Just enough to get me in trouble…

Italian. 
I know just enough to get me in trouble.
I took it for three years in college and by the time I graduated and we went to Italy I had no trouble getting around the country.
Well, I mean, sure I once told a worker I wanted to buy a shoe store instead of a pair of shoes but big deal!
Easy mistake, right?
The problem with knowing a little bit of a language is that people hear you say one thing and immediately assume you are fluent. 
This happens especially with the elderly. 
They were not afraid to think that I spoke perfect Italian. 
I asked a man on a vaporetto in Venice once what the name of a bird was in Italian.
Just a simple question, right?
Qual รจ quell’uccello chiamato?

I was hoping for a one word answer to help me build my vocabulary. 
Instead he launched into a diatribe about Venice and the pigeons and the government and I possibly heard something about a son-in-law who kills birds for a living.
Or it could have been something completely different.
Here is a conversation I had in Italian with some policemen in Bellagio:
Me: Do you speak English?

Policeman: No

Me: Ok, no problem. Can you tell me what time the next ferry gets here?

Policeman: Why did you ask me if I spoke English if you speak Italian! 


We all had a big laugh.

The best thing that ever happened due to my Italian skills though was in Siena.
I was crazy pregnant with the littlest minion and we were lost and couldn’t find a taxi. 
Billy and I were…
Well, lets just say we had gotten snippy with each other.
I walked into a local restaurant and asked a group of ladies in Italian where I could find a taxi.
First: They began yelling at Billy because I was out walking so late.
Second: They made me sit down.
Third: They called a taxi for us all the while getting water for me and oohing over my belly.
And then came the diatribe by one of the women of which I understood about half. 
Apparently, she has a daughter who lives in the city and has a fancy job and makes so much money but doesn’t have time for a husband AND HOW IS SHE GOING TO EVER BE A GRANDCHILD if her daughter never gets married! Does my Mother already have grandchildren? How lucky she is to have a daughter that knows what’s important! Italian girls these days just don’t have babies like they should!
I assume I mistranslated that capitalized part.
She also mentioned the Pope but I’m not even going to try to translate that.
Then she put her hands on my belly and spoke a blessing over me. 
It was surreal. 
“Excuse me, I’d like to buy a shoe store.”

Unfortunately, it’s not like riding a bike. 
You do forget it. 
That saddens me. 
I mean, it doesn’t make me as sad as the poor woman was about her daughter and her fancy job but it does sadden me.

Gross things kids do…

For my readers that aren’t around kids very often let me introduce you to the wonderful world of:
Gross Things That Kids Do. 
Thing the first:
They dip their Sour Patch Straws into their gatorade.
Number two:
They eat ridiculous amounts of food.
They blame the it on the fact that:
A man’s gottta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Number three:
They have an obsession with Bubba Teeth.

Bubba Teeth totally gross me out and I immediately throw them away whenever I find them. 
Other things that get thrown away upon sight:
Silly Bands, most lego pieces, and toys that come out of Happy Meals.
Number four:
They stick their tongues out…a lot. 
Number five:
They play in sticky places.

I’m pretty sure that kid in pigtails actively seeks out the dirtiest places she can find to play. 
So, I have a group of kids sitting around me right now and I asked them:
What gross things do your friends do?
Their answers:
1) Pick their noses
2) Mix their corn and applesauce with ketchup.
3) Use the pool as their own personal restroom.
4) Use their tee shirts as napkins.
Personally I’m shuddering at corn with applesauce and ketchup…
Ya know, I’m firmly convinced grown ups do just as many gross things. 
We just know how to not get caught. 
And now…
Since I’ve been very mean – according to the minions who walked by while I was writing this…
I present to you:

Good grief, go get some counseling…

So, the Post Secret book…it’s some crazy stuff.
I’m not sure how many of you have seen this coffee table/art book but if you haven’t here its is:
A guy named Frank Warren came up with the concept. 
He asked people to decorate a postcard with a secret they had and send it to him anonymously.
The only caveat was that the secrets had to be truthful and they had to be something they had never told anyone before.
He got thousands of postcards
Some of them are funny:
Apparently the person who sent this in is afraid of women who wear capris.
And this one:
It was sent in by someone who still talks to her stuffed animals even though she is in college.
A lot of them had to do with church:
Mostly how much the people don’t want to go. 
These kind of annoyed me. They kind of make me want to scream: 
“Newsflash. You’re a grown up now. Don’t go.”
Many of them are really sad:
This one says:
I hate every part of my body (except my hands.)”

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my feet?
And some of them?
Well, they hit a little too close to home.
So, you should probably send him a postcard:
And then go get some counseling.