Confessional Writing

I once dated a guy who told me he would never be a father figure to my child, made it clear he was going to medical school and didn't see me in the picture and regularly told me he was broke before bumming money off his father to travel with his guy friends.

He was materialistic and obnoxiously obsessed with brand names.

I now realize how much crap I actually put up with in that relationship and it infuriates me.

I genuinely hope that I never have contact with this person ever again in my entire life.

Back in the day I would get fed up and break up with him. Temporarily.

After a short time he would seem unattainable and tempting.

I would start thinking I was really in love and that our fights occurred because we were both passionate and strong willed.

I now hate my younger self for not walking away the moment he said he had no interest in my daughter. Instead I would always try to find a babysitter so he wasn't inconvenienced by her presence.

I fed off what I saw as a "tragic romance."

There is nothing romantic about a self-centered behavior and the only tragedy is that I put up with it.

I read an article on Salon today where a woman writes about having an affair with a married woman in front of her husband (and sometimes with his participation).

The married woman says a lot of meaningless romantic drivel with no actions to back it up and the author makes it clear that the woman was too comfortable with her life and money to ever leave her husband.

The author seems to feed off the misery and hopelessness of the relationship.

At first, I found her story obnoxious because I hate navel gazing/humblebrag essays meant to show others how special and amazing the writer and their experiences are.

These people write cringe inducing "dear diary" confessionals and become convinced they must share them with the world.

It's so involved being them.

They are the first ever to taste the forbidden fruit.

Everything in their life is rare, intense and uncommon.

You wouldn't understand but you should still read about it.

This writing requires the author to admire themself a lot and suffer under the delusion that others should admire them too.

The story isn't there to provoke deep thought or educate, it's there because the author loves to talk about themself.

What comes across with this writer is that she was in a destructive relationship with a woman who used her and cast her aside.

I can relate.

I really hope this gal gets to a point where she cuts contact with the emotionally draining individuals she mentioned in the story.

It will be good for her and good for Salon's readership as they will be spared from future confessional pieces about f-ing some guy's coked up hot mess of a wife and loving the disaster of it all.

Mr. Pee Pants

When I returned to the house on Sunday I heard the wail of the baby before I walked through the door.

The NPR had been babysitting him and has done so numerous times so I wasn't too worried.

When I entered his room, I was greeted by the sight of the NPR scowling and holding a bare bummed and wriggling baby.

She handed him to me with a look of the betrayed.

"He peed on me," she said. "I have to wash my clothes right now."

While she went off to sort herself out, I had a little chat with the offending party about diaper changing protocol and how it is considered "bad form" to wee on the changer.

I could tell by the way he wiped his nose on my jacket that my words had affected him deeply.

The NPR now refers to him as "pee pants" but time mends most wrongs.This too shall pass, etc.

Date Night

I had been begging pleading and whining to Nick about us needing a date night for some time.

One night, in a show of protest I stormed off to our local pub by myself.

I ordered a plate of fries, Jack and Coke and then sat on a couch pretending to understand what was going on during the televised rugby game.

The pub was crowded with a visiting rugby team as well as the locals and some older students from Lincoln University who want to appear like they aren't all about the thesis.

There was one particularly inebriated young rugby player who kept trying to give random strangers a high five.

Those of us sitting around the television grinned at each other when he attempted to greet a whole family this way.

After I had finished my drink I headed out the door and was promptly noticed by the drunk athlete.

I decided to humor him and give him a high five. This turned into a bear hug and a request for my cell number.

I said I didn't think my partner would like that to which he replied, "Hey, what happens on tour stays on tour."

"I'm not on tour mate," I said, walking away.

Inwardly, I was pleased that in certain low lit conditions heavily intoxicated young men would find me attractive.

"You've still got it Phillips," I said to myself.

When I told Nick what had happened he sulked.

Not long after this however, he found a fusion Mexican restaurant and date night was on.

Nick's choice was difficult for him. He said it's because I always judge the hell out of anything claiming to be Mexican and am likely to call it "inauthentic."

There is truth in this.

I have been a tad insufferable when it comes to Mexican manifestations in New Zealand.

I will now say to myself, No seas un pedo mojado!

Anyway, I was positively elated that we were going out.

We both wore our pea coats and looked like any other normal couple going out and doing normal couple things.

The restaurant Nick chose was called "Mexico" and it had the requisite artwork containing images of crucifixes, Frida Kahlo, Dia de los Muertos, and Lucha Libre.

What we were fed for the mains was not anything that I would have recognized as Mexican had I been blindfolded.

There were so many unusual flavor combinations that I felt like my brain might be getting sharper just trying to interpret all the new signals coming its way from my tongue.

The food was delicious even though most of it was unlike anything I had ever tried before.

We had churros for dessert and they tasted just as I remembered them in Mexico.

After dinner we went to see the new Melissa McCarthy movie Spy.

The film was very funny. Nick said it was one of the best movies he had seen in a long time and I enjoyed seeing another great, female-driven comedy.

Spending the evening with my favorite Kiwi was just what I needed.

Hurrah for date night and the date nights still to come!

You and Me and the Captain

Nick had a farewell party for two guys that had been working for him during their OE (overseas experience).

One was a young Brit who liked to DJ and the other was an even younger German who liked to write and had never done construction work.

I felt like I knew the German already because Nick was always doing impressions of his accent. He didn't keep those impressions to himself either, the German knew he was being mocked although, through translation lags, the full extent of the teasing was lost or delayed in its effect.

We took some steak, two packs of Beck's and a bottle of Captain Morgan.

Nick made me promise not to lecture anyone on social issues.

The party was held at the Brit's flat and his girlfriend/non girlfriend/look we're just cool with whatever/ was there too.

She was from Surrey and every romantic notion I had of the area from reading Regency literature was put to rest by her emphasis that it was the sort of place one wanted to get away from.

Some of their friends showed up and I didn't catch any of their names as per usual.

One of them was a girl in fabulous red heels.

Nick tucked into the rum and got more and more convivial as the night wore on.

On this particular evening, the German was mocked for having fabulous hair and dressing like he had just stepped off a catwalk.

The Brit had the same mixer as mine and we talked about it and the challenges of producing your own music.

At one point, I was sitting in a circle with the German, red shoes and one of the nameless boys and he was telling us a story where the tone implied that he had learned a few things in his old age (he was about to be 30).

I smiled when he looked at me uncertainly and said we might be the same age (as if I was the only one who could know what he was talking about).

One of the guys was Australian, something I would never have known if he hadn't told me so.

After more than two years in New Zealand I still can't hear the difference between Aussie and Kiwi accents and I'm beginning to think that they can't either.

As I was trying to get full mileage out of the German I studied back in 11th grade, the German suddenly became sentimental and told me he liked working for Nick and would miss him.

Nick was well into his quality time with the Captain by then and his eyes twinkled as he laughed and joked with the Brit.

I was happy to see him having a good time.

The Brit later told me he would miss working for Nick.

There was a lot of sampling of the devil's lettuce going on during the fete.

I've never smoked the stuff (probably never will) and I am still pretty uninformed when it comes to its use and preparation. I watched with untrained eyes as green mossy-looking leaves were ground up and rolled into paper.

The German started looking through his music library for a song he wanted me to hear before finally giving up and saying, "I can't find it because I'm too high right now."

The girl in the red heels told me she had come to Christchurch to go to rehab after using what is termed "legal highs." New Zealand recently outlawed the sale of such chemicals but not before many young people were made sick and had their lives ruined. The girl told me that the fact that the product was legal made it seem like it was safe, but it wasn't. Getting off it had been hard for her.

At around 1 a.m. I began to feel sleepy and told Nick I thought we should head home. I didn't want to fall asleep behind the wheel and defeat my purpose as the DD.

He said he didn't want to go home and I couldn't make him because, dammit, he was a man.

The Captain tends to make him slightly petulant but mostly lovable.

On the drive home he told me he loved me more than anything and that he loved Alex and the NPR and would do anything for us.

Before we went to sleep he told me he wanted to be with me and love me forever. I gave him a big hug and settled down on his chist hiyah to go to sleep.

In the morning he was powerfully hung over and emotionally delicate.

He acted as if he had somehow been compelled to get rummed up and deserved to be petted and pitied.

I was tempted to give a small sermon on moderation but the man works hard and I think he deserves to have a good time every now and again.

He still misses the German and Brit but thanks to the powers of social media I'm sure they'll stay in touch.