Life... and its most insomniac moments...

Soooo,

Its nearly two in the morning, and I woke up with the distinct impression that I should save the world. Atleast, I woke with enough energy to save the world. But alas, the world outside is asleep, and I'm awake. I'm probably the one whom needs saving right now.

There is jazz in the background, and I've made myself the most geriatric drink of all - Pimms and lemonade on ice. My brain probably just reached the grand age of 82. I should probably get what I've always wanted: the bifocals and hearing aid set from the warehouse. Oh but wait. They're closed.

My eye lids are getting heavy. They finally serve a meaningful purpose. Their rest is now over, time for them to do their job. Hell. They've been hiding away for about 14 hours today already. It would not suprise me to find that I'm the proud owner of the laziest eye lids known to mankind.

I should get something for that. Some sleep maybe.

Life... and torment of the dreaded man-flu...

You - who say marriages sucks the life out of a good honest, hard working man... Desist. For I have succumbed to the worst fear known to men-kind...

The Man Flu.

Be afraid! For winter is upon us and the Man Flu will plague this land once more. You can fight, hide or shriek of your mother's maiden name, but your fate will be unavoidable. Its slimy cold tentacles will smother you with its germs while you sleep. Its dark ominous steps will creep through your hall ways. Your screams will be unheard. No one will come to your aid... Not even your girlfriend, mistress or wife! (Especially your wife).

For they do not understand the pain that is the man-flu. The suffering we go through is both physical and emotional. While our body is being ravaged by biological warefare, the minds of those affected are warped by its strange mystical powers. You women who mock and make fun of our dreadful misery - remember the emotion you went through on that overcast monday morning as you realised a pimple have suddenly erupted on your forehead without your prior permission. Now multiply it so it has filled all your facial pores with its uncontrolled rage and pus filled darkness. That kodak moment is a true picture of a Man Flu soul. The mucousy, pustulated sickly fingers of the disease prying away at their very heart, layer by layer.

You point and laugh at our pain. You fill your faces with such mirth and jovial circumstance. But I know you only do so because you don't understand the colossal suffering that is the common Man Flu.

I... have been afflicted.

Sympathies please.

Life... and a resume on how to miss somebody...

Someone once said, how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. And how true to the point they were. But unfortunately for all of us, for some inexplicable reason, that someone must depart to some distant land, sometime.

You turn away, and it starts with a slight niggle in your stomach, you know whats wrong but you still try your best to ignore it. You don't look back, because it will only serve to make it worse. Names of people scroll through your mind as you continue your futile search for a suitable replacement; in the meantime, the niggle has turned to an ache - apparently such desperate measures is considered uncuth and ungentlemanly.

However, with the ensuing days that pass, it does get better.

Life... and its tid bits of missing pieces...

To encapsulate the entirety of what has happened in the last year in one concerted effort would be a most mammoth task. In sheer literary terms it would perhaps compare to the likes of 'The Iliad' or 'Odyssey'. Only without the sweaty abs, the scantly clad Greek women and a little three lettered word called 'war'. So all in all, my story could be somewhat bland, something that one might perhaps come across in your grandmother's bi-weekly subscription of Knitting Secrets (for People with Cataracts). But hey, last time I checked woollen jerseys are filled with warm fuzzies and all the fluorescent colours of the rainbow.

I returned to Palmerston North for work. Or in truth, I actually returned to Palmerston North because of my incessent fear for my festering mortgage. Having a mortgage feels much like an itch in the middle part of your back - the part of your back where through millions of years of our primate evolution we have lost the ability to reach with our spindly arms and supposedly useful opposable thumbs. Unfortunately for us, the only way the itch will stop its cruel supernatural torment is for us to pit ourselves aganinst the dark abyss of work, and all the rest it offers.

Fortunately for me, the dark abyss wasn't actually too bad.

My friends were all still there. I love them. I love them because they're like pets who would obediently stay at home, clean themselves and cook great food while you're away. Joseph also had a rather impressive collection of alcohol and tried his very best to give me fulminant liver failure as a parting gift. Luckily for me, my many years of binge drinking as an Otago undergraduate student prepared me for such darstardly plans. I will also miss the cigars, the poker, and Kevin's generous supply of plum wine.

For some strange and bizarre reason it was also the year where the majority of my friends and collegues decided to leave the fine city for bigger and brighter pastures. I see half of them have decided to migrate to Auckland - the land of the long white traffic. I think they've made a mistake. I think I might miss them.

Work itself was ok. But I have come to the realisation that it really wasn't quite me. There just happens to be quite a few things I'd like to do and I can't seem to find the time should I keep commiting myself to a daily barrage of the mundane. So in sheer coincidence I have also come to the conclusion that there maybe a greener pasture awaiting for me elsewhere... like here, in Christchurch - where I might just have the perfect plan for myself...

Life... with You, Me, and Dupree...

"How about that one?"
"You, me and Dupree?"

I picked it up with a hint of fear and suspicion, it may well have been a gerbil sporting the most deadly concoction of rabies. But alas, it was another Owen Wilson movie. Flash backs of Zoolander sped past me like a pre-death montage.

"It looks good, I haven't seen it before."

Her voice saved me from my near death experience. And as such, I presumed nothing else could be worse.

"Sure, lets get that one."

The drive home quickened my pulse. Matt Dillon? Where has he been for the last few years? Could he still be the Detective Pat Healey that I've known him so well for? My heart squirmed and hoped his acting would be different. Thank heavens I still have a bottle of Chardonnay left in the fridge.

After many years, I am glad Detective Pat Healey never really left. In fact the movie could well be a sequal to Something about Mary - a vision into the future for our infamous Hawaiian shirt detective. One would be encouraged to know he is now a mediocre architect, but apparently a real architect never less. Not only this, he is now about to be married to our new girl-next-door Kate Hudson (Molly), and also surrounds himself with a marginally more desirable group of male company.

Dupree, played by Owen Wilson, portraits a hippie friend of our main male protagonist. He plays the role well, to the point where he may well have recently been unfrozen from a 70s' hash party. As unfortuitous as he is, he loses his job valiantly but is adopted under Carl and Molly's roof - and here begins our story. As the train of laughter progressed we were treated to Seth Rogen (Cal, 40 year old virgin) failing a flaming tornado, Michael Douglas coercing his son-in-law to have a vasectomy, and a rather unforgettable buttery Funky Comadena couch fire.

As the credits rolled and with my lust for a comedic laugh satisfied, I felt fulfilled. I was both surprised and glad to have my preconceptions proven wrong. To focus on any particular aspect of the story line maybe mundane at best. But to weave the storyline together as a whole? Emma laughed so hard her asthma kick in.

life... and love-hate relationships... (with my lawn...)

Humanity is addicted to grass. If it be the smell, the gentle fur coat, or the occasional playful scratch that entices us for more. The fact that it is green is merely an aesthetic bonus. Children frolic amongst it, our four-legged friends douse their torrential excrement upon it; we cannot live without it. Grass is here, they have planted their roots, and they are staying until the surviving hippies have run out of weed as their most valuable natural resource.

I have three small patches of lawn surrounding my estate. The estate is a self-containing granny-flat, second from the road. The houses down the driveway look almost identical. If my guests squinted they'd think these houses came with MacDonalds happy meals, or could even be the happy meals themselves. It would not surprised me to find them exclaim how the lawn would appear to be a blanket of fries surrounding the burger-like houses. Or when it rains it would seem as if a cup of coke has been spilled all over the tray, making the fries and burgers turn all soggy.

During my nine month stay I have come to realise having three patches of soggy lawn is like caring for three small insolent children. The reason why they're insolent would probably be because I ignore their every single need and wish. I was never exceedingly brilliant with kids anyway. During my first month of stay I did not tend to the lawn once. I would let it grow and prosper under the summer sun like the pit hairs of a Mexican gypsy woman, whilst convincing myself that it still looked beautiful and I would not mind cohabiting with it for the rest of my life. I think I'd have a better time dealing with an over growth of pit hairs than small whiny children. Though as luck may have it, both may not be mutually exclusive.

My neighbour clearly did not appreciate the carefully orchestrated art form that is my Mexican gypsy lawn. After three month of free, unrestrained growth an anonymous neighbour complained to my property manager regarding its rather distasteful condition. I tried to argue that it was only a matter of aquired taste, one should not judge a book by its cover, and the lawn was actually beautiful on the inside. My proclamations were deemed ludicrous, and I was ordered to have the lawn shaved at once or face an emotional separation from my loving abode.

To the phone book I went, and to Mr Green I called. He decided that it would be most wise and generous to offer twenty dollars to mow the three stamp sized lawns outside. I though this was ludicrous, even more ludicrous than the excuses I tried to pan my property manager with not five minutes ago. Twenty dollars was a small fortune to me. I could survive a week with twenty dollars, though with a much more fibrous diet than I'd like. I eventually found another gardener, visibly younger, more desperate and more malnourished than Mr Green; he was able to mow the lawn for half the price. His dietary intake must consist of twice the fibre of mine.

These days I mow my own lawn for the fear of an over fibrous diet. Myself - with the mind of a juvenile octogenarian. The same mind which would suffer at the mere thought of taking care of a single cactus. The one mind that would have an aneurysm should I even contemplated the mere possibility of manicuring the lawn myself. I didn't care anymore. I dove in with the sense of duty and unrivalled enthusiasm that I once had for waiting in lines. Now mowing the lawn is not so bad.

Life... and the trip back to work: the realm of reality...

The holidays are over. The fun has ended. I returned to my morose self like a turtle retreating reluctantly back to its shell.

The packing was easy. I never really unpacked in the first place. The only thing that required packing is the computer and road bike. My precious road bike. Yes, my precious. You are coming with me this time. You will help me lose a mammoth quantity of weight; something I have come to aquire during my month and a half stay in lazy-hazy Christchurch.

The drive was fairly unexciting and mundane. I tried to enjoy the brilliant sunshine on display, but the thought of work would cast an instant shadow over the horizon. I drove on, with my fate wrapped in a box of chocolates.

The ferry ride was ok. I watched more episodes of Robot Chicken to calm my restless tide. I think there was a kid watching behind me; he ran off after big bird started getting high on weed.

I saw real, live and untamed dolphins for the first time in my life. There were three of them following the boat from starboard side. Once their presence was broadcasted throughout the ship, people gathered, and they were gone.

My flat is as I had remembered it. Though the rotting mailbox and shower has been replaced with newer mailbox and showers; ones made with more rot resistant material, I hope. Unpacking proved to be vastly more tiring than driving for six hours. I threw everything on the floor and hungered for a tasty tender chicken breast. I didn't just hunger for it. I knew it would complete me. And it did.

A new day passed. A new love found. A future of diabetes and heart disease await.