Sylwester who???

One year ago, I was driving around Warsaw each day and trying to adjust. I'd only been here for a month. I was learning the roads and how to get around without getting myself killed on the streets. I couldn't remember any street names unless they were five letters long or less.

Tamka? Yes.

Jerozolimskie? No.

Solec? Yes.

Marszałkowska? Mickiewicza? No.

While trying to keep my eyes on the road, avoiding mad Polish drivers who routinely changed lanes a full two inches ahead of my front bumper and panicking about Polish drivers bearing down from the rear at 120 kph, I was distracted by the bazillions of billboards dotted all over the city.

Sylwester this, Sylwester that. Sylwester 2008!!

I pondered and wondered, and finally decided that, for New Year's Eve, there was going to be a Times Square type of midnight celebration somewhere, with (perhaps?) the famous Polish rock band, Sylwester, as the main draw. It mystified me, how this band could be playing in so many venues at once, since they were advertised up, down and all around town... but hey, Poles are so enterprising. Perhaps they'd worked something out via satellite transmission.

Imagine my surprise when I learned, weeks later, that Sylwester is the name-day saint for New Year's Eve. So any Sylwester event is a New Year's Eve event.

Duh! Chalk one up for stupiditude.

On the other hand, stupid is as stupid does. You'd think, after centuries of invasions and gunfire and ordnance explosions that the Poles would be sick and tired of the sound of igniting gunpowder. BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG! Because from dawn yesterday, New Year's Eve morning, it was a constant barrage of noise. Firecrackers going off, screamers spinning up into the sky, cherry bombs exploding around the corner. From 9am. It sounded like a frackin' war zone for about 20 hours straight.

I mentioned this to a Polish guy at a New Year's Eve party last night, and he giggled hysterically and said, "Aha! But this is different! Is only one day of the year, not 365!" Ha ha, of course! Now I get it. I guess. Last year I lay awake in bed until about 2am, thinking that I was so happy not to be listening to gunfire (Jo'burg 2005). So I will acknowledge the Polish wisdom shared here -- "Yes, things could be worse. Far worse! So we're celebrating that things are only just as bad as they are!"

And how the Poles do celebrate. We went to a private party filled with champagne and fireworks and karaoke singing peeps -- mostly French and some Poles. As Mr. D said on the way home, "Thank God! Now I can tick that box: French karaoke singing. And the great thing is, I've met my lifetime quota in a single evening!" And then he said, "Hey, did you tell 'em about your blog??" and cackled wickedly. No and no. We never bite the hand that feeds us pours us lovely champagne.

I will say, nothing beats the sight of a passel of drunk-ish French bankers singing Abba's Money, Money, Money.

Yes, it's a rich man's world.



Happy New Year 2009, everyone!

Tomorrow, the winds of change will blow in (thanks to NaBloPoMo's theme, Change, for January). Thirty-one posts in thirty-one days, because of course expateek didn't learn her lesson after the torture fun of November's NaBloPoMo challenge.

And, because expateek has not yet shared her New Year's resolutions with anyone (mainly because they're not written down yet), she will endeavor to share her resolutions with you, beginning tomorrow, and illustrating her essays with photos of The Seven Deadly Socks of Sin. With grateful thanks to Marks & Spencer's men's department.

Ta ta for now.



.

Play therapy, septième édition

Oh, Dr. Owl! I had such a dreadful day yesterday.

Sit down. Sit down, expateek! Please. Calm yourself. Whatever is wrong?




Oh, Dr. Owl, everything was so strange yesterday. I felt so queer!

Go on...

Well, first of all, I was outside yesterday afternoon, and I saw the most beautiful woodpecker crashing about in the back of the garden. It was brilliant -- black and white, with scarlet feathers at its neck and tail. It seemed so strange.

Strange? And why is that, expateek?

Well, our neighbors have just returned from wherever it is that famous Polish movie directors go when they're filming on location, and they've filled up their bird-feeder, so there are jillions of birds of all kinds flitting around. It's all rather disconcerting. I'd been used to having no one around.

No one? Birds aren't people, you know, expateek.

I know, I know, Dr. Owl. Perhaps these therapy sessions have made me feel a bit inter-species-ally confused. Is that a word, Dr. Owl? Inter-species-ally?

I'm afraid not, expateek, but please, carry on.

Okay, well, I felt a bit desolate yesterday. Moving again. All the uncertainty. All the anger about moving countries every four-and-a-half minutes...

expateek, you're exaggerating again....

You're right. Every couple of years then. And then all the angst about le French boss of the bad news. And Satan's minions Human Resources.... So I was out on the balcony, sneaking a cigarette deep in thought, and then there was a massive, I mean massive flock of birds flying far overhead. It must have been five minutes of blackbirds streaming across the sky at sunset. Screeching, cawing, whatever the heck blackbirds do. It was unnerving. Beautiful, but unnerving.

Oh dear, expateek. You are feeling poorly. We birds do migrate, you know. It's totally normal.

Oh, I suppose. *sigh*

expateek, I think we should carry on with today's play therapy. Perhaps in this vulnerable mood, you'll be able to play more freely. More productively. We may be moving into a new phase. Would you like to begin?

Hmmmm. I guess so.

And?

Ok, then...

Le French boss of the bad news is very happy.
He has traveled to California,
where he will be an on-set assistant
for the remake of Hitchcock's The Birds!

Good God, expateek! Are you sure you want to continue with this line of play therapy?

I know what I'm doing, Dr. Owl.

Le French boss of the bad news is
one of the animal handlers for the movie.
After all, he saw Pet Detective with Jim Carrey,
so he knows what's what.




Release the birds, collect the birds.




Feed the birds,
cover the birdcages with chamois drop-cloths at the end of each day's shooting.



Easy. C'est facile!
Especially for someone of his formidable intelligence.
Because after all, he is the most intelligent person in the whole world!
And of course, he is French!
What could possibly go wrong?

So he is caring for the birds. Many species of birds, in fact, because as you remember from the original movie, all sorts of birds mass together and combine forces to attack the townspeople of Bodega Bay. In fact, interpretation of the film is ambiguous, and people disagree as to whether this is a parable about Man v. Nature, or whether it is more of a Greek tragedy with Oedipal nuances. The most appealing theory is that the birds are a concrete reminder that life is ultimately precarious, arbitrary and absurd and quite possibly meaningless. The function of the birds is to remind us that control is an illusion and people who try to maintain that illusion are the ones hardest hit by the unpredictabilities of life.


So you're saying you have some control issues, expateek?


Without a doubt.
Anyway, le boss feeds the birds, he collects the birds.
He releases the birds.
He tells the birds charming little French fairy tales on the lunch break,
because he is so clever and so entertaining.
The birds gather round to hear his sweet tales.




But what is this?

He is trying to gather them back in the cages for the night.

They come closer and closer, and suddenly, hélas!

He has somehow tripped and is on the floor.




The birds swarm over him.




Hey!!! HEY! CUT!!!




Get that one out of here! No Holy Dove! C'mon, man, what were you thinking? Hey Joey, the Holy Dove is on the wrong set. Take him to Set Number Four. They're doing that flick with Mel Gibson about the Holy Land over there. Sheesh.

Okay, Roll It.... and ACTION!




The birds are pecking and pecking!




Stop! Please! Mon Dieu!

But please, I am your friend!




The beating and flapping of wings is so loud!

Louder than the beating of his own heart!




He is bleeding!




His eyes! His eyes!

He can no longer see. He cannot go on. His breath is shallow, shallower.

He gives a last sigh, and voilà. He is gone.

... And we've used up today's allotment of exclamation points.

That's all I got, Dr. Owl, whaddya think?

My God! Dr. Owl! Is that... blood on your beak?



What? What? What are you talking about???

It's countertransference, Dr. Owl! I don't know much about psychiatric theory, but I've read about this on Wikipedia. Dr. Owl!

No, no! NO, expateek! What could you possibly be thinking? Blood! My word! Your imagination has clearly overtaken your senses. I think we'd best finish up now. Perhaps Eugenia Yvette can find you a cold washcloth for your forehead. I think you're delirious. Gah! These hysterical women. All in a little snit about uprooting their households and moving their stuff. Please. The male South African weaver-bird rebuilds his nest over and over again in the space of just a few months. Get a grip, girlfriend! You don't know what suffering is!

Dr. Owl, I just... I don't know... I'm sorry!

That's enough, expateek. I'll see you tomorrow.

Oh Dr. Owl! I didn't mean it! I.. I ...

Goodbye, expateek! This session is over!

... God, that was a close one. I totally need a wee tot of Scotch!
It'll go down well after that delicious breast of clown.

.

Play therapy, sixième fois

Well, expateek, I'm so impressed you know your cardinal numbers
up to at least six in French.



Excuse me, Dr. Owl, but don't you mean ordinal numbers?
You know, numbers indicating the order that things are in? The sixth?


Of course, expateek! Cardinal. Ordinal.
You are a smart bird!


Please, Dr. Owl, it's too early in the morning for ornithological puns.
My breakfast is still settling.


Fine.
Apparently someone got out of the wrong side of the nest today.
*giggle*


Oh for God's sake, Dr. Owl.
Who's the patient here?


You are! You are, expateek.
You must forgive me.
Sometimes my imagination just takes flight.
*snort*


Jeebus, Martha, and Jehosephat.
I think I picked the wrong therapist.


No, no, no, expateek!
I promise. I'm done.
Let's pick up where we left off last time.
What's on your migratory map for today?


Dr. Owllllll....! I'm going to leave....


No. Seriously.
Please begin.
I'm all ears.
Did you know, by the way, that the ears of owls are placed asymmetrically
so they can more effectively triangulate using audial clues,
and thus more easily locate their prey in pitch darkness?
Ah, but I digress. Speak, my dear.


Fine, Dr. Owl! Today, we're off to Australia then! The Great Barrier Reef!


Le French boss of the bad news is so thrilled,
because he has always wanted to do some undersea exploring.
He is flying over 24 hours
to get to ze land down under, where ze women glow and ze men plunder.
Oh, The Eighties. Best songs ever!


But yes, le boss is going to go out on the ocean,
and then see everything under the sea,
just like his hero,
the famous Jacques Cousteau,
the best underwater explorer of all time.
Who, naturellement, was French.
Of course.




First, he must get into the submersible shark cage,




which will be locked shut,




and then he will be lowered into the sea.




So beautiful!




Look!
A familiar looking fish.




And these! Schools of lionfish.




Aren't they so beautiful? Poisonous but lovely.





As the cage settles on the ocean floor,
some animals come to meet this new guest from La France.




Starfish! Squid! Octopus!
Schools of brightly coloured fishes.




Perhaps they have all come to get some management tips
from le French boss of the bad news?
Ah, but he is not sharing these valuable tips.
Because, of course, these fish are not French!
Too bad for them.
It is sad, even these lovely creatures
can never be as wonderful as real French fish.
But never mind.
We must not dwell on the unlucky-ness of others.





Because here is the underwater predator
we have been waiting for!
Look!
Ze shark!




See how he comes sniffing about the edges of the shark cage.




But, oh no! What is this?




Some fool has left the cage latch unlocked!

The shark, with his sharp teeth and powerful jaws,
is lifting the top off the cage!




He is working his way into the cage!




Oh Mon Dieu! O non! It is not possible!




To come so far, halfway around the world,
only to be eaten by a shark!




Such a pity.
The crew on the boat try to help,
but there is nothing to be done.




Ah well. At least, no mess.
Sharks clean up so well after they eat.

*****

Interesting, expateek. I notice, regarding the detail of the unlocked cage, that this could have been an accident, or perhaps it could have been done on purpose. Do you have any insights?

Nope.

expateek!

I mean, No, thank you, Dr. Owl.

That's better, expateek. Do you have anything else to add?

Why, thank you for asking, Dr. Owl! Yes, as a matter of fact, I do! I've once again added an informative moral for the upliftment (is that a word?) of our audience.

No, expateek, upliftment is not a word. But go on.

Okay, here goes!

If you want something done right...




Do it yourself.

.

Play therapy, cinquième fois

Good God, expateek. You're here again?

I thought I told Yvette to keep you the hell away from me
to book you in for later in the afternoon.
Oh well. You're here now.
I suppose we might as well get started.
What have you got for us today?

Well, Dr. Owl, I've been thinking. I'm feeling quite a bit better after all this play therapy. I think it may be having a positive effect. I'm much happier on a day-to-day, even moment-to-moment basis. I think perhaps I've worked out most of my latent patently obvious hostilities toward French executives, corporate politics, and the global financial crisis. I even feel a little more gracious about Satan's minions Human Resources staff. I think it's all coming together now.

In fact, Owl, I decided that since we're being relocated against our wishes so happily to America, that I'd get in the spirit of the thing and do some play work centered around an American theme.

Well, expateek. This is good news. Please, do tell. I'm all ears.

Ok, well...

Le French boss of the bad news is being rewarded for his cost-cutting and heads-a-rolling personnel policies with a fantastic Alaskan holiday! He's never been to America before, and certainly never to Alaska, home of zat sweet fox, Sarah Palin. Wowza. He is so aroused excited inspired by her sexy body provocative hairstyle and librarian's glasses brilliant mind. Phwoar. What a babe.

Perhaps he could even pick up some communication tips from this Ice-Princess of the North. After all, her speeches were so articulate. The interview with Katie Couric! Almost the same as his own brilliant memos out of Paris! A few confusions here and there, but for the most part, totally comprehensible if you already know what the message is meant to be.
Or if you have a very able interpreter at your side.

But sadly, sadly, he will not be able to visit the gorgeous hockey-mom of Wasilla, because The Company has arranged something even better for his entertainment. As if that's even possible, but whatever. He's not complaining, not about an all-expenses paid trip to North America.

It is a just reward for all the stress he's been through lately. It's not easy, you know, to reorganise a complex bureaucracy, to cut heads and to try to undermine the morale of all the non-French employees at the same time. Of course, those poor miserable sods, they cannot help this, that they are not French, and able to benefit from France's ridiculously self-protective labor laws culture and sophistication.

But again, tant pis. C'est la vie, as we love to say in la France.
Not all people on the planet can count themselves as members of such a superior race.

So yes, he will go fishing for the delicious salmon
that are so prevalent in the cold, clear streams of Alaska.

He will catch many big fish, take wonderful photographs,
and all his French executive buddies will be so so envious of his good fortune.

Please carry on, expateek.

Ummm, well. The French boss of the bad news takes a flight from Paris to Chicago, where he connects and flies to Anchorage, Alaska. A local Alaska Air flight brings him to the small outpost of Bethel. From here he flies on to Aniak, and he then hops into a small seaplane that takes him to his destination, a distant lake far out in the beautiful Alaskan wilderness.

Far from home, far from those kvetching underlings who are never satisfied with their miserable little lives. Here, he can forget about all those hundreds of Power Point presentations that he has requested to be ready for the 5th of January. Someone (or many "someone"s) will be working over the Christmas holidays, but it will not be him! He can put all this out of his mind, and relax.

Ahhhh. He gets out his fishing pole and settles in on the snowy bank. Smell that fresh air! The scent of pine! So invigorating after all the dog poo in Paris! Although some wild animals would be a nice change from those poxy little pooches in France. Yip yip yip. It's enough to drive one to absinthe, yes?

Look! He can see the salmon swimming in the clear water!

Quelle miracle! If he were to die on this very day, he could now die happy, after seeing such wondrous wild life. Of course, he will not die today, because he has those PowerPoint slides to look at after the holidays, but no matter! Today is a day to experience Nature.

Hah, yes. Fishing is wonderful, but it can sometimes be a bit boring.
Especially when you are the smartest human being on the planet,
with a brain so intelligent that no one can fully comprehend its brilliance.
Ah well.

Mmmm. So relaxing.

That's funny. I hear something.

What could it be?

A slight crunch of snow, a soft footfall in the powder?

No. Of course not! Imagination! Such a powerful thing, no?

Ha ha, is that you sneaking up behind me, Fishing Guide?
These Alaskans! Such pranksters!
I won't even be startled when...


RRRRROWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRR!



Argggghhhhhhh!!! Aaaaiiiieeeeeeee!

Non! Please! S'il vous plait!
Mon Dieu, bears have such bad breath!
Aaaaiiiieeeeeeee!

Fin

.....

Oh for heaven's sake, expateek, you've done it again. Didn't we talk about homicidal fantasties? Didn't you say you were going to try to make an effort to work through your problems in a slightly different way today?

But Dr. Owl, I have made an adjustment. I have created a moral for the story. Don't you want to hear it?

Hmmm. I suppose. Go ahead, expateek.

Okay, well, here goes.

If you give a bear a fish, he eats for a day.

If you teach a bear to fish,

he eats for a lifetime.

Right, Dr. Owl?

Somehow, expateek, that seems slightly inappropriate and not particularly relevant. A bit of a reach, really. However, our time is up for today, so I guess we'll have to leave it there. I'll see you tomorrow at 11am.


.

Play therapy, fourth attempt

I'm very sorry I had to reschedule yesterday's appointment, expateek.
I trust Yvette was able to contact you to rebook.

Hey, wait a sec, Dr. Owl.
Isn't your receptionist's name Eugenia?

No, no, expateek. I had to let Eugenia go the other day. She was on an expat contract, so she was much too expensive in these days of global financial disaster. I needed to go with a local laborer. I'm sure you know where I'm coming from. Fortunately, I simply contacted Satan's minions Human Resources, and hey presto! A pretty new secretary. She's French, you know. I'm sure she'll be miles ahead of that incompetent slag silly little tart from Surrey.

Excuse me, Dr. Owl, but that's not very professional to assassinate Eugenia's character, is it? I thought you liked her! She always got really good performance ratings on annual reviews, didn't she?

Oh, expateek, you're such an ethical stick-in-the-mud. What difference does it make? I can do whatever I like, because I'm the boss. Besides, I don't think I'll be taking advice from someone who steals bibles and does homicidal play therapy at her psychiatric appointments. Speaking of which, I think we have some work to do. So enough about me. Let's get started!

You may begin, expateek.

Okay... well...

So le French boss of the bad news has not been able
to go on holiday this week after all.

He has been called in at an industrial site,
because some of the programmable controllers
on the production line
seem to have malfunctioned.
He must go and inspect.

Hmmm. Nothing wrong here.
Let me bend over and look a little closer.

C'est impossible!

I can not see anything from this angle.

Excusez-moi, boys,
could you open up the 12-tonne press manually?

Merci.
I think I shall just slide in underneath
and see if I can figure out what's wrong.
Because I am so intelligent,
I am sure I will fix everything
in just a few moments.

Just don't press that red button.

Hey, what's going on?
I said not to press the red button!
Imbéciles!
Wait! I'm stuck! Mon Dieu!
I can't get ouuuuaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhheeeeee eeeeeeeeee! *splurdge*

Quick, men! Use the hand cranks to pry open the press!
He's being crushed!

Ohhhh, man.

He has been crushed.
What a disaster. He's a goner. Look. His eyes.
They've popped right out!

And all the blood coming out of his skull.
Bleurgh. Disgusting.
What an unfortunate end for such an interesting guy.

Guess someone will have to notify his family. Shame.

......

Is that it, expateek? How do you feel about continuing the story? Perhaps notifying the family and showing how sorry and sad you are to be the bearer of such tragic news?

Are you kidding, Dr. Owl? No way. I'm done for the day.

expateek, I am feeling these stories are a bit repetitive. You send le French boss of the bad news on all these exciting, exotic adventures, and then he ends up dead, every single time. Do you not wish to replay some of these stories, and try out some different, non-fatal endings?

Nope.

expateek!

I mean, No thank you, Dr. Owl.

That's better! Well, I think we will need to see you again. But our time's up for today. Check with Eugenia Yvette on your way out. I'll see you again tomorrow, about 11am.



.

Play therapy, troisième édition

As you will remember from the last few sessions, play therapy is a tried and true therapeutic modality in which disturbed children or adults are able to engage deeply felt emotions by enacting homicidal fantasies inner feelings, without causing actual harm to themselves or others. In a supervised setting, a client plays with toys (play-houses, pets inanimate objects, dolls, etc.) to express experiences and feelings through a natural, self-guided, self-healing process.

But come now. Yesterday's little pièce de théâtre? And the one from the day before? Neither of those are what really happened. Let's give this supervised play yet another chance. We think progress is being made, truly. But we think expateek may still be holding back a little. She can be quite guarded and emotionally withdrawn, you know.

Let's begin.

expateek? Proceed, if you will, with your play therapy.

So you see, in fact,
le French boss of the bad news
actually decided to take a river trip down the Zambezi.



He left from the Zambia side,
well north of Victoria Falls,
so no danger whatsoever, really.
He knew better than to mess with Zimbabwe!



It was all going so swimmingly
(so to speak)
until le chef decided to take a little dip.



Although the crew insisted that it was not safe,
due to the hippos and crocs in the water,
le French boss of the bad news insisted
that he, naturellement, knew best.

After all,
why else would he be the boss,
if he did not know better than every single other person on earth?
C'est évident!



Because le chef is such a strong swimmer,
and so utterly clever,
he shall easily evade any hazards.



Sadly, as he slipped off the raft,
some crocodiles sunning on the shore...



noticed his scent (L'Homme, by YSL)
and soon made short work of him.




The three crocs raced from the river's edge
and proceeded to rip him to shreds
in a stomach-turning scene of churning, muddy, thrashing horror.







The people on the shore tried to come to his aid, but Mon Dieu!




It was impossible.



Some spectators just sadly closed their eyes and turned away.




It was that awful.


So sad, really.
So much potential in that guy.
What a mec!
Now he's just another meal for those hungry African crocodiles.
Oh well, The Company can probably find a replacement.
You know how resourceful they are.

And French executives?
Well, actually... just between you and me... they're a dime a dozen.
One quick call to Satan's minions Human Resources, and hey presto!
A replacement at the ready!

We're crying crocodile tears...

The play therapist interrupts.



This is very very good, expateek. I think we are starting to make some real progress.

Our 50 minutes are up for today, so let's pick up the toys, shall we? And please book another appointment with Eugenia at reception. Tomorrow, about 11am? Excellent. See you then.



.

Play therapy, deuxième édition

As you will remember from yesterday's session, play therapy is a tried and true therapeutic modality in which disturbed children or adults are able to engage deeply felt emotions by enacting homicidal fantasies inner feelings, without causing actual harm to themselves or others. In a supervised setting, a client plays with toys (play-houses, pets inanimate objects, dolls, etc.) to express experiences and feelings through a natural, self-guided, self-healing process.

But come now. Yesterday's little pièce de théâtre? That's not really what happened. Let's give this supervised playing thing one more chance. We didn't really give it a whole-hearted try. We think expateek may have been holding back a little.

Because, you see, play therapy is more than just playing with dolls.

One approach to treatment is for play therapists use a type of systematic desensitization or relearning therapy to change disturbing behavior, either systematically or in less formal social settings.

Disturbing behaviour? Oh please, expateek would hardly call anything she does disturbing. Strange? Sure, a little. It's all in how you interpret things. Don't the words "motive" or "just cause" mean anything to you people? These two simple concepts explain much of expateek's mysterious play behaviours.

These processes are normally used with children, but are also applied with other pre-verbal, non-verbal, or verbally-impaired persons, such as slow-learners, or brain-injured or drug-affected persons.

Drug-affected?? Could that mean all the Scotch?

Mature adults usually need much "group permission" before indulging in the relaxed spontaneity of play therapy, so a very skilled group worker is needed to deal with such guarded individuals.

Readers Reader? Put up your hand now if you're willing to pose as a very skilled group worker. Jaywalker? Anyone? Good. Thank you. We can now continue with the play therapy.

Many mature adults find that "child's play" is so difficult and taboo, that most experienced group workers need specially tailored "play" strategies to reach them. Competent adult-group workers will use these play strategies to enable more unguarded spontaneity to develop in the non-childish student.

So. The take-away? We're looking for UNGUARDED SPONTANEITY here.

Coming right up, on a plate!

Because, oh no! Look what's happened!

To celebrate his own promotion to l'archiduc du monde d'électricité,
le French boss of the bad news has decided to go out
for a Christmas holiday brunch.
He has decided on a très chic new fusion restaurant,
La Feuille Morte,
in the 16th arondissement in Paris.

This is the newest, hottest dining experience in town.

And what has he ordered?

Well, the starter is a tangy mélange of fresh dill,
yew sprigs,
and poinsettia leaves,
topped with fire-roasted snowberries.
For drinks? Oh, pour some fresh yew-berry juice too.
Just the trick to kick off a festive holiday dinner.

Time to enjoy oneself
and think of those less fortunate around below one,
who may or may not be able to enjoy their suppers quite as much as oneself,
due to all the uncertainty in their sad little lives.
Ah well. Tant pis.
C'est la vie, as we love to say in la France.
Et bon appetit!

expateek, ever the lovely and solicitous dinner companion chimes in...

Here, have another bite, mon ami. It looks delicious...
Oh, no thank you! expateek never usually has a starter.
Watching the waistline, don't ya know.
What's that?




Your throat?

Something's wrong with your throat? It's closing up?

Why, this is terrible! Let me call the waiter.

Excuse me... Garçon? Garçon?
Gosh, these French waiters!
They think they're better than everyone else,
and it's so hard to get their attention.

Excuse me, Garçon! Please, can you come over here?
I think we may be needing an ambulance. Un ambulance?
Gad, I'm so forgetful with my French vocab.
Maybe it's les pompiers? Firemen?
Really, I should revise more often.
Let's see... Mon ami est malade.

He's sick and ... oh dear, well he's really not moving now, is he?




Not moving at all.




Does he have a pulse?
No? Hmmm. That's a pity.

These damned experimental cook-stylists!
They just don't do their homework anymore.
I mean, even my cat knows not to eat the poinsettias. Jeebus.

You know what, Garçon? I'm not very hungry after all.
Suppose you clean up this mess, and I think I'll be on my way.
Just send the bill for his dinner to The Company.
He's dining on an expense account, so it's no problem.

Au revoir! Ta ta!

.

Play therapy, first installment

The reason that expateek is able to be such a pleasant person, so nice, on a day-to-day basis, is that she deals with her anxieties and upsets on her own, in private.

But private = blog, correct?

So over the next several posts, expateek will share with you some of the coping mechanisms she employs when life gets a bit unsettled.

Fortunately for Mr D, most of these are low-cost options that deliver maximum results with minimal financial impact.

One of the first options utilised is that expateek writes about herself in the third person, to distance herself from the emotional upheaval that comes with moving yet again. Easy-peasey. It doesn't work well in oral conversations with actual people, but expateek spends a lot of her time locked in her office at her computer, so conversations are few and far between.

But what is upsetting expateek right now?

Yes, a little reminder is in order.

Remember, Readers Reader, how Mr D's new post-reorganisation French boss delivered the surprising news, just days before Christmas, that expateek and her family would be out on the Warszawian streets as of February 1st, 2009?

(Merry Christmas, by the way.)

That they would be repatriated to the USA, where Mr D could rejoin the American part of The Company in some yet-to-be-determined job in some yet-to-be-determined city?

Yes. We all remember now.

It's not so bad really. After all, Mr D still has a job for the time being. Hallelujah.

But coping is what expateek is all about. After all, we've been moved by The Company 11 times now over the last 27 years. (And there have been a few extra semi-relocations in there too, like when I fled South Africa after the robbery and lived in London for awhile on my own. Those make the total a little higher, but who's counting, really?)

So take a tip from expateek.

Two words: Play therapy.

Play therapy is a tried and true therapeutic modality in which disturbed children or adults are able to engage deeply felt emotions by enacting homicidal fantasies inner feelings, without causing actual harm to themselves or others. In a supervised setting, a client plays with toys (play-houses, pets inanimate objects, dolls, etc.) to express experiences and feelings through a natural, self-guided, self-healing process.

Instructions:

Pull out action figures.

Take appropriate ornaments off Christmas tree.

Bring out the kitchen utensils.

Find candlesticks and matches.

Assemble other things as needed.

Engage in homicidal fantasies therapeutic play.

And.... allons-y! Let's go!

Poor chef, le French boss of the bad news!

It is too bad he has decided
to take an African holiday over Noël.

Because look.

He has accidentally made the mistake
of hopping out of the Land Rover
to take a safari photograph,

et voilà!

Look!




Merde!




Oh nooooooooo!

If he had thought of it,




he could have asked expateek,




because she's lived in Africa,




and for sure,




because she is so nice,




she would have told him




not to make this silly mistake.




Oh well. Too late now.



.

Merry Christmas, from the whole gang!

From our house to yours...

here's hoping you have a wonderful winter holiday!

Look! Even Święty Mikołaj is smiling!

.

Merry Christmas, with love from The Company

It's safe to say that this is expateek's mood today.


And yesterday. And the day before too.





Because we got a phone call...





from Mr D's lovely new
post-reorganisation
French boss
in Paris
the other day,

(Isn't he charming?)



and due to the current global financial crisis
The Company is canceling every expat contract possible.

This means that Mr D's tenure in Poland
is over
as of February 1st.



And we'll be moving back home. Or home-"ish".
(Do excuse me while I curl up into a small ball...)





And wherever the heck might that be?
Chicago? Nashville? Raleigh?
Boston? Philadelphia? Oregon?
Baltimore?
Somewhere, USA?


expateek wants to pull the covers
back over her head
and pretend she doesn't know about this.

Because she knows what it all means.
Packing.
Shipping.
Tape.
Markers.
Moving men.
(Well, Polish moving men... maybe that's a good thing?)


Saying goodbye to friends again.


Postponing dissertation again,
as writing about Polish museums won't be an option.


Closing out bank accounts.
Giving away the contents of the freezer.
Turning off the phone and internet.
Again.


Temporary living arrangements.
Imposing on family and friends.
Trying to pack 25,000 lbs of crap
in a 20,000 lb bag.
Again.


Not to mention that she loves Poland
and feels sick about leaving.
Oh well.
Never mind.



Merry Christmas
from Corporate!


Might as well throw away
any eyeliner in the make-up kit,
because God knows there'll be
tears before teatime.


The one bit of aluminum foil lining
is that Mr D does still have a job.
Probably.
Have to keep you posted on that one.

.

Air shipment arrives early! Dang!

Well, expateek's last air delivery arrived the other day... an hour earlier than expected! So while we were still faffing around drinking coffee at home, this one (Peregrine) was sitting in Warsaw's Okęcie Airport, thinking that we'd all forgotten him.

I'm sure his anxiety was in part due to my terrible parenting from two decades ago, when I threatened to leave him behind at Kmart because he was being so naughty.

"Get out! Get out! Get out of the car now! You can just stay here!" I shrieked. He was... what? Two and a half years old? The beginning of a lifetime of abandonment issues.

Since when do planes arrive more than an hour earlier than expected? We'll try to bill the air traffic controllers if there are any resultant psychological counseling bills.

But needless to say, we're thrilled that our family is together for the holidays. Only about 10 flights and about 20,000 air miles involved.

Time for the Christmas festivities to begin!


.

Air shipment, slightly camera-shy

Yes, expateek got another great Christmas prezzie in the air drop today.

Cuz, lookee here.

Tarquin Junior arrived this morning!

And closed his eyes for the flash.



He smiled for one picture.



And then, once we got home,
he immediately entered the obligatory
university-aged-student-visiting-Europe
jet-lagged COMA state ...



that we have come to know and love.



Yay!



Welcome home, kid number 2!

Only one more kid to go...

Then expateek can sleep at night,
and enjoy the holidays!

.

Reality check

WARNING:

Here's something NOT FUNNY.

And NOT entirely CHRISTMAS-Y.

If you really don't want to mess with your own good mood today,
then skip this post and come back tomorrow.

But I'd prefer you stuck around.


* * * * *


A couple of days ago,
whilst in the middle of putting together
The Dmitri and Swięty Mikołaj Show,
these three blog posts came up in my open Google Reader window.
At that peculiar and strange moment, it was only these three.

This one,
from Dooce.

This one,
from Adriana Stuijt of Censorbugbear-reports
Uncensored News from South Africa.

And this one,
from Denford Magora's Zimbabwe blog.


Unsurprisingly, the disconnect that exists
between the small small world
of America's premiere self-absorbed mommy-blogger
and the rest of the planet rather shook me up.


Of course, every blogger is free to choose his or her own topics.
It's fine for Dooce to go on about mommy-stuff.
I'm sure I would have done the same
if blogs had been invented
whilst my little ones were small.


And I do realise that my writing is often as lightweight
as the lightest of fluff.


But I like to think that I have something of a social and political conscience too,
and that I'm not all about planning my next trip
to Target or Amazon.com.


So I'm off into the wilds of the internet now,
to make good on my promise
to follow through on my October Poverty post.

I'll let you know what I come up with.

But it's certainly not going to involve the purchase of
Piglet Key Fobs
or
Blue Cone Dog Pillows.


Right now, I'm thinking donations
for Project Peanut Butter
to alleviate child malnutrition in Malawi,



and for mosquito nets
to help combat
the transmission of malaria throughout Africa.



(click on the links if you want to learn more)


And I'm also going to write to President-elect Obama,
encouraging him to maintain his moral outrage
regarding the Zimbabwean situation.


Because Zimbabwe's not getting any better.
It's getting worse and worse.


The rest of the African continent isn't doing all that hot either.
I'd like to do something to help,
even though I now live far, far away.

It's just too easy to do nothing,
and turn away
from the poor, the sick, and the hungry.

And that's pretty sad at Christmastime, don't you think?

.

Święty Mikołaj tells Dmitri the truth

*oh!* *oh!*
Oh no, Święty Mikołaj!
I don't think I can stand to look!





Get a grip, Dmitri.
We need to be sure that the Santa Module
and the innermost Snowman 1.3b Command Centre
are completely deactivated.





Man up, dude.
It'll all be over in a minute or two.





Look! What are those?





They're the Cyber-crocs.
They can smell their virtual prey for miles and miles.





Usually they creep up behind their victims
and snag them with their long cyber-tongues.





Eeeew! This makes me sick.
My Agnieszka's tongue looks like this sometimes.






Please, Dmitri, for heaven's sake.
I'm gonna lose my lunch.
Too much information.
Let's leave your sex life out of this.





Sex life?
What is this, Święty Mikołaj?






Forget it, Dmitri, just forget it.





When the Cyber-crocs finish up...





Hey Dmitri! Look!
The Waitrose Christmas Cracker
lions are here too.
This is starting to remind me of that one Christmas
I spent lazing by the shores of
the Zambezi River.
Wow... What memories...






Look, Dmitri, see how they are just toying with the Snowman?
Just like big kitties, really.
It's all rather sweet,
how they play with their food like that.





Święty Mikołaj!
How can you be so cold?






Hey, buddy, I hail from the North Pole, remember?
I have cold in the blood.
It's all Ice, Ice Baby at my house.
Besides, I have to connect with my cold, dark side
when I'm crossing all those naughty children
off my Christmas list.





It is true, Comrade.
I think your job must be bardzo trudno.
Really difficult.
Do you like my Polish?
I try to learn, in case you change mind about Polish wife for me.





Give it up, Dmitri.
Not gonna happen.






And, notice, too... the Worms have arrived.





Worms?





What century are you from, man?
Haven't you heard of worms?
They're all over the internet and in your computer too.






Computers? Internet?







Oh, Dmitri. You are pathetic.
I don't even know why I bother.


Look, worms are the scavengers of the virtual world.
They come in and pick the bones clean, as it were.
Soon there'll be not a trace
of this whole ugly mess.




Yes, I see this.






And so, Dmitri.
What have we learned from all this?






Ummm. I am not sure?






I hate to break it to ya, pal,

but Dmitri?




Yes, Dmitri, there is no Santa Claus.

.

Święty Mikołaj and Dmitri take a breather

Whew! That was close!




I'll say. We got away just in time.
Follow me. If we get to higher ground, we can see what's happening
with that damned pod and the Santa module. Come on!




*puff* *puff* *puff* Święty Mikołaj! Slow down -- I can't keep up.




Oh, fine, Dmitri. Fer cryin' out loud,
I thought peasants were supposed to be in great physical shape!
I keep fit in the off-season by running half-marathons
and speed-skating in the winter.
Notice how slim and fit I am? You could lose the gut, pal.




Da, Comrade Święty Mikołaj. Of course you are right.
But please, while we're resting, I want to ask you something about Christmas.





Yes?





Well, I was hoping you could bring me
something special for Christmas.
I've tried to be good.





Hmmm, I don't usually take any requests this late in the day,
but go ahead, just this once.
What is it you want?





Well, Święty Mikołaj, I have heard that these Polish girls...
they are just so beautiful. Could you find me a Polish girl to marry?





Dmitri! That's absurd!
And besides, you're already married aren't you?





Oh, Święty Mikołaj. I am, but it is so sad.





Really? What happened? Did she die or something?





No such luck.
But here, let me show you her picture while I tell you about her.
Here she is.





Why... why Dmitri, she's beautiful!
You fat old goat, how'd you ever land a babe like this?






Ah, this too is a little bit sad.
I too was young once.
And I was handsome. And strong.





Yeah, right, well, smell isn't everything, Dmitri.
But I don't see the problem.
Why do you want to get rid of such a bootylicious beeatch?

*sigh* Mmmm, she's so hot she's smokin'. *sigh*





Please. Listen, Święty Mikołaj.
It's not like that any more.
Here is last year's photograph from
the Moscow Expat Wives Club Directory.








Jeebus God, Man! I see your point.
But unfortunately, Dmitri, there's some bad news.





See, where I come from,
a dog wife is not just for Christmas.
I'm afraid you're stuck on this one.





Okay, Święty Mikołaj....
Well, at least I tried.





It's really just her ears that bother me.
I suppose I'll live.





Aw, come on, Dmitri. Buck up, man!
We need to get a move on.
We've got some carnage to oversee.

.

Air shipment, slightly damaged...

Look what expateek picked up at the Warsaw airport Monday night!

Child number 4!

Again, another wonderful Christmas prezzie for expateek!

Isn't she mysterious and beautiful?

But oh no!


Something's a little bit wrong.


We think this little girl may have the dreaded infectious mononucleosis.

(Note the fatigued look and the horribly swollen glands in neck!)

Probably kissed a Scottish frog or something...

Tea and toast are the order of the day.


And plenty of bedrest.


That's what home is for, after all.


Where you can rest,


recuperate,


and get well


surrounded by the people


who love you more than anything.

.

Święty Mikołaj, Part Trzy

Comrade Święty Mikołaj!
What do we do now?





First of all, you can stop calling me comrade.
That is so over, especially here in Poland.
Just ask my friend Anna.




Hurry, we need to get the Santa Module out of the pod.
Here, Dmitri, give me a hand!
We don't have much time!




But Comrade, what does it mean, "Santa Module"?




Jebus, Mary and Jehosephat, you lumpkin.
Do I have to spell everything out?

Comrade, I'm sorry! I just don't understand.
Forgive me for being such a stupid Russian peasant!

Enough already with the comrade bizness.
Look, this isn't a real Santa, you dope.
See the crack along his belt-line?
Notice how quiet he is? No "ho-ho-ho-ing"?
Look, his top and bottom halves don't even line up!




We only have a few moments before the
Harbet-cylinder 4.7x Master-Units get here.
Quick, break open the module!



With what?



With your axe, you nitwit!
Come on! We've only got a few seconds!



There!
See?




But what is this, Comrade?




*sigh*
Dmitri, this comrade crap is gonna drive me nuts.
Look, it's the innermost Snowman 1.3b Command Centre.




It's gotten out!




No worries, pal.
I think our problems may take care of themselves.
Look behind you.
I think Santa's gonna be in a world of hurt.







Now let's get out of here.


Come on, follow me!

.

Święty Mikołaj, Part Deux

You brought me a what?

A choinka! You know, a Christmas tree! And all the way from Russia.
Isn't it beautiful? So full! So sparkley.
Even the ride on the PKP train didn't knock the ornaments off.
Can you believe my luck?

You IMBECILE!

What?

That's no choinka, you stupid peasant!

No? But it is, I'm sure of it!

It's an alien pod-craft, you fool!

But I don't understand, Święty Mikołaj.
What could possibly have gone wrong?
I chopped it down myself.

Idiot. Just wait. This is a blinkin' disaster.
You weren't watching the tree every second, were you?

Well, no....

Look, Dmitri, the Harbet-cylinder 4.7x Master-Units
have substituted their pod for your tree.

Oh my God! Look! You're right! The tree! It's not a tree! It IS a pod-craft!

Holy hot dang!

Look. Behind you! The 4.7x Master-Units! All three of them!

Dear Lord, run! Run for your life!

No! Stand your ground.
Let's just see what the planet Wołtran has in store for us.

It can't be worse than what happened in '96,
when expateek canceled Christmas.


Come on, Dmitri, man.
You've messed up bad,
but we can turn this thing around.
Now go grab some magnets and some barbed fishhooks
and let's make a plan!

More to come tomorrow.
And I warn you, about tomorrow?
Well, violence and strong language
from the outset of programming.
Just to let you know.

.

Święty Mikołaj has his patience tested

Even saints can be pushed to their limits, you know. It's part of the whole deal about being a saint. Generally, awful things happen, and saints are just supposed to shrug their shoulders and sigh, "Oh well. These people. They're only human, yeah?"

Expateek does this a couple of times a day, at least.

But today was really a trial! Because look what Święty Mikołaj has put up with this afternoon. It's a blasted photo-op. Look how cranky he is.



And all because we have a Russian visitor at our house. Actually an American visitor who had to leave Russia to sort out some visa difficulties, so as usual expateek's house will soon be bursting at the seams with her own children and other people's children and other people's children's friends and a few odd homeless people.

It makes for happy and chaotic holidays. The only kind we know how to do.

Fortunately, Christmas isn't canceled.

Yet.

But let's check back with Święty Mikołaj to be sure.

He wasn't so bothered about the American visitor from Russia. Because after all. Kids! You know how disorganised they can be. Visas, deadlines, whatever. Sometimes you, a twenty-something-year-old American boy, just have to leave a country while you wait for things to get sorted out.

But look who the kid brought along! Jiminy Christmas!

So, anyway, Święty Mikołaj says: And you want me to pose with him?

I don't think so.

Excuse me, please.

I have some presents to wrap.

And I don't have my picture taken with... Russians!

I'm going off to have a Bloody Mary with Pani Tabasco here.

Come on, my little ryba.

She's a pretty hot little number, isn't she?

But wait! My Comrade! Come back!

Yesssss? This better be good.

I've brought you a present, Święty Mikołaj, all the way from Russia!

Look! A choinka! For you!

The saga continues tomorrow, and I'm warning you, it's not pretty. Stay tuned....




.

Expat Adios

One of the not-so-hot things about being an expat is that I lose friends more often than most people do.

Not necessarily due to my own poor social skills, although let's face it, that's always an option if one says as many stupid things as expateek does.

No, it's true because expats are constantly being relocated. They're off to the next posting, boxes packed, container shipped. The risk in making friends with only expats is that one can have the very unlucky experience of almost all one's friends moving away in the same week.

And it's not like I tried to have only expat friends. It's just that it takes a while to meet locals, especially since Polish is so flippin' bardzo trudno. (Really difficult. Of course.)

Anyway. Almost all one's friends moving away in the same week? That would be this week, for expateek. Of our tight little cadre of six couples, two couples are moving away this very weekend, and another pair most likely in the next month or so. We're suddenly down by half.

The global economic catastrophe is real, and corporations world-wide are trying to curtail expatriate expenses. It's good news for all the people who resent the intrusion of witless, non-Polish-speaking foreign expats, but really bad news because it's an early signifier of no confidence in the near-term economic future.

Meanwhile, quite a few of us expat wives are bracing for more bad news to come.

We're brewing up Tear Water Tea and saving packing boxes.

.

Friday Confessional

I'm in Poland, probably the most observant Catholic country in the world, so I should try to fit in. As if I could fit in anywhere. Damn. Forget that plan.

Today I want to look like I'm quite religious (though I'm not entirely sure why), so I'm going to sock you, Readers Reader, with an amazing double-whammy.

First, I'm going to confess my sins, with a nod to Mme Jaywalker. It's Friday, isn't it?

This looks really observant and all conscientious and stuff, yeah?

And second, my sins actually will prove that I am a girl with quite a religious inclination. You will definitely be totally convinced and won't have a clue that I've pulled the wool over your eyes.

We begin our story back before the Dark Ages, when glaciers still covered most of Wisconsin. It was 1973. I was enrolled in an English class entitled "The Bible as Literature" (don't know how they got that past separation-of-church-and-state watchdogs. Guess it was early days).

I was pretty stoked, because I'd been raised a Unitarian in Madison, Wisconsin. You may not realise what that implies with regard to my childhood religious education, but let's just say it was pretty spotty. Unitarianism originated (from Transylvania! in 1565!) as a Christian religion (their main point was asserting the Oneness of God, rather than the Trinity/tripartite nature of God). However, in its 20th century manifestation, Unitarianism can look quite vague. At least it looked that way from my seat in Sunday School.

We learned about Buddhists. We learned about Jains. We learned about polytheists and Hinduism and Sikhism and Confucianism. We learned about Native American religions and we burned smudge sticks in class. No, that might have been the minister's son smoking dope out behind the parsonage. Not sure on that one. We'll move on.

The upshot of this avoidance of Judeo-Christian teachings was that everything in the Bible was news to me. And not just in the Good News sense of the word.

"Good Samaritan"? Never heard of him.

"Prodigal Son"? Uh uh.

"Sodom and Gomorrah"? Who were they?

"Casting pearls before swine"? Odd behaviour, that.

"Nothing new under the sun"? Well, duh, that was Shakespeare, right?

"Vanity, vanity, all is vanity"? Ha! I know! Somebody's been reading too much Glamour magazine!

So as I enrolled in this elective class I was completely beside myself with anticipation. At last, in a short 8 weeks, I would bring my religious education up to snuff and would then look forward to correct answers in Trivial Pursuit: The God Version forevermore. Yea!

On the first day of class, our English teacher discussed the syllabus and then said, "Of course, you'll need to bring your Bible from home."

My Bible? From home? Shoooooooot.

I knew we had German dictionaries and the Complete Poems of Auden and Shakespeare's plays and British War Poetry and Our Bodies, Ourselves. But did we have a Bible?

I asked my mom, and she said, "Sure, I think we still have one. It's got a light blue cover. In the living room." And she went back to updating her Christmas card list. "The Benningtons? Hmmmph. Haven't heard from them for years. Cross them off, those cretins!" Scritch, scritch, scritch went her pen.

I found the Bible. Miraculously, as it were. Blew the dust off the thing. And took it in to school.

English class rolled around, and Mr. Bartelt said, "Okay, y'all, get out your Bibles."

I dug my attractive baby-blue Bible out of my backpack.

My then-crush, Bob, turned around to say something witty and then blenched in horror.

"Is THAT your Bible?" And then he recovered and burst into hysterical giggles.

"So..." he wheezed. "Did your parents steal it?"

"What? What? What are you talking about?" I was already mortified with embarrassment.

"It's a... it's a... a Gideon's Bible!" And he collapsed again with giggles.

I looked at it. I had rather liked the pretty golden seal impressed on the front of the faux-leather book, but now that I looked closer... Hmmm. Gideon's.

Clearly, this was something like having "666" tattooed in your hairline. Crap.

The Mark of Shame.

The Sign of Parents Who Steal Things Out of Hotel Rooms. Not the towels. Not the soap. Oh no.

It had to be the Bible.

.....

Cut to 2005. Christmas in Johannesburg, South Africa. Definitely a place where you'd like to have the power of prayer working for ya. My children and my parents had all made the long trek halfway around the world so that we could celebrate the holidays together.

At our first dinner together, my mother said, "expateek, I've got a present for you". And she slid an Afrikaans Gideon's Bible across the dinner table.



"Sheesh, Mom! Where'd you get this?"

"Oh, I stole it from the hotel room. Nobody reads those things anyway."

Good grief. What happened to "Thou shalt not steal"? Or maybe it doesn't count if you steal a Bible, eh?

Unfortunately, this bizarre bit of gifted thievery set off the almost unbearable urge to continue to steal Bibles whenever I stay at any hotel, anywhere. My heart sinks these days when I yank open the bedside table drawer and... no Bible. Just the bloody Yellow Pages, in Turkish.

Guess this will just be my lifetime cross to bear.

Let's close today's thoughts with a reading from -- why not? -- the Bible.

That Bible. The Afrikaans one.

Or we can read from the Suomi version.

Or we even can read it in French...
(I did pay real money for this particular Bible, I'll have you know!)

Or maybe just plain old English.

Here endeth The Lesson.

Perhaps I shall go forth and sin no more.
At the very least I know my Bible(s) pretty well by now.



.

Parking Problems

The little Fiat was parked on a dark side-street in Żoliborz, and its windows were already steamed up. Inside the car, Marek turned toward Ania. He took one hand from the steering wheel and tentatively touched her knee.

"Ania, my little kotku, I adore you. Please, please, my darling kitten! Please leave your rich dull husband and run away with me."

Marek slid his hand slightly higher on her thigh, and felt Ania shiver with ... what? Excitement? Fear?

"Oh Marek..." she sighed. "I don't know. I don't know what I want."

She leaned closer to him and sighed again. Her fur coat fell open. He could smell her expensive perfume and he ached with desire. Instantly he knew that he couldn't live without her.

Suddenly, a brilliant beam lit up the inside of the car.

"Open up! Get out!" The police officer rapped sharply on the windscreen with the torch, and Marek and Ania looked at each other, alarmed.


Hey!

Hey!

Hey you!

Oh for God's sake. I'm wasn't talking about THAT kind of Polish parking problem. Get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about another kind of parking problem.

Let's begin again.

Ahhh, Poland.

An up-and-coming post-Communist country, where people are reveling in new-found freedoms.

(Enough hyphens in that last sentence for you?)

And what says "freedom" more than bending the rules? After all, rules are for the cowering, the oppressed, the scared.

And what better way to prove how modern you are than to assert your free spirit in everything you do? Including how you park your car.

In some places, people learn that it's proper to park your car like this.




Note that car is equidistant from all pavement lines. Car is exactly parallel to lines and well inside the hash marks indicating the end of the parking space. People park like this in England and in America.

But not in Poland!

In Poland, people park their cars like this.




And this.




And this.




Eff You, car park lines! We won't be oppressed by your totalitarian controlling ways! We want to be free! We want to be modern! We want to live now, in the moment! We will not be downtrodden. We will not bend like reeds in the breeze.

We are Polish. And we SHALL, we SHALL! We SHALL park as we please.

.

(Worst = Best) Xmas

Just to get you in the holiday spirit, here's a little tale to warm the cockles of your heart.

Although just why you have cockles in your heart, I do not want to know.

Hopefully you have full medical coverage.

It was December of 1996. Mr D and I were living just north of Baltimore, with our four children, ages 13, 10, 8, and 6. In November, we'd learned that we were being relocated by The Company (a large global corporation that shall remain nameless, in the interests of Mr D's continued employment therewith).

And not only were we being relocated, but we were moving our entire household for the fourth time in four years. From Philadelphia to Raleigh in 1993. From Raleigh to Chicago in 1994. From Chicago to Baltimore in 1995. And now Baltimore back to Chicago in 1996.

The particularly galling thing about these moves was that this time, we'd heard through The Company grapevine, the following genius comment from two different sources: "Oh, but it's easy for you to move, isn't it? You homeschool!"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Easey peasey. That's because we're weirdos and we don't have any friends or any belongings, so we just fold up the teepee, tie the worldly goods to the horses, saddle up the six of us and ride out of town. No problemo! We have to sell the goats and rooster but we can always bring the bee skep with us. The kids cry a little tiny bit, but the suffering's good for 'em. Builds character.

Needless to say, I wasn't a happy teepee-folder.

In fact, I was steamed. We'd homeschooled for seven years, partly for the flexibility in case we had to move, but mostly so I could rationalise the purchase of $10 bazillion dollars worth of educational books and toys. Nothing like re-enacting the battle of Gettysburg with Playmobil figures to anchor a lesson plan!

Anyway, when it became clear that the move back to Chicago was a "go", I sat Mr D down.

"Fine. I'm totally fine. Really."

Burning red eyes shooting flames, hair standing on end, crackling with electricity.

"Really. I don't mind. I don't mind at all."

Mr D was looking worried, as he could smell sulphur in the air. He felt the floor trembling slightly as the earth began to crack open in the back garden and the gaping maw that was the Gates of Hell glowed darkly red from the widening fissure...

"But I have two things I'm going to tell you."

The fissure narrowed again slightly.

"One. The kids are going to public school when we get to Chicago. Homeschooling? Done. Finished. Over."

"Oh, well.... okay. Yes. It's your decision, really, since you're the one doing it. It's down to whatever you think is best."

"And Two. I'm not doing anything for Christmas this year. If you want anything Christmas-y to happen, you'll have to do it yourself, 'cuz I'm not playing."

"Oh. Okay."

The sulphur smell dissipated as the fissure snapped shut. Hellish disaster barely averted. Mr D wiped his brow, relieved to get off so lightly, and stood up.

With that, the discussion was pretty much over and Mr D flew off to start the new posting in Chicago while I stayed behind and homeschooled and cleaned carpets and picked Lego out of heating vents and supervised packers and shut down utilities and wrote change of address cards and gathered medical and dental records and paid bills and ... and... and... tried not to lose my mind. I muttered under my breath as I scrubbed cupboards and I cursed as I mopped floors and I ground my teeth as I corrected multiplication times-tables and I cried myself to sleep every night.

As one does.

We moved into our house in Chicago one week to the day before Christmas, on the coldest day of the century, naturally. And we took off a few days later to spend the holiday with my parents up north.

On the morning of December 24th, Mr D turned over and said, "You awake?"

"Mmmm hmmmm."

"You were just kidding about not doing Christmas this year, right?"

Silence.

"You were kidding, right?"

"No."

"You didn't get anyone any presents?"

"Nope."

"The kids? Nothing for the kids even?"

"Uh uh."

"But...."

"I told you. I meant it. I'm not doing Christmas this year. I've bloody well had enough."

"But we can't not have Christmas! I mean, what will the kids think? What ... it's just not right!"

"Whatever. I don't give a damn."

Mr D was suddenly up and out of bed, on his feet, getting dressed.

"We can't not have Christmas! We can't! Come on, have a heart! I know you feel awful and sad, but they're not gonna understand "No Christmas!"... Hey, you. Really. Get up. Let's do something about it."

Oh, that bossy, bossy Mr D. We all got up and had breakfast.

"Come on, kids, we're off to the mall. Hurry up, we want to beat the crowds!" (Most enthusiasm ever displayed by Mr D about mall-going, before or since.)

Even I was conned and took the bait.

So we went off to the mall on the morning of Christmas Eve and we bought one present for each of us. Each person chose their own, so everyone got what he or she really wanted.

We only had to suffer through one morning of Christmas shopping, and we spent the rest of the day wrapping those presents and baking some Christmas cookies.

Best, most relaxing Christmas ever.

The run-up was Hell on a stick though.

.

Have yourself an Eco-friendly Christmas

Or not...

We went to the Warsaw Christmas lights festival in Plac Zamkowy last night.




This is the event where a whole passel of Polish pop stars descend upon Old Town, whip the crowd into a frenzy of singing and dancing under strobe lights, and play music with heart stopping bass amplification.




The town fathers gradually turn off the lights in the square, until only the stage is still pulsing with LED and strobe illumination, and then suddenly....

"10!" the emcee says.

"9!" A few in the crowd join him.

"8!" More people add their voices to the countdown.

"7!" The suspense builds.

"6!" Small children squeal with excitement.

"5!" People are turning heads every which way.

"4!" (And by the way this counting is all being done in POLISH, of course.)

"3!" (Which we were so pleased to be able to participate in, naturally.)

"2!" A child bursts into earsplitting screams two counts too early.
(Clearly someone who still finds Polish quite difficult...)

"1!" Not much left to say, is there?

"Zero!"

And the lights turn on again! And the tree is now alight!

And in the spirit of the thing, bazooka fan-guns filled with 800 bazillion mylar Christmas tree cutouts blast shiny confetti up into the sky above the crowds, as if to say,

"The hell with you, Poznan Climate Change Conference!"

"We're not complying with your lousy emissions standards!!"

"In fact, we're objecting so much that we're going to spew several thousand kilos of non-biodegradable substances into the sky so that said bits can flutter all the way down to the Wistula to clog up our fair river."

"Take your emissions standards and blow 'em out yer.... oh never mind... "

"It IS Christmas, isn't it?"




.

O (evil) CANADA!

Just when you think the world can't get worse, it suddenly does.

And there's nothing more emotionally devastating than shattered trust.

Nothing worse than finding out that your honest neighbors, those people you trusted, are scoundrels.

I'm an American talking about Canada, people! I'm talking about our supposedly honest hard-working neighbors to the north. Canada -- the country that only has seven eight ten provinces, compared to America's fifty states.

And we Americans still can't be bothered to remember the name of even one province-thingy. Whatever.

And hey, hang on! They've got those three territories too... let's see. Maybe Toronto? Is that one?

Well, never mind about all of that, because evil Canadians are trying to steal money from your grandma. For real! No earthly point in memorising their map now, those finks! Unless you want to stash that information away, for later, when we go invade Canada and get your Grandma's money back.

About three months ago, my mother got a phone call.

"Helloooo?" she answered, in her quavery voice.

"Grandma? It's your favourite grandson!"

"Tarquin Junior * ! Is that you?"

"Yes, Grandma, it's me, Tarquin Junior. Hey, something awful has happened!"

"Oh, no! What is it?"

"Grandma, I've been in a car accident in London, Ontario, and the rental car we were in was totaled! We rolled it a couple of times, but we're okay."

"Oh my goodness! Were you hurt?"

"No, Grandma, but here's the problem."

Then Tarquin explained that the rental car owner was demanding $10,000 to resolve the matter. Tarquin said his friend agreed to pay half, and he, Tarquin, was to pay the other half, $5000. He wondered whether he could have a loan of $5,000. He also needed an additional $200 to pay for a hotel room and to return home.

The $5,200 was to be sent to him at Walmart in London, Ontario via a Moneygram. My mother would need to give the $5000 to the Walmart Moneygram office which would then give her a referral number. Tarquin indicated he would call back later to get that referral number so that he could obtain the $5,200 from Walmart.

My mom said it would take some time to get the money because she had a doctor's appointment and would have to get money from the bank afterward. She said it might take a couple of hours. The person said he would call back at 2:30 pm or so.

When my dad arrived home about 2:15 pm he found a note from my mom, saying she had withdrawn $5,200 from the bank but left it behind rather than carrying it to her appointment. She suggested the two of them could go to the bank, and then Walmart, after she got home.

She also said that Tarquin would be calling about 2:30 pm.

Well, no call came. My mom arrived home about 3 pm and my parents talked about the matter.

My father said it was odd that Tarquin had not called back as promised. He asked about injuries, but my mom had few details. This too struck him as odd. And then my dad began wondering about insurance, whether Tarquin's car insurance would cover the accident. If so, the insurance companies would handle the matter. Meanwhile, my mom remembered that Tarquin ordinarily refers to her as "Oma", not "Grandma".

My father phoned his insurance people for advice. They suggested he call Tarquin's phone number to verify that he had made the call and that he was in the accident. The insurance woman added that she had just had seen a newspaper article about a scam that sounded like this one. My dad phoned Tarquin to ask about the accident, how he was, and whether the car was totaled.

"Opa, what are you talking about? I'm in a class here at Drake. I've never been to Canada!"

My father phoned the local police who arrived and took down information.

But before they arrived, the phone rang again, with the voice asking for Grandma.

"She's not back."

"When will she be back?"

"In an hour or so."

When my parents explained the story to the police, they noted that the sheriff's office had already that day received 20 complaints about this kind of call. And the morning newspaper carried a story describing how some local man had gotten such a call about a car accident involving his grandson in Canada, and he had forwarded $20,000 to help out the grandson. Of course, he soon realized he was duped.

One more phone call came the next morning asking for "Grandma". My father told the caller that her grandson never used that name to address her.

"Maybe I have the wrong number."

"I know the game you're playing, Buster ** , and I've reported this matter to the police."

With that, the phone receiver clicked down. And that was the end of the story.

Except it's not quite the end of the story, because it happened again yesterday, but this time to the other set of grandparents. We got a call last night from Mr D's brother, who was upset that our oldest son, Peregrine *** , was trying to weasel $3500 out of the grandparents.

We explained that this was the Grandparents Scam and that Canada is the new Nigeria, crime-wise. Fortunately, they didn't send any money. They were only out the cost of a long-distance call to Poland.

And here we thought they were just calling to wish Mr D **** a happy birthday. Oh well.

What is this world coming to?



* Tarquin Junior. Not his real name, when italicised. But when not italicised, is his real name. Don't be confused. Everything I say is a lie.

** Buster. Pretty sure this is not criminal's real name.

*** Peregrine. Is his real name. Or not? I can't remember. Will go check birth certificates later.

**** But for sure, Mr D's first name is Octavio. I do remember that!




.

Air shipment arrives

I had to go out to the airport Tuesday morning for a pickup...

Look what I got!

My Christmas pressie three weeks early!


My lovely third child came "home" to Poland,


after being away for a whole year.


She spent half the year in California, studying Mandarin,


and the other half year in Taiwan, speaking Mandarin.


...


It's nice to see the world,


but its wonderful to be home for Christmas.

And the prize goes to...

This was a goose-down plucking contest.

The ladies sat in teams of threes, in their festive matching dresses

and their fingers flew as they stripped the shafts from the downy feathers.

They grabbed more and more feathers to pull.





Soon, there were feathers everywhere, drifting about in the air and all over the floor.

Finished bags of down were taken up to the officials to be weighed and judged.

Eventually the results were in, and the winners were announced,

starting from seventeeth place (I think) and finishing off with the 1sts.

Everyone won a prize.

Here come the results!

Oooo! The suspense!

By the way, the guy with the blue cap on is a mind-bogglingly agile dancer.

Between polka-ing and doing deep knee-bendy kinds of dancing Polski lunges

he put on quite a show.



Watching him leaping reminded me to put in a pre-order for a wheelchair

for when my knees give out.

He also has a cousin living in Chicago.

Did I know the guy? He lives near Milwaukee Avenue.

After all the prizes were awarded,

one thousand photographs were taken

by each of the 250 people in the hall.



And after that, the eating and dancing began in earnest.

I'm sorry I can't tell you the name of this little town.

Because of course, the name went straight out of my head.

My head IS mostly full of fluff, you know.

But the memories will last a lifetime.