The Fairy Chronicle of the Magic Number.

Hubby and I are slowly getting there.
One more piece has been added to the relocating puzzle.

A moment of suspense...

We finally got our Social Security Cards!

Even Elvis had one!

Our magic numbers have been delivered to our mail box, and we can now do all of the other million things we have to accomplish to feel completely settled in the United States of America.

Praise the Lord Jesus our Saviour!

It has been a bit tense around here lately.
I don't know if you are aware of the fact that without a SS number you can't do much (legally) in the USA. From getting paid by the company you work for, to getting a driver's license everything is monitored via the miraculous figure. Perhaps now we can even use those numbers to play the lottery.
Nine digits of fascination.

It was quite easy to go through the process to apply for our SSN, but the waiting time necessary to get the card delivered was not as leisurely.

Here is the Magic Number tale of those courageous and intrepid boys (hubby and I).

The Fairy Chronicle of the Magic Number.

Once upon a time in a faraway land, there were two valiant boys;
peaceful, prosperous, and rich in romance and tradition.
One day those fair boys got the chance of a life time when they were offered to relocate to the wonderful kingdom of Miami, Florida.
They traveled far and wide (and in economy class) for many many hours (until their bums were numbed for good) but they eventually landed in the sunny reign of Florida.
What an exotic land.
Palm trees, perpetual sunshine and opportunities as far as the eye could see.
Soon those boys found out that in order to be able to go to the grand ball (to be introduced to rest of the kingdom) they would have had to gain a magic number. Nine whimsical digits that were going to complete the spell for their Happily Ever After.
At this point our boys found themselves at a crossroad:

One sign said: Go to the US Social Security Administration on Northwest 36th Street. But that part of the fanciful town of Miami didn't look very safe to our boys. Too many burglar bars at the windows and not enough parking space. They couldn't afford to get into a dispute with any of the town's brutes, so they considered the second sign.

The second sign said: Go to the US Social Security Administration on Alton Road, Miami Beach. The sound of that location made our boys feel more comfortable right away. There were no burglar bars to be seen and they could park their white horses at the Publix near by. Very quaint.

Once they got inside the SSA building they encountered a very intriguing assortment of characters. Parents with their broods, wise old ladies dressed in flowery dresses, grumpy old men in cargo khaki pants and many gringos (foreigners) just like our fair boys.
The next thing to do was to get a number from a novel piece of machinery that kept spitting out white squares of paper. Those little flyers contained the directions and time expectancy for the interview that would have shortly followed.
The boys number was F664. Magical indeed.

At this point the wholesome couple had to fill out a form each with their details and add all the necessary documentation. A cornucopia of legal papers and visa reports.

Once their turn came, they sat in front of a gentle man with the smallest hands they had ever seen on a grown chap. He had a kind face and he reminded them of that actor from Modern Family, Phil Dunphy, but slightly more awkward. He spoke in a very soft tone as if he was reciting poetry and not just asking for a copy of their marriage certificate. His peculiarly little hands were typing the required details in the data system like they were playing a soothing piece of classical music on a piano. A concerto for keyboard. His music sheets were the Social Security forms in front of his vivacious and lively dark eyes.
Only a bullet-proof glass partition separeted the boys from the kind government employee but they could perceive his benevolent nature very clearly.
The state officer with the tiny hands and spirited eyes gave the boys a big smile and told them that their magic numbers were going to be delivered to their address in one to two weeks. He also added that since one of the boys was from the faraway land of South Africa he was going to have to wait a bit longer.
As per usual.
The boys left the office feeling confident and secure that their magic numbers were going to arrive before the stroke of twelve. (Fairy Tale lingo to describe in timely fashion)

On the 12th of December the boys opened their gilded mailbox.
They were ecstatic.
Two white envelopes containing their Social Security Cards had been delivered to them.
They opened the missives with trepidation and found their shiny new blue cards.
At first our boys were a bit flabbergasted because they expected these cards to be at least laminated. Instead it was just simple printed paper.
Once they got over themselves and their OCD, the boys realized the volume of things they were going to be able to do with their magic numbers.
Open a bank account, start to get paid, get a driver's license and all those other wondrous and extraordinary things that the people of the United Reign of the Americas take for granted.

Our boys got on their white stallions and trotted gaily into the sunset.

And they paid their taxes happily ever after.

THE END.

Whack & Unwrap, if you like it then you should put a bow on it.

Whomever does the shopping for Father Christmas must really have thick skin.
Those Santa's personal shoppers have to be as tough as Hillary Clinton or Condoleezza Rice.
It must take very good stamina to find the perfect non-useful but thoughtful present for so many people at once.
Children are easy.
You just get them something made out of plastic that makes an annoying sound and you are set. Merry Christmas, now don't try to steal your sibling's present. Sharing is scaring.

Adults are a whole different matter.
We are nothing but bigger kids anyway, just more opinionated.
Finding a present for anybody over the age of 18 is not a walk in the park. It's more like hiking the Kilimanjaro. Out of season.
The obstacles we can find on our way are many and vicious, but not unpredictable. As a matter of fact we do know what we are getting ourselves into but we have no alternative (or we simply refuse to know any better fal lal lal lal lal lal lal lal la). When Christmas shopping time arrives we all feel like we are sitting in a roller coaster cart, all strapped up in our seat, slowly climbing uphill before the first crazy fall of the ride. You know it's not going as pleasant as you thought, however you have no choice but to get bashed around and shaken to your core until the Intimidator 305 ride ends.

To my holiday shopping experience you have to apply the concept of we have to be perfect at all times of which my hubby is extremely fond of.
This disposition may be very productive at times, but when it comes to buying presents for colleagues (20 to be precise) it can be a double-edged sword. Even worse. It can be a sword in the frigging stone. Unless you are the chosen one you will not succeed. Hubby clearly thinks he is the chosen one. And reality in fact supports his belief (damn!).

I was lucky enough to be a chosen one too. Chosen to be the designated Santa's little helper.
So off we went to buy gifts for people I have never met in my life, with the man of my life.
I suggested that we should have looked for the same unisex item for them all.
What an insolent dizzy-eyed ticklebrain I was.
Hubby will never be so mediocre or common. No sir, no.
Instead we had to scavenge around searching for original and refined cadeau to be gifted to his team members. We also had a budget. The Amazing Race contestants usually have less issues to deal with. Alice had a better time finding her way into tricky Wonderland. 

My feelings regarding Christmas gifts.

I have to be honest and admit that the gifts we found could be described as the Holy Grails of the presents-on-a-budget but surviving the mental pressure left me feeling drained like a bottle of Prosecco after any dinner of mine.
I had to really tune my antennas properly to achieve such results. Hubby instead, since it was a work related expedition, was right in his element. Good for him.
Keeping your focus while you are getting other shoppers carts shoved right up your ankles is not as easy-peasy as you may think. Also in Miami you need to know the translation for excuse me in at least 5 different languages in order to navigate safely and efficiently inside the perimeter of any super-store.

...and I can say excuse me in 5 languages too.

These are a few presents that got vetoed by the hubby. I thought they were quite original but obviously my sense of humor is not as Carol-y as I assumed.

This one comes with a little weapon too!

Don't be a jerk, just eat some.

If you don't have any Holiday Magic at least you can drink some.

Unleash your rage on a piece of chocolate. Not on your in-laws.

For your furry lovers.

For your friends from south of  the border.

What is more festive than beating the crap out of Ariel?

Suitable only for non-vegan and gluten aficionados.

If your apartment is too small for an actual French Bulldog.

Stay!

Read my lips.

Don't drink it, apply it.

Very light on petrol.

And my personal favorite (I actually bought it for myself):

As I said after all this browsing I felt as empty as a reality-TV starlet's personality.
I didn't even have the energy to put together a respectable Christmas tree (I know, it was about time...).
So this is what I came up with.
I combined two of my most beloved things: Champagne and Fairy lights.

SO FESTIVE!

I won't expect Santa to put a present under my kind of tree, but we can for sure have a couple of glasses together and bitch about this gift finding-wrapping-exchanging-pretending that you like it-returning-recycling saga that we all call Christmas.

Buckle up for Boxing day bitches.

It's going to be a another bumpy ride on the Intimidator 305.
Fal lal lal lal lal lal lal lal laaaaaaaa.


Ciao for now.

Atomic Housewife.

It finally happened.

I have been trying to sweep it under the rug to no avail.
Like dusting a living room in the middle of the Sahara desert. Pointless.

My self-appointed kept wife status came back to bite me in the butt. Like a pretty poodle on a bitch fit.
The first lady arrangement has taken a vacation and will be gone indefinitely, it's on maternity leave or at Betty Ford recovering from a Xanax addiction.

This morning I woke up feeling all right. No clouds in my sky. A pretty dawn and the smell of our trusty Bialetti percolating our coffee were welcoming myself and hubby into this new glorious Tuesday.
I even had the time to contemplate if I was going to use my super powers for good or evil for the day.
Peachy.

Right after we had our coffee an alien force (generated from what I can only describe as pure evil) took me over.
A vicious desire filled my soul.
A depraved motive made its way into my brain.

This morning after coffee I felt the urge to clean our flat.

I know...I just gasped too when I saw it in writing before my eyes.

What is really wicked about this cleaning compulsion is that our flat is not even dirty or untidy at all.
Yes, I can't compare it to a Stepford house but the Honey Bo-boo household is for sure out of the comparison as well. Not amazing, but not abominable either. Like a movie on the Lifetime channel.

While driven by this obscure might I took a broom out of the utility closet and started sweeping the floor. When hubby saw me taking a broom in my hands he probably thought that I was eventually admitting that I was a witch by nature. For all hubby knew I was going to ride that stick into the horizon like a modern day enchantress.
But there were no sorcerous motives behind my actions. Not at all.
I just felt like cleaning the laminated floor. First thing in the morning.
How perverted of me.

To be said I am not against hygiene all together. A home should be tidy and clean. But ours was already very close to those standards! Anyhow I had to do what the dark forces told me to.

So off I went onto a 40 minute cleaning spree (floors, bathroom, making the bed, tiding up the kitchen) that culminated in me re-organizing our underwear drawers. When I snapped out of that purging mode I found I even had a mop in my hand with which (hubby says) I thoroughly dusted our furniture.
The madness I tell you! I felt as if I was observing the scene from the ceiling, like I was watching a program on the Discovery Channel. Even worst than that: a program on TLC.
My big fat cleaning-for-no-reason delirium.

Very true.

But I was not finished with my frenzy.

I had the time to question and revisit my hubby's outfit choice for the day.
I also got rid of the fluff on his pants by using one of those sticky rolls with a handle. I didn't even know we had one of those in the apartment and still don't know what they are called.
When I found myself fixing the tie on him I honestly felt the spirits of all the housewives form the 50's possessing my body and erasing decades of social evolution, emancipation and liberation.

Actual advertisements.

But the man has to be helped. Look at how he propped the jacket he was going to wear for the day:

Is it animal, mineral or vegetable?

I did.

 Once hubby was ready I gave him his snack box and kissed him goodbye on his way to work.

And at that point I was left alone with my thoughts.  
Houston, we have a problem. 
Leaving me alone with my thought is like giving teenagers too much freedom. You know that some shit will eventually happen.
In any case I put the broom and the mop away, started a delicate cycle of laundry and let the soothing noise of the washing routine guide me through the assessment of what happened only a few minutes before.

I am not going to try to elaborate on a persuasive explanation of why I acted like a maid-zilla during our morning ritual. I suppose we don't really know in which way we are going to show our loved ones how much we actually care for them. Sometimes our demonstration of affection can come out a bit wonky or on steroids. My demonstration was quite atypical but sincere. Out of whack but carried out in a nurturing way.

No caption needed.

I have nothing against home chores and cleaning after myself. I am not that frivolous.
I love to iron a shirt to the point of making it stiff, pressing on the board with so much emphasis that the act almost looks like a modern-art live performance. I get great pleasure from organizing closets and drawers. I wish I could live in one of mine since they are so well put together.
Mother back in Italy did put us (my bothers and I) to good cleaning-use as soon as our hand-eye coordination skills were settled. She had three little helpers and never needed any assistance from cleaners coming from the Western Pacific Ocean. Those chores were not child abuse, they were child education.
You want to live in a respectable house? Make yourself at home and clean the kitchen! Perhaps a strategy that should be made popular again amongst the new generations. Just a thought.
Some say that a clean house is the sign of a wasted life.
I say a dirty house is the sign of a lazy ass!

I only drink mine!

I do believe that dusting and mopping sometimes can be used as therapeutic exercises too. But I need to choose my cues more carefully rather than acting like a Tasmanian-cleaning-devil at 7.30 in the morning.
It's not what you do, but how and when you do it.

My style is decidedly close to the one of I Love Lucy.

Good advice.

Lucy.

Here is a pearl of wisdom from me to you :   
With a bit of wit clean after your shit. 

I made that up so don't sell it to any advertising firm.

Now if you'll excuse me I'll go put that pearl on a T-shirt.

Ciao for now.

Double double, shiny souvenirs and Voss water bottles.

Bosom friends!

I am back.
Missed me?
Yes? Good for you!

I hope you all recall that this past weekend I was busy fulfilling one of my countless First Lady duties. Also known as the annual corporate Christmas party.

This year was my first time attending such an event. I felt like a debutante ready to plunge into society. Like a virgin bride on her wedding night. Excited and slightly discomposed. Perhaps a bit gassy too. What a winning mix.

The party was hosted at a hotel I still can't manage to remember the name of...Let me Google it quickly...Oh yes it was the Diplomat Resort & Spa in Hollywood.
First of all I got the location wrong...I didn't need to go to Fort Lauderdale, but Hollywood, Florida.
Same difference I have to say. Look, it's already bad enough that I have the sense of direction of a 3 year old, but not to even know where I am at? I was already there, I didn't need to get there. I always say to hubby I don't get lost, I just find alternative destinations. Very philosophical way to say that I even forget which way forward is.
Anyway...
The Diplomat looks like any other big hotel from the outside, with its Colossus of Rhodes size Christmas wreaths hanging from its princess place entrance.
But on the inside it's an actual modern day cathedral. Instead of arches and pillars it has palm trees in perfect Floridian style, but with same God-fearing effect. I was ready to inhale incense and to kneel to say a little prayer like a proper rosary rattler. Instead I decided to wear my rosary that night but only as a fashion statement.

Nothing about the Diplomat was diplomatic at all. Once again I was faced with a perpetual "the bigger the better" way of living. Nothing wrong with that but I was a bit confused while at the lobby's bar. I almost ordered Holy water instead of soda water (for my white wine spritzer obviously).

Once I gathered myself (after the initial bigness related stupor), we proceeded to check-in at the reception. Lovely Allan was very nice but a tad bitchy since his replacement was 10 minutes late and a gay boy ain't got time for that on a Saturday afternoon. Drinking and accessorizing take priority above all on a weekend. I am well aware of that, I wrote the book.

Thanks to the corporate rate, they put us in a delicious room with an even yummier view of the ocean. We were so far up (26th floor) that once we got out of the elevator our ears popped. Even the air was healthier.
We unpacked, actually I unpacked and discovered with consternation that hubby had packed his stuff like he was trying to make origami with his clothes. I saw a shirt and a pair of pants in the shape of a swan and a flamingo.
Hubby was coming straight from a week away on a sales conference, so he had to do the whole thing by himself. Without my supervision. I could definitely tell. A baboon could have told and perhaps a chimp could have done a better job too.
Hubby has a myriad of skills, packing is positively NOT one of them.
After I surrendered to the fact that I was going to have to iron his outfit for the party, I told him I was in need of food since I was getting into full "hunchy" mode (bitchy because I am hungry).
Since hubby didn't have enough time before I was gonna turn into an ate after midnight Gremlin we opted to sit at the restaurant in the hotel lobby.
The "Cafe" restaurant was the size of a little votive chapel inside the cathedral. Cirque de Soleil could have done a show in there. Once my white wine spritzer had worked its wonders I was relaxed enough to go back to our room and take our disco nap in preparation for the evening event (we are both so not in our 20's anymore...).

After an accurate beauty ritual hubby and I were both ready to get the party started.
With our theme-matching socks and leather bow and neck ties, we were ready to mingle the shit out of all the other guests.

Mandatory before party picture. While the make up is still not running down your face.

Unfortunately I choose the wrong location to wait for my hubby's colleagues. Too close to the huge Christmas tree in the lobby. I had to take at least 15 pictures of strangers in front of the decorated pine tree. I was supposed to be photographed! Even Annie Leibovitz would have given up. Next time I will stand with Annie next to the Menorah, which was located just next to the pagan tree.

Once our group got organized we moved to the actual welcome cocktail reception area.
But first we had to get branded with this:

Admission bracelet.

No tacky ink stamps on our wrists but festive orange bracelets instead. Orange is the new black, right?

The welcome venue was really well put together.
Props, lights, live singers and dancers parading around in fancy costumes or doing a split right under our noses.
They went all out for this party. As they should have, since the theme was Indulgence. There is nothing worse than a title that doesn't match the content of an entertaining affair. Like going to a party called "Rock Stars" and ending up attending a Justin Bieber themed gathering. Not cool.
In this case though our expectations were met in full. Above and Beyond. Even the water they offered at the bar was fancy. Single serving, little Voss water bottles. No cheap stakes here. Still not Holy water but Voss water was the next best thing.

While we were sipping our never ending supply of champagne we got to feast our eyes on many different characters but as usual a picture is worth a thousand words, so here we go:

The humming bird singer.

Showgirl in a gilded cage.

Welcoming lady.

Very tall welcoming lady...

My personal favorite was the Champagne Lady of course.
Her skirt was made out of Bubbly flutes that you could just grab every time she passed by. I followed her quite consistently. No wonder.

The Champagne Lady.

I didn't expect to see so many of the office employees. And I didn't think there were so many of them working for the same company. It was like swimming in a sea of strangers while knowing from where each of their paychecks come from. So intimate for a first date.
Indeed intimate. When you are at a very well attended party your personal space shrinks down considerably. At a party that size, you must be willing to deal with what you would usually consider sexual harassment on an busy bus. And smile all the way through the inappropriate physical contact. Have you ever found yourself dancing the notorious Minuet Party Dance? When you are trying to make your way to the Champagne Lady, but another guest is crossing your path to go to the Vodka dude, and both of you don't really know who is going to pass first? Or last? Inevitably you both end up tiptoeing from side to side like a nervous ferret. Like a hamster getting his groove on. Or a gerbil on a disco-fever trip. You might as well start doing "the robot", stiff but trying to look natural and groovy. Don't lie, we have all been there. Like two bandits in an old Western movie standing in front of each other during a gunfight, waiting for the first one to make a move to resolve the duel.
I had to put my skills for the Minuet Party Dance to the test.
Luckily I managed not to step on anybodies toes.
But everybody else didn't mind bumping into me at all. My drink was constantly spilling out of my Champagne flute. I looked like a syncopated yet out of sync fountain at the Bellagio in Vegas. Also I hate wasting any kind of booze. There is no sin in being thrifty.

The whole presentation was beautiful though.
The only thing that kind of bothered me is that my hubby's blazer kept getting complimented WAY more than mine. The blazer that I scavenged for him. My find. I was the deus-ex-machina behind the ravishing look that the apple of my eye was sporting. I found solace in the fact that behind a great man there's always a big homo. The homo being me. I also support the theory that my hubby suggested when I voiced my discontent. My other half said that I was looking too good for compliments. In all honesty that is the kind of delusion that keeps me going. Bless the both of us.

Tough crowd.

After we were all fueled with plenty of welcome drinks we were gracefully directed to the ballroom where the whole night was going to happen, speeches and entertainment included (I don't remember the name of it but it was something like "crystal" or "palladian" or "majestic").
Like placid cattle we made our way to the entrance of the Ballroom that had been decorated for the occasion. The whole night was going to be like an old fashion fair/circus and all the trickery that comes with that sort of theme.

Welcome, welcome.

Luckily they had open seating at the big round tables so nobody had to endure the company of a complete stranger for the duration of the ceremony. Well sort of. Well we can't all be that lucky...

All around there were singers and dancers populating this huge room with circus like costumes and showing off skills that required a minimum of a 30 minutes warm up. I used to be one of them. As a matter of fact that night I met one of my former colleague whom I worked with not too many moons ago. He was part of the circus-like crew but for some reason they dressed him as Blossom. The resemblance was uncanny.

 

David/Blossom and I.

Blossom.

Before the show could begin the speeches made by the VIP's had to take place.
To my complete and utter delight I had the privilege (as a "First Lady") to be exposed not to one but nonetheless to two CEO's!!!
Double double bitcheeees!
Bosom friends the outgoing CEO of the company and the incoming one were both under the same roof. The former CEO resembled Woody Allen quite a bit. In a handsomer kind of way and without the nasty daughter-bride-to-be kind of inclination.
He said goodbye to the whole lot and introduce my second CEO of the night. She was very graceful in taking over the kingdom and she looked like a shorter version of Martha Stewart but with the same kind of accomplished nuance.
It's a good thing.
I didn't get to show off my well rehearsed curtsy to either of them, but I just moved to Miami, there will be other times to make a fool of myself in grand style.
Following the pass of sceptre between CEO's we enjoyed an Academy Awards - Oscars night moment when they awarded the Employee of the Year prize. It all came with drum rolls and a teary-eyed winner. Luckily they skipped the nominations part so we didn't have to witness the fake happy for you - he really deserved it facial expressions of the other candidates.

After all of this we were all free to lose our names and faces the way we wanted, while enjoying the entertainment that was offered in perfect old-fashion circus style.

Here are some more of the performers:

Pole dancing is here to stay.

Stretch properly.

It Italy is considered bad luck sporting an umbrella indoors...

Striking a pose with Blossom.

The production.

It was all very entertaining. Until the juggler started his number... He was actually really good, but I had my fair share of juggling balls my whole life so I am kind of over that art form (balls referred to as life obstacles...get your minds out of the gutter...).

A singer impersonator was also included in the package. She was quite popular on YouTube and she was even on the Ellen DeGeneres Show. In any case that night we didn't need to sit through yet another rendition of "Let it Go" (from the movie Frozen) sang by Liza, Celine, Tina and all of the others she impersonated. Perhaps is was the wrong venue for such act. All I can say is that the last note form that song came out at such a screeching level that few of the rosary beads I was wearing fell off. A belted finale that nobody saw coming but that we all felt when it hit us like a ton of gingerbread bricks.

We couldn't end the night without the ritual picture in front of a green screen. Hubby and I opted for a fitting prop to wear in the shot. We choose Elvis Presley golden sunglasses with incorporated crown. Very fetching. 

The belles of the ball.

Many party gadgets were provided during the night from cut out photo booth props to shiny souvenirs to take home with you.

For every taste.

VERY fetching.

At the end of this whole corporate pageant I found myself with one too many new names to remember and not enough mnemonic skills to retain them all.

I am also very proud to report that I didn't say or do anything that would have had the result of having divorce papers delivered to my doorstep.

I can for sure say that I have survived my first Christmas office party and that I brought home a shiny souvenir (in the shape of a silver tambourine) and a bottle of fancy, free Voss water to prove it.

Ciao for now.

1000+ early Christmas presents.

Bosom friends!

Before I take this short Christmas Party break,
I wanted to THANK YOU all for the brilliant support!

Found in Translation has reached 1000+ views!!!

For some it may not be a huge number, but we all have to start from somewhere, right?

Have a wonderful and safe weekend - and don't forget to be always ready for battle...and of course catch up on your reading of Found in Translation!
The tale of my weekend escapade will be up on Monday for a freshly baked, start of the week treat!

By the way I found the perfect headpiece for the office Christmas party:

Quite understated...

 

but it's Fendi...

I am off now to the elderly-friendly-Miami: Fort Lauderdale.

May the force be with me.

Ciao for now.