Make-a Shake-a Hands

In a basic Italian conversation, I can hold my own. My kids are not bilingual, but over the years have learned a fairly decent collection of Italian words and phrases, mostly vulgar. We do not encourage they practice those.

One of the first words they learned was Nonno, the word for "grandfather", which is coincidentally what my gut reaction is on hearing the news of his arrival. Although my version sounds like NoooooooNooooooo!

He brought cheese. Again. And who doesn't love an abundance of unmarked, hand-packaged, smuggled-in-luggage-for-15-hours cheese?

The cheese. This time, it spawned hard candy.

He has settled into his routine. Morning begins with a breakfast of coffee-soaked chunks of thick Italian bread. I don't know which is more disgusting, the sight of the mushy bread floating in over-microwaved, burnt cappuccino or the lip-smacking and slurping sounds he makes as he spoons it into his mouth. The GoDaddy Super Bowl ad's smooch fest audio pales in comparison.

Our dog is the sweetest pup you'd ever want to meet, and submits lovingly, belly-up, to everyone. Except Nonno. She growls and barks at him constantly. She won't even take the bacon he offers. Maybe the way he yells "Make-a shake-a hands!" at her has something to do with it. MAKE-A SHAKE-A HANDS! Then, when she runs away, VA FA NAPOLI! Which means, in essence, go to hell! As if it's HER fault.

"Make-a Shake-a hands? Not on your life."

After breakfast, he takes the keys to the only available vehicle, one of our company vans, and sets out for a day of come what may. It's only been a week, and we've had to disconnect the "How is my driving?" telephone number listed on the back, due to "unusually high call volume" and a few death threats. Even the Asians were calling.

At this point, I'd rather be in Napoli.