Buona Sera

Funny thing about stereotypes. They're funny as hell, because they're generally true. Take my in-laws (Please! Thank-you-I'm-here-all-night-don't-forget-to-tip-your-waitress). They're Italian, which of course means they have plastic covering their couches and a Virgin Mary statue on their front lawn- which should by default also have a red, white and green painted fire hydrant at the curb. Nope. None of that stereotypical Italian (pronounced eye-talian) crap is around. BUT. They are transplants from Jersey by way of Staten Island by way of Brooklyn (naturally) with a crazy cool, long ass Italian last name. There are innumerable Tonys and Nicks and Eddies in the family, with the occasional Rocco thrown in, just for fun. Of COURSE there've always been stories of a Tony or 2 in the "slot machine business" which means they're not in the slot machine business at all. And in their favor, not once have they ever said "fugeddaboudit". But to really bring it home, they're Catholic AND had way too many kids for their own good- not *because* they're Catholic, but because they...well that's gross and now I'll have to drink bleach, just to wipe out the image.

Funny thing about maxi dresses. I generally hate them. On a gal that's already tall like me, wearing a maxi makes me look even taller and feel awkward and out of place and Attack of the 50 Foot Woman-y. Maxis remind me of bad (read: awesome) 70's lounge-y cocktail parties, complete with platforms and ludes. The crazy ass hostess, cigarette dangling out of mouth, spilling her Tom Collins down the front of her day glow brocade gown, mouth kissing "the help" and calling everyone sweety or Steve. Like a white trashier version of Auntie Mame or Mrs. Roper. Yet through my seething rage over 70's party gowns, *I* want to wear the ridiculous lurex and beaded gown, *I* want to drink too many Harvey Wallbangers and *I* want to get grabby with the help. I will never admit it but I secretly really want to be that crazy broad.



Pay no attention to Chrissy's camel toe, riding high onto dangerous ground, threatening to swallow her whole.

And I secretly want to wear this dress from beulahsvintage.

.

It's stereotypically everything I hate- post 50's fashion, long, orange and SO 60's it's painful. Yet it's somehow wonderful.

You tell anyone and you sleep with the fishes, capiche?