AmsterDam Yankee; Life and kids in Amsterdam

Everything old...

2011-09-12T15:46:00.003+02:00

...is new again. How trite and true.

It was with a little tear in my eye that I walked my sons to my very own elementary school where my oldest is starting kindergarten. The very same crossing guard still works there, and she crossed us over with the same sunny disposition and bright smile she had 30+ years ago.

The school looks the same. It smells the same. It sounds the same. (I'll bet it tastes the same too, for the wall-lickers...)

It's kind of funny to think that I've left and come back half-a-dozen times trying to make a "new" life for myself, yet I may just as well have never left, for the way it turned out. I live in the same house - with my mother, for God's sake; taking my kids to the same school; driving to the same stores, etc., etc. Was it all for naught?

Well, I have my kids, for one thing. And I suppose I've grown in ways that I couldn't have, had I stayed in one place. It's a nice life here, in the upper-middle-class suburban bubble. Maybe I couldn't have appreciated it this much without all those laboriously-learned "life lessons" that everyone so stereotypically talks about.

I can't be "one of them," though. That can't happen, ok guys? I mean, I think to do this, to live this life, to take my kids to soccer practice and bake pies - I am going to need to make up a fantasy in my head that I am a pod, sent here to observe the suburban mother in her natural habitat - among hydrangea, speed-walkers and toy-breed dogs; having deep-conditioning treatments, taking yoga and whining to therapists about how stressful life is. That's it. From now on, I am a pod-observer.

Of course, I'll have to infiltrate their society and act like one of them. I'm going to start right now - right this second - by jumping into the SUV to get a tall, skinny, non-fat, half-caf latte on the way to my bikini wax. Waxing hurts so much, though. Don't you feel sorry for me? I mean, isn't life HARD??

I got a job

2011-03-17T03:03:00.002+01:00

Really. I did. A good one.

AND here's the best part - it's for the parent company of the company I worked at in Holland. It all makes sense. It comes full circle. The universe puts all the shit back together that got pulled apart, and things happen for a reason.

All those days I rode my bike in the freezing rain and snow to take my kids to two different schools before taking a bus to the city, then a tram across town, worked, went BACK on the tram, a bus, the bike, picked up the kids, made dinner, bathed the boys and got them in their pajamas all before their asshole father came home to shit all over me, all the times I wondered "Why the fuck am I putting myself through this?" - well, now it makes sense. Those long, long days and short-ass, exhausting nights had a purpose.

I didn't understand. Why? WHY did I get the job of my dreams only weeks before having to leave it behind? The one thing I kept coming back to was "If I leave, I lose this job forever." I probably let that keep me there longer than it should have.

My hands were shaking when I wrote an email to my old boss to tell her I'd applied for a contract with the parent company. The hiring manager called to tell me he'd gotten an internal reference from her about me. I looked on linkedin and found that he was a 2nd-degree contact through my old boss.

I can almost cry thinking about all of the elements, hardships and experiences that dovetailed to create this opportunity for me. (I've only been rejected from about 15 other similar jobs in the meantime.)

Thank you, everyone and everything. Thank you blog, and Amsterdam, and coffeeshop, and asshole ex, and amazing former coworkers. Thank you bakfiets, babysitters, neighbors, daycares and friends. I don't know why you all did what you did when you did it, but you helped this happen - and helped me feel like I matter, and like things make sense even when everything feels fucked up beyond recognition and like nothing can ever be good again.

I'm not my job, or my address; my body, my haircolor, my anxiety, my health problems, my maternal and filial failings. But having those things, knowing what they are and making peace with them makes me feel like I can settle into my life. I HAVE a job. I live HERE. My body is scarred and imperfect, but strong; my hair is dyed, but pretty; I get scared more than I should, and I deal with it; I get sick from being scared and I get well again; I'm not the best mother or child I could be, but I'm working on it.

Having a job is another piece of my whole fucked-up little human-being puzzle. I'll be able to take better care of myself and my kids now and not have to lean on everyone all the time. That's niet niks. I want to be strong again, and get some independence back.

(Oh, and because it's in America...this job pays about three times as much as my old one. Suck it, Holland.)

Maybe it's just a coincidence

2011-01-28T17:18:00.004+01:00

In February of last year, I wrote this post.

Why is that funny? Well, in the last line of questioning, I wrote: "How much longer until I have a nervous breakdown? (10...9...8...)"

I'd like to point out that it was neither 10, nor 9, nor 8 months later, but 7. I was THIS fucking close....

Pat, your Magic 8 Ball was just as good as any other predictor, as predicted. You should've shaken it again. It's going to keep me up at night thinking about what its next swam-ic answer would have been.

A little impressed with its prophetic answer to number 4, too. And if we wait a little longer, 5 will become correct. That's it. I'm getting me one of them things....Never mind...it totally crapped out on 11. Three questions WERE too many. Or maybe it too will become correct. See?! I knew this future prediction crap was for real.

Holland STILL sucks?!

2011-01-25T22:17:00.002+01:00

You know - I've been writing (or NOT writing) this blog for a couple (3?) years now, and - more amazing than the fact that people actually read it - is the way people get here.

I come up like #3 or #4 in searches for "Holland Sucks" and "Amsterdam Sucks." For all the hits I get from those searches, I really feel disloyal to those people. I should write MUCH MORE about the various forms of Dutch suckage, but basically, I'm just too darn busy bitching about my own life. Ahhhh. The nutshell of Americanhood. "I hear you, but how does that relate to ME?"

And why exactly are people searching for "Holland Sucks"? That's really more of a statement, isn't it? I mean, wouldn't "Does Holland Suck?" or "Holland and the ways it sucks" be more appropriate and informative?

I don't search about things I already know. If I did, what would my list look like....?

"My ex is an asshole" (see previous post)
"Water is a tasty and healthy drink"
"It snows a lot here"
"Trees: tall, green, oxygen-giving"
"Ingrown toenails should be avoided"
"The usage of 'you and I' versus 'you and me'"

(OK, I admit, that last one is valid for many people. Perhaps not for you and me. Why don't you and I go look it up, just for fun and information. It might do you and me some good to know when to use "you and I" when we're talking to ourselves and others. But I digress. Then again, digression is kinda my thing. Oh dear. I have written myself into a little circle here, haven't I?)

In any event - that search will either bring you here or here. Neither scintillating.

So - to the "suck" people: What information are you looking for? 'Cause I got a whole bag of suck right here with your name on it - just tell me which flavor you want. I am extremely versatile in the bitching department. Some people find it my winningest quality (you poor bastard:)). But I suspect y'all are just looking for voetbal scores or landse cup info. Nietwaar?

Me, me, me... Enough about me, let's talk more about you. How do you like my blog?

This just in...

2011-01-23T14:44:00.002+01:00

So, one year later, I get email from my ex. Not just any email - a response to the email I sent him just over ONE YEAR AGO asking him to please work it out with me so we could be a family. One of those heart-rending, self-prostrating, remember-how-great-it-was, whatever-it-takes kind of emails.

The response that took him a year to write said "I miss u 2." I had looked at my blackberry while I was half asleep and saw this message on it, so I kind of befuddledly replied "A year later? Are you kidding me?"

Now, what could have provoked this? I'd say "maybe he was stoned," but that is sort of his natural state. Maybe he WASN'T stoned. Maybe his joint-rolling hand was crushed in some kind of industrial accident, forcing him to take a 20-minute dope break before learning to roll with his feet. That could have sobered him up long enough to write four half-words.

Maybe he means the band.

Maybe he made a New Year's resolution to FINALLY plough through that overstuffed inbox and answer everyone he owes an email.

Maybe he finally lost a road rage fist fight and the non-retard lobe of his brain got knocked (partially) back into place, leaving him retroactively sorry, but only semi-literate.

Maybe he's just been REALLY busy.

Maybe he ran out of ironed shirts and figures four words might be enough to get me back so he doesn't have to send them out.

Maybe he figures I might remember his birthday is coming up and buy him a present! Awww. And after not sending any Christmas presents to the kids....

Well, whatever the reason was, if he writes me again, I'll just be needing the two words.

There will be turkey. Oh yes, there will be turkey

2010-11-25T03:36:00.004+01:00

I finally am getting my Thanksgiving. Fina-fucking-ly. I have waited six years for this. It better be the best friggin' meal I've ever had.

We have a big family, and it used to be in years past, that we'd ALL go to one house, pig out, and let the kids run riot while the parents fell asleep in front of the football game.

Last year my mother had it here at her house. They always used to call on Thanksgiving day and pass the phone around to any cousin, aunt or friend who wanted to say hi. Every year I'd fight back homesickness tears, telling everyone how great it was going, how well the kids were and what we were doing for the holiday (which in Holland is called "Thursday").

Last year hearing all the familiar voices echoing off the walls of my own house with the dogs barking and kids laughing, I had to bite my mouth to keep the tears from heaving out. I'd just lost my job at the coffeeshop because of my ex's criminal record (yes, the cops actually fucking collaborated with city hall to have me fired), and had just started unravelling the truth about my ex's "friend." (Again, for the record and those of you keeping track - shorter, fatter, uglier, and older than I am; married to a cripple with whom she had three adult kids. That's nice.)

When I've come to visit in recent years, my family has usually been nice enough to indulge me by making a Thanksgiving-style meal for me, since there is something fucking wrong with turkeys in Holland. I think they are more like game birds - very tough, dark-meated and chicken-sized. You have to order "American-style" turkeys specially, and they cost a fortune. It would have been nice to have one, maybe one year, but my ex couldn;t seem to spare the dope money.

So I'm MAKING my mother have Thanksgiving here this year. Not everyone can come, but I'm sure as shit getting my fucking turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce on this side of the ocean this year.

You spin me right round...

2010-08-29T02:20:00.002+02:00

I thought I'd try a spin class for some exercise since I miss biking so much, and since I'm fighting the constant battle of not turning into an evil American twin version of myself...fat and so lazy that I'll watch the Jersey Shore with my mouth hanging open rather than get off my ass to find the remote control.

I'm still pretty well conditioned from cycling, so I figured it would be hard, but nothing too awful. Fuck, man, did I have my ass handed to me? Yes, I did.

Spin class scoffed at my Dutch biking experience. (OK, maybe I DID bike with a joint hanging out of my mouth, and occasionally with an open umbrella in one hand, but I'd like to think that coordination counts for something. I've even seen people in Holland bike while reading the newspaper. Young couples bike holding hands. Dorks.)

Here are a couple of things I realized:

-There are no hills in Holland, and "creating" a hill by turning up the bike tension is just fucking stupid.
-There is no reason to EVER bike at speeds that high (I mean, would I be getting chased by something? I'd let the fucker catch me, if biking like that were the only alternative.)
-Sitting UP on a bike is much more comfortable than hunching over one.
-When you stop pedaling on a bike in real life, you coast. Ain't no coasting in spin class. Stop pedaling and your feet fall out of the foot straps and you look like a douche.

I thought I was going to barf about 10 minutes in. To be fair, I DID pedal the entire class without cheating by turning down the bike tension, but I could NOT bounce up and down and stand and sit in the trained-seal way everyone else did. The teacher said I did "awesome" for my first class, which I'd like to think she meant, but wow, I was shocked by how hard it was.

I was so happy when it was over, and I felt that great "having-exercised" high. The trick then became not going into Dunkin' Donuts next door for a celebratory coffee roll. Sigh.

...And another thing!!

2010-08-18T03:28:00.002+02:00

I totally had forgotten about road rage. Not other people's, my own.

My ex used to take every opportunity to screech to a halt and bounce out of his car in traffic. Sometimes he'd kick in a door, but his signature move was reaching in through the driver's window, pulling the guy out by his collar, then punching him in the face. Ah, Amsterdam. At least people don't tend to carry guns as often there.

Today, by the Boston Museum of Science - a shit traffic location any way you slice it - I got totally cut off by a woman determined to hit my car if I didn't let her into the line of traffic.

First, let me tell you about my truck. (And it IS a truck. Not some whiny little top-heavy SUV built on a car chassis.) My father bought this truck in 2000, I think, shortly before he died. It was a beautiful, top-of-the-line, all-the-options model. Twelve years ago. Now it's a hulking, rusted monster with giant bumpers, a huge engine, and completely inadequate brakes that we just don't have the heart to say goodbye to.

It screams "I don't care. Stay the fuck away - I have no insurance, no money and I'll crush your tiny, shiny piece of Asian crap into origami and use it as a hood ornament."

And it's WAY bigger than a garden variety SUV. As my friend at work said "It's just so honkin'."

So you'd really have to be a special kind of moron to jump in front of this thing.

This dumb broad had her kids in the car (which I didn't immediately realize, or I would have had a little more self-control. I'd like to think so anyways...)

Oh my God. I honestly didn't know I could swear like that. It was like an out-of-body experience and totally surreal. She had her window down - like most people - and halfheartedly waved out the window to me, so I know she heard the onslaught. I think I called her stupid. And maybe worse. I'm might have used the c-word, and I KNOW I used the f-word. Then I was really cute and said something like "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you had your kids with you! I'd fucking hate to see how you drive WITHOUT them in the car..!"

I swear in front of my kids. I used to try not to, but I've developed Tourette's Syndrome since becoming a parent. I'm a firm believer that kids should hear swears once in awhile in order to understand when their use is appropriate, and learn not to use them inappropriately. At least I tell myself that to justify my potty mouth.

You see kiddies...It's ok for grown-ups to use the f-word, because we're important and we know more than you do. And sophisticated, mature adults sometimes call each other names in traffic, because it's the calm, mature and level-headed thing to do. And sometimes your dumb, fat, ugly f*cking c*nt mother deserves it for endangering your little ugly bastard lives.

Class dismissed.

Funeral attendance etiquette for retards

2010-08-07T05:37:00.004+02:00

Something awful has happened. The garage where I work is owned by a family - Father, son and daughter. Our families are very close and I am therefore subbing for the daughter while she is on maternity leave. The son (who was also the head mechanic, and a sweet young man) died this week in a motorcycle accident.

There aren't words to describe the depth of the tragedy and its impact on, well EVERYTHING relating to the lives involved, not to mention the future of the business.

As I made dozens of phone calls with the sad news, and called customers with cars still at the shop, I felt like compiling a hit list of assholes with big fat stupid mouths who shouldn't be breathing the same air as the wonderful people I work for.

Me: "I'm sorry we couldn't complete the additional work you requested, but your brakes are finished and your car is ready for pickup"

Him: "You really didn't fix the door?"

Me: "No sir. Yours was the last car (the son) worked on on Friday (the day he died) and he just didn't get to it."

Him: "I thought he said it was a quick fix that would only take a minute."

Me: PAUSE (Really? Am I ACTUALLY having this conversation?) "That may well be, but he just didn't get to it." (You know. Before he DIED.)

Him: "Well, are you going to be getting a NEW mechanic?"

Me: PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. (Stay professional. This is their business. Be respectful for them.) "COME PICK UP YOUR CAR" *Click*

I'll couch this by saying that MOST people were extremely sorry, understanding and sympathetic. (One guy whose appointment I canceled said sheepishly "Geez, that sure puts my stupid air-conditioning problem in perspective") But they sure make the jerks stand out like sore, retarded asshole thumbs.

And the details. The pushing and pressing for details. "What happened? HOW did it happen?"

Why? Why, oh why? Does it matter what happened (aside from - perhaps - the concern that no one else was injured)? A 25-year-old kid has died. A friend of mine. The part owner of the business, son of the dear old man beloved to everyone who meets him. Brother of the sweet, beautiful girl who runs the shop. IS THIS IMPORTANT?

Here's a question asked to me repeatedly at the funeral home: "Why is the casket closed?"

Why the fuck do you think it is, you insensitive prick?

One person started to speculate about the circumstances of the death and just how that would affect the head, face and body of this kind, hard-working kid. And not subtly. I saw my other coworker's nostrils flare at this comment and I said to the man quickly "Stop talking. Right now."

At the very least, I hope that fielding the questions of these moronic douchebags spared the family from having to hear and answer them.

I'm not sure when the shop will open again, or even IF it will. I don't know if my boss can face working next to his son's empty garage bay every day, or if his daughter will be able to go back to work in the same place where she and her brother grew up together working on cars.

But I know one thing: I SURE AM SORRY we didn't get to fix that door for you. Prick.

Limping along. Sometimes skipping.

2010-07-12T03:34:00.002+02:00

So I'm still here. In Boston, at my childhood home with my two children and my mother(God help me). I am not as horrifically unhappy as I was when I first arrived.

I'm working at a temporary job, getting my kids up and running in daycare, and trying to find something more permanent to do. I am like a weird little oddity at work. All the customers want to know who I am, why I am working instead of the usual girl, and once I start answering questions, things just get weirder and weirder.

No, I'm not a member of the family (like everyone else there). Yes. I'm a friend of the family. No, I'm not here permanently. Well, I'm an editor. Yes, still looking for something in my field. Where was I working before? Um. Holland. Well, it's kind of complicated. Yes, I am living with my family just down the road. No, I left the bastard in Holland. Yes, I speak Dutch. I agree, it IS a fucked-up language. Yes, I speak Italian too (like everyone else there). And Spanish. Yes, I probably should get a job using my language skills. If you have one to offer me, get to it, otherwise get the fuck away from my desk.

I should pretend I'm a deaf-mute.

Random people keep moving into my mother's house.

I used to miss American television, now I can't fucking stand being forced to watch things like "Real Housewives" and cooking competitions. It is a whole shitload of inane bullshit.

I'm still a bit lonely, and imposing myself on friends and family way too often. I hope I'm not that annoying-but-nice friend you feel bad for but still wish would go away.

Yesterday I bought 5 pair of underwear at Victoria's Secret for $25 and got a free pair of flipflops. God Bless America.

Marathon/Birthday

2010-04-24T04:11:00.002+02:00

Well, I'm going to avoid the current unpleasantness of my social life right now, and just talk about my sons.

Marathon day was awesome. The runners come right down our street, so we're forced to have a party every year, whether we like it or not. The kids had a blast. Not my kids. The relatives' kids and random people's kids.

My little one was sleeping. It was the day before his second birthday, and we were going to have a cake to celebrate, but he slept right through it.

My big one managed to loosen up and have some fun, despite other people wanting to use his toys. There were many tears, followed by locking up his prized go-cart in the garage, so no one could enjoy it.

Being Dutch, he felt compelled to pick up the runners' cups when they dropped them. Not ALL of them, just the ones HE had personally handed out. Very responsible. God, I love the little kid. He misses his dad, though. I can't blame him. I miss Holland too.

On my son's second birthday, I cried all day. I was so sad about the loss of our lives in Holland, and the traditions we had started to make there, that I felt like I couldn't catch my breath. I was crushingly sad all day - a day only made bearable by the efforts of my friend, who took us all to the beach, and did her best to make us all feel a little less dejected.

When we walked to the water's edge to wade and collect some shells, I got that freaky, weird, out-of-body feeling thinking about the water reaching all the way back to our beaches in Holland where we spent so much time together pretending to be a happy family.

Why the fuck do the right decisions always hurt so much?

A rare flash of optimism

2010-04-10T03:34:00.002+02:00

Things are looking up. Really.

I have a new part time job, starting on the 26th. I found daycare for the kids. My friends are all happy to see me. Guys unabashedly check me out in this country, which I love (Dutch guys - I swear - don't bother to look at girls).

People love my kids. I mean it. Friends keep saying things like "Hey, let's take the kids camping/fishing/hiking/to the museum/aquarium/fire station/playground." It's like everyone I know has been looking for an excuse to do kid stuff and just needs a kid or two as a beard at the Children's Museum or park. I don't recall people calling me up to drag me around when I was single with no kids. It's weird. But nice.

OK - I'm going to bed early. Long day of friend-induced kid activities tomorrow, so I need to rest up.

They're not kidding

2010-03-10T03:44:00.002+01:00

I've been looking around at daycare places near my home in lovely suburban Boston, and I am f-ing shocked.

Compared to Holland, these places look like rundown third-world orphanages. Even the better ones seem grubby and picked-over, poorly maintained and depressing. And then there is the pricetag...

I suppose that it isn't really much more expensive than in Holland, though the facilities are horrifically lacking in comparison. The major difference is that the governmental childcare reimbursement pays a huge portion of whatever a family's daycare costs are. Even with two incomes, we were reimbursed for about 75% of our costs - and that is immediately, not at the end of the year. The government actually pays the childcare center every month, and you just pay your own portion alongside that.

To send both boys to a preschool/daycare here for three days a week - HALF days, mind you - will cost more than my monthly salary in Holland. More than I made IN A MONTH.

I suppose the fact that salaries here are higher would compensate for it, but I don't have a job yet. Oops.

On the upside, grocery shopping is now taking me less than two hours a trip. So, I've got that going for me.

Coca-Cola, Wonderbra

2010-03-03T04:14:00.002+01:00

So, we're living in America.

I can't stop shopping like I'm in Holland. My brother-in-law asked me today "Why don't you get more stuff at the supermarket, like five gallons of milk instead of one?"

The answer is that I can't pull the trigger. I buy one box of kleenex, one pack of toilet paper, one half-gallon of orange juice, a pound of coldcuts, etc., etc.

The result is that everyone is running around going "Where's the rest of the kleenex?" How can we be out of turkey?" "Who drank all the orange juice?"

I just can't get used to the idea that I am going to load it all into the SUV (well, I'M not going to load it...it gets sent underground via a conveyor belt to a drive-thru where they load your car while you sit behind the wheel) instead of carrying a bag in each hand, or loading the bakfiets with as much food as will fit beside two children.

Every time I go to the supermarket it takes me like 2 hours. I can't get used to it again. EVERYTHING I need, and tons of stuff I don't in one convenient location. Informative staff. Courteous cashiers. I walk around like a deer in the headlights with glazed-over eyes mindlessly filling a shopping cart big enough for my whole family to sit in.

I guess I just question the wisdom of buying jumbo-size crap. That's how we all get the jumbo-size asses.

Speaking of that - I have a friend (yes, you) fixing a couple of old-school English 3-speeds for me. I am so psyched. I can't wait. Now if ONLY I could get the bakfiets here...Well, I'm working on that.

Asociaal goed

2010-02-25T21:17:00.000+01:00

Thanks, everyone, for all your support with my recent difficulties.

I am glad to report that the kids are getting more attention and affection than ever before. I've even found a little Dutch school for them. Hearing all the teachers and parents speaking Dutch made me like, reverse-homesick. It was weird.

I have been eating breakfast cereal like a pig. Somebody stop me.

New England Yankee just doesn't have the same ring...

2010-02-02T05:12:00.002+01:00

So. I'm back. No, not there. Here. In Boston. WTF has gone wrong you ask? Everything.

But let's get to the important stuff.

Can I still be an Amsterdam Yankee? Will anyone care? How long until I start to suffer from Americ-ass? Can I afford to have my bakfiets shipped here?

Will I tire of grocery shopping? Will I ever start my new intercontinental Amsterdam-Boston project? (Very hush-hush. Will update as I progress. If I progress...) Can my children go to Dutch school? (Yes, they can. It's a rhetorical question.) Will I be happy in my mother's basement? (I think we can all answer that now.)

Will I still have any friends here? (Hi, Pat.) Will the 14-year-old truck's brakes finally give out once and for all and leave me in a twisted, fiery mess avec crotch fruit? (God, I hate French.) Can I find a job, social life, peace of mind in the cradle of my home town? Will I have a freakout and go back? Is there a better cookie than a stroopwafel? Must I make it my duty to find out?

How many breakfast cereals can I eat until I get tired of them? (So far I've killed Frosted Mini-Wheats, Honey Nut Cheerios, Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops.)

Let's just try to avoid the obvious.. How much longer until I have a nervous breakdown? (10...9...8...)

I did it

2010-01-27T13:11:00.001+01:00

I left.

A guest speaker on the blog

2010-01-09T22:44:00.005+01:00

The following story comes from my friend and former coworker - a guy I'll call.... Ferruchi-san.

Funny. As. Shit.

When good service, and Stroopwafels, go bad.

by Ferruchi-san

I submit this guest entry to my favorite blog.

I recently had an amusing grocery experience of my own, with a tangential Amsterdam twist, that has you [Suka] on my mind.

Back-story:
My girlfriend Kate and I went to Amsterdam in the summer of 2008. I have been there (here?) several times before, but it was her first time, and I eagerly anticipated being the enlightened tour guide. We rented a nice room on the top floor of a house on the canal. Perfect location (Oudezijds Achterburgwal & Slijkstraat). We strolled around our first evening, and had a nice dinner on Nieuwmarkt, where you cook your own thin-sliced choice of meat at the table. Fun.

Next morning, it’s pretty clear that we both have food poisoning. She has it bad, I have a mild case. Unfortunately for her, the taste, smell, texture – the entire experience – of 4 days of food poisoning (2 bad days, 2 recovery days) were Stroopwafels.

Unfortunately for me, this meant the end of my love affair with Stroopwafels. I am expressly forbidden to have anything to do with them, and the several packages I already had in the flat there had to go. The sight, let alone the smell or taste, of them could no longer be tolerated.

I understand. We’ve all been there – some food or drink that serves as a visceral reminder of that Retroperistalsis disaster.

Stroopwafels are not a common find in the States’ grocery aisles, but recently have become more available. On a trip to Trader Joe’s months after the event, I saw they now carried them. Having the diminished memory capabilities that often plagues my gender; I expressed an interest, which earned me frozen-stare look of disbelief from Kate.

Oh yeah, right… I remember… I don’t get to like those anymore.

Fast forward a year. It’s a late Sunday afternoon, and she wants to go do a major Thanksgiving shop (one of several). I balk. It’s about the last thing I want to do. She comes up with a surprising, unbidden (heretofore unheard of) suggestion: “Why don’t you have one of your special cupcakes from the deep freeze, and keep me company?”

Oh yeah... those... Done! Off we go to Trader Joe’s. Great store. It's the kind of place I imagine just doesn't exist in Holland (or Sweden - another story). It's filled with energetic employees, wearing Hawaiian style shirts, smiles and general good cheer. All the time.

(I imagine someone walking in with a ski mask and a bloody ax would be greeted with a big smile and a genuine suggestion of "Hey, I just tried this new food product that goes great with fresh blood! And, if you're face is dry from the cold we have this great face cream!")

I know Kate's going to he shopping for about an hour. After about 10 minutes, I've cruised the entire store twice, adding a few selfish items to the cart. Then I find the Stroopwafels. Oh yes. Perfect. The mini cupcake is just starting to make an appearance and I have the first of several brilliant ideas.

I grab a package of mini Stroopwafels, and pay for them at a checkout counter. Just the one item. It raises several eyebrows. I tell the cashier that I'm going to continue shopping, is it cool if I walk around chowing them? This is funny to him, no worries.

I proceed to joyfully pop waffles. I carry my open bag around in front of me, carefully avoiding the aisles Kate is loitering through, and offer the bag and a smile in silent greeting to just about everybody who enters my orbit, staff included. I chat with two staffers for a bit, named Mark and Tony. Nice guys, and we entertain each other for as long as they are able before briskly walking to their next task.

(A note on the Trader Joe's staff: there are a lot of them for a relatively small store, and they all walk around quickly, with purpose. It's something I never see at any other grocery store - heck, just about ANY store. Employees so motivated about their retail job that they literally run around a store with a smile, stocking shelves, and generally helping folks out? Exactly.)

I've made it about half way through my bag of caramel goodness, with a few folks helping deplete my bag (people who accept just-opened food from strangers in grocery stores is a sociographic study in itself, and something that I do on occasion.) My goal is to polish off the bag before checkout time, and I'm going to need help from fellow shoppers to do it. My thirst for Stroopwafels is finally, scrumptiously slaked.

I see the peanut butter filled pretzels low on a shelf, and bend over to get a few bags of a favorite snack. Out spill the mini waffles, in a pretty semi-circle around me.

My first reaction as I quick-scan: "Where's Kate? Am I busted?" It appears I'm safe. I put down the three packages of pretzels, and begin collecting the waffles in a squat. I have them all in my right hand, and I have the first cupcake zone-out. I'm caught in the image of my right hand, filled with mini-waffles, and another person's right hand next to mine, the owner out of sight above me. It is an odd image, and it takes me a full second or two to release the golden texture of the waffles, the familiar hand, and the unknown hand, and zone back in.

I look up. It's Mark, waiting patiently for me to... I can't quite snap to it.
"You want me to throw those out for you?"
"Oh, yeah... I was just wondering whether... I guess I do, huh?" Looking for reassurance.
"Yeah, you probably do." Laughing that it appears not to be a no-brainer for me.

(In my head, I agree that I probably do, but it's not a sure thing. I have no problem eating food off just about any relatively clean looking floor. I understand this puts me at a behavioral fringe.)

I carefully transfer the waffles from my hand to Mark's. I give him the bag too, with a few remaining waffles in it. "Better just toss it all. I'm stuffed anyway."

He trots off to the unseen, unknown depths of the back rooms. What goes back there? They must have a monster freezer for all this frozen stuff. How big is it? It'd be cool to get a tour...

Kate appears, and I fall in line with her, trying to hide the smell of Stroopwafel on my breath, looking for the next thing to entertain me.

After a few minutes, Mark strolls toward us, holding a new bag of mini Stroopwafels. Kate recoils in horror. She looks at me, back at Mark, and watches dumbstruck as Mark casually tosses me the product. I look at Kate, struck wide-eyed, at Mark, and just as casually, toss them back to him.

"What do I want with those?" I attempt. But it's clear that Kate has the whole thing figured out already.

I am busted.

I'm laughing so hard now I can't articulate something that would resemble a excuse. My laugh is infectious, and she and Mark are joining in, as Mark enjoys his unwitting part in some inside joke. He tosses them back - we are now technically quite good buddies, haven chatted, helped the other out, and now playing catch. "They are already written off. You have to take them."

"See! I have nothing to do with this" I exclaim, vindicated. "He's forcing me to take them!"

She's having none of it, amused by my latest inept machinations. "You can not bring those out of this store. You know that, right?"

I put on my mock sheepish air. "Maybe I'll just follow Mark around until you're done. How long until you're done?"
"About 10 minutes."
"Mark, how about a quick tour of the biggest freezer you guys have here until she's done?" Then in loud whisper: "I'll give you a bag of Stroopwafels!"

Laughing, he says, "Sure! Follow me!"

The unknown depths of Trader Joe's all become known to me. I cruise up and down the compact aisles of the massive freezer, efficiently packed to the ceiling with reasonably priced food that needs only a microwave to make any person a competent chef. I'm ecstatic.

I meet up with Kate half way through the checkout process. I try to explain the new bag of Stroopwafels in my hand has been paid for, but that I don't want them. This concept causes some confusion, until the cashier points out the cute "No Charge" sticker on the bottom, cleverly affixed by Mark. Unfortunately, I exacerbate the confusion by attempting to rid myself of the package in the 60 seconds I have left before we leave the store.

Ever try to give something of value away for free? To a whole bunch of people? Sometimes it just doesn't work, and it didn't then.

After announcing to the entire checkout community: "Would anyone like a free bag of Stroopwafels? Brand new? Anyone? Free? No? Really? They're good..." it seemed that the offer must be suspect. Katie is in hysterics.

I catch Mark's eye as he trots up an aisle. He waves and gives a nod (we're buddies now, and buddies can give the cool chin-bump "hey"). I give him the nod back, and casually toss the package over the heads of the folks still dumbly digesting my outburst -- a perfect connection, an instinctive passer-receiver intimacy. He catches it one handed without skipping stride, gives a final smile.

I'm out through the sliding doors, Katie shaking her head, leaving the masses to wonder what they're missing and, I imagine, thinking "What's a Stroopwafel?"

Bakfiets boom

2009-12-31T06:40:00.003+01:00

I finally had my bakfiets fixed. The brakes barely worked at all, and I had to pretty much jump off every time I wanted to stop - not ideal when your precious crotch fruit is riding in front of you depending on you for their safety.

I rode it away from the shop (without the kids) and I thought "hmm, something is up with the gears." So I hit it hard so I could switch the gears back and forth.

Well, it had just snowed, and though there was a lot on the sidewalks most of the roads were clear. MOST of them.

I hit a patch of ice, and for the first time EVER, I bit it on the bakfiets. Fortunately, it could have been a lot worse, I just skidded to the ground, catching the bike before it hit, but hitting the ground myself. (Screw the mama - SAVE THE BIKE!)

I tell my mom this storty and she's horrified: "Oh my GOD! Did anyone help you? I mean, how did you get up? Were you hurt?"

ME: "Mom, I fell down and I got back up. What do you think I did, roll around on the ground moaning? I didn't need help."

HER: "No, but someone should have helped you!"

ME: "Help me do what?"

HER: "I don't know - get up?"

Nope. I've been in Holland long enough that I know to stand up, move on and act like nothing ever happened.

Christmas in Purgatory or just Groundhog Day?

2009-12-25T16:15:00.006+01:00

I promise I'll put on my happy face and write you all some more nice Amsterdam anecdotes this weekend. I have a nice story from a friend that I will post about Holland's favorite cookies: Stroopwafels.

If you want to read my depressing Christmas musings, highlight the text below, which I have blacked out in honor of those who don't want to be brought down. If not, I can't say I blame you in the slightest. Have a great Christmas!

I was hoping for a little warmth on Christmas. We got snow here in Holland. What a nice thing to wake up to on Christmas morning...only it's not Christmas morning, because we're waiting for my stepdaughter to get here before celebrating.

There are presents under the tree for everyone. Except me of course. Thankfully I had the foresight to buy myself some consolation prizes in place of being thought of; or even in place of the sense of obligation MOST partners feel to at least buy some kind of token gift. I grudgingly got a Christmas hug with about half the enthusiasm of hugging a friend's mother.

At least at my new job I get to hang out with people from all over the world who are just as homesick as I am. An English guy misses fish and chips; an East German misses the snow; everyone misses the people who cared about them.

I feel like I am being crushed by my own grief.

I can't do it anymore

2009-12-10T10:01:00.003+01:00

It's probably over. I can't do it anymore. I feel like my life is ending and I am heartbroken. I am sorry that I need love to survive, but I am tired of living without it. I am tired of what a lie it has been for so long.

It's not good enough. It's not good enough for my kids. I'm destitute and desperate, but breaking my back trying.

I know why you can die of a broken heart. I know why we get old. It's not the passing of years, it's years of grief, worry and heart-sickness.

I feel like I should at least make some kind of joke about the last couple sentences being Haikus, or something...

Could it be?

2009-12-08T07:42:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I gave the kid a bottle at 3:30 - he screamed for an hour, then slept until 8. This morning I gave him a bottle at 5:30, thinking "shit, I think he's up now," and he went back to sleep (or at least pretended to) until 7.

I could get used to the extra couple hours sleep, especially with my new job starting next week. Please, please, please, please don't let it be a fluke. (I do most of my praying at 5 a.m. these days.)

Back to work...!?!

2009-12-02T15:22:00.002+01:00

Sorry I have been so quiet of late. I got a job. An honest-to-good, out of the house, in the office, non-drug-selling job. Not even a McJob. An editing job - you know, like I used to do BC (before children).

I am still a little stunned to have been hired. They gave me an editing test, then invited me back for an interview. Then they asked me to meet the manager. The manager gave me the "do you have any questions for me?" question about 30 minutes into our conversation. I said "Yes. How do I stand up to the competition?" She says, "Well, I can congratulate you, because you're hired."

I acted all cool, but I am inwardly thinking "WTF?! Can she do that? Now? I'm hired NOW?" Then I though "Fuck, fuck, fuck - the KIDS." I was sitting there all nonchalant while my heart is screaming to me about how I am going to be such a traitor to my children. The guilt washed over me in buckets. I'd wanted the job, but did I want it this badly?

She wants me to start the 14th - as in, in less than two weeks. I calmly told her "no problem." (FUCKFUCKFUCK.)

I am getting the daycare arranged, I am almost there, but I feel like such a bad mother. I'm giving my kids to strangers - all of a sudden - so that I can go to work. They are going to hate me. Not baby M, he's used to daycare already, and the belle of the ball there. It's little Mr. V. He's never known a babysitter in 4 years. I have no family nearby to watch him. He is totally unprepared for this. I am throwing my baby to the wolves.

Everyone says he'll be fine, but I can't shake the guilt. Drop him off early to school, take a bus to Amsterdam Centraal, then a tram, then reverse it and pick him up after dark. How can I do this? On the other hand. How can I NOT do this? It's a great opportunity, and I was chosen from a pool of 200 candidates. Two hundred. They wanted ME. Do you have any idea how good that feels after being nothing but a food source, housekeeper and dog-walker for the last 4 years?

I love the kids, but I've had it. I need something else. But do I need it like this? I understand why working mothers have it so hard. This is heart-wrenching. And the logistics are back-breaking - Bike, bus, tram...pick up from the sitter in the freezing cold on a BIKE, then back to the daycare center to pick up the baby...on a bike. Dinner and tub and bed all before D gets home from work. Can I do this?

I love being a whiner

2009-11-22T21:24:00.008+01:00

I don't know what I find more amusing: that people always tell me that you can never get discounts in Holland; or the fact that I always do. I am classically American in this respect.

I will scrap over a nickel if I think I'm getting screwed on purpose. I call the cable company, the heating company, the credit card company - everybody. Especially when there is a late fee. I get my man about 50-75% of the time.

I told D - sometimes if you contest these things, you'll get your money back or get a late fee reversed. It's always worth asking. He SWEARS up and down that that doesn't work in Holland and it embarrasses the hell out of him when I do it. "That's not how we do things here. Companies don't give you breaks because they don't care." There is also so little competition (there is one heating company in my town with a full monopoly) that you can never threaten to go elsewhere with your business.

Sure, he complains about it, but then secretly brags to his friends about things like this and how they end like this when I'm in charge...)

My tact is always just to wear them down with my whining so they give me a discount to get me to shut up. I have TOTALLY lost any pride I had about these things when I had kids and started struggling. Especially a couple years ago when we were really broke and D was unemployed. I have stopped giving a flying fuck about what people think. It's a little alarming, but sort of liberating too. (My 20-year-old self would be mortified by my self of today.)

I remember in my father's clothing store, people used to ask me for discounts all the time. I would be polite, but sneer inwardly thinking "what a cheapskate." My dad was the world's greatest negotiator, and when I told him it made me feel stupid to argue about a few bucks, he'd always say "whose pocket is it better in - yours or theirs?"

Dutch people are notoriously frugal - why the F don't they ask for discounts? I got 79 euros off the new mattress that I bought this week. OK, compared to the total bill, it was a drop in the bucket, but if I found 79 euros on the street, I'd fucking pick it up. Wouldn't you?

Of course, I will also spend 200 euros on something worth 100 euros if I really, really want it. That's my cross to bear. Good thing I got that discount, huh?!

"Holland Sucks"?

2009-11-12T13:41:00.002+01:00

The number one search term people enter to get to my blog is "Holland Sucks." Come on. Do I really complain that much?

The SECOND most popular search term to get to my site is "Amsterdam Sucks."

There sure is a lot of sucking going on. I had no idea that I whined enough to put me that high in the search engine for Dutch suckery (or is it "suckerij"?). Wow.

Twittering with excitement

2009-11-06T21:14:00.004+01:00

I just started a twitter as amsterdamyank (some assclown already took amsterdamyankee).

I don't know how much I'll use it, considering I pretty much just opened the account because I'm cold and I wanted an excuse to keep the warm laptop on my legs.

You know how I always complain about the small packaging in this country? (The unwitting side effect is that I'm much thinner than I used to be.) Well, I just got a care package from my mother with all kinds of American junkfood. YUUUUUUUUMM. Nice big packages of Oreos, Reeses, Cheez-Its, etc...all my favorites.

As I unpacked it, groaning with joy and eat-lust, it occured to me why Americans are so fat. It's not the food, it's the packaging. There it is, folks. Case closed.

I've almost killed the whole pack of Oreos. Now THAT'S eating a whole box of cookies.

White, what?

2009-11-04T15:23:00.002+01:00

I've got a couple of things bugging me today. Mostly cartoons, but other Dutch weirdnesses too. I mean:

Why do schools here always brag about how few foreigners they have? They proudly say things like "Almost all of our children are Dutch. No foreigners. And the foreign children we do have are all well-assimilated. Not many dark people at all, and only a few Muslims." Is this like, the goal? Dutch people: Don't keep whining about how different you are from the Germans when you encourage this kind of parent-teacher conversation.

Which brings me to cartoons. Dora here is American and speaks English. In the US, she's Mexican-American and speaks Spanish. So it's wicked funny when she visits her grandparents who are like, wearing ponchos and have pet llamas and says stuff like "Dit is mijn opa - 'my grandfather.'" It's like, dude, that's your abuelo, ok?

I actually like that, though. It shows a little about how diverse it is in the US and that everyone is different - but they're still American. Unlike some countries we could mention, Holland.

(As an aside, I overheard D saying to my son one time "Have you ever noticed how Dora needs your help for EVERYTHING? I mean, can't she do anything alone?")

On Boomerang, they have all these great classic cartoons that I remember watching as a kid -or as my stepdaughter calls them "old-fashioned cartoons." Thanks, kid.

My son likes Popeye and I got to thinking, what's up with Olive Oil? Are there NO other women in town? How come they're so hung up on her if she's such a fickle bitch?

Attention Fireman Sam - There are about four people who live in your town. Does it concern you at all that there is a fire on almost EVERY episode? Someone is doing something wrong.

OK, my son is hanging on my because he wants to play a computer game. "Mama, het duurt zo LANG!" His catchphrase.

Resume your curriculum vitae...

2009-10-25T21:48:00.003+01:00

I don't really have anything pithy to say today.

I keep applying for jobs, and WTF? I am starting to think everyone else knows something I don't know, like, my resume has a booger hanging out of its nose. I don't think it does, though. Maybe it's because I call it a "resume" when everyone here calls it a "cv." But I don't like to think that my job experience IS my curriculum vitae. I prefer it as a "resume," which I think means "summary" in the Frog.

My curriculum vitae - well, that's actually kind of a complicated question, isn't it? I mean, the "path of my life" (yes, I used to teach Latin. Wait, does that have to go on there then?) is something different.

Defining moments in my life? Nothing to do with work. My son puking on me this morning had more of an effect on me than learning HTML. You really DON'T mind when the puke belongs to your kid. No, really. This is a life lesson.< /duh>

The footnotes on my resume are actually what I'd consider the most important part of my "life path." Speaking Dutch, Spanish, Italian. That shit took a long time to learn. Graduating with a bachelor's degree after having to drop out of school during a major depression? That was hard. Re-enrolling in college and finishing - that was hard. Impressive sounding action verbs and being a "valuable team player" and all that happy horseshit is easy. That's all just crap people make up to sound important.

Another footnote: I have a residency permit and BSN. Does anyone realize what a huge fucking accomplishment that is? While TNT was busy losing my original birth certificate in the mail (can't have a permit without it!), I was uninsured and paying cash to squeeze out my first kid in a foreign country. That's some heavy shit. Oh yeah, and I like, can use Microsoft Office.

Who am I? Multi-tasker? Yeah, not because of work. Hard worker? Yeah, not because of work. Good leader? Yeah, but not because of work. Because life has made me a seriously tough mother who has overcome a lot to be able to take care of my kids. Oh, and able to prioritize and coordinate multiple tasks to complete projects to customer satisfaction. Shut the fuck up and die in a fire.

I ate a whole box of cookies. All 9 of them...

2009-10-16T13:24:00.007+02:00

Someone asked me awhile back to list some typical supermarket prices to get an idea about how expensive it is to live here in Yerp.

Bear two things in mind - we're talking about euros, not American pesos; and that packaging is MUCH smaller here, so you get a lot less. Oh, and get this - we pay a "packaging tax" so the stupid fuckers wrap cookies individually within the boxes they sell them in. Prices sound low - 1.54 for a box of cookies - but there are only 9 or 10 in a box.

1.5 liters milk: 1.14
1 liter choc. milk (generic): 0.76
4 rolls of toilet paper: 2.49
1 liter spaghetti sauce; 1.98
60-pack baby wipes (generic): 1.55
Cheese: 6-8 euros/kilo
Chicken breast (on sale!): 3.99/kilo
10 free-range chicken eggs: 1.46.
Loaf whole wheat bread: 1.42

Don't forget the 6% sales tax on food.

Also, you have to run all over creation to get everything you want. I go to Lidl for juice and chicken; C1000 for milk and name brand stuff; and a slew of others to take a look at all the DIFFERENT products they have. One store may have brands you've never even heard of.

I checked every grocery store in my neighborhood (3) to find popcorn kernels. Nowhere to be found. No one carries them. Popcorn.

The next week, I find a whole stack of bags of popping corn nonchalantly hanging out at Vomar. And no one knows ANYTHING.

"Where can I find popcorn?"
"No, idea."
"Where can I find popcorn?"
"Someplace else."

I have to continue this later, because I feel my blood pressure rising in consumer frenzy, and my little son wants me to color with him. Tot zo.

Starting to ignore...

2009-10-15T10:14:00.003+02:00

I'm starting to ignore people. Not on purpose, it's just happening because I live here. People avoid eye-contact with strangers, fearing they may have to be polite. I don't get it.

I always tell people who ask that what I miss most about America is the chit-chatting. Anyone in America is potentially a chat buddy.

Here's what I mean. You can talk like this in America to anyone without catching them at all off-guard...

"Wow, what a long line. Is it at least moving?"
"Can you believe the rain today? I just love your umbrella, by the way."
"Nice car. I saw the same one at the dealership. How do you like it?"

If the person in question were to look at you funny or not answer. THEY would be the weird, anti-social person. In which case, you'd invariably say "Okaaaay. Guess not," and give other people in earshot the hairy eyeball, like "can you believe this guy?"

Here, people don't really do that. I get away with it a little more because I am American, but NO ONE will initiate small talk. They just don't do it. And they avoid "embarrassing" situations by not making eye-contact with passersby.

I had something so normal happen that fucked with me in a major way because I realized how much the Dutch is rubbing off on me.

There is a narrow bridge between here and the supermarket. I take my bakfiets over it, but it's a tight squeeze if someone is coming the other direction on foot or on a bike.

On the day in question, an older couple was crossing the bridge slowly. The wife crossed first, and stood admiring the swans on the canal while waiting for her husband (who had a cane) to catch up.

I was barrel-assing home on the bike when I saw them. I stopped the bike and re-adjusted the groceries on my bike rack to make them more stable and to give the man the chance to cross. Here's the scary thing: I didn't NEED to adjust the groceries. They would have been fine. I was AVOIDING having to interact with a stranger without even realizing it! In the US, I would have stopped, smiled and said "Take your time. I have to fix my groceries anyways," to keep him from rushing.

What was amazing (probably because the guy was Surinami and not DUTCH Dutch) is that the man said "Did you stop just for me? You didn't have to," and smiled. Get this. I said "no, I had to adjust my groceries"!!!!!!!! So that he wouldn't feel put out that I changed my plan for him. Because that is what Dutch people do. It may sound subtle - and it is - but anyone who lives here will know what I am talking about.

It's like how when you are on a tram and you accidentally step on someone's foot. They won't even look at you; they'll just take half a step away. Not rude, just not talking. In the US, you'd share embarrassed looks and a "sorry," followed by "no, that's ok."

Really. Go on the tram and try it. I'll wait right here.

My glamorous European lifestyle

2009-09-19T14:37:00.004+02:00

Everyone thinks it's so "GLAMOROUS" to live in Yerp, but I've got news for you: it sucks.

People in N. America seem to think that everyone here is swathed in Italian silks, air-kissing each other at wrought-iron cafe tables. In reality, I spend most of my time just wishing that I could enjoy life instead of getting bogged down in all the day-to-day shit. I worry so much about money that it is gewoon niet normaal. I walk around town pining for all the gorgeous things in boutique windows while simultaneously wondering who the fuck shops there. I can barely get through the month with enough groceries (and we - theoretically - make "good money"). Too many taxes. All our money gets chewed up in BTW and VAT and never comes back (unlike when you return to the US and get a VAT-refund).

Who is buying all the shit this country has to sell? No one has any fucking money. Of course, we aren't up to our eyeballs in consumer debt, either. The government won't even let us spend our OWN money, let alone have a decent line of credit.

Someone once asked me if we didn't just LOVE that the canals are so lovely lit up at night? Yeah, great. The last time my partner and I got to enjoy them was the winter our oldest was born, when we made freezing, late-night/early-morning forced marches all over the city at his colicky command. Precious moments. We've been at the kids' beck and call ever since. If we ever did get some time alone, without the kids, and complete silence, we would just jump directly into bed together...and SLEEP. And sleeping feels pretty much the same in any country.

Oh, but the tiny, overpriced homes are just so CHARMING! I wish we could stay! Wouldn't you just LOVE to live here, darling? Don't do it, you stupid, stupid tourist. Go home and eat yourself senseless at a reasonably-priced restaurant with the change you find in the seats of your gigantic, gas-guzzling SUV.

That's why Europeans are so thin! Eating well here costs MONEY. We don't have it. In the US you can stuff yourself catatonic at steakhouses and TexMex restaurants at every major intersection. God, I'm hungry. But I'm thin.

And somehow I'M the stupid one

2009-09-05T20:04:00.003+02:00

A kid comes in the shop and I ask for his i.d. No problem. He hands it over. His name is Yorick. Yorick, like Hamlet's jester.

So I say "Alas! I knew him." He stares at me. I stare back. Silence.

Now there are more customers looking at me, so I say unto them, "Hamlet." Uncomfortable silence now. This is getting embarrassing. I'll fix this. "You know, Shakespeare." Nothing. Not even a glimmer of recognition. You would think that in the 18-20 years this Yorick has spent on the planet, he would have ONCE run across SOMEONE who would have said "Hey, isn't that the name of some kind of character somewhere?" Does this kid think that he is the first Yorick in the world? Is he pompous enough to think that the name was invented for him? His parents were so cool that they said, "Hey, let's make up a really fucked-up name for our kid. No one else shall have it! We shall call him YORICK." (Like Moxie Crimefighter, the poor kid.)

I asked D, and he had never heard of anyone with the name, so I know it's not a typical Dutch name. It wasn't even spelled with a J, like most Y-ish names are here. Jan, Jarno, Jasper - all sound like they start with a "Y." So, at one point or another, someone must have said to him "Joh, that is a unique name. Where does it come from?" I guess he just takes another haul on his joint and goes "I dunno."

If your name were Cassandra, don't you think at the very least that you'd have heard that a long, long time ago someone in Greek mythology was called Cassandra? I think I'd know the whole story.

So I asked D wtf. He says, "Well, not everyone is as well-read as you are." So that means I'm smart, and yet the Dutch still make me feel like the stupidest person in the room. Well, I guess I am for trying to be funny with these cheese heads. Neem mij niet kwalijk.

Shattered

2009-08-28T22:13:00.002+02:00

So, I got in a fight with my partner and slammed the front door. The second it left my hand, I thought, "Ohhhhh, shit." The top pane of glass shattered. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He had just driven off, so he didn't see it. I called him and said "You're going to kill me, and I don't blame you, but I broke the door. Don't come home, I'll fix it."

So, I got my neighbor over here for help calling glass setters and ran all over town to cash machines and friends to borrow money (It was the end of the month, ok?) and I sure as hell didn't want to ask HIM for it.

Of course, I am due at work, and the glass people are late showing up. One of the guys, who's Greek, takes one look at the door and goes "What, did you have an argument?" I said yes. He said "You'd be surprised how often that happens. That's why we smash plates in Greece. It clears the air."

Of course, they don't have the hideous, water-patterned, 30-year-old glass that matches the BOTTOM pane, so I have them put a plain piece in. You can now see right into the house. Partner comes home and hates it, hates me. This won't do.

So, the next day, down to the home-improvement store for some privacy film. It's much more expensive than you would think, and I ask a worker for help with the measurements. In the meantime, I explain what it is for - a broken glass door pane that doesn't match the bottom pane. He says "What did you have an argument?" (Am I on fucking candid camera?) "Because you'd be surprised how often that happens."

God, I feel so much better now.

...And I'm a big fat crybaby...

2009-08-14T15:36:00.003+02:00

So I get an email from some stom kutwijf about how my email address that I have had since 1995 infringes on her trademark rights. I won't post the email address here, since the whiny c*nt will probably get her panties all in a snit, but here's her email (I even left the typo in):

Hello,

You seem to be using my "***" name that is trademarked. It is appearing in the search engines. I never gave approval for the name "****" to be used by other people.

Please discontinue use of my trademark or "****" and update the search engine listings or I will be forced to have my trademark attorney contact you. I can also have the company, listing your forum submissions, brought into the matter.

With deepest regrets,
Stupid loser with no life.

So here was my response:

Hi - I think you'll find my email address predates your patent (1995, I believe). I am posting to a childcare forum, not in a professional arena, but if you think it is serious enough to shell out to hire an international lawyer to pursue a foreign citizen without two nickles to rub together for warmth, be my guest.

My further advice would be to loosen up and realize that nothing I have posted causes you any harm.

Verder nog, ophouden met zeiken en ga iets nuttigs doen met je kut leven.

Sincerely,

A much older **** than you...

When I'm in a bad mood, you really shouldn't send emails threatening frivilous lawsuits. Although, if she's got the minerals to follow this up, I'm looking forward to costing her a lot of money. Haha-frickity-haha

Sorry for the disturbance, folks

2009-08-09T10:05:00.002+02:00

Sorry I haven't been writing lately. Things have been rough at home and I have been really depressed. On the upside, the stress-and-anxiety diet has me down a size. More this week. I promise.

How are U?

2009-07-11T21:40:00.002+02:00

Why are people "U"-ing me? I'm cool. I'm young. I work in a coffeeshop. People like me don't get "u"-ed.

The problem is, all these adorable little teenagers and oollege kids (am I THAT much older than they are?) come into the shop and I say "Hej. Alles goed?" And they invariably answer "Ja. En met (pause)...U?" Like they doubt it a little. Like, "is she an 'U'?"

Once you've entered the twijfel zone, you really are never getting any younger.

What is really funny is that I run into regular customers all the time. They always look at me so sheepishly, too. I guess it's like seeing your grade-school teacher at the supermarket and realizing for the first time that she exists outside the classroom and buys Cap'n Crunch.

The other day at city hall, I saw THREE regular customers. That's pretty high density for 3 p.m. on a Thursday.

This is what they do:

Look at me like "Hey, it's that lady! Oh no, does she recognize me? She does! (Smile sheepishly) I hope she doesn't call me out and say "Hey, aren't you the kid who always buys three Amnesia joints and a 10-bag of White Widow?" O.K. be cool. She won't call mom. Or will she? She's an 'U' just like my mother! No, it's probably ok...

Then finally... "Hi!"

But I know they're thinking: "What are 'U' doing here?"

Personal Space

2009-07-01T10:38:00.004+02:00

So, if you go into an almost-empty restaurant with one occupied table, where do you sit?

If you're American, you sit at the table farthest from the occupied table. If you are Dutch, you sit RIGHT NEXT TO IT.

WTF? Stay away!

I've asked Dutch people about this phenomenon, and they all say the same thing - it's for the gezelligheid.

I don't find it gezelling to have strange (Dutch) people listening to my conversations and bumping me with their asses whenever they move their chairs. Am I alone here? They want to sit next to you, but not make small talk. It's the omgekeerd wereld. Dutch people like closeness, but don't like chatting.

No one in Holland EVER talks to strangers in a chit-chatty way with ONE notable exception: doctors' waiting rooms. You walk in and shout "Good morning, everyone!" and take a seat.

Now, in America, this is like, the ONE time we don't want to talk to strangers. We have a privacy thing when it comes to medical visits, so don't expect us to talk there.

And keep your germs to yourself and go sit on the other side of the waiting room, while you're at it...

Whooooo are you? Who, who, who,who?

2009-06-14T11:45:00.004+02:00

A kid comes into the coffeeshop last week with an ID that doesn't really look like him. Plus, it's all cracked and almost broken in half. He knows "his" date of birth, so I ask his Zodiac sign. Here's the rest of the conversation:

HIM: "I don't know"

ME: "You don't know your sign?"

HIM: "No. But I think October is Scorpio" (Damn, he's right, but WTF? In the meantime, I see a middle initial on the ID.)

ME: "What's your middle name?"

HIM: "I have no idea."

This is just getting laughable, but the picture looks enough like him that I give it one last ditch and say "Do you have ANYTHING else with your name on it? A credit card? A school ID? His wallet is totally empty.

At this point, I switch to English in total exasperation and say
"Are you seriously going to keep this up?"

I threw him out, much to his indignation, but I wondered, at what point would someone just give up and say, "OK, you got me. Bummer. I'm outta here." This kid hung on until the bitter end, acting like my coworker and I were the nutjobs.

Kids: Do better research. Old people were kids once too. And another thing: Old people don't like to be reminded that they're old, so stop "mevrouw"-ing me. I have my pride.

Falling Star

2009-06-12T16:04:00.003+02:00

So, when your 4-year-old daughter climbs up on the debris on your balcony, 9 stories above the ground, and falls over the railing (MIRACULOUSLY surviving with no lasting injuries), maybe it's a good idea to clear the crap off the balcony. For appearance's sake. Especially when the whole neighborhood can see it.

I'm just saying.

'Cause, like, the neighbors might talk.

Anniversary

2009-06-08T20:16:00.003+02:00

Sorry for the dearth of posts lately. Everyone in the house is sick and it's been tough to get any time to myself.

In other news, June 6th was my fifth year anniversary of moving to Amsterdam. Why does it feel like a hundred?

D told me that I was "sleeping like Jesus" in bed the other night. I told him it was because I've been suffering for 3 years. I am SO going to Hell.

Hopefully the kids will be well enough for daycare on Wednesday and I'll be able to get some posting done.

It's a wash; and I'm dumb

2009-05-24T21:20:00.003+02:00

What is it with the cleanliness problem here?

D was all jazzed about borrowing our neighbor's power washer to wash the patio stones. They're rocky square paver tiles and, you know, OUTDOORS. Power washing them just makes them look rockier. And aren't rocks only, like, compressed dirt anyways? Are we cleaning dirt itself?

As a pleasant side effect, dirty water splattered all over my nice, blooming yellow roses, our back door, exterior walls and even splashed IN the back door a little. That's ok though, because now that he "has the hang of it" he is going to do it again tomorrow. We're going to have the cleanest dirt in town. The Dutch are so fucking irritating.

But I will say this: They know how to count. Even when those cute little youngsters smash their piggybanks to buy pre-rolled joints from me with all 5-cent coins, their counting is impeccable. I have not (yet) ever gotten wrong exact change. Kind of spiffy, considering how many people inadvertently (or purposely) stiffed me when I worked at my dad's store (for more years than I'd like to remember). (Do I use a lot of parentheses, or what?)

It's so typical that WE can get things dirty by trying to clean. It's just like us. A few weeks ago, we were CONVINCED our oven was broken. Everything was undercooked all the time. We fretted and fretted about finding the money to replace it, fought about where to cut corners, etc. and then we figured it out: The 3-dollar plastic kitchen timer we use was running fast. When we set it for 15 minutes, it would go off after 10 or so. Typical. If we hadn't figured it out, we would have bought a new oven and kept using the same stupid timer. I guess the new oven would have been "broken" too.

I did it again this week. I splashed out for a video camera. Using it, I was bummed to see that one half of the display screen was blurry. I thought it was busted, but figured that the video would be sure to come out ok regardless. The video was blurry too. I took the camera back, ready to read them the riot act and go ballistic. I knew they wouldn't be able to get me a new one (it was the last in stock when I bought it) and I was feeling preemptively screwed knowing they'd try to upsell me. You know what they did? Cleaned the lens. Yeah. Problem solved. I'm a fucking moron.

A Toot Tat

2009-05-18T10:53:00.002+02:00

My son just asked me why I have a toot tat on my arm. I can't correct him. It's too frigging cute.

Oops, he did it again

2009-05-13T08:36:00.005+02:00

What is the matter with men?

How is it that I can walk the dogs without incident? How can *I* - a loud-ass American - spend whole days without confrontation or argument, yet men seem to challenge each other constantly, looking to add to their collection of manly stories?

Why can't they be trusted to walk the dogs without getting into shouting matches and fistfights?

I would probably have to count on both hands and both feet the number of confrontations my partner has had while walking the dogs at night.

It doesn't stop with him. My brother SWEARS thst other men go out to clubs looking for a fight and "pick" on him and his friends because they are big and tall(dumbasses, the lot). Of course, we hail from Boston, where the fightin' Irish have been proudly knocking each other's teeth out in tavern brawls since the Potato Famine. A Saturday night fight is practically a given when booze is involved.

Is this some kind of repressed hunting instinct? Do women have repressed nesting instincts? Is that why we have tea parties and sewing circles? (Yeah, not quite.) Is that why we always want to see the inside of our friends' houses? Nesting envy?

Anyways. Last night, dogs were walked, a bicycle came along, words were exchanged about the dogs walking loose (allowed, by the way), a brick was thrown, and the story ends with an unconscious man on the dijk. "I think I might have broken his jaw."

What do I say to this? "Bravo"? "Good job honey"? "I'm so proud"? "I can't wait to tell my friends at our next tea party"?

Helplessly, I insisted he should have at LEAST called the police to say "Hi. Someone threw a rock at my dogs, so I knocked him out. Come pick him up off the dijk." That erases some of the guilt for me. I'm just afraid that tonight there will be more bikes and more rocks. Aren't these people supposed to be Dutch?

What are we going to do with them?

English Bulldog PSA

2009-04-26T20:33:00.004+02:00

English Bulldogs can't swim. Isn't that stupid? Talk about a design flaw: a dog that can't doggie paddle.

Here are some lessons our resident top-heavy hound Ashley learned this weekend while the kids were fishing with Papa:

1) Don't drink out of the fish bucket

2) When someone empties the bucket to keep you from drinking out of it, don't get your head stuck in the bucket.

3) When you get your big, fat head stuck in the bucket, don't try to back your way out of it.

4) While backing up trying to dislodge your head, don't fall in the water.

5) When you fall into the water, keep your nose up as long as you can before sinking like a garden gnome.

6) Thank daddy. A lot.

Stupid dog.

New Course Offerings!!

2009-04-24T08:57:00.012+02:00

NEW BIJ NTI -

How NOT to be an Inconsiderate Prick
People constantly calling you names you just don't understand? Can't keep out of fights in traffic jams? Spouses keep divorcing you even though there's nothing wrong with YOU? Then this course is for you!

Among other topics, we'll cover:

--Why the sun rises and sets (HINT: Nothing to do with you!)
--How to stop getting punched and chased with crowbars
--Using an ashtray in place of houseplants
--Remembering to acknowledge special occasions (Not just for the elderly anymore!)
--R-E-S-P-E-C-T; More than just a catchy tune!

Special subjects for the advanced:

--The words "I'm sorry" and why the heck everyone's so nuts about them
--Loneliness and depression - Why they aren't solved by condescension and ridicule
--The End of the World and why it won't come about by lack of mopping
--Overcoming the scourge of Dutch heritage

Special Companion Course taught by partner of the above teacher:

How to Become an Inconsiderate Prick

--No curriculum submitted. Bring your own comb.

Showdown at the Kruidvat

2009-04-22T12:47:00.006+02:00

I got one of those recycle-bin-clogger mailings the other day with all the store flyers in it. Looking through Kruidvat's weekly offerings, I saw the cutest melamine plate set, with an adorable family enjoying its nostalgic little patterns during a park picnic.

Anyone in the melamine market in Holland knows that these cute, unbreakable dinner-sized plates are hard to find. When you do find them, chances are, they are about 2.29 per piece, and ugly to boot. Well, these were polka-dotted and checkered in bright sunny colors, and only .79-.99 cents. AND there was matching flatware. I thought "Geez, I'd like some of that stuff, but they'll probably sell out before I can get over to the piece-of-shit Kruidvat in my neighborhood.

But wait! V had to go to the peuterspeelzaal. I could be there first thing Tuesday morning when they opened. So after dropping him off, I wheeled the bakfiets across the neighborhood with M in tow.

There was a line in the aisle. I'm not kidding. Five or six melamine-hungry huisvrouwen were champing at the bit for MY sturdy dinnerware! All of them looked suspiciously like the poop lady and were harrying the hell out of the one flustered salesgirl trying to fill the shelves.

Tucking M under my arm like a football, I muscled through the strapping surgical-stocking set and got my man - um, plates. I also got flatware and storage bowls. I was just tickled pink-and-white polka-dots with myself.

I washed everything when I got home and put them in the cabinets. V just loved them and wanted his milk in one of the cups and his sandwich on one of the plates.

D - never missing the opportunity to rain on my parade said "I don't want these stupid plates in this cabinet. What did you get them for, anyways? We don't need them."

Well, I know SOMEONE who won't be invited to my picnic.

McBike for my McJob

2009-04-17T09:31:00.004+02:00

I need a cheap bike with handbrakes (terugtraprem? WTF are we, 7 years old?) to get back and forth to my job distributing drugs to the masses. The bakfiets is kinda heavy to hit it back and forth all the time, and if D wants to go out with the kids, he gets stuck with the car.

Since I have a McJob - a job they'll hire anyone with a pulse for; think McDonald's, pizza delivery, customer service representative, you get the picture - I am going to call it a McBike; a shitcan bike just for back and forth to work.

I almost got blown off the bikepath by someone last night. NO ONE on the path, and this guy has to tell me that I'm in his way because I am riding in the middle, instead of to one side. He caught me off guard, since he snuck up on me, so instead of getting my bitch on, I actually said "Sorry. I'm a little out of it from work."

Here's where it gets weird....He SMILED and said "Yeah, me too," kind of like, apologetically. Like, sorry dat ik zo leilijk deed.

So like, being nice gets niceness in return?? Could that be it, Dutch people?

Naaah. I'll just get a smaller bike so I won't get in anyone's way. That way I won't have to talk to people.

American "Dream"

2009-04-15T21:54:00.002+02:00

So, I work in a coffeeshop now. We don't sell coffee.

I had a girl in today who kept her nose stuck inside her shirt because she can't stand the smell (which I don't get, since there is no smoking), and asked what she should get her father for his birthday, since he's a hardcore hash smoker.

I gave her a nice piece of Zwarte Nepal while her boyfriend asked me if I could giftwrap it.

What fucking planet do I live on? Please?

Do-It-Yourself Dutch Gratitude

2009-04-11T07:13:00.005+02:00

Something cool happened yesterday. Well, it could have been cool, but it ended up being really lame.

I went to the bike store, a place I don't normally go, in the morning, On a tree nearby, I saw a sign for a missing cat. Being a bleeding heart, I always read such things, hoping to one day be a hero. This one was a common black and white cat with a collar and a white ring around its tail.

Hmmm. That would be something you could actually spot, I thought. A cat with a white ring on its tail.

Later that day, D tore into me about not returning the glass recyclables that I "insist" on collecting instead of putting in the landfill, much to his chagrin. They were taking up too much room in the closet. OK, fine. I put them in the bakfiets along with baby M and head the opposite direction towards the supermarket.

In Holland when you recycle glass, you throw it in an underground bin, listening to each one shatter at the bottom. This was my first visit to this particular glass bin, and didn't I see the goddamn CAT foraging for food behind it.

Collar, white ringed tail, eating garbage, meowing at me, but not coming too close. This was my man.

I couldn't get close enough to read his tag, and I didn't want him to take off, so I did what any animal lover would do, and hauled ass back to the sign, a mile in the other direction.

I called the guy, breathlessly, and he said he'd go right over and hung up. Then I though, oh shit, what if there is more than one container and he goes to the wrong one? What if he comes so close to finding him, and then is at the wrong side of the parking lot?

So, I peddaled back to the supermarket, and sure enough, there was a guy wandering around by the wrong glass container. I waved him over, and he said "are you the one who called me?" I said "Yes, I'll help you look."

As soon as the guy got over to where I was, the cat materialized from between two cars, and meowed his way over to him. "Blacky!"

He scooped him up and said "Wow, he's gotten thin."

Me: "How long has he been missing?"

Him: "More than two weeks. OK, thanks." And he walks off.

I went home, just tickled pink with myself. I thought about the kids who would be so happy to see him - because, let's face it, you don't name a cat "Blacky" unless you're under age 10.

I thought, "they'll call me any minute to thank me. As soon as he gets home with the cat, his wife will call me to thank me." I thought, I definitely won't take the "reward" advertised on the sign. I was just SO HAPPY I found him. What are the chances I would be in two places I never go on ONE day, and find a cat that's been missing for weeks? Wikkid cool.

I figured as soon as they were done hugging and greeting their little lost cat, someone would say "Hey, let's call that lady and say thank you."

As depressed as I have been lately, it really lifted my spirits to think about. What a nice Easter surprise for the kids.

Here's the thing though: They never called to thank me. Not even a text message with a big "DANK JE WEL!" I don't expect a reward, but WTF? Do you know how much it would have meant to me to be thanked for going out of my way like that?

Am I an egotist? Do I seek praise where praise is not due? Should I be satisfied with a cursory "bedankt"? Would I treat the return of one of OUR beloved pets the same way? No fucking way.

See, this is what you get for having American expectations in a Dutch neighborhood. No wonder people mind their own business. Why bother helping anyone?

Are my expectations way out of line here?

"Ik Ben de Paashaas Peter ...Who?"

2009-04-08T08:32:00.010+02:00

It's that time of year again, when the crocus bloom, baby chicks are born, and that elusive little devil the Easter Bunny puts eggs in a basket to deliver them to children in honor of...the Resurrection of Christ?

What the fuck is going on here? Santa makes a little sense, but where the f do we get the Easter Bunny?

Ik bedoel, our Muslim friend Achmed asked us about the Easter Bunny and Easter, and the best advice I could give him - get this - was to read the passage from David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day where he and a French teacher have it out over Easter while he and his classmates try to describe it to a Muslim student.

This is seriously the best I can do. David Sedaris and I have something in common (other than, of course, both being hilarious, bright and gifted writers...ahem). He is Greek Orthodox and I am Eastern Orthodox, which are the same religion, in different languages. (Both of them are pretty much OldSkool Catholic, only with funkier languages mumbled through more facial hair.)

The teacher tells Sedaris that he has it all wrong, and it's a BELL that flies in from Rome to bring chocolates to all the children. He can't figure out why the bell would have to come from so far away when all the bells in Paris are just sitting around doing nothing. Would a foreign bell even get work? And why the fuck is it a bell? She says something like, well, why the fuck is it a bunny, then?

I highly recommend not only this passage - which made me laugh so hard when I read it that my sides ached and I was crying - but the entire book, which is hilarious; especially when you are a depressive, deprecating sack of shit like I am.

I said something to Achmed about the eggs being symbolic of rebirth and resurrection, i.e. THE Resurrection. The Wiki on the Easter Bunny fails to mention this. This theory of, well, mine, apparently.

Anyone have a better story?

A McJob?

2009-04-06T09:31:00.002+02:00

I might have a McJob. Not actually at McDonalds. It's much, much worse (or better). I need the money so bad and I need the tax benefits for daycare, so I am going to take it if I get it. I have a proefdag today. WTF is that?

(Hopefully I can do ok despite the fact that I am having a reaction to my medication and I can barely stand up from dizziness. I hate my medicine. I hate it almost as much as the illness. Mental illness. I am mentally ill. I am mental. With this medication reaction, I actually feel crazy - motherfucking crazy, insane and unstable - for the first time in years. My poor kids. They don't know what they're going to get any second.)

Even if I make 50 cents an hour, the tax breaks make it well worth it. God, I hope I don't trip and fall, puke, or lose my hearing, memory or vision. All the charming, CHARMING effects of the "cure." Instead of being a mental deficient, I can be a physical one. YAY DRUGS!!!

I'll let you know.

Partner Swap

2009-04-03T17:29:00.002+02:00

Just kidding. I got you though, didn't I?

Book swap, actually. I am organizing an English language book swap because I am sick to shit of having to write my own material in order to have something to read. Libraries don't have enough, and bookstores make you pay 15 euros for lousy chick-lit fluff novels, nevermind a decent page-turner. I could easily blow a week's grocery money on books that would only take me a day or two to finish. (Similar to a week's worth of groceries. God I have a fat ass.)

I've already posted to a couple expat forums, but I thought I'd clue in my VAST readership (both of you). So, anyone in The Netherlands who is down with it can shoot me an email at amsterdamyankee@gmail.com and I'll count you in.

The Neighbor Paradox

2009-03-28T18:53:00.005+01:00

You know how Dutch people are standoffish and not chatty and generally not known for their friendliness? Well, there is one major exception: The Neighbor.

In the affluent Boston suburb I grew up in, we didn't speak to our neighbors. For 35 years now. We can talk to strangers for hours, but we ignore the shit out of our neighbors. Here, it's the complete opposite.

I was reading an online forum where an American was looking for a petsitter. The overwhelming response was "Don't you have neighbors?"

No matter how unappealing or incompatable they are, your neighbors are fucking THERE and ready to serve. It's an expectation. You don't have to worry about your pets, plants or mail while you are away. If you need a ride someplace, or someone to let the cable guy in, feel free to call on your neighbors. They'll lend you a car or bike, pass out candy to your kids and help you clean the gutters.

Inexplicably, Dutch people are proud of being good neighbors. Be a bad neighbor and you risk being labelled the dreaded "asociaal." Feel free to ignore strangers, though. It's part of the maddening and puzzling duality of the Dutch.

Every neighbor we've had has been helpful to the point of our being tearfully grateful. Most recently, our newest neighbor served as an emergency babysitter for baby M at 8 a.m. and lent me her (SWEET) car to take V to the doctor when he had pneumonia. No problem. She's our neighbor.

It must be in the Dutch constitution: 1) Ignore that the monarchy is totally useless and robs you blind, and 2) Be a good neighbor.

Shopping under the influence

2009-03-25T21:55:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I was so sick and feverish and I went to C-1000 and Lidl anyways. I realized in the drink aisle at C-1000 that I was talking to my shopping cart. The stupid thing didn't understand a word I said.

I know what I hate

2009-03-22T21:17:00.003+01:00

I finally have pinpointed what it is that I hate about the Dutch landscape.

That it's flat and flavorless, most people know, but there's more. There are no big trees, which I find depressing, but my Dutch friend told me that on a recent trip to Ireland, all the big trees made her fell "claustrophobic." WTF is the matter with this picture?

Having no big trees makes me feel like there is such a lack of privacy. You can see a cow taking a crap in a field three miles away. You can see EVERY house in the neighborhood. You can probably see every villager every second of the day.

Yet, there has always been something more about the landscape that has bothered me, I've just never been able to put my finger on it until now. Now, I've finally grasped it.

Here it is: There is not one inch (centimeter) of this country that is not planned, planted, pruned and predictable. The place is so small, that every citizen has been over every speck of it. There is no wild, untamed anything ANYWHERE. THAT is what bothers me.

At home, even in my yard, I'd discover new things - "oh look, a new sapling... Hey! A rabbit!...What the hell kind of plant is this? A weed?" There are huge expanses of America that hold tons of surprises and oddities. Giant mountain ranges, deserts, hills and lakes that make you feel far from the rest of the world, etcetera, etcetera. Here is so WYSISYG, it makes me feel like I am trapped.

Phew. At least I know what it is now.

Viva la revolucion!

2009-03-18T08:20:00.003+01:00

So my 3-year-old son has this weird exclamation he uses when he does something dramatic, like a somersault, or smashes a racecar. He yells; "MEXICO!!!"

I have no idea where he got it, or heard it, or whatever.

This has been going on for a couple of months. I never really thought much about it until the other day when he was playing and suddenly yelled "TEXAS!!"

WTF is going on here? Has he secretly been watching the history channel? Is he a reincarnated soldier from the Alamo?

We live in Holland, for Chrissakes. It's not like everyone is running around speaking Spanish or wearing ten-gallon hats and eating giant steaks. Mmmmm. Steak.

Holland Sucks

2009-03-12T10:29:00.003+01:00

I hate the weather. I hate my medication. I am so depressed. I'm sick of stroopwafels and bicycles. I love my kids, but I think they're trying to kill me. My partner is a pain in my ass. I hate mopping the floor. I hate that my dogs keep vomiting and pissing everywhere.

I hate my clogs. I hate that I am too tired to wear high heels. I hate remembering how beautiful I once was. And respected. And I made money. I hate that I sold my beautiful 4-bedroom house that was "too small" when I was single. I wish I could go live there by the water - the REAL water - and have a good life. And a car.

I am sick of laundry. Why is there always so much of it? It is the cockroach of housework.

I hate that people here don't chitchat. I want meaningless conversation with people I don't care about, God fucking damnit. I want 32-oz. to-go coffee that I can spill on my lap while I drive an automatic transmission car.

I'm tired. I'm tired of everything being my fault all the time. I am tired of the energy it takes to live away from my family and the people who once admired me. I fucking hate tulips.

Will Edit for Food

2009-03-06T21:32:00.003+01:00

Why don't people want to interview me? Why do they keep sending me form letters? Do they even read my resume and see how perfect I am for them? Why will no one hire me?

I am such a nice person. I am such a good editor. I'm, like, wikkid smaht.

Doesn't anyone need me? I know they do. I have seen these horrific Dutch publications. I have spotted mistakes on billboards. I have picked through D's contracts and company documents with a red pen, sweating, thinking of the poor people who have to sign these horribly inaccurate, misspelled nightmares of legally binding contracts.

HIRE ME. Fucking hire me! HELP ME HELP YOU. You Dutch companies need me so much it's not even funny.

We need groceries. We need a new mattress. We need curtains. Our insurance company is gunning for us.

Come on, you Dutch bastards. Give in and admit you need me.

It makes Senseo.

2009-02-28T15:14:00.003+01:00

So I am having a great inward chuckle at the Dutch today. A friend went to a bar last night and when I asked how it was, he said "It was great. Especially because we could smoke inside."

"Whaaaat?" I thought, since there is a smoking ban, right? Yes, but as Andre told me, "they have a piggy bank on the bar that all smokers have to put a euro in." What for? "To save up for the fine."

That is so Dutch, I can't even believe it. Americans would raise the drink prices, or just suck it up and pay the fine, or most likely, not let anyone smoke at all and piss and moan about how they will go out of business. Dutch people have socialism so ingrained in their culture that they figure hey, we're all in it together. Pitch in for the fine. We're all at fault, we'll all pay for it.

And they're SO FUCKING PRAGMATIC. Our neighbor - and coincidentally, Dre's belle du jour last night - was recently part of a marketing focus group. At the end of the group, they could bring in their old Senseo coffee makers and receive a brand new one for free.

Well, this neighbor had a Senseo that was fairly newish, so she thought it over, called her brother, and made a deal. She'd bring him HER current Senseo in exchange for his OLD one, which she would trade in for the new one for herself. That way, everyone was happy. Like Austin Power's dad would say, "only a bloody Dutchman."

Honestly, that level of thought just blows me away. I'll bet her brother brags to everyone who drinks coffee at his house about his "new" coffeemaker.

I can think of a thousand examples of this kind of judicious thinking on the part of the Dutch. I wonder if they're ancestrally related to the Scottish?

Mama is simple

2009-02-24T14:19:00.002+01:00

I was telling my brother-in-law that he should see the pictures of when we moved house here in Amsterdam, because it is so different from moving in America. I said something like "We use a big pulley and lower everything out the window."

Then my three-year-old pipes up, "A pulley is a 'simple machine' used to lift heavy things with 'leverage'."

I made a noise like "uuuughhhaaaaa."

Stop watching TV, kid, it's rotting your brain...

Cold and lonely

2009-02-13T02:08:00.003+01:00

So, my trip isn't going quite as planned. I was kind of hoping everyone would be fighting over who gets to babysit my boys and I'd be spending every afternoon being massaged and exfoliated at my mom's day spa. Instead, everyone is sick with a ear-throat thing (me included) and whenever they aren't sleeping, my family isn't around. It's just like being at home alone, only the TV's in English.

Not even ONE person has challenged me to eat my weight in Dunkin' Donuts baked goods. (But I am self-motivated, so no one will stop me reaching my goal.)

Everyone is broke, so no frivolous spending orgies (how many hits do you think I'll get on "Amsterdam orgy" now?) and tons of stores have gone out. The malls look like ghost towns. I'd heard about the American economy being in the toilet, but it's downright scary to be in a prosperous city like Boston and have the problems be so apparent.

On the upside, the boys were able to visit the local fire station today. We brought donuts to the firemen and asked for a tour. They were very nice and even though they had been fire-fighting all night and all the gear was out and wet, gave us a nice tour. My camera batteries ran out halfway through, naturally.

We're still battling jetlag and we're only here one more week. I hope things pick up. I'll try to post at least one more time before I leave.

Thanksgiving Day is coming...

2009-02-01T11:21:00.005+01:00

I feel like Oliver Twist anticipating my upcoming trip "home" to Boston. All I can think about is what and where I am going to eat. Zaftig's, Jae's, Il Panino, Di Giacomo's, shit, even Chili's. (I've even persuaded my aunt to cook me a real Thanksgiving dinner, since I haven't had one in years.)

I have a taste for, as my snotty friend calls it "blue-collar food" like nachos and steak tips. It's kind of guilty pleasure. I love places like Chili's and Ground Round, but like everyone else, I pretend I don't. "Oh, let's just go to Ruby Tuesday. It's RIGHT here..."

I can't wait to have what I consider real Chinese food - isn't it weird how EVERY country has it's own interpretation of Chinese food? And all the restaurants are actually run by Chinese people? I have never found a proper eggroll or crab rangoon outside the US. Here it's all thick noodles, sambal and goopy sauces. In Italy, Chinese food is totally different too, not to mention that Italian food doesn't even resemble my American/Italian all-time favorite - Chicken Parmigiana. Do the Parmigiani know how we have bastardized their name in America?

It's going to take all my self-restraint not to eat Dunkin' Donuts coffeecake muffins until I vomit, then eat some more. Or go to McDonald's without spending a week's grocery money on a happy meal. Ahh. America, where you can get fat for $1.99. Bring it!

Of Dikes and Waffles

2009-01-28T13:51:00.003+01:00

Stroopwafels are really the only significant Dutch contribution to world cuisine that I'm aware of. Pea soup, mmm. Knobby sausages mashed into potatoes with leeks, yummy. Frikandels - chopped every-part-of-animals and deep fried then shaped like what I imagine an 80-year-old man's naughty bits look like (add a couple croquettes, you get the idea), zalig!

So I am going to the US next week and I am taking a suitcase full of stroopwafels. It's a SMALL suitcase, but still, it's full of friggin' cookies (if you can call a stroopwafel a "cookie"). We have a friend who works in a waffle factory, so he totally hooked us up. It's really the only thing my family wants from Holland.

On another note, I just saw a girl get pushed off the dike by her friends. I thought what a funny expression that would make for a lesbian reverting to dating men:

"Sally is married now? I thought she was a lesbian."

"Yeah, but then she met her husband and he pushed her off the dyke."

Then there are probably men who can push a woman onto the dike too, but that's another story.

Dutch "Spring"

2009-01-25T19:56:00.004+01:00

It's freezing but clear and dry in Holland today, which makes it "perfect weather" for a bike ride. Dutch people are so frigging mental. You can NOT convince me that these hardy bastards don't have Viking blood.

D saddled up the kids and dogs and headed to the park in the bakfiets, with F and her friend on rollerblades and a bicycle, respectively. It was our English Bulldog's first time in the bakfiets and she was nervous, apparently she jumped out once they got to the park and chose running alongside instead, followed shortly thereafter by Jip, our Maltese.

I haven't ridden my bakfiets since we moved here in October because M hates it so much, but he's ALMOST big enough now. I miss it like crazy!!

Favorite Colors

2009-01-23T06:36:00.002+01:00

I asked V what his favorite color is. Most three-year-olds say stuff like "Green!" or "Blue!"

In case I need any more proof that he is a little different, he said "Orange. No wait. Dark orange."

At least it's the color of Holland.

USA! USA!

2009-01-23T06:26:00.002+01:00

Fina-fucking-ly, I am going to the US to visit my family. This will be the first time they meet baby M, and everyone is excited.

I can't wait to load my big, fat ass into a big, fat car and go to big, fat stores. Isn't that what America is all about?

I told my mom that I am gaining weight living in suburbs, since I am not riding my bakfiets as much. (That will change soon - M can't sit in a baby seat quite yet, and he HATES the infant seat) She said "Oh, well, we can eat vegetables while you're here." I was like "No way! Who the hell goes to America NOT to eat?" (At least in America, I have serious competition. I might not even qualify as fat there.)

M will fit in the bike seat by the time we get back, and I can use him as resistance while biking. I should just load the bakfiets with bricks. It's been a long winter...

I knew him. Horatio.

2009-01-17T19:40:00.002+01:00

I am depressed and philosophical tonight, and thinking of one of my favorite Latin authors, Horace. It gives me some comfort to think that he sat looking at the same stars that I was looking at tonight, but I wonder if he found any more wisdom in them than I did. It's nice to think they haven't changed much since he wrote about his philosophies. All I know is that it's easier to be 'integer vitae' than 'scelerisque purus.'

WTF is wrong here?

2009-01-13T22:46:00.002+01:00

I've had two EXCELLENT interviews for jobs here and both have come up empty. I am starting to get discouraged.

And why the f is my blogger post thingy suddenly starting to spellcheck in Dutch?

I am waiting to hear about a temporary assignment job that would be really good, since I need the ducats.

I am tired of getting excited about every opportunity, having everything go great, and then being told I am either overqualified or GET THIS - "not ready" for full time work. The blatant mother discrimination is rampant here. How do they get away with it?

The last interviewer told me that she thought I should think about whether I am "really ready" for full time work away from my children. I'm fucking here, aren't I, bitch? Being away from my kids is immaterial. Color me f-ing pissed.

Someone get a gurney...

2009-01-11T08:20:00.004+01:00

I actually had a dream last night that someone made me eat sub-par cheese and forced me to say that it was good. I was choking it down thinking "Oh God, this cheese has such a bad aftertaste."

I've officially jumped off the deep end (of the dike). My nightmares now involve cheese. Deliver me from Holland.

Marijuana Users' Manual

2009-01-02T09:33:00.004+01:00

So, here they actually make users' instructions for pot. Here is a nice list of dos and don'ts from a local coffeeshop's packaging:

(Translated from Dutch and shortened a little - don't Dutch people know this shit already?)

1) Use cannabis for pleasure. A joint doesn't solve problems.

2) If you smoke every day, try not to smoke a couple days a week.

3) Cannabis affects concentration, therefore, don't use it at school, work or in traffic.

4) Some kinds of cannabis are stronger than others and have a higher level of THC. An experienced smoker knows precisely when he has had enough and can then stop. If you are smoking for the first time, you don't know how much you can handle. Inform yourself therefore, over what kind you should buy.

5) If you don't have a lot of experience with marijuana, it's a good idea to avoid drinking alcohol at the same time.

6) If you take medication and want to smoke, consult your doctor first. Do not use while pregnant.

7) Don't buy cannabis on the street. Find a bonafide coffeeshop.

8) When smoking cannabis, substances like tar and carbon monoxide are released that can be hazardous to your health.

9) When eating spacecake it is difficult to determine how much cannabis you are taking in. Before you know it, it can be too much. Start with a small piece. It can take from 45 to 90 minutes to take effect. Wait for the effect and don't eat another piece or you will take in too much.

10) Sometimes cannabis can have a bad effect. You can feel sick or nervous. Find a quiet place and eat or drink something sweet. Don't panic. After an hour, the worst is over.

11) Consider that if you mix cannabis with tobacco that you smoke tobacco too. Nicotine is addictive.

12) Don't take cannabis with you when you leave the country.

There you have it folks: the twelve step program to Amsterdam.

Oh. Crap.

2008-12-31T09:56:00.005+01:00

How much does a toilet seat cost? Seriously. Like, 10 bucks? 20? 29.99?

Here in Holland, my family has a tragic history of toilet seats. (If my father knew I was talking about this he'd say "Let's elevate the level of conversation, shall we?")

My first Dutch toilet seat had only half a cover. The previous tenants - my friends - split it in half having sex on it. Really. They should have been ashamed, but they weren't.

So, while I was vacationing in the US with my family, D made some decorating changes in the apartment, one of which being a new toilet seat. It was an awesome one - See-through and full of barbed wire. 70 euros. This was before we had kids together and still flush with money, as it were. I was pissed that he spent so much money on it, but it was pretty cool.

A few months later, D's daughter took a flying butt leap onto the can and broke one of the bolt-thingies that held the seat on. We bought hardware and did our best to cobble it together, but it was pretty much up shit's creek.

In our second apartment together, we kept the standard-issue pot cover, but we were itching for a new one. We'd finally tossed the barbed wire one - reluctantly - so papa went out and bought a bright red one on sale. It was the only colorful thing in the depressing little box of a toilet room. And the peasants rejoiced.

When we moved on to toilet-training V (what a joke, by the way. I hate to admit it, but he's 3 and still in diapers) I saw a sweet seat in a flyer with a dual purpose. The lid had a baby-sized seat in it that closed over the adult one. Had to have it.

Well, that one was so great (and expensive) that we brought it with us to our new house. (Who moves toilet seats? Honestly!) We put it in our half-bath downstairs, thinking it would be of best use there.

Well, I'm afraid the reign of the double-assed seat has come to an end. A friend came over with her two little girls who are both in the throes of toilet training and obsessive (like all Dutch people) and they spent almost the entire visit jumping on and off the toilet. They seriously each went about 5 times during a 2-hour visit.

D noticed the next morning that one of the plastic fasteners had snapped, causing the dreaded "side-slide" when you sit.

I'll tell you one thing, folks, when a toilet seat breaks a bolt or a fastening clip, it's like a horse breaking a leg. You can try and patch it up a thousand different ways and nurse it back to health, but it never works, and you end up shooting the poor bastard.

Any suggestions? We're in the market again...

Pay the pijper

2008-12-24T21:51:00.002+01:00

(Pijper - pronounced "piper" - means someone who gives blow jobs. Time to pay the pijper, get it? I made a funny...)

I didn't pay my cable/phone bill and I am shut off. The company, UPC, is run by a bunch of dickwads. I was behind in payments, so I called, paid what was past due, and they shut me off anyways, while pretending everything was just peachy keen on the telephone. Pijpers.

I am pirating a signal from an unwitting neighbor by balancing my laptop on a windowsill. I should be back up for real in a few days.

All of that to say; sorry I haven't been posting a lot. I'm a big, fat loser. Actually, I'm just a big loser, but I will be a fat loser too, if I don't let up on the Christmas chocolate and crap. What is it about the birth of Jesus that makes us pig out?

The first rule is...

2008-12-20T21:26:00.004+01:00

OK - D and I watched Fight Club last night. I've already seen it a few times. I went to bed early because, well, I was tired. This morning, he told me he hated it. FIGHT CLUB. He hated it!

I think I have to reassess our entire relationship. I mean, what kind of person doesn't LOVE Fight Club?!?!?

"We just had a near-life experience," "I am Jack's smirking revenge." I can only dream of being such a good writer.

IMDB rates it #22 out of the top 250 movies. Almost 300,000 people gave it an average rating of 8.7 on a scale of 10.

I suppose it takes guts to admit you hate a movie that everyone loves. Like in In and Out with Kevin Kline when all the old ladies are sharing their deep dark secrets and one says, "I'll say it right out loud; I HATED the Bridges of Madison County."

(I don't want to talk about not getting my dream job that I interviewed for this week, so this seems like a good way to avoid it...)

World's Ugliest Dog

2008-12-14T06:50:00.002+01:00

My partner just adopted the world's ugliest dog. She is an English Bulldog who was used for breeding and needed a place to spend her retirement. She is very sweet and gentle, but looks like Jabba the Hut. Or like one of those Sea Elephants who roar at each other and waddle around on the beach and bite each other for dominance.

So this is Ashley. Talk about a face only a mother could love. Fortunately for her, I'm a mother...

...And a flashy New Year

2008-12-12T12:13:00.001+01:00

The flasher put up flashing Christmas lights. This shit just writes itself...

Another naked neighbor

2008-12-11T20:35:00.002+01:00

What is it with me and the naked neighbors?

I was at the window on the telephone looking out at the bike path where two girls were stopped and apparently shouting to a man across the water on his balcony. They seemed to exchange words and then he opened his bathrobe in the classic "flasher" style. They laughed and started to pedal off when he did it again (and jiggled. Eew).

A flasher. Really? I mean, it's so '70s. And can I get a moratorium on the naked neighbors now, please? WTF?

In all honesty, I laughed my ass off. After everything I've seen and heard and experienced here, it was practically a quaint, retro throwback; a nostalgic flash down memory lane. It's so benign.

My poor aunt on the telephone was traumatized, and when I told a friend, he was concerned that I might be upset. Like, should I be? Am I really this desensitized? Or am *I* the sicko, since I chuckled all afternoon?

Zee Germans are(n't) coming...

2008-12-04T09:03:00.003+01:00

So we still have air raid sirens here. They run them once a month as a test. If you hear them at any other time, you're supposed to go home and listen to the radio, work on your victory garden, collect aluminum foil, and hide the kids under the stairs or something...

Are we really doing this? I mean, really? Is the emergency broadcast system not enough?

It scares the holy shit out of you when you hear it. I always think of the scene in Hope and Glory when they are all hiding under the stairs during the air raid and the daughter says something like "Don't drop it on us, drop it on the neighbor. She's a cow!" Great movie.

One of my friends, the freak-show performer, got a Hitler-style haircut, and wears it all swept to the side and everything, only it's fuschia, and he does things like swing bowling balls from his piercings. I suppose some people would find that offensive, but they're probably the same people that find http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com offensive, so there you have it.

Dutch Style

2008-11-30T07:42:00.003+01:00

So I have surmised that there are two kinds of Dutch interiors. For the sake of argument, I'll call them Dutch Traditional, and Dutch Modern, though I have no idea what their real names are.

Dutch Modern is totally clutter free, and uses paradoxically large pieces of furniture in small Dutch spaces. Houses look like they have been staged, and no one really lives there. Very high style, slightly sterile, nothing on the countertops, plants encased in glass vases, big modern art on the walls, etc.

The Traditional design goes like this: Take every piece of kitschy crap anyone in your family has given you and fill in the gaps with tacky store-bought statuettes and fake tulips until there is no space on any counter, windowsill or bookshelf. Keep it dusted. Don't let anyone touch it. Get frilly curtains, fussy overwrought tables, and every kind of fucking garden gnome on earth for that paved back yard with the fake grass. FAKE grass. Because we don't want to have to take care of it.

Here's the thing, no one has a sense of decorative irony. I'd like to think I do. We have a fairly modern house, but we have a bunch of those little "kissing girl and boy" Delft Blue figurines. (We give them to each other every time we make up from a fight. Don't ask how many we have.) I bought some old-fashioned milk jugs and display them all together. I like REAL flowers, and all frilly shit is absent.

I told D I thought it would be funny to get a garden gnome for the yard and do something funny with it, like spray paint it purple and cover it with rhinestones and let the kids play "find the gnome" with it. He looked at me like I was mental.

I really like our house, but since no one here does in-between, I can't help wondering if our guests think "Nice house, if only they'd get rid of/add more crap."

And tell me this...

2008-11-23T06:03:00.001+01:00

How can a man who eats raw fish slathered in raw onions turn his nose up at my baked stuffed chicken with apple/walnut stuffing?

Tran...silly

2008-11-22T20:54:00.001+01:00

Should I be flattered or horrified that most people find my blog by searching for "Amsterdam Tranny"?

An Open Letter to the Dutch

2008-11-20T09:28:00.003+01:00

Here is something I've been meaning to say to you people...

We all know you are pale and come from a sun-free country. Embrace it and PLEASE STOP TANNING!

(NO!!!!!!------------>)

Forget that it ages you and causes skin cancer - You look RIDICULOUS! This is not Spain. No one is buying it, and your faces look like catchers' mitts.

There are young, lovely women here with great hair, figures, clothes, etc., and their faces are full of deep brown wrinkles.

So girls (and guys), don't lay out in the "sun" when it's 60 degrees Fahrenheit. You'll catch a cold. If you want color, ride that 1950s-looking bike of yours as fast as your skinny-bitch legs will go until your cheeks are flushed pink. It works so much better on you!

I'm no swarthy lass, but I know enough not to hit the tanning beds. I am just waiting impatiently for lily-white skin to be "in." (Has it ever been?) My own son is so pale that if he were a little less attractive, he might be mistaken for a resident of You Know Where. (UKnow where...)

I too, have grown sickly pale during my residence here, but I will NEVER, EVER use a bottle tan, God help me. I don't want to look like I'm from Jersey, after all...

Of course, of course

2008-11-15T18:52:00.005+01:00

There are two kinds of people in the world; fanciers and non-fanciers.

You know what I'm talking about. People who have Persian cats and therefore buy cat magazines, join Persian cat clubs, chat about Persian cats online, debate the merits of cat fur "colors" and superior breeding and brag about their cats' "unique" temperments.

Let me make something clear - These people are freaks.

I therefore find myself in a quandry, since my stepdaughter has now begun horseback riding lessons. You're either a horse person or a non-horse person. There is no kinda horse person. You can't go half-horse. (I suppose you can go quarter-horse, but onward...)

In the US, horse people are very horsey. Here, I think they are less so, since Dutch people are outdoorsy and active, and practically horses themselves.

Horsey people are always horse-crazy. They are also invariably tween-teenage girls with giant white teeth, big horsey thighs and fuzzy helmets that look like oversized Junior Mints. They sit in their classes and draw horses on their notebooks and always have this snotty air, like "I'm a horse person and you're not. My hymen is broken from horesback riding instead of sex. Neener, neener, neener. "

I don't want to be a horse person! I don't want to be a horse-person parent (which I'm sure is like a pageant/stage mother for the horse-set). I don't want to make small talk with other horse parents or be designated for apple duty once a month. I don't want to subscribe to Horse Fancy magazine and rent Black Beauty and talk about horseback riding like it's a sport instead of a lazy person sitting on a big, sweaty animal who does all the work. I don't want to go to tack shops and buy things like saddles and bridles and reins and stirrups and crops and leather boots and all the other things that I previously have only seen as sex props.

The closest I want to get to being a horse person is wearing a ponytail. The closest I want to get to seeing a horse movie is watching The Godfather, Equus, or the scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail where they trot around clicking coconut shells together. This is going to be tricky.

Toe, nou...

2008-11-13T11:27:00.007+01:00

So my good buddy Pat sent me these pictures of myself from a self-portrait series I did when we were in college together. He hoped they'd cheer me up.

These are my conclusions:
1) Depression is nothing new to me.
2) Photographs of me smoking & crying with dark roots make me look like a Mexican hooker.
3) At least I've always had fabulous lips.

Can't rant

2008-11-11T18:34:00.002+01:00

Can't rant. Can't rave. Can't get out of my own way. I am sorry I am not writing much. I am really depressed. I hope you'll all still come visit me. I promise I'll be good. I'll be better. I'll write more. I'll make you laugh.

If anyone wants to make ME laugh, email me at amsterdamyankee@gmail.com.

Sad panda.

Snap, snap. Yip, Jip

2008-11-06T08:29:00.006+01:00

So D came to bed last night two hours after me and started talking to me while I was sound asleep. (He always does this. It's really irritating.) This time, though, it was kind of important.

It seems he took Jip ("Yip") out for a walk before bed, and Jip was attacked and bitten by a big dog. Once in the neck, once in the hind leg. He's OK, but skin was broken, and being a small dog, he could have been killed.

(<--This is not Jip)

The worst part was that the dog's owner - who was very nice and apologetic - was STUNNED. He had never seen his dog behave that way, and he has a small child at home. Before you ask, it was some kind of Lab/retriever.

I guess they always remain animals, but at least I can be sure that if Jip snaps, the kids will only end up with a few scratches. We have friends with a "sweet," hyper pit bull-type puppy (aka The Dog of Peace) who would "never hurt anyone" until he snaps and kills a couple kids. Oops.

I was reading an article last week about a family in the US with two pits, a litter of pups and a dead grandpa in the basement. They aren't SURE what caused his death, but I'm betting it had SOMETHING to do with the puncture wounds in his chest and aorta, but no one else was home, so we may never know.

A couple weeks before we moved here, there was a small crowd on a bridge watching something. I stopped to see two pit bull owners trying to pry their dogs' locked jaws off one another. Every time they got them apart, one would latch on again. Charming.

Here, Rottweilers are the boogeyman breed. I think they've actually been banned here. A lot of Dutchies I know were bitten by them as kids, D included, followed shortly thereafter by his mom.

Breed apologists aside, I agree with the words of wisdom of a friend - You never hear of a Cocker Spaniel flipping out and killing its family.

I think the big lesson here, however, is: Don't come to bed at 1 a.m. and talk to me. Or if you do, don't be irritated when I keep YOU awake with questions. Payback's a bitch, stud.

Crispy like a wet sock

2008-11-03T08:42:00.003+01:00

You know what I love? A nice sunny, crisp fall day. I call it "football weather."

You know what we don't have a lot of in Holland? Nice sunny, crisp fall days. Or football.

It's not that I don't enjoy soccer, because I do. I find it similar to ice hockey in pace and excitement, but it's what it lacks in toughness that makes it almost unwatchable for me.

I understand that sometimes you need to exaggerate to get the penalty, or "boo" for the bad guys, but soccer players act like such incredible pussies.

In American football or hockey, they're more like "Ow, my nose is bleeding. S'ok. Might be broken, walk it off. No, no! Don't take me out. I'll show those bastards!"

Here's a soccer player, "Oh, that guy's foot almost got close enough to mine to maybe make me trip a little. Oh no! I fell down from that and now my shin hurts! It really, really hurts, like I might never be able to do ballet again! I'd better roll around screaming so everyone gets me to the emergency room... Oh, no penalty, damn. I'm ok, I guess."

Once in awhile, ok, but this happens like every 30 seconds in soccer. Man the fuck up. Forget the penalty, shake it off and grow some balls. Otherwise people will think you're French.

Merde.

Bull

2008-10-30T19:17:00.003+01:00

What happens when your kids are smarter than you are?

I said to V yesterday, "Look! A tractor." He said in a pitying voice, "No mama, it's a bulldozer. Little brat.

Shit Wars; Welcome to the neighborhood!

2008-10-27T06:35:00.004+01:00

There's always a dog poop freak in the neighborhood.

So I was on my way to my new favorite supermarket at 9:30 on Saturday morning. We didn't have ANY coffee or cream, and it was a cruel and unusual way to start the weekend, so as soon as D was up, I headed out for coffee, so we would be able to speak.

On my way out, D said "Here, take the dog with you," so I did.

We have a small dog - a Maltese - named Yip (spelled "Jip" in Dutch).

There are these cute cottages in our neighborhood on the way to the store, and I like to walk by them because they are so picturesque. They are retirement homes, so only old (cranky) people live there.

Jip started to sniff a bush in front of one of the houses - on the street in front, mind you - when I heard pounding. There was an old lady pounding on her window yelling "Get that damn dog out of here!"

At first, I didn't think she was talking to me. What does she care if Jip smells a bush on the street. Then he peed there. Like, 5 whole drops. She started screeching like I had thrown acid in her face.

I saw Jip getting ready to poop, and normally I would have moved him to the curb, but I just let him go, since I was going to pick it up anyways.

So this crazy old broad comes out of her house swearing and yelling at me, prompting me to, you guessed it, walk away from the crime scene. I'm not going to be bullied by some geriatric nut job.

Not having the full command of the Dutch language, I didn't' say anything as I walked away shaking my head with her cursing me and yelling the whole time.

I would have picked it up. I really would have. People need to calm down and mind their business.

The best was yet to come, however.

I walked out of the supermarket, and there she was. Yelling at me like a poop-crazed octogenarian. This time I couldn't be quiet.

I said "Geez, if you had just acted normal I would have picked it up. I always have bags with me, see??" I showed her one.

She says "What am I supposed to do, get on my knees and beg?" (What an irritating old @%#&%.)

I say "No, but 'could you please pick that up' would have worked better than 'get that damn dog out of here.' I would have gladly picked it up, you annoying bitch." It just slipped out. I swear.

She said "No, you are." OK, now this is just childish.

I said "Thank you. Now I am going to walk by your house again. I hope he has to poop some more."

I wish my Dutch were better, but that was the best I could do under pressure. And I hadn't had my coffee.

But for real, on my way back, I picked up the crap. And put it on her doorstep. I thought it was only fair. She's lucky I didn't smear it on the doorknob.

My own little sea lion

2008-10-22T06:43:00.002+02:00

My son has the croup. He woke up last night barking like a sea lion. The croup. What makes it "the"? Is it because it's mysterious enough that it has to be addressed formally?

I'm reminded of Neil Simon plays where people get "the cancer" and "the rheumatism."

I do love the expression/meme "teh ghey," as in, "Don't let your son perform in too many Neil Simon plays, or he might get 'the gay.' (Check urbandictionary.com, teh ghey.)

Do people still really think you can catch gayness? That's like the article I saw the other day on Fark.com (I got to reference two of my most favorite sites in one entry. Huzzah!) It was about the association or organization of people who STILL think the world is flat. Flat. The world. As in, fall off the edge.

I guess they've modified their "beliefs" now to admitting that the world is "saucer shaped" and ringed by ice - explaining the farce that we would call the North and South poles.

A flat world. Now THAT is teh ghey.

Should shopping make you cry?

2008-10-19T07:03:00.002+02:00

Everyone already knows about my deep and abiding hate for AH, but now that I don't live in the Center anymore, I have a new grocery store, and I am in love with it. I wish I could roll naked in the aisles, giggling uncontrollably.

It's called C1000, and it's almost like shopping in an American supermarket. When I went in for the first time and saw how big it was and how much selection there was, I swear, a tear came to my eye. I am so pathetic.

Not only was the staff knowledgeable, they were also polite. Where the hell am I?

Of course, they still only have about 6 kinds of breakfast cereal instead of the aisle-long homage to sugar that we have at home. Fucking amateurs.

A Moving Experience

2008-10-15T22:30:00.005+02:00

So, we moved on Saturday. D got a great big truck (which he actually has a license to drive - how cool is that?) and we did the whole Amsterdam house-hook-pulley-thingy out the window.

Here's how it was different from moving in America:

* The people who said they'd come to help actually showed up.

* No one bailed early.

* My neighbor INSISTED on watching the kids for me. Not for half the day. All day. Longer if necessary.

* All our shit dangled three stories over the street from a rope and no one even acted like it was weird.

And most incredibly...
* Our friends couldn't bear to leave the new house until it was all set up.

I couldn't believe the lack of whining. I really couldn't. I have moved a few times, and I have helped others move, and there has always been whining. "WHERE does this have to go?", "HOW many flights?", "Are we almost done?", "Don't we need more beer...?"

It went more smoothly than imaginable, and we couldn't have been happier.

We were planning on tossing everything in the main living space and then sorting it through the next few days. My mother-in-law and our (heretofore dear) friend wouldn't have any of it.

I went to bed exhausted at 11:30 and the house looked like this:

When I came down the next morning at 6 (I have an infant, remember?) It looked like this:

And let's not forget my sons' room:

This is less than 20 hours after we started moving. Do I have the greatest mother-in-law and friends, or what? I did cry a little. More than once.

I normally would be freaked out about posting something as personal as pictures of my house on the Internet, but it was so frigging impressive that the coolness outweighed the skeeviness.

Tomorrow I will put up some pics of the remarkably simple yet ingenious Dutch rope/pulley/truck moving system. It makes too much sense to be used in the US. Well, the in US we have the sense to live sprawled out on one or two floors instead of squeezed into houses as narrow as bread sticks with one room on each level. I guess it evens out.

Slap me silly...

2008-10-15T10:33:00.003+02:00

Sorry I have been such a bad writer lately, but we just moved to our new house. A REAL house. I am going to post some pics of the amazing job my mother-in-law and our friend did decorating overnight while I slept. It was like a home makeover show. They were up all night like the Elves and the Shoemaker.

I promise I'll post again later or tomorrow. Things have been hectic and we only just got the Internet running again. I also just got a book to edit from my publisher, so Paul, if you're reading this, I'm, uh, working on it...

Sold!

2008-10-14T09:22:00.001+02:00

Sold the dishwasher for 100 euros. Booyah!

It all comes out in the wash

2008-10-08T20:50:00.003+02:00

I won't sell my dishwasher for 80 euros. I won't do it. I don't care if we are moving Saturday and have to carry it 10 miles and store it in the middle of the living room. I'd rather chop it into pieces and eat it than take so little for it.

D gave me a hard time for not taking 80 euros when a guy and his wife came to look at it. I wanted 100, he bid 75 online and wanted to come see it. He upped it to 80. I said 90, he said 80, I said 85. He said 80. I said "thanks for coming. Don't let the door hit you on the ass when you leave."

First, he said it was too big. Then, no, maybe it would fit, but there's a little scratch on it. Then he said he saw another one without the plastic cover for 35 euros. Then it wasn't a good enough brand name for me to get 100 for it.

My father told me I did the right thing. (My father is dead, but he still talks to me sometimes. I know it's weird, just take it as a given and don't worry about my mental state.)

My dad had negotiating and bargaining in his genes. (He was an Arab, and they're cool like that) and I think I did what he would have done.

He taught me that you always have to be ready to walk away. Really walk away. He also taught me that there is always another one like it, no matter what "it" is. You think you'll never find something as unique or cheap or pretty - whether it's a house, a car, ahem - a dishwasher, or what have you.

Now if he was REALLY right, they'll call me again tomorrow having changed their minds. I'll let you know.

It's Snot Easy

2008-10-04T21:14:00.003+02:00

I love my kids. I really do love them more than anything. That's a good thing, too, because I think they are trying to kill me.

Chekhov said "Any idiot can handle a crisis; it's the day-to-day living that wears you out." Though I'm sure that was much truer in the time and place he lived, sometimes I find myself mulling his wisdom, especially when I think of the concessions I have made in my life that I never would have imagined.

There are many things I took for granted when I was single, and I don't want any childless person to become jaded about them. Here are only a few of the things you should know:

1) You'll never have a hot meal again. Someone always needs something when you sit down to eat. If you are lucky enough to get to your plate while it's still warm, choke it down fast before someone needs a diaper change, or wakes up screaming. That way, you can just have indigestion instead of frustration.

2) Forget being alone in the bathroom. I am the most popular person in the world when I close the door to the bathroom. Everyone wants me. I'm a porcelain superstar.

3) You'll never shop the way you used to. There's no more buying $200 purses or gratuitous shoe-shopping. You'll never go shopping for yourself without a twinge of guilt, and you'll never come home without something for everyone else, just to make it "fair."

4) There's no secret snacking. You'll never eat anything between meals without at least one person asking "What's in your mouth?" and the painful "Let me see," once you answer.

5) You will never, EVER, EVER sleep again. You like to think you will, "once the baby's a little older," "once everyone is in their own bed/room for the whole night," etc... The truth is, you will never make it through a whole night again without waking, worrying or wondering.

You think it's great when the baby sleeps for a few hours, until you bolt awake because it occurs to you that he could have smothered himself and you'd never know; or the monitor somehow broke and he's screaming his head off, all alone.

Then you dream that something bad has happened, and you wake up frightened enough to go and peer at their little faces again, one more time before you settle down.

I imagine it never goes away, even when they are grown. You'll always wonder where they are, how they are, and if they are remembering to breathe in their sleep.

6) You will do things that used to horrify and disgust you without flinching. On any given day, you'll touch about 5 different bodily substances. Wash your hands. Wash them again.

You'll sniff your child's ass in public. You'll catch their vomit in your hands to keep it off the rug. You'll pick up dead mice to spare the kids seeing them. You'll wipe noses with your t-shirts and wipe smudges from their faces with your own spit.

It is a dirty, filthy, pissy, shitty business. On good days.

My advice to you: Don't be bored. Ever. You'll be mad at yourself for not picking your ass up off the couch and doing something. On second thought, sit there. Sit there, you lucky bastard with your mouth hanging open and potato chip crumbs on your snot-free shirt. Once you have kids you'll never be doing nothing again.

Baby Boy

2008-10-01T22:54:00.002+02:00

My "baby" will be 3 years old tomorrow, or as he says "Ik ben drie jatig oud." Very incorrect and super cute.

(Meanwhile, my "new" baby is 5 months old. That's almost 6 months old, which is half a year. How can that be? I JUST had him.)

We bought him what he asked for - a ride-on toy tractor for the new house. We have it all set up and filled with toys on our dining room table. Thinking of the way his face will light up when he sees it makes it feel like Christmas for me.

Moving to the country...just kidding

2008-10-01T22:31:00.003+02:00

We're moving. In a week. We bought a house.

I am very excited, but conflicted about leaving the heart of the city. Added to that, my current apartment is HUGE, even measured by standards outside of Holland. We have 7 rooms plus the kitchen and an attic that is probably 400 square feet. And it's cheap. Why should we leave?

Well, for one thing, this place is falling apart. For another, the construction is very old and shoddy. You can hear everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING going on in the building.

I will not miss hearing everything my neighbors are doing, like giving birth (don't get me started on that one), playing the violin, or taking a crap. I'll wake in the morning to my own alarm, instead of the ones of all my neighbors. I'll stop mentally saying "bless you" everytime someone else with their balcony door open sneezes. (It happens a lot more than you would think.)

One thing I will miss is the green parrots that live in the small yards between the back of our building and the one behind it. There are hundreds of parrots that live in my neighborhood. They were escaped housepets that established a community in the wild, much like those parakeets in California.

I'll miss our little park and the beautiful architecture of our neighborhood. But most of all, no one will ever shoot up under my window, or yak on my front doorstep again. And I'll really miss it.

Friendly Neighborhood Dealers

2008-09-27T20:43:00.004+02:00

Some of the illegal drug dealers are jerks, some aren't, but one thing is for sure: They're THERE.

Usually they are on the bridges and are the only people standing still. They sell all the illegal crap, sometimes fake stuff. They call out what they have to the people passing by, but all the names are code names. (It took my poor friend Charlie about two days to realize that when the dealers shouted "charlie," they weren't calling him.)

Two of the coke dealers that work the bridge closest to us are a pair of young guys - probably Antillean, but they look Jamaican. (They speak Papiamento, which is like, the world's most fucked up language. It sounds like you're reading the dictionary backwards while jumping on a trampoline.) They are really dark skinned and wear those Rasta knit hats covering their dreadlocks. As much as I hate to admit it, they're kind of, well, nice.

We'd been aware of them, just like they were of us when D met them more formally. He was out walking our dog when they startled him. They were walking behind him silently, and when D stopped short with the dog, they almost crashed into him.

I don't know what possessed him, but he said, smiling, "Jesus, guys you scared the hell out of me! Next time you sneak up behind me, smile so I can fucking see you."

To this day, I can't believe he a) said that, and b) didn't end up in the canal.

Instead they laughed their asses off and congratulated him on his ballsiness to say that to them. To THEM.

Usually we just nod in passing, but last year when D proudly told them I was pregnant again, they pumped our hands enthusiastically, and wished us lots of luck and blessings, with back pats all around.

So they're nice guys. Coke dealers, but nice guys. OK. Nice guys, for coke dealers.

Last summer, our gay friend (I'll call him a nice Dutch name...ummm...Joris) Joris told us a wild story - even for Amsterdam. Joris is a little shit - much shorter than I am, and slight. He is red-headed and freckled, and a little goofy looking.

One night he was, uh, entertaining an Italian tourist when things went horribly wrong. I guess Joris realized things weren't going well, and asked the guy to leave. I don't know if the dude was on something, or what, but he freaked out. He started smashing up Joris' apartment and throwing punches at him.

Somehow, Joris got him down the stairs and outside to the street, where he continued getting beaten up on.

Our friendly neighborhood dealers, recognizing Joris, got his back, and kicked the Italian's ass all over the bridge, driving him towards Dam Square.

Oh yeah. The Italian guy wasn't wearing any pants.

So, the moral of our story today is: Don't come to our neighborhood to beat up our little gay guys or you might end up showing Amsterdam your wiener.

Little Mister Type A

2008-09-25T22:50:00.003+02:00

My son is a little boss who always knows what he wants. He makes up his mind and there's no talking him out of it.

My stepdaughter and I spent about 20 minutes perusing the racks for her perfect pair of Crocs, while V - 2 and a half at the time - walked directly to the blue and white ones and said, "These. These are the ones I want."

He wouldn't look at any others that I recommended. He'd made up his mind.

So we take him seriously when he's made a decision, and he knows - REALLY knows - what he wants for his birthday next week. Three things; A ride-on toy tractor, a swing for our new yard; and a skateboard.

He doesn't have enough trouble just walking, he needs a skateboard, God help us. Pads. Lots of pads. And a helmet. And band aids.

Dishwasher-In-Law

2008-09-25T22:35:00.003+02:00

Why do mothers-in-law (or "mother-in-laws"?) always wash dishes by hand?

I have seriously noted this in BOTH my first and my current MIL. They just can't help themselves.

My first mother in law NEVER used her dishwasher unless my ex-husband insisted on it when we visited for dinner. She thought it was a waste of energy and water to use it, but as my ex pointed out, washing the dishes 6 times a day by hand must just about equal doing ONE load a day in the machine.

My reigning MIL can't stand producing dirty dishes while the machine is running, so she'll wash them as we use them, instead of just stacking them and putting them in when the machine is emptied.

I wonder if I'll do that when I become a mother-in-law. I sure don't do it now. Maybe your son marrying coupled with menopause creates some kind of chemical deficiency that can only be balanced by washing his glassware.

I'm still waiting for the miraculous transformation of me suddenly knowing "everything" by virtue of being a mother. Aren't I supposed to know everything? How can I be my sons' hero unless I know everything?