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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25

Jul. ’12

Searching for Gak

I had a couple million dollar ideas this week.  One of them is that I’m going to write a book of erotica…and keep reading because I’m going to add a steamy example of my titillating prose at the end of the post that you won’t want to miss.  It’s so hot in my head right now, I’m sucking on a popsicle.  Seriously I can do better than that 50 Shades of Shite.

But first, as not so much a million dollar idea but a 20 buck bargain, I am offering a service to help you men who are dating on-line with your lousy profiles.  Check out the top of the page and click on “The Dating Whisperer” and see what I am offering.  I am serious, all you cyber dudes could use a tweaking.

As you know, if you follow this blog, I hit it out of the ballpark on my first on-line date last month.  Even though I wasn’t looking for long-term love, I got exactly what I wanted because I listened to my instincts and didn’t pussy-foot around, so to speak. Make your needs known!  I cannot stress this enough. I’m not on any site currently but I have getting daily match-ups mailed to me from Match.com, which is a serious site, not like the one I posted on that I treated like a boner tracker.  I am fascinated by the buffoonery out there…and I’m not making fun of you fine fellows, you are all worthy of finding love!  But here are just 3 of the fatal mistakes I found in just one daily mail-out:

1.  “Rex59…age 53, is looking for women between the age of 30-39.  Wants kids!”  Um, are you fucking kidding me, Rex59?  You are 53 years old and you want kids? When you are 60, they will be calling you “Gramps” in the school yard.  They will laugh at you when they find out you are a father of a kindergartener. You are not Warren Beatty.  Either go to Thailand or broaden your search to women your own age.  Your sperm really should be contained and you should accept the fact that your ship has sailed.  Of course, if he were a client I would be much nicer but still firm.  Men like that make me mad and they need to know their place in the world.

2.  “TravelMan….I love to travel but (in caps no less) I FIND EUROPEANS TO BE GOVERNED BY GREED!”  Okay, what is that all about?  First rule, never lock the cap key on your profile, it makes you look insane.  Also you love to travel but you hate the people?  I mean, I get it, I hate some people, too, but not in lump form.  Why not simply say:  “I love to travel, but there’s no place like being with the one you love at home.”  This is killing two birds with one stone, you express your love of travel and your hatred of foreigners is carefully concealed in romantic sentiment.  #Winning.

3. “I’m looking for someone who is down-to-earth and doesn’t play games.”  Oh my God, that’s all of you.  And here is the truth:  There is no such thing as a down-to-earth woman, all of them are crazy game players…that is how we roll.  We retain so much water that half the time we don’t even know who we are.  Accept the fact that if we like you, our demons will come out, and you will be subject to our perplexing riddles, nonsensical jargon, and mood swings.  Learn to tune out and take a how-to cunnilingus course at the Learning Annex.  It will help us out a lot.

These are just a few points and I wish everyone who is on these site luck because it is brutal in the real world.  I think most people are governed by the fear of being alone, which keeps them in bad relationships and that is really sad.  I like to believe that romantic love exists but mostly I believe in lust.  Although I do like to entertain the idea of “soul mates” as I think they exist somewhere in the ether.  I like to imagine that I met mine in the early pre-historic days when fire was hot as a trending topic.  My cavehunk, Gak, discovered my secret Gspot when he chewed on my ear as he was pulling on my hair (Yes!  I like that!  So sue me!)…I’m kind of sad that in this life I haven’t my soul mate, although we are probably all messed up in some time continuum under-lap what with one us dying early of consumption or being killed in a war.  Not to mention how diluted and polluted the soul pool has been getting lately, maybe parts of Gak live in every man, which means I better get busy.

So here is my pre-historical cave erotica, put some batteries in your pokey and grab a tissue:

 **************************************************************************************

The tribe from the north had been coming to Nitsirk’s village since she was a young girl to teach her people of fire and hunting with sophisticated new tools. And occasionally they took a young nubile woman or two back with them to make babies.  Diversity is key to keeping the pack strong and progressive.  No one really knows how much time passes but Nitsirk remembers first seeing Gak down by the river when she had just become a woman and had spent her 5 hellish moon waning nights in the woman’s cave, sitting on a pile of blood soaked leaves and clutching her cramping belly all the live long day.  When the older women told her that her time was up, she went to the river bank to wash herself.

There was where she first laid eyes on Gak, a young cavebuck from the north. With a spear over his muscular brown shoulder, he stood tall and upright. He was unlike the boys in her village who were still hunching around making patties out of buffalo dung and covering them with dried leaves and setting them on fire in the front of the caves for the elders to stomp out with their bare feet. They would grunt and guffaw as the elders growled “OOONGA BOONGA!!!” their feet covered in flaming fecal matter.

For a long while, she just stood and watched Gak.  He was wading knee-deep in the river, completely focussed on the spawning fish.  He would arc his back, muscles flexing, and lance the spear in the rapid water.  He missed each time, but his face remained patient, a vision of strength and virility.  His hair was wavy, dark and shiny in the sun, showing tinge of ginge, and just stopped above his shoulders.  His village had sharp cutting tools and their haircuts were stylish compared to men her tribe, where their heads looked like they were carrying lumpy nests filled with burrs and twigs.  He had not yet grown a full beard like the older men but his chest had dark hair that trailed down to his belly and all the way to the top of leather loincloth that was barely covering his bulge.  Occasionally some flesh would pop out, reminding her of a live eel her father once made her hold after he caught it.  She was both terrified and excited as it squirmed in her hand.  Gak’s dick slip was no different, she desperately wanted to hold it and stroke it just like the eel’s slippery body.  Just then, he turned around and saw her.

Something about him made her feel shy and awkward and so she hid behind a bush until he left, empty-handed with the spear over his shoulder.  It would be several moons before she would see him in her village again.

Thank Gork for older sisters!  Nitsirk’s eldest sister, Sluk, had been one of the nubiles taken to the northern village for fornication and conception.  One fresh day during blossom time, she came down for a visit, bringing shiny new things like a hair brush made out of boar bristles (who knew?) and perfume that she had made from the glands of a muskrat and the petals of bluebells.  She also had a swollen belly and her breasts were the size of the gourds that grow in the fields when the moon is orange.  Nitsirk’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Me have baby,” Sluk said, rubbing her rounded belly, “You need makeover.”

Before she could grunt anything, Nitsirk’s sister sat her on a rock by the river and started to brush her hair.  She had long flowing russet hair, much different from the others in her village.  Her skin was also much paler and she would get pink if she stayed in the sun for too long.  As her sister stroked her hair, pulling out burrs and little bugs, she closed her eyes and held her head back.  The sun felt good, not too hot as the warm season was still early.  The trickling sound of the river was intoxicating as she pulled her shoulders back and let her deerskin sheath gape open.

“Gak like bazoongas!”

Nitsirk was startled.  She opened her eyes and standing in front of her was the boy that she had seen by the river.  He was even bigger and stronger than she had remembered.  He was smiling right at her, looking at her chest.

Instantly she blushed.  Her breasts had completely fallen out of her deerskin.  For the past while, they had been a source of shame for her.  Since her first red flow, they had grown so huge, they couldn’t contain themselves in her sheath.  They would sproing out the sides or pop out the front.  There simply was not enough elk hide in the village to cover them up.  The boys in the village would point and grunt and guffaw, just like they did when they burned the buffalo crap.  So puerile.

But Gak just stood there, smiling and staring.  Gak had seen many breasts of many village women before, some were long and pointy like tusks, others were shaped like tree mushrooms, flat and droopy. Tits were tits and Gak’s big veiny member would harden to the sight of all of them but Nitsirk’s breasts were unlike any others.  They were pale and swollen, the nipples were hard and pink. He wanted so badly to touch them, squeeze and pinch them. They reminded him of the time when as a little boy, his father made a large balloon out of a honey badger’s intestine and he and his brother played with it all day…bouncy, bouncy, squeeze, squeeze.  Then his brother grabbed it and threw it off a cliff, and they both watched it sail into the chasm.  Gak cried because he had never seen anything so beautiful.  Until now.

“Gak, this is my sister, Nitsirk,” Sluk said, putting down the brush, “Gak’s brother made my baby.  You two should totally…”

Gak didn’t wait for Sluk to finish her sophisticated sentence, he grabbed Nitsirk’s hand and said, “Let’s go hunt fish in river!”

“Oinga!” she said, eagerly, which means “yes” as playing hard to get was not a concept back then.

Nitsirk stood up pulling up her sheath to cover herself.

“No leave bazoongas out!’  Gak ordered, “Those will feed my many babies and Gak will get some too!”  (Editors note:  Sometimes you can’t control the embarrassing things your soul mate will say or do which is what makes him so cute).

So Gak and Nitsirk went “fishing” which turned out to be a euphemism for “fucking” which is what they did on the first date in those days, before the “rules” ruined everything.

***************************************************************************************

That’s the teaser, you’ll have to stay tuned for the rest and buy the e-book for your Kindle.  I’ll let you know when it’s done!  And Gak, if you’re out there, and you know who you are, call me!

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17

Jul. ’12

Generation Eye Roll

I went to see “Ted the Movie” the other day, in part because I like a darkened movie theatre in the middle of summer but mostly because I miss my son Freddy.  He’s at camp up somewhere outside of Sudbury for the entire summer.  He’s on a wild river trip with no toilets or showers.  I sent him a care package of cured salami (not spicy! nobody needs a ring of fire in the woods!) and Mio, those fruity droplets that flavour up the water that they have to drink which is probably straight from the river and tastes as freshly foul as fish jizz.

Freddy and I love our Family Guy rituals and the other day our favourite episode came on, the one where Stewie and Brian are locked in the bank vault. It is pure comedic genius with existential ramifications. I got all melancholy for Freddy.  He is a teenager, but he is just like owning a pet cat.  He comes down from the roof when he is hungry.  He languishes on the couch during certain tv shows, then he disappears as quietly as he came.  He doesn’t shed at least.  Unlike my daughter who is more like a pet dog with maintenance issues and leaves trails of lint and wadded up Kleenex balls.

So I went to see “Ted” because it’s Seth MacFarlane and I love him. Even though a talking teddy bear might seem like a kid flick, there is “adult” humour and 6 seconds of GFN (Gratuitous Frontal Nudity…oh how I miss the 80’s cinematic masterpieces like “Losin’ It” and “Going All The Way” ).  I kind of snorted once or twice but I didn’t really laugh and I’m pretty sure as a LOCA, I wasn’t the target audience.  I told my 18-year-old daughter about it (she is the smart one and would not go see this movie with me) and she said, wisely, “Adults these days are like giant children.”

Depressing thought.  Generation X is going to need Generation Y and Z to change their diapers sooner than they think.  Having said that though, I can handle stunted teenage behaviour in a Mark Wahlberg-like guy who likes to hang out with a teddy bear and smoke pot all day.  Good times.

Then my daughter and I went to see Sarah Polley’s “Take This Waltz” with the other big bear, Seth Rogen.  In spite of what I’m about to say, it’s a thought provoking film about a woman coming into her own, having to make a life choice between two men, her bear husband and hipster neighbour.  It’s actually remarkably similar to “Ted” in a way.  This time the infant was played by Michelle Williams who dresses in giant toddler outfits and says things like “I wuv you” to her lover who she routinely has threesomes with…that is “adult behaviour.”  She made me mad.

“Why does every man love Michelle Williams?”  I ranted in the parking garage, “Like in Blue Valentine, Ryan Gosling worships her. RYAN GOSLING FOR GODSAKE!”

“Just in the movies.  Oh my God, Mother,” says Evangeline with a massive eye roll.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s a projection of who she is.  Men love feckless doughheads who talk in baby lingo.  She looked like she was dressed in Garanimals!”

“What’s Garanimals?” asked Generation Y, who grew up in Baby Gap.

“Cutesy toddler outfits!  I refuse to believe an artist hipster would be attracted to her, especially after she pissed in a pool and caused a public fouling.  Like she is the only fish in the sea. There are hotter chicks in the world.”

“Oh my God, Mother, don’t take it so personally.  And have you not seen her in “My Week With Marilyn?”

This is me:

I will never see Michelle Williams playing Marilyn Monroe.  Generation Y doesn’t get it.  One does not simply “portray” Marilyn Monroe.  A pop culture icon is best left to the drag queens who are able to capture their essence with a heaping helping of camp and hyperbole.  Although who better to play the helpless little girl persona of Marilyn Monroe than Michelle Williams?   Or “Mi-Mi Wee-Wee” let’s call her from now on.

My giant hate-on went from the parking garage and all the way through traffic on Bloor Street.

It turned out we were both bothered by this movie.  This how I expressed it:  “What an annoying cunt she was!”  But Daughter Generation Y explained it as:  “Her self-imposed  nobility keeps her from giving into her desires.  The depiction of her marriage was cloying with their constant game playing. Even when she chooses to leave, she runs away, impulsively and it doesn’t take long before she reverts back to the role of the little girl. The infantilization of her character is prevalent in modern society.  It’s quite pathetic really.”

Thank God I’m gonna have someone to change my diapers in a few short years.  We bantered until we got to the Bloor Viaduct, which always make me think of one thing and it’s not jumping.

“Let’s go to the Dairy Queen!” I said, “I haven’t had a Dilly Bar since the age of acid wash!”

“Why didn’t you keep all that stuff, Mom?  Then I wouldn’t have to shop at American Apparel. And no, I don’t want to go to the shitty Dairy Queen.”

And  I rolled my eyes.

Here is the Take This Waltz trailer:

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05

Jul. ’12

The Bailiff, The Banker, and The Breakdown

After last week, I feel like the long-lost fifth cast member of Sex and the City, the dysfunctional one whose sexcapades end in extreme embarrassment. I will let you know what happened but just promise to not get all “too much information” squeamish. If it can happen to me, it could happen to anyone. And if I had to live it, then you can hear about it. That’s my motto.

As you know from the previous post I had, in internet dating-speak, “a casual encounter” with a young buck, aka the mocha pheromone bomb. I was trying to find a cure for insomnia. Anyway, Boss had a super freaky tongue that could reach down to his Adam’s apple. And he wasn’t afraid to use it and! he was super talented…just like that guy on Sex and the City who eats the fig that they nickname Mr. Pussy. Now I don’t want to make you jealous, but you should be because it was mind-blowing. He could teach a course at the Learning Annex. It was a combination of tongue action, finger placement, and pressure. Forget what you read about how to pleasure a woman in Men’s Health, the master was not spelling out the alphabet on my lady parts. He was working magic, we can call him the Pussy Wizard or Whisperer since mine is so inconsistent and unruly.

At one point though, he asked: “Do you have a piercing up there?”

“Oh my God, no! Who would pierce up there? That must be the G-Spot. it is supposed to be hard and ridgey!” According to Cosmo.

“Wow, then it’s super hard and super ridgey, Cougar!”

“Carry on then!”

Two days later I went on my own finger patrol and was like, what the hell is this? And I pulled out my Diva Cup that I had completely forgot I put in earlier that day of the date! A Diva Cup is that awesome thing that modern-day ladies are using instead of tampons. It is a shot glass made of medical grade silicone that is inserted up the vagina and has this tail-like thing so you can pull it out. It’s not completely easy but once you get used to it, trust me, you will never go back. I slipped it in that morning to see if I still had residual flow and neglected to take it out.

Anyway, I realized with complete horror that dude was feeling the Diva Cup and he must have thought my G-Spot felt like a petrified lizard carcass. I cannot let him go through life thinking I had a dinosaur fossil embedded in my canal. So I called him.

“Do you know what a Diva Cup is?”

“Yes! Those are peanut free, I eat them all the time,” He says. He is one of those young ‘uns who is deathly allergic to peanuts. And he is confused.

I explain what happened and that I’m not a freak and not to worry, it’s sanitary, blah blah blah. Oh how we laughed. He took it pretty well but disappeared into the ether nonetheless. Not that we didn’t expect that. But the cougar is on the prowl now.

On Canada Day, I took Betty for a walk on the boardwalk and followed a big black dude around like the Pied Piper. He had a massive snake (a real one!) strung over his shoulders. The snake kept flicking its tongue at me and at one point, it slithered down they guy’s back and hung its head down and yawned right at Betty, who was completely oblivious. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I tore myself away and went home and tossed and turned that night, as per usual.

And then as quickly as the mojo was resurrected, it was shot down again. The next day in the mailbox was a letter from “The Bailiff.” It seems I had owed some property tax from last year in spite of all my attempts to have it come out of the mortgage, it didn’t happen. It was one of those snafus that is my mostly my fault but means a trip to the bank to cry a river of tears in front of my favourite mortgage specialist, Adrian. He is a super handsome Goan man with nicest smile. He knows how to coddle the hot mess that is me.

But Adrian wasn’t there! He was on vacay with his family! Instead I got whisked away into another man’s office. He had a commanding way about him, like he could be a motivational speaker or a professional magician. I showed him the Bailiff’s letter and told him that I might cry because that’s what I do with Adrian.

“Don’t worry, these things happen, we’ll fix it,” he pulling up my file on the computer. He starts scrolling through, which is the worst feeling in the world, a financial colonoscopy, I’d rather have him probe my butt at this point.

He checks out a few things, we have some diversionary banter and laugh at the font that the bailiff uses as a letter head: Ye olde tymey Shakespeare type that might have seemed important and threatening 400 years ago but looks really dumb in 2012. After we go through some payment options too depressing to talk about, he turns to me and with the most earnest facial expression and says: “Kristin, what can I do for you that will make your life better?”

And that’s when I try and swallow the lump in my throat and fight back the tears. I can’t speak of course, but I really want to say, “‘How good are you with your tongue?” But I start to cry instead. And it was good. And after what seemed an eternity, he gave me his card and I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling fan.

And here’s the original Mr.Pussy on Sex and the City:

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25

Jun. ’12

The Tale (With a Happy Ending) of the Mudflap Angel

Last week when my insomnia reached fever pitch, I was forced to go out and look for street opiates.  My doctor doesn’t prescribe anything stronger than sleepy time tea and the usual home methods don’t work.  Vodka:  it makes you pass out but then wake up at 2:00 and go for a ride on the tedious thought merry-go-round.  Weed:  similar to vodka except you are up all night making origami animals out of the sheets.

I’m a firm believer if you go out and make your needs be known, somebody somewhere will come up with a solution.

“You don’t need opiates, you need to get laid,” suggested the helpful butcher.  Oh great, he just woke the big sleeping bear.  If the dudes in that shop only knew of how long a run my dry spell has been, they would mercifully tie me up and lock me in a box in their basement and make me their gimp, Pulp Fiction style. Yes, please, I will have the bone-in pork sword special.

I’ve become such a social misfit during the last five years, and I simply won’t call on boys.  You never know if they’re married or not.  And I am insanely shy when it comes to mating rituals.  A couple of years ago, there was dude at the gym I kind of fancied, he was “age appropriate” and he had no ring, so I decided fuck it, he’s not all that, I will smile at him and say hi.  He smiled back and said hi, and it went on like that for a couple of weeks and then we started having friendly banter at the water cooler.  That’s the thing about me, if I can’t make ’em hard, I can make ’em laugh.  The gym has a bar (!) and one day he bought me a beer.  It’s a super casual type place where you can have a drink by yourself and not feel like a trolling weirdo like in Starbucks, where the desperation in the air is as thick as homogenized foam and everyone in there is frantically searching for their soul mate.  Anyway, I took this free pint of Stella as some progress and he was really growing on me.  Even his facial tick was starting not to bother me.

A few days later, I ran into him at Loblaws, with his wife and baby!  We caught each other’s eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he didn’t know me.    Hmmmfffff, you’d think at some point he would have mentioned he had a family, but no, dude was out prowling on collector lane while his wife was at home, changing diapers, lactating, and whatnot.

Maybe there is an iPhone app for my problem.  In gay world, there is one called Grindr that uses GPS as gaydar to let you know when there is a gay in the general area.  You can check out their profile and if you want to meet, you can message them.  Brilliant!  Is there an app similar for straight people?  I wondered.  Yes, there is, said my gay pal, it is called “Look Outside.”  Very funny.

I found one in the app store called OkCupid, but it’s more or less a dating website, not a boner tracker, but I decided to sign up.  Pro Tip:  If you are thinking about joining one of these sites, think about how you are going to write up your profile beforehand as there is nothing more morose and tedious than filling out these things.

I flew by the seat of my pants:

Create a user name:  I did this once before on some other site  6 years ago (for about a day) and called myself “Girl Afraid” and the only one who got it was “Frankly Mr. Shankley” who was a gay and messaged me just to find out if I had heard the new Morrissey album.  I decided on “Mudflapangel” which is the moniker I use when commenting on other blogs and probably best describes my nice and dirty personality.

Make up an opening about yourself:  “I am an insomniac.  I like a joke and a stiff cocktail.  If you pull my toes, I will make you a sandwich.  I like a dude with calloused hands who smells of WD-40 and can swing his dick around like a floppy eel.”

What are you good at:  “I can estimate the correct size of rubber maid container that will fit leftovers without too much extra room or excess spillage.”

What are you doing with your life:  “I write a blog, in fact read it:  mytorontoeh.com” (*I figured at least the blog can get some hits even if I can’t)

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

I gave my real age too, which is old as fuck but I figured these dudes can just take me as I am or go home.  Then I had to answer 800 inane multiple choice questions that started filling me with rage because you had to qualify with “how important it was.”  Like: How do you feel about kittens?  I like them very, very, much and I don’t give a crap if you like them or not, what does any of this have to do with getting some bone? I had answered but a few when I noticed I was already starting to get some messages in my in-box.

“Do you want to meet for coffee?” Was the first one.  No, dude, I have insomnia, the caffeine will keep me up.  Are you not reading what I’m writing down here?

The messages came in chunks of dozens throughout the rest of the day and there were too many to reply to but it is good to know there are men out there with floppy eels in their pants.  One thing that stood out:  There are no single men my own age, they are all married! Surprise! Calling all LOCAs:  You need to know that your husband is on-line trying to pick up chicks like me.

Only one message was by far and away the shining star in the batch and it was from a 25 (!) year old who made me laugh and blush at the same time. I messaged him back, then we started texting, or sexting, then we talked on the phone.  For me, a voice is more important than a penis.  If I don’t like how you sound, I can’t get a lady boner, and I’m looking right at you, David Beckham.  Luckily “Boss” had a voice I could splay for, he also talked really fast like a Gilmore Girl.  Men who talk fast make me think of 1930’s screwball comedies and I am tickled and smitten.

So we arranged a meet up.  This is unorthodox and I know breaks all common sense rules but I have to do things in my comfort zone or I will have diarrhea and barf at the same time.  He has to have drinks on my porch and meet my entire family and neighbours…I know, right?  Crazy.  But it’s okay, I can sense if he is a serial killer if I meet him at Point A and then if I like him, he goes to the second location, Point B, the porch.  The neighbours are all down with this, although one of them thinks I’m a lunatic, and the kids are home with a bunch of friends, all poised for some mass slaughter.  “Mother, he is 25!  You could have given birth to him!”  But I didn’t so shut up.

So in the early evening I went to meet him.  First impression: Brown and muscly, zero body fat, compact, pheromone bomb swaggering  toward me…no serial killer vibe at all, phew.  He is shorter than me but I don’t care, I think tall men are way over-rated.  Do you ever notice how they usually only date really short women? It’s as though to swing a stump around their cocks makes them look mightier.  Short men try harder and have that alpha male compensation thing going on which I think is pure bone power.

We went to the porch.  He brought vodka.  He assimilated like a boss.  The dog loved him and he loved the dog.  We had a couple of drinks, laughed a lot and then what happened next is that although I don’t squirt and tell, I will  let it be known that the sky opened up, and the universe finally got off its lazy ass and threw me a bone.  And it was good.  And I slept, but just a little bit, it was a long night.

 

 

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16

Jun. ’12

Convex Versus Concave

Last week my daughter and I went to see “Cosmopolis,” un film de David Croneneberg.  RPattz was the big draw for her (she’s cool about it!  Don’t judge!) and I would go see Disney On Ice if Cronenberg directed it.  I’m dying to meet him.  I think he would tickle my intellect, the primordial part that thinks that everything convex represents a plundering penis, and a vagina is a portal to the mystery of the universe. At least that’s the gist I got from Videodrome.

As for Cosmopolis, don’t ask me.  It was a bit like watching Shakespeare or an Almodovar movie without the subtitles, where you catch maybe every third word and you have to pay hyper-attention to follow the plot.  I know you don’t visit this blog for comprehensive film reviews so I won’t go on but just to say that it is visually exciting, there are a couple of hot sex scenes, two really funny parts, and a really bad haircut. It was an allegory, intertwined with satire, wrapped tightly in an enigma and stuffed into an asymmetrical prostate like a jolly little butt plug.  Cronenberg:  Call me!

How I feel about Cosmopolis is how I feel about watching team sports on tv.  I can look at the screen, stare at it, not know at all what’s going on, but be perfectly happy.  This goes for basketball, hockey, football, and baseball.  However, the other day I went to Meat Dept on Danforth and they have installed a tv on the wall so they can watch Euro Cup all the live long day. Cruelly and deliberately, I made the butcher tear himself away from the screen to cut up a chicken “just so.”   While he happily obliged, he is sweet, I looked up at the match that was going on.  There is something about soccer (or European football, whatevs) that sets me off into a rage.  Dudes running willy nilly back and forth on a giant field, the dull roar of the crowd, and the commentators that make everything sound exciting when it’s not.  This is what being in my head is like at 2 o’clock in the morning when I can’t sleep.  Metaphorically, the dudes are all my inane thoughts, the roar of the crowd is the giant knot of nerves forming in my stomach, and the commentators are my own twisted judgements that turn the most mundane day time activity into an endless loop of strife:  PAY HYDRO BILL, MAKE FREDDY A SANDWICH, WRITE A BOOK, RENOVATE THE UPSTAIRS BATHROOM, EMPTY THE DISHWASHER, CHECK MOUSETRAPS, TRY A ZUMBA CLASS, BLAH BLAH BLAH!

Anyway this week soccer is everywhere and you just can’t escape it.  The other day my Remainder Man (the one who got away), came over to work on his car.  I let him park his junk in my driveway…not a euphemism!  He has a trailer full of crap and a 1990 BMW he is resuscitating back to health.  I like to stand around and watch him get underneath the car and tinker with the pipes.  Then as he gets all covered in grease and sweat, I get this overwhelming desire to want to marry him.  That day, after about an hour of writhing and twisting, he finally succeeded to get the car running around the parkette without drips and then he wiped WD-40  all over his muscly forearms, he said:  “Let’s go to Gaby’s for lunch, Ireland versus Italy.”

“I’m in!  Just let me run upstairs and change my panties!”  Pro-tip to all men:  Forget the $90 bottle of Hugo Boss, just spray some WD-40 on and you will save $80 and be able to take a lady out to lunch.

So we get to Gabby’s on Queen Street and there are four screens showing the match so there is no escape from the visual nightmare but at least the sound is muted.  We sit down in our usual spot near the window.

This is me watching soccer:  “That guy is cute!”  “He’s got high water booty!” “I like that shade of green on their uniforms!”

This is my Remainder Man watching soccer while texting his girlfriend the entire time and giving me the play-by-play:  “She wants to buy a tarp at Canadian Tire.” Tap, tap, tap, “She’s on-line now, there’s 4 in-stock at Lakeshore.” Tap, tap, tap,  “It’s 100 bucks, she wants to know if I’ll pay half,” Tap, tap, tap, “Sure, why not?  It’ll keep the mosquitoes out,”  Tap, tap, tap.

Believe me, if I had a lady boner in my backyard, it went back to its concave ways  by the time the wings showed up.  That afternoon, while my Remainder Man was getting poned from his phone, I watched an entire soccer match.  And I slept pretty well that night.

Here’s the Cosmpolis trailer, go see it and let me know your thoughts:

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06

Jun. ’12

Dat Venus

I’m not into the whole astrology thing, I think horoscopes are for chicks who read vampire novels.  As though your “star sign” can govern your life or the day you were born can be the cause of your personality disorder.  The other day a friend of mine was describing a young girl who her son is dating and she said:  “She was born the day before my ex-husband hence she is a mini-malignant narcissist in training.”  According to her, if you are having a baby and are due on the Aries timeline, you either schedule a C-section on the cusp of Pisces or cross your legs until you make it to Taurus.  Aries are diabolical and if you ever meet one, do not even make eye contact.  They will suck your soul out like vampires and then get medieval on your heart.

My son Freddy is an Aries! He is the sweetest boy I know! Although this I cannot ignore:  He shares his birthday with Quentin Tarantino, Mariah Carey, and Fergie. He is an aspiring filmmaker, can sing like an angel, and pee like a racehorse. So maybe there is something to it all.

As far as astrology is concerned, I do believe in the power of planetary configurations.  Full moons make people crazy and I’m one of the worst offenders.  Normally when I go about my day, I’m pretty easy going, placid, lazy, gluttonous…in other words your TYPICAL TAURUS.  Blow a full moon across the sky and I am wide awake, snorting and scraping my hooves on the ground. Raging bull, it’s no joke.   If you and I have some unfinished business, expect the phone to ring.  If you are screening your calls and hiding in your basement, I will hunt you down.  I don’t kick or punch or throw things, that is more a drunk Capricorn’s move, or a Gemini with a hormonal imbalance.  I will verbally rip you a new one.  You will need a dictionary. You will cower and wince.  I will show no mercy until you cry.  Then we will go out and get a drink or whatever.  LOL.  The next day when the moon wanes, I will have forgotten all about it and feel like as light as though I had the most epic bowel movement.  But if you are a garden variety Scorpio, Leo, or  an Aquarius with a backbone, you will take the next 29 days to stock your stinger, sharpen your claws. fill your water jug, or whatever your horoscope avatar does to be more menacing. Revenge is your lot in life as the kingpins of your elements:  Water, Fire, and Air…the Mighty Taurus rules the The Earth and needs to be reckoned with.  The rest of y’all, you virgins, fishies, crabs, and centaurs, will just have to wait quietly in your living rooms while the moon waxes and pray to the stars for clemency.

And how about that Venus action the other day?  On June 5 and 6, Venus traveled across the sun. It’s known as Venus Transit, the rarest of predictable celestial phenomena and occurs in pairs eight years apart which are themselves separated by more than a century.

Fuck yeah, Venus!  The onset of Venus kicked full little moon’s ass over the last few days.  The craziest things happened:  Cannibalooza!  Subway floodings! Mall shootings! A huge heaping serving of madness and mayhem courtesy of the universe and its random agenda.

Some of us made our way on Venus Transit unscathed and others got a little roughed up. Me personally?  My toilet got blocked for two days, I finally snaked it clear, but then hit my head on the sink and broke the pipe. Hardly dramatic or even random, just stupid.

One of my best friends went to a Pet Smart Fair and adopted a chihuahua orphan from Louisiana.  Super random and super cute!  And really, what was she thinking? She already has a dog.  When I wanted to adopt a second dog way back in November when Venus was just boring star thing, she was all like, “Don’t be an idiot, you need to adopt a penis, not become some crazy chihuahua lady. Get off Petfinder and go make yourself a Match.com profile.”  There you go.  I did neither, lazy old Taurus that I am.

Others very near and dear got hit by some Venus shrapnel.  Not good.  I had to work hard to  harness the bull because there is really nothing I could do.  Some shit storms are just random milky ways jizzed out from the blackness and others come from us, cruel and calculated.  Things don’t happen for a reason, but you have to make sense of it when it does .  When the shit rains down, it’s best to pack it all nice and tight, make a pan of brownies, and serve it up with whipped cream, just like a Taurus boss when the moon is full.

 

 

 

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31

May. ’12

Operation Fornicazione

“May I unclog your pipe, Princess Peach?”

“Why, yes, my Super Mario, but be gentle, my pipes are tender and there is not enough toilet paper in the world to clean the mess if you break it.  My pipe has been broken by one of your kind (Italian) before and it took years of therapy (ie, boring my friends to tears and crying in my dog’s back)  and drinking a vineyard of wine for me to open the door for your services  (plumbing).  But you know what, Mario?  I am okay with it all. Sometimes you just have to throw caution in the wind.  Make a decision. TAKE A VACAY!  Slap it on a credit card.  Sell all your crap on eBay to pay for it. Because life is long and if you don’t fill it with a story, then all you’ve got is a toilet that is clogged because you tried to flush the TV guides.  So yes, my Super Mario, take your plunger and pump away as I, Princess Peach, am ready to be ravished!”

Let me explain this one.  Out of the blue, a friend asked me to go to Italy for a week this summer, a cheap and cheerful little holiday, with air mile points and to survive off of white carbs and local plonk. This is our prime and this is our time, she said, let’s do it.  Eat, pray, LOL, I thought.  I want to go!  But there were pros and cons to weigh.

“You are broke,” my mother, nay-sayer said, “If you can’t afford it, you shouldn’t go.”

“You will get Italian bone,” A friend, yay-sayer, said.

Decision made.  Italian bone trumps poverty.

Apparently Italians in actual Italy are different from Italians here in North America.  I’ve been to Italy once as a young lady in the ’80s, menstruating her way through Europe.  That is my curse, literally, every time I go on vacation, without fail,  Aunt Flo packs her bag and hitches a ride. Back then, I had noticed European men were freaky about lady flow.  “You will curse our village, and its citizens, with your sangria clotting, cover your astro turf and be away with you!”  Was the rough translation, via a pocket dictionary and through my understanding of latin based languages based on one Spanish course I took in third year university.

North American men don’t care about such things.  They will pull a ‘pon with their teeth and throw down a towel to get to their destination.  Which is far more civilized as far as I’m concerned. Maybe things have changed in Rome and Aunt Flo and I will be in luck.  In any case, I have compiled a list of my favourite Italian-ish men…let’s groove:

First of all, I do believe that this is Andy Garcia, who is not Italian but Cuban descent. But when I googled “Italian men” his picture came up on a blog with the caption “Close Enough” and if its good enough for this awesome blogger, its good enough for me.

Fabrizio Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes, who is only half Italian and actually born in Brazil.  I like him because he dated Drew Barrymore for a while.  I always thought Drew Barrymore would play me in the film version of my life.   He is super cute. I also thought he was full Italian.  Joke’s on me.

This is Dario Franchitti, IndyCar champion, winner of Indy500.  He is married to Ashley Judd who I love because she is the bi-polar Voice of Reason of that crazy Judd family.  They were the best guests that Oprah ever had and when Wynonna Judd sang “I Want to Know What Love Is,”  I actually cried.  You think I’m joking but I’m not.  I have a super mushy side.  Anyway I love a man who puts up with all that whacked out estrogen.  But again, he is only half-Italian…the other half, Scottish.

I make no apologies for my love of Leonardo Dicaprio.  His modelizing ways makes me feel like he is floundering his way through love.  He and Kate Winslet need to get it on.  Kate Winslet is in the running to play me in the movie of my life so maybe Leo could play my future husband since they’re so good together.  Oh, and he is about as Italian as my secret ingredient in pesto (Corn Flakes!) but the name counts.

Seriously, even Super Mario is a watered down Italian.  He is created by a Japanese designer and although originally from Brooklyn, lives in Mushroom Kingdom.  But his M.O. is to save the damsels in distress.  Or just unclog their pipes, which is all I’m asking at this point.

And here’s Wynonna on Oprah, wanting to know what love is, which might be the next step AFTER ITALY:

 

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