"Christmas Eve - Italian Style" joke

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 by 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 by mother for 31 years when I told her 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's.
What more could I want?

I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households,
Christmas Eve is the social event of the entire year - 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.

7: 00 PM 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 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 PM 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 asked.

"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 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 PM Second course. . .
The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen
declines on 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, and 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 gong 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 PM More fish. . .
My stomach is knotted like one of those macrame plant hangers that
are always three times larger that the plants they hold. All the
women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen,
who instead lights up 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 re-enters 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 groaning, 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 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: 00 PM Coffee, dessert. . .
Expresso 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 all Italian women do on Christmas
Eve, picks up a 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 and
says, "Get the bitch out of my house."

Sounds fine to me.

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