Look like a doll. Let the boys chase you.
Don’t kiss on the mouth.
Don’t get fat. Mangià!
Don’t let a boy see you polish your nails.

Sit like a lady or they’ll call you puttanà.
Men want virgins. Look sexy. Be genteel.
Don’t talk low class. Get married in church.
People who go to church are such hypocrites.

Don’t have sex or make sure he covers it.
He’ll leave you with a belly.
Only whores get their own apartments.
Marry a nice Italian man.

Children take a lot of work and responsibility.
Don’t expect me to help you. Have two. No more.
An only child will grow up crazy.
It’s very selfish not to have children.

Settle down. Go to college. Get a good job.
Your husband might leave you
and you’ll have to support yourself.
Tell the children to stay away from Uncle Peter.

Save your money. Keep some hidden.
Live well. Buy a two-family house,
let tenants pay your mortgage.
Jewish men make the best husbands.

Don’t tell your father what I say.
Don’t tell your husband anything.
All men are bastards.
Have a beautiful wedding, my Princess.

I thought my mother’s advice
antiquated, angry, childish
when she was living.

She, who stayed married to my father
as they batted contempt across the dinner table,
who said men would only want to pee in me,
what did she know of a loving partner?

When women’s rights meant a new washing machine,
smoking, being allowed to work or go to college,
what did she know of men who give massages,
have vasectomies, applaud their wives’ promotions?

Now, a decade since her death,
I sit alone outside Le Café de Paris,
wearing her earrings and bracelet,
long nails red, slender and toned from yoga, 
drinking decaf, no cream
wishing she would tell me for once
how good I look, how well I’ve done.

Today I want to ask her counsel
to find a suitable life mate
I could trust and love,
confident
I would hate her answer.