Hello, we must be going.

So we’re going to Italy tomorrow, and did I brush up on my Italian? I did not. Zut alors! Wait, that’s wrong.

We are going to a farmhouse in Tuscany with my mother-in-law and brother-in-law and brother-in-law’s new wife whom I now get to call my sister-in-law. For two weeks, we’re going! We’re going to be in the country! With, um, donkeys? I think there might be donkeys. Really I have no idea. I have done very little thinking about this trip. Does it show?

My mother-in-law wishes to celebrate her birthday by taking us on this trip, and who am I to argue? I’m a little nervous about the flight with Henry (read: I’m picturing Henry flinging vomit and feces all about the cabin as he skitters across the ceiling and screeches the Nicene Creed backward) but I’m sure it will be fine! Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa! Hurgh!

Anyway, then we’ll be in Italy, so even if the ride is as awful as I can imagine, we’ll still end up in Italy. The last time we were in Italy it was our honeymoon, and it was fantastical and wonderamic, except we flew Air France and therefore we had to deal with the French. On the way there I sat next to an aging, bitter old crone who wore too much makeup and applied smelly salves to her hairy cheeks and then berated me when I suggested that maybe using nail polish remover in a plane wasn’t the most considerate way to go. She actually called me a “spoiled American” and repeatedly sneered, “You want your own plane,maybe?” And oh, how I loathed the French, on that trip.

But not as much as on our way back, when we missed our connecting flight and ended up being put up in a hotel in a town called Bagnolet. Bagnolet, Where the Hookers Are! Actually, maybe it was a nice town, I don’t know—we were too busy hiding in our room from the hookers down in the lobby. They looked mean, those hookers, like they wanted to cut up some Americans. As for the room we were in, there were brown streaks running down the walls out of the vents and the sheets made us itch and the only channel that worked on the television was airing “Men in Black” in French.

But the Italy part, that was nice.

This time we’re taking Lufthansa, so I expect we’ll return with tales of Germanic cruelty. Along with many, many pictures of Henry eating gelato.