adventures in Little Italy

The Aunda* has fallen down some stairs and sprained her ankle. This is vexing for her, since she is an incurable busybody who likes to work like a machine from 4:30 in the morning until 10 at night on things like her garden and stewing tomatoes and baking 60,000 angel wing cookies for someone's grandaughter's sister-in-law's baby shower. You know. This is also vexing for everyone else, because now that she can't do those things she calls everyone on the phone and repeats dirty and unflattering gossip.

Momrat went over to pay a call last night, but apparently failed to be more interesting than the phone call the Aunda was already on.

"No, Viola," the Aunda was saying into the phone. "Angie's granddaughter no pay. Her father buy whole house for Angie e la boyfu-rend."

Viola's voice was so loud my mother could hear her like she was in the room. "I don't know, though. Why she hafta live con la boyfriend? Why she no can get married?"

"It no work like that, Viola," lectured the Aunda. "La girl today, si la pistola** no work, she go get new one. Si la pistola no good enough, she want better."

(Progress! This from the woman who, two years ago, told me and my sister that it's perfectly fine to date and have boyfriends, as long as we hang onto la rosetta.)

My mother, once she got a handle, called me immediately. She suggested I call the Aunda and say, "So what is this about la pistola? What do you mean, if it doesn't work? What exactly should it do?"

*my 87-year-old great aunt
**"the pistol"