After another fruitless night of bar-crawling (screaming toddler and pining friend in tow) and a glass or two of bad expensive wine in the 'coolest' bar in Minsk (which costs nine times more than in Italy, just quoting Mr. Renato Cucinotta, the first restaurant critic in town), the question of boyfriends was popped yet again.
Now before I go on I have to tell you that my singer/composer friend has shiny black hair, big boobs, dark eyes, cheeky smiles. Can’t get a man. Can get something that would count as a man in terms of anatomy, but you know what I mean.
She is me five years ago. I didn’t think then the word combination ’good guy’ was an oxymoron. I actually believed that was a rare but nevertheless existing species. Now that I know there is nothing men can do to me that I cannot do to myself, I am perfectly happy to watch desperate girls like my singer/composer friend whine about their menless lives and pop the ultimate question – about playing for the other team.
Besides being straight as a stick (no, not the Gaga one), contrary to common belief (boys, stop quoting Cosmo about the 100% of women, go play in the corner, and why the hell you are reading Cosmo anyway?), I have nothing against the idea of trying things out. Relax, carnal sin is not the subject of this post, the topic exhausted itself three thousand years ago. I was thinking purely ‘afraid to be alone’, ‘trip and fall in the shower’ kind of thing. You know, ‘dogs munching at my gorgeous dead body’ kind of thing.
Living with another woman.
Now we have a lot in common, both creative (please, scream), both Scorpios, both single mums, both disturbing family backgrounds (don’t ask, my shrink had to get therapy), both once in love with the same guy (at different times, don’t get excited – he actually introduced us to each other), so things are looking good for starters. I can cook, she can cook. She is tidy, I am, well, when I want to be. She eats healthy, I eat healthy. She likes good music, I like good music. She likes dancing, I like dancing. We both pee the same way. We are both beautiful, obviously. (Those two sentences together sound kind of strange). We can read books together, we can write songs together. We can share clothes and shoes, lipsticks and creams, perfume and jewellery. We can work out together (put your pants on, that’s not what I meant). She has all the connections and I have, errr, English. She has a car, and can actually drive (well, sort of). We enjoy the same movies, cafes and clubs. Weekends will be fun. We can travel around to visit that old flame of ours or go on a picnic where our children will puke synchronously into some unpretentious bush.
Now since she won’t be gone for eight to ten hours a day like normal people (if you ask me, just go for pilots and sailors, it’s best for everyone), we will be seeing a lot of each other. I ain’t allergic to many things, but humans are sort of tricky. And considering she has a two month old on her fragile hands, struggles to finish uni and have a career, I am thinking I will be the one to help out. A lot. Dirty diapers, anybody? Sleepless nights (for all the wrong reasons)? The babysitting nightmare is out of the way, though. We can have shifts. And my motherly little daughter will enjoy the new toy.
But then again she is a singer and I am a writer. She needs noise and I need silence. She wants to dance when it’s nap time. I need to write when it’s disco time. Her child doesn’t give a shit who needs what. My child gives a hair cut to her child (it was his ONLY hair!). And two women in the kitchen, really? Turns out we enjoy the same movies for exactly the opposite reasons, she doesn’t know her Jazmine from my Janelle and she cannot stand zombies. How can you not like zombies? And all that healthy eatin’ got us starvin’, stomachs turnin’, tempers risin’. Sure as hell, there is the old flame, and it turns out they didn’t tie the knot because of now-guess-who-could-that-be.
And what if our periods don’t coincide? Does it mean I am PMSing half the month and she is PMSing half the month, with all the in between, and no working out for 10 (ten!) days?
It gets worse. Since she is a singer and I am, well, a writer, she will go to all the fancy concerts and I will look after her son, and she’ll get all the attention, and the men, and the flowers, and the smell of fake smoke, and come home all blushing and high and bitch about the dirty dishes (well, you are the one staying in (HER) well, did you have fun in the backroom, whore? (ME) And how come you can afford susi? (HER) Because I have a jjjoooooob (ME) Oh that’s what it’s called, I was wondering (HER) YOU CAN’T SING (ME) – shit, I mean, susi flying all over the place ).
It’s all about perspective, right? Some girls dream of big white dresses, white lilies, white horses, white carriages and other things that are white and fluffy. When I think about r-r-r-r-relationships, I see broken glass, wasabi stains on the walls, one baby on the hip, another clutching my hand, pushing my way to the door. Players, female or otherwise, are not to be blamed.
My life is exactly what it says on the tin.
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