|My beautiful lunch.|
This morning, I met up with Jeanny, who I haven't seen in what feels like forever. We exchanged Christmas presents and went out for lunch at an outdoor restaurant in front of the Pantheon. It amazes me that even in December, I can have a meal outside in just a sweater and be comfotable. She had to go home early, which gave me several hours to spare before I had to be home to take are of the little
|I didn't purposely order my gelato to make it Canadian|
colours. I just like rasberry and coconut together!
Italian devils. I was still sad about Zoe leaving, so I did the best thing to cheer myself up - I took myself shopping. Oh, what fun I had! I got myself a hot chocolate (and gelato, of course), and let me tell you... Italians know how to do hot chocolate. Canada - we're doing it all wrong. They're very literal. Basically, this is how you make hot chocolate in Italy.
Step 1: Turn on the stove.
Step 2: Find some chocolate. When you do, put it in a tiny pot and put it over the fire.
Step 3: Once chocolate is completely melted and forms a liquid substance, pour into cup.
Step 4: Drink.
I don't think my taste buds have ever been so satisfied. Then I went to Yamamay, which is like the Victoria's Secret of Europe. Lingerie is my guilty little pleasure, and I haven't bought myself anything sexy in a while (unless melted chocolate in a cup counts). I only bought
three thongs, and you don't even want to know how much it cost me. Normally, I don't like salespeople. When I shop I know what I'm looking for and I don't want to be pushed by some loafer-wearing woman who wears too much red lipstick. But I was treated like a queen by these people. I was the only person in the shop at the time, and I was fussed over by two impossibly skinny Italian women. I ventured over to the section that beckoned me and the one woman comes up to me and asks for my size.
I didn't know my European butt size, so I just said 'small'. She looked me up and down and said, "You're a one. You have such tiny hips." Goodness! That's the best compliment I've gotten all day! Until the other woman at the counter behind me said, "But she has a round butt, so I think she's a two." Double goodness! Just to be sure they got their measuring tape out, measured my hips, ass width, and south of
|Just me modeling my new gear.|
my border... And I am, in fact, a two. BY THE WAY: for my Italian male readers who have an affection for me and don't know what to send me this holiday season, here's your hint... Lingerie. Size two for bottoms.
Because I'm in the spirit for good conversation about lingerie, I think its only appropriate to share a page from my favourite book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert:
Over the last months in Italy, my word has largely been PLEASURE, but that word doesn't match every single part of me, or I wouldn't be so eager to get myself to India. My word might be DEVOTION, though this makes me sound like more of a goody-goody than I am and doesn't take into account how much wine I've been drinking. I don't know the answer, and I suppose that's what this year of journeying is about. Finding my word. But one thing I can say with all assurance - it ain't SEX.
Or so I claim, anyhow. You tell me, then, why today my feet led me almost on their own accord to a discreet boutique off of the Via Condotti, where - under the expert tutelage of the silky young Italian shop girl - I spent a few dreamy hours (and a transcontinental airline ticket's worth of money) buying enough lingerie to keep a sultan's consort outfitted for 1,001 nights.
I bought bras of every shape and formation. I bought filmy, flimsy camisoles and
|The infamous pearl thong sold|
exclusively at La Petite Coquette
sassy bits of panty in every colour of the Easter basket, and slips that came in creamy satins and hush-now-baby silks, and handmade little bits of strings and things and basically just one velvety, lacy, crazy valentine after another.
I have this book at home about a famous lingerie shop in New York City called La Petite Coquette (French for The Little Flirt). It describes the history of lingerie, the do's and dont's, the trends, and everything one would ever want to know about bras, thongs, G strings, boy shorts, garters, bustiers, baby doll's, corsets and slips. One thing this book taught me was a very valuable lesson that I haven't let go of. It posed the question, "Why save lingerie for special occasions?" Huh. A real toughie, isn't it? Why should you save a few hot pieces for things like Valentine's Day, or your (and his) birthday, anniversary, or whatever date big enough to circle on the calendar? Why don't you toss out your
colourless and shapeless underthings and replace them with sexy, shiny, sparkly, lacy, silky, leathery, sheer, naughty bits that you can wear all the time? After reading this book, I did!
I hit up La Senza and bought myself pretty much everything that Liz Gilbert wrote bolded above. And I wear it all the time, because I deserve to feel sexy. When I was wore the same uniform as a thousand other people in my uptight Catholic school, what do you think I was wearing underneath it? A cream coloured bra and underwear set from Sears? Noooo! And I must say - there's something that makes even the dullest days brighter knowing that you're secretly wearing something hot underneath. Even on days when I just feel like wearing jeans and a plain T Shirt, I can assure you that I'm wearing pretty lingerie underneath it. I don't own ugly underthings, and neither should you.