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My husband never goes for a standard bouquet of flowers, it has to be exaggeratedly huge and beautiful. So, we were late for this dinner and he got a massive bouquet and we hopped on the Washington metro, got off at our stop and rushed up the stairs.
It doesn’t matter who it is going to, it has to take her breathe away. I whipped through the turnstile and was heading out of the metro station when I realized my fiance’ was not with me.
Of course I did have to be the party pooper and ruin all the fun by calling out, “C’mon Gustavo, we’re late for dinner.” As much as I was irked and a little jealous, I was also in awe at my Italian fiance’s capacity for seduction.
So, that covers the first half of the proverb, now for the second half, “Italian men are the world’s worst husbands.” Let me suffice it to say that one night last week I was wiped out after a busy day at work and helping the kids with various things from college applications to homework.
’Anyway, he approached me, said he was a tour company driver and was I waiting for the Amalfi Coast tour?
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I think she might have thought she would get to keep the flowers too.
A loyal reader of this blog sent me an email with an hilarious tale and word of warning on Italian men, the masters of seduction.A few years after I met my future husband, I was living in Washington while he finished his Phd in New York. One weekend he came to visit me and we were invited to a dinner party.Before the dinner party we stopped by at a florist to get some flowers.I watched him flirtatiously hand her the flowers and ask her to hold them while he messed with his metrocard.His Italian accent had suddenly become more intense, as had his inability to put the damn metro card into the turnstile machine.