Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Back to the bitchiness
Yesterday was my nervewracking first English lesson with my dear friend who told me that if I couldn't get her to finally speak English she was going to give up and start studying French. No pressure. She has been participating in a group English class for over a year that is not really helping her very much and she is super frustrated with our whole kind of ugly and unmusical language. I think it went pretty well. In any case, I did not terrify or enrage her and she is coming back next week. After she left is when I started getting nervous. I decided to go back to the fancy hair salon with whom I had such a successful conversation in Italian the other day.  I had intimated that I had a lawyer on call and that I wanted my money back for some hair dye that I would no longer be needing, but that I had paid for in advance.

When I got to the fancy hair salon, the receptionist greeted me with that She's here kind of fake smile people reserve for you when you have been spoken about a great deal behind your back. She called over the manager who told me that her lawyer had drawn up something for me to sign which would document my getting my money back. Then my young, but not slicker than me, hairdresser came up to check me out. I realized afterwards that she wasn't greeting me so much as deciding if she was going to A) hit me B) pull my hair out or C) take a closer look at my color and make sure that it was true that I had changed it since she had messed it up. Once she saw it was no longer striped blond with a red patch in the front, and that I was back to having a chocolate brown color, she slunk off. The manager lady left me with yet another girl who gave me my money. Yay me! I tried to say that I wanted money for all six tubes because despite the fact that I had opened one it had been a waste of my money. The hair dresser had recommended a color that was too dark and had ruined my hair. I suggested that if they wanted money for the sixth tube they could take it out of her salary. This threw the lady off balance. She said that I had agreed on the phone to being reimbursed for five and that I needed to stick to that because they were going to punish the hairdresser privately. Now it was my turned to be alarmed. I assured her that the hairdresser had done an excellent job the first day and that her problem was that she didn't know how to acknowledge when she made a  mistake which makes it hard to then fix a mistake. I said that I would have worked with her if she had done that because making mistakes is not an unforgiveable offense. The lady looked shocked to say that least and said that she hoped I would come back. I smiled and told her that I wouldn't hold my breath on that one.

This man is so cute. And yet this week, he is stressing me out.

I was not at all convinced by the diagnosis of the dermatologists that F has an allergy to some unknown substance and that is why he is covered with something that looks like an angry case of chicken pox. Luckily my friend Serena is a doctor and she also is not convinced by the dermatologists at any of the hospitals in this area, including her own which is all the way in Pisa. She did get us an appointment within 24 hours with a private specialist who is the very best you could ask for, after seeing a photo of F's torso that scared the crap out of her. We waited for forty-five minutes and watched Antonella Clerici make pasta with a bunch of pretentious male chefs and some nice old ladies on the built-in television set in the waiting room. I would not eat that chocolate mousse if you paid me. Anyway, the doctor made his diagnosis in about twenty seconds. He agreed with F that it is pityriasis rosea which is something that will go away in a few weeks and is not dangerous or contagious. He asked if something stressful started it all about a month ago. Hmmmn a month ago. The only thing that happened a month ago was my mother-in-law's visit. Surely that couldn't be it?? The good doctor will take a photo map of all of F's birthmarks next time and remove some that need removing which just goes to show you that sometimes you think you are getting knocked around when the universe is actually just trying to give you a present.

 Today I was mildly nervous for my first lesson at the English school. I wore my cool shirt that says Manhattan on it and my ear cuff and generally tried to look tough for my nineteen year old mammone/mamma's boy whose mother signed him up and who had initially refused to take the assessment test. This morning I found the results of his assessment test (apparently mamma won that round) in my inbox. Luckily F was home to explain to me how to explain to him why the things he got wrong were wrong. Raise your hand if you know the difference between how to form the zero and the third conditional. If you raised your hand, you didn't go to my highschool. Anyway, I could have watched Italian soap operas instead because loser boy never showed up. A really cute boy did show up, though. I asked him if his name was Andrea. He said no. He said his friend Andrea was outside and he brought me his even cuter friend Andrea. I said, "Hi, Andrea, I am K." He looked taken back. I said, "You are not the Andrea who is here to take English class with me are you?" And he said that indeed he was not. But he didn't move. So I said, "Well, I said it looks like you are still a perfectly nice Andrea, and now we have met, and that's that." Then we ran in opposite directions: I took refuge in my totally stunning frescoed, high ceiling class room and he ran back outside.

My new friend Elisa who watches the same bad Italian television shows that I do and works at the office of the English school called the boy whose cell phone was turned off and then called his mother. Meanwhile, I showed about six English tourists my classroom and they were really impressed. It turned out that he was not coming. I get paid anyway. But he is not going to get to see my cool Manhattan sweater if he shows up tomorrow, and that is final. 
T's friend Giorgia

T. Rolling her eyes again
I made this one. I'm crafty like that.

This one was made by a nice blond, Italian chick.

This week T has dark purple hair at the bottom, but you get the idea.

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