I’m off to Italy tomorrow for a week because my family - despite having no Italian blood or really any connection to the country - is completely obsessed with it. I am completely obsessed with the food there, so it totally works out.

Dee says I always pick the best thing on the menu, and she’s right. I do that all the time here in America. It’s very important to me and the character trait in which I take the most pride. But I get nervous about doing it in Italy because I have no idea what anything says. Except I do know the word for “eggplant.”

I could be like my father and revel in my cluelessness by asking the waiter if we could have “zucchini alfredo” as an appetizer. He meant eggplant parmesan. Somehow. The best part about this is that the waiter actually picked up on his twice-removed translation (Italian to English, English to Bill Barrett) and said “Ah! Melanzane! Si, si!” (See? I know it.) Bill’s method might get me some laughs, but I prefer to have at least some idea of what’s going on during those crucial pre-vino moments, because we all know it’s downhill from there.

Meghan’s spotty understanding of the language helps, but we only have time to go through half the menu items at most before order time. When the moment of truth comes, I choose something random, then have these mini anxiety attacks as we pass the menus back to the server because I have no idea if I ordered the best thing. I know. Life sucks. It’s not easy being me.

Hmm. The laundromat downstairs says “7AM - 9PM” on the door. It’s 8:40, and the place is all boarded up. With all the clothes I need to pack (presumably) inside. Maybe life does suck. Shit.