After I got home from the grocery store on Saturday, I realized that I forgot to buy cat litter. Very bad. The box was already starting to smell, seeing as I'd forgotten to buy it on Friday as well, and there would be no way to buy some until Tuesday given the dynamics of Italian holidays ie. Nothing's open. So I put up the groceries that I had bought, and trotted down to Galli to buy some. And some cheese for my tacos, as long as I was at it.

Galli was closed. However, it was still a bit before four, and worth hanging around to see if they might reopen. This was a definite possibility, due to the dynamics of shop-keeping in Italy ie. They like to close down for several hours during the day for lunch and a really good nap. There were some little old ladies standing around eyeing the place like vultures, ready to swoop down the minute the doors opened, so it seemed like a reasonable plan.

So I went and bought some flowers. I like flowers, and I thought lilies for Easter would be nice. Brighten the place up, bring a bit of Spring indoors and all that nonsense. Picked out a lovely bunch of peach ones, as the white ones looked ratty and remind me of graves in any case. Hung around some more, and concluded that Galli was not, in fact, planning to reopen as the little old ladies started to retreat, one by one, muttering very unladylike things.

I stopped at the deli on my way home. Can still get the cheese, right? Well, yes, but only if you're very patient. I arrived at the same time as a priest, and immediately let him go first as my Catholic reflexes kicked in. Catholicism, in my experience, is more than a religion, it's more of an ethnic or racial group, complete with our very own collective unconcious, a la Jung. So, of course, priests go first, even if you only need two etti of cheese.

I really wish I could get rid of my Catholic Collective Unconscious.

That very short, very old man was very crabby, very indecisive, and insisted on ordering 100 grams of just about everything they offered. Plus one gnocci genovese. Not that one. That one. And six potato croquets. Which was ok, really. Old priest on his own, gave the housekeeper off for Easter, or whatever. Fine. Except, of course, he had to keep moving from one end of the tiny shop to the other. Slowly. Apparently, the concept of efficiency-- say ordering all your meat, then move on to your cheese, etc.-- had never occurred to him. And of course I was always in the way, as were my big bunch of lilies. And he kept asking everybody, possibly including myself, if he was getting a sconto, or discount, on each purchase. "Am I getting a sconto? I should get a sconto. It's Easter, you know, and I'm a priest."

Really? We thought you just liked wearing a dress.

He was assured at every turn that yes, he would definitely get a sconto. He paid. Made it half-way to the door before he turned around and made his slow way back to the cash desk. "Did I get a sconto on this?"

So, after 20 minutes, I got my cheese and headed home.

Which is when I discovered that the flowers I picked out were definitely not the ones I got. These were rattier than the white ones, brown around the edges, leaves brown and rotten, and had already been pretty comprehensively dead-headed. And this, from the flower vendor in the piazza in front of the church.

Should have turned that priest loose on him.

Not suprisingly, the flowers did the opposite of brightening up the apartment, whatever that is. Gloomed the place up, depressing all the inhabitants, including the cat, who took one look at them and decided there was nothing more she could do. The leaves certainly didn't look appetizing, I imagine.

My hair, by contrast, has been growing. Not fast enough to obliterate my travesty of a hairdo, but it's doing its best. I now appear to have a giant mushroom on my head, unless it's feeling funky in which case it's Flock of Seagulls all the way. Not a good look, either of them. For anybody.

But I have this dream, you see. Somewhere, there is a hair product of some sort that will miraculously solve all of my hair problems, that will make my hair sit up and take notice and behave itself. Aha, my hair will say, that's all that I needed! I shall be be-yoo-ti-ful, now!

To this end, the bathroom shelves are crowded with gels and mousse, stacked with wax. My latest purchase is something called Blondie Texturizing Serum. "Perfect for those flirty styles with those ends that kick about!" Sounded perfect to me, despite the corniness. I'm blonde, even before I dye my hair to make it, umm, more blonde. And I could live with a Meg Ryan style with no problem at all. It's bound to beat either the Blackadder I or New Wave looks, no?

The instructions say to rub a few drops to dry hair and "tousle until desired hair personality is achieved." And I tried. Really I did. I tousled away, but the best "hair personality" I could achieve is "surly." Which beats malevolent, I suppose.

The search continues.

Ran a lot of errands today. The cobbler will try and fix my boots-- the ones where the heel fell off after I'd worn them all of an hour. Last November. I'm afraid the No More Procrastination Ever Resolution has been less than successful. Then to the Chinese importers to buy English tea (successful), salsa verde (no luck), and sweet pickles (ditto). Two out of three is not good, but better than nothing. Then to the supermarket, where they were out of cat milk (lactose free so my carpets stay safe), low-fat chocolate mousse (which I don't need anyway, I suppose), and cokes that had both sugar and caffeine. Not a roaring success, and probably a waste of bus fare.

To console myself, I bought some shoes. Black, high-heeled, pointy toe boots. Without backs-- they're for summer. And some loafer type things in a truly unusual shade of blue with toes so sharp they could poke an eye out if I could kick that high. I love them, despite the total lack of heels.