Author

Lizzie Dean

A Tale of Two Puppies

Never Say Never.

The last blog I wrote, about the long life and times of our beloved family dog Scouser, ended with the sentence “… and yet, we won’t do it again…”

We had 12 months of a dog-free house, which was okay. But we were used to more than okay. We were used to bounding balls of fluff, tripping over dog toys, scruffles, walks with a purpose and life tinged with a hint of happy chaos. Even with all this in mind, I was determined not to risk the pain of loving a dog again. But then someone at work brought in an impossibly adorable puppy called Lemmy and it was Game Over. I started looking online. My husband, not needing any encouragement, joined the search. And then we found him; a little black-and-white fox terrier Schnoodle cross who we collected from a farm and called Ozzy. He was eight weeks old and it was love at first sight.

We’d forgotten about the puppy years: things have changed since Scouser was a pup. Some days Ozzy went to a puppy nursery where he was adored by the inhouse “Aunties” and then graduated to the big pups’ class. On other days he came into work with me, following me everywhere. He loved the beach, but not the water, played hard and slept hard, socialised quickly and loved a snuggle. He was particularly fond of chewing reading glasses and stealing things off the clothes dryer: he’d stop mid-skip when you called his name, a sock dangling from his mouth, as if by being still we couldn’t see him. He was a funny, naughty, wonderful, loving and loved little pup.

And then.

One night we were woken up by Ozzy being sick, which he did a few more times. It soon became apparent that he couldn’t walk in a straight line or even stand up, and then the seizures began. He was taken straight to the emergency hospital and within 24 hours he couldn’t breathe on his own: euthenasia was the only option. A scan revealed that Ozzy had contracted meningoencephalitis, a condition which causes catastrophic swelling in the brain. It’s not common, or genetic, or something you can vaccinate against. It was just horribly, devastatingly, bad luck.

Ozzy was 8.5 months old and we had him for 6.5 of those months. We brought him home in a little box with a print of his nose and paws, and spent the next little while walking around in a mix of shock and sadness, tripping over his dog bowl, wondering what to do with his toys, wondering why something like this should happen to a little puppy, and confirming that our dog-owning days were behind us.

And then.

I messaged some people with the news. One of those people was Emma, from the farm Ozzy had come from, to whom I sent occasional updates on Ozzy. I jokingly mentioned that, should they have another litter, could they let us know. They’re not breeders so it was a light comment at the end of a sad message.

She came back with “we do” and my heart stopped. I felt fear, excitement, then guilt for feeling excited, then fear again, in a continual loop. My husband, when told of this news, didn’t speak for an hour whilst he processed how he felt. Oz had only been gone a week. The new litter would be ready to take home in four. Getting a new puppy five weeks after the first one dies? No way. Getting the brother of the puppy you just lost after five weeks? Maybe.

Pictures of the new litter revealed some identical to Ozzy, and some that looked completely different. I canvassed friends for their opinions, and one friend – British, with a delectably dark sense of humour, said “Just get one that looks the same, call it Ozzy, bury your heads in the sand and pretend the whole thing never happened”.

As part of the decision-making process, we made what we called a compromise, deciding to visit the pups and make our minds up then. But we all know window shopping for a puppy is a sham. There were several who looked identical to Ozzy, which was wonderful and terrible all at once. We chose a little black pup with a white beard who toddled over and promptly fell asleep on my shoe. Really, Barney chose us.

Barney came home a month later and we went through a kind of deja vu. Ozzy and Barney are different dogs and yet very similar. They have the same taste in reading glasses, but we’re a little more savvy this time around in terms of hiding stuff. They also share an interest in socks on the clothes dryer but Barney’s method is more run away than stand still and become invisible. Barney goes on pack walks and comes to work with me, loves a tummy scratch and will do anything for some beef jerky. He eats his meals watched over by his big brother, whose memory lives on in all of us.

I still stand by my “get the dog” philosophy, even after 12 tumultuous months and two puppies. Ozzy’s story is thankfully played out very rarely, and as I watch Barney try to destroy his indestructable toy, I can’t imagine life without him.

August 9, 2024 7 comments

Deep & Meaningful I heart The March of Time

Farewell, Scouser: the joy and heartbreak of owning a dog

Our dog was supposed to be a cat.

Many years ago my husband went out to find a kitten for our daughter’s third birthday. We’d had many conversations about the type of pet that might suit this only child of ours: he was voting for a dog and I was firmly on the cat path. Although not a cat person, I was attracted by the idea of low maintenance; no room in my life for a pet who required lots of looking after. Definitely not. So off he went, one July morning, to find a kitten for our little girl. Cute, right?

And then.

A phonecall at work. “I found her! Just one thing though. She’s a puppy”.

“Absolutely not”.

“Just come and take a look and then decide. We don’t have to get her but just meet her.”

It’s the oldest trick in the book and he had me hook, line and sinker. I still don’t know if he even looked at kittens. BOOM, there she was, a whirlwind of soft grey fur, clumsy on her big paws, affectionate, snuggly and definitely our dog. She sat in my lap, curled up and looked disinclined to go anywhere else. We found out that she had been homed with a recently separated family: the mother had bought her to cheer up the kids, not understanding that puppies bring their own special brand of chaos to the house. It was too much, and she was returned after six weeks. So our puppy was a discounted, confused, return-to-the-shop who just needed a stable home and a family to love her.

Next thing we were taking her home with our daughter proudly holding her lead in a busy carpark on the way to the car – “Don’t let go!”. But she wasn’t letting go, and she spent the rest of her childhood holding on for dear life.

We named her Scouser, after the people of Liverpool where my husband was born. Generally speaking, Scousers are funny, tough, kind and clever. I’ve never met one I didn’t like (although I’ve met plenty I didn’t understand).

Our little triangular family became a square, and Scouser became our daughter’s constant companion, guarding her against any unknown adult who dared enter the property but welcoming every child with bouncy licks, furious tail wags and rolling over for tummy tickles. Patience personified, she was dressed up as a princess, used as a horse for doll races, covered in glitter and sequins and even wrapped up like a baby for domestic play purposes. She was a cross between a bearded collie and a schnauzer, so like a miniature English Sheepdog – think Nana in Peter Pan.

She got me off the sofa and out walking: just the mention of a walk would have her jumping in circles and we traversed the neighbourhood daily, getting to know the community, revelling in the sun, battling the wind or hunkering down in the rain. She had a very fetching Drizabone for such occasions.

Years went by with trips to the beach chasing seagulls, car journeys with head firmly out the window, frolicking on the trampoline, playfights, cuddles and snuggles. Time seemed to fly past in the wag of a tail.

As time went on, Scouser slowed down. The suggestion of a walk didn’t invoke the same enthusiasm; she was diagnosed with arthritis and given pain relief. Then sleeping became the most desired activity after eating; so we let her sleep. And then one day sleeping took priority over eating: then, we knew we had a problem.

A heart condition was discovered and medication dispensed, which kept her going in a comfortable place for around six months. But we knew we were all living on borrowed time. There is a thing called ‘anticipatory grief’ – when you process a lot of your grief prior to loss of life, and I think we did a fair bit of that. Suffice to say cuddles were number one priority.

And then one night three months ago while I was overseas, she sat up in her basket on the floor in our bedroom, coughed and lay back down again, asleep forever now. My husband and daughter sat with her through the night and for a lot of the next day, which was a Sunday. I was in Australia for a joyous family occasion and that Sunday was a surreal experience for me. I did manage to see her when I got back to Auckland at the pet crematorium: she was curled up in her basket still, snuggled and at peace with her favourite blanket on to keep her warm. The vet tells us this is the best case scenario: at home, with the family, and quickly. She was 15 years old.

Would I do it again? Absolutely not, and yes, in a heartbeat. I can’t recommend having a dog in the family enough. If you’re on the fence about this, let me try to pull you over the line. Children thrive with dogs in the house: they have someone to tell their secrets to, unconditional love is modelled unconditionally, and there is fun and laughter to be had. So, so much fun and laughter! It’s tough in the early days: puppies belie the chaos and stress they bring with their adorable little faces, but it’s worth it: that stage is just a blip in the life of a dog, if you’re as lucky as we were to have a dog that lives to a ripe old age.

And yet, we won’t get another one. Scouser was sent to us for a purpose: she bookended our kids’ childhood perfectly: arriving on her third birthday and leaving just months before she leaves high school. Her job was done and if dogs can feel pride, she would have been bursting with it.

So get the dog. Grit your teeth when it pees on the carpet and love it with all you have: you can guarantee it will love you back ten times harder. But remember when you do, a deal has been struck: it will end in a kind of heartbreak that is somehow okay because, well, you got the dog.

September 26, 2021 21 comments

Deep & Meaningful Random Stuff

Apparently, my clap is hugely irritating.

I have a method which requires some effort but guarantees a good, clear, loud, that-was-bloody-fantastic sound of appreciation. But occasionally, when I clap along to music in my own kitchen – my current favourite is cheesy 80s tracks on MTV Classic (I know, who does that, but come on, we’re all a bit weird), my family yell “Nooooooooooo!” grimacing dramatically and plugging their ears. Usually I stop clapping but continue doing something equally stupid but less noisy. Like I said, we’re all weird. And who can resist Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun? It’s all in the title.

Along with the annoying sound, I am compelled to use this clap as much as possible.

You know that moment when someone has addressed a large group of people, they round off their speech, stand and smile, sometimes nervously, usually in anticipation, and nothing happens? Crickets. Tumbleweeds. I die a little bit inside. I think possibly no-one likes being the first person to clap. Kiwis are a bit nervous about looking stupid. What if the person hasn’t finished speaking? What if no-one else claps? What if everyone thinks I’m a dick? Or maybe people just don’t give a shit. I prefer to think it’s one of the first three.

Anyway, this doesn’t happen often on my watch: I jump in, boots and all, with my irritatingly loud clap, and sometimes people jump at the sound, usually everyone joins in and it’s all okay. I can breathe again. I also have a very robust but irritating “Wooooooo!” which I reserve for concerts. I know how appreciated they are: I’ve performed on stage once or twice in my life and have been the happy recipient of a woo or two. You really can’t beat a good woo.

Tell Me More

Listening – proper, actual listening – is also a form of appreciation. And it’s harder than it sounds. Focus is a skill required now more than ever, possibly because it’s harder than ever to achieve. If we’re lucky, we all know someone who has that ability to make you feel heard: they’re not formulating their response as you provide yours, they’re fully listening to what you have to say, even when there’s noise all around. We all know people who are plainly waiting for their chance to jump in with their view. I think we all do it sometimes.

My sister had the gift of listening: we could be in a room full of people clamouring to say their piece, and if you were talking, she’d hold your gaze, nod encouragingly and just by the look in her eyes you knew she was thinking ‘keep going, I’m interested’. She had three daughters and this skill was massively useful when they all had something to say. She used to say her (second) favourite three little words were “tell me more”. And listening isn’t just good for the speaker: when we listen we learn stuff. Win-win.

On the Road

Does anyone else get warm-and-fuzzies when bus drivers turn on their hazard lights to thank you for letting them in? Or when the person who’s just given way for you raises their hand in response to you raising yours? Driving seems to heighten everything. I can be filled with gratitude and goodwill one minute, but then BOOM! Someone cuts me off and it’s a different story completely. Another blog for another time, but suffice to say it’s not all please-and-thankyou on my way to work.

The Gratitude Bandwagon

I know. We’re bombarded with gratitude advice these days. It’s supposed to improve physical health, improve mental health, improve sleep, reduce aggression, increase empathy, yada yada yada. And I also know that I’m writing this from an extremely lucky position, relatively speaking. Gratitude should abound, right?

Well, I gotta tell ya, I’m not always grateful. Waking up on the wrong side of the bed / the dog pissing on the carpet overnight (she’s old and incontinent, a glimpse into my future perhaps?) / running out of coffee / bad traffic on my way to work / insert any number of relatively insignificant events here / can put me way below the requisite gratitude benchmark. Is that wrong? No, I think it’s human.

But I am making an effort to remember all the things I’m grateful for. Sometimes I even write them down. Perspective is a great thing, especially when you zoom that perspective out on a global level. We’re doing okay. We’re doing more than okay.

I think that deserves a very loud round of applause.

April 24, 2021 1 comment

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The G Word

Tricky subject, grief.

When I started this blog my intention was to shine some light and levity onto the everyday, common grind. You know, those universal things like bad haircuts, phones dropped down the loo, generation gaps and people with capsule wardrobes.

Grief, I thought, was way too heavy for me to talk about here.

You know that saying, “there are only two things certain in life: death and taxes”?

Since I’m not writing anything about tax anytime soon (GST return banter, it turns out, is dry AF), let’s look at the former. Because that is universal. Pretty much everyone walking around on this earth has experienced it in some form. The older you are, the more likely it is.

When it comes to grief, my credentials are pretty strong, but there have been three standouts so far: my parents, and my sister. All three were completely different experiences and all three are with me still, just below the surface, carried around like a heavy weight produced by some kind of beautiful stone. The only thing I would swap out that weight for is having them back again which, at the time of writing, is highly unlikely.

I take these beautiful stones, each a different shade of the same colour, out every now and then to polish and tuck away again; sometimes they fall out without warning and I trip over them just when I think I have this whole grief thing sorted. I certainly don’t pretend to know a lot about this thing that affects us all in some way, at some point. But there are a few things I do know for sure:

Analogy No. 1: The Ball and the Box

I take no credit for this but it’s a good one. Imagine a box with a lid, and a button inside. Every time the button is pushed you’re administered a hit of pain. Now, place a ball in there. At first the ball is huge: it rolls around in the box, smashing into the button all the time and the pain hits A LOT. Gradually, the ball gets smaller. Every day it shrinks an infitesimal amount, still rolling around and arbitrarily hitting that button, which produces the same pain, just less often. The ball never disappears, though. Which simultaneously pisses you off and pleases you. Grief is confusing.

The Arbitrary Whack to the Back of the Knees

Minding your own business, whistling a tune, sun shining, tracking nicely. Look up, spot someone with the same haircut / smile / way of walking / voice as that person you’re missing, and BAM! An invisible force has taken a cricket bat to the back of your knees. If they’re especially similar, there may be a second or two where you inhabit a parallel universe – is that person really gone? Or was it all a dream and here they are, in the middle of your local supermarket? You buckle – sometimes physically, sometimes mentally, and sometimes both. People around you wonder if you have allergies, or are having a stroke, or (depending on your demographic) experiencing a hot flush. #awkwardpain

If In Doubt, Do.

I love talking about the people I’ve lost. Not in a maudlin, woe-is-me kind of way, but in a celebratory, wasn’t-she-a-boss kind of way. I know not everyone is like me; some people prefer to hold their memories close and personal. But if someone you love has lost someone they love, I suggest you test the water. No need to go in too heavy, just bring that person up in conversation; provide the opportunity to tell some stories. You’ll soon know if it’s not a welcome invitation. And, if they end up crying and telling you how they’re really doing, you’ll feel a little worse and they’ll feel a little better, which is part of the deal when you love someone. Symmetrical, right?

I’m definitely one for talking about the people we’ve lost but people tend to think it will be a mistake to bring them up in the conversation. Ironically thinking it will suddenly make you think about them making you feel sad, when the reality is you’re thinking about them all the time anyway and craving happy memories.
A very wise friend of mine; also a talker.

Sometimes It’s Good to Poke the Bear

Occasionally exposing yourself to something that puts you right in the middle of your grief can be a good thing to do. For example, I was once in a traffic jam on my way home from work when I decided to play a song that put me right back in my sister’s house some two years earlier. Admittedly, doing this in the car was not the best idea (I had to pull over) but it was cathartic and I felt strangely calm afterwards (although I haven’t played that song since and may not ever again). Doing this on the way home from work and not on my way in was a good idea as I looked like the lovechild of Alice Cooper and The Bride of Frankenstein by the time I got home. Hey, no-one ever said grief was pretty.

Analogy No. 2: The Beach

Imagine your grief is the ocean, and you’re standing on a beach. Initially, the waves are huge and frequent, and every time they hit you, you’re pulled out into a churning, disorienting sea. After a time, the ocean spits you back out onto the beach, gasping for air, clinging to life and wondering what just happened. And repeat. Only thing is, every time you’re deposited back onto the shore, you’re a little further up the beach. Eventually only the biggest waves can get to you. They still do, but you’re more prepared once you’re further up the beach. And less soggy.

Death Fuelling Life

Everyone who leaves us passes on this message: we only have so long. Every death serves as a reminder to the living that it’s one life, not a rehearsal, only so many days, and all the other clichés. Everyone who has left me has in some unknowing way encouraged me to cherish my life. And yes, I just used the word CHERISH with no apology.

So go on, tell the stories, share the memories, play the song (maybe just not in the car), watch the ball shrink and brace yourself for the cricket bat to the back of the knees.

And when you’ve done all that, live.

April 26, 2020 28 comments

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Lockdown Tips for My Pre-Covid Self

Well, that escalated quickly.

In some ways, it feels like only recently I was awkwardly elbow-bumping my way through dinner at our favourite local restaurant with friends (remember elbow-bumping? Remember favourite local restaurants?), chatting about how I’d taken my work computer home “just in case but really, I’ll be lugging it all back in on Monday”.

Cut to the next day, at the hairdresser, watching the press conference announcing New Zealand’s “Alert Level” system and just a few days later, news of Level 3 / going into Level 4.

And so it began: The Big Pause.

We’re over three weeks into Level 4 now and it has become the new norm in many ways. But take a step back and consider this from the perspective of someone looking on from three months ago. Weird, right?

So, just in case I stumble across the formula for that time travel machine (hey, they said to start a new project during lockdown), I’ve got some tips for that 3-month-younger me.

Dear Me,
Lockdown Tips for a Covid Age

Listen, I know the words “Lockdown” and “Covid” mean nothing to you right now. But soon they’ll be a major part of your vocabulary, along with some other weird shit that’s going on right now….

Zoom is Your Frenemy
You’re working from home, and thus, like millions of others, have embraced Zoom as a platform for virtual meetings. You’re a little afraid of it now, but soon you’ll be running that thing like a boss. Only thing is, even though there’s nothing personal on your computer, you’re still too scared to screenshare just in case there is. You know that feeling when you see a policeman and you feel guilty even though you’ve done nothing wrong? Similar thing. Also, you need to learn to keep your video function off until you’ve checked your hair / up your nose/ that there’s nothing in your teeth.

Makeup Doesn’t Matter
Remember those actual nightmares you used to have about leaving your cosmetic bag at work and having to go into the office without makeup on? Turns out, it doesn’t matter. Everyone has a face underneath that makeup and they’re usually pretty nice. Even yours. Chill out.

Life’s a Lottery and You Did Pretty Great
On the world stage, New Zealand’s handling this thing comparatively well. When lockdown happens, it’s a no-nonsense process, going hard, going early. With a couple of exceptions (wait till you hear about the guy coughing in the supermarket), everyone does what they’re asked to do, making for more than a few moments of quiet national pride, which I know we’re not usually into, but these are exceptional times.

You’ll Fangirl over Jacinda
There’s no getting around this: she’s OWNING IT. Partly because a lot of other world leaders are making her look good but mostly because she’s got a plan, and she’s sticking to it. Soon you’ll be basing your lunchbreak around the daily press conference, which usually stars Cindy and a guy called Dr Ashley Bloomfield who is like some kind of Clark Kent character with floppy hair and glasses, and you’ll marvel at Jacinda’s ability to navigate questions fired at her by the press. Some of the questions are pretty stupid.

Covid-Centric Advertising
There will be a whole new swathe of advertising centred around this virus. And it will be very similar, usually involving sombre, slow piano music and long pieces of drone footage of empty spaces with an emotional voiceover by a Morgan Freeman type actor, followed by a quickening of said piano music and some kind of uplifting “Togetherness” message. In spite of the same-ness of all these ads, they’ll get you right where it hurts, every time. Just go with it.

Ignore the Pressure
Social media will be full of suggestions and opportunities to BETTER YOURSELF. Why not take this lockdown time to learn a new language / get that bikini body / build a time travel machine? (Well, maybe try the last one because it’s the only way this message is getting through).

You’ll Love Your Dog Even More
I know, you think this is impossible. But you guys will spend a lot of time together and you’ll bond even more. She’ll feature on your Zooms, provide a welcome distraction from the boredom, lie at your feet while you work and follow you around so much that you’re in danger of tripping over and falling. But you don’t care because she’s definitely The Best Dog Ever. And you tell her that at least every half an hour. You’re both getting a bit fat because of the increase in respective treats, but like I said earlier, exceptional times.

Move Over, Major Tom
There’s this 99 year old man in England called Captain Tom Moore, who’s literally walking around his garden with his zimmerframe to raise money for the NHS and he’s going to make a lot of money and make you cry. When the news comes on, you make your teenager come out of her room to watch it because we all need this kind of thing in our lives right now.

You’ll be Separate but More Together
Remember when Skype came out and we tried to videoconference family in the UK, and we did it for a while because of the novelty factor but then stopped? Well it’s back, baby! In Zoom form this time, and you’ll wonder why you didn’t do this before now. Calls will be scheduled regularly with the people you love, both in other countries and around the corner, and sometimes you’ll sit with your breakfast coffee in your dressing gown, while they sip their after dinner wine, slightly pissed, and you’ll laugh, share stories, talk about nothing much because there’s nothing much to talk about, and just be together. A strange and lovely irony that this thing, which necessitates being physically apart, is bringing so many of us together.

Getting Up Early Will Seem Like a Ridiculous Idea
You know how you get up at 5.15am to go to the gym?
LOL.
Right now, you’re getting up in just enough time to have a shower and hit your desk, which is in the next room. You’re seriously considering the sense behind that early morning regime.

The Neighbourhood Tango
Every evening, when you’ve finished work, you go for a walk around your neighbourhood, which is much more civilized than a 6am spin class. And when you head towards someone coming in the opposite direction, so begins a balletic circular-swerve motion, sometimes necessitating walking into the road which is okay because there are no cars around. And with a shy, wry smile and nod of the head, you both acknowledge the barmy but necessary thing you just did.

We still don’t know how long this thing will run. Pace yourself. You’re fortunate enough to be in a bubble full of love and laughter but a lot of people don’t have that luxury, and you’ll think about that a lot, too. (Did I mention bubbles? Another phrase to add to your Covid-vocab, along with “lockdown”, “self-isolation”, “social distancing” and “PPE”).

One more thing. Buy some flour.

April 18, 2020 8 comments

Featured The March of Time

That Time I Stopped Drinking (and it stuck)

I didn’t mean to stop drinking permanently. We were only meant to be on a break, me and the Sauv. But, nearly two years later, it seems to have stuck…

On paper, it made no sense. I mean, I was pretty good at the drinking thing. It was all quite civilised really; nothing too “out there” – my twenties were spent bar-hopping in various countries and my relationship with my husband was based almost entirely on alcohol for the first few years (is that wrong?). Apart form a brief respite when I was pregnant, I was a consistent player with good form and no history of injuries. So why stop?

I blame the Baileys.

Nearly two years ago, I was looking forward to a Sunday night dinner with friends. We’d have a few drinks at home, followed by a few drinks over dinner, then I’d get up on Monday morning ready for the gym and carry on with my week. Right?

Wrong. Turns out, somewhere between the ages of 45 and 50, my ability to actually carry out all the steps outlined above with zero consequences vanished.

Back to that Sunday evening – we had a few drinks at home, in fact I think I had a few drinks before our friends arrived. Then we had more-than-a-few drinks over dinner: I don’t know why I was compelled to drink quite so much. The company was good, the vibe was relaxed and fun, there was no stress. Then we came home and had even more drinks (Baileys, to mix things up – what fun!). I was happily sloshed, nothing dramatic, no fiery arguments or embarrassing episodes, I didn’t even get to dance on one table. So far, so good.

I went to bed and woke up at 3am with The Horrors. Then I woke up at 6am knowing there was no way I was going to work, let alone the gym. Once I called in sick, something I never do unless I’m actually sick, I had that moment. You know the one – a voice in your head that shouts “FUCK THIS NOISE!”

The thought had been circling in the back of my mind for some time – years perhaps – but it was crystallising this one particular morning: it was time to stop drinking.

I was drinking moderately most evenings, and on those I didn’t I had a terrible sense of deprivation. When I accepted social events I’d subconsciously calculate the effect of the likely hangover that would follow. Occasionally I’d try to moderate but honestly, moderating an addictive substance makes me sad. I remember this from giving up smoking (addictive personality, anyone?). I’m an all-or-nothing kind of gal; a double edged sword.

So on this Monday morning I found myself really wanting to try and understand what it would feel like to not drink at all – an easy decision when faced with a hangover the size of a small planet. I decided to “give it a swerve” for a week and see how that felt. I joined the Living Sober forum, run by Lotta Dann, who wrote “Mrs D is Going Without” and read some pretty great books (listed at the end of this blog).

So began a series of “Firsts”.

First Friday Night
Ginger beer with a twist of lime got me through and I realised it was really only 6.30 (when I opened that bottle) till 9.30 (when I’d usually fall asleep on the sofa) that was the “problem” time.

First Dinner Party
I spent the entire day of this dinner party in an extremely grumpy mood, convinced that everyone would be having fun apart from me. I dreaded it. Instead, I turned up, cracked open the Kombucha, and proceeded to have a great evening, genuinely listening to everyone else and engaging with people instead of zoning out after a few too many. Who knew?

First Bad Day at Work
My default setting used to be straight to the fridge, glass of wine to ‘decompress’ followed by several more, and then I’d wake up the next morning, still facing the same issues at work (my boss back then was a real dick), but with a bad headache. This time, I sat with a cup of tea and told my husband all about it. He felt worse, I felt better. Marriage, huh?

First Argument
Tough one, this. When my husband and I disagree, which we do with healthy regularity, I would retreat to a wine glass, remove myself from his orbit and mentally check out. Now, I do all of the above but with a non-alcoholic drink, and my method for checking out is Netflix. Same, but without the headache.

First Party
Again, I dreaded it. We did shots. I had espresso shots instead of alcohol. I ordered outrageously garish virgin cocktails and danced. Sober dancing is possible, people! I did leave earlier than I would have before, but judging by the stories circling on Monday morning, this was just another of the many bullets dodged when living a sober life.

First Birthday
This was five months in and involved a Thai takeaway at home – friends visited with a cake and I was lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love me. Job done.

First Christmas
Slightly tough one, this. Eight months in but still the brainwashing that associated Christmas build up / stress / celebrations with alcohol was there. But the overriding feeling I got was how great it is to be clear headed, present and hangover-free throughout the season. As long as I remembered this, I was okay.

First Summer Holiday
Again, associations are strong and the first time breaking these can be challenging. But a combination of drinking exotic non alcoholic alternatives, walks on the beach at times I’d be either (a) drinking or (b) recovering and using the “fast forward” method (fast forward to later that night, or the morning after), made me realise that the beach looks, smells, feels a whole lot better with a clear perspective.

Each of these firsts was navigated with varying degrees of expertise, but there was one constant: at no point did I pick up a drink.

Now, I consider myself a non-drinker for real. And I’ve learned a thing or two about the sober life – here are just a few:

1. I didn’t turn into a bore
This one seems obvious but I’m ashamed to say I thought that drinking made me more interesting. Which is ludicrous considering my husband, who makes everyone laugh all the time, hasn’t had a drink for 18 years. Now, I can be around people who drink, have a laugh, engage in conversation – in fact, not drinking makes me better company because I don’t “check out” after Drink No. 4.

2. I’m Fit
There is no reason to avoid the gym these days. I used to push myself through the odd class with a hangover, which is now my definition of Hell. Now, I look forward to getting there and my fitness levels have increased massively. I’ve lost weight and my skin is better but most of all, I feel strong, vibrant and healthy. I haven’t had a sick day since that fateful one, nearly two years ago.

3. I’m Free
Calculating whether there was enough wine in the house / whether driving was an issue / what level of hangover I’d have in the morning / failing at losing weight because the wine and resulting hangover food blew everything out the window / spending money on wine every week / not being able to collect our kid from places at night because I’d had wine / is all gone. Not a second thought, zero f*#k$, given.

4. No-One Really Cares
For some reason, I thought I’d be walking around with a big neon sign above my head that said “SOBER!” But actually, once I told people, they were interested briefly and then moved on to other things. As long as I didn’t interrupt their drinking, or preach, or judge (which I absolutely do not do), they really didn’t care. And the people who love me most were my cheerleaders, making sure interesting non-alcoholic options were available when I showed up at their houses (there are a shit ton of amazing alcohol alternatives now).

5. Mornings Are Cool
I’m a morning person. I think I always was but the booze told me I wasn’t. Mornings are the best time for me to get shit done, making the most of my energy, before the rest of the world catches on. It’s a little secret about myself I only found out when I was over 50. Better late than never, I guess.

Stopping drinking wasn’t easy at first but with a few tools, I managed to navigate the choppy waters and now I continue to sail down the river of life, sometimes calm and peaceful, sometimes rough and full of white water, but never grounded on the rocks of booze. Hell, we had a party a few weeks ago, and I remember every fabulous second if it.

And I can still dance.

Resources:

The Unexpected Joy of Being Sober

Mrs D is Going Without

The Sober Diaries

March 8, 2020 13 comments

Places

Happiness is a Beach Called Ohope

In my happy place.

In the summer of 1974, I was a finalist in the Miss Junior Ohope Pageant. This was back in the days when beauty pageants took their show on the road across NZ’s beaches every summer in the name of some brand or other. When they hit Ohope Beach, I pitched up at the first sniff of potential prize money, elbowed all the other surnburned eight year olds out of the way and belted out “Long Haired Lover from Liverpool” by Jimmy Osmond* at the top of my voice. I can’t remember where I placed but I do recall my prize was a block of Icebreaker chocolate (I’d say that’s a third, right? And what happened to Icebreaker chocolate?)

*This became strangely coincidental when I later met a young man from Liverpool with very long hair and then married him.

December 19, 2017 20 comments

Can't Live with Them...

Grumpy Hat (Part 1)

Confession A
This is a thinly disguised opportunity to for me to wear my Grumpy Hat. This is a hat I try to keep tucked away in the back of the wardrobe, gathering dust, for as long as possible. I don’t really like wearing it; it’s kind of heavy and ugly and cumbersome. But sometimes I feel an overwhelming urge to take it out, dust it off and stromp about wearing it for a while, making metaphorical lists of things that piss me off. But now, thanks to you, Dear Reader, I can safely wear my hat while I actually compile a real list, and then put the hat back when I’m done.

Confession B
A lot of the things on this list are extremely trivial and unimportant in a first world kind of way.

Confession C
This is only Part 1. I think my Well of Annoying Things is very deep, possibly bottomless. Is that wrong?

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

Zebra Crossing Ingrates

I am an appreciator. Ridiculously so, some might say. So when someone stops their car for me at a zebra crossing, I practically buy them a cup of coffee and invite them round for dinner. At the very least I nod and acknowledge their willingness to stop for me. “Thanks for not running me over!” I think. “You pretty much just saved my life!” Conversely, when I stop for someone and they walk – slowly – to the other side without even a sideways flicker in my direction, I am incandescent with rage.

Dress Code Dictators

My social life revolves around close friends, usually at each other’s houses, with the occasional trip to a restaurant thrown in for good measure. My wardrobe is light. It’s not a “capsule” wardrobe, just light on stuff – so if I’m ever presented with an invitation that includes a dress code (“Smart Casual”, “Cocktail”, “Evening” etc) I freak out. What does it mean? Is it open to interpretation? What if I turn up with the wrong code? Will I be banished to the corner to sit with the other losers whose interpretation of Smart Casual was misjudged? I think in a previous life I must have turned up at a cocktail party wearing denim cut-offs; the anxiety is real.

Carpet Nazis

This one is controversial. Unless it’s for cultural purposes, please don’t ask me to remove my shoes when I come to your house. I promise to wipe my feet on your doormat before entering but if I’ve gone to the trouble to choose a pair of shoes to wear to your dinner party, let me wear them. Also I cannot guarantee that during the winter months my socks will smell of daisies so you know, you’ve been warned.

Slogan T-Shirt Deniers

So, you got a T-shirt with a slogan on it. In order to appreciate this gem of comedic wisdom, people have to read your T-shirt. Therefore, when I approach you in the supermarket, squinting to read what you clearly chose to share with the world today, please don’t look at me like I’m about to devour your firstborn.

Redundant Phrases that Don’t Need to Be Said

See what I did there? Personal favourite is “3am in the morning”. Just – don’t.

Middle Aged Hangovers

Okay, I get that my body is not going to spring back like it used to after a few too many sharpeners at the bar. But when I wake up with a headache and I haven’t even had a very big night, it feels a little unfair. I think my mind is catching up with my body slowly and realising that it’s just not worth it. But it’s a slow process.

Wait Staff Who Look at the Floor

I’ve never been a waitress. But I was a barmaid for a while and I remember being told that at all times we must be on the lookout for customers. If someone is standing at the bar with a credit card in their hand, chances are they need a drink. Similarly, if someone is sitting at a restaurant table waving furiously at you, chances are they need something. So please take your eyes off the floor / your colleague / the hot guy or girl at that other table and watch the room for us poor suckers who just need some more black pepper / wine / the bill. Hey, we all want to get home eventually, right?

Taylor Swift

I’m torn on this one. The minute she releases a new single I know the words, off by heart, within a day. And then I sing it, in my head, for the next month. I don’t want to do this. I have many other songs in my repertoire, some of which are not entirely concerned with slagging off ex boyfriends / other pop stars / Kim Khardashian. If I was a conspiracy theorist, I’d suggest there was more to it than just making catchy tunes. If you think about it, she could summon an army of sorts at a moment’s notice.

Okay, thanks for staying with me, I’m done for now. I’ll take the hat off. I feel better for the vent. Consider your good deed done for the day; it’s a public service of sorts.

I’ll be just fine now. Until Part 2.

September 28, 2017 10 comments

The March of Time

A Reciprocal Musical Education

Our 14 year old spends a lot of time in her room, listening to music. I did the same thing at her age – for me, it was The Police, Blondie and The Cure. We had a two-storied house so my parents were blissfully unaware of my musical choices. Not so now – as I write this in the room next door, I’m second-hand listening to Meghan Trainor, Beyonce, Khalid, Drake and Rihanna. Mixed in with all this are The Spice Girls, Dionne Warwick, Stevie Wonder, Suzi Quatro and The Clash.

Scary Ella

She has Spotify so the world is her oyster in musical terms. Just like I listened to my father’s old records in the 70’s, our kid has picked up on our subtle clues pointing back to music of decades gone by and explored them. I’ve learned that I can’t be too obtuse with my recommendations; she may never listen to Ella Fitzgerald again, thanks to that time I practically locked her in the house to listen to The Cole Porter Song Book. I hope I haven’t scarred her for life, Ella-wise.

Scary Spice

So we’re starting light. MTV recently aired a show called “90s Chart Toppers” which I suggested (okay, insisted) that we all watch together: the next day she was all over The Spice Girls, C&C Music Factory and a little bit of Dee-Lite. I was disproportionately delighted to hear “Groove is in the Heart” coming out of her room. I may or may not have actually danced the whole length of the hallway, carrying a laundry basket at the same time (how things have changed since 1990). We’re building up to the classics and her father’s taste in music is definitely an acquired one for a teenager. Actually, it’s an acquired taste for an adult. On long car journeys I make up a Democratic Playlist on Spotify, which incorporates favourites from all three famililal points of view. It can get interesting. Although she has embraced Suzie Q and is working her way towards David Bowie and Pink Floyd. It will take some time.

Scary Mum

In parallel, I’m learning a few things about music. I have a new appreciation for Beyonce and I no longer absolutely hate Drake. I know the lyrics to most of her favourite songs, although I’m not allowed to sing them, like, actually out loud. Apparently I can sometimes be, like, seriously embarrassing. Which is a massive coincidence because my Mum was too, when I was 14.

Scary Split Enz

My first gig was the brilliant Split Enz in Palmerston North around 100 years ago. I was 14. Mum didn’t come with me. She did ask me not to wear too much makeup and so obviously my response was to cake on the Shiseido like there was no tomorrow. In the right light, I could have passed for a very young drag queen. But in comparison to the band, I may as well not have bothered. Heavily made-up, they were ominous and hilarious all at once: there were a lot of moody numbers amidst clouds of dry ice. It was completely thrilling and I came away convinced I needed to:

(a) wear more makeup
(b) become a pop star and
(c) spend more time backcombing my hair.

I did two out of three of these things; no prizes.

Scary Gigs

Ariana Grande played Spark Arena in Auckland recently, and I was there. Our kid is on the cusp of “solo-gigging” but I’m not ready to let her go just yet. Some of her friends head to gigs without an adult in tow: I’m sure they’re just fine but I still can’t do it. So I’ve come up with a cunning plan: I’ve booked tickets for Lorde, The Weeknd and Katy Perry, keeping her well and truly under my wing, concert-wise, till she’s at least 15. It has absolutely nothing to do with me wanting to see the acts also. No, I’m taking one for the team, getting down with the kids in spite of myself, sacrificing a nice evening in with a cup of tea for the safe musical education of my daughter.

She’s welcome.

September 14, 2017 6 comments

Can't Live with Them...

The Reluctant Netball Coach

There are two types of people in the world: competitive and non-competitive. I fall into the latter category. The very idea of competition makes me break into a cold sweat. What if I lose? That would suck. What if I win? That would suck for someone else.

In primary school, Fiona Douglas and I had a cross-country pact: we would run at the back and cross the finishing line with such synchronicity that the teachers couldn’t possibly tell who had come last. Except she got in before me. So I lost. Out of the whole school. I think it was planned all along.

I played only one sport throughout school: netball. I wasn’t bad at it – as goal shoot I just needed to practice a bit and if our team were doing badly I got to strike up a conversation with my opponent. I used to cycle to the netball courts on wintry Saturday mornings in Palmerston North, play a game and then hang around to watch my friends play whilst consuming my body weight in K-Bars and chips. We wore possibly the most hideous netball uniform of all time – a red top with a bobbly, woolly, black-and-white horizontally striped skirt, elasticated at the waist for extra comfort. Move over, Sharon from Kath & Kim.

Fast forward 28 years and there I am, with a little girl who wants to play netball.

“Awwww. That’s fabulous, darling. I played once, donchaknow. I wasn’t bad either, as it happens”.

“Mummy, we need a coach and you said you were really good so I said you’d do it”

Right, then.

My first team, of six year olds, were called the Dragons. Which made me the Old Dragon. They were cute and frustrating in equal measure and would race around the court en masse, squeaking at each other for someone – anyone! to throw the ball to them. I’d dish out lollies to the player of the day and everyone got stickers on their netball court diagram. Looking back, The Early Primary Years were my salad days, netball-wise.

As the years went by and the girls got bigger, things became a little more competitive – not my strong point, as I’ve mentioned. And really, a competitive streak is quite handy if you’re in charge of a sports team. By Intermediate I realised the other mothers who were coaching were actually quite good at it. Like, they had strategies and stuff. They would talk logistics with their teams and dish out punishment drills for bad behaviour or a lack of focus. There was an unfortunate incident involving the use of the main court for after-school practice and frankly I decided life was too short to go to Netball War with this particular mother who would have given Lois Muir a run for her money: my girls made do with the basketball court that week but we had a much better time than Lois’ team.

We won a few games and we had a good time. We even managed to win a couple of finals here and there over the years. I’ve hung up my whistle now, though. High School netball is way too rich for my blood. Even the girls know more than I do. So I stand on the sidelines, a safe distance from the coaches, making encouraging noises, telling my insanely competitive daughter to calm down, it’s only a game (she gets it from her father), resisting the urge to bring lollies for the best player at the end of the game, and thanking God someone else is doing the coaching.

August 31, 2017 15 comments