19 types of clothes you couldn’t possibly get rid of

Ever wonder why your wardrobe is always overflowing with clothes, but you have only two outfits you wear? This is the secret–19 types of clothes it’s impossible to get rid of.

My wardrobe doesn’t have an ever-expanding interior and, though you might not guess it from looking at me, I do occasionally buy new clothes. Put these together, and you reach the occasional need for me to get rid of clothes.

Naturally I avoid this activity as long as I can, but eventually it becomes hazardous to my health to not deal with the problem.

I go into the task optimistic.

I’m sure I have only two pairs of pants I wear regularly, a couple of tops, a jacket or two, and maybe some socks and underwear. It’ll be no problem to pare back my wardrobe to a quarter full.

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The glorious and sad saga of the driveway from hell

I think my driveway is glorious, but many people hate it. Read for yourself and decide who’s right.

The driveway from the road runs along a valley, winds around a hill, climbs steeply past the orchard and chook house, and finally drops to my house. It’s 800 metres long. (I’ll tell you how I know this shortly.)

It’s home to an unreliable rabbit named Nicholas Augustus, several families of quail that appear each year with their puffball babies, and occasionally a mysterious cat (probably hunting the quail).

Taxi drivers vs the driveway from hell

I travel to Auckland quite often, and the taxi drivers who arrive at the house at 5:30am to pick me up inevitably have one of two reactions:

Reaction 1: What a terrifying driveway! I almost didn’t make it here. Do you actually drive up and down it?

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You’re obviously a very calm person. What’s your secret?

Every person who stops me on the street and tries to convert me to an Eastern Religion uses the same line, and I can see why. It’s an excellent line.

I work in the part of town where the twanging and screeching of buskers rebounds across the streets, adults in bibs holding plastic buckets stand on the corners collecting for the charity of the day, and pigeons bathe in the splash of the fountain.

I try to avoid the street as much as possible because, you know, people, but sometimes I’m hungry, in need of coffee, or I have a meeting down the far end of town, and I’m forced to venture into this madhouse.

When I do, there’s another type of person who often steps into my path and engages me in inescapable conversation.

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Thoughts dredged up by #MeToo

The #MeToo campaign–which encourages women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted to speak out to show how widespread the problem is–has made me stop and think. I’m not going to detail any horrific incidents in this post, but if you find the #MeToo conversation triggering you might still want to skip it.

When Twitter broke out in #MeToos, my first instinct was to feel incredibly lucky that I’ve never been sexually harassed or assaulted and sad and angry for all the people who have been.

We shouldn’t have to live in a world where women are lucky if they’ve never been sexually assaulted. That should be all women.

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I’m not short, you’re short. Now stop it.

I’ve been told I’m short, which I thoroughly dispute. Here are my guidelines for how tall you should be–for everyone’s sake.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a scary person, but did I also say I’m of normal height? I’m five foot three and a half inches, which I swear is exactly average for women. If you don’t believe me… look, just believe me.

On occasion, people have told me I have short legs. I don’t. They go all the way to my feet, which reach the ground.

Clearly my legs are the perfect length.

But today I don’t want to talk about my height. I want to talk about your height.

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