Sports make ya grunt and smell. See, be a thinker, not a stinker.

I'm not going to pretend that I don't care what I look like when I work out. After being initiated into the spandex fold in 1996, I quickly built up a massive amount of shorts and unis, with plenty of matching t-shirts and sports bras to sport while running around regattas, pretending I was important. (sadly, most were left in a room in Winthrop or the basement of a Central Sq apartment, but nevertheless I've still got enough skin tight workout gear to make most people throw up in their mouth a little bit)

But now I'm an "adult" and I belong to a "gym" where people dick around on "machines" and look at you like you are "insane" if you are a female that knows how to "squat". Fuck you, you man with big arms and no lower body -- stop doing bicep curls and go get some quads; you look like The Hulk meets Jimmy from South Park.

Anyway, apparently you are a freak if you sweat at the gym. I've always been a big "sweater", but used to take solace in the fact that Patrick Ewing was also a sweaty dude. (Fun Knick fact: Ewing dropped up to 15 pounds of water weight in games). It's just me and this one svelte old guy in spinning classes that are drenched, while everyone else simply glistens. Thing is, he's a skinny fucker that owns actual biking shorts and shoes -- he looks hard core thus he sweats hard core. I, on the other hand, look like I accidentally fell in the pool while dressed. People step around me so as not to be tainted by the icky cotton t-shirt that looks like it might transmit a disease (I can see the headlines..."Sweaty American Spreads African Sleeping Sickness via Overripe Workout Gear").

Yes, I am now ashamed of my sweat. I have to do all my lifting and stuff before cardio because I'm afraid to touch the "machines" post anything aerobic for fear of castigation by other members (but hey, not like I would understand a word of it anyway). And you know what else I've learned recently that is another "you are no longer a real athlete" downer? A healthy 40-year-old woman should be able to do 16 push ups...in a row. A 40 year old? With the exception of American Gladiator-types, I have yet to see a 40 year old woman do one push up. Meanwhile, I've (depressingly) regressed to girly push-ups. Though, per the long-ago and wise suggestion of Russell, I do attempt to do real push-ups in the privacy of my own home (because otherwise I would embarrass myself…even more…if that’s possible). Personal goal from post-college: Run a marathon. Personal goal today: Do 6 "real" push ups without anyone laughing or giving me a weird look.

Toodle loo, mon poisson, au revoir!

Southern France was a huge suprise. First, we actually met some really nice French people -- two to be exact. The guy who ran our cooking class (I learned how to "carmelize" zuchinni!) was hillarious, didn't speak a word of English, took us wine tasting at 11am and then introduced us to a bunch of goats. The second really nice French person worked at the tourist office in Cassis, so she doesn't really count because she's paid to be nice. Regardless, she actually pointed us in the direction of a mini hike that my mom could manage and a huge plate of mussels. yum. Mom and I ate a TON of seafood on the trip because the freshest thing they get in Iowa is rocky mountain oysters and because the word "poisson" is fun to say.

I still continue to be blown away by how old shit is in Europe. Arles (left) is famous for Roman ruins and for being one of the last stop's on Van Gogh "I swear, I'm sane" tour. It was tre fun and the locals enjoyed laughing at me while struggling to pronounce "eau" correctly.

After Arles, we headed south to the coast. This is probably a messed up analogy, but France is a lot like California...topography wise that is. It goes from mountains to coast to fields, etc. I had no idea that there was so much diversity so close together. We then trekked over to Antibes (near Cannes), visited Grasse and Biot to spend bling on parfume and glass, then sat and fried like tourists for a day. Got me an excellent base burn/tan which has quickly faded because it feels like friggin October here.

And even though she was was an annoying bitch for 25% of the trip, TomTom the Navigator was helpful 75% of the time. Which is good because since I don't even know the intricacies of Dutch traffic laws, figuring out French signage would have been a challenge. The phrases I know in French are mostly useless (la vache mange le garcon) and my mom's French consists of "buenos suerte" which isn't actually French, but a gold star for effort. (one time in Spain she wanted to tell a waiter the meal was very good and said nice to meet you instead...). Sad to leave the sunshine, we spent the last day in Amsterdam resting from our severely strenuous vacation and breathing in the final enjoyments of the holidaze.

Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life

Ahhh Koninginnedag (can you say it 5 times fast?). What a great holiday. I think this makes up for not having Halloween. Koninginnedag (Queen's Day in engels) is like Mardi Gras meets July 4 meets Miami Tailgate Party meets Night at the Roxbury meets a Flea Market. The entire country takes the day off to dress up in orange (for the House of Orange, which is their monarchy), get drunk, listen to techno and sell all their old shit on the street. Kid you not, this is the only day of the year that people are allowed to have sidewalk sales with all their crap. I praise the mastermind that approved the hocking of household junk during the day of highest alcohol consumption. I mean, what drunk person wouldn't want an accordion that's missing a few keys? Other weird traditions include performances by children for money: The park fills up with little Fiekes and Johans, playing their violins for change, apparently as a way to teach children about the value of earning a dollar (yeah, we missed that part of the tour this year...biiiig loss).

The coolest thing about this holiday is that it's not just done in Amsterdam -- the crowding of the streets happens EVERYWHERE in the country (the photo above is the main artery to where I live...that isn't even the centre of town). Since NL is the size of NJ, imagine this: The entire Turnpike packed with people in silly orange wigs and boas. This may also be the one day of the year that the pedestrian rules over bikes and trams (aka "silent killers). Though one of my friends did wear an orange helmet...y'know, just in case.

Lieutenant Leigh (in her 2nd annual Queen's day appearance...though the first was spent playing Geriatrics with me as I didn't have the ability to take off pants with zippers...my own, not other people's you perverts) and Capt'n Greg came up to help celebrate. We wandered around, drank, wandered around, drank, looked for a toilette, drank and generally had a lovely day (poor form on the story telling, I know, but it was a couple of weeks ago, so any cool anecdotes have been lost to the short-term memory gods).

'What did he use for rope?' 'Human hair. From my back.'

We need to have a heart to heart about long hair on men. I'm not talking about thefreakwhotookmetopromsophomoreyear metal hair, I'm talking about what European men (and particularly the Dutch) seem to think is cool. Think the Winkelwi before Twin A decided it'd be cool to have short hair and Twin B had to follow suit because god forbid they crap or sue Facebook without one another.

I usually embrace the whole Patrick Bateman look, but on the amount of hockey hair in this country is starting to creep me out. That, and throwing off my gaydar completely. I'm pro metrosexuality, but it's as if they are making up for all their chest waxing by growing it all on top. FYI -- waxing your chest is stupid (says the girl who used to date someone who did...). If you are sporting a Teen Wolf sweater, it may be acceptable, but otherwise, leave the chest hair, be a MAN. Fun hollywood fact: Ben Stiller gets his back waxed. Go Zoolander!

The long locks on their own would be one thing, but the hair with the copious amounts of product starts to get gross. It's like Flock of Seagulls meets middle earth, but they all have designer shoes. Shoes are another reason I have trouble picking out straight dudes -- everyone is in crazy designer sneakers and Prada boots. A colleague of mine accidentally wore two different shoes the other week; he points down to his feet and goes "I didn't even realize it until just now!", seemingly in shock. But it's not like one was black and one was brown, or one was old and one was new. They were both tan leather with outer stitching, slip on to the ankles and slightly squared toes. The big difference between the two was a sepia tone versus a more chestnut colour (heaaaaaar the sarcasm). One pair of these shoes for special occasions -- ooooh, you stylin' metrosexual you, who I bet would look good in pink. Two pairs of these shoes -- holy shit, don't you have anything better to do with your time than go shoe shopping? Like watch football? Or even darts? (the Dutch love darts. Check out The Wizard -- can't be Dutch with a mullet like that, but he was all people talked about during the darts World Championship. Yes, people talk about the darts World Championship. It's not bigger than non-American football, but close...too close).

Sigh. A little venting on my welcome home from vacay. Sit tight for more interesting tales from Queen's Day and holiday...

You must cut down the largest tree in the forest wiiiiiiiiiiiith a herring!

The pops rolled into town on a whirlwind visit. We did everything in true Dutch style, including public transportaion, biking through tulips and of course, eating herring. Check out the tasty photos. Now, look cloesely -- check out all the people in the background really jonesing for their RAW herring slathered in chopped onion. There is even a communal hand washing bin with lemons in it to get the smell off. Even my dad -- who really likes to do things because they are healthy (like deprive his growing children of sweets so they don't end up fat -- yeah, lot of good that did -- man, I used to open jars of sweetened condensed milk I wanted sugar so bad...yes, I am disgusting) didn't like it. This is also a guy who will eat whitefish salad straight out of the tin. I actually thought it would appeal to him, but guess I'm wrong. Whatever, its tasty....on bread.


Quick aside -- so last week I was talking about the search function on the blog and not being able to find it...well I did. But this reminds me of the very obvious gap between us gen Yers and our booming parents. Watching my father use a computer might have been the most frustrating thing I've seen in recent history. I don't think I've watched something like this...since...since watching ATD ice a cake. It's soooooooo painful. The hunt/peck typing, the needing to check the email everyday (trust me, the world keeps spinning when you are on vacation). It's almost as bad as when he answers his cell phone when he's at dinner with my brother, his "life partner" and I. Dude, we are the ONLY three people who ever call you. (serenity now) On the bitchy computer note -- the spell check on this blog isn't working. Do you guys remember when spelling was impotent? Do kids still have to do that stuff? (FYI -spelling error in previous sentence intended).


We then took off for Prague, which was beautiful. I think I walked every inch of the city. Yeah, was thinking about doing a destination marathon there, but fuuuuuuck that -- cobble stones suck (still need to go back and party, though). I also learned all about the Czech Jews who apparently have been persecuted for millions of years (big suprise on that one). Interesting tid bit from our crappy guide book: In addition to Prague as a city and the old Jewish quarter (ahem, ghetto...yes Coltrane, it was for the Choosen people first...much like the NBA) not being bombed in WWII, apparently Hitler's grand plan was to use the area as a type of museum on an extinct race. Kinda like we do with the Mayans...and pandas.

"You've never been on a plane." "I know, but the joke's better if I tell it in the first person."

As an intro to this post, I was all psyched to rag on the one person I know who is actually half-Indonesian. Then I realized 1) I don't know any Asian jokes and 2) he doesn't read this blog -- but will change that...Krishna will get the link later today. This means, however, that we are "formerly" opening up this sucker to a male audience. Not like I'm good at editing myself anyway, but this might mean less tampon talk and more poop stories (more on poop later). Anyway, despite the plethora of jokes I know about women, Jews and Michael Jackson, there are only two jokes I know about Asian people; neither of them are mine and neither make sense coming from me...but doesn't mean they aren't funny.

1. "What's better than sex with a 6-year-old Vietnamese boy?" "Nothing." (courtesy of WWJDD)
2. Once you go yellow, you basically go back to whatever it is you had before (stolen from GR's buddy in L.A., who actually did stand-up for awhile and was excellent NYE entertainment)

Aight, back to the Indonesians. I think I might have written a post on this before, but I can't find the search function to check and I'm too lazy to go back and do it manually. As many of you know, I like telling the same stories over and over and over...and over again anyway, so if you aren't used to it by now, tough.

Post our mini-bender, work buddy #1 met up with another work buddy who was in town with a couple of friends and I took them to the much acclaimed (by me) Indonesian Rijsttafel. (Any time people come to visit and ask about trying Dutch cuisine, I take them to Indo food b/c Dutch food is either a) nasty, b) fried or c) fishy.) Rijsttafel is literally "rice table" in Dutch and is a reiteration of Indonesian food that one cannot actually get in Indonesia -- it's the Dutch way of eating Indo (kinda like how Tikka Masala would not exist in Indian cuisine if some British dude didn't freak out about the spice and drop a bunch of coconut milk into some dish. Goooooo imperialism!). For anyone who doesn't know their Dutch history, Indonesia was a long-held Netherlands colony and played a big role in the Dutch East Indies Trading Company.

Needless to say, we johnblazed, then walked over to a spot I know, where I made a poor attempt at explaining what the hell we would be eating. The concept is something akin to tapas, except you don't choose only a couple and they come when they are ready like en España, but rather they lay it alllllll out in front of you on plate warmers in one big flourish. And it's a MASSIVE amount of food -- they bring out anywhere from 12-20 plates, a couple things of rice and some prawn crackers to help you shovel the food into your mouth.

Indo food in The Netherlands is great -- for anyone who hasn't had it, think IndianThaiVietnamese-esque flavors, with lots of coconut milk and peanut sauce. Indo food in Indonesia, however, I must say is kinda boring -- maybe that's just because I don't get the over-easy egg thing. Why the hell would I want a fried egg on top of my noodles? (other cultures put fried eggs in weird places too -- in Peru they put them on hamburgers, y'know, just in case your arteries weren't going to get clogged enough). And maybe b/c half the dishes I like here are beef and there wasn't a whole lot of that on the Hindu islands.

So we wolf it all down and my buddy JZ was finally satiated after doubting my food-choice skills (please, eating is one thing I know how to do...perhaps too well). Then we go off for a tour of the red light district and quickly go our separate ways due to food coma.

Now, like Indian food, Indonesian food uses a lot of different ingredients that the average white-devil stomach is not familiar with. I hear from JZ and buddies a few days later and they had a little Montezuma's Revenge (or Suharto's Revenge?) and he proceeded to make fart noises to illustrate his point (by the way -- this gives me hope. Good to know it is still okay to make immature sounds in your mid-30s). Okay, not a great poop story, but I don't have babies or students who piss on floors, so give me a break.

[ha ha ha]...flashback humor

It's been awhile. Lots of good stories and too many to waste in one post as I'm going "wet" for the next couple of week in anticipation of a) a real Queen's Day (read: without Frankenstef stitches and a cast) and b) vacation with my mom, who arguably throws down harder than I do (is partying genetic?). What does wet mean you ask? (not that kind of wet...I mean, I wish that was all I was doing for the next couple of weeks...) Well, I won't go so far as to say I'm holding myself to a 3-drink maximum, but I won't actively be seeking it out. Sigh...I really wish we had made "Our team is moist" t-shirts in college. Alas, not a joke (given my sophomore year performance) that many would find funny...but you know you love/hate the word: moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. moist.

Before delving into April shenanigans and viajes, a quick recap of all things NYC. This lil' trip was great -- crashed with JM & the Three Cats (that's the name of my new lounge band). I'm locked in for kitty-sitting during the honeymoon (early to mid July), so if anyone is around, holler. Anyway, commute was surprisingly short and non-stressful (sorry Coltrane): UWS 0. Bococa 1. (Bococa is the Brooklynite name for Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens -- like Tribecca is the Triangle Below Canal and Soho is So your mother's a Ho, etc).

Sentimental note: Got a chance to see the bro in action in the classroom and he is truly a great teacher (I now understand Macbeth). And he's also great with the cats (kinda surprised since we were deprived, animaless children...dead fish and hermit crabs don't count). I think these two things combined means he's gonna be a great daddy. And a great husband. I simply can't wait for the wedding as it will be THE biggest party of the year (don't worry CGF/P -- yours will be the party of the year in '09).

Anyway, finally rolled back to Le Dam a couple Saturdays ago, met an old colleague at the airport and promptly went on a 48-hour bender. We soldiered up for a rookie night at Paradiso. This spot gets lots of major acts in a variety of different genres. Phish played Pardiso, JT played Paradiso, Tiesto and Van Bueren have played Paradiso, etc. Anyway, it's a club/music venue in an old church (I think...). I've heard that the place is great and apparently I now know it is great. I say "apparently" because I had one of the few (seriously, only a few...Stef does not black out, she just checks out early and passes out...or pukes...maybe a little from column A and little from column B) evenings were it's a bit fuzzy around the edges. Regardless, some chick spun a great set and speaking Spanish was involved. In true Amsterdam style, our "hangover" cure was fungus and muffins. So good to be home.