by Cinzi Lavin
Not since King Solomon’s roundly acclaimed Old Testament page-turner, The Book of Proverbs (the Tuesdays With Morrie of its day), has there been a definitive guide to life. Solomon’s tome was addressed to his son and offered specific advice regarding all aspects of human existence. The fact that life-enlightening literature is, by and large, directed towards men gives one pause. Is it because men need concrete directives, or because the advice one woman would give to another would never be committed to paper, either out of fear or secrecy? Whatever the case, I am brave enough to share the collective knowledge of my general, tried-and-true, one-size-fits-all experience as a woman with others, in hopes that they will not spend vain hours—as I have—contemplating sticking their heads in the oven when the vagaries of life become too much to bear. If you are a woman, the following is a must-read and contains valuable, everyday advice which you will, doubtless, find helpful in any situation life may throw at you.
Do not marry your cousin Daniello from Milan. No matter how attractively your Aunt Domenica describes him, an arranged marriage can only result in trans-continental misery. Do not trust your grandmother when she tells you you will learn to love him as she learned to love your grandfather. Everyone in the family knows he kept a mistress.
Do not marry a Scotsman. True, they may be better endowed than Irishmen, but you will rue the day you exchanged vows when he balks at buying you a new pair of sensible shoes. Especially, do not marry him if he also happens to be gay and is using you as a “beard.” He will ultimately divorce you when you refuse to give him children and marry a Nova Scotian woman (in an underwater Scuba ceremony in Key West, of all things) who gives birth to a daughter which his family will eagerly take as evidence of his heterosexuality.
Do not marry an Irishman. They are poorly endowed and apt to be cranky most of the time. Moreover, they often suffer from Madonna-Whore Complexes that you will be powerless to heal, even with the help of three licensed therapists, a very understanding male urologist, and a Naughty French Maid costume.
Make friends with the counter-folk at the Social Security Office. These are good people who will assist you to no end in changing your name, should the need ever arise, and who welcome a batch of homemade cookies or a humble zucchini bread in exchange for their patience in having to deal with you often.
Do not live in sin with a “professional” poker-player. Even if you have just possibly endured a divorce from an asexual Irishman, it would be gravely unwise to embark upon a renaissance of your physical desire with a man who, even if he gives you earth-shattering orgasms, spends most of his time calculating the statistical “anomalies” (forgive me if I laugh aloud) which felled him and spending more time in the company of Captain Morgan than you. It wouldn’t kill him to take the trash out once in a while, either, but he’ll never do it—trust me.
Make a conscious effort not to become your mother. Popular wisdom tells us we will all end up as our own mothers, but I assure you, this is not so. Mother lounges about in her charmeuse reading Donna (an Italian fashion magazine) whilst sipping Testa Rossas. Myself, I spend my days togging about in a stunning silk Oscar de la Renta flowered robe drinking white wine and reading “The American Scholar,” the quarterly publication of the Phi Beta Kappa society. Clearly, breaking the chains of unhealthy female tradition is not beyond our reach.
Exercise wisdom in choosing personal providers. So many women rely on misguided advice when deciding upon physicians or hirelings of one sort or another. What follows are my personal guidelines on whom to pick:
- A Jewish general practitioner. They will always treat you with compassion and will never, ever be shocked or off-put by your medical condition, as would, shall we say, a Yale graduate from a WASP background who might take issue with treating a perfectly routine sex-related injury.
- An Italian Male Chiropractor. Nothing against women, but they simply don’t have the leverage to do the job. Moreover, Italian men are often strapping and unabashedly touchy-feely; they will take pride in manipulating your body in whatever way necessary to give you the greatest, most intense relief.
- A Male Gynecologist. Women ridiculously persist in maintaining that female gynecologists provide the ultimate in reproductive care. Nothing could be further from the truth. First, while female doctors possess a vagina themselves, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they know how to comfortably insert things into other women’s vaginas. Men, however, are excellent at this, owing to long years of experience. Second, women are wont to be judgmental about certain lifestyles as they pertain to ramifications involving reproductive health. Comments such as “What do you mean, you think you’ve come down with Chlamydia again?!” and, “Holy Christ, how did you get a ping-pong ball inside your uterus?” are the kind of thing one is apt to hear from a female gynecologist (jealous bitch). In stark contrast, however, male gynecologists are more likely to say things such as, “No worries at all; here’s a prescription that will clear that up in a trice,” and “So, what are you doing for dinner Friday night? My wife thinks I’ll be out of town all weekend at a medical symposium about ovarian cysts.”
- A Closeted Lesbian Masseuse. Nothing against men, but the gentle, wryly sensitive touch of another woman is what one wants when one goes for a massage. Behind closed doors, the spectrum of pleasure is virtually unlimited if the practitioner in question is, say, decidedly unhappy in her marriage to a man and happens to think your inner thighs are hysterically inviting.
- A Straight Male Hairdresser. Rare as hen’s teeth, these gems are the only individuals on the planet who can give you a haircut that other straight men will find attractive. FYI, gay male hairdressers can only create a hairstyle that other women (or gay men) will comment upon. Women hairstylists will cut your hair in a way that only female clergy members will admire. (And, in case you’re wondering, lesbians don’t cut hair.)
- A Korean Manicurist. The veritable experts in offering speedy, quality, cut-rate services to the masses in a congenial atmosphere, these ladies’ professional mantra is “Get them in, get them buffed, get them soft, and get them out.” However, before leaving, you will be treated to an Asian neck-massage (a.k.a. “The Seoul Slap-Fest”) while your nail-varnish dries. Who could ask for anything more? So what if they call you “Candy” instead of “Cinzi”? It’s nonetheless heartwarming to hear, “You come back soon, Candy!”
Spend your money on quality items. Things one should never skimp on include a good mattress and high thread-count sheets (we spend half our lives in bed—or in the case of some of us, a bit more than that), foreign wines and cheeses (anyone who tells you California wine is fabulous or that Vermont makes a decent cheese is an idiot), lovely perfume and lingerie, and a steam-cleaner strong enough to remove stubborn enema stains from carpeting after parties.
Do not waste your money on frivolities. Don’t bother frittering away dosh on designer shoes or handbags (there’s not a straight man alive who would be impressed that you spent $300 on a pair of heels or a snazzy clutch-purse—in fact, he’d be horrified). Refrain from the urge to buy a pile-driver for personal use—there are many private companies on the Internet that offer sophisticated, tailor-made adult pleasure-machines, often with free shipping.
Do not have children. While wee ones are adorable and represent the Hope of the Future, winding up with what amounts to an ungrateful, un-housebroken, projectile-vomiting, rash-covered howler monkey simply isn’t worth it. Don’t worry. Plenty of low-income teenage girls and shiftless Catholics will make up for your statistical shortfall. Besides, nobody will tell you this, but children are the number one reason men fall victim to infidelity.
Do not date a married man. They are not interested in you for yourself. They are ever on the lookout for sex with a well-manicured woman whose door-handles aren’t caked with grape jelly. When they start asking you to tell them about your bi-curious massage experiences, you’ll know they are only using you as a venue for their unfulfilled lust. Don’t be foolish enough to waste good foreign wine on them. A desperate, drunken, clumsy married man may even cause you a sex injury.
Always look your best. This is one of the most important aspects of being a woman, and often the most overlooked. Sometimes this means putting on something smart and donning a string of pearls. Other times, this means borrowing a gentleman’s overcoat to hide gravel marks in one’s back or creatively employing a silk scarf to conceal semen stains in one’s hair. Remember, being practical and making a fashion statement are never mutually exclusive.
Take exercise often. Rather than wasting countless hours at the gym on one of those Ass-Master machines, invest in one of your own. Mine, for example, comes with three speeds, is 6’4”, and can discuss Machiavelli afterwards. The other best exercise in which you can engage is walking briskly away from an angry wife.
Be “the hostess with the mostest.” There are a few staples which you should never be without. They include: a box of sugar cubes (for when the absinthe starts flowing), enough clove cigarettes for at least 20, a dozen eggs (with which you can make an impromptu crustless quiche or frittata), several packets of rolling papers, three to four dozen bags of Cheez Doodles, a gallon or three of ranch dressing, plenty of fresh spirit-glue, and opera recordings loud enough to drown out even the most plaintive screams of torturous pleasure.
In closing, clearly, life is not as complicated as it seems, as long as one does not get oneself mixed up with a fellow writer—say, for instance, John Taraborelli (of The Agenda), whom one happens to find oneself helplessly attracted to, even though said writer ignores you when you all but vault across a crowded bar to make his acquaintance. The fact that he scans the room like Alexander seeking out his next conquest while you introduce yourself in a black pinstripe suit unbuttoned to the navel (with nothing underneath) should be indication enough that he’s simply not someone worth your time or the considerable stash of lovemaking aids in your already overstocked boudoir.
