The Controversial Cigarette

I had my first real puff of a cigarette when I was about 13 with Sarah Taylor, down the back of a primary school before a rehearsal for a play we were in. When I say ‘first real puff’, I’m omitting the two weeks of hustling poor little Hayley O’Conner at school in the year below us for the cigarettes she used to steal from her Mum to sell to the older girls. Because it wasn’t until I had my first real puff that I realised I had been bum puffing those hustled ciggys for the whole two weeks behind the bush in intermediate with my little shit crew. We got caught and put on level two detention for two weeks, which I now think of as hilarious because I wasn’t even smoking was I? I was inhaling and pushing the smoke out before it even hit the back of my throat. All those after school DT’s durasealing library books just for the rush of being a badass, not even smoking. I knew it was a ‘real’ puff with Sarah Taylor because I had to suppress the cough that was tearing through my chest, and I nearly passed out walking back to rehearsal – the head rush got me good.

I haven’t always been a smoker. After the stint in form 2, I ‘quit’ (if you could even call it that). Throughout the remaining school years, I’d scab a few drags from some of the girls if I could, after school by Britomart (one smoke between 6), but besides that, I was never one of the hardcore smokers who got their older siblings to buy them a pack of B&H. And I definitely don’t think I was addicted to smoking throughout school. It wasn’t until I went flatting when I was 18 that I picked up the dirty habit to a full-time extent and became addicted. Maybe it was the fact that I could even buy cigarettes at all that made me take it up. Maybe it was the fact that Teu and I had some of the best chats on the back deck, tea and ciggy in hand. Maybe it was a sweet pick up line – for mates, not guys. It seems to bring people together I think. Or maybe it was because I was bored. Either way, I was spending $10.80 a week on Dunhill blues to whip out when I had a spare moment or two. I stopped for a while, partly because I became too poor to buy my own pack, and partly because I moved into a place with a non-smoker and didn’t have a buddy to jam with. But I never strayed completely from the lazy ciggy here and there. I only took it back up over the past year.

My parents hate it. I still don’t have the balls to smoke in front of them and I’m nearly twenty-two for goodness’ sake! They know I do, but I think they’d prefer to pretend I don’t. My Mum often asks me casually if I’ve started smoking again, and I tell her I only have one or two if I’m going out. Funny that she accepts that answer when I was going out Wednesday through Saturday without fail in Auckland, and she was the one washing my smoke drenched clothes. My Dad is absolutely sickened by it. His parents were both smokers and died from lung failure. I think the 21^st speech he gave me was aimed at anti-smoking. I think. Anyone who was there is probably just as unclear as me, because he was pissed off his nut and thought it would be a good idea to give the speech in gibberish for all the gibberish folk in the house.

One of my best friends hates it. She thinks it’s a sickly, gay past time and doesn’t know why I do it. I’ve never seen her even touch a cigarette and we lived together for nearly four years. She never aggressively encouraged me to give up. She merely took the piss out of me when I was sitting out in the cold and rain, breathing in all that toxic air while she sat inside enjoying Big Bang Theory. We’d joke about the possibility of me catching a cold on top of my emphysema. Most of my other friends are smokers, or at least socially smoke, so I hardly hear anything about giving up from them, unless we’re hungover – “Bro, smoked so much last night and bought another pack while we were out. Worst headache ever and now broke. We should probably give up.”

My boyfriend* hates it. We broke up once and when we got back together, he asked me to quit. I said yes. I lasted less than a day. I’m going to say I lied.

Smoking is such a controversial habit, and I genuinely don’t know why. Sure, it’s kind of not good for the environment, but so is driving your Nissan Pulsar to uni everyday. Sure, it’s unhealthy, but so is all the coke you drink. Sure, it’s ‘unattractive’, but I’m not trying to impress you. If you’re worried about the second hand smoke, piss off and leave me to die alone in peace, I’m not asking you to inhale my sloppy seconds with me. There are so many more reasons why smoking is controversial, and I can see why it is, but please don’t judge me because I like a late night cigarette with my tea.

It’s not our future.

*Boyfriend: my significant other who I’m not really sure knows whether I still call him my boyfriend. Lol.

Wu-Tang Killahhh & Douchebaggyish Behaviour

Homegirl Jessii came over to spend a weekend with me and Wu-Tang. So good to see my soul sistah, and even better with Wu-Tang on the cards - our number one fave.

Of course, with me involved, there were some douchebaggyish calls that were made. A couple that I'm pretty embarassed about. Who would have thought I could have fucked up so much in one weekend?

Douchebaggyish Call Uno Numero:
I didn't eat anything substantial all day Friday - the day Jessii arrived. What was I thinking? To be fair, I was literally sick with excitment all day. I drank about 3L of tea to accompany the one and a half packs of Marlboroughs I smoked (which by the way, are considered fancy here - upper class PGut!). Nana Napped after work because I was wriggling with impatience by then. And only managed to squeeze in a McChicken and fries on the way to the hotel from the airport because they happened to be on offer. Uhhh yeah, big boo boo PGut - by vodka number 2 I'm going to say I was pissed. Only because I'm extremely groggy on what happened after vodka number 2. Cheers Duty Free and J-Rei for fucking me up so early in the adventure.

Douchebaggyish Call Dos:
Fast forward five hours and I have some recollection of using my Mastercard to top up at 4am over the phone. It took me half an hour. Thirty minutes to use the simple phone top up system using Mastercard. THIRTY MINUTES. Lying in bed. No movement or commotion... Just chilling there in bed, gasbagging with Jessii, trying to top up my phone. I'd like to see some transactional history of how many times I entered my card number etc. The amount of time it took me to do this is only part of the douchebaggyish behaviour. The real douchebaggyish call was doing it at all. Jessii and I then proceeded to go through both of our contacts lists and call half of the Auckland population, I'm guessing, at 6.30am (NZT). Sorry to the victims that we woke up so early, but we clearly thought you ought to know we had been reunited, were drunk, and missed you. I woke up Saturday morning with $4.76 credit left. I had $150.00 when I finally managed to top up at 4.30am. Douchebag.

Douchebaggyish Call Tres:
Subway. Someone told me that Subway here is not a good idea. I was suprisingly up and about doing shit Saturday morning by 10am - strolling down the road to buy toothpaste and coffee and cigarettes and shit. Clearly still drunk maybs? Anyway, despite the warnings of a friend who I had spoken to minutes prior to walking past the local Subway, I thought I'd give it a chance. I shouldn't have. Subway is supposed to be like McDonald's right? Universal. It's supposed to be the same everywhere. Boy was I disappointed. Melbourne Subway, you suck mate. There was a lovely bloke behind the counter who greeted me just the way a still drunk PGut likes to be greeted at Subway - "Hello Ma'am, I'm Ken, I'll be your sandwich maker today" - how bloody lovely I thought! Melb - 1, Akl - Nil. All downhill from here. Bread - shit. Chicken - shit. Salads - suuuper shit. Like I said to Jessii though (when I got home and packed a sook about how horrible it was), it wasn't like I just happened to get a bad sandwich that day. Through the counter window, I could see that all of the salads looked shit. The cucumber and pickles were dry, the lettuce was struggling, the tomatoes were the gross powdery kind - it wasn't like Ken made a bad choice. Subway here just obviously isn't fresh. Hungover giggles meant Subway in Melbourne is now called Bumway - the only upside to this douchebaggyish call.

Douchebaggyish Call Cuatro:
Yes, it still gets worse. Much worse. Finally time to get up and at 'em and get crankin' for Wu-Tang Killahhh! Kicked the hangover and sorted ourselves out, excitement levels through the roof, get down in da Gravel Pit was all I wanted to do. Then I got an inkling to ask to see J-Rei's ticket. Wuh-oh. You guessed it homeslice, I bought the wrong fucking ticket. Who buys an upper-circle seated ticket to Wu-Tang? Duh, I do! I would just LOVE to chill up in the top circle, sitting down, grooving to a bit of Shimmy Shimmy Yo! Don't ask me how I did it, but I did, and there wasn't really anything I could do about it. Besides cry. Thank God, Allah and the Notorious B.I.G, there was a douchebag at the pre-drinks we went to who was just as douchebaggyish as me and bought the same damn ticket. Got a few drinks in me and I was good to jam with my new mate Rob in the seated upper circle (totes nickname basis). Sidenote: BEST. PRE-DRINKS. EVER. Too many lols, too little time. Just know that by the time we got on the road to Wu, I did not give a fuck, was in the highest spirits and ready to rage, despite my stupidity.

Douchebaggyish Call Cinco:
Two words. Mushy caps. One more word. Unknowingly. Old PGut decided she'd play the bigtime with the big boys and downed a mushy cap did she? Yes she did... And only found out that she did so after four hours of tripping balls,clueless as to why she was. Speaking giberish and talking a whole lot of shit, PGut has learnt her lesson - just because everyone else is doing it, doesn't mean you have to babe. I genuinely did not know there were mushy caps anywhere, until the bully mother fucker who gave it to me mentioned it at 5am. Cheeeeeers to you and ya family Aston.

Douchebaggyish Call Seis:
Passing out in a hotel room that isn't yours, with a comedian in the mix of people there, is not advised. I woke up with chairs stacked on top me, caging me in. I don't think I was in the chair cage for long, but I'm going to say it was payback for talking non-stop jibber jabber for three hours while Mr. Sorrell was trying to sleep. Blaming the mushy caps.

Douchebaggyish Call Siete:
An hour and a half of public transport hungover and coming down with a few hours sleep is not ideal and is definitely classed as douchebaggyish behaviour. Enough said.


So! My first real rager in Melbourne and I'm no where near as cool as I thought I'd feel. Had the best time with J-Rei and the others I raged with over the weekend. And Wu-Tang was pretty fucking cool, now that I've had decent flashbacks of Rob and I going loco over a few songs. I seemed to think they weren't AH-MAY-ZING, right after the concert... But the seated upper circle will do that to ya I guess! Douchebaggyish behaviour!

This is dedication right here.
I'm gonna say the token black guy, back right corner, told them 'Wu Tang' translates to 'The Best' in his language. Well played son.

Fiji Baby

The crew has decided on a Fiji New Years. We've confirmed our accomodation and are booking our flights in the next few weeks. Cannot even explain how excited I am for it!!!!! It's basically our legit little crew, the realists - about 16 of us. A few of us were a little concerned that it will be the first New Years we'll be having without raging rails and badass benders - someone (no names mentioned) considered bum smuggling (fits of laughter), but come on girl, we can do this - I'm actually looking forward to spending some quality time (in full states of mind) with my friends that I miss so super bad. Will be a good chance to get plain old fucking drunk too. Hurrah for pool bars because we all know I'm a salt water pussy.

Goodshirt - Fiji Baby

Yep I'll just pretend it's Fiji baby

No pretending here Goodshirt! Fucking Bula!

R.I.P Amy Winehouse - My Favourite Crackhead

Shed a tear and mourned the loss of Amy Winehouse yesterday in bed, hungover. Can understand why people can take the piss about her being a drug fucked drop kick who was bound to die sooner or later, but come on guys, she's human too! And let's be honest, only the best artists have dabbled in narcotics in their lifetime! Seriously upset that another amazing artist has bitten the dust far too early in their life, but I guess death is unevitable for everyone. Amy Winehouse features on every playlist I've ever created I'm pretty sure. I've sung along to Just Friends in a depressed state and danced around to Fuck Me Pumps getting ready to go out. Below is one of my all time favourite songs EVER - Mister Magic. No one can argue that she was a talent times one hundred.

Amy Winehouse - Mister Magic

And you so fresh/

You even make the stanards bloom/

I Wish I Was Alive In The 70's

The Skateboard came about in the 1950's by a number of totally rad surfer dudes who thought they'd use a board on wheels to practice their surfing technique when the waves were too small. It became a shit hot trend, and reached peak popularity in the early to mid-60's. Sadly, the board bummed out shortly after this peak - numbnuts of the world dropped the Skateboard and picked up a Hula-Hoop instead. Not even kidding. Enter Californian beach bums, 1972ish, who picked up the thought-to-be-long-gone fad again and got fancy with making Skateboards. The rest is history.

I'm in love with the 70's Skateboarding Era. Look at how serious but chilled these dudes are!
I wish I was alive for this...

Shit Talkers and The Like

I've been involved in one of my first real social settings in Melbourne recently. I'm not an insociable hermit of any kind, I've just been focussed on my job hunt and have been too poor to venture out and about, jumping into social scenes. This social setting has been an experience. It's been like heading back to school. 9am - 3pm everyday, classroom setting, learning, homework. But it made me realise how long it's been since I've found myself in a setting where I have to introduce myself to a whole group of people, make friends (as such), and socialise with complete strangers.

It was weird.

A week on, most of the awkward conversation has passed. But a week on, you have learnt the nature of most peoples' characters. You get a feel for who these people are. And goodness gracious the paper! This week has been close to torture at times. I have recognised and, to be honest, labelled the characters I've come across.

Exhibit A: The Know-it-All
A pain in my ass. Generally people who are confident yet arrogant. Exhibit A's idea of conversation, is shit. It consists of bragging and elitist bullshit with a sprinkle of speaking over everyone. Their tone is pompous and they like to be-little everyone else at any chance they get.

Exhibit B: The Rambler
Be aware of The Rambler at all times. Exhibit B springs up out of nowhere in coversations. How their idea relates to the topic of conversation, can range anywhere between slightly and extremely on point. Be warned, The Rambler can hold you hostage! Have a number of conversation stoppers handy to exit the conversation when you don't want to hear anymore merry-go-round stories about their childhood horse's stable.

Exhibit C: The 'I Love My Own Voice' Asshole
My pet peeve. These Assholes literally love the sound of their own voice. Any chance given to them to speak, is snatched up quick, like a 2-for-1 at Showgirls. Exhibit Cs tend to have a bit of The Rambler in them, and they can raise their opinions on dog biscuits when the group is discussing market research. This Asshole doesn't care if their answer is right or wrong, they simply want a bit of attention.

Exhibit D: The Repeat Questioner
Pretty self explanatory, Exhibit D is a prisoner to their self-doubt. The instructions or answer have been given, and The Repeat Questioner feels the need to ask and clarify this two seconds later. Exhibit asks questions that they definitely have the answer to, over and over again. There's nothing wrong with clarification, but quadruple clarification, thirty seconds apart is beyond ridiculous.

Exhibit E: The Story Teller
Similar to the Rambler at times, the Story Teller has a story for every example given in class. Whether they were fourteen when it happened, or forty, they feel the need to let the whole group know of the time they bought a bagless vacuum cleaner and had a part of it replaced under warranty. Interesting. Yawn.


I'm not a bitch, I'm not (excessively) judgemental, but sometimes I want to get things done without the above making things difficult. It's always good to have a smidgen of them in your environments, but anything over a smidgen and I'm driven to the rolling of eyes - and that's just rude. Do us a both a favour, my dear Exhibits A through E, and help yourselves.

Vampire Weekend - Oxford Comma

First the window, then it's to the wall/

Lil' Jon, he always tells the truth/

Did not know those were the words! Vampire Weekend for the lols.

'A House Needs A Grandma In It' - Louisa May Alcott

I've made the jump over to 'Tea, Cardigans & My Foul Mouth' from my old blog because every normal functioning human being craves change once in a while. That's my only legit reason to be honest.

My writing alter-ego has now seized the opportunity to display another part of myself as a person. I am still a half-caste kid, yes, but I'm also a bonafide Nana trapped inside that half-caste kid. Particularly since I moved to Melbourne.

Like I've mentioned before, I'm a tea enthusiast. Me loves the tea leaves! Since I've moved to Melbourne I can safely say I have increased my tea drinking to about twenty cups a day. No shit. Nothing like a strong cuppa in the morn accompanied by a cigarette. Throughout the day I have a few cups while I'm reading the paper, online job hunting, watching Oprah, Dr. Phil and my favourite, Welcome Back Kotter (John Travolta you make me giddy). I have a few more while I supervise Jeremiah's homework. Night falls and I have twice as many cuppas after dinner right up until bed. The amount of times I have to pee come 4am is ridic, I will tell you this. I've accumulated a variety of flavours, from Peppermint to Rosehip, and I even have my own section in the pantry. I'm spoilt for choice! I definitely think my tea-drinking has increased here because it's a time-filler. I find myself twiddling my thumbs if I don't have a cup of tea between my frostbitten fingers. Even so, words cannot describe my love for tea.

My sense of style can apparently be Nana to a T at times - according to my sister and the whanau here. Cardigans, cuffed brown pants, big woolly jumpers, red lippy and mocassins are apparently Granny in a nutshell. I certainly didn't think they were, until I saw a 70-year-old man in a close to matching get-up to mine at Coles. Not going to lie, homeboy was lookin' gooooood. A week later I found myself buying an above the ankle pleated white skirt at the Salvo's and realised the 70-year-old woman next to me was eyeing it up. Of course I gave the old bag on a mobility scooter a low, Jacob Black wolf growl - it clearly gave her the creeps because she backed off ASAP. But that's when it hit home - my God, I'm a 70-year-old woman. I'm definitely not going to change my steez, because it's partly who I am and I'm definitely no fashionista, but I guess there are hundreds of other girls like me trying to 're-create the look'.

And then comes the Nana Nap. I cannot go a day without dozing off late afternoon for at least fifteen minutes. Is this normal? I can be in the car, off to do some shopping and suddenly feel drowsy. Super awkward pulling up to Coles, dragging myself out of a coma, wiping the dribble off my chin - "Oh are we here," she says, half-dazed.

Jeremiah's mother has taken to encouraging the kids to call me Aunty Nana. I have no problems with this, in fact it makes me lol. I exhibit my Granny-like traits like a true Grandmother exhibits her grandchildren and bad arthritis. I guess the only thing that sets me apart from the average Granny Lou, is my foul mouth.

I like tea. I like cardigans. And I have a foul mouth.