Time Travels
This weekend the heat has been oppressive. Air does not move through our apartment, it just crushes us, rendering me so useless that when I answered the phone today I actually had to admit to somebody that I was watching Pepper Dennis simply because it was too hot to make any effort to find the remote. And no, I don't have cable. Outside it was really no better. There were no shadows in which to relax, no shade to speak of, which is how I wound up seeing Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest at the Astoria Kaufman Theatre. To quote Amy Poehler, if you're going to bring your baby to the movie, please make sure he laughs at the appropriate times.
Last night, there was a group of Italians who had shut down a block to celebrate the feast day of St. Bonaventure. Lights were strung, a band was playing, food was eaten, the police were present. It was a throwback of sorts to my first summer after college, the Sagras on the hills of Tuscany reappearing in the streets of Queens.
And so, I bring you another installment of Dramatic Shit I Wrote On My Summer Vacation:
I will admit that I am given to flights of fancy about my own life. I tend to get lost in daydreams no matter how familiar I am with the reality of a situation. Even though I had been to Tuscany before, had stayed in the same guesthouse of the same family, I envisioned my life here as some sort of pastoral scene. The girls and I picking flowers in the sun, walking the dog along dusty country roads. Maybe a handsome Italian boy riding his bicycle stopping to ask my name…
My daydreams were about as any other daydream. I do live in the countryside, and outside of my house there are fruit trees and olive trees and I can see the patchwork of farmland covering the valley below. There are frogs jumping against my door every night. There are tiny lizards zipping along the brick walls. There are occasionally dead mice and birds left on the doorstep by the cats. I once found a beetle in my hair and nearly had a nervous breakdown.
But the girls are more interested in watching the Cartoon Network on their 600-channel Satellite cable than they are in walking the dog or exploring the countryside. “Troppo Caldo,” they say when I suggest that we ride our bicycles, fanning their faces and sticking out their tongues. It is always “too hot” to do anything other than swim, which they do invariably from 10:30-12:30 before lunch. If I get in the pool, swimming is more accurately described as using me as a human diving board, jungle gym, and flotation device. “Vai, cavallo!” They shout as they all pile on my back and dig their heels into my sides. “Your horse is drowning,” I gurgle, but they don’t care.
On a rainy day I allow them to play their PlayStation. “Vuoi fare Britney?” Irene asks. I have no idea what it means to “make Britney” until I am introduced to “Britney’s Dance Beat,” a game where you and another player make your character by pushing the correct buttons indicated on the screen. The best dancer, of course, wins. There are varying levels of play, but always to the same five Britney Spears’ songs. Britney is the guilty pleasure that I’ve never felt guilty about. Yes, I own all the Cds. Yes, I know all the words. Yes, I own her perfume and folders. Yes, I am aware that people find this pathetic. But since I heard “Hit Me Baby One More Time” during my Freshman year high school I have flown in the face of conventional tastes and declared my love for all things Britney.
These girls have no idea that they are in for the beating of a lifetime. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never played this game before, that I hate video games, or that all the instructions are in Italian. This is Britney. This is my territory. My player dances so well that sparkles emit from her body, apparently indicating that the losing dancer has to take another challenge, with more buttons to push in order to stay on beat.
Throughout the game, Britney is offering words of encouragement like, “That rocked!’ to me, while telling Irene and Elena “We’re going to have to work on that.” I beat them so badly that I begin to feel guilty. I play at two levels higher than them and still win. I intentionally miss steps and win. I cannot lose at Britney.
The next day the girls give up and cheer for me as I play against the computer. I’m in audition mode, and by level 8 of 10 I’ve begun shouting at the computer, accusing it of making mistakes in counting my score, of missing beats that I know I hit because DAMN IT I KNOW the entire Britney Canon inside and out!
On the 8th audition I am defeated. The smug Elisa jumps up and down shouting, “That was awesome!” I press the button to play again. Again Elisa wins. Again I press the button. Again Elisa wins. I realize that my hands are cramping and that I am actually angry at my losses. I am disgusted. “Basta.” I announce, turning off the television and putting away the game console. The girls are shocked, “No Britney?” they ask.
I wish I had the words to tell them that Britney stands for fun and happiness, for tight jeans and belly piercings, for going out and getting drunk with your girlfriends or for dancing shamelessly in your bedroom, not for sitting hunched over in front of a TV shouting curse words every time you lose. Instead I say, “Andiamo a piscina!” because Britney also stands for an amazing suntan.
Nora playing video games? Hard to imagine. Such is the power of Britney...
I used to daydream about being able to lay on the couch for days on end, eating an entire bag of E.L. Fudge cookies and a gallon of milk. Well, Nora, I'm living the deam.
Reading about you having a nervous breakdown when you found a beetle in your hair reminded me of the time I saw your sister run like an Olympian through the Shrimp Bucket. I thought the house was on fire, but it turns out she had spotted a centipede.