'That's 72 unforced errors for Richie Tenebaum. He's playing the worst tennis of his life. What's he feeling right now?'

When it finally came time for me to hang up my basketball jersey in favor of endurance sports, my father said to me "I love you, but you have chosen the two most boring sports in the world to watch."

And he is right -- no matter the ratings at these last Olympics, swimming is boring. Have any of you actually had to sit through the entire swim meet waiting for someone's event? Even when I was racing, the length of meets was depressing. At least in rowing you get to be outside, maybe even on launch, kick back and enjoy the scenery while the first 4 minutes of little blobs on the horizon come closer. (In the UK, they've got rowing it right -- spectators get hammered. Legitimately, they make you wear silly clothing, but at least you can have a Pims).

In addition to being extremely boring to watch, both rowing and swimming are not particularly social. That's not to say that it isn't a lot of fraternizing surrounding the them or that we aren't into our own kind (ask me what I'm doing in DC next weekend, just ask me), but rather that they are races, not games, and therefore you never talk to your teammates while performing. And no one gets yellow cards, or fouls out, or tells Rick Pitino to go fuck themselves.

So I've started playing tennis (true, it's not everyday that you see tennis players telling their coaches to fuck off, but baby steps here...I'm not good on skates so hockey wasn't an option). Playing might be an overly aggressive phrase at this juncture -- how about I've started holding a racket and hitting little yellow balls. At this stage, it's not interesting to watch in the sporting sense, but it is interesting to watch in the "I never knew people who claim to be athletes could be so uncoordinated" sense.

But look out Serena -- I look frickin bad ass with a weave.

It's Friday. You ain't got a job and you ain't got shit to do.

This time last week I was making pie crust while hungover. What a sexy image.

LKP and GMR hosted the second annual Thanksgiving in Paris last Friday. The two imports who have joined the Turkey Day vacation train from NL to FRA hopefully concur on the awesomeness that is T-day in Europe. I hate turkey with a burning fiery passion and could do without Thanksgiving food in general, so I might be biased -- but the times I've celebrated the holiday on the continent have always been the best (perhaps with the exception of the year my grandpa decided he wanted lobster...that was an interesting one).

Leigh and Greg are the best hosts. Firstly, they let me take over their kitchen, but will do all the cleaning up. Secondly, they like to take walks. Sometimes these walks are true trips, but even when they are not, I have to sing their praises. I know it's pretty normal for families to take walks together on Thanksgiving, but that wasn't a tradition in my house (we drank gin and watched Holiday Inn instead). It's nice to be older and decide which traditions you want to add (walking), keep (I still like drinking on Thanksgiving) or throw away (turkey, duh).

Not only foreign, but also Friday Thanksgivings are extra special. Five or so years ago, in Madrid, LKP and SAC cuddled up with me in the dorms at the universidad. On Thursday we were too busy watching flamenco to do anything other than eat bread and cheese. Next night we went out for a huge Americano-type meal and drank a LOT of red wine -- I got to see it all again, so I remember. This was supposed to be the night Leigh and Sara learned about the miracle of Agua de Valencia, but - as you all know - I can't hold my liquor. Maybe three sips in to this scorpion-bowl-type serving, I was out the door. Classy, really. But the visit was awesome: Suckling pig, a whole lot of chicken nuggets, and dancing with my sleeves. I wonder what ever happened to that shirt...

The usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.

Today we are going to play a fun game called "Who's Acid Trip is it?" Is it a) Kanye West, b) Coltrane or c) both?

1.

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7.

Team America, Fuck Yeah

Team Berlin, now Team Europe, took a weekend in Amsterdam a few weeks back. Our team needs a better name. For awhile, I wanted to be Team America -- so that I could say it with the self-hating cynicism that is the patriotism of Brattle Street liberals like myself. But since the election of Barack, being Team America wouldn't hold the same dark humor, since he's our get out of jail free card: "The U.S. is responsible for plunging stock markets around the globe? Well, Obama will be president in February, so, uh, isn't that enough?" Also, we can't be Team America because a few Brits are part of the crew-- and we don't want to kick them off the island because they say funny things like "rubbish" and "driving a scooter does not automatically disqualify me as straight."

What is Team Europe? We are all expats living somewhere on the Continent trying to squeeze as much sightseeing (read: partying) into as many European cities as possible before we leave. Together, we speak a total of four languages, which is about the same number as a normal EU citizen. And some of us are consultants, meaning yes, there is a spreadsheet dictating where we are going and when. It's all very organized, really. Somewhat like herding cats.


Amsterdam was weekend two in this great experiment and a great experiment it was, let's just leave it at that. We also discovered a toothpaste that makes your mouth feel so fresh you actually think your teeth are vibrating (reminded me of my very first trip to the city with Team Family in '01 "My lips are talking to my teeth!" Man, I hope my bro actually reads this blog so I don't sound crazy. Someone needs to laugh at that).

That was so fucking money. That was like the Jedi mind-shit.

This will be short and sweet -- it's been a good week. Sinterklass showed up on his boat from Spain (he'll be here until December 5), I got a spiffy new fiets (well, a "new" used bike) and learned that I have to pay no damages to the taxi that side swipped me a year and a half ago! Not only that, but they owe me mad €€ (hmmm, doesn't look quite the same as $$).

Bunch of savages in this town

I am bike-less. My craptastic fiets with stolen. It was the biggest piece of scrap metal, I can't believe they even bothered. Maybe it was my uber cool teal green saddle bags that seduced them, the wankers. I don't want to run out and get another one, because what if I don't stay. But 1) I also said that about getting a cat and that was over a year ago and 2) bike:stefinamsterdam::car:suburbansoccermom. Getting home, ESPECIALLY when it is raining (which is seemingly 103% of the time) now takes forever. And my dishwasher is broken. I am pouting.

In some more positive, prestolenfiets news, just got back from Berlin where we had pan-European team bonding. Folks came from Frankfurt and Geneva and we did a good job of touring the city and getting drunk. Thankfully no one insisted we actually go into museums which made me happy -- I'm as cultured as the next schmuck, but when you've got 24 hrs to see shit, the last thing I need to see is art by some guy I don't know or by some guy who's best stuff is in the MET.

A neat thing about Berlin is it really is a city, not a European village. There are fancy schmancy cocktail bars, two different subway systems, a department store that makes Harrods look like a country general store and reasonably not-disgusting sushi. Lots of contemporary buildings juxtaposed by aging churches and 1970s Soviet architecture (and, in the case of the photos to the right, chicks eating sausage).

Also, Berlin has a TON of freaks in it -- makes Amsterdam look like Springfield. We saw at least 20 Rod Stewart look-alikes (men and women) with even worse hair-dye jobs (if that's possible). Good news is, bright blue tights are therefore fully acceptable (as most of you know, there is a side of me that wants to be a freak as much as there is a side of me that likes to pop my collar...I maintain there should be a way to do both at the same time).

America is great indeed. Imagine a country so free, one can throw glass on the streets.

Nederlanders and expatriates all went out for the election, which was a pleasant surprise. (shameful fact: I do not know the name of the Dutch PM...I just wikipedia-ed it so I can feel educated -- his name is Jan Peter Balkenende. Can you imagine a bunch of Americans celebrating the fall of the Christian right in the NL? Watching European football is about as close as we would ever come -- I may not know who the PM is, but I do know who Marco van Basten is.) Pleasant, but also annoying because there were no tickets left for events. It is rare that all the clubs in Amsterdam are packed on a Tuesday night. Rarer still that this would happen for anyone other than a famous DJ (Obama is the new Tiesto).

And, Mr. Smith goes to Amsterdam! It was nice to have a familiar American in town last week -- though she is also an expat in a foreign land. (For any rich people who come to visit, get a reservation at the Dylan Hotel -- Megan and Sylvana had a room that looked like a ski lodge. Some days, I want to be a reporter.) We stayed up late, drank scotch and generally felt good about the state of the union.

So, what are we doing for New Year's?

There was a small window of time in the late summer and early fall when I could have sworn I was growing up. I had a nice routine down, doing the whole "Everything in moderation, including moderation" thing.

Yeah, I was wrong. But I stopped berating myself this morning when I realized it's the fall. And my life is always like this in the fall and therfore I can't be blamed for what is obviously the natural cycle of my existence. Don't want to mess with the chi.

(for those of you who have difficulty reading between the lines, this means that I feel like I've been on a two month bender. But that's not really accurate because I was working, so it was more like an interval bender -- wedding. rest. 30th birthday party. rest. bachelor/ette fiesta. rest. There needs to be a word for that -- maybe "bingerval" or "alcoholism.")

Got home this week -- but interval training continues (no rest for the weary). Halloween party last night with the standard fall back costume: The Toga (Siblings teach you lots of important life lessons in your formative years. How to make a toga out of a sheet should always be one of them. Really, a true life-long skill.). Rest. Election Party (yes, that will be an event to man up for). Rest. Berlin. Rest. Reizen met Coltrane. Rest. Friday Thanksgiving. Rest....and so on and so forth until....well, until CFG/P's wedding.

This is my dance space. This is your dance space.

I like to get jiggy on the dance floor.

This results in a bit of a conundrum in the Netherlands:

1. There are a MASSIVE amount of hip clubs, that play anything and everything you could ever want to hear. I have been to maybe 11% of these and have loved.them.all. Clubbing is also not restricted to short foreign men or wealthy bankers, who order bottle service but don't actually leave the table. It's typical Dutch to end up at a club at the end of the night, often until 5am or so -- even for the tall, blond, awkwards.
2. Despite the mainstream popularity of clubs and dancing, the Dutch have not progressed beyond the white man's shuffle and think you are some sort of alien if you actually get down.

Erin B (which sorta sounds like Eric E) rolled in from the Village of Chocolate & Fondue last weekend for a little "back to school" bonding. The daring and inquisitive soul that she is suggested we try some place we've never been and try to make out with Dutch guys -- primped and pre-partied to the nines, we headed out to Hotel Arena. As the first "real" night I had been out since, oh, the Equinox, I was stoked and the evening started on a good note with an aged cabbie hitting on us (I am loved!) and impeccable timing -- we walked in right before the lines started outside. It was Disco classics night. Different. Awesome.

But, sure enough, X songs and Y drinks into our night, some guy comments to Erin B that he knew she wasn't Dutch because she moved too much when she danced. And some tall mofo said the same to me, noting it was his "first" with an American (dude! it's dancing, not sex, chill). This isn't the only occasion I've caught this sort of flack: Around this time last year, a guy called me out on my non-Dutchness because I was too "dancey" (actually, I am going to the next iteration of that birthday party tonight -- I hope he's there so I can pump my ass in face and ask if that's too "dancey" for him, the smug balding wanker).

Legitimately, I have been critiqued by non-Nederlanders in the past for, uh, overly aggressive, freak-a-licious dancing. But please recognize that I am now a mature adult and no longer try to "bring sexy back" by doing splits in bowling shoes or bend bassakward while using my dance partner as a pole (though this may be attributed to a "grown up" lack of flexibility as opposed to actual maturing).

So -- mission critical this weekend is to rip into at least one guy bobbing his head to the beat while shifting from one foot to the other with his hands in little fists (how do you like me NOW!). And, I'll also try to be more observant of my fellow woman, see what it is exactly that makes us Amerikanen more prominent dancers. Let's hope it's not the pelvic thrusting -- I mean, who's going to give that up?

I don't know anyone who deserves to get chopped up and fed to a hungry plant (part II)

Frankenstef quickly learns that liability insurance is something that every Dutch person has, especially since the monthly fees are never more than €2. But what is liability insurance for, Frankenstef wonders, other than this sort of freak accident? Well, if you drop a friend's camera out the window, liability insurance covers it. If your dog knocks a Delft vase off the table, liability insurance covers it.

How come Frankenstef does not have this ridiculously cheap, "normal" form of insurance? Because no one told her to get it. Within days, she's purchased this somewhat strange form of coverage (in short, it prevents the need of small claims court...Judge Judy would not do well here) and is completely stunned at how easy it was to procure.

Unfortunately, it's not retroactive (duh) and the "I didn't know I was supposed to have it" argument does not matter to the insurer or the law. So when the sun went down on the last day of November, she did what any normal Dutch person would do -- put it off for a couple of months until the holidays are over. (not kidding -- maybe the only silver lining of all the bureaucracy in this nation is that people are willing to let things take....for...........ev...........................er)

Returning to the Netherlands, Frankenstef plays the ignorant & poor card and makes an appointment with legal aid. They kindly tell her she makes too much for the free help and ship her off to a nice personal injury lawyer who begins investigating the possibility for recourse given that the Taxi is believed to be AT LEAST equal in blame.

"So they don't have this kind of insurance in the U.S?" asks the lawyer. No, says Frankenstef. "Well, what do they have?" Nothing. (this then deteriorated into an argument about whether I was actually right. I'm no lawyer and my only experience with law was the LSAT and keeping corporate records -- not exactly ambulance chasing. But I have asked numerous, non-JLo adults. I maintain there is nothing like this as a "regular" option to "regular" Americans.) "Do you have photos from after the accident?" Funny you should ask, I refused to have them taken. "What about the clothing you were wearing?" In a sick twist of fate, I was in short spandex and an already blood/paint-stained t-shirt to exercise in. "Hmmm. Well, make a list of your costs -- if we can get them to pay half, then we may be able to argue that you shouldn't have to pay more than half of the taxi's." But isn't the Taxi at fault? "The taxi company did a smart thing and listed the accident as 'an act of god' and in fact, the police report seems to put you at fault. But it doesn't list vehicle speed." (Act of God is actually a legitimate choice in filing a police report? WTF?) So that's a good thing because it means it's incomplete? "Yes. And the insurance company did not originally know there was an injured party -- that is why the request for funds took 6 months to arrive." So another vote for incomplete? "Yah." Is there any way to make an argument that it is impossible that I could have caused this much damage to his car? "That is difficult." (there was never really an answer as to why....) But my costs were so minimal. "What about lost work time?" Ah, well, good thing that my hourly rates are pretty steep (fun fact: I cost a little less per hour than a prostitute in the red light district).

Winter turns into spring. Spring becomes summer. And on one rainy day in July (note that this is now 15 months after the accident) the insurance company agrees to pay half my expenses. Receipts and proofs are submitted.

And then Frankenstef waited. And waited, and waited, and waited.

There she sits today, still waiting for a word of resolution. Some early mornings, when the rain falls on the quiet streets, you can here the clicking of the keys as she types email after follow up email, begging for it to end.

click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click

Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die.

The title quote has nothing to do with anything, but when in this mature day and age does one actually get to drop a revenge line on someone? I'm as bitter and disenfranchised as the next person, but there are not a lot of people out there that I would actually wish harm on. If a few folks simply disappeared from existence (evil cousins, certain policy makers, etc), I would definitely be okay with that but I'm not voting anyone off the island...except maybe that kid Tyson that was really mean to me in high school. Jerk.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you an inane throwback to life before You Tube: Trogdoor the Burninantor.

(I am one of 2 people in the office right now. 2! I definitely did not get the memo that sleeping in this morning would be okay. Me and my headache wish we did. We had a heel lekker alumni work event last night. I didn't really know anyone so I made friends with the rioja.)

I don't know anybody who deserves to get chopped up and fed to a hungry plant (part I)

Gather, my children, around the fire for an epic tale of action, drama and socialized medicine. Many of you have heard whispers of this story, an evil accident which claimed the face and sanity of one. Some of you may have witnessed the wounds, others can vouch for the scars, but none can comprehend the full ramifications of life without liability insurance.

"But I know all about liability insurance" you claim with gusto, "I have it it for my car." Well, my friend, do you have it for your person? "What individual would need to get liability insurance? J Lo's ass perhaps?" Two years ago I would have had the same response, but learn Reader-san, from my mistake.

Let me take you back to the time before time (April 2007) when the sun was shining and life was nothing more than one big techno party. Biking along in one of the few days without rain, she checks behind her, puts out her left hand to make the turn and WHAM.

In the air she thinks "So, this is what it's like to get hit by a car"; on the ground she thinks "This looks like that scene in Fight Club where he stares down at a pool of his own blood"; hearing sirens she thinks "No no! I can't afford an ambulance, I'm fine, let me get up"; and when the driver asks her if there is family or a boyfriend he can call she says "My colleague is on the way."

Bystanders stop and offer to lock her bike to a bridge; witnesses hand her phone numbers; someone finds her Oakleys, magically uninjured. She's whisked to the hospital, and while checking for spinal injuries they ALREADY KNOW she's allergic to Penicillin because electronic health records are a beautiful thing. They clean up her face, take a brain scan and make her wait for 2 hours (which for the ER ain't all that bad, to be fair) before stitching her nose and putting on a temporary cast.

Frankenstef emerges. (I can't claim to have made that up, sadly, I'm not that witty. Thankfully, it's a better nickname than Dog Ate My Face.)

Despite the following week of hideous ugliness that was not captured on film by monarchical decree and five weeks of a wrist cast (can't stop me from hittin' Ibiza, baby), Frankenstef recovers, looks surprisingly normal and all seems well in the hamlet of Amsterdam. The ambulance was less than €250 (ahem, those were actually my total costs...jam!), the shitty bike still clunks on and the nose did not have to get re-broken to heal straight. No one sues because it isn't America and Frankenstef considers the matter closed, moving on with life, surprised at how wonderful it it is to be taken care of by one's temporary country of residence.

Spring becomes summer. Summer becomes Autumn (though it it seem like it's always fall here). And then in October the mail arrives. The insurance company of the taxi that HIT ME kindly requests the name of my liability insurer and my policy number for damages.

echt?

It seems the battle, once thought to be buried, has only just begun (albeit, a non-violent fully bureaucratic battle). Stay tuned for Part II: Frankenstef vs. the Red Tape...

LaFawnduh is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I'm 100% positive she's my soul mate.

When Facebook first launched at university, I scoffed (I had a REAL social life), refused to sign up and enjoyed the Crimson updates of the twins vs. the nerd (and now I can follow this battle on the NYTimes...the nerd is winning. The nerd is rich. Remind me some day to tell you the story of one of my colleagues who once got a marriage proposal from Bill Gates and passed it up. Not that I would want to have sex with Bill Gates either -- he's no Vladimir Putin -- but COME ON).

Eventually, I moved to NYC and decided that this "social networking site" everyone raved about would be a great way to find a jogging partner (it wasn't) -- plus, let's be honest, the REAL social life I had in college (that's a euphemism for "I was getting laid") was not a reality in the city that never sleeps. So begun my sad spiral into Facebook life, which to my credit has generally be reactive (though I did get into Scrabulous for awhile, but no one seems to want to play anymore, which sucks because I like that game the way I like tetris and puzzles, proving that I am in fact a huge nerd. So, where's that marriage proposal Mark?).

Now, this was an especially epic week on Facebook, but not because some random dude with the same last name as me tried to find out if we are related ("My grandma is from Lithuania, primarily Kaunas, and I think we have long lost family in New York." What, so you want to hang out now, have a Passover sedar or something? Where the hell is Kaunas? And I'm Romanian mother fucker). No, even better, my mother has joined the ranks of drones to become a member of Facebook.

But can I blame her? Should she be denied a procrastination tool loved by so many? Why read a book when you can be a virtual vampire in a Catholic school girl outfit? If I was 16, I would fear the intrusion into "my" life -- from what I understand, texting and Facebook are the final frontiers of teenage privacy. The good news is a) I don't really use Facebook all that much (i.e. you can't find out what movies I like, if I'm straight, how I feel about social security, where I took vacation or when the last time I took a crap was by looking at my page...I mean, what person with a college degree connects their Facebook feeds to their PDA? you know who you are you sick fucks) and b) even if I did, my mom is not technologically advanced enough to troll through pictures of me or understand the generational repartee that is wall postings. Indeed, she had to send me her profile photo for me to post on her behalf.

In short, everybody log on and ask Mary to be your Facebook friend.

holy shit, I can't believe I just dedicated a whole posting to Facebook and in a roundabout way admitted I joined in order to get men to pay attention to me. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

We are going to get so much ass here, it's going to be sick. I'm talking like crazy boy band ass.

There is a prevalent notion held by many people (and reinforced by movies like "Sex in the City") that NYC is the place with the most beautiful people, running around looking beautiful all the time.

These people are wrong.

Women (and a growing population of men) in New York, admittedly, take care of their shit and are certainly put together. But people themselves are not beautiful they way they are in Amsterdam. There is just no contest. I'll give you that people in New York are probably more graceful (maybe that's why I don't fit in...I actually have scars forming from this past visit), but in terms of straight up hotness, the mannen en vrouwen of the Netherlands win.

All the short NY bankers in their fancy suits (those that are still left with jobs, that is...) simply can't hold a candle to the tall blonde men in capris (gasp!) and highwaters. And so, I have been attempting to blend in with these beautiful people by trying to learn how to ride my bike without a) getting whiplash from checking people out and b) flashing the entire world because I can't keep my legs together in a short dress (that sounds wrong; everyone knows I am a believer in abstinence: Penny between the knees is the safest and cheapest form of birth control).

Perhaps the bicycles are clouding my vision. (I have cheer sex all the time with guys riding by; it's so much better than when walking...think about running and how the extra-speed is like a get-out-of-jail free card to give the once over to anyone who passes in the opposite direction. It's like that, but EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME and you aren't sweaty and getting passed by 64-year-old guys with merlin beards in awkwardly small running shorts.) Or perhaps it's the fact that the sun is up, oh, 19 hours of every day, and that people are outside all the time with actual smiles. Whatever it is, I was shocked on my return at how friggin hot Amsterdammers are in the summer.

Now, all you people who have talked about coming to visit but never put your balls on the line -- you've got a month or two to get out here and take advantage before the city starts preparing for winter hibernation and people only leave their houses for rations. And since I know you all well enough to know that's not going to happen (fine, screw you, more for me), I recommend checking out the women's Dutch swim team in Beijing to get a sense of what I mean -- some chick in the relay last week actually winked at me (yes, right at me and only me) before they got on the blocks and won the event. Flirt with the crowd and bring home the gold, how hot is that?

Ahhh, it's great to be young and insane

Back in Amsterdam after a GREAT month in the States. It's been a long time since I have been excited to be back in the U.S. (I spent some QT in Brooklyn and decided that the Death Star force of Manhattan is not as strong in the boro). Jacko's wedding was awesome, my hangover the morning of was not. This was the first time I'd ever been in a wedding...I did not realize the pain that morning hair appointments can cause. Oh well, little sister who can't handle her booze until the day I die I guess. There's not too much to say about the wedding other than it was basically perfect. There was lots of man-crying (the sensitive males in my family are not above that) and a general consensus that no two people balance each other the way J&M do. And that there probably are other people this happy, but no one happier...


Laundry list of all the other cool shiznit that went down (in no particular order of importance or chronology):
Checked out my dad's new place (how many bathrooms?!?); got lost in Rock Creek Park, Chandra-Levy style; tried to go black (coffee), but came back; bought a sensible white suit (Miami Vice Halloween here we come); had a typical Saturday night at Chadwicks; hosted a "start strong, go home early" bar crawl on Smith St.; "partied" with mom; visited C&A in Rochester; saw Springsteen in a state of enlightenment; had the best hangover experience of my life (check out roadmonkey.net); co-hosted a Christmas party in August (and concluded that small parties with too much booze is my new favorite thing); planned for a crazy Miami reunion in October (!despedida de soltera!); named Johnny Black and ginger my drink of the month (can't unseat the greyhound...yet); fell and skinned my knee like a 10 year old (sober); exposed the Dutch to Junior's cheesecake; exposed the Dutch to Corner Bistro; road tripped, Coltrane style; determined that I like dogs (Kona) more than cats, but that I'm not mature enough for the former so it might have to be the later; heard best friend #2 got engaged; fell and skinned my knee like a 10 year old (drunk...same knee); and decided I missed America (and that I'm okay saying that outloud).

You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy

I learned this weekend that I am a close, personal friend of Arcade Fire. Closer than six-degrees of Kevin Bacon close. In high school I starred in a student-directed, one act play with Will Butler -- well, in truth he starred in the play and they let me have a part because it was high school and like only six people try out for student-produced plays. And yes, the acting is as bad as it sounds: Will's stage presence tended to be the exception whereas mine tended to be the rule (i.e. mediocre at best).

Anyway, this is definitely one of those circumstances where I remember him but there's no way he remembers me, especially now that he's famous and dances shamelessly in public the way I (shamefully) do when no one is home. Sigh, talent gets all the perks. I wish I had known that I knew him when I saw them in concert last year. His bro and front man kept giving the crowd crap for not being rowdy enough (we weren't, but that wasn't my fault -- blame the Dutch...they can be awkward). I could have given a high school shout out or tried to weasel my way back stage for one of those "Hey, remember me?" awkward conversations you have with people you don't really remember, but pretend to so as not to be rude. (last time I forgot to pretend I knew someone, they reported back to Coltrane that I was an evil bitch -- hey, not my fault if you are just another rower I don't know.....oooooh, now she really is a Ceee U Next Tuesday).

I was informed of my semi-relationship to this semi-star over the weekend when Charlo "I now give wicked good hugs" T. was in town for an Amsterdam quickie from London. Joined by another friend of hers who was also an ex-rower, ex-New Englander type, we spent the weekend playing the name game and generally reminiscing about the good ole days (in truth boarding school was my own personal social hell, but hey, if I had actually had friends I would not have been able to pass classes).

Highlight of the weekend was not the Dutch losing to the Russians (Holland Hup no more...), but rather gettin' busy to Arcade-esque music at the best sweaty club ever. We checked out Club Rascal -- an Indie disco night that rotates locations every month or so -- on the top floor of some building in the west of the city. It was like hipster heaven except people were not afraid to admit they enjoyed dancing (I saw at least 40 people smiling...oh the irony). Unfortunately, it must have been 35°C and we were not the only people removing clothing on the dance floor and taking "glistening" to a whole new level. "Then, we tried to name our babies, but we forgot all the names that...the names that we used to know (doo doo doo doo)....(doo doo doo doo)..."

You've got mail!

In the digital age, I get really excited about "real" mail. To foster my need, I send postcards in hopes that someone will get the hint and send me some postcards back (that doesn't seem to be working, so consider this also the dropping of the hint). I'm down to hoping more people get married just so I can get mail.

So, yesterday I received an envelope without a stamp, but with my name neatly typed on the front with my address. Curiosity peaked, I browsed the mail pile on the stairs and noticed one of my neighbors had also received the same thing. Figuring it was junk I took it upstairs with a pouty face and was flabbergasted to see that I had been sent a PERSONALIZED note regarding Chlamydia screening with a personal login code and everything.

What.the.fuck.

First of all, how one tests for Chlamydia online is beyond me (my Dutch isn't good enough to reach the whole letter...just to see the word "Chlamydia" repeated, oh, 80 times). Second of all, why out of the 5 women who live in my building did only 2 of us receive these letters? Third, do I really need a personal letter about VDs? Kid you not, it reads "Beste mevrow Levner, Via deze brief nodigen we je uit deel te nemen aan de Chlamydia Screening Amsterdam." Fourth, why would anyone testing for VDs "invite" you to testing -- is this a party? Will there be punch and pie? Fifth, what have I done in the last 6 months that would put me on the target list for this. Please let the answer be "not turn 30" (y'know, like all women in Amsterdam from ages X to Y received this or something) instead of "makeout with some random dude at Odeon. We saw you and we hunted you down because he looked dirty and you looked like a hoodrat hoochie mamma."

Chlamydia is not a flower. Golden Shower, however, is (it's an orchid).

You could be a farmer in those clothes

I have finally been wowed by a "rural" city. This is groundbreaking because I am a horrible east coaster that always rags on farm towns (i.e. the entire Midwest) and loves to tell anecdotes about gas station chains called "Kum & Go" and the number of Cracker Barrels per square mile. Farmland in The Netherlands is a little different because hey, it's Europe, and far be it for a small town reputation to prevent them from knowing how to party (that and "the middle of nowhere" is actually pretty close to civilization given the lack of land mass).

To be fair, Groningen is actually a university town, but it kicks the ass of any rural university town in the U.S. that I've ever visited. I went this past weekend with my colleague, Mirjam (which is pronounced "meer-yam"; J is a Y sound in Dutch....though Meerjam would be a pretty sweet name too) to her home town to see the sights and get fed by her parents.

The weekend started with an exciting car ride past modern windmills and a chemical fire and ended with a hangover. But the hangover was WORTH IT. After visiting the small suburb where Mirjam used to lived (ponies! geese! beetroot!) we rolled into the big city for a crazy Saturday night. I'm thinking we're going to just chill at a local pub, drink a bunch of beer and be in bed by 2am. But ahhhh, so good to be so wrong.

After meeting like 80 of Mirjam's friends randomly on the street (yes, it is that small...) we set up at some swank lounge bar and proceeded to get warmed up before heading to a club. I'm sitting there thinking we are going to go to something like the Kong, but it turns out my college town left something (everything?) to be desired in terms of clubbing spots. Hidden by a typical Dutch facade, we walked in to this modern four-floor party haven called En Zo (And So…). Arguably coolest club layout I've seen yet in The Netherlands. After dancing forever, we ended the night/morning with a little sight seeing (on the right is the famous Martini tower at 5am...and happy partiers post some fries and mayo).

Sports make ya grunt and smell. See, be a thinker, not a stinker.

I'm not going to pretend that I don't care what I look like when I work out. After being initiated into the spandex fold in 1996, I quickly built up a massive amount of shorts and unis, with plenty of matching t-shirts and sports bras to sport while running around regattas, pretending I was important. (sadly, most were left in a room in Winthrop or the basement of a Central Sq apartment, but nevertheless I've still got enough skin tight workout gear to make most people throw up in their mouth a little bit)

But now I'm an "adult" and I belong to a "gym" where people dick around on "machines" and look at you like you are "insane" if you are a female that knows how to "squat". Fuck you, you man with big arms and no lower body -- stop doing bicep curls and go get some quads; you look like The Hulk meets Jimmy from South Park.

Anyway, apparently you are a freak if you sweat at the gym. I've always been a big "sweater", but used to take solace in the fact that Patrick Ewing was also a sweaty dude. (Fun Knick fact: Ewing dropped up to 15 pounds of water weight in games). It's just me and this one svelte old guy in spinning classes that are drenched, while everyone else simply glistens. Thing is, he's a skinny fucker that owns actual biking shorts and shoes -- he looks hard core thus he sweats hard core. I, on the other hand, look like I accidentally fell in the pool while dressed. People step around me so as not to be tainted by the icky cotton t-shirt that looks like it might transmit a disease (I can see the headlines..."Sweaty American Spreads African Sleeping Sickness via Overripe Workout Gear").

Yes, I am now ashamed of my sweat. I have to do all my lifting and stuff before cardio because I'm afraid to touch the "machines" post anything aerobic for fear of castigation by other members (but hey, not like I would understand a word of it anyway). And you know what else I've learned recently that is another "you are no longer a real athlete" downer? A healthy 40-year-old woman should be able to do 16 push ups...in a row. A 40 year old? With the exception of American Gladiator-types, I have yet to see a 40 year old woman do one push up. Meanwhile, I've (depressingly) regressed to girly push-ups. Though, per the long-ago and wise suggestion of Russell, I do attempt to do real push-ups in the privacy of my own home (because otherwise I would embarrass myself…even more…if that’s possible). Personal goal from post-college: Run a marathon. Personal goal today: Do 6 "real" push ups without anyone laughing or giving me a weird look.

Toodle loo, mon poisson, au revoir!

Southern France was a huge suprise. First, we actually met some really nice French people -- two to be exact. The guy who ran our cooking class (I learned how to "carmelize" zuchinni!) was hillarious, didn't speak a word of English, took us wine tasting at 11am and then introduced us to a bunch of goats. The second really nice French person worked at the tourist office in Cassis, so she doesn't really count because she's paid to be nice. Regardless, she actually pointed us in the direction of a mini hike that my mom could manage and a huge plate of mussels. yum. Mom and I ate a TON of seafood on the trip because the freshest thing they get in Iowa is rocky mountain oysters and because the word "poisson" is fun to say.

I still continue to be blown away by how old shit is in Europe. Arles (left) is famous for Roman ruins and for being one of the last stop's on Van Gogh "I swear, I'm sane" tour. It was tre fun and the locals enjoyed laughing at me while struggling to pronounce "eau" correctly.

After Arles, we headed south to the coast. This is probably a messed up analogy, but France is a lot like California...topography wise that is. It goes from mountains to coast to fields, etc. I had no idea that there was so much diversity so close together. We then trekked over to Antibes (near Cannes), visited Grasse and Biot to spend bling on parfume and glass, then sat and fried like tourists for a day. Got me an excellent base burn/tan which has quickly faded because it feels like friggin October here.

And even though she was was an annoying bitch for 25% of the trip, TomTom the Navigator was helpful 75% of the time. Which is good because since I don't even know the intricacies of Dutch traffic laws, figuring out French signage would have been a challenge. The phrases I know in French are mostly useless (la vache mange le garcon) and my mom's French consists of "buenos suerte" which isn't actually French, but a gold star for effort. (one time in Spain she wanted to tell a waiter the meal was very good and said nice to meet you instead...). Sad to leave the sunshine, we spent the last day in Amsterdam resting from our severely strenuous vacation and breathing in the final enjoyments of the holidaze.

Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life

Ahhh Koninginnedag (can you say it 5 times fast?). What a great holiday. I think this makes up for not having Halloween. Koninginnedag (Queen's Day in engels) is like Mardi Gras meets July 4 meets Miami Tailgate Party meets Night at the Roxbury meets a Flea Market. The entire country takes the day off to dress up in orange (for the House of Orange, which is their monarchy), get drunk, listen to techno and sell all their old shit on the street. Kid you not, this is the only day of the year that people are allowed to have sidewalk sales with all their crap. I praise the mastermind that approved the hocking of household junk during the day of highest alcohol consumption. I mean, what drunk person wouldn't want an accordion that's missing a few keys? Other weird traditions include performances by children for money: The park fills up with little Fiekes and Johans, playing their violins for change, apparently as a way to teach children about the value of earning a dollar (yeah, we missed that part of the tour this year...biiiig loss).

The coolest thing about this holiday is that it's not just done in Amsterdam -- the crowding of the streets happens EVERYWHERE in the country (the photo above is the main artery to where I live...that isn't even the centre of town). Since NL is the size of NJ, imagine this: The entire Turnpike packed with people in silly orange wigs and boas. This may also be the one day of the year that the pedestrian rules over bikes and trams (aka "silent killers). Though one of my friends did wear an orange helmet...y'know, just in case.

Lieutenant Leigh (in her 2nd annual Queen's day appearance...though the first was spent playing Geriatrics with me as I didn't have the ability to take off pants with zippers...my own, not other people's you perverts) and Capt'n Greg came up to help celebrate. We wandered around, drank, wandered around, drank, looked for a toilette, drank and generally had a lovely day (poor form on the story telling, I know, but it was a couple of weeks ago, so any cool anecdotes have been lost to the short-term memory gods).

'What did he use for rope?' 'Human hair. From my back.'

We need to have a heart to heart about long hair on men. I'm not talking about thefreakwhotookmetopromsophomoreyear metal hair, I'm talking about what European men (and particularly the Dutch) seem to think is cool. Think the Winkelwi before Twin A decided it'd be cool to have short hair and Twin B had to follow suit because god forbid they crap or sue Facebook without one another.

I usually embrace the whole Patrick Bateman look, but on the amount of hockey hair in this country is starting to creep me out. That, and throwing off my gaydar completely. I'm pro metrosexuality, but it's as if they are making up for all their chest waxing by growing it all on top. FYI -- waxing your chest is stupid (says the girl who used to date someone who did...). If you are sporting a Teen Wolf sweater, it may be acceptable, but otherwise, leave the chest hair, be a MAN. Fun hollywood fact: Ben Stiller gets his back waxed. Go Zoolander!

The long locks on their own would be one thing, but the hair with the copious amounts of product starts to get gross. It's like Flock of Seagulls meets middle earth, but they all have designer shoes. Shoes are another reason I have trouble picking out straight dudes -- everyone is in crazy designer sneakers and Prada boots. A colleague of mine accidentally wore two different shoes the other week; he points down to his feet and goes "I didn't even realize it until just now!", seemingly in shock. But it's not like one was black and one was brown, or one was old and one was new. They were both tan leather with outer stitching, slip on to the ankles and slightly squared toes. The big difference between the two was a sepia tone versus a more chestnut colour (heaaaaaar the sarcasm). One pair of these shoes for special occasions -- ooooh, you stylin' metrosexual you, who I bet would look good in pink. Two pairs of these shoes -- holy shit, don't you have anything better to do with your time than go shoe shopping? Like watch football? Or even darts? (the Dutch love darts. Check out The Wizard -- can't be Dutch with a mullet like that, but he was all people talked about during the darts World Championship. Yes, people talk about the darts World Championship. It's not bigger than non-American football, but close...too close).

Sigh. A little venting on my welcome home from vacay. Sit tight for more interesting tales from Queen's Day and holiday...

You must cut down the largest tree in the forest wiiiiiiiiiiiith a herring!

The pops rolled into town on a whirlwind visit. We did everything in true Dutch style, including public transportaion, biking through tulips and of course, eating herring. Check out the tasty photos. Now, look cloesely -- check out all the people in the background really jonesing for their RAW herring slathered in chopped onion. There is even a communal hand washing bin with lemons in it to get the smell off. Even my dad -- who really likes to do things because they are healthy (like deprive his growing children of sweets so they don't end up fat -- yeah, lot of good that did -- man, I used to open jars of sweetened condensed milk I wanted sugar so bad...yes, I am disgusting) didn't like it. This is also a guy who will eat whitefish salad straight out of the tin. I actually thought it would appeal to him, but guess I'm wrong. Whatever, its tasty....on bread.


Quick aside -- so last week I was talking about the search function on the blog and not being able to find it...well I did. But this reminds me of the very obvious gap between us gen Yers and our booming parents. Watching my father use a computer might have been the most frustrating thing I've seen in recent history. I don't think I've watched something like this...since...since watching ATD ice a cake. It's soooooooo painful. The hunt/peck typing, the needing to check the email everyday (trust me, the world keeps spinning when you are on vacation). It's almost as bad as when he answers his cell phone when he's at dinner with my brother, his "life partner" and I. Dude, we are the ONLY three people who ever call you. (serenity now) On the bitchy computer note -- the spell check on this blog isn't working. Do you guys remember when spelling was impotent? Do kids still have to do that stuff? (FYI -spelling error in previous sentence intended).


We then took off for Prague, which was beautiful. I think I walked every inch of the city. Yeah, was thinking about doing a destination marathon there, but fuuuuuuck that -- cobble stones suck (still need to go back and party, though). I also learned all about the Czech Jews who apparently have been persecuted for millions of years (big suprise on that one). Interesting tid bit from our crappy guide book: In addition to Prague as a city and the old Jewish quarter (ahem, ghetto...yes Coltrane, it was for the Choosen people first...much like the NBA) not being bombed in WWII, apparently Hitler's grand plan was to use the area as a type of museum on an extinct race. Kinda like we do with the Mayans...and pandas.

"You've never been on a plane." "I know, but the joke's better if I tell it in the first person."

As an intro to this post, I was all psyched to rag on the one person I know who is actually half-Indonesian. Then I realized 1) I don't know any Asian jokes and 2) he doesn't read this blog -- but will change that...Krishna will get the link later today. This means, however, that we are "formerly" opening up this sucker to a male audience. Not like I'm good at editing myself anyway, but this might mean less tampon talk and more poop stories (more on poop later). Anyway, despite the plethora of jokes I know about women, Jews and Michael Jackson, there are only two jokes I know about Asian people; neither of them are mine and neither make sense coming from me...but doesn't mean they aren't funny.

1. "What's better than sex with a 6-year-old Vietnamese boy?" "Nothing." (courtesy of WWJDD)
2. Once you go yellow, you basically go back to whatever it is you had before (stolen from GR's buddy in L.A., who actually did stand-up for awhile and was excellent NYE entertainment)

Aight, back to the Indonesians. I think I might have written a post on this before, but I can't find the search function to check and I'm too lazy to go back and do it manually. As many of you know, I like telling the same stories over and over and over...and over again anyway, so if you aren't used to it by now, tough.

Post our mini-bender, work buddy #1 met up with another work buddy who was in town with a couple of friends and I took them to the much acclaimed (by me) Indonesian Rijsttafel. (Any time people come to visit and ask about trying Dutch cuisine, I take them to Indo food b/c Dutch food is either a) nasty, b) fried or c) fishy.) Rijsttafel is literally "rice table" in Dutch and is a reiteration of Indonesian food that one cannot actually get in Indonesia -- it's the Dutch way of eating Indo (kinda like how Tikka Masala would not exist in Indian cuisine if some British dude didn't freak out about the spice and drop a bunch of coconut milk into some dish. Goooooo imperialism!). For anyone who doesn't know their Dutch history, Indonesia was a long-held Netherlands colony and played a big role in the Dutch East Indies Trading Company.

Needless to say, we johnblazed, then walked over to a spot I know, where I made a poor attempt at explaining what the hell we would be eating. The concept is something akin to tapas, except you don't choose only a couple and they come when they are ready like en España, but rather they lay it alllllll out in front of you on plate warmers in one big flourish. And it's a MASSIVE amount of food -- they bring out anywhere from 12-20 plates, a couple things of rice and some prawn crackers to help you shovel the food into your mouth.

Indo food in The Netherlands is great -- for anyone who hasn't had it, think IndianThaiVietnamese-esque flavors, with lots of coconut milk and peanut sauce. Indo food in Indonesia, however, I must say is kinda boring -- maybe that's just because I don't get the over-easy egg thing. Why the hell would I want a fried egg on top of my noodles? (other cultures put fried eggs in weird places too -- in Peru they put them on hamburgers, y'know, just in case your arteries weren't going to get clogged enough). And maybe b/c half the dishes I like here are beef and there wasn't a whole lot of that on the Hindu islands.

So we wolf it all down and my buddy JZ was finally satiated after doubting my food-choice skills (please, eating is one thing I know how to do...perhaps too well). Then we go off for a tour of the red light district and quickly go our separate ways due to food coma.

Now, like Indian food, Indonesian food uses a lot of different ingredients that the average white-devil stomach is not familiar with. I hear from JZ and buddies a few days later and they had a little Montezuma's Revenge (or Suharto's Revenge?) and he proceeded to make fart noises to illustrate his point (by the way -- this gives me hope. Good to know it is still okay to make immature sounds in your mid-30s). Okay, not a great poop story, but I don't have babies or students who piss on floors, so give me a break.

[ha ha ha]...flashback humor

It's been awhile. Lots of good stories and too many to waste in one post as I'm going "wet" for the next couple of week in anticipation of a) a real Queen's Day (read: without Frankenstef stitches and a cast) and b) vacation with my mom, who arguably throws down harder than I do (is partying genetic?). What does wet mean you ask? (not that kind of wet...I mean, I wish that was all I was doing for the next couple of weeks...) Well, I won't go so far as to say I'm holding myself to a 3-drink maximum, but I won't actively be seeking it out. Sigh...I really wish we had made "Our team is moist" t-shirts in college. Alas, not a joke (given my sophomore year performance) that many would find funny...but you know you love/hate the word: moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. moist.

Before delving into April shenanigans and viajes, a quick recap of all things NYC. This lil' trip was great -- crashed with JM & the Three Cats (that's the name of my new lounge band). I'm locked in for kitty-sitting during the honeymoon (early to mid July), so if anyone is around, holler. Anyway, commute was surprisingly short and non-stressful (sorry Coltrane): UWS 0. Bococa 1. (Bococa is the Brooklynite name for Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens -- like Tribecca is the Triangle Below Canal and Soho is So your mother's a Ho, etc).

Sentimental note: Got a chance to see the bro in action in the classroom and he is truly a great teacher (I now understand Macbeth). And he's also great with the cats (kinda surprised since we were deprived, animaless children...dead fish and hermit crabs don't count). I think these two things combined means he's gonna be a great daddy. And a great husband. I simply can't wait for the wedding as it will be THE biggest party of the year (don't worry CGF/P -- yours will be the party of the year in '09).

Anyway, finally rolled back to Le Dam a couple Saturdays ago, met an old colleague at the airport and promptly went on a 48-hour bender. We soldiered up for a rookie night at Paradiso. This spot gets lots of major acts in a variety of different genres. Phish played Pardiso, JT played Paradiso, Tiesto and Van Bueren have played Paradiso, etc. Anyway, it's a club/music venue in an old church (I think...). I've heard that the place is great and apparently I now know it is great. I say "apparently" because I had one of the few (seriously, only a few...Stef does not black out, she just checks out early and passes out...or pukes...maybe a little from column A and little from column B) evenings were it's a bit fuzzy around the edges. Regardless, some chick spun a great set and speaking Spanish was involved. In true Amsterdam style, our "hangover" cure was fungus and muffins. So good to be home.

Chill Winston! It's me, Charlie knows it's me, so what's the problem?

J&M rolled through for an extended weekend which was AWESOME. Was so nice to have (some of) the fam finally see this place. What was not awesome was the weather, which consisted of every type of precipitation know to man, including those little round hail balls that look like foam packaging stuffing. Except they hurt when they hit you. Anyway, Noah's Ark 2008 was a bit of a downer, but we did survive...mostly on chocolate eggs since this country feels about Easter the way that I feel about cheesy techno (loooove it). Thankfully, not in any "We Love Jesus" sort of way, just in the eggs/chickens/chocolate kind of way. Not a lot of bunnies though -- I think that's an Americano adaptation.

Fun new activities included the zoo (and a crappy Plane-arium), a brewery under a windmill and a cute Belgian beer bar. Despite my beer-hating tendencies, the brewery beer was sick-tasty and uber alcoholic...had a very Brooklyn Brewery feel to it (read: sparse with shared tables and lots of 30-something drunk people. jam!).

The bro also brought out some long-missed DVDs, including a pair of key Guy Ritchie flicks. Sigh. Is he ever going to do another one? I don't care if they are all similar, I like them. And since it was/is still raining/snowing, I definitely did not feel like a waste of space watching them both in a row (though to be fair, if it was sunny and in the 20s I probably still would have had a futondoublefeature). This place shuts down like suburban DC when there is slush -- a colleague worked from home today because there was FORTY ONE KILOMETERS of traffic. I mean, that's almost half the width of the country...

Carnies....Smell like cabbage. Small hands.

I get a lot of questions about Amsterdam that are pretty similar to all the questions that I have about Las Vegas. They are all along the lines of "Is it really as crazy there as I think it is?"

Usually, my answer to this is no (but I hear in Vegas the answer is "yes"). The Dutch are just like everybody else -- some people smoke pot, some people take hallucinogens, some people visit prostitutes and some people have never tried hash, shrooms or women. Like the U.S., The Netherlands has a Christian Right (who is just as scary -- see the recent news on an anti-Muslim film) as well as nuclear families and regular old folks who just aren't into these things. For example, one of my coworkers noted that he's never tried marijuana. True, that's kinda like telling me he's never had a drink given the laws here, but I usually have a similarly visceral reaction when someone from the U.S. tells me they've never tried the sweet sweet sensi. So while yes, approximately 30% of Amsterdammers have tried Marijuana, approximately 35% of New Yorkers have (booyah delivery service).

Now, recently there was a TV movie screening on NATIONAL PUBLIC TELEVISION that has made me think twice about my "The Dutch are Normal" response as outlined above. Deep Throat (no, not a documentary about Watergate, but the 1972 porno) was shown on late night TV on February 23. AND they must have shown it again at some point, b/c I forget when I saw it, but I was out of town on Feb 23, so it means there was definitely a rerun screening.

So, I'm no porn connoisseur (jokes about homemade porn, by the way, are not funny and I do not recall that incident Senator). But this movie was friggin' hilarious. I was flicking through the channels and came across it while the main character is giving an inverted blow job (not sure if that is correct terminology...use your imagination), but all you can see is her face all over this dude's cock. Indeed, this dude was hung and indeed, she was going to town like a kid at a carnival. A carnival you ask? Well that's what it sounded like...

In my narrow experience with the genre, I always thought there was cheesy romantic music or grunting and semi-fake orgasmic screaming. But this movie played Ferris wheel music. Think dancing midgets, house of mirrors, etc. I couldn't get over it. Big hairy cock? yeah yeah yeah, what's the big deal. Big hairy cock set to state fair music? now you've got my attention. Of all the porn films to choose to play on TV...

(doo doo doo to too too doo doo do to too, etc.)

You mean I'm black?! Does dad know?

This entertained me almost as much as www.overheardinnewyork.com. Yes, I am slightly uncomfortable being an upper-middle class white girl who, with the exception of wearing shorts, probably fulfills most white stereotypes (I like Kayne West...so do you). There is now a special name for the cross-generation mix of slightly-concerned, over-educated (usually) white people: We're called "Cultural Creatives" and are now almost as high on brand target lists as soccer moms (I'm sure ATD could tell us more but she's too busy making ecologically conscious shampoo bottles to read this). I'm building millions of campaigns to get us to buy fair trade coffee, green tea, smart wool socks, energy saver washing machines and dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof that they were crafted by the honest, simple, hardworking, indigenous people of....wherever.

Are the 3.2 people out there reading this blog too young to get the title movie reference? Ahh, the joys of exposure from liberal ex-hippie parents. We'll also have to sit down and watch Repo Man together, even though I'm not sure if "quality" and "Emilio Estevez" in the same sentence is an oxymoron...

English, motherfucker, do you speak it?

Everyday I get questions that I wish I knew the answer to (like how do trains go uphill?). As the bullshit artists that we all are (okay, maybe not all of us, but at least achtentachtig percenten of us) we like to, what I will diplomatically call, "intuitionalize" a reason or cause of something even if we have no.fucking.clue why something is the way it is. Three cheers for liberal arts degrees.

So, all you educated souls, what exactly is a douchebag?

I think we all know what the slang term means (please visit whitehouse.gov for further clarification -- can't hyperlink that one or the random man monitoring phone calls and emails will hunt me down for the threat to national security that I am. But perhaps I'm worrying about the wrong government... Fun Dutch fact: The Netherlands is the most wire-tapped country in the world), but that's not where I'm going.

A Dutch guy asked me this somewhat recently, "What is this douchebag?" seeking the actual definition of the term, not the slang (how this got to be slang, by the way, is beyond me and sadly, Wikipedia doesn't have all the answers...yet...any cunning linguists out there who research this further, please update the "douche" entry when you get a chance). I felt a bit like a mom explaining the birds and the bees while this blue-eyed student stared at me expectantly. Using my extensive knowledge of French, I explained that douche in French means to wash and women used to use a, uh, turkey baster of types to uh, clean themselves. So uh, therefore douching is uh, a woman cleaning herself. Pass the tequila.

Of course in that explanation, there is no bag mentioned -- turns out the turkey baster is attached to a baggie of water/vinegar/bleach/poisonous cleaning supplies/etc. Coming from left field here, but has anyone out there every actually seen a douche bag? (seeing Karl Rove on the street doesn't count.) How many generations ago were these things a birth control of choice? I know they went out of vogue because they used antiseptics which can cause "an imbalance of the natural bacteria in the vagina, also resulting in an increased likelihood of infection" but that doesn't tell me what percentage of the population was down with this system.

I'm super tempted to take this strain of conversation into a general birth control discussion, but I'm sure I've grossed out enough people for today (including myself), so the sponge vs. rhythm method battle will have to wait. My work here is done.

Fifty-three dollars...would you pay someone that much money every week to kill you?!?

Just back from biz in NYC, where I spent 4 days trying to bond with thecitythatatemysoul. I was unsuccessful. But did come to the conclusion that my soul can be bought. Maybe for the price of one jelly donut (someone get this reference, please).

I also blew a bunch of cash. Yeah, I was visiting and blah blah blah. But I think I have an addiction to yellow cabs (especially since now there is Diana and Sade giving me some of the softest news stories I've ever heard and they take debit and credit -- not Diana and Sade, the taxis). I could definitely feed 25 Somali children for 835 years for the amount I dropped on rides. And expensive coffee. And microwave popcorn. And sushi. And a prostitute. And a mani/pedi. And organic sorbet. Next time I'm there I'll have to play the "Can I walk out of [insert apartment at which I'm crashing -- Governor, you're next unless you are on the GBR, in which case maybe Johnny will let me have the closet and give me Halo lessons]'s place and not spend any money all day. Period."

Sadly, I'll think that game is a little too aggressive, so maybe I'll just cut the whores out of my budget. No whores and no taxis. Definitely no whores in taxis, b/c that's just asking for a VD.

Well, have you ever made love high?

Y'know, I go for years and years of my life without being told I look like someone famous (and no, Princess Fergie doesn't count) and then in the space of a couple of months get some strange comparisons dropped on me.

At my bro's engagement fiesta this past weekend, I was chatting with one of my dad's friend's who I had never met before. She's all dolled up in a teal velour (okay, maybe it was crushed velvet, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt) blazer and accosts me as if we've known each other for years when in fact I don't know her name. After telling me that she really digs Amsterdam because "I like the hash bars. Do you go to the hash bars? I really like the hash bars" she then drops "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Diane Keaton?"

WTF? I mean are we talking Diane Keaton who now does wrinkle commercials or Diane Keaton in Annie Hall or Diane Keaton in [insert recent movie title] when she is a divorcee? Not sure any of these options are ideal.

hmmmmmmmmmm (part 2)

I'm here to learn, everybody, not to make out with you. Go on with the chlorophyll!

Some of you have already heard this story. But in my typical style of loving to tell the same stories over and over and over and over and over again, suck it up and read on.

So I got all jazzed up about this potential trans-Atlantic lover coming over for a business trip. I've heard from a number of my friends who have slept and/or hooked up with married men (yes, there are more than one of you and no, being separated does count as being divorced) that an aged man is like fine wine. Well, this guy was like old cheese. Or old feet. Or old feet covered in old cheese.

Okay, that's a bit unfair -- he didn't smell or chew with his mouth open or anything. To (attempt) to be objective, he was a nice guy, not bad looking, intelligent (though a bad conversationalist), etc. I mean, a girl could do worse...

...until it got to the kiss...

This guy could win the "Worst Kisser in the World" contest by a landslide. And I don't mean the "try to do it really badly on purpose" contest or "get your friends to give you five dollars to make out with your other friend" contest. I mean just straight.up.FOUT (fout = wrong in Dutch. I have to learn it, so you do too). Since my first peck at age 10, it ain't never been this bad.

Imagine trying to press an elevator button with your tounge over and over and over and over and (putting etc. here wouldn't cut it...) over and to infinity and beyond! and over again. Now imagine someone pressing that elevator button in your mouth, where there isn't one. It was just....sad. I tried to slow it down, tilt the head, guide him in the right direction, but no! Where is the elevator?!? Keep pressing that button!

(I can see a woman divorcing a man over this -- but why the hell did she wait until after they had two kids? oooooh harsh)

Anyway, he didn't get past second base. He tried to kiss me again on Valentine's day and for the first time in my life I said "I'm not really in the mood" (okay, maybe not the first time, but close). I've never been so turned off in my life. I mean, guys do things that don't "work" but they usually find the plumbing before you know if they can handle the tools.

So, instead of "Obama or Hillary" or "Great Taste or Less Filling" the poll of the week is "Do you tell a man he is not a horribly rancid kisser if a) you never want to see him again and b) he's over 40?" I've heard "hell no, what's the point" but also that I'd "being doing him a favor."

Kick him when he's down or change his life forever? You be the judge.

That must be Nigel with the Brie

Health Legder is dead. While I won't go so far as to say this is a personal tragedy, there is a permanent place in my heart for 10 Things I Hate About You. Kathleen and I had a homage evening on Tuesday. I can tentatively say that is my favorite bad teen flick of all time.

On a related front, I was recently told that I look like Julia Styles. Now, she is about the size of my leg, has no tits, bad skin and bad teeth. And can't really act. But I'll take that comparison over "the fat chick from Can't Hardly Wait" any day.

Hmmmmm....

The evidence of the Dark Lord's return is incontrovertible

Happy (belated) New Year everybody! Back in Amsterdam and it's great to be home. It's also great to think of this place as home. I have pictures on the wall! And I have mice. I thought it was just one, who was handily taken care of by Govern when she was out here (yes, I am a girl), but I saw one scurry along the baseboard last night RIGHT AFTER my cleaning lady had been there (yes, I have a cleaning lady...or cleaning girl, she's like 27 and apparently moonlights as an ecstasy dealer. or is an ecstasy dealer that moonlights as a cleaning lady, not sure which one it is...). Anyway, considering a cat.

Things are picking up socially over here -- offset by the fact that I don't have a ton of work. Now that the Pats are playing the Giants, we might have a 1am Superbowl party to watch the game. Or we might DVR it and reenact Superbowl Sunday the following weekend. I mean, we really just want to order pizza and eat chips and salsa and be huge American gringos.

It does feel like a bunch of people I know are leaving my quaint city (the Dutch HATE it when you call it quaint, but it IS). Actually, only 2 folks are leaving (a colleague is moving to India and a workout buddy is going to Chicago) and my adorable intern has moved on, but since that's like 50% of my friends, I am again online friend dating. Actually, it's like listserve dating -- it's kinda neat. There are all these "young expats" who propose meeting up for stuff, usually having to do with alcohol consumption. Unfortunately, the last time they were all dorks. Or I was hammered. The world will never know.

Also, I could potentially have a trans-Atlantic sugar daddy in the works. But he's old. Like son abouttostartcollegerecruitingprocess old. Doesn't mean he ain't sexy, but well, he's definitely before the Star Wars generation and I'm definitely after.

I've finally got all the members of the immediate fam on board to visit this spring. Anyone else out there want to visit? Might want to hurry that up -- I might not be here for the intended 2+ years. Get your moochin' while it's hot.