September 2009


I make no claims of weight loss or increased health since arriving in Wellington despite the significant increase in walking.

That said, I HAVE noticed a distinct change in the relative size and shape of my calves.

I guess what I’m saying is: every day in every way I look a little bit more like an R. Crumb lady

guys like that, right?

guys like that, right?

Have been lazy with the updates. Obviously.

BUT my volunteership with the World of Wearable Art is next week, so armed with only a pair of ill-fitting pin-striped pants and a regulation sequin-covered top hat (I am required to wear this), I will have many an uncomfortable encounter with Wellington’s rich snoots and fashionable folk.

On second thought, I should probably try to find some pants that fit me correctly.

I’ve been feeling a lot more subdued lately.

And have been listening to a lot more Mr. Lif, as the title suggests.

Exciting adventures aren’t exactly abound at the moment. It’s more like fulfilling naps.

I promise stories in the very near future. But right now, I think I’d rather fall asleep listening to This American Life for the millionth time this week.

bed, bed, bed, bed, bed.

bed, bed, bed, bed, bed.

(it looks a little like I have a fake half-a-moustache here.)

During the last few days of my break, I decided it was a good time to start pretending that I am a Socially Capable Person and spent some time out on the town doing stuff.

Yes, stuff other than seeing Inglourious Basterds twice. Though I did do that. And I say as a lady: can we have more movies where very attractive Jewish men stand around looking wounded and angry while wearing period costumes? I say as a Jew: it’s always nice when Jews are badasses. But someone should probably tell Eli Roth that there is another Bear Jew out there:

Silly old Bear Jew, the apples and honey are for DESSERT. You have to eat your bitter herbs dipped in saltwater first.

Silly old Bear Jew, the apples and honey are for DESSERT. You have to eat your bitter herbs dipped in saltwater first.

I also went to a comedy club to watch some improv.

I’m not stranger to improv–most of my friends have at some point been involved with it in some way. One of them even takes classes at the Second City now. That said, my opinion of improv comedy is conflicted. I respect what it is and does, but I’m a perfectionist control freak. Perfect and controlled improv is not.

Still, it’s entertaining, if nothing else. It’s not sitting around my flat watching Dead Set for the billionth time.

I AM a stranger to going to bars alone. There’s something strange about this: I do a lot of stuff alone, even when I’m not in faraway countries where I don’t know anyone. I’m perfectly comfortable going to the movies alone, going to concerts alone, going to restaurants again. Something about going to a bar alone seemed weird to me.

If you’ve been reading this since it started and haven’t picked up that I’m maybe not the most approachable person in the world, then you are giving me a lot more social credit than I deserve. I suspect I have a distinctive air of nervous tension, maybe even a little bit of “don’t talk to me” aggression. And I’m not exactly be a sexy lady, so there’s nothing really overriding that nervous tension/possible aggression that I exude. I’m not trying to be down on myself or anything–I have no problem with the way I look. But frankly, that “way” is more than a little bit goofy. I mean, I look like this:

this is my Paul Kinsey cardigan. "But...it's MOHAIR!" Mine isn't, obviously.

this is my Paul Kinsey cardigan. "But...it's MOHAIR!" Mine isn't, obviously.

I’m a person who sits around the house posing like Groucho Marx with raw carrots

So I says to Mabel, I says...

So I says to Mabel, I says...

Not the sort of person who meets Sexy Singles (it’s a type of Kraft cheese). People don’t tend to approach me. At all. Ever. Unless they know me. And even then, sometimes they seem reluctant.

So it was an evening of entertainment and not talking to anyone. I drank anyway. There’s something distinctly very weird about getting drunk in public when you’re alone. It’s like you’ve got a very pathetic secret that you’re not very good at hiding.

Anyway, Sunday night I met with the second of my blind friend dates to–you guessed it–see Inglourious Basterds. I managed to remember her name this time. After the movie she convinced me to go out for a drink, which was a really crafty way of tricking me into meeting some of her friends, who were at some jazz night at The Lido (apparently “jazz night at the Lido” is a regularly occurring thing). And it was good. I actually didn’t have a miserable time. I wasn’t called upon to talk a lot because the jazz was drowning everybody out. But I got to watch my friend date and another friend of hers, both in their 30s, sit around quoting things and laughing about them–I like the affirmation that one of the more ridiculous, pointless things I do, bonding with people through TV quotes rather than actually talking to them, is something that may gloriously continue into actual adulthood.

After the jazz, Friend Date and her two male friends, two guys who had moved permanently to Wellington from the US and Germany respectively, drug me along to their bar of choice, the Hotel Bristol, which they affectionately refer to as “The Winchester.” Obviously, I love this reference. We played pool. I said things that were retrospectively very embarrassing. I think, all in all, I may have come off as a bit of a dumb kid.

That said, no one seemed to care. Or at least, no one treated me like a dumb kid. Everyone was nice to me and, at the end of the night, I got to go home with a belly full of beer.

This is far from astounding or interesting, but it’s rare for me. And it was pleasant. So I’d like to share.

Anyway, if it’s so boring, we can always talk about Inglourious Basterds some more and why I seem to be the only not-obsessed-with-Eli-Roth-already person who didn’t think Eli Roth was a bad actor. I liked him!

Uhm. Sorry. I’ll stop now.