6 posts tagged “other-half”

My sister and I have never got on.  Our dysfunctional love-hate relationship began when I was about six, and she stopped being a new 'doll' to play with, as she grew into the hair-pulling toddler-age.

She's family, she's my baby sister - and I'll stand behind her, I'll fight her fights for her and I'll rip the balls off any man who tries to mess her around.  I love her.  But I don't exactly like her.  And the feeling is absolutely mutual.

Chalk and cheese doesn't even begin to describe us.  My pot-smoking, loud-mouthed tart of a little sister speaks to my parents in ways that I would never even contemplate.  Her 'punk/emo' dress sense and dodgy blonde highlights make me cringe, and her boyfriends are, without fail, intolerable.

She dropped out of college a few weeks before her final exams, and began (after a year of doing absolutely fuck-all) a job working in a dead-end admin job.  Night after night she would (and still does) come home and relay how 'stressful' her job was.  She'd then march down to the pub, come home wasted - and be at least an hour late for work every morning.  How she manages to keep that job, I will never know..  But recently, I've seen a change.

Her tiny plaid mini-skirts, complete with multiple chains and skull keyrings, have been occasionally exchanged for clothing that would be viewed as 'acceptable' for work (i.e. clothing that doesn't scream 'prostitution').  She's very slowly realising that her boyfriend is a waste of space - and while she loves him, that doesn't excuse the fact that he's an arsehole. 

My baby sister seems to be (gradually) growing up.  About time too..

Since the other-half has been away, I have admittedly become reasonably boring.  A year ago, you'd have found me crawling home from clubs at 6am, or dancing on tables with my clan of close male friends.  I had a reputation for being a 'party girl'.  Opening nights for clubs and bars were attended without fail, and I could drink most people under the table. 

And now?  My best friend is suddenly my mother.  I've taken up scrapbooking and I can't remember the last time I went to a decent bar.  I swapped my slutty knee boots and mini skirts for knee-length office attire (with slutty-knee-boots underneath, for good measure).  Somewhere along the line, I got old.  I got mundane

The final kick in the teeth, was a comment my sister made to my mother - which was kindly relayed to me:
        "Don't you think she should make some friends or something?  I mean, she hangs out with you.  That's not normal."

I moved cities under a year ago - and left my friends behind.  I know people here, but I don't really have any desire to spend my free time with them.  I work hard during the week - I don't have time for a social life.  Weekends, I want to relax (and admittedly, cram a bit of work in where I can).  I've swapped cosy nights on the sofa with the other-half, for cosy nights on the sofa with my mum.  Why?

I'm lonely.  It's not that I've swapped the party-girl lifestyle for something second-rate.  I love coming home from work, cooking dinner for the other-half and I - sharing a bath and curling up to watch crap tv all evening.  After spending years sharing each other with our group of friends - we finally have a place of our own, a bit of privacy - and a lot of quality time.  But with him away travelling and my social circle in another city - I'm flying solo.

Quite honestly, I'd much rather spend the weekend with my mum and multiple bottles of good red wine - than spend it in dodgy pubs with people who don't really interest me.  My mum really is my best friend.  We laugh at the same things, we get drunk after two glasses of wine - and we gossip about the old-times and the people we both know.  I never really read anything into that.  Since I moved, all my time has been spent with the other half, or with my family.  That's why I moved.  After years of being away from the people I loved the most - it was time to come 'home' and spend time with the people who really mattered - my family. 

However, I'm not going to pretend that my sister's comment didn't hit me like a smack in the face.  Is it really 'not normal' to want to spend time with my mother instead of whoring it up in bad nightclubs with 'acquaintances'?  The way I spend my free time has changed.  After a week at work - I'm quite simply too knackered to want to do anything but relax and have some 'me' time.

After my mother told me of the 'not normal' comment that my sister made.  I had a brief "oh God, my little sister thinks I'm really boring..." moment.  I concluded that I might be boring, but I wasn't bored.  With the other-half away - I needed company that wasn't false.  I needed my best friend.  My mum.

You can imagine my horror last night - when my sister called me and mumbled, "So uh, what are you doing on Saturday night?"  My sister, who spends her saturday nights with her boyfriend and group of friends, drinking vodka, smoking pot and 'swaying' to noise that quite simply does not pass as music - wanted to know what I was doing Saturday night.

My answer - "Nothing..." - was met with, "Didn't think so.  Do you want to like, uh.. Hang out or something?" 

I almost dropped the phone.  Despite being totally alone in my living room - I raised an eyebrow and replied, "Hang out?  What, me and you?"

My sister told me that she was at a 'loose end' this Saturday.  Her boyfriend was away, her friends were all busy - and she wondered if I would like to 'watch some movies and uh, like, drink some... wine?"

She doesn't drink wine.  She drinks vodka.  Or alcopops (usually with vodka chasers).  She doesn't watch movies - she watches MTV, and she is never under any circumstances at a 'loose end' on a Saturday night.

I was tempted to tell her that I was busy - that I didn't really want to spend a Saturday night sat on my sofa in silence with her.. But I was brought up with manners - and replied, "Sure, that sounds good."

As I hung up the phone, I realised what had just happened.  I was no longer looking out for my baby sister - my baby sister, despise disliking me even more than I did her - was looking out for me.  I had been given the pity vote.  My reward?  Saturday night with Wednesday Adams' twin.

I've spent most of today replaying our short conversation, over and over.  I'm filled with a sense of loyalty and love, suprised that she would even notice that I'm lonely and at a constant 'loose end' without the other-half or the company of my usual group of friends.  On the other hand, I am utterly mortified that my little sister would take pity on my social life - to the point where she would actually feel that she needs to spend time with me.  Utterly. Mortified.

Sure, we love each other.  But quite honestly, we can't stand each other.  More to the point, she can't stand movies or wine.  Rather than tell her to shove her pity vote up her backside - I'm so touched that she'd actually care - that I'm going to spend Saturday night pretending that my other-best-friend, is my little sister.

Her reaction to my cautious reply was laced with false excitement, "Great.  I'll bring my toothbrush.."

So not only will we be spending Saturday night in each other's company - we'll be having a sleepover.  I can't find the words to express how utterly over joyed I am.  Really.   Heh.

God, I hope she brings pot. 

After a horrendous day at work (to rephrase, "Dear boss, I think you're a fuckrag.") - I drove home in a slight rage.  I even bleeped my horn at an elderly lady who was driving 30mph in a 40 zone (well for fuck's sake - some of us have to get home to our wine).

And then, as I flipped the radio over to Radio 1 (on offchance, because I hate Radio 1) - Greenday's Basket Case was playing.

I was reminded of being fifteen, kissing my (then)boyfriend in his parent's garage - and swearing that I would never change.  I thought I would always have black dyed hair, wear hoodies with inappropriate words on.  That I would always have boyfriends who treated me like dirt, and worst of all - that I would never be good enough for anyone 'better'.

I have changed.  Back then, even at fifteen - I was a doormat.  It wasn't that I was naieve, or 'too young to know better'. I was quite simply a doormat. 

And now?

Well, today I told my boss that his lack of flexibility and poor attitude was about to lose him a member off staff that clients have referred to as "an asset to the company."  I reduced an account manager to a gibbering mess, after verbally beating the crap out of him for using the phrase "Can I speak to the real person in charge of IT?" - and subsequently saying "Oh sorry, you can hardly blame me for thinking you're a receptionist!  I've never seen an IT girl who wears blouses* - I just assume all geeky girls are lesbians!"

*(For the record my blouse was a chocolate brown sheer shirt, with tiny white polka dots, rouching at the back, a ribbon tie at the front and cute little mushroom buttons.  It is not a fucking blouse.  It is a beautiful shirt, and I love it dearly.  ...Plus, my tits look great in it.)

Am I a bitch?  Yes, actually.  But only when it's deserved.  And quite frankly, I like who I am now.  At fifteen (give or take a few years), I did many things simply because I wanted to be liked, to fit in.  I had a large group of friends, and sucession of boyfriends - and I was close to no one.  Now, I have a partner who (mostly, bearing in mind that he is, afterall, a man!) understands me.  I have very few friends, but the ones I do have are real friends.  I have cut ties with the sucession of (ex)boyfriends that I was clinging to.  Best of all, I genuinely don't care what anyone thinks.  I behave politely, and I respect other people's feelings - I'm not reckless, but I speak my mind and I stand up for what I believe in..  Myself.

I'm fully aware that my boss thinks I'm mouthy and outspoken.  But I am not disrespectful - I speak the truth and that's what he disliked.  He picked the wrong girl to try and manipulate, and very slowly - he's starting to realise that he may just have met his match.

You see - he might be a stubborn control freak.  But I spent a lot of years as a doormat.  And hell hath no fury like a woman who's been walked all over.

I've always been partial to great big, Bridget-Jones style knickers..  The ones that are huge, comfy - horrendous.

Ok, they're not pretty.. But they're practical.  Ish..  They are guilty of giving you a great big VPL, which makes your bottom look as though it should have it's own postcode.. They are guilty of screaming, quite obviously, "I am not going to have sex with you tonight, because I have big pants on!".  But, I think my big knickers are quite cute..  Suprisingly, so does the other-half.

The other-half's first meeting with my beloved big knickers, was when I moved house..

Most things had managed to slip out of the woodwork, over the years we'd been together.. He'd heard my horrendous guffawing laughter, he'd witnessed fits of giggles that land me in tears, with hiccups .. He had tolerated my irrational love-affair with shoes that I can't walk in or afford, and the countless sets of 'pretty' underwear that I bought for no obvious reason at all.  But he hadn't seen the big pants.

Granted, I had, and still have, a slight habit of buying pretty underwear when I don't really need it.  But for all the pretty knickers in the world, I wouldn't give up my granny-pants.

As I emptied my enormous collection of pretty (and not-so-pretty) undies into a cardboard box - I shoved the huge pants to the bottom.  I was secretly hoping that we could be together for the rest of our lives - but that, somehow, he'd still be unaware of my dirty little secret (well, clean big secret, actually!)..  A tragic love affair with horrendous knickers..

As he hauled the boxes into the back of my car, he noted the rather large box marked 'undies'.  Winking, he laughed, "Better be careful with these, eh?"  I smiled back at him, quitely amused that he was unaware that nestling in the bottom of the box, lay ten pairs of huge knickers, that once white - were now a murky gray..  (In-amongst other horrible knickers - but that set of ten, in all honesty, really were the worst..).

(I know I should have thrown them out.  But, they were comfy.  And quite frankly - sometimes it's nice to slob out in your big pants and know full well that you look awful!)

Unfortunately, there were not ten pairs of huge knickers in that box.  There were nine.  The tenth lay on my bedroom floor - waiting to be discovered. 

He did discover those knickers.  He laughed, and waved them in the air like a great big grey flag.. 

That night, I came out of the shower to find my big knickers waiting for me.. 
More importantly, I found my other-half, waiting for me to put them on.

Over two weeks ago, you told me you'd sent a postcard.. 

I came home from work today, and there it was.  Crumpled, carelessly pushed through the letterbox..  Over two weeks after you posted it.  

As I flattened out the creases, I realised how very far away you are.. 

When you wrote that card, you were sad and homesick.  You hid it well in your writing, but your voice on the phone gave you away when I spoke to you.  I'm not used to hearing you cry - and I despaired - powerless, when I heard your voice shake. 

Now, that time seems forever-ago.  You're settled, you're happy.  You have friends.  You're making a difference.

And for the first time - I doubt that you'll come home the same person.   This is what you were meant to do.  Travel, see the world, make things better - and send postcards to those who choose to stay at home.

"I miss you.  I can't wait to come home."

For better, or for worse - whether you come home the same person or not..  I can't wait for you to come home, either..

 

"How did you meet your current, or most recent, significant other?"

I met my other-half in High School..  He was popular, funny, and clever..  I never thought he'd look twice at me. 

But he knew my name.  And even when he was in a crowd of people who didn't bother to acknowledge me, he would always speak to me. 

I thought he had a fantastic bottom - but it never even occured to me that there might be a chance of a relationship.

I went on holiday with a group of friends - mainly male - who he played football with occasionally.  He was invited too.. 

I confided in my best friend - who advised me against getting involved while we were abroad.  He was right - afterall, it's easy to get carried away on holiday.  But we'd have to come home at some point..

He'd been on a few dates with another girl before we went abroad - but he'd told her that he simply wasn't ready for a relationship..

I'd just come out of a particularly negative relationship, and certainly didn't want to get into anything (other than perhaps His pants..) serious.. 

After a week abroad - spent flirting and being generally unable to keep our hands off each other..  It finally happened.  We kissed, in a dirty, damp Spanish bar - and stayed up until the small hours, sat on cold, concrete steps.  We must have been freezing, but we didn't notice at all..

We spent the last week of our holiday tip-toeing around everyone - sneaking off together for snatched moments in private.. 

We were starting something which would cause problems.  And we knew that from the start.  But, we were, and are, both completely aware of the issues we would cause by embarking on a relationship together. 

I come from a religous family.. And so does He..  The problem?  Two different religions.  Two different cultures.  Two different familes. 

Right from the beginning, we knew what we would have to face..  We talked about it, and there was no question in my mind.  I knew that I was prepared to take anything that was thrown at us, and so was he.

We were lucky, really..  We dealt with a bit of staring, a bit of name-calling and over-dramatic idiots picking fights..  But nothing serious, really..  Infact, we have given each other more to deal with than anyone else has ever given us.  We have dealt with situations that we never imagined we would have to..  But we've stuck together, confident that we'd find a solution somehow..  We've learnt an important lesson - that not every problem can be fixed.  And while we've struggled to deal with all sorts - depression, death, spending a great deal of our relationship in a long-distance situation - we haven't always found the solution.  But we cope..  We always find a way through.
 

We are an interracial couple.
Interracial.  I used to hate that word.

Now, I don't care what people want to refer to us as..  Our skin colour differs, our religions differ, our opinions usually differ..  Our favourite drinks, clubs, music, food, bars.. They all differ.  Everything about us differs..  It isn't 'race' that sets us apart as 'different'.  Every single thing about us sets us apart as different..

But we walk down the same road.  We have the same goals..  He will watch crap movies with me, and I'll pretend to be interested in the terrible music he listens to..   Most importantly, the fact that we are different helps us to deal with situations we face..  He is non-confrontational, he thinks before he speaks..  I storm in and take immediate action - then think.  As horribly slushy as it sounds - he really is the other-half..  And together, we can cope with almost anything.

Almost five years after we kissed in Spain..  The other-half and I, we are still drastically different..  Our situations are different, our relationship is different.. But we have stayed the same - still irretrieveably different.  Still madly in love.

We are not an interracial couple. 
We are not defined by the colour of our skin, or our religion.. 

We want the same things - we want children who are loved and who are educated about religion.  We want to bring our children up to be tolerant, understanding and open minded. 

We want to eat Thai and sit in fancy bars, discussing everything and nothing - all at once.. 

We want to hold hands on that beach again, and be reminded that we still have our whole lives ahead of us.  Nothing has changed since that very first day.  I still think he has the best bottom I've ever seen, I still can't keep my hands off him (even after doing his laundry and putting up with his snoring for years!), and I still think he's the most awe inspiring person I know...

He's away now - travelling, making a difference to people who are ill, and less fortunate than ourselves..   I miss him more than I could ever have imagined.. But, I have never been so proud of anyone in all my life

Two packets of Beechams tablets and two entire boxes of tissues later... I actually feel worse. A lot worse. This is flu, without a doubt.. And I'm getting no sympathy, because yeah, I should have had my flu jabs.

But really, who out of choice goes and has an enormous needle stuck in them, just incase they get flu? Which is quite unlikely. Or so you'd think..

The OH (otherhalf) is coming to 'nurse' me better, later. I've told him not to stay over - because I don't want him to catch it. He's welcome to the spare room, but apparantly, there's no point in that (I don't know whether I should be slightly flattered). But see, if he catches it, then I'll end up catching it again.. And so it goes on. And on. And on.. And, I'll only keep him awake all night (not in a good way. In a sneezy, coughy, disgustingly germy way).. So I'm being sensible, and wont be demanding get-better-sex (If it cures colds, why can't it cure flu?). Not that he'd be easily persuaded anyway.. I do smell of Olbas oil, have a runny nose and a cough that makes me sound like a 90 year old hag who's been smoking since she was 8 years old. Oh, and I'm covered in Vicks Vaporub (not because it's actually all that effective at helping you breathe.. I just like the smell of it). Very attractive.

It hurts to move. And breathe.. And talk. ...It's like kinky tied-up-too-tight sex. Except without any kind of fun/pleasure. At all.