Meeting my father also meant simultaneously meeting my Godfather as well as my sister’s Godfather. You would fall off your chair in laughter if you saw her and I told you she is Italian.ĭating was a joke. She was born with an adorable, perfect nose, red hair and freckles. I guess I really can’t complain considering my sister should really have the last name of O’Reilly or something. I’m constantly looking at my oldest’s profile to see if there is a bump in his nose too. But nature thought it would be adorable to give me a Roman nose. Me on the other hand, I have always bordered on Albino status, blue eyes and blonde hair. Not only did he have black hair, brown eyes and olive skin but also ran a successful Italian restaurant.
My father was well liked by all and had NO PROBLEM fitting in. Weekends were spent at the Italian American club. When I first saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I laughed until I cried simply because I recognized many of the similarities like the Windex (my father’s Windex was wd-40) and the plastic covered furniture (Aunt Bea’s furniture was ALWAYS covered). If you asked my father however, you would think we arrived on the Santa Maria and have a direct line to the Pope. I’m not full blooded Italian, more like 25%. Growing up in an Italian household was enjoyable yet left me rolling my eyes on other days.
