I attempt to prove I'm a competent adult, despite what my plumber thinks.
Baby L swayed back and forth in her mama’s womb as they crossed the sea to Italy.
Too legit to quit, ragazzi.
Italy is a gorgeous country with delectable food and fascinating history, but (1) You already know that. (2) It’s more fun to write about dumpster fires. So, here’s another one of my infernos.
I don't enjoy cooking but I do like homemade Italian food and interesting dinner companions.
“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.
“You and your husband have the exact same birth date?” the Milan city hall employee asks me. "No, no, we don't," I say, showing her my passport while a nice cup of anxiety brews in my belly.
We head to Agenzia delle Entrate to get my codice fiscale (more or less an Italian social security number) and tessera sanitaria, a card that will allow me to enroll in the public health system in Italy (suck it, Paul Ryan).
In Italy, of all places, of course government work would be an art form. You see the Statue of David, I see a misshapen gargoyle that will delay the legal process by fourteen months.