I don’t think “totes” is a word in Italian. When I move to Italy, I will make it one.
Today I supervised the year 10 Italian exam. It was very exciting because the Italian teacher actually believed I’d be able to answer any questions that might come up. I thought so too, until I opened the paper to see my arch nemesis right there at questions one thru five. I started sweating as pronomi leered at me from the pages, daring me to guess, goading me to pack my pistols for a dawn showdown with li, lo la and all the rest of the family.
Pronomi are the mafia of the Italian language, and I’m on the run.
I couldn’t read the rest of the paper after that. I’m still traumatised by being hit for getting the answers wrong. I’m sure that’s actually it; no one can be that mentally incapacitated as to not understand pronouns. But now you just have to mention the very word in Italian and I have flashbacks to the rage: the bulging neck, red cheeks, other students ducking for cover as the hand swings around to cuff my skull. The filthy toilet that didn’t flush, but was the only place to run and hide from the shame. Well, I didn’t run. Stiff upper lip and all that.
Yeah. Screw you pronomi.
Corporal punishment when you’re in your 30s. Must be a Catholic thing. Or a Sicilian thing. But I’m going with Catholic thing.
The Catholic Church has long given me grief. (And yes, I realise that I wasn’t going to Italian language lessons in an Italian church, but I’ve hit a tangent, so please let me go on.) I have strange problems with my wrists, for those of you don’t know. It’s not a big deal; I was born with it so I’ve very well learnt to deal with it. Basically, the joints are fused rather impractically, so that I can’t turn my hand out flat. It’s a bit of a pain, but the only people who’ve ever had an issue with it are also the ones who teach that God loves me the way I am.
Something preached but not practiced, me thinks.
When I was in prep, I wasn’t allowed to do PE. Why, you might ask? Well, I couldn’t do the sign of the cross because I can’t touch my shoulders properly. So I guess the crusty old nuns thought my immortal soul was in danger. It might seem like nothing to you, but I really did not like being taken into the basement and yelled at for not being able to touch my shoulders. I was timid enough as it was, thank you.
But it gets better! This year, at our extra special celebratory mass at work, the crusty old Bishop (they’re all crusty) wouldn’t give me communion until I held out my hand “properly.” He didn’t care that I couldn’t – he tried to FORCE my palm flat. Part of me wishes he’d broken my wrist, because I’d be a very rich woman now. Smiley face. But I was very upset. I don’t really know why. This wrist thing is actually a small part of a much bigger issue, and it’s the very people who you’re supposed to be able to lean on for support – the church elders – who make you feel the most like shit. And no, I would never lean on the church elders for ANY kind of support. But that's not the point.
Needless to say, no more Eucharist for me.
Anyway, somehow this blog just went from fun times about Italian, to me re-living images of nuns with a big wooden stick, in the wee hours of the morning. Good times!!
Here’s a picture to bring this back to a more upbeat place!
This is my dream vacation. And before you ask, I am not swimming in a muddy dam, or a bucket of excrement. Nor is it Oompa Loompa land - those things give me the willies. This is pure, unrefined melted chocolate and, unlike big, fat Augustus Gloop, I can swim in it.
I also have a money tree. If you'll pardon the pun, life is sweet!
Amen!!! (With no hands on shoulders. Crazy Mo-Fos.)
You know me. Can't make a scene.
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