topotales

Following the previous conversation about having a baby, Pnut and I had the following exchange.  The thing is, the way thebloggess writes?  That’s how I am in real life.  Seriously.

me: babe,

read this!

http://thebloggess.com/?p=3469

3:35 PM Paolo: oh boy…

me: can we pleeeeaaaase tattoo our baby?

Paolo: what?!?

me: just read it!

3:36 PM Paolo:

me: so? fangs, stripes or turtle?

3:38 PM Paolo: all of them. and maybe a mohonk 3-D tatued on his/her head!

3:39 PM me: her. how small sizes do you think they make combat boots?

Paolo: depends on the size of the machine gun

3:41 PM me: ehm. depends on the size of the baby. I wouldn’t want her firing anything that didn’t outweigh her by at least 5 ounces.

Paolo: fair enough. But she’s gonna be big, you know…

3:42 PM me: ha! she has one quarter little fat indian lady genes.

even the venetians can’t control that.

Paolo: dude. You have no idea….

3:43 PM We owned India, then a stupid Genovese stumbled across america and we got screwed.

3:44 PM If it was for us now Mumbai would be called Rialto.

3:45 PM me: I’m gonna tell my mom you said that.

3:46 PM Paolo: she’ll be probably reply something you won’t understand. Deep inside she knows she can speak Venetian…like 3/4 of the world…

3:47 PM me: vaffanculo, muso da mona!

3:49 PM Paolo: See!

After nine months of putting up with absolute strangers stopping her and saying “you shouldn”t run while pregnant”, “you shouldn’t climb while pregnant”, “you shouldn’t…”, “you shouldn’t”.  The most bad-ass woman I know just gave birth to a beautiful (well, actually he kinda looks like an alien, but considering his genes it won’t last long) baby boy!  Pregnant ladies, don’t let anybody tell you what you can or cannot do; it’s your uterus and your baby, you know your body best.

Everybody, please go over to MAPP’s website and congratulate her and Martin (if you prefer to congratulate them in French or German, go here) on the newest and best-looking addition to their family!!  The “Petite Boule” is now officially known as Malo.  I think I’ll continue to call him PB though.  Or maybe PB&J… either way… watch out future climbers, runners, swimmers, bikers, triathletes… here comes the competition!

Pnut’s first words were “Can we have one?”.  Damn you, Putz family!

(I’m sure MAPP will be updating her blog with pictures and a full account of the birth… RIGHT MAPP!???  No sleep is no excuse honey, I know your fingers run as fast as your feet.)

LOTS OF LOVE FROM PNUT AND TOPO TO MALO, MOM & DAD!

So here is an email I lurked out from under the hansosan this morning.  I post it here because it’s almost exactly how I feel about IKEA (everything except the part about trying to build my own stuff… because even being half a lesbian doesn’t mean my limbs are safe from power tools).  The sad part is, most of the furtniture Pnut and I own comes from IKEA, because (disclaimer!!) it’s the only stuff that broke down into small enough pieces to fit up our hamster-sized elevator.  It’s a matter of hell vs. 8 flights of a (spiral) staircase.  Perhaps the only time IKEA wins, in my book.  If you wish to nay-say, you first need to come over and try moving some shit up our stairs without puking.

Anyway, here’s the ’san’s response to this article by David Pierson; I couldn’t have said it any better:

I HATE IKEA SHOPPING. [The boss] would buy half the store if I let her, and all I can think of in there is how I am going to have to spend the rest of the weekend deciphering Swedish cartoon instructions, yelling to disappearing family members while trying to hold electric screwdrivers
into awkward angles after dropping essential tiny bits into dark corners, just to build something I should have made myself in real wood, if I would have had time to figure out what it was I really wanted and cleaned up my garage to make space to do it… I hate screwing into lousy particle board that will emit carcinogen PU vapors for the next decade, cardboard backs that will sack out of their nail fasteners in just one season, the unrepairable cigarette-paper thin printed fake veneer, drawers that I know will rack apart and lose their bottoms no matter how much extra glue I squeeze into their joints. The most insidious part comes after you’ve put them finally together: the
doors weigh more than the whole cabinet, which requires me to screw the humongous front-heavy blocks (zero fasteners provided for that part of the job!) to my crappy walls if you don’t want to find a family member crushed to death underneath it one day.

The only spot in the shop I liked was the left-over bargain corner where I occasionally picked up some wood to chew up into something else. That cooled a bit after I once picked up a 2 meter long mirror there, and only remembered just in time at the check-out that I came driving our super short and tiny Lupo car, which would have made for some great candid camera shots in the parking lot.

None of this livid aversion has had any effect on what really ends up into our house, because there is not one room left uninvaded. Not a year goes by without another batch making its way into our already overstuffed rooms. From the bunker-like units with sliding glass doors ((heavy!!!) in the bedroom to the fake-leather cardboard boxes on the shelves in the privvy, they’re all silent testimonials of the unwritten conspiracy between the marketing moguls and the real decision power in our home.

Sigh.

Pnut and I live in an 8th floor penthouse apartment.  Not as fancy as it sounds, I promise you. Basically a small living room connected to a small bedroom by a small halllway.  But we do have two large terraces, one at either end of the apartment (kitchen, bedroom) with glass doors running the length of each room to let in plenty of light (well, usually rain, but nevermind).  Generally, we leave both terrace doors a bit open and a great breeze rustles through the apartment.  The terraces connect to the roof next door on one side, which hasn’t caused us any sort of problems… until lately.   But while I was with my parents in Nashville a couple of weeks ago, I had a funny phonecall from Pnut.

Pnut: Topo, I’m SUPER sleepy today!

me: Babe, you’re ALWAYS sleepy unless we’re going climbing in the morning.

Pnut: No really, last night I was doing the dogs work all night!

me: …?

Pnut: You know the kit-ties [this is the-super cute and endearing- way Pnut pronounces kitties]  that hang out on the roof next door?  Well last night I woke up and heard yummy yummy crunch crunch sounds coming from the kitchen.

me: … ?  …?  Huh?

Pnut: The kit-ties were in the kitchen, eating the dog food!  And these bloody dogs!  Scapi said woof from her sleep and Charlie didn’t even move from his bed.  So I had to go chase the kit-ties away.  All I saw was two little little cat-asses disappearing through the terrace door.  And they did it a bunch of times!  Now because these bloody dogs are so lazy I have to sleep with the terrace door closed and it’s SO HOT!

me: (hysterical laughing)

At least, it was funny until I spent the last three nights woken up by “yummy yummy crunch crunch sounds” and chasing kit-ties out of the kitchen.  Sure enough, Scapi was streached out upside down at the foot of the bed and managed one sleepy “wou” (apparently, “woof” if just too taxing past midnight) and Charlie let out a sleepy moan from his place half-buried in my folded clean clothes.  Oh… and the dogs’ food bowl was half empty!

And see how nice a wife (yep, still weird) I am?  I even allow him to respond!

1.  Unlike most men, he does not know anything about sports.  No really, he doesn’t know a thing.  The only time I have ever watched sports with Pnut was during the World Cup in 2006 when he regularly asked me “why are they doing that?” and “what does that mean?” and “but why?”.  And then I had to remind him that “I’m American, babe, I don’t have a fucking idea about “futbol”".

PNut: Well, it is not true that I don’t know anything about sports. I just don’t do “commercial” sports like football, basketball and so on. I don’t like the lack of ethics that most of these sports at professional level have. Years ago I fell in love with bicycle races, you know, Tour de France, Giro d’Italia kind of things? I really supported the teams and dreamed to go and see the competitions and eventually become a racer myself. Then, while I got into it, I saw how the system works and how many big guys got into doping, guys I was supporting and admiring as idols. I fell so sick and betrayed that I swore I’d never waste my time supporting “big guys” anymore. It might be a little excessive but…fuck no.

2.  He hates to go to the bank.  And the post office.  And anywhere there might be some sort of beaurocratic annoyance.  He will go so far as to keep letters (ones I have asked him to mail) in his work bag for weeks on end without telling me.

Well…that’s because it’s only me who does this think of things…if I had help from time to time I might eventually not hate this things that much. Hint, hint….

3.  Whether or not your flight is international, you will need to be at that airport a minimum of three hours in advance.  Because, you know, if you’re traveling any other way your anxiety level cannot reach + one hundred percent as quickly.

Well…two things: 1-I like airports and aviation in general. I don’t mind spending time watching people going by from and to exotic places and imagine what my next destination would be…then…yeah…I get slightly nervous when I have to catch a plane since I have been told missing one could be a big pain in the ass….

4.  IRON MAIDEN BABY!!!  EVIL HORNS!!!  FLIGHT 666!!!  … Um, yah, I have no explanation for this.  Nope, none at all.  As a matter of fact, I can listen to almost anything EXCEPT Iron Maiden.  Baby.  Oh… and he practically slept through the Iron and Wine concert I took him to last year.  Also, the Ani Difranco concert  was just “okay”.

UP THE IRONS!!!!! I have the greatest memory of myself, when I was 12, discovering music for the first time. It is thanks to Iron Maiden that I got into music in the first place and I followed them ever since. Of course my music tasted expanded a great deal but I am still attached to this band a lot. And then…how can you NOT fall in love with album art like the one here below?

6.  He pretends not to speak German, even though he does.

Well..if asking for a beer or a room to sleep in is speaking German then you can call me Rilke.

7.  He is afraid to climb inside.  In the insulated security of the climbing gym, I can generally climb one or two levels above Pnut.  But get us outside where the gear is sketchy and the rock is crumbly and I have to wear brown pants.  And while Pnut talks a big game of modesty and fear, he will climb just about anything in the Dolomites.

Hrmph. Plastic is not natural, routes in the gym are too hard, the gym too noisy and there are no little birds flyghing around…it’s boring. And no, I cannot climb everything in the Dolomites but I love the place so much that I wish I could.

8.  If you call him, your conversation will last a maximum of five minutes.  He hates the telephone.

Yep, that is very true. Please don’t take it personally but I much rather see you and have a great chat every once in a while than spending time over the phone…so…BOOK YOUR TICKETS TO NY PEOPLE!!!!

9.  He had a short career as a model.  He wore (wait for it) a SUIT.  Yep, a jacket and tie.  Well, technically he slung the jacket over his shoulder on the catwalk.  Still, if you had to live with the stinky footed, unshaven Pnut that I have to live with, this tidbit of info might make your eyes pop a bit.

No comments here….I am still ashamed…

10.  He dressed as a woman for Carnevale in Venice.  Every year.  I have the pictures.  And he could have modeled as a woman too… which might explain a few things about our relationship… but I’m not sure what…

Well…the story is: we did that one year, I think I was 15 or sometihng. Big group of guys, all dressed like women strolling around Piazza S.Marco chasing tourists and being loud and obnoxious. Then, something incredible and highly unexpected happended…we got immediately SURROUNDED by chicks…REAL ONES!!!!! How could we skip this great occasion to pick up girls on numbers we definitely weren’t accustomed to? So each year ’till my departure we kept on this nice and friendly tradition of wearing skirts and tubetops.

So the first three days of the trip I was in New Jersey with Pnut, looking at houses.  This was a whole bunch of fun, primarily because we stumbled upon the most kick-ass real estate agent, ever!  I highly, highly recommend Jo Ann Hesse if you are looking for a home or rental property in Jersey.  Not only is she incredibly committed, smart and frank, but she’s absolutely hilarious and knows how to enjoy life!  We found about a million great homes, and fell in love with Dover, which is apparently called “Dover Rico” by the locals and has a reputation for being unsafe.  As far as I could tell, though, this is solely because white people don’t like to be surrounded by hispanics because… you know… Spanish is SCARY.  I walked up and down the street where we fell in love with “our” house (fingers crossed) and spoke to a bunch of neighbors.  They were all incredibly friendly and thrilled to have Spanish-speakers potentially moving in, because the previous occupants of the house “only said hello, goodbye, but in this neighborhood we all know each other and look after each other”.  There were plenty of folks out on the streets with their small kids, wash hanging from the lines in the back yards, music playing, and… yep, I did not meet a single person who did not speak Spanish.  I couldn’t have MADE UP a neighborhood where I felt more at home.

After house-hunting, I headed to Chicago for the memorial service of a family member.  Like most Indians, my family ties are far-reaching and incredibly tight.  It’s hard to describe to Americans how I am related to some people, because technically I am not.  But culturally and emotionally, I am.  So, I spent four days with my fairy godmother, shopping for decorations and watching her bake for the memorial service for her mother, Claire Rose.  Claire was like a grandmother to me, though I could never apply that word to the incredible, fearless bad-ass who once made out with Jack Kerouak and drove cross-country in her seventies to start a whole new career.  It was her blessing, as my eldest family member in Chicago, that I sought before my wedding in June.  Her absence in the world will continue to be felt acutely by anyone who ever entered her non-stop energetic orbit.  Even from her hospital bed, she would rather talk about YOUR life and how YOU were than anything else.

I also had the opportunity to visit the cardiology ward at the University of Chicago hospital and shadow the nurses in the ICU there for a day.  Let me tell you, I would have just stayed in there listening and learning if I could have.  There is no doubt in my mind now that I absolutely belong in a hospital environment.  After living in the gilded corporate towers for so long where the chant is “money money money” it was incredible to be in an environment where the chant is “people people people”.  Sure, I saw egos and drama there.  But guess what - it’s worth it to me put up with that shit if I’m busy saving lives; it is not worth it to me to put up with it when I’m busy making money for shareholders.  Oh - and the best part?  I got to see a guy whose face was eaten up by herpes.  And I did not freak out; I was just disappointed they wouldn’t let me get close enough to see better.  Pnut finds this hilarious, because when he called me later in the week I was crying over the dog with the broken leg on some Animal Planet show.  Damn that Animal Planet for making me cry over every fucking show, but rendering me unable to change the channel.  I’m glad we don’t have a tv here!  Seriously, when I see injured people I just want to roll up my sleeves and get busy fixing it but when I see an injured animal I throw my hands in the air and cry hysterically.

The last week of the trip I went down to Nashville an spent a week with my folks.  Alarmingly, my mother and I made it through almost the whole week without a major blow-out fight.  We did manage to get at each other’s throats on my last night there, but considering it took us longer than 24 hours together, I’ll mark this up to progress made.  I also spent a day building walls for Habitat for Humanity with her.  This was my second Habitat build, and it was as rewarding as I remember.  If you’re looking for a tangible way to contribute to your community, you may want to check into Habitat.  Despite all the Christian hooboo jooboo surrounding the organization (I LOATHE that crap - I’d rather spend those extra ten minutes building shit than feeling uncomfortable while everyone around me prays), it’s a good time and you’ll learn some great skills - especially if you’re doing any work on your own home.

Okay, well, them’s the news, folks.  It’s Wednesday morning and I’ve written all of this from a bar up the street from Pnut’s office.  God, I love being laid off!

Yep, I’m back from the US of A.  Too jetlagged to try and write today, but plenty of news to come regarding house-hunting, adventures in nursing (involving herpes of the face…YUM!), and the fact that I’m way too old to go drinking with my brother and his wife.

Thanks for the guest post, hansosan!

GUESTPOST BY HANSOSAN

I don’t remember when I first tasted grappa.  I must have been just twenty, when a bunch of my high school friends travelled to Italy, all squashed into a white Nissan belonging to  Koen’s mom.  I remember my clothes slowly getting wet driving home as the soaked tent dripped through the back seat cushion from the trunk, after breaking up from a flooded Austrian campsite.  That poor car took quite a beating on that trip, but Koen’s mom, who still had a fish store at the time, was very nice and forgiving.  We all came from families where eating and drinking well was very appreciated, and you can see how we took those traditions into our own lives.  At the time I was experimenting with cocktails, and I still see me drinking my first sidecar, on a metal terrace table near Pisa.  Courageous as we were, we also ordered octopus.  A big plate filled with soft, big, pink chunks of fibrous meat with the round feet still attached arrived.  All garlic oil and wine, it was delicious.   I have ordered a lot of disappointing or even horrible octopus dishes since, knowing that somehow, it can be fantastic.  Did we finish that meal with espresso, and a grappa ?  I’ll have to ask the others.

Koen later married a lively girl from Rosheim in Alsace – also a fine cook and a great source of delicious wines from some small viticulteurs like Maetz from the same village.  But as after-dinner drink, the huge bottle of Italian grappa was always on offer too.  After their divorce, we tried to stay friends with both of them, but I now wonder whether that isn’t the most likely course to lose them both.  When we helped her move out, back to her family in France, she left us a whole box of bottles – also the grappa.  I felt embarrassed – I could hardly put that bottle back on the table next time friends would be eating with us.  So I brought the whole box to the small cabin my parents had in the forests of the Ardens.  That cabin had no electricity, so the dark evening by candle light were a great place to sample nice drinks, and the freeze proof  grappa wouldn’t mind overwintering in a place without heating.

A couple years after I started work, I ended up spending a lot of time in Tokyo, fixing one of those impossible  joint-ventures that were en vogue then.  The Australian head of the office, left it up to his secretary and a friend of her to rescue us occasionally from the obligatory under the bridge after-work drinking, and take us to something more sophisticated.  That often translated into very expensive but fantastic Italian cuisine, way above the low end of the market standards I was used to with my friends and family.  One funny difference was that although the dishes were traditional, the eating style was very Asian communal, everyone reaching with their chopsticks into each other plates, sampling all the fare and ordering more of the ones liked best.  And I still think that, as long as you’re not eating in one of those places where every dish becomes a piece of art, that is a lot more enjoyable.  In one of those places, where the girls were clearly familiar with the staff, we got a special grappa at the end.  It made such and impression that ever since I have been trying to find it back – a quest not really helped by my only recollection being the scrambled up name “lepertone torte”.  For long I wasn’t entirely sure it even existed in Italy – Japanese are notorious for relabeling drinks – and probably the memory of that evening is better than whatever I could find.  But I now think it must have been a grappa from “Le Pergole Torte”, from Tuscany.

When Paolo & topo started to show up at our place, it didn’t take much to find out Paolo likes a good grappa.  As with anything remotely Italian, he is also convinced that the only really good ones can only be found in Italy, preferably somewhere close to Venice.    Mussels, pasta, fish, whatever… the Belgian variety just isn’t up to standard – and who are we to argue with his memories ?  But it is certainly fun to take up the challenge – especially the time when we battled in the kitchen during the great Carbonara Contest !  (I almost creamed him there…)  I did find a very good grappa di moscato from Alba locally – but it has one drawback : the cork must be deficient because the bottle is always emptier each time I check… .   It’s good competition for that fantastic Grappa Ruta - rue flavoured - he brought along. He did not give us the full background though - here is what I found on the net : “In homeopathy, rue is sometimes used as a fever suppressant, but according to Italian folk-lore it not only increases male potency but assists women to relax. A fairly useful combination.”  I couldn’t have said it any better.

Yesterday we were back at my parents cabin.  We had come in early, driving in breakfast for the 20-ish relatives my Mom annually invited, and it had been a full day with a little bit of hiking and an awful lot of barbecuing.  After surviving war famine, my Mom doesn’t believe there is such a thing as too much food.  Most people had left before dark fell and I was sitting with my dad outside as the day cooled off, chatting about work, spilling my guts about all the crap that I was going through lately.  Somehow these conversations occur so much easier there, amid the quiet of the trees.  Still stuffed, I didn’t care for the usual evening tea and chocolate, but when that old brown grappa bottle surfaced, I couldn’t refuse.  My dad claimed the taste remained as great as when we brought it years ago, but of course there is no way to prove that.  But the memories that come with it, apparently have gotten richer over the years too.