I don’t usually take my camera to the bar, not usually. This is because I know that I could end up anywhere, and that at 4am I’m not going to know where my very expensive, very precious camera is. So its always very exciting to discover bar adventures on Facebook the next day.

So I’ve had a few brilliant nights there this month, I think each of those is a confirmation on how I should NOT take my camera . . . Highlights, then:

* Dancing to the only Jimmy and the Goodbrew song I know (Golden Rule <3)

* Having @lellobot be home, and having her leaving drinks at the bar.

* The bartenders call of “Shots!” and having him pour me a sweet strawberry something, and everyone else something foul like Patron.

* Sitting around in the courtyard bitching with the Staff, both new and old, after closing.

* So much Square madness. So. Much. Madness. Square <3!

* Having the French Glassie teach us to say silly things in french, and letting us butcher it rather horribly (“Tu êtes une singe pute!”)

* Teaching the French Glassie english words like “Goober”

* Winning a stupid amount of pool games with tin-ass shots.

* Sitting around in the closed bar with my besties (<3 Lyth + Zes!), impressed that they came down in the early hours of the morning

* Watching the College Rifles Rugby team take of their clothes in punishment in Kangaroo Court

* Sneaking shots from behind the bar

* The mad affection which comes from having a family bar

Yeah, its been pretty brilliant. I’m not there as much now, but when I am, it works for me.

Two weeks ago, in a cocktail bar, I met a boy. A friend of a friend. I’d met him before (although briefly) on several other occasions (I sat next to him at a screening of The Goonies, once) but I didn’t really know him, I’d never really had a conversation with him. It’s pretty safe to say that while I knew his face, I didn’t at all know this person.

So there’s this boy that I don’t really know and he tells me that he’s read my blog. Apparently, quite a lot of it.

My brain immediately flicks back to all the stuff I’ve written at rarg. The break up with The Ex. Moving from one hated job to a brilliant one. Loosing friends. Starting companies. The 365 Project. Ending client relationships. The Square. Sex. Starting The List. The adventures at the bar. Adventures anywhere. There is about two years of juicy, intimate details right there, ready for a stranger to help themselves to.

I asked him what he’d read, and even before he answered I decided I didn’t really care what he’d read. That I was okay with what I’d written being public domain. Knowing that mostly, the last six months have been super emotional, super mad, and knowing that this was the way I figured things out, found clarity, and gained the support I got and still get from people was by making all that emotional muddle public. Was worth strangers knowing how I felt about my ex and our break up. How I felt about being single, and meeting new people and dancing those really ridiculous dating dances. About all the insecurities and outbursts and personal growth. Fuck it, really. I posted it all, and generally I was fine with that.

Then he got all vague and said he’d read ‘enough’. That was what I’d posted was brave, and honest and that was rare. He didn’t make any comments about my life, about what I written, about how I was feeling or the decisions I’d made. And that was enough to make me curious. That he wanted me to know that he’d read the intimate details about my life, but didn’t want to discuss them with me. He said he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Curious.

So today, I went and re-read the last six months worth of posts.

And with a new perspective, I protected half of them. (If you’re curious too, email me and I’ll supply the password).

Last week I wrote post about stepping back, and taking time to figure things out (its the post with the whoopie cushion photo. Oh yeah, you remember that one.). I think this ties in nicely with this. Those old posts were a brilliant avenue for support and self-discovery. People from all over the place reached out and helped me find my feet, because I wrote so openly about what I felt. It was helpful for understanding what I felt, finding clarity in what I wanted, who I wanted to be and why.

But I’m on my feet now. I know what I want. And why. Mostly, I’ve figured some things out.

I think I’ll always blog about my life in some way or another (heres why) but like I said last week, I think I’m going to take a step back and hold some of these precious melodramtic moments for me.

And I think that’s less me being self-conscious. I’ll always be willing to talk openly and honestly about my past, with whoever. I think its more about me being a place that’s different from then. About being able to sit at a cocktail bar with a boy I don’t know, and have him not dance around knowing the intimate details of my past.

So, the last week or two has mostly been posts of moments. Museum visits. Kelly Tarltons. Nice happy, incredibly distant, less intimate posts about the adventures I’ve been part of.

And I met up with a friend who said, in passing, ‘pfft, that isn’t you, with your posts with no weight. You’re more than just pretty pictures, you know. That’s why people read what you write’.

Really? Do you really read what I write because I spill those intimate details, share the drama, and post videos of the tears I shed? Really?

I guess what I’m trying to say here, is that I’m still figuring it out. Writing posts with no substance is kind of difficult. And I’ll loose enthusiasm for blogging that way. In saying that, I’d prefer cute boys in cocktail bars asked me about my life, rather than read it from the internet. So where’s the line between what’s postable, and what’s not, hey?

What’s your rule of thumb?

This is what happens when The Fourth Quarter says he wants to bake more, and when I discover that food colouring is stupidly cheap.

Brilliant, no?

A few weeks ago, some guys from work took me down to The Armory, which is basically an airsoft arena for close quarters battle. In short, its a bit like TF2, or any of those first person shooter type games, except real. Instead of playing with a screen and a headset, you don safety gear, get given a big giant (and also fake) gun and off you go.

You run around the arena and try hit the opposition. Its hard work, and painful, but an awful lot of fun. Or so I suspect. When I went I was dressed in a skirt and tights, and wasn’t brave enough to get in the arena. I shot for a bit in the range (which, once I started hitting the targets, delighted me no end). And I watched through the windows as the boys played in the arena. It wasn’t unlike watching The Ex play all his computer games, except that it was a billion times more awesome. I have alot more respect for boys that get out there and actually play in arenas like this, rather than sittin at home and playing the games over the internet.

I’m pretty keen to get involved next week, if I can. The social atmosphere was brilliant, all the guys were super nice, all decked out in camo gear and fancy masks.

I am slightly apprehensive about the mentatlity of actually SHOOTING at someone . . . its a bit different from sitting in front of a screen, cackling as you charge someone with a flamethrower. I know they have safety procedures and things so the guns can’t be mistaken as real ones, and so you can’t actually hurt anyone. If I hadn’t seen how much fun it was, if I hadn’t shot at the targets, and if I had been itching to get into the arena, I would probably turn my nose up at it.

But I did see how much fun it was, and I did shoot at the targets, and I was itching to get into the arena. I’m so going back. I’ll let you know how it goes . . .

Auckland Museum has this great initiative on, in that if you live in Auckland it’s free to go visit. So, while Liz was back we trekked up to the domain and had a look around. I totally <3 the Museum. I love wandering around the exhibitions, particularly the Maori Court section. I’m so in love with the Maori Portraits done by Goldie. Something about them seriously touches home. They are pretty brilliant.

I also get a huge kick out of the Dinosaur exhibits. I’m pretty sure they are replicas, but when your standing next them, their sheer enormity is pretty brilliant. Being able to see the difference in skeletal structure between a carnivore, a herbivore. Between a land-based dinosaur and one that swims.

Brilliant, right?

I’m not a soccer fan. I’m really, really not. I can count on one hand how many soccer games I’ve witnessed, and only ever in support of The Second + Third Quarters. So, I really didn’t expect to watch the All Whites play Slovakia in their first game of the Fifa World Cup. But I did, thanks to The Fourth Quarter, and I did it in a pub packed with people, sitting close with The Square, all warm and happy. We took mock bets on who would win, and by how much. Some of us were patriotic. Some thought they were being realistic. Some were mad. At this point, I was happy to be somewhere warm, and was trying desperately not to fall asleep.

But there is something pretty brilliant about the atmosphere of a crowd who so ready to support their national team on the world stage. It was SO easy to get caught up in the game, to be excited, to cheer when things were going well, to protest when it wasn’t. To mock (with affection) the keeper who can’t kick, and cheer in support when the same keeper stops the opposition from scoring. To yell insults and praise at a screen. The ‘What are you doing?!’s and ‘Down the line!’s, and ‘Take him off! He’s f*cking useless!’s. Laughing and jeering and cheering all in one. We were all standing so close, huddled together, clutching our beers, or cranberry juices. Comments about skill, and strategy flying over our heads from those around us.

It was pretty brilliant. But sadly, I left at half time to nip home, and watch the second half from the warmth and safety of my lounge. I shouldn’t have, I should have stayed. Because in the last few minutes the All Whites, the brilliant brilliant All Whites came back, and scored a goal, winning a draw from Slovakia.

And, for someone who isn’t a soccer fan, who doesn’t know the players, or the rules or much about the game, I wished that I’d been back at the pub with people who did, people who understood. Because I cheered, standing on my couch, arms raised in the air. I cheered by myself, loud and stupidly proud of a team I don’t know, for drawing in a game I don’t understand.

I’m excited about the next games, now. 2am kick offs be damned. I’m going to be in that pub with those people. I’m also that girl that filled out all the scores in the Heralds World Cup Game Results chart at work this morning. I think this what they call patriotic pride. Go the All Whites!

A few of us (The Second Quarter, my girl JZ, Liz and I) visited Kelly Tarltons last week, which is Auckland’s Aquarium. It’s been a while since I was there last, and its changed a fair bit. They’ve switched the way you come in (so the entrance is now the exit, and the exit the entrance) which confused me for a bit.

The tunnels are still the same, for which I’m glad. They have these giant underwater tunnels, which have glass domes and converbelts, which mean you can wander through the tanks and watch the fish and sharks and things swim above you. I have some pretty fond memories of camping overnight in the tunnels on a school trip when I was all of six years old.

The penguins are still delightful (watching them swim in and out of the water is pretty amazing) and I’d forgotten how giant the sting rays were. They’ve also added a cafe, and the interactive area I probably would have appreciated more if I was maybe 20 years younger, or had children. Still, JZ and I climbed all over the sculptures and things they had. The Second Quarter broke one of the displays demonstrating the strength of a squids sucker rings.

Generally a fun time was had. It was a pretty brilliant way to spend an afternoon.