"Ho un Picculo Disastro!"

My mother has always warned me of the dangers of using finger nail polish in the vicinity of anything of value. I grew up hearing, “You better do that outside!” “Do you have a paper towel?” “You better not open that around your grandfather!” I should have heeded her first warning this weekend at the Palazzo, even if it meant painting my nails on Via XX Settembre during “passagiata”. Maybe then I could have avoided my “un piccolo disastro”.
Let me take a moment to comment on my first, and hopefully last, disaster of the semester. After I finished painting my nails, I went to place the Ziploc bag back on the top shelf of my closet. I carefully made sure the bag was closed, because the polish had somehow exploded transatlantic. Heaven forbid a finger nail polish explosion happen in this newly renovated Palazzo! It would cause such a mess with the handmade furniture and the granite floors. Anyway, I digress from the moment. As I am putting the bag back on the top shelve of the closet, I apparently missed the obvious hole in the bag. BAM! A few ‘chioce’ words fly, before I even realize what has happened. My black nail polish, moms “favorite” color, has just vandalized everything beautiful about my new bedroom. There is a puddle of black on the floor and splattered on the wardrobe. I’m not sure whether to cry or scream. Hannah hears me from the living room and comes running. RuuuuuuuuuUN! Paper towel, Finger nail polish remover, MOP, bucket! How will I ever explain this to Dr. Webb and John Rose- and the furniture man who will cry when he sees black on his handmade masterpiece? After scrubbing harder than Cinderella, I ran down stairs to announce my accident. John was entertaining Marghirita’s husband. When I appear in the stairwell, he joyfully announces that I speak Italian “molto buono”. At this remark, one always feels obligated to respond with appropriate etiquette, in Italian. “Piecere!” “Si, Studio a Ferrara l’anno scorso”. But, almost in tears, the only thing that seems to come to mind is “Ho un piccolo disastro!” At this word, Betty Webb appears from her apartment like a rooster at sunrise. “Disaster” can be understood in any language! Luckily, and with grace, I was told that while this was a disaster, it was not a catastrophe. There are no bones protruding, YET. But this may change because the furniture man has yet to see what I have done. It may then turn into a catastrophe and a possible trip to the hospital. John announced that if this is the worst thing I do all semester, I am not doing too shabby! Sadly, I am reminded of my shabbiness every time I see the black spot in front of my closet.
I hope this helps all of you who may decide to study abroad in Sansepolcro to leave your nail polish at home! Italy has plenty of pretty colors of polish. J