Sabrina Zollo's Blog, page 2

I don’t speak Man

I don’t speak Man. It’s not a language I’m eager to speak fluently. But after years of confusion and embarrassing misinterpretation, I’d like to share my learnings with my female readers (all 2 of you) to save you from awkward questions.

1. Quotes from stupid movies

Vince Vaughn and the Wedding Crashers are quoted with fervent frequency. Just don’t ask. You don’t want to know what “motor-boating” means.

 

2. Offensive references for women

As clarification to men, being called a MILF is not a compliment, even if men think being called a DILF is.

3. “mm-hmm, uh-huh, oh really?”

If you’re having a conversation with a man and these are the only words he’s saying, he’s not listening, but rather thinking about sex, sports or food. But not all at the same time because that would be multi-tasking and impossible for a man.

4. Expressions containing references to balls

Admittedly, the term “balls” has crossed the gender line (e.g., having balls, growing balls, etc) but more aggressive iterations, such as “balls to the wall” have not.  As a point of comparison, would a woman ever say, “grow a vagina”?

5. Guy code

As a testament to the strength of the guy code, I haven’t quite cracked this one yet.

I like pretty shiny things

I’m a girlie girl. I like pretty things. I’m distracted by shiny objects. I want to dance with fashion models in glossy magazine spreads and clothing TV commercials set against white backgrounds with a fan softly blowing my hair.

I want to believe that skintight pleather pants look good on me; that designer bags are a rational investment; that 5″ stiletto heels are comfortable; and that mirrors in change rooms aren’t strategically positioned to make me look skinnier and taller.

The reality is that only 0.1% of the population actually look good in snakeskin jeggings or a thong bikini, and that most of them reside in Brazil.

I’m not a cynic, I’m a fashion realist. That 0.1% of the population are freaks. Freaks of nature that have been airbrushed after hours of hair and makeup and captured at the most flattering angle in perfect lighting. Fashion is fantasy. And so this realist will be returning her shiny, skintight pleather pants…but keeping the shoes.

Burlesque Strippers and Snowstorms

What do burlesque strippers and snowstorms have in common? The correct answer is that they should have absolutely nothing in common. But if you’re me, they’re quite commonly common.

In my (yet-to-be) illustrious career as an author, I’ve had two book events: my book launch party, which was double booked with a burlesque strip show (naturally), and a Meet & Greet at Indigo, which happened to coincide with Snowmageddon 2013. Burlesque strippers and angry snowstorms, both formidable forces of nature, have unceremoniously shut down my author events.

Amidst the burlesque stripping/my book launch party, my good friend Brad consoled me: “Girls get upset because they have a vision, and guys just roll with it.” I suspect it’s a lot easier for guys to roll with it when there’s nudity involved, but I got the message.

In a visit to the unfamiliar territory of turning lemons into lemonade, these unwelcome events have taught me how to turn that frown upside down! :)

Little known fact: did you know that burlesque stripping, no matter how unexpected or inappropriate, is commonly enjoyed by all? And, my book event got rescheduled, allowing me a much longer time to milk it.

So how do I feel about my next author event? I’m ready for you, Irony, whatever you may bring. Because that’s how I roll (now).

25 Ways to Mock Me

I discovered a video cleverly disguised as 25 Ways to Wear a Scarf. At first blush, this video is sunshine and puppies. However, do not be fooled. This video is designed by a sadist to mock your lack of coordination and leave you emotionally fatigued to the point of self-despair. You will soon realize that the cute, delightful model is your nemesis, taunting your fashion naiveté and dreams of effortless style.

And so Fashion thrives, on our delusions that true happiness could only be realized by being skinny, beautiful and fashionable. For example, maybe I’m not a supermodel, but these shoes totally make me look like one from the ankle down. One could also tell by the nonchalant way in which I drape my scarf that I’m just as carefree as Kim Kardashian.

So in conclusion, I recommend you watch this video and if you figure out how to do the Basic Loop, please show me how!

The Pick-up Artiste

I think I could start a lucrative business consulting to men on how to properly approach and pick up a woman. I have been on the receiving end of varied attempts ranging from laughable, to laughably sad to sadly psychotic. The one I will share skews on the laughably psychotic side.

A man ran up to me on the street one day, exclaiming how much he loves my hair. We will call him Federico.

“Bella, I’m a hairstylist,” he said, assuming this gave him permission to stroke my hair. He insisted that I be in his next hair show and that we exchange numbers. At this point I’m convinced he’s the next hairstylist superstar and not heterosexual. I was mistaken.

Federico incessantly stalked me via text and v-mail, demanding to see me, his communication void of hair shows, bellas, and flamboyant flair, if you will.

One would think it is common knowledge that attempting to pick up a woman by pretending to be a gay hairstylist and engaging in predatory stalking activity will result in failure and possible arrest.

But alas, there is a very broad market in need of help – a very broad, unstable and potentially dangerous market. Run and hide ladies, run and hide.

That’s what friends are for

I’m not going to lie, “Why I Love My Gay Boyfriend” hasn’t reached the bestseller list just yet. So in an attempt to make it to Oprah’s Book Club 2.0 and Heather’s Pick, I’ve looked to the Biebs for inspiration, as most people do. And thus, I was struck with the idea to post a reading on YouTube. Millions of hits will ensue, no doubt!

Excited by my ingenuity, I popped open a bottle of wine, set up my high-tech production set (i.e., propped up my iPhone on a box) and merrily recorded and drank away. Pleased, I debuted the video with friends with shocking results. Apparently, it looks like an ad for QuestChat. And yet another reason to love my friends. There’s no one else I’d appreciate more for telling me I look like a whore. Thanks friends! I mean it.

P.S. I will not be posting that video on YouTube.

 

Tattoos and ADD

I’ve been enjoying watching Adam Levine and his sexy tattoos on The Voice. I’m fascinated by what could possibly inspire someone to endure intense amounts of pain in order to permanently etch something on their skin for life. As someone who has what could be diagnosed as a mild form of ADD, I can’t even endure my favourite pair of shoes for more than one season. Mmm…shoes…what was I writing about again?

I read somewhere that the part of your brain responsible for judgment is not fully formed in your teenage years. This explains A LOT and is particularly relevant when reflecting upon my questionable choice of hairstyles in high school. Think layered perm and teased bangs. Ew.

Until your brain develops, that’s what parents are for. At a certain milestone birthday in my youth, I had asked my parents whether I should get a tattoo or a belly button ring.  My parent’s preference would help me determine which was less cool. In a feat of brilliant reverse psychology that still astounds me to this day, my parents enthusiastically encouraged me to get a tattoo. I promptly got a belly button ring. But alas, after a nasty infection, my days of sporting a belly button ring were spare. What a glorious victory for my parents.

Years later, still unpierced and un-tramp-stamped, I’d like to thank my parents for messing with my undeveloped brain because it has prevented me from a lifetime of explaining to people why I got a stupid dolphin tattoo.

A good electrician

While a shoe addict is wired to see life as a series of shoe-wearing opportunities, a writer is wired to see her life unfold in metaphors.

Unsolicited, my realtor had set me up with an electrician to install pot lights, assuming I needed them.  Maybe my lighting situation was just fine the way it was.

I called the electrician several times but he never called back.  Annoyed, I left a message asking if he was still interested. He texted me back to say that he was busy and that I should find someone else.

OMG, did my electrician just dump me over text?

My life suddenly felt void of light. I asked friends but no one knew of an electrician that was free. I started to get worried. Was I ever going to find an electrician?

As my desperation started to mount, a friend recommended her old electrician. Sure, she had always complained about him, but I had no other options. The day before he was scheduled to come over, I received a weird cancellation voice mail from a stranger. Suspicious, I called my electrician. He didn’t realize it was me and answered. Embarrassed, he stuttered through an incoherent excuse.

“So, are you not coming over tomorrow?” I could hear in the background that he was at another job.

“It’s not going to work out,” he responded.

OMG, did my electrician just get his contractor buddy to call and dump me?

He said he’d call back to reschedule but never did. I was starting to feel very insecure about my condo’s ability to attract electricians.

Desperate, I took to the Internet and was shocked to see how many electricians that were available. Or were they? Many were not interested in my condo but I finally found one.

Could he have smelled a little better? Yes. Could he have adopted a speaking instead of a yelling voice? Yes. But he was respectful and decent and got the job done.

And that is the end of the metaphor because while I may have settled for an electrician, there are some things in life you just don’t settle for. Like a bad glass of wine, of course.

Little Black Dress

Hello lovelies

My closet has never met an LBD (translation for male readers: Little Black Dress) that it didn’t like. It’s a veritable LBD pimp – it’s never said no to an LBD I brought home. My closet houses a coven of 17 LBDs and they all live together in harmony. They bring me so much joy that my credit card and I have decided we will continue to make beautiful LBD babies.

My mom saw me wearing one such LBD and thought it prudent to advise me that its time is limited as one cannot wear a mini-skirt after a certain age. Although this wisdom was no doubt received from Emily Post’s Etiquette circa 1952, my harem of LBDs were offended at their suggested impending demise. I bought a pair of hot heels to make them feel better. After all, my LBDs do need something to play with.

I don’t propose to be a fashion expert, despite the disproportionate amount of my salary allocated to staying in fashion, but the LBD is the single best clothing investment you can make. I’m so convinced of this that I’ve multiplied my investment 17 times over. I don’t propose to be an investment adviser either, but if it makes you look and feel fabulous, it was money well spent my friend, no matter what your age.

My (brief) time as a supermodel

As it was of no relevance or interest to me, I had not taken note of how many young, attractive women there were at my office until our National Sales Meeting. There was a large IT conference that was taking place at the same hotel and it was rife with Bill Gates-esque looking men. They looked like they all carried pocket algebra calculators and attended superhero conferences in costume. No doubt they also had an IQ double the size of mine and would soon rule the world.

One night, one such individual approached me and, enthused to the point of madness, declared that only supermodels worked at my company. Later, in the elevator, clones of this individual mobbed me to enthusiastically tell me where I worked. I felt like the ambassador of Victoria’s Secret secret supermodels.

Never before had men been so excited to speak to me. And never before had I been so struck by the power of relativity. This is the supermodel version of Einstein’s theory of relativity: the measurement of female attractiveness is relative to the nerdiness of the men observing said females, and is magnified by the likeness and size of opposing forces.

But as fleeting my time as a supermodel, I may as well revel in it. After all, these are very, very smart men.

Attempting supermodel-dom