Ciao darlings!
It has been far too long, but the good news is that I have so much delish, juicy gossip to dish! Let me begin by recounting my first experience with Milano Fashion Week 2011. The evening began with a plan to lurch around the Duomo area (essentially the city center, aka the center of the fashion universe this week), eat gelato, and see the sights. Well, the sights quickly turned into a live concert by Jack Jaselli & The Great Vibe Foundation (check them out on FB) and witnessing my first fashion show! As promised by my Fashion Management professor, there was a tent and runway set up in the middle of the Piazza for some shows, but this was no ordinary tent--it was translucent! I spotted my professor seated inside in the front row, sipping on a glass of champagne as photographers and well-dressed lovers of fashion filed in (with the exception of a teenager in a wintermint green Hollister sweatshirt sitting next to an extraordinarily fabulous elderly man--I am still puzzled why he would publicly accept her as his grand-daughter with that sort of fashion blasphemy!). As the show started, lights shinning, camera bulbs flashing, and trendy music way too cool for me to identify playing, I perched up on a metal railing and stared in at the magic. Granted I was not on the list, but the gelato in my hand (a cone filled first with melted chocolate and then creamy black cherry and nutella gelato) tasted just as good as free champagne and my view was no worse than the photographers in the third row of seats inside the tent. Watching the clothes (so many sparkles and furs!) float down the runway, my insides literally melted and warmed like I had just taken a sip of a Bailey's-spiked hot chocolate on a cold winter day and my eyes filled with tears. Yes, I confess the moment brought me to tears. I think it's like how you are supposed to feel on your wedding day or when you first put on your white coat after graduating top of your class from medical school or watching a unicorn give birth; the universe was aligned and I was right there in the center of it. It gives me chills even writing about it. Judge me all you want, but clothes are my cocaine and I am an addict.
Now it sounds like the night could not become any more monumental, but don't worry, it did. After the catwalk finale, Jenna, Monica, and I scurried back to our apartment because we had an invitation to join a friend of a friend at her table at the Armani Club (fashion week's hotspot for designers and those that wear their designs)! Us girls sprinted around the apartment looking for appropriately high heels, chugging a bottle or two of spumante, and updating our facebook statuses (c'mon we aren't cool enough yet not to brag about this!). After selecting dresses, taking the traditional pre-going out roomie pick, we clip-clopped down the stairs in our stilettos to be scolded in Italian by the angry doorman's wife in her nightgown. Mi dispiace, but fashion does not sleep madame! Jenna, Monica, and I met up with two of our other girls, Despina and Alissa, and made our way from the metro through the fashion district to the block of Armani buildings. We had instructions to enter through the left side door and tell the doorman we work for Vogue (in my case I was playing the sex tips editor for Cosmo because sex always sells and I wanted in to the club). Well naturally being somewhat directionally challenged (with the exception of Monica who for some reason did not have her staple map with her), we ended up at what we thought was the right door. After trying to enter on the coat tails of some pro tennis players in front of us (who were ceremoniously rejected by the doorman), a tan man inside smiled and pointed at me and the girls and I were quickly ushered into a chic bar full of you guessed it, the rich and beautiful (I was too awestruck to accurately report if any of them were famous as well). As our coats were taken by the coat check, we met our bronzed, late 40's-early 50's, ticket in. The gentlemen introduced himself as Jeff Sutton and after a little further prying we learned that he owns commercial real estate on 5th Avenue and Times Square and is in town looking at purchasing the building we were presently standing in to add to his Armani building collection. Upon further googling on blackberries, we learned that his net worth is over $1 billion and he owns half of NYC. Lucky me, he is a fan of blonde co-eds and spotted my hair from inside! He was quite friendly and engaging to all of us, even offering me a penthouse apartment in Manhattan should I choose to be flown on his private jet back and forth between Minneapolis and NY this summer to "play house" for him (direct quote from the apron and heels fan). After this standard exchange of chitchat and meeting his business VP, we were notified that the bar we were in did not in fact grant us entry to the Armani Club, an entirely different entity from the Armani Bar, duh! Jeff collected our coats and we proceeded back around the building to what we now recognized as the entrance we were supposed to use earlier in the night, only to find it swarmed with a few hundred people at this point clambering to get inside. Well we pushed and shoved along with the rest so Jeff could speak with the man with The List, but apparently real estate moguls of NYC do not carry the same weight in Milan, so it turned out that only 4 from our group could enter: Jeff, his VP, me, and Despina (my fellow blonde in the group). We took our tickets and squeezed through the rope, leaving our friends on the other side to wait for Isabelle, the friend of a friend who had a table and was our original reason for being there. Upon entering the club our first order of business was naturally to visit the ladies room. This is when I learned that I am actually a troll--a creature of midgit height and awkward body proportions. Yes, every girl in that bathroom was a certified model about a foot taller than me and 30lbs lighter. I'm not sure how much sight they were capable of through their smokey, liquor and cocaine eyes, but perhaps they just assumed I was one of the designer's dogs. Aside from the bathroom, the rest of the club's clientele included more 6+ foot models, financial brokers from all over the world, and short scruffy men that looked somewhat familiar from the designer profiles in Vogue. The saga with our girlfriends continued when Isabelle arrived, and despite having lured us there with stories of sitting at the table next to Vivienne Westwood (my dream wedding dress designer), was not able to get them in at that point (apparently the staff of Vogue and every other fashion mag was already inside). Being the wonderful friends that they are, our less blonde companions blew us kisses told us to have fun, so Despi and I returned inside the absurdly exclusive locale that Isablle promised us we were only inside because of our blonde hair. Regardless of my ticket in (be in blonde hair or a middle-aged tycoon), I followed Isabelle to her table and proceeded to drink a complimentary red bull and vodka and peruse the room. During our lap around the club I got a card from a guy who is somehow related to the Lamborghini company and an invitation for a ride in his speedy black beauty, I danced in the DJ's booth and had a photo shoot with the club's lead photographer (still looking for these images online!) and Despi chatted up a pro soccer player. Despite my troll status, blonde is truly IN in Milan right now (evidenced by the presence of only blonde models Jo No Fui show we saw earlier), and somehow many of the models inside we brunette so I received a surprising amount of attention. I would like to note my outfit at this point for those of you who may assume it was the hippobottomus receiving the attention because I was in fact wearing a flowy, feminine pink and black strapless dress coupled with my new Florentine leather jacket (a masculine accent to counteract the girly effect of the dress), pearls from my grandma, and the most fabulous metallic ankle-strap chain-accented stilettos given to me by my Mimi for Christmas and never worn before last night. So no, the rump did not attract the attention, although it is possible that after the girl who possibly grew up around a radiation spill and Despi, I may have had the third largest boobs in the place (an extremely foreign experience for me!)
The dancing and shoulder-rubbing ended somewhat abruptly when the lights were turned on sometime around 2:30 or 3am. Despi and I grabbed our coats and were headed to the door only to find that we had to use our precious tickets to pay downstairs. Thankfully, we both still had our tags to pay cover at the end of the night because if you loose it, there is a 300 Euro charge for a lost ticket. Us trolls headed back downstairs to be greeted by a mob of leggy giraffes pushing towards the coat check and exit. It was literally a mob scene, essentially a what not to do in case of emergency tutorial. In the midst of the sea of stilettos, one found the top of my foot and came crushing down on it. My reaction: I screamed bloody murder. 80lbs or not, whatever creature was wearing that shoe hurt like hell! With the screaming and hysterics that followed I was able to reach the safety of an enclave and was attended to by a burly security man who brought me a seat and a bag of ice. Following him as a doctor who spoke to Despi in a mix of Italian and English and wrote down a number of things for us to go fetch at the pharmacy for me injury. The pain was dreadful and my tears would not subside, so my quickly multiplying herd of security guards kept asking to send me to the nearest hospital. I refused and asked for a cab home and after much convincing that I did not want to ride in an ambulence instead, a taxi was called for me and Despina. When it arrived, one of the burly men hoisted me up and carried me up the stairs and set me inside the waiting cab. Everyone was quite sweet and I blew kisses to my fashionably black-sheathed saviors. When I at last made it home and inside (not as easy as it sounds since I had no key and persistently rang the doorbell until one of my kind roommates opened the door for me) I discovered a scary sight in the mirror with my tear stained cheeks streaked with black mascara and my quickly bruising and swelling foot. I climbed into bed, elevated and iced my foot as instructed and quickly fell into what can only be described as a fashion-induced sleep (for the next 3 hours before I had to rise to limp to a long day of classes).
Regardless of my injury, I think I gave just as much sass as I took from my foray into the world of Milano Fashion Week and celebrated my fashion show and Armani club deflowering by wearing my new Dolce & Gabbana top today. Everyone knows that fashion can be painful, and I lived to attest to this and swear that each limping step is so totes worth it my loves.
Kiss kiss,
your little fashionista
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
la metropolitana
Ah, the metro system, not to be confused with the metric system, a mistake sometimes made by those of us with lighter-colored hair. While both are TIM and Euro-chic, la metropolitana is the topic of today's story. Public transportation is abundant in Milano, the metro being a favorite of the Milanese. Thus far during my stay in the fair city, I have learned 1. how to get to and from my most frequented destinations (school and shopping obvi); please do not underestimate the enormity of this task as it requires recognizing that you must be on different sides of the track to go in different directions and that there are multiple colors of lines going all over the city 2. how to squish like a sardine into the train when to the untrained eye it appears that there is not enough space for a small shopping bag (think the size of the Victoria's Secret pink-striped bag if you just go in to claim your pair of free panties) and 3. how to subway surf aka stand sideways with your legs shoulder-width apart to ride without holding onto the metal support poles (this is extremely important when there are short boob-height men standing close to said support poles). Despite considering myself quite the savvy metro passenger, none of my new knowledge could possibly prepare me for the email I received the other day from my program's office. It read as follows:
"Dear Students,
We have received reports from two female students about being separately accosted by the same man on the metro.
The man in question is described as being around 5’8” tall, solidly-built, middle-aged, balding and with a darker complexion, but lighter facial hair.
He has accosted two students on the RED metro line between CADORNA and P.TA VENEZIA stops.
The man exposes himself, presses himself against a female in the crowded train and masturbates.
An official report of this, including a detailed description of the man in question, has been made to police.
Our hope is that the police will step up surveillance of this train line/station(s) and catch the man before this happens again to anyone else.
While commuting, if someone begins to press against you in a way that you find inappropriate and/or disconcerting, please try to move away from that person.
If he or she follows you or if you are unable to move away immediately, get off the train at the next stop and move to another car or, if still followed, immediately seek police assistance.
If getting to the next stop will take too much time and you want the behavior to stop sooner, shout loudly “Please stop touching me!” at the person and “Help!” to others in the train car.
This sort of behavior is highly inappropriate in Italy, and other individuals on the train should come to your assistance if you draw attention to what is happening and ask for help.
The Italian translations for these phrases are:
“Please stop touching me!” = Smettila di toccarmi!
“Help!” = Aiuto!
Regardless of how you get away from a person who might attempt to do this, please report any and all such incidents to IES Abroad staff.
Indecent exposure is illegal in Italy and should be reported to the police as soon as possible.
Many thanks for your attention. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns."
So yes, the story goes that a man repeatedly bumped into/pressed himself against a female student in program and proceeded to whip out the junk and masturbate. It was discovered by said female in the form of an ejaculation stain on her jacket. Thankfully, upon receiving this email I learned that this type of behavior is in fact frowned upon in the metro and indecent exposure is illegal in Italy, although I did witness a man urinating in the street on the way to dinner the other night. TIM. I suspect that men, like their close canine relatives,are permitted to engage in such animalistic behaviors here in Milano (please refer to earlier entries about extreme sidewalk dog poop dilemma). Also thankfully, I was not either of the two victims of this revulsion, which is quite shocking to me based on the luck I've had with freak incidents in this city. Thus far the perpetrator has not been caught, but I am prepared in case I am accosted by the perv. My plan: use my YMCA self-defense class training and grab his balls like a ziplock baggie of grapes and pull until they rip off. My mother's plan for me: look him up and down, say, "that's it? not exactly something to be proud of" and watch his tow-tow (polite term used by my 5-year old cousin for penis) shrivel up. Please note that while my mimi was explaining this plan to me she used the explanatory visual of an erect index finger curl up into the finger version of an extremely small, flaccid tow-tow while she made little meep meep noises. Thank you, mother, for your always effective visual simulations and useful advice.
Oh Milano! Bedbugs out, metro masturbater in. What other freak inhabitants are you hiding in this city?
xoxo's,
your metro savvy sam
"Dear Students,
We have received reports from two female students about being separately accosted by the same man on the metro.
The man in question is described as being around 5’8” tall, solidly-built, middle-aged, balding and with a darker complexion, but lighter facial hair.
He has accosted two students on the RED metro line between CADORNA and P.TA VENEZIA stops.
The man exposes himself, presses himself against a female in the crowded train and masturbates.
An official report of this, including a detailed description of the man in question, has been made to police.
Our hope is that the police will step up surveillance of this train line/station(s) and catch the man before this happens again to anyone else.
While commuting, if someone begins to press against you in a way that you find inappropriate and/or disconcerting, please try to move away from that person.
If he or she follows you or if you are unable to move away immediately, get off the train at the next stop and move to another car or, if still followed, immediately seek police assistance.
If getting to the next stop will take too much time and you want the behavior to stop sooner, shout loudly “Please stop touching me!” at the person and “Help!” to others in the train car.
This sort of behavior is highly inappropriate in Italy, and other individuals on the train should come to your assistance if you draw attention to what is happening and ask for help.
The Italian translations for these phrases are:
“Please stop touching me!” = Smettila di toccarmi!
“Help!” = Aiuto!
Regardless of how you get away from a person who might attempt to do this, please report any and all such incidents to IES Abroad staff.
Indecent exposure is illegal in Italy and should be reported to the police as soon as possible.
Many thanks for your attention. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns."
So yes, the story goes that a man repeatedly bumped into/pressed himself against a female student in program and proceeded to whip out the junk and masturbate. It was discovered by said female in the form of an ejaculation stain on her jacket. Thankfully, upon receiving this email I learned that this type of behavior is in fact frowned upon in the metro and indecent exposure is illegal in Italy, although I did witness a man urinating in the street on the way to dinner the other night. TIM. I suspect that men, like their close canine relatives,are permitted to engage in such animalistic behaviors here in Milano (please refer to earlier entries about extreme sidewalk dog poop dilemma). Also thankfully, I was not either of the two victims of this revulsion, which is quite shocking to me based on the luck I've had with freak incidents in this city. Thus far the perpetrator has not been caught, but I am prepared in case I am accosted by the perv. My plan: use my YMCA self-defense class training and grab his balls like a ziplock baggie of grapes and pull until they rip off. My mother's plan for me: look him up and down, say, "that's it? not exactly something to be proud of" and watch his tow-tow (polite term used by my 5-year old cousin for penis) shrivel up. Please note that while my mimi was explaining this plan to me she used the explanatory visual of an erect index finger curl up into the finger version of an extremely small, flaccid tow-tow while she made little meep meep noises. Thank you, mother, for your always effective visual simulations and useful advice.
Oh Milano! Bedbugs out, metro masturbater in. What other freak inhabitants are you hiding in this city?
xoxo's,
your metro savvy sam
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
the man plan
Now that I am cimice-free in Milan, I have had the opportunity to spend my time engaging in activities other than hauling my worldly possession about in garbage bags and fighting the foes of fashion. Naturally, most of this newfound time has been spent eating. Allow me to clarify that the act of cenare (to eat dinner) for example ecompasses more than just stuffing food into my awaiting mouth with fork or hand. It includes walking (doesn’t everything in Europe?) to the market, oftentimes multiple stores for various items, selecting the freshest produce, meat, and unrefrigerated eggs, and then cucinare (cooking). The mangiare (eating) and subsequent napping comes hours later in this process. Forgive my Italian usage, I am using my blogging as a productive means for studiare (studying) for my intensive Italian class final on Friday. As I was saying, I rediscovered what teens commonly refer to as “having a life”, something I have not experienced for quite some time, thank you I-Core semester and bedbugs! One of my latest entertainments has been working on self-improvement. No, I am not practicing yoga or doing charity work, but rather I have read and studied Whitney Casey’s The Man Plan: Drive Men Wild—Not Away. In the best interest of my darling readers I will share some of my new insights from said novel. Lucky you, I’ve already sifted through the nonsense that comes with any self-help book and separated the gems of wisdom from the cubic zirconium. To my male readers: this is lesson number one, CZ is a dirty word to women and something that should be avoided. A small diamond is always better than a fake. And if you can’t afford a diamond, there are many other beautiful gemstones out there that do not involve synthetic plastic blends and are not sold at Claire’s. To “all the single ladies” (cue Beyonce) and those of you who are taken and find reading my blog more entertaining than your significant other (who can blame you?) here is what I have learned from my reading:
1. I am not difficult, I am definite. The term high maintenance, generally associated with negative, undesirable connotations, has often been used to describe me; however, after reading The Man Plan I have come to the conclusion that using the term high maintenance is like using the term brunette to describe a dirty blonde, it’s simply incorrect and a mistake made often by less discerning individuals (cough cough, men). Please note the following comparisons for a better understanding of the difference between difficult and definite, high maintenance and simply knowing what you want.
• Busybody (in everyone’s beeswax) vs. Social Butterfly, Gregarious (involved)
• Bitchy (get it for me) vs. Assertive (yes, that is what I want)
• Boisterous (noisy) vs. Exuberant (lively)
• Expensive (draining) vs. Luxurious (deserving)
• Demanding (whiny, pushy) vs. Ambitious (pushes herself and everyone else around her)
• Conceited (self-important) vs. Cultured (she’s got style)
• Arrogant (haughty, superior) vs. Confident (secure, proud)
Men always say they want a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, a woman who takes good care of herself and dresses well, a woman who is confident. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, boys! What you are asking for is a definite woman, so don’t complain when you get what you want!
2. I am not a gold digger, I am a goal digger. The Man Plan recognizes that despite the overpopulation of “metal detectors”, “finance finders”, and “sugar babies”, some women are attracted to wealthy men not because they are rich, but because of the qualities that made them rich; they are leaders, entrepreneurs, risk-takers, confident, and optimistic. Ladies, it’s ok to like money and the men that have it, but you must enjoy the man as well as the money. Money can’t buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy him an incredible divorce attorney if you’re only sticking around to dig through his wallet…and Swiss bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate assets. Nobody likes a gold digger, but everyone loves a relationship where you can teach each other things, so while you’re helping your rich man pick out a tie, learn a thing or two about what makes him so financially successful and you will end up that way, too.
3. I don’t play games, I learn the games they play. Any guy will tell you he doesn’t want a girls who plays games with him, but what he might not be so upfront about is how important it is that you learn about his games, aka sports. Now ladies, I admit to being that girl who always sat out in gym class because any time there was a ball involved, I got hit with it and yes, I did join sports teams just for the cute uniforms, but The Man Plan does not ask you to learn the name of every player on his favorite team or all of the sports lingo (in fact, it frowns upon being a know-it-all because guys like to teach you about sports since it makes them fell tough. Evidence: the all too familiar mini-golf lesson with him standing behind you showing you how to swing with his arms wrapped around yours), just enough to bond over something he’s passionate about besides you. Don’t get in a panic about the difference between a linebacker and being in the back of the line when the stores open for Black Friday shopping, just remember these few simple rules I learned.
• Let men have their cave time. If you’re not interested in the game, he’s probably not interested in having you there pouting, so plan to do something else while the game is on.
• If he’s hungry, bring him something to eat. This does not mean you are a slave, but consider the situation reversed. If you’re in the middle of the Jersey Shore Season Finale and are dying for a Coke Zero, wouldn’t it be nice if he got it for you?
• Allow for naps. If he falls asleep while watching sports, this is not an invitation to change the channel. He will wake up and go right back to the game. A quick nap is part of the game-watching activity.
• Never comment on the quarterback’s cute behind. Do you want him commenting on the cheerleader’s cute “L.A. face and Oakland booty”?
See, the boys spend years learning about sports and it only took us girls a minute to learn the rules--women are fast-learners, after all. Besides, if you watch the game with him, maybe he will surprise you with that cute jersey of his favorite team.
I learned a lot from reading The Man Plan and I hope I was able to help you learn a few key pointers as well. You see, I am a big proponent of education, especially when I am the teacher, the topic is men, and class is not at 9am. Stay tuned for more life lessons coming soon from Milan!
Ciao Ciao!
Your girl with a plan
1. I am not difficult, I am definite. The term high maintenance, generally associated with negative, undesirable connotations, has often been used to describe me; however, after reading The Man Plan I have come to the conclusion that using the term high maintenance is like using the term brunette to describe a dirty blonde, it’s simply incorrect and a mistake made often by less discerning individuals (cough cough, men). Please note the following comparisons for a better understanding of the difference between difficult and definite, high maintenance and simply knowing what you want.
• Busybody (in everyone’s beeswax) vs. Social Butterfly, Gregarious (involved)
• Bitchy (get it for me) vs. Assertive (yes, that is what I want)
• Boisterous (noisy) vs. Exuberant (lively)
• Expensive (draining) vs. Luxurious (deserving)
• Demanding (whiny, pushy) vs. Ambitious (pushes herself and everyone else around her)
• Conceited (self-important) vs. Cultured (she’s got style)
• Arrogant (haughty, superior) vs. Confident (secure, proud)
Men always say they want a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, a woman who takes good care of herself and dresses well, a woman who is confident. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, boys! What you are asking for is a definite woman, so don’t complain when you get what you want!
2. I am not a gold digger, I am a goal digger. The Man Plan recognizes that despite the overpopulation of “metal detectors”, “finance finders”, and “sugar babies”, some women are attracted to wealthy men not because they are rich, but because of the qualities that made them rich; they are leaders, entrepreneurs, risk-takers, confident, and optimistic. Ladies, it’s ok to like money and the men that have it, but you must enjoy the man as well as the money. Money can’t buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy him an incredible divorce attorney if you’re only sticking around to dig through his wallet…and Swiss bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate assets. Nobody likes a gold digger, but everyone loves a relationship where you can teach each other things, so while you’re helping your rich man pick out a tie, learn a thing or two about what makes him so financially successful and you will end up that way, too.
3. I don’t play games, I learn the games they play. Any guy will tell you he doesn’t want a girls who plays games with him, but what he might not be so upfront about is how important it is that you learn about his games, aka sports. Now ladies, I admit to being that girl who always sat out in gym class because any time there was a ball involved, I got hit with it and yes, I did join sports teams just for the cute uniforms, but The Man Plan does not ask you to learn the name of every player on his favorite team or all of the sports lingo (in fact, it frowns upon being a know-it-all because guys like to teach you about sports since it makes them fell tough. Evidence: the all too familiar mini-golf lesson with him standing behind you showing you how to swing with his arms wrapped around yours), just enough to bond over something he’s passionate about besides you. Don’t get in a panic about the difference between a linebacker and being in the back of the line when the stores open for Black Friday shopping, just remember these few simple rules I learned.
• Let men have their cave time. If you’re not interested in the game, he’s probably not interested in having you there pouting, so plan to do something else while the game is on.
• If he’s hungry, bring him something to eat. This does not mean you are a slave, but consider the situation reversed. If you’re in the middle of the Jersey Shore Season Finale and are dying for a Coke Zero, wouldn’t it be nice if he got it for you?
• Allow for naps. If he falls asleep while watching sports, this is not an invitation to change the channel. He will wake up and go right back to the game. A quick nap is part of the game-watching activity.
• Never comment on the quarterback’s cute behind. Do you want him commenting on the cheerleader’s cute “L.A. face and Oakland booty”?
See, the boys spend years learning about sports and it only took us girls a minute to learn the rules--women are fast-learners, after all. Besides, if you watch the game with him, maybe he will surprise you with that cute jersey of his favorite team.
I learned a lot from reading The Man Plan and I hope I was able to help you learn a few key pointers as well. You see, I am a big proponent of education, especially when I am the teacher, the topic is men, and class is not at 9am. Stay tuned for more life lessons coming soon from Milan!
Ciao Ciao!
Your girl with a plan
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