Playing House… or should I say Apartment (?)

14 10 2009

So, my Significant Other asked me to move in with him.

We had already established the fact that, hopefully and perhaps, I would move in with him come end December, yet he always assumed that this was a given – an obvious, undeniable fact (tsk-tsk). But now that I have pointed out to him that his assumptions are mere presuppositions, and that he has no factual standing ground from which to defend his statements, he has (dutifully) considered my point and, accordingly, asked me whether I would like to move in with him.

All that said, I look forward to the move. It’ll be revolutionary: the end of my studies at Stellenbosch, and a moving on to greater things in the job sphere… once I find a job, that is… plus it helps that my parents only live 15 to 20 minutes’ drive away from his flat. Still, independence is independence, and it ought to be fun to live in the adult experience of ‘coupledom’. And he’ll be gaining, all right. Typical female statement? I can prove it to you:

When I’m there, things are always clean. Cleaning is the obsessive compulsive factor in my genes. And it’s cathartic, really. When I’m angry, I clean. When I’m frustrated, I clean. Need to think, cry, feel happy, or get upset? Clean, clean, and clean clean clean, girl! Although I admit that talking to oneself as if there’s nothing wrong with it is, actually, seeing that there is something wrong with it. So much so that my younger sister once walked into the kitchen, paused somewhere between the doorway and the table, looked at me, turned around, and told my mother (in a grave, hopeless tone) that she thinks there is something severely wrong with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shook her head as she said this. She might not be far wrong.

I mean, who actually likes to do ironing, or the washing up, or laundry? Most people say ‘no thank you’ to dusting and vacuuming. I embrace it like the modern woman I am, taking it in my stride along with academic and literary interests. After all, you don’t only have to be a housewife. It’s not an either-or situation of either a dedicated housewife or a defiant headstrong feminist. I’m a bit of both, and at times I annoy myself.

Want to know how bad I am with this obsessive cleaning habit? I cannot so much as use a glass without having to immediately wash it, dry it, and put it back in the cupboard. Yes. That’s right…

But again, I digress from my original point of departure: that point being in proving that my Significant Other ‘scores’ in the deal – or, should one call it a negotiation? – of me moving in with him. So. Example: when I am at his flat during the day while he is at work (and I, myself, busy working on university related tasks), I prepare supper in advance and see to it that, once he walks in the door, I am busy dishing up whatever I had prepared. Also, I get up earlier in order to make him sandwiches for work, and to prepare his breakfast. The feminists would probably howl in outrage at this, yet I am under no obligation to do anything: all of this is done voluntarily. The last time I was there, I not only prepared supper for that specific evening, but also his lunch for the following day and supper for the following evening (that he would only have to heat) because I would not be there. I find joy in preparing meals, and he finds joy in consuming aforementioned meals. And he is always satisfied. Not because he is obliged to be, but because I have at least some form of culinary talent and diversity. I have sufficiently proven by now that I won’t poison him once we get married… unless he develops some bizarre allergy in the meantime, God forbid… (and no, that was not obligatory to say on my part *laugh*).

Another way he scores: he will never have to buy mugs again. Seriously. I have a whole box full of mugs. You see, I have various sets of mugs, each set consisting out of four mugs – four and not six for the mere fact that these mugs came out with four different pictures in the range. A lot of these mugs have pictures of cats on them – something he will just have to learn to accept. Others have Marilyn Monroe and James Dean on them; and yet another set, in a way my favourite, is what I like to call the Ironic 50s Housewife Set. These four mugs each have a typical housewife scenario depicted on them, and the captions read as follows:

(1) I only have a Kitchen… because it came with the house.

(2) If you want same day laundry service, do it yourself.

(3) Housework can’t kill you, but why take a chance?

(4) Both of us can’t look good at the same time, it’s either me or the house.

Quirky and quaint – that he can learn to live with. In a way, with me, he already has (although he does not ‘live’ with me, but you all get what I’m grasping at). Other than the mugs, I have my own set of plates, side-plates, and bowls. My coffee plunger, Italian espresso coffee, serving tray, platters, and various containers in which to prepare (and serve) food have already taken up residence in his kitchen cabinets. My set of teaspoons will probably be next in line for the flat life – I’ve broken two of his teaspoons, and he only has three left… none of them are going to last much longer…

This list could go on and on, but I feel it sufficed to say that my point has been justified. The only thing he grapples with, and which I shall keep insisting on, is the fact that, if I am going to pay for half of the rent, I want my own room. The flat does have two bedrooms, after all. He and his slightly older brother currently share the flat, but he (the brother) will be moving out by December. So technically, the room is going to be there, and it is going to be mine. I already have a duvet and pillows and a CD player and lamp and whatnot with which to fill the room, but he doesn’t want to hear it. Oh, all of the things can come along, of course, but I won’t be using the room – he is going to buy himself a bed that will accommodate two people, so he believes that I have to sleep in the same bed as him… *scoff* I cannot sleep in the same bed as him – he really takes up all the space! Don’t ask me how, but he does. He’s like a cat that way, and although I love cats, I swear I’ll have him neutered if he gives me any trouble. Last year we stayed in a guest house because my friend’s 21st birthday party was held some distance’s drive away from where I live. The room had a huge bed… and I didn’t get an inch. I sat on the warm tiles drinking coffee very early in the morning, listening to the cloudburst of rain outside which seemed to mock me.

He’ll probably win, of course, in the end. But if we do share the same bed, and he crosses the line, I’ll take my cat neutering thought into account. Either that, or I’ll send him to the spare bedroom. And I’ll lock ‘our’ bedroom door, slipping into the voluminous covers with a Stephen King book for company.

Yip, this could definitely all work out for the best. Don’t you think?




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