Hello Uncle Merc

Monday was an interesting day, on many levels. First, I'll tell you what prompted it to be such an interesting day: We picked up our car in Galveston! It's finally resting safely here in Wimberley. Totally legal and somewhat handsome despite the ocean spray, 750 miles' worth of family travel yuckies plus buckets of dog hair inside. But all of that, my friends, will vanish as soon as we clean it at sunset. Sounds almost romantic.

So Monday, Henk and I left early in the morning for Houston. First stop, McDonald's and an Egg McMuffin. I hadn't had one of those in about 7 years! Wow. Although the flavor was not intriguing in the least, I wanted another. But I resisted another one of those fattening, little morsels. Then drive, drive, drive - about 160 miles until we reached our first destination: the Dutch Consulate. Henk needs to renew his passport before October so he did it Monday. It saves us another trip to Houston.

The street address we had for the Consulate was correct but when we went upstairs, the given suite address was the Consulate General for Peru. Henk walked in and, after looking around and listening to some pan flutes, asked the window clerk ' Am I in the wrong place?' 'Que?' After a few more inquiries, we found the Consulate which was 3 floors above Peru. I wonder if this has anything to do with latitude lines.

First thing Henk says to the Dutch clerk is, 'Hello. Do you know the address is incorrect on your website? I just came from the Peru Consulate blah, blah, blah.' Obviously thinking we were the Google Map Police, the Dutch woman says, 'Really? Excuse me, I have to check that.' She was on her computer for about 15 minutes and to pass the time and also trying to fight the dense humidity in Houston, I went to go fluff my hair. Unsuccessfully I might add. Eventually, Henk was given his documentation and told to go to a particular travel agency to make the passport photos. Dutch passport photos are different from American ones. For example, there is a large emphasis on the ears.

First photo = 'Can't see your ears. Can you do something about your hair?' Before he tried to flatten his hair, Henk responded, 'My Mother always told me that ears close to the head are a sign of beauty!' Second photo = 'Still can't see your ears. Can't you do something else about your hair?' As most of you know, Henk's hair leans towards the mad scientist type of hair style. Third photo = I stepped in at this point and not that it did any good, I tried to slick it down using my own, well, spit. EW. That too did not suffice. A few rolled up tissues stuck behind the ears later, the pictures were somewhat acceptable. I'm now officially married to Opie from Mayberry via The Hague.

Back to the Consulate and all was fine. Then on to the Customs office in northern Houston - a mere 20 miles which took over one hour to drive. We had to go there to officially 'clear' our car through Customs, solely using paperwork. My point being: Since the car was 50 miles away in Galveston and Customs had never even SEEN the car, how is it possible that they could clear it? Re: no contraband found inside, no stolen ancient artifacts, etc... Bureaucrats work in strange and mysterious ways.

The Port Authority policeman was concerned that our paperwork (which the shipper sent in an email) was not the official 'Arrival Notice' document which is apparently what we needed rather than an email saying the car had arrived. Let's not even start with the broker/company who shipped our car. It has been such a complete catastrophy. PA policeman stamped our stuff as approved and said, 'I hope this works in Galveston.' Oh, great.

Off to Galveston! In the traffic and rain! One and a half hours later and when we finally found the port where our car was supposedly waiting for us, we had to drive through a very intense security gate. As we rollled to a stop at the barrier, the guard asked our business. A confusing question. Henk said, 'I have a medical lab and we also do tours.' And I piped in, 'I'm a personal chef. Used to be, anyway. And a Mom.'

After a few minutes of scrutinizing our identification, the PA cop said, 'Oh, so you're here to pick up that car. Where's your TWIC card? Gotta use that or I can't let you through.' Henk responds, 'What's a, what did you call it? A twit card?' 'No, TWIC.' (Not spelling out the letters, just repeating that same silly word which was quite difficult to understand. Especially since it's an anachronism and not a real word.) Henk: 'I don't even know what that is.' PA guy: 'Oh. Hm. Well this is a problem. You gotta call Fred or Mac.' Then he starts to walk away. 'Wait! I just need to pick up my car. I don't have any idea who Fred or Mac are; plus, my cell phone isn't working because my charger is IN THE CAR I'M PICKING UP! Can I use your phone and do you have their number?' The PA guy came through for us and Fred showed up about 14 minutes later - only to tell us that we cannot get the car because it hasn't yet been 'released'.

I, getting more than annoyed at this point, said 'What?' (That's a good response, don't you think? Kind of gets through all of the formalities, lays it on the line, let's them know exactly where I stand, etc...) My response apparently shocked Fred so much that he invited us to follow him to his office where he would try to find out what happened. Not to bore you with silly details, the bottom line is the Belgians who received our car didn't file the necessary paperwork. Instead, they simply gave the papers back to Henk and fortunately for us, he had it with him, in a folder. The problem was the people in New Jersey didn't have any info and therefore couldn't 'release' the car to us. The whole process was actually so much hairier than that; I don't even want to go into it.

Fred called and faxed documents, called again, faxed again, called, faxed and then politely excused himself, leaving us in his office for an hour. Before leaving, Fred said, 'If the Coast Guard guys come by, hide. I'm not supposed to leave you alone. Especially since you don't have a TWIC card.' As we sat in Fred's office for an hour, we had 3 truckers come in with some sort of papers. Although I was simply sitting in a chair reading a book, the first guy came in and just thrust this piece of paper in my face, at the same time saying, 'Here. Where's the doc?' Or maybe it was dock. I took the paper, looked at it and said to the man, 'I have no idea. I don't work here.' The worst thing is he didn't believe me and started to cackle a bit. 'No, really. I do not work here.'

'Oh! Where's the guy?' 'I don't know. We're waiting as well.' OK. Silence. Meanwhile Henk is doing some mind exercises combined with relaxation techniques in the big Lazy-Boy recliner in the corner of the office. The first truck driver was kind of like a Hank Williams Sr. kind of person and soon he assumed a different posture of amusement and incredulation. Probably wondering where our TWIC card was.

Then in came the second guy. Let's call him Chief Runofthemouth. Guy couldn't stop talking; call it speed or cocaine, Red Bull or just plain idiocy. Then he too put a paper in my face and received the same response. Still on the Lazy-Boy, Henk didn't even give this guy a look. Talk, talk, talk about nothing until he asks Henk, 'You the one got that orange rig out there?'

Glancing upward and to the left, Henk was about to respond but Chief Runofthemouth was lucky because at that very moment, in walks another guy. I looked up from my book and said, 'No. Don't even ask.' Hank Williams Sr. busted a gut, Henk smiled and the Chief confusedly looked around.

Eventually Fred returned; he took care of the fellows before us. Which was fine. After checking his email he announced, 'It's clear. You can get your car. I'll take you in a minute. By the way, you guys look familiar. Have you done this before?' Of course we haven't, and I assumed this was a loaded question a la Port Authority and all that. So Henk replied, 'No!' and after a pause I said, 'We're famous movie stars. That's why we look familiar. '

Fred believed it and kept stealing glances at us whenever he thought we weren't looking.

Cowgirl and the duck

Texas is officially sweltering, averaging just above 100 degrees F. Which is what, 38-39 Celsius? That is just a bit over the temperature used for smoking meats so it's no wonder Wuzzy keeps licking us.

Speaking of meats, perhaps you know that magret de canard (duck breast) is one of my two favorite carnivorous addictions. Abundant in France yet extremely difficult to find in Texas. It is easier to find a buffalo steak than a duck breast. However, Henk talked to his new friend - Norman - who happens to be the meat manager at the local grocery store. (It's always a good idea to make friends with people who have useful jobs. Like the 'meat guy', a lawyer, a doctor or a mechanic.) Long story short, Norman came through for us and ordered some duck breast from California, which was a bit closer than ordering it from the other option: Japan. Since the breast was Californian, I kept my fingers crossed that it was real as opposed to some bizarre duck flavored silicone. That seemed to work, as the duck was delicious! Like most everything else, it was especially succulent when paired with Lime Pickle.

We hadn't had magret de canard since we left France and therefore, I was beginning to have withdrawal symptoms. To spare himself watching me in that state, Henk was determined to find the magret for me. God bless Norman. If it weren't for him, I'm afraid Henk would have resorted to buying a live duck from a farm. We've been down that road before...

About 12 years ago in Dallas, Henk pulled into our driveway with a duck flailing around in the car. I could see him swatting at the feathery soon-to-be-a-sacrifice as it tried to escape. Now there's an image for you: man fighting duck in the confines of a Mercedes. Eventually Henk just opened the door and the duck sort of jumped out. The duck wasn't a flyer which was good for us, bad for him. After Henk shouted a 'Hey Wend! Guess what we're having for dinner!?!', I tried to put it out of my mind that he was actually going to kill the poor thing. 'I'll be inside.', I responded. After Henk retrieved one of our kitchen knives, he went back outside to face his opponent. Killing a duck is not as simple as it seems, especially if the duck is running around the yard and jumping into the swimming pool. Mesmerized, I watched outside the breakfast room window for about an hour and a half - which was the length of time it took Henk to finally catch the bird. Gross and sad, Henk attempted to cut the duck's throat since this seemed the quickest and most humane way to get on with dinner. Mr. Duck didn't like that idea one bit and proceeded to try to gum/beak Henk's hand. And successful he was! Mr. Duck momentarily got away and Henk came into the kitchen saying, 'I need a box.' While I rummaged around to find a large box, Henk apparently retrieved one of our guns. Henk now armed with gun and box, I turned up the CD player and pretended to do something else. Since he had managed to make a slight laceration on the poor duck's throat, Mr. Duck wasn't moving around as fast as before. So only after 30 minutes this time, Henk caught Mr. Duck and quickly threw him in the box and secured the lid. Still mesmerized but this time with my jaw wide open, I watched as the box took on a life of it's own - rocking back and forth. Then my fearless hunter fired the gun at the box; once, twice, thrice and then a fourth time. To this day, we still disagree about the number of shots fired; I say four, maybe more; Henk says one. The number of holes in the box are my evidence, however. Point being, ordering duck from Norman was quite a bit less traumatic than actually killing one, though it takes nearly the same amount of time.

Despite her being bored from time to time, Sjaantje is doing fine. Last week she announced that she wanted some Texas cowboy boots. I, being such a good and proper mother, tried to dissuade her by saying, 'No, sweetheart. You can't have cowboy boots because you're a girl.' She didn't buy that at all and replied, 'Cowboy/Cowgirl. Whatever, I just really want some boots!' My suggestion for some clogs or leather sandals went absolutely nowhere. Eighty bucks later, she has some admittedly cool boots. The only problem is she wants to wear them with shorts (I have mentioned before that this is somewhat a fashion here) and I'm just not country 'hip' enough for that.

Yesterday, we received a large brown envelope from Sjaantje's old school in France. As it was addressed to 'Mr. and Mrs. Tilleman', we assumed it was some documents we might need for Sjaantje's enrollment next year. Wrong. It was chock full of letters to Sjaantje from all of her friends, plus the school class picture. Unbelievably sweet and touching - I almost cried. There was, however, a note scribbled to us on the outside of the envelope, written by the postmaster at the PO! Isn't that called tampering with the mail and isn't that illegal?! The post office guy is named Marc, so if any of you ex-pats or French friends go to the PO in Fourques, please tell Marc we return the greetings. I really miss our village.

I've not had any encounters with strange people lately. It's been a pretty sedate week aside from launching a rebuttal against some false document concerning Barcelona - winning no American friends or family on that one. Oh well, c'est la vie! Truth seems to do that to people.

Our car was supposed to arrive last Monday. Then it was delayed until Thursday, which eventually turned into Friday. Supposedly it has now arrived in Galveston and, of course, the port is closed on the weekend. Monday it is! I really need my car and am actually looking forward to the 5 hour each way trip.

The primordial soup pond has vociferously denounced my cleaning efforts. Now it is algae infested, plus the given mosquitos and somewhat appropriately there are baby tadpoles. I assume by next weekend we'll have a crocodile crawl out of it. Good thing Sjaantje has her boots.

Oh, and Sjaantje wants us to buy a big truck. Oh dear.

White Lies

I think I've accidentally killed the tarragon. All of the other herbs Sjaantje/Emile planted are sprouting and seemingly enjoying life, but not the tarragon. Nope. No sign of life there. Perhaps I have some stronger than normal mind powers because - although I never said it aloud to the seeds - I really didn't want a pot of tarragon on my patio. I'm pretty sure I mentally equate this distaste for the noble herb with one particular dinner...Years ago, Henk cooked tenderloin of horse for me, drizzled with a bearnaise sauce. So not wanting to be narrow minded about trying a new taste, I dutifully ate my dinner. A few hours later when I was well, you know, ill, I blamed it on the tarragon in the bearnaise sauce. And since then, the thought of tarragon gives me the heaves. Poor tarragon plant. I didn't really mean him any harm.

It's a very good thing that Sjaantje wasn't yet born when we had the horse filet. She probably would have gone postal on us. Fearing that is exactly why I refused to tell her what we had for dinner Sunday night. We were invited to Dalana and Dean's because Dean wanted to treat us to deep fried venison - which is his culinary specialty. Since the pieces of venison were battered and fried, it seemed more like chicken fried steak, which is precisely what we told Sjaantje we were eating. I found it quite delicious and Sjaante absolutely loved it, no doubt because she didn't know it was deer. The extra bonus is it wasn't slathered with bearnaise sauce. In the past, I've tried some venison sausage given to me by a client plus some venison chops, courtesy of Central Market. It never bothered me. But Sunday when we came home from a separate afternoon fest and pulled into our driveway, there were three deer in our front yard plus a mom and fawn on the other side of our wall, munching away on the grass. Then on the way to Dalana's, we had to stop the car for a family of 6 deer to cross the road - complete with a tiny little polka-dotted baby. How could I have possibly told Sjaantje we were eating deer?! I ask you, what would you have done? White lies. I know it's going to come back around at some point and I'm seriously not looking forward to that.

Where do I segue next: horses or stay on the food subject? I'll go with horses:

Sjaantje started horseback riding lessons last Tuesday! To say she is thrilled is an understatement. For the first time, Sjaantje rode a Thoroughbred stallion! His name is Oliver and, if I know my horse measurement terminology, I would say he's about 10 hands. (I'm just making up that measurement thing. I have no idea, but Oliver was huge, strong, chestnut brown, gorgeous and quite people friendly. The biggest horse Sjaantje has ever ridden.) There were no Thoroughbreds at the Equestrian center in Fourques/Montauriol so riding Oliver was a boon for Sjaantje. Her teacher is a young woman named Rachael who wholeheartedly exudes delightfulness and professionalism. All rolled into one neat package. At the Rocky River Ranch, as the equestrian center is called, there is even a horse named 'Hank' which Sjaantje wants to ride the next time.

Still on horses, Sunday night at Dalana and Dean's, Sjaantje rode one of their horses bareback - as in no saddle, not even a bridle but just a rope lightly tied around the horses head. Also her first time for that! She didn't like it... so put on the saddle and then another hour or so around the pasture. Yes, while I sat with Dalana on the porch, both of us in rocking chairs watching. At this rate I'll soon be knitting and chewing tobacco.

Did you watch the World Cup finals?!! Holland vs. Spain. Lot of history with that match-up. Look up the Feast of Leiden - when Spain was occupying/attacking Holland in the 15th century. It's an interesting story, especially the food part. Anyway, we watched the game at David's river house and at the same time, enjoyed BBQ'ed brisket, corn on the cob, swimming, canoeing, etc... Not the best soccer/futbol game I've ever watched. But did you notice how mannerly the Dutch players were? For example, the Dutch corner kick in the second half. There was a Spanish player down and although no whistle was blown, the Dutch kicker just lightly tapped the ball to the Spanish goalie and at the same time, no Dutch players raced into the goal box. Giving time for the Spaniard to get up and join the melee. Nice. Too bad the Dutch lost. The nice guy always finishes last.

On Saturday night, we had (yes) a dinner party - this time for some dear family on Henk's side. Henk and my brother-in-law Dave (or is it mine and Henk's brother-in-law?) came down from Austin along with Dave's new lady-friend, Carmen. Also Monique and Greg (my 42 year old niece and her husband!) and their two sons, who are Sjaantje's second cousins and about her same age. You probably remember that Henk's sister passed away two years ago after a battle with leukemia. This was our first time to meet Carmen. Beautiful and very sweet woman! I won't belabor you with the fine points of our dinner. I only want to say that Sjaantje had a great time with her cousins! Grant and Seth are lovely boys and 10 year old Grant is exactly my heighth.

I've been kind of mild in this post, God forbid possibly boring, especially since some people have told me that I don't sound happy when I write. Well, hmmm. Am I?

After doing some of the paper work for the breeding of the Wuz and subsequently having some questions, I wrote to the prospective breeders. In response I received a scathing email which answered exactly none of my questions but did explain that breeding Wuzzy was a 'risk and loss' for them but they were willing to do it because Wuzzy is from good genes and they welcomed a new line into their's. (Loss? They're not even paying a 'Stud Fee'.) Furthermore, if Wuzzy would have been an AKC champion then the breeding is a shoe-in, but since he isn't an AKC champion then all of the rules change. Jeez, I was just asking some questions. Side note, these breeders routinely ship their bitches to northern Germany and/or Holland to breed. Are these European dogs AKC champions? No, not possible considering that AKC means American Kennel Club. Wuzzy comes from Dutch Champions, Northern European dog royalty, notable breeder, Best of Show, Best in Breed, etc... Since we are total greenhorns regarding breeding, I have the feeling we're being yanked around on this one. And yes, that makes me not happy. Does anyone have a female Newfy or know one who wants to make some puppies? It might be easier, less strenuous and much more fulfilling for the Wuz. We'll provide the bubbly water, roses and whatever just to get a puppy from Wuzzy's loins.

Late yesterday morning, Henk and David were replacing the wood on the upstairs balcony. Suddenly I heard David say, 'Wend, open the door, there's a guy coming up that I need to talk to.' I was in the kitchen making some fried rice and so I obliged. Opening the door to Santa Claus's evil twin, I said, 'Hi, come on in. And you are..?' No response as he shuffles through my kitchen. 'Oh. I see. Well. David's upstairs with Henk, on the balcony.' No response. I look outside and there's another one of those old Buick things, this one baby blue, but the same morphology as the one last weekend. Short story is Santa II needs a 1099 tax form for 4 hours of work he did for David last year - probably turning over the compost. So they did their thing upstairs and then Santa II descended into the depths of Wendelyn hell. Santa has the audacity to walk through MY kitchen again with not a word, acknowledgement or anything other than the odors coming off of him. I sharply said, 'HELLO! Who ARE you?' This did make Santa turn around and, with another one of those blank looks on his face, he grunted. Silly me, I didn't have my latex gloves on because as I said, I was making some fried rice, but nevertheless I stuck out my hand for at least an acknowledgement. 'Tom. Drinkin' buddy.' he said. With no hiding my disgust, I replied, 'Not mine. I'm Wendelyn. I live here. And you just walked through into my house without saying anything.' Grunt. Leave. Where do these people come from? And more importantly, why are they in my house?

Conjugations be an issue

Hello friends!

The spirit of the Tramontana lives on in Texas! But only in my air conditioning ducts. Typing this, I'm surrounded by two rather large grates which relentlessly spew ice cold air onto my back side and, although I'm decked out in Henko's super warm bathrobe, I am annoyed. Admittedly, I could think of worse things but at this juncture I want it to stop and I have no problem shutting the air off completely so that I can entertain you once again. Of course, nobody else here likes it when I do that but that's their problem.

I trust your week was good - I'm hoping it was anyway. I know some of you are traveling, others entertaining travelers, pilgrims and students and still others biting your nails just watching the computer for my newest update...Yeah, right.

To begin, in addition to screw top wine bottles, toothpicks in mouths, mammoth sized mud splattered pick-up trucks and the tennis shoes/tall white socks/cut-off-jeans combo a-plenty, I must add local language skills to the list of 'Things that Make Me Feel Like I'm in High Society, please Alex, for $500'...

"We was out there yesterdee (sic) watchin' them deer. Them was eatin' that there grass like nothing I aint never seen 'fore!" (thank you, Colin, for reminding me of the delight of triple negatives!), and then "Jimmy Bob be riding that ol' mule and he done fell off" or, worse yet, "Her said you got you a snake!"

At times, Sjaantje/Emile has a little problem with English. Although I'm her mother and am apt to make excuses for her, she did grow up in France and, as any student in France would, learned proper grammar. The only problem was that sometimes she translated from French to English ver batum: chat noir = cat black. And things like that. Barring Sagey, the only people who spoke English to Sjaantje in France were Henk and I, the Llauro clan plus various adult family and friends who came to visit. As a result, Sjaantje/Emile developed an amazing English vocabulary - on the adult level - but tended to (and still does) mix those words into a more juvenile sentence. Moreover, she tends to create her own verbs. My favorite example is: Stop it, Mom! You're UNCONCENTRATING me.

And now, referring to the paragraph just above the paragraph above this one, Sjaantje is saying things like, "Stop it, Mom! Don't be unconcentrating me!" Concerning to say the least. In her defense however, I must tell you that sometimes I do misinterpret her vernacular. Like the other day when Sjaantje said, "My me is not having a good day." I, being frustrated, reprimanded her choice of wording. With one eyebrow raised and her voice quite serious, Sjaantje said "Mom. I was talking about my Mii on the game. Not ME."

I had forgotten that we were playing a game on the Nintendo Wii (which clearly I was winning) - a computerized game where you create a person resembling you who then plays the games. That created person is called a 'Mii', pronounced 'me'. Oops.

Hey! Great news! We now have a new critter! A medium size turtle, called Shelly, has stolen our hearts. OK, that's a bit of an exaggeration regarding the 'stolen our hearts' part. I mean he/she is just a breakfast plate sized turtle who doesn't exactly ooze personality. Perhaps I'm biased towards fluffier things. Nevertheless, Sjaantje and Wuzzy are endlessly entertained watching this shell-bound critter slowly meander away in fright - trying to get away from them I think. It's all very exhausting for Wuzzy and he tends to just assume the horizontal position and deeply sigh. Whereas Sjaantje is spellbound by Shelly's every occasional move. But one day last week, Sjaantje came to me and very seriously said, "Mom, I think there's something wrong with Shelly. She's not as frisky as she used to be." A frisky turtle?

Speaking of critters, and referring to my previous blog, the snake returned. Three days ago or so, Sjaantje ran into the house and told me that the snake was swimming in our primordial soup pool. Just great. With pool skimming net in hand, Henk went out to deal with the situation. After lightly pummeling the snake on the head with the handle end of the net, Mr. Snakey seemed to pass out. Personally, I think the evil monster was faking. So using the net, Henk put Mr. Snakey on the patio so that we could see his markings, scrutinize his head shape (to determine if he was poisonous or not) and marvel at my hunter man's finesse. Typical hunter, Henk said, "I think I'll just cut off his head and then take it to the pharmacy to see if he was poisonous." (Side note: You can take mushrooms to the pharmacies in France to find out whether or not they're poisonous but I seriously doubt you can do that with the heads of snakes in Texas.) Henk never cut the head off because he's too much of a tender heart. Instead, he just put Mr. Snakey back into the pool.

A few hours later, David stopped by and Henk told him about the snake. When they looked in the pool, Mr. Snakey was swimming and flicking his tongue like a crazy person. Being a more serious hunter than Henk, David simply yanked Mr. Snakey out of the pool and then stomped on his head (the snake's). David said, "That snake is too big and I think he's poisonous. Well, WAS, anyway."

Henk had an interesting meeting with some people who just decided to pull into our driveway the other day. In a super old rusted Buick with bumpers falling off, gas tank door as well as the keyhole closure on the trunk in the open position, muffler spewing black smoke, busted out back window, bushy bearded and haired snaggle-teeth (both the man and woman) plus a sad dog in the back seat, they stopped to tell Henk that the bank was closed and they needed to cash a check. "You got $20?" "What?" Deliverance?

On Saturday, Henko bought a meat smoker! He hasn't had one in what, seven years? Thinking about the Fourth of July, Henk wanted to smoke some ribs which admittedly was/is one of his specialties. Succulent! Anyway, Henk was explaining to Sjaantje that 'this cut of meat is called baby back ribs'. And Sjaantje? She immediately made a face expressing both horror and disgust. "I AM NOT EATING THOSE!" Poor daughter of ours has been subject to all kinds of weird or exotic foods from a child's perspective; therefore when hearing 'baby back ribs', she assumes the worst. However, after an explanation and the subsequent eating of the ribs, she now loves them. Rightly so.

As you know, Sunday was the Fourth of July, aka Independence Day. Sjaantje had asked me a few days ago, "Why, in France, do they celebrate Independence Day on July 14th instead of July 4th? " When she didn't believe me that the French were just a bit behind the ball, I had to explain to her - as I've had to explain to some silly Americans why the French don't celebrate Thanksgiving - these are NATIONAL holidays for a specific nation or country. Holidays are not necessarily universal. July 14th in France is what Americans know as Bastille Day but the French refuse to call it that; instead it is 'Fete Nationale de la France' or 'Fete d'Independence'. But I can understand her confusion, yes?

For the holiday celebrations, our town had a rodeo which, darnit, we couldn't attend because we had to watch the fire on the smoker. (Can you imagine Henk showing up at a rodeo wearing his Italian woven leather sandals? For that matter, Henk going to a rodeo at all?) And on Monday there was a parade downtown. I had heard that the people on the parade floats were going to throw candy at the children on the street. Thinking this was a bit too violent for Sjaantje and Henk, I neglected to wake everyone up in time for the pummeling.

Oh, the breeder saga continues. Keep in mind the only reason we're considering breeding The Wuz is to ensure that one day the world will be full of Wuzzies. In addition to the upcoming 'collection' for the sperm count, Wuzzy must be sedated in order for the Vet to take x-rays of his hips and elbows. (How exactly are we going to get him back into the car?) Plus, he must have a cardiological exam which includes us taking him out for a run during the test (we don't run) and possibly an ECG (on both Wuzzy and Henk after the run), DNA swabbing and then testing for certain genetic diseases via a sample of his urine. This all must happen before he is again 'collected' for the breeding - which will be shipped overnight to Arkansas. And before any of those tests are certified, I must finalize his AKC application which, by the way, is fairly strenuous. In addition to Wuzzy's info, I must submit some other Dam Information (that's actually the info for Wuzzy's mom) and Sire Info, complete with micro-chip numbers, registry numbers and all kinds of what-not. My Dutch language skills are at most adequate but interpreting Dutch bureaucratic certificates complete with numbers and catagories leaves me more than confused. Not to worry! I spent 3 hours on the phone yesterday with the AKC while I attempted to fill out Wuzzy's application. Nobody knew exactly the same things I didn't know. (Great sentence!) However, I was referred to one woman, whose name I won't tell you, who specialized in Dutch dogs imported to the USA. She wasn't there but I did get to leave a voice-mail on her machine. What worries me is her voice-mail message: Hi. This is so-and-so. I ain't at my desk. Maybe I'm on the phone or at a smoke break. If you got any questions to axe me, leave me a message.

As the travel business is a bit stagnant right now, I've been contemplating finding something to occupy my time. Vacuuming is always fun and rewarding, but I feel I need something a bit more challenging. Returning to personal chef-ing will have to wait until I get a decent stove, not to mention a vent-a-hood. Luckily, I found a possible new part-time career! When I first saw the huge 'NOW HIRING' sign below the marquis 'Hired Killers', I must admit I was intrigued...perhaps I could hone my gunslinging accuity, utilize my kitchen knife skills and, assuming I'd get some exotic assignment, I could even practice some foreign languages! Unfortunately I realized I was underqualified for the job about the same time I realized 'Hired Killers' is a pest control and gardening company. At least that's their cover story.

Before I close this, I have to tell you that Wuzzy did fine with the inevitable fireworks on Sunday. Henk didn't buy any fireworks afterall but SOME people obviously did! We could see them from the front lawn. Impressive and not nearly as scary as some other things I've seen lately.

Gros bisous/Big kiss -

Wend

P.S. Did I forget to mention the man who asked to borrow about 20 books? Not to read them, rather to put them in his empty bookshelves in order to impress the chicks.