Dorothy: Aunt Angela, please. We have to talk.
Angela: What's to talk about? Your mother's a stubborn old goat, who apparently pays a buck and a half to have her hair done.
Dorothy: What is going on between you two?
Angela: I don't want to talk about it.
Dorothy: Now look, I have spent weeks working on this surprise, only to have it blow up in my face. And don't you think I at least deserve to know why.
Angela: OK. OK, you want to know so bad, I'll tell you right now. Picture it. New York City. Christmas 1955. It's Francesca Ragouso's annual Christmas bash. Everybody is there, eating, drinking, guzzling the Pepto-Bismol. Well, I mean, Francesca's a beautiful woman, but she makes a manicotti like you could anchor a boat with. Ah, well, as usual Sophia's stationed at the eggnog and she's drinking right from the bowl through a swizzle stick. My husband Carmine walks in and passes right under the mistletoe. Well, she makes a beeline to him and gives him such a kiss she can practically suck the beard off his face.
Dorothy: I don't remember Uncle Carmine having a beard.
Angela: He was in a Santa suit and he had one of those hook-on beards. Well, I mean, I can't believe what I'm looking at. So I go to her and I yank her into the pantry and I say, "What do you think you're doing?" She says she thought Cunio the bookmaker was in the Santa suit. And I say, "That's a lie." Well, we have a big fight about it. She denies the whole thing and we never speak again.