Tag Archives: Italy

How to Know When Bathing Suit Season is Approaching in Italy

27 Apr

[Partial nudity warning: this post contains a full-on wardrobe malfunction. This may or may not interest you to know.]

Holy crap, people. This is a no-brainer. The other day I was walking to pick my son up from school (this appears to be a fruitful practice for generating blog post material) and I kid you not, within a one-block (ONE BLOCK!) radius, all of a sudden I got hit over the head like a sledgehammer by the sudden realization that OHMYGODINHEAVEN it must be bathing suit season in a matter of … well, in a matter of soon.

Why, you ask?

Oh, allow me. It’s all about how shop windows change.

Remember the pharmacy (ie, place where you go to fill prescriptions for blood pressure meds and allergies and certified clinical illnesses?) that promoted this? Well, their windows of late have changed as a harbinger of warm weather to come. Witness:

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Oh, where to start, where to start? How about with the name: CELLU DESTOCK. 14 days! (exclamation point added for emphasis) I think if you just throw “cellu” into the product, it automatically communicates “this cream will banish cellulite forever” or something thereabouts.

Clearly the awesome derrière needs no additional commentary, except for my astute observation that I don’t honestly think that Cellu Destock had anything to do with that. However, let’s read what the ad copywriters have to say about it:

TODAY I CAN
SHOW OFF (everything)
FEEL GOOD (in my body)
WEAR (what I want)

I might add: Oh, ladies! All in a little cream!

But hell, don’t take it from me or the ad geniuses behind this miracle product. Just read the reviews:

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I love the contrast here. “Girls this thing is working! It took me a while to make a decision on buying this cream.” (really?) to “Haven’t seen any dramatic changes or improvement in the appearance of cellulite on my thighs and hips.”

Um, no. That’s because dramatic improvements in cellulite are not possible. But don’t tell reviewer #1’s husband. He said, and here I quote: “Did you do something with your legs? They look different.”

(I will not dignify that with any additional commentary, it is just too great all on its own.)

But, again: the idea that you can’t improve cellulite? GASP! THE HORROR! Take it away, Dr. Garry S. Brody, professor of plastic surgery at the University of Southern California (a place where they know a thing or two about body image):

Women who believe that they can eliminate cellulite through creams, or even weight loss, are likely to be disappointed, said Dr. Garry S. Brody, a professor of plastic surgery at the University of Southern California. “So-called cellulite is the natural anatomic contour characteristic of many women’s thighs and buttocks,” Brody said. “It is unrelated to weight gain or loss. There is absolutely no surgical or medical solution to women’s dislike of this appearance except for the psychological self-deception of wanting to believe the ads.” [source]

Ok, ok, you’re thinking: but I’m not convinced. Psychological self-deception—pshaw! you say. Show me more!

Your wish is my command:

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What about if we frame our formerly-cottage-cheese-laden-thighs with our hands to show how effective the product is, and we put a big ol’ headline that says:

Cellulite is a sickness.
To cure it you have to act on the causes.
Somatoline cures cellulite and helps prevent it from returning.

Whoa! SICKNESS! CURES! Who knew?

But before we leave this (pharmacy) window, let’s look at ALL the products on offer, shall we?

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This is maybe my favorite because it combines two things that people want: more sleep, and getting thin. Look at the headline on this puppy: “Get thin in 10 nights*.”

How much am I loving that asterisk?

The tag line says: Somatoline Cosmetic. It works.

I guess being fat isn’t a sickness. You can just sleep it off with this cream. 10 nights, folks!

Let’s cross the street to the profumeria, where they sell makeup and skin care products (non-pharmaceutical, obvs). Hello, window shopping!

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Add a neon green line to the profile of the beautiful buttocks. Then show your whole entire line-up of miracle anticellulite products. And see, ironically, this is the one place where we see pills to cure cellulite. The subhead is “Special Perfect Body” line.

Collistar-Anticellulite-Capsules

They contain caffeine. Like, you know, that other thing called espresso that they drink around here.

And for those of you growing anxious to see boobies, or rather, booby, as promised—fine. Here:

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For the low, low price of €9,90, you too can have a cream that, I kid you not, is called Breast Firming and Volumizing* Cream. Volumizing! According to Dictionary.com (the venerable Merriam-Webster doesn’t even have ‘volumizing’ as an entry):

Main Entry:  volumize
Part of Speech:  v
Definition:  to add volume to, as the hair; to enhance the thickness or body of
Etymology:  1991

Etymology 1991, that’s awesome, you know that was ALL Pantene Pro-Vitamin B Complex.

Anyways, whatevs. If you want boobies with more body, buy this cream. SOS! Save Our Ship! Sinking Boobies!

What about the esthetician, right? Italy is big on these shops that do all sorts of things to save everything that’s sinking on a human body. Check out these signs in the window:

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10 anti-cellulite massages cost €300. But the best part for me is the sexy woman running on a track, advertising the “Weight Loss Fitness Program” that encompasses something called a “Hypertonic Program” that inclues something called an “Electric Sculpure Massage” for €350. That scares the holy bejeezus right out of me, but I am reassured by the underlying print: “Personal trainer on request.” Oh folks, I couldn’t make this shite up if I tried.

Electric sculpture massage? Is that even legal?

A bit of cursory research into the world of electro-sculpure massage reveals that they use things like this device named “Sculpturelle,” that look like this, and say “Professional beauty equipments” on the bottom.

sculpturelle

I don’t know about y’all, but if I was subjected to the use of an electric device applied to my body by a company that didn’t even take the time to appropriately translate the words on the device, well—hmm. But, the caduceus is the sure sign of it being an officially-sanctioned medical device. Not that the RMS people even know the meaning of caduceus, but that’s beside the point: this is professional beauty equipments, people!

Oh, sigh. So, you know. This is Italy and we need to get ready for the beach. No exercising, we have electro-sculpture and anti-cellulite pills and booby volumizing cream! This is almost getting exhausting, but I feel I must be exhaustive in my research, to offer you the full range of options. So, let’s not forget the “tummy and hips” cream:

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€49,50 and it’s going to “help reduce circumference in 4 weeks” ASTERISK.

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My 4-year old daughter saw this one and goes, “Look mommy! She’s standing on her toe!” and I was like, right you are, little one! Don’t try this at home!

This one is “Leg Thinning and Draining Cream, Ice Effect Formula.” This one promises to “Thin legs in 2 weeks” ASTERISK. [Are you loving these time ranges? Very important. This means I can start using it just a couple weeks before I plan to wear my bathing suit, no? But I have to be strategic with my hip and ab cream and my 10-night cream too.]

And, menopausal women? Don’t think you’re off the hook, eh? The pressure to be Photoshopped beautiful continues into post-menopausal age. Just look at your typical post-menopausal woman here:

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Sorry this one is so blurry. I think quite possibly my hands were shaking from the realization that the post-menopausal woman on the box has a body that looks better than mine did at 18 years old when I was a high school cheerleader. No matter: the National Institute on Aging tells us that the average age for menopause onset is 51. So, maybe what happens is that starting now, around my current age of 37, my body starts to magically transform (perhaps with the aid of all these costly creams in the window) into a better-than-teenage body by the age of 51. Priced to move at €54 (that’s $75 for my American-dollar-carrying friends).

Well, what can I say? Please don’t tell the Italians that next week I’m embarking on this program. It requires clean eating and lifting weights, in an actual gym, where you—GASP—sweat.

Shh! If they find out, they might shame me into buying a booby-volumizing cream.

 

About these ads

Italian Postal Logic

10 Apr

Poor Poste Italiane. No one likes them.

Every time I write anything about the good ol’ PT, I inevitably get a random Italian commenter who hasn’t ever read my blog before (and thus has no idea how adoring I truly am of my adopted country), but somehow landed on that one post where I get all complainy, and tries to defend the PT in the comments by suggesting in some creative and colorful form that if I don’t like it I can go back to my own damn country.

Ok, maybe not every time. But lots of times, anyways.

Maybe it was calling this post “Italian Postal Service I Hate You With All My Heart” that made some readers think I’m bitter and cynical. A bit over the top? I dunno. Perhaps.

Maybe it was the one called No stamps, this is the post office.

Maybe people just don’t appreciate quality sarcasm anymore. We’ve become so jaded, haven’t we? It’s too bad all our days can’t be filled with delightful post office banter like this.

Well, as you might already know, the Italian postal service (and here I use the term “service” very loosely) is a never-ending font of things to both ridicule and belittle.

And yet, today I don’t have any complaints to add, but rather a quiz (or as they say here in Italy, “queets”) question for you.

I need your help, as a matter of fact, because no matter how I try to wrap my brain around this one, it just keeps getting tied up in knots.

Please observe Exhibit A:

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Besides the fact that this is an exceedingly rare moment in that there seems to be NO ONE in the post office (I promise you there were 10 people just a couple minutes later), have a look at “What’s Wrong in This Picture?”

Well, frankly, I hadn’t noticed it. But as I was waiting in line, the one line that was formed because the number machine was broken, I overheard a woman loudly say to an elderly lady approaching the counter: “You see?! There was a reason why they turned the chairs around!”

At which point, obviously, I look at the row of chairs and discover, in fact, that they are all facing with their backs to the “service” windows, when usually they are facing the windows. The usual chair configuration does actually make sense, really, when you take into consideration that if you have your back to the NUMERICAL DISPLAY you won’t be very likely to see YOUR NUMBER when it’s called. So, you know, number machine broken, maybe chairs must be turned around? Unless, well, ok, perhaps it could stay that way even when the number machine works, maybe if you were to hold up a compact mirror over your shoulder, and/or you are a single mom of three children under age ten like I am, at which point you would certainly have at least two, if not more, eyes in the back of your head like I do.

Anyways, herefore cometh O Wise Explanation to aforementioned conundrum, according to postal patron number one. However, before the big reveal, I’d like you to take a moment and try to guess why, using your own common sense and logic, according to postal patron number one (who I assumed received this pearl of wisdom directly from the postal clerk), the postal people decided it was a good idea to turn all those chairs around.

You got it? You got your guess ready? OK. So here’s what the woman said:

“You see, since there aren’t any numbers because the number machine is broken, and since we all have to form one line starting over there, well, the chairs are turned around so that way, if the line gets long, people can sit down in these chairs, like so.”

The old woman nodded, as if that somehow made perfect sense to her.

Perfect sense.

In my mind, a comment like that deserves only one thing, and that one thing is known in my world as the hashtag #WTF.

But, this is not my world, you see. Oh no, make no mistake about it: this is the Italian postal “service’s” world. I only live in it, occasionally stand in it for long periods of time, and most certainly never sit in it with my back to the service windows, even if they do make the effort to helpfully position the chairs in a way in which I could comfortably do so.

But why stop there, I ask myself. No, dear reader, bonus: I’d also like to let you know, that if you so desire, you can get dental insurance through the post office. Will you just look at how happy that toothpaste smiley-face man is about this proposition?

teeth

Dental Postalprotection: Smiling has never been so simple. (I want to kiss the copywriter who came up with that one, really, I do.)

But wait! There’s more!

There’s an entire CATALOG of randomness that you can buy through your post office. It’s even seasonal. This one is Spring 2014. That means there are four a year, people! YAY! Look how happy the family is, sitting as they are in front of a soccer match! You can even buy a flag! Weee!

catalog

Stamps? Pshaw, you silly! But a “Dual Motor Relax Recliner”? Oh now hellll yes. Now that we have, at the low, low price of just €449,90. (Postal geniuses, you’re not fooling anyone by taking 10 cents off. We’re totally onto you and your reclining chair scheming.)

relax

That is, unless you prefer the collar massager for 10 cents short of €55.

We’ll even make it super easy for you with a loan on one of our pre-paid debit cards: “The loan that recharges your desire for shopping.” Yes. Because we’re the post office. That’s what we do, you see.

loan

You know what though? Shit. I’m usually not one of those “Americans Do It Better” kind of girls, but in this particular instance, I just have to get on out there and say it loud, say it proud: when it comes to useless products, AIN’T NOBODY like us here Americans.

Don’t believe it? Just try me:

(If I had been drinking milk I am fairly certain it would have come out of my nostrils from laughter at 2:15. Nice perm, BTW.)

Ok, fine. I hear you though. You’re saying, “Oh Shelley, PT is such an easy target. Move on already.” Which makes me think of an Italian phrase that I simply adore. It goes like this: “E’ come sparare sulla Croce Rossa.” We Americans say something like, “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel,” (naturally, of course, because all Americans carry at least one gun on their person at ALL TIMES), but the Italians say, “It’s like shooting at the Red Cross.” God I love that phrase. [And, by the way and just so you know, Mythbusters confirmed that shooting fish in a barrel is, in fact, easy to do.]

And before you dismiss my humble blog as pulp fodder for the ignorant masses, I’ll have you know that this dude at Yahoo questions wanted to know “Why do they say it’s like shooting at the Red Cross?” and some benevolent soul took the time to respond that the GENEVA CONVENTION prevents shooting at health workers in war zones, so it’s like attacking someone who’s defenseless and can’t fight back. Another helpful know-it-all says that it was common to bomb Red Cross encampments in war zones in all the wars post-1864 (when the Red Cross was founded). In any case, if you need a real-life, in-context textual/visual demonstration of this expression, I direct you here. I will not, can not, put a picture of Britney Spears’s buttocks on my blog. Not gan do it, not at this juncture, wun’t be prudent…

Today I had to go to the post office to pay a bill (naturally) so I decided it would also be a good occasion to mail a letter I needed to mail. A real, honest-to-God, thank you card, from a box of US stationery I had sent over from Papyrus via my ex-husband’s luggage with a real, honest-to-God stamp on it. I kid you not when I tell you that I went to the tobacconist before the post office, so I could purchase a real stamp. As I hand over the card, I am careful to bring to the clerk’s attention: “It already has a stamp on it.”

The guy behind the counter takes my letter, stares at it, turns it over a few times in his hands, marveling. (He was marveling, I swear to you, it was unmistakable.)

I was like: “What? It’s a letter.”

And he goes: “That’s a beautiful thing.”

Indeed, my friend, it is. Indeed it is.

American Takeaway Coffee in Italy: Finalmente

18 Mar

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Or so the advertisement says, “Finalmente anche in Italia!” (Finally in Italy too!) as if people have been sitting around here in the amazing coffee capital of the known world going, “But if only I could get a takeaway American coffee in a paper cup, now that would really be something though…”

When I used to work with US study abroad students, many of whom were from southern California, I’d often hear a very heavy sigh of frustration followed by, “Ugh… I miss my Starbucks.”

At this point I was torn between two avenues of possible response:

1) Calmly but firmly educate aforementioned student about the fact that he or she was actually in the actual real like for reals country where Howard Schultz actually had such an epiphany over his amazing coffee that he was inspired to create Starbucks, and yet, strangely, the chain has never entered Italy because… ? (BTW great article by one of my favorite writers and honored to call friend, Stephan Faris, here: Grounds Zero: A Starbucks-Free Italy. *Hi Mr. F! Thanks for reading! ;-*)

2) Go totally ballistic.

3) Can’t do 2, because when I left study abroad in the mid-oughts (always wanted to use that word), it was becoming a very tidy US the-customer-is-always-right business model, in which I’d have 19 year old couples in my office complaining loudly about the fact that they weren’t allowed to share an apartment together and MYPARENTSPAYGOODMONEYFORTHISPROGRAM kind of B.S. so you know… yep, got out of that game.

And so, ever mindful of lurking #3 and university provosts calling me because their kid might not be able to get a takeaway coffee at a Roman espresso bar, I would helpfully and humbly write things on little post-its like “un cappuccino da portar via” and the students would go, “But is that big? Because, like, in the States, I get a venti.” That thar, folks, is TWENTY OUNCES of coffee, the equivalent of nearly 600 ml. Just as a point of comparison, I looked up how many ml make up an Italian cappuccino, and it’s 150 ml of cappuccino and an additional 50 ml or so of frothy foam. So, folks, an Italian cappuccino is right around 5 to 6 ounces of drink. Not even an entire cup which is 8 ounces. So basically if you ask an Italian barista for a god-forsaken VENTI, what you’re really requesting is 6 cappuccini in one cup. The mind boggles.

ANYHOO, far be it from me to criticize. Call me crazy, I don’t know, come to Rome, do as the Romans do, whatever…

But all this blabbering is really about the fact that I saw this ad yesterday in front of the Bulldog Inn Pub, on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. So, folks, honestly, if you need your American takeaway coffee, this company has you covered.

Still no Starbucks, though. Tough luck on that one. You’ll just have to content yourself with a 5-6 oz. cappuccino. [heavy sigh]

Have Yourself a Wrinkle-Free Little Christmas

16 Dec

Every day when I walk my son home from elementary school, we pass in front of a fancy-schmancy pharmacy on the corner. I call it fancy because it has prime real estate that occupies half a block, with three huge picture windows for displaying their chemical-enhanced wares.

For months now, literally since my son started school in September and possibly even before that, the pharmacy people have kept a sign in the window with syringes on display.

Two enormous, gigantic, nightmare-inducing syringes.

After we passed it once or twice, Vincenzo (rightfully) said, “Mamma! What are THOSE for?!”

Well. You try explaining DIY Botox to your son, and let me know how that works out.

I—being I—was like, “UGH. You know those women who look all puffy-faced? With crazy lips like ducks?” (Of course at this point I did a fairly accurate, IMHO, impersonation of Tina Cipollari, God help us all. I think she’s actually a he, under all that makeup. Actually, just turn to any TV show with the Maria De Filippi stamp of approval, for a perfect example of how to explain this topic to your very own inquiring five-year-old.)

Who’s Tina Cipollari, you ask? Well. I didn’t actually know her name until JUST NOW. She’s been on the outer reaches of my Italian pop culture radar for years, because she has some role to play in the show known as Uomini e Donne (Men and Women) where women compete for men or vice versa or something, which merits an entire blog post of its own, except I can’t bear to do any sort of practical research about Italian TV. I have a high pain tolerance, you see, but not that high. Even I have my limits. Anyhoo. This is she of whom I speak, oh great beacon to bleached blonde hair,  doing her part to keep the fledgling market for pink frost lipstick afloat:

tina-cipollari

Please, I beg of you: pull me back from the edge. Don’t let me digress.

POINT BEING: Fillerina.

Aw, now isn’t that cute? Little tiny filler. Ina, ina, oh so tiny and cute.

And, made by the good folks over at Labo. I like the name Labo for the people behind a chemical facial product you inject. Because Lab makes me feel like it’s made in a lab, as in, laboratory (pronounced like this: “la-BORE-a-tory” because it sounds so much more diabolical). And it also makes me think of a Golden Lab Retriever, which has always seemed like a very companionable and trustworthy dog. And if you add “o” that makes it sound sort of Italian, because you have to end words with vowels. But put the Swiss flag next to it. Because you know all Swiss women have perfect skin–they are born from the glacial runoff of the pristine Alps. Thus, the ad geniuses hit a home run with this one:

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So basically what we’re talking about is a sort of Botoxy-looking product that you can shoot into your face from the comfort and privacy of your own home. Oh joy of joys. Let me show you what I’m talking about. The sign is, of late, draped in festive golden garland for that extra special holiday sparkle! Kind of makes the needles look like they want to deck the halls with boughs of silicone. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

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Ok. Now is the portion of our show where I go trolling the Interwebs for totally superficial research to quell our now-aroused curiosity. Please stand by.

Oh! Well! Would you look now? Those weren’t SYRINGES! Them there’s called “precision applicators,” and that silver needle-lookin’ thing? Well, come closer you ignorant son of a biscuit …  that thar’s called a “truncated metal cannula.”

Oh, silly me! Well then. Let’s go to the videotape!

Yes, but I know what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking: “Those 25 seconds sure were awfully convincing and all, but I have just one more question: SO HOW DOES IT ACTUALLY WORK?”

I am so very glad you asked that!

The formulation of Fillerina Gel associates 6 different types of conveyed hyaluronic acids with different molecular weights and structures, with a diversified action in the various cutaneous layers, to facilitate the filling in and plumping up of tissues. The active component – Matrifull – acts over time on the skin matrix, promoting the reconstruction of the natural filling substances such as collagen I and III and fibronectin, for a visible plumping effect.

You know what folks? I can’t really go any further on this post. I think this stuff is Matrifull of shit. So. Happy Ho Ho Holidays. And please, by all means, do not teach your children about Botox. They could end up like the woman in this article, which, by the way, tells us that in 2011, Italy was in sixth place worldwide for plastic surgery, with liposuction and botox injections the most popular of the bunch.

So, maybe that explains why my damn pantiliner box was having a plastic surgery sweepstakes? I didn’t win myself a new set of knockers, just in case you were wondering.

(By jove,  I’ve never had occasion to say knockers. Come to think of it, I could have said jugs. Or just boobies. But knockers seemed like the right blend of decorum and satire, don’t you think?)

Personally, all I want for Christmas is a big ol’ box of coveyed hyaluronic acids under the tree. But only if they have different molecular weights and structures, and then only if they can provide me with diversified action in the various cutaneous layers, mind you.

Up next: Crescina. “Little growth.” Cute, no? Results with proven photographic proof:

hamilton man

But if the Hamilton/Norwood scale of male pattern baldness isn’t sexy enough for you, how about:

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Well hell, folks! If it’s good enough for a retired Brazilian footballer “considered by experts and fans to be one of the greatest football players of all time” then I’m banking that it damn sure must be good enough for any balding Joe Schmoe (ahem, that would be Giovanni Sciomani, I think) walking past the pharmacy.

Thank you, Labo! I bet you guys wear white coats in your commercials, don’t you?

Slow News Month: Sex Sells, Part 2

8 Nov

Oh, for the love. Here we go again. I mean, come on people! Have we not yet learned that SEX SELLS?

Did you see my exposé (very risqué) on how cheap ploys of boobies on magazine covers might help boost slow August beach sales?

No, you didn’t? Oh. Well then. Go here. I’ll wait.

Did you click?

You didn’t?

Ok. Let me try a different tactic. Hang on.

Sex in Ancient Rome

Ah! Gotcha, didn’t I?

So, this is my point. We are about as evolved as cave people.

Anyhoo, all that to say how pleased I am that I get to walk my almost-six-year-old son past this poster at the newsstand every day this month. That there is just your run-of-the-mill vintage booby-stroking, on the cover of an erudite BBC-mastheaded publication about history. I’ve learned that if I act nonchalant, it seems normal. So far, so good. I don’t think he gives it a second glance. I, however, beg to differ.

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Here the big cover story is a cute little play on words. The term “brothels” in Italian literally translates to “closed houses.” So here, the genius copywriter went for the easy hook: “When the Closed Houses Were Open.” (Get it? Get it?! Open? Closed? So clever, right? I know. The mind boggles.) Subtitled: And if we were to reopen them?

Yeah, question mark. Don’t make that any sort of question. Please, I’m begging you: reopen them. As soon as possible.

Oh. I take it you didn’t read my other post. That one with the map?

See! You did it again. Trying to get away without clicking. Geez. You guys are a tough crowd. Here you go: Prostitution in Rome.

But, truly, folks? The best part of that cover story (besides the fact that it’s the second magazine about history that uses sex to sell, which is just brilliant), is the Sora Gemma poster.

Oh my gosh, are you serious? You’ve never heard of the legendary Sora Gemma? For shame!

Ok. So, there’s this poster that gets reproduced on magnets you can buy at the newsstand downtown. The poster is a sign that showed the price list for “Gemma’s Pleasure House” and it makes us modern-day folks have a good ha-ha because–well, come on! It’s a price list! For sexual stuff! That’s always comic gold, right?

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In all the reproductions, the man’s family jewels have been discreetly scratched out. I know. Total rip-off for us ladies. But, you know. Modesty and all.

People get a big kick out of this and related signage from the fascist period, when bordellos (in Italian that would be bordelli, and BTW, the word bordello in Rome is also slang for something akin to “a big mess”) were still open and running. We like to laugh at things printed in big block letters that say “Discounts for young men if it’s their first time!” etc. The etc. being other guffaw-worthy gems like “towel and water included in the price” and the extra 5 cent charge for soap and 25 cent charge for cologne, and the pricing based on half-hour, full hour, or a “doppietta.”

Ok, wait. In the interest of accurate reporting, I must now go and research what a doppietta was. Clearly the easy answer would be a threesome, right? Because “doppio” means double, and so one would logically assume that would mean two women, no? Hmm. Yahoo answers always comes to my rescue for these embarrassing questions I never want to admit I need answers to. That way I can point my digital finger and make fun of the person who was actually brave enough to post.

Yep! Thank you! Mr. Mendez even verbalizes what I missed, in his own question about what the heck a doppietta was: “The doppietta can’t possibly be two women, because it costs less than a half hour!” Mendez, rock on. That is a very astute observation you’ve made there.

Let’s phone a friend for the answer:

il singolo rapporto sessuale doveva durare sui 10 minuti

la doppia erano 20 minuti, intendendo che uno poteva avere 2 rapporti, cosa piuttosto difficile in 20 minuti…

con la mezz’ora potevi sbizzarrirti 0_0

Nicely done, by a user named “web ser,” who informs us that the sexual act was to be completed in a span of 10 minutes. Therefore, the “doppietta” means you could have sex twice, because simple math will tell us that 10 minutes + 10 minutes = 20 minutes, therefore still coming in well under (or at least theoretically one sexual act of intercourse under) the 30 minute price uptick. He also comments that of course depends on whether one was able to actually have two acts of sexual intercourse in 20 minutes, helpfully adding “rather difficult.” Hey, web ser! Speak for yourself! You have no idea who Gemma’s clientele was, now do you? These were virile men of the fascist era! Please, do not underestimate their testosterone-laden capabilities.

Our informed respondent then goes on to state at the end of his response that therefore: “in a half hour you could really go crazy.”

Nice. Thank you for that.

Oh, folks. Good times were had by all, I can assure you. Especially by Gemma who was laughing all the way to the bank, no doubt about it.

Personally though, in my tantalizing research for this post, I also enjoyed the following:

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Franca’s casino (another word for bordello, as a reader helpfully pointed out that gambling halls are called casinò with the accent on the O) has warm bidets and military discounts. It’s a win-win. Yes!

Or, how about a tip on decorum and just plain old good business sense:

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Kind clients, please don’t bother the women unless you’ve already paid. (Molestare in today’s parlance is akin to bother or annoy; however, I wouldn’t doubt if this was a bit more literal back in the 40s when this was still operative!)

Hey! You want an entire revealing slide show on the topic? Honestly. This fascinates me to no end. Go.

Still resisting, eh? What if I told you you could see this picture:

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And the caption says: Rome, 16 November 1949. Pieraccini responds to Merlin: “Honorable, you’ve said each woman had 100 appointments per day: that’s not possible [...] Even if you considered 15 minutes per appointment, 100 appointments would take 25 hours!”

Ha, ha. I told you you’d want to go look. God, you guys are so predictable, but I love you for it.

And, in closing, let me pass the mic to Indro Montanelli, Italian journalist and historian whose Wiki profile states “generally considered one of the greatest Italian journalists of the 20th century,” who had this to say on the matter:

Il bordello è l’unica istituzione italiana dove la competenza è premiata e il merito riconosciuto.
— Indro Montanelli

In other words: “The brothel is the only Italian institution where competence is prized and merit is recognized.”

Amen! No wonder he was so great. That there is what we in the business call “telling it like it is.”

Ok. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming. That is all. Until the next history magazine puts lewd photographs on its cover, that is. Just give it a month or two.

National Strike in Italy Means No School for You

17 Oct

Maybe.

Oh, love. Here in Italy the fun never ends.

So today when I went to pick my son up from elementary school, I found this sign taped to the school gate:

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It says:

On October 18, if the school gate is closed, it means that the number of employees joining in the strike is such that the minimum conditions necessary for providing scholastic services cannot be guaranteed.

In a way it’s sort of even more flowery and convoluted than that translation, but in other words: bring your kid to school tomorrow at 8:30 am like you do every day. Then, if when you get here, you see the gate is closed, that means: NO SCHOOL FOR YOU!

When I got there this afternoon, various moms waiting for their kids began to notice the sign.

“Was that sign there this morning?”

“Did you see that sign before?”

Everyone agreed that it was the first time they’d seen the sign. And then the courtyard chatter grapevine had it that the teachers had already decided that they weren’t going to participate in the national strike anyway, but they couldn’t say so, but in any case there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

In the end, no one really knew anything for sure, except for one thing: if the gate was closed, school would be closed.

I mean, just look at the sign. So Italian, in that it’s fully initialed. They are VERY big on official announcements having the “scarabocchio” of initials—that scribble that conveys such … officiality? Officialdom? Total and complete bureaucratic officialness?

It’s well known that scioperi (SHOW-pair-ee), or strikes, frequently interrupt daily life in Italy, and 9 times out of 10 (unscientific estimation on my part), they take place on a Friday. My only theory as to why this is, would be that it provides for a nice long weekend. Such a downer to strike on a Wednesday and then have to go back to work the next day!

National strikes like the one planned for tomorrow, however, are more disruptive than the typical transport strikes that occur on average once a month (again, unscientific data based on the fact that I ride the hulking, cumbersome and fickle beast known as Rome public transport to get around this city). In a national strike, it seems that more or less the whole country basically gets a day off. At least, the whole country that’s employed by the state.

I just typed in “sciopero” in Google and it automatically filled in the remainder for me: 18 ottobre. Nice.

So, tomorrow’s strike involves the entire national public administration, and La Repubblica reports that the reasoning behind this one, including the national demonstration here in Rome that will mean gridlock for anyone trying to move through downtown tomorrow, is to call for “a serious national plan for employment” and to protest “against all forms of temporary work.”

Italians still feel very strongly about iron-clad work contracts that virtually guarantee they can never be fired. When, in the past, I’ve told Italians about how most employment in the States is governed by an “at will” agreement, they are incredulous. I try to explain that despite the fact that yes, in theory you could be fired at any time for no reason whatsoever, in practice that generally doesn’t happen, and usually an employer will take reasonable steps to document and give fair chances for improvement before simply canning someone for poor performance or indiscretions.

Yeah–no. They don’t care. All they hear is “You can just be fired? Just like that?” which usually is a nice segue for them to begin berating the lack of public health care in America, with the requisite “I once heard a story about this guy…” that always ends in a person dying mercilessly on the curb of the ambulance lane in front of the greedy American hospital, because said dying person was without insurance. Bonus drama and relevancy points if it was an Italian tourist. Super extra bonus points if the said dying person was actually dying because his son accidentally shot him with one of the many unlocked guns he kept at home for no other reason than everyone knows that every American household has an unlocked gun cabinet full to bursting.

Well.

And, as if this whole strike-gate-closure-suspense weren’t already enough, can I tell you a little story from this morning too, while I was waiting for the bell to ring to let my son into school?

Ever since Vince started school last month, there have been a few times he’s mentioned to me that there’s no toilet paper in the restrooms. The first time, I thought it was maybe a fluke. The second time, I thought maybe a coincidence. The third time, my son actually started to think that quite possibly his mom was a total idiot. “Mom! I told you! There’s no toilet paper in the bathrooms!” I mean, the kid’s nearly six. He should know whether or not there’s TP to be had.

This morning I decided to ask around. I approached one of the moms who has been the kindest to me and nonchalantly asked, “My son told me the strangest thing: he said that there’s no toilet paper in the school bathrooms. Could that be?”

She smiled, not condescendingly, but sort of knowingly, and said to me, “We bring it ourselves.”

I told her that I had, in fact, told my son to bring his packs of Kleenex (that I am required by the school to keep him supplied with in his backpack) to the restroom with him. His response? Another “mom’s a dummy” one. “Mooommmmm! But THOSE are for blowing my nose!”

Oh.

My bad.

Nice mom then added helpfully, “We’re taking up a collection.”

WHAAAA?

A collection? So that we can supply our children with toilet paper should they need to make use of it in the school restrooms?

O DIIIIIIO.

You know, though, it’s not that uncommon. When my ex-husband had an outpatient surgery once, in a private clinic that accepted the NHS coverage, there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms either. Like, as in: on purpose. I had to actually go out to the grocery store and bring him rolls of toilet paper for his inpatient clinic overnight stay.

Oh man. Speaking of toilet paper brought back a REEEALLLY old post of mine. I mean, old as in seven years and one week ago. Kind of like the beginning of the ol’ Gettsyburg address. Four score and seven years and one week ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent, toilet paper.

Seriously, you should read this. I hear the girl who wrote it is a real barrel of laughs.

Anyhoo. I’ve got half a mind to just not even go to the gate tomorrow to even see if it’s closed. But just half a mind. Not sure how the other half feels yet.

Roman Coffee That is Un-Politically Correct

8 Sep

I dunno, folks. I mean, call me crazy, whatever; it wouldn’t be the first time, and certainly won’t be the last. But, yeah. I’m just thinking, time for a logo update for Moca Caffè Roma.

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Maybe I’m reading waaaay too much into this. But frankly, am I the only one who sees this sugar packet and logo as an iconic example more than slightly reminiscent of blackface minstrel shows? And am I supposed to think that it was “mere coincidence” that the name of the coffee is Moca brand?

And, as an aside, Dio Mio if you click on their site. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Pseudo Barry White-slash-70s wanna-be porno music? I mean, what IS that? And, why do websites even NEED music? Bleh.

But I digress.

Nowhere on their site could I find any commentary about the history of the logo, what it’s supposed to represent, or whatever. So, I’m kind of at a loss here.

So: boh. I’ll let you be the judge. Not like I’m covering anything new here. I mean, who among us still hasn’t watched this by-now infamous Coloreria Italiana commercial? Always brings up mixed commentary.

I never saw the Fiat ad below until I did a bit o’ research for this post. Racial stereotypes aside, this commercial is just poorly done. Crappy, hack-produced creative. Trading on bullshit race stereotypes like this is just as lazy as trading on tired and worn ploys that use the old “sex sells” as a mantra and use women as objects, like the recent Philly campaign here in Italy and the other related advertising in that post.

And, I’ve discussed political correctness and racism on the blog before. It always sparks interesting debate.

What say you, o popolo, about these sugar packets? Are they, no pun intended, in bad taste? I always do research on my posts, at least cursory Google searches anyways, and no matter how I looked in Italian or English, no one seems to have talked about this before, so I guess I can draw the hasty conclusion that it’s not being perceived as even worthy of comment. Even so, these are the things I notice and think about, for what it’s worth! (Free blog. Be nice.)