May I have a word with you?

I don't realize that I've been missing words until they pop up again. The other day I heard a big brother (an ex-student) call his little brother (a current student) a clown. "You're a real clown," he said. And I smiled more about his word choice than the fact that the little brother and I had just played a good trick on the big one.

There are also words I miss because I refuse to use them. Words like 'chat'. It was probably archaic when I used it, but I liked it. Thanks for the chat, let's chat soon and there's nothing like a good chat all referred to real conversations. Many current users probably have no idea that you can chat in person. If I accidently use the word, they think I'm involved in an internet relationship.

I've lived in Italy so long that my vocabulary lacks lots of the latest lingo. I pick up a few words from my cool students that learn them on Instagram and Netflix. They're easy to memorize, but I'm never sure how to throw OG (old gangster) into a sentence. And the other day when I accepted a student's invitation with, 'I'm in' he corrected me with 'I'm down'. I used to say 'I'm down with that' in the 90s; 'I'm down' must be the new abbreviation. But now that I think about it, after saying 'I'm in' it's probably the perfect time to add, 'I use that term because I'm OG.'

Sometimes English words pop up Italianized. Years ago there was lots of talk about 'the Joe Backed'. I always wondered who Joe was and I didn't understand why he deserved an article in front of his name. I finally asked and here's the reply. "You don't know WHAT the Joe Backed is?" (That should have been my first clue, WHAT instead of WHO.) He continued, "I throw an American term in an Italian sentence and that's the only word you don't understand?" When he said that politicians say it every day I realized that 'the Joe Backed' was the Italian pronunciation of 'the Job Act'.

The other day someone referred to their 'coperta di LEE-noose'. That's not the right spelling but I wanted you to hear how it's pronounced. Coperta is blanket. Lino (pronounced LEE-no) is linen. I thought they were talking about a linen blanket. Weeks later I saw it written. The coperta di Linus is Linus' blanket, aka security blanket. I'm afraid my mini-Oxford Dictionary isn't the Linus' blanket it used to be. I'm sure I wouldn't have found that if I'd looked under 'L'.

I've been told by American friends that I suffer from the 'FOMO'. I don't think that's how to use it in a sentence, but I know it means 'fear of missing out.' I don't know if you suffer from the 'FOMO' or if you are a 'FOMO'. But that sounds like 'MOFO', which I've yet to understand why it's not 'MOFU' since that's the correct abbreviation of THOSE two words.

It's time to stop clowning around and get back to serious things like stoking fires; in the water heater for hot water, in the fireplace for a warm livingroom and in the stove to cook my dinner. And even though those are the most important events of the day at the mountain house, I don't (often) suffer from the FOMO. It's a place where I feel like a tough MOFO and a real OG.

 

That Little Extra Something

It's Christmas cookie season. I didn't get a lot of cookies as gifts in the States, but in Italy with a few friends and students it's become a tradition. As a true cookie connoisseur (one who appreciates lots of butter and sugar) I can't say I'm terribly excited about the cookies I'm given. It's the packaging that interests me. Some come on a shiny, gold, cardboard tray wrapped in cellophane. Others come in tiny, clear bags tied with jute and have a little tag with the ingredients.

One of my favorite packages is from a lady that lives on the island. She has six kids. They're all married (that makes 12) and they all have kids (I think they're up to 29). Yet, year after year she finds time to deliver what I call dry, butterless hearts, stars and braids (an Italian tradition loved by Italians). For me the best part is the little brown bag with a strip of gold tinsel stapled to the top. There's always a note attached (it's usually about Jesus) and it's written in English (just for me) by one of her kids or grandkids.

This year, the day after Christmas, the island cookies made their way to the mountains with us. Upon arrival they were unpacked and put in the fruit bowl. I know that's not the best place for cookies, but seeing that they seemed to lack sugar and butter, I thought it might be just enough to make me eat an apple.

The following day I saw the bag with tinsel just as it was about to be torn apart and thrown in the fire. When I asked why, I was calmy told, "E' solo qualcosa in piu', no?" I stopped the burning of my favorite cookie bag just in time and explained that the packaging was the best part. It's what reminded me of Maria; the stapled tinsel and the part about Jesus.

The rest of the day I found myself quietly repeating the phrase, "E' solo qualcosa in piu'." It literally translates as 'it's just something more', but in English it doesn't have the same ring to it. I asked the almost arsonist for a synonymous sentence and was told "E' qualcosa di superfluo." Perfect. It's just something superfluous. That gets the feeling across.

I find it sad that an obsession with order leaves no room for superfluousness; something I consider an enhancement to an otherwise dull life. There was definitely room in the fruit bowl for a little gold tinsel. We should always have room for superfluous things, and if we don't, we should make room.

We're told that when life gives us lemons we should make lemonade. And I think when it gives us cookies baked with so much love there's no room for sugar, we should enjoy the tinsel.

Parents Say Things

Parents say the darndest things. It's no wonder kids' favorite words are 'why not'. And seeing that I'm not a parent, I've dangerously fallen into the kid group at the risk of gaining enemies and losing friends. More and more often I find myself giving up something I really want just to keep peace between my little friends and my big ones.

Take CocaZero (aka Coke Zero) for example. Other grown-ups drink beer and wine and some even smoke in front of their tots. Those bad habits are allowed because they're off-limits to kids. Parents don't feel guilty partaking and kids don't feel left out. But this grown-up doesn't like beer and wine and sometimes has the need for an ice cold CocaZero. The problem is, my drink of choice isn't illegal for kids. So if I have it, they want it. And that's where I'm stuck. Drinking my Coke doesn't quench my thirst the same way a beer makes a dad say "Ahhh!" Mine includes envious eyes and sad smiles from whom it's been forbidden. That's enough to pour myself a glass of water.

I've spent most of my life eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips simultaneously. It's created a monster. I like two things served at the same time and I decide when to take a bite of one or the other. I like my salad WITH my pasta, my Oreos WITH my ice cream and my french fries WITH my hamburger. But try opening a bag of potato chips with a family when the kids haven't finished their sandwiches yet. I suppose it's easy for most adults to wait. But this monster likes soft things and crunchy things at the same time. The parents tell me to go ahead and open the chips but that the kids can't start crunching until they've finished their mortadella (aka bologna) sandwiches. The kids reluctantly agree. But this (sometimes) softy doesn't have the heart, so I, too, patiently wait for the signal from Mom and Dad.

Don't walk barefoot in the house (the truth is, don't even walk in your socks. You have slippers.) Stay out of the tall, wet grass (but that's where adventures begin). And don't crack the ice in the frozen puddle (but then you'll never hear that splintering crack that only comes from cracking ice in frozen puddles). All we want to know is why not.

Last month I was invited on vacation in Vienna with a family of four. Onlookers would have seen a mom and dad rushing ahead with two kids and Maria (from the Sound of Music) curiously walking hand-in-hand often far behind them. Our evenings ended with chamomile and cookies as the five of us sat huddled around the little table on four chairs and a bunkbed planning the next day. The mom's insistence that the 8-year old drink the hot chamomile brought understandable protests as to why it couldn't be drunk cold. That's when Maria (aka me) took over for Chiara, maturely asking, "Is there actually a valid reason she has to drink the tea hot? Because I'd really like to know if cold things hurt you or if hot things make your digestive tract work better. And if we understood why she had to drink it hot, maybe she'd drink it. Right, Chiara?" I was so shocked by my courage to ask, I don't remember the answer. But I have a feeling it included some hemming and hawing.   

My parents' militant comeback would have been (as always), "Because I said so." That's all it took to make me stop asking why. But if there'd been an explanation maybe I'd have learned something and now I wouldn't be so desperately curious about absolutely everything in life. Perhaps the only thing I'd be left wondering is if I'll ever be invited on another family vacation.

It's 10:10

Most people see their names in lights from time to time. Kids run to souvenier shops looking for bracelets, mini-license plates and mugs made just for them. Some have the same names as presidents, serial killers and movie stars and they find their names in magazines and on the 6 o'clock news. The only time I ever came close was when the bachelorette on the reality tv show, The Bachelorette, was named Tenley. I lived in Paris at the time and the bachelorette was engaged and married (and maybe divorced) before I got home. Fortunately my name didn't catch on and as far as I know, it was never stamped on a water bottle or pencil.
The truth is I do see my name around town, but I think I'm the only one that notices. The standard time to display the hands on an unwound (or battery-less) clock is 10:10. I've read that it's the most pleasing position for one's eyes. I'm sure some marketing genius thought of it. 9:25 isn't as welcoming and 2:05 draws your attention to only one place. 10:10 gives you more options. Your eyes go from left to right and the spaces above and below the hands are wide open for a full view of the clock's face.
Unfortunately, the marketing genius had already died before the Casio watch was invented. When someone read the manual on what time to set a non-working digital clock for publicity purposes they followed suit with the 10:10 meant for clocks with hands.  
When I opened my new running watch on Christmas morning the first thing I saw was two big tens; one green and the other white. I thought the box had been hand-decorated just for me. I'm not the only one who likes to play with markers. Then I saw that the numbers were printed on the box and I assumed it was the Garmin's model number. It wasn't until the next day that I realized it was a photo of the watch set at 10:10.
When I see 10:10 my first thought is not the time. I don't read it as ten after ten.  It looks more like a good score on a test, part of a math equation or the time it takes an average runner to run a mile.  
In any case, I was happy to discover that in the digital world I haven't been forgotten. I don't share my name with a Biblical figure, but now that I've brought things to light, maybe you'll start thinking of me when your clock strikes 10:10. If I'm lucky you'll think of me twice a day. Now that's what I call a real marketing genius.

     


 

Giving the Bird

I flipped off a cat yesterday. It wasn't doing anything wrong; just sitting at the end of my driveway watching me eat lunch. I wasn't in the mood for onlookers. I wasn't in the mood for my seven thousandth bowl of chicken broth with noodles. And I wasn't in the mood for cats.   

Just to clarify. I've never written the words 'flip off', and I've almost never used my middle finger for anything but a joke. But I don't have feelings for felines. Too lazy to get up to yell out the window or 'shoe' it away (running shoes aren't just for running) I slurped my soup, stared at the cat and flipped it off.

It was like a stranger on a busy street intercepting the wave intended for another. The cat looked over its shoulder as if to say, "Is this bird for me?"

It was just what I needed to pull my head from my soup and realize that worrying about my woes wasn't worth it.

Melting Walls

English lessons come in all shapes and sizes. I do phone lessons walking through fields, vineyards and Venice and live lessons in parks, kids' bedrooms and my garden (that's British for yard). The grammar stays the same, but the people, places and things change.

For the past several months I thought I'd been doing an English lesson at the back door of a 335-year old church. I share the shady stoop with a student who's too embarrassed to speak English where someone might hear him. We arrive by car, walk through the little churchyard and reach a well-weathered door accessible only on foot. It seemed like 'a' service entrance, for the delivery and removal of whatever goods might come and go from a church (God only knows). But then I discovered it was 'the' service entrance; the one used for Sunday services when the priest still delivered the weekly mass.

The day I discovered I'd been resting my back on the front door was the same day I realized I'd been oblivious to what lie on the other side. Distracted by the sloping green lawn, cypress trees and English mistakes on my side of the door, I'd never considered the possibility of an eavesdropping ear getting a free lesson on the other side.

I decided to search for photos of the church. I was surprised to find that the dark, dusty curtains visible through the barred windows from the outside are bright red on the inside. The nook for the small altar has pink columns and the walls are vanilla buttercream. In the middle of the room a small blue table shows through under its lacy tablecloth. The brown wooden pews face each other instead of facing the altar. It looks like a tiny room in a Victorian dollhouse.

My little glimpse of the inside has changed the way I approach the stoop. The church has become more than just a backdrop for the weekly lesson. I visualize the photo and wonder if I'll ever really see what's on the inside. I still spread out my waterproof blanket for two, but my student no longer brings his plastic bag filled with newspapers (emergency temporary seating for many Italians). Instead of lighting anti-mosquito spirals for the hot, summer lessons we light candles for the dark, autumn ones. After months of ignoring the cold, closed door now I feel its presence.

Doors, like lessons, come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps at first we're oblivious to them. But when our curiousity is peaked, there's nothing left but the hope to discover what lies on the other side. Closed doors don't always protect us. Opening them could reveal a sweet world with vanilla buttercream walls. And if we find the courage to be truly confessional, the walls might even start to melt.

Mac Your Day, one way or another

Most would think it's sacreligious to eat a box of macaroni and cheese that isn't Kraft. Add attempting the feat in Italy, and you might even be breaking a Commandment. Seeing that I've never sported a WWJD bracelet, you can imagine that I wasn't afraid to try.

The marketers did a nice job of replicating the blue and yellow box. It looks just like home sweet home. One side lists the ingredients, instructions for preparation and nutritional value in 10 languages. The other three sides say the same thing: MAC YOUR DAY, Preparation for Mac & Cheese, and Macaroni & Cheese. Much to my surprise 'Mac Your Day' isn't a catchphrase, it's the brand. I'd like to think I'm one of the few that knows it was also a McDonald's slogan in Australia in 2003.

Treasures like this not only have a long shelf life in terms of usable, fit for consumption or saleable, but also a long life in my pantry waiting for an undeniably depressing day deserving of such a treat. Some things outlast their 'best by' dates. I decided that expired Heath bars were better than no Heath bars at all, as I waited for news of my next American visitors.  

Looking back I can't remember why the day to make the mac had finally come. Just opening the box had it's pomp and circumstance. I stuck my thumb in the perforated half moon and peeled off the top. Then I squeezed my hand in to retrieve the metallic pack of cheese sauce mix (those words are untranslateable in Italian). I searched carefully trying to keep the tiny smiles of macaroni from overflowing. In a 7.25oz box (carefully delineated for foreign consumers as 178gr+28gr=206gr) it shouldn't have taken so much searching to discover that the 28 grams were missing. I wondered if the powdered cheese sauce mix had been taped to the side or rolled up on the bottom, so I poured out the macaroni. Unable to obey Kraft's orders to 'smmmmile because it was the cheesiest', I frowned because it was cheeseless. It was worse than a 5-year old discovering his Cracker Jack's had no prize.

Instead of crying over spilled milk (the quarter cup I'd prepared to make the cheese), I took the lemons (macaroni) and made lemonade (a macaroni necklace). If anyone needed a break that day it was me. So I put on my new necklace and went to Mac My Day at McDonald's.