Fuzzy Vagina Couch

When Bryan's mom came to Amsterdam we spent a day at the Rijksmuseum. Every time we've been in Amsterdam it's been closed for renovation so this was the first time for us all. The art was amazing! I've always really admired Dutch art, it has a special quality to it that I can't describe, as I'm not educated in art appreciation. Sometimes it's so vivid and colorful...

Even when everyone in the painting is wearing puritan uniforms, it's still interesting...

There are more than just paintings in the museum, there are a lot of artifacts. This is one room of an immense dollhouse. You get up on a stepladder to peer into the rooms with all the perfectly made, tiny furniture and teeny tiny delftware.

This was one of my favorites, the light looked so real...

It was at the Rijksmuseum that I decided I really hate modern art. After seeing the amazing works of the Dutch masters we went up to the contemporary exhibit where we encountered random junk made of wires and this monstrosity:




It's a vagina couch and it's just so damn ugly. Maybe I'm unrefined and troglodytic but I don't understand what qualifies this as art, modern or otherwise. Can I just throw poop at a dartboard and qualify as a modern artist? What does this vagina mean?! It isn't even an accurate representation. It also looked really grimy and musty, like something you would find in a creepy uncle's fetid garage. Seeing works by Vermeer and Rembrandt in the same building as this grotesque eyesore makes me worry about the human race.

Demon Dogs and Alien Cats

     Despite being easily frightened I love spooky things. Luckily the Dales are purportedly full of monsters, ghosts and other Halloweenish anomalies. Near the village we are living in now is a geographical quirk called Troller's Gill, it's a large gorge carved into the limestone by a small river which is supposedly inhabited by trolls and a demonic dog, known as the barghest, which has glowing eyes the size of saucers. We set out to the gorge on a rare sunny day, which diminished the creepy factor considerably.

    To get to the gorge you hike a short way through fields, and in our case a large group of cows.

     The river was rushing from significant rains the night before, still no demon dogs though.

                                                    The fall colors were stunning.

                                  Following the path of the river took us right to the gorge.

The gorge extends a little bit overhead so at some points you walk directly underneath these large limestone boulders that appear to be clinging precipitously to the ledge. I feel like helmets would have been appropriate.

Our first (and only) evidence of the maleficence of the gorge was the mostly decomposed carcass of a sheep. I would like to believe that it fell victim to the barghest, but it's more likely it was knocked dead by a falling rock from above.

     Fred, being averse to water or anything wet, insisted that Bryan transport him from here to there.

 
  Eventually the canyon narrowed to the point where we wouldn't have been able to continue without waterproof boots and a less cowardly dog, so we turned around and made the scenic hike back.

This is the only demon dog we saw that day.

Another spooky thing they have in our area, aside from the reported poltergeist at the local pub (seriously), is something called ABC's or "alien big cats." "Alien" because they aren't native fauna, not because they're from space. I'd heard of people seeing panthers and pumas and such out on the moors before, but it always seemed kind of ridiculous. Then, the other day when I was watching the bell ringing practice at the church the ladies were chatting about them and one older, respectable looking lady said that just the other night, as she was driving home towards the next village over, a huge black cat (leopard size, not large house cat size) ran in front of her car and made her slam on her brakes. When a well dressed, church-going, English woman tells you in a British accent that she saw a jaguar crossing the road, you believe her.

Collection agency vs. Chihuahua

Here's a fun story about the perils of vacation rentals. We have a great little place in the Jordaan neighborhood of Amsterdam, kind of a trendy and eclectic part of town and everything is lovely. One afternoon we return from a day on the town to find that someone has come into our apartment and left a formal looking letter taped to the computer. It's all in Dutch and at first I think maybe it's the gardener's invoice or something. I was immediately really creeped out that someone had been in our place. I'm a huge fan of privacy and someone coming into our dwelling without our knowledge or permission really did not sit well. Thanks to Google translate we quickly discover that this letter is not from a gardener, but from a collection agency. Things quickly go downhill after this realization. The letter is written to our landlord, the owner of the home, informing him of the following things:

1. They have entered the apartment with a police officer.
2. They are charging him 500 euros for having to force the door because nobody was home.
3. They have inventoried the contents of the home and will be repossessing them forthwith unless he pays the debt immediately.

The first major problem was that a police officer came in and Peanut was there, so I know some Dutch cop was probably bitten. The second problem is that OUR computers and various other items are included in the inventory of things to be repossessed, presumably because they have no idea that the property is being rented and therefore assume that all the contents belong to the landlord. My purse had been rifled through, including my wallet. I don't care if you're the damn CIA, stay out of my FREAKING purse or I will cut you.

Okay, so we call the office of the collection agency to inform them that we are renters and find out what the heck is going on. To their credit, I'm sure that people call in all the time with excuses and lies and when Bryan tells the secretary our story she starts laughing in an I-find-your-fake-American-accent-and-load-of-crap-story-very-dubious kind of way. Apparently Bryan's very real American accent must sound like the machinations of a dutch debt dodger.

Our next step is to call the landlord. He's very casual about the whole thing and comes over at his leisure to collect the letter. He's irritatingly cavalier about the situation, like it's an everyday occurrence for the police to enter your home and make lists of your things to take. He tells us some story about how his scooter was stolen and he stopped paying the insurance and he's in some sort of battle of wills with the collection agency. Might be true, might not, I'm still on the fence. He assures us the matter will be resolved post-haste.

The matter is not resolved post-haste.

Several days later I'm just starting to shake the unpleasant sensation of having my space invaded and time is healing the horrors of having my purse gone through when a surly looking man from the collection agency comes to the door with a clipboard and brusque demeanor. He has come to deliver another list of the things that were itemized and a bill for the privilege of having the locks breached and our sense of security summarily squashed. He starts acting like a Russian mafioso, telling us that we should pay our rent to HIM instead of the landlord and asking us questions about why we are living here and how can we prove that we're renters etc. He was also telling us that they might end up taking our stuff anyway and that we could get it back if we showed receipts proving that they belonged to us and not the landlord (why of course! Let me just grab those from the filing cabinet full of proofs-of-purchase that I bring with me on every transatlantic journey). I had kept my cool up to this point but it suddenly dawned on me that this was probably the very man who had intrusively pawed his way through my sacred valise. MY PURSE. I was seized with a sudden indignation and told that man to go to hell. I knew our landlord had already set up a payment schedule with the company because we'd been in contact with them and it was obvious that we were renters at this point and had nothing to do with this debt. Anyway the story ends with the man leaving with his tail tucked and after a call to the company office we confirm that the matter had already been resolved. The lesson I learned is that I should leave my purse closer to Peanut's bed next time I go out.

The steps required to take your dog to the UK or EU.

I wish there had been a concise list of steps for bringing pets into the EU/UK when I was planning this trip so for others who may be planning a similarly ridiculous endeavor here is such a list. You probably don't want to read this unless you're trying to get a pet passport as it's a long, boring, bureaucratic process. Here we go.

       1. Because there are specific time windows for the various vaccinations book your trip first                and book your pet/s a spot in the cabin ahead of time so you know exactly when you're                  leaving.

       2. First things first. Start this process no less than 21 days before your pet's arrival in the
           EU/UK. The rabies vaccination must be no older than 1 year and no newer than 21 days.
           WAIT!!! Before, BEFORE, BEFOOOOORE you get the vaccination you must get                        a microchip. Any rabies vaccination that is given before the microchip is fitted  is 
           automatically invalid. The microchip must be ISO standard, an internationally recognized                type which conforms to the readers they have at customs. If your pet already has a    
           microchip that is not ISO you can get a new one or bring your own reader.

       3. Once you have a microchip and a rabies vaccination (in that order!) you are ready for the
           next step which must occur between 1 and 10 days of your arrival in the EU/UK.

       4. Find a USDA certified veterinarian. Inexplicably, there is no database to tell you whether
           the vet is certified or not, you have to ask.

       5. Have the USDA certified/federally accredited veterinarian fill out the applicable health
           certificate.   This is called the Annex II form. You can print it out online or have the vet  
           office print it. Take the original copies of the rabies documents as proof that they are
           vaccinated.The vet will read the microchip and record it on the certificate and will verify
           that the pet has been vaccinated against rabies. They will also include other relevant details
           like the type/color/breed of the dog. NOTE! Make sure that the vet fills out the certificate              and signs it in BLUE INK ONLY. This is a requirement.

       6. Take the completed health certificate to a FedEx office and mail it overnight via certified 

          mail, remembering to use a tracking number so you can keep an eye on it. Also include in
          the envelope: a prepaid overnight return envelope so they can return it to you once it's
          stamped, a check for the payment for the stamp (I believe it was around $30.00 per pet but             this varies by state so check), put your driver's license number on the top of the check.

       7. Shortly it should be returned to you, stamped. If you are going into the EU you are ready to            go at this point. If you are going into the UK there is one more important step.

       8. UK only: between 24 and 120 hours your pet is required to receive treatment for  
           tapeworms. The veterinarian administering the treatment must record all the relevant
           information including date and time of the tapeworm treatment.

       9. Make sure you purchase an airline approved pet carrier that will fit the under-seat
          dimensions, which may require calling the airline and getting measurements. Call the airline             48 hours ahead of your flight to confirm your pet's reservation (just to make extra sure).

       10. Get to customs and eagerly try to show them your completed health certificate like you
             colored something at Sunday school and you want them to hang it on their fridge. Find to              your dismay that they don't even freaking look at it. Congratulations, you leaped through a              bunch of bureaucratic hurdles and your pet is an international traveler!

Because I went to the UK from the Netherlands I had the tapeworm treatment there and had the vet issue me a Pet Passport which allows the dogs to travel freely throughout the EU and UK. This was very easy, I just showed them the health certificate and they filled out the passport for me with all the relevant details.
Not too long ago it would have been almost impossible to take your dog to the EU because there were quarantines and a drawn out rabies testing process, but now the UK has come into line with the EU animal import regulations and even though the list above looks really daunting, it just takes a little bit of planning. Another note: this list only applies to people coming from the U.S. and Canada and other low rabies incident countries. Good luck!

FYI, this is what the health certificate looks like, on the bottom is the USDA stamp.

These are the E.U. pet passports, although I'm still not clear on the word "gezelschapsdieren."

Dutch Groceries

Some funny things from the Dutch grocery store:

I spend a lot of time in Amsterdam and I still find things at the grocery store that I find baffling. Here are a few of my favorites.

1. Hagelslag:

So, this is something that was probably invented by someone who had random crap in their pantry and was very, very stoned. Take regular bread, slather some nutella on it and then pour sprinkles on it like you're making a first grade art project with glitter. Fold the bread and eat. I've tried this and it tastes like a very marginal doughnut.

2.Paardvlees (horse)

I won't show a picture because it looks just like pastrami or roast beef. This I didn't try because I think my cultural conditioning would prevent my body from accepting horse as a digestible food item.

3.Vla (pudding?)

(image from google)

This one is actually really good, it's yummy pudding that comes in a giant carton. I'm never quite sure how to eat it. Do I pour it in a bowl and use a spoon? Drink it straight from the carton? I don't know. Another funny thing about vla is that it's ridiculously cheap. It's significantly less than the same amount of bottled water. The pudding industry in the Netherlands must be heavily subsidized.

4.“Salad”

This one might actually be the worst.

Have you ever had serious dental work done and someone jokingly says “Oh, I'll just put this meal in a blender and you can drink it with a straw.” It's an actual thing in Holland. (Not the straw part). Above is the tuna flavored “salad.” It's everything you would put in a tuna sandwich all pureed together to make a pale, homogenous goop. It comes in a range of nauseating flavors.They have one called filet american which is just raw beef pureed with onions and god only knows what else.

So my question is this: how do Dutch people eat sprinkles on bread, vats of pudding and horses, and yet there are so few overweight people? 

The paradox of choice

      I read a book once called “The paradox of choice” and was struck by how much it resonated with me. The premise of the book is that more choice is not necessarily better, for a variety of reasons. This assertion flies in the face of everything a red blooded, modern American is taught. Freedom of choice and multitude of choice are our esteemed ideals. Certainly the more choices we have the better, right? Wrong. At some point more choices become a kind of burden on the psyche. Given a large number of options we feel more conflicted than if we had say two, or three. We have to spend more time agonizing over what would be the best option and ultimately, when we do manage to choose, we are left less satisfied and more likely to wonder if the decision we made was correct or if one of the other options would have suited us better. Don't get me wrong, I love having choices, but each additional choice comes counterbalanced by confusion, indecision, and dissatisfaction.
I'm naturally an indecisive individual. I struggle with the paradox of choice every day. When I go to Target to buy laundry detergent I allot a good half hour to the endeavor. There are not just a few options, there are MANY. Which of the twenty brands do you like? Would you prefer a liquid or a powder? High efficiency or no? Blue or green? A large jug or small? Eco friendly? Fragrance free? Mountain breeze? Lilac Fields? Hawaiian Hibiscus? LAVENDER DREAMS? SUN DRIED LINEN? SPRING SUN? ENGLISH MEADOW???????????????!!!
Before long my nostrils have lost the ability to discern between fragrances and I generally decide based on some trivial detail like color of the bottle or the declaration that it's BPA free (I don't even know what that is). Then I get home with this painstakingly chosen item only to reminisce about Hibiscus Fields or whatever and wish that I had bought that one instead. And that's just one part of the equation. There are fabric softeners, color catchers, odor preventers, and scent extenders. It's great that mankind has improved from washing our laundry in a stream and drying it in a mangle, but did we have to go this far? I honestly think it would cause me less consternation to take my washing to the river and beat it clean against a rock. Of course it wouldn't free me from spending an hour deciding which rock and which river.
I think I've always been like this. Do you remember those “choose your own adventure” books? I was given one by my aunt and it annoyed me to no end. I could not possibly be satisfied until I knew that I had chosen every possible adventure. To that end I would fold over each page as I read it so that I knew when I had read every single page. Life is sort of a choose your own adventure book, the problem is that you can't go back and choose again until you have explored every possibility. Instead, once you turn the page there is no going back and you have to accept the page you've turned to, good or bad. For every day of life there are a million choices and it's impossible for any mortal to know the exact outcome of any of those decisions until after they have been decided. What's your favorite laundry detergent?

Please steal my luggage!

       I hate my fucking luggage, and I won't apologize for the expletive. I reached my physical and emotional limit yesterday while trying to schlepp my bags from the Netherlands to Britain. Between Bryan and I there was one bag in excess of fifty pounds, two large duffels which weigh about thirty pounds each, a purse, a man-bag, a grocery bag full of things that wouldn't fit in the other bags, and two dog bags each containing a dog. There is no way I can continue on with this amount of stuff, short of hiring a sherpa and his accompanying pack animal (llama? Alpaca?).

       Things barely held together along the way. The handles of the shopping bag started to stretch out and threatened to break, spilling fancy European dog food, bottles of vitamins and sundry items all over the train. One of my bags is barking continuously, the other snarls at anyone who gets too close. Of course we get off at the wrong train station. When we finally get to the ferry terminal we are scolded for being late and forced to run up the world's longest concourse. Just as we're on the home stretch the immense weight of my bag causes the wheels to buckle and break and I have to drag the wreck the rest of the way.

       If someone stole my bag I wouldn't be super upset. I would just try to forget about it's contents and move on with my life. When I got to London I decided to go through the bags and figure out what I can get rid of. I looked, and there's nothing. I seriously need everything in there. Or at least I think I do. I wish I could be more minimalist, and maybe this is a girl thing, but I gather and protect things like a female bird building a nest. Having a single nail polish is not sufficient, I need a few different colors, a top coat, a file, clippers, glitter. One or two lipsticks should be fine but I can't possibly live without a few glosses, several balms, chap-stick, a stain or two. Why bring one eye shadow when I can have every possible permutation of the color brown?

       Bryan doesn't understand why I need more than one pair of shoes. I've tried to explain to him that every occasion requires its own variety of shoe. I need flats, boots, heels, and running shoes in case I decide to run (LOL). Besides, his shoes are so big they practically take up a whole bag.

       Anyway, I guess my whole point is that I would like to learn to live with less. To that end I've decided to mentally recall yesterday's horrific luggage related hardships every time I go shopping. Today I went to Boots to just have a look. I bought a face towel, some lotion, and three bottles of hand sanitizer because...germs. I officially will never learn.

       Pictured below: the contents of my barking bag. This picture does not accurately represent the chaos of the occasion.

       

The ski lift incident

        Today I was wondering if I'm taking too long to have kids. Then the toddler in the room next door started screaming at top volume and I decided that, for now at least, it's all right. Kids fall under the category of milestones that people are expected to reach. They are placed neatly on a list of other accomplishments right after marriage and before turning 35. If you have them in the wrong order or, god forbid, fail to have them at all you are relegated to the "pitiable" category. The closer I get to my thirties the faster time seems to be going by and the more the pressure builds.

        I hate this for the same reason I hate ski lifts. When I was a little kid I was skiing with my parents and failed to get off the lift. My mom and dad got off, but I just sat there, frozen. I was scared that I would get tangled up in my skis and fall down and that the people in the chairs behind me would come in and fall on top of me until there was a pile of angry, injured skiers squashing me into the snow. Staying on the lift turned out to be a big mistake though. They had to stop the whole operation while I hovered over the ground freaking out and crying. I don't remember how I got off. To this day I hate ski lifts. There is such a sense of dread as the ending looms and when the time comes you have to stand up and ski off regardless of the possibility (probability in my case) that you will fall and look stupid or get hurt. I get this same sense of dread for every finishing point in life. Graduations, birthdays, marriage, etc. I just want to stay on the lift and ride it around until I really FEEL like getting off, which takes me longer than most other people.

       There are certain decisions that, once made, are indelible. Having kids is one of those big ones. There's no going back to a time when you didn't have kids and that disturbs me because the forward motion of life is one thing we can't control. Once you're an adult, that's it. Once you get married, that's it. Once you have kids you can never return to the time before you were responsible for another human being. Time propels us forward and, like the ski lift, it doesn't reverse. As an adult I still feel like that kid gripping the metal seat with both mittened hands, unwilling to let go of each stage as the next one looms.
        I admire the people around me for living their lives so gracefully. Most of my friends and family are so effortlessly themselves, their goals aren't nebulous like mine and they manage to face everything in life with unflinching resolve. Meanwhile I flail around hysterically trying to figure everything out, panicking about what brand of laundry detergent I should choose.
     

Blue Quilts

 I'll probably never make a quilt that isn't blue. Here's the first quilt I made last year:

Because this was my first quilt it took me freaking forever. One by one I learned the batrillion steps necessary to construct the thing. I burned myself with the iron and kept poking my fingertips with the quilting needle. As my bleeding fingers sewed along it occurred to me that this had to be the most pointless hobby in existence. I was cutting up pieces of fabric and then sewing those pieces of fabric together again at great cost and effort. For half the money and .001 of the time I could have gone to the store and bought a far more professionally constructed mass produced quilt and my fingerprints would be intact. Still, something about it is really Zen.

                                           (Not pictured: the bloodstains left by my maimed digits)

When I became nomadic I had to give up my sewing machine and find a project that I could do by hand. Thus began the ugliest applique project in the world. I bought my fabric in Amsterdam and made these blocks:

     I liked it at first but when I added a border it took on the appearance of a giant maxi-pad with wings. It's now buried in the bottom of my sewing bag, unfinished.
     
     Now I'm onto this ombre herringbone quilt which is predictably blue.

      I also recently learned how to do paper piecing which is highly addictive and perfect for my lifestyle as all it requires is fabric, paper, needle, thread, and scissors. Here are some pics of the hexagons I've been making which you sew together at the end like a giant fabric puzzle.

I love these little blue hexies, they remind me of fish scales

Then there's the pleasant task of deciding how to arrange the pieces.

     I'm excited about learning new techniques but I stand firm on my use of blue.