It's not that I hadn't ever heard of a spork; it's more that I'd never been face to face with one.
Also, by creepy little freaks, I don't mean in person. Although for a while it did seem like that was the subtext of my Internet dating profile.
But the spork.
See, last Tuesday evening we got on this flight to Paris. (And if you've ever seen Love, Actually, and you know the part where Laura Linney is about to hook up with the hothothot guy and she excuses herself, goes into the stairwell and does a silent little super-excited dance, well, that's the kind of emoticon I need to insert here.)
So the flight to Paris (yippy kazippee emoticon!). A flight for which I'd received an email saying there would be no meal service. Naturally, I freaked out. Because if you are going to have me hurtling through space for seven and a half hours, I want to be overfed.
So we packed an insane amount of food. Really. Buns and chicken and fruit and more fruit. And when I asked Betty why her carry-on was so heavy, she had no idea. Upon inspection, she had no fewer than 10 Kit Kats, three huge Snickers, and approximately 72 Butterfingers. These will weigh a person down.
If you think I exaggerate, you need to meet Betty. Anyway, we were set. Plus, they did actually feed us semi-wretched pasta. Which I ate, because, you know. The oatmeal cookie was pretty good.
And then they woke us up at 5 am Paris time, which was a scant hour after I'd fallen asleep, and handed me this little packet with a yogurt and a bread product and this sharp edged implement. And I was all, "What the fuck is up with this mean, angry little spoon?"
Then I realized I was staring into the sharp pokey little teeth of a spork, which maybe is useful for varied meals when camping, if one does that sort of thing, but not as clearly so for yogurt.
And then I was wondering why they didn't just put a serrated edge on one side and call it a sporfe. Which so sounds like something you would buy at Ikea, doesn't it?
There would, of course, be the danger of slicing one side of your lip while trying to use it as a spoon or maybe even a fork, but eventually you'd learn to keep your mouth fairly wide open while putting things in. Although it occurs to me that that technique would make those food items more likely to fall out as well.
So then you'd have to choose - perpetually sliced side of lip, or food staying in mouth? Which would really only be relevant if you camped all the time. Or maybe were an astronaut. Do the astronauts use them? The only thing I really know about them is that they like Tang - or anyway they did in the 70s - and so do I.
And also I now recall that the whole bathroom in space thing is kind of iffy, what with the no gravity. Outer space is not so much my thing. Outer space and camping and mean little sharp spoons.
And anyway, listen, enough with the sporfe and the dubious poops in space.
Because, my friends, we are in Paris, Betty and I. Which is kind of the opposite of camping and all around really spectacularly delicious.If you don't know me in person I know it sounds like last week we were just all, "Oh, it's Tuesday, let's fly to Paris."
When in fact this trip had been planned in concept for several years, and in actuality since February, and I was only talking about it in person for weeks and weeeeks leading up to it. To the point where I'm certain everyone who saw me on a regular basis was kind of like, "Paris, yes, yes, I know, fuck you very much."
I was kind of insufferable, I'm certain. "Oh, yah, I won't be able to attend that meeting. Because I'll be in PARIS. Have I mentioned it?"
Things like that.
By the time I left I'm sure my office was all, "GO ALREADY"This is a trip that was three years coming, and when it finally arrived it was kind of perfect timing in terms of family stuff and kind of stressful timing in terms of Betty selling her house and moving in with us. When we return we have three weeks to race to the finish line of empty house and closing. This only came together the day we were leaving.
It's a little bit of an enormous project.
But here we are, and it is amazing. We arrived last Wednesday and we've only got one more day.
We've seen old friends, we've shopped, and we've eaten and eaten and eaten. I had this hot chocolate that was a melted chocolate bar in one jug and hot milk in another, and you just poured whatever amounts you wanted into your cup.
We turn out to be Philistines and so we've spent a great deal more time eating and shopping than doing anything cultural but it seems that whenever we go to a church - Saint-Séverin and Sainte-Chapelle, to name the, uh, two - the things that catch my eye are the creepy little freaks.
No, wait! The well freak was taken at Cluny! Although I must be honest and admit that we arrived just as they were closing, so it doesn't honestly count.
Actually, Sainte-Chapelle has the most extraordinary details, and I took a ton of pictures of little carvings and bits of wall and such and if anyone is remotely interested, or if I decide I want to take on the project of resizing and posting a number of photos, I will post them.
But aren't the creepy little freaks compelling? You can click to embiggen them.
And now, my invisible friends, it is one-damn-forty-something in the morning Paris time, and I am still awake because the time change seems to fuck with me like nobody's business.
Sporfe that, I say.
I hope you're well! I know I'm the one who went away, but I've missed you!
Oh and one more thing. I've disabled anonymous comments because of this one particular dickbag. I delete the comments, because I see no reason to respond to anonymous dickbags, really. And I see no reason to encourage anonymous dickbaggery.
Sorry for the inconvenience, though.
OK. I must sleep now. Bonne nuit!
(Ooh, I'm so bilingual! I think when I get back I'll pretend that I can't remember the right word in English. Because I was in PARIS, did you know?)