Monday, March 30, 2009

How Much Is A Billion


I read something really good today.

It was an article about the government
bailouts of companies like AIG, GM,
CitiGroup, etc. etc. ad naseum.

Over 100 billion dollars to AIG alone.

100 billion.


I mean, if I have a hundred dollars in my pocket I'm a nervous wreck because I'm worrying
constantly that somebody might steal it, or it might fall out of my pocket, or I might forget
it's there and throw it in the wash and never be able to prove that it was once U.S. currency,
or that the guy at the register won't be able to make change for it? Ahhhhhh!

But, a billion?! The thought gives me the vapors.

I can't wrap my brain around "billion."

What does a billion look like? Is there a One Billion Dollar bill? Has anyone out there
ever seen one? Better yet, has anyone ever USED one? I mean was it all wrinkled and
dirty when it got handed over? And what was it used to buy? A thousand pairs of one
million dollar shoes?

Okay, wait a minute. Let's start with something simple, like a measly Million dollars.

If somebody gave you a ONE DOLLAR bill every second how long would it take before
you had One Million Dollars?
12 days.

How long would it take before you had One BILLION Dollars?
32 years!

That's one dollar every second...for the next 32 years!!!

That's how incredibly much a billion is.

I'm so humbled.

Somehow, I feel so insignificant and tiny and small and little and wee-wee.

I hate those guys at AIG for bringing the fact that I'm a wee-wee to my attention.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Scrambled Eggs

Today we saw the King and Queen.

It all started when we woke up and, without showering, dressed in our raggedy clothes
and went up to the train station to a place that makes an "american" style
breakfast. The Man often wakes up with a hankering for bacon, eggs and conversation
with Rocco, the owner of the cafe. This morning, the first words out of his mouth
were, "Do you want to go with me to Rocco's for breakfast?" To which I replied, "NO!"

Fifteen minutes later we were on our way.

The ladies in the back were very happy to see their favorite customer. They made
him a special plate this morning. The scrambled eggs were especially yellow, and
the bacon was especially plentiful. I only had coffee. But, I had two of them.

Afterward, we walked over to the Esquilino market for produce, pistachios and, across
the street, at the Chinese market, I bought five bags of edemame beans. We stuffed
all our purchases into my shopping bag and we caught the bus for home.

Midway on our ride I noticed a big commotion at the Quirinale Hotel. There were
cars with blue lights on top and special looking black shiny motorcycles, complete
with beautifully uniformed police riders. Then I noticed that there were a lot of
police in dress uniforms directing traffic. As we made one turn in the road I caught
a glimpse of the monument at Piazza Venezia, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
It was full of soldiers.

When we got closer, some plainclothes officer told our bus driver to "move, move!"
He was getting all the traffic out of the way, getting ready for something.

Our bus went across an empty intersection and made an unscheduled stop. I told
The Man to "move, move!" I wanted to get out and see what was going on.

That's how it is around here. Things just happen and you have to watch the spectacles
unfold.

We walked up near the monument and joined about fifty others standing on a little hill
waiting. All traffic had stopped, which was really something because Piazza Venezia
is the center of the center of Rome and is an extremely busy intersection.

There were hundreds of brightly dressed soldiers in formation, standing at attention
wearing various, colorful, shiny, be-feathered, be-metaled costumes. The military band
was there, too, instruments gleaming in the sun.

A motorcade arrived and a black limousine pulled up. A woman security officer ran
alongside and was there to open the door when the car came to a complete stop, just
ahead of the motorcycle police escort.

First, a woman got out of the car wearing the biggest black hat I've ever seen. It was
divine! It was a dream hat, dignified, grand, imposing. And, this lady stepped out of
that car and didn't even bang her hat on the way out. It was smooth, let me tell you.
She'd obviously had some practice. A grey-headed man got out of the other side, but
he was boringly hatless. The woman was escorted to the steps leading up to the Tomb
of the Unknown Soldier. She turned and faced the soldiers below. The band played an
anthem I didn't recognize. Afterward, the woman bowed her beautifully hatted head in
acknowledgment. The band played the Italian national anthem and the grey-headed
man and an Italian minister walked along the line, inspecting the troops.

After the inspection, the grey-headed man and The Woman of The Hat followed two
incredibly tall soldiers, impeccably dressed in beautiful red and blue jackets, white
stretch pants tucked into shiny, knee high, black boots, silver breast plates and
matching silver helmets with huge black feathers. These honor soldiers carried a
large wreath up the marble steps to the lay at the foot of the Tomb.

Afterward we asked some others who these people were. They were the King and
Queen of Sweden, King Carl XVI Gustaff and Queen Silvia.

When I was in the fifth grade I had to write a report on Sweden. I also had a best
friend at that same time who was Swedish and who taught me how to sing "Baa Baa
Black Sheep" in Swedish. I can still sing it and will at any time upon request.

So, I was feeling my Swedish roots as I stood there watching the King and Queen
of the Hat.

Wow. What a life. The whole thing spent traveling around with uniformed soldiers,
security people who run alongside ready to open the doors, bands playing, people
waving, free lunches with foreign dignitaries, and, best of all, a different hat for every
occasion.

"The Queen of Sweden NEVER has to carry a shopping bag full of frozen edemane
beans," I thought. "She NEVER has to stand around on the street waiting for a
stinking bus. She NEVER has to go out with dirty hair in an old brown jacket."

She can just sit around all day listening to ABBA records and watching Ingmar Bergman
films, whilst her maids polish her hats.

I wanna be the Queen of Sweden. "Ja, ja. Take a chance on me".

Thursday, March 19, 2009

something else

here is something that i think is excellent.

i'm glad this guy is out there.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Bagni di Lucca

We took a short
trip to the village
of Bagni di Lucca
in Toscana, in the
Apuane Alps.

The mountains were
full of spring run-off,
woodland flowers were
blooming, birds singing,
it was warm and sunny.
It was really nice.




We stayed in this albergo
in a wonderful, old room
with a terrace overlooking
the river.

There are thermal baths
here as well, which is why
in the past, Bagni di Lucca
attracted the likes of Shelley,
Byron, the Brownings,
Paganini, Liszt and Puccini.

One day we drove around the mountains and came to the village of Fabbrica di Vallico, hidden high on a narrow mountain road. It was so pretty up there. The air was fresh and clean and the people were so friendly. Here's a movie of what we saw.
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To The Men Of The World

I'm writing this entry for
all the men of the world.

Listen and listen good.

When you go up to your
woman and try to hug her
and she pushes you away
and says "don't touch me"
don't be offended, don't
look at her all hurt with
your big puppy dog eyes
looking all confused.

Cause let me tell you,
she feels bad enough
already. Looking at her
with your hurt feelings
is only adding to the
torture she's enduring.

Your
being hurt is the frosting on the warped cake of her mind.

Instead, stop and think about what she's been doing.
Has she gone shopping, for example? And, I don't mean
shoe or purse or jewelry shopping because that's always
a lot of fun and makes all women very happy.

No, think harder, men. Really make your brain grunt.

If she seems a tad high strung, if when she opens her mouth
balls of fire shoot out, if she has sprung a tail and is whipping
it around the room breaking the furniture, if her eyeballs glow
a lizardly yellow, if her voice has deepened and sounds like
someone threw a chop stick in the garbage disposal, then you
might silently wonder, "she didn't go clothes shopping did she?"

Check her index finger for the telltale, black, coat hanger dirt
smudge. If it's there, and if you have any intellect at all, you'll
be wise to go easy, Buster.

If she's got that smudge, then that means she has spent hours
standing inside filthy, airless, cubicles staring at the contours of
her pathetic body which doesn't look at all like Angelina Jolie's
or Gweneth Paltrow's or even (and, especially!) ol' Madonna's.

No, what she's staring at is something only her sick mind can comprehend...
and it's ALL disgustingly bad.

And, THAT'S why she doesn't want to be touched!

Okay?

It's got nothing to do with YOU! I know this is hard for you, Men Of The World, to
understand, but IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU!

So, lay off. Don't make things worse.

Just give her a day to recuperate.

And, the next time you tell her you're taking her to some fancy exhibition of some guy's
collection of Picasso's, think again.

For your information, she doesn't even like Picasso...
well, his blue period was okay, I guess.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Heavy Thoughts


I was sitting around
thinking the other day

that my "Lentil"
is a grand failure

and that if The Man
weren't such a quick eater
he'd be much thinner
by now

because when I finish
eating what's on my
plate
i start coveting
what's on his.

He took me to a place in Tuscany called Bagni Di Lucca in the Alpuan Alps. It's a quaint,
old village built on a roaring river. The weather was warm, the mountains were flowing
with spring run-off, birds sang and woodland wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow.
Byron, Shelley, the Brownings, Puccini, Liszt, Strauss and Paganini spent summer
months in Bagni Di Lucca at various times. One reason for its popularity were the thermal
baths, still in use today. I think we'll go back there again and test the healing properties
of the baths ourselves.

Back here in chaotic Rome, we ran into our friend Bill, the chef. Several days ago we joined
him at an evening lecture at the prestigious American Academy in Rome. I'd never been
there before, in the beautiful Villa Aurelia up on the Gianicolo Hill overlooking the city. Bill
used to be the chef for the Academy, a position now held by his friend, Mona, who, in turn,
used to work for Alice Waters. I know, I am totally name dropping here. But, Bill is an
independent chef and very well connected with the filthy rich of Rome. He cooks frequently
for various embassies as well as private parties for diplomats and celebrities. And, AND the
big news is that tomorrow Bill is taking the founder of Cook's Illustrated magazine, his wife
and children on a tour of the Esquilino market here in Rome and then to lunch. I thought
this was very exciting because I love Cook's Illustrated! And, now my friend Bill is taking
the Kimball family on a tour! Wow!

I will never get to see the insides of the beautiful apartments where Bill works, but I love
to hear about them. You know what I mean?

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Calling Dr. Segal



So, when I get back to the Land of O, one of the first things
I have to do is have my stupid wisdom tooth pulled...
this time for real!

But, I'm not too worried about it anymore because I've had
an epiphany.

Tonight we are watching a Steven Segal movie called
"Out Of Reach." It's in Italian, of course, but when you're
watching Steven Segal, who cares.


In this one scene a police woman he's working with gets shot by some really bad guys.
After whupping the really bad guys really bad,
he hoists the woman onto the kitchen table,
wrestles in the cupboards for some stuff,
gives her a large swig of whiskey,
sterilizes a knife and a pair of scissors on the stove,
tells her to relax,
digs out the bullet
then cauterizes the wound with a burning hot...well, it looked like a frosting spreader.

Anyway...I watched the scene and I suddenly realized

"I WANT STEVEN SEGAL TO PULL MY WISDOM TOOTH!"

He did it just the way I want it done. Badaboom! Badabang! Then rub my head and tell
me not to move.

Note to myself: Call Steven's agent. Find out how much he wants for a small side job.

Problem solved.

I'm so happy.

A New Me...me

My name is Mimi,
with zee accent on
zee second "mi.'
Ooh, la la!

I am a pert, French
coquette living in Rome.
Zis place eez zo gauche.

I meece my Tour Eiffel.
I need my fromage du brie.
I could keel for un bit of baguette.

Zee boyz won't leef me alone.
I am zer femme fatale.
I am zo bored wiz dem.
I vant to be alone.
I vant to only be viz me
because I am zo speziale,
so beeutiful,
so....


What's happened you ask?
Why has my named changed?
Why am I suddenly French?
Why am I speaking with a French accent when
I'm supposed to be studying my Italian?

I got a haircut.
What else?

Yesterday I cut my hair.
Then The Man cut my hair.
Then I cut my hair some more.

Now, instead of looking like an old, beat up Thunderbird,
I look like a 1964 Renault Caravelle.
"Tres chic."

And, I can prove it. Today hurrying on my way to school
in the rain a taxi actually stopped for me and allowed me
to cross the busy street RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.
"Merci, mon ami!"

Another man held a door open for me as I trudged up
the stairs to my classroom.
"Quelle surprise!"

No one pinched my derriere as I walked home.
But, alas, only my hair cut is new,
it's not like I got a complete body lift or anything.
Still...the little Mimi in me was disappointed.
"Ca ne fait rien."

Now I'm home after my excellent Italian lesson.
I've changed classes. Instead of going on Monday
and Wednesday, I'm going on Tuesday and Thursday.
My first teacher had the maddening, typically Italian
habit of showing up for class 20 minutes late and ending
the class ten minutes early. She was out sick again yesterday,
her fourth sick day. I am not sympathetic, compassionate
or patient when I'm paying for something. "Zut alors!"

So, I complained on Monday and was told I could
start going to the Tuesday class with Senora Caravelle.
Well, let me tell you, she is fantastico! I am zo happee!

I have a new, better Italian class and a new, better hairstyle.
"Vive la difference!"

The Man has a randy look in his eye, a certain je ne sais quoi. Hmmmm.
It's probably his cataract acting up...however, he has mentioned that he likes
my new look, my new do, my "coiffeur..."

"C'est magnifique, mon conquette, mon croissant, mon crepe, mon leetle creme brulee."

He must be really hungry.