Sometimes the bar over my blog is in Italian and sometimes it is in English. I have finished my Weeds marathon. I have nothing to say. Cliffhangers be damned!
I had something hysterical, witty and brilliant to write about, but I didn't write myself a note and now I have forgotten it. I was feeding La Bimba fish and cauliflower and pasta when a juicy Neapolitan tidbit came to me, something about The Husband, and I chuckled and La Bimba chuckled and said, "Tika," her all-purpose word for "That's cool. You're right. That's a cow. Give it to me. I'm done. Can I get out of this high chair now?" Now it's gone.
La Bimba pulled the J key off my computer keyboard. I cannot get it back on. I removed the ù/§ key -- because I don't use it and it bugs me -- to figure it out and I figured it out and still can't get the key on. J is not the most popular letter I am learning, but it is where my right index finger rests when I am poised to write and now it touches a little rubbery thing instead of a nice smooth key and I find it disturbing. Trip to Dino the computer guy is on the agenda.
When you live in Italy long enough you stop thinking about Fred Flintstone's pet dinosaur when you meet someone named Dino. Guess I haven't been here long enough. Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap!
It is summer in the city, folks, and it feels great. Mid-70s (I will never adjust to Celsius), sunny and breezy. T-shirt weather. And capri pants. I was wearing a pair of those nifty 3/4 length pants (trousers! not underwear!!) when The Husband glanced at my hirsute legs and suggested it might be time to shave. He said it with a chuckle. I asked if it bothered him and he said, "It doesn't bother me. For you, I said it." I guess he thinks it bothers me. It stands to reason that if it bothered me, I would have shaved, and that if he is pointing it out, it must bother him. I reasoned thusly and he still insisted that it doesn't bother him, but probably bothers me. Can anyone guess what really bothers me here?
I'll shave one of these days. There are so many things I'd rather do with my spare, Bimba-sleeping time. Like blog. And eat cake. Read a book. Wait for season 3 of Weeds.
I don't wax. It hurts and leaves red bumpies.
I finally finished the Dillard memoir. Fantastic. Too bad I didn't look up any of the words I didn't know. There were about eight of them. And I didn't dog-ear the pages or use a highlighter (because that would feel like college) so I'll never know what words I didn't know and didn't learn. Some writer/lover of language I am!
I am going to see some contemporary dance in Piazza Plebiscito tomorrow. That should be ... interesting.
I had another... I REMEMBER WHAT MADE ME AND LA BIMBA CHUCKLE! I had another weird dream last night. It involved poop in a jacuzzi. I was not the pooper, thank God. Elizabeth Perkins was. Anyway, I told The Husband the dream and he told me that dreaming about poop porta bene, brings good luck. I so prefer his analysis to my shrink's. When I told her about a poop dream (years ago, poop stuck to the outside of my jeans, couldn't get it off), she told me it was about shame. Shame or Good Luck. Both?
Shame is a big topic, too big to tackle on the blog this evening. I wrote a paper about Shame in Ulysses in grad school. Lots of bodily functions going on in that book. Poop, pee, semen, menstrual blood, Yes! Did I mention that James Joyce and I have the same birthday? And that Dublin had a Jewish mayor? And that I am thinking of going back to grad school in Performance Studies?
About going back to school: nah. I couldn't possibly write a cold, dry, danceless dissertation on dance. Or maybe I could write something dancey and fabulous and change the course of dance academia forever? What am I on about? Need more cake.
Naples, Motherhood, Mulitculti Marriage, Dance, Cake. These will be labels some day.