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.