My life as an Italian
Saturday, an average day in my Italian Wonderland.
Having worked until 2am on Friday evening, and having worked two different jobs that day, I sleep in until ten thirty, and then come downstairs where my beloved has fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. I turn off the television. I make myself a breakfast of pancakes with Trader Joe's Morello Cherry Sauce and a glass of Chai (courtesy of my family and part of my birthday present which arrived a month and a half after my birthday thanks to the Italian Postal System). I feed my cat scraps of suckling pig from the restaurant, and think about how it must be somehow against nature that my little cat, afraid of other cats smaller than him, can somehow be eating an animal that could easily eat him as a snack. And yet, Artù doesn't mind one bit, and I'm sure, is free of these philosophical musings, especially considering that suckling pig is his favorite breakfast. I curl up next to Giampaolo and he slowly starts to wake up. We chit chat a bit. I play with the hair on his chest. We make love. We lie naked on the couch and talk about our upcoming trip to Paris and Amsterdam. I tell him I want to rent bicycles and ride around the town. He plucks some of my grey hairs and squeezes out a few of my black heads. I pound his chest and scream and threaten his delicate parts if he doesn't stop. He laments that he never studied to become an estetitore (the person who gives facials and exfolitations, etc.) At one, we finally get up. He goes to the cemetery to put flowers on his mother's grave, and I wash a few dishes. We cook spaghetti with shellfish and white wine, finish off the bottle of Grechetto and, then, with full bellies and contented dispositions, we take a nap on the couch. At five o'clock we go to the restaurant, and work for a good nine hours. His sister comes while we are preparing tables and offers to take me to the beauty parlor before we get married in the courthouse, and also offers to take me shopping for a dress. I want to cry, because none of this is what I wanted this go around, and I feel like everyone expects something of me as a "bride," and I hate trying to live up to those expectations. There is a buffet for a girl's birthday party and I help put out the flowers, and then a million other people come without reservations and we run run run and tables get forgotten and its the worst chaos I've ever seen, and in the end, I finish off my night with a small glass of Montenegro. Giampaolo promises I don't have to buy a dress, but he wants to wear a three piece suit. I feel better. We come home and fall immediately asleep.
Having worked until 2am on Friday evening, and having worked two different jobs that day, I sleep in until ten thirty, and then come downstairs where my beloved has fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. I turn off the television. I make myself a breakfast of pancakes with Trader Joe's Morello Cherry Sauce and a glass of Chai (courtesy of my family and part of my birthday present which arrived a month and a half after my birthday thanks to the Italian Postal System). I feed my cat scraps of suckling pig from the restaurant, and think about how it must be somehow against nature that my little cat, afraid of other cats smaller than him, can somehow be eating an animal that could easily eat him as a snack. And yet, Artù doesn't mind one bit, and I'm sure, is free of these philosophical musings, especially considering that suckling pig is his favorite breakfast. I curl up next to Giampaolo and he slowly starts to wake up. We chit chat a bit. I play with the hair on his chest. We make love. We lie naked on the couch and talk about our upcoming trip to Paris and Amsterdam. I tell him I want to rent bicycles and ride around the town. He plucks some of my grey hairs and squeezes out a few of my black heads. I pound his chest and scream and threaten his delicate parts if he doesn't stop. He laments that he never studied to become an estetitore (the person who gives facials and exfolitations, etc.) At one, we finally get up. He goes to the cemetery to put flowers on his mother's grave, and I wash a few dishes. We cook spaghetti with shellfish and white wine, finish off the bottle of Grechetto and, then, with full bellies and contented dispositions, we take a nap on the couch. At five o'clock we go to the restaurant, and work for a good nine hours. His sister comes while we are preparing tables and offers to take me to the beauty parlor before we get married in the courthouse, and also offers to take me shopping for a dress. I want to cry, because none of this is what I wanted this go around, and I feel like everyone expects something of me as a "bride," and I hate trying to live up to those expectations. There is a buffet for a girl's birthday party and I help put out the flowers, and then a million other people come without reservations and we run run run and tables get forgotten and its the worst chaos I've ever seen, and in the end, I finish off my night with a small glass of Montenegro. Giampaolo promises I don't have to buy a dress, but he wants to wear a three piece suit. I feel better. We come home and fall immediately asleep.