I'm sitting here at my dining table, among the wreckage of my kitchen/living room, wondering why the hell I'm so cold. At first I thought it had something to do with the ice cream I had for breakfast, but then it occurs to me that there is a giant monster hole stretching the entire length of my kitchen area (in an exposed wall, naturally), and another punched through to the balcony. Bet that has something to do with it. Duh. The stress must have adversely affected my brain: I'm not usually that stupid. Not usually. That's truth in advertising. It's warmer in the bedroom, of course, but now that I've escaped I'm not going back in there. I'll just put on a sweatshirt, maybe socks.

So, yesterday, I went to Galli because there wasn't time to get to Superfresco before the evening rush, and the checkout girls at Superfresco are not quick in any sense of the word. Not that the folks at Galli are much better, as I discovered when I arrived home sans coca. Oh, the diet coke made it alright, but the regular was MIA. That's why I don't like Galli, you have to tell them what you want to buy, then trust that they'll actually give it to you. I also bought some canned bunny for the cat (to make up for her stressful day, if you can call sleeping under the radiator instead of her usual post on the couch "stressful"). And I bought a super economy sized box of Swiffers. Then I came back home and swiffed for two hours

I like swiffing. Unlike vacuuming, you can swiff with a nice soothing glass of red wine in your non-swiffing hand. But I must say, I've never swiffed so much in my life. Horizontal surfaces, vertical surfaces, more horizontal surfaces (including ones previously cleaned, since there's nothing the cat likes so much as strolling across clean surfaces with dusty paws).

Then I thought: You know, this could be a lot worse. It's not nearly as bad as I feared.

Important safety tip: You should never think things like this. The minute you do, the gods start to giggle. They gather round that great bar in the sky, down some shots, wrap their immortal fingers around some infinite beers, and they get down to some serious planning. No doubt involving much slapping of backs and fond reminiscence of earlier times where they really fucked up some poor mortal sucker's life.

The gods in charge of my universe throw weighted dice.

W dragged himself through the door, at the very verge of death itself. He was surly and crabby and wanted Chinese food immediately. After I looked over grandpa's will, which I didn't do fast enough, but hell's bells, that thing is 25 pages long. So, we left for the restaurant, which is when I discovered he needed to go to the farmacia first because he'd been suffering all day and the stuff he had was crap and he couldn't take one second more of it. Never minding the fact that he told me before he left in the morning that he was going immediately to the pharmacy, had all day at work to go to the pharmacy, and could even have gone to the pharmacy while I looked at the will.

Sometimes, I am intelligent. That is why I'm writing this now instead of saying it then. Last night, I just tagged along behind him, and explained what was wrong to the pharmacist before he yelled at her for not speaking English. Luckily, the closest farmacia was still open, and we didn't have to walk three blocks to the one by the Duomo.

Then we went to the Happy Chinese Restaurant, chosen because it is right next door to our appartment. I like the Happy Chinese Restaurant. The people there are nice and, well, happy. The decor is nice. The service is good. The food-- is generally good, but could be better. They do march busloads of Oriental tourists through there, though. The three main reasons we go to the Happy Chinese Restaurant: (1) proximity, (2) they serve food after 10:30 at night, (3) they are open 365 days a year. These last two are what makes it a priceless jewel among restaurants, as they are very rare qualities in Italy.

They are especially happy at the Happy Chinese Restaurant these days. They've been included in the 2002 Guida Rossa, of Michelin fame. They've got the shiny red sticker stuck proudly on the door, even moved other stickers to give it a place of honor. We were very early, so we got the restaurant to ourselves until a table of Japanese tourists came in, fresh from shopping at Prada-- and they had the bags to prove it, too. Still no lack of attention, though. There's one waitress in particular that needs to be given more to do, as her energy is being wasted at the moment. At one point, besides changing the ashtray everytime either one of us stubbed one out, she was replacing every sip of wine I took with a sip's worth from the bottle. It was ridiculous, but I didn't have the heart to tell her to cut it out, as she obviously had nothing else to do and we were keeping her amused. W might have done, but he was semi-comatose in his own world of misery at the time so I doubt he noticed.

Upon careful consideration, the Happy Chinese food is not bad at all. I just wish they could make crispy duck like the more sanguine Chinese restaurant near Centrale. Their duck is not only crispy, but aromatic. I was craving crispy aromatic duck last night, which was too bad for me as W wanted close and as quick as possible. Luckily, he condescended to let me order an espresso. Then he went directly to bed, which quite frankly was the best place for him.

Which brings us to this morning, and why I've escaped the bedroom.

My husband has regressed to toddlerhood. This morning he was sulky, surly and petulant, and refused to take a shower until 8:15, which is, of course, the exact time the plumbers are due to arrive. It's the terrible twos. Times 19. With a much larger, more vulgar vocabulary. The plumbers arrived at 8:17, or approximately one minute after W had turned on the shower. They gathered round the hole, squatted down, and started to discuss the situation. Not argue. Discuss. Then two carpenters showed up. They joined the discussion. They crawled under the kitchen sink. All five gathered round the hole in the outside wall. More discussion. It does not sound good.

Signora, says Middle Plumber, we have problems.

Not a problem.

Problems.

So we all waited for W to finish in the bathroom, so they could confirm the size, scale and scope of the problems. W, unaware, took his own sweet time.

Not that he would have hurried if he had.

Finally, they all trooped into the bathroom, except the carpenters who hung out in the hall. Didn't want to get that close and cosy, I suppose. It's a small bathroom.

Conclusion: They can't finish this job. The pipes, they are very antique. No shit? I'm amazed. And, apparently, the entire plumbing system has been installed upside down. At least, that's what I think they said, and my dictionary seems to confirm it. Which explains a lot. And doesn't suprise me, really.

They will need ten more days and to rip out the entire bathroom. We cannot live here while they do so. Although Landlady tried to convice Middle that we could on the phone. (Blatant evesdropping can be very useful indeed.) Middle stuck to his guns, told her there was no possible way, what with the bathroom gutted and unusable, the kitchen ditto. We need to be evacuated to a hotel, and the Signora has been more than understanding amongst all this inconvenience as it is.

Middle Plumber is my new best friend.

Landlady said she needed to think and plan for a bit. The three plumbers left, taking the carpenters with them. They've also left things as is: book cases in the middle of my kitchen, microwave stranded in the middle with no access to an outlet, dining table near the couch, all my stuff piled everywhere. Plus the large holes in the walls.

Can't forget those now, can we?

W called in sick, and has gone off to see the doctor. He spent the time he was here hacking and coughing horribly and saying "Fuck Me" extremely loudly. I think he wanted me to find the number and call for him, but I was still in the middle of Plumberville, so I shoved a copy of the English yellow pages at him and left him to it. He's gone now, but has called twice from his mobile for directions, as he cannot remember exactly how to get there in his befuddled state.

Sometime today, Landlady will call and instruct me on how we're going to get out of this mess.