These pictures are of Adam and me enjoying a relaxing weekend together. I love Family Guy. It’s very similar to my own humour. Which I tone down for the blog because I’m supposed to be a respectable lady. Whatever that is. Adam treats me to Family Guy series DVDs on occasion. He loves me. Despite me.
Today is my friend Chareen’s birthday. She asked me when I first moved to The Hague if I knew what colour Big Bird was in Holland. “Um… Yellow?” I’d said. Actually, I had no idea. She’d been told that he was blue, but she had no evidence. Well, Chareen, here’s your evidence. Happy Birthday. I’m as shocked as you are.
Today is one of the hottest days I’ve experienced in The Hague and gives me hope that the whole summer will be just as beautiful. I know it’s hot when I catch myself saying, “Jeez, it’s hot,” and then checking around to make sure nobody heard me complaining. And if someone has heard me, then I quickly say, “I’m not complaining! I’m just saying…” then shuffle off muttering to myself about ice cream and monkeys to throw them off the scent.
On our usual Saturday afternoon mooch about town, Adam and I decided to buy a new set of wicker basket drawers for the bathroom. For many homes in Holland bathroom actually means BATH room, i.e., the room with the bath. As opposed to the toilet, which you know, holds the microwave. Because there are three adult humans living here (Adam’s boss, Henri stays here on occasion) and only one shower, our bathroom gets mingingly dirty and dusty and hairy and whiskery very quickly. Almost every week, Adam or I clean it with a liberal helping of Cillit BANG and a semi-controlled burn. Buying new drawers for the bathroom was a big deal for us and definitely a long time coming. Until now, we’ve had this god-awful Ikea (?) shelf which has lived in the bathroom since before we moved to Holland. It’s just a simple wooden shelf with about a MEELION dusty one-inch little slats. It’s filled with all of our little bathroomy bits and pieces that act as perfect dust catchers. Not only is it impossible to clean this thing with all the tubes and q-tips and soaps and razor blades, but it’s so wobbly that if you touch it, something like a bottle of aftershave or cologne inevitably falls off and smashes to the floor leaving the house smelling like a hooker’s haven. And dammit that’s a nighttime smell, not a daytime smell.
So now, after some effort and a great deal of sneezing, the new drawers have moved in and the old shelf has been relegated to the back patio to hold my potted plants. And I am happy.
Adam and I went to a dinner party the other night - because that’s what young hep people like us do- and proceeded to get totally wasted on gin and red wine and gin and champagne. Respectively. I’d love to say that we held our liquor well, conducted ourselves with decorum, and were the most charming guests that our Aussie friend Steve could have wished for, but honestly, that last hour or two are pretty fuzzy. All I remember is yelling about APPLE COMPUTERS and TWITTER and WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING NOW THAT MY THESIS IS DONE. After that we staggered home and I fell into bed hoping I didn’t throw up on myself during the night. I woke up the next morning to find myself clean but the toilet covered in red wine spew. Which looked familiar, except it wasn’t all over the sheets. And wait a minute, I don’t drink red wine anymore… This meant only one thing: IT WASN’T MINE! IT WAS ADAM’S!
Poor Adam. He had a pretty rough night. And I, who usually have to wear earplugs to bed because I CAN HEAR THE NEIGHBOURS THINKING AND THEY’RE THINKING SO LOUD, slept right through it, totally out cold. Adam’s good at getting drunk, and I have only known him to get sick once before. But it was the most civilized vom I’ve ever witnessed: “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said before going into the men’s room for literally, ONE MINUTE. Upon return, he said to the bartender, “Sorry, could I get a glass of water?” I never would have known he’d been sick if he hadn’t told me. However, this time the brutalized toilet told me. It was crying a little. And somehow gentle Adam had also managed to bust up his right hand. It looks as if he karate chopped the edge of the toilet. He says he hit something, but can’t remember the details. Oh dear.
Anyway, after a miserable day of recovery yesterday, complete with many glasses of water for Adam and the obligatory migraine for me, it has become painfully clear that neither of us are as young as we used to be. And perhaps we should consider redefining our alcohol limits.
I did a bit of shopping with Marga yesterday. I’m on a mission to find some hair combs to prop up my ever-expanding mop. Combs are a bit (a lot) out of fashion so it’s been difficult finding ones of quality. There are lots of little el cheapo plastic combs out there, but the teeth are so fine I’d need to cut them out of my hair in order to free myself. Either that, or they would simply be lost in the wilds of my hair forever. So, on a mission to find more decorative and functional combs, Marga and I went to the local specialty hair shop, the Afro Indian Market.
This is only the second time I’ve been to this particular shop. It’s in Den Haag’s ‘Chinatown’ and is crammed full of every conceivable product for Africanesque hair. Including about 3 BEELION wigs of all colours hanging from the ceiling. Can someone tell me why brown people can’t be happy with their own hair? You know that nearly every brown celebrity (of African descent) you see on tv has fake hair? Yes, I’m guilty of straightening my hair, but AT LEAST IT’S MINE! HAVE SOME PRIDE PEOPLE!! I’ll get off my soapbox now… ok, I’m off. The Hague’s pretty cosmopolitan so I can usually find whatever hair product I need at the local drug store, Kruidvat (pronounced ‘Crowd-fat’). But it’s nice to know that if I have a hair-related emergency I can always go to a specialist to find what I need (HAIR FOOD! STAT!). Unfortunately, this particular trip was unsuccessful: no useful combs. But Marga did find some makeup and I got a foot scrubby. I know, these are both non-hair-related products, but that’s no surprise. You see, the first time I was in this store was several months ago, and hanging alongside the wigs and stacked up between the activators and relaxers were massive smoked pork legs. You read me. Smoked pork. Legs. Huge ones. With hooves.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t at all surprised to see them. Somehow, it just seemed right. But they were gone this time around. And I was sad. Here are a couple of pictures of our day out:
By the way, apparently I missed several rogue military units in my task of breaking up the dust bunny coup yesterday. There was a guerilla army hiding out under the bed and they ambushed the vulnerable Bedroom Rug territory when a crosswind gave them the advantage. The carnage is unspeakable. All I can hope is that the Dyson has enough might to regain control of the area. I’m thinking of calling in NATO.
After a bit of yoga and a brisk walk this morning (it would have been a jog except I was wearing the wrong bra. Boinga-boinga!) I’ve decided to do a few bits of housekeeping today. I need to buy some birthday cards for folks who I’ve neglected in recent weeks. I should probably send a few emails too. I also want to buy new pots for my back deck and start growing lettuce again. Maybe I should call a few folk too. Oh, and perhaps I should ACTUALLY DO SOME HOUSEKEEPING. I have to admit that I’m not much of a housewife. Adam’s definitely a better housewife than I’ll ever be. He’s far neater and more organised than I am. Sometimes I call him anal, but that’s just an excuse for me to be a slob. Deflect and distract: that’s the grown-up way to deal with one’s failings.
I don’t mind doing laundry or washing the dishes. I even don’t mind cleaning the bathroom, mainly because I’m obsessive about a clean bathroom. But MAN, let me tell you, I HATE vacuuming. This, from a woman who a) is allergic to dust, and b) leaves behind handfuls of hair as she moves around the house. Curly, curly hair that once it’s left her head should actually be called ‘dust bunny seed’. I just hate vacuuming! Honestly. No matter how posh the vacuum cleaner is it’s still too LOUD, and it’s still too AWKWARD, and the hose gets TWISTED, and I somehow manage to bruise my ANKLES, and suck up a SOCK or two, and knock over a LAMP. I’d really much rather clean a toilet than do the vacuuming. But I suppose I will do some anyway and risk damaging my tender ankles and ears. The other day the couch told me that the dust bunnies are starting to form alliances. He says they’re plotting an uprising and to act quick or else soon I’ll have dust badgers, and then dust SQUATTERS. And we all know they’re no fun. Click on the pics of where they hold their meetings:
Oh, and I hate drying dishes. What’s the point of drying dishes and dirtying a towel in the process? God needs a chore too so let HIM dry them. That’s what I always say.
Well, I never did get to the chimps. By the time I finished the blog, had my toast, had a shower, and put away the MEELION PhD-related books and articles that had been strewn about the house, it was 1 pm and too late. It takes over an hour to get to the zoo from here and it supposedly closes at 4 in the summertime. Which seems crazy early to me. Maybe happy hour starts earlier in the summer. Those meerkats love a martini. I learned that on Meerkat Manor on Animal Planet. Problem is they don’t know their limit. Mozart and Hannibal got it on after a few too many at the local bolt-hole. That’s what I heard. I think Mozart looks pregnant but don’t tell Flower, cuz then she’ll never let her back into the Whiskers. Fuh reel.
Hey, it’s Cinco de Mayo and although I’m not Mexican, I do love tacos. Same diff. So I’m taking today as a holiday from… nothing… and I’m going to make guacamole. I made guacamole for a friend’s housewarming a few months ago. If you ever want to see Dutch people falling over each other like a pile of pick-up sticks (Holland is a land of giants, by the way) then put out a bowl of guacamole. I’ve never seen people lose their minds over green goo and garlic before. It was horrible and fascinating. When someone yelled, “WHO MADE THE GUACAMOLE?!?!” (in Dutch of course) I was almost afraid to answer lest they began poking their sharp salty nachos into my belly.
Adam’s recently developed a taste for guacamole, although I think it’s actually the nachos he’s after. If I put out a bowl of green play-dough laced with garlic and onions he’d be just as happy as long as there were nachos to be had. I’m an avocado-lover, but Adam can’t really see the point. I think there must be some kind of pheromone in avocados that women dig because I’ve never known a woman to pass up avocado in her salad, whereas I know a lot of men who can take it or leave it. Mostly leave it. “They have no flavour,” Adam says. “They taste like avocado,” I say. ”They’re just squishy,” Adam says. “They’re squishy like avocados,” I say.
Anyway, I’m off to make guac. And in case you were worried that I don’t have enough to do now and I might start burning things for pleasure, here’s a photo of some of my recent activities to put your mind at ease. Click it.
I’ve finished my thesis! And oddly enough, all I want to do is cry. There has been something distinctly humbling, isolating, and ageing about this process. I feel like I should take myself more seriously now. And that’s not really like me at all. At least it’s not what I thought was me. I thought I was cool. Relaxed. A dreamer. Sure, a bit intense sometimes, but mostly up for a laugh. I suppose we all grow up at some point. Here are some pics of the big day.
As you can tell I’m feeling rather reflective today. I was awake with the sun- as usual- and just lay there thinking: hmm… maybe my discussion on page 177 was a bit too strong. Maybe I should have been a bit more careful with the interview analyses. Maybe I didn’t I link my conclusions in Chapter 5 to the intro of Chapter 6 well enough. Maybe the figure on page 43 should have been in colour instead of black and white. Maybe I’m a fraud and all of this effort was just bollocks. Maybe, probably. Maybe I should go have some coffee and peanut butter on toast and write a blog post instead of thinking myself crazy. Maybe. I understand the nutty professor stereotype now. The week in Tobago was an awesome break, but spider-holing in your own brain and not seeing the light of day for 4 - 5 months is a great way to go nuts (if you were looking for advice). I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever feel like myself again, or if this is it. Distracted. Awkward. Hair-pulling. The new bonk-rockers me.
To try and find myself again I’m going to the Amsterdam zoo today. I’m not really a fan of zoos. Maybe I’m naive but I have yet to be convinced that keeping animals in ‘naturalistic’ cages for conservation purposes is as useful as working to try to preserve their wild habitat. Or that animals actually prefer to live in zoos, as ‘Pi’ would suggest… but I do love seeing the animals. And I guess if that makes me a hypocrite then so be it. It’s a lovely sunny Sunday and goddammit I want to be hanging out with chimps.
I’ve uploaded Tracey and Rob’s Tobago pics to my flickr account. Enjoy!
This is what my thesis is about. Except substitute ‘footballers’ for ‘musicians’ and ‘penalties’ for ‘musical behaviour’. Three years later and it’s as simple as that.
