That would be me, Mrs. Moglie. Married to a native Italian, Mr. Marito.
Mother to a daughter in high school, Ms. SmartyPants and a son in middle school, Mr. Uometto.
Employed at a private British School as an English teacher and Coordinator of Children's Studies.
Part of a small, but growing Protestant church in Frascati, a small town in the hills just outside of Rome.

This is where I sometimes gripe, complain and grumble about the things I dislike, have yet to get used to or simply don't understand about bella Italia.
I do, however, have many people, places and things that I dearly love and I am more than aware of being blessed by each and every one of them.
Also - a few helpful posts for visitors to Rome or for newly arrived ex pats. Check the side bar for tags. I've even some recipes that I've borrowed, tweaked or invented. One thing I've come to love about Italy is how it's changed the way I eat - slow food !! Although ... I do miss Taco Bell ... and Jack in The Box ... and KFC ... and ::sigh::
Thanks for stopping by !!

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

A Bouquet For Mr. Marito

Mr. Marito's super power is the ability to grate cheese, sand wood and scrub away iron deposits and rust from the bathroom tiles - all this with his 5 o'clock shadow. 

Mr. Marito's government job does not require him to have contact with the general public. This, according to Mr. Marito, is more than enough reason for not having to shave until his wife appears to have been dragged, repeatedly, up and down the street, on her face. The stubble on Mr. Marito's face can do some serious damage.

So, I asked him to please, spare me from the cruel and unusual punishment of death by grating and he replied, "I would, but ... there aren't any more razors in the house."

"Oh," I said and attempted to caress his cheek, only to give up seconds later, realizing I would first have to go through the barbed wire growing on his face. I let my hand drop and offered him a kind word instead, "Oh, poverino..." but then, on second thought, I added, "che non sai comprarti una lametta." (Oh, poor you ... for not knowing how to buy yourself a razor.)

He was still basking in the glow of what appeared to be coddling and wifely indulgence when he registered the last half of my reply. "Oh," he said sheepishly, "mi stai prendendo in giro." (You're poking fun at me)

Yes, Mr. Marito ... indeed, I am.

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