It’s been about six years now since I left Japan.

I spent two years there as an English teacher repeating the new words.

When I signed up for that gig I was expecting neon lights, robots, raw fish and rice. I got the raw fish and rice, but as for neon lights and robots – there weren’t many of those where I went.

I lived right in the thick of rural Japan, in a joint called Oi, far far away from civilization. It was a fishing village which also supported a nuclear power station, two supermarkets, a post office, a bunch of schools and a hostess bar for blokes. Grand.

As a general rule, Japanese people enjoy a healthy diet and are fairly slight. So if I’m honest, I was quite optimistic about shedding my Wellington winter weight with all that fish and rice and miso and stuff. That’s not really what happened though. I got slightly depressed in my first month there and ate myself stupid. Not my finest moment I’ll admit.

Some other moments of greatness I experienced in my first few months there include:

• The mayor “patting” my left boob in front of the whole town at a summer festival. He was greatly disappointed with the pat, and came back for the double fisted “honk” and landed himself a fairly decent backhand from yours truly. I’ve never thumped a mayor before, so I guess that’s something

• Driving with my supervisor on day three in Japan and having him shout at me “Christine, please be very careful when you intercourse in Japan! Very dangerous.” On the official awkward scale, that was off the richter. He said this a few times before I figured out he actually meant “when driving in Japan, be careful at the intersections, our rules are different to yours.”

• In the first few days of the school term I was frog marched into the back of a van in the school carpark. I saw staff coming out the other end of the van with all limbs in tact, but despite this I was extremely apprehensive about the goings on inside. So I get in the van and here’s all my workmates with their kit off. Having just eaten myself into oblivion, I wasn’t really feeling that great about getting naked in public, let alone getting naked with my size 0 workmates. They stared at me enough with my kit on, I was very very nervous about what was going to happen when I unleashed The Gifts. I think they were too to be honest – They didn’t even try to avert their eyes or pick their jaws up off the ground. It was like something they’d never seen before and I felt akin to the circus freak show bearded lady. All that for a chest xray to confirm I didn’t have TB. I’ve seen how they TB test cattle, and there is a bloody long rubber glove involved, so it could have been worse I suppose

• Coming out of my apartment and happening upon a dirty great snake in the hallway. I flew up the stairs and bashed on the superintendent’s door screaming “Ebi! Ebi desu!!” I was beside myself and couldn’t really understand why he didn’t seem all that concerned. It wasn’t until I ripped out my trusty dictionary that I discovered “ebi” was Japanese for shrimp. “Hebi” was the word I was after. And to him, I was screaming bloody murder over a shrimp outside my apartment.

Given all of this, you really have to wonder what the hell was going through my head when I agreed to go on a Japanese holiday with a couple of mates this month. Lee called me and was like “Rob, there’s super cheap flights to Tokyo on Grab a Seat, are you up for it?” My initial response was “I’d rather eat shit than go back there actually.” But then I got to thinking about all the really really cool stuff that happened while I was there, and all the amazing things I saw and the fantastic friends I made, and those amazing toilets that you can change the seat temperature, that have a built-in bidet where you can change the water pressure, angle and temperature and even select the background disguise music, …and now I’m going back to Japan.

I leave on Thursday. Four sleeps to go, and I’m beside myself with excitement. Will give you a full debrief next week. Over.

When it comes to matters of the heart, is second best ever okay? It’s definitely not okay to be second best – that’s a truth universally acknowledged – but I mean is it okay to settle for second best when best is out of our reach just right now?

I’d like some help with this please. So today I was giving a workshop and heard myself say “there are times when you have to accept that 90% is okay” – admittedly this was in a time management workshop, but could the same be said in the search for Mr Right? Has the time come to lower the bar, abandon the search for that bloody guy, and run with Mr Alright, Mr OK or even Mr Little-Bit-Annoying instead?

Recently I found myself with a little bit of a hurty heart again, so I thought it would be a good idea to call up Mr Little Bit Annoying, just because I could, and I knew he fancied me, and that fact alone would surely make my heart not so hurty. Not my most lucid moment and no real surprises here, but he was a little bit annoying, and the whole time I was with him I was devising ways of not holding his hand in public, and getting the hell out of Dodge in a dirty great handcart.

I just can’t settle for second best. It’s a scientific fact. When I was four, my family went to town to buy a beanbag. Everyone wanted this plain green corduroy one. I might have made this memory up, but I’m pretty sure I remember muttering “average” at the time. I then went on to throw the world’s biggest tantrum until we left the store with a tan vinyl teddy-bear bean bag with a furry tummy and arms that wrap right around you.

I know the song says “if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with,” but as the above example shows, I just don’t do second best. I want the furry tummy with arms that go right round.

I’m starting to sound like that annoying wench Carrie Bradshaw right now, and that’s not good for anyone, so I’m going to cut it loose with this:
– second best is not okay
– no more Mr Little Bit Annoying, and
– does anyone know where to buy beans for bear-shaped bean bags?

I’ve been working on this list for years now. It’s difficult to say exactly why these words are a problem for me, but they are. And I can’t be sure if the problem lies with the images they conjure up, or if it’s simply how they sound. But hearing these words invokes a physical response in me – this can be something akin to the screwed-up-squirrel-nose-face you can’t help but make when someone lets one go on the bus, or hunch your shoulders up around your ears like when the dentist looms over you with the world’s biggest syringe, or clap your hands firmly over your ears like when you hear fingernails down the blackboard – and often a crazy combination of all of the above.

I’ve come up with a term to describe people like me who have compiled their own list of “Words I Definitely Don’t Like” – WIDDLers. I know that term may suggest that as a group we’re slightly incontinent and maybe pee when we laugh a little bit, but that’s not true. (At this stage anyways). However in certain situations (like during an every day conversation about a moist carrot cake for example) when your face goes all screwy and your shoulders hunch over and your hands clap to your ears, I do think it’s almost worse than widdling in your pants. It is in many ways similar to the tics and twitches experienced by tourettes sufferers, so it’s no surprise that the medical term for it is in fact Terminology Activated Tourettes (or TAT for short). To date there is no medication which has proven successful in abating this debilitating condition.

So my list is as follows:

Moist
Pant
Ointment
Whisper
Flesh
Quiver

This is a concise list with no rhyme or reason I know. It defies logic that “whisper” is a bad word, yet “assistance” is totally acceptable. Like I say, difficult to say.

I met a WIDDLer recently whose bad words were “Pash” (which I’m not overly keen on myself) and “Fishmeat.” Now I’m not sure in what context he came upon the word Fishmeat, or of its useage in everyday conversation, but I can see how it could be a problem to a WIDDLer.

So now you know about WIDDLers. Feel free to add your own submissions to the list. If it gets serious enough, I will look to organise a grant in order to do some well needed research on the matter.

Also, panties.

So I went to see my psychic lady last week. (This is not unusual – I do it ever year just to get a sneak preview of what’s in store) – anyways, one of the first things she says to me is “don’t worry, May is an awful month for everyone.” At the time, I didn’t think I was having a particularly bad patch at all – but upon review of the previous week, I now feel slightly different. Let me talk you through it.

• Last time we talked, I told you about the pilot. No surprises there, but that lost altitude and crashed and burned. He held my hand in public. I should have known the flight time and cruising speed on that one would be minimal. On the upside, I have made maximum use of all manner of inappropriate flight-deck lingo though.

• On Tuesday I was taking a wee shortcut in the carpark, tearing up the bank in a hell of a hurry on my way to work and it’s hosing down with rain, and I was thinking to myself “I really should be more of a lady and take the footpath. One day this is going to go horribly wrong.” It went horribly wrong about 2 milliseconds later. Apparently I’m psychic now too. Nice.

• My second psychic episode came the following day, where I was thinking to myself as I’m driving to work “I should check the air in my tyres. Hmm, come to think of it, I haven’t had a flat tyre in this car before.” Thirteen and half minutes later, as I’m pulling into the service station I hear a “pop” and that flaccid sound of a horrendously flat tyre going round and round. “Oh well, I’m at a service station, it could be worse,” I think to myself. Apparently service stations (specifically the Petone Mobil) don’t offer any kind of service at all, so you can imagine how stoked I was to then discover my wrench didn’t fit my wheel, and the handle I had didn’t fit the jack. Elated. Not altogether surprised either when I couldn’t get through to the AA.

• Continuing with the car stuff, I took the car in for a routine warrant of fitness, expecting to pay $50 or so. I wasn’t expecting four new tyres and an additional $800 bill. Nor was I expecting the call from my insurance company later that day informing me that the man who ploughed into me at an intersection last month was denying his part in the prang, inviting me to accompany her to the small claims court. Nor was I expecting the parking ticket I got later that day either, but to be honest, with the luck I’m having, I wasn’t altogether surprised really.

• Then later in the week, as I was full flight at my boxing class, the underwire of my extremely expensive extreme sports bra shot out and stabbed me in the armpit, leaving me with a deliciously attractive red raw welt, which of course means no deodorant on an open wound, and an invitation for some moderately offensive B.O.  My personal favourite gym story of the week though has to be on Monday when after the class I couldn’t for the life of me remember which of the squillion lockers I put my stuff in. I’m sifting around the locker room like a first time thief, trying every locker until a concerned onlooker enquires “um, are you alright dear?” She tries to help with daft questions that only make me feel worse, but then has the grand idea to shoosh the whole locker room and ring my cell phone – thankfully I hadn’t switched it on silent, and I was reunited with my stuff and more than slightly embarrased by the lockeroom applause – it was the kind of applause you see on telly when a group of firemen have rescued a cat from a rooftop or something… I walked out embarrassed as hell, nervously laughing when for a minute or two I then couldn’t find my car in the carpark.

• AND, I’ve just got home from a weekend away to find the washing machine has flooded our laundry. I’ve had seven days of this now, I’m ready for the fun to stop. I’m also finding it very difficult to view my glass as half full. It was empty bloody hours ago. Someone get me another, and fill ‘er up.

Anyone else having a bollocks May that they car to share?

I haven’t blogged a bit in forever I know, and it’s certainly not for lack of good material – over the last few months I’ve been busier than a one arm bricklayer in Baghdad – I’ve started a new job, been playing silly buggars at the Young Farmers Club, been a bingo bitch, donned a glue gun and produced Craft, been an international woman of mystery in Christchurch, and been to about a squillion weddings (you know how they say three times a bridesmaid, never a bride..? – does it count if one of those times you’re a groomsman? – if someone could clarify that, that’d be great).

Anyways, I know I told you last time that I would tap out of internet dating after 10 strikes, or when the first of March rolled around. Turns out I was lying. And it turns out that good things really do come to those who wait a while. It wasn’t a conscious decision to keep on trucking, as we’ve all seen – it hasn’t really been working out quite that well for me – I’m just not really that sure how to cancel my membership is all.

So I haven’t really been what you’d call a dedicated internet dater, in fact I’ve been fairly nonchalant, and if I’m honest, downright lazy about the whole business. The rules are this: I don’t make contact with them. I am a Goddess and they come to me, I’m far too busy and important for that kind of cat and mouse caper. And if they come up with something remotely interesting that sparks a pint of interest, and can withstand my tongue of fire and pure ferocity, then it’s business time.

So business time tonight led us to a Japanese restaurant in town – I got there before he did and the waitress led me to a seat for two, which to my horror and disgust happened to be right next to my flat mate. Not a good start. When the dickens did Wellington get to be so small?!

This guy said he was a pilot. And given my previous experiences with the Internet Daters, I know you’ll understand why I didn’t really believe that completely (I wondered if it was just a bit of a sales ploy, you know… kind of like the previously mentioned tramping business ….) Turns out he’s for real. I saw his licence. And he has aviators (both silver and gold varieties), knows all the words to Top Gun, has an unhealthy passion for Guns and Roses, and loves Will Ferrell (hasn’t seen Anchorman though, so that might be the one sticking point on this otherwise perfect man).

Now I’m not going to put all my eggs in one basket and then count them before they hatch, because that’s simply not the way I roll – but I tell you what, there is a sense of pure relief pumping through my veins at the moment and it feels delightful – there is still a smattering of unturned stones out there yet to be discovered. Halleluiah. The future’s looking so bright, I’ll have to dig out the aviators myself.

Signing off from the captain’s lounge, CD.

I have signed up to internet dating. It’s ferocious. But so am I, so maybe it might work out okay.

I would like to clarify early on, that I am not ashamed of being an Internet Dater. I like to look at it as “Research.” That being said, I will never again use the words “internet dating” – only “my research.” (..Not ashamed though, just so we’re clear).

When I first signed to up, I was firing off “smiles” left, right, and centre. (FYI – in real-life, Smiles are kind of equivalent to a flutter of the eyelashes, or a drunken “I like you”). It consumed me – I would log on a squillion times a day to monitor my progress, manage messages, tweak my profile and check out any hot new talent. By day three my brain had turned to flirty mush. If, for some reason I was unable to log on, I became irritable, slightly aggressive and perspired a little more than usual. It became apparent I was in the early stages of addiction. I wasn’t quite ‘seven-steps’ material, but I did drastically reduce the amount of Research I did in a day. This initially made me somewhat sullen and surly, but I have made a full recovery now.

What I discovered with my research is that it’s quite acceptable to make stuff up when advertising yourself online. Lying about your height, weight, age, and daily activity seems to be the done thing. All of these lads seem to tramp. Who the hell likes tramping, and feels okay about admitting it? Seriously, every second profile I look at claims to be an avid tramping fan. It did cross my mind that maybe ‘tramping’ was a code word for getting a leg over – as tramping-loving males are rife through the city of Wellington it seems. The other thing they all seem to be into is motor cross.

It’s difficult to determine whether they’re making this up to make themselves seem a bit more daring and courageous, or if they’re telling the truth, and that generally speaking, blokes who dig motor cross and tramping don’t tend to do so well with the ladies. Difficult to say.

So I’ve been on three dates so far, and to be honest I’m not that keen to go on too many more. But in the name of Research, and some great story telling material for you lot, I’m going to keep on trucking. I might have to tap out at date number ten if there’s still no joy though.

Date Number One claimed to be a fun loving, outgoing guy who loves meeting new people. He had recently arrived back in NZ after a year-long OE, so at the very least, I figured we’d always have travel stories to fall back on when faced with awkward silence. Not so much. The first thing he tells me about himself when I ask what he’s been up to for the day is “I’ve just putting up the Christmas tree with Mum.” First impressions last – isn’t that what they say? Those initial nine words he chose are a fairly accurate indication of how the next 75 minutes went – painfully. Sweet lad, but not much of a talker. Lesson learned there: the term “outgoing” doesn’t always mean what I think it means.

On Date Number Two I went a step further, and after chatting online for a bit, vetted him over the phone. After Number One, I realised I could save myself an uncomfortable hour by sussing the bloke out on the blower first. So that went well. Ish. He made it pretty clear he was keen to marry and procreate fairly immediately. Big ups to him for being honest I guess. We established his birthday was on the 13th of February – two days ahead of mine, so he made a show stopping joke about needing to take out a mortgage to cover the trifecta – his birthday, Valentines Day, and my birthday. Woah there cowboy.

Foolishly I went out with him (I figured I’d only be at home on the couch watching Coro otherwise, so why not?). He cut me off after about 20 minutes when he realised I was more interested in talking about rock and roll than my life long ambitions for marriage and babies. Lesson learned there: Trust your gut instinct. Always. Even if you’re trying really hard not to be so cynical.

Date Number Three was something really special. At first glance, I thought he was a little bit dishy – but that sentiment was quickly superseded when I discovered he was a Raging Hutt Bogan. In the 45 minutes I spent with him, I learned his girlfriend had run off with his best mate and cleaned him out. (I did laugh at his choice of words there – she was a cleaner). So for the last six months he’d been eating non-refrigerated food stuffs due to the no-fridge shituation; he’d sold his drum kit to cover the rent and bills, missed out on a paid gig because he beat up one of the band members (broke his nose) – and actually said “you know how it is when you’re full of piss” – ah, um, apparently not. He’s been fired from his previous job, on the verge of being fired from his current one, and loves to drink drive (has two previous convictions and still chooses to drive drunk). What a catch.

And after all this the poor sod seemed a bit surprised I didn’t want to go out with him again. For a while there I was quite convinced that Dom Deloise was hiding out under the pool table and I was in fact, on Candid Camera. Out. Of. Control. Lesson learned there: be brazen about asking the right questions from the onset – ie “are you a raging drunk-driving bogan?”

So yeah, only seven more dates to go. Can’t wait. Seriously. And the bird who said “If your ship hasn’t come in yet, row out to meet it” clearly chose a better boat than me.

2009. Or as I like to call it, 2000 and fine. And maybe even 2000 and mine.

This is my year I reckon. And it’s about bloody time. There were moments of greatness last year (namely my fantabulous trip to Canadia), but overall for me ‘2000 and great’ comprised of large amounts of arse to be quite honest.

It has become tradition that each New Years Eve I sit down with my nearest and dearest and have an almighty debrief on the highlights and lowlights of the year just gone. Without fail, it’s a guaranteed ‘almost-pee-your-pants-because-you’re-laughing-too-much’ moment.

Disturbingly, this year was a bit of a struggle – not for want of great material – a lot of dumb things seem to happen to me; but through pure unadulterated memory loss. 365 is a lot of days to keep a track of it seems.

So that’s what this blog is all about. Celebrating the good and the bad as time gets away on me, and ensuring not a single ounce is misplaced. …And also to make the highlights/lowlights debrief in twelve months time a hell of a lot easier, so we can get on with the business of partying down, swimming nude, and taking baths with strangers. Feel free to have a laugh at my expense.