And with a shout out to the legendary Anne Summers, who we saw wearing her pussy helmet the other night while interviewing Lindy West, we have this article here. Go read it now.

Are we really asking that fucking much? Seriously? No, no we aren’t. Equal pay, legal and safe abortion, none of these are new concepts. Why are we still fluffing around with this crap?

 Happy Women’s Day everyone! Stay angry.

 PS: as I was writing this, some guys on the train predictably started on the ‘when’s international men’s day? Hahahah’. Yeah, every day would be the fucking answer mate.


Had small conniption last day of 2016.

I was enjoying nice cleansing ale at a certain pub in Nelson. This establishment happened to be one of the first pubs that ever served me alcohol, at the beginning of a long and satisfying career of alcohol purchasing. I was aged 17, on summer holiday with the gang, and having a rather large night. It should be noted that the NZ drinking age was 20 at the time, and I have the distinct feeling I didn’t pass for 20 and I was probably intoxicated, so responsible service possibly wasn’t their thing. Commented to LAH that it had been awhile since I had been here. A few years, even. How many? Oh, four? No that’s not right. I was 17 so – CRIPES that was 19 years ago. I was… GAWD I AM SO OLD.

(They no longer served peach x-changes, either, sad face, but the women’s restrooms, with their damp pull down handtowels, were the same as I remembered. There is some long lost photographic evidence of me passed out that very night on the lawn of the cruddy motel we were crammed into, but that’s a story for another time).

But larger (similar) conniption followed when one of my former classmates of 1997 posted on stalkbook that she was organising a school reunion. As in the 20 year anniversary one. GULP and WTAF.

I have mixed feelings about a school reunion. From a practical standpoint I have two important weddings to attend this year back in Chur, neither of which coincide with the date of the reunion. If I lived back there, I might consider going, just for a giggle. But am ambivalent. K’s comment was ‘I hated it the first time, why would I go back?’  and the reality is, everyone I want to stay in touch with from school I am actually still in touch with. Not just sporadically either.

My MIL went to a school reunion recently and commented it was very competitive –all about whose kid had become a doctor, who had bought a mansion in Vermont, etc. all people with something to prove. Is school really something I want to revisit?

Seriously, I still feel about 17. Where did 20 years go?

The Guilt!

Went for a walk at lunchtime to boost the ‘tonin levels, get the steps up, and started listening again to the Guilty Feminist on spotify. Love love love this hilarious woman. If you are in to sarky women comics you should totally have a listen. Deborah always starts her routine with ‘I am a feminist but…’ and some of her examples have me lol’ing.

So I tried the same thing. Nowhere near as funny. Hmm…BUT

– I am a feminist, but, I am committed to using the eyelash serum my mother gave me for xmas. This is because my eyelashes are short, and having long eyelashes is generally seen to be desirable and feminine, and I am vain. (Although I should exercise with caution because, coincidentally, the podcast mentioned someone used it on the upper part of the eyelid and lashes started growing out of the eyelid itself! Wrong!)

– I am a feminist but I took my husband’s name when we got married, and not just because my initials became MCG.

– I am a feminist, but, I did look in the reflection of a shop window on Bourke St as I walked back to the office to see how slim or chubby I looked today (so insecure, but I know I am not in the minority.)

– I am a feminist but I found myself blushing in not a negative way when some street workers in NYC called out  “looking good baby doll”

– I am a feminist, but recently, I was down at the beach with my mate Beej and she asked me, hypothetically, that if cosmetic surgery was painless, free, and instant, what I would have done, and I had an immediate answer, which is to have my tits lifted (they’re really long, without a bra they actually touch my knees. Ok?)

– I am a feminist but! I wore heels all day on Thursday. I was conducting classroom training and could barely see over the lectern. Feet were agony by end of day.

– I’m a feminist but, I chuckled when someone made the comment about slut shaming the cold drinks machine and her sultry and digital “thankyou, and goodbyyyye”.

I’m a feminist, but, perhaps jams and pickles are chaining me to the kitchen and reinforcing gender stereotypes?

It’s preserves season

And so far this year all kinds of jams and chutneys have flowed freely from my kitchen. My berry crop at home has only yielded of some sad looking raspberries so it was off to Wandin last weekend for some picking – so much fun and the berries were ridiculously juicy and sweet. Even better was the berries put aside for jamming – $2 a kilo anyone? So I’ve been busy. It’s a little hobby I have (and I certainly need more of those). People don’t tend to leave our house without at least one jar being pressed upon them.

My signature range of quince paste (perfect on hard cheese and a savoy) has been dealt a blow, however.

Shocked and very upset when my fruit dealer, S from old work, confessed under much duress that his wonderful quince tree has been rendered unproductive by some ill advised pruning. My quince source has gone! If anyone knows of any, even black market, please get in touch.

To do list

– Get groceries
– Meet new babies (*sigh*)
– Call hairdresser
– Use massage voucher
– Pay bills
– Weed garden (further)
– Obtain nectarines for jamming and chutneying
– Deal with bus replacement situation with grace and tolerance
– Smile
– Apply sunscreen (at 30 something i still haven’t learned)
– Get happy again (asap)

New Zild

Presently stopped in wee slice of paradise, being the top of the south island, visiting, sunbaking, swimming, vegging, and sneakily thumbing through the property press.

Meaningful post to follow when I can be arsed. Optimistic about 2017; 2016 was a bit of a duck.

My own personal t-rex

My sister P and I were sitting in a McDonalds in central Amsterdam, chowing down to whet herbally induced appetites, with Kyle and Danny the American backpackers, and playing ‘would you rather?’ Would you rather, we asked ourselves and each other, mouths full of noms:

‘Have a gang of ninjas to do your bidding, or a t-rex?’ (t-rex)

‘Be plain and clever or beautiful and stupid?’ (plain and clever)

‘Give up oral sex or cheese?’ (cheese, even when I was as stoned as I was that day!)

This conversation occurred to me the other day when I was thinking about mental health. ‘Would you rather tell people you were a smoker or had a mental illness?’

Yes. I thought so. (Smoker)

I don’t know if it was the town I grew up in, the group of people I socialised with at the time, or the fact that, perhaps, teenagers are just awful, but when word got out when I was 17 that I had been prescribed my first ever anti-depressants, the local boys referred to me as Prozac woman. (I preferred titanic tits from form 2). Not very sensitive!

Many years later, despite the public health initiatives, despite the raised awareness, despite the RUOK and the workplace health awareness, and the John Kirwan book – I don’t think I’m the only one who doesn’t like saying they are not OK. It’s just like a broken leg they say. Nothing to be ashamed of they say. Well, no, until it’s you or someone you love. And most of the time it’s easier to hide than your own personal t-rex.