I've taken a small, insider's poll and have discovered that no one gets the "kicked in the shin" part of my blog's subtitle. I am now offering my vast, ahem, readership the opportunity to guess what I'm after with that subtle bit of brilliance. Hint: it does not merely refer to the frequent agony I experience walking out my door every morning...
I am home alone!!!!! I am blasting U2's Unforgettable Fire. I am cleaning. After a bit of scribblage here, I will cook. I am wearing my pajamas. I am drinking a caffè latte with a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Ahhhhhhh, it feels like Sunday, American Sunday, non-Italian-American Sunday, no plans for an enormous lunch, no plans to join the smoggy Sunday drivers, no plans period.
This is the first time I have felt the need to be plan-free in a while. I used to be a compulsive socializer, then I swungeth the pendulum far far the other way and got a little reclusive, and now I am searching for la via di mezzo, the middle road. I am just terrible at the middle road. I am no Chrissie Hynde. Or maybe I am very Chrissie Hynde. I am not sure because I don't actually know the lyrics to Middle of the Road.
I have to accept that not every entry is going to be snappy, snazzy and full of mind-blowing insights. I have to accept that The Husband and La Bimba are going to be back soon. They went to the cemetery to visit The Husband's parents. I never got to meet them. It bums me out that La Bimba has only one set of grandparents and that they live thousands of miles away in the Old Country. When you are an expat from the USA, the USA becomes the Old Country albeit a prematurely aging one. The USA would never stand to have its image wizened and hunched; it would sooner sign up for some elective surgery -- face lift, boob job, nose job, tummy tuck, rib removal, cheekbone shaving, Brazilian bikini wax. Israel is much younger than the USA, but doesn't it look way older? It does to me since when I anthropomorphize Israel I see an elderly rabbi rocking away at the Wailing Wall.
I forgot to put the ciuccio (pacifier) in La Bimba's knapsack. I hope The Husband is not banging his head against a Wall of Wailing because of my negligence.
I am home alone!!!!! I am blasting U2's Unforgettable Fire. I am cleaning. After a bit of scribblage here, I will cook. I am wearing my pajamas. I am drinking a caffè latte with a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Ahhhhhhh, it feels like Sunday, American Sunday, non-Italian-American Sunday, no plans for an enormous lunch, no plans to join the smoggy Sunday drivers, no plans period.
This is the first time I have felt the need to be plan-free in a while. I used to be a compulsive socializer, then I swungeth the pendulum far far the other way and got a little reclusive, and now I am searching for la via di mezzo, the middle road. I am just terrible at the middle road. I am no Chrissie Hynde. Or maybe I am very Chrissie Hynde. I am not sure because I don't actually know the lyrics to Middle of the Road.
I have to accept that not every entry is going to be snappy, snazzy and full of mind-blowing insights. I have to accept that The Husband and La Bimba are going to be back soon. They went to the cemetery to visit The Husband's parents. I never got to meet them. It bums me out that La Bimba has only one set of grandparents and that they live thousands of miles away in the Old Country. When you are an expat from the USA, the USA becomes the Old Country albeit a prematurely aging one. The USA would never stand to have its image wizened and hunched; it would sooner sign up for some elective surgery -- face lift, boob job, nose job, tummy tuck, rib removal, cheekbone shaving, Brazilian bikini wax. Israel is much younger than the USA, but doesn't it look way older? It does to me since when I anthropomorphize Israel I see an elderly rabbi rocking away at the Wailing Wall.
I forgot to put the ciuccio (pacifier) in La Bimba's knapsack. I hope The Husband is not banging his head against a Wall of Wailing because of my negligence.
2 comments:
OK, I'll admit I don't get the subtitle or the title -- unless it is a ribald reference to "The Husband," in which case I'll blush and shut up...
I'm not very good at guessing, but I sorta get your blog's title and think it's cool. Um, could it be la vecchiarella that lives in the basso apartment that "accidentally" kicks you in the shin every time you pass by and don't stop to let her play with La Bimba?? :) Neapolitan Son...does that refer to your husband? Hmm... :)
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