Dutchwomen are known for being tall.
Clean. Really clean.
I am a Dutchwoman.
I can do tall. I used to be 5’7”. And a bit.
But the shrinking economy is doing something odd to yardsticks. They’ve gone all stingy and now they say I’m 5’6’. And nothing.
Did you know not all the Dutch are blonde? Oodles and oodles have dark hair, or hair that was dark a decade or so ago.
That clean part, now—
My mother-in-law is a Dutchwoman. She cleans her bathtub on hands and knees and then dismantles the drain to clean down it.
Not because it is plugged. Not because anybody will ever look down her drain.
But because dirt might have assembled there, all smug, thinking she could never reach it.
She cannot shower in peace knowing something grubby lurks just beyond her toes.
Please, dear mother-in-law, don’t peer down my drains. Don’t pull the vegetable drawer from my fridge to see if rogue spills escaped detection. They did. Crumbs cluster on my butter dish and dust lives in peace for weeks—sometimes months—under the spare bed.
Do I scrub my front stoop? Do you need to ask?
The Dutch can be fabulously thrifty. (Some might even say tight.) And while I can brag up garage sale finds and 90% off end-of-season deals, I’ll invite ten people for dinner and buy enough food for the US Olympic team. And store the leftovers till they get freezer burn and I don’t feel as guilty dumping them.
In spite of my hundred-proof Dutch blood, I make a poor showing. But when my credit card bill showed a $99 yearly charge for ‘The Tuesday Prude’ where I post, at best, once each season, something in that sluggish Netherlands blood began to trickle, then swirl, then positively surge through my veins.
Almost a hundred dollars for something I never use?
This shall not be.
The plan is to blog more. Maybe, like the dirt in my mother-in-law’s drain, no one will ever see. But I’ll rest easier knowing ninety-nine dollars didn’t just chug down the pipes and into the blog sewer.