Friday, July 13, 2012

CDs, splinters, and velcro: Oh My!

My eyelids just won't open the entire way today. I think their muscles are too tired after I tried to cram a months worth of being unable to go to the gym into a half hour yesterday. I also suspect I have a splinter in my elbow from moving 72 boxes of CDs (which will undoubtedly be thrown out in a year, not unlike the 56 cases of cassette tapes we had been storing in our basement. I don't even know the last time we owned a device in which one could play a cassette tape.); and a wooden ladder into the storage unit. I think the splinter might be from the ladder. Or it may be a spider bite from all the spiders that hover around our possessions.

Or my eyelids could be heavy because of all the online shopping I've been doing in my bid to obtain a carry-on bag that can hold two laptops, three cameras,and a variety of camera lenses. Plus all the other stuff like passports and visas and socks, blankets, neck pillows, eye masks, i-pods, iphones, and a white noise machine (all of which are needed to sleep on the plane. Except the iPhone.) So far I have  accumulated three Zappos boxes that are larger than my washing machine and need to be returned. This will take three trips to UPS because I can only fit one box at a time in my car. I have to keep returning all these bags because somewhere located on each and every one, is velcro. I hate velcro. I have ruined many clothes and coats because they have been snagged on velcro. Aren't we done with velcro yet? It seems like it should be really antiquated at this point, like I should have a hard time explaining what it is to my son. Like when he wanted to call someone on my iPhone and I handed him the receiver I use and he was all, "What is this?" and held it sideways and upside down.

However, probably I am just tired because I tried to stay awake to watch Louie because OnDemand is useless at having shows that are watchable and I fell asleep on the couch with braids wrapped around my head because I was trying to look all fashionista and my hair weighs about 7 pounds and my neck was sighing and wishing it didn't have to support a hairstyle that would be better suited to someone who was 23.

So the lease was for real signed on an apartment in Rome yesterday, a mere ten minute walk to the Coliseum (which as we all know is totally the property of the mafia--those guys dressed as gladiators/Roman soldiers/chariot drivers or whatever  they are supposed to be that you can pay to get a picture with? Mafia.) so the area should be fairly safe. Apparently there was more paperwork involved in this rental than selling/buying a house and FOUR months rent upfront plus the agent's fee. Additionally, the owner wanted to see pictures of me and our son. Mike thinks it was just to be polite, but I think it was to make sure he wasn't being all American at Senior Week and trying to house 17 people in a hotel room when you have paid for only two and you spend the entire week climbing in and out a window when the desk clerk isn't looking.

Anyway, Mike and I are both 100%, non-genetically modified third generation Italians on our fathers' side. Mike, however, is tall and looks very not Italian. I may look very very vaguely Italian, but in Italy, the only time I am addressed in Italian and not English is when it is 102 degrees and I'm wearing long pants. And I'm pretty sure that has more to do with the fact that no one but Italians wear long pants and scarves when it is 102 degrees than with my genes. And when I'm in France. For some reason, the French think I'm Italian and sniffling speak to me in Italian. But that could be because they can't bring themselves to acknowledge an American.

The landlord immediately decided I was a-from-Italy-Italian who was currently living in America. And  thought that our son--who is an absolute Mike clone and not one person has ever thought resembled me in the slightest---looked nothing like Mike but was the spitting image of me. I thought this was very nice (why is it so flattering when someone thinks your offspring looks like you? Sheer ego?) until Mike informed me that with my Italian(?) look and very vowel-filled Italian last name, everyone will fully expect me to speak Italian and will grill me as to what's wrong with me when they discover I do not.

Coffee has kicked-in. Eyelids are as open as they are going to get today. Time to try and find the splinter in my elbow and practice saying, "I don't speak Italian; am ignorant American."

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