So, I found the perfect coat! From City Chic. Man I love that place. It’s the only time I’ve ever been counted an extra small. And their tailoring is exquisite!

Actually I found 5 perfect jackets there. I put one – a green bomber-style one on layby, and I’m seriously considering getting this awesome gray military one too… Except it’s expensive. But amazing. Hmm.

Also there was one that I had to have help putting on because it was all angles, and weird zips, and I think I ended up with an arm in the wrong way, but it was great. I want it just for the mental arithmetic every time I’d try to put it on. It would be my rubix cube jacket. I hear you need to keep your brain working on puzzles like this to prevent dementia, so really, I wouldn’t be spending $150 on a jacket i don’t know how to put on, I’d be spending $150 on mental agility, and health and wellness. I’d say that would be worth it. No one wants dementia!

Anyway. Other materialistic things I’m considering, next week I’m going to get lash extensions! I’ve wanted them ever since Louise and Karlie showed up at Leslea’s wedding with them. They’re gorgeous, and low maintenance, and I REALLY want movie star eyes. Besides I found a place in Wellington that does them cheap, and has lots of recommendations! Wo!

I’m imagining being able to fan myself by batting my oversized eyelashes. Or woo strangers over 500 meters away with sultry blinking. Morse-code blinking, even. I’ll be all long blink, long blink, short fluttery blink, long blink, and men will be all WOW. All I can see are giant lashes, but I want to take that woman for a coffee. Clearly she is a genius, and hot. Like a movie star – you can tell because her eyelashes are bigger than her purse.

And I’ll be all blink, blink, seductive blink.

Perhaps I’d even find a way to use them to brush away married men. Beware the lash kung fu. It will kick your ass in long fluttery blinks. *Hiya!* 

Keeping to our shallow topic pool today (it’s a Tuesday, and the day after a near-crippling migraine, I’m not up to introspection) I was in The Warehouse the other day, and I found a pair of cute heels for $5.00… So I brought them. (Duh.)

The only problem with them is that they are half a size too big. I heard, once upon a time that one of the first-ladies of fashion (maybe Audrey Hepburn?) used to buy her shoes half a size too big, with the belief they would last longer. I don’t understand why though, because walking in slightly too large shoes is freaking hard – I mean, these are pumps so there are no ankle straps or anything to keep my feet in them…

… Do you think anyone would notice if I duct-taped my shoes to my feet? I’d use clear tape. Or maybe black. So that it matches the shoes… Actually, perhaps not. I’m not that desperate. I’ll just continue walking. Very. Carefully.

Furiously Happy or Utterly Disgusted. It’s your choice.

My blog hero is Jenny Lawson, from, and recently she spoke to a bunch of zombies about being furiously happy. In other news, my work has blocked her site because of all the rampant pornography. Thanks Jenny. I hate it when I accidentally get put on the ‘pervert’ list at work.

Anyway, check out Jenny running her zombie apocalypse drill – I kind of love it:

And just in case the inspirational speaking isn’t quite doing it for you, I watched a video of Surinam Toad babies swimming out from under the mother’s back skin. GAG. Shudder. Blergh. Seriously Childbirth is disgusting, but having live things emerging from your back? That’s pretty damn nightmare inducing all on it’s own.

So yeah. That’s the other option.

The Fireman


I have a rule that I don’t discuss dates on my blog (or with my family, for that matter!) unless I’m pretty sure that the guy in question isn’t going to be sticking around. What can I say, I’m a (selectively) private person. It’s mostly self preservation, but it’s also because I’d hate to have to explain to a guy why I mocked my first date with him publicly after he’s stumbled across my blog. Especially if *gasp* I really like the guy.

Anyway. I have a LOT of first dates. Someone asked me a long time ago what my ‘type’ was, and I really didn’t know. That struck me as kind of a sad thing. So ever since then I’ve been doing lots of first dating, and getting a feel for what I like in a guy, and what I don’t like.

So my friends are used to me casually announcing that I have a date coming up. And I’m slowly getting used to them freaking out with excitement over this (apparently some people take this whole ‘dating’ thing a lot more seriously than I do.)

Anyway, even I knew I was in for a big reaction a couple of weeks ago when I told them that I had a date coming up with… a Fireman. A HOT Fireman. Instead of hysterical screaming and demands to know what I was wearing, where we were going, what his name was, how I met him… There was nothing. Nothing but a moment of respectful silence for the realisation of our collective romanticized view of Firemen. Firemen who have posed on calendars. Hot, half naked Firemen who have posed for charity. Hot naked strippers pretending to be firemen…

Then the screaming started. And the questions, and the squealing.

The date itself went well, not as well as some I’ve had, but not as bad as others. I was interested in seeing the guy again, and I told him that – Much to the disgust of some of the ladies.*

Anyway, the next morning when I wandered into the kitchen there was an uncharacteristic silence (I live with extroverts. All silence is uncharacteristic) and then came the breathless questions.

Over the next week we messaged each other, until I finally had to break it to the ladies that there was no way the ‘whole dating a fireman’ thing was going to happen. He’s ten years older than me, has two kids, a house, a dog, and a high-up position. I have goldfish. We’re at two very different stages in our very different lives. The girls were (understandably) disappointed.

What I DIDN’T say was that it wasn’t the age difference, the kids, the house, the dog, or even my fish that put me off… Mostly it was the fact that his stage in life seems to involve a lot of group sex and fantasies of lesbianism unfolding before his very eyes…. And my stage SO does not. I have to say, being asked if I’ve ever had a lesbian threesome by a man who I’ve met ONCE for a hurried glass of wine… Well that’s just disconcerting.

It turns out I like to at least be treated to a meal before someone quizzes me over my sexual preferences via phone! That’s another thing to cross off my ‘Shannon’s Type’ list. See? I’m narrowing it down one date at a time!

*   Just as a side note, how do you feel about telling a guy that you like him, or that you’d like to see him again? – before he’s said something similar to you? Additionally, how do you feel about the lady doing the asking out? I’m never sure if it’s pushy or just empowered.

+   In other news, you can totally buy that costume. Like, it’s a legitimate thing that people sell. For real. Here.**

**    Please god don’t click that link if you’re at work. It sends you to a ‘sexy costume shop’ which is basically the definition of Not Safe For Work.

That time I DIDN’T get the cutest winter hat on the entire planet. ie: Today.

Please excuse the incoming whining, but I’m siiickkk. This is the worst viral thing ever! (Except for all those ones that actually, you know, kill people.)  I think I might have somehow caught a man-cold.

I’ve managed to sleep more this week than I’ve ever slept before in my life. Yesterday I took sick leave, and I slept solidly from 8am through to 5pm. I only woke, because that’s when one of the flatties got home and vacuumed…
…Also because I was sleeping a puddle of disgusting sweat.

(Yes. Sexy. I know. Trust me, I felt sexy.)*
*(Oh, wait, no. I felt sweaty. That’s what I felt.)

After all that exhausting sleeping, I went back to bed for another solid nights sleep. And a few more hours of all essential napping this morning. Followed by a very modest two hour snooze this afternoon.

Anyway, that’s not what this post is all about because if it was I’d be all “I slept lots. The end.” Nope, this post is all about my post morning nap, and pre afternoon snooze excursion from my sick-bed. I’d rate it maybe a 4.5 out of 10, as far as excursions go.

I was driven out of the house because of a fierce need for groceries, so I decided to take a gentle afternoon shopping trip. I bussed to Lambton Quay, and while I was waiting for my change-over bus, I brought the cutest hat. It looks like a cross between this:

And this:

It’s gray and I got it from Peter Alexander for $30, and I love it a lot. BUT. I do not have this adorable hat on my disappointed and unhappy head right now. Keep reading for a convoluted and feverish explanation as to why.

Anyway, after I had obtained the cutest winter hat on the entire planet I caught a bus to the pet store, because my light-hearted attempt at grocery shopping was quickly turning into an epic disaster-filled ordeal.

I brought some fish stuff, and accidentally found myself the unwilling audience of The Professor of Fish. I stood there politely, with sweat running down my back, my throat on fire, and a headache big enough to drop an elephant to its knees, and learnt all about my filter, and value for money, and how carbon works, and your fish-to-litres ratio.

Then I brought a heater and a thermometer, to make to over-informed (yet very helpful) smartypants shop assistant go away, and a new fish called Mac, to reward myself for not telling the over informed helpful smartypants that he was hashing my buzz, man.

(Also: What? I’m not a fish geek. I just like pimping my tank.)

(Ok. I am a fish geek.) 

Anyway, I get to the counter, and I’m all DUH. Because actually, the only reason I dragged my poor infected, achy body out of the house was because I desperately needed filter stuff, and food. So I had to go back and pull some James Bond moves to get past the overly helpful shop assistant.

And you know what? It is TOUGH commando crawling underneath a shelf full of fish food, in order to avoid catching someone’s eye in the security mirror. Especially if you’re all bundled up for winter, and carrying a live fish.

Anyway. By the time I was all done with this filter-stuff shopping I was freaking EXHAUSTED. So I waited for my fifty-millionth bus of the day to come, and then gathered up most of my stuff, to head to the grocery store.

Yeah. MOST of my stuff.

I got Mac the fish, and 50 bajillion tons of fish crap, and my handbag, my gloves, my scarf, my back-up thermal top, my jacket (all of which I had to take off in the pet store)*


And now I’m never going to get the satisfaction of showing up at my mothers house and saying “Look I’m a kitty!” and have her frown at me that way she does when she’s trying to figure out if they accidentally swapped me in the hospital with some other couple’s newborn child.

Anyway. I did the groceries. And Mac, the new fish seems to be settling in quite well. And the fish filter has new filtery stuff in it which makes me feel less like a terrible adoptive fish-parent. But all of this feels very hollow when I think of my adorable hat sitting all by itself at the bus stop, all wrapped up in cute tissue paper, in a luxurious bag.

Although… I guess I could twist this another way:

I’ll bet there’s someone out there who was having a great Wednesday. They visited the pet store, and maybe stopped for espresso at the authentic french cafe, with that totally hot french barista. Then, as they waited at the bus stop they noticed a pink bag, peeking out from underneath the seat. Curiosity gets the better of them, and they lean down, only to find my abandoned hat, all wrapped up like a gift, just for them.

The gift of adorableness. 

See? It’s not quite so devastating when I think about it like that. I’ll bet that hat gets a really good home.

In the mean-time, I might pop down to Peter Alexander tomorrow at lunch, and see if they still have the last gray hat sitting on their shelf (please, please, please!) 

*(I swear, there was one guy there who thought it was his lucky day – the worlds most conservatively dressed stripper was about to make her debut in his local pet-store! Only I stopped at thermal top number two, and jeans. His disappointment was palpable.)

Today we are appreciating poetry. Welcome to my nightmare.

I’m going to go ahead and give a pre-warning here that this post is all about zombies. Mostly because my family reads this blog and I don’t want to unintentionally freak anyone out with a seemingly morose and death-focused poem. Especially not after the post before this one where I was all ‘ugh dark depression’.

So yeah. Zombies.

So. This is a Mary Elizabeth Frye poem that was written in 1932.

Aside from it being kind of a beautiful sentiment and philosophy for dealing with loss, with a catchy rhythm to it…

Does anyone else think that this might be about zombies?

Or horror movie serial killers? You know? The ones that ‘die’ and then BAM there they are the next night, continuing their reign of terror, while the police and responsible adults are all ‘lalala life is good’ and all there irresponsible and horny teenage sons and daughters are running around being slaughtered?

Yeah. Because I do. And, I mean, I’m not sure how many zombie movies were around in 1932 in Baltimore, America, but I think Frye was definitely channeling some horror genre here.

I mean if I came across this poem in regards to a presumed dead person? I’d be going in search of my axe. I am not there? Dudes? We have a zombie on our hands. And if zombie movies have taught me anything, it’s that you don’t hesitate when it comes to arming yourself when you come across an empty coffin that should definitely NOT be empty.

I am a thousand winds that blow? Good Gah. Upgrade the threat level to Vampire. Someone go fetch me a stake and some freaking holy water. Everyone knows you don’t screw around with vampires. They’ll rip out your throat faster than a crazy circus clown with  taste for human flesh.

I am the swift uplifting rushof fear. I mean come on. Is there anything more uplifting that the feeling that you’re no longer alone? Better yet, you’re female, wearing stupid lingerie-style PJ’s, it’s after midnight, and the phone keeps ringing and cutting off. Yeah, I’d be feeling pretty damn uplifted too. I’d be all uplifting myself to the nearest church surrounded by armed men, and huge impenetrable walls.

Quiet birds circled flight? Is anyone else thinking vultures? Or crowes? Ravens, anyone? Yes? In any case, looking up to see a sky full of silent birds? Circling slowly overhead? Yeah, that can’t be a good thing. That’s something movies have taught me – the animals know first. If they aren’t already in on it – ZOMBIE CROW anyone?

And that final line? I am not there. I did not die. Good gah. Is there a creepier way to end a poem? That’s a total sequel alert. Like, ‘Yay the crazed pedophile killer is dead… or is he?’ Answer: No. No he is not. He is hiding under your bed, waiting for you to sleep. And then? Then he’s going to get all tortured poet on your ass. With knives.

And this? This is why I’m not allowed to watch horror movies anymore.

And that was poetry appreciation Monday with LP. (My old high school english teacher is shaking his head in horror right now.)