We are building our dream house. We’ve been at it for a little over five years now. So, who out there in the crowd would like to take a stab at guessing where we are, exactly, in the dream house construction? I hear “choosing window treatments” from the back. The little bald guy here in front says “final touches on landscaping”. Well, everyone hold that thought, and I’ll get to it in a minute.
Archive for 2004
If you really want to see how the Italians in rural Italy live, your best bet is to head to the nearest sagra.
When your two and a half year old runs to the john, feigns an attack of vomiting, then looks at you and says with a smile, “Look! Just like Mamma!” there is only one possible explanation.
Yes, folks, we’ve got a bun in the oven.
Yes, okay. I know Part Two was supposed to be done a couple of months ago. Now, what was I saying? Right, small town life.
I have a hobby. I make soap. I can’t think of a more appropriate hobby for a vegetarian who sometimes reels at the smell of cooking meat than one which, as Step One, lists, “Render suet into tallow.” This is a missish way of saying, “Boil a big vat of beef fat on your stove for so long that your home reeks like a turn of the century British tannery and the stench of it has even the dog retching and the neighbors, who live three kilometers away and raise hogs, sniffing the air and wondering if someone has been burning garbage in the woods again.”
If there’s one thing that really bugs me, it’s blaming the victim. But when it comes to discussing gender relations in my little corner of Italy, I find myself with my back to the wall. There is no other way. The truth must be shouted from the mountaintops. Umbrian women have made their own beds.