I'm not saying they aren't hot in a primal, musky sort of way, but Italian dudes aren't for me. Not straight-up guidos anyway, and not those gorillas from Jersey Shore. A quarter Italian? Maybe. But no one from the home land, that's for sure.
Why? Case in point: Alessio, the contractor who was here at the house yesterday morning, "overseeing" the work on the bathroom floor (meaning: he chatted Christine and I up, talked on his phone, looked at our Facebook photos with us). He's kinda cute, reminded me of Jason Segal from I Love You, Man and Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
Christine was emailing and he said, "Ahh, Facebook?"
"You have Facebook?" she asked, quickly pulling up the FB website. "What's your name?"
He spelled and she typed, and up popped his profile, resplendent with a Euro-chic pic of Alessio in super-short hair, tanned face and aviator glasses. I pointed to his marital status and Christine clicked on the name of his wife. When her profile popped up, Alessio made his best puppy dog face and shook his head. "Oh, she -- she's kind of my ex-wife."
Christine and I howled. I said, "Yeah, as soon as you're out the door, it's -- " and I pantomimed licking my ring finger and forcing my wedding band over my knuckle and into my pocket.
Alessio said, "Tu?"
"Married," I said.
"Perhaps," and here he did a great Italian male shrug, "you need a... ah, new, husband...?"
"But I like mine," I said, and pulled up my FB page. The other workers crowded behind Alessio and watched as I scrolled through pix from our visit to Versailles. Sensing the virility of Raf, even in photos of him bicycling with small girls through the French countryside, Alessio and Mirko faded back to their work, leaving Christine and me to wade through more photos of my family.
I'm not saying they're not attractive, y'all. But it ain't gonna happen. Not up in he-ah!