Good things come in nightmarish packages

So I am getting ready for a first date. I am clearly very nervous, as I am convinced this guy is completely out of my league because he has clearer skin than me and way better hair (not hard to achieve, sadly). I live on a houseboat, by the way, so it is kind of rocking a little as I apply concealer to my dark circles in an attempt to make myself look lively and human (in conjunction with blush, anything is possible). As I swipe on a bit of too-sticky lip gloss (I hope if we kiss, he will just get stuck forever and not be able to escape my lip-grip), I notice a little something in my tooth. I dig around with my tongue, probing for the invader. But it feels weird, like my tooth is loose or something. I nudge it a bit to test it out, and it does feel overly sensitive. Oh, well. I have bigger things to worry about.

I rush off of my houseboat and toward my intimi-date. On my way, I run into a friend, who points out that my front tooth is looking rather odd. I touch it gently with my forefinger, just to realise that it is loosing up even more. Crappity crap crap. This is not looking good. With ever step I take, I can feel it heading south. As I round the corner toward the restaurant, out it comes. I catch it, bloody and gross, and at the same time glimpse Mr. Right in the distance. I'm in a total panic. Then I wake up.

My heart is racing as I feel around in my mouth for any potential missing teeth. Nope, everyone is accounted for. Whew. As an American, teeth are very important, you know. They must all be there, white and straight. Poor dental hygiene is tantamount to poor care of the Netherlands, if you know what I mean. (If you don't know what I mean, please Google "manscaping".) It is just not tolerable. Needless to say, this seemingly harmless nightmare jolts me every time. It comes regularly in different forms. Job interviews, public speaking events, TV appearances... You name it, my teeth have fallen out there. Sometimes one, oftentimes more. And once, I even panicked in my dream, then told myself (in the dream) "This is only a dream", at which point I woke up to find my teeth missing, and low and behold, I was still dreaming! Yes, it was a tricky dream-within-a-dream! God I am good at fooling myself sometimes...

Anyway, the point is, I wake up every time in a near fit, yet relieved to find all of my teeth still occupying their fleshy little caves in my jaws. And that is the true joy of a nightmare. Who cares how shitty it is while it's happening? You wake up, and it's gone, and you feel great about it. "Good thing that was just a dream..." And then on with your life feeling slightly strange that you dream about teeth, but satisfied to know you still have them.

Good dreams, on the other hand, are the real killers. You're sitting there listening to Mr. Right whisper all of the cheesy sweet nothings he can conjure up (he still thinks he has to work for you in your dream, because in your dream, you are not desperate). You are eating it up, knowing that you are totally deserving of this. You are out of his league. He knows it and you can see his feelings of pride in having captured you for this moment in time. Your eyes meet, and it is definitely magical. Of course you are in some weird place, like the changing room at the public pool or the bleachers at the local baseball stadium (it is a dream, after all, and not everything can be normal). But you still feel like there is nowhere you would rather be. Then, somebody knocks on the dressing room door, and you are jolted out of the arms of Mr. Right for good. You wake up.

At this point, all I ever want to do is go into some kind of drug-induced hibernation. Anything to get me back there for as long as humanly possible. Because clearly what was happening there is better than taking Mollie to pee, showering, finding a new pimple, noticing my balding eyebrow is diminishing ever more, showing up at work to a day of meetings and nobody noticing my new haircut, and worst of all, realising that none of what happened was - or will ever be - reality. This feeling of emptiness is...well, super bad.

So why is it that people complain about having nightmares? At least you woke up, right? At least it was fake. All that came of it is that you realised life really isn't all that bad. You aren't quite as desperate (though maybe moderately desperate) as you were, you don't live on a crappy houseboat that rocks, you are not intimidated by guys with nice hair (at least not all of them), and you have all of your teeth. And if you have even worse dreams than mine, you realise that people are not trying to kill you or your family, you are not dying of Ebola, your plane did not crash, you did not fall into the Grand canyon, or whatever. You get the point. Your life isn't so sucky after all.

But good dreams serve only to remind us of our shortcomings in reality and what we are missing. They leave us with a little hole where we continue to wish for those feelings to return. And because it felt so real, we try to rationalise ways that it could have really happened. ("Could I have been roofied afterwards and just not remember?") But our loved one is still dead, we are still single, we don't have a new puppy, we do not have the career of our dreams, we are not married and living in a home big enough to have a full-size dining table... We are just the way we always are, but with the knowledge now that we wish we had something else.

So I personally am going to stop my moaning when it comes to bad dreams. I don't care if I am always the outcast and have missing teeth. At least I will always wake up to something better. As for the good dreams, they will continue to be my real nightmares.

Giving back my backside

Unless you are actually an owl, I think it's pretty safe to assume you can't continually be checking out your own backside throughout the day, right? But still, somehow the people at H&M (and numerous other retail establishments - Victoria's Secret NOT being one of them, thank god) have decided that it is only right to allow me the possibility to look at myself from every conceivable angle while trying on clothes that I am not even sure will fit. So not only do I have to be shocked at my own poor choice in items (and sizes), but also in how absolutely horrendous they would look to the person walking down the corridor at work behind me. (It's like hotels that install 5x magnification mirrors in the bathroom. I don't need to see myself that close. It's just not healthy. Or normal.)

Worse still is that I have to (yes, I am being forced by little dressing room spirits) look at the rear view of the stuff I actually do like. Yesterday, this included a nice little summer dress. To my horror, not only were my shoulders similar to a linebacker-in-training, but I had some major roly-poly action happening in the bra region. Call me crazy, but I feel like ignorance is bliss here, and that I could have happily gone on with my life not having to know that my back looked like an overstuffed sausage.

But now that I had seen it, it was time to really get to know what was going on back there. I proceeded to flail and bend into every possible contortion I could imagine making during an average day at work, or at the store, or biking, just to see what other people must be seeing. I discovered lumpy muscles that must be prehistoric remnants of my swimming days, as well as multiple reasons why my bra was clearly a bad choice and needed to be burned immediately. The situation wasn't looking pretty. I had to get out of there.

Luckily, I had the clarity of mind to hang a long dress over one of the angled mirrors, preventing me from the temptation of staring at the car-wreck that was my rearview.

But at relaying this story to colleagues later in the evening, they all insisted it was of the utmost importance to know how your butt looks in things. I argue that I never have to look at my butt, so why do I have to know what it looks like? If someone else thinks it's so bad, they don't have to look. Yes, it was decided - ignorance was even better than the bowl of peanut M&Ms I had begun inhaling in my misery.

You know, I have enough to worry about with the front side of myself that I don't have to start up with the other multitude of angles available. It's taken me 27 years so far, and I am still coming to terms with the fact that my stomach isn't all that great. Why bring my butt, back and love handles into the discussion now? Clearly this must trace back to some innate masochism that is built into people. Like, we know if we pop that blister, it's going to take thirteen times as long to heal, and if we start picking at that practically nonexistent pimple in the morning, it will definitely be a volcano by our very important date in the evening. But still, we do it. All the time. It's like we can't help but try to make our daily lives as miserable as possible in the most minute ways conceivable. Or at least I can't.

Anyway, of course I ended up buying a couple of things I didn't need. And shockingly enough, they were my typical baggy, long tunic things - the tenty type of clothing that generally doesn't show anything, not even the fact that there is a human inside. You'd think if H&M actually wanted me to leave a satisfied customer (who has just purchased waaaaaaay more than I had anticipated), then they would strategise their fitting room approach a bit better.

First off, I would like a spray tan upon entry, possibly with someone to make my hair look decent. Secondly, some soft lighting that does not cause unnecessary shadows would be great. (Really, why do I always seem to have disgusting pores under dressing room lights?) Then maybe one single mirror with a moat around it so I can't get too close, as well as a slight angle backwards (since we all know that in reality that is really how tall and slender I look anyway). To top it off, I would like random people who do not seem like they work there to give me honest opinions. Honest, of course, being the operative word here. And I mean it. I don't want to know what I think the back looks like. I am way too judgmental for that. I would rather someone else just tell me, and I will take their word for it. That way I still know if it's a good or bad choice, but my self-esteem survives another day.

Of course it would be ideal to not be so self-critical and not care if images of my back in tight white tops inspires Jouel to call me Rotundra. And I would love that. But let's just be honest - I'm so not there yet. And until I do get there, I would really appreciate more of a teamwork attitude from my friends at H&M. You take back my backside, and I will buy more crap. Deal?

My Newfound Love For Dirty Men

Let me begin by stating the obvious: I in no way believe that I was somehow merely overlooked as Miss Universe, and that I, in fact, should have been recognized for the clearly obvious unique beauty that I am. I recognize and appreciate my status as “girl next door.” I don’t need to be on the “exceptional” side of the beauty spectrum—I’m happy enough to have not fallen all of the way on the other side. The point is, I am pretty normal. And I like receiving compliments as much as any other girl. But also like most girls, I get a little annoyed when (read: I often yell inappropriate things when…) construction workers/gangs of pre-pubescent teenage boys/old men holler at me from afar. In my mind, they might as well be giant penises yelling “Feed me!” I could just as well be a hairy man in a wig, and they’d probably take it. But let me tell you, I have recently had a slight change of heart.

Since moving to Holland, I have had to make many an adjustment; I bike everywhere instead of driving; I don’t worry about my hair too much, as the wind/rain/etc. will undoubtedly make a nest of it as soon as I step outside; I rely totally on my watch instead of the sun for indication of time, as winter days are 100% dark and summer ones 100% light; I live in a state of whiteness that is practically see-though and don’t even hope that I will see enough sun to change it; I always wear waterproof mascara so that the rain doesn’t make it run in the winter and my watery, hay fever-ridden eyes don’t make it a black waterfall in the spring and summer; I always carry tissues so that I can attempt to avoid the use of my sleeve for all of the parts of me that seem to be dripping; and lastly I avoid cutting bangs, as sweat/rain/wind/humidity do not seem to accommodate the sweeping look. I’m sure there’s more, but I think you get the point. I have made many adaptations.

Now if you read carefully, you’ll see a few patterns in there. First, it seems the weather sucks at just about every time of year. Second, it seems that the weather prevents me from doing anything in the way of beauty maintenance. OK, so it’s not the end of the world. I realize. I’m not complaining. In fact, it’s kind of nice to not have to worry about it. I mean, every other girl is in the same boat as me, so we all pretty much look like butt together. Strength in numbers, right? (Except boo to the girls who go to the tanning beds and stuff—that’s cheating. You’ll pay for it someday. And also to the people who don’t sweat—I hate you.) Anyhow, the general point is that, no matter what time of year it is, I look like I’ve been chewed up by a washing machine and spit back out after an aggressive spin cycle. Living in this constant state of degraded appearance, I have grown to appreciate the “wildlife” more than in the past.

Now, when I bike against the wind with my hair looking about as inviting as the snakes on Medusa, my eyes more bloodshot than a crack addict’s, unnatural amounts of fluids streaming from every orifice on my face, and red spots covering my every inch of pale skin like rosacea, I have to admit that a “Hey girl—you’re looking good today!” doesn’t do anything to hurt the situation. So maybe my construction worker friend just hasn’t seen any action in a while (or ever, in the case of the pre-pubescent gangs of just-emerging hormones), but his desperation is enough to make me feel like maybe my hay-fevered face isn’t only for my mother and Marc to love. So instead of yelling out-of-character remarks in reply, I throw them a cheesy smile and overly-enthusiastic thanks. The worst part is, I mean it. Really, I am the last person who is going to argue with the desperate man’s assessment of my appearance, because just like him, I’ll take it where I can get it.

All Dressed Up & Nowhere To Go

Yes, I know it has been quite some time since I have communicated my enlightening ideas via blog, but I have been consumed with Dutch studies. OK, that's a lie. I don't study. But when I still pass my finals without studying, I have to ask myself the question, "Why bother starting?" Sure, I would learn more, but...

Anyhow, the reasons I have decided to re-birth my blog are diverse to say the least. First off, my nails are splitting from the cold, dry weather over here. What does that have to do with my blog, you ask? Well, those of you who know me know that I love having nails on the longer side, but that I don't like to type unless I do it with the pads of my fingers. (That's why I used to cut my nails short before writing ever long paper in college.) Because of the splitting, I have been forced to cut my nails to nice little stubs, making my fingers ready to hit the keyboard. Secondly, I got dressed and ready today, all prepared for productivity, when I realized that it is far colder outside than it was yesterday. Why is that a problem? Well, I am wearing a loose-fitting shrug that does not allow for a jacket. Clearly that's a pickle. So I stayed in. But in staying home, I faced the ever-growing debate of how to spend my newly-freed time. I put laundry in the machine, which took approximately ten seconds, and then moved on to unpacking from Russia. But in the process of unpacking, I came across See's candies from my birthday--an irresistible distraction. From there, I moved onto the cookie dough in the fridge, only breaking for an All-Bran cereal bar (my guilt absorber). As I grabbed my second sinful chunk of cookie dough out of the fridge, I knew I needed a distraction, and fast.

Thirdly, I am bored. But I can't admit to Marc that I am bored, because then he might start wondering why I don't get off my ass and DO something for once (ex: dishes, vacuuming, cleaning up the disaster that follows wherever I tread...). So I need to appear productive in order to avoid those horrendous tasks. I have plenty to do, but for some reason, I always prefer doing things that don't need to be done over doing things that do need to be done. A curse? I think so. I am sure someone somewhere has written a book on how to overcome this type of syndrome, but let's be honest--somebody like me would never actually read a book like that? It would be counterproductive to the very core of my being. I once bought a book to help with my procrastination, but HELLO! I am a procrastinator! I have never read it and have no idea where it is. I mean, if you had enough motivation to read a book and solve a solution-needing problem, then you wouldn't actually need to read the book in the first place, would you? Stupid authors.

Finally, I feel as though I can no longer speak English. Since increasing my Dutch skills, my native tongue seems to be faltering more and more frequently. I misspell words using half Dutch and half English (for example: koffie+coffee=coffie, year+jaar=jear), which is clearly an embarrassment. And worst of all, I adopt the Dutch people's way of speaking. Instead of saying "This girl at work," I say "My colleague." I work at The Body Shop, in case you missed the memo. It's not what one would call the most professional environment. Definitely not deserving of such formality. And instead of "I hope not," it's now "I don't hope so." What? I don't get it. I wish I could give better examples, but the saddest part is that I don't even realize I am doing it most of the time. Why is this happening to me? I think I should start reading more.

So that's the story. That's why I am back. I can't lie though--I feel like nobody actually reads this thing anyway. So I am basically talking to myself about myself, which in many circles would be considered quite sad. I guess if I weren't doing this though, I would be talking to my dog. And since I am no Dr. Doolittle, I guess that's also equivalent to talking to myself. Either way, I am pathetic. Oh, well.

Now that I've explained why I am writing, I am tired of typing. I need more cookie dough.

Collage

Sometimes I can't help but laugh at the things you people send me. If I wasn't still young, and if I had to face the bladder issues of my mother, I'd probably be crossing my legs and doing the pee dance on a daily basis. So I thought I should share some of the more genius things y'all have told me.

On my insistence on writing letters instead of typing, in order to avoid carpal tunnel: "And don't worry, I'll definitely be joining you in the carpal-tunnel recovery ward. We'll be walking around like rejects with clawed up hands wrapped in bandages. Pretty." -Sean

"Local Boy, pointing to my friend, trying to find a Chinese word to describe her: Not athletic, that means lesbian. You are plump.
Her, offended: Plump?
Him: Yes, because you have [pointing] boobs.
Her, laughing: Well I am a girl! We have those!
Him: My girlfriend not have boobs. No girls in China have boobs. What you must do to get them. What you eat. I tell her how." -Lindsay (little sis in China)

"The only thing you are absolutely forbidden to do is to feed the PIDGEONS. When I was in Venice, I thought they were adorable, now I know them for the awful, dirty, disgusting creatures that they are. So although they will be looking to you for their survival, I hope you thwart them in their efforts." -Kathy (Mom)

"Dylan lives in the ghetto. We heard some automatic gunfire when we went back there last week, which was, of course, a lot of fun." -Blanket, on living in DC

"Well, enough of this shit. Must go back to my book. Another of those non-thought, unmeaningful, spy books. Oh well, it keeps me entertained and out of trouble. On second thought, it might do me a bit of good to find just a little trouble." -Kathy (Mom)

"Unfortunately however, me and my roommates went out to a bar the other night and came back and were joking around and one of my roommates ended up shoving another one of the roommates into the wall... creating a giant sized person like hole in the wall. Currently it's been duct taped together so it's looking real classy." -Peter

"I'm also obsessed with the new dance show, "So You Think You Can Dance?" It's like American Idol but with dancers and I have a crush on a couple of the guys. Too bad they're probably gay. Oh how I long for a man... " -K.B.

"I think the more you date the more you see how ugly, boring, and mean most guys are." -Blanket

"The deal with stinky tofu is that it smells so bad that people eat it because of the remarkable fact that the taste is relatively much better than the odor. I'm confused." -Lindsay (little sis in China)

"For 8 hours a day I hover somewhere between angry middle aged Puerto Rican woman (shouting "Boy! Are you serious? I'm calling your auntie after school!") and cheesy lower elementary school teacher bribing my class with lollypops and the chance to name the class puppet. I have never been so familiar with stickers, shoe lace tying, needless bandaids, cheers, and bending glasses back into shape after a fight at gym." -Bree

ABC...it's easy as 123

I woke up at the butt crack of dawn. I wore a strapless bra and the most uncomfortable shoes I owned. I covered myself in a tent masquerading as an article of distinction. I put a board on my head and ropes around my neck (fitting). I sat for hours in the sun, unable to hear or see what was going on (not that it mattered, since I don’t think any of it actually had to do with me in particular). Then, on my blistered feet, I ran to another crowded area and fought a crazy lady for chairs. In the meantime, I lost my shoes and ended up having to continue through the day barefoot. But let me tell you, that was the least of my worries. Hot pavement did not hold a candle to the suffering I endured while listening to the editor of the Los Angeles Times speak to me about things that (a) I didn’t care about, and (b) did not relate to my life in any way, shape or form. But I overcame all of that day’s obstacles, because I was convinced that it was a torturous finale, signaling the end of my educational journey. Apparently I was wrong.

Only months after that joyous celebration we call graduation, I find myself face to face with the enemy once more. Don’t get me wrong, I love education. But classroom learning has a time and place, and this is neither. (If they offered nap time and recess, and if I could trade my turkey sandwich for PB&J at lunch time, then I might reconsider.) Before I explain, you have to understand that I learned just enough Spanish to get good grades. Retention did not play a factor in my learning process when it came to foreign languages. Like most people, I found the fastest route between two points and took it. I can’t say I never used Babel Fish for “help” with an assignment. And I can’t say that I didn’t use my mad cut and paste skills and some musical accompaniment to draw my professor’s attention away from the fact that my oral presentation actually sucked. I did what I had to do to survive. And now karma is back to haunt me.

Yes, friend, I have to go back to the University of Amsterdam to pursue none other than fluency in Dutch. I am not talking a night class with a bunch of deadbeats here. I am talking full-time student—they expect my fluency to be a 4.5 on a scale of 1-5 by the end of these two semesters. Clearly they missed the memo—I am far past my “brain is a sponge” phase. I think that ended when I was like four years old. And don’t even think about pulling that, “But you’re smart—you’ll be able to do it.” (I can hear my family now…) Smart has nothing to do with learning a language…though the Dutch seem to think it does. They made me take an IQ test to qualify for university level coursework. Hilarious, really. Anyhow, I am not too thrilled.

OH! I forgot the best part! Weren’t any of you wondering what a university is doing offering beginners language courses? Don’t you find it odd? What if Berkeley offered beginners English? Doesn’t really sound college-level, does it? You’re right. That’s where the catch comes in. They offer these courses for foreigners who wish to obtain a degree from the university, but cannot speak Dutch well enough to handle all of the coursework. Thus, according to their rules, I can only take courses at the university if I agree to continue my studies afterwards, obtaining an advanced degree through taking courses in DUTCH. Yes, I would have to obtain my masters through taking courses taught in a language I learned only months before. I guess now is a good chance to pursue medical school…

Mollie (not to be confused with friend Molly)

I hate to have to admit this, but I bought my dog a sweater. Well, I actually bought her two. I can't help that she gets cold. And I also tried to put one of my bracelets on her as a collar. I have no excuses for that. I am a bad person. I am turning into "that girl."

See, it's fun to respond!

I particularly enjoyed this response to one of my entries. That's the spirit, Gavin!

"Aww geez, where do I even start? Maybe reading your blog wasn't the best idea, of course I didn't expect to find an entire post about how the industry that I currently work for creates "one of life's dangerous nuisances". It's a wonder we were ever friends at all... Anyways, if you want to ever have a discussion about the importance of games and the concepts of life they teach and build upon(which include but aren't restricted to: resource/time management, decision making, complex pattern recognition, and blah blah blah) you know who to call.You should also play Winning Eleven, istead of Pro Evolution Soccer."

Picture Extravaganza! (well, not really, but I like that word)

Thanksgiving! Look at all of my cooking! Yosemite, this winter (not a scenic photo, I know,

but I can only put on 5 at a time, and I liked this one!)

New Year's celebration! Eten as usual... oliebollen are a special deep-fried treat, just for the New Year!
Are you ever really too old to jump in a miniature plastic airplane with your cousin?
Who got a dog for Christmas? We did! We did!

A Quickie

Here's a paragraph from a recent email. It'll update you slightly until I get the motivation to elaborate...

I picked up my residence card. The man was so mean it was unbelievable. He spat some gibberish at me, the only intelligible thing being that I was required to complete 600 hours of Dutch social integration coursework. Yippee! I am so stoked. And to top it off, they couldn't preform my evaluation (as planned), so I have to go back again next Monday. Then I get to pick up my SOFI number on Friday, which means I can finally open a bank account. That's a relief. So, next week should be quite eventful. I have sent in several resumes for real jobs (mostly in advertising, but one in HR for Nike), and I plan on turning in the one to Body Shop as well. So I should hear back from all of them soon. And on Tuesday, I am going to meet that girl, Erika, who I met online. Blind friend date #2. I am also going to visit a breeder with Marc, and if he likes this breed (Havanese) we may be getting a puppy in only a few weeks, as we've found several available litters in the end of Jan and early Feb. To add to all of that, I have my first MEETin events (that online site I've been perusing). Monday is a pub quiz, which I am sure to suck at, as my random pool of general knowledge is about equal to that of a chimp.

My Dip Into Art

Be nice...

A Family Affair

Just as a side note, I want to inform you all that because of difficulties you seem to be experiencing with reading the hand-written entries (all you have to do is change your browser settings or click on the bottom corner of the photo to enlarge it), I will be attempting typed entries once again.

One down...

CLICK TO ENLARGE FOR EASIER READING
(read post titled "My latest epiphany" before reading this)

Also, please excuse my spelling errors. It's not easy to spit one of these things out perfectly, and I think I have an "epiphone" or two floating around. Who knows why, but it happened. I'll have to invest in white out. For now, forgive me.