Who are "they" anyway?

Dear future hubster,
what they say is tre, life is too short to drink bad wine. But if you don't listen to "them", and happen to drink bad wine, boy, your day will suddenly become soooooo long. 

Sometimes size does matter

Dear future hubster,
I have expressed several times before that I enjoy sleeping like a starfish, and that a king size bed, especially under a mosquito net, is the perfect size for one person, but to be honest, there are days, especially under a mosquito net, when a king size bed is simply too big, even for a starfish like me.

Southern Cross

Dear future hubster,
in case you were wondering (and you should have been, because I was), yes, the stars are different here.

It's quite a plan, oder?

Dear future hubster,

I'm not sure why the Universe keep throwing people in my way who don't know what they want, but it really isn't funny.

Maybe the Universe is trying to make a point, hinting that my figuring out what I want has been long overdue.

In that case, dear Universe, here it is:

If money didn't matter, I would love to run a cultural centre that would provide comfort food for body and soul. We would have movie clubs, book clubs, listen-to-music clubs, organize cultural trips to Paris, London, Barcelona, Prague, and Werchter. We could even group them around a theme, and go on a classic Kafka-tour in Prague, and a Hemingway-spree in Spain. The brave ones could set out for a safari in Kenya, tracing the steps of Denys Finch Hatton. Food would always plenty, and on occasions healthy. We would later include a pool and a gym, because a good workout can bring along a good mood. 

And no, it is in no way against my initial dream job of a drunk writer in Spain. Our creative writing workshop would always have to be supplied with good wine.

Should you be interested, dear future hubster, please note that applications are accepted continuously. 

The question is rhetorical

Dear future hubster,
it's probably no news to anybody else on the face of this planet, but I just recently realized why the friends with benefits plan is not an attractive one to me. If we enjoy benefits of the bedroom and happen to be friends in any other aspect of life, then please somebody explain to me again, why is it not a good old(fashioned) relationship?

You'd better get used to it

Dear future hubster,
in an ideal world this would go without saying, but it doesn't harm mentioning that for people like me unpacking is not a priority. In fact, we feel safer if the travel toothbrush and the luxair socks stay in the suitcase, their natural habitat.
As for the suitcase, it stays on the floor, sorry. In some corner, and if you're lucky, it's closed, but within reach. Just in case. 

Direction sky

Dear future hubster,
just for future references: we are not taking the children on any transatlantic, transcontinental, transanything flight until they can read. And have at least a vague idea of what it means to be in a can for 6+ hours.

Imaginary love to start with

Dear future hubster,
I should have been warned. Somebody should have reminded me that this is the time of the year when spring happens on full blast. Somebody should have known, and informed me, that it's easy to not miss winter when you live in eternal summer, but the end of winter is a whole different story. That the moment when winter ends, and the whole world seems to be coming back to life is not something one can ignore. Certainly not me.
For I was caught off guard. The silent, relieved sigh of the world, realizing that it is not over, that there are new chances and fresh starts, caressed my soul, just as the soft cool breeze caressed my face. To nobody's surprise, I got carried away: the morning chills and the afternoon warmth, the setting sun in my face when I drive and the winds in my hair when I walk filled my little heart, the one that hasn't been in use for quite a while, until I felt like it was going to explode. And I would have gladly had it explode.
For it felt like being in love. With life, with the sunshine, the smell of stinky trees, with the open spaces, the way the lights change, with the passing time, with eternity and the end of things. With love itself.

That will do

Dear future hubster,
if you want to make me insecure, nervous, irritated, confused, all at the same time, there is only one thing you need to do. Make me wait.
Oh, and be unreachable through all means of communication.

But I believe in pink!

Dear future hubster,
I think I have to stop wearing this pink dress. Last time I put it on I got stuck in the toilet, and today, I got stuck ... on top of a rock. With my car. In the middle of the street.
I think the Universe is trying to tell me to refresh my wardrobe. Basically, it's sending me shopping.

Finally facing my Waterloo

Dear future hubster,

I know I am like that history book on the shelf in that ABBA song and I am always repeating myself, but.

But I had a weekend of very little physical activity which almost logically means that I had a weekend of increased mental activity. In other words, I was thinking a lot. Plus, we also talked a lot. 

About our preferences in men and women, about the alpha male we systematically fall for, and try to back up our bad choices by arguments of genetics and evolution. About dream jobs that would require significant amounts of savings because they are not exactly profit-generating. That, or a rich husband. And about female empowerment, about being independent women in a men's world.

I came to the same conclusion I've expressed before: the crucial element is to have the choice. It's all right to be independent in your work and then be submissive in bed as long as that's what you choose to be. It's your prerogative to choose a man who could take charge of all aspects of life, as long as you can point out the ones where he doesn't have to. It's OK to choose to be that proverbial drunk writer in Spain and let your man bring home the bacon (or cheese). Just the same as it's all fine, and should no longer cause a single raised eyebrow, to choose the complete opposite of all of the above. Choose being the keyword here. 

This is my #HeForShe.

I know, I may have mentioned this before. The history book on the shelf.

Why does it always rain on me?

Dear future hubster,
I'm afraid this eternal summer is turning me into a demanding little thing in sime regards.
If it rains for three days (which it has, recently), I become a whiny zombie, wanting to curl up on the sofa with a blanket and hot chocolate, wondering if the world is coming to an end and why nobody likes me, blasting Travis and Tom Waits in alternance.