Ciao! I left you all with the image of me heading to class with a trash bag of coats. The third installment shall tell you just what became of those coats. We made it to the IES center for our 9am class, a little worse for wear considering our lack of coats and still wet ballet flats, oh and who could forget the extra baggage under our eyes considering we were up all night boiling the t-shirts we wore. Arriving at the Center we spoke to M about our previous night. It was becoming evident to us that M non capisce aka did not understand the 411. Between the language difference and cultural barriers (the age-old body odor vs deodorant battle), M seemed to struggle to comprehend the horrors we had endured. We let her know that we would leave our bag of coats in her office and take them to the dry cleaners after our class. Fast forward through 3 hours of Italiano tutorial and the standard morning lecture head-drop snooze and I reconvene with my more advanced roommates at M's office. Walking into the office we quickly realize that our trash bag of worldly possessions have Houdinied their way out of the place. "M, where are our jackets?", we ask cautiously. "Oh, they are in the wash," M replies proudly. "What wash? With water?" we question. "Yes, yes wash in hot hot water and dry," M responds. Time out. WTF? Any young woman knows the first rule of wool and fur is that they must be dry cleaned, not cleaned and dried. Lava secco, M! DRY cleaned! Why, you novices in the audience may moronically ask, because washing and drying these delicate fabrics ruins them. It's easy to predict what happens next in our tale of horrors. A young man returns our garbage bag of coats and what do we find? Monica now owns a child-sized peacoat that forces her to do a penguin dance as she stretches out her arms in the sleeves. And I? The fur fairy herself? I am left with flatten wet down and burnt fur, the ruins of my lovely Michael Kors down jacket. I expect the expression of dismay and revulsion on my face during this discovery would match that of a man who had unknowingly just undressed a transvestite at a strip club. (Please note this reference has relevance to our trip to Amsterdam). "My fur," I wail, as the fire starts burning in my sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes. I whip my tail of burnt fur from the hood of my decimated coat and look around for a target. All I find is a group of male IES students huddled behind one of the rather large IES employees, looking quite frightened and unsure of how to react. Their confusion may have been in part to Monica's sobbing into her hands behind me or the profanities exploding from me and Monica. "Hell no," I spite out through clenched teeth while doing my best black girl finger wave (thank you Tri-North Middle School of the hood region for this lesson in attitude) "Nobody messes with my family and friends, dog, or clothes. That is my holy trinity and nobody messes with my holy trinity!" I scream out.
The red bites and itchy rash I could treat. The disaspora and caravan of trash bags I could laugh at. The cold and lack of sleep was only temporary. But my fabulous fur hood? No, that crossed a line inside me. I believe this tragedy marked a turning point in the cimice saga--a point at which I could not longer be the victim of insects and incompetence, but it was time to raise up and fight back. I found an inner strength inside me, fueled by a fight for justice, a passion for fashion, and a desire (shared by all of my fellow beauty queens) for world peace.
Here is the image that kept me going through the next week in my battle against injustice and gross creepy crawly things:
RIP my furry friend, taken from me too soon by incorrect washing procedures
I will end the cimice saga here, my friends, with my roommates and I jetting off to Amsterdam to forget our troubles. Needless to say, Rome was not built in a week, and the girls of Milan did not recover from bedbugs in that time either, but we are slowly readjusting to our now cimice-free abode. A story of horror indeed, but as I like to say, I plan to give birth to four children one day, so any discomfort I experience now is just practice, right? Childbirth ready or not, at least I will know just what to do if any of my children ever meet a bedbug--call my old roommates first and pop open a bottle of spumante. Thank goodness for my bella Milanese roommates, whom I have now experienced more with than most people ever will (as said by Mrs. Jenna's Mom), and who have kept me laughing through my tears. Tonight, we will drink to our burnt fur. Cheers to you old friend! And in the words of my English neighbors, good riddance cimice!
xoxo,
your bedbug-free blogger
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