This is the view from my window. Immediately to the right and outside the frame is a door which opens onto the roof.
Monday, May 30, 2005
And this is the reason
That I have not put a table and chairs up there, and there is a really very sound deadbolt lock with a key on the door. Which key is hidden in an entirely different room. That is, this is the view of Nel's lovely garden from my lovely garden. Please note the complete absence of any kind of barrier preventing small boys from dropping from one to the other, inadvertently or otherwise.
*shudder* It will remain a garden of my own for as long as I can manage, or at least until they are old enough to shinny down the drain pipe.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Happy Birthday
Did you know that my beautiful sister shares a birthday with John Wayne and Lenny Kravitz and Hank Williams, Junior? But she is far too young to know who Lenny Kravitz is and is now opening a new window and Googling it.
Her horoscope for today is: Opportunities for friendship, pleasant associations, and enjoyable social interactions occur now. Personal relationships are harmonious and rewarding. Also, financial transactions go smoothly for you and material benefits are possible at this time.
This is the horoscope for Cancer. I know she is technically a Gemini, but due to an unfortunately timed golf tournament she is unquestionably a Cancer despite having been yanked into the world most rudely and too soon.
If she wants to know what her horoscope is not (that is the one for Gemini) she can look it up herself; I know the real deal. I am, after all, and will always be her Big Sister. And if your Big Sister doesn't tell you where it's at, who will?
Happy Birthday, Sistah Thang.
Her horoscope for today is: Opportunities for friendship, pleasant associations, and enjoyable social interactions occur now. Personal relationships are harmonious and rewarding. Also, financial transactions go smoothly for you and material benefits are possible at this time.
This is the horoscope for Cancer. I know she is technically a Gemini, but due to an unfortunately timed golf tournament she is unquestionably a Cancer despite having been yanked into the world most rudely and too soon.
If she wants to know what her horoscope is not (that is the one for Gemini) she can look it up herself; I know the real deal. I am, after all, and will always be her Big Sister. And if your Big Sister doesn't tell you where it's at, who will?
Happy Birthday, Sistah Thang.
Obscurity
It occurred to me recently that nearly everything I know something about or find interesting is obsscure as hell. I suppose I ought to have noticed this sooner. But I didn't so here we are.
Since one of the obscure things I know something about is secret codes and so on, I also know that there is a principle called security by obscurity which is the opposite of full disclosure. The idea is that the exploitable weaknesses in your system ought also to be hidden; part of your code can be the fact that nobody knows where the message is irrespective of where the key is. Perhaps I should found a school of psychology on the notion of obscurity.
I know a great deal about fairy tales and myths and legends. But what I know about them is where they came from and how they travelled and how we figure out what purpose they serve. Did you know that "Ring Around a Rosy" has absolutely not one single thing to do with the Black Plague or with death and was almost certainly written in the 1800s as part of a party game for little girls?
I could, as most of you know, go on and on. Well, actually, I can't as I have to go get Douwe from school and find out what Daan is screaming about. It's his "so happy to be alive" scream, so there's no hurry. But it was sort of a strange thing to realize.
Since one of the obscure things I know something about is secret codes and so on, I also know that there is a principle called security by obscurity which is the opposite of full disclosure. The idea is that the exploitable weaknesses in your system ought also to be hidden; part of your code can be the fact that nobody knows where the message is irrespective of where the key is. Perhaps I should found a school of psychology on the notion of obscurity.
I know a great deal about fairy tales and myths and legends. But what I know about them is where they came from and how they travelled and how we figure out what purpose they serve. Did you know that "Ring Around a Rosy" has absolutely not one single thing to do with the Black Plague or with death and was almost certainly written in the 1800s as part of a party game for little girls?
I could, as most of you know, go on and on. Well, actually, I can't as I have to go get Douwe from school and find out what Daan is screaming about. It's his "so happy to be alive" scream, so there's no hurry. But it was sort of a strange thing to realize.
Love
My kids went through my still unpacked suitcases yesterday like the little Vandals they are, and discovered the Playmobil toys which were concealed by all that other stuff. I bought them almost two years ago now, because there was a big sale and Playmobil never ever goes on sale. I had some thought of holding out for An Occasion, but once they saw them that was sort of it.
There was an airplane and a little grocery store and a little bathroom. Yes, the bathroom seems weird, but I was right to buy it because Daan was fascinated with it. The Playmobil guy took about seven showers that day.
Douwe pounced on the airplane, and many trips have been taken to America in the past 24 hours. Also to space, as he cannot decide whether to be an astronaut or a pilot when he grows up. The pilot of the plane we took home, who shoed the kids around the cockpit, pointed out that to become an astronaut one must first be a pilot. So it is not a question of choice -- I wondered if he had difficulty making up his mind, too, when he was younger. He certainly knew a lot about it.
Douwe loves the airplane, he washed it gently at bathtime and dried it carefully and tucked it up under the covers and sang it a song and kissed it goodnight. I found this rather odd, really.
Then I remembered how my father is about his red Corvette. And decided that there are some things that are enduring.
There was an airplane and a little grocery store and a little bathroom. Yes, the bathroom seems weird, but I was right to buy it because Daan was fascinated with it. The Playmobil guy took about seven showers that day.
Douwe pounced on the airplane, and many trips have been taken to America in the past 24 hours. Also to space, as he cannot decide whether to be an astronaut or a pilot when he grows up. The pilot of the plane we took home, who shoed the kids around the cockpit, pointed out that to become an astronaut one must first be a pilot. So it is not a question of choice -- I wondered if he had difficulty making up his mind, too, when he was younger. He certainly knew a lot about it.
Douwe loves the airplane, he washed it gently at bathtime and dried it carefully and tucked it up under the covers and sang it a song and kissed it goodnight. I found this rather odd, really.
Then I remembered how my father is about his red Corvette. And decided that there are some things that are enduring.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Time and more time
We are talking about time at my house. I have started up a weekly calendar with the nifty magnet thingies we got when we were home. At this moment, our calendar shows a week at a time and the weather today.
The weather magnet got changed three times today, from "cloudy" in the morning to "windy" at lunchtime and "sunny" in the afternoon. May have to rethink that weather thing; there have been days when we would have to use all five options and make some more as well. How many ways can you say "overcast and threatening to rain" in English? In Dutch there are quite a few.
The magnet for "happy birthday" caused quite a stir this morning; I had to explain to Daan again (and again) that when it is someone else's birthday it is not necessarily his birthday, too. Though I finally sang "Happy Birthday" to him at his insistence after he sang it to me. Douwe took me out to the petting zoo and then into town for french fries and a coke after school for my birthday. He even paid for it, though I had to give him the money first.
Well, I suppose I take him places I like for his birthday, too, so we are even. But I was quite surprised; he never did that before. I didn't actually get that it was for my birthday until he said so this evening at bedtime. I figured he just wanted french fries today.
I was the recipient of a rooftop garden for my birthday; I can tell that Nel picked out all the flowers because they were all blue and purple. Conversely, I can tell that Douwe picked out some of the flowers for Nel's garden because they are most decidedly not blue and purple; they are blazing red and yellow and orange. The herbs I picked out myself last week. Dearly Beloved made me two boxes to start the Square Foot Gardening project; only this being Europe it will have to be half meter gardening. I will post some more pictures tomorrow when I get everything into dirt -- the flowers are still in the post they came in. I also have to transplant my strawberries already as they are setting fruit and I think they don't have enough dirt to support his massive growth pattern. In any event, they have to be watered something like twice a day if it doesn't rain.
I also am now the proud owner of a stephanotis plant in a pot and Nel even remembered that I had expressed some small desire to try orchids. So she bought me a smallish version of the orchid we had for our wedding lo these many moons ago.
My sister Jennifer the Younger got her card here on exactly the right day, a feat of timing which may never again be surpassed. Well done. My sister Jennifer the elder bypassed the problem and sent me two e-cards, guaranteed to get there on the right day barring server incidents. (The kids seriously dig the airplane one).
Since the calendar is a hit we are proceeding on the time front with a little kit about time which I picked up in the States. It has a book which covers the notions of time -- seasons, months, and so on -- and has little things you can build and do to do with time. It starts with making your own sundial and progresses to making your own clock, then learning how to tell time from the clock. Douwe took one look at the box and decided we are making the clock tomorrow; the sundial has no moving parts you see.
It lacks a miniature working model of stonehenge to track the solstices and equinoxes, though, bummer. But it seems to have everything else.
However, I expect my children will discard all that twaddle about the cycles of the seasons and phases of the moon and so on and go straight for the real point -- the part that moves and does stuff and can be taken apart is fun, no way around it.
The weather magnet got changed three times today, from "cloudy" in the morning to "windy" at lunchtime and "sunny" in the afternoon. May have to rethink that weather thing; there have been days when we would have to use all five options and make some more as well. How many ways can you say "overcast and threatening to rain" in English? In Dutch there are quite a few.
The magnet for "happy birthday" caused quite a stir this morning; I had to explain to Daan again (and again) that when it is someone else's birthday it is not necessarily his birthday, too. Though I finally sang "Happy Birthday" to him at his insistence after he sang it to me. Douwe took me out to the petting zoo and then into town for french fries and a coke after school for my birthday. He even paid for it, though I had to give him the money first.
Well, I suppose I take him places I like for his birthday, too, so we are even. But I was quite surprised; he never did that before. I didn't actually get that it was for my birthday until he said so this evening at bedtime. I figured he just wanted french fries today.
I was the recipient of a rooftop garden for my birthday; I can tell that Nel picked out all the flowers because they were all blue and purple. Conversely, I can tell that Douwe picked out some of the flowers for Nel's garden because they are most decidedly not blue and purple; they are blazing red and yellow and orange. The herbs I picked out myself last week. Dearly Beloved made me two boxes to start the Square Foot Gardening project; only this being Europe it will have to be half meter gardening. I will post some more pictures tomorrow when I get everything into dirt -- the flowers are still in the post they came in. I also have to transplant my strawberries already as they are setting fruit and I think they don't have enough dirt to support his massive growth pattern. In any event, they have to be watered something like twice a day if it doesn't rain.
I also am now the proud owner of a stephanotis plant in a pot and Nel even remembered that I had expressed some small desire to try orchids. So she bought me a smallish version of the orchid we had for our wedding lo these many moons ago.
My sister Jennifer the Younger got her card here on exactly the right day, a feat of timing which may never again be surpassed. Well done. My sister Jennifer the elder bypassed the problem and sent me two e-cards, guaranteed to get there on the right day barring server incidents. (The kids seriously dig the airplane one).
Since the calendar is a hit we are proceeding on the time front with a little kit about time which I picked up in the States. It has a book which covers the notions of time -- seasons, months, and so on -- and has little things you can build and do to do with time. It starts with making your own sundial and progresses to making your own clock, then learning how to tell time from the clock. Douwe took one look at the box and decided we are making the clock tomorrow; the sundial has no moving parts you see.
It lacks a miniature working model of stonehenge to track the solstices and equinoxes, though, bummer. But it seems to have everything else.
However, I expect my children will discard all that twaddle about the cycles of the seasons and phases of the moon and so on and go straight for the real point -- the part that moves and does stuff and can be taken apart is fun, no way around it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Jiggety Jig
We are home again, intact, but innocent of luggage. I am given to understand that my luggage should be arriving tomorrow from Cleveland, which seems odd as we changed planes in Cincinatti. Unfair, really, I have never been to Cleveland but my luggage has. I am assured that it is not lost, merely, um, on vacation without me. Still, if they actually can find it and deliver it (which remains to be seen) I will say that having it delivered here is an improvement over having to lug it home. That's a big if, though.
Still, it puts off the horrible unpacking for another day. Though if it never comes, hey at least I don't have to unpack it all.
The kids are asleep, though we are not sending them to school tomorrow, I don't have the energy for any incidents with Douwe's teacher arising from jet lag, whoops I mean his obvious social problems. But if the luggage comes through as promised it will be like Chrismas in May if I know my kids. Daan will have forgotten what was in the luggage; Douwe will have spent the day believing he will never see his brand new sky train again despite many parental assurances.
(Yes, I know, I don't believe it either despite many Delta assurances. No, I did not miss that.)
I cannot sleep. It must have been that last pot of coffee.
Added Tuesday morning: Well, it appears that the luggage is in Holland, the man at Delta, somewhat bemused by my doubting nature, assures me he has seen my luggage with his own eyes and it will indeed be delivered tomorrow morning. So we may be playing that whizbang interactive DVD game yet. Assuming I can get the stupid thing to speak its zeroes and ones in Dutch that is.
Still, it puts off the horrible unpacking for another day. Though if it never comes, hey at least I don't have to unpack it all.
The kids are asleep, though we are not sending them to school tomorrow, I don't have the energy for any incidents with Douwe's teacher arising from jet lag, whoops I mean his obvious social problems. But if the luggage comes through as promised it will be like Chrismas in May if I know my kids. Daan will have forgotten what was in the luggage; Douwe will have spent the day believing he will never see his brand new sky train again despite many parental assurances.
(Yes, I know, I don't believe it either despite many Delta assurances. No, I did not miss that.)
I cannot sleep. It must have been that last pot of coffee.
Added Tuesday morning: Well, it appears that the luggage is in Holland, the man at Delta, somewhat bemused by my doubting nature, assures me he has seen my luggage with his own eyes and it will indeed be delivered tomorrow morning. So we may be playing that whizbang interactive DVD game yet. Assuming I can get the stupid thing to speak its zeroes and ones in Dutch that is.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Move over, Speed
A friend of mine gave me a copy for me of a children's film for the boys. It is about a little boy named Pluk. The conceit is that Pluk rides around in a little tow truck looking for a place to live. Ultimately he finds an empty room on the very top of an apartment building. He has many adventures trying to understand the adult inhabitants of the building and to get them to accept him as a part of their little community. The kids all like him fine. He has some adult supporters and some opposers, and a lot who sort of don't care as long as he doesn't attract attention. But Pluk always comes up with plans. Sometimes they work the way he expects and usually not, but that Pluk, he sure can come up with a plan.
He's very, oh, plucky.
I have had it for some weeks and never put it on for them, one thing and another. Then Dowue was sick and Daan had a day that, well, shall we just say that he was very unhappy that his favorite playmate was not up to snuff and responded by bugging the life out of everybody. He raised harassment to a fine art. When I came in and found him sitting on top of Douwe bouncing up and down, I figured I had better do something or he would not see the age of 4.
Daan cannot stand it when Douwe is sick.
Luckily my eye fell on the Pluk film and I put it on in hopes of distracting the little beas- er, darling. It certainly did do that, Daan likes Pluk just fine. He especially likes the verrrry long horse, which is long enough to hold six people at once and has a wheel in the middle to hold up its belly. He thinks it is cousin to Dr. Seuss's seven hump wump.
But Pluk, well, Pluk may have even displaced Speed Racer in Douwe's fantasy pantheon. Douwe now has a cap just like Pluk's, we had to go buy it today. It replaced the Speed Racer fleece hat he has been wearing when he was being Speed. It turns out Nel had a copy of the book about Pluk, on which the film is based, which she had saved becasue it was a little old for the boys. Now it's Pluk every night and he has to have the book in bed with him.
Pluk's quest is for a "place for Pluk". This is made twice clear in the film, as the theme somng goes, "A place, a place, who has a place for Pluk?" (Well, ok, it's in Dutch, but that's what it means). This story has struck Douwe exactly where he lives. To say he likes the film and the book is to beggar the experience -- he is quite literally galvanized.
It has led to any number of conversations about his own feelings of course. Some part of me is sad I think, that Douwe is hunting for his place. Some part of me thinks that, at 5, he should not have to worry about his place. But, well, there is probably a reason it's a popular book, eh? It is sort of an eternal paradigm, innit?
And some part of me is just very pleased that he now has a paradigm, a structure to start to talk about it more explicitly. It's as though Pluk gave him permission to talk about that.
And some part of me is, I suppose, aware that he's not the only one looking for a place of his own.
He's very, oh, plucky.
I have had it for some weeks and never put it on for them, one thing and another. Then Dowue was sick and Daan had a day that, well, shall we just say that he was very unhappy that his favorite playmate was not up to snuff and responded by bugging the life out of everybody. He raised harassment to a fine art. When I came in and found him sitting on top of Douwe bouncing up and down, I figured I had better do something or he would not see the age of 4.
Daan cannot stand it when Douwe is sick.
Luckily my eye fell on the Pluk film and I put it on in hopes of distracting the little beas- er, darling. It certainly did do that, Daan likes Pluk just fine. He especially likes the verrrry long horse, which is long enough to hold six people at once and has a wheel in the middle to hold up its belly. He thinks it is cousin to Dr. Seuss's seven hump wump.
But Pluk, well, Pluk may have even displaced Speed Racer in Douwe's fantasy pantheon. Douwe now has a cap just like Pluk's, we had to go buy it today. It replaced the Speed Racer fleece hat he has been wearing when he was being Speed. It turns out Nel had a copy of the book about Pluk, on which the film is based, which she had saved becasue it was a little old for the boys. Now it's Pluk every night and he has to have the book in bed with him.
Pluk's quest is for a "place for Pluk". This is made twice clear in the film, as the theme somng goes, "A place, a place, who has a place for Pluk?" (Well, ok, it's in Dutch, but that's what it means). This story has struck Douwe exactly where he lives. To say he likes the film and the book is to beggar the experience -- he is quite literally galvanized.
It has led to any number of conversations about his own feelings of course. Some part of me is sad I think, that Douwe is hunting for his place. Some part of me thinks that, at 5, he should not have to worry about his place. But, well, there is probably a reason it's a popular book, eh? It is sort of an eternal paradigm, innit?
And some part of me is just very pleased that he now has a paradigm, a structure to start to talk about it more explicitly. It's as though Pluk gave him permission to talk about that.
And some part of me is, I suppose, aware that he's not the only one looking for a place of his own.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
To my brother
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Johnny
Happy Birthday to you.
See you in a week, old man.
Oh, yeah, by the way, remember how you used to say you would always be older than me no matter what I did? Guess what?
You will always be older than me, no matter what I do.
Bwa ha ha.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Johnny
Happy Birthday to you.
See you in a week, old man.
Oh, yeah, by the way, remember how you used to say you would always be older than me no matter what I did? Guess what?
You will always be older than me, no matter what I do.
Bwa ha ha.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Milestones
I have now made it through another one, to wit, Douwe's trip to the emergency room.
He has had a low grade fever for about a day and threw up last night. Douwe does not run low grade fevers, ever. He runs high, spiking fevers in the "bake your brain" range. I don't even change stride for anything under 102 with that child. He does not throw up except under the direst of circumstances; the child has an anti gag reflex, I swear it. All of this was sort of disconcerting but not unduly so; I suspected an ear infection or something similar. He suddenly peed in his britches while sitting on the couch, which is also an unheard of event nowadays, and he was as surprised as I was. Also odd. But not exactly earth shaking, he is five, an age much given to, shall we say, putting things off until the very last possible moment.
Then he came to me and complained of pain in his lower back, and Paul picked him up and headed for the emergency room. Because what Douwe does not do, ever, is complain of pain when he is ill. He denies pain and discomfort most vociferously and declares that he is really quite well and wants to leave immediately for school. Even when he cannot move. When he has a fever of 104, he declares that he wants to go to school as soon as he gets warm again.
So Paul was momentarily restrained and we called the doctor (which was closed) and were referred to the evening service who heard this tale and said to bring him in right now. They thought the same thing I thought: kidney infection.
(Relax, Grandmary, he hasn't got a kidney infection).
It appears, however, that he has got a bladder infection. So he is on an antibiotic and will certainly be well by next Wednesday, I am assured. Which of course means he had to actually take the antibiotic. This was achieved by telling him that it will make him feel better and also giving him a Coke afterward (the ultimate bribe).
Daan was so jealous of the attention (and the Coke) that he insisted on having medicine, too. So I gave him some plum syrup in a spoon, which he made a great show of disliking intensely and then said the doctor said he should have some more.
Now, if I can just break a tooth or a bone or something, we'll be all set to come to the States.
He has had a low grade fever for about a day and threw up last night. Douwe does not run low grade fevers, ever. He runs high, spiking fevers in the "bake your brain" range. I don't even change stride for anything under 102 with that child. He does not throw up except under the direst of circumstances; the child has an anti gag reflex, I swear it. All of this was sort of disconcerting but not unduly so; I suspected an ear infection or something similar. He suddenly peed in his britches while sitting on the couch, which is also an unheard of event nowadays, and he was as surprised as I was. Also odd. But not exactly earth shaking, he is five, an age much given to, shall we say, putting things off until the very last possible moment.
Then he came to me and complained of pain in his lower back, and Paul picked him up and headed for the emergency room. Because what Douwe does not do, ever, is complain of pain when he is ill. He denies pain and discomfort most vociferously and declares that he is really quite well and wants to leave immediately for school. Even when he cannot move. When he has a fever of 104, he declares that he wants to go to school as soon as he gets warm again.
So Paul was momentarily restrained and we called the doctor (which was closed) and were referred to the evening service who heard this tale and said to bring him in right now. They thought the same thing I thought: kidney infection.
(Relax, Grandmary, he hasn't got a kidney infection).
It appears, however, that he has got a bladder infection. So he is on an antibiotic and will certainly be well by next Wednesday, I am assured. Which of course means he had to actually take the antibiotic. This was achieved by telling him that it will make him feel better and also giving him a Coke afterward (the ultimate bribe).
Daan was so jealous of the attention (and the Coke) that he insisted on having medicine, too. So I gave him some plum syrup in a spoon, which he made a great show of disliking intensely and then said the doctor said he should have some more.
Now, if I can just break a tooth or a bone or something, we'll be all set to come to the States.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Shopping list
I am now making my shopping list of stuff to get in the States to bring back here. This includes a lot of cold and allergy medicines as I have no plans to develop the strength of character which comes from suffering through the flu without decongestants. My character will just have to look after itself.
It also includes a number of Pixters; it appears we are about to start a new rage here in Holland.
Those of you on the left side of the pond, if you want any imports brought to you, now's the time to list them here or email them to me. They must be small enough to haul home on a bicycle; otherwise, have at it.
It also includes a number of Pixters; it appears we are about to start a new rage here in Holland.
Those of you on the left side of the pond, if you want any imports brought to you, now's the time to list them here or email them to me. They must be small enough to haul home on a bicycle; otherwise, have at it.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Whoppers
Being my offspring, my children lie a lot. This one I cannot put off onto Dearly Beloved; I am afraid that Dearly Beloved cannot lie convincingly. He is the worst liar ever born. The way to tell if he is lying is to notice that he is avoiding direct questions. He cannot stand up for one second to the Bullshit Test.* He really thinks you can tell, so you can.
And besides, he is an arrogant bastard and thinks he is above lying.
I dunno where people get he idea that children are truthful; maybe some children are. Both of mine started lying at around two years old. About the same time they started to use and get humor, the events seemed to be related.
Here's the whopper I got today. Douwe had to explain a certain kind of accident of a delicate nature this evening.
So it seems that Bassie and Adriaan** came in through the window and carried away the toilet to put in their car while they were being chased by the bad guys so they would not have to stop. If they had to stop you see, they might have to pee in a hole in the ground in the desert and then the pee would all come out whoosh bang in a geyser all the way to the sky + and then they would have to stop and clean it up so then the bad guys would get them.
But Douwe, I said, the toilet is right here.
They came back in through the roof window and put it back before you came upstairs but then it was too late.
How did they get back out?
Tinkerbell turned them all yellow and they flew away.
Of course.
*The Bullshit Test goes like this: If you think someone is lying, look them straight in the eye and say, "Oh, bullshit,". If you do not like to swear, you can always say, "pull the other one, it's got bells on" but not if you are American. Some people will fall apart immediately; others begin to protest. When they protest, say "oh, bullshit -- I mean, it's pretty good bullshit, but just bullshit,". Accomplished fabulists can get through the bullshit test. Silly people who feel guilty about lying cannot.
** Bassie and Adriaan are Dutch TV characters whom he he has seen on DVD -- Bassie is a clown and Adriaan is an acrobat and they run around the world solving crimes and hunting down bad guys and occasionally being hunted by them. He has seen them on DVD because the actor who plays Bassie died a year or so ago.
+This actually happens to the bad guy in one of the B&A films, he did not thankfully make this up.
And besides, he is an arrogant bastard and thinks he is above lying.
I dunno where people get he idea that children are truthful; maybe some children are. Both of mine started lying at around two years old. About the same time they started to use and get humor, the events seemed to be related.
Here's the whopper I got today. Douwe had to explain a certain kind of accident of a delicate nature this evening.
So it seems that Bassie and Adriaan** came in through the window and carried away the toilet to put in their car while they were being chased by the bad guys so they would not have to stop. If they had to stop you see, they might have to pee in a hole in the ground in the desert and then the pee would all come out whoosh bang in a geyser all the way to the sky + and then they would have to stop and clean it up so then the bad guys would get them.
But Douwe, I said, the toilet is right here.
They came back in through the roof window and put it back before you came upstairs but then it was too late.
How did they get back out?
Tinkerbell turned them all yellow and they flew away.
Of course.
*The Bullshit Test goes like this: If you think someone is lying, look them straight in the eye and say, "Oh, bullshit,". If you do not like to swear, you can always say, "pull the other one, it's got bells on" but not if you are American. Some people will fall apart immediately; others begin to protest. When they protest, say "oh, bullshit -- I mean, it's pretty good bullshit, but just bullshit,". Accomplished fabulists can get through the bullshit test. Silly people who feel guilty about lying cannot.
** Bassie and Adriaan are Dutch TV characters whom he he has seen on DVD -- Bassie is a clown and Adriaan is an acrobat and they run around the world solving crimes and hunting down bad guys and occasionally being hunted by them. He has seen them on DVD because the actor who plays Bassie died a year or so ago.
+This actually happens to the bad guy in one of the B&A films, he did not thankfully make this up.
The view
My bedroom looks out onto a roof. You can get to the roof from a door or a window. Most of the roof is flat, though there is a pointy bit sticking up. This space simply begs for a rooftop garden, with maybe a very small table and two chairs. I took one look at it and my memory dredged up a vision of Square Foot Gardening (who here is old enough to remember Square Foot Gardening?).
I should really introduce Square Foot Gardening to Holland, or somebody should. It was practically created for this land of maniac orderliness and limited space.
Anyway, my roof gets sun all the livelong day. And yet, my vista was until recently limited to those flowerpot looking thingies on a roof and tar paper shingles. Well, it looks like tar paper. This is partly because I have been clinging to the transitory nature of our stay here. However, what with the major adjustment issues we have been dealing with, there has been universal agreement on one thing: we have to work out some way to not disrupt things again at least until the new school year starts. Which means a comittment of at least one growing season to staying here.
So of course I loaded up my kids in the wagon (no, it isn't litle, and it isn't red, either) and went off in search of growing things. This dredged up a long standing argument in my home, which is what to grow. I believe in things I can eat; when I say "garden" you might just as well tack the word "kitchen" on the front of it. I want a 12 month kitchen garden. I want basil and I want thyme and I want mint and the occasional tomato. I want beans and if I had an arbor I would grow watermelons and squash on it. * My own personal specialty used to be edible wild plants -- drop me in the woods anywhere in Georgia and I can come up with a meal.
Hey, what can I tell you, my mother collected a basement full of canned goods against the depradations of life, I collected information on what to do when the can opener gave out.
Dearly Beloved wants flowers. Specifically, he wants cutting flowers. Dearly Beloved has a tremendous affinity for cut flowers. He can walk over to the flowers I put in a vase, touch them twice, and voila, a perfect arrangement worthy of the pages of House Beautiful appears from nowhere. He also knows what container to get for which flowers, and does not limit his options to vases. Cut flowers even live longer when he puts them in water, with or without 7-Up. It is very irritating, I must say.
Now, Dearly Beloved has no plans to mess about with dirt. It is my job is to make flowers appear in a garden, should we have one. He has been known to operate a tiller on my behalf, though this required my looking extremely small (no trick) and helpless at the appropriate time. Beyond that, forget it.
And I know nothing about flowers, except that they come in annual and perennial varieties and seem to require a great deal of sun. Well, okay that its't true either. I know a lot about angelica, carnations, dianthus, chamomile, nasturtiums, pansies, marigold, violets. **
So there I am looking at plants and seeds. I get a bunch of bulbs to toss about -- even I cannot screw up bulbs, and I have in my house two pairs of hands which very much like to get muddy, so bulbs are a natural. No, actually, I did not get tulips (even though they are edible, too) . I did get freesia, because I like the way it smells.
And I got a very few things to eat. Tomatoes and peppers and strawberries and basil and thyme and...erahem.
So I took them all home and we went to plant them. The strawberries went in two homemade strawberry jars which began life as containers for race cars. The seeds I put in plastic boxes to sprout and set them out with the rest.
The it started to rain. And rain. And rain. And I did not put drainange holes on my sprouting boxes. So I am now trying to spout seeds in a box which alternates between two states: dry and in full sun; or a puddle.
Oh, you mean like the rest of Holland?
I think I shall have to try again, with drainage holes. I think I drowned the little buggers.
But the strawberries are very happy, so I may just wind up with a view of strawberry fields on the roof. That would be okay, too. And I can eat them.
*Here's an oddity, by the way: Dutch does not apparently contain a word for "squash", that is, the members of the genus cucurbita known in English as squash. It has individual words for yellow squash and butternut squash and acorn squash and zucchini and so on. But of the three Dutch folks I have had occasion to discuss this matter with (hey, squash does not come up in daily conversation, does it?) not one of them ever related a zucchini to, say, a butternut or a pumpkin. The only reason it came up in the first place is that I was trying to explain why the best pumpkin pies either use canned or use a combination of pumpkin and butternut squash. +
+Because fresh pumpkin is watery and and has very little taste unless you have a massive volume to start with and then cook it down for ever, that's why.
**note to Carol: yes, I know these are all edible flowers, that's why I know something about them. Don't tell anyone else.
I should really introduce Square Foot Gardening to Holland, or somebody should. It was practically created for this land of maniac orderliness and limited space.
Anyway, my roof gets sun all the livelong day. And yet, my vista was until recently limited to those flowerpot looking thingies on a roof and tar paper shingles. Well, it looks like tar paper. This is partly because I have been clinging to the transitory nature of our stay here. However, what with the major adjustment issues we have been dealing with, there has been universal agreement on one thing: we have to work out some way to not disrupt things again at least until the new school year starts. Which means a comittment of at least one growing season to staying here.
So of course I loaded up my kids in the wagon (no, it isn't litle, and it isn't red, either) and went off in search of growing things. This dredged up a long standing argument in my home, which is what to grow. I believe in things I can eat; when I say "garden" you might just as well tack the word "kitchen" on the front of it. I want a 12 month kitchen garden. I want basil and I want thyme and I want mint and the occasional tomato. I want beans and if I had an arbor I would grow watermelons and squash on it. * My own personal specialty used to be edible wild plants -- drop me in the woods anywhere in Georgia and I can come up with a meal.
Hey, what can I tell you, my mother collected a basement full of canned goods against the depradations of life, I collected information on what to do when the can opener gave out.
Dearly Beloved wants flowers. Specifically, he wants cutting flowers. Dearly Beloved has a tremendous affinity for cut flowers. He can walk over to the flowers I put in a vase, touch them twice, and voila, a perfect arrangement worthy of the pages of House Beautiful appears from nowhere. He also knows what container to get for which flowers, and does not limit his options to vases. Cut flowers even live longer when he puts them in water, with or without 7-Up. It is very irritating, I must say.
Now, Dearly Beloved has no plans to mess about with dirt. It is my job is to make flowers appear in a garden, should we have one. He has been known to operate a tiller on my behalf, though this required my looking extremely small (no trick) and helpless at the appropriate time. Beyond that, forget it.
And I know nothing about flowers, except that they come in annual and perennial varieties and seem to require a great deal of sun. Well, okay that its't true either. I know a lot about angelica, carnations, dianthus, chamomile, nasturtiums, pansies, marigold, violets. **
So there I am looking at plants and seeds. I get a bunch of bulbs to toss about -- even I cannot screw up bulbs, and I have in my house two pairs of hands which very much like to get muddy, so bulbs are a natural. No, actually, I did not get tulips (even though they are edible, too) . I did get freesia, because I like the way it smells.
And I got a very few things to eat. Tomatoes and peppers and strawberries and basil and thyme and...erahem.
So I took them all home and we went to plant them. The strawberries went in two homemade strawberry jars which began life as containers for race cars. The seeds I put in plastic boxes to sprout and set them out with the rest.
The it started to rain. And rain. And rain. And I did not put drainange holes on my sprouting boxes. So I am now trying to spout seeds in a box which alternates between two states: dry and in full sun; or a puddle.
Oh, you mean like the rest of Holland?
I think I shall have to try again, with drainage holes. I think I drowned the little buggers.
But the strawberries are very happy, so I may just wind up with a view of strawberry fields on the roof. That would be okay, too. And I can eat them.
*Here's an oddity, by the way: Dutch does not apparently contain a word for "squash", that is, the members of the genus cucurbita known in English as squash. It has individual words for yellow squash and butternut squash and acorn squash and zucchini and so on. But of the three Dutch folks I have had occasion to discuss this matter with (hey, squash does not come up in daily conversation, does it?) not one of them ever related a zucchini to, say, a butternut or a pumpkin. The only reason it came up in the first place is that I was trying to explain why the best pumpkin pies either use canned or use a combination of pumpkin and butternut squash. +
+Because fresh pumpkin is watery and and has very little taste unless you have a massive volume to start with and then cook it down for ever, that's why.
**note to Carol: yes, I know these are all edible flowers, that's why I know something about them. Don't tell anyone else.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Exactly Zero
Dearly Beloved is now engaged in a business venture. He is very nervous about this, because everyone agrees that Dearly Beloved is not the entrepreneurial type. Mostly the problem is that he cannot be trusted with bits of paper. They flutter, willy nilly, from his hands and land in some sort of portable black hole which follows him around just for the purpose of sucking up important bits of paper and whisking them off to the Antipodes.
Bits of paper are, as we all know, the soul of entrepreneurship. Okay, not its soul; but maybe its digestive system. My better half bears the same relationship to organization that a box of figs has to a Monster Truck Rally, okay?
Happily for him, his wife is an obsessive compulsive nutburger as regards bits of paper. Sometimes I scan them and put them on my hard drive and sometimes I file them and sometimes I put them in big old honking D-ring binders with tabs and indexes. SOmetimes I even color code them. Very occasionally I throw away a bit of paper; but not often. I do not, however, lose bits of paper.
Also happily for him, his wife has been doing bookkeeping for small businesses since she could sharpen a pencil and legibly write the same thing in three different books with columns in them. Unhappily for him, the program he bought to keep his books is, erahem, in Dutch.
Well, of course it is; this is Holland. It is his native language. He figured with a little translation, this could all be worked out. So it went like this:
HE: See, I can't get it to come out right, this entry comes up twice so it shows I have paid this amount two times.
SHE: Well, you put it in your Accounts payable and also in your checkbook as a payment. So you did pay it twice. You have to put in a correcting entry in one or the other to move one of them from the debit to the credit column.
HE: I can't; it's already in the Big Book.
SHE: The what?
HE: The Big Book, you now, the Big Book.
SHE: The Big Book is a collection of fairy tales, what are you talking about?
HE: see, when you input the numbers it calculates the btw....
SHE: The what?
HE: The btw, it's a product.
SHE: uh huh. The by the way? The electronics store? The what?
HE: It's an acronym, it stands for >incomprehensible, mind numbingly long string of gibberish which apparently translates to the value added tax<
SHE: Uh huh, does that actually mean something?
HE: Yeah, it means the VAT.
SHE: Right. Why does it calculate the VAT?
I think we should draw the curtain over this little domestic scene at this point. Suffice it to say that Dearl Beloved is not so happy as I am to simply put in entries which say "correction of previous idiotic error" in order to make it all come out the way it should. He wants to knwo why. And there is no why, there is only do, as they say. However, this ultimately futile conversation somehow led to the following inquiry from my spouse: Why do the columns have to add up to zero?
I have never known the answer to this question. It is just an Ultimate Truth; as the sun rises and sets, as little pitchers have big ears, as what goes up must come down, the Columns Must Add Up to Zero. They may not flirt with an amusing little taste of +.75 or display a shocking lack of good taste with a -.47. Absolute Zero is required. If it does not add up to zero, you must perforce invent something else to put in (referring to your complete Chart of Accounts for the proper coding) in one column or another to make it equal zero. I am the only person I know who had once an entry in the chart of accounts for "Adjustment to make everything equal zero and keep Bruce happy". Bruce thought it was funny; I have not had occasion to check Warren's opinion.
Anyone with a good answer which will satisfy the existential wonderings of my spouse, please feel free. I am a practical person; "because otherwise the accountant becomes very unhappy" was always good enough for me.
Bits of paper are, as we all know, the soul of entrepreneurship. Okay, not its soul; but maybe its digestive system. My better half bears the same relationship to organization that a box of figs has to a Monster Truck Rally, okay?
Happily for him, his wife is an obsessive compulsive nutburger as regards bits of paper. Sometimes I scan them and put them on my hard drive and sometimes I file them and sometimes I put them in big old honking D-ring binders with tabs and indexes. SOmetimes I even color code them. Very occasionally I throw away a bit of paper; but not often. I do not, however, lose bits of paper.
Also happily for him, his wife has been doing bookkeeping for small businesses since she could sharpen a pencil and legibly write the same thing in three different books with columns in them. Unhappily for him, the program he bought to keep his books is, erahem, in Dutch.
Well, of course it is; this is Holland. It is his native language. He figured with a little translation, this could all be worked out. So it went like this:
HE: See, I can't get it to come out right, this entry comes up twice so it shows I have paid this amount two times.
SHE: Well, you put it in your Accounts payable and also in your checkbook as a payment. So you did pay it twice. You have to put in a correcting entry in one or the other to move one of them from the debit to the credit column.
HE: I can't; it's already in the Big Book.
SHE: The what?
HE: The Big Book, you now, the Big Book.
SHE: The Big Book is a collection of fairy tales, what are you talking about?
HE: see, when you input the numbers it calculates the btw....
SHE: The what?
HE: The btw, it's a product.
SHE: uh huh. The by the way? The electronics store? The what?
HE: It's an acronym, it stands for >incomprehensible, mind numbingly long string of gibberish which apparently translates to the value added tax<
SHE: Uh huh, does that actually mean something?
HE: Yeah, it means the VAT.
SHE: Right. Why does it calculate the VAT?
I think we should draw the curtain over this little domestic scene at this point. Suffice it to say that Dearl Beloved is not so happy as I am to simply put in entries which say "correction of previous idiotic error" in order to make it all come out the way it should. He wants to knwo why. And there is no why, there is only do, as they say. However, this ultimately futile conversation somehow led to the following inquiry from my spouse: Why do the columns have to add up to zero?
I have never known the answer to this question. It is just an Ultimate Truth; as the sun rises and sets, as little pitchers have big ears, as what goes up must come down, the Columns Must Add Up to Zero. They may not flirt with an amusing little taste of +.75 or display a shocking lack of good taste with a -.47. Absolute Zero is required. If it does not add up to zero, you must perforce invent something else to put in (referring to your complete Chart of Accounts for the proper coding) in one column or another to make it equal zero. I am the only person I know who had once an entry in the chart of accounts for "Adjustment to make everything equal zero and keep Bruce happy". Bruce thought it was funny; I have not had occasion to check Warren's opinion.
Anyone with a good answer which will satisfy the existential wonderings of my spouse, please feel free. I am a practical person; "because otherwise the accountant becomes very unhappy" was always good enough for me.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
I just think you all should know
What with the Looming Deadline and all, that I don't have to file my taxes until June. Pthththt.
I just found this out during an email exchange with my accountant, the Amazing Warren. I was worried about Warren: we found each other by default, which is never a good start to a relationship. It goes like this. The Charming Bruce, his predecessor, was a witness in a case I was working on. Under cross examination, Bruce just kept answering questions. Kindly. In a friendly way. Adding information as it occurred to him, right off the top of his head. Bruce had allegedly never been a witness before. It was an impressive performance, and one which could really only have been given by a person who really knew his stuff cold and was not at all worried about the answers.
So the following tax time, I called him up. He did a fine job. I sent him a couple of clients, even -- at that time I did a lot of domestic relations work and I had occasion to bump into a number of people with financial woes. One of the things I liked about the Charming Bruce was, if he didn't know how to handle somebody's problem, he told them so and sent them to someone who did know how. This trait is less common than you might think.
But then the Charming Bruce went to work full time for one of his clients and handed me off to The Amazing Warren. I was, to tell you the truth, not at all pleased. This is usually a bad sign in an accountant -- being handed off is sometimes just ine step from having your taxes done by office personnel plugging the numbers into a program. Well, if I wanted a half-assed job, I could do it myself.
However, The Amazing Warren (despite his annoying if very professional habit of charging me for phone calls) is great. He answers my emails. He asks questions. He nags me when I don't answer his emails because I am too busy going to school and back four times a day. Such a comfort to know that somebody cares about my IRA contribution getting there on time.
I just found this out during an email exchange with my accountant, the Amazing Warren. I was worried about Warren: we found each other by default, which is never a good start to a relationship. It goes like this. The Charming Bruce, his predecessor, was a witness in a case I was working on. Under cross examination, Bruce just kept answering questions. Kindly. In a friendly way. Adding information as it occurred to him, right off the top of his head. Bruce had allegedly never been a witness before. It was an impressive performance, and one which could really only have been given by a person who really knew his stuff cold and was not at all worried about the answers.
So the following tax time, I called him up. He did a fine job. I sent him a couple of clients, even -- at that time I did a lot of domestic relations work and I had occasion to bump into a number of people with financial woes. One of the things I liked about the Charming Bruce was, if he didn't know how to handle somebody's problem, he told them so and sent them to someone who did know how. This trait is less common than you might think.
But then the Charming Bruce went to work full time for one of his clients and handed me off to The Amazing Warren. I was, to tell you the truth, not at all pleased. This is usually a bad sign in an accountant -- being handed off is sometimes just ine step from having your taxes done by office personnel plugging the numbers into a program. Well, if I wanted a half-assed job, I could do it myself.
However, The Amazing Warren (despite his annoying if very professional habit of charging me for phone calls) is great. He answers my emails. He asks questions. He nags me when I don't answer his emails because I am too busy going to school and back four times a day. Such a comfort to know that somebody cares about my IRA contribution getting there on time.
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