Slaving away in my editing cave. Black Souls: She erased her past only to discover it was all a lie……..Out Soon.
Stories From The Heart.Emotions,and adventures of an Italian woman in Ireland
Slaving away in my editing cave. Black Souls: She erased her past only to discover it was all a lie……..Out Soon.
I hate going to the hairdresser. I always did and probably always will. I hate the feeling of a stranger ravaging on my head and torture my ears with conversations I could not care less. The same way like I hate how they usually blow and dry the hair making you leave the salon wearing a humongous mushroom on your head.
Only recently, I found a place that makes my hairdresser ‘s visits more pleasant. I always ask for Miss M. She knows my hair by now, she is not that chatty and most of all if I say “no mushroom” she won’t blow and dries my head like there is no tomorrow.
The salon is around the corner from the girls’ primary school, that is perfect because I can go and they can join me after school and have their hair trimmed too.
Daughter number two is fine with it. To her, the hairdresser is a form of pampering.
Daughter number one, instead, inherited my hate for it.
Up to some years ago, I used to cut their hair myself, but since they started school, I felt they needed a professional doing it.
Exception made for those emergency situations when some slime got glued on their hair, or the knots were so hard to brush that chopping the entire tuft of hair was much easier.
Thankfully this is all in the past. The girls are now old enough to know how to avoid to go tangle extreme and stay away from chew gums or slime.
Back to daughter number one, as I was saying she is still reluctant to step into a hair salon unless it is my aunt’s one.
Unfortunately, Aunt Paola’s shop is in Italy, thing that made not so easy to regularly go. We try to do our best to get her hair done while visiting but not always is possible, like last summer. Since it was February, the previous time daughter number one had a hair, after I tricked her into coming to the salon with me, now she is really in need of a good trim.
As after the hols I needed a restyle too, I thought to get three pigeons with one stone, and I booked for the all three of us. It didnt work, and one pigeon managed to miss the stone!
“Please, mom, can you cut my hair yourself at home?”
The fact that my aunt and cousins are hairdressers make my daughters think that I can do it also. I tried to explain that you do not learn how to cut hair by osmosis, and neither it is a skill that you inherit, but they still believe I am good at it.
“You always cut our hair when we were little!”
“Yes darling but that it was when I could get away with anything because you were still a toddler and nobody noticed if your hair had different lengths and your fringe resembled Saint Frances’ one.”
Still, daughter number one faith in my coiffeur ability is strong, or it is her hate for the stranger touching her head? It doesn’t matter, and it does not change the fact that last Sunday, after rotating around myself, I transformed into the Wonder Hairdresser of the house.
“We aim for a shoulder-length ok?”, she says
“I am on it”, I say
And so it was. After the first cut was completed, daughter number one had a lovely shoulder-length bob that she proudly wore for a day.
Then every time I looked at her, I saw a tuft of hair of different length here and there, and for the following week every day I had my scissors in hand.
Chop chop chop, trim trim trim…..Daughter number one she is now “proudly” wearing a neck-length bob but so precise that it could go on a geometry book.
I wonder if next time she will rather prefer to suffer half an hour at the hairdresser than a week at home.
Do you remember daughter number one? The hypochondriac one; the one I had to bring to the doctor, for a fee of 50 euros per visit, so she could hear a professional telling her the same exact things I told her at home? Yes, her: the iper-anxious one who fell victim of terrible belly cramps every time something new was around the corner!
The one we always joked she would never be a problem as a teenager because she was moody since the age of three. Well, she is not among us anymore. No, don’t think the worst, nothing bad happened, she simply fell victim of alien abduction, or to be precise of a body snatcher.
I started to suspect something was not right at the end of the school year when the idea of leaving primary school to start secondary still didn’t raise any anxiety in her. But in fairness, things had degenerated so badly in her former class, that anything could be better than that. The fact the poor child was excited at the idea to leave and not to see the old crew that made her life miserable, was totally understandable.
The excitement of going to a new school and meeting new people and be able to make her friends based on genuine common interests had obviously overcame the possible nervousness. May be there was nothing to worry about after all and, it was still daughter number one we were talking about: we only had to be patient and wait for the last minute tantrum.
The Summer passed and still not a drop in her mood; on the contrary, she even became chatty.
Now, if you think that it is normal for a nearly thirteen years old girl, you also have to bear in mind that up to a few months prior, she used to drive with her father for two or three hours to go shooting without any of them to speak a word. Telepathic communication….their specialty, just a pity nobody else is ever synchronized in their frequence.
Anyway, back to the facts, holidays were over, we were back, and it was time to go through all the books; label them and put them in a different folders of different colours so to make it easier and quicker to grab the subjects she needed from the locker.
The number of books, the variety of subjects, the fact that she had a limited time in between classes to reach her locker and go back to different rooms for different classes, should have freaked her out if she was her real self. It didn’t! Now, my only hope was on the afternoon before the first day of school. That afternoon we were supposed to go to the school in full uniform( skirt included and she was not wearing a skirt since she was two),get the locker’s number, the padlock to bring home and practice to open it and close it and the student journal. Are you wondering what the school student journal is? It is enormous “thing” full of rules, advice, graphics and only God knows what else but whatever it is, it must be of extreme importance because students must carry it with them everywhere they go.
It turned out that while I was totally overwhelmed by the whole process , my daughter or whatever she was now , was still cool about it. Day one in school came, she left with a big smile and came home with the same big smile, plus a list of new possible friends. There was no more doubt about it: something possessed her.Three weeks into the new school and new routine and she is still happy out. She names someone new she talked to every day, and she even asked to go by train already unless it is slashing of course. Some extraterrestrial creature might inhabit her, but sure it is a clever one and doesn’t want to get to school soaked!
I must say I enjoy this new person shaffling around my house lighthearted and chatty, but I cannot think of when the body snatcher will get bored with her and passed on another host. Will I then have my still beloved cranky pants back?
In a total inconsiderate and emotionally weak moment, I share my concerns with the travelling husband.
Wrong move: he is a numbers man, cold, rational and practical: “honey, body snatchers don’t exist. She can be a case when a girl hitting her teens gets nicer rather than meaner, but I don’t believe that either. Wait and see”.
Damn it. He was right, again. Miss cranky pants was back last Friday when I tried to drag her to the hairdresser.
“I am not coming in there. You do it,at home”.
-Pew, maybe she is not fully possessed-, I happily thought and most of all she is still happy with her mama cutting her hair!😍#veryproud mamaofaverysoecialgirl!
For some reason both my girls believe that because I have an aunt and two cousins who are hairdresser that gives me the skill to cut hair too……..as they say : whatever it works! Except not always it works, but this will go on another post.
Dear followers, over time, it became evident that I am not multitasking, at least not when it comes to blogs.
Launching my author’s blog was a bad idea. Well, not the blog itself, that it would have been awesome if I only had time to look after it. Unfortunately, I didn’t. Let’s face it: I struggle to keep up with one post a week on one blog, how in heaven did I think I was able to manage two blogs?
Well, lesson learned and this is my announcement that I will merge the two blogs.
Yes, you heard me: Ortensia’s humor will have to coexist with Sabina’s twisted mind and taste for blood.
But that it is not all. You, my friends, will be pestered with the marketing of my books……every once in a while…..starting from now!
As some of you already know my first novel, Fields Of Lies, is out there since February
What you might have missed is that my second novel, more a psychological thriller than a murder mystery this time, it will be out soon too.
Here there is for you a sneak peek of the cover and a little blurb. Enjoy.
“Lola left her past behind and never looked back, until the day her phone rings, and she cannot ignore the call.
Forced to go back to Italy for her aunt funeral, she will find herself at the center of a murder investigation. What she had not realized is that the trail of blood had followed her from Dublin.
Why is Lola such a dangerous threat? And to who?
At the bottom of the Ponte Alto lake lay a family’s darkest secrets, and when they reemerge, the cruelest truth will be exposed.”
I want to thank Aunt Debbie (beingauntdebbie.com) for nominating me and giving me the chance to answer such a great list of questions.
As usual I won’t list specific bloggers to answer my questions (too hard to pick only a few of you) but I invite you all to do it as I would love to know a bit more about you.
1. If you could be any animal for a day, which would you choose?
A bat, of course, my favorite animal.
2. What is your favorite cuisine?
Well ,Italian aside, Indian.
3. What is your biggest passion?
Writing and reading, but also animals and yoga….may be I m a bit too passionate😉
4. If money were no object, where would you live, and why?
Norway or Sweden countryside . I love Scandinavian countries , their people their culture their attitude to life and the clime as well.
5. If aliens exist, what do you think they look like?
I don’t get the question, are you saying ET was not real?😱😭🤪
6. What is your favorite thing to shop for?
Books and accessories, necklaces and shoes in particular
7. Do you believe in reincarnation?
I would love to but I don’t hunk I’m ready yet. But I believe in energies.
1. What about you favorite food:Sweet or Savory?
2. What about a night in front of the tv:Horror or Romantic movies?
3. Your ideal vacation: under the tropical sun or on the white ski slopes?
4. Look up the sky and list the first three things that pop in your mind
5. What your favorite season and why
6. You can give a look back to your life……what would you change?
7. As for your drink: wine or beer?
One Coincidence Too many – Part 2
Yes, you guessed right, my card was blocked again.
The first week of holidays I go to the supermarket, yes the one from before, and even if I had some cash with me, I stupidly decided to pay by card. When the machine didn’t recognize the pin, a colossal alarm bell started flashing in front of my eyes. But it was only when even the second pin attempt failed that the bell rang loudly inside my head.
I listened, and I was smart enough not to insert the pin the bloody third time.
I paid cash, and that was it.
Few days had passed, I didn’t use the card and forgot about it until the night I went out for dinner with my mom.
None of us was particularly hungry, and we decided to go for a stroll before our meal. While walking on the promenade mom remembered that someone had mentioned a new bistro on the seafront. Never listen to suggestions, mainly if you cannot clearly remember who gave them to you. We walked for over half an hour, that was good because by the time we reached the place we were hungry but, unfortunately, the place was a total disappointment to the eyes. We refused to give it a chance and walked back. When we eventually arrived at our starting point, we were starving, and my bladder was bursting.
“Stick with what you know”. It is always the best of policy, and so we went to a place we both know well and close to home. We were done being adventurous for the evening. Except, after dinner, I realized I still had some residues of adventures and dragged my mother to a shoe shop where I bought myself a pair of winter clogs. No, my boldness side was not to buy the winter clogs but to try to pay for them with my card.
The card was denied, and I felt behind embarrassment. Yes, I know I should have got used to this by then and, in fact, my discomfort was not due to the failed transaction, but to my mother thoughtful comment: “you should make sure your husband refill your card before using it, dear”.
The lady from the shop pretended to have not heard my mother offensive attempt of humor and sweetly smiling at me she offered to retry the payment blaming the poor internet connection.
“No, no. No need to retry. It is that bloody supermarket”, I blabbed declining her offer and paying with my other card.
The following morning I rang the bank behind furious as they surely had erroneously blocked my card. I know my rights.
Not really! The wrong pin must be digitized three times in an indefinite amount of time to cause the block of the card. To be more explicit, you do not have to wrong your pin three times in a row, but it is enough three times …in your life!
So be careful people, write down every time you digit your pin wrong because years later can haunt you back.
The Beach War
Our holidays home came with a private beach spot.
Every apartment has its spot with two or three beach chairs, and an umbrella. The places are organized in neat rows and there is a rota. Every week everybody moves forward, and backward so that, over the length of summer, everyone has the chance to occupy the first row more than once.
The first row is notoriously the most coveted, (Nobody is in front of you, and you are just a few steps away from the sea.), but quite popular are also the second and the third row. I see that, and I certainly enjoy when it is my turn to be on the beach Podio . What I don’t see, it is how this can be an obsession .But it is and there are those who shift from place to place wherever there is a seat free in the first the three rows. Tome only the idea of the effort that this requires make me sweat🥵.
My family ‘s insane habit of respecting the rules and occupying the position we are assigned week after week made us oblivious to the racket of the beach spots.Until this year, when we have been so lucky to be by rota in second and first row for the entire duration of our stay.
Soon it became apparent that being in one of the first three rows by rota is not a legitimate right but a fault. If you then go to the beach every day, and maybe also at random times, that is the worst of the sins.
The proper ” beach Podio obsessed “, refuse to seat anywhere beyond the second row. They study their beach neighbors’ habits, their timetable and day by day they move around from one spot to another along the first rows of the beach. Are you wondering if they have their place? Of course they do, but using it is not an option unless it is in first row. Out of desperation, they can even settle for the second of the third one, but it must be the last option left, and until a better place gets free.
Let me tell you; these people have years of experience. They have skills and they act fast and relentless. With a stroke of beach towel they shift from first to second to the third place and back to first without fear.
Do other people who respect the rules get upset? Yes, they do! I heard these people had been told many times to back off, but with no success. Bad manners and disrespect of the rules will keep prevailing until a butt print system is installed in every single beach chair so that only the rightful butt can occupy the rightful chair ……
Our summer Italian holidays cannot be called so if we don’t go to the water park. The annual day trip to the water park, while in Italy, has become a family tradition. Over the years we also learned that the best day to go it i is on a Saturday or the 15th of August (Ferragosto) that in Italy is a bank holiday.
This year, due to the early school start, we had to leave before the 15th and so the park was scheduled on the last to Saturday of our stay.
Unfortunately, the Thursday before, daughter number one had the great idea to wake up burning with high temperature.
Considering how much she grew in height since she arrived in Italy, I thought it was a growing fever, but the following day she also developed some sore throat.
The temperature didnt last more than two days; even less it lasted her confinement in the house, only half a day. She soon became too bored and cracky to have her around and, also, with 35 degrees outside there was no pint to keep her in.
These things happen, I kept repeating to her, her sister and myself, but the truth is that it blew out all our plans. Even if on the Saturday we were supposed to go to the water park, she felt fine; she was undoubtedly still too weak to face an entire day up and down slides under the burning sun.
We tried to discuss the possibility of breaking the family tradition for this one year, but it didn’t go down well.
Daughter number two didnt even try to be condescending and immediately suggested that we could go and leave her sister behind; daughter number one, on the other side, refused to be the artifice of her bad luck and started to do push up on the balcony floor to show she was perfectly fit to go.
At that point was clear that the water park could not be cancelled but it had only to be rescheduled for the following Monday. Not the ideal day because on Tuesday morning we were leaving but you gotta do what you gotta do right?!
Saturday we relaxed for the last day on the beach: Sunday we celebrated grandad birthday, another tradition. My stepdad’s birthday is always around the time we leave Italy, and we started to celebrate it all together on the before we went every summer. Only this year we had to make him one year older nearly a week earlier, but I don’t think he minded at all.
On Monday morning, we were at the park earlier than usual with the intent to leave earlier than usual and had more time to pack. In the end, we stayed until closure time, as usual. From 10:00 a.m. to 6:40 p.m., over eight hours of sliding, queuing, climbing, swimming and whatever crazy activity you can do in such a place.
It goes without saying that once home the last thing I wanted to do it was packing and tidying up the apartment, but as I said above you gotta do what you gotta do. Let’s just say that I cleaned and tidied up much better than I packed.
Ever seen people packing in the movies? They threw the clothes in the bags still on the hunger and without folding them: that was me!
The morning of our departure, we all woke up battered and as red as a lobster, because no matter how much suncream you spread on you, you can’t win.
The flight home was fine, no delays and because I deep cleaned the house before I left, I knew that once home I only had to unpack and relax for the rest of the day waiting for Tesco man to deliver my shopping.
The beautiful image of me drinking a coffee on my yellow chair never became real. As soon we stepped in the house, we noticed the strange spots on the floor and a funny smell in the sitting room. A dead bird came down the chimney and died inside the house. Poor little thing you might think and that was what I thought too until I realised he had shitted all over the place. Then I could have strangled him with my own hands.
If that was not enough, when I went around the kitchen island to fill the bucket (and mop the bird’s poo), my shoes started to make a “patch patch” noise. The floor was covered in water that was running from underneath the fridge.
During the previous night storm, lightning hit our fridge and left it severely injured, and the following day the fridge man declared it officially dead.
Thankfully we had a small camp fridge and freezeer in the utility room where we can store first aid food supply until Tuesday when the new fridge will come.
What the feck? Is this the way to welcome Ortensia back? Or is it my punishment for having neglected the blog during the holidays?
I promise I am going back to my post a week as everybody knows that a post a week keeps away the freak.
Of course, my holiday’s adventure is not all here. But for more, you ‘ll have to wait next weekend.
In the meantime, have a wonderful week ahead.
“One coincidence is just a coincidence, two coincidences are a clue, three coincidences are a proof. ” Hercule Poirot.
When still in Italy a couple of weeks ago, I went swimming suits shopping with the girls as most of the previous year ones were too small.
Daughter number two was quickly sorted with her sister’s old togs and a couple of new ones, but daughter number one was the other story and not an easy one.
First of all, she doesn’t like girly things, second of all she doesn’t like bright colours and third of all she hates to go clothes shopping, not to mention trying things up.
With this little introduction, you already got the general mood that surrounded me during “the swimming suit mission”. Because that’s what it was: A Mission, or to be precise, a Mission Impossible.
The heat, of course, didnt help us to accomplish our task but made us try to be as quick as we could so that we could soon move to the next shop, the supermarket.
No, I am not saying I am a food shopping enthusiast, on the contrary, I hate it, and in fact, always have my weekly food shopping delivered, but at least the supermarket is a cool place. And by cool, I mean chilled. The clothes shop, instead, was hot. Sure they had air conditioning but because they kept all the doors opened it didnt do much.
After I inspected thousands of items, while the daughter was behind me lifting her thumb up or down to the possible candidate, we eventually settled on a few anonymous dark blocked coloured bikinis disguising any feminine identity.
Mission accomplished. We paid and happily run into the supermarket, where we much appreciated the Antartic temperature running through all the place.
We got a few bits and headed to one of the till.
It must have been the heat, it must have been the stress of the shopping, or it must have been the effort to hold my tongue in front of my eldest daughter poor fashion taste, but sure all of those things contributed to exhaust my brain. How did I know that? I didn’t, until I find myself inserting my card to pay, and instead of digiting my PIN, I kept staring at it like in a trance. At the third cashier’s cough, I eventually awoke and hurriedly pushed the green button. Transaction Rejected.
How was it possible? I had just paid in the other shop, and it worked.
-It happens sometimes -, the lady cashier said. We tried again, ….and again. Transaction Rejected, all three times.Puzzled, I paid with my other card, and that was it.
If it were the end of the month, I maybe would have worried to have overspent, but been the beginning of the month I knew the account was well covered. I blamed the shop’s connection, and didnt think about it again.
The Monday after I was back home to Ireland, I had an appointment to get my blood tests done. I was a bit early, and so I went to the ATM to get some cash.
“This service cannot be provided”, or something like that, it was the message on the monitor.
I immediately checked my bank account, and there was funds, so I thought maybe I was trying to withdraw too much and exciding the daily allowance. I changed amount, but once again, I could not get anything out of the evil machine. I tried a third time but still no cash. I left disappointed, annoyed and even a bit embarrassed as there were now a few people queueing behind me and witnessing my desperate and unsuccessfully attempts to get some cash.
Same story at the doctor. When I tried to pay for my blood tests, I kept receiving the same message: Transaction Rejected.
I started to blabbing apologies to the lady at the reception, and I also informed her, in details, of my financial situation. I actually had 30 euros to pay for my blood tests; just for some obscure reason, the money refused to move from my account to the doctor’s one.I didnt have my other card with me, and I could not pay with cash because the little plastic fecker card didn’t get me any cash either. So………now what?
A bulb lighted up in that over confused head of mine. I suddenly remembered the incident with the card at the supermarket. It was the same card, and it could not be a coincidence.
I excused myself with the receptionist, and after promising I was not running away, I stepped outside to ring the bank and try to figure it out what the problem was.
“Your pin has been locked because you wrongly digited three times.”
“No I didnt ”
“Yes you did, mam. You pressed enter three times without actually digiting the pin first, and that is the same to the system. The code and the card have been locked as a result of a fraud alert”.
Oh, that is what had happened! Back to the supermarket, when my brain was more totally fried than tired as I naively thought, I kept pressing the green pay button but without the pin.
I admit to have been idiotically distracted, but should not the bank warn you in these cases? Apparently not. It is all automatised.
Thankfully it is automatised even the procedure to unlock your pin, and it can be easily done at any ATM.
It took me literally five seconds to unlock my card, and five minutes later, I’m leaving the doctor surgery with the receipt of my payment safely in my hands.
Never trust coincidences, especially when it comes to credit cards. If they are not working, there is always a reason, and it won’t self fix itself.
I sure did not expect to take a break that long, but in the end, it did worth me, 1001 followers.. Yes, you heard me, I worth more when I do not write than when I do. Of course, I am only joking, or at least I hope I am as basically spent these 29 days of absence from WP working on book number two, that should be out by autumn, and marketing and amending book number one. Hard to believe, even for me, I am shamefully still correcting typos in fields of lies. So not professional, so not my fault but so my mess!!!!
My only hope is that people won’t pay to much attention and get lost in the murderous and lusty life of the Irish countryside.
Thankfully I tend to learn from my mistakes and this time I change editor and proofreader, and right now the fantastic Jerry is working his magic on my manuscript.
Now that I explained my absence and showed off my 1000 followers, before sharing some of my latest adventures, I want to thank you all, my fantastic followers, to be with me on this journey.
June is the longest month of the year. By its second week, I start to have repulsion of anything related to school routine, but even this year we made it. We reached the last day of school, and I am so happy that I do not even bother to have to pickups the girls barely after I had dropped them. Our school has, in fact, the absurd rule that the last day before any holiday the finish at 1130. Over the years I got used to it but I still think that before any holidays they should keep them longer rather than shorter in school, and I know I am not the only one, but unfortunately, the bard of education doesn’t care what I think.
Anyway, two months homework, extra activities and the school run free worth an early pick up indeed, and so here I am happily parking when I suddenly feel an excruciating hitch on my legs. I look down and …….boom: the excruciate hitch is prevailed by a horrific noise of crumpled up metal. The travelling husband car’s metal, I guess. Never looking at your legs or even worse scratching them while reversing as lampposts can materialise out of nowhere.
When still in shock, I got out to asses the damage I realised that Shakespeare was right: “much ado about nothing”. I hit the pole with the bumper that has a big dent but being made of plastic, it won’t be either difficult or expensive to fix.
Still, I felt mortified and to make it worse, like he has superpowers, a few seconds after I finished to pick up the pieces of my backlight, the travelling husband rang.
“how do you know”…I blurbed out, and once again, my tongue is faster than my brain because unless he has the sight of Clarke Kant and can see me from Paris, he can’t possibly know. The poor man was calling to check on me and say he had safely landed.
“Well, honey, I had safely landed too, on a lampost “.
No, I didnt say that! But I could have, he is not fussy about cars, what he made a fuss about, instead, was my leg itchy rush and me not having had checked by the doctor yet.
By the time I get a doctor’s appointment, my rush is fading away, plus I know it is nothing but a food intolerance. What we do not know what it is, is instead a multitude of infected pustules that overnight exploded on daughter number one arms, close to a nasty wound she got herself falling un the yards.
She needed that doctor appointment more than I did.
Postillion Contagious, or something like that it is the diagnosis. A viral thing that wouldn’t even be treated if it was that she had scratched herself with dirty hands and got it infected. It usually goes in a couple of weeks the doc says, but because of her other wounds and because of the infection she ‘ll have to apply a cream four times a day and maybe antibiotic if the redness won’t go after a week of treatment.
Right, marvellous and four days before I had to drop them to Italy at my mom’s.
The day of the departure arrived. Packing the girls for the summer is easy, I usually throw in the bag anything summery they own and a big bottle of high protection suncream. This year we also had to throw in two huge tubes of Fumicid and two spare bottles of antibiotic. The most challenging bag is always mine. I ‘ll be there for one week, then back to Ireland for two weeks and then back to Italy for another two weeks. I must thunk at what I want to bring and leave, what I want to bring back and most of all I must pack something that it will be fresh, comfortable but up to Nona’s fashion standard.
Even this year we survived the preparatory grooming, the big packing, the delay of the plane and we are eventually queuing to board in all dressed accordingly with our little skin troubles.
I am wearing a long skirt hiding the leftover of my rush; daughter number two wears shorts because not even herself has flawless and unbroken skin anymore after getting a bad a tarmac burn on her knee whose scab keeps peeling off. Ultimately, daughter number one is wearing short sleeves and shorts because the pustules and the wounds on the arms have improved, but the cream is so greasy that all the areas where we applied it must be covered with bandages and the same the wounds on her shin.
The flight went well, but because of a turbulence we could not leave our seats for the last half of it, and by the time we landed, I was bursting.
The airport bathroom was like a vision of an oasis in the desert. But this oasis was closed for cleaning. Only the accessible loo was open, and the queue to access it was super long but very fast. Obviously, most of the women felt and care for the others and tried to be as quick as they could. So was I, super-fast, even because the girls were waiting for me at the belt.
The problem came when I tried to exit, and the door would not open. Something was blocking it from outside.
I tried to call for help, but nobody came.
I took my last chance and gave the door the most significant push ever with my shoulder. My shoulder still hurts, but the door opened enough for me to get out.
The cleaner was now cleaning in the corridor and left her trolley in front of the accessible toilet door, and she could not hear me calling for help because of her headphones.
A week later, I am back to the airport with the usual conjunctivitis I get in the heat and a pretty bad cystitis, my flight is delayed, but all the bathrooms are opened 🤓.
The last post of mine(before the award), I wrote it just before collapsing in bed with flu.
And in bed I stayed for three days, then I had to get up. Not because I was really feeling any better but because the travelling husband left and I was back in charge of the fort.On one side it was good as I had one less thing to care for once I had done with the school runs and the dogs walk I could shabbily and happily slip back in my PJs. My uniform for a week that, at one point it independently threw itself in the laundry basket: when its enough is enough!
In a few days, things improved but, while my nose stopped licking, my eyes started to discharge a yellowy sticky texture. What is flu without conjunctivitis, right? At least, thanks to some magic eyes drops the lady from health store gave me, it didnt last long . Don’t ask what was in them because I didnt care to ask and she didnt care to tell. The only thing I know is that in two days, I was again able to open my eyes fully, and they were not stingy or discarding any extraterrestrial substance anymore.
With my full health regained and my eyes wide open, I came to notice little things I had until then ignored. I started to see tiny red spots here and there on the floor: yes, Anna, our latest foster dog was in heat.
I was more than surprised because, considering her age, I genuinely believed she was closer to menopause than else. Admitting that such thing like dogs menopause exists.
We already had an appointment for her to be spade that we had to cancel, and instead we went shopping for cheap granny panties.
I cut a hole for the tail and put a pair on her immediately.
The poor pet looked beyond miserable and so did I, after realizing that I had to take them off her every time she had to go out for her needs.
Anna was not adequately house trained, and I had to be super fast to pick up the signals before a big puddle materialized on one of my rugs. Nop, never on the floor. Dogs don’t like to dirt on bare floors. Carpets are much much more comfortable for them, and for their human, much more fun to clean.
So now not only I had to be alerted to get her signals, but also to be quick enough to open the garden door and removed the panties at the same time.
After she soaked three rugs and my hand twice we gave up the panties: it was far better to mop some spots on the floor.
A week had passed and we were nearly settled, until big ears german eventually realized what was going on in the house. All of a sudden, he took an obsessive interest in his foster sister.
He is neutered but had not lost the instinct and became Anna’s shadow. I will spare you the details that, unfortunately, didn’t go unnoticed by the girls.
“Why is Kurt always licking Anna’s butt?”,”Why does he try to do that thing he does on the couch’s leg on her too?”.They submerged me in questions I tried to answer as best as I could: “Well it’s his instinct because of she in heat”. My hope to satisfy their curiosity remained unheard: It was time to have that talk about bees and flowers.
Of course, in our conversation, bees became dogs. Finding the right words and concepts was no child play, and after I was blabbing for half an hour the girls still had no a clearer picture of the events, but I managed to be so dull in my explanation that they just walked off. They sure had no more knowledge than before but I was off the hook.I bored them to exhaustion.
In the meanwhile, big ears german seemed to have regained all his masculinity all at once and started to mark the territory. Another thing to explain….
I soon found myself to do nothing but monitoring Kurt and Anna all day and night. I tried to leave downstairs to sleep, but she didnt want to, and in fairness, she was right considering the other two were upstairs with me. Plus having her in my bedroom she could call me straight away when in need to go out and that reduced the night accidents to zero.The problem was that she took extreme pleasure on waking me up and started to wake me up every night around 3.am. After that, nearly every hour I was up; if not with Anna again, with Kurt or with Clara because, once one is awake the others follow!
After ten days of that routine, I was a walking zombie who would have soon faced divorce. Let’s say that what the travelling husband found after coming back from his business trip, had not impressed him!
As hard as it was, I had to relocate the foster a week earlier than planned.
I felt selfish and guilty, but, the truth was only one: I needed to sleep and stop mopping the ground.
Because of the flu, I lost an entire week of editing, and the manuscript has to be with the editor in full by next week. That was not going to happen if I kept falling asleep on the computer or if I had to spend my time washing and drying rugs.
My only consolation is that everything worked out for the best in the end.
Anna will leave on the 2nd of July for her permanent home in England, and in the meanwhile, she is staying with this incredible woman called Kate, who I loved as soon as I saw her. Kate has five others dogs, and Anna could not find a better setting. Most of all, Kate is much smarter than I am, and she makes the dogs sleep all together in the kitchen, allowing herself a full night sleep.