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....
Monday, 3 June 2013
Friday, 3 May 2013
And where do you get YOUR drugs from?
So we are in the month of May and. apparently, autumn in New Zealand. Er, whatevs. I feel it is my duty, as a good Brit abroad, to Represent, and therefore I will continue to wear my pink Topshop hotpants and loose fitting Betty White Tee for as long as I can stand. Or until I get drenched in Aotearoan rain. Whichever comes soonest. I just popped out to my local 'mall' (gosh I am soooooo Kiwi) for a coffee, and must admit my get-up - as detailed above - did provoke some rather strange looks. In point of fact: as soon as the first spots of rain splashed the window the barrister in the coffee shop informed me, quite gleefully I thought, that "You're going to get wet". Yes, well. Luckily for you Mr Coffee, I can run like the wind and I parked in a disabled spot. Not laughing now, are you?
I'm joking about the disabled parking of course. I did work for the BBC, remember.
But yes we are coming into winter and it's a bit of a shock. I was kind of thinking that the summer we had just experienced over what are, for us northern hemisphere - ers (new invention - TM), the winter months, were some kind of bonus. Call it a Gift from God. So, to my mind, I had been given an Extra Summer by fluke, and now would experience the Real Summer, in its proper place i.e. June/ July/ August. Not so. Apparently Auckland is going to get rainy, cold and miserable, and I will feel just like I'm back in Colmore Row on a wet Monday morning. Awesome.
On the subject of Awesome, if Kiwi's were banned from using that word, I'm not sure what they would say. Everything here is Awesome. Your Flat White is awesome. Parking is awesome. It's an awesome day. Those horrific multi-coloured leggings look AWESOME on you. The word has lost all meaning. I've been told I'm awesome several times but I'm no longer sure what it means. In England we might say "quite good" in an understated tone of voice, and we would mean THAT'S F&%$ING WICKED!!! YOU HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF BRILLIANCE!!! Here the word is bandied about willy nilly, so it may as well replace "and", or, "the". I'm not quite sure where I'm heading with this thread, except to warn any would-be travellers to NZ that, if you get told you're awesome, you're probably just not a complete anathema. Think on.
So I am doing some work experience next week and (I couldn't help but wonder), what is the accepted expiry date for being Too Old to do work experience? I went into the office last week and I think the girl who came to collect me from reception was slightly taken aback when I explained that I am the thirty two year old work experience. I suspect she was expecting someone half that age. Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler decides to do some work experience, and feels exceedingly old? Have I just made myself look even older by citing that example?
But yes, I am doing work experience, and it has put me in mind of the various placements I have done in the past. There was the school-enforced work experience I did when I was 16, forgot about until it was about to dawn, and discovered that the only company that would take me on at a week's notice was The Botanical Gardens. I thus spent an unhappy 2 weeks plucking aphids from bushes in the orangery, and following a bad tempered gardener and his lawn mower around with a rake. Said lawn mower perpetually broke down every 20 minutes or so, causing the gardener to fly into a rage and kick it viciously whilst turning the air blue and no doubt upsetting the nearby Ladies of Edgbaston enjoying tea on the lawn. There was my week with a publishing house, when on my first day my mentor told me "This is the kind of job that people queue up around the block for. And then when you get it, you wonder why". My time with the criminal lawyer, when I was propositioned by his client during interview in the cells... The work experience I did with the art dept on Coronation Street, when I decided that working on set started far too early in the morning. (This was clearly before I worked in fitness, and had to be at the gym at 5am to open up).
Career Confused much?
I will conclude with the following advice for on would-be Pommie settlers attempting to fit in with the locals:
1. Know your vowels. 'E' becomes 'I', as in "send a tixt", "can I borrow an igg". 'A' becomes 'E', as in "Seeeeeeer-rah" (that's my name over here, apparently). Make sure you say the "Seeeeeeeeer" for about 10 minutes before finishing with the staccato "rah". Nobody's in a hurry over here.
2. Add 'ay' onto the end of EVERY sentence. "That's a mean workout, ay". "You're working today, ay". "He's gay, ay". You get the picture.
3. Corrie is Coro here. And remember we are about 2 years behind. So Michael Le Vell won't be a paedophile here until about 2015.
4. Perfect the local greeting. The lifted chin and raised eyebrows acknowledgement is apparently not limited to personal trainers, as I had initially thought. Apparently it's a New Zealand/ Maori thing and means anything from "hello", "goodbye", "great job", "I hate you"....
5. Add awesome into at least one out of every 5 sentences and you'll be sweet as, bro.
Top Reasons I Am Proud to Call Myself a Brummie
MEMBER: Where are you from in the UK?
ME: Birmingham, have you been?
MEMBER. Nah. I lived in London for 3 years but never made it to Birmingham. We used to get all our drugs from there though.
Another one to add to the list.
I'm joking about the disabled parking of course. I did work for the BBC, remember.
But yes we are coming into winter and it's a bit of a shock. I was kind of thinking that the summer we had just experienced over what are, for us northern hemisphere - ers (new invention - TM), the winter months, were some kind of bonus. Call it a Gift from God. So, to my mind, I had been given an Extra Summer by fluke, and now would experience the Real Summer, in its proper place i.e. June/ July/ August. Not so. Apparently Auckland is going to get rainy, cold and miserable, and I will feel just like I'm back in Colmore Row on a wet Monday morning. Awesome.
On the subject of Awesome, if Kiwi's were banned from using that word, I'm not sure what they would say. Everything here is Awesome. Your Flat White is awesome. Parking is awesome. It's an awesome day. Those horrific multi-coloured leggings look AWESOME on you. The word has lost all meaning. I've been told I'm awesome several times but I'm no longer sure what it means. In England we might say "quite good" in an understated tone of voice, and we would mean THAT'S F&%$ING WICKED!!! YOU HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF BRILLIANCE!!! Here the word is bandied about willy nilly, so it may as well replace "and", or, "the". I'm not quite sure where I'm heading with this thread, except to warn any would-be travellers to NZ that, if you get told you're awesome, you're probably just not a complete anathema. Think on.
So I am doing some work experience next week and (I couldn't help but wonder), what is the accepted expiry date for being Too Old to do work experience? I went into the office last week and I think the girl who came to collect me from reception was slightly taken aback when I explained that I am the thirty two year old work experience. I suspect she was expecting someone half that age. Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler decides to do some work experience, and feels exceedingly old? Have I just made myself look even older by citing that example?
But yes, I am doing work experience, and it has put me in mind of the various placements I have done in the past. There was the school-enforced work experience I did when I was 16, forgot about until it was about to dawn, and discovered that the only company that would take me on at a week's notice was The Botanical Gardens. I thus spent an unhappy 2 weeks plucking aphids from bushes in the orangery, and following a bad tempered gardener and his lawn mower around with a rake. Said lawn mower perpetually broke down every 20 minutes or so, causing the gardener to fly into a rage and kick it viciously whilst turning the air blue and no doubt upsetting the nearby Ladies of Edgbaston enjoying tea on the lawn. There was my week with a publishing house, when on my first day my mentor told me "This is the kind of job that people queue up around the block for. And then when you get it, you wonder why". My time with the criminal lawyer, when I was propositioned by his client during interview in the cells... The work experience I did with the art dept on Coronation Street, when I decided that working on set started far too early in the morning. (This was clearly before I worked in fitness, and had to be at the gym at 5am to open up).
Career Confused much?
I will conclude with the following advice for on would-be Pommie settlers attempting to fit in with the locals:
1. Know your vowels. 'E' becomes 'I', as in "send a tixt", "can I borrow an igg". 'A' becomes 'E', as in "Seeeeeeer-rah" (that's my name over here, apparently). Make sure you say the "Seeeeeeeeer" for about 10 minutes before finishing with the staccato "rah". Nobody's in a hurry over here.
2. Add 'ay' onto the end of EVERY sentence. "That's a mean workout, ay". "You're working today, ay". "He's gay, ay". You get the picture.
3. Corrie is Coro here. And remember we are about 2 years behind. So Michael Le Vell won't be a paedophile here until about 2015.
4. Perfect the local greeting. The lifted chin and raised eyebrows acknowledgement is apparently not limited to personal trainers, as I had initially thought. Apparently it's a New Zealand/ Maori thing and means anything from "hello", "goodbye", "great job", "I hate you"....
5. Add awesome into at least one out of every 5 sentences and you'll be sweet as, bro.
Top Reasons I Am Proud to Call Myself a Brummie
MEMBER: Where are you from in the UK?
ME: Birmingham, have you been?
MEMBER. Nah. I lived in London for 3 years but never made it to Birmingham. We used to get all our drugs from there though.
Another one to add to the list.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
The Snob and the Cockroach
So, to summarise, I have hit 32 and - apparently - middle age. You know how on dating sites people always write,"I'm just as happy staying in with a bottle of wine and a good book as I am dancing the night away"? (Don't lie - I know you've looked even if you've not subscribed). Well, I have come to discover in 2013 that I am happy staying in. Period. Give me hot a bath, 'The Best of Enya' on Youtube, a bottle of wine and a copy of 'Brighton Rock' (I am an English graduate remember. Three years of Book Critiquing = Literary Snob) and I am one Happy Granny. No dancing the night away, no flaming Sambuccas or Jagerbombs for ME thank you very much. I need to be in bed by at least 930pm or I'll never get up for body attack tomorrow.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Sex O'Clock
So the latest obstacle I have encountered in New Zealand is pronouncing the word 'six'. Due to the difference in our vowel sounds, I'm apparently saying 'sex'. Just like they pronounce 'pen' as 'pin' and 'eggs' as 'iggs'.... I had a conversation with my friend last week that went something like this:
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
Monday, 18 February 2013
Honesty
My sister is the most honest person I know. We were chatting on skype 2 days ago and she asked me how life is going in New Zealand. After I had chatted for a few minutes there was a massive silence. "So, apart from the gym, what else have you got going on in life?" Another silence. "Right, you need to start doing other things".
"Am I really boring?"
"No.... Not REALLY boring. " (PAUSE) "Yet".
Oh god, it's official, I have become a Gym Bore. I have met these people (now, My People) countless times before. At workshops, at training sessions, at team teaches. Yes I like body attack, but I'm not particularly interested in how many classes you teach a week or how difficult the 64 tuck jumps are in the new release. I'd rather hear about your weekend, or how you met your husband. The problem (I've surmised) is that, when it's your job to promote the gym and group fitness classes, it all starts to merge into one. Even when I'm in a social situation with absolutely no intention to discuss exercise, someone will ask what I do, I'll explain that I work at the gym and the conversation will inevitably run to: "Oh I joined the gym, but I've not been in 2 months...." I then feel obliged to ask "why haven't you been going?" and suddenly I'm right back at work, on the gym floor, trying to motivate someone to take more exercise. It happens all the time - with my hairdresser (whom I persuaded to come in and try body pump), with the man in the Dairy (that's cornershop to us Brits), with the man on the phone selling me car insurance.... I might make up a different job, that will invite no further conversation whatsoever.
IT Recruitment springs to mind.
So, with the fear of my conversational topics becoming limited fast, my sister has persuaded me to sign up to 'Meetup.Com'. And no, this isn't a dating site. At least, it's not JUST a dating site. Apparently, they have meet-ups for everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING. If I'm so inclined, I can join Vampyre Community Auckland. They have 5 members. And have had one meet-up since they were founded in October:
"This is an Auckland community for all real vampyres and those interested in real vampyres. The purpose is to build a real vampyre community as has already been done around the globe. Meet with fellow kindred and all who are interested, gain support/ aid of vampyre community for those newly awakened and any who feel the need.
The only rule here is behaviour intended to cause harm is totally unacceptable and will not be tolerated.
Aside from that, welcome, come hither in darkness!"
I kind of want to join just so that I'll have a great story... I'm thinking Keanu Reeves in Dracula was quite hot (despite the 'British' accent). Although in fact I suspect that the reality will be 5 people who have watched Twilight one too many times, and are trying to escape from their alter ego in IT Recruitment. I'm also not a little concerned re: how many members there were originally before their last meet up.
And what have I got against IT Recuitment? (= Boring Squared).
Speaking of hot vampires, I spent Valentine's Day at the gym feeling very sorry for myself as one member after the next asked me what I was doing and if I had received any Valentines. DOES THIS FACE LOOK LIKE IT'S BEEN GIVEN ANY VALENTINES? EVEN ONE? DOES IT?! I was bemoaning my plight to my friend who was rather less than sympathetic: "Sarah, you've only been in New Zealand 3 months, you shouldn't have a boyfriend yet. You're not a slut, so you keep it shut". When I pointed out that nobody even asks me out here, he replied, "Well, you give off an air of being unavailable. Plus you work in fitness so everybody assumes you're a lesbian". So the upshot is.... I'm an unavailable, non-slutty lesbian.
Is that worse or better than being A Virgin Who Can't Drive?
So you'll be pleased to hear that, having reached the eminent age of 32, I still think that smoking is the best way to fit in with the cool kids. I went out on my first proper night out in Auckland last weekend, and discovered that going out with Kiwi's is not unlike hanging out with Irish Americans. I always end up feeling like the extra who thought the shoot was Pride and Prejudice, when in fact I've ended up in Jersey Shore. And I can never keep up with the alcohol consumption (Lesson #1, Boston, 2012). But, apparently, I will bend to peer pressure and attempt to smoke in an effort to fit in. Never mind the fact that my efforts are more Sandra Dee than James Dean.
Cause (let's be honest here), smoking is cool, and I'm just jealous cause I can't inhale properly.
Generally I've found Kiwi's to be somewhat less than sympathetic. And very honest. I'm still adjusting. We're all so polite and we love a good moan in the UK don't we? I met a British lady from Golders Green who's out here visiting her daughter. The conversation went like this"
ME: Hi, did you have a nice weekend?
JEWISH MOTHER: No, not particularly.
ME: Oh, why not?
JEWISH MOTHER: I don't to be here, I hate this country. I want to go back to London. There's nothing here.
Riiiigght.... She then told me how her son-in-law is Kiwi and doesn't get her at all - "I'm a Jewish Mother. He thinks I'm an alien". It's weird when you meet people like that and can understand where they're coming from. She was thoroughly miserable until I told her that I used to work on Coronation Street - which perked her up no end, "now you're talking the business" - and now I'm her favourite gym instructor.
I knew one day that job would come in useful.
Overheard at the Gym
ME: I'm never doing cross fit again. I've not been able to walk for 4 days.
INSTRUCTOR: Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a big glass of concrete, cause you need to harden the f$%# up!
And that's sympathetic New Zealand.
"Am I really boring?"
"No.... Not REALLY boring. " (PAUSE) "Yet".
Oh god, it's official, I have become a Gym Bore. I have met these people (now, My People) countless times before. At workshops, at training sessions, at team teaches. Yes I like body attack, but I'm not particularly interested in how many classes you teach a week or how difficult the 64 tuck jumps are in the new release. I'd rather hear about your weekend, or how you met your husband. The problem (I've surmised) is that, when it's your job to promote the gym and group fitness classes, it all starts to merge into one. Even when I'm in a social situation with absolutely no intention to discuss exercise, someone will ask what I do, I'll explain that I work at the gym and the conversation will inevitably run to: "Oh I joined the gym, but I've not been in 2 months...." I then feel obliged to ask "why haven't you been going?" and suddenly I'm right back at work, on the gym floor, trying to motivate someone to take more exercise. It happens all the time - with my hairdresser (whom I persuaded to come in and try body pump), with the man in the Dairy (that's cornershop to us Brits), with the man on the phone selling me car insurance.... I might make up a different job, that will invite no further conversation whatsoever.
IT Recruitment springs to mind.
So, with the fear of my conversational topics becoming limited fast, my sister has persuaded me to sign up to 'Meetup.Com'. And no, this isn't a dating site. At least, it's not JUST a dating site. Apparently, they have meet-ups for everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING. If I'm so inclined, I can join Vampyre Community Auckland. They have 5 members. And have had one meet-up since they were founded in October:
"This is an Auckland community for all real vampyres and those interested in real vampyres. The purpose is to build a real vampyre community as has already been done around the globe. Meet with fellow kindred and all who are interested, gain support/ aid of vampyre community for those newly awakened and any who feel the need.
The only rule here is behaviour intended to cause harm is totally unacceptable and will not be tolerated.
Aside from that, welcome, come hither in darkness!"
I kind of want to join just so that I'll have a great story... I'm thinking Keanu Reeves in Dracula was quite hot (despite the 'British' accent). Although in fact I suspect that the reality will be 5 people who have watched Twilight one too many times, and are trying to escape from their alter ego in IT Recruitment. I'm also not a little concerned re: how many members there were originally before their last meet up.
And what have I got against IT Recuitment? (= Boring Squared).
Speaking of hot vampires, I spent Valentine's Day at the gym feeling very sorry for myself as one member after the next asked me what I was doing and if I had received any Valentines. DOES THIS FACE LOOK LIKE IT'S BEEN GIVEN ANY VALENTINES? EVEN ONE? DOES IT?! I was bemoaning my plight to my friend who was rather less than sympathetic: "Sarah, you've only been in New Zealand 3 months, you shouldn't have a boyfriend yet. You're not a slut, so you keep it shut". When I pointed out that nobody even asks me out here, he replied, "Well, you give off an air of being unavailable. Plus you work in fitness so everybody assumes you're a lesbian". So the upshot is.... I'm an unavailable, non-slutty lesbian.
Is that worse or better than being A Virgin Who Can't Drive?
So you'll be pleased to hear that, having reached the eminent age of 32, I still think that smoking is the best way to fit in with the cool kids. I went out on my first proper night out in Auckland last weekend, and discovered that going out with Kiwi's is not unlike hanging out with Irish Americans. I always end up feeling like the extra who thought the shoot was Pride and Prejudice, when in fact I've ended up in Jersey Shore. And I can never keep up with the alcohol consumption (Lesson #1, Boston, 2012). But, apparently, I will bend to peer pressure and attempt to smoke in an effort to fit in. Never mind the fact that my efforts are more Sandra Dee than James Dean.
Cause (let's be honest here), smoking is cool, and I'm just jealous cause I can't inhale properly.
Generally I've found Kiwi's to be somewhat less than sympathetic. And very honest. I'm still adjusting. We're all so polite and we love a good moan in the UK don't we? I met a British lady from Golders Green who's out here visiting her daughter. The conversation went like this"
ME: Hi, did you have a nice weekend?
JEWISH MOTHER: No, not particularly.
ME: Oh, why not?
JEWISH MOTHER: I don't to be here, I hate this country. I want to go back to London. There's nothing here.
Riiiigght.... She then told me how her son-in-law is Kiwi and doesn't get her at all - "I'm a Jewish Mother. He thinks I'm an alien". It's weird when you meet people like that and can understand where they're coming from. She was thoroughly miserable until I told her that I used to work on Coronation Street - which perked her up no end, "now you're talking the business" - and now I'm her favourite gym instructor.
I knew one day that job would come in useful.
Overheard at the Gym
ME: I'm never doing cross fit again. I've not been able to walk for 4 days.
INSTRUCTOR: Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a big glass of concrete, cause you need to harden the f$%# up!
And that's sympathetic New Zealand.
Friday, 18 January 2013
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
Right, so I wasn't too cut up about turning 32 (ahem), until The Russian told me I am now a MILF. Or, to be exact, on MILF doorstep. The conversation went something like this: Russian perved on a female personal trainer at the gym, and commented that she was a MILF. I was somewhat aghast, since the PT in question is about my age, and/ or possibly younger. When I pointed that out that be a MILF you surely need to (a) actually BE a mother and (b) be aged over 40 (at least), he replied that nope, I could also be a MILF. I was, as he phrased it so succinctly, on "MILF threshold".
And people wonder why there are so many single women in their thirties.
It was very strange to be in a hot country over the festive period. Even having Christmas songs on the radio and wearing Santa hats at the gym didn't really put me in the mood. I kept bumping into other Brits who seemed similarly lost. I think we all sported the same look of having landed in a desert island without having being told we were leaving the library. I also missed the little reunions you have back home when all the City Mice come home from London and we catch up in the Plough to discuss who's got married, pregnant, already divorced and (most importantly) who's got fat and bald. Although my sister's experience on Christmas Eve wasn't the best. She was standing in the toilets when she was suddenly recognised by two girls from the same year at school she couldn't recollect for the life of her. Whilst she was desperately trying to remember their names, they both commented how changed she seemed from school: "You look so glamorous, I hardly recognised you. You're so different from when you were at school, when you walked around looking like you wanted to shoot everyone".
So it turns out that New Zealand is very high-fivey. Or fist touchy. I'm not sure if it's just working in a gym, or a general Kiwi enthusiasm, but, as an English Lady, it all makes me very uncomfortable. I can just about pull off the high five. The fist pump touching thing I leave well alone. If someone tries to do it to me I just smile apologetically, leaving my hands open by my sides, and explain "sorry, I'm English". Kiwi's also shorten every word they possibly can: un-co (uncoordinated - surprisingly this comes up in conversation quite a lot on the gym floor), tammy (tampon).... OK maybe that's it. I'm still recovering from having to pick up a used tammy from the ladies' changing room floors last week. The receptionist called me over, looking extremely apologetic, and gave me a post it with 'Locker 204' written on it. Hereafter known as Locker of Doom. Did you think that working in a gym would be glamorous?
Speaking of the ladies room, just when I thought that actors couldn't cope with daily tasks, I encountered Incompetent Members. I was in the changing rooms earlier today when a girl who was blow drying her hair paused, turned off the hair dryer and asked 'excuse me, if I've lost my comb, do I just ask reception?' Er, yes..... she carried on blow drying her hair and, indicating the strands which were now blowing wildly in her face commented, 'I kind of need it now'. Right... well you'd better get yourself down to Boots then hadn't you?
I am definitely over the judginess (it's a word) of personal trainers on my diet. Yesterday I was eating my muffin made of WHITE SUGAR in the cafe when one of the PT's came over, passed comment on what I was consuming, and pointed out that he has 9% body fat. Oh hurray for you. I am sure you and your paleo meatloaf will be very happy together. You do start to get a bit paranoid when you work in an industry devoted to being fit, healthy and beautiful. I never feel fit enough, toned enough, healthy enough here. Should I be doing cross fit, GRIT or 3 attack classes in a row? Am I making my legs too big if I lift too much weight in pump? But then will I not be strong enough if I don't lift the weight? And are large quads attractive, or will they simply weigh me down when I try to jump? WHAT HAPPENS IF I HAVE WHOLE MILK ON MY MUESLI MIX WITH SUNFLOWER SEEDS INSTEAD OF GLUTEN FREE ALMOND MILK??
In short, I'm starting to understand why Kirstie Alley ate the whole cake.
Overheard at the Gym
INSTRUCTOR: I love the women in this gym. I'm not sure if they're getting hotter, or I'm getting hornier. They're awesome...
And people wonder why there are so many single women in their thirties.
It was very strange to be in a hot country over the festive period. Even having Christmas songs on the radio and wearing Santa hats at the gym didn't really put me in the mood. I kept bumping into other Brits who seemed similarly lost. I think we all sported the same look of having landed in a desert island without having being told we were leaving the library. I also missed the little reunions you have back home when all the City Mice come home from London and we catch up in the Plough to discuss who's got married, pregnant, already divorced and (most importantly) who's got fat and bald. Although my sister's experience on Christmas Eve wasn't the best. She was standing in the toilets when she was suddenly recognised by two girls from the same year at school she couldn't recollect for the life of her. Whilst she was desperately trying to remember their names, they both commented how changed she seemed from school: "You look so glamorous, I hardly recognised you. You're so different from when you were at school, when you walked around looking like you wanted to shoot everyone".
So it turns out that New Zealand is very high-fivey. Or fist touchy. I'm not sure if it's just working in a gym, or a general Kiwi enthusiasm, but, as an English Lady, it all makes me very uncomfortable. I can just about pull off the high five. The fist pump touching thing I leave well alone. If someone tries to do it to me I just smile apologetically, leaving my hands open by my sides, and explain "sorry, I'm English". Kiwi's also shorten every word they possibly can: un-co (uncoordinated - surprisingly this comes up in conversation quite a lot on the gym floor), tammy (tampon).... OK maybe that's it. I'm still recovering from having to pick up a used tammy from the ladies' changing room floors last week. The receptionist called me over, looking extremely apologetic, and gave me a post it with 'Locker 204' written on it. Hereafter known as Locker of Doom. Did you think that working in a gym would be glamorous?
Speaking of the ladies room, just when I thought that actors couldn't cope with daily tasks, I encountered Incompetent Members. I was in the changing rooms earlier today when a girl who was blow drying her hair paused, turned off the hair dryer and asked 'excuse me, if I've lost my comb, do I just ask reception?' Er, yes..... she carried on blow drying her hair and, indicating the strands which were now blowing wildly in her face commented, 'I kind of need it now'. Right... well you'd better get yourself down to Boots then hadn't you?
I am definitely over the judginess (it's a word) of personal trainers on my diet. Yesterday I was eating my muffin made of WHITE SUGAR in the cafe when one of the PT's came over, passed comment on what I was consuming, and pointed out that he has 9% body fat. Oh hurray for you. I am sure you and your paleo meatloaf will be very happy together. You do start to get a bit paranoid when you work in an industry devoted to being fit, healthy and beautiful. I never feel fit enough, toned enough, healthy enough here. Should I be doing cross fit, GRIT or 3 attack classes in a row? Am I making my legs too big if I lift too much weight in pump? But then will I not be strong enough if I don't lift the weight? And are large quads attractive, or will they simply weigh me down when I try to jump? WHAT HAPPENS IF I HAVE WHOLE MILK ON MY MUESLI MIX WITH SUNFLOWER SEEDS INSTEAD OF GLUTEN FREE ALMOND MILK??
In short, I'm starting to understand why Kirstie Alley ate the whole cake.
Overheard at the Gym
INSTRUCTOR: I love the women in this gym. I'm not sure if they're getting hotter, or I'm getting hornier. They're awesome...
Saturday, 22 December 2012
Paleo Off
So today I was when I was paying for my bottle of whiskey from the Bottle Shop (yes I drink whiskey - straight - I am almost 32 you know) the Kiwi guy serving me said 'brilliant' when I asked him for the Jim Beam, and then said 'here you go love' when he gave me my change. Er, are you taking the piss out of my accent? So far I've not heard any Aucklander use that terminology, although my friend at work does like to try and say 'are you alright?.... Lovely' in a Dick Van Dyke type accent which gets even more confusing when you remember that he is a Tahitian from New Caledonia, whose first language is French. C'est vrai. Or, as they say here, 'True, ay'.
In fact, I feel rather like I've been lost in translation since starting work at the gym. They speak another language. I've moved from the world of telly when all you hear is 'turn over', 'wrap', 'call sheet', 'over-run', 'schedule', 'main artistes' and ' because he's a c#$*', to the world of the super-fit: 'cutting', 'loading', 'TRX', 'Cross Fit', 'hammys', 'can I get a spot?', 'what's your max, bro?'... It's another world. You'll be pleased to hear I've become quite the dab hand at spotting people's weights. Although the massive body builder who weighs 4 times as much as me tends to look slightly apprehensive when they press the instructor button for assistance and all 5 foot, 54kg of me rocks up to help them. You and me both, bro.
My main revelation here has been that fitness and health is definitely all relative. Back at the BBC I was easily one of the fitter and healthier employees - mainly because I knew where the gym was and didn't eat chips and Mars Bars every day from Rendez-Vu (ahem). I felt slim. I felt energetic. I felt SMUG. So coming to NZ and working full time in the fitness industry has been somewhat of a shock. I am no longer one of the super-fit and healthy people. Apparently - out here - my diet is shocking, I don't work out enough and I am carrying too much body fat. The other day I was on my break and sneaking some chocolate in the cafe when one of the personal trainers walked past and shouted 'OH MY GOD SHE'S EATING CHOCOLATE'. Everyone turned round. I felt like the rapist who'd suddenly been identified in a line up. You could have heard a tape measure drop. I am also (apparently) the only person who orders butter with their bran muffin and whole egg omelettes instead of egg whites only. And full fat milk in my flat white. Quite frankly, I'm surprised I'm still working there at all.
So in the name of Fitness and Keeping Up Appearances, I am going to have a - limited - go at the Paleo Diet. For the uninitiated this is essentially the caveman diet, removing most starchy carbs and dairy and essentially eating lots of meat and vegetables. So like any other protein rich diet really. But since apparently everyone at the gym is either doing Paleo or the Ketogenic Diet (look it up), I feel obliged to make some kind of effort. This means pain au chocolat are out, grapefruit and steak are in.
Dear Lord, what have I become?
I am also a lot less fit in NZ. Somewhere in that 31 hour trauma known as 'the flight', it seems my endurance and strength got sucked out of me and quite frankly I now struggle to get past the warm up. I'm sure body attack was never this hard in the UK. It may have something to do with the 100 degree heat of the studios. Apparently, in the southern hemisphere, air conditioning is for wimps. I've never wanted to throw up whilst exercising quite as much as I do here. This to the point where I actually did vomit into my mouth at the end of body combat last week. We were on stage doing the cool down. It was not a happy moment: 'Oh my god I can't throw up in front of 60 people...' So I did what any self respecting instructor does: I swallowed it and told my colleague. Who then told everyone in the class, loudly into his microphone: 'Sarah just threw up in her mouth'. Gratifyingly, they all looked impressed.
I'm telling you.... a different world.
Overheard at the Gym
'Yo is that a dude or a chick? I can't tell. Look at the jawline. He is oooooone ugly lady....'
In fact, I feel rather like I've been lost in translation since starting work at the gym. They speak another language. I've moved from the world of telly when all you hear is 'turn over', 'wrap', 'call sheet', 'over-run', 'schedule', 'main artistes' and ' because he's a c#$*', to the world of the super-fit: 'cutting', 'loading', 'TRX', 'Cross Fit', 'hammys', 'can I get a spot?', 'what's your max, bro?'... It's another world. You'll be pleased to hear I've become quite the dab hand at spotting people's weights. Although the massive body builder who weighs 4 times as much as me tends to look slightly apprehensive when they press the instructor button for assistance and all 5 foot, 54kg of me rocks up to help them. You and me both, bro.
My main revelation here has been that fitness and health is definitely all relative. Back at the BBC I was easily one of the fitter and healthier employees - mainly because I knew where the gym was and didn't eat chips and Mars Bars every day from Rendez-Vu (ahem). I felt slim. I felt energetic. I felt SMUG. So coming to NZ and working full time in the fitness industry has been somewhat of a shock. I am no longer one of the super-fit and healthy people. Apparently - out here - my diet is shocking, I don't work out enough and I am carrying too much body fat. The other day I was on my break and sneaking some chocolate in the cafe when one of the personal trainers walked past and shouted 'OH MY GOD SHE'S EATING CHOCOLATE'. Everyone turned round. I felt like the rapist who'd suddenly been identified in a line up. You could have heard a tape measure drop. I am also (apparently) the only person who orders butter with their bran muffin and whole egg omelettes instead of egg whites only. And full fat milk in my flat white. Quite frankly, I'm surprised I'm still working there at all.
So in the name of Fitness and Keeping Up Appearances, I am going to have a - limited - go at the Paleo Diet. For the uninitiated this is essentially the caveman diet, removing most starchy carbs and dairy and essentially eating lots of meat and vegetables. So like any other protein rich diet really. But since apparently everyone at the gym is either doing Paleo or the Ketogenic Diet (look it up), I feel obliged to make some kind of effort. This means pain au chocolat are out, grapefruit and steak are in.
Dear Lord, what have I become?
I am also a lot less fit in NZ. Somewhere in that 31 hour trauma known as 'the flight', it seems my endurance and strength got sucked out of me and quite frankly I now struggle to get past the warm up. I'm sure body attack was never this hard in the UK. It may have something to do with the 100 degree heat of the studios. Apparently, in the southern hemisphere, air conditioning is for wimps. I've never wanted to throw up whilst exercising quite as much as I do here. This to the point where I actually did vomit into my mouth at the end of body combat last week. We were on stage doing the cool down. It was not a happy moment: 'Oh my god I can't throw up in front of 60 people...' So I did what any self respecting instructor does: I swallowed it and told my colleague. Who then told everyone in the class, loudly into his microphone: 'Sarah just threw up in her mouth'. Gratifyingly, they all looked impressed.
I'm telling you.... a different world.
Overheard at the Gym
'Yo is that a dude or a chick? I can't tell. Look at the jawline. He is oooooone ugly lady....'
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