Awww

I want this specific kitten. Now please.

Three simple reasons why it needs to snow

This time last year we were up to our armpits in glorious, white, powdery snow and Simon was sending everybody he knew panicked texts like “What do I do now?”

Sigh. Memories.

This year the temperature has done its part in dropping to sub-zero levels, but the snow hasn’t arrived yet. It’s very upsetting because – not sure if you’ve noticed – the cold isn’t much fun without snow.

So here are three reasons why it should snow RIGHT NOW:

Number 1: My health

I can’t fathom how it can look so warm when it isn’t, and therefore base all of my outfits entirely on what the weather looks like (warm, gorgeous) rather than what it feels like (an unwelcome reach-around). The fact that our apartment is set to a default temperature of “the centre of the sun” doesn’t help matters.

So yes, I have left the house in nothing more than a light spring jacket on many an occasion. Well no, sorry, I was wearing pants too. But I fear it’s only a matter of time before they get left behind.

Number 2: Munich's entertainment

The Christmas markets are opening on Thursday and the winter Tollwood festival on Wednesday and, obviously, you need snow for both.

Last year when I went to Tollwood I ate crapes, drank glühwein and fell over in a spectacular way in front of a bunch of friends and strangers. The incident is still fondly referred to as The All Singing, All Dancing and a Little Bit of Flailing Agnes Spectacular.

This year I’m thinking of involving a flashing red sign in the shape of an arrow and maybe a turnip. It’s going to be big.

Number 3: The master plan

My sister and her boyfriend are coming to visit in 27 days. There are no words for how excited I am, and how terrified Dumpling is, by this. Another member of my family? Here? You have got to be kidding, world! 

Anyhoo, Munich needs to be pretty and winter wonderland-y before she comes, so that her and Tim instantly fall in love with it and rip up their return tickets. This is the master plan. 

Hugging coffee table due to video. Please help.

Also feel sudden need to take up the cello.

The boring post in which I recount our year in Munich.

Well actually, I’m a little confused about the one-year thing because Simon, Mark and Dumpling are denying me my right to celebrate. The reason is because I went back to Australia for a month and our one-year-in-Munich anniversary fell smack-bang in the middle of that trip.

So, technically, I’m coming up a little short.

Except, if we’re going to count that holiday, then we have to count all of the time we’ve spent away from Munich, right? And that’s when things get complicated because we actually don’t remember anything that we’ve done before…ohhh…yesterday.

But I want to get to the bottom of this, so here is my non-chronological attempt of getting to the bottom of what we've done with our past year, travel-wise:

1) Trip to Copenhagen (Denmark)
When: February-ish 2011
Who: All of the Hausfraus (minus Dumpling; he was probably slaughtering his former owners at the time)
I know it happened because: I have this picture (and yes, why thank you, my nostrils do look very bright).

Other things I can recall:
a) Going to the Dansk Melodi Grand Prix and finding it oddly German-sounding
b) Being bitterly disappointed that some poor pastiche of a 90s boy band won. Boo! (The anger rages on).
c) Having dinner with Princess Mary. By which I mean, being served by a chef who had also served T-Mizzy on a separate occasion. (Side note: need to write to T-Mizzy about her new nickname).

2) Trip to Berlin (Germany)
When: November-ish 2010
Who: All of the Hausfraus (except Dumpling, so we rub it in his face like “nah nah you’re stuck in your tiny cage and you'll never see Berlin. We've seen Berlin. It's cool!” and he rocks on his swing, silently plotting our doom).
I know it happened because: I recall a man spitting a tooth at Simon (then picking it up and somewhat aggressively throwing it back into his own mouth, like “it’ll find its way back from here”). This, apparently, is the sort of thing you should come to expect from the S-bahn in Berlin.

Other things I can recall:
a) Simon suffering hypothermia on a walking tour and being all annoying with his shivering and his losing of the limbs to the cold. Who knew someone so fat could even feel the cold? I mean, right?
b) Best tapas ever. Tapas that should have been photographed, and it’s a great crime that they weren’t. And someone will pay for that crime. Most likely Mark (or maybe Dumpling).
c) A man spitting a TOOTH at Simon.
d) Questioning the intelligence of these:

 e) But being charmed by this:

3) Trip to Amsterdam (The Netherlands)
When: June-ish 2010
Who: Mark and I
I know it happened because: We got salt and vinegar chips and well, that was it, wasn’t it? There was no getting us off that high.

Other things I can recall:
a) My club sandwich with chips (important) ceremoniously arriving at my table as a club sandwich with a side of actual potato chips. Like, Kettles. Like, are you kidding me Amsterdam?! Here’s proof:

b) Staying in a houseboat and not being allowed to flush paper down the toilet – pipe troubles. I mean, was anybody going to do anything in that toilet? I dare say NOT!
c) The butt-germ bath.

4) Trip to Krakow and Warsaw (Poland)
When: November-ish 2010
Who: Mark and I
I know it happened because: It snowed and we drank grzaniec (mulled wine) and hung out with my family and it was all very nice and jolly and oh yeah, FUCKING FREEZING.

Other things I can recall:
a) Mark’s best bud James wearing Converse sneakers in -18° weather because he hadn’t packed – nor did he own – winter shoes.
b) Inappropriate humour about adopting my cousin. Not sure how it started. I watched from afar; part disturbed, part drunk.
c) Mark falling in love with oscypki (handmade Polish smoked goat’s/sheep’s milk cheeses). I can tell you this much; Mark is awesome at being obsessed with food. Very, very good. Delivers a spinechilling performance every time.

5) Trip to the Stubaier Gletscher (Austria)
When: February-ish 2011
Who: Mark and I
I know it happened because: I put skis on and then didn’t die using them (Hooray!).

Other things I recall:
a) Mark trying to kill me – several times
b) Learning why my knee surgeon insisted that I “DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES SKI AT LEAST (!!!) A YEAR AFTER YOUR OPERATION”. Turns out he was right.
c) Being informed by Mark’s dad that there was a delicious egg-based Austrian specialty that I simply had to try for lunch, then blindly sending Mark to buy it for me. So you know what happened right? Mark decided to get the Largest Portion Known to Man Doubled Or Possibly Tripled Please, and returned with a huge plate of Keiserschmarrn, which - incidentally - is not a savory omelette as I had been led to believe. Here's proof:

This is not an omelette; do not order for lunch.

6) Trip to Paris (France)
When: June-ish 2011
Who: Simon
I know it happened because: I got several text messages updating me about how Simon and his boyfriend were on a bus with drinking…drunk…spewing Russians.

7) Trip to Amsterdam (The Netherlands)
When: No idea 2011
Who: Simon
I know it happened because: I got text messages with Kath and Kim quotes. Apparently that’s how Simon rolls in Amsterdam.

8) Trip to Aachen (Germany)
When: August 2011
Who: Me
I know it happened because: I was sober and it was lovely.

Other things I recall:
a) My cousin’s son being outrageously adorable.
b) Australian ice-cream being quite the hit in Maastricht
c) Going to Maastricht.

9) Trip to Regensburg (Germany)
When: July 2011
Who: Me
I know it happened because: I have a ton of photos of my eye/nostril/chin/indistinguishable-part-of-fleshy-self, due to failed selfies.

Other things I can recall:
a) I scared a lady by taking photos of her child interacting with a crazy little dog. In my defence the dog was really crazy and the child was adorably fearless.
b) I made inappropriate eating noises while dining alone in a posh restaurant.
c) I ordered and ate a serving of ice-cream that was bigger than my head. And, well, anybody who has ever met me is now feeling both horrified and impressed. It was deeeelicious:

10) Trip to Erlang (Germany)
When: June 2011
Who: Mark and I
I know it happened because: a lot of photos, which I can never take back, happened.

Other things I recall:
a) Desperately wanting to steal/ not give back a festival stein…but returning it for reasons of morality, ethics and drunk generosity.
b) Mark constantly running off to get food. Every time I’d turn around he'd either be missing or chewing on a pizza/sausage/pretzel/another pizza…
c) Sleeping at the train station because we had no Plan B and Plan A had left the platform at least seven hours earlier.

11) Trip to Switzerland (Zurich and Luzern)
When: Swissmass 2010
Who: Simon, Mark and I

I know it happened because:
a) My cousin took us out to a brothel, then a seedy dive bar. I showed my outrage/ lack of coordination by smashing a glass of beer all over the bar. We left soon after.
b) We were abused with heating on the way in, and when we endeavoured to quench our thirst with three large cokes from Burger King the privilege cost us $21!
c) $21 for three Burger King cokes. You are one crazy MoFo, Zurich.
d) There was fondue and then I cried (tears of happiness for I had found my true love).

I shall never forget you, my love. Side note: Mark's arm looks like it swallowed an apple.

And that covers it…I think. Of course we don’t remember how long we spent in those places. We do recall that various lovely people joined us for our adventures – you know who you are, there’ll be no naming and shaming here.

But this whole post was supposed to be about our one-year anniversary…and I’m no closer to working out when that technically is – thanks for making it super complicated Simon and Mark. I’m going to shit in both your teas.

So this is what we’ll do; we’ll all agree that any trips away get completely nullified by our attendance at Oktoberfest (or Wiesn as it’s known to the people in the know. That’s us, by the way.). And you’d better believe that we were there. It went a little like this (give it a little time to load; it's totally worth it):

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY Hausfraus!

I got licked by a huge head (and not in a sexy way)*

Right, well, this post might come back to kick me in the arse, but it needs to be said and I’m not one to shut up in inappropriate situations. Like that time I inadvertently told a friend – in a conspiratorial whisper, might I add – that the guy who he had been hooking up with (the guy who I had NO IDEA he had been hooking up with) had kissed someone else.

And everybody around me was mouthing, “Agnes don’t say it! For the love of hotel blankets (for I do love hotel blankets) STOP!”

Yeah.

Important lesson: Hints get lost on Agnes when Agnes is in the middle of what she perceives to be a really good story. Agnes will not stop until she’s done…no matter how intensely you stare at her (Simon) or how many times you wink (Yuri). In fact she might think she’s turned you straight with her wit and this is your way of telling her she’s the love of your life. Next time please force her mouth shut with a staple gun. Then tie a pretty bow around it (maybe something in blue?)

Back to the story: Despite the severe looks, hand gestures and the cheerleading squad chanting “NO AGNES NO!” I kept on joyfully driving the dagger further into my friend’s heart like, “I heard they pashed for hours and now – most likely – they’re going to adopt a baby and a basket of kittens…”

The sound of hands slapping foreheads was deafening.

And that’s when I realised that, oh yes, that whimpering noise coming from my friend is in fact the last shred of his happiness fighting for its life. But, of course, this panicked me. I don’t do well when panicked.

Important Lesson: Don’t panic Agnes. She don’t shut up, dauuug.

So of course I did not shut up. In fact I did the exact opposite of shutting up; I began to mumble, vocally and very nonsensically, until after several pained, confused minutes – at about the point when the atmosphere in the room excused itself and left – I let my voice trail off to no more than a whisper. Like I could just fade myself out and nobody would notice that I was totally crazy.

And it kind of worked.

But then there was silence. And that’s not something I respond to well. Brain goes: SILENCE MUST BE FILLED. THERE SHALL BE NO SILENCE. HATE SILENCE. So I engaged again (Forehead. Hand. SLAP!), and attempted to steer the conversation onto safer ground with something lighthearted like, “Hey?! Hey! How’s about tampons? Hey? Pretty nifty little suckers, hey?…”

Which incidentally brings me back to what I was originally saying about Oh My God Look At That Head. Not that him or his imprudent tongue had anything to do with tampons. But we did accidentally stumble across a tampon on the dance floor of the club in which The Licking Incident happened (clearly a very classy establishment). We’ll discuss this later because, more importantly, WHAT KIND OF A PERSON LICKS A TOTAL STRANGER?!

Not me, that’s for sure. Even when I can’t control my tongue it stays firmly inside my mouth (thank God, can you imagine?!). No, you’re right, let’s not.

Sorry, here’s the story:

There I was innocently dancing – an exercise that takes on more life, and exaggerated movements, the more alcohol I drink. That particular night some fool had given me a plastic tumbler of tequila under the premise that is was a Margarita.

Consequently I got tanked, and my arms and legs went all erratic, like a basket of kittens. They were everywhere – sampling drinks, sniffing crotches, climbing up legs, peeing on legs, playing with shoelaces and doing it all very enthusiastically. Until disaster struck; they bumped Oh My God Look At His Head (Is It Even Real?)’s drink, and it spilt down my back. Ewww sticky mystery fluid on back!

And then, out of nowhere, just as I was turning around to examine what had happened, I saw a HUGE head moving towards me. Like an asteroid, only much larger – tongue already half out. Before I could protest or move or beat it off with my shoe, I felt the tongue lick the offensive liquid off my back.

IT LICKED ME!

The giant head licked me!

There’s not much more to this story, I just felt an irrepressible need to share it with you. Although I feel as if though there should be a moral in all of this.

Okay I’ve got one: Don’t get smashed on tequila and licked by a HUGE head.

*Is there such a thing as getting licked by a huge head in a sexy way? I mean, I can't say for sure, but my gut instinct is telling me NO!

Oh yes!

I am now quite confident that I want one of these:

Oh happy days!

Hey everybody look at me I have my life together…kind of. I mean sure there are about a thousand (no, seriously, ABOUT A THOUSAND) things that I should be getting done right now. Not necessarily beginning with getting my local tax number so I can get paid for the teaching job I did in September, but yeah, that too.

But today I started the good, impressive life that is going to set the pace for the rest of my existence. I put washing away and put a load of washing on and actually sat and did my work rather than procrastinating, and let Dumpling out of his cage so he could spread his wings and fly…and shit on the washing I had just done. Funny thing about that – birds like washing lines. Dumpling LOVES our clotheshorse. As soon as he got let out he sat on it cooing. I think he’s in love.

Yesterday I would have been all “that’s not a big deal” and then thrown an iron at him, but today I have it together, so I just scraped the poo off before putting the clothes away.

Totally kidding. I set it on fire.

That’s not entirely true either. I actually got so caught up with work and Yuri-related dinner plans, that I totally forgot about the washing and it still hasn’t made it out of the washing machine. I have high hopes for tomorrow.

But I wasn’t lying about letting Dumpling out, or his love for the clotheshorse.  I think we might be hearing the pitter-patter of little wheels soon (my theory is that if a bird and clotheshorse mate, they produce a model airplane. It’s the only sensible expectation and almost entirely born of scientific reasoning. What I struggle with more is the question of whether the clotheshorse will lay eggs. I guess we’ll see soon enough.)

But yes, no real point to this rant so I’m going to awkwardly shuffle my feet and end it here. I hope you feel sufficiently disappointed.

All about Yuri!

So it seems that all this time that I’ve allowed my mental instability to play on the internet, like the irresponsible parent that I am, I’ve been forgetting one very important person. Not so much forgetting, but just kind of allowing him to have his privacy, as it were.

But as it were, or is…or whatever, this particular person doesn’t much care for privacy and has given me permission – nay, begged me on bended knee, with rose in mouth and bottle of wine in nostril – to put up his private exploits on my blog. And hell, his mental instability plays with mine when we get together so how could I refuse? So here is one of Yuri’s exploits, for there are many:

On a particularly warm October night (because this year was freakishly hot), Yuri found himself in Berlin. Not so much found, as drove there for a trip that had been planned for some time. And being in Berlin and single and sexy and all, he decided that he should go find himself a man; someone to satisfy his penchant for angelic sexiness.

So he did. He found himself an angel. Or, rather, that’s what he’d tell you if you asked, because  – you see  – the guy had curly hair and blue eyes (and things don’t get much more angelic than that). Curly hair AND blue eyes, just ask Yuri.

The angel and Yuri got along quite well and after a few drinks were aggressively making out in the corner. Inconveniently, at about the same time a friend of Yuri’s launched into a crisis, so Yuri – being half man, half heart – ceased making out with the angel to be supportive.

But before he dashed off, he sat the angel on some steps and told him to wait.

The angel was supposed to wait.

But the angel did not wait.

Yuri came back and searched the stairs, then glanced up at the ceiling (just in case. You never know with angels, they’re tricky) and came to the conclusion that his angel probably got bored of sitting on the stairs and went to get more angelically pissed.

WTF angel?!

Now, if this had been a Jane Austen novel Yuri would have penned his disappointment to his understanding and witty sister and all would have been well and witty. But since it’s the 21^st century, Yuri came upon the happy realisation that he had a phone and several fingers (at least ten, but maybe as many as fifteen). So in a very sane and balanced way he called the angel THIRTEEN times and left FOUR voicemail messages.

Angel did not like this. Or maybe he did. Who knows what angels are thinking anyway? The important part is that he never called Yuri back.

In the morning, when the clear light of day hit the call history, Yuri came to the stomach-turning realisation that – oh yes – he had called the angel THIRTEEN times. Therefore, being a rational human being, he decided to call again to apologise (fourteen).

The angel did not pick up and everybody came to the unspoken understanding that he had only ever pseudo existed anyway (in much the same way that McDonald’s only pseudo exists when you smash three meals after a big night out).

Unfortunately Yuri’s pocket had other ideas and mere moments later called the angel of its own accord.

This time the angel picked up (of course he did).

What he heard on the other end wasn’t the heavy breathing usually favoured by stalkers, so much as a whole lot of rustling followed by a whole lot of swearing (the point at which Yuri realised what his pocket had done), followed by the hang-up tone.

It took Yuri a little while to regain his composure, but when he did he decided to turn the whole hopeless situation into a joke, so he wrote: “I’m the hottest stalker you’ve ever had”.

To which the angel responded, “I want to die” (or some such nonsense).

And Yuri promptly wrote back something to the effect of “Should you ever die, please leave me your underwear.” A little stalker joke, if you will.

Silence. The angel didn’t respond…ever again.

Yuri told me this story over a delicious home-cooked dinner. It was the closest I’ve come to expelling food out of my nostrils in quite some time.

And there you have it, a Yuri production – and at least one-fifth of the reason I love Munich the way I do; it has a Yuri.

On the subject of spontaneous bouts of narcolepsy

I like to think I’m pretty good with jetlag. Since I’m a freelancer with an international client base I work odd hours, which means I’m never exactly on resident-city time.

However since I got back from Australia I’ve started to experience a delayed onset of jetlag, and rather than manifest in the usual way – little bit sleepy in the afternoon, prone to waking up slightly earlier in the morning – my body has decided to get a little extreme with it.

This means that at any point during the day – and never the same point as the day before – it decides to completely shut down on me.  One second I’m making conversation about the quality of tomatoes (I’m a great conversationalist) and the next I’m slumped over the conveyor belt at the local supermarket, my head slowly making its way towards the cash register, nestled between said tomatoes and a head of lettuce.

And there is no way of waking me up from this slumber – any attempts lead to bleary-eyed stares and confused interjections of the dreams my body is trying to jam into my head, as I wobble precariously threatening to crack my head open on something (anything).

One of these sleep fits hit me this afternoon roughly thirty seconds after consuming lunch/dinner. The last thing I remember is putting a nacho chip in my mouth; the next, waking up at 10pm in a total panic because I totally overslept the three alarms I had set. (I have taken to setting alarms for all times of the day, just in case I happen to fall asleep and miss something crucial. Only now, apparently, my brain has decided to override those).

The only rather exciting thing about the whole phenomenon is the ridiculous ways in which my brain justifies the noises that happen around me. In the last dream I can remember, I was riding a tricycle through the city desperately trying to get away from something. But of course my tricycle wasn’t going very fast because it was one of those tricycles that a three year old from the 1950s might ride. Understandably I was a little panicked.

Suddenly my friend Yuri came bounding up behind me also on a tricycle (only a much, much bigger one - clever boy), opened his mouth and started to clang like church bells (is that what they do, by the way? Clang?). WTF brain?! WTF?!

Dumpling’s bewilderment

So since I now have a brand new top-of-the-line MacBook Pro (I love the sound of my voice saying that), I’ve decided to take full advantage of its awesomeness and load up my iTunes with music, as you do.

Luckily Simon was researchy enough to find legalsounds, which is a wonderful place where you can buy songs at 9c a pop and whole albums for under $2. That way you don’t feel like you’re slaughtering the music industry – and nobody, except maybe Dumpling because he’s quite evil, would want to do that. But on the other hand, you’re not paying for diamond toilet seats either (don’t look at me like that, what do you think iTune’s 6-euro-an-album is paying for?!).

Yesterday I downloaded lots of music and then listened to it LOUD.

And Dumpling completely lost his shit.

His little mind just couldn’t explain how I had suddenly become such a good singer/piano. He’s particularly perturbed by how I manage to sound like a dainty girl one second and  a fat Italian man the next. Neither seems fitting to him (fat Italian man is closer).

He’s also discovered that he loves certain music genres and despises – DESPISES – others. For example he’s quite fond of opera, but if you play any kind of rock he flaps madly around his cage squawking like, I don't know, some kind of industrial car alarm (do those exist?). Then again, maybe he’s just doing a bit of moshing.

The creepiest thing is when I put Adele on (oh you’d better believe I jumped on that bandwagon. Girl. Has. Talent) he freezes in one spot and gets kind of oddly silent. Particularly when “Someone like you” comes on. I think it speaks to his heart; only his version goes like this:

“Never mind I’ll find someone like you

I wish nothing but the best for you, too

Don’t forget me, I begged. I remember you said:

Sometimes it last in love, but sometimes I peck you to death instead.

Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes I peck you to death instead.

He’s a poet.

P.S.

Yes I know that "researchy" isn't a word. The Mac and I had a fight over it (I won).

This actually happened

I’m back in Munich. It’s totally bizarre. Dumpling is part outraged and part placated by my return.  Although being a modest bird he no longer sees it fit to bathe during the day and waits until his cage is covered for the night. There is a slight problem with this in that he’s almost completely blind in the dark, so about half of the time he crashes into the cage.

Adorable.

He’s also discovered a love of opera, which I’ve been listening to quite a bit. He joins in quite frequently although, sadly, he still sounds like a modem. I believe works by Puccini are his favourite, but to be fair I’m not sure if his singing is a sign of joy or distress. I like to think that the lyrics really speak to his heart ( and that his heart is Italian).

More importantly, I’m not happy about Dumpling highjacking this post because it was supposed to be about how I wet my pants on the plane. Don’t worry I didn’t actually wet my pants. I merely spilled half a glass of warm Heineken beer on them.

It was just sitting there in the cup holder looking all available and I thought “hey why not violently slam this into my crotch an hour before landing?” and followed up by violently slamming it into my crotch an hour before landing.

The result was a wet crotch (and also seat). Moments later a hushed whisper of “oh my god I think the girl in 36A wet herself” spread through the plane.

My seat neighbour was kind enough to run out and get me tissues, which helped to dry up some of the beer, but also helped to make me look like the girl who was dabbing at her crotch with tissues.

Then I was faced with a decision: do I do whatever it takes (WHATEVER IT TAKES) to dry my pants or do I act normal but then walk off the plane with a wet arse/crotch/upper thighs (half a cup, people!).

I decided that my fellow passengers were already convinced that something gross and unspeakable had happened in my seat so, just as the captain was announcing our upcoming descent, I started doing airplane pilates. I threw my legs as far up the seat in front of me and side of the plane as my crippling lack of flexibility and sense of decency would allow (in order to get some airflow, of course) and smiled apologetically at the passing air hostesses mouthing “beer accident” at them.

Then, when shit got serious – that’s 20 minutes before landing – I employed the services of an inflight magazine to fan myself. Just you picture that: a crazy, disgruntled woman (you’d better believe that I was mumbling to myself the whole time) fanning her crotch after dabbing it with tissues and performing aerobics…with a wet crotch. Yup. That was me. This actually happened.

But besides STINKING like beer, by the time I left the plane my arse was almost completely dry. I didn’t look back on my seat and only spared a passing thought to what the staff would think upon finding it. I hope they understood.

But I’ll tell you what – let’s not mention the cab ride home – it’s good to be here. Even with a crotch full of dried beer. Home sweet home and all that.