Sweet sweet wine, what does this future hold?
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@allaboutthegerman-blog
Sweet sweet wine, what does this future hold?
The unending pursuit of flatmates.
This should be a funny story. Or could be. Only, as I write this, I have tears streaming down my face as if I’m reliving heartbreak or am watching in replay ‘the one that got away’.
I never thought finding housemates would be easy. Nor did I think it would be so hard.
Firstly there was a lovely, bubbly, rotund Pom who exchanged bond money and agreed to get fit with me. With 1 week before her impending arrival, she texted to say she could no longer come.
Then there was my second UK flatmate; an endearing young girl with a cherubic face. I thought, hoped, this one would last. 1 month later she has to return home due to family illness.
In between, sourcing others has been horrifying and comedic. The male who demanded storage for his beloved motorbike wasn’t so bad until he also specified he didn’t want to live with crazy, violent, political or religious zealots. Errrrr me neither.
Or the lovely Asian lady enroute via ship insisting on paying 3 months’ rent in advance and then failing this, that I wire across the money myself. Huh?
Someone throw me a life jacket. I think I’m drowning.
Lights out.
The other species.
Facebook gave the clues, then my ex divulged the rest of the details in a ‘morning-after' sleep-encrusted phone voice.
‘It was a huuuuge night. I was one of the lucky ones - I only had to do one shoe-y.’
What’s a 'shoe-ey’ you ask? I asked the same question. It turns out to be better than a 'jock-ey’ which is beer strained and skulled through used jocks. Usually sweat-soaked jocks after a full day’s wear and a game on the rugby field. Couldn’t think of anything more appealing really. A forgone conclusion that this is solely a male beverage. As is the 'shoe-ey’. Drunk out of a used (recently) rugby or football boot.
It follows on then, that a justifiable conclusion could be that men and woman couldn’t be more geometrically opposed if they tried. Definite polar opposites wouldn’t be too big a stretch at times.
What woman would enjoy chucking back a pint of beer, strained through someone’s old, used undies? Or equally, quietly chuckle at the all-pervasive, knock-me-unconscious early morning fart of a colleague or partner in the confined space of a car or office. Only males.
How the hell do we end up with these primates? As the years wear on, women are becoming an increasingly attractive alternative, for intellect alone!
What has caused this? Is it genetics or socialisation? Admittedly testosterone and oestrogen are our Yin and Yang. A little bit of both is a wonderful balance, but too much in either direction can only be pleasurable for those with doses in equal measures. But surely this is not a factor that can change how men and women get on in the short space of one’s life?
So it has to be societal norms. What is paraded and celebrated by a culture? Well that is obvious. One only need look at the media. Guns, violence, sex and drugs are the vices of choice for our patriarchal society. And where do women fit in? With their extraordinarily good looks, slim waistlines, voices when requested to be heard and their well-developed cooking, cleaning and nurturing skills.
Thank you males, for the roles you have bequethed to us.
Yours sincerely, Females of the World.
Men-women, women-men, wo-men. It’s all rather confusing.
Beloved books.
Picked up a wonderful, grossly overflowing bag of books today.
As painting has come to a veritable end, I am in need of another hobby to sustain my obnoxious boredom.
Books come at me! What a luxury. All that is missing now is Flatmate #2, a dog and a fireplace.
Sometimes all it takes is a book… with a wine… in bed. #exhausted #cynicism #whatswrongwiththeworld #pickmeup #thekindnessofstrangers #lonelyplanet
The diary of a students’ pantry.
Overtime.
Working unsociable hours is not always desirable.
Like working Christmas whilst families are getting together. Trundling to work on a Public Holiday whilst all and sundry are glowing about an extra day off. Getting up before the sun rises and home with enough time to shower and grab a quick bite to eat. And treading the same path to work on the weekend whilst others are sleeping in and gradually unfurling their day with coffee, paper and sunshine.
However there is the odd occassion where life doesn’t seem so bad on the more-than-9-5.
Like driving to work and spotting the weekend carnage of vehicles broken or abandoned roadside, waiting to spoil the upcoming day of their owners. Or being indoors whilst it buckets down outside ruining weekend plans. And sometimes all it takes is a clear, pre-dawn run into the city without on an empty motorway to put a smile back on that dial.
Counting small pleasures.
Proud moment. My first Tumblr follower...
Spawning spam.
It is somewhat ironic that my first Tumblr follower is a randy online recluse posing as a near naked female with tush mid-rise promising all sorts of alluring sexual delights.
How this personality type could possibly find a synchrony with this page is beyond me. As a woman recently bereft of her partner, the thought of sexual relations is distant if not mildly unpleasant. And as previously mentioned, sexy, kinky attire is not only out of my budget but entirely impractical for bikeriding, 12.5 hours of seated office work and climbing ladders paint tin in hand.
However it’s not without amusement that I have noted then swiftly blocked this follower if even such a person exists.
The world of porn, seduction, debasement and wholesale of the female body is so foreign to me it almost (almost) sidesteps my consciousness. Whether it is a fortunate upbringing or a conscious choice growing older, this world is as surreal to me as being a shipmate on a pirate ship, a trapeze artist in a circus or a heroin addict slumped against a cold, tiled wall.
Drafting through a renewing selection of flatmates online, is a story unto itself. Attempting to judge a character, prise out flaws, and open ones home to an entirely new and strange human is revealing. You test your assumptions, your cultural boundaries, prejudices and ideals. And you quickly realise how separate and individual everyones life is.
I am not you, you are not me. He us not him and she is not she. We are not they. They are not them. Yet all of us gather as women and men.
Orig.
Time stood still.
Time.
I used to wish time would pass more quickly. That Spring would arrive in August, Summer in September and Christmas would be here before you knew it.
I used to wish I was a year older than the last. That my moderate bank account would grow faster than it could. That with each passing month my life would become bigger, bolder and more of an entity unto itself.
Now I simply struggle to keep up with the passing of time.
A very German wardrobe.
Baby steps.
Easing into a new life incorporating flatmates hasn’t been without trepidation. The OCD in me quakes at any type of chaos, major or minor, in the most scientific of senses.
Shoes inside, dirty dishes on bench, scattered crumbs, doors asunder, skids in the loo… so it is somewhat cathartic and therapeutic to have to release some of that control for the sake of keeping a house. And money talks baby.
Flatmate One’s room is closely resembling a teenager’s. Wet towel strangled amongst bed clothes, shoes strewn across new floor rug, study desk striped with rows of fragrance and makeup. But the washing. You’ve never seen anything like it… straight out of the washing machine and onto the clothes line without so much as a shake, flourish or peg.
Breathe.
The attire.
The conversation.
It goes without saying my wardrobe largely resembles the latter.
I am a highly practical person, diving into comfort over style. Unfortunate at times, as it is often observed that ‘clothes maketh the man’ and I am sure my friendship circles and career opportunities will be endlessly thwarted by polar fleece and sneakers. However, I will be ever-comfortable.
This digression into the contents of my wardrobe stems from a comment from a work colleague, then an ensuing conversation with my ex.
Unbeknownst to me I appear to come across as somewhat gender-neutral, or a less than feminine female. But thankfully, it appears to come down to my threads rather than solely my attitude. Slightly disconcerting, however, easily repairable one would think.
I certainly feel like I have my mother to thank for this. An avid Op Shop shopper, she is not whole without a secondhand bargain or a titillating discount. And makeup dares ne'er to brush that sunkissed skin.
And of course, she is German.
Practical clothes.
Leggings. Anything with a bit of ‘flex’ or ‘stretch’. Polar fleece. Sneakers. Walking boots. Low heels. Spongey inner soles. Denim. Cotton-polyester mix. Scarves, beanies, hats, gloves. Polarised sunglasses with sidewings.