Mixing CDs

One of the decisions you have to make when you move in with someone is whether you mix your CDs together or not. It's apparently a pretty big step because it determines how long you think that you are going to be together. 

Mike and I...well, I had to make this decision. And I chose not to mix our CDs together.It's not what you think, though. Mike and I have just signed an agreement to live together for another year, so it's not that I don't think it will last. 

The reason I didn't mix our CDs together is because it was just too embarrassing to put Mike's Alex Parks CD in with my collection, a collection that includes every single Britney Spears album ever made and Christina Aguilera's Christmas album. Sometimes you just have to draw the line somewhere...and that line was Alex Parks.

Believing in Fairies

For a man who doesn't believe in the paranormal and silly superstitions, it's amazing how Mike seems to believe in fairies; in particular, the cleaning fairy. He’ll leave a plate on the side and it will magically end up washed, dried and put away. He’ll spill tea and the next time he returns to the scene the stain will be gone. He’ll throw clothes in the direction of the laundry basket and when he goes to wear those clothes he’ll find them washed, ironed and in his wardrobe.

In fact, there is only one chore that the wonderful cleaning fairy leaves for Mike; taking the rubbish out, a chore that he has to do once a week though he usually drags it out to once a fortnight. He just doesn’t find the time between watching Top Gear and playing the X-box. 

It would appear that I put my feet up all day and do nothing while the cleaning fairy flies around cleaning the flat. She even manages to cook the dinner and wash up afterwards. What a babe.

It's interesting how some men put all aspects of being a housewife under magic ;-)

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The 'James Bond' phase

 Since the release of Skyfall last year, Mike has become (obsessed?) with  wanting to live certain aspects of James Bond's life, and I'm sure I can't be the only girl (suffering?) as a result.
Since he can't sleep with a different woman every night he's taken on other, less exciting characteristics:

1. Martinis
 It became one of Mike's priorities before we moved in together to buy a set of martini glasses with all the ingredients to go with it before he'd even thought about a vacuum cleaner (that 'present' for me came later); lemons are part of the weekly shop because you can't have a martini without a twist of lemon; and a cocktail shaker with measuring cups are frequently left out on the side with a faint whiff of vodka.

2. Casinos
Mike suddenly developed  a desire to visit a casino; he started asking me to play poker with him (We've only played once together with coppers and it ended with me losing but grabbing his coins anyway saying "What's yours is mine, right?" - he hasn't asked me since) and then bought a poker set (to avoid using coins?). He recently visited a casino where, thankfully for me and our landlord, he realised he was in way over his head and left without spending next month's rent money.

3.Close-shaves
No I don't mean close shaves with death. Mike has taken up wet shaving like James Bond does in Skyfall. He even goes to a barber shop to have it done ocassionally. I think it is intended to make him feel more manly but the frequent 'ouch's from the bathroom when he cuts himself would suggest the opposite.

4. MI6
After seeing the film, Mike decided to see what it would take to become an MI6 agent. It turns out that you need a university degree...which convinced Mike to finally get a degree...in anything, as long as he can eventually call himself 007.

I'm still trying to decide whether this phase is cute or not, but considering I'm going through a belated Harry Potter phase, I might be able to ignore it. Between me calling him a 'filthy mudblood' when he steals the duvet and him making us work through every Bond film in order, one might think we're living in a dream world....then the marigolds go on and I start the washing up...

The Housewife's 'Day Off'

When living with my parents, I would spend most of my days off in the winter sitting on the sofa in my pyjamas, drinking endless cups of tea and watching episode after episode of Diagnosis Murder or catching up with friends at a push; I wouldn’t have to move all day if I didn’t need to - I don’t think I ever appreciated these days enough.

Yesterday was my first day off in my new flat, though I will no longer use the phrase ‘day off’. That just no longer seems to fit the description. I spent half the morning cleaning the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Living with Mike is like living with the Tasmanian Devil; he leaves every room in a state of carnage: clothes everywhere, stacks of washing up, various endless wires lying around from numerous extension cords. It would seem that the bathroom towels are also a species of Tasmanian Devil, leaving copious amounts of bright pink towel fluff on every white surface imaginable!

The second half of my morning was spent shopping for a top-up of food, going to the Post Office and to the bank (I started to feel like my mum at this point) and waiting for what felt like hours at the railway crossing, before returning home to vacuum every room and have a shower before the men came to fit our Sky box. Not knowing what this would involve, I simply removed all items from around the TV. It turns out that because we’re having Broadband fitted in January that this isn’t enough – all boxes stacked against the wall needed to be moved for the phone line to be fitted, as well as the heavy dining table and my little Christmas tree. It’s possible that the Sky men made more of a mess than Mike! To add to my embarrassment of not knowing anything about installing phone lines and what fitting Sky entails, I was walking around with freshly blow-dried hair double its normal size and make-up streaks down my cheeks from my shower – I looked like a member of Kiss!

As soon as they were out the door, I switched the Sky Box on for an episode of Diagnosis Murder, only to then realise the time and had to start preparing dinner – toad in the hole. When this was eventually in the oven, I still didn’t have time to enjoy the new Sky box as I had to get ready to go out (i.e. get rid of the Kiss make-up and flatten my hair!).

By half 5, dinner was cooked and eaten, the washing up had been done, Mike’s half of dinner was in the oven and I was ready to leave the house for a relaxing evening at the Amex Stadium watching Brighton v Millwall. Did I say relaxing?

The Beginning

This weekend brought the start of something new that was incredibly exciting, overwhelmingly sad and undeniably petrifying - the birth of a 21^st Century housewife: The exciting part being moving in with my boyfriend of four and a half years; the sad part being leaving my happy and comfortable home with my mum; and the petrifying part? Realising how big the world actually is and having someone else depend on me for my half of the rent and depending on someone else for their half.

We moved in together on Saturday, an exhausting experience all on its own, considering we are renting a second floor flat and were running all our worldly possessions up to it, wardrobe and double bed included. Whilst Mike assembled the furniture, I vacuumed around him, having made him lunch and about to embark on making the bed. Fortunately for me, the chores ended there as it was Domino’s pizza for dinner. Sunday was spent arranging the homeware and my possessions while my boyfriend, Mike, played golf all day. Yes you did read that correctly.

Whilst not being a housewife in the typical sense (my boyfriend and I are not actually married and I do not stay at home all day while he is the breadwinner) there are certain traits I did not expect to inherit.

So what makes me call myself a housewife when I wouldn’t fit the description in the dictionary? For starters, I have become the household cook. I have never been a cook. My spaghetti has always tasted like cardboard and my pancakes end up as Santa’s gifts to children on the naughty list. The first time I ever cooked for Mike he ate dinner before he came over just in case. Last night, however, I spent two hours in the kitchen preparing a roast dinner (the first one I had ever cooked) while Mike (who actually can cook and talks to me about it whilst doing so like he’s Jamie Oliver talking to the camera) played Xbox and moaned about being hungry.

Was he left hungry? Well, miraculously, the chicken was properly cooked; the Yorkshire pudding was perhaps a little large and stodgy, so much so that we could only eat half the dinner, and the stuffing was slightly undercooked, but not a bad first attempt(?). Despite having done most of the washing-up whilst I was cooking Mike still moaned at finishing it. Bad move on my part really because I had to wash everything again this morning. It would seem that washing-up is somehow a multi-task?

This blog will be my diary of my shift from comfortable student who came home and watched Murder, She Wrote to a (sort of) housewife who now comes home and puts dinner on (though I am still a student). Keep updated!