Since I left Italy just after the new year, my darling boyfriend has been networking his little heinie off. In Italy, even more so than here in the States, finding a job is all about who you know. That stellar boy has networked himself 2 sets of serious interviews for real jobs.
I don’t want to explain all the bloody details, but suffice it to say, one of the jobs is in Milan – and one is working for an Italian company in LA.
Please dear controller of the universe, provide him with an offer for one of the jobs. I am not going to bargain for this gift by offering you children or my soul or eternal goodness on my part, but I’m close.
We just want to be able to make plans. We don’t want our lives to be boring. No, no. But if we could know where we’d be living, perhaps we could decide on one of the governments to marry us so immigration wouldn’t question Fabio’s intent upon arrival at JFK airport. Possibly we could live somewhere with kitchen cabinets that stay shut, instead of hitting us in the head when we wash dishes in the sink. And maybe, just maybe, I could kick my stinky job to the curb and find one that doesn’t make me eat airplane snack boxes for dinner.
I’m a clown car of contradictions on this issue. We’re almost 40, should we really compromise and take that LA job if it’s offered? Life is short. And earnest Top 40 pop songs like “Live Like We’re Dying” are starting to really affect me.
After all this dreaming, my heart is mangled by the idea not living in our sweet Italian house with the garden, watching our ducks waddling in the backyard, picking plums and cherries in the summer, and lingering over patio dinners on warm nights watching the lights on the lake.
I hate every practical bone in my body that knows we will take that job in LA if it’s offered.