This morning, while in house clothes, and with a Breathe Right strip still stuck on my nose, I stood staring into my upteenth pot of oatmeal. Oatmeal has become my new best friend. Next week I'll be having a birthday, and never have I felt so old physically (Mentally, I'm still 21, just sayin'). I mean, when have I ever had problems eating fast food, or any food, for that matter? No problems. I could eat just about anything and not put on an ounce. Until this year. (I wonder if these happenings can be traced to some Southern Voodoo hexed on me by my chubby cousins all those years back? It wasn't my fault I was skinny in all the right places...). I have gained four pounds over this past winter, and I can't get rid of them. Four pounds isn't a lot, but I'm short. You can see them. Hence, the morning oatmeal ritual. What can I report? Smooth sailing in the nether regions of my belly, that's what.
Next week I'm rationing my bread intake. You have no idea how hard it is to use self-control in my village bakery. The aroma of fresh bread and cookies greets you from the street. Inside are pizzas, focaccias in every flavor combination, sandwiches, rolls, cookies, biscotti, cakes, breadsticks, and of course the loaves all sitting pretty and saying "Buy me! Eat me!!" They crackle when you squeeze them; it's music to my ears. I'll be needing to give myself a pep talk on the way to buy the daily loaf. Just this morning I bought a sausage, red pepper, and mushroom focaccia...it was meant for two, but I ate it all myself.
Things could be worse," my husband said, "At least you're not drinking up all my red wine".
Folks, my village has seen two straight weeks of rain and fog. Nutty. I've gone nuts.
This past weekend, our village had a religious festival. I don't usually deride someone's religious beliefs on purpose, but this is straight up creepy, people. A mummified corpse on display on the altar, with the mummifed corpse of the child, and various "healings" down through the ages, just gives me the heebie jeebies. Nevermind the praying for deliverance to said mummy. Here is the relic: She is wearing a white bonnet, look closely, you can see her face.
foto from internet
Every year I make up some excuse to not have to go up and look at it.
Once we went on a field trip to Padova, and I ended up in a big church, gazing at various what-nots, when suddenly I was looking at vials of hair and teeth of various saints, all "blessed". And gross. I blurted it out in italian (stupidly!), and offended an elderly man.)