I have always hated my birthday, not because I am growing older, but *people* have always given me things that I loathe, and I have to be grateful. How many ruffly lilac bits of clothing does one have to accept ? I hate presents. They have more to to with the giver than the recipient.

For the first time, this evening, I received presents that I really like. Sure, it was clothes, yet again, but everyone has figured out that I am very allergic to wool. Nice stuff. I like it. I like the colors. I cried. I got the stinkin’g cut flowers. It is all better than that bottle of Channel. I look hideous in a turtle neck, but, I like them. And it is in Raspberry, a color I like very much indeed.

I also received two books. Fiction. I rarely read fiction, but this will work, I am in for it.

The Father and I met and connected because we could talk about * Notes From The Under Ground*. Dostoyevsky.  I am still stuck there. He has moved on.

Such is life.

The Boy came home today and told me that he learned in school that Alexandra caused The Russian Revolution. What can you do with this ignorance ?  The Aristocracy in Russia, the industrial revolution, the Kaiser, old Willy. I was appalled. It is so very easy to blame her and Rasputin. Oh, I asked, did you know about her son ? Did you know that she was Queen Victoria’s Granddaughter, that English was her first language ?

They all think that I am nuts, but to blame her is really wrong. Blame Willy, blame Nicky.

I am so stinkin’ stupid or perhaps naive. About three months ago, Mr. Famous Artist in The Netherlands asked me to visit him. I have been saying hello to him for about 15 years. His Mason’s pin caught my eye, and I asked him about it. He is 93. I am , what am I ? About 53. So, he asked me to visit him. I had no idea who he was or where he lives. I had to ask at the grocery store. They told me that he was very lonely since his wife’s death. I put on my Florence Nightingale cap and went to visit him, simply to hear what stories he could tell.

We had a rather long chat, which- after I came home once more, to the whole business around Oma’s death- when I thought about it showed me that he was a poseur. I spelled that wrong, I know this. It is stinkin’ French. He is a fraud.

He gave me this sad story about how he could not paint any longer, the passion of his life ( after telling me that I would not get one of his paintings, which never crossed my mind, I saw his stuff, I don’t like it), are you ready ? I fell for this: he asked if he could feel the outline of my body. Got it ?  I fell for this, I got felt up. And then he said to me, this is our little secret and don’t call me, I’ll call you.

I promised myself that if I ever saw him again in town, I would cross the street. The first time that I did this, he stood and stared at me as I walked home.  Unfortunately, I gazed back three, count them, three times, and indeed, he stood there like a statue, staring at me.

This week, I have seen him three times. The first two times, I was able to keep my promise to myself, although yesterday, when I crossed the street to avoid him, he moved into the middle of the street, staring at me. I have good peripheral vision, I did not have to turn my head to see what he was doing.

Somehow, today, I bumped into him, face to face. He asked me if I would pose for him. Clothes on. I said no, and told him why. He had  told me that he could not draw any longer, f*cking  sh*t.

What can you do with someone so old ? Someone so f*cking famous ? If he was younger, I would have kicked him in the crotch. But I namby-pambied about, no, I will not pose for you and this is why. Can we still be friends ? ( nope, his eyes glazed over). Can I help you with your shopping ? Nope. Good Lord, at my age being seen as a quick feel or as an easy f*ck is outrageous.

There is a leash law in our town.  There are a lot of very small dogs in our town and, oh, about ten big dogs, of which our family has two of, a Newfoundland Dog and a Great Pyrenese  Dog. We are talking about around 400 pounds of dog, between the two.

Now, think about this : I have children , would I have T-Rex Dogs in our happy home ? No. These are very gentle dogs ( look up the character of a Newf), but they are both ready and willing to die to protect anyone in our family. Even Elvis, the Newf, which really surprised me.

The Father did not close the gate to our garden well today. I was making Baby’s lunch ( hot dogs, kill me) and the dogs began making the most hideous noises.

I am going to swear.. there was a f*cking dog in our yard. It was a King Charles Spaniel, I know where that beast lives, for I have dragged him home once, but he was in our yard. If we did not have a gate to our porch, he would be sausage right now. And my dogs would be blamed for this tragedy.

Our dogs are so very torked up right now that it is unbelievable. There was a f*cking intruder in our territory. They are barking left and right.

You know, if you have a big dog, you hit a wall. If you were making your daughter lunch and found a 200 pound dog in your yard, you would call the police.  But, oh, Kareltje, oh, what a sweet f*cking dog ! ( He is a sweet dog, but that is not the point: there is a leash law and he was in our garden, and I have to protect any animal who enters our garden).

My dogs. They are sweet, they are gentle, but if you cause any shit, they are able to kill you. Think of the pack mentality: they protect their own. They only cause shit if they feel that any of their pack is threatened.

My special little guy is home once again ( anyone else watch The Simpsons?) . He walked into the kitchen gave me a big Soprano hug ( thump, thump, actually, only the men do this) and lifted me off of the ground.

I suspect that he was a naughty little special guy, but he had one whale of the time.  And he tells a story very well. In my Mummy Dearest mode, he lost a lot of weight. So much for porking out  by eating entirely at McDonald’s. This was my greatest fear. Alas, so it happened.

How did his trip start ? Well, the bus to the ferry stopped somewhere in Belgium. I assume to get gas. He and his cronies went into the gas station and bought “nudie magazines’, those ones with the big, fold out pictures. ( Why these were sold to a passel of 15- 16 year old boys is beyond me) I am guessing that The Boy and Friends were in the last seat of the bus, for for the rest of the long ride to the ferry, when a truck would pass by, they put up the big nudie pictures. The Boys were rude, the truck drivers really enjoyed it. They were very rude right back. I had no idea that the sign language for wanking off ( that is Queen’s English, by the way) is determined culturally. What do I know ? Apparently, there are different signals in different cultures for this activity.

You learn something new every day.  What can I say ? I had no idea that men had to use urinals ( uh, what’s a urinal ?) until about 4 years ago. Why would I know this ?

I know. I should disapprove of the denigration of women,  but it sounded so funny. Imagine, seeing that bus.

His trip continued with many burps, farts and pretending to whack off ( I am just hitting my leg, to make that noise, Mom !). He adored London. He wants to go back tomorrow.

Harry, the son of The Father’s Indian partner, has asked The Girl to go to London with him, for Christmas. Shopping ( it really is much cheaper there- clothes). I could not help but recall that Meg Ryan film. Right. But The Girl has a wicked right punch. Maybe Harry, The Girl and The Boy could go to London, if Ryanair is having a sale, if there is a cheap place to stay.

One never knows. But I think that the best part of the trip, for The Boy, was being with his friends.

Oh, I asked, how  did your American English work ? Eh, people kept calling me *Yank*. But not in a bad way. I had no idea it was so obvious. I thought that the Dutch accent would hide it.

My Boy is gone.  How I depend upon him to help me. But, he is gone, off to London for 3 days.

I did not get a chance to say farewell, have a good trip to him. Gosh, it is wrong to love a child so very much, I know .

I am at a loss. My special little guy ( are we hearing The Simpsons ? ) is going to London for 3 days. Most of the time will be spent going there ( ferry) and coming back ( chunnel).

If I did not have Bond, C.D. Bond, I should be even more upset. C.D. Bond sent me a link where I could print vouchers for meals. Which I did, paper is indeed cheap

Everyone is all very casual about  his trip. I suppose that I should be as well. But I am not.

I know that C.D.Bond will save my special little guy, should he need saving.

Oh, jeepers.

Yesterday, The Boy and I took the bus to The Big City. After about 25 years, they changed the bus number, but being a clever Mummy Dearest, I wrote the pertinent information on my hand.

Worked for me.

Our major objective was procuring English Pounds for his three day whizz  through London come this Wednesday.  Done, and it did not rain. Bright side of life and all.

We stopped at the Italian Deli and, well, they have some sortof  ricotta but  no cannoli.  The market did not have any good looking ricotta either. One problem at a time and, after all, what does he know ?

As we  waited for the bus to the Big City, I saw a woman that I have always said hello to, over many years. I whispered to The Boy that she was…intellectually challenged.  He did not believe me. We chatted with her and agreed that her conversation was about along the lines of any elderly person from Oma and Opa’s home town. But I know that she is..slower then the average bear. She has a job, a little white van picks her up every morning and brings her home once again. The little white van is a major clue as to her mental status.

As I told The Boy  one thing that I really regret was one time, she could not figure out what was going on in the bus. The Bus driver was giving her a hard time, but I did not want to go up, in my my stranger in a strange land facade and say- in front of her- Bus Driver, she is dimwitted. He gave her quite the tongue lashing. I still feel very bad about that, but, at the time, could not think of an equitable way to solve it.

The Boy and I had a wonderful time.  We had a list of things to buy but ended up with some socks, a PlayStation game and some clothes for Baby. Which she does not like. Oh well.

He bought me lunch … a Big Mac. He likes buying me lunch, I have no idea why.

As we came home, on the bus, in THE VERY LAST ROW, bumpity bumping along, he told me that he wanted to become a primary school teacher. This surprised me, for a week or so ago, he gave me other plans. But he would be excellent at this, and there is a great shortage of men teaching in primary schools. And he loves little kids, he loves the feisty boys and knows how to talk to them. Handle them.

And he would get a lot of vacation time, to..for instance…go to North Korea and eat fish heads and rice. Maybe even black dog. Is that North Korea .