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?
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.
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.
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.
Let me preface this by saying that I am not some sort of raging alcoholic. Actually the rough opposite of what I do with my days involves drinking alcohol and partying. Unless, that is, you consider forcing a frantic and cold-hearted bird-beast with no feelings and a beastly heartless bird body to love me as the height of revelry. In which case you need to get out more (or, if you’re Dumpling, you’re NOT EVER going to get out until you freely feed from my hand and love me).
Right.
So, in short, the story that I’m about to tell you about my weekend bender should be taken as evidence to support – not contradict – my non-partying, non-drinking ways. Were I a seasoned alcoholic, none of the events would have taken place (or at least not in such a terrifying manner).
Here it goes:
As many of these stories tend to, mine started off innocently with Swedish-themed feasting and a couple of homemade cocktails. Unfortunately things unravelled rather quickly and – some memories missing here – I ended up at a little gay club with Simon.
Furthermore, since the events leading up to that moment involved pounding down what turned out to be an entire bottle of gin, I also found my bladder calling for sweet relief. So I politely excused myself from the company of a giant bunny and made my way to the ladies’ bathroom, my body tingling with the thought of the elation I would soon feel.
Then the worst possible thing happened: the door was locked. Locked! Can you imagine? I thrashed the handle in disbelief, and then promptly inspected the walls for possible secret entrances, muttering madly under my breath. Observation: I get a little paranoid when I’m drunk.
I even gave a broom closet a try (beggars can’t be choosers).
When this failed I had an epiphany. Right then, for no logical reason, I became convinced that the female toilet had been locked by the staff on purpose. I was sure of it and the realisation forced me into a kind of panicked desperation. Why would anybody ever do such a thing? I clawed at the door hoping that maybe somehow I’d get through. Then, finally, thought about tearing my pants off.
Luckily good sense prevailed and instead I walked back into the bar, accosted the first stranger I could find, and in drunk, slurring, broken German explained that I needed to pee pretty badly, DESPERATELY actually. The pee baby inside me was ready to storm screaming into this world and anybody attempting to stop it would inevitably have their head kicked in…and by some mix-up, the female toilet was locked. Then, like a savvy woman of the 21st century world who knows what’s what, I concluded with the German version of, “izzz pruuubly locked khhoz I’m dee only woman in heeere.”
As good fortune would have it, the stranger was as delighted by my German as he was moved by my plight, and followed me into the female toilet hallway to help me thrash at all doors in the vicinity.
This didn’t work so, feeling understandably outraged, he thundered over to the bar and with Law & Order conviction demanded that the female toilet door be unlocked. Immediately! Surprisingly this didn’t have the intended effect; the bar guy merely shrugged and, ignoring the theatrics or the dangerous way in which I was looking at his sink, claimed that the toilet was open.
It made no sense. If it was open why couldn’t I get in?
Then my answer walked out and briskly made itself scarce.
Not for one second had I entertained the notion that someone might have been using the coveted female toilet. I hadn’t considered the possibility that while I was thrashing around like a banshee on crack, a frightened German woman was squatting over the toilet bowl paralysed by the thought that I might actually get in.
Under normal circumstances I would have died of embarrassment or at least started digging a shallow grave before encouraging my friends to hit me over the head with a shovel and bury me in it. But since I was rather drunk, I found the woman’s curious behaviour delightfully puzzling.
“Why didn’t she just shout?” I laughed, as if though she was the crazy one. “Did you see the way she shuffled off?”
I’ve thought long and hard about this, and it just makes sense. Here are my reasons:
I could steam everything in sight. Hello fitted sheets, and how are you today?
It would put an end to the boundless tyranny of the iron cord.
I would no longer need to waltz with the ironing board (unless I wanted to and the mood was right).
I want one.
The anagram of steamer and agnes is all of the following: “Me seat rages”, “Game star nees”, “eager nest Sam” and “Meager nests.”
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.*
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).
If getting a steamer isn’t the purpose of my life, what is? (Answer: possibly ear cleaning?)
Getting a steamer is much easier than writing a best seller entitled “Eat, Steam, Love.”
“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.
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
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.
One of my New Year’s Resolutions for 2012 was to write more regularly. Ooops. But before you get all high and mighty and start telling me what a failure I am (Dumpling, I’m looking at you), consider that I’ve only just gotten back from a Christmas/NYE trip and that I’m still catching up on work and emails. That’s right, valid-ish reasons.
I also haven’t had the time to arrange my thoughts or work out what I should write about first – my sister’s visit to Munich, the glorious disaster that I am when confronted with large groupings of well-meaning family members, the insanity of a Berlin NYE, what happened after I passed out (it involved somebody very nearly losing an eye to fireworks) or the smaller things like Mark’s artistic genius/complete lack of artistic talent. I’m not sure which yet. Maybe you can be the judge.
Anywaysss, lists don’t make for great reading, unless they’re lists of Dumpling’s ex lovers (in which case wow bird has gotten around), so I’ll move on.
Two important things before I go:
1) I want a baby squirrel. If you can manage to dress it in a tiny bolero that would be just swell, but if not I’ll take it too.
2) My best friends sent me flowers for my birthday. Flowers. The only other person who has ever sent me flowers was my mum, so whole new level of excitement happening right now. Every time I look at them I just about soil myself with happiness.
So yeah, another pointless blog promising more pointless blogs. I think if you look hard there might be a life analogy there.
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.
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):
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