I hate plumbers. And they, apparently, hate me.

Classic Plumber today.

They showed up late, of course. I had told them that I had things to do, that I wouldn't be here. They asked when I'd be back. I said they could come back next Tuesday.

No, no signora, I meant tonight. For the key.

Huh?

We want to start work today, says Middle Plumber. We'll put the hole in the wall today, and come back to finish next week.

I swear to God, that's what we said. He wanted to put a hole, a large hole, in the middle of my living room wall, clear through to the balcony, which is, not surprisingly, outside and open to the elements. AND LEAVE IT THERE UNTIL NEXT WEEK.

Unless, of course, I would give him my keys and they would come back Friday.

Aside from the fact that two days from now, I will not be here, where they want to put the giant hole is right above my stereo and other things that will need to be moved. Wall construction in Italy consists of two layers of plaster filled with various and sundry hunks of rubble, as far as I can tell. The result of someone drilling holes in your wall is piles of rubble and thick layers of fine white dust all over everything, and I mean everything. My stereo is necessary, important, and sometimes the only thing that keeps me from going insane. They had, I can assure you, absolutely no plans to move it. If the idea occurred to them-- say, it was keeping them from achieving a truly destructive angle with the sledgehammer-- I doubt that it would occur to them to do so much as unplug it first.

Need I mention that these guys do not clean? Not even a little bit?

Add in that we're going away tomorrow, that I had not even begun to pack, that I still needed to purchase cat supplies and dramamine and other necessary items, that I had no warning about this, aside from a call yesterday afternoon that they wanted to drop off "supplies."

Which were two air conditioning units, currently parked in the middle of my living room slash kitchen. Plus three plumbers of varying ages, plus one large sledgehammer.

Need I even tell you that my answer was NO? Need I even mention that I told them that the one huge hole stretching across my other living room slash kitchen wall, plus the other auxiliary holes, all of which are still in existence, are hideous enough, ThankYouVeryMuch? And that if he wanted a hole in which to temporarily stick his supplies, he didn't need to look farther than his own person, and that I would be more than delighted to help?

Well, I didn't actually say that last one.

I wanted to, though.

So we arranged for them to come back a week from tomorrow. And after a while I chased them out of my home and tried to calm down. I prepared to go out, talked to Maggie on the phone.

Which is when it turned into a Classic Plumber Experience.

Middle Plumber came back. Landlady wants to talk to you, he said. She'll call you on your mobile. And then he planted himself in the middle of the living room. I told Maggie I'd call her back, and called Landlady myself, as Middle seemed to have no plans to move and, quite frankly, I wanted the bastard out of my apartment.

Landlady asks, "If I give them the key, can they start today?"

Excuse me?

Apparently, the devil spawn that are the plumbers left my house, got on the phone, and told Landlady that the only problem was lack of keys.

I disabused her of that notion mighty quick.

To be fair, I don't think that she fully appreciated the full extent of their plan, insofar as involving large holes and leaving the apartment unattended and naked to the elements. Nor the fact that they hadn't bothered to discuss this with me beforehand, aside from calling me yesterday evening and stating that they wanted to drop off "materials" today. Nor did she seem to realize that we'd already set a date when they could do this.

She got a big fat no as well, although more coherently as she speaks English.

I've stopped spluttering now, although it took me three hours and some successful shopping to do so.

Speaking of which, some day I want to run amok in Benetton. I want to knock over huge piles of neatly folded shirts, flinging them about the store. I want to shake each one out, wad it into a little ball, and hurl them into the corners of the store. Maybe they'll be mauled by dust bunnies. I don't care. I get this urge every time I go into one of their stores. I don't know why.

Unless it's the dictatorial, anal-retentive bitches who work there.

Open letter to the folding-nazis at Benetton

Get over it, girls.

I'm the customer, and if I want to see how big a medium is, I will do so. Hell, I'll even unfold a large so I can compare, and you are not going to intimidate me. And while I'm on the subject, rushing each and every item I express an interest in to the cash-desk will not (a) make me buy it, (b) make me check out faster, or (c) be helpful at all. Maybe I like carrying things around the store, deciding which item is better than which other item. I'll put back the ones I don't want later. Well, I certainly used to. You folding-nazis have pretty much bred that bit of consideration out of me. I mean, even if I did, it wouldn't be folded correctly, so what's the point? Face up to it, you are Paid to Fold. Not to make sure that nothing ever gets unfolded, which not coincidentally leaves you free to gossip with the other folders and flirt with the security guard. Not to harass the customers. No customers, need I remind you, means no job.

Oops, I forgot, not in Italy. You probably have a job for life, don't you? Less customers means less folding, doesn't it?

Well, that all well and good, but I should point out that the security guard is married. And, really girls, you can do better than him.

I go to Gozo

I've been singing that song all day. Unfortunately, to the tune of I go to Rio, because there is no song about going to Gozo that I know of. Unfortunate, because today I discovered that I can only remember three pathetic lines of it, and it's getting rather boring.

Today, I also discovered that I'm shit at packing.

I knew it before, of course. I overpack. I can't help it.

Which is kind of pathetic, considering the kind of lifestyle we lead. I mean, surely I should have it down to a science by now.

Be that as it may, I don't. But after much angst, and a few glasses of wine, I'm done. All packed. For four days in Gozo. In my defense, Malta at this time of year is extremely unpredictable, and it's imperative to cover all the bases. But I did it. I'm all set.

Gozo is a small island in Malta, which is itself small. There's not a lot to do in Gozo, or in Malta for that matter. There's a neolithic fortress, and an nifty church or two. We can take long walks on the coast or the beach, or rock climb, or chill out at the hotel. If it's warm enough, there are beaches and swimming in the sea. Unfortunately, it's not likely to be warm enough. But if it is I Am Ready. I've packed for that contingency, and I will not miss out because I LOVE swimming in the sea. I love the sea unconditionally, in fact, so I've also packed for cold, windy walks on the cliff tops or cold, rainy walks on the beach. Got it covered, in fact, and a heavy suitcase is a small price to pay, if you ask me. It doesn't matter either way, since we're going to Gozo to relax. And Elvis will relax if it kills me.

The next week and a half is what the Italians call the bridge. It's a bunch of unrelated holidays, each one a day or two apart. If you're creative (and it's not real difficult), you can get yourself nine or ten days off with minimal damage to your store of vacation days.

We're not doing that. We're taking just a few, since we're going to the US at the end of March.

In the spirit of relaxation, I am not bringing my laptop. I will, of course have my PDA and nifty fold-up keyboard.