Since September 2009, Kate and Nick have been writing a joint relationship column for the Northern Territory News.
The column has covered the joys and tribulations of falling in love, moving in together, getting engaged and planning a marriage.
We've enjoyed writing these columns and recording the more light hearted moments of our lives. We hope you enjoy reading them.
THU 29 OCT 2009
Cherished and vital possessions, or just a pile of old crap?
HE SAID:
HERE'S the dirty little secret they don't tell you about moving in together. Whatever crap you own is instantly doubled.
And I'm not talking about furniture, cutlery or anything of a useful nature. I'm talking about the spare mop handle I kept under my bed or the leaky bucket that has stored my disco ball for so many years. These were artefacts acquired over the course of bachelorhood.
I called them ``things you hide in the spare room''.
She called them ``clutter''.
Personally, I find comfort in clutter. Things need to be out in the open or you forget what you own.
I like to keep a mental inventory of my supplies -- like the wooden mop handle -- which could one day serve to reach that tempting mango from the neighbour's yard.
I had similar scenarios that would also make use of the leaky bucket, the sledgehammer and the two mouldy deckchairs we deluded ourselves into thinking could pass as indoor furniture.
But the cyclone clean-up -- and ``our'' need to de-clutter -- has left me without the tools to defend against these future emergencies.
Maybe I should build a shed.
A refuge where my spare mop handle and leaky bucket can live in peace. A place she is not allowed
to clean.
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the Northern Territory News
SHE SAID:
LET'S face it. Grown ups -- unlike single backpackers -- own stuff.
Until now, I've lived freely, in the brilliant world of buying and selling crap online. I love throwing stuff out. Problem is, I now live with a hoarder. Before we moved in, our grand possessions consisted of:
Me: CDs (lots), cheap earrings (hundreds, mostly unmatching), and a vast array of novelty shot glasses. Him: DVDs (he could open a store), comics (again, a career selling these awaits), and clothes (including T-shirts from 1996).
Neither of us possessed a single practical thing that our mothers would refer to as necessary.
So, in an attempt to grow up, we shopped. Oh, we collected crap.
Problem was, we'd inspected our new flat once. In our minds it was palatial, and had space for new bar stools. When we walked in (carrying said stools), we realised we had no bar. We had, in one swift move, grown up. So, naturally, I went into de-clutter mode.
He, of course, thought of the spare room purely as storage.
The line ``if you throw that out sweetie, I'll need it one day, and we will fight'' was used.
But my revenge was planned for cyclone clean-up day. I started too early for him to be fully awake. He unconsciously helped carry out mouldy chairs, and broken badminton racquets. Even an old superman poster was thrown out.
I felt evil but an empty, clutter-free room has never felt so good.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin
THU 05 NOV 2009
The constant battle for ``me time'' because of all the ``we time''
HE SAYS:
I LIKE to engage in a little-known activity called Extreme TV.
It's when you purchase the box-set of a television show -- and watch it all in one sitting.
It's not easy. It takes stamina, a supply of snacks and the ability to perfectly time toilet breaks.
It's for those who don't have the energy to remember when their favourite shows are scheduled -- or the patience to wait a whole week for the next episode.
Extreme TV is not for the light-hearted. It takes up the better part of a weekend, but it is worth it.
It was one of my many sacred rituals of singlehood. Not unlike the breakfast laska, the microwave cheeseburger or the mid-week after-work drinks. When first dating, I could enjoy these activities when she wasn't around.
A simple: ``I'm beat. I think you should crash at your place tonight'', was usually followed by an all-night Heroes marathon.
But when you move in together, you just don't have the time for these luxuries. Time, much like everything else in our apartment, is owned collectively.
It must be spent together.
``What are we doing tonight?''
``Where will we go this weekend?''
But with all this ``we time'' -- how can I find ``me time''?
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the Northern Territory News.
SHE SAYS:
THE rules are pretty simple when you first start dating.
Airbrush your perfect physical self, polish your personality, and put that on display.
But after a while, things change.
Nobody can hide their true self forever. I realised the lack of facade a few months after we moved in.
Sitting on the couch one night, I could see he was bored. So bored that he started puffing his cheek out and poking his finger at it; until a sound, pitched somewhere between a drum roll and flatulence, emerged. ``I found a new noise,'' he beamed, gleefully.
We were way past the point of polished personalities.
Of course, he has discovered things about me; most of which I'm choosing not to reveal here.
I think this new openness is caused by a lack of ``me time''.
In my case, I no longer spend hours grooming my eyebrows.
He can cope with me being a bit of a hairy monkey.
But he refuses to give up me time.
Instead, he'll get up at 1am, and start watching the latest episodes of Star Trek (or star something.)
I don't know. Maybe there should be a giant house for men where they could go each Tuesday night and burp the alphabet, while watching anything they want. And I could reserve Tuesdays for my tweezers.
*AFTER reading his column I have decided to defend myself. In no way would I ever protest against a breakfast laksa.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 12 NOV 2009
Lightsabers for one as space war threatens fabric of relationship
HE SAYS:
LET me tell you about the greatest challenge we've ever faced in our relationship.
It started with the revelation that she had never watched Star Wars.
It wasn't her fault. Not everyone has been raised with the classics.
So after two bags of popcorn, a six-pack of cold beer and 121 glorious minutes in a galaxy far, far away -- she emerged from the lounge uttering the words ``boring'', ``stupid'' and ``I don't get it''.
I was literally speechless. It was like I was living with a stranger.
Star Wars is my I Ching -- my Zen guide. It contains the answer to all of life's questions.
When she noticed I had grey hairs, I replied: ``When 900 years you reach, look as good, you will not.''
When she said she would try to get to the movies on time, I replied: ``Do, or do not. There is no try''.
When she mocked my 20-year-old rusty Nissan Pulsar, I replied: ``She may not look like much but she's got it where it counts''.
She thinks this is simply a matter of taste. Like enjoying olives on a salad or choosing the Beatles over the Rolling Stones.
But Star Wars isn't just a movie. It's a way of life. And people either love Star Wars or they don't.
And the real question is, how will we raise our kids?
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the Northern Territory News.
SHE SAYS:
PERSONAL taste should stay personal. Or, that's what I thought when I shared a flat with a crazy German girl in London, who put Sandy Thom on repeat for 10 hours in a row. Needless to say, I do not wish that I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair, and that CD was thrown out the window.
But the rules are different when you're in a relationship.
An inordinate amount of his time is spent thinking about super heroes and movies set on a spaceship.
Which is why I took the big plunge. I watched Star Wars for the first time.
It's not like I'm a girly girl who only watches movies that star Hugh Grant (although he played a great bad boy in Bridget Jones).
I love watching film producers waste millions of dollars on car chases and things that go boom. But for some reason, nothing had ever made me want to care about Luke Skywalker.
After 20 minutes my boredom levels rose. After an hour I was reaching for the DVD case, wondering how much longer I'd have to sit through this.
I just didn't get it. I mean, I get what happened. But I don't get IT.
What's the big deal? It's slow, has bad `70s special effects, and the characters just didn't grab me.
So from now on, I'm reverting to my old opinions on personal taste. They should stay personal. Even if he does own a pair of lightsabers -- he now has to play with them alone.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 19 NOV 2009
Drink plenty of fluids and take Panadol -- that'll be $80 thanks
HE SAYS:
I HATE going to the doctor.
Don't get me wrong. There are doctors out in the world doing amazing things like eradicating diseases and curing baldness.
But when I'm sick, it's always just a case of the flu.
So if I'm not feeling well, why should I drag myself out of bed to have this confirmed by a complete stranger.
I've never been to medical school, but from what I gather, they teach you to look down someone's throat (I'm not sure what you'll find down there), tell them to drink fluids and take Panadol ---- then charge $80 for the pleasure.
She'll go to the doctor at the drop of a hat. And she'll carry an entire emergency kit at all times. There's bandages, creams, painkillers and vitamins in her handbag.
I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure I saw a defibrillator in there one time.
But I think most men prefer to tough it out -- to slowly cook during the build-up like a gratinated piece of meat until you feel better.
That's because most men realise that a good night's sleep and a glass of orange juice can cure many ailments. And maybe a stiff shot of scotch.
Although I will admit, her hippie pills with Echinacea and garlic aren't too bad either.
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the Northern Territory News.
SHE SAYS:
OK, I admit it. I carry a pharmacy around in my handbag.
It's not because I'm sick-- I just like to know I can help if something goes wrong. He won't admit it, but I know he appreciates me when the midges come out and I provide repellent; or when his hangover kicks in, and I feed him painkillers to dull the memory of that eighth scotch.
There's something fundamentally different between men and women when it comes to medical matters.
Here's an example:
Day One: He's sick. Already sneezed seven times. Must be life threatening. Has asked me to prepare some soup as he could cut himself while cooking -- possibly leading to infection and amputation.
Day Eight: He's still sick. Managed to stub his toe along the way. Could cause complications. Still refuses to go to the doctor.
Men are like puppies; the minute you mention the vet/doctor they'll hide under the bed until you give up.
Women (I'll admit it), may possibly go too often.
The chance to read old trash magazines while in the waiting room, and knowing you'll be prescribed drugs that might fix that lingering eye infection/sore throat/whatever is just too tempting.
My accountant tells me I can claim medical expenses if I spend over $1500 a year.
I'm taking that as a challenge. Better get to the physio to heal my back that hurts from carrying around that pharmacy.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 26 NOV 2009
The minefield of couples dating -- pit of despair or natural order?
HE SAYS:
FOR me, the best part of being in a relationship is not having to date any more. Dating was fun, but it was exhausting.
There was the pressure to find someone. The nervous feeling before calling.
The paranoia about how you look.
And replaying in your head every bad joke you muttered around them.
It's a pit of self-loathing and doubt to which I am glad never to return.
So why is it I find myself dating more now that we are in a relationship?
It's called couple dating.
It started off small -- the occasional dinner with friends to show off our new apartment. Then we started going out to restaurants.
Then sunset drinks. Ferry rides to Mandorah. Before we knew it, we were spending weekends together at bed and breakfasts -- the couple equivalent of going all the way.
And with couple dating comes all the fears and terrors that go with normal dating. Is it too early to Facebook friend them? Does this shirt go with these shorts? Was that mustard on my face the entire time we were talking? And what are the rules? Should we not mention other couples in front of these ones?
Should we pick up the bill?
Hopefully, after playing the field, we'll find a nice couple that we can settle down with. Maybe then, I can stop dating.
* NICK Calacouras is the
political reporter for the Northern Territory News.
SHE SAYS:
FRIENDS come in two sizes. Single or couple. When you're single, the size that naturally fits best is other single friends.
Couples naturally gravitate towards other couples -- there needs to be a balanced order in life.
I can't figure out whether it's me getting older or whether it's because I'm living with him; but I am finding myself spending less and less time with my crazy and fun single friends.
I no longer have the desire/chance to dance in random caves, or get up on stage and sing bad karaoke as dodgy men look on.
About as crazy as it gets these days is drinking copious amounts of wine with other couples who are challenging me to a game of Mexican dominoes. That's not as exotic as it sounds.
And the funny thing is that once you become a couple, you have to then go and find all of these other couples to have tamer fun with. But where are they? They weren't around when I was single; so we now find ourselves dating other couples, forming fledgling friendships.
I suspected it was only us that needed to date other couples. But recently we were in Adelaide and set up two sets of couples.
They hit it off, becoming Facebook friends before we'd even boarded the plane back to Darwin. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 03 DEC 2009
Things get unhinged as man battles machine in final showdown
HE SAYS:
I'M NOT the most handy of men.
Don't get me wrong. I can recognise a Phillips head screwdriver and I even own a cordless power drill.
In fact, I've used that drill to hang a painting on the wall -- under my father's supervision.
I later managed to destroy a chest of drawers using that same drill.
I guess I'm missing the Mr Fix-It gene. But I am slowly learning.
For instance, I've learned that when the air conditioner isn't working properly -- don't stick your finger in it.
It is tough having to admit to her that I'm not good at fixing things.
We spent the best part of last weekend trying to dismantle a dishwasher to make way for a new oven in the kitchen.
It seemed an easy enough task -- until I discovered the nozzle of the drain hose was larger than the hole in the wall. Try as I might to drag it out, the hose was stuck.
I tried to cover my panic by yelling out manly requests, such as ``hand me my Phillips head screwdriver''.
Not to be fooled, she realised I was out of my depth and started dialling her brother, the plumber.
Mr Fix-It or not, no man should suffer such embarrassment.
Using Hulk-like strength, I ripped the nozzle from the hose, successfully dismantling the dishwasher before she could finish dialling. It was man against machine -- and man proved victorious.
I guess ego is a strong motivator.
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News.
SHE SAYS:
I'M A bit of a walking stereotype when it comes to domestic matters.
Growing up, Dad did his best to teach me practical things like how to tile the floor; but Mum's teachings were more fun (and I got to lick the cake mixture off the beaters), so I gravitated towards the expectations of my gender.
When we moved in, I realised I was living with a man who was my equal. Yes, he could tell which one was the spanner -- but so could I. When we had to finally use our tools, I was hoping he'd step up and take control.
But alas, no. A prime example was the weekend (two ENTIRE days) we spent trying to fix one hinge on a kitchen cupboard. I laughed off a $900 quote, but by the time we used a tank of fuel driving, purchased wood, a hinge, and tools, I think we were close to $900.
By the Sunday afternoon we were distraught. Clearly, neither of us had the skills to fix the hinge, and we'd just wasted our whole weekend. Luckily our powers of looking helpless came in, and, after driving around industrial areas looking for an open factory, we happened upon our saviour.
I did contemplate asking him home to actually fit the door -- but neither of us could face the shame.
We finally got home, and in fading light, fixed the door.
You can now use the door, but please be gentle. It's a bit loose on the hinge.
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 10 DEC 2009
Cooking dinner a non-core promise unless barbecue is involved
HE SAYS:
IN RELATIONSHIPS -- much like politics -- there are core and non-core promises.
Take last week for example.
I may have suggested that by the time she returned home from her friend's party, dinner would be simmering in the pot.
This is what I like to call a non-core promise.
So when she returned to an empty home because I was still at the pub, it wasn't really my fault.
It's not like I promised a kidney or to bail her out of jail -- you know, core promises.
It's just that I'm not a big fan of cooking. I love eating. But I believe the preparation of food should take no longer than its consumption.
But whenever she cooks, I find myself being sent to the herb garden like a farmer to harvest the latest oregano crop. Or trying to figure out the difference between chopping and dicing the pumpkin.
I suppose that's why men love the barbecue. It is simplicity and deliciousness at its best. Take meat. Place on fire. Turn.
Plus, you can use beer to clean the hotplate. Truly the pinnacle of culinary achievement.
NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News.
SHE SAYS:
WE'VE made a big step forward in our attempt to be grown-ups in the last few weeks.
We installed an oven.
Great time of year to buy a machine designed for heating things, but there's finite ways in which you can make a barbecue interesting, and I'd had enough.
I was pretty excited to finally put my herb garden out of its misery, and actually use it before it completely dies.
Problem is, I'm all talk.
I have no idea what half those herbs are -- I could be putting weeds in our food for all that I know.
He works within his limits, going to the ``ready meal'' section of the supermarket, then makes delicious pasta or tacos or something else out of a jar that I've ridiculed.
I try to channel Nigella Lawson.
Sexy, strong, domestic goddess.
Problem is, I'm much more like Bridget Jones in the kitchen, and I wouldn't put it past me to serve blue soup to guests.
My attempts at cooking include ingredients that I've never heard of, so I compensate by just guessing what on Earth those elaborate cook books are talking about.
Can't I just use soy sauce instead of kecap manis?
Think I'm better off going back to the barbecue.
He's in charge of that. And for anyone I've poisoned with putting weeds in their food, I'm sorry.
KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 17 DEC 2009
Travel may broaden the mind, but a quick break is no holiday
HE SAYS:
HOLIDAYS are like dessert. It sits there waiting at the end of the meal, encouraging you to push through the tough times.
That slice of cheese cake is a shining light of hope that gets you through the asparagus and beans.
But she sees holidays as a snack you have in between meals.
And the rise of the budget airlines is feeding her hunger.
She constantly watches out for cheap flights -- ready to pounce at a bargain. She calls them ``mini-breaks''. But I like my holidays to be relaxing.
I've done my fair share of travelling -- I've climbed, I've trekked and I've eaten weird and exotic foods (I can never look at a guinea pig again).
And after that, my perfect holiday requires three things: a swimming pool, a pool bar and a drink that involves the word daiquiri.
For my last birthday, she bought me a 40-hour weekend in Singapore.
I'm not complaining. I think most blokes would enjoy spending their birthday touring the trendiest ladies' fashion stores in Asia.
We still managed to squeeze in some daiquiris (and a trip to a comic book store), but after running around all weekend and catching the red-eye home, I only had two hours sleep before going to work and starting the week.
I really needed a holiday.
* NICK Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News.
SHE SAYS:
IT MIGHT sound narcissistic, but I think the Copenhagen summit is actually about me.
You see, I have an abnormal love of jumping on a plane, squashing myself into a tiny seat, and putting up with whatever screaming baby, or slightly unhygienic person they put next to me, in order to make it to my next exotic destination.
Usually these trips take the form of a 36-hour weekend away when I find some super cheap airline sale.
Sure, with all this flying, I'm filling the air with carbon, but I'm filling my life with strange and wonderful experiences. Like the time we popped up to Singapore to eat odd-tasting stretchable food, or last weekend, where I introduced a Belgian and an American to cake street in Melbourne.
He thinks I'm crazy; apparently holidays are supposed to give you time to relax. But I was introduced to the wonderful idea of the ``mini break'' while living in the UK; where everywhere from Marrakech to Minsk is a weekend destination.
Who knew a convertible Cadillac could be hired in the snow in Prague? Or that an old Italian nanna would look after you even when your language skills indicated that you were about to eat her dog?
And the best thing about mini breaks? They're like an entree to the main meal. Nice and light, and you won't eat into your ``real'' holiday time. Good thing that, as I've got some travelling to do!
* KATE Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio in Darwin.
THU 24 DEC 2009
We can do this the hard way, or we can do it the easy way...
HE SAYS:
I THINK the Christmas countdown should be in terms of shopping hours left.
Since there is late night shopping on Christmas Eve, it's no longer the 12 Days of Christmas, but the 12 Trading Hours of Christmas.
It makes me feel like I've got plenty of time left to start my present shopping.
She likes to get all the shopping out of the way early. But, being a journalist, I don't work until I'm up against a deadline.
And the clock is ticking like an episode of 24.
It's not really my fault. Christmas just kind of sneaks up on me.
The only reason I know the big day is coming up is because Roses Only sends me an email reminder.
I don't know how I survived before online shopping.
It's especially good when your family lives in another city.
My older brother once spent weeks searching for the perfect gift for mum and took the time to wrap it in nice paper and even decorated it with ribbon.
I managed to give my credit card details over the web to some company to send flowers the next day. For some reason, the tyranny of distance made my gift seem like a Herculean effort.
So there's no rush. I might kick my feet up, relax and do my shopping later this afternoon.
* Nick Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News
SHE SAYS:
I HAVE a friend who is so organised that she buys all her Christmas presents for the following year during the Boxing Day sales.
Most of the time I think she's crazy; I mean, why would anyone want to be in a 5-way physical fight over a cheap toaster? But part of me admires those organisation skills. If only I had the energy to hit the shops in January, then I wouldn't get into such a panic come October.
Yes, October. That's when mum and I sit down and rig the Kris Kringle. Who buys for whom, and how many presents we all should buy the kids.
This year is an even bigger challenge; I'm entering his (giant) family Kris Kringle thing for the first time. Although I have a feeling that his lovely mother and YiaYia have rigged their gift giving too, as I've been given a very easy person to buy for.
I've created a two way system for shopping. Firstly, I write a giant chart on a whiteboard. Who should buy what and for whom. I then write my personal list on the back of a business card.
This means I get to cross things off my list twice. Makes me feel like I've achieved so much more.
These lists mean I'm usually done shopping by the start of December.
Only problem is I've lost the gene needed to wrap gifts.
Anyone got a spare copy of the NT News I can use as Christmas wrapping paper?
* Kate Humphris is a reporter for ABC Local Radio Darwin.
THU 31 DEC 2009
Reneging on resolutions reeks of a `wretched hive of scum'
HE SAYS:
NEW Year's resolutions are like mobile phones or my 20-year-old Nissan Pulsar 6 -- they're made to be broken.
Last year, we both made very specific resolutions.
I decided it was time to lose a little weight, and she promised to watch all 52 movies on my ``must-see'' list.
It was a good list, with some Bogart, Tarantino, Capra and the occasional Rocky.
I was tired of her nodding politely whenever I made a popular culture joke.
Of course, when she was bored half way through Star Wars, the entire deal was off.
So my grand plan to lose 10kg also went by the wayside.
Don't get me wrong, I still did weights (lifting myself out of bed) and cardio (walking to the pub), but somehow this didn't have the desired effect on the scales.
It's also hard to believe that my proficiency in Wii Tennis also didn't produce any results.
But the good news is that my failure in 2009 will be erased at the stroke of midnight and I get to make a new resolution.
I think I might try to lose some weight this year.
* Nick Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News
SHE SAYS:
I TRIED really hard this year. I came up with a resolution that was different, would help me understand him a little more, and most importantly, would actually be fun to keep.
His special skill in life is to quote obscure films in conversations as diverse as ``when are we cooking that chicken curry for dinner?'' (``Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday'', I now know he's referencing The Godfather), to ``I think I'm going to the pub after work tonight'' (``You'll never meet a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.'' Apparently that's from Star Wars).
So I did better than expected, watching around half of the films on his ``must-see list''.
I loved Casablanca and The Godfather, but his insistence on watching bad '90s films such as Mall Rats didn't help in my resolve to get through all 52 on the list.
So, I'm pretty proud of myself. Considering most resolutions are broken by January 3, I did OK.
Thing is, it's time to come up with another one.
Something that I want to do, but is realistically achievable.
Should I try to cook him dolmades every week?
It'd be tasty -- but I don't think I can substitute mango tree leaves for the lovely tender vine leaves his parents have growing.
No -- I have a better solution -- he can cook me the dolmades, while I finish off those few films on the 2009 list.
THU 07 JAN 2010
Spectators the only winners as strong men brought to their knees
HE SAYS:
THE proposal is not about the groom. It isn't even about the bride.
The proposal is for the spectators.
I knew from the moment I picked up the ring that everybody would ask: ``So how did you propose?''
It's a lot of pressure to come up with a good story.
And you've got to keep the spectators happy.
My brother proposed to his wife during the commercial break of a footy match.
And a friend left a ring on the kitchen bench on his way to work with a post-it note saying, ``Feel free to put this on''.
But with romantic comedies, television shows and Hallmark cards telling us amazing stories of proposals on bended knee, how can a mere mortal compete?
I considered booking a space flight on one of Richard Branson's new commercial shuttles to give a zero gravity proposal -- but my fears of heights, falling and burning to death would probably ruin the romance of the moment. Plus, I didn't have $200,000 to spare.
I also struggled to find the funds to hide the ring in a glass of champagne in an expensive restaurant. My budget pretty much allowed me to offer the ring in a McDonalds drive through.
But in the end, I chose a quiet spot next to a mountain and a river and I got down on bended knee -- just to keep the spectators back home happy.
* Nick Calacouras is the political reporter for the NT News.
SHE SAYS:
THE lead up to a proposal is a bit of a battle.
Man desperately needs to work out ring size and style, without letting on that he's about to pop the big question.
Woman is usually smart enough to clue into his panicked inquiries and, thus, is rarely shocked when the question is finally asked.
But I have to admit, he got me.
I didn't notice that his aunt accidentally spilled the beans by announcing that by next year he'd be engaged and not entitled to a Christmas present.
I didn't notice him shaving and carefully selecting clothes in the few hours before the big moment.
We went to a national park.
Who puts aftershave on for a national park?
And, I was rather annoyed the night before (while he was plotting to speak to my dad), when he refused to take a sunset walk on
the beach.
So the moment arrived, and I was completely shocked. Of course I remembered to say yes, but perhaps I should have waited for him to ask the question.
And the next thought in my mind? ``S***, my six-day-old nail polish is horribly chipped, and he's about to take close up photos of my hands!''
Needless to say, he thought that was hilarious; the pressure was finally off him, and on to me.
And so now he's posted an album of engagement photos on Facebook. Chipped nail polish and all.
THU 14 JAN 2010
Just a gut feeling that raising the bar is not for dilettantes
HE SAYS:
I HATE the gym. I hate waking up early. I hate exercising hard.
And most of all, I hate people seeing me lift embarrassingly light weights.
But once again, I made a New Year's resolution to lose a few kilos, so I figured it was time to sign up for another gym membership.
Normally this wouldn't worry me too much. I would soon get bored of running on a machine that goes nowhere (seriously, who wouldn't?) and struggle to convince myself that it was really worth getting out of bed.
Sure, I would lose the money I spent on the membership -- but that is just money I would have otherwise spent on pies and beer. And that's my usual strategy for losing weight.
Unfortunately for me, this is no ordinary year. We're preparing for our wedding.
And if I'm going to shell out all those bucks for a professional photographer to immortalise our special day, then the gut has to go.
So this time, I've joined her gym.
And when the alarm goes off in the morning, we get up at the same time.
That way, I don't need will power -- I can just use hers.
SHE SAYS:
JANUARY is a pretty rubbish time of year if you're back in the daily grind.
The last of the Christmas pudding has run out; it's raining so much that even the car is flooded, and worst of all are those New Year's resolutions.
Not my resolutions, mind you -- but everyone else who has decided that this is the year that they will fit into those jeans from 1997.
Not only are we putting up with ridiculous claims of diets consisting purely of blueberries (it's a superfood, so Noughties), but I'm having to fight my way through the masses at the gym.
And this year, he is one of the masses. He has decided to join me at the gym.
Normally at 6am, the gym is a pretty peaceful place.
But not in January.
New Year's resolutions mean that I'm fighting to get on to a running machine, or even find a space on the floor for a few leg lifts.
He thinks it's great. While he sweats away on this week's favourite cross-trainer or stair-climber, he gets to watch me lying on 3sq ft of floor as I stretch my body into strange positions.
It's unfair. There should be a place for year-rounders -- the committed exercisers -- where we can train in peace.
He, along with everyone else trying to shed that Christmas spare tyre, should be made to prove their dedication. I'm proposing a 10km run in monsoonal rains, but I'm open to suggestions. I'll pass them on to the Minister for Gyms.
THU 21 JAN 2010
Food for thought in treacherous waters of glittering aisles
HE SAYS:
LAST week the supermarket was selling hamburger patties in the shape of Australia.
Now, some might consider celebrating our nation's settlement by eating a chunk of meat shaped like its land mass to be a little crude -- but not me.
I thought it was brilliant.
It made me feel patriotic ... and a little hungry.
Most people loathe doing the groceries. They find it a tiresome hassle. But that's just because they can't see the fun in it.
For one thing, I get to pick what I'm going to eat all week.
That's like ordering seven items from the menu. There are so many interesting things to buy and eat that I somehow regress to a child-like state.
She doesn't trust me to do the groceries by myself in fear that the shopping basket would be filled only with continent-shaped hamburger patties.
So now the grocery shopping is an ``us'' activity -- where we can make these important meal decisions together.
And if I ever get lost, she can usually find me in the toy aisle.
SHE SAYS
EVERY Saturday morning I suspect he's gone mad.
He actually enjoys the supermarket. I know this because about an hour before we venture to a place most people like to avoid, he starts jumping up and down like a three-year-old: ``Oh, oh, what can we buy this week?''
The questions get more frequent, excitable as we approach the store.
At first, he's quite chivalrous, knowing that he'll get what he wants if he behaves.
He pulls out a trolley, and pushes it through the gates.
But that's where the gentlemanly behaviour ends.
I get left with the trolley in the produce section, where I battle tired mothers with crying babies as I reach for the last avocado on
the shelf.
He runs off, under the pretence of getting meat, or bread, or whatever, and comes back every five minutes or so holding the latest ridiculous contraption that we NEED to own.
This weekend it was a plastic cereal bowl with a separate compartment in the lid to hold milk. I watched his face drop as I pointed out that he eats breakfast at home, and he can easily reach for milk in the fridge.
But in the end he gives in.
As I cross essentials off my list, his eyes get sad, knowing the adventure is about to end.
I give him space to grieve, and he wanders off to the toy aisle.
And that's where he gets me.
As I load groceries on the checkout, he comes back excited, clasping something that will clearly amuse him for at least the afternoon.
And I fall for it every time.
THU 28 JAN 2010
Geek meets freak in tortured voyages back through time
HE SAYS:
TRY as you might, you can't run away from your past.
She first met me as a fully formed -- if not immature -- adult.
She never saw the more awkward years -- my time wearing braces. The long sideburns years.
The leather jacket phase.
All of these things have been locked safely in the past.
I always suspected she would look at me differently if she knew I attended a John Farnham concert when I was 14 years old.
But as we plan to spend our futures together, we can't help but bring some of the past with us -- especially when with friends and family. But the worst case of time travelling horror happened over the Christmas break, when we spent a week with my family.
My parents still haven't figured out what to do with my old room, so we stayed in this perfectly preserved relic from the 1990s -- complete with movie posters on the wall. And since I still had my decade-old music collection in that room, I was able to serenade her with tunes from Hit Machine 98.
In a moment of panic, I realised she was meeting my teenage self for the first time.
It was like I could feel the braces returning to my teeth and acne reappearing on my face.
But the panic soon subsided. After all, I've seen the photos of her wearing a denim jacket over denim jeans. Who is she to judge?
SHE SAYS:
I WAS never number one geek at school; but I was close.
I used to hide this, in the fear he'd run from here to Mexico to escape catching geek disease.
But your past always catches up with you. Mine caught up with me, big time, over Christmas.
My parents recently moved, so mum presented me with a human-sized box full of memorabilia that she wanted me to sort.
It was my duty to relive the geek; with him loving every moment.
Like the letter I wrote to myself as a 13-year-old with the instructions: ``Open on my 21st, it'll be sooo embarrassing!!!!''
It was (quite) a few years late when I found it, and sadly, there were no revelations that would inspire an episode of Neighbours.
No, instead this geek had decided to describe her bedroom and seal it in an envelope, thinking it might be interesting one day. More entertaining was the primary school project where I profiled everyone in my family. It included the phrase, ``my dad is the only one in this family with a full time job''.
Mum wasn't impressed, as back then she was working 30 hours a week, while caring for four kids under the age of eight.
He loved all of it. The insights into my child and teenage mind.
I'm lucky he still wants to marry me after all this.
But I've seen the matching teal green suits worn by him, and ALL of his mates to the Year 10 formal.
So we're almost even. I just have to ask his mum to pull out her memorabilia box one day.
THU 04 FEB 2010
Awkward times ahead as parents ready to meet the parents
HE SAYS:
LET'S face it. Parents are scary creatures.
I think that's because no matter how old you are, they can still make you feel like a little kid.
Somewhere between birthday parties and family holidays, parents learned how to push your buttons and shave decades off your life.
You fumble, mumble and bumble your way through conversations with people's parents and pray you get through without embarrassing yourself.
And meeting a partner's parents for the first time is always going to be difficult.
The father especially -- because he remembers being your age.
But there is only one thing scarier than meeting your partner's parents -- and that's both sets of parents meeting each other for the first time.
The moment I pulled out the ring, our parents went from perfect strangers to in-laws.
And before I knew it, these strangers from different cities were talking on the phone for hours.
At least when we are dealing with parents, we can be on best behaviour to avoid any incidents.
But I have no way of controlling the outcome of cross-parental interaction.
And now we're planning an informal lunch so everyone can meet ``face-to-face''. Just a small sit down of six people -- from three different states, flying half-way around the country to eat at a restaurant we've shortlisted for the reception.
No pressure, huh!
SHE SAYS:
MEETING the in-laws for the first time is an occasion of Roman proportions.
Lucky for me, I was dressed appropriately -- wrapped in a sheet.
Yes, that's right, he put me to the test right from the beginning, by introducing us at his toga-styled birthday party.
After a few jelly shots, served on an Acropolis cake stand (we might have got our themes confused), the evening seemed less daunting.
Since this time (and in modern day clothing) I've got to know his parents, and have been delighted to learn that they share the same idiosyncrasies as mine.
For example, his dad talked at length about a new fishing wharf being installed near Sydney airport. My father would have been fascinated.
They're genuinely lovely people that I enjoy hanging out with.
So, I was surprised to find myself nervous when there was talk of our parents meeting for the first time -- without our supervision.
Isn't it a little strange that two sets of strangers would want to share brunch without the thing that ties them together? But thank God for last minute cheap flights.
We may have to travel the length of the country, but we've now booked a table for six.
THU 11 FEB 2010
No romantic gestures for these Valentine's Day rejects
HE SAID:
I HAD never celebrated Valentine's Day before.
As university students, we used to hand out condolence cards to our fellow non-coupled friends and then celebrate our single-hood at the local pub.
I even had an anti-Valentine's party one year -- no couples allowed.
Despite all these celebrations of single-life, there was always a part of me that really wanted someone to call my Valentine.
And I promised myself that when I found her, I would make the effort to romance her every year.
This was a stupid promise.
Valentine's Day is a stressful and painful experience for everyone involved.
Last year we went out to an expensive dinner (thank God for the coupon).
I even bought her a beautiful pair of earrings.
But at the end of all that, it was just a day.
A very expensive day -- complete with an overpriced bottle of champagne and snooty waiter.
So this year, we've decided to lay low. No presents. No fancy dinner. Just the two of us hanging out with some friends.
And just in case she's expecting me to surprise her with some romantic gesture -- this is my way of saying ``maybe next time''.
SHE SAYS:
UNTIL I met him, my most elaborate Valentine's was receiving a small stuffed toy in an express post mailbag.
The day never bothered me.
Being single, I was above all that commercial rubbish, and I liked spending my money on stuff I really needed -- like my ninth pair of knee-high boots.
But last year was different.
We'd been together for a while, and had moved in only four or five days prior.
So the pressure was on.
How on earth do you celebrate this random date in the calendar?
All we knew was that we were broke. After buying fridges and book shelves, the idea of romance was flying out of the door as fast as you could say ``can you help me clean the oven honey?''
So the obligatory dinner at a nice restaurant was had, and then paid for by a voucher we'd been saving since Christmas.
However, because it was Valentine's, and we'd booked so late, we got the 10pm sitting. My hungry date shovelled food down in record time, and then ran out of conversation because his stomach wasn't feeling so good.
So this year, instead of obliging the commercial interests of this day we're doing nothing.
And by nothing I mean, going out for breakfast, lunch, then dinner with different friends who are also rejecting Valentine's.
THU 18 FEB 2010
Table for two means you can have your cake and eat it too
HE SAID:
I WAS watching this old movie the other night when I saw something odd. A waiter approached a well-dressed couple at a restaurant and the man ordered for the both of them.
I've never really understood this tradition -- why couldn't women order their own food?
Were they incapable of reading the menu? Could they not pronounce escargot?
Or were they concerned it might lead to crazy notions such as equal pay and the right to vote.
Either way, I definitely don't order for her. I'm too busy deciding what I want to eat.
Restaurants are the best part of being in a relationship.
When you're single, you can't go out to dinner by yourself.
And since I only know how to cook three dishes that don't require a barbecue, sometimes I struggled to go a week without doubling up on a dish.
But at a restaurant, there is a world of possibilities.
Perhaps I'll try the plank steak. Or the garlic prawns. Or the lamb shank pie.
And being a couple, I know whatever she orders, she'll let me have some. Maybe that's why men used to order for their dates -- heaven forbid she orders the tofu.
SHE SAID:
WHEN I was a kid, eating out was a once a year occasion.
Parents would team together, resulting in 17 children and 10 adults at a restaurant they nicknamed Basil's (after the British TV character that shouted at customers).
I think it was some sort of sick joke grown-ups had.
But as I got older, I had a taste of just how glorious restaurants could be.
So many choices! So few dishes to do at the end!
I started to wonder why anyone would ever eat at home.
Moving out for the first time, I was ready to embrace this restaurant life, until I realised my entire month's food budget could be spent on one entree.
While no food could be a good way to get into those skinny jeans, it probably wasn't sustainable.
But since we met, we've treated restaurants as just that -- treats.
He plans what he'll order days in advance, and makes gentle suggestions on what I should have.
While he boasts to friends that this two-for-one ordering option is the best thing about being in a relationship, I'm having the
last laugh.
He'll never admit to it, but last month, I got him to eat tofu.
And he actually liked it.
THU 25 FEB 2010
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile
HE SAID:
I DON'T know why people get so stressed about packing.
It's not that big of a deal.
The night before you take off, you put a bunch of clothes in a bag and zip it up.
The only challenge is to ensure you have as many pairs of clean underwear as possible for the trip.
But she seems to have a more elaborate system.
She's writing a list for our upcoming trip -- in fear that she will rock up to the airport and say ``hey, did I forget to bring shoes?''.
The whole process has taken the better part of a week.
First we had to take all the winter clothes out of the vacuum sealed bags.
These coats and jumpers have been layed carefully into piles on the bedroom floor -- things I want to pack and things I really want to pack.
But in the tropical heat of Darwin, it was impossible to see if that heavy jacket matched those jeans (or if they still fit).
So we decided to simulate a north American snow storm by blasting the bedroom's airconditioner.
It's a shame the power bill will cost more than the rest of the trip.
SHE SAID:
I'D RATHER scrub a toilet than pack for a holiday.
There is no logic to this loathing, other than I've had to do it so many times, it just drives me insane.
I've tried the pack when drunk method.
This resulted in the loss of my passport, missing my flight, and an expensive taxi ride to the embassy in the hope I could salvage my holiday.
Another method is to pack a week before you leave.
This is also unsuccessful, as I inevitably need things in that bag, and can never re-organise it again in time for my trip.
Packing will be a challenge this time around.
We've got about five climates, some work stuff, and a wedding to pack for.
And yet airlines still demand we fit all this into 20kg.
This wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't terrified of leaving anything essential behind, but I usually forego that extra pair of undies for a sparkly evening bag.
So I've decided to be organised, and write a list.
On it thus far are threecoats, eight pairs of earrings, and Paracetamol.
Maybe a few glasses of wine are in order. This packing thing could end up a long night.
THU 04 MAR 2010
Workers of the world unite but mind the demarcation lines
HE SAID:
EVERY successful society requires a fair division of labour.
One man bakes bread while his neighbour makes peanut butter -- and together they can enjoy a delicious sandwich.
The same approach can be applied to our household.
I cook the barbecue while she cuts the pumpkin.
She does the dishes while I, the man, protect the house from invading crocodiles.
She doesn't believe the last one is a real job because we haven't been attacked by any crocs since we moved in.
I guess I'm the victim of my own success on that one.
But the problem with any division of labour is that you are locked into these roles for the rest of your lives.
If she was ever required to turn on the barbecue, there's a risk she'd blow up the house.
And whenever I've had to cut the pumpkin -- let's just say we needed to buy more Band-Aids.
I guess that's why they say till death do us part -- because we're too old to learn new tricks.
SHE SAID:
PUMPKIN used to be an endearing name he called me. Not any more.
Not since the time I asked him to chop pumpkin into 2cm cubes, as the recipe required.
I arrived home to a mess of shredded vegetables and him, covered in orange goo and seeds.
Since then I've been the one delegated to pumpkin cutting duty.
And he's had to think of a new nickname for me.
A clear division of labour was never intended when we moved in.
But within hours it was obvious that he'd be the one looking after the AV equipment, while I'd be left scrubbing the bath. While this sounds sucky, it's actually great.
He embraces every man job, thinking it will bring him one step closer to being a fully qualified tradie.
So, while he's sweating away, washing gunk from the fans (in his mind, being the air con repair man), I'm quietly folding clothes.
Now I just have to convince him that watering the plants will turn him into a landscape gardener, and life will be sweet.
THU 11 MAR 2010
When the going gets tough, it takes the bottle to survive
HE SAYS:
I USED to think that when the time came I would display courage under fire.
I imagined myself running selflessly into a burning building to save a crying child's lost puppy.
But when duty finally called, I performed less than admirably.
We were lounging around a hotel room in bed one night in Las Vegas, eagerly anticipating the night's David Copperfield performance in the MGM Grand. I was considering getting dressed for the evening when the fire alarm went off.
She was cool as a cucumber through the whole process as she quickly and quietly grabbed her handbag and started walking out the door. My actions were slightly more erratic. I quickly leapt out of bed and put on my shoes.
It was only after I saw my reflection in the mirror -- wearing only boxer shorts and runners -- that I decided to take an extra few seconds to find my jeans.
I also used an extra moment to use the bathroom (if the building really was on fire, I figured I wouldn't really have an opportunity once we evacuated).
It was only then that she reported smelling smoke in the hallway.
All of a sudden, it was game time.
No more kidding around. I quickly calculated in my head what items in the room needed to be rescued.
I would like to think that I checked on her engagement ring, or the camera with irreplaceable memories of the trip. But in the end, there was only one thing I really cared about. Do you have the David Copperfield tickets?
SHE SAYS:
IN LIFE, I find that when I ask for the chicken then he orders the steak.
But, on the big things, we're both reading from the same menu.
Or so I thought.
We recently faced our first real emergency together. Loud fire alarms. Smoke. Everything.
Staying on the ninth floor of a hotel, I knew there was little time to waste -- we needed to get out.
So I filled my glass with wine, grabbed my handbag and then waited for him.
I waited while he went to the loo.
I waited while he searched for his passport. And I waited for him to put a coat on (even though it was not coat weather).
Then we ran fast.
It wasn't until we were well out of the building that he looked at the wine. He only had one question -- where's mine?
Its not the first time I've failed in a crisis. I once tried to pour a bottle of cordial over a burning gas bottle instead of calling the firies.
And looking helpless doesn't help when you've got a flat tyre on a dirt track hours from the nearest town.
But after our hotel evacuation, I realised none of that matters.
When it comes to an emergency, it's now clear.
He's in charge of the practicalities, while I look after the important stuff -- like wine.
But next time I'll bring two glasses and the bottle. He might take a while to get ready.
THU 18 MAR 2010
The big picture in a relationship is who controls the remote
HE SAYS:
IN RELATIONSHIPS, sometimes you have to understand when no means no.
Partners often establish boundaries that must be respected at all times.
For example, I don't like having tofu in the house.
I'll admit that it's an irrational and arbitrary rule but I don't understand tofu and, quite frankly, it scares me.
Oddly, I have similar feelings about Chevy Chase movies.
She only has one rule: no television in the bedroom.
We generally don't watch a lot of television. When we do, it's usually the news or a DVD.
But while we were on holidays, I discovered the magic and wonder of watching television from bed.
There's something decadent and lazy about waking up in Las Vegas and turning on the TV before you even get out of bed.
And, at the end of the night, after she's fallen asleep, I could watch a movie or yet another episode of Law and Order.
She kindly put up with my antics on the trip but let it be known that this sort of behaviour would not be permitted after returning to Darwin.
I guess what happens in Vegas ...
SHE SAYS:
WHEN it comes to technology, we're entrenched in the 1980s.
One TV with rabbit ears for an aerial, so we can only watch two channels. Even then, they're fuzzy.
So it was with amusement that I watched him lap up all the TV on offer during our recent trip to the States.
Even the dodgy motel in a town supported by alien tourism offered well over 100 channels.
There was no question about who was taking control of the remote.
Even before putting down the bags in each room we arrived in, he'd be flipping through channels, allowing half a second to decide whether he'd watch.
So, TV consisted of short sound grabs and ads for medication with strange warnings such as ``don't take this medication if you've ever eaten eggs, because your stomach might explode''.
His ability to continue watching, even to change the channel, while asleep still amazes me.
It's the reason I've created the first rule in our house -- no TV in the bedroom.
Because, while watching someone change channels as they're lightly snoring is funny when you're on holidays, I can't imagine listening to infomercials at 3am will make me happy when I've got to get up for work.
These days you can experience hundreds of channels in HD with surround sound.
But for the moment I'm happy being stuck in 1986 -- one TV (with fuzzy reception) in the living room.
Maybe I'll start a petition to bring back It's a Knockout, and I'll be happy in TV world forever.
THU 25 MAR 2010
Wild Ones metamorphose to Mild Two and throw towel in
HE SAID:
SOMETIMES I wonder, what happened to my single-self?
My holidays used to involve travelling to far-off places, drinking in foreign bars and talking to complete strangers.
But our recent road trip through the United States proved to be a very different holiday.
In New York I got bored during a Broadway show and fell asleep.
In Austin, Texas, I struggled to stay out long enough for the band's 10pm set.
And in Las Vegas, I walked up and down the strip looking at restaurants -- not nightclubs.
I guess holidays start to change when you are in a couple.
You look for something different.
Meeting new people becomes less important than visiting new places. Enjoying a morning is more important than staying up partying every night.
And sleeping in a nice hotel is better than doing so in a noisy backpacker hostel.
So maybe this has nothing to do with being in a relationship.
Maybe it's just growing up.
SHE SAID:
WHEN I was single, I viewed holidays as trial of endurance, on a par with running an ultra-marathon, or babysitting 30 kids at once.
My challenges included living with no power or running water, or learning a foreign language that I'd never encountered in my real life.
I'd pack the bare minimum, even using a dishcloth as a towel for months on end.
That slight stench could be the reason I stayed single until now.
But since I'm now a ``we'', holidays are completely different.
Our first holiday together involved a lot of lying on deckchairs and reading books.
Our most recent break was more active, although our road trip across the US didn't exactly resemble the film Road Trip.
My single days' road trips involved random shifts in underground bars where I could pour free drinks all night. Or getting refused entry from dodgy bars.
The craziest night we had recently was drinking a few cocktails and watching a gay bartender play matchmaker.
And I hate to admit it publicly, but leaving the challenges behind for nice hotels was fun.
Maybe I'll even pack a towel for a bit of luxury on my next holiday.
THU 01 APR 2010
Wheeling and dealing not a power struggle but a snuggle
HE SAYS:
SINGLE people seem to have a lot of independence.
But when you form a couple, you seem to divide up the everyday responsibilities.
After a while, that routine turns into a reliance -- and you give up control over these activities.
Take driving, for example.
I have always enjoyed driving my rusty Nissan hatchback that I've owned since university.
It's not too pretty, smells of mould and the speedometer doesn't work too well -- which doesn't matter because the car starts to shake apart at 70km/h.
But there was a sense of freedom in getting behind the wheel and going where I pleased.
This all changed after we moved in together -- and became a two-car household.
Hers is a more ``grown-up'' vehicle than mine.
It has room for the groceries in the boot, can actually reach the speed limit and has all the mod-cons -- such as airconditioning and windscreen wipers.
So, it became natural that we'd take her car ... everywhere. Then, before I knew it, I had become a permanent passenger.
Some might feel threatened by having a woman behind the wheel at all times, but I've decided to sit back, play with the radio, and enjoy the ride.
SHE SAYS:
I DON'T know when it happened, but sometime in the last year or so, I started losing control.
Maybe its laziness, but I now let him do a lot of stuff that I used to manage on my own.
That's fine when I'm letting him do man jobs, like set up AV equipment, but lately, I've taken it too far.
I no longer have my own bedside lamp. So he makes the decision of how long I read before I go to sleep. Similarly, he has the clock radio on his side of the bed.
I have to crawl over pillows like a pioneering mountaineer to see what time it is if I wake up in the middle of the night.
Losing control can be a good thing, though.
It means I'm in charge of other areas of our life.
Like DVDs.
He might want to watch Stargate, but tonight I think he'll have to sit through Pride and Prejudice.
THU 08 APR 2010
Original origin story a labour of love ... but hard on memory
HE SAYS:
ALL great comic book superheroes have memorable origin stories.
Batman watched his parents gunned down in front of him as a child.
And Superman was rocketed to Earth as his home planet exploded.
These stories are modified slightly over the years, but the essential facts always remain.
It turns out that the same rules apply to couples.
Every couple is supposed to have an origin story to tell how they came to be.
The story doesn't have to be accurate -- or even true for that matter. It just has to be memorable.
After having drinks with a newly formed couple the other night, we decided to piece together our own origin story.
As it turns out, there were a few gaps in our memory.
We definitely knew each other before we started dating, but I couldn't remember when we first met.
On the other hand, she couldn't remember rebuffing my attentions at the gym months later.
So we've decided to boil the story down to the bare basics: We were at a party. We had a few drinks. And we decided to get married three years later.
SHE SAID:
I GUESS it wasn't until a couple of months into the relationship that I realised we needed a ``how did we meet'' story.
People had seen us together; my family knew of his existence, and I really had to think of something plausible.
Fast.
Problem was, neither of us could remember when we really met.
And since this is a G-rated column, I won't disclose the details of how we hooked up.
First met stories are told -- and re-told -- and there's a bit of competition to see who's got the best tale.
Friends of mine, who were recently married, proudly boasted on their website that they met in the toilet queue at a house party.
Cute, quirky, and it got a few laughs at the wedding.
Another couple I know met on an international flight.
The story is told repeatedly, and the couple proudly teach their kids to be friendly to strangers on planes.
So there's a bit of pressure for our story to be good.
We're still working on details, but I think it should include a monster truck, a giraffe, and some trashy pub rock for a soundtrack.
I'll get back to you when we've worked it out.
First met stories are told -- and re-told -- and there's a bit of competition to see who's got the best tale.
THU 15 APR 2010
Pathetic perils of alien journeys in space-time continuum
HE SAYS:
I USED to be a very solitary person. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the company of friends and colleagues.
And I had a great group of flatmates in a brilliant share house.
But at the end of the day, I enjoyed my solitude.
I had my regular time-consuming rituals. Laksa from the market. New DVD from the store. Check out new arrivals at the comic book shop.
I would even take the weekend newspapers to a cafe. The Sudoku puzzle alone kept me busy for at least three espressos.
It was to be expected that these rituals would change once we moved in. But I didn't expect to lose my capacity to be alone.
We recently found ourselves separated by half a country for a couple of weeks.
I was visiting friends and family in Sydney -- but they were at work during business hours and, with her halfway around the country, I had no idea what to do with myself.
Eventually I decided to take advantage of the situation and embrace the things that are forbidden in our joint life.
So I sat around eating hamburgers and watching police procedural dramas on television.
And after watching the season finale cliff hanger of Criminal Minds -- I was compelled to walk five kilometres to the shopping centre to purchase the next season. At least it got me out of the house.
SHE SAYS:
I'VE never been great with spare time. I rarely have it, so when someone gives me a chunk of it I run around like a two-year-old after eating a bag full of red snakes.
We were recently forced to spend 12 days apart. Less than two weeks.
With my nervous energy, I really should have been able to fill the time. In my single life, time after work was spent playing sport (when I was being good), or sitting in bars drinking wine with mates (that was a little more common).
I don't think I watched TV for about three years at one stage.
So, when those 12 days arrived, I was sure I'd be fine. I'd always been fine in the past.
But instead of discovering the joys of Capoeira, or becoming the wine snob of Darwin, I sat at home, and pined. Pathetic.
There must be a point in a relationship where you lose the ability to look after yourself.
I wandered aimlessly around our flat looking for things to do, but not really having the motivation to do the things I found.
Instead of cooking lavish meals with ingredients he bans (e.g. tofu), I had Vegemite toast for dinner.
It seems we both need to re learn our single skills.
Maybe we could sign up for a night course. Together, of course.
THU 22 APR 2010
There's more to slick dancing than just stepping on toes
HE SAYS:
I'M A little nervous about the wedding dance.
These days, our wedding preparation checklist seems to be getting bigger and bigger.
So while I'm focusing on photographers, guest lists and save the date fridge magnets, I've been putting ``learn to dance'' on the back burner.
After all, how hard can it be?
This may prove to be a mistake.
Last month I was in a wedding in Sydney that faced two disasters:
1. I called the bride by the wrong name during the best man's speech.
2. The groom was upstaged on the dance floor by the elderly father of the bride.
I may not be a Fred Astaire, but if I'm going to get through this wedding with my dignity intact, I decided I was going to take lessons.
So last weekend we took up a friend's invitation to join her for salsa lessons.
After an hour of missteps, blistered feet and self-loathing shame, I realised something worse than my inability to dance.
She can't dance either.
By herself, she can bob, twist and shake with the best of them.
But give her a partner and she refuses to be led.
If dancing is supposed to be a subtle language, we were having two different conversations.
I'm putting it down to trust.
If you don't let the guy lead, you don't trust having him in control.
She might be on the money with that one. I once tried to dip a girl, then dropped her on the floor.
SHE SAYS:
YOU learn a lot about your partner in unfamiliar situations.
Over the weekend we thought we'd try something different and give salsa dance classes a go.
Let me defend myself: we weren't the worst in the class, despite the situation I'm about to describe.
As I've spent marginally more time in Spanish-speaking countries than him, I deemed myself an expert in salsa.
And he believed me. Big mistake.
I knew what I was doing, and therefore wouldn't (or more accurately, couldn't) let him lead me. I had to retain control. So with both of us trying to push the other into spinning, we ended up hopping on our toes in a freaky manoeuvre that looked like a confused monkey running up a tree.
On the way home we discussed my inability to let him lead.
He's saying that it's a metaphor for our lives -- apparently I like to take control.
He's right. He even asked my permission to have lunch the other day.
I think we're just going to have to keep dancing until I learn the art of letting him lead.
THU 29 APR 2010
It's curtains to home renovations and splatter horror shocks
HE SAYS:
Sometimes I suspect she makes us do projects just so that we have something to write about every week.
Last weekend, I came home from working a Saturday shift to find tins of paint and rollers.
She had decided the main bedroom needed to be painted.
As a colourblind person, I find painting exceptionally difficult.
For one thing, I had to take her word that the feature wall was not pink.
She assured me it was blue. And blue is a boy's colour.
However, I did learn something from the weekend activities: painting sucks.
There's the heavy lifting of things out of the room, the scrubbing of the walls and cleaning of paint drops that will find the one piece of unprotected floor.
And, a week later, I'm still finding flecks of paint in my hair.
But I do have to admit, at the end of the ordeal, the room looked a million times better.
As we looked back on the fruits of our labours, she rested her head on my shoulder.
Nice. But then she said ``next week we should do something about the curtains''.
SHE SAYS:
You shouldn't paint a room with a newspaper columnist.
He'll get annoyed when his (very big) headshot ends up used as a drop sheet. I learned this on the weekend when I decided to paint our bedroom.
Unbeknownst to him, I'd been planning this project since we moved in, 15 months ago.
I never verbalised my plans.
He was less likely to say no that way.
What I forgot to tell myself was that I have no idea how to paint.
The last time I attempted this heinous task, I was 22 and living in Cairns.
I thought it would be awesome to paint my flat lime green.
Worse than the colour was my decision to paint in the middle of the wet, with no air con.
I remembered just how awful that job had been when I started prepping this time.
Too late to back out now, I'd already bought the paint.
So, over the next two days, we brushed and rolled our way to a new room.
Injuries incurred along the way included 15 heads banged on wall shelves, four blinded eyes from flying droplets, and a strange rash that has appeared wherever I smeared paint on my legs.
I've banned myself from home renovations for a while.
THU 06 MAY 2010
For richer, for poorer ... until debt or bad wine do us part
HE SAYS:
ALL the coverage given to the Northern Territory budget this week has got me thinking about our household budget.
In our vows, she will promise to love me ``for richer or poorer'' -- but since she's marrying a journalist, it is really only going to go one way.
And, since your average wedding costs as much as a luxury family sedan, we've had to tighten the belt just a tad.
In many ways, this is very similar to the Territory budget.
We have to go through our income and expenditure, and try to keep our finances in surplus.
But it's not always easy.
For instance, this week we needed to purchase a new door for the second bedroom.
I suppose you could call that an infrastructure spend.
And paying the plumber in cash to fix the toilet -- I guess that comes under essential services.
And it is a global financial crisis, so we've also had to make some tough decisions in our budget.
But that's okay.
I'm starting to enjoy drinking cleanskin bottles of wine.
But it can be embarrassing to bring out at dinner parties.
SHE SAYS:
I know we're supposed to be in this thing for richer or poorer, but really, I was counting on the ``for poorer'' bit being quite a bit down the track -- when we have more mouths to feed.
Our stinginess has reached new heights lately.
We've reverted to not only drinking wine that's so cheap it smells like salsa, we're actually served it to friends.
Other wonderful cost-cutting measures include buying `triple size' toilet rolls that are supposed to last three times as long.
Problem is they don't fit on our holder, so we're trying to use them up three times faster to get rid of them.
I've banned him from buying a new vacuum cleaner, despite the fact the one we've got is held together by masking tape.
And our fridge is so old I'm thinking of putting the magnets inside the door so the thing actually stays shut.
I'm quietly hoping he's putting all this money we're saving into a secret account to take me to a fabulous island resort.
Honey -- is that hint obvious enough for you?
THU 13 MAY 2010
Will Peter Pan and Wendy grow old disgracefully, Tinkerbell?
HE SAYS
I sometimes wonder about what the future holds.
According to the movie Back to the Future we will have flying DeLoreans and hoverboards by 2015.
This, coincidentally, is the same year Treasury predicts the Northern Territory will be out of deficit.
At the end of the day, I'm not sure of the accuracy of either prediction.
But, just in case, I want the scientists working on the flying car technology as soon as possible.
And, while they are at it, they should explain why I'm not fulfilling a childhood dream by spending my holidays on Mars.
I guess the future never turns out the way you expect.
While we will promise to love each other ``til death do us part'', I have no idea what kind of people we're going to be in the future.
Will we still laugh at stupid jokes?
Will we still use the broom to chase moths out of the apartment?
And will we still go to the comic book shop every weekend?
I guess change is inevitable, but I hope we don't lose too much as we grow old.
My future mother-in-law once noticed my large number of superhero T-shirts and quietly commented: ``Do you think he'll grow out of it?''
I hope not.
SHE SAYS
I don't know if this is a result of turning 30, but I've started to think about what type of old people we'll be.
Of course, when I was 14 I thought 30 was old. So I can already tell that awkward teenager that I will grow up to become a clumsy woman -- breaking two wine glasses and a plastic tumbler this last week alone.
But looking forward is harder.
Will I switch my high heels for ``sensible shoes''?
Or can I learn to keep pot plants alive for more than a week?
He loves looking into the future.
But I don't know how much of his vision will be reality.
He's convinced that, like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future 2, we're all going to be riding hover boards by 2015.
It'll be wonderful to see a 30-something-year-old man trying to keep up with the kids down at the local skate park in a few years' time.
All I'm hoping for is that we develop some of the better traits of our parents.
That way, as we get older we'll be running marathons while preparing Michelin star quality food, then sitting out on the new deck, which we built ourselves.
A little unrealistic perhaps? Maybe I'll go out and buy myself a hover board then.
THU 20 MAY 2010
Shaken, not stirred, super hero flounders in closet caper
HE SAYS
With the exception of the occasional speeding ticket, I've never really been in trouble with the law.
But that didn't stop me from wondering what kind of super villain I would make.
Perhaps, like Lex Luthor, I would be an evil genius and use my vastly superior intellect to take on Superman.
Or I could be a Bond villain -- complete with a hollowed-out volcano lair.
I suppose what all of these villains have in common is that they're invariably single.
You can't really be a super villain and a husband. Sure, Bonny and Clyde had each other -- but they also had a really cool car.
I had a chance to test this theory on the weekend.
It wasn't a big deal.
Just a misunderstanding with security at one of the country's largest casinos.
It was a long story -- involving a Presidential Suite, an unlocked door and a room full of hotel supplies.
And it ended with me wearing a very comfortable cotton robe, trying to talk down an angry security guard with an earpiece.
It turns out the supply room was full of security cameras.
And since this was a casino, I was petrified of ending up in a room without any cameras.
Unfortunately, I did not get any back-up from my partner in crime. She was safely hiding around the corner, sipping on a glass of champagne, while I dealt with the burly security guard. And that's why Lex Luthor never got married.
SHE SAYS
There was a bit of an Oceans Eight incident last weekend that got me thinking: what sort of criminals would we be?
Together with three other couples, we took on one of Australia's glitziest casinos.
He played the role of Matt Damon, a bit too eager, and likely to get us in trouble.
After finding the unlocked door of a supply closet, he spent two minutes on the other side of the law: borrowing a mini shampoo bottle, some water, and a robe.
While he was confident this stealth mission went unnoticed, he failed to take note of some large security cameras above his head.
Two large security guards then paid him a visit.
While I'd love to say that I took on the suave, George Clooney role -- rescuing him with my quick wit -- I cowered silently in the corner, drinking champagne.
I guess that's why I'll never be Bonnie to his Clyde.
The worst thing I was ever caught doing was eating a grape at the supermarket and even then I was so terrified I'd be arrested, I nearly burst into tears.
Put me in the goody two shoes any day, and I'll be happy.
THU 27 MAY 2010
Aliens, not dragonflies, signal impending arrival of the Dry
HE SAYS:
TOP End residents looked to the heavens in awe on Tuesday night as the sky was covered with bright, burning lights.
The weather boffins will try to tell you this was just a meteor shower.
But I think we know better.
Clearly, the Territory is being invaded by strange visitors from outer space.
It makes sense. After all, everyone else visits during the Dry.
For me, the start of the dry season is not marked by the arrival of dragonflies -- but house guests.
As the mercury elsewhere drops to freezing temperatures, the weather man taunts our southern family and friends with the promise of beautiful skies and sunny days.
Of course, when our first group of arrivals landed last Thursday, it started raining. And it didn't stop raining for several days.
Visitors are welcome, but it can be difficult in our tiny apartment. There are too few chairs for us to all sit inside and, suddenly, there is a line to use the bathroom.
But it's not all bad.
She has introduced me to the concept of travel karma.
When we take in house guests, the universe rewards us with other friends willing to put up with us.
I feel like a holiday. Maybe we should cash in on some of this karma sooner rather than later.
SHE SAYS
LAST week, while everyone was digging out their umbrellas, I was heralding the start of the Dry.
I'm not a frog. I'm kind of over the rain (for now).
But the 5am airport run to pick up southern refugees marks the start of the Dry at our place.
In my three years here, I've hosted about 17 groups of visitors.
While there are only so many times you can watch crocodiles jump, I've had endless fun giving them facts about Top End wildlife.
This time it was my sister and her boyfriend. Luckily, they've both been here before (they met at one of our illustrious night spots) and were showing off Darwin to a group of their Melbourne mates.
While we were spared most touristy activities, having my sister stay did remind me how much of a control freak I've become since we've got our own place.
During their five-day stay, my wardrobe was raided (expected), a mirror was broken (not her fault), and we've eaten so much rubbish I'm ready for a pure lettuce diet.
But I've worked out the secret to a harmonious visit: put them to work. In a short space of time we've had a door replaced, groceries re-stocked, and the washing done.
I might start placing ads in the classies for visitors wanted.
I've got quite a few more jobs that need doing.
THU 03 JUN 2010
Running the gauntlet of blisters, blood and nipple tape
HE SAYS:
I'VE done a lot of running in my life.
I've run away from responsibility. I've run away from a fight.
And, on occasion, I've run away from the police.
But for the first time I'm actually running towards something.
We've both signed up for this weekend's City to Surf fun run.
And like vegetarian hot dogs and every fedora I've ever bought -- it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Runners are not normal people. They are a separate sub-culture.
It's a world of special underwear, nipple taping (yes, you read right) and embarrassing chafing. And there is a strange nod that runners give each other when they pass at 6am.
It's a silent way of saying ``I know you're in pain, but you're hiding it well''.
And even though we are going through this together, I refuse to run alongside her.
I'm way too competitive and I know that any attempt to keep pace with her would cause serious damage to my blistered body.
And that's because she, unlike me, has done at least some running in her past.
But she has seen this race as an opportunity to buy a new running outfit -- and accessorise with the right hat.
So watch out for us on Sunday.
We'll be the two in brand-new running gear hitch-hiking for a lift to the finish line.
SHE SAYS:
OUR alarm has been going off at ugly o'clock lately.
And it's my fault.
I'd been complaining about needing something to train for.
Then he came home spruiking the City to Surf and, after a few too many glasses of wine, I signed up.
So we're being jolted out of bed at 5.30am, pulling on our runners and hitting the pavement.
I'm not as fit as I used to be. Once upon a time I could run 10km in 50 minutes with no serious preparation. Now I'm struggling to even train; dealing with stitches, sweat, and bleeding (yes, I go far beyond chafing and blisters). He's diagnosed my fraught state as getting old.
Apparently running is supposed to be hard and horrible, and people only do it to boast later in the pub that they ran 10km this morning.
At least we had an excuse to go shopping. With the race coming up we bought new hats, shoes and running gear. It's almost a shame to wreck our new stuff with bucket loads of sweat. I might give this running thing a miss. Anyone up for brunch instead?
THU 10 JUN 2010
In the long run, it's not about winning -- just who you beat
HE SAYS:
I WARNED her in advance that we could not run together.
It may seem cold hearted, but it was absolutely necessary.
Friends of ours recently did a fun run and remained side by side the whole time -- as a team.
We were not a team. Sure, we started the City to Surf next to each other, but once the starting gun was fired we were on our own.
This fact was made incredibly clear to me within 50m of the race -- when she decided to dodge an incoming pole by running into me.
We were definitely not a team.
In relationships, it's important to give each other space -- so I decided to run away, charging up the first hill and leaving her behind.
While this act may have been good for our relationship, it was not the best strategy for a 12.7km race.
I soon found every part of my body in tremendous pain.
And then came the worst wound of all -- my bruised ego.
I spent the rest of the race being overtaken by what appeared to be every other runner in Darwin.
When the oldies started to overtake me, I knew I was in trouble. But I knew I wasn't running last, because there was at least one person yet to overtake me.
What is important to remember is that we both managed to get across the line -- and that I beat her by four minutes.
SHE SAYS:
I'VE never been more angry at 700m in my life. The Sunday morning alarm was ugly enough. My body jumped up for the morning run ritual: do hair, double knot laces, and place BandAids in places that bleed without such protection.
He went to pee about eight times.
Sunday, we finally got to race; after three weeks of preparation.
Standing among the 1000 or so athletes, I felt intimidated.
He kept leaving to pee.
I kept finding others who wanted to run with me.
Bugger off. I cannot hold a chirpy conversation while trying not to come last.
But my mood turned even more foul when I heard whispers that the course was going to be 12.7km -- a full 700m further than he promised.
It might not sound like much, but when it comes at the end of the longest run you've ever done -- and the 12km sign is at the top of my Mount Everest -- that 700m could have killed me.
I'd been running for well over an hour, my legs felt like logs, and I knew he had already finished. There wasn't much incentive to carry on.
But run through I did and, yes, I did get a buzz crossing that finish line. Unfortunately, that buzz didn't last long enough.
It's Thursday and I still can't walk properly. Stupid 700m.
THU 17 JUN 2010
Dinner for one no fun but not a patch on tucker from scratch
HE SAYS:
WHEN we're together, we tend to cook some fairly elaborate and delicious recipes.
We've made creative curries from scratch. Or fantastic risottos with fresh ingredients.
But when we're separated, I find my cooking skills take a nose dive.
She was out of town last weekend and I was left alone in the kitchen.
I started with great intentions.
I already had all the ingredients necessary for my first night's meal.
But since she was out of town, I got distracted on the way home and found myself at the pub with mates.
The final result saw me stumbling through the kitchen and chopping up ingredients for a lamb hotpot around midnight.
At some point in the evening,
I fell asleep on the lounge and allowed my dish to simmer for more than two hours.
Luckily, the apartment did not burn down.
But not wanting to tempt fate again, I decided to tone down my culinary attempts.
The rest of my diet consisted mostly of takeaway noodles, curried sausages and kebabs from the Glenti Festival.
I tried to get a little bit fancy at one point by adding fresh cheese and sauce to a frozen pizza -- but that doesn't really count.
So, by the time her plane touched down on the runway, I realised how much I missed her. After all, I hadn't eaten properly in days.
SHE SAYS
MY GRANDMA used to say, ``If you can read, you can cook''.
Maybe that was true in her day, when meat and three veg were the staples, but I'm not so sure today.
We were recently given a number of fancy cookbooks and expensive-looking pots and pans by our very generous friends and family.
That, paired with our excitement at finally owning an oven, has created a MasterChef battleground.
Saturday mornings we go through recipe books to decide what's for dinner that week. I stupidly try to make everything from scratch.
He works with the knowledge that we're usually late home from work; and having a taco kit in the cupboard is always good in a pinch.
So, when it's my turn to cook, I'm having to Google daikon or hijiki, wondering whether I can replace it with things I've found in the fridge.
On his nights, he adds a bit of capsicum to the spaghetti sauce he's just tipped out of the jar.
Wish Gordon Ramsay would rush in and yell at him. Otherwise I'll have to admit his way is better.
THU 24 JUN 2010
How many men or women does it take to pump up a tyre?
HE SAYS:
IT WASN'T long after we first started dating that tragedy struck.
She got a flat tyre.
I was sitting in the passenger seat with a couple of beers under my belt and she turned to me with an expectant look. Apparently, it was my job to change the tyre.
This proved to be a problem.
You see, even though I'm still driving my first car -- a 20-year-old hatchback -- I've never had to change a tyre before.
Since it was still early days in our relationship, I didn't want to show too much fear as I stepped out of the car. I performed my task in a barely adequate manner -- but the car still drove off. It took her years to gather the courage to tell me that I did a terrible job and the tyre had to be repaired by a professional.
I guess those are the lies you tell at the beginning of a relationship.
We're less interested in such niceties these days.
Like last weekend, when I decided to pump up my tyres. I stared at the hose for a good 20 minutes before I realised it must be broken and left for another petrol station.
Four petrol stations later, I had figured out what to do.
I guess I'm just not that good with cars. Sure, I watch Top Gear, but I get bored when they actually talk about cars. And I found the V8s too noisy to have a simple conversation. At the end of the day, I guess she'll just have to accept the fact I'm not a car guy. So maybe she should learn to change her own tyres.
SHE SAYS:
I REALLY hope my dad doesn't read this column, because I'm going to admit something shameful: I know nothing about cars.
Despite dad spending hours showing my teenage self where to put oil in, or how to add fluid to the radiator, my new-found knowledge would disappear as soon as I got inside and started flipping through the latest issue of Dolly magazine.
Somehow I've survived years of driving without having to so much as change a tyre.
I presumed when I met my future husband he'd be able to fix anything.
I was sadly mistaken. Doesn't matter how many Top Gear episodes we watch, we're both still hopeless when it comes to cars. This was illustrated over the weekend, when we decided to have an `auto' working bee.
When it came time to check the tyre pressure on our cars, we were both lost.
It didn't help that I'd watched an ``adding air to your tyres'' clip on YouTube the day before. I still couldn't work out how to do it.
Driving into our fourth petrol station, we realised this had less to do with us, and more to do with the fact Darwin has a severe lack of working air pumps.
We were finally triumphant as
we pumped those tyres -- and celebrated by going to the V8s the next day.
Maybe we are car people after all.
THUR 1 JULY 2010
Territory Day is a cracker of a night, just don't get too close
HE SAYS:
I'M GOING to go out on a limb and say it: I'm scared of Territory Day.
I will admit it's amazing to watch the entire harbour coastline erupt through a series of seemingly endless explosions.
But close up, it's a little more scary. There's something about standing next to drunken yobbos aiming crackers at each other that frightens the bejeezus out of me.
For the remaining 364 days a year, I've come to appreciate the Territory's unique approach to personal safety.
We don't need a railing on Stokes Hill Wharf to prevent diners falling in. We have open windows on the Jumping Croc Cruise -- if you're stupid enough to stick your hand out, you deserve to lose it.
But I'm still amazed by cracker night.
If you drive while drunk, they can throw you in jail.
But handling small explosives? Not a problem.
In fact, it's encouraged as our patriotic duty as Territorians.
My first Territory Day celebration was spent hiding in my living room. I was certain Darwin was being bombed again.
She was the first one to drag me out into the open on these fateful nights. We were still getting to know each other, so I tried my best not to flinch at every passing missile.
But this year it's going to be different.
Tonight, I'm not going to just watch the crackers. I'm going to set one off. I just hope they come with instructions.
SHE SAYS:
I LOVE Territory Day. It's one of my favourite things about living here.
My first experience of this insane ritual was spent on a balcony, too scared to actually go near an explosive myself.
Although I did get to be a fire fighter that night after a rogue cracker flew into a tree.
Each person at the party was given a cup of water and ran down three flights of stairs to throw it on the surprisingly big fire. It worked.
My next Territory Day happened soon after `I' became a `we'.
I convinced him fireworks are fun. Back then I didn't know he's not the sort to flirt with danger.
He covertly avoided getting too close to the beach when I threatened to set off a cracker.
Last year there were no fires, but I did freak out a few southerners by placing them on a table at the Ski Club where they could `feel' the crackers (there may have been minor burns on their legs).
This year, it's time. We're going all out. We're actually going to buy our own crackers. Time will tell if we actually get around to setting them off.
THU 8 JULY 2010
Growing-up pains aren't without their household gains
HE SAYS:
A QUICK look around our apartment and it is pretty obvious that adults do not live there.
And I'm not talking about the vintage framed 1950s Superman comic on the wall.
Or our red corduroy bean bag.
I'm talking about our lack of kitchen appliances -- or indoor furniture.
We were going to get around to that after the wedding, when we moved down south.
But in the last week, we've made the surprise decision to stick around in Darwin.
We will be enjoying several more years of perfect sunsets, delicious market food and laid-back tropical lifestyle.
But after the initial euphoria set in, she took a good look around the apartment.
``Clearly, this won't do,'' she said.
So I have taken this week off work and she has given me a list of tasks.
It has been a week of flatpack furniture, coffee makers and Egyptian cotton sheets with a bajillion thread count.
I'm not sure how much I like having an adult apartment. It's been a very expensive few days of flatpack frustration. Although I'll admit it -- the sheets are very nice.
SHE SAYS
WE RECENTLY made the decision to make Darwin home.
Home home. Not ``we might leave next year'' home.
Until now we've been living like glorified backpackers.
We use a one dollar plastic wine jug as a vase (he does buy me flowers sometimes!), none of the sheets fit the bed, and most of our wine glasses have been ``acquired'' from various establishments around Darwin.
So the ``let's stay'' decision was big. It meant we could finally go shopping. But what do people in grown-up houses own?
Neither of us knew, so instead of actually looking at the stuff in the shops, we desperately tried to remember what our grown-up friends own.
He got out his phone and started calling. No answer. We had to do this on our own.
And boy did we have fun.
Money to spend and nobody to tell you what to spend it on? Who said growing up had to be boring?
We bought our first inside table, a bookshelf, knives that sharpen themselves, matching wine glasses, and sheets that stretch over the whole mattress.
Shame we didn't think to bring a big ``grown-up'' car to bring it all home in.
THU 15 JULY 2010
The way to a man's forgiveness is through his stomach
HE SAYS:
FOR many couples, I've found the most common phrase is not ``I love you'', but ``I'm sorry''.
It's an incredibly versatile and useful relationship tool.
It can be used to end a fight or even stop one before it starts.
It can even be used to soften bad news: ``I'm sorry, but I don't think I can hang out with your friends tonight.''
To err is human but to be forgiven is awesome.
But, like many things, these apologies lose their value after frequent use.
And you can no longer get away with coming home drunk and burning a tin of canned ravioli at 2am.
But this week something brilliant happened.
She asked ME for forgiveness!
It was a simple and understandable mistake.
After promising to cook dinner, she didn't realise the recipe would take several hours.
I didn't mind, but she was very apologetic. And my apology score card has been wiped clean.
I think it has bought me at least six months' worth of ``I'm sorrys''. And all through minimum effort on my part.
SHE SAYS:
WE ATE at 10.30pm on Tuesday night and it was my fault. I have the week off and foolishly promised to cook for him. But Tuesday got away from me in a mess of errands and chores.
I started getting dinner ready, but more important things kept popping up. Like the urgent need to find a fascinator for Ladies Day.
It was a bit last minute, but who cares? I'd finish dinner later.
I asked him to finish things off when he got in from work. But I didn't have the right ingredients.
First, he had to run to the supermarket to pick up an onion. Three steps in the recipe later, he was forced to run back to the supermarket to buy beef stock.
When he called to inform me of these troubles, he did not sound happy. And when I finally got home (beautiful fascinator in hand) he pointed out that the recipe has a total cooking time of three hours.
Oops. I should have read that one.
There was nowhere to go from here, but put on my best girly ``I'm sorry'' face.
It took three hours and dinner to be served, but he forgave me.
I am very lucky to be with someone who can forgive as soon as his belly is full. I might just have to bake him a cheesecake before I own up to anything else.
MON 2 AUGUST 2010
In 21st century it's about the i-way or the highway
HE SAYS:
WE RECENTLY took a giant step forward in our relationship -- almost as big as buying furniture.
We waited for as long as we could. And we resisted the peer-group pressure and the taunts admirably.
But in the end, we just couldn't wait any more.
We embraced the i-way of life. That's right. We went out on the weekend and upgraded our technology. We got an iPod, an iPod touch, an iBook and all the i-accessories that make life so easy and simple.
I don't know why we resisted for so long. I even got in a guy to set up Wifi in the apartment -- the geek equivalent of pulling over and asking for directions.
It was like we had entered a golden era. But the i-way of life is like a cult. You have to cut all ties to competing technology and embrace your new family. Your i-family.
Even now, I'm considering breaking my phone contract and signing up for the new iPhone. Sure, it doesn't work when it's in your left hand -- but it just looks so sexy.
SHE SAYS:
I'M putting it out there -- we were luddites when it comes to technology born in this millennium.
I've been playing scratched CDs on computers that were designed to play CD ROMs.
He recently spent $60 on a hand-held PDA that was cutting edge -- five years ago.
As we discovered, we're living in 2010. A year that is not compatible with 20th-century technology.
His PDA is now sitting in a drawer somewhere, making friends with the Tamagotchi and a Discman.
So we made the decision to move into the 21st century.
Last weekend we went shopping. While our credit card is in pain, our house is now adorned with such devices as electronic music players, laptop computers that actually turn on, and this cool new thing called the internet.
We also bought an aerial for the TV. It's incredible. You switch the thing on
and you get clear, moving pictures, and the sound even seems to match whatever we're watching!
I'm still working it all out, but I think we're on to something here.
MON 9 AUGUST 2010
Going single to double means twice the wardrobe
HE SAYS:
I'VE noted many times in this column that we have been two different people over the years -- the single selves and the couple (`us').
They are very different people.
For instance, my single-self would not understand why I now go home on a Friday night and enjoy some take-away and a bad movie.
And as a couple, we like to pretend that these single people never existed.
A joint delusion.
But sometimes you can't keep all those skeletons in that tiny closet.
Like when old friends come to visit.
In a transient town such as Darwin, we had plenty of common friends who moved down south before we got together.
Now when they come to visit, they don't know the couple us. Only the single us.
And they have plenty of stories. But luckily, they didn't get a chance.
Now that we're a couple, we get sleepy by 9pm and have to go to bed.
SHE SAYS:
We've been faced with our pre-couple selves recently.
Visitors who knew us pre-`us' have been flooding up from the cold south.
In addition to enjoying the warmth, they've delighted in reminding us what we ``used to be like''.
I've learned details about his wild stories that were previously glossed over.
And he's heard the stories I claimed happened to a ``friend of mine''.
But for the past couple of years, most stuff that's happened in my life, has happened with him.
I can't hide crazy stories, he was there with me -- like playing poker with strangers at 4am.
And the more we stay together, the more we shed our individuality.
It reached a sad point last week when we noticed we were walking around the supermarket in the same outfit -- grey shirt, black shorts.
Maybe we should spend some more time apart. Maybe buying different clothes.
MON 16 AUGUST 2010
Wedding vetoes fly faster than a speeding bullet
HE SAYS:
LIKE all great democracies, relationships come with a power of veto.
It must be used sparingly and on special occasions.
But it is a powerful tool, nonetheless.
For instance, I have a standing veto on tofu and movies starring Chevy Chase.
But until recently, she has used her power sparingly.
A few months ago, we were both sitting around discussing ideas for the wedding.
I suggested walking into the reception as man and wife to the theme of Superman.
She even laughed when I played it on my iPod and said it was a great idea.
Apparently, we heard that conversation in different ways.
I thought she said: ``that's a great idea -- and we should lock that in for our wedding''.
But she was really saying: ``that's a great idea -- for someone else''.
And I was understandably shocked when she vetoed the idea this week.
So I went on a power-hungry veto binge -- blocking every wedding suggestion for 24 hours.
Not the most mature response, I know. But then again, this was started with a disagreement over Superman.
SHE SAYS:
Veto is a great word. It means you can have the final say in a relationship, whilst pretending to compromise.
Until now, every time we've used this powerful word it's been to knock down something so completely crazy that we wouldn't have had the guts to do it anyway.
I vetoed calling any future children `Kal-El'. They are not, and never will be Superman.
He vetoed a long weekend in Cuba. But this time I've pulled the veto card for real.
While watching YouTube clips, I stumbled upon some great wedding reception entrances.
With my tongue firmly in cheek, I suggested we could enter to the Charlie's Angels soundtrack -- with my bridesmaids acting as
his angels.
He was surprised to hear this. He thought we'd already agreed to the Superman soundtrack.
This was quickly vetoed. Faster than a speeding bullet.
MON 23 AUGUST 2010
It's best to consign teen souls to the last millennium
HE SAYS:
THERE is an upcoming event on my social calendar that scares the bejesus out of me.
I'm not talking about the wedding or bucks party.
This is my high school reunion.
I'm not sure I want to go. And, more to the point, I don't think I want her to go either.
Sure, now I'm a semi-confident, slightly-nerdish modern day professional who couldn't kick a football to save my life.
But rewind a decade and you'll find an incredibly shy, ultra-nerd... who couldn't kick a football to save his life (at least some things never change).
I guess I'm just worried that she would not like me as a teenager.
From what I can gather, we were very different people back then.
If we met as teens, I'm sure my opening line would have been: ``So, do you come to Space Camp often?'' -- Space Camp being my main opportunity to meet girls. Well, that and the school band.
That reminds me, maybe I should dust off the old bassoon -- and play her a song for our next anniversary.
SHE SAYS:
I GOT an unwelcome glimpse into his teenage self recently. At 5:40am, we're getting ready to go to the gym.
I offer him a towel with an obscure black and white pattern on it.
``I'm not using that. I want a boy towel.''
I'm not sure whether it was the early hour, or whether he really harbours strong feelings towards towels, but I would have thought a fully grown man could handle something that wasn't solid blue.
It's because of this I'm glad he's skipping his high school reunion. I don't want to meet the boy who became the man. I'm glad he missed my reunion too. I don't need him to know of my feeble attempts to play trombone.
It's fair to say that we're both very lucky we never met as teenagers. I think a light sabre wielding, debate team captain would have mentally scarred the shy girl who didn't get rid of her braces until year 11.
Perhaps we're best leaving those geeky souls in the last millennium.
MON 30 AUGUST 2010
Why a man's first love can never be replaced
HE SAYS:
I LOVED my car.
Sure, I love my fiancee too, but the Nissan Pulsar hatchback will always have a special place in my heart.
You see, it was my first.
I was 20, and when I sat behind the wheel of that little blue Pulsar I felt a freedom and exhilaration I'd never experienced before.
And the Pulsar stuck with me ever since. It has seen more of this country than most Australians.
She has been driving a grown-up car for years -- so we've been using that for groceries and longer trips.
But the Pulsar was my blue box of freedom.
Sure, it is 20 years old, rusted around the edges and struggles to reach 70km/h.
But that doesn't matter,
because the speedometer doesn't work after it has been parked in the sun.
I loved it, not despite these faults but because she chugged along with them.
But it is time to grow up. I've now got a new car. Well, at least, newer.
And it has all the modern conveniences. Power steering. Air conditioning. Working wipers.
But as much as I adore this new car, I will always miss my old Pulsar. My first love.
It's the car I drove when I took her on our first date.
It's the car I used for a tour of Darwin while trying to impress her parents.
And it's the car that drove us home from the airport when we returned to the Territory engaged.
So, my dear Pulsar, I will miss you. And thanks for
the memories.
SHE SAYS:
THERE were a lot of things that attracted me to him when we first met.
His car was not one of them. In the first few months of dating I was living in Rapid Creek. He was in the city.
I started to question our relationship when he refused to make the trek up Dick Ward Drive to see me.
Then I was introduced to his car and it all made sense.
His little blue Pulsar, while full of personality, wasn't
full of much else. Like a working engine.
Sure, it was the perfect hideaway for green ants.
And it was always fun when we'd drive it in the wet, then realise the gaffa tape holding the window up was falling off.
But the car was a window into his soul, and I found myself falling in love with it.
I loved the old faded Snoopy on the dashboard. I loved the fact you could spill Uncle Sam's on the seat and it didn't matter. And I loved that his method of ``fixing'' the car once involved ripping half the door off.
Good luck old Pulsar.
We're going to miss you.
MON 6 SEPTEMBER 2010
Party and partner politics are one and the same
HE SAYS:
WATCHING our leaders in Canberra, I am reminded of a relationship.
Both sides are wrestling over the balance of power.
Because that power lets you get your own way.
In parliament you get this power by controlling 76 seats. And that takes compromise.
And while we normally give advice to couples, I think the lessons we have learned can easily translate to our politicians.
And the lesson here is about compromise. How badly do you want to work it out, and how much are you willing to compromise?
You need to work out this balance. What is your cut-off point -- when you decide it is not worth it?
For instance, I'm willing to spend a weekend hanging out with her visiting friends.
But I refuse to eat tofu. Or watch Pride and Prejudice.
Our major parties need to approach these negotiations with the independents in the same way.
For instance, Tony Abbott was willing to build a new hospital, but not introduce a carbon tax.
But whatever side wins, it is unlikely to result in a healthy relationship, but a marriage of convenience.
And they never last.
SHE SAYS:
SO, WE haven't had a Prime Minister for a while.
Australia doesn't know who's boss, and I'm kind of enjoying the spectacle of the power struggle.
It's a bit like him and I.
I'm not the official boss in our relationship, but I have fun trying to manipulate situations to my advantage.
Like Abbott, I'm prepared to offer bribes to get my way.
Unlike Abbott, I don't have a billion dollars to splash around.
Instead, I'll offer things like scrubbing the pot clean of last night's dinner.
This goodwill doesn't have to be cashed in instantly. I can randomly use it as an extra vote to push an idea through when it looks like we've got a hung household.
I've taken liberty in copying some of Julia Gillard's tricks too.
I'll buy him coffee and be disgustingly charming to his friends, even if I'm hung over.
They'll then decide I'm awesome, and tell him that I should get my own way.
Maybe I should run for politics. I think I could be quite good at it.
MON 13 SEPTEMBER 2010
Bells ring loud and clear at school of new experience
HE SAYS:
I USED to be a good school student. I attended all my classes.
I did my homework on time. And I always put my hand up to ask a question.
That was then. And now I'm done with school.
But it appears my education is not yet complete.
We have now been signed up for marriage school.
It was one of those little details the priest ``suggested'' we undertake before he performed the ceremony.
So we enrolled.
Even though we had been living together for 18 months, we still felt nervous.
What happens if you fail marriage school?
Do we have to break up?
So we decided on the only sensible approach.
We cheated.
We had no idea what to expect from the class, so we decided to cram as many personal details as possible.
On the drive to class, we tried to remember as much about each other as possible.
1. What is our favourite food (me steak, her sushi).
2. What is our favourite colour (me blue, her green).
Clearly, these are going to be the most important issues of our marriage.
I hope our teacher grades on the curve.
SHE SAYS:
SINCE he popped the question we've been steadily working on the little details of the wedding.
Church, reception, dress -- well that's about all we've sorted so far.
But we haven't really thought about the marriage.
We thought we knew how this ``marriage'' thing works.
Well, our priest had other ideas, and told us to enrol in marriage class.
My idea of marriage class would be learning how to cook his favourite meals.
I'd like him to learn about getting rid of spiders.
This isn't what marriage class is about. Instead we were each given a sheet of paper with 200 questions on it, and split into different rooms so we couldn't cheat.
We spent the next hour answering questions such as ``are you concerned your future spouse spends too much time on his appearance?'' (mmm let me think about that one).
Worse is to come. They've sent the papers away for ``analysis'', and we have to go back in a few weeks to find out whether we're compatible or not.
MON 20 SEPTEMBER 2010
Hey friends ... we bags this year for nuptials
HE SAYS:
THERE are times when we get competitive -- like when I finished the City to Surf four minutes faster than her.
Or when we're desperately trying to see who is the first to finish their column before deadline. But now we've found something new.
For the past nine months, we've been running around town acting like we're the only ones getting married.
Sure, we were vaguely aware other couples were engaged, but we only really cared about our own wedding. But now we can no longer ignore these friends.
I see them everywhere.
This week I saw photos on Facebook of a friend's wedding in Vanuatu. Pictures looked great, but couldn't help comparing the details.
A beach ceremony looked great. Would it be better than our church service?
That groom wore the same suit I'd been looking at. Can I still wear it? And now we're getting more invites to weddings, and it's making us more competitive. The most recent couple only just got engaged, but their wedding is before ours.
We may need to bring the date forward. I wonder if we'll lose our deposit.
SHE SAYS:
LAST week my leg waxer told me that I'm the most ``relaxed'' bride she's met.
In reality, I'm starting to feel the pressure.
It's not my fault. It's my friends. They're all getting married. I'm finding myself competing with my mates to see who's got the best hors d'oeuvres. Or who can devise the most creative table place numbers (without being tacky of course).
As the invites roll in, we start copying ideas. Guest welcome bags, a boat ride across the harbour, a four-day itinerary. It's getting a little insane. So here's the plan.
In order to stop us all turning into bride and groom zillas, there will only be one wedding allowed each year. This allows couples space to plan and enjoy their wedding without turning the event into a crazy competition. We're bagging 2011. To my engaged friends -- line up.
MON 27 SEPTEMBER 2010
Shop 'til he drops and you won't need to be there long
HE SAYS:
I DON'T like shopping for new clothes.
When my old clothes need replacing, I prefer to just take them to a shop and say ``can I have another one of these?''.
I've reached a stage where I'm comfortable with my look. No need to change it.
I require a fair amount of help when shopping for clothes. I am one of the 10 per cent of people who suffer from colour blindness -- so I have no idea what matches.
So I learn what clothes work together and stick to those combinations. But new clothes ruin my system.
I stand in front of my wardrobe, paralysed with indecision, until she tells me how my new clothes match.
But lately I've found myself in a new and unique conundrum. My New Year's Resolution was to join a gym and lose weight for the wedding.
But, unlike my previous resolutions to take up rock climbing or teach myself the harmonica, I actually stuck to this one.
While some people might celebrate losing 10kg, I'm now stuck with clothes that are two sizes too big.
And thus began our shopping adventure.
I believe clothes shopping should be like a surgical strike -- quick and efficient.
I hold clothes together until she tells me what matches.
It almost seems like too much work. Maybe I should just order a pizza and try to fit into my old clothes.
SHE SAYS:
THERE was a finite window of opportunity.
He needed clothes and was prepared to brave Casuarina on a Saturday to get them.
I knew we'd have less than an hour before he faded and chucked a tantrum.
We entered the first store looking for business clothes.
The shop assistant asked ``what's the occasion?''.
How strange. This is never asked of women. Answers would range from ``I'm having a skinny day'' to ``I found $100 in his wallet''.
But in every shop, they asked him the same question.
With no real ``occasion'' (other than it is indecent to wear pants so big they fall down), we went into supershop mode.
I grabbed a pile of clothes and he kept changing until he found outfits he liked.
That took 26 minutes.
Work clothes done, we went to the surf shop. It was full of teenage girls trying on anklets, but we pushed past.
He was growing short on patience. His choice in clothing resembled grabbing random clothes within reach.
Within three minutes he'd chosen and tried on everything. Wow. Well under an hour. And not a minute too soon. He was starting to complain about being tired. And hungry. And bored.
We were minutes away from a tantrum. But it could have been worse, I thought, as I noticed a woman trying to convince her singlet-wearing boyfriend to buy a shirt with buttons.
MON 4 OCTOBER 2010
Consumerism takes different tacks at supermarket
HE SAYS:
WHEN it comes to consumer brands, she is completely monogamous -- others shop around but she finds a single product and maintains an exclusive relationship.
I've seen this with make-up brands, clothing stores and shoe styles.
And the relationship lasts even when she moves away.
In Darwin, she has little access to many of these brands, so she is forced into a long distance relationship.
Sometimes I come home from work to find her purchasing shoes on her favourite overseas store's website.
It's safe to say I am less picky about my products. I'll choose whatever items happens to grab my attention.
Unfortunately, that often leads to me selecting gimmicky products. Like my ``anti-hangover'' scented deodorant.
I think it's good to have a bit of variety. It is the spice of life, after all.
SHE SAYS:
LET me take you into isle 12 of our local supermarket.
It's Saturday, and we're buying groceries. We're stuck in isle 12, because that's where men pick up their beauty products.
First we spend a while debating which deodorant he'll chose. Names like `Voodoo', and `Anti-Hangover' draw him in; and then we're both required to do the sniff test before he makes his final selection.
Then we look at hair wax. He needs to decide how shiny or strong he wants his hair this week. Each jar is opened; stared at; and then, after a lot of deliberation, one is thrown in the trolley.
Men and women shop for beauty products differently. Living in the tropics greatly limits what ``works'' for my skin and hair. Therefore there is no debate. I simply replace my favourite products as they run out.
Even though I have to source these brands from London or New York, I won't be swayed by marketing.
Unlike him, who as soon as he saw the `Old Spice' ads, started sniffing out that brand, convinced he should smell like the wonder man from the ads. I should encourage that one. Maybe he'll swan dive into a waterfall then come up with a huge diamond necklace for me.
MON 11 OCTOBER 2010
Dummy spits unleash the hilarious birds on the world
HE SAYS:
I THINK it's safe to say that the Commonwealth Games in on constantly in most homes at the moment.
It has become a central event in our apartment.
I especially love how we all become instant experts on obscure sports.
Like gymnastics.
We'll watch for a few minutes in total confusion as we try to figure out exactly what is happening.
And then she'll start.
``See how she landed on her left foot? That's no good. She'll be penalised for that!''
I, on the other hand, try to imagine they are actually fighting ninjas in between those flips and jumps.
But my favourite part so far has been the dummy spits. Two -- not one, but two -- of our athletes have flipped judges ``the bird''.
Not that I can blame them.
Sometimes you have to spit the dummy.
Like last weekend, when I came down with the flu and couldn't go to a friend's birthday.
I kicked and punched the bed like a five-year-old chucking a tantrum.
Or when my home computer decides -- once again -- to shut down for no reason.
I think dummy spits are important for a relationship.
How else is she supposed to know? I think it's called sharing our feelings.
SHE SAYS:
I've loved watching dummy spits at the Commonwealth Games over this past week.
Some were almost justified. I mean, these guys essentially give up their lives for sport, and their one moment of glory hasn't quite worked out.
Who wouldn't want to flip the bird in frustration?
But dummy spits at home are less than fun, and we've both thrown them recently.
Mine was due to the sweat box which is our room. We have air con. We just never turn it on.
So at 3am when I woke up in a Delhi-sized pool of sweat, I cracked it big time. Problem was I was disoriented due to overheating.
So my dummy spit was quietly getting out of bed and sleeping on coolish tiles. He didn't even notice.
His dummy spit was louder. Getting ready for work, he realised his pants were too big for even a giant belt to hold up.
While he found a new pair of pants, his pre-ironed shirt didn't match those. So again the iron came out.
Halfway through this process I heard what only could be described as a `dad noise' of frustration.
A loud indiscriminate roar of anger.
I guess he's going for a gold medal in dummy spits.
MON 18 OCTOBER 2010
Jobs around the home? Life skills always required
HE SAYS:
I SHOULD really start this column with an apology.
First, I would like to apologise to my neighbours.
As I'm writing this, a crew of workmen are in our spare bedroom jackhammering away our loose tiles.
I caught the beginning of this Herculean task before going to work and my ears are still ringing.
I should also offer an apology to our lovely house guest.
She kindly puts us up whenever we visit Melbourne and we'd invited her to stay in the spare room for the weekend. She ended up on our tiny living room floor.
It wasn't our fault. Our tiles started lifting last week, making the room unliveable.
And we were faced with the usual DIY smugness -- people bragging ``oh, you can do that easily. Here, borrow my jackhammer''.
It's strange. In our lives we've acquired many skills and talents. But nothing thus far has provided us with the ability to use a jackhammer.
SHE SAYS:
I ENJOY my job. So does he. We're professional sticky beaks and spend our days finding out gossip.
While this means we're great at telling a story at the pub after work, we have almost no real life skills.
The reality of this came crashing through our floor this week. Literally.
Our floor tiles started to drift skywards at a dramatic rate. Within days they had gone from one loose tile to a whole room that was raised so much he decided to make a putting green from the floor.
A friend of mine offered me her jackhammer and suggested we buy new tiles.
This was probably the most ridiculous thing I've heard all year.
While she's an expert on home reno, my most practical skill is that I can sew a button back on a shirt.
So we got the tilers in -- jackhammer and all -- and they busily went to work.
Our house guest volunteered to oversee the operation. Then they asked if she could make them a coffee. Unfortunately that's a life skill she's yet to learn.
She spent an hour trying to work the coffee machine. Maybe it's not just me who needs life skill school.
MON 25 OCTOBER 2010
Trying to survive when the build-up reality bites
HE SAYS:
IT'S that time of the year when we say bye bye to the dry. It's a very sad time.
The streets are quieter.
The air is stickier.
And the bugs are hungry.
Scientists call this time ``mango madness'' -- and it is the hardest time for relationships in the tropics.
You are forced to remain indoors to avoid the midges.
You're scratching like crazy, while turning the fan on full blast and sweating
out every drop of moisture in your body.
The conditions are perfect for a grumpy fight.
And in our tiny apartment, there's nowhere to hide.
But it's not our first build-up together, so we know most of the pitfalls.
For example, don't break the pot plants if you're moving things around. It makes her mad.
And if you make her mad, don't try to make it better with funny jokes.
It doesn't work.
SHE SAYS:
AS I write this I'm fighting the urge to scratch.
I have mozzie bites in unmentionable places. It would be inappropriate to scratch at work.
The mozzie plague this week has just about broken me -- and he's having to put up with the result.
I was prepared for the build-up. We've been through quite a few before and really, when you work in air con, you can cope under a fan at night.
But when you have to race from the shower to the bedroom to bathe in insect repellent, something is wrong.
He's being bitten too. But, as he's proudly told me about 38 times this week, it doesn't affect him. The bites annoy him for about a minute, then they go away.
So he gets cranky when I'm in bed at 3am, covered in melting ice cubes to try and reduce the itch. Apparently it's not fun to be woken by a wayward bit of ice.
The government is good at giving us advice on how to survive the cyclone season.
Can they please invest just a little bit in how to survive the mozzie season?
MON 1 NOVEMBER 2010
Life's a wacky old game, make no mistake about it
HE SAYS:
I used to be a much more patient person.
I could wait in line for my licence renewal and not want to scream at the top of my lungs.
And I would happily wait on hold for 20 minutes to reach a customer service operator who could not help me.
But somewhere along the way, that changed. If I want something, I want it now.
Maybe it's the ease and accessibility of the internet?
Why wait in line for a movie ticket when you can pull out your iPhone, purchase them online and skip to the front of the queue?
And why wait until 7.30 for the next episode of Two and a Half Men when I can get on iTunes and download it right now?
We live in the age of the instantaneous -- and that's great when you're busy.
But last week we were faced with a strange situation -- we both got home from work early.
So we found ourselves at 5.30pm looking at each other and saying ``should we cook dinner?''
SHE SAYS:
We're not patient people. I think its got something to do with being born in an era of instant gratification.
Want to find out the population of Singapore? Bang -- its 4.5 million (thanks Wikipedia).
I noticed my severe lack of patience last week when we went to the airport for a late-night pick-up, and realised the flight was delayed by 60 minutes.
We immediately panicked. We couldn't have a drink, he was driving (and I was being nice).
We couldn't have coffee, we'd never get to sleep that night. To make matters worse, my phone had died earlier that evening, meaning I'd have to fill the time without accessing the web.
He browsed the shops, bought a book about Genghis Khan, and started reading.
I wasn't going to buy yet another book -- I haven't finished the last three I've started. So I found a quiet corner, a pen, and on an old paper bag wrote this column.
MON 8 NOVEMBER 2010
Love can be a bit of a gamble around race time
HE SAYS:
YOU can tell a lot about a person by the way they gamble.
Are they cautious or impulsive? Maybe they are reckless and excitable.
Me, I'm easily distracted -- a quality dangerous in both gambling and life.
I'll sit through a poker game, playing it calmly and sensibly right until the moment I get bored and throw all my chips on the table.
I'm the same at the races.
Why put a dollar here and a dollar there when you can put everything on one horse for the slim chance of the big win?
Some say this is a textbook definition of a problem gambler -- I prefer to think of myself as eccentrically impulsive.
She, on the other hand, is painfully cautious. Slowly betting a dollar each way on several races and enjoying her six dollar wins.
But at least she is starting to rub off on me.
She convinced me to put $10 each way on a horse that came third.
I bet $20. I won $21.
And I have to admit, it's the first time I've won in years.
SHE SAYS:
I'VE never been a big gambler. I think the most I've ever spent is $30 and that was someone else's money.
But that doesn't mean I can't spend all day at the races, enthralled with the fact I can turn 50c into $2 on a simple bet.
And at the end of the day, if I lose 50c, I can still eat.
My fascination with the horses grew from the time when I was about six, and Dad opened up a telephone betting account.
I don't think mum let him put more than $5 in it but whenever he had a big `win' we all got fish and chips for tea (which emptied out the account again).
Earlier this year in Las Vegas, he wanted to throw all his money on black at the roulette table. The fact I was holding the money, and my limit was $5 stopped him.
When I turned that into $50, and pocketed the money, he was shocked.
He'd never heard of the concept of actually winning when you gamble -- he thought you had to keep playing until you lost everything.
So next racing season I'm giving him a budget of $2. He has to make it last all day.
And at the end of the day, if he wins, we might get fish and chips for tea.
FRI 10 DECEMBER 2010
Our baggage holds much more than just spare travel clothes
HE SAYS:
We all carry around baggage from our past.
Sometimes it is a lost love or a broken heart.
But for us, our baggage is literally that -- baggage.
When we go on holidays, she refuses to pack a suitcase.
She still crams all her clothes into a backpack.
I'm not sure why. We don't stay in hostels or backpackers any more.
We generally catch taxis and stay in hotels.
So I now have an upright bag, with extendable handle and four independently moving wheels for maximum mobility.
It is the Rolls Royce of luggage.
But she still refuses to use a suitcase.
I think there's a part of her that just doesn't want to grow up.
She still wants to think of herself as the teenage backpacker travelling through Europe.
But maybe it's time to let go of some of that baggage.
SHE SAYS:
It's time to get rid of my old baggage.
I'm not looking to throw away old memories, a bad break up, or that cringe worthy moment when I served cask wine at a dinner party. No, I've got to get rid of my broken, old backpack.
Like my youth, it is slowly cracking and peeling away. There are holes where things fall out, and the rain gets in.
Despite this, I'm struggling to let go.
The bag holds too many memories. It became my pseudo bed when I had nowhere to sleep in Costa Rica. And it snuck mum's homemade Christmas pudding through customs when I lived in the UK.
But it's also caused me pain. I've paid a fortune in physio for my back and I'm sure it's because of that bag.
But I'm not the only one carrying around a bag full of memories.
Each time we travel, he brings with him his past, a broken overnight bag that no longer has handles.
But because it did him well in Switzerland in 2006, it still lives on. Maybe it's time we both gave up our baggage. Can someone take us shopping for Christmas?
Nick and Kate
