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Friday, November 18, 2011

Yeah, I'm Part Italian. You Got A Problem Wit Dat?

Fuhgeddaboutit.  That's right, I'm part Italian.  I am proud to be part of a race of people where being fat is cool.


Now I am also part of a lot of other nationalities but my closest link is to Italy, more specifically Sicily.  I could regale you with tales from my grandma about mafia ties and witnessing mafia dons at funerals but we all know that the mafia doesn't really exist.  There mafia guys, now don't come after me.  My great grandfather, Mariano Capodici (or Capodice, yes I am related to the mega rich Capodices of Bloomington but yet ironically, I wear Wal-Mart jeans), came over in 1899 from Termini, Sicily on the ship Kaiser Wilhelm II.


Then, in 1900, he returned to Sicily to bring over my great grandmother Rosa Rini.


Now, here we are over a century later.  They made their millions in produce and I made my hundreds in the printing industry.  A few years ago, my aunt used to host what was called the "Italian Family Reunion".  I'm not sure what the difference was between this one and the regular "Boring Family Reunion" other than my Aunt Marietta standing on a picnic table singing Italian songs at the top of her lungs.  I guess it did draw some of the extended relatives that I had never seen before and some odd stares from neighbors.  Even the food was all Italian themed and my brother looked to the Italian flag for inspiration.


He made a lovely cake and set it on the dessert table when we arrived.  Once my great Uncle Martin was done urinating in the shrubbery, it was time to eat.  My brother and I worked our way down the food line and came to his cake.


After witnessing all of the little miniature Italian toothpick flags all down the table, we soon both realized that he had reversed the red and green color bars on the flag.  We stood there distraught and confused trying to figure out how such a huge oversight could happen.


We were even discussing how to sneak the cake off of the table before anyone noticed this embarrassing predicament.  Or maybe he could eat the red stripe, I could eat the green stripe and no one would be the wiser.  Then, a little girl (about 4 years old I'm guessing) heard our plight and offered. . . 







Duh, dammit!  That worked.  Or I guess we also could have just went to the other side of the table.  Regardless, it all worked out and we even sent over some friends to personally thank the little sweetie for pointing out our stupidity.



TRUE STORY









2 comments:

  1. oh my this litteraly made me lol :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks. I guess if we didn't do dumb things, I wouldn't have anything to write about.

    ReplyDelete