Wednesday, March 16, 2011

More Ricevimenti
Today's parent-teacher meetings were DElightFUL.  The art professor was so wonderful. Such an M&M of a man, what with his crunchy shell, but sweet, melt-y insides.  I don't know what I wrote the first time around when other parents told us how strict he was and how once he had an idea of your kid it was impossible to change it and how unreasonable his expectations were, etc. I mean this is the same man who marked T down for not having the trees in her landscape drawn perfectly perpendicular and who expects sixth graders to be able to execute college level color gradient charts. Well, I can't tell you how little all of this matters if your kid is the one that the professor does like. Yay favoratism! I know, I know, you're asking, "where did our little social worker, fight- fo'- justice type friend go? Well, to Italy, the land of nepotism, that's where. I also loved this meeting because F had bragged that I didn't even have to join him because he and the art professor had such an amazing rapport.  I can only tell you based on this dear man's palpable relief that I spoke halfway decent italian, that F must have interpreted the exchange of awkward overly-enthusiastic nods and polite smiles as a deep manly bond between men. And that is cute. But also fodder for me to tease him incessantly.

F's Italian is getting better. I know that if I had to read English all day on the computer, it would mess me up, too. But being from Los Angeles, he speaks way slower than I do even in English, let alone in
Italian. And that said, he is a man of few words anyway. Or maybe he would be a man of more words if I were more patient and could wait more than 240 seconds between the time I ask a question and the time he answers it. Yup I've counted.  We argue all the time about whether we should speak English at home. T says after 5 hours of school she is in no way speaking Italian at home. If I challenge her, it leads right  into the dreaded pre-teen It wasn't my idea to pack up and move to a non-English speaking country speech.  But if she speaks to me in English then it makes it hard for me to remember to speak to her in Italian.  I try some days and other days we just watch bootlegged America's Next Top Model and pretend we're back in Brooklyn, but with Puccini blaring in through the windows from the piazza.  If I speak to F in Italian, he will pretend to understand me, even when he doesn't, and then has a great built-in excuse for why he didn't bring home the milk. He's all I didn't know you asked for milk and whatnot. So in the end T is going to be fluent, I'm going to be chronically frustrated, and F will continue to be F: tall, sweet, and forgetful.

We were also loving the meeting with the tecnica professor. We knew we had it good because she loves T's tutor Gabrielle who got ten after ten after ten in her subject back when she was in middle school.  It is rather heady, esoteric stuff anyway since the whole course is dedicated to how finished products are created from raw materials like wood and paper and cloth. She nodded sagely when she read what Gabrielle had written in the letter we brought her explaining that she was assisting T with her studies and suggesting that perhaps T needed extra guidance on what exactly to study. The professor then asked for Gabrielle's cell number and said she'll be giving her a call. Hopefully, Gabrielle will be expecting the call by that point and not think that it is her boyfriend or her friend Lucia trying to punk her!

Also one of the moms waiting in line gave me her phone number. Talk about speed dating! She has a daughter in the first year in a different class and a son in the second year. She said two enticing things: first she has a tight mothers' group that does stuff like go to museums in Firenze (!), and, secondly, they have an extra car if we need to borrow one. Hmmmn. She also said she doesn't even drive. Maybe we can get her to sell it to us cheap if nothing major is broken on it. That's like a bunch of friends and a vehicle in one shot. I'm not likely to lose her number.  She was sort of enamored with our American-ness more than our witty, charming personalities, but who cares?  I mean you have to start somewhere, right?

Today I had also several bioenergy clients. It was rewarding to see that after only one session our friend Claudia's frozen shoulder was mildly improved. One lady we treated last week came out of a coma, but of course there is no proof that we played a part in that miracle. Proof, shmoof, the important thing is that our friend's mom woke up and was able to communicate a bit with her family. The nice thing about energy work is the whole good intentions part of it. How many doctors have bedside manners that make you wonder whether they really even care if you ever get well? At least my clients know. I want them well.

Of course while we were out at the school, my long awaited Clarisonic Mia brush tried to find me. Don't worry, not even the Italian post office can not keep us part, tesoro. Ever wonder why Italians go in person to the Post Office to pay their bills? It's cause they don't trust the post office to actually get anything delivered through the mail system, that's why! Upon seeing those long awaited tan slips of paper from the poste, we ran to the post office only to be told that it was still on the truck and that we would have to pay the extra 31 euro fee for getting them released from customs two days from now due to Italy's 150 year anniversary tomorrow.  Foiled again! But at least my dear Mia is sitting cradled in bubble wrap in my same neighborhood now instead of hanging out with the other lost souls at the Milan airport.  My pharmacist Amelia told me that time is running out for my skin, if I want to use acid based products to remove my melasma, (curse you, you hormones, you!) because in six weeks or so the Tuscan sun will be so overpowering that we will all wrinkle and any of us using kojic or glycolic acid based beauty products might as well just smother ourselves in johnson's baby oil and throw the wrinkles and sun spots a welcome party. Good to know, Amelia. Grazie mille.

I am spotty. Argh!

1 comment:

chris said...

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