What's Next?

Lunch with the Kids. Better than Dinner Theatre.

1.  Conversation with a sixteen-year-old boy:

Him, “Did you see that lady in the jean jacket?”

Me, “Sure.  I think she’s a little off.”

Him,  “Honestly, Mom, crazy people really freak me out.  You never know what they are going to do.  They could, like, rip their eyeball out and throw it at you.  Or, worse, they could drill their thumbs into your eyeballs, which would hurt even more.”

That conversation happened less than three minutes following a discussion on university programs.

2.  Conversation with the sixteen-year-old boy and his twenty-year-old sister, over lunch:

Her, “I will be getting an A for my forensic psychology final.  One of the questions was referring to a difficult circumstance surrounding an interview with a recovered Child Soldier.”

Me, “Excellent!”

Him, “We should get a cat.”

Her, “I love your A.D.D.”

Him, “Not A.D.D.  I thought about how the Child Soldiers were drugged to get them to cooperate and then I remembered how we drugged our cats, funny, and then I thought that we should get a cat again.”

Her, “It was cat nip."

Him,  "Not like we had her wrapping her lips around a hookah.”

Her, “Cats don’t have lips.... right?”

3.  Mid-meal revelation by the boy:

Him, “Did you know that you can get fart-blocking underwear??”

Us, “.....”

Him, “They have charcoal built into them for filtration.”

Me, “That would block the smell, not the sound.”

Him, “Of course.  Some guy invented them because his wife farted too much.”

Other memorable conversations included the future of hairlines, the fact that my eyes look Asian when I smile (observation from the boy), which countries give sucky haircuts and the amazing Spanx.

Always worth the price of admission.

Invasion of the Season

In Canada, I am accustomed to the onslaught of Christmas commercialism within hours of the Halloween Jack-O-Lanterns witnessing the sunrise; streets and stores strewn with boughs and bobbles, repeat-play of Bing's White Christmas and Elvis' Blue Christmas from every speaker and, whipped cream and sparkles on the coffees that, only the day before, came with milk and sugar.  This is normal.  I know when Christmas day is from the advent calendars and I know that Santa Claus pitches up at the shopping malls somewhere around the end of November or the day of the US Macy's Parade.  Normal for me.

In The Netherlands, mid-November on a Sunday, Sinterklaas arrives by steamboat from Spain with his helpers, the Zwarte Pieten.  I know!  I was a little freaked out, too.

Last year, I returned from a work mission to see these characters roaming the streets.  Having just finished thirty hours of travel and definitely not in close control of my wits, I thought it would be better to walk briskly, make no stops and, for-God's-Sake, do NOT make eye contact.

Once safely in my second story flat, I reassessed the view of the market street out the window, much like one of those scary-jumping-spiders that hangs out above my doorway, watching, learning.

In addition to what I could only describe as black-impersonating-court-jesters smiling, dancing and singing in the streets, there were identical stuffed dolls as integral parts of the Christmas Sinterklaas window displays.  Must be a trend of some sort if they have already made dolls fashioned after these guys.

The response that I got from another Expat who I asked about this invasion was, "I don't know, I'm just trying to figure out when it ends."  Hmmmm.

Must Google.

As is the norm with the World Wide Web, there are as many stories about these guys as there are hits on the Web.  So, following I will tell you my loose interpretation of these goings-ons.

Sinterklaas, like most of our interpretations of the Great Mid-Winter Bearer of Gifts, shows up from somewhere else and makes good on the parental threats of naughty and nice.  I have to say that it's a little more disturbing than my childhood memories where the big risk was getting a lump of coal in my stocking if I didn't Stop Tormenting my Brother.  Dutch kids are risking a public "birching" if they have been slightly naughty and, if they have been a real pain in the ass to their parents, they will just get thrown into a burlap sack and taken back to Spain to be dealt with there.... quickly and quietly... never to be seen again.  Bloody Hell!  Nice way to kick off the season!

Enough of that, back to these guys, the Zwarte Pieten (Black Petes).  The nice version that contemporary Dutch like to pitch is that they are Sint's "helpers" and they are black from traveling down the chimneys to fill the children's clogs with gifts.  Oh yeah?  Then why are there suits so brightly coloured still?  How do they keep their whites so white and their colours so bright?

Anyway, friendly bunch though their true history stems from anywhere from Satan himself being captured and forced to work for the Big Man, to Moorish slaves well... being captured and forced to work for the Big Man.  Either one makes total sense to me but, I have to say, though the Satan one seems to be a little more in tune with the season with ridding the world of evil and all, the slavery story is more in keeping with the times and the originating locale.

Either way, wherever they have come from, I have to say that I can't think of a culture that does not have some lack of altruism in its past so, my thoughts, embrace your history and talk the foreigners down off the ledges.

And... please tell me what you guys use to remove that black paint.  That is a make-up remover I have to have.

Happy Sinterklaas!

Parenting Test

Please read the following questions carefully before answering.

Question #1:

If it is -14C (7F) outside and you must go shopping in a large fabric store in Helsinki and you have with you one baby and one dog, what do you do with the baby?

Question #2:

What do you do with the dog?

Please understand that I have never claimed to be a great parent but even I knew the right answer to that one.

Don't Stare... She Has a Black Eye

I've never been the most graceful pigeon in the flock. My parents actually made a conscious choice to enroll me in ballet classes at a young age to try to teach me some balance and coordination. This was the result of a discussion between my parents following my unfortunate collision with the corner of a wall in our house. Hospital.... stitches..... life altering scarring..... lucky to have survived..... ballet. Natural progression.

Anyway, it didn't really take. There have been many incidents growing up with memorable results including chipped teeth, stitches, a broken arm and cracked ribs to name a few and, as much as I wish I could say that they had resulted from skydiving accidents or kitten rescues, most of them were just from falling..... from standing.

The latest incident involved a late start to work, a door and, thank goodness, a drunk guy. If it wasn't for the drunk guy it would have been just me and the door which would have been really sad. So, simultaneous arrival at either side of the door, an over-zealous push by the drunk guy and the edge of the door hit my face hard enough to cause me to bleed from five places, certainly a couple of cracks, loose teeth, split lip, amazing swelling and, ultimately, a world class shiner.

Fortunately, this was my last shift before some time off because the amazing man and I happen to work in the same office. Why is this fortunate? The area surrounding my left eye was able to progress through all of the colours of the rainbow outside of the watchful eyes of the co-workers which is really important because grown-ups adult females generally don't engage in activities which cause black eyes. Especially suspicious since the amazing man is 6'3", shaves his head and, though he is as kind and gentle as can be, looks as though he could kill you seventeen different ways.

So, here's the thing. In the ensuing week, Werner and I met with two mortgage brokers, two realtors, a notary public, a police officer and various members of the service industry and not one person asked me how I got the black eye.  I felt so bad for Werner!  I wanted to explain to every person I saw on the street that I really just walked into a door.  Werner assured me that saying it like that would sound way worse.... could have been right... but, by the looks I was receiving, I kept expecting someone to slip me a piece of paper with the Help Line phone number.  No one did.  I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

"Wow, 25 years, you haven't changed a bit...."

And, this is why I could not attend my high school reunion.  The utter bullshit of it all.

Well, also because I had to work and I have moved more than three kilometres since I graduated from high school.

My 25 Year High School Reunion came and went last month in my absence.  Fortunately, before, during and after, many attendees have added me as a Friend on Facebook.  I therefore have the rather unfair advantage of being able to see their labelled pictures without being busted for tilting my head while I try to envision the 18 year old within.  One lady (who does actually still look fabulous) put it quite diplomatically in an email when she wrote, "Body types and hairlines seem to have changed quite a bit but I could still recognize most of them."

I really don't know that I could have.

I'll show up for the 50th!  All vanity should be dispelled by then.

"Items in the Mirror are Closer than they Appear"

And, this would be what I really wanted to say to the traffic cop in Washington last week.

What came out of my mouth was, "Thank you, Officer, I will be more careful."

Saying this hurt me more than childbirth.

The reason I had to say this and, thereby, graciously accept my first traffic violation in nine years was that apparently my insurance and registration expired in February!

What's with me and expiration dates lately?

I was pulled over for following too closely to the van in front of me which had slowed down to 47 mph in a 60 mph zone because he saw this police officer.  Idiot, he's the one who is the real risk out there.  Hardly my fault.

Even though the insignia on the officer's badge said "Expert" (seriously, it did) in no way can I believe that he could gage the distance between me and said van from his mobile position, in front of both of us, by looking in his rear view mirror.  Sorry, I don't buy it.

But, I couldn't tell him that because my plates were expired and had he known that, in British Columbia, our validation of insurance is directly reflected by the expiration date on our license plates, he could have had my vehicle impounded and then I would have been late for work, and broke.

I sat there and smiled and took his lecture.  He asked me what I would do if the car in front of me was involved in a collision; how would I react?

My normal response, of course, would be that my cat-like reflexes would kick in and, after safely coming to a stop, I would jump out and save lives because I'm a paramedic, you know, and that's what I do. And then he would smile knowingly and say to me, thanks for being out there, have a nice day.

So goes my fantasy.

Instead, I am now the first person in the history of the world to receive a traffic violation for tailgating without hitting anything.

About the insurance thing, I know that, in theory, it's my responsibility to know when my insurance expires but, there are people out there who have a better relationship with my Jeep than I have and therefore should have picked up on this.  For example, the insurance company.  I have been in to their office twice to insure other moving objects and they call up "my file" on a computer screen.  How hard would it have been to say something like, "So, what do you intend on using to pull this trailer because, according to our records, you don't have an car insured?"

Or what about the dude at the car dealership who has twice managed to find everything else old or not appropriately functioning on the Jeep.

Or, The Ex who has painfully pointed out absolutely everything that I have missed or neglected over the past 10 years.  Great time to slip, Bud.

Somebody owes me $124.

Hellhound

While I've been away from home with work this week, Luna has decided to reside at Chez Le Pound.

The timeline:  I left home Sunday, Hellhound bolted from the kids on Monday, the kids finally grew the balls to tell me she was missing on Thursday and we phoned the local SPCA to find her today (Friday).  I return home tomorrow with my flight landing roughly fifteen minutes before late check out at the Chez.  I'm thinking of rounding her stay out to a full week.

I'm not a bad pet owner, The Ex is.  This dog is his dog.  However, while he lives the glorious life a world traveler, I get to feed her, pick up her crap, brush her and, now, post her bail.  While The Ex is in the country, he takes Hellhound for visitations and treats her like her place is somewhere above The Thirteen Goddesses of Greek Mythology.  Nice for her; major behaviour problems for me when I get her back.

Naturally I have handled this in my usual reactive fashion and fired off an email to The Ex filled with reprisal and loathing.  Because that's worked so well for me in the past.

Soooo Not Ready

Translation....

I love dinner time conversation.  I have yet to be disappointed.

Taryn-the-16-year-old-girl was passionately sharing her interpretation of Stalin's rule.

Todd-the-Ex is here for a conjugal visit; for the purpose of maintaining family bonds, not sex.

Liam was scrutinizing the vegetable component of the meal.

Me?  I was drinking wine.

Taryn, "Stalin was a brilliant man who led his country to great industrial success despite his methods."

Todd, "He was responsible for the deaths of millions of people.  You can't possibly think he was a genius."

Liam, "What's this."

Me, "Parsnip, eat it."

Taryn, "He effectively gained leadership by eliminating all other members of the Bolshevik party!"

Liam, "Taryn, watch your language."

Taryn, "I said, Bolshevik."

Liam, "Says you."

Me, In a Casino

Holy Etiquette!!

I am attending a course over the next couple of days in a resort that has a casino and a golf course; neither of which I have any use for.  I car-pooled with a co-worker who was driving mach-f***ing-six through the video game that I like to call "Wildlife at Dusk" so that he could get to the casino to play poker.  His intention during this two day conference is to make $1000 playing poker while we are not in class and, being paid by the government.  Wow, I'll be so happy if I get my travel reimbursement before the spring thaw.

After checking-in, hanging up my clothes, looking around and realizing that, though this is a gorgeous resort, there is nothing to do here except work out in the fitness facility or go to the casino.

So, when I got to the casino, I looked for my co-worker, Chris, at the poker tables so I could vicariously live through the eyes of a future millionaire.  There were two tables, one sitting empty and the other with four players, including Chris, and two security guards standing within the cordoned-off area.  I gave him a little wave and tried to position myself so that I could watch what's going on without looking like I was counting cards, distracting players, giving signals or sending off bad karma.  Very tricky and a little nerve-wracking.  A security guard approached me and politely asked me if he could help me; read:  You are pacing like a hyena, what the hell are you trying to pull.

"My friend, over there, is playing Texas Something and I wanted to watch but I don't know the rules."

Guard, "Follow me.  You can sit in the vacant chair to his left.  No, don't pull in to the table, it will confuse the dealer, sit back further.  And, don't look at anyone's cards."

Me, stage whisper, "Got it, thanks.  Chris, hey, what've you got?"

Guard, "I said, you can't look at anyone's cards."

Me, "I know.  But, I'm kinda like on his team."

Guard, "There are no teams.  Can I show you to the slot machines?"

Me, "OK.  Chris, I think I'm being kicked out, see you tomorrow."