Oh my word. Whoever knew such a cute ball of fluff could be concealing an attitude the size the Alps and a curiousity that WILL NOT be satisfied? I’m talking puppy here, people.
Now, I’m no stranger to the puppy scene. We’ve had dogs all my life, and while I will admit that my parents and Erica were mostly responsible for the most recent ones, I also worked for a veterinarian for close to 3 years. You see a lot of puppy traffic in a vet clinic, and a lot of the clean-up and emergency trips to the vet that go hand in hand with owning an adolescent canine.
BUT. It is a WHOLE different matter actually LIVING with the puppy. Like I mentioned, I am house-sitting for a woman who is on vacation in America for about a month. Two weeks before she left, she became the owner of not just her current 4 yr old Labrador, but also of a then 3 month old Labrador puppy. And let the games begin.
She called me two days before I’m supposed to house-sit to let me know that Izzy (that’s the puppy) has eaten mouse poison, and had to go see the vet. They were pretty sure she would be okay, but I would have to take her for a check-up the following Monday. No problem, I can handle a vet’s office – albeit that an Italian vet’s office isn’t exactly like an American one, and that I don’t necessarily have all the vocabulary in that particular area. But no worries! Another learning experience.
So the owner leaves, and I begin my 4 week residence as plant-waterer and dog-feeder/trainer – because naturally she is not house-trained, being a 3 month old puppy new to the house. House-training in of itself isn’t going so badly – she is getting better and better, and it is only when she goes to the bathroom in the house while looking me in the eyes after just coming back from a 30 minute walk that I get very frustrated with that aspect.
About the 4th day on my own, I climbed the stairs to find thin glass shards throughout the hallway. Wonderful. I continue on the bedroom to discover a broken lamp complete with busted light bulb on the floor. Signing, I went back to the hallway to clean up the glass, and there was the puppy, looking at me. So I gave her a disappointed face and finger shake and scolded her, and proceeded to pick up the pieces. I guess she wanted to help me, because she snatched up a piece and swallowed it down so fast I couldn’t even react quickly enough.
Back to the vet’s office. This was on the Wednesday after the Monday when she had her check-up for the mouse poison incident. I was at the vet’s office every day that week and had to feed her a special diet of soft bread, mashed potatoes, paraffin drops, and a little bit of meat (prescribed by the veterinarian for flavor). But the danger passed thankfully, and she was her old mischievous self as soon as we got home.
She has taken on as a new personal mission the destruction of the household plants, so that’s been fun. I keep finding leaves, potting soil and stems strewn across the carpet and in unlikely places (the bed). She tried to start chewing my shoes, but after she chewed a section of my jelly shoes – BIGTIME NO!!! – and was strictly reprimanded, she hasn’t done that again. Poor jelly shoe. It will never be the same.
Even with all the chaos and confusion and cleanup, I love having them around. They are so fun, and sometimes there is nothing like having a dog for company. And so I will plod on in this discipline, mess to mess, plant to dying plant, until I overcome or am overcome!
25 August 2010
16 August 2010
Gone country…Italian style.
Well, I’ve done it. I’ve had a major breakthrough, and I’ve done it! I can now pick, handle, wash, cut, slice, dice, purée, and stew tomatoes - without feeling nauseous!
This may not seem like a big thing to most people, but I’ve had a lifelong hate-hate relationship with those red-skinned squishy things. Not really that big of a deal in America (free country), but in Italy – land of the tomato lovers – it’s a big deal. I’d say a good 90% of their meals contain tomatoes in some form or fashion – my own personal culinary nightmare.
I don’t want you to think that I’m so immature that I just REFUSE to this poor vegetable. I honestly try to taste them once every few months or so, just in case my taste buds have changed without my knowing it. I also think that I have a slight allergy, not just an aversion, towards them. But for Italy’s sake I try.
I owe my breakthrough to my current past time of house/garden/dog-sitting for Elizabeth Whatley, the director of Pepperdine’s study abroad program in Florence. She is gone for about a month to America, and I am here to keep an eye on things while she’s gone.
She has a beautiful old, restored villa in the Tuscan hills right outside of Florence, complete with garden, flowerbeds, a small stream running through the backyard and two chocolate Labrador Retrievers. I am responsible for watering and gathering the produce from her garden, as well as taking care of the two dogs – one four years old, and one FOUR MONTHS OLD. More to come about that at a later time.
And so, I have picked cucumbers (with glee), eggplant (ignorantly – who grows eggplant in America? I think I ate it twice before I came to Italy), and the dreaded tomatoes. So there I was, with about 40 fresh, ripe tomatoes on my hands, and absolutely no idea what to do with them. Normal people would slice them up with olive oil or mozzarella cheese for a light salad, put them over lettuce, eat them sprinkled with salt. No, no, and NO! I can only eat a tomato that has been good and cooked. So I cut those babies up, blended them together, and stewed them together for 3 or 4 hours, and I made homemade pasta sauce with things right outside my back door! It was the most delicious sauce I’ve had in my entire life. ☺
This may not seem like a big thing to most people, but I’ve had a lifelong hate-hate relationship with those red-skinned squishy things. Not really that big of a deal in America (free country), but in Italy – land of the tomato lovers – it’s a big deal. I’d say a good 90% of their meals contain tomatoes in some form or fashion – my own personal culinary nightmare.
I don’t want you to think that I’m so immature that I just REFUSE to this poor vegetable. I honestly try to taste them once every few months or so, just in case my taste buds have changed without my knowing it. I also think that I have a slight allergy, not just an aversion, towards them. But for Italy’s sake I try.
I owe my breakthrough to my current past time of house/garden/dog-sitting for Elizabeth Whatley, the director of Pepperdine’s study abroad program in Florence. She is gone for about a month to America, and I am here to keep an eye on things while she’s gone.
She has a beautiful old, restored villa in the Tuscan hills right outside of Florence, complete with garden, flowerbeds, a small stream running through the backyard and two chocolate Labrador Retrievers. I am responsible for watering and gathering the produce from her garden, as well as taking care of the two dogs – one four years old, and one FOUR MONTHS OLD. More to come about that at a later time.
And so, I have picked cucumbers (with glee), eggplant (ignorantly – who grows eggplant in America? I think I ate it twice before I came to Italy), and the dreaded tomatoes. So there I was, with about 40 fresh, ripe tomatoes on my hands, and absolutely no idea what to do with them. Normal people would slice them up with olive oil or mozzarella cheese for a light salad, put them over lettuce, eat them sprinkled with salt. No, no, and NO! I can only eat a tomato that has been good and cooked. So I cut those babies up, blended them together, and stewed them together for 3 or 4 hours, and I made homemade pasta sauce with things right outside my back door! It was the most delicious sauce I’ve had in my entire life. ☺
05 August 2010
Welcome to Italy
So we have adopted a phrase that has helped us a lot during our transition period into the Italian lifestyle and culture....one that covers situations of many kinds, even if they are seemingly absurd and unbelievable in our American eyes. For example.
Back last July (you know, before I was even IN Italy...), I applied for my VISA to be able to come, just all part of the Avanti process, and I was told that it would take just a few weeks for them to ship my VISA (and my passport) back to me. Well, many sleepless nights and unanswered phone calls, faxes, and emails later, we arrive at the day before my departure is scheduled. Can't get a hold of anyone at the Consulate - I even try calling the Italian consulates in different states, important states, like Washington D.C. and New York. You would think powerful sounding political states like that could make things happen. Nope. Neither could my congressman. Going to sleep that night, I had pretty much lost all hope for making it out of the country the next year, let alone the next day. One thing happens to change this. My dad makes one phone call FROM Italy, gets through, and gets my VISA shipped to my aunt's house where I'm staying which arrives at 7:30am, just one small hour before I'm supposed to be at the airport.
Apparently, you're supposed to leave a self-addressed envelope when you go to fill out the application. Apparently I forgot to give one (and apparently they forgot to ask). Apparently my VISA had been ready and waiting since two days after I applied for it. Apparently they just let it sit there with my passport for company, waiting for.........? Me to call? Me to fax? Me to email? Yeah. And that was my first introduction to the phrase that says it all....
Welcome to Italy.
And there are so many things, some small, some big. You must apply for a permit of stay, waiting nine hours in a freezing waiting room to go up to the window (tricked into thinking that this is really the window you want, not just a window that gives you a number to a different wait, different window) just hand them some papers, be given another appointment time, wait 6 more hours on a different day - but oh wait the electricity is out that day so you go back another day.
Welcome to Italy.
Mom wants to paint her kitchen red, so she goes to the paint store. No, no, no, kitchens aren't supposed to be red, red is not a good color. She can have cream, white, or light gray.
Welcome to Italy.
Florence 20 years ago: Tram.
Florence 15 years ago: Tram system removed.
Florence 10 years ago: Maybe the tram wasn't such a bad thing, begin rebuilding of tram system.
Florence as of last December: Construction finalized on tram.
Welcome to Italy.
Mom had several 60 year old women offer to blowdry her hair, because they were afraid she would get sick going to sleep with her hair wet.
Welcome to Italy.
And other crazy, crazy things. But on the other hand....
Poppies in the springtime and fall...
Italian cuisine....
Tuscany.....
Downtown Florence.....
Warm, friendly people....
Welcome to Italy. :) It's worth it!
**This post is part of an effort attempting to placate a certain friend who says my blog is static (CLIFF). Follow-up critique anticipated. :)
Back last July (you know, before I was even IN Italy...), I applied for my VISA to be able to come, just all part of the Avanti process, and I was told that it would take just a few weeks for them to ship my VISA (and my passport) back to me. Well, many sleepless nights and unanswered phone calls, faxes, and emails later, we arrive at the day before my departure is scheduled. Can't get a hold of anyone at the Consulate - I even try calling the Italian consulates in different states, important states, like Washington D.C. and New York. You would think powerful sounding political states like that could make things happen. Nope. Neither could my congressman. Going to sleep that night, I had pretty much lost all hope for making it out of the country the next year, let alone the next day. One thing happens to change this. My dad makes one phone call FROM Italy, gets through, and gets my VISA shipped to my aunt's house where I'm staying which arrives at 7:30am, just one small hour before I'm supposed to be at the airport.
Apparently, you're supposed to leave a self-addressed envelope when you go to fill out the application. Apparently I forgot to give one (and apparently they forgot to ask). Apparently my VISA had been ready and waiting since two days after I applied for it. Apparently they just let it sit there with my passport for company, waiting for.........? Me to call? Me to fax? Me to email? Yeah. And that was my first introduction to the phrase that says it all....
Welcome to Italy.
And there are so many things, some small, some big. You must apply for a permit of stay, waiting nine hours in a freezing waiting room to go up to the window (tricked into thinking that this is really the window you want, not just a window that gives you a number to a different wait, different window) just hand them some papers, be given another appointment time, wait 6 more hours on a different day - but oh wait the electricity is out that day so you go back another day.
Welcome to Italy.
Mom wants to paint her kitchen red, so she goes to the paint store. No, no, no, kitchens aren't supposed to be red, red is not a good color. She can have cream, white, or light gray.
Welcome to Italy.
Florence 20 years ago: Tram.
Florence 15 years ago: Tram system removed.
Florence 10 years ago: Maybe the tram wasn't such a bad thing, begin rebuilding of tram system.
Florence as of last December: Construction finalized on tram.
Welcome to Italy.
Mom had several 60 year old women offer to blowdry her hair, because they were afraid she would get sick going to sleep with her hair wet.
Welcome to Italy.
And other crazy, crazy things. But on the other hand....
Poppies in the springtime and fall...
Italian cuisine....
Tuscany.....
Downtown Florence.....
Warm, friendly people....
Welcome to Italy. :) It's worth it!
**This post is part of an effort attempting to placate a certain friend who says my blog is static (CLIFF). Follow-up critique anticipated. :)
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