tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24898256744686479132024-03-05T08:11:25.652+01:00Kielbasa StoriesHow I moved to Poland and survivedChrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.comBlogger491125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-23855737385443329632021-01-24T14:37:00.001+01:002021-01-24T14:37:19.301+01:00Kielbasa Stories is back!<p> Hello! It's Chris here. </p><p>I just wanted to let you know that I made it my new year's resolution to return to Kielbasa Stories and with that a new domain. You can find Kielbasa Stories blog at <a href="http://www.kielbasastories.com">Kielbasa Stories</a> and Kielbasa Stories on Facebook and Instagram. </p><p>Thank you for being with me through all these years. I hope there's more to come. </p>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-14699872203986705342020-08-31T13:41:00.000+02:002020-08-31T13:41:18.822+02:00So you spent your pandemic in Poland...<p>I have spent the Covid-19 pandemic in Poland. Why, you might ask. Well, despite being American, I live in Poland with my Polish husband and oh so Polish kids. The best thing about spending the pandemic in Poland is that the word corona (korona) means crown in Polish, so instead of writing corona in any text I can just emoji crown it. I know that’s not really cool, but it’s a global pandemic. It’s hard to find positives.</p><p><br /></p><p>When the pandemic hit, I went from “that’s so lame” to “we’re all gonna die” in a blink of an eye. Some of my friends have stayed at lame, but whatcha gonna do? One of the guys working the copy machines at work said to me on my way out one day 6 months ago, “Hey, don’t come to work tomorrow.” I thought he meant just me, and in panic I quickly ran through my head for any and all recent fireable offenses I had committed that ksero-man would know about. When I found out it was about the pandemic, I was almost relieved.</p><p><br /></p><p>But let’s go back...all the way back to the Chinese New Year. Remember that? Well, in China at that time the virus had already been wreaking havoc. And into work comes a former co-worker to visit us, to spend the whole day sitting in our teacher’s lounge, blocking my access to the tea kettle. (Not cool, hot tea at work is all I’ve got.) He came to see us during his new year’s break in his new job in China. Ya’ll made fun of me because I didn’t shake his hand. Y’all laughed at me because I didn’t come back to the teacher’s room all day. Well, who’s laughing now!? (Nobody’s laughing now actually. Nobody at work remembers that, and pandemics aren’t very funny.)</p><p><br /></p><p>My Mom said “come home” the way moms do. Yeah, risk travel to stay in a country where I don’t have health insurance and for how long, nobody knows. At that time, I thought we’d be back any week now. Come home. I know it’s an expression; I use it too. But I am home.</p><p><br /></p><p>So, I did what everybody did. Joined Zoom. Continued working. Started to cook. Banana bread, check. Clean house, check. I even cut my daughter’s hair at her request from waist to shoulders then again from shoulders to Copernicus. Did I buy extra toilet paper? Sure, I did. Not because I thought there’d be a shortage. It was just so we wouldn’t have to go out so often. Did we run out of toilet paper anyhow? Yes, we did. Did we run out of beer? No, we did not. Priorities, people. I read a ton of books, watched endless hours of Netflix, and sorted out all my important papers. I got fat, got fit, and here we are a million years and a split second later, the new school year begins.</p><p><br /></p><p>Fingers crossed.</p><p><br /></p><p>We are all gonna get the Rona.</p><p><br /></p>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-28205788887790474542019-11-11T13:48:00.003+01:002019-11-11T14:01:30.610+01:00A Case of the Uglies<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In an expat group I am in, we were recently discussing the phenomenon of subjective attractiveness. For example, your are a plain old 6 in your home country, but an exotic 9 in your new country. This is a phenomenon I have never experienced. It's not because the country I moved to has a similar standard of beauty to my own country. It's because they have a similar standard of ugly. I have come to accept my empirical ugliness. People hardly ever let on that they know or wonder if I know they know I know (<i>Friends</i> fans). What can I say? I've got a face for radio. Or podcasts. Or whatever it is that the kids listen to these days. I've finally come to terms with the fact that I am universally, internationally unattractive. Nothing can faze me, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you can probably tell, I'm not hip to what the kids are into these days. If I didn't have kids of my own, I wouldn't even know half of what is going on in pop culture. It's like I am pop culture immune, well not immune, let's say resistant. I'm pop culture resistant. Not intolerant, just resistant. The pop culture just doesn't sink in. Names don't stick. Faces don't stick. Titles I can't remember. All actors are reduced to the description "that guy from that movie with that other guy". If it were not for Google, I would not know anybody's name or the title of any songs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I am at work, minding my business, when a couple walks in for their lessons, well, his lessons. They are a Very Attractive Couple, internationally attractive I would even say. We interact in English, however they speak their own language, Polish, between them. It turns out that the Mrs. is none too pleased that her husband's Spanish teacher is a young and attractive woman. But that's the only teacher we've got, so there you are and anyhow, I don't run this show. I assured her that we have plenty of male English teachers, and I am sure she and her husband will be satisfied with their selection if/when he starts English lessons, when the wife turns to the husband and says "z nią możesz mieć". (you can have with her)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't suppose it was my sparkling personality that won them over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was only much later that I was informed that Mr. and Mrs. are local stars or personalities of some sort. Their universal attractiveness confirmed by their many fans. Well who knew? Not me. Everyone at work did. My kids did though. But no me. Not a clue. Crazy, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keeping it ugly every day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-36324687040049064672018-03-18T12:37:00.001+01:002018-03-18T12:37:45.704+01:00Life is BrutalThere’s nothing fun or funny about funerals. There really isn’t. Ok, maybe there is. Let’s start again. There’s nothing fun or funny about death. There we go. That sounds right.<br />
<br />
Death, not funny.<br />
Funerals, sometimes funny.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5IZBXTmiekXfvGPlw0XWIYxSbHP464ZV7QXIsA5WVFLZVJMGDWdntnN6pwjJKkyGqbt5Poc4qiIzwVviaHZE8yaWCxmprC4eSKj6Ajv1nusIE3Gn4xwDbvht7Abpk2QypHxWmP8eEWM/s1600/20180121_185812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5IZBXTmiekXfvGPlw0XWIYxSbHP464ZV7QXIsA5WVFLZVJMGDWdntnN6pwjJKkyGqbt5Poc4qiIzwVviaHZE8yaWCxmprC4eSKj6Ajv1nusIE3Gn4xwDbvht7Abpk2QypHxWmP8eEWM/s400/20180121_185812.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cash & Carry Shop "Brutal" located in Zakopane</td></tr>
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I’m lucky in that I don’t often go to funerals. They are getting more frequent though. I don’t like that, but what can you do?<br />
<br />
Life is brutal.<br />
<br />
My first “big” funeral was that of my paternal grandmother. My paternal grandfather had died years before, and we kids were not taken to the funeral. Maybe we were too little. Maybe the adults were afraid we wouldn’t know how to behave. My grandfather was the father of 8 children, so as far as grandchildren go, there were a lot of us, and he had no idea who was who. When something went wrong - crash, bang, boom - he simply grabbed the kid closest to him and gave that kid a thorough beating. Claims of innocence fell on deaf ears. He had a system, a system that worked, and a no-fail system that resulted in the guilty party getting theirs. After receiving an unjust beating, the innocent party would make a beeline for the guilty party and transfer the beating, a beating just as thorough as the beating received. The efficiency of the system - it worked every time. Needless to say, we weren’t close to our grandfather, and the only time he ever made physical contact with me was for a beating...before I learned the system...back when I thought my youth and innocence protected me...back before I learned to run.<br />
<br />
When my father’s mother died, those 8 children could not get themselves together to figure out anything....nor who would pay for it. My father gave my sister a blank check, and we took a cousin and went to the funeral home to plan everything. And there is a lot to plan, but when you have a blank check things tend to go smoothly. My aunts figured out the clothes and makeup. My father figured out the flowers and the wake. My cousin delivered the eulogy. It was like a huge sad, sentimental family reunion complete with my one annoying, passive aggressive aunt. The aunt whose husband was killed in a freak accident when were kids leaving her widowed with a small child. The aunt who was a very successful Avon lady at one time, and everyone thought she was just something. The aunt that looked just like my dad in drag, think Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie”, complete with puffy hair and big “Tootsie” glasses. My dad was a handsome guy. I look just like my dad, so I kind of look like my annoying, passive aggressive aunt who looks like my dad in drag aka Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie”. As we were sitting at the wake trying to figure out who was going to kick the bucket next and what the etiquette was for cutting out and going to a bar, another cousin from the Florida branch of the family, came over and said, “You know what Chris? You look just like Auntie. I can’t get over how much you look like her. You look more like her than her own daughter.” Cue the waterworks, my waterworks. “No, no, back when she was young and attractive! Not now! I’m so sorry. Please stop crying.” I can tell you that the etiquette for cutting out of a wake is to: Number One - get insulted by your cousin, Number Two - to dramatically cry “isn’t it enough that grandma is dead?”, and Number Three - to be escorted out on the sympathetic shoulder of your alcohol-loving sister who’s so grateful for the exit that she buys you drinks all night long.<br />
<br />
On the other side of the family, my maternal grandfather died well before my birth, and my maternal grandmother died while I was out of the country. My family didn’t wait for me (that will become a theme) and held the first secular funeral in our family’s history. Unlike the Catholics on my father’s side of the family, my grandma didn’t believe in any of that, and if you don’t belong to a church, you don’t belong to a church. Anyhow, my grandma had her whole funeral planned and paid for. You see, when she saw how my father and his siblings struggled to figure out what to do for their mother’s funeral, she decided to make an appointment with a local funeral director, decide on a cremation, draw up a contract, and pre-pay for the whole shindig. She even picked out her outfit, complete with shoes, and lipstick. My grandma had unusual coloring. She was a blue-eyed, natural redhead with ivory skin and no freckles. She was a teeny tiny lady who weighed 80 pounds on her best day. She worked as a waitress in a diner for years, smoked Pall Malls - no filter, got her hair set once a week and her nickname at work was “Red”. I miss her.<br />
<br />
Her favorite sister got cancer and my grandma took care of her till her last day. My grandma had an unfavorite sister as well and another even more unfavorite sister and a brother who moved to England after the war. She wore a very respectable navy suit to that funeral, new and two sizes too big because when you weigh 80 pounds, nothing fits. Well, not nothing. My grandma had a suit, skirt and jacket, from the 60’s that fit her perfectly. That was the last decade she could shop in the adult section of the department store. In her later years, she sported “best of Gap Kids” with the labels cut out so she wouldn’t know. Her 1960's suit was a delightful salmon color paired with a white blouse that buttoned up to her neck and had a fancy bow. She was sensitive about a scar she had on her neck. She packed it with shoes and accessories into a garment bag in her closet and gave us instructions that she was to be buried in that when the time came. That garment bag waited more than a decade before it could serve its purpose.<br />
<br />
I made it home a few months later. My mother tasked me with sorting through my grandmother’s things, something I agreed to do. Actually it was the least I could do considering my mother had had to take care of everything. I spent a lot of time in my grandmother’s room. I looked through all her pictures, her old handbags, her old neck scarves. I found her old white gloves that ladies used to wear when they were fancy. I found the satin sleep bonnet she used to wear to keep her hairdo all done. In her closet I found beautiful coats, tailored like they don’t tailor anymore. I found a hatbox with the hat she wore to her own wedding....and then... I found the garment bag with the salmon suit that she had selected to be buried in.<br />
<br />
I grabbed that bag and flew out of the room shaking it accusingly in my mother’s face screaming, “What is this? What is this?”<br />
<br />
My mother screamed back, “I just couldn’t bury her in a salmon suit. It’s so undignified. I buried her in the navy. She liked the navy.”<br />
<br />
“What does it matter to you, Mom? She was cremated!”<br />
<br />
“Oh, we didn’t do that,” she scoffed.<br />
<br />
All the sympathy I had felt for my mother drained out of me. I returned to my grandmother’s room, packed up the boxes, the keep boxes, the donate boxes. The closet I left empty. Well, except for one small garment bag.<br />
<br />
My mother upon seeing the garment bag asked in a demanding tone, “What is this doing here?” to which I replied that we had to keep it so we would have something to bury HER in.<br />
<br />
“But it’s 5 sizes too small,” she scoffed.<br />
<br />
“We’ll make it fit!” I screamed as I went out the door, slamming it behind me.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what happened to that garment bag, but when I came back it was gone.<br />
<br />
After that, my parents decided to plan and pre-pay their funerals as well. My father really got into it, hence the incredibly expensive navy blue coffin with cream satin interior he was buried in. My father died at Christmas a few years ago, and I couldn’t get a flight in time for the funeral. I attended my father’s <a href="http://kielbasastories.blogspot.com/2014/12/attending-funeral-via-skype.html" target="_blank">funeral from Poland via Skype</a>. The public viewing, the private viewing, the drive from the funeral home to the church with my aunt holding the iPad up so I could give my uncle directions, the church funeral where the priest did mention how much money my father had given to the church, the drive from the church to the cemetery, the cemetery service, the wake in which I had to watch people eat steak while I had no steak - I saw it all.<br />
<br />
My father dying certainly was not funny. It was not entirely expected either despite all the pre-payments and fancy coffins. My mother forgot I was there on Skype during the private viewing, and I had to silently witness her last moments with my father, her last words to him, her final kiss, and her closing of the coffin lid for good. I wish I hadn’t seen that.<br />
<br />
The public viewing the day before was never ending. Hundreds of people showed up to pay their respects. We were positioned in a horseshoe formation. My mom, me on a plant stand, my father in the coffin, then my sister and her family oppite us. People started with my mom, tapped on my screen and got the shock of their lives when I responded, moved on to my father while looking back at me, and then moved on to my sister where they made an appointment to meet later at the bar. Hey, we’re consistent.<br />
<br />
My sister and I messaged each other from time to time during this process. It was like a virtual whisper in her ear. Then I saw my ex and his mother. The ex I almost married. The ex whose mother had bought me a hideously ugly wedding dress and when I said, “Thank you, but no thank you” insisted the woman who married HER SON would be wearing that dress. The ex who told me to just wear the hideous dress because his momma knows best. The ex whose mother screamed at me that I had stolen her baby’s virtue when we announced that we were breaking up and that there would be no wedding. That ex. There were two mourners in front of them. I had time. I texted my sister...<br />
<br />
<i>Do something!</i><br />
<br />
Her reply...<br />
<br />
<i>Suck it, loser!</i> Then she pointed at me from across the room and gave a silent laugh.<br />
<br />
Yep, that’s about right.<br />
<br />
My father-in-law died a few months later at Easter. My husband was only able to say goodbye thanks to a phone call from an old friend who works at the hospital. We went to the funeral, greatly condensed as it was <a href="http://kielbasastories.blogspot.com/2015/04/good-friday_3.html" target="_blank">Good Friday</a>. We were asked to not give my mother-in-law condolences as she had disowned us a few years before for failing to christen our children and not giving in to her ultimatum. She refused to interact with our children, her grandchildren, at the wake. We were also told that in the future we were not to attend her funeral whenever that may be. That was three years ago.<br />
<br />
And she got her wish. My mother-in-law passed away sometime last week. Apparently,her funeral was last Saturday. Nobody contacted my husband. In the evening, he ran into a neighbor who has been working as a gravedigger since he got out of prison last year, and he gave him the news. He found out his mother had died not from his sisters, but from the gravedigger. Maybe some day I will see the humor in that, but not today.Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-13192254952807189202018-01-27T22:06:00.001+01:002018-01-27T22:22:28.931+01:00Winter Break I almost exclusively read my news online - from reputable publications, thank you very much. For you young people out there, there’s nothing new or even interesting in that, but I remember picking up my New York Times each day from the university bookstore and my workmates fighting over the Praca/Work section of Gazeta Wyborca back in the day. Not too loud though - they didn't want our boss to hear. My mother still has a paper newspaper delivered daily. I was surprised they still even printed it. She has a laptop and a tablet and a code for the same newspaper online which she has never ever used. The best sections of her local newspaper are: <i>Police News</i> where we can find out who got arrested, complete with full name, age, and address, <i>Letters to the Editor</i> where the ratio of crazy people letters to normal people letters is about 5 to 1, <i>The Courthouse Roundup</i> where we can find out what happened to all those people from the <i>Police News</i> in addition to who got married or divorced, bought or sold land, or applied for a restraining order, and the last best section, according to my mother is the <i>Obituaries</i> where we can find out who died. That’s a lot of personal information for one small paper.<br />
<br />
I remember years ago what an amazing thing it was to be able to read news from all over the world sitting in my teeny tiny apartment in Poland. Now, sometimes, I want to turn it all off. I follow Polish news of course. Living in Poland it'd be hard to avoid and also irresponsible I think. I feel it's my duty, plus it helps with my Polish language skills. Having said that, I have some Expat friends who do not know who the President of Poland is. Oh well, ignorance is bliss. I follow American news as well because, well, I'm American. I’m keyed in to the most important events, but I miss the little stories. That basically boils down to a lot of Trump and almost no Kardashians. You win some. You lose some.<br />
<br />
Today, I saw a picture of Melania Trump visiting the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. She’s photographed in one of the areas that made a lasting impact on me. This area is painted dark, blue or maybe gray or black, with the white overlay popular in Europe years ago. Our whole house was painted like that when we bought it. I thought of the museum exhibit when we looked at our house with the real estate agent. The walls of the exhibit are covered in pictures, pictures recovered by soldiers from a village in Lithuania, a village with no survivors.<br />
<br />
I visited the museum when I was teaching history in nearby Baltimore. I went once with my future husband and my boss from school. My boss couldn’t believe how the city of Łódź is pronounced or that my future husband was able to translate some exhibition materials that were not translated from Polish to English. I went a second time with my students. Another teacher had been awarded the invitation to the museum (complete with guides, buses, a substitute teacher to complete any duties at school), but declined. In our school we were often without water and electricity, our history books were printed in 1952, and nobody took our kids anywhere.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, back to the room - it’s really a large hall connecting one part of the exhibit with another. It’s magnificent. The pictures, black and white, line the walls as the visitor goes through on a walkway. There are portraits, weddings, funerals, beach vacations, winter breaks. I remember the winter break pictures because I was so pleased with myself that I could read ferie zimowe. There were kids, some alone, some with parents, skiing, sledding, building snowmen. Just like my kids this winter break in the picture below. If you get a chance to go to the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C., please do. It’s worth a visit. You can catch a peek of the exhibit I am talking about here in <a href="http://www.abpan.com/tag/tower-of-faces/" target="_blank">Tower of Faces </a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wqKLhC9O71qAaD8nN7Wc7Lw74HKFLH32ygn1LsxeOTLgFj9kEvAIofKhor0Xg7WGwsQYyGid-0u4kmms1tiQGvAI6FjTXMfOpll_k4tFCYSKSvx18J2CcKqh4T9WmU30wKc2-mIlt8s/s1600/20180122_161915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wqKLhC9O71qAaD8nN7Wc7Lw74HKFLH32ygn1LsxeOTLgFj9kEvAIofKhor0Xg7WGwsQYyGid-0u4kmms1tiQGvAI6FjTXMfOpll_k4tFCYSKSvx18J2CcKqh4T9WmU30wKc2-mIlt8s/s400/20180122_161915.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zakopane 2018</td></tr>
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Years ago when it was still a novelty to be connected and all that, I came across an article about a gentleman, a Holocaust survivor, living in England who was unable to go to the Auschwitz liberation anniversary because he was elderly and had no one to accompany him. I thought for a minute, and then for a minute longer. I shot off an email to the journalist with an offer. If this gentleman could get himself to Poland by air, I could pick him up at any airport and accompany him to all the events. Jeezuz, I almost wrote festivities instead of events. The same day the journalist got back to me. He thanked me for my interest and passed on my offer and contact information to the gentleman. He requested that if we actually made plans to go to the anniversary together that we please let him know so he could write a follow-up.<br />
<br />
A few days later as I was driving to work, my phone rang with an English area code. A friend of mine worked for a courier in England and had been known to butt dial on occasion, nevertheless, I quickly pulled over and answered. It was this lovely gentleman speaking with a perfect Geordie accent thanking me for my offer. It seems the journalist had exaggerated just a bit. The gentleman didn’t have anyone to accompany him in the sense that his children were not able to bring him, not in the sense that nobody cared about him. He did have mobility issues that required some extra care, but all in all he said he was fit, but not really that keen on attending the anniversary. We chatted awhile and he asked me if I knew his home area near Lublin. I replied that I was familiar with the area because my father-in-law was from Szczebrzeszyn. The phone went silent, and I was sure we’d been cut off. After a few frantic hellos from my side, I realized he was crying. “I can’t believe I’m talking to an American girl in Poland, and she just said Szczebrzeszyn.” Then he laughed.<br />
<br />
When the Germans came through his area, he and his sister and her boyfriend hid in a field while the rest of his family hid in the house. Unfortunately, the family was murdered the same day. He and his sister were later taken away to Auschwitz where he survived. He made his way home where he waited on his old doorstep for anyone to come home. No one did, and he described the situation there as more dangerous by the day as some people feared survivors coming home to reclaim their property. He was strongly advised to move on. In the end, he decided to go to England. “Didn’t you want to stay in Poland?” I asked. His answered chilled me. “Imagine that tomorrow you wake up and you cannot find a single person that you knew from the day before. Not your family, not a neighbor, not a shop owner, former classmate or teacher, not a single familiar face. That was Poland for me.” He also told me of his past trips to Poland with his family and his total lack of desire to visit Auschwitz again. “I think I spent enough time there,“ he said. His greatest regret? Never having killed a Nazi. He was a child when the war began and came out the other side someone who regretted not having killed someone. That saddened me, but who am I to say anything about the regrets or desires of someone who has gone through the unspeakable? The incongruity struck me though because I felt as if I were talking to a twenty-something. His voice was so happy, so optimistic.<br />
<br />
“Powiem Pani coś po polsku, bo żona tutaj stoi,” he started. (I will tell you something, but in Polish because my wife is standing here.) He proceeded to tell me about how via the Spielberg Foundation he found his sister 40 years after the war. She and her boyfriend had survived and had been living in the US. In Polish he said, “It was the best day of my life. Better than my wedding day. Better than the birth of my children. To know that I wasn’t all alone. That was something.” It was my turn to cry.<br />
<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-69936549754995172482017-12-31T10:36:00.000+01:002017-12-31T10:36:13.970+01:00The New Year<br />
January 11, 2017, I got sick again. I don’t know why. The doctors don’t know why. That’s pretty scary, not knowing why. When you don’t know exactly why, you don’t know how to help or treat or even cure. We are doing all the things we did the first time. It took 4 years then. We’re doing all the things we did the second time. It took weeks. We’re doing all the things and more, but here I am one year later with my life...<br />
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Everyday starts in pain and ends in pain with a whole lot of pretending in between. The pain never leaves me, despite the drugs, the treatments, the physical therapy. Nothing helps. I don’t know if anything ever will.<br />
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The bits of me that make me Me are slipping behind the curtain of pain. My capacity to reflect is greatly diminished. I can focus though on work. Going to work, focusing on the task, pretending I’m not in pain.<br />
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I don’t plan, at least not for myself. I plan for work and for the kids.<br />
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I know it’s visible to others, to my kids. One person asked me if I used to do Botox and stopped, the question due to the constant furrowing of my brow. I know it’s invisible to a lot of people too. It’s my problem and no one else’s. It’s a bummer to hear about someone’s suffering.<br />
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I managed to take the kids on vacation thanks to my friend who knows chronic illness only too well.<br />
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I got on that plane to the US even though the pain was so bad.<br />
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I slapped a smile on my face for those pictures.<br />
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I made those uszka and wrapped those presents.<br />
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Here’s to a new year.<br />
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<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-12641574791531659812017-06-17T18:05:00.000+02:002017-06-17T18:05:26.284+02:00The Dreaded Letter <i>We got it. </i><br />
<i>The Dreaded Letter.</i><br />
<i>From school.</i><br />
<i>The sealed Dreaded Letter from school.</i><br />
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<b>Proper Letters</b><br />
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I used to get letters. Proper letters. Proper letters with return addresses. Proper letters with return addresses, stamps, and sometimes a little window. How exciting it was to check the mailbox back then. That's how I got my university acceptance letter. I remember pulling the envelope out of the mailbox and immediately second guessing - <i>It's thin so it must be a rejection. If they wanted me, they'd have sent some extra materials. No, YOU open it. I just can't. Give me that. You are so slow. I can't look. You read it. Out loud! Yeah! I got in! Let's celebrate.</i> Kids today have no idea what they are missing.<br />
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<b>The Colored Envelope</b><br />
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Polish business establishments such as my bank do not seem to realize the fear that goes into my formerly indebted American heart when I see a colored envelope in my mailbox. Think the same panic as when you have to sign for a letter from ZUS (Polish Social Security). Colored envelopes mean something is wrong. Colored envelopes from a bank mean you owe somebody money. OK, you have no mortgage, so you couldn't possibly owe them money, and you know that, but you panic just the same...the same as when you now have to sign for a letter from ZUS. (True story- After signing and dating the dreaded letter from ZUS, the post woman asks you to sign it "bardziej po polsku". Like how? How can I sign it in Polish? It's a letter from ZUS. It's my signature. You have brought me a letter from ZUS with my name printed on it. You have written my name in block letters. You have asked me to sign it. I have signed it. Now what? Should I sign it "Maria Skłodowska Curie", perhaps? That'd certainly be more Polish...and a little bit French, but not at all my name.)<br />
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<b>The most dreaded of all, the letter sent home from school</b><br />
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I'm pretty sure that one of my kids is gonna get the dreaded letter home from the principal, most likely for insubordination and probably for use of the f-word during such insubordination. I'm ready for that. I've been ready for that for awhile. I can handle that. Obedience isn't high up on my list of skills and wisdom I want to impart on my kids. Well, it isn't actually on my list at all. Yes, I have an actual list. "Respect" is on there. "You don't have to smile if you don't want to" is on there. "Know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run." is on there too. "Obey" is not.<br />
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No, this dreaded school letter isn't an insubordination letter from the principal. It isn't a request from the English teacher for my child to stop correcting her. It isn't even a letter about grades or behavior or anything like that because it's from the school nurse! Yes, the school nurse! I wasn't even aware that we had a school nurse, but there you go. Forget about somebody's existence, and they send you a letter home.<br />
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The nurse. Please let it not be serious. They would not just send a letter home with a kid if it were serious, right? So it can't be serious. Did all the kids get a letter or just you? All you think? So it can't be something bad. Whew! Nothing bad then. Definitely something easy peasy, like shots. You probably just need some booster shots or something like that. I can't find anything in your health book though. Maybe it's about menstruation. Wait, what? You already had the menstruation talk at school? Oh gawd, please let it not be head lice. Please no. Show me your head. Is it itchy here? No. Yes, you can go. Go.<br />
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What the Hell?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dreaded Letter</td></tr>
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It was this. My daughter's height, weight, her calculated BMI, and an invitation for the whole family to attend a really wonderful program aiming to combat childhood obesity by involving the whole family. It includes medical tests for the whole family, exercise classes, nutrition and cooking classes, group therapy, the whole 9 yards and I really, really, want to go. There's just one thing...my daughter doesn't weigh 57.3 kilograms. I don't even weigh 57.3 kilograms. She weighs 37 kilograms on the dot. The nurse made a clerical error - a 20 kilogram error that identifies my kid as obese and qualifies us to the program. Do you think we can still go?<br />
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<b>Uwaga , slight tangent here.</b><br />
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So here's the thing, well not <i><u>the</u> thing</i> but <i><u>a</u> thing</i>. I'm not obese (nor are the kids), but my sister with the same upbringing is, and she owns it. She doesn't pretend to have a metabolic disorder or that it's genetic. Ask her and she'll tell you (or don't ask her and she'll still tell you). She likes to eat and drink, and never exercises. It's all her own fault according to her. I was unaware of weight and things like that for a blissfully long time. I mean longer than most kids today, and if not for others around me, I could have entered my teenage years unaware. I was made aware by classmates. "Chris isn't fat. She's big-boned." I most certainly wasn't, but what I was, was a foot taller than all my classmates at the time and taller than the teachers and the principal too. I also had breasts and my period as the first one in my class, a real outcast there in Catholic school as if I had any control over the start date and/or final effects of puberty. I was made aware by teachers who saw that I didn't have a lunch (I'd forgotten it) and who grilled me about my feelings of self worth all the while not offering me anything in the way of food. Thank goodness that when they called my mother that afternoon, she was able to walk, phone in hand, to the refrigerator and see my forgotten lunch just sitting there. I was made aware by our PE teacher who ordered all 5th graders who weighed more than a hundred pounds to stand up in front of the room and for the class to shout out ways they could help us keep our weight down, never mind that in 5th grade I was 5'6" tall and should easily have weighed more than a hundred pounds. It was our school principal, a nun, who seeing me a year later at the same weight made me aware by instructing me not to lose anymore weight. My reply that I hadn't lost any put a confounded look on her face.<br />
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My parents didn't want us to be overweight and certainly not obese. We had to play a sport. We weren't allowed to drink sugary drinks. We ate dinner together every evening. When my sister who is older than me started to develop and "chubbed out" as we called it, my parents monitored her eating. Oh, did they ever. So much so that I was sneaking food for my hungry sister who immediately stuffed it in her face not really tasting it or enjoying it and forever messing up her relationship with food. It messed up mine too, but I didn't realize it at the time. About four years later the same thing happened to me - the chubbing out, the monitoring of my food intake. There was nobody around to sneak this hungry girl a snack, so she (czyli me) just stopped eating. No one controls what I put in my mouth. Fortunately, my grandmother stepped in and told them to leave me alone. But she wasn't all hearts and flowers for everyone. I'd heard her ask her own daughter, my mother, why she ate so much. No one is immune. We all have our food issues. I'm not for burying my head in the sand either. I want my kids to eat nutritious food when they are hungry and stop when they aren't hungry anymore. I want them to fuel their bodies and exercise them and live and love, and be happy. I know it's a bit much especially in the era of social media and all that stuff, but I think I will still try. You wanna try too? You probably already try though. Give me a hand then. How do you do it?<br />
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PS I know my blog format is kind of outdated. I'm gonna change it eventually...when I stop procrastinating.<br />
<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-1274521796298167092017-05-31T13:00:00.001+02:002017-05-31T13:00:56.411+02:00Children's Day in Poland czyli Dzień Dziecka or whatever Children's Day is here again. June 1st in Poland every year. We don't have Children's Day in the US where I'm from, so I conveniently forget it each year.<br />
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Luckily the kids' school remembers. The older kid's class went to a trampoline park - they're what's "in" now, or as my kids have started saying "mega".</div>
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Their father usually remembers as well. Perhaps I should do something for Children's Day. They did a bang up job for Mother's Day this year. I mean I nagged the hell out of them, but still.</div>
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They may get nothing from me on Children's Day, but I have given my kids one extremely valuable gift. The gift of chores. <b>Chores?</b> Yes, chores.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lizzie mowing the lawn </td></tr>
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I had chores as a kid. Didn't we all? I had the basic keeping my room clean chore that most kids get. That chore was non-negotiable. Then each Saturday my sister and I divvied up the rest of the chores on the chore list, alternating each week who got first pick, thus sticking your sister with the chores you despised i.e. cleaning the bathrooms.</div>
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Now on the rare occasion I go to the USA, I start in on the chores even after all these years. But it's for a different reason. I want to help. Back then I had no interest in keeping my parents' house clean and looking nice. My parents oft repeated that it was their house, and we had to "pay our way" or "earn our keep". Not the friendliest of parental methods, and not very motivating to us kids to go above and beyond the regular chores. Those were the choriest chores. I did them because I had to. I don't know what the consequences would have been had I not done them. I was too scared to find out. </div>
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I have a slightly different parental philosophy. I remind the kids that this is <b>our</b> home, and we need to take care of it. If that doesn't work, I turn on an episode of "Hoarders" - Chomikowanie in Polish. It works every time!</div>
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I also let my kids play to their strengths. Lizzie enjoys mowing the lawn and cleaning the car inside and out. She also likes to organize things. Rosie isn't too keen on lawn mowing, but she likes digging, planting, weeding, and raking. She also likes kitchen stuff such as cooking, baking, and even washing the dishes. </div>
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In my opinion, chores provide kids with a sense of home, responsibility, family, and even pride. My grandmother always said that there's no shame in being poor, only in being dirty. They also develop life skills that they will need when they leave home. Chores also provide my kids a way to earn pocket money. They have to do basic chores, but they can do extra chores to get a little walking around money. They're happy with that set up and so are we.</div>
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Do Polish kids have chores? My husband said that they most certainly do, maybe not so-named, but they do. When he was a kid he definitely had chores, but without a chart (we don't do the chart either), but yes, he had chores.<br />
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We are all just kids at heart ❤️ so treat yourself this Children's Day and don't forget to do your chores!</div>
Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-43361281911026499922017-01-10T17:10:00.001+01:002017-01-10T17:17:09.308+01:00My Absolutely Unscientific Research: 500+In the Polish election last autumn the winning party, <strong>PiS</strong>, took control, some say thanks to its election promise of the 500+ program. The <strong>500 Plus program</strong> works like this: a benefit of 500 PLN is paid to families for the second child plus any additional children after that. We are not talking only about new births, but also existing children. So if you have 3 children, you should receive 1000 PLN monthly (0 for the first child + 500 for the second child + 500 for the third child = 1000 PLN). If the family income falls under a certain amount, that family gets the benefit for all the children. Receiving the 500+ does not affect other benefits a family might receive from other institutions. In comparison, the minimum wage is/was 1850 PLN gross and is due to rise to 2000 PLN gross as of January 2017. That is the monthly payment for 40 hours per week.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6Zl7td2lC5Q/WHUHgjE1a2I/AAAAAAAAD3I/aTGygT_AZUQ/s1600-h/0322201363116.jpg"><img alt="03222013631" border="0" height="377" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zf4vBDk6pRk/WHUHhu-UkZI/AAAAAAAAD3Q/BkD5QBJRRes/03222013631_thumb24.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="03222013631" width="550" /></a><br />
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Some call it a social program. Some call it a handout. Some call it a lifesaver while others call it vote buying. No matter our feelings about it socially or morally, we must remember its effect economically. The government is not paying people from its own money. The government’s money is our money. And according to the latest proposal of the government, my family’s taxes are due to go up next year about the amount of 2x 500+. Somebody has to pay for it, right? Perhaps they could take it from the Smolensk commission budget.<br />
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I don’t believe there are any comprehensive studies at the moment on the effect of the 500+ so I have done some independent and completely unscientific research…in my village. A couple of years ago, I talked to a neighbor lady, they call her Fat Kasia which I find unnecessarily cruel as she is the only adult Kasia in the whole village. Anyhow, we were chatting at the village shop as you do when you are in the village. From the contents of her shopping of flour, potatoes, white cheese, and cigarettes, I gathered that Kasia was planning to make a batch of pierogi for the weekend. She lamented greatly at the cost of everything on their one salary and how unfair it was that the furniture factory didn’t pay her husband his salary on time. I agreed that not getting paid on time certainly wasn’t fair indeed, but I also inquired as to her interest in getting a job, you know, to take the pressure off. There were plenty of job offers at the new sawmill just 2 kilometers away. Kasia could not hide her shock and dismay at my inquiry. “I have a child!” she exclaimed. “I have two!” I exclaimed back. Nobody was judging. Nobody was offended. It was just a difference in our vision of our own lives. Over the next couple of weeks and over a few more conversations, Kasia decided to try to get a job at the sawmill. Her child was 8 years old then, and they lived meters from the school doors. And guess what. She got that job. That first Christmas Kasia had as an employed person was as she put it herself, “the best they’d ever had”. She was pleased to have the job, the possibility of paid overtime on Saturdays if she wanted, and a pleasant holiday season without the usual financial stress from years past. <br />
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Then Kasia got pregnant with their very much wanted second child. I met her a few times in front of the shop, her pregnant belly standing in stark contrast to the cigarette she had in her hand. My look must have spoken volumes because she later said to my husband, “What? I quit drinking at least.” Kasia had her baby about a year ago. I still meet her in front of the shop, baby in one hand, baby bottle of Kubus and cigarette in the other hand. Kasia is not going back to work. She’s decided that it doesn’t pay. Even though she would not lose her 500+ benefit. Even though the sawmill offered her a part-time job to start back. Even though her mother offered to babysit those 4-5 hours a day while she’s at work and cook dinner for the family. Even though she’d get a bit more than 1000 PLN a month from her employer, another 500 from the 500+ program, and secure her job position if she decided to return to full-time. It’s just not worth it to her. I’ve read a recent report that says there is absolutely no evidence that people are dropping out of the workforce due to the 500+ benefit. I find that hard to believe as most of us know at least one person and in my case several people who have done just that. <br />
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It is no surprise that money we get for nothing has a higher value than money we get for doing something, for example working - especially for someone earning minimum wage, having small children, and needing to travel to and from work each day. Transportation, good winter attire, childcare – it can cost you a significant part of your salary just to earn that salary. That wasn’t the case for Kasia, but yet she still decided not to go back to work. I returned to work relatively quickly after having each child. I was in fear of losing my contracts. There was a time when I did not even earn my ZUS payment (Social Security), not to mention my transportation costs or the babysitter, but I had to do it in hopes of a better future.<br />
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Continuing my unscientific research, I have been chatting with the local shop owner. Our village has a population of about 500 people. We have a primary school, a public library, a doctor’s office, a fire station, a chapel, and one shop. Our shop has got the basics, and as you can imagine, the shop is more expensive than the discount shops in the next town over. I don’t really think twice about the cost when I’ve got a kid on the toilet, and I’m running to Mr. Mariusz to buy toilet paper. (It happens more often than I’d like to admit.) The next town is only 7 kilometers away, but without a car, that’s too far for some locals to do their shopping. I inquired if Mr. Mariusz had noticed any changes in local shopping behavior since the 500+ payments started a few months ago. He has noticed some changes. He said some people came in and settled their credits (the infamous zeszyt) immediately, knowing that Mr. Mariusz knows that they got their money. Some people stocked up on the basics, perhaps enjoying the feeling of a fully-stocked kitchen cupboard for the first time in a long time. One lady has done a reverse-zeszyt by giving Mr. Mariusz all the 500 and deducting her shopping from there each time. She allows her husband 100 of the money on the zeszyt for his beer and cigarettes, and not a grosz more. It appears that women are in charge of budgeting that money. Mr. Mariusz has also reported that sales of beer and cigarettes has gone up significantly. He stopped selling hard alcohol some years ago as some of his customers were quickly drinking themselves in unconsciousness outside the shop doors.<br />
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What have I noticed? At the start, new trampolines and bikes appeared in our village. Cartons of cigarettes replaced packs or cigarettes. In some cases, packs of cigarette have replaced homemade cigarettes. This year there were not scenes in the front of the shop about a father drinking all the public benefit the kids got for school shoes. I’m not saying that money was not drunk, but there was an additional source of income to buy shoes from. We’ll find out this winter if we have similar scenes of selling the public benefit coal for cash and then stealing wood from other neighbors as it was last year.<br />
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Talking to my neighbors and friends in the village, many of them say they voted solely for that 500+ program. They have the knowledge that it most certainly is detrimental to the economy and they don’t care. One family has got one little kid at home and two teens in the orphanage. Since the 500+, they have been trying to get their kids back from the orphanage. They didn’t lose them because they were poor, but because their behavior prevented the kids from going to school. The kids don’t want to come back, not even so the parents can get the 500+ benefit for them. At the orphanage they have clothes, food, school books, a computer room, and basic cell phones. Smart kids.<br />
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What about people like me? The ministers were happily talking about people like me who could now afford extra music or language lessons for their children, invest in their kids education. I even saw a car today with a bumper sticker that said “Financed by 500+”. I am now aware that in the new year I will most likely be in the minus and not the plus with this plan. No cóż. Co robić?Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-12232325260374943392016-10-11T19:17:00.002+02:002016-10-12T07:36:21.641+02:00What's New Pussycat?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHCv2wYS9WD0zxL6HjUyl7_CCzNfQQbvzUYIy3VfkoMkzm-PUwIe4XhEa52KZrcyHrNUPaXGXurzhyphenhyphen5l0cXJ1rB0S5FuHpKJ45uY0s-1LA-OCtpzONWzox0Hev6tYIr79Ua8-SGZy8RA/s1600/20140309_201746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHCv2wYS9WD0zxL6HjUyl7_CCzNfQQbvzUYIy3VfkoMkzm-PUwIe4XhEa52KZrcyHrNUPaXGXurzhyphenhyphen5l0cXJ1rB0S5FuHpKJ45uY0s-1LA-OCtpzONWzox0Hev6tYIr79Ua8-SGZy8RA/s320/20140309_201746.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this is what I got when I asked Rosie to find me a picture of a pussycat. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who hasn't heard what U.S. Republican candidate for President, Donald Trump, said some 10 years ago using the word "pussy"?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The gist?</b> As a rich and famous guy, he doesn't hesitate to kiss and grope women that he likes. No pussyfooting around, with his power and celebrity he claims he can do anything to women even "grab 'em by the pussy".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's the transcript of the most controversial part of the recording:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Trump</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">: </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Yeah, that’s her.With the gold. I better use some Tic-Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Bush</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">: </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Whatever you want.</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Trump</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">: </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not familiar with the usage of the word "pussy"? He means women's genitalia. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a woman I possess the genitalia referred to using the term "pussy". I have been grabbed by the pussy on three occasions in my life - twice by the same person, a person I know, and once by a stranger who attacked me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">First the stranger...the pussy grab was the least of my concerns at that very moment because a few seconds early said stranger had hit me in the head. The pussy grab let me know that what I thought might be the beginning of a robbery, was in fact something else entirely. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now for the person I know...this is someone I don't quite understand even today. I do not understand the intention of the pussy grab. I believe it was a power thing. It accompanied some advice he gave me and repeated on another occasion under identical circumstances. It was generally weird, and I avoid this person whenever I can.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That concludes my unscientific research of the entirety of the pussy grabs I have experienced in my life. While it may be only three times, I can tell you that it is three times too many. Additionally, I can tell you that it is called sexual assault, but in my case that's only due to the area of the body grabbed because other than that there was nothing sexual about it. The first was part of a violent attack, and the second was a show of power. Politics aside, Donald Trump isn't talking about sex here either. He's talking about power, fame, riches, celebrity, and what he can get away with - apparently, by his own admission, sexual assault.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>PS</b> I know this has nothing to do with Poland or anything Polish, but somebody told me today that Donald Trump was just grandstanding and that pussy grabs just do not happen. They do happen. It's happened to me.</span></div>
Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-84396301859683838182016-10-01T16:46:00.001+02:002016-10-01T16:46:56.724+02:00Super Mom and the Best Bubble Mix Ever!Super Mom I am not. Despite what my shirt says. That shirt was a gift anyhow. From a Super Mom. She is such a Super Mom that when my daughter had a Super Hero birthday party, my Super Mom friend made us all Super Hero t-shirts and Super Hero capes. Thanks Super Mom.<br />
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It's not my intention to make Kielbasa Stories the glorification of myself as a mother. I'm not really into the Mommy Blogger thing, although "Mommy" is one of the titles I proudly hold. The Mommiest of my moments? I do make my kids' birthday cakes and share them here, but not because I'm Super Mom. It's because I'm not. My kids won't eat store-bought birthday cakes, and I'm so proud of myself for not fecking the whole thing up and that it is actually edible.I am in such disbelief that I have to share them here to immortalize them for all eternity. As simple as that. </div>
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Oh, and this week I made pierogi, and I took a picture, and I shared it on two forms of social media, so there!</div>
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Having said all that, I'm about to do the most Super Mommiest thing I have ever done. I am going to share with you my super secret recipe for seriously the <b>Best</b> <b>Bubble</b> <b>Mix</b> <b>Ever</b>! And I mean it. That's not click bait. I have created with my own hands the most amazing Bubble Mix with just a few simple ingredients.</div>
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I started from buying industrial size Bubble Mix from Tesco for a birthday party we were planning. It cost an arm and a leg, smelled like old socks, and my kids promptly spilled the whole thing in the backyard. Furious and not wanting to lose my temper, I took that now empty bottle and checked the ingredients. As you may know Bubble Mix is basically soapy water, well soapy water and some glycerin. So I bought a bottle of glycerin and mixed it with water and some dish washing liquid. Voila, bubbles. Well, kind of. The bubbles weren't very bubbly. They didn't want to come off the wand. When they did, they popped quite quickly. </div>
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Hmmm, back to the ingredients list. I didn't recognize the rest of the ingredients I must admit. Most of them seemed to be responsible for the old sock smell as far as Google could tell me. Then I Googled one last ingredient, and was surprised that Google showed me bottle after bottle of Durex Play. Yep, the missing link in my bubble mix is the main ingredient in Durex Play. Durex Play is not cheap, but a bottle that costs 28 zl in Poland is enough for about 4 liters or more of bubble mix. However, when buying three bottles at the pharmacy, it isn't the best of ideas to tell the pharmacist that they are for your kid's birthday party. Live and learn.</div>
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So here it is...</div>
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The <b>Best</b> <b>Bubble</b> <b>Mix</b> <b>Ever</b></div>
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A bottle or jar of water</div>
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3 healthy squirts of a good quality dish washing liquid</div>
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A small bottle of glycerin </div>
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4-5 healthy squirts of Durex Play 2 in 1</div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Depending on your bottle and your definition of healthy squirts, your mix might be too concentrated. No worries. When you pour some out for the kids, just dilute it with a bit of water.</span></div>
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What makes this recipe the<b> Best Bubble Mix Ever</b>? Well, the mix is extremely productive. With one dip of the wand, you can make 10 bubbles. The bubbles come off the wand easily, they are bouncy, and they last a long time. Plus it doesn't smell like old socks. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Happy bubbling!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>PS</b> In case anyone is in doubt that my kids are totally Polish, please note my daughter's footwear ;)</span></div>
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Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-9629861183409660092016-09-10T19:04:00.001+02:002016-09-10T22:38:18.771+02:00So my friend died.<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My friend from high school died a couple of days ago. This is the view we shared of our hometown.</span><br><div><div><br></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcg7XRsq1ObFryyrKY20K9NCI6SUTv7MERqjkA6uhJRP2q4QH7WT_cST_yT5OpqRd7laY3kab43SUe_FWjXwDJ9Z9TNb_fLTQqwKQjo7xjOasYbz3qywlKi8RS4s3hbGLqIkyyI1dCnE/s640/blogger-image--1365385746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcg7XRsq1ObFryyrKY20K9NCI6SUTv7MERqjkA6uhJRP2q4QH7WT_cST_yT5OpqRd7laY3kab43SUe_FWjXwDJ9Z9TNb_fLTQqwKQjo7xjOasYbz3qywlKi8RS4s3hbGLqIkyyI1dCnE/s640/blogger-image--1365385746.jpg"></font></a></div><div><br></div><div>My friend was 42. He was married with 3 school-age children.</div><div><br></div><div>Since we graduated from high school and all went our separate ways, he was someone I might run into at the supermarket when I went home for a visit. He was a guy that I exchanged pleasantries with on Facebook. Congratulations on new jobs, new babies, new cars - that's it for 20 years. Then he got sick. He announced his illness on Facebook, February 2015. It was an aggressive form of cancer, but he was ready to fight. He was one of the fittest, clean eating, clean living people I knew. He looked the picture of health. Actually, he looked better than healthy. He looked like he could kick somebody's ass, so kicking cancer seemed like it would be no problem.</div><div><br></div><div>He publicly announced his illness and his plan to fight and was answered with silence. I knew it wasn't because no one had seen his post or that no one cared. It was just a lack of words. I mean what is the proper sentiment to offer when someone who has so much before them declares, hey guys, this just might be where the road ends for me.</div><div><br></div><div>I was sick once. I was able to hide it from most of my friends and family in the US. No need to worry them till it was actually time to worry. I couldn't really hide it from friends and family here in Poland; however, the response I got from the people who knew and the people who didn't know was pretty much the same. Kind of like how your chance of winning the lottery doesn't change a whole lot when you've bought a ticket and when you haven't bought a ticket.</div><div><br></div><div>I resented that fact for a good long time after I got better. Not when I was sick though. I was grateful for the silence back then. I was grateful that some people treated me like I was already gone. I didn't have the energy to spare worrying about them. </div><div><br></div><div>But I could see from post to post that the lack of response bothered this friend. I had to reach out to him. I told him how my story played out. How resentful I felt. How much I didn't care about it now. How much more sympathy and empathy I have for people now. He said he really appreciated the fact that I had reached out. I wished him all the strength he would need.</div><div><br></div><div>For about the next year, it seemed he was winning the fight. He looked great. He said he felt great. He spent a lot of time on social media promoting his sports regimen, fighting against transgender bathroom access, supporting Donald Trump, and telling me to repent for my sins and return on God's path before it was too late. That's not how I would choose to spend my time, sick or not sick, but to each his own.</div><div><br></div><div>He often wondered if this was his last birthday, his last Christmas, his last trip to the beach. He expressed his disbelief of the fact that he wouldn't see his children graduate from school or get married. I too have those thoughts occasionally, but in a "knock-on-wood" way. Not in a "this-is-my-reality" way.</div><div><br></div><div>The support finally did roll in. It took some time for people to break the ice, the ice of sorrow and the ice of encouragement. Now that he's gone, the support for his family continues to roll in.</div><div><br></div><div>I did my best. At the beginning of his fight, he had asked me to pray for him. It wasn't a flippant request. He was a deep believer and a very public worshipper. I told him that I would keep him in my thoughts, but that I wouldn't pray for him as I am an atheist. Unfortunately, he couldn't understand how I found meaning or purpose in life without the promise of an afterlife. I couldn't understand how while facing death, he couldn't see that his family, his friends, and his relationships <i>were</i> his purpose in life. </div><div><br></div><div>Or maybe he did. Closer to the end, he wrote to me and confided that his faith in an afterlife was growing weaker by the day, and it worried him so. I told him it didn't really matter, did it? Something will happen after we die. We might go to another place or maybe our consciousness will come to an end. What will happen, will happen regardless of the amount of faith we put into one scenario or the other because we have no way of knowing. His last comment to me..."Hahaha, I knew the atheist would be the one to put me back on track." I hope I did.</div><div><br></div><div>Mike, it was a pleasure to have known you. </div></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-619215480190628602016-09-06T17:49:00.001+02:002016-09-06T19:30:02.197+02:00What's all the Hubbub? Harlow<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXuf_5gxf6yJ8Zm3_CR8cNnBgZZPwbei3k4rtqmbWsF_duwwI7VjEHeVQhQvJHyrxDJjmXv3Z4JUK_sWVhK1Aikmgwa9JLNw7zOfG_KdfM6ARcGCidK9S_SshyOhrH2H_luWP4nY6W48/s640/blogger-image-264995932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXuf_5gxf6yJ8Zm3_CR8cNnBgZZPwbei3k4rtqmbWsF_duwwI7VjEHeVQhQvJHyrxDJjmXv3Z4JUK_sWVhK1Aikmgwa9JLNw7zOfG_KdfM6ARcGCidK9S_SshyOhrH2H_luWP4nY6W48/s640/blogger-image-264995932.jpg"></a></div><div><br></div>You may have heard of the Polish gentleman who was beaten to death last week by a group of teens in Harlow in England. It is said that they attacked him after hearing him speaking Polish on the phone. I don't know if they attacked and killed him because he was speaking Polish or because he was not speaking English. We are most certain it was because he was foreign. <div><br></div><div>I haven't been physically attacked in Poland because I am foreign, or because I was speaking English on the street, or because I wasn't speaking Polish. Nothing like that has happened to me...yet. I have been attacked because I was alone on the street, because I am a woman, because I was smaller, because I was weaker. That's not exclusive to Poland, I must say.</div><div><br></div><div>The Polish Minister of Foreign Affairs has gone to the UK to discuss the matter with UK officials.</div><div><br></div><div>I haven't been beaten on the street for being foreign, but others have. It's not an everyday thing here in Poland, being beaten on the street. It's rare actually. I don't think it's an everyday thing in Harlow either, but that man is dead just the same. I think those kids should have to learn Polish as part of their punishment. They're sure to have plenty of time to do it while incarcerated. Then they should have to face that man's family and apologize to them in<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> Polish.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I haven't been beaten on the street, but I have been shouted at.</span></div><div><br></div><div>"Mów po polsku ty głupia krowo!" he shouted in my face. (Speak Polish you stupid cow!)</div><div>"Mów po jakimś normalnym języku!" he screamed as his spittle hit me in the eye. (Speak some normal language!"</div><div><br></div><div>"Odwal się! Wystarczy po polsku?" I reply. (Piss off! Is that enough in Polish?)</div><div><br></div><div>"Brawo! Pani umie. Brawo!" he says as he claps his hands in applause. (Bravo! You <i>can</i> do it. Bravo!)</div><div><br></div><div>So I went from you stupid cow using the informal you (ty) to the formal Ma'am (Pani). From spitting in my face, to applause all in one short conversation.</div><div><br></div><div>But that's just some weird guy on the street right? Normal people don't think like that.</div><div><br></div><div>"Jesteśmy w Polsce. Mówimy po polsku!" she reprimanded us. (We are in Poland. We speak Polish!)</div><div><br></div><div>True. People in Poland speak Polish. My family speaks Polish. But we speak English too, and I will not let anyone shame me or my children when we speak English to each other.</div><div><br></div><div>Oh, the above statement came from the Principal of our children's school. I was so happy to point out to her that they taught the kids the wrong words in the Polish national anthem. Kiedy, my dear, not póki. We are in Poland. We speak Polish.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-52095684970227857492016-08-20T09:34:00.001+02:002016-08-20T09:34:45.872+02:00New Teeth!As I was working in my garden last week a neighbor lady who hasn't spoken to me for about 6 years due to a dispute on our street and the fact that her husband is a sexual deviant, came to the fence to radzić. She wanted some advice about a building project, and I guess I am the expert on our street. Before I could answer her question she shouted out, "Chyba Pani wstawiała sobie zęby!" Yes, she asked if I had got false teeth as I swiftly noticed that she had a new set of false teeth. I assured her that these teeth were my own, in the sense that they grow out of my head not in the sense that I have paid my last installment for them. Her response? "Amazing!" <div><br></div><div>Your teeth, false teeth, no teeth? Keep smiling!</div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-19238480717036090372016-07-11T20:22:00.001+02:002016-07-15T21:39:42.001+02:00I do!<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I'm at the age where I rarely get invited to friend's weddings anymore. I mean it's because nobody's getting married, not that I'm so obnoxious nobody invites me. I do get invited out for divorce celebration drinks. FYI, celebratory drinks post-divorce is a hoot. Really. Anyhow, no one expects us to pop back to the States for a wedding (or divorce drinks) especially for a second or a third wedding (or divorce), although one friend did have her new graphic artist husband photoshop me into a couple of pictures. We haven't got much in the way of family here in Poland, the standard source of wedding invites. I'd pretty much given up on weddings, thinking the next round would be our kids.</span><div><br></div><div>You can probably see where I'm going. We got a wedding invitation in the mail. We rarely get mail that isn't a bill or a last notice of some kind or a summons to testify in court, so we were pretty excited to get some mail. Here comes the tricky part, although the invitation was addressed to us, I did not have a clue who the bride or groom were. Not a clue. It was like the time we found a DVD of a wedding in our DVD collection, not <i>our</i> wedding, not a clue whose wedding it was, watched the whole damn thing, didn't recognize a single person nor the person filming, no idea how it came into our possession. It's like that.</div><div><br></div><div>It turns out that the bride is my husband's goddaughter. Da-da-dum! The mystery thickens.</div><div><br></div><div>This August, I will have known my husband for 20 years. In all that time, I never once heard a single mention of a goddaughter. I mean I had always let open the possibility that a child much older than our own might appear in our lives one day; my husband was quite the popular guy, but never a long-lost goddaughter. We're atheists for goodness sake!</div><div><br></div><div>This goddaughter comes from the Szczebrzeszyn side of the family, and my husband himself had not seen the bride for about 25 years. So I thought we didn't have to go, right? Wrong! We were going! All four of us. Auntie What's Her Name will be so pleased.</div><div><br></div><div>And it just so happens as it often does that as we were getting ready to drive across the country, our car died. Not wanting to cancel at the last minute, we rented a car for the occasion.</div><div><br></div><div>We arrived to the roadside hotel/restaurant where the reception would take place and got ourselves gussied up for the event. Then we were off to the church. We weren't quite sure we had the right place. I mean we saw a bride, but we couldn't say if it was "our" bride. It turned out it was. We said our Hello's and waited for the wedding already taking place inside to finish up so "our wedding" could begin. The other bride and groom came out to a shower of rice and right behind them a lady we had met at the hotel. She didn't know the bride and groom either and sat through someone else's wedding (complete with mass) not realizing she was at the wrong one till the vows. She came out after the other couple and peered from left to right like a lady Mr. Bean, a Pani Fasola, if you will. She spotted us, and sighed with relief.</div><div><br></div><div>The ceremony was a little different than I have come to expect. First, there was no wedding march coming in. We guests were like - is it starting? The young couple is well into their thirties but were so shy and quiet in delivering their vows. I could barely speak Polish at my own wedding, but I belted out my vows loud and clear. In this church after you take communion you cross your arms across your chest and keep them crossed as you return to your seat. At the end of the ceremony, the priest blessed the newlyweds, the guests, and also some mementos from the ceremony. That was new to me. The momentos were a crucifix and an icon of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa. It appeared that they were gifts from the best man and maid of honor otherwise known as the witnesses in Polish. That's a nice tradition because if you really are a couple starting out your lives together in a new home, you'd need blessed objects to hang in your home. After that we were all a little thrown off because the bride and groom and their immediate family very unceremoniously walked down the aisle with no music, and it appeared that they exited the church. We confused guests high-tailed it out of there not to miss the couple and the rice and all that, but we discovered them in a vestibule near the entrance lighting some candles. We decided to go outside as the bride and groom returned to the aisle, and as the music began exited the church. Rice, kisses, wished of all the best on their new way of life, envelope with tysiak...and that's the last the bride and the groom spoke to us for the evening. Oh well.</div><div><br></div><div>The wedding reception was fortunately in an air-conditioned reception hall. The DJs specialized in disco-polo with various medleys of YMCA and Cocojambo thrown in. The DJs however thought that they were the most important folks of the night. For example, as the dinner was being served they insisted the bride and groom dance their first dance because the dry ice smoke was a-wasting. We were seated with Auntie's friends from work, so the average age of our table was 67, but we got a hot political discussion going anyhow...I mean after those friends announced loudly that they couldn't stand the current ruling party. That called for a toast ;)</div><div><br></div><div>The wedding was lovely. The bride looked beautiful. The other guests were gracious and friendly. Nobody forced me to dance or to drink. I had flat shoes. Misiu could dance with his girls on the dance floor (Rosie said all the songs were about her), but honestly, it was as if I got all dressed up, drove to a random church, and crashed a stranger's wedding.</div><div><br></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsng135_FTEJc3mu42u7H0sThH800TTC104V0JAA_QMOls_X3SqMWNPnyJoUm8brQlxkwpoXOMoeZ0i8ir90HSIyQaXMqEidPFLfZBLGhtb_iNeDJ3Fq8L2gxR6XJILQGtHB3K4Be7og/s640/blogger-image--1986919835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsng135_FTEJc3mu42u7H0sThH800TTC104V0JAA_QMOls_X3SqMWNPnyJoUm8brQlxkwpoXOMoeZ0i8ir90HSIyQaXMqEidPFLfZBLGhtb_iNeDJ3Fq8L2gxR6XJILQGtHB3K4Be7og/s640/blogger-image--1986919835.jpg"></font></a></div><div><br></div><div>The kids were all danced out by 1 a.m. so I was able to put them to bed. Unfortunately for us, our room was situated in such as way that our door appeared to be an entrance to a hallway. That left us with wedding guests of various levels of sobriety trying to <i>kurwa</i> <i>mać</i> <i>są</i> <i>zamknięty</i> get into our room.</div><div><br></div><div>We declined attending the second day party and headed off to Kazimerz Dolny, a place my husband had promised to take me for the last 20 years. Kazimierz Dolny is a lovely place. I recommend it, but perhaps not on the weekend. Maybe a lot of other husbands promised to take their wives there too that day, or so it seemed. We saw the sites, ate some lunch, and got back on the road.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwK-N1BlIiaxB951vCcMlFINE79yiCSRuNrjcI85lVQ0v-YWBW_6Wco39RsfYvyehGdzu7c0Pa_7LtZRVWqKc53MrkvBJ4qwMPNJNZPGPdg9zfhN3yhnNxH2wSsg86oLaQvywqhdhBokc/s640/blogger-image--1733054956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwK-N1BlIiaxB951vCcMlFINE79yiCSRuNrjcI85lVQ0v-YWBW_6Wco39RsfYvyehGdzu7c0Pa_7LtZRVWqKc53MrkvBJ4qwMPNJNZPGPdg9zfhN3yhnNxH2wSsg86oLaQvywqhdhBokc/s640/blogger-image--1733054956.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJr7O1S1p6N-z3q3DgZd3oiSZYoEjOqVEl0CylNfSNWJsXof6tCXnSm0G7OizzEFkL02jILVqzCtsuhyyrggcNbQuYG8gHo6pLPnBO4Qu3Fwut2Xmvpjz5XECjkD_1D_noa1648K3V9ls/s640/blogger-image-1765991801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJr7O1S1p6N-z3q3DgZd3oiSZYoEjOqVEl0CylNfSNWJsXof6tCXnSm0G7OizzEFkL02jILVqzCtsuhyyrggcNbQuYG8gHo6pLPnBO4Qu3Fwut2Xmvpjz5XECjkD_1D_noa1648K3V9ls/s640/blogger-image-1765991801.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAevTW4hnl-EzSIersomeaOhXTttIHwYEX12D-ACqzQthz6SLzHwQmsRKSEREsu96WYQGpfG9Y6q02n_AMqc1PZTFPVRJa_AXZm4BZmdjOBbC-kYJCvEx2T5RNwyg0O0XVXb9GT8YHXqw/s640/blogger-image-1492278560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAevTW4hnl-EzSIersomeaOhXTttIHwYEX12D-ACqzQthz6SLzHwQmsRKSEREsu96WYQGpfG9Y6q02n_AMqc1PZTFPVRJa_AXZm4BZmdjOBbC-kYJCvEx2T5RNwyg0O0XVXb9GT8YHXqw/s640/blogger-image-1492278560.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUqT13hRvohNUxWCl-fRc_tqGx0I1sxM-rsy-KnaeWgbGZ2mZrcAL8-NZAmbkoU4ALZmKyPg6oEWd2TsbXzSjo3ka_v4XSPNZFvbAxQyeDCeneDYZe4w0xGeeiElVI5Q1FBLE-2R9OHI/s640/blogger-image--1959531780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUqT13hRvohNUxWCl-fRc_tqGx0I1sxM-rsy-KnaeWgbGZ2mZrcAL8-NZAmbkoU4ALZmKyPg6oEWd2TsbXzSjo3ka_v4XSPNZFvbAxQyeDCeneDYZe4w0xGeeiElVI5Q1FBLE-2R9OHI/s640/blogger-image--1959531780.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4f-YhzFKfOvJVz6VBst1Hm7ryHoNo6heOcgVTZ-ydWyFld-Yjg6BmdEfx_FjB6Ho3Zgcqh_076ItOB1CPfdZCHwaEfNkBYZZk17CM8N3QkThbTUNy_mt589LdyRg1wdEY3nJHS9BSDeE/s640/blogger-image--2122909190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4f-YhzFKfOvJVz6VBst1Hm7ryHoNo6heOcgVTZ-ydWyFld-Yjg6BmdEfx_FjB6Ho3Zgcqh_076ItOB1CPfdZCHwaEfNkBYZZk17CM8N3QkThbTUNy_mt589LdyRg1wdEY3nJHS9BSDeE/s640/blogger-image--2122909190.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It was an exhausting weekend, and now I have pink tulle skirt and nowhere to go.</div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-23742213930755547682016-05-26T00:00:00.000+02:002016-05-26T05:25:06.633+02:00The Angriest I Have Ever Been At My Mother<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRXdp0CYNjNS4Js3hCb-Nj7jOsxrfh6BdJ4JaVkq9l0umet1RF3Vo6h6uvKVy5S3bWfy6vBjX8_-HSNXtwJ5hclceqcG4q7EtWm0xPf1YHcmTa_5O3aQ2lg66lU0wwqWrZcLlLQ1qCDg/s640/blogger-image--1311050404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRXdp0CYNjNS4Js3hCb-Nj7jOsxrfh6BdJ4JaVkq9l0umet1RF3Vo6h6uvKVy5S3bWfy6vBjX8_-HSNXtwJ5hclceqcG4q7EtWm0xPf1YHcmTa_5O3aQ2lg66lU0wwqWrZcLlLQ1qCDg/s400/blogger-image--1311050404.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's the card I received for American Mother's Day. Please notice that the card is in English. Oh, and that's me in the pink and purple stripes.</td></tr>
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No one can make you angry like your mother can. It usually doesn't take much, an innocent comment, sometimes just a look, that goes straight to your heart and immediately infuriates you. I remember plenty of slammed doors as a teenager and the occasional "you're ruining my life". I even remember an argument years ago which ended with me storming out of the house in tears.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. I love my mother. We are very different people and very different mothers. Even so, she had her hand in who I am today, tears and all. My mother knows I love her because I tell her so. We're the rare breed of mother and daugher who actually say the words "I love you". I must admit that I was the one who started it. I don't recall any "I love you's" from my childhood, not a one.* As an adult I was very resentful of this fact. Some years ago I decided to be an adult about it and change it. What was the worst that could happen? My parents wouldn't say it back? Of course they would, and they did. Thus, a new family tradition was born. That means that "I love you" was the last thing I said to my father and the last thing I heard from him. You never know when it's the last one. </div>
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Moms have a big influence on their kids. I know that some day, my girls will grow up and sit around the table talking about how I infuriated them over the years. Just the thought of that warmed my heart. I'd like to hope that now I am an adult, I could return the favor to my mother....<strike>and infuriate her like she has infuriated me</strike>.... and have some influence on her...positive influence, I hope.</div>
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The town where I grew up is teeny tiny, and located in a rural area.There is a university though, so we felt all worldly about that when we were kids. Any new people in our town were usually professors, doctors, or other professionals. It wasn't a place where people moved <i>to</i> but rather <i>away from</i>. I mean there wasn't any reason to move there if it wasn't for a job. We didn't get many or any foreigners back then.</div>
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Flash forward to today...my hometown is still teeny tiny. The area is still rural, but maybe a little less than before. There's still a university - it's even bigger than when I was a kid. The newbies in our town come from all kinds, not just professors or professionals. We even have some foreigners.</div>
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My aunt happened to be our Spanish teacher in school. We couldn't figure out why we had foreign language lessons back then. We didn't see the need. Plus we did everything to sabotage my aunt's lesson plans, thus leaving us after all those years with little to no Spanish in our heads. My aunt is retired now, but she substitutes in the district schools and works as an aid when a Spanish-speaking kid needs language support. My mother was telling me about my aunt's latest position as an aid in one of the kindergartens. There was a kid who couldn't speak English almost at all. My mother's commentary on that (break out the mom voice), "Well, apparently his parents can't speak a lick of English. I don't know what the problem is, if they're just too lazy or too stupid to learn."</div>
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And that's where my head exploded. Pure fury. Skype hath no fury like a daughter for her mother. I don't even get that mad when my mom Skypes me in the middle of the night and asks why I'm not asleep. </div>
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My question to my mother, "Do you think I'm too lazy or too stupid to learn Polish?"</div>
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My mother, in her totally mom voice, "No, of course not honey. Polish is a very hard language! And you are a very busy lady. You have your work and the girls."</div>
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"So Mom, maybe those parents just came to the US. Maybe they work long hours. Maybe they haven't had an opportunity to learn. There are a million reasons why somebody wouldn't know English and stupid and lazy are not at the top of the list."</div>
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The conversation went downhill from there, you can be sure about that. I was angry and disappointed that my mother would not have more sympathy for an immigrant parent when I myself am an immigrant parent. Me, her child.<br />
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I still love her though. She's my mom.<br />
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Happy Polish Mother's Day!<br />
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*I just remembered one "I love you" from my childhood. My father dropped me off at my high school and just as I reached the main doors where my friends were waiting, he got out of the car and shouted, "Chri-is! I loooooove you!"</div>
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Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-61251475347403570902016-04-05T20:35:00.000+02:002016-04-27T15:22:06.831+02:00What's all the hubbub? Abortion Law in PolandLast year in Poland, there were 1812 legal abortions performed in a country with a population just under 40 million. A woman may seek abortion in cases of rape, serious threat to the life/health of the mother, or severe birth defect. That's how it is supposed to work under the so-called compromise between the church and the state, and apparently it did work in 1812 cases last year.<br />
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I am personally aware of a case that didn't work - of the woman who was denied an abortion not because it was illegal, but because she couldn't find a hospital or doctor to perform it. But that is neither here nor there.</div>
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I think the current law is pretty restrictive. I've seen Pro-Life protesters on the street in Poland and always wondered what they were protesting exactly. It's practically illegal, right? What more could they want? A total ban on abortion? </div>
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Yes. A total ban on abortion.</div>
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The proposal, still in project form, for a total ban on abortion has been sent to the Polish parliament. </div>
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I'm not Pro-Abortion. I'm Anti-Unwanted Pregnancy. I support sexual health education and access to birth control in order to reduce unwanted pregnancies. That doesn't do anything for the cases outlined above, but it's my position nonetheless. I remember those Sex Ed. classes in school and the realization that the 15-year-old boy next to me didn't know the urethra from the vagina, nevermind the clitoris and nevermind birth control. That wasn't his problem. </div>
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So on Sunday I decided to join the protest against this proposal. I feel it's my civic duty. We protested. We shouted. We clapped. We took our obligatory protest selfie. We crossed our fingers for the future of women in Poland.</div>
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On Sunday, priests in Poland read out the church's position on the matter during mass. Across Poland, some parishioners walked out of church in protest. For the most part, this was a silent protest without incident. In one church there was a loud exchange and hands were laid on one of the protesters.</div>
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And that's it so far. Ms. Beata Szydło, the Polish Prime Minister, said on Monday that it wasn't even a topic of discussion in Poland although a few days before she declared that she supports a total abortion ban. It's not even a bill yet, that's true. A bill is a law before it is signed, before it becomes a law. But when should we protest? After it's a done deal? </div>
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As I was perusing my Facebook wall Monday morning, you know, as you do, I noticed a post about the protests in English. It was pretty standard, pretty much what I've written above. It was the comment section below the article that caught my eye - comments showing that the commenters had not even read the article and did not understand the current law or the proposed changes. There was even one saying that the protests hadn't actually taken place, that it was all a media manipulation. And that's where I made a mistake. I commented. For the last two days, I have been suffering through what can only be described as "hate". I've been bombarded with private messages...and I've learned a lot about myself. First of all, I am a whore, bitch, baby killing murderer. I don't actually live in Poland. I do live in Poland, and I have a secret agenda to liberate Polish women (that one's inadvertently humorous). I am funded by the EU to create abortion mills in Poland for the profit of Big Pharma. And the not so funny threats to my children. Not cool, not cool at all. But on the bright side, I finally figured out how to use my blocking settings.</div>
Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com68tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-33813980038505995972016-03-28T18:04:00.001+02:002016-03-28T18:04:07.349+02:00Our Easter in Poland 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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It's Lany Poniedziałek (Wet Monday), and our Easter break is coming to an end. Per family tradition, I was the first one up so I was the water <i>sprinkler,</i> not <i>sprinklee</i>. Also as per tradition, one child was laughing while the other one was crying. Mommy almost cried too when she discovered that the crying child had slept all night on a chocolate egg! I must admit when I first saw it, I thought it was something else so I'm grateful it was just a smooshed and melted chocolate egg. Small mercies.<br />
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The weather is absolutely beautiful. The sun is shining. The sky is blue. The birds are chirping. And we are all inside with our noses in our books or gadgets because we're all sick. We've all got the same sickness, but at various stages and degrees of severity. That means no walking, running, cycling, or playing outside for us. It also means pajamas, syrups, cups of tea, and mountains of used tissues. </div>
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Good Friday we spent getting the house ready. My husband arranged a wonderful lady to help out. She's a lifesaver even though she didn't do the windows "bo i tak nie świętujecie". Yes, she decided to leave the windows for later because we don't celebrate Easter. We had a good laugh. She promised to do them next time. It was during this time of cleaning up and decorating that we realized that we simultaneously have Easter, Christmas, and Halloween decorations up in our house. That's okay, right?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girls made an Easter egg tree</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my Easter tree with handmade glass ornaments and blown-out painted eggs.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I found the perfect use for this yellow vase I bought in Bolesławiec.</td></tr>
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On Good Friday, we also paid a visit to our local egg dealer, an older lady from our neighborhood. Our old egg dealer is in prison. Our current egg dealer was feeling a bit lonely I think and wanted to chat. I got to know that her grandson was the getaway driver for our old egg dealer. He went to prison for that, but now he's out. He's been trying to grow marijuana in the garden and in the little woods near their house, but grandma and the chickens keep destroying all his attempts. We also got to know that most of the young people in her family have gone to England to work and that she'd much rather her grandson went to England to work than engage in questionable activities here in Poland. Then she had to run off to the shop to buy dishwashing liquid, you know, because she had to do her windows.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the first batch of eggs.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the eggs got dyed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rest of the eggs were made into pickled eggs.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Good Saturday we packed up the sick kids and forced them to go for a walk near the church to get some fresh air and to see people taking their Easter baskets to be blessed. My children were not interested at all, so nothing has changed since last year. I, on the other hand, love looking at the baskets. My favorite basket carriers this year included </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">a small gang of surly teenaged boys decked out in their favorite sweatsuits and a leather-clad biker dude carrying the most delicate basket of all. We wanted to peek inside the church, but the crowd made it impossible. Plus our children were bored to death, and our pockets were full of used up tissues. We came back home.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was standing room only at the church on Good Saturday.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At church</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A billboard outside the church "YOU crucified Jesus"</td></tr>
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Easter Sunday is our girls' favorite day because the Easter bunny visits them, and did he ever. I think they were satisfied with what they found in the garden. We also found a chicken in our garden, a real one. This chicken has been hanging out in our garden, making a big mess, for the last three days. It's ours now, right?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xU8M4yq3sWW3-kqjGvxQC602egycaIiZO4Juu-vG6lS8k890wnCO7D_dH4qeqdGhdltAWKiUPzCxvyT-nD5s_9sZQhzgG4DTE39yu3JUoci5UqhMm5sms5oU2TpskhzcxmMZ9smhYaI/s640/blogger-image-1398163585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xU8M4yq3sWW3-kqjGvxQC602egycaIiZO4Juu-vG6lS8k890wnCO7D_dH4qeqdGhdltAWKiUPzCxvyT-nD5s_9sZQhzgG4DTE39yu3JUoci5UqhMm5sms5oU2TpskhzcxmMZ9smhYaI/s640/blogger-image-1398163585.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They missed one..we found it today.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Easter eggs"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnI6iSfbTLB1gw5XnqXwzgvMpq1KSEgpikSjXednKHQKez4d-jQy_kZ_S9bzJa-Gia3INtXsR5wzDR-LIGzdz3wT8K1CxyCMrOvBrmpNBi7LCJrIzwTJ_vD6oKeMRtKM5N8C1mzKwffM/s640/blogger-image--564729803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnI6iSfbTLB1gw5XnqXwzgvMpq1KSEgpikSjXednKHQKez4d-jQy_kZ_S9bzJa-Gia3INtXsR5wzDR-LIGzdz3wT8K1CxyCMrOvBrmpNBi7LCJrIzwTJ_vD6oKeMRtKM5N8C1mzKwffM/s640/blogger-image--564729803.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our new chicken. Rosie's named it "Rosół". That's Chicken Soup in Polish.</td></tr>
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While the girls sorted through their Easter baskets, we could get breakfast ready. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0sgej7Pby6Q4BGcgRakTsB4zWkKp-Ufl_jGFPS1EKyaLe_EjjZOOLMLuwFXvjEjjrdiBXGovqmn80JiWfsf06CaJbFbOlf8E8cpG6B4a0p_XRdxnOVq2rC2TDTZE_bq2YTDNjvJCEXK0/s640/blogger-image-1718066502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0sgej7Pby6Q4BGcgRakTsB4zWkKp-Ufl_jGFPS1EKyaLe_EjjZOOLMLuwFXvjEjjrdiBXGovqmn80JiWfsf06CaJbFbOlf8E8cpG6B4a0p_XRdxnOVq2rC2TDTZE_bq2YTDNjvJCEXK0/s640/blogger-image-1718066502.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pickled eggs and Spinach and Salmon Tart</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyTSqEijoAfSQovCeIdV2fBDG4xS0WdKWg19KbRQ6_ssGDpM5I1CHlWa9fQ0k0Lfk2-R0fSbKxykHPYy427KjyRezQd0xcx3gjN1jcbJ2rAEZJm-y17yMTI6iMN041c8oOHGEx89p-IQ/s640/blogger-image-1865549787.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyTSqEijoAfSQovCeIdV2fBDG4xS0WdKWg19KbRQ6_ssGDpM5I1CHlWa9fQ0k0Lfk2-R0fSbKxykHPYy427KjyRezQd0xcx3gjN1jcbJ2rAEZJm-y17yMTI6iMN041c8oOHGEx89p-IQ/s640/blogger-image-1865549787.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It wouldn't a Polish Easter without veggie salad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2dw5oARmOCOFKawwNYOjwAOjOnKHBaW5xD95S-3hyphenhyphenY6VuW_gBHQ4C_u85pR5HfRdFxuWdo71Sb2eDVs_mnAPXN4nhW45hDlkbn6ZWvB3-EgwnwvAsN5GZgzjwQ3zGnDmaeS5ndVicA4/s640/blogger-image--584107180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2dw5oARmOCOFKawwNYOjwAOjOnKHBaW5xD95S-3hyphenhyphenY6VuW_gBHQ4C_u85pR5HfRdFxuWdo71Sb2eDVs_mnAPXN4nhW45hDlkbn6ZWvB3-EgwnwvAsN5GZgzjwQ3zGnDmaeS5ndVicA4/s640/blogger-image--584107180.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The spread</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I almost forgot that we went to an Easter Market a week ago for Palm Sunday. I love small town markets.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTkzAcGQb3as9Eja3vuTtnjHf2S0vb41Ypmpwy_f3-I7_64mRuBHhCSjfWrQ02f8MOnk41JaBNCC0xPbBd2JrYstwHl9hgUYmsVL0tBpQlA8xKEoogyvKKIHhpBLFa7LD-50gS4iP0hs/s640/blogger-image--1442219679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTkzAcGQb3as9Eja3vuTtnjHf2S0vb41Ypmpwy_f3-I7_64mRuBHhCSjfWrQ02f8MOnk41JaBNCC0xPbBd2JrYstwHl9hgUYmsVL0tBpQlA8xKEoogyvKKIHhpBLFa7LD-50gS4iP0hs/s640/blogger-image--1442219679.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were so many stalls, these selling crafts and decorations.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0g8tgnbRXKzDIUK-ALs6avCymtqiVpIV7QX5-bAVMLdgzY4pjCeqb-ovomU5kdl9IBnHdHLNPZruv5Xt4K9QcOhAgXtwY0i-fPwYGEdCcqQPMuKAvGu13VOxT56nIgpy8QJF3HIFrX2U/s640/blogger-image-1056701258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0g8tgnbRXKzDIUK-ALs6avCymtqiVpIV7QX5-bAVMLdgzY4pjCeqb-ovomU5kdl9IBnHdHLNPZruv5Xt4K9QcOhAgXtwY0i-fPwYGEdCcqQPMuKAvGu13VOxT56nIgpy8QJF3HIFrX2U/s640/blogger-image-1056701258.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was also a palm contest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrU2z4QcDESPrxGmUWUe9dq7I7p3ceeRoaLDVDOP9dKdehezWGApMJc5YbtCHcbt1fvy2z_CG2BHGmpOHdHyTD2uMZlbjhRgQEEtIEdKr-HR2un9iHbvumbMxn88ceXYqXjrC7xKHuHc/s640/blogger-image--143250270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrU2z4QcDESPrxGmUWUe9dq7I7p3ceeRoaLDVDOP9dKdehezWGApMJc5YbtCHcbt1fvy2z_CG2BHGmpOHdHyTD2uMZlbjhRgQEEtIEdKr-HR2un9iHbvumbMxn88ceXYqXjrC7xKHuHc/s640/blogger-image--143250270.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I always wondered how they transported those big palms.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ek6yWjiBBUcdVDuwg6mVC2rv7f8Pf7nV-7-tajpj-2czbA6Du8ns9h8wIKMZQ8rTOCyQeBmTsuXurI9f1ojfIpvd2cJKMC7G2YGpQjVC9tZsVKSIFPsCICSzfnRg0N2Pc-vbkZtTkRg/s640/blogger-image--2104246869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ek6yWjiBBUcdVDuwg6mVC2rv7f8Pf7nV-7-tajpj-2czbA6Du8ns9h8wIKMZQ8rTOCyQeBmTsuXurI9f1ojfIpvd2cJKMC7G2YGpQjVC9tZsVKSIFPsCICSzfnRg0N2Pc-vbkZtTkRg/s640/blogger-image--2104246869.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jealous?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnNBUcN7zHWaiRBTNC1apKQ7GVLECGFyQibJvkrJuQySCzwzVfiiGngPzMWBD2g3J5cgB0ii-zJ7RK3k8cXBJBZE2JSgnsB5kk0F3j4IzpcatkWyBfi-GyyAix11IghPThuGB2tV0KKw/s640/blogger-image--2007629037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnNBUcN7zHWaiRBTNC1apKQ7GVLECGFyQibJvkrJuQySCzwzVfiiGngPzMWBD2g3J5cgB0ii-zJ7RK3k8cXBJBZE2JSgnsB5kk0F3j4IzpcatkWyBfi-GyyAix11IghPThuGB2tV0KKw/s640/blogger-image--2007629037.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honey, jams, and syrups</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_ic7xhoHCpMbqSux_Z419gntd9oTAz95GPt9nzHJVQ2MMGVsJmXuzL-BG6p09nblRbh2wblaejsMg4lOvW0SqQ5E6zeO179WUgi8wcIT4695LlX49bRZkXSBmeST29PD5lpj9HEInCQ/s640/blogger-image--1985878649.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bread with lard and a pickle and hams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_ic7xhoHCpMbqSux_Z419gntd9oTAz95GPt9nzHJVQ2MMGVsJmXuzL-BG6p09nblRbh2wblaejsMg4lOvW0SqQ5E6zeO179WUgi8wcIT4695LlX49bRZkXSBmeST29PD5lpj9HEInCQ/s640/blogger-image--1985878649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_ic7xhoHCpMbqSux_Z419gntd9oTAz95GPt9nzHJVQ2MMGVsJmXuzL-BG6p09nblRbh2wblaejsMg4lOvW0SqQ5E6zeO179WUgi8wcIT4695LlX49bRZkXSBmeST29PD5lpj9HEInCQ/s640/blogger-image--1985878649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtA_kG8avsuLj_Yd5nt-g7U0X119kHwArvl9lu7d8t1iBpR3AdHgeSYhUNXp4iwOUGATkdqMGbfnH9JqhkA8BH0oPNHi2BDeDUBK3oyvyYisZX8SIymmR_ChcrfjudQtE1itkIiW5AK1c/s640/blogger-image-1931667081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtA_kG8avsuLj_Yd5nt-g7U0X119kHwArvl9lu7d8t1iBpR3AdHgeSYhUNXp4iwOUGATkdqMGbfnH9JqhkA8BH0oPNHi2BDeDUBK3oyvyYisZX8SIymmR_ChcrfjudQtE1itkIiW5AK1c/s640/blogger-image-1931667081.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggs, bread, heavy cream, sausages. The seller asked me, "Are you buying or just smelling." I was just smelling :(</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWuO2UNpeg8gOkzgT9KJOkN5TJuavcZuesa1GRSVxuvnaJTL2K7-wVSNDwNyqhky6qRdQSP0e33zgOpVVPagXLNHLHztE674ap9X7HOeEijDgTGNG8k8QHnVbYLW1cPG51sJY5M6YLlg/s640/blogger-image-1479949085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWuO2UNpeg8gOkzgT9KJOkN5TJuavcZuesa1GRSVxuvnaJTL2K7-wVSNDwNyqhky6qRdQSP0e33zgOpVVPagXLNHLHztE674ap9X7HOeEijDgTGNG8k8QHnVbYLW1cPG51sJY5M6YLlg/s640/blogger-image-1479949085.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpOYFiBQXSZnCgK_VewlBOTE49lEMUSjCr8XBZDN-9o-dZn_oKxQqzzxXOp21Co7WbKUcTe0mJG2fm0E5trLWd-_kqShbWeosOvDbmMKA1RkQDa3RCJ-q-SUIJrJHsVh__Gl4hKCSlrU/s640/blogger-image--222326736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpOYFiBQXSZnCgK_VewlBOTE49lEMUSjCr8XBZDN-9o-dZn_oKxQqzzxXOp21Co7WbKUcTe0mJG2fm0E5trLWd-_kqShbWeosOvDbmMKA1RkQDa3RCJ-q-SUIJrJHsVh__Gl4hKCSlrU/s640/blogger-image--222326736.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh bread</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtYei-g4DtZiGugc1Ve1lUi09tQvt5CZKDvtcbV1nOhSgrHL2E3KN7GtQoWl-Y7FWpIc-s9OT8X2Ml4SuOILpW7br9s8RQMfrHLnFcJKoxQY_r_jAXDt_LDs1RSXXBldlCGMeol5o_58/s640/blogger-image-1606641046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtYei-g4DtZiGugc1Ve1lUi09tQvt5CZKDvtcbV1nOhSgrHL2E3KN7GtQoWl-Y7FWpIc-s9OT8X2Ml4SuOILpW7br9s8RQMfrHLnFcJKoxQY_r_jAXDt_LDs1RSXXBldlCGMeol5o_58/s640/blogger-image-1606641046.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These lovely ladies agreed to pose for a picture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RVT8U89NGrH3cWLCIxdVdyFzUcSsTz3xXWkf44TkPulRcs_Tn5CUDRb-mgyNqO1KEZJ_0JbH6cYDRXZbaND1ktQyQ0rcKnPtssXXOTqVQAbT5b_VbC-Hhlrbl2Cgy1nFuInIJv0Z49k/s640/blogger-image-69302192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RVT8U89NGrH3cWLCIxdVdyFzUcSsTz3xXWkf44TkPulRcs_Tn5CUDRb-mgyNqO1KEZJ_0JbH6cYDRXZbaND1ktQyQ0rcKnPtssXXOTqVQAbT5b_VbC-Hhlrbl2Cgy1nFuInIJv0Z49k/s640/blogger-image-69302192.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mazurek that we bought.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNmgypwFKKyuexAFXWlJB91hZXfyiIJVvRzacxTgJDNpZgjzTUMpPe2wftr4_s_cTVmzbthgopS0jcE-sW4_kOrEgJbxUakLBzuNqtIv56b891komzrCer8wqlPJU90GJEt5Wll1Eg5A/s640/blogger-image--637571401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNmgypwFKKyuexAFXWlJB91hZXfyiIJVvRzacxTgJDNpZgjzTUMpPe2wftr4_s_cTVmzbthgopS0jcE-sW4_kOrEgJbxUakLBzuNqtIv56b891komzrCer8wqlPJU90GJEt5Wll1Eg5A/s640/blogger-image--637571401.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The selection of Babki decorated for Easter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDMcnObFImvPBI2uP_oXKFivAValf_ihnXVT1wKx9Z39OtMCGyjaV_vWUSjnODMORoXE3ezokyH3v4sUOlmdZVzU-LWV6DAPy6-pj5JRcKSOhPcac5FFCpdsQdT_ErP37j1BnVNVkQqA/s640/blogger-image-783929234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDMcnObFImvPBI2uP_oXKFivAValf_ihnXVT1wKx9Z39OtMCGyjaV_vWUSjnODMORoXE3ezokyH3v4sUOlmdZVzU-LWV6DAPy6-pj5JRcKSOhPcac5FFCpdsQdT_ErP37j1BnVNVkQqA/s640/blogger-image-783929234.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A selection of Easter cakes from the local bakery.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6VQ7uhu0P7aQWeuGECD3pGoiRnFogUU9IHKdKGr37mFjYrgy_9IA6NTa61nuM94bgZXk-z8sMDVqA4vY3Qs87UE24fDOz79VXCEZMIZI5hk3vpDoDLNl5uJFtq8EX9XVP3WcSBPFVlgg/s640/blogger-image-1856388451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6VQ7uhu0P7aQWeuGECD3pGoiRnFogUU9IHKdKGr37mFjYrgy_9IA6NTa61nuM94bgZXk-z8sMDVqA4vY3Qs87UE24fDOz79VXCEZMIZI5hk3vpDoDLNl5uJFtq8EX9XVP3WcSBPFVlgg/s640/blogger-image-1856388451.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lamb cake for Easter only 10 zl.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp5r0ixv62V3y3GXdtYJL__8Ki7Xsfd-GY_7ms49IsU6i5sVmC7Q65PTSk3Ulkub_y_wu-wmjKn5fbbfRzVL87yfSCUe3PjSF8jqGqtTBn5ITtVEY3c1GHkETzUMLADfpWSuLG5OD_Zs/s640/blogger-image-104708141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwp5r0ixv62V3y3GXdtYJL__8Ki7Xsfd-GY_7ms49IsU6i5sVmC7Q65PTSk3Ulkub_y_wu-wmjKn5fbbfRzVL87yfSCUe3PjSF8jqGqtTBn5ITtVEY3c1GHkETzUMLADfpWSuLG5OD_Zs/s640/blogger-image-104708141.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mazurek we didn't buy :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-mXTwC_6MqROudAusouFb7Ls7CA2jWVpGXO62L7vbgdpoVZUtOqWJvoxYh44KGP-8CkBaD8dvdsFSfGFVzlbF3a4Bq_cptwxptuRE8UVdrU_LVfrTUlnHPGS2ZQAs_1arySaGNpyFMU/s640/blogger-image--1140555910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-mXTwC_6MqROudAusouFb7Ls7CA2jWVpGXO62L7vbgdpoVZUtOqWJvoxYh44KGP-8CkBaD8dvdsFSfGFVzlbF3a4Bq_cptwxptuRE8UVdrU_LVfrTUlnHPGS2ZQAs_1arySaGNpyFMU/s640/blogger-image--1140555910.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An entry in the Mazurek cake contest</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeArDegCLnJAQwGw9ydUkr6JvGI2LgS9HVMKwMBTOboIHQxJ2URt0cR0unOJtF6YcwzTEC4m4whOIN6w8hc6YV9qxe1BgVn1BkHaJORmZ9T3aK7kbKZLasSpwauhO8vcukJS7fw4ewO4/s640/blogger-image-2143837292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeArDegCLnJAQwGw9ydUkr6JvGI2LgS9HVMKwMBTOboIHQxJ2URt0cR0unOJtF6YcwzTEC4m4whOIN6w8hc6YV9qxe1BgVn1BkHaJORmZ9T3aK7kbKZLasSpwauhO8vcukJS7fw4ewO4/s640/blogger-image-2143837292.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An entry in the Mazurek cake contest</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QWFG6cyWw2zi1uWvMtrRAq9NKNmFPY_EWs0ejxSJSN5V_N8QgVZy4Q6WyeCCaO2owvaGdCWBJ_jrG9AhUjzSp9ab6r8n2Zy05xqjN24gAESFvAQ3dGZPOb22EXqA5n_gBn_cw_i3Umc/s640/blogger-image-1324951304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QWFG6cyWw2zi1uWvMtrRAq9NKNmFPY_EWs0ejxSJSN5V_N8QgVZy4Q6WyeCCaO2owvaGdCWBJ_jrG9AhUjzSp9ab6r8n2Zy05xqjN24gAESFvAQ3dGZPOb22EXqA5n_gBn_cw_i3Umc/s640/blogger-image-1324951304.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An entry in the Mazurek cake contest</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTVMZ65DyJfKxJsE-JHDfeoQ5Tw9p6scfcV05R5g1zPuQI4OljVQ6laNm6BfkQlVmHnE59N8v9gxLcrnYj0tBrn-1FStffivR0mAbjZq0ylwqfGZVpIk2CQXpriD5naV0zpv5SuTA1PQ/s640/blogger-image--800157024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTVMZ65DyJfKxJsE-JHDfeoQ5Tw9p6scfcV05R5g1zPuQI4OljVQ6laNm6BfkQlVmHnE59N8v9gxLcrnYj0tBrn-1FStffivR0mAbjZq0ylwqfGZVpIk2CQXpriD5naV0zpv5SuTA1PQ/s640/blogger-image--800157024.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe this Mazurek took first place in the cake contest.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVb371BA2gb2UpbyI-ARrtGivZPcAAd0FpPWVCdxbOF5xRySeUdB_99UjT8n9bdEOPdc3dw71Z6HhcJA4RInVZr2eLeA8-sPchLdIqkssXgrPJda9XU1Q-7evdsXayXymu0tW0l2oqyQ/s640/blogger-image--1527127092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVb371BA2gb2UpbyI-ARrtGivZPcAAd0FpPWVCdxbOF5xRySeUdB_99UjT8n9bdEOPdc3dw71Z6HhcJA4RInVZr2eLeA8-sPchLdIqkssXgrPJda9XU1Q-7evdsXayXymu0tW0l2oqyQ/s640/blogger-image--1527127092.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These baskets were much emptier after my visit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOEK7VLmOySmWjrj5FG-vwVSmai2tDezAcRMemGge6Jfz9QZnSyrqiyAZM0QBFythy99ILKUUjItd90Hrb9GOmqeR6o0dJkuhKBcuU6TVZAFFpYA6uqq3jiESqE2tio7y35ZSenxhyphenhyphenvQ/s640/blogger-image--2041791694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOEK7VLmOySmWjrj5FG-vwVSmai2tDezAcRMemGge6Jfz9QZnSyrqiyAZM0QBFythy99ILKUUjItd90Hrb9GOmqeR6o0dJkuhKBcuU6TVZAFFpYA6uqq3jiESqE2tio7y35ZSenxhyphenhyphenvQ/s640/blogger-image--2041791694.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunny decorations</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91g3EgnfyzBo15oxYB1OMJ3QLbOEu-X9Evu8e7SbC5EH-fSanwTcE-DVOEqfwOSFJBQvHCdh9ycuAVeEZFFXnYGt0ll5rmVcYjUcHr2bjHBd2Ipqe7HiKgteEdnKCJma_Z_h_DCSODcc/s640/blogger-image--596323618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91g3EgnfyzBo15oxYB1OMJ3QLbOEu-X9Evu8e7SbC5EH-fSanwTcE-DVOEqfwOSFJBQvHCdh9ycuAVeEZFFXnYGt0ll5rmVcYjUcHr2bjHBd2Ipqe7HiKgteEdnKCJma_Z_h_DCSODcc/s640/blogger-image--596323618.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glass eggs ornaments plus one Maluch Fiat 126</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRo4tgC6eYBm6o-ZY7mO_1QAOLiFLpA9TfRKwvY_t75f_76tSvkfUhOR08I4KBFva1pgThKUY3xOuO7sFQvcvp1vCw3jKwqkyHXrN1J4eYoTlZw2coC2RL6hbCHoRPRG6-MiVfuCkjPU/s640/blogger-image-415262913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRo4tgC6eYBm6o-ZY7mO_1QAOLiFLpA9TfRKwvY_t75f_76tSvkfUhOR08I4KBFva1pgThKUY3xOuO7sFQvcvp1vCw3jKwqkyHXrN1J4eYoTlZw2coC2RL6hbCHoRPRG6-MiVfuCkjPU/s640/blogger-image-415262913.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A close up</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0-_IpR5R18VRWb_SBZT2hXvDk_90tpvDBerMNGdz4CEqY01b4bgoNduhsMhLoWlTzlJqr5FkMnEDRY-WBGhJyDxiEjBWa0fvUfDgYCr-CpXpQ-vejt70Kv2JApKCDEGbi7EooCyc-xc/s640/blogger-image-2016861436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0-_IpR5R18VRWb_SBZT2hXvDk_90tpvDBerMNGdz4CEqY01b4bgoNduhsMhLoWlTzlJqr5FkMnEDRY-WBGhJyDxiEjBWa0fvUfDgYCr-CpXpQ-vejt70Kv2JApKCDEGbi7EooCyc-xc/s640/blogger-image-2016861436.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not very Eastery, but I couldn't resist.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9p870e7ETsUaj6emHlZ-rgCqUA96_AvKr5nEHe86eTMWrT-r_FMcShiBhfx4qtxonuXaD5_K-pCG-uFdycBk6MRRtehoGRmrO84ChUMkBDnveOE7W97ZuGk1sHVh0BBvojWQl2Q02YK8/s640/blogger-image--1478584912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9p870e7ETsUaj6emHlZ-rgCqUA96_AvKr5nEHe86eTMWrT-r_FMcShiBhfx4qtxonuXaD5_K-pCG-uFdycBk6MRRtehoGRmrO84ChUMkBDnveOE7W97ZuGk1sHVh0BBvojWQl2Q02YK8/s640/blogger-image--1478584912.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little loaves of bread for the Easter baskets</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYsAVi8BwoP44AozpHifn75_qO6KQ2XQqs48zQPXckE2p5IuG9CFOHGJ0178kRTta_bOYzxHLGj475VC8Wt3NInGrdK1_z_jXNRa3hR31ATKocoL0YTwqV-xRiEdaZsVNy3CDBvFc79Y/s640/blogger-image-935975193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYsAVi8BwoP44AozpHifn75_qO6KQ2XQqs48zQPXckE2p5IuG9CFOHGJ0178kRTta_bOYzxHLGj475VC8Wt3NInGrdK1_z_jXNRa3hR31ATKocoL0YTwqV-xRiEdaZsVNy3CDBvFc79Y/s640/blogger-image-935975193.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter cemetery candles</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhX79ILURuMVePIlw2ZIolPkIB3dz7UHsB99MvzW8fdWf3e8jUi8wTazKcQCnaqXk9yFDMLlUGyRgUAEvmpxz5GPJv8P8KweUGgMukhXxcRCIzWxEVqqNXHBbIpafP6tIJK6tm-e20ec/s640/blogger-image-930616168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhX79ILURuMVePIlw2ZIolPkIB3dz7UHsB99MvzW8fdWf3e8jUi8wTazKcQCnaqXk9yFDMLlUGyRgUAEvmpxz5GPJv8P8KweUGgMukhXxcRCIzWxEVqqNXHBbIpafP6tIJK6tm-e20ec/s640/blogger-image-930616168.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Felt Easter baskets</td></tr>
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All in all, it's been a very nice Easter holiday. Now it is time to think about going back to school and work.</div>
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Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-53278731306033995702016-01-15T14:50:00.001+01:002016-01-16T15:31:19.996+01:00You think you know somebody<div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Can you be friends with someone who thinks you're simple? That's what I'm asking myself today.</span></div><div><br></div><div>Conversation with a teacher friend, the short version:</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: You're wrong, but I forgive you because you're not Polish. Chriiiisss, you couldn't possibly understand the situation. You know nothing of European history, recent politics, the Polish education system, the situation for real people in Poland.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: Kochana, I studied history.</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: But in America. It doesn't count. (<i>Gee</i>, <i>thanks</i> <i>my</i> <i>friend</i>.)</div><div><br></div><div>Me: Yes, yes. On my exams I only wrote "America good. Rest of world bad." And I got an A+. Anyhow, I read a lot and not only from sources sympathetic to my opinions. </div><div><br></div><div>Friend: But you read English papers. You cannot get the whole picture that way.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: I read the Polish papers too, dear friend. </div><div><br></div><div>Friend: But as an American you cannot understand the Polish reality of people who work and live in Poland. People who have to find a job, a place to live, find a place in the hospital, pay a mortgage.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: Absolutely, since I came to Poland 16 years ago, I have never had a job interview, never been hired or fired from a job. My home was given to me by angels. Mortgage? What's that? Hospitals welcome me with open arms, especially that time I almost gave birth in the waiting room because the hospital refused to admit me. </div><div><br></div><div>Friend: But you can't imagine how it is to be a public school teacher here. The abuse we have to take, the peanuts we earn.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: As a former school teacher I assure you, I understand your struggles.</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: But you taught in a nice school in America. I work over 40 hours in two different schools.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: I worked 50 hours in one school. Nice? Our metal detectors were certainly top-of-the line.</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: Ok, but at least you got paid a reasonable salary.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: I earned less than the per hour pay of a fast food cashier.</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: Well, in Polish schools it's just worse.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: I worked in high school in Poland and while it wasn't all fun and games, nobody got shot. </div><div><br></div><div>Friend: Please. You're exaggerating. You didn't get shot at school in America.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: Not me. One of the kids. That's why I'm not a public school teacher anymore, that and the money.</div><div><br></div><div>Friend: Well, anyhow. You're not fully immersed in Polish culture, so you've been misled by the leftist media. If you really understood life in Poland, your (political) opinions would be different.</div><div><br></div><div>Me: Well, at least you didn't say it's because I'm a cycling atheist.</div><div><br></div><div>Aaaaah!</div><div><br></div><div>I know plenty of foreigners who live in Poland and don't give a rat's ass about Polish politics. They don't know who the President is, are unaware that there's also a Prime Minister, and probably won't take an interest as long as they live in Poland...unless the exchange rate continues its plunge right into the toilet.</div><div><br></div><div>But someone who knows me, has known me for years? I thought they'd put me in a different category than the random expat passers through. I know that I wasn't born in Poland, and I'm not Polish, but jasna cholera I take an interest in the country I call home. Yes, I have a different perspective. I'm an immigrant after all. I'm not asking her to agree with me. I'm only asking for respect of my intelligence as an adult member of society. </div><div><br></div><div>My friend? Please ask her what's wrong with Obama, why Americans are overweight, or who will be the next US President. She's an expert.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-87574914322895874722016-01-14T17:05:00.001+01:002016-01-14T18:36:54.675+01:00Cleaning house czyli dobra zmianaThings are changing here in Poland after the latest elections, most notably in recent days, journalists of public television and radio are losing their jobs. In a nutshell, the ruling party (called PiS, the Law and Justice party) believes that the role of the public media in a democracy is to support the narrative of the government; criticism is unacceptable. Democracy inaczej.<div><br></div><div>Regardless of who's in power, unceremonious cleaning house is wasteful in my opinion. Knowlege, know-how, and experience are laid to waste. Hopefully, the free market will scoop up those folks who are worth it.</div><div><br></div><div>Believe it or not, even I got house-cleaned once. It was a few years ago while teaching in a large, public company. I was teaching some gentlemen that I had met years before in another company, not public, that had been bankrupted by the tax office. (The tax office was later found to be in the wrong and had to pay compensation, small justice for all the people who lost their jobs including me). Anyhow, I arrived for my first meeting only to discover that my "boys" were board members and now wore suits to work and had assistants and drivers and the like. These guys were educated and qualified. They had strategies and plans. And then there was the election.</div><div><br></div><div>I came to work just as any other day. I was invited to talk to the new president. That was a surprise. He informed me that my "boys" didn't work there anymore and that my services were no longer needed. I explained that we had a contract. They promised to fulfill their obligations under the contract, but we were finished. I've been hired and fired many times. It's part of the job. I suggested the new board continue the contract, you know if that Prezes needed English so does this one. The new president explained that I had to go because of the elections. I finally got it and blurted out, "Grzegorz was in PiS!?" So very diplomatic of me, nie? I reminded him that I'm American and not involved in Polish politics, but he apologized once again explaining that their policy is to end all contracts signed by the old guard. Bad for me. I guess I should give that Grzegorz a call now, nie?</div><div><br></div><div>On a side note, with all that is going on in politics I decided to give my Twitter account a look. If you use Twitter, Kielbasa Stories is there :) I'm not very active there. Instagram is more my thing. Anyhow, Twitter informed me that controversial Polish politician Krystyna Pawłowicz had recently opened an account. I decided to follow her as her 8th follower only to unfollow her two days later. I gave a look through her posts and although they were rude and abrasive just as the real lady is, I suspected the profile was fake. Even as her popularity on Twitter rose, I still felt the profile couldn't be hers. Why? The person behind the Krystyna Pawłowicz Twitter profile did their best to mimic the notorious MP. Insults and accusations flew, but this faker could in no way match the amount of poison which spills each day from the original source, her real Facebook page serves as an amazing record of her creativity and stamina in attacking her opponents, real and imagined. I don't follow her, and I don't recommend following her either. </div><div><br></div><div>Kielbasa Stories, on the other hand, I recommend following. Join us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter :)</div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-36942018515128587812016-01-03T13:17:00.000+01:002016-01-03T13:17:19.098+01:00What is my motivation?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
I <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">have always achieved my goals through motivation and a strong will. Okay, okay, there are plenty of goals I have made in my life and not achieved, but lack of will and motivation wasn't the cause. Now I am at the point where I think neither motivation nor a strong will can help me.</span></div>
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Goal: Reduce cholesterol to normal human levels. </div>
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I am extremely motivated to do this. My marathon running father had a quadruple bypass at age 52, just months after running a race. Many of my cousins from my father's side of the family have had heart attacks under the age of 50. I don't want to end up like that. When another cousin had a heart attack at age 40 last year, I decided to get my cholesterol tested. It was 300. I was shocked and paralyzed with fear. I didn't eat for several days not knowing what was safe to put in my body. Motivation kicked in when <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">my father died soon after that and my cardiologist tried to reassure me by saying, "Don't worry. I've operated on people younger than you." He also said "wdzianko" my least favorite word in Polish thus losing his Hot Doctor title once and for all.</span></div>
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I do not want to leave my children motherless. You'd think that would translate into "I don't want to die", but it really is about sticking around for my kids. It's especially important as we have no extended family to depend on. If it was just me, I'd eat all the bacon and get fat and die. It's my birthright.</div>
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Sure, I want to be slim. I absolutely want to be fit. I <i>am</i> quite slim and relatively fit. I don't eat what a heart patient shouldn't. I exercise vigorously, not moderately, my allotted times per week. I don't drink. I don't smoke. So what's up with my cholesterol?</div>
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After one year of hard work, my cholesterol is down 25 points to 275. That's great, right? I should be happy with my achievement, and I am. The thing is, my bad cholesterol hasn't budged, not even one point. I'm still motivated, still wanting to stay alive and all that. I am able to just not eat all that stuff I shouldn't. It's not a big deal really. But Jeezuz, what if it isn't enough? I'm going into Year 2 of my cholesterol lowering plan. Let's hope it's enough.</div>
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Me on a chilly bike ride :)</div>
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Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-18597873269900923072015-12-30T20:45:00.001+01:002015-12-31T12:20:39.500+01:00I will...This year I plan to be kinder. I will give people the benefit of the doubt. I will chill in traffic jams. I will let people go in front of me at the grocery store. I will be kinder to my children. I will remember that they are just children. I will set a kind example for them. They already got their lesson on assertiveness. <div><br></div><div>I'm not only going to be kinder. I'm going to say kind things. Recently someone said to me, "The sight of you is the first thing to put a smile on my face today." That was amazing because well it was just amazing and knowing this person, I knew it was sincere. </div><div><br></div><div>I will continue in my slow process of getting my shit together. I started that a few years ago and discovered that it's not something you just do and it's done. It's something that has to be kept up lest your shit, so to speak, get away from you.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdK0lnoeKTdUV3TfnsymwagqyYDFOHHrhp8w6e4BX5Qtfs17_prxJLxH0icEqDC7ROjnwurTObazMewRQcWjOqrNx33a6oIyt010V0Z_1XE1jyEvULnGodH1xd9GUGUyU7v44neVhZ1A/s640/blogger-image--2023397474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdK0lnoeKTdUV3TfnsymwagqyYDFOHHrhp8w6e4BX5Qtfs17_prxJLxH0icEqDC7ROjnwurTObazMewRQcWjOqrNx33a6oIyt010V0Z_1XE1jyEvULnGodH1xd9GUGUyU7v44neVhZ1A/s640/blogger-image--2023397474.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div><div>I will meet with people I like more often. I've made this resolution every year for the last few years. I'm by no means a party animal, but year after year I get out there more.</div><div><br></div><div>I will continue everything I do to keep my body and mind fit and functioning. I reduced my cholesterol by 25 points in 2015, and I hope to reduce it another 25 points in 2016 bringing me to an overall 250. I know that's still high, but it's my dream. I will increase my kilometers per bike ride hopefully doubling my current distance by the end of the year. I would say that in addition to all that, I will quit drinking and smoking, but I don't drink or smoke. I won't be losing any weight either</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBhyphenhyphenlO55ukHUJUYQyyUfmf8sxV1_jGDi94skJvik0_f9U51gybT_U9-3LtuwfwhaUaGK2d6ZCIWhbfnHWuwJyl2ZsDPDf_YGqcXriKa5eZiWncGrZqSNxiFDTAhDXzMHfM9xx4_6OflU/s640/blogger-image-708713568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBhyphenhyphenlO55ukHUJUYQyyUfmf8sxV1_jGDi94skJvik0_f9U51gybT_U9-3LtuwfwhaUaGK2d6ZCIWhbfnHWuwJyl2ZsDPDf_YGqcXriKa5eZiWncGrZqSNxiFDTAhDXzMHfM9xx4_6OflU/s640/blogger-image-708713568.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div><div>I'm thinking about a career change, and this year I will collect more information on the topic. I will read the books waiting in my Kindle or even on my shelf. I will get that mammogram I have been putting off. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjS3JEeURuUzQZJAsGo4I1MFS7zaojXDf_GcpZ7MsSK7Y07fTCkl5v31aJTZfcSRB18SVnF3NUAX9hosmztYwXVXJKm3J7w_99-NCEC7ilwu35R7XQqP83jLs2Z4OUFfGvQDX3_b5NcHU/s640/blogger-image-908948283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjS3JEeURuUzQZJAsGo4I1MFS7zaojXDf_GcpZ7MsSK7Y07fTCkl5v31aJTZfcSRB18SVnF3NUAX9hosmztYwXVXJKm3J7w_99-NCEC7ilwu35R7XQqP83jLs2Z4OUFfGvQDX3_b5NcHU/s640/blogger-image-908948283.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>But all of that doesn't start until tomorrow, so I will do my best to enjoy this last day of 2015. I wish you to do the same. </div><div><br></div><div>Till next year...</div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-45485623195340626922015-12-26T09:09:00.001+01:002015-12-26T09:34:10.716+01:00Christmas without a TVChristmas without a TV - no, it's not some unplugged family bonding ploy. It's the normal state of things in our house in the Village.<div><br></div><div>We have an actual television set, come on, we're not barbarians, but we have no cable or satellite service and have decided not to hook up the TV to the Internet. No Netflix for us. </div><div><br></div><div>We do have a DVD player and a very modest collection of DVDs. We choose what to watch, watch it, and then turn the television off, however tempting it is to stay on the couch.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunafSB843mQK_aNQgXAw7gDbz3mOHYnG45QQptj9bdXpTH3J65oHYG2rHdLkUDLrAGOFHOIYJcOhhOHYkVJSSz5CPsIMRdgIpFrnDNRXuQiChmOdcshpYsGXP47NVBeg6sijn-0EMCrA/s640/blogger-image--1932600442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunafSB843mQK_aNQgXAw7gDbz3mOHYnG45QQptj9bdXpTH3J65oHYG2rHdLkUDLrAGOFHOIYJcOhhOHYkVJSSz5CPsIMRdgIpFrnDNRXuQiChmOdcshpYsGXP47NVBeg6sijn-0EMCrA/s640/blogger-image--1932600442.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">There are so many other things to do here in the Village. The kids have lots of toys, books, and games. We adults can read too or actually speak to one another. We all have bikes with gorgeous bike paths almost right outside our door. There's a new public pool nearby. There's an ice skating rink too. We can visit friends and neighbors. We can just be.</span></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqF2K-gFhkQhE8W9m1cpzO6Fk-Nv1-ZX9pDHVliUx_3znvj-t8WJEeStRbx-pH25e_rcHa-OM1e65GFLzPj3Z56Q_TXxtVEK6RPuP5eIROu44_Jhj0jVm14cZSx4Ywrfed5K6wA7FZqRM/s640/blogger-image--608914347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqF2K-gFhkQhE8W9m1cpzO6Fk-Nv1-ZX9pDHVliUx_3znvj-t8WJEeStRbx-pH25e_rcHa-OM1e65GFLzPj3Z56Q_TXxtVEK6RPuP5eIROu44_Jhj0jVm14cZSx4Ywrfed5K6wA7FZqRM/s640/blogger-image--608914347.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlvd8jtlqF0EZtpo7ASIjKFoJRG9gWJHdxr37cEiYb3yfv7RZ8TB4bx1_sP7MFO3GcfzRC_gJ-FqTtxoWEvDQGMP3WdVb9manONkf3CNJZ16mJQDWBSrf3ibcqxvcinDNoDxKXabp9UQ/s640/blogger-image--662356341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlvd8jtlqF0EZtpo7ASIjKFoJRG9gWJHdxr37cEiYb3yfv7RZ8TB4bx1_sP7MFO3GcfzRC_gJ-FqTtxoWEvDQGMP3WdVb9manONkf3CNJZ16mJQDWBSrf3ibcqxvcinDNoDxKXabp9UQ/s640/blogger-image--662356341.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div><div>I am a bit sentimental at this time of the year. I do miss all the holiday movies. My kids have never seen any Kevin or Griswald movies (and off topic, I've never seen any "Star Wars" movies ever). I'd really like to watch "It's a Wonderful Life"* with them. What we don't miss is the incessant advertising for electronics stores. Last year there was such an annoying one, the poor pop star that sang the jingle was almost ruined. </div><div><br></div><div>As we slowly wake up this Boxing Day, we are filled with possibilities of what we can do today. Yes, I'm planning to watch a couple of episodes of "The Big Bang Theory" on DVD, but I'm also planning to tackle some books, and make some cookies with the kids. Rosie will probably do something in her fashion design book, while Lizzie has plans to start in on her book of 500 brain teasers. I can already see that it's going to be a beautiful sunny day. I might go for bike ride or the kids might hit the pool. We don't have to do it all, but it's better to have too many fun options than too few.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrosDCJj9CJCDgfNcXH87FRgeNdiFKTENNJwk6ypWEkprFPWbRxGN8atDlZKKx8p6u2vUuQBz841sJC8o90NjSNM8Ht1eQ2pg-JpA_F17KHlgniqCNOInmK8zq2OFGZkYdeVl1X8qPaI/s640/blogger-image--126559059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrosDCJj9CJCDgfNcXH87FRgeNdiFKTENNJwk6ypWEkprFPWbRxGN8atDlZKKx8p6u2vUuQBz841sJC8o90NjSNM8Ht1eQ2pg-JpA_F17KHlgniqCNOInmK8zq2OFGZkYdeVl1X8qPaI/s640/blogger-image--126559059.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINCtAC0yvmQQCDSTTH3ZbhEZcUxYFkkxMtTlbfDgf6rGIyE20C4lG0a6Q784yuQpA32Aj3lfy-80dZI78kBVKlMU3PIqa0OonlpLoAZLClbx5hyphenhyphenT4qDEE3V_JjJ6TDGGFRWdsmcPGXsQ/s640/blogger-image--1627784396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINCtAC0yvmQQCDSTTH3ZbhEZcUxYFkkxMtTlbfDgf6rGIyE20C4lG0a6Q784yuQpA32Aj3lfy-80dZI78kBVKlMU3PIqa0OonlpLoAZLClbx5hyphenhyphenT4qDEE3V_JjJ6TDGGFRWdsmcPGXsQ/s640/blogger-image--1627784396.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyFnMxOJNl-oB7ZQzsub5YU4CGn6DUqbHIa9smmrIzU-0GKMBJYa0SprlZXBcZKgo8WVW9BRFgwtd_HT7dNQpyAgJhkqCZBiGRJoOQw0LghbQ_oSz12dhN_obt87pDHyJasNQ58A2sCg/s640/blogger-image-237456830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyFnMxOJNl-oB7ZQzsub5YU4CGn6DUqbHIa9smmrIzU-0GKMBJYa0SprlZXBcZKgo8WVW9BRFgwtd_HT7dNQpyAgJhkqCZBiGRJoOQw0LghbQ_oSz12dhN_obt87pDHyJasNQ58A2sCg/s640/blogger-image-237456830.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsiIWmDLBxEZKS8zu_vL0jWP64spfg_JdDb2hyUQI3KgwtI5TUQQmjH3PPnXQiuWBov917ibVIKkuW-aJIavTX9O9lRhVKJxMBKjjkx0WJIahqFAuiKU1Y_BBjAHSokCLMonkQKIBgGg/s640/blogger-image--1206088439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsiIWmDLBxEZKS8zu_vL0jWP64spfg_JdDb2hyUQI3KgwtI5TUQQmjH3PPnXQiuWBov917ibVIKkuW-aJIavTX9O9lRhVKJxMBKjjkx0WJIahqFAuiKU1Y_BBjAHSokCLMonkQKIBgGg/s640/blogger-image--1206088439.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QHK-2eLqtFF6CBzUu16UIGCLokdjhpL66FMr8tz3K_iNdNAvT_BC9Cju_Z6_2PBE_EFIM96ij7TwVAxbI6xsx84GoTvqrMjORxyoU13HVu1CLQvS-YfVK1LFV2-h9JbcPGwDhdGx1-w/s640/blogger-image--2101559434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QHK-2eLqtFF6CBzUu16UIGCLokdjhpL66FMr8tz3K_iNdNAvT_BC9Cju_Z6_2PBE_EFIM96ij7TwVAxbI6xsx84GoTvqrMjORxyoU13HVu1CLQvS-YfVK1LFV2-h9JbcPGwDhdGx1-w/s640/blogger-image--2101559434.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">*Remember "when you hear a bell ring an angel gets his wings" from "It's a Wonderful Life"? My father had a different take on that. He told us every time we ate a piece of candy from the tree, an angel died. We never touched the candy on the tree. Never ever.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">How are you spending the holiday season?</span></div><div><br></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-89057157312579596682015-12-21T07:59:00.001+01:002015-12-21T07:59:22.969+01:00One year ago today...<div>One year ago today, my husband and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary, so that would make today our 16th and still going. After our celebration last year my father called, not to wish us "Happy Anniversary", but to remind me to call my mother the next day for her birthday. People often forget birthdays around Christmas. We spoke briefly, ended our conversation with our usual "I love you" and with me vowing not to forget to wish my mother a happy birthday. His call was unnecessary. I have forgotten my own anniversary a few times, but I have never forgotten to call my mother on her birthday. </div><div><br></div><div>The next morning when the phone rang at 6 a.m. I knew it couldn't be a good thing.</div><div><br></div><div>I love you Dad. I miss you. I think of you every day. In your absence, we feel your presence this second Christmas without you.</div><div><br></div><div>Don't worry. I will remember to call Mom for her birthday.</div><div><br></div><a href="http://kielbasastories.blogspot.com/2014/12/no-idea.html">http://kielbasastories.blogspot.com/2014/12/no-idea.html</a>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489825674468647913.post-12092355594166938982015-12-17T15:13:00.000+01:002015-12-17T15:13:16.261+01:00To the parents who think it is unfair I was not a competitive student as a child. That metamorphosis didn't take place until college, and it wasn't pretty - just ask any classmate who ever asked to borrow my notes and got his or her head bitten off. I don't recall any serious exams or competitions that we had in elementary or even high school - excluding my driving exam at 16 which was pretty memorable. Kids in Polish schools today have the opportunity to take part in a lot of academic competitions, really, a lot. There are notices on the bulletin boards outside the classrooms. Posters for various competitions, often called Olympics, are taped to the glass doors. Kids bring home flyers from their teachers and sometimes from the organizers of the competitions. Announcements are made on the school webpage and on the electronic gradebook. We get direct e-mails from the teachers requesting our children's participation.<br />
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Participation is voluntary. There are those children who cannot wait to show off their skills and knowledge and are glad to have the opportunity to do so. Other children could not care less. They are not interested in sitting a test or preparing with the "team". Some kids do it to get a higher grade out of their teacher at the end of the semester or at the insistence of a parent. Some kids cannot be persuaded by any form of force or bribery, not even as practice for the "real" exams they will take in the future. That's all good. I don't have any problem with that.<br />
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I just have something to say to the parents who think it is unfair that my child competed in the English Olympics grades 1-3.<br />
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Firstly, this particular English Olympics is run by a company, not the Department of Education. It is a crap test given for a fee intended to justify all those Helen Doron courses parents spend money on.<br />
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Secondly, my kids are Polish. They were born in Poland. They go to a Polish school. They had a Polish nanny when they were little. Yes, they have American passports as well, but they have been to America twice for short trips. Maybe you parents have been on vacation to America or Great Britain or Australia for a week or two. Did your kids manage to learn enough English to give them an "unfair advantage"? No? Neither did mine.</div>
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Thirdly, the fact that my children speak English at all is a miracle. Well, it is not really miraculous at all. It is pure work. My children speak Polish all day long. They learn in Polish. They read in Polish. They watch TV in Polish. They fight in Polish. They dream in Polish. How many hours a day do you spend with your children? I, as many parents unfortunately, spend very few as I work evenings. Of those hours you spend with your children, how many of them are actual meaningful engagement between you. One? Two? Less than that?</div>
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My kids <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">have English at school, the same as your children 2x45 minutes per week. Last year Lizzie had 6 different teachers - 6. Rosie's teacher pronounced birthday as bearzday. They were not covering any material that they should. I had a lot of calls from parents wanting me to teach their children privately - parents who on the most part could speak English and definitely on a level high enough to teach their own 8-year-old. </span></div>
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I force my children to read in English, to watch TV in English, to learn new words in English. This is what I recommend to all parents when they ask me what they should do and to all my students who are parents. It is not something you have to be American to do. Yes, I speak to them in English. They answer me in Polish. When they speak English, they say things like "drinked", "goed", "don't can", "sanged". Not to mention saying a sentence in English with all nouns in Polish - Today Pani gived us karteczka to take do domu. We have to kolorować the karteczka and give it back to Pani jutro. If we don't gived it jutro, we gets jedynka in the książka. Very English, wouldn't you agree?</div>
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Believe me parents, if you put as much effort into your child's English as I do, your child would speak English almost as well as mine. I do it for them, but I do it for me too. Can you imagine not sharing a language with your children? As a mother, not speaking to your baby in your own language? I don't do it to spite you. I don't do it so my kids will come out on top in the English exams. Lizzie has never participated in those exams because she is not interested at all. Her philosophy is that she is awesome, no need to prove it. Rosie participated last year at the insistence of her teacher, and this year declared she's not interested. Again at the insistence of her teacher, she signed up, and we paid the fees. Last year Rosie didn't even catch on that is was an English exam. The first question, read aloud by the instructor, was - "What color is a hippo?" with choices of pink, green, grey, and purple. Rosie said, "Who doesn't know what color a hippo is?" "It was an English exam, Rosie." "Ooooohhhh," says Rosie.</div>
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So parents, zip it. When my child doesn't want to sing Silent Night at the school show, it's because she doesn't know it, not any more than your child. And when my child gets a good score on the English exam, congratulate her - a lot of hard work stands behind that success.</div>
Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384854442041889558noreply@blogger.com11