I was even a lifeguard and my Irish Catholic beau bought me flowers weekly, just like J-Woww’s did.After my first love, I went on to study philosophy at a large university in Pennsylvania. I could always count on appreciation as “the artsy girl.” While I considered myself a tortured, romantic French philosophe and not funky punk-rocker, I enjoyed that they were trying to typecast me as much I was them.So, “Jersey Shore” watchers, if you can be a guido’s queen, and convince him to not cheat, you have found gold.They are straight-forward and say things that make average guys cringe.This wonderful childlike corniness always makes me melt.I echo the words of my girl, Snooki, when I say I am looking for my king and that my dream is to “move to Jersey, find a nice, juiced, hot, tan guy and live my life.” Only minus the Jersey, juiced, and tan parts.I sat sensitively making friendship bracelets and idolizing The Cure—but there was never a wall between us.
He wanted to marry me and be my baby daddy and it was only after watching “Jersey Shore” did these long-repressed memories come loose, along with this realization: I was a guidette as a teenager.
My Jewish camp outside Philadelphia was guido-central.
My cabin was full of girls who teased their hair Bumpit-style.
I’ve always secretly loved juiceheads, and been loved by them. I risk echoing the words of da Shore castmates when I say that “guido” is a pan-ethnic term. Yes, a strong contingent of guidos are Italian with their neo-American masculinity.
But in Japan, where I used to live, it’s called “ganguro,” which translates as literally “black face,” a reaction to the uptight geisha culture of artificially whitened skin and repression.