A good belly dancer, in fact. I've seen her before.

I took the tram, like I usually do. I really prefer not to take the metro if there is an alternative. And the Number Two tram is very convenient.

Until, of course, that the conductor announces that the tram will not, in fact, be traveling past Centrale station. He announces this at the closest stop to Centrale, which is about a kilometer away. As the doors are closing, as he's accelerating to make the green light.

Not very useful at all.

So I figured out what was going on, got off at the next stop. Then I squelched back to the previous stop, then splashed my way to the hotel.

Twenty minutes later, I was not a happy camper. I was a soggy camper. Invariably, I've found that "soggy" and "happy" just don't go together.

But I paid my money (too much), got a glass of prosecco, and did what any red-blooded professional woman would do: I got my nails done (free). Yes, free. It seems Wendy (or possibly Wendi-with-an-I) was sponsoring this dinner, at least in part. She's opened the first nail-bar in Italy, and possibly in mainland Europe. She's been interviewed on TV and in all the big mags: Marie Claire, Elle, Glamour, possibly Vogue, etc. Her prices for manicures seem a bit high (especially for fakes), but the pedicure prices are right on. I'm getting me a pedicure, pronto.

The food was probably all right when it was hot, which was some time ago. And they served the primi (pasta) on the same plate and at the same time as the main course. I hate that. And for what we paid, ,we should have been spared that indignity. I registered myself as vegetarian, so I was spared the Mystery Meat. Good move on my part.

Dessert was yummy.

The theme for this extravaganza was "woman to woman", by the way.

The belly dancer, as I mentioned before, was great. She gave a little talk before she got down to business, basically about belly dancing as a form of female empowerment, etc. Which it was, at least at one time. Belly dancing was not developed for the delectation of men, which it was what it has become. Which reminds me, she had the biggest, fanciest tassels that I've ever seen. I used to live in Istanbul. I've seen a lot. These were.... Impressive. Serious boob accouterments. She took great pains to tell us that the traditional belly dancing costumes were not at all like those of today, or what we think of when we think "belly-dancer". It didn't stop her from wearing the "modern sexist outfit", though. Those things cost money; might as well get your money's worth.

Ever tried to belly dance? That stuff's difficult, trust me. Try it sometime.

Respect you local belly dancer.

The plumber wanted to come up yesterday, but I told him he couldn't, that I wasn't home (lie at the time, although I was getting ready to dash off to the cemetery.) He wanted to look at the tiles, which he plans to smash and destroy when he gets his malicious little mitts on my bathroom. I told him today was impossible, and that he could come on Friday. He said he'd call first.

He showed up today, when I was getting ready for the Board meeting. I was cutting up carrots, half dressed because I was very soggy (it was still raining). Elvis was in the shower. I'd pretty much determined that I'd bitten off more than I could chew, cut things too fine, scheduled things too close together. I was not in a good mood.

Bastard walked right in. He'd got the keys from Landlady, who was conveniently not in her office, her telefonino conveniently not on.

To say that I was incandescent with rage would be seriously understating the matter.

Quote of the day, from Elvis to Dilettante: Put. Down. That. Knife.

I'm still incandescent with rage, if you want to know the truth.

"Two minutes," he'd said.

It was not, of course, two minutes.

And it in no way accounts for the time I spent cleaning up his muddy footprints.

What he wanted to do is root around in the storage space above the front door, as well as the space in the bedroom, to see how many spare tiles are on hand, as they plan to destroy all the tiles that are actually installed. The spare tiles are soaking up storage space that we do not have. The space in the bedroom has no tiles, by the way.

So he contented himself with mucking around in the space above the front door, which is packed full of shit since we're not exactly blessed with storage space in our tiny abode. He didn't try to put it back the way it was, just shoved it in.

After he left, stuff started plummeting from the storage place above the front door.

Dilettante was not a happy camper.

Dilettante did not have time for this particular brand of shit.

When Bastard Plumber came waltzing in, I confiscated the keys.

Somehow, I ended up giving them back before he left.

I really wish that I had not done that.

I am so weak

I am considering changing the locks.

Because I don't trust The Bastard Plumber.

And it would really piss off all concerned, save yours truly and possibly Elvis.

I want them to be pissed off, for a change.

The board meeting went really well.

One hour and ten minutes, which is at least one hour less than a meeting run by Our Benevolent Dictator. And the first few meetings are the ones with the most to do. I've just checked my minutes, and the first board meeting last year lasted three hours.

THREE hours. Ridiculous.

It's not that I'm bragging or anything. Really. But organization is the key.

And I did a happy hour type of spread. Easy, but nice. Parmigiano, salami, olives, dip, carrots, that sort of thing. And most of us stayed afterwards, drank some wine, did some serious snacking, and generally got to know each other.

It should be a good year, AIM-wise.

And if we do move (very likely, at this point), they'll be fine. I've pretty much told them what to expect and what needs to be done. Or at least I hope I did.

And if we don't move, I think that they'll be a joy to work with.

I'm looking forward to it.

Which means, of course, that we'll be moving.

Pronto.