Monthly Archives: August 2012

29

Aug. ’12

What Would Helen Gurley Brown Do?

A couple of weeks ago, when Helen Gurley Brown died, bitches everywhere were left without proper guidance to the art of modern living! Sad day for all the single ladies! One of my favourite websites, Regretsy (check it here) had nice tribute and April actually had an audio of HGB reading a chapter called “Plain Girl Power” from her 1962 bestseller, Sex and the Single Girl…how to bag a man even if you’re not that pretty! Her wisdom lives on 50 years later.

As it turned out, over the summer, I have been receiving some e-mails from you readers actually asking for my advice! I’m going to channel Helen Gurley Brown and share these with y’all and I’m sure you’ll want to keep the letters coming.

I enjoyed your last post of your trip to Italy. My husband and I are planning a trip there in the fall for 10 days and I’m wondering what to pack! I’ve heard the Italians are very fashionable and we don’t want to look like tourists!

First of all, don’t kid yourselves, you are going to look like tourists even if you are in Prada head-to-toe. They know you are not one of them. And they will be dismissive of you no matter what. Somebody told me that the reason they are rude is because they assumed I was an American. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think Italians have colony-envy and actually embrace American culture, hence their penchant for bandanas and cowboy hats. Remember, they are one of the only European countries that didn’t do such a good job raping and pillaging other countries in other continents.

Men in Italy all look the same so if you want your husband to blend in, make sure he packs collared shirts and does not wear shorts! I think a man always looks sleek in a Lacoste polo shirt and dark washed Levis 501’s. The colour of the polo shirt will determine whether or not he is gay or straight but it’s okay to be both so I’m not going to tell you what is what. Italy is full of men who seem gay but aren’t or they are but no one cares…it doesn’t seem to be an important label. So let your husband wander, it’s his vacation too.

As for you, you will probably over-pack and pay no heed to this formula: Take the number of days of vacation (10) and divide by 3, which rounds down to 3…and that is the number of outfits you should pack. Yes 3! You will only wear your favourites anyway and you can wash out the pits and crotches at the end of the day. You need 1 fancy outfit and 2 casual. I trust that you know that casual does not include yoga pants but you can wear those as pyjamas and on the plane if you are taking a night flight. Also for plane and trains, you need one of those voluminous sweaters that every woman has in their wardrobe so that you can wear it backwards as a Snuggie. I did this and people looked at me with envious glares. Also pack a swim suit and don’t fret about what you look like. Very old ladies in Italy wear string bikinis and all men wear Speedos so if you worry about if your tits are falling out or your ass is slung low, don’t, they only care about what you packed in the lunch box. And pro-tip: Always have a sandwich with you, it’s the accessory of choice all over Italy.

As for shoes: Pack 3 pairs. I wish I could say snowshoes because navigating your way through cobblestone roads is madness. Italian women are typically bow-legged so their centre of gravity allows for high heels but as for you, tourista, fuck it and wear Birkenstocks. Glue gun some Swarovski crystals on a pair of white ones and you are a fancy bitch, Italian style.

If you forget something, you can buy it there. I forgot to pack a hairbrush and used my fingers until I finally bought a comb on Day 8. I had a couple of dreadlocks in the back of my head. Hilarious. Just remember to bring sunscreen because they only have it for babies which is thick and goopy and I do not recommend it (especially if it gets in your dreadlocks.) Italian adults use brown tanning oil as though it was 1972. Good times. Have fun and always do as the Romans do!

I am in my first serious relationship and my boyfriend is sleeping over. I have a hard time falling asleep because I am nervous of what will happen in the middle of the night! What if I fart?

This is an ageless question that women both young and old fret about. Sex and the City addressed this issue when Carrie let one slip in bed with Mr. Big and then she died of embarrassment….they did an entire episode based on a fart. If I could bank all the farts that have exploded in front of me by men, I would be able to power a city block during prime time. I have to tell you a cautionary tale about this one dude who would casually fart away on my couch during pre-coital warm up, then go to the bathroom with the door open and blast some more farts, and then seep out yet even more farts in the bedroom during sexy times. He would fart the way normal people breathe. And he wouldn’t acknowledge it. I never knew how to react so I ignored it. After awhile I could understand his farts, like they had their own language. Tiny little farts meant he was frisky (which was most of the time), the giant ones meant he was bored and needed a joint, and the sharp, tight ones expressed displeasure which would happen when he watched tennis on tv. To this day when I see Roger Federer, a Pavlovian fart reaction will fill noxious fumes in my olfactory organs. Poor Roger Farterer, which is how I forever will think of him.

Then he went on some stupid colon cleanse, which of course made him even gassier if that was at all possible, and one day he farted out my name, beckoning me into the bathroom while he was curled up naked in the tub. He wanted me to hold the hose while he gave himself an enema. And that was when I realized that farting can lead to heavier bodily functions. And I was out the door.

Seriously, they should ban farting. It’s no joke. But if it happens to you, it’s best to just giggle and excuse yourself. I’m sure your boyfriend won’t even care, he will even find it endearing. And remember no little toot that you emit from your tiny little rosebud can ever be as bad as the image of a naked man in a tub with a hose up his hairy ass.


I’m seeing a married man and he says he is leaving his wife in the future but he is staying for the kids’ sake, they are still in school. I’m not sure what I should do.

There’s actually a mathematical formula for this conundrum:

Time (number months of your relationship)

Multiply number of Brazilian bikini waxes he has asked you to get

Divide by number of mysterious hang up phone calls you have received by a blocked caller

When you get that number, then add a million years….and that is when he is going to leave his wife!

In the meantime, why can’t you just enjoy being a mistress? You don’t have to wash his underwear or watch him chew on his whole grained cereal in the morning.

This is how they roll in Rome, no judgement!

Hope I have been helpful and I leave you with Carrie farting in front of Mr.Big, if she can do it, so can you:

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19

Aug. ’12

Up and Down The Italian Shaft

“Go to Italy,” they said. “Italian men there are not like the Guidos here,”  they said. “They will pinch your ass,” they said. “You will get Italian bone,” they said.  Like I have to travel across the Atlantic to go on penis patrol.

So I just got back from 9 days in Rome, more or less intact but with mysterious bruises and some kind fluid-filled goiter growing from my right heel to the inside of my ankle.  Nothing like jet lag to cure insomnia…I have been sleeping like an angel since I got back!  Also it was good to get away from my usual anxiety-filled thoughts here at home and to entertain some fresh travel OCD.  It turns out I am a “checker,”  digging in the bowels of my bag to take inventory of my stuff every ten minutes:  Passport!  MasterCard! Map! Euros! Cell Phone! Hotel Key!

I took a few day trips by train but I have no idea where I was and the sun setting to the west never seemed to provide any clues because everything in Italy is all askew.  And maps don’t help!

“Italy is shaped like a boot,” they said, “just think of Rome as the middle of the shin.”

Here is Italy:

I don’t get this “boot shape.”  Where do you put your foot?  Do you cut it off and put it in Sicily?  Call Freud, but I see a downward facing mangled penis.  Rome is in the middle of the shaft, Milan is in the left testicle and Venice is in the right, Sicily is the disembodied head, LOL, and Sardinia is some random scat.  And it’s not my fault I see what I see…the entire country is a festival of phalli. Everywhere you turn, there is a statue of some naked guy with his marble junk sack right at eye level.  Look at dude up there, he showed up for work  and remembered his cloak but not his pants as he stands casually next to his horse.

Rome, it’s my kind of town.  Having said that, nobody pinched my ass.  I think that was a twentieth century phenomenon when everything was la dolce vita.  If they did that now and you turned around, you just know they would thrust their palm in your face and demand 5 euros.  Romans demand 5 euros for everything they do, they give directions and hold the door open but it’s not without a price. It gets tiresome after a while so you need to know when to bolt before they stick their hand out.

Here are some of the highlights:

1. THE WAX  MUSEUM:

The only museum in Rome with no line ups is Museo delle Cere.  Scary as fuck! Add to the creepy factor is that no one is in there!  Go upstairs and poke into the rooms where there are various body parts and random heads.  Remarkably, Museo delle Cere is a penis-free zone.  If I had seen one, I would have popped it in my purse as a macabre souvenir because nobody was guarding the joint.

2. THE BEACH:

Of course Rome does not have any beaches because it is not on the coast, but just an hour train ride up the shaft, there is a cute little coastal town called Santa Marinella.  I discovered it on a blog, Young in Rome.  The smartest thing I did was bring my lap top even though “Wifi” in my hotel in Rome meant 5 euros for 3 days of stop-go internet flow that only worked in the lobby. Mid-August in Rome can get pretty oppressive in the heat and  everyone is on vacay at the beach.  It was crowded but worth it. Really nice sand and clear water,there were a few chunks of mystery sea salad but that is part and parcel of beach romping. It’s the Mediterranean so the salt water helped clear all my stress zits. Apparently you have to rent an umbrella and chairs but I squatted in one on the first day . I got busted because I picked a primo spot by the water that some dude was renting for 3 months(!) but the ones in the back were daily rentals.  I slipped under one and no one said anything but I lived in fear so the next day I bit the bullet and rented a single chair and umbrella:  20 euros! But I had peace of mind.  Italians are loud fuckers and when they have a conversation, it sounds like they are fighting.  But soon, their constant nattering became beautiful white noise and I actually had the best nap ever!  Oh, and Italian men wear Speedo-type suits so their Spandex-encased penises were ubiquitous and diverse:  Big and small, young and old, righties and lefties.

3. POMPEII:

So after two days of beach loafing, I needed a cultural day trip.  Evangeline texted me and said:  “Go to Pompeii, there are mummies of people who died in a volcano!”   Yay! Dead people, I thought, might take my mind off penises.  Again, thank the Roman god, Interneto, for the trickle of free unlocked Wifi I got in my room that night and was able to find a cool and easy trip with Enjoy Rome.  For 60 euros, they offered a shuttle bus to and from Pompeii on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  It was Monday night at 10 pm but I decided to take a chance and catch the bus at 7:30 a.m near the Termini train station and hope that it wasn’t booked up.  They did have room but as per usual, I need to forewarn any traveler:  Nothing costs what they say it costs on the website and in person 60 euros was really 68 euros, cash only…okay, pocket that, Sergio, it was still cheaper and easier than taking a train/bus combo.

Anyway, two and a half hours down the shaft near Naples is the Pompeii site.  I befriended two lovely Irish ladies from the bus in the line up to get in and they invited me to tag along with them.  We decided to take one of those makeshift group tours for 10 euros (plus 11 euros to get in), which I would totally recommend.

Pompeii, who knew?  Ruins and porn…forget trying to forget penises, they were carved into the buildings, on frescos and statues every where you turned.

Quick summary:  Pompeii was a vacation town during the heyday of the Roman empire and on 79 A.D. a volcano erupted from Mount Vesuvius and while many people escaped, around 2,000 souls and the entire city were buried underneath the volcanic ash until the excavations began in the 1700s.

Back in the day, the people of Pompeii knew how to live la vita edonistica. Whore houses were the nail salons of their day, on every street corner.  Sex workers rented rooms from family homes.  Bath houses were bath houses, same as now (John Travolta-style), but your dad and the mayor would be there every day. The frescos said it all.  I’ll just leave these here and say no more:

Ah, Rome…I love you and I hate you at the same time, just like my own town, Toronto.

I love how you Romans are free to drink Peroni on the street and laws are just unenforced suggestions but have you heard of any food item that isn’t based upon a white carb?  And why not inject your sardine-based gene pool with some herrings from Scandinavia?  I don’t know how to say it any kinder but y’all are a generation away from becoming mountain people, if you know what I mean.  And dudes, *if* you pinched my ass, I would giggle and totally give you 5 euros AND a tip. And that goes for you, too, Toronto, I’m really not that hard to get.

Next time down the shaft to the Amalfi coast!  Ci vediamo, Italia!

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01

Aug. ’12

Yard Sale Olympics

This: and That:

Awkward Adam Driver from HBO’s “Girls” and Olympic Gold Lurch Michael Phelps…they are brothers from another mother and father, separated at birth!

And I’d hit them both!  They both fall under the “ugly-sexy” category which means sometimes off-beat looks are actually hot.  Especially if you are a tortured artist or a freak of nature with out-of-whack ability-enhancing proportions that allow you to be a glorious god-like male specimen sponsored by Kelloggs!

I have to admit, I’ve been watching very little Olympic coverage. But I have been watching my HBO channel and finally got around to catching all the episodes of “Girls” which I am obsessing over. It’s the twenty-something version of Sex and the City but more “real.” Boyfriend Adam (played by Adam Driver) is my summer crush.  He had me at the Golden Shower, I am not kidding, if a man peed on me I would take it as a sign of true primal devotion.  The show is genius, and the creator, Lena Dunham, is who I want to be when I grow up. You probably don’t need HBO to watch it, that’s just me, I’m still an old-fashioned pay-for-cable gal…No doubt you have the wherewithal to stream it off the internets from some magical website that doesn’t require a credit card.  I hate you.

I’ve also been training for my own summer games which is drinking on the porch.  And I have to be in tip-top form for next week’s trip to Italy.  Will definitely be doing Olympic caliber drinking.  Wine is cheaper than water!  And I am on a budget!

I had a yard sale on Saturday to fund my sport where I sold whatever I could take from my parents’ house and my high-heeled hooker shoes and handbags.  And jewelry!  Which an elderly lady bought in lump form before I had barely set things up.

“I will take it all, dear,” she said, her gnarly hands grasping through the nest of beads and baubles.

“Are you a reseller like on eBay?”  I asked.  I actually don’t care if someone profits off my stuff, I just need wine money. Fast.

“Good Lord, no, dear.  I keep it all myself,” She kept stuffing the jewelry box and her eyes had that manic look like Betty’s when there is a pizza delivery man on the street.

“You mean you’re a hoarder?”

“Yes!  Yes, I am!  Do you have any perfume?”  She grabbed a beaded evening bag that I had just pulled out. I had many of my beloved handbags still under the table and I moved myself in front of them so she wouldn’t have access, essentially cockblocking her from doing more damage.  If they could only talk, those purses would have stories!  There is a L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani that took me through the phase 2 real estate courses and made me feel like a professional moneymaker.  There’s a black studded one with a shiny silver lining that was my trademark during the epoch of my mojo.  It carried many different shades of red lipstick and a lucky tampon which is till in the inside pocket.  They need good homes and to be taken out on the town like a lady, not stuffed behind the toilet on top of a litter box.

She was sweet though, and the beaded purse suited her.  I found her a bottle of half drained Kate Moss eau de skank and some really foul patchouli from Lush and she put it all in her shopping cart and headed off to another yard sale. The one down the street was heavy on drugstore paperbacks.  #Winning, hoarder-style.

I got rid of a lot of stuff but still have enough left over for another yard sale this Saturday.  When I told all my customers that I was funding a grip to Italy , they got very excited and bought more and even threw in some extra future euros in my change jar.  Some even came back and for once I am thrilled to have size 10 shoes because the cross-dresser down the street had a field day.  Sashay away, Bruce!  I’m hauling out some boots this weekend, so come on down!

I hope everyone is having a great summer, next week I’ll try and post from Italy if I am not too jet-lagged, but in the meantime, here’s my latest obsession:  The MELONA Bar…they are out of this world but I inhale them, not like this kitty:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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