A How-To Shopping Guide for Christmas

Don’t know what to get your loved ones this holiday season? Are you stumped about what constitutes an office appropriate gift? Maxed out your credit cards and are now shopping in your house for the best re-gifting options? Well, let me help you. Follow these fool-proof steps and you will be sure to illicit tears of joy from your friends and family as they tear into your very thoughtful and artfully wrapped present (Side note: I suggest that, when at all possible, alcohol be consumed before and during the gift giving presentation, by both giver and receiver. All gifts look 10 times better when viewed through the bottom of a wine glass, or if you’re in the Christmas spirit, a brandy-imbued glass of eggnog). 

Chachkies: Remember that one time your grandmother told you she liked snowmen? You know your aunt who likes to wear scarves sometimes? What about your father who likes to play golf? Take these tid-bits of meaningless information and run wild. Give your aunt so many scarves she can sew them together to make hot air balloon, fly away to the Land of Scarves, and become their queen. Make every present golf-centric so that your father eats, breaths, and thinks only golf, eventually just turning into a giant golf ball. Case in point, my grandmother now has so much snowman-related paraphernalia, it looks as if we are getting ready to entomb her, Tutankhamen style, so that, in the afterlife, she can be surrounded by an endless supply of pillows, sweaters, candles, pens, coasters, puzzles, and a million other items that are covered with white snowy men sporting top hats, carrot noses, and corn-cob pipes. I myself have experienced this kind of theme-specific gift giving. It may or may not be known that I am fond of cats. However, I think my “obsession”, as some people are want to call it, is driven by the constant bestowal of feline products. I am now no longer worried that I will become a Cat Lady but rather I’m sure that every cat pin, cat memo pad, and cat salt-and-pepper-shaker-set is driving me slowly insane. Much like my grandmother, I too will meet my maker surrounded by cat products, just like the Egyptians would have wanted.

Consumables: This piece of gift-giving advice comes courtesy of my father: Give people things they can “consume”, be it food or soap or mints or lotion. A useful suggestion that I continue to use. However, my father takes it to another level. Never one to skirt on quantity, my father has been known to ship several boxes of wine home from a trip to Tuscany, or buy town cars so large I’m sure you need a special limo driver’s license to pilot them. Our refrigerator is known to carry within not one, not two, but probably 10 blocks of various cheeses, each the size of a cement block. You get what I’m saying, bigger is better. So it comes as no surprise that when running downstairs to open our stockings, my siblings and I found plastic shopping bags underneath the tree filled with giant 2-gallon bottles of Pantene Pro V, a six pack of Ban deodorant, and enough gum to build yourself a little house to live in, like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. Show people you care by giving them so many industrial sized toiletry products that they could open their own kiosk in the mall. I find, the more you give, the more you distract from the underlying message of the gift, which is, you smell. Or, you could be like my sister and revel in the fact that you don’t have to buy soap or shaving cream for the next 6 months. 

Matchy-matchy: This gift is specific to the couples in your life. It could be your parents, a set of brothers, your grandparents, or your nieces and nephews all closely related in age. It has been a tradition in my family that my grandparents would give my parents and my aunt and uncle matching sweaters or dress-shirts. I adore this idea. I want my Christmas to look like a well-costumed event with mandatory uniforms. Plus, you can insist the receiver IMMEDIATELY try on their newly received pink wool pull-over or handsome blue and green checked button-down cardigan. Time for pictures! My grandmother loved, loved, LOVED the color pink. Mauve really was her favorite shade. It was a sentiment not shared by my mother and aunt. Still, their willingness to don their matching sweater vests really did remind me the true meaning of Christmas: do it with style. I, of course, am exempt from this tradition. I am isolated on an island of age in my family, separated by 10 years from my nearest older sibling and nearest younger niece. Therefore, my family resorts to my first suggestion, i.e., cat kitsch.

Re-gifting: My favorite thing to re-gift is candles. I’m just not interested in lighting things on fire in my house. I appreciate the idea, but unless you host parties, which I do not, I don’t need tea candles and meltable smelling wax in my kitchen. Plus, if you don’t use them, they collect dust in at a rate I am sure is contrary to the laws of physics. But, for some reason, most people have a little bit of pyromaniac in them. And this lust for waves of hot perfumed apple, cinnamon, pumpkin, and cedar wood has birthed an ocean of smells so great you might drown in your indecision over what candle communicates “World’s Best Mother-In Law” . Yankee Candle is out of control. I recently bought (I was out of candles to re-gift) some votive candles for a friend and I was overwhelmed with the selection. Food and plant smells are abundant, and expected, but more concerning are the non-tangible scents: Storm Watch, Be Thankful, Drift Away, and, my favorite, Angel Wings. Angel Wings?! Who is lighting cherubs on fire and then duplicating the smell?! If you’re unsure on what scent most says “I Am a Valued Employee” to your boss, go for a creative candle design. I have seen candles molded in every possible shape, from the Effile Tower to flying angles (again with burning cherubs) and even human body parts. Now you can give a thoughtful, custom-made candle stick to your passive-aggressive neighbor, the wax molded into the shape of their head. While others will see a pleasant exchange between friends, you both know it’s a subtle warning: if I have to tell you to turn down your Housewives of Beverly Hills Marathon one more time, acts of arson will take place. Now go light your face on fire. Merry Christmas!

Gift cards: To me, gift cards say so much, as in, they say exactly how poor you are at that moment. I cannot give these because I spend all my money on international travel….for myself. To give you a $5 dollar gift card to Target is tantamount to me confessing “I am not a responsible adult and I spent all my money on a three-day trip into the jungles of northern Thailand.” But, if you want to share with everyone exactly how much of your tax return is still left over from this past April, just go to the check-out of any grocery store and load-up on Apple, Barnes&Nobles, and Dunkin Donuts plastic gift cards, redeemable for the next calendar year at values of $10, $20 and $50 sums. I have to say, it would make transporting your gifts much easier. As it is, I’m wondering how I am going to stuff €100 worth of Italian candy and wine into my suitcase without it breaking and melting en route. (Side note: I once bought a very expensive box of Florentine chocolates as a present to give the mother of my then boyfriend. I was POSITIVE this was the most thoughtful gift I could give and I was sure I would be beloved for all time. However, when I finally gave her the box, the candies had melted, probably because it was summer and I had forgotten the chocolates in my bag, which I might have left in the car to bake in the sun, for 3 hours. You can guess what kind of gooey horror she unwrapped. Did I mention this was the first time I was meeting this woman? Things did not go well from there…)

Jazz hands: So, I’m an opera singer. Not a professional one, but in my head I tell myself I’m good enough to be in the chorus. The star of the chorus. If I auditioned. Anyways, I have found that offering to sing and entertain sometimes is the greatest gift of all. This mostly only works for my grandmother, but my mother has also been known to shed a tear after I finish my aria. Usually it’s after I sing a song from Madame Butterfly and my mother moans “Men are awful!” (Side note: If you don’t know anything about opera, it’s mostly powerful men doing terrible things to women who have no viable problem-solving skills, and everyone is singing about it, for 4 hours.) But my penchant for performing didn’t start with me. I give credit to my sister who once made my then 8 year-old-brother dress-up in a kimono so he could star alongside her in her self-penned “Dating in Japan” on Christmas morning. I have sung at birthday parties, family reunions, and, this year, I will reprise my one-woman opera spectacular as I take the stage at my grandmother’s assisted-living care facility. So, break out your xylophone, put on your tap shoes, and show-off your comedic skills by insisting people listen to you monologue for 10 minutes about  What’s The Deal With Airplane Food (I may have just recently watched all of Jerry Seinfeld’s web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee). And remember, there is no greater gift than the gift of forced audience participation, God bless us everyone. 

Happy Holidays!

Tips for Dating in Rome, a.k.a. Just Do the Exact Opposite of What I Do

So, I haven't written in QUITE SOME TIME, I think it's been a year. Lawd. Anyways, someone recently told me I was funny (ME!) Clearly, this means I'm going to be the next Mark Twain Award for American Humor winner, so let's add to my already prolific blogging career and churn out another post that will inevitably lead to an HBO deal.


I have now lived in Italy for almost 8 years and I have been single for half that time. The recent half. Traveling and living by myself has been great. I am a control freak. A tall, Protestant, prudent, control freak, so I like bossing myself around with noone else present to interfere in my diligent self-moderation. But, as single people are known to do, I occasionally go on a date. Sometimes I even go on multiple dates with the same person. It happens people! I was recently talking to a friend and after I showed her the picture of the guy I went out with the evening previous, she said, "Oh, he's so cute!" She did not understand my immediate suspicion. "You can't trust the good-looking ones. The more attractive they are, the more you must assume they are the worst person you are ever going to meet. Don't you know that?" Apparently, my married for 5 years friend did not know this.

I would like to tell you all that nothing prepares an American woman to date in Italy. I'm not talking about the experience of having an Italian boyfriend (that is another blog post which I am, truthfully, ill-informed to write about). Rather, it is the process of dating them that I'm unceasingly baffled by. There is a never ending struggle to overcome your otherness, your "Americaness". Men here see you through red, white and blue glasses. But even if they can come to terms with you being from the states, you probably will never quite comprehend their Italian ways. Now, all the single ladies will tell you that physical beauty is a world-wide red herring in the dating world. But there is a minefield of cultural-specific romantic social interactions that you must memorize if you want to survive in the Roman dating world. I am in the trenches. This is my Vietnam. So from the front lines, this is what I have learned.

1) Be prepared to see your life flash before your life while riding on their Vespa. I know you all think it Gregory Peck and Audry Hepburn having a Vespa good time around the Coliseum. Go ahead. Live in that dream for a while. What if I told you that every time I'm on a Vespa with a man, I'm white-knuckling it ala Sandra Bullok and Keanue Reeves in Speed except I keep screaming in my brain "If you go over 50mph we're going to hit some grandma on the crosswalk and then we'll be in a legal battle with her estate for the rest of my life!" There are no rules in Roman driving. Everyone is triple parked, traffic lights are suggestions, and people will stop, reverse, and curse you out if you try and cut them off. I've seen it. I know. But... it's sexy you think. Come and pick me up on your two-wheeled dream machine Fabio. No. Don't. Imma meet you there Fabio. I'm taking the bus.

2) Jump aboard the complain train but beware... Italians love to complain. Especially men. Mostly about their own country. It is remarkable. Join in, but, you MUST NEVER offer any unflattering opinions about either of the following: their mother or their favorite soccer team. Now, the mother issue is self-explanatory. But the sports thing.... yikes. They really take it seriously. I once literally saw the little man that operates the mental faculties in a guys head hit the autopilot button after I said, casually, "I don't care about Totti". Game. Over.

3) Do not use the wrong hand towel in their house. So, let's revisit the mama thing. There's a weird kind of passive-aggressive Mommie Dearest relationship going on with most men and their mothers in Italy, though I'm never quite sure who is the Joan and who is the Christina. In truth, it's pretty harmless. But I have experienced it's full extent if taken to ridiculous house decorating extremes. Once, I was told, very specifically, which hand towel to use the bathroom. (Side note: Let me just say, this gentleman didn't live with his parents. This information will become important in a minute). Anyways, I wasn't really listening. I figured it would be self-explanatory. Well, my friends, I used wrong towel. Why is this a problem you ask? I was immediately chastised with a fervent "MY MOTHER DOESN'T WANT ME TO USE THESE TOWELS! SHE'LL BE SO ANGRY WHEN SHE WASHES THEM!" Let's take a moment and analyze this outburst. 1) Why can't you use these towels? More importantly, why are said towels in the bathroom in plain sight if you can't use them? Where is this linen-specific prejudice coming from? and 2) WHY IS YOUR MOTHER WASHING YOUR SHIT WHEN YOU LIVE BY YOURSELF?! Sorry, that's my Christian Reformed self-sufficient work ethic kicking in. I think my mother told me how to use the washing machine at 8 years old. I'm positive my my father's single piece of advice to me every morning when I got out of the car to go to school was, "Stay out of jail." I can't fathom such towel-specific parental interference in your 30s.

4) You better know how to cook. On almost every date, I am asked if and what I cook. Then they want details. "How do you cook the pancetta?" "How do you boil the pasta?" "How much salt do you use in the sauce?" This is a test. They are seeing if you can cook like their mother so that you can serve as a suitable replacement when mama dies...which is never! The greater the mama's boy your dating, the longer his mother will live. She'll outlive both of you and then just tell your children you didn't know how to make marinara sauce correctly. Anyways, my trick is to say my culinary forte is Mexican or Chinese or Spanish cuisine. No Italian man understands cooking requirements which extend outside the Motherland, so you're safe with a non-Italian food preference. Safe as in they won't criticize your cooking skills. Instead they'll just say all non-Italian food is too spicy/fatty/salty/dry/etc. If all else fails, I tell them I'm vegan. I mean, I am a vegan, it's not a lie, but they don't know quite how to respond to such strict diet other than to say "No steak? What?! Che palle." Also, don't ever tell them you like to eat sushi or they will ask you if you suffer from parasites in your intestines. True story.

5) They are going to seduce you. I would like to tell you that after all my many years here in Italy, I would be immune to Italian charm. But, alas, I am not. Italian men are really good at it. The Chianti, the cobblestone streets, their Mediterranean accent coupled with that thick forest of casually tossed black hair. Are you swooning yet? Well, should you find yourself in an untimely euphoric state rendered upon you by Rome's most charming son, fear not! You need only ask them what they think about dating. In general. Just a causal question. Most of them will veer right off romantic road and into the wild jungle so fast you might choke on your drink. This is a good test for me: if we're on a first date and it's going well (too well) I ask them a nonspecific question about their dating past. 90% of the time, the recount every story about their ex-girlfriends. And what their mother thought about it. Once, I got some interesting prostitute stories. If that doesn't shock you back to your senses, then you need to limit your alcohol consumption because you've clearly had too much (I speak from experience). The other 10% of the time, when they're perfect, you're just going to have to accept your going to fall in love with them and they are going to break your heart. It happens. It's fine. That's why God gave us dark chocolate and Netflix for afterwards.

6) It's not all the worst, just mostly terrible. I'm sure some of you think I'm generalizing unfairly here. No, not every Italian man between 25 and 40 is a slimy sycophant dressed in gorgeous Armani clothing. I have met some lovely Italian men....who are dating my friends or who are gay. My scientific deductive reasoning has lead me to conclude one thing: they cannot handle my blonde hair. It really is like moths to a flame. I have asked them about this. "It's true. Blonde hair: That's the dream." Clearly everyone here has watched Rapunzel one too many times. I am positive it is the single source of almost all my dates. It's my black AmEx, my free-entry to all exhibits pass. It's a double edged-sword though. It's like if I were to try and date a Masai warrior. I cannot wrap my brain around these lion hunting, spear throwing tribesmen. I can't effectively communicate with someone whose mere image has made such an impression in my brain that I can't modify it even after I have new information. In the same way, most Italian men have specific beliefs about blondes. I blame Anita Ekberg. Well, I'm an Anita Ekberg with an Angela Merkel trapped inside. This information does not compute in the Italian male mind. They keep putting coins in the Blonde Sex Siren Gumball Machine and all that comes out is feminism and practical money management advice. Charming, right? And if you are a brunette and are having problems, I don't know what to tell you.

That's it. That's what I've learned. Not a lot, right? Nope, not a lot. I have a masters in political science, know how to sing opera, have run marathons around the world, and can cook you a 40lbs turkey without breaking a sweat, but, I can't write you a very good dating guide. My best advice, write it all down so you'll have great stories to tell your friends......or your therapist.