So, God IS a woman...

...and she's had me tied to the bed, wrists and ankles bound. She doesn't even crack a smile as she tosses aside the unopened tube of lubricant, and tightens the belt on her over sized strap-on. She steps closer...

I woke up today a bigger idiot than normal. Why so? because I believed today was the day I would get the results from my second semen analysis.

I was mistaken.

Here in the world's best kept communist secret that is Holland, you must follow appointments, no wavering, no flexibility. I guess in a country the size of a Texan bathtub with a bigger population than Australia, you need some kind of order to avoid outright chaos. So I go along with it.

At exactly 1pm, I called for my results. I dialed the GP's office number. 17 times.

At 1:40 the phone is answered.

After the customary berating from the receptionist that I wasn't ringing between 1 & 1:30, I get put through to the doctor.
Scratch that, I get put through to a trainee something or other.

I again explain the reason behind my call, repeat my details, and wait silently, with the sound of single finger keystrokes on an iMac the only sign of life on the other end of the line.

'Uuum, I can't seem to find them right now, can I call you back this afternoon?'
Sighing 'OK'.

An hour later she calls me back with the news that I instinctively knew was coming.

They'd lost the results.

The GP doesn't have them, the lab doesn't have them.
They are going to check up with the lab again and ring me today or tomorrow.

I'm not even gong to entertain the possibility they may find them, unless Shergar trots into their office with them sellotaped to his arse.

So, what now?

It takes around 4 weeks to get an appointment to give the sample, and 2 weeks to get results back. For the slower among you, thats 6 weeks, add in 3 Dutch national holidays in the coming weeks and you can safely say 7 weeks before I can get another set of results.

We return to our reproductive specialist, who is expecting a full set of results, in just over 5 weeks.

If we don't have a full set of results for that appointment we can forget any progress then, and can face another 6 week wait for a follow up, if we get lucky.

This particular 'whoopsie' may well cost us a set back of a couple of months.

If I were a cynical person, I would allow my mind to wonder had they in fact misplaced the original sample? What a lovely thought, here I am, unable to impregnate my wife, and there's Spencer just lying around unlabeled in a laboratory where they wash sperm for IUI and IVF treatments. Some poor skinny, blond, 9 foot tall, straight toothed Dutch couple could be in for one hell of a shock in 9 months or so.

If you hadn't already guessed from the tones of bubbling frustration, you can take the dream sequence of being anally raped by female deity as a sure sign that a total meltdown is just around the corner.

...jerking me by the legs closer to the edge of the bed, I clench, bite down on my pillow, and mutter "OK God, get it over with, just no kissing on the mouth"...

Lack of adventures in babysitting

So, last night was the big babysitting evening.
I was cool, it had been a while, but I'd done this before. Many, many times.

A bit of background.
I come from a family of breeders. A group of people so f*&%ing fertile that pregnancy is the only successful form of contraception they know.

Youngest of 8 brothers and sisters, I have 18 nieces and nephews. 13 of these I have looked after for extended periods over the years before I moved here.

Anyway, we walked into the victim's living room to see Daddy holding the 7 month old angel. She took one look at me, her face inverted, and she started bawling.

Yep, I still had it.

I soon learned how to adjust her volume based on how close I stood to her, and after a half hour or so she was in my arms and NOT having a seizure.

Progress.

With this, Mammy & Daddy buggered off.

There we were, ET and myself, making ridiculous sounds in the direction of this 'person'. A person who had absolutely no interest in me whatsoever.

I confidently put this down to the same reason every other Dutch woman has no interest in me, there was obviously something very wrong with her.

So there I sat on the sofa with this thing on my lap.
She tugged and pulled at a variety of vulgar coloured toys that frankly did nothing for the living room. While quite engrossed in this mind numbing activity, she would occasionally peer her big browns in my general direction, and scowl.

Now, this is where I started to wonder if there wasn't something significantly wrong with her.

Mommy & Daddy bloggers out there, hold your cherished spawn close, for what I'm about to tell you will surely chill your blood.

She didn't do one single blogworthy thing.

She didn't make one wisecrack that would have you all suspecting that I'd embellished, she didn't crawl into a flowerpot or the tumble drier or ANY cute photograph worthy position that may make you wonder if I'd staged it, she didn't show signs of knowing beyond her years and ask me how work was going or whether I was worried about getting my 2nd semen analysis result back on Thursday.

Nothing.

I've read all these blogs back to front, so how can this be possible?

I was just about to call social services to report this finding which was most certainly a sign of mistreatment, when she started screaming her adorable little lungs out, which ET informed me signified she wanted feeding.

Seeing as we (I) had decided anything going in or coming out of this sweet heavenly thing was ET's responsibility, I handed her over, all the while wondering how two reasonably entertaining and interesting people could have birthed such an unbloggable cherub.

Fast forwarding through this literary home video, we come to the part where the dear little butterfly wing is again screaming her face off, in my face. Deciding against screaming back in hers, I took to walking her around the room for approximately 10 days.

Having just about decided that I'd had enough of this blogfodderless baby and it's sweet adorable screaming, her parents returned, closely followed by normality.

With our coats on and ready to leave, I pointed out to the doting parents that their first born must surely have some sort of issue that needed urgent attention as she didn't find me in any way entertaining, and couldn't even be bothered to humour me with a gurgle, smile, or any of the cutesy stuff I'd signed up for.

Then, from the safety of her mother's arms the little maggot turned towards me, one little finger in her own mouth and the other pointing right at me, she started.

Her big brown eyes opened wider and she began a long screeching laugh only interrupted by wide gummy smiles, flapping hands, and pronounced nodding blinks.

I may have just grown a fucking ovary.

Return of the sperm runner: This time it's personal

I was prepared.

I had everything timed to a tee: Alarm, packed for work, showered, shaved, and lab paperwork in order.

Just fill this pot up with what must surely be a half litre of my finest saved up 'sample' was all I had to do, before hopping into the car and off to the hospital.

"Squirt".

What?
That's it?
You have GOT to be taking the piss, it's less than the last bloody time!

There I sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaking my (upper) head in disbelief, trying to screw the lid back on the pot, and strongly contemplating the possibility that testicles have an underdeveloped sense of humour completely independent from their owner.

Where were the GALLONS I had most certainly saved up?

Disheartened, I put the container (which looked more like I had sneezed in it rather than filled it with a well timed semen sample) carefully in my pocket.

Down the stairs, out the front door, down the path, past the pond (where I swear I could see a couple of frogs lighting cigarettes), into the car, and off I drove to the hospital.

(Incidentally, while sitting in the car park I had one good hard look into the container. It was hard to tell but I couldn't identify Spencer in there. Fingers crossed he's already gone off with his whip and hat leading the charge on the temple of doom.)

I was prepared.

I knew EXACTLY where I needed to go, so no cringe inducing conversation at reception would be necessary.

Confidently clutching my pot of man milk like a hand grenade primed for launching, straight past the hideous receptionist and off down the hallway I bounded.

Upon stepping into the lift, the blood drained from my brain.
There stood a pretty wee nurse with her petite finger hovering over the button...

Pretty Nurse: Which floor?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (rapidly losing oxygen to my brain) ...er...I dunno

Pretty Nurse: What number route then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (at this point in grave danger of losing consciousness) ...er...I forget

Pretty Nurse: (getting impatient) What DEPARTMENT then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (almost yelling) I know this one!...medical microbiology...

Pretty Nurse: Oh (smirking) I see.... 2nd floor.

A short 4 hour lift ride and 17 popped blood vessels later.
BING!

Practically ripping the arms off my jacket in the still opening doors, I walk-ran up the corridor, and through the double doors to where the medical microbiology office was.

No.
No. No. NO.
No light, no nurse, no give way with the door handle.

It wasn't bloody open yet.

So, what? I just have to stand there in the hallway turning redder and redder, in front of a sign that may just as well have read 'WANKERS WAIT HERE', grasping a thimblefull of lukewarm semen in my chubby sweaty hands for every passer-by to snigger at?

Yes.

9 of them. I counted.
Every individual face now branded onto my brain, so I can rapidly flee, or scratch their eyes out should our paths ever cross again in the future.

10 minutes later, a woman shuffles up along the corridor to the office door. With a key in the lock, and her creaking neck straining backwards to look at me, she croaks: "Semen?"

My head bowed, all faith in lucky breaks lost forever, I replied: "Yes".

Into the office we step, she continues to shuffle around the room, flicking light switches and opening windows.
On my life, may God strike me down dead on the spot if this woman was not at least 70 years of age.

All well and good, at least she's experienced I thought, as she asked me the standard set of questions.

I was prepared.

Then it came: "When was your previous ejaculation?"

Now, fellas, I can guarantee that you haven't lived through shame until you are faced with the question of the timing of your last sexual climax from a woman as old as time itself, and who bears a startling resemblance to the owner of 'Tweety Bird' in those cartoons.

Unaware that I was now in the foetal position, rocking too and fro, I answered her.
I was now also highly conscious of the fact that if she calculated the days backwards she would work out it was in fact on a Sunday, which was undoubtedly going to seal my condemnation to eternal hell in the eyes of this 420 year old spinster, even if it would in fact, at this point in time, be a welcome relief for myself.

I picked up the remainder of my self respect, balled it up, tossed it in the bin under the desk, confirmed the 2 week waiting time for the results, and left.

Out the wrong exit (,again) I go, past the inexplicable chickens (,again), and vowing never to go through that again (,again).

Honestly, I WAS prepared.

Fool's day

Yes it's Fool's Day and not Fools Day. Denoting ownership, my ownership, not pluralisation.

It's Fool's Day because it's MY day.

My day because it's day number 300 that I haven't managed to get anyone knocked up. (how can that figure be correct? thats 10 months, but we're currently in cycle 12, hmmmm)

My day because it's seven years exactly since I moved to this godforsaken country.

My day because it's seven years exactly since I started my first job in this godforsaken country.

My day because it's two years exactly since I started my third job in this godforsaken country.

My day because it would have been the day I started my fourth job in this godforsaken country, had I accepted it.

My day because I drink beer from glasses bigger than my own head.

My day because I clean the steamed up bathroom mirror with my discarded underwear.

My day because it's one year since I had ET distraught at the news that Colin Firth had gone to meet his maker following a car accident.

My day because in two days I get to knock one out into a plastic pot again.

My day because you can find the first 'Rash review interview with Grandmother & Granddaughter supreme, Kim over on the Frog Pond that Rocks. That's HERE for the simpletons among you. It might not make your life any better but you'll get to hear her say stuff like:
"I was raided by the drug squad...Luckily I had just smoked all the dope..." and "It was a beautiful right hook.... The skanky ho deserved it"....
If you stay awake long enough you'll also get to hear her answer to the age old question "Do you think it's an insult to your cooking if your son has taken to eating birth control?"

My day because I've given up on trying to conceive and decided to buy a couple of cuties instead. Not being one to do things by halves, I've gone for a double whammy, details to be found here.
I'm very grateful for the weak US dollar and my rogue-ish Irish charm.

Stick around, the day ain't over yet...

Plant in a moist, shady spot

No sperm jokes, no humping references, no pornographic vitamins, and no psychotic ranting about sub-fertility.
(quit the booing down the back you bollocks)

The inappropriate amount of paracetamol & codeine I've been popping all day thanks to the brace of teenage Christmases past has taken hold and I've begun hallucinating.

So for now, I'll just give you a glimpse of what I have to put up with EVERY feckin day. Welcome to my Holland....


Taken a few months back outside our home. The Dutch are f*&^%ing bonkers.

Sucker For Punishment

Now, I don't usually do any 'what I did today' posts, well, except for yesterday, and the day before.
Oh shut up, you know what I mean....

But, because I am an unadulterated muppet-man-fool type person, I decided I couldn't allow a day go by without prostrating myself at the mercy of some aspect the Dutch health care system, and that coupled with self deprecation is always good therapy.

Having lived through yesterday's ordeal, I awoke this morning to (re-)discover a long standing appointment with someone whom I had been warned NEVER to visit in this country.

In short, today, I visited the 'Mond Hygienist' - the 'Oral Hygienist' to you and me.

I actually can't recall the details of the visit because I'm pretty sure I blacked out for about twenty minutes of it, as Hitler's secret granddaughter dragged me around her office by my gums via a state-of-the-art 2008 model fishhook.

She scraped, she tore, she drilled, she chisilled, and I think for a finish she swapped my upper and lower gums kind of like how you rotate the types on a mazda.

She demonstrated to me(on me) how beneficial(agonising) it is to use(ram) toothpicks the size of fence posts between my teeth until there emerges a gap(where none previously existed) so big, I can now stack magazines between them.

7 hours on, and the taste of blood is starting to make me feel light headed, I may very well pass away during the night as a result of poisoning from the swallowing of, or drowning in, my own blood.

If I do, cut my grass for me?

Bad Pile Up

Dutch Style....

Bicycles

As I simply cannot stomach another baby rant, and I don't do resolutions, you lot can have another entry from my history of idiocy.

Here in Holland, the bike is King.

The country is flatter than [insert name of any ex-girlfriend or undesirable here].
The infrastructure is tremendous for cyclists, cycle paths & lanes, traffic lights, special sign posting etc have all been heavily invested in, making it an environmentalist's wet dream.

So, upon my arrival in this fair land more than 6 and a half years ago, I decided I was going to fully integrate and cycle everywhere.

This I did with great enthusiasm.
To work, to shops, to visit friends, to appointments, to restaurants, and to bars. To lots of bars.

What amazed me almost as much as the widespread use of bikes was the fact that I had never fallen off, not once, not even while in one of my more inebriated and animated states.

That claim to fame was soon to be short lived.

One Friday, I hopped up on my 'fiets' as normal, and started to pedal home with all the excitement of the weekend to come rattling around in my otherwise empty head.
As is often the case my enthusiasm got the better of me and before I knew it I was speeding along the bike path much faster than normal.
Through the bio-science park I sped, faster around the roundabout, faster still past the stables, and even faster still along the canal.
Faster and faster and faster, the wind blowing through my Nr2 short back and sides.
My route took me alongside the edge of a construction site, faster and faster and faster.

Then it happened.

Before I knew it, I cycled right over a stray brick from the construction site, at high speed, sending my bike and it's idiot rider through the air.
Face first I flew, arms outstretched, only stopping when the cage-like railings surrounding the site brought my first solo flight to an abrupt and painful stop.

There I was, 5 feet off the ground, head & forearms inside the railings, the rest of me outside, spread like a backwards crucifixion, and worst of all, stone cold sober.
My arms had gone through the wire railings like two long pairs of gloves only to be caught by the bars at the elbows.

I hung there for a few seconds, my bike circling to a halt like a New Years drunkard succumbing to unconsciousness below me.

TWO PEOPLE CYCLED PAST ME. And pedaled onwards. To this day I don't know why they didn't stop or acknowledge the fact that there was a floppy Irishman suspended spreadeagled half way up the site's railings while they swerved to avoid his abandoned bike in their path.

I managed to remove my face from the railing, reverse my arms back from the now blade like wire which had only half succeeded in dismembering me, and drop on my ass onto the relative comfort and safety of a banjacksed bicycle five feet below.
Stunned and in no little pain, I gathered myself, my bike, and my two arms and hobbled the last mile home.

ET's face when she returned home to see me attempting to administer first aid to myself with two blood soaked forearms, was a site to behold.

The expletive based adjectives she used to describe me and my stupidity would make your Mammy's ears bleed.

I've learned not to speed through a construction site even if it is a Friday, and having the inside of both your elbow-pits cut through to the bone is somewhat painful.

I live to tell the tale.

Wordless..er...Thursday

Just seconds into 2008, the sky above our house, 3 cheers for flamboyant neighbours.

Sinterklaas

It's Christmas !

It really really really is, well, here in the Netherlands at least.

Tomorrow is the 5th December, 'kerst'.
This the day that 'Sinterklaas' (who bears a striking resembalence to Santa Claus, just having drunk less of that holiday cola cola) arrives with his sleigh with gifts for all the boys and girls.

Now, the jolly old fat git that you may be more familiar with may have magic, and reindeer, and elves no less, but the Dutch variety is far more practical.
1 - Flying reindeer? - that's just silly, Sinterklaas uses a knackered old work horse to drag his gear and scrawny ass all around the Benelux region. The Dutch animal protection society can be contacted here.

2 - Naughty or nice? The morbidly obese Santa that we know and love will check out what kids have been good or bad during the previous calender year, and the misfortunate ones who may have been involved in over extravagant childish silliness such as armed robbery or grevious bodily harm, will find that they get a lump of coal in their stocking.
NOT with Dutch Sinterklaas they don't! An infant who didn't finish all his cabbage last May or the girl who misplaced a hairclip in February can look forward to something a bit more severe... - Kidnapping.
Yes indeed, Dutch legend goes that a naughty child shall be stolen from their home by this creepy old man on a haggard horse and taken away from their family forever. Extreme perhaps, but effective. The Dutch branch of defence for Children International can be found here.

3 - Elves, just like our generous coronary strained friend uses...Who needs them when you can go one step better and enlist the services of.... Slaves !
Yes ladies & gents, in this fine liberal land that I call home, Sinterklaas uses a slave called 'Zwarte Piet' to carry out his (occasionally) gift giving and (often) child stealing duties.
'Zwarte Piet' - translated as 'Black Pete', is probably some kid he picked up centuries ago, and complete with soot blackened face (from being up chimneys or down mines) he carries out all Sinterklaas' dirty work, starving and beating the horse, shoving kids into sacks and generally keeping the festive season in the 14th Century. Links to the Dutch slavery organisations and monuments can be found here.

4 - Santa's Grotto ! A wonderous place where we all love to go to sit on Santa's knee and put some more pressure on his overweight frame in the weeks running up to Christmas.
Mmmmm not quite the same scenario here.....

Sinterklaas, kind of like John Travolta, makes various public appearances in the run up to his big day. These appearances, in reality, lack most of the hollywood influence that Santa himself brings.
On weekend mornings you can forget about your lie in, as you'll be awoken by the sound of what you'ld be forgiven for thinking was a church organ being dropped from a great height, but which is in fact, some bizzare form of wurlitzer/organ type thing that belts out 'music' to signify that the pale underfed guy with the garbage bag (who you thought was homeless,) is indeed, Sinterklaas.

Now the 'Sint' as he's known to a few, has many appearances to make on any given day, and of course he can't be expected to travel around on the back of that disheveled old nag, instead you're more likey to see him climb into the passenger seat of a '92 toyota corolla.

To make matter worse, Sinterklaas turns up at your workplace... he jollies it up for the employees of industrial estates and industry parks, throwing cheap sweets around the office which the cleaners later have to un-stick from the carpets, and generally being a nuisance.

One prime example was during my first 'Kerst' here, Sinterklaas turned up at my office. Laughing and joking, he danced and sang his way around the office, blinding 4 people with his indiscriminate hurtling of hard boiled sweets, before (literally) physically dancing one employee out of a meeting and out the front door of the office. Under normal circumstances this may have been tolerated, but the employee was in the process of being fired by his (very bemused and unimpressed American) manager at the time.

Oh the Joys.

So, when you moan about Christmas coming too soon next year, spare a thought for this wee Irishman for whom it actually does come too soon, and in the form of a drug induced nightmare.



p.s. Disclaimer - before I get beaten up by angry Dutch folk, this is written in jest. The Sint is a lovely man I'm sure, he just needs a proper meal. Ik wens jullie allemaal een gezelig Pakjesavond met de hele familie.