tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88708817469651570852024-03-13T20:15:07.366+01:00BardsleylandSomewhere between the Twilight Zone and Happily Ever AfterBardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-86332548379862751232015-12-31T21:10:00.001+01:002015-12-31T21:12:18.986+01:002015: The Newsletter<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2015</span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"In Quotes"</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"I don't remember anything from when I was a monkey."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Nate, not quite understanding evolution.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Oh, I've missed you so much!"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mia, in the candy aisle at Target during our 1st trip <a href="http://bardsleyland.blogspot.nl/2015_08_01_archive.html" target="_blank">back to the US this Summer</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"[Something closely related to intelligible English]."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Sam, trying to explain whatever it is that happens on Minecraft.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"The music major in me says this is wrong, but the nostalgic '80's kid in me says this is so right."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Donna, introducing the kids to the song "We Are The World" on YouTube.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"I've never heard this song...who are these people?"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mark, also apparently introduced to the song for the first time, which led to a lengthy discussion about who's childhood was better.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"I just miss our old house. The walls were already scratched."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Nate, bemoaning <a href="http://bardsleyland.blogspot.nl/2015_05_01_archive.html" target="_blank">our move to another apartment</a> in Amsterdam. Also, kid logic.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Le Meeghraaahnshay?"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Cashier at a McDonald's in France, when I <a href="http://bardsleyland.blogspot.nl/2015/03/we-spent-last-week-in-french-alps-for.html" target="_blank">ordered a McRancher</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"So when you buy something for the kids, do you always do so with a plan of how to get rid of it?"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mark, interrogating Donna about her gift-giving strategy. The answer is yes.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"You're the best mom ever!"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-All 3 kids whenever I'm doing something of questionable judgment, such as allowing them unlimited screen time, making dessert for dinner, or getting a dog as a consolation prize for not moving back to the US. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Finally, "We wish you all, both near and far, a joyful and happy 2016."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">Sam (10), Donna, Nate (7), Mark, Mia (12)</span></td></tr>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-69229865228765189412015-08-17T17:13:00.003+02:002015-10-19T15:45:57.709+02:00'Merica: Four Years LaterYou Guys.<br />
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In America, people say hello to you while out running on trails. For no reason whatsoever.<br />
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And they drive huge cars, and sit in traffic for hours, and live in gigantic houses. They're friendly and helpful, and they scare me when they randomly talk to me in English because I forget that I can actually understand them.<br />
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It's like some crazy foreign land. And the weirdest thing was how not weird everything felt, even after four years away -- like riding a bicycle. Which we did not do in America unless we were far away from cars, and securely wearing helmets and spandex. Just like a bunch of American dorks.<br />
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We flew to Seattle and immediately went to Chipotles, where we drank from cups as big as my head. Then we refilled them because of FREEDOM. (We're patriotic like that.) I consumed my weight in Barq's root beer. And as it turns out, free ice water at restaurants completes me.<br />
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Oh America, you do keep us well-hydrated.<br />
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We spent the majority of time in Seattle stuck in traffic jams, it didn't matter what time of day. Yes, I took pictures of it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rdKKLlU6z0w/VdHrXbiojlI/AAAAAAAARNU/dAYwJqaQmfA/s1600/IMG_20150714_110247045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rdKKLlU6z0w/VdHrXbiojlI/AAAAAAAARNU/dAYwJqaQmfA/s400/IMG_20150714_110247045.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is called: Tuesday, 11:30 AM</td></tr>
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I drove for the first time in four years. My parents lent us their van, complete with mini-blinds, a built-in television, and boat seats like Lazy Boys. As far the kids were concerned, it was the lap of luxury.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XbQppxTTLlU/VdHr3vEkkkI/AAAAAAAARNc/MK-gKnaktuk/s1600/IMG_20150710_213228000%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XbQppxTTLlU/VdHr3vEkkkI/AAAAAAAARNc/MK-gKnaktuk/s400/IMG_20150710_213228000%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's smaller than the vans we had while I was growing up-- no bus driver's license required. </td></tr>
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We reacquainted ourselves with the suburbs of the Pacific Northwest, visiting friends and staying with family. I went for a run one morning and saw a bear. Yes, a BEAR. I debated saying hello, because that seemed to be a thing, but instead ran away as fast as I could. I hope it wasn't offended.<br />
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We were at Target within 24 hours, where my kids had aneurysms in the candy and snack aisle. Or so it must have seemed to anyone in proximity.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-olEG8-v5EHY/VdHzh_fJvDI/AAAAAAAARN8/JSxzBhy2XCg/s1600/IMG_20150717_132629937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-olEG8-v5EHY/VdHzh_fJvDI/AAAAAAAARN8/JSxzBhy2XCg/s400/IMG_20150717_132629937.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't mind us, we're just getting our America on. </td></tr>
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Not everything lived up to our expectations. Costco has changed its hot dog and churro recipes, and discontinued its Mango Salsa. For this, there is no forgiveness. Guess I'll just have to get my 13 lb bags of baking soda and packages of 24 Sharpies elsewhere. Wait -- damn it, Costco it is.<br />
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It needs to be said: American washing machines are nothing short of miraculous. American public toilet stalls are nothing short of the worst invasion of privacy ever. It's no wonder Americans don't care about the NSA. Europeans might bare everything at the beach, but they do not tolerate making eye contact with strangers in the middle of a poo. Thanks OBAMA. And MONSANTO. And VACCINATIONS.<br />
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We met Mark's mom in Montana, and spent a few days surrounded by bikers (the other kind) on their way to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, most of whom looked exactly like <a href="https://www.howtotrainyourdragon.com/explore/vikings/gobber" target="_blank">Gobber the Belch</a>. But they're all doctors and lawyers who grow their beards out just for rally week. You think people on normal salaries drive Harleys? Ha, no.<br />
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We found American Way in Missoula, Montana. It had a China Bowl and Little Hong Kong restaurant, which seemed fitting.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xUvjkblynSw/VdHzjCwlZLI/AAAAAAAAROA/K89F845Bfx4/s1600/IMG_20150802_083322329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xUvjkblynSw/VdHzjCwlZLI/AAAAAAAAROA/K89F845Bfx4/s400/IMG_20150802_083322329.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We didn't even make it to downtown Seattle, or eat enough Mexican food, but we talked, and talked, and laughed, and talked, and laughed, and reconnected with so many people that we love, which I'm deeply grateful for. And 27 days was not enough time because we only went to four states and didn't get to see nearly enough of our peeps, which I'm deeply sad about.<br />
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I'm also sad that I didn't spend the entire time shoving my face with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Hashtag regrets.<br />
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Thanks for all the ice water America, and thanks for not giving us measles. Actually, for that, thanks VACCINATIONS.Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-42597804767213258172015-05-20T23:23:00.000+02:002015-05-21T12:03:30.725+02:00Moving House or The Art of AvoidanceThe number one thing on my list today is finishing our US taxes*. And hard as it is to tear myself away from that barrel of monkeys, my gut says it's time to write. So writing it is.<br />
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Too bad, tax monkeys.<br />
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Tax deadline for expats is June 15th, which is also moving day for us. Not back to the US, but to another place in Amsterdam. Our soon-to-be apartment has two(!) toilets, an adorably tiny office, steep Dutch stairs, a garden, and lovely high ceilings with those carvings and architectural details and whatnot (pretty sure that's the technical term). We'll have a dryer and a proper oven for the first time in four years.<br />
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We'll bike to school through Vondelpark, which will practically be our back yard. We'll be two doors down from a vintage furniture shop, and a few minutes walk from the only decent place to get Mexican food in Amsterdam. I'm a bit giddy. In short, I really think we might not ever move again.<br />
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Just kidding, we're totally moving back in a year. And everyone knows by now that when we say that, we MEAN it.<br />
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Here, it's common to use a realtor to find rentals (we didn't), as well as negotiate rental terms as you would buying a house. We viewed the place and bid on it in the same day (did I mention it has whatnots?), in an effort to show how serious we were even without a realtor. Which is also why we very carefully cut out the magazine letters for our offer letter and put "This is a serious rental offer!!!!!" on the top with a heart dotting the i so they would know we were just the right mix of responsible <i>and</i> cute.<br />
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Actually we did it all the negotiating via email while traveling, and in our desperation to snag a place with a garden, we brushed off the tiny detail that the new place is unfurnished while our current apartment is furnished. Ha ha, didn't seem like such a big deal at the time.<br />
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That's OK, because to avoid thinking about all the things we'll need to buy, I've been distracting myself by arranging all the furniture that we don't have in my head. Avoidance is fabulously therapeutic.<br />
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Go away tax monkeys.<br />
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Maybe we should renew our vows and do another wedding registry. Coincidentally, we just had our 17th wedding anniversary, which according to the anniversary gift list, is the furniture year. Convenient! We'll go to Ikea together and see if we can make it to 18.<br />
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To celebrate our anniversary we went out for a rather bland brunch, where an American tourist sat with us and then joined us to view an exhibit of the 2014 World Press Photo winners. That's right, we celebrated 17 years of marriage by looking at disturbing photos of war zones and human atrocities with a complete stranger. There's an analogy there, I know it.<br />
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Oops-- no time to think about that anymore. Time for taxes. <br />
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<i>*If you didn't see my Facebook post: when I opened up our tax return from last year, I saw that I listed my occupation as "Lady of Leisure," and now I'm trying to decide what to put for this year. So far I've got: Avoidance-art Specialist, Homecoming Queen Runner-Up, and Barrel and Monkey Facilitator. Hit me with your best suggestions. </i><br />
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-4478657563728807052015-04-15T13:40:00.000+02:002015-05-18T09:30:58.318+02:00Blimey, Time for an Update<br />
Funny how my "write every day" resolution resulted in the opposite. Next year, I will resolve to not write a single word, and see if my rebellious soul decides to write a novel instead.<br />
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A rundown of the past few months, give or take four:<br />
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1. After 3 1/2 years in Amsterdam, I FINALLY got to send the following text to a friend about her son: "Ummmm, so xxxx just fell in a Canal. Mark is bringing him home." Xxxx was just fine, but this is the reason why the Dutch school curriculum includes swimming lessons, where every child learns to swim fully dressed, and getting your first <i>Zwem Diploma</i> is possibly a bigger deal than graduating from college.<br />
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The canal episode happened in the nearby park, on our way to bury Squeaky the hamster, who crawled under his hamster ladder and died on Mia's 12th birthday. Because that was the kind of day it was. RIP Squeaky, in your pizza-box coffin. Not cool the way you made me cry though you were smaller than a grapefruit.<br />
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2. We revisited our decision to move back to the US this Summer. The days have been so gorgeous lately, we had no option but to extend one more year, despite the utter foolishness of it. There is just something about riding your granny bike along the canals of Amsterdam on a bright Spring morning that breaks your heart wide open and whispers to you that you will only ever leave this place kicking and screaming. I wonder what would happen if we tried to make this decision in the bleakness of a Dutch Winter, fighting on our bikes against a bitter headwind...<br />
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3. Mark turned 41. We started a new tradition: cake apologies.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRAw6Tl-oDA/VS5E26pP3fI/AAAAAAAAPDc/wL_hdcoSbFQ/s1600/IMG_20150406_191518825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRAw6Tl-oDA/VS5E26pP3fI/AAAAAAAAPDc/wL_hdcoSbFQ/s1600/IMG_20150406_191518825.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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4. As I was coming home one night, I was stopped by two young men trying to drive to the city center. Our street is currently a mess of construction, and the intersection was entirely blocked off. As I was thinking of the best route to tell them, an older woman walked by and with zero hesitation or timidity let us all know, "There's no way to get to Centrum. The whole place is a mess. You just need to turn around and go home right now." This was, of course, not true, but I just loved the unapologetic gutsiness of it. Definitely one of the top 5 Most Dutch things I've ever witnessed.<br />
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5. This is our friend Aaron, giving 12 kids a ride in a mega bakfiets while wearing a kilt. Just one of those things that might happen here any given Sunday.<br />
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Some people just like to blend in. </div>
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6. A Dutch friend invited Nate to join his baseball team, which was when we realized Nate probably has no idea what Baseball is. As we were explaining it, Sam piped up: "Oh, I know that game! It's where you try to hit a ball with a stick." </div>
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Oh, sometimes we suck at being American. However, word has it the American kids are infecting the poor British kids at our school with their alarming American "twang"-- like a virus. Which is why I'll be teaching my kids to say, "dude, no taxation without representation!" </div>
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What will happen to us when we ever move back?</div>
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I'll think about that next January. </div>
Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-26135056879966602912015-03-05T16:04:00.001+01:002015-03-05T22:45:37.073+01:00How Do You Say First World Angst In French? <span style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">We spent last week in the French Alps for the kids' midwinter break. W</span><span style="background-color: white;">hich sounds much more sophisticated than it is. Not that it was a bad trip, but the sentence <i>we spent last week in the French Alps for the kid's midwinter break </i>just really doesn't convey the reality of family travel<i>, </i>which has plenty of reality in it, even in the French Alps.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Cue the battle with pretentiousness that is blogging whilst expatting, embodied in the use of the word <i>whilst.</i> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Cue Gwenyth Paltrow: </span><span style="background-color: white;">"Oh, we've just returned from skiing in the French Alps, and darling, it was just lovely. You've been of course? By the way, I'm a </span><strike>perfect</strike><span style="background-color: white;"> perfectly normal person and totally get what it's like for the peons. I was just telling that to my 24-hour-on-call eyebrow stylist the other day." </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Cue me just telling an amusing story and calling it a day. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We spent our last night in France in a tiny village near the Belgian border. For dinner, we drove down to the McDonald's by the highway. The official story is that there was nothing else around besides a Chinese Palace. The unofficial story is that after a week in France we were not even a little bit disappointed. We were giddy at the thought of familiar food, and a place where French kids do, in fact, throw food and get fat. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">The best part of McDonalds is that the sandwich names are all in English, even in France. So I approached the counter and started off our order with "un McRancher, s'il vous plait." Blank stare from the teenage girl. I pointed at the large "McRancher" sign, and she says, " ahhh, le Meeghraaahnshay?" </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">[At this point, it takes the slightest second for my brain to register what just happened. Then there is a short pause while I'm sure we were both controlling the urge to laugh each other out of town.]</span></span><br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white;">Oui. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Le meeghraaahnshay. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Yep, that happened. Tarantino totally <a href="http://www.miramax.com/subscript/watch-tarantinos-royale-with-cheese/" target="_blank">nailed it</a>. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">This after driving all day through French countryside that wasn't so different from the drive from Seattle to Portland, just minus a few Toyotas and volcanoes, and plus a few more Renaults and castle ruins, but still with plenty of whining, fighting, and poking from the backseat, amid stops for bad truck stop food (that's right, even France has bad truck stop food, a teaser for our bad American fast food dinner.) </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">So when you're on your US road trip this Summer, and maybe feeling a little deflated that you're not traveling around Europe, just remember that even Europeans dream of visiting American National Parks. And when you stop in McDonalds for lunch, you can order a McRancher, and say it with a big nasally <i>a, </i>and curl that <i>r</i> like you're sneering at some pretentious expat writing her snobby travel posts. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C56ePiB6c6g/VPhsPpDtXuI/AAAAAAAAOq8/V6JjRHxpPqo/s1600/IMG_8817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C56ePiB6c6g/VPhsPpDtXuI/AAAAAAAAOq8/V6JjRHxpPqo/s1600/IMG_8817.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, kids, just act cool. Self-aware, not too pretentious, still grateful, not braggy. Like you're not at all complaining about having to vacation by a beautiful lake in the Alps, with random castles to take pictures in front of. Then we'll go to McDonalds, I promise. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-68129197547428149602015-01-08T00:44:00.001+01:002015-03-05T22:42:54.864+01:00#CrazyNewYearIdeaGuys, I just had a brainflash: since it's a <span style="font-size: x-large;">brand new year</span>, let's all think of new things we're going to do this year! Kind of like things we're going to <i>resolve</i> to do. Seriously guys, I don't know where I come up with things. Rev.oh.lut.ion.ar.y.<br />
<br />
I'll go first. In 2015:<br />
<br />
I resolve to stop making fun of hashtags. <i>#somuchmorethantictactoe #hardresolutions</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to take more high-def photos with blurry backgrounds of homemade drinks in mason jars. I didn't take nearly enough mason jar beverage photos in 2014, and this needs to be remedied. <i>#ASAP</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to do nothing lest it is hacked. Figuratively, literally, technically, ironically, emotionally... I'm going to hack the crap out of 2015. <i>#hackityhack</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to send all my mail in felt envelopes with felt heart stamps and zig zag stitches where the address should be. <i>#reallyusefulpinterestideas</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to high-five anyone I see wearing rolled skinny jeans with no socks. I will high-five them with anti-fungal cream. <i>#hipsteroutreach</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to put little pirate flags on sliced melons. <i>#pirattitude</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to improve my facial expressions in five easy steps. <i>#selfiestickforchristmas</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to make tiny bows to adorn all my paperclips, which I'll put on reminder notes that say <i>Time is precious, don't waste it. #wisdom #papercliphack #adorn #yolobow</i><br />
<br />
I resolve to finally learn the 13 things my camera wishes I knew. <i>#2014regrets</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Any you?<br />
<i>Happy New Year. </i><br />
<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-8864922007949310962014-12-22T12:00:00.000+01:002014-12-22T15:05:15.097+01:002014: The Newsletter<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>...even though it's not actually a newsletter... Wonder when the kids will figure out that I do this every year? </i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">2014</span> </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"In Quotes"</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Can you just walk in a straight line? Please? Just walk straight?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Donna's constant refrain to Sam and Nate anytime they are walking, ever.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"That's right, I'm a contrarian!" </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mia, gleefully discovering a label she can fully embrace. Tweendom, we have arrived.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"So we're staying? Moving? Which is it again? ...Have we decided?"</span> </span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-This was more or less the bulk of all our conversations from January through April, indicating our prolonged indecisiveness about returning to the US. Looks like we'll be moving back in the Summer of 2015. Right Honey? We're sure about that?</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom, look how brave I am."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Nate, sitting on the couch, picking his nose.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Can I get a drone?"</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Sam, moments before his first crushing disappointment.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"In my defense, they were very heavy pancakes."</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mark, attempting to justify tearing his rotator cuff while lifting a serving platter full of pancakes. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"But I have really bad goosebumps." </span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-the reason Sam couldn't get off the couch to set the table.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Missed my flight from Budapest (haha). Send cc#, urgent." </span></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">-Donna, in a text sent to Mark at 2 AM outside of the central train station in Brussels. Long story. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"What's a twinkie?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mia, Sam, and Nate's unison response to an offhand comment. Not sure if we're failing or winning as parents.</span><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"He doesn't like to hear people chewing. It's a thing." </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Our explanation to guests as to why Sam sits in another room wearing earphones while we eat. Good times.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"That's OK Mom, we all know that you just say 'mmm-hhhmmm' when you're not really listening."</span> </span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Mia, after Donna was caught not listening to Nate go on and on and on about Star Wars. Just one of the billion times Nate went on and on about Star Wars this year. And on and on and on...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I think we've lived in Europe too long.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> I was eavesdropping on an American couple with Southern accents, and I couldn't understand a word they said."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Donna, shocked to realize that after three years in Amsterdam, American accents now sound foreign. Win? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #990000;">Not technically a quote, but no annual review would be complete without Nate's sweet dance moves:</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sh2qMWIQC4w/VJRDSBKaQiI/AAAAAAAANag/QOoGElV1rwc/s1600/IMG_20141219_155123864-MOTION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sh2qMWIQC4w/VJRDSBKaQiI/AAAAAAAANag/QOoGElV1rwc/s1600/IMG_20141219_155123864-MOTION.gif" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #666666;">We wish you all, near and far, a wonderful holiday season and a joyous 2015.</span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdj35Xk35-A/VIg9CE_9YVI/AAAAAAAAMuI/sy4313jup4M/s1600/IMG_20141123_125456936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdj35Xk35-A/VIg9CE_9YVI/AAAAAAAAMuI/sy4313jup4M/s1600/IMG_20141123_125456936.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Donna, Mark, Mia (11), Sam (9), and Nate (6) </span><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-91816657405495433542014-12-18T12:10:00.002+01:002014-12-18T12:10:59.142+01:00Let's Not Talk About ChristmasThis post is not about Christmas.<br />
<br />
But I bet Christmas is going to think it is. That's just like Christmas, you know? Thinking everything is all about it.<br />
<br />
I'm not really on speaking terms with Christmas right now.<br />
<br />
I mean sure, Christmas acts all sweet and innocent, like everyone's darling, but in reality, Christmas will borrow your favorite sweater and then return it with a big stain. Like we're not going to notice. So there, Christmas, everyone knows now.<br />
<br />
But I'm not talking about that.<br />
<br />
Instead, you know what is way more interesting than Christmas? Dutch bathrooms.<br />
<br />
That's right. Just about every Dutch house has a WC (pronounced <i>vay-say</i>)-- a small room with only a toilet and an adorably tiny sink. There is an entirely separate room for the shower and vanity. Again, Europeans seem to understand bathroom needs so much better than Americans.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jWK05vdkUlc/VJK0pa3Tc5I/AAAAAAAAM5Y/RHiiZq_I1Ag/s1600/IMG_20141218_115556978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jWK05vdkUlc/VJK0pa3Tc5I/AAAAAAAAM5Y/RHiiZq_I1Ag/s1600/IMG_20141218_115556978.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit A: our WC. Sorry, I didn't clean it for you. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Oddly, however, the Dutch use their WC as the display spot for the family birthday calendar. Why? So you can always associate the birthday of your loved ones with pushing out big turds?<br />
<br />
This is why I love Dutchies.<br />
<br />
The Dutch love modern bathrooms, or at least, Amsterdammers do. You don't see French Country bathrooms, or Craftsman style, or shabby chic. It's all ultra-modern, sleek, and minimal. I've never seen so many open showers and Ikea cabinetry.<br />
<br />
My husband broke the toilet seat on our ultra-modern, hidden-cistern, square-shaped toilet recently. You can imagine the nicknames we have for him now. I assure you, they are all exactly what you're thinking. We looked into the replacement. 220 euro.<br />
<br />
Two hundred and twenty euro for a toilet seat. And it doesn't wipe your bum or do your taxes.<br />
<br />
I don't even understand the world anymore.<br />
<br />
By the way, did you know you can buy used toilet seats on Amazon?<br />
<br />
And let's just add to all the potty talk with this tidbit: if you're putting together a puzzle of the Sistine Chapel, chances are absurdly high that on any given puzzle piece there is going to be a penis. I'd say at least a 75% chance, from personal experience. Just really makes you think of the Sistine Chapel in a different light.<br />
<br />
Take that Christmas. And guess what? On Christmas Eve, we're going to Istanbul. Not many people care about you in Istanbul, if you can imagine. And when we come back, I'm going to put away all your stuff, and not think about you again for at least 11 months. Maybe 10 1/2, because dammit I need to get started earlier next year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-43791290056925226492014-12-10T16:00:00.000+01:002014-12-18T12:01:29.153+01:00When I Grow Up (I Should Really Have This Figured Out By Now) In the 2nd grade, I wanted to be a stand-up comedian.<br />
<br />
By 3rd grade, I predicted in an essay that I was going to be a "computer whiz" while married to a prince, and running my own clothing store.<br />
<br />
Pretty big dreams for a young girl in America, whose only computer experience involved Typing Tutor and making greeting cards on Word Perfect.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I went through a mid-childhood crisis, lost all sense of direction in my big bangs phase, and at some point thought I might be an actress. Toward the end of high school I was briefly fixated with Music Therapy. Problem was, I couldn't ever figure out exactly what Music Therapists do.<br />
<br />
In college, I started out in Psychology, at one point dabbled in Biology, thought about Geology, Interior Design, and finally ended up with a degree in Performing Arts. By the time I graduated, I was working as a personal trainer at a women's gym, while managing the apartment complex we lived in.<br />
<br />
Mia came along, then 2 more children, and it's now been 11 years since I've been in any paid employment position. So what now? Computer whiz?<br />
<br />
What were you going to be when you grew up?<br />
<br />
Fun fact: Francine Pascal, author of the <i>Sweet Valley High</i> series, didn't go to her own prom, and wasn't that into High School. She preferred writing political commentary.Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-83935191418558127782014-12-05T14:34:00.000+01:002014-12-10T13:00:04.791+01:00I Have a Reading Disorder<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-si3AKMtqdxA/VId3JjbYOaI/AAAAAAAAMs0/f4S852KbzhE/s1600/IMG_20141205_135749247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-si3AKMtqdxA/VId3JjbYOaI/AAAAAAAAMs0/f4S852KbzhE/s1600/IMG_20141205_135749247.jpg" height="400" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My "Oh I didn't know I was taking a picture of myself" selfie.*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Literally, my reading is disordered. Specifically, it happens in this order: beginning, end, middle.
<br />
<br />
Yep, I skip ahead and pre-read the end of every book I start. I never read the end last. Never.
And, yes, every single book. Doesn't matter if I'm enjoying the book or not. Doesn't even matter if it's non-fiction.
<br />
<br />
Are you freaking out now?
<br />
<br />
When you see a spoiler alert, you probably cover your eyes and run away? Not me. I love them. In fact, please do tell me how your favorite book or movie ends. Actually, let me guess: he gets the girl? The beloved dog/horse/mythical creature dies? The world is saved? They figure out the secret code just in the nick of time? She becomes a vampire and has vampire babies?
<br />
<br />
**Spoiler Alert** I'm going to go ahead and tell you how this blog post ends: I kill off the character you've grown to love. Sucks, but that elf on the shelf had it coming. And then I ask a question, like all good blog posts, and that question is: can you believe how much more complicated the actual US criminal investigation and prosecution system is than its TV counterpart?? Guys, I feel betrayed.
<br />
<br />
Back to the reading thing-- I know, you are horrified. You think it's wrong, unnatural, immoral maybe. And I tell you I was born like this. I can't help it; I'm chronologically challenged. Even as a child I couldn't understand why Grover didn't just peek at the last page to get a glimpse of the monster. Why, Grover, why?<br />
<br />
You know what's horrible and unnatural? People reading an entire book that they hate, just to see how it ends.
Recently, my husband was reading a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shore-Thing-Nicole-Snooki-Polizzi/dp/1451623755/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1417621645&sr=8-5&keywords=snooki" target="_blank">terrible book</a>**, and he complained constantly about how awful it was, how it was literary assault and battery. And then he would pick that book right back up and read more of it, groaning and writhing the entire time.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me:</b> Why do you keep reading it?<br />
<br />
<b>Mark:</b> Because I have to find out how it ends. No matter how painful it is. What if the end makes it worth it?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me: </b>Maybe you should just peek and see.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Mark:</b> WHAT???!! That would be a crime against literature! I'm just going to have to suffer for... 157 more pages.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me:</b> You're sick. You need help.<br />
<br />
Endings don't save books. An unsatisfying ending might tarnish, or even ruin, an otherwise good book, but if the middle (i.e. the plot and characters and conflict and development) is bad, then it's just a bad book. End of story.***<br />
<br />
It's not just that I peek at the end to scandalize civilized people, or to see if it's worth it to keep reading. There's a bigger, deeper reason: I skip to the end, because once I know what's going to happen, I can relax, and enjoy how it gets there. Provided I think it's a book worth finishing, of course. (Guys, stop feeling obligated to read bad books!)<br />
<br />
So it all comes down to suspense. Suspense, and my supreme aversion to it.<br />
<br />
You might say that it's in human nature to enjoy suspense-- isn't that the point of all entertainment? To keep us in suspense until the end?<br />
<br />
I say no. Think about a book or movie that you love. I mean, your house is on fire and you grab it before your children and pets LOVE. Chances are you've watched it or read it a second time or more, even though you already knew what was going to happen.<br />
<br />
And once you know how it's going to end, by definition the suspense is over. But there is still tension, created by conflict. And that's what's in human nature to enjoy-- conflict and resolution. And we can watch or read <i>that</i> over and over, knowing full well what happens in advance, and it's actually very satisfying.<br />
<br />
Like this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LoYL0XuBNAQ/VId8H64XpqI/AAAAAAAAMtQ/fUzyFOYqAQk/s1600/imageedit_35_3446045212.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LoYL0XuBNAQ/VId8H64XpqI/AAAAAAAAMtQ/fUzyFOYqAQk/s1600/imageedit_35_3446045212.gif" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feels good, doesn't it? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So after the many conversations I've had with people about my reading disorder, I've decided that there are two kinds of people in the world:<br />
<br />
Those who will <i>never</i> skip ahead, and those who <i>always</i> skip ahead.<br />
<br />
If you're in the first category, you are in the majority, and quite frankly, you probably waste a significant amount of time.<br />
<br />
If you're in the second category, we are soul mates, and chances are you also hate click-bate with a passion.<br />
<br />
So, which one are you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Crap, selfies are hard. Props to Kim Kardashian.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**OK, not the actual book he was reading, but I couldn't resist.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">***Mmm-hmmm. Pun intended. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/m-i-k-e/8238121248/">Michael Kappel</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com/">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a></span>
Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-39898955983930044662014-11-28T17:43:00.001+01:002018-02-26T21:29:01.257+01:00Silesia: Europe's Forgotten Corner<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So far, while traveling</span> in Europe, we've stuck with major cities, and haven't wandered too far off the tourist's path. Until, after a lengthy rabbit-hole session on Airbnb, we ended up heading to the Silesia region of Poland.<br />
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The where now?<br />
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Yes, exactly.<br />
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Guys, you can stay in legit old palaces there, and not like the L.A. Best Western Royal Palace Inn. Your stucco palace facade isn't fooling anyone Best Western.<br />
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And in Silesia, palace stays are actually affordable.<br />
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They're also half-way run down, but so is everything there. But it's a quaint sort of run down. Let's just call it <i>vintage</i>.<br />
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Silesia is here, tucked between the Czech Republic and Germany:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.7272720336914px;">Silesia, more or less.</td></tr>
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And it is certainly off the beaten tourist track. We got to brush up on our pantomiming skills, and it was challenging to find places to eat that were not depressingly similar to all-you-can-eat buffets in American strip malls, circa 1992, with the added adventure of all-Polish menus.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the plus side, my hair was looking fabulous this day. </td></tr>
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But it is also beautiful. And for centuries, Silesia was kind of a big deal, and extravagant buildings, country houses, palaces, and castles dominated the countryside, mixed in with tiny farms and towns.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You see what I'm talking about. I don't think many people think of Poland like this. </td></tr>
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I'm going to go historic on you for a minute, so hang tight.<br />
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Before WWII, Silesia was actually part of Germany. But when the boundaries of Poland were redrawn in the aftermath, the three million mostly German inhabitants were suddenly living in Poland-- they were asked, maybe forced, to leave. And as the region emptied, two million displaced Poles from other areas moved in, directly in to the newly abandoned homes and structures.<br />
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Am I the only one who finds this fascinating?<br />
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Almost the entire population has no roots in the region going back any further than 70 years. The actual people, not just the ruling powers, have completely changed. It's an area with a long history, and no history at all.<br />
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After WWII, the Communist government prohibited private ownership, so the country houses and estates, though stripped and plundered, were largely left empty and the majority sat abandoned for decades. Some were used by collective farm workers. Most are now in ruins, or in dire need of restoration. And they are all over the region.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This absolutely gorgeous castle was deserted and mostly unused for 70 years.<br />
It's currently being restored, and open for tours (in Polish). </td></tr>
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Today the beauty of the region pervades, stamped with evidence of past extravagance, sprinkled with the grit and neglect of communism. It is bleak, and beautiful, and bizarre.<br />
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We stayed in one such <a href="https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/56277" target="_blank">charming, dilapidated palace</a> dating from the 1300's, currently being restored painstaking detail by painstaking detail, by a lovely British/Polish family with 5 kids. The oldest two girls, hilariously extroverted, ran our kids around the property, showing them all their little magical spots and corners, playing in falling-down barns ("just watch out for the holes in the floor"), and running in terror from the evil cockerel that hated children. We picked the last raspberries of the season from the garden, tossed bread to the geese in the "moat", and explored every last bit of the palace, all the way up to the tower.<br />
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Then we drove around and around, in and out of the Czech Republic, and through Polish villages, over hillsides, and came back each evening to sit by the fireplace.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh look, another beautiful castle. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautifully restored building on the Czech side.<br />
This was one of my favorites. </td></tr>
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It was absolutely enchanting.<br />
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(OK, so I also played a fair amount of Sudoku, did not write a single word for a week, and the kids spent every second of every drive on an electronic device. But still, everyone was happy and our marriage stayed in tact. So I say, enchanting.)<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Just remember, we went there before anyone else.</span><br />
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-48202894331060048552014-11-17T00:39:00.000+01:002014-11-17T00:53:04.396+01:00Get Me Off This Crazy Holiday Train<div class="p1" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.5599994659424px;">
<i>In honor of the arrival of Sinterklaas in Amsterdam today, here's a post from last year describing the holiday season in The Netherlands. </i></div>
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On November 11th, we celebrated the holiday of Sint Maartens. It's kind of Dutch Halloween in that it involves children going door to door soliciting candy, but with more singing, and less sexy pizza costumes. Instead of dressing up, the kids carry home-made lanterns while singing songs about Sint Maarten (Saint Martin) and in return, get candy. Or maybe mandarin oranges. Or, if they're really lucky, peanuts and black licorice. </div>
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Just days later, Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) and his Zwarte Pieten (Black Petes) arrived in Amsterdam, and the holiday festivities kicked into high gear. If you're not familiar with the celebration of Sinter Klaas, it is not associated with Christmas in any way, and is instead an entirely harmless and joyful celebration of cardboard-flavored cookies, smelly shoes stuffed with candy, obnoxious wrapping paper, and the timeless tradition of dressing up in black-face and then insisting that it's not racist. </div>
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This year we've learned more about two more components of the Sinterklaas tradition: <i>The Surprise</i>, and what I like to call <i>The Poetry Slam</i>. The Surprise is a small, inexpensive gift that is given as part of a gift exchange, but it has to be wrapped in a creative and handmade way, reflecting the hobbies or interests of the person receiving the gift. So if the person enjoys online Gaming, for example, you might turn a box into a game console, but leave it empty to represent the sad and lonely void they are trying to fill. Then you make a poem where you gently make fun of the person, such as: "You play so many online games, guess that makes you super lames." But you would go on and on until you've crushed their soul and extinguished every last flame of confidence and self-esteem. It's all in good fun. </div>
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We were introduced to the poems when we went to a Sinterklaas event in an old fishing village, turned outdoor museum, turned Zwarte Piet village for the day. Toward the end of the day we stopped in the Rhyme House, where two of the Petes helped the kids write silly poems in Dutch. We spent about 20 minutes in the cottage, just us and the 2 Petes making rhymes, until a woman came in and demanded to know what we were doing. I was about to answer, <i>well, we're just sitting here, writing poetry with two white women who are dressed up like black men in Renaissance clothes</i>. However, that wasn't what she meant-- as it turned out the village had closed 15 minutes earlier, and we needed to leave. <i>Oh, right. We'll just leave then-- not like we were looking for a reason to get out of this entirely normal, and not at all awkward situation...</i><br />
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Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet are beloved by the Dutch, and when I say beloved it is in an excessive enunciate-all-three-syllables kind of way. BE-LOV-ED. The holiday is associated with fun and frivolity, and all things happy and silly. Do not suggest to a Dutch person that the tradition has racist origins, and propagates stereotypes in an alarming, if bizarrely well-intentioned, way. Criticizing Zwarte Piet would be like suggesting to an American that apple pie tastes like communism. Or more realistically, pointing out that Thanksgiving can be a painful and unpleasant day for Native Americans. This will be equally ill-received. <i>But, but-- carbohydrates!!</i> <i>Besides, it's not like we continue to propagate hurtful stereotypes of Native Americans. Now, shhhh, the Redskins game is on. </i></div>
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I'm sure that, thanks to their commitment to inclusion and tolerance, the Dutch will eventually find a way to uphold the spirit of this unique holiday while modernizing the implementation. And by the time they do, I promise you, Americans will still be dressing in war paint to cheer for a football team. </div>
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Speaking of Thanksgiving-- here is how you might celebrate Thanksgiving if you are an American living in Amsterdam. First you will have to find a poultry seller, whom you can order a turkey from in advance, and then pay the equivalent of $70 USD for it. When you pick up the bird, it will in no way resemble the prepackaged, sanitized, vacuum-packed meat lump you have bought previously in America, but will look exactly like what it is: a recently slaughtered animal carcass, which you will schlep across town on your bike and drop off with your friend, who will have to remove the remaining feathers and other tidbits before cooking it. You will then make a run to the local American import store to pick up some exorbitantly priced canned pumpkin, and where you might not be able to resist the allure of Reeses Peanut Butter cups, even at almost $4 a package. You will spend the day cooking and baking in your compact European kitchen with your compact European appliances. Then you will load up your family and half of a Thanksgiving dinner on your bikes, and ride to your friend's house while hoping she doesn't hate you for the turkey carcass. The evening will be spent in the celebration of imported Stove Top Stuffing, with friends who have become your family abroad, while thanking God for your innate ability to happen to live in a country where you are blissfully unaware of anything having to do with Black Friday. But the next morning you will arise at 4 AM anyway to head to your favorite discount store, bang on the doors until it opens 5 hours later, and threaten to beat the crap out of anyone who gets in your way. Ahhh, traditions. </div>
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That's how we might have done it. Who knows really? Glutenous holiday binges leave me a bit confused-- we may have started celebrating Hanukkah somewhere in there too, for all I know. However, I do know that Sinterklaas has his last hurrah on December 5th, and that Christmas in the Netherlands will officially begin on the 6th. At which point I will blast some holiday music, pull out the decorations, write a to-do list, and in the true essence of Christmas, stick my head in the dryer and cry. </div>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-46291244098939038222014-11-13T00:14:00.001+01:002014-11-13T00:14:42.623+01:00Dutched Up!: The Book (Pssst I'm In It!)<span style="font-size: x-large;">Did I ever tell</span> you about the time I emotionally wounded a bus driver during our 2nd month in Amsterdam?<br />
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No? Well, now you can read it in a new book about expat life in The Netherlands. A new book that my writing is featured in!<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00PFVFE28/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00PFVFE28&linkCode=as2&tag=bardsleyland-20&linkId=AHDWJAWGTL3CPPBW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B00PFVFE28&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=bardsleyland-20" height="320" width="220" /></a><br />
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Oh, did I ever tell you about the time I was published in a book?<br />
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No? Well, crap, it's like we never tell each other ANYTHING anymore.<br />
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OK, actually, I've been saving this little secret for a while, and can finally tell you all about it.<br />
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A little over a month ago, I found out my submissions were accepted for an anthology of expat stories put together by a group of women bloggers in The Netherlands.<br />
A few months before that, I had been introduced by a new blogging friend to said group of women bloggers, and I decided to submit something.<br />
All because almost a year ago, I met said blogging friend at a writing workshop that I had signed up for in an act of comfort-zone defiance.<br />
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And today, I have two stories in a book. An actual available-on-Amazon book! And not the kind that my kids staple together and begrudgingly let me sign as a ghostwriter (though <i>Mia and the Pirates</i> is a work I'm damn proud of).<br />
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Are you an expat in The Netherlands? Maybe you're planning on moving here? Perhaps you married a Dutchie, or have Dutch family? Just have an extensive collection of windmill souvenirs? Then this book is for you!<br />
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<i>Dutched Up! </i>is available electronically right now through Amazon and <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/dutched-up!/id940072670?ls=1&mt=11" target="_blank">iTunes</a>, paperback version coming soon.<br />
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I'm honored to be among the contributors-- some fabulous women and writers are on <a href="http://nomadmomdiary.com/dutched-up/" target="_blank">the list</a>-- and thrilled to be part of this project. Thankful, happy, and amazed.Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-5956046978621582942014-11-10T12:43:00.000+01:002014-12-10T12:56:45.827+01:00Amsterdam's Other Famous Windows<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="text-align: start;">photo credit: </span><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/monsterpants/3441419963/" style="text-align: start;">monsterpants</a><span style="text-align: start;"> via </span><a href="http://photopin.com/" style="text-align: start;">photopin</a><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/" style="text-align: start;">cc</a></span></td></tr>
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So Amsterdam has some famous windows. But if you really want to see people in their underwear, or less, there's little need to venture into the Red Light District.<br />
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For the voyeurs, for those who are house-curious, and for those who are just generally judgmental, there's no better place than Amsterdam-- where homes are adjacent to sidewalks and the windows, more often than not, are clean, bare and tantalizing.<br />
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Don't underestimate your latent peekosity* until you live in a place where windows are wide open for the peeking, day and night**. And it's not just the clean houses or the ones with professional interior designers. Amsterdammers let it all hang out, and it's totally refreshing: the piles, the paperwork, the laundry hanging to dry, the remnants of breakfast still on the table, the odd naked person, and the occasional collection of taxidermied Boar heads.<br />
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To the Dutch, an open window signals you have nothing to hide. Their lives are open books, and what's more, you can literally read the open book on their dining room window as you pass by.<br />
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But if you have just a little bit to hide, there are opaque films you can stick on your windows, obscuring as much or as little as you want. And for those with a lot more to hide, say a dead body, or perhaps a regrettable Ikea purchase, there are sheers***.<br />
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It helps, for both the view in and out, that the windows here are huge. Credit given where credit is due: Amsterdam has figured out that the secret to living in a gray climate is to have enormous windows, to keep them as unencumbered as possible, and then not to care. Take note, Seattle.<br />
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It's just more interesting all around that way.<br />
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<i>*TM. Really wish there was a word for voyeurism that is not sexual in nature. OK, there's nosy, but you know, something with a more positive connotation.</i><br />
<i>**Generally, only bedroom curtains are closed at night. </i>
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<i>***Actually, after three years in Amsterdam, I don't think there are many things that would fall under the category of "something to hide." Or rather, whatever is behind the odd closed curtain is probably something I really don't want to see. </i><br />
<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-36300510713004345782014-11-05T14:23:00.001+01:002014-11-05T14:23:28.150+01:00Hook Your Audience With a Pretentious Lead in 4 Steps (or Let's Have Some Tea and Talk About Snarky Things)<i>Step One: Choose one of the myriad obnoxious sentences available to you when you live in Europe:</i> I recently discovered a little gem of a corner bakery near my kid's school.<br />
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<i>Step Two: Review your opening sentence, and raise it one flaunty detail:</i> I rode past it on my bike one glorious Amsterdam morning.<br />
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<i>Step Three: Just keep that pretentious ball rolling:</i> And, in this adorable bakery (where I'm sitting right now), next to the adorable rustic counter, is this adorable little sign:<br />
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<i>Step Four: Post a picture with a trendy vintage filter. </i><br />
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<i>Congrats-- your audience is hooked. S</i>o let's talk about happy things, and be adorable!<br />
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<i>Step Four, part b: Pull the old bait and switch: </i>Except surprise! I'm just not that blogger. Nothing against happy and adorable things here, so long as they're also slightly mockable. But, do go make yourself some tea, and let's talk about snarky things.<br />
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Back to this little corner bakery-- it's actually called The Corner Bakery.<i> </i>Which is not at all surprising in a city where the two most important historic churches are called The Old Church, and The New Church. If there was a tradition of naming houses here, like in England, I guarantee you every single house would be named <i>The Brick House</i>.<br />
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Speaking of traditions, so it was just Halloween, and you know what that means in The Netherlands? For one thing, it means that we bought our candy at full price, and that this is the extent of the Halloween section at the biggest toy store chain:<br />
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It also means that my daughter is blissfully unaware of sexy Ebola Nurse costumes, and that's fine by me. Oh Halloween, you're my favorite holiday, but sometimes you are the worst.<br />
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I bought a toy lightsaber for Nate's Darth Vader costume, and it wasn't even 2 hours before that decision became the biggest regret of my life. Even more than my thespian phase in high school.<br />
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Oh regret, you demon you. (Dibs for next year's costume, no copying. You can be the Ogre of Guilt.)<br />
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In our Amsterdam neighborhood, we do get to trick-or-treat, but only if you find out about the secret registration time-slots, and pay to participate. It's a blast, but my kids got mostly lollies and Haribo gummies. What the cuss! I was only barely tempted to raid their stash. Barely. But I still did.<br />
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Speaking of first-world problems, my 11 year-old is starting to get some serious B.O. When she didn't believe me, I tucked her nose in her armpit for a sensory learning experience. She came up gagging, "what is that?!" <i>Oh sweetie, it's the stench of pubescent mutiny beginning to rage in your body. Wait til you start bleeding out of your vagina for days at a time! </i><br />
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Let's file that under things I need to delete before my kids start reading this blog. Note: the Dutch word for adolescent is <i>puber.</i> Because of course it is.<br />
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Speaking of things that smell bad: GamerGate. Why can I not look away? I'm not even a gamer, but I suppose as a feminist and a mom of mini-nerds, who are therefore potential future gamers, there is no way for me to not be fascinated/appalled by the whole thing.<br />
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Oh Gam3rz.<br />
Oh commentz on the Internetz.<br />
Oh Gam3rz blaming Internet Trollz and Feministz for distracting everyone from the real enemy: Journalistz! <br />
Oh Train Wr3ckz.<br />
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But what's really bothering me is a little more insidious. I was so interested in this that I fell down a GamerGate Internet Rabbit Hole where the stench of Red Pill websites and rotten Reddit threads was so vile it made my 11 year-old's armpits smell like Mrs. Field's kitchen exploded in a lavender field at Christmastime. I won't post any links, in case you happen to enjoy being able to sleep at night.<br />
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I think it's time to take my kids and go live in a cave with no wifi.<br />
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Maybe I do need to talk about happy things instead. Like this picture of my son rocking his Darth Vader velvet body suit. That's pure happiness right there:<br />
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<i>Bonus Step: End with a question, or four:</i> Speaking of other disturbing things I'm obsessed with, have you been listening to the new podcast <a href="http://serialpodcast.org/" target="_blank">Serial</a>? Why is Jay not a suspect? And how do feel about Adnan? And are you also alarmed that the entire thing exists because a girl was murdered, and she's barely even talked about??<br />
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-70366216081342259652014-09-22T11:14:00.001+02:002014-09-22T11:14:20.893+02:00Street Market Field Trip: A Cellphone-Camera Photo Journal <div style="text-align: center;">
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...in 20 Minutes or Less*</div>
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I tagged along on the school field trip to the Albert Cuyp Market, Amsterdam's oldest street market. There's nothing you can't find at the Albert Cuyp. And yes, I'm talking about lime green shimmery hot pants, life-size replicas of <i>The David</i>'s head, and your choice of genitalia in fine assorted chocolates. Those are all on your list, right? </div>
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Local Tip: Go to <a href="https://www.google.nl/maps/place/Sonny/@52.355433,4.893278,17z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x47c6098d4f894797:0xddfa63273846ba8a?hl=en" target="_blank">Sonny's</a>. Best falafel in Amsterdam. Get the fries too.<br />
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It's always an exciting day when you see the <a href="http://www.dutchamsterdam.nl/2290-how-many-bicycles-and-cars-end-up-in-amsterdams-canals" target="_blank">bike barge</a>, but what happens next will blow your mind.<br />
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Praise from critics: <i>"Sesame Street + Rainman + Geiko Commercial + Gigli + Pink Floyd's The Wall= this movie." -- Mark B. </i><br />
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Not trying to make anyone jealous or anything, but did you see the picture of the Churro stand? </div>
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But are you a little jealous? Just let me know. </div>
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<i>*</i><i>OK, that may have taken a little more than 20 minutes. I'm a writer, not a writer/movie file compressor. </i></div>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-90325021658261205052014-09-17T23:12:00.003+02:002014-09-18T10:46:10.557+02:00Signs I've Lived in Amsterdam For a WhileI was putting away a bag of basterd suiker (brown sugar) recently, and it occurred to me that I've lived here long enough to have certain things become entirely normal. Like being surrounded by a different language, and having grown men pick their nose while making eye contact with you. I said normal, not appealing.<br />
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The last time I checked in with a "here's how I'm adjusting" post was when we had been here just <a href="http://bardsleyland.blogspot.nl/2011/10/three-months-i-know-can-you-believe-it.html" target="_blank">three months</a>. Today is our 3 year + two month anniversary, and a good excuse to revisit that topic. So let's start:<br />
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Things I'm entirely used to now:</h4>
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<li>Dipping fries in mayonnaise. Before, I barely considered mayo edible-- only in the thinnest of layers on a sandwich. Now, I don't see mayo, I just see fry sauce. </li>
<li>Smaller living space. I saw a picture of a some homes in the US on Facebook, and they looked gigantic. Like really for giants. I could not stop staring. </li>
<li>Not driving. I haven't driven a car since I moved here, and I don't even miss it. </li>
<li>Giving my bank account number to people. Everything is done electronically, and is well protected. Another thing I haven't done in over three years: written a check. They're not still a thing are they? </li>
<li>When my mail is delivered by a man wearing a mesh tank top and tiny black leather shorts. </li>
<li>New vocabulary. Hanging out with Brits and Irish folks have led to adopting words and phrases such as <i>perfectly lovely, nearly, loads, quite, bits,</i> and <i>lie-in</i>. While renewing our passports in the US consulate, Sam asked where the rubbish bin was, and I nervously laughed and assured the consulate guy, "ha ha, he's just being silly-- we say <i>trash can</i> like real Americans, trust me. Approve our passports please?"</li>
<li>Distance is always measured in cycling times. </li>
<li>Drinking sparkling water, all the time. And it's one of the few things we can buy in bulk from the grocery store. I beginning to think a lot of Europeans brush their teeth and do their dishes with it. </li>
<li>No tipping, no shame. </li>
<li>Toilet stalls. Europeans understand the concept of privacy in public restrooms. Stalls are usually entirely enclosed, floor to ceiling. Note to America: you are losing.</li>
<li>Not ever using 1 or 2 cent coins. This is very much a Dutch thing. When you are paying with cash for an item that is 4.98, and pay with a 5 euro bill, you will not get any change back. Similarly, if the total is 4.02, you can just pay 4 euro and it's good. I don't know why the Dutch just can't be bothered with the small change, but I'm so used to it, I get irritated when we travel outside The Netherlands and I get 3 cents in change. </li>
<li>Annual pelvic exams only once every five years, after the age of 30. That's right, ladies. Actually, the overall medical culture here is much less invasive, which can be refreshing or irritating, depending on the situation. </li>
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Things I'm still adjusting to:</h4>
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<li>My doctor (and most other people) typing with two fingers. How do they even?</li>
<li>When the doctor doesn't leave the room when you get undressed. Yes, awkward. </li>
<li>Remembering that if we stay late at a friend's house, we have to bike home with three kids and everyone can see we're irresponsible parents. </li>
<li>People dropping f-bombs around my kids, because it doesn't have the same swear weight here. But don't tell someone you hope their mother gets cancer. You'll need to cover the kid's ears for that. </li>
<li>The mess of keys to keep track of:<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h6Mloa0Y8PY/VBmZx6d8QRI/AAAAAAAALA8/O5JseHylH0w/s1600/IMG_20140917_160346554%2B(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h6Mloa0Y8PY/VBmZx6d8QRI/AAAAAAAALA8/O5JseHylH0w/s1600/IMG_20140917_160346554%2B(1).jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That would be keys for the front door, dead bolt, storage unit, <br />
and 2 keys each for 5 bikes. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
<h4>
Things I will never get used to: </h4>
<ol>
<li>Drinks at room temperature, tiny bottles, no free-refills. It's just wrong. </li>
<li>Lagging laundry technology. How has Europe not figured out that it is possible to have washing machines that are energy and water efficient, can handle more than five items at a time, and only take 40 minutes? Europe: get it together!</li>
<li>The Dutch "line." In the tradition of making offensive generalizations, it is physically impossibly for the Dutch to queue. Much like it is impossible for the American in me to stop caring about it. <i>Neither can live while the other survives</i>. Pretty sure J. K. Rowling was in The Netherlands while she wrote that line. </li>
</ol>
<h4>
The thing I am totally used to and will also never be used to: </h4>
</div>
<div>
<ol>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uKfMiVxJBH8/VBmZBOQlT9I/AAAAAAAAK_c/CGSsFfT-M1s/s1600/IMG_20140625_084450619_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uKfMiVxJBH8/VBmZBOQlT9I/AAAAAAAAK_c/CGSsFfT-M1s/s1600/IMG_20140625_084450619_HDR.jpg" height="464" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's both totally amazing, and completely mundane. Much like living in a foreign country. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
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3 years and 2 months: happy anniversary.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-idKfYP5xYkc/VBn4i5b9lvI/AAAAAAAALBk/QFWYdVExYPk/s1600/IMG_20140811_155701906_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-idKfYP5xYkc/VBn4i5b9lvI/AAAAAAAALBk/QFWYdVExYPk/s1600/IMG_20140811_155701906_HDR.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh yeah, they have a thing for whipped cream here. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-45126036254336319672014-09-12T16:18:00.001+02:002014-09-13T10:10:38.852+02:00Playgrounds in Amsterdam: Let's Hope You're Well-InsuredPlaygrounds in Amsterdam are the best.<br />
<br />
And by best, I mean dangerous.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's not just the zip lines (often over water), or the tall slides (make that super tall slides), or the best swings ever (see below). It's that I'm pretty sure the motto of the Amsterdam Parks Department is: <i>Did you pee your pants at a playground today? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TAvPWt_b2Os/VBLVpMSWwtI/AAAAAAAAK2M/bTLx9zpjZkQ/s1600/20140423_170854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TAvPWt_b2Os/VBLVpMSWwtI/AAAAAAAAK2M/bTLx9zpjZkQ/s1600/20140423_170854.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a><br />
Please America, can you get these swings before we move back?<br />
<br />
Until recently, the most amazing playground contraption we'd seen was an inverted, rotating teeter totter, six feet off the ground, with zero safety belts. If this were the US, there would be an entrance fee, a height restriction, safety harnesses, and a warning to pregnant women and people with heart conditions. As it is, there should be a warning to American parents that watching your kids play on it might give you a heart condition.<br />
<br />
One of our favorite parks has a mini-amusement park with toddler-sized carnival rides for 1 euro each, including the <a href="http://www.30pluskids.nl/uitje/187/n/Speeltuin_Amstelpark/" target="_blank">Bumper Boats</a>-- where kids get to steer their own motorized boat around a small pond, with no life jackets, no supervision, and no waiver to sign.<br />
<br />
Now, the boats don't go fast, the water is shallow, and most parents stick around to watch, but it still took me at least five visits to get over the utter amazement that the entire thing was allowed to happen.<br />
<br />
And it's not just the playgrounds. See this edge with no safety rails?<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IUiFS00eZDs/VBLVohpnIyI/AAAAAAAAK2I/FNAPVP0PaK8/s1600/IMG_20140702_133642744_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IUiFS00eZDs/VBLVohpnIyI/AAAAAAAAK2I/FNAPVP0PaK8/s1600/IMG_20140702_133642744_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<div>
It's common. It's like they don't even have a powerful steel manufacturing lobby. </div>
<br />
Another common thing: being able to walk through construction zones. Like right next to the backhoes and cranes-- no hard hat required. And no one bats an eye.<br />
<br />
Here's a fun story: within the first two months of moving to Amsterdam, we took a day trip to a nearby lake. While my kids played on the beach, I noticed a young boy by the water playing with a plastic bag.<br />
<br />
A freaking plastic bag.<br />
<br />
My jaw dropped as I watched him first wrap the bag around his neck, and then stretch it out directly over his mouth. Of the three or four other adults around, no one was looking at him, or paying him any attention.<br />
<i><br /></i>
I looked away. <i>Just mind your own business. Don't worry about the kid playing with a choking hazard. I'</i><i>m sure he'll stop soon.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Nope. He just kept on walking and playing with this plastic bag as if he was starring in some PSA about exactly what NOT to do with plastic bags. After about five minutes, I was pulling at my hair, chewing my nails, clawing at the sand-- waiting for someone to look the eff up and tell him to stop, until I couldn't stand it anymore.<br />
<br />
I approached the boy. "Waar is jou moeder?"<i> </i>I tried to spit out, but I'd only started learning Dutch and it was most likely indecipherable. No matter, as he completely ignored me, to the point that I thought he might be deaf. I noticed a woman looking up from her book, with the suspicion of a mama bear, and as I started towards her, she said something in Dutch. I said, "Oh, I just wanted to make sure someone was aware of him playing with a plastic bag, because I'm feeling nervous about it."<br />
<br />
She looked back down at her book, "Let him play. Leave him alone." Cold, blunt. <br />
<br />
"Oh, OK, great, that's fine, just... um, no problem." I walked back to my spot, and continued to watch a scene that I was sure would <i>never</i> happen in America.<br />
<br />
And guess what? He died.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. He survived. In flat-out defiance of plastic bag labels, and helicopter parents everywhere, that boy lived.<br />
<br />
I recently asked a neighbor what was the legal age for children to be left alone at home. They were confused. I clarified, "Is there a law stating at what age a child can be left alone?" "Hmmmm, I've never heard of such a thing. Are parents not able to figure that out themselves?"<br />
<br />
I still don't know if there is a law or not. No one seems to be bothered about it.<br />
<br />
The concept of child safety in The Netherlands is not really a thing. What's more important is the concept of risk management. Most parents here find it important to help their children learn to manage taking their own risks, rather than shield them from any risks in the first place.<br />
<br />
This is not to say that Dutch parents are reckless with their children, plastic bag lady aside. They just don't allow safety precautions to override their parental mandate to teach. Inoculation over bubble wrap.<br />
<div>
<br />
Which leads me to the best thing about Amsterdam for kids. And by best, I mean-- well, you know.<br />
<br /></div>
Over a year ago, Mark took our kids to a park on the outskirts of Amsterdam. When they came home, my husband sat on the couch for a while before he could speak. "I don't know quite how to explain what we just went to, except that it would never be allowed in the US-- and there were hammers and saws."<br />
<br />
WHAT??<br />
<br />
He showed me the pictures he had taken, an my American brain could not process what I was seeing.<br />
<br />
The concept is a "build and play" park where children can check out hammers, nails, and saws, to transform pallets and old boards into huts and forts. There is also a small petting farm, a game room, craft room, a boat dock, and a fire pit. And what's more-- it's all FREE.<br />
<br />
We've since learned it's not the only one in Amsterdam, and they're not anything new. Do you remember a few months back, there was an article in the Atlantic about a <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2014/03/hey-parents-leave-those-kids-alone/358631/" target="_blank">playground in Wales</a>, and every American had a panic attack? Well, the Dutch were like, YAWN.<br />
<br />
So guess where my kids love to go? Yep, the danger parks. I still don't know what to think of it all. Sure, it's a little <a href="http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/missed-connection-boys-ages-6-12-lived-with-me-on-nameless-tropical-island-in-pacific-ocean-at-end-of-wwii" target="_blank">Lord of the Flies</a>, but I can't help but think it's pretty cool-- even while I bite my knuckles and hope nobody dies, or contracts tetanus, or maims someone, or descends into lawlessness and chaos-- OK, I'm going to stop now.<br />
<br />
<i>*Wanna go? Visit <a href="http://www.oost.amsterdam.nl/vrije-tijd/jeugdland/" target="_blank">Jeugland</a> in Flevopark, or '<a href="http://www.kidsproof.nl/Amsterdam/Huttenbouwspeelplaats-t-Landje/Bouwspeelplaats-Het-Landje" target="_blank">t Landje</a> in Rembrandtpark. Go to <a href="http://www.amstelpark.info/info" target="_blank">Amstelpark</a> for the Bumper Boats (and more), and don't miss Vondelpark's <a href="http://www.designmom.com/2011/05/vondelpark-in-amsterdam/" target="_blank">Treehouse</a> playgound! </i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Whqu7qxEmYA/U57bnsvB8ZI/AAAAAAAAJGo/4dsqVSra7IE/s1600/IMG_20140525_153243476_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Whqu7qxEmYA/U57bnsvB8ZI/AAAAAAAAJGo/4dsqVSra7IE/s1600/IMG_20140525_153243476_HDR.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That's right, a little bit of danger never hurt anyone. Oh wait... crap. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xmwx16vJik/U57bdVjaoyI/AAAAAAAAJF4/nb2D1VTYHCA/s1600/20130629_144526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xmwx16vJik/U57bdVjaoyI/AAAAAAAAJF4/nb2D1VTYHCA/s1600/20130629_144526.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Just some kids playing with HAMMERS. (And yes, that is possibly permanent marker all over my son's face, but HAMMERS!) </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oCQMBMUlPfA/U57bkiCKaBI/AAAAAAAAJGI/gjYYbwfQ4aE/s1600/IMG_20140525_130813360_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oCQMBMUlPfA/U57bkiCKaBI/AAAAAAAAJGI/gjYYbwfQ4aE/s1600/IMG_20140525_130813360_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Zip line over a river? We don't need no stinkin' liability waivers. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6_zweO3L1A/U57bjpfSr6I/AAAAAAAAJGA/FaEgRWN5kNU/s1600/IMG_20140525_133506212_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6_zweO3L1A/U57bjpfSr6I/AAAAAAAAJGA/FaEgRWN5kNU/s1600/IMG_20140525_133506212_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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At the dock, kids do have to wear life jackets, but are free to paddle their own canoes out of parent's eyesight. Be sure to pack the anxiety meds, people. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S43S-eqNKkU/U57bkxWi7-I/AAAAAAAAJGM/C1OlF6JOzSg/s1600/IMG_20140525_145705222_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S43S-eqNKkU/U57bkxWi7-I/AAAAAAAAJGM/C1OlF6JOzSg/s1600/IMG_20140525_145705222_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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This ain't Disneyland, that raft is real and so are the piranhas. </div>
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OK, just kidding about the piranha part. Maybe. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SRgNJZcJ90M/U57blj11Y1I/AAAAAAAAJGQ/dQR6pc66wug/s1600/IMG_20140525_150424438_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SRgNJZcJ90M/U57blj11Y1I/AAAAAAAAJGQ/dQR6pc66wug/s1600/IMG_20140525_150424438_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Yay tetanus! </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8lB7WQaUZYM/U57bmlkceRI/AAAAAAAAJGg/pddq-GlYwPc/s1600/IMG_20140525_150516521_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8lB7WQaUZYM/U57bmlkceRI/AAAAAAAAJGg/pddq-GlYwPc/s1600/IMG_20140525_150516521_HDR.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Hmmmm, how can we make this more dangerous? I know, how about more nails. On the ground, sticking straight up. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, and kids here ride to all these playgrounds on bicycles, without helmets. </div>
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That's right. All my American readers may totally flip out now. </div>
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-2563471266931190902014-09-05T16:29:00.001+02:002014-12-10T12:44:47.962+01:00That Time My Life Was an Episode of The Amazing RaceMost good stories don't start with<i> I arrived at the airport in plenty of time and calmly proceeded to the gate. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This one doesn't either.<br />
<br />
You know when you have just enough time to get the airport, but only if things go absolutely perfectly, and the universe is like NOPE? That's how I ended up at the Budapest airport, standing outside the gate with fifteen minutes to go, being told that the gate was closed and I was not allowed to get on the plane.<br />
<br />
Yep.<br />
<br />
I had been in Budapest visiting a longtime friend. The kind of friend who you started a Unicorn club with in the fifth grade, wrote notes to in a secret language, and cried with over your first break-up. So when this friend ends up in Europe for one year, and just happens to give birth to her first baby, you go visit her for a weekend. And when your husband sadly loses a brother just a few days before, and books a last-minute flight back to the US for the funeral, you just divvy out your kids to friends, and you still go to Budapest. Because Unicorn Club alum stick together, yo. Also, because of non-refundable flights, and two days to hold this bundle of adorableness:<br />
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4DgiEEEPlfc/VAbjqG3qCkI/AAAAAAAAKk8/96DKwbfleL4/s1600/IMG_20140816_124951897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4DgiEEEPlfc/VAbjqG3qCkI/AAAAAAAAKk8/96DKwbfleL4/s1600/IMG_20140816_124951897.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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You see what I'm talking about.</div>
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Back to me missing my flight at the airport. </div>
<br />
It was a Saturday, early evening. Mark was in the US, and I was supposed to pick up my kids by Sunday morning. I needed to figure out a way to get to Amsterdam as quickly as possible. Suddenly, it was just like T<i>he Amazing Race,</i> but for realzzz. And with a disappointing lack of Phil Keoghan. Sigh.<br />
<br />
I walked back to the ticketing area, and gave the departure board a good, long stare. Of course there were no more flights to The Netherlands that night. Summoning my inner Catherine O'hara from <i>Home Alone</i>, I walked to the ticket counter, and sobbed.<br />
<br />
"I will do anything! Whatever it takes to get me on a flight, I will fight, kill, prostitute myself... I will sell my soul to Kim Kardashian's baby, wear high-wasted jeans for the rest of my life...JUST GET ME HOME TO MY KIDS."<br />
<br />
"Let's see, looks like there's a seat on a flight to Brussels tonight at 8:30."<br />
<br />
"I'll take it. What do I have to do?"<br />
<br />
"<span style="background-color: white;">N</span>othing, just the payment, ma'am."<br />
<br />
"Oh, OK. You're sure that's all? Seems a little anti-climactic."<br />
<br />
In the actual <i>The Amazing Race</i>, this would be the dramatic part, right before cutting to commercials. Lots of close-up shots of me looking worried, and biting my lip. Suspenseful music. Foreshadowing of tragedy to come. And then after the break, everything seems to have worked out just fine, as if there wasn't really any drama at all, just manipulative editing.<br />
<br />
Two hours later I was on a flight to Brussels.<br />
<br />
Brussels Charleroi Airport is actually not anywhere near Brussels. It's closer to France. After an hour bus ride, and a quick ride on the next-to-last train into Brussels central station, I arrived to find that the station was closing for the night. Who knew? It was one in the morning. I walked outside, looked at the row of backpackers curled up next to the station, and found a place to sit that didn't look as if it had been peed on too recently.<br />
<br />
So there I was. This is the part where my insomnia super power saved the day. It's like I'd been training for this moment my entire life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2BXmcymenKs/VAbjWHiVMlI/AAAAAAAAKks/VCWvdQ_M8PE/s1600/IMG_20140817_021858209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2BXmcymenKs/VAbjWHiVMlI/AAAAAAAAKks/VCWvdQ_M8PE/s1600/IMG_20140817_021858209.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
Sleep is for wusses. </div>
<br />
Brussels was in the middle of a music festival, so at 1 AM it was loud, boisterous, and busy. Ignoring the shouts in French from drunken passersby, I searched on my phone for ways to get to Amsterdam. Ten points to me for at least having my phone charged, though minus 1000 points for missing my flight in the first place.<br />
<br />
Most of the trains and bus services I was aware of didn't leave until the next day, and were either fully booked, insanely pricey, or involved further transfers and waiting. I didn't see how I could get home until at least dinner time.<br />
<br />
When was the last time you had to use the second page of Google's search results? I know, right? That's where I found a charter bus that happened to be leaving from Brussels at 4 AM, arriving in Amsterdam three hours later, for just 20 euro. I checked the location-- the bus stop was literally around the corner. And there were still seats available.<br />
<br />
Small hiccup: the tickets were only available online, and only by credit card. Guess who didn't bring a credit card? That's right. Mrs Ultra Light Packer.<br />
<br />
That's when I sent a message to Mark. "Hey, missed my flight (haha). Send cc#, urgent."<br />
<br />
While it was 2 AM in Brussels, it was 6 PM in South Dakota on the day of my brother-in-law's funeral. I had two hours, hoping even a family tragedy wouldn't interfere with smart phone addictions. I really had to pee.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Cue the suspenseful close-up.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EcIHavbDoZs/VAmuHF-kPOI/AAAAAAAAKw8/4rRQbk8NvXw/s1600/IMG_20140905_133904792-MOTION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EcIHavbDoZs/VAmuHF-kPOI/AAAAAAAAKw8/4rRQbk8NvXw/s1600/IMG_20140905_133904792-MOTION.gif" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(<i>Dramatic reenactment)</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
At some point, another backpacker arrived and asked in a thick British accent, "so is this where we're sleeping tonight?" He then proceeded to tell me about his day, with a brazen disregard for every word in the English language that was not the f-word, all while undressing and getting in his sleeping bag.<br />
<br />
You would think by three in the morning things would quiet down, but no, that's just when the crazies came out. Anyone who is out after that time you just hoped kept walking. And there were plenty of people out, and no police. Which I guess was good for the backpackers sleeping in front of the train station.<br />
<br />
A car screeched up on the sidewalk, men hanging out the windows, yelling and honking. After being ignored, they peeled out, only to come back a few minutes later for a repeat. Wasted party goers stumbled past. Teenagers ran down the middle of the street, chasing after cars.<br />
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There were the three men who walked up and spent a good thirty minutes alternately screaming at each other in French and caressing each other, until a fourth man joined them, yelled at them, hugged them, and then showed them the contents of his wallet. They all walked off together without even a glance or catcall in my direction. Thank God for gay men.<br />
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Eventually I got a response from Mark: "Of course you missed your flight." (We didn't know that three days later, Mark would miss his flight home due to bad weather, he'd spend thirty-six hours traveling due to an airline I won't name but will call Crappy "United" Airlines. But at least he would get to sleep at the airport.)<br />
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So, with my credit card number, and just enough cell phone battery, I booked my ticket on the bus and prayed it wasn't a scam. At 4:05 I was pulling out of Brussels on a bus full of sleepy backpackers, thankful I wasn't the stinkiest person there.<br />
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Twelve hours after my flight would have arrived, I made it to Amsterdam, or rather the strangest, most remote part of Amsterdam I've ever been to. It took another hour and a half via public transportaion to get home and relieve my bladder.<br />
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But it was a non-elimination round! I still had to bike around town retrieving my kids in a nasty storm. Not to mention survive four more days of Summer vacation, alone with the kids and non-stop rain. Thanks Amsterdam, for that.<br />
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So Phil, did I win?<br />
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-40152595069096744692014-08-29T14:42:00.000+02:002014-08-29T19:16:15.871+02:00Back on the WagonI have 15 minutes.<br />
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Freaking blank mind, as soon as I get some minutes to write something. You know when I never have a blank mind? One o'clock in the morning. I've considered writing from midnight until three-- I think that's my natural writing zone-- but the kids are back in school now, and 4 hours of sleep a night is not going to cut it.<br />
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Every time I have a prolonged break from blogging, the jump back in is difficult. Not because I don't want to write, but because it brings into question whether blogging as a writing outlet is still worthwhile. Is blogging dying? Already dead? Or did blogging just fake its own death so it can come back as its own long-lost evil twin?<br />
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Oh yes, the kids went back to school. And I actually took a picture. Bam, mom of the year.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smile and say: "Mom's sanity restored!" </td></tr>
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15 minutes is up. Next time, I'll tell you about the time this Summer when my life was an episode of the Amazing Race, and my insomnia super power saved the day.Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-69979861578466369992014-06-13T12:59:00.000+02:002014-06-13T12:59:04.995+02:00Let's Catch Up or Blogging as an Avoidance StrategyIt's about time for an old school blog post where I talk about "what I've been up to lately" and "when was the last time I cried in the produce section" and "how I feel about owls."<br />
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Because, I had a terrifying realization the other day.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://bardsleyland.blogspot.nl/2009/06/monster-at-end-of-this-week.html" target="_blank">Summer break</a> is almost here. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>{Cue the music from <i>Psycho</i>.}<br />
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It's just my kids home for 6 weeks straight, no biggie. I'm not developing any nervous ticks or anything. Probably my heart palpitations and difficulty breathing are related to something else.<br />
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Which is why it's better to ignore reality, and spend a few moments remembering happier times. Such as last night, when I finally finished filing our US taxes. Wait, no.<br />
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How about a few weeks ago then, when I attended a super hipster storytelling night in Amsterdam, and felt a bit out of place for not being 23, and for not having a mustache. And yes, yes it was in a squatter's house, complete with a naked, mangled mannequin hanging from the window. And yes, they did serve homemade, organic lentil soup. How did you know?<br />
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Actually, it was an enjoyable night. Especially when I overheard the kid behind me tell his friends, "Yeah, I have a friend who's 35."<br />
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Did you hear that? He doesn't have anything against people who are middle-aged. In fact, he has a close friend who is openly 35. <br />
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So that was fun.<br />
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Speaking of fun, I had my own storytelling night back in May, and it wasn't a big flop like I feared. We had some wonderful participants, great music, food, and just the right mix of humor, emotion, and potty talk. Admittedly, it was lacking in the facial-hair department, but we're going to do it again anyway. Soon. Because that's the kind of courage it takes to be 36.<br />
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Thinking of the past month, here are some things I've said recently that I more or less regret, yet feel the need to immortalize on my blog:<br />
<ul>
<li>"3 of those avocados were a real disappointment." </li>
<li>To my 6 year-old, who wanted to play on the wii for 20 minutes: "Fine, have fun wasting your life away."</li>
<li>"Just gotta support my peeps." </li>
<li>"Crap, is it already time to plan our next vacation?" </li>
<li>On a facebook post about all-natural shampoo: "literally everything on earth is made of chemicals." </li>
<li>Let's just add to that everything I've ever said on Facebook ever. Social media is just a big anxiety-fraught place for some of us. </li>
<li>Oh, and how about complaining about my kids being home for Summer vacation? Yes, let's add that.</li>
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And now for the photos:</div>
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Mark and I went to the Cinque Terre in Italy, without the kids (should I add that to the list?):<br />
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1st King's Day (formerly Queen's Day), aka The Great Crap Exchange. Also, my favorite day in Amsterdam-- except that my phone was stolen this year-- and probably the biggest experiment in sensory overload ever. If there is anything in existence, you can find if for sale on King's Day. The best are the things that kids do to make money: everything from dancing, singing, and playing a musical instrument, to drawing a unique monster or giving a "homemade" compliment, to 3 minutes on a hammock or the chance to smash a head of lettuce with a hammer. Who wouldn't pay 1 euro to beat the crap out of a head of lettuce-- don't say you haven't thought about it. </div>
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The Annual <i>Avondvierdagse </i>for Primary schools: walking 5k in the Amsterdam "woods" with thousands of other families, 4 nights in a row, while sucking on a homemade lemon/mint pop. And like most inexplicable things, is actually very enjoyable.<br />
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Nate turned 6, and I think this sums him up perfectly (I guess I can make GIFs on my phone now, though I have no idea how I did that):</div>
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And, we went to Barcelona (You hate me now. That's OK, I kind of do too):</div>
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So that takes care of what we've been up to lately. To answer the other questions: it's been a while, thankfully, and the owl thing needs to stop. Please now. Except for <a href="http://www.davidsedarisbooks.com/owls.html" target="_blank">this</a>, which I just read, and enjoyed. But that's the only exception. </div>
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-89570390308975456662014-06-09T12:37:00.000+02:002014-06-09T12:37:44.258+02:00A Story of Bike Theft: This Time Vengeance is OursOn Tuesday, we woke up to find Sam's bike missing. More precisely, we woke up to find Sam's bike <i>keys</i> missing. After a small amount of searching, we went outside to see if they were still in his bike.<br />
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That's when we discovered that his bike was stolen, if that's what you still call it when you leave the keys in your bike for the taking. (It's not hard to put two and two together with this kid.)<br />
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For some context, within just the past month, Sam has:<br />
<ul>
<li>left his backpack, with his camera and wallet inside, at a park in Barcelona-- where it was stolen. (Barcelona is the theft capital of Europe, and when we inquired about a Lost and Found at the Park Information Center, they almost laughed at us.)</li>
<li>left his nice rain jacket at the Barcelona Airport. </li>
<li>lost his bike keys at a park in Amsterdam, delaying us for an hour on a busy day, while we waited for Mark to bring the spare key.</li>
<li>had to leave his bike at the train station because he couldn't find his keys, which happened to be in one of his pockets.</li>
</ul>
That's just in 1 month. There simply isn't enough time or space to list everything before that.<br />
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But that morning there was no time for lectures, as he had to hop on the back of his dad's bike and rush off to school. Later, when I picked the kids up from school, the first thing I noticed was Sam not wearing his jacket. He had left it at the playground.<br />
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After retrieving the jacket, we went to get on our bikes, and Sam said, "hey, where's my bike?"<br />
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"Um, it was stolen because you left your keys in it, remember?"<br />
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"Oh yeah."<br />
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Sometimes, I find it amazing he remembers to breathe.<br />
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While he was perched on the back of my bike coming home from school, I listed all the ways he could earn money to help pay for the bike. And in the middle of my lecture, I spotted something unbelievable: Sam's bike right there on the sidewalk, just blocks from our house.<br />
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We screeched to a halt, and stood there for a few minutes, staring in disbelief.<br />
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The keys were gone, and it was locked. Oh, did the thief think that was going to stop us?<br />
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We zipped home to pick up Sam's recently-copied spare keys, and returned to steal his bike back-- if that's what you call it when you use your keys to take your own bike back. <br />
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Such sweet, sweet euphoria. So, on behalf of every victim of bike theft in Amsterdam, we offer you this:<br />
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-37902477772172652192014-06-03T11:35:00.000+02:002014-06-03T11:35:54.607+02:00And the Envelope Please...Decision 2014 is made.<br />
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It was easy once we found out that Costco changed its mango salsa recipe. And now, I've discovered a <a href="http://bakersandroasters.com/" target="_blank">place</a> in Amsterdam that serves it, with a pulled-pork salad no less.<br />
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The salsa gods have spoken; we're staying in Amsterdam for another year.<br />
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After weeks full of fretting, discussing, diagramming, coin flipping, list making, over thinking, hand puppeteering, <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/candacelowry/what-90s-kids-game-show-would-you-completely-dominate" target="_blank">Buzzfeed quizzing</a>, and Universe imploring...it all came down to the path of least resistance. Which is to say, I took a good, long stare down the barrel of a do-it-yourself international move and thought <i>yeah</i>, <i>I can just continue to get solid deodorant imported, thanks. </i><br />
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Because sometimes procrastination just feels right.<br />
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So, one more year to ride bikes in all kinds of weather.<br />
To muddle my way through conversations in broken Dutch.<br />
To dread the awkwardness of the three-kiss greeting.<br />
One more year of missing people who are so far away.<br />
One more year to further explore this part of the world without jet lag.<br />
One more year to not deal with the piles of stuff we've accumulated here.<br />
One more year of this adventure.<br />
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Best not to blink.<br />
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Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-30930839076396908842014-04-24T23:47:00.000+02:002014-04-25T08:45:40.002+02:0021 Reasons You Should Go to My Storytelling Night for Parents (if You're in Amsterdam)One of the side effects of insomnia is getting crazy ideas at 2 AM, and then in the light of day, you're so sleep deprived that you actually think, <i>hey I'm going to go ahead an follow through with that crazy idea. </i><br />
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And then you tell this idea to another sleep deprived friend and while her eyes say <i>I should have a good nap before giving any advice</i>, her mouth says <i>yes! Let's do this thing! </i><br />
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And that's the birth story of a little event I'm hosting, along with my friend Catina, aka <a href="http://amsterdammama.blogspot.nl/" target="_blank">The Amsterdam Mama</a>. We're proudly presenting <i><b><a href="http://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-witching-hour-a-storytelling-night-for-parents-tickets-11235825657" target="_blank">The Witching Hour: a storytelling night for parents</a></b></i>, and you're all invited.<br />
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Yes, even you, blog readers who I've never met. Please, actually. </div>
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The format is simple: food, drinks, cozy venue, live music, a bunch of people who are willing to read or tell a true story about parenting, a bunch of other people who will cheer and be supportive, and absolutely no whining allowed.<br />
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It's simple. It's 100% natural. It's on <span style="text-align: center;">May 17th, at <a href="http://shop.englishbookshop.nl/" target="_blank">The English Bookshop</a> in Amsterdam. </span><br />
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We made a logo.<br />
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Need some cajoling? Coaxing? Ego stroking?<br />
Well, you should definitely <b>come and tell a story</b>, or just to listen, <b>if</b>:<br />
<ol>
<li>You're a parent and you just need to get out for a few hours. </li>
<li>You're a writer and you just have all these words that you need to share with other people. </li>
<li>You're a parent and a writer, and you just have all these words that you need to share with other people-- preferably with adult people who understand big words. </li>
<li>You're the type of person who likes to support local writers, bloggers, quirky people, and parents who may or may not be using this event as a form of therapy. </li>
<li>You have a good story, and it's selfish to keep it all to yourself.</li>
<li>You've thought about trying stand-up, or an open mic night, or just talking to people who will actually listen to you.</li>
<li>You like talking about yourself. </li>
<li>You've listened to every episode of <a href="http://themoth.org/" target="_blank">The Moth</a> and now what are you going to do? </li>
<li>You're a good listener. (It's true, you are.) </li>
<li>You need to work on being a better listener. (And that's OK.) </li>
<li>Because commiseration. </li>
<li>You're all about helping people fulfill their dreams. </li>
<li>You're generally pro-enjoyment, and anti-boredom. </li>
<li>You believe stories are powerful ways to connect people. </li>
<li>You enjoy hanging out in lovely independent bookshops. </li>
<li>You like food. And drinks. And folksy guitar music.</li>
<li>You remember that time you sat around with friends, swapping stories about parenting, and you laughed and cried and loved it because <i>thank god you're not alone.</i> </li>
<li>You appreciate a good free event, though you're not opposed to chipping in a bit for some drinks and snacks.</li>
<li>You're amazing and pretty incredible and you've learned that being cool isn't about the thickness of your mustache or the irony of your oversized eyeglasses, but about the degree to which you can go out in public with snot on your shirt and not care.</li>
<li>You've memorized every word of every song from <i>Frozen</i>, and for the love, you need to fill your mind with something else.</li>
<li>Because pretty please?? Come to my storytelling thing? </li>
</ol>
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RSVP to be a storyteller or listener <a href="http://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-witching-hour-a-storytelling-night-for-parents-tickets-11235825657" target="_blank">here</a>:</div>
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<br />Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870881746965157085.post-6190349884478060492014-04-11T19:23:00.002+02:002014-04-13T23:47:51.651+02:00Dear Babysitter: We Definitely Know What We're Doing, But if You Have Any Helpful Tips Let Us Know<i>Thank you all for your advice and encouragement last week. We still haven't made The Big Decision yet, but (and get ready for the sappiest thing I might ever say on this blog) every comment felt like a hug or high five from all the people I care so much about. It was very grounding, and made my heart swell and all that good stuff.</i><br />
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ahem...<br />
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We are getting ready to go on an early anniversary/Mark's 40th Birthday trip to the Cinque Terre in Italy. Without the kids.<br />
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GLORY and HALLELUJAH.<br />
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A young hipster couple we know will stay with the kids while we are gone, and I've been thinking of all the things I need to tell them about.<br />
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Which leads me to a bit of a conundrum: should I tell them about all our parenting strategies that don't work at all? And should I tell them about the ineffective strategies that we like to pretend are helping, but really just make things worse? Or should I just show them where my chocolate stash is?<br />
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This reminds me of a panel discussion I went to once, where one of the panelists gave a single suggestion, and then said to the audience <i>I don't really know, do any of you have any ideas? </i><br />
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I don't think she understood how panels work.<br />
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But I'm not judging because I don't think I really understand how parenting is supposed to work, and that's why I'm hoping the hipsters will come up with some solid parenting strategies to help us deal with our kids.<br />
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I'm imagining we'll have an email conversation like this, about 24 hours in:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Mrs. Hipster: Hi! So, what do you normally do when Sam and Nate make kissing noises just to bother Mia, and she starts screaming, and then they do it more, and then she screams louder, and nobody will stop, and now they're all trying to kill each other? </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Me: Well, what would you normally do in a situation like this? </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Mrs. Hipster: What do </i>you<i> normally do in a situation like this? </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Me: Ummm, I personally believe that Super Nanny because Love and Logic and the uh, attachment parenting out there, such as, uh, Talking and uh, the Feelings, everywhere like such as, and it should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up a future, for us. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Mrs. Hipster: That's not really helpful, or even a coherent sentence. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Me: Oh, you want a solution that works? Yeah, I don't have any of those, but there's a large amount of chocolate hidden behind the sauce pans in the kitchen. </i></span><br />
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This is why we need to get away.Bardsleylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16942735012983198285noreply@blogger.com3