“I’m very sorry,” my teacher Sara replies when I share that I’m married to an Italian.
The gurgle of an air conditioner dying is a most terrible sound.
After all we've done for you, you ungrateful son-of-a-me.
“But it’s good for your cholesterol!” she protested before going on the stoop to smoke.
Despite my best efforts to avoid a fight on the first day of school, I have to flee a brawl.
My husband has many talents (e.g. making risotto, doing mental math, assembling IKEA furniture), but teaching me his native tongue is not one of them.
“What I did today and yesterday is not arrogant, it’s just proactive,” Renzo explains.
I’m looking forward to the day when I don’t feel like a 10-year-old only daughter whose adoption papers were just finalized.
“Why did you let me come in then but not out?! Are you going to keep me here as a prisoner?” my father-in-law demands.
Remember the signora with the URGENTISSIMO sarcasm stamp? I was completely wrong about her.