Yuri is deserting me! He’s going to Brazil for a whole month. A whole month! So many Yuri-less days!
Understandably I’ve fallen into a bit of a panic and look to the future with a darkening sense of foreboding. I think this is probably how I’ll spend my time:
Day 1 – 2: Cry profusely, screaming Yuri’s name into the night (at half hour intervals) Day 2 – 4: Repeat Day 4 – 10: Create a Yuri puppet made of Yuri’s hair, which I’ve been secretly collecting, and some of his clothes, which he left behind. And also toothpaste. Day 10 – 15: Realise that the Yuri puppet won’t talk back and throw it out the window in a fit of anger. Then cry, screaming his name. Day 15 – 20: Convince myself that I could be Yuri. Dress in his clothes, cut my hair short, fashion it into an afro, talk to myself (in Portuguese, of course), take myself out to the cinema, catch up on all of the ANTM cycles, skip down the street with myself, swinging my own hand. Day 20 – 30: Kill everything in my sight.
Do you remember Yuri? He’s pretty special, so you should remember him. You should also notice when he gets his hair “cut” because the extra 2mm of growth really makes a difference to the dimensions of his face
For those of you who have never in fact met Yuri, let me explain. Yuri has short dark hair. Legend has it that when grown out, it turns into a beautiful afro (although we’re still waiting to see that miracle transpire). It is the one thing that I really want from Yuri for my birthday, and just in case you’re not on board with that horrendous event, you should know that I’m turning 30 in just under 9 months. Ew.
It goes to follow that if Yuri really loved me he would grow his hair out and allow me a few moments of true happiness before I realise that my 20s are over and sink into a drunken stupor. But Yuri refuses to grow out his fabulous fuzz on the grounds that when it reaches anything beyond 7mm, it has a devastating effect on the rest of him. I believe I can best illustrate his exact argument through pictures:
Yuri with hair 7mm or shorter:
Yuri with hair longer than 7mm:
A few weeks ago I told Yuri just how much it would mean to me to see him with an afro (a proper one) for my birthday. He fell into a blind panic. Not wanting to refuse the tragic birthday girl-to-be, he did the only thing he could think of: he tried to buy me off and play Simon against me. It didn’t work. Disheartened, he sought comfort in mojito cocktails. After a couple of long, terror-filled hours he came up with another plan: he borrowed my eyeliner and lipstick and drew up a totally adorable friend contract.
It reads:
„The parties to the contract, Agnes and Yuri hereby enter into the following agreements. In consideration of Yuri’s enduring love and affection, Agnes agrees to remain friends for life notwithstanding any straight couple and children.“
He then made me sign it with a kiss (that giant red thing on the right...poor Mark). Do you know what this means? I can no longer threaten him with the termination of our friendship if he doesn’t grow an afro. Quite ingenious, really. But you know that if he loved me (really loved me) he’d do it. Right?
You guys! Simon is not FAT anymore! Wait. Is 3,000,000 kilos considered fat? Okay. I’m going to have to retract my former statement; he’s totally FAT.
Also this might be a little too much information, but I imagine sex between Tyra Banks and her reflection to be a mix of this:
And this
The woman is bat shit crazy. And not sure if you knew, but she wrote a fantasy novel, “Modelland.” I say wrote but, judging from the first chapter, she just released her psycho ANTM moments on her unsuspecting computer. Here’s a few lines of her gorgeous prose:
“Go, Myrracle, go!” Mrs. De La Crème shouted. Myrracle had staggered a few feet away from the fallen tent and was standing there staring at the melee, eyes bugged, frozen in place. “Don’t freeze up! Wake up, baby. You have to do this!”
Now excuse me while I vomit.
Also, Yuri is just fine, thank you very much. He just wanted everybody to know that he’s as happy and smiley as ever, enjoys margaritas, pronounces the “rs” in “burrito” at least some of the time, and has recently acquired a BEEE-UUUU-TIFUL urn/vase.
And just in case you’re wondering about Mark; he has found a friend in jeans that fit him, though prefers his sandware for home use, is thrilled with all of the functionality and practicality of aluminium foil, and is feeling triumphant about having found an Indian restaurant which offers Vindaloo chicken.
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.
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!
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!
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 21st 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.
