Sunday, August 28, 2011

Sharing Your Life (or: On The Small Things)

M.H.: "And how's the married life?"
Me: "Going great, thanks!"
M.H.: "Have you quarreled yet?"
Me: "Yes, of course."
M.H.: "Good. Had you said you hadn't, I wouldn't believe it."

I lived with my parents, with my grandma, with my dad and stepmother, my grandma again, by myself, with Roomie, and now with my boyfriend. The last one is definitely a different experience.

I've learned I'm a hard one to please. Examples:
I'm very disorganized, and usually leave half of my wardrobe either on the bed or on a chair before going to work in the morning. I was worried he might complain - but he couldn't care in the slightest. This is both a relief and infuriating. "Good, I'm glad he doesn't mind... phew! (...) How on Earth can he not care? This is outrageous, it should bother him!"

He's at the computer doing something, and I get annoyed that he doesn't suggest we do something together. And whenever I'm at the computer and he talks to me or suggests we do something, I get annoyed too: "Can't he see I'm busy? If I wanted to do something else I'd say so!"

When he doesn't do the dishes, I complain. And when he does see to the dishes, I sigh, irritated: "Well, he's done the dishes, so now I have to sweep, can't guilt trip him into doing it. Great, thanks a lot."

I'm nothing if not unfair. 

He doesn't do everything I want him to, when I want him to - I'm an only child, it's really hard to cope with that! However, even though I have several shortcomings, he puts up with all of them, and I'm never afraid he might like me less if I do something wrong. I'm VERY cranky, but still he likes me. It's nothing short of a miracle. 

True, many small things annoy me. I always stumble upon his shoes, in the middle of the bedroom; the soda is always out of the refrigerator, and he never remembers to fill the water jug; the pizza cardboard box will remain on the stove for days, unless I do something about it. 
But my clothes are all over the bedroom, I spend too much money buying books, and I leave my laundry completely up to him. And I PMS. Every goddamn month. 
Still, do you hear him complaining? Neither do I. 

Quarreling is normal - but it's important not to quarrel over that which is insignifcant. Raising hell because one of you forgot to take the trash out is insane.
If you don't let small things slide, you'll never be able to deal with the big ones. So whenever I go to the bathroom, I simply lower the toilet seat and screw the toothpaste cap back on, without a word or an annoyed frown. When he goes to the bathroom, he sweeps my ubiquitous hair off the floor. When there's a glass on the table, we take it to the sink, and it doesn't matter who left it there. We simply wash it and move on. 
I think I'm on to something here. 

Friday, August 19, 2011


*pokes her head through the door*
...Hello? Anybody there?

5 months of no writing; I feel rusty.

A friend of mine once told me that true artists are at their best when miserable; once their misfortunes reach an end and they're happy again, like Jane Austen heroines, Inspiration eludes them. Could it be true?

I realize I'm flattering myself, implying that I'm a “true artist”. Were I more realistic, I'd just admit I'm not this generation's Kundera or Salinger or Wilde – I'm not even the next Helen Fielding. I'm just an average girl (woman?) with Internet access at home.
Still, if I don't flatter myself, who will?
And I like to think my writing better than Stephenie Meyer's.

Moving on: maybe my friend's a cynic, I don't know. But I do know that it does make an awful lot of sense, from my point of view. And perhaps it doesn't have to apply solely to true artists; perhaps the same goes for average people with Internet access.

Well, I'm happy. Life has turned around in the most unexpected ways since March, and I didn't see it coming – not even when it was less than a foot away.
Not that I was unhappy before, far from it, my life was already pretty good. I just wasn't this happy.
And in being this happy, I, sorry to say, forgot all about this blog.

That is: until a chance remark by my great friend M.H. made me think; that remark, along with one of his own posts on his blog, and a comment by my other great friend Rick provided me with writing material.
Maybe I'd hit a writer's block because I was happy; maybe I'd hit a writer's block but didn't care about it cause I was happy. Maybe I was happy because I'd hit a writer's block. How many more combinations of “I'd hit a writer's block” and “I was happy” are there? Can I say “I'd hit a writer's block” and “I was happy” three times fast?, I can't; in my defense, English is not my mother language.

The word we're all looking for now is: anyway.
Anyway, I now know what I want to say here, and I shall soon say it. Not right now, though, cause this preamble is far too long already.
But I've found my will to ramble about life again – whilst being happy, which I had not thought possible.
Alas! I may not be a true artist after all!

*shrugs and closes the door*