So it's not been the greatest few weeks, ego wise. I'd say it all started about a fortnight ago: I was sitting in the cafe with NZGBF (New Zealand Gay Best Friend, obvs) and I pointed out a bloke I had given my number to in an uncharacteristic fit of bravery. Said NZGBF turned around to look and said, "Oh it's HIM? He's a celebrity. You aim high!" Nice. The next day it was commented that I wasn't looking as tired as normal. I felt quite paranoid and asked if that meant I constantly look exhausted? "No-oooooooo... you just look like you give a lot". Translation: yes, you look perpetually knackered. I was then blazed (yes I use the word 'blazed' - I am down with the youth of today) by my local barista. I was sitting in the cafe, peacefully reading my book, MY CHOICE TO BE ALONE, when he added an additional chair to my table and said with a wink, "just in case somebody decides to join you. You never know."
"You never know"? This is my new most depressing anecdote in addition to the crazy man who told me circa 1999 "I hope somebody asks you out".
The grand finale to my ego bashing fortnight, alongside being told by a supervisor that at work I can come across as "timid, shy and needy", was yesterday, the Queen's Birthday - a public holiday here in New Zealand which I had foolishly volunteered to work. I sat down to have a chat to a fairly affable looking older member, who suddenly said to me, "God your job looks boring, what do you do all day? It seems like such a waste of time. I think if I had your job I'd be seriously asking myself what I'm doing with my life. In fact, on my dying breath, I would look back on my life and think, 'well that was a vacuum'". (I'm not ashamed to admit, at that point I went up to Studio 2 and had a little cry).
I spoke to my sister about issues above and she told me that her current MO for cheering herself up is to sing Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are' to herself in the morning whilst doing her hair. Except she changes the lyrics to, "cause I'm amazing, just the way I am". She recommended I find a song to do the same for me. The first tune to pop into my head was "Real Wild Child (Wild One)" - from the soundtrack to Pretty Woman. However, given the context in which we were discussing this - me staying in with the cat on Saturday night, the wildest part of the night having been my devouring an entire bag of Freddo's - I feel that this is somewhat false advertising. "At Seventeen" seems more fitting, albeit it might make me cry at work again.
(Note to self: in future, don't write blog with PMS).
On a happier note, tonight I get to see my favourite NZ sporting team. No, I'm not talking about the All Blacks, although they have been training at The Gym all week and making many a male member feel keenly the insecurities detailed above. (No innuendo intended). I am clearly referring to The Scottish Country Dancers. I teach a class in a local hall on Tuesday nights and as my class finishes, in they march, bearing plates of fruit cake and sporting matching paisley scarves. The highlight for me came a few weeks ago when one woman turned up, as wide as she is tall, with a severe grey bob and fringe, horn rimmed spectacles, sporting a black T-Shirt with MAMA MIA emblazoned upon it in rhinestones. I feel that the Doctors' office would all appreciate that one.
Speaking of Doctors, how could we possibly not win anything at the Soap Awards AGAIN? (Yes I use the word 'we' - I'm sure I tech reviewed at least one of the nominated eps). I read an article in the Guardian which I did think was most unkind:
The Soap Awards allows these actors to put on their best frocks, douse themselves in Charlie Blue, pile into a minivan and get drunk on free booze. And because these people see each other every day, there's none of the irritating air-kissing luvviness of other occasions. They cheer for their gang, whoop every time a colleague is nominated and don't seem to take a second of it seriously. It's a night out for them, and they're the same way we'd be if we were invited to an awards show. It doesn't matter who wins, so long as you can get hammered at the after party or – if you work on Doctors – stuff your pockets with enough complimentary vol-au-vents to keep you going until next year.
Having said that, last year I arrived back into our hotel room and woke up the Office Princess by ripping open all the free chocolate that had accompanied the Soap Awards tickets. But that's neither here nor there.
I would like to conclude with some more Kiwi-ana lingo for you. Feel free to use at your next New Zealand convention:
Nek minnit - next minute. EVERYONE says that here. Youtube it.
Sorry bout it - sorry about that. But they don't really mean they're sorry. It's all rather confusing.
You look skuks bro - you look devilishly handsome, my friend.
'Crazy as a mad woman's s%$#' and 'off like a bride's nightie'. I've been assured that these are both in common NZ usage.
Having thought more on my ego song, and in homage to the fact that my shorts no longer fit my huge New Zealand ass, I'm going to go with Baby Got Back. I have ten weeks to lose my ass before I pop home for a holiday to the UK. Nek minnit....
