Our Urinal

Outside the apartment where we lived for 3 years is a giant *historical* public urinal, or "pissoir" as the French say. Our friends call it "the Urina Marina," since it is right on the canal near their boat.

I can't tell you how many of my stories begin and end with this urinal. You can see what people are doing in there because the bottom is open, but the top and sides are covered, so people think it's really private, if stinky.

For example, there is a homeless guy who sells donuts out of a big cardboard box. God knows where they come from. Well, one day he scraped together enough money to get a crack whore. Guess where they went?

I won't specify the direction of their feet, but when they came out, he was still holding his donuts (reminds me of a joke...nevermind...). Eew.

The really funny part was that the hooker stuck around to try to button his pants back up - very motherly - while he wavered back and forth with his cardboard box. Eew.

Here's a picture of a guy standing on our urinal dressed as Freddy Mercury and singing "I want to break free." Yes, he was British. But that is a story for another day.

I love being right!

I love, love, love, LOVE being right:
SEE?

You read it here first folks (both of you). The British are a bunch of drunken a-holes:)

Cat:1; Mouse:0

He got it. The lazy bastard caught the mouse. I love my cat so much that I am going to have his litter bronzed.

What is it about mice?

I have seen gross. I have known horror. I've experienced fear.

I've seen clench-jawed junkies shoot up outside my children's bedroom window. I have given birth twice. I have been frisked at a maximum-security prison. But nothing, NOTHING raises the hairs on my neck and makes me scream like a little girl like a tiny, grey mouse.

There was one in the living room this morning. Our trusty cat Cosmo was sniffing around my son's toys and I saw it bolt under the couch. You know you're in trouble when this:

is your last line of defense against evil. The same cat I have yelled at, tripped over and shuttled aside with my feet can become my hero if he would just man up.

He's caught them before, but I think he has become a little too well-fed and fixed to have the drive now. Once he lost sight of it, he sniffed around half-heartedly, then contented himself with attacking the dog.

I think I won't feed him today and if he catches said mouse, he'll get the biggest bowl of creamiest cream I can buy.

You're too much, baby

I went to Baby Planet yesterday to exchange a baby sling that D bought for me.

Thursday nights are called "shopping night" since stores are opened until 9-ish, (unlike in America, where any and all stores are open EVERY night and there are all-night pharmacies and supermarkets even in small towns - shopping in Holland kills me). I had the bright idea to ALL go to the store together and look around, exchange the sling, and maybe grab dinner.

(Ironically, when my son was born, they monitored him for a potential lung problem. You'd never have guessed it by the way he screamed last night. We barely got to look in the store, since V had a freakout. So much for shopping so close to bedtime. But that's another rant.)

Meanwhile, they have the most beautiful things there for children, but expensive! I'm talking about 120 euro swings, 80 euro play mats and 800 euro carriages. (We have one of those expensive carriages, and I must say it is really worth it.) It wasn't even a high-end shop for the glitterati, but for average families on regular salaries. I don't know how people afford all this kit for kids here. Toddler shoes and jackets are 70 euros.

Let me just clarify that everyone buys this stuff for their kids unless they are really among the lowest of the low class. Bugaboo baby carriages are practically standard-issue here. People really want their kids to look good, which can lead to a case of "Keeping up with the Joneses" - or "Keeping up with the Jansens," here in Holland.

I am frugal in that I want good quality without paying too much - I love Target, for example. However, I once mentioned to D that I had seen some cute things at Zeeman (kind of a K-Mart) and he was embarrassed. He said that he had promised himself that HIS children would never wear anything from a store like THAT. EVER.

Can you imagine? I mean, kids grow so quickly. Why can't I buy a cheap pair of pants for the baby, knowing he'll probably wear them twice? OK, they look a *little* chintzy, but if anyone has the bad taste to mention it to me, I'll just point to our 800-euro baby carriage, stick my nose in the air, and walk away.

Albert Hate

Our local overpriced-and-only-decent supermarket is called Albert Heijn, or AH. I hate the place with the intensity of a thousand suns. It's always packed, check-out lines are at least 7 customers deep, and the staff act like jaded superstars phoning in their performances.

Not the place I want to visit with two children. If it weren't for the nice homeless man who "works" there handing out flyers and collecting shopping carts, I'd never even make it in the door, since it is too narrow for my baby carriage - they have to buzz me in and out through a special gate reserved for wheelchairs. The bell for said gate is broken, so this guy will bellow to a staff member to open it. I dread the days he isn't there.

I had make the trip today because I desperately needed bread and diapers. (My oldest won't eat anything but sandwiches and my youngest won't do anything but poop.) Being mid-morning, it wasn't too busy, so V could use his own mini shopping cart.

Had to wait to check out since only one register was open. The line was twisted down the aisle. What do they care? Paid 50 euros for two bags of groceries (that I packed myself into bags I had brought with me - fucking Europe).

On the walk home, V wanted to walk and hold my hand. Having only 2 hands, I set one bag on his little ride-along stand on the carriage, careful that nothing spilled.

Finally at home, V wanted to be carried upstairs, of course, since it was impossible. I told him to wait for me and I'd make 2 trips. First trip, two shopping bags in one hand, baby in bassinet in the other. Up to the third floor. The timed entry light goes out halfway up - the one at the top is blown out. Scary. Next trip, carry up the boy and the diapers. City living. Glamourous!

Once I'd unpacked the groceries, I wanted to make a sandwich for my big boy. But where was the bread? I lost the fucking bread on the way home. I LOST the fucking BREAD on the way home. I can't believe it. No wonder you can't own guns here.

He can't help it: He's Dutch

My oldest son is a neat freak. He loves to clean and organize, and things upset him when they aren't "quite right." If he were 20, I wouldn't mind, but he's 2.

I've actually had to punish him by NOT letting him clean. I've said things like "put that vacuum down right now and come over here!" and "If you don't listen to me, I am taking away your squirt bottle and rag!"

This is how he plays with cars:


When he was one and a half, he was playing in the kitchen utensil drawer, as babies are wont to do, and he came across a pen. He handed it to me and said disapprovingly "Mommy, not here."

He is definitely Dutch. This does not (repeat, NOT) come from me. It is the inherent cleanliness that comes from being born among canals and windmills.

One of the things that fascinates and disturbs me about the Dutch is this clean streak.

If you have a backyard or outdoor space here - and in the city, that's quite a thing - the first thing these people do is pull out all the vegetation and pave it, then put furniture, flower pots and the inevitable garden gnome on it. WTF?

Don't even THINK about letting the dog go in the yard - walk him outside instead. WTF is the point of having a fenced yard if not to let the dog go in it? Especially with all the rain here. They would rather go out in the hail and rain than let the dog piss on the yards that they purposely cover with brick and stones. That's comedy.