Time to start getting into the Christmas Spirit with a Smile and a Classic.

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 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 and 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 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, 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."

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 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 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 this bitch out of  my house."

Sounds fine to me.

THE END