Me, we

A co- worker tells me she doesnʻt do social networking, if she wants to know the family gossip, sheʻll ring her 94 year old mother. Mum gets facebook status updates from all of the family and thus knows who is getting married, having babies, etcetera. She was also signed up to Blendr by one of her nephews. I laughed in my co- workers’ face when she told me. ʻDo you know what Blendr is?’ I asked. ʻI do now. She gets date requests from 101 year old men.’ We both squawked with cackles at that. Love is blind, ageless too.

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Consent is sexy… getting someone’s name before you proposition them is even sexier…

Consent is sexy... getting someone's name before you proposition them is even sexier...

Soooo it’s been a below average week. Working heaps and not writing much (anything) is bad. The lack of productivity is compounded by a death in the family. Well not my legit blood related family. Just the family that counts, the family that whangaied me (adopt/foster) when I was a pre teen.
So I’ve held it together okay. I don’t really cry much even when everything is agony and razor blades. However, I thought it would be prudent for my mental health to get on the vodka and go dancing. Just at the pub up the road. I ended up going by myself. This is not a bad thing. Most of my adventures are solo. I hit the birthday vodka (copper distilled barley goodness from London), put on some tunes and got ready (see selfie). I trotted down the road to the Commercial where Saturday night is always a party and the most glamazon molls on the dancefloor are gender bending and fabulous. I danced to Snoop Dogg, Maroon 5, Beyonce, Fatman Scoop and all sorts of trashy pop/rap/r&b…
I was also propositioned by a fulla who wanted to first buy me a drink (I politely declined as I had drunk 3 double Grey Gooses in 1 hour). I spoke with him briefly when he came back to tell me there was no bar person available. I told him to seek assistance from a member of the security team and went back to my Facebook shenanigans. He got served and came and sat near me and I heard a good hook and absented myself for the dance floor. I had another great boogie and when I paused for a drink break he came up to me again and asked if I had a boyfriend. My quizzical reply was “What would I need one of those for?” Bear in mind I was three and a half sheets to the wind by this stage (past 2:30am). He then asked for my number. I said, “Why would you want my number when you haven’t even asked for my name?” He proceeded to tell me his name and asked for mine. I told him and then bumped knuckles with him. He then asked me for my number again. I had to thank him for his interest but inform him that I was not at the pub for that reason. Hence why I had picked a tranny bar. He looked at me as though I had lost my mind. I then informed him that my foster mother had passed away during the week and I was at the pub to get drunk and dance. Finito. Thank you for asking me. Don’t take this the wrong way, however I am not here for that. I smiled politely the whole time. The last time I smiled this much was during a job interview. Do cis gendered het males really think women go to gay clubs/ drag queen venues/ tranny bars to pick up? To be sexually available to them? If this is so, I need to stop going out all together. I’ve never gone out to ‘pick up’. I only want to dance. Especially now I’m not in a wheelchair. Especially because I can. Especially because I’m physically able to do so. The evening was brought low by someone else’s selfishness. I’m sure the chap involved didn’t see it as a selfish act but when another person politely declines your offer of a drink and then has to resort to the brutal truth of a family tragedy to dissuade your pursuit, it’s a fair bet they are not interested. Perchance my perception of this episode is overwrought. Perhaps it is a minor miracle that I did not punch, kick or head butt anyone tonight. There is no great message within this post. Just remember this: Everyone is fighting their own battle, so be gentle. Perhaps that is a great message… Now don’t forget to drink plenty of water before bed and put some ibuprofen on the bedside table…

Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt

Denial ain't just a river inEgypt

Sooooo…. my characters haven’t been talking to me for the last three or so weeks. I’d had a gutful of not being able to write anything from any point of view, whether the main characters or the secondaries. Not so much a writer’s block, it may have been that Ive been too busy editing what I’ve written thus far, working, and carrying on like a pork chop with drunken shenanigans at ice hockey, pubs, and numerous parties/ nightclubs. To remedy this, I packed the manuscript off to my beta/editor/ partner in crime, Neeny Boucher. She can give my characters a good, stern talking to (or a kicking if they need it) and I can have a breather. Of course, once I had sent the MS off, they want to talk to me… Kincaid (pictured above) was rather miffed I was spending time with/ wanted to bone another hawt spunk from a band (Toombs from Beats by Kendall Grey). He wasn’t as bad as Caleb who it turns out, can be a bit of a sooky la la… He said he “felt like a five year old who had been packed off to boarding school by a cold, uncaring parent. Not a cool school like Hogwarts, either.” His actual words to me while I was taking a shower this morning before trotting off to work (again). While I was busy serving the reading public at the library I had to deal with Kincaid in the bargaining phase of his denial. He was making all sorts of lusciously filthy innuendos as I helped customers and it took a fair amount of control to not lose it while on the library floor. Thank Keanu for the chute room that I could sneak off and sit in front of the air conditioner and cool down. Outrageous!!!

Cast away…

Went to hospital on Wednesday and had my cast removed.  Have to wear unwieldy moon boot thingy instead.  Do some light physio exercises and try not to kill anyone because I’m still house bound.  They wont let me drive yet.  Which is killing me, hence the need to pass on the deathly sentiments to any and all who head my way.  Which doesn’t augur well for the 40th birthday I will be emc-ing tomorrow night.

It is also an irony filled situation (not lost on me, just mildly despised) wherein I am suffering not just the indignity of having to be in a wheelchair (which sucks because everywhere I wanted to go is really steep and uneven when faced in a chair) and ask friends for help, which I am no good at doing.  The irony is that I can’t drive and yet I have espoused the virtues of vehicular mobility loudly and often, both publicly and privately, including academically.  I have spoken at several conferences on the issue of driving and tino rangatiratanga (Māori self determination) for wāhine Māori (Māori women).  Now this Māori woman is stuck in the house and is not allowed to drive her car….

I talk about the importance of wāhine being able to leave the house, not only because they and their children may be facing domestic violence situations, but also just to strengthen their ties to the community in which they live.  They are able to become full and rounded citizens, participate in normal activities for leisure and social purposes such as weekend sports, hobbies and visiting family.  These strong ties help prevent isolation which enables many unhealthy situations such as mental health issues and susceptibility to domestic violence.

Having a car also enables wāhine to be able to apply for and maintain a job.  Particularly in rural areas, which are ubiquitous in New Zealand. Having a job or career strengthens these community ties and also gives women an outlet for social interaction, friendship networks and money to provide better lives for their families.

I currently have no car and no job.  However I have friends who visit and I have lots of writing to get done, so I probably don’t have time for a job.  Once I’m mobile again, I’m sure I will reassess the situation.  Some people may think driving isn’t really that important.  I usually reply “Tell that to a lady in Saudi Arabia’.  Nothing subtle about me

.woman_driver_555chev impala

Last kiss

Been busy writing and editing novel. Kicking around ideas in my head for prospective thesis chapters. Rough research on a few subjects that may go on to be articles for submission to journals. Moved house again. That’s only three times in ten months, not even close to my PB.
Want to say that I bit the bullet and had surgery but it feels more like I swallowed the fucking gun. Or wish I had/ could. Trying hard to stay sane/ focused and not kill self/ others because of bedridden cabin fever but it would seem most days this is a Herculean task. Tonight it was fraught with triple layers of vodka, anger and a consuming sense of delayed abandonement.
I’m left to guess what I did/ said/ typed/ thought wrong. There were auditions held and it would seem that I did not fulfil the role of _________. And so I was eventually replaced by someone who could live up to the encoded notions of nostalgia, distorted perceptions and projections for the future. Turns out I’m not ready to be cast in that kind of supporting role and I didnʻt even get to throw my hat in the ring. Nevermind. Iʻm sure Iʻll live just long enough to see someone else shine in the role of a life time. Oh the sticky, conceited irony.
On the upside I may have a job coming up. Training will possibly start in June. I will do what I am best at: bury myself in ʻbusyʻ work and not come up for oxygen, even when Iʻm blue in th face. Zang!

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