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).

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€.

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.).

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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