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).