Love Italian Style: Epilogue

k-bigpicWell, we made it, kids. We got through the entire book. Now it’s just the epilogue standing between us and a bottle of mind bleach that will keep us from remembering any of this bullshit.

Melissa begins the epilogue with a history lesson on Saint Valentine. Which no one really cares about. Melissa writes that out of all of the difficult times she’s had with Joe, it’s all for the best and everything’s great and other lies that I’m sure will help her sleep at night. She ends the book with this, “Writing this book has only reinforced my core belief, that merging your life with another person is the greatest blessing. I wish true passion, warm affection, and an Italian-style love for every one of you.”

Whoa there, girlfriend. If I ever find myself in a relationship like yours I will be headed to the closest women’s shelter. The last thing I timsmellingpoopswant to do is be with someone I don’t feel comfortable pooping around, have to listen to lessons and education whenever I do something he doesn’t like, have to wear clothes that he enjoys and get my ass to the gym if he says so, and generally cater to his every whim when he has no concern for housework and can’t manage to change a diaper.

But there were some good parts of the book. Like… You know when…. And then there was… The part where… Okay, so I lied.

The best thing to come out of this book was that Tim and I now have a new inside joke. We were texting back and forth one night and then he  got distracted and stopped texting. After about a half hour I asked him if he had stopped responding to me because he had smelled my poop before. He assured me that it was. Now poop being the beginning and end of our masculinity and femininity is a running gag. He gets to poop because he’s a man, but I shouldn’t because I’m a dainty woman who could never produce something like that from my frail body.


If I was going to write an advice book for married couples, which I wouldn’t because I’m not a fucking professional in a psychology-related field, I would advise people to find someone who accepts them as they are; flawed, strange, and with hair growing in places that Cosmo says you should wax. Someone who loves you will love you when you gain weight, when you lose it, when you first get up with morning breath and when you go to sleep with blood-shot eyes.

Most of all, accept yourself as you are. You’re not perfect and you’re not supposed to be. You’re a human being, not a doll, a servant or an object. Allow yourself to be weird, unconventional and occasionally, unkempt. Do what makes you happy because you’re happy doing it. Not for the praise of other people. At the end of the day, you are the person that you spend the most time with. You need to care about yourself.

So ladies, if you want marriage advice for a failing relationship, go to a therapist. Go to a marriage counselor. Find someone who can look objectively at you and your mate and give you advice based on your lives. You don’t need the opinions of a talentless housewife who rambles on about herself and advocates that you mould yourself to be the perfect wet dream of a misogynist caveman. Every woman should be their own person and their own best friend.

To read all review entries of Love Italian Style, click here. Blogs are in reverse chronological order.