Finding gods

We've been watching a TV series called John Safran vs God. It's really quite interesting. Safran's an amusing Aussie who, in this series, explores a wide variety of religions around the world.

Although he's funny, he doesn't mock the faiths (okay maybe a little, but only occasionally). He's (mostly) genuinely curious and open-minded, whether he's trying to find enlightenment in a Buddhist monastery, participating in a Voodoo ceremoney or being smeared with chicken blood in an African magic ritual (to undo a curse on Australia's soccer team).

So, really, this show would be more accurately titled John Safran looks for God.

The last episode was really quite freaky. Safran decides that all his toe-dipping into the religious pools around the world may have left him vulnerable to demon posession and visits an exorcist. The freaky thing is that, in the exorcist's hands, Safran really does behave like there's something bad and weird in there somewhere. Even his camera crew admit they've never seen him act like that before. It certainly didn't look like an act to me. The whole thing ends with Safran, who is Jewish, giving into the exorcist's pressure to become Christian, as "the next step" in his cure.

Unfortunately, there's no debriefing afterwards - so we're left with no idea as to what Safran remembered of the experience later, or whether he regrets giving up his Jewishness.

A party

What a week - it started with funeral service, ended with yet another cold and in the middle was a (in my humble standards) great Guy Fawkes party.

The party was held at a co-worker's home up in the hills overlooking the harbour. She has this amazing house whose walls are almost completely comprised of glass and it sticks out from the hill like a big glass elevator on one of those fancy high-rises. I only knew the hostess and two others, but the other guests were really easy to chat to, so I had a really nice time. It reminded me of the old days when I used to go to parties full of strangers and pretend to be tiddly just so's I'd have an excuse to brazenly break into conversations uninvited.

At 9pm, we all went out onto the deck to watch the fireworks display on the harbour. Nothing beats actually being on the harbour, craning your neck to watch the lights explode like an imitation supernova, but even from the hills it was quite spectacular.

It was also bloody freezing, and all because I was too lazy to go downstairs to retrieve my jacket.
Is it just a coincidence that I've now got a cold, or is it really possible to "catch a chill"?

We said goodbye

Funnily enough, for a person who claims to have far too much black in her wardrobe I did not have a plethora of funeral-friendly outfits. Of course, it didn't really matter what anyone wore, because our faces were not exactly festive.

The place was completely packed; cars parked each other in and there weren't enough chairs for all the folk who'd come to say goodbye. The casket entered the room accompanied by a Maori chant which I don't know the name for - like a powhiri but probably different. Members of the family and old friends, often overcome by emotion, recounted anecdotes from the editter's life and reminded us of the qualities that endeared her to us - the super-quick wit, the scarily sharp memory, the ease with which she made friends and her way with children.

Of course, I teared up as soon as we arrived and didn't stop until the end of the service.

I would have liked to stay after the service ended; to join in with the the reminiscing would have made it easier for me to walk away with happy memories in my head. But I had to get back to work, so we said our goodbyes to the ones we knew - only to return because someone's little blue Chevrolet Cruze had parked us in (which no one would admit to owning, but which mysteriously disappeared soon after I made the request public).

No more Letters from the Editter

My dear friend, who was ill for the last few months, has died.

I can't think of anything to add to that, except "Goodbye - I'm gonna miss you".

Our battery collection

For months now, I've been avoiding putting our used up batteries into the household rubbish - because somewhere, I read or heard that those things are full of heavy metals and ought to be disposed of in a special way. So I hung up a plastic shopping bag to collect them, fully intending to find out where they should go and then taking them there.

The bag has gotten pretty heavy by now, and the boy voiced fears that it can't be healthy having a big bag full of toxic thingamies hanging around in the kitchen. So I finally got around to going on the 'Net to find out what I'm supposed to do with it.

And it turns out that there is nowhere nearby that recycles them.

So into the kitchen bin they go.

lunch date

The boy asked me to look after TLM for an hour in the middle of the day today, and I thought, cool - I can take her out for a fluffy and then check out the Yayoi Kusama exhibition together.

It was only for an hour, and that hour went by so quickly -

She charmed the pants off my co-workers.

We had lunch at a nearby cafe (a fluffy and a sausage roll for TLM, a hot chocolate and a potato-top pie for me).

TLM insisted on climbing over every raised flowerbed.

She hugged each and every one of the koru (unfurled fern fond)-shaped pillars surrounding the Civic Square.

We checked out the polka-dotted City Gallery facade (it sooo reminds me of the Dr Seuss as Robert Lopshire book, "Put me in the zoo", about a spotted creature who can throw his spots onto any surface). But we didn't go in because the queue was too long.

TLM ran free and wild around the Civic Square, leaping about on the boat-shaped seating and frolicking on the grass.

Bliss.

When plus-size women can't be plus-size models

I read the other day about the tiny-sized Ralph Lauren model who was sacked for being too fat. She's a size 4, which means she's about a size 10 in New Zealand sizing. Now, you know and I know that that is not fat. And apparently the preferred dress size for a plus-size model is 8-10 (which is probably about a 14 in NZ sizing).

Apparently the reason models have to be so thin, is because the sample clothes that designers send in to be worn on the catwalk (and in the magazines) are so small. And the reason they are so small, is to save money on fabric.

Well, I have the solution.

Why doesn't the fashion industry just model all new collections on Barbie dolls?
The construction might be a bit fiddly, but they'd save a ton on fabric.