Pink wine makes me slutty

Girls judging girls ,we’re all guilty of doing it. We’re calling each other sluts and bitches way too easily – unless if they’re your friends, then it’s super cute. Girls are so much meaner in their judgments than guys (dudes, you’re off the hook this time). To be honest, men probably don’t care if people say you’re a slut. It just means it’s gonna be an easy game for them and they won’t have to DIY for a change. But the judgments go way further than just slutshaming. Getting things like ‘lowering yourself’ or ‘disrespecting your body’ thrown at you by girls, who have a boyfriend at the time, when you’re just putting yourself out there is way too common .

Why should girls who’ve been in a relationship for as long as they can walk have the right to judge single women’s sexual escapades? It’s them who have a man in their bed every night to satisfy their needs or to send to the shop if they have a sudden craving for ice cream. We have to make some more efforts. Like dragging a lad home from a party with our drunken ass. Or inviting a Tinder date over at our house, knowing there’s not  gonna be much date about it. We have to get our own ice cream.

That means we sometimes have to make booty calls at 1am and sneak in a fuckbuddy when our roomie’s asleep. We might have a pregnancy scare after spending a shady night in a hotel suite that’s way too fancy for our broke and basically homeless self. Because sometimes fifty shades just doesn’t do it for us. So no, it’s not all joy. It’s also about std’s, disappointments and unsatisfied needs. It means that sometimes you’ll get a very wet and unpleasant tongue being stuffed in your mouth during the first few minutes of a first – and obviously last – date. It means never really knowing what will happen and who it will happen with. Which is, if you think that settling down is worse than diarrhea on your Birthday party, kinda exciting.

Yes, we have to get our own ice cream. But guess what. We can choose our own flavour. We don’t have to be happy with a tiny tub supermarket brand vanilla ice cream. We can get a full liter of Ben&Jerry’s caramel fudge. Without anyone judging us – except maybe the dude behind the counter who thinks everyone who doesn’t like Drake is fat and stupid.

So yeah, pink wine makes me slutty. And I’m lovin it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take a bow

I make tons of wrong decisions. I honestly lost count. Like when I thought that going on a Tinder date with a guy who’s holding a baby in his profile picture was a good idea. Or baking muffins without any sugar. Or that time when I crashed another car with my cool-ass pick-up called Britney and I almost ended up missing my flight home for Christmas.

What did I read somewhere? Oh yes, that the worst decisions lead to the best memories. I mean, Tinder stories are always good stories, whether they end in juicy sex or desperate escapes via the toilet window. But I’m not sure plain muffins could ever make a good memory. Or any memory at all, to be honest.

Sometimes I try to blame fate for all the crap that happens to me. ‘Cause what’s meant to be, is meant to be, am I right?

So when I start my day by falling out of bed, I blame fate. And again when, sometime around noon, I rip my jeans by squatting too low. Then, right after I showered, shaved, put a mask on my hair and spent half an hour googling the least awkward way to say goodbye after a bad date, the bastard cancels. It had to happen.
The only thing left to do is make myself comfy on the couch with a bottle of bailey’s and the first season of Glee on replay. All of these things that fucked up my days were obviously unavoidable. It was fate. It was meant to be. I had no influence on it whatsoever. I plead not guilty. It was written in the stars (and we can’t rewrite the stars – notice the awesome musical reference?).

But was it really? Wasn’t it me who made the decision to put my  phone too far from my bed because I read an article about phone radiation and infertility and insomnia and all other bad stuff that can happen to you?  It was me who decided to wear an old pair of jeans because I can never be bothered to buy new ones (shopping for jeans is so boring). I knew that not getting a car insurance could get me in big trouble, I just rather spent my money on cheap wine instead. I should’ve been smart enough to know that getting in a car at 4am with a  drunk fella  behind the wheel  could end in a race against the cops. Or that making a snow angel will make you end up with a wet bum for the rest of the day. And I decided to say yes to going on a date with this random Tinder guy, knowing very well that this could’ve been a very, very bad decision if the guy turned out to be a creep who would stalk me for another 15 years. Which didn’t happen because he had the flu, thank god for that. Is that all fate? Don’t think so. They were all my decisions (not the flu), and they were definitely not the greatest. But you gotta admit: they do make the greatest stories.

We’re all gonna get older, more experienced, maybe a bit fatter around the hips. But guess what, we’re still gonna make all kinds of bad decisions. Like sleeping with someone who has a girlfriend. Baking a plate of brownies, only for yourself. Accepting a lift from a drunk driver. Buying weird smelling cookies from a hippie. Drinking too much shitty wine that causes 12h blackouts. So take a bow and embrace those decisions. They’re all yours. They’re the reason why, in 50 years from now, we will still have enough stories to entertain our – then alcoholic and probably divorced and remarried twice – besties with.

Days in the Sun

“Days in the sun, Winter cold on your cheeks”

Here I am, chilling on a sailing boat somewhere in the pacific ocean. I’m looking out over the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever witnessed in my almost quarter life. I see islands. I see rainbow coloured fish. I see our skipper selling overpriced anklets to poor backpackers to save up for his wedding. I see exhausted divers falling asleep on deck. I see a bunch of restless guys shining their torches into the dark, on the hunt for sharks. I see a couple trying to be Jack and Rose at the front of the boat. I see some British chavs feeding the fish after a hardcore round of circle of death. I see myself staring out over the endless ocean. Wishing to be here forever. Am I happy? The happiest I’ve ever been.

Here I am, waiting my turn to ride a mechanical bull. Waiting for my death. I’m cheering for my friend who’s riding her bull like she’s never done anything in her life before. Which is pretty shocking for a big city girl. But then again, moving to the countryside has done nothing but surprise me. I start thinking about what I’m going to miss here when I have to leave – and I’m not only talking about the cowboys. I’ll miss the drunk nights under the stars. I’ll miss the moonrise. It always managed to take my breath away. The chicken parmi’s at the pub which left me indigested for days. The sun, peaking through my window every early morning. The people, some more than others. Am I happy? Does a bear shit in the woods?

Here I am, lying on a beach, watching my mate’s proud face as he returns from the ocean with a giant fish on his spear gun. I can feel the heat of the sun brushing my skin. While the others are discussing whether the bright coloured corpse is a protected species or not, I put my book about ice climbing aside – don’t ask –  to take a Skype call from my sister. Turns out I’m going to be an auntie. And we’re going to have a Unicorn fish for dinner – talking about an eventful day. Am I happy? Hell I am.

Here I am. Home for the holidays. Ho ho ho. A year later, and it feels like everything’s changed. And in a way nothing has. There are more Christmas cards on the wall than last Christmas. My skin is more tanned, my hair more blonde. My appetite is still non existent, just like the money on my bank account. My sister’s belly is a bit bigger and my list with the people I’m gonna miss has only grown. Instead of spending my days shooting guns and chasing crocs in a 4×4 called Britney – it’s Britney bitch – I post Instagram pictures about my breakfasts. Am I happy? I guess.

Being so close again to family and friends who’re used to my drinking habits and constant moaning about the cold helps me dealing with being apart from the place where my heart lays. They make the grey days, endless waiting for my second year visa and the feeling of not belonging here a tad more bearable.  It’s not the same as having a beach in walking distance, but spending nights sipping the most massive Martini’s and listening to my girlfriends’ awkward Tinder stories almost feels like the sun is gently stroking my skin again. Like she’s giving me a quick reminder she hasn’t forgotten me yet.

 

For the first time in forever

 

When I was chilling on the couch last night after a long day of work (and an indigestion after another massive chicken parmi), I rewatched for the millionth time some random episodes of Sex and the City. Despite the disturbing trapezes – if you’re afraid of heights you’ll get what I’m saying – and the awkward jew who’s stalking Carrie, something really stuck to me. In this week’s article, Carrie is asking her readers a very important question.

‘When was the last time we did something for the first time?’

Looking at what stage my life is in right now, it doesn’t take long for me to think about an answer. Yesterday, when I made cinnamon rolls for the first time (and they were yum!). Last week was my first time making donuts (and they were even more yum). Same for when I made some beautiful layered lasagna, delicious butter chicken and the most perfect chewy chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever tasted in your whole life. And don’t even get me started on my newest gooey brownies.
This year has also been the first time I travelled to another continent by myself, the first time I had a grasshopper jumping into my face (a not so pleasant experience for me) and the first time I accidentally peed on a frog (a not so pleasant experience for him). I went to a rodeo with my new best friend, got wasted on Moscato, overcame my fear of heights, got on a ferris wheel with a bunch of expired cowboys and left half of my clothes and my dignity on the rodeo grounds . All of that for the first time in forever, thank you.

But still. Even though I feel like every day here in this little country town  is an adventure, I have to keep reminding myself why I’m here. For the money, obviously, but most of all for new experiences, no matter how scary or disgusting they are (like peeing on a frog, wouldn’t recommend it). Because I remember how easy it is to fall back on routines and habits, treating everyday like it’s the same old shitty Monday. No matter how awesome you think your life is, or how many new sweets you learn to bake or acrobatic skills you develop, you can never stop trying new things. So we have to keep asking ourselves that question Carrie was asking all of us already a few decades ago.

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

If it takes you longer than two minutes to come up with something, or if your answer is ‘two years ago when I painted my toenails dark red instead of sparkly purple’, then just start running and don’t look back until you have at least five new scars, two new  enemies and ten new friends telling you what a crazy cunt you are.

TBT: The best is yet to come

New Year’s Eve. High expectations. I expected to get drunk with my friends on cheap wine, while spooning as much chocolate pudding as I could in my – thanks to Christmas turkey- already exploding tummy.

What I didn’t expect, was that I would spend the end of 2016 in a stranger’s house, with three greyhounds daring to poo all over the house if I didn’t immediately take them for a freezing winter walk. I also didn’t expect to be back at my temporary home the next day (the next year actually) covered in New Year’s cake. I can assure you, this year it’s all gonna be about low expectations.

Dragging my exhausted body to the bathroom, I start reminiscing about the past year. I wonder how I got myself here, wiping whipped cream from eyelids. Everyone says 2016 hasn’t been the best year. With loads of terrorist attacks and poor refugees trying to escape the bombing in their hometown,  it’s seen as a black year. And although I’m not arguing with the terror of these events, I still haven’t lost any of my optimism.

So instead of thinking of the latest attack in Berlin, I look back at the time me and my friend kept throwing coins in the Trevi fountain because we didn’t remember how to do it the right way – is it with your left hand or with your right hand? I think back of the food fight I had in Rimini with my hostel family and the time we fell asleep on the pool table . Or the time I ended up doing shots in an ice cream bar in Florence with a bunch of au pairs from all over the world. I remember having the best time dressing up for an 80’s party where – of course – no one else was dressed up so we totally looked like we were on a hen night. I think back about the time in Venice we rented a fake gondola because we couldn’t afford a real one. I look back at a camping trip in Slovenia with my oldest friends, having fired up discussions about the best branches to make a camp fire. Or the time we decided to give a dozen English lads an impression of ‘All I want for Christmas’ in a sketchy karaoke bar on an impulsive roadtrip to Amsterdam.  And I look back at a beach festival in Jesolo, dancing barefoot from sunset till dawn, the image of overdosed Italians crawling on the sand forever burned into my retinas.

So no, personally it hasn’t been the worst year. I’ve been to beautiful places, met amazing people, had awesome adventures. I’ve also ended up in dumps, had to deal with a few self- obsessed pricks and experienced some disappointments. Forget all the shit you had to cope with this past year – including your inevitable New Year’s Eve hangover. Instead, focus on the random things you did that still make you burst out in awkward giggles.

And the best is yet to come, I’m sure of it.