Fracas Noir || Susanne Waldau - te Brake I swear to tell the truth as I know it…

As of today, I am 35! We’ll strictly speaking 34, but since the age of 20 when I really needed to add some numbers to my meager age, I’ve been in a habit of adding an extra year. It works fine, also in later years. When I say I’m 34 (and in this case 35) people always look so astound. “Oh, I thought you were in your late 20’s!”.

I shrug my shoulders helplessly as in a way of saying “What can I do? Some people have all the luck!”
Talking about luck (or the lack of it), my husband who had bought an iPad for me, hijacked it over the weekend. He showed me net-a-porter.com as a teaser (looks very glossy and I wish I had a no limit credit card) and then went on to spend the weekend with his new toy. He even brings it to the toilet, being the optimal magazine reading for a number 2. Well at least it’s cleanable and I will make sure to install kitchen wipes in all our toilets as of now.

My husband asked me what I wanted for my birthday. Ideally it would be a piece of antique but knowing it would make a 10k hole in a near empty pocket I opted for something more recession minded. My underwear are the ones I bought when I was pregnant, and admittedly have seen better days. So I dragged him into one of Haarlem’s better establishments for a lingerie excursion. It was indeed Valhalla, as I found numerous sets of La Perla and Valisere (an amazing set I might add), whilst my husband was checking out the clientele. A 30’ish something woman (she could have also been late 20’s) proudly put her assets on display sporting triple F cups whilst she strutted an equally boosted booty. My husband being one of the few men in the store stood as transfixed at the sight. He assured me later I was way more beautiful than the latest incarnation of Venus de Milo but needless to say I have my doubts…

Valisere lingerie. Love the exquisite lace!

Aubade set in white

Aubade set in black

Same set as the white Aubade one….love it!!!

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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Is he cute or what? Love this clip of the little man, made today July 25 on Grote Markt, Haarlem

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I’ve been thinking about my professional career, business, my future if you like… Whilst not completely stuck in a rut, it wouldn’t suffer from getting a bit of a revamp, and I humbly admit I have got a lot to learn. So I’ve decided to set up personal career program for myself to look at where my gaps are and get in contact with people that would be able to fill those. I presented my idea to my husband and he was all ears for it. So this weekend is somewhat of a new beginning, putting plan into action. A kick-start to the new business me.

In the meantime, my husband went and bought me an iPad with the argument that I need to get more techno savvy. I can only agree…

Last but not least managed to totally clean out my inbox. Hooray, weekend can offically begin!

Whoohoo, I got an iPad for my birthday!

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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It’s summer time and with summer time comes summer scheduled. Trains and buses are reduced to an hourly (and if your lucky a 30 minute) schedule. With my luck I miss the bus by 2 minutes. And this because the train was delayed by 5.

I had set the alarm clock to 6.30 am as Victoria left for Greece today and I have promised to take care of the dogs. Reinout would substitute this word with “the Beasts” and in all honesty I’m inclined to as well. Alarm clock fails to go off, and I wake up spontaneously sometime just short of 7 am. I rush to get dressed, put on the laundry (because it’s Friday and our cleaning lady is coming), and walk downstairs to feed the animals and then get my paraphernalia (i.e. phone, keys, sunglasses and my sneakers). It takes no more than 2 minutes and when I walk into the kitchen, Cecile (I presume) has decided to start off her morning with an inside wee. I frantically clean up the mess before I open the door and the dogs run out, oblivious to any potential threat of a car driving by. I secretly wish one would get hit and there would be one less worry in our family.

But the street is empty and as I reach the park, it’s completely deserted. I walk with brisk strides, trying to reclaim some of the lost time from this morning. It takes about 10 minutes, and when I’m home I grab my bike keys and head for the gym. It’s very unexcited as I watch the profession of a Cobra catcher on National Geographic whilst killing the cross trainer. It feels good getting my aggressions out on a piece of equipment that can’t defend itself!

A coffee for Reinout, another set of laundries and I’m about 20 minutes late for my train. An in-and-out shower, quick brush of my hair, 5 minutes make-up and clothes from yesterday and I’m ready to go. Last check… “Where the fuck are my sunglasses?”

Finally on the bus!

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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Sebastian got sent home today. With a slight fever and a cranky mood he was not welcome anymore at the daycare. Reinout sent me a clip documenting the evidence….

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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17.39. I’ve known him for exactly three days, 17 hours and 34 minutes. I try to calculate the exact amount of hours this would mount up to but fail. Hours always sound more impressive. As long as they go beyond the number 48. He’s standing in front of me, frying up an improvised risotto using whatever leftovers are available. It doesn’t amount to much, but it’s either that or a large pack of M&M’s. I casually pop a yellow, chocolate coated peanut, offering him one too. He shrugs, says he doesn’t like them.

“So why did you buy them?” I ask.
“I didn’t.”
He leaves it at that. My imagination is running wild and after a pregnant pause I can’t hold back.
“So who did?”
“A girl I met some time ago.” “They’ve been there for ages” he adds.

I wish I never brought up the subject. My head is filled with questions. He asks me to open a bottle of wine, and I’m relieved to be provided with such simple, yet effective distraction. I pour a glass, watching it condense in the heat. A drop of water forms and runs slowly down the stem of the glass to be united with its base and eventually the table. I pour a second glass, this time for myself, and place it on an already existing wine stain. The glass fits the red circle perfectly on an otherwise smudged, stained and burnt dining room table. It’s some cheap wood. Not the solid oak we have at home.

He picks up the glass and propose a toast.

“To friends”
“To lovers” I am quick to counter. He waits for a moment and smiles.
“To lovers”
His voice is deep, dark, with an undetermined accent. Eastern Europe, maybe Balkan. He doesn’t want to say. It’s another part of the illusion that goes by the name of Milan. Like the football team. I haven’t met any of his friends, although he gets frequent calls (always in English). All his books are in English too, ranging from Paolo Coelho, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Arturo Pérez-Reverte and Umberto Eco to John Connolly and Jeffery Deaver. They say you can tell the person by his choice of reading. If so we must be soulmates….

The apartment is spartan. A couch and two armchairs made out of bamboo, a TV on a small glass table, a dining room table, doubling as an iron board (hence a number of burn marks), three functional chairs, one broken one and a rocking chair. All in the same cheap bamboo material. Someone either had very little money, or very little taste. Probably both. Which is in fact neither…

The bedroom is even less furnished. A queen-size mattress, slightly alleviated on some sort of frame. Similar design to an IKEA bed I seem to recall. A computer table hosting a an old desktop PC, and a standing lamp. The mattress is clad with a single sheet, roughly draped over three quarters of the surface.

There are two big fans, one in the livingroom and another in the bedroom. A third, smaller one stands unplugged in the entrance. I presume it to be broken.

—
Milan announces that the risotto is ready. He places my plate on the table.
“Can I sit here?” I not so much ask but presume it to be a wish instantly granted. The rocking chair keeps my nerves at bay as I continuously puff on a Dunhill Menthol. He offers me the plate and I kill the cigarette, stomping it out on a makeshift ashtray from a broken plate.

Food is delicious. I add it to a growing list of positive attributes of my new-found lover, and against an equally diminishing one of my fiance at home. I quickly dispel any thoughts of him. It will ruin a beautiful moment. Like in a film. And as ‘All I Want’, by Air comes on the speakers, the scene is complete.
“I want you.” I say.
“But you are getting married.”
“Fuck the wedding, fuck marriage. I want you.” I say this almost pleadingly, as to make a poignant statement of no return.

He turns away, cleaning up a dishevelled kitchen table. Haphazardly shovelling empty cigarette packs and a stack of bills that are way past their due date. I look at the new composition., for a moment an improvised still-life, before he puts down a steaming plate of risotto and drench it with HP sauce. It appears to be making a blunt statement of what may become my future. Or not. I weigh my options whilst fiddling with my fork, pushing around grains of rice and crumbles of minced meat, until they’ve been rearranged into a circle. Hunger becomes a secondary concern. Tomorrow I’m suppose to be on a plane home. A mental note to myself to send off that post card to John…

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I start feeling better. My throat is less sore and I’m beginning to loose that husky, sexy voice of mine. A deep Marlene Dietrich whisper, crossing my lips whenever necessary. And it’s not a lot. A save my vocal cords to the most essential of occasions. But this pleasant side effect is starting to dwindle, alas…

Reinout comes home sometime after the hour has turned 6. I’m upstairs in the guestroom, doing some minor emailing after three days of utter neglect of my inbox. Reinout suggests we go for dinner, get me some fresh air as he puts it. The thought is tempting. And given my plan to be back in the office tomorrow, not all too impossible to say no to.

I agree to my husband’s cortious offer. We walk to a steak restaurant only a couple of hundred of metres down the road. Two Chardonnays and a main course later, and we are in full discussion over my latest interest, European colonialism, social Darwinism and the repercussions on today’s society - globalism and terrorism alike. I go on giving a full encyclopedic recap over King Leopold II of Belgium’s brutal venture into Congo (Congo Free State under his rule) and the subsequent annexation to Belgium in the early 20th century (Belgian Congo). The origin of concentration camps and the use of machetes in guerrilla warfare. Admittedly not very nice topics, but for once I feel completely in my moment…oblivious to the drifters and locals alike walking past our table.

For once Reinout seem marginally interested too, giving me confidence I must be doing something right. It ends in the sphere of US and International politics and I realise then I should have become a historian, or possibly a journalist…

Beautiful scene over the Haarlem bridge

(3 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I’m down with a flu…again! Coming to think of it, I must have been ill at least a handful in as many months. Sebastian is the culprit here, coming home with all kinds of deceases from the creche. I started feeling the usual symptoms such as a sore throat and ear pain mid week, but ignored it. In the worst case scenario I would be spend my weekend in bed recuperating.

Friday evening approached. I had waited for one and a half hours for the bus that never came, and eventually resorted to a very expensive taxi ride (EUR 125;-!!!) back to Haarlem. My husband was kind enough to pick up the tab as I stumbled out on wobbly legs on the Grote Markt (town square). A few wines later and some pastries which doesn’t agree with my Atkins diet, I started to feel even worse, so we headed back home.
I went to bed around midnight and woke up at 8 am from Sebastian. I pulled a pillow over my head but when that didn’t work, I asked Reinout to take the morning shift and I headed upstairs to the guestroom. There I stayed for most of the day, watching African Colonial history and Afro American history (a very recent interest which I acknowledge I hold huge gaps in).

Today I took the morning shift, letting Reinout sleep. I still feel bad though, like my body has gone through a train crash. After a shower (I didn’t have one yesterday!) I’ve now headed upstairs again leaving Reinout to entertain Sebastian. Together with some movies and a cup of honey tea spiked with cointreau I’m now preparing for a date with myself. Life can only get better…

Movies with me, myself and I

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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In the car on my way to work. My husband is driving whilst I go through my emails having come in through the night. I like to keep a clean inbox, at the most 10 emails, and preferably no more than 5. My response time is swift, and the last thing I do before I go to bed is to have a run through and answer the quick ones.

—
I head for the gym, after changing Sebastian, giving him a bottle and putting in the first batch of laundry. Can’t find my bike keys so I end up being 20 minutes behind schedule. Everything is a schedule in our house, from wake-up to bed time. There is little time for improvisation besides the occasional take-away which is a necessary evil when I get home from work at 8 pm.

When I get back from the gym I take out all the garbage bags (at least 10). I see it as additional work-out for my arms and cheerfully walk back and fourth. Between batches I power on the coffee machine for a cappuccino for my husband. Then the animals get fed and lastly closing off with the last garbage bags.

When I come upstairs with my cappuccino, Reinout sits on the bed. He looks defeated. Deflated might be even a better description. He takes the coffee without a word. I sense something is not as it should. Sebastian runs about, spreading a stinky smell. He’s not well and everything that he gets in gets out. We change him, give him a bath and I get back to the next batch of laundry before heading for the shower. I am now way behind schedule but luckily Reinout has a meeting in my office so I can catch a lift. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in before 11.

In the car my husband leans over to give me a kiss. “Shall we try to get a baby sitter this weekend and book us a spa?” The idea sounds brilliant. I’m tired too. With over 6 weeks until our holiday I need to summon up strength from somewhere (I don’t know where!) to go on. I drop our babysitter an email. “Can you please alleviate us for the weekend?”

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I wake up early. Not from the alarm clock but from Sebastian wailing. It’s 6.30 am, 10 minutes before scheduled time, so I hastily wrap myself up in an overused, coffee strained dressing gown and head down to the kitchen to make another bottle. Sebastian eagerly takes it together with some pieces of Lego and seems happy with the paraphernalia on offer.

I continue to drag myself, first into the bathroom getting my running gear on and then downstairs for my ipod and keys. It’s not chilly outside, but somewhat windy. Not ideal conditions, but good enough. It’s to be my first run in 6 weeks. The first few hundred metres are going well. I cautiously gain confidence as I run past the police station with only a few stops. But as I continue to run my fatigue is starting to kick in. I curse myself for not having the stamina to continue, and in an intersection I contemplate taking a short-cut. My determination wins and I continue my usual route.

The last couple of hundred metres are going fairly well knowing the end goal is in sight. But as I get onto the pavement along the Kenaupark I trip and fall head over heel. In any other circumstances I would have caught myself on my hands but my hands and arms give in and I sort of slide along the rough surface. It hurts, it burns and tears are welling up. Floods of tears, as I’ve just been through a major assault. A woman on a bike stops and asks what’s the matter. She says she’s in a hurry but just wants to make sure I’m ok. I tell her I am and ask her politely to leave. I don’t want further indignation from this morning intermezzo.

I limp back home and as soon as I close the door behind me I start crying even more. They say when it rains it pours, and the situation appears to confirm this rule. I pull down my trousers and there are scrub marks on both knees, one bleeding more than the other. I cry even more at this sight and walk upstairs with heavy steps. My husband is wondering what is going on. After my explanation filled with sobs and all, he directs me to take a shower and clean my wounds. I happily oblige. As I let the water shed the blood, the dirt, the tears I wonder if I’m not more hurt on the inside than the outside…

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