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...
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
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.
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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).
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
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)..."
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)..."
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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).
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).
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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).
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