No mo towels on the flo
Sometimes I am an unreasonable bitch. And while I like to pretend that 'sometimes' means once a month, when I have a valid excuse, it's really closer to once a week. At least. It's triggered by things like a towel on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, toothpaste left to dry up on the mirror... all of which I have caused, and am being called on by my man. I'm a pig, and it bugs me that he bugs me about it.
It's the one thing in our relationship that leads to frequent arguments. It feels unnatural to be hounded about these thing by a guy. Didn't Cosmo use to teach me that it's men who clutter the house? Could Cosmo be wrong? Apparently so, 'cause I live with Mary frickin Poppins - only with bigger biceps. I get nervous about it, too. Did I leave my coat on the couch again when I came in? Are there still bits of food clogging the kitchen sink? Did I take the laundry out of the washer yet? It pisses me off that he can't be messy like God intended. That way, we could be messy together, and live lazily ever after amidst our piled-up junk. Instead, I have to watch where I put stuff and I have to clean and wash and polish shit.
Sometimes I miss my student dorm, which was a room in a townhouse so old, rotten and alltogether decrepit that I could be as disgusting as I wanted to. It was perfectly legitimate for me to leave my food-caked plates on the counter for 2 weeks, because what little mould they collected hardly stood out against the mushroom forest growing from the ceiling.
There are moments when the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I'm just no good at living together with another human being. I've never been very good at being considerate towards others, as I am what would euphemistically be called an 'einzelganger', otherwise known as a bitter, selfish hag. Then I realise that if I hadn't moved in with this man I never would have had a dishwasher, so it's all worth it in the end. Even if I can't leave trails of breadcrumbs all over the house while eating a sandwich out of my hands.
And of course, I wouldn't miss moments like the one I'm having right here. Boyfriend, avid fan of all things anime, was so tired from clubbing last night that he fell asleep beside me right in the middle of an episode of Ueki's Law. It's 9:30 pm, and he's done for. I'll have to wake him up at some point, because he's hogging all the blankets and he's still in his clothes, but I'm going to let him snore away for a while. Just to sit here and watch him breathe is worth infinitely more to me than 2 months worth of unwashed underwear on the floor. And if we ever take the plunge, that's what I'm putting in my vows.
It's the one thing in our relationship that leads to frequent arguments. It feels unnatural to be hounded about these thing by a guy. Didn't Cosmo use to teach me that it's men who clutter the house? Could Cosmo be wrong? Apparently so, 'cause I live with Mary frickin Poppins - only with bigger biceps. I get nervous about it, too. Did I leave my coat on the couch again when I came in? Are there still bits of food clogging the kitchen sink? Did I take the laundry out of the washer yet? It pisses me off that he can't be messy like God intended. That way, we could be messy together, and live lazily ever after amidst our piled-up junk. Instead, I have to watch where I put stuff and I have to clean and wash and polish shit.
Sometimes I miss my student dorm, which was a room in a townhouse so old, rotten and alltogether decrepit that I could be as disgusting as I wanted to. It was perfectly legitimate for me to leave my food-caked plates on the counter for 2 weeks, because what little mould they collected hardly stood out against the mushroom forest growing from the ceiling.
There are moments when the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I'm just no good at living together with another human being. I've never been very good at being considerate towards others, as I am what would euphemistically be called an 'einzelganger', otherwise known as a bitter, selfish hag. Then I realise that if I hadn't moved in with this man I never would have had a dishwasher, so it's all worth it in the end. Even if I can't leave trails of breadcrumbs all over the house while eating a sandwich out of my hands.
And of course, I wouldn't miss moments like the one I'm having right here. Boyfriend, avid fan of all things anime, was so tired from clubbing last night that he fell asleep beside me right in the middle of an episode of Ueki's Law. It's 9:30 pm, and he's done for. I'll have to wake him up at some point, because he's hogging all the blankets and he's still in his clothes, but I'm going to let him snore away for a while. Just to sit here and watch him breathe is worth infinitely more to me than 2 months worth of unwashed underwear on the floor. And if we ever take the plunge, that's what I'm putting in my vows.
Luv And Relationships on 09 Sep 2007 by 
"It's not a hemorrhoid, I swear!"
This week it's back to school for me. I like to pretend that people other than my parents care about that sort of thing, that's why I'm telling you. I am an English Lit student now, don't you know, so between now and 3 weeks expect me to develop a huge boner for language purism, grammar snobism and spelling fascism. Also, expect me to clog this blog with emo poetry and abstract short stories. I'm just warning you.
In other news, Dut is fine. Apparently no major organs were damaged in last weekend's unfortunate accident and she isn't slowly bleeding to death on the inside like I feared. She's still angry with me, as evidenced by the obvious glare she shot me when I took this picture.
My house smells like hemorrhoid creme right now. The reason for that is less embarrassing than you'd think: boyfriend got a new tattoo last week and he needs to rub ointment on it every five minutes to keep it from drying up and falling off. Buying hemorrhoid creme is hilariously awkward. Everytime boyfriend has to go out and buy a family-size jar he can't help but ask for it and then add "IT'S FOR MY TATTOO, YOU SEE, TO KEEP IT FROM DRYING. A TATTOO. NOT A GIGANTIC HEMORRHOID, I SWEAR". And then the clerk looks at him funny and I just about piss my pants.
Okay, time for cool things. If you have a problem downloading music illegally (i.e. if you're over 30), there's a pretty good, cheap solution available through MP3Sparks. You can download entire albums there for $2 - $3, and they have most popular artists available. You won't have the case to go with it, but you also won't have to shell out $20 to find out if Fergie's solo-album blows as hard as the look-at-me-being-all-naked-and-pouty-picture on the cover indicates (further evidence: the first song is called "Fergialicious").
In closing, I'm awfully lonely with only four affiliates, so if any of you actually made it to this paragraph then you have proven yourself worthy as one and should state your interest in the comments. There's one but: if your site has obvious Google ads or other forms of beggary then I must preserve my e-karma and pre-emptively turn you down.
In other news, Dut is fine. Apparently no major organs were damaged in last weekend's unfortunate accident and she isn't slowly bleeding to death on the inside like I feared. She's still angry with me, as evidenced by the obvious glare she shot me when I took this picture.
My house smells like hemorrhoid creme right now. The reason for that is less embarrassing than you'd think: boyfriend got a new tattoo last week and he needs to rub ointment on it every five minutes to keep it from drying up and falling off. Buying hemorrhoid creme is hilariously awkward. Everytime boyfriend has to go out and buy a family-size jar he can't help but ask for it and then add "IT'S FOR MY TATTOO, YOU SEE, TO KEEP IT FROM DRYING. A TATTOO. NOT A GIGANTIC HEMORRHOID, I SWEAR". And then the clerk looks at him funny and I just about piss my pants.
Okay, time for cool things. If you have a problem downloading music illegally (i.e. if you're over 30), there's a pretty good, cheap solution available through MP3Sparks. You can download entire albums there for $2 - $3, and they have most popular artists available. You won't have the case to go with it, but you also won't have to shell out $20 to find out if Fergie's solo-album blows as hard as the look-at-me-being-all-naked-and-pouty-picture on the cover indicates (further evidence: the first song is called "Fergialicious").
In closing, I'm awfully lonely with only four affiliates, so if any of you actually made it to this paragraph then you have proven yourself worthy as one and should state your interest in the comments. There's one but: if your site has obvious Google ads or other forms of beggary then I must preserve my e-karma and pre-emptively turn you down.
Broken furball
I broke my Guinea pig today. Well, almost did, she's good as new now only she makes a funny sound when breathing. See, what happened was, I was holding her up for a good cuddle and my face up close nearly gave her a heartattack, so she wriggled free and jumped back in to her cage. From a foot up. when she hit the floor she gave a loud squeal and kind of limped around for a little bit, and then she started making that sound. Like a weak, clogged-up engine.
Her name is Dut, which is African for 'comfort', and that is what that little furry goober is to me, you know? So I feel bad to have damaged her, even if everything seems alright now. You never know for sure with guinea pigs, they're basically big sacks of bones with lots of hair. She's happily hopping around now, eating grass like there's no tomorrow and fighting her guinea pig friend for dandelion leafs. But she's making that sound. It's not wheezing, it's more like... gurgling. I hope its something she does on purpose to guilt me into feeding her lots of veggies tonight.
Her friend, Isa, keeps glaring at me and I get none of her usual happy squeeks when I put food in the bowl. Like she's telling me, "I know what you did, I saw it all, bitch". I'm almost scared to check on them now, there's a lot of hate radiating from that cage at the moment. If Dut still does that burble tomorrow I'll have to take her to the vet's, and I'll have to tell him too that I broke her. So in the mean time I'll try and bribe her into breathing normally again by giving her and Isa lots of rodent candy. If that doesn't work, tune into Animal Police sometime next week and you'll probably see my blurred face passing by.
Her name is Dut, which is African for 'comfort', and that is what that little furry goober is to me, you know? So I feel bad to have damaged her, even if everything seems alright now. You never know for sure with guinea pigs, they're basically big sacks of bones with lots of hair. She's happily hopping around now, eating grass like there's no tomorrow and fighting her guinea pig friend for dandelion leafs. But she's making that sound. It's not wheezing, it's more like... gurgling. I hope its something she does on purpose to guilt me into feeding her lots of veggies tonight.
Her friend, Isa, keeps glaring at me and I get none of her usual happy squeeks when I put food in the bowl. Like she's telling me, "I know what you did, I saw it all, bitch". I'm almost scared to check on them now, there's a lot of hate radiating from that cage at the moment. If Dut still does that burble tomorrow I'll have to take her to the vet's, and I'll have to tell him too that I broke her. So in the mean time I'll try and bribe her into breathing normally again by giving her and Isa lots of rodent candy. If that doesn't work, tune into Animal Police sometime next week and you'll probably see my blurred face passing by.
Move it already!
Finally, after literally months of barely touching my computer at all, I am able to sit on my (now unfortunately slightly bigger) butt again and type up some nonsense for the purpose of giving you, my mostly imaginary readers, a story you can easily comment on so that I must then comment on your latest post, too. God, how I have missed the inner workings of the blogosphere (is it cool to use that word, yet?). I wish I could boast about how my absence on the internets was explained by a sudden surge in social activity but the sad truth is that it is in fact the result of having had NO LIFE AT ALL for quite some time. However, I have an excuse. That was because I was up to my ears in saw-dust, paint stains and silicon glue and its very hard to type when your fingers are stuck together with a mixture of the three.
You see, my boyfriend and I are really poor because he has to support my lazy student ass with just his income (and my callcenter salary, which is a few bucks short of negative if you count travel time). But we insisted that since we're almost grown now we should buy a house. Which we did. A cheap one, which was cheap because it basically had nothing; no floor, no kitchen, no paint on the wall. We were all like: oh cool, we'll fix it up and make it all perfect! We won't have to deal with someone else's horrible taste, the house will be everything we want it to be! It'll be like Extreme Make-over, but better because our concrete is already dry! How awesome! So we made a bid on it and prayed for three long months that we would get a mortgage. We did, by the skin of our teeth. Then we got the key. Then it all started.
That's what the house looked like about 2 months ago. Right now it's ready to live in. We have hot water, a semi-finished kitchen and I don't get dressed from a garbage bag full of clothes anymore, although they're all still really wrinkly so I've basically had to buy lots of new ones because I have no idea which cardboard box the iron is in (I didn't look all that hard).
And that's what I've been doing. Futzing around with Ikea manuals. Convincing my boyfriend that it is okay to have super gay wallpaper in the bedroom. Learning how to keep dad and dad-in-law out of each other's business when they're both helping out. Wearing the same pair of jeans for two weeks straight because I didn't want to get paint in any others. Eating take-out every day because we were too cheap to have the kitchen installed, instead making our families do it for us. Not going to the gym because moving furniture should count as excercise. It's been great fun.
You see, my boyfriend and I are really poor because he has to support my lazy student ass with just his income (and my callcenter salary, which is a few bucks short of negative if you count travel time). But we insisted that since we're almost grown now we should buy a house. Which we did. A cheap one, which was cheap because it basically had nothing; no floor, no kitchen, no paint on the wall. We were all like: oh cool, we'll fix it up and make it all perfect! We won't have to deal with someone else's horrible taste, the house will be everything we want it to be! It'll be like Extreme Make-over, but better because our concrete is already dry! How awesome! So we made a bid on it and prayed for three long months that we would get a mortgage. We did, by the skin of our teeth. Then we got the key. Then it all started.
That's what the house looked like about 2 months ago. Right now it's ready to live in. We have hot water, a semi-finished kitchen and I don't get dressed from a garbage bag full of clothes anymore, although they're all still really wrinkly so I've basically had to buy lots of new ones because I have no idea which cardboard box the iron is in (I didn't look all that hard).
And that's what I've been doing. Futzing around with Ikea manuals. Convincing my boyfriend that it is okay to have super gay wallpaper in the bedroom. Learning how to keep dad and dad-in-law out of each other's business when they're both helping out. Wearing the same pair of jeans for two weeks straight because I didn't want to get paint in any others. Eating take-out every day because we were too cheap to have the kitchen installed, instead making our families do it for us. Not going to the gym because moving furniture should count as excercise. It's been great fun.
Hootch histories
Good news, dearies! For you or for me, the verdict's not in yet - but good news nonetheless. It occurred to me that I might as well start writing in the blog while I finish the site because the longer I wait, the more embarrassing episodes of mine you miss out on. Again, I'm not sure whose loss that would be exactly but I'm the kind of person that likes to share, brah. So I am hereby subjecting you to a retelling of my weekend of the too-much-information-variety. Aren't you thrilled?
Friday night was a night like any other, except for the fact that I went out. Usually the couch and tv have an inescapable hold on me, but last Friday I managed to rise beyond my reclusive tendencies and joined my boyfriend for a night on the town with some of our ex-coworkers from when we worked at ABN Amro together.
The lot of us, we are still true to the jazzy bar where we used to spend most every Friday afternoon crying happy tears that the weekend, against all expectations, had come after all. The bank canned us all months ago, and we certainly don't hang out there every week anymore, but every now and then we get together and get really stinkin pissed. Good times.
This was also the plan last Friday. Dress up, make an entrance, throw down a wad of bills and as the evening progresses, sink into a complicated and rather pointless discussion about the meaning of life with a random ex-colleague. The more you drink, the more complicated the discussion gets. In the morning, wake up to the knowedge that nothing you said after drink number 4 made any sense at all.
I certainly started out on the right foot, positioned in between a now stock-broker with philosophic tendencies on the one hand and his friendly, soft-mannered girlfriend on the other. This is by definition a perfect set-up: when the meaning of life begins to completely escape me all I have to do is turn my head and talk about washing detergent for a bit while trying to think of another very profound insight.
Perhaps I broke my brain trying to sound smart while under the influence of at least half a dozen rosés. Or something. Either way, around midnight things got blurry and cloudy and I went flying off my chair. Worried faces all around as I crawled around trying to find my sanity as if it were a contact. It was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Praying to the porcelain throne didn't do me any good either, and after half an hour of me stumbling around the joint like a spazzed-out druggy, boyfriend and stock-broker decided enough was enough. They hauled my unstable ass a cab, which I miraculously managed not to puke all over.
Highlights of this lovely night on the town include mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" to various strangers. In English. Me being Dutch. Also, lying on the street outside the bar flapping my arms and legs about as if trying to make snow-angels in terra firma. And of course, announcing to the cabby that I might have to hurl.
Feel free to comment detailing your own embarrassing alcohol-related anecdotes, because I could sure as hell use some fun at someone else's expense. In the meantime, seeing as how I live with the person who accompanied me home, I won't be forgetting about these pie-eyed antics of mine any time soon...
Friday night was a night like any other, except for the fact that I went out. Usually the couch and tv have an inescapable hold on me, but last Friday I managed to rise beyond my reclusive tendencies and joined my boyfriend for a night on the town with some of our ex-coworkers from when we worked at ABN Amro together.
The lot of us, we are still true to the jazzy bar where we used to spend most every Friday afternoon crying happy tears that the weekend, against all expectations, had come after all. The bank canned us all months ago, and we certainly don't hang out there every week anymore, but every now and then we get together and get really stinkin pissed. Good times.
This was also the plan last Friday. Dress up, make an entrance, throw down a wad of bills and as the evening progresses, sink into a complicated and rather pointless discussion about the meaning of life with a random ex-colleague. The more you drink, the more complicated the discussion gets. In the morning, wake up to the knowedge that nothing you said after drink number 4 made any sense at all.
I certainly started out on the right foot, positioned in between a now stock-broker with philosophic tendencies on the one hand and his friendly, soft-mannered girlfriend on the other. This is by definition a perfect set-up: when the meaning of life begins to completely escape me all I have to do is turn my head and talk about washing detergent for a bit while trying to think of another very profound insight.
Perhaps I broke my brain trying to sound smart while under the influence of at least half a dozen rosés. Or something. Either way, around midnight things got blurry and cloudy and I went flying off my chair. Worried faces all around as I crawled around trying to find my sanity as if it were a contact. It was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Praying to the porcelain throne didn't do me any good either, and after half an hour of me stumbling around the joint like a spazzed-out druggy, boyfriend and stock-broker decided enough was enough. They hauled my unstable ass a cab, which I miraculously managed not to puke all over.
Highlights of this lovely night on the town include mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" to various strangers. In English. Me being Dutch. Also, lying on the street outside the bar flapping my arms and legs about as if trying to make snow-angels in terra firma. And of course, announcing to the cabby that I might have to hurl.
Feel free to comment detailing your own embarrassing alcohol-related anecdotes, because I could sure as hell use some fun at someone else's expense. In the meantime, seeing as how I live with the person who accompanied me home, I won't be forgetting about these pie-eyed antics of mine any time soon...
Welcome!
Welcome! This is the first official entry posted to the Anneloes.Net, and those of you who have been invited to look at the beta version are welcome to leave any criticisms, harsh or otherwise, as comments to this post.