Friday, March 11, 2011

No vibrator jokes please...
Mamma Mia, Clarisonic Brush
If you haven't read ClumpsofMascara.com or any major fashion magazine this year, then you don't know how highly recommended the Clarisonic Mia brush which cleans six times better than soap and water without a brush is.  The point here is that I WANT one. It prevents pimples and wrinkles. Both! And I ordered one on ebay.it from a lady in America and when we got the letter from the poste saying that they needed my codice fiscale as ransom for the face brush I was fine with it. F made copies of our scanned documents and we filled out the forms and sent it back registered mail.  But then nothing. Not even acknowlegement that we paid a fistful of euro to send the letter registered mail.  If you are a middle aged woman, and I'm not saying you are, having a brush hailed as a facial in a box, an age reducer, and the best beauty investment of this century for those of us who can't afford La Mer or for whom even La Mer would produce pimples with wrinkles in between them, you understand the immense happiness such a brush could bring. And how every ring of the door bell leads to excited puppy tail wagging, minus the dog, and then ends in profound disappointment.

Three months pass. Finally a signora at the Milano airport called and said we enclosed the wrong kind of evidence of our codice fiscale number, so we emailed her the right one.  Then nothing. Two more weeks pass and we go to the post office to see what's up.

We go into the main room of the post office to get a ticket our of the machine with a number on it to direct you to the right window. Then we decide while we are waiting for our number to be called to see if the package receiving lady can help us, but she can't.  Just as we re-enter the main room I see our number flash on the electronic digital screen.  Homer Simpson flashes through my brain and I hear loud as day, "Doh!" And by the time I make my way across the expanse of hospital blue carpet, the the next number comes up. I hold out my ticket to cut in front of the lady with the new number and say something nonsensical in italenglish to which the lady at the window replies "You are a person who makes no sense." Ouch. F comes running up.  But does he help? No! He says hey K you have the wrong number, what are you doing? By which time I lose my place in line and have no proof that what I saw was not a post office mirage after all. And the Italians think I am a rude American line cutter. Or a nut job. And I leave brush-less.

Then we go hunt down the important looking harried guy who has his own office in the post office with a glass door and everything and who has already made phone calls for us about this package two weeks ago.  We know he is back from vacation from the day before when we hunted him down and found out the scoop and he is completely wigged out that we know enough to say welcome back.  We re-give him all the package info and he says he'll call me later.  He calls me later and speaks so fast that I have no idea what e-mail address he is spelling out using the Italian city code of E-Empoli, F-Firenze, etc. and I think I actually have to make up an email address filled with Italian cities! So I call back three times, thanks to my telefonino's caller ID, and you can practically hear him cursing in his head whoever made caller ID, and he finally gets me to understand the new e-mail address to inquire about the package which I do. And then nothing.

Quite possibly - The end.
Welcome to Italy, tootsie roll.


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