This morning I had to rush out to catch the 9:18 AM bus to get me to my 9:35 AM emergency dental appontment. Boli mi ząb, as they say in Poland. My stupid semi-erupted wisdom tooth is infected again. I tell it to stop running around outside without a jacket, but does it listen to me? No. So it's back to the penicillin and no alcohol.
Scottish doctors, dentists and pharmacists are very funny about alcohol. When they don't want you to drink it, they look you in the eye like parents going away for the weekend and speak very slowly and firmly: NO ALCOHOL. It's as if Scotland were a nation of heavy drinkers. Oh, come to think of it...
Scots die of being too fat and/or too drunk. Or so I assume from the fact that although so intensely politically correct they offer "tairminations" to happily pregnant mums and tie themselves into pretzels while suggesting that foreigners might let themselves permit the thought of not smoking cross their mysterious minds, medicos have no problem telling Scots and the Scottish-looking that we are too fat and/or drink too much.
At any rate, I have a week's holiday from lying on the couch with my compulsory glass of wine while watching the Food Network, which is one of my married lady jobs. Husbands are terrible drunkifiers of wives, as Mrs Brendan Behan found out, poor lamb. To celebrate I went around the "charity shops", which are the cozy, cheerful thrift shops in which I buy almost all my clothes, not only because I am a writer, but because once you pay £15 for a brand new, never worn, black brocade Laura Ashley frock coat, you never go back. And after purchasing some t-shirts and a brand new, never worn, peacock blue winter coat (£8.50), I went to the beauty shop and had my eyelashes tinted and my eyebrows done. It was quite a spree, actually. And it was great fun because it is unseasonably warm yet rainy, which made for a great conversation starter with the wifies in the charity shops and the lassies in the beauty shop.
They say we always turn into our mothers, but I suspect I am turning into my grandmother. Or my great-great-grandmother now lying in an Edinburgh cemetery. I'm going to visit her grave on November 1, and as she has been dead for some decades, she won't turn in it and mutter "But we aren't Polish." By the way, I wrote an article in the Catholic Register (the Canadian one) this week on how culturally superior the Poles are to Canadians in regards to Halloween. Because I do not utterly condemn Halloween while nevertheless pointing out that the Poles do better, it will annoy everyone except, naturally, the Poles.
This amusing local morning, plus proximity to Polish culture, comes courtesy of having had a long distance relationship. Or rather my reluctance and B.A.'s reluctance to have a long distance relationship. We agreed that we couldn't do long distance--so we got married as soon as the Church let us, after spending must of our money rushing back and forth across the ocean and running up terrible phone bills. That's what "long distance" looks like to me--two people frantically trying to make a long distance short. Of course, we were headstrong and foolish and over 35.
We had not had much of a relationship at all--just a bit of internet flirtation--until I mentioned I'd love to visit Scotland and B.A. said I could stay with him. And I thought that was very nice of funny bearded guy, whose friend Aelianus was already my friend, and gave him good references. I did not show up with romance in mind, although I did want to make a good impression. It did not occur to me that I would want to move across the sea from my family and friends and job prospects. But then I fell in love, and B.A. fell in love, so I did.
And I am thinking about this because I am thinking about Catholic dating websites and of American Catholics meeting other American Catholics two thousand or more miles away and becoming attached to them without much hope of actually meeting them in person. it strikes me as so emotionally risky, and so sad, really. If I were ever to try Catholic online dating again (God forbid and grant B.A. good health and long life), I would communicate only those men whom I could easily meet. I would just so hate to hear some guy say "I don't do long distance" when I know darned well men will "do long distance" for the right girl and darned well cross that distance as often as they can.
Update: I fixed my poll so that you can record your purchase of my beautiful novel Ceremony of Innocence up until Christmas Eve. And you can change your vote to "More than one copy" if you buy another copy for someone as a present. Hint hint. And if you think I'm a shameless promoter of my own work, you should see Simcha. She's offering steak knives and stuff! Steak knives! Well, I ask you!