After a day of hell on Friday that involved long lines and short fuses, I’m officially done with all of my shopping. My horrendous choice in Secret Santa turned out to be in my favor, since the target in question kept dropping hints as to what they would like for Christmas. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Part of me really, really wants to see Nine simply because that song is so brilliant.
Happy Sunday, all. I hope your day is lazy and filled with football and/or the Iona game on CPTV. I unfortunately cannot go since today is the day of auditions for the C.A.S.T. production of The Wizard of Oz, which i’m helping assist my old drama teacher with next summer. It should be a great few hours, although being on the other side of the table will prove to be intriguing. I haven’t been able to watch an audition since my senior year of college when it was part of our final project, but this is an ENTIRELY different beast. I’ll be watching 12 and 13 year olds duke it out, so I must be nice.
Yesterday was unbelievably lazy. I said ‘screw it!’ to working out and ended up heading over to the bank to open a savings account. At 24, I should’ve done this quite a long time ago, but I didn’t have enough money to do so. With my steady job, I now have the funds, so into the bank they went!
Last night, Jenna and Todd came over for dinner and ended up spending the night since we got so much snow. We ate spaghetti and forced Mom and Dad to watch The Hangover, which is easily my favorite comedy of the year and not just because I have the world’s biggest crush on Bradley Cooper (from Philly and Italian? Yes please!). This morning, we also watched the parody of Jersey Shore on last night’s SNL, and can I just say the following things about that show:
1. Snookie is the most disgusting person I have ever seen in my life. Is that tan supposed to make her resemble a greasy Cheeto? And also, what is the ratio of Really Italian Names to Automatic Guido? It seems like I’ve met so many people with very Italian names, and 9 times out of 10 they’re potential castmates on Jersey Shore.
2. Real guidos/guidettes don’t have nicknames. They also know that ‘guido’ should only be used when you’re yes, Italian, but also being gross. For example: my brother put the Italian horn in his car on the dashboard. He also wants to get a cross tattoo. Typical guido behavior.
3. On the journey to real Guido-dom, you clearly have to take as many steroids as possible until your head threatens to consume your body.
4. That is not the real Jersey Shore. The Jersey Shore I go to involves mini-golf, porchlight dinners, games of charades and bodysurfing. I don’t go to the Jersey Shore to get plastered in a tube top. I save that for the privacy of my own home. What, you don’t eat dinner in a tube top?
5. Muscle tees are gross. If I’m in a bar and I see you and you’re wearing a muscle shirt, don’t even think about talking to me. You clearly lack the chromosomes to discern your bad decisionmaking.
There is a difference between being a Guido and being Italian. Every Guido is Italian but, thank god, not every Italian is a Guido. Signs of an Italian include
1. Having a grandmother that has, at one point, threatened you with a shoe or wooden spoon.
2. Knowing what a stronzo is, and calling someone it when they’re acting like one.
3. Having respect for The Horn but knowing it’s not a required element.
4. Having one or two ‘off the boat’ parents. In this regard, I’m more guido than any of those freaks.
5. Hair that grows faster than a frickin Chia Pet, but never taming it with gel, just brushing it and hairspraying a bit will do just fine.
6. The ability to watch Jersey Shore and say ‘WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? WE DON’T ACT LIKE THAT.’
7. Knowing what a zeppelin is, and no I don’t mean the Nazi plane. Actually, this might be more of a Norristown, PA thing
8. Knowing the difference between fra diavolo and penne a la vodka.
9. NO MEAT ON CHRISTMAS. Only fish! However, our family doesn’t do the seven fishes because baccala, for those of you who aren’t aware, is really gross. Dried cod? no thank you.
10. Struffoli. Fried balls of dough dipped in honey and covered in rainbow shots. Yes.
11. Eating food is a competitive sport.
12. Having relatives that are Guidos.
13. Calling yourself a Guido when you do something that is Guido in its essence.
Actually, my family acts perfectly Anglo when we’re possibly the most guido family on the planet simply in regards to our heritage. Both sets of great-grandparents lived in Italy (Calabria on Mom’s, Naples on Dad’s) and I grew up in a fiercely devoted family. I have lots of relatives in Italy that I have yet to meet.
In short, being an Italian is a grand and fantastic thing. Being a Guido leaves you up for public ridicule. I know every Italian I’m friends with watches Jersey Shore for, yes, the entertainment factor, but also so they can be secure in the knowledge that they will never, ever be like that. Because that level of Guido is also known by another name: Douchebag. And let’s face it, Douchebag Shore wouldn’t pull in ratings…