I woke up early this morning. Something about not being able to breathe will do that to you, I guess. That, and the sore throat.

Plus, I was being groomed by the cat.

Also, tomorrow is Easter, and Monday is also a holiday in Italy. Which means the grocery stores will be closed, along with all other shops and most restaurants.

I have no food in the house. Hells bells, I don't even have most of my cookware in the actual kitchen. It's still residing in boxes on the couch and on top of the tall bookshelves. Getting dusty and needing to be washed, no doubt.

Hmmm. I am developing the plague that's been plaguing my husband, I have a head full of cat spit, I need to reassemble my kitchen, and I need to go to the grocery store along with 80% of the Italian population. (The other 20% are men in their 20s and 30s who still live with Mamma.)

It's only the last one that's really bothering me. The Supermarket on a Saturday is the last place anyone wants to be, as it's full of men who have been dragged along by their wives (or, worse, want to "supervise"), and who consequently have no clue what they are doing and stand around vacantly clogging up the already narrow aisles. Plus their children, who are invariable spoiled pains in the culo.

Yep. Gonna be a great day.

I spent a lot of time yesterday catching up on my email and the news.

I wish I hadn't.

When did the world get to be such a depressing place? Not that I hadn't noticed that things are definitely not all Spun Sugar Fairies and Good Will For Mankind out there, but yesterday I could not find one top news story that did not make me morose, angry or crap-in-your-pants terrified. Afghanistan? Still a mess. This situation in Israel? Still catapulting us on toward WWIII. Iraq? Ditto. South America? Asia? Africa? Don't even go there. Even Europe's up to creepy things.

And I got a warning from the US Embassy and State department regarding "credible threats" to Americans in Italy. Specifically, in Florence, Milan, Venice and Verona. With the special added bonus order not to go to church on Easter Sunday because it's English speaking and known to be frequented by Americans. Real nice. Don't pray, even though prayer is looking like the best shot we have.

And the NFL has given their exclusive softdrink contract to Pepsi instead of Coke. Not that I get to many football games these days. And if I do, I'll be drinking beer anyway. But still: what if I do go, and am on antibiotics or something, and just want a Diet Coke, but am force to drink Diet Pepsi, which is the nastiest slurry of chemicals in a can that I've ever tasted? It's the principal of the thing, even if it's not likely to affect me directly. At least not a the present time-- that could always change.

On the bright side, I suppose, Mountain Dew is OK.

Mountain Dew got me through seven years at the university. Not a small accomplishment for a caffeine enhanced fizzy beverage. On the other hand, do you really want to deal with an entire stadium of jittery, over-caffeinated football fanatics on a sugar high?

Didn't think so.

From the Why My Life Is The Way It Is Department, my horoscope for this week:

The gods of justice say they will hear your petition just as soon as they have finished discussing the designated-hitter rule.

Which explains a lot, really.

And also reminds me that it's Baseball Season! I miss baseball. I used to love going to opening day, especially when I had the added frission of coming up with a plausible excuse for skipping work. Although, in the end, it was almost too easy and, hence, not quite as fun. It helps if your boss has not one single sporting gene in his body. The only reason mine knew where the ballpark was is that he drove past it on his way to the office. (Note that I specifically did not say "to work".) Add to this the male tendency to believe you care nothing for sports because you are a girl. And, if you can throw in a boss that doesn't bother to show up until after noon, or disappears at random times to go spend the money you've been earning for him, and you've got a hit on your hands. A home run, if I may stretch the analogy.