Damn! we may be Italian!
LOL this was sent to me on a list I am on... too funny
Italian Christmas
I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house
on
Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl
to
see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my Mother and
my
date would hit it off like partridges
and pear trees. So, I was wrong. Sue me.
I had only known Karen for three weeks when
I extended the invitation. "I know these family things can be a little
weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a lot
of fun
on Christmas Eve."
"Sounds fine to me," Karen said.
I had only known my mother for 31 years when I toldher I'd be bringing
Karen
with me. "She's a very nicegirl and she's really looking forward to
meeting
all of you."
"Sounds fine to me," my mother said.
And that was that. Two telephone calls. Two
sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want?
I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas
Eve is
the social event of the season - an Italian woman's raison d'etre.
She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the
entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I should
also
point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women
that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean. She
doesn't
cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever
seen on
a human being. I brought her anyway.
7p.m. - we arrive.
Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the
other
guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like a
cheeseburger and cannily determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or
bake. My father is equally observant. He
pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I
have
ever seen on a human being."
7:30p.m. - Others arrive.
Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted
gifts. We
sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically
composed
platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami,
prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies. When I offer to make Karen's
plate she
says, "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the
anchovies. "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish,"
Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim
are
baking, broiling and simmering in the next room.
My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting
uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen
says,
"Knockwurst." My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen's
chest,
temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him
so
hard he
gets a blood clot. None of this is turning out the way I'd hoped.
8:00p.m. - Second course.
The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines
the
crab sauce and says she'll make her own with butter and ketchup.
My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take my "Merry
Christmas"
napkin from my lap, place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and
walk
into the kitchen. "I don't want to start any trouble," my
mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if
she
pours this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face." "Come
on," I
tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." My
mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into
the
dining room, she grabs my shoulder.
"Tell me the truth,"she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"
"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three
weeks."
"Well, it's your life", she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll
poison
you."
8:30p.m. - More fish.
My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé? plant hangers that are
always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get
up to
clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights
a
cigarette. "Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest.
Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
"Dear,
you don't have to do that," my mother tells her, smiling painfully.
"Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink. As she reenters
the
dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the
wall.
From the kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops." I vaguely remember that
line
from Torch Song Trilogy. "Whoops?" No. "Whoops is when you fall down an
elevator shaft."
More fish comes out. After some goading, Karen tries a piece of
scungilli,
which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites her
hand
and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the
sixth
row of a funeral home. Aunt Mafalde does the same. Karen, believing
that
this is
something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand
and
pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn't know what to make of it. My
father's
dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00p.m. - Coffee, dessert.
Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When
Karen
asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with cannoli. I
guess
it had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that this is
something
that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up cannoli and slaps
my
mother with it. "This is fun," Karen says. Fun? No. Fun is when you
fall
down an elevator shaft. But, amazingly, everyone is laughing and
smiling and
filled with good cheer - even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder,
laughs and says, "Get this bitch out of my house."
Sounds fine to me.
THE END
If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't know Italians!
Italian Christmas
I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house
on
Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl
to
see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my Mother and
my
date would hit it off like partridges
and pear trees. So, I was wrong. Sue me.
I had only known Karen for three weeks when
I extended the invitation. "I know these family things can be a little
weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a lot
of fun
on Christmas Eve."
"Sounds fine to me," Karen said.
I had only known my mother for 31 years when I toldher I'd be bringing
Karen
with me. "She's a very nicegirl and she's really looking forward to
meeting
all of you."
"Sounds fine to me," my mother said.
And that was that. Two telephone calls. Two
sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want?
I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas
Eve is
the social event of the season - an Italian woman's raison d'etre.
She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the
entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I should
also
point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women
that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean. She
doesn't
cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever
seen on
a human being. I brought her anyway.
7p.m. - we arrive.
Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the
other
guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like a
cheeseburger and cannily determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or
bake. My father is equally observant. He
pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I
have
ever seen on a human being."
7:30p.m. - Others arrive.
Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted
gifts. We
sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically
composed
platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami,
prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies. When I offer to make Karen's
plate she
says, "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the
anchovies. "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish,"
Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim
are
baking, broiling and simmering in the next room.
My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting
uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen
says,
"Knockwurst." My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen's
chest,
temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him
so
hard he
gets a blood clot. None of this is turning out the way I'd hoped.
8:00p.m. - Second course.
The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines
the
crab sauce and says she'll make her own with butter and ketchup.
My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take my "Merry
Christmas"
napkin from my lap, place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and
walk
into the kitchen. "I don't want to start any trouble," my
mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if
she
pours this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face." "Come
on," I
tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." My
mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into
the
dining room, she grabs my shoulder.
"Tell me the truth,"she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"
"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three
weeks."
"Well, it's your life", she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll
poison
you."
8:30p.m. - More fish.
My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé? plant hangers that are
always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get
up to
clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights
a
cigarette. "Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest.
Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
"Dear,
you don't have to do that," my mother tells her, smiling painfully.
"Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink. As she reenters
the
dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the
wall.
From the kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops." I vaguely remember that
line
from Torch Song Trilogy. "Whoops?" No. "Whoops is when you fall down an
elevator shaft."
More fish comes out. After some goading, Karen tries a piece of
scungilli,
which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites her
hand
and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the
sixth
row of a funeral home. Aunt Mafalde does the same. Karen, believing
that
this is
something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand
and
pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn't know what to make of it. My
father's
dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00p.m. - Coffee, dessert.
Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When
Karen
asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with cannoli. I
guess
it had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that this is
something
that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up cannoli and slaps
my
mother with it. "This is fun," Karen says. Fun? No. Fun is when you
fall
down an elevator shaft. But, amazingly, everyone is laughing and
smiling and
filled with good cheer - even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder,
laughs and says, "Get this bitch out of my house."
Sounds fine to me.
THE END
If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't know Italians!