Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

After years of therapy, I have finally come to the terms with the fact that I am a fundamentally good-natured person. Even when I am experiencing what most people would consider a major downer, I can always somehow arch my neck over whatever emotional obstacle may lie in front of me to catch a glimpse of that, in my view, ever-present bright side.

Here's a perfect example: after that car hit me in the middle of the summer six years ago, I was lying in the street with a bashed-up knee, multiple bruising and fractures, open wounds and the beginnings of a deep-rooted psycological trauma, and I remember thinking to myself: 'Well, at least it's not raining'.

I have often get the impression that people don't really trust a happy person. Someone who is smiling and positive is generally thought of as someone without conviction, it seems. This is odd to me, that people tend to have more faith in irritable people with little good to say about anything at all than someone with a smile on their face. When I meet someone for the first time, I make it a point to be in good spirits, I'll even beam (if it's appropriate). Maybe I've been reading too many Brontë novels, but I really do think it's important to be amiable and pleasant in any social situation, especially during a first impression. Why should anyone else have to suffer from the fact that I'm having a 'bad hair day'?

Don't get me wrong, I can definitely get pissed when absolutely necessary, and I posess my own rather lengthy list of pet peeves, just like anyone else. When I hear the latest reports about the world-wide financial crisis and that thousands of people are being evicted from their homes, of course I find it unsettling, and would rather think of something else. It's not easy to see the bright side of that situation, but as soon as I find one, I'll let you know!

But being good-natured isn't the same as being ignorant! It's just somehow easier for me to point out the silver lining in most situations than it is for me to join the bad-mood bandwagon, so to speak. Any situation in which you find yourself having to wait will confirm it - people love to complain. Whether it's about the weather, or the current price of gas per liter, or the political situation at the moment, people can find an abundance of issues to be negative about.

Sure, if you're waiting for a doctor's appointment, you'll most likely hear people complain. That's a no-brainer. I remember once in an uncomfortably silent and overcrowded waiting room at the doctor's, a man came in and saw another man he knew. He said 'Hey! How are you?' To which the other man replied 'Well, terrible. That's why I'm here.' After which more uncomfortable silence ensued. Now, I am not saying the man should've deceived his friend, not to mention everyone in the waiting room, by saying he felt great, since that would indeed be a big fat lie. Being good-natured isn't the same as lying! If that man had been me, I might've said 'Well, I feel terrible, that's why I'm here. But at least I'm still alive!' or, maybe, 'But at least they've got some new magazines to read! Have you read this article about New Zeeland?'

Recently, when my mother-in-law came to pick me up from the hospital after my operation, she walked in the door and said 'How are you feeling?' Then, when she saw the undoubtedly cheerful expression on my face, quickly added 'Now, don't say you're feeling good!' But, I'm almost ashamed to admit, I was feeling good! Even though it was no day in the park, the operation had gone smoothly. And although I still couldn't feel my own ass due to the anasthesia, I was able to stand, and my bladder was working properly again. And, after waiting all day in that starched and uncomfortable hospital bed in a place where there was a constant aroma of iodine mixed with urine, I was thrilled to see her and finally be going home! So yes, despite the situation, I was feeling good!

Seriously, though, I must be a real pain in the butt to those around me with my infinite positive outlook on life. My husband, I'm sure, wants to toss me out the window sometimes. If we get stuck in traffic on a hot day, he'll react like any other human being and curse every possible cause for the jam, while I will find it irresistable to mention the fact that at least we've got air-co. And if the kids wake up several times in the night, depriving us both of sleep, he'll react with natural dismay and annoyance, while I'll probably say something to the effect of 'Oh, we're going to miss these times when they move out one day!' And if we run out of coffee, he will understandably use a wide assortiment of swear words to express his emotions on the subject, while I'd probably mention the bright side of the situation again by saying something to the effect of...um...well, let's face it, like the financial crisis, there simply is no bright side to that situation either.

So, you see, there are some situations where my positivity is overpowered by negative influences over which I have no control. Something I saw recently on TV confirmed this: the new Alldays maxi-pad commercial. I seriously don't know who invents these commercials, but this one really rubbed me the wrong way. As most women know, almost every ad for feminine hygiene products is far-fetched, but this one was simply ludicrious. For some reason beyond my comprehension, some advertising ignoramous thought little animated bumper cars driving over the surface of a maxi-pad was a metaphore all women could relate to during their monthly menstruations. But the worst part, the worst part of all, was the slogan at the end.

It said...(I can barely type the words...)

'Have a happy period.'

Have a what period?!

First of all, the words 'happy' and 'period' should never, I repeat never, be used in the same sentence. Or paragraph. Or even on the same day. And even the mere implication that a woman could even manage to have a happy period is like wishing someone a fun labotomy, or a really super root canal. I can only surmise that anyone who would dream of wishing any woman on God's green earth a happy period clearly has never had one himself. I say 'himself' because I can only assume a mind behind so absurd a campaign must be male. It's the only plausable explanation. At least I hope so. If a woman had come up with that slogan, we might have to find her and ostracize her, girls.

So you see, even a fundamentally good-natured person like me sometimes can't be oblivious to negative influences, nor resist the urge to rant about them now and again. That's why I started this blog in the first place! Just like a good meal, when stuff goes in, it eventually has to come out...it's the same with the stimuli of everyday life! I found, the best way to deal with it all is a healthy dose of self-examination and heaps of humour. Oh, and a good shrink. But there's that bright side again: I may be in therapy, but at least I'm not in advertising!

How Green I Am

If you're feeling down, you're blue. If you're a coward, you're yellow. If you're feeling good, you're 'in the pink'. And nowadays, if you're ecologically-minded and conscious about the environment, you're green. I am a tree-hugger and I'm proud of it.

Everything seems to be green these days, have you noticed? We're all constantly being subjected to how incredibly green society is today. The TV bombards you with commercials about green products and their new and improved green packaging, stores are suddenly carrying more sensible lines of green clothing and accessoires, grocery stores are displaying green goods in more prominent places, even businesses are spending huge amounts of money for green initiatives, green consultants and green solutions, all paid for by green government funding. You can get a green mortgage on your house, a green internet connection, and I'm guessing, probably even a green meal at McDonald's.

I often wonder, how much of all this greenness is actually seeping into the minds of my fellow members of society? In my own circle of friends, I'm the only one who drives a hybrid car, religiously switches off the lights in every room except the one I'm sitting in, and lives in a house powered mainly by solar energy. Ok, I am an extreme case, admittedly, but is my perception of being green really so far removed from those around me?

It saddens me to see gas prices sky-rocket and that it has no effect on the amount of cars that pollute the air we breathe. It devastates me to hear reports about the rising sea level, increased CO2 emmissions and polar bears helplessly adrift in the North Pole without any icebergs left to climb onto. It broke my heart to find out that a dear friend of mine doesn't own a single energy-efficient lightbulb. As I type this, I look outside my livingroom window at the ecosystem I live in, and am aware that for us and the world to survive another century, let alone a millenium, a lot more symbiosis needs to be going on between the earth and its inhabitants. Designing a smaller jug of washing detergent and sticking a recycled label on it just won't cut it.

I am in no way suggesting that everyone trade their cars in for one with rechargable batteries and a plug, but it would be wonderful. I can't expect all my friends to boycott the energy conglomerates and install solar panels on their rooves, but it would be wonderful. And I certainly cannot for a second presume the most powerful countries in the world would ever place saving the environment higher on the list of priorities on their political agenda. But that really would be wonderful. Let's face it though, no government I know of thinks the environment needs saving.

The thing that worries me the most about the current mindset about being green is that it is a trend, and as everyone knows, trends are constantly being replaced by new trends. I remember when being green was trendy back in the 80's, then that way of thinking vanished into the archives of history, like stonewashed jeans and shoulder pads. And now, 20-some years later, it's finally found its way back into the media's spotlight and the peoples' consciousness. What was the state of the environment all that time? Exactly as we left it, and getting worse.

For some reason, being green has an odd reputation. I've come in contact with people who have the silliest notions about being green. I've made a list of the top three being green myths I'd like to set right, right now:

Myth A) You pay a lot more for stuff.

Myth B) You have to make too many concessions.

Myth C) It's a waste of time since it won't make a difference in the long run anyway.

As for Myth A, let me tell you from firsthand experience, living green is living cheap! I drive a Prius, which saves me money on gas. I live off the grid, which saves me money on monthly utility bills; better yet, now that the alternative energy system is paid off, I live for free.

As for Myth B, there is a common misbelief that living off the grid requires major concessions and is actually the equivalent of camping outdoors. Not so! We have a household with what we consider the basics: a washer, a dryer, two computers, a flatscreen TV and a complete recording studio, all running on our inexhaustable supply of alternative energy.

And when it comes to Myth C, that being green is a waste of time - it's common knowledge that if everyone does their relatively small part, it'll without a doubt make a monumental difference in the bigger picture. That's what being green means, to me. It means you're aware of the bigger picture, not just what's going on in your own personal future. Because the paradox is, if we don't keep our eyes on the bigger picture, there won't be much of a future for any of us!

When it comes to people wanting to be green, I see the same question proposed in a hundred different ways in glossies and newspapers and on TV all the time: 'What can I do to make a difference?' I think it begins with a fundamental change in mentality. Once you accept that there is a problem, which there is, you're well on the way to being a part of solving it. Stuff like turning off the lights, not letting the faucet run and recycling cans is common knowledge nowadays, and I think a change needs to be more fundamental for it to really work. It's more than replacing all your lightbulbs with energy-efficient ones, but it's a start. But the most important thing is to know that being green isn't a trend, it's a necessity.

But for now, I'll stop feeling blue, because I'm in the pink when I'm green.

Je ne sais ... wha?

I just love Paris. It must be the American in me, since just about every self-respecting European friend I have tends to cringe at my suggestion of a city trip to Paris, and apparently would rather spend the afternoon having a root canal than roaming the filthy streets of that fairy-tale 'City of Lights'.

I grew up with this romantic idea of Paris, probably like just about every other American girl on the planet. I wonder if it was some form of American propaganda, to idealize and at the same time mock parts of the world you were probably never going to get to see for real. Besides, if you wanted to go to Paris, you wouldn't have to leave the country at all! You could go to Paris, Texas. Same thing.

Lucky for me, I have these nomadic parents who have brought my brothers and I up with the family creed: 'Wherever I lay my hat is my home'. We moved to the Netherlands when I was 15 and I have seen more of the continent than a lot of my peers whose parents weren't wealthy enough to send them backpacking through Europe after highschool. And of all the cities I've visited, Paris; with its snobby vagrants, foul streets and expensive beverages, has somehow stole a place in my heart.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the French who live there. It's virtually impossible to gain access to their good graces as a tourist, as anyone with a limited French vocabulary will know. And when I say limited, I mean non-existant. In fact, even attempting to ask directions or order a coffee in French when your pronunciation and use of grammar is anything but flawless, is probably more insulting to a French native than telling them their mother resembles some kind of farm animal. My husband once told me an amusing and pertinent anecdote based on this very topic. While he was visiting Paris in the 1980's, his caffeine dependancy surfaced at one point in the day, and he decided to get a warm, milky coffee at one of the nearest cafés. When the waiter came to take his order, my husband foolishly asked for a 'Cappucino'. Oh, the horror. The waiter, whose expression portrayed the shock and dismay of a man who had been insulted to his very core, repeated with contempt, 'Cappucino?!' and then thoroughly put my husband in his rightful place by saying, 'Caf-é-au-LAIT!! Ce n'est pas l'Italie, monsieur!!!'
So, no, it's not about communicating with the locals.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the food. Although I am certainly a fan of French cuisine (and pretty much every other cuisine out there), I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd travel all the way to Paris just to eat there. I'd be just as happy bringing my own home-made brown bread, a chunk of Gouda cheese and a bottle of Californian red wine and munch on that on the bank of the Seine than dine on an overpriced, overrated dish in some overcrowded corner café.
So, no, it's not about the food.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the art. Well, not necessarily. As fond as I am of French movement, I am equally as fond of the American, Spanish and Dutch ones, to name but a few. If the opportunity arose to gaze upon an authentic Monet while in Paris, I certainly wouldn't turn it down. But if it included a trip to the Centre Pompidou, which to me is just pompi-pompous, I would probably opt to stay in the hotel and watch pay-per-view.
So, no, it's not about the art.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the fashion, even though when it comes to being a fashion victim, I am pretty much DOA. It's common knowledge to even the most unfashionable among us that Paris is the genesis of couture, and I would most definitely become the proud owner of an original Chanel or Gaultier, if only I could manage to win the lottery or inherit a fortune. Unfortunately, the likelihood of either of those options actually becoming reality is utterly out of the question. But naturally, when in Paris, I wouldn't hesitate to wander along the Champs Ellysees in the hopes of admiring the very latest and glamorous French trends sure to be displayed in the shops. But in reality, la plus belle avenue du monde is a tourist trap which Starbucks and H&M have squeezed their internationally franchized backsides into, and where one has to dodge in and out of a horde of absent-minded visitors of every nationality just to get from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc De Triomphe, never mind getting a glimpse at any fashion in the shop windows. And if one goes to Paris in the hopes of seeing the locals all clad in charming black-and-white striped t-shirts and jaunty little berets, one will be gravely disappointed.
So, no, it's not about the fashion either.

So exactly what is it about Paris that I love? Maybe it's the overwhelming contrasts one can't possibly ignore there. To me, it's a city so bustling with life yet at the same time delapitated with neglect. Somehow, the Parisians have managed to cram an abundance of impressive architecture into just a few square kilometers, so it's possible to walk from one end of the city to the other and admire a multitude of amazing structures and historically important monuments along the way. What you also can't help but notice is how the streets, though lined with exquisite beauty, are filthy enough to make a sewer rat think twice about settling down there. Maybe the idea of the architecture is to draw your attention away from whatever horror you might step in on the pavement.

So, if you choose not to walk, the Métropolitain is an excellent, yet decidedly hair-raising, alternative. Once you decend into one of those dark, underground caverns and eventually overcome the penetrating aromas of urine and stale booze long enough to comprehend the Metro map, you can actually get where you want to go in a flash! Granted, some Metro cars look, feel and sound ready to fall to pieces as soon as they get underway and gain momentum over those dodgy tracks. But as far as I know, the Metro network rail system, which intertwines more intricately than the Jersey Turnpike, has never once been on the news headlines for crashing down. Despite the jarring ride and sounds of grating metal that would otherwise be cause for great alarm, I feel utterly safe as I zoom underneath the streets of Paris.

And upon reaching your destination, whatever it may be, you can be sure you aren't the only one whose bright idea it was to go there. According to Wikipedia:
'Paris is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, with over 30 million foreign visitors per year'.
The last time I was there, I could've sworn it was 30 million in one day, 20 million of which were in the same Metro as me en route to the Eiffel Tower. Aaah, the Eiffel Tower. Like so many other monuments and attractions in the 'The City of Lights', it stands and waits, as it has for decade upon decade, for the masses to gravitate towards it and thoroughly fill up their memory cards with digital snapshots of every angle it has to offer.

To me, Paris is a place where you can sit in one spot and watch the hectic throng of people rush by for hours on end. Or, you can let yourself be swept up and carried along with the current, just like a mouldy crust of French bread flowing along the Seine. Maybe it's the time of year, or the sentimental bout of romance I'm feeling at the moment, but most likely, my sudden longing for Paris was brought on by watching Disney's 'Ratatouille', a computer-animated movie that takes place there, and incidentally manages to make CGI food look good enough to make your stomach growl.

Paris has something, that oh-so all-encompassing je ne sais quoi that most people don't want to know, but have to admit it's there. I don't care what any of my more worldly European friends with the right upbringing say, I just love Paris.

Here's To Your Health!

Apparently, it's very healthy for healthy people to want to get healthier. Well if that's true, then I must be an astonishingly healthy person!

I have been trying to understanding myself for quite a few years now, only to find myself to be one of the greatest mysteries I've ever encountered. Why have I been exposing myself to this struggle, you may wonder? Well, if the stuff they write in self-help books is true, it's because I am healthy, but I want to get healthier. Which means I must have some sort of advantage - at least I'm not starting from scratch.

The person driving the car that hit me six years ago, sending me and my handbag five meters across the street and permanently damaging my knee, clearly didn't consider the fact that my life literally schreeched to a halt the moment he chose not to. Everything I knew to encompass me was suddenly altered by this singular event. I was messed up, but officially, I had 'trauma'. I was a cripple, but officially, I was 'handicapped'. I needed help, and officially, I needed a 'shrink'.

I've heard it's pretty unique to click with your first psychologist. My first shrink is also my current shrink; a young, intelligent woman who, after six years, knows more about why I do the things I do than I do. Yet, it doesn't seem fair, that every time I see her, she has this mental advantage over me. She'll ask me questions and wait patiently as I flounder around, trying to figure out the answers she already knows... I can never seem to surprise her! I sometimes think about making something up to throw her off course, an imaginary and unforeseen breakthrough of some kind, but I always decide against it. If I'm going to get healthier than I already am, I better play it straight, I tell myself.

The first time I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), I took steps to successfully get over it. After a year of shrinking, and with much pride and elation, I finally declared myself healthy and 'de-traumatized', said goodbye to my shrink for good and continued on the merry path of my life as I had known it, 'pre-accident'. Little did I know how unhealthy I actually was! It only took a few years before my disorder reared its ugly head and wanted to play chicken with me. Oh my, it was ugly. Seriously, if you thought the latest smear campaign the Republicans have launched against the Democrats is ugly, let me tell you, my neglected disorder was uglier. I went to my doctor with complaints of head-aches, regular bouts of self-pity and recurrent sobbing fits and to my utter bewilderment, he diagnosed me with... PTSD! What?! I thought I was over that! How was I supposed to know you could get it twice? I thought it was one of those things, like chicken pox, and once you had it out of your system, you were immune! Boy, was I wrong.

As it turned out, the second round of PTSD was of the industrial-strength variety, and it wasn't in the mood to get shrunk anytime soon. In fact, I am still in therapy to this day to learn about how to wrench myself from its clutches. But even after weekly psychological sessions, mindfulness-based stress reduction courses, physical therapy sessions, meditation, self-help literature and the occassional Dr. Phil episode, I didn't really feel like I was getting any healthier! 

Dr. Robin Skynner pointed out in the book 'Life and How To Survive It', which he co-wrote with John Cleese (who, incidentally, is a fellow mental patient, which probably doesn't come as a surprise to any of us who have ever seen an episode of 'Monty Python's Flying Circus'). Anyway, Dr. Robin Skynner said:

'...when we start on this process leading us to greater health, temporarily we can feel worse'.

Aha! Reassuring! The keyword in that sentence being, of course, 'temporarily'. But, a couple chapters further on in the book, he said:

'If you are healthy, you'll get healthier. If you're not, it's down the slippery slope'.

Hmm. Now I'm confused. So, to start the getting healthy process, you have to be healthy. But once you've started it, you'll feel less healthy, allbeit temporarily. But what's happening is that you're actually getting more not healthy. And if you're not healthy, you'll find yourself careening down a ski slope of some kind, assumingly with no experience in skiing and no knowledge whatsoever of how to stear or stop, and staring at a gaping ravine you'll most likely be plummeting into in a New York minute. 

Now just a minute! Where'd the reassuring go?

Although I am full aware of the risks involved, I will not be deterred. I've started this dive into the lake of me, and if I don't finish it, well, then I'd have to remain suspended in mid air for some time with no idea how to get down. Or up, for that matter. I'm not worried. I've managed to surround myself with qualified individuals who have made it their sole purpose to guide helpless souls like me find their way back to, or away from, or out of, or towards, or just a little to the left of...themselves. And it probably won't be too hard for them to do just that, seeing as the bulk of their patients, like me, will most likely already be healthy when they walk in the door.

Healthy, but not quite healthy enough.

Patient Knee Patient

I'm a knee patient, I have been one for over six years now, and if I've learned anything in the past six years about being a patient, it's that you have to be patient, even when it's the last thing you want to be.

It strikes me as extremely contradictory that the definition of the word 'patient', besides 'someone who is receiving medical treatment', is: 'able to wait without being anxious or annoyed'.

Actually I find it downright hilarious that the same word is used for someone who is receiving medical treatment, and someone who is able to wait without getting anxious or annoyed! I sure don't know anyone receiving medical treatment who isn't able to get at least a little annoyed at the fact they even need medical treatment.

Recently, I went under the knife, for the fourth time. I actually shouldn't complain, my track record isn't too bad, especially if I compare myself to some of the poor souls on the knee forums on internet. Some of them have undergone countless procedures involving anything from reattaching to cleaning, replacing to shaving, grafting to drilling, all in the hopes of improving their less than perfect, yet so essential, knee joints.

The entire process of dealing with an injury is pretty bizarre, when you think about it. First of all, it took me years before I was really aware of any serious signs of wear and tear. It's a bitch when your mind and body work together to cope with and cover up pain, and when you finally realize they've been pulling the wool over your eyes, you discover you've been living with it daily for years! How did that happen? And when I finally did collapse in physical agony, everyone around me said in surprise: 'Well, with the way you were limping around like a pirate with a peg-leg, we thought you'd cave in a lot sooner!' I found out the hard way, no one was going to tell me I was in pain and should slow down - that was something I had to tell myself... I just couldn't manage to get myself alone for a few minutes to talk about it!

So, when I finally decided to take action, I thought: 'I'm in pain, I know there are people qualified to take away pain, so what am I going to do about it?' That's when the endless examinations and scans began. First, several doctors, doctor's assistants, physical therapists and nurses yanked on, extended, flexed and wiggled around my injured leg to assess what needed to be done, according to them. I got all sorts of expert opinions and advice, and went home with a severe case of knowing too much. I needed time to digest all this information, so I waited, desparately trying to wait without getting anxious or annoyed.

When I was ready for the next step, (pun very much intended) I had to get pictures done. Which meant being exposed to all sorts of hazardous beams coming from X-ray machines and MRI cabins. I would lie there, wondering if my knee was at all photogenic, on a table about as comfortable as a diving plank. Halfway through the scan, I would always regret the position I was lying in or get an imaginary itch somewhere and feel the overwhelming sensation to move, and I'd have to remind myself what the nurse had said: 'Now lie still! If you move even one fraction of an inch, we'll have to start the scan all over again'. So I would have to be patient again and wait, tolerating, accepting, and especially not annoyed, until the last radioactive beam left my body.

And after the pictures were taken, I'd have to wait, patiently. And finally, when the results would come back, I'd meet with the doctor, the one I finally decided worthy of cutting into me, and discuss the possibilities. There were always many, which meant I'd have to go home and chew it over, think about it. And wait.

And wait. And wait some more. I had a couple kids in the meantime, while I was waiting. And all the time, I'd keep in mind: 'I'll just have to be patient, and not get annoyed at the fact that it hurts just to bend down and pick up the pencil I just dropped on the floor'. Because, after all, that's what being (a) patient is.

Then came the point where I just couldn't wait anymore. I made the arrangements to go through with the procedure of my choice with the surgeon I liked best, and then...well, then I wait for that day to arrive.

Being a hospital patient is the epitome of being patient. You arrive early and hungry, and the nurse on duty will probably give you the better part of two hours to get yourself out of your regular clothes and into one of those charming hospital gowns. A support stocking and glass of water to accompany the heavy pain medication will most likely already be set up on the bedside table, waiting patiently for your return from the OR. If you're lucky enough to have a private room, you get to wait patiently in solitude, but I prefer a full room, where you can sneak a peek at the other patients and maybe pick up some tips on how they're managing to be patient without getting anxious or annoyed. Everyone knows, everyone is anxious and annoyed, but no one's showing it.

But a surprising thing happened to me during my most recent patient experience. When I was finally wheeled into the OR, after waiting as patiently as a patient can wait for the anaesthesia to kick in (which, incidentally, is by the far the most pleasant moment of the entire procedure), I was accompanied by a sort of OR guide, who looked friendly, despite the fact that his entire head was covered with a surgical mask and showercap. Good thing he could smile with his eyes.

As he called up my file on the OR computer, probably to ensure they had injected the drugs into the correct limb, he saw my name wasn't Dutch, and asked where I came from. I've noticed on many uncomfortable occassions that being foreign is the best and easiest ice-breaker. When I said I was American, we launched into a discussion about the presidential elections, which are coming up in less than a month. Just before he left the room, the friendly man jokingly said I was prettier than VP candidate Sarah Palin. I couldn't help visualizing myself in my unflattering hospital gown and showercap, with my limp and lifeless leg looking about as attractive as an oversized breadstick, gone sort of yellow-ish. In spite of myself, I laughed outloud at his bizarre compliment. That's when I realized the doctor had already made his first incision! To my surprise, I'd actually been waiting patiently all that time, without getting anxious or annoyed! The definitions matched!

Now, how did that happen??

I know from first-hand experience how resilient the human body is, and that it really does take time to heal all wounds, but that certainly doesn't mean I'll always be able to sit back and wait without getting anxious or annoyed about it. I'm a patient, but I can get so sick of being patient.

Book My Face

Just like millions of others these days, I too am 'on Facebook'. As an intelligent 30-something woman in the 21st century, I too felt the need to network. As one of the leading online communities on the web nowadays, Facebook was, as far as I was concerned, the place to do that. Just moments after signing up, I discovered that networking on Facebook not only meant countless hours of addictive time-wasting and pointless messaging, but more importantly, it meant searching for and finding all the boys I had a crush on back in high school.

I thought Facebook was the ideal place to promote my otherwise nonexistent singing career, which is on the back-burner right now. Or, better said, it's behind the back burner under a layer of grease on somebody else's stove two blocks away from here. But it ended up being a portal to a community I never knew I had! Under the guise of networking for the benefit of my aforesaid fictitious career in music, I spent many hours and megabytes of data transfer on Facebook, doing just that: networking. And as any fellow Facebook-ian will know, networking essentially meant wasting as much time as possible doing the following:
- finding and making as many friends as possible.
- uploading as many silly yet vaguely attractive photos of yourself, your kids and your car as possible.
- adding as many high-maintenance applications (allowing full access to your personal information and that of your friends) as possible.
- updating what you're doing right now in the third person as often as possible.
- sending as many invites to others as possible in order to get the results of filling in as many pointless quizzes as possible.
- posting as many inconsequential messages on other peoples' walls as possible.
- spending as much time as possible doing as many utterly useless things as possible. (I mean, where else can you publicly compare your IQ to that of George Bush's?)

I did all of these things. The result was a profile page as long as the Gettysburg Address with a multitude of applications I had to maintain; applications that punished you if you didn't log onto them on a regular basis, giving me a stress factor equivalent to what Hillary Clinton must have felt when she realized she was no match for Obama for the presidential candidature.

Let me illustrate my point:
During the peak of my Facebook dependency, I was pregnant and voluntarily rooted to the spot in front of my computer. I was due in a few weeks and very much a permanent resident in the I'm-Having-a-Baby-Soon zone. Next to the dozens of other Facebook applications I had accumulated, I added a new one which involved 'adopting' a baby and 'taking care' of it. I thought this would be a wonderful way for me to brush up on my baby-nurturing skills and immediately adopted a baby boy named Bertje. Bertje was easy to care for. When I logged onto the application, I would find Bertje either crying or stinking. I had a couple options to appease Bertje, one was: feed Bertje, and another was: change Bertje's diaper. Nine times out of ten I did the right thing! Bertje was giggling again! Success! Thanks to little Bertje, I gained the confidence to know I would make the right decisions with my own baby as soon as it came into the world!

Now, as most everyone knows or has experienced personally, pregnant women tend to be very emotional and not really in the mood to demonstrate rational behavior, especially during the final stages of that magical state of 'being in the family way'. I was no exception. I would log on to Facebook and visit Bertje a few times a day, making sure I left him giggly and content, and often gazed at his little face, which I knew deep down was nothing more than a stock-free image of a laughing baby, but nonetheless, it was my Bertje.

A couple weeks later, I gave birth to my son, Bram. As I lay in my hospital bed, holding this brand new life in my arms for the very first time, fully aware of the deep responsibility and sleepless nights I was about to embark upon, I suddenly thought to myself: 'Oh my God, what am I going to do about Bertje?!' This was when I knew, Facebook was becoming more to me than just 'a fun place to reconnect'. It was time to go to Facebook rehab.

Fortunately for me, having a new baby created enough distraction for me to successfully kick the Facebook habit without too many unpleasant withdrawal symptoms. But by the time Bram was able to lie unassisted in his crib and entertain himself, I found myself right back on Facebook again, updating, posting, reconnecting, super-poking, networking. Oh, the time I'd lost! The applications I had yet to download! The wall posts I had missed!

But I found out, Facebook isn't just a virtual community narcotic. In an age when people have more photos on their mobile phones than they do in their photo albums at home, Facebook is the place to share those semi-flattering pictures of random people with serious cases of red-eye, drooling kids in the bathtub or out-of-focus snapshots of various foreign landscapes. When my kids have gone to bed and I need to wind down after a long day, I log onto Facebook so I can feel just a little bit closer to the people I vaguely knew in high school, thanks to that wonderful thingamabob called cyberspace.

So, maybe you and I can network on Facebook sometime soon! What? You don't have a profile yet? Then I suggest you get on the band wagon and join up, since it's pretty much the only way to communicate with anyone these days! If you haven't virtually flung a thong at somebody you haven't exchanged a single word with in over 15 years, well you're just missing out.

Things I Will Never Do With My Two-Year-Old Again

Recently, I've added another event to my 'Things I Will Never Do With My Two-Year-Old Again' list. I took my daughter, Mia, and my son Bram, who is going on 6 months, to...a restaurant.

I can hear you crying outloud: 'A restaurant?! What were you thinking?!' Let me assure you, it was a purely impulsive decision, without any forethought or consideration of the inevitably disastrous consequences. I guess all moms have to experience a catastrophe of this calibre if they intend to survive the next sixteen or so years of their childrens' upbringing...

I had spent the day in Gent with my cousin and her family, with every intention of having a pleasant visit and enduring as few tantrums as possible. It was the first time I was in the city with both kids stowed away in the double buggy, which I affectionately refer to as 'Bertha', the name my family endearingly calls anything which is monstrously huge and virtually impossible to maneuver. The day started out wonderfully, the kids (four of them, aged three and under) got along great, ate their lunch, sat in the buggy when we wanted them to and let us change their diapers when they started to draw flies. All was harmony.

But before too long, the day became just that - too long. Mia, my two-year-old daughter, is currently undergoing the 'Terrible Twos' stage. Or, as I prefer to call it, the 'Traumatic Twos', mostly the 'Intolerable Twos', sometimes even the 'Tsunami Twos'. She can be happy as a flea, all giggles and pure joy, then something will happen inside her little toddler mind that tranforms her into this high-maintenence Diva whose screams can be heard in neighbouring countries and has the patience level of a...well, of a two-year-old! Mia has no concept of the fact that goods in a shop are in fact not for removing from the shelves and running out the door with, setting off security alarms in the process. Nor are chairs on a terrace hers to knock over and dance around at her every whim. When I try to inform her of the reality of the situation, her reaction is usually one of surprise, horror and mayhem, almost always in that order. Followed by the cliché falling to the ground, raising her screams to a pitch just under the one that only dogs can pick up, and utilizing every limb to attract the attention of, and hopefully kick, as many passersby as possible.

After a couple of these tantrums took place, I was able to distract and conquer the Diva, but was beginning to face the realization that it was time to go home. That was when we met up with my cousin's friends, two lovely couples from Amsterdam who were in Gent for a very romantic, culinary weekend...'sans' kids. Those poor, poor people. In retrospect, they should've fled in the other direction as soon as they saw us coming towards them. One of them invited me, and my children, to join them all for dinner. Maybe it was my uncanny ability to ignore reason, maybe the sun had gone to my head. I don't know why, but I accepted. A part of me seemed convinced that an over-crowded restaurant with tables just teeming with breakable dishes and sharp cutlery was just the place for Mia to settle down and enjoy a nice meal with friends and family. If only I had taken a step back to see how utterly delusional I was.

Why we thought we could just walk into any given restaurant that would actually be glad to give a table to seven exhausted, famished and slightly smelly adults and four screaming children is still a mystery. Not only was it dinnertime, the place was also crawling with tourists since it was the peak of the high season and we were smack in the center of a very hip, very bustling city. Finally, after roaming around for another hour, we managed to locate a 'child-friendly' restaurant that would take us. We managed to steer 'Bertha' through the obstacle course of tables without running over too many peoples' toes and were seated at a long glass-top table which was designed for decapitating children instead of seating them. But we didn't complain. We quickly ordered and hoped the food would arrive before the natives became restless again.

The waitress brought Mia some pencils and paper and all the kids actually seemed happy and occupied...for all of three minutes. That was when the real horror set in. No matter which favourite toy or jar of yummiest food was presented, nothing would do. Mia didn't want to sit, she didn't want to stand, she didn't want to draw, she didn't want a drink, she just didn't want to. Period. The room was slowly filling with guests who would be seated, then within minutes ask to be re-seated. Mia was putting on the show of her life and it looked like wasn't leaving without a standing ovation.

Throughout the day, my son Bram, God bless him, had actually managed to sleep through even the most heinous of Mia's outbursts, but now that he was awake and hungry as well, he decided to get in on the 'Let's Make Mommy Go Coo-Coo' game. Seeing as I wasn't prepared for dinner, I didn't have the right food for him with me, a mistake I now rectify by never leaving the house without enough food to feed him and enough children to fill a small daycare center. Bram was little, he was hungry, and he just wasn't going to take it anymore. Both he and Mia were screaming in unison, performing wild synchronized arm-flailing and developing the exact same purple hue on their tear-stained faces.

That was when the waitress approached us and asked my cousin and I if we would move to another part of the restaurant, a private room. We looked at each other, then eyed the table which was strewn with toys, stuffed animals, jars of food, plastic spoons, bibs, drawing materials and various other essential items that would have to move with us. Apparently, the guests had been complaining about us; more specifically, our offspring's volume level and tendency to move around outside of our designated area. One particular couple even complained because they were out together for the first time without their children, and the fact that they were seated near ours was so confrontational that they actually lost their appetites. My cousin wondered outloud if the waitress expected us to eat at McDonald's til our kids turn five, but she wisely ignored the comment.

Accompanied with much upheaval and growling of stomachs, we managed to move our party, and 'Bertha', into the private room. I wondered why we hadn't been seated there in the first place, since it was so obviously more appropriate for us, but quickly dismissed the thought. We took shifts bringing the kids outside for fresh air as we waited for our food, and with every minute the hard reality began to hit me that by the time the food actually arrived, there was no way Mia would be at all interested in eating it. She was still very much engulfed in the 'crying til my eyes hopefully pop out' zone. And, indeed, when the chicken-and-french-fries kiddie combination platter was set on the table, Mia took one look at it, lurched away, shook her head and engaged in a whole new screaming fit. I tried to show her that the food wasn't actually poison by eating a few fries myself, but nothing could convince her. I decided to take her outside myself and get a little fresh air as well, hoping that would somehow calm her down.

Upon exiting the restaurant into the warm summer evening, Mia proceeded to wrench herself away from me and run in a hollering frenzy in the direction of the canal, on which the restaurant was situated. I started hobbling after her as she bolted towards the water, now and then sneaking a devlish look back at me to make sure I was following her. Fortunately my cousin, who is nimbler than a wood nimf, managed to catch up to her before she very innocently sat down a few meters before the edge of the canal. The game had now evolved from 'Let's Make Mommy go Coo-Coo' to 'Let's See How Many Near Heart-Attacks I Can Give Mommy in the Expanse of a Few Minutes'.

Kicking and screaming, I lugged Mia back inside and tried in vain to feed her some chicken. Bram was content, as long as he stayed on my lap, but Mia was not, as long as he did. I managed to ration what was left in his jar of mixed veggies, but we were still waiting for our main courses and the lack of food for him was beginning to worry me. Feeding him bits of my tournedo and potatoes simply wasn't an option.

Finally, to everyone's relief, the food arrived. I couldn't wait to 'eat it and beat it', but when I took a bit of my steak, it was cold. I considered eating it the way it was, but I just couldn't chew on meat which was cooler than the surface of the table. Mine wasn't the only dish served cold either, the sour look on everyone's face as they took their first bite confirmed it. When the waitress came to ask if everything was all right, we sent everything back. My cousin had taken Mia outside again so I could eat in peace, but there was a constant worry on my mind that she was waking the dead with her screams outside. Our private room had a window to the kitchen, which we thought was pretty neat at first. Now, as we saw with our own eyes how the chef reacted as all our dishes came back, I can only say that if I was able to lip-read in French, I probably would've shielded my eyes.

When the food re-arrived, this time warm, I scarfed it down, grabbed 'Bertha' and made my exit as quickly as possible. I apologized profusely to my cousin's friends, who looked as weary as I did, as they had most likely been reliving the worst moments of their childrens' tantrums throughout the evening. Bram protested to being removed from my lap but once he reconnected with 'Bertha', his home away from home, he fell asleep within seconds. I met my cousin outside who was sitting next to an extremely cute and friendly little girl, who had blonde curls and a little pink dress just like my daughter's... only when I got close enough did I see it was my daughter. I loaded her into 'Bertha' as well, said a very fatigued goodbye and headed to the car.

Never underestimate a two-year-old. The minute Mia realized we were heading home, she transformed once again into the wonderfully cool little person I knew. She started singing a little song as we walked and smiled at passersby. I wanted to rush back to the restaurant, burst into the busy dining area and show them, show them all how lovely my daughter really is! But I didn't. We were home-bound, we were leaving, and we knew we were never, I repeat, never going to do this again.

p.s. To any grandmothers or child protections service agents who happen to read this, this story was only slightly dramatized for literary purposes only...

Healthy Women Have 'Em

Recently, I was invited to an 'Upperdare' party. I'd heard about them before, but never attended one. For those out there who aren't familiar with the concept, it's a fun, informative presentation of sex toys and other erotic articles which can be purchased subsequent to the presentation, like a Tupperware party. In reality, it's a gathering of overexcited slightly overweight middle-aged women desperately in need of a boost in, or replacement of, their nonexistent sex lives. Although I've never even thought about trying, let alone purchasing, a sex toy, I was intrigued. Apparently, it's perfectly normal for a healthy modern woman to own a vibrator, and I wanted to see just how healthy and modern I was.

The party was held at my daughter's daycare center; a more obviously inappropriate place to hold such a party was unthinkable. But Sofie, the owner of the daycare, evidently thought this was a great way to inspire her clients to make more babies! At one point I was struck with a feeling of immense irony as I was sipping my mojito and handling various vibrators in the exact same place as my daughter plays with Teletubbies and takes her nap three times a week. The table displaying the wide assortment of erotic paraphernalia was set up between the cribs and the play table, and directly above it hung a poster of cute little animals spelling out the alphabet.

But as soon as Yvette, the 'Upperdare' party hostess, began her presentation, the cute little animals and cribs became much less of an issue. She started with the massage oils, the lubricants and various reading material on the subject, but it was pretty obvious everyone was more curious about the 'big stuff'. The collection of mysterious multicolored dildos, set up like trophies amongst the edible underwear, kinky handcuffs and crotch-less panties, was what everyone was really interested in.

We sat in a circle, (not unlike how my daughter and the other children most likely sit during story-time on a normal day) as Yvette described the various vibrating gadgetry. As she passed it to the first woman in the circle, she advised us to hold certain parts against our nostril, which apparently has the same level of sensitivity as the area for which it is actually intended. I held this tip with some skepticism, as I seriously doubted my nostril could be any kind of measure against my feminine components... But as soon as I got hold of my first vibrator, shaking in my hand as if it was trying to get away, I tried the nostril test. This was not an easy task in itself, seeing as each device had so many protruding appendages, it wasn't always easy to get the part in question against my nostril without getting another part wobbling uncontrollably in my eye. It was essential to use your imagination when testing these things, clearly.

As the presentation continued, I realized I was the only woman in the circle who didn't own one of these convulsing gadgets. On either side of me, women were chattering excitedly about their own personal level of satisfaction about the dildo in question, something I had always considered to be down to personal taste. One particular vibrator got everyone oohing and aahing; it was a bright green thing in the form of a frog. Its goofy smile and lumpy body struck a chord with the other girls, while I could imagine nothing less sexually arousing than being penetrating by a googly-eyed luminous pond critter. But I was definitely in the minority. The frog was a hit, and immediately ordered by all.

Before long, thanks to increasing arousal and cocktail consumption, the amusing anecdotes began to surface. Seeing as all the women there had children, almost every story had to do with one or more of their offspring getting hold of one or more of their sex toys, with purely hilarious repercussions as the result. One woman described between uncontrollable giggles the time she found her son innocently teething on her 'Dinky Digger'. Another woman related the embarrassing event when her daughter retrieved her mother's entire collection of sex toys and brought them out to show the in-laws, who were just finishing dinner. I couldn't help but wonder why these women didn't keep their toys in a more inaccessible location, a drawer the kids can't reach for example, and imagined the floor of their households strewn with baby and adult toys mixed together. What 8-month-old child can be expected to distinguish a penis ring from a teething ring, for Pete's sake?

After the presentation, I stood at the table, contemplating everything my nostril had just got a taste of, wondering whether or not I was going home the proud owner of the 'Semi-realistic (batteries included)'? Or perhaps the 'Icebreaker', discrete enough to fit nicely in your handbag? Or the innovative 'Bead Blossom' complete with adapter, and the added prospect of never again a disappointing moment involving dead batteries? I imagined the 'Bead Blossom', charging away in its fancy adapter, set up on the shelf next to my husband's chordless Bosch drilling tool.

The other women gathered around as well, making their selections and disappearing into the bathroom with the tester jar of mint lubricant. I heard Sofie share in a loud voice her recent discovery that an electric toothbrush makes an excellent vibrator, imagine that! Multi-functional and easy to clean! I quickly discovered I was inexperienced, overwhelmed and in way over my head.

Finally, I decided on a novelty mug with a picture of a woman on the front which, when hot coffee is poured into it, by the magic of 21st century technology, gradually makes her clothing disappear. A perfect gift for my husband, what with Father's Day just around the corner. As a sleep-deprived mother of a 2-month-old baby and a 2-year-old kid, I figured this was the erotic gadget best suited to my sex life at the moment...

I Need to Move.

Jan 8, 2008

I need to move. Now. The South of Holland, smack on the border with Belgium, was one of the only affordable areas left with a bit of open space, which was the reason why we moved down here in the first place. Along with a lot of Dutch people, I had surmised that Belgians were generally petit, friendly people who enjoyed long lunches and a relaxed lifestyle. But after a few years of living here, I've began to notice a few flaws with this region, flaws which are only now beginning to surface...

Let me try to illustrate my point.

Point 1:

Compared to 'De Randstad', it is indeed more spacious down here, but it's practically all farmland. I've never seen so much livestock in all my life as I have in the past three years. It's gotten to the point where I can see from a distance which cow is the better lover, and I finally understand why little girls have always had such a deep fascination with horses. But I've also discovered that, in these parts, the fascination is not just reserved for little girls, oh no. I was once told by a local farmer in all earnest that the men around here really prefer to look at a woman than a horse, but I got the distinct impression that the horse comes in at a very close second. All I could think was: God, I hope he means a female horse...

It's not that I don't love living outdoors, in nature, I honestly don't think I could live anywhere else. But I grew up in a totally different kind of nature. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest of America, in the forest, on the Pacific Ocean, bordering the Cascade Mountains, where it was wild, untouched and uncultivated. As a child, my playground was the forest, where I was convinced I could talk to trees and that I was a descendant of wood nymphs. We played under waterfalls, climbed on moss-covered boulders that were left there by glaciers and saw slugs the size of your arm, no kidding. 

My point is: there's nature, and then there's nature. A region shouldn't go around saying they're nature when they're just not.

Point 2:

Even though it was wild and woodsy in the Pacific Northwest, there was never any lack of culture or ethnic diversity. I cannot say the same for the area around Dutch-Belgian border, unfortunately. Museums, art galleries, theaters and people of any ethnic race other than Caucasian are few and far between. I just don't get the impression people around here are very culturally inclined. But, I guess when there are horses to look at, who needs to go to a show, right? 

Recently, when I was out walking with my daughter, I got all excited about a man of Oriental descent walking towards us on the street. I cried out, shamelessly, (I think I even pointed), 'Look honey! A Chinese man!' A couple days later, we saw the same man, and again I cried out and pointed. 

My point is: If we remain here, I fear my daughter will grow up assuming this poor man is the one and only person of Oriental descent in her little sheltered world, and the scary thing is, he would be.

Point 3:

Belgians can't drive. Now, this is not something I would ever explicitly say to a Belgian, for fear of being run over, but it is true. Fortunately, for those of us who have licenses which weren't purchased with three coupons from a box of corn-flakes, there is way to determine which Belgian drivers one needs to steer clear of on the open road, and which ones are perhaps slightly less dangerous. The way it works in Belgium is, you get a license plate along with your driver's license, which you keep for the rest of your life. The license plate isn't linked to the car, it's linked to the driver.

According to Belgian regulation (otherwise known as one of the greatest farces of the past two centuries) locals could walk into the city hall in the 1900's and simply buy their driver's license for a mere 200.000 Belgian francs (roughly €2,50 nowadays) without passing any sort of exam. They weren't even required to demonstrate any driving skills whatsoever! Maybe it was assumed at the time that everyone had experience driving tractors since that was all anyone had to do all day. And if you can steer a tractor over an open field, well let's face it, maneuvering a car is a piece of cake. They just forgot to teach these people about pesky little things like what traffic lights are for, and why it's sometimes a good idea to look in the rear view mirror.

So, these people were given a license plate with two letters and three numbers, unlike the modern license plates, which consist of three letters and three numbers. Now, if I'm driving along and I see a brand-new BMW up ahead which is sporting a battered and faded license plate with two letters and three numbers on it, I will most likely screech to a halt (but not before checking my rear view mirror, of course) turn around (using my turn signals) and drive back home rather than risk certain peril by driving behind one of these motorists. Sudden braking, switching lanes without using turn signals, fluctuating speed and distinct swerving over the road are but a few of the exciting maneuvers I have come to expect from the Belgian motorists I am forced to share the roads with.

But if you thought substandard Belgian drivers were only the elderly ones, you'd be sorely mistaken. Belgians still aren't required to take lessons with an official driving instructor, they can opt to let a family member or neighbor teach them. Well, this is just asking for trouble, isn't it? All those bad driving habits the more 'experienced' motorists have accumulated over the years simply get passed onto the next generation, who, in addition to having a more fast-paced and stressful lifestyle than their predecessors, have also developed a taste for fast cars and tacky accessories like tinted windows and pointlessly huge exhaust pipes. So what do you get: ridiculously pimped cars operated by atrociously inept drivers all suffering from such a high level of arrogance and adrenaline that there is no convincing them they really really need to stop driving. Forever.

Admittedly, Belgian drivers haven't been blessed with the best of conditions to drive in. Most of the roads around are so poor, you feel like you're driving a rally in Dakar.  Not only are they bumpier than most roads in uncharted Africa, they are often also layered with mud and littered with vegetables. Around here, when you cross the border into Belgium from Holland, you're sure the shocks of your car have just fallen off. But the condition of the roads is not just a problem in rural areas - you also have to watch out for open potholes and gaping crevices in the middle of the freeway as well, not to mention various obstacles and debris like shredded bits of blown tire and overturned trucks.

My point is: Holland, be warned - if you thought the worst drivers of Europe are restricted to the Mediterranean area, know now, the danger is a lot closer to home...

Point 4:

Belgians aren't sexy. In fact, they are not erotic in any way...unless you find yourself at a Tupperware party. Then it's no holes barred. Recently I was invited to a Tupperware party hosted by my daughter's daycare supervisor, a plump Belgian woman called Sofie.

I suppose when you spend every day with screaming and urinating kids, you try to find any means of release for your sexual drive, and Sofie had certainly found her calling in Tupperware. It wasn't her sales technique that impressed me though, it was her intense knowledge of the products and how she handled each individual piece of merchandise with the sort of expertise I'd only seen in porn movies that really blew me away. 

Of course, the other guests at this particular Tupperware party were in a similar state of ecstasy when they were finally unleashed upon the table of goods and started flexing the candy-colored silicone containers and fondling the latex baking forms. I wondered if they were imagining the delightful things they were going to bake as they handled the products, or whether they had other intentions in mind. 

My point is: women of Belgium,Tupperware isn't the only way to boost your libido.

Point 5:

The country itself is a mess. First of all, there's the tri-lingual problem. Some Belgians only speak French, some only speak Dutch, and there are even some who only speak German. Those who speak French generally refuse to speak Dutch, those who speak Dutch generally try to speak a little French, albeit insultingly inadequate according to most French-speaking Belgians. Those who speak German probably aren't even aware that anyone in their country speaks either French or Dutch. Who knew that Belgium was suffering from such blatant apartheid, for hundreds of years no less? 

Geographically, the country is a mess as well. The top part doesn't want anything to do with the bottom part, and vice versa. The bottom part wishes France would welcome them with open arms into its arrogant borders, which will never happen, and the top part has to live with the fact that they're neither French nor Dutch, and have just one crappy freeway that leads from the coast to Antwerp without any exits or a single gas station on it. 

Then there's the government. Well, why pour salt and lemon juice over an already gaping open wound? 

My point is: if you find yourself on the freeway to Antwerp, you'd better have a cup handy to pee in, I guess.

Point 6:

Belgians are depressed. I once read that Belgium has the greatest number of anti-depressant users in all of Western Europe, a fact that, after three years of living with its inhabitants, doesn't surprise me. What with all the industry pumping out tons fine dust on a daily basis and a huge amount of shoddy cars polluting the overcrowded roads, the atmosphere has sort of a constant grayish quality. Often, there's a mysterious odor hanging in the air that can induce a splitting headache and nausea in seconds.

But besides the miserable climate, the overabundance of industry, the well-endowed livestock (that local women have to compete with), the lack of culture, the atrocious drivers, the sexual appeal of Tupperware (the women's response to the well-endowed livestock, no doubt) and the country itself, what on earth do Belgians have to be depressed about...? 

My point is: I need to move. Now.

Greetings From GanjaLand, Wish You Were Here

I live on the border of Holland and Belgium, which is a dodgy place to live for many reasons (see my previous rant). It's a place where cultures meet, and often clash, in pursuit of adventure, insight or in this particular area, pot.

There is one main road that leads from Belgium into the first major city of Holland, Terneuzen, where the infamous coffeeshop Checkpoint is located. Whomever founded Checkpoint is one clever hombre, because it's not only the only coffeeshop anywhere near the border, it's waterfront property, and located right smack in front of the city's one and only concert hall. This must be advantageous to certain parties besides Checkpoint's regular crowd of stoners; surely jazz musicians performing in the concert hall must see it as an added bonus that they only need to follow their noses from the artist entrance to Checkpoint's front door.

I once participated in a local radio debate about Terneuzen and it wasn't long before the issue of Checkpoint, its unfavorable location, its objectionable clientele and its overal shoddy appearence came up. This was a few years ago, when Checkpoint was a seedy, dilapidated building surrounded by pieces of asphalt which could only be assumed to be a parking lot. At one point, for reasons we will never know, the owner thought that he could elevate the esteem of the place by painting the building fluorescent green. By the looks of the paint-job he'd administered, it was obvious no one had told him beforehand he needed to use paint intended for outdoor use instead of finger-paint, which was evidently what he opted for. Undoubtedly a more cost-effective decision in the long run.

Not that the people of Terneuzen has ever really considered Checkpoint to be any sort of blemish on the face of its fine city. I guess when the traffic signs pointing the way to a coffeeshop are bigger and more prominent than those pointing to a cultural institution of any kind, you know that city has a problem deep down, they just don't want to admit it. Apparently, the city of Terneuzen could live with Checkpoint's appearance, but it was still situated so prominently in the wrong spot, even the city's rat population was beginning to get a little embarrassed. Something had to be done.

So what did the city of Terneuzen do to solve the problem? Did they tear the run-down building down and build a glorious monument to honour war heros in its place? No. Did they level the unsightly thing to make room for a handicap entrance to the concert hall? No. Did they demolish the repulsive piece of architecture in order to construct anything at all, like a playground? A sidewalk? A bus-stop?! No. Checkpoint was simply moved 50 meters to the right and the owner was even given permission to renovate and even add a story to an already recurring nightmare.

One can only conclude: trade is holy. The number of Drugs Tourists that enter Terneuzen on a daily basis must be staggering, so the amount of money they spend at McDonald's must be staggering as well. I bet the mayor of Terneuzen probably remembers from his wild youth that Mary Jane gives you the munchies so bad, you'd sell your gold fillings for a bag of nachos. Terneuzen could do with that kind of tourism.

As I drive to and from Terneuzen, I often see shabby cars with license plates from Belgium and France swerving over the road, usually containing three young males in baseball caps and emitting a fragrant blueish smoke from its cracked windows. If they're driving towards the city, all three of them will be sitting upright, looking about them frantically and probably listening to Limp Bizkit. If they're driving back towards the border, it's likely they will be slumped low in their seats, passing a fat blunt from the front to the back seat and listening to Bob Marley. You see, regardless of their origin, Drug Tourists are cliché.

It's a mystery to my why Drug Tourists risk traveling such great distances for a little bit of dope in such amazingly unreliable vehicles! More often than not, I see yet another broken-down Honda Civic along the side of the road with smoke still gushing out from under the hood. A couple of young men in baseball caps will be lingering around the car looking glum as a third desperately tries to get through to someone on his mobile. Maybe he's trying to call Checkpoint, to make sure they won't sell all the weed before they get there. I always wonder if they will end up walking the rest of the way to the coffeeshop, their own personal Walhalla. Distance is then no longer an issue, I guess, when there's pot to be scored. It's a 'no turning back now' scenario...

Not only is there the relatively harmless Drug Tourist I have to contend with on the open road, there's also a more professional, highbrow Drug Commuter. They tend to drive in a slightly newer version of the Honda Civic with real tinted windows and flames along the side that they didn't paint on themselves. These are the 'big guys', the 'head honchos', or at least they like to think they are. In all likelihood they're nothing more than a runner for the Drug Baron, who in turn is probably on some other big guy's payroll as a lowly go-between, and so on and so forth til you end up in Columbia where they don't really give a shit about dope anyway.

The Drug Commuters probably buy a couple kilos of marijuana and take all the B-roads back over the border, a long and tedious route for them, to be sure. Unfortunately, my route home just happens to be on one of these B-roads where I often find myself in front of a souped-up Civic with frenzied occupants behind tinted glass, unquestionably loaded up with cannabis on their way home from a hard day's work. At times like that, I'd give anything to be behind this crazed motorist, whose back seat is probably littered with a couple kilos of skunk and assorted used McDonald's wrappings. They're probably cursing their luck as well at being stuck behind a law-abiding citizen like me in a family sized Toyota when the odds of sharing the road with a co-Commuter are actually much higher.

It's common knowledge that the Drug Commuter wants to get across the border a.s.a.p, and although the B-roads are the safer route, they're certainly not the quickest. A run-in with the law on the main road, which is under frequent supervision, would give a whole new meaning to the concept of 'a bad trip', something the Drug Commuter will do just about anything to avoid.

So what other option do they have than to cling onto my bumper like it was a long-lost college roommate and force me to get a move on. Seeing as I usually like to return home after grocery shopping in one piece and without any dents in my car, I tend to just pull over and let the Drug Commuter pass me. Sometimes I try to see if they give me a little 'thank-you' wave from behind those dark windows, but they drive past me at a speed comparable to Warp 2, so it's doubtful they would have time to.

To this day, Checkpoint is alive and well and flourishing in Terneuzen, and it will most likely never ever go away. And the youth of France and Belgium can, based on the reliability of their vehicles, commute freely to and from its newly renovated structure without that pesky concert hall getting in their way. The big guys can do their jobs, collect their goods and still make it through the drive-thru and onto a safe B-road before the cops even know they've been in town.

Business as ususal.

Viva la Ganja.