorway at Fanshawe Street. I have to admit, as much as I don't miss Hamilton at all, I had an almost impossible-to-resist urge to stay on the motorway and drive home for the day. I think it was just because I saw the "Hamilton / Port" sign on the overpass, but anyway. Logic, for once, got the better of me and I took the prescribed journey past the Viaduct Harbour and along Beach Road to Parnell, where I parked at a $3 all-day parking lot. Score! The $4 I saved by walking the extra kilometre will be well-spent at Tank.

I arrived at school at 8:38am, which all made for a pretty swift trip, by Auckland standards. It's not something I'll do frequently, but at least now I know it can be done and it won't cost a bomb.

My drive home was remarkably easy too, given that I had a pretty good idea how to get straight out of town on to the bridge. The drive home took a little longer, but again I had Bad Religion's "Suffer" blasting through the pathetic speakers in my car, so I was happy. I was tempted to spend my saved parking money on a lime shake from the Bayswater McDonald's, but I resisted.

Tomorrow, I'll be driving to the airport...

Parnell Baths

After my sunglasses were stolen while I showered at Birkenhead's Osborne Pool a few weeks ago, I vowed to never return. Not too difficult, considering it was a pretty tough 11km bike ride each way. Don't get me wrong, I like biking (love it, even), but it's sometimes a challenge to motivate myself to swim after riding all that way, and knowing I have to get home too.

As such, I looked into swimming at the gorgeous Parnell Baths, a mile from where I attend school each day. Before my obsession for North Shore Swimming developed, I wanted to swim for Parnell. I think this was because I met Aidan Crouch when I was thirteen, who is - in my opinion - the best-looking guy on the face of the earth, and that's where he swam. Yes, I make pretty huge decisions based on superficial reasons. But is there any other way?

Aidan Crouch: Yes please.

Anyway, on Tuesday I rode the Jamis to the Parnell Baths. The 11% downhill gradient was fun on the way there, and as usual, I put the fact that I'd have to ride back UP it out of my mind for the time being. I was not disappointed when I arrived. Firstly there was the surprisingly good-looking guy behind the counter (it's been so long since I've seen a real true-life good-looking guy), followed by the fact that this pool is outdoors, 60m long, and salt water. If you've not swum in a salt water pool, you're like, missing out on one of life's luxuries. I had such a nice afternoon at the Parnell Baths.

It's reasonably priced, too - especially given its location. It's $4.40 for a student, whereas at the crappy Takapuna pool, it's $6. Flag.

It was a bit weird swimming in an oversize long-course pool, but I figure all these pools with an extra 8 or 10 metres tacked on the end up here in Auckland can only make for better swimming. I will definitely be returning to the Parnell Baths, and purchasing a season pass, so I can swim whenever I want. The uphill jaunt on the way back into town will be tolerated for the simple fact that I'm going to have so much more fun training!

If, like me you're an Auckland dweller and want to come training, flick me a text, or join me at the Parnell Baths, Judges Bay Road, Parnell.

Race Calendar

Every season, I get excited about all the races I'm going to enter. Last season, I was working at Campus Computers, and living at home, so I had a tonne of disposable income.
My first race was the Eve's Realty Surfbreaker Triathlon at Mount Maunganui. It went pretty smoothly until the last 400 metres, which was pretty much like running into a pit of tar. Or soft sand, as was actually the case. It's not like they didn't warn me, but it still sucked! I'm not, as previously mentioned exhaustively, one of those rational athletes that "focuses on what I can control". These are the Sam Warriner types, you know, the ones on the Olympic team. To be fair, everyone else in the race had to run on the sand too, but I ignored this fact and felt sorry for myself as I shuffled across the beach to the finish line.

I'm always amazed at my mother's reaction when I finish races. I did my first triathlon at fourteen, so you would think by twenty-one, it wouldn't be a big deal every time I race. But for my mum, it is. She met me at the finish, with a huge grin on her face and a hug. I was too busy bitching about the sand to think about it at the time, but it kind of makes me wonder when I finish mid-pack in a race I spend most of my spare time preparing for and I get a hug, why she wasn't more thrilled when I made the Olympic swim team? Whatever.

Anyway, I went on to compete at the Whangamata Olympic distance triathlon about ten days later, and nearly died in the process. I was second out of the swim, which resulted in a confused silence from the commentators until they found my name on the list of competitors. Being a rubbish cyclist at the time, I went from second to second-to-last over the next 40 kilometres. It felt akin to climbing a cliff, and I now know that this particular route is used by guys training for Ironman. So you can imagine that by the time I hit the run leg, I was pretty well running on empty. Not a great feeling when you've still got 10k to go.

The Whangamata bike profile: uh-oh.

During the run, some sort of miracle occurred and I passed a few guys. Girls too, but it was the guys in their fancy one-piece Orca and 2XU suits that really did it for me. I can't say that running past Caleb and his friends, stretched out on deck chairs in the front yard of his beach house, enjoying beers and the view, was the most heartening experience that day, but it made me smile enough to not want to kill them all.

So I finished "back-pack" at Whanga. It was made better by Jordan, who met me at the finish line with a V and a banana. "You've never looked more disgusting." Awesome. I drove home later that day, after swimming at the beach for a few more hours. I sometimes look back and wonder where all the energy came from.

Later, when I looked at the race results, I saw that I'd recorded an almost 6-minute PB in the run. Kinda freakish, when you consider that my previous time was set after four months of run training at the Christchurch Marathon in 2005. I shrugged, and moved onto my next challenge.

Over anniversary weekend in January, the Rotorua Association of Triathletes holds the legendary (in my mind, anyway) Blue Lake Race Weekend, or something similar. It starts with the reverse aquathon (run around Blue Lake, then swim 800m in it), followed that afternoon by the Hinemoa swim - 2km across the lake. The next morning is the triathlon. In my mind, Blue Lake is the greatest place on earth, so of course I was there, raring to go at the start of the aquathon.

Usually, my race strategy is as follows:
1. Win the swim
2. Pass everyone on the bike
3. Sprint the run, and pass everyone else
4. Win

Simple, right? Except that this race was a reverse aquathon, which means I had to win the run, and then pass everyone on the swim to win. Could be interesting...

I had a shocker of a run, entering the swim eight MINUTES behind the last person. Luckily for me, my swimming background came in handy (hello, former 800m freestyler!), and I passed 13 people on the first 400m lap. On the next lap I passed another 6, so I moved from last into like, fourth or something.

Rather than conserving my energy for the Hinemoa swim that afternoon, I went mountain biking for three hours, had a quick nap, then headed back to the lake for the next race. It still rates amongst the hardest I've ever done, simply because for about 200m, 500m from the end, I'm fairly sure I didn't move at all. The people on the beach looked like dots, and surely I was coming last. Pretty embarrassing.
I didn't win, which I was pretty disappointed about because I wanted that giant Hinemoa trophy, but I think I was about 8th overall. I quietly convinced myself that next year, I was winning.

Early the next morning, I headed back to the Lake for the triathlon. I wasn't winning the "Queen of the Lake" trophy, but I figured that if I won this race, I might. No such luck. As usual, I was in the top three girls out of the swim, then fell right off the wagon in the bike. I moved up a few places in the run, but overall I was less than ecstatic about my weekend. I licked my wounds and went mountain biking again. My mum was nowhere to be seen for a hug.

A few weeks later I hit up the New Zealand Sprint Triathlon at Kinloch. Now, Kinloch isn't exactly purpose-built for triathlon. It's about the worst bike course in the country, chopping and changing directions like there's no tomorrow. I struggled after having a choking episode in the swim, but found my legs on the run to finish 8th. It was at this race where I caught up with Steph and we had the now infamous XTERRA discussion.

Between Kinloch and XTERRA, there was the Gold Coast Triathlon (9th out of 734 in the swim, a reasonable bike and shocker of a run, but I met the incredibly good-looking Tom Shao along a stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway which made the scenery even more enjoyable), which was also attended by my mum - yay for hugs! I also got hauled out of the Wellington harbour by concerned lifeguards at the New Zealand Standard Triathlon when I turned a shade of blue in the first 400m, sans wetsuit. What a waste of a weekend that was! I made up for it by having a scorcher of a bike ride and reasonable run at the Bayfair triathlon the following weekend (no mum, but I got hugs from Kirby, Briar AND their mum).

The weekend before XTERRA, I went to New Plymouth to compete at the race they hold the day before the World Cup. This was a disaster from the start. I spent the swim jostling for position and throwing up my breakfast (mmm....), and then the bike struggling with cramps and further expelling of breakfast, before I skidded into a ditch and got brought back to the finish in the St Johns van. Nice. No hug from mum this time. I did take solace in watching Javier Gomez record a sub-30 minute 10k the following day when he won the World Cup. Maybe he'll marry me.

After New Plymouth, I wasn't exactly brimming with confidence going into XTERRA. Out of the last three standard/Olympic distance races, I'd finished one, and if anything, my fitness seemed to be waning. Still, I went down there with the aim of having fun, and thinking maybe I could get a medal.

I had a reasonable swim, exiting the water more than a minute in front of the eventual Pro winner, Sonia Foote. Not that I knew this at the time, because I'm pretty sure by the time I was 200m up the road in the bike, she was back in front. As has been previously mentioned, I struggled with the bike at XTERRA, and I had one sweet bail which banged up my shin so badly I wondered if I would able to walk, let alone run on it.

As it happened, I had nothing to worry about, and once I was out of transition I sprinted deftly over the rocks and onto the beach for a 2-lap race around Blue Lake. I passed 21 people, and recorded the fastest run split in my age group (52:50). No worries! I only placed 11th, but given that my goal (for once) was to have fun, I was pretty happy.

That was my final event for the season, and I think my legs were pretty grateful.


This year is shaping up to be considerably quieter. I struggle to make rent and buy enough food, so race entry fees have been bumped down on the list of priorities.

Originally, my calendar looked a little something like this:

18-Nov: Takapuna Beach Series
25-Nov: Takapuna Beach Series
2-Dec: Takapuna Beach Series
6-Dec: XTERRA Trail Challenge
7-Dec: Race Karapiro
10-Dec: Stroke & Stride
14-Dec: People's Triathlon
16-Dec: Takapuna Beach Series
27-Dec: Eve's Realty Surfbreaker Triathlon
20-Jan: Takapuna Beach Series
22-Jan: Stroke & Stride
27-Jan: Takapuna Beach Series
1-Feb: Sub Ride & Stride
3-Feb: Takapuna Beach Series
8-Feb: New Zealand Sprint Triathlon
10-Feb: Takapuna Beach Series (go for the big win on my birthday)
17-Feb: Takapuna Beach Series
21-Feb: Sub Ride & Stride
3-Mar: Takapuna Beach Series
10-Mar: Stroke & Stride
15-Mar: People's Triathlon
17-Mar: Takapuna Beach Series
25-Mar: Stroke & Stride
18-Apr: XTERRA

Yeah, so it looks packed, but the Beach Series is a weekly thing, and it's only one discipline - swim or run. Anyway, point is - it's now December 5 and the only race I've done so far is Race Karapiro on November 9, where I was third. To be honest, even XTERRA is looking like a push, and that's just breaking my heart. Especially because I am just going to dismantle that bike course next time I ride it. Monique Avery had better watch out.

I'm so poor! Potential sponsors: please contact me if you would like to fund my season this year.

SQ281

So, we've established that I have an unhealthy obsession for knowing Donny's whereabouts and day-to-day activities. Luckily for me, he's an idiot, and hasn't really gotten around to configuring the privacy settings on his new Facebook page so I can pretty much track exactly what he's up to, with who.

Before you go calling the cops and a counsellor for me, I'd just like to confirm for those who haven't worked it out that I love Donny. He's The One. My soulmate. All of the other tacky descriptions under the sun that you can think of. Sure, it's a problem that needs addressing, but at the moment, it seems to entertain most of the people I know sufficiently.

Not that it really makes a difference, but I'm not one of those stalkers who has the intent of eventually killing my target. The most harmful thing I've ever done to Donny was stealing his recycling bin. Of course, due to bad planning, it turned out to be his neighbour's recycling bin. To make matters worse, he watched from a window in his house while Kirby and I scampered around his cul-de-sac, making way too much noise as we went about our business late one night after a surf at Waihi Beach. Less than 200 metres from his house, we realised it was the wrong bin, so we threw it out the window and drove home. Oops.

It was all in the name of fun, really. You would think riding bikes would keep me occupied to the extent where I don't need to do burnouts outside Donny's house in my car, steal his neighbour's bin, make him extravagant birthday cards, and keep a creepy vigil on his Facebook page, but apparently this is not the case. Even from Bayswater, Auckland, I can keep on top of my little habit.

Still, I got the idea into my head that making him a birthday card - which literally drained me - would be a cure-all for our little predicament. In November of last year I set about creating said masterpiece (pdfs to follow) in preparation for his January birthday. In typical Miriam fashion, five days before the big day, I was up until 4am on Kirby's computer, Adobe Illustrating like I had a deathwish. I had it printed, and was very happy with the final result.

Until after I'd sent it.

That's how, the night before Donny's birthday, I was a hysterical mess, trying to stop crying enough to leave him a voice message to tell him not to read the card. He did. Of course he did. He even kept it - even if it was just to get my number so he could call me at ridiculous hours of the night. Given that Donny is the love of my life, I of course obliged - telling him, ironically enough, that it was in the interest of karma.

Unfortunately, Donny is a jerk and took advantage of my well-meaning ways. When I say it's unfortunate, I mean because he's now afflicted with measles. It's a shame really. I wouldn't want that pretty face to get ruined.

Seriously people, karma is a bitch. Be good to others!

Airport attire, suitable for any good Indian bride?

As it would happen, Donny is returning from India, complete with his measles, tomorrow on SQ281. I've had many thoughts on how to go about his return. The first of which is to ignore it, obviously. There is really no point in my going to the airport. It doesn't take a genius to work that out. HOWEVER, I'm still tempted to do any number of the following:

1. Source the most glamorous sari I can find, get a manicure with my beloved "Lunch At The Delhi" nail polish, and meet him off his flight riding an elephant.
2. As above, but sans elephant, as I just don't see myself finding one, and being allowed to ride it into the International Arrivals hall.
3. Meet him at the hall, complete with sign reading "happy holidays, you bastard". Completely irrelevant, but at least I'll have fun.
4. Arrive early, tie a banner to the rails on the sides of the arrival gate saying "Karma's a bitch", then leave before he gets through customs.
5. Hire a wedding dress, dress Miranda and Sulva up as bridesmaids, and propose as he walks through the sliding doors.

Okay, this is getting stupid. The last one was a spur-of-the-moment idea anyway, inspired by a riverside walk with Sally last year ("be mine!" haha).

I don't think I'll go anyway. I don't want his dirty Indian measles.

Mr Cannondale

I develop unusual obsessions with people I've never spoken to. Every time I think I'm getting over this weird quirk, I see someone interesting and everything goes out the window.

One such example of this rather bizarre behaviour is Mr Cannondale, from the ferry. Granted, that's not his real name. Of course, having never spoken to him, I don't actually know what his name is. I know a lot about what he looks like, and I spend the ten minutes we spend "together" sitting at the back of the Bayswater ferry into town looking at his bikes and mentally comparing componentry.

It only really dawned on me today that he might work in a bike shop. Only in a bike shop can you get away with wearing cargo shorts and Lake shoes every day. When I decided on this, I of course became obsessed with deciding which one. Was it Penny Farthing Cycles, on Symonds Street, where, when I fell off my Jamis a few days after moving here, I went to have my headset tightened? Was it in fact him that tightened it? This was unlikely, due to the fact that I got a good look at the guy who did it. Hmm.

Turns out he works at Bike75. No, I didn't find this out by asking him, like a normal person would. I worked it out from the t-shirt he was wearing that had a Bike75 logo on it. Given that we were sitting on the same bench on the ferry, I couldn't google it there and then (a shame really that there's no unsecured wireless network over the Waitemata). Instead, I texted my mum and another friend to do it for me. Within minutes I learnt that Bike75 is a 4000sqm store in Freemans Bay, and Mr Cannondale's place of employment.

The giveaway logo on Mr Cannondale's shirt

Where the hell is Freemans Bay? Being a Cowtown native who gets confused outside a one-mile radius of my home, I had to do some more research. I learnt that it's kind of near Ponsonby. Later, at home I google-street-viewed it, so now I know exactly what the building he works in looks like.

Was this really necessary? I mean, really? My mum suggested I badger him about giving me some hours there. But to be honest, that's a little embarrassing. This guy is my self-professed "arch rival" based on his bike stable. He's also the guy who helped me up when I fell over on the ferry steps, Jamis in tow, yesterday. That was pretty fucking humanising. Here I am, judging him on his Ultegra crank-arms (yeah, they're better than my 105s, but they're nothing on the Felt I'm getting!). I strut around on the ferry with my Bell skating helmet, complete with Bad Religion and XTERRA stickers, and then I go and fall over trying to get up the steps. What a loser! Turns out Mr Cannondale isn't the wanker I've made him out to be. This morning he even waited for me at the top of the steps and took the Jamis off me so I could safely ascend the steps. This is getting ridiculous.

Mr Cannondale, what is your name? Can I have a job?

Some other interesting ferry folk include the lovely Canadian woman who comes on the 8:10 each morning. She dresses SO inappropriately, but that's partly what makes her so endearing.

Every morning she walks up the steps with more flair than I have on the dancefloor at the Outback (not hard, let me assure you), in heels that have got to be at least six inches high. She wears dresses that are a little too short, and lipstick in a shade that's too outrageous for daytime. She is with ease the coolest woman on the ferry. Before we leave the harbour, she wraps her long hair in a headscarf which she adorns in a way that's similar to a burqa veil, and ties it in a knot, just to the side. I often mention quietly to Sam (that's superhuman Sam) - if he's on the ferry instead of like, hotfooting it to work- that I wish I could wear a headscarf and look that glam. She's friendly too. Prefers the company of men, which I can understand. There's something just a little Holly Golightly about her.

Last week, she spoke with one of the ferry staff (another enigmatic type, who I've created a life for in my head, but never said more than "thank you" to) and said "I couldn't give two didleys if I don't get my residence visa." Two didleys? How gorgeous! I want to use it, but I just don't think I have the grace to pull it off.

Sigh. I should get a life of my own.

Karma Chameleon

"Miriam can't help but think your measles are karma for all those 4am phonecalls."

Ha ha, Donny. Suffer.

Secrets

I've recently become addicted to PostSecret. Well, okay - as I typed this I realised I haven't checked in this week for the latest installment, but there intent is there. Around the time I made this miraculous discovery (of the blog itself, not the fact that I love it), Emma posted "18 things you may not know about me" on Facebook. I was intrigued, because not only did I learn 18 facts about Emma that I previously had no idea about, but I started to think which 18 secrets I would leak. Here goes...

1. I use Pimafucort, a prescription anti-inflammatory cream as lip balm.
2. I still freak out about taniwha when I go swimming in the moana.
3. I miss Richie more than ANYONE in Hamilton.
4. I still don't know what my dream job would be.
5. My Asics Gel Durangos from 7th form are still my favourite running shoes.
6. I hate almost every type of food, and wish I ran on batteries.
7. Jen is my best friend, but I truly worship the ground Sally Taylor walks on.
8. I am SO lazy.
9. I am 100% happier if I'm underwater.
10. My proudest moment was after successfully navigating New York City, alone, on a Friday night.
11. If given the option, I would go back to Hoffman and undo all the bad stuff.
12. My brother Karl is the best guy I know, and I love him more than life itself.
13. I often spend my last dollars on juice from Tank.
14. Everything I own is yellow, but I think my favourite colour might be pink.
15. I talk to Curtis Thom every day, despite what we might tell you.
16. I race everyone in the pool. Every lap, every time I go.
17. I feel uncomfortable when people give me kisses. Especially girls.
18. My favourite nail polish is "My Chihuahua Bites" by OPI.

Fascinating? Nah, didn't think so.

I slept with someone in Fall-Out Boy and all I got was a baby with a stupid name

This guy is a father?

Okay, it wasn't actually me who did this, obviously. We all know I haven't got a hope in hell of getting knocked up, and luckily I don't want to.

Yes, I'm a bit slow on the uptake, but tonight while sleepily doing my grocery shopping, I saw on the cover of NW or a similar magazine that Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson-Wentz named their baby boy Bronx Mowgli.

Pete was born and raised in Wilmette, Illinois, and Ashlee is from somewhere in Texas. The Bronx has zero to do with either of them.

First of all, let's just clarify. The Bronx is a borough in New York, and it's not exactly the nicest one. Don't get me wrong, the zoo there is especially awesome, but on the whole, I don't know that I'd want to spend my life knowing I was named after the place. Pete, if I'm wrong and you actually named your kid after the band, then shit - could you not have gone for like, Murphy (a la the Dropkicks)? Come on man, it's a kid. This kind of reminds me of those bumper stickers the SPCA used to put out: A Pet is Forever, Not for Christmas.

And Mowgli? I'm sorry, but that name was invented for The Jungle Book. And that's where it should stay. It's not culturally relevant by any stretch of the imagination, and it sounds stupid. People should undergo counselling before they're allowed to name their children. I mean honestly, parenting is supposed to be about having the child's best interests at heart. How can someone have this poor baby's interests in mind when they send it out into the world with a name that conjures images of a wild little boy dressed in animal skin, swinging around on vines in a dangerous New York neighbourhood. It's bad enough that his parents are in one case, a too-effeminate-for-comfort guy with a giant face who writes songs with titles like "I Have A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth", and in the other, a washed-up younger sister of another washed-up singer/actress with manky red hair that really just needs a wash.

As if celebrity babies don't have it hard enough as it is.


Yes, I know it's easy for me to judge from my little pedestal up here on top of the world. But that's what I'm here for, and if you don't like, well... chances are you will just leave without needing to be told.

It seems though, that celebrities aren't the only ones who come up with ridiculous names for their offspring. My sister's friend recently had a wee girl named Kahlyn. Is that even a name? I don't think so. To me, it looks like a bunch of letters strung together. Another friend of hers has a boy named Kaelin. Come on, people! Won't someone please think of the children?

Sulva, my classmate and suspected brain twin at SRA, is pregnant with her second baby. It's going to be a girl, due May 14, and as yet she and her husband haven't thought of a name for her yet. This came up in class today, when that dirty boy I kind of hate suggested that she call the baby Missy Elliott. Honestly? This guy should be banned from procreating. Missy Elliott isn't even a good name for the original Missy Elliott. It's a terrible name for Sulva's baby.

"No!" I practically spat at him. "Sulva, don't listen to anyone. Name your baby what YOU want!" I do secretly hope she doesn't name her Ruby. I want that for MY baby. Sulva was pretty appalled at Aaron's suggestion, and she let him know. "What about Beyonce?" she taunted him later in the day.

Beyonce is another name I suspect was invented by stringing together letters selected at random intervals from the alphabet. Am I the only person left in the world that values tradition? I'm not someone that would name a child John or Sarah, but come on - there are plenty of real names out there that are unique but still hold an air of class, and since history is always repeating I feel like names like Audrey could have more time in the sun yet.

For the record, some of my favourite names for both boys and girls are below:

GIRLS
Ruby
Juliet
Ava/Eva/Eve
Gemma

BOYS
Karl - after my brother, obviously
Rudy (obviously not the brother of Ruby)
Reese

That said, come see me in ten years. I'll probably have a boy named Diesel Mercury and two girls named Petaluma and Zanzibara.