Hello everyone over there in the States as well as any of my European readers (the small but wide spread following). I was going to wait till Monday when Cabana Boy had to go to work to start catching you all up on my week in Belgium. I’ve dutifully been jotting down everything we’ve been doing (well everything that a following needs to know about anyway >insert mischievous grin here<). But today I had the wonderful experience of biking the leiestreek between Drongen and Afsnee. And by wonderful, I mean, no absolutely not wonderful at all whatsoever. Now before anyone goes flipping out about anything at all, I am telling you, my tiny following, that I am in repulsively bad shape. I have not been on a bike since I got my car which was over 10 years ago. Until this week. The first time was not that easy. The second time would have been easier but we cycled in traffic, so while physically I was coping a little better, mentally I basically went “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” the whole time, which sort of came out in these little hiccupy gasps that sounded somewhat akin to choking on my own sternum. But today? I was ready today! I had mentally prepared and had two days of no biking to rest my aching legs and allow the bicycle shaped bruise spanning the width of both my cheeks plus other bits you don’t really need to know about to become a mere shadow of bruisiness. I was ready for a fun bike ride by the river. What I failed to realize was our little trip would be six freaking miles long…

Now, you can all laugh or call me a wuss or whatever, but dammit, when the last real excercise you’ve done in about five years is sometimes moving furniture to a different apartment every year or so, six miles on a bike is hard; HARD! And that’s not counting the extra biking to the brewery (yes, I’ve decided this might be a good day to get shit-faced, at least so my hangover tomorrow will be enough to eclipse the aching emanating from the raw hamburger formerly known as my butt).

Yes, Cabana Boy has been told how miserable I find bike riding, and in his typical way, he is being wonderful and fantastic and supportive and sweet, but I have to learn to do this. A bike is the most practical means of transportation and it’s good for me. It’s a great way to get healthier and also get where you need to go. So I will learn to tolerate it and be somewhat capable at it. Maybe I’ll even start to like it. Either way, right now, riding a bike is something I’ll continue to make myself do. I might wait for a day or two though, just enough till I can walk right again.

For the benefit of my grandmother, Cabana Boy and I went out of our way to procure physical evidence that Europeans do indeed use deoderant. Voila:

I have NOT fallen off the face of the earth, just the USA. I do plan on telling some adventures in Belgium, but in all honesty, my boyfriend is sitting in the other room, I’m still jet lagged and struggling with this AZERTY keyboard, and, well, my boyfriend is in the other room and we have 2 weeks of us time to make up for the last three months and the upcoming four months, so in all honesty I’ll probably just write things in a notebook and update fully next week while I’m here by myself. Here are a few pics from today to quench your thirst for Korie (hehehe)

Ok, so today is the day…which sort of stinks because due to the time difference today is not the day for Cabana Boy. Tomorrow is the day….although today is halfway to tomorrow there….Regardless, I’m flying through Northwest Airlines from here in Black and Gold Country to Detroit to Amsterdam to Brussels where I’ll meet my illustrious Belgian and head off to Gent (well with a stop at Ikea…no good host has his girlfriend fly across the Atlantic without first stopping to buy light fixtures). And yes that is a joke to any neurotic Cabana-types reading this while I’m flying over, I honestly have no problem with stopping at Ikea.

So, I’m washing (LIES! my mommy is doing it for me because I’m spoiled) some clothes before I pack completely and just making sure I have stuff for the trip. My dad had to cut my TSA padlock off my luggage because I haven’t used it since Ireland two years ago and I managed to lose the keys, so I do have to put my mom’s set of ugly ass green locks on my luggage so that airplane security doesn’t bust them open. It feels so good to live in the Land of the Free….

But anyway, the only plan thus far is the laundry, me blogging a bit on a QWERTY keyboard for the last time for two weeks, and getting me to the airport, checked in and fitfully sedated. Next time you hear from me, loyal readers, it will be from Cabanaland.

Ciao!

p.s.- even if your mother is very enthusiastic about being part of the blogging process, I advise against letting her “just read” as you type your blog. She will edit. You will be annoyed.
look over shoulder and glare

1. Any food dropped on the floor has a magnetic pull on 3 year old feet and will be crushed down until it takes on a sawdust-like consistency. While it may or may not be a conscious act, it is most definitely an inevitability.

2. Whining is the favored form of communication. Be it an angry objection to clean up time or askance to touch someones nipple, it will be done in a high pitched, nasal assault of long, drawn out vowels and excessive snivelling.

3. A popular school of 3 year old thought: “If I scream as loud as I can while simultaneously leaking snot from my nose and drool from my lip, you will do exactly what I want when I want, even if I can’t quite decide what I want or when I want it.”

4. A full grown bull elephant in heat on steroids with rabies is perhaps the only creature as dangerous as a 3 year old who’s toys/personal space is encroached upon by someone other than their mother (and maternity is not always a guarantee of safety).

5. In order to “hold” bodily functions, a 3 year old must jam a hand in “slot #1″ or “slot #2″ (or both), shoving his/her hand so far into the orifice as to result in a stain equal to, or more ground in than would have occurred had the child not bothered holding it in the first place.

6. Most importantly; all of the above rules are rendered ineffective and meaningless each time a 3 year old’s face lights up with happiness when they see that you are there to spend time with them.