*not blogging but a repost like this should suffice. I thought this was hysterical. If you know someone that's Italian send them this link. Believe me, they will relate. After a recent comment, from the author, (3.3.08) I've found out who the man behind the story is and have given him full credit. Wonderful story, Bill. It almost made me take the chino's to Browntown . . .

An Italian Christmas

by Bill Ervolino 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 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. 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 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." 7:30 p.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 and 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. 8:00 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, and 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 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. 10:00 p.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.

After I hit the 'publish' button on this post I will be away from the blog I so love for a little bit. I have so many wonderful things to cook for the holidays over the next few days that I will have no time to sit down and visit here. I want to wish each and every person that visits a wonderful Christmas filled with all the things you've come to know and love over the years. I pray that broken hearts can be somehow mended, shattered spirits can be lifted, a little grace can be restored and that at least one person finally finds the true meaning of the holiday. May God bless all of you. Thanks for reading here. I leave you with one of my favorite renditions of a Christmas classic. And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas . . .

To my wife . . . (and in a small way to a  very dear friend from Cape Cod '09.  Do you remember?)

Amazing how fast a week goes these days. It is once again Malarky Monday and the day we try to tickle your funny bone. We are excited this week to have a new addition to MM in Diligaf. Be sure to visit these crazy folks and troll their short list of archives. Word on the street is that this week's offering is outrageous. Some awesome and hilarious stuff to be found there even though the blog is relatively young. Anywhoo, have a blast with my finds this week. First up is a very short commercial for Danier Leather. I just love everything about this video (especially the brunette in the slinky dress) Crank the sound for a great blues tune as well. And be sure to watch to the very end. And cats will be cats. Even at Christmas . . . And dogs will be dogs doing what they naturally do. Even at Christmas . . . Hey, at least the tree is taken care of. And finally I thought I would help you out with some last minute email cards. Click

HERE!!!!!

for the Top 5 funniest. Now, please hop on your cyberspatial sleigh and visit my partners in crime:

Moe

Morky

Dilligaf

Happy Malarky Monday, folks!

Spend 10 minutes here and leave with some Christmas spirit. Nuff said . . .

If you can get by the 15-20 second commercial at the beginning you will be richly rewarded with something very special. Trust me. And . . .  have a ball. Or two. On me. Look for my balls very soon at Mom and Dad's Diner.

It is during this time of the year that I generally go into an emotional cocoon; my own kind of hibernation and self preservation mode. December 1st until January 2nd, my internal sensors (censors) go into a Lockdown setting. Life is hectic, loud and screaming with white and pink noise. I need a celestial graphic EQ (equalizer) to take out the nasty sonic peaks and hisses of the daily grind. Ah, were it that easy. Maybe there’s an app on the Iphone for that. ;) The only place that I can find some silent respite is when I fall asleep. But sometimes even sleep doesn’t work. The other night (this just came to me now) I was dreaming that I was standing in the middle of some godforsaken superhighway with cars and trucks whizzing by me at what seemed to be light-year speeds. I could feel wind on my face but the cars and 18-wheelers were just horizontal blurs of colour. I was frozen, frightened and couldn’t move without getting reduced to a platter of road kill. I did finally wake up at 3:03AM. My skin was clammy and I was thirsty. I went downstairs and got a glass of water and back up to bed where I began tossing and turning my nocturnal thoughts like a mad chef tosses a freshly ordered Caesar Salad. At 5AM I got up and made coffee. The act of trying to sleep was maddening. This dream was symbolic for me and the perfect allegory of my life. It also made me think of a story someone once told me. It could have been told to me by my mother - but like my dream’s unknown ending, I just can’t remember. I do remember the story though. Its author is unknown so I’ve taken the liberty of changing the POV. This story inspires me and brings hope to the heart because a worldly truth is that we are all in this thing together. I was at the end of my rope. Seeing no way out I dropped to my knees in prayer. “Lord, I can’t go on,” I said, “I have too heavy a cross to bear.” The Lord replied, “My child, if you can’t bear its weight, just place your cross inside this room. Then open another door and pick up any cross you wish.” I was filled with relief. “Thank you, Lord,” I sighed, and did as I was told. As I looked around the room I saw many crosses, some so large the tops were not visible. Then I spotted a tiny cross leaning against a far wall. “I’d like that one, Lord,” I whispered. The Lord replied, “My son, that’s the cross you just brought in.” During this holiday season, it is my hope and prayer that the burdens you carry in your hearts today will seem lighter and somehow more distant tomorrow. Pax . . . *the picture I used for this post was taken by Amanda Lucier. Click here to learn more about this amazing photojournalist and the story behind the photo.

I have followed Richard Page for almost his entire career. From 'Pages' and 'Mr. Mister' to all the background vocals he's done over the years. Who is Richard Page? You have heard him before. Trust me. Click here. Click here. Click here. An amazing musician that never got the recognition I think he truly deserved. Such is the fickle nature of the music business. Please enjoy his holiday offering. The deeper message of this song far surpasses all the 70% off Xmas sales at 'Walmart' and 'Macy's' This is yuletide warmth, cubed. And yeah, I always cry at Christmas . . .

The tree is up and dressed with soft, white lights, ornaments and icicles. The cats are already stripping them off and methodically leaving them on the floor where my unsuspecting feet find them at 3:02am. The other morning I found a ceramic reindeer the sole of my left foot was violently impaled with the antlers of an unsympathetic and ceramic reindeer. *%&^$&(#)@!!!! Bastards. Yeah, it’s Christmastime. Although I’ve yet to hear much in the way of holiday music, I’ve no doubt that within two weeks time I’ll be deep in the complicated state of Yuletide Dismay wanting to slit my wrists at the mere sound of the introduction to ‘Carol of the Bells’. It is at this festive time of the year that I unleash my innermost Mister Nasty, the stygian beast within, the curmudgeon of melancholy, my dark saint. Part of me still harbours (more like imprisons) that little boy that used to love the snow and the Christmas lights and yes, even the ’Carol of the Bells’. These days Mister Nasty can’t come out and play. Actually, I don’t want to come outside. I play the dark saint of sorts and find my own personal way to somehow make it to December 26th (Sarah’s birthday for those of you who will find out anyway on her Twitter). I think that some of my snowy disdain is rooted in the overabundance of past holiday social fatalities. Dealing with Alzheimer’s Disease ironically (and sadly) made me forget my ‘Santa’ mentality replacing it with this almost diabolical Grinch-like quality - an issue currently Under Construction. Humor me for the next month or so as I deal with the bleak canvas of winter as my thoughts turn deeply inwards. This holiday season has quite a different feel to it though and I think I know why. Unfortunately, I can't tell you the reason. So indulge me, won’t you? And who knows? Maybe this Grinch will once and for all find his Christmas heart . . .

*I have no clue as to how many chapters are waiting to be written regarding this incredible time in my life. As sure as the Akubra hat on my head, this will be far from the last. I’m not entirely sure where to begin because my grey matter is still processing all that’s gone on these past few weeks. If I haven’t stopped by your blog it’s simply because the last month has consumed me both physically and emotionally leaving very little of me left to visit. As most of you know already my family and I vacationed for a week with Maureen & Mark (M&M), Annie and Evyl & Joyce down on Cape Cod. The week after, M&M stayed at our home and rode the train into Boston with me most days. I worked and they did everything from walking the Freedom Trail to taking a Trolley Tour all over the city. I was blessed on one night with a surprise game at Fenway Park. (saving that for a later post) M&M also had their own personal city guide, my daughter Hannah, who has found a new best friend in Morky (Moe, as well) Cut to Day 1: The flight carrying M&M, Annie and a very special present for yours truly landed late the Saturday they arrived. No worries, right? Planes land late all the time. Little did I know that this was the proverbial tip of the holiday iceberg of mishaps. I expected a phone call from Maureen when she touched down in Boston and assumed it would be her when the phone rang. The phone did ring and I was surprised to hear Annie’s voice. (cue the bah-da-dum-dum) All I remember from the conversation was Annie saying, “They lost the didj. Don’t worry they will find it and hand deliver it to the house on the Cape tonight.” The ‘special’ present was a custom made Australian Didgeridoo just for me. (click the link for a description) I had already known about it for months because Moe had sent me pictures. This instrument was special; sacred, actually. I realized that Annie had made the call because Mark was physically restraining Maureen from committing her first murder on American soil. This didj was unique as a constellation in the sky, a one and only; a present that M&M held so dear. My heart broke knowing how upset they both were. Thank God Annie was there as the voice of calm and reason. It seems she quelled the impending riot and got everyone to the van that would bring them to my house. We made it to the Cape and got settled and began our wait for the didj. Saturday night, no didj. Sunday night, still no didj. Monday, no didj. 496 phone calls later (by Moe and Annie) told us to expect it Tuesday night around 5:30. Guess what? No didj. More phone calls and a promise that said instrument would be delivered by 10:30PM. Things were getting surreal now. A firepit was lit, many drinks were poured, cigars were lit and we all sat around the fire playing ‘Celebrity Heads’  laughing and listening for the courier to pull up in front of the house with the long lost precious goods. It was at 10:30 that a van finally pulled into the driveway. Like children on Christmas morning, all of us ran out to the front yard of the house totally freaking out the driver. He could tell that we were all very happy to see him (* a bit pissed as well). I high fived the guy and took the didj into the house as Mark and I began opening the nuclear war-proofed package. Mark took the black padded sleeve off, handed it to me and said, “Here’s your didj, mate.” Holding this incredible instrument was not unlike holding a newborn baby. I knew how much it meant to Maureen and Mark and the moment overwhelmed me. I then did what all father’s do when they hold their newborn . . . I cried. Like a baby . . . Still learning to play it and getting close to an actual didj sound. Stay tuned. Annie, thank you for your relentless pursuit and urgent phone calls to the courier. And Maureen? Thank you for not ripping the head off of an innocent American body. (she'll be right, mate) Hooroo! (below is a pic of the actual didj) *slightly intoxicated . . .   :mrgreen: ** btw- this didj is a low F# drone (sweet spot/fundamental tone)