Please note that in the comments area of my last blog entry, my mother said something along the lines of "oh and we want to hear about the weekend of debauchery!!"

Now, I ask you: Is this normal? I mean, most mothers want to deny out of existence that their daughters are having sex and smoking mair-ee-ju-wana in the sex and drugs capital of Europe. Not my mother. My mother wants details.

Snippets from the weekend ('cause I ain't no good at telling stories... I just do lists):

1) Earlier in my life -- specifically in grad school and just last summer in China -- I learned I really like to teach and I'm kinda good at it. There's nothing like implanting knowledge in eager young minds who want to learn what you have to give.

That's why I felt so special when I could use this special talent my first night in Amsterdam. Picture a smoky bar. Young gay men gathered in a circle, hanging on my every word. Were we discussing Van Gogh or Rembrandt or other bits of Dutch culture? Um, no... not exactly.

I was explaining to my audience the wonderous mysteries of The Foreskin.

(you asked for it, Mom)

See... European boys aren't circumsized and for those of us who learned the ropes in the good 'ol US of A, well this can be a perplexing situation the first time you encounter it. What exactly do you do with all that... um... skin? Is it like an extra piece of clothing? Like a turtleneck? I mean, should I just move it out of the way and pretend it's not there?

These and other burning questions were the topic of our discussion and I believe that I dispelled the hurtful myths and biased prejudices against The Foreskin. I then sent my pupils out into the world (aka away from our table and over to the hot guys leaning against the bar) armed with their new knowledge and increased self confidence!

It was a proud moment.

And as I typed those last sentences, I realized that I just gave my mother a mental picture of my boyfriend's penis. Excuse me while I go shower for about 14 hours.

2) If I lived in Amsterdam, I would hate me. God, am I annoying! I talk too loud -- in English! -- and I laugh REALLY loud and kinda snorty. And MY GOD, didn't I notice that I'd just stepped into the bike lane and made that big Dutch girl break and swerve to avoid plowing into my big American ass? And, oh gee, aren't you cute trying to speak Dutch to me in the restaurant? Look, WOMAN, I speak English just as well as you do (notice I said "well" and not "good" because unlike YOU I know that's not correct), so just stop torturing my language before my ears bleed and I have an uncontrollable urge to throttle you.

3) Two words. Patat Oorlog. I've written about it before, I'll write about it again, but there just ain't nothin' finer after you've indulged in a little wacky weed then perfectly cooked, thick cut, french fries smothered in mayonaise and satay sauce.

4) Speaking of that stuff that is TOTALLY LEGAL here... did I mention it's legal? Like, I'm not doing anything wrong. Nothing that my parents have to be ashamed about because it's just like I wandered into a bar and bought a beer. And if there's one thing my family likes, it's beer. So, see... it's just like that. No biggie.

But I digress...

I'm not sure I entirely like the stuff. I mean, it's kinda fun, but I have found I need to be outside in order to enjoy the perception-altering effects of it. If I'm inside, I do not have enough visual stimulation. Yeah, I'm like that baby laying in the crib who starts screaming it's head off when the mobile stops moving. Hey, where are the pretty swirly colors!? Where did the floaty shapes go!? I NEED the pretty swirly colors in order to feel okay.

Inside, where it's all talk talk talk, I start to think this: Huh? Huh? Where's the conversation going? Oh god, I just lost the thread of the conversation. I'm going to say something really really stupid and M is going to think I'm a moron and then he'll think, why did I let a moron come live with me? Oh look at him. He knows what's going on. He knows exactly what we're talking about. Okay, wait, they're looking at me. I have to say something. What do I say? What ARE we talking about? Oh right... we're talking about poop. What do I say about poop?

And what comes out of my mouth after all of this? I don't really remember but it had something to do with Germans and monkeys.

5) Conversation I had at a gay bar:

Him: Hey, I noticed you at Arc! (another bar down the street...)

Me: But I have these (she says as she cups her breasts). Why would you notice me?

Him: Because I just generally appreciate pretty people. You're pretty.

Me: Awwww...

That might've been the highlight of my weekend. That and the patat oorlog, of course.

6) It is a surreal experience to watch your boyfriend move through a bar while dozens of men check out his ass.

7) Surprisingly, I didn't make it to the Anne Frank house or the Van Gogh museum.

8) I am now too old to go out 3 nights in a row and I'm okay with this.

I could write more, but I have to bike to the grocery store. We're out of potatoes and this is a code red situation in a Dutch household.