Polish Girls Really Do Love Sausage

Some might think I was scraping the bottom of the barrel by allowing my friend, "D," to set me up with his Polish cleaning girl's friend, but I was open-minded when the setup was suggested. And by "open-minded," I mean bored and lonely. I hemmed and hawed until "D" agreed to make it a double date, though. He'd take one for the team, he said, by acting as his five-foot-one, two-hundred pound cleaning girl's escort for the evening, as I got to know her friend whom "D" assured me was very attractive and NOT a cleaning lady. I found it odd, even amusing that he has such a close relationship with the woman who scrubs his toilets, given that I don't think I've had more than a handful of conversations with the woman who scrubs mine. We communicate via notes that she leaves on my kitchen counter in which she addresses me by my full name and tells me what cleaning products she needs me to buy. She even asked for a raise via post-it note.

"Dear Mr. Marc ****, I need Fantastik with bleach, gloves size (m) and $10 more. Thank You," she wrote a few months ago. I responded by buying the Fantastik and gloves and leaving her an additional ten dollars every time she's come since. Not a word was spoken between the two of us, and it never once occurred to me to ask her if she had any cute, single friends she'd be willing to allow my friends to try and sleep with.

I sat with "D," his cleaning lady and her friend, Ana, at a blues club for around twenty minutes in between sets, attempting to make polite conversation with a surprisingly attractive and slim Polish woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite "D"'s assurances to the contrary, I was expecting a stereotypical Slavic women with a babushka, at least fifty extra pounds, a mustache, and a bad attitude. Well, one out of four ain't bad.

Every question I asked Anastajza, the Ice Queen of Krakow, was responded to with an angry sneer that made me feel guilty for having the audacity to interrupt the conversation she was having in Polish with her friend. "I am chemist" was all I managed to learn about her before the band took the stage.

As the music got louder, I moved my chair closer to Madame Curie, and asked her if she'd ever been to a blues club before. She nodded no, turned to her friend and mumbled something that likely had a backwards "R" in it. When I followed up with, "I love the blues. I can feel it in my soul," I saw her eyes roll before she again turned to her friend and uttered what was almost definitely an insult directed at me. The ship was sinking fast and I had to bust out the big guns, or at least an indirect reference to big guns.

"It's probably because my grandfather was black and grew up in the South that I have the blues in my blood, ya' know," I said right before her eyes lit up like I'd just told her I was an heir to a large Kielbasa empire, the crowned jewel of which was in my pants.

"Really?" she asked, happily shocked that the pasty, white Jew she'd been ignoring until then could possibly please her in ways no pasty, white Jew ever could.

I nodded yes, and heard her say something to her friend who then gave me the once over and said something in Polish that sounded a lot like, "Get the fuck outta here! HIM??!! NO WAY!" Even if that's not what she actually said, Ana responded as if it was. The Polish Hazel had not only made her friend ignore me for the remainder of the evening, but she had successfully Kielbasa blocked me.