Dear Blog Readers – My absence from the Blogsphere for the past week has been due to the fact that I am moving, and yesterday I seem to have hit rock bottom. So, “basta” (enough) with the boxes, and time for some blogging. The photo above I took at a bus stop near my home. That advertisement is plastered all over Rome this week. As I make my way between kids’ schools, from old apartment to new apartment, in my sweaty sundresses and flip-flops, at every bus stop and every intersection, I find this woman. For me she has become a provocation. She looks cool and relaxed enjoying a few moments of sunshine with nobody bothering her—no kids, no husband, no in-laws, no movers, no plumbers and carpenters. I am dreaming of a moment like that, sitting alone somewhere enjoying some peace and quiet and a soaking up a little sunshine while looking altogether glamorous.
It’s not happening, unfortunately. I am sitting in our new apartment with overflowing boxes piled up all around me, the epitome of un-glam.
Let me bore you all with my rock-bottom day yesterday.
In Italy when you move, you take your entire kitchen—refrigerator, stove, sinks, and cupboards with you. The movers bust and drag them out of the walls, pack them up and take them to your new address and dump them there. Our problem is that we have an IKEA kitchen. We also have IKEA desks, wardrobes and bunk beds. Now, I personally have nothing against IKEA. Cheap furniture can come in very handy. However, IKEA wood is more like a pizza box than wood. So when the movers came to pull out the pizza boxes from the walls, some of pieces (of pizza box) crumbled and crushed. IKEA also has furniture made with all sorts of odd nuts, screwy bolts and funny screws that only they make so you can’t simply get a hammer and a nail and fix it, you have to go back to IKEA and get the right odd little screw. (With all this IKEA stuff, I think I am becoming the odd nut, the screwy dolt and the funny shrew).
Yesterday my husband’s family’s carpenter, the very Roman Signor Bianchini, came to put kitchen, wardrobes and best back together. Signor Bianchini’s favorite phrase seems to be, “Ah, Signa’, non si preoccupa’, si puo’ fa’.” Roughly translated from Romanized Italian that means, “Don’t worry lady, it can be done.”
Signor Bianchini brought his trusty assistant – a big, sweaty, muscular Romanian guy with shaggy grey hair who looked like he had just hopped off his Harley Davidson. He was wearing a Bob Marley tank top revealing various tatoos. I didn’t get his name, so I will call him Harley. Harley was extremely helpful in moving heavy boxes around for me all day, up and down and over as I searched for stuff I could not find.
Signor Bianchini and Harley set about putting the pizza box kitchen back together—shoving, grunting, and hammering and building up a big pile of what looked like giant, destroyed pizza boxes in our entrance way.
As they worked, I frantically opened boxes and shoved clothes into any available space. They hammered, stucco-ed and glued while I unwrapped and unpacked.
By midafternoon I had to go pick up my girls at school. I took my youngest, Chiara, to her Chorus class, and brought my middle child, Caterina, home to study. At 5pm I got a teary call from Chiara, “Mom, today there’s the Chorus performance at 8pm, how could you forget? I need my performance uniform, please bring it now!”
Somehow, the weepy call struck a Mamma-guilt nerve.
I went into frenetic overdrive—charging through the apartment, dumping out boxes of Chiara’s clothing, digging, shoveling and finally, after an hour, managed to find the black pants, white button down shirt, bordeaux sweater with insignia, choral cravat, black ballerina shoes and black socks. I threw it all into a bag and was about to head out the door when I received another call from Chiara, “Mom, it is the summer uniform – no sweater, but the bordeaux button-down shirt with the insignia Santa Cecilia Chorus.” AAARRGGH. The crazed search began again, but this time to no avail. No blooming Bordeaux, button-down shirt with Santa Cecilia insignia to be found anywhere. I gave up and decided to take the winter uniform to Chiara.
Just then Signor Bianchini decided it was time for a sum up of the pizza box kitchen and wardrobe situation, “Ah, Signora, unfortunately one of the glass panes on your stove door is broken (I knew that) and you will need to get a new stove (why?), and we’ve glued the pieces of the wardrobe back together but you can’t use them for two days because the glue needs to dry (great!), and we couldn’t get the bunk beds back together because we are missing these funny screws that you will need to buy at IKEA (I hate going there!), and we can’t clear all this refuse of kitchen remains out of your apartment because we need a truck, and we can’t come back until Tuesday.”
I looked at Signor Bianchini and I yelled,
“I DON’T CARE about the damn stove and the wardrobes and the beds and the refuse all over my kitchen, DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? I have a SERIOUS problem here, I have one hour and a half to find a bordeaux, button-down shirt with a choral insignia!”
Signor Bianchini took a step back, paused, laughed and said, “Ah, Signa’ it must be very stressful being a Mamma.”
Indeed it is.
I left the apartment with the winter uniform, went flying down to the tram stop in my sweaty sundress and flip-flops. Did I mention my car has been in the repair shop for the past two weeks after a fender bender? Did I mention that all my shoes have disappeared in the move and I have been wearing flip-flops all week?
Then a minor miracle occurred. On the tram I bumped into Valentina, a mamma from Chiara’s school who lives in my new neighborhood. I immediately began pouring out my button-down, bordeaux woes. She calmly looked at me and said, “Oh, I have one of those at home. My daughter did Chorus for a few years but now has stopped. If you give me 45 minutes to pick up my girls at ice-skating I will see if I can find it for you.”
So I hopped off the tram, took Chiara the pants, shoes, and cravat and then went home to wait. At home I found Caterina in agitation: “Mamma, you know tomorrow is the last day of school and you are the class representative and you have to get gifts for all the teachers!” It was 6:30pm. I opened my wallet, took out a handful of cash and handed it over. “Deal with it Cate, Mamma is going to have a nervous breakdown soon.” Caterina grabbed the cash and gleefully went flying out the door. I then ran to Valentina’s house for the precious button-down, bordeaux shirt with the choral insignia. Then back on the tram and back to the auditorium.
I arrived there at 7:30 – a half hour before the show. And low and behold there at the doorway was another Mamma and foreign journalist in Italy, my Turkish friend Yasemin. She had also failed on the button-down, bordeaux front and had run to buy a new one for her son. I was about to run off home again to get a shower and Yasemin looked at me and said, “you are not going anywhere, you’ll never make it. You will wear your flip flops to the choral performance and it won’t matter, and now I am buying you a drink.”
So we slipped into the nearest Café and I had the most delicious Pro Secco (an inexpensive Italian champagne) I have ever drunk in my life.
I did make a slightly brutta figura at Chiara’s choral performance. This being Italy, the other Mammas had their mini-skirts, strappy sandals and those frustratingly luscious legs. But I was happy sitting in my sweaty sundress and flip flops next to my friend Yasemin (in jeans and sneakers). And who cares about being a slob when your daughter has her button-down, bordeaux shirt with choral insignia and her cravat.
So a big thanks to Valentina and Yasemin, the Mammas who saved me from my Moving Dramas and Button down Bordeaux Blues.
Hang in there! You will make it!! Thank goodness for good friends!
Yes, thank goodness for good friends. As Allegra noted in her comment above “hubbies don’t help, no matter the nationality”. So at least my friends have pulled through.
All I can say is “OMG!” This sounds like something out of a mother’s nightmare!! OK. I will not be feeling envious of you living in my dream country with my dream job any longer. Thank you for that! And I vote for more Pro Secco….lots more!!
I agree, more pro secco is definitely needed around here!!!
Trish you are so so funny!! Moving is horrendous, I couldn’t find any of Costanza’s underwear for 5 days after we moved, I had to wash it by hand and dry it with the hairdryer everynight!! Console yourself: that woman in the picture will age very rapidily if she keeps on suntan like that ;-)) !!
I received a good advice from an organised Mamma when we moved: just focus on ONE box at the time, tide that one up completely then move on. Never look at, or count, the un-opened boxes (too depressing), but only look at the ones already opened (much more rewarding). And best of all: do not expect any real help from hubbies (no matter the nationality I guess) or kids… At least you won’t be disappointed.
FORZA TRISH, I am sure all Mammas- in flipflop or strappy sandals- simpathize!!!!
Allegra — your story about Costanza’s underwear is hilarious. I can just imagine it. I am sure I would have done the same thing. And your advice about the boxes is soooo true. I have decided that every time I manage to empty a box I must consider it a major victory. It seems I must have already emptied 50 but they are still everywhere….so, as you say, it is better not to count or think about it because it is too depressing.
And yes, I spared my husband my caustic comments, but I can confirm your statment that hubbies don’t help.
Perhaps that lady in the poster did exaggerate with the suntan, but boy could I use a trip to the beach!!!
Baci,
Trisha
I love that you chose the delicious prosecco with a friend over dressing appropriately. Those poor Italian women have their priorities all out of whack sometimes. I think there is a wonderful freedom that comes with being an expat who can perhaps break the rules more easily than the natives :)
Thanks for your comment Michelle. It is funny, I have been in Italy so long — 19 years- that it is difficult for me to break the unwritten rules. I definitely felt odd in my flip flops at the choral performance, but I need not to be so obsessed with the bella figura.
Trisha:
I know you had a bad day, but I could not stop laughing. You, with a pretty stiff upper lip, compared to most people in that situation, pulled off a very successful day–got the outfit to Chiara, watched the rehersal, as a good mother. Had time for a little champagne. Allowed your older daughter, Cate, to make a name for herself with her teachers and claasmates with presents she independently purchased and you lived to fight another day.
U.B.
Thanks Uncle Bob — I think “live to fight another day” is probably the right phrase. Yesterday Caterina had her end of junior high class dance and I am class representative. Now given that I work and have three kids I never would have offered to be class rep, but I was one of three mothers who showed up at the first school meeting. Apparently that is the trick in Italy, don’t show up at the first meeting so you don’t get saddled with being class rep. So, I got saddled. So, last night, no more worrying about boxes and kitchens, I was with a couple other moms hovering around the school gym, keeping teenage boys from fighting, watching teenage girls wobble on their high heels, and delivering pizzas that were gobbled up in 5 minutes flat by teenage boys with voracious appetites. It was certainly a change of pace.
Ha! That was magnificent. I could just feel your frustration. The Roman method of moving is what I’d call upheaval taken to the extreme. I had no idea. It must have been quite a jolt the first time you experienced it, crowbars and all. I really hope you will be happy with your new kitchen and home. I can’t wait to see what you start cooking up once you are settled.
Well do I remember sending my own mother looking high and low for my school choir robes. The deal was simple – no robe – no performance. And for a ham such as myself that would have been a terrible disappointment. But I knew my mom would not let me down, and sure enough she drove up and produced the requisite outfit. Thanks for reminding me of a great mom moment. I bet you were relieved to have gotten everything your daughter needed, and I am sure she was grateful. Never mind about the flip flops as compared to the other moms. You were there for your daughter’s big day, and that is what really matters. Really.
All the best to you and yours. Let’s get this move over. I miss the dispatches from the front!
Thanks Adri! You are always so postive. I promise more dispatches from the font coming soon!
Hilarious…it strikes a chord with every mamma in any country. But keeping up with the Italian fashioniste is impossible!
I’ve lived in Alaska the last 40 years , the state voted the “worst -dressed ” in the US, never mind the world. Here you can dress however you want, no matter what, where or when…tee hee! ( Think Carhartts at the symphony…if you even know what Carhartts are)
Yes! I am moving to Alaska!!!!
Trisha how I feel for you – through tears of hilarity – this is such funny post and I love that you still have your sense of humour. Have a much better week and here’s to more time with good friends, more pro secco and sundresses and flip flops – whatever it takes to get through the day is fine by me. Fx
It is now Monday and as I sit here answering your comment I am yet again in a sweaty sundress and flip flops. Had a few more dramas today….and there is no pro secco in my fridge. But at least the fridge is now working!!
Just in case it helps, last fall we had a surprisingly good experience with IKEA Florence mailing us missing hinges for our (admittedly new and IKEA installed) kitchen. It might be worth calling IKEA to see if they will send you some missing screws before resigning yourself to going in person. Good luck with your move!
That’s a good idea! I don’t even know my new address and I am not sure I could figure out the names of those nutty screws to explain them to anyone, but it is definitely worth try. Definitely better than going to IKEA. All it takes is about half an hour in any IKEA and I start going wacko.
Thanks for the chuckle! Hang in there Mamma! When Jay & I were first married, we moved 5 times in 4 months! When we finally got to our apartment in NJ, I took everything out of every box, cleaned it and put it away. I didn’t stop until completely done ’cause this girl needed to plant some roots after 4 months of being a Rolling Stone! Moving not only your self and husband, but 3 kids and all the associated stuff is a HUGE challenge, but your sense of humor, flip flops and sundress kept you going! Thanks for the humor and the lovely photo of Chiara! I’m never moving again!
Much love and deep respect!
Cyndy
Thank you Cyndy — It is certainly encouraging to hear that I am not the only one who has had a big, bad move to deal with. Glad you enjoyed the post. I may have to update it with one on “living with boxes and clutter everywhere”!