A thousand bitter layers, worse than an Aperol Spritz.
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).