August 15 A.M.

I'm sitting on the roof deck looking at the mountain view profile of the witch Circe. Everyone is sleeping, as I should be, but maybe eight hours was enough? I'm a little wacky with the jet lag, but I did get to eat some of the mozzarella di bufalo yesterday. That is some seriously good sh*&. It rained off and on (?????) I didn't even know it could do that in the summer in Italy, but we sat on the beach anyway because Sabaudia is just that beautiful. I can see the sun trying to bust through the overcast clouds; hopefully it will be successful.

There are a stack of Italian magazines inside on the table: one is a Vanity Fair with a pretty blond (she's a television hostess? I don't think that translates into American?) on the cover, one is a tabloid with Italian soccer star Francesco Totti and the same pretty blond strolling hand-in-hand on the beach. They own the beach house next door and last night I could see the soccer guy sitting on the curb watching his son ride his bike. In front of his Ferrari. Duke is very very very excited about the Ferrari. I don't know who they are, seeing as how I'm American and all, but because there is paparazzi on the beach who follow them around and magazine covers with their smiling faces, I've decided they are the Italian Posh and Becks (Victoria and David Beckham). Although I will not voice that opinion aloud for fear that the Italians will kick me out of the country and never let me return.

I think I need to go back to bed.

August 14

I closed my eyes on the plane at 5:30p.m. (Chicago time; 6:30 East Coast style; 12:30 Roma flava) and didn't open them again until 9:00 p.m.(I couldn't even begin to translate that time for you) It was at that point that my i-pod slipped from my grasp and bounced off my eye mask, giant neck pillow, blanket and possibly even my don't-leave-home-without-'em fuzzy socks. I took off my handful of cocktail rings to blindly slide my hand between the seat and the armrest of the plane in search of said i-pod, thus losing all the rings that were piled upon my lap. I had neither contacts nor glasses on, so I truly couldn't see. All of my scrabbling awoke Duke, who was kind enough to use the flashlight app on his i-phone while I poked around under the seat and tried not to hit the feet of the man snoring behind me. I-pod was found. One ring was found. One ring was missing.

Back to sleep (I know,I know who would have thought a wee bit of an obsessive such as I could sleep when one of my rings was MIA?) and awoke again at 8:30 am Rome time, just as the breakfast cart was making its way down the aisle. I gulped down weak coffee and OJ. I had slept through dinner and my ever-loving Duke had saved me his brownie for several hours before giving in and eating it himself. Why he felt he should share this with me was anyone's guess.

As we were waiting to deboard the plane, Duke tore my airline seat apart with the zeal of one who was looking for that seat cushion floatation device. And damned if he didn't find my other ring. Yes he did. And that's why he rocks.

Our wonderfulest, beautiful Italian friend was waiting patiently for us at the airport, dressed appropriately for the 90 degree weather in long pants, a long sleeve shirt and a scarf. Should anyone need proof as to our Italian pal's level of awesomeness: he was fine to sit in the airport cafeteria while we shoveled in proper Italian espresso(oh my good Lord it tasted goooood) and pastries. He refrained from having any as, "It tastes like shit, man. It's airport food." But I know that I would be reluctant to hang out at all in an airport waiting for people to eat that grossy food in that grossy atmosphere. But he did it for us. That's what you call a good friend.

August 13

*In case you missed my previous musings on the subject, I am headed to Italy for the third time. In my previous visits, I've seen the must-see and off-the-beaten-path sights, hit the major cities, did the museums, etc, etc, etc and even ate at the places recommended in The Lonely Planet. This trip was all about just enjoying Italy and NOT feeling compelled to make the trip enlightening or educational in any way. The plan for this trip was just to be.

First leg of Italian journey has begun. My bag only weighed 32 pounds. Must be a record for me as I usually either pay a fine for going over or am forced at the last minute to try and frantically cram shoes and books into Duke's bag. Wicked tired. Was awake from 2-4 in the morning and up at 6:30. Hopefully this will translate into sleeping soundly throughout the transatlantic portion of the flight. Mort told me that he bets God and Jesus can run as fast as the speed of light. I'm trying to recall how to say "please", "thank-you" and "you're welcome." Going to read Sookie Stackhouse. No real Italians on this flight. You can always tell because their clothes just fit a bit differently than ours. In a better way.

Okay, lady. I've flown with a kid too. It is what it is. What I don't do is proactively go over all the terrible things that could possibly ever happen on a plane with my child. I'm not talking about explaining what to do in an emergency in response to a kid's query while the flight attendant reviews the emergency procedures. I'm talking about a mom who is just causally running through things that might happen: the plane might catch on fire and they (the kid and mom) would be engulfed in flames; the plane might run out of gas and crash to the ground; the plane might lose an engine and fall from the sky. And then ending that bit of cheeriness is the mom's admonishment, "Miranda! Put your shoes back on. The floor is all dirty." Maybe the nice cleansing plane fire will take care of all that dirt.

I'm a grown-up and that mom has me scared out of my mind. I'd better ask her what I should do if everyone is sleeping and there's lighting and I look out the window and see a demon ripping apart the airplane and no one will believe me. (Old Twilight Zone episode.)

Surprisingly, Miranda is now freaking out as the plane taxis down the runway. And she has spilled her juice. And her mom has made the announcement that if Miranda closes the window shade, mom is "going to throw up all over the place." This may be a very long flight.

I thought it was currently 1:30, but now I've just discovered Chicago is an hour behind the east coast and it's really only 12:30. How did I not know that? Do other people know these things? Of course they do. But do they know when it's appropriate to use an apostrophe with an "s?" No, no they do not.

And also, I know that the body of water near Chicago isn't an ocean, unlike that dumb-ass Miranda in the seat behind me who keeps yelling, "Look at the ocean!" It's a freaking lake, kid. Why don't you look at a damn map? See how I'm so much smarter than a 4 year old?

I am truly shattered with jet lag. Twenty hours of travel. I keep misspelling my own name. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will think.

Wheeee! I just found out that I am going to be thanked by name in a book I co-edited. And the author is even a little bit famous in certain circles (but not as an author). That's all I'm saying on the subject, but this is the first time that has ever happened to me and I'm all giddy! Mort is super impressed. He said, "Mommy, you're going to be famous!" I had to let him down easy with a "Yes, I suspect I am." No, I actually replied, that I wasn't, but that I was very excited to have been mentioned since editing is typically very behind the scenes and only a being a wack-o OCD person and a paycheck really make it all worthwhile. "You're still famous to me," Mort replied solemnly.

And plus I just got up and went to the gym, coffee mug and straw in hand before my body was even aware of what I was doing. All of the sudden I looked around and was like,Wait, how did I get here and why am I doing seated leg presses? So I also have a bit of that already got my exercise for the day accomplished high going on.

What is this strange emotion? Could I possibly be... happy?!?

So, my darling Duke has come up with an idea for a small offshoot of this blog involving our travels to Italy this summer.

The first time we (well, I, Duke was a repeat visitor) went to Italy we went whole hog. I cross-referenced every bit of architecture, sculpture, cathedrals, and work of art I could find between my college art history book and the travel guides. We threw coins in the Trevi Fountain; we took the train from Rome to Florence to Venice. We saw the pope's summer home; the Pantheon; the Piazza della Rotonda; the Vatican; the Sistine Chapel; St. Peter's Basilica; the aqueducts;the fields of sunflowers; the Duomo; the Uffizi; we climber the 414 steps to see the view from the top of the Campanile;we lit candles in the cathedrals and watched rats swimming in the canals; we saw the Bridge of Sighs; the Appian Way. We received four parking tickets in six days and swam in the Mediterranean Sea.We ate at restaurants that were recommended in the fancy part of the travel guides. We went to an Italian birthday party and delighted everyone with the singing candle we had brought from Target.It was the best darn vacation anyone could ever have.

(On a side note, I learned that American fashion does not translate to Italian fashion because those women are clearly another species. People took one look at my jean shorts and Diesel slides and immediately addressed me in English. I gaped in admiration as I watched gorgeous creature after gorgeous creature walk by on an average morning, teetering in stilettos on the cobblestones, pushing baby carriages, all while wearing outfits I would only wear to a wedding. And they looked as casual and comfortable as if they were wearing flip-flops and cut-offs and an Old Navy tank top. )

The next time we went to Italy, I felt a small personal triumph when someone spoke to me in Italian. By wearing full-length white pants in 102 degree heat and every piece of jewelry I owned, I managed to pass for a native for one brief, glorious moment. We chilled in Rome and went to the beach. However, we then flew to Paris and did all the sights there. All of them. Paris is darn big. And cold. And not the friendliest. And we witnessed the biggest scam of all time: a steak house that only Parisians knew about. (We were with a Parisian.) We waited in line for an hour watching car after car pull-up to drop-off insanely chic people who all seemed fine to glamour around waiting in this absurd line. And when we sat down to eat, there was no menu. The server brought us each a steak and some french fries. Duke and I were positive our friends were pulling one over on us. But they asked eagerly, "It is fantastic, no?" It was steak. With french fries. That was all. I was eavesdropping my head off, but I didn't hear any language other than French. I even went to the restroom to try and see if this was some kind of tourist joke, but as I passed table after table of well-preserved older women dripping in diamonds and cooing to small dogs in expensive bags, I had to accept that for some reason, this was The Hot Spot in Paris. Go figure.

Anyway, so we are returning to Italy this summer and we are doing nothing. I am going to blog about a typical Italian experience through the eyes of an American. Like the coffee table books that were popular in the 80s "A Day in The Life of America, Ireland, etc" Except I'll be in one region and I'll be blogging more than coffee-table book making. We are staying with Italians who will be on that month-long vacation that all of Europe seems to enjoy in August and we are just living Italian life. We aren't eating at chic places or seeing any sights. We are just going to the grocery store and using a garden hose to rinse off sand from the beach. We will drink espresso in the obscene heat and marvel at how much better an actor Keanu Reeves is when he has an Italian voice-over. We will get to be frustrated by shopkeepers who won't make sandwiches because they don't feel like slicing the bread. It will be lovely. And much different from our previous experiences. I mean, that's the idea now. But if I happen to open an art history book between now and then...