Peter Piper, Panties and Procrastination

One month!  I have gone one month without buying anything for myself!  Yeah me!  I am well on my way to making it one quarter with no clothing/shoe/accessory purchases.  In retrospect, doing a bit of inventory followed by an emergency shopping spree would have been a good pregame.  As it is, I have plenty of all the things I like to buy.  Tights – got em!  Miniskirts – one for every day of the week!  Boots – whoa mama I got the boots!  What I do not have is regular-old-boring-to-buy socks.  Realizing a week into the challenge that all of my training socks are either threadbare or lacking elasticity is quite unfortunate timing.  This is perhaps my first year having an actual written (ok, it’s on my i-touch which is almost like written) Christmas list since I moved out of my parents’ house.  On the top of that list: Full length mirror, but right under that…boring functional socks.  Yes.  I want socks for Christmas.  Pack your parkas.  Hell is freezing over.

The Challenge has motivated me to thin the herd.  When digging through my sock and underwear drawer trying to find an acceptable (maybe even matched) pair of white cotton socks for a jog, I procrastinated (The procrastination is strong in this one) said jog by dumping the drawer and getting down to work.  I couldn’t get rid of my dilapidated socks because running in purple thigh-highs may be good for a laugh, but bad for blisters…I assume.  Because this is totally not something I would ever do or have ever done.   Girl Scout promise.  There were tights in there from HIGH SCHOOL!  In all fairness, they were completely awesome red footless tights with lace around the ankle.  They were totes all the rage in 92.  They have made the cut time and time again because tomorrow’s 90’s parties are going to be as totally bitchin’ as the 80’s bashes of today.  Who doesn’t want to dress like Nirvana and get drunk?  …or maybe hike? …Garden?  Not that Nirvana wore red lace trimmed tights, but maybe their girlfriends’ did.  Maybe not.  I am shocked and deeply saddened at the loss of red tights.  It appears that decades of neglect took their toll and elastic rot crept in late one night.  We will all miss red tights.  Rot is not acceptable in any form of under garment.  Ever.  Really.  Get that looked at! Red tights were joined by several similarly aged hosiery friends.  The survivors of “nylon holocaust 2011” were neatly folded and stacked by color.  It is amazing how “type A” I can be when I am doing my best procrastinating. 

Next – the underwear.  The drawers within the drawer.  Wow.  It appears I also like buying panties.  There were ones in there I don’t remember buying along with ones I thought I got rid of ages ago.  Out came a shopping bag and soon it was full (full!) of knickers.  I was going to count, but I am so fond of the fab scale Husband bought me that I weighed the bag instead.  Over a pound!  A pound of panties!  As they were mainly my cut of choice, thongs, I began singing, “Peter Piper pitched a pound of partial panties…”  Really.  I’m not proud of it.  Into the bin went the bag of briefs along with the tangle of tights. 

Now to put it all back together again.  How is it possible this way smaller amount of lingerie (ok, calling my workout socks lingerie is more than a stretch) can’t fit back in the drawer?  It is all folded and stacked and organized and totally not fitting.  WTF?  Ok, well if I just slide this here and combine this..and well…great – I’m done.  And it looks just as overcrowded and screwed up as it did an hour ago when I went looking for freaking socks.

Back to the Tower

2010: Pregaming with greasy egg sandwiches

I woke up this morning looking like I had just invented the flux capacitor.  I’m not sure about this going blonde thing.  Besides my Christopher Lloyd hair, I decided today was a great day to bring headbands back despite the fact that I knew the race I was running would be covered by film and camera crews.  There’s just no fighting a fashion sense like mine. 

Last year D.O.M. and Me at the Finish

A friend of mine had come across the “Run to the Tower” race last year so we stuffed five of us into a Cadillac and headed to Tuscany to run what we thought was an 8k.  The race seemed really really long.   Every time I thought there couldn’t possibly be any more course – there was!  Turns out the race is 12k not 8k.  Ooops.  Someone had dotted our half note and forgot to tell us. 

Gnom Gnom Gnommy!

After we finished, we got some fab gelato right at the base of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  It was the best ever gelato!  I almost felt guilty for eating it.  Not because of the calories…because I am not so good with dairy and I was riding back with four dudes in one vehicle for two hours.  Well, not all of them showered so I figure it all evened out in the end. 

This year: Mr., Me, D.O.M. looking damn excited to run

 -- notice the fab head band/bed head combo

This year came with the advantage of knowing the course and that the race is indeed 7.2 miles.  I also hit all the water stops this year!  Many of my closest friends don’t know that I struggle with being a complete klutz.  Husband knows.  He knows that I stop walking (WALKING!) to take a drink…and now so do you.  It seems that if my feet are moving, I no longer know where my mouth is.  I come off looking like a teething child who has drooled all over myself when I try to combine movement and drinking.  Both drink stations I managed to grab a Dixie cup and at least some of the water went into my mouth. Success!  Some of it of course went on my shirt and a wee bit into my headphones, but some went into my mouth!  That’s what we’re going to focus on here people.

Here we are at the not-so-leaning Tower of Pisa

Two weeks ago I really wanted to hear a song I used to listen to endlessly.  It had been a few years but I found what I was looking for.  The album was like going to a reunion!  Every song that came on was familiar and delicious.  The pace was fantastic for me.  The fact that the song I was looking for wasn’t on that album or even by that group didn’t bring me down a bit.  So I loaded Union Underground and took off for the tower.  My goal was to finish under an hour.  I didn’t, but I did take three and a half minutes off my time and don’t forget the drinking while running thing.  Not bad!  If I shave another three minutes next year, I will meet my goal. 

Again we took goofy finish line photos and ate gelato.  It was more or less Back to the Future 2.

Never trust an Orange Man

Why oh why was I up until one in the morning last night doing my KINDERGARTNER’S homework?  They should call it what it is, Momwork.  Let’s just look at the situation shall we?  It is a writing assignment for five year olds who can neither read nor write.  That’s just setting a kid up for failure.  Oh, and all you strivers who got the book TEACH YOUR BABY TO READ and thought it was anything other than a gag gift, you may not comment.  Clearly the thought of showing an 18 month old flash cards with full words on them was as bizarrely entertaining as watching a chinchilla have “alone time”.  Just as wrong.  Just as humorous.  After reading the book, I would have titled it, The Nazi Training Guide for Illiterate One Year Olds.  By the way, my sista friend gave me that book and it was eight years later when I found out it was actually an honest gift.  My bad. 

Back to MY assignment.  The whole thing is really rather sweet.  The class has a bear named Morgan and each week the kiddo with the most smiley faces posted gets to take the bear home and “show it a good time”.  All along, I am to be taking adorable photos that will be journaled in Morgan’s notebook and handed in Monday morning.  Adorable photos of a very proud young Rex and a stinkin’ cute teddy bear were absolutely no problem. 

Rex bringing Morgan home

Rex playing hide-and-go-seek with his new buddy

Rex making sure Morgan is safe on the ride to the steel cow

Getting milk for dinner

Taking a ride on the zip-line

With the number of Morgan pictures we took this weekend we could have published a book.  “Mom take a picture of Morgan being cute.”  “Mom, let’s put Morgan in my bed…and take a picture.”  “Mom, let’s feed Morgan…and take pictures.”  Oh, or my favorite, “Let’s give Morgan a bath…and take pictures” as he stops up the bidet and starts running water.  Well, other Mothers, no worries.  I saved Morgan from that mud puddle. 

The assignment started off innocently enough.  The tipping point came when we got milk.  See, the steel cow is in the parking area of the wine store and, what do you know, Rex wanted to take pictures with Morgan there.  It was when this beauty was snapped that I saw Morgan had a wild side!

Morgan liked the wine, but

He moved on to Spritz

He lost his pants in poker though

But after the game he met this cute chick. 

One thing led to another…

It was all going nicely, but

there was this big orange orangutan hanging out

…with a video camera

And this is what happens when Mom gets left doing the homework.

You said WHAT?

I’m relatively sure I am not alone on this one.  It has happened to all of us right?  You’re in the car with a load of friends singing along to the latest and greatest and suddenly everyone is looking at you and laughing…at you, not with you.  When your ears pick up some completely random words that are not the random words the artist is singing…but you are (loud and proud baby) you’re entering the Twilight Zone.   The Lyrical Twilight zone where no two bastardizations are the same.  Where the Bee Gees sing, “It’s all right, it’s okay.  You make love the other way” rather than, “It’s all right. It’s okay.  You may look the other way.”  I mean honestly folks – which way makes more sense?  The song is called Staying Alive and it’s sung in falsetto. 

When I was in Middle school I used to sit next to “Car Guy” for one completely boring class and he used to intentionally change the lyrics to popular songs a-la Weird Al Yankovich.  The one I still remember from all those MANY MANY years ago is Raspberry Yogurt which was a parody of Prince’s (when he was still known as Prince) Raspberry Beret.  Sing along now, “she wanted raspberry yogurt.  The kind you buy in a grocery store.  Raspberry yogurt.  And when it was gone she couldn’t eat no more.”  Okay, I remember way less than I thought I would when I went off on this tangent.  The thing is, this is a parody and totally intentional as opposed to just messed up.  Everything in the Zone is unintentional.

I am Lyrical Twilight Zone breading ground.  My favorite mix up from my younger days was with the AC/DC song Dirty Deeds.  I thought Brian Johnson was singing, “Dirty knees, dundered jeans”.  I had no idea what “dundered” meant, but you know, they’re Australian so it must be some sort of unkempt slang term from down under (which also sounds like an unkempt slang term).  This is one of the more innocent variations on this often misheard lyric.  Some folks have been rumored to hear, “dirty deeds, done with sheep”.  I feel pure as mountain powder with my “dirty knees” version.

My girlfriend, Professor Sexy, got a hearty belly laugh from me one day when she belted out a classic, “Hold me closer Tony Danza”.  Perhaps that was someone’s fantasy in the eighties, but I think for a substantial reduction in tossed lunches, we should change that one back to, “hold me closer tiny dancer”.  I mean the song is sung by Elton John so I suppose making it a love ballad to a pop culture b-lister would make sense, except the song was released in 1971 and Tony Danza didn’t hit TV stardom until 1978 when he landed on the iconic Taxi.   Randomly, my fave band, System of a Down, actually does sing about Tony Danza in their song, Old School Hollywood.  (No question about the lyrics on this one, just didn’t want to miss an opportunity to plug SOAD.)  An S&M alternative to the Tony Danza interpretation is, “hold me closer, tie me down, sir”.  I’m sure Sir Elton is proud!

On to another one of my favorite bands, Metallica!  With the purchase of Guitar Hero Metallica came an awakening.   Singing is the only activity on that game where I blink.  If I’m drumming or strumming, by the end of an epic Metallica song, my eyes are stuck open like an old Tom and Jerry cartoon.  However, when I sing, I am presented with a different sort of discomfort when the proper lyrics scroll across the screen.  Shocking.  Did you know that in the song One, they sing “tied to machines that make me be” and not, “tied to machines that make me pee”?  I didn’t.  Worth the fifty dollar purchase price right there.   Oh and the song Battery – yeah, um the lyric is actually “Can’t stop the battery” not “Kama Sutra Baby”.  Not feeling the mountain powder sensation on that one.  Hmm.

This one is totally not mine, but it rocks!  The vary first video I ever saw was the Eurythmics  Sweet Dreams.  I was quite young and remember standing in my Mum’s bedroom.  She had on some morning show and Annie Lennox was the guest.  The song goes a little something like this, “Sweet dreams are made of these.  Who am I to disagree?  Travelled the world and the seven seas”.  Unless you hear it like this person from deep inside the Lyric Zone, “Sweet cream is made of cheese.  Who am I to disagree?  Travel the world in generic jeans”.  Sounds uncomfortably delicious!

Speaking of Mum, one Christmas Santa brought me a synthesizer (What? It was the 80’s and I wasn’t cool enough to ask for a red keytar) and a book of The Beatle’s music.  Gotta love the classics!  My Mum’s fave was When I’m 64 which often gets altered into “When I’m 6 foot 4” as in “Will you still need me?  Will you still feed me when I’m 6 foot 4?”.  You know my fascination with height by now and the answer is “YES!”  I will so totally still feed you!  Speaking of tall people, I ran into a rather tall lad from South Africa at a house part last weekend and found that my fascination has a photo negative!  Turns out when I confessed my fascination with height, he totally confided the reverse.  I was wearing 4” heels for the event, but upon his request I shed the stilettos and we basked in our shared, yet opposite, freakishness for a moment.  Then I put my booties back on and we went back to drinking.  I sound like a complete pushover taking off my shoes at the request of a random partygoer, but there are no pictures so it’s like it never happened.  While we are on the topic of little people, who can forget Santana’s song Smooth with the dreamy Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty belting out, “Man it’s a hot one.  Like seven midgets in the mid day sun”.  Swoon.  He’s totally hot for my genetics. 

Sometimes our caveperson genetic programming sneaks in from our subconscious.  For example, maybe you are listening to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing and you hear the line, “Darling you’re so great.  Can’t wait for you to operate” as, “Darling you’re so great!  Can’t wait for you to ovulate.” Or there’s always George Harrison’s catchy pop classic, Got my Mind Set on You which could be mis-sung as, “Thought my Mom sat on you”.  Now I have no idea if this is a reference to George Harrison’s Mom being promiscuous or fluffy, but either way, try it next time you’re singing along to the classics.  It is way more fun this way. 

You know what is definitely fluffy?  Bunnies.  I love them, especially when they are lining my gloves.  The scene from Fatal Attraction where Glenn Close boils her ex’s rabbit is so iconic, the aliens monitoring us from our broadcast TV signals probably think this is a standard part of courtship on Earth.  I suppose it should have a soundtrack provided by the Eagles.  Come on, you’ve all heard this line from Hotel California, “What a nice surprise, when your rabbit dies”.  Perfect pairing.  It’s like pears and gorgonzola – delicious if not a little foul.   Aerosmith sang a song whose title told it all, Do the Psycho Lady.  Ah, they also reference killing a rabbit in Sweet Emotion so maybe Dude Looks Like Lady is just a producer changed cover-up of some deep-seeded fanatics.  I smell a conspiracy theory! 

My favorite lyrical mess up is repeatedly performed by my absolutely adorable daughter, Rutabaga.  Like my Mum before me, I believe in exposing my children to the classics.  Rutabaga is a huge fan of the Ramones.  Any why wouldn’t she be?  They freakin' ROCK!  Anyway, there is nothing like riding with my i-pod blaring Rock-n-roll High School and hearing Roo change the line, “I just want to get some chicks” to “I just want to get some cheese”.  Makes me snicker every time. 

Ever find yourself in the lyrical twilight zone?  Would love to laugh at you.  Leave me a comment with your fab stories!

Ho sete

After a good bike ride, I’m thirsty (Ho sete).

The steel cow.  You drop in a Euro and get a liter of unpasteurized milk.  It’s the closest you can come to walking up to a cow and latching on, but without the dangers of cow patties.

Vend-a-bottle

Smells better than getting under the cow.

Some folks would choose a steel cow to frequent based on proximity to home, I go here for proximity to the wine store.  Does the truth make me sound like a wino?

All the pretty bottles…are way too small.

Oh YEAH  - that’s what I’m talking about!

This is Paula’s (Pa-ool-la) shop and she loves that we consume mass quantities of wine.

This is a demijohn full of “house wine”.  The restaurant will quadruple the price by the time it shares the table with your pasta.

It sort of looks like I haunt this place

If you happen to show up at the right time, Paula will fix apperitivo with all the samples you can handle.  Of course we walked out with a fifteen Euro Sausage and eleven liters of wine…  At Paula's we pay E1.60 to E2.00 per liter when we bring our own bottles.  Price rocks, but my fave part is the sulfates, or the lack thereof.  The wine is fresh and has no preservatives.  No preservatives means no hang overs.  Come on!  I'll take eleven!

Kid tested.  Mother approved.

The sausage.  Not the wine.

Okay, I approve of the wine.

I just don't make my kids test it.

Riso di Zucca

Last week I could get away with sundreses! 

This week...it's time for hearty warm food.

I love autumn.  Getting dressed in the cooler temps is so much fun.  Layering jackets and bringing out the tights gets me excited to get out of my warm bed in the morning.  It’s more fun to go running when the air is crisp and being in the kitchen is sublime.  Soups and chilies are naturals when the temps drop, but since moving here I have to add risottos to the short list.  Full of fall veggies, warm and hearty, they make my tummy happy.  Risotto can be made with just about anything, but here in Ferarra they are particularly fond of pumpkins and all I can say about that is, “yum”.   

Even though I had eaten my share of risotto prior to my arrival, I had no idea how to make it for myself.  Turns out, it isn’t that hard.  Yes, it takes some time, but being in the warmth of the stove with all those delicious scents sort of makes it not suck. 

Normally a risotto here is considered a first course.  I still serve my meals American style so I make it either as an entrée or a side.  Either way…does not suck. 

I present my first cooking blog entry:

Poor a hearty glass of wine – you know for the anti-oxidants and heart health and all.

Here's what you'll need...other than more wine

An onion – diced

Risotto rice

Olive oil

A pumpkin - skinned and diced

Bouillon cubes or chicken broth

Pepper

Grated parmesan

Getting started:

Sauté the diced onion in some olive oil.  I don’t know how much oil I use…let’s say two tablespoons shall we?

Toss in the diced pumpkin.

When I buy pumpkin, I either get one of these green guys like in the ingredient photo or I get one of the monsters that look like butternut squash.

Pumpkins from a local farmer

Cover with water and let the pumpkin cook down stirring it occasionally.  I found it goes quicker if you add a bit more water and let it boil down.  Impatient perhaps, but effective.  You want to cook it until it looks like baby food.  This can all be done way ahead of time and refrigerated then popped back on the stove later.

So not Italian, but I add my bouillon at this point.  I use a veggie variety from the grocery store here, but whatever floats your boat.  If you prefer chicken broth, don’t add bouillon, skip this and add the broth instead of water later.

Grind in some pepper and refill your glass.

Toss in one hand full of risotto rice per serving and one for the pot.  Eight is a good bet for a full pumpkin like this one.

Add water (or chicken broth if you went that way) a bit at a time while stirring for about 20 minutes.  Luck for you, you only need one hand to stir, leaving the other free for your wine glass.  Perfect.  Also, haveing friends in the kitchen with you has been known to contribute to time warp.  After twenty ish minutes, taste to make sure the rice is tender.  If so – SWEET!  If it is a bit crunchy yet, top off your glass and keep stirring. 

Top with a bit of grated parmesan and ENJOY!  Or don’t – I don’t want to tell you how to live your life.

Lost in Translation

After the issues with our choice of attire for the dress badly party, I sort of hinted that there were other more heinous translation errors.   Well, the delay in the post was not lack of material, rather thinning the candidates to a manageable number.  I chose three.  I like the number three.  It is cute and curvy and therefore, a natural. 

Number One:  We have these fabulous hand-me-down friends who came for dinner one random evening.  They have a daughter who is my age so I sort of think of them as my Italian parents.  This particular evening, Mama, Papa, their daughter and her boyfriend were sitting around the table with us having a lovely conversation in English.  Papa and the two my age speak English, but Mama doesn’t so I figured I would use my budding Italian language skills to answer a question about some of the food I was serving. 

Italian is all about pronunciation…or at least it was in this case.  I had gone to the town center that day and bought fruits and vegetables at the market.  This isn’t odd.  I do it at least once a week and was pretty sure I could make this into a sentence.  Well, with the word “market” on my mind I told them I had bought this at the “marchetta” which translates not into market, but “whore house”.  I did not in fact buy the veg at the whore house.  I was unaware that they even produced this sort of product.  I had in fact purchased it at the “mercato”.   His face turned bright red and he had himself a hearty laugh.   Oops.

Number 2:  Mr Muscalo is a great product.  When your drain clogs because a house guest vomits into your sink repeatedly, it really is the only way to go.  The day that my translation skills failed me, I was faced with a drain that was clogged with my own hair.  Turns out if you treat your hair badly enough, it will indeed fall out and whoa doggie mine had.  It was at epidemic proportions when the water stopped draining.  No worries – I have Mr. Muscalo and Google translate.  I am golden!  Turns out I wasn’t so golden.  I took a bit of a short cut.  Instead of typing in all the directions in Italian, I got very clever and went to the product web site and Google translated the entire page.  Damn I am smart.  So off I go armed with my Mr. Muscalo and a pot of boiling water to battle the hairballs.  According to my research, I needed to poor the hair eating chemical into a couple liters of boiling water, dump it in and wait.  Um…when the granules hit the pot of water a strange thing happened.  They activated.  They activated all over my right hand that was holding the pot.  It was a Calphalon pot and the chemicals ate the inside of the pot.  Gnom Gnom Gnom.  They hit the rug which I miss very much.  It was way less effective with a large chemical burn hole in it.  Gnom Gnom Gnom.  The rest of the witches brew went down the drain and dissolved the hair.  Gnom Gnom Gnom.  While we are speaking of dissolving things, let’s revisit the hand that had been holding the pot shall we?  I ran it under cold water immediately.  I remember that much from chemistry lab.  Of course, in the process of getting from the sink to the bathtub I managed to knock over the remaining chemical granules which then stuck to my feet and found refuge in every conceivable cranny of my bathroom.  Um, “Husband!  Husband!  Can you come help me for a sec?”  Let’s just say he was not too impressed with my translation short cut.  Nope.  He did however help me clean up a fair amount of the spill, tossed the rug and the pot.  He also tried to get me to go to the hospital for what was a raging chemical burn.  I however was embarrassed, too embarrassed to get medical attention.  Seeing as I had never before had a chemical burn I had no idea what was in store for me.  The burn looked bad, but not too bad.  I had no feeling up my right arm, but when I would bring it out from under the cold water, it would feel like I had set it on the stove and left it.  Mmmm.  Just how embarrassed am I?  Nope, can’t go to the hospital and own up to my “translation error”.  That night sucked.  I put a bucket of cold water by my bed and kept the hand submerged.  It throbbed and tingled up to my shoulder.  The blisters were growing.  Still too embarrassed to go to the doctor I went on with my life.  The burning sensation subsided about the same time that the deep blisters formed.  I had made peace with the fact that I was going to be deformed for life from this and thought that retelling this story of stupidity every time someone saw my disfigurement was going to be my penance for cheating with Google.  I look at my hand now and all I can think of is how amazing my body is.  It fixed itself!  There are three spots where it was particularly deep that I can point out, but otherwise I have just slight discoloration.  My arm regained feeling a couple weeks after and by six months the tingling was gone.  Maybe I should have gone to the doctor.  Oops.

Number three :  In America, guys sort of leave me be.  Most of the social events I go to are with Husband and attended by his work mates so it makes totally sense that no one would drop the, “is that Windex in your pants…because I can see myself in them” sort of line on me.  But really, even when I go to the poker table I am pretty much left alone.  Ok, well this last trip to Vegas, there was this super odd fellow (think John Malkovich in looks with a personality that would normally warrant a straight jacket) playing the nightly at the Rio who, when we went on break, turned to me and said, “wanna go make out”.  Tempting…but no.  So, other than him, not a lot of folks in America testing the waters.  Here, it is just different.  People will just randomly tell you, “You are beautiful”.  As a girl who accepts myself, but has never been super secure (who among us is) with my looks, I was COMPLETELY taken aback the first time this happened.  I mean speechless.  Which is really amusing because it is said all the time…just never really to me by anyone who wasn’t related.  It took a while for me to adjust to the random whistle or cat call or huge compliment, but I feel like I have sort of settled into and it may very well be difficult to return to the US and leave this charming aspect behind.  Randomly I have been chatted up or asked out by men here way more than when I was a freaking bartender…and there was alcohol involved there.  Go figure.  Well, one day my normal routine with the Italian men failed me.  (Again, sort of strange – go from more or less invisible to having a routine for such situations) 

I like to walk the ¾ mile from my house to the running trail as a warm-up.  Then I stretch, roll my ankle capsules, and hit the trail.  I have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating, my running clothes are ridiculously bad.  Most of my shorts are in good repair, but my shirts are one disaster after the next.  Furthermore, I wear a neoprene waist pack (okay – it’s a fanny pack same as I have ripped on multiple times on here) and bright pink headphones.  Recently I have added to this stunning ensemble, a head band.  Smokin’. 

When my feet start moving, I am all up inside my own head.  It is amazing how much clearer everything is when you can’t see all the crap around the house that needs done.  So, given my turtle like state, I was startled when a guy stopped me and began chatting me up.  I was lost in thought.  It looked like a thrift store had thrown up on me.  I was so not expecting this.  My brain was speaking English and I stumbled to find an Italian word that made any sense.  I told him “I marry” and his face went void.  Here he was asking me if I would like to go for drinks this evening and I was proposing marriage.  Suppose that was moving it a bit quickly.  Eventually between the two of us I got it across that “I am married”.  He then told me I was beautiful (low standard obv) and I went on my way.  Opps.

With the young, the wise, and with household chemicals, the opportunity for translation errors abound!  I have one more year here in Italy to try to top those I have made to date.  I think I will avoid the chemicals though.