Zoe made a lovely dinner for us last night and afterwards, we baked cookies and watched the Growing Up Gotti marathon on A&E. In case you’re unfamiliar, Growing Up Gotti is a reality show about Victoria Gotti, daughter of mobster John Gotti, and her 3 teenage sons, Carmine, John, and Frankie. Victoria, in addition to living off the family racketeering fortune, is a gossip columnist for some supermarket tabloid and an F-list celebrity. They live in a grotesque, Greco Roman mansion somewhere on Long Island and surround themselves with a collection of hangers-on and mafia posers.
This is quite possibly the most guido family to exist. With an entourage including Luigi the Italian handyman and “Quack Quack” the chaperone, the Gotti family (the boys are from Victoria’s failed marriage to the currently incarcerated Carmine Agnello Sr.) throw parties, date broads, and steal each other’s hair gel. It’s fabulous and after every episode, I end up talking like Victoria, screaming at my imaginary dago sons and trying to make pasta sauce.
I’m a big fan of organized crime and I’ve always maintained I’d be a fantastic mafia wife, popping out male heirs and strutting around The Ravenite Social Club in full length furs and ridiculous diamonds. I really could tolerate the mistresses, the jailhouse visits, and the houseful of made men playing poker and eating cannoli. I firmly believe that the mafia isn’t all that bad, not fucking with you until you fuck with them. Terrified of sleeping with the fishes? Don’t piss off the don. It’s not that complicated. And really, without la cosa nostra, we’d have no Frank Sinatra, no JFK and no Vegas.
My favorite part of Growing Up Gotti is the way they all speak to each other, in barely unintelligible grunting or hysterical wide-eyed screaming. Last night, the 17 year old middle brother, John, hollered over a monstrous floral arrangement at Luigi’s lady friend, “The sausage ain’t fa Luigi, doll. It’s fa you.”
I must admit, Carmine is my favorite Gotti Hottie (That’s actually what they call themselves. www.hottiegotti.com) really because I like perfecting my Long Island accent, yelling “Carmine, if I told ya once, I told ya a thousand times. Ya can’t wear a white tie wit a black shirt.”
I imagine Carmine and I living next door to his mother with our 3 sons, Carmine Jr, Angelo, and Sal climbing amongst the ostentatious naked statues at the front of our estate, a sparkling diamond in each toddler’s ear. I’d have a huge closet of colorful clothing and a jewelry box full of gaudy baubles, repentance gifts for each time I catch Carmine cheating with the big-haired waitress at Guido’s House of Oregano. I’ll volunteer my time at charitable Italian American organizations and dutifully attend mass, dragging my cocky, ill-behaved boys with me.
So my husband has a brood of illegitimate children and Amy Fisher-esque girlfriends showing up periodically. So my nights will be spent bailing uncles and cousins out of jail, hocking my best fur so Uncle Ray-Ray doesn’t have to spend the night in the slammer.
It's worth it. I mean, my god, these people are fabulous. Do yaself a fava. Watch it.