My Childhood (Was not as interesting as Ruby's)

Ruby has written about her childhood. I thought it was high time I spun a few yarns about mine. Recently I turned 22, and recently I also decided it's so much more awesome being a kid. Here are my reasons why:

Oregon Trail and Other Silly Games:

Effing awesome game. If you're pissed at your family, name all the characters after them, feed them meager rations and watch them get cholera.

I thought this guy kinda looked like a pedophile.

Who stops hunting when there's a massive fuck-off bison.
Bison = more bang for your buck.
Rabbits = little shits.

NEVER 'caulk the wagon and float it'. 

I also wasted countless hours playing Holiday Lemmings and Load Runner. Both highly sadistic games I feel.

Tree Huts and Forts: 


When you're bored and it's raining, build a fort. When you're bored and it's not raining, play in the tree hut. I still really like tree huts, and when I'm a multi-millionaire I will have an sweet as tree hut or five that I will rent out to like minded people.

When it's so nice outside, and my comrades think to themselves:
 'I wish I were a squirrel',  I can offer them a place in my awesome
tree hut and they will be a step closer to that dream. 

Achieving Sweet Fuck All:

This is what progress for progress sake looks like:

Me being awesome. Age: 2-ish (maybe?)
Not much has changed.

Lego:

Lego, like vikings, is one of the awesome things that comes from Scandinavia.

Hey! It's an impossible staircase. How impossible!

Here is a Nazi death camp. Ironic, or humbling?

I have the imagination of an earthworm (see 'Art'). So whenever I played with lego I would just play by the rules and follow the instructions. I loved the pirate stuff. You get all the sweet shet about pirates (weapons, flags, monkeys, parrots, missing limbs, and sharks) without the bad bits (scurvy, alcoholism, and unattractive wenches). I always wanted the badass pirate ship, but Mother and Father never delivered. 

The toy I always wanted but never got.
My birthday is on May the 23rd.

Not getting the pirate ship has been one of the major problems I have had to deal with in my life.

Art

One of the best things about being a little person was the consistent encouragement to play with crayons, paint, Oobleck etc. Most kids create with reckless abandon. I struggled to paint the most basic of pictures.

I would stand for 20 minutes watching other kids paint houses and people and cats. I would paint lines of dots. 

Drawing by me - Circa 1993. 

Drawing by more normal child - Circa 1993

Jayde Fleet: Hopefully I have forced you to read this. Please psycho-analyse me. 

The Crayon Incident

This one time when I was three, I had an accident with a crayon. Because I didn't draw with crayons like other children, I decided to stick it up my nose instead. It was wedged so far up there that no one could see it. I few weeks later my parents noticed a rank smell which seemed to follow me everywhere. The crayon was rotting and that was the only reason they realised it was there, and it was subsequently removed. I also used to fall asleep on the toilet. Many times. I was a smart child. 

That is all. 

Much love

Liz Triceratops

Moderate ruminations on a morning researching.

It's a sunny day up in Wellington, and I'm ruminating about things. Not, actually ruminating. Though I would if I could. How handy would that be? "Wouuuuhhp think I have a little snack down here somewhere... Sandwich, take two!" Even rabbits have it sorted; they can re-eat their own poo (I learned this from reading Watership Down. Also that rabbits are vicious little bastards and are all named after plants; you better watch out if you're trapped down a warren with Viper's Bugloss, just saying.) All we humans get is two-minute noodles and cup-a-soup (do not try tell me these are not previously digested food products).

Anyhow! Birds are squawking in rubbish bins; small children have had large floppy hats forced down around their tiny, handle-like ears; and the wind is whistling through the exposed downpipies and ex-soviet concrete corrugations of Wellington Hospital in a chirpy and exceptionally brisk manner. ("Chirpy and "brisk"; I imagine a well-kempt grandma with a perfectly draped shawl stopping off at a farmers' market in east Auckland for two apples and a small loaf of artisan bread, before stepping elegantly back into her mini and fwooshing back along the country roads to tea, tai chi and maybe a little Wimbledon on tv) and I am thinking about what I am doing (not much) and why (not sure) and how (not very effectively) and really, what is the point of being here, at the library, ON A HOLIDAY! It outrages me. Abit.

I have successfully read through one journal paper, and even made relevant and thoughtful (complete illegibility being a well-known mark of scientific acumen) comments in red pen. It is now third coffee time (being 11am. This is actually not very bad at all. People (who drink coffee. A requirement for being one) are either extreme and unabashed coffee drinkers, maintaining a solid 80bpm and twitchy hands from 8am til the bar closes; or trying to cut down (irritable and twitchy until 10am, when they cave under the influence, then asleep in the brain after 3pm and useful only for napping, heterosexual sex, and golf)). In terms of coffee, I am a moderate extremist. My extremities are extremely moderated. No. My extremes are. My moderation is extreme. I'm extremely moderate. Fuckit. Off to get coffee.

(It was shit coffee. Again. Over the course of this week I will compose a vitriolic poem dedicated to purchasing coffee from the med school cafe. It will be entitled "Fine, you bastards, take my three dollars, Fuel is three minutes walk away along the corridor watched over by the lady in charge of requisitioning medical supplies and my utter fear of her gaze combined with my (non-denominational) hatred of spending my (subjectively) hard-earned money will cause me to, once again, patronise your cafe". I patronise often.)

This brain narcolepsy plaguing me today has been possibly induced by the imminent prospect of having to one day find a job in public health (every year of my life seems to better qualify me to be a government employee), but more probably by the sideways rain coming past the window. Sideways! The only reason it's hitting the ground is that the wind forces it into buildings so hard it bounces back and creates an interference pattern. Seriously. There is a huge flow of it to the north, then a smaller flow coming south again after bouncing off the hospital. It's quite impressive. I will make a diagram.

Figure one: the buildings in Wellington often interfered with the progress of the horizontal humidity.

So, why am I here? Last week, I was a builder. Well, a labourer. On a building site. I had earmuffs, a tiny hammer and some gloves (after my mum came to the building site and abused the boss for not meeting health and safety standards when she saw I wasn't wearing any. He took me aside and said "Jesus Christ Ruby, I would ban her from the site, but she brings us hot cross buns. So wear some f***ing gloves!"). I carried things up and down hills, swept things, made coffee, and opened the beers on friday afternoon. And it was lovely. But not something I think I could do for the rest of my life (mostly because I am only 15cm taller than a piece of gib-board). Which is why I will sit here for the rest of my holiday, reading long, boring, and probably irrelevant papers written thirty years ago by people with impossible-to-pronounce names, and staring out the window at the sideways rain and nicer cafes, dreaming little dreams about pushing paper and having a really low-carbon-emissions bike.

Figure two: twitter's foray into online dating was brief (if exciting).

And just to finish off, this Sunday (afternoon, of course), I'll be heading down to the Hutt river, if anyone cares to join? I'll be the one sitting with arms wide open.

Cheerio.*
Ruby.


*required by law to be at least 49% animal flesh and 1% red food colouring. Most authentically served with tomato sauce. Delicious boiled or deep-fried. For maximum diabetes, enjoy with a cup of orange fanta and a party hat today.

Sneans, Backpacks and Nice Teeth

Warning: Contains more generalisations than you can shake a stick at; these may or may not amount to racism?)

It's time to tackle the real issues. This is high-brow. This is the kind of insightful writing that you have been waiting for.
Gracias a Wikipedia, I learnt that the United States is a hell of a lot more productive than my humble homeland (New Zealand). They are the fourth most productive country in the world (per capita), and us Kiwis are stuck at number 18, sandwiched in between Spain and Iceland. We all know that Spanish productivity at 2pm is a direct result of a hearty lunch which could feed 20 African children, followed by nap. Iceland is plagued with vikings, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and the highest Coca Cola consumption in the world. What does New Zealand have to answer for? Well...probably ALOT.

Productivity happening in Christchurch, New Zealand

More importantly, how the hell did the USA get to number four?
I have a theory.

1. One word. Sneans. If you are American and you haven't worn sneans, feel free to call me out. Yes, the dreaded combination of sneakers and jeans. Some people like to call them jeakers. While I don't find the use of sneans to be aesthetically pleasing, it does have it's benefits.
a) You can easily participate in most activities that may spontaneously call for your ACTION. Such as running away from rapists and jumping just that little bit higher should you need to reach something in an irritably high location.
b) Thanks to the jeans, you have leg protection, comfort, and durability.
c) I guess you can still get laid with sneans, just so long as your partner is into it. Otherwise, GAMEOVER.

If this guy didn't have sneans, he would be cold and unproductive;
he may have even slipped over. Thank God for tread.

3. Americans love backpacks. Fine by me. The more things you can carry, the more things you can get done (this increases exponentially).

Just think of all the amazing things this little
guy is gonna do today.

4. Nice teeth and infectious smiles. With this epic combination, you will get shit done, simply because you are irresistible. Right?

5. Flannel is better than regular cotton garments because it feels softer to the touch. Cotton is less flammable than other materials (it is easier to get things done when you are not on fire). It is also moisture-wicking and made of natural material. Cotton is farmed in the States, and because Americans demand flannel, they are helping their friends in Arkansas and Georgia (who are hopefully also wearing flannel) to be more productive.

6. Beards. Americans have nice ones.

I have to go now.
Bye
From Liz

k'lee vs my degree.

It has been a quiet week. I have done this instead of...
everything.

Jump in the back, let's go to the party.

LIFE.

Ruby.

Grammaticence: The Apostrofickle Edition*

Grammar. A sensitive topic. The amount of distress I feel on behalf of small misappropriated pixels of apostrophication is quite large. Possibly exceeded only by sense of frustration which overwhelms me when said apostrofickles are absent altogether. Or when people hyphenate un-necessarily. Or when for some mysterious reason unbeknownst to me the author has decided to quite without precedent scorn traditional modes used to enhance legibility and withhold from the reader altogether the joy of a short pause or two signalled by a humble comma.


GRAMMANGST!


I feel I am not assisted in this by working with science people. Science people (Who? What? Why? Shut up woman; I will make as many broad, meaningless generalizations as I choose to, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop me, apart from if you are my statistics lecturer and choose to send me out of the class for outrages against mathematics, and EVEN THEN I will still secretly make a pie chart behind your back. Because they are fun and have colours and are the most cunning of culinarily-oriented graphical devices) ... Science people think that if you reference a sentence, then it is correct.
They are wrong.


In fact, things are right when people believe them (Me, Myself and I, 2011).
Example.
Do apples have caffeine in them?


Scientific answer: No. You are an idiot.
Correct answer: How much more value would you assign them if you thought they did?


It is for this reason that people buy shit, and the world (largely) functions. Liz knows about these things. She tells me at great length. Occasionally I listen. Our conversation this morning (over breakfast. Which I had to make MYSELF. What is the point, honestly. Women.) ran a little something like this:


(Warning: not direct quotes. Content may offend the truth. But the truth has a lot to answer for; and, as conclusively proven in multiple randomised, double-blinded, placebo-controlled, multi-phase washout clinical trials, is completely and irrefutably subjective. (Ferric et al. 2069.))


Me: "blah blah blah, something vaguely ill-thought out and left-wing, but multi-syllabic and with perfect diction, opine opine opine. Exclaim!"


Liz: "...ummm yes... but you have to think about the differential marginal value, and then take into account the relative risk-benefit ratio when making these claims. In addition, you must consider that not all of your arguments are valid under a macroeconomic scope adjusted to incorporate real-time market edition remake pterodactyl activities; not to mention disincentives of a manlicious nature"


Me: "Oh."
        [pause. In which I think for some moments.]
        "Did you just make all that up?"


Liz: "You will never know."


Grammar. Economics. Yesterday I played tennis with twenty-three lovely senior citizens. I say played. I ran; they laughed.


Which segways me to:


Tennis outfits.


The main thing that... three main things?
The three main things about tennis... four main things?
The four main things about tennis which differentiate it from other sports... five main things?
Nobody expected that.
Hrrrrmmm.


The main aspects that differentiate tennis from other sports seem to be:


(1) Rafa.
(2) His ARMS! Swoon.
(4) Federer
(11) His smile. Awwwww.
(3) Those hilarious hats they put on the ball-children in the Melbourne Open.
(8b) That the players wear outfits meriting multiple pages in glossy magazines.


Why? Well, for a start, tennis players do not have to wear uniforms when they play. This is a mistake. Sportspeople are renowned for having egos roughly the size of the amount of money Sarah Palin would receive from anti-choice campaigners if she filmed herself eating a burger in Westboro and sent the tape to Fox. (This is alot**).  So these beautiful, intelligent people (with abs. I had an ab once. It left me for someone else. I was quite... cut about it at the time. BAM.) get to prance around in ANYTHING THEY LIKE. It is just not fair!


Professional rugby players have to engage in organised cuddles with sweaty mean in tight, short, tight short shorts so that sweaty men in short (tight) short shorts will buy MySky and deodorant will be sold; netball players have to wear skirts (with short shorts underneath, to render the motive beyond doubt un-athletic); hockey players have to carry those hilarious sticks around with them; BUT TENNIS PLAYERS WEAR WHAT THEY WANT!


So do golfers. But we are talking sports here. Not retirement village options for your uncle GP White.


So; in conclusion:
Things I would like to be better at:
(1) Tennis
(3) The stuff quiz. (Don't we all.)
(IV) Counting.


Enjoy you're respective days.
Ruby.




References:
(APA style; Answer Properly Assessed. (Fact.))


Ferric et al. 2069; studies on iron; its roles, regulations and derogatory uses. Call number: No.


Ruby 2011; a reflective review of wisdom accumulated over the years. Call number: Only if interest on student loans in introduced.




*Now with less swearing! Cos I'm classy. (From Now.)




**More than abit. Less than aload. Quieter than aloud.

Dinosaurs101

One of my favourite things is dinosaurs. They're probably in my top 5 things. Ever. They're just so freakin' massive and cool. They can fuck things up. The triceratops is (subjectively) the best. Spot a triceratops on any given day and you can find him, intelligently, chillin' out in the trees with his mates and his three horns. He doesn't use his horns all the time, but he knows he can if he wants to.

After a few cheeky gin and tonics, I will often, usually upon meeting someone for the first time, ask them what their favourite dinosaur is. If I did this to you, you will have been judged.
Oh, and if you said "...um...I dunno, eh. I don't really like dinosaurs..." then you will have been blacklisted.

This is exactly how I judged you:

What Your Favourite Dinosaur Will Tell Me About Your Persona

That is all.

With love

From Liz

P.S. It is a well-known fact that velociraptors like to ride bikes.

My childhood. Was not boring.

Despite what some (clearly jealous) people think, growing up in a white suburban upper middle class home, and all the privilege that that entails, with a doctor and a housewife (with two tertiary degrees) as parents, three siblings, a dog and a cat, is not exactly a walk in the park. (Though I did, often, walk in the park, the one over the road. With the gleaming child-friendly playground and sea views; attractive blonde women walking various animals and pet children about, sipping chai mocchalattefrappes and tweeting on i-phones, or whatever the 2002 equivalent of an i-phone was. A cellophone with no aerial. A home phone with a really long cord. A tin with a string. What did people DO in 2002? Did they still wear bootleg jeans? I know I wore orange and pink skivvies and leggings (possibly, yes, with teapot motifs) until high school. And then it was on with a continuation of the orange theme with USA hoodies and dickies shorts. Orange. Giant backpacks. Che shirts.)

From the start, I think that, growing up, I had a fairly non-conventional attitude towards various necessary childhood activities, which could have been summed up in two words “my way”. I did not wear shoes until I was four, and my mother was nearly arrested for child abuse as she pulled me, barefoot and hysterically clinging to street signs and spelling them out in sobs, tears and snot (this has always been a pet joy of mine. I once slapped a small child when she refused to admit that cupboard was spelled “cup” + “board”. I was also a small child at the time. But I would do it again. The fight against stupidity accepts no parameters.) through the knee-deep snow in Bristol in December. 

People, too, annoyed me quite a lot. I would viscously verbally attack any adult who dared to challenge me on any view whatsoever. My primary school teachers would not argue with me about grammar. Or anything. Especially Mrs Jones. She was a smoker, and when I saw her smoking after class one time I explicated with such persistence about the negative consequences of this abhorrent behaviour (with, I have no doubt, extreme usage of fictional anecdotal evidence) that I was made to sit outside the principle’s office for two hours. I wrote a story about drug abuse (“She stopped, there, at the top of the stairs. Something, dark, called from below, and she slowly stepped forward, into the abyss that awaited”) and got a gold star for using so many commas.

I also broke my nose doing a cartwheel. To this day I still do not fully understand in what way, exactly, this is possible.

In intermediate I had to come to New Zealand. So I sat under a desk and read. 

It was a nice desk; it faced out of a window, from which I could watch everybody else riding in tiny circles on scooters and hitting people with scooters and holding hands and getting pregnant and so on (Evan’s bay intermediate. Need I say more.) I did not have a scooter. I really wanted a “RAZOR!”, which was metallic and shiny and (I assume) could corner extremely sharply. But my mum did not believe in scooters. Or trans fats in school lunches. Or TV. So, these being the primary measures behind acceptance into pre-teen society, I remained a non-homogenised child, and read War and Peace (boring. But they shoot bears and fuck peasants) and the Satanic Verses (fucking boring. Everybody has the same name) and Annie Proulx and Margaret Atwood and Mark Doty and other various tomes I collected from the shelves of my parents' bookshelf that were reachable for a 120cm child (I actually grew a whole 40cm in high school!) and occasionally teachers would approach me (moderate trepidation in their voices) and ask if I would like to emerge and participate. And I would look at them. For a bit. Then utter a measured “no”, and return to Bill Bryson or Forster, and they would dither for a bit, then leave me alone for another week.

In addition to this scooter-related failing at life (I fucking swear, EVERYBODY had a scooter! It was a seriously big deal. Not having a scooter was kind of like not having a favourite dinosaur; unimaginable, inexplicable and unacceptable) I never had a bedroom. I feel that there is some sort of adolescent rite of passage in which one is required to retreat and lurk for four to six years in a dark, somewhat acrid-smelling cave filled with posters of guitar-clasping individuals in eyeliner and vaguely explicit jeans and tissue boxes and broken cd cases and pieces of ego, to emerge, wearied but not spotty, an unsullied fresher with a limitless alcohol tolerance and positive outlook on life and ipod. 

But all I had was an alcove in the hall. It had a bed and a pinboard, but the amount of angst possible without doors and walls proved severely limited. I tried my best with surly lesbianity (and goddamn did I try! Waistcoats, lip piercings, the entire Tegan and Sarah back catalogue) but after five years of emotional anguish and not a single tattoo, I gave up the premise and turned away from drama class and cask wine, and set off to find my place in the world. LOL. Jokes. I went to Mexico.

After being sufficiently (catholically and cathartically) heterosexual for a year or two, I cut my losses, bought some scratchy tweed pants, eighteen scarves, and a longboard, and went off to some cold place to sit.

And so I became.... Not a child. Called Brian.


Called Ruby. LOL. Enjoy.