Browsing Archives for Euro Trashed

We stayed in five different places during our trip to Europe last summer.  Almost all of them were chosen because they were the cheapest places I could find that could accommodate my family of six.  We spent our first four days in a suburb outside of London with Pete and Ilona who are dear old friends of Mike and Liz who are dear old friends of ours.  Several years ago, Mike and Liz brought Pete and Ilona to our house for an overnight visit.  We cooked out, swam in the pond, drank wine, and forced our English guests to name the fifty states (at which they were very good) and then a few years later, we showed up at Pete and Ilona’s house and moved in with them for four entire days.  Talk about an awesome exchange rate!  

It was during this stay that I began to learn something rather strange about the British.  They are unusually passionate about their gardens.  Hey! I work at a garden center. I am a gardener. And there is probably nothing that I enjoy more than time spent in a beautiful garden. But these British people – they take it to a whole new level.

Upon arrival at every single British home I visited, we were immediately escorted into the garden.  What Americans call a backyard – the Brits call a ‘garden’ and it is nothing like the American version of an open grassy stretch littered with large plastic toys, a swing set, a dilapidated dog house and an abandoned shrubbery.  A British garden is an actual garden. They are lovely, fragrant rooms with nooks and crannies and well worn furniture.  These garden rooms were absolutely the most beloved part of their homes.  In fact, from my experience – the Brits really seem to view their houses as long tiresome hallways that you must walk through (and hastily) to reach the garden.  The Brits sort of push you to the garden.  They hustle you out back.  ”Come out to the garden.” they say as they jog you past the living room, the dining room and the kitchen.  If you are a house junkie like me, this can be somewhat painful.  I longed to linger in each of the rooms and ask nosy questions about the history of the house.  I wanted to absorb the bones, the colors, the flooring, the length of the windows, the trim, the fixtures, the wood tones, but the Brits we visited didn’t seem care about their houses.  They didn’t point out the additions, the remodels, the interesting features the way that Americans do.  They didn’t talk house.  They talked garden.   Or actually they talked in the garden and they want you out there with them – pronto!  

“Come to the garden!”  they call as they rapidly disappear around a corner.  

You race along behind them trying to suck the fleeting scenes of the various rooms in through your pores. Odds are – these are the only views you will ever get of the house.

This whole garden thing had a slight tinge of desperation to it.  We visited the UK in August which is the warmest month in the UK, but also one of the wettest months. It rained off and on throughout each day while we were there. The second that the sun peeked from behind the clouds our host Pete would start hollering to his wife Ilona.

“Ilona!  Come out!  Come out to the garden!.”  

Sensing Pete’s acute need for people to populate the garden, we would shuffle out and obediently sit down.  The boys would start up a game of cricket with Pete and Ilona’s son Louis and then Pete would yell again.

“Ilona!  Ilona!  Come out to the garden Ilona!”  

From somewhere in the depths of the house we would hear Ilona call back that she would be there in a second, but Pete needed her out there now.  

“Ilona!  The sun is OUT! Come to the garden! ”

Ilona would finally appear breathless at the back door. She had rushed through whatever task had held her up to get out the garden before the sun disappeared, but it was too late.  The sun was gone.  A light, chilly rain had started to fall.  The sky turned silver and then steely gray. The wind picked up a little – but we did not move.  We stayed in the garden.  I pulled on a sweater and hunched down against the cold, refreshing my tea cup with a second layer of heat.  If I learned one thing about the British while visiting the UK other than that they love their gardens, it is that a little penetrating, teeth crunching cold does not seem to bother them.

At all.

In fact, I spent one very cold, miserable day at the seaside with these British people and they were completely unperturbed by it.  While an icy wind blew us sideways and the sun played a gruelling game of tag all day long refusing to shine for more than three seconds at a time, the Brits dove into the freezing surf, stopping occasionally to build a castle in the cold wet sand or dry off in the ice tipped gale.

We hunkered down behind a windbreak for a picnic lunch.  I wrapped myself in layers of damp beach towels to try and keep my teeth from chattering.  Everyone except for me seemed utterly impervious to the misery of the situation.  I can only imagine what these people would be like on a day when the weather was good!

We visited four private residences while we were in England, and at each one we were either pushed through the house and into the garden within ninety seconds of our arrival or the house was skirted entirely and we were taken directly into the garden. All of the British homes we visited were fabulously old and filled with character and charm.  I could have lingered.  I could have aimlessly wandered. I could have stepped to the center of each room and slowly rotated for hours admiring the patina of these great old homes, but instead like a stubborn cow through a cattle chute I was forced into the garden. I balked.  I hesitated.  I tried to distract my host with a finger pointed to the mantle in the distance, or a detail on the old walnut banister, but they only gripped my hand and yanked me out to the danged garden!  At which point I settled in and admired the gorgeous, yet comfortable surroundings of these outdoor rooms… all the while plotting my excuse to get a glance inside the home.  

Liz’s sister’s garden.

Liz’s mum’s garden

 

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Our next destination was Paris.  

 

We took two tiny rooms at a hotel just a few blocks from Notre Dame.  

 

You could see the cathedral from the window of our room.  

(Look for the tall skinny spire in the middle of the photo.)

There was no air conditioning.  

We slept with the windows open and the noise of the city lulled us to sleep.  

Thankfully – Parisians are not early risers.  

The streets outside our rooms did not really start to ‘wake up’ until we had already hit the streets looking for a croissant and a cappuccino.

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Our next stop was Bath.  We stayed in an American chain hotel in Bath – sorry, but it was cheap.  And it was also wonderful because it felt like home!  It was all so big and American! The elevators were huge!   Our entire family was able to fit inside and our suitcases too!  You did not have to fold your shoulders into your clavicle to fit down the hallway!  I could actually brush my teeth with my elbow fully extended!  Paris was clearly not designed with large lumbering Americans in mind, but English hotels were another story.  There was a sign outside that said “We Welcome Large Lumbering Americans!”  The staff spoke English.  THE STAFF SPOKE ENGLISH!  Sorry for this little American moment – but that whole visiting a foreign country thing where everyone speaks a different language?  That is just plain HARD!  Not that I wouldn’t go back to Paris TOMORROW if someone handed me a ticket -but it was nice to get back to a country that shares the same language as you do.  It was a huge relief!  Don’t worry!  There were still plenty of cultural differences and indecipherable words and phrases to make everyone feel awkward and alone, but at least when I ordered a beer in England, they just brought me a pint and no one got all hacked off about it, feigning ignorance just to make me feel crappy.

To read about how I lurched in grief around Bath – you can click here.  

To read about my freakish attempts at trying to speak French click here.  

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Upon leaving Bath we took a circuitous trip through the countryside.

We visited Castle Combe, rumored to be the most picturesque village in England

 

And then we stopped at Stonehenge

 

Which was closed.

And finally we made our way to The Nautically Themed Hotel.

 

Where the following signs instructed us.

 

 

This was the exterior of the nautically themed hotel.  It was set on extensive  manicured grounds.  We drove up a long curving driveway to reach it.  From the outside there was really nothing ‘nautical’about it.  In fact!  It seemed downright charming!  And it was a bargain too!  We parked the car and approached the front door wondering if we were going to be met by a butler with a silver tea tray and that’s when I saw the sailboat in the window.  

But it was just a sailboat!  

Right!

Just a decorative little sailboat!

 

 

An old English manor SHOULD have a sailboat in the window!  

There’s nothing wrong with that!

 

 

As we entered –  to our right was one perfectly faded, somewhat dated,  yet very cozy lounge.

 

 

 

And to the left, an equally, slightly worn, but appealing bar.

It reminded me of basement rec rooms in the seventies.

And who doesn’t like an old rec room?

 

 

 

It was what was right in front of us that was the most troubling…

 

 

 

Suddenly!

What was just a sailboat in the window.

Just a little sailboat!

Was now the dismembered body of a huge sailboat caustically hacked to pieces and then maniacally reassembled for use as a central staircase!

 

 

Remember!

This is the pleasant exterior.

 

And these are the decaying yacht remains on the interior!

 

 

The upper landing…

All the doors had a little portal in them…

You know…

So you could look out and see the ocean.

 

 

 

A spaceship had landed in the backyard.

 

 

It was connected via a breathing tube in order to sustain the alien life forms.

The old brick and timber exterior was ‘punched up’ with these very exciting metal and brick staircases that just seemed to scream., “I am so NOW!”

I am so FREAKIN’ NOW!!!

 

And yet it was delicately softened with a lovely hydrangea to the side.

NOT!

This was one nautically themed hotel that did not disappoint.
If you want to add it to your English tour – email me and I will send you the details.
It was a bargain!
And actually the lovely and extensive grounds would be ideal for a large function of any sort.
Plus!
The design elements would give everyone plenty to talk about.

It would also make an excellent setting…

FOR A MURDER!

Murder at the Nautically Themed Hotel!

It has a certain ring to it doesn’t it!?!

 

 

During our recent trip to Europe, the Country Doctor and I were paralyzed by the cost of food in London and Paris.  

Thankfully, in London, we were staying with Pete and Ilona and scrounging as many meals off of them as we could, but Paris was a different story. We already knew that the hotel bill was going to be outrageous, but we were not prepared for how much food was going to cost.

 

 

 

We quickly discovered we could breakfast cheaply on chocolate croissants, cups of fruit and stiff cups of coffee or juice for the kids from the gorgeous patisseries and boulangeries that occupy every street corner in the city, but lunch and dinner was a different story.

 

 

 

 

Paris has a lot of rules when it comes to dining. If you are willing to stand at the bar that is inside the cafe to eat, you are charged one price. If you choose to dine at a table inside the restaraunt, you are charged a higher price. However, if you want to hold court on the lovely sidewalk veranda outside the cafe, under a cheerful striped awning, seated at the coolest bistro chairs and tables you have ever seen and watch the Paris parade go by, you are charged an even steeper price.  

 

 

 

 
At one point, the Country Doctor bought the boys some ice cream at a little sidewalk cafe. He stood at the bar to make his purchase and then with ice cream cones in hand, he walked over to a table to sit down. The cashier briskly followed him waving his hands, frantically saying, “No… no… no sir… I must charge you more if you sit down!”

The Country Doctor decided not to sit down after all.

 

 

 

 

We only had one genuine sit-down meal the entire time we were in Paris. The rest of the time we either purchased food from street vendors or we found little grocery stores and subsisted on bags of chips, cans of soda, fruit and candy bars.

 

 

 

 

One night we found a take-out pizza place a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. We sat down for a picnic in the shadow of the tower.  

 

 
I did learn a few French phrases before I left for Europe. I had read in several different books, that the French appreciate people who at least attempt to speak their language. When you step into a store, you should say Bonjour! I had practiced saying merci! with the kids and au revoir! I had all the confidence in the world that I could at least carry on a five second conversation in French with anyone.  

But then reality set in.

 

 

 

I would walk into a cafe, a store, a little shop and I would freeze up. I would see the lovely croissant, the cold drink, the ice cream cone, but I could not summon the courage to use any French words. Instead I became a deaf mute. I could only mutter and make moaning sounds. I could only gesture and hold up my fingers to say one… or two. I could only shrug and shake my head and speak in louder and more broken English with each attempt to explain what I wanted. Then I would get nervous and embarrased and start to speak in rudimentary Spanish, or in English with a goofy French accent. I basically turned into a raving lunatic every time I tried to purchase something in Paris. I think I might be the principle reason that the French hate Americans so much.

 

 

At one point, as we were walking around the city, I saw some glass coke bottles on a table in a restaraunt. I thought it might be nice to have a French glass coke bottle as a (cheap) souvenir.  I stepped up to the lady at the register to see if I could buy one. I pointed to the bottles in a fridge beside the bar and said, “Sil vous plait…two cokes… por favor.” The lady behind the register pointed me towards the bar. I stepped over to the bartender and again attempted to place my order, “Two cokes please,” I said.

The bartender looked at me with confusion.

I pointed to the bottles of coke in the nearby fridge and said, “Two cokes… two cokah…. dos cokahs… por favor?”

The bartender handed me two cans of coke, “No, ” I said,  ”Two bottles... dos bottles… two cokah een leetle glass bottles por favor.” I continued stammering realizing that my newly invented language of one third broken English/one third fake Spanish and one third complete nut-job was not going to help me in this situation.

The waiter said, “Two cokes?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, “Two bottles of cokah… por favor….in glass bottle. Si vous plait, for please to put the bottle of cokah in my handee now.”

The waiter moved the cans of Coke closer to me, but I pointed again to the glass bottles and said, “Cokee bottle. Give Cokee bottle to me.  Thankee por favor!”.  I moved over to the fridge and reached to open the glass door but the cash register lady saw what I was doing and she began to shout,”No! No! NO!”

What followed was a slow, painful pantomime with the cash register lady, the bartender and myself acting out a parable whereby I finally discovered that the glass bottles of Coke were reserved for the patrons seated in the sidewalk tables.  The standing bar-fly riff-cheapskate people got the cans. When the light of understanding clicked on, I sheepishly paid for my pathetic cans of coke and fled. 

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When we arrived back at our hotel after sightseeing for a few hours, the man at the front desk waved me over and asked to see my key. Oh, I thought, this must be some kind of security thing.  I hauled out my key and showed it to the man at the desk, but he didn’t want to see my key, he wanted my key. 

Me – “But we’re not checking out yet.”

Desk – “No… you leave key here.”

Me – “We are staying two more days.”

Desk – “You leave key here when you leave.”

Me – “Okay… when we check out we will leave the key here.”

Desk – “No… when you leave, you leave the key… when you come back you take the key.”

Me – You want my key?

Desk – Yes… give me your key.

Me – But I need to get in my room.

Desk – When you leave the hotel, leave your key.  When you come back to hotel, you pick up your key.

Me – Ohhhhhh!

I finally understood that I needed to turn my key into the desk when I left and pick it up when I returned.

It made me feel kind of weird… leaving my room key behind every time I left the hotel. All my stuff was in that room and I was essentially locking myself out of it, but once we adjusted to the system, it was not a problem.

 

 

 

We walked from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe straight down the Champs Elysees – one of the world’s most famous and most expensive streets.

 

 

 

 

Along the way we got hungry and sat down at a sidewalk cafe. As we looked over the menu, it slowly dawned on us that a pizza and six drinks was going to cost us almost two hundred dollars.

We quietly arose from our seats, and stumbled back towards the Arc De Triomphe, our bellies rumbling the entire way.

 

 
 

When we got back to London we rented a car. We were all hungry from three days in Paris of subsisting on coke, chips and chocolate croissants, so we were anxious to find a place to eat.

Finally… after a few hours of driving… on the horizon… like a beacon shining in the night… we saw a sign for a gas station/food and grocery store.

 

 

 

 

We got closer…

 

 

 

and CLOSER!!!

 

 

 

FOOD!

 

 

 

Food we could afford! Food we could understand! And food that understood us!  

Seriously!  

What more can you ask for in a meal?

I just finished a book called The Wicked Wit of Jane Austen compiled by Dominique Enright. To put together this formidable collection of wit, Enright combed through Jane’s personal letters and books and put all the wittiest Jane Austen remarks in one handy spot. I bought the book while I was in Bath… not in the bath… but Bath… the famous town in England.

Did you know I went to England?

And also Paris?

Yes.

I did.

It was a hellish trip and I still can’t think about it without dissolving into a hurricane of lurching grief, but I also can’t mention this book without alluding to Bath. Because Bath and this book, are kind of married in my mind… just like I am also kind of married in my mind. Well… actually I am very married in my mind. Very married… very, very, very married. And occasionally marriage requires a bit of lurching around in grief. Even among the very, very very married. And yes, I ask myself all the time… why did I not just get over it? Why did I not just determine to stop the ludicrous lurching in grief? What was wrong with me? I wish I could answer this question. All I know is that I do not get myself into lurching grief easily. I usually laugh at lurching grief! Ha ha ha! Lurching grief! So funny! But there is only so much lurching grief at which one can laugh. Eventually, the lurching grief is not laughable anymore. Eventually, one’s defenses against the lurching grief break down. I have discovered that they break down even faster in Paris. Paris is perhaps the most beautiful city in the world!  How can one’s marriage become so full of lurching grief while one is in Paris?  I have theories about lurching grief and Paris and marriage… many, many, many theories. Someday I hope to write these theories down and have them published in Popular Science or National Geographic or Country Living or in a cookbook called The Pioneer Woman Lurches in Grief.  I have no idea why I would call it by that title, except that someone might actually buy it if I did.  Because evidently if you add the words ‘Pioneer Woman’ to anything millions of people will read it.  Even if it is totally inane.  

But let’s skip the lurching grief part of this fabulous European vacation and just remember the good parts…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay… there are no good parts. But there is a lovely, ancient city in England called Bath which was the first place we visited after arriving back from Paris… and I am sorry to tell you this… but during our time in Bath, the lurching grief was still clinging to me like moldering grave cloths.

Exhibit A.

This is me – in Bath – in moldering grave cloths.

I am standing in front of the ancient Roman Bath… which is in Bath… hence it’s name… Bath.

Is not a picture worth a thousand words?

 

 

The Romans called this town, Aquae Sulis after the Celtic God, Sulis.

They kept the Celtic name because they believed very strongly in multi-culturalism… at least, after they conquered your Celtic ass, they believed in it!

 

 

 

 

Bath is the site of the only hot springs in the entire country of England. Archeologists have found evidence of the springs being regarded as a sacred place dating as far back as 700 BC.

The Romans built their temple at Bath (or Aquae Sulis) in 43 AD. They maintained, enlarged, and re-built the structures over the next four centuries.

 

 

 

After the Romans left Great Britain, the baths fell into disuse as they required an immense amount of labor to maintain.

The town continued to grow however and eventually a church was built over the old ruins of the Roman temple.

 

 

The Roman ruins were re-discovered in the 18th century.  

In 1987, Bath was chosen as a world heritage site.

The city is truly an open air museum of architectural wonder and ancient history.

Also – there are a lot of great shops and dining if anyone is so base… so primal… so uncivilized as to care.

 

 

 

Here are my feet walking on the very stones that the Romans would have walked upon.

 

 

 

 We got to sample the water. One of the reasons that Bath’s water was imbued with mystical properties by ancient peoples was not only it’s seemingly inexplicable heat, but also the fact that it stained the stones that it fell upon red. The water is full of minerals, especially iron. Early physicians strongly believed in the water’s curative properties and prescribed both bathing in it and drinking it in mass quantities. Perhaps the iron in the water counter balanced all the ‘bleeding’ they were always up to back then.

 

 

 

Adjacent to the Roman Bath is the legendary Pump Room.

 

 

 

The Pump Room is a setting for a scene in Austen’s novel Northanger Abbey as are many other sites in Bath.

 

 

 

We eventually made our way to the Jane Austen Center, replete with grim fake Jane standing outside waiting to greet us. Her countenance did nothing to dispel my gloom nor shake me from my moldering grave cloths. Thanks fake Jane. Thanks for nothing fake Jane!

 

 

 

My boys saw the fake Jane and fled for their lives to a nearby mini-golf course while I toured Jane’s house.

 

 

 

You will be happy to know that the correct Mr. Darcy is prominently displayed in several areas throughout the museum.

 

 

Here he is again looking over the tea room on the second floor.

Jane drew on her experiences in Bath in both Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.

 

 

 

We departed the Jane Austen Center and wandered around Bath for several hours.

 

 

Famed architect John Wood built two famous residences in Bath. The one in the above photo is known as the Royal Crescent. It is a semi-circular string of attached mansions.

 

 

 

He also designed the Circus which is just a few blocks over. The Circus is a circle of attached mansions cut by an intersection of three streets with a park in between. This aerial view gives you a much better effect than a street shot does.

 

 

 

Sally Lunn has been selling her buns in Bath since 1680. These are bread buns… and not uh… the other kind of buns. Sally is not still selling the buns herself as her buns are buried in the nearby Bath Abbey.

 

 

 

Actually, I don’t know where Sally Lunn’s buns are buried. But there are seemingly thousands of people buried at Bath Abbey.

 

 

 

The grave markers are all over the church

 

 

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Clad in moldering grave cloths as I was, the tombstones caused more than a fleeting shudder, but my eyes were also drawn upwards to the marvellous heights.

 

 

As I sat in a pew, I wondered if possibly Jane had sat here herself. And did she ever feel shroud in moldering grave cloths?

 

 

After touring the Abbey, we left Bath and made our way to Stonehenge via Castle Combe (the prettiest village in England).

 

 

Here are my boys standing by Stonehenge.

You might note that we are outside the perimeter fence.

This is as close as we got.

Because…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really?

Really Stonehenge?

Closed Stonehenge?

Why Stonehenge?

Why?

You are stones Stonehenge.

Massive stones in a field Stonehenge!

You are not a Seven Eleven with cigarettes and chewing tobacco Stonehenge!

You are not an Abercrombie and Fitch Stonehenge!

You should be open 24/7 Stonehenge!

You don’t even have a door to CLOSE Stonehenge!

Ah well…

What’s another tragic disappointment when one is already lurching about in grief and clad in moldering grave cloths?

Lately, as I have had comments turned off, I have been receiving a lot of truly lovely emails sharing words of encouragement, support, as well as stories from their own lives that relate to what I have been writing about recently. I treasure these letters and I will save them forever. Thank you.

On more than one occasion a person has suggested with a great amount of concern that I might possibly be suffering from a mental illness. I know that these concerns come from a place of care. I am not offended by them and am even open to the idea that I may indeed be fatally and tragically mentally ill. In fact, if it involves a long hospital stay where someone will cook for me three times a day, make up my bed and do my laundry, I am even more open to the idea. Under normal circumstances, I usually don’t consider myself to be any more mentally ill than the average person who spends her days lying on her stomach in a flower bed trying to get a good shot of the Victoria Blue Salvia up against the white clapboard house with the barn in bokeh in the background or spending the afternoon stacking up books in hundreds of different ways and then photographing them from a variety of angles or hastily grabbing a pen while playing Bunko at a neighbor’s house and writing a few notes on the back of her hand because a really great idea for a post just popped into her head.  I think these things are all well within the realm of mental health.  Aren’t they?  Doesn’t everyone do these things?  As to writing a blog where I refer my cats as ‘fake show cats’…I don’t have an explanation for that – but I think we could all use a little breathing room between sanity and insanity.

Over the years I have been diagnosed with the following mental illnesses from readers of my blog…

1. Depression

2. Anxiety

3. ADD

4. Mania

5. Melancholic

6. Pregnancy

7. Homeschooling

8. Bi-polar

9. Seasonal Affective Disorder

10. Bad decorator

The only one I feel comfortable diagnosing myself with is the last one – bad decorator.  I absolutely concur.  I am a bad decorator.  In fact, I think I am actually a non-decorator which is a far more severe and debilitating malady, from which one is far less likely to ever make a full recovery.  It is even more tragic that a woman who loves houses as much as I do, would be so utterly crippled when it comes to decorating, but I am.  If someone can suggest a psychotropic cocktail that will cure my problem I would really appreciate it.  It is crushing to the little bit that remains of my undamaged mind, to wander around a home with with naked windows, disproportionate shelves, and mis-matched pillow shams.

I do however know for a fact, that I do not at all suffer from home-schooling. Occasionally a new reader will wander over here from Pioneer Woman, Miz Booshay or my sister’s blog. (Sometimes I call these three blogs The Holy Trinity of Homeschooling Blogs and sometimes I call them The Bermuda Triangle of Homeschooling Blogs... It just depends on how ‘homeschooly’ I am feeling that particular day.) I love those blogs and the women that write them very much, but since I have never home-schooled a single one of my children for even a nano second, nor do I ever wish to (because not holy enough) I rarely fit the parameters that their readers desire and they usually drift away as soon as they discover the scandal of public education floating like a deadly white shark right off my starboard prow (if there is any such thing as a starboard prow which there probably is not.)  

As to the other illnesses I have been diagnosed with by my readers over time (with the exception of pregnancy which after delivering bouncing boy number 4, I cut off the tributary to that brand of crazy permanently). But the other illnesses are all distinct possibilities with me. After hearing a few of these suggested over the last week more than once, I called a local doctor and had him give me a diagnosis.

Me – Do you think I am depressed?

Country Doctor – Well… when you were so upset about our trip, I thought you might be depressed.

Me – Of course I was depressed! Who wouldn’t be depressed! Weren’t you depressed!

Country Doctor – Yes.. I was…

Me – Do I need to take a pill or something?

Country Doctor – No…

Me – Do you think I have anxiety?

Him – No. Absolutely not. You have zero anxiety. I have never met a less anxious person than you.

Me – What about affective disorder… or maybe bi-polar… or maybe I have mania!

Him – No… I don’t think so.  I think you are just fine.

Me – Are you just saying that? Do you really think I am okay?

Him – Yes, I really think you are okay. Why are you asking?

Me – Well… some of my readers have suggested that maybe I am depressed or anxious… and sometimes they think I’m pregnant.

Him – Why?

Me – I don’t know…. what do you think?

Him – I can’t answer to the pregnancy diagnosis – but as to the depression and the anxiety… I think it might be because you are always talking about laying on the bed watching the ceiling fan.

Me – But I really do lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan!

Him – Yes… but only on bad days.

Me – No! Actually I only watch the ceiling fan on good days! In fact, those are my best days!

Him – Oh… well you might want to stop mentioning it on the blog.

Me – Why?

Him – Because behaviors like spending the day laying on a bed and watching the ceiling fan is worrisome to lots of people.

Me – Really?

Him – Yes… it makes you sound like you might be suffering from a mental illness.

Me – But I really do lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan!

Him -  I would prescribe keeping it to yourself.

Me – Do I have a mental illness if I lay on the bed and watch the ceiling fan?

Him – No… but it makes you seem like you do.

Me – But I have to be honest! I can’t pretend to be something I’m not!

Him – Well… that is another problem. Lots of people aren’t very comfortable with honest expression… they prefer for everything to be nice and comfortable.

Me – Oh…

Him – So… don’t mention the ceiling fan anymore and stop expressing yourself so honestly.

Me – Uh… I don’t really see that working out for me. If I can’t occasionally lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling fan, and if I can’t write what I really think most of the time, than I may as well slip the straight jacket on right now.

Him – Then you are just going to have to deal with the misdiagnosis from a few of your readers.

Me – Okay… I guess I can handle that.

Important note to readers – I do understand the serious nature of mental illness and do not wish to make fun of the real thing… only the fake thing. I suffer from fake mental illnesses all the time. My best cure for fake mental illness is to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan. Also Agatha Christie movies help. Also wandering aimlessly around Target and buying another plastic clip for my hair helps.  It is not a guaranteed cure, but it does make me feel better.  And chocolate… and a hot beverage made by someone else and delivered to me on a tray (while I am lying on my bed watching the ceiling fan) helps.  That is all.