Eat. Pray F*ck.

When In Rome, Don’t Wear A Short Skirt

Unless you want to start a riot and get your cardio workout for the day

I made the mistake of going out in a short skirt in Rome yesterday. Holy shit, I’ve never been yelled at like that. Guys on buses, in cars, on little Vespas, guys I walked past, old men standing in front of shops. All of them yelling shit at me in Italian that I didn’t understand.

The worst were the street cleaners in Campo di’ Fiore. Their bulging eyes were practically glued to my crotch area while they sprayed down the piazza with water.

I even got a whistle from the Carabinieri. I mean, come on! Even the military police can’t control themselves around this tight little skirt of mine.

“Thank you, thank you,” I would respond, and keep my head down, hurrying along.

See, I don’t have much experience with catcalling. There are no pedestrians in Los Angeles, so when somebody does see you walking along, they assume your car broke down. They pull over and ask you if you need a jump, or some gas, or “a ride back to your car”.

But in other cities I’ve been catcalled some. Especially when I wear a short skirt or shorts. It’s the legs. God gave them to me as compensation for giving me barely any boobs and hardly an ass. Well, thanks. Sometimes it is nice to have “hot legs.” Especially when playing tennis, for instance. I usually can win just by tugging my tennis skirt up a bit during the crucial points, distracting the opposition, you know.

And in Italy, it’s no different.

So yesterday I made the mistake of thinking it was time to introduce the legs to Roma. They are a couple of trouble makers, my legs, and I guess I was in the mood to stir up some trouble like a pot of Nonna’s spaghetti.

At first, it was a little uncomfortable. Their mouth gaped open with their eyes scanning my legs up and down like lasers. If they felt ballsy enough, they’d throw in a “ciao bella” or some other compliment (at least I hoped it was a compliment).

But as the day went on, I actually started to calm down about their mating calls. After lunch, I walked by a middle-aged butcher on a smoke break, and guess what. He didn’t say a single thing. Not even a glare or a wink or a smile as my legs brushed past his blood-stained apron.

I was hurt. Was I no longer beautiful? Did I lose all my sex appeal? Did he find my skirt too long and modest?

It was a very bleak few minutes while I contemplated my attractiveness. Thankfully, a couple of guys drinking espresso outside hollered at me as I walked by, reassuring my deepest, darkest fears.

Christine’s back in the game!

I Broke Up With My Boyfriend And Hired Him As My Personal Assistant

All in the same conversation! What a productive day I had!

I know what you’re thinking. Why should I be actively seeking all this attention from hot, Italian men when I have a loving, caring boyfriend waiting for me back home?

See, I worked it out with my boyfriend. I broke up with him and hired him all in the same conversation.

It was intense. He cried when I came clean and told him I was over here in Europe to “have adventures” and by adventures, yes, I meant sleeping with other people if I felt like it.

I hate when men cry.

But he seemed to cheer up when I announced his salary, the money I was going to pay him to do everything I needed him to do — take care of my dog and all my business in LA while I’m gone.

He wanted to move out. “Your lodging will not be considered part of the package,” I told him. “You may continue to live at my house rent-free for at least a year, or until I come back.”

“OK!” he said, after thinking it over. “So…I have a job!”

“That’s right! Congratulations!”

He’s been unemployed for as long as I’ve known him — two years. Probably more. Maybe he’s never been employed, I don’t really know. But he was pretty excited.

And I felt so much better.

“OK, talk to you later, Boss,” he said, at the end of our conversation. “I love you.”

“No, we don’t say that to our bosses, Aron,” I corrected.

“Right! I am grateful to you! Talk to you soon, Boss!”

“Bye.”

Honesty is so important to your mental health. I felt kind of crazy running off to Italy like this and not explaining things properly.

Fate Lead Me To Him

So that’s why I felt it was time to introduce the legs to Roma, I guess. I finally felt that “all of me” was here, in this beautiful, crazy city. And I just wanted to walk around all day in a short skirt so they (and me) could get the attention we both deserved.

But at the end of the day, I was done with being whistled at and catcalled. It was exhausting and I decided the best defense was an effective offense.

“Hey baby!” I started yelling at passersby. “Come to Mama, you sexy Italian thing. Come on baby!! Woot woot!

I guess that’s what started “the riot.”

I couldn’t tell if the men were offended by tasting their own medicine or if they were taking me up on my offer. But I didn’t want to hang around to find out.

Soon there was a mob of about fifty Italians giving chase. I had leaped on one of those electric scooter things and was weaving in and out of traffic, taking the small cobblestone alleys when I could to escape. The horns were blaring, people were screaming, I was starting to get scared.

“Bella, here, come this way,” called a husky Italian voice behind a very old, wooden door of a stable or shed. “You will be safe.”

I peered inside and saw two hazel eyes staring back at me. My heart was racing and I didn’t have much time before the mafioso would find me. I had to hide. I hopped off the scooter and slithered through the opening of the door, shutting it behind me.

“Do not worry, bella,” the voice whispered. “I’m here now.”

I looked up saw the face of the first man I would sleep with in Rome.

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