Inspirational and weird

So, remember I said that nothing blogworthy happened here? Well… still nothing blogworthy actually happened here. But! Karen posted something very blogworthy and truly amazing and that reminded me of a story our farrier told. But first you have to hop over to Karen to see what she posted. I’ll wait patiently until you’re back here… pom pom pom… pom de pom de pom pom pom…

So… what did you think of that then? Weird non?

Now, here’s the story our farrier told me yesterday. I’ll tell you the story using his voice. Imagine a deep manly voice here: “Last week I was driving to a client. The sky was heavily overcast. At one point the clouds opened up to let the sun shine through and that hole in the clouds… that hole… it had exactly the shape of a shark! (*)

(I have to tell you something first. Our farrier often experiences things that later explain themselves. For instance: he and a couple of his friends went on a short vacation to Portugal. They had rented an apartment, but there weren’t enough bedrooms. He didn’t want to share a bed with one of his friends so he volunteered to sleep on the couch for those couple of nights. And while he lay on that couch, trying to get some sleep, he got to intimately know the rough stones the living room wall was made of. And one of those stones had the shape of the back of the head of a guy with a band of hair above his ears but the top of his head was bald (are you imagining that picture?). So he thought that it was weird that one of these stones so clearly had this very recognizable shadowy shape in it. And the incredibly stunning end of that story was that on the flight back to the Netherlands, a guy in the seat in front of him was the spitting image of the shape in the wall of the living room in the apartment! And every time farrier visits us, he tells a similar story. So I knew that an explanation of the shark-shaped hole in the clouds would follow. Either one day in the future, or perhaps it had explained itself already.)

“Wow!”, I said. “A shark shaped hole! Weird. And are you expecting an explanation for this weird occurrence?”

”That’s what I thought. We were going out for dinner that evening, so I thought that there would be fried shark on the menu, or something like that. But no! In fact, at that point I was on my way to Dr. Sharky (*). Hehehehehe (he giggles like a girl).

We both giggled like a girl in fact. Because it was a weird coincidence and I thought it was funny too. But now Karen posted her shape in the sky and it makes me think. I’m going to keep a good eye on the sky tomorrow and my camera within reach. Because this coincidence will explain itself. I’m sure. Pretty sure at least.

(*) I had to translate the name of Dr. Sharky who is actually called Dr. Haaier, because a shark is ‘haai’ in Dutch. So the farrier saw a hole in the shape of a ‘haai’ and he was on his way to Dr. Haaier. Confused? You will be, after the next episode of SOAP. (Remember SOAP? Loved that show. Not that it has anything to do with the above story.)

This Could Be Useful Advice

Went shopping with a friend who has two cute little daughters, one of whom had a birthday coming up. Her third one actually. And friend still had to buy the birthday presents so we went into a large toy shop. Overwhelmed by the huge amount of plastic rubbish toys, we didn’t have a clue where to look first.

“What does she want for her birthday?”, I asked the obvious question.
”She wants the complete contents of the toy catalogue”, friend sighed. “But she definitely wants a Dora-doll.”
”A Dora-doll.”
”Yep. A Dora-doll. Some kind of cartoon figure. Dora the Explorer. She loves Dora.”
”So, we have to find the doll section I guess.”
We looked around and saw a pink glow coming from the back of the shop. That seemed to be little girlie heaven. So we headed for the pink glowing corner. On our way down there we passed all sorts of baskets filled with cheap shit toys and I just couldn’t walk past one of those baskets without picking up one of the items it was filled with and squeezing it. “PFFRRRT”, it did and immediately made me giggle. Friend, who wasn’t distracted by all the tempting junk we were surrounded with, because she had a goal – a Dora-doll for birthday girl – was already halfway down the store, so I ran after her and squeezed the thing again.  “PFFRRRT”, it did and I couldn’t help giggling again. Friend looked around to see what made the sound. “Ah! A whoopee cushion. Other daughter would love that.” (Other daughter is four-and-a-very-important-half and apparently she and I share a great sense of humour. No, we don’t share a mental age, should the thought have crossed your mind. I’m definitely older than that. Mentally not very much older, I’ll give you that, but still…)

“Okay. So I’m buying a whoopee cushion for your other daughter then.”

We finally found a Dora-doll that we could both resist puking all over and a cute plush doggie that did “woofwoof” and a salto got assigned to be grandparents’ present and we saw a pink car with a doll in it, towing a pink trailer with a small dog on a cart and a slide on it. All smallish doll size of course. We thought that the whole thing promised hours of fun, so it was added to the birthday presents. I bought a game (with Dora in the leading role) and a cheap bubble blowing device for birthday girl and for her sister very real looking (with a bit of imagination) diamond and ruby stickers to do something creative with and of course the whoopee-cushion. (I gave the presents to friend so she could give them to both her girls, since hubs and I wouldn’t be there on the important day, or in the very near future, to give the presents ourselves.)

We had made a bit of a planning mistake, because we still had to shop for clothes and were now carrying a huge bag filled with birthday presents around that we kept referring to as ‘half the toy store’. “Don’t forget half the toy store”, when leaving a trendy boutique where she had bought a great cardigan and I had bought a nice pair of jeans. More bags to carry around. In another store she bought a dress. So we then had to carry half the toy store, a great cardigan, nice pair of jeans and a dress. Does it remind you of a certain game too? I found the perfect winter coat and a great belt. What did we have to carry around? Half the toy store, a great cardigan, nice pair of jeans, a dress,…. You get the point. We also bought some clothes for her kids. And then she needed to buy shoes for the kids. But we couldn’t be bothered anymore and dragged ourselves, half the toy store, a great cardigan… etc. back to the car.

A couple of days later she had the party for birthday girl and her little friends. That afternoon my mobile rang. It was friend. “Do you want to hear the sound of a whoopee cushion and five little girls? Hold on.”
“PFFRRRT!”
”Weeheeheeheeheee hahahahaha hoohooohooohaha”, little girls hysterically laughed on the other end of the phone. “Weehehehehe have a whoopee-cushion”, the oldest daughter on the other side of the phone cried with laughter. “PFFRRRT!” the cushion farted in the background again. I had to hold the phone half a metre from my ear to cope with the sound of five girls laughing their little heads off. Friend took over the phone at her end again. “Well. Forget all the other presents we dragged around with us. Your whoopee-cushion is a huge success. As you heard hehehe.”

So… should you need to buy a tasteful and sensible birthday present for a small boy or girl, forget the tasteful and sensible and go for the whoopee-cushion. Success guaranteed. And ‘it doesn’t cost a turd’ as we say in the Netherlands.

Not particularly interesting

 

FUNNY

In the Netherlands we have our own version of The Antiques Road Show, called ‘Tussen Kunst & Kitsch’, or between Art & Kitsch. It is presented by Nelleke van der Krogt. We, hubs and I, like Nelleke. Okay, so the program can be jocular and waggish and Nelleke is a bit corny (all words I found when looking for the translation for ‘oubollig’), but she does make the program more lively and fun to watch. For instance: yesterday someone brought an ivory picture frame, intrinsically carved with lots of putti, to be valued. The expert was in awe. He’d never seen such a beautifully carved picture frame before. Especially the faces of the little putti. Beautifully carved and all looking so happy, apart from one he pointed out: “he looks a bit grumpy”.

And Nelleke said: “If I’d be butt naked, clinging on to a picture frame all day long, I’d be grumpy too.”

 

NOT SO FUNNY

Much less fun is the weather forecast. In their wisdom, the ‘weather people’ have decided that each summer it is much more important for us to know what the weather in the rest of Europe is like than what the weather is like in the Netherlands. Now, we (hubs and I again)  have concluded long ago that the ‘weather people’ are just guessing what the weather will be like anyway. Their forecast doesn’t seem to be based on any knowledge whatsoever. Still, for some reason we are hopeful that one day they will be right, so we do watch the weather forecast that is given to us in TV news bulletins. And this is what they show us. (No, we have not yet reached the stage of moving satellite images on Dutch TV. Too expensive.)

“Mostly rain and not warm enough”, the presenter says, waving in the direction of the image, and then quickly moves on to what the weather will be like in Spain, France, Turkey, Greece and all other countries in Europe where I am not.

Why would I want to know what the weather is like in Greece? It is only mildly interesting if people I know are in Greece and they have cold weather and rain and the weather in the Netherlands is warm and sunny. But that is because I’m slightly cruel and enjoy other people’s misery. If it is the other way around, I do not want to know!
And if I’m going to Greece and want to know what the weather is like, I can find out on the internet. Do not bother me with useless information. Concentrate on what is important for us in the Netherlands to know and try to give us a decent forecast with places where it will rain and times when it will rain. Thàt is what I want to know. And thàt is why I often watch BBC Breakfast, where they do have a decent weather forecast and where I’m able to see if and when it will rain where I live, because they do have satellite images and include the Netherlands in those images. And if even they are not right, I forgive them. They do at least try!

I do feel much better now, thank you.

Braver than you’d think

Unless you thought that I’m extremely brave.

Today is colonoscopy day. After drinking litres of apple juice and laxative concoction and multiple toilet visits, hubs’ bowels were empty and he was ready to be dropped off at the hospital. And that I did. No point in me hanging around there for hours to wait for his return, so I went back home.

On my way home I paid a visit to a supermarket to get some odds and ends. I often joke that the parking lot of this particular supermarket is the most dangerous spot in the whole of the province. Mostly because of the very elderly people who still drive a car. Which is nice. For them. Apparently after hundreds of years of driving a car, one has the right to just back up without looking if there is perhaps another car or a pedestrian coming. They probably can’t turn their heads enough anymore. And mirrors… what? Mirrors? No, one just backs up and everyone else in the parking lot should respect the elderly and give them room to manoeuvre. And boy, do they need room to manoeuvre. Where people like you and me just look if we can back up, back up while turning the car and drive away, these people don’t look, they just back up in a straight line, go forward, back, forward, back, forward, back….each time turning the wheel about an inch at the most.

The other very dangerous drivers are the chic housewives of which there are plenty in our neck of the woods, with no hair out of place and a very shiny car to take the children to school or to hockey in. They think along these lines: “My husband is rich, my children are gorgeous, I never have a bad-hair-day, so even though I should give you right of way, I think you should hit the brakes and let me go my merry way.”

And then there is the third category; the young guys who got their drivers license yesterday and think they are invincible. The usually drive a Peugeot 205 or a VW Golf. They are in a hurry, because they need a bag of crisps/chips and a Coke (I mean the drink. I know you think that we Dutch can get marihuana, coke and other mind blowing stuff in our supermarkets, but no. We have to go to a coffee shop for that.).

When I came out of the supermarket and walked my shopping trolley to my car, a guy from the last category (although he drove a Mini) drove into the parking lot. He had to stop for one of the 150-year olds who had been driving back, forward, back, forward and had almost managed to turn the car enough to drive away. So young guy had to wait for what… 10 seconds at the most. But he was hungry and thirsty and in a hurry, and 10 seconds seem like a lifetime when you are 18, so as soon as he could he put his foot down and speeded up to an empty parking space. At an abnormally high speed, even, or especially, for what is the most dangerous parking lot in the whole of the province anyway. So everyone looked at him with killer looks, but then they all went on with putting their shopping in their car.

And now I’ll tell you why I’m braver than you’d think, unless you thought I’m extremely brave anyway.

The guy parked his car, got out of it and I walked up to him. “Can I tell you something?”, I asked, not waiting for an answer. “Do you realize there are often people with children in this parking lot? And those children could run in front of your car. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to run over a child.”

“No”, he said.

“Okay. That’s what I wanted to say to you and I hope you’ll think about it.”

And then I returned to my car and got in, while he went on his way to the supermarket.

Now, don’t think that I didn’t need a bit of courage to confront this guy with his action. I didn’t know him. I mean, he could have been one of those aggressive guys who carries a knife or something. But it turned out that he carried an MP3-player and a phone. And he listened politely.

Perhaps he’ll think about what I’ve said. Perhaps not. Probably not. Well, he probably thinks of me as an old nag who should mind her own business. And of course on my way back home I thought of lots of cleverer things I could have said to him.

But I feel better for having talked to him. And that is a positive result.

Now I have to wait for a phone call from hubs to tell me that I can pick him up from the hospital. And hopefully there will be a positive result at the end of his examinations and scans too. We’ll see.

UPDATE:
They didn’t find anymore worrying things in his colon, apart from two small polyps which they removed. They marked the malignant tumour with ink, so the surgeon can find it easily. I hope it is long lasting ink, because it might take a while before hubs will be operated on. I wonder if they drew a little face on it. I would have done that. But then again my sense of humour is working overtime at the moment.

They warned hubs not to worry if his poo turns blue. That would be the ink. Good to know.

Tomorrow he’ll have a CT scan and a Thorax photo. Fingers crossed.

What Christmas is all about

One of the funniest series I know is the BBC's Gavin and Stacey. This is a clip from their Christmas Special, in which Gwen, Bryn and elderly neighbour Doris explain to you what Christmas is all about (Doris also mentions Scott, who is her toy boy lover).

Makes me laugh every time.

Oily balls (100 things I love about the Netherlands: 14)

 

I knew oily balls would get your attention. And since I need ‘things I love about the Netherlands’ to get to 100 one day, I’ve included them in the list. Even though I don’t really love oily balls. They give me heartburn.

They will no doubt resemble something your country will have in it’s culinary assortment too. If not… lucky you!

Oily balls are made of a yeasty dough, filled with currants, raisins and/or candied lemon-peel (shock horror) and they are deep-fried. It is tradition to eat ‘oliebollen’ (that’s what we Dutch call them. It literally translates into oil balls, but somehow oily balls sounds better. Makes me think of the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show. Why? I don’t know.) on New Year’s Eve. With a generous dusting of icing sugar. (Demonstrated here by hubs, who gave the granite worktops a generous dusting too.)

I’ve never really liked oily balls, especially not the ones filled with the disgusting candied peel and such. So my mother used to bake some ‘blind’ ones for me. Oily balls without the raisins etc. are called ‘blind oily balls’. Or my mother baked ‘appelflappen’. I did like ‘appelflappen’. They are made by dipping whole round apple slices, with a hole in the middle where the core has been removed from the apple, in the yeasty oily balls dough and then deep-frying them.

Years of being subjected to peer pressure on the oily balls-subject (“these are very good, you háve to taste one”) resulted in me actually preferring the raisin filled ones to the blind ones and éven to the ‘appelflappen’. As long as they do not have candied peel inside them.

In December ‘oliebollenkramen’ (stalls where oily balls are baked and sold) pop up in parking lots near shopping centres and in villages and city centres all over the Netherlands. During the rest of the year they are probably found at fun fairs, where oily balls and waffles with whipped cream are very popular ‘food’.
I’ve googled ‘oliebollenkraam’ and came across this questionable ‘singer’ with his ode to the girl in the oliebollenkraam. It makes me very ashamed to show it to you, and I assure you this is not an example of the best Dutch music (although certain people in the Netherlands do like this kind of music, but I’m all for keeping them in gated communities and not allowing them to interact with people who have taste) but it also made me giggle. It truly is a horrible song, but the video gives an impression of a Dutch ‘oliebollenkraam’. So my advice will be to turn off the sound and simply watch it for a short while.

(I díd warn you.)

I’m sorry for being such a bad blogger lately Been busy with other things.

Tag. Shit, I’m it!

Monique, who’s Dutch and moved to Canada a couple of years ago, tagged me. I forgive her. We didn’t know each other before she tagged me actually. At least, I didn’t know her. Perhaps she has been stalking me without me noticing, but I don’t think so. Anyway, she seems nice enough, so I’ll be nice too (as if I’m ever not) and join in the ‘fun’. Which means that I have to answer 10 questions she made up and then make up 10 new questions myself and tag 5 other people. Do not be afraid. I’m not going to tag 5 other people. Perhaps I’ll make up 10 questions that you can answer if you like. I’m not sure yet. Let’s see what happens. First I have to answer her questions. Actually, I rather liked her questions and I don’t think I can come up with better ones.

Monique’s ten questions:

1 How do you drink your coffee?
I drink my coffee black. No sugar, no milk. And I like it strong please. Preferably with a nice fresh slice of cake (baked by hubs who is a master cake baker) on the side. And a dog (or two or three) at my feet. The sun shining. The French windows open. Birds singing, the scent of elderflowers and wild roses….

2 What's on top of your bucket list?
I didn’t know what a bucket list is, so Monique had to explain to me that it is the list of things you want to do before you die. And almost immediately after she’d explained it, the weekly newspaper about our village was delivered and what was in it? 
A column about…

And that everyone should have one. Because if you have no dreams and no goals, your life will always stay the same. Says the woman who wrote this (she’s a life coach).

Perhaps I need to visit her since I don’t have a list of things to do before I kick the bucket. I simply like to live before I die. I believe that if you really want to do something, you should do it nów. I have no wish to accelerate my dying process by bungee jumping or skydiving or performing a similar stunt. I’m quite happy with the way things are.
Nice and boring ;-)

3 what is the best advice you ever got?
Relax.

4 I never want to....
eat snails.

5 What is the silliest thing you have ever done? 
Synchronised walking with my sister in Paris. Do you know the 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 a hat a stick an umbrella and front behind left right song/walk? No?
Okay, you start walking with your left foot while counting to 7 (se-ven takes two steps), walk on while you say: a hat (point to your head) a stick (gesture as if you’re holding a walking stick) an um-brel-la (gesture as if you’re holding an umbrella) ánd front (step to front) be-hind (step to rear) left (step to left) right (step to right). Singing this song while walking gives you an energy boost and my sister and I were really tired when we were in Paris so we started doing this ‘walk/dance’. After a while we did it in silence, but still synchronised, which must have been a silly sight for the Parisians.

6 What song makes you happy?
Do you know the 1 2 3 4 5 …? No, just joking.
This song makes me happy. I defy you to sit still while listening to it.

Also a happy song:

A little bit of feelgood by Jamie Lidell:

 

7 My favorite book is....
Almost everything by John Irving, but ‘A prayer for Owen Meany’ springs to mind. I also like Stephen Fry’s books.

8 Have you ever used a Ouija-board?
No. And I’m not sure if I’d dare to….

9 When I was a child, I thought that.... 
I slept with my eyes open. Because I could see what I dreamt (or dreamed?).
I know. I’ve learned a lot since then. Except how to spell dreamt. Or dreamed. Or both? 

10 Worst song ever....
’Hello’ by Lionel Richie. Aarrgghh!

 

So, that was that. And it was quite fun to do actually. Gave me a headache thinking about my ‘happy song’, because there are so many. I love the Stereophonics too for instance, great band. The sound of the guitars in the song I’ve linked to makes me smile and dance stupidly through the room. Picture that and it’ll make you smile too ;-)

And now I have to think of 10 new questions and tag 5 other people. But I won’t. Sorry for being a spoilsport.

Thanksgiving comes first! (with a little addendum)

(add.: Since Suldog is on a quest, he wrote a post called 'Thanksgiving comes first', and since I really like Suldog, and since I have the same feelings about a similar matter, I have decided to sort of join his quest, but since we don't celebrate Thanksgiving in the Netherlands, my little quest concerns good old Sinterklaas. It's the principle that matters.) So in this case I would really like to call this post: Sinterklaas comes first! (photo from www.schoolplaten.com) In the Netherlands we have a tradition called 'Sinterklaasfeest' (Feast of Saint Nicholas). Every year, around December 5th, Sint Nicolaas/Sinterklaas visits our country. He arrives a couple of weeks earlier by steamboat, all the way from Spain. And on the evening of December 5th, he rides his white horse across the rooftops, accompanied by lots of 'zwarte Pieten' (black Peters, his assistents), and brings all the children presents and candy. Actually Sint Nicolaas is quite similar to Santa Claus. Even their names are similar. Coincidence? I think not! Sint Nicolaas was a bishop from Myra in Turkey. He gave all that he owned to the poor. The story goes that he filled the shoes of penniless maidens with money so they would have dowries and could get married. Hence the tradition to put your shoe in front of the chimney (or in front of the central heating should your house be chimneyless; necessity knows no law), filled with a carrot for Sint Nicolaas' horse and in the morning you will find some chocolate coins or other yummyness in your shoe while the carrot has magically disappeared (back into the fridge, but don't tell the children. They firmly believe the horse ate it.). If you want to know the full Sinterklaas-story, read this by The Holland Ring. Sinterklaasfeest is a very traditional feast in the Netherlands as well as in Belgium. Small children really believe in Sinterklaas. Older children like me, celebrate this feast in a different way. We buy small presents for each other, create a 'surprise' (camouflage packaging in which we hide the present) and write a poem in which we make fun, in a very lighthearted way, of the recipient of the gift. Everything is allowed to be mentioned in this poem: embarrassing moments, love interests, weird habits. No secret is safe around December 5th. The recipient of the poem has to read it out loud to all friends and family members who are there, before opening the 'surprise' that contains his/her gift. The real giver is supposed to remain anonymous because all presents technically come from Sinterklaas, and recipients say out loud "Thank you, Sinterklaas!", even if they no longer believe in him. The point I want to make is this: this wonderful traditional feast is getting completely overshadowed by another wonderful traditional feast: Christmas, AND by the desire of shopkeepers to make as much money as possible. As early as September, almost 4 (four!!) months before Christmas, shops are filled with Christmas decorations. First Sinterklaas, thén Christmas. And no Sinterklaas related candy like chocolate coins, pepernoten and marzipan in the shops when the guy isn't even in the country yet please. Pepernoten in August! I kid you not. It doesn't make sense at all! Stop buying Sinterklaas-related goods in August, September and October! November is early enough to stuff yourself with marzipan (addressing myself now). And the same, but slightly different, goes for Thanksgiving!

Yesterday evening

Yesterday evening Biggles, our crazy labrador boy, suddenly walked on three legs. He had been outside; if the weather is nice, the French doors are usually open and the dogs can walk in and out of the house whenever they want to. So whatever he had been doing outside, he hurt his left front paw. I checked his paw, no thorns or other nasty things in his foot and when I touched his wrist, it clearly hurt. Since our vet had his consulting hour just at that time, I decided to take Biggles to the vet to check him out. Unfortunately it turned out to be 'boy's night' at the vets. The waiting room was packed with male dogs. One of them immediately started growling at our Binkyboy, who didn't appreciate the hostile attitude and growled back. I told him not to do that, and he settled down at my feet, back turned to the growler. Then another dog entered. He looked at Biggles, Biggles looked at him and then they both went WHAWHAWHAGRRRR. So the owner took the other dog outside again and waited there for their turn. Then a guy with two very cute little terriers came in. A boy and a girl. He sat next to us, which I thought wasn't a great idea, so I moved a couple of chairs, explaining that I didn't want to take the risk of Biggles eating the cute boy terrier, to where the first growling dog had been waiting for his turn. Biggles sniffed and sniffed and then decided to remove the smell of that other guy and put up his paw. His hind one. You get the picture. So we had to own up to the vet nurse that we had a little accident and she cleaned it up. Anyway, after a while it was our turn. Usually the vet comes to our house, we know him quite well and regard him as a friend, so when he opened the door and said: "Hey Biggles, your turn!", Biggles stormed in on all four legs and wildly enthusiastic greated his friend. He totally forgot he couldn't put weight on his front paw. "So, what's the matter?", vet asked. "He can't stand on his front paw", I said. "His left one. Only, he has forgotten it now of course." We both watched Biggles jumping up and down and wriggling his whole body into all sorts of bends. "Are you sure?", vet asked. "Yep! His left paw." Vet frowned. Biggles wriggled. Vet tried to lift Biggles up on the table. Biggles wriggled even more. Not an easy task to lift 30 kilos of wriggling muscle onto a table, but vet persisted and soon we had Biggles lying on the table, me performing 'the dog hold' to keep him there. Biggles sighed. Vet kneaded Biggles' toes, pulled and pushed the leg, and concluded that he had hurt some tendons (?) near his little pinky equivalent quite badly because when he touched that Biggles closed his mouth, while during the rest of the examination he kept breathing heavily, tongue hanging out. Biggles, that is. Not the vet. "Since he is already on painkillers (he has OCD in both hind heels and gets a painkiller every day along with supplements to make his joints work more smoothly) I can only prescribe rest", vet said. Then he wanted to lift Biggles from the table again. But Biggles decided to jump off from the other side of the table, where I could just catch him and prevent him from falling on his stupid head. He suddenly remembered that he had a sore paw and we left the vet on five legs and went home where we settled on the couch and turned on the tv. An episode of NCIS had just started. There was a dead man's body lying on the coroner's table. Cut open from head to waist. Skin and most of the flesh folded aside, with the camera closing in on the ribcage. When it panned out again and you could see the total bloody mess in all it's glory lying there on that metal table, I noticed that his private parts were sort of Ken-of-the-Barbie-kind. You know. Just sort of a bulge. Nothing more. I've noticed before that private parts are obscured in American crime investigation series. Either by a very bright light that shines exactly on that spot, so you can only see a white glare, or by someone standing in the 'right place', or by the Ken-of-the-Barbie-kind 'solution'. Which amazes me. Apparently the producers have decided that seeing a dead body, cut open, the bloody mess inside on show, or a person falling from a roof (same episode), gallons of blood gushing from his head, isn't half as shocking as actually seeing someones penis. Or, heaven forbid, pubic hair. It's a strange world we live in. Additional information, thanks to Don't Bug Me's comment: OCD: Osteochondrosis dissecans Osteochondrosis dissecans, commonly known as OCD, is a disease of the cartilage that can affect various joints in a dog. In any joint in the body two bones come together and movement is allowed between them. Where the two bones meet an exceptionally smooth area of cartilage covers their surfaces. This acts as a cushion and protects the underlying bone. If anything disrupts this smooth cartilage surface, movement of the joint becomes painful. In a dog with OCD, this cartilage is damaged or grows abnormally. Instead of being attached to the bone it covers, it separates or cracks, causing great pain. In some cases, small pieces of cartilage break off and float free in the joint. These pieces of cartilage do not die, but rather continue to grow and increase in size. These are known as joint mice. source: www.peteducation.com

Stupid boy!

Last week turned out to be an accident prone one for a lot of blogfriends. Some had their children in (near-)accidents, fortunately without physical damage. Another blogfriend wrote a post in which she asked for positive thought towards hér blogfriend who had been in a terrible accident with her husband and their driver. An awful week for all concerned. According to an article in 'our' newspaper (Dagblad van het Noorden, d.d. 16th March 2009) the Belgian Prince Laurent (born in 1963) has the solution to minimize the large number of road accidents. Laurent loves fast cars and subsequently speedy driving. He is often criticized for this behaviour and in an interview with a couple of students from a Belgian school for journalism, he allegedly said: "I find the time that you spend on the road a waste of time. The less time I spend on the road, the less time gets lost. That's why I love fast cars. And (and this is the 'genius' part of his solution I think) if you spend less time on the road, you have a smaller chance of being in an accident." In other words: faster driving means fewer accidents! Fortunately the chance Laurent gets to spend time on the Belgian throne is a very small one. In the 1990's Belgium changed the law so now his sister and her children are in front of him in the line to the throne. Until then he was third in line. The Belgians made a wise move in changing the law, assuming that his sister and her children are not as challenged in the common sense department as he is. He is not only known for his love of fast cars, but also for his sense of humour. Maybe it was a joke. Let's hope so. Stupid boy!

I apologize to men in advance, maybe only women should read this post.

I hate people who design packaging! Really. For instance, he who invented blister packaging (it can't be a 'she' for obvious reasons. Not obvious to you Male Reader? Well let me explain: women are practical beings. Whenever they invent, design or produce something, they will immediately think: "Will this work? How will this work? Is this a practical solution? Is it easy to use/access?" A male architect for instance will design a beautiful window with a staircase placed just in front of it. "Looks good", he thinks. "We'll do that!" A female architect will design that and think: "Ah, it looks good, but is it practical? Can someone clean that window or do these stairs perhaps prevent someone from being able to actually touch that window?" Clearly a male architect designed the house we used to live in before this one. The house we live in now used to be a painter's workshop/warehouse. I don't mean an artist painter. I mean a painter that paints walls, ceilings (not like Michelangelo) or window-frames. Therefore a lot had to be done to make it into a home. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, the whole kit and caboodle - if I use that correctly - had to be done. The architect (male) thought that the best solution would be a flat roof, oh I so wish I did not start to tell this story because I feel I have to explain to you the whole lay-out of the house, which is rather difficult, suffice to say for now that the building used to have three pitched roofs, well actually four, which meant four staircases to four attics, so the architect said that the best solution would be to join two of the pitched roofs and put a flat roof in it's place. We agreed that that would be the best solution. Ah, I believe I have an illustrative picture somewhere. Not the best picture, no flat roof to be seen, but you can see how the roofline used to be. The architectural planning department (all men) decided that the old roofline should be kept visible and that therefore the 'gap' should be filled with windows. Or we could forget the flat roof. So, windows it was. Curtains? Anyone thought of that? How on earth.....? So, no curtains in the bedroom. No one has been able to think of a good enough solution that will actually look the part too. All the men involved shrugged their shoulders, frowned and ignored my remarks that I didn't think this window-idea was the best solution. Ah well, what's done is done. There are worse things than no curtains in the bedroom. And I don't have to sleep there. It's a guestroom. And the neighbours have not yet complained. Neither have the guests. Well.....if they would complain I would subtly lead them towards the door. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, he who invented blister packaging) should be forced to go to all the people all over the world that have bought something in a blister package and open it for them. Without using scissors, knifes or other tools that might come in handy but are really dangerous to use in these instances! Actually, on second thoughts, he should be forced to use a sharp knife! And I also hate the people (well, according to my own theory we can safely assume that they are men too) who decided that to pack a piece of cheese in vacuum sealed plastic was a good idea! They are probably the same people who invented the 'drink carton with the plastic bottle-cap' (tetrapak). If you pour a glass of orange juice for instance, half of it ends up around the glas, not IN it. I know, one should not use gross generalisations like I have just yet. Years of frustration forced me. Sorry. I wonder, do any of you have problems with packaging? Or other daily frustrations you would like to share? It helps to write about it. I feel much better now. (And I really do not hate men! Actually, quite the opposite ;-)) Update: this post was nominated for Post of the Day, see Authorblog.

Stainless women and George (or Brad)

Now really, I don't understand how some women can stay stainless all day long! For I can never manage that. In the morning I get out of bed, visit the toilet, take a shower, put on a clean shirt, go downstairs, look down at my shirt and there it is! The first stain of the day. If I am wearing a black shirt, it will of course be a white stain. If I am wearing a white shirt (if I dare wear white, it takes a lot of courage, because I know myself by now and white is a challenging colour to wear if you are prone to getting stains), it will be a black stain or indeed a red, green, yellow or purple one. And how did the stain get there? No one knows. Certainly I don't. Otherwise I would have done something to prevent it from landing on my, what was a, clean shirt. But there are women, in fact I know some of them, who can avoid stains. No, really! Maybe they have some invisible bubble around them, preventing the stains to reach them. Or maybe they have a washing powder that I haven't found yet, that leaves some anti-staining layer behind. Stains magically disappear, even before they reach the fabric. I know someone who has a black labrador and takes him for walks in the fields and woods opposite our house. If ever I do that, my legs disappear up to my knees in the mud, the dog disappears up to his or her ears in the mud and then the dog jumps up to me out of sheer joy, and I return home unrecognizable, all covered in mud (but with a very soft skin). But not her! No, she can wear crisp white trousers, a crisp white shirt and crisp white shoes and she will return spotless! I have asked her how she does this, but she merely laughs and shrugs her shoulders. "Can't help it." No, I bet she can't. I also know someone who says: "Oh I've been working in the garden all morning, phew!" (wiping the non-present sweat of her forehead, stainless people never sweat). But I knów how shé stays stainless! She has a gardener and her idea of working in the garden is standing there and pointing where plants have to be planted. There's no trick in that. I could do that. But I don't have a gardener. I have to do it all myself. And we have quite a large garden (about 7000 square meters). Well, allright, hubs occasionally does some gardening too, but his gardening usually includes something quite loud, like a chainsaw or a sit-on lawnmower. No hard graft there. Not like me. My hands actually touch the earth, the trees and the plants. Leaving them all black and with all kinds of thorns in them. And then I wipe my forehead, I actually dó sweat, and leave a nice black stain all over my face. Which brings me to Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney. I can see you frowning there. "Whát brings her to Brad or George?" Well, there is a televisioncommercial, in which a family is having a nice evening together, looking all lovely of course, and suddenly the doorbell rings. Mother opens the frontdoor and guess who is standing there? Brad Pitt! And he needs to use the telephone, internet or the loo. I really don't know what this commercial is about, because every time the mother opens the door and Brad Pitt is standing there, my brain switches off and I disappear into my own daydream of opening the frontdoor and look! There he is! Mr George Clooney himself! And there I am! In my baggy jeans (because my jeans always end up baggy for some reason, nothing like the incredibly well-fitting crisp white trousers of my acquiantance) and my stained shirt with black smudges all over my hands and face, my hair peaking and curling in all different directions. I always try to gather it all in a nice ponytail, that is the most practical option when mucking out the stables, riding the horses and digging up plants, but during the day lots of hairs escape the elastic band and go their own way. Usually I don't agree with what my hair has planned for that day, but shaving my head just seems too radical an option. With this image in mind, one of my New Years' Resolutions was: Making More Of An Effort To Look Nice! Well, that's the one resolution I simple can't keep! It is actually physically impossible for me to be a stainless woman. My mind wants me to stay clean and fresh and stainless. But my body doesn't work with me. I just can't do it. I fear nothing will ever happen between George Clooney (or Brad Pitt, beggars can't be choosers) and me. The mere sight of me will probably be enough for them to run away and try the neighbours' house. And there the stainless acquaintance in the crisp white trousers and the stainless shirt and the very neat ponytail and beautiful make-up, will open the door. Because that is were she lives. And she will go off with George ánd Brad. You'll see!

I want a dog......

I've heard this phrase many times now. You would think it's a child saying this and you could forgive him or her for the wish of owning a dog without realising how much commitment it takes and how much time to take care of a dog. But actually I've heard this said many times now by quite a few of our adult friends. Most of our friends are career-people. They have 8 to 6 jobs (not even 9 to 5), a great and very busy social life, go on holiday at least twice a year - preferably more often, take weekend brakes, live in exquisitly furnitured homes - all very stylish, with manicured gardens. We are part of their social lives, so they visit us, usually I make dinner, they sit at our table, one or two or maybe even three of our dogs at their feet, they sit on our couch with a dog at their side and feel the stress of the day flow away by stroking the soft fur of the dog and fumbling the dogs' ears. All very nice and cosy and relaxing. So they say: "I want a dog!" And I ask them: "Why?" Usually they say something like: "I like dogs!" At which point I say things like: "But if you get a puppy, you will need to train it and it will pee and poo on your carpets. Training takes lots of effort and time. And you are hardly ever at home." "We could get a puppy in our vacation and stay at home to train it." "It will take longer than your three weeks vacation to train it you know!" "Hmm." "And then you go back to work. What do you do with your dog. You can't leave it at home for a whole day. You have to take it for walks." "We have a big garden. We will put a fence around it." "And leave the dog outside, all alone? So that it can ruin your lovely garden? And what if it rains or if it's cold?" "I have seen lovely big dog-kennels. We could easily fit one in our garden." "Why would you want a dog and put it in a kennel all day? Do you think that would make your dog happy? If you had children, would you lock them in a room and tell them that mummy will be back this evening? No later than eight? Enjoy yourself?" "You can't compare a dog to a child. We would bring the child to a daycare centre." At this point my blood starts boiling. Don't get me started on that subject. But I try to stay calm and reason with them. "And if you want to go on holiday. Do you take the dog? Or do you leave it somewhere else? You can forget us by the way. We will not take care of your dog while you are having your holiday! We never go on holiday because we don't want to burden anyone else with all our animals (well, we don't trust anyone else to take care of our animals to be really honest). And we are not taking care of your dog because you want to lie in the sun somewhere. Forget that!" "We will find a solution. We can always leave it somewhere." "Tie it to a tree you mean?" "No of course not! But we have parents, and other friends, and there are kennels." "You c a n n o t get a dog! Until one of you stops working or at least stops working full time. One of you has to be at home for half a day each day before you can get a dog!" Usually they give in then. To keep the peace I suspect. And I really hope that they will think twice before getting a dog and then decide not to. I really love all our friends by the way. But sometimes they just don't make sense. That feeling travels both ways: these friends of ours do not understand that we do not want to go on holiday. They really don't understand that we are committed to our animals and that we do not want to leave them in the hands of other people. Preferably not even for a day! They say that we are exaggerating. Surely we can leave our animals in their capable care for a day or two or more? No! I don't trust them. I know that is a horrible thing to say. But I don't trust them to take care of our animals the way we do. I mean.....the above conversation I've had with not one, not two, but three couples. They are not committed enough. And our other friends have their own menagerie, so they don't have the time to take care of ours. We don't mind really. We are quite happy where we live. We don't need to go somewhere else to relax. And if something comes up where we are expected to turn up; one of us goes and the other one stays at home. A couple of years ago I really wanted to go to Oxford University for a short summer course in Art History. So I went for a week and hubs stayed at home. And if hubs wants to go somewhere, I stay at home. No problem. Do we exaggerate our love for and commitment to take care of our animals? I really don't think so. Another thing that drives me up the wall is that people who have an animal that needed a vet for whatever reason, often start by telling in a resentful voice: "do you know how much that medicine/operation/visit cost?" I should think that your pet's health would be far more important than how much it costs. If you want to own a pet, make sure that you have the money to take good care of it. Friends of ours have three horses, and they have no stables or land of their own, so they have to rent that. One of the horses is very old, 33. And he looks very old. But he's healthy and happy. Someone, who owns a horse too I might add, said to them: "Why don't you put that horse to sleep! He only costs you money and he doesn't look so attractive anymore." Oehw, that person is very lucky that I wasn't there when he said that! I would have kicked him in a place I would like to mention, but good taste and the revolting idea that he even has them, prevents me. You know where I mean. Fortunately our friends love their horses. Oh, and one of our neighbours, who claims to love dogs, got a dog from a dogshelter, which is very kind of course. A couple of days later they put up a dog-kennel in their garden. I asked them why. "Well", she said, "I like dogs, but I don't want to be limited in my movements. If I want to go away for a day, I am not going to let the dog stop me. So I can put her in the kennel. She really doesn't mind. She even doesn't pee or poop in it." The poor dog. Fortunately not very long after that they got their first child and since that child limits her movements anyway, I believe the kennel doesn't get used anymore. Anyway, I've read a post this morning concerning the way people treat animals, written by the lovely T of 'It Matters To Me' (you can find her blog in the sidebar under "These blogs I like..") and that brought tears to my eyes and to my heart the feeling that I had to write this post. Please....if you think of getting a dog (or indeed any animal)....read her blog, think twice, wait 6 months, think again and then do or don't.