La Bella Figura, translated literally means “the beautiful figure.” It can mean many things but for Italians it is a way of life and it means the way one appears and presents oneself in the world. Italians are very protective of La Bella Figura, they guard it with their lives and would do anything to preserve it. It might be hard for us to understand, but in essence Italians take pride in the way they look, not only physically, but also figuratively and most importantly how they look in other people’s eyes. They are obsessed about making the best impression everywhere and at all times. In their minds there is a certain way that one is supposed to behave and act, and if one doesn’t … oh, well then it is a Brutta Figura (ugly figure)!
This way of thinking permeates the essence of the Italian being. No wonder Italians are known for beauty, presentation, quality and luxury. For centuries, they have mastered the art of presenting oneself in the most perfect way possible. Beauty is valued and respected in Italy as one of the venerated assets of the culture. From the art to the architecture and all the way to the perfectly designed dress, the Bella Figura can be found in the style and fashion we love and follow today. Just think about the effort Italian women make every day when they put on their stilettos and walk down the cobblestone street, now that is dedication! Keep reading »
When I first moved back home with my parents after a nasty breakup, there was much to be embarrassed about. What was a 26-year-old (and eventually 27-year-old) doing moving back into her childhood bedroom? Why couldn’t I have become an investment banker so I had thousands of dollars saved for a situation like that? I had to see my parents every single day and answer their myriad questions about where I was going, what I was doing, and if that was what I was really wearing. (Yes.) I had to ask permission to borrow their cars. I had to explain to guys from online dating that I lived with my parents. And, of course, I had vibrators, lingerie and sex books to hide.
But moving back with the ‘rents was the best possible decision for sure. I don’t want to sleep on anyone’s couch and I especially don’t want to wear out my welcome on anyone’s couch. More importantly, though, I was a shellshocked. I needed some TLC, lots of margaritas, and several seasons of “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” on Netflix Instant — as well as time, space, and rent-free living — to get myself back on my feet. When I move back to New York City into a new apartment next weekend, I will take my love and gratitude towards Mom and Dad right along with me. Here are four things I’ve learned after moving back in with my parents — for better or for worse — as an adult… Keep reading »
Let me preface this story by saying this is NOT the about the woman who breastfed her dad to save his life. This is an entirely different tale of father/daughter relations starring Penny Lawrence (28) and her long lost, dad, Gary Ryan (46). Read on, after the jump. Keep reading »
I’d stay up until 3 or 4 a.m. the room lit with a pink glow, filled with the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. I was 16 when I joined Girlpunk.net. This all-girl forum quickly became a window out of my small town. It made me feel like the life I wanted was possible—punk shows, wild clothes, sneaking into clubs. These were the girl friends I always dreamed of. Dream girls who I would trade studded clothes with, and dance all lanky and cool next to. Girls to fall asleep with, side by side. Keep reading »
This weekend, I was running errands in my neighborhood when I bumped into someone I slept with in the last year. (Narrows it down, doesn’t it? Ha!) Immediately, I felt overwhelmingly flustered. In fact, I may have spoken some form of gibberish. After exchanging pleasantries — his sensical, mine, not so much — we went our separate ways, but I found myself weirdly shaken up. It was the sort of thing that I would have previously associated as a sign that I had romantic feelings for that person; my shaky hands an indicator of nervous sexual energy, and the vague nausea in my stomach would have been called “butterflies.” I would have relished that feeling, called it “thrilling.” Wondered when I would see that person in a naked capacity again and, Oh! Did he feel it too? Ah, the mystery. Isn’t that what makes romance so exciting?
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