My Deli Guy

My Deli Guy, Gianni, is a Jehovah's Witness and I believe this is why he sells organic products in his little shop on Via dei Tribunali. He is completely against the consumption of Coca-Cola, but he sells it anyway. He likes to occasionally discuss my Jewishness or how it's possible that I, voluble friendly American, wound up with The Husband, brooding silent Neapolitan. Opposites attract...

Gianni has three children. I've seen his wife, beautiful, and one of his daughters, gorgeous. He occasionally overcharges or leaves one of your purchases out of the bag, both on purpose according to The Husband, but I don't think so. I'm just sure to check the bags and scan the receipt before leaving.

When I was thinking about writing about My Deli Guy (il mio salumiere), I imagined a hilarious, delightful post. This is, rather, a rather boring subject.

Moving on.

First Susan Sontag, then Wendy Wasserstein, and now Molly Ivins?! What the fuck is going on? Why are all these amazing women writers dying of cancer too too young? It's freaking me out. I am not one to cruise the obit pages, but I am a New York Times online reader (not a Times Select customer, excuse me, not that special) and these deaths just keep jumping off the page/screen.

It is still unseasonably warm here and I am developing a true fear of extreme heat. My father is more concerned about floods. My father cracks me up sometimes. The other day, he was talking about one of his tennis buddies, no youngster, and said, "He thinks he's running, but he's actually standing in one place." I love that.

I recently exposed this blog to my parents, so I will try not to offend them in any way when I write about them. Okay, folks?

One of the things I've learned from arguing with The Husband is that the argument, "Well, I could be much more of an asshole if I wanted to be!" is a weak one. I use this argument when I feel he is not noticing the great things I do for him, like bring him coffee in bed almost every morning. So, if I am feeling unappreciated or underappreciated, I use the could-be-more-asshole defense: "You know, I don't have to bring you coffee in bed. And I could criticize you more. And I hate your yellow shirt." This is supposed to counteract the ways in which I am an asshole, making them seem mild compared to how assholey I could be. Are you following me? I'm impressed if you are because The Husband certainly isn't. He just looks at me blankly as he should do since I am not making any sense. NON HA SENSO is what I say to him whenever he says something I don't agree with. Despite our circuitous, ridiculous arguments, we do sometimes come to an understanding. Like yesterday, we came to understand that we both would like solo time without La Bimba or each other, but that only I ask for it because he is not of the character to do so (that's a paraphrase of one of his NON HA SENSO lines). Whether this means either of us is going to get some free time to sit by the sea, read in a cafe (like they do that in Italy, hah!), go shopping ALONE ALONE is not yet clear. Luckily, the nonni (grandparents) are coming, so I can have some ALONE time when The Husband is at work. What do you say, nonni?!