Italian Americana--The Chronicals of Mrs. C

A few weeks ago, I went to a movie had dinner with my ex-boyfriend's mother. After M and I broke up, she and I remained close. Mrs. C is 100% Sicilian, born and raised in Brooklyn and the Lower East side. She got married very young, had 3 boys, got divorced, worked at a bank, and now lives with her ex-husband and her middle son in Brooklyn. I think she is one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and yet we pretty much have the same conversation and tell the same stories every time we are together.


But I've never met anyone who can crack me up without even trying the same way this woman can.


A sample conversation from when we were in the ladies room at the movie:


Mrs. C.: Ugh! I can't believe that women could be this disgusting! These are women!



Me: I know!


*Pause*


Mrs. C: Well, put down some paper. Just don't let your vagina hit the seat. The skin is very porous down there.



I died.

Later that day we were back at her house after our movie and she proceeded to list aloud every Hollywood actor from 1940-2008 who was/is/probably is gay. This took half an hour.

The first time I went to her house for dinner, a giant bowl of spaghetti was placed in front of me. Wanting to be polite, I polished off the entire bowl. I quietly congratulated myself for being such a good guest. All of a sudden, the entire contents of her refrigerator appeared on the table. A roast, a ham, lasagna, eggplant, mashed potatoes, etc. I couldn't believe it. I gulped and took a tiny spoonful of everything. Mrs. C. took one look at my plate and said, disdain dripping from her voice:

"What, you on a diet or somethin'?"

Needless to say, I went back for seconds.

At another dinner, about a month after the first dinner incident, M.'s best friend, I call him "Cap," short for "Captain Inappropriate," says to Mrs. C., right in front of me,

"So how do you like your new daughter in law, Mrs. C.?"

She looked me up and down and replied:

"I accept all people."

Needless to say, this time I went back for thirds.

Then there was the one time when I was over at her house that somehow, I don't remember how, she found out I had my period. She discretely brought me aside and gave me a plastic bag.

"Don't flush your sanitary napkins down the toilet...my pipes can't take it," she said in a low voice out the side of her mouth.

"Put your business in here when you are done, give it to me, and I'll walk it out to the garbage. M doesn't need to know."

"M doesn't need to know," I thought with a smile. M was always the first to know when I was menstruating.

But what was really funny about the whole thing was that on every subsequent visit, she would soundlessly hand me a plastic bag, and explain to me again about her pipes.

The woman thinks I'm always on the rag.

She's also gotten me into a few misadventures. Stay tuned to learn how I ended up inside a Hasidic Jewish household on the first day of Hanukkah after being chased by a pit bull on the roof of a 2-story brownstone occupied by an old Chinese couple.