Welcome to my bubble, people. Haere mai.
Today’s Stats: Coffees, 0; Cups of tea, 1; Hours of sleep, 7.5; Matching pyjamas (with the 10YO), 5; Children in the house, 0. Video calls? Oh, about a billion.
Here we are again. Lockdown 2021. Huge upgrades for me on last year’s pandemic shitshow. I have my own house. Each of the girls have their own room. I actually have a tv (though it’s not hooked up and working yet...details).
Luckily and gratefully, I am walkable to the beach again but a different beach from last year. My internet works consistently, and I am in mobile phone range. Slightly less isolated in my bubble that our first rodeo. Less writing for me this year but probably because I actually have to work for a living this time around. (Nice to get paid and to have a reason to shower and get dressed).
Life is pretty good. I can’t complain.
Actually, I can and I will.
I mean I shouldn’t complain because I’ve got it pretty good but I can complain and I will because we are not doing each other any favours by pretending this lockdown/work/childrearing intersection is all zen and picking wildflowers. In our case, it is zen and picking up interesting rocks, but it is also snapping at the kids, a kitchen full of dirty dishes and a pile of clean laundry on the living room floor flowing and multiplying like self-replicating DNA. (As is the dirty pile in the corridor). So there’s that.
Tybalt died at the end of last year. It is what it is. I don’t have cat. I am alone in bubble. I am grieving my former life. So there's that, too.
Holy Fork-I am in love.
I am text-alert drooling, wearing my fancy lace bras, treat myself to a glass of bubbles in my secondhand, hospice shop crystal flutes in love with my life, myself, and my house atm*.
Being in love is great. That being said, the announcement of another week of Level 4 legal lockdown across Aotearoa did not sound too great to me yesterday after the 3pm briefing.
To be honest, I was pissed.
I have a job I’d like to go to, Jacinda. Students who I’d like to see and help get UE. I have a Bollywood dance class at Rasa on Thursdays and basket-ball team of magic primary school girls I want to coach even though they never listen as I yell, “Hands up for the rebound” from the side-line.
I’m missing poetry night at The Dog with Two Tails with my librarian friends. Coffee doesn’t taste as good when professionals aren’t steaming my milk for me. I have a standing walk date with one of my best mates every Saturday morning at 8am. We were supposed to meet at the shark bell today.
I had plans, Jacinda.
I have places I’d like to go…like Makikihi or Kurow. I want to spread my legs like MP Chris Hipkins told me to. And where the fuck was Ashley Bloomfield the other day?
Jacinda, I still don’t have any stools, chairs or a rubbish bin in my new house. I don't own cinnamon. I want to go shopping like any ordinary kiwi in their right mind with a credit card.
*Listens to “Barbara Gibson’s 4 minute ‘Right now, it’s like this meditation’ on Insight Timer.
Jacinda, I’m sorry for what I said when I was angry. Also, I was hungry. So, I apologise for my hangry outburst. I still want to be on team (of the 5 million). Tell Dr Ash I appreciate his efforts and tell the new civil servant doctor that I respect her and have sympathy for her as Bloomfield’s understudy. He’s a tough act to follow.
Jacinda, I know it’s not your fault. The way I think my kids know it’s not really mine when Netflix isn’t working. Narcissist jokes aside, I know I don’t actually govern reality and neither do you. We just ride the wave of this weird unfolding in this life and try to avoid hitting any rocks.
Better to lose my cool at you than at the front-line workers at my local Four Square, right? You can take it and then go home to your stud of fiancé and sleep it off for 4 hours before you get up to save the world again.
Hang in there, Champ. We are trying to.
Peace out, homies. Peace in.
(*At the moment, not the seedier less hygienic interpretation of that acronym which I only know because of my work as an educator).