My malaria bites itch.
Oh that reminds me; looks like I'm recovering well from my arm pit cancer. In all honesty, I forgot about it until just now. My malaria reminded me of it. I suppose if I'd have to choose, I'd rather go by malaria. There's more pride in it than an illness including the one of the worst parts of the human anatomy (right after out-y belly buttons. Them just ain't right.) I can just imagine Mr. Wilson praying during the "Great Prayer" on Sunday, "...and Lord, we pray for Grace Hayes as she faces her last days battling arm pit cancer. But we mostly we pray for her pride. What is left of it anyway."
In other news, I'm so sick of this pillow. It's the sort of pillow that's............it's horrible. It's the horrible sort. I'd sacrifice a fatted calf for mine right now.
I've come to notice, that although on the whole it's seemed as though the Dutch are quite friendly (though I know some who'd argue) they do not always make the best first impressions. I'm the type that likes to smile, and maybe sometimes say something friendly, along the lines of, "hello." or "good day." or "wazzzuppp?"(nah, I'm not that cool.) But every time I've tried it with a Dutch person, I get a double take. And a look of utter amazement, or even confusion. Like I've just broken a moral code. Like I've just went to the bathroom in their front yard, and then knocked on their front door and said, "good day, have any extra toilet paper I might borrow?"
Or like I'm a door to door salesman, selling shrunken heads or love potions. I thought it was just common courtesy. What a fool I am.
This amazing little find is a tea holder. I bought it for myself so that one day, I can invite people to my home, and offer them some tea, bring out this wonderful little box with the different varieties (obviously just Earl Grey and Decaf Earl Grey) and they'll see that is says, "THE" and they'll know I'm well rounded. Until then, I'll keep it in my hope chest. Which I've been using to acquire goods so that one day I can "trick a man into marrying me." As my loving brothers so kindly stated.
"Well, I know I may not have been your FIRST choice for your bride....but look what at all the STUFF I come with! TAAAA DAAAA!" *opens chest. filled with glowing household items*
Last night Aaron, Brenda and I were invited to a wonderful dinner party by friends of theirs from church. They are British. HECK yes. I was very excited to go and had spent a good portion of the day mentally preparing myself (I was with Mareike and her nieces all day who don't speak English. But now I know cow, pretty, chewing gum, blue, pink, and Gouda in Dutch). Brenda texted me the time of dinner (7:30) so that I'd know when to be meet them. 7:30....oh. Yah, okay. I grabbed a snack.
At home, there are only 2 reasons why we wouldn't have eaten and cleaned up from dinner by 7:30.
1)We were all too distracted by Cash Cab.
or 2) there has been a disaster of MAJOR proportions.
So at 7:30 we arrive, and park our bikes out front. They have a beautiful Dutch house (what we could call maybe a town house, or condo), and we all pile in from the hail storm. The food smells WONDERFUL! I can't wait to eat. Becky offers us drinks, and then tells us all to sit down. Excellent. I am STARVING! Scouting out a chair round the table, I glance up and everyone is on the couches in the living room.
Regretfully, I take a seat in the living room. Luckily they have peanuts on the coffee table, which I shovel into my mouth at ramming speed. Other people try to eat some as well, but I snarl as they get their fingers close and foam a bit at the mouth. Mine.
I check the clock. It's 8.
Awesome, time to put the food on the table. She pulls out a big dish from the oven. Two chickens. Which she has to carve. GAH! I'M RUNNING OUT OF PATIENCE!
8:30. We are called to the table. Like a bullet I'm off, weaving my way through the Adults (I'm just the widdle kid), and plant myself down in the midst of the food. 8:35. I'm usually asleep by this time. Dinner is DEVOURED, and oh my word is it good. Like a vacuum, I suck up anything within my reach.
The evening was remarkable. It's interesting how my view of the world is considerably more optimistic after I've attained a full belly. It's sort of like my new born niece, Lily. I guess she get's that from me. After we'd finished eating, they serve dessert (ah, good. More food.) Graeme turns on some music (no, not Coldplay or U2 like you'd expect a young, hip, British couple to have in their collection) but red-neck, honky-tonk tunes. Oh goodness.
It's now nearly 11, and the thunderstorm has rolled in. The lightning has been striking for about an hour now, I couldn't wait to get on my metal bike and peddle home! "HEY LIGHTNING! LOOKIE HERE!" my bike screams. The rain has started, and I'm now the perfect target for electrocution. The only target for many kilometers, I make my way home, hunched over like a granny, shifty eyed, like I can avoid it by being sneaky.
Soon the storm picks up. I peddle faster, I zig-zag to make myself a more difficult target. Lightning bolts are striking all around me, obviously I'm too fast. Armed with my thighs of steel (they don't have toilet seat covers here) and the foresight of Navy Seal, I finally reach home. Out of breath, barely alive.
I stumble to bed. Oh bed, for awhile there, I thought I might never be with you again.
Last night I dreamt of Transformers.
Today I'm gonna practice my cappuccinos with my bialetti (Brenda has an espresso machine, so I need to learn to make them with MY equipment).
The sun has come out, and I'm ready to embrace this day, lucky to be alive.