Italian Christmas

[keenan]

Ok. Im from new York City, one of the most diverse ethnic and cultural places on earth. I am first generation Irish. Im so Irish I dont bother to wear green on St. Paddys Day. I just tell people my name is Keenan Kelly and they go , "Ohhhhhh..."

Now, I am the ONLY one of six children who DIDNT marry an Italian girl. Have no idea why, it just worked out that way. My wife is a mutt, about 20 different nationalitys, and she doesnt mind me calling her a mutt. After meeting and being a part of my Mic family for 28 years, she understands. But, I have been to MANY of my in laws houses MANY times. So when I got this e mail, I literally spit coffee through my nose from laughing so hard. If you come from an ethinic background, you'll really appreciate this. If not, I think youll ROFL anyway. I like to make people laugh, so I thought Id share this with you guys ....

(This was an e mail sent to me )

"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.....I was wrong!

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 told my mother I'd be bringing Karen with me. 'She's a very

nice girl 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 reason

for living. 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.

7 p.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 on the barbecue & 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!'

7:30 p.m. - Others arrive.

Zio Giovanni walks in with my Zia Maria, assorted kids, assorted

gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically

composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, anchovies

and cheese....no meat of course.

When I offer to make Karen's plate she says, 'No Thank you.'

She points to the anchovies with a look of disgust.... 'You don't like

anchovies?' I ask.

'I don't like fish, Karen announces to one and all, as 67 other

varieties of seafood are baking, broiling, or simmering, in the next

room. My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable.

Zia Maria asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve.

Karen says, 'Knockwurst.' My father, who is still staring at

Karen's chest in a daze, 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.

8:00 p.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.'

8:30 p.m. - More fish.

My stomach is knotted like one of those macrame 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.'

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. Zia Maria 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 Zio Giovanni doesn't know what to

make of it. My father's dentures fall out and chews a six-inch gash in the

Christmas tablecloth.

10:00 pm. - 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 a

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

a cannoli and slaps my mother with it. 'This is fun,' Karen says.

Time passes and believe it or not, everyone is laughing and

smiling and filled with good cheer -- even my mother, who grabs me by the

shoulder, laughs and says, 'Get that ***** out of my house.' Sounds fine

to me.

THE END

If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't know Italians!!!

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Edited December 31, 2009 by keenan

[Brian]

I was holding up pretty good until the "Knockers" part. Glad I didn't have mouth full of coffee!

[nana]

It's a good thing you like to make people laugh, Keenan, cause you are really good at it.

Thanks for another good laugh.

[Lordvapor]

Italian and Greek here... Yeah I know

[DannyBoyfromWashington]

That was hilarious btw. I am Irish/Italian/German and Blackfoot, any dinner with more than 4 members of my family in attendance is always a hoot

Edited January 1, 2010 by DannyBoyfromWashington