Friday, April 15, 2011

I Love Lucy in Lucca

Yesterday afternoon I heard two Italian girls in my stairwell, chattering away at a million chilometers a minute. And - get this - one of them was my daughter! T stubbornly refuses to adopt any sort of Italian accent or lilt to her voice so she sounds exactly like her same ol' Brooklyn girl self, but try as she might to resist it, the words are just pouring out of her.  In anticipation of her afterschool luncheon with Adriana, I had an episode of Modern Family raring to go on megavideo in Italian in case there was going to be a stand-off in which no speaking was to be done; but it turned out not to be necessary.  In fact, T made me promise not to show it, because we had read an article in Grazia magazine that  said that even though Modern Family is broadcast on Italian cable tv, it is considered racy in a way Desperate Housewives, which is super popular here and is shown on regular tv, is not. Go figure!  Anyway they ate and rolled their eyes at me (just like in NY)  and had plenty to do, so I needn't have worried.

I know what you're thinking. It's not like I'm super paranoid and over controlling. Okay, it is like that. But we have had some playdates that are like the Standoff at the OK Corall where one girl is dressed in white the other in black, guns drawn, and no action. They just sit there, staring at each other. F's theory is that Italian girls aren't used to be given several choices to make on a play date and so we are missing crucial top secret cultural information about how play dates go down in our new land.  Gabrielle's theory (much more reliable as a source, being both an older girl and an expat or sorts)  is that the Italian girls are too scared/shy of making a wrong choice of activity and then being judged for it so they just say that they don't want to do anything, which in turn forces T's hand and so they end up in a Guiness world record's staring contest.  But apparently that is all in the past.  Given the choice of having me ask the principal for a change of section out of the difficult social siutation that is 1-H, T has chosen to remain where she is because she says she's finally gotten the hang of it and doesn't want to start from scratch.

Yesterday I had yet another I Love Lucy in Lucca moment where I ran up to a young woman who I have seen several times sporting a fringed bob, speaking English, and pushing a baby carriage. I breathlessly introduced myself.  After my scary intrusion which was interrupting  her morning walk with her friend visiting from San Franscisco, I found out about her baby group meeting on Thursday mornings. Good insider information for T's yet to get rolling babysitting business. And then I stopped being able to say anything interesting.  I think it might be that I've been sleepless and coughing through the night for fourteen days now, but after I heard her say the comforting-oh-so-American word cool, I couldn't stop saying it.  Well cool then; that's so cool. Well, cool. Coolio. Bye. Could anything be less cool? We don't have to be BFF's. It's cool. Can somebody order me up eight hours of sleep, please. It is also sad that so far F has been playing the role of Ethel.

On the more serious bad news front, I just want to say how much I hate motorcycles.  Dry cleaner/motor cycle's guy son has now been in an accident and he has shattered his pelvis and gotten a piece of bone lodged in his liver. The second after one of these horrendous brushes with death it seems people get right back in moto and take their chances.  I don't get it. I just don't get it. 

What comes to mind when I am coughing at night and staring at the ceiling: Is there any chance that Jim Sparandeo's spearmint tea blend that I am dependent on for regulating my testosterone levels and keeping my complexion clear is going to be seized at Charles De Gaulle airport? Cough, cough. "Lucy, you got some 'splaining to do."

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