Mortified!

I've got to write this while my
mortification is still fresh.

Okay. So, this morning I screwed
the top on the moka coffee maker
and, at the same time, completely
screwed up my back. I don't know
what happened physiologically,
but I do know that I'm unable to
stand upright. Luckily, my sitting
muscles are unaffected.

Okay. So, I'm just sitting, minding
my own business waiting for the
muscle relaxant to take effect,
planning our trip south to our favorite place on the seashore when I realize that
The Man is outside our door talking to some people. Who? I don't know.
He's just out there. Little Miss Busy-Body. Chattering away.

I'm thinking, "If he brings anyone in here I'll stab him with a pencil and at the trial
when I tell the jury what happened they'll let me off because everybody knows that
you don't bring uninvited strangers into the apartment of a woman with back spasms,
hot flashes and dirty hair.

Suddenly, without any warning AT ALL, he opens the door and says cheerily to me,
"Guess who's here? It's the Proprietaria (the owner) of our building and her son!"
Then, (and, I'm not kidding here!) HE INVITES THEM INTO OUR APARTMENT
WHICH IS A COMPLETE MESS AND LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING RECENTLY
RAIDED BY A BLACK BEAR WITH A BINGE EATING DISORDER BECAUSE MY
BACK IS IN A SPASM AND I HAVEN'T CLEANED UP ANYTHING OR WASHED
THE BREAKFAST DISHES, OR PUT AWAY MY OLD RATTY SWEATER THAT
IS HANGING ON THE BACK OF THE CHAIR, OR VACUUMED THE CARPET
WHICH HAS A WEEK'S WORTH OF CRUD ON IT, OR THROWN AWAY THE
HALF-EATEN APPLE AND EMPTY WINE BOTTLE ON THE COUNTER, OR PUT
AWAY THE SUITCASE THAT'S SITTING OUT ON THE SOFA, UNZIPPED
WITH A WHITE PLASTIC BAG HANGING OUT OF IT, AND TWO ODD-SHAPED
CARTONS OF STUFF I'M SHIPPING BACK TO THE STATES AND A BIG BALL
OF BUBBLE-WRAP PACKING MATERIAL LYING ON THE FLOOR AGAINST
THE WALL, AND WHY OH WHY ARE THE MAN'S CROCS STICKING OUT OF A
CERAMIC PLANTER?...oh, I'm hyperventilating!

It was absolutely mortifying and I had no place to hide. I just sat there, frozen, my
brain screaming "THIS IS BAD! THIS IS REALLY BAD!! DO SOMETHING!!!"

But, what could I do? I couldn't get up. Otherwise I would have fled the building,
so great was my shame.

Now I know how my mother felt when she'd have her bridge ladies over and they'd
mistakenly enter my bedroom while searching for the bathroom and discover my
den of filth and chaos. My mother used to have fits about my room. I forget all the
things she threatened to do if I didn't get in there and clean it up.

Well, Mom, you'll probably be somewhat pleased to learn that I finally got my just
desserts. Call it karma, universal justice or the hand of God, but today within the
blink of an eye, I was tried, convicted and sentenced for all my past, sloppy domestic
transgressions.

But, BUT the thing is I'm NOT a total slob...under normal conditions! I'm really
pretty good at keeping things neat and mostly clean and orderly.

But, today...today! Oh, the agony! The disgrace!

Can you feel my pain?

I almost cried. That's how bad it was. I actually had to fight the formation of tears in
my eyes! And, all the while, The Man is standing there TOTALLY CLUELESS, laughing
and talking away, having a good ol' time with these people...the owner of our building!...
"The Senora!" Who I'd NEVER met before because The Man always pays the rent by
wire or goes to her house. All the tenants go to her to pay the rent. This is the first time
in ten years that she has deigned to set foot in this crumbly old building, and it had to
be today and my back had to go out and I had to be sitting there in my most ragamuffin
clothes and I wasn't even wearing a bra...another punch to my solar-humiliated-plexus.

What's really weird is that after they all left (finally, thank God!) I got up out of my sick
chair and started cleaning. I put everything away, did the dishes, ate the half apple, all
in about five minutes. It's like I thought they were coming back or something.

And, in my distress, I forgot to remember that my back hurt. I actually started feeling
physically better.

Mentally, though, I remain a basket case.

Musical Treat

A phenomenal performance by Buddy Greene in Carnegie Hall.

Enjoy!


(I stole this link from janebretl.com)

For Italian Wannabees

We aren't particular enough in the United States.

If, say, you're sitting in an eatery enjoying your deep fried peeps and you see some
green-skinned, antenna-headed martian walk in and ask for deep fried peeps with
ketchup, you just shrug and think, "must be from California....hmmm...ketchup...
I think I'll try me someadat!"

Americans are open to new ideas and willing to try new things...I'm thinking jello
shots and bungee jumping here.

But, in ITville, IT's an entirely different story.

Italians like things just the way they are, the way things have been for the last
seven hundred generations (with the exception of the automobile and the cell-
phone...oh, and naked dancing girls on television), so don't even think about
offering suggestions on improving trash collection or describing the beauty of
the catalytic converter unless you have an insane desire for ridicule. This is
NOT the land of entrepreneurial thinking.

Italians are often snooty and sometimes kind of sneaky. They like to know exactly
who (or what!) they're sitting next to. So, they have devised subtle booby-traps over
the centuries, specific social mores, cultural codes that are designed to expose any
impersonators, any charlatans, any ketchup-loving Californians among them.

Obviously, purple Crocs with the little trendy charms attached are a dead giveaway.

No, I'm talking about much more insidious methods to find you out, you faker!

The following list represents a decade's worth of research. Try not to get confused. I do.

How to infiltrate a group of Italians and not look like a complete dolt.

1. Wear black. Italians always dress like extras in a funeral commercial. If you
show up in the piazza wearing white polyester pants and a pink qiana shirt expect
to be surrounded. They'll think you're a circus acrobat and they'll demand you
perform tricks. Do your best and don't fret. (To their credit, Italians will tolerate
the absolute worst and most meaningless street entertainment, like this and this
and this.

2. Don't order a cappuccino after 11:00 a.m. If you do, they'll regard you with
quizzical disdain, like you just ran outside and rolled in a pile of fresh cow manure.
It's considered udderly (sic!) disgusting to consume a milk product after a meal.
Just order an espresso and suffer. (For those of you who have been here and
enjoyed cappuccinos after a meal...well...you may as well know now...they were
watching and they were laughing at you behind your back.)

3. Remember that the salad comes at the END of the meal, not at the beginning
or during. Don't look for some big plastic bottle of Kraft's Creamy Poppyseed
Salad Dressing, either. Use the olive oil and maybe a bit of salt and pepper.

4. NEVER request parmigiano (that's parmesan's REAL name) or any other
cheese to sprinkle on any pasta dish that contains seafood. If you do, your
waiter will develop an uncontrollable eye twitch and fellow diners will snort
their mineral water. Cretin!

5. Avoid attempting to form a line. Line forming indicates that you are an anal
retentive Anglo Saxon. Just stand in that tangled mass of human chaos and
whimper, then charge the turnstile...or ticket window...or bus door when it
opens. This rule applies to driving, too. Those white lines on the road are merely
suggestions. No one takes them seriously, nor should you.

6. Never ever be intimidated by anyone, especially those in exalted positions of
power, like a policeman, a doctor or a lawyer or the Prime Minister...ESPECIALLY
the Prime Minister! And, never, EVER say you're sorry! Instead, say, "It wasn't
my fault!"

7. When you meet up with a friend you must shake hands and do the double kiss.
Woman, man, it doesn't matter. Everybody does the kiss - kiss on the cheeks. But,
make sure you go left, right; that is, you lean in with your left cheek first, then you
offer your right cheek. Practice this until you get it right because if you offer your
right cheek first all hell will break loose! (I know this from personal experience,
but "It wasn't my fault!")

8. Don't say "Buon Giorno" (good day) after 2:00 p.m., say "Buona Sera" (good
evening) and keep saying "Buona Sera" until just before you go to bed, at which
time you finally say "Buona Notte" (good night). This means that after an evening
out with friends, you depart by saying "Buona Sera." But, if those same friends
are sitting in your living room unwilling to leave your house, then you can walk in
wearing your pajamas and tell them, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.
BUONA NOTTE!"

9. On pain of death, never, EVER smugly suggest that "calcio" (soccer) is a game
for wimps and whiners. They will eat you alive...literally, but in a wonderful
tomato sauce infused with olive oil, garlic and peperoncino. (What do you think
tripe is?) In fact, if there's one thing that has lowered the Italian opinion of America,
it's American football. A bunch of enormous, strangely dressed (think about it),
mono-syllabic troglodytes crushing each others' guts out is the essence of crude
and unrefined behavior. Unless, of course, you're an enormous, strangely dressed,
mono-syllabic troglodyte who happens to be dating an Italian model or showgirl.
Then, you're okay, paesano.

10. Hold the mayo! Try to keep in check your insatiable desire for mayonnaise.
If you like it so much, go to France. Just today I mentioned to a Roman friend that
we were having panini with prosciutto for lunch. She was curious about how we
made our sandwiches. I replied that we ate them simply, with just a little mayonnaise.
You'd have thought I'd suggested we all jump naked into the nearby fountain. She
stopped in her tracks, put her hand on her heart and sputtered, "Mah, no!" I looked
warily about me thinking she must have misunderstood me. "It's a panino," I assured
her. But, she just stood there staring at me like maybe I was a New England Patriot or
something. She kept repeating, "No, no, no. You NEVER put mayonnaise on prosciutto.
Never!!!

Which illustrates exactly what I was trying to explain at the beginning of this post.

We just aren't particular enough. We're too easy. And, it's hard being easy.

So, pass the ketchup.

Number Two

I haven't posted any blogs for awhile. I've written several, but they were so full
of venomous angst I decided not to put them out there. The world has enough
bad stuff in it, why add more. Plus, I was depressed.

I get that way. I just slide down into a dark hole where everything looks bleak
and useless and sad. While in this place I try to talk myself out of it. I get mad at
it. I make myself go out and try to "walk it off." But, it doesn't go away. It sticks
like bubblegum to shoebottom*.

I've read a lot about what supposedly causes chronic depression, things like
genetics, not enough serotonin, not enough exercise, too much stress, too
much alcohol, coffee, and chocolate.

But, the other day The Man
(who is annoyingly happy and
content, like Steamboat Willy
driving his little boat down the
river, whistling a happy tune)
turned on a radio program and
they were talking about Numerology.

Oh boy! I'm saved! Like astrology,
Numerology describes various
characteristics that a person is born
with, depending on the birth date
and name given. It's "fate-based." You get your number the minute you come out of the chute
and that's it. You can't change it. You're stuck. Doomed forever. Ad infinitum.

Anyway, I started figuring out my numbers and reading up on my characteristics.
The findings were startling.

I'm a Number Two. Well, actually, I'm an Eleven, which is a master number, which
means that I'm really a Two, but in a heightened sense. I'm full of Number Two.

Now, Number Two's have good traits like: kind, humble, sensitive, helpful, etc. All
pretty mundane qualities. But, my bad traits are the real winners: timidity, fear, low
self esteem, lack of self confidence, and DEPRESSION.

So, at last, I know why I suffer from this debilitating syndrome. It's because I'm
nothing but a little piece of Number Two!

Whew! What a relief! Pass the chocolate!

Now, The Man is a Three.

In fact, three of his core numbers are three's: his "life path," his "soul urge," and his
"personality." He is 3 to the third power. A threefer.

The characteristics of a three are: creative, socially active, artistic, very positive
and optimistic, playful, happy and fun-loving, inspirational, imaginative, motivating,
enthusiastic and uplifting, great verbal skills, a talent for self expression, a great
communicator, you enjoy life and you don't take things too seriously.

Career choices include: Entertainer, writer, actor, musician, poet.

In short, he's an adorable angel with little wings and a halo making the world smile,
content with life having achieved his heart's desire.

I mean, gag me.

I, on the other hand, am like
a doomed salmon swimming
upstream, struggling every
inch of the way en route to
the promised land, only to
end up flying smack dab into
the mouth of a stinky grizzly
bear filmed live for some
National Geographic
documentary.

I mean, bite me.

It's like the fortune cookies. The Man opens a cookie and it invariably says something
like, "You are so awesome!" and "The God of Fortune is smiling down down upon your
head" and "If you were the weather, every day would be 72 degrees and sunny."

I open my cookie to find "Cheer up, you grouch!" and "You eat too much and your
nose is too big!" "Be nice to your husband for a change."

I'm not kidding. He always gets the good fortune. I get insults. Every time.

The world is made up of a myriad of elements, but FAIRNESS is certainly not
one of them.

Therefore, this old salmon is doomed to eternally swim up Number Two creek
without a paddle.







*Another good cat name to add to my list: "Shoebottom"
It's got a Shakespearean ring to it. Someday, when they find me dead in my
trailer with 65 cats, they're gonna say, "Wow! She sure could name a cat!"

Montecalvello Day Trip

After two months of bliss we decided to give up the absolute best parking space
in the center of Rome.

This was a big deal. To have a parking place that is positioned in such a way as
to preclude sideswiping, mirror breaking, scratching, denting,graffiti spraying
and outright stealing is something to regard with awe and reverence, especially
because it's highly unlikely we'll EVER get that parking space AGAIN! So, as we
drove away from this hallowed piece of ground The Man turned around in his
seat and waved goodbye saying, "Farewell good little parking spot. We'll
remember you well."

It was kind of a weepy moment.

Then, off we bumbled in our little car, into the northern countryside of the
Umbrian hills where we ended up in this small village called Montecalvello,
which boasts a population of 84 citizens. But, what they lack in citizenry, they
make up for in Castlery.

The Castello di Montecalvello dates
from 774-776, a time when guys like
Charlemagne were running around
conquering the known world and
women stayed inside near the fire
because everything was freezing,
not to mention filthy...oh, and for a
good time they all went to church to
gaze at the psychedelic stained glass
windows, the equivalent of today's 3D,
unless, of course, you were a peasant
which is an entirely different depressing
story.

The Castello was enhanced over the
following centuries, and changed hands
frequently, depending on which way the political winds blew.

Balthasar Klossowski (aka Balthus), an artist of some renown, bought the place
in the 1970's and restored much of the castle. Today it is owned by his son who
graciously allows visitors to roam about the grounds. (Actually, I'm only assuming
he's gracious about it. I mean, I really don't know. Maybe he hates people walking
around on his property and stands inside, under the ancient, frescoed ceilings
screaming epithets at the bumpkins below. However, I can say that on the day we
were there, I heard no screaming.)

In this photo of the entrance
you'll notice the circular red
sign with the white horizontal
slash. This sign totally spoils
the view, and is, unfortunately,
typical Italian signage. In this
case, the sign is posted to keep
people from driving their cars
onto the castle grounds.I mean,
you'd have to be a complete
nullard to think that driving your
car through that ancient gateway
would be an okay thing to do. But, evidently, there is a nullard surplus in the area (Oh, I'm
so shocked!) that the castle owner had to put up a sign. Too bad.

In the middle ages when this castle was in the hands of the Monaldeschi clan (who
were NOT known for their diplomatic skills) they would have captured the errant
driver, impaled him on a spike and stuck him on the ramparts, leaving him there
to rot in the breeze as a warning to all future dumbbells.

Impaling. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

I guess it's where the expression "I get your point!" came from.

Anyway, here's a short slide show of Il Castello Di Montecalvello

Bambi Bytes

I've been thinking lately about when Bambi's mother died.

I don't think I'm over it.

I mean, I remember where I was when I read about it and everything. I was
in the library of Harbor City Junior College with my older sister and some of
her friends. I was nine years old and sitting there at a wide, wooden desk
doing really well, quietly reading, acting like a big person instead of a dorky kid.

But, then it happened. They were out there in the meadow eating the new spring
grass when suddenly Bambi's mother says, "Run!" Bambi runs like mad and then
starts looking everywhere for his mother but can't find her. That's when The Old
Prince of The Forest shows up and says "Your Mother can't be with you anymore."

"Come...my son." said the stag.

WAAAH!

I let out a wail. My inner dam burst and everything within a three mile radius was
destroyed. Water was going everywhere. My sister and her friends were all washed
away down the hallway out the door, grappling with bobbing books, pencils and erasers.
The head librarian was shouting "Silence!" as she careened by, engulfed in the raging
torrent of my tears.

It was emotion at its most unstoppable.

Then, my sister was back, kicking me under the table, telling me to knock it off! She
and her friends were staring at me like I was some kind of fungus or something.

I buried my puffy, slobbery face in the book and continued sobbing. They may have
gotten their driver's licenses but they had obviously never read BAMBI!!

Okay. Fast forward 44 years and here I am still upset about Bambi's mother.

Her death was so sudden and unfair and rotten and sad.

Bambi stands alone at the top of the pinnacle of writing that affected me most
emotionally. And, I'm thinking it really screwed me up as a person because it
made me an anthropomorphic nutcase, the kind of weirdo who looks at
icanhascheezburger.com and thinks it's high humor.

I think Bambi should come with a warning message to all parents that their
children could potentially become mentally warped for life, and even in late
adulthood will still cry hysterically every time they see a dead squirrel on the
road, they will hate hunters and zoos, and in extreme cases they might even
join Greenpeace and start ramming Japanese whaling boats.

So, that's my tirade for today. Now I'm going to go contemplate the great
Thumperian philosophy of "If you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all."

Dueling Parking

So the other day I'm loitering on some street of Rome. The Man is inside a
pizza-by-the-slice joint and it's packed with locals grabbing a bite for lunch.

I'm outside because I'm just getting over the worst flu on the planet and I've
decided that I will never eat another bite of food as long as I live.

So, I'm just standin' out there drinking a bottle of water trying not to smell
the pizza when I see this taxi pull up and start to do a "double parking-parallel
park" which is a common phenomenon that occurs because the regular parking
spaces were filled with cars...oh, in like the Pleistocene era, or something, so new
arrivals have to double park alongside the existing cars. It's sorta like layering.

Anyway, this taxi pulls up and starts to parallel park his car because he's hungry
and wants some pizza. This is important...and will probably be introduced as
evidence at the trial...but, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Fact You Can Take To Your Grave: Romans CANNOT parallel park and that's
probably why they lost the empire!

I've stood and watched in amazement as Romans attempted to accomplish the
act of parallel parking many times. It is so embarrassing. It's like when you
happen to see your cat fall off the sofa and the cat looks at you with that hey-
I-meant-to-do-that look on it's face. Well, that's the way Romans are about
parallel parking. Only better.

For example, I recently watched this Roman woman pull up to a large, vacant
parking space. She pulled alongside it, pulled a bit forward and started to back in.
Everything looked so normal and was going so well. Her angle of approach was
actually pretty good, but then, I guess, she lost interest or fell into a coma or
something because she forgot to turn the wheel and ease into the spot. Instead,
she just plowed into the curb at a diagonal angle. Then, she pulled forward.
Then, she backed up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed
up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed up and hit the curb.
You get the picture? It just kept going on and on and on till you wanted to slap her.

I happen to be an award winning parallel parker. I can park a 6 foot car in a 5 foot
11 inch parking space IN ONE TRY! Not that I'm bragging or anything, but I'm
really good at it. It's an idiot savant thing.

Anyway, I'm watching this parking atrocity and I'm absolutely disgusted with this
woman. She seemed to think that if she just went back and forth enough times, the
Earth would go into some kind of a reverse continental shift and, like South America
settling back into the embrace of the western coast of Africa, her car would somehow
find it's way to the curb!

The Man heard me mutter, "My God Woman! Just park the damn thing!" He
restrained me from going over there, grabbing her by the throat, yanking her
out of the car and doing it myself!

Anyway, they can't park. Now, back to the present in front of the pizza joint:

I'm watching this guy and he's backing up. He's doing well, but then I observe
the other double-parallel parked car behind him. Then, I'm standing there...
on the sidewalk...alone...saying out loud...in English..."He's going to hit him! He's going
to hit him! He's going to hit him! He's going to..." BLAM!

He hit him, all right. You could hear the "crack" of the plastic front bumper on the
big, black BMW.

Now what's really odd, is that nothing happened immediately. It was very quiet
and no one moved. Time stood still.

Then, I saw that inside the black BMW, sitting right there behind the wheel, was
the BMW owner. He was just sitting there. He had his head back against the head
rest and he was just waiting...calmly.

The taxi driver finished his semblance of parking and exited his car. He walked back
to the BMW driver, who still hadn't moved, and started talking to him. The taxi driver
was lighthearted and seemed to be joking around and ended by saying "sta bene...spero."
It's fine...I hope. I liked that "I hope" part.

All the while, and I'm not kidding, the BMW driver does not say a word and does not
lift his head from the headrest. He's so cool. He just looks at the guy with a dead pan
face and makes a gesture that I cannot describe but which was so completely Italian
and which was like saying, "wha'." I mean, Robert Di Niro had nothing on this guy!

The end of the story is that the taxi driver goes into the pizza joint and gets his lunch,
but the guy in the BMW just sits there. HE NEVER GOT OUT OF HIS CAR TO LOOK
FOR THE MIGHTY CRACK THAT I'M SURE WAS THERE BECAUSE I HEARD IT
AND SO DID EVERYBODY ELSE WITHIN A THREE MILE RADIUS!

It was great. That guy in the BMW just sat there like he was the King of the Planet,
like he had a fleet of BMW's back at the castle, like he didn't have the time or energy
to deal with a taxi driving piece of riff raff who had just cracked his bumper.

I tried to imagine what would've happened if this had occurred in the U.S. There would
have been people and identification flying in every direction, driver's licenses, proofs of
insurance, police reports, birth certificates of the first born, whatever, threats, curses, etc.

It's a different world here, though.

But, here's a tip. If some Roman ever walks up to you, slaps you in the face with a
glove and challenges you to a duel, when he asks you your choice of weapon, just say,
"Parallel parking, my good Sir, parallel parking." Then watch his eyes go dead and the
beads of sweat start to form on his brow.

Ah Ha! You'll have won the duel before you started.