The Altercation

Only I could have an altercation with a grapefruit tree.

Okay, here’s the thing. I threw my back out for the umpteenth time and from the den window, I’m watching my ninety year old mother on her hands and knees sticking her hand in the pool’s filter.  She’s not really ninety.  

She’s eighty-nine, but for almost a year she has told everyone she’s ninety. Why? Well, for starters, ninety sounds so much better than eighty-nine.  But, the real reason is her crazy, but logical reasoning which goes something like this:  When we are born, we are nine months old, which means we are practically one.  So, we are all basically a year older than we state.

That being the case, I’m hunched over like the number seven, feeling more than a year older than I am, watching my ninety year old mother taking care of the pool, feeling like a horrible daughter whose mother is doing everything while I, the prima donna, do niente.  Of course, I wrenched my back, so how could I do anything anyway?  Not the point.  The point is I’m younger and I should be helping.

I grab my sunglasses and race out to the backyard ready to rescue her from all things responsible. 

“The Kreepy Krawly isn’t working,” she anguished.

Since my dad is gone (dead you know) I have assumed his role.  I hock and ka-nock with hammers, wrenches and screwdrivers.  Unfortunately, I inherited the one quality that I made fun of for years.  Poor dad, but now I get him:  I duct tape everything that I can’t fix. My shoe ripped?  Duct tape.  The handle on the sliding den door cracked off?  Duct tape. I also use WD-40 on anything that doesn’t move.  Maybe I should try it on my mother.  Better yet, my back.

I pull up my pant legs and slowly step into the pool up to my thighs, reach for the Kreepy, turn it upside down and discover the culprit that is agonizing my mother:  a tree branch-stuck inside.  I pull it out and raise it above my head like a proud Olympian.  Problem solved.

It was then that I noticed the pool was dirty.  Getting out of the pool, I pick up the brush with the long handle.  Now, when I say long, I mean longggggg.  The pole will not retract so it is now about 15 feet in length.  Even my macho gardeners couldn’t get that darn thing back.  It was stuck.  It was stucker than stuck.  So, I begin to gently sweep the pool being mindful of my wrenched back.  This isn’t too bad, I think.  I had been laid up for about 10 weeks and this was my first activity in two months. Moving around the pool like a graceful ballerina wasn’t in the cards, but I managed to get to the ladder on the other side where most of the schmootz had accumulated on the floor of the pool.

Unfortunately, when I moved the brush, the pole got stuck in the branches of my very mature, very stubborn grapefruit tree. 

We wrestled for minutes.  I turned around.  This was war.  I wanted to clean the pool, help my mother and retreat with a heating pad as quickly as possible.  But no, the tree had other things in mind.  This was fun-at my expense.  I turned this way and that, contorted my body like Houdini and ouchhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Back spasm back again.  Damn tree.

Shy of using an axe or buzz saw, I couldn’t help wonder:  What would dad do?  A smile formed on my face. That grapefruit tree was going down or I’d be in physical therapy forever.

I marched back to the house, rummaged through some cabinets and returned to the backyard with an armful of everything necessary.  

When the tree saw me returning, holding the tape~it duct!

The Italian Connection

When they say, “Put it out there in the cosmos and see what happens,” who would have known that the cosmos would send me what I was asking?  Like when did it finally begin to listen?

I’ve put lots of things “out there” like finding the perfect guy, finding the perfect agent for my novel with options for movie rights and of course~ winning the lottery…all I can say is the cosmos must be deaf, dumb and blind, had its hearing aid turned off and wasn’t paying attention. Until now.

Back in October, I began blogging about how much I love, love, love everything Italian and then one day a tall, dark and handsome Italian writes to me on FaceBook saying how much he enjoyed my blog.

Who knew I’d meet someone so sweet and charming simply because I put it out there in the cosmos for all the world to read?

Are you wondering why on earth would I take a chance and meet a total stranger who was following my blog? Could be risky.  Like what if he was Charlie Manson’s relative?  Or some other nut-job?

I may have been born at night…but it wasn’t last night.  Give a girl a little credit.

A gal-pal from the gym read my blog and told her friends about it on her FB wall.  Lo and behold, her best friend, an Italian and a handsome Italiano at that, read it and immediately called her asking what to do.

She advised him to write to me and thus began the beginning of something new.  And wonderful.  A romance?  Too soon to tell, but since I met Tall, Dark and Handsome in Venice, Tall, Fair and Handsome in Firenze, how perfectly fabulous and strange that I’d actually meet Tall, Italian and Handsome in the desert of all places.

At this point TIH (Tall Italian and Handsome) talked to me several times on the phone, sent e-mails and text messages to me.  He was quite attentive.  Having so much in common-both educators, musicians and of course lovers of all things Italian, he asked me out.

I wasn’t nervous because:

      1.  He was good friends with my friend, so not exactly a strange stranger.

2. I felt at ease with him on the phone. He was very polite, almost apologetically so:  I was thinking that maybe we’d meet for lunch?  But, if that isn’t good, we can do something else? I just want to make you happy.  So, maybe if you like we can meet for Italian food in the foothills, unless you like a different restaurant? Maybe you don’t even want Italian food.  It doesn’t really matter.  How is noon?  Or maybe you don’t like noon?  Maybe 12:30?  I’m sure you must think I must be too aggressive.  Who is this guy anyway making all these plans? His kindness and gentle way spoke volumes-even over the phone-sight unseen. I’ve never been asked out on a date with numerous apologies for what I still don’t know.

We agreed to meet at Tavolino's Italian restaurant.  He was waiting at the front door. He took my hand and lead me to our table, pulled out my chair and said all kinds of flattering things that girls love to hear. He was quite the gentleman.  We spoke for hours while we enjoyed a leisurely lunch. When lunch was over, he walked me to my car saying, but also asking, “I’m going to call and… ask you… out...?.. ?...”  He said that with question marks in his eyes.  Without missing a beat, I replied, “And I’m going to say yes, when you do.”  We both giggled. First dates are always so strangely wonderful when they are wonderful.

The second date was lovely.   Since TIH knew I taught music, he suggested having dinner at a piano bar in one of my favorite historic resorts. We talked and talked all night sharing stories.  Who knew I’d find someone who could out-story me!

Meanwhile, the following date was cancelled.  And the following three. He had a tooth infection and a swollen face the size of Texas.  Or so he said, but, that didn’t get in the way.  We spoke constantly on the phone, keeping in touch and then one afternoon he called saying that he was at a friend’s house, some Italian guy, telling him all about me and that this guy wanted to talk to me.

Since I’m absolutely crazy, head-over-heels in love with all things Italian, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have been studying Italian.  I love the way the language rolls off my tongue. Talk about beautiful.

His friend gets on the phone and sounded so Italian.  Like you hear in the movies. But this was real.  Not an actor portraying some Italian guy with a-thickah  accentah-as-he talkah-Italiano-like-ah-this-ah.  This was not The Godfather.  This was the real deal.  His English was heavily laced with an Italian accent thicker than a Bolognese sauce, which made me weak in the knees.

For all I knew he could have been 80 years old, but he spoke a mile a minute with such enthusiasm and effervescence, I could only imagine the accompanying hand gestures and couldn’t wait to meet him.

I was so excited to finally have a chance to talk with someone Italian because I had  mastered  30 CD  lessons and now I was finally going to put some of my new phrases to the test.  One of my most favorites is this:  Ho comprato un bel cappello per mia moglie, which translates to: I bought a beautiful hat for my wife.  Naturally, there was no graceful way to incorporate that into a sentence.  First of all, I don’t have, want or need a wife.  I want a fabulous man to love and adore.  And secondly, I suppose there is no second.  Why would anyone say that?

So, my head was spinning as I tried to impress him beginning with, “Come va?” (How’s it going?)  Then he asked me and I impressed him saying “Non c’è male."  (Not too bad)  He asked my name.  That was easy.  Not the name part, but saying it in Italian:  Mi chiamo Heidi.  Pretty cool.  Then the guy went on and on in Italian thinking I really knew Italian or at least 50 more lessons. I began sounding more like Ralph Kramden from the Honeymooners : A-humina,humina humina…stalling, pausing, humming – I was so embarrassed.  Then, I stuttered a little Italian mixed with a little French and then Spanish words got mixed into the mix. Talk about all mixed up. I was a talking United Nations.  

It was a fun few minutes and I hope to impress both Italians with my other favorite sentence which sounds so cool: Che cosa vorrebbe mangiare? (What would you like to eat?)

Since Jews and Italians love to eat, that favorite phrase may lead to something delicious, but hopefully not too al dente!

~ Ole Migue! ~

Okay, this is nuts.  I admit it.  Nuts!  I just finished working a nine hour day, dashed home to make dinner, washed pots and pans, wiped homemade spaghetti sauce off my stove and lips and rushed to put on my make-up.  Going out?  Actually, no.

It is almost nine o’clock at night and I have a date…more or less.  Actually more less than more.  It all started thirty-one years ago.  Sounds like a long time ago, but for me, it was just like yesterday.

My parents and I took a road trip up the coast of California without a deadline, stopping whenever the mood struck.  Eventually we made it up to San Francisco.  As we walked around I found a Spanish restaurant with a sign in the window stating that the chef was from Segovia, Spain.  Well, how cool was that?  I lived in Segovia, Spain one summer, taking classes, learning Flamenco piano and getting locked in castles.  Anyway, I was so excited to see that someone from Segovia was in California that I burst into the restaurant, my parents following behind and asked to speak with the chef.

He came out of the kitchen and I introduced myself and my parents to him in Castellaño and had a long and wonderful conversation with him telling him all about my short time studying in his hometown.

Little did I know, there was literally a tall, dark and handsome Spaniard eavesdropping in the adjacent room.  By now you all know I have a thing for Mediterranean men and this one was movie-star gorgeous.

By the grace of God, we were seated next to him and within seconds he began speaking with me in Spanish.  I learned that this was his first visit to the United States and after a few more days, he was heading back to Spain. He didn’t speak a word of English and didn’t know anyone in the States.

My dad was a cross between John Wayne and Charles Bronson.  He looked like John Wayne, but had a Charlie Bronson personality-very protective of loved ones.  Anyway, Dad took a liking to Miguel and didn’t want him roaming around the city by himself.  My John Wayne-Charlie Bronsonesque dad was a total marshmallow inside, but very few people knew that. He invited Miguel to join us for sightseeing and meals, taking him under his wing for three days.

Eventually, it was time for us to continue the road trip up the coast to Mendecino where we would eventually visit my aunt, uncle and cousins who lived in a commune.  More on communal living later: High heel girl meets California hippies.

Although Miguel flew back to Spain, we remained friends all these thirty-one years.  In the beginning, we wrote letters which took almost nine days to receive.  Now with the internet, writing is simple and we get instant gratification immediately, receiving an email within seconds.

So, when Miguel wrote to me recently, suggesting that we video chat, I was so excited…until I realized that I, the technologically challenged-but determined-girl-, had no clue as to how to do it.  Being a problem solver by nature, I came up with a solution.  Ask a 12 year old.  Since I was teaching all day, I had students of all ages to ask.  They knew how to Skype, but no one could advise me about a Google video chat.  Go figure!  Being persistent, I pushed this button, clicked that and by George I did it!  Sometimes I even amaze myself!

So, at almost nine o’clock, I raced to the bathroom, fluffed up my hair and put on make-up…still not knowing with the time difference if we’d connect.  But, I couldn’t take a chance.  He hadn’t seen me in 31 years…I’m older, but didn’t want to scare the heck out of my Spaniard!

And you know, the thing with the video chat is the person can see you.  And your house.  So, it appears that I am going to be slathered with cosmetics from the time I wake up and vacuuming and dusting all day and all night like it’s my mission. I may have Howard Hughes beat with this compulsive behavior. 

I think talking on the phone was so much easier.  Who needs this pressure?  Make-up at all hours of the night, cleaning like I’m a whirling dervish.  I miss the days of phone calls, instant messaging and texting in my P.J.’s, no cosmetics, and fistfuls of chocolate in my hands which no one would know I was eating.

I look at my watch: eleven o’clock pm , and realize that we may not video chat tonight.  Too bad about the make-up.  I just hate putting it on as much as I hate taking it off.  Oh, well.  Such are the dilemmas of a girlie-girl. 

Guess what I’ll be doing tomorrow night?  Bring on the vacuum. Smear on the cosmetics.  I’ve got a video chat in my future!   ~ ¡Ole Migue! ~