Issue 10 - Movin' Out (Zachary's Song)

In this week’s newsletter:

🏠 Pack ‘er Up
The longest relationship of my life is over

🍾 Don’t Bottle It
You’ll never guess what this guy invented

👯‍♀️ One of These Things Isn’t Like the Other
Wednesday Waffle > Waffle Wednesday… OK

🏠 In the Words of Billy Joel

I’m movin’ out!

Tomorrow, after 11 years, the most long-standing relationship of my life ends. But it’s not a heartbreaking divorce or separation, instead the end of an eight year lease and over a decade of cohabitating with my mate.

People warned it was risky to live with friends, but I’ve done it exclusively for the past twenty years, without incident (my housemates may say otherwise). It started aged 20, when I moved to Western Australia. I lived with two primary school friends, Cashews and Chugs, and none of us knew what we were doing, but lucked into a two story townhouse with ocean views.

We ate chicken kiev, vegetables, burgers, and got $5 pizzas every Tuesday. The only departure from this was when Chugs whipped up his famous chow mein. It wasn’t pretty but we made it work for a year. They were great days.

Then I moved to Melbourne and lived in an apartment that was owned by family friends, benefitting from their generous Mum’s-mates-rates rental fee.

It was much the same, with the novelty of living with lifelong friend, Sam, and his sister, Meg, eating modest meals, and establishing, then refining, an adult routine. We would get up early and go to the gym, without fail, and almost as regularly go to the local pub for Wednesday steak night. Then his partner Megan moved in, but this was not the end. In fact, the only discernible difference was her dietetics degree improved our overall health markedly.

Next I moved up the road, about a kilometre and a half, to another house in Carlton, on the infamous Lygon St – opposite the cemetery for those familiar. This was with another childhood friend, Salee. He made the mistake of tasking me with choosing our abode, and as I had a hard move date, my standards were quite low. This, along with a standard tenancy agreement, committed us to a harrowing 12 months of loud traffic, early morning trams, freezing cold rooms, and an outside toilet and shower.

We then moved 40 street numbers up the road and things improved dramatically, making it two and a bit years together before he decided to move back to our hometown, and I headed overseas on holidays.

After that, I moved into Kew. A suburb I’d occasionally visit, as my Dad was living there, but had never really saw myself living in. This time I moved in with Tyndall, another mate I’d known since prep.

The place was huge, previously existing as a mansion, but having been re-fashioned into four apartments. I was given (or took) the main bedroom, which I was reliably informed was the old master bedroom. It was massive. You would not believe how big it was, and how little stuff I had to occupy it. We couldn’t believe we got this joint. But it quickly turned out to be too good to be true.

My first night in the place, and before Tyndall had moved in, rain bucketed down and I was ankle deep in water. It was a nice way to meet the neighbours - them knocking on my door explaining the water from our place was running down their walls. This actually happened twice in the first month, but the owner finally fixed the problem and we had three good years there. We were eventually evicted for renovations, and it was sad to leave.

But sticking to form, I moved about 100 metres, as the crow flies, into a lovely quaint court around the corner. It started with a bang, and the first night (I kid you not), I was awoken to an apparent psychopath screaming expletives in the street. Again, I presumed we’d been stitched up by signing for a sub-par rental, but thankfully never heard another peep again.

It is six kilometres from the city and far more peaceful than my bedroom in Bendigo, where I grew up, 200 kilometres away. My ex-partner resided here for a while as well, and she, Tyndall and I navigated covid in these close confines.

My next move is to the same street where I used to visit my Dad a decade ago. The place looks nice, and rivals any I’ve been in previously. This time, it’s not with a friend, but my partner. It will be a home, and somewhere to really unpack, after treating every other place as temporary accomodation.

To those that warn against living with friends, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d warn you to better choose the company you keep. Because for me, it’s been a succession of fond memories, thousands of incredible stories, and hundreds of steak nights.

Listen to Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out” here.

🍾 Pop the Cork on Bottle Night

The internet went into meltdown when American man, Collin Rutherford, claimed to pioneer the concept of having a drink with his girlfriend on X / Twitter.

While the backlash from commenters was hilarious, and the misallocation of credit (to himself) was dorky, the thought of a young couple downing devices and pulling their romantic sidecar off the information super highway for an evening made me smile.

It got me thinking, maybe I could find a version of this for my partner and I.

While bottle night, at my age, feels inclined to court a nasty hangover, maybe it could be platter night, puzzle night, or something else instead (that hopefully doesn’t sound so lame).

Either way, there’s something in this, and it need not be limited to budding lovers, presenting a fun opportunity for the whole family, and friendship groups too. To single out a night each week and leave it free for face to face human interaction seems like it could only be a good thing. Give it a try.

Let us know what your version of “bottle night” consists of. I’ve got a long life of entertaining my lady-friend ahead, so I need to stock up on “break glass in emergency” ideas.

👯‍♀️ Don’t Get it Twisted

You would not believe the giddy laughter coming out of me on learning the Urban Dictionary entry for Waffle Wednesday.

The thought of some well-meaning person suggesting a Wednesday Waffle to family, explaining how it will help everyone stay connected, only for their relative to ever so slightly muck up their Google search, and instead find this in the results, is almost too much to bare.

This is one of those times where the the wording is ultra important - because “Grandma, let’s do a Wednesday Waffle” is very different to “Grandma, let’s do a Waffle Wednesday”.

Please don’t get it twisted - it’s Wednesday Waffle.

🔚 The Alternate Ending

Congratulations, you’re nearly there!

Remember to send a Wednesday Waffle to your loved ones - it could literally save a life. Just don’t accidentally suggest a Waffle Wednesday smh.

More people have received their Wednesday Waffle Merch, which is amazing. It’s a great way of supporting me and spreading the message. You can get yours here.

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Until next Wednesday, keep waffling 🧇