Saturday, March 21, 2009

Good night, and good luck

And so I am now signed out of the city of Amsterdam -- and (semi) settled in New York. (Last Fun Dutch Fact? Well, sadly this one isn't very fun, but certainly interesting. The Dutch keep extremely detailed records of where all its citizens -- and gastarbeider alike -- reside. You have to register with the city -- within 3 days of arrival -- and with your neighborhood "government." It does seem a little big brother-esque. But that's not the "not fun" part. The not-fun Dutch fact is that this registration system has been in place for a very long time. And, in 1941 when the Nazi's occupied the Netherlands, it was as easy as opening a few drawers to find out where all the Jews were. Okay, on that depressing note...).

A review of all the things I will miss about the city (and, by inference, things that already irk me about being back in America), the Netherlands and, in general, my time abroad:
  • Trains
  • Modern looking windmills
  • Wine picnics
  • Techno-tastic clubs and outdoor parties
  • Dishwasher
  • Washer and dryer in the apartment
  • Not paying my own cell phone bill
  • Getting snail mail
  • Visiting places for the first time
  • Meeting up with Barringer in the snow
  • Not having to walk to work/train/etc. in the snow
  • Long summer days (like, really long)
  • Dogs in restaurants (though I will not miss stepping in dog shit...it's everywhere. When I was moving out of my apartment I stepped in two separate piles of it within 48 hours. That's just pure talent.)
  • Imaginative tagging
  • Living room dining
  • Maoz
  • Canals
  • Cheap flowers
  • Cheap beer (good cheap beer)
  • Cheap tapas
  • Cheap supermarkets
  • Cheap whores (well, not really...easily accessible whores)
  • Market shopping
  • Mini breaks in [insert European city]
  • T-Lo and the consultant crew
  • Lack of Starbucks (maybe...)
  • My "routine"
  • Pikant fried peanuts (sounds gross, is awesome)
  • Stroopwaffels
  • Subsidized lunch/breakfast
  • Subsidized borrel (read: free wine every Friday at 4:30pm...)
  • No work on the weekends, no work after 6pm, no work before 9am (you get the picture...)
  • 30% of my salary going un-taxed
  • Being "short"
  • Katsu
  • Nespresso ("What else?")
  • Biking (gasp! yes, it's true, I will miss this)
  • Getting to host massive amounts of friends because hey, who doesn't want to go to Amsterdam?

On that note -- I will have a two-bedroom in Brooklyn, so lots of space for people to come visit. Also, look for more inane ramblings about NYC: http://steflivesbrooklyn.blogspot.com/ Nothing up as of yet, but soon my kiddies, soon.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Danke schoen, darling danke schoen. Thank you for all the joy and pain.

Het Weekend op Koln Karnival -- daily recap

Friday (still in Amsterdam): Going away party with work, rollllllllls into evening of madness. Thank god I set my alarm clock before going out.

Saturday: Wake up (hungover) and go to costume shop for last minute accouterments. Actually make train to Koln, but afraid to go to sleep b/c I don't want to miss the stop and end up in Frankfurt. A plastic pirate sword sticks out of my bag the whole ride, but no one gives me weird looks (approximately 50% of the train looked like Saturday Night Fever on acid). Arrive at the sweetest hotel ever (three cheers for consultants and Starwood points) and was promptly exposed to "Cuarenta y tres" also known as "Liquid Gold." Put on a blue wig and hit the streets. I look NORMAL compared to everyone else. One of our sidekicks was a viking lion man. Even weirder than that is we ran into, oh, 20 other people with the exact same costume. And there were a lot of white guys dressed up as Arabs which makes me feel a whole lot more PC about my life in general. Wander around to various bars which all have bad German folk music.

Sunday: Yar, pirate day. I look like a "good nazi" (not sure if we can call me that in Koln b/c there is still some sensitivity around that whole WW2 thing...). We have our hearts set on a breakfast of margaritas due to beer overload (we aren't German so it's tough, even if you aren't beerhatingstef, it's like all beer all the time). After being informed that Mexican restaurants don't exist in the city, we find one 2 blocks away from the hotel and are PSYCHED until the waitress tells us "no cocktails." Wassup bitches? So, we (and by "we" I mean "I") finish two litres of red wine. Then we go to a beer garden and listen to more rocking German folk songs -- though I didn't witness it, apparently we complain that the Germans give too much head...in their beer ("In America, we fill the glasses to the top"). Take a nap, more beer and German folk songs, nap, rolling around the floor in the lobby of our hotel, nap, etc.

Monday: We didn't leave the hotel because (drumroll) the hotel bar had margaritas! I need a life!

Tuesday: Biiiiittttttttttttttttte

Friday, February 20, 2009

I see Blue...he look's gloooooorious

This morning there was LIGHT when I left my apartment. The Netherlands has officially moved from the dark ages and I no longer can claim to have SAD (seasonal affective disorder -- ingenious acronym if I do say so myself). When it's summer, damn is it summer, but during the winter this place is darker than a David Lynch film. I understand the excessive fake-baking: I too would be weirdly orange if all my winters dark as this.

Speaking of David Lynch, I always feel like a second-rate movie connoisseur when I watch his stuff because 20-95% of it goes over my head. For example, can anyone tell me -- without the help of Google or IMDB -- the significance of the "derelict" who's emerges from behind the dumpster in the diner parking lot in Mulholland Drive? (fun L.A. fact: That diner is an empty diner that films rent out all the time for use in movies. If I remember correctly, the diner was also used in Swingers).

(I've been thinking a lot about David Lynch this week -- I have a cold and so have been taking Benadryl at night -- seriously folks, only Benadryl -- and have had the weirdest frickin dreams, which all remind me of his movies. Maybe that's his secret to story lines: I bet to write Twin Peaks he had to buy out a CVS's worth of the magical pink pills.)

Also, I realized that I can officially call my movie watching/memorizing fetish a "collector's hobby" (aka compulsive obsession). I packed up all my DVDs and realized I have, oh, about 200. That's just fucked up -- like I'm ever going to sit down and watch Ghost Rider again (though, in my defense, I didn't actually buy that film; some dude lent it to me and it's asshole tax for never calling me back).

Monday, February 16, 2009

If they have a great personality and they're not great looking... then who fucking cares?

I wish I had three fairy godmother's, like Sleeping Beauty, who could shake their wands and make all my apartment stuff magically fit in suitcases. Or I wish I could use the Force. Or Voldemort. Whatever. Even a boyfriend to carry shit would be helpful, magic wand or not. When moving out of a mini Cambridge apartment, I sent the boyfriend running up and downstairs while I "packed" boxes (read: talked on the phone) and then shrieked like an 11 year old when I found a dead mouse in one of the kitchen drawers -- it was caught in a whisk. I remember being really thankful that LKP and I never did enough cooking to warrant actually opening that drawer before moving out...

Anyway, coming off the the Best Platonic Valentine's Day Ever: VK squeezed in a visit pre the final exit and even got to see my place before I started selling the furniture out from under us. We did most of the touristy things I wanted to squeeze in before departing -- one last round of Indo food, the Purse and Handbag Museum (uh, VK was THE perfect date for that), multiple club stops, multiple types of apple cake, etc.

On Friday, we threw a "going away" party, which actually turned into a "hang out with a handful of people I've never chilled with" party. The best lightweight to ever row heavyweight, Coogar, is out in Adam for a few months on company assignment -- though I miss most of her time out here, all I can say is it's better than Atlanta. And Houston.

Please let me know if you need a toaster. 12€.

Monday, February 9, 2009

This is pure snow! Do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is?

How does one properly say "goodbye" to a blog? I never said "goodbye" to Stef Hates New York and now there is some cheesy post about grocery shopping etched in cyber space memory as the last inane thing I said about the city. That is no way to go out. I'm not quite ready to say adios to loving Amsterdam (I mean, I'm about to have a weekend in a German city dressed up like a pirate....if that's not blog-able, what is?), but I am at the point of worrying about moving. And what better way to procrastinate actually doing something than writing about worrying about it -- especially since my apartment looks like its had six squatters throwing ragers for the past week instead of being the pristine haven it should be for the next renter.

So yeah, for all you who don't know already, I'm headed back to NYC March 1.

Just returned from a mini Team Europe gathering in Geneva. Swiss Francs, by the way, give a whole new dimension to the term "Monopoly money." If it weren't the most expensive country in Europe, it would be funnier. We attempted to recruit new members to our team, but due to excessive mention of the "D-train" our membership remains "exclusive." I am still feeling ill from the fondue. And though it was too snowy to actually see the Alps, I did get the opportunity to roll around in them (apparently I make crappy snow angels). Ski towns make me want to learn how to ski. Sadly, the last think I need is a new expensive hobby. (At this age, dare I say all new hobbies are expensive? Even if I want to become a graffiti artist, I have to buy the paint, get myself a harness in order to hang of bridges/roofs, etc.).

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Before the merriment of commencement commences, I hope that your years with us here at Rydell have prepared you for the challenges you face

Happy Inauguration Day -- also known as Big Sigh of Relief Day. Also, happy 2009. And happy holidays. Happiness all around to everyone. (This week marks the beginning of my personal "Stef does not hate New York...really, I swear" campaign. That's right folks, only 39 more days of soft drug laws and a washing machine on home premises. My "Stef hates New York...I swear" tirade officially ended midnight on Sunday. Only positive thoughts from here on out).

Oh, and happy stream of consciousness day. I have nothing interesting and/or thematic to talk about.

Please note for the record that I despise Beyonce's "Put a ring on it" and if I'm signing it, please slap me. Hard. Maybe twice.

Recently returned from home. It took me a week to recover. In fact, parts of me are still not recovered. Certain toes have maintained an "asleep" feeling since A&C's wedding (congratulations!) -- was it the dancing? was it the shoes? was it walking in the snow? Ten days later, I am considering medical attention.

Speaking of medical attention, I should probably get as much as possible before I have to go home and pay for it. Fun prescription comparison: Birth control in the U.S. is usually $20 a month -- even with insurance subsidies. Birth control in NL is €20 for 6 months and with insurance it's free. (gentleman: sorry if talking about birth control offends your sensitivities, but a) you are a grown man and if you have sex, you should be able to talk about BC -- someday it might be you taking it, and b) I'm not on anything else so can't compare.)

But get this, my dentist stabbed a coworker in her lip (correction: THROUGH her lip) while cleaning her teeth. Just cleaning her teeth! So I should go get a new dentist. But I'm lazy and leaving and excuse excuse excuse. Well, if she stabs me in the lip, I'm suing, American style (lesson learned from playing nice w/ bike accident people...).

I have no weekends left in the Netherlands. Team Feb 4 is having bdays in Geneva! Fondue!

I'm actually considering shipping my cruiser-esque bike home. How else can I integrate into [insert anti-hipster/hipster recently or not so recently gentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn here]?

When the hell is the Arrested Development movie going to become a reality?

There were about 80 good movies out while I was in the U.S. but I saw none of them because I (finally) developed an addiction to The Wire. TV series on DVD = best invention ever. Okay, maybe not ever (what would we do without fig newtons? fruit and cake? c'mon!), but pretty close.

Not surprisingly, The Wire is on this list.

A lot of frickin people are getting married in the remainder of 2009. I think I've pre-spent all my paychecks on wedding trips (thank god none of you are marrying hot Swedish chicks in Stockholm). Good news is, they are all in exotic places I've never been, like Beverly, Massachusetts. And that hotel where Travolta's son had a seizure.

I am going to Tanzania next week.

And I like marshmellows.

Monday, December 15, 2008

'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.

Friday, December 5, 2008

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...

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

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?

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Tuesday, November 25, 2008

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).

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

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 $$).

Thursday, November 13, 2008

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).

Monday, November 10, 2008

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.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

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.

Friday, September 19, 2008

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?

Friday, September 12, 2008

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

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

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.)

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

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...

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

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.

Friday, August 15, 2008

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?