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You know you have an Italian mother when every conversation with her feels like solving a puzzle. It's like she speaks in this mysterious code that only she and other Italian mothers understand. The other day, she called me and said, "Remember that guy, Joey, from three years ago? His cousin's friend's sister's son is having a birthday. You should send flowers." I'm just sitting there trying to decode this family tree riddle, thinking, "Am I sending flowers to celebrate a birthday or trying to navigate a complex genealogy chart?"
It's like my mom's life mission is to keep the greeting card and floral industries in business. But hey, at least I'm becoming a pro at Italian familial connect-the-dots.
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Having an Italian mother is like having a built-in GPS, but instead of giving directions, it provides unsolicited life advice. You could be driving to the grocery store, and she'll go, "Make a left here. No, not there – in life. Left in life!" I'm just trying to navigate traffic, and she's guiding me through the twists and turns of existential decision-making. And don't get me started on the recalculating. If I make a life choice that deviates from her master plan, it's like the Italian GPS is desperately trying to reroute me back to the path of "success" and "happiness," which apparently involves a lot of pasta and family gatherings.
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Italian mothers have this magical ability to turn any noun into a verb, especially when it comes to food. I asked my mom, "What's for dinner?" and she goes, "We're pasta-ing tonight!" Now, I didn't know "pasta" was a verb, but apparently, in my mom's culinary dictionary, it means we're indulging in a carb-loaded feast. It's like she's the Shakespeare of the kitchen, inventing new words and phrases. I can imagine her in a restaurant, ordering like, "I'll have the linguini, and my son will pasta with a side of spaghetti." I'm just waiting for the day she tells me, "Sweetie, I'm lasagna-ing for your wedding.
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Italian mothers are fluent in a language that doesn't require words – it's the emotional sign language. I can be at a family gathering, and just by the way my mom looks at me, I instantly know the entire saga of her day. There's a specific eye roll for "you're not eating enough," a subtle head nod for "I told you so," and a combination of hand gestures for the classic "clean your room." It's like being part of an Italian silent film, where emotions are expressed with flair and drama. My mom can convey more with a single facial expression than a Shakespearean soliloquy. It's a skill I'm convinced they teach in Italian mother school.
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