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xx. elle

The flat had been tidied when Cait arrives home. Surprising, given the boys hardly ever cleaned. She wasn’t even sure if they’d ever noticed the mess. Nonetheless, Cait is glad she didn’t come home to four days’ worth of dirty dishes in the sink. And it’s so nice to see the flat in daylight, she thinks.

She takes her luggage to her room, looking around, she freezes. The bed is made. The curtains drawn. The carpet vacuumed. Everything is in its place, for the first time in nearly three months, except his backpack.

Cait slides the wardrobe door open. It wasn’t there either.

Then, it dawns on her. He left.

Cait starts to pace around the flat nervously. She opens and closes all the cupboard doors as if she would find him hiding in there. She checks her phone, and her email, then her phone again. There was nothing. She checks her drawers, her letterbox, the table, the benchtops, all nothing.

She picks up her phone and starts to call him, when she sees Michael’s black canvas loafers come through the door. His tall, athletic frame is accentuated by a well-fitting suit. He munches on a bag of potato chips, taking off his Crumpler shoulder bag and throwing it on the couch.

“Hey, welcome back! How was it? You hungry?” Michael pokes the bag of chips in Cait’s face, but walks straight past.

Cait simply ignores him. “When did he leave?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And yeah, the inspection went great! Thanks for asking!”

“Don’t avoid the question, I want to know when did he leave,” Cait can hardly hide the anger in her voice.

Michael stops munching for a second, and then swallows slowly. “Last night,” he answers. Even with the sheepish look, Michael’s blonde hair and baby face always got the girls swooning. And in a momentary distraction, Cait thinks to herself, God, if only he weren’t so wedded to those loafers.

“I wasn’t here, I came back late and the flat was like this. At first I thought you got back early and cleaned, but I found his note next to the toaster this morning saying he’d gone. I tried to call you, but I guess you were already on your flight back.”

“He left YOU a note? What did it say? How could he do this? How could he just disappear like this a word? TO ME? Who does that?” Cait screams hysterically. She starts pacing again in an effort to keep herself from crying.

“Oh, come on, Caity. You knew this was going to happen. His Visa was running out, he had to leave. You talked about it. What’s the big deal?”

“He still had three weeks left!” Cait is now unable to control the tears. “We were going to spend the last the weeks together, before he had to go. And now he just leaves? Without saying anything? He writes you a fucking note but he doesn’t say anything to me? I can’t believe he’s done this to me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he just said ‘I’m going. Thanks for everything.’ That was all. Besides, you should be glad the German is gone. He was leaching off you.” Michael sits down on the couch and kicks off his loafers. He digs his large hand inside his bag of chips and munches loudly.

“I just don’t understand why he didn’t say goodbye. I mean, he owes me that much doesn’t he? I took him, on a fucking kiteboard, down the Bay to fucking Rickett’s Point. It was my happy place, our happy place. And now, I don’t even get a lousy goodbye!” Cait stops pacing and leans over the end of her couch, feeling nauseous.

“What’s there to say? ‘Bye Caity, had a great time. Gotta go. Won’t be seeing ya.’ Come on, he had to do, so he did. Yeah, he was a bit of dick that he left while you were away. But let’s face it, it’s simpler this way.”

“I cancelled my shoots for the next three weeks so we could spend it together. We had plans!”

“Cait, why do you always need to live with so much drama in your life? Do you really think the guy wanted to stay for three weeks of ‘Oh, I wish you didn’t have to go.’ Face it, the German’s gone. He’s not coming back. Move on,” says Michael, his patience wearing thin.

Even though Cait knows this is the truth, hearing it out loud was like being stabbed with a garden rake. “Get out,” she says, hardly audible as she starts toward her room.

“What?” says Michael, perplexed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Come on, let me take you out tonight. You can wear a mini skirt, sit on a bar stool. We’ll play wingman and you’ll forget the German in no time.”

“I said, get OUT!” screams Cait, slamming her door shut.

“Okay, okay, no bar stool.” Michael opens the fridge. “You want beer, Caity?” I could definitely do with one, he thinks to himself.

There’s no response. Michael walks towards Cait’s room but stops when he hears her painful howling. He’d never seen Cait like this and he doesn’t really understand why she’s so upset, but he feels like an insensitive shithead all the same. Noticing Cait’s phone on the table, he picks it up, and does the one thing he’d been thinking about for months. He sends a text message to the one person Cait really needs, but won’t admit to herself.

“Richard’s gone. Call me.”

Photo: Albert Kenyani Inima

1. Dreams do come true. When I was 12, I had a dream. A hazy, rose scented dream seen through the myopic eyes of a nerdy almost teenager. I wanted to be an architect and marry a chef. Well, I’ve been a student architect and now live with a chef (though not romantically). The former: by design, the latter: by coincidence. As far as dreams go, I think that comes pretty damn close. I owe a great debt a random I met in Montreal who told me to have a dream, to see it in your mind’s eye, and go chase it down. The reality of it is that after 3 years of drawing kitchen joinery, the thought of having to draw yet another drawer was making me want to throw myself into the Yarra. And my chef housemate never cooks at home, it’s just more work for him, and I really don’t know how to explain his appalling food hygiene standards. But, I can’t complain. I’m livin’ the dream, even if it’s not so dreamy. So my lesson here is: have a dream, see it in your mind’s eye, but before you go chase it down, have your eyes checked by a qualified optometrist.

2. Marriage is about security in perpetuity. That’s what everybody wants right? The never-ending love and companionship for the rest of your life?

Pfft! In ya dreams!

– is what I thought.

However, after a certain incident in which I histerically threatened both my co-habitants with castration for leaving me alone with a swarm of mutant flying bugs on the ceiling, I ‘ve become quite fond of the idea of marriage – to a bug exterminator – if it means I could have permanent, resident pest control for the rest of my life. That’s my security in perpetuity. A man who can handle his bug spray, hmmm… attractive…

3. It is not, I repeat, NOT better to have loved and lost, than not loved at all. I make that emphasis in case I forget next time I get caught. Like all narcotics, the wild, exhilarating highs when you first meet someone are not worth the depressing, crushing lows when it all inevitably ends. The problem is, by default of human evolution, the body (and the mind, for that matter) is designed to forget pain. It’s a survival mechanism but unfortunately, it also makes people do things repeatedly for the same heart-breaking result. So, I’ve devised a simple but hopefully effective warning label. “CAUTION! TOXIC LOVE. DO NOT TOUCH” Comes in sticker, fridge magnet, tattoo and iron-on transfer formats. On sale at your nearest florist, chocolatier and jeweller. Special gift packages available for Valentines Day. Enquire in store.

4. The heart still wants what it can never have, and my fragile fickle heart will pine forever – not for a chef, it would seem, but for a bug boy.

5. Bugger. Obviously.

Coming soon in 2010, this li’l ol’ blog will feature a weekly post with a twist. YOU get to chose what happens next. It’ll be a chose you own romp bonk-buster blog serial.  And here’s a sneak peak:

‘Richard’s gone. Call me.’

Jonathan wakes up to a text message from Cait. He tosses the phone carelessly aside and lets out a primal grunt reverberating in his rib cage as he rolls himself out of bed. Without bothering to get dressed, he plods his enormous cave-man feet out of the curtained darkness of his room. He sees the girl sitting on his couch, her silhouette framed by the afternoon summer sun. She sucks on the end of her pen as she browses the shopping guide in the weekend paper. Her shirt, Jonathan’s shirt, is carelessly buttoned in the middle, and falling off her shoulders. She looks up and pulls the pen out of her mouth with a slight pop and crocks her head to one side.

‘Morning Jon,’ she cooes and smiles sweetly. For a second Jonathan wonders to himself why she’s still here but then he notices her cheeks flesh out like a pair of ping pong balls. He’s always liked girls with fleshy cheeks.

She’s a nice girl, he thinks.

‘I made you breakfast,’ she points to the plate of unrecognisable yellow mound on the table which Jonathan ignores (he’s never cared much for breakfast) and instead, surveys the contents of his fridge.

‘You don’t eat much, do you?’ asks the girl as she leans over the couch, crossword dangling from her fingers and she pokes the pen back in her mouth. Jonathan catches sight of her lovelies, in all their voluminous glory, pressed up against her chest by the backrest, and he quickly places his unopened stubby back in the fridge.

‘It’s not food that satisfies my appetite.’

Intrigued? Stay tuned.

Photo courtesy of Sabine Davis

1. Feminism is just unnatural. I’m sorry, Ms Greer, but I’m a princess, I’m not made for hard labour, icky jobs and mundane tasks, plus I really prefer men to do all the work. However, that’s not to say I’m letting the side down, it’s still girl power all the way. Just remember these 4 little words: ‘I need your help’. Say this to any unsuspecting gentleman and watch him puff up his chest like a neanderthal, grinning like an idiot (men like to think they’re helpful, even though we know they’re totally useless). And then watch him fail abysmally at doing what you already knew you could do much better yourself. It’s far more entertaining.

2. Men are incapable of falling in and out of love. They’re only ever capable of falling in and out of habit. The question you have to ask yourself is: are you prepared to be someone else’s habit? and to be broken like a habit?

3. Romance is not a complicated thing when you’re a neanderthal. If she’s there and she smells nice, hey presto, you have lift off. Until somebody else comes along, who smells nicer, then, all she’s left with is the horrible stench she pick up from you, the neanderthal.

4. The heart wants only what it can never have, and my fragile, fickle heart will pine forever.

5. Bugger.

Next the Turkish man offers his a small jar of ‘Turkish Viagra’ claiming that one teaspoon is enough to last him five times in one night. His Royal Pommy Arse commentates that perhaps the Sultan may once have needed it, but he doesn’t — yet. However, “for the sake of international relations, [he] bought half a dozen jars”.

‘International relations’. So that’s what all the kids are calling it these days. Maybe we should get half a dozen jars of this stuff for the Climate Summit. We all know the world needs better ‘international relations’.

If you’re interested, I think the show is called The Orient Express, but I don’t recommend it.

photo courtesy of Mr & Mrs Sticky Fingers, Flickr

Calendar entry: Pieday
Time: Pietime
Location: Pieland

Additional Notes:
Attendance is REQUIRED. Consumption of pie is REQUIRED.
Those who cannot attend / consume pie must submit a Certificate of Non-Attendance / Non-Consumption signed by their department superior at least two (2) days in advance for approval.
Failure to attend / consume pie will result in a reduction of your Participation, Interest and Enthusiasm (PIE) Index, which will be deducted from your salaries at a rate of 75%, compounded daily.

Pieday will hereby replace Friday until further notice.

In a shameless bid for self promotion, I implore you to vote for me (pretty please, *smiles sweetly and bats eye lids*) using this handy, helpful, no mess, no fuss, totally idiot proof ratings guide:

TWiT (1 star) = shut up, you stupid bitch!
FUCKWiT (2 stars) = take your fucking blog post and stick it up your poop tube!
HALFWiT (3 stars) = meh
DIMWiT (4 stars) = yeah-nah, could’ve done better
WiTTY (5 stars) = forget the rest, this is the only one you need to know.

Vote now.  Each week, the post with the least votes will be evicted from the blogosphere.

(to the tune of the Solfege song from Sound of Music)

Doh! A beer. I smell like beer
Rai-ny days are made for beer
Me, it’s mine! It’s all my beer
Far: a long way to run for beer
So, give me a pint of beer!
La-ger is a kind of beer
Tea? No thanks, I’d rather beer
That’ll bring us back to Doh – oh – oh – oh…

(and repeat… until you get some beer)

soh – doh – la – fah – mee – doh – ray
soh – doh – la – tee – doh – ray – doh

Free your-self from bad re-gret
Have a-no-ther beer ins-tead!

If there is one thing that drives people to do crazy things / dispense crazy advice / generally act crazy, it’s got to be the naughty-naughty. Here are some highlights:

5. For the boys: the Kama Sutra advises that if one wishes to make one’s “little friend” into a “big friend”, one should rub it with oils and bristles of bugs and hang it through a hole in a hammock. And you should do this for 10 nights. Apparently, the pain will go away but the swelling lasts a lifetime.  Handy.

4. For the girls: the Catholic Church recommends 40 days of penance for he who amuses himself, but he who does not perform his bedly duties to his wife, will find the Catholic Church recommending she take another husband. Who said divorce was not allowed?

3.  He who enjoys too much bedly goodness will die in an early death (but what a way to go, right?).  While she who has too much of a good time will become exceedingly powerful, apparently by sucking all the strength out of men.  Go girl power!

2. There once was a boy who met a girl.  When the boy and the girl went back to the girl’s apartment, the boy was presented with a “this is my last STD health check” document and was promptly asked, “where’s yours?”  It is perhaps a little surprising to learn that she didn’t also pull out Cosmo magazine’s comprehensive 101 Tips and Tricks list (annotated, of course: “I want you to do this one, this one, hmmm, didn’t like that one, oh, and this is much better upside down”).

1. Speaking of Cosmo, according to its latest advice, men are attracted to smells of lavender and pumpkin, which is great if you happen to fall into the path of an eligible bachelor immediately after an unfortunate accident with Halloween party decoration and your grandmother’s pot pouri.  Ladies, be sure to look out for Butternut by Elizabeth Arden and Kent by Burberry at your nearest department store.

Women are mysteriously attracted to smells of black licorice and cucumber.  Hmm, dark aniseedy goodness and a conveniently shaped garden vegetable.  What a surprise.