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.

My sixth sense

As anybody who has ever spent a night in the same house with me would know, I’m rather prone to sleep talking. And, recently, Sleep Screaming Until I Scare the Living Bejesus Out of All Inhabitants and Those of Neighbouring Towns and Countries.

It’s a little joke we play, my brain and I.

Actually I’m not in on it; my brain just likes the way I fling myself into sharp corners, hard walls and other potentially-dangerous obstacles when I’m trying to flee whatever is trying to kill me in my sleep. One time it was an ace of hearts. Another time it was a net. Most recently – like two nights ago – it was my sister.

The interesting/terrifying thing is that in the past 48 hours she did try to bring my death about...twice.

But first let me tell you about my sis: she doesn’t look like somebody who would leave her sister innocently sleeping in an 18th-storey apartment during a fire evacuation. But she did. Oh yes she did.

To her credit it was 4:30am when the alarm went off and I didn’t respond when she gently whispered “this place is burning to the ground,” in my ear. So she decided to let me sleep and trudged down the emergency stairway. That was peachy except about half-way down she suddenly realised that – holy shit – maybe this wasn’t a drill and I might actually sleep through a fire. So, in a bit of a panic (the type one might feel if one has left one’s slumbering sister for dead) she proceeded to scramble up the stairs. I like to think it played out like that scene in "Titanic"; everybody running the other way as she elbowed little old ladies and stole a child. Or am I confusing movies again?

Anyway, here’s something to remember if you ever leave your sister for dead in your top-storey apartment: you can’t open fire doors from the inside; the only way out is through the ground floor. When Kate realised this unfortunate fact – while imagining me crisping up like a fatty bit of bacon – she flew back down the stairs (probably lapping the ladies she had elbowed mere moments before), 17th floor, 16th, 15th, 14th, 13th, 12th…

At about this point the alarm stopped Everybody breathed a big sigh of relief and dedicated some involuntary facial expressions to the sweet girl who had been flinging herself up and down the stairs with a look of abject terror for most of the previous fifteen minutes. Mind you, I was still asleep and completely oblivious to the drama that had unfolded in the fire escape that morning, but my brain knew.

Last night I had a dream that Kate and Tim had left a human-sized chicken and pig costume next to my bed to serve as warning. The message: they would slaughter me.

Hours after I woke up Kate pulled me into the way of oncoming traffic. She has this in common with Mark. He also repeatedly tries to kill me in my dreams. My brain is onto something.

Right

So Munich is great and all. Fantastic, actually, if we’re going to be honest. And we are. We are going to be honest. Not as honest as my grandmother was yesterday when she related all of the bowel movements she experienced throughout the day, including their raucous conclusion (I need to take the time out to say EWWWWW), but honest enough to tell you if you’re looking “tired”. You are, by the way. You should get some sleep.

And right back to my point we go. Munich is fantastic except for one tiny (but really MAGNANIMOUS) thing. It doesn’t have – nor understand the need for – salt and vinegar chips. It doesn’t understand the need for any kind of flavoured chip, for that matter. Other than paprika. And paprika is a bit like dating your model friend’s slightly below-average sibling – you’re constantly fighting the need to scream “you ruined my waistline for nothing you filthy whore” (at the mirror).

Therefore there was a very measurable, very easily graph-able, decline in our interest in paprika chips. It went a little like this:

Right. So when I came to Australia for an unexpected visit you know what happened, right? Because you know Australia has every flavour of chip ever conceived (of course it does). Australia even has Vegemite-flavoured chips (OF COURSE IT DOES).

So you know what happened, right?