Am I really having a midlife crisis?

Colin Firth joked about his midlife crisis when he picked up his Golden Globe for best actor.

Firth said: “To get to this stage of your life with your dignity and judgment intact can be somewhat precarious. Sometimes all you need is a bit of gentle reassurance to keep you on track but right now this is all that stands between me and a Harley Davidson.”

On Twitter women swooned.

Colin Firth's announcement is really a strange coincidence. Because I think I'm having a midlife crisis.

A midlife crisis happens between the ages of 40 and 60. (I am young, but I am gifted.) It was first identified by my good friend psychologist Carl Jung (whose theories also are behind the Myers Briggs Personality Test).

But what happens in a midlife crisis? I googled and found a handy guide online.

*Unhappiness with the lifestyle that had provided happiness for many years.
No. I'm happy with my lifestyle. My unhappiness stems from NOT wanting to change my lifestyle. I want to stay home and continue working on the novel that I won't publish.

*Boredom with people who had interested you before.
Yes. This is normal, right?

*Feeling a need for adventure.
Yes. But I've been feeling a need for adventure since I was nine years old.

*Questioning choices you have made in your life.
Yes. Why do I choose the wrong men? What was I thinking when I decided to be an English major? Why didn't I buy more coffee?

*Confusion about who you are and where you are going.
God, yes. But this is not new. I have always been confused about these things.

*Anger at spouse and feeling tied down.
Yes. I don’t blame Adam for my feeling tied down. Just for a lot of other stuff.

*Unable to make decisions about where you want to go with your life.
Sobbing. This is obviously the new tag line for my blog.

*Desire for a new and passionate intimate relationship.
No. Absolutely not. If I am ever released from my marriage, I don't want to be shackled to a man again. Unless he is very rich, has no family, and is suffering from a terminal illness.

To sum up, nobody has a clue. Psychologists especially have no idea about how to live life or what it all means. Midlife crisis fail.

For more self-help, navel-gazing, and use of a blog for therapy, refer to other articles in this series, such as Am I neurotic?

Enjoy the silence.

I want to tell you what is going on with me. I want to confide in you. But I am afraid. Yes, a little afraid of what you will say or think.

And I am afraid to say things out loud. Because saying things out loud makes them real. If my thoughts are just in my mind, then I can pretend that I am daydreaming. So I am still in denial about these things. I am silent.

I am on the cusp of making some changes. And cusps can be uncomfortable places. At some point a leap of faith is necessary. And I don’t want to bungy jump off a bridge, or jump out of a plane. I may act as if I am spontaneous, but it takes me ages to make a decision.

It is easy for me to romanticize the past. I have a fickle memory, and I gloss over a lot. There are memories of the past that I want to avoid. So I have learned how to ignore them. I can move around them. This is what I do.

There are obstacles in my future. I am sure there will be good things too. But the obstacles seem cumbersome.

I don’t think this is about being positive, or looking at things in a brighter light. My FIL says I should think of obstacles as opportunities. But my obstacles are more like enemies that need slaying. Maybe I am being overly dramatic.

Obstacles are challenges. And I don’t want to be challenged. I don’t want to be the knight in this story. I want to be the damsel.

And so here I perch, summoning all my courage for a leap of faith, while I hope for a Deus Ex Machina.

Image source: Wikipedia

In summer it is difficult to be anxious and depressed. It is work. Gloomy winter weather lends itself to depression. But complaining in summer is just churlish.

I have forgotten what this post is supposed to be about.

Today I sat in the sun, and I ate a ripe juicy peach. Its juice ran down my arm, and my son stunned me again with his kindness. Maybe this afternoon we will go to the beach and swim in the sea. Or instead we will play cards, or we will play with his train set.

I feel weighed down by responsibility and kind of pessimistic about my outlook, but I am so grateful for my boy. He is wonderful.

How are you?

--
Edited to add. Maybe I am not really afraid of what you think. It is more like I am shedding a skin, and I feel raw and vulnerable. It is confusing. Change was easier when I was younger.

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Edited again to add. Uh-oh. I think I was too vague. This post is just about my feelings and my crumbling marriage and going back to paid work. You know. Life. But things are OK, and I am sure they will get better. I AM FINE.

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Edited again to add. You probably won't believe this, but I didn't even intend to publish this post. I clicked the wrong button. IT WAS LIKE FATE.

Does sex make it impossible for men and women to be friends?

Harry: Would you like to have dinner?... Just friends.
Sally: I thought you didn't believe men and women could be friends.
Harry: When did I say that?
Sally: On the ride to New York.
Harry: No, no, no, no, I never said that... Yes, that's right, they can't be friends. Unless both of them are involved with other people, then they can... This is an amendment to the earlier rule. If the two people are in relationships, the pressure of possible involvement is lifted... That doesn't work either, because what happens then is, the person you're involved with can't understand why you need to be friends with the person you're just friends with. Like it means something is missing from the relationship and why do you have to go outside to get it? And when you say "No, no, no, no, it's not true, nothing is missing from the relationship," the person you're involved with then accuses you of being secretly attracted to the person you're just friends with, which you probably are. I mean, come on, who the hell are we kidding, let's face it. Which brings us back to the earlier rule before the amendment, which is men and women can't be friends.

When Harry Met Sally... is a 90 minute meditation on the impossibility of men and women being friends. Movies and TV suggest to us friendships between men and women must result in some kind of romance, but I want to think there is a wider range of possibility in these friendships than what Harry and Sally faced.

Before the 20th century, men and women lived and worked in separate spheres, and friendships between the genders were rare. Even today, friendships between the sexes have ambiguous boundaries. Voluntary gender separation is still common. (Think of those parties when men may go off to one corner, and women to the other.)

Friendships between men and women can be so intimate. Sometimes sexual interest and sexual appreciation flare up. However, this is different from having sex. It is about the possibility of what could have happened if circumstances were different. Or it can be reassurance that we are still attractive or sexy. These kinds of attachments can and should be a support system. But can these friendships really work? Or does the presence of desire doom friendships between men and women? And what about the awkwardness of its absence?

Men and women tend to be subtle and creative when building friendships. Men probably get more out of it. In a friendship with a woman, men are able to share their feelings or personal reflections, something that they might be less likely to do with other men. Maybe women benefit because friendships with men are light and fun. (I was going to add that women can find out how men think, but men actually are not that difficult to figure out. They are simple creatures.)

Platonic relationships between men and women seem unlikely in our culture. People outside these friendships often assume the couple is having sex. If they are not having sex, the number one thing men and women do in these friendships is talk. And a spouse may be just as jealous of talking as of sex.

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Friday night drinks.

I’m a hypochondriac. The Internet diagnosed me with whooping cough, so I asked Adam to pick up cough syrup for my "Friday night drinks" on his way home from work.

Adam tried to save money by getting the cheap cough syrup at the supermarket, but I wanted the expensive cough syrup from the pharmacy. The cough syrup you need to show your ID to get because it has drugs in it. (Not the placebo for two-year-olds.) I was disappointed. It was like getting oregano when you try to buy pot. Adam was all tough love. He said if I want drugs, I need to drive to the pharmacy and get them myself. Thanks, Adam.

I probably just have a man cold. All I want to do is lie on the couch and watch stupid TV. Like, tonight I watched The Bachelor. Adam ruined it because he was gagging, and I kind of lost it. By this, I mean I stomped off to the kitchen, and I started throwing dinner dishes in the sink. It was very satisfying until I broke my favourite bowl. Then I cried as I wrapped the broken pieces in newspaper and threw them in the rubbish bin. Outside by the bin, I fell on the ground, sobbing, and kicking my feet. I wanted the mind-numbing hit that only The Bachelor can provide. I wanted a new drug. (I would have embedded this video from YouTube, if I had been allowed. Boo!)

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Edited to add. I just found out I can watch The Bachelor on TVNZ's OnDemand, but I have lost interest. Now that I can get it on the Internet, the street value of The Bachelor has gone down.
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Edited again to add. The street value of The City and The Hills is still high.

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Edited again to add. If I ever get over this whooping cough, I'm going to buy a new bowl.
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Edited again to add. What exactly is in that cough syrup for two-year-olds?
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Edited again to add. I think I'll drink some more cough syrup and watch The Bachelor.

I'm overwhelmed.

In my last post, I wrote:

I am far behind in my life. I am caught in quicksand. Would someone please haul me out of here? I need to do a million things, and it's overwhelming. I'm sinking!

But I deleted that paragraph. It just seemed too whingey. Or too personal. I don't want to admit that I’m overwhelmed. And I don't really need to be rescued.

There is a lot going on at Wellington Road. The child is about to start school (another post), we have a birthday party to plan, other social obligations on the calendar, gifts to buy, financial challenges. Autumn is here, and there are chores to do. You know, life.

So, yeah (yawn). I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to break down tasks into steps, and tick items off a To-Do list. I just want to stay in bed and read your blog. (Yes, yours.) Or chat with you on Facebook. (Yes, you.) Or hang out on Twitter. (I love you, Twitter.) I'm depressed. What happened to summer?

And do you remember when I wrote that post? About the big 'D'? Well, it’s time for an update:

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You keep talking to people. If you bring it up yourself, it is OK. But if someone else brings it up? An acquaintance, who you may, or may not, have talked to first? (You don’t really remember. You wonder if she reads your blog.) This person forces you to talk about it, even if you don’t feel like talking. Awkward. And people ask, is there anything we can do? To help? Like babysit? Which is nice, right? But it feels intrusive. Because you aren't even separated yet. And you are all, if I need help, I will ask for it. But you say this gently. Because you are more surprised than angry. Isn't this what you wanted? To talk about it? When the child acts like a monster, people say, he’s acting like that because of problems at home. And you say, I don’t think so. And you don’t.

You realize you don’t want to talk about your marital problems. You understand why it’s a taboo subject. People bring their own baggage to the conversation. So you only talk about it with your therapist, behind closed doors. And you keep a stiff upper lip as you go about your life. Especially if you live in a little village in New Zealand that is prone to gossip. Also, your family doesn't want to talk about your problems. This may be a good thing. You pretend that everything is OK. You carry on a facade. You fake it. Which is what everyone does, from time to time, in marriage. (Isn't it?) But it's difficult for you, and not only because you are a lousy actress.

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Adam and I are still talking. He wants to work on things, bless him. I am still doubting. But we have put the issue on hold. For now. We are still married. We are still living together.

--
Maybe this is what you sometimes do in a marriage. If you need to deal with a life transition.

Dead end.

Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates is about a couple in the 1950s who are let down by the American Dream. They yearn for something better, and they come up with a plan to move to Paris. Their plan puts a band-aid (American for plaster) on their stagnant marriage. The movie with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio is superb and depressing.

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Adam and I have been talking about “separation”. Rather, I’m talking about separating, and Adam is upset. He doesn't want to separate. He wants to work on our marriage, go to therapy, etc. I don't want to work on it. I hope I'm not deluding myself, but I feel like I have outgrown our marriage, and it’s holding me back. I have dreams that are bigger than yearnings. Sometimes I wonder if my feelings are “normal”. (We have been together for about eight years.) I have been trying to persuade myself my feelings are just a “seven-year itch”, and my marriage is not a dead end.

Over the last year, my friends have talked about “therapy”. This is what you say when someone confesses she is having “issues”. Aren’t you two going to go to therapy? Most people don’t want to hear about problems with my marriage. They make sympathetic noises, and try to make their escape as quickly as possible. Awkward! One friend gave me that horrible Laura Schlessenger book, The Proper Care & Feeding of Husbands. Schlessenger is a by-product of the socially conservative 1950s. It's criminal to peddle such horrible advice to vulnerable women.

I am all for therapy. Therapy is great. I love talking about myself, even if I need to pay you to listen. (Are you sure you don’t want some junk from my house?) But I don’t want to go to therapy with Adam. (Mind you, I will go, if he asks me to.) I don’t want to work on our marriage. Some friends say, Maybe you should just go to therapy yourself then? Or, You could go with him to therapy, to get him started. Or, What are you afraid of?

I'm not afraid of my feelings. I know how I went from being in love to wanting to go my own way. I take responsibility for all the things I did and didn’t do. And I will tell you all about it, if you catch me in the right mood. You want to know what I’m really afraid of? I’m afraid that if I go to therapy, I will persuade myself to give my marriage another chance, and I'm tired of giving men more chances.

I love Adam, and I’m happy he is the father of my child. I was happy with him for four or five years. But I just don’t want to live with him, or be married to him any more. He was what I needed for a time, and now maybe he’s not. Let’s not even talk about the different countries stuff right now.

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Coming soon: In which I try to stop procrastinating and find a new place to live.

Grease.

The other night, we were watching TV. I flicked over to the movie channel, and “Grease” was on.

Me: I’m not going to watch the whole thing.

Adam: (groan)

I have watched “Grease” so many times. One summer, when I was 11 or 12 years old, I watched it every day. I loved Australia’s Olivia Newton-John, as good girl Sandy.

Now I am hooked on Stockard Channing’s Betty Rizzo. I like when she sings “There Are Worse Things I Could Do”.

Fail-proof rice.

I probably mentioned that Four is allergic to everything.

What do you eat when you are allergic to everything? Rice. A lot of rice. And probably white rice. (The child's skin does better with white rice.)

I could make risotto. But regular rice just seemed too complicated. (By this, I mean I didn't know how to make rice. Adam had to make it.)

So, Adam taught me how to make rice. Or Alison Holst did. (I think it was both of them.)

Long grain (white) rice
Boil 2 cups of water. (This is when an electric kettle comes in handy. Electric kettles are awesome.)

Put a medium-sized (not too big) pan on low heat. Add 1 Tablespoon of oil. (I like to use canola oil.)

Add 1 teaspoon of salt and 1 cup of basmati or jasmine rice. (I don’t bother to rinse it first, but if you want to, go right ahead.) Stir until the rice is coated.

Let the rice mixture heat for about a minute. (Not too long, or you will scorch the rice and have to start over.)

Add your boiling water to the rice mixture. Put a lid on the pot, and leave it on low heat for about 18 minutes. You can check to make sure all the water has been absorbed.

Take the pan off the heat and leave it covered until you are ready to serve. Fluff rice with a fork.

My first blogoversary.

A year ago, I started blogging. My theme was (sort of) “I moved to New Zealand, and it’s been a challenging journey.”

I chose to use my real name. And I told my parents and my friends about my blog.

I wrote about trying to fit in in New Zealand, parenting a child who is allergic to everything, and my marriage. And I spent a lot of time on my soapbox, pontificating about, you know, stuff.

In 2009, I was trying to find myself. Like, what does it mean to be an expat? If I have lived in New Zealand for eight years, am I still an American? Or am I a Kiwi now? What am I going to do next year, when the child starts school? What’s it like to be a wife, and do I even want to be a wife?

And I was trying figure out who I am on social media. What kind of blogger am I? Here are my favourite posts from 2009:

• I’m coming out of the closet. A photo essay of my life in NZ.


• My glass is always half empty, but not on the inside. People have often told me that I have a negative outlook. I just don’t think irony and sarcasm are appreciated enough. In this post, I show my true positive self, and I explain how lucky I am to live in NZ.


• Springtime can kill you. A post about being neurotic and social media.


• High school memories. Joining Facebook was like a de facto high school reunion, and it got me thinking about things that I haven’t thought about in 20 years.


• DIY. On marriage and Kiwi culture.
  

One of the best and most surprising parts of this blogging journey has been my readers.(Especially those of you who have been brave enough to come out and follow me publicly.) As always, I’d like to thank you for reading and for your comments. Wishing you all a happy and prosperous 2010.

I’m a winner.

I did it. I finished my NaNoWriMo. I’m so excited to have written 50,000 words in a month. And in those 50,000 words, I almost completed the arc of my story.

Now I am gathering ideas for my next book . . .

Husband: Don’t you need to finish the book that you've been writing first?

Me: My NaNoWriMo was just practice.

Husband: But you spent so much time on it.

Me: Let's call it recreation. It was like watching TV.

Husband: (exasperated sigh)

DIY update.

Recently Last month, I mentioned some DIY projects that had not been completed at Wellington Road.

Well, I don’t want to brag, but my amazing husband Adam (who looks like Brad Pitt) wants me to give you an update. We now have:

a new bathtub and

a new washing machine.

But what will you nag me about? My amazing husband asked (sarcastically).

Don’t worry, pumpkin. I’m sure I’ll think of something.

Delusions of grandeur.

In my last post, I wasn't trying to sound popular. You know, with my mentions of readers, comments, and emails. Believe me, I am self-aware enough to know my place in the blogging pecking order. DON’T CHOP ME DOWN. I'm a delicate tulip.

I didn’t even like that last post. I didn’t intend to portray my husband in a bad light. Next time, I will ask Adam if I can write about him on my blog, because then I will write a much better post. It’s a win-win! And when I said Adam was shitty, I was talking about rainbows. And unicorns.

Sometimes, blogging (and all the other social media) feels like going back to high school. I still have a fantasy about being Homecoming Queen, finally making cheerleader, or getting a part (with lines) in the musical.

Just like in high school, sometimes I have hopes of getting into the “in” crowd. However, it is much more likely that I will be standing at the prom by myself in stilettos that hurt my feet.

(On my blog, I’m still that weird girl who writes bad poetry and wears funny clothes. Oh, wait. That’s who I am in real life, too.)

Next time: My top five most embarrassing high school memories.

P.S. I don’t have single photo of myself from high school. There aren’t photos of me on Facebook either. I’m just not popular on Facebook.

Can we pretend this is me then? Yeah, I’m Jeannie Bueller.

Photo credit: I'm sure it's subject to copyright. If you own the rights to it, and you don't want it posted on my website, just let me know and I'll take it down. Email me! Please?

I did not get permission to write this post.

After my recent post about Adam and his DIY projects, I received some interesting emails and comments.

Women said, Too funny, my husband is like that too.

Guys said, You’re not complaining, are you? I wouldn’t put up with that from my wife.

Adam was shitty that I wrote the post (which he hasn’t read, by the way).

Me: I thought you said I was allowed to write it? (I am supposed to get permission to write about him on my blog,)

Adam: You were supposed to write about the van. Not those other things.

Me: But those other things are funny. And I said you look like Brad Pitt.

Adam: (grunt of disgust)

It’s like he doesn’t even want to look like Brad Pitt.

Me: Do you want me to take it down?

Adam (sulking): No.

Okay, so maybe it’s in poor taste to mock your husband on your blog. It’s like cyber mocking, or cyber nagging. Yeah, it seems nagging is a bad thing. Nagging has a bad reputation. Wives are supposed to just suck it up, and maybe brainstorm with their husbands about how to get things done.

When did we go back to the 1950s? And if we have gone back to the 50s, why am I still expected to work outside the home and earn money? As a post-feminist, I’m raising my hand in protest. Then I’m going to go burn my bra, because I never really liked this one, but it’s the only one that fits.

Australian feminist pioneer, Germaine Greer.
Photo credit: Wikipedia.

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Edited to add: Adam wants you to know that he WOULD read my blog, if he could get a turn on the computer. So, now I'm a nag who mocks her husband on her blog, AND I'm selfish. I rock.

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Edited again to add: I am still wearing my bra that I don't like. Is that too much information?

I am consistent, if not romantic.

Last year, I forgot our wedding anniversary. This year, I forgot it again.

I did know it was coming up. I just couldn’t remember the exact day. Is it the eighth? Or the tenth? I really need to start writing these things down.

Apparently, Adam had been waiting for me to mention it. And I never did. Our marriage, in a nutshell.

I never had dreams of a big wedding. We eloped. I wore jeans. Adam felt cheated out of a destination wedding, presents, and a big reception.

At first, we didn't tell people we were married. I think we intended to renew our vows and have a reception at some later date. It still hasn't happened.

Whatever. Five years of marriage. Go us.

The day after Adam and I first met (I forgot to develop our wedding photos).

Springtime can kill you.

Spring in NZ is like the second winter. Except I am trying to wear my spring clothes.

The fickle weather has turned rainy and cold, and I have cabin fever, and there are only a few sticks of firewood left.

Over the school holidays, I have been trapped. All the other mums seem to be full of energy. They are cleaning their houses from top to bottom, going on excursions every day, visiting extended family, and getting ready for Christmas. I feel so restless. I just want to fly away and be somewhere else.

Yesterday, I roused myself from my stupor, and a couple other mums and I took our kids to the museum in Wellington. There were a million people there. We looked at the exhibits inside for 30 minutes, and then we retreated to the cafe for lunch.

While we were in the cafe, we heard a rumour about another tsunami warning for Wellington. I was determined not to be neurotic. I’m not going to post any more silly status updates to Facebook, I said to myself. Because I have learned that people totally over-react.

So I texted Adam and asked him if he had heard about a tsunami warning. He hadn’t. He suggested that if we needed to, we could go to the top floor of the museum. Very funny, Adam.

One of the other mums was sort of freaking out too. She didn’t seem comforted at all when I said that a tsunami in Wellington would be like a snowstorm in Miami.

She said the wave could wrap around the North Island, and we agreed that it is the force of the wave, not the height. And we didn’t even have our civil defence supplies with us. And the museum is RIGHT ON THE HARBOUR.

The other mum called some of her geologist friends and asked them about the tsunami, but her friends didn’t reply.

Meanwhile, we were looking at the outdoor exhibits with the kids. I hesitated. I suppose I could ask Twitter, I said.

I tweeted:



And five lovely people on Twitter replied straight away, and they all said the warning had been cancelled. And I told the other mum that very reliable people on the Internet said the warning had been cancelled. And she was all, OK, but I think it’s time to go home now.

I tweeted:


Because Twitter is awesome.

And then I was left once again to ponder important things like, is cancelled spelled with one or two L’s, and why does it seem like Jay McInerney is writing everyone else’s blog. Story of my life.

My husband hates eating out. At least he's a good cook.

We live in the boonies (American for rural area). There aren’t many options for eating out, or for takeaways (Kiwi for take-out).

Besides, making our own food (from scratch) is almost as easy as buying packaged, processed foods. Especially if my husband is doing the cooking. It is definitely cheaper.

And since I’m a control freak, I like to know what exactly is in my food. If I don’t know what an ingredient on the label is (more or less), then I probably won’t buy it. I like whole foods.

It helps to have a few time-saving kitchen appliances. Obviously, the microwave and the toaster. Here are my other must-haves:

1. The jug (Kiwi for electric kettle)
   The electric kettle is CRITICAL to our daily operations at Wellington Road (eg, for the coffee plunger). I might have mentioned it before. Can't. Live. Without. It.
   
   
2. The slow cooker
   And I love my slow cooker. You can throw dinner in it and forget about it. It's a good thing.
   
   
3. The sandwich maker
   For toasties (Kiwi for grilled cheese sandwiches). A cast-iron skillet is nice, but the sandwich maker doesn’t require such close monitoring.
   
   
4. The blender
   To puree soups. Or make hummus or pesto or smoothies. I really like the food processor too.
   
   
5. The juicer
   I could probably live without the juicer. But with an organic fruit and veggie shop in the village, why would I want to?

A very happy birthday to my dad, who likes trains just as much as I do.

Husband: I looked in here, and you were playing with the train set, ALL BY YOURSELF.

Me: Er, the engines really needed a Fat Controller.

I don't even like curtains.

It took twelve weeks for the new curtains to arrive. And then, another (gruelling) three hours for our landlords to hang them up.

I was away during our landlords' latest foray into DIY. Poor Adam was on landlord duty, and I am in his debt.

But I was with the child, at a children's birthday party. So I think we are even.

And magic, magic. Our new curtains are up. On three windows.

The curtains are from the very trendy (in NZ and Australia) Spotlight store. And just so you know, there really is no such thing as too neutral.

I love them. Believe me, it could be worse.

Guilty pleasures. Oh, Edward.

So, mentally I am a teenage girl. I have been reading the Twilight books. Go ahead and think less of me, but I really like them. I have read them each in a day or two, and I just can’t put them down.

My favourite is the third book, Eclipse. It is about a girl who has to choose between two guys in opposing worlds. My husband is totally like Jacob (the werewolf). But who can resist Edward--vampires are so very appealing.

The writing is terrible. It is full of clichés. Stephanie Meyer clearly has a way with words and a decent vocabulary and is a skilled storyteller, so it “breaks my heart” to read through so much cheese for every genuine moment.

You will see almost every twist of the plot coming. Meyer doesn’t make the most interesting choices, which is a let-down time and again. And she seriously needs to edit and polish and not make the first draft her final one.

Then again, she is a bestselling novelist. What do I know.

150 pages to go. Bracing myself for the disappointing finale.

Hiding behind the curtains.

When the sun goes down in NZ, nearly everyone closes the curtains. I think it's for privacy.

My husband says, no, it is for warmth, because almost no one has double-glazed windows.

But everyone who pops in at Wellington Road seems surprised by our neighbour’s house. Because we can look right into her open-plan lounge and kitchen.

My husband says people are shocked because they are not up with modern design. And it is nice that our neighbour can look out of her house, rather than being surrounded by four walls.

But he is very sure. She doesn’t have double-glazed windows.

So I think our neighbour is an exhibitionist. And I like it.

This house looks a million times better since she moved in.