Sunday, October 23, 2011

Didn't we have this same fight last year? This same weekend last year, I begged F to turn the heat on. He swears that it is sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit in here. Would I be able to feel my toes in my winter socks and boots and need to wear a winter coat inside if it really were sixty-eight degrees in here? I think not!

F says the law of Lucca is that you don't turn on the heat until the end of October. I start with the teeth chattering in this stone abode around the 20th even though it is perfectly sunny outside. What is going to happen if we turn it on now? Will the Italian heat police come? Do they wear cute outfits? I know the energy costs are high but why have a house, if you are going to freeze your tushy/chiappe off in it? Plus my brother is coming from Massachusetts on Friday. And so, just like last year -- like all good Italian citizens -- I had to go on strike! Now let's see if I can get these old radiators to cooperate.

Speaking of flashbacks. . . last year on this very day we were woken up by a lunatic with an extra forte microphone announcing the arrivals of the aluminum blanketed marathon runners every 14 seconds. I guess I had blacked it out because it came as a complete surprise when this third Sunday in October (holy recurring bat headaches, batman!) It happened again. Do the words Sunday morning mean anything to anyone anymore? Not to Giuseppe who was punctual to his 11am Bioenergy treatment and wants me to come meet his wife tonight.

Here is evidence of my sciopero/strike:
pretty please?

why not?

I mean it!

Here is evidence of our dinner with my little fidanzato and his family:

love is in the air
sniffing the hot sauce

our guests routinely sniff the hot sauce . . not to worry

love that hot sauce

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