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Moata's Blog Idle

Moata Tamaira is a librarian with a black-belt in sarcasm who's been meaning to get one in procrastination too but always ends up watching TV instead. Her blog is an unholy mash-up of whimsy, cynicism and wry observation.

You must have been an average baby

09:30am 09 Feb 2010

54 comments

I don't have a baby. The reason that I'm declaring this up front is that it is understood that if you are going to critique people who do in some aspect of their parenting, then as a childless person you have to disclose that you're one of those vile "I don't have as much experience as you, but by God I've got an opinion and I'm about to share it with you, you lucky devil" people.

So what perceived shortfall in modern parenting am I going to weigh in on? Can you guess? Is it bedtimes? Is it birthday party oneupmanship? Is it those nasty blankies that some kids drag around with them? No, it's much more important than that. It's about accessories.

Accessories are pretty important to me. Though they may be small, they're significant. In much the same way that all the insects (horrible, bitey things) on planet Earth would vastly outweigh all the humans despite the difference in size, I'm pretty sure that all my shoes, bags and assorted embellishments would outweigh all the rest of my possessions (including a lounge suite and fridge-freezer). Of course there's no practical way of testing this hypothesis so why don't we just assume that I'm right (you probably always should, anyway).

But do you know who don't need accessories? Babies. Babies are, almost by definition, cute. Yes, you might occasionally come across a homely one but on the whole babies are stupidly attractive. Put me in a room with one and just watch me turn into a gooey, squishy mess with the vocabulary and intellect of someone with a sub-normal IQ. Babies have big "fall in love with me" eyes and soft, youthful skin. They have pert button noses and rosebud mouths. Putting accessories on a baby is rather gilding the lily, I think.

Which is why I have always scoffed at the elastic hairbands that some people strap on to their babies' heads. I have especial hatred for the ones that feature a little lacey rosette. For the record, I have no issue with hats or bonnets, but hairbands for people who don't as yet have any hair is as close to parental lunacy as one can get without CYPFS getting involved. Yeah, you heard me, putting a naff frou-frou band on to a head that's probably pretty damn gorgeous to start with doesn't make them look cuter, it actually detracts from the natural beauty of the child in question.

Scratching the itch

09:00am 08 Feb 2010

43 comments

I am trying hard not to think about my feet. I am trying extremely hard not to think about the skin on my feet. I am really struggling not to think about the pink, lumpen, insect-bitten skin on my feet. Clearly, it's not going too well.

That my fingers are engaged in typing this post is, at the moment, the only thing stopping them from feverishly scratching the inflamed skin on my feet. I appear to have about eight to 10 bites on each and they are driving me mad. The one on my left instep is engaging in quite a bit of attention-seeking behaviour at the moment. The real tragedy here is that, although I know that I have a tube of hydrocortisone cream, it appears to have deserted me just when I need it most. And before you ask, yes, I have checked in my handbag.

When I say that the itchiness is driving me mad, I mean that though I experience periods of lucidity when the delicate dance of sensation that plays across my lower extremities is merely intensely distracting, there are regular moments when the effect is almost mind-altering. The idea of scratching my feet is actually mouth-watering and makes me clench and unclench my fists. Imagining scratching makes my pulse quicken ever so slightly.

I was doing really well up until an hour ago but then I had a little "slip". I couldn't take it any more and ripped my shoes and socks off and had a full-on scratch-gasm. It was great, but of course I felt horribly guilty afterwards (and had a strong desire to have a cigarette, even though I don't smoke). I haven't been this distracted by itchiness since my leg was in a cast about a year ago. Of course, scratching an itch is immensely satisfying at the time but the sensation is decidedly fleeting and then what do you do?

Since then I've tried to distract myself with beauty, ugliness and Adam Rickitt but I'm seriously considering filling a chilly bin with ice and putting my trotters in it because thinking clearly is a wee bit challenging just now. It's either that or amputation, but I have way too many pairs of shoes to seriously consider that as an option.

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Thou shalt not kill

09:45am 05 Feb 2010

37 comments

Every generation bemoans the state of the world they find themselves in. Children are inevitably less respectful of their elders, modern music is rubbish, and society is slowly but steadily spiralling into a decline of violence, permissiveness and questionable fashion.

At least that's what innumerable talkback callers would say, if they were able to articulate anything, encumbered as they usually are by the inevitable frothing at the mouth that accompanies such radio call-ins.

But I have to say, I'm a little bit concerned at how many Kiwis are being killed or hurt at the hands of their countrymen and women. It's not on, people. Australians already outnumber us 5 to 1, if we continue at this rate, we'll have nobody left to mind the front door when they try to overrun us. It's only a matter of time before they figure out that we've got all the water and the Whittaker's factory. And when that happens, trust me, it'll be like a tanned zombie movie with them clawing at the doors. I'm almost completely certain that this is the way it will play out. Unless we were lulled into a false sense of security last winter and it really is the swine flu that gets us. Either way, "he who keeps his fluids up" wins.

So anyway, as I say, I've been a little bit worried by all the naughty, not to mention impolite, acts of violence of recent times and I think that we could all use some wise counsel on how to avoid committing acts of heinous carnage upon one another. Unfortunately I don't really have any wise counsel, I mostly just have wise cracks so that will have to do.

Moata's guide to not making other people sore because you got angry

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It ain't heavy, it's my handbag

12:36pm 04 Feb 2010

79 comments

In our commodity-obsessed world, the things that we gather around us can sometimes define us. Our identities can be tied up in these possessions. Are we a Mac people or PC? Do we feel more like we're Nike folk or Adidas? Do we buy our clothes from Glassons or Max or Jacqui E? We need stuff to tell the world who we are (so that our pathetic personalities aren't required to do the talking for us).

A roomy handbag And it doesn't have to be just the broad strokes of brand-loyalty that help us scream to the world "I am a chilled-out yoga-bunny", "I am very interested in my car and air-guitar" or "I am the Michelangelo of web-design". We can see ourselves in the detritus and minutiae of our lives too.

Let us consider a woman's handbag. I've often wondered if blokes find them miraculous receptacles. I know that I've been amazed on a number of occasions at being able to completely lose something inside it that I know for a FACT must be there, or alternatively, bring from its depths an unexpected item that perfectly fits my needs, or those of someone else at that time. It's fifty-fifty as to which of these will occur. I own several handbags (by "several" I mean "far too many") and they all behave this way, like a Tardis with a shoulder strap.

You could argue that the contents of a woman's handbag are a window to her soul, that the interior of her carry-all has something to say about her state of mind, preoccupations, hopes, dreams and desires. Revealing such to strangers would be tantamount to having an intense session with a psychoanalyst in front of them. You'd certainly never dump out the contents of your handbag and document it in a blog post.

So anyway, here's what's in mine:

Here come the brides

10:45am 03 Feb 2010

34 comments

When I was a little girl, there was never a day so filled with excitement, glamour and pageantry as the day my mum put up new net curtains.

I'll just trim off the hooks at the back There was nothing particularly special about the way in which my mother did this that made it a noteworthy event, nor was I strangely obsessed with window treatments as a child (though in adulthood I've developed a distinct animosity towards venetian blinds - but that's a whole other story). The thing about new net curtains going up...was that the old ones would come down. And that's where the fun would begin.

I'm not a particularly big fan of net curtains. They serve the purpose of obscuring the interior of your home - in which you might be...dancing in your underwear, say - from view but they have a bit too much of the "nana aesthetic" about them to be something that I can wholeheartedly embrace. And I personally think that "terylene" is one of the most wonderfully hideous product names ever invented. Once upon a time I adopted "Terylene" as my "Kath and Kim" name and would do what I fancied was highly entertaining improv comedy whilst sipping "kardonnay", and dragging my vowels out till they were "keeecking and scrooiming".

But back to my mother's net curtains. These were almost certainly being replaced because of the gaping, sagging wounds they'd suffered at the claws of one of our cats. Naturally they couldn't be employed as curtains any longer so as soon as they came down, my sister and I, and whichever neighbour or girlhood friend was around, would fall upon them with glee, gathering them up into bundles under our chins. Unfortunately they were usually a bit dusty and as a result the weirdly synthetic aroma of not-quite-clean net curtains takes me back to girlish dress-up sessions of a simpler time. For when we got our hands on those diaphanous strips of curtain we transformed ourselves into the ultimate example of womanhood. We became brides.

It was often difficult to fashion an entire meringue-like frock but sashes, trains and of course veils were totally achievable. It was like a pre-pubescent bridal Project Runway. It's staggering to me now just how into it we were at such a young age. Somehow we'd come to the conclusion by the age of nine that getting married was the most important thing a woman could ever do. No one ever told us this, we just knew that being a bride was the most awesome thing that you could ever hope to be.

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