Fonzies

My life these days is pretty much consumed by the slave-driver people at work. Except... these days, I kind of am one of the slave drivers. Hm. Odd. In any case, while you're waiting (pfft) for me to come up with something actually interesting and worth reading (it might be a while)... here is an entry about weird crackers.

"Abbiamo comprato i fonzies!" says the girl with whom we have been wandering around Venice. She is half Venetian and half Spanish, from a town near Barcelona. She switches from Catalan to Italian to communicate this to my friend. My friend is in the Bologna Erasmus program, and this girl is a friend of one of her cohorts. A friend thrice removed. This is how you end up knowing some really random people when you live in a foreign country. Anyway. We've all met up in Venice for the Biennale of modern art, and the Festa del Redentore fireworks tonight, and we're taking a break before marching around the rest of the Arsenale.

I look over at her and smile politely. (What the hell are fonzies?)

"You've never had fonzies?!" says my fellow American, switching into English to get things straight.

Fonzies, it transpires, are like cheese curls (or whatever those orange things are called in America) except they're white, maybe a bit less greasy and nasty, and have a weird kind of taste. Probably because they lack Cheddar in Italy, so I don't know what kind of cheese they're made with...

Anyway, though, I thought that you, too, should be educated about fonzies, just in case you don't have a Spanish/Italian/Catalan/Venetian-dialect-speaking girl in your life to do it for you.

I shall even include a photograph.



The best part of that day, though? The fireworks? The Biennale? Venice? Well, Venice was pretty cool because I always love Venice, and Venice in the summertime (the Festa del Redentore is on July 18th, I believe) is even nicer. But the best thing: definitely listening to Ms. Barcelona and her friends speaking Catalan all day.

I'm an irretrievable language nerd.

Of meetings and shoes

Anything else to get ready for tomorrow?
No... just look charming and professional. See you at 8.

My boss and I are texting back and forth at 10pm the day prior to an uber-important business meeting. (Uber-important because it is with potential new clients who may possibly give us lots and lots of work, and we like potential new clients. They are good for things like earning a paycheck and not being bankrupt.)

Right, I think, charming and professional. Excellent. I'll wear a skirt and that will be that. I check one more time that all my oh-so-important documents are perfectly aligned in their plastic folder-cover-thing and then go merrily off to bed.

Not so very many hours later, I am standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing the skirt and not much else, mildly panicked. The throwing together of a charming and professional outfit... it is just a little trickier than originally anticipated.

I calmly sip my cold coffee (made by pouring room temperature water over instant coffee and a sugar cube - don't ask) while the following runs through my head: dark grey skirt would go well with white shirt... long-sleeved white shirt dirty... too cold for short sleeves... maybe with cardigan? or maybe resuscitate long sleeved one with ironing... try... shit, where's the adaptor plug? Or black pants... but are a little tight... what shirt with black pants? Or grey pants? Why are all the shirts dirty??? Why do I never do laundry?? Am stupid! And not professional! And not charming!

Okay, never mind, just try not to burn self with iron... shirt looks so-so... also has shirt-tails so needs to be tucked in but I hate tucking shirts into skirts... blahhhhh. Short sleeves after all? How is it already 7:45 and my hair is still wet?!?!

Is cold, for sure need cardigan (because I'm not organized enough to have a suit jacket that matches my favorite skirt, or to have purchased a coat or jacket for this winter yet). I straighten my short-sleeved shirt (just ironed enough so that I don't look completely like a homeless person) and pull the cardigan on over it. My boss texts me and I text back with one hand, aiming the hair dryer more or less at my head with the other.

Be there in 5. We are meeting for coffee prior to the actual meeting. Ostensibly to go over our battle plan. I don't even know why I am supposed to come with her to this meeting, as usually she takes care of the selling aspect of things herself. Perhaps she just wants moral support. Which is kind of laughable, given that I haven't even left my house yet and am already a mess.

I slip my shoes on and they slip themselves back off. Shit!!! I swear to myself (silently, because it is the arse-crack of dawn and my roommates are still sleeping, beate loro). I had forgotten that the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness are now kind of broken and falling apart and don't really stay on so well anymore. Happily, though, I seem to be having a somewhat resourceful sort of morning, and I quickly come up with a solution: sticky stuff. Like tape. So I make some little loops of tape, affix them to both the inside of my shoes and the outside of my nylons, and voila! I am (somewhat tenuously) taped into my shoes. (So classy. Ahem.)

Seven minutes later, I am picking my way across the cobblestones of the piazza, trying not to get my heels stuck in them (this is exceedingly tricky under the best of circumstances, and slightly more so when you've had to stick your shoes on your feet with Scotch tape).

"You look nice," comments my boss vaguely, punching buttons on her blackberry like her life depends on it. We head towards the meeting.

And that is how I came to be sauntering (read: hobbling) up to my first important business meeting as an English teacher attired in a skirt (decent) and nylons (possibly weird color), a short-sleeved shirt (despite rain, fog and general chill), a black cardigan (possibly complete with blobs of lint still stuck on the back where I can't reach with the lint roller), and an aging pair of black heels Scotch-taped to my feet.

I sit across from two all-important bank people, listening and nodding and smiling officiously as appropriate (I hope), and all the while wondering whether my shoes will fall off on the way out. Leaving shoes in the client's office building and walking out in your nylons: probably not the best way to convince new clients of our professionalism and charm.

Uh, however. May I point out: we got the contract. Big old contract with lots of work. And my shoes didn't fall off until I got home. Sweeeet.

Monday evening

So. Then what you can do is go on to have a thirteen-hour day. Always a grand old time. Of which, somehow, only four and a half hours were teaching? Huh.

And then a lot of administrative stuff... and some translating... etc.

But, you know what? Somehow, I'm happy. This morning, Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer" came on the radio randomly, as I was pulling out of Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing Headquarters, and that was delightful. Then, this afternoon, a charming email from a student... and that's all it takes.

Even with 13-hour days... this life is so delightfully simple, sometimes.

Monday morning

So, yesterday, I was quietly productive. First I got up late and decided not to actually get up, and stayed in bed to watch tv shows online. (This is productive with regards to relaxing, by the way, and pretending to nurse a vague sore throat... why do I always seem to have a vague sore throat?)

Then I actually got up, and answered some emails that I really did not feel like answering, and by, like, 5pm, sat my arse down to work on the Translation of Death (uh, yes, still... but I swear I'm finishing it this week, if it kills me). Actually got a few pages done (thank Christ!), caught up with the parents on Skype (yay!), pondered the booking of tickets home for Christmas (yay!) but did not actually book them (must, though, asap), and decided to clean the apartment circa midnight.

Then remembered that had wanted to mark one of my students' final exams, and also plan a bit for the one I'm giving in class today... and then finally went to bed, all happy because my apartment was clean, the Translation of Death had made some slight progress, and my flannel sheets are delightfully warm.

Now it is Monday morning and I can't decide whether to be residually satisfied with myself (from the productivity, you know) or cranky because it is the crack of dawn (well, before it, actually) and I am sleepy. On the other hand... classes today from 8 to 3.30. Do you know what that is? That is, like, a normal school schedule. Even if I get stuck at work for a few hours after, I could still leave by a normal time! Before the 12-hour mark! And cook myself a healthy dinner! And continue the Translation of Death! Yay!

Okay, decided: I'm going to be in a good mood. Despite the mosquito (mosquitoes? really? in the second week in November? basta!!) that is sitting on the wall just above my computer, taunting me. Bastardo.