soprela

[soprela]

“You know what I think, Father? I think that you like the— I don’t even know what to call it. The whiff of sexuality that never goes anyplace. I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, Father Phil, truly. The religious counseling, the book on Buddhism, the wonderful chats. I am very fond of you. More than fond. But I think you need to look at yourself. Call this an intervention. Cuz I think you have this MO where you manipulate spirituality thirsty women, and I think a lot of it is tied up with food somehow, as well as the sexual tension game.”

S1E13 I Dream of Jeannie Cusamano

[soprela]

another thing that’s gonna be hard for me to say in the same vein as multi level m*rketing carmela …. if carm had her kids in the 2000s or 20teens you need to understand that they’d be raised w adherence to the Sad Beige Children lifestyle

[soprela]

watching the m*rco polo episode and i 🫨🫨😵‍💫😵‍💫 am not doing well

[soprela]

happy mother’s day 2 carmela hope tony gets you a fat ass last minute ring studded w precious stones bestie

[soprela]

Margaret Atwood, from “The Art of Fiction No. 121”

[soprela]

i’ve talked to y’all’s father and y’all are NOT to play marry-oh cart or go skating, just btw.

[soprela]

Carmela Soprano in Season 1

[soprela]

THE SOPRANOS| Carmela + Art

[soprela]

from The Agony of Intimacy by Jeanette Winterson, published in Granta

[Text ID in ALT text]

[soprela]

"do i wanna throw it away?" she matches his white - knuckle intensity as the repetition forces a humorless laugh from her lips, her hands closing in fists so tight her nails threaten to puncture the meat of her palm. for once, her fingers are clean of any rings, nothing left to dig into her skin when her knuckles come to rest on her hips as she stares at the tense set of his shoulders, the slight bow of his head, like she could drill into him with her eyes alone and bore some sort of hole that might allow him to feel an ounce of what she feels. "we do have a family, tony. in case you forgot, it was your son who answered the phone. our son. so don't you tell me about our family."

twenty five years. carmela is walking a fine line, she can feel the back of her throat tightening, the corners of her eyes stinging, caught between the urge to throw something, to shout, and the terrifying thought that she might cry again, make herself weak and small in front of him. "you wish i was just pissed at you, anthony. that would be easy, huh? you just buy me a watch or a ring like you always do and i'll forgive you again, like you haven't humiliated me -- who knows how many times. with who knows how many women. and, and all your "friends?" they know. how do you think that has made me feel, over twenty some years? huh? what, you think you're the only person with feelings? i'm gonna feel bad for you, now?"

she turns away from him, her fists unfurling to lift a hand and dash a few escaping tears from her cheeks before her arms cross over her chest too tightly. "you can't give me what i want, tony. i look at you now, and i . . . i just see what a joke i must be, to you."

"you wanna talk about respect?"

he baulks at the term, like she's said something in a tongue not known to any man. in all actuality, tony doesn't know what to say. he's seeing fucking red. and he hates that he knows it's because of how hurt he is. melfi had said it - carmela would leave him, but he'd never leave her. he's cheated, he's lied, he's hurt her again and again - and yet, a life without carmela in it seems incredulous.

confronting why he does the self-sabotaging shit he does would entail some self-work he doesn't think he's ready for. it'd require thinking about the guilt-induced panic attacks, the fact that the gaggle of girls he's taken in bed have been part of a self-induced perdition caused by the lifestyle he'd been born into. it's in the blood.

too much. melfi doesn't even get half of that, for fuck's sake.

he exhales through flared nostrils, knuckles gripping the edge of the counter so hard they're white. he avoids the urge to storm out of the house, to give carmela exactly what she wants. he cannot take another person leaving him. not carmela.

"i know you're livid with me, carmela," he says, finally, voice restrained. have they had a calm discussion about this shit? nothing in him wants to, but he feels desperation bubbling up within him. the vulnerability puts a rotten taste in his mouth, as if a decayed tooth had been drilled into. "but we've got a goddamn family. we've been together for twenty-five years. you really wanna throw that all away? i've been out of the house for seven fuckin' months - i -."

there it is, the word vomit. quickly, he asks, mostly genuinely, "what do you want from me, carm? what can i do?"

[soprela]

@883333

"really? i'm telling you, the way tony drives sometimes, you'd think his last name was andretti." carmela's head is shaking, some small amusement pinned behind the statement as she looks down at the pair of glasses she fills, glancing up to eye the other woman as her own laughter dies between them. she slides a glass toward her end of the countertop, picking up her own as she leans a hip against the lower cabinet and angles more toward her. "elio drive like that? too fast, or . . . over - confident, i guess i'd say."

her lips purse, and the pause is not short enough for the answer to come before she adds, "well, tony would hate i called him "over" - anything. you know what i mean, though? if he even has both hands on the wheel, i'm surprised."

@soprela cont.

beatríz is leaning against the sliding glass door, watching the rain fall with a distracted expression. hearing carmela’s invitation, she turns around sharply, a subtle smile bordering on timid gracing her features. she is often unsure of how to behave in the presence of other women — women like these especially. the bitterness on which she has relied all her life tends to melt away when speaking to them, and without it to buoy her, she finds herself at a loss.

“yes. that sounds nice,” she says. then, hastily: “i’ll only wait for the rain to stop.”

a moment passes. grasping for something, anything, to fill the air which was so recently alive with the sound of other women’s laughter, she begins to recount: “did you know it was elio who taught me to drive? that’s his car i parked outside.”

the vehicle had been a birthday present: your own cadillac, her husband had beamed at her her. but with his name on the registration, why bother pretending?

she chuckles to think of it, but a darkness underlies the sound.

“you should see him. he’s not so good at it himself.”

[soprela]

feech calling tony don antonio >>>>>

[soprela]

something very luxurious about getting into bed at 8:30 pm i gotta say

[soprela]

THE SOPRANOS, 3.07

[soprela]

so i’ve thought about it. and … you know. i have to say this. i hate to say it but i have to. modern carmela … has definitely been a t*pperware or p*mpered chef consultant / host. i’m sorry but my girl would slay that multilevel m*rketing game

[soprela]

me changing my lockscreen to carmela <3

[soprela]

'to be a sort of salvation to you' carm please be normal stop making everything so ... catholic