Mmmmm, it must be ... eau de fume

My brand new blackberry/cellphone had a meltdown last week. Though I do generally have a bad aura with all things electrical, 40 days from out of the box to totally dysfunctional is a new record. It MUST have been defective from the start (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)

So I packed it, lovingly, up into a small box, nestled with a bunch of styrofoam wrap, and send it back to HQ at ye-ole-day-job, via FedEx ('when it absolutely, positively, has to be there... in four days, we hope.'), into the hands of my emminently useful tech dude, who we call Doc.

Doc instant-messaged me upon its arrival, to say that when he opened the box, it smelled "all smoky and rustic... "

At which point I realized that either he's got the nose of a bloodhound or ... EVERYTHING I OWN (which isn't a whole lot) smells like I just came home from the Girl Scout Jamboree. This is the danger of the giant fireplace that's used not just for ambiance, but for actual heat. I suppose here, everyone is kind of immune ... every house has an open fireplace or two, burning from dawn 'til well past dusk every day. But if after 4 days in transit, 2 little pieces of styrofoam were still so pungent, then I'm sure every piece of clothing I own has been completely permeated.

On the long list of qualities that Mr. Right should have: I clearly need to add "gets turned on by the smell of campfires."

Best firestarter EVER

The waxy paper wrapping from the six giant hunks of butter you used to make holiday shortbread for all your friends in town.

I'm just saying: Try it. One at a time, though, if you think eyebrows will be as hip and in-fashion in 2007 as they were in 2006.

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.

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.

Splits and Ends

We've been together for thirteen years, Mark and I. We've been through two marriages, one divorce, countless moves, and the birth of four children.

I nearly cheated on him, precisely two years ago this week, in London - because UBlend dared me to. But the stakes were too high, back then.

But now we've been in a long-distance relationship for a year and a half, me constantly juggling my schedule to connect with him when I'm in the States. We last saw each other in June. There's something perfectly comfortable about our relationship - he's seen me at my worst, and at my most polished. He always makes me feel good about myself, but ... you know, the long distance thing hardly ever works.

As much as I didn't want to accept it, life does move on. People change. Lives change. And I looked hard at myself in the mirror last week and realized that I just couldn't go on any longer like this. A girl has certain, ahem, needs.

And so, I braced myself for the misery of finding someone new. I've heard terrible horror stories. The awkwardness of it all. How now I would be in that uncomfortable position of having to explain things to someone, in a language I'm not fluent in, that Mark always just ... knew, without asking. We had our own comfortable rhythm, a predictable banter borne of years of shared experiences.

Sometimes, life surprises you. You brace yourself for the worst, and every now and again, something amazingly magical happens. You find exactly what you were looking for, precisely where you'd least expect it: your very own tiny hilltop town in Italy. And today, as much as I really, really do miss him, tonight I am seriously grooving on my new amazingly sassy haircut and color, courtesy of the New Girl. The one who I looked at in a panic, when I didn't know quite how to explain what I expected from my color/highlights experience, and I simply said ... "I have complete trust in you, I am in your hands."

Three hours later, walking across the piazza just before lunch today, I got THREE compliments on my new 'do. And one very suggestive look up-and-down. Oh! I had forgotten what it feels like to LOVE my hair, it's been ... months... a dry spell, of sorts. Oh, the sheer, unbridled JOY!


Considering how fragile I've been feeling lately, there are not words sufficient to describe my palpable relief. Because I honestly don't think I could have taken the deflated self-image that comes from a hair tragedy, or - worse - a bad string of rebound hairdresser relationships, chairhopping through the Tuscan countryside.

And Mark and me? Oh, I know it's a cliche, but we'll still be friends. I'm sure we'll get together every time I'm back in town, old habits die hard. And maybe I'm just justifying it, but I daresay he'd even LIKE her.



PS: Are you in DC? Hating your hair? Go see Mark, PR@Partners in Tenleytown on Wisconsin Ave. Tell him that his favorite Italian resident sent you, and she misses him but she's gonna make it after all. ;>

You didn't ask, but,

I'm the first to admit that my 'type' is usually* the clean-cut boy. (UBlend always teases me that he can spot my most-likely guy in a crowd when we're out together). It's the well-groomed, college-professor (usually bespectacled) type. It always has been. Without exception, all of my broken hearts have come from men who fit just that description. (*Well, except Johnny Depp, of course. But he's sort of enigmatic; simultaneously all types and none.)

But, especially here in Italy, I do have to concede that there's something, a certain je ne sais quoi about the slightly scruffy, brooding, motorcycle riding, longish and wild curly haired guy.

I just returned from the third trip to the vet this week (gravely sick farm cat). And he (the vet not the cat), coming in from the rain, shook off his wavy jet black hair and pulled it haphazardly back into a ponytail.

It does violate one of my major rules about men (he can't have prettier hair than me), but ... damn.

I'm just saying.