OLD EMAILS

So I'm cleaning out my emails, and I've decided that, since I haven't written anything here in a while, I am going to post some here as a kind of sad catch-up attempt.

Here's one from a few months ago:


So anyway, Mike was in the grocery store (kind of Safeway, only they've just been bought out by something called Morrison's) the other day, and he saw, in the "impulse buying" section next to the till, black thong underwear in my size, with a "diamante" clasp on the back holding the bum string to the waist strings.

He found this so hilarious that he bought me a pair. You see, we had been discussing super high-class lingerie stores, and so he felt the need to buy me the "classy" thong you can get "2 for £3.99" in the IMPULSE BUY section next to the cash register at Morrison's.

He made this big deal about how he had gotten me this GREAT super-surprise present.

So anyway, this was a really funny joke. And, of course, the 'big fashion' is to have your thong sticking up out of the back of your trousers. So, I had this GREAT IDEA that I would take the joke to the next level by ACTUALLY WEARING said thong underwear into the office, and at some point during the day, lifting the back of my shirt so that he could see that I was wearing this OUTRAGEOUSLY TACKY item of clothing.

So this has got to be the most uncomfortable thing ever created. I have been complaining all day about the "permanent bumcrack damage" that I am quite probably going to sustain for this, as it turns out, VERY UNFUNNY JOKE.

Mike, on the other hand, has been repeatedly laughing at my discomfort, saying that I am clearly COMPLETELY INSANE, and taking NO RESPONSIBILITY for the fact that I will probably have to have the diamante "gems" that have become embedded in my nether regions SURGICALLY REMOVED.

About an hour ago, I had to go to the bathroom, and there was a diamante EXPLOSION. I now have no underwear at all. Well, sort of, as this offensive article of clothing now resides within my right trousers pocket.

It's so unfair.

MEETING THE PARENTS, ALTERNATE VERSION

Michael (not the boyfriend, Michael, obviously) asked me if I was going to post this email from my sister, so I guess I have to:


-----Original Message-----
From: Natalie
Sent: 25 April 2005 07:51

Subject: opium dreams

I've been on morphine for five days (had some sort of poisoning), am now easing off of it, and of course can't get to sleep for all the visions filling my head. I clearly saw Bethel going up to Coooombria to meet Mike's parents, and the scene at the front door was thus:

[door opens]

Mike: Mum. Dad. This is Simone.

[silence, while both parents gather their wits and begin thinking furiously, "Mustn't mention breasts, must NOT mention breasts."]

Mike: Mum? Dad?

Dad: [heartily] So nice you've arrived, so nice! We were just carving the chicken and didn't know if you'd want leg or, er, white . . . er.

Mum: [saving Dad] But come in! Heavens! Simone, I do hope we'll be bosom friends . . .

Dad: Ack! Garl! Snurf! [choking attack goes on for some minutes]

Mum: [continuing] . . . and of course I knew you'd want to see Mike's baby pictures, so I retrieved them from the cedar chest--Ark! Garl! Snurf! [pats self and Dad on back] I do think we're coming down with something.

Mike: [catching on] Or coming abreast of something.

Bethel: Did you say there was chicken?

QUOTE OF THE DAY

I'd rather have a bigot think I'm a lesbian than have a lesbian think I'm a bigot.

OH! ANOTHER THING!

When Michael crosses the border into Cumbria (where Ulverston is), his accent becomes COMPLETELY UNINTELLIGIBLE. I am serious. He swears up, down, and sideways that he does not sound any differently when speaking to his parents or leaving London or any other time, but HE LIES.

We were playing Scrabble one night, and he was trying to tell me what letters he had, and I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE. I literally could not understand a word he was saying.

Next time, I am going to get a recording.

MEETING THE PARENTS

Over the weekend, I went Up North to meet the boy's parents.

I know I haven't mentioned the boy much, since I just started writing this again, but I will tempt fate by saying that he gives every appearance of becoming a permanent fixture. We're well-suited, he is a REALLY decent person, and he treats me REALLY REALLY well.

Honestly, nobody is more shocked by all of this than me.

So, since we've been seeing each other for a while now, it was time to visit the parents and make the official introductions.

We've tried making trips to visit his parents before, but Things keep conspiring against us. Last time, we made it all the way to the motorway before Michael turned to me and mentioned that perhaps we should turn around, since he would rather spend the next two days projectile vomiting and, uh, you know, engaging in other bathroom-based activities.

(That's not actually what he said. It just so happened that I'd had this projectile vomiting virus, and I obviously passed it on to him. We share everything together. So romantic!)

But this weekend, we finally made it all the way there.

Michael's parents live in a town called Ulverston, which is, well, North. Laurel and Hardy came from there, evidently, and Beatrix Potter lived nearby. Its other claim to fame is that there were some Chinese cockle-gatherers who were drowned there recently.

His parents are really, really lovely people. (I'm sure they had nothing to do with the deaths of the cockelers.)

So, Friday we decided to go to this Wild Animal Park just outside of the city. It's basically a zoo in which half of the animals live in zoo-like quarters, while the other half are allowed to roam free in various areas.

One of these areas contains lemurs, kangaroos, peacocks, wallabies, and emus. They have big signs outside saying, "DO NOT LET THE ANIMALS OUT OF THE GATES."

This turns out to be almost pointless. The ring-tailed lemurs have decided that they want to go to other places, and nothing will stop them--certainly nothing as silly as electric fences and gates. They seem to come and go at will. There is a line on the path into the park with a sign that says, "You must return outside of this line to smoke," and sure enough, right outside of the line are two or three lemurs, ostensibly bumming fags.

The owners and operators of the park swear that no animals ever escape. (I guess there was one incident when they first got the rhinos and the fences weren't strong enough to keep them inside, and the resulting rhino-related freeway accident was a bit of a PR crisis.) The farmers in the surrounding areas tell a different story.

Evidently, they have a problem keeping their washing on clotheslines, because the macaws are fond of clothespins, and keep stealing them. But worse yet, several of the farmers have come outside to find lemurs RIDING THEIR COWS.

I am not making this up.

I now desperately need to live on a farm outside of this wildlife park, and I need to own at least one cow.

At any rate, we bought little bags of food to feed the various feedable animals in the zoo: namely, the ducks, kangaroos, wallabies, and emus.

The wallabies were a bit skittish, so I just put some food on the ground and waited. Denied! Then I fed the ducks a bit--ducks are generally a sure thing as far as snack-provision goes. Success!

Feeling better about myself (the rejection of the wallabies had stung), I went on to the kangaroos, who similarly spurned my snacks.

That was when I was mugged by an emu.

I know this sounds unlikely, but it actually happened. Emus are BIG. They can be SCARY. They have SEEN THESE LITTLE ZOO-PROVIDED FOOD BAGS and they KNOW WHAT IS IN THEM.

So when I saw an emu, I poured a little food into my hand, and held it out for the giant bird. The bird just looked at me scornfully. "Oh, please. What paltry offering is this?"

This is when the emu turned his nose up at the food in my left hand, and STOLE THE ENTIRE FOOD BAG OUT OF MY OTHER HAND.

I am sure there is some kind of lesson in all of this, but I'm not sure what it is.

Hmmm. What else?

Oh, yes. When we got to the otter enclosure, it was completely empty. We thought they must have moved them indoors or something.

A bit later, Michael pointed out some holes that some burrowing creature had obviously made, but we didn't make the connection--not until we got to the bear enclosure.

There, inside the bear area, were two otters, frolicking about. One of them had a little nut in one of his paws that he was obviously trying to carry while running about, so he was sort of limping on three legs. Those were the only two otters we saw--I don't know if their compatriots had become Bear Snacks, or if those two ever made it home.

Saturday was St. George's Day. There is a little festival in the town centre commemorating the event, complete with a reenactment of St. George coming in on a white horse and rescuing the Damsel in Distress that has been tied up by Persons of Hench.

It was a really cute and typical Small-Townish kind of event. There were little face-painting booths, a contest to see who could guess the weight of a Rib Roast, and a Punch and Judy Show.

The best part, of course, was the reenactment. The main characters were mostly big fish in the little town pond--one of the local realtors, the mayor, etc. The funniest part, of course, was that St. George was played by a woman. Why? Because they had to give her the part, as she was the only one who owned a white horse.

In the end, the crowd spooked the white horse so badly that they had to tie it up a block away, and St. George had to proceed the rest of the way on foot.

So that was St. George's Day.

Later that evening, I met a couple of Michael's friends at a pub. Post-meeting conversation with Michael:

Me: So is she [the woman in the couple] still good friends with your ex-girlfriend?

Michael: Yes. Last time I was up here, she was still mad at me for breaking up with her, and wouldn't speak to me.

Me: Oh. So I guess your ex-girlfriend will get a full run-down on this evening.

Michael: Don't be silly. I'm sure she'll wait for at least an hour before telephoning her.

They were actually quite nice, and the woman in question didn't say anything nasty or shoot daggers at me or poke me with pointy sticks or anything.

The next day, we went to, um, the little town with the Beatrix Potter museum in it. There was a bit of a brou-ha-ha when deciding how to get there.

Eventually it was decided that we would take a little steam train to a steamboat, and then ride across the lake to the town, have a drink at a pub (one that Dickens used to hang out at) and then go on to the museum.

It was on the steam train that I realised that Michael is, in fact, his father's son.

Riding on the train: Me, Michael, Michael's parents, his 4-year-old nephew, Ben, and his 9-year-old niece, Katie.

When we bought the tickets, the man selling them to us gave Ben a little button and said, "This button means that you're in charge today, and you have to make sure that everyone behaves."

Ben took this job very seriously. When we got on the train, he asked his grandmother, "Does the person who wears the button have to listen for the train whistle?" and other pertinent questions.

Eventually, Michael's father turned to Ben and said, "You know, the person who is in charge has to buy everyone an ice cream."

Ben looked panicked.

"Really? Really? I didn't know that. I didn't know that when I took the button...I don't want to do this today!"

Then, Michael's father hid one of Ben's toys, and had the kid look for it for ages.

This whole parentage thing becomes clear to me now.

When we got to the other side of the lake, we went to the pub and had a nice beverage. When it was time to go to the museum, Michael realised that he *could* go to the museum...or he could stay at the pub and have another pint.

This is how all of the male members of the party (except for Ben) ended up staying at the pub, while all of the female members of the party went to the museum.

The museum was cute and lovely. The trip back, complete with ice cream that was *not* purchased by Ben, was lovely. Mike's family, friends, and family friends were lovely.

And that was my trip to meet the parents.

POLISH HOLIDAYS

SO!

More on the Polish holiday.

I decided that I wanted to go somewhere for my birthday, so I started pricing little weekend packages. Then I realised that my birthday was the Wednesday after Easter, which meant that if I went over Easter, I'd have a four-day weekend without having to take any time off!

Yay!

The bad news was that EVERYONE had a four-day weekend, and so most places would be tourist hell. "Most places," meaning "most places people would want to travel," meaning "most sunny places."

This is how I ended up choosing Poland.

Who goes to Poland for Easter?

Well, me. But hardly anyone else.

So I booked this weekend trip, and they kept messing up my reservations. First, they booked the flight to Krakow and a hotel in Prague. Uh..? Then I got that sorted out, and the inbound flight was cancelled, etc. etc.

My final phone call to the travel agent went something like this:

Me: So you're absolutely sure that these flight vouchers will be accepted by the airlines, even though they have entirely different times and dates on them?

TA: Yes, absolutely sure. They'll just look at the confirmation number.

Me: Okay. So can you just double-check to make sure that we are now booked into the Chopin Hotel in Krakow? I was supposed to get a confirmation slip in the mail, but one hasn't arrived.

TA: No, it looks like you're booked into the Choppin' Hotel. Do you want me to...?

Me: No, no, that's fine.

hee!

The trip turned out to be really good. Most of my photos, which will be online soon, I promise, were of funny signs and menus. Favorite item off of the hotel menu: Tubes of Calmar's farce in a sweat and sour sauce. I still have no idea what this means.

So.

FRIDAY/SATURDAY:

We caught a taxi from the airport. Five minutes into the journey, the driver turned around and said, "Sprechen sie Deutsches?" and when I said no, he said, "Are you going to Auschwitz tomorrow?"

!

Five minutes in the country, and people are already speaking German to me and trying to send me to a concentration camp.

Anyway, neither of us speaks Polish. My father taught me how to say one sentence: Give me a kiss. This is not a sentence that you want to be saying to complete strangers on a daily basis. So, really, this isn't a great deal of help.

But, you know, half of the fun of being in a foreign country is trying new things; specifically, Foreign Snacks. So, for example, I went to the breakfast buffet at the hotel, and when I got to the part where there were little butter packets and things, I took four or five little packets that I didn't understand, and brought them back to the table. It was like a little Christmas. Oooo, I wonder--is it jam? Relish?

The honey was nice, but there was this one little container that had what was either some kind of pate or cat food. I ate it, and then spent the rest of my time wondering which I had eaten, and whether others were secretly mocking me. But I had a cunning plan: I would bring back a container of it, and give it to a friend of mine whose wife speaks Polish. Then, I could find out what it was.

Later, we went to the market. Everyone there had baskets full of lace, what looked like willow branches, and food items. Baskets! Why?! I didn't know. But I felt strongly that *I* needed a basket. I mean, what if I found myself in a cathedral somewhere, and everyone else got out their baskets, and suddenly I knew that you were supposed to have a basket right then, and I didn't have one?! A wicker-based faux pas of epic proportions! The world as we know it might come to an end.

So I finally found a woman who was wandering through the market and buying things with which to assemble a basket. So I followed her, and got the same things she did.

After I had the basket, branches, and lacy bits, it was time to put food items in it. I saw other people had bread rolls, so I went off to find some bread rolls. Success! There was a stall selling rolls. I went, and gestured that I wanted two. Somehow, these two small rolls came to 24 zlotys, which is somewhere in the neighborhood of $6. This seemed a bit excessive, since everything else was amazingly cheap, but I paid it, and then Michael mocked me for being a sucker. The conversation went something like this:

Michael: They're back there right now laughing at you. Stupid tourist. She spent all that money on these little rolls. Ha ha.

Me: Well, what was I supposed to do?! [thoughtful pause] You know, they're awfully heavy. I wonder if they're stuffed with something. [picks them upand smells them] You know, they kind of smell like smoked salmon.

Michael: Well, if they *are* stuffed with smoked salmon, that would certainly explain the price.

So anyway, we eventually went back to the hotel, and I realised that, well, it was the day before Easter, uh, duh, that would be why people had BASKETS. I then read up on it and found out that people bring the baskets to be blessed by the priest--the market is outside the front doors of a large cathedral. Mystery solved!

Curiosity was now killing me, so I broke open one of the bread rolls. Which turned out not to be bread at all, but a large-ish smoked cheese. I had just bought two somewhat large smoked cheeses. Michael, of course, nearly soiled himself laughing. He seemed to think that nobody else on the planet could ever possibly buy cheese thinking it was bread. This was most uncharitable of him, as I would bet this sort of thing happens to people ALLTHE TIME.

SUNDAY:

On Easter, the entire country of Poland shuts down. We eventually decidedto go to the Jewish neighborhood, reasoning that things there wouldn't close on Easter. We were right. I won't write anything about that, because it was rather emotional. Suffice it to say that there were over 60,000 Jewish people in Krakow prior to WWII, and now there are maybe 150.

At any rate, you know how they say that your odds of dying in the taxi on the way to the airport are higher than being killed in a plane crash? I never really believed that until I went to Poland. This is as much as needs to be said about my return to the airport the next morning. Also, at 6 am, you cannot find a cup of coffee in Krakow to save your life. You can, however, purchase vodka in large quantities. This is Poland.

The pilot almost crashed the plane into another plane on the way back, but other than that, things were all right, and I made it home in one piece.

The next morning at work, I gave the pate and/or catfood to the aforementioned coworker.

Later that evening, I received a text message:

Glen: Were you aware that that stuff you gave me in the little pot was pate made from baby chicks?

Me: ACK! ACK! Are you serious?!

Glen: Yes, that cute little chick pic on it wasn't just a logo.

I told this story to my sister on the telephone, and said, "I am so horrified! Who eats baby chicks, for heaven's sake?!" to which she replied,"Uh, evidently, YOU do."

So that was my birthday weekend. On the actual day, Michael threw me asurprise party, and, among other things, adopted the pygmy hippos at the zoo for me. (Because they have been showing pictures of baby hippos in the news and I keep saying that I wish *I* had a baby hippo.)

Not so bad, I must say.

SUMMARY

I've decided to start writing this again, for the simple fact that I am no longer going slowly insane.

It was really tough there for a while--pretty much everyone I encountered was either psychotic or just nasty, and it was a bit like waking up in a parallel universe in which all of this was somehow the norm. Reading some of my old blog entries, it's obvious just how much I was trying to convince myself that everything was all right.

At any rate, now it is.

Brief summary of the last two years: had labyrinthitis for about six months (doctor actually thought I probably had a brain tumor), heavy drugs. Got better. Slipped a disc, couldn't walk for another nine months or so, had to go to an orthopedist and osteotherapist, six months of rehab with a physiotherapist, and now I'm almost back to normal.

Have some very good friends on both sides of the ocean now, and a pet bunny named Dave. The job is fine--just as annoying as every job has always been since the beginning of time.
Have an American roommate, an English boyfriend, and a British car. Recently took a Polish holiday.

End of summary.