Dude, I really can find a silver lining in anything

So, this is what my cellphone voicemail message currently says:

"Hi, this is Allison. Leave me a message. Oh, and here's a very important piece of advice: Never fly Air France. They will lose your luggage and then they will steal from it."

The silver lining? I'm glad it was the French who screwed me over, so at least I can still look on the Italians with fondness.

Hands off the drawers, Frenchy.

So, all day I've been trying to get Amanda to be more upset about my luggage saga, to share in my righteous anger. It took the tale of some pilfered booze to really ignite the rage:

"A bottle of wine is missing? Ok, NOW I'm furious! What if some weird Frenchman stole your underwear? Gross! I don't even want to think about that!"

Indeed, Manderz. Indeed.

So, Air France is evil.

I'm not sure if you all were aware of this, but Air France is evil. Evil like Satan. And people who have audible conversations in movie theaters. I despise Air France. I despise them like Hitler! And movie theater talkers! Eeeeeeevil!

If you've guessed that this outburst means I still do not have my luggage, more than a week after arriving home from Italy, you'd be correct. Melis doesn't have hers either, but at least she has a working Fed Ex tracking number, which is more than I can say. Those evil people lost my luggage, do not know where it is, and do not have the huevos to tell me so. Vile! Wretched! EVIL!

And can I just ask, how does one lose a piece of luggage that is the color of a pumpkin and the size of an Oldsmobile? That's a special brand of incompetence. Or evilness.

So, if you don't mind doing without essential items such as battery chargers and contact solution, and you don't mind doing laundry at a rate of frequency reminiscent of the Gilbreth family, by all means, fly Air France. But if traveling in concert with your luggage is something that's important to you, avoid this evil airline like avian flu. Tell all your friends! Tell anyone who will listen! Even tell people you don't care for. No one should inflict Evil Air France on other people, no matter how annoying they are. Not even if they talk in movie theaters.


**Update: Melis just called to say she received her luggage. However, it looks like it served a tour in Bosnia in the early-90s, and there's a bottle of wine missing. Not broken. Missing. Evil and thieving!

I HATE Air France.

I am so jetlagged, I might be asleep right now and dreaming that I'm typing this.

Well, I'm back from Italy. I thought I'd have a fabulous time, but I could not have even imagined how fabulous it would end up being. Go! Go to Italy now! You're only punishing yourself if you don't!

I haven't begun my episodes yet, but I can tell you I had a gelato for every day I was there, Melis heard the news about Barry Bonds' indictment on CNN World News and did the happy dance in our hotel room, Rick Steves is some kind of mad genius, Gram loves gondolas, Lisa loves scarves, Linda loves her travel pillow to a degree that disturbs Kristen, apparently I'm rather melodramatic and animated even by Italian standards, our photos will soon be appearing on the wall of our favorite restaurant in Rome, and Jackie says, "Stay away from the spotted meat."

That's good advice, folks.

Sono così spiacente ho battuto quello sopra ed ho fatto un mess.

I’m going to Italy soon, and aside from learning the Italian for, “I’m so sorry I knocked that over and made a mess,” I’ve been reading about the country from whence my ancestors came, and I’ve learned some interesting stuff:

Italy is the world’s largest producer of lemons, and as such, there are plenty of lemon-based drinks, dishes, and pastries to be tried. And I’m going to try them all.

The lines to see The Last Supper in Milan are ludicrous, and we have Dan Brown to blame for it.

For every Venetian resident there are two pigeons and four rats. Great. It’ll be just like being back on the Subway.

The Roman Catholic Church claims that the actual body of the actual Apostle Peter is actually buried under St. Peter’s Basilica. Sorry dudes, I just don’t buy it.

Pope Benedict XVI does not grant private audiences. That practice went out with the death of John Paul II. But I’m still hoping to catch a glimpse of the popemobile when I’m at the Vatican, bullet-proof bubble and all.

Venetian gondolas travel about three miles an hour (the same as walking) and are always painted with six coats of black paint, because in the 17th century the Doge enacted a law to eliminate competition between nobles for the fanciest boat. Well, sorry for you if your gondola gets stolen.

Police Officer: Describe the missing boat.
Screwed Gondolier: Well, it’s black…

I am a Fanilow

Anyone who tells you they don’t like any of Barry Manilow’s songs is lying to your face. I know it’s not really hip to like him right now, unless you’re over the age of 60, but I am not afraid to stand up and say it. I think he has so many great songs (that’s right, I said GREAT) and there has to be at least one for everybody. Weekend in New England is my Manilow tune of choice right now because it’s beautiful and sad and lovely, and the part where it builds to crescendo at the end is so much fun to sing at the top of your lungs in the car, attracting the attention of fellow motorists who wonder why you look like you’re going into convulsions at the wheel. (See also: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me by Mel Carter.) Weekend might be too cheesy for some people, but who doesn’t love Copacabana? I know it’s more reminiscent of Miami, but I think it’s so awesome in that “Las Vegas in the 70s” way, like men in sharp suits and women in sequined gowns swilling gin and rolling hard eights at the Craps table. If you don’t like Copa, you’re not old enough or knowledgeable enough to understand how cool Vegas was in the 70s and you need to go rent Casino and sit in awe of Sharon Stone’s costumes and eye make-up. Hottest spot north of Havana!

Also, there was that awesome Star Wars Cantina parody that just makes the song even cooler.

Oh, I’m sorry; did I wander onto the set of the Jerry Springer show?

The weekend before last Amanda’s sister got married and Amanda came home to be in the wedding. The wedding was a really lovely affair, despite the fact that the hardwood floor, when wet, became very slippery and I fell. Twice. It was like karma biting me in the butt, since I fell right in front of Chris and if you know me at all, you know one of my chief entertainments in life has been to laugh hysterically when Chris trips, shrieks like a little girl, and hits the ground while his shoes fly in two different directions. However, I was not the only one to fall at the wedding. Chris himself fell twice, one other reveler spent more time on the floor than on his feet (though that had more to do with the beer in his system than the beer on the floor), and at the end of the night you could watch the dance floor and see a person drop out of sight approximately every nine seconds. Good times.

The next evening Amanda came over to watch the long-awaited Rock of Love reunion show. I eagerly anticipated all sorts of cat fighting and hair pulling, but I was bitterly disappointed by a shocking lack of such antics. Even Heather and Lacey were polite and conciliatory toward each other. Heather even apologized for calling Lacey a prostitute in front of her parents. How boring. Boo! But, it is a truth universally acknowledged that whenever one would-be shockfest lets you down, another springs up from out of nowhere to take its place.

The facts are these: For the past two months Amanda has been dating this guy, David, and she’s been really happy about her relationship. They got along really well, he was very kind and considerate, and she was even thinking about asking him to come home to PA to spend New Year’s with her. When she flew back to Houston after the wedding weekend, David picked her up from the airport. She thought he was behaving a bit strangely, but she was exhausted from her trip and put it out of her mind. The next day things seemed normal. She and David were back to texting each other throughout the day and they’d made plans to get dinner and see a movie that Friday. All day and evening on Thursday he was MIA. She heard nothing from him on Friday, and he stood her up for their date. On Saturday she went to dinner with her girlfriends, where “trashing David” was the most popular item on the menu, but on Sunday when she still hadn’t heard anything from him, she decided to take action. She got onto his MySpace page and emailed the young lady who was at the top of his friends list. She told the girl (who I’ll call Doris, since I didn’t ask Amanda what her name was) that she was a friend of David’s and asked if she knew if he was okay. Doris wrote back immediately saying David was at the gym and asking Amanda how she knew him. When Amanda wrote back that she had been seeing David for two months, Doris wrote back to say they needed to talk.

For the next two hours Amanda and Doris talked on the phone, comparing schedules and trading stories about David that sounded remarkably similar. He’d been dating Doris since May, living with her since July, and lying like a pathological lying liar since the day he emerged from his mother’s womb. When he got back from the gym Doris asked, “David, who’s Amanda?” David claimed he didn’t know anyone named Amanda. From the speakerphone Amanda shouted, “You have GOT to be kidding me!” He proceeded to deny everything, claiming that his ex-wife put somebody up to this. And the saddest, most pathetic part? Despite enough proof to convict OJ, Doris still wasn’t sure who to believe. Oh, Doris, Doris, Doris. Please, love yourself more than that.

After all these shenanigans, Amanda went to the gym and did some boxing. Hopefully Doris learned that she’s better off alone than badly accompanied. And ladies, I advise you to steer clear of all men named David in the greater Houston area, just to be safe.