A study in contrasts

This is an unscientific estimate, but I am at least 20 years older in America than I am in Italy. Must be some crazy aging process that occurs on the transatlantic flight from Rome to the US. As if flying didn't suck enough already?

This, I mused, as I was recently standing in a bit of a daze in front of a gangly, acne-plagued teenage boy at the aptly-named Chicken Shack, a good-yet-fast food joint in the quintessentially American suburban midwest.

"Excuse me, Ma'am? Do you want roasted potatoes or french fries with that?"

Snap. Out of my reverie.

Ma'am?!?!

Okay, TECHNICALLY, I suppose I am of an age where I could have given birth to the young man standing in front of me. But... but ... but... (stammering)

Ma'am?!?! (in the South, I would have written it off; you're Ma'am at about 18 there. But ... the Midwest? There it's reserved for OLD PEOPLE. Like when boyscouts offer you their arm to cross the street, "ma'am? may I assist you? I'm getting my Eagle Scout designation ... ") Aaaack!

I mean, I had purposely not worn the floral muu-muu... and I'm still not sure what it is about the knee-high black CFM boots, fishnet stockings, a flippy skirt, sassy sunglasses and a denim jacket that says "ma'am"?

In Italy, I am one of the youngest people in our small hilltop town in that peculiar middle-age. Our town is strangely lacking in people in my category: young-ish adult, the strange single thirtysomethings: neither child nor breeder. And combining the locals with those who have chosen to retire in the area, we have more than our fair share of older and elderly folk: In a perfect caricature, the leathered, weathered and wizened town elders are all well upwards of 70, and all still tooling around regularly in the piazza, the oldest being somewhere close to 100, I'd guess.

In Italy, I'm widely regarded as a (somewhat sweet if slightly crazy) young thing. The locals at my favorite restaurant play games with me, deciding which among the 'eligible young men in town' ("young", meaning those under 70) would be suitable to set me up with. In Italy, I'm a "ragazza" -- meaning, girl. Better yet, I'm often "bella" ... as in, "Ciao, bella." Hello, beautiful.

And in America, I'm "ma'am".

Oh, geez. I'm the first to admit that life in America has its' advantages, but if I have to be "ma'am" to get them, is it worth it?

Let me think about that while I browse online for a walker from Amazon.com. I mean, it is obviously only a matter of time.

Give me liberty or give me death

(I'll take Famous Quotes for 100, Alex.)

"I'll give you nothing before I'll give you crap."

Okay, okay,... point taken, Elle. And you're just saying what others were thinking: Yes, Nine days is a little much. It's sweet that you've noticed. In fact, I've thought of you often, all you eager readers out in blogville, and I've even come into the dashboard a few times and started typing, but was wholly devoid of inspiration. And so, my philosophy of the moment was born:

"I'll give you nothing before I'll give you crap"

It seems to explain a whole lot about my life right now, well beyond blogging.
Do it right or don't do it.
Put your whole heart into it, or walk away.

So, every now and again, you're probably going to be getting nothing for a while. And you'll like it.
Because I said so, that's why.

I'm doing this for your own good.
No, life isn't fair.
This hurts me more than it hurts you.

Wow. Who knew this blogging thing would be so much like parenthood?

Best kitchen accessory ever:

A Tuscan man. (Close second: a microplane).

I'm not kidding.

Maybe it's just my circle of friends, but Tuscan men are incredibly handy in the kitchen. As a matter of fact, as much as I love to tinker around in the kitchen (and create mostly-edible things), I have no ego whatsoever when it comes to turning my kitchen over to any Tuscan man who walks through my door.

It's the great dichotomy of the mostly chauvinist, patriarchal society (where women are strangely absent, at least out in the countryside where I live): you'd THINK that men wouldn't even know how to boil water.

But in fact, it's the opposite.

Now, like everything else in Italian life, there are RULES about what goes together and how things are made. But some of the most delicious, unexpected meals of my short Italian life have been whipped up - mostly out of nothingness - by Tuscan men in my kitchen.

Witness the Split Personality, who arrived late one night unannounced and - after openly sneering and pronouncing the contents of my refrigerator "Un-Italian," - proceeded to throw together a mouth-melting pasta, zucchini and tomato and sausage.

Witness Sig. Luna Piena, who ... after two months of my house sitting empty, using the spartan resources of Mrs. Hubbard's cupboard, whipped up my 'welcome home' meal: a delicious cream/caper/pesto pasta that I still try to reproduce, to no avail.

The meals always differ, but there are a few common themes: Pasta. Much flailing of arms. A bit of wine. No measurements. Rapid chopping. Laughter. A little more formaggio. Me staying out of the way.

For all those of you who think I'm a control freak, you wouldn't recognize me with a Tuscan man in my kitchen. I'm the one sitting quietly and appreciatively in the corner with a glass of wine; knowing damn well that he's got it covered.

(sip.)

Oh, I could TOTALLY get used to this. Except I'd lay you good odds that if I became a Tuscan housewife, I'd pretty much be expected to learn all this and behave appropriately. Meaning, learn to cook ... the RIGHT way, according to the "rules".

Hmmmm. So the choice is: give up my control freak nature or learn to play by the rules? Heh. Seems to me that my seat here as the wine-sipping 'straniera' observer in the corner is QUITE comfy, thank you very much.

And I can always vaguely gesture towards the microplane hanging on the knife board if he needs it. I know my place.

Can you hear me?

I've been very musically inclined lately. The songs, all new, creep forth into my psyche from all angles ... a referral from a friend, from another writer, from Pandora. And most everything feels like a message coming clear out of the chaos.

These were the messages I needed to hear today. Perhaps you did, too?

"Some choices hold you down, some chances set you free.
Right outta nowhere
You open your heart and let go of everything.

You're going somewhere
And all you need to know is that you're free to go.

And you dream and the way will be clear,
Pray and the angels will hear,
Leap and the net will appear ...
Right outta nowhere."

"Growing stronger in broken places,
Growing wise where we were blind,
Finding love where amazing grace is,
Growing stronger in broken places.
In my darkest hour, like a frightened kid,
I won't be scared to fight to live."

Sometimes, our lives change abruptly, throwing us off a cliff. You didn't see it coming; right out of nowhere. Will you fly? Will something catch you, cushion your fall? Or will you break a little bit, but be stronger in those places on the other side?

Those changes are both uncomfortable and inevitable.
We must have faith the net is down there.

It is not ours to know, perhaps, where the path leads. Only that we must follow it. Our work in this life is to walk from yesterday to tomorrow, towards the possible, knowing that the thing called possible changes constantly. There is no rewind. And if the joy is the journey, not the destination, that limbo of not-knowing becomes an okay place to be. We resist the urge to fast forward, because that would be skipping the experience, and probably what we are supposed to learn while in it. And ultimately, each of us has our own paths; though we may travel alongside others for a time. Real living, real feelings, unspeakable pain, intense joy ... not the plastic facade ... are ugly at times, but worth fighting for. More than worth the fear, the anguish, the risk.

You know, I didn't always believe that.
I was very comfortable with that plastic facade for a long, long time.
No more.
Be. Real.
Live. Life.
Walk. Forward.
Find. Bliss.

"I thought I had seen everything in life there was to see, Then life came along proving me wrong, making a fool out of me. ... the truth of it is learning to live means letting go of your pride... and it's suddenly perfectly clear, when you view it from here."

And like persistent knocking on my brain, the messages keep coming.
"Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can," I respond, meekly and reflectively at first... and then bolder, with the confidence of a person of faith in what will be:
"and I'm LISTENING."

(Are you?)

Lights, camera...

We are full on into the beginning of Mushroom season here in my neck of the woods, and speaking of the woods ... my yard and surrounding forest is ripe and generous hunting ground, according to the locals.

Mmmmmmmmmmm. Funghi. Porcini, specifically. Like golden nuggets emanating from the floor of the forest. And for what they cost, they might actually be worth about the same per ounce as gold!

But worth every penny. Fried, sauteed, thinly sliced raw in a salad. A little taste of heaven dancing on your tongue.

Just a bit too timid to go off hunting on my own (for fear of, well... dying?!?!), I still buy my porcini from the local mushroom man (singing in my head each time, "do you know the mushroom man? the mushroom man, the mushroom man..."). But I remain intrigued by the hunters.

This morning, LB and Sue from Pooh Corner and I were sitting out breakfasting on the terrace when an attractive, middle-aged man in boots, a white shirt and grey-green/khaki vest came wandering through our forest, with a woven basket on his arm. I hollered out to him: "good day! Have you found anything?" Yes, he replied, 2 porcini. Aaah! Congratulations! And as he stood there at a distance, wishing us 'buon appetito,' framed in the archway of the stone steps and old oak trees, LB whispered, "I wish I had my camera!"

Despite the giant pain in the ass of some other aspects of life here in the Middle of Nowhere, there are moments that are simply precious.

Though for just a moment, I *did* feel kind of like we had wandered into Tuscan Countryside at Epcot: the land of contrived experiences. Aaaand.... "Cue the cute Mushroom Hunting Guy... Action!"

Vai...

This is Maxi, playing a stoic Goliath to the cricket's David, last year. You wouldn't recognize him anymore, except for the scars on his ear.

After nearly a month of nursing, and repeated trips to the (cute bad boy) vet, I knew without a doubt this week that we were at the end.

I had traded messages with The Diplomat & Renaissance Artist; "we have no other choices." In return, they left me a message telling me that I should put him to sleep, that they understood, that it was okay, that it was their decision. I could hear it in their voices: the absolution.

Putting down your own pet is unspeakably hard. Putting down someone else's is strangely harder, in some ways. Fewer memories but more pressure. They - thousands of miles away - were relying on my judgement.

Is it really that bad? (I asked myself).
Am I just not a pet person?
Am I not patient enough?
Will he somehow rally through this?

But when you know, you know.
And you swallow hard.
And you do what has to be done, even if it's not what you signed up for.

And tonight, I received an amazing gift.

Maxi died quietly, after a last nuzzle of my hand, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, on the way to the appointment with the vet.

I had learned the Italian word for "put to sleep," but didn't need to use it. When I arrived at the vet, he was already gone.

On his own terms.
In his own way; quietly telling me that I was right.
He couldn't do it anymore.

And so, with tears streaming down my face, I took him inside. Because we had come this far. Because I needed confirmation. Because... that was what we had set out to do, Maxi and I. He just held the trump card.

Observing his limpness, the doctor confirmed it: Lui gia e' morto. (He's already dead).

Go on your own terms.

It's what we all want.

And failing that, have someone who is willing to help.

Maxi: short for Massimiliano.
Maxi: stoic and quiet, reticent. Once he trusted you, he was a gentle, loyal, loving beast of a once-wild cat.

He wasn't mine.
And yet, is anything ever really "ours"?
He belonged to the house, to the land, to two men who loved him dearly.

To love is to eventually lose. And it's still worth it.
He'll be missed around these parts.

Vai, Maxi. Ti voglio bene.

An open letter

Dear World:

I know you're busy and all, but I'd like to ask a favor. Please, just for a moment, would you be able to stop spinning?

You see, it seems to me that I lost about 3 and a half weeks somewhere along the way, and I've never quite recovered. And so while you keep spinning, little ole' me stays perpetually about that far behind.

And I know I'm not the only one. 'Overwhelm' is one of the great hidden diseases plaguing our society. It creates tension and stress and general not-niceness. I've gotta say, (on behalf of all of us living here on your surface thusly plagued), that "feeling behind" - particularly irretriveably so - sucks giant hairy donkey balls, to coin a phrase.

As if it's not enough for you to have the gall to keep the sun rising and setting each day, you also seem to think it's fun to keep throwing curve balls at me:

Mysterious vicious insect bites.
Continuing visa problems.
Broken head gasket & radiator in the car.
No electricity.
Woman stealing my fennel.
A leak in my irrigation system.
No wood yet for winter.
An italian man who won't stop calling me.
Wild Boar rampage in the garden.
Dead WeedWhacker.
Shattered car window.
Hatchling fly infestation in the house.
A chance at true love, perfect and unexpected ... but complicated.
V.C.E.R.: Very Crappy Exchange Rate.
Mysterious & Unfixable phone problems.
Friends too far away to give me a hug.
A sink that won't stop leaking.
Broken computer AND printer.
A dying cat that I just can't help.

As if the curve balls weren't enough, there are still all the regular pitches that just keep coming:

That pesky 40-hour a week job that mysteriously has always sucked up between 60 and 80, even from this distance.
Except that at *this* distance, that's an invisible reality to the powers that be.
14 *@&%#$ tenses of verbs that I feel I'll never master.
The uncomfortable feeling of constantly counting on the kindness of strangers.
Interesting opportunities I don't quite know what to do with.
The perennial question of what's next.
Stacks of receipts, business cards, bills to be paid/filed/reimbursed.
Exercise that my body is begging to do before it becomes complete jello.
Neighbors who don't understand that I actually have to work for a living.
3 1/2 solid weeks of guests visiting.
Hours of time that vanish in great chunks into the void labeled: "deal with the airlines on the telephone."

Ya know what, World? Methinks I'm getting a little tired of being your catcher's mitt. But I'm also thinkin' ... maybe we're co-dependent here? I mean, I do keep doing it. You throw the curves; I catch and juggle the best I can, which - if I may say so myself, is pretty damn well. And maybe that's why you keep throwing. When I decide to stop catching, does the game change?

But it seems to me that rather than waiting for you to stop spinning and pitching, I might be well-served to just re-evaluate my priorities. Maybe it's not the constant catching that's killing me as much as the fact that I feel like I haven't had a chance to really hit one out of the park in a while. Maybe it's time for me to decide what I will stop catching, so I have time to step up to the plate and start swinging.

And then again ... maybe, just maybe, me running to catch whatever you're throwing at me puts me on the path I'm supposed to be on.

Hmmmmm, now there's a thought.

Serendipity. Synchronicity. Sovereignty.
Things that are supposed to happen, the timing of them, and the power to make choices.

And a little bit of decespugliatore. (weed whacker)

Okay, I'll give... Maybe it all does make a little bit of sense.

(Deep breath. Batter Up!)

But if you could just stop the spinning for a few weeks, that would work too.

Love, she-who-is-dizzy-from-the-spinning, but is on deck anyway, ready to take a swing.