My Little Golden Book of Phobias

All my staff is at a birth and I am doing clinic by myself. It's ok, not too busy.

Florence. The Duomo was astonishing. It looks fake, too big and green and white marble, acres of it. Look at the size of the people. Without power tools too.

Italian women reminded me of Manhattan women, all gorgeous and floating on air in their high couture and heels. No gorgeous Italian men. I looked. And no pregnant women. One woman nursing a baby in a pew. And this lady.

I long for Italy. Languorous meals that lasted for four hours. The best tiramisu I have ever eaten. Beautiful small farms of olive trees and grapes. The slower pace. I feel homesick. 

The person I'm not dating is leaving for the Sudan this week. We had dinner together last night, a farewell dinner. She's been fixing up the houseboat she lives on. We might try to see each other one more time before she goes. For nine months. I feel vaguely worried about her. 

I climbed down the ladder today into the basement to get my laundry. In my pajamas. My neighbors don't care and they can't see me anyway. 

And I stepped on the scale this morning. Um, pasta and I are in love but I'm afraid I have to break up with her. Anyway, there ain't no Italian pasta around so I'm probably safe.