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.

Dog People vs Cat People

I live outdoors, which means I am constantly encountering various types of foliage, wild animals and dog poop. In general, people who live outdoors consider it a requirement to get a dog, or so it would seem. All our neighbors have one. We thought about getting one, but as it turns out, we're Cat People.

It's a well-known fact that there are Cat People and Dog People in the world, and they have to live together on earth in peace and harmony. This is not always an easy thing to do when the fundamental differences in Cat People and Dog People are so substantial and numerous. Cat People essentially do their own thing, live and let live and enjoy a good cuddle once in a while. Dog People tend to say things like 'Oh no, my dog never barks' or 'Oh no, my dog never poops in your yard' or 'Oh don't be scared, he's just playing'. To all these remarks, I am supposed to feel ashamed. I obviously must have problems with my ears if I think the dog is barking, and problems with my eyesight if I see a pile of poop in my yard that I did not make myself. And, of course, I should know when a dog the size of a small horse growling at my crotch area is 'just playing'! You see, Dog People assume Cat People are also Dog People, which is partly where the problem lies. 

Because we live in an attractive, spacious area, people enjoy taking walks around here, and more often than not, they have dogs with them. These people believe the outdoors is a place where dog feces just magically disappears or instananeously biodegrades, so when their dog squats in our driveway, they make no effort to stop it since our driveway is just about the prettiest dog toilet they've ever seen. There's really no point in explaining why I don't especially want to tread through their dog's droppings when I get into my car, since more often than not these people don't even speak the same language as I do. Or they pretend not to. They must not be fluent in Cat.

But these are merely tourists, the Dog People we have to contend with on a daily basis are a different story alltogether. Our neighbor, for example, already had a dog when he moved in next door, which he mistakingly assumed would blend into the atmosphere, lose all its annoying dog-like qualities and become one with the quiet woodsy environment. When our neighbor left for work every morning at around 6am, his dog, a spunky little Jack Russel called Sita, would begin to howl and bark non-stop until he returned home again at around 6pm. 

After a few weeks of this sort of behavior, we realized Sita was not simply practising her dog scales and that it was time to speak up. To our surprise, our neighbour refused to believe us - he claimed his dog just 'wasn't the barking type'! Fortunately we didn't have to provide proof, he finally took our rather persistent word for it. So poor Sita was locked indoors while our neighbor went to work, and even then we could hear her tearing up the couch and scratching the doors to pieces. Not long after that, Sita moved out. We found out later she ended up with our neighbor's mother, the only one who could tolerate her, or perhaps the only one with indestructable furniture.

Our neighbor then became a Dog Person who lives outdoors without a dog, which wasn't really allowed in Dog People circles. So, it wasn't long before he got himself a new one, a Border Collie pup. This time, he was going to go to obedience school and was determined to do things right. Maybe he wanted to prove to us, whom he saw as representatives of Cat People around the country, that he could own a dog and that we would essentially never even know it exists.

Our neighbor attended obedience school for a little while, but the puppy was about as non-existant as hemmoroids on a truck driver. It barked, howled, destroyed, and tried to mate with just about anything that threw a shadow. It was clear our neighbor needed to find a solution, so he got another dog. It was a logical move for a Dog Person, undoubtedly, but we Cat People just couldn't comprehend. According to our neighbor, spending a few hundred euro on another dog, which was a couple years older and more experienced, was a good investment because it would 'teach' the puppy how to behave. Needless to say, neither dog nor neighbor managed to stick around for long. I personally believe both dogs probably tore up his furniture so badly he didn't have a bed to sleep on anymore. I felt sorry for our neighbor's mother, who had probably hoped her son would be bringing her grandchildren over instead of a variety of badly behaved canines...

Another neighbor and his wife are both retired and have bred every sort of animal known to man in the decades they've lived outdoors. They are tough people, who can deal with livestock and build things and chop things. Now that they're retired, they must have had a visit from the LPDPLO, (The League of Potential Dog People Living Outdoors) demanding to know why they didn't have a dog yet. They didn't waste any time in adopting one, a chihuahua called Luigi. I can't imagine a more unsuitable choice of canine in these parts. In the damp forest conditions, Luigi has to wear little sweaters all the time, shakes uncontrollably and is so rodent-like, you'd mistake him for a rat if you put him on the ground. Luigi isn't let for a walk, he's carried. I always wonder if, after he's put on the ground to do his business, how difficult it is to find him again. Or if a rat might try to elope with him one day when one of my neighbor's isn't looking. A Dog Person once told me, when you want to get a dog, you don't choose the dog, the dog chooses you. I guess that really is true. 

There are also Dog People living on the corner near us. We have to pass their property to get to our house, which means we pass it at least twice daily. They moved in a couple years after we did, and have a little white lap dog called Rakker. Although I am a Cat Person, I completely get the concept of a dog protecting one's owner, and yet it annoys me greatly when I try to go home, and Rakker appears out of nowhere and barks and chases me along his owner's fence until I have passed and supposedly am no longer a threat. In whatever mode of transport, the second I move into the vicinity of Rakker's owner's property, he sees me as the thing that could destroy his owner and render him as head security guard virtually useless. 

At first, I took Rakker's behavior personally, until I discovered he did this to everyone and everything that passed his owner's property. A bird, a rabbit, a cat, a pinecone falling out of a tree, all were seen as potential perpetrators, capable of inflicting harm on his owner. Sometimes, the owner is around when Rakker barks and chases, and when he approaches, I find myself expecting some sort of explanation. It's always the same: 'You're on his territory!' the owner will say teasingly. 'His territory, eh? Since when?' I want to ask. Sometimes the owner will suggest I pet Rakker, to show him I mean no harm. The idea of extending my hand anywhere near that snarling little thing is undeniably absurd, seeing as if he is capable of sensing my emotions (by means of telepathy, I assume), he would no doubt sense my pure desire to do him a great deal of harm and would probably chomp off my hand. Not a risk I'm willing to take.

Seeing as it's impossible to continue a conversation above Rakker's frenzied barking and jumping up against the chain-link fence, the owner and I don't usually stand around and chat. The fact that I am so close to his owner and could injure him at any moment is Rakker's main concern, so by that point I usually just get out of there. I want to say: 'I was here first, buddy', but this would make no impression on Rakker. Another battle lost. Dog Person: one, Cat Person: zero.

If you think Cat People think: 'We might lose the battle, but we'll win the war', you'd be mistaken. Yet another essential difference between Cat People and Dog People that will most likely remain so until the end of time is that Cat People tolerate and Dog People crusade. A Cat Person will never try to convince you that a cat is better than a dog, but a Dog Person will go to great lengths to convince you why a dog is next to holy. And they'll go even further than that by insisting a dog doesn't stink, drool or hump your leg at inappropriate moments. 

The war has been won, and Cat People around the world have succumbed long ago. They don't care, all they want is a good cuddle now and then. 

Why Children's Television is for Children

Jan 19, 2008

There's a reason why children's television is for children. Adults simply should not be allowed to watch it, under any circumstances. In fact, there should be a warning preceding each children's show: 'The following programming is not intended for viewers over 18 months old', it should say. But sometimes, a parent just doesn't have a choice, and is more or less forced to view programming intended for toddlers. 

There's no point in getting worked up about it, yet I find myself becoming increasingly livid at the insultingly sophomoric level of humor, blatant predictability and endless repetitions. For some reason, my daughter doesn't seem to mind, but I sometimes forget she's only 17 months oldMy daughter wakes up at 8 every morning, and we watch children's TV together. She makes me watch. If I whine and ask why I have to watch, she'll say 'Because I say so,' or something to that effect, I imagine. She hasn't actually learned how to talk yet. So I suck it up and endure another hour or so of children's television that could very well be warping my brain because it is so inappropriate for viewers my age.

I try to see the plus-side of the situation. We get a variety of international programming here in Holland, which you'd think would be intellectually and culturally stimulating to the young minds of Dutch society. But these expectations are hopelessly crushed when the Belgian programming begins, which consists of a combination of (thankfully) short episodes. There's one about pirates, and another one about gnomes, and if you're lucky, they sometimes show one about a farting pig. 

The one with the pirates is about three men and a woman, who are all unbelievably immature and just sail aimlessly around in the middle of the ocean. One of the men has the physique of a stick insect and can't talk. Another man, the cook, is loud, obese and just really annoying. The ship's captain is a handsome fellow but has the same IQ of, again, a stick insect. The woman, who is severely overweight, steers the boat, but that doesn't mean she's any more intelligent than the rest. They go nowhere and every show is about three of them thinking the other one is dead. Probably a side-effect of an untreated scurvy epidemic.

The gnome show is even worse. It's also about three men and a woman who are also all unbelievably immature. They hang around in mushrooms and all of them are obese. (I guess the producers figure all gnomes are fat, which in my opinion is slightly prejudice, but who am I?) The gnomes are named after their personal health problems, as if having one in the first place wasn't humiliating enough. 'Lui' seems to be under heavy sedation the entire time, 'Kwebbel' has a bad case of verbal diarrhea, 'Klus' is an obsessive-compulsive when it comes to odd jobs around the house, and 'Plop', well, I suppose we can only speculate what his unfortunate condition might be...

The less said about the farting pig show, the better.

Between these episodes, they show musical acts starring the aforementioned characters, as well as other Belgian children's TV heros, like the bland middle-aged man and his flea-bitten dog who sounds like he's suffering from severe smoker's lung. Then there's the misunderstood police agent-slash-super hero who, after three-thousand episodes, still hasn't gotten around to informing her loved ones about her sordid alternative lifestyle. And finally, there are the three middle-aged women who look and act like 10-year-olds, which is slightly disturbing because one of them is pregnant.

Children's programming in Belgium is instantaneously recognizable because every show has the same ingredients, or so it seems. The main characters are middle-aged and are struggling with weight issues or other health problems, like flatulence. Usually, they form an inseparable group on the show, and spend the episode dealing with everyday issues like finding out how many cupcakes they can eat before they get physically sick, or why practical jokes can sometimes backfire if executed too convincingly.

If the main character is not part of a group, it is always accompanied by an ugly, shoddily-made puppet. You can ask yourself which is more pathetic: the self-pitying group of hypochondriacs, or the sad loner who's best friend is really just some guy's hand stuck inside a piece of furry fabric.

Then come the British shows, which I initially thought would help my daughter expand on her bilingual capacities. Unfortunately, the characters (usually overweight puppets again) in the shows have little to say, and when they do speak, how they talk has very little to do with the English language. Before I became a parent, I swore I would never allow certain programs (especially the one that stars grown men in fat alien costumes) into my home, but I can't help but notice the calming effect they have on my child. I convince myself of the extensive scrutiny these shows must have gone through before being allowed to be shown on TV, so as to not damage the impressionable brains of little children. I figure, the show must be educational on some level, or the producers would all be sued by now...

And yet, it's obvious that some children's shows have clearly been made by people high on LSD, which is only interesting to watch if, like me, you've never actually experimented with drugs. After watching these children's shows, I actually feel like I've just undergone a completely substance-free psychedelic trip. The effect this might have on my child is slightly worrying, but again, I am convinced that if the program is actually being shown on TV, it must be kosher. 

Then there are the random Eastern European shows in-between the main programming, which are fun to watch because even though they're brand new episodes, the makers are still using cameras made in the Pre-Iron Curtain era. The cameras are probably carved out of stale bread and the lenses are actually highly polished slices of cheese. The end result looks, therefore, a little old-fashioned. But then again, these days, even my 17-month-old daughter recognizes that a show filmed in anything but 16:9 is old-fashioned.

Dutch children's shows are of a completely different calibre. Even though Holland is an ultra-modern and culturally diverse society, it also has about ten-thousand years of a flagrantly sober Calvinistic mentality to deal with. You'll find a fascinating combination of both sides of the Dutch disposition worked into a very conservative variety of Dutch children's programming. Most shows are simplified to such extremes in that no more than three colors are ever used in one episode (any more would be an extravagance), and the characters don't actually have a face. Instead of speaking, they communicate via Bluetooth. 

Even in conservative Holland, television is all about ratings, and what sells. We all know that in an adult world, sex is what sells, but unfortunately that doesn't apply to children's programming. If it did, most television media CEOs would be in jail, not driving around in BMWs with scantily-clad, fast-talking assistants. 

So what makes a children's show sell? Essentially, it seems, if it's got girth, it'll be a hit. While parents around the world are worrying about adjusting their children's diet as they increase in volume, they're forgetting to take a good look at the role models these kids have on TV! Hell, even one of the highest rated children's shows of the past decade is all about fat aliens with TVs built into their bellies! Whoever dreamt up that clever money-making integration of elements must be lounging around by some pool in the Caribbean as we speak. We adults can complain about it all we want, but at the end of the day, children's TV is for children.

Why? 

Because I say so. That's why.

Why Pregnant Women Rock (or: The Definitive Guide for Husbands Who Want to Stay Married After Pregnancy)

Pregnancy is a state of being that most women, and their husbands, wish they never knew existed after going through it. They forget that it's actually a magical time when hormones go haywire, bodily fluids flow freely and skin wants to stretch more than silly putty, when it just isn't supposed to.

The fact is, (and husbands, don't you forget it): pregnant women rock. I've read in books that this is the time when you should feel extremely feminine. Let's be honest, nothing in the world could be feminine about a large waddling female in maternity clothes, with a paunch the size of a retired 49-er and an ass the size of Rhode Island. The poor pregnant woman is forced to wear t-shirts with slogans that say 'My husband did this to me' or 'Baby on Board' and are still expected to have a smile on their face most of the time. 

Incidentally, how dare they refer to maternity clothes as 'fashion', when nothing could be farther from the truth? I suppose pregnant women of the 21st century should just shut up and be thankful they aren't living in the 50's. Dr. Benjamin Spock advised in his book 'The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care' (1946), as soon as they started to show any signs of being 'with child', pregnant women were urged to don an oversized smock, which doubled as a family-size tent for vacations. Mind you, although they had to cover the fact that their hourglass figures were quickly going to pot, smoking cigarettes or drinking martini's was still certainly acceptable social behavior, according to Dr. Spock. But in those days, that was just 'common sense', I guess...

When a woman is pregnant, and showing it, her belly is public property. It's the law. Maybe some women are flattered by all the attention, but the truth is, strangers are probably only smiling at her because she's fatter than they are.

Pregnant women have to endure the most bizarre, uncomfortable, and yes, dare I say it, painful, changes in their bodies, and there's not a thing they can do about it. Trying to convince them that certain conditions are 'common' is not consoling. Until I got pregnant, I was convinced only truck drivers got hemorrhoids. The only thing that can console me now is the knowledge that mine are most likely prettier.

Being funny is the only way I knew how to cope with any moments of pain or discomfort during pregnancy, which was pretty much all the time. But you should've seen me give birth, I could've charged money for that performance! During the final stages of labor, the nurse placed a mirror between my legs so I could see the baby 'crowning', (intended as some sort of incentive to get me to push harder, I can only assume). I took one look at that ghastly reflection and all I could say between panting was: 'Well, now I know I'll never become a lesbian'! 

Every pregnant woman develops a love-hate relationship with her toilet at a certain point in the pregnancy, usually starting around 14 minutes after the sperm has actually fertilized the egg. Pregnant women will get to know their toilet fresheners better than their in-laws by the time the first trimester is over. By 7 months, her bladder will be roughly the size of a lychee, and the baby's favorite pass-time will be to either use it like a little punching bag or practice tap-dancing on it. Essentially, this means the pregnant woman has a much more fulfilling and intimate relationship with her toilet than with her husband. 

As the pregnant woman's girth increases, her mobility decreases (along with other trivial things, like her brain cell count, memory and sense of humor). Things like getting up, sitting down, rolling over in bed or reaching for the remote control can only be accomplished by a pregnant woman when accompanied by this audibly uncomfortable grunting sound: 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!'. During this time, husbands are most likely busying themselves with putting cribs together and fiddling with night lights, but they need to be extra alert when they hear the pregnant woman make the 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!' sound. That is when they should leap into action and suggest one of the three possibilities: 

1) offer the pregnant woman some assistance in finding the remote control and reassure her she is not fat, she's just retaining water

2) offer the pregnant woman some chocolate

3) offer the pregnant woman to carry the baby for the remaining three months (WARNING: the husband will probably find this a humorous suggestion, but the pregnant woman may have already lost her sense of humor.)

So why do pregnant women rock, exactly? Despite all of this, a pregnant woman can still manage to get up every day, be a good wife and/or mother and/or girlfriend and then at one point actually give birth to a human being in an agonizingly long session of excruciating pain and exhilaration during a process they don't call 'labor' for nothing. And for that brief moment, when she's convinced the child she's bearing is the anti-Christ and her husband is none other than the Upper Demonic Master, and she just is not going to be able to pull it off, suddenly it happens: she's successfully traded pregnancy for another little miracle. 

And if you ask me, that's a damn good trade.