Wellington Road

Red.

2010-03-11T09:15:00.044+13:00

(I am far behind in my life. I am caught in quicksand. Would someone please haul me out of here? I need to do a million things, and it's overwhelming. I'm sinking!)

Sorry, Michelle, from Harmzie’s Way. It took me a while to finish your meme. (When you tagged me, I was intimidated by your awesomeness.) The idea is to take photos of red things. The red in Michelle’s photos is sensual and exotic. But right now, there isn’t much red in my life.

Red used to be my favourite colour to wear. Red was also my grandmother’s best colour. Now when I wear red, I feel like I am my grandmother. When I see myself in a (rare) photo, I see someone else, some older person. Is that my grandmother?

I remember when I was a child, looking at photos of my grandmother. (Remember when 30 seemed old?) Now when I look at photos of myself, I think, she looks old. I don’t feel old. Oh, wait, sometimes I do. Never mind.

Red is more fun to wear with dark hair. Over the summer, I was having fun with my dark hair and wearing red.

(Oh, hair maintenance. It’s easier for me to keep up with you if my hair is dark. But I feel younger with blond hair. And I have more fun.)

Here are a few red things at Wellington Road. My mother-in-law got me this cute top for my birthday.

The phone with the tiny buttons. It has outwitted and outlasted me. It's a survivor. And I refuse to buy a new phone while tiny button phone still works.

This term, the child has been riding his scooter (instead of his bike) to Playcentre. He is about to graduate from this scooter.

The chilly bin. This is Kiwi for cooler. Sometimes, I get confused and call it an icy box, and Adam just about dies laughing. I try to remember to bring it to the supermarket. For the ice cream.

My Crocs. I am still wearing them out in public. They are comfortable.

Gorgeous travel journal, unused. There are even maps of major cities in this journal. I must be saving it for an adventure. I can’t wait.

Want to play along? If you do, let us know in the comments.

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Edited to add. If you are reading this post in your reader, just ignore that other post. (Also called "Red". Below this post.) You see, uh, I clicked Publish Post (instead of Save As Draft). Yeah, I guess I'm not perfect. Or this is a fascinating look behind the scenes. You be the judge.

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Edited again to add. See what you could be missing, if you don't subscribe to me in a reader? Fascinating looks behind the scenes. Subscribe today!

I am a weird girl.

2010-03-10T16:56:00.004+13:00

I have always been a “weird” girl.

When we broke up, my exasperated boyfriend said, “You are a weird girl.”

I agreed. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

I am weird. I may not be cool enough to be a hipster. But I do try not to care.

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It's where I am.

2010-03-07T09:15:00.020+13:00

Oh, hi. Wellington Road is still under construction. We have been hammering away at the template (look, three columns!), and we are tinkering with the banner.

My old tagline ("it’s where I am") just wasn’t that good. In the name of marketing, I must do what’s right for my brand. So we have rolled out a new tagline at Wellington Road: world famous in New Zealand. Being in New Zealand is what Wellington Road is supposed to be about. Maybe the new tagline will keep us from swerving off the road.

Recently, I have felt like “it’s where I am” that matters. What I mean is, Wellington Road is not really about being in New Zealand. I like to believe I’m the same person, no matter where I happen to be. (I am a big fish in a small pond.) Wellington Road is about what’s in my beautiful mind. And I will confess, in my beautiful mind, I am “world famous” (and hopefully, not crazy).

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I chose Wellington Road as my blog title to give a nod to Kerouac’s On the Road. But the title is also about Gertrude Stein’s salon at 27 Rue de Fleurus. Stein was an American expatriate in Paris. Her friends (artists like Matisse and Picasso, and poets like Apollinaire) met at 27 Rue de Fleurus to discuss art. In a way, Wellington Road is my salon. Make yourself at home. Let’s talk.

Henri Matisse, Woman with a Hat, 1905
SF MOMA
source: Wikipedia

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Edited to add. Russell Crowe ("A Beautiful Mind") is a Kiwi. We don't really want to claim him, but we have no choice.

The Big Chill.

2010-03-03T18:52:00.008+13:00

In “The Big Chill” (1983), a funeral causes college friends to meet up again in their 30s. They try to answer questions about who they used to be and who they are now. Nothing is resolved, but the dialogue is brilliant. So is the soundtrack, which is an amazing collection of Motown hits and other tracks (like “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones).

Even though “The Big Chill” is about my parents’ generation, the characters (the failed writer, the lawyer with her biological clock, the confused TV star, the sell-out journalist) are like people I knew in high school or college.

The messages of my youth haven’t added up to anything either. And I’m trying to answer the same questions raised by “The Big Chill”. Who were we then, and who are we now?

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My generation danced while we looked at our shoes. And we don’t seem to have this:

Where is my Big Chill?

Happy birthday to my mother.

2010-02-25T13:44:00.013+13:00

If you are a woman, then you know your birthday is really about your mother. (As in, the woman who probably gave birth to you.) I have just celebrated a milestone birthday. (It starts with a la-la-la, I can't hear you and ends in a zero.) As such, it's the perfect moment to thank my mother (again), for pushing me out the hoo-haw called her VAGINA. And for all her hard work and sacrifice over the last four you-know-whats. I am my mother’s masterpiece.

In my family, there are babies everywhere. My brother and his wife just had their first baby. A day later, my nephew and his partner had their first baby. And here is a photo of my mother with her first baby. Isn't she beautiful?

The Piano.

2010-02-21T09:44:00.037+13:00

When I was growing up in Ohio, piano lessons and recitals were part of the musical score. The piano was my emotional voice.

Me at age 8

The piano also has an important place in New Zealand culture. When Adam and his family gave me a piano for my birthday, I was over the moon.

The child and me, 2008

A piano was an important cultural symbol in colonial New Zealand (like in many other countries). Families would go to extreme and expensive lengths to place pianos in their parlours. The piano was a link to the old country, and it was also the family's entertainment centre. Many Maori (indigenous New Zealanders) had a piano on the marae.

Even before I knew very much about New Zealand, the award-winning film, “The Piano”, captured my imagination. “The Piano” was released in 1993. Directed by New Zealand’s Jane Campion (“Bright Star”), it stars Holly Hunter and a young Kiwi, Anna Paquin ("True Blood"). "The Piano" is about a mute pianist, Ada, who is sent to an arranged marriage in 1850s New Zealand.

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"The Piano" is visually stunning. It is a moving and melodramatic story about a woman's search for identity in patriarchal society. Some critics complain that Campion's depiction of colonial New Zealand is not accurate. (Some views of the landscape and the Maori are fabricated.)

But when I am in the bush, it is Campion's colonial New Zealand that I imagine. "The Piano" has been a sustaining influence on me.

Orongorongo Valley, New Zealand
2008

Project Banner.

2010-02-18T14:38:00.041+13:00

When I created the new banner for my blog, I was restricted in time, materials, and talent. But I didn't let this stop me. Sure, I could hire a professional. And miss the challenge of staying true to a design aesthetic. (Minima Template, for the win!) Let my ingenuity inspire you. Here is a look at my creative process.

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Let loose with the banner challenge, I choose this photo:

The street sign says Wellington Road. (Clever!) But the photo worries me. I just can't make it work. (Delete.)

Next I choose (and publish) this chocolate brown banner. (I like to take risks with my brand.)

The brown is too dark. I need something lighter. (There is no such thing as too neutral.)

It doesn't look right with the navigation bar. (For some reason, it's all about the navigation bar.) How about this?

It looks like the Wellington Hurricanes. (Carry on.)

I'll just change the navigation bar, and I'll tweak my template. Go, go, go! (I can't believe anyone hired me as a graphic designer.)

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Don't worry. I'm not trying to be like that Heather mommyblogger (who changes her banner every month). She makes big money on her blog. But she is nuts.

Looks matter.

2010-02-14T10:33:00.017+13:00

In 1994, I was hired as a “graphic designer”. My title meant that I could create graphs in Excel and make slides in PowerPoint. (It was the dark ages.) My boss needed his assistant to turn on his computer. We could smoke at our desks. (I am 100 years old.)

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Let’s flash forward to 2010. Wellington Road used to be in a bad neighbourhood. It didn’t have a banner. It looked dodgy. A serious blogger wouldn’t live on Wellington Road. Looks matter!

Wellington Road needed an extreme makeover. Our staff has come to the rescue. We demolished it. (We blew it up.) And in just 10 minutes, with a high-end design application (Paint), we created a banner. A Valentine for you, loyal reader. Because this is a bona fide operation. At Wellington Road, we have a banner, and we take blogging seriously.

Heavenly creatures.

2010-02-12T15:25:00.043+13:00

When I was four years old, I had imaginary friends. They had names like Pasta, Dr ABC, and Nurse Orange. Pasta spoke to me, and he used to fly beside our car. My child has imaginary friends, too. One is a small mouse named Darcy, who is the same size as your pinky fingernail.

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Not long ago, I finally watched "Heavenly Creatures", directed by New Zealand’s own Peter Jackson. "Heavenly Creatures" is the precursor to "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Lovely Bones". (There is a theme about imaginary worlds running through Jackson’s work.) "Heavenly Creatures" is based on a true story that happened in 1950s New Zealand. Two teenage girls retreated into an imaginary and obsessive world, and it turned fatal. A young Kate Winslet stars. (Winslet is one of my favourite actors.)

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I always have lived in imaginary worlds. When I was five years old, I started writing stories and scripts. I would create elaborate plots for my Barbie dolls. At night, when it was time to go to sleep, I would act out all the parts in my stories. During the day, I would direct my long-suffering brother and my friends on the school playground and in the neighbourhood.

Now I am the woman in the car who is talking to herself. While I am driving (I don’t have a radio), I have imaginary conversations with people. I write letters and emails that I will never send. I walk around the village, listening to my MP3 player, and I pretend that I am in a music video.

Blogging and other forms of social media are like having imaginary friends. But you reply. You respond. I am not having a conversation with myself. You are robots, or you are real.

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Imagine a post-apocalyptic world. The ice caps and glaciers have melted. The last humans are living under small bio-domes, scattered all over this world. Sometimes we might risk everything, and leave the safety of the domes, to swim in chemical seas filled with mutant sharks and terrorist pirates who want to harvest our organs. More often though, we remain in the fortresses provided by the domes. We plug ourselves into an alternate reality, where we all are connected online. Being online consumes our energy and leaves us physically and mentally wasted, and yet we cannot stop ourselves. We have avatars who live in this imaginary world, because we primates need the connections we find there.

Dead end.

2010-02-09T14:09:00.026+13:00

Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates is about a couple in the 1950s who are let down by the American Dream. They yearn for something better, and they come up with a plan to move to Paris. Their plan puts a band-aid (American for plaster) on their stagnant marriage. The movie with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio is superb and depressing.

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Adam and I have been talking about “separation”. Rather, I’m talking about separating, and Adam is upset. He doesn't want to separate. He wants to work on our marriage, go to therapy, etc. I don't want to work on it. I hope I'm not deluding myself, but I feel like I have outgrown our marriage, and it’s holding me back. I have dreams that are bigger than yearnings. Sometimes I wonder if my feelings are “normal”. (We have been together for about eight years.) I have been trying to persuade myself my feelings are just a “seven-year itch”, and my marriage is not a dead end.

Over the last year, my friends have talked about “therapy”. This is what you say when someone confesses she is having “issues”. Aren’t you two going to go to therapy? Most people don’t want to hear about problems with my marriage. They make sympathetic noises, and try to make their escape as quickly as possible. Awkward! One friend (sorry, Amy) gave me that horrible Laura Schlessenger book, The Proper Care & Feeding of Husbands. Schlessenger is a by-product of the socially conservative 1950s. It's criminal to peddle such horrible advice to vulnerable women.

I am all for therapy. Therapy is great. I love talking about myself, even if I need to pay you to listen. (Are you sure you don’t want some junk from my house?) But I don’t want to go to therapy with Adam. (Mind you, I will go, if he asks me to.) I don’t want to work on our marriage. Some friends say, Maybe you should just go to therapy yourself then? Or, You could go with him to therapy, to get him started. Or, What are you afraid of?

I'm not afraid of my feelings. I know how I went from being in love to wanting to go my own way. I take responsibility for all the things I did and didn’t do. And I will tell you all about it, if you catch me in the right mood. You want to know what I’m really afraid of? I’m afraid that if I go to therapy, I will persuade myself to give my marriage another chance, and I'm tired of giving men more chances.

I love Adam, and I’m happy he is the father of my child. (He is not abusive!) I was happy with him for four or five years. But I just don’t want to live with him, or be married to him any more. He was what I needed for a time, and now maybe he’s not. Let’s not even talk about the different countries stuff right now, mmkay?

Coming soon. In which I try to stop procrastinating and find a new place to live.

I was unfriended again on Facebook.

2010-02-04T09:49:00.026+13:00

I notice when someone unfriends me on Facebook. I just can't help it. I guess it's Facebook policy not to let you know who unfriends you. So I puzzle it out with my big brain (that is obsessed with memorizing lists). I mentally go through my friends. I run queries until I work it out. “Was it you, was it you, was it you?” It doesn’t really matter, but I can’t rest until I solve the puzzle. (I am creepy, and I will find you.)

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A few months ago, my Facebook friends were only people that I know in real life. But I don’t really know my Facebook friends from 20 years ago. I know my bloggie friends better than I know (most of) my high school and college friends. So I decided to become Facebook friends with my bloggie friends. (I know! CRAZY!) That (sort of) famous blogger who asked me to be his Facebook friend? Yeah, we are Facebook friends now. (My life is so much better.)

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On my Facebook, I post photos of the child. (He's real!) His name is on Facebook. But I am still leery about posting photos of him on Wellington Road. Because he is a minor, and I don’t want to exploit his image. (cough) Yeah, even the child doesn’t understand it. He wants me to post photos of him on Wellington Road. And I know it’s dumb, because nobody really gives a shit. But I’m just not ready.

The Glass-Steagall Act.

2010-02-03T11:06:00.026+13:00

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The Glass-Steagall Act was also known as the Banking Act of 1933. It was introduced to control speculation, and it prohibited banks from owning other financial holding companies. The Glass-Steagall Act was repealed in 1999. (I cried.)

For most of the 90s, I worked for investment firms. I learned that investment bankers are ruthless and self-serving. My first job in finance was at an international bank. My boss was a sales guy, and he was all about his “relationships” with CFOs of Fortune 500 companies. Like Enron. And Monsanto. And lots of other shady companies. But he could not read a balance sheet. He had never studied Finance. The bank enrolled the pair of us in a MBA program at Northwestern. I outperformed my boss in our classes, and my boss gave me a bad performance review. So I quit.

My next job in finance was at a “boutique” investment firm. This firm had some academics on its staff, who were creating financial products that none of the customers understood. But it was an economic boom, so nobody cared, as long as they were making money. My firm spent an inordinate amount of time on the “fine print” in their sales collateral, which informed you the firm was speculating. They had no clue what they were doing with your money. The only way for a woman to advance at this firm was to sleep with the boss. That’s how my boss got her job (instead of me). I quit.

My last job in finance was at a San Francisco “peninsula” investment firm. I always thought it was hilarious, how we were supposed to “regulate” ourselves. We had a “compliance” department to make sure that the sales guys’ economic claims weren’t too outrageous. We would laugh our asses off at what the sales guys wrote. It was like, “What goes up must come down.” (Seriously.) It was fun to whisper things like “SEC” and watch the sales guys freak out. I don’t know why they were afraid. The SEC never was going to do anything.

In 2000, my firm sold out and merged with an international bank. The sales staff left in golden parachutes, with millions upon millions of dollars. My boss's boss sold out the middle managers. They were forced to leave with a pathetic payout and a “don’t let the door hit ya on the way out”. Those guys were vested, but a few had medical conditions that no insurance company would cover after their COBRA ran out. I quit. (Insurance companies refused to cover me because I used migraine medication.)

Investment bankers are greedy. The lunches. The five star hotels. The limousines. The bonuses. These guys are the aristocrats of our age. There is absolutely no way that investment firms and banks can regulate themselves. It kills me to applaud any idea of John McCain’s, but a re-enactment of the Glass-Steagall Act is necessary. Barack Obama agrees. Of course, the Republicans aren’t going to do any business in Washington. Under your mattress is a better place for your money than on Wall Street.

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Edited to add. This post is dedicated to my grandfather. He always encouraged me to keep writing.

Blogs of the day.

2010-02-01T09:23:00.014+13:00

You may have noticed that I got rid of my blogroll. But you are still The Awesome, and a special big thanks if you have linked to me.

I have decided to do something different over here at Wellington Road. (Okay, I got the idea from Neil at Citizen of the Month. Thanks, Neil!)

I'm going to choose a Blog of the Day. And then I will post all of the previous Blogs of the Day here. It’s like my new blogroll. Awesome and exciting, right? I KNOW!

I miss my granny, RIP.

2010-01-30T17:05:00.006+13:00

Yesterday would have been my granny's birthday. I miss her.

Here is a photo of my granny, me, and my mother, 10 years ago, at my parents' house in Ohio.

The Grapes of Wrath.

2010-01-29T11:35:00.026+13:00

For the last few years, I have been having recurring nightmares about John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. One of my fears is someday I will have to read this book again. I had to read it once in high school, and twice (so far) in grad school. I agree with the social politics, but it is still a heart-wrenching story, full of heavy symbolism.

The Grapes of Wrath was published in 1939. The novel is set in America during the Great Depression and is about the plight of sharecroppers who are driven from their home by economic hardship.

We can draw historical parallels between 1939 and 2009. I wonder, where have the people who recently lost their homes gone? Those people must have packed their belongings in their cars, and travelled to new places, to try to make fresh starts.

What have those people found when they reached the new places? Are there jobs? Are those vulnerable people being exploited? Are corporations more powerful than the American government?

The Grapes of Wrath is almost like an earlier version of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a novel that I liked a lot. The Road is a post-apocalyptic vision about the transcendence of love and hopefulness of faith. (I'm afraid to see the movie. I think it will haunt me even more than the book.)

The Grapes of Wrath and The Road both won the Pulitzer Prize. Here are some pictures from the film version of “The Grapes of Wrath”, with Henry Fonda:

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I am a bleeding heart.

2010-01-26T08:46:00.042+13:00

Like a lot of bleeding heart liberals, I feel the issues. I am emotional about my point of view.

The night George W. Bush was “elected” (the first time), I cried. CRIED. Even though we had to wait for Florida to “fix” the chads on the ballots. I just knew we were returning to the dark days of Ronald Reagan and George the father.

When the US went to war in Iraq (in 2003), I had a nervous breakdown. I put my disaster supplies in the trunk of my car. I was ready for the apocalypse.

I was just discussing US politics with my high school crush. (We were reunited by Facebook—it’s so magical.) I was upset to find out he's now a moderate Republican. (He's against the health bill and against any stimulus for job creation.) He replied:

I am surprised by your visceral reaction.

I know, he's amazing. But in my mind, he's like Anakin Skywalker when he goes to the dark side in "Revenge of the Sith".

Nooooooooo!

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I shared my feelings on twitter:

I was so upset that I misspelled "unrepentant".

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Edited to add: My high school crush is actually an "independent" who is worried about the deficit. Same difference.

Blog therapy.

2010-01-23T07:44:00.044+13:00

Let’s chat. It’s funny (to me) that I used to work as a "graphic designer", and I still haven’t put a banner on my blog.

Me: I think I will work on a banner this weekend.

Adam: (sarcastic) Great.

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My husband says I spend too much time on the internet. Apparently, all I want to do is talk to my “friends” online. He thinks the way to solve this problem (and all of the problems in our marriage) is for me to go back to work.

It’s nice he knows you are my friends. (It’s just like you are real people!)

But I do think my blogging “career” deserves a little more, I don’t know, respect.

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I married my husband because I thought he was going to be supportive of my artistic endeavours. He is. He goes to work, and he does stuff around the house. And I am grateful. Really.

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Adam: What about when you spent that whole month writing a novel? Did I once say it was stupid?

Me: No. But I don’t see what the big deal was. Usually, I was writing at night, after the child went to sleep. And it only took an hour a night.

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So what if I want to fluff around all day on the internet? Writers need lots of time to think about nothing and fish for ideas. If I wasn’t obsessed with the internet, I would be reading books. Or writing in my journal.

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And why isn't being a stay-at-home mum a worthwhile occupation? I am a feminist, but in our family, I want my husband to be the provider. (If it works the other way around for you, or if you both work, great! So many options!)

I want to be allowed to stay home for as long as I want. I'm willing to make economic sacrifices to do it. In fact, I should not have to go back to work (if I don’t want to). I’m grateful that I have the choice and right to work. But you know what? It’s a man’s world, and I’m tired of hitting my head on the glass ceiling.

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There are many times when I should have stopped looking at Facebook, and played with Legos. But it's not my job (as a stay-at-home mum) to entertain Mr 4 every minute, or even all that much. (If you think providing entertainment all the time is right for you and your kids, it is cool with me, and I tip my hat to you.)

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My writing has been a problem in every Relationship that I have ever had with a man. My men didn’t like what I was writing about, or they thought I was spending too much time on it. Or they thought I should be sharing it with people, or not sharing it with people. Clearly, I was not dating the right men.

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Edited to add. I want to delete this post. Next time, I will write something funny.

Gone with the Wind.

2010-01-21T18:55:00.040+13:00

Wow, 10 more little heads! A big thank you to everyone who is following me. And if you are not following me, I hear it's a good time.

I'm a fan of melodrama. (Can I say that?) Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind is so subversive, and it is one of my favourite books. Surely, you have read it. Or you have seen the excellent movie. The movie may be even better than the book.

When I was a girl, Scarlett O’Hara was a big influence on me. Huge. (This is probably unfortunate.) I loved Scarlett's selfishness, and how she tried to control her sexual and economic fate. (Just as many women struggle to do today.)

Of course, Scarlett’s crush on the unavailable Ashley is the stuff of therapy sessions. Mammy needs to give Scarlett a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You. (In my formative years, this book would have helped me heaps.)

Anyway. When I got a bit older, I realized how dreamy Rhett is. (In a lusting for an alpha male way.) I empathized with Scarlett, especially when Rhett says one of the most memorable lines in literature (“Frankly, my dear...”).

Of course, Scarlett can’t be allowed to get away with threatening gender roles and the status quo. Just like in Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew, Scarlett the woman must be put in her "place". This is the secret reason why Gone with the Wind is so popular.

I still admire Scarlett’s tenacity. For years, I lived by her mantra.

I'll think of it tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Gone with the Wind was published in 1936. It is more about the prevailing attitudes of the 1930s than those of the Civil War. We still are grappling with the issues that are raised in this book. Can women take control of their sexual identities? Can women be wives and mothers, and also have a career?

I'm not a fan of Sarah Palin, and I might be stretching with this comparison. But think about this. Palin almost could be a present-day Scarlett O'Hara. She is a beautiful, selfish, tenacious woman. She had lots of suitors (the Republican nomination). Now she has gone to Fox (Atlanta), to seek her fortune, and some day, probably after a traumatic event, she will return to Alaska (Tara).

Some people believe that Gone With the Wind is racist, but it really does need to be considered within the context of its time. Just like Shakespeare, or any great literature.

Here are some stunning photos from the movie:

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I need some street cred.

2010-01-20T09:06:00.024+13:00

This is my second awesome year of blogging (yawn, sorry), and I have realized this:

Followers are a blogger’s street cred.

I was following a lot of blogs. A lot. And they didn’t follow me back. People, this hurt me. So I clicked “unfollow”. It's like they didn't even want me to succeed.

I need you to follow me. Because I really need more followers. See over there, where the little heads are? That number is too low. I am embarrassed. I need you to click on Follow This Blog. That number needs to be much higher.

For (ahem) my book deal.

Follow me, and I’ll follow you. It’s a win-win, even if you don't have a blog.

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Edited to add: Do I need to bribe you with some junk from my house? Just say the word.

Edited again to add: I still subscribe to hundreds of blogs in my reader. And I'm thankful for all the little heads who are following me. Are you sure you don't want some junk from my house?

Edited again to add: If you want, you can follow me anonymously. I won't even know it's you.

Edited again to add: Just follow me, dammit.

My vagina and I hate thrush.

2010-01-18T20:14:00.037+13:00

This is not a sexy post. If you are a man, you might not want to read this. Go ahead and click away.

You see, I am just now getting over The Worst Yeast Infection Ever. (American for thrush.)

I never used to get yeast infections. But when I fell pregnant, my vagina and I were invaded by thrush. And since the child was born, once or twice a year, my vagina and I have been plagued by that uninvited guest. Thrush.

I know I don’t eat enough yoghurt. Don’t judge me. My new year’s resolution is to take acidophilus tablets. This is great. Until now, I didn’t even have a new year’s resolution.

So I’m going to take acidophilus tablets. And not just for a week or two, like before. Because my vagina and I don't want to go through this again. Ladies, I took to my bed. And not in a sexy way. I did not have a man cold.

While I was lying in bed, airing out my vagina, I did what any of us would do. I consulted the internet:

Most yeast infections are treatable and result in minimal complications such as redness, itching and discomfort.

Minimal? Obviously, the person who wrote this web MD crap is a man. Itching that makes me want to rip off my labia is not minimal. Discomfort that makes it impossible to walk around (without moaning in agony) is called pain.

My mother used to tell me I have a low pain threshold. (I do.) But my mother could be a Scientologist. All I have ever done is push a child out of my vagina, without drugs. And so what if (after 40 hours of labour) I really wanted the drugs? It was too late. Anyway, I found out my pain threshold is much higher than my mother thought. Or I am stupid for not demanding drugs sooner.

I digress. My point is, a yeast infection is not a man cold. If men had vaginas, their yeast infections would require painkillers, and a possible hospital stay. They would not need to insert messy gloop into their vaginas, and then just get on with things. And they wouldn’t bother with homeopathic remedies that might (or might not) work. In a month.

Like this homeopathic solution the internet recommended:

Apply yoghurt to the areas affected by the irritation.

Let's get real. I guess I should be thankful I can buy a thrush remedy over the counter. My vagina and I are now basking in almost yeast-free comfort.

P.S. Look out for my upcoming posts: Men and Menstruation—If Men Had Periods, and More Men Should Wear Bras.

Grease.

2010-01-12T09:07:00.010+13:00

The other night, we were watching TV. I flicked over to the movie channel, and “Grease” was on.

Me: I’m not going to watch the whole thing.

Adam: (groan)

I have watched “Grease” so many times. One summer, when I was 11 or 12 years old, I watched it every day. I loved Australia’s Olivia Newton-John, as good girl Sandy.

Now I am hooked on Stockard Channing’s Betty Rizzo. I like when she sings “There Are Worse Things I Could Do”.

The top five books I read in 2009.

2010-01-11T10:26:00.019+13:00

I was inspired by the excellent book column on JJust Kidding, and I have decided to write about more books on Wellington Road.

Last year, I only read a few books. My theme was (sort of) Books That Inspired Movies. Here are the top five books I read in 2009:

Persuasion. I really liked Emily Blunt’s performance in "The Jane Austen Book Club". In the movie, Blunt's character reads Jane Austen’s Persuasion. This is an unusual Austen novel, as it explores the protagonist’s inner life. If you have ever thought about “the one who got away”, this is a book worth reading.

My Life in France. I’m looking forward to watching "Julie & Julia". My Life in France is a memoir that gives us an inside look at how Julia Child got her start. It was reassuring to find out that Julia Child was a late bloomer.

Brokeback Mountain. I loved the movie, but I wasn’t a fan of E. Annie Proulx until I read this short story/novella. It is perfection. The prose reminds me of Cormac McCarthy or Ernest Hemingway, but Proulx still makes it all her own. Now I am giving The Shipping News another chance.

The Lovely Bones. Even though I am a fan of Peter Jackson, I don’t know if I will be able to watch the movie version of this book. It might be too scary for me. (I have an active imagination.) The book has been haunting me. It is beautifully written, and it has made me think about mortality in a different way. (I am not referring to religion.)

The Talented Mr Ripley. Some years ago, I saw the movie, and it got under my skin. Last year, I finally got around to reading Patricia Highsmith’s book. What a page-turner. Recommended.

Honourable mention: Twilight. I watched the movie first, and then I read the book. Say what you will about author Stephenie Meyer. She has written a bestselling series and created a franchise.

What was the best book you read in 2009?

Fail-proof rice.

2010-01-05T15:26:00.019+13:00

I probably have mentioned that Mr 4 is allergic to everything.

What do you eat when you are allergic to everything? Rice. A lot of rice. And probably white rice. (The child's skin does better with white rice.)

I could make risotto (with arborio rice). But long grain rice just seemed too complicated. I thought I needed a rice cooker. (By this, I mean I didn't know how to make rice. Adam had to make it.)

So Adam taught me how to make rice. Or Alison Holst did. (I think it was both of them.) And I didn't need a rice cooker.

Long grain (white) rice
Boil 2 cups of water. (This is when an electric kettle comes in handy. Electric kettles are the awesome.)

Put a medium-sized (not too big) pan on low heat. Add 1 Tablespoon of oil. (I like to use canola oil.)

Add 1 teaspoon of salt and 1 cup of basmati or jasmine rice. (I don’t bother to rinse it first, but if you want to, go right ahead.) Stir until the rice is coated.

Let the rice mixture heat for about a minute. (Not too long, or you will scorch the rice and have to start over.)

Add your boiling water to the rice mixture. Put a lid on the pot, and leave it on low heat for about 18 minutes. You can check to make sure all the water has been absorbed.

Take the pan off the heat and leave it covered until you are ready to serve. Fluff rice with a fork.

The Wizard of Oz.

2010-01-03T10:24:00.028+13:00

I have been inspired by Blonde Episodes and Lights! Camera! Diapers! So, I am starting a new thing on Wellington Road. Movie reviews!

(For the truly interested, check me out on Flixster--I'm a SuperReviewer!)

At Wellington Road, we just watch whatever is on telly. (Because we are tired.)

On New Year’s Eve, we ended up watching "The Wizard of Oz" (with Judy Garland).

Flixster - Share Movies

I suppose everyone exposes their children to the magic of "The Wizard of Oz". But watching it through Mr 4’s eyes really was magical.

For example, Mr 4 thought it was funny to see individual things (like a cow) flying by Dorothy’s window in the tornado, and he picked up straight away that Miss Gulch is the witch. He thought the Munchkins were made of wood (No, honey, they were real people.). He tapped his foot to “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead”. He wondered with Dorothy which way to go on the yellow brick road (just before she meets the Scarecrow). And he loved what the water did to the Wicked Witch of the West.

"The Wizard of Oz" was released in 1939. When I was a kid, it was one of my favourite movies, and I have watched it dozens of times. I love the humour and the sense of menace, and also the glimpse of old Hollywood. I think this movie touches something primal in all of us.

From the antipodean perspective: when Adam was a kid, he thought Oz was in Australia!

Flixster - Share Movies

My first blogoversary.

2009-12-28T09:19:00.024+13:00

A year ago, I started blogging. My theme was (sort of) “I moved to New Zealand, and it’s been a challenging journey.”

I chose to use my real name. And I told my parents and my friends about my blog.

I wrote about trying to fit in in New Zealand, parenting a child who is allergic to everything, and my marriage. And I spent a lot of time on my soapbox, pontificating about, you know, stuff.

In 2009, I was trying to find myself. Like, what does it mean to be an expat? If I have lived in New Zealand for eight years, am I still an American? Or am I a Kiwi now? What am I going to do next year, when the child starts school? What’s it like to be a wife, and do I even want to be a wife?

And I was trying figure out who I am on social media. What kind of blogger am I? Here are my favourite posts from 2009:

I’m coming out of the closet. A photo essay of my life in NZ.

My glass is always half empty, but not on the inside. People have often told me that I have a negative outlook. I just don’t think irony and sarcasm are appreciated enough. In this post, I show my true positive self, and I explain how lucky I am to live in NZ.

Springtime can kill you. A post about being neurotic and social media.

High school memories. Joining Facebook was like a de facto high school reunion, and it got me thinking about things that I haven’t thought about in 20 years.

DIY. On marriage and Kiwi culture.

One of the best and most surprising parts of this blogging journey has been my readers.(Especially those of you who have been brave enough to come out and follow me publicly.) As always, I’d like to thank you for reading and for your comments. Wishing you all a happy and prosperous 2010.