The silver lining

Being a freelancer comes with perks, not the least of which is hanging out in bed with my laptop in my lap (the way the inventors of its name always intended).

Still, there are a few things which are less-than-glamorous, including my wardrobe choices. I am a little ashamed to say that on some days I take a shower and then get right back into my pyjamas to save on doing laundry.

I hate laundry.

This makes no sense because I'm into clean clothes, I love the smell of laundry, and I even like the sound of the washing machine (it makes me feel productive), but there you have it.

At Block 130 I blamed my lack of enthusiasm on the fact that our washing machine was in the basement. Can you imagine? I spent several months wearing nothing but pyjamas.

Our current place has a washing machine in the bathroom and a dryer in the kitchen, which is the height of luxury. When we first moved in I patted them both fondly and heralded my plans of wearing outfits not based around trackie-dacks for the following six weeks.

“I’m going to be a changed woman,” I cackled to myself in that half-maddened way that makes Simon and Dumpling very nervous.  (Mark doesn’t get nervous, he only has two gears: “comfortable” and “uncomfortable,” and since my cackling doesn’t fall into either category it doesn't exist as far as he’s concerned.)

And yet here we are three (or is it four?) weeks later and I can assure you that my current look wouldn’t win me any graces with Rachel Zoe. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that Bjork, and possibly Peter Alexander, might be into it.

Another thing that keeps me from looking my best (ha!) is that most of my clients are in Australia, so I’m often up till the crack of dawn. This doesn’t bode well for the area directly beneath my eyes or for Dumpling, who spends whole paranoid hours pondering why I’m awake – and if it’s to catch him by surprise and turn him into a dress…or a hat.

But there is a silver lining: on those days I get to see the sun rise over Munich, and right now as the trees are recovering from a puzzling winter and heading into a (hopefully) glorious spring, I’m rather glad I’m awake. I also like hearing Dumpling discontentedly chirping to himself. He’s going to make a fabulous throw pillow.

Our lot in life

Firstly, I’d like to start this post by pointing out that you know what they say about keeping New Year’s resolutions (it don't happen, fool). And since I’m very much in favour of supporting clichés - I believe they're important for sustaining critical cultural traditions and beliefs - it would have been utterly irresponsible of me to write on every weekday in 2012. Tomorrow I plan to rent a car and park it really slowly. I'll then haphazardly smash it into a tree.

Secondly, we’re very close to being homeless (again) and have been hitting the local real estate sites pretty hard in search of a place. We want a nice inner-city apartment with a kitchen and room for a little zebra finch (and three of his best friends). You think that wouldn’t be such a big ask. Munich disagrees. Munich is of the opinion that it’s fun to make us sweat, and it would be even more fun if I got a stress-induced stomach ulcer or shaved all my hair off in a fit of panic.

Speaking of which (hair, that is, not stomach ulcers, stress or shavers), I’ve decided to go platinum blonde. The idea is to look like this by the end:

 But since I’m starting out like this:

Me according to Mark 

It has to happen in stages. Stage one happened last weekend. I am now blondish. It's strange. For those interested: thus far I’m not having any more fun, although that’s bound to change over the coming months. When it does I won't notice because I'll be busy building a submarine with windshield wipers and giggling.

What else? What else?

Oh yeah, this: 

And this: http://mlkshk.com/p/D2W7

That pretty much brings you up to date.

Also Dumpling says, “Get me out of this prison!”

Ignore him. 

The Dumpling Chronicles

On the subject of love

Dumpling is a go-getter. He goes from one end of his cage to the other and gets seeds. Ha. Ha ha ha….I’ll be here all week folks.

Seriously though, the bird has plans. Big plans.

Right now he’s looking for the love of his life; a bird with good conversation skills, a nice pair of legs and a dazzling cloaca. He hasn’t discovered the online dating space yet, but ever since we’ve moved into the new apartment he’s bumped up his singing to let the ladies in the hood know that he’s in town. And, actually, he hasn’t done too poorly. The other day he attracted a large-ish brown bird.

She wasn’t attractive or brave enough to approach our apartment, and there’s no way she would have fit in the cage, but hey it’s a start. Right? It’s certainly bolstered his spirits. We haven’t told him that he’s doomed to be alone forever.

We’re waiting for his birthday. 

He has no birthday. 

Ha! Sucks to be Dumpling. 

The other thing that Dumpling feels quite passionate about is the new seed bowl that we bought for him. It’s pretty cool. 

Just today

Dumpling was all, “pee, pee, PEE.” And I was like, “I know Dumpling, but there’s no need to use that foul language.”

But in a way he was right; watching a woman breastfeed an eight-year-old is kind of disgusting.

I’ll stop now, Dumpling. I’ll stop.

The Hausfraus: Enter Ilya

Just when you thought our lives couldn't get more complicated...



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An observation

Today I found myself pondering about what goes on in Dumpling’s head when he shits. Not a normal thing to think perhaps, but he always looks vacantly surprised when it happens. Like he’s only half aware that he is excreting certain substances. And yet the half of him that catches on to what’s going on is mortified beyond words by the whole business. He twitches and looks around the room with abrupt paranoid head movements, and when he notices that he had witnesses he gets frantic like, “how did that happen? I swear it’s the first time. Let me clean that right up. I’m so sorry!”

Only he doesn’t clean up. He never cleans up. He just goes right ahead and flutters about his cage in blind panic, chirping to himself. Until at some indiscriminate point in time his little brain resets and he forgets about the whole affair. He calms down, finds a comfortable spot on one of his perches and casually starts rearranging his feathers while eyeing off his food bowl.

He goes through this process at least fifty thousand gazillion times a day – so genuinely outraged, so convincingly rattled and so conveniently forgetful. So yeah, I am suspicious. I think he knows, and I am not above fitting him with a tiny nappy (and a top hat – for my own personal reasons) and toilet-training him.

These are perfectly sane and reasonable thoughts to have.

The purpose of my life is to get a steamer

I’ve thought long and hard about this, and it just makes sense. Here are my reasons:

1. I could steam everything in sight. Hello fitted sheets, and how are you today?
2. It would put an end to the boundless tyranny of the iron cord.
3. I would no longer need to waltz with the ironing board (unless I wanted to and the mood was right).
4. I want one.
5. The anagram of steamer and agnes is all of the following: “Me seat rages”, “Game star nees”, “eager nest Sam” and “Meager nests.”
6. All day Dumpling’s been like, “Meager nests!” and I’ve been like, “shut up Dumpling, what would you know about anything?” and then he’s been like, “I’ve found the purpose of my life, have you?” and shat just to prove his point.*
7. I haven’t found the purpose of my life. Unless I get some sort of recognition for the hours I’ve put into ear cleaning (I’m an exceptionally enthusiastic ear cleaner).
8. If getting a steamer isn’t the purpose of my life, what is? (Answer: possibly ear cleaning?)
9. Getting a steamer is much easier than writing a best seller entitled “Eat, Steam, Love.”
10. “Eat, Pray, Love” was a travesty and one of the worst books I’ve ever had the misfortune of not being able to finish (because it was so colossally bad). This has everything to do with me getting a steamer.
11. I would only maim myself a little. And only on purpose.

So yeah, go me!

*This was quite the revelation because up to that point I wasn’t sure which of the following was the true purpose of Dumpling’s life:
- Eating
- Drinking
- Making adorable bird noises
- Bathing with gusto
- Hopping from place to place
- Looking flustered
- Eavesdropping
- Showering the world with seed husks
- Fluffing
- Shitting
- Plotting our doom

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.

Why you should expect a technological revolt

So the fascinating thing about Zebra Finches, and maybe all other types of finches as well (I don’t really know, it’s not like I read EVERYTHING I could about these birds so as not to kill Dumpling), is that each male makes up his own song. He draws inspiration from his dad and from whatever he hears in the environment and then crafts a completely unique masterpiece.

We’ve never met Dumpling’s dad, but we’re moderately confident that he was a cyborg, because Dumpling sounds like a cross between a modem, a fax machine and some kind of beeping device. Like maybe a microwave. Or an atom bomb. And he’s so taken with his composition that he trumpets it out every few seconds. Feverishly.

We suspect that he’s mounting an army of printers to take over the world. So maybe don’t make plans for Saturday.

The best part of Dumpling’s story

Thought I couldn’t top the whole walking around like an amateur production of the Lion King thing? Hah! Think again!

Did you ever pause to consider why Dumpling is called “Dumpling”? (Well obviously, what kind of ridiculous name is that?!).

It isn’t because he looks like a fat, juicy dumpling ready for the eating. And it isn’t because we haven’t been able to find decent Chinese in Munich and we thought we’d make up for the lack. Although that is why we’ve decided to rename Mark “Steamed Pork Bun”.

The reason Dumpling got his name was because Simon’s boyfriend (who speaks English as a second language with such startling proficiency that when he doesn’t know a word it somehow seems oddly comical), mistook the true meaning of the word.

Basically, through a random conversation which nobody can quite recall, it was brought to our attention that he thought a dumpling was the diminutive for a baby which had been dumped by its mother. Like “Hey Harold I found a dumpling on my doorstep, let’s name him Szechuan beef.”

All together now AWWWWWW…

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to write to whoever is in charge of the English language to get it immediately amended.

Anyway, when Dumpling landed in our lives (or not so much landed as was hustled in), there was really nothing else we could have named him. Also he looks a bit like a dumpling.

And then there was Dumpling

So the big question on everybody’s lips is “who is Dumpling?” Unfortunately I can’t tell you. He appeared pretty much out of nowhere and no matter how much we interrogate him and threaten to take his swing away, he refuses to tell us anything about himself.

What I can tell you is that he doesn’t speak English, he might be a scholar and he's definitely homicidal.

Here’s his story:

About three weeks ago, just moments after Mark and I had left Block 130 to spend a few beautiful hours skipping through the streets of Munich,  I spotted a tiny white hopping dot on the pavement.

The dot was irritably chirping to itself while pecking at the concrete in search of birdseed. When I crouched down next to it, it looked at me, let out a weary chirp of surprise and then hopped over to my sandal to check whether I wasn’t storing delicious seeds somewhere inside it.

Mark and I exchanged looks of AWWWW BIRDIE and stretched out our fingers to triumphantly save the bird from its concrete distress. But rather than come along nicely like a good little bird should, he got all HOLY SHIT GIANTS! GIANTS ARE AFTER ME! and launched into a panicked flutter. 

I don’t know what sane, balanced individuals do in these situations, but I’ll tell you what we did: we got on all fours, fixed our eyesight on the pavement (so as not to appear threatening) and slowly crawled forwards, cooing about birdseed and grapes. In hindsight, this would have been terrifying.

This is precisely how Simon found us when he came jaunting up our street. However since he knows us quite well, and is quite insane himself, he didn’t act surprised. In fact he obediently froze in his spot when we whispered something along the lines of SMALL BIRD. TAME. CATCH. GRAPE. DON’T MOVE!

We clearly had things under control.  But the happy ending wherein the bird finally gave in to our theatrical charms and we all lived happily ever after in a castle made of grapes and birdseed, didn’t happen.

Why, you ask?

Because one of our crazy toothless neighbours (and I say “one of” because we live next door to a housing project that is brimming with shady, unsavoury characters with mental problems and questionable dental habits) decided to interject. Apparently we looked so incompetent that this particular 60-year-old trackie-dack-wearing  individual took it upon himself to come to our aid…with a garbage bag.  

So picture this: Mark and I both low to the ground, still talking softly to the pavement. Simon frozen in his spot, watching us and offering useful bird-catching tips, and a crazy toothless man skipping around us all, waving a garbage bag around like a butterfly net.

This was too much for the bird.

Too much.

He gathered up all of the energy he could muster and flung himself into the path of an oncoming car out of sheer embarrassment.

Don’t worry this story doesn’t end badly.

Mark, Simon, Crazy Random and I all watched in horror as the car approached, but then the bird decided that getting smooshed into a bird paste was just the slightest bit worse than witnessing our four-man show, so he came back.

We got right back to it and after a few more minutes he gave up on life entirely and allowed me to catch him and carry him up to our apartment.

This is where we encountered problem number two: what the expletive do you do with a small frightened bird in an apartment without a cage? (Answer: let it out and spend the next two days frantically cleaning up after it, thereby convincing it that you are indeed insane and also possibly have some sort of disturbing stalker poo fetish).

So there we were - no birdseed, no cage and one tired, pissed-off bird flapping about threatening to cut us in our sleep.

 

We looked up some information about his kind (a Zebra Finch, native to Australia), slapped together a poster announcing we had saved him, found a box and even managed to buy some birdseed at a local supermarket.

Of course the small bird didn’t want any part of it. The small bird was all “I am not eating anything these freaks give me” and instead drank some water, screamed at us, wedged himself between the VCR and our DVD collection and went to sleep. 

His owners never rang – probably because he had pecked them to death, so we eventually bought a cage with a swing and named him “Dumpling”.

So you see, we don’t really know much about him at all. Except that he’s plotting our imminent demise. He lets us know by sharpening his beak in a menacing, deliberate manner.

A day in the life of Dumpling

He chirps madly when he does this. Then beats his beak into the wood to show his might.