Rainbow Child

Yesterday night I took the taxi back home from oompa‘s birthday party and I was unfortunate enough to get a very talkative driver. I hate it when they try to smalltalk me. Just shut up and drive, I don’t wanna chitchat about the weather or politics, I’m fine with staring out the window, thank you very much.

So, as I was saying, he was making his smalltalk, I was answering with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ until he asked questions that demanded more than one-word reply from me. The moment he heard my accent he had to ask:

- Oh, you’ve got an accent. You’re not from here then, are you?
- No, I’m not.
- Where are you from?
- Baia Mare.
- Aha. And what are you doing here? Studying?
- Yes. And I also live here now.
- You moved with your family or on your own?
- On my own.
- So you have your own place here?
- Yes.
- Well, you’re studying, you have your own place, now all you need is a guy.
- …

WTF is the matter with these people?! Why the heck does almost everyone think that a girl is nothing without a guy? WTF is so special about guys that we MUST date one in order not to be pitted? I am so sick and tired of this incredibly stupid ideas, just go and fuck yourselves, assholes!

I’ve never been the type of person to make a big fuss out of social events: birthdays, the last day of high school, the first day of university – you know, all those standard events where people feel the need to congratulate you and all the rest. So this year I was more than happy to have a day like any other instead of ‘my birthday day’. I got a few phone calls which I didn’t answer, some messages and some e-mails, but everything was normal, just another regular Saturday. Of course, Martha made me a pancake cake and we went out drinking in the evening – God, I love mulled wine – and that was about it.

Now that I’m done with the winter exams I don’t have anything to do until the 15th of February when the second semester starts. One thing’s for sure: I’ll never take for granted a housewife ever again! Now that I’m cooking and washing the dishes for four I realise how hard it is. Martha also helps me, but I like to do everything on my own so I just make her sit in the kitchen and keep me company. Or I send her out to buy stuff But I find it difficult to come up with new things to cook and then to think about how much to cook and then we have to wait until everyone is ready with whatever they are doing so we can eat together. I feel like I’m living in a hippish community, where we sleep together (well, under the same roof), cook together, go out together, we do all the small things together and this is what I’ve always wanted: someone to do the small things with.

On the other hand, I’m a bit scared that I’m actually turning into a housewife. I love cooking, but when my life seems to revolve around cooking – well, it’s not that fun anymore. Yes, it’s my fault that I’m not looking for a job and that using my free time to do such homie chores, I know, I know. Nothing is simple when it comes to me, I can’t even enjoy a normal fun activity like cooking without feeling that I’m insulting the feminist inside me.

Anyways, this kid needs to grow up but that day hasn’t arrived yet so I’ll continue being stubborn, spoiled and confused.

Mum is amazing. When I was alone she was always bitching about that and always nagging me to ‘find a guy’ (no, Mum, guys don’t grow on trees and I can’t buy them at the market!) and now she’s pissed that ‘we’re spending too much time together’. Jeez, Mum, make up your bloody mind already!

Yesterday was such a strange day. I took Martha out for dinner, but we had to take a detour to my university to drop off a project. Everything went beautifully up to a point:I printed the papers and got there in time to hand them in to the professor, so that part was OK, but then we found ourselves waiting at a red light, near to Piaţa Romană.

We were talking in English, duuh, when all of a sudden, this hobo-looking guy, who was waiting next to us, started saying something about legs and feet. Well, I want to make it clear that none of us had skirts/dresses or even skinny jeans. We both had regular jeans and I wore a dress above them. So, as I was saying, we tried to ignore the bastard, but then he stopped whispering and spoke loud and clear:

- I love your legs. I wanna fuck those legs. Let me fuck them? Oh, I wanna smell your socks. And fuck your legs.

I was so taken aback, shocked and disgusted that I couldn’t tell him in Romanian to go fuck himself, stupid disgusting piece of shit! We just acted like we hadn’t heard him and the moment the light turned green we made a run for it and didn’t stop until we reached the metro station.

Again and again I ask myself the same question: what the heck can I do in situations like that? After the shock and the horror went away I just wanted to beat the shit out of that hobo for verbally raping me. Yes, I consider those kind of insults as verbal rape, though I have no idea if such a concept exists. I felt abused, molested, I felt cheap and low. And there I was, not being able to do a bloody thing about that. That’s not fair, not at all.

Of course, now “can I smell your socks?” is an inside joke between me and Martha, but I wish it wasn’t

2h and a delicious Turkish dinner later, we were wandering around Lipscani when Martha stopped to take a picture of a guy playing the guitar in the ice-cold weather outside. She was looking so concentrated trying to take the perfect picture that I had to bug her somehow. So I made a snowball (the first and hopefully last from this winter) and threw it at her. And while she was turning around laughing, I turned around as well, just in time to see a guy with a snowball in his hand, prepared to hit me The puzzled look on his face and the seconds we looked at each other – me, very surprised, him, a bit disappointed that I caught him red-handed – were priceless! He then still threw the snowball at me and we had a good laugh about that and then we were on our separate ways. But I thought about his so cool and unexpected gesture for the entire night and a big smile appeared on my face every time he popped into my mind. Thank you, Snowball Thrower!

Well, I’d better be off now. B. is visiting Martha and the German couple has just gave us a painful lesson when it comes to drinking wine. But revenge is closer, just they wait till tomorrow night.

It’s funny, when you’re a child you think time will never go by, but when you hit about twenty, time passes like you’re on the fast train to Memphis. I guess life just slips up on everybody. It sure did on me. One day I was a little girl and the next I was a grown woman, with bosoms and hair on my private parts. I missed the whole thing.

Fannie Flagg – Green Fried Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

We were looking at high school pictures of us the other evening. My God, how time flies! The memory of those years is still so vivid, but it’s just a memory. I remember every trip I took with the guys, every party we went to, every day we hung out and it was great thinking about them. It wasn’t even bitter, it was just sweet. Like reading a great book, feeling sorry just after you’ve finished reading it and then when the thought of it pops into your mind again, it just puts a smile on your face and that’s all.

And in the pictures I looked so much like a child – always smiling and having a great time and wearing baggy pants and having millions of zits on my face. But now I’m so different from that kid. Not that I have a better grip on reality, no way, but I look different, I feel different, I think different. So where did that kid go? What happened to all my “I’m never going to do that”-s and “I will never change”-s? Life’s really fucked up.

Yes, it’s the season when I really feel like time’s flying away, but now I don’t have the impression I’m left behind. Nope, the bastard it’s taking me with it. Where to? I have no idea and I’m not planning on having another panic attack thinking about it. What would be the point in doing that? In five years time I’ll look back and I won’t recognize the person I am today, anyway. The changes are creeping up on me, whether I like it or not.