Sunday, October 15, 2006

Italian New Yawk Relatives Vist Freakin' California

The ANNOTICO Report

 

New Yorkers. I don't know whether to Hate' em or Laugh at them!!!!! (I wonder how friends I made with that remark? :)

Each Ethnic group of the New Yawkers has its own idiosyncrasies and eccentricities.

This is an amusing tale of Italian relatives from New York visiting Ontario, California, just 25 miles East of Los Angeles.

 

FREAKIN' OUT WHEN THE RELATIVES COME TO TOWN

 

Inland Valley Daily Bulletin

Ontario. Calif.

Diana Sholley, Staff Writer

October 15, 2006

Twice a year, my 94-year-old Italian grandmother can throw out her blood pressure medications, trash her cholesterol pills, put the cap on the Vicks VapoRub and rip off her support stockings. That's because twice a year, my Uncle Sonny comes to town and a visit from him is the only prescription she needs to feel like a young girl of 75.

Uncle Sonny is Grandma's second born and only boy. His name's not really Sonny, it's Bartolomeo, but it's probably mandated somewhere that at least one son in every Italian family from the "old neigh-ba-hood" in Queens was called Sonny - if only by his mother.

Uncle Sonny now lives on Long Island and when he visits, it's a trip into another dimension. From the moment I pick him up at the airport, I'm instantly reminded of where New York stereotypes come from - and how accurate they are.

He walks with a swagger and stands out in a crowd. Of course that could be because he's wearing black socks with sandals, tank-top undershirt and a gold chain. He's Joe Pesci with attitude.

His normal tone of conversation is three octaves higher than a fire alarm. Over the sanctimonious Sunday supper table, he preaches respect, the union and family loyalty - and I pity the Pisan who's late for the sermon.

"Ya late. Where you been?" he'll ask, then not wait for an answer. "It's time fa dinna. You ain't neva suppose to be late fa dinna."

He doesn't scare me as much as he used to, but when he comes to California, I'm never late when invited for dinner.

He's my grandmother's baby boy and she's so happy when he comes to town.

This trip he came with his daughter, my cousin Missy. (On a previous visit here, she was annointed "Mimi Soprano" by a co-worker of mine). She's my Uncle's "Mini Me." A pint-sized princess who's got more testosterone than an NFL linebacker.

When they visit together the "freakins" fly.

"You freakin' kiddin' me?" "What's that freakin' thing?" "Get out of my freakin' way."

One evening we were all sitting out on my grandmother's patio when my cousin started talking about a wedding to which she's invited.

"I hope Joey don't wanna go," she said, referring to her boyfriend.

Only in New York are 45-year-old men still referred to as "Joey."

"Why don't you want him to go?" I asked.

"Well, if he don't go I can put one-fifty in the envelope. If he goes, I gotta put at least two-fifty," she answered.

Noticing my "What did you say?" look, she asked, "What?"

"One-hundred fifty? One hundred and fifty - dollars? And that's if you go by yourself?" I could barely get the words out.

"You think that's a lot? Ya freakin' kiddin' me! It's a wedding. You gotta at least cover the cost of the dinna," she said in a "I-can't-believe-we're-related" voice.

We argued for a while, me insisting the guests aren't responsible for deferring the cost of an overpriced, typical "keeping-up-with-the-Petrocinis" affair.

"And what would you bring?" she asked in a snit.

I thought about it a moment and, knowing it would drive her crazy, I asked, "Where's she registered?"

"Registered?" she mimicked. "Gifts are for the show-wa. Don't even think about comin' to a weddin' with ya blenda. You know what you can do with ya blenda."

Mental note to self: "If Missy gets married, do not send blender."

As if she had to prove the wedding warrants a monetary gift more than my weekly grocery allowance, she ran down the list of a New York wedding.

First, there's the cocktail hour, where several bartenders are set up to blend, pour, shake and stir a vast variety of liquid decadence. Included in the cocktail hour are a wide assortment of tidbits and delicacies. Nowadays, my cousin informed me, there are several serving stations offering hot treats like mini shish kabobs, grilled fish and a variety of pastas.

Save room because shortly after that comes the sit-down dinner - and "it ain't baked chicken," Missy said.

About midnight comes Viennese hour, which includes all kinds of liqueurs, coffee, cappuccino and bakery pastries.

"You got ya open bah. A decent weddin' in New York's about $75,000, so you gotta put in at least one fifty," she said, looking at me, hoping she'd made her case.

Then she asked, "You wouldn't put in a hundred - would you?"

I answered her as honestly as I could.

"No I wouldn't," I said. "No freakin' way."

Diana Sholley is a staff writer, and columnist.. Contact her at (909) 483-9381 or e-mail d_sholley@dailybulletin.com.

 

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