Finally, finally, all things Italy are done.  The planning, the packing, the photos, the writing.  And when you’ve spent the time that I have getting ready for a trip like this, there’s a kind of void after it’s over.  A huge void.  Kind of like the Grand Canyon.

I just might be…

…and I’m not quite certain…

…but thinking perhaps that…

I’m bored.

Wait.

I’m never bored.

Ever.

I’m not quite sure what to do about this feeling.

And even more strange?

Because I’ve been up to my ears with all things flickr, Photoshop, iPhoto, and Blurb,  I’m not in the mood to sit here, either.  It’s Friday and the whole weekend is yawning ahead.  It is Friday, isn’t it?

I thought so.

I’ve got three cookbooks opened to some very nice brioche recipes all requiring overnight refrigeration, (I can’t decide if I want plain or chocolate…) and I’m wondering whether the MoH would like to go down to the water tonight to sit and stare at the horizon with a bit of food and something nice to drink.  Or maybe go see Mama Mia…

But there are other things to consider as well:

• Like how to get my doggo to stop her incessant scratching and my cat’s interminable yeowling. The fleas are beyond nasty this year, and although I’ve sprayed, and vacuumed, and washed, brushed, combed and yes, finally broke down and bought some Frontline (disgusting poison…), it doesn’t seem to have put a dent in them.  I.  Hate.  Fleas.  Which is why I hate carpeting.  And whomever conducted that study that reported simple vacuuming daily will eliminate up to 99% of the fleas because it destroys their shells?  What-ever, dood.  Sounds good, but no cigar.  Well, not around here, anyway.  My cat is the world’s greatest fleabus.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  We have almost NO dirt anywhere.  There are flagstones, and concrete, a few flowerbeds that are predominantly damp, a patch of damp grass…WHAT GIVES?
• I need a new book. I loved Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster (laughed my ass off…well…not quite since my scale still insists upon telling me the gawd awful truth).  It lambastes Jenny Craig and the whole concept of a weight-loss plan that includes packaged food AND has the greatest kiss-off line I’ve heard in a long time.  Click the link and watch the video.   I also just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Pachett, one of my favorite authors.  It was her first novel, and I’m letting it stew a bit before I say what I need to say about it.  But her books have that effect on me.  And since I’m on a “thinking about writing seriously” kick (again) and still have 8 gazillion books here I haven’t read that can inspire me from one perspective or another and keep me from actually doing my own writing, Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is next up.  It looks to prove that when you want to write a book, you can write whatever you want, and sometimes, people notice.  Yes, even people like myself, who notice, then let it sit on their bookshelf for, oh, about five or six years.
• I need to sign up for a photography class and a writing class (you know, because sometimes, homework is a good thing…) through one of the university extensions here.  I seem to have recovered from my post traumatic distress syndrome over all things “school,” and both of these classes will occupy my time, feed my creativity, and give me yet another excuse to not actually start my own real writing. Okay, so writing somewhere other than this blog.
• I have to make a fix-it list for this house. I know I used to joke quite a bit about it, but jeez.  I’m tired of putting money into having the carpet cleaned and want to rip it out of the house and heave it out the windows.  I need a painter to even out the walls where boys incapable of standing up without hanging onto the walls have left smudges that can no longer be wiped.  And the fence on the patio needs replacing (along with the neighbor it shields us from), along with the drip sprayers and lights.  Then there are the screens the cats wrecked (and the one I totaled while we were trying to break into our house last night after swimming because we were locked out….) because the extra key wasn’t in it’s normal place… and…yes, things need to be fixed.  I checked.  There is a Handyman section in the Yellow Pages.  My fingers will be walking.  Soon.  They will be walking miles.
• And last but not least, try not to feel so wistful about this blog. It’s sort of crawling along while my food blog is roaring.  Okay, so, not like the Internet Market type roar, but everything’s relative, yes?  As much as I enjoy both of them, this one is special because it’s just about whatever comes to mind.  It’s me.  And sure, so is the other one, but it’s about my food, which isn’t necessarily me, even though they say, “You are what you eat.”  Um, thank-you.  Next?  But the crickets have been chirping loudly here lately, and I’m trying to adjust to the idea that it’s okay and that I didn’t set out to write here to do anything other than expend energy and get back into the habit of writing.  From that perspective, it’s all been worth it.  One step leads to another, right?

Right.

So shut up and write.

On to the brioche…

The train ride to Florence was easy.  There were no delays, the air conditioning was refreshing, and it actually seemed as if we were really skimming along at 300 km/hr, leaving cars on the autostrade in the dust, which is saying quite a bit.  We were able to look out the windows the entire time, unlike our first trip, when a man sitting across from the boys yanked the shade down without the slightest acknowledgment that three others were sitting at the same table. Okay.

Small towns appeared along the way, their terra cotta roofs clustered on hill tops in the distance.  Fields of sunflowers stretched away from us one after the other, but their heads pointed down and away, revealing only a yellow fringe in the midday sun.  I wondered if I’d have the chance to drive through that countryside some day to explore those towns.

From the moment we arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella, it was different.  The area inside the walls of Florence is traffic controlled, allowing only those with a special permit the opportunity to enter.  Yes, there was traffic, but far less.  And absolutely, we had to be wary crossing streets, but not as if we were taking our lives in our hands each time we did.  The streets seemed more organized, neater.  Less frenetic.  And… not quite as intriguing as Rome, nor as quaint as Sorrento.

From the train station, we located the bus that would take us outside the city walls to Galluzzo, a small town 15 minutes away.  At the end of the route, we found the gate to Fattoria Settemerli, the old farmhouse where we’d spend the last days of our vacation.  A locked gate loomed ahead of us, but the quick press of a button on the intercom gave us the cheerful voice of a staff member who explained that we should go through the gates and bear to the right.

Do you remember that the MoH had a flat wheel on his suitcase?  Um, yes.

The road yawned ahead, covered in a powdery white combination of gravel and sand.  The sun reflected from its surface enough to advertise the fact that we were definitely on yet another leg of our adventure.  The wheels of my luggage weren’t quite handling the gravel, and dragging it over the tufts of grass and wildflowers on the edge of the road wasn’t much better.  But I was in good spirits until I led the pack down the first right turn and made the mistake of thinking the villa ahead of us was the farmhouse we were looking for.

At least we were in the shade of old trees that lined this particular part of the road.  After deciding that we’d made a wrong turn, and wondering whether we should go back or move along, and questioning the intelligence of going farther when we weren’t sure where we were, an Audi appeared in the distance.  Dust from the road plumed out behind it, and it slowed as it approached us, its two occupants responding to our smiles and waves. The MoH asked the driver if the house ahead was Fattoria Settemerli and was told that, yes, we were on the right path.  Spirits marginally elevated, we trudged toward a cluster of tall trees that are so often seen in depictions of Tuscany.  We hoped there was truly a house nestled there, and that maybe, it was our destination.  That if we didn’t show up soon, the staff member who answered our call at the gate would send a search party out for us.

And then the Audi backed up.  A tall man emerged and insisted pleasantly in heavily German accented English that we put our dusty luggage into his very clean trunk, and motioned for the MoH and I to get into his back seat.  That he’d take us to the farm house and the boys could follow on foot.  I was mortified, but relieved, and the gesture was humbling.

I recognized the courtyard of Fattoria Settemerli the minute we pulled up, and after thanking the German couple for their kindness saying we’d see them later in the day, watched them head back down the road.  Constance, the daughter of the owner, checked us into our rooms; one for the boys in a separate building, and one for the MoH and I up high in the farm house.  We received information about everything we might want to know about the farmhouse, breakfast each morning, the small town of Galluzzo, and areas of interest in Florence.  We were asked many times if we had requests.

We’re not used to making requests, so we weren’t exactly sure what those might be.  Perhaps a massage for our weary bones?  A foot bath and rub.  Some serious attention for my hair that hadn’t seen a flat iron, or my usual products in over a week?  Sure.  Sign me up.  No, we didn’t have a request.

We chose instead to catch our breaths, the boys settling into the room that could easily have been for honeymooners, and the MoH and I taking a rest after washing off the dust that seemed to be everywhere.  The AC for 5 Euros a day was heavenly, and since I can rarely nap, I took the time to enjoy the quaint old furniture, and the end of my first book.  We weren’t sure what we’d do when we were done relaxing that evening, but I’m sure it would involved walking back down that road to catch a bus.

We did this many, many times.

With reservations to see the Uffizi, and The Accademia where Michelangelo’s David is, we knew we’d need to get up pretty early the next two days, but beyond that, we had no particular plans.  Bear in mind this wasn’t because we’d suddenly adopted a new attitude of being free spirits.  It was more because beyond the two museums I’ve mentioned, there wasn’t much on our list to see and do in Florence.  We honestly thought we’d just wait and see what would happen, and use our 3-day bus pass to its fullest.

We ate in Galluzzo that night at a local pizza and pasta place right on the main square where all the buses stop.  As usual, we were early, and were quickly led to the open patio shaded from the evening sun by huge umbrellas.  By the time we were done with our salad of rocket, parmesan and artichokes, and three delicious pizzas, the entire place was packed full of beer-drinking locals who only occasionally glanced in our direction, and seemed to be dug in for the evening.  We loved it and it was a perfect way to end our first day in Tuscany — after a walk back to the farmhouse.

We walked a lot.

The bus to Florence was packed the next morning.  Think sardines.  We aren’t exactly used to this, so it was entertaining — especially with everyone freshly washed for their day of work and smelling of soap and lavendar.  I wondered what the afternoon bus experience would smell like.

High Points of our time in Florence:

1. The first night we came back late to the farmhouse. We had to enter through a door in the courtyard, and it was so dark we could barely see. As we approached what we thought might be the door we were instructed to use, we noticed a pair of tiny lights bouncing along the cobblestones.  We thought it was one of the farm cats until the lights separated and moved higher than a cat could, eerily working their way toward us.  By the time I was close to deciding whether I should scream or run, the MoH whispered, “Fireflies…” and we stood there in the dark, in that very old place, smiling and watching their incandescent glow come and go until they disappeared in the night.  Although the younger menfolk ventured out the next night to see them, they never appeared.  *sigh*  No, I’ve never seen fire flies before.

Night Sky near Fattoria Settemerli
2. Not having to wait in line for the museums. Remember the middle of the night phone calls I made and the wrong phone number in the Rick Steves book I tried about a million times?  That was for these tickets.  We were able to walk past lines that were unbelievably long to get our tickets, then enter the museums.  Totally worth it considering it takes a few hours to see the art.  Who wants to add a line wait to that time?  Sometimes, it pays to be someone who plans.
3. The buses. They make getting around so easy, and if you pick up a bus route map at the Tourist Info booth outside the train station, then buy a 3-day pass, you can go anywhere with little or no thought. Even shoving your tons of luggage on board is a snap.  Ahem.  Most buses run very late into the night, and that makes a late dinner in Florence easy even though you’ve still got a dirt road to walk down in the dark.  Make that a white gravel dirt road with the full moon reflecting off the gravel.  Yes, there were lights here and there, but…it…was…dark.  So yes, the buses.
4. The lunch we enjoyed the second day there at Cantinetta dei Verrazzano on Via dei Tavolini. It was packed, but we got a table right away, and a boisterous waiter who described himself as being half American and half Italian (did I detect a Brooklyn accent?) not only chose the magnificent plate of assorted foccacias and the following spread of meats, cheeses, and fruit, but our wine as well.  He was beyond entertaining, clearly knowledgeable, and an avid sports fan as well, so the MoH and he were able to take a few good-natured jabs at each other over home team preferences.  Absolutely fabulous.  He warned the boys that they better not consider even mentioning that they might order Coke because they’d been making wine for centuries and therefore, Coke wasn’t on the menu.  At least one of them was mortified over this.  I said the guy was loud?  Loud.  But hilarious.

Cafes in Florence
5. Fattoria Settemerli. It was beautiful, and the hosts so wanting to be helpful by driving us more than once to the bus stop.  No, we never asked, nor would we.  But they couldn’t stand our walking.  It was great to hear the plans they had for the farm, which breeds horses and is a certified organic olive press.  I love it when people have plans.  I used to have plans to own a place like that — once upon a time.  And when I mentioned it to Constance, she told me it was a lot of work.  Yes, I do know that, but I also know that when you truly enjoy something, it doesn’t feel like work.  We’ve stayed in Bed & Breakfasts before, and although this isn’t what Fattoria Settemerli technically was, I did recall our previous experiences having breakfast with people we didn’t know, and striking up casual conversation.  We learned that the German couple with the Audi lived in East Berlin for nearly 20 years under the communist government and wasn’t that a story in and of itself.  And there was another couple — young women who were from Hungary.  Psychologists, I think.  They were staying for two weeks, and were also without a car.  One asked if we were familiar with an organization based in our city — one she worked for in Hungary, and that I recognized.  It’s not the first time we’ve met people so far from home that we have a connection with.  Travel is funny like that.

Fattoria Settemerli Courtyard
6. And the statue of David, of course. No, I don’t have photos.  And no, I didn’t hide myself behind that column to snap one without being seen, but that’s okay, because I’ll always remember how I felt when I saw the sculpture.  The perfection of it, the size, the idea that someone so young could create something so magnificent out of stone…I was moved to tears.  Unbelievable.  Every last detail was breathtakingly beautiful, and so it was perfect that this would be the last art we’d see in Italy.
7. The RTR saying with the utmost sarcasm upon entering the first room in the Uffizi (which we visited the previous day), “Oh look.  Jesus.  And baby Jesus…Yay,” as he motioned to the walls covered with paintings.  Evidently, he was over the religious art.  Way over.  I guess you had to be there.

And the low point?

Mosquito bites. Scores of them on our legs, our feet, our arms…you name it, it was bitten.  Somehow, mine didn’t show up as quickly as the menfolk, so I bragged about having garlic coursing through my veins.  Mine emerged a day later, making me look like I was the vicitm of measles or small pox or something.  The boys did not appreciate being asked if the make-up I patted onto my bites made them look better or worse.  I STILL have a few marks left on my legs.

Yes, I traveled in Tuscany with bad hair and diseased looking legs.

But I didn’t purchase anything FAKE from the vendors.  We did, however, spend quite a bit of money on this trip, and the last time I checked, money is money.  But who’s complaining, right?  I’m sure the Italian government doesn’t mind who’s spending as long as they rake in the dough.

Don’t you think that instead of making purchasing FAKE goods illegal, they’d make selling FAKE goods illegal.  Just a thought.

Finally.  A new, peaceful theme.

I wasn’t truly loving the orange in my last digs, but something odd has happened as a result of that recent having to live with it for as long as I did and survive.  When I’m out and about, all things orange catch my eye.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping since our vacation is looming…

…in twelve days.

So why am I messing around with my blog theme, you ask?

I’ve been wondering that myself all afternoon.  Actually for quite a few days now.

I have this tendency to procrastinate when I least should.  Like there’s actually a good time to procrastinate?  Obviously, it’s some misguided passive aggressive behavior my subconscious has manufactured to lull me out of my humdrum existence.

Sounds good, right?

But back to the shopping and the orange.  I’d notice a sporty Carmen Ghia in a parking lot, patterns on furniture featuring a light rust.  Or cute cotton tees of a rich cantaloupe. And bright orange patent leather sandals.  I knew I had a fetish for red shoes, but orange?   Mmmmm….cute little summer sandals with little clicky heels.  Straps.  A smart bow.

Like I said, orange.  Did I actually buy them?  Sadly, no.  And that’s too bad, because they looked like a seriously good time waiting to happen.  I would not expect to have a good time walking about in Italy wearing them.  It’s so not worth the pain and scars.  Okay, so maybe sometimes it is, but not this time.  Does it count, however, that I now own an orange Mario Batalli lasagna pan?  And two — not one, but two orange tee-shirts?

When I was little, each time that I received a brand new box of Crayola crayons, first I’d inhale their waxy fragrance, then notice that two of those crayons fit right in in my “ugly color” category.  Purple.  And orange.

Who knew that I’d end up thinking about orange? Actually liking it.  And purple?  Hell will freeze over before I even think about liking purple.

So which came first?  My orange blog theme, or the fashion industry cajoling me to think about all things ORANGE?  If I learned anything from Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, it would be that.

Who cares.  What does matter is that I also noticed I wasn’t keeping up with my writing here, and when that happens, I sort of begin to wilt a bit.  Sure, I’m spending more and more time in foodland, and…well

How could I get away with writing something as stoopid as this in foodland?

Nobody likes orange.

Do they?

How do we get to Friday so quickly now when it used to seem as if it was forever hovering in the distance of my pseudo nine-to-five work week? It’s amazing, and I’m left feeling yet again that I need some kind of a drive through where I can order a few more hours each day with a super-sized box of salty hot fries.

And I’m pensive. But that shouldn’t stop my Friday Follies, because I’ll indulge in a bit of Peaflock egocentrism instead of worrying about the economy, or whether I’m being green enough. About whether the RTR will persist in his subtle efforts to resist all half-assed attempts at parental pressure to become a neurotic type-A studentisto at some point in the future. Smart young man.

So how is my almost 16-year-old last birdie in my nest doing these days? I thought you’d never ask. Outside of continuing to be the gentle and respectful, scruffy around the edges, but hugging type person that he’s always been, I’d like to say he’s seen the light and has become an organizational sensation with a sparkling bedroom. A notebook that one might be able to detect some semblance of order to. A backpack whose lumpy contents I don’t have to wonder about.

He hasn’t.

But his bathroom is cleaner than ours now, because The Gramster is sharing it with him. It looks like a real bathroom now. You know, with a mirror you can actually see your reflection in and everything? And he’s loving the guitar, the lessons, and even his cool guitar teacher. I keep asking him when he’s going to get House of the Rising Sun down so I can sing, and you know, I think he’s working on it. I’ll let you know if I actually get a gig on YouTube so you can snort your cereal milk or coffee out through your nostrils onto your keyboard.

But school? Well, let’s just say we’re gently reminding him that if there’s not a solid “C” in Spanish and Algebra II, then the MoH has decreed that when we get back from Italy this summer, he’s getting a J.O.B.

Um? So I’m still trying to figure out exactly whose consequence that is since the RTR doesn’t have a driver’s license, and since I remain challenged to completely understand which higher plane of existence he spends most of waking moments on, I’m not comfortable with the idea of him being behind the wheel of any vehicle. Too. Scary. That means that I would become the J.O.B. taxi.

I hate driving. Thoroughly.

Besides, I think our philosophy is losing credibility faster than you can yell, “Phony!” at me. If I haven’t raged enough about it before, or, if you were smart and skipped through the pretty pictures of those twenty or so posts, you know that I do have rather strong opinions about the general quality of public education. In spite of the two decades I spent working as an educator — a damn good one, thank you very much — I’ve always believed that what we do best is try to fit all children into the same sized hole. And because my pensiveness is about my son today, and not public education, I’ll leave it at this: If I truly believe that, then how, how, how do I continue to find myself veering toward that norm? It’s amazingly difficult to pull away from that force.

So how is the RTR winning this? About two months or so ago, his art teacher invited a spokesperson down from a school in San Francisco to speak. The funny thing about it is that each day when I pick him up at school, we have the same exchange:

Me: How was your day?

Him: Pretty good (although this fluxuates between other responses such as, fine, average, normal, okay…)

Me: Did anything new and exciting happen?

Him: No.

It’s one of those warm, fuzzy mother and son moments that we smile about. So it figures that the one day I forget to play the tape, he actually has something to say:

Him: Mom. You know how you always ask me about whether something new and exciting happens at school?

Me: Yah?

Him: Well today, a person came to our art class.

Me: What did he talk about?

Him: Well she was from this art school in San Francisco and it sounds really cool. You don’t have to have SAT scores.

Me: Really? *Oh. Swell.*

Him: Yep. And when she asked if anyone wanted information, I raised my hand.

Whoa. This is the part where I have to control myself and not act like I’m giddy that he is showing an interest in something that doesn’t resemble tiny military figurines or tanks, World War II and YouTube comedy segments. He’s spoken to someone from admissions on the phone twice.

Do you know how difficult it is to keep up with the whole, “It matters that you WORK hard in school, because in life you have to WORK hard if you want to find the right kind of WORK for yourself instead of just finding a job that pays well- blah-blah-blah-dee-dah-work-work-work…” diatribe when the school your son has decided he’s attending has this philosophy:

The Academy of Art University maintains a no-barrier admissions policy for all undergraduate programs. The Academy was built on the educational philosophy that all students interested in studying art and design deserve the opportunity to do so.

All he needs is a high school diploma. Period.

Okay, so… and parents who are willing to pay the tuition.

But it’s right up his alley of interests. So go figure.

Guess the MoH is going to have to whip out his checkbook. But the RTR is still taking the SAT next Saturday.

Just. Because.

And the next two years will fly by as we continue to pander to the great education god in the sky and resist temptations to walk the streets with signs that plead, “Will clean your bathroom for son’s GPA.” Okay, so maybe not.

He told me the school doesn’t recognize GPA, either.

Go figure that his non-plan looks like it’s going to work. Just think about all the grey hairs and wrinkles I could have saved worrying about that sweet kid.

My mother loves watching television. Loves. It. So it’s been a challenge for her since arriving back in Paradise to adjust to our television viewing habits. Um, we don’t exactly have any?

She’s got to feel like she’s in TV Hell.

We do have shows we enjoy, but from my perspective, it’s more about being with my menfolk in the evening after dinner than the show itself. Sappy, but true. Now, the MoH would probably say, “Whatever,” to my response being the avid one-who-looks-forward-to-his-three-shows-that-aren’t-sports type person that he is, but you do get the idea, right?

Outside of those few shows on our highly intellectual viewing agenda (American Noodle, Bones, House, Top Chef…), we surf. Someone grabs the clicker while I’m putting the finishing touches on the latest recipe I’m subjecting my family to and their job is to find something we’ll all enjoy while we’re eating — nothing anyone really cares about. You know, like Dirty Jobs, which is great viewing while eating. Have you seen the one about the clean up after the toilets exploded? Nice.

This isn’t always as easy as it sounds since we’re usually ready to park our butts on the couch with food and beverage in hand around 7PM most nights. There’s never really anything on. One-hundred-fifty channels, not counting choices for the On-Demand channels or pay-per-view options and there’s nothing on. If you have a closet full of clothes and often feel as if you have nothing to wear, it would be similar to that feeling. Completely hopeless.

Like I said. We surf. It doesn’t matter that it’s 6:50 or 7:12, the one with the clicker stops at whatever looks good — erm, that would so not be Cash Cab, okay? Who thinks of that crap? We settle in while we eat, try to ignore the Doggo who waits patiently for any finished plate to lick, never blinking lest she miss that opportunity, and like the relatively content saps we are, watch whatever is semi-interesting. Sometimes, that means staring at the pretty pictures on one of the HD channels.

This is all very contrary to what my mom is accustomed to. She is a stalwart TV Guide person, planning her television viewing time meticulously. In fact, she enjoys reading said TV Guide aloud to others so that they, too, can know what is on and marvel at all the possibilities. So I’ve explained the on-line Guide to her. You know. That place that lists all shows on all channels across all hours of the next few centuries? Yes. That one. I’ve also shown her how the DVR works. That way she can record her favorites, then watch them while I’m wasting the prime years of my life *snort* sitting at my Mac every freaking morning of the week. Okay, so maybe not weekends. But still.

So she’s adjusting, but it’s got to be strange. Annoying? Probably downright aggravating. I know we can be that way. So I also encourage her to watch television in our bedroom when we’re downstairs. Warm the bed up, blow the cobwebs off the Sony and fire up the engine to see if it still runs. And she has. Once.

We have been enjoying American Noodle together, and that’s been fun, but I’m sure she’d like to hunker down with her own schedule, with her own television, which, by the way, is sitting in the garage with the rest of her Earthly possessions and is just about as big as the little bedroom I wedged her into. In fact, now that I think of it, that television is so enormous, I wonder if it will fit through the door.

Okay, so maybe not that big. But I don’t want to think about trying to carry it up the stairs. Besides, we don’t have cable active in that part of the house. Gawd forbid giving the RTR another reason to hole up in his cave. Besides, can TVs actually pick up stations without being hooked up anymore?

So this morning, after diligently recording Boston Legal and Grey’s Anatomy, do you think she’d actually be able to sit down and enjoy them? One would think so. But for some reason, the sound wasn’t working on the television. One of us must have pushed a mysterious button on the clicker and it’s hopeless to try and figure out which one it is without dorking the entire operation up beyond all repair. So I clicked off the power surge for a few minutes and let the whole thing reboot.

It works now.

But she’s upstairs messing around with her laptop which was freezing up every time she had more than a couple of windows open.

I have my fingers crossed that it’s fixed now, too.

Because, like I said, I’m in the prime of my life and have so many swell things to get on with.

Like vacation plans.

I finally found a cute little place in Sorrento for the second leg of our trip to Italy (I booked an apartment in Rome for the first leg) which is happening in less than six weeks and I am sooooooooo not ready…The Hotel del Mare sits nearly at the Marina Grande and is a winding, hilly walk to the center of Sorrento. A great way to work off the breakfast that comes with the room!   It sounds like the four of us will be shoulder-to-shoulder and have some family bonding time.

But I am starting to get pretty excited about the whole thing.

It’s finally beginning to feel real!

This would be one of those times. You know. Where you realize it seems like you were pandering. Not you. Me. I was pandering.

Pandering for attention.

But I wasn’t. And now I feel like it seems as if I was even though I’m one to pay attention to myself, so have never really needed anyone else to, and if that doesn’t convince you I’m a piece of work, nothing will.

I said I was wondering about those things that I was mulling over yesterday when it was grey and chilly out (like about 65 degrees?) and….well, sometimes, that’s enough.

I used to like grey days, so who knew?

I’d not delete my words. There are too many and they count for something. And in the past, when I’ve done that, I’ve regretted it, because part of my life has gone with whatever I’d erased. Even if it was the flowery writing of a teenager, or the wistful thoughts of a young woman.

I’ll never quite remember who I was when I put those words down.

So, no deleting. Just figuring things out, which is something I’m quite familiar with.

Like my new camera. I’m trying to figure that out and I’m thinking I need an adult beverage right now, because the software’s loaded, and well, it’s yet another new thing.

I swear. Just another thing to be thankful for. That my brain works. It’s kind of nice on most days.

Yanno?

It’s funny how things sometimes change, and as much as I can see that beginning to happen — to not want it to happen — it does anyway. There’s nothing I can do about it. Things that once mattered end up in a place we never intended for them to be, and they get lost amongst all the other parts of life that are…well, life.

I guess I’ve reached the point where I’m wondering what this is all about. This. At first, I began here to simply write. But I’ve never been a journaler, not having the patience to put down what happened in a day’s time I’ve always been more of someone who has a noisy mind, and writing always helped to get some of what was there, out. It’s been nice that in the process, I’ve also gotten to do something I love: work with words.

I love words. And as odd as it may seem, the simple look of some, or the feel of others as I speak are fascinating. Regardless that English has myriad synonyms able to get across a particular point, only one of those synonyms is the best for a sentence to convey exactly what I intend. When it matters.

But there seems to be so little time now, and I’m not sure why that is.

I’ve had my other speck in the bloggosphere as long as I’ve had this one, so that certainly isn’t the issue, although that speck is extremely high maintenance. Sometimes, unbearably.

I’ve enjoyed working with them both, as they’ve allowed me to know a variety of people with different interests. But with the growth of my high maintenance speck, this one — troubled as it’s been with its identity crisis — seems to get pushed aside. And now, often, it just sits here. Doing nothing.

That makes me quite sad.

As much as I love all things food, and as much as I can have my mind wrapped around it quite a good portion of my day, writing about it doesn’t provide me what this space does. And when I don’t take that time for myself, I miss it. No one wants to hear my horror-scope and then take a gander at my cookie recipe. Or survive my latest rant, and then dig into a chocolate mousse. Somehow, that doesn’t quite work. When I’m in my kitchen, I’m usually not waving a wooden spoon and complaining about the guy I have to listen to on the radio each morning when the alarm goes off. As much as writing here provides me a sense of balance, so does being in my kitchen. The two are completely unrelated.

I miss being here quite a bit.

Are blog years like dog years?

So is this the part where I sort of fade off into the sunset? I’ve noticed when others have stopped writing. Their blogs sit there unattended. Forever. Others just disappear. I know I couldn’t do that. There’s too much of my life wrapped up in these words and to me, a significant part of my life. I’d have to put it somewhere because like all the photos I’ve taken in my life, it’s part of me.

I’ve always embraced change and chided those who avoid it. Change is inevitable. It is the one thing we can count on in life — and learn from. But I also know that in spite of change, constants remain.

Maybe the constant for me here is to write when I can.

For me.

There is a little box I can check to keep my writing private.

Is that what I need? I doubt it.

I was going to write about something I saw on one of those network morning shows yesterday that really got me going. But today, it’s overcast and chilly, and I just don’t care now.

This is the part where Scarlett O’Hara would remind herself that tomorrow is another day, and Annie would begin singing, Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow, you’re always a day away…

Tuesday has never been my favorite day of the week.