Further adventures in domesticity

I always thought that living in a bigger space would mean less cleaning. And before your head explodes from this seeming lack of logic, let me explain: when I was living in dust-bunny junction, aka my teeny tiny garden cottage of hell in Parkhurst, replete with a landlady who went out of her way to make me feel as awful and unwelcome as possible (all for a mere R3000 a month!), even contemplating cleaning was impossible. This may have had something to do with the fact that I was too afraid to move from one end of the cottage with more than a swoosh of socked feet, or it may have had something to do with the fact that it was so small in there I couldn't fit a broom between the couch and the wall. So no matter how hard I tried to keep things tidy, it never, ever worked. So when we decided to take an apartment with three bedrooms, I could almost pee with excitement at the thought of all that dust disappearing into corners I would never have to go near.
And then.
Let's just say that Paul and I have had a bit of trouble dividing up, or coping with, the daily labour involved in keeping a seven room apartment clean. It doesn't help that we have two hyperactive cats whose one true love happens to be shredding entire rolls of toilet paper and then re-enacting the wedding scenes from Sense and Sensibility, complete with home made confetti. Then theres the pooping. Not ours, obviously, this is not that kind of blog. The cats.

Sweet. Jesus. Crackers.

I'm actually a little afraid of going into detail here, lest I lose whatever tiny readership I may possess. Lets just say that more often than not cleaning out the litterbox prompts lengthy conversations about how in hell THAT came out of THAT.

When we're not cleaning, we're complaining about our neighbours. I haven't even begun to touch on this subject, mostly because I've never actually seen any of them. Whenever I am outside and I hear someone approaching, I make like the cats and scram. We are surrounded on either side by a hugely fat gay man and his toy boy, a crazed trance hippy and yet another hugely fat gay man. All three apartments, at various times of the day, throb to the beat of various kinds of very bad computer generated music. Usually it's the techno tannie next door with the incessant hum of a drug fuelled party for one. But sometimes, just sometimes, we are treated to the sublime sounds of Donna Summer and the Supremes.

Those are the good times.

The thin pink line

Now, I know that over the last couple of posts I have been a bit of a, uhh, complaineypants, if you will. And far be it for me to bitch about my own bitchin', but there you go. Some things can't be helped. I would, however, like to take this moment and say thank you for my wonderful apartment, my wonderful cats, my wonderful couch and lastly, my very uber wonderful boyfriend. The same boyfriend who is able to calm me down at 11:30 on a Sunday night, post traumatic weekend and pre traumatic, deadline filled week. This same boyfriend who has been spectacularly let down on his own birthday, who is wondering where he is going and what he is doing. The same boyfriend who drives me all over town and has never once complained about the panic attacks, the whining, the mother/ father drama, or the blanket stealing.

Oh, Paul. If only you knew the diabolical pregnancy scams I am willing to pull on you to keep you in my life for, like, ever.

Family traditions

So for those of you don't know, and would like to know, although at this point how would you know you would like to know... ummm...where was I?
Right, for those of you who don't know, my three readers, I have cut off all contact with my mother for about a week now. All. Contact.
Now, before you think me brash and stupid, and for those of you who are muttering under your breath 'at least you have a mom, bitchypants, think of the starving children of Ethiopia', it needs to be stressed that this wasn't an easy decision to come to. It was a long, painful process, the details of which I won't bore you with just yet (I'd rather leave them for sprinklings of interest throughout future posts). Lets just say that the last straw involved the words 'Mia', 'You', 'Fuck', and '!!!!', not necessarily in that order, shouted across a busy Norwood street. Which is fine, except for the fact that my mothers behaviour towards me has been verging on abusive for a number of months now, and that if Paul or anyone else in my life had behaved in that way towards me I would have cut them off ages ago.
So.
It's been a week, and I am still at a loss as to what I should say to her. I can't tell her the truth, because if she knew how I felt about our relationship it may destroy her, or whatever happens to be left of her at this point in time. But if I say nothing, she will carry on assuming that I am the problem, that this is all about me. I can't tell you how afraid I am of having to take care of my mother in five or ten or fifteen years time, when I have a family of my own and all sorts of responsibilities. I know that many people are forced into a situation where taking care of a loved one is placed upon them, but the fundamental difference here is that this particular loved one happens to be ungrateful and self destructive. It's not as if she is ill, not in the conventional sense anyway, and yet she behaves as if the world owes her something for all her suffering. This translates directly into me becoming a cipher for all her pain and anger, as well as the only thing in her life that keeps her going: emotionally, financially, spiritually.
Thanks!
When is it enough? When do you say, no more? At which point do you walk away from someone who is draining you every single time that you see them? And how do you forgive yourself for abandoning someone so damaged that they can't seem to function without you? Can you say the words 'co-dependant'? Can you say them five times fast?

Career downer day

It seems to me that my career is not exactly panning out the way I thought it would. And maybe this has something to do with the fact that I had absolutely no idea of what I wanted to do when I grew up, and now that I am, er, grown up, I'm left with the feeling that I forgot to pack something vital. Like, a plan.
Is it normal to be in a total and complete panic about the direction my career has taken over the last two years? Is it normal to be this panicked at my perceived lack of experience in all the things that I love? Is it normal to kick myself repeatedly for studying something I hate?
Now, don't get me wrong. Multimedia is a very impressive degree to have, apparently, and I am endlessly impressed with the way many of my friends have translated this degree into award winning motion graphics work and passion filled late nights in front of a computer screen. And yet...and yet... I hate it. I don't want to spend my life in front of a computer! I hate feeling woozy and irradiated at the end of every week. I hate sitting on my ass all day every day moving effing pixels around. I want to move! And paint! And... move! Around! The room!
AAAiiigh
I am at this very moment clawing at my own neck just contemplating the thought of spending the rest of my life this way.
So... what to do? I want to become and interior designer, or a decor stylist (whatever in the hell that is) or...or...something that will let me into close proximity to beautiful furniture. But, of course, it's not that simple, is it? Every time I think of all the work involved in switching careers I want to lie down. Forever. And it's not that I lack passion, it's more that if I had to have a year anything near to what last year was like, I may have to stuff my head in a couch and suffocate myself. To say that last year was completely sideways completely underrates the effect it had on my small frame. It's almost the middle of this year and I still feel emotionally hungover from last June. Is it weird to wake up in the middle of the night and have absolutely no idea where you are because you can't remember which of the four houses you've lived in for nine months you're in? IS THAT NORMAL? Is it normal to use the word 'in' that many times in one sentence? See? I'm hardly fit for a career change just yet.

...yet.

The house is now very toasty, thank you

So, it was our house warming on Saturday evening, and I have to say that the overriding memory of the evening was of our friend Tymon spilling his drink on the floor and me blearily looking down and thinking 'someone should probably take care of that.' Until I remember that, oh, wait a minute, I live here.

Anyway. I think the house warming was a great success, and it was really good to see so many people tramping through all the rooms and scaring the bejesus out of my cats. Because, you know, entertainment is scarce when there is no Dstv and thats how we like to get our kicks. It was really good to see Amy again, and, as usual, Marion looked so good on our couch that we wondered if we should perhaps keep her as a permanent fixture. It felt good to have enough space to have people over. I really cannot stress this enough, and those of you who saw my previous dwelling know how I struggled to survive in a 25m2 cottage. With two cats. And four kittens. Of death.

Other than that the only things to report are that Paul finally (finally!) picked up our second hand filing cabinet and that painting it white is underway. To the lady that sold the filing cabinet to us: I'm sorry that it took us five months to pick it up. Paul's dad wasn't really sick. And my grandmother didn't really die, either. So... sorry. And no, we will not be coming back to buy and not pick up more stuff. I promise.

And in somewhat unrelated news, check out Heather Moores blog, my three readers, for it is rather lovely. God only knows how she found this little page, but I really do feel that I should return the favour and direct as many people as possible towards her great work. Heather, if I could grow up to be a fantastic pillow maker too one day, thats all I could really ask for.

Finally!

Pictures of our new apartment! Woo! Or, more accurately, pictures of our lounge. And one of Paul being somewhat ineffectual with a steel shelving unit (mine was assembled perfectly, by the way).

Will be posting more pictures as time allows - the best time of day to take them is first thing in the morning, and I think we all know how I feel about that.

Anyway, here they are:

My rainbow bookshelf (yes, I am this dorky)The lounge, in all its splendid 9am glory...Paul, swearing under his breath
The effing study floor, post shelf trauma

The flaming trauma that is the study

Things that annoy me...

Today I saw three ads that offended me worse than usual in the space of half an hour. Two of these absolute gems contained animals extolling the virtues of either an air deoderiser or a new pickup truck... the truck ad even went so far as to have a talking horse perving over the leather interior. Perving. Yes. Because livestock around the world thanks us for turning them into stylish seating for JACKASSES to sit on. The air freshener ad had a repulsive 3D racoon nattering away about how I should be paranoid about how my house smells just in case a mole decides to burrow in. Thankfully, I live on the third floor, so I don't think I need to worry too much about that happening. On the other hand, perhaps I should not be so quick to dismiss the advice of a 3D racoon; after all, she was conjured up by some very astute and talented advertising monkey copywriter.

The new house

Ok, this is my first blog in a while, and I apologise, my three readers, for keeping you in suspense for so long. I am writing this the way I have dreamed of writing it for a few weeks: sitting cross legged on our enormous new couch, with a laptop and a bag of sweets from heaven, while Paul putters around putting up curtains and mumbling something that sounds remarkably similar to 'hazy ditch', which may or may not be 'lazy bitch'. But probably isn't. Anyway.

Moving is very tiring. I don't think I am particularly enamoured with the idea of 1) acquiring any more stuff, and 2) moving ever again. This is it. For the rest of my life. At this point, just moving from room to room is tiring enough, although this may have something to do with living in a 180m2 space. Yes, thats right...read it and weep, bitches. Woo hoo! The upside of this (other than lording it over everyone we know) is that its now a lot easier for Paul and I to ignore each other. On the downside, we may need to install intercoms. Our cats (please note the use of the word our) seem happy enough: after a very traumatic move in which they tagged teamed running away and forcing us to sleep in an empty cottage to wait for them, they have settled into their new home remarkably well. Aside from leaving the bedroom cupboard to poop or eat, they barely move at all. Which is pretty much normal behaviour for them.

So far we have only been in the house for just over a week, and I think we are doing pretty well considering: the only things left to acquire are a credenza for the bedroom, a table for the entrance hall, DStv and a maid. Sorry, a domestic. Helper. Of amazingness. Our newly purchased washing machine is being delivered on Monday, and to say that I would be doing flickflacks of happiness if my back wasn't half broken from all the heavy potato chip lifting I have been doing would not be an overstatement. One year of doing laundry in the bath has prepared me well for the day when I fork over R2000 for a little machine to do this for me.

I was going to post up pictures of the flat that I have been taking all week; however, my camera and Paul's computer are not on speaking terms, so you will have to use your imaginations....