Who Misses The Contessa?

Hurricane Ike put me out of commission for nearly two weeks but the Contessa is back, wine glass in hand and as snarky as ever. What timing, too. My last column in the Tribune appeared a couple of days before Ike hit after which I was forced into the dark ages - no air conditioning, no lights, no Internet, no Chardonnay. Desperation levels weren't low enough to have Contessa drinking warm white wine. Another week, though, when the Cabs and Merlots were gone, might have painted a different picture.

Would Anyone Miss Me?


Romantic pining is not dead. It may be in a coma at the Contessa household this time of year, when the only longing in The Big Guy’s heart is for an Astros playoff berth, but it’s alive and well in Italy. A football-loving lifeguard has camped outside a convent, keeping vigil until his runaway fiancée returns to him.

Newsflash to Mr. Italy: say “arrivederci,” the little woman’s not budging. Wifey-to-be saw the light and is staying put. She figured out that while she’s ironing Luigi’s Speedos, he’ll be applying sunscreen to bikini beach babes. When she’s sweeping sand out of the kitchen, he’ll be kicking it up, playing football with his buddies. Nope, she’s found her calling and it doesn’t include watching the beer-guzzling Man Show or discovering wadded up smelly socks stuffed in her lingerie drawer.

As hard as it is to believe, I am occasionally overcome with an urge to slip away. Well, maybe run off. OK, escape. I once considered sneaking off and becoming a nun myself, even hand-picking the convent. It had its own vineyard. I offered to lick, er, clean out the vats. No go. Mother Superior thought I’d have problems with the vow of silence. That, and my rosary beads hand-crafted from pull-tabs might be a distraction.

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