| Lift With Your Crotch... |
| According to recent news, women are consistently more likely to steal than men, and with new tactics. Did you know about Crotch Walking? Taken directly from Associated Content.com: Shoplifting Statistics and Tactics explains it as, “Crotch walking is a theft tactic that is cleverly performed by women. They simply wear a full dress or skirt into the store, place an item between their thighs, and walk out of the business like it is any other normal shopping day. Women with stronger thighs have been known to shoplift larger ticket items like electronics.” To think I could have been using my "stronger thighs" to simply carry things, all these years. |
maandag 25 januari 2010
haha, mevrouw mag ik even onder uw rok kijken?..
die polen toch weer, die hebben ook altijd geluk, hè...
'Geen boete voor Poolse verkeersovertreders'
BREDA - Het Centraal Justitie Incasso Bureau (CJIB) zou tienduizenden geregistreerde verkeersovertredingen van voertuigen met een Pools kenteken onbehandeld laten. Dat zeggen VVD-ers Charlie Aptroot en Fred Teeven.
Dit meldt Dagblad BN/De Stem vandaag.
Volgens het ministerie van Verkeer en Waterstaat kunnen kentekengegevens niet met de Poolse autoriteiten worden uitgewisseld, omdat dat in strijd is met de privacywetgeving. Om dit probleem op te lossen, moet Nederland een speciaal verdrag met Polen sluiten en dat is op korte termijn niet aan de orde, aldus het ministerie.
Aptroot vindt de houding van het ministerie 'belachelijk'.
"Het is toch niet te begrijpen dat Nederlanders wel worden beboet en buitenlandse verkeersovertreders niet. De Polen weten dat ook en dus gedragen zij zich als beesten op de weg."
Volgens het ministerie van Verkeer en Waterstaat kunnen kentekengegevens niet met de Poolse autoriteiten worden uitgewisseld, omdat dat in strijd is met de privacywetgeving. Om dit probleem op te lossen, moet Nederland een speciaal verdrag met Polen sluiten en dat is op korte termijn niet aan de orde, aldus het ministerie.
Aptroot vindt de houding van het ministerie 'belachelijk'.
"Het is toch niet te begrijpen dat Nederlanders wel worden beboet en buitenlandse verkeersovertreders niet. De Polen weten dat ook en dus gedragen zij zich als beesten op de weg."
25/01/10 10u08
zondag 24 januari 2010
What is To Write Love on Her Arms?
To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.
The vision is that we actually believe these things…
You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.
more www.twloha.com
The vision is that we actually believe these things…
You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.
more www.twloha.com
To Write Love On Her Arms
Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.
woensdag 20 januari 2010
donderdag 14 januari 2010
wat is die plek dan? of plekje...
It's an old joke that the G spot is a myth, but now kill- joy scientists in Britain claim it doesn't exist!
After carrying out the widest ranging research ever undertaken into the elusive G, the team at King's College London reckon the sexual pleasure zone could be a figment of some women's imaginations - or something dreamed up by magazines or sex therapists.
The way they carried out the research involved identical twins. Identical twins share all their genes, while non-identical pairs share 50% of theirs. If one identical twin reported having a G-spot, this would make it far more likely that her sister would give the same answer. But no such pattern emerged, suggesting the G-spot is a matter of the woman’s subjective opinion. So it's all in the mind and nothing physiological at all according to them. I get the reason for using twins, but the findings then fail to take into account different sexual technique, and unless both twins had the same sexual partner, how would they know if they were having the same type of sex?
While 56% of women overall claimed to have a G-spot, they tended to be younger and more sexually active.
The findings have been criticized, not least by Beverly Whipple, emeritus professor at Rutgers University, New Jersey, who helped to popularize the G-spot, named after Ernst Gräfenberg, a German scientist who claimed to have discovered the elusive erogenous zone in 1950.
Whipple found G-spots in a study of 400 women and has written a number of books on the phenomenon.
The quest for the G-spot will not be abandoned. The Journal of Sexual Medicine, which is publishing Burri’s and Spector’s work this week, is planning a debate, with publication of research from the pro and anti G-spot camps. What do you reckon? Does this mean an end to feelings of inadequacy for women who've never had THAT feeling, or will it give partners a scientific excuse to stop chasing the thrill? And what about those women who really do have something sensational going on down there? are they kidding?
maandag 11 januari 2010
Illusions, illusions...
nou, had ik een "date, die geen date was" vorige week met een ex.
Het voelde wèl als een date de week ervoor..., ondanks dat ik getrouwd ben.
Dat komt natuurlijk omdat ik emotioneel gezien totaal ben verwaarloosd de afgelopen jaren...
Ik leefde er echt naartoe, da afspraak was met een ex, welke ik een aantal jaar uit het oog was verloren en met wie ik weer contact had gezocht.Hij was mijn eerste echte liefde, 20 jaar geleden. (OMG wat word ik oud) Toen werd eht niks, ik was 15 hij 23, door het leeftijdsverschil? Ik weet het niet meer. Vergeten kon ik hem in elk geval niet, een paar jaar later kregen we weer wat, dat duurde wel een tijdje. Uiteindelijk ging het uit, om de redenen die tijdens onze afspraak weer duidelijk werden...
Nou, anyway, ik was eerder in het restaurant dan hij en was met mijn moeder aan de telefoon, ik dacht dat ik hem aan zag komen lopen dus ik zeg: daar komt ie. O, nee, dat is hem niet...
Was het hem dus wel! Hij was ououd geworden, grijs en minder verzorgd dan vroeger, hij zag er altijd zo lekker fris uit. Zelf ben ik natuurlijk ook niet meer zo jong, om de een of andere reden was hij in mijn dromerij-en nog steeds in de 20...
Zo gek, ons weerzien leek in niets op de harlequin-romannetjes romantiek, die ik me voorgesteld had. Het bracht niet de oplossing voor mijn trieste bestaan.
Zelf is hij ook nogal triest, bitter zelfs. Hij zei dat ie vrouwen had afgezworen, want hij had er eigenlijk toch geen goede ervaringen mee. Het zijn eigenlijk allemaal maar een stel egoistische wichten.
uhh, hallo, en ik dan? (ik ben ook een vrouw)
nouja, hij zei dat hij voor mij een zwak heeft. What the F that may mean...
Het ging in ieder geval niet goed met hem, het laatste half jaar begint hij zich weer wat beter te voelen en "kijkt hij weer om zich heen" (naar vrouwen)
Ik wilde hem vragen wat ik voor hem beteken, nou, dat was effe een emmer kouwe drap!! Hij begreep de vraag niet of hij wou er gewoon niet aan, dat kan ook.
In elk geval zijn we niet even belangrijk voor elkaar. Kan ook niet anders, ik snap ook niet waarom ik zou denken dat ik belangrijk voor hem ben geweest, ik ben voor hem een van dé. Hij voor mij mn eerste sexuele ervaring en mn grote verliefdheid. Het verschil in leeftijd weer, goede tip voor onze dochters en jongere zusjes, kies iemand uit voor wie het hetzelfde betekend als voor jou. Tja, jammer goenoeg, hebben we niet zoveel te kiezen, hè, als het om de liefde gaat.
zaterdag 2 januari 2010
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