When I told my aunt and uncle that I was afraid to show them some of my writing because I didn't want them to think I was an asshole, they told me they already knew I was an asshole, and that helped a lot.
It's always good to know that the people who love you know you are an asshole. I think that is the definition of unconditional love.
No one is an asshole all of the time and in every way. Also good to know.
I found a flier from the gas company in our last Naples apartment. It was a flier about a program to conserve energy or something and the slogan was, "Pass Gas." Need I say more? I explained to The Husband why tears of laughter were streaming down my face when I saw the flier and now "to pass gas" is part of his limited albeit growing English vocabulary.
I am pretty sure The Husband can finally hear the difference between "hungry" and "angry." Sure, you think it's easy, but put yourself in the shoes of someone who has never had to aspirate his Hs.
My mother has told me on more than one occasion that one of the reasons we never moved out of Brooklyn to go live in Lawnguyland or Joisey was because she wanted me to grow up to be a street kid. Instead, I married one.
I did not play stick ball or stoop ball or box ball or ringolevio with the kids on my block. I did learn to ride a bicycle on my street, my encouraging father running alongside my yellow banana seated two-wheeler, that exhilirating feeling of realizing that he had let go many seconds ago and I was riding by myself. I might have written on the asphalt in chalk once or twice, jumped some rope, maybe a bit of hopscotch, but I was definitely more comfortable inside playing jacks or creating elaborate soap opera fantasies for my dolls. I also enjoyed dragging my mattress downstairs to the living room and running from the kitchen through the dining room and hall to do flips onto it. Pretending to be a weatherman was also fun, as was singing along to the Evita soundtrack. I memorized all the songs, played all the parts. It took years before I could rent Madonna's version. She ain't no Patti Lupone.
The Husband was definitely a street kid, a scugnizzo (napoletano for "street urchin"). I don't know if his father ran up the steep, cobblestone streets with him as he attempted to ride a bicycle, but it's unlikely since he had a motorino by the time he was probably 8 or 9. According to The Husband, without going into detail, he was a holy terror as a kid. We often stare at La Bimba while she is playing or sleeping to see if she is showing any signs of future hooliganism. So far she is very brava. Did I mention that her favorite foods are green vegetables?
La Bimba is heavily into pulling herself up to standing and chucking her pacifier overboard when in the crib. She hurls it onto the floor and then points at it and says, "Oooooh!" She has also begun doing yoga. She did downward dog today in addition to her usual happy baby pose.
My yoga class ends at the end of the month. I've had low enrollment but those who have been coming have been blessedly commited and focused. And my how they have improved! Brave! (That's brah-vay, as in Good Work Ladies! as opposed to brave as in, well, you speak English, you know what brave means).
I am reading Anne Lamott's novel All New People. Because I read all her non-fiction first (Travelling Mercies almost made me want to believe in Jesus in spite of childhood trauma), I can pick out all the autobiographical stuff in the novel and see how she manipulated it and shifted it and made it art. She rocks da house.
Sunday we went to the Amalfi Coast to try to find a broken down farmhouse to buy and turn it into a solar energy, B&B, home, organic vegetable garden paradise. We didn't find anything up in the hills, but it was a lovely day and La Bimba loved playing in the sand at Atrani. She does not like cold water though. Every time I tried to dip her feeties in the sea she retracted them up to her ears. I think she is going to grow up to be a spa lady like her grandma.