I am writing to you on behalf of the United Syndicate of Small Rodents (USSR) with regards to the practice of sport killing. Basically we feel that this is an inhumane practice that has got to stop. You people cling to the reenactment of threadbare stereotypes, insisting on tilting your ears forward and calling it a “game” when the other participant not only has no chance of winning, but never signed up to participate in the first place.
As a member of the race that opens your cans and scoops your poop, I am hereby calling for an international boycott until you people decide to organize and change your ways. By the way, none of this by any means means that I am Catist; some of my best friends are cats. I've got 9 of you people sleeping on my furniture right now. I'm not denying your cuteness or your fluffiness. But I'm also not going to turn a blind eye when I feel your actions are unjust.
You claim to want to live up to our finer achievements; you want to eat our food, sharpen your claws on our couches and sleep on top of our television sets – and no one begrudges you these social advancements.
But when you insist on emulating the very lowest of our society, you make a mockery not only of us, but of yourselves, and you can no longer claim moral superiority.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with feral cats who have to hunt for food - chances are not many of those cats have internet access anyway so they won’t be reading this – but to those of you who live indoors, eat out of aesthetically pleasing molded plastic dishes and think every time the refrigerator opens it’s all about you; to you I say: Stop the cruelty.
Or, in terms you can better understand: ...............No! . . . . .
OK - we've got a bit of a problem here. Wim was just on his way out the door for his evening run, when he saw the neighbor's cat "playing with" a rather terrified little field mouse. As you and I and that field mouse know, a cat's idea of fun can be very one-sided. Wim ran back in the house to get a container, ran back out, and rescued the little guy just as the cat (who's name is "Muis", incidentally) was playing a new game that involved tossing people in the air and catching them in sharp teeth.
Luckily we've got lots of empty critter cages and hay and food laying around, so the little terrified guy (who I've called Manuel) was quickly packed into one and I've put my black raincoat over the cage to make him more secure.
So anyway, he's sitting there breathing heavily and his leg is sticking out funny (not funny "ha ha") and I can't tell if he's wounded or just traumatized. So - while I hate the thought of keeping him in captivity especially if he's got a family waiting for him, I just can't put him back outside on the off chance he'd be walking with a limp, which would very likely attract the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of "people".
Aaaaaargh! What do I do? I wish he would walk around or something. Or at least stop standing like that.
So if he looks like he's still feeling poorly tomorrow, I'll have to go to the pet shop and get him a play wheel and a friend (mice don't like to be alone). I hope I'm right that he's a boy.
So our Farm Hunt continues, and this time when we went out looking at places I remembered to take pictures of everywhere we went BUT now the connection thingy is broken on the camera so I can’t load the photos onto my computer. (Plus the button thingy on the camera is weird so you have to hold it down for a really long time then it takes a picture right when everyone is blinking, but that’s neither here nor there) So I’m afraid you, the reader (and I do mean that singularly), will have to make do with the photos I’ve provided.
So we have seen even more places and yet we are still in love with the very first place we saw. Apparently “love at first sight” works in the case of houses, too. I already knew it worked with men and cats.
So here is our problem: This whole venture is loosely based on a combination of the films Field of Dreams and The Secret. We are actively looking for a house without having what one would call actual money. But if we visualize it, as Kevin Costner and Ramtha would have us believe, so it will materialize. Also there’s the fact that sometimes people get lucky at auctions (not in a dirty way). We’re not completely without a plan - Wim has been buying lottery tickets and I’ve been refilling water bottles to take to the gym – but apparently it’s just as well that we don’t get too attached to anything just yet. Still, miracles do happen, and encouraged by stories like the one about our friend who bought the haunted house for mere pocket change, we’re still feeling positive.
So the one we like goes on auction the first week in June and we’re hoping that no one else will see how abso-fucking-lutely cool it is. It’s structurally sound and yet a little run down looking. It doesn’t really have a kitchen to speak of, but Wim and I are willing to move in and order pizzas for however long it takes to build one. It has a nice big back area with chicken coops (wheeeee!!) and lots of room for rabbits and other rescue critters. And it’s definitely a place where I could have a pet pig and several watchdog geese (If they were good enough for the Romans, they’re good enough for me!), and there are lots of rooms and an area we could build into a guest apartment so our visiting friends will no longer have to sleep on our fold-out couch and get shat on by our cat Walter (it’s one of his quirks).
Ah, but I mustn’t get attached! And I definitely mustn’t get obsessed like I did about the neighbors’ house. So right now, we are treating all these houses like the book The Rules tells unmarried ladies they should treat the fellas. We’re still seeing lots of other houses until one of the houses realizes that we are A Creature Unlike Any Other and shows that it’s serious about us. And until then, we’re definitely not sleeping with any of them.
So Mr. Jovanka and I are currently looking for a house to buy at auction. We got the idea when our neighbor’s house went on auction, and having been there for a party where I saw how cool it was inside I became mad with the need to possess it. I thought we’d get a good deal on it, too, because our friend Robbie bought a house on auction and there was only one other bidder who got there too late to bid, so Robbie got it super cheap. Granted Robbie's place needed work, and it was haunted by the spirit of a dead crack addict who’d been found inside, but apart from that it was rather fabulous. The spirit has gone, by the way, after a conversation I had with him at a party where I urged him to move on. You’d think these sort of things would be obvious to spirits; I’m dead, I’m stuck on the earth plane, hey what’s that light over there? and that they wouldn’t need some drunk woman at a party to shout, “move toward the light!” into and empty room, but dead people aren’t too skilled with deductive reasoning, apparently.
So when we were getting ready to go to the auction for our neighbor’s place I was feeling very positive. I was certain we’d be the only people at the auction and get the place for like 20 Euros or something. I was already eyeing the place possessively and telling the rabbits they would finally have a garden. When perspective viewers came by to look at the place I would try to send them vibes saying, ”You don’t want this place” and we purposely left our bicycles tipped over and generally didn’t clean up in front of our house so they’d think the neighborhood was shabby. We were also encouraged by seeing a few of them arrive to view the property with smiles on their faces and leave with furrowed brows and looks of concern. On one particular viewing day I was positively dancing around the living room at the looks of misery as they left the place. “Look at them! They hated the place! It’s ours I tell you!! Ours! OURS!”
So I was, to say the least, rather nonplussed when on the day of the auction nearly 100 bidders showed up; in fact there weren’t enough chairs in the room. Given the rather non-Rockefeller state of our finances, we were outbid rather quickly (before we’d actually made a bid, actually), and we went home where I suppressed the urge to throw a tantrum. But the whole episode had sparked something and we soon discovered that there are auctions going on all the time, so now we’ve begun looking at the listings and yesterday we had our first day of driving around and looking at places.
Here’s what we are looking for: A small farm. Belgium is absolutely silly with small tracts of land with 100 and 200-year old farmhouses on them (some even older!) just screaming to be painted all sorts of funky colors and turned into small animal sanctuaries. So that’s what we looked at: Places with the word “farm” somewhere in the description.
A few places we saw, we didn’t even bother getting out of the car. Some people’s concept of “farm” must be a warehouse 2 meters from a major highway with Russian mafia guys hanging around outside, is all I’m saying. But we did end up seeing a few charming places. One was so charming that I forgot to take pictures of it. It was in a tiny village that takes “charm” to almost sickening levels; it was big and roomy inside, and the rabbits would go absolutely nuts if they saw the garden. In retrospect I’m glad we didn’t bring them along for the viewings for this very reason.
So we were in a great mood and ready for even more charm when we went to see the next property. It was way back, remote, tucked away away from everything in an overgrown field, which I love. So points on right away. It was slightly shabby-looking, but hey, what’s wrong with a fixer-upper?
Aaaaaand, then we went inside. This was the kitchen:
Hmmm. Being generally cheerful in nature, though, I thought well hey, what’s wrong with an even bigger fixer-upper? I tapped my fingers reassuringly against the green metal wall paneling and we moved on. Here’s what the living room looked like:
I was just trying to talk myself into thinking that the dark oppressive feeling was nothing a lick of paint couldn’t brighten up when we saw the upstairs. First of all, I use the term “stairs” very lightly; it was really a barely glorified ladder that the strange woman showing us around planted herself at the bottom of and refused to go up. I soon found out why:
Mmmmmm. Nice, eh? So….Let me paint the picture for you: These people knew that people were coming over to see the property to possibly bid on it. Did they think, “Perhaps I’ll fold a few things, put some things in a drawer, tidy up a bit.”? No. Apparently they instead opted to present it in the “decrepit neglect” style, chucking a few broken chairs on top of everything to complete the look. Before we had started to ascend the “stairs”, the strange woman told us it was a bit dark up there because the light bulb kept going out.
“Oh really?” Wim joked, “Have you got a ghost?” To which the strange woman replied with an awkward silence and a swift change of subject. We soon realized why. We felt an icy chill behind us, turned around and saw this:
OK. I exaggerated that a bit with special effects. But still, it looked like this:
And it was really spooky. Trust me. I guess you had to be there. There was definitely a ghost there. And you really have to wonder about a ghost who would be willing to be seen in such an absolute state. I was temporarily overcome with the urge to stand in the doorway with a glass of wine and shout him toward the light. But I thought better of it and instead struggled down the ladder first so Wim would have to be the one standing there alone for a few seconds.
I tried to think of positive things about the place. Maybe it was better on the outside?
Unfortunately, the “farm” bit consisted of a rather grotty and decidedly small bit of yard at the side of the house. The current crop looked to be ready-for-harvest tracts of ragweed, and while they did seem to be flourishing, it wasn’t quite my cup of tea.
But the good news is we could probably get it really cheap. And us being who we are, that was how the conversation ran the whole way home in the car.
“OK. There isn’t really any land to speak of, the electricity won’t work because someone died upstairs, there’s green metal paneling in the kitchen and it’s smaller than where we live now…But do you think we could make it work?”
Being in the throws, as I am, of the crazy endorphin rush of the first few weeks of heavy physical training, I am reminded of various adventures I have had in gyms throughout the years. I am reminded of little else, BTW, because what these endorphins seem to do is to economize everything in my body to serve the Muscle Building Machine. My IQ has been cut down to just about the level one needs to operate a can opener (still got one up on the cats! Yaaay!) and I find I can do little else but sleep, watch funny things on YouTube and drink wine. It will pass, I know, but right now it’s all very Flowers For Algernon for me.
I am reminded of a similar time, years go, when I was living in San Francisco. I joined a gym that was about a 15 minute walk from where I lived, and I committed myself to going there and heavily working out every morning before work. Since I’ve always been pretty useless in the mornings, I would sleep in my workout clothes so when the alarm went off all I had to do was put my shoes on and run out the door. If I hadn’t done this I would have wandered around my apartment in a fog of half-sleep for 45 minutes trying to find my gym socks. And besides, when you are in the first few weeks of working out it’s best to get yourself out the door before you are fully awake so you don’t talk yourself out of anything. Usually I would officially wake up about the time I was walking in to the gym and then it was too late for any excuses.
So at this time, Jurassic Park was showing in the theaters. It had been on for quite a while, but I had taken some convincing to go see it as I’m not exactly keen on dinosaurs. I have three fears in this life: Flying, Clowns, and Tyrannosaurus Rexes. I find I get along nicely enough keeping to surface travel and avoiding The Circus, and of course there’s the added help that T-Rex and all other dinosaurs are extinct. And you know what I say? Good riddance to them! Look, I love animals and I’ll go out on a limb for some really unattractive and even viscous critters, but I draw the line at T-Rexes. I’m sorry, but I fail to see where a 30-foot lizard with 3-foot razor sharp teeth has anything constructive to contribute to society. If they were alive today my life would be a living hell of having to stand perfectly still while they sniffed through my neighborhood crushing everything they stepped on, so I’m glad the fuckers are all dead.
So anyway, I finally agreed to go and see Jurassic Park with many assurances that it was “just a movie”. Ha! From the moment where that glass of water vibrates because of the coming T-Rex onslaught, I was hiding under my jacket screaming like a child…which might have been endearing if I had actually been a child, but I was old enough to have my own apartment and get drunk after seeing the film, so, well, kind of not so cute, really.
A few glasses of wine later I had calmed down to the point where I was able to go home, put on my track suit, and go to sleep.
Now another thing that happens when I am in the first few weeks of working out endorphin rush is that I get really vivid dreams: Those really realistic dreams where upon waking, you aren’t sure whether it really happened or not. So I ended up having on of these. And unfortunately it was a full-on Technicolor dream about T-rexes stomping around my neighborhood in San Francisco. They were everywhere and I was having to hide from them. And just when one was outside my apartment building peering into my 3rd floor window, my alarm clock went off and I had to jump into my shoes and run. In under a minute I was outside the building heading for the gym, when suddenly I remembered the neighborhood was under siege by dinosaurs.
It was still pitch black outside and I wasn’t more than 15 per cent awake, so I could hear them coming for me. I flew into a blind panic and started running at breakneck speed for the gym as if my life depended on it. All the while I had to keep turning around and looking for the T-Rexes but they were hiding behind the buildings so I couldn’t see them. I knew they were waiting for a clean moment when they could pounce and I wasn’t going to give it to them. I broke Olympic records for 100, 500, and 1000 meter sprints and I may have even broken the sound barrier and I got to the gym in seconds flat, all but throwing myself in the doors upon my arrival. I fell to the floor heaving for breath. One of the gym employees ran to help me up, looking outside and wondering if he should call the police. And it was exactly at that moment that I started to wake up.
“Are you OK? Was someone chasing you?” He asked in earnest.
“No, no.” I gasped, between breaths, “I just didn’t want to be late.” It was a weak excuse but it was all my endorphin-laden half-awake brain could muster.
He looked around the empty gym, then back at me.
“Um.....OK.”
I could tell he thought I was retarded, but my only recourse would have been to explain that I thought I was being chased by dinosaurs, so I didn’t say anything. Instead I gave him a stupid grin. So for the rest of my time as a member of that gym, I let him go on thinking I was retarded. Because retarded is always better than crazy.
Recently, I’ve started going to the gym every day. I’ve been a member of the gym for about 2 years but it was doing absolutely nothing for me. I was about to sue until someone suggested that I try going to the place. It sounded aggressive, but I decided ah, what the hell.
To my surprise I discovered that my gym is not just this abstract idea that takes money out of my account once a month and sends me the occasional email about yoga classes; it’s an actual building with sports equipment inside – who knew? All of it makes you feel uncomfortable and imposed upon when you use it, but they assure me that it will all result in health benefits later on.
To get to my gym in the first place I have to climb 6 flights of stairs, which I’m pretty sure is against the terms of the Geneva Convention. After climbing 6 flights of stairs a gym is pretty bloody redundant if you ask me. And there isn’t even an elevator! Why??!! (Apparently I’m the only person who has ever asked).
So here’s the worst part: After spending the better part of my morning running on a treadmill and getting absolutely nowhere, I emerge from the gym and what is RIGHT next door?? A PIZZA RESTAURANT! What kind of sadistic freaks would build a gym up 6 flights of stairs next to a pizza restaurant?
Something really great about women’s magazines in Europe is that they very often give you a really cool prize for buying them. They know that most of us “gals” are children at heart, or at the very least willing to spend a little cash to compensate for shortcomings in our personalities. There are probably a good proportion of women who only buy magazines when they get something cool with it. Sure, the magazines can dazzle us with fancy headlines (the magazine pictured above has a lead story with the title, Men Talk About Their Pubic Hair), but nothing draws the customers in like a little freebie. It’s a brilliant marketing tool. Occasionally it’s really lame things like bad lipgloss (which we as consumers show our distaste for by not buying that week’s issue), but other times they hit the jackpot with excellent things like sunglasses or makeup cases. I got this one in a magazine in England a few years ago and I still use it (It’s the shiny thing next to the angry grey cat):
So this week I was thrilled when I saw Flair Magazine offering “Nutribronze Self-Tanning Lotion”; and not just little samples, either, but a full size product (pictured here to display size and also the color I’ve painted my kitchen walls):
And let me just say, this stuff is amazing. It does give you a lovely tawny glow, just like it says on the package. I'm exactly the target customer for this sort of thing, being a rather pale blue-eyed type. I squint when I see scenes of sunshine on television, and I'm not one to go lying poolside covered with oil practically begging the elements to give me skin cancer. So I really appreciate that there are fabulous creams on the market these days to make it look as if I'm not quiet so challenged in the melanin department. Now I can smear on a little cream and it looks as if I go outdoors occasionally. And let me tell you, this is a far cry from how things were back in my day. Back when I was a teenager, they didn’t have all the variety of different “bronzers”, and they certainly weren’t put out by cosmetic companies. They had one industrial strength “sunless tanner”. It was called “QT” , and rather than giving you a tawny glow, it would dye your skin a disturbingly deep shade of orange. The effect was the same on everyone, and yet we’d all go out and buy the stuff, hoping against hope that this time we’d end up looking like the sun tanned beach bunnies on the TV commercial. Basically we were a whole generation of teenagers who looked like Donatella Versace.
“QT” will forever be emblazoned on my mind (and quite possibly stored in some of my skin cells), because it played a strategic part in my ugliest day ever on this planet.
Let me paint the picture for you: I was 13. I was the most awkward combination of chubby and lanky that you can imagine. I was living in England and my mother had left the country on a business trip, so one of her friends from work was staying with me. She let me get away with everything. So no sooner had my mother’s car left the street, than I was down at the corner hair salon getting a haircut which she had forbidden. It was short, but with a long flip in the front that needed to be kept propped with hairspray. It was all part of a makeover I was doing on myself that I planned to show everyone Monday at school. I was going to be a suntanned blonde goddess with modern hair and a body to die for. I had picked out a rather low-cut dress of my mother’s, and I had it laid out and ready to put on the next morning. Before I went to bed, I applied the QT. And instead of a thin layer like the bottle suggested, I put it on extra thick. Because I wanted impact. I wasn’t going to mess around with subtlety.
I have never been much good in the mornings, so when the alarm clock went off, I slipped on the dress and matching sandals (which were a little big on me), shoved a few pairs of socks into my bra (for the “wow” effect), ran a brush through my hair, and headed out the door. I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror, because the one in the bathroom was too high for me to see into, and the full length one was in the other bedroom. But it didn’t matter – I knew looked good. I would just bask in other people’s appreciative stares.
As I walked down the street to the bus stop, I was apparently so strikingly beautiful that everyone was stopping to have a look at me. I was a real head-turner. I simply couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It was such a special feeling being so astonishingly gorgeous. When I got on the bus, some kids laughed at me, but I thought hey, they’re probably just so amazed that a supermodel like me is actually taking the bus.
When I got to school I was a few minutes late, but appreciative of the importance of making an entrance. “Assembly” was already in progress, so I walked into a room already full with all my fellow pupils and assorted teachers. Most people’s eyes were on the person who was speaking, but Miss Mullens, a nun/teacher who had a special hatred for me, turned around to glare at me. She stared me down until I had no option but to stare at my feet. Finally, a friend grabbed my hand and whispered, “Come with me”. Once we were outside the Assembly Room she said, “What are you doing?! I can’t believe you came to school looking like that!”
“What’s wrong with looking sexy?” I asked innocently.
And without answer she led me to the Ladies Room and set me squarely in front of the mirror.
“Look.” She ordered.
I looked. And contrary to the gorgeous sexy self-image I’d been operating under all morning, there before me stood a bright orange freak, with dark wrinkle lines everywhere where the fold of the sheets had pressed against my skin while I slept. My eyebrows looked like someone had melted orange crayons on them. My hair was sticking up in an unnatural tuft in the front (think Cameron Diaz in Something About Mary), and my low-cut sexy dress was low-cut enough to reveal not only my bra, but the argyle socks hanging out of it.
How I got through the rest of the day, I don’t remember. The memory of it is sort of contained in a dark shame-cloud. I think I borrowed some gym clothes to go home in. But I do remember that when I got home I made a point of squirting the rest of the bottle of QT down the toilet, cursing all the while.
So anyway, this stuff they make today (that I got free in a magazine!) is like gold to me. You kids don't know how easy you've got it.
The first time I ever heard of The Kelly Family, it was as a chronic insomniac in Los Angeles, years ago. Chronic insomniacs see a side of life that others aren’t necessarily privy to, as evidenced by my late-night-TV-purchased Tony Robbins tapes, and my rather advanced knowledge of celebrity astrological signs. During one such long night, I was flipping channels when I heard a sound so terrible that I had to stop and take notice. What I saw defied description, but I shall attempt anyway: Imagine a group of tone-deaf fashion-challenged hobbits singing songs while crowds of Germans scream. Enter: The Kelly Family.
The Kelly Family are an actual family. Their parents and the first few of the kids emigrated from the US to Germany back in the 1970’s, and in some Von Trapp inspired frenzy, created a family band. They couldn’t sing or play instruments, but with their now imported “Can Do” American spirit they got on stage anyway and showed those Krauts a thing or two about Positive Visualization.
They immediately became a huge hit with German audiences; an audience with such discerning tastes as to make David Hasselhof bigger than Elvis. They played their little hearts out all over the parts of Europe that also had large beer drinking populations, until finally they had a bona fide “International Hit” with a song called, Alien
The lyrics of Alien, which are to say the least puzzling, describe an encounter with an Alien so completely intoxicated with this planet’s atmospheric differences that she starts hanging out with a member of the Kelly Family.
But the song is catchy and there’s a bit that you can sing along to, even if you are German. And it was on the strength of this that The Kelly Family decided to take a stab at the American market via late-night ads that boasted, ”Millions of German fans can’t be wrong!” (History might beg to differ, but let's not open up that old can of worms!). And right at that moment, I became fascinated with them. And I think in the back of my mind that long night back in 1997, a seed was planted that led me to travel to Europe in search of them. I kid myself that there were other reasons.
And lo and behold, long story short, I ended up at a Kelly Family concert in Antwerp with my European husband who realizes he’s just a pawn in my Kelly addiction. As we were seated in the impressively large auditorium, we looked around us and began to notice that we were the only normal people there. The other people were all just a little …odd. We couldn’t put our finger on it either – was it a shared bad fashion sense? Or a pasty look that they all had? Or maybe they looked like they were members of “The Family”?
And as we began to listen to conversations around us, we noticed that almost everyone besides us were German. They had actually come from Germany to see the Kelly Family perform in Belgium – like they were the Grateful Dead or something.
But the excitement in the room was tangible. And when they came on stage, the room became one high-pitched scream. There were bouncers stationed to deal with the hoards of people rushing the stage. And I’d like to be able to report that those people rushing the stage were teenage girls, but no. From what I could see, the crazed fans ranged in age from about 30 to about 65. I couldn’t tell if they were at a rock concert or a faith healing. And perhaps neither could they.
But those Kelly people played their hearts out. They jumped around the stage with their fuzzy hair flying, dodging gifts that the fans were pelting them with. The drummer seemed to be in some sort of a trance.
As the concert wore on, it began to walk a fine line between rock concert and confessional performance art. Between the songs, various Kellys would tell us personal stories meant to pull at our collective heart strings. One introduced a song by telling us of a little girl in Berlin who couldn’t be here tonight, because she had cancer. The entire audience responded by holding their lighters in the air for the duration of the next song. At one point a fan in the balcony shouted, ”Ich liebe dich!!” to which the Kelly object of her affections responded in German-accented English: “Stop shouting. I can’t hear myself think!” – a pretty rude remark, I thought, but rather than putting the audience off, it seemed to endear them even more. Talk to us like we’re scum, Kelly Family!!
One Kelly, who seemed to be making regular trips off stage for a few sips of something, at one point grabbed the microphone away from another Kelly and asked the audience for a round of applause for the sound guy (who was presumably holding the bottle) who had just got married. As the audiences’ cheers died down, he started to sob as he said into the microphone, “I used to be married. But my wife left me. She took the kids and she just left. She never explained anything. People ask me why I drink.” Thankfully the rest of the Kellys broke into spontaneous “music” and cut off his mic.
When the Kellys finally tried to leave the stage, the fans simply would not let them go. They did about 8 encore performances. Beatles, Madonna, Led Zeppelin and any other “rock stars”: eat your heart out.
We left the concert feeling rather confused as we clutched our new Kelly Family T-shirts. “Don’t these people know that they’re not huge stars?” We asked ourselves.
And here’s the thing: They don’t. because in their world, they are. One day hundreds of years in the future, they will have a past life regression and bask in the fact that they were once rock legends, because no one around them is telling them any different. The Kelly Family are truly having the Last Laugh because in their world they are the most talented musicians ever. And hundreds of German fan sites would bear that out.
So we were on the train coming home from Amsterdam yesterday, and I had just flipped down that tray thingy and was preparing to eat my lunch when this girl sat down in the seat in front of me and her hair was hanging in my lunch. I quickly moved my sandwich away, but for fuck's sake, it was still there and God only knows what kind of dandruff or head lice might have been flying off of it?
I am not really good with people being near me when I eat, as it is. I can't eat if someone is standing next to me while I'm sitting, for instance. And if I have to sit so close to someone that I'm touching them, then I can't eat at all. I'm willing to bet a lot of people feel the same way - you just don't want anything that might be in orbit around another person to potentially make its' way onto your food, that's all.
And you would think that someone with really long (color-processed, split-ended...Sorry, it was that close that I could tell) hair would be mindful of another human being's personal space, and either take care to pull their hair out from the seat behind them, or wear their hair in a chignon when they travel, like a decent person. But no. She just went on chatting to her friend while I was suffering in her wake.
So I knew I needed to say something, which of course threw me into a quandry. First of all there's my fear of talking on public transport; then there's my fear that perhaps others will judge my boundaries; and finally there is my fear of not knowing what language to speak in. I mean just because we were on a train in Holland, didn't mean I should assume to talk to her in Dutch. And I certainly didn't want to speak in English like some American tourist with this imperialistic sense of entitlement, assuming that everyone will understand them. I tried to listen to her speaking and it sounded slavic - I think - but again I couldn't assume there, either, could I? And especially not when the only word I know in Polish is Kurva ("fuck it!"), although it certainly would have been appropriate. I started turbo-whining to Wim, who was busy eating my now-inedible sandwich.
"Just talk to her!" He said.
"No, dammit! No! No!" I screamed, sinking into my seat in the fetal position.
And with that Wim put his sandwich down, stood up, and asked the girl (in english) if she would please move her hair. Then she did.
But to my credit, the photo above was taken after she had moved her hair. It was hanging much further down when my sandwich was near it. Bloody weirdo.
Oh, and, um... apart from that, Amsterdam was really fun. We had a great time.
I don’t know her name. But she looms in my consciousness like a vengeful Banshee. I will call her Brünhilda, because chances are that isn’t far off.
Let me just start by saying that we don’t have a clothes dryer. That sounds very strange to most Americans, because they can’t fathom the concept of having a washer but not a dryer. To them washeranddryer is grouped together as one word like “lmno” or “samanderic” (Alphabetical and “Lord of the Flies” references, respectively), but here in Euroville that’s how lots of folks do it. Mostly hanging your washing up to dry is less damaging to your clothes (apparently) and of course kinder to the environment. After living away from the US for almost a decade I’ve learned to still that American mantra inside that says, ”Fuck the environment! I want convenience!” and hang my socks on the radiator along with everyone else.
Towels, however, must be dried in a tumble dryer in order to turn out fluffy. The only people I’ve seen who seem to prefer the hard crust of line-dried towels are the English; but they also prefer the masochism of stilton cheese, warm beer, and mustard that burns your sinus passages, so they should be regarded in a different light. The rest of the Euro-gang say, “Fuck the environment, I want fluffy towels!” (albeit with really cool accents.).
My first foray to the “Wassalon”, was also my first encounter with Brünhilda. She isn’t there all the time. She is a cleaning woman apparently independently contracted to come in every day for a half an hour, terrorize all the customers, and wipe down the counters and floors.
Something that I’ve discovered about the Belgians is that they wash floors in a really weird and violent way. They don’t bother sweeping first. They just take a large bucket of boiling hot water and chemicals and chuck it across the room, then sweep it all away with a squeegee. Then they put a rag on the squeegee and go over it again. Then they have no problem immersing their ungloved hands (they refuse to wear rubber gloves! It’s so weird!) into the boiling vat of chemicals to rinse out said rag, all the while seemingly oblivious to being watched from the corner by the gape-mouthed American woman who is used to a gentler kind of floor cleaning.
But with Brünhilda, the simple act of violent Belgian floor cleaning isn’t enough. With her it’s about power. The first time I encountered her wrath, I was sitting on the bench reading my book. She said something to me in Dutch, but this was back when I didn’t understand a single word of the language, and I usually tried to employ the method of pretending I hadn’t heard anything at all rather than attempt stumbling through a bunch of verbs which I found ridiculous. Whatever she was saying, she repeated it a few times, and I continued to stare at my book and try to appear really foreign. It never occurred to me that she wanted me to move off of what I had thought was a stationary bench. Well apparently what she had been saying was something along the lines of, “You've got three seconds to move your ass because I’m about to toss the bucket”, because the next thing I knew, a vat of boiling chemicals had been angrily tossed in my direction, and the tops of my shoes were soaked. I noticed that the other patrons of the Wassalon were sitting on the folding table, obediently dangling their feet like children, so I quickly joined them. No sooner were my feet in dangling position, than she moved the bench into the center of the room, making it clear that it was no longer a mere bench, but now a sign that symbolically screamed, “CAUTION! WET FLOOR!”.
The other customers sitting on the folding table exchanged looks of terror and consternation with me. Even as our dryer loads of towels and underpants finished spinning, none of us dared move to fetch them out and fold them until her assistant, a pale cowering little man, had come through with the squeegee.
I soon learned that there were rules of engagement when she was around and I learned to keep my head down and stay out of her way like the others. Generally speaking, when she enters the Wassalon, those of us In The Know just get up from our seats and jump up on the folding table, unbidden. This is just what you do, and if you play along, no one gets hurt.
So things were fine for a while. Like the others, I made myself small and scarce when she was near. But then I don’t know, I think I just got too relaxed. She sensed I was no longer intimidated enough and she decided to push the envelope. One day, as I was putting coins in the machine, she suddenly approached and became fixated on wiping down the machines.
But not just any machine, my machine. She projected her aura out like I was supposed to move, but I was literally in the middle of putting the coins in the slot, so I (timidly) stood my ground, and she started wiping the panel around my fingers, jabbing at my knuckles with her chemically-soaked rag.
I finally stepped aside just because she was seriously freaking me out. And I swear she got a little look of triumph on her face. The whole experience sent me into a shame spiral. I already have problems with my boundaries and standing up for myself, and now I was letting this psychopath with cleaning rag push me around.
After that, with every subsequent visit I would have to spend a good deal of time just psyching myself up. Because I was starting to notice that she was waging some sort of vendetta against me. It would seem hat no matter where I stood or sat or leaned, that was where she suddenly had to chuck water, poke the squeegee or dab her rag. If I was standing near the machine she had to clean it. If I was sitting on the counter she had to scrub the exact part I was sitting on. If I was standing in the middle of the room she had to chuck her vat of chemicals exactly on that point. She even got to the point of systematically grabbing my wheeled laundry cart and putting it up on a counter without so much as a how-do-you-do. She would clean the entire wassalon, and but leave the floor wet in front of my machine. Then when I had to traipse across that area to bring my laundry to the counter, she'd stare at me menacingly. Or if one of my clean towels accidentally dropped into the floor puddle she'd sport an evil little smile. Once I got to the folding table it would be time for her to clean that - just that section, exactly where I was standing.
So one day back at home, when towels and underpants needed to be dried, I decided that I couldn't take it anymore. I started hemming and hawing and finally coughing and feigning illness in front of Wim. I just didn't want to go Back There. Between coughs I made the argument for buying a dryer.
"Fuck the environment." I coughed.
Wim saw right through me. He'd heard my complaints about Brünhilda, but always accused me of gross exaggeration and melodrama. So to prove a point, he packed up the wet laundry and decided to go to the wassalon in my stead. He laughed as I called out warnings after him as he disappeared down the street.
He returned 45 minutes later, nearly reduced to tears.
“She started wiping the table while I was folding the laundry!” He blubbered. “She even splashed some of our towels with her cleaning rag!”
“Did she start wiping the table right as soon as you started folding?” I asked, knowingly.
“Yes!” Screamed Wim, “it was as if she was waiting for the most inconvenient moment!”
The thing is, this sort of thing is hard to prove, even to yourself, even when you’re standing right there as it’s happening. Your mind covers it up and tries to make the experience go away. You tell yourself she didn't really shove you or threaten you or touch your fingers with her cloth. You start to doubt your own sanity, thinking, No one would be that evil... But when someone else notices the same thing, that's when it really dawns on you and you're forced to face the reality of the situation.
We both agreed that something needed to be done. The next time I went to the wassalon, I brought my camera along. I don't know quite what it was I thought I'd capture on film, but I knew I needed something. I didn’t need to worry whether she’d be there, because although her visits are only ever 30 minutes long and at varying times of day, Murphy’s Law dictates that she will always be there whenever I am. And sure enough, she arrived. I saw her loitering in the front of the wassalon, and I started priming my camera. I knew that as soon as she sensed my presence, she’d be making her way back to check the timer on my machine and see how she could best obstruct me.
Luckily my camera looks obscure enough that it could be anything. I sort of poked and prodded at it and pretended that it was some sort of video game, and in this way as she came closer I was able to snap away, even when she was right next to me. If I caught her looking at me too intently, I just pretended to be really engrossed in the "game", even making the odd sound effect like I was losing.
Sure enough, within minutes she had ascertained that my laundry was almost done and prepared to obstruct the floors.
She actually watched my reflection in the mirror as she waited out the last minute for my clothes to dry.
Then as soon as I was standing there folding, she did it. She chucked the bucket across the floor, and started poking and prodding at my feet, as if I just happened to be standing on the dirtiest spot within a 10-kilometer radius. She literally attempted to shove my feet out of the way with her evil squeegee stick. I stood my ground. She stood right next to me staring and sending out intimidating death rays. I kept standing my ground. Finally I really couldn’t take any more and I started laughing and I said, “This is ridiculous. I’m not moving.” And she stormed off. I so wanted to take a picture but it just wouldn’t have looked natural that I had been gripped at that moment by the sudden urge to play a video game. I stood firmly in place like a warrior and folded my tea towels and underwear.
Then the most amazing thing happened! I looked up and she was outside getting into the car with the pale little man! I jumped for my camera, but they were already taking off as I was able to get a few shots.
Ha!
Am I a bit immature? Sure, maybe. But it’s a jungle out there, my friend. Belgian cleaning isn’t pretty. It’s an arid wasteland where Management Is Not Responsible For Damage. I made my stand. This is one lady who can finally fold her towels in peace.
