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Archive for the ‘Town’ Category

Protected: Oh Dear…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-5-2016

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Protected: A Monday

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-5-2016

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Protected: The Tuinbouw

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Oct-16-2013

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Talk, Talk, Talk…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-9-2011

I cry these days at the drop of a hat. Really. I weep glycerin tears day and night. Need some tears ? Got them by the bagful…

I applied for a job today. Oh, everyone who is not me says, leave, well, what is step two ?  So I applied for this job today a a garden center. I thought, well, sheesh, I am 53, let me call, let me show my face. I have worked for farmers from Brabant before.

It was your worst dream. I lost my Dutch and he did not say one word. Not after hearing * 53*. Or not. Send a letter and a CV. Sure, got that. Got a bridge here.

And then I brought some of our lilacs and roses over to our neighbor. We have tons of them, they smell so good.

I have no idea why I did this. Share the wealth.

She will be 72 in 2 weeks. She is divorced.  She told me that for years the rumor in town has been that Big Boy beats me, coming from Dust. I am so terribly naive, I said, he did not hit me then. I am so desperate for any human contact that I fell for her hook line and sinker. At a certain moment, I knew that the channel had changed, and I wanted to leave. I stood up, on my right foot, then placed my weight on my left heel. Have I mentioned that my one pair of shoes are falling apart ? The left heel flopped open and I fell on my face. Plunk.  I was not drunk, but it certainly looked  like that was the case .I think my left ankle is half way sprained- I can still walk on it, so another thing to hide.

Crap.  Get a job, keep quiet, move along. Be fuckin’g stronger than you really are. No one can help you, you have to be quiet and help yourself.

Get a job. Stop crying, weeny, weany weiny.

The New Ijsmeisje

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Mar-11-2011

The Girl just learned that starting in April, she will one of two Ijsmeisjes in Town.  This means that she is going to be The Ice Cream Girl.

This is something new and different in Town. She will be parked here and there, selling ice cream to tourists.

It pays well. She is very happy and we are very pleased and proud of her.

Sitting at the kitchen table, when she told me about it, I said, oh, that is wonderful, and asked for some details about the interview ( unfortunately, Julie is the other Ijsmeisje, but perhaps they will come to terms with their rather turbulent past, for they used to be the dearest of friends…I ramble).

And then I said, oh, I guess that you will meet a lot of new people ( read : guys). She agreed. And, I said, a fair share of dirty old men. She agreed.

The place that hired the Ijsmeisjes obviously wanted two young, cute and sexy girls. Not going for the wholesome milkmaid type at all.

Bravo, Girl.


Posted by Mummy Dearest on Mar-4-2011

I have to keep quiet. I should not write, I should not talk. My mind is skewed right now, and I know this. It could be the fever, it could be the lack of oxygen, it could be the Ventolin.  I am not synapsing well at the moment. Not at all. I wonder what Ms. Melly died from .. this is a rhetorical question, we all know what she died from … Childbirth fever.

Raging sepsis.

I accosted this elderly gentleman in town the other day. I have talked to him a number of times. He is very frail, with fine features and a dowager´s hump. And he is even more deaf than I am. I started talking to him last November, he is our neighbor, and we ended up sitting next to each other on the bus to the Big City. Chit Chat is not my forte. But, I said, tomorrow is my Husband´s birthday and I have to buy him a present. He says that all he needs are socks. Sir laughed, for …apparently this is what he always told his family. Socks.

I call him Sir, in Dutch of course. The Dutch do have a very formal way of speaking which I am very weak in. But it is there, it is most likely a dying language. But I really try.

I saw him the other day in Town. He was wearing russet corduroy  pants. A Mason´s pin once lead me to accosting another elderly gentleman.. a famous artist no less… I had to know.  I went up to Sir and asked him, Sir, were you ever a Professor , or a teacher. It is the pants, Sir. They are very Professor, and, well, very 60´s.

No, although he did take on some students, he was, is a psychiatrist. He chatted with me. Somehow, he asked a me, in that uber polite Dutch, a question and the answer was that I had been an archaeologist. And then he asked me if I was sick. I said, yup.  I said.. in my crappy Dutch, that I have a lung infection. This covers anything from the common cold to pneumonia . He asked me if I was on antibiotics and I said, yup.

I have to keep quiet, I am intruding into personal space, my curiosity will indeed be the death of me. I am being rude and that is all that there is to it.

But I still find it fascinating, the way that we judge one another.  I knew when I said archaeologist, he was thinking Leiden. This is a world of secret signals and hidden handshakes. I know what one has to do to become a psychiatrist. And he assumes .. correctly.. that I am …was…a classic Archaeologist. I am also, somewhere, certified to do contract work.

And yet, we are both walking through this two pony town, shopping bag in hand.


Posted by Mummy Dearest on Feb-24-2011

I went into Town yesterday, to get two sourdough buns. I should have bought them in the morning, but I always tell myself that I do not need lunch. But then I got really hungry.

So I toodle over to the bakery. I am 5 meters away, when this really big white van pulls up in front of the baker’s door. I know what this means. I put a little speed into my pace.

And now, I am going to be just one horrible person. Sometimes, terrible things make me laugh. I have no idea why.

They start unloading the van just as I reach the do0r : they are pulling old ladies in wheelchairs out of that van.  I can’t run in front of them. In fact, I offered to help with that first wheelchair, get it over the curb. I am short, I am small, but I have more experience with tossing wheelchairs than the average Joe. The guy pushing that first wheelchair sniffed me off. Then the Baker ran out with the ramp, you know, a wheelchair ramp.

And so I held the doors open for awhile. I know how hard dealing with wheelchairs is.

The second wheelchair occupant is where I started going wrong. Hey, I have been doing this perfectly so far. Really. And I did not say one word. But when that whole Clinton thing was going on, wasn’t it the thought that counted ?

She was a tall woman, I could see that, even in the wheelchair, and she was sturdy, in that Dutch way, rather than fat. And she was crying at the top of her lungs. Non- stop, I mean, we are moving into the Tourette’s zone.

The young woman pushing her wheelchair was taking this in stride. I am holding the door open. The young woman had beautiful auburn hair ( I am holding a door open, I like details, I need something to do and I am hungry), in a braid, not one hair out of place.

So Boo-Hoo and Beautiful Hair are wheeling by me. Hair says to Boo- Hoo, doesn’t this look like a charming place ? And then the crying stopped. Boo-Hoo said to Hair, this looks like an absolutely miserable place. And then she started keening once again.

This is not funny. It is me in a few years. But it made me laugh. In fact, in my mind, Boo Hoo  swore, she said, as she paused in her oh-so-audible weeping about the dregs that her life had become, you can’t fool me, this is one f*cking miserable joint. Spirit. Thumbs up.

I had a good lunch.


Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jan-27-2011

Of course, nothing has become of my room of my own. Life can indeed be like that.  There is still a lonely light bulb hanging ..up here.  My Shrek is still not hung up. I do not care any longer. I should sell all of… the things here. People have shoved their memories onto me and I have no idea what to do with them. I really have tons of memories, all of these things.

Our home is stuffed with things, memories. Things which really do not mean anything to anyone, except for me. Over on the ledge, is that phone, one of the few things saved from Frenchie’s home in Detroit. That is the phone that Dad and Mom chatted to each other with, back then and far away when they were 15.  What I am supposed to do with this ? And yet, how can I throw it away .

Wanted : Elvis

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Dec-7-2010

Of course I was alone when the *dog cop* came. He might have been a normal cop, I have no idea. But he certainly knew what was going on.

And he did know a lot about dogs. I would, during our conversation, stuff my foot all of the way down my throat.

His major concern seemed to be whether or not we had insurance for this. We do, but, I told him, even if we did not, this is our responsibility. I told him about that cold morning, the lock freezing, how dark it was, The Boy running out with only socks on. I said that I knew that what happened to that family is more than hideous, but we were also stunned, that morning. And they have two kids, it is the holiday season, how horrible.

He seemed to understand dogs, and so I said, it was Elvis. He is a Newf, this is not a Rottweiler. Guess what kind of dogs this man  has ? I really had to get that foot out of my mouth. But he understood. After a time. He was going to give us a ticket, a fine, but even he and the owners of the poor, wee victim, realize that this was a bad configuration of the stars. This was an accident.

That is all that there is to it.

I told him that I was afraid that Elvis would get * the shot*. He said, no, at the most, if it happened again, Elvis would have to wear a muzzle. This works for me.

And he understood me when I told him that Elvis has zero tolerance for lapdogs barking in his face. Does not excuse what has happened, it is one of those things one has to learn to deal with when you have the biggest dogs in town.

A Day From Hell

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Dec-1-2010

I awoke at , oh, officially, 6.10 this morning. I knew that the Father had headed towards his couch at about 4am, he is now having troubles with his shoulder.

So, I mosey down into the kitchen and there are the dogs. I rather assumed that they had been there since 4am, for the only thing out of focus was the quilt on the couch. It was now on the floor.  They were jumping up and down and so I let them onto the porch, yes, get a drink of water.

Apparently, they spent the whole evening inside. Good, it is wicked cold here, and they were good boys. I worry the most about Destin, the Pyr, for he simply does not have the heavy coat that Elvis ( the newf) has.

It is pitch black outside. I let the dogs in and out, The Father leaves at about 7.30, it is still dark. The dogs are in and out.

At about 20 to 8, Destin wanted to go outside. Fine, get some water. 10 Minutes later, Elvis is huffing and panting next to me and I say, go outside, cool off, get a drink of water.

The Boy comes down at 8, I am walking back and forth in the kitchen, there is now light outside. And I can see that the gate to our yard is w.i.d.e. open. The gate to the porch is w.i.d.e. open and the dogs are gone.

The Dogs are gone ! I scream in my mild mannered way. The Boy ran out of the house without shoes, wearing only socks. He called me a few minutes later, he was coming home to get his bike. I got his gloves and the leashes ready for him.  He was very, very distraught. He put on some shoes and found the dogs.

If one puts one and one together, one knows that *the great escape* was Elvie’s idea. Destin was outside 10 minutes earlier and the dogs were found together. Elvis attacked a little yapper.  There is a police report now on Elvis. He did a lot of damage to this little dog. I feel horrible about this. The Boy, bright red face, tear stained, gave the people our number.

I have no idea how this will work out. If I were the police, I would give Elvis the shot. But it is the weather. It froze the lock on the gate, so that it would not close. And it was dark, I could not see that it was open. And Elvis, our doormat…

And then The Girl calls me : she had * an anxiety attack* on the bus to school. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. So, I am like saying, fine, come home. She is on some highway to nowhere. Ok, fine, Daddy cannot help you now, call Opa. The Boyfriend brought her home.

I solved The Girl’s problem, but I certainly do not look forward to the police coming here.  What can I say to them ? It was dark and I did not know that the lock had frozen ?

Jeepers creepers.