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A Gambler's Anatomy: A Novel, by Jonathan Lethem

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The author of Motherless Brooklyn and The Fortress of Solitude returns with a devilishly entertaining novel about an international backgammon hustler who thinks he's psychic. Too bad about the tumor in his face.

Handsome, impeccably tuxedoed Bruno Alexander travels the world winning large sums of money from amateur "whales" who think they can challenge his peerless acumen at backgammon. Fronted by his pasty, vampiric manager, Edgar Falk, Bruno arrives in Berlin after a troubling run of bad luck in Singapore. Perhaps it was the chance encounter with his crass childhood acquaintance Keith Stolarsky and his smoldering girlfriend Tira Harpaz. Or perhaps it was the emergence of a blot that distorts his vision so he has to look at the board sideways.

Things don't go much better in Berlin. Bruno's flirtation with Madchen, the striking blonde he meets on the ferry, is inconclusive; the game at the unsettling Herr Kohler's mansion goes awry as his blot grows worse; he passes out and is sent to the local hospital, where he is given an extremely depressing diagnosis. Having run through Falk's money, Bruno turns to Stolarsky, who, for reasons of his own, agrees to fly Bruno to Berkeley, and to pay for the experimental surgery that might save his life.

Berkeley, where Bruno discovered his psychic abilities, and to which he vowed never to return. Amidst the patchouli flashbacks and Anarchist gambits of the local scene, between Tira's come-ons and Keith's machinations, Bruno confronts two existential questions: Is the gambler being played by life?� And what if you're telepathic but it doesn't do you any good?

• Sales Rank: #12904 in Books
• Published on: 2016-10-18
• Released on: 2016-10-18
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.50" h x 1.00" w x 6.40" l, 1.25 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 304 pages

Features

• Gambler's Anatomy Jonathan Lethem

Review
"In his new novel, he seems to be channeling (and, as usual, transforming) both Thomas Pynchon and Ian Fleming...in short, just another day in Lethemland, as strange and wondrous in its way as anyplace imagined by L. Frank Baum."
--Chicago Tribune�

"A thoughtful, first-rate novel that also happens to be a page-turner."
--New York Times Book Review

"Delightfully weird..."
--Vogue

"A Gambler’s Anatomy�will lead more than one reader to rummage around in the back of their closet (or local toy store) for a backgammon set…mesmerizing, twisty, fearless.”
--San Francisco Chronicle

“An effortless blend of comic hijinks and madcap tragedy…Lethem serves up a punchy, stylish, relentlessly entertaining novel.”
--Star Tribune

About the Author
JONATHAN LETHEM is the New York Times bestselling author of nine novels, including Dissident Gardens, The Fortress of Solitude, and Motherless Brooklyn; three short story collections; and two essay collections, including The Ecstasy of Influence, which was a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist. A recipient of the MacArthur Fellowship and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, Lethem's work has appeared in The New Yorker, Harper's Magazine, Rolling Stone, Esquire, and The New York Times, among other publications.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
9780385539906|excerpt

Lethem / A GAMBLER'S ANATOMY

One

I

It was there when he woke up. Presumably also when he slept. The blot. Standing alone at the back of the sparsely populated ferry to Kladow, mercifully sheltered behind safety glass against the chill of the lake at evening, Alexander Bruno could no longer deny the blot that had swollen in his vision and was with him always, the vacancy now deforming his view of the receding shore. It forced him to peer around its edges for glimpses of the mansions and biergartens, the strip of sand at the century-�old lido, the tarpaulined sailboats. He’d come to Berlin, half the circumference of the world, two weeks ago, whether to elude his fate or to embrace it he couldn’t know.

He’d been biding his time in Charlottenburg, breakfasting at the quiet caf�s, watching the days grow steadily longer, overhearing more spoken English than he’d have preferred, running through his last funds. His tuxedo had remained in its hanging bag, his backgammon case latched. All the while the blot had been with him, unacknowledged. Bruno its carrier, its host. He’d passed through customs with the innocence of the accidental smuggler: Nothing to declare. It was only after having at last called the number provided him by Edgar Falk and consenting to visit the rich man’s house in Kladow, only upon his waking, this very day on which he’d dusted off tuxedo and backgammon case, that the blot had insisted he grant its existence. An old friend he’d never met but recognized nevertheless.

Why get too fancy about it? He might be dying.

Under the circumstances of Bruno’s dread, the slide of the S-�Bahn through the endless roster of stations from Westend to Wannsee had seemed as long as his voyage from Singapore to Berlin. The German city, with its graffiti and construction sites, its desultory strips of parkland and naked pink water pipes, had its own sprawl and circumference. Berlin wended through time. On the S-�Bahn toward Wannsee the tall girls in black leggings with bicycles and earbuds, so prevalent in Charlottenburg and Mitte, had thinned out, replaced by dour Prussian businessmen and staring grandmother types, slouching home with briefcases and shopping bags. By the time of the ferry there was little to defeat the irresistible illusion that the city was newly vanquished and carved into sectors, that the prevailing silence and gloom derived from remorse and privations not seventy years past but fresh as smoldering rubble.

When Bruno had called to ask his host for directions to Kladow, the rich man told him that the ferry across the lake at evening was an experience he shouldn’t miss. Bruno, the German had said, should keep his eye out on the right for the famous Strandbad Wannsee, Berlin’s traditional resort beach, and, on the left, for the Wannsee-�Konferenz villa. The site of the Final Solution’s planning, though Bruno had needed this legacy explained by his hotel’s concierge. Of course, scanning for it now, Bruno had no way of distinguishing the site from other mansions arrayed on the western shore, each of which heaved into the void at the center of his sight.

For how long had Bruno considered the blot nothing but a retinal floater grown mad or the looming ghost of his inattention? Only a fool wouldn’t connect it to the perennial headache that had caused him, as he’d walked from the Wannsee S-�Bahnhof through the steep park leading to the boarding dock, to shuffle his fingers into his tuxedo jacket’s interior pocket in search of his packet of paracetamol, that incomparable British aspirin on which he’d grown dependent. Then to gulp down two pills, with only the shimmering lake before him for water. He’d accept the verdict of fool if it meant the paracetamol repaired his sight. Made a full cake of that which was presently a doughnut: the world. He raised his hand. The blot obscured his palm as it had the shore. Bruno noticed he’d lost a cuff link.

“Excuse me,” he said. He said it to a tall girl in black tights, one of those who’d journeyed in his car of the S-�Bahn, all the way from the fashionable Mitte, to board the ferry. She’d maneuvered her bicycle into the ferry’s rack before joining him at the back windows. Bruno spoke to excuse crouching at her knees to feel on the floor, on the chance that the cuff link had only tumbled down at his feet. A hopeless impulse, like the drunkard in the joke who, wandering at night on a side street, and discovering he has lost his key, searches not in the place he believes it was lost but instead beneath a lamppost, simply because the light is better there.

The joke came to mind because the girl crouched to help, without knowing what she was looking for. In the joke, the drunk was aided by a policeman, who searches for a while beneath the streetlamp too. Now, as she bent to join him, Bruno saw that girl wasn’t actually the right word. Her lined face was both severe and attractive. So many women in Berlin, athletically slim, dressed in a universal costume and couldn’t be judged for age by their outlines.

“Kontaktlinsen?”

“No . . . no . . .” The Berliners all spoke English, and even when they didn’t, the meanings bled through. In Singapore the alien tongues of Mandarin, Malay, and Tamil had left him happily sealed in his cone of incomprehension. Did she guess that the problem was with his eyes because he groped like a blind man?

“Kuffenlinksen . . .” he bluffed, pinching his loose sleeve. He doubted it was a word in any language. Additionally I am probably also soon losing my life, he added in pidgin telepathy, just to see if she was listening.

She showed no sign of having read his thoughts. He was relieved. Alexander Bruno had forsaken thought transference years ago, at the start of puberty. Yet he remained vigilant.

“English?” she asked.

Bruno enjoyed being mistaken for British. With his height and high cheekbones, he’d been told he resembled Roger Moore, or the bass player from Duran Duran. More likely, however, she only meant the English language.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve dropped a piece of jewelry. I’m sorry, I don’t know the word in German. Man jewelry.” He displayed his cuff, which was slightly foxed, scorched by hotel-�room ironings. Let her see it. Bruno was aware that his appeal was that of a ruined glamour. His neck and jaw, considered in the mirror lately, were those of the father he’d never known. The flesh only tightened over Bruno’s chin in the old familiar way if he thrust his jaw forward and tilted his head back slightly, a pose he’d recognized as definitive of middle-�aged vanity. He caught himself at it frequently.

Now he looked not into the mirror but into the face of the �would-be rescuer of his nonexistent contact lens. White hair interspersed with the blond. Enticing lips framed by deep lines—�to Bruno, expressive, though they must have bothered her. Two humans beyond their prime, but hanging in. He had to deflect his glance in order to see her at all, likely making him appear more bashful than he felt. “Never mind,” he told her. “I’m sure I lost it on the train.”

Flirtation, so effortlessly accomplished. Mention of the train had done it. Train unspecified; they both knew which. They’d ridden together and now shared the ferry, and though a thousand identical to her might have strolled past his Charlottenburg caf� window in two weeks, the shared destination worked its paltry magic. And both tall. This little was enough to excuse lust as destiny.

Bruno had imagined a day when he’d outgrow distractibility. Instead, approaching fifty, the window of his interest had widened. Women once invisible to his younger self were now etched in flame in his imagination. This wasn’t erotic propriety. Bruno was still capable of desiring the younger women who no longer—�mostly—�returned his glances. But those his own age, their continuing fitness for the animal game newly visible to him, these he found more arresting, for their air of either desperation or total denial. Would he eventually crave the grandmothers too? Perhaps by that time the blot in his sight would have expanded to a general blindness, and so have freed him.

They stood. “I’m Alexander,” he said, and offered his hand. She took it.

“Madchen.”

The question was in what language they’d extend their special destiny. English, or . . . ? Not German, since Bruno had none. English or the language of no language, which he preferred. He began slowly and deliberately, but with care not to suggest idiocy on either of their parts. “I have an appointment in Kladow. It is at a private home. I am expected alone, but it would surely delight my host if I arrived with you as a guest.”

“I’m sorry?” She smiled. “You would like—�?”

“I’m hoping you’ll join me, Madchen.”

“To a dinner, ja? Sorry for my not-�good English.”

“I should be the one to apologize. I’m the visitor in your country. It’s not a dinner exactly. An . . . appointment.” He raised his back�gammon case slightly. If she took it for a briefcase, she wasn’t precisely wrong. The tools of his trade. “But there’s sure to be something to eat, if you’re hungry. Or we can go out after.”

I will never lie to you, he promised silently, again just in case she could hear. Bruno had only encountered a small scattering of those in whom he observed the gift of telepathy he himself had renounced. But you never knew.

“It is very nice, what you ask, but I think I can’t.”

“You’d be completely welcome.”

“If it is your work?”

“I’m a gambler,” he said. “You would be my good-�luck charm.” Steadi�ness and poise, these were Bruno’s old methods. He wasn’t going to let the blot make him squirrelly.

She didn’t speak but smiled again, confused.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

They should have had a bar on this ferry, and an ocean for the ferry to cross. Instead the voyage was concluding. The boat had curled around a small island, into the landing at Kladow. The passengers bunched at the doors.

“Or, afterward,” he conceded. “I could call you when I’m finished.” He gestured at the twilit town beyond the ferry dock. “Have you a favorite place for a late drink?”

“In Kladow?” Madchen seemed to find this funny. She raised her bicycle’s front wheel to free it from the rack.

He drew his phone from his tux’s interior breast pocket. “Will you give me your number?”

She raised her eyebrows, glanced to one side. Then took his phone from him and, scowling intently, keyed a string of numbers into the device and returned it to him. The ferry emptied quickly. They brought up the rear, shuffling out along the short pier where others now queued for the return crossing. Under the Kladow docks, a family of swans bobbed together. Farther from the boats, he saw a diving cormorant. The bird called Bruno to some memory he couldn’t quite retrieve . . .

He scanned the near shore for the car the rich man had promised to send. The view confirmed the ferry’s power as a time machine, one which had transported them from the fashionable Mitte, the urbane international Berlin of present reputation. Alt-�Kladow stood clustered uphill, a sleepy nineteenth-�century village. Perhaps it was here German life truly resided, fires banked against history. Bruno might understand Madchen’s amusement at the suggestion of a late drink now. Though the shorefront was strewn with cozy biergartens, he’d be surprised if they remained open much past sundown on a �Wed�nesday. The crowd from the ferry lowered their heads and trudged past the biergartens’ wooden-�bower entrances, hell-�bent for domestic finish lines.

“Do you live here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I come to do . . . kindersitting. For my sis�ter’s girl.”

“Your niece.”

“Yes.”

They crossed the street, Madchen wheeling her bicycle by her side. They passed a workman who knelt in a scattering of loose squarish stones, which he pounded with a large block hammer into the familiar grid pattern that made up Berlin’s sidewalks. Bruno had never seen the stones dislodged from the ground until now. They seemed a reminder to him of his trade, his purpose here. Berlin was paved with unnumbered dice, smashed flush to the ground with wooden mallets.

As the few vehicles meeting the ferry departed, and the crowd of walkers filtered up the hill, Bruno spotted the car he’d expected, the car the rich man had sent for him. A Mercedes-�Benz, two decades old but impeccable. Another output of the time machine. The driver, crew cut and thick of neck, examined Bruno, who would have fit the description he’d provided the rich man, except for the presence of his companion. Bruno held up one finger, and the driver nodded and rolled up his window. Madchen followed his glance.

“Madchen—�” He took the tip of her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, as if adjusting a framed picture slightly skewed on a wall. The nearer he brought her face to his, the less the blot mattered. As if he’d invited her in, behind its curtain. “One kiss, for luck.”

Her eyes closed as he leaned in and brushed her lips with his. Bruno felt a surprising numbness in his lips. He hadn’t noticed feeling cold. You have been kissed, Madchen, by a vision in a tuxedo. Albeit one not so well preserved as the car that had come to collect him.

“I’ll call when I’m done.” He thought of his earlier promise. One enforced the other.

Madchen drew back and shed a last curious smile, then slid onto her bicycle and was gone, into the center of his blot and up the hill. By the time Bruno entered the backseat of the waiting car, she wasn’t to be seen. He glanced once more shoreward, at the jostling swans, the bobbing fearless cormorant, then nodded to the driver. The Benz crawled up the same road she’d taken, the only route into Alt-�Kladow.

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Rich characters, brisk plot, great read
By HT
Alexander Bruno is a backgammon gambler. The novel opens as he is traveling to Germany to play against a wealthy man. Unfortunately the "blot" that blocks his vision - and may also block others from reading his mind - intrudes in the game. The novel takes a step back to show how he got to Germany then forward to the United States.

Bruno is an outsider, set apart by his affliction - similar to Lethem's hero Lionel Essrog in Motherless Brooklyn. As the story progresses, Bruno ends up in Berkeley, where he grew up, under the assistance of an old acquaintance who has become rich. Things get ... um ... complicated. The joy of the story is the unveiling of the plot so I won't go into it much here; other than to say that his benefactor becomes his nemesis.

From Bruno's journey through the past we see why he became a loner; for all intents and purposes he is an orphan. Through it all he developed a method to separate himself from his surroundings - maybe the blot helps. When the blot is removed will his defenses come tumbling down?

I see many parallels between Bruno and Lionel Essrog; both are outsiders, both are motherless, both have benefactors who come and go. Bruno has two: Edgar Falk who is his sponsor of sorts at the beginning of the story; then later Keith Stolarsky. Not to say the two novels are the the same story - they are quite different.

The strength of the novel is its immediacy - we get right in the middle of Bruno's thoughts and the loneliness of his travels. His life is bleak and we are right there to see the causes and effects. And the chapter on the surgeon and the surgery to remove the blot is gripping. Lethem has a mastery of the language that held me rapt, turning page after page.

In the end this novel is not of the same caliber as Motherless Brooklyn. The ending wraps up a little too neatly. All the same it is a very good book. If you only read one Lethem book make it Motherless Brooklyn; that will most likely lead you to another - this would be an excellent followup.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Disappointed
By R. S. Marandino
Starts strong but ends weak. May have enjoyed more if I knew more about backgammon and Berkeley California. Expected more.

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Disappointing
By Kirk McElhearn
I've read and enjoyed a few of Lethem's novels, but this one simply isn't very good. The plot is thin, and the writing at times is that of a first novelist. Like so much literary fiction these days, he creates characters that are simply not believable; people with quirk after quirk, because that's what many authors think works. I found the story to be uninteresting, and I skimmed the last third of the book.

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[H230.Ebook] Download Ebook Moonbird: A Year on the Wind with the Great Survivor B95 (Robert F. Sibert Informational Book Honor (Awards)), by Phillip Hoose

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B95 can feel it: a stirring in his bones and feathers. It's time. Today is the day he will once again cast himself into the air, spiral upward into the clouds, and bank into the wind.

He wears a black band on his lower right leg and an orange flag on his upper left, bearing the laser inscription B95. Scientists call him the Moonbird because, in the course of his astoundingly long lifetime, this gritty, four-ounce marathoner has flown the distance to the moon―and halfway back!

B95 is a robin-sized shorebird, a red knot of the subspecies rufa. Each February he joins a flock that lifts off from Tierra del Fuego, headed for breeding grounds in the Canadian Arctic, nine thousand miles away. Late in the summer, he begins the return journey.

B95 can fly for days without eating or sleeping, but eventually he must descend to refuel and rest. However, recent changes at ancient refueling stations along his migratory circuit―changes caused mostly by human activity―have reduced the food available and made it harder for the birds to reach. And so, since 1995, when B95 was first captured and banded, the worldwide rufa population has collapsed by nearly 80 percent. Most perish somewhere along the great hemispheric circuit, but the Moonbird wings on. He has been seen as recently as November 2011, which makes him nearly twenty years old. Shaking their heads, scientists ask themselves: How can this one bird make it year after year when so many others fall?

National Book Award–winning author Phillip Hoose takes us around the hemisphere with the world's most celebrated shorebird, showing the obstacles rufa red knots face, introducing a worldwide team of scientists and conservationists trying to save them, and offering insights about what we can do to help shorebirds before it's too late. With inspiring prose, thorough research, and stirring images, Hoose explores the tragedy of extinction through the triumph of a single bird. Moonbird is one The Washington Post's Best Kids Books of 2012.

A Common Core Title.

• Sales Rank: #131078 in Books
• Brand: Brand: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
• Published on: 2012-07-17
• Released on: 2012-07-17
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.69" h x .65" w x 8.81" l, 1.59 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 160 pages

Features

• Used Book in Good Condition

From School Library Journal
Gr 6 Up-Moonbird is a nickname scientists have given to a small Eastern shorebird known for both his unusually long life and his enormously long annual migration. Hoose intertwines the story of this bird's remarkable survival with detailed accounts of the rufa red knot's physical changes through its yearlong cycle of migrating from the bottom of the world (usually Tierra del Fuego) to its Arctic breeding grounds and back again at summer's end-a round trip of some 18,000 miles. Moonbird, known usually by the identifying label "B95" on his orange leg band, was first banded in 1995, when it was thought that he was at least three years old, and Hoose notes sightings of him through early 2011 just as the book was reaching completion. At that point it was estimated that over 20 years' time, B95 had flown "more than 325,000 miles in his life-the distance to the moon and nearly halfway back." The feat is particularly celebrated among bird scientists because this species is rapidly declining as humans use and misuse its feeding grounds and food supply. The threatened state of the species and the personal work being done by scientists and conservationists are strong themes throughout the book. Hoose describes his own experiences participating in study trips and introduces children and teens engaged in study, conservation, and lobbying projects in Canada, the United States, and Argentina. This deeply researched, engaging account is a substantial and well-designed package of information illustrated with handsome color photographs, ample maps, appended descriptions of the conservation work, and thorough source notes.-Margaret Bush, Simmons College, Bostonα(c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Review

“[A] deeply researched, engaging account…” ―School Library Journal, starred

“Putting an actual beaked face to the problem of animal endangerment makes the story of the species' peril all the more compelling, and only the truly hard of heart could resist cheering for B95 to make it through one more trip.” ―BCCB, Starred

“With an effective mix of facts and conjecture, Hoose conveys B95's wide experience, from the challenges of his first month in Arctic Canada 20 years ago to the physical demands of flying for three days straight. Hoose's vivid prose and the book's close-up photos give a sense of other red-knot talents, like fattening up for a long flight and sleeping while staying alert for predators. And there's recent good news: B95 was photographed in late May, feasting on horseshoe crab eggs in Delaware Bay. ” ―The Washington Post

“Hoose's fascinating account concerns much more than this one bird.” ―Horn Book, starred

“...beautiful and vivid…” ―VOYA

“Hoose's stature as a preeminent nonfiction author combined with the high-interest animal hook will generate hearty attention and enthusiasm for this one.” ―Booklist, starred

“Readers will appreciate Hoose's thorough approach in contextualizing this amazing, itinerant creature…” ―Publishers Weekly, starred

“Meticulously researched and told with inspiring prose and stirring images, this is a gripping, triumphant story of science and survival. ” ―Kirkus, starred

About the Author

Phillip Hoose is the widely-acclaimed author of the National Book Award winner Claudette Colvin: Twice Toward Justice, which is also a Newbery Honor Book, a Robert F. Sibert Honor Book, a YALSA Finalist for Excellence in Young Adult Fiction, and an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, among other honors. His other books include The Race to Save the Lord God Bird, winner of the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award, and We Were There, Too!, a National Book Award Finalist. Mr. Hoose lives in Portland, Maine.

Most helpful customer reviews

14 of 14 people found the following review helpful.
amazing
By Catherine
I will never look at , a small bird of any species without wondering what it's story is. Through Hoose's amazing talent of making wildlife come alive,and personal, my eyes have been opened to an entirely new world.... thank you Phillip you are making a difference. Catherine

10 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Travel, History, Science, A Love Story ...
By Anne Salazar
This great book has it all: travel, history, science, a mystery, romance, photos, maps -- you name it, this brief book has it. I loved the story of B95, an apparently very determined rufa red knot with the very best athletic genes. I had never before heard of this small shorebird so it was great fun to read and learn and cheer him on in his amazing travels. He has certainly captured the hearts of the scientists who study him, as he has mine and probably the hearts and best wishes of everyone who reads about him and his determination to fly from pole to pole -- 18,000 miles! -- each and every year for food and light and mating.

This book represents the best in American education and should be widely read and studied. Since WE have so brazenly damaged so much of the environment, adversely affecting not only ourselves but most other animal and plant life, we must make it right. We have to rectify these many problems to the best of our ability since we are our best hope for all species of life in this world, and this book gently shows us the way and makes us care.

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Moonbird is a must-read for nature lovers
By Gail M.Hudson
Anyone who enjoys spending time out of doors observing the wonders of nature will want to read this book. Whether you have never heard of a red knot before, or are already familiar with the plight of the red knot rufa sub-species, this book leave you hoping and praying for the survival of these amazing shorebirds.

"Moonbird" tells the remarkable story of B95, a red knot who survives against all odds. Mr. Hoose's factual account of the challenges facing the red knot combined with his beautiful prose make this book an educational and engaging read. The profiles of those who are working tirelessly to save the species are truly inspiring. This book is the perfect gift for anyone who cares about the fate of the creatures who share our planet.

See all 50 customer reviews...

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[J661.Ebook] Fee Download Turning the Tables: From Housewife to Inmate and Back Again, by Teresa Giudice, K.C. Baker

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Teresa Giudice, star of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, has seen it all but nothing could compare to the media firestorm that ensued after she was convicted on federal fraud charges—and sentenced to fifteen months in prison. What was a skinny Italian to do? Keep a diary, of course…

In her very first tell-all memoir, Teresa comes clean on all things Giudice: growing up as an Italian-American, starting a family, dealing with chaos on national television, and coming to terms with the reality of life in prison. Featuring scans from her coveted prison diary, Turning the Tables captures some of the most memorable moments of her stay, including the fights she witnessed, the awkward conundrum of being trapped when a fellow inmate had a…guest…over, and the strength she found while confined between four concrete walls.

Now with an exclusive bonus chapter, Teresa reflects on the days following her December 2015 release, and the heart-wrenching weeks leading up to the night she had to say good-bye to her husband, Joe…who has left to serve his own prison sentence.

Even at her lowest of lows, Teresa was able to live la bella vita by staying positive and realizing her purpose. Friends, foes, and fans have speculated about Teresa’s life off-camera, but nothing will prepare you for the revelations she makes in this entertaining and ultimately heartwarming memoir.

• Sales Rank: #12535 in eBooks
• Published on: 2016-02-09
• Released on: 2016-02-09
• Format: Kindle eBook

About the Author

Teresa Giudice

Teresa Giudice stars on The Real Housewives of New Jersey and is the New York Times bestselling author of Turning the Tables; Skinny Italian; Fabulicious!; Fabulicious: Fast and Fit;, and Fabulicious! On the Grill. A Berkeley College graduate and a longtime supporter of NephCure Kidney International, she lives in New Jersey with her family.

K.C. Baker

K.C. Baker is a staff writer at People magazine, where she has worked for the past fifteen years. Before that she was a staff writer at the New York Daily News. Turning the Tables is K.C.’s third book.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Turning the Tables 1 GROWING UP GORGA
When I was little, I wanted to be a movie star or an entertainer. That’s all I could think about. I wanted to be just like Cher.

Every week, my parents and I gathered in the living room of our five-room apartment to watch The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour. I could barely wait until it was on each week. My father, Giacinto Gorga, sat on our green couch with my mother, Antonia, while I lay on the floor, right in front of the only TV set we had in the house at the time. It had a twelve-inch screen and dials to turn up the volume. We didn’t have remotes back then and we only had thirteen channels or something.

My brother, Giuseppe, who is two years younger than I am—I call him Joey and he calls me Tre—would only watch some of the programs with us, like Three’s Company and Sanford and Son. He wasn’t really into the ones where glamorous women in sequined gowns were singing and dancing onstage. He and I were best friends growing up. We rode bikes together, played board games and cards, and loved making forts in the living room with our blankets and pillows. He always had my back, and would kick me under the dinner table to warn me if I was pushing my dad to the limit while asking his permission for something. My parents and brother were my world growing up, and believe me, I could not have asked God for a better family.

Watching Cher onstage took me to a whole other world. She was so glamorous in her long, slinky gowns, with her glittery diamond earrings. I loved her gorgeous makeup, perma-tan, and those loooong eyelashes. (Which I started wearing All. The. Time. on the show�.�.�.) I thought her huge fame, her undeniable glamour, and her devoted fans (I was, of course, one of them, though I never met her or anyone famous when I was little) were so amazing. As I lay there on the floor of my family’s humble little apartment, fantasizing about what it would like to be Cher, I had no idea that one day I would be famous, too. But like Cher and every celebrity out there, I would come to see that fame comes with some of the best things in the world—and some things that threaten to break you.

I wanted to sing and dance like Cher. I thought I was pretty good at it. As a kid, I would put on little shows for my parents all the time in our living room, singing and dancing and pretending I was onstage. As I got older, I wished that my mom had sent me to dancing school or gymnastics class, but she didn’t because she literally couldn’t take me. She didn’t start driving until I was in third grade, when she surprised all of us by getting her license! All on her own! We were all so proud of her. But up until then, when I was seven years old or so, she, Joey and I would walk everywhere, unless our dad drove us. They didn’t trust anyone else to drive us anywhere because they were so protective.

The bigger issue was that as an Italian immigrant, my mom simply didn’t know how to go about finding classes for me and signing me up, even when she did have her license. My mom has since said that she would have taken me to dance or gymnastics if she’d known I wanted to go. But I knew how hard it was for her to get around, even with a car, so I never asked her about it. I didn’t want to burden her with that.

Back then, my parents really didn’t see the point of after-school activities, either. They were like, “You have to be home for dinner at five-thirty. No out and about.” So I would just take part in whatever activities were offered at school. I was a baton twirler in third grade, played softball in elementary school and in junior high, and played the saxophone in the seventh-grade and eighth-grade band. I gave up on my dream of becoming famous when I became a teenager because I thought it was just hopeless, to be honest. My parents had no Hollywood connections and no idea how to even begin to get me into showbiz. But still, I always wanted to become successful and make something of myself one day. I just didn’t know what that would be.

While I love the life my parents gave me and Joey, they definitely didn’t have it easy when they came to America. They had a good life in Italy. There, they were surrounded by family and friends everywhere they turned, because Sala Consilina, the town where they grew up, is so tiny. Everyone looked out for everyone else. They were happy there, for sure, but wanted more than what their little hamlet offered. They left the only place they knew because they thought their children would have a better life in America, where anything was possible. Sala Consilina was beautiful but limited in opportunity, and I could not be more grateful for the life and the love they have given me. I had an amazing childhood, thanks to my parents�.�.�. but in order for me to have that incredible childhood, my parents sacrificed a lot.

My dad, Giacinto, came here first, in the late sixties. He moved in with his sister in Paterson, New Jersey, a small city with lots of tall buildings, row houses, and concrete. It was a far cry from Sala Consilina, a small, medieval-looking town nestled in the rolling green and brown hills of the province of Salerno, about two hours from Naples. When I was little, I could always point to where it was on a map because it’s right at the beginning of the boot in the southwest of Italy.

My mom, Antonia, grew up as an only child and learned about heartbreak at an early age. She had a sister named Carmela, who passed away when she was fifteen days old. Her mother’s (my grandmother’s) name was Rosa, but everyone called her Teresa, which is pronounced Tare-ray-za. That’s really how you say my name in Italian, although everyone here calls me Ter-ee-sah. I am named after my maternal grandmother. In Italian families, the tradition is to name your children after your husband’s parents. But since my mom lost her mother, my dad broke with tradition. He said to my mom, “If we get married and have a daughter, I want to name her after your mother.” It was so loving of my dad to say that. My dad’s mom totally understood, which is another reason why my parents loved her so much.

Speaking of pronunciations of names, people always ask me why I say my last name different ways. Sometimes I pronounce it Joo-dee-chay or Joo-dih-chay, which is the Italian way to say my husband’s last name, which ironically means “judge” in Italian. Other times I will say my last name is Joo-dice, which is the American way to say it. Most people have a hard time pronouncing it the Italian way, so I am sticking with the American way from now on. My husband is fine with that. We had used the Italian pronunciation to make Joe’s dad happy, God rest his soul.

While I can easily pronounce words in Italian, people would always laugh when I mixed up or mispronounced words on the show—like when I called a nor’easter a Norwegian, said the word ingrediences (!), stanima instead of stamina, and semolina instead of salmonella. I’ve read stories that say I am known for my “mixed metaphors and malapropisms.” Mala—what? Oh my God. I have no friggin’ idea how the heck to even begin to pronounce that one! What can I say? (That’s why I had someone help me write this book!) People can laugh all they want. I grew up in a house where my parents spoke Italian all the time, so I spoke two languages, which is why I mix things up sometimes. (I still speak Italian with my parents today�.�.�.) I am blowing all of the haters a big kiss right now. I don’t want to hate. I just want to love, love, love, love! But look—it is what it is. And now I definitely know the difference between a nor’easter and a Norwegian�.�.�. well, sort of.

When my mom was a baby, my grandfather, whose name was Pietro, told my grandmother that he was going to leave Sala Consilina for Venezuela to work—and never returned. No one knew if he never returned by choice, or if he was forced to stay. They didn’t even know if he was alive or dead. My mother doesn’t remember meeting him because he left when she was so young. To this day, my family doesn’t know what happened to him. As the years went on, my grandmother tried to find him. She tried to write to him, but wasn’t even sure he got the letters. He never answered. That broke their hearts.

After her father (my grandfather) left, my mom and her mother (my grandmother) went to live with my grandmother’s parents (my great-grandparents), Rosa and Vincenzo. But my grandmother led a very lonely life. She never left the house, for fear that people would shun her and talk about her because she had no husband. That’s how it was back then. She came from a respectable family but felt ashamed that her husband had left, even though she didn’t do anything wrong. So she never went out with friends, to the many feasts they held in town (it’s the Italian way!), or even to church. She would just stay home and work the land with my great-grandfather and help my great-grandmother cook, sew, make sausages, jar vegetables, and take care of my mom, of course.

Things only got worse for my mom and grandmother as my mom got older. When my mom was nine, my grandmother got very sick. She started to lose a lot of weight and always seemed to have a cold and a cough, so her family took her to see a doctor in Naples. By then it was too late. They told her she was very sick, possibly with lung cancer. They sent her home and she died months later. My mom was an orphan at only ten years old. She was devastated. She and her mother did everything together and were incredibly close. She still had her grandparents, who loved her so much, but said she felt so alone in the world without her mother by her side. Every girl needs her mother, and my mom felt so lost without hers. I can’t even imagine what she went through. That’s what made it so hard for me to be away from my own girls when I went to prison. They needed their mother, too, even if I was only gone for eleven and a half months.

But that wasn’t the end of my mother’s pain. While she was still reeling from my grandmother’s death, my great-grandfather died a month later because he was so heartbroken over losing his daughter. My mother loved my great-grandfather so much because he was the only father figure she ever had. All of this death and sorrow was a lot for a little girl to take. It was a very dark time for my mother. Again, I cannot even fathom what she went through.

But she went on to have a happy life, thank God. My great-grandmother continued to raise her. She had so much strength and was so good to my mother. Since it was just the two of them, my mom had to learn how to do everything around the house, from cooking and making sausages, to tending the garden and making clothes, just like my grandmother did. That’s how she learned to be such an amazing cook and to take care of Joey, my dad, and me so well. What I admire so much about my mom is that while her childhood was filled with such trauma and sadness, she was never bitter or angry over everything that had happened to her. Despite everything she went through, she is one of the kindest people I have ever met. She has a heart of gold (and not one bad bone in her body). She is sweet and loving—and laughs a lot. Even today. I love her so much and am so blessed to have her as my mom.

My dad grew up with his parents, Rosa (yes, another Rosa!) and Giuseppe (whom my brother is named after), two older brothers, Michael and Mario, and two older sisters, Antoinetta and Maria. My dad was the youngest in his family, like Audriana. There was also a brother named Nicola, which means Nicholas in English, who died at six.

They lived in a three-story house made of stone, in the oldest part of Sala Consilina near the main piazza. Underneath the house, which you got to by climbing up a huge flight of stone stairs, were stalls and troughs for the goats, sheep, and pigs they used to keep. They had a huge yard, filled with beautiful fig and cypress trees and an impressive garden, because almost everyone grew their own vegetables. Joe and I visited the house in the show’s second season. That was my favorite episode of all time. I was so happy to go back to Sala Consilina to see the relatives that Joe and I have there, since his family is from the same town. It’s so beautiful and peaceful there. Most of the people there may not have five-carat diamonds, Chanel bags, McMansions, Ferraris, or yachts, but they are happy. Very happy. Because family is really all you need in this life.

My dad met my mom when he was twenty and she was just thirteen, when she was on her way to a feast to celebrate the Blessed Virgin. My mother didn’t give him a second thought, but my father couldn’t get her out of his mind. He found out where she lived and began visiting her at her grandmother’s house every week, as long as someone else was there, of course. (Italians were very strict back then and still were when I was growing up!) My dad wanted to propose right away, but his father told him he was too young and needed to have a good job and earn some money before he could get married and start a family. But her family wanted them to either get married or break up, because they didn’t like the idea of a boy coming around if he wasn’t planning to stay forever. So they broke up, but he never forgot about her. (This is my favorite part! It’s so romantic!) Five years later, when he was working in America, he wrote to her, telling her that he still wanted to be with her and asked if she wanted to be with him. She replied, “If you are serious, then come back to Italy so we can discuss it.” He came right back to Italy and married her eighty-seven days later, on December 27, 1969.

I love looking at their wedding album, which reminds me of scenes from The Godfather. After my parents exchanged vows in the church, they walked to the reception hall, with dozens of their friends and family following them in the streets—just like in the movie. They have been married for forty-six years now and are still so in love. They still flirt and make each other laugh every day. They both have a great sense of humor—which is where I get it from!

After my parents got married, they decided to come to America in 1971, with just two suitcases. My mom was pregnant with me when they moved to Paterson (but she didn’t know it). Before my mom got here, she said she thought America was paradise. She had seen pictures and fell in love. She said she wanted to explore the world, since she had never set foot outside Sala Consilina in her life. But my dad kept saying to her, “I don’t know if you’ll really like it�.�.�.”

He was right. Living in a new country was very hard for both of them. Neither spoke English. My mom told me she would cry herself to sleep at night, wondering why they had left Italy. She would say, “I don’t have nobody here�.�.�. I don’t understand what people are saying. This is terrible�.�.�.” She didn’t even know how the money worked, but she said nice people at stores would help her count out her change—and that no one ever stole from her. Yes, it was hard, but they had wanted to come to America—the land of opportunity.

My dad needed a job and began working as a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant, but he learned how to repair shoes at the same time. My father worked day and night and saved everything he could so that he could buy a shoe repair business in Butler, New Jersey. Joey and I would go to work with him on Saturdays when we were little. Most of the time, we just stayed in the back room watching cartoons or playing. Sometimes, though, we would help him sweep or clean or find shoes that customers came to pick up. I loved helping him and always felt so grown up working there.

Sometimes, though, he was too much of a perfectionist. Ten or eleven years ago, a thirty-something-year-old woman brought in a pair of hot Christian Louboutins to repair at the store he bought in Ramsey, New Jersey, after his first store burned down. Now, we all know that Louboutins are known for their signature red soles. They’re a total status symbol. But my dad thought the soles looked badly scuffed, so he spray painted the bottoms of these very expensive shoes super-black and then applied a special polish to make them shine. He thought they looked great—just like new. When the woman came to get them, she was like, “These aren’t my shoes! My shoes had red soles!” I had to set him straight and tell him, “You cannot spray paint the bottoms of Louboutins!” He didn’t want her to be upset, so he spray painted the bottoms red again. She was happy when she saw the red soles again, but at first? Not so much. Madonna mia!

After all the years my dad worked at the repair shop, which he really loved, he had to sell his store in Ramsey eight years ago because of his health. He had to have two open-heart valve replacements. On top of that, he just couldn’t bear to breathe in the fumes from the chemicals he used in the store. He would get pneumonia all the time. We were sad that he had to sell it, because we have so many happy memories there. The store is still there and I get a little teary-eyed whenever I see it. But, as we all know, with life comes change�.�.�.

When I was growing up in my family, there was a lot of love. We lived a very simple but very happy life. I was raised in a strict Italian Catholic household that had strong values. Loyalty is everything to me. Family is everything to me. You never go against your family in my eyes. That’s what I was taught.

My dad was home with us every night after work. We went to church every Sunday and sat in the same pew at Mass every week. On the weekends, we would sometimes go to my parents’ friends’ houses or they would come to ours. My dad would play cards with the men. My mom would sit and talk with the women, drinking coffee and having desserts while my brother and I hung out with all the kids.

Even though our apartment was modest, it was so warm and welcoming. I have such good memories from living there. When you walked in the door, the kitchen was right there. That’s where we spent most of our time. To the right of the kitchen were three bedrooms right next to each other—my parents’ bedroom and then mine and Joey’s. Then there was a bathroom and the living room. That was it.

Even though we had no grass in our yard, just asphalt, we lived across the street from the Paterson Falls, which are spectacular. I loved being able to hear the rush of water when we had our windows open. We would always see people going there to take pictures because it’s such a famous landmark in our area. They held a big carnival there every year. Joey and I loved going to that carnival. I remember how I couldn’t wait to look out the window each year to watch this man walk across the falls on a metal wire. I loved seeing him walk the tightrope because you don’t really see things like that a lot anymore. Especially out your window. I was always so worried that he was going to fall! (He never did, thank God�.�.�.)

One thing I loved about living in that apartment house was a massive mulberry tree across the street. Its branches hung down low, so we would go and pick mulberries off the tree when they were ripe and eat them. When Joe and I were little and he would come over to the house with his mom, we would run across the street and pick as many as we could and sit on one of the big rocks under the tree and eat them. Our hands and faces were dark purple from the berries, but we didn’t care. I loved the bond that Joe and I shared, even back then. We always felt so comfortable with each other. As kids we joked about how we wanted to marry each other one day, but back then I had no idea that I was sitting under that beautiful tree with my future husband!

My dad and I have always been close. He was—and still is—one of the most powerful forces in my life. Growing up, he was like a god to me. He was incredibly strong—emotionally and mentally, but also physically. What always struck me were his strong hands. They were enormous. He wore something like a size 16 ring.

When I was little though, boy, was I terrified of my dad. My father was king. The boss. We always said, “What he says, goes!” He never hit me. He didn’t have to. If he was mad, he just shot you this look. Whenever he did that, I would be shaking in my shoes. I actually peed my pants when I was in first grade when he was yelling about something I did and gave me that chilling look. Grown men were wary of it! I got so scared that I couldn’t help but wet my pants—or run.

As I got older, though, I started to push the limits with him. I wasn’t fresh. I just wanted to have my say, like all teenagers do. Sometimes when he told me to do something, I would say, “But�.�.�.” He did not like that. I think he thought I was being disrespectful, but I was just trying to get my point of view across—or get something I really wanted. I remember asking my dad if I could have a sleepover at my friend’s house. He said no. “But her parents will be there,” I said. “Why can’t I?” The answer was always no. He couldn’t believe that I would dare to continue to ask him about it. Finally, he said, “You sleep home. I don’t want to talk about it again.” That was that. No sleepovers.

I remember my mom or my brother shooting me looks to keep quiet when I said, “But�.�.�.” (I laugh now when I think of all the crazy things my little spitfire, Milania, comes up with! Like when she said to Joe, “Gimme pizza, you old troll!” I cannot imagine what kind of look I would have gotten if I had said that to my dad!)

When my dad got really mad at me, he would slam his hands on the table, just like my brother did at his son’s christening on the first episode of Season 3, after he called me “garbage,” which started a huge brawl. (I will never forget that horrible day�.�.�. Oh, Madonna mia�.�.�.)

Unlike me, my brother would never talk back to my father. He would always stay quiet. My mom was a saint. She would never talk back, either. Once in a while she would give him an eye roll, but that was it. As I got older, I always remember my mom saying to me, “If you were married to your father, you would have been divorced already�.�.�.”

My mom and dad were always good at balancing each other out. My mom knew to keep quiet when my dad was fired up and how to speak to him when he calmed down. This really worked for them because they have been happily married for so long. I never heard my mother raise her voice to my dad, who treated my mom like a queen. He would always say to her, “This is how a man treats a woman�.�.�.” I think one reason my brother treats his wife, Melissa, so well is because he learned that from my dad.

Even though my dad could be strict and scary when he shot me the look, the funny thing is that today I see that my dad is really just a big teddy bear. My mom is now the boss, although I’m not sure he would admit that. My dad cooks and cleans a lot more now because it’s hard for my mom with her rheumatoid arthritis. I think one of the reasons Joe and I have such a strong marriage is because I learned so much from my parents’ relationship. He also learned from his parents, Frank and Filomena Giudice, who were happily married for decades, like mine. Joe and I rarely raise our voices to each other and work out our differences in a loving way. I can only hope that Joe and I are able to pass down what we learned from our parents to our daughters. I want them to have the kind of happy marriages we have all had in my family.

I’m grateful that my parents were so strict with me. I never did drugs growing up. I was too terrified of my dad. He would tell me, “If you do drugs and the drugs don’t kill you, I will.” I always thought of him before doing anything I knew I shouldn’t do. Plus, I never wanted to do anything to disappoint my parents in any way. They were so supportive of us, and had given up so much for our happiness, that I never wanted to do anything that would make them think that I wasn’t grateful. I was always afraid of what would happen if I ended up in the hospital from taking any drugs. My parents would have had to come and get me, and they would have been devastated. And they would definitely have killed me. Or at least made my life beyond miserable.

My mom is the best mom in the world. So caring and loving. She was always so attentive to my brother and me. We were her life. Her whole world. Growing up, my mom was always home with us. That is how my dad wanted it. We never had a babysitter. My mom would always invite my friends and my brother’s friends to our house, so she could keep an eye on all of us and so that she knew where Joey and I were at all times. When I was little, my friends would come over and we would play Barbies for hours.

My dad didn’t want my mom to work, although she would come to the shoe repair place every now and then and help him out. She would do any repairs that needed the sewing machine, so she would sew straps on handbags and sandals—that kind of thing.

Dinnertime at my house was sacred. It was family time. It’s the same in my house now. My mom had dinner on the table at 5:30 p.m. on the dot every night. We all loved that she made us delicious, healthy home-cooked meals. After we finished dinner, we would have to stay seated at the table for dessert, which was always fruit. We couldn’t get up from the table until everyone was done eating. My dad was very big on that. I still carry on that same tradition in my house, too.

My mom was always in the kitchen cooking and baking, like other Italian mamas everywhere. The house always smelled so good. Everything she and my dad made, since he liked to cook, too, was just so delicious. It was all about food in my house. We didn’t grow up in a mansion, but our house was the best of the best when it came to food.

Every Sunday, I remember my mom making meatballs and braciole (pronounced brajole), thin slices of meat rolled with garlic and parsley and held together with a toothpick. So delicious�.�.�. She would also make her own sauce and stir in homemade sausage, which made it taste even better. I still do that today with my sauce.

I would watch my mom all the time, asking questions about how she prepared things. I would help her cook, too. I think I started helping her when I was five. I would fry eggs in olive oil (like Milania would do with me, later on) and make espresso every night for my dad after dinner. As I got older, especially after I got married, I learned so much from her, which is why I am so good in the kitchen today—and was able to write three New York Times best-selling cookbooks!

Everything my mom made was mouthwateringly delicious and done to perfection. During the week she would make us eggplant parmigiana, escarole and beans (which I love to make for my girls now), linguine in white clam sauce or red sauce with crabs, stuffed eggplant, and chicken parmigiana. I love my mom’s lasagna, stuffed mushrooms, and homemade pasta. We couldn’t get enough of her food. And the smell of her freshly baked bread in the house? Heavenly�.�.�.

My father would always make dinner on Wednesday, his day off. He would roast pork chops or chicken in the oven with onions, potatoes, and vegetables. Delizioso!

I loved helping my mom make desserts, too, like nocch�, which is Italian for bow tie cookies. We would make them for parties and holidays. They taste so good and look so beautiful on the table, but are a lot of work.

My mom went all out on Christmas Eve, which was huge for us. We always hung out with our neighbors, who were Sicilians. My mom would invite something like thirty-five people over every year. The kids all played and ran around while the adults laughed, drank homemade wine, and ate all the amazing food my mom spent hours making. (Italian families love to have everyone over all the time, especially for holidays!)

One longtime Italian, Roman Catholic tradition our family followed was the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve to celebrate Jesus’s birth. Just like during Lent, when Catholics aren’t allowed to eat meat, we are supposed to fast until Jesus is born and can only eat fish while observing the Cena della Vigilia—the Christmas Eve vigil dinner. So it was all about the fish that night.

We would have linguine in red sauce with seafood (one of my favorite pasta dishes), seafood salad with octopus, shrimp, and scungilli, another favorite of mine. We would eat a lot of baccala—salted cod, which is a southern Italian tradition. We would mangia on baccala salad, baccala in a red sauce, or fried baccala, clams casino, mussels in a hot, spicy red sauce baked in the oven, as well as fried shrimp and fried calamari. For dessert, I would help my mom make struffoli—fried balls of dough with honey and rainbow sprinkles, which look so beautiful when you serve them. I always loved eating all the fish on Christmas Eve, which is another tradition I uphold at my house now.

At Easter, my mom would make pizza chiena or piena, a traditional Napolitano recipe. Piena means “full”—so it’s a thick pie with a crust on top stuffed with ricotta, prosciutto, eggs, and cheese. Absolutely amazing.

One of my favorite childhood memories was going down the Jersey shore with my parents and my brother. Sometimes we would go with Joe’s family. We would go for the day every Wednesday and Sunday, since those were my dad’s days off. My mom would pack the most delicious sandwiches: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella and eggplant or chicken cutlet. Instead of sprinkling salt and pepper on the sandwiches, she would put homemade jarred eggplant in olive oil or roasted red peppers on the sandwiches. So good! My mom would always pack a big container of iced tea to drink and fresh fruit, like juicy peaches or refreshing watermelon slices. For whatever reason, everything always tasted so good on the beach—and still does.

We would buy badges for the day at beaches like Sandy Hook or Long Branch, and I would spend the day swimming in the ocean, body surfing (hoping I wouldn’t lose the top to my bathing suit when I was tossed around in the huge waves!), picking seashells off the beach, playing with sand crabs we dug up, and building sand castles with my dad and my brother. My dad loved to dig a deep hole in the sand, put me or my brother in it, and cover us up to our necks, which would make us laugh! (My mother was always like, “Be careful with them, Giagee!”)

My favorite bathing suit back then was a crocheted bikini in rainbow colors. I wish I had a photo of me in that suit, but I don’t. My mom didn’t take a lot of photos of me and Joey, but I wish she had. I want to be able to see what I looked like every year of my life and share those pictures with my children. That’s why I’m now a fanatic when it comes to pictures. I am always taking photos of my daughters doing anything and everything, so they can remember where they come from. What I have learned in this life is that honoring our beginnings—whether they are humble or extravagant—is so important, and I want my girls to be able to look at those photos with my future grandkids!

Growing up with strict Italian, Catholic parents, all I heard my parents say was that they wanted to raise me to be a good girl. They wanted me to be a good wife and mother one day. That’s what I wanted to be too. But sometimes it was hard, because the standards they had for my brother, even though he was younger than me, were very different from the standards they held me to because he was a boy, which is typical in Italian families. If my father was king of the house, my brother was the prince. Every night after dinner, I was the one who was expected to help clean up and do the dishes. He would just eat and then take off. I always cleaned my brother’s room for him. I would put away my laundry and then his laundry. Every Saturday I would help my mom clean the house. I would dust, mop the floors, clean the bathroom, and vacuum the whole house. He didn’t have to do any of this. I never questioned it or got angry about it. This was just the way it was. My brother did have his own responsibilities, too. He would help my dad out in the yard and would always take out the garbage.

While I was a daddy’s girl, and still am, my brother was definitely the apple of my mother’s eye. My mother was crazy about my brother. She loved him so much. She couldn’t pronounce Joey right so she would call him Jovey mio—“my Jovey.” We both got our love for our own families—and our strength—from our parents, especially my dad. He taught me to stand up for myself and face my challenges head-on, just like he did. I had no idea just how big those challenges would be for me later on in life.

When I was going into fourth grade, we moved from our apartment to a one-family house in a nice neighborhood. I lived in that house with my parents until I was twenty-seven, when I got married. I have a picture of me standing in front of that house on my wedding day. We all spent lots of time in our new yard. My dad would cut the grass, while my mom would be outside every night watering the flowers she loved to plant. My parents had a garden in the backyard, where they grew tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and eggplant, just like their families did in Italy. They also installed a full kitchen in the basement, which is totally an Italian thing. They did that because they wanted to keep the kitchen upstairs spotless. The kitchen downstairs was the workhorse kitchen, where all the heavy lifting would take place when it came to cooking—especially for the holidays. Next to the kitchen downstairs, there was a big room with a living room and an area for the table where we ate dinner every night together.

If you thought my parents were strict when I was little, that was nothing compared to when I was a teenager. We would be sitting at the dinner table and my father would pick up a knife and say to me, “You need to walk a straight line on the knife. If you walk crooked on it, you will cut yourself. But if you walk straight, you will be good.” He was basically telling me that I always needed to avoid sex and drugs, do right in life, and try not to make any stupid mistakes. He told me that all the time—right up until the day I got married.

For as much of a good girl as I prided myself in being, I did make some mistakes. In seventh grade, I cut school one day with my best friend, Maria. We went to her house because her mom worked and no one was home to catch us. I had my period and felt lousy, and just didn’t feel like dragging through the school day. In my house, I had to be dying to stay home from school.

We hung out at Maria’s house all day, talking, putting on makeup, and watching TV. I kept a close eye on the clock. I had to get back to school before the last bell rang because my mother picked me up every day. I have to admit, I loved feeling so free!

When I got back to school, I tried to fly under the radar, but one of my teachers saw me and figured out that I had skipped school. The next day I was called into the principal’s office. I was shaking like a leaf as I walked down the hall. I had never, ever been in trouble like this before in my whole life. I almost died when the principal told me I was suspended from school for two days, because I knew what my parents would say. That’s what scared me the most.

I remember almost wanting to throw up when I told my mom what had happened, because my stomach was in knots. Just as I predicted, she didn’t take it well. At all. After I managed to get the words out, she yelled at me and told me I had to go to school unless I was really sick. She said I needed to be a good example for my brother. I felt so bad for letting her down. I cried and went to my room and stayed there until dinner. Despite how upset she was with me, she didn’t tell my father about it. I was beyond relieved. I was a teenager pushing the limits, but I felt so guilty about disappointing my mom that I never missed school again.

I am proud of the fact that I was a good girl growing up. I know I have made some missteps along the way. I’ve also had to deal with the many curveballs life has thrown me. Despite all of that, I have always put my family, my love for them, and my values first. I can only hope that my daughters will walk in the same footsteps that I have when it comes to these kinds of things. My strict upbringing also kept me out of a lot of trouble growing up, which is why I am so strict with my own daughters. I am raising them to be good girls, too.

As a teenager, I always wondered what it would be like to date Joe. After all, our families were so close, and even back then, I knew him like the back of my hand. Somehow, though, we knew we had to date others before finding the great love in each other.

In high school, I found myself hanging out with this guy who was the center of a lot of attention. There was another girl who liked him at the same time, and was not happy he liked me so much. She would give me nasty looks—the side eye and the up and down—and would constantly flirt with him. One day, we passed each other in the stairwell between classes and she bumped into me on purpose, making me drop my books. When I stood up, I told her to cut the shit. She started screaming and pushed me, so I pushed her back. I was protecting myself. I had never been in a scuffle like this before, but this girl started it and I reacted to what she did. What did she think I was going to do? Just stand there?

All these people came to watch because they heard we were fighting. When the school officials came, my heart sank. I knew I was going to get in trouble, and I did. Both of us got suspended. I was most terrified of my parents’ reaction. While they weren’t happy that I got suspended, my father told me he knew that I wouldn’t have gotten into it with that girl unless I was defending myself, so he wasn’t mad.

I was upset at the suspension but was proud of myself for standing my ground with her. I remember thinking back to this incident when I flipped that table on the first season of Real Housewives, when Danielle Staub pushed me to the limit. I am a pretty laid-back person until you push my buttons and keep going. That’s when I usually lose it.

Things quieted down for a while after that with that girl in high school, but when another girl set her sights on that same guy, we had to go through the whole thing all over again. Just like the first girl, this new one was also jealous of our relationship. So one day, she and her friends waited for me and tried to jump me.

School had just ended for the day, and as I headed outside to the bus, I turned a corner and saw that girl and her friends waiting for me. No one else was around, so I was all alone. Just them and me. After they surrounded me, the girl started hurling a lot of ugly words at me, calling me a puta and telling me to stay away from him. I basically said that if he wanted to be with her, he would. Even though we were just yelling at each other at this point, I knew what was going to happen next: they were going to pull my hair, scratch me, push me—and punch me. They were trying to scare me because there were so many of them and only one of me. I wasn’t afraid of them. I thought what they were doing was ridiculous. I held my own and stood strong. I didn’t back down. I was one tough Italian cookie and they knew it.

Then, out of nowhere, a friend of mine happened to be passing by and saw that I was in trouble. She pulled out a knife and they scattered like mice. I was shocked. I didn’t even know she carried a knife on her. Thank goodness she did.

Since I went to school with some tough kids, I learned to be tough and stand up for myself. You had to be strong there. If you showed anyone you were weak, you were done. The good thing about going to school there, though, was that I had friends from all walks of life—black, white, Latina—which taught me to be open-minded and nonjudgmental when it comes to other races and cultures. It’s one of the things that helped me in prison, where I also met all kinds of people—and, just like in high school, had friends from all kinds of backgrounds.

In my heart, I think God sent my badass, knife-carrying friend my way that day for a reason. Otherwise, I would have had to defend myself against all of them. I know I could have handled myself and held my own, but still, there were a lot of girls there. Thank God nothing at all happened to me and that my friend was there to back me up. I didn’t want another suspension, or for my parents to get upset again.

One thing I learned from that horrible day was that yes, those girls wanted to scare me, but that will never work with me. Doing something like that will just make me come back even stronger. I didn’t tell my mom that I was almost attacked because I knew she would be worried about me. But I’ve never been afraid to stand up to anyone. I don’t like fighting, but if I need to stand up for myself, I will. I may have a soft and kind heart, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a backbone. Standing strong is just one trait many Italians share, and I’m proud to be able to do that for my family and myself.

People out in the world have said they think I am “pampered and spoiled.” That’s not true at all. I have always been a hard worker. My parents instilled a strong work ethic in Joey and me from a young age. They always told us to work as hard as we could for our money—and to save, save, save, like they did. I have no problem working hard. I actually like to work. All my employers would always say that I hustled. Later on, at book signings for the four cookbooks I wrote, I would never take a break. I wouldn’t stop until everyone waiting in line got an autograph and a picture. I was at one event at a Barnes & Noble until two in the morning, because there were so many people there waiting to meet me! I didn’t mind. I wanted to make sure everyone left happy.

I started working at a young age. When I was ten or so, I got my own paper route after begging my father to let me do it. He finally gave in, thinking I would do it for a few weeks and get it out of my system. But I loved it. Unlike other kids, who delivered the newspapers on their bikes, my father would drive me from house to house because he wanted to make sure I was safe. I prided myself as the papergirl who put the newspaper in the mailbox because that was the right thing to do. I would think to myself, “If I throw the newspaper on the lawn or in the driveway and it rains, how will my customers read it?” I got tipped well for my extra efforts. People would tell me they never had someone put the paper in the mailbox before. I just wanted to do the best job possible, something I have tried to do my whole life.

When I was fourteen, my dad helped me get a job at Shoe Town, a shoe store in Ramsey, New Jersey. Since I only worked on Saturdays, I would drive in to work with my dad. He would drop me off at Shoe Town at 8 a.m. and pick me up at 5:15 p.m., when he was done with work. When I got my driver’s license, I worked more, especially during vacations and when I was off from school. Eventually, I started working at the Shoe Town in the Preakness Shopping Center in Wayne, New Jersey. That Shoe Town closed awhile ago and is now a Trader Joe’s. I smile whenever I drive past there because I loved working there and making my own money. But most of all, I was happy that my parents were so proud of me for being so responsible.

In high school, I started thinking about a future career, so I took the business program there and learned how to type on a typewriter—because we didn’t have computers back then—and write shorthand. That kind of thing. I really loved it. After I graduated in 1990, I went to Berkeley College for fashion merchandising and management. I learned so much and graduated two years later with an associate’s degree. In the fall we went on a fashion trip with the school to Paris and London�.�.�. a dream trip! I fell in love with both of those cities—especially Paris. I had a hard time understanding what they were saying to me, even though I speak Italian. I would love to take my girls there one day.

All in all, I had a happy childhood. My parents taught me to love and respect them and my family, to love God, to always try to do the right thing, and to be a good wife and mother—all things I am passing down to my own daughters today.

Most helpful customer reviews

84 of 87 people found the following review helpful.
One Star
By A. Young
I'm dumber for reading this book.

182 of 197 people found the following review helpful.
it was very boring and heavy on self praise and her wonderful family
By Michelle
I skimmed through the first several chapters about her family and life growing up. Also, the chapters about her being on the Real Housewives. it was very boring and heavy on self praise and her wonderful family. No raw truth or self awareness or insight into lessons learned for where her life has gone wrong and landed her into prison in the first place. She pats herself on the back for all of the good that she did in helping others in prison and has no insight to what got her in there in the first place. What a disappointment.

160 of 182 people found the following review helpful.
UGH! Please don't waste your hard earned money on this garbage joke of a book!
By Peggy
This book is the worst tripe ever! It's very clear that Teresa has less than NO remorse for her multiple and very serious CRIMES! Really, seriously Teresa? All she does is complain, and it's always all about HER! UGH!!! Please do NOT waste your hard earned money on this this piece of CRAP book! Clearly Teresa hasn't changed ONE iota and never will! She got off WAY too easy for her many crimes in my opinion!

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