Saturday, November 21, 2009

The List: "To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things."

I'm a list person. There's almost nothing that I like better than sorting things out and writing them down in detailed lists to make me feel like I actually have a good grip on what's going on. Grocery lists? I try not to shop without them, otherwise, my compulsive buying gets the best of me and I wind up at home with an eggplant, and no milk. Though I may not actually do what is on the list, I'm a big fan of making homework lists so I can at least see what I need to do on a page in front of me, and then decide if it's worth it or not. (Usually, I make this list and feel some perverse sense of accomplishment from just doing that and being "organized" that I totally forgo anything after that. Now if only my professors would accept my very thoughtful, detailed lists and that could be the end of things...) And don't even get me started on To-Do lists. The feeling I get when crossing something off a list is slightly akin to how early explorers and Spanish conquistadors must have felt claiming nations.

Someone (anonymously) asked after my post in which I mentioned it, what exactly the other things on my "To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things List" not mentioned were. Truth be told, it ebbs and flows. I add to it as I find things that appeal to me. Some items are broad; some are very specific. Some I've already done; some I've even done numerous times. Some really aren't feasible, but you always have to have something to reach for, now, don't you?

- Know enough about wine to not be intimidated by a French (and that's IN France, not American-French) restaurant's wine list.

- Be able to order the wine, in French.

- Master another language. Or, at least, be fluent enough to progress past my bastardized second-grader's level French. Who knows-- maybe Italian will be easier for me.

- Participate in UVM's Naked Bike Race, which, for me, who abhors bikes, but does run, will be the Naked Run, or How Fast Can I Streak By These People And Hope Not Many Champlain Students Who Will Recognize Me Are Here?

- Live somewhere not in the continental U.S for over 6 months.

- Spend a week or two hiking somewhere. Anywhere. (That counts as wilderness.)

- Learn to play the guitar.

- Write a novel, even if it doesn't get published.

- Create, or attend, a foam pit party-- you know, like the Smirnoff commercial where they fill an empty pool with pieces of foam. (This one makes me really excited.)

- Be able to drink whisky, Jager, or cheap vodka without making a face. (Working on it. It's a reflex.)

- Get wonderfully lost and not worry about it.

- Learn to throw a football in a perfect spiral, and with good aim, at a good distance. (This may not be able to happen, thanks to my impossibly tiny hands.)

- Live in New York City.

- Own a pair of terrifyingly beautiful classic Louboutins.

- Stay up all night to watch a gorgeous sunrise; no other purpose.

- Do the Walk of Shame. Depending on how you feel about it, the Shame part is optional.

- Try eating calves' brain, (thank you for this whim, Bourdain).

- Learn how to ballroom dance.

- Write/compose a song.

- Sing solo in front of an audience. (Oh, stage fright. I'm like Piper Perabo in Coyote Ugly...the lights would have to be shut off for me to even get up there.)

- Speaking of Coyote Ugly, dance on a bar-top.

- Drive a Porsche on the speed limit, baby!

- Ride through the desert in Egypt to see the Great Pyramids. (I suppose a camel would suffice, as well.)

- Say "I love you" to a significant other and really mean it.

- Perfect my golf swing. (Putting, I'm already BOSS at. The ability to golf is a really good skill to have-- do you know how many high-ranking people think a round of golf is the best way to meet recruits or get to know someone? It's shocking.)

- Take up creating art again.

See more of the Great Masters' artwork in person.

- Spend a night in jail for something completely stupid that will make a really great story.

- Get in a bar-fight.

- Win said bar-fight.

- Master a totally useful yet non-traditionally-girly skill, like changing a tire, setting up a television's sound system, personal favorite goal...being able to re-haul an engine. Vroom, vroom.

- Have a righteously enviable music collection and firm grasp on almost everything that's in it, from title to lyrics.

- Get a tattoo. Working on this one...

- Attend a frat party.

- Eat at a five-star restaurant.

- ...But be able to cook what I ate at that five-star restaurant. In other words, master the art of cooking.

- Dance naked under the full moon.

- Visit the country my ancestors are from and get mistaken for a local.

- Be proposed to. For the third time. But actually want to say "yes."

- Travel to Egypt and Dubai, Manchu Pichu, the Great Wall of China, Cambodia to see the temple ruins, Paris for the Louvre, the Sahara, New Orleans, Barbados, Russia and Czar Nicholas's Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, the Taj Mahal and India, Spain and the best tapas bars in the world, the countrysides of Ireland and England, Tuscany, and oh, so many more. Ask me any given day of the week where I want to go. It's always different.

- Get black-out drunk and have to put the puzzle-pieces back together in the morning with help from texts, friends, photos, and mysterious stains. (In a good way.)

- Learn to finally, really play Poker. And to stop bluffing every hand.

- Teach a child how to read.

- Create a college scholarship in my grandfather's name, to thank him for my opportunity, and give someone else a chance.

- Cross-country road trip. Possibly with the Little Civvy That Could, but then again, driving standard for that long is literally a pain in your ass from shifting weight to step on the clutch.

- Get Spied in an iSpy ad. (I have an obsession with the iSpys; they're the first thing I always read when I pick up a Seven Days.)

- Rescue and adopt an animal.

Get backstage at a concert.

- Put into action that phrase "Beg, borrow, or steal."

- Go scuba diving in the Caribbean.

- Do something that involves jumping from a height or free-falling.

- Refuse a ludicrously lucrative job offer because it's not something I agree with or can morally get behind.

- Affirm your beliefs; stand behind them under fire.

- Plant some trees; give back from what you take.

- Bet an insane amount of money on a hand I could lose. See what happens.

- Reconnect with lost friends.

- Brew our own beer or dandelion wine with my dad. He's done it; I want to learn.

- Sail on my own.

- Meet a real pirate or drug lord, ideally in a non-threatening setting. Or royalty or a superhero. Someone out of the ordinary.

Become a great debater and be able to support my standing eloquently, intelligently, and without losing my temper.

Learn to control said temper.

- Learn to crack safes and pick pockets.

- Break one of my superstitious habits. (There are quite a lot of them.)

- Attend one of the great parties of the world: Carnival, Mardi Gras, Day of the Dead, etc.
- Read the classics. So cliche, but so worthwhile. But I don't mean "the classics" as in, anything and everything that was on your high school English class reading list-- I mean "the classics" as in the novels that people recognize as being great FOR A REASON. No reading Dickens just to read Dickens. Personally, I've found Austen to give great advice, Washington Irving to tell a damn good tale in prose that makes me envious, and Orwell to be damn negative and depressing. What you consider "the classics" is up to you; just be sure there are good reasons you're considering them.

- Pick up and go somewhere or move on a whim.

- Not worry so much.

- Have one of the most kick-ass obituaries ever published. Something along the lines of, "Carissa, age 76, died in Paloma, Spain, during the Running of the Bulls. She is survived by..." Ask me about my plans for after I turn 75 sometime. Suffice it to say, I don't want to grow old, so that's when all the things like bungee jumping and swimming with sharks come in.

My advice to you is to write your own list. Find out what things you really want to do, and then work toward them. Know when you will say "yes" in life, and when you will say "no." No one ever got very far not taking risks. It's knowing which appeal to you that will shape how you live your life.

And plus, remember what I said about that whole "I'm conquering the world" feeling you get when checking something off. Don't you want to feel all-powerful like Cortes, minus the native slaughter, pillaging of treasures, and devastation of natural resources? Yeahhhhh...


The Kitchen Bitches Do Bobcat Cafe and Brewery.

Alli: Bobcat Café and Brewery is nestled on Main Street in Bristol, Vermont. Bristol’s mission statement reads something like: “We aim to be the quaint, Rockwellian, New England town where all our residents know each other’s names, our town hall meetings are always full, and our picket fences are always freshly painted.” It’s a picture-perfect scene on a chilly October night in small town Vermont.

Carissa: As you’ve probably already read from Flannel vs. Flannel’s review of Bobcat Café and Brewery, this Bristol hot-spot in infamous for its homemade brews. But Alli and I decided to tag along for the ride with the boys after we got a tip that the food was equally exceptional. Seeing as I was raised “on Kobe beef and pâté—since the womb, trained to only recognize good food,” as the Arts and Entertainment editor of the Current noted, I had to get in. Plus, being with the boys of Flannel vs. Flannel and Friends, we got to witness Man Law in action—pint glasses are ok to share a sip out of, whereas drinking out of the same beer bottle would be a “no.”

Alli: All of Bristol’s fifty or so residents are either tucking kids into bed or congregating in the brewery. In our twenty minute wait for a table big enough for the six of us, we saw a whopping three cars drive by. The only sound in town is coming from inside, the glowing light spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of the big windows marking it as the warmest place on the street.

Carissa: The ambiance inside Bobcat was Vermont woodsman meets French Provencal bistro hostess. Rough-hewn table surfaces were polished to a high shine, and the lighting was dim but cozy.

Alli: This is my domain. Carissa gets her fancy-schmancy gastropubs and French fusion cuisine. Bobcat, the kind of place that plays Nickel Creek and serves down-home, New England country cooking, is mine. For God’s sake, our table is literally my childhood kitchen table. The whole café feels like home, and I suspect that it’s not just a product of the furniture. There’s a steady volume of chatter and laughter and a sense of amity floating through the peppery air. The wait staff laughs and jokes with the diners, and doesn’t say anything when the 21+ portion of our dinner party shares a sip of site-brewed beer (all in the name of a good review). If there’s one thing that Bobcat does exceptionally well, it’s good company (and great beer).

Carissa: The curry in the butternut squash soup I got as my appetizer was a kick to fall’s ass. It opens your nasal passages right up, and the great slightly sweet bread they offered, when dipped into the thick, bisque-y soup, tones both down nicely.

Alli: Carissa’s curried butternut squash bisque kicked a little, but it’s the kind of warm that you want on a brisk fall night, like holding your fingers almost too close to the flame after coming inside on a cold day.

Alli: I started with the Vermont apple and cheddar salad. I can legitimately call this a “cute” salad. A fan of perfectly sliced apples and an adorable little pile of toasted walnuts framed a hill of greens. I got soft-eyed when I knocked over the lettuce and saw the cubes of Vermont cheddar hiding in the corner. The greens were crisp and flavorful but not bitter or strong, and the ginger cider vinaigrette was phenomenal. The sides paired perfectly with the salad, adding a crunch or a bit of crisp sweetness or a hint of sharp creaminess layered throughout bites, adding the depth that I’m convinced every salad should have.

Carissa: As the queen of the “baby salad with extras,” I really enjoyed the apple and cheddar salad. Slightly warm and limp arugula in a ginger cider vinaigrette appeased me, but I am not a fan of warm nuts…roasted nuts, that is. The roasted walnuts that accompanied the salad were no exception. After having one, and then another for benefit of the doubt, I left the rest on the plate.
Carissa: The broth of the steamed littleneck clams we got to share as I took Alli’s clam virginity exploded in my mouth and knocked me outta this world. It was cheesy, and salty, like seawater from the same bay they got the clams from. The clams themselves were sweet and both soft and chewy, with pale pink flesh. However, the slices of garlic clove in the broth were not my favorite, though the chunks of bacon were a nice flavor additive.

Carissa: Henry, our Arts and Entertainment editor from Maine, dug into the bowl of clams with his fingers. “I don’t know what anyone ever taught you—you eat steamers with your fingers.”

Alli: As an entrée, I ordered the Misty Knoll Parmesan Chicken Lasagna. First rule: throw out everything you ever thought you knew about lasagna. Otherwise, you’ll be confused and potentially disappointed by what will be placed before you. It’s lemon parsley ricotta, roasted vegetables, roasted vegetables marinara, and misty knoll organic chicken between lasagna noodles, topped with a small pile of greens slightly wilted from the rising steam and grated parmigiano reggiano, with a balsamic demi-glaze circling the plate.

Alli: Now, let’s get this straight: this ain’t yo mama’s lasagna. This is Vermont harvest lasagna. The roasted veggies gave it a hint of wood smoke to contrast on your tongue with the zing of the demi-glaze. The marinara was heavy and meaty from veggies pureed with a thick red sauce. It was so good that I forgot about the chicken until I cut into it—right there, in the center of my lasagna, was a breast of fried chicken sprinkled with sea salt. Yeah, fried chicken. Like I said, forget everything you ever knew about lasagna, because the crispiness of fried chicken in between sheets of pasta smothered in smoky marinara with chunks of roasted vegetables is genius. Absolutely phenomenal, especially because it wasn’t heavy; all the crisp, none of the grease. And, even better, the portion is home-style, too.

Carissa: The braised duck I ordered for my entrée was so succulent. So moist. So pink. It was almost like a pulled pork, but it was duck, so, SO much better. The orange and cranberry preserves crowning it were almost as good as the jam at the Bluebird Tavern. The mushroom crepe under it was a new idea to me, and well done, the woodsy, earthy flavor complimenting the sweet and savory-ness of the duck.
Carissa: Since we went with the Flannel vs. Flannel crew and Company, we occasionally got sips of what they were reviewing. Though I found heaven on beer, or beer on heaven with the fizzy Heller Bock, my favorite was the Porter “Twan” got—it started out with a bite, smoothed out on my palate, and then came back for a second round of deep, almost chocolatey taste and gave me goosebumps with its goodness. Is it any surprise women want the sweet stuff?

Carissa: Speaking of which, Alli and I split a maple crème brulee for dessert. It was so maple, so Vermont, so lovely, from the torched sugar top to the custard that overtook the crust when broken into like an oozing lava flow of dessert. It was sinful. I would have sold my soul for more. The texture was so smooth and light, unlike some brulees that get grainy. The maple taste waited until after the crunchy sugar dissipated to tickle your taste-buds like a particularly teasing French maid. I myself was called a tease for only offering a small taste after raving and moaning about it.

Alli: The maple crème brulee is like the soft, slow stroke of a fingertip. The more you explore, the more you uncover. Thank God there’s a church next door, because it’s sinful and I’m going to need absolution.

Carissa: Final verdict? By the time Bobcat started closing down around us—yes, we shut the place down—and I threw in my napkin, I was blissed-out on comfort food. Comfort is what Bobcat provides, from the food, to the atmosphere, to the friendly and accommodating wait staff with a good sense of humor, to what the boys were feeling after a few pints. It is warmingly good, honest food—but we’re never going with the boys again because they’re far too distracting.

Alli: By the end of the night, I had dropped my silverware an extraordinary number of times, we were all stuffed, our sides aching from laughter, Flannel and Flannel & co. had enough to be a little buzzed, and us Kitchen Bitches were drunk on good company. That’s what you get at Bobcat. Great food, great beer, great atmosphere, and great company. It’s well worth the drive.


Friday, November 20, 2009

This Is What A Forty-Thousand Dollar A Year Education Pays For.

I swear I do go to college. Really, I am on my way to achieving a BA in a program dubiously titled "Professional Writing," which, if one takes these words at face-value, means that I will be able to find a job in which I "professionally write" after graduation, and not have to live in a cardboard box and slip slowly into a delayed and drawn-out alcoholic death because I have already deemed that I will in no way be possible of writing the Next Great American Novel. American Eagle may be looking at a future manager, but I would probably strangle myself to death with a cable-knit sweater.

With today's economy and job market, I have already started hoarding boxes so although I may have to live in one, it's going to be a motherfucking cardboard castle. My spacial reasoning skills and my father's dreams of me becoming an architect will finally be coming true, just in a very bass-akwards way.

Don't get me wrong-- I love what I do; I just am doubting the fact that it is financially solvent, and passion for something, without an outlet that offers monetary gain, doesn't feed or clothe you, unfortunately, which is one of the great injustices of life.

Anyway, let me walk you through the past 12 hours at good old Camp Champ. After this, if you have children, or are planning on having children, you may decide to no longer remit money for their higher education fund. I'm sorry. But really, as I was telling my parents last Sunday, I have decided that on the immediate surface, if you don't get into particulars such as effort, intelligence, and aptitude, the only difference between people who graduate high school and people who graduate college is that college graduates are over $100,000 in the hole, have some vague notions on Plato's teachings and writings, and have a sense of entitlement.

Last night around 10 PM, I remembered the fact that I had not one, but two writer's journals due for Copy Editing. On further investigation in my inbox to find the subjects of these entries, I also discovered a 7 page scientific paper titled, I am not shitting you, "Sandy deposits study offshore Lithuania, SE Baltic Sea." I tried editing it, really, I did, but around 1 AM, it started to feel like my brain was leaking out of my ears, and even the Long Trail Blackberry Ale I had picked up to self-medicate and help myself through the process was no longer holding any appeal. I ditched the "sandy shores" and "Juodkrante–Preila site" and wrote one of the journals, before my body decided to call it a night and close my eyelids for me.

As for an important interlude, let's be clear on what a college student's diet looks like: Between being warp-speed busy all day with study abroad forms and meeting, discussing finances with my mother (possibly one of my favorite things in the world, right up there with puppies and non-anaesthetised dental procedures,) class, and my, I don't know-- crazy desire to actually communicate and spend time with my roommates and friends, and having forgotten to grab food before leaving my apartment, I was subsisting on cigarettes. As I explained to a horrified professor, this past summer I came to the realization that smoking suppresses my appetite. Hungry, but have no food? Easy-- I always have a pack on me. (As my professor said, "That's horrible, but I remember that you were poor this past summer," which is possibly an understatement, but by June I had already figured out that even $10 for a pack of my Djarums was still cheaper than groceries.) Around 9, I finally got dinner, AKA: delicious honey barbecue wings from Wings Over. Not eating all day, smoking, and then ingesting half a pound of wings may not have been the best idea ever. But going home and chasing it all down with a beer was possibly the tipping point.

I woke up this morning, reminded of the painful, cruel fact that my body and artisan, fermented beer do not play well together. I liken it to what labor pains probably feel like, or your appendix exploding. Basically, fold up, clutching your stomach and gasping, cold-sweat, and writhe around a little. That's what I looked like. It's one of those great debates in life: I can drink American piss-beer like Coors and Bud and Keystone and feel fine, or I can drink something that actually has taste and craft to it and want to die 9 hours later. Seeing as I like to play a little game called "Me vs. My Body," (props to Meg at 2Birds,1Blog for that catchy title, as well as being the founder/a co-player of this game,) my tastebuds sometimes make the masochistic choice for me.

Between my death-throes, I looked out my window and then rolled over and looked at my clock, saying "Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkk," even before I saw the time. Sometimes you just know. Sure enough, it was 9 AM. My cell phone, which has been dramatically prolonging it's own death scene for the past week and a half, (first front display, then battery, then screen,) decided that the little part of it that would die over the night was the alarm. Otherwise know as, my alarm clock. I slept through Tech Writing and our new invention groups. It was one of those moments where you just sit there and literally hang your head in shame going, "I am a horrible student; Warren is going to be so disappointed, and I don't deserve to sleep in for this extra hour."

I thought that this would, in some twisted way, allow me time for the rest of the Copy Editing homework I had given up on around 2 AM. So I went back to the "sandy shores" of Lithuania, and promptly realized that I was utterly delusional if I thought I could slog through it all before catching the bus to class. Yeah, I edit a fuck-ton, but there is something about an academic, scientific article numerous pages long that just stops me in my tracks and demands to know who the hell I think I am. I am not a scientist. I am not even a great copy editor. I'm more of a big-picture person, and copy editors are all about minutia and the titles to parts of sentences that I was supposed to have learned back in the 8th grade when really, I was making Tyrannosaurus Rex arms with Nora across the classroom with our hands curled into the two-finger air-quote sign. (Yeahhh...good times.) But ok. Bullshit another journal entry, and call it a morning. Sometimes, like when you have a minimum word limit, being verbose is an excellent character trait to have.

When I walked into Copy Editing this morning, unwashed, bedraggled, and feeling an overwhelming urge to curl up in the fetal position on the floor and give in and say, "You win, Life!" my professor looked at me, concerned, and said, "You don't look so good." If she wasn't a genuinely nice human being, I think that would have roughly translated to, "Wow, you look like shit." I can't contest. I'm a wake-up-and-shower person. Foraying into public looking like something the cat dragged in and then gnawed on is against the very grain of my fiber, but sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

My professor then also asked me if I wasn't functioning due to lack of sleep. I looked at her, surprised, and said, "No, I actually got 6 or 7 hours!"

"Oh," she said. "You've got some really dark circles under your eyes and just don't look good."

This, people, is what happens when I actually do my homework. It literally makes me ill.

But my favorite thing about college has to be the people. Where else in the world would an acceptable, passionate, engaging conversation topic be "Can you drive from Champlain to Tibet?" And, only at our tech-enamored school would someone pull out a iTouch and actually search the possibilities on Google Maps.

The answer, by the way, is yes-- sort of. You can drive, but you also have to kayak, and jet-ski. All I know is that whoever got to write the directions for this trek has a sense of humor I would kill for. Also, a nice little subtly passive-aggressive gig going. Aha! This is one of those rare, mythical "professional writing" jobs! My life would be made if I could do something like this where your primary objective is to answer impossible questions in the most creative, smart-ass way possible, and still get paid for it. Possibly my favorite directive is #104: Jet ski across the Pacific Ocean.



I made the argument that rather than lugging a kayak, car, and jet ski around the literal Earth, you could quite easily accomplish this 40 day trip with one prime piece of human ingenuity: The land/aquatic vehicles they use for tours of Boston called "Duckies."

And yes, this is life at college.


Tuesday, November 17, 2009

This Is What I Believe In...

...Laughing out-loud in public. Letting your bra straps show. Wearing what you feel like wearing. Always saying "I love you" at the end of a conversation with your parents or friends. Buying flowers for yourself, just because you feel like it. Indulging in chocolate. Going to the gym and running until you get high. Wishing on a star. Paying it forward. Smiling at strangers. Saying "please" and "thank you." Being the bigger, better person. Speaking your mind. Not being afraid of the dark. Not being afraid of what other people think.

Glowsticks and loud music. Singing along in the car, shower, and anywhere else you feel so moved. Not stressing about the numbers on your scale. Being happy with what you were given, and how your body functions and looks naturally. Believing in yourself. Believing in others. Having a few bad habits. Keeping secrets. How a date with your girls will always be better than a date with a guy. Laughing so hard you cry or get breathless. Wearing bright colors. Wearing sexy underwear, even if no one but you will see them. Washing your face and brushing your teeth every night. The power of naps. Dancing in the rain.

Hugs. Animated movies and reliving your childhood. Traveling to expand both your world and your mind. Taking chances. Being spontaneous. Diamonds are a girls' best friend. Love conquers all. Being bad is good. Pretty is a state of mind. Plaid. Lots of cream and sugar in my coffee. Sleeping in and staying up late. Making the right decision, even if it's not the easy one. Living every day to its' fullest. Making time to be alone. Palm trees and sun as a balm to the soul. Driving fast, but driving well. Cars with engines that purr.

Good jeans making all the difference. High heels and red lipstick as instant confidence-boosters. Art as self-release. Dogs as best friends. Being independent as a best defense and the most important life-skill. Knowing how to take a compliment. Knowing when to admit defeat gracefully. Not caring what you look like when you dance-- it's the movement that's important. Taking pictures to remember. Not acting your age all the time. Guilty pleasures. Getting drunk, but not too drunk.

When you finally stop looking is when someone finds you. Always keep a spare, NEW toothbrush ready, just in case a man decides to spend the night and doesn't have his. Men love the smell of lavender. Thoughts can be louder than words. Always trust your sixth sense or intuition.

Buying men clothing is a curse-- within a week, they always leave me afterward, even if they don't even know I've bought anything for them yet. AKA: You can't clothe a ghost.

When you shave, paint your nails, and wear your prettiest matching underwear is not the day or night when anyone will see them. When you haven't saved in a week, your polish is chipping off, and you're wearing plain cotton is the day you'll get some.

Always kiss your palm and smack the roof of your car when driving through a yellow light. Not only will it stay yellow for you, but I have it on good authority that each time you do this, you receive 10 minutes of great sex from the universe. (I run a lot of lights and do this. This explains a lot.)

You will always, ALWAYS regret sending that text or email. You know the one I mean-- the one you debate sending before you do it, anyway. The one were you use the words "jerk", "dick", "asshole", "douchebag", or whine. The one where you stop being the strong girl and become the annoying girl. It's always better to leave someone wanting more than to try to get the last (unkind or whiny) word in.

Wearing blue brings you good luck. Knocking on the side of your head to ward something off that you just talked about always works better than knocking on wood. Astrology works and is far more accurate than you would think. Find a good astrologer (I like Mother of the Skye as she has always been dead near accurate all my life,) and start reading your horoscope.

Having a checkered past makes you interesting. All Mae West quotes: "When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better." "Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before." "I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it." Having a large vocabulary, and the smarts to know to use which word, when. Appreciating the finer things in life, but knowing which you can live without. Pretty things. But judging content of character, and not taking at face-value. Being quirky. And hot men. Like this one:

Welcome to basically what I will be looking at all tonight. Ok, so, maybe I actually won't be gazing at the beauteous visage of Emile Hirsch, but Southern Charm is a dead-ringer.

Be very, very jealous.

I shall spill later.

Some things aren't meant to be kept secret, after all. :)


Monday, November 16, 2009

The Not-So-Perfect Ending.

{ My Goodies-- Ciara} <--- Means "listen to this, please." See what I did? I'm kinda workin' a theme, here.

So I feel like I deserve to tell you the end of the "Me & Perfect" story. The Final Chapter, if you will. What happened right before I finished that book and apparently, single-handedly, snapped it shut and threw it in the fire.

Perfect and I got into that Epic Fight September 30th. We haven't talked since. Which may be partly because I may or may not have said some really nasty things. But hey. It's not all my fault. My defenses go up when you start blaming me for shit. I'll do a basic recap of WWIII for you:

Perfect: "You're getting too attached again!"

Me: "Excuse me, what could I get attached to? You're 3 and a half hours away. I never see you anymore. I'm sure you...busy, AKA: fucking your way through your freshmen class and any upper-class ladies you can get your big paws on. I'm BUSY."

Perfect: "Well, it just seemed like you're putting too much into this and getting too committed with all the things we've been saying and doing and all the nude pics I've been somehow convincing you to send me without even having to work for them. But short of ogling your strategically covered body, I can't commit like that right now. And you're going and committing!"

Me: "I'm just a tease. JUST LIKE YOU ARE. You're a great guy, except when you're being a complete asshole, like right now, and yeah, sometimes I wish things could be different, buy they're not. Look, I'm driving home from the gym. Can we continue this lovely blame-fest when I get home?"

Surprise, surprise, I didn't heard back from him. And I still hadn't. The other day, after realizing that I hadn't been seeing anything from him on my Stalker, errrr-- Newsfeed on Facebook lately, I went to go to his page to only find out I have apparently been unfriended either by him, or Facebook went on a binge and deleted half of his friends list like half of it is now missing, I did not, A.) Flip a shit, B.) Send him a snark-tasic message asking him to explain his incredibly juvenile actions, or C.) Call him and pick WWIII back up. Instead, I have decided to just brush it off. Whatever. I didn't think our fight was honestly that unforgivable, and I was hoping we could at least try and remain friends considering all that we've been through, because as he said, "Yeah, but I've had sex with you."

But after everything that's happened with Jersey Blunt, I'm starting to realize just how short and unpredictable life is. Add leaving for Italy for four months and a trans-Atlantic flight, into the mix, and I am feeling very, very mortal. And yes, I've been missing Perfect lately, too. There's nothing like one person going missing from your life to bring the other players hiding in the shadows out and to your attention. I miss the good times we had. I miss knowing he was there for me when I needed him. It felt real bad when all I wanted was strong arms to hold me, and knowing I don't have that luxury because the one guy who was always there for that hug is dead and gone, and the other one who might do that for me is silent, almost 50 days going. I'm not taking that for granted, anymore. So I got off my high horse of Pride and texted Perfect today.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked. "Surviving college?"

"Good," he responded. "Who is this?"

It was like a sucker-punch to my gut. But I guess I deserved it-- all the deletion from his life. I said some pretty nasty things.

"Wow, ok," I said. "It's Carissa."

"Hey, yeah-- I'm doing good," he told me.

"Awesome. Look, some things have happened in my life recently and made me realize I really don't want to leave things nasty from the last time we talked. Basically, I guess I'm sorry."

The whole time I drafted this text, (possibly the first time I've actually said "I'm sorry," to a guy,) I was sitting at work, looking at Anthony and going, "If I say, 'I guess I'm sorry,' it still counts as saying 'I'm sorry,' right?"

Can we tell I have a hard time saying this? If it's all my bad, I'm fine admitting it. But, let's face it-- he started it. I don't want to be fully culpable for this mess.

"Yeah, it was kinda weird! But I understand," Perfect said.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for understanding," I told him. "Hope life's good!"

That was it. Swallowed my pride; made up (kind of), and lived to tell the tale. I feel so much better. I miss that kid.

But now I may or may not feel like the outcome of my dating triumph rides on whatever is going on with Gypsy ending well. It's not rebounding, per se-- it's just the fact that the two of them are so alike and I've been doing such a good job correcting all the mistakes I made with Perfect in what's going on with dealing with Gypsy that if I honestly can't pull this off, I'm going to feel like I failed miserably twice.

But really, I can't figure out what he wants from me. I'm not used to being considered a "prize," something to tap and be able to say, "I tapped that!" As I told Anthony today over dinner when he and Dos asked me why I was with a guy like Perfect in the first place-- heavy on the muscles, lite on the vocabulary-- there are some guys girls date just to say that we landed that; to admire for how warm they are, how nice they smell, how good they look, how much weight they can lift. Yeah, it may seem a bit shallow, but men, when you protest, let me ask you: why are you waiting for the girl with the bangin' body and niceness when there's that average girl friend of you who's super-intelligent, charming, and well-spoken? We're all only human-- we all like looking at nice things.

I'm just not used to being the "hot" girl. I'm not used to being the girl who gets asked over to sit on a sofa and look pretty while not being talked to. I'm not used to being the girl that your other friends stare at. I'm dying for some equal treatment, here. I'm dying for something other than a night that involves the alcohol that Gypsy mistakenly thinks will magically lower my jeans. (Seriously, better chance of me sleeping with you when both of us are sober than when we're drunk. I learned that lesson, and learned it hard.)

So, uh-- how do you tell a guy this without coming off like a total gold-digging tease? Seriously-- you know my "I buy my on goddamn food!" issues-- it's not like I'm asking for a free meal, here. I'm just asking for the sort of old-fashioned, formal acknowledgement of a status that can only be achieved by looking at someone in public (not in their apartment, not a frat house, not at a party in someone else's basement,) while masticating something that counts as sustenance. ("Chewing"...for those of you who instantly went to dirty places and are too lazy to open a new tab, go to Merriam-Webster online, and look it up. I live to serve-- I aim to please.)

Short of getting my ghetto on and telling him, "Playa, I ain't lookin' to be played, so y'all better make up your mind like, right now and we can either fuck and go our own separate ways, or you better be making an honest woman out of me," I am really at a loss. I would like to again make the point that we really are like two supremely socially awkward teenagers about this-- he has yet to make a solid move, and I have yet to throw him a bone. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I'm the sort of girl who really just wants a guy to grab me and kiss me. Fuck the gentlemanly shit at this point-- if I'm crawling into your bed and spending my Thursday nights out with you, I'm not flashing conflicting signs. I'm only talking to Greece more because he actually talks to me. I'm leaving because I refuse to be like any of your other girls and sit and wait for you to come home. I'm a flirt; you don't pay attention, and I'll find something more fun to do. I want you to do something here-- fight for it. Show me it's worth giving it up.

Or I'm gonna bounce to the next. I'm not the most patient girl. And I need reassurance, too.

Sure, he's a player. Sure, if it has a pulse, moves, and owns a vagina he'll make a pass at it. Sure, it's all very casual to him. But sure, it's also getting very casual quickly for me, too. I'm a ticking time-schedule, here. I would like to make something happen there sometime within the next, oh-- week. I'm feelin' it.

Here's to making up, and making out.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

"...And Let Them Have Whatever The Hell They Want."

Thought of the day: Have sex with as many people as you want to.


I don't mean this in a "Go get massively plastered and fuck whatever doesn't move away fast enough" sense-- I mean this in a "If you like them enough to want to sleep with them, do it if you can, because curiosity killed the cat, and not enough sex kills your libido."

In the face of my January 24th departure to Italy, my horizontal planning has gone into over-drive. We're in the middle of November now, people. I have roughly 2 months to have as much safe, non-stranger, U.S sex as I can. And I see no reason why, at this point, it has to be limited to one person.

I guess this has come in the face of facts: leaving in roughly two months, I have no time/desire/realistic ability to start a relationship. Yes, even me, Miss One Month, realizes that even trying to start something would be an exercise in futility. I can see it now-- "Oh yeah, sweetie, we'll be together here for about two months-- excluding Thanksgiving break, Christmas break, and then the fact I have no housing in Burlington for all of January before I leave-- and then I'm going to be away for 4 months, expecting you to remain faithful, expecting me to keep my hands to myself and off of the hot European men's perfectly denim-clad asses; maybe you'll fly out to meet up with me for Spring Break, or maybe we'll try to pick things up when I come back mid-May and pretend like there's not now MASSIVE differences between us, and I am fully thinking that you've slept your way around behind my back."

Sounds like a great arrangement, right?

Nope. I'm becoming practical. And "practical" for me means realizing that while Gypsy and I are casually casually CASUALLY seeing each other-- (read: emphasis on the "casually." I mean like, we see each other once a week, and I have yet to throw him a bone or, hahaha, get boned)-- actually trying to date him would be the death of me. Especially with his habit of abruptly leaving to go someplace with no explanation. He did that last night, to go get pizza with some other friends, and I had Greece Lightning walk to my car (AFTER HE ADMINISTERED A FIELD SOBRIETY TEST ON ME-- this is why you don't want Criminal Justice major friends, people,) and just left.

I am not the kind of girl who just sits around and waits.

I am, however, the type of girl who spends her weekend in Montreal alternately discussing religion with top professors and academics in their fields, getting stumble-drunk wasted in bars, and thinking about how really, I would just like to casually sleep with Gypsy at this point, and that is about all, folks. I would like some good, old-fashioned, unattached, college sex.

...I love a religion that lets you drink too much, fornicate frequently, and be scholastic all at the same time.

Meanwhile, Southern Charm has invited me over to his place on Tuesday night to watch "Sons of Anarchy" and have beer. If that doesn't seem like just the best evening ever, I don't know what is. (That is a love train I would very much so like to hop on, thankyouverymuch.) (SoCharm...if you're reading this...never, ever mention anything. Let me believe I am living in an unawkward world. Keep the dream for me.)

...Some of this may be because I have always been horrible at picking favorites.

Also, today is the day of Jersey Blunt's memorial here on campus. I might be speaking. At very least, I'll be there with the SoHo Boys thinking about our missing part.

Life is short. Live it up; don't waste it.


Friday, November 6, 2009

Ciao, Bellas!

Special announcement.

This little college girl was just accepted to study abroad at the Scuola Lorenzo de' Medici in Florence, Italy, this coming Spring Semester.

"Sex and the College Girl" will be going international, babies!


Men of the world, watch out!

P.S-- I will also be in Montreal this weekend. So close, yet so far to Miss Sarah. By like, all of Canada. :( But really-- look-- legitimately international!
P.P.S-- Sooooo manyyy exclamation points...

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

"More Porn, Please." A Ladies' Guide To The X-Rated.

Special to "Sex and the College Girl" from "Moss on the Moon":

Originally, we were planning on putting flyers up around campus to find a guy to write this article. A really manly man. And we were going to get straight to the point, too: “Are you’re a guy? Do you like watching porn? Can you write about it eloquently while not ejaculating?”
But then Alli looked at me and was like, “Hey, why don’t you just write it? You already watch enough porn and you have strong opinions about it, too. And you can write eloquently about it without ejaculating, too.”

Touché, Editor.

But Alli brought up a good point. We always defer to men as the primary watchers of the primal sex, but ladies watch porn, too. I’d estimate I watch as much porn as the average 19 year old guy. Yeah. And I know how much that is. Women who watch porn seemingly aren’t the norm. Most of the people cited for addiction to porn are men, but there are more women nymphomaniacs then men. (Also, blonde women are often more susceptible to nymphomania than brunettes. I rest my case.) The leap from nymphomania to watching porn isn’t that great. 56% of the business at Hustler is generated by women. (That’s more women than men, for those of you mathematically challenged out there.) One in every three visitors to adult entertainment websites is female. Nearly 13 million American women are checking out porn online at least once a month, and the numbers are rising. Tracy Quan, author of “Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl,” says, “Even if [women] are not turned on by it, we wonder what the guys are looking at. Don’t forget—porn is also a window into male secret fantasies.”

Most girls watch porn for the idea of it. Guys generally watch it to get hot, and get off. Because of this, guys tend to be active watchers, while women are removed and analytical. The first most recurring thought on my Top Three Most-Thought Thoughts list while watching porn? “Those aren’t real.” Second most-thought? “That’s hot.” Third? “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Most men tend to be visually-centric. Just the image of two (usually attractive) people having sex is enough to get a man aroused. Women depend on more to get them into that state of mind: syncing up our feelings, past experiences, and preferences with what’s happening on screen; if it looks like the actors or couple are enjoying themselves; if WE would be enjoying ourselves; and if we’re in the right place, frame of mind, and comfort zone to actually enjoy what we’re seeing. For a woman to enjoy porn, there needs to be more involved than continually changing visual stimuli. Porn in which positions are changed every two to five minutes doesn’t mesh well with women’s sense of sexual stimuli—it can take a woman that long to adjust to what she’s seeing, and then when setting, position, or mood is changed, the feeling to being into it breaks. Hence, most of the porn that men enjoy, women don’t so much.

I mean, really—do you think we enjoy watching a girl give a guy head? For the same reason you enjoy watching that, guys, women would much rather watch porn that involves the women getting head. And from a man. We wouldn’t make you watch man-on-man porn—please extend us the same pleasantries and don’t automatically assume that “two girls, one dick” is something we’d enjoy watching, unless told otherwise. Also, just like men, women like looking at pretty things. Porn with average people isn’t that fun. It’s like watching your neighbors go at it with a pair of binoculars. Ick. If women watch porn, there better be a damn hot guy in it. We are also quicker to spot bad acting, weak plotlines, and illogical situations. So porn directed toward women or couples tends to be better than what you would find on Youporn or X-Tube. (Not that there is anything wrong with either website—for a quick, free fix, lord knows I’ve spent time on both. I would just prefer to have some plotline along with my penis.)

Girls are much for apt to willing watch something like “Pirates” than something called, oh, I don’t know—“Glory Hole.” (Unless it’s a take on the basketball movie “Glory Road,” and then, I am so all over that.) “Pirates” and “Pirates 2: Stagnetti’s Revenge” are porno take-offs of the ever-popular “Pirates of the Caribbean” franchise. Unfortunately, no, they do not feature either Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp. Fortunately, they also don’t feature Keira Knightley. (Somebody force-feed that girl a cheeseburger. Quick, before she blows away! I’d be terrified of someone snapping her in half if she ever was featured in a porno flick. Can you imagine the headlines? “Knightley Splits in Half after Porn Star tries Sheathing His Sword in Her Scabbard.”) Both “Pirates” movies were the biggest-budgeted erotic adult movies ever produced, and also the ones with the most special effects. (Walking skeletons, sea monsters; this ringing any bells, anyone?) No surprise both became the top-selling, most award-winning adult movies of all time, raking in over 40 international awards. And edited “R” rated version even made it into mainstream movie rental retail stores like Blockbuster. A group of my friends in high school rented it to see what the fuss was about. The difference between cinematic porn like this and your average “fuck me” porn is that a mixed group of guys and girls sitting down to watch “Pirates” didn’t feel weird. And surprise, surprise, both of the sexes enjoyed it.

The French and Italian built the Romance languages. So is it any surprise that they made really good, romantic porn, too? Foreign porn is my favorite. So yeah, you may not have any idea what they’re saying—it might as well be “Oh, yes, your ass is as bodacious as a ripe tomato! Oh, the marinara my momma used to make! Sweeter than your curves!”—but moans and the word “yes,” which crops up surprisingly often, are universal. Plus, Europeans are usually a lot freer about sexuality, so the plotlines tend to be a little less bizarre and out there than their American counterparts. I mean, really—when was the last time your pizza delivery boy told you you could pay for your medium pepperoni and green pepper pizza with your body? And furthermore, when was the last time your pizza delivery boy was actually attractive? One of my favorite foreign pornos, “Field of Dreams,” is exactly that—a woman sunbathing nude in a field, day-dreaming about a hunk she knows when the man of her dreams actually appears. Lite on plot. But more feasible. Another vintage European movie features a plotline in which a young woman pays a mechanic for her car repairs with sex. I came eerily close to this situation this past summer, myself. Young, broke college girl with broken car and a nice mechanic? Sounds like a realistic porno plot to me! Break out the grease-stained mechanic’s suit!

But beware burn-out. I can tell you from personal experience, once the initial shock and feeling of taboo wear off and countless hours are spent watching other people doing the deed, the novelty of porn wears off. It’s just people fucking. You could just as easily be one half of a pair fucking yourself. And it would be a whole lot more fun. But for those nights when dressing up, going out, and bringing someone home seems like a whole lot of fuss for a little bit of fun, a good porn DVD or website can be just as trustworthy as a vibrator. And with less mood-setting and imaging involved on your part, too. God, I love it when orgasms can be easy.

[When this is published in the next issue, I'll be fine until the first guy comes up to me and says something like, "So, you like porn, huh?" After that, I won't be able to walk across campus without a paper bag over my head. Oh, chin up, little nympho blogger-- there is no shame here.]


Monday, November 2, 2009

...And For Halloween, I Was Ballsy.

Halloween Weekend '09 will be one for my record books for all the years of my life to come, AKA: until if/when I turn 75 and decide to off myself before I inevitably contract the familial genealogical jackpot of Alzheimer's, dementia, heart disease, and blindness, but keep on living into my 90s in a crippled, demented state. Why, you ask? Because, in the space of 24 hours' worth of time, I checked 3 Life Goals off of my list of To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things. I,

A.) Went to a frat party.
Actually, I went to a frat party with an list-only policy, and got in with the line that will resound in UVM's Sig Phi history forever. Some back-story: Lorelei, Madison, Amanda and I were all chilling at Amanda's apartment, trying to find a good party to go to and talking about how outrageously pissed-off one of Amanda's friends would be if she knew that Gypsy and I were...whatevering...(I still have no phrase for this, mainly because I have no clue WHAT we're doing,) because her friend has had a massive obsession with him since freshman year, when, speak of devils, I got a text from Gyp.

"Sig Phi," it said, meaning the frat up the street. I was wickedly pleased, because Gyp and I had been texting earlier, but had not made any concrete plans to see each other, though I totally wanted to end the night at his place. Not driving home. But this is my thinking: if his phone is always blowing up with girls saying, "Come here with me!" or "Where are you? I want to come!", I am not going to be another one say those things. Instead, I ask what's up. He usually tells me some plans. I say, "Oh, nice-- I'm going to ____, but maybe we'll run into each other while we're out." He says he'd like that. A few hours later, I usually get a text from him telling me he wants to see me and to come to ____. Genius. Manipulation without having to ask or grovel. I figured it out. Dating lessons learned. ANYWAY.

I say I'm down and ask if the other girls can come with. He drops the bomb that they're judging at the door. Of course. (Frats...sigh...) But we're all bangin' bitches, so we decide to pound a few drinks, and go onward and upward to Fratland. When we get there, we find a line about 15 deep being turned away from the door. "It's list-only," some cute, probably freshman, girls on the sidewalk tell us. "They're not letting anyone in."

Amanda, who has been to this frat before, bails at the sign of refusal. Madison, consummate wing-woman, stands by her. Lorelei and I want into that frat. I want me some Gypsy. Lorelei is down to roll with anything. We mount the marble steps, and I pull the front of my (previously altered to new boobalicious heights) witch costume down further to almost scandalous levels. (Hey, I know what I'm working with and how to increase my odds with fratboys.) I had a small purple star where Marilyn Monroe had a beauty mark. I am slightly tipsy. I feel bangin'. Nope. Denied. "Is your name on the list?" the frat douche asked.

"No," I told him, "but my boy's inside, and I have to meet up with him."

"What's his name?" Door Douche asked.

I told him.

"Nope, not on the list-- sorry."

I have never taken rejection well. Lorelei and I climb back down the stairs, and I'm already texting Gypsy a mile a minute, fingers flying. "They're not letting ANYONE in. I flashed major boob."

"Oh no! Flash harder?"

"Unhelpful. Can you pull me in?"

"They know me."

With this text, I turn Lorelei and my train around and march back up those steps. New Door Douche looks at me speculatively. I thrust my phone in his face, and decide it is go big, go for broke, or I'm going home. And with this sentiment, I utter the statement with quiet, resolute, emphatic power that I will always remember:


It had the effect of a Jedi mind-trick. Door Douche #2, who, in his defense, was quite cute and looked like a Kewpie Doll, blinked rapidly three times, and said in a loud voice so that everyone lined up behind us could hear, "I'm sorry, but you need to put your cell phone down. If you're not on the list, you can't get in." And then he leaned in and whispered, "Go in to my left. Go, go, go, go, go!" BINGO!

The best part is, as the door opened to admit people out and Lorelei and I in, Gypsy and Lorelei's friend who was also trying to pull us in were standing in the breezeway, arguing with fratboys to try and get us in. When they turned to look at us, inside Sig Phi, astounded, I was like, "Oh, yeah-- we got in on our own."

With that, Gypsy leads our little frat-crashing train down to the basement, where there's a pretty awesome dance floor going. It's packed, so steamy that my glasses fog up and my previously straight hair instantly curls, and my adorable witch hat gets hit by people packed in so much that finally I give up and stuff it into the plastic cauldron I was using as a purse. (Great idea, by the way. Feel free to use it in Halloween's Future.) Gypsy leads us through the mob to an open patch of dance floor, and promptly disappears. Vanishes. Poof-- gone. Lorelei and her boy start dancing together. Greece Lightning is dancing with an utterly adorable Mulatto girl who made me miss my best friend Nora, away herding sheep in New Zealand, something fierce. I lean in to ask Greece Lightning where his roommate went, and get as far as, "Hey, where's Gyp--" when a pair of hands latch onto my hips and I am bodily hauled up against someone else's body and I am being ground on. I panic for a second, thinking it's going to be Death by Overeager Fratboy, and look as far over my shoulder as I can to see who the grabber is. All I can see is orange-- AKA: Gypsy, in his NASA astronaut suit. This, I am good with. We dance for a song or two, and then-- POOF! He's gone again, in search of more beer. I'm fine alone, and am dancing with Lorelei and her boy when I notice orange across the packed dance floor and see Gypsy dancing with another girl. Ok-- whatever. Strangely, don't really care. A moment later, a male voice says, "Hey, let's dance," and before I can accept or decline the apparently non-optional invitation, I am being treated to a repeat of grabby-grind earlier, only this time, it is not Gypsy, and instead, a random fratboy. 3 songs and another random fratboy grind later, I look up, still glued to the pelvis with a fratboy, and see Gypsy standing in the doorway, staring at me. Not so pleased. Oops. But really-- you leave me alone in a frat, what do you expect? I'm cute, and I'm not gonna beat them away while you dance with other girls. If you play, I'm gonna play. Don't try and beat me at my own game.

I thank Random Dancing Partner Fratboy #2, separate our body parts, and head back upstairs with Lorelei & Co. to try and find Gypsy and peace. I look up and see Gypsy, a Slutty Bee wrapped around his front, carrying her down to the basement. Fuck that game. Apparently, we fight jealousy with jealousy, here. Greece Lightning heads off to round now VERY inebriated Gypsy up and out. Lorelei and I work out a plan, and by the time we get everyone together, she and her boy and DD head one way, and Gypsy, Greece Lightning and I split for their apartment, me in my purple and black striped stocking feet, heels in my hand.

10 minutes after we get back to the boy's apartment, me walking (unscathed) over broken glass and puddles in the streets, Gypsy gets a call and tells Greece and I that he has to get a girl. Greece looks from him to me with a pointed, "Are you completely stupid, man?! You're already got a girl here!" look. I blow it off. Whatever. I'll assess the situation when it gets here. No need blowing up about it first.

Come to find out, this was probably the smartest decision I made all night. A half-hour later, Gypsy comes back with one of the freshmen girls from the Thursday night previous. She was the one I liked more, and someone spiked her drink with either acid or roofies at a party. When she went back to her dorm, it caused a scene, and she needed someplace to lie low. Gypsy sobered up long enough to provide her with a safe place, but as neither he nor Greece Lightning do any form of drugs, it falls on me, the ex-stoner, to help her out.

Lo proves to not be the only problem. My intimate little half-hour tete-a-tete with Greece Lightning has put Gypsy's (surprisingly easily insecure) hackles up. They raise further when Greece offers to walk me to Amanda's apartment to collect my overnight bag I had (wisely, thank you, Amanda, for the suggestion,) left there since Gyp had just gone out to get Lo. By the time the boys decide it's bedtime at 4, Lo wants to sleep on the living room floor, and I say I'll sleep on the double-chair I've been sitting in, insisting that they don't need to pull out the mattress like Gyp and Greece are insisting they do, because, as I flippantly say, "I'm used to sleeping interesting places," Gyp fires back with, "I hear Greece's bed is a pretty interesting place."

Excuse me? I decide not to say anything and let him have his snit-fit. 10 minutes later, I get a text from him, asking if I'm going to make it. I say yeah, and ask for a pair of shorts to borrow, but he's already passed out. I walk down the hallway to his room, where he's left the door open "in case we need him", and wake him up. He searches for a clean pair, can't find any, and ends up removing the pair he's wearing. (Don't worry-- there were boxers involved under them.) "They're new," he assures me. "It's fine." Freshly shorted up, I make sure Lo is still alive, crawl into the double chair in the living room, and proceed to cat-nap from 4 AM to 8 AM.

Which leads us to B.) Did not sleep in my own bed.
I knew from the night of the 29th that I did NOT want to be in my own bed Halloween night, all comfy with Mr. Bodypillow like every other night. FUCK THAT. Give me a real man, real body, and someone else's bodyheat and call me happy. So, after Lo's ride came and got her at 9 AM, I stood in the living room for 20 minutes and debated with myself. Literally, stood there and listened to "Just Do It" Carissa berate Pussy Carissa. It went something like this.

"Just Do It" Carissa: "Now's your chance! Lo's gone! Greece is asleep! No one would know! It doesn't have to be awkward!"

Pussy Carissa: "Oh, dear god, no, I can't do it!"

"JDI"C: "Really? Are you that much of a pussy?"

PC: "Absolutely."

"JDI"C: "I thought you wanted this!"

PC: "I do!"

"JDI"C: "Well, get down there and do it, then! He's already feeling insecure about you and Greece, and after you accidentally shut him down at the dance Thursday after HE came over to YOU to dance with YOU 5 times, you really need to prove to him that you're just as into him! If not, you're going to get stuck so far in the dreaded Friend Zone that you will never, EVER be able to pull yourself out of there!"

PC: "Fuuuuuuuuuuck..."

I'm one of those people who need to send my body ahead on a "grabbing my balls and going for it" mission like this. FINALLY, I was half-way down the hallway before my brain caught up with my body, and the creaky floorboards sealed the deal, considering if Gyp heard them, he knew someone was up and moving toward him and his open door. (Open door policy, anyone?)

Gypsy was fast asleep, sprawled out on his bed, down comforter thrown over himself and limbs everywhere. "Gypsy," I said, knocking on the door frame.

"Yeah?" he asked, eyes fluttering open.

"Lo left-- her ride came and got her. She's fine," I told him, and then went for it, balls in! "I can't take those chairs anymore; they're killing my legs. Do you share well?"

He looked at me, blinked, and then what I was asking caught up with his sleep-addled mind. "Oh. Yeah. Here!" He fished another pillow out of somewhere, lifted up the comforter for me, and scooched over. "I'll take the wall," he said, meaning the fact that his bed rests against the sloped eaves of the attic apartment. "I don't want you to bump your head."

After crawling into bed with him, there was an extremely awkward 5 minutes of us lying back-to-back, not touching, while Pussy Carissa squealed, "I'M HERE, I'M HERE, I'M HERE!" and "Just Do It" Carissa went, "Yeah, but now what are you gonna do about it? This is thrilling, laying here like a couple who've been married for 20 years and hate each other."

The tension was palpable. Finally I said, "I forgot how the time change makes it lighter out earlier." Stunning. I know. But it was what I had to work with, and the sun pouring through his window was all I could think of.

"I can shut the blinds," he said.

"No, that's ok-- I'm fine," I told him, truthfully, but he insisted.

"I've got to get some water, anyway. Want some?" he asked as he scrambled over my (still) (panicked) (corpse-like) (brainless) body to get out of bed.

He returned a few minutes later, resplendent in boxers and glasses (Ah! There goes my proclamation to Alli that I could never be with a guy with glasses because I don't find them attractive,) shut his (previously left open) door, dropped the blinds, and and sat in the middle of his room, staring at me in his bed while he drank. (Yes. It was slightly creepy.) "I really have to clean my room," he told me. "Actually, the whole apartment. Sorry."

"It's fine," I mumbled, hoping he'd get the hint that really, I just needed to be horizontal and asleep, not chatty and sexing it up. It's not just the fact that I'm really trying to hold and be good and make him actually take me out somewhere that is not a party or his apartment; it's also that fact that I know I am unapologetically loud, and seeing as Greece Lightning was in the other room, asleep, and one of my friends, I really didn't want to have to wake him up like that. I feel like he should at least have some sort of previous warning other than hearing me scream "Oh god!" from the other room.

So. Gypsy finishes his water, and crawls back into bed. Halfway over me, he drops, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me to him. "If we're going to share, we might as well share," he tells me. "How are you at sharing?"

"Excellent," I tell him, now spooning with him, his arm over my waist and his hand gripping the edge of the mattress, locking me against him. (Like I'd want to move?)

We napped, sometimes him rolling over, sometimes me. Sometimes we both woke up when the other moved and chat for a bit about things like him playing the harmonica, college, and high school before falling asleep again because we'd decided a full half-day of sleep seemed like a good idea.

At one point, I had migrated back to the edge of the bed like how I sleep at home. I was asleep until Gypsy said "Girl, back up!" in the most resolute, commanding voice I have ever heard him use, and wrapped both his arms around my waist, yanking me back to him, and put his head on top of mine. "Stop this 'edge' shit."

I could feel his stubble-- the perfect facial hair-- on my cheek and neck. I could also feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and in my ear. I tried tolerating it for a minute until I gave into the giggles that had been threatening to shake me since he settled into that position. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I only have one ticklish spot, and that's the back of my neck and ears. You really can't do that unless you want me to be hysterical."

He laughed, apologized, and repositioned. I swear I felt lower lip on the back of my neck. He moved his hand from my hip to around me to cup the elbow of the arm I had bent up to pillow my face. And then he blew into my ear. "Jerk," I squealed as he laughed and then pulled me tighter to him again.

"I'm sorry. I had to do it once." He rubbed his hand up my arm, across my back, and to my shoulder. I almost purred.

Stop the press. Gypsy is a cuddlebug? Personally, I'm fine with spooning-- I need to be touched if I'm going to be in the same bed as someone-- but really-- hard-core cuddling like this isn't my cup of tea if I'm trying to sleep, and I was. I'm one of those, "If I'm sleeping, please, either spoon me half-heartedly or put a hand on me, but not both, because you're distracting me," people.

I swear-- I am a girl.

So I spent Sunday morning from 9:30 to noon in Gypsy's bed, cuddling and napping. And yes-- if you've been keeping track, you're correct-- still no kiss. What is this gentlemanly shit? I swear, I'm going to have to make an engraved invitation to present him with next time.

Around noon, he texted Greece Lightning to see if he was up. He was, about to take a shower, and texted back. "Carissa's not in the living room, but her stuff's still here."

"She's with me," Gypsy texted back.

"OH," was Greece's response.

About 20 minutes later, he knocked on Gyspy's door. "G-morning, sunshine! The shower's open."

"Ok," Gyp yelled back, and then Greece, undoubtedly with a shit-eating grin that you could hear in his voice, said,

"Good morning, Carissa."

"Morning, Greece," I responded, squashing giggles. Gypsy and I stumbled out of his room-- him in his boxers, going straight to the bathroom-- and me, in his shorts, the shirt I was wearing after I changed out of my costume, and crazy hair, going to the living room to sit next to Greece and watch part of the movie we started the night before.

"Hey," Greece said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Hey, " I said, giving it right back to him.

But it's obvious that these boys are so used to one-night stands. After Gypsy got out, I popped into the bathroom to change, brush my (totally unfixable) hair, and fix my make-up. When I got out and handed his shorts back to Gypsy, he and Greece were in the process of leaving. Thanking my lucky stars I was already planning on leaving, I grabbed my stuff, said goodbye, and was half-way down the block before they both remembered manners and the fact I was not, in fact, a One Night Stand, and possibly, someone they wanted with them still. "We're going to Moe's for lunch!" Gypsy shouted at me, hanging out of Greece Lightning's truck window.

"I'm going home!" I shouted back. I was not foraying any more into public in the state I was in. But what I would have paid to be a fly on the wall to hear the conversation they had at that lunch.

And this Halloween story end with, C.) My first Walk of Shame, though thank god I had the foresight/wishful thinking to include a pair of jeans, longsleeve shirt, and flats in my overnight bag, so instead of a witch walking through Burlington at high noon from Isham to campus to get my car, it was a desheviled college girl doing a slightly more discreet WoS, but still with broomstick, witch's hat, and cauldron. I was honked at a few times, but I decided something: It's only a Walk of Shame if you feel shamefull. If not, it's a Walk of Hell, Yeah.

...This stellar weekend and events still did not stop me from completely ignoring Gypsy at dodgeball last night, even though he walked by the gym office about six times, where I was catching up with Elyse, who so pointedly said, "He's waiting for you to say 'hi', you know." Some things never change. I secretly think he likes it when I treat him bad/I kinda think he needs it. Totally. That is totally the way to get a guy: Pretend he is invisible.

Seeing as this is how I act, why do you people even listen to me? Really. Go find someone else who knows what they're doing better, like a steady girlfriend, or a Playboy Bunny, or the dog that always humps eveyone's leg. You'd be better off there. Trust me.

Hope your holiday was just as exciting!


P.S-- The other cute/slightly creepy moment? When Gypsy mentioned seeing me in City Market Halloween morning. When I asked why he decided to be a creeper and not say hi, he responded with, "Well, I was checking out as you were walking in, and you seemed really content, so I didn't want to disturb you."

Ohhhh, it's true, and how cute. And thank god I wore my heeled boots!