like pulling teeth

Ever since my Occasionally Resourceful Human turned me on to the pleasures of the lazy man’s toothbrush (read: electric), I’ve been feeling great about my grill. Thus, it was with great buoyancy that I strode into my dentist’s office this morning at the crack of dawn to announce with exceptional flourish that I had made the switch; no longer a side-to-side, top-to-bottom man, I’ve joined the ranks of the new oralstocracy and let technology do the dirty work while I concentrate on encouraging my hair to stop uprooting itself in search of richer soils. While I wasn’t expecting deafening applause to erupt as I assumed my position in the chair, I presumed that my dentist would be confident in my abilities to operate said contraption. But in fine colonial style, the soft British accent questioned me immediately on technique. Rising to the challenge of her little pop quiz, I correctly answered that I didn’t move the brush like the poor man’s Oral B of yesteryear, but simply held it steady. Pleased with the evidence of my advanced knowledge in electric toothbrushery, I settled in for my inspection.

After my dentist had scraped the breakfast from my molars, the real interrogation started. “Does your toothbrush have a small, round head?” she asked? “If so, you can easily reach the inside of your molars and should be spending more time on them.” As I stewed over what could possibly impress this implacable woman if not the fruits produced from my total lack of elbow grease, I told her that I had noticed a definite improvement in the resiliency of my gums since I made the switch. This prompted her to continue poking me harder than usual with the dental pick until she drew blood – and I know that she made a special effort to make sure it flowed on the inside of my rear molars. With her usual tut and a huff of her depilatory breath, she made her point about giving the area more attention.

At this point my jubilant opinion of personal hygiene had been crushed and my mood crossed to the other side of the dental dam. After another lecture on the importance of daily flossing (seriously? If I wanted to put my hands in my mouth everyday, I wouldn't have opted to leave diapers), I’m strongly considering returning to the dark ages and digging out old faithful. Simply put, if responsibility is the bedfellow of power...my vote is to pull the bloody plug.

birds of a feather

The biggest thing I've always missed about being away from home is not having my own pet about. Living in Holland, I've been lucky enough to benefit from the presence of Amaya – a cat who occasionally passes through my room and showers me with her feline charisma and fur in equal measure. At long last, however, I'm happy to report that I have a pet whom I can claim partial ownership of. I suppose one could say that I have a stake in this investment, but it's much more in line with the values and principles of where I work to say that we have a shared sense of possession. While one of my two Boss Ladies was trekking around the Eastern Hemisphere for the last month, my other two office mates and I adopted a seagull. Or maybe she adopted us. Either way, it's time for me to share the newest addition to the Fun Office with the Fruit (bowl).




Meet Sally. The sexy and sarcastic (but still salubrious) Seagull. Every day since the 16th of April, Sally visits our balcony on the 6th floor of the Metropole Building. Boss Lady Number Two did some research on the characteristics of gulls, and the red marking on Sally's beak apparently means that she is breeding. In addition to being an interesting factoid, this also explains why she made her first appearance at our office on a Thursday (right after Hump Day). Anyway, this discovery immediately instilled a sense of responsibility for the entire brood, so we trotted off to the kitchen in search of bread. When this was gobbled up and followed by a boisterous caw of thanks, we decided that Sally may be in need of a more comprehensive diet, and decided on the traditional seafaring one after discovering that we couldn't persuade her to become a vegetarian. Boss Lady Number Two went off to our neighbourhood grocer and bought some crab sticks. This pattern has escalated, and we now have a balcony that is covered with gull poop and taramosalata, which was apparently such a big hit with Sally that she told all of her friends about the dining experience. I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise in the information age, but the wire got so hot that even the crows heard about it. Our balcony has thus started to resemble a lunch counter in Tennessee during the 60s due to the riotous caws, swoops and attacks that we – the 'conflict prevention people' – have managed to create.

While I'm impressed that Sally manages to hang out with us for about 70% of our workday, I'm worried that she's seeing other people. Our relationship is starting to deteriorate because she wants more than I'm able to offer and is very vocal about her wishes. She's even taking her frustrations out on our building, and Distinguished Deskmate Jenny thought that someone was breaking into the office last week when she tried to gain entry through a window upstairs around 8pm. Recently, she's taken to staring at us while we work and I've found that my mind drifts to worrying about her wellbeing on my days off.

I worry that our relationship isn't going to survive under present circumstances and have decided that it's time to either clip her wings and move in together or throw in the towel. It looks like I'll still be the one left holding it when the dust settles, however...because that taramosalata ain't gonna clean itself.

my camera never lies

I’ve been a ridiculously busy bradverb these last few weeks, what with trying to save the world from 9-5 (okay…. usually 10-6) while maintaining my social and travel agenda. I’m in Brussels for a conference at the moment (note to bosslady: I am not writing this post during said conference) and have officially spent too much time on the train between these two countries for one man to handle in the same week. However, dear reader, this week also held a very exciting event indeed: the birth of my Flickr account. In recognition of a day that changed the world 26 years ago, conortje (a photographic wizard) gifted me with a pro account and a UV lens for my camera! He’s always claimed to be a little bit brilliant, and I suppose this lends credence to his theory.

Anyway, you can bet your bottom dollar (or make a donation to the poor intern fund) that I’ll be uploading photos from my seedier days for all to peruse the moment I return to Den Haag. Expect flashy, trashy…and the occasionally incriminating photo of yourself.

some extra spring in my step

While most - myself included - often associate the fragrant odour of crocuses, tulips and daffodils with the dawning of spring in Holland, I’m happy to report that my dear Dutch friends have managed to deliver an even more natural scent to those in search of a sign that the earth is ready to deliver warmer (and longer!) days. As I cycled across Den Haag this morning on my way to work, I was shocked at just how penetrating the smell of spring can be in one of the most densely populated areas of an already overcrowded country. From my quarter at the edge of civilisation (indeed, some might even say beyond its pale) all the way through the city centre, past the Peace Palace and into the front door of my building I was greeted with the smell of fertile fields. Apparently, it’s sowing and spreading time in Holland, and I had a full 25 minutes of crap to start my day and evidence that urban charm is a total myth.

I’ve got my fingers crossed for a strong wind off the North Sea until Shell persuades farmers to invest in biofuel.

inside you'll hear a sigh

The only things I do routinely are ingest too much caffeine and procrastinate. Even then, the very act of deferring obligations is somewhat antithetical to the idea of a routine – and to be entirely honest, the stress I’ve created in my life from the last eight years of dragging my feet has finally taken its toll and made me appreciate the definition of self-destructive behaviour. I’m tired of giving myself a pep talk about turning over a new leaf only to find myself investigating the history of idioms. Het zal me aan veroorzaken het loodje leggen!

I suppose my efforts to avoid doing things routinely have in fact permitted me to develop a routine – even if it borders on the state of Tedium. Having had my muesli and vitamin pill, grabbed a shower, made some tea, read the headlines on every page of my bookmarks toolbar and checked my e-mail (but opted to respond later), I usually kick my voyeurism into high gear and start reading my blogroll. These days it's filled with people I'm once-removed from, and today one of my unknowns had an entry about the people whom he encounters every morning on his way to work. While most of those who commented felt a certain mix of enchantment and monotony with the idea of seeing the same set of faces from a pool of 10 million, I was left with the bitter taste of jealousy. I’m done with vagrancy. I want my own space and a routine that lasts longer than two months – not to mention the security that accompanies it. I’m ready to wake up to the same faces every morning, but am also all-too-aware that change is on the horizon again - and all too soon for my liking.

While the cosmic mockery of being in a Blue Monday mood one week late this year doesn’t escape me, I wish I’d at least kept that on schedule. Other things need to be crossed off my list before I can expose that new leaf…but this post is supposed to be my first step at building a routine that will travel with me wherever I land. Only time will tell if this works out, but give me an extra half-hour before you pass judgement.

Afterall, I am from Newfoundland.

Your House is on Fire

...and it was my fault.

Rest in peace, little buddy!

Stampa

This really speaks for itself.

Serva!